Nightcrawler: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 2)

by J. D. Oliva

  LXVI

  Chris ran with the herd, trying to lose himself within the shuffle. He needed to think of something quick. The crowd dispersed throughout the lobby. Most everyone headed for the exit, so Chris darted to the elevator. The door slid open, and he hopped in and rapidly pressed the close button. That's when he saw her. She had to be sixty-something with white, curly hair and big, round grandma glasses. She reminded him a little bit of his own Nana as she shuffled as fast as her little feet would go. Why is she headed for the elevator?

  Don't let her in here!

  "Hold the door!" She screamed.

  Dammit.

  Chris stuck his bound hands in front of the doors, holding them back just long enough for her to hustle in. Fifteen feet behind, he saw Jericho with a skull-face neck sleeve. He raised an arm and sent two bullets, that somehow missed both Chris and the old lady, into the elevator. The real Ethan Jericho would never have missed. Not that shot.

  That elevator door closed. Both Chris and the elderly lady with the white blouse crouched down with their hands over their heads. They stayed like that for an extra minute, until the only thing they heard was the sounds of the muzak version of Baba O'Reilly. They looked at each other and slowly put their arms down and rose, almost in unison.

  "Hi," Chris said.

  "Hello," she answered back before immediately looking down to the shackles around his wrists.

  "Oh, this?" Chris motioned toward the cuff. "It's not what you think. I'm with the magic show."

  Magic show?

  "There's a magic show here?"

  "Oh, yeah. We do like two or three shows a day. It's big."

  She nodded, neither impressed or in belief.

  "On a side note, I don't suppose you know how to get out of a set of handcuffs?"

  She stepped back and leaned against the side of the elevator, pushing herself as far back from him as possible.

  "I thought you were with the magic show?"

  "I'm new," he shrugged.

  She crossed her arms on her chest, the same way Jamie did when she head his bullshit. Hopefully, she is somewhere safe.

  "Why don't you Google it?"

  Chris laughed out loud. That's hilarious.

  "Right," he chuckled between breaths. "I should say, Siri, how do I get out of handcuffs?"

  BING

  "Here's what I found," echoed a voice from his pocket.

  Both of them looked at each other a bit confused. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Siri answered his question with a YouTube video entitled How to escape from handcuffs. Chris shrugged and hit play. Part of him was a little mad that he didn't think of this while he was zip-tied a few hours ago. The video looked like a close up of a set of standard-issue handcuffs.

  "This trick should never be used to try and evade law enforcement. They will have your hands cuffed in the back, making this trick nearly impossible."

  Chris smiled at the elderly woman as if to say: see, I'm not a criminal. I'm defiantly not wanted for two murders, and I certainly didn't throw coleslaw at one FBI agent and punch another.

  "With a standard Smith and Wesson pair of handcuffs, all you really need is a regular bobby pin."

  Chris pressed pause. "Excuse me, ma'am. I don't suppose you have a bobby pin I could borrow?"

  The lady didn't say a word. Instead, she looked at him like he was crazy. He was, so that made sense. The elevator dinged, and she slowly made her way out without handing him a bobby pin. That didn't help. Where was he going to find a bobby pin? Jamie probably didn't have one. Plus, there was complete chaos in the lobby, so it wasn't like he could go asking random people.

  What about a paper clip?

  Yes, a paper clip might work! But again, where was he going to find a paperclip.

  I bet the concierge had a paperclip at that desk.

  But that was back in the lobby.

  You got any better ideas?

  Dammit.

  Chris pressed L and sighed as the muzak boys came back to town. The lit-up arrow pointed down again to the lobby, where the man in black waited.

  LXVII

  Anderson clutched Jamie's throat and started to squeeze. Jamie's grip on the Glock slipped, and it fell back into the pool. She grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him off of her neck, but Anderson was too damn strong.

  Though her fingernails weren't very long, they had enough tip on them that when she dug them into the side of Anderson's face, his grip started to loosen. It still wasn't enough, so she moved her fingers toward his eyes, which like their former accomplice, were shielded behind a pair of sunglasses. Her fingers slid under the glass, but before she could reach his eyes, his jaw caught her thumb, and he sunk his teeth deep into her flesh.

