Mark for Blood (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 1)

by Nick Thacker

  THE END OF THE DIRT path seemed farther away this time. I wasn’t driving it any slower than normal, but there was something that felt unending about it. Maybe it was the deep feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, or that I was just paying extra attention to every tree root and shrub I drove over.

  Still, the end came, and I was about to pull out onto the main road and head back into town when I saw them.

  Two cars, going slowly along the shoulder, coming my way. They were about a hundred feet away, but I made the mistake of stopping and staring a the first car to see who was in it.

  They sped up, and I didn’t get out of the way in time. I reacted slowly, smashing my foot on the pedal, and the Corolla lurched forward and up, nearly catching air as it sailed over the edge and out onto the road.

  The first car reacted with me, though, and turned just a little bit to make sure he was still heading straight at me.

  I felt the impact at the back corner of the car, heard the crunching of the metal-on-metal, and braced myself. In that instant I realized I was not wearing my seatbelt.

  I flew sideways, smacking the side of my head against the window, then flew the other way, this time coming up out of the seat. The car was spinning, but there was plenty of momentum to carry me into the passenger seat and nearly through that window.

  The car stopped moving, and I took a quick second to take stock. Nothing felt broken, but nothing felt good, either. I groaned, forcing blood back into my head so I start using it. Think, dammit. Nothing useful happened, so I sat up to get more information. I looked around, seeing only the second car driving by. The car that had hit me was gone.

  I crawled back over to the driver’s seat and started working myself down into it to see how bad the damage was when I saw the first car again. It had gone over the hill and was now bearing down on my again, obviously aiming for my dinky beater once again.

  I smashed the pedal down once again and found that my trusty ride still had a few lives left, and we shot off down the road. A glance in the rearview mirror told me two things: the second car was turning around to join the chase once again, and the first car, apparently having suffered zero damage from its earlier impact, was going to catch up to me fast.

  The car was a Buick, I think, and it was much larger than mine. I knew them to drive like boats, but I also knew they could take a beating. If there was ever a tank built for consumer use, it was made by Buick.

  I gave it everything my little Toyota had, but it wasn’t enough. I had just enough time to strap in and buckle the belt when the Buick smashed into my back. I pushed hard against the steering wheel just before impact, hoping it wouldn’t buckle my arms in half.

  My arms were fine, but I screamed in pain anyway when my head crashed backwards into the headrest. I tried to recover, but the second car had somehow found its way in as well, and it hit, a bit softer, but threw me back into the headrest once again.

  I blacked out, for how long I don’t know, but I blacked out and then woke up and they were there around me, walking toward the car’s window. I opened my eye, just one of them, to check it out, and saw them.

  They weren’t thugs, but they didn’t strike me as seasoned professionals. Maybe hired guns. They wore street clothes, but both had cargo pants that seemed loaded with something and shirts that were tucked in. They were even wearing belts. Sunglasses, caps, and boots to finish it off. I smelled ex-military or off-duty cops all over them.

  I felt the blood on the back of my head, but it was a minor injury and would have to wait. My right shoulder throbbed, and I thought my wrist might have a small fracture, but still I ignored it all. I focused only on my next move: I had to get out of there, but I wasn’t sure I could still drive. I wasn’t sure the car could still drive.

  The guy tapped on the glass.

  I pretended like I was still blacked out, hoping they’d give me at least something before I was forced to do something.

  “Just take him out,” the second man said.

  “I will,” the guy at the window replied. His voice was lower, a bit gruff. “I want to see if he knows anything.”

  “That ain’t the job, remember? We don’t need to know shit about this guy. Just do it, and let’s go.”

  I knew that ‘just do it and let’s go’ meant a couple things: for one, they weren’t interested in making it clean, like I always do. That meant they were being paid to do it, but they didn’t care about any more details than their employer gave them. They might do it to make sure they weren’t somehow discovered, but they weren’t going to spend any more time with my cadaver than they needed.

