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

by John W. Mefford

  Another reason to take this asshole down.

  Peering between two trees, I could see light seep around the edges of one window covered by shades on the side of the house. Smoke curled out of the chimney in the center of the gray, weathered structure, no more than fourteen hundred square feet or so.

  “Cover the back,” I whispered to Nick.

  “We need to wait for backup, Alex. It’s not just protocol, it’s smart. Who knows what kind of traps this guy has set? We could open the door and trigger a bomb, some type of guerilla warfare trap. If this is the right guy, he gets his jollies by torturing people.”

  “Torturing cheating husbands. Not just everyone. He could have grabbed me, or Mark’s bitch, but he didn’t. He took Mark.”

  A swell of emotion surged throughout my body. I reset the Glock in my fingers, and I focused on the end game.

  “I’m going in with you or without you.”

  I high-stepped it through a cluster of trees. Off in the distance, I could hear waves lapping against the shore.

  “Dammit, Alex.” Nick had pulled up beside me, then signaled that he was flanking right.

  I watched him pause at the lighted window. He tried to look inside, then dipped his body, waddled past the window, and disappeared to the back of the home.

  Eyeing the front porch, I walked ten more steps. I heard something. It sounded like a wounded coyote, or it could have been the wind whistling through the tall trees. Lifting my eyes, the smoke continued to pour from the chimney.

  I flinched. Beyond the decrepit house, lightning splintered the sky over the ocean, illuminating menacing clouds. A few flashes, and then clouds disappeared like a dream. I edged closer to the porch, my pulse peppering the side of my neck. I could feel the need to release my anger. Part of me hoped for a physical confrontation. Prayed for it. He might suffer. I might suffer, but someone needed to suffer. Someone would suffer.

  Heel to toe, I inched across the porch, ensuring I kept my presence muted. I could now see a faint light around the edge of the front window, but it seemed to flash on and off. It had to be the lit fireplace.

  Suddenly, I felt vulnerable, and I wondered if I should have listened to Nick. A ball of emotions stirred in my gut, but I didn’t have a death wish. I bit down on my lip, engaging my focus even more, and I thought about my options, while keeping my head on swivel. No sound from inside. Not a TV or radio, or footsteps even. Not a ding from a microwave or an electronic sound from a more modern device. Zilch.

  I had to move now. Waiting any longer would render my legs useless. One more step forward, and I was a foot from the door. I reached out and gripped the doorknob.

  It turned. Raising my Glock to my waist, I slowly nudged the door open. An inch at first, then another two inches. No sign of J. L., but shadows danced on the far wall. I could hear a crackle and took in the familiar scent of burning wood. Readying myself for a surprise attack, I pushed the door open and crouched into a Weaver stance, my finger on the trigger.

  My heart skipped a beat once the door opened halfway. A man in a denim shirt with his back to me was crouched in front of the fire.

  “Stand up with your hands straight up. Now.” My voice quivered, and I fought the shakes to keep my Glock steady.

  He stood up as I called back to Nick. I heard the back door bounce off a wall. And then I heard a high-pitched shrill, and I instantly wondered what the hell we’d stumbled upon.

  “Can I turn around?” the man said calmly.

  Just then I noticed a poker in his right hand.

  “Drop the poker.”

  He did, and it clanged off the wooden floor. He then turned to face me just as Nick came out of the back room holding the arm of a forty-something woman whose hands were tied together. Nick had pulled down the rag that had been in her mouth.

  “Thank God you’re here. Margaret Turov, State Police. Arrest this…this monster.”

  I turned my sights back to J. L. He didn’t look at her. He stared at me, then glanced at the shadows, or at nothing. It was hard to tell.

  “Mrs. Giordano,” he said, “I’ve been expecting you.”

  22

  Her arms quaked as she lowered her body until the tip of her nose touched the carpet, made moist from her sweat. She completed her one hundredth pushup, moved to her knees, slipped the weighted backpack off her shoulders, and caught her breath. Her arms glistened from the slick film of perspiration.

