DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  Derek raced after him.

  Turning left after Ronin, he saw no sight of him. In this labyrinth, he could be anywhere. Dammit!

  He rushed forward, approaching each turn with caution.

  Was he doubling back to take a shot at Makatashi?

  Derek turned in that direction.

  A bullet whined past him. Spinning, Derek fired back, saw Ronin sprinting past an adjacent crossway. Headed in the general direction of Sakura, Makatashi and Beach.

  “Coming your way!” he shouted.

  There was something funny about the Ronin, he thought, in the fleeting glimpses he had caught of him. He had a thin pack on his back. Not a full backpack. And he wrote what looked like suit pants and a shirt and tie.

  Suicide vest?

  Running back toward Beach, he heard more gunshots.

  Blasting around the corner, he saw Makatashi crouched over Sakura, and Beach in a Weaver stance facing the other direction.

  “Out and to the right!” she shouted.

  Derek turned right at the first crossing, ducked under a support beam for the helipad. As he crossed a perpendicular pathway, he saw Beach running in the same direction.

  Suddenly, from the right, Guy LeClare burst out, huge gun in his fist. Derek almost shot him before realizing who he was.

  “Where is he?” LeClare shouted.

  “Sandy’s one aisle over, go to the right,” Derek waved his hand, showing where Ronin was going. “Go over one and go left! Don’t shoot us!”

  LeClare jack-rabbited, shouting, “Reinforcements are on their way!”

  They were going to flood the roof with security and cops. The Ronin was trapped.

  Derek rushed toward the far end of the roof, occasionally catching glimpses of Sandy on his left and Guy on his right.

  And then they were out at the end of the building. Ronin was between Guy and Derek.

  “There’s nowhere to go!” Derek shouted. “You’re under arrest. Drop your gun and put your hands up!”

  Ronin grinned. He tossed the gun to the pavement, raising his hands. Then he turned to the edge of the building and jumped.

  To Derek’s horror, Guy leapt after the assassin.

  84

  Sandy

  “Guy!”

  Ronin was taking some sort of suicide leap, who the hell knew what was going on in the head of a professional assassin, but Guy jumped after him!

  Stillwater was fast. I’d already noticed that. Some people have that natural “quick,” they have gunslinger reflexes, when there’s an A to a B to a C, they just go, they don’t stop, don’t think, they just move!

  And as Ronin was dropping his gun, Derek was already on the move.

  And Guy was closer and leaping toward Ronin.

  And we were on the roof of a motherfucking thirty-five-story building.

  As Ronin went over the edge, Guy reached out with his prosthetic hand. And it clamped around the assassin’s wrist.

  And Ronin went over the edge.

  And he dragged Guy over with him.

  85

  Derek

  He’d put it together. But it didn’t help.

  The guy was going over the edge.

  And Guy, that stupid, crass, son-of-a-biscuit was a millisecond faster, jumping without thought after the assassin.

  Derek leapt, knowing he was too late to catch Ronin.

  As Guy slid toward the edge, Derek landed on top of him, gripping him by the belt.

  “Let go!” Derek shouted.

  And then Sandy was on top of both of them, clutching one of Guy’s legs.

  “Hold on, hold on, hold on!”

  The weight was pulling all of them over the edge, sliding inch by inch into oblivion. Guy was half-hanging over the lip of the building.

  If he or Sandy let go, Guy would go over with Ronin.

  “I’ll fucking kill you if you drag me over with you, LeClare!”

  Suddenly the tension let go. Sandy, Derek and LeClare tumbled backwards onto the roof.

  With a horrified expression on his face, Guy held up his arm.

  The prosthetic was gone. Just the bare stump.

  Derek leaned to look over the edge.

  “Well, fuck,” he said.

  Sandy and Guy appeared on either side of him.

  “No fucking way,” LeClare said.

  Sandy rolled back off the edge and was making a call on the phone. “Orville? You’re not going to believe this. This guy just went off the roof of the building with a parachute. No, I’m not kidding. And get some paramedics up here. Sakura’s shot pretty bad.”