  Jamie screamed, but a second later, her mouth filled with water. Anderson's grip came loose, and Jamie realized they were back in the pool. But they weren't alone. Nashida was under there with them. He probably tackled Anderson from behind, driving all three of them under.

  Jaime pulled herself back up for a moment. Just enough time to see them tussling beneath. She turned her head, still trying to find the Glock. Her eyes caught a faint glimpse of what she hoped was the weapon at the bottom of the pool. She took a deep breath and sunk back under.

  Pushing her hands and kicking her feet furiously, she moved like a bullet through the water and swam down to the deep end. She tried to grab the handle, but couldn't move any further. Something grabbed her leg. She couldn't see underwater, but knew it had to be Anderson. She reared back like a horse and drove the heel of her foot into whoever was behind. She hit something, it didn't matter what. The grip lessened again. She grabbed the Glock and swam until she found something to pull herself out of the water.

  When she got back to her feet, Jamie immediately turned back to the pool and aimed. It was empty. No sign of Anderson or Nashida. Jamie wasn't the most experienced shooter, though her uncle did take her to the range a few times. She knew enough to aim and squeeze, but there's nothing to aim at. Where the hell did the two of them go?

  A hand that might as well have been a baseball bat cracked her in the back of her head. She fell on all fours. Anderson grabbed her from behind and lifted. His other hand found its way back around her neck.

  "I don't why you're here, but I should cut your throat and cut out your kidney, you stupid cunt."

  The grip felt solid, but not as tight as before. Wass he weakened or playing with her?

  Jamie growled to see how loud her voice could get with his hand there. She wanted to make sure Anderson heard her. "My name is Jamie Casten."

  The Nightcrawler chuckled and pulled her in close. "You say that like it should mean something to me."

  "You killed my father and my sister," she said as his grip constricted.

  "If it makes you feel better, they meant absolutely nothing to me."

  Tears welled in her eyes, but smoldering rage consumed her. She screamed with a cry echoing five years of loneliness and anger. She grabbed the wrist around her throat with both hands and snapped her head backwards as hard as she could. The crown of her skull caught Anderson on the bridge of his nose. He let go, and Jamie fell back to the pavement.

  Jamie hit the ground and immediately went back to the Glock. She turned and aimed it right at Anderson's bloody nose. Jamie held her breath and squeezed.

  Nothing.

  Her eyes grew when it didn't fire.

  Anderson laughed. "All that and the little girl was too dumb to know it wasn't even loaded."

  "The safety was on."

  Jamie squeezed again, and one round went off and came out the back of Anderson's head. His body dropped, and Jamie realized what she'd done.

  It's not like in the movies when the victim, seeking revenge for wrongs done to their family, feels this overwhelming sense of vindication and justice. Instead, all she felt was pain. All she could think about was Mom and how she couldn't live with what she thought she'd done to Dad and what she'd inadvertently done to Alys
e. The monster was gone, but she didn't feel better. She was just another murderer. Jamie sobbed.

  Battered and bloody, Nashida pulled himself out of a concrete flower bed. He'd definitely gotten the worst of Anderson's impact. He hobbled over to Jamie and took a seat next to her while she cried.

  "You didn't have a choice," he tried to utter. His face was too swollen to get the words out clean.

  "I know. It still doesn't feel right."

  "It never does."

  Nashida put his hand on her shoulder. She wanted to shrug at the unfamiliar contact, but was too tired. She didn't want to fight anymore. She just wanted her mom. At least it's all over.

  "Chris!"

  LXIX

  The elevator doors opened, and Chris leaned his head out to see if Ethan, or what used to be him, was anywhere close. The lobby looked empty. Chris heard the police sirens in the background. He had to move quickly.

  With his hands still locked together, he ran over to the concierge's desk, which was more of an ornate podium than anything. Right on top were a bunch of documents bound with a simple paper clip. Chris grabbed the sheets and ducked under the desk.