  But she needed more.

  A quick swig of water, then she hopped on her exercise bike, turned up the resistance to a ten, and started pumping her legs. Within ten minutes, she began to feel that familiar burn. It only fueled her adrenaline that much more.

  She brushed her hand across her perspiring forehead. Her eyes stopped for a moment at the tools on the kitchen table. Just as quickly she looked away, her mind searching for that zone where she could be focused, driven, yet content.

  At least for a little while longer.

  While still pumping her legs, she moved her hands to her waist, recalling her online research earlier. She’d stumbled upon two people whose lives had taken very different paths. She remembered that one famous quote from the first Stephen Richards, the guy who wrote so-called self-help books.

  “When you connect to the silence within you, that is when you make sense of the disturbance around you.”

  She’d laughed out loud when she read it the first time. This guy had no idea. Oh, she knew she was very self-aware. But there was no silence in her mind. Anything but. It was a nonstop, balls-out party taking place. All because she had come up with a new plan. One that didn’t rely on others to carry out the twisted acts.

  It was all about satisfying her greatest needs, her most primal urges. And then there was that revenge factor. The mere thought gave her goose bumps.

  Back to Stephen Richards number two. The person with whom she really connected. This guy had been dead since 1879, but his life now served as an inspiration. He’d murdered nine people, most using an ax. His victims were old and young, people who might have even cared about him. But they must have done him wrong. Or maybe he just couldn’t resist the ecstasy of splitting each victim with the ax. She knew firsthand what that felt like.

  Her body quaked again, and she finished her bike ride. She slipped off the seat, found a chair at the table, picked up one of ten blades, and pressed her finger into the point until it bled. She tasted it.

  Blood, sweat, and tears. She would orchestrate a killing spree that would evoke the full spectrum of emotions. Except her tears would be born from joy.

  A joy unlike any other.

  23

  Three weeks later

  I’d been holding the envelope in my hand for so long it stuck to my fingers. I glanced up, watched Erin and Luke struggle to get air with their kite. It was heartwarming to see them working together, running around like kids should. Just letting out all of their anxiety and grief after being stuffed inside for most of the last few weeks after their dad’s murder.

  I flipped a loose strand of hair out of my vision and turned to face the wind while sitting cross-legged on a blanket on Revere Beach. It was still chilly by my standards, temperatures hovering near fifty with a gusty wind, but to smell the sea salt, sink my cold bare feet into the sand, it was worth it. More than worth it to see Erin and Luke focusing on being normal kids. They had bonded like I could have never imagined a few weeks ago. They even hugged each other goodbye when one would run off to a school event or practice.

  Filling my lungs with a sobering dose of salty air, I knew the healing process had just begun for Erin and Luke. They would see reminders of their father—of what they were missing—for months, if not years. But I could now relate to my kids like I hadn’t since the crash. My dreams had been filled with memories of my parents, mostly my mom, and then the feeling of absence after she’d died. Mark hadn’t bothered to tell me how she died. I knew I still needed to reach out to my father. Lots to share, and even more to learn.

&n
bsp; “Are you going to bury the letter in the sand?”

  From behind me, Brad came around the blanket, and he wasn’t alone. “You remember Bianca?”

  “Hey,” she said with a tight-lipped smile.

  She didn’t know what to say to me. No one did.

  “Hi there.”

  Brad turned and saw the kids wrestling with the kite string. He nudged Bianca with his shoulder. “Hey, let’s go help them out.”

  With smiles on their young faces, the couple—and I felt sure they were an item—jogged over to Erin and Luke.

  For whatever reason, a quick image of Sydney came to mind, the morning following Mark’s death, after Nick and I had taken J. L. Cobb into custody. Standing in the kitchen, she broke down when I told her about Mark. She literally crumbled to the floor and emotionally lost it. With my heart already torn to shreds, I had to listen to her spill her guts, and it wasn’t pretty. She lashed out at the world, including me, admitting that she and Mark had slept together on and off since she’d been hired six months earlier. She claimed they’d “banged each other until they had nothing left” two nights earlier in the utility room before I’d gotten home. Nothing says romance and true love like “banging” on a tiled floor coated with cat litter.

