BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6

by John W. Mefford

  A distant ring pierced Natalie’s ears, and she moved her jaws, trying to pop them. Attempting to stand, her balance was off, her body feeling an odd combination of mental haze, but blood rushing through her veins, as if she could run a mile without stopping. It must be the toxic mixture of drugs she’d been given in preparation for being taken to this place. An arena?

  Running her fingers down her arm, she felt goose bumps form. There was a slight chill in the air, but still, her skin felt divine, the pleasant smells lingering in her senses. She felt human for a change, and it was difficult not to be thankful for that.

  Blue and gold lights now swirled around the center cone, where a girl near Natalie’s age stood up.

  “Good evening,” a man’s voice boomed from speakers all around her as light music played in the background.

  “Our next lovely young lady—number 8294 in your program—stands five feet nine inches tall. A former member of her high school drill team, she’s extremely flexible. Please show them how you can do the splits,” the voice spoke into the dark arena.

  Taking tiny steps, she twirled around the podium, looking up into the darkness.

  “Number 8294, please do the splits.” The voice was stern but composed.

  Natalie watched the girl kneel down, then slowly spread her legs until they were parallel to the podium. Her front ankle appeared to hang off.

  Dance club music made Natalie jump, the bass thumping in her core.

  “Number 8294, please dance for our guests,” the voice said.

  Suddenly, a soft light blinked high in the darkness.

  The voice chuckled. “I’m sorry. We’ll start taking bids in two minutes, at which time you’ll be competing for the services of the beautiful 8294.”

  The chill had worn off, and Natalie could feel her ears turn warm as she peered at the spectacle in the middle of the darkness. We’re like fucking cattle.

  Natalie watched the girl begin to dance, sort of. The scantily clad girl tried to put her arms above her head, but she didn’t put forth much effort, or maybe the drugs had zapped her energy. Then Natalie recalled Tex’s words of warning: “Dance like you want to be bought. If no one buys your ass, we’ll be forced to kill you.”

  Running fingers through her hair, Natalie paced back and forth on her podium, every fiber in her body begging to yell out to the girl to dance, to do anything to live. No matter what happened, life trumped every other option. She knew she’d questioned that thought a great deal in the last several days, but with life came hope. And despite what lay ahead, wherever she’d be taken, she’d never give up hope to figure out a way to escape and return to her old life, but not her old ways.

  Just then, Natalie noticed the girl had stopped moving, putting a hand to her face. Then she cupped both hands around her mouth. Lifting her chest, it appeared she was yelling, but Natalie couldn’t hear over the deafening music. She leaned forward as the girl turned her way.

  “All of you sick perverts can go burn in fucking hell!” Natalie heard the girl yell out.

  “No, no, no. Please don’t do this,” Natalie said. Tears bubbled in her eyes. She knew what Tongue and Tex were capable of. Adding the limelight of this perverted cattle call, they would spare this girl no pity. Bile ascended into Natalie’s throat, and she continued pacing on her podium.

  Suddenly, the girl vaulted off the podium, disappearing into the darkness. Not two seconds later, a low bank of lights flashed around the rim of the arena, illuminating the girl.

  Whoosh!

  Natalie lurched to the side as an arrow zipped by her head. In the blink of an eye, the spinning blade pierced the girl’s back, and she dropped to the floor, her limbs twitching.

  “Ha ha. I love my new toy,” Tex said, walking past Natalie, carrying a bow.

  With the music still blaring, he ambled past the empty podium over to the girl, who appeared to be convulsing. He bent down, put his finger on her neck, then removed a gun from his back, holding it at his side.

  “Please be patient as we clear the floor and resume our program. Thank you.” The voice sounded unconcerned, as if this were a normal set change.

  Natalie released gasping breaths, tears flooding makeup down her face. She could see small rooms encircling the edge of the arena, the silhouettes of at least one person in each booth. Out of nowhere, Tongue entered the floor of the arena from the opposite side, near where the conveyor belt disappeared behind another set of burgundy curtains. She’d never seen his face all that well. He had dusty blond hair that blew around with every authoritative step. A black cape fluttered behind him as he marched toward the body.

