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

by Andrew Allan

  I tried kicking harder but his grip wouldn’t budge. I was now a chicken heading towards the chopping block. Luther squeezed my ankle harder and the pain was stunning. I stopped kicking. I felt the blood rushing into my face, the sweat on my brow.

  “You...are condemned to die!” Luther said.

  He raised the axe.

  Then, a loud ‘ping.’

  Something invisible sparked and smoked against axe blade metal.

  It distracted him.

  He lowered me.

  He looked at the axe then spun the opposite side of the blade towards his face. What he saw alerted him because he moved the axe from his field of view and gazed through the open sliding glass doors and into the yard.

  I coughed.

  He looked down.

  Mighty Luther shook and grunted as a third hole appeared in his black mask. Left side of his forehead. Blood started gushing into his eye.

  Smoke wafted out the end of the pistol in my hand.

  The one I grabbed when he lowered me.

  Luther’s powerful arms dropped. He released my ankle and I tumbled down the steps. The axe dropped from his other hand and nearly shattered my eardrums as its steel clanged against the tile.

  The executioner fell down dead. No staggering, no grabbing to hold himself up. No drama. Just a flat flesh smack and thump against the ground.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  LUTHER’S LOOKED AT me from inside the executioner’s mask as his last breath seethed out.

  I wiggled my toes to get the blood flowing back into my lower left leg. Otherwise, I didn’t budge. I was in shock. There were too many dead people and I’d had too many close calls. Very close calls. I was beyond exhaustion, physical and mental, and my energy and adrenaline were sapped. It was too much. I felt nauseous and needed air. I inhaled deep, and when I did my body shivered in ripples that washed down to my toes.

  I screamed cathartic. My eyes welled up. I was overcome. I’d been ripped from my life and force to fight. I’d had to leap blind into a dangerous world, and my body was still intact. I’d faced pitch-black death and survived. Was it skill? Luck? Divine intervention? Why did I beat the odds and keep my skin?

  Click.

  The barrel of a high-powered rifle hung inches from my eye.

  I gaze up the barrel...to the arms that lead to the familiar face of the man holding it.

  Warden Durfee.

  “Not a reporter, are you?” said the Warden.

  I shook my head. Blood tingled as it rushed back into my legs.

  He looked around the room. A quick survey of the damage and carnage. He looked down at his shoes then checked for footprints back to the sliding glass door. There were none. The gun stayed pointed at my face.

  He looked back to me. “Quite a mess.”

  I nodded.

  “You weren’t working for Wingart were you?” he said.

  I inhaled deep and steadied my breath before speaking. “Wasn’t working for anyone. Just trying to save my ass,” I said.

  “That either did or did not work depending on who I’m working for.”

  The Southern charm he’d presented in his living room days ago was absent. This was his no bullshit side—the same disposition he used to keep inmates in line.

  He said nothing. The silence was brutal. If he shot me, I’d be dead before realizing what had happened. That could come at any second. If he was gonna kill me, he’d kill me no matter what I said.

  “You shot Luther. Means you’re working for Wingart,” I said.

  “If I’m working for Wingart then maybe I’m supposed to kill you,” he said.

  “But, he’s dead,” I said.

  A long pause. No response.

  He re-directed the gun and held out his hand. I took it and he pulled me up. I had to lean on him for a moment. My legs still weren’t right.

  “Did you know who I was at your house?” I said.

  He pushed the dusty Stetson back on his head.

  “No clue.” He smirked. His charm returned.

  “Then, I’m lost.”

  “It’s simple,” he said. “I know...” he looked at Wingart’s legs at the top of the steps. “Knew Wingart. And, he knew a few things about me. Things I would rather not have discussed. From a long time ago.”

  “Did you know what he was up to? With the Gagnon’s?” I said.

  “Had no idea. But, he called me when it got out of sorts. Needed me to tidy up. He...compelled me to do it.”

  “Blackmail?”

  He nodded and looked out the window, perhaps contemplating his past.

  “He thought I was the perfect man for the job since I already dealt with Luther and the boys at the prison. I knew what a fearsome son of a bitch he was. How crazy they all were. Not insane crazy, but crazy in their view of the world, in their place in the world. He knew I would realize there’d be no negotiating with ‘em. So, he spelled it out real plain: Kill ‘em quick or else.”

  “Did he explain why he wanted them killed?” I said.

  “In roundabout terms. But, I didn’t question it much. I was too busy bristling at the fix I’d gotten myself into. And, this wasn’t the first time I’d had to clean up one of his messes.”

  Flies were already starting to land on the nearby bodies. I couldn’t fathom the depth of Wingart’s evil.

  “He just gave me his list of targets and said get going,” he said.

  “And, you did. Starting with Arch Gagnon,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Then Wingart called you up here because Luther was on his way to get the information for his next target.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about Remy and Clovis?”

  “I found Remy at the house. That your work?”

  I nodded.

  “Impressive. That’s a lot of man to get the best of.”

  Remy’s bloody death flashed in and out of my mind.

  “Where’s Clovis,” he said.