  I’d asked her to leave that night. Forever. Thankfully, she didn’t show up at Mark’s funeral. Otherwise, we might have had to make it a two-for-one special.

  I’d yet to speak to the “other woman” who’d been tied to Mark’s hip when he left Monty’s that night. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tear that wound open. On the surface, I knew people looked at me similar to how they looked at Agatha Barden and Jeanne Lepino. I couldn’t change people’s perception. I just held my head high and took one tiny step each day. To put the betrayal behind me, to let the anger fade and allow me to live an authentic life with my two kids.

  I was due back at One Center Plaza in two days. I hadn’t figured out how I would juggle being a single parent of two active kids with the responsibilities of being a federal agent. In fact, I hadn’t told anyone, but I wasn’t sure the FBI was for me anymore.

  With all the drama and grief, it hadn’t been difficult to shove the details of the case out of my mind, at least temporarily. From what Nick had said, J. L. hadn’t shared much about his escapades, but he didn’t deny anything either. When asked if he targeted cheating husbands, he just smiled. Fortunately, law enforcement officials found all but two of the stolen museum artifacts in his cottage. It must have had something to do with his fascination with the catalog numbers. As for the state police officer he’d kidnapped, she was shaken but not injured. Apparently, she’d tried to pull him over and found blood. A scuffle occurred, and then he took her hostage.

  I still had questions, even with J. L. in custody. Was J. L. the one who’d used his car to push me off the road both times? And then there was the sniper shooting. Authorities found no weapon at his home, nor did he have any history of owning a weapon. To me, it just didn’t fit with his persona, and I’d shared as much with Nick and Jerry. They knew they had their killer, but they weren’t ready to completely close the investigation—at least not when we’d last spoken a couple of weeks back.

  I was quickly learning that a burning need to know was a part of me. Always questioning, always pushing to find the truth. I was no lawyer, so phrases like “beyond a reasonable doubt” didn’t mean a damn thing to me. It was more about guilt or innocence. How or why I ended up going to law school was something I’d yet to be able to answer about myself. Maybe my father would know.

  A flurry of sand sprayed my face. “Whoa!”

  “Hey, Mom, I’m freezing,” Luke said, plopping down next to me.

  Erin jogged up behind her brother and huddled close to me on the other side. They didn’t say anything. Nothing needed to be said. I could hear the quick cadence of their breaths, and that alone let me know they were making an effort to move forward with their lives.

  “Hey, check it out!” Luke pointed up.

  Brad and Bianca maneuvered the string, and the kite soared across the vast sky. I could hear red and blue streamers flutter against the wind.

  “You guys want to take control now?” Brad called out.

  “Come on, Mom,” Luke said, jumping up and running off.

  With a smile on her face, Erin lifted to her feet and jogged over to join everyone. “You can do it too, Mom,” she said, calling back to me.

  I got to my feet, dusted sand off my pants, then noticed the letter on the blanket. I ripped it open and read the commendation I’d received for apprehending J. L. Cobb, serial killer. But that wasn’t why I’d opened the letter. I’d noticed who it was addressed to: Alex Troutt. The first step toward taking my life back.

  “Mom, check this out!” Luke said as he arched his back, making the kite dip and then soar back into the sky.

  I ran over to join my kids. To enjoy my life today. It was one step, but one I could remember forever.

  AT Large

  An Alex Troutt Thriller

  Book 2

  Redemption Thriller Series - 2

  (Includes Alex Troutt Thrillers, Ivy Nash Thrillers,

  and Ozzie Novak Thrillers)

  By

  John W. Mefford

  1

  I had one shot for the kill, and I wasn’t going to screw it up.

