Not Forgiven: A Thriller and Suspense Novel: Ungoverned Series

by Shawn Raiford

  Once Amber was outside the door, Felix turned around. "Stop messing around Rogelio! We need to pay this guy off! He is so pissed and you don't want to piss him off more!"

  Rogelio smiled, but said nothing.

  "You're drunk!"

  Rogelio held up his drink. "Maybe."

  He scanned the living room for a bag for the money, but did not see any. "Where's the money? In the study?" Rogelio kept his money in there. In a safe in a wall.

  Rogelio did not answer so Felix figured that he would find the money there. He walked down the hallway into the study.

  He could see it now, him and Amber on the open road, pulling a trailer. Then in a year or two they could have a baby. Life would be good.

  There was a combination safe hidden in the wall. Felix did not know the combination, but he remembered that Rogelio once grabbed a small piece of paper, with the combination, from his desk.

  Pulling open drawers, he found folders in the bottom drawer, small empty bank bags, but no small papers with the combination.

  He tried the upper left drawer; it was locked. He tried the right one, and found a few pens, a stash of hard candy, and a letter opener. He searched the back of the drawer and spotted something shiny in the darkness.

  It was a key. Felix wasn't sure what it went to, but he attempted to open the drawer, and it opened.

  A few knickknacks occupied the drawer, but the black plastic boxes caught his attention. They looked like the Rolodex boxes where one might put contacts written on cards. Four boxes in all.

  Felix almost dismissed the boxes, but Rogelio might have the combination written down somewhere in one of them.

  He looked inside one of the boxes, and there was no combination.

  A bunch of plastic cards jammed the inside. "What the..." he mumbled, pulling one out. Not plastic cards, but driver's licenses. He read the name. "Janice Gufstason." Short, blonde, blue eyes. Twenty-three and attractive.

  Weird.

  He noticed another driver's license. He grabbed it and read the name. "Rachel Daniels." Blonde with brown eyes. Twenty-one and attractive.

  Felix found that they were all driver's licenses.

  He read the names of several other licenses. All of them belonged to white, blonde women in their twenties.

  One caught his eye with a face he recognized. Kathleen Tidwell. She too, had blond hair, and was in her early twenties.

  Felix frowned.

  Her name and face was familiar. Two years ago, her body was found in a dirty dumpster. She'd been raped and strangled to death. The police never found her killer. A question entered his mind: What if Rogelio had killed her?

  He killed the girl, Candy, last night, on purpose. He put some licenses out on the desk, moving them around, and found hers too. "Oh shit!"

  The box contained a lot of drivers' licenses. Felix checked the other boxes. All were full of driver's licenses.

  Felix held up the next license and dropped it when he recognized the picture and name.

  It was her. Damn it!

  He picked the license up again. Rogelio told him that Diane Hale went back home to mom and dad after he paid her off.

  With the driver's licenses in his hand, Felix got up from the chair, because his questions could not wait.

  Entering the living room, Felix stopped.

  With his mouth open, Rogelio's head leaned back. Passed out, his drink still in his hand. Whisky spilled onto the fabric of the couch.

  Instead of leaving, Felix needed to know.

  He nudged his leg. "Hey! Wake up!"

  "What the hell?" Rogelio glared at him. "Why the hell you kicking me?"

  Felix showed him.

  "What?"

  "What the hell are these?" Showed him the contents of the box.

  Rogelio seemed to catch his snap, his eyes bulging. "Why are you going through my drawers! Those are mine." Rogelio stood up, trying to grab them from Felix.

  Felix pushed him down. Showed him another one. "This is the woman you killed last night. Why do you have her driver's license?"

  "I don't know, I found it in my pocket after you left."

  A lie.

  The blood evacuated the veins in his face as the truth became apparent. "You killed her on purpose, didn't you? Do not lie to me again."

  Rogelio shook his head. "No, I got really mad." His face turned dark, as if he were remembering a bad memory. "She laughed at me, because I couldn't get it up. Whore. I got mad, I couldn't control myself."

