Committed
by
E. H. Reinhard
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction by E. H. Reinhard. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Locations used vary from real streets, locations, and public buildings to fictitious residences and businesses.
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Committed: An Agent Hank Rawlings FBI Thriller, Book 3
A wanted serial killer and his girlfriend are on a bloody killing spree across the United States. Agents Hank Rawlings and Beth Harper, along with the rest of their team, are on a nationwide manhunt to bring them to justice.
Scene after scene and body after body only add to the media coverage. The wanted couple’s faces are splashed across every television and cover the front pages of every newspaper, yet Hank’s team remains a step behind—leaving them searching through the wreckage and bodies left in the couple’s wake.
As the pair takes a turn for the border, Hank must pull out all the stops to capture the murderous lovers before they take more lives, cross the border, and slip through the FBI’s grasp.
The hunt is on.
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
“Damn,” Molly said. She sat at the flowered-tablecloth-covered kitchen table over a sandwich on a plate and a side of noodle salad. Below her plate was a white crocheted doily.
“What’s up?” Nick asked. He stood at the kitchen counter, fixing himself a turkey and swiss. He set the top slice of bread on his sandwich, pulled a glass from the cupboard, and went to the refrigerator for some milk. Nick stared at the magnets of children’s school photos stuck to the front of the refrigerator for a few seconds before pulling open the door.
“This sandwich would be a lot better with some pickles. Are you sure there aren’t any in the fridge?” Molly asked.
Nick scratched the side of his bald, freshly shaved head. He used the open door to hold himself up and crouched to peer into the refrigerator. He reached in and moved a few items around in search. “I don’t see any, babe.” Nick grabbed the milk, stood, and swung the door closed, rattling the items on its shelves. Nick spun the cap off the milk and let it drop to the floor. He poured himself a glass and tossed the jug up on the yellow counter top—some of the milk splashed from the container onto the wall and dark cabinets—Nick paid it no mind. He looked back at Molly. “Do you want me to go next door and see if the neighbors have any?”
She left the sandwich she’d just made, stood from her seat at the kitchen table, and walked toward Nick. “No. Don’t be silly. It will be fine.”
Molly’s maroon-dyed hair fell over her high cheekbones and hung inches past her shoulders. Her gray eyes were fixed on Nick. Her mouth turned to a smile, exposing a small gap between her upper teeth. She wore a red plaid top and a pair of tight jeans with a recently acquired .38 revolver tucked into the front waistline.
Nick took her slim frame in his arms, grabbed her by the backside, and pulled her close.
Molly grabbed Nick by the belt loops on his jeans and spoke softly into his ear. “What time are we wrapping up here?” she asked.
Nick looked past her at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Is the RV ready?” he asked quietly.
“I put everything we gathered in there—the tent, blankets, all the stuff for camping. We’re ready to go.”
“Okay. Let’s eat, take care of this, and head out.”
Molly flashed Nick a half smile. “Works for me,” she said. Molly turned to head back to her lunch at the table. She took her seat and set the revolver from her waistline in front of her plate. “Babe, did you see the salt? Oh wait, there it is.” She reached across the table for the salt shaker on the other side. “Excuse my reach.”
Her apology received a muffled mumble as a response.
Nick brought his sandwich and milk from the kitchen and took a seat beside Molly. He adjusted the 9mm pistol in his waistline so it wasn’t digging into his back as he sat. The two ate side by side, not saying a word.
A muffled voice broke the silence—the two ignored the sound.
Nick looked up at the old nineteen-seventies-looking light hanging on a chain above the table.
A moment later, the muffled voice broke the silence again.
“Shut up,” Nick said.
The mumbling continued.
Nick sprang from his seat and swatted the glass of milk off the table, splashing the kitchen’s linoleum floor. He yanked the pistol from his belt line and rounded the table to an elderly couple, seated and gagged. Nick reached for the towel gag tied around the man’s head and ripped it from his mouth. “Did I not tell you to keep your damn mouth shut?” he asked. “If I wanted you to speak, you wouldn’t have something jammed in your yap.” Nick held the gun’s barrel at the man’s white-haired temple.
The old man’s voice trembled. “Just take whatever you want and leave.”
“I fully intend to take whatever I want.” Nick took the barrel of the gun from the man and pressed it to the forehead of the woman seated beside him. “Or maybe I should just blow your wife’s brains out because you can’t follow simple instructions.”
“Son, there’s no need for any of this. You don’t have a problem with me or my wife. You’ve done enough. We just want to be left in peace.”