  She sat up and looked at Derek for a moment. “No way.”

  “It was the pack on his back,” Derek said. “I just realized it before Guy went after him. For base jumping.”

  Guy was still leaning over the edge. It was only a second later that Derek realized he was vomiting.

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “I suppose that’s deserved.”

  Guy, still staring down, said, “He just landed. And he’s running and … he’s out of sight.”

  Derek got to his feet. “Come on, Guy. After the paperwork, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  Guy rolled to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “More than one.”

  “As many as you want,” Derek said. He clapped LeClare on the shoulder. “Asshole.”

  Epilogue

  Derek and Sandy sat in a booth at the Berghoff Café in O’Hare. Derek drank a Deschutes Black Butte Porter Draft. Since he was buying, Sandy had gone for a glass of Joel Gott Chardonnay. Three days of paperwork had gone by. Three days of media attention that Derek had deflected, but which Guy had gobbled up.

  Sakura was still in the hospital. Makatashi was okay.

  And although they were certain that James Brewster, Jr. was behind the murders, they had no proof.

  But the fact that Jimmy Brewster, Jr. had disappeared was also another mystery. He had been tracked from Austin to Chicago, and to a hotel out by the airport, where his suitcase was found, but nothing had been heard or seen of him since.

  The media liked the mystery. There was speculation on whether he had changed his identity, gotten on a plane and fled the country.

  There was no official connection between Jimmy Brewster, Jr. and Ronin or the multiple copycat killings.

  But they knew.

  They had assured Makatashi they were confident of Brewster’s involvement, although they had nothing legal to build a case on.

  And Makatashi, sitting in his office, had looked at them and said, “But where is he?”

  Sandy had hesitated. “We don’t know.”

  Makatashi had looked at Derek. “And you? Where is Jimmy Brewster, Jr., Agent Stillwater?”

  “I think he’s dead and I think the Ronin killed him.”

  “Why?”

  Derek shrugged. “From what I’ve learned about Jimmy Brewster, he’s the type of guy to think that pressuring a hired killer is a good thing to do. And the fact he’s missing right around the time the Ronin was here…” He shrugged again.

  The executive had said, “Ms. Sakura agrees with you.”

  “I imagine she could find out more about Ronin if you want her to,” Derek said. “With her contacts.”

  “Perhaps,” Makatashi had said.

  Now, drinking her nine-dollar glass of wine amidst the chatter of O’Hare Airport, Sandy said, “Are you going after Ronin?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got a couple days off, then Secretary Johnston has asked me to go out to Colorado to look into some people around Fort Collins.”

  She shot him a quizzical look. He said, “There’s a bioweapons lab out there and one of the women involved died in a mountain biking accident. JJ wants me to look into it, make sure it’s not something else.”

  “So he’s just going to get away with murdering t
hree people.”

  “Or four, if you count Jimmy Brewster. The FBI’s got him on their list. We’ve got more information about him than we did before. Interpol will be notified, as will quite a few other organizations.”

  “But you don’t think he’ll get arrested.”

  Derek shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. But I’ll keep my eyes open.” He knocked back the rest of his beer and looked at his watch.

  “One more thing before I head to my gate.”

  “What?”

  “How’s Nathan?”

  Sandy smiled. “He’s going to recover.”

  “Going to get married?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Derek raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t do that,” Sandy said.

  “Do what?”

  “That eyebrow thing. That, I’m-skeptical-passive-aggressive-asshole thing.”

  “Oh, that thing.”

  “I love him.”

  “Good.”

  “He just needs to recover.”

  “Of course.”

  She stared at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

  He grinned. “It was good working with you, Sandy. Keep in touch.” He stood up and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll pay up on my way out.”

  “Safe trip, Derek.”

  He flashed her a thumb’s-up as he went.

