When Doubt Creeps In: A Harry Bronson Suspense Thriller

by L C Hayden

  When Doubt Creeps In

  A Harry Bronson Suspense Thriller

  by

  L. C. Hayden

  Cover design by Nathan Dasco

  Book Cover Mall

  * * * *

  Dedication

  To

  Fran Fletcher

  The Best Critique Partner—Ever!

  and

  To the Memory of Honey

  RIP: Nov. 2007- July 2019

  Harry Bronson

  1

  Bronson slammed the book shut and leaned back on the foldable chair. A cool breeze whisked by and Bronson rubbed his arms. Despite the cool weather, Bronson liked it here in Pennsylvania and especially the campground Carol and he had chosen. Set on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, each campsite was large enough to give everyone plenty of space.

  The people across from him were getting ready to grill some steaks and the smell of charcoal reached Bronson, enticing him to get up and do something productive. But age was catching up with him, and he’d rather remain sitting and reading, or rather, attempting to read.

  He’d been doing that now for what? Fifteen, twenty minutes? Yet, he hadn’t gotten past the first paragraph.

  Something gnawed at his brain demanding to be heard. But the harder Bronson tried to get a handle on it, the more the thought plunged to the bottom drawer of his mind. If only he could grasp the image lurking at the forefront of his consciousness. He could do it if he focused, but the deeper he concentrated, the more it became a distant shadow on the horizon.

  Filled with frustration, Bronson opened his book and resumed reading.

  Sweat oozed out from every pore in Mike’s body.

  Bronson stopped and laughed at the irony. The character in the book was named Mike.

  Mike. Bronson savored the word.

  Mike, just like Mike Hoover, his ex-partner for over twenty years. The best partner anyone ever had.

  Mike, the ace detective. The one who’d never cross the line. Everything always went by the book. Always by the side of the law.

  Mike.

  His best friend.

  His almost brother.

  A strange sensation crawled across Bronson’s mind, and an elusive image flickered behind his eyes.

  Mike was in danger. Something had gone wrong.

  Terribly wrong.

  Before Bronson had retired—okay, he had been forced to retire at the tender age of 52, but who was counting?—and while he still worked homicide for the Dallas Police Department, he’d always relied on his gut instinct. More than ninety-nine percent of the time, his gut gave birth to the truth.

  And now his gut was telling him something had gone wrong.

  Bronson reached for his cell and punched Mike’s number.

  The call went to voice mail.

  That was okay. When Mike had the time, he’d return the call.

  Traveling around the country in your motor home as you do, Mike would tell him, is causing your imagination to run wild. Then they would both laugh at Bronson’s gut feeling.

  Bronson swallowed hard and bolted to his feet. Before stepping inside the camper, Bronson hesitated. What if Mike was in trouble? Bronson shook his head.

  He had to let it go. This was silly. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, determined to put his fears aside.

  Mike Hoover

  2

  Mike Hoover scanned the desolate area that surrounded him. He’d swear he was alone in this God-forsaken New Mexico desert.

  But Mike knew he wasn’t. Somewhere out there, Pedro, one of the head honchos of the Los Muertos gang, watched every move Mike made, but Pedro wouldn’t reveal himself. At least, not now. He would wait for the right moment.

  So would Mike.

  He took a swig of water and set the bottle down under the shade of a creosote bush. Mr. Cool. That was him.

  He’d watch and wait.

  The lechuguillas and sotol bushes swayed in the hot, stifling breeze.

  Still, no Pedro. What was he waiting for?

  Worse, what if Pedro chose not to reveal himself? Then what?

  Mike’s forehead and armpits grew even moister. He needed to control himself. Stop thinking about these worst-case scenarios. Focus on something. Anything.

  A desert cottontail scurried by, scaring a kangaroo rat out of its hiding place.

  Mike remained perfectly still. Listening.

  That’s when he heard it.

