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

by Dustin Stevens

  Letting the scowl on his face be the only response, Creel pushed back from the kitchen.

  There was no way anybody had followed, no chance they would even be able to tail him if they wanted to. Not under the best of conditions, and certainly not in the wide-open roads of East Tennessee.

  Going straight across the carpet of the front room, he pressed a shoulder to the far wall, using one finger to pull back the lace curtain hanging across it, forming an opening no more than a couple of inches across.

  “You have got to be shitting me.”

  At once, the trepidation he’d felt a moment before was gone, replaced by a renewed hostility unlike anything he could remember. Pushing himself away from the wall, he walked across the room to the front door, Pyle appearing in the opening to the kitchen, guns still in hand.

  “What?”

  “Gawdamn rookies,” Creel spat. Beginning to tuck his own weapon into the small of his back, he thought better of it, instead snatching the door open and stepping outside, pistol held at shoulder level before him.

  On the other end of it was two of the three young men he’d met with earlier in the day. One of the two was striped liberally with blood, his jeans and cutoff t-shirt bearing enormous splotches of it.

  Marching straight out, Creel kept the gun trained on them, watching as both froze in the middle of the sidewalk, their faces pale, one even going as far as to raise his hands before him.

  As if that would make a damn bit of difference.

  “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  Between them, not a single word was uttered, both standing rigid, grasping for the right thing to say.

  Wanting nothing more than to point the gun at the sky, or at the ground by their feet, or even into their kneecaps, and fire, to get their damn attention, Creel instead took another step forward.

  Pressed the front barrel of the weapon into the chest of the cleaner of the two.

  Behind him, he could hear floorboards groaning, Pyle no doubt coming out to observe, his presence just one more thing that had Creel’s blood boiling.

  “What. The hell. Are you doing here?” Creel said, spitting the sentence out in fragments, spittle flying as he asked the question.

  The young man with the gun in his chest looked down at the weapon before staring up at Creel. All previous thoughts of self-assuredness, of male machismo, even of his overinflated muscles, peeled away, revealing nothing more than the scared kid Creel had tabbed them all for the moment they arrived.

  “Uh, boss told us where you were.”

  Pressing his lips tighter together, Creel could feel his face twitching, vitriol aching to come spewing out.

  “You called Vic?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Why?”

  Again glancing down to the gun, the young man said, “We didn’t know what else to do.”

  Taking a half-step forward, Creel closed the gap between them to just a few inches. Raising the front tip of the weapon away from the kid’s chest, he jabbed it forward a handful of times, the metal beating against his flesh.

  “So why the hell didn’t you call me?”

  “I,” the young man stammered, looking to the side for aid. “I...”

  Moving forward another couple of inches, Creel jerked the gun from the young man’s chest, repositioning it under his chin.

  “You..” he said, mocking the young man’s cadence, “you called Baxter?”

  Every part of him wanted to pull the trigger. To send the guy’s teeth up through the top of his skull, a geyser of blood and brain matter.

  Turn the weapon to the side and do the same to his cohort.

  They might have been sent by the boss, but nobody would know if they met their end standing right on the front sidewalk.

  Nobody but Pyle, and Creel was long past giving a damn what he thought.

  Shoving the gun upward, using it to lift the young man’s chin toward the sky, he pushed until the kid staggered back, unable to maintain his balance, before twisting and taking a few steps out across the brittle front lawn.

  Running a free hand back over his head, Creel looked to Pyle in the doorway, still holding the guns, his wrists resting on his hips, looking like he was supremely enjoying the entire affair.

  “Damn donkey show, ain’t it?” Pyle said, letting some of his amusement show in his tone, on his face.

  A donkey show didn’t begin to describe it, but Creel was not about to openly agree with the man.

  He had enough on his mind at the moment.

  “Holy shit,” he said, scratching at the back of his scalp. “What the hell did you boys do?”

  Glancing over, he could see the two of them share a glance, neither looking like they were prepared to say a word.

  Things like this were why he worked alone. Why he never, ever consorted with young kids like these.

  They didn’t know what they were doing, were too young and pompous not to broadcast every move to the world, couldn’t think about more than the six inches in front of their face.

  Which was usually dictated by the six inches between their legs.

  “There were three of you earlier.”

  Thinking that would be enough, he waited for a response, watching as they continued their show of fidgeting.

  “Where the hell is the other one now?”

  “County,” the one with the blood stains said.

  Having no idea what County was, Creel could only infer it was a nearby hospital, meaning that whoever might be looking into things would now have a pretty tight geographic window to pin them into.

  Great.

  “What happened to him?” Creel asked, each word burning as it passed over his tongue, every part of the day one unending exercise in bullshit.

  He was beyond this. He had earned his stripes with Baxter and countless others before him.

  He didn’t need this kind of shit in his life. In his line of work, this was the sort of thing that got him killed or his ass tossed in jail.