  #

  Levon Marshall drove the garbage truck that picked up the Dumpster where Jimmy Brewster, Jr.’s body had been disposed of. It was early in the morning, and he’d maneuvered the truck in, used the forklift of the truck to pick up the green container and dump its contents into the back of the truck. He went about his rounds, unware that there was a corpse in the truck.

  After several hours of work, when the truck was full, even after multiple compactions, he drove to the Chicago Grade Landfill, motoring along the access road to the current drop-off location. Backing up to the spot, he dumped the load without a backwards glance, and drove back to the city to continue his job.

  Jimmy Brewster, Jr.’s dead, broken body was not visible beneath the black garbage bags, broken chairs, and soiled mattresses that had been dumped in this load.

  And after another three days, he was gone, never to be seen again in his sad and lonely grave.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed this story. It was a long time coming. JA Konrath, better known to me as Joe Konrath, launched his Kindle Worlds deal several years ago featuring Lieutenant Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels, her fiancé-ish, Latham, her partner, Herb, and her former partner turned PI, Harry McGlade. The first thing I did was start this story, but life very much got in the way.

  Meanwhile, I wrote a Derek Stillwater-Jack Daniels short story, Black Russian, which follows this note. It takes place some indeterminate time after the events of this book. It also features Austin Davis, who appears in my novel HOT MONEY, should you like to have more Austin Davis (I wish you would, because I very much enjoy writing about him).

  Meanwhile, I picked along at DIRTY BLOND. I make a living as a freelance writer, and I continued to do that. I wrote a series of connected short stories with my son, Ian Michael Terry, connecting stories called ZOMBIE WARZ, that in themselves connect up book two and three of our MONSTER SEEKER books.

  I plugged along at DIRTY BLOND.

  I was hired by a gentleman to ghostwrite a historical novel.

  I continued work on DIRTY BLOND.

  I was hired by two ladies to ghostwrite a novel for middle-grade girls.

  I wrote some more of DIRTY BLOND.

  I was hired by a doctor to ghost rewrite a thriller novel.

  I tinkered with DIRTY BLOND.

  And so it goes.

  And finally, I wrapped up DIRTY BLOND.

  I published it. It sold some copies.

  Then I was told in the spring of 2018 that Amazon was killing the Amazon Worlds program and returning the rights to the stories to their authors. The hitch, however, was you could not republish them with the characters in the Amazon Worlds programs. Joe and I went back and forth a bit about whether to try republishing DIRTY BLOND ourselves jointly, but ultimately decided I would change Jack Daniels’ name, as well as the names of the other characters that appear in Joe’s books and republish it here.

  As improbable a name as Jack Daniels is, Sandy Beach may be as well. Except … there was a girl in high school with that name. So there you go. I hope you enjoyed this book and the following short story.

  Cheers,

  Mark Terry

  AUTHOR BIO

  Mark Terry is the author of about 20 books and well over a thousand magazine and trade article. He is a full-time freelance writer, editor and author. Visit his website at www.markterrybooks.com

  ALSO BY MARK TERRY

  Derek Stillwater

  Vengeance

  Gravedigger

  The Sins of the Father

  Dire Straits

  The Valley of Shadows

  The Fallen

  The Serpent’s Kiss

  The Devil’s Pitchfork

  Standalone Thrillers

  China Fire

  Hot Money

  Edge

  Dirty Deeds

  Catfish Guru

  For Kids

  The Battle For Atlantis

  The Fortress of Diamonds

  Monster Seeker

  Monster Seeker 2: Rise of the Phoenix King (with Ian Michael Terry)

  Zombie Warz 1: Reaper (with Ian Michael Terry)

  Zombie Warz 2: The Armageddon Protocol (with Ian Michael Terry)

  Zombie Warz 3: Sons of Medusa (with Ian Michael Terry)

  Zombie Warz 4: A Good Day to Die (with Ian Michael Terry)

  Zombie Warz 5: Demon Eyes (with Ian Michael Terry)

