Killers, Bikers & Freaks: A Walt Asher Florida Thriller (The Walt Asher Thriller Series Book 1)

by Andrew Allan

  I opened another gas canister. Two more practice swings and I launched it. This time it was a line drive aimed straight for the bikers. They turned from the fire without enough time to react. The gas can hit one biker in the chest and knocked him back while its gas splashed over both of them. They ignited in a flash of fire and were wrapped in flames as they fell to the ground. They screamed. A crowd of bikers ran over to help while the big boys flopped around in the sand trying to extinguish the flames.

  I grabbed the third gas can and pulled off the lid. No practice swings. I threw it right in the middle of the crowd trying to put out the burning bikers. Gas exploded and at least five more bikers caught fire. Wild screaming and panicked running commenced. Incinerated anarchy. I had my distraction.

  I ran over to the car. The door was open, the keys in the ignition. You didn't have to lock your doors out here in the middle of nowhere. I got in, fired it up, and floored it in reverse without turning the headlights on.

  Ahead of me, the silhouetted and flaming bikers danced and hollered amongst the trailers like they were taking part in an ancient white trash ritual.

  I ripped the car into drive with the Skull Crusher still on my hand. The heavy glove snapped off the top half of the gearshift. I hauled ass down a dirt trail I hoped would get me away from the flaming freaks.

  Ten minutes later, the car raced onto a small, paved country highway with signs pointing towards I-75. It wasn’t until I merged on to the interstate that I took off the Skull Crusher. I checked my rearview mirror every few seconds for the next hour and a half. No one had followed me. I escaped clean.

  It was the middle of the night by the time I crossed over the Tallahassee city limit. I was too tired to go any further. I parked in a Piggly Wiggly parking lot, crawled in the backseat and went to sleep, naïve the surprises I’d encounter the next day.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I WOKE UP at eleven thirty the next morning. Pain blasted my body. It took two tries to sit up and another ten minutes to get out of the car and stretch. My bones creaked.

  There was a hat in the trunk and a pair of sunglasses in the glove box. I put those on to disguise myself then went inside the grocery store for some breakfast. Welcome to Tallahassee, the state capital of Florida.

  A choice: Drive two more hours to Defuniak Springs to see Ilsa, which I desperately needed. Or, stay in Tallahassee and see what I could find out about the staffer Ken met with and/or the middleman who may have been selling the executions. I decided to stick to night driving in the hopes of keeping a lower profile. That meant I had to get busy around town.

  Tallahassee was like no other city in Florida. It’s quite hilly in a state that’s flat and features a weird mix of government, college students, and rednecks. I had never known what to make of this town, so I didn’t visit often. And, I didn’t really know my way around.

  First stop, the library.

  The LeRoy Collins Leon County Public Library sat on the west side of downtown Tallahassee. It was sandwiched between a slew of government buildings and Florida State University, alma mater of the greatest actor who ever lived, Burt Reynolds. Don’t argue with me.

  I parked several blocks away near a small shopping plaza that reeked of hipster. My unconventional car would blend in well there.

  It was still warm in Florida this time of year. But, it was a nice change to get out and walk. I guess I could have worried more about someone on the street identifying me as a wanted man. But, I figured it best to hide in plain site. Plus, I only had so much time. I needed information and fast.

  The library was ice cold. I headed for the periodicals section and rounded up a week’s worth of issues of the big city newspaper, the Tallahassee Democrat. Five papers in I found what I sought.

  Eight pages deep into the A section of the paper was a small write up on Ross Chambers, twenty-seven, unmarried, an assistant to Representative Trip Wingart, Democrat representing parts of Florida’s Fourth District. He had been found dead. The official prognosis: heart attack. The funeral occurred yesterday in his hometown of New Smyrna, Florida, over on the east coast.

  Senator Trip Wingart. I didn’t know anything about him. I looked up the Fourth District. That’s Nassau County, Jacksonville. The northeast tip of the state. Quite a ways away from Dunnellon and Ken.

  I took a minute to think it through. Ross Chambers worked as an assistant to Representative Wingart. It’s probable Chambers learned Wingart was dealing with the middleman. Why? Because he had a problem that needed to be solved. What kind of problem could the Senator have that required the services of the middleman and his team of executioners?

  He didn’t have a problem. But, one of his constituents might. Not constituents. Supporters. No. Donors.

  Big money donors.

  And, there was a ninety-nine percent chance those donors were corporations. Which would make the specific purchaser nearly impossible to find.

  So, which corporations were big money donors to Senator Wingart? I checked the search engine. OpenSecrets.org popped on screen with links guiding me to the names of donors and their bought politicians on both a national and state level. I punched in Wingart’s name.

  My adrenaline kicked in. I had clues giving me direction again and that was exciting. I typed as fast as I could. It was like a road map of cronyism revealing itself to me. And, I just wanted to discover more.

  Within a few moments I had a full run down of all of Wingart’s big money donors. A slew of corporations and independent businessmen. I could only guess which one – or ones – had hired the executioners.

