Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1)

by Tony Wiley

  DEAL GONE BAD

  TONY WILEY

  Copyright © 2015 Tony Wiley

  Cover design by Sophie Laverdure

  All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used in any form without prior written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or events can only be coincidental.

  Visit our website at tonywileybooks.com and join the newsletter to receive updates on new publications.

  Email: tony@tonywileybooks.com

  Twitter: @tonywiley27

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Frank-Morrison-Thriller-Series/453664691477575

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 1

  At eight o’clock, Frank Morrison walked out of Acton Correctional Facility a free man. He was restless. Eager to move on. He had spent three years, two months and seventeen days locked up in there. A long time for anyone. An eternity for him.

  He started walking toward the bus stop, two hundred feet down the cracked sidewalk. He could have made a few phone calls. Arranged for someone to come and pick him up. But for what he had in mind, he thought it was better to leave alone.

  From the corner of his eye, he registered some movement. A dark mass appeared as the air filled with the low rumble of a car. A voice called out to him.

  “Enjoying life as a free man, Morrison?”

  That voice. He stopped, turned his head and cupped his hand over his eyes to block the low morning sun. Not her. What is she doing here? he thought. The woman was staring at him through the open passenger window of her patrol car, a smirk plastered on her face. It was Claire Sanford. The sheriff’s deputy who had arrested him way back when.

  He summoned a smile. “Up until now I was doing great,” he said.

  Sanford killed the engine, got out of the car and came over to him.

  She moved with the grace of a natural athlete. One of these track and field types, he figured. Must have been a star in college. She stood at least six inches taller than him. A whisker under six feet. She had a slim waist, strong shoulders and long arms. Her gaze was open and direct. He hadn’t seen her in a long while, but she hadn’t changed one bit.

  Here was a woman who always seemed ready to play ball.

  Morrison nodded toward the star-shaped badge pinned on her shirt pocket. “Just in case you’re wondering, I’m not staring at your breasts,” he said. “Congratulations for making sheriff. Though I guess I deserve a bit of this myself.”

  She stopped a foot away from him on the sidewalk and locked her fists on her hips. He no longer needed to shield his eyes from the sun.

  “You think you had something to do with it?” she said.

  He shrugged. “That’s what the local papers wrote, no? You rode my arrest all the way to the county elections and won by a landslide.”

  She sighed. “You know, you’re not half as important as you think you are, Morrison.”

  “Really? Then why are you here?”

  She shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

  He tilted his head. “I’ve only been out for a minute, Sheriff. Some people would say you’re harassing me.”

  She leaned in. “I’m here to serve you a friendly warning,” she said. Then she buried her eyes deeply into his. He could feel her breath on his face. It was more hurried than he would’ve thought. “Have any idea what it might be?”

  He paused. “Let me see. Something about not committing another crime within your county lines or you’ll ride me out of town on a rail? With tar, feathers and the whole lot?”

  “Something like that, yeah, only I’d bring you right back here,” she said with a nod toward the correctional facility.

  He shook his head and let out a breath. “First all your petitions to the parole board and now this.”

  The smirk instantly vanished from her face. “Those boards are way too soft. I’ll make no excuse for making sure you did all your time.”

  Morrison smiled. “Give me a break. That was my first conviction.”

  She remained dead serious. “It was only your first conviction because nobody had ever caught you before I did. Not because you never did anything.”

  He shrugged. “That’s beside the point. I committed a crime, yes, but a nonviolent one. Victimless, I’d even say. Although I don’t expect you to follow me on this one. Usually that means parole.”

  She wouldn’t have it. “A crime is a crime. You deserved every single day that you spent in there. And more.”

  Her attitude didn’t surprise him. She had that self-righteous fiber buried deep within her bones. He guessed that came with the territory. Nothing he could ever do to make her change her mind. He shook his head. He didn’t really care what she thought of him. As long as he was free.

  “Relax, Sheriff. I’m reformed, now. I’m past all that crap.”

  The smirk was back on her face. “Really? Then tell me. What are you up to now?”

  “If you don’t mind, that’s none of your business. Thanks to you, I served up a full sentence. I’m completely free now. No strings attached.”

  She shook her head. “A guy like you doesn’t flip burgers for nine bucks an hour. No way.”

  “Who says I want to do that?”

  “With your criminal record, that’s about the only job you could get.”

  Morrison cracked a wry smile.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” he said. “Sort of. But I could make you one myself.”

  She didn’t say anything. She just made a face that meant something like “Go ahead, hit me with your best shot.”