  Zombie Warz 6: The Battle of Navy Pier (with Ian Michael Terry)

  Zombie Warz 7: The Amulet Mysterium (with Ian Michael Terry)

  Monster Seeker 3: The Amulet Mysterium (with Ian Michael Terry)

  BLACK RUSSIAN

  A Derek Stillwater and Lieutenant Sandy Beach Short Story

  Mark Terry

  Mark Terry, 2018 (Sandy Beach edition)

  Mark Terry, 2016 (Original edition)

  About Black Russian

  A dead Russian mobster and an equally dead chief of staff to a U.S. senator in Chicago sends Chicago PD detective Lieutenant Sandra Beach to Washington, D.C. where she teams up with friend and terrorism consultant Dr. Derek Stillwater. Digging into the murders leads the two of them into a maze of organized crime, political money, and casino gambling. With the dead Russian’s brother pulling strings in the nation's capital, Sandy and Derek will find out just how black a Russian's heart can be and just how bad the corruption in the senate can go.

  Black Russian

  1-3/4 ounces vodka

  ¾ ounce coffee liqueur

  Build in old-fashioned glass filled with ice. Stir well.

  The Russian hooker had been screaming and crying for the last thirty minutes. Mostly screaming and it was getting pretty annoying.

  Maria Antonovic was, according to her American driver's license, nineteen years old. My bet was fifteen. She wore five-inch heels, fishnet stockings, a very, very short red vinyl-ish miniskirt, a red-white-and-blue spangled tube top, and enough mascara to supply a Kiss summer tour. Her hair was blonde-by-Clairol, her teeth by Putin. Really, you want to be a Super Power, you should offer decent dental care.

  I couldn't much blame her for the crying, or maybe even for the screaming, although it was getting old.

  Maria had been sitting on the lap of a middle-aged guy at a table toward the back of a Ukrainian restaurant called Big Bite. Sitting next to her at the table was an older guy, maybe in his sixties.

  It had been 9:15 PM on a Saturday night when two men wearing jeans and leather jackets had walked in the front
door, past the cash register, to the back of the restaurant. The man in the black leather jacket shot the older man in the chest, then the head.

  The man in the brown leather jacket shot the middle-aged guy right between the eyes. The middle-aged guy, now a very dead guy, had tumbled out of the chair, taking Maria with him. Brown Leather calmly shot him again in the head, this time in the back of the skull.

  Two other men, sitting at a nearby table, had jumped to their feet and apparently reached for the guns they had under their suit coats.

  Brown and Black Leather shot them to pieces, not nearly as precisely as they had the other two, turned and walked calmly out of the restaurant.

  My partner, Orville, said, "This is really cold, Sandy." That's me, Lieutenant Sandra Beach, Homicide, Chicago Police.

  I nodded. The M.E.'s investigator was directing the Crime Scene guys and once she got what she wanted, she would get what I wanted—dipping into the victims' pockets looking for identification.

  Maria, meanwhile, sat at a nearby table sobbing. Occasionally breaking into a window-shattering shriek for variety.

  The investigator found the oldest guy's wallet in the pocket of his gray suit coat and dropped it into a clear evidence bag, which she handed to me. Messing around with opening it in the bag, I found a driver's license. Ivan Sabitov. The name rang a bell, which is usually a bad thing. I don't know many Russians and if the name was familiar, it probably meant he was some sort of Russian mobster or murderer or serial killer. I really needed to hang out with a different class of Russian.

  The M.E.'s investigator handed Orv the other guy's wallet. Fumbling with it, Orv looked at the license and said, "Aw, shit, Sandy."

  "What?"

  "This guy's Steve Wellton."

  I drew a complete blank. "Steve Wellton?"

  "Yeah."

  "THE Steve Wellton?"

  "Yeah."

  "Orv. Who the hell is Steve Wellton?"

  Orv gave me a look. Orv was big and round and looked a little bit like the Pillsbury Doughboy, but was a damned good cop. "You don't know?"