Dwyer jabbed forward. Straight line, shortest distance between two points.
Redell screamed.
The blade penetrated Redell's stomach. Just between the lower ribs, the floating ribs. Stuck him on the right side. The knife sunk into the handle, eight inches. Dwyer let it sit there for a beat. Inflicting pain. Didn't pull it out right away. He pressed down, cutting. Pressing deeper, carving a big slice. Then he flicked it out. Carved in, carved out. Usually a stab wound is small. The diameter of the blade. Since most blades are less than a quarter inch thick and an inch and a half in height they usually leave a small cut. But Dwyer didn't poke in and out. He carved in and down, tearing as much as he could. Cutting tissue, skin, muscle, lots of blood. A big clot wormed out. The red stuff flowed quickly.
Redell reacted. Instinctively threw his right. Dwyer ducked, it was a slow big arm. Missed his head, he felt the breeze. Dwyer danced. Lunged in, a quick jab into Redell's right thigh. Lots of meat. He jabbed him again, and again.
Redell was off balance, hurting, pain, bleeding. He didn't know what to do. He panicked, tried to grab Dwyer. Kind of fell on him. He was heavy. Dwyer had two choices. Try to hold his weight. Maybe use his strength to push him back. But that was never a good idea. Uses lots of energy. His second choice, the skilled choice, bend like the willow. Move in the direction of the force. Don't fight it. Even the mighty oak will snap under enough pressure. Dwyer bent his knees. He was lower, crouching down. Redell was leaning over him. Putting his arms around Dwyer in a bear hug. Not smart, especially when fighting someone with a knife.
Dwyer fired an upper cut. Aimed at his groin. Painful. The Ka-Bar cut deep. Dwyer felt is slice the soft tissue and hit bone.
Redell froze.
Dwyer pulled the knife out. Sliced the inside of his thigh. Maybe fours inches in length. Nicked an artery. Blood squirted.
Redell pushed Dwyer away and took a step backward. He staggered. Fell against the wall, light headed, blood pressure dropping. He looked white. His mouth was open like he was trying to speak. He was grabbing himself. Trying to stop the bleeding. His fingers were red. The stuff just kept coming out.
Dwyer watched him.
Redell slid down the wall. Leaving a trail of blood on it. He lay against the wall in an awkward position. Kind of propped up against it, leaning on his side but sitting on the floor. A puddle of blood was building underneath him. He was panting, breathing funny. He bent his right knee. Tried to get up. His foot slipped in the syrup. A guttural moan came out. Soft, somewhat airy, but deep. He coughed, and again. Air escaping. His arms collapsed at his side. Then he stopped moving. His eyes started closing. The lids were half way over the eyes, eerie looking. He was dead.
Dwyer turned to the Minister, raised his hand and motioned for him to stay against the wall. He twisted toward the door and heard a familiar sound, click.
Chapter 55
Bullets shattered the door. Maybe eight, maybe ten. It was two short bursts. The door handle popped out, bits of metal in all directions. Like shrapnel, they pockmarked the walls. Whistling as they went by. Dwyer moved against the wall. The door flew open. Ore kicked it in.
Major Kenneth Ore was angry. He was standing legs apart in a shooter’s stance. Knees slightly bent. Both hands on the pistol. He glanced down at Redell. Blood running everywhere. Ribs, thigh, groin, it was messy. He looked at the Minister. He was in shock. He looked at Dwyer. Jack stared back at him.
He pointed the gun at Dwyer.
"Drop it," he said.
Dwyer relaxed his fingers. They were sticky, stuck together, glued to the knife. Blood. The knife fell from his hand. Didn't make much of a sound when it hit the carpet. Just kind of fell quietly.
Ore glanced around the room. Saw the two suitcases with the money.
"Pick them up," he said. "One at a time. Toss them over here."
Dwyer turned to his right. Looked at the first case. Looked back at Ore. Held still for a moment.
Ore said, "Well?"
He made a get moving motion with his gun hand.
Dwyer nodded.
