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

by Dustin Stevens

  One at a time they seemed to materialize from nowhere, black specters moving in exaggerated crouches, weapons poised before them.

  By Rae’s count there had been six at Millennium Park, plus whoever planted the tracking device on the car, and Celek and Jacoby.

  The last two I dismissed out of hand for obvious reasons. There was no way in Hell either one of them were showing up.

  After that, I had to figure that despite what we saw in St. Louis, they were probably now only moving in one vehicle. It wasn’t to say that they couldn’t still be using two, but trying to track us and coordinate their way through heavy traffic would have made it difficult.

  It would have also doubled the opportunities of being heard or spotted, something I was reasonably certain Dawson would not be willing to do.

  Without really knowing a thing about him, I knew where he had been, and that told me plenty. He had likely been trained in the same manner as Rae and I, had cut his teeth in similar crucibles the world over.

  If the man I suspected was Dawson at the park was in fact him, he was a little bit longer in the tooth, but like me, he was blessed with skills that didn’t just leave a man.

  Unlike me, he’d also had the benefit of active training in his time since leaving the service.

  No way would he be foolish enough to risk a second vehicle, meaning that while it was feasible that he had brought all seven men along, it was unlikely. None of those we encountered at Northwestern or in the park were particularly small, and judging by the gear they were now carrying, they would take up a considerable amount of room.

  Even using the massive SUV we’d seen at the stadium the day before, he could be toting five, maybe six, men at the most.

  At the sight of them, my entire body felt a bolt of electricity pass through it, every fiber beginning to tingle at once. Again I felt that same old familiar twitch that I hadn’t experienced in a decade and a half come back to me, the exposed hairs on my forearms standing at attention.

  The plan, as it were, was simple. Being the eyes on the ground, I would wait until Dawson’s crew was exposed, or at the very least accounted for, meaning it was entirely on me to gain a visual and determine when the best time to act was.

  Once I acted, Rae would do the same.

  Working in coordinated movements, the crew spotted the silhouettes positioned in the front of the car, their heads tilted back to appear as if sleeping. Moving in total silence, the group parted in the middle and circled up around it, many moving with sidesteps, all with their cheeks peering down the barrel of their weapons.

  Feeling my own chest tighten, my breathing become shallow, I watched as they formed into a cluster around the car, alternating between staring in at the vehicle and out at the surrounding forest.

  Already I had Clarice in hand, keeping her pinned down against my side. Easing her around between my knees, I ignored the droplets of sweat hanging from the end of my nose, my entire focus aimed forward.

  Rae and I had named the weapon Clarice as a dual play on one of our favorite movies and one of our favorite quotes. The first part was pretty straight forward, Clarice being the name of the agent in Silence of the Lambs, the instrument used to take down the sadistic cannibal killer Hannibal Lecter.

  The second part was lesser known, again playing on the notion of lambs. In World War I, a German commander once commented that the ferocity of British soldiers compared to those leading them was like assigning lions to lambs.

  Both of us had more than felt that way during our time in the service, vowing that never again would we secede our independence and decision making to anybody, especially not someone that wasn’t worthy of it.

  Never before had I fired Clarice. In a perfect world, I never would have, either.

  This was not that world, though, and if I was going to break that longstanding streak, it was fitting that it would be going against one of those very officers that the gun was named after.

  I waited a full minute after the crew appeared, six in total, just as I originally suspected.

  I waited further as they formed themselves into a circle, three aimed in, the other three out.

  I even waited as a hand sprang up on the opposite side of the clearing, signaling to the others.

  Not until the first shots rang out, three separate automatic weapons spitting a steady torrent of bullets into the car, metal and glass shattering on impact, did I act.

  All previous concern, every trepidation, every aversion I’d had to weapons over the years bled away in an instant. With one fluid movement I raised Clarice to shoulder level and fired, my chin tucked tight against my bicep, gaze aimed along my arm and down the length of the barrel. The kickback was no more than a centimeter as a single blossom of orange light hiccupped from the end of the gun, the percussive sound of a gas fired piston ringing in my ears.

  The first shot found its target, hitting center mass on the man closest to me, his chest facing my direction. For a moment there was no response of any kind from the group, the sound and noise from firing on the Taurus being too much for anybody to notice.

  Using the very narrow window I had, I shifted my aim to the left, bypassing one of the shooters and sighting in on the second man facing out into the woods, wanting to take down anybody that might be able to pinpoint my position first.

  Without pause of any kind, I tugged back on the trigger a second time, the bullet striking the man in the side, the best I could do given his position. Silhouetted by the light of gunshots beside him, I saw his weapon drop, his body wavering as he clutched at his ribs.

  “Eyes right!”

  The sound of the voice was deep and braying, an angry wail that caused the entire team to immediately shift their attention in my way. Dropping to a knee, I curled my body around the trunk of the thicker of the two maple trees, tucking myself low to the ground.

