I squeeze the trigger and hear the soft pop. The back of Blankenship’s head explodes, painting the headboard red with blood and gore. He falls back onto his pillows, a small entry hole in his forehead, his eyes wide open but vacant and seeing nothing. Nothing in this world, at least.
His mouth hangs open in a rictus of shock as if he didn’t expect me to actually pull the trigger. Perhaps he thought his money or station would protect him. Maybe he thought the fact that he’s part of this Hellfire Club would grant him immunity.
Whatever he thought, it went out the back of his head along with pieces of his skull and gray matter.
I lower my weapon and sigh. The job is done, but I got no information. Nothing to use to leverage Delta and nothing that helps fill in the blanks for me.
But—the job is done. Now I need to decide what comes next.
Chapter Seventeen
After killing Blankenship, it took me a few hours to drag his body and the bodies of his security detail out to the pond I found in the woods. I weighted them down and tossed them in. Hopefully, they’ll stay submerged for a while. Best case scenario is they never surface.
I know eventually, Sheriff Cedars will have to drag the pond, and the bodies will be discovered. But I’d like to put as much time and distance between now and that point as possible.
After disposing of their bodies, I clean up the blood as best as I can. I’m not a professional crime scene cleaner, and if they hit the place with luminol and a black light, it’s going to light up like Christmas. There’s nothing I can do about that. But at least the place doesn’t actually look like a crime scene. That should at least buy me some time to put Auburn, Maine well in my rearview mirror.
With the job done, the time has come for me to get the hell out of Dodge. Time to get away from Sheriff Cedars and those five bodies at the bottom of the pond. I will miss the lobster rolls—but not enough to risk getting arrested for murdering a federal judge.
And yet, even though I know I need to get out of this town, I find myself sitting in my car at the far end of a parking lot. There were lights at this end, but a couple of quick, quiet rounds from my rifle took care of those. Now, I sit in the Charger, cloaked in thick, deep shadows that render me all but invisible, my eyes focused on the black Ford F-150 about fifty yards away.
The red neon sign glows brightly against the dark backdrop of the night. The bar was once called Dickson’s Roadhouse. But either lack of money or sheer laziness—maybe both—has burned out some of the neon bulbs and now it’s just called Dicks Roadhos. I guess maybe it’s somehow fitting.
The clientele is sparse, the lot only half full. A few people have come and gone while I’ve been sitting vigil out here, but not many. I guess dumpy old roadside dives don’t hold the appeal they once did.
As I sit here, I can’t get Hope’s face out of my mind. Hers, and the face of her daughter—so young and innocent. And as I think about Tommy, think about what it is he has planned for her—something Sara swears she saw in his eyes—it turns my stomach. Maybe she was just upping the stakes of the story to get me to do something about Tommy. Maybe it was a lie. But I don’t think so. I believe her.
Mostly because I just have a strange feeling that although Hope doesn’t have the ability to save herself, she will do everything within her power to protect that sweet, innocent girl of hers. She’d allow herself to be beaten to death if it meant sparing her daughter a single second of pain.
So even though I should be putting a lot of miles between me and the state of Maine right now, I’m sitting here watching Tommy Elkins’ truck instead. Even though my instincts are telling me to pack it in and get out of here, my conscience won’t let me do it.
It’s going to be a tight window, but I’ve run the numbers and think I can still make it work. The earliest anybody is going to realize there’s a problem is nine tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. is the shift change for Blankenship’s security detail. And in the mornings that I surveilled his place, I never saw his assistant arrive earlier than that.
After that, the search will be on. It will likely take time for the bodies to be found. Worst case scenario is that they will be found at some point tomorrow afternoon or evening. But even that has a silver lining because that means Sheriff Cedars will be tied up all day and won’t have time to yank my chain, giving me the chance to mosey on down the road.
So I’ve got time to take out the trash.
I watch as a couple, leaning heavily on each other, staggers out of the bar. I hear the woman’s drunken laugh echo across the parking lot. They amble over to an old sedan, clinging together, lips locked, practically on top of each other against the back end of the car.
Tommy Elkins shuffles out of the bar; his cell phone pressed to his ear. I look over at the couple, still making out on the car and frown.
“Come on, get out of here,” I mutter.
Tommy stops in the middle of the parking lot, and I hear him yelling into the phone. I can’t make out what he’s saying—except for Hope’s name and the word ‘bitch’. And he says that loudly and angrily enough I’m sure they hear him over the hair metal music playing inside of ‘Dicks Roadhos’.
His ranting thankfully disturbed the lovebirds enough that they climb into their car and speed away, leaving Tommy alone in the parking lot to continue railing on Hope. He disconnects the call and stuffs the phone into his pocket. He stops and turns his back to me, cupping his hands to light a smoke. His head down, he heads for his truck, muttering to himself.