  Even from her distance, Natalie could see crimson draining down the girl’s torso, dripping onto the concrete surface. Natalie’s hands shook and she could taste the vomit at the edge of her throat. Her podium started moving, and she almost fell off.

  It was obvious they were queuing up the next girl to be sold, and she was next in line. With the hum of the conveyor buzzing under her feet, she took in three deep breaths, trying to rope in her runaway emotions.

  Tongue arrived at the bloody scene and appeared to bark at Tex, pointing at the girl barely moving on the floor. The man in charge jerked the gun from Tex’s huge mitt. He held the gun to the girl’s head. Twisting his neck, he yelled back at Tex.

  He was going to put a frickin’ bullet in the girl’s head. Natalie felt dizzy, her mind ready to disintegrate from the vile acts of cruelty.

  A metallic crackle pierced the air. Just as Natalie flinched, Tongue fell back, clinching his shoulder. He’d been shot.

  A second later, the arena went pitch black, and fireworks erupted.

  22

  “Who the hell shot him?” I muttered to myself. I’d been lying face down on the concrete under a bank of temporary bleachers for more than two minutes when all hell had broken loose—the girl jumping off the pedestal, a fucking arrow piercing her back, the blond-haired guy with the cape marching over and grabbing Randal’s gun, poised to shoot her. My finger was less than a second from pulling the trigger. I was almost certain it was the prick CEO of PPI, Chas Novak. I had him dead center, but I heard another crackle from the other opening, near Natalie.

  Now gunfire sounded from all over the arena, looking as if it had been invaded by a swarm of lightning bugs. They could all kill each other, as far as I was concerned. I just had to get to Natalie.

  Sliding out from the bleachers, I took off in a sprint, trying to keep my tall frame under four feet. Only the flashes of gunshots gave me any indication of where I was.

  There! Natalie at ten o’clock, hands over her head as she huddled on top of the podium. Veering left, I picked up speed. A bullet clipped the concrete next to my foot, spitting hard dust in my eyes—the second batch of the day. Ignoring the grind against my eyeballs, I thrust out my free arm, searching for the conveyor belt.

  Wham!

  Found it, at least my knees did. I grunted, then I heard a girl’s voice. More gunshots flew overhead, some coming from nearby. I ignored them and focused on Natalie.

  Moving down the conveyor belt, I called out her name. No response.

  I reached out. Two hands swatted my wrist.

  “Natalie?”

  “Please don’t hurt me.” Her voice shook, but I could hardly see the outline of her body.

  “I’m here to help you. I’m Booker, Alisa’s—”

  “Holy shit,” she said, then the sound was muffled.

  “Natalie,” I whispered into darkness.

  No response.

  Did I just see legs moving?

  “Natalie!”

  Nothing.

  Using my hands, I took two steps and felt around the podium. She wasn’t there. I climbed over the podium to the other side of the conveyor belt just in time for another bullet to whiz by my ear. Hunkered down, a tiny light split the wall thirty feet in front of me. I was almost certain Randal had Natalie by her hair, her legs kicking up a storm.

  Darting out of my stance
, I hit top speed in ten feet and barreled through dark curtains. The drapes tripped my stride, and I tumbled to the floor, sliding on slick concrete. People ran all around me, including three older women seemingly speaking in tongues. Lifting my gun, I yelled for everyone to get down, but no one listened or maybe they didn’t understand English.

  I quickly scanned the area, a room filled with makeup stands, chairs, and racks of clothes. Pushing myself up, I ran through a door onto the concourse. Screams to my right. I flipped around in my Weaver stance and saw Natalie being dragged through a metal door fifty feet away. I hoofed it that direction and slammed my back against the cinderblock wall next to the door, which remained open. Flipping my head inside for a split second, I only saw darkness.

  I blew out a breath and whirled my whole body into the room, my gun set in front of me. I heard a struggle.

  “Randal, I know who you are. If you want to live, let Natalie go and have her walk this way.”