  Overhead bullets began to tear into the canopy, the sounds of breaking limbs and the smell of smoke and cordite drifting over me. To either side clumps of dirt and grass sprang up, tossed end over end, sprays of soil striping the leaves on the forest floor.

  Despite the one man I had put down and the second I had at least injured, the rounds tore through the trees in a steady torrent, the smell of fresh sawdust soon joining the fray as my impromptu blockade was chewed to bits.

  So far, it had worked. I had their attention, and their anger, aimed in my direction.

  It was time for Rae to go to work.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Rae didn’t like the plan.

  In fact, she hated it.

  The only thing she hated more was the fact that she was injured, and that there was nothing she could do to alter it.

  The shot at Northwestern had been a simple through-and-through, a meat-only hit put there by somebody that knew exactly what they were doing. It had hurt like hell, had done the job it was designed to, pitching her forward onto the asphalt, making her nothing more than a target to try and lure in the two real prizes.

  While she was under sedation the wound had been cleaned and treated, her upper thigh wrapped in thick gauze held in place by elastic tape. Who had done the cleaning - or more importantly removed her pants to do so – she had no idea, hoping for their sake that she never found out.

  It wouldn’t be pretty.

  Despite all that, the fact remained that she had been shot. Real life wounds weren’t like the movies, where people shake off multiple hits, sometimes even shooting through their own flesh to get to the person standing behind them.

  A bullet was a metal projectile specifically designed to cause damage, and it had done just that. The aim had been true, avoiding bones or arteries, but that did nothing for the trauma to the muscle membrane and the nerves of her upper thigh, her whole leg alternating between feeling numb and like it was on fire.

  It was far from the first wound Rae had ever sustained, but it was the first gunshot. Every part of her wanted to be down on the main level, mixing it up with Dawson and his crew
, getting them back for what had happened earlier in the day.

  Even more she wanted to make sure she was there for Laredo.

  Once upon a time, he would not have thought twice about doing what he had to to Dawson and his crew. Infused with military logic, he would look at a situation, determine which side was right, and go after the opposite.

  Since making up his mind that he was done, things had changed. Gone was the killer instinct he had exhibited, replaced by a quiet wisdom, a reasoning that went into everything he did.

  Rae had no doubt the man he formerly was was still inside, tucked away with the myriad skills he would need, she just hoped it didn’t hesitate in surfacing, costing them all dearly.

  Not one word of this had she shared with him, nor would she. Extending Clarice his way and telling him to take care was as far as she would take things, anything more being an insult.

  One after another those thoughts had passed through her mind, playing on an endless loop as she walked away from him, following Skye into the woods. They had intensified with every errant sound as they ascended to the overlook, her nerves becoming jumpy, thinking they were too late, that Laredo was being left on his own while they were off hiking through the wilderness.

  Those fears didn’t recede until they had reached their vantage, completely disappearing as the first signs of Dawson and his men appeared through the lens of her scope. Much the way she trusted Laredo’s senses were doing the same, her entire body fell into a state of calm, watching as the men circled the Taurus and began to open fire.

  Beside her, Skye had visibly tensed at the sound, her entire form going rigid, somehow managing to perform the only directive Rae had given her on the walk in, which was to not say a word, no matter what.

  Staring through the scope, Rae counted off seconds, pushing out slow and even breaths, waiting for her signal. For the briefest of moments she thought it might not be coming, that Laredo’s break from violence was too deep seated to be removed, before the sign she was looking for came through.

  Compared to the trio of heavy arms working over the Taurus, the shot was nothing more than a tiny orange flicker. At the same time, a figure on the far end of the circle melted to the ground, the process repeating itself a moment later.

  Tucking her finger inside the trigger guard for the first time, Rae pushed her lips into a tight circle, putting the crosshairs of her scope at the base of the skull of the man closest to her. Exhaling slowly once, twice, she waited as the group turned their attention toward the woods where Laredo was holed up, four automatic rifles firing in unison.

  Only then did she squeeze the trigger, finally getting to make good on what she had wanted to do since watching those men enter her house two days before.

  The large round of the AR-15 tore out a chunk of the man’s neck, his head jerking away from his shoulders at an odd angle as he fell to the ground.

  Without waiting for his body to come to a complete stop, Rae moved her target to the immediate right, sighting in a second time and pulling back.

  High on the ridge overlooking the scene, the sound of the shot rolled out for miles into the darkness. A dull hum settled into her ears, smoke rising into her nostrils, burning her eyes.

  Rae ignored every last bit of it, everything seeming as natural to her as breathing, her body so acclimated to the violence it barely registered what was happening.

  The second shot struck a man center mass, pitching him face first into the gravel, both arms flailing out to either side, his weapon hurtled into the darkness.

  The first kill had gone unnoticed, Rae employing the same method as Laredo, picking someone off the back of the pile so the others wouldn’t see what was going on behind them.

  After the second one fell, the two remaining men scattered, both sprinting in opposite directions, leaving the bodies behind.

  Keeping her aim to the right, Rae tracked one of the sprinters as far as she could, managing to squeeze of a single round that kicked up a divot of dirt and gravel in his wake just as he disappeared into the trees.