  Footsteps. Coming from somewhere behind him. They had to be Pedro’s.

  Mike’s Adam’s apple started tap dancing in his throat.

  The sound of a gun’s hammer being pulled back froze Mike’s blood, but still, he didn’t turn.

  “Why are you here?” Pedro asked.

  Mike raised his arms and slowly pivoted. He faced a dark chocolate-complexion man with coarse black hair that framed a square face with dark eyes. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are.” A smug smile spread across Pedro’s lips. “Mike Hoover, the famous Dallas homicide detective.”

  Mike shrugged. That’s not how he’d describe himself. “My partner is—”

  “Herbert Finch.”

  Mike lowered his hands an inch. Two inches. When Pedro didn’t say anything, he dropped them the rest of the way. “You could say that.”

  “I did say that.”

  Mike threw up his right hand as though dismissing the comment. Before Finch, he had a different partner. Bronson. Harry Bronson. Mike wished he could reach out to Bronson right now. “Herbert is not much of a real partner.”

  “That’s not my problem.” Pedro thrust the Walther PPK forward. “For the last time, why are you here?”

  “You are expecting Finch.”

  Pedro’s face remained impassive.

  “I came to warn you that he’s going to betray you.” Mike studied Pedro’s face, hoping for the slightest hint of alarm. Seeing none, Mike continued, “As agreed, he will come by himself. But not far behind him, a swarm of cops will descend on you as soon as the deal goes down.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I want in. I want the same deal Finch had with one small exception.”

  Pedro stared at Mike. The minute of silence stretched into eternity.

  Pedro bit his middle finger nail off. He spit it out. “I don’t know anything about any deal.”

  Mike took a step forward. Pedro didn’t flinch. “I’m not a fool. Any minute now my partner will come. Let me take care of him for you, forever. This will prove I have your best interest at heart.” Mike looked past Pedro’s shoulder. A trail of dust rose like an ominous cloud. “There he is now. Let me prove to you I’m the real thing.”

  Pedro withdrew his sight away from Mike long enough to peek behind him. He stepped aside and within seconds, like the rest of the Los Muertos gang, he disappeared.

  * * *

  Mike moved with orchestrated steps. First, he checked on his truck. He had hidden it behind a cluster of large desert bushes in the fold of the small hills off the main trail. From where he stood, he couldn’t see it, which meant Finch wouldn’t either.

  Next, without thinking of what he was doing and moving as if he were following a script, he withdrew the Glock from the holster. For a long second, he stared at the gun as though something was wrong with it. He swallowed hard and replaced it in the harness. He adjusted it so that it fit perfectly and comfortably.

  He reached for the bottle of water, took a drink, sloshed it around in his mouth, and spit it out into the dry, cracked ground.

  He crouched down behind a small Mexican Feathergrass bush. There, he would be
out of sight. From his hidden position, Mike squinted, studying the dry, hot desert. If Finch didn’t kill him, the July heat would. He wiped his brow and checked his watch. Two minutes had crawled by. He wet his cracked lips.

  Thirty, forty yards directly in front of him, Finch brought his black sedan to a slow stop and opened the car door. Nothing happened. He stepped out, remaining behind the open car door. He scanned the area. “Pedro?”

  No answer.

  “It’s me, Herbert.”

  Mike waited and watched.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  Mike shook one of the branches above him, immediately drawing Finch’s attention.

  Finch reached for his gun but didn’t raise it. He stepped around the door and toward the front of the car. “I know you’re there. I just want to talk. Show yourself.”

  Mike took his time straightening up. He kept his head hanging low, and his right hand wrapped around his Glock. He slowly raised his head. A shark’s grin spread across his face.

  Finch’s eyes opened as wide as saucers. “You!” He raised his Ruger 9mm, but Mike was faster. A single shot rang out. Finch dropped to the ground, his blood saturating the earth’s dry cracks with rich, red pools of blood.

