Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

  Now he was in big trouble. Nick squeezed the trigger again. This time the sound of the bullet being fired was muffled, like he was hearing it underwater as his ears were still ringing from the first shot.

  The terrorist tumbled backward, crashing into the corner of the conference room with a force that surprised Nick. Blood sprayed out of a hole the slug had punched in the man’s chest, forming a delicate crimson arc that flew through the air and splashed onto the conference table, reminding Nick of the famous fountains at one of the resort hotels in Vegas that he and Lisa had visited a lifetime ago on their honeymoon.

  The length of the bloody arcs immediately began to shorten as the dying terrorist’s heart weakened. The second one barely reached the edge of the table, the one after that only made it halfway.

  Nick frantically tried to sight the pistol in his badly shaking hand to take out the other man. But the missed first shot had cost him. When Nick located the man, he knew right away that he was too late. The terrorist had his weapon aimed at Nick’s chest. Unlike Nick’s gun, this man’s weapon was held firmly and steadily in two hands. A look of grim determination spread across the man’s face. He was not rushing; he was moving at a measured, almost leisurely pace.

  It was over. Nick could not escape.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Nick waited for the end, seeing everything in slow motion. It felt as though he had been inside the fishbowl for hours, bullets flying everywhere, but in reality it had been no more than a few seconds. Powdery white drywall dust continued to fly, riding the air currents, slowly making its way across the room to where Nick was standing. The last of the chunks of plaster and wood chips blasted out of the wall by his first errant shot—the missed shot that had condemned Nick to death—were touching down at destinations all over the room.

  The terrorist Nick had actually hit was still bleeding, but the initial gush of arterial blood from his chest had slowed to a trickle and was now dribbling down what was left of the man’s shirt. His eyes were open but unfocused. He was dying.

  Nick knew he would be joining the man in death in a second. He was still fighting, still desperately trying to get his weapon to do what his brain was telling it to do, but he felt slow and off balance, lopsided somehow. The gun refused to point at the second terrorist. It refused to do anything at all. It was stuttering in his shaking hand, and he knew he would never hit anything he was aiming at. The ironic thought occurred to him that he might actually shoot himself.

  Nick watched as the second man took forever to aim at his chest. He was going to be shot in the heart as he watched it happen. In a corner of his mind, he wondered if Lisa had watched the knife slit her throat open while she was trapped in her car. He hoped not.

  The pistol was now incredibly heavy in his hand and completely useless. It felt like he was holding a brick. His shoulder was burning, his left hand numb. Nerve damage, he figured; it had to be. He wondered how it would feel to die, whether there would be a lot of pain or maybe none at all. He thought about Lisa and hoped she would be waiting to greet him, wherever he ended up after this.

  He finally heard the shot that would end his life, the sound fuzzy and strange thanks to the damage the other shots had done to his ears. The sound of the bullet being fired seemed strangely insignificant considering it was to be the instrument of his death. Nick waited to be blasted across the room and into the wall like the man he had shot. He waited for the blood to spurt out of him in rapidly diminishing arcs.

  It didn’t happen.

  Nothing happened.

  Instead, he watched in slack-jawed amazement as the man who was going to kill him jerked like he had been hit with a baseball bat and then smashed down onto the conference table, struck in the side of the head by a bullet. Shards of bone and grey brain matter splattered the wall to Nick’s left as the man’s blood sprayed onto the off-white background, completing a Dali-esque tableau of blood-red destruction inside the fishbowl.

  The terrorist’s body flopped on the table as comprehension dawned in his dimming eyes. His hands opened and closed like he was reaching for something with which to pull himself upright and he gasped for air. The left side of his skull was gone, replaced by a jagged, gaping hole. He twitched twice and finally was still.

  Nick glanced right in time to see Special Agent Cunningham, eyes wide, face bone white, nose mashed grotesquely to the right side of her face, standing on one leg in a modified shooter’s stance, leaning back against the far corner of the room for support.

  She was shaking as badly as Nick was, maybe more so. She looked at Nick with haunted eyes and opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Nick heard an unintelligible croaking noise that morphed into a whimper as the gun fell from her hand. She stumbled toward him, her weight shifting to her mangled right leg, and crumpled to the floor.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Nick clutched a bouquet of yellow roses in his good hand as he paused in front of the open hospital door. He felt foolish. He was sweating and just as nervous as he had been before facing off against the terrorist known as Tony Andretti—authorities were still trying, thus far to no avail, to determine his real name and country of origin, not that Nick really cared—armed only with a rechargeable pneumatic nail gun.