  “If we had met under different circumstances, you could’ve been just my type.”

  She let out a short laugh and half-turned. For a brief moment, the sun shone again in Morrison’s face, making him squint. She moved back to her original position. “Well, don’t hold your breath, buddy boy,” she said. “I like my men tall and legit to start with.” Then she l
ooked around and added, “What’s the matter here, no girlfriend to pick you up? What happened to that cute redhead you were with?”

  Morrison waved his hand. “Water under the bridge,” he said.

  She nodded. “Oh, that’s right, that’s what prison tends to do.”

  “But you could give me a ride to town.”

  She shook her head. “That would be an improper use of public property. Besides, I’m saving it for the return trip.”

  He smiled. “I told you, I’m past all that,” he lied again.

  She sighed. “I know your type, Morrison. You’re about as likely to walk the straight and narrow as I am to win the Powerball. You can now do whatever the hell you want. Just make sure you don’t do it within my county lines, OK?”

  She removed her hands from her hips and made as if she was going to turn around and leave.

  Morrison quickly interjected, “Before you go, can I give you a piece of advice?”

  She stopped in her tracks. Stared at him.

  “Don’t take it personal, Sanford,” he said. “I certainly don’t. You arrested me? Congratulations. It’s all fine by me. Even though you got me more by luck than anything else.”

  That last bit stung her, he could see it. But she quickly swept it under the rug.

  “Here we go again with your self-importance,” she said.

  He pressed on. “You know, I did not intentionally ridicule you before you arrested me. It just happened that way.” He raised his right hand. “Swear to God.”

  She did not bite. She would not be drawn into it. Instead, she just shook her head, turned around and walked back to the black Charger.

  She opened the door and paused. “Remember, Morrison. Stay away from my county lines. And have a good life.”

  Then she ducked back behind the wheel, got the big V8 humming again and left in a roar.

  Morrison shook his head. He started for the bus stop again.

  Don’t worry, sweetheart, he thought, I’ll be outside your county lines soon enough.

  Not the most pleasant way to reconnect with his freedom. He had not expected balloons and ribbons, but he had not expected this either. What a pain that Sanford. Anyway. He decided to shrug off the whole incident. He didn’t really care about her and her opinions. Only the future mattered.

  As he strolled along the broken sidewalk, he put his hand in his pocket, just to feel the brass key between his thumb and middle finger.

  Minutes ago, he had recovered his few remaining possessions. His clothes. They felt so good after years of wearing a dark green jumpsuit. So civilized. His wallet, with about five hundred dollars, his New York State driver’s license and two expired credit cards. His Rolex. Expensive but well worth the two thousand dollars he’d paid for it. Over the years, the watch had served him well. Gave him instant credibility, whoever he was impersonating. Always worked like a charm. Especially with women. His female friends all grudgingly acknowledged that.

  And this dull brass key.

  Morrison had been dreaming about it every single day, for the last three years, two months and seventeen days. It would unlock his future. Enable him to get back on the fast track. If all went well, he would get to use it this afternoon. Only a short bus ride to downtown then a longer one on a Greyhound stood in the way.

  Then his life would resume properly. As if the last three years had just been a bad dream. Sheriff Sanford included.

  Out in the distance, her patrol car got smaller and smaller. Then it disappeared behind a curtain of pale green foliage down the curving two-lane road.

  Up close, the bus stop was a filthy thing. Its glass panels were etched with graffiti, the cement floor littered with old papers and wads of bubble gum. If it hadn’t been for the timetable hanging in the middle of the far panel, he wouldn’t have bothered to go in.

  He found the next arrival time in the dense mass of fine print and looked at his watch. Good. The bus would pick him up in less than ten minutes. He just had to wait.

  He stepped back and looked around.

  Instinctively, since the bus wasn’t due to arrive just yet, he expected to see a deserted road. Which was ridiculous because even though it was a very quiet county road, regular cars could come and go at any time. That’s why he quickly overcame his initial surprise when the black Lincoln Navigator with dark-tinted windows approached. Just another SUV with a random Joe going about his business.

  But he didn’t expect the Navigator to stop in front of him.

  And he even less expected what he saw when the front passenger window rolled down.

  Who said that life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans? John Lennon perhaps? He wasn’t sure. But it rang true enough.

  Morrison had had three years, two months and seventeen days to prepare for this. But now, barely fifteen minutes into it, his carefully prepared plan was going out the window.

