JOHNNY REVENGE
The Revenge Series - Book 1
Remington Kane
Contents
Introduction
Join My Inner Circle
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
ERICA & OWENS RETURN!
Afterword
Join My Inner Circle
Bibliography
Make Contact
Introduction
JOHNNY REVENGE
By
REMINGTON KANE
Jude Rowland, author of popular thriller novels, becomes the suspect in a bizarre series of murders. Jude claims he’s innocent, even as the evidence against him keeps piling up.
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Acknowledgments
I write for you.
—REMINGTON KANE
Chapter One
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
Dave Burke locked the front door of his bicycle shop after his employees left for the day. Had he been more aware of his surroundings, Burke might have noticed the white van parked across the street. That same van had been following him for days.
Burke had three employees. One had been with him since his second year in business, while the other two were part-timers. If business kept going as well as it had been, Burke figured he would soon need another part-timer. Better yet, he could entertain the idea of opening a second shop.
It had taken ten years of toil, but Burke’s Bikes was becoming a huge success. He thought back on that brutal first year and remembered how close he had come to quitting. By the middle of that second year business had been so brisk that he could no longer handle it alone. That experience made Burke wonder how often people quit when success would have been theirs if they’d only persevered.
Having his own bike shop had been a mere dream until Burke’s uncle died and left him a modest inheritance. Coupled with a small business loan, it had been enough to open up the shop.
After he shut off the lights in the sales area, Burke looked out the shop’s wide front window and finally noticed the van across the street. Thinking back, he realized that it had been parked there the previous night as well, and perhaps the evening before that.
The old white van was in front of the shoe store owned by an acquaintance of Burke’s. He wondered if it belonged to the college kid that rented the small apartment above the store.
The shop was named Feminine Feet and appropriately specialized in women’s shoes. It was owned by a woman in her forties named Sylvia. After Burke’s divorce the previous year, Sylvia had shown an interest in him.
Burke had dinner with Sylvia once, and had found himself captivated by her beauty; however, they had little in common. Sylvia prattled on endlessly about the television shows she watched, none of which Burke had ever seen. Burke rarely watched TV but was an avid reader of mysteries and thrillers.
Sylvia had been wise enough to realize they weren’t a good fit and they never went out again. Neither one of them had wanted to complicate their friendship with a one-night stand. They had parted that evening after exchanging kisses on the cheek.
Burke figured he was too busy these days for a serious relationship and satisfied his urge for sex with infrequent hook-ups in bars. At thirty-eight, he still had all his dark hair and his teeth were white and straight. The bike rides to and from his shop kept fat off his waist and he appeared to be more youthful than most men his age.
As he settled behind his desk in a corner of the shop’s back room, Burke took out his phone and brought up the book he was currently reading. He found it relaxing to read a little before going over the day’s receipts and ordering inventory.
The book kept him engrossed longer than usual and he wound up finishing the novel. He had enjoyed the story immensely until the very end, where it was ruined. It had been a murder mystery. Burke found the choice of killer to be not only implausible, but their motive was a weak one. He left a scathing 1-star review for the book, it was a review that he thought was quite humorous.
Burke left reviews often while posting anonymously under the name Book Lover 242. He loved giving his opinion, favorable or not, on the books he read. The internet was the one area in his life where he didn’t have to be a phony. When you spent your days dealing with the public and placating customers, it was a pleasure to express what you truly thought about something.
His reviews were often brutal but witty, and he received comments from other readers telling him how droll or humorous his observations were. In real life, Burke was always pleasant and courteous; as Book Lover 242, he often let his mean side come out and play. What was the harm?
By the time he completed his work, it was after nine p.m. and he was starving. As he unlocked the front door to leave, Burke saw that the white van was gone. For some reason that made him feel better.
* * *
As he began his ride home, Burke felt the nip in the air. Winter hadn’t yet arrived, still, it was just around the corner and its appearance always saddened him. Although the weather never became too harsh, given New Orleans’ southern climate, he missed the heat and the long days of bike riding and fishing.
Home for Burke was a small house at the end of a block of similar homes. He had acquired it below market value because it had been foreclosed on. Since it was only five miles from his shop, he was usually home in about twenty minutes.
