When Doubt Creeps In: A Harry Bronson Suspense Thriller

by L C Hayden

  Staying in the shadowy stretch of the woods, he reached his turning point and rested a moment. Here, the trees sat wider apart and the shadows were less concealing. This was where skill stopped and luck entered. He started to descend, keeping several yards between him and his target.

  Whispering a silent prayer, Bronson left the safety of a tree and scooted toward the next one.

  His pursuer’s head pivoted at the sound of crunching leaves, maybe he caught a whisper of Bronson’s movement.

  Bronson froze, hoping the shadows swallowed him.

  The man cocked his head and stopped. He swept the area with his gun.

  An inch at a time, Bronson slid behind a tree. He waited for the sound of approaching footsteps.

  He listened.

  Nothing.

  Bronson relaxed. He stuck his head out only enough to assess the situation.

  The thug remained still, his head sweeping the shadows. He shook and then was on the move, slithering his way toward Bronson.

  Bronson held his breath. He was the lamb in a den of lions.

  The man continued his advance.

  Bronson skirted the tree. With luck, the thug would go past the mighty oak and Bronson could surprise him from behind.

  The other two men seemed unaware of the drama unfolding around them and continued their climb.

  “Over here,” yelled the one furthest away from Bronson. “It’s Ruben. He’s unconscious.”

  Bronson’s intended target hesitated as he directed his attention toward the sound of his friend’s voice.

  That hesitation was all Bronson needed. He stepped away from the safety of the tree. The man half-turned. His eyes, dark beneath the rim of the baseball cap, widened when he made eye contact with Bronson.

  Before he had a chance to warn the others, Bronson grabbed his neck, felt for the right places, found them, and squeezed. That shut down his carotid arteries. To Bronson’s relief, the choke-hold worked quickly. The man went limp and passed out.

  Bronson bent down, checked him, and removed the man’s baseball cap and his brown jacket with the name Floyd embroidered on the upper right-hand side. Bronson swept the dirt away from the cap and placed it on his head. Next, the jacket. It fit Bronson a bit smug, but it’d do.

  Bronson picked up the discarded gun and put it in the small of his back, not his favorite place to hold a gun, but necessary.

  Casting the man one last look, Bronson’s attention turned to the two remaining hoods.

  The hills before him stretched out like an accordion. He’d use that to conceal himself as he approached the other two.

  Like a stallion evacuating a burning barn, Bronson bolted toward the other men.

  One down and two to go.

  78

  As Bronson neared the men who were fussing over their companion’s unconscious body, he kept his head low, the baseball cap hiding his face. He shoved his shoulder forward so that the name in the jacket could be seen.

  One of the men glanced his way. “Hurry up, Floyd. Help me carry him to the car.” He turned his attention back to Ruben’s inert body then looked at Jack, his companion who crouched with him. “Floyd and I can take care of this. Why don’t you go search for the senator’s son? He can’t be far away.”

  Bronson increased his pace and further lowered his head. He slipped his right hand inside his pant pocket.

  Jack rose and pointed west. “I’ll go find him. I’m thinking Thomas is heading that way, toward Austin. Get Ruben in the car then hurry back to help me search. I’m going after Thomas. We can’t let him get away.” He focused on the darkness around him.

  Bronson now stood a few feet away from the man crouching next to Ruben. An easy target. He closed the gap.

  “Maybe we should leave Ruben,” the intended target said. “We can get him later. What we need to do is our job. Let’s find and kill Thomas. What do you say?” He looked up again, and this time, he zeroed in on Bronson. His eyes widened and he gasped as though he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. “What—who—”

  The man searching for Thomas doubled back in a flash. He faced Bronson head on and raised his gun. “You’re not Floyd!”

  Bronson hurled the sock filled with rocks. It hit Jack in the face. He dropped the gun as he tumbled down. The scream died even before he hit the ground.

  The man who squatted by Ruben’s body bolted to his feet, his hand reaching for his gun.

