DREAM ON (Mark Appleton #2)

by Patterson, Aaron

  The red dog is in the woods.

  He typed his message and sent it off. Moments later, he got a response.

  The woods have been harvested.

  A smirk spread across his face as he read the message. His brother did have a good sense of humor. It would be a shame to have to kill him.

  * * *

  KIRK WESTON LOOKED DOWN at his belly, which was on the rebound after spending a year in Bali. He’d been in hiding and out of work for too long. His old boss back in Detroit would be angrier than a bear on a diet if he knew his favorite detective was still alive, and not only alive but living like a king.

  But Kirk Weston was not planning on going back to the force anytime soon. He rather liked being dead.

  He’d been assumed dead after being kidnapped by The General and left to die in Puerto Rico a year ago. He still had the scars from when he was tortured and shot in the chest. But he’d fought back and escaped, and when the building was laid waste by a few well-placed bombs, he just happened to be a few hundred yards away. The next day, when he went back to look the place over and see if he could make more sense of the situation, he came upon a dead man in the rubble. The well-dressed man had a suitcase handcuffed to his wrist. The suitcase was filled with over one million dollars in cash. So he’d accepted the money as compensation for his treatment and high-tailed it out of there.

  Bali was just the vacation Kirk needed. He’d had a rough couple of years. Who was he kidding, he’d had a rough life! But even here, he hadn’t relaxed. He’d chosen this country carefully. As the real estate industry always said, it was all about location, location, location.

  He was not in Bali just for the ocean breeze and the margaritas. He’d followed The General here. He’d seen his face in the small cell where he was beaten and almost killed. Now Kirk wanted to return the favor. This didn’t have anything to do with justice or “doing the right thing.” This was revenge.

  Kirk had bugged his villa, and set up surveillance. He was amazed at what you could buy on the internet and at Radio Shack. He’d found out The General’s name was Taras Karjanski, and he could write a three-hundred page book on all the crimes he was associated with. So Kirk had taken up the hobby of monitoring Taras’s every move, in between surfing and fishing and playing drinking games at the local bar.

  Kirk tried to keep himself focused on the monitor as he watched Taras chat away on a personal dating site. He was up to something. Kirk didn’t know what exactly, but he had his suspicions. It looked like he was getting ready to leave Bali and make a trip to Russia. Kirk was already packed and would follow him to see if he could uncover what this Mafia boss had cooked up.

  A phone rang in Kirk’s pocket. He checked the number, then answered.

  “Hey kiddo, what’s up?”

  “I want to go surfing later with you, you come?” The island teen had taken a liking to Kirk. He was sixteen and had taught Kirk how to surf and navigate around the island. He was a tall, skinny kid and had the wildest black hair Kirk had ever seen. At first, Kirk hated the water. But after a few times out, he began to crave it—the smell, the sound, and the feel of its raw power under his feet as he rode a wave. It was a little piece of heaven and, in his life, that was a hard thing to find.

  “I can’t today, bud, I might have to go out of town for a few days, but I’ll let you know when I get back.”

  The boy hung up after Kirk agreed to have a dinner of pork and roots at his parents’ house later. The family had taken him in on more than one occasion, and the pig was his favorite dish.

  Kirk looked around his bedroom and back at the monitor. Taras was gone! He had twelve cameras set up in Taras’s house, but he couldn’t find him anywhere. Kirk switched from one camera to the next looking for the Russian.

  Nothing.

  Then he heard a knock at the door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I SAT IN A humid car outside a bar called Mugg’s. I hated Atlanta, and this job didn’t improve my disdain for the city. In fact, I think I hated it more now than I ever did in the past. It was muggy and had to be over a hundred in the shade, not to mention the dirty streets and buildings smelled like rotting food and body odor.

  I looked at my watch. With the Taxi ride and the time change, I could see that I had an hour before I had to meet with The Magician. I used one of the company’s cars and turned the air conditioner to high, hoping that it would help, but found that it only made it colder and still just as sticky. Picking up my .45, I screwed the silencer onto the end of the barrel. I would use another weapon in most cases, but I needed to frame the mob for the kill to get the families fighting each other.

  The two families were the Fontanas and the Massinos. Most of the mob or the Mafia had dissipated, but they never disappeared completely, they were like a virus that mutates to fit the environment. They’d just gone underground and were heavily involved in politics, gambling, and racketeering. Most of the time they could be found in the Senate or kissing some baby at a political rally.

  The Magician was a Fontana. He’d worn out his welcome in his own family as well as in Atlanta. If he died, it would be a relief to everyone, but would still force the hand of the Fontanas, in order to save face. If one of your own was killed, you had to repay the debt or it would be like blood in the water.

  The sun would be down soon. Darkness suited my work. I slid my hand over the silver .45 and traced a line on the cold metal. It was smooth and had a faint smell of oil and gunpowder. It was weighted just right and felt good in my grasp. Every weapon I had was custom fitted. Although I didn’t need anything special, the WJA gave it to me anyway.