  It also meant they were in a hurry. Again, money. These guys got to be in a hurry when the money was good, and it was quick to acquire.

  I waited, my heart starting to pound. I was taking a major risk, a stupid risk, waiting. But it was the only way to figure out who they were.

  Unfortunately, the exchange seemed to be over. The first man fumbled with my car’s handle and I heard it creak open. I squeezed my eye open just enough for the cloudy outlines to give me a rough idea of what was happening.

  I saw a blurry pistol coming toward my head, and I knew it was time. I clocked the second guy at about five or six feet away, but I couldn’t see any weapon on him. Either he didn’t have one pointed at me or my blurry squeezed-eye vision was useless.

  I waited until I felt the steel hit my temple and I jerked my left arm upwards. The man’s forearm smacked the top of the Corolla and the pistol flung out and down, landing right in my lap.

  He tried to get out a few choice words, but I already had it in my left hand and was pulling the trigger when I started the engine again with my right. Aiming for the spot just above his hip, I fired. Twice.

  It wasn’t intended to be a kill shot — kill shots tended to kill people, and I didn’t want more loose ends to tie up. It hit right where I’d intended, and he stumbled backwards as the second guy grabbed at his own piece. It was hidden behind his back, tucked into a belt, but I got him before he had it out and around.

  Again, aiming low, I fired. I missed the mark, hitting him in the thigh instead, but I wasn’t going to give him a chance to fire back. I watched him fall to the ground, nearly landing on top of his partner, when I peeled out and took off.

  I found that my damaged ride was good for about forty miles an hour before it started to shake violently, so I eased up and let it sit there, checking impatiently in the mirror to see that they didn’t get back up. I had been shot through the shoulder a long time ago, and I knew any bullet anywhere in your body was not a happy feeling. They should be down for a while, and even if not they’d have a difficult time driving home.

  There wasn’t a chance in hell they’d go to the real cops, but there was a small chance the cops would come to them. Highway patrol was out here every now and then, checking things out, and it would be just my luck if they happened to be out this way and saw two bleeding bad guys on the side of the road.

  Even then, I figured it was still unlikely they’d just start telling the cops the local bar owner was a murderer. These guys were professionals, hired by someone to take me out, and they wouldn’t just give the police free information.

  I had time, but not much. I needed to get back in town and get started. This was all connected somehow, I could tell. That feeling was there again, and I knew to trust it. I had to get back to the bar, to check in with Joey.

  And I had to get back to her.

  I checked the clock in the car, noticing it was a few minutes past four.

  Joey would be pissed.

  13

  “HEY, BOSS MAN,” JOEY SAID as I entered through the back door. “Where you —“ he cut himself off when he saw me. Our eyes locked for a moment.

  “I’m going to need to ask a favor,” I said. I explained quickly about the guys who’d attacked me, leaving out the part about what I was doing out that way.

  “Yeah, I figured. No nap for me, but that’s all right.”

&nbs
p; “We need to get Hannah and Daniel out of Marley’s and back here.”

  “Here?”

  “Well, somewhere besides Marley’s. We can’t watch the entire place with just two of us, and still stay out of sight ourselves. Plus, I have to get started finding her old man’s killer.”

  “You’re still doing that? Should we —“

  “Yeah,” I said, “we’ll still get these assholes who attacked me, but we still have to figure out who was out to get her father.”

  “Why?”

  I sighed. He was on to me, and it was only going to get worse unless I had an ally. “Because, Joey. We need the money. And now that my car’s hanging on by a thread…”

  “You having it fixed up?”

  “It’s getting towed sometime within the hour. I’ll have Billy look at it over at the shop, and tell him to get it rolling again. Hopefully won’t be putting me out any more. All the more reason to get some money coming in.”

  I waited for him to ask more about it, but I think he understood. He walked over to the grill and fired it up. “Well, I guess I need to eat if we’re going to do this. Catfish?”

