The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  I cried out and fell back behind the planter, the gun now in my possession. “What the hell, Alex?”

  Water flooded from my eyes, and I couldn’t help but rub them. They stung, but I was almost certain nothing more than dust had invaded my eyes. “I’m fine,” I said, lifting to my knees. The weight of the gun felt natural as I coiled my fingers around the polymer grip. It was a Sig Sauer, a P238 came to mind. Held only six rounds though. I had to be selective.

  “Any better idea where they are?” I yelled to Nick, my heart pounding fast, my breathing at a rapid-fire pace of its own.

  “Didn’t see exactly, but I’m thinking it’s coming from that three-story building somewhere.” Snowflakes had started to coat Nick’s head, his crumpled hat in the corner.

  I peeked an eye around the corner, exposing just enough for me to check out the building, if for no other reason than to see if the sniper had his sights set on just me. Then again, I didn’t want to play target practice. Not when I was the target.

  The rectangular building had a gray façade, somewhat camouflaged by the worsening weather conditions. While a few cars dotted the front lot, it didn’t appear to be fully occupied. No pedestrians in sight.

  Starting on the left side, I eyed each window, searching for a gun barrel or any movement. The first three were dark, revealing no clues. Shifting to the fourth, my eyes paused. Was that a random shadow or the outline of a person? Hard to determine.

  “Hey, lady, can I see your cool FBI badge?”

  I jerked my head around and spotted one of the kids who’d been creating havoc earlier.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get down.” I waved an arm as I took another look into the snowy abyss.

  Turning back around, I saw the kid with the curly red hair standing in a pile of glass just inside the building. He giggled and turned to look to his right, saying something to someone nearby.

  “Kid!”

  He ignored me. Another kid, wearing a number twelve Tom Brady Patriots jersey, sidled up next to Red, showing him something.

  Was that a pistol? Surely it was a toy from the gift shop.

  “What the fuck is that?” Nick barked.

  The kids were in their own world, giggling, screwing around, and they had no idea their lives were on the line. I realized I’d scooted out another foot.

  Out of nowhere, Red grabbed the toy gun and pointed it at me. “Hey, lady, I bet my gun is better than yours.”

  My instinct was to bring up my gun in self-defense, but I forced my arm down. Red puffed his cheeks, releasing gun sounds as he pretended to fire at me. I knew they were clueless and had no respect for authority or rules, but I couldn’t let them stand in the line of fire.

  “Kids, listen to me, dammit. Get out of here. Run back into the museum and hide. Now!” I yelled with everything I had.

  Tom Brady looked up at me with his mouth open, then he appeared to finally notice the broken glass and my gun. He nudged his buddy’s shoulder, but Red was too busy trying to shoot me down to notice or care. He just kept giggling.

  “Alex,” Nick called out.

  I had no idea what he wanted. It didn’t matter.

  “Nick, cover me.”

  I bolted out of my stance, and gunshots immediately rang out. One shot just missed my foot. The next one tore a hole through my coat sleeve, just missing my arm. My breath caught in my throat as I lunged forward. I heard the boom of a Glock—Nick responding with three shots of his own. That had probably bought me a few seconds.

  I landed on my knees just in front of the boys—glass knifing through my skin—but my feet never stopped. My low-heel shoes slipped on the glass-covered carpet as I grabbed the boys’ arms, nearly bringing them down to the ground with me.

  One of them began to cry, and the other yelled out, “Help, help me. I’m being kidnapped!”

  I didn’t have the time or energy to respond. My shoes finally gripped enough of the surface to push out of my crouch, and I shoved the boys to the left. Before we reached safe haven in the corner, a bullet ripped through another plate of glass at eye level, and I swore I could feel the breeze as it missed me by the width of a hair.

  I heard the wails of Tom Brady, then Red called out, “This bitch is crazy. Help me!”

  If he only knew.

  The three of us rammed into the corner, then I forced the kids down.

  “Lady, what are you doing to us? My dad’s going to sue your ass,” Red said.