  Felix's hands started to shake, knowing what Rogelio had done. Done to all of these girls. All of them, even Diane.

  "How many are in here?" he asked while holding the box out in front of him. "Are all of these women dead?"

  Rogelio winced. "Come on man! They're just driver's licenses that were left at Aldo's. They never came back for them. That's all!"

  Felix found the one. He showed the license to Rogelio. "And this one?"

  Rogelio studied the picture and then shrugged. "What about her?"

  "You do remember that I am a cop, right?

  He shrugged. "Yes, of course."

  "Her body was found in a dumpster, near a known hangout for junkies, last year. They identified her through fingerprints. I remember that the cops found her purse, but not her ID. Now, I understand why. You took it after you killed her."

  Rogelio killed his drink. "Come on man, they're just lost driver's licenses, I promise."

  He wanted to empty his gun into Rogelio's chest.

  "It was just something I started collecting. The waiters and other customers find them on tables and on the floor. You know how white girls are. They're drunk, messy and drop their IDs."

  "But there are black girls and Hispanic girls and Asian girls that go to your restaurant too!" He held up the box. "Every single one of these are white, young, female, and blonde!"

  Rogelio said nothing, and sat down, exhaling.

  The one found in a dumpster, blonde and young.

  Rogelio rubbed his eyes.

  "And the one last night, Candy, she was young, blonde and female!"

  "You know, now," he said, "I'll throw those away."

  "How long has this been going on?"

  "Come on Felix, let's forget about this, I can order a bunch of food and liquor. We will have a good time."

  "How long you been killing women!"

  He nodded, smiling. "Alright. We've been friends for a long time. I'll tell you that I have been doing that since before I opened Aldo's. I killed my first whore at twenty-one. Since then, I've killed dozens."

  Felix felt a pain in his chest. He'd known this man for years. Rogelio knew Jeanette, his daughter. Did Rogelio want to kill her too?

  Not only was he responsible for what Triple H did today, but he has been doing business with a man who killed dozens of girls like his Jeanette.

  Felix had been friends with a serial killer! The thought made him nauseous. "You're a serial killer, Rogelio."

  "No, my friend. Come on, I'm your friend. You're sounding crazy. They were whores and gold diggers. They all got what they deserved!"

  "There are dozens in that one box and you have four boxes!" He poured the box's content onto the couch.

  Rogelio stared at the strewn licenses with shock. "Come on, man! You made a mess."

  His eyes watered as he drew his weapon. No way Felix would let this man live. "I was wrong to help you. You killed all of these women," he looked at all the licenses on the couch, "I'm going to kill you. You are a blight on society."

  Rogelio moved to stand up from the couch.

  Felix aimed to the right of the killer's shoulder. "No." Fired.

  "WOW! Man, stop shooting that thing!" Rogelio's eyes bulged, holding up a hand.

  Felix shook his head. "How come I didn't see th..."

  While he was still aiming at Rogelio, the front door smashed open, interrupting Felix. From the side, a man yelled something.

  Felix did not understand what the man said, but figured he want
ed him to drop the sidearm. He dropped it. "This man is a serial killer and has killed so many women."

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Borderline-psychotic Men

  I entered the kitchen with purpose as if I was Julia Child about to make an exquisite meal.

  Peeking out a window, I counted eleven of them in all. Seemed like a lot of men for little old me.

  Venturing into the living room, I stood there silently. Motion behind the front curtains caught my eye.

  There were men on the porch.

  Originally, I had planned on waiting for these dumbasses in Frogger's room, but the closet, which contained a vacuum cleaner, offered a better vantage point. The door was slatted—the slats angling downward—and opened from right to left.

  Perfect.

  I reached in my pocket and pulled out one of two suppressors, screwing it into the barrel of one HK, doing the same to the other pistol.

  They entered through the front door.

  "Yo, Frogger! You there?" someone asked.

  Gauging from the strength of his voice, I guessed his position to be in the living room.

  "Who is that?" Frogger's voice cracked from the pain.