  “No, thanks though. I’m good.”

  I reached into my pocket and grabbed the flip phone and started dialing Hannah’s number. I still had over half the battery charge remaining, and the phone was still in perfect condition even after slamming it around in three car crashes.

  She picked up after a few rings. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” I said, “it’s me. How are you?”

  “I’m… bored. Been holed up here all day. We still on for 5?”

  “How about right now?”

  There was a pause. “What happened?”

  I shook my head, as if she could see it, then added. “Nothing. Well, nothing much. I’ll fill you in when you get here. You think you can borrow the car?”

  “It’s a rental. My brother has it. He left a few minutes ago to get some wine, I think. Only thing we didn’t grab at the grocery store.”

  “Okay,” I said, looking at Joey. He flashed me a thumbs-up sign and I put the phone back up to my ear. “Okay, Joey can let me use his car. I’ll come grab you. Leave a note for your brother.”

  Joey’s car was blaring godawful rap music when I put the key in, so I pressed scan on the radio until I found some oldies. Wasn’t a great song, but it was oldies, which meant it was automatically better than anything post-1980.

  I drove fast, pushing it up about ten over the 55-mph speed limit until I reached Marley’s. He was out on the porch doing some gardening, and he waved when I pulled up. I gave him a single nod, hoping it came across as ‘I’m-pretty-busy-but-certainly-not-rude,’ but truthfully I didn’t care. I could patch up any hard feelings later over a free drink. Marley and his wife were staples in this town; they had always been here and it seemed like they always would be.

  The bed and breakfast, Marley’s historic old plantation home, was gorgeous. I’d never been inside, but I’d lusted over photos of the interior many times, jealous of the century-old crown molding, attention to detail, and overall perfect appointment of each of the rooms.

  I wasn’t much of an artist, but if I had to be, I’d choose architecture. Something about the way things are put together on a large scale, retaining their natural beauty while still providing function, has a lot of appeal to me.

  I called Hannah and told her I was outside. She told me she was finishing up her shower, which I took to mean she was just starting it. I told her to take all the time she needed — I had to make a call.

  This thing had gotten out of hand, and while I didn’t really have anyone but Joey I could bring fully up to speed on the situation, I still needed to call in someone that had more resources. In this case, I needed information. I dialed.

  “Hello?” the person on the other end said.

  “Hey — Truman?”

  “Shit, Dixon? Is that you?”

  I chuckled. “Better believe it. Wasting away down here in the south.”

  “How far south? You moved away from the big city, then?”

  “South Carolina, on the beach.” I didn’t need to go into details; technically the beach was close. “Listen, Truman, we definitely need to catch up. The bar’s doing well, and it’s all-you-can-drink on the house for you if you ever make it down this way, but I need a favor.”

  “Yeah, of course. Anything for an old friend.”

  “Not as old as you.” I paused for him to laugh. “It’s — it’s hard to explain, actually, but I’m trying to track someone down.”

  “Uh, Mason, you know I can’t —“

  “No, no, I understand. I’m not asking you to get into any trouble. Let me get into trouble tracking this guy down, you won’t even need to know the name. I’m just trying to put the pieces together, find out who he was working with, that sort of stuff.”

  “Ok, yeah, I guess. I can only keep it general. High-level, you know? Unless you have a warrant…”

  He left it hanging, as if he meant he could only look the other way if I had a warrant — even though he knew I wasn’t in a position of authority that might allow me to use one. He was an old friend, and wanted to help out, and I appreciated that.

  But I wasn’t about to get anyone else caught up in this mess.

  “No, again, it’s not really a search like that. Just ‘casting the net,’ see what I pull in.”

  “Got it. What is it?”

  “Organization, probably a corporation or partnership. Called ‘Crimson Club.’”

  Long pause.

  “You there?”