  Some damn kids who didn’t know what they were doing.

  “Got shot,” the first one replied.

  Folds of skin formed around Creel’s eyes as he glared at them both, slowly shifting over to look at Pyle.

  For the first time all afternoon, the man seemed to actually sense the severity of what had happened, matching Creel’s look and shaking his head.

  This was not good.

  Turning to the road, Creel tucked his weapon into the small of his back, raising a hand to face. Feeling rough stubble against his palm, he let the hot afternoon sun beat on his face a moment, bringing sweat to the surface.

  This was bad.

  But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it now.

  Jerking around, he extended a hand toward the driveway, already headed for the front door.

  “Get that damn monstrosity into the garage before somebody sees it, then get your asses inside. We need to talk.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “Would you like to purchase a new data plan to go with that?” the young woman asked, giving me a smile that put the girl in Chicago to shame, her face practically frozen into the pose that looked like it was her standard resting position forty hours a week, if not more.

  “No, thanks,” I said, lifting the small box with my right hand and tapping it against the palm of my left. “Just the phone.”

  “Are you sure?” the girl pressed. “With a new purchase, I can get you an extended data plan and warranty, free of charge.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that the two hundred dollars I had just dropped for the Android hardly meant the data plan and warranty were free of charge, wanting the conversation to be over as quickly as possible.

  Now, more than ever, I was on a short timeframe. I had been back in Tennessee for two days, no closer to meting out justice for Uncle Jep than I was when I left Oregon.

  “No thanks,” I said again. “This is a gift, I’ll let her come in and pick out whatever plan she needs
after she gets it.”

  The smile faded just slightly, though whether it was at my refusal of the extended plans or at the mention of a fictitious her I couldn’t be certain.

  Not that I particularly cared, at this point in my life anything younger than twenty-five looking like a child.

  And I wouldn’t put this girl at a day past twenty-three.

  “Have a great day,” I said, wheeling on the ball of my foot and heading directly back toward the parking lot, my Charger parked in the first stall outside.

  Jerking the door open, I let some of the bottled heat inside flee as I peeled the t-shirt I had donned for my big public foray up over my head, back to wearing nothing more than the ribbed tank top that had been my uniform since arriving.

  Sliding down into the car, I tossed the Android on the seat beside me, feeling the hot leather against my skin as I backed out and headed in the direction I had come from hours before.

  Taking the time to run into town was not something I was especially keen on. Getting out of Lou’s sight a second time was a pure stroke of luck, the sort of thing I didn’t see happening again.

  Knowing there was no chance she could drag me along to the hospital with her, it was clear she’d been reluctant about us parting, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  The plan was for us both to do what we needed to and reconvene in short order, her running over to Monroe County to see if the guy I’d shot had been brought by. If I knew the Baxters at all, it was highly unlikely, the people they hired more likely to shoot a wounded person themselves than leave a trail of bloody witnesses behind, but it was worth looking into.

  Or at least it sounded legit enough to turn Lou’s focus for a while.

  Leaving me to do what I was now about to.

  Knowing exactly who I was up against was a good start, but it only got me so far. In the tangled backwoods system of our little corner of Tennessee, there were infinite places that Baxter’s team could be hiding.

  Old barns, farmhouses, even vacation rentals. They could be squatting somewhere, and nobody would know it. They could also be paying good money, securing a location for a full month or more, without anybody so much as thinking twice.

  Thus far, they had been able to put eyes on me and later Lou as well.

  If I was to have any chance of striking back at them, I had to figure out a way to do the same.

  Hence, the Android.

  Winding my way back toward the cabin, I leaned heavily on the gas. Lowering the windows, I allowed warm air to swirl through the interior of the car, loving the sound of the enormous engine as I ebbed and flowed with the roadways.

  A far cry from the stop-and-go of Portland, the sun was warmer, the scenery more open than I could remember seeing in a long time.

  Leaving the camera behind was a necessary move on their part. Short of posting someone there around the clock, there was no way for them to be certain when I might show up.

  Not even being positive if I would receive their message and eventually come calling, they had to have a way of monitoring things from afar.

  It also meant I had a way of figuring out where they were.

  The range on a camera of that size was no more than a quarter mile. Unless they happened to be hiding in a tree or had dug a bunker in the immediate vicinity of the property, that meant they had planted an access point somewhere nearby.

  Even at that, they would still need to be within a ten-mile radius, cutting my search grid down tremendously, but a much too large swath of land to cover alone in short order.

  But if I could find the access point, I could hack into the feed that was supporting it.

  Or rather, I could call on someone to do that for me, the trick I was hoping to pull off here being the extent of my technological skills.

  Pulling into the same dirt lane I had used earlier in the day, I stowed the Charger just as I had before. Taking up the Android, I tore open the packaging and slipped it out, powering the device to life.