  "Yo, it's me, Beto!"

  Hi, Beto. Come on in and join the party.

  "What's up, homie? Is she here?" Beto asked.

  Beto was at the end of the hallway, maybe in the kitchen.

  Frogger's bedroom was at the other end of the hallway so he had to pass my location to reach him. I had to assume that only half entered through the front door. The other half entered through the back door.

  "I think she left!" Frogger shouted.

  No one said anything.

  "Get me out of here!"

  "We're going to get you out of here!" said another thug, not Beto, now in the hallway.

  On my right, a revolver shined. It appeared to be a Smith and Wesson Model 29.44 Magnum, a Dirty Harry handcannon. The line from the movie, "...being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and would blow your head clean off, you better ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk?"

  I didn't need luck; I depended on my ability and lack of empathy for cockroaches who kill innocent women and children.

  White tennis shoes and blue jeans moved across the floor, heading towards Frogger.

  Then another pair of white tennis shoes moved right to left, this time Nikes.

  Two pairs meant two thugs.

  Standing on tippy toes, I couldn't see any more guns or tennis shoes. I needed to stop them before they opened the bedroom door.

  It was time.

  "Come on man, where are you guys? I'm dying in here!"

  Quietly opening the closet door, I stepped out into the hallway. I turned to see the position behind me. No one was there.

  Both of my Heckler & Kochs were raised, I walked up to the thug, aiming, with my left hand, at his head, squeezing the trigger. The handgun sounded like someone coughing. A bullet entered his head, and bits of brain and blood splashed out. He died before his knees buckled and his body fell.

  The other thug reacted sluggishly, and I shot him in the face, blowing the back of his head off. His body fell next to his buddy already sprawled on the floor.

  Two down.

  BANG!

  The gunshot came from behind me. My back exploded in pain. I dropped the gun in my right hand. Falling face first, I landed hard on the hallway floor, not moving.

  My left hand gripped the other gun that lay under my belly.

  "Who's shooting?" Frogger demanded.

  "Yo, I killed that bitch!" a thug boasted. Beto I bet.

  Facing the way the thugs came, my eyes became slits, able to see. The pain in my back was intense.

  Another guy came up from behind Beto. "Hey man, Happy told us not to kill her!"

  Told them not to kill me? Good to know.

  Beto pointed down at me. "Hey man, she killed Joey and Pablo!"

  The floor vaguely vibrated as he and the other one ventured over to me. My hips rotated, allowing me enough space to raise and aim the HK at him.

  Beto's eyes appeared like they wanted to pop out of his face. "Ah sh..."

  Squeezed the trigger and my handgun coughed.

  Head shot. Beto, with a hole in his forehead, his body crumpled down to the side, hitting the wall, falling to the floor.

  Three down.

  The guy, behind Beto, unable to escape.

  COUGH! COUGH!

  Two shots to center mass, his body falling backwards. Then another, a real dumbass, entered the hallway. I plugged him too.

  Five down.

  Didn't see any other thugs, so I allowed myself a small release as I mumbled, "Damn it!" Someone must've hit me with a telephone pole.

  He'd shot me under the right shoulder blade, to the right of the machete. I took the machete out and placed it on the floor, next to the wall. Reaching under my jacket and vest. It stopped the bullet from penetrating my body.

  Sometimes these bullets imbedded themselves into the vest, but not this time. I found it on the floor and stuck it in my front pocket. An addition to my collection. Six other bullets like this one sat in a small box in my house in Baytown.

  Years ago, not long after I got started in the killing game, I got shot for the first time. Luckily, I wore a vest. The impact knocked the wind out of me. I got shot on a job for Lukas Zimmerman. He got his hands on some meth on the cheap and wanted to offload it as fast as possible. Lukas discovered that the drugs had been stolen. The meth cook, Eugene Miller, and owner of the drugs, was from Texas City, Texas. His sobriquet was Whizzy. 'Whizzy' because Eugene was a Breaking-Bad, Walter-White kind of whiz at cooking meth.