The ranch-style house had a white brick façade, a fireplace, and a large bay window in the living room. The window granted a view of nothing special as it faced the other homes across the street. Still, the wide expanse of glass did let in a lot of natural light.
As he was riding along his street, Burke spotted the van again. It was parked in front of his neighbor’s house.
It can’t be the same one.
After slowing down his bike, which was a white Felt Verza Café 24 Deluxe, Burke peered inside the van. It was empty as far as he could tell.
He laughed at himself then. There must be thousands of white vans in the New Orleans area. There was no reason to assume it was the same vehicle he’d been seeing near the shop.
Burke placed his bike on its rack in the garage and entered his home through a connecting door. His hunger had grown, and he decided he was too ravenous to take the time to cook anything. He g
rabbed a TV dinner from the freezer, placed it in the microwave, and headed off to take a quick shower.
After removing his clothes, Burke walked into the bathroom while staring down at his phone. He had a slew of books in his digital to-be-read pile and was trying to decide what to read next. He slid aside the shower curtain on the bathtub while still gazing at his phone. When he reached in to turn on the water his fingers touched a gloved hand.
Burke dropped his phone as a cry of shock escaped. Standing in the tub was a bearded man dressed in a long rain poncho. A clear plastic shield was over his face and a hood covered his hair. Those details were shoved to the background once Burke noticed the intruder was holding a gun. Burke’s eyes became so riveted on the weapon that he never saw the blow coming that knocked him out.
* * *
Burke awoke in his living room with his head pounding. He was still naked but was secured to the chair he’d normally kept in a corner of his kitchen. It was a Shaker-style chair that had a woven seat in a checkerboard pattern. The chair’s seat was as high as that of a bar stool.
It had been hand-crafted by Burke’s grandfather who had been a carpenter. Burke was fastened to it with duct tape and there was a gag secured in his mouth. Every light in the room was on and the brilliance aggravated Burke’s headache.
Burke became aware of another sensation. It was a feeling of pressure against the base of his scrotum. Panic filled him. Burke was attempting to struggle free of his bonds when a man’s voice came from behind him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Burke froze at the sound of the words, then he tried to crane his neck. It was useless. Duct tape had been wrapped around his throat and chin; it kept his gaze facing forward. Along with the ache in his head, his vision was blurred in his left eye. The leather sap used to knock him out had connected with his eye socket as well as his temple. The eye wasn’t closed yet, but it was swelling shut.
The voice spoke again. “Look in the mirror.”
Burke tried to ask, “What mirror?” The words came out as only a mumble due to the gag. Even as he was attempting to speak, he had spotted the mirror in question. It was the same full-length one he’d kept secured to the back of the bathroom door.
His attacker had placed it on the inside of the front door of his house, directly in front of him. When Burke saw the figure standing behind him, he let out an involuntary cry of terror. The man was white, about six-feet tall, well-built, bearded, and handsome. His hair was hidden beneath the black folds of a hood.
Burke’s terror escalated when he spotted the object under his chair, the one that was placing pressure against his scrotum. It was a shotgun, his shotgun, the one he kept under the bed. The weapon was positioned beneath the chair, standing on its stock, with the barrel aimed at Burke’s nether regions. It had been secured to the chair with a web work of duct tape to keep it poised that way.
The bearded man in the black hoodie walked around to stand at Burke’s left. When he reached out, Burke flinched, while thinking he was going to touch him. The man hadn’t been reaching for him, rather, he had been fingering the nearly invisible length of fishing wire that ran beneath the chair.
“It’s connected to the trigger on the shotgun,” the man said. “The other end is tied around the handle of the front door.”
Burke’s eyes followed the path of the monofilament fishing line. The wire was so thin that he lost track of it twice before discerning its route. It flowed upward toward one of the plant hooks attached to the side of the bay window. From there, the wire went down to the knob of the front door, which was sitting ajar. Burke’s one good eye widened in comprehension of what would happen to him if anyone opened the front door. The wire on the shotgun’s trigger would grow taut and the weapon would go off.
“Now you know why I warned you not to move around too much,” Burke’s attacker said. “If you rock that chair the gun will go off.”
