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

by John W. Mefford

  “I don’t see him, and I don’t hear anything. Around back.” In two giant leaps, I was down the porch and tap-dancing across the mud on the side of the house where the truck was parked. I tried to land on clumps of weeds, but every other step, my shoe hit gooey mud. Nick had gone the other direction. Behind Lyons’s place was a thicket of trees. He could get lost in those woods quickly. And given his propensity for using preventative devices to keep people out of his house, it was a good bet that he already had a predetermined route to lose anyone who wasn’t scared away by his threatening signs or staged antics.

  With my Glock at my side, I split between two garbage bags and leaped toward a cluster of weeds and vines huddled just next to the back of his house, my heart now motoring at an advanced speed. Knowing he could be hulking just around the corner with some type of weapon, I lowered my body. I slowly angled my sights directly behind the structure, moving my body more to the right, my Glock now chest high. So far, not a soul, only a bevy of junk. An oven with no door pushed onto its side, muddy boots, and a sagging clothesline with nothing on it. I kept moving more and more to my right as my heart pumped faster with each step and breath.

  All clear. I relaxed my shoulders and lowered my gun just as Nick appeared. I splayed my arms, and he shook his head. Just then, we heard an enormous thud. Lyons must have dropped the metal bar to the floor. I darted out of my stance and raced back the way I came, ignoring the weeds and vines. I could hear boots on the steps.

  Ten feet before I reached the front, I found Luke standing in the street staring at the house, or who was coming out of it. I exploded the last few steps and saw Lyons just now hitting the stone and mud driveway. I spotted a gun in a holster on his back, and he was holding something.

  I raised my gun, although I knew I couldn’t fire at his back. “Lyons, stop!” I screamed, hoping he’d turn.

  He stumbled to his knees, then quickly righted himself, ignoring my plea. No more than a few inches over five feet tall, his bow-legged stride was equally small, but quick. He pumped his arms, chugging as hard as he could go.

  I swung my sights to Luke, who hadn’t budged. Lyons kept moving, but I couldn’t tell if he was headed toward Luke or not. Out of the corner of my eye, I found something snaking across the front yard. I quickly followed the trail as I bent down to grab a muddy hose a split second before Lyons reached it. His boot clipped the taut hose, and he tumbled down face first into the mud.

  I ran over to Lyons as Nick was rounding the corner. Lyons moved his arm to his back just as I leaped on him from behind with both knees. He wailed like a wounded animal.

  “Damn, Mom, you’re a badass!” I heard Luke shout.

  I cuffed the suspect and took his guns away as Nick called for backup. When blue uniforms arrived, I joined up with Nick and Luke on the street.

  Just as I was about to open my mouth to reprimand Luke for leaving the car, he said, “Does this mean we get to have fast food for dinner?”

  Somehow, he’d made me smile again.

  ***

  Peeking through the small, vertical door window of the FBI interview room in downtown Boston, I watched Arnold Lyons’s chin bounce off his chest like it was a yo-yo, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. In other words, he appeared to be sleeping off a drunken binge.

  But we couldn’t be so lucky. On the drive from his shack to the FBI office, he went ape shit, throwing a two-year-old temper tantrum in a grown man’s body—well, almost, since he was a squatty five foot nothing. It continued as he was brought upstairs by a couple of our younger agents, who had to carry him like a prized hog. He actually started wailing while he was booked, fingerprinted, and had his mug shot taken.

  And believe me, his picture would have scared away his own mother. His face was covered with crusted mud, which did a decent job of concealing the goose egg on his chin, courtesy of the stone he landed on when I tripped him up earlier. His hair was a mess, his shirt was ripped on both shoulders, and he was missing half an eyebrow.

  “So what do you think the story is behind the shaved eyebrow?” Nick stuck his head just above mine.

  “Who the hell knows? Maybe some type of ritual he shares with others who think the world is coming to an end…courtesy of the FBI and the federal government, they believe.”

  I felt a warm hand on my shoulder and flipped my head to see Brad standing there. Then I noticed he also had a hand on Nick’s shoulder.