  “Uh, hey. Listen, Dixon, get out of whatever it is you’re in, man. Not worth it.”

  “Wait, what’s up? You’ve heard of them?”

  “Dammit, man, everyone up here’s heard of them. And every other department as well. They’re blowing up right now.”

  “What — what are they? I was told they were in importing.”

  He snickered, then actually laughed. A full-fledged laugh, right in my ear.

  “Yeah, importing. Sure, I guess. That’s what would be on their manifest, anyway. But no, they’re not just importing. You probably picked up on that.”

  “I picked up on that. That’s why I called you. Can you help me or not?”

  “I’m telling you, honestly, stay away from this one. It’s bigger than you are.”

  “Most things are.”

  “I don’t think you get my point. Let me be as clear as possible: This is out of your jurisdiction. Whatever you’re wrapped up in, fixing it by digging into these guys is not something you need to do. I’ve got a case file on them open on my desk right now as thick as my arm. And it’s not just us — DEA, CIA, hell, even Homeland Security’s got a file.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit’s right. These guys aren’t just priority uno, they’re priority uno for all of us.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why now?”

  “They’ve been blowing up. Doing massive business.”

  “Importing, still?”

  “Importing, exporting, buying, selling, whatever you want to call it. But Crimson used to operate mostly overseas, targeting third-world and emerging nations for their ‘unique offerings.’”

  I knew ‘unique offerings’ was a government term Truman had used before, and I was pretty sure I knew what it meant. But I had to know for sure. Something was nagging at me about this whole thing, and I needed to know. To hear it from him.

  “What kind of ‘unique offerings,’ Truman?”

  “Hell, man, what do you think? Pedophilia is the big one, and I don’t just mean media escalation, either.”

  Media escalation was another term he threw around every now and then, and it meant something that was outlawed or criminal becoming sensationalized into the worst possible form of the root issue. In the states, when someone just below the legal age had willing intercourse with someone just a little bit above it, it was considered statutory rape. It could be consensual, even, but that didn’t st
op the news from reporting it as ‘pedophilia,’ or ’rape of a child,’ which conjures up far different images than a high school romance taken too far.

  But I knew what he meant. There was no media in these parts to escalate anything — the reports he was reading didn’t need to be escalated any further.

  I sighed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s bad. We’ve got a few low-level ringers in custody, but we’re hoping for the big fish. The head of the company itself is likely behind it, even. I can’t tell you his —“

  “Bradley Rayburn. He’s dead.”

  “How — do you —“

  “Wikipedia.”

  Another pause. “Okay, yeah, I guess that’s an easy one. “But still. Stay out of this one.”

  “I can’t. I’m in it. Anything you can do to help me —“

  “You can get out of it. You’re out-fielded on this one, man, I’m serious.”

  “I understand. Listen, I’ll deny calling you. I know you’ve got fancy stuff for that and everything, but it’s the least I can do. Hate to see you getting in trouble with the boss.”

  He laughed again. “I am the boss. You know that.”

  “Right,” I said. “Thank you, again. Talk soon?”

  “You got it.”

  We hung up, and it was the same moment Hannah emerged from Marley’s house.

  14

  SHE LOOKED STUNNING. HER HAIR was wavy, slightly curled so it bounced as she moved.

  And I couldn’t help but notice it wasn’t the only thing that bounced as she moved. She had a skirt and a white blouse on, frilly on the edges — not sure what else to call it. The skirt wasn’t too short, but it certainly wasn’t too long, either. Her legs, thin and tanned, melted down to her feet, just long lines of perfection. Her shoes were those expensive burlap sacks I see younger women wearing these days, but somehow she made them work.

  I didn't want to seem like a creep, but — dammit she was beautiful. I forced my head back up to a reasonable height.

  I couldn’t tell if she was wearing makeup, which probably meant that she was, but she was really good at putting it on. No lipstick, unless it was the same tone as her lip color, but in that case, why bother?