The Lowdown (Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series Book 3)

by Erik Carter

  He walked over to the tables and saw nothing, no one. And there was nowhere to hide. If this was Dylan Mercer’s destination, he’d already visited.

  Shit.

  Dale lowered his gun and looked about, searching for a hole, a pile of sand, anything indicating that something had been dug up. And as he looked, he saw motion. Farther down the beach.

  He cupped his hand over his eyes, shielding out the rain. The moonlight was bright and lit the beach ahead of him. About half a mile down the beach there was a tall tower, partially built, and beyond that another construction site in its early stages. And he saw people. A dozen or so. He could just make out their figures.

  And their guns.

  Dale sprinted back up the path. He threw Arancia’s door open and dropped into the driver’s seat, cringing as he realized that he was getting rain water all over the leather seat and sand in the carpeting.

  “They’re down the beach,” he said to Allie.

  He turned the key, and Arancia thundered back to life. He threw the stick into reverse, let off the clutch and gave her some gas. She roared. But she didn’t move. Her tires spun.

  He’d gotten her stuck in the sand.

  Of all the bonehead, novice things he could do, he’d gotten Arancia stuck in the damn sand. He’d parked too far to side of the parking lot, where the gravel was sparse. He thought about how this would play out after the excitement of the mission, a tow truck having to put a big metal hook on her, someone else getting in the driver’s seat. Dale’s soul shuddered. He refocused on the mission, looked at Allie.

  “I gotta run for it. I’ll be back.”

  Allie nodded. “Go. Be safe.” She looked at him earnestly as she said it.

  He paused, just for moment, then he leaned over and kissed her.

  He jumped back out of the car, shut the door. The road was to his right, but he had seen that it curved away from the beach prior to where the construction began. It would be quicker for him to reach the people he’d seen if he approached from the beach.

  He ran back up the path, his boots sinking into the sand again. They were going to weigh him down. He dropped to the sand. It was cool and wet, soaking through the seat of his jeans. The rain poured on him. He fumbled with his wet laces and tore off his boots then his socks, tossed them in a pile, stood up, rolled up the cuffs of his 501s, and darted towards the surf, where the water would have packed the sand, making it easier to run on.

  Rain pelted his face, his chest. He brushed the hair from his cheeks and eyes. His legs burned, heavy and cumbersome in the sand, as he made it his way to the waves. Then he hit the wet, packed sand of the surf, felt cool water between his toes, and took a right, sprinting along the crashing waves toward the people in the distance.

  Chapter 46

  Luanne shivered in the rain as it washed over the fresh wounds on her body. But still, there was a bit of happiness in her. Dylan had been thwarted. When the men had revealed themselves from their hiding, the look of shock on Dylan’s face was thrilling to her. It had been a look of bewilderment and disgust as he viewed the men who had encircled them. Because they were just the type of people Dylan hated. Good old boys. Paunchy. Jowly. Some of them in tank tops. A couple with cowboy hats. Southerners. And while Luanne knew that the men were part of a group with racist motives, the fact that they were Southerners like her, people that Dylan truly despised, made her pleased that they were the ones who had ruined his plan.

  Mick Henderson continued to give her husband a look of superiority. “We’d like to thank you, Mercer. We’ve been searching for this site for some time now. It had been lost to history. Couldn’t have found it without the help of you and your boys.”

  Dylan stammered. It was one of the few times Luanne had ever seen him at a loss for words. “But … You can’t do this. We had a deal.”

  “I can’t?” He waved his hand, indicating all the armed man that surrounded them. “Your part in all this is over, Dylan Mercer. Leave. And remember,” he said, the smile leaving his face, “we’re watching you.”

  Dylan stammered again, trying to find something to say. Nothing came out. He looked at Luanne and then back to Henderson. He exhaled. And he then he grabbed her wrist, turned around, and led them back over the fence and out of the construction site.

