Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

Not since sitting down with Uncle Jep years before had I told anybody the story. Playing it back in my mind in the time since, there were moments when it had all started to seem a bit surreal, like I was detached, a side observer rather than an actual participant.

  Stepping out of the bar where my friends were, the line for the bathroom too long so I went to the alley to take a piss.

  Seeing the man on his knees, Baxter and his lackey standing over him, gun extended.

  Picking up the length of pipe and hurling it their way, drawing just enough contact to deflect his shot, the bullet hitting the man’s shoulder instead of his head.

  Fighting the two of them off, lasting just long enough for someone to hear the commotion and call the police.

  The process of being brought to the police station, held as if I too was going to be prosecuted, before being approached by an attorney from the Department of Justice.

  “And you’re telling me that was you?” Lou asked, her brows rising a bit higher on her face.

  Matching her gaze for a moment, I turned to look back through the front windshield, the dead and brittle grass along the roadway drifting slightly in the breeze.

  “Uncle Jep told me I was crazy, asked me not to, but I didn’t see any way around it. I knew someone like Baxter would eventually figure out who had been there that night, would come after me anyway.”

  Falling silent, I glanced to my lap, my fingers laced up, grime lining the nails.

  “And boy, those government flunkies knew all the buttons to push. Told me I could be on the hook for a whole list of crimes, too, based on what went down that night.

  “Really tapped into the whole just-getting-out-of-the-service thing, punching up the patriotic angle, asking me why I had been overseas fighting when we had garbage like Baxter here.”

  So much more could be said, so many details that could be tossed in, but I fell short.

  She was a smart lady, I didn’t need to spell it all out for her.

  Looking at me another moment, waiting to see if there was more to be added, Lou eventually nodded, her gaze moving to the front window as well.

  I could only guess at what she was thinking, the story sounding just as wild out loud as it had in my head all those years. Point by point I could almost visualize her going through it, trying to balance what she knew with what I had just told her, seeing how it jived.

  If it did at all.

  Every bit of earnestness I could muster had gone into the retelling, even if those emotions were the furthest thing from my mind.

  “One of my conditions,” I continued, “my only condition, was that I was allowed to speak with Uncle Jep once a month.”

  “And that’s how they eventually caught him,” Lou added, nodding, as if it all suddenly clicked into place.

  “No,” I corrected. “We ran the line through a series of false relays, even had it end up somewhere in Maine, told WITSEC it was an old army buddy.

  “That man was in Vietnam, as old-school paranoid as they come. I don’t know how the hell they ever found him, but it wasn’t through the calls.”

  Processing in silence a moment, Lou said, “Probably staked out his house, managed to wait for him to eventually show.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “No. I’ve been there, too. They somehow figured out where his wife was buried, caught up to him there. How they did that, I don’t know, but it wasn’t the call.

  “That’s how they got to me.”

  Beside us, a small truck pulling a fishing boat sped past, looping wide to give us plenty of space along the shoulder. A variety of gear stuck up at angles from the back, swaying with the movement of the vehicle.

  A few inches away, the vents continued to push out artificially cooled air, my skin dry to the touch for the first time since arriving back in Tennessee.

  “How they got to you?” she asked.

  Flicking a glance her direction, I said, “They got his phone, changed the voicemail. To anybody else hearing it, it was just a simple change, but to me, it was basically a taunt.

  “We have your uncle, come and get us.”

  As had been the cadence of the conversation, silence fell in, the vents the only sound. Me, on one side, hoping it was enough, wanting to get out of the Bronco and on our way so I could go back to finding Baxter.

  Lou, trying to determine what to make of what I’d just shared.

  This time, it was her that broke the silence first.

  “And so that’s what you’re doing?”

  I never got a chance to reply.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The story was salacious, like equal parts daytime television and Harlan Coben novel. One bit at a time, Talula Davis listened to what was being fed her, unsure if it was the most outlandish tale ever concocted, or just crazy enough to actually be true.

  Parts of it were no doubt rooted in actual events. Some of the things just couldn’t be explained otherwise, starting with how he had been presumed dead and including a dozen others along the way.

  It was the rest of it, like Tim claiming to be the mystery man that had put Eric Baxter away, that was a bit too much to wrap her head around.

  Baxter was a known figure, both on the reservation and in the law enforcement community of the multi-state area. Working with his brother, the duo had set up a network of illegal weapons that stretched across much of the south.

  It was the sort of thing everybody was well aware of, the two wearing their reputation like a badge of honor, heroes in the low-end communities that dotted the landscape.

  Wherever there were hardscrabble people, folks that had tired of the system, were ready to cash things in and succumb to their vices, the Baxters were only a call away.

  For years, they had been the target of numerous local and federal efforts, a list that included even the resources of the reservation.

  Touched men like her father, acting Chief of Police before his own untimely death.

  Last she’d heard, the entire thing had gone offline in the wake of Eric’s arrest six years before. Plenty of people had openly speculated about where they were or what they were up to, the most common belief being that they were just biding time until his sentence was up, searching for their chance to emerge again.