  I was tempted to force his trap shut, but staying alive took priority. I cautiously moved a few steps toward the front door again, all senses on high alert, and looked for Nick. He had his back against the planter, throwing in another magazine. I couldn’t leave my partner out there.

  Looking back into the museum, there wasn’t a soul to be seen, except for the two kids huddled in the corner.

  “Where in the hell do you think you’re going, lady?”

  It was Red.

  I got your lady right here. I growled, “Stay in the corner and don’t move a muscle. Got it?”

  I could hear Tom Brady gasping through sniffles.

  “But what if I want to move, huh?”

  I ignored him, then set my feet, ready to make a run back into the courtyard.

  But the boy wouldn’t shut up. “This is a free country, and I don’t have to do a damn thing, even if you’re with the FBI. My dad says the FBI is secretly trying to take over the country anyway. The whole government is part of a massive conspiracy, and they’re going to turn our country into a slave state just like in the Hunger Games.”

  If I’d had more time, I would have laughed my ass off, then called up his dad to suggest some parenting lessons—although this kid seemed beyond repair at this point.

  “Red, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to throw your ass into the courtyard and beg the sniper to shoot you.”

  “FBI brutality! FBI brutality! Did you hear this bitch? She’s fuckin’ psycho.”

  And this kid was in the fourth grade? Sounded more like a street punk I’d seen slapping a prostitute a few weeks back. His balls had become very friendly with my knee.

  Did I just have another pre-crash memory?

  “This place sucks. You suck. I’m going to find my friend who’s not a little pussy about everything.” Red shoved Tom Brady aside and started walking.

  I threw out my hand and stopped him in his tracks.

  “Get back, kid.”

  He tried to move my arm away, but it hardly budged. I glanced at his face, and he seemed perplexed by my strength. I was too.

  “Screw you.” He tried to scoot under my arm, but I snagged the back of his sweatshirt, shoving him back against his friend.

  “You just won’t stop until you get one of us killed, will you?” I yelled as I slid my gun into my pants. I slid my scarf off my neck, turned the kid around, and tied his hands together, then around a metal pole that extended from the wall.

  Red started screaming bloody murder, kicking his legs. Basically, he was having a tantrum.

  Turning to Tom Brady, I stuck a finger in his face. “You stay here unless I tell you otherwise. Got it?”

  He sat frozen, except for his nod, his eyes glued to my face as he ignored the yelps from Red.

  “Alex, can you see the shooter from your vantage point?”

  Flipping back around, I saw Nick still pressed against the planter, and this time I noticed a trail of blood snaking down the side of his face.

  “Nick, are you okay?”

  “Flesh wound. It’s nothing.”

  But it was something. I could see him sweating like a pig in a bacon factory. Peering over at the building, my eyes locked in on the same window, fourth from the left. No more movement. The shadow I saw earlier could have been the shooter, or just an office worker. Or no person at all.

  One final look at Tom Brady and Red, whose face had finally matched his hair from his two-year-old fit, and I dashed toward the gaping hole in the glass wall. Shards crunched under my sh
oes. My gun was raised, two hands on the pistol, and my sights set for the fourth window from the left, ready to fire, almost itching to fire, the moment I saw anything suspicious. I made it to the planter unscathed, with no shots fired.

  “Alex, you should have stayed inside,” Nick said.

  “I love the weather too much.”

  “Now I know you’re full of shit.”

  The snow was coming down in full force, making visibility difficult. Maybe that was why the shooter hadn’t fired any more rounds. Or had he taken off?

  I could hear sirens in the distance. Nick’s eyes met mine. “They’ll be here soon,” he said. “Let’s just keep everyone alive for another two minutes.”

  I nodded and allowed myself to breathe. My upper arm stung, but it was functional. The bullet must have sliced off a couple of layers of skin. I could feel a cool trickle of blood down my leg, courtesy of the glass jabbed into my knees.

