by J. C. Fields
The Sean Kruger Series
Complete 3 Book Boxed Set
J.C. Fields
FBI PROFILER SEAN KRUGER IS ON THE TRAIL
Copyright © 2018 J.C. Fields
All rights reserved.
~~~~
No part of this boxed set, or any individual book in it, may be reproduced or transmitted or transferred in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system or device, without the permission in writing by the author.
Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental.
This is a work of fiction.
e-book Press Publishing
an imprint of A & S Publishing
A & S Holmes, Inc.
THE FUGITIVE’S TRAIL
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 2
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 3
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
THE ASSASSIN’S TRAIL
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
THE IMPOSTOR’S TRAIL
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
About the Author
THE FUGITIVE’S TRAIL
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mother. You gave me your love of books and reading.
Because of that gift, my life has been so much richer.
Acknowledgments
Completing a debut novel for any writer is an exhilarating event, it is also a bit scary. Without the help of the following individuals, this book would still be a file residing on the hard-drive of my computer.
First and foremost, I want to thank my editor, Scott Alexander Jones, who sanded the rough edges off the manuscript. His patience, comments, encouragements, and suggestions have accelerated my growth as a writer.
To Norma Eaton, many thanks for the fine tuning. Your suggestions smoothed everything out.
To Sharon Kizziah-Holmes of Paperback-Press, thank you for believing in the project and helping this writer realize a dream held for many years.
To Stan Williams, your work on the cover has been amazing. Thank you for your talent and your enduring friendship.
To my daughter-in-law Miranda, thank you for encouraging me to keep writing and for being my first fan.
Finally, and above all else, I give thanks each day for my wife Connie. She is my best friend, my partner in this journey called life, and the person I most love being with. Thank you for enduring my early mornings, late nights, and disappearing into my office on weekends to write.
Part 1
After descending from the thirty-fourth floor, the elevator doors opened revealing an expansive deserted lobby. Glass and steel comprised the front wall from floor to the top of the atrium four stories above. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, adding a note of elegance to the otherwise industrial look of the lobby. A firm hand on the man’s back pushed him out of the elevator toward the buildings entrance.
Two security guards escorted the man. Both were big and muscular, biceps stretching the material of their dark gray suits. One was slightly taller and on the right of the man. The other guard was shorter, to his left and slightly in front. The only other occupant of the lobby, besides the three men walking toward the front door, was at the security desk. He was a tall young black man dressed in a dark blue blazer, white shirt, and tie. He nodded at the guards as they escorted the guest toward the front door.
The man being escorted could see through the front glass a black Suburban waiting at the curb—the same vehicle he had been pushed into earlier in the morning. As the guard in front reached to open one of the building’s front doors, he was turned slightly toward the guest, exposing his weapon.
While the guard’s attention was trained on opening the door, the guest’s left hand extracted the Glock from the belt holster on the man’s right hip. At the same time he was reaching for the gun, his right leg lifted. With as much force as he could, he kicked at the leg of the taller guard behind him. His shoe slammed into the kneecap of the man’s left leg, which bent in the wrong direction and the guard collapsed screaming in pain.
His left han
d, which now held the Glock, rose and the trigger was pulled twice. The shorter guard was forced back against the adjacent glass door and collapsed. The now unescorted man rushed through the door in front of him, turned to his right, and ran.
Before the guard at the front desk could get out of his chair, the entire incident was over. The man had disappeared into the crowd on the street.
The lobby guard hurried over to the two men on the floor, saw a pool of blood spreading under the shorter guard. The taller guard was withering on the floor, trying to straighten his now ruined left leg. Hurrying back to his desk, he picked up a phone and dialed 911.
***
The driver of the black Suburban sat stunned as he watched the man rush out of the building, turn right, and disappear into the midday crowd. He slammed the Suburban into park, opened the door, and rushed into the building. As soon as he was through the front doors, he stopped.