  Whizzy was a six-foot two, 160 pound nerd with dandruff, but when he smoked meth Whizzy was an invincible killing machine good with a gun.

  Whizzy plugged me once, in my left titty, after I showed up to his house. Lukas sent me after Whizzy after he shot and killed two of Lukas's guys when he found out who had his stolen meth.

  Able to escape after being shot in the titty, I came back a few days later at night, woke Whizzy with a Louisville Slugger.

  I kneecapped him and I would have killed him if the cops had not shown up. The cops had their eye on him for months and at last went in to arrest him. They found his meth lab thirty feet under his house.

  Whizzy, staring at a decades-long sentence, cut a deal. He ratted out a couple of out-of-state dealers and got fifteen years.

  By now, he has given countless blowjobs to dozens of men who lacked the proper hygiene to perform such an act.

  I stood up, making a mental note to send Whizzy a postcard.

  With my HK up, aiming ahead of me, I moved forward towards Frogger's bedroom, to the end of the hallway. His door was closed so he couldn't see me and warn his butt buddies that I was still here.

  Reached the end of the hallway and I stayed put. I sat down, making myself small. Sitting down, I had a unique vantage point. I had a direct line of sight into the dining room, that led to both the front and the back of the house, and the kitchen, that led to the front of the house.

  Six men remained, that is if no more thugs arrived in the last few minutes. Happy had enough men to send double or triple the number he had here if need be. I was positive that he thought he and his men had this shit under control.

  Pfft!

  Eleven armed, borderline-psychotic men ordinarily would be enough to capture one woman, but I am not like most woman. When men underestimate me—I become more determined to accomplish the task at hand.

  Someone spoke. "Yo, Beto? Where are you? Who's shooting out there?"

  Yes, Frogger keep calling out to them.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Gunfire Inside The House

  "This is it, here!"

  Henry saw the house and pulled into the driveway.

  Mitch smirked. "He is our guy, partner."

  Henry hoped that he was right, not because it would mean an early-out d
ay, Sarah and Timmy had been murdered, he just wanted to find the guilty as fast as possible.

  Turned to his partner. "How you want to do this?"

  Mitch pointed at his own face. "I'm always the bad cop. The better looking cop, with more skills, always gets to play the bad cop!"

  His partner was a good cop; Henry had learned a lot from him and never contradicted him whenever he made that claim.

  Henry nodded, and they got out of the car and walked. He derided himself again, for forgetting his gloves. His hands suffered in the cold.

  The house, a bit small, was nice. White with dark trim around the windows. The yard was well groomed and manicured.

  As he was coming up to the front of the house, Henry's attention was on a flowerbed. It was possible to have a flower garden year around in Houston, not many below-freezing days in any given year.

  Out in front of him, looking through a front window, Mitch reacted, crouching, drawing his sidearm. "Partner, gun!"

  Henry drew his sidearm, peering into the window. There was a man—Hispanic, thirties, thin build—holding another man at gunpoint. The gunman stared at the other man who sat on the couch.

  Positioning themselves right outside the front door, they listened. Since the gunman hadn't seen them, both thought of entering through the front door.

  Henry kicked in the door because Mitch complained about his arthritic knees.

  First Mitch gently tried opening the doorknob; it was locked.

  BANG! Gunfire inside the house.

  Mitch glared at him.

  No words were necessary. He positioned himself, kicking the door on the keyhole. The door flew open, bits of splintered wood sprayed into the house.

  His partner entered the house.

  A man held the other man at gunpoint. Now he had a better look, the gunman appeared to be in his late thirties, the one on the couch, over fifty.

  With training and muscle memory, he and Mitch worked well as a team. Mitch had his firearm aimed at the gunman, and Henry aimed at the man on the couch. In situations like this, anyone could be armed.

  "Freeze!" Mitch tried to sound like Clint Eastwood. "Put the gun down and get down on your knees!"

  The gunman froze and dropped his gun. His head turned. "This man is a serial killer."