  Bronson kicked his opponent’s hand and the gun went flying through the air.

  Bronson eyed the gun that had landed by Jack’s body as he fell. He had to get it before his opponent did. He moved toward it.

  The hood’s lips spread in devilish anticipation of the fight. He bent his knee and viciously jacked it upward thus blocking Bronson’s attempt to retrieve the gun.

  Bronson was familiar with this classic street brawler’s move. He side-stepped him.

  They circled each other like a pair of snarling wolves.

  The man threw a left hook, which landed on the side of Bronson’s head.

  Bronson staggered back. The blow had felt as if he’d been hit with a chunk of iron. But he kept his balance. Bronson threw a quick elbow to fend off another powerful hook. But the blows kept coming.

  Roaring like an enraged mama bear, Bronson grabbed him and met him with a fierce head butt. His opponent bellowed, spewing a spray of blood from the gap formed where his nose met his brow.

  Bronson snap kicked, administering a crippling blow to the side of the thug’s knee.

  Much to Bronson’s horror, the man wobbled but still managed to throw a staggering right to Bronson’s face, sending a wave of nausea through his gut. He exhaled hard and closed the distance in one quick stride. He slammed the flat of his left hand into his opponent’s damaged nose.

  The man yelped and put both hands to his face.

  Bronson hit him three times in the belly. The man folded over. Bronson pushed the back of the man’s head down and at the same time, Bronson brought his knee up. The impact was solid. The man stood dazed as though his body didn’t know if it should straighten up or fall down.

  Bronson shoved him hard, and he plummeted to the ground.

  Bronson had won the round, but at what cost? The pounding inside his head crushed like waves against a sea wall. He tried to keep from grimacing as the throb in his brain increased. The pain shot like bullets ricocheting in his head. He sank to his knees.

  Focus! Clear your head and focus. Why? The culprits were down. He could let it go.

  It’s not over. It’s just beginning.

  Bronson’s peripheral vision barely registered that Jack had regained consciousness. An image formed in Bronson’s brain. Jack had picked up the discarded gun and he was steadying his hand as he raised it, pointing it at him.

  Bronson tried to reach for his gun, but his punch-drunk mind couldn’t coordinate his hand movements fast enough. He dropped to the ground just as Jack cocked the gun. The gun followed Bronson’s movement. The barrel loomed large.

  Bronson was a sitting duck.

  79

  A wave of nausea attacked Bronson’s body as he rolled on the ground, making his body a smaller target.

  Snap out of it! Get up! The man has a gun.

  Pain shot up his arm in sharp flashes as he dragged his hand to his back. The gun was there. He knew it. He could reach it. All he had to do was find it. Reach for it. Grab it.

  Too late. You’re not goin’ to make it.

  Jack reared up and aimed for Bronson.

  A small shadow like a bolt of lightning swept past Bronson and toward Jack. It jumped on him, forcing him back to the ground.

  Honey!

  Honey sprung toward Jack. He kicked the dog. A loud thump resonated through the woods. She yelped as she tumbled down the hill. Jack sat up and raised the gun.

  A single shot rang out.

  Jack collapsed back to the ground like a half-empty sack of flour.

  Bronson stood over him, the gun still in his hand.
“No one kicks my dog.” Fearing the worst, he scanned the darkness for any kind of movement. He cupped his mouth. “Honey.”

  She didn’t answer.

  * * *

  Thomas looked up one side of the road and down the other.

  Bronson had given him specific instructions. Head to Austin and get help.

  Thomas took a deep breath and returned to his original path. Up ahead he encountered a wall of heavy brush. He pushed past them, tearing his skin on branches and thorns. Still, he plunged on blindly with the speed of an arrow leaving the bow.

  He stopped.

  He had heard—

  What?

  He listened.

  The shifting of the wind. The deadly silence of the forest.

  Then, the sound of approaching cars.

  He held his breath and waited.

  Seconds later, he saw them. A line of cars heading up the road toward him.