His first sight was the carnage of the dead man slumped against the glass and the shattered leg of the other. At the same time, his cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, he sighed. The pending conversation would not be pleasant.
***
Staring out the window of his thirty-fourth story office, Abel Plymel realized he had made a hasty decision, a decision made in anger. He needed the man alive.
Turning back to his desk, Plymel picked up his cordless phone and dialed the cell phone of one of his security guards. It went unanswered, totally unacceptable. He paid them to answer their phones twenty-four seven.
He dialed the cell phone of the second guard, no answer. Finally he called his driver, who answered on the fourth ring. His eyes grew wide as he listened then suddenly threw the handset at his office door.
Chapter 2
Kansas City, MO
Standing in the front room of the now empty house, it seemed alien to him. Not the place where he’d raised his son. Looking around the room, he smiled, opened the front door, and stepped out. He twisted the knob to make sure it was locked, closed it, and walked to his new car parked in the driveway, a Ford Mustang. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he stared at the house for several minutes before making a call on his cell phone. It was answered on the second ring. He said, “Sandra, this is Sean Kruger.”
“Sean, I was just about to call you. Did the cleaning service do a nice job?”
“Yes, they did. They left about ten minutes ago. Thank you for recommending them. Please let the Carsons know I’m out of the house a day early.”
“They’ll be thrilled. Have I told you how much they love the house?”
“Several times, Sandra.”
“And the neighborhood, their little girl is already planning sleepovers—”
“Sorry, Sandra, I don’t have a lot of time. I just wanted to tell you my keys are on the breakfast bar in the kitchen.”
Sandra was quiet for a second and then said, “I’ll give the Carsons a call and let them know.”
“Thank you for all your help these past few months. I wish I could talk longer, but I’m late for an appointment.”
“You’re more than welcome. Why don’t you call me after you settle into your new condo. We can have dinner.” She paused for half a second. “My treat.”
Hesitating for a few seconds, he finally said, “I’ll do that.” Although he knew he never would. He ended the call and smiled. Sandra O’Dell was a nice person and a very good real estate agent. But, if he had not cut her off, she would still be chattering about sleepovers. As for the dinner, the thought of listening to her for several hours made him shiver.
He sat in the car for a few seconds, then opened the door and stood up to look at the house one last time. It had been his home for seventeen years. A lot of good memories were here: his parents moving in to help raise his then one-year-old son, the joy of watching them interact with their grandson on a daily basis, watching a little boy turn into a bright and talented young man. There were also sad memories.
Finally, after staring at the house for several minutes, he sat back down in the car, started the engine, backed out of the driveway, and accelerated the Mustang toward his new home. It was the first day of a new chapter in his life.
The condo was a newly renovated two-bedroom unit on the west side of the Kansas City Plaza. The extra bedroom would serve as his office and a place for his son Brian to sleep when home from college. One of the reasons he had chosen this particular unit was the open living space. The living, kitchen, and dining area were all one room separated only by a breakfast bar in the kitchen. But the main reason he liked the place was the balcony. It had a clear view of the Plaza, which was spectacular at night.
Fifteen minutes later, the Mustang was parked in his designated parking slot. It was approaching dusk and the shadows from adjacent buildings were growing long. He sat quietly in the car and thought about the hectic and emotional four months since his mother’s death. The doctors had told Kruger it was a heart attack, but he disagreed. He had a Ph.D. in psychology and knew the mind was far more complicated than most people imagined. His father and mother had been married for sixty years, marrying right after high school. Something died inside his mother when his father passed away two years ago. She would put on a happy face and say nothing was wrong. But Kruger could tell she was hurting. Finally, after Brian moved away for college, she quietly passed away one night in her sleep.
Even as a non-practicing Catholic, Kruger believed in a hereafter. He was comforted with the concept of his mother and father together again. But occasionally doubt crept into his faith. As one of the FBI’s premiere profilers, he had seen the darkest recesses of the human psyche. And sometimes he wondered how a benevolent God would allow such terrors to occur. But that was for religious philosophers to debate, not him.