  “Shit,” she whispered, running her gaze over the scene below, not spotting either of the remaining two men.

  Pushing back in tight on the Taurus, she checked over each of the four lying prone, noticing the second one Laredo had shot was dragging himself slowly along, trying to make it to cover under the car, his body carving a trench through the loose stone.

  Again pushing out an even breath, Rae fired a final shot, the man’s body twitching once before ceasing to move.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Meyers Jacoby had never been to a hip hop concert, or even a major comedy show, but he recognized a hype man the moment he hit the stage.

  Normally the role of introducing him was filled by his wife or some low-level local politician. They would plan their speech so it dovetailed seamlessly into his, seizing on key words and ideas to bring the crowd into a state of euphoria before ceding the floor to him.

  From there, the lifting was infinitely easier, the key being to keep everybody riding high, as opposed to having to raise them and keep them at that level by himself.

  This time had been different though, the decision to use a professional emcee and a hype man both falling directly in line with everything else about the evening.

  The Grand Hyatt might have served as the venue, but that was all the place provided. The food was catered from some of the top chefs in the city, the alcohol imported from far flung locales like Bordeaux and Napa Valley. A professional DJ had been hired to handle musical choices and the visuals were all done in stunning 3-D using strategically placed hologram projectors.

  As recently as a week ago, Meyers Jacoby would have eaten it up. He would have worked the room like a right wing John F. Kennedy, glad handing every single guest, making sure they understood how vital their support was, how their contributions were every bit as important as the votes they would be casting in a few short months.

  Now, all he could think about was the scene in Millennium Park earlier that afternoon. About the fact that Rae Sommers had been sitting just inches away from him, that she and Wynn both had been within the circle of his men, all unable to do anything but let them walk away.

  Even more appalling was the reason they had been called in the first place, to find Skye Grant, to bring her to him so she and the secrets she represented could be silenced, still existed. Making it worse was the fact that the two sides had somehow joined forces, creating a problem far greater than he ever could have imagined.

  It was that problem that sat at the forefront of his thoughts as the short plump man in an Armani suit took the stage. Standing just off to the side, shielded from view by a velvet curtain, Jacoby watched as the man seized the microphone from the podium and began to pace back and forth, overhead lights shining off the sweat already lining his forehead.

  “Ladies and gentleman!” he began, his voice deep and luxurious, not at all matching his physical appearance, as if it had been designed specifically for the task he was now performing.

  On cue a buzz went through the crowd, a palpable recognition of what was just moments away.

  Rocking forward onto his toes, Jacoby bounced in place a couple of times, trying to conjure that familiar feeling he craved so badly.

  To his dismay, it just wasn’t there.

  Once more he attempted to bring it to the surface, clenching and unclenching his fists, pulling in deep breaths of air, inching ever closer to the stage, letting the sound of the crowd flow over him. Just a few feet away the hype man continued going, bouncing around like a life-sized marionette, flinging droplets of sweat as he hopped about.

  Despite all of it, Jacoby just couldn’t pull himself into the moment.

  Something inside him had snapped, was completely numb, and there would be no overcoming it until the situation was resolved.

  Turning on a heel, Jacoby stalked away from the stage, a bevy of bewildered campaign staff looking on as he strode past, his gaze swiveling from sid
e to side.

  Less than a minute later he found who he was looking for, Bret Celek tucked away in a corner, one shoulder leaning against a wall, as if he were supremely bored with the entire situation.

  Per usual, his right hand was poised before him, the left twisting that damned ring back and forth.

  For the first time all evening, some form of feeling welled within Jacoby, venom rising up as he strode forward and stopped just inches from Celek, boxing the man into the corner.

  “Any word from Dawson?”

  Glancing to Jacoby, Celek shifted his gaze past the man, watching the crowd. “Nothing.”

  “Jesus,” Jacoby said, moving his shoulders so he could raise his left wrist and check the time. “What the hell is taking them so long? This was supposed to have been done hours ago.”

  Continuing to twist the ring, always the same direction, always a complete rotation, Celek raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Maybe they moved on and it took them longer to track them. Maybe they put up a fight.”

  Again, the vitriol within Jacoby spiked. “Or maybe you should get out of here and go monitor the situation, like I pay you to. Maybe then you would have something more for me than conjecture and guessing.”

  Using his shoulder, Celek pushed himself away from the wall, his weight coming to bear evenly on both feet. He kept his attention shifted to the side for just a moment, watching as the man on stage continued his routine, the crowd eating it up. Around them the noise rose into a veritable cacophony, nobody paying any attention to the two men speaking in hushed tones in the corner.

  “I thought you wanted me here in case anything happened?” Celek asked.

  Jacoby’s mouth opened, a caustic retort on the tip of his tongue, before snapping shut just as fast.

  He had told Celek to be on hand.

  “Well, now I’m telling you to get your ass out there and finish this,” Jacoby hissed. “Whatever it takes.

  “And don’t come back until it’s done.”