  Chris pulled the clip and looked back to his phone. He shook his head and pressed play. "You wanna straighten the bobby pin out and place it inside the keyhole."

  The clip would stand in just fine. Chris unraveled the paper clip, straightening it out as much as possible before realizing that the paperclip is a lot longer than the bobby pin. He folded the center of the clip over itself, wiggling it back and forth several times until it snapped at the center. Now the clip was closer in size to the bobby pin in the video.

  "Then, you wanna bend the pin in one direction, pull it out, then insert the other end and twist, so it looks like you made a little Z."

  Chris followed the instructions, sliding the front end into the keyhole and bending up so that it was at a right angle. He turned the clip around until he had more of an N-shape that matched the bobby pin close enough.

  Chris pressed play and mirrored the video, pushing the front end into the keyhole and sliding it around until he found the latch. A simple pull up and the lock released. His left hand was free. He almost shouted, "Yes," but covered his mouth to stop himself from saying anything else. He slid the clip into the other side and caught the release mechanism again. He was out. Chris peaked his head over the concierge's desk to see if the lobby was still clear. It was empty, but noise came from the pool area.

  BOOOM

  A gunshot rang out, and Chris jumped back under the desk, waiting for the next shot, but it never came. That's a good sign. You'd figure if there were a shoot out, there'd be more than one shot, right? Hopefully, that meant someone stopped his former friend.

  You're just making guesses.

  Maybe, but maybe not. Chris peered around the corner of the desk. The lobby was still quiet. He got up to leave, but grabbed the cuffs and put them in his back pocket. You never know. Chris turned away from the concierge's desk and paused. What now? He sort of expected Jericho to be waiting for him.

  BOOOM

  A bullet ripped through the plate glass window behind the desk. Chris dropped and covered his head. Fortunately, the good people at the Chase Park Plaza paid for some top-notch bullet-proof glass.

  When he was sure he didn't get hit, Chris turned to the window, and behind thousands of spider-webbed cracks was the man who called himself Ethan. The mask was still pulled up to his nose. He fired three more rounds into the glass. The windows shook with each impact, but the glass never broke. The assassin looked even more otherworldly behind the webbed pane. Like the Terminator, he was undaunted and moved toward the entrance.

  Chris hopped up and ran back toward the pool. He didn't know what else to do. His grandiose plan of standing face-to-face with the possessed Jericho was a terrible idea on its own. Now that he was trying to kill him, it was even worse. As Jericho stepped through the front entrance and into the empty Chase, Chris knew his time was up.

  He broke to the pool and saw Nashida with his hand on Jamie's shoulder. Why the hell were they sitting when there's a damn killer after all three of them?

  "Hey, what're you doing?!"

  BOOOM

  A gunshot rang out and filled their hearing with a low pitch hum that numbed their ears to the rest of the world. Chris Shane's body went limp and collapsed into the pool.

  LXX

  Nashida tried to comfort Jamie. He didn't really know her, and this sort of thing, the whole human emotions thing, wasn't really his specialty. But he felt for her. She did what she needed to survive. Eventually, she'd learn to live this. Some people could pull the trigger and watch life fade, and move on rather easily. Others couldn't. Nashida knew which one he was. He still had nightmares about those White Nationalists in Sarasota. They were almost as bad as the ones he'd had since childhood. But he moved on, she would too. Someday. Maybe she wouldn't have had to if he hadn't failed so miserably in protecting her?

  Nashida turned his head when he heard Shane's voice. This was all his fault. No matter what the deal with the Specter and Anderson, Shane was behind it. Nashida stood back up, which hurt his lower back and knees, not to mention the speed bag pounding inside his skull. Before he could say a word, another gunshot rang out. By the time Nashida realized what happened, Shane collapsed into the pool. Behind him, still aiming his own Glock, was the Specter.

  Nashida was sure of it now. The FBI legend of the invisible assassin, the man who didn't exist, was real. He was just as horrid and terrible as any campfire story. But he was standing there, ready to squeeze off another round. Nashida leaned down and grabbed the gun, still in front of Jamie.