I slide out of my car and use the fob to pop the trunk as I head straight for the big man. Moving quickly and quietly, I close the distance between us and slip up behind him. He blows out a thick plume of smoke, still muttering angrily under his breath. I don’t know what set him off, but I know that Hope is going to pay the price for it. And maybe Lexi too. And I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
“Hey Tommy,” I start.
He turns around, his face twisted with rage. And when he sees me, his expression only darkens further. He opens his mouth to say something but never gets a chance to utter a single syllable.
I drive my fist straight into his face with all the force I can muster. I hear the satisfying snap of cartilage under my knuckles giving way. He opens his mouth to howl in pain, and I see he’s even lost a couple of teeth in the deal, which puts that cold little grin back on my face.
Knowing I can’t let him scream, I next drive my fist into his throat. A wet, choking noise bursts from him, and he grabs at it with both hands, his eyes wide. Lastly, I drive my knee up into his groin.
Tommy drops like a sack of laundry. He crumples to the ground, one hand on his throat, the other on his balls, gurgling and choking.
I squat down beside him and grab him by the hair, wrenching his neck back painfully, and force him to look into my eyes.
“I see that lesson on respect didn’t take with you, Tommy,” I glower. “I think it’s time for some extra tutoring.”
“S—s—screw you,” he manages to croak.
“Original. As if I haven’t heard that from you before.”
“I—I—I’ll kill you.”
“Right. Well, we can talk about that,” I tell him. “You and me are gonna take a ride.”
Chapter Eighteen
I stare at the picture for a long minute—the one of the woman and the little boy. I try, I really try, to reach out and feel something. Some bond. Some connection, no matter how tenuous. But it’s like reaching into a vast, empty void. There still isn’t the slightest tingle of the familiar there.
I’m just about to drop the picture into the pocket of the computer bag when I pause. I shift my focus on the picture from the two faces to the background. And it’s then I feel the pull of the familiar. It’s not the people; it’s the place.
I can’t say why I know it, but behind the woman and the boy, I can see the red brick building and white-domed top of the St. Mary of the Angels Parish. I don’t know why it’s in any way suddenly famil
iar to me, but it is. I know that church as surely as the city it’s in.
I feel an electric surge of anticipation shoot through me as I realize what my next destination is going to be. I know the High Priestess expects me to return to the condo in New York—my base of operations, she called it. But I’ve got other plans, and she’s just going to have to live with it.
Sunlight starts creeping in around the edges of the curtains of the motel room as the first fingers of dawn stretch out across the morning sky. It’s almost seven. Time to hit the road.
I pack up the last of my things and head out the door, popping the trunk of the Charger remotely.
I drop my bags into the trunk and hear the shrill squeak of brakes as a truck stops behind me. And I don’t need to turn around to know who’s getting out of the truck. I cut a glance at my bag, pondering grabbing the Glock, but reject the idea. I’ll never get it out before the man has his own gun in hand.
I turn around and find Sheriff Toby Cedars standing there in his crisp, overly starched uniform, glaring at me from behind his aviator shades. The look of barely controlled anger on his face couldn’t be plainer to see.
“Mornin’ Sheriff,” I nod.
He doesn’t say anything at all. He continues to stare at me murderously, his hand floating closer to the butt of his weapon than I’m comfortable with. All I can hope is that if it comes down to it, that I can move quicker than he can pull his sidearm.
“So Tommy Elkins went missin’ last night,” the Sheriff starts.
“That right?”
“Found his truck out at Dickson’s. Saw some blood on the ground near his truck like there’d been a scuffle,” he elaborated. “But no Tommy. Never went home last night. He was nowhere to be seen.”
“Huh,” I reply. “Ain’t that the strangest thing.”
Sheriff Cedars lowers his shades and stares harder at me—as if the sudden appearance of his actual eyeballs would intimidate me. The man is purple with rage and looks to be on the verge of exploding.
“Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?” he says through clenched teeth.
“Can’t say I do,” I answer. “Maybe he met somebody and decided to take a road trip with her. In her car, obviously.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy.”
I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff. He’s a grown man, capable of making his own decisions,” I offer. “If he decided not to go home last night, that’s his right as an American citizen. It’s not exactly a crime or anything.”
Cedars is huffing and puffing, absolutely apoplectic. But he knows there’s nothing he can do to me. He has no proof a crime has even been committed. The Sheriff knows it’s entirely possible that Tommy is holed up with some woman somewhere. But I know the blood on the ground has him worried—he knows something happened and knows I’m probably involved—but he can’t prove a damn thing. And he doesn’t have probable cause to haul me in or search my things.
That’s why I left the blood there instead of wiping it away—just to drive him crazy.