He walked five steps to the case. Bent down and placed his left hand on the handle. Started to lift it up. Something caught his eye. Black sitting by itself. It was hidden by the suitcase until he moved it. Redell's gun was in front of him. He was still in crouched position when he turned to Ore.
"How much money is it?" he asked.
Ore glanced at the Minister. Then looked back at Dwyer. He was staring at Dwyer's back.
"You really stumbled into some shit,” he said.
Dwyer used that moment to calculate the positioning of his right hand. His body was blocking Ore's view. He adjusted his weight. Shifted it slightly. His fingers searching for the gun.
"You got a problem?" Ore said.
Dwyer's fingers brushed against the pistol.
"Just wondering what you plan to do with all this money," Dwyer said.
"What do you think asshole?” Ore said.
Dwyer had the gun.
Ore said, "Hurry up."
Dwyer stood up. Held the handle with his left hand. His right was behind the suitcase, kind of supporting it.
He turned and faced Ore.
Ore saw his expression.
Dwyer stared back at him.
They stood for a beat. Dwyer took a step toward him. Ore could sense something wasn't right. His face tensed, his forehead wrinkled, he was frowning.
Dwyer let the suitcase drop.
Ore's eyes followed it to the floor. It was heavy, made a loud thump. Dwyer raised his right arm. Ore saw the movement. He saw the pistol. He raised his arm. Positioning it towards Dwyer's chest. They were less than fifteen feet apart.
Anyone watching would have seen two shooters moving at the same speed. Raising their arms, fully extended, like professionals going to kill each other.
The Minister saw it too. He yelled, not words, but something animal, like in slow motion, came from his throat.
Dwyer squeezed the trigger.
Ore squeezed the trigger.
Dwyer wanted to minimize his size, so he turned to his right making himself a smaller target. He twisted on the balls of his feet. His left arm moving up to grip the gun, supporting his right.
Ore leaned forward bending his knees. He looked surprised. His mouth open. The game had changed.
Dwyer's gun fired.
Ore's gun fired.
The flash from both guns sparked in the room. The boom vibrated the walls. The Minister saw both shooters’ arms react from the kick. Their guns bounced about three inches. The shots sounded like one drawn out bang.
Someone moaned. A gun fell from a hand. A body dropped to the ground.
The Minister moved to the body. Looked down on it. He was disgusted, ashamed that he had once valued the man for protection. Major Ore was having trouble breathing. He was lying on his back. Blood pooling beneath him. He was fading away. His cheeks were puffing in and out. The left side of his head held a gaping wound, just above his temple, and behind his ear. The bullet blew away a piece of his skull. His eyes half closed, fixated on a spot on the ceiling. Then he stopped breathing.
Dwyer stood beside the Minister for a beat. There was nothing to say. It was over. Dwyer walked across the room and picked up his knife. He placed the Glock on the desk and grabbed a blue dinner napkin then wiped the blade clean and slid it into his belt. His arm wound was still bleeding. The pain was throbbing, shooting up towards his shoulder. He wrapped the napkin around his arm and tied it tight.
Then he picked up the two suitcases. He looked at Redell for a minute. When he turned around the Minister was watching him. Dwyer nodded to the door. The emptiness in his stomach told him he was hungry. The fatigue in his heart told him it was over. The Minister stopped him and raised his hand. Dwyer put the suitcases down and shook hands with him. It lasted longer than expected. The Minister held on, tears were in his eyes.
"Why?" the Minister said. "Just for money?"
Dwy
er looked at Redell then Ore.
"It's always about the money," he said.
"That's insane," the Minister said.
Dwyer thought about the first time he met Redell. He knew then he was certifiable. He ran the basic checklist in his mind and Redell scored high on all of them. There was no middle road for a guy like Redell, his way or no way. He wanted the money and didn't care who got in his way.
"The crazy part is Major Ore," Dwyer said. "He fell for Redell's trap. Redell would have killed him too. Maybe Ore saw it coming, maybe not. But a guy like Redell wouldn't have split the money."
The Minister shook his head.