  Moving my gun left and right, I heard people running by outside the room. Then I heard shoes clipping the floor. A second later, Randal’s frame appeared twenty feet away. I squinted. What was he—

  “Ahh!”

  Natalie screamed, and I could see her jump on Randal’s back just as a whoosh sound ended with a thwack.

  Looking down, an arrow had grazed my left biceps and pinned my shirt to the wall. I ripped my arm away, a burning sensation running up my shoulder. I dove forward and rolled, then jumped up just in front of Randal, who was swinging his arm at me, the jagged end of an arrow just a foot from my chest.

  I dropped to my knees then swung my leg around, ramming his knee.

  He screamed, but didn’t let go of the arrow. I raised my gun, but he slammed his fist into my jaw then swiped the arrow at the gun. The three-pronged blade caught the palm of my hand, sticking to the meaty part.

  Natalie came up from behind and jumped on Randal’s back, digging her fingernails into his eyes. He stumbled a few steps, grasping behind his back. He finally got hold of her arm and tossed her into some metal shelves.

  Yanking the arrow tip out of my hand, I set myself and lunged forward, ramming my shoulder into his chest, churning my legs with everything I had, sending both of us barreling into darkness.

  Wham!

  We ran into a wall. Air spilled from my lungs, and I fell to the ground. Randal wobbled a bit, then towered over until he crumpled to the floor. Leaning over him, I found blood on the back of his head and a small hole.

  The lights came on.

  “I’m so glad to find you well, Natalie. And you, too, Booker.” Chas stood at the doorway, one shoulder a bloody mess, a large pistol aimed at my head. Natalie crawled next to me.

  “Tongue,” she said to herself.

  “Tongue, indeed,” he said. He opened his mouth, and a long tongue spilled out of his mouth, at least a foot long.

  “Jesus, I can’t take anymore. Please!” Natalie begged.

  “I thought you enjoyed our interactions, Natalie.”

  “You’re sick and disgusting. You can shoot me dead right here, but I can’t play the games anymore.” She grasped my arm, and I could feel her trembling. I moved her behind me.

  “It’s far from over, my girl. I’m going to kill your friend here, and then you and I are going to take a trip…to a galaxy far, far away.” His hand swung in front of him.

  “Drop that gun before I blow your brains out your eyeballs.”

  A girl dressed like Natalie had sidled up next to Chas, the barrel of her .45 pressed against the base of his skull.

  “Is that Veronica?” he asked calmly.

  “Drop it. Now.”

  Releasing a devilish smile, he uncoiled his tongue again, his eyes devouring us. I could see at that moment he didn’t care about his life, only our death. I dove to the right with Natalie shielded by my body…and the gun fired. An eye blink later, another pop.

  Air poured from my lungs, and I lifted my head, quickly checking for blood on Natalie. A woman who looked like a genie from a bottle in bare feet stood over me.

  “Kylie Irving, FBI. He’s dead.”

  Then Natalie sobbed.

  23

  One month later

  “Daddy, how many stars are in the sky?”

  I twirled little Samantha closer to me and kissed her neck. Lurching backward, her giggle filled the air, and within seconds, it became contagious among many friends and family who had joined the evening celebration at the park down the street from my condo.

  “Oh, Mittens, it’s hard to say.” I glanced at the pink sky, noticing a cluster of lights in the distant horizon.

  She narrowed her chocolate eyes, then brought up a finger and wagged it a couple of times. “I thought daddies are supposed to know things like that.” She held out her arms, palms facing the sky.

  Standing behind me, Paco elbowed me, then took a swig of his bottled beer. “Tread lightly, my friend. She still thinks you’re Superman.”

  Justin walked up at just the wrong time.

  “Of course, Booker is Superman. Who did you think he was, the Green Lantern?”

  Ignoring my buddies, I picked up my little girl and sat her on my knee. I brought my face next to hers and peered into the sky. “Stars were made millions of years ago, when ginormous clouds stuck together and—”

  “Like cotton candy?”