  I wanted one good look at this guy—I assumed it was a guy, maybe ex-military, with some type of live sniper experience. Just as I flipped around with my gun and sights aimed at the third-floor window, I heard a man’s whistle. Off to the right.

  Whipping my Sig right, I held my breath, hoping to steady my aim. A patch of orange bobbled just above the snow-covered shrubs, moving closer. I could feel my finger against the cold, metal trigger.

  Just as the man became visible, I could see he was looking down as he whistled. He was wearing a pair of Beats headphones—orange. Unless this was all a ruse.

  “Get down on the ground. Now!”

  He jumped three feet in the air, landing on his knees. He grimaced, then planted his face in the snow piled up on the concrete walkway.

  I ran toward him.

  “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot,” the guy said.

  A foot before I reached him, another shot ricocheted off the shrubs just past my shoulder. I almost swallowed my spit as I lunged and landed on top of the man.

  He groaned as I struggled to bring up my gun. That shot had come from a different angle. Was there another shooter, or had the original shooter changed positions?

  Another shot plowed into the ground, spraying me with cold dirt and snow. I dropped my head.

  “What the hell’s going on, lady?” the guy beneath me asked.

  “FBI. We’re under attack,” I said, scooting off him, trying like hell to keep my body down but my neck arched, searching for anything moving.

  “Are you armed?” I asked him, as my eyes scanned the landscape.

  “With a gun? Not allowed,” he said. “Not until I get inside.”

  “Inside what?”

  “I’m a security guard in the museum. What the hell happened? Looks like a war zone.” He lifted his head.

  “It is. Stay down.” I pushed his head back to the ground.

  His story sounded plausible, but I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t connected to the sniper.

  “Nick, cover me.”

  “Alex, just wait for the good guys.”

  I heard Nick’s shoes crunch against the concrete behind me as I slid off the so-called security guard and rose to standing, but I couldn’t see the street and sidewalk. With the front yard on a slight decline, I had to move higher. The fear of a bullet piercing my skull was only surpassed by my level of unbridled fury. A chickenshit sniper just meant he didn’t have the balls to confront his own issues.

  Was I his issue? It seemed that way. When exposed, I’d been the target of his bullets. Or was I being paranoid?

  Regardless, I wanted to hunt him down and take him out.

  I walked three steps, moving in the direction where I had heard the last shot—a guesstimate. I spotted a family walking toward us. Likely museum visitors. Beyond them, a few cars dotted the street, which was now wet from the snow.

  I heard tires screech, and I flipped my sights back to the left. Some type of vehicle, a dark-colored sedan, tore out of a distant parking lot and headed south on Commercial.

  Seconds later, a fleet of Boston cops screamed to a stop in front of the museum. One uniformed officer jumped from his car so fast his hat fell off. He grabbed for it, but it hit the muddy snow. His arm was shaking as he said, “Down on the ground. Now.”

  Nick and the security guard were already there, so I knew he was talking to me. I couldn’t debate him; with his shaky stature, I didn’t want to risk it.

  12

  Ten minutes later, Jerry arrived on the scene, and we huddled just inside the museum.

  “I give you a babysitting job, and this is what you let happen?” He crossed his arms over his Buddha belly and rubbed his chin while staring at Nick.

  My partner shrugged.

  “Stop moving,” a medic said, attempting to clean the wound on Nick’s temple. Apparently, a pebble had imbedded in the side of his head.

  I sat on the edge of a gurney with my own medic trying to remove glass from my knee.

  “Ow!”

  The medic, a woman with short, thick curls and a prominent jaw, lifted her head. “This would be a helluva lot easier if we could take you to Massachusetts General.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, at least not the hospital. I’m fine. Why does everyone think I’m made out of fine china?”

  “China that bleeds,” Jerry added, scratching his whiskers. “Seriously, I need some answers. A shootout at the doors of a quiet little museum in downtown Boston?”

  “We need a team of agents to search that building.” I pointed across the street. “Check out the room behind the fourth window from the left, third floor. I might have seen the perp.”