  There was something moving. Out on the sand. At first, it looked like a random person walking the beach … in the rain, for some reason. But the person wasn’t walking. They were running. At a full sprint. A man. In jeans. And a white T-shirt. The moonlight lit him up clearly. There was a flash of light from his hand. A gun. She saw the face.

  It was Dale.

  Luanne smiled. With all the hell that was going on, with the uncertainty about Tyler, with the discovery that her husband was a killer, there was still no stopping the smile.

  Because there was Dale.

  Running with everything he had.

  She had seen tonight the lowest a man could be. But now, almost as if God wanted to show her the difference, she saw the best a man could be. A hero.

  Dylan had seen him too. He squinted, leaned forward. “What the hell?”

  He turned to Luanne. Then his eyes lit up with that fury that he got when he was disrespected. He’d seen her smile. She couldn’t help it.

  “Who is that man, Luanne?”

  She didn’t answer him. She wasn’t going to. She just continued to smile.

  “He’s a goddamn cop! Isn’t he, Luanne?”

  She said nothing.

  He slapped her.

  “Who is that asshole?” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Why are you smiling like that? Did you screw him? Did you screw that cop, you little hillbilly, black-loving, Southern whore?”

  She stepped into him, got on her tiptoes, as close to his face as she could. She spoke clearly and loudly. “No, Dylan. I didn’t ‘screw’ him. I kissed him. Oh, yes, I disrespected you like that. I had myself all up against him. And it was good, Dylan. So good.”

  He raised his hand.

  She didn’t blink.

  That look came to his face again, the confused look, the same look he had when he was stammering with Mick Henderson. He lowered his hand and looked her up and down.

  Then he turned back toward the beach. Dale was closer now.

  Dylan reach behind his back and took out his gun

  Chapter 47

  Jesse pushed his way through the people. They were all staring at him with fright. There were screams. They darted away. He liked that. As panicked as he was, knowing that he was a hunted beast, he liked frightening the degenerates.

  He had made a beeline to the nearest store. It was a shop. Full of junk. The walls were lined with Mardi Gras beads. Brightly-colored. Some with obnoxious shapes formed into the plastic. Marijuana leaves. Penises. It was all filthy, just like the people around him.

  He shoved one of them out of his way. A woman. She fell over. He was looking for access to the second floor. All these buildings in the French Quarter had those famous balconies. They were apartments, surely. There had to be a way up there.

  Then he saw it. A door in the back.

  He approached it. More people cleared out of his way. The person working behind the counter—a gangly woman with dark hair, too many wrinkles—approached him. “You can’t go back there.”

  He grabbed her by the face, extended a knee, and flipped her entire body back behind the counter. People in the store screamed. He turned the doorknob. Wouldn’t budge. He kicked the door, hard. Once. Twice. The wood around the handle cracked. A third kick, and the door flew open, smacked into the wall.

  Stairs in front of him. He ran up them. It was dark, and on the second floor there was a hallway with apartment doors. A musty smell. Marijuana smoke. One of the doors was open, people pouring out of it. A party.

  He moved into the crowd, through the apartment’s doorway. There was hippie regalia on the walls. Tie-dye. Indian bullshit. Ahead, through the crowd and the clouds of pot, he could see open
windows.

  The balcony.

  He stepped outside. A couple of the people on the balcony looked at him curiously, but most of them didn’t notice. They were baked out of their minds, and it was likely an open party. They were dressed bizarrely. One man was shirtless. Another wore a tutu. All draped with plastic beads.

  This is why he’d come, why he’d wanted to find a balcony. These people. These wretches. He looked down to Bourbon Street below. So many more of them. The place was crawling with them. And so many blacks. He wanted them gone. He wanted them all gone.

  Below, to the left, he saw Agent Gordon and his son. They hadn’t spotted him. Gordon was looking through the crowd, frantically.

  Jesse scanned through the roaming, belching mass below him.

  The last stand of Jesse James. And he was going to take as many of these shits out with him as he could.

  He pulled out his gun. Wrapped his finger around the trigger.

  And something grabbed him.

  One of the degenerates. The shirtless one. He reeked of alcohol.