  “Yeah, like cotton candy,” I said. “But they didn’t taste that good, and they didn’t leave that sticky goo on your fingers.”

  She released a short giggle, but kept her neck arched toward the summer sunset. “So, where did the clouds come from?”

  “I think the person who can give you the best answer on that question is your Uncle Henry.”

  She slipped off my lap and raced toward the swing set, where Henry was pushing one of Paco’s little girls.

  Alisa sidled up next to me as Josh jogged over from the parking lot.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, huffing out a breath. “Happy Birthday, by the way.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it.

  We’d just celebrated Samantha’s sixth birthday the previous weekend, a dozen little girls pillaging what I found out was called a bounce house. Eva had found one in a nearby suburb.

  “Really?” I glanced at Alisa. “What happened to us calling this our new annual summer celebration?”

  “It’s your birthday, Booker. Deal with it.” She took a step and punched my shoulder. “You only turn thirty-two once.”

  Justin leaned in, cupping his hand around his mouth. “If you’re thirty-seven, you’ve celebrated your thirty-second birthday five times.”

  “If I weren’t so happy, I’d yank your ponytail and tie it around your…one nut.”

  Laughter broke out in our little group as Justin’s face turned as red as Natalie’s shirt.

  “Look at her. She’s having a blast playing with kids half her age,” I said to Alisa. We watched Natalie jumping around, laughing with the kids, who all thought she was a hoot.

  “She’s come a long way, working out, eating like a horse, finally gaining back some of her lost weight, and working with a counselor to get past those…memories,” Alisa said. “She’s enrolled in summer classes at El Centro. Said she’s considering majoring in education. Wants to be a teacher, maybe a school counselor.”

  “Yeah? You must be proud.”

  “More than ever. But when I suggested she get that ring tattoo removed from her finger, she didn’t hesitate in saying no.”

  I squinted my eyes, giving her a perplexed response.

  “Said she never wants to forget how precious life is.

  “She’s grown up a lot, Alisa. Really cool to see,” I said, sipping my Heineken, a wrap encircling my hand.

  “How’s the wound healing?” Justin asked. “You know I signed us up for a softball team, right? Can you swing a bat? That’s all I care about.” He chuckled and popped my shoulder.

  I turned and saw Momma and Uncle Charlie in a heated debate, likely all riled up a
bout the name of a street in South Dallas. We all needed to have a cause, I realized.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Josh walking back to his car. Alisa ambled back to us.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Justin blurted out, standing next to the bucket of iced drinks.

  Alisa flicked a wrist toward our friend, ignoring him and his question, then walked over and grabbed a beer. She popped the top and took a swig, then shuffled near Cindy and Natalie, who were talking as much with their hands as their mouths.

  “Did you tell Samantha I was a cosmologist?” Henry kicked a soccer ball my way.

  I pointed my toe, let the ball roll up my leg, juggled it three or four times off my thigh, then gave it a roundhouse kick and sent it flying toward the swing set.

  “Incoming,” I yelled out.

  Samantha and Paco’s girls chased after the ball like a pack of dogs.

  “Sorry I haven’t had a chance to catch up with you since you and Cindy got back from Hawaii.”

  “Dude, no problem.”

  “You guys good?”

  “Yeah. We had a blast. Got to know each other much better. She’s quite a lady.”

  I let that sink in, realizing how much I respected the assistant DA.

  “Thought you might want to know that Randal has finally agreed to cut a deal. He’s given us valuable information that will allow us to close a lot of cold cases. Many parents will finally have closure. And the FBI is following the slave-trade trail to several countries.”

  “Jade’s parents,” I said, watching the little kids play “keep away” from the big kids.

  Henry nodded, then kicked a rock across the grass.

  “Anything I need to know?”

  “Randal confirmed that it was in the genes. Chas’ father not only started PPI, he also created the torture chamber in the basement of that old home near Bachman Lake twenty or thirty years ago, funneling girls through there before killing them or selling them to the highest bidder.”

  “He passed that on to his kid? That’s just demented.”