  How would that conversation have gone down? Hey, Larry, I know you’ve been having that problem. I know a guy who knows some killers who take care of problems like this all the time. Could it be that easy? Could it be that attractive an option? Would his donor recognize the moral implications of such an act? Or would they be so focused on business, on the bottom line, they’d go with the fastest, bestest solution? I couldn’t help but presume they’d choose the later.

  Another scary notion: Wingart was a duly elected member of the U.S. House of Representatives. Not the State House. That means the execution services may not have been getting pedaled strictly within the state. They could be working outside of Florida, too. An armed Congress? Dear god.

  I remembered the list in my pocket. The list of companies from Ken’s files. I retrieved it and held it up next to the list of Wingart’s donors on the computer. I cross-referenced.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  Yes!

  A match.

  INNOVATIVE TOMORROW GROUP

  What the hell did they do? More digging. The search engine belched up ITG’s corporate website along with a few miscellaneous mentions linking to business journals, real estate transactions, a community giveback program. And, a Florida Times-Union story on their newly appointed CEO, Doug Tanjeris.

  A quick glimpse of Tanjeris’ picture showed him to be a fresh-faced thirty-something straight out of the new breed of corporate prodigies – young, smart, and elite enough to be cocky. Cocky enough to take big gambles and demand fast results, no matter the risks. I presumed he was a real dick to work for.

  I clicked back to ITG’s corporate website. The vague, yet aspirational, copy tried to be charming: We innovate, develop, and perfect this and that for a better tomorrow. A corporate jerkoff page. Digging deeper though, I found a small mention about their "portfolio of assets," which included significant land holdings and mining.

  I tried to think what Ken’s files had said about ITG. But, by now with so much insanity, the details had melded together. However, this much was clear - ITG did meddle with the environment. And, that would have gotten Ken’s attention. I was creeping closer to the truth.

  If Ken’s actions had caused enough problems for ITG, it was conceivable – from a very cynical viewpoint – CEO Tanjeris could have accepted Representative Wingart’s offer to ‘get rid o
f the problem’. The problem being Ken. The dots would have been impossible to connect to Representative Wingart. But, Ross Chambers found out about it. And, he spilled the beans to Duncan and then Ken. Ross, you were already a hero.

  So, what next? Assuming compartmentalization was in play, I figured Tanjeris would not know the names of the middleman or the executioners. Only Wingart would. At least, in this particular deal. Wingart seemed to be the most accessible. And, he had to have an office in town.

  I found his office address online and punched it into Mapquest. It was located a few blocks away on West College Avenue.

  As I walked there, I thought about how to play things. Wingart wasn’t going to volunteer the information. His trusted assistant was dead and rotting just for finding out about the executioners deal. That told me one thing: No playing nice.

  I went back to the car to grab the Skull Crusher. That thing was coming in handy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I FOUND WINGART’S office building fifteen minutes later. It was an uninspired four-story chunk of beige concrete in the heart of downtown, a block north of the Capital Building. The sign in the lobby listed the Senator’s office on the third floor. I took the elevator up.

  I noted my appearance in the reflection of the brushed metal paneling. It wasn’t my best look. The duds I’d purchased to meet with the Warden were close to filthy and stained with sweat. Battling bikers had me too fried to care.

  With a ding, the elevator doors opened up to the glass door entrance of the Senator’s office. Thick, plush carpet. Air conditioning humming out the vents. The only other place to go was through a door leading to a stairwell.

  The iron fist in my pocket clanged loud against the elevator’s metal frame with and knocked me off balance. I recovered and walked in to U.S. Representative Trip Wingart’s official the reception area.

  The girl behind the reception desk had to be an intern and had to be a sorority sister from nearby Florida State University. You could just tell from her fake bake tan and bleach blonde hair. She smiled, but her eyes showed skepticism and boredom.

  “Hi, may I help you?” she said as she gave me a repulsed once over.

  “Yes, I’d like to speak with Representative Wingart.”

  “He’s out of the office. Did you have an appointment?”

  “No, I’m...one of his constituents and I just had a few questions.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. He’s in session most of the day and will be in meetings well into the evening,” she said, a sorry/not-sorry expression on her face.

  “Oh, I see.”

  I looked over at an oil painting of Representative Wingart. He was either made of leather in real life or the artist had squeezed too much "golf course tan" brown on his paint palette.

  I turned back to the receptionist. The plaque on her desk featured her name: Kyleene. Oh boy.

  “I can let Mr. Wingart know you stopped by. What is your name?”

  “Oh, I’m, uh, Doug Tanjeris.”

  She didn’t seem to buy it.

  “Junior,” I said.

  She still wasn’t buying it.

  “My dad looks young for his age,” I added a smile to seal the deal.

  That appeared to make sense to her. If still waters run deep a whole pre-school was splashing around in her mental kiddie pool.

  “Okay, I will let him know,” she said as she finished writing the name down.

  I left the office disappointed by the delay and rode the elevator downstairs.

  The door dinged open in the lobby and who should be strolling in but Representative Wingart himself. Two guys flanked him until he broke off towards the restroom.

  I followed him in.

  He was taking a leak at the far stand up urinal. No one else was around.

