Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller

by John A. Daly

However, he did have a choice. If he walked away and never spoke a word of what he knew to anyone, Anna might live, though there would certainly be no guarantees. Norman Booth, however, would assuredly die. As bad of a person as Booth undeniably was, wasn’t only God Almighty justified in making such a decision? Did they have a claim to serve as his executioners?

  Sean pondered again what he would have done to save his uncle’s life if he could have. But when he thought of Uncle Zed, he remembered a phrase he’d heard him utter a few times over the years. The words spoke to him just then as if the old man was standing right beside him, whispering them in his ear.

  “The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.”

  He was sure his uncle wasn’t the originator of the quote. It likely came from the mouth of some historical figure or perhaps some self-help guru with a dozen books under his belt. But Zed never spoke of things he didn’t believe. It was that quality that earned him integrity in the eyes of every single person who’d ever met him.

  Those words repeated themselves in Sean’s skull. He had already spent years of his life immersed in his own personal hell. He had no intention of returning. And walking away from the present situation sure seemed liked a clear act of neutrality.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered aloud. “I can’t let his happen. There has to be another way.”

  When he lifted his head to meet Jessica, he expected to watch her crumble to the floor and hear the sound of her bellowing in despair. Instead, he found dryness in her face, as if the intense expression was chiseled in rock. Only her eyes were animated, darting back and forth neurotically between him and Carson. It was if she hadn’t heard a word he had just said and was instead engaging in some covert communication that she didn’t want him privy to.

  He turned his head and saw that Carson was doing the same thing, though he looked far more tormented than she did. Carson’s eyes targeted Sean. His mouth hung a bit open, and he looked as though he wanted to tell Sean something but couldn’t quite bring himself to speak.

  “What?” said Sean.

  When Sean saw Carson’s eyes hurtle toward the window behind him, Sean spun around and found a small red dot illuminated at the center of the glass.

  Jessica launched herself forward, throwing her body over her daughter protectively.

  “No!” Carson yelled in warning as Sean’s eye caught a thin red beam flash directly across it.

  Sean slung his head to the side just as the window loudly exploded from the center. Burning pain tore along the back of Sean’s skull as he lost his balance and toppled to the floor.

  Fierce, freezing wind howled into the small room as gunfire popped off, muffled by the rough weather. It sounded like fireworks in the distance, but its proximity was surely close. Sparks flew from the ceiling, and then the room went pitch black.

  Anna screamed in panic.

  Sean scrambled along the floor amidst the chaotic screaming. The wind peppered him with blowing papers and other loose objects. The bitter cold air made it hard to breathe.

  The gun was no longer in his hand. He didn’t know where it was. The room was black, and there was a sick moaning sound to his right. He believed it was coming from Carson.

  When Sean’s hand went to the back of his own head, he felt moisture. Warm blood. Seemingly a lot of it.

  “Sean!” Carson called out from the dark, sounding very weak and resigned.

  “What?” Sean snarled.

  “Run!”

  The word was spoken with such dejection that it came across like a dying request. Had Carson been hit by one of the bullets?

  It had to have been Dr. Phil who’d fired the shots, Sean rationalized. He must have gotten back, seen Sean through the window with a gun in his hand, and tried to take him out. Feeling warm drops of blood tapping the back of his neck and not knowing the extent of his injury, he feared the doctor might have been successful.

  A splintered thought darted through Sean’s mind as he crawled toward the door. Carson had tried to warn him of the laser sight. Jessica hadn’t. She’d decided at that moment that not only was Norman Booth’s death worth the life of her daughter, but so was Sean’s. Like Dr. Phil, she was now all in.

  He could hear Jessica whispering words of comfort to her daughter in the dark. He knew she was fine. He also knew he wouldn’t be fine unless he heeded Carson’s advice. The doctor was likely on his way inside the building to finish the job.

  A small ray of light from the hallway beamed in through a half-inch hole in the door sliced open by one of the bullets. Sean yanked the door open and stumbled out into the hallway. He heard a loud thud from somewhere near the stairs. He ran in the opposite direction, down the hallway toward the room where Jessica had come from earlier. His shoulder knocked a plaque of some sort from the wall as he rounded a corner and found himself at the edge of a small landing area where he saw some loose boots and a utility sink. The sink’s faucet was pouring water.

  He spotted a door at the side of the landing as the sound of someone jogging along the tile floor echoed from down the hallway. Sean was through the door in no time, entering a large, dim room that was so cold and full of clutter that he knew it had to be a garage. The ticking sound of a recently killed car engine confirmed his speculation.

  He desperately ran his hands all over the wall beside him, his fingers raking through filth and grime as he cursed for a light switch. He found a mounted plastic box that felt like a garage door opener and pressed its center. He let out a gasp of relief when the loud sound of grinding metal gears fired up.

