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

by Tony Wiley

  The driver shifted in his seat, gave a quick look up to his partner through the rear-view mirror and uttered his first words.

  “Shut up, Bob,” he said. “Remember, don’t get drawn into his mind games.”

  Morrison gave them a silent thank you. Not much information to go by, but at least that was a start. The blond guy’s name was Bob and their boss knew him well enough to warn them about him. Morrison kept at it.

  “Who told you that?” he said. “Who’s your boss?”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” the driver said.

  So their job was not to bring him to some backwoods to put a bullet through his head after all. At least not until he saw their boss. They had been authorized to shoot him down if that proved necessary, but that was not their prime intent. That knowledge allowed Morrison to relax a bit. Not much. Just a bit.

  They entered a heavily wooded area, the same he had seen Sheriff Sanford’s patrol car disappear through minutes before, even though that already seemed like a million years ago. Tall stands of maple trees were interspersed with the odd oaks and birches. Horizontal lines of blue translucent plastic tubing ran from trunk to trunk. Part of the corrugated steel incline of a sugar shack was visible through the thick blanket of fresh springtime leaves. Perfect sugar maple country. Only weeks before, the woods must have been humming with activity, steam rolling from the cupolas in thick clouds. Morrison was seeing that beautiful countryside up close for the first time in years, but he couldn’t really enjoy it. He had to stay focused on what was happening in the black Navigator.

  He remained silent for a while. Watched. Listened.

  What struck him next was what was not there.

  There were no ties or handcuffs. No blindfold. He was allowed to see exactly where they were going. He was pretty familiar with the whole county—anybody who knew him was aware of that. Yet he was allowed to see where they were headed. Couldn’t be some big secret then.

  After a moment, the forest thinned out and gave way to some cleared land. Pastures where sheep were grazing, wide open fields freshly ploughed, covered with seedlings. They were getting closer to the town of Acton. Throughout, Morrison was taking in all the changes that had happened to the scenery during his incarceration. Some of it was subtle. Trees and hedges still in the same places, only having grown bigger. Others were more striking, like when they reached the small industrial estate on the outskirts of town. Perkins Electronics had had a plant there for a long time. But now it was at least double the size. And a lot smarter. New modern steel and glass office space now stood in the front, and the warehouse behind seemed huger than before. New signage with stainless steel letters set on a polished granite base floated above the front lawn, projecting an air of sleek opulence. Must be doing good business, Morrison figured as the Navigator zoomed past the impressive building.

  At the next junction, Morrison was surprised by the driver’s reaction. Instead of heading straight into town as he anticipated, the Navigator veered left onto another country road.

  “Not going into town?” Morrison said.

  His inquiry was met only by silence.

  Turned out they were only skirting around town toward a farther destination. Morrison did not like that one bit. Instinctively, he had liked the fact that they were heading to town, which somewhat equalled a denser human presence with a reduced risk for himself. The blond guy seemed to notice something.

  “Getting nervous, Morrison?” he said.

  “Bored,” Morrison lied. “I hadn’t planned to spend my first day out driving around.”

  “Maybe you should be nervous.”

  At his side, the driver grinned but said nothing. He kept pushing the big SUV farther and farther out.

  The crossroads started to thin out. And they were increasingly of the packed dirt, washboard kind typical of deep rural upstate New York in the spring. Maybe two or three cars ventured on each of these roads every day. They led nowhere. Or rather, to a million places where you could vanish unnoticed.

  They nosed on a private unnamed road with a yellow “No Outlet” sign planted in the soft dirt shoulder. At least a dozen bullets had shredded the thin metal plate. Another staple of deep rural upstate New York.

  They headed northwest through much rougher terrain that Morrison did not know, then drove up a short steep hill that opened up to a cleared plateau. At the end of the road was a white clapboard house with a red front door and black window shutters. On its right flank stood a separate garage and shed unit. Very clean and orderly. A property obviously well maintained.

  As they covered the last few hundred feet leading up to it, Morrison started to worry. The key. He didn’t know who they were going to see. He had never been to this house. But it could spark questions that he was not willing to answer. He sensed enough trouble as it were.

  But what could he do?

  The key was in his jeans pocket, and he had a gun aimed at the nape of his neck. He couldn’t risk anything just yet.

  The driver stopped the Navigator in front of the garage and ordered Morrison to get out.

  “And don’t try anything funny,” the blond guy said, still holding the gun.

  They led him directly to the shed. The guy with the slicked-back hair scrambled with a lock, then opened the latch and pulled open a heavy wooden door. It was dark in there. The only light came from the exterior.

  “Get in there,” said the guy holding the lock.

  Morrison pondered his situation. Outnumbered two to one. At his left, the guy with the gun was out of reach and seemed steady enough. Ready to fire off at the slightest provocation. There was still nothing he could do. So he made for the door.

  “Wait,” the blond guy said to his partner, “don’t you want to search him before we lock him up?”

  Morrison stopped. He thought about the key again. He didn’t want them to find it, whoever they were. He really didn’t want that. It had to stay hidden.

  The other guy shrugged and said, “What’s the point? He’s just been released from prison. I don’t think that sheriff chick slipped him anything dangerous. Right, Morrison?”