  I slipped on the Skull Crusher, walked up behind him, and placed the cold heavy iron on the back of his neck.

  “You move and this iron fist will break your goddamn neck, got it?”

  “Huh, uh, yeah, sure. How can I help you sport?” he said.

  “We need to talk about Ross Chambers,” I said.

  I could hear he had finished peeing. He zipped up and turned to face me.

  I shoved his neck with the iron fist.

  “I said don’t move.”

  “We can’t have a friendly face to face conversation? Yeah, I know Ross. Great kid. What about him?” he said.

  I was about to ask a question but then my face smashed against the cold ceramic tiles. Before I could turn to see what had happened, fat hands grabbed my shirt, stood me up, and punched me in the gut. Had I eaten within the past hour I’d have puked on their shoes. I had not, so it was just a painful dry heave that made my eyes water.

  My assailants were Wingart’s flankers from the lobby.

  “You need to get the hell out of here while you can still walk,” said the ugly one with the pock marked face. He slapped me hard.

  Wingart walked over to the sink and washed his hands, barely paying attention. Like he was done with me.

  “Hey, Wingart! I know all about your secret service,” I said. My lips felt like they were swelling up.

  He ignored me.

  The thugs yanked me off the wall. Each grabbed an arm, and they pretty much carried me out the door. I missed trying to spit on Wingart as I passed by. My bloody saliva splotched on the mirror.

  Back in the lobby, they moved me towards the exit. When the bruiser with the feathered hair reached out to push the door open, I shot my metal fist back and cracked him right between the eyebrows. He dropped like a sack. That gave me room to swing at the other guy. I missed, smashing a brass column.

  Wingart walked out of the restroom towards the elevator. He pressed the button and the elevator doors parted. He stepped in.

  “I know all about your executioners, Wingart!”

  Ugly smashed me against the wall and drew his hand back to punch.

  “No!”

  Wingart’s voice echoed throughout the marble lobby.

  I looked over. His hand held open the elevator door. A worried look on his face.

  “Bring him to my office,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  BACK UPSTAIRS. WINGART lead me into the office. His goon stayed downstairs to tend to the other goon who hadn’t moved since he dropped to the floor.

  The sorority girl at the reception desk smiled at Wingart then looked very surprised to see me.

  “I found him,” I said and smiled, revealing bloody smear on my teeth.

  She cringed.

  Wingart lead me down a hallway towards his office in the back. I passed a room that still had Ross Chambers’ nameplate on the door. I glanced in, but it had been cleaned out. No clues.

  Wingart shut the door behind me and offered a seat in front of his desk. He walked over to a liquor cart and started fixing a drink.

  “Whatever you’re having,” I said. “Also some ice.”

  He looked over his shoulder, bothered.

  He dropped ice into two glasses then brought me the ice bucket.

  I held ice cubes up to my swelling face. It wasn’t neat, but it helped to numb the pain.

  Wingart finished the drinks and handed me mine, but in my ice wet hand the glass slipped out and spilled onto the floor.

  Wingart looked irritated, thinking he’d have to fix another.

  “I’m good for now,” I said.

  He nodded, sipped his drink, and sat behind his desk. Then he just stared at me. Sizing me up? Deciding how to play me? Wondering how dangerous I am?

  “Who are you with?” he said.

  “No one,” I said.

  “Well, then I simply don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I sighed and set the ice bucket down.

  I looked around the room.

  “Power...access...money...you have a lot to lose, Trip.”

  “So, do you,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Oh yeah.” He didn’t smile when he said it
.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because just knowing what you know is going to get you killed,” he said.

  “By who?”

  “You know who.”

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “I know.” He slumped back in his dark leather chair, a hangdog expression on his face.

  “If I’m not careful it’s going to get me killed, too,” he said.

  Not what I was expecting. I sat up.

  “What do you mean?”

  He didn’t look at me.

  “You find out through Ross?”

  “Not directly. No.”

  “So, he told people. That means it’s out. And, that means they’re going to start wiping away their tracks. I’m one of those tracks.”

  “Tell me how it works. It’s the executioners for the state, isn’t it?” I leaned against his desk as if closer proximity would will the answers out of him.

  He said nothing, did nothing.

  Then, a slow nod.

  Confirmation.

  My pain faded behind my desire for answers.

  “Who are they?” I said.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “I’m a guy who accidentally got mixed up in all of this and I’m trying to save my ass.”

  “I don’t know who they are,” he said. “The ones that actually do it.”

  “So, there is a middle man. You dealt with someone who does know. Did you hire them for ITG?” I couldn’t get the question out fast enough.

  “I won’t admit to anything. I will only acknowledge that it exists.”

  “It helps to have some confirmation. Of what I suspected.”

  Nothing from him. He just watched me carefully.

  “Who is the middle man?”

  He shook his head. “Not gonna tell you that.”

  I slammed the desk with the iron fist. It left a huge dent. “Tell me!”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. I need a way to cover my ass.”

  “They’re either gonna kill me first or I’m going to get them. If I get them, they won’t know you told. If they kill me they won’t know either.”