  “Jeez, asshole, get a grip,” he muttered to himself, pushing through the doorway and into the hospital room before he could lose his nerve. Inside, Agent Cunningham stared listlessly at a television bolted into a metal stand in the upper left corner of the room. She looked impossibly tiny and helpless in the bed, surrounded by beeping machines and what appeared to be shiny metallic and chrome torture devices. Her right leg was immobilized, suspended above the bed by a system of pulleys and cables that looked to Nick like they should be used to hoist a building.

  One of the network news shows was broadcasting on the television’s snowy screen, treating the story of the attempted assassination of President Cartwright with the usual overblown media hysteria.

  Agent Cunningham finally noticed Nick after a moment and muted the TV with a remote. “Can I help you?”

  He smiled in amusement. “You already did. You saved my life yesterday, Agent Cunningham. It would be pretty hard to top that—don’t you think?”

  Recognition dawned in her eyes, and she grinned sheepishly. Nick thought she looked beautiful, even with the two puffy black eyes she would be sporting for a while and her grossly misshapen broken nose. “Sorry about that; I should have recognized you. And please call me Kristin.” She shrugged and shook her head. “It must be all these drugs they’re pumping into me; they’ve made me a little groggy.”

  “No problem, Kristin. I’m not exactly at my best right now, either.” He placed the flowers on a small table next to the bed and extended his hand, grimacing as the motion pulled at the bandages wrapped tightly around his shoulder.

  Kristin watched him and winced. “Are you all right? They told me you got shot but that you really nailed that Andretti character.” She smiled wickedly.

  “I’m fine,” he answered. “It’s just a flesh wound. Isn’t that what all those Hollywood hero types are supposed to say?”

  This time she giggled. It sounded nasally thanks to the cotton wadding stuffed into her rebuilt nose.

  “Anyway, I’m not really sure what the protocol is for dealing with getting shot in the shoulder by a fanatical terrorist. In my line of work, people don’t generally come after me with guns. Actually,” he whispered conspiratorially, “it hurts like hell. Some hero, huh?”

  “You are a hero. You saved my life just as much as I saved yours. The doctors tell me I wouldn’t have lasted much longer inside that conference room, considering how much blood I had lost. If you hadn’t acted when you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now, so I would say you deserve some flowers, too.” She looked ruefully at her immobilized leg. “I guess I’ll have to owe you.”

  Changing the subject, she said, “They caught the two guys who were camped out by the airp
ort waiting to shoot down the president’s plane. They were parked in a marsh, and when it became clear that something had gone wrong, they tried to escape, but they got into a gun battle with a local cop. He was wounded but managed to shoot out one of their tires. The idiots escaped on foot but were apprehended before they made it two miles. I hear the cop they shot is doing well and is expected to recover fully.”

  She examined her fingernails. “They killed someone in another car that stumbled on to them. He was just a kid.”

  “I heard. It seems they killed a lot of people.”

  “I’m sorry about your coworkers.”

  “Thank you.”

  An awkward silence descended over the room, and Nick mumbled, “Well, I guess I should be going. The doctors said you need your rest and that I could only have a couple of minutes. Thanks again—”

  “Your wife was a hero too, you know.”

  Nick stared at the floor. “I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if she had reported what she discovered sooner. Even just a day or two earlier, instead of holding on to the binder. Maybe if she had acted a little more decisively, the whole mess could have been avoided before it ever got started.”

  Kristin shook her head emphatically. “You can’t look at it like that. She didn’t realize the significance of what she discovered. You better believe that if she’d had any idea how serious it was, she would have taken action immediately. Either way, it’s not her fault she didn’t live long enough to tell anyone about it.”

  Nick sighed. “Yeah, I know. But thanks anyway for saying so. I really appreciate it. That means a lot.”

  “Hey,” Kristin said, “when I get out of this prison and can get around again, maybe we could do dinner and fill each other in on what exactly happened in that building. It’s one thing to get a debriefing from the officious administrative types; it’s another thing entirely to go over it with the one person who was heavily involved. Plus, I make a mean pot roast. Are you game?”

  Nick smiled at her and said, “Sounds great. I haven’t had a real meal since … well … you know.” He scuffed his shoe absently on the institutional grey tile. “Anyway, I’ll be back to check on you in a couple of days. Maybe even bring some more flowers.”

  He lifted the bouquet off the table and placed it in her arms, then turned once again to go. It was time to get back to work. The airplanes were waiting.

  THE END

  #

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  Acknowledgements

  FINAL VECTOR was my first published novel. The first edition was released in February, 2011 by Medallion Press, and this edition is the same book, with the only real exception being a brand-new chapter leading things off. The original Chapter One was removed during editing prior to the book’s release by Medallion, and I’ve reinstalled it because I believe it establishes the tone of the story right off the bat. Aside from that change, I’ve tinkered with some of the phrasing and description with the goal of making the narrative flow a little more naturally.