  Only Davis knew better.

  Much, much better.

  More than one young and aspiring law enforcement agent in the area had spent every free moment digging into them, wanting nothing more than for them to be the rocket they hitched their career to.

  And now here was Tim, potentially offering some such story.

  If any of it could be believed.

  Letting him get to the end of the story, Davis nodded in silence, fighting to keep her visage free of expression, fitting everything he’d just shared against what she already knew.

  It was seated in that position, waiting for him to add the final bits to his tale, to complete what he’d already begun, answer her question about his next move, that she first spotted it.

  With a simple glance to the rearview mirror, she saw the oversized pickup rumble into view. Starting as nothing more than a blurred line on the horizon, rising up out of the heat waves swaying above the pavement, she watched as it grew closer.

  Fast.

  Much too fast for a road as small as the one they were parked on.

  Feeling her nerves tighten, she extended her right hand from her thigh to the gear shift between them, alternating glances between Tim and the mirror.

  For his part, he was back to staring out the front, his mind in a different place, trying to determine the best way to answer her question.

  As if she didn’t already know why he was really there.

  Behind them, the truck grew ever larger, a rig the size of a small tank, painted yellow, a chrome grille glinting beneath the summer sun. While the last few cars to move past had edged into the opposite lane, taking care to give them ample room along the shoulder, this one kept its front aimed at them, the sound of its engine becoming audible ove
r the air conditioning piping out at them.

  A spike of adrenaline jolted through Davis, a flutter rising from her stomach to her chest in milliseconds. Watching, waiting, she spied the truck continuing to bear down on them, the thundering blare of a horn rolling out from it, as deafening as a fog horn in the still air.

  “Hold on!” she snapped, drawing Tim’s attention her way as she jerked back on the gear shift, simultaneously pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

  On contact, the RPM needle swung in a quick arc, the engine rumbling, tires grabbing at loose grass, the backend swaying from side to side, fighting for purchase.

  Releasing her hold on the gas for just an instant, Davis watched the truck close the gap between them, no more than fifteen yards separating the two sides. Crushing it against the floorboard a second time, she felt the tires spin just an instant before grabbing hold, hurtling them forward.

  The angry braying of the horn erupted again behind them as they fishtailed out onto the road, a furious mix of grass and dirt and scorched rubber. A host of sounds and smells filled the car as Tim rose from the passenger seat, turning to peer through the back window.

  “What the hell?!” he screamed, looking from the window to her and back again.

  Doing the same through the rearview, Davis kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for the radio under the dash.

  “Friends of yours?” she asked, snatching the microphone free and bringing it to her lips.

  Beside her, Tim made some response, the words not finding their way to her as she held the receiver close, aware that the truck behind them was less than ten yards back, so large it filled the width of her view in the mirror.

  “Tanner!” she screamed into the device. “Officer requesting backup! Repeat, officer requesting backup!”

  Releasing her grip on the side lever, she waited for a response, praying he was sitting at his desk and not off for his third lunch of the day.

  “Tanner, goddamit! I am on Briar Road, being pursued by a yellow pickup truck with Georgia plates, numbering-“

  Looking back to the mirror, she tried to focus on the swaying image, fighting to pick out the exact digits scrolled across it.

  “Shit,” she spat, jerking a glance over to Tim. “They’re too close for me, can you see-“

  The rest of her question never made it out, his hand instead finding her shoulder, shoving her low behind the wheel.

  “Gun! Gun! Gun!”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  I would have thought that the windows on an official police vehicle were bulletproof. At the very least, that they would have been strong enough to withstand a simple round from a handgun.

  No such luck.

  The first round struck the rear window, a crystalline patch forming almost a half-inch across, tendrils of various size and length snaking out around it.

  The second was enough to shatter the tensile strength of the glass, a shower of shards erupting into the rear space, the smaller ones becoming projectiles inside the cabin. Aided by the hot air swirling around us, they tore at every bit of exposed skin we had, shearing minute stripes into my exposed bicep and shoulder as I reached across the middle console, pushing Lou down behind her seat.

  “This damn thing go any faster?” I yelled, keeping one hand on her shoulder as I lowered myself down below my own chair. Turning sideways, I tucked my shoulder up tight against the cloth, peering out around it.

  “I’m going fifty!” Lou screamed back, twisting the wheel hard to the right, the sensation of us losing contact with the ground filtering in.

  A moment later we leveled out, weight squaring back up, bodies bouncing slightly as we landed.

  Without the tinted rear window, the truck on our tail was much clearer, a hulking rig that towered above us, the downward angle likely being the only reason the first few rounds hadn’t been placed with better precision.

  The truck had three people in it, all males, all looking young and large. One driving, two more were positioned in the bed, leaning out over the top of the roof, handguns extended before them.

  “Three guys, two shooters,” I yelled, maintaining my post long enough to see a pair of orange blossoms erupt from the end of them, one on either side of the roof.