  As he stared at the silencer gun aimed at him, he realized that he would have to face a slice of life that wasn’t at all what he had planned for.

  Chapter 2

  Morrison took in the picture real fast.

  There were two men in the black Navigator. He had never seen them. The driver. Two hands on the wheel. Dark hair slicked back. Big aviator sunglasses hiding half of his face. And the guy with the gun. Short bleached blond hair. Sitting in the rear left seat. Morrison was seeing them both through the open front passenger window. That fact alone already told him a lot.

  They weren’t there to gun him down.

  If that had been their intent, they would have rolled down the right rear window and they would have stopped three feet further. That way, he wouldn’t have seen the gun coming. And the position would have provided the shooter with a straight open line to him. Not some messy diagonal where the headrest or even the rear-view mirror could interfere with the bullets.

  In addition, the blond guy was holding the silencer gun one-handed in a relaxed way. More like he was making a statement than getting ready to shoot him. Morrison was no gun expert. Rather hated them in fact. But he knew that when you want to shoot a pistol with some precision, you need to brace both hands around the butt and extend your arms in an elevated position. You just don’t slouch like that guy did.

  No, they had come in like this because they wanted something else.

  The blond guy confirmed his deduction. “Why don’t you come in for a ride, Morrison?” he said.

  They knew his name.

  So this was not some unlucky random thing. Right by a state correctional facility, that would have been surprising. But in his lifetime, Morrison had seen worse. He took another good look at them.

  The driver’s head was restless, his dark sunglasses alternately scanning the windshield and all three rear-view mirrors. Paying no attention whatsoever to him. Like he should. That was his partner’s job. Both men were pretty big. He guessed they were at least six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds each. Easy. Strong arms working for somebody else. Not bosses. Morrison could read people. He was even rather good at it. His gut told him that these two were simply doers.

  For a split second, he thought that he could try to stall this. After all, the bus was supposed to arrive within minutes, or another car could come by. If he engaged them long enough, even someone around the prison compound could notice the big black Lincoln Navigator lying still and decide to come have a peek. Anything he could use to divert the two men’s attention. Force their hand. Prompt them to abort their attempted abduction.

  But then again, there was a silencer screwed on the end of that gun barrel. That meant they could shoot him if they had to. Otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered with it.

  The blond guy seemed to pick up on Morrison’s thoughts and showed that he had no intention of letting the moment slip between his fingers. He wrapped his left hand around his right already holding the butt and brought the gun up to his line of sight, steadying his gaze. Then he addressed him again. “So what will it be, Morrison?” he sa
id. “A ride or a bullet?”

  Logic told him that if he tried anything and failed, he would be dead within seconds. All that blond thug had to do to wipe him off the face of the earth was gently squeeze the trigger. Then a high-velocity 9mm round—or more if this was an automatic, Morrison couldn’t really tell—would pierce his forehead with a slight thump, tunnel through his brain and smash his skull into a million pieces, spattering the glass panel behind him with an impromptu Jackson Pollock.

  The decision was simple enough to make. There really was no alternative. Even if, after all, their job was to kill him, only in a discreet place where his body would never be found. As annoying as it was, he couldn’t rule out that possibility. Didn’t think that’s what they had been instructed to do, but couldn’t be sure either.

  So even if it would only buy him some time, Morrison stepped forward and said, “All right, easy with that gun. I’m coming in.”

  Chapter 3

  The big black Navigator got going as soon as Morrison climbed in. The window to his right rolled up with a muffled hiss, sealing him off from the outside world once again.

  From behind, the blond guy with the gun gave him some instructions.

  “Put your seatbelt on and stay quiet,” he said. “Hands away from the door. And no funny moves. If you blink and I don’t expect it, I’m gonna shoot you.”

  Morrison fired back immediately. “No, you won’t,” he said.

  He had to engage them. Try to get something going.

  The guy scoffed. “Wanna try me?”

  “Bullshit,” Morrison said.

  The guy was becoming agitated. “Shut up, asshole,” he said.

  “Trust me,” Morrison said. “You don’t want to fire a gun in a closed car, even in a big SUV like this.”

  “I will if I have to.”

  “Makes a hell of a bang. Even with a silencer. It’s enough to make you deaf.”

  Morrison had once been in the back of a van when a shot was accidentally fired. Helped to explain his profound aversion to guns.

  “Makes no difference to me,” the guy said.

  “You’ve never done it. I can tell.”

  “Shut up, you little wimp, or I’ll crush you.”

  “But you won’t shoot me. No way. Not in here.”