  I went over the plan of attack in my mind. I knew there would be bodyguards and that they would be armed. That didn’t worry me much; it was the initial frisk that had me worried. If anyone sounded the alarm when I entered, The Magician would escape out the back. I had to get in with the weapon and get by the guards.

  But I still had a few tricks left to play, and I suspected they would be showstoppers tonight. Taking a pair of black gloves from the glove box, I pulled them on. They looked like any ordinary pair of driving gloves but with one minor detail: they made metal virtually invisible. It was a long shot, but I was sure I could pull it off. Most of the time when guards frisk you they don’t touch your hands. They plan on being able to see anything you might be holding, and I hoped that was the case tonight.

  After stretching my fingers in the tight gloves, I picked up the .45. It touched the metal contacts in the palm and thumb of the glove. The silver metal shone for a moment, and then like water it washed out of sight. You could still see it if you knew it was there. Everything you saw through the gun was a little distorted, but in a case like this, in a bar with bad lighting and guards who probably had a few drinks in them by this hour, I had a chance. A smile crossed my face as I looked, or tried to look, at the gun. It was amazing what the WJA scientists could do. Placing the gun on the seat, I grabbed my coffee mug and just about spilled it all over myself—I guess aluminum is metal, too.

  After finishing my coffee, I leaned my head back and rested my eyes for a moment. Relaxing every part of my body, I just sat there in peace.

  An image flashed through my mind—The Magician lunging over a desk with a Bowie knife in his hand, and thrusting it in my heart.

  My eyes flew open. Just like that, the vision was gone. I clenched and unclenched my fists, suddenly nervous.

  I had this gift, as Solomon called it, where I could dream the future. A few years ago, my wife and daughter died in a supermarket bombing. I lived through it and felt the pain of losing them, only to find that it was all a dream, or a glimpse, as I called it. My dreams were real, a look into what would happen if I did not stop it. I couldn’t control the dreams. At times they would come in flashes, and sometimes it would feel as if I was out for a month or longer. But usually they were like this—a brief image or scene.

  Let’s hope I could stop this one from coming true.

  * * *
>
  TARAS KARJANSKI CLOSED HIS eyes and sank into his seat as the Boeing 747 took off. He smiled as he felt the pressure from the giant jet engines push him into the backrest. He wondered how anyone could sit in an airplane and be afraid. He loved the rush and the power of the engines as they fired and sent the plane into the air.

  He peered at the flight attendant as she passed his seat to check on the lower class people in the back. He could smell her perfume and thought of how easily he could reach out and snap her thin, little neck. He tried to shake the thought from his mind. When he first had a thought of such violence, he was only a boy. Papa’s farm was not much, but they still ran a few hundred sheep. Russia was struggling to survive after the war, and he could remember many nights going to bed with his siblings, hungry and angry.

  Taras loved the sheep and loved tending to them on the plains, far away from anyone or anything. He used to lie outside with the sheep instead of in the tent where his father slept. He could never understand his father. He was a man of few words and a quick hand. Most of the time that hand landed across his face, which was better than when Papa found a stick or some other object to use for punishment.

  Taras could still remember the night he began to change. It might have been the isolation, or maybe he was just a bad egg. He was fuming and cursing after a beating. He could feel his heartbeat calm as he imagined hurting his father. In his mind, he always won, but it was only in his imagination. He could feel the rage build up. He could kill his father! He looked down at the lamb in his arms and thought how helpless it was and how powerful he was. He thought of how easy it would be to kill it. Just twist its neck, and end the lamb’s life.

  Then, he did it.

  When it was over, he was covered with blood, and the remains of the sheep looked like a wild animal had attacked it. Taras fell to the ground and cried. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. He tried to wipe the blood from his hands, but it wouldn’t go away. It stuck to his fingers. Standing over the murdered, innocent lamb, he looked over to the tent where he could see a flicker of light. You made me do this!

  Wiping a tear from his cheek, he ran into the woods to get away from his shame. However, the more he ran, the closer he came to his fears. His father’s voice filled his head. He screamed and cursed his father for making him kill.

  But it didn’t stop with one lamb. His hunger had not been satiated, only teased.

  Months went by, and little twelve-year-old Taras found himself killing every night. It started to feel good, even normal. With each kill, his hunger grew deep inside like a starving beast. He would go all day waiting for nightfall and then he would kill under the blanket of darkness.

  His father thought they had a wolf problem and hunted him every night with no luck. His killings got more and more brutal as the years went by. He tried to control it, so he resorted to killing off the neighbor’s cows and goats, but the hunger wanted more than sheep and goats. He wanted something with a soul.

  Someone claimed to have seen a red looking dog killing a sheep, and he became a legend in his village. No one knew that he was the Red Dog. He didn’t even know if it was him that the villager saw. He liked the legend, though, and took the name for himself with pride.

  Taras snapped back to the present as the pretty, redheaded flight attendant touched his shoulder and smiled. “Can I get you anything to drink, sir?” She was even more beautiful up close.