  “So you guys didn’t get the memo?” Brad tried to conceal his smile, but his dimples gave him away.

  Nick scrunched his eyes together.

  “You know, the one from last week that said the FBI has a new mission/vision statement.”

  “I’ll play along, Brad. What is it?” I gave him a whimsical smile.

  He swiped his hand in front of his face as if he was reading the headline on a marquee. “Meet the new law enforcement agency, the FDSP, or the Federal Dystopian Secret Police, where we’ll work day and night to make your life a living hell and turn society into a chaotic nightmare. We have plenty of time to create the ultimate conspiracy and ensure that every one of our thirty thousand employees and contractors are perfectly aligned to follow a plan to create a new totalitarian government.”

  I snorted out laugher, and had to move away from the door to contain myself. Nick joined me and even smacked my back.

  “Damn, if they actually really knew that we couldn’t even get ourselves aligned enough to have two agents meet us at a suspect’s house to serve as backup,” Nick said between chuckles.

  I was laughing so hard, tears came to my eyes, while Brad just stood there with his hands stuck in his preppy khakis, rocking heel to toe as Nick and I tried to keep it together.

  Another minute passed before I composed myself.

  “So, is Luke enjoying the FBI tour with Gretchen?” I asked Brad.

  “Eating it up. She’s showing off a lot of our history from those displays. He was really intrigued by the so-called Crime of the Century display down on two.”

  “Right, the Brinks heist back in 1950. I remember learning about that at Quantico. Glad to hear he’s being patient.”

  Brad looked off to the corner, then back to Nick and me. “Yeah, Gretchen really seems to connect with kids.”

  I wondered where that unsolicited comment originated, but I let it ride, turning my attention back to our suspect.

  “So you guys have all but ruled out Lyons, or whatever his name is supposed to be, as the priest killer?”

  “It appears that way. Using Gretchen’s program, we’ve been able to put a timestamp on each blog post he made. At the time of the second bombing, he was online spouting off about how the government was nothing more than a terrorist organization planting moles in every key position in the finance industry.”

  “Moles, right,” Nick said, crossing his eyes.

  “What about Father Timothy Brennan and the pipe bomb? I think we had it narrowed down to where it must have been placed in his mailbox between three and five a.m.”

  “Yeah, so on that one, we captured his blog posts, which were made at six different times during that window. But that was during the first ninety minutes.”

  “So, it’s possible, theoretically, Mr. Deliverance could have traveled to Father Brennan’s home and planted the bomb?” Nick propped a foot on a chair and rested an elbow on his knee.

  “Theoretically, yes, given how light traffic would have been at the hour. But we’ve just now verified that wasn’t likely. His credit card was used online halfway through that thirty-minute window.”

  “What did he buy?” I asked.

  “A gas mask for four hundred twenty dollars,” Brad said.

  “Can’t have too many of those,” I said.

  “That’s worth more than his house,” Nick offered.

  “Times ten,” I added.

  “So, even if he is paranoid as hell, why wouldn’t he just tell us so we’ll leave him alone?”

  “I know you’ve been dealing wit
h the Tasmanian devil the last hour,” Brad said, “but our on-site ERT found bomb-making material, four AT4 rocket launchers, and a hidden room under his house.”

  Nick and I exchanged glances.

  “A man cave?” Nick questioned. “You know, a big screen TV, video game setup, leather chair, and beer can holder?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure our perp is the type to sit around in his underwear and cheer for the Patriots.” I giggled the moment I said it.

  Brad arched his eyebrow for a quick second, then said. “Any more guesses about the room?” He started humming the Jeopardy theme music.

  “I need to get home. I’ve already wasted too much oxygen on this moron. What’s the answer?” I pinched the corners of my eyes.

  “Wait for it…” Brad said with a big smile. He didn’t get his desired response as Nick and I just stared at him with blank faces. “He created a meth lab.”

  “As in Breaking Bad, chemistry, and all that shit?” Nick said, pushing off his knee to stand upright.