  Anchoring my right foot as I lowered my center of gravity, I took a hard swallow, releasing a crackle in my ears. The images that had flooded my mind on the three previous shots—the same pictures that invaded my dreams and disrupted my sleep—were now vapor.

  Except for one.

  I blinked my eyes, and a single drop of perspiration trickled down my forehead, stopping at my hardened eyebrow. The rush of intensity had draped my body in a coat of sweat. I could feel the muscles in my jaw flinch as I fought back the same swell of emotion that had gripped me every night for the last two months.

  Fuck!

  Mark’s face. Pasty white with skin that appeared rippled with pain. His mane of hair drifting in the shallow bay water. But it was his unblinking eyes that seemed to call out to me, maybe to anyone, to save him from the worst death imaginable. Drowning.

  Frozen eyes of death. They had bored a hole in me, still bore a hole in me. And for what reason? He was a lying sack of shit. He’d mocked our marriage, not just once, not with a woman he claimed he loved. It had been a flock of women, as best I could tell, including our free-spirited nanny. And I knew that much without investigating the breadth or depth of his infidelity. The bimbos had come looking for me.

  Fuck!

  It was happening again. The anger and resentment, the deep-seated sadness, had rendered me useless. I was so worked up, I could have ripped apart steel with my teeth. The daily workout routines helped, as did the sparring sessions with one of the best ju-jitsu instructors in Boston. But I couldn’t shake it completely.

  The downward spiral typically started with my mind coiled around that single image—his lifeless eyes. But it was all in my head. I’d yet to actually view the crime scene photos of Mark’s dead body floating in Nahant Bay. But I’d seen the other cadavers, and my imagination had conjured up the most lifelike death scene possible for Mark.

  “Special Agent Troutt, are you going to complete your firearm test?”

  A booming voice echoed in the vast concrete chamber where FBI special agents recertified their ability to carry an FBI-issued sidearm.

  “Yes sir!” I barked in return, using the explosion of energy to ignite my focus.

  My hands on the Beavertail grip, I set my sights on the target dangling from a wire twenty-five yards in front of me. I needed to nail this last shot to stay legal, and to save face. I’d talked my way back onto the Violent Crimes Squad for reasons I couldn’t completely explain, especially when I’d pondered the idea of walking away from the FBI. I wasn’t about to let everyone think my skills had eroded, or that I’d allowed the emotion of the events two months ago to eat away at my mental stability.
My memory from before the crash—the car accident that had rendered me in a coma and partially amnesiac, and that had set up the strange volley of events that transpired afterward—wasn’t fully restored. Yet, I couldn’t keep myself from recalling every image, word spoken, or feeling since I woke up.

  “Is the little bitch going to curl up in a ball and suck her thumb?”

  I ignored the dig from the biggest dipshit I knew. He’d been my boss ever so briefly and probably thought he was motivating me.

  Fuck him.

  I blinked once, and in a split second, I felt the warmth of the summer sun beaming down on me as I swayed in the ocean beach water. Seagulls chirped overhead, and kids frolicked in the water off in the distance. I was eight or nine years old.

  I’d found my special place of peace and calm.

  Now confident that I’d momentarily buried my demons, I flipped my attention to the black and red target. I took in a purposeful breath, then heard the air release through my nose. My heart rate had finally retreated to a whisper. I pulled the trigger. The end of the barrel flashed as my shoulders withheld most of the kickback. I tossed my goggles to the side, pulled out my earplugs, and leaned forward.

  “Dead center. Kill shot,” a voice said through the speakers.

  I placed my Glock 22 on the counter and nearly let a smile part my lips.

  “You were just toying with us at first, right?” My old partner, Nick, pulled up behind me, his arms splayed wide.

  I paused before answering that question, my eyes nearly blinded by Nick’s color coordination, or lack thereof. “Toying? You’re wearing a blue and white polka-dot tie. Add in your green suspenders and you look like a clown.”

  His jaw opened slightly, and I shrugged my shoulders, knowing I’d purposely held back from teasing him about his ever-shrinking red tuft of hair.