  “Dead. The woods just north of Lake Butler,” I said.

  “Where they found them girls?”

  I nodded.

  He continued, “I heard a report on my way up here. Didn’t say they’d found him.”

  “He’d been taking them there for a while. I couldn’t count them all.”

  He looked disgusted.

  “Bad people doing rotten things,” he said.

  “No wonder they got on with Wingart,” I said.

  He looked to me. “How do you fit in?”

  I explained how I got sucked into Wingart’s world. And, that I’d been fighting to get out ever since, including when I went to the Warden’s house.

  “That explains all your prison questions. You had a hunch it was our executioners,” he said.

  “It was more than a hunch. I knew it was them. I just needed to find out who they were and trace back from there.”

  “That’s damn impressive.”

  “Why did you shoot Luther? Wingart was already dead.”

  “He was a bad man.”

  He considered the gun in his hand. “Don’t suppose I’m much better. But, it felt like the right thing to do.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. Then, I broke it.

  “So, now what?”

  He thought for a moment, then looked at me and asked, “Can you keep a secret?”

  I took a moment to figure his angle. I nodded.

  “Then, I see no need to kill you,” he said.

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said.

  I stood up and walked towards the glass doors. I took in a big breath of fresh air. He walked over next to me.

  “We both stepped in a trick of shit that wasn’t neither of our fault. It’s time to put it to rest,” he said.

  “I have to clear my name. Right now, I’m a wanted man. But, I’m innocent.”

  “I’m a prison warden. I know plenty of cops. I’ll set ‘em straight. And, you’ll never speak a word of this.”

  I nodded.

&
nbsp; “With Wingart dead, I’m not even gonna bother with the other two. Not my problem anymore,” he said.

  I thought about whom that might be.

  “Tanjeris?” I said.

  He gave me a sly glance. “You may not be a reporter, but you’re pretty sharp.”

  “I’m just an infomercial writer.”

  He gave me the look.

  “You mean those ridiculous things on TV?”

  I shrugged.

  “Guilty.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  THE WARDEN TOLD me not to worry about the mess. He’d stay behind and arrange things so it would be a quick case closed. But, I had to do a good job getting rid of Luther’s truck. I told him I knew the perfect guy to help me with that. But, I didn’t give him DG’s name. I was headed that way anyway. To see Ilsa. And then, we could finally return home to Gainesville. It seemed safe enough now. The Warden and I shook hands and I left the house out the backyard.

  When I got into the truck I scanned the neighborhood. Still quiet and peaceful. Everyone existing in their personal orbit with their own worries.

  To the observer, the reunion would have been underwhelming. There was no explosive greeting. No gasps of relief, surprise, or delight. No words even. It was simple. She saw me the same time I saw her. I walked over and we hugged for a very long time. Long enough for her to start and stop sobbing.

  “They’re dead,” I said.

  That relaxed her. But, I could tell by her expression she had questions about what went down, what I had to do.

  “No more?” she said.

  I shook my head.

  She frowned and grabbed my chin. Straight in the eyes - “No more.” Her question became a command.

  “No more than necessary.”

  “Is it over or not, Walt?”

  “It’s over. We are free to go home,” I said. She saw I meant it and smiled.

  “I love you, Walt.”

  “I love you right back.”

  She wiped the wet from her eyes. “I’m very proud of you. And, I wasn’t doubting you.”

  “There was a little doubt, but I understand.”

  She nodded, taking her lumps. “Maybe it was better to fight,” she said.

  “Not fighting was the bigger risk. Even if I’m a writer, not a fighter.” I said.

  “Apparently you fight as well as you write.”

  She smiled. We kissed.

  Despite some deep bruising that continued to throw off my gait when I walked, my body healed up well. I had my share of scars, but I dug them. To me, they were less mutilation and more mementos of a hard battle fought and won. It may not have been a pleasant experience, but it was my experience. It made me who I am today.

  When something changes or defines your life as much as Wingart and his French executioners had mine, you become forever attached to all people and elements involved. They were dead. But, we will be forever linked. Alumni of the assault.

  I hadn’t given them much thought over the past several weeks. The business of day-to-day life had returned to distract. I had to get Ilsa set up at her place, where I had moved in for the time being. She started her physical therapy rehab, but it would be a while before she could return to work. So, I relieved DG’s men from running the bars and took over for Ilsa. That would save her ten percent.

  That also meant I found myself writing behind the bar more nights than not. I had to scramble to build back my infomercial writing business. When clients don’t hear from you for a couple weeks, especially with deadlines looming, they tend to not call you back, especially, the ones who had heard the bogus news stories about me. But, I cleared everything up, plied them with reassurances, and business boomed again.

  It was a relief. I could live with the scars of battle, but not with having to go back to the nine-to-five corporate life. Crisis averted.

  The Warden lived up to his word and got the heat off my back. I was cleared as a suspect. And, by the time Ilsa and I were ready to leave DG’s place in Defuniak Springs, reports were starting to break about the horrific slaughter in the woods north of Lake Butler and the deranged French family behind them. There was also mention of Wingart going missing. But, he was not connected to the Gagnons.