  This was Jesse’s last stand, and this goddamn freak wasn’t going to stop him.

  Chapter 48

  Dale was sprinting so fast and so hard he thought he might pass out. His lungs burned like fire. The rain was soaking him, tearing into his face.

  He traced the curves of the surf as he went. From running on the beach in the past, he knew there was an area near the waves where the wet sand packed down most tightly and made the best surface for running. You had to follow where the waves had receded—not all the way up to farthest point they’d reached but not too close to the water either, where the sand would get soppy. You had to find the sweet spot.

  Right in front of him, a wave suddenly ran up farther on the beach than the others, and he splashed into the water. He stumbled forward a few paces, nearly recovered, then tumbled into the sand. It stuck to his T-shirt, and some got in his lips. He spat, pushed his hands down, and shoved himself up.

  Back on his feet. Back to running. Sprinting. To stop Dylan Mercer. And help Luanne.

  He had seen her. She was being pulled away from the construction site, away from the group of people, by a tall man who had to be Dylan Mercer.

  Dale thought again about the wounds Dylan had given her. He thought about the implication her body language had given as to what else Dylan had done. He thought about the ring he saw on Luanne’s hand, the power of a symbol like that.

  Dale spent a lot of his time chasing symbols—archaic and often anchored to myth. But that piece of metal around Luanne’s finger meant something real. And Dylan had struck that. He had hurt that. There were men like him who were given the greatest gift a woman could offer. Their love. And they spat upon it. And then there were other guys who would never get that, who would look the woman that they cared for in the eye, ask her if she ever wanted to see him again, and hear “No.” And they’d walk out of her apartment, into the rain, to their car sitting under a streetlight, waiting to take them home.

  He thought about Allie now. His second chance. The thoughts he’d had, the ideas. The image of Dale Conley in commitment to a woman. And his acceptance of these ideas. He would make this work. He’d accept Allie’s love.

  In the office. Her body. Her face. Her lips.

  He thought of Luanne’s lips. His kiss with her. There had been a wound so close to her lips. Love she’d given to a man had been thrown back at her, turned from poetry to poison. Smashed into her face. Bruises. Cuts.

  His legs pushed harder, faster. He was going to get that monster away from her.

  There was a crack. Loud but muffled by distance. A gunshot. Then another. And another. A plop to his left. A round had hit the water. A hiss and a thwack on the opposite side. Sand peppered his bare ankle, burned his skin. The shots were landing close. Dale hit the deck. Back into the sand again. He got as low as possible. Another shot. Another.

  Dale counted them. Six. The shots stopped. He waited a moment. Nothing more. Six shots. Dylan Mercer had a revolver. And he’d emptied it.

  Dale got back up. He saw Luanne and Dylan moving quickly now. Dylan had foolishly, passionately wasted his ammunition, and he knew that Dale wasn’t going to give up. They were going to the tall, half-finished building. Dylan Mercer was going to hide.

  Bullies were like that. They were cowards.

  That just made Dale want to catch the guy even more.

  Chapter 49

  The building was damp, and the wind whipping in through the open doorways and windows blew against Dylan’s wet skin and soaked clothing. Cold. But at least he was out of the rain. He grasped Luanne’s wrist tightly, pulled her up a stairwell. It was empty, unfinished, no handrail. Their footsteps echoed.

  Onto the second floor. He rushed them to one of the windows. A gust of wind blew in his face. He looked down at the beach. No sign of the guy. He held a finger up to his lips and looked at Luanne. Shut up. Crashing waves. And whistling wind. He listened carefully.

  Footsteps.

  Slowing from a run. Approaching the building. Coming off the sand and into the gravel. Crunching. Getting closer.

  “Up here!” Luanne screamed. She had her free hand cupped over her mouth.

  The footsteps below hurried again, came to a run. They entered the stairwell.

  “That’s the last time you’re gonna screw this up for me, Luanne.” He clenched his hand into a fist and punched her hard. Her head flew back, wet hair snapping behind her, and she collapsed into a pile on the cement.