Burke cried quietly as fear threatened to overwhelm him. He fought the urge to panic while his heart beat in triple time. When he looked at the bearded man, Burke mumbled unintelligible words, even as his eyes asked the same question. “Why are you doing this to me?”
The man smiled as he took his meaning. “I consider this to be payback.”
Payback for what? Burke wondered. He had no enemies and even his divorce had been amicable. Burke had always gone out of his way to be courteous and to never utter an unkind word to anyone. At least, that was in real-life. His online persona as Book Lover 242 was another matter.
The bearded man disappeared behind Burke again but could be seen in the mirror as he walked toward the bedroom. When the man returned, he had a blanket with him. The knitted green afghan was draped over Burke’s lower half with care before its corners were tied together front and back. It resulted in hiding the shotgun from view.
The man leaned over and spoke to Burke while smiling.
“Someone will spot you and come over to free you. With the door sitting ajar that way, it’s only natural that they’ll enter through it. I would say your fate is predictable, wouldn’t you?”
Fear was swept aside as rage surged through Burke. He let out a string of muffled curses and vitriol that left him panting behind his gag. He then had to breathe deeply through his nostrils to take in enough air.
His tormentor patted him on the shoulder, ducked under the fishing line, and moved toward the light switches. The home was plunged into darkness. Moments later, light entered through the large bay window as the drapes were pushed aside.
The nearest streetlamp was a house away from Burke’s property, but enough light was flowing in for Burke to make out the bearded man. He had ducked beneath the fishing line again and was turning the lights back on to full brilliance. With the drapes open, Burke was now in full view of the homes across the street from him.
He saw the glow of lights behind blinds and curtains, but no one was looking out a window. Still, it was just a matter of time until someone spotted him sitting bound and gagged. His tormentor was right, Burke’s fate was wholly predictable. The first person through the front door to rescue him would wind up killing him instead.
Burke was sobbing at the hopelessness of his situation as the bearded man took his leave through the home’s back door. He had taken Burke’s keys and used them to secure the two deadbolts Burke had installed there. Moments later, Burke watched as the man drove off in the white van, leaving him to his fate.
Burke went through hell in the following hours. Every sound was the opening of the door and each minute felt like forever. At one point, a breeze pushed the door inward slightly. It frightened Burke so much that he urinated on himself.
He wasn’t spotted until after midnight. That was when the neighbors across the street, Jack and Karen Quinn arrived home from one of their scheduled date nights.
It was Karen who spotted Burke first. The willowy blonde gasped in shock at what she was seeing through his window. Karen grabbed her husband’s arm to get his attention as he was placing a key in his front door lock. Jack Quinn leaned forward as he took in the sight, then brought out his phone to call the police.
* * *
By the time the cops arrived eight minutes later, The Quinns’ college-age babysitter was also staring in at Burke from the doorway across the street. Meanwhile, other neighbors had been alerted to the strange drama taking place. Most were peering at Burke through their windows, with some filming him with their phones. Despite the terror gripping him, Burke felt embarrassed.
The two policemen gawked in at him through the window while keeping their guns ready to fire at anyone else they might see. Burke was hopeful that they would spot the fishing line, follow its course with their eyes, and wonder what it was connected to beneath the chair.
They never noticed it. All the cops saw was a citizen in distress whom they ached to free from his torment. Burke attempted to speak, instead, he released a string of unintelligible sounds. His distress incited the police office
rs to action.
Burke felt a surge of optimism when one of the responding officers went around to the back of the house. Maybe the cop would kick in the door and rescue him. It was not to be. As the other cop moved toward the front door, Burke clenched his eyes shut and began praying.
Bike shop owner Dave Burke became the third victim of a killer with a most peculiar sense of justice.
Chapter Two
WASHINGTON DC
FBI Special Agent Erica Novac stepped out of her silver SUV inside Rock Creek Park on what was a rare warm November day. The park was packed with people taking advantage of the good weather.
Checking her watch, she saw that she was early. A look around at the people nearby told her that her friend hadn’t arrived yet. However, Erica did spot a familiar face as she walked to the rear of her vehicle, to remove her bicycle from its rack.
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