“I think you ought to stick around,” the Sheriff orders. “In case I have some questions.”
“Am I being charged with a crime, Sheriff?”
His nose flares, and his jaw clenches hard enough to shatter stone. I can tell he wants to run me in. But he knows even a third-rate, discount, ambulance-chasing lawyer with a drinking problem will have me out of the cell in fifteen minutes flat. The look on his face is one of pure hatred.
“Not at this time, no,” he admits through gritted teeth.
“Okay well, I think it’s time I took your advice then and moved on,” I say. “Maybe I can find a more—hospitable—town somewhere else.”
“Huh,” he spits.
“I will miss those lobster rolls though,” I add. “I really think they are the best in all of Maine.”
I turn and close the trunk, then turn back to the Sheriff, giving him a cold, feral smile.
“You did tell me that people wander into the woods all the time. Remember?” I can’t resist poking at him. “You told me that people go in all the time and just never come back out. I suppose I have to admit that you could have been right.”
The Sheriff stares at me in impotent rage, knowing he can’t touch me.
“Anyway, thanks for everything, Sheriff,” I say. “But, there’s a big, wide world out there for me to see. So, if you don’t mind…”
I let my voice trail off and look pointedly at his truck, which is behind my car, blocking the way. Sheriff Toby stands there for a long minute, seeming like he’s hoping to beat a confession out of me with nothing more than a hard glare. I stare back and give him a smile.
Finally, he turns and storms back to his truck, slamming the door behind him. He fires up the engine and roars off in a puff of smoke and a squeal of tires. Smiling to myself, I climb into the Charger and fire it up. I back out of the spot and hit the road that will take me back to the highway, driving carefully and making sure to obey every traffic law until I get there.
Once I’m on the highway, I open up the Bluetooth connection and quickly search for the Lobster Pot’s number. I open the call, and as it starts to ring on the other end of the line, I wonder if anybody is going to be there this early. But then, they do serve breakfast, so I’m hopeful. It’s picked up on the third ring, and I instantly recognize her voice.
“Lobster Pot,” she says.
“Sara,” I start. “It’s me, Hope’s—friend.”
She pauses, and there’s a long silence on the other end of the line. She doesn’t say a word, but I can tell she’s pissed off, since the last time we talked, I turned down her overtures to kill Tommy for her. I hear her swallow hard then clear her throat.
“Yes, how can I help you?” she says, her voice curt.
“I just wanted to let you know that I handled that problem we talked about,” I tell her. “I made sure the garbage was taken out.”
Another silence descends between us, but this one isn’t charged with tension or anger. I hear her draw in a sharp breath and then a quaver in her voice.
“Y—you took out the garbage? Really?”
“I did. And don’t worry, it’s gone forever. You’ll never see that trash again,” I say, cringing at how badly I’m stretching this metaphor. “Anyway, I thought you should know since you’re likely going to be asked about it.”
“Understood,” she replies. “And I just want you to know how grateful I am that you handled that for me. For us. We’re all thankful. You’ll never know how grateful we are.”
“It’s not a problem,” I reply. “Just do me a favor and tell Hope and Lexi to enjoy their lives.”
“I—I will,” she says. I can’t help but hear the joy and excitement in her voice. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“It was my pleasure,” I tell her. “You take care now, Sara.”
I disconnect the call and lean back in the seat, watching the scenery rush by in a blur. I back off the throttle though, not wanting to violate any traffic laws anywhere in the state of Maine. I don’t want anything slowing me down or getting between me and where I’m going.
Whether High Priestess Delta and the Tower like it or not—and I know they won’t—I’m going to start digging into my own life. I have a number of different leads to pursue. I’m going to start finding answers on my own, rather than wait for her to parcel them out to me as she sees fit.
I’m done playing the good soldier. I’m done being their Hanged Man. And I’m done being patient.
So I point the car south, turn up the music, and rocket through the early morning sun, on my way to Chicago.
Author’s Note
Hi there,
Thank you for reading my debut novel Amnesia, I hope you enjoyed it.
I want to continue bringing these fast-paced action novels for you to devour.
However, I need your help!
It would mean the world to me if you can please leave me a review so
that others can find and enjoy this book as well.
Additionally, if you haven’t read the prequel to this book, you can click here to grab your free copy of Burn Notice.
If you want to connect with me or found any errors in the book you want me to fix, feel free to email me at [email protected]
Warm regards,
Michael Cross
Are you ready for Echo’s next adventure?
Read Book 2 – Web of Lies
Also by Michael Cross
Book One - Amnesia
Book Two - Web Of Lies
Book Three - Without A Trace
Book Four - Mission Of Mayhem
Book Five - The Tower
Book Six - Last Inferno
Amnesia Page 10