  "Get cover!" He shouted, before raising his weapon and firing off two rounds.

  The Specter hid behind a Romanesque archway that absorbed the shots. The masked man peaked out and sent two more rounds at Nashida. The first went wide and struck the green pickup truck still stuck midway between the gate and Linden Avenue. The second round didn't miss. It found its way into Agent Nashida's shoulder. The force spun him around, knocking him to the pavement. He saw Jamie Casten take refuge inside the truck. Nashida reached his hand up to his shoulder and winced as his fingertips gently brushed past the exposed nerves and muscle. Something beyond his shoulder ached. Maybe the bullet lodged inside the shoulder blade? Nashida tried to roll back to his base, but his left arm was dead. The agent tried to lift the Glock with his right hand, but even moving that arm hurt. He squeezed off two more rounds at the Specter. Both missed.

  The Specter rose the Glock one more time as he neared Nashida. A swift kick to the face laid the weakened agent out on the floor. Part of him wanted to surrender and roll into that pool and join Christopher Shane, but the rest of him would rather take the next bullet to the head and go out fighting. Jericho pressed the gun against Nashida's temple. He could open fire ten feet away and have the same effect, but that wouldn't have given him near the satisfaction. This killer, this Specter, wanted to preserve the moment. Nashida looked up, and even though his face was hidden, he could tell his killer was smiling.

  LXXI

  When the bullet from Jericho's gun went wide and struck the truck, it gave Jamie an idea. The last thing she wanted to do was have a gunfight with anyone, let alone him. After shooting Anderson, Jamie made the decision to never touch a gun again. But when she saw Chris fall into the pool, she understood the only way to stop the Nightcrawler was to kill the man in black. When the bullet hit the truck's metal cowcatcher and ricocheted off, Jamie got an idea.

  In a tucked position, she ran to the pick-up truck. The truck bed and cab were lodged between the concrete wall. But the back wheels had enough debris underneath to probably gain some traction, especially when she floored that V8 engine.

  Jamie ran to the driver's side door and pulled. The door immediately fell off its hinges and nearly crushed her hundred—tenpound frame. She jumped in the front seat and reached for the ignition. The keys were still locked in place. All sh
e had to do was turn the engine over, throw it into four-wheel drive and accelerate. She could reconcile the results with her psychiatrist, the one her aunt made her see every week for the past four years, later. That's why they make the big bucks, right?

  Jamie grabbed the key and turned.

  Clik clik

  What? That should have worked. She turned it again.

  Clik clik

  Nothing. Dammit! She punched the steering wheel and winced. Pain rushed up her arm, and her wrist throbbed. After all this, did she really just break her wrist punching a steering wheel? The pain was intense as she reached back for the ignition one more time. She barely wrapped her fingers around the key, and once she was there, making a fist almost had her in tears. She looked up and found him standing over Nashida. She had to make something happen.

  "Please, God," she whispered as she closed her eyes and turned the keys.

  Clik clik

  Still nothing. She opened her eyes, feeling more helpless than ever as he aimed the gun at the FBI agent, who almost killed himself trying to save her. Looking at this monster, he might as well be the Grim Reaper—dressed in black with his long dreadlocks, skull mask, and sunglasses—wait!

  She remembered something he said in her kitchen. Jamie's left hand reached down, looking for a small knob left of the wheel. She turned it to the right and sent a radiant blast from the headlights. As soon as the light hit the glass shielding of his eyes, he shuttered. It worked for a second, but it wouldn't completely stop him. She needed a little something extra.

  With her broken wrist, she reached back to the lever and pulled it in, blasting him with the high beams. Like something out of a bad vampire movie, he covered his eyes with his forearm.

  What she didn't notice was a third man, moving behind Nashida and the Nightcrawler the entire time. While she was trying to turn the engine over, he was moving slightly beyond all of their sight. As soon as the Nightcrawler covered his eyes, the third man came charging from the shadows, armed with a patio chair. He drove it into the Crawler's face, shattering his glasses and tearing the mask. He took a second swing with the chair and Jamie watched as it exploded over his head.