  The first we could hear pinging off the metal above our heads, the other drawing nothing.

  “Tanner!” Lou screamed into her microphone beside me. “Tanner, where the hell is my backup?!”

  I had no idea who Tanner was or what he was responding, but I could tell from the tension in Lou’s voice, her death grip on the receiver in her hand, that they weren’t giving her the response she wanted.

  Chancing a glance back, I saw another flash of light, the truck continuing to fire on us.

  This one too struck nothing as I retreated below the seat. Tucking myself up tight, I peered at Lou beside me, a cocktail of emotions splayed across her features. I heard another round ping against the rear body of the Bronco, feeling us bounce over the uneven country road.

  I thought of the reason I was even in Tennessee, of the smell of my uncle’s blood in my old house.

  Of the queen left in his bedroom.

  I won’t say it was like a moment in a movie, Kurt Russell in Tombstone or even The Rock in The Rundown. There was no massive epiphany, no special words or me doing something stupid.

  But there was damn sure the realization that I had had all of the shit I was willing to take from these people.

  Leaning forward, I grabbed up the backpack between my feet, jerking the zipper open, the top gaping wide. Moving by pure touch, my fingers slid around the gnarled grip of the Beretta, pulling it free.

  Two feet away, Lou’s eyes went wide as she stared at it, her mouth half-open, the microphone just inches away from it.

  “Keep it steady,” I said, pressing the window down beside me, more air flooding in, a vortex whipping around us in both directions, flying in a twisted pattern.

  Without waiting for a response, I shoved my body out through the opening, balancing my ass on the window ledge. With my chest tight up against the frame, I held the Beretta in my left hand, arm tracing along the contour of the Bronco.

  Maintaining our speed, Lou keeping us aimed down the center of the street, I felt wind flow over my body, could feel the heat of the air on my skin, the adrenaline rushing through me. Vaguely I registered a flurry of shots coming from the top of the truck, both guys extended forward, gripping their guns in both hands.

  And, just like Uncle Jep taught me, I blocked it all out.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled back on the trigger, the first shot bisecting the space between them. Adjusting an imperceptible amount to the right, I squeezed another time, less than a second separating the two.

  Striking true, I watched as the man on the right jerked back, a spastic movement that could only be caused by a bullet hitting at full force.

  Shifting back in the opposite direction, I let loose aquick flurry, sending the other gunman down behind the hood of the truck for cover.

  One last time I adjusted my aim, this time coming after the man behind the wheel.

  Seeing me do that, he jerked the rig to the side, the big yellow machine facing us broadside as it swung across the road, disappearing down a dirt lane to the left. At our given rate of speed, we kept hurtling on ahead, the gap between us growing until they were gone from sight.

  Even after that, I maintained my pose for a full minute before sliding back inside. Returning down to the seat, I felt the prick of a few shards of glass that were embedded in the cloth jab up into the back of my thighs, puncturing the skin.

  With the receiver still clutched in her hand, Lou slowed the Bronco to a stop, coming to a standstill in the middle of the street, her lips parted as she stared right at me.

  “What the hell was that?” she asked.

  The most immediate response was that it was me saving our asses, keeping that truck from running us into the lake or shooting us one at a time or even worse, woun
ding us and delivering us back to where they had come from.

  The more prudent answer was to say nothing of the sort.

  “That was me answering your question from earlier,” I replied. “That’s why I’m here now.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The meetup with the group of three young men Vic Baxter had sent over left a sour taste in Radney Creel’s mouth. Despite the best efforts of his employer to assure him they were meant as nothing more than posturing, extra reinforcements to be moved around, trotted out, cast aside at his discretion, he couldn’t help but feel like their presence represented some form of personal slight.

  Like Baxter was stating he alone wasn’t sufficient for what they were up against.

  Which, as far as he could tell, was a single guy that had spent a few years in the army.

  Once upon a time, Creel had been as well. In more recent times, he had beaten four of them in a bar fight by himself. And two of them were armed.

  It was bad enough that he had already been saddled with Elijah Pyle, a situation that he was yet to completely wrap his mind around, and something that was definitely non-negotiable when it was first presented to him.

  With that assortment of thoughts roiling through his mind, Creel sat behind the steering wheel of his truck. Bypassing the air conditioning, he rolled with the windows down, letting the wind whip through the narrow space, passing over his skin.

  Reclined against the seatback, he draped a hand over the wheel and let his eyes glaze, thinking through his next steps. Outside, the world had receded into an even mix of green and gold – pine trees and dry, brittle grass.

  Moving past his blurred vision in two enormous stripes - the only other color registering with him the blue of the sky above - Creel set a course for the farmhouse.

  Fifteen minutes later he arrived, his mood no better, a plan in place for how to proceed. At least for the next hour or two, everything after that being pretty pliable, depending on how things played out.

  Leaving his truck in the center of the driveway, not bothering to pull into the garage and stow it from view, Creel climbed out and strode across the front walk. Bursting through the front door, he entered to find Pyle still in his usual position.