  Not just cars, but police cars. No sirens wailing. But they were speeding. He had heard they did that when they didn’t want to announce their arrival.

  A black sedan led the procession. Was that the agent’s car? The one Bronson had told him to contact?

  For a fraction of a second, Thomas hesitated. Would they hurt him?

  Thomas shook his head. Bronson needed help. Without further thought, he jumped out of his hiding place and waved his arms.

  80

  A figure jumped out from behind the trees and Special Agent Pablo Escobar slammed on his breaks. He squinted. “What the— That’s Thomas Morris,” he said to his partner, Special Agent Sue Hamilton. He heard the squealing of tires as the cars behind him came to an abrupt halt.

  Pablo opened the door and stood behind it.

  “Are … you …” Thomas swallowed a deep breath. It was obvious he had been running. “… Agent Escobar?”

  He nodded. “Who wants to—”

  Thomas didn’t give him a chance to finish. “A bit past the first hill Bronson is alone and unarmed fighting four armed men.”

  Pablo cursed under his breath. He had specifically ordered Bronson— He shook his head. No need to go down that road. The irony didn’t get past him. It was that road that led to this road. “You are?” Although Pablo had recognized him, he had to verify his identity.

  “Thomas Morris.”

  Pablo pointed to the car. “Get in. You can fill me in on the way.”

  They sped down one hill and up the other. When they crested the next one, Pablo spotted the Porsche and two other cars parked at the bottom of the hill. Pablo cruised down the hill. Soon, the area swam with policemen and FBI agents. “Stay inside and stay down,” Pablo ordered Thomas as he opened the car door and joined the other law enforcement officers.

  “Spread out and stay alert,” Pablo told the men. He pointed toward the back seat of his sedan. “Morris says there are four armed men going after my informant.” Pablo both welcomed and dreaded the silence that engulfed them.

  Pablo had climbed over half of the hill when his partner yelled out. “Pablo, over here.”

  He worked his way to Sue. She was facing downhill aiming her flashlight at the base of a tree.

  A man sat on the ground, leaning against the tree trunk. A dog rested on his lap, gently licking the man’s face.

  “Bronson.” Pablo shined his own light on him. “You look like a train ran you over.”

  “I feel like a train ran me over.”

  “What happened?” The question popped out of Pablo’s mouth before he had a chance to think. He looked past Bronson. He had used belts to tie the three men who looked like quarterbacks who had been tackled and defeated. A fourth man laid on the ground, his hands tied behind him.

  “They’re alive,” Bronson said. “The one on the ground needs surgery to get a bullet removed, but his life is not in danger. The other three, they’ll be sore tomorrow but otherwise, okay.”

  Pablo ordered one of his men to request an ambulance. He offered Bronson a hand.

  Bronson accepted it and stood up.

  “I thought Paco told me you and your dog had been separated.”

  Bronson smiled and grimaced.

  His facial muscles must be screaming with pain, Pablo thought.

  “Good ol’ Paco,” Bronson said. “He came through for me.”

  “He sure did. He was very adamant that we get a move on fast.” Pablo bent down and patted Honey. “How did you two reunite?”

  “I’m not sure. My guess is that whoever was holding her was doing so somewhere around here. When Honey smelled me, she escaped, and it’s a good thing she did. She saved my life.”

  “Is that so? Maybe we should award her a metal.”

  “She deserves more than that. She deserves a McDonald’s hamburger.”

  Pablo’s lips formed a thin smile, but seconds later, he was all business. “You broke protocol, you know that? You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Bronson shrugged. “Should I turn my badge in now or later?”

  Oh yeah. The imaginary badge. “You should have called me before you came here.”

  “Sorry. No phone.” Bronson straightened himself and stood taller. “At least we got ’em. We have enough evidence to convict Andrew Beauregard and Senator Morris of illegal trafficking and a host of other crimes, including attempted murder. The system can lock them up and throw away the key.”