"Ore worked for me less than a year," The Minister was trying to understand it all. "He was retired, solid background. Career military. I just don't get it."
Dwyer was ex-military and was wandering across the country. Looking at Ore, he thought maybe he was in the same boat. Retired with no family, a loner, looking for one last chance at the brass ring. Redell gave him that chance.
"Let's go," Dwyer said.
With both suitcases in hand, they walked to the door.
Chapter 56
Kelly Paul heard the shots. Rapid gunfire above her on the fourteenth floor. She hauled herself up the stairs. Her legs were numb, rubbery. She was on the thirteenth floor. One more to go.
She positioned herself against the door. She was breathing hard. Her ear pressed to the frame, begging to hear a familiar voice. She inched it open. Nothing. Then the adrenaline kicked in. She burst onto the top floor. Sweating, panting. Her face red, tense, and worried. The corridor was quiet. Just the rattle of the air conditioner. She held back at the stairs for a minute. Then she heard a noise coming from a room down the hall. Her father's room. Faint voices.
She stepped out into the hallway. It was about thirty feet long. She looked down the corridor and at the end and to the left was the room. There were blood splatters on the wall. Bullet holes had chipped away the drywall. A big piece was missing. It was crushed on the floor. Looked like white chalk.
She moved down the corridor with her back to the wall. Straining to hear her father’s voice. Shadows bounced around the room. She could see them ten feet ahead on the floor.
Her mind raced with all the terrible things that go through one’s mind at a time like this. She thought about losing her father. Her mouth was dry. She recalled her childhood, happy, playful. The barbecues in the backyard after church. She loved being around him. She wanted to see him, take care of him, and never leave him alone again.
She moved slower as she got to the room. She heard footsteps.
Her first instinct was to hide. But there was nowhere to go. She was out in the open, exposed.
"It's dad," she said to herself.
She froze. Her feet were stuck to the carpet, heavy. Didn't know what to do. She held her breath. It wasn't a conscious decision, just trying to be quiet. She let it out slowly.
She forced herself and took a step.
She pictured Beau Redell walking out in front of her. His ruddy complexion. She felt sick, panic.
She tightened her jaw.
She was ten feet away when two dark figures appeared.
Kelly swallowed. She let out a cry.
One was her father. The other was a man sent from God.
Jack Dwyer looked up at her and smiled. His grin widened from ear to ear.
Kelly Paul ran toward them. She fell into her father's arms. Laying her head on his chest. She placed both hands on his face and kissed him. Hugged him again and reached out toward Dwyer with her right arm. Her fingers extended.
Dwyer put the suitcases down and raised his right arm. The pain didn't matter.
She grabbed his hand, held tight.
He squeezed back. She wouldn't let go.
"Is it over?” she asked.
Dwyer nodded.
She closed her eyes. Tears were running down her cheeks.
Dwyer brushed her face, wiping them away.
"I don't know who you are Jack, but without you we wouldn’t be alive," she said. "Thank you."
Jack Dwyer smiled. "I need a coffee."
"Starbucks," she said.
"You know a place?"
Kelly nodded.
They walked down the corridor toward the elevator. Kelly helping her father, arms around him. Dwyer was carrying two suitcases. The elevator door opened. Agents Hammons and two officers stepped out.
Kelly Paul and her father got in, Dwyer followed.
"It's over?" Hammons asked.
Dwyer nodded.
The door closed. The corridor was quiet. Except for the noise of the air conditioner.
***
The next day at a Starbucks by the beach, Kelly Paul met Jack Dwyer for coffee. She told him she was going back to Texas with her father. She wanted him to join her, maybe see each other, see how they felt. But she knew Dwyer was a loner. He was different; she was different. Everything was different. What they had been through, losing her son, the kidnapping, was confusing.
***
Three days later on an early Saturday morning, Jack Dwyer was sitting at the bedside of Agent Miller.
“Don’t get up,” Dwyer had told him when he entered the hospital room. Miller smiled, he wasn’t about to.
Dwyer brought a gift with him. He poured two glasses of Johnny Walker Blue and handed one to Miller. He raised the glass.