  That said, I cannot thank enough the folks at Medallion Press enough for believing in a largely unknown author with a slightly different take on the typical aviation thriller. I have nothing but admiration for everyone at Medallion, including Helen Rosburg, Paul Ohlson, Jim Tampa, and especially Editorial Director Lorie Popp, whose professionalism and editing skill added immensely to the first edition final product.

  As a long-time air traffic controller in the real world, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the contributions of Brian Hansen, Joe Serafino, Tony Serino, Jeff Zarella and Dan Gravelle, friends and co-workers all. My fellow professionals at NATCA, the National Air Traffic Controllers Association, have been working toward the dual goals of aviation safety and the betterment of the controllers’ lot in life for virtually my entire career, and to them I owe a debt of gratitude as well.

  My wife, Sue, and my entire family have been the best, most vocal supporters of my work anyone could ever ask for, and to them I say thank you, although I know that could never be enough.

  Finally, thanks to you, the reader who plunked down your hard-earned cash to check out my book. You have plenty of other choices for entertainment, and plenty of other outstanding authors you could be reading right now. The fact that you chose my work is humbling and gratifying, and I will never take that for granted.

  About the Author

  Allan Leverone is a 2012 Derringer Award winner and 2011 Pushcart Prize nominee. He is the author of seven novels, including the Amazon bestselling thriller THE LONELY MILE, as well as three novellas and two short story collections. He lives in Londonderry, New Hampshire with his wife Sue and his family. Connect with Allan on Facebook, Twitter @AllanLeverone, and at

  www.AllanLeverone.com.

  #

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  DEDICATION

  To my sons, Charles and Steven, who encouraged me to follow my dreams, work hard, and make them come true.

  And Coby W. Fuson, who taught me that love didn’t require a person to change, it only enhanced what they already were.

  Gladys Stewart, Joyce M. Coomer and Cathy Martin, my friends, co-editors and harsh critiques. Without you, this work would not have been possible.

  A very special thank you to the management and staff of Bob Evans Restaurant, Highway 27 South, Somerset, Kentucky. Thank you for allowing us to use your restaurant as a meeting place in the final stages of this book.

  PROLOGUE

  Corrine Larson bit her lip, stifling a scream as she turned slightly, struggling to open her eyes. She couldn’t remember if he’d beaten her for one hour or six, but she knew she was dying. Her body begging to shut down. She’d never heard the death rattle, but she recognized it now, deep inside her chest, with each shallow, painful breath.

  Managing only a narrow slit with her left eye, she stared at him, conveying her hatred. He’d used her, and because of her, others would die. A small whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. It wasn’t for her. She didn’t mind dying. Except for…

  Corrine fought the thoughts threatening to overwhelm her, concentrating on the new pain caused by the salty tears coursing down her face. Her tortured mind honed in on her one satisfaction. That one ray of light in the darkness: She hadn’t told him everything.

  Drawing in one last ragged breath, she closed her eye, allowing the feel of the cool damp concrete to soothe her burning body. It was almost over.

  He whistled softly, a haunting rendition of I Saw the Light, as he loaded the gun.

  Corrine turned her thoughts to Sarah and her child. He would kill them. Or worse. Another whimper escaped her lips. Why? Why hadn’t she just left it alone? Sarah had been safe. Her child had been safe. And now, because her reporter’s nose had sni
ffed a story they were all going to die.

  Emotional pain washed over her in waves, drowning out the physical pain. Hurting even worse. There had to be something she could do. Some way to undo the damage she’d done.

  She sifted through her memory, searching, rejecting and searching again. She’d written an article once about a psychic who believed your dying thoughts could travel across time and space, influencing the outcome of events to come. Maybe the psychic was right. Maybe if she tried hard enough she could reach across time and space. Warn Sarah.

  Rough hands jerked at her hair, raising her from the bloody warehouse floor. She felt the cold steel pressed against the back of her head, heard the sound of the gun cocking. She’d always thought her dying thoughts would be of Rob or Gavin; instead, she honed on in the image of Sarah and her child. As the bullet shattered her brain, she held the image in her mind and silently screamed, He’s coming Sarah. He wants to destroy you.

  #

  Murder is a sin. You’ll go to hell.

  “It wasn’t murder—it was self defense.”

  He hated the voice in his head. She was always bitching at him. Always butting in. Preaching. A cruel smile twisted the handsome features. Today it didn’t matter. Today was a day of celebration. Soon he’d have what was rightfully his. All the years of waiting would be over. Whistling softly, he pulled away from the dumpster and parked the car. Just a few little things to finish. Pulling the police cap down low he entered the apartment building.

  “Evening officer, can I help you?”

  “Just delivering some luggage to Ms. Larson.”

  The security guard checked the register. “Looks like Ms. Larson is out this evening.”