  “Might have.”

  “I was in a pickle. I didn’t have time to draw a painting.”

  Jerry turned away and spoke on his phone. His opposite hand moved like a hand on a clock. Constant motion. It seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Thanks for having my back out there,” Nick said, wincing a bit as his medic applied an antiseptic.

  “No problem. I think you saved my ass a couple of times.”

  Jerry turned back to us just as Nick added, “So, I know you were taking all the stupid risks…”

  I gave Jerry a quick faux smile, and Nick continued with, “But it certainly seemed like they were aiming for your ass specifically, not just an FBI agent in general.”

  “Why would a sniper be after either one of you?” Jerry wagged a beefy finger between the two gurneys. “You’re not on any high-profile cases. Shit, you should barely be working at all. Right, Alex?”

  “Who are you? I don’t recognize you at all. Stranger danger!” I said, holding up a hand to a passing Boston cop. He paused for a second, wondering if I was talking to him, then got nervous or something and continued walking.

  “Very funny, Alex.” Jerry just nodded, his hands buried in his trousers, which were forced to hang far too low because of the basketball hidden under his shirt.

  “I’m as stunned as you. This museum heist is intriguing on a number of angles, but all in all, it seems rather harmless from a life-or-death perspective.”

  “Not if you ask Bartholomew Trow. He’s the curator,” Nick said. “And he’s a descendant of a guy who spilled all the tea in the harbor.”

  “The Boston Tea Party? No shit?”

  “Shit,” I deadpanned, then added, “We need the cyber squad heavily engaged in this case.”

  “I thought you were just casually trying to figure out how you crashed your car,” Jerry said with his arms spread wide.

  “I was. I am. And by the way, I didn’t crash my car. Someone forced me off the road.”

  He exhaled. “Can you prove it?”

  “I will.” I looked him right in the eye.

  “This mess here have anything to do with it?” he asked.

  I glanced down at the medic who was still pulling glass from my knees. I tried rotating my bandaged upper arm. Felt like the worst charley horse of all time.

  “There are really only two angles I can think of. We either have someone getting his jollies by trying
to take out a random FBI agent—”

  “Although we both know he was aiming at you,” Nick added as he pulled a piece of gum from his sports coat and tossed it into his mouth.

  I nodded and continued, “Maybe the sniper hates female FBI agents? Regardless, it was either a random dude just having some fun, or he feels like I’m a threat. For what reason, I don’t know. Pieces of my life are coming back into focus, slowly, but as of now, I can’t imagine how this museum heist, or those other two cases I was working on, would lead to a car chase, and certainly not attempted murder.”

  Smirking, Nick said to Jerry, “By ‘the other two cases,’ she’s referring to the ones stuck in lawyer hell, as she basically described them earlier.”

  For whatever reason, maybe because a sniper’s bullets had tried to make me look like Swiss cheese, I’d let Nick’s earlier comment about me being a lawyer slip between the cracks of my memory. A sieve. That was what my mind felt like. A few things stuck, then others would drop down an endless drain.

  “You were joking about my former life as an attorney, I assume? I can’t imagine even having the patience for law school, let alone dealing with stuffy, political types and poring over mounds of paperwork only meant to confuse a normal person…which, of course, would be used against them later in a court of law.”

  Nick and Jerry shook their heads.

  “You may not recall your life working in the Suffolk County DA’s office—which was before Erin was born, by the way—but your attitude toward lawyers hasn’t changed a bit since before the crash. You must be allergic,” Nick said.

  “But she’s married to one.” Jerry apparently felt like he had to remind us…me.

  I set my jaw, ready to rip into someone, but there was nothing I could say. It was all fact; at least I assumed it was. I just had no clue where all of this anti-lawyer emotion had come from. Maybe Mark could fill me in later.

  I watched a horde of loud, demanding parents rush past us, which momentarily took my eyes off my boss.

  “The Barden murder investigation. I know you two asked Randy if you could take the lead,” Jerry said.