“To the good guys,” Miller said.
They spent thirty minutes together recalling their initial meeting and all that had happened. Miller was healing. He would be given time off to recuperate. For him it was time to be with his family.
***
Dwyer left Tampa the next week. Drove south on I-75 to Miami. Checked into a quiet hotel walking distance from the beach. Needed some time to work through all the angles in his mind. Everything he could have done should have done and why he ended up being the guy in the middle of it all. He slept a lot, mostly during the day. Stayed up late drinking; vodka martinis and foo foo drinks. Walked the strip a lot, like a tourist; it made him feel kind of weird. Nobody would have guessed what he had just experienced. But he liked hearing music and having people around him. The distractions kept him from thinking about what had happened. Kept him from thinking about the people he had killed. The knife fight in the field. Carving up the guy’s chest until he was dead. Taking Redell out in the hotel room. He remembered the blood. Then Major Ore, a lucky break the gun was under the suitcase. A lucky break that made the difference between life and death.
Jack Dwyer was alive because he observed things.
The End
Please enjoy chapter one of: The Prisoner
The second thriller novel in the Jack Dwyer series.
Chapter 1
Shot at sunrise. That's what the general was told. Nobody knows why but it's always at sunrise. There wasn't any big hoopla, no family, no photographers, no journalists, nothing, no one to witness the end of a life.
Five shooters stand at attention.
Shooting a man is not easy, at least for most people. But if you’re in the Chinese military you do it. Also it's easier to shoot a man when one of you has the dummy bullet. No one knows who fires the fatal shot; five guys; four live rounds. That's the way it was to be done today.
He was cold, frail, disgraced. A shadow of the man he used to be. His clothes, tattered, filthy, hung from his torso like strips of yellow newspaper. He was shaking.
Home for thirteen months had been a dusty cinderblock room, six by eight, barely enough to stretch. A cot, a thin blanket and running water that trickled from a rusty pipe, froze in the frigid winter. No windows.
He raised his eyes to the men about to march him to his death. No eye contact, cowards he thought. He felt something cold on his ankles, metal shackles. Heard them snap into place. He lowered his eyes and looked down. A chain tethered his feet together, fourteen links of walking space. He couldn't move. It was like he was stuck in a foot of mud.
He ran his
eyes over his feet, yellow, toenails missing. He'd aged. Felt old. A wet cough, maybe pneumonia, maybe something worse.
Someone grabbed an elbow. Then his other one. His arms, twisted behind his back, hurt. Familiar sound, metal snapping. His hands were numb, the weight of the cuffs, the weight of isolation. He froze. His heart raced.
Two guards stand behind him, waiting for him to walk. Hands land on his back, heavy, strong, meaty, the first physical contact in months. He's pushed forward. Shuffles his feet one after another and eyes the long hallway, dark and hollow. Echoes bounce off the walls filling his ears.
General Yeung was fifty-six years of age but looked older. His black hair, once shiny, was dull and thin. At five foot seven, stooping over he appeared shorter. Anyone watching would have guessed he was an old man. He dragged his feet. His skin was pale, spotted with open wounds, self-mutilation from the stress of loneliness. Isolation is like starvation. It kills slowly. The general was falling apart mentally and physically. His head hung in shame.
He enters the corridor.
The floor is grey, the walls are grey, and the ceiling is grey. Long and empty, three lamps hang from above. They are spaced evenly down the hallway and covered with wire mesh. How ironic; protect the lamps destroy the human. The General's mind was spinning. His eyes cut to each bulb; they flicker yellow. Focusing at this point makes him dizzy. His eyes find the door at the end. He sees a glint of light, sky blue, calm. But his heart is pounding; realization of what is about to happen. He hears it, thumping deep in his chest, almost painful. Light filters in from around the doorframe. He squints, his eyes adjusting.
He stumbles along.
Two men behind. Three in front; one leading the way. He hears their boots, the rhythm, and the beat of them marching. Someone pushes him again. He loses his balance; stumbles slightly. His concentration shifts. He realizes he's walked further than he has in months.
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