  Mike holstered his Glock, ran, and shouted, “Let’s get out of here.”

  The five members of the Los Muertos gang deserted their hiding places and stood, mouths agape, staring at the detective’s inert body.

  Mike came to an abrupt stop and turned. “The cops are no more than five minutes behind. If you want to stay here and have them arrest you, be my guest. But I’m out of here.” He dashed toward his truck.

  Pedro looked up toward the sky. “We need to wait for the merchandise. It should be here any moment.”

  “Forget about it. When the pilot sees the place crawling with police, he’s not going to deliver. We’ll have to reschedule.” With that, Mike turned and continued to head toward the Chevy truck.

  Like stallions escaping a burning barn, Pedro and the other men bolted after him.

  3

  That night, sleep was Mike’s enemy. The dreams, its weapons.

  Over and over again, Mike saw himself withdrawing the weapon.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Herbert lay in a pool of blood, his blood slithering toward Mike.

  The gun slipped out of Mike’s hand, landing with a loud thud that sent a bolt of lightning to Mike’s heart.

  Covered in sweat, Mike sprung to a sitting position.

  It had only been a dream, he reassured himself. Just a dream. Go back to sleep. He did. Only to have the same dream return.

  * * *

  Mike, now awake and alert, waited three hours before he made himself available to Pedro. Let him squirm. It’d be good for him. That would give Mike the edge he was looking for—and at this point, he needed every advantage. But now he was ready. From here on, it would be an uphill fight.

  Previous research revealed that Hobb’s Auto Shop served as a sanctuary for Los Muertos. He drove toward the shop located on the outskirts of the city. Within five minutes, he sat in the car staring at the shop.

  It looked similar to other car repair shops. Its two garage doors were wide open, revealing four cars up on jacks worked on by mechanics in greasy coveralls. Outside, a line of cars waited for their turn.

  Mike checked his watch. He was five minutes late, late enough to show Pedro he wasn’t in any hurry, but not so late that Pedro would lose interest. Mike stepped out of his car and into the shop. When he entered, he squinted several times, adjusting his eyes from bright sunlight to semi-darkness. No one paid attention to him.

  He strolled toward the small office tucked on the left-hand side of the shop. Its windows, so dirty that they were opaque, didn’t allow him to check the place out before entering, but still, he detected movement inside. He braced himself and without knocking, he let himself in.

  He spotted Pedro, perched at the edge of the metal desk which overflowed with papers. Two chairs, one on each side of the desk, served as the only other pieces of furniture in this room. Mike noted a closed door to his left, probably a small storage closet.

  Pedro shoved a newspaper toward him.

  Mike remained standing and smiled when he read the newspaper’s headline: “Dallas Detective Killed in the Line of Duty.”

  “You think that’s funny.” Pedro’s nostrils widened like an angry bull’s.

  Mike set the newspaper down without reading the article. “If you’re asking me if I’m glad he’s dead, yeah, I am. He would’ve been a constant pain in our caboose.”

  “Yesterday, you said you killed him for our sake.” Using two fingers in each hand, Pedro put imaginary quotation marks around the words for our sake.

  Mike nodded. “For our sake.”

  Pedro tapped his chest. “No, not for our sake. What you did will only bring a swarm of cops to our city. How is that for our sake?”

  “You’ve got to look at the bigger picture.” Mike raised his index finger. “One, the police are going to be so busy looking for the killer, they’ll leave us alone. This is precisely why I chose New Mexico, and specifically, Hobbs. It is one of our country’s safest cities. So for this kind of murder to occur in the desert right outside the city limits, it’s a big thing.”

  Mike raised another finger. “Two, everyone thinks I’m heartbroken over my partner’s death. They think I’m still one of them. No one knows I did it. They have no idea. I’m safe, and no one knows I’m associated with you. So you are safe.”

  “So you think,” Pedro said.