  Once it was on and active - the half charge on the battery more than enough to do what I needed it to - I scrolled the list of apps already installed, finding what I needed.

  Radiation signal detection.

  Modern day metal detector, perfect for finding any hidden cameras in a given area, or, as was the case now, finding out where someone might have hidden an access point.

  Stepping from the car, I paused, listening to the cooling engine behind me, straining for any signs from the forest that danger might be near.

  Hearing nothing but the usual cacophony of crickets and birds, I held the device before me, the grid barely registering the slightest electromagnetic pulse in the air.

  Extending both hands to arm’s length, I took off on the same path I had traced hours before, alternating glances between the device and the trees surrounding me.

  This would work.

  I was too damned tired of being the bait for it not to.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Nothing about the trip to the cabin was sitting well with Talula Davis, from her encounter with Tim Scarberry to the way he had been able to take quick control of the situation. How long he had been there before she arrived, there was no way of knowing.

  What was obvious was the fact that he had no intention of stepping aside anytime soon. He was going to be around until the case had reached a resolution.

  Whatever that might be.

  Even if he was the one to bring it about.

  Parting ways with him again had been even less ideal, but she couldn’t rightly argue with the simple logic he had used. Right now, they did need to check to see if the man he had shot had been brought in for treatment, and they did need to figure out where the feed on that wireless camera was transmitting to.

  It would also be impossible for Tim to escort her to the hospital, not looking the way he did, especially not being the one that had pulled the trigger.

  Making the situation all the more grim was the tenuous position Davis now found herself in, still less than an hour removed from her outburst in Charbonneau’s office. At any moment, it was all but guaranteed he was going to call and give her her walking papers, meaning if she was going to see things through, it had to happen fast.

  A day ago, walking away would have been easy. It was a case she didn’t want and wasn’t prepared to handle, the victim a random guy well on in years, a man that had had a good run and met a rather unfortunate end.

  It was tragic, it needed to be investigated, but it didn’t have to be her.

  Now, after what had transpired - the wind blowing through the shattered back end of her Bronco serving as a constant reminder – there was no way she could step back.

  Regardless if she was getting paid to or not.

  Having Vic Baxter pop up was just too damn big to ignore, the sort of thing that would gnaw at her for life if she didn’t see through.

  That singular thought was what had allowed her to give Tim an inch of space a second time. Not only had he been there with her, it had been his adopted uncle on the receiving end of the brutal murder.

  She knew the feeling far better than he could ever imagine.

  Easing her Bronco into the front visitor stall at Monroe County Hospital, she didn’t bother locking things up, the exposed rear making it easy for anybody to grab whatever they wanted anyway. Ignoring the handful of curious stares aimed her direction, she strode through the front doors and up to the reception counter, a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair and a double chin smiling up at her.

  “Good afternoon Officer, how may I help?”

  Not bothering to correct her that she was a deputy and not an officer, Davis said, “I called in a few minutes ago about a GSW admitted earlier.”

  The smile wavered slightly as the woman turned to the computer monitor on her desk, a slight crease forming between her eyes. “Yes, it looks like he was treated and is now in recovery. Room 218.”

  “Can you page the physician that treated him and have them m
eet me there?” Davis asked.

  Reaching for the black plastic phone on her desk, the woman replied, “Certainly,” placing the receiver to her ear.

  “Thank you.”

  Pushing away from the desk, Davis ducked into a side stairwell. Taking the steps two at a time, she came out on the second floor a moment later, pausing to collect herself, determining which direction to go.

  Seeing the numbers ascend toward her right, she moved that direction, arriving outside of room 218 to find a man a few years younger than her already there and waiting. With sandy brown hair shorn tight, his skin was pale and pasty despite the sun outside, dark circles hanging under each eye.

  A walking billboard for sleep deprivation in the medical sector if there ever was one.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor,” Davis opened. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  Extending his hand, the young man said, “Dr. Pierce, call me Tony.”

  “Talula Davis,” she replied, returning the handshake. “I understand you were the physician that tended to the gunshot victim earlier?”

  “I was,” Pierce replied. “Came in about forty-five minutes ago. Drop off, someone delivering him outside in the parking lot and speeding away.”

  Already knowing who it would have been and what they were driving, Davis only nodded.

  The information seemed to fit with the sort of people that would try and ram a law enforcement vehicle idling along the side of the road.

  “How bad was it?” Davis asked.

  “It was a gunshot wound,” Pierce replied, “which is never simple, but as they go, this one wasn’t too bad. The bullet struck him in the upper right portion of the chest, just missing his collarbone.

  “We were able to get the slug out and get the bleeding stopped, but it’s going to take a series of surgeries to get his scapula put back together and all the soft tissue damage cleaned up.”

  Pressing his lips tight for a moment, he shrugged, both hands still plunged into the front pockets of his white coat.