  “So that’s how he afforded his armory and his huge mansion with butler service,” I deadpanned.

  “Turns out he actually made more money on his YouTube account from running ads as people watched him go postal on every person in America.”

  “I think you’re giving post office employees a bad reputation,” I said, then I thought more about his connection to Cobb, my husband’s killer. That triggered an instant bodily reaction, and my breathing became more labored.

  I cleared my throat and tried to push back the anxiety. “So, when he was railing on the FBI earlier when Nick and I attempted to interview him, he shouted something about hacking into some computer system.”

  “He did. Or someone did on his behalf.”

  I recalled Cobb’s skill set as a computer hacking guru. “So what did they hack? What did they change? Is this really Arnold Lyons? And is he related to J. L. Cobb, the ring killer?”

  “Early evidence suggests he’s thirty-six years old, not sixty-three.”

  “That we could have guessed,” Nick said.

  “But as far as we can tell, his name is indeed Arnold Lyons.” Brad turned his sights to me, his facial expression solemn. “Cobb’s father had a previous wife who died. They had a son named Arnold.”

  “Last name is Lyons.” Nick enjoyed stating the obvious.

  “Probably his mother’s last name, and he’s probably estranged from his father. Am I right?” I asked Brad.

  “You got it.”

  “So, somewhere along the way he connected with his baby half-brother, J. L. That’s a hell of a lineage. I bet Dad is proud.”

  I then recalled the earlier research showing a comment he’d made about priests. “So, how do we explain his sour, almost violent, attitude toward priests?”

  “I could show you a hundred other posts of him railing on the FBI, news anchors, postal workers, construction workers, teachers, and countless other groups. He’s simply a hater.”

  Just then, Luke walked through the door, his head tipped back as he downed the last remnants of a bottled soda.

  “Ahh!” he said with a smile.

  “Manners, young man.”

  “Sorry.”

  I looked over his shoulder into the adjoining hallway. “Where’s Gretchen? She’s not letting you roam around the FBI all alone, is she?”

  He flipped a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, she’s—”

  “Here I am.” She scooted through the doorway, her little legs moving a hundred miles an hour, as she tried to fix her hair.

  “Everything good?” I asked Gretchen, then shifted my vision to my son. I jostled his thick head of hair.

  “Hey, Mom, I’m not a little kid anymore.”

  “Oh, okay.” I brought my hand back to my side.

  Then Gretchen said, “You have quite a young son. Very inquisitive.”

  “That’s Luke. He loves his history.”

  “And he’s…quite energetic.”

  She seemed frazzled.

  “Luke, what did you put Gretchen through?”

  A wry grin formed on his face, a few freckles lighting up his cheeks. “You know me, Mom. I just have that need to explore, get my energy out.”

  Gretchen had a hand against the wall so she could remove her shoe and rub her foot. “Just a little difficult to keep up with sometimes. But it’s all good.”

  Brad snickered.

  I shook my head. “Gretchen, thank you for watching Luke, and trying to educate him a bit.”

  “No problem. He’s smart as a whip. And he’s a quick little sucker too.” She forced out a giggle.

  “Luke, anything to say?”

  “Uh, yeah. Thanks, Gretchen. You’re the bomb dot com.”

  “Teenage translation is that he thinks you’re pretty cool,” Nick said with a chuckle.

  Gretchen gave him a knowing smile.

  I ushered Luke through the door then stopped at Nick and said, “If you don’t mind, finish up with Lyons. If there’s anything at all you can pull from him that makes you think he knows someone who might have a connection to the priest bombers, text me.”

  Nick patted my back as I walked through the door, and Luke said. “Fast food night?”

  “You win. Fast food it is.”

  5

  The man held the tumbler up to the light dangling from the ceiling, and his eyes studied the amber liquid as it sloshed against the sides of the glass.

  “You see there, guy, it’s easy to spot a true Irish whiskey.” He brought the glass down, tipped it against his lips, and let the smooth cordial pour into his mouth. He could feel the slow burn sliding down his chest.