  Mike ignored him and raised a third finger. “Three, we can now bring in all of those priceless Egyptian artifacts, distribute them to the proper private collectors, and no one will be breathing down our necks.”

  Pedro sat up. “Egyptian what?”

  “Artifacts.”

  Pedro unfolded his solid frame from the edge of the desk and took a step toward Mike. “Art-ti-facts.” He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about Egyptian artifacts. If you were to mention black pearl, white stuff, brown sugar, or even weed, I’d know what you’re talking about. But you mention Egyptian artifacts. That, I don’t know anything about.” Pedro reached beside him and picked up a clipboard and pretended to busy himself with paperwork.

  Mike smiled, a curvature of the lips that contained no amusement. “Don’t play me the fool. I know about the Egyptian riches you are bringing into our country.”

  Pedro set the clipboard down. “As I said, talk to me about brown sugar, then we can deal. But Egyptian artifacts? Not so much.”

  Mike waited to answer while he studied his opponent. “I understand this may be a one-time deal. You deal mostly with gold, jewelry, and drugs. But now you’re expending into artifacts because you’re smart enough to recognize the opportunity to make a lot of easy money.”

  Pedro’s jaw jutted forward. “If you know so much, then you know we had a delivery scheduled. Now we don’t because you decided to murder your partner. How’s that better?” The anger behind the words surfaced like a roaring lion.

  Mike took three steps forward, invading Pedro’s private space. “Yeah, you had plans.” He backed off. “But your plan was faulty.”

  Pedro set the clipboard down and remained silent.

  “Let me ask you one thing,” Mike said. “Once you had your merchandise in your greedy little paws, how exactly did you plan to get it to the buyers?”

  Pedro continued to glare at Mike.

  “Just as I thought. That’s where Finch came in. He was supposed to tell you when it was safe to contact your buyers. He was going to set up the meetings. He was also going to betray you. Soon as you handed over those pieces, the police would be there to arrest you and the rest of your gang. You’d be doing jail time right now.”

  The door to the office opened and a mechanic entered and took a key from the wall. Pedro went back to the desk and sat.

  After the mechanic left, Pedro asked, “How do y
ou know this?”

  Mike shook his head. “Think about it. Detective Finch. Detective Hoover.” He pointed to himself. “We worked together, remember? Partners always tell each other everything. Besides, I’ve been watching him. What I’ve done is cleared the path for you.”

  Pedro leaned back on the chair and focused on Mike. “Why?”

  Mike smiled, waited for a few seconds, sat down, and leaned back. “Because I’m interested in attaining two things. Cleopatra’s. Two. Figurines.”

  Pedro paled and remained still. Then his color returned. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “I don’t know anything about Cleopatra’s treasures.”

  “In that case, let me refresh your memory. The Ancient Egyptians considered the Lapis Lazuli one of the most treasured gemstones of their time.”

  Pedro’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but still long enough for Mike to notice.

  “I see you’re familiar with this stone.” Mike paused for effect. “You should be because it was considered to be of godly importance. Cleopatra knew this.”

  Pedro bit his lips.

  Mike continued, “She ordered her slaves to make two figurines made from this gemstone. One was of Osiris and the other one of Isis. Each of these god statuettes is worth two million, but together, they bring a staggering price of five million dollars.”

  “That’s a nice story, but of no interest to me.”

  “Oh really? Then let me add one small detail. I already have the perfect buyer.”

  Pedro’s face lit up with a grin that was as ugly as it was insincere. “You have a buyer, but you don’t have any items to sell. I’d say you have a major problem.”

  Mike took his time standing up. “I don’t see me having a problem. You know that what I’m asking for is small potatoes compared to what the other items you’ll be fencing will bring.” Mike leaned over. “Look what you’re getting in return: a guarantee that the police will never hassle you. Imagine, you’ll be able to do whatever you want when you want, and you won’t have to sweat a bit.” He shook his head. “No, not ever.”