  Pablo opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind when he heard the ambulance approaching at a far distance. “Wait here. I’ll have the paramedics look at you, then you and I are going for a ride.”

  “Where to?”

  Paco kept his focus on his men who were leading the three thugs down the hill. “You feel we have enough to arrest Beauregard and Senator Morris?”

  “More than enough.”

  “You can fill me in on the way to the two mansions. That is if you want to be there for the arrests.”

  Bronson beamed. “You bet I do.”

  Pablo nodded and looked away. A fog of sheer, hopeless misery embraced him. He took a deep breath. He needed to do what had to be done. That was his job. “After we finish arresting Beauregard and the senator, there’s a third arrest I must make. I don’t know if you want to join me for that one.”

  Bronson stared at him through agonized eyes. “Mike.” He whispered the word.

  Pablo nodded.

  “I’ll be there, but not as a member of your team, but as a friend.”

  “I don’t see any problem with that.” Pablo turned to walk away from Bronson but then stopped. “In fact, I have something for you. If you give this to Mike, I think it will be a lot more effective and special.” Pablo took out his wallet and handed Bronson a neatly folded piece of paper.

  Epilogue

  Three Months Later: Dallas, Texas

  Bronson cleaned the glass on the picture frame. Mike could walk in any second, and Bronson wanted the moment to be perfect.

  The doorbell rang. Bronson set the framed note down and opened the door.

  Mike stepped in. His eyes were vacant and his face ashen. Bronson hugged him. “It’s over.”

  “Not for me, buddy. It’ll never be over for me.” Mike had just returned from visiting Adela. “She’s so sad, but she doesn’t hold me responsible.” He broke the embrace.

  “Then you should let it go.” Bronson closed the door behind Mike.

  “I promised to provide for their son, even pay his college tuition when the time comes. She said that wouldn’t be necessary, but for me, it is.”

  “I understand.” Bronson reached for the framed note and handed it to Mike. “Thought this would help.”

  Mike looked down at Chief Kelley’s confession, the last thing he wrote before killing himself. Mike had read the note so many times he probably had it memorized. Still, he read it one more time, this time aloud: Mike Hoover is working undercover. He’s not at fault for killing Detective Herbert Finch. Detective Dave De La Rosa knowingly switched the blanks for real bullets. I suspected as much but I didn’t tak
e action. May the Lord forgive me. The note was signed Chief Rudy Kelley.

  Mike’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “In the end, it was this note that saved my hide.” He stroked the paper through the glass. “Thanks for framing it.”

  Bronson nodded. “Least I could do.”

  Mike’s cell beeped. “It’s Pablo.” He looked at Bronson and put the phone on speaker mode. “Special Agent Pablo, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Hello, Mike.” A small pause followed. “And Bronson. I’m sure you’re there listening.”

  Bronson smiled. “Hello, Pablo. As always you’re right. What can we do for you?”

  “I thought you’d want to know that all of the stolen artifacts have been returned to the National Egyptian Museum.”

  “That was brought up at my hearing,” Mike said.

  “You don’t get it. All of the pieces are accounted for.” He stressed the word all. “That includes the two missing Cleopatra statues.”

  Mike lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and remained quiet for a moment.

  “You’re still there?” Pablo asked.

  Mike nodded even though the only one who could see him was Bronson. “Naunet’s little girl is dead. She said she would return them when … when …” He looked away, but Bronson still saw the tear streaming down his face.

  “I figured as much,” Pablo said. “But I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I did.” He looked at Bronson. “We did. Thanks for letting us know, and double thanks for your support at the hearing.”

  “You’re a good man, Mike, and so is Bronson. He’s the kind of man I’d want to have by my side. Think about that.” He paused, and then added, “Both of you take care. Maybe, some other time, we can work together again.”

  Bronson and Mike looked at each other. Both nodded at the same time.

  “We’d like that.” Mike disconnected and turned to Bronson. “Ellen should be arriving soon. She doesn’t know about Naunet.”