As he opened the car door, he heard a woman scream, “Let go of me, you bastard.”
His first reaction was to draw his service pistol, a Glock 19, and run in the direction of the voice. As he rounded the northwest corner of the building, he saw two muscular, tattooed young men: one white and the other black. The black guy was holding a woman by the arms as the white guy dug through her purse. Kruger was fifteen yards away when he stopped. Taking a Weaver stance, he yelled, “FBI, on the ground now.”
The black guy was startled and released the woman, who quickly ran toward Kruger. The white guy turned around, stared at Kruger, and said, “Shiiiittttt, you ain’t no FBI. Show me a badge, mutafukr.”
Kruger yelled again, “On the ground now!”
The black guy looked at Kruger and then at his partner. He appeared to be choosing whether to get on the ground or run. The white guy threw the purse on the ground. Reached behind his back and pulled out a snub-nosed revolver. As the guy raised the revolver in his direction, Kruger didn’t hesitate and fired the Glock twice. Both shots hit their target. The white guy dropped the revolver and grabbed his chest. Two circles of red appeared high on his chest and shoulder. He dropped to his knees and then fell back. The black guy bolted in the opposite direction as fast as he could. Kruger quickly moved to the fallen gun and kicked it aside, still pointing his Glock at the man on the ground.
He looked back at the woman, saw she was okay, and reached for his cell phone. He punched in 911 as he trained the Glock on the prone assailant. He said to the operator, “My name is Sean Kruger; I’m a special agent with the FBI. I have shots fired and a man down. I need an ambulance and a squad car.” He was asked for the address, which he gave and ended the call.
The white kid stared up at him with wide eyes. The blood loss was moderate. Kruger did not offer assistance and kept the Glock pointed at the man. Within five minutes, a patrol car arrived and one of the two officers told Kruger to drop his weapon and stand aside. Kruger complied, laying the Glock on the ground. He put his hands above his head and backed up ten steps. One patrolman checked the wounded man, and the other officer cuffed Kruger and led him to their squad car.
Within ten minutes, five patrol cars and two ambulances occu
pied the parking lot of Kruger’s new condo. He watched from the back seat of the patrol car as the wounded man was placed on a gurney and loaded into one of the ambulances. As it sped away, a Kansas City police sergeant opened the squad car’s back door and leaned in.
“You want to tell me how you got involved.”
Kruger stared at the police officer and said, “The lady was in trouble, I helped her out.”
“You live around here?”
“Yes, second floor, apartment A.”
The sergeant continued to stare at Kruger. “Lady lives on the second floor also and she’s never seen you before.”
“Because I just moved in today, sergeant.” Kruger spat out the police officer’s title with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Are you going to take these cuffs off?”
“Not yet, just cool your heels.” The sergeant shut the door and walked away.
Sitting back in the seat with his hands cuffed behind him was difficult and uncomfortable, but he managed. Dusk had turned to night and the area was bathed in the artificial glow of street lamps, police car headlights and the rotating blues and reds of their emergency light bars. Finally after another fifteen minutes elapsed, a man in a suit opened the door.
“You Kruger?”
Nodding, “Yes, who are you?”
“Detective McAdams. Get out.”
Swinging his legs out of the squad car, Kruger leaned forward and stood. McAdams reached around and unlocked the cuffs. “Sorry about the cuffs, Agent Kruger. Your story checks out.”
Kruger rubbed his wrists, trying to get the feeling back. He said, “May I talk to the victim?”
The detective shrugged and nodded his head in her direction. “Suit yourself, you’re free to go.”
As he was walking toward the woman, she rushed to him, hugged him, and said, “Thank you. I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t come along.”
Surprised by her embrace, he limply returned the hug and said, “Glad you weren’t hurt. My name’s Sean Kruger.”
The woman backed away, smiled, and said, “I’m Stephanie. I really don’t know how to thank you, Sean. I’ve never been in a situation like this.”