Nick smiled and looked over at Molly. “They just want to be left in peace,” he said. “Isn’t that nice?”
Molly took a bite from her sandwich and washed it down with a big gulp of her soda. She jerked her chin at the old woman, who was rocking back and forth and crying. “Take the bitch’s gag out.”
Nick pulled it down from her mouth.
“Hey Grandma, you guys have any money hidden around here?” Molly asked.
The woman didn’t respond but gulped in huge breaths of air between sobs. The woman had short white hair
stained with blood on her right side. She wore a red blouse. Her arms, like her husband’s were outstretched, palms down on the kitchen table’s surface.
“Answer my question,” Molly said. “Got any money?”
The woman still didn’t respond.
Molly looked at the old man. He wore a white T-shirt and white boxer shorts—both of which had blood on them from when Nick had attacked the man in bed that morning. “Well?” Molly asked. “Maybe you can tell me, seeing as how your wife forgot how to talk. Any money?”
“There’s money in my gun safe. Some jewelry, too. It’s in the corner of the basement. I’ll tell you where the key is if you let us go.”
Nick laughed and brought his gun sights back on the old man. “Where is the key?”
“Just let my wife go, and I’ll tell you.”
“Old man, look at me real closely and tell me if I look stupid to you. Are you looking?” He grabbed the man’s chin and fixed his face directly at his own. “Do I look stupid? Do you honestly think we’re going to let your wife go so she can go and get help? Do you think we’re going to let either of you two out of our sight for a second? Why do you think we nailed you to the table?” Nick reached the barrel of his gun out and tapped the nails that were hammered through their hands, securing them to the tabletop—an idea of Molly’s. The old man writhed in pain at each tap.
“Just let her go. I’m begging you.”
“I’m begging you. I’m begging you,” Molly mimicked. “That’s what they all say. God, come up with something original. Plus, didn’t he just tell you that no one was going anywhere?” Molly asked. “Where is the key?”
The man didn’t respond.
Molly’s eyes rose from the man to meet Nick’s, who gave her a nod.
Nick returned to his sandwich on Molly’s side of the table.
Molly popped the last corner of the sandwich she was eating into her mouth and chewed. She picked up the revolver, flipped open the cylinder, and emptied all the bullets onto the table. She said nothing as she held up one bullet, loaded it into the revolver, and spun the cylinder. She flipped the cylinder shut and held the pistol out toward the woman. Then Molly pulled the trigger.
The old man screamed “no” as the hammer came down on an empty chamber—click.
Molly opened the cylinder, spun it again, closed it, and pointed the gun at the husband.
“The key is on my husband’s keyring hanging by the door!” the old woman shouted.
“Thank you,” Molly said. She kept the gun pointed at the old man and squeezed the trigger.
The hammer of the revolver found a live round—the sound of the gunshot echoed through the house. The bullet entered the center of the man’s chest. The old woman screamed. Molly opened the cylinder and loaded the bullets back in.
Nick reached over and pushed the gun down. “I got her, babe.”
He rose from his chair and slipped his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He walked toward the woman, who was wailing. His fingers grasped a wooden handle, which he pulled from his pocket. The handle was connected to a piece of wire which was connected to another handle—a homemade garrote. He stood behind the woman as she screamed for her husband. The woman jerked her head from one side to the other, trying to see what Nick was doing behind her. Nick kept his right hand at the rear base of the woman’s neck and, with his left hand, looped the wire connecting the handles over her head and around her throat. Though the old woman tried to press her chin to her chest, it did no good. Nick yanked back and pulled the handles in opposite directions. He put his knee into the back of her chair for more leverage. His muscles flexed as his arms shook. Nick stared at Molly, seated directly across from the old woman as he held his pose.
Molly didn’t look at Nick—she stared into the woman’s face.
Nick felt the wire cut down into the woman’s flesh and finally pop as it made its way into her windpipe. A bit of blood spattered across the table at Molly—she didn’t blink. Nick held his grip, tuning out the man screaming beside him.
“She’s done,” Molly said after another thirty seconds.
Nick gave the handles one final yank and relaxed. He unlooped the wire from around the woman’s throat.
Her head hit the table facing her husband—her eyes remained open. The man jerked back and forth in his chair, screaming. Nick didn’t know if the man’s wails were from the pain of being shot or from watching his wife die before him. The old man yanked his arms, seemingly trying to free his nailed hands from the table. The entrance wound from Molly’s shot was dead center in his chest and pumping blood. Nick took a position behind the man and looped the wire again. A minute later, the man joined his wife facedown.