  Morrison kept silent.

  “Besides, he has a reputation for avoiding weapons of any kind. At least that’s what the boss said.”

  The blond guy motioned for him to get moving again and said, “Don’t you wish you had a piece with you now, Morrison? I betcha do.”

  As soon as Morrison stepped inside the slightly cool room, the door slammed shut on him with a heavy bang. He heard fast metallic chirping sounds as the latch was fastened and the lock put back in place. Then nothing. Just darkness and silence.

  Here we go again, he thought. After three years, two months and seventeen days, back in a new prison.

  Chapter 4

  It was pitch dark in there.

  The only light came from a thin ray under the massive shed door, not powerful enough to project inside. Instead, it just vanished on the first half-inch of plywood floor. Compared with outside, the air felt cool and slightly humid. At this time of year, the nights were still cold out in the countryside. The shed’s walls had yet to absorb substantial heat. Later on, Morrison had no doubt the room would turn into a sauna. Before being locked up, he had seen that the garage and shed unit stood clear of any tree.

  A fresh spruce smell permeated the air, as if the shed had not been constructed too long ago. Its studs and joists still released the aroma of freshly felled timber. A weird thought occurred to him: Was this built for me? The idea unsettled him but he quickly waved it aside. He had more pressing things to do than worry.

  First, he had to find some light. He crept back up to the door. Put his hands on its surface. Felt his way to its left edge, the side where it opened. There was no handle or hardware of any kind inside. Just smooth plywood. He tried applying some pressure on it, but it didn’t budge. The locked latch held it tight. He moved his hands further and felt the framing. The timber was rough under his fingers, not like the smooth construct
ion lumber that you could buy at the hardware center. More like the raw product that a self-sufficient farmer would get when he cut down good solid trees then sliced them with a portable sawmill. A cheap but sturdy material that was more than a match for its industrial cousin. In between the first two studs, Morrison felt the plastic sleeve of an electrical cable. He let his fingers course along its length up to a plastic box with a protruding switch. He flipped it up. The lights came on.

  The whole shed was made like this. Raw studs and joists covered with plywood on the outside. Apart from the door, there was no other opening. It contained no object either. No shovel, no gardening tool. None of the usual stuff that would clutter a place like this. Nothing at all that he could use to pry his way out of here.

  But at least, now, he was alone.

  He had some time to himself.

  Morrison took the key from his pocket and held it between his thumb and middle finger. He had no idea how long he would be held in here. No idea who he would be meeting. But one thing was for sure. He needed to conceal this key as best he could. He couldn’t keep it in his pocket. Way too obvious.

  So he put the key down on the floor. Untied his shoe. Removed it. Then he squeezed his fingers in the opening and pulled delicately on the glued-on insole, where the toes were. The thin leather strip gave way with a weak tearing sound. Then he grabbed the key, slipped its end through the opening he had just made under the insole and slowly pushed it in, feeling the tip slice through the hardened glue. He looked at the shoe. The upper concealed the location of the key. Just by looking at the shoe, you had no way of knowing it was in there. Not perfect. Far from it. A thorough search by competent hands would soon reveal it, but not a casual one. So this was good enough given the circumstances.

  Morrison put his shoe back on and stood up.

  He was thirsty. He went to the door and banged on it.

  “Anybody there?” he said. “Can I get something to drink?”

  There was no response. The two men were probably inside the house. Or they were ignoring him. Morrison sat down against the far wall, setting his sight on the door. Now he was also hungry. He called out again at the two guys, still without any feedback. He shook his head. Bummer. At least in prison he had three square meals a day, and he could snack and drink whenever he wanted.

  Earlier, he had promised himself he’d stop at Elena’s Bakery and pick up cinnamon buns and decent coffee when he got to town. If it weren’t for these guys, he would probably be having them right now. He shrugged and tried to chase that thought away. Concentrated instead on trying to figure out who was behind all this.

  Sadly, there was no shortage of suspects. Considering how he had made his living since he was a teenager, he was rather more exposed to this type of event than the average Joe. It could be the work of rivals determined to block the re-entry of a fierce competitor in a lucrative market. Now would be the time to strike, when he was barely out of prison and still unsettled. He could see some logic in it. It could also come from disgruntled partners, associates he had dealt with in the past and who bore him grudges, perceived or justified. Sometimes the line was blurred between those two. People would more easily blame somebody else for their failure than take a long hard look at themselves in the mirror. Especially in his line of business. Lastly, it could come from would-be partners, suitors he had turned down and who now wanted to get back at him.

  He spent the next few hours alternately sitting and standing, walking a few steps to and from the door to shake his legs, all the while going through all the possibilities. At least the ones he was aware of. A carousel of faces filed one after another in his mind. Then he heard the sound of the Navigator’s door slam shut, followed by the engine starting. He interrupted himself to go back to banging on the door.

  He called out at his captors but to no avail. Nobody either heard him or cared to respond.

  Out of sheer frustration, he yielded to an impatient gesture and gave a hard punch on the door. Then he cursed himself for doing so. Keep your focus, dammit, he thought. This is no time to break a knuckle. He went back to the far wall and squatted down again.

