The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  “We had a report of a disturbance here last night, around 3:45 a.m. An anonymous tip.” Happy Vern had lost his smile. Now he was going for the concerned, fatherly type. “Some sort of argument. Possibly violent.” The detective reached out and brushed his fingers along the cracked, splintered shingles where Shep had punched the wall. “We’d like you to come down to the station with us and clear a few things up, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Roman went still. “Am I under arrest for something?”

  “No, Mr. Blade. Things will just go better for you if you cooperate.”

  “Of course they will,” he muttered. For a split second he saw himself turning back, walking inside and blowing his brains out. He could do it before these two managed to react. Every instinct in him screamed this was somehow going to land him on the wrong side of the bars.

  But there was still a chance it wouldn’t. And if he really wanted to die, there was always a way.

  “All right,” he finally said. “Mind if I shut things down in here first? I was in the middle of something.”

  Vern glanced at Frank. “Sure,” he said. “But I’d like my partner to go inside with you. Just to keep an eye on things, of course.” The smile returned with a vengeance. “We have a certain protocol to follow with…people like yourself.”

  Roman flashed a bitter smile. “You mean ex-cons.”

  “You could put it that way, yes.”

  “Fine. Knock yourself out.”

  Roman spun and strode back to his workstation. From the way these two were acting, he knew there was more than a disturbance call behind this. Maybe Shep had decided to press charges, just to be a complete bastard. Or he’d reported the gun. Whatever it was, he had to cover his tracks now, before they could get a warrant.

  Fortunately, he’d planned ahead for something like this.

  “Fancy setup.”

  Roman glanced back. Detective Frank Stone stood next to the couch his brother had occupied last night, eyeing his equipment suspiciously. “Yeah,” Roman said. “Ain’t technology grand.” He ignored the cop and started closing programs.

  “Must’ve been expensive,” Frank said. “Wouldn’t know it from the looks of this place.”

  “Are you here about a disturbance, or to critique my shopping habits?” Roman opened a command prompt window, figuring this guy wouldn’t know what he was doing even if he explained it. In really small words. “Want to go look in my fridge and complain about my preferred brand of ketchup?”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “The feeling is mutual.” Roman managed to sound casual, despite the chill that crawled his spine with the detective’s flat words. He typed RainyDay.exe into the C-prompt, hit enter, and turned the monitors off. “Okay,” he said. “I guess we’ll go talk now.”

  “Yeah,” Detective Frank said. “We’ll talk.”

  As Roman walked past him, the detective grabbed his arm.

  He wrenched free instinctively and stepped back, out of reach. “I’m not under arrest,” he said. “And I’m cooperating. So don’t touch me.”

  Frank’s sizzling glare promised there would be more than touching later.

  Somehow Roman made it out of the house and into the back of the unmarked car waiting at the curb. The ride to the police station seemed endless. Neither of the detectives spoke to him, or even looked at him. When they finally arrived, they led him through a nearly deserted maze of closed doors and glass-walled offices to a classic interrogation room—a table and two folding chairs, a one-way mirror, and the telltale red light of a camera in a corner of the ceiling.

  They left him there for hours.

  He spent the time alternately sitting and pacing. It took every ounce of the considerable control he’d spent years developing to stay calm, to not smash the flimsy furniture into splinters or punch his way through the glass. They wanted that. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  The RainyDay program he’d launched triggered a series of protocols designed to keep intruders and asshole cops away. The first, immediate step scrambled and encrypted his home system. An hour later, all of his feeds would divert to the remote server he’d set up in the self-service storage unit at the top of Stone’s street. He’d built in the delays to give himself time to turn things off, if the issue was resolved.

  Two hours after launch, the program would send an encrypted email to the one person he trusted to go into his house and retrieve his gun before the cops could get a warrant. Kat should be receiving that message about now, if she hadn’t already.

  She’d know what it meant.

  He’d just switched from pacing to sitting down when the interrogation room door opened and Detective Frank Stone came in alone, carrying a single sheet of paper. He closed the door, and the red light in the corner went out.

  That was a very bad sign.

  Roman watched his approach warily. “I’m disappointed,” he said. “I thought we were doing the good cop-bad cop thing.”

  “Oh, Vern’s the bad cop.” Frank grinned broadly. “I’m the worse cop.”

  His gut clenched harder than the first time. “What do you want?” he managed.

  “Just your signature.” The detective slapped the paper down on the table in front of him.

  Roman didn’t even look at it. “No.”

  “You sure?” Frank took his time extracting a pen from his jacket pocket, and twirled it in his fingers. “Sign that, and we’ll reduce the charges. It’s your only chance.”

  “You haven’t charged me with anything.”

  “We will.”

  His fists clenched, scoring his palms with his nails. The pain prevented him from jumping out of the chair. “I don’t even know why I’m here,” he said through his teeth. “So either charge me, or let me go.”

  “Look, Blade. I’ll be honest with you.” The detective moved closer and tossed the pen on the table. “Shep Miller was a scumbag. You’re a scumbag. I don’t like wasting my time on scumbags. Understand?”

  The important word in that rambling threat chilled his blood. “Was?”