  With the heat off me, the heat was off DG. He and his gang were able to return to normal operations, whatever that meant. He apologized for having to shove me out on my own. But, business came first. Too many people depended on him. I told him I understood and I would only resent him periodically, when I would remind him how he threw me to the slaughter.

  We made plans to meet back in Dunnellon, back at the river. He’d be down there in a few weeks to see how the re-build of his house was progressing. He also hinted at some wild new features. The boyish gleam in his eye hinted at trouble - ridiculous, fun trouble.

  Things were getting back to normal. And, normal felt fantastic. My bond with Ilsa had grown deeper, our love richer. That’s what mattered most. We were still a ‘we’. I was grateful for that.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  BUT, THERE WAS unfinished business. And, that’s what had me standing in that dark alley on a dusky Florida night. The air was cool with a crisp edge you rarely felt down in the tropical, southern part of the state. Fall had arrived and it felt good.

  Looking down the alley, I saw no one, no movement, amongst the trash bins and parked cars. Those cars would belong to the help. Most were parked just outside the back gate entrances that lead to opposing blocks of massive homes, the kind of homes owned by titans of industry. Odds were, everyone here owned something similar in Aspen. You know, that type.

  I pushed a rolling trash bin on its side, steadied it, then used it to launch myself up to the top of the privacy wall. I swung my legs over and sat for a moment. No guard dogs. No signs referring to guard dogs. One alarm system sign. One loooong yard leading up to a robust pool retreat, with the big house dwarfing the skyline behind it. I dropped into the yard and started walking up to the house.

  Just like at Wingart’s, the sliding glass doors were open. Only here, two sets of glass doors met to form a corner off the house. With them open, it was like an entire wall was missing. I walked right in.

  Bland, contemporary music played down the hallway. I followed the sound, my sneakers making minor squeaks along the tile. If someone were paying attention they’d have heard my footsteps.

  When I reached the main foyer at the front of the house I was able to pinpoint the music as coming from an office den straight ahead. The music lowered and a male voice called out.

  “Stop teasing, love. I’m super ready!”

  A female voice called from a room just off the top of the nearby staircase. I ducked back down the hall.

  “Don’t worry, lover. It will be worth the wait,” she said.

  I peaked up at the top of the steps. The landing was empty. I had time and used it to cross the foyer and walk towards the music den.

  And, there he was. Sipping a cocktail, dancing to the music, wearing an open robe, ready to party. But, first checking for updates on his phone. A sip, a wiggle, a thumb scroll. Doug Tanjeris, the king in his castle.

  I slipped into the den and shut the heavy oak door behind me. The thud of the wood got his attention.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he said.

  “Nice dick, Doug,” I said and gestured towards his open robe.

  He spilled his drink on the plush carpet as he cinched and tied his robe shut. He groaned at the mess and looked around for something to sop it up. Then, he remembered me.

  “You need to get out of here. Now!” he said.

  “How’s business at ITG?” I said as I strolled further into the modern-retro styled room. It was a sweet pad.

  Sensing a business angle he went from looking incredulous to sizing me up with a sly glare. “What’s this about?”

  “Still shitting on everyone in the name of profits? I mean, progress,” I said.

  His expression softened with realization.

 
; “You’re one of those damn activists, aren’t you? Here to help your cause,” he said.

  I made a face letting him know I hadn’t thought about it that way, “Yeah, guess you could say so.”

  “Okay, I have a few moments. Which defenseless animal or natural resource are you here to protect? Perhaps you can tug at my heartstrings before my date arrives.”

  What a prick.

  “The species that needed defending was Ken Kerenz,” I said.

  His cocky smile vanished.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know that breed,” he said. It was poor cover. He grabbed his drink and sipped. The glass covered his face.

  “You’re a bad liar. You and Trip Wingart had him killed.”

  He spit out his drink, “The hell you say!”

  “Okay, look. Just stop. I’m not an idiot. You and Wingart hired the executioners through Arch Gagnon. You had them kill Ken Kerenz because he was hassling you and ITG. And, you’re a real piece of shit for it.”

  His face went white as I unraveled those juicy details.

  “Don’t look so surprised. Business that messy is hard to contain.”

  He didn’t speak. Just watched me, the gears in his mind working.

  I continued:

  “Okay, I’ll do the talking. You’re a rich and powerful douchebag who thinks he can get away with anything, anything at all. That’s how you conduct personal business. And, that philosophy trickles down through your company. You’re a bad person making what I presume are mostly good people do bad things for your obnoxious personal gain. Fair characterization so far?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Tough shit. That’s because you lie to yourself. Every time you look in the mirror. You’re huffing the fumes of your own corporate aspirational bullshit. And, you’re as high as the drag lines you use to rip this state apart.”

  He pursed his lips. Tough to tell if he felt insulted or was growing impatient.

  “You know what you do is lousy. That’s why you had Wingart. He was your fixer at the Capitol. Or, wherever fixing was needed. Such as Ken’s back yard, where I found his dead body.”