  It was getting warmer and warmer in his plywood prison, the air becoming stuffy and stale. His mouth was running real dry. Sweat beads were forming on his forehead. He closed his eyes and disciplined himself back into thinking.

  He thought he was making progress.

  An hour or so later, the Navigator came back and parked close by. The doors opened and slammed shut again. Somebody came to the shed and yelled, “Morrison? Move away from the door!”

  He recognized the blond guy’s voice. He stayed right where he was. Didn’t have to budge an inch as he was already crouching at the far end.

  The scrambling and chirping metallic sounds were back and the door opened. A draught of fresh air swirled into the shed. The guy dropped a McDonald’s bag with a large soda on the plywood floor.

  “How long are you going to keep me in here?” Morrison said.

  “As long as it’s gonna take,” the blond guy said.

  “It’s getting real hot.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “At least bring me some water.”

  “You’ve got a Coke.”

  “That’s not gonna be enough. Especially with junk food like that. Too much salt. Makes you drink like a fountain.”

  The blond guy smirked. “Have we got ourselves a fussy eater?” he said. “I can take the bag away if you don’t want it, you know.”

  “Come on. Just bring me some water, OK?”

  The guy shook his head. He said, “That’s not gonna be necessary. Shouldn’t be too long now.” And he slammed the door shut again.

  Morrison got up, grabbed his lunch and came back to his squatting position. They had brought him a Big Mac, large fries and baked apple pie. He was starving. He scarfed down his meal in no time. Except for his soft drink. He drank about half of it, then decided he was going to make the other half last.

  It turned out that the blond guy was right. He did not have to wait too long. He soon heard the sound of two large vehicles making their way up the driveway. Big bold SUVs, possibly carbon copies of the black Lincoln Navigator judging by the hum of their engines. Then he heard doors slamming and the now familiar sounds of the lock opening.

  And there he was. His host. Framed in the doorway with the blond and the slicked-back hair guys at his side. The man said, “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Morrison? But you probably don’t mind. By now, you must’ve grown used to waiting.”

  Morrison didn’t say anything.

  He just stared at him.

  Of all the faces he had been reviewing, that one was among those he had deemed the least likely to be responsible for this.

  By a country mile.

  Chapter 5

  Morrison kept staring at him. The man was the same. Only different. With the kinds of subtle changes you never notice when you see a person regularly, but that do stand out when you haven’t seen them for more than three years. Shoulders a bit broader, squarer. Hair slightly thinner. Deeper lines on the face. And more of them.

  Morrison addressed him by his nickname. “Long time no see, Junior.”

  Junior bit his lip and tilted his head slightly to his right. A move Morrison had often seen characters do both in Western and mafia movies, oddly enough.

  “The world has changed, Morrison,” Junior said. “It’s Mike now.”

  “OK, then. Long time no see, Mike.”

  “You don’t look too bad,” Mike said.

  “You know what they say. It’s all in the head.” Morrison nodded to the other guys and said, “You’ve got your own crew now?”

  “Like I said, the world has changed.”

  Mike stayed there, blocking the doorway. He wasn’t aggressive with him, but he certainly kept his distance. He seemed eager to establish his position, show who was in command. Yeah, right, thought Morrison. Like having him abducted at gunpoint and keeping him locked u
p for hours was not enough.

  Mike glanced sideways at the slicked-back hair guy and said, “Did you search him?”

  The guy shrugged. “What for?” he said. “He just got out of prison.”

  “Do it,” Mike said. “I know this guy. He could get things in and out prison that you wouldn’t even manage to find in a hardware store.”

  The slicked-back hair guy breathed out and motioned for the blond guy to go inside the shed. The hierarchy was clear enough.

  Morrison tensed up a bit, thinking about the key. But he made a conscious effort to relax. He spread his arms and legs. Breathed evenly.

  The guy bent over and patted through his pants, starting at the ankles and going all the way up to his back pocket. He paused briefly to throw Morrison’s wallet at his partner, then continued his search, patting through the shirt.

  At the end of it, he said, “He’s clean.”

  “Same here,” said the slicked-back hair guy, who threw Morrison back his wallet.

  Mike kept his gaze focused on him. Very neutral, but with a hint of contentment. Not much. All very subtle.

  Morrison let him have his moment. He had no problem with that. He liked to play the long game. In his book, strategy mattered a whole lot more than tactics.

  Then Morrison broke the stalemate and said, “You mind telling me what this is all about?”

  Mike didn’t answer his question. He just nodded and said, “Come on, we’re going for a ride.”

  There were still guns around and not in his hands, so Morrison knew better than to do something foolish. He managed to be as predictable as he could be and followed Mike to an open Jeep parked behind the garage. They all climbed in with Mike at the wheel, Morrison at his side and the two guys behind. The Jeep got going in a cloud of dust.

  A dirt track meandered through the open rolling hills, leading them to a dense hardwood forest where they continued their way in the cool shade. It was a huge property.

  Morrison felt good to be out in the open after the hours of confinement in the hot shed. His shirt even started to dry. “This is all yours?” he said, raising his voice to cover the noise.