  “Miller is dead.” Frank jacked him out of the chair with one arm and dragged him inches from his face. “You should know that, Blade. You killed him. Now sign the goddamned confession.”

  Something that felt like a wrecking ball slammed into his stomach. Suddenly he was on his knees, gasping for breath.

  His head spun madly. Shep was dead…when? How? Had Stone decided killing him was easier than constantly looking over his shoulder? No, that didn’t feel right. Stone wouldn’t risk going back to prison any more than he would.

  He almost laughed. If he ever saw Stone again, he could tell him that he finally knew how it felt to be innocent.

  Right now he had another Stone to deal with—one who was in the process of hauling him off the floor. Then his back was slammed against a wall, awakening yesterday’s injuries. The pain was immense.

  He laughed in the detective’s face.

  “You finished?” Frank said. “You’re going to sign that paper if I have to hold the pen in your hand and make you, scumbag.”

  Roman resigned himself to a lot more pain—because he wasn’t saying another word.

  Chapter 20

  Nine came and went. At nine-thirty, Ozzy was standing by the front entrance of the club and deciding whether he should try to check on Blade, when Kat materialized in front of him. She did not look happy. In fact, she looked devastated.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I have to leave for a while.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour. I…need to do a favor for someone.”

  “Does this have to do with Blade?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Yes,” she said slowly. “What’s with you two? First you want to kill each other, now you’re fussing over him like an old maid.”

  “There was a misunderstanding. We cleared it up.”

  She searched his face for a long moment. “I
believe you did,” she said. “Well, then. Maybe you can tell me why he might’ve been arrested.”

  “What?”

  “I guess not.” Kat let out a sigh. “Look, I have to go, or he’s gonna be in even more trouble.”

  “Wait.” This morning seemed like forever ago, but he could still see the awful look on Blade’s face as he stared down at the gun in his hand. I’m not going to prison again. Ever. “You’re going to get his gun. Aren’t you?”

  Her eyes widened. “You two are really gonna have to let me in on some of this.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Not sure, but I’d guess at the sheriff’s station.” She produced a phone, swiped it a few times, and showed him the screen. “This is all I got. It’s a code we set up a long time ago.”

  Ozzy read the message. The vultures are circling. Can you move my wagon?

  “Means he’s been brought in,” she said. “I don’t know why they took him, but he must’ve been there a few hours by now. He said I’d only get this if he wasn’t able to…” She broke off with a shudder. “If he goes back, it’ll destroy him.”

  “I know.” Fury pulsed red behind his eyes. Blade hadn’t done anything, he was sure of that. Whatever happened, he knew exactly who was behind this and why they’d targeted him. Because Blade had a record—and that made him easy. “Let me go get him.”

  “And just how are you going to do that?”

  “I have connections in the sheriff’s office.”

  A genuine smile broke across her face. “I knew it was smart to hire you,” she said. “Can you really get him out of there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go.” She practically pushed him out the door. “I’m still going to stop by his place, just in case. I’ll get Antonio and Mike out here to keep an eye on things.” She paused with a hand on his arm as he stood in the vestibule. “Thank you, Ozzy. This means so much.”

  He nodded. “I’ll bring him back.”

  “Lord knows why, but…I believe you will.”

  Ozzy headed out and spent a minute searching for his bike before he remembered he’d brought the car, and his heart wrenched a little. Of course, his brother hated him for what he’d done—and he couldn’t blame him for that.

  But he hated Frank more.

  He drove to the sheriff’s station without having to think about where he was going. On the way, he decided what he’d say to get Blade out. It wouldn’t take much. Frank would be shocked enough at the sight of him, and he already knew damned well that Ozzy couldn’t be bullied into submission anymore.

  He only hoped he wasn’t too late to save Blade from his brother’s brutal, twisted brand of justice.

  At the station, he parked around front in a slot reserved for cops, giving exactly zero fucks whether anyone noticed. He strode inside to the locked glass door between the visitor and business sides of the station, pressed the buzzer, and held it.

  It took a full sixty seconds for someone to show up on the other side of the door. Someone he recognized.

  The anger on Vern Delman’s face eased into wariness when he looked through, and his hand went to the gun at his side. “Business hours end at five,” he said, his voice chopped and distant through the metal grill. “If you have an emergency—”

  “Open the goddamned door, Vern.”

  Wariness became stunned confusion. “Do I know you?”

  “Yes. And so does Frank.”

  It was another minute before the light dawned. “Ozzy?”

  “Open. The door.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Vern produced a card and swiped it through an unseen slot. The red light beside the door handle turned green. As Ozzy yanked the door open, Vern stepped back fast. “What are you doing here?” he said. “It’s been ten years, at least. We thought—”

  “Roman Blade. Where is he?”

  Vern’s face went an ugly shade of red. “How do you…that’s not public yet.”

  “Police scanner.” Ozzy had no problems lying to his brother, or his equally crooked partner, with a straight face. He stepped through fully and let the door swing shut, watching Vern move back again. “Where?”

  “No.” Vern shook his head. “This is a police station, and you’re not even a cop. You can’t just come in here and start barking orders.”