  He faced the open doorway of the stairwell. The footsteps grew louder. And then there he was.

  He was dressed like Dylan. Jeans, a T-shirt. Dripping wet. He was barefoot. His shirt clung to his heaving chest. He held a gun. His mouth was open, taking in huge gulps of breath. His brown hair was plastered to his head. The man’s eyes looked at Dylan for only a moment, measuring him, then they went to Luanne and quickly back to him, now filled with hate, rage.

  Good. Dylan welcomed it.

  The man started toward him. Palpable anger coursed through his arms which seemed taut with shaking restraint as they kept his gun leveled at Dylan. It was a little, pussy gun. Either a Detective Special or a Model 36.

  “Who are you?” Dylan said.

  It took the man a moment to respond, as though his anger was clouding his basic motor skills. “Special Agent Dale Conley.”

  “Dylan Mercer.” He pointed to Luanne. “Did you touch my wife, Special Agent Dale Conley?”

  Conley was about thirty feet away. Still approaching. Still aiming his gun. Dylan could see his features clearly now as he stepped into a patch of the bright moon light coming in through one of the open windows. His face was covered in a couple days’ worth of beard. He was handsome in the way that guys in magazines modeling slacks and underwear were. No wonder Luanne had kissed the man. She was into all that cool crap.

  Conley never answered his question. He just kept moving forward. The closer he got, the more Dylan could see the rage in his eyes, the hate. Conley hated the fact that Luanne was unconscious on the floor behind him, and he really hated the person who had done it. He hated Dylan.

  When they were about ten feet apart, Conley stopped. He had been looking Dylan straight in the eye, never breaking his stare. Some sort of test of wills. The fool.

  There was the sound of the waves beyond. Wind howled through the empty building. A lonely seagull squawked as it fought its way through the chaos back to wherever it called home, wherever its flock was.

  Dylan looked at Conley’s gun. With the rage that was in his eyes, Dylan knew Conley might kill him. “I shot at you as you were running up. Six times. I’m out of ammo.”

  Conley nodded. I know.

  “Shooting an unarmed man, then?”

  “Let me see your weapon.”

  Dylan slowly reached behind his back and took out his gun.

  “Out the window,” Conley said, motioning with his head, not breaking his stare.

  Conley w
asn’t one to take any chances. Dylan tossed the gun out the window. It was so noisy with the wind and the waves, he didn’t hear it land.

  “Now what?”

  Conley slowly reached behind his back, like Dylan had. His hand returned with a holster, and he put the little gun inside. He held it out before Dylan as if to display it to him. Then he bent over and put it on the ground, stood back up, and brushed it across the room with his foot. Dylan heard the leather of the holster slide across the cement to the wall several feet away.

  Then Conley put up his fists, staggered his feet, lowered his weight into his hips.

  “Oh, mano a mano, huh? Very admirable,” Dylan said. He raised his fists. “You got it.”

  Chapter 50

  Percy heard screams. People were looking up, pointing. On the second-floor balcony of the building in front of him, there was a struggle. And though Percy didn’t see him at first, he knew it was Jesse Richter.

  Two men were grappling. One was shirtless, sweaty, and draped in a massive amount of Mardi Gras beads. The man’s back was turned, and Percy saw only brief glimpses of the other man. Then he pulled to the side, and Percy saw Jesse Richter.

  Richter’s face grimaced. Teeth bared, eyebrows in a V. He used one arm to fight off the shirtless man, and with the other he held a gun that was pointing down toward Bourbon Street. Richter kept looking at the gun, as though aiming down into the crowd below, but each time he did, the shirtless man reached for it again.

  Richter was going to fire into the crowd.

  But some random reveler was trying to stop him. The man was a goddamn hero. A half-naked hero covered in plastic beads.

  Ervin spoke. “Dad …”

  Hearing his son’s voice solidified the urgency of the situation. Jesse Richter had gone kamikaze. He knew his time was up, and he was going to take out as many people as he could on his way out.