  He glanced up and noticed his little brother—his late father’s namesake—staring at the suds of his beer.

  The man chuckled. “Come on, Junior, you going to drink or just nurse that like a wet teat all night?”

  Slouched in the back of his booth, the young brother twisted the nearly full glass on the table, his eyes refusing to leave the beer.

  A woman with a Jay Leno jawline appeared next to the table and flipped two napkins between the two men. She noticed Junior’s sulking mood. “If you keep fondling that glass, you’re going to have to screw it before the night’s over.” She smacked the table and cackled until her face turned red. The man joined in, and even reached across the table and tapped his younger brother on the arm while ensuring his other hand was buried in his leather jacket pocket.

  “Anything else I can get you two?” the waitress asked while scratching her protruding chin.

  “I could go for another shot of Jameson,” the man said, raising his empty glass.

  “And you? Hell, you look like you just lost your best friend.”

  “Eh,” Junior said, lifting his eyes for a moment.

  She placed both palms on the table. “Listen here, man. We all got trouble, especially in this part of the city. Nothing comes easy. That’s why we have bars like this. But if you don’t break out of your man-period, I’m going to have to kick your ass from here all the way to Saugus.”

  The man noticed Junior’s left eye twitch as the woman’s chin hovered a couple feet from the sour puss. “I’m good.” He shifted his sights to his older brother and forced the corners of his lips upward.

  The waitress smiled, hands on hips. “There you go. Just remember, YOLO, buddy. YOLO.”

  She plodded away, leaving the two men alone. Not thirty seconds later, an accordion and acoustic guitar filled the room with music, and the mostly working crowd began to clap along to the lively tune.

  “Nice to see some life returning to this old place. Haven’t seen that in years,” the man said, trying to lift the spirits of his sibling, who was fifteen years younger.

  Junior sat up in his seat and looked over his shoulder, obviously curious to take in the raucous scene. He brought the glass to his lips and took a long pull of beer. The man could see his brother’s Adam’s apple bobbing for a good ten seconds. Then Junior used the tiny napkin to wipe his mou
th clean.

  “Now you’re thirsty, huh?”

  Junior looked down for a second, then leaned forward on his elbows. “Bro, I don’t get your…your new take on life. Months ago you thought the world had gone mad.” He was finally engaged in the conversation, his hands moving almost as quickly as his mouth.

  “Nothing has changed, Junior. It’s just that I see a light at the end of this tunnel.”

  Junior nodded while shifting his eyes to a passing female patron who shot him a wink. The man knew that Junior wouldn’t act on the flirtatious overture. His younger brother had been gutless his entire life, afraid of his own shadow at times.

  True enough, Junior’s mouth inched open, but all he could manage was a light grunt.

  The man chuckled. “Ah, man. Will you ever get over your fear of…everything?”

  Junior pounded his fist on the table, rattling the salt and pepper shakers, then raised his finger at the man’s face. Again, he opened his mouth, but he failed to verbalize his thoughts.

  “Be careful there. If I wasn’t kin, I’d wonder if you wished you were actually pulling the trigger on a real gun.”

  “Fuck you, bro. Fuck. You.” His nostrils flared like a dragon shooting flames.

  His brother’s response wasn’t unexpected. Whether it be inner demons, or some type of outside force that infiltrated young minds with propaganda, the man knew the weak were always susceptible to veering off track, losing sight of their mission.

  “I know you’re just venting, little brother. I can deal with that. I might be fifteen years older, but I’ll always be able to kick your ass.” He reached over and playfully patted his brother’s stiff hand, a smile on his ashen face.

  Junior’s shoulder slouched a bit, and his posture seemed to relax. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.”

  “Sure you are. You’re more passionate about this cause than I am.”

  Junior lifted his beer and chugged until the glass was empty, then slammed it to the table. “Easy for you to say, but you didn’t—”

  “Stop right there.” The man swiveled his neck left and right, his eyes narrowing. “Listen, Junior, you know you can’t be spouting off in a public place like that. I know you don’t want to bring down the whole operation.”