  “Can’t I?” Ozzy grabbed his lapel and jerked him forward. “Bring me to him. Now.”

  “Fuck!” Vern’s features twisted in disgust. “All right. Just let go.”

  He did. “And don’t touch your phone,” he said. “I’m going to surprise my brother.”

  With a hot, sullen glare, Vern smoothed his jacket and started down the hall. Ozzy followed him through the maze of offices on a meandering route to the back of the station, and then down a set of stairs. Toward the interrogation rooms.

  The slow burn of fury blazed into flames. Since he couldn’t break Vern in half, he settled for demanding information. “Why did you bring him in?”

  “What the hell. How do you even know this scumbag, man?”

  “Why?”

  “For questioning.” Vern slowed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Ozzy…”

  “Is he under arrest?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then he’s leaving.”

  Vern sighed. “Take it up with Frank.”

  “I will.”

  Ozzy pushed past him when he stopped just before one of the big windows. He knew it wouldn’t be good—but when he caught sight of the scene in the room, he had to physically stop himself from breaking the glass to get to Frank.

  The table and one of the chairs had been violently overturned. Blade was on his knees on the floor, eyes closed and breathing in harsh jerks. Frank loomed behind him, wrenching one arm behind his back—and gripping the other arm at the wrist, forcing it down to the pen that lay in front of him.

  From the horrible, strained look on Blade’s face, Frank had already spent a long time trying for a ‘confession.’

  Ozzy turned and pointed to the door. “Open it.” He could barely get the words out.

  Without a sound, Vern complied.

  Frank didn’t even look up when Ozzy came in. “This asshole said he was gonna cooperate, Vern,” he said, twisting Blade’s arm harder. The man gasped sharply. “Doesn’t look very cooperative to me.”

  “I’m not Vern.”

  His brother’s head rose slowly. He narrowed his eyes. “You.”

  “Yeah. Me.” Ozzy took a step forward and fought rising bile. “Let him go.”

  With a low snarl, Frank shoved Blade aside. The man landed in an abrupt heap and curled inward, squeezing his eyes shut. “The hell are you doing here?” Frank said. “Thought you were never coming back. And this isn’t your business.”

  “Yes, it damned well is.”

  Blade shifted and coughed. His eyes opened, rolling back briefly before they settled on Ozzy. “Stone?” he rasped.

  “Yeah.” Ignoring Frank completely, he walked over and crouched in front of the battered man. “You’re late for work,” he said. “Came to get you.”

  The rough, broken sound that came from Blade barely resembled a laugh. “Not riding bitch seat on your bike,” he whispered.

  “I brought the car.”

  “You know this filth?” Frank said somewhere behind him. “If you think you’re walking the fuck out of here with him—”

  “Shut up, Frank.” He spoke without turning, and leaned closer to Blade. “Give me just a minute,” he said. “Then we’ll leave.”

  Blade grimaced. “Take your time.”

  He nodded and stood. It took a lot of willpower to face his brother and not immediately break some important bones. “All right,” he said. “What are you trying to pin him with?”

  “Not trying. He did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Killed some other scumbag. Earlier this morning.”

  Ozzy’s blood ran cold. Frank was trying to hang a murder on him? He’d gotten a hell of a lot wo
rse. The last time it was ramming a DUI charge down the throat of some guy who didn’t even own a car, but had spent six months in county for petty larceny. “No, he didn’t,” he finally said. “He was with me all day.”

  “Bullshit. He was alone when we picked him up.”

  “He went home at five,” Ozzy lied, knowing Frank wouldn’t have brought him in until the police station was almost empty—so there wouldn’t be witnesses. “He was helping me fix my bike.”

  “Did you lose what was left of your mind?” Frank spat. “You drop off the face of the earth for ten years, and now you’re suddenly here, hanging out with that. I don’t buy it.”

  “We work together. And I don’t care if you buy it or not.” Ozzy moved forward and stopped just short of his brother. “He didn’t do anything, you unbelievable piece of shit. You’re lucky I don’t take an inventory of everything you did to him and give it back to you twice. We’re leaving.”

  “No, you’re not. I need a collar, and he fits.”

  “Well, then. I guess you’ll have to do some actual police work.”

  He turned away—and sensed Frank coming up on him with intent to punch. Fine, he thought. We’ll play it your way, brother.

  When Frank went for his kidney, he half-turned and grabbed the offending wrist. In seconds he had his brother pinned face-first against the wall, with his arm twisted almost as high as he’d held Blade’s. “I will hurt you, Frank,” he said. “I know you turned the camera off in here.”

  “Your friend is a killer,” Frank wheezed. “Just like you.”

  The words slashed at him, exactly the way his brother knew they would. But he was through letting Frank see him bleed. “Maybe I am,” he said. “But he’s not. And my conscience is my problem. At least I have one, you sick excuse for a cop.”

  He shoved again, just to make sure Frank got the point. Then he turned and walked back to Blade, who’d somehow managed to get to his knees. With what he hoped resembled a smile, he extended a hand. “Let’s go.”

  Blade hesitated—and then took it.

  Ozzy helped him up, knowing it hadn’t been easy for him to reach out. When Blade was more or less standing, he said, “Can you walk?”