  “Yes, my sweet.” Taras could be charming if he wanted to. “I would love a glass of scotch, on the rocks.”

  He brushed her hand and lingered just a second too long. She blushed and smiled. “Right away, sir.” She hurried off to get his drink.

  During the rest of the flight he made small talk with the redhead, flirting with her every time she was within earshot. She didn’t seem to mind and even responded by giving him her phone number before he got off the plane at LAX. He knew he was older than her by almost twenty years but, without his beard, he was a striking man. And some girls tended to go for older men. The scar above his eye only added to his mysterious appearance and seemed to draw the opposite sex like bees to honey.

  * * *

  KIRK STOOD AT THE front door with his gun drawn as he looked through the peephole. He relaxed a little and opened the door when he saw that it was the FedEx man. “Package for you, sir.” The long dreadlocks of the native shook as he spoke. He looked at Kirk with a big smile on his face, showing all of his white teeth.

  “Hey, Frank, you going to the game tomorrow?” Kirk asked conversationally.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anyting, Mon.” Rugby was still alive and well in Bali. The local team was called the Bali Geckos. “You going, sir?”

  “No, I wish I could, but I’ve got to go to the States for some business. Go Geckos, and death to anyone who stands in their way!” The dark man raised one hand and gave Kirk a high five.

  Kirk took the package and waved to Frank as he walked away. It looked to be some sort of CD. He wondered if it was from his new partner. He’d been getting anonymous information on Taras for the last six months. It always came in a package without a return address. Kirk tore it open, pulled out a CD, and read the letter.

  Here is Taras Karjanski’s file. He has been off the grid for the last year, but we believe he’s planning something big and ready to go on the move. He is considered highly dangerous and hostile.

  P.S. You are still dead.

  Kirk rolled his eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he muttered. But he perused the package anyway. His eyes lit when he saw his old shield and a set of passports with the name, “Wes Kirkwood.” Those would be useful. It was a lot easier to get around when you were dead, and now with new credentials he would be unnoticed. He smirked and slipped the badge on his belt. It felt good to have it again. He missed being a cop on some level; however, living the life of ease wasn’t so bad either.

  After reviewing the contents of the CD, which was full of data about Taras, he zipped up his suitcase and waited for the cab to pick him up. He couldn’t believe what he had seen on the disc. Taras was one smart guy, and if he was still connected to his old buddies he could be one dangerous man.

  He wondered if the WJA was behind the notes and the information he was getting on Taras. He had a feeling they knew far more than they were letting on.

  A horn sounded as a cab pulled up in front of his villa. Kirk smiled when he saw the rainbow colored cab. Only in Bali!

  * * *

  THE FLIGHT TO LOS Angeles was long and boring. Even the in-flight movie made Kirk want to jump from the plane without a parachute. He could feel his old mood creeping over him as he got closer to the States and farther away from his comfortable hideaway. He’d never been one to look at things in a positive manner or to see much good in anything or anyone. But in his little world on the beach, he was a different person, and it had felt good. He already missed it. Now he was back to work and had a killer to catch. Sometimes you just had to give up what you wanted. Catching Taras would make it all worth it. At least, he hoped it would.

  After a chicken sandwich and a can of Pepsi, Kirk leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Despite all he’d been through, he always slept well. Bad dreams never bothered him, nor did he feel any of the signs of posttraumatic stress. Sometimes he felt that it made him cold blooded. But if he was cold blooded it meant he was the perfect one to catch Taras. Despite a baby crying in the seat behind him, he fell right to sleep.

  The airplane jerked Kirk awake as it hit a rough patch. He looked around and saw that everyone was settling down for the long trip and the baby had stopped crying. He rubbed his hand over his smooth, bald head and sighed. It was hard to believe he was going back to the United States. He couldn’t think of many good memories there, but then again, he never liked people, and America sure had a lot of them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I LOOKED DOWN AT my watch. It was time to make some magic. My stomach tightened, and I couldn’t believe I was nervous. I had thought a lot
about this evening and how everything was going to go.

  A single bead of sweat dripped down my face. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and opened my car door. The car was a Dodge Neon so I would blend in, unlike most of the local law enforcement. They all drove big Fords or black SUVs—yeah, not exactly masters of blending in. Just as I got out, a black stretch limo pulled up in front of the bar and the driver waited for his boss to come out. He would be waiting a long time.

  I held onto the gun a little too tightly. It was in my right hand as I walked toward the bar. The lights were on outside, but it still looked dark. This place represented everything that was wrong with this city. Old broken-down bricks and a window boarded up with plywood. The street lamp flickered on and off, making my shadow fade in and out, like a phantom. A train rumbled by behind me as I walked up three steps to the front door. The building had a bar on the main floor and apartments on the second, but I doubted anyone lived there. The rooms were used for other things. In one window, a small light made its way through the split plywood and spilled into the night.

  Two mooks stood in the doorway with tailored suits and overbuilt bodies. They looked at me and opened the door without a word. I felt the cool air hit my face as I entered. The air conditioning felt good, but it didn’t help my nerves.