Nick returned to his plate. “Go find that money while I finish eating.”
“Sure, baby.” Molly kissed Nick on the cheek and left the kitchen.
Nick spent the next ten minutes staring over at his dead tablemates as he finished his lunch. Then he wiped his mouth with a corner of the tablecloth and stood.
Molly walked back into the kitchen. From her right hand hung a red gas can. “The guy had a couple rifles that I tossed into the RV. You never know,” she said.
“Was the money there?” Nick asked.
“Yeah, it looked like a bit more than four grand, but it was close,” she said.
Nick nodded to the gas can in her hand. “What are you doing with that?”
“I figured we’d torch the place,” she said.
He smiled and walked to her. “No, no, no.” He took her head in his hands and wiped a bit of blood from her cheek with his thumb.
“But what’s the difference?” she asked.
“Well, lighting the place on fire will only draw the cops. They’ll find the bodies, put together that the couple’s RV is missing, and then be on the lookout for it. Now, if we don’t torch the house, we can leisurely drive the RV until it’s out of fuel, dump it, and no one will be the wiser. Now, go put that gas can in the RV in case we need it.”
Molly looked down. “Fine,” she said.
Nick lifted her face by the chin and gave her a kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she said. “I just… I don’t know. You know I like fire. It’s fun for me.”
“I know. Just not right now.”
“Fine,” she said.
“Are we ready to go?” he asked.
“Yeah. Unless you wanted to grab anything else from here. I think we’re pretty much set.”
Nick reached his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. He tapped out a cigarette, held it in his lips, and fished through his pocket for a small box of matches. He found them, slid the box open, and struck one across the side. He saw Molly’s eyes sparkling as she watched the flame. Nick shook the matchstick until the flame went out and squinted one eye at the smoke rising from the cigarette’s tip. “What the hell. Douse this dump,” he said.
“Really?”
“Sure. Knock yourself out. By the time they figure everything out, we’ll be in Omaha. We can get a different vehicle there.”
Molly scrunched her face and rocked her head back and forth. “But I like the RV. Seems like a nice way to get up there. All comfortable and stuff.”
“We can always just stop at an RV park and get another one. I saw some maps in there. We’ll find a place.”
“You really don’t care if I do?” she asked.
“Baby, if you really want to light this place up, go for it. We’ll figure it out.”
“Aw, I love you so much, sweetie.”
Molly went to the table and soaked the couple in the fuel. The liquid rolled off their heads and collected between them on the floor. She spread the remainder of the gas in the can around the kitchen.
“Are the keys in the RV?” Nick asked.
Molly tossed the empty gas can into the far corner of the room. “Yup,” she said. “Got a light?”
Nick threw her the box of matches. “Hurry up. I’ll be outside.”
CHAPTER TWO
I shoveled another forkful of organic, fresh-from-the-farm scrambled eggs into my mouth. I couldn’t tell the difference between them or store bought, but apparently Karen could. I looked down at my feet and my open-mouthed, tongue-flopping bulldog. He closed his mouth, cocked his head to the side and did his best sad eyes at me in hopes of getting some of my breakfast. I waited for Karen to look out the window and snuck him a chunk of turkey bacon.
“Hey!” Karen said. “Table scraps.”
I looked over at her. She was dressed for work—dark blazer, matching pants, and a teal blouse. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun.
“These aren’t scraps. Plus, look at him. Poor little guy just wants some flavor other than dry dog food.”
“He eats the best dog food made, and it’s organic,” Karen said with a nod.
“So are these eggs.” I picked up a small chunk of my scrambled eggs and let him take it from my hand.
Karen shook her head at me. “You spoil that damn dog so bad.”
I reached down and gave him a pat on the head. “Go on, get,” I said.
Porkchop went to the living-room couch and lay down on his cushion.
“See how good that dog is? How good he listens? He deserves his treats.”
Karen rolled her eyes. “He only listens to you so well because you feed him from the table.”
“That’s called training,” I said.
“Mmm hmm.”
I smiled, reached out for my coffee, and brought it to my lips.
“Are you sure he doesn’t want some of your coffee as well?”
“I tried giving him some the other day. Apparently, he’s not a coffee drinker.”
“Right,” Karen said. “So did Bill and Scott get anywhere since the last you heard?”
I took a sip and set the cup back down. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out in a few hours.”
“So how exactly is it working with them chasing these two from state to state?” she asked.
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