  A dull light from above snapped on, the bulb embedded in the garage door operator. He saw bare sheet rock walls and Jessica’s car. Large blue tarps hid a big object beside the car. The Chevy Cavalier was covered with an even layer of snow except for the windows where beads of water drained down them.

  He lunged to the car and looked through its side window. He found no key in the ignition. He remembered the keys in his pocket. He dug them out, but knew he didn’t have enough time to test them out on the car. He didn’t even think he had enough time to look for something to use as a weapon, even a crowbar or shovel. He was convinced that his pursuer would bust through the door behind him at any second, brandishing his own weapon—whatever piece that laser sighting was mounted to.

  Sean bolted for the slowly opening garage door. When he heard a commotion break out behind him, he dove to his chest and slid under the door. It was a hard landing and he felt something crack beneath him, but he rolled until he was outside. There he was immediately engulfed in the savage, biting wind and heavy snow. The elements pounded him mercilessly and he was almost knocked to his side as he scrambled to his feet. The keys were no longer in his hand.

  A gunshot ripped out from somewhere back in the garage, and the sound of tortured steel competed with that of the howling wind. Sean let a wicked gust of air dictate in which direction he ran. There were no lights outside the building, at least none turned on. The night and the dense snow gave him some cover. He took advantage of it as best he could, working himself into a full-fledged sprint away from the front of the building and off in the direction he thought was east.

  Chapter 2
9

  “Just another hundred yards,” said Martinez in near exuberance. “It will be on the right. A building.”

  When the police cruiser rounded another bend, the land flattened out and the road widened. Lumbergh watched Martinez’s broad, bloodthirsty smile gleam in the rearview mirror. The chief quickly pulled over to the inside shoulder of the road. He positioned the cruiser under the broad, overhanging limbs of a drooping pine and popped the transmission into park.

  “What are you doing?” asked Martinez, his eyes narrowing.

  “Did you think I was going to drive right up to their front step and let them see a police car?”

  The intern’s face was riddled with confusion. “I . . . I guess not.”

  Lumbergh reached into the glove compartment and began pulling out shotgun shells. He shoved them into his jacket pocket.

  The smile returned to Martinez’s face. “Can you fire a shotgun, Chief? You know, with your arm?”

  Lumbergh reached under his jacket, wincing as he did, and awkwardly peeled the sling from his shoulder. He tossed it to the floor mat in front of the passenger’s seat. “I can now,” he replied, trying to convince himself it was true.

  He wasn’t sure he could effectively grip the forestock of the weapon with his left hand, but with his arm free of the sling he believed he could at least steady it. If not, he still had his Glock holstered at his side. He loaded some extra clips for the handgun into a pocket as well. After he killed the engine, he jammed his keys in with the clips. He turned on his police radio and fiddled with the channel.

  “What are you doing?” Martinez yelped out, pressing his face against the grill. His frenzied eyes flashed back and forth from the mirror to the radio.

  Lumbergh ignored the question, speaking into his radio instead. “This is Police Chief Gary Lumbergh of Winston calling for Sheriff Richard Redick. Please come back.”

  “Chief!” Martinez screamed. “Why are you calling him?”

  “I’m telling him where we are.”

  Martinez slammed his forehead into the grill twice. “No! You said you were going in alone! You said you didn’t need anyone’s help! You promised me!”

  “I am going in alone, Martinez,” said Lumbergh. “I’m not waiting around for them to get here.”

  “Then why?” Martinez cried, leaning back and repeatedly kicking both of his feet against the grill.

  “Because if I don’t come back, I don’t want you freezing to death in the car.”

  Martinez stopped kicking. He leaned forward, pressing his nose to the grill. His eyes were crazy and he was desperately out of breath.

  “That’s right, Martinez. You sure as hell aren’t coming with me.”

  “No!” Martinez bellowed as if a rockslide was crumbling down on top of him. “Liar! Mentiroso! Mentiroso!”

  When Redick came on the air, Lumbergh ignored the temper tantrum going on behind him. He let the sheriff vent out his anger over what Lumbergh had done to him and his deputy and the expense of tires shot out in misplaced anger. Lumbergh then raised his voice and spoke over Martinez’s ballistic shrieking, giving the sheriff detailed directions to his location. He provided no other information.

  “What in the hell’s going on in the background? What’s that noise?” questioned Redick, frustrated over Lumbergh’s refusal to elaborate on the situation.

  Lumbergh turned his head to Martinez and watched the wiry, unhinged little man bounce off the back of a car like a rubber ball.

  Lumbergh held the radio close to his mouth. “The squeals of a baby pig.”

  Chapter 30

  Clusters of tall, wavering pines heavy with snow were barely visible. They bordered the open, fairly flat ground Sean ran along. It could have been a dirt road below his feet, but it was hard to tell in the snow. He saw no tire tracks. The doctor must have come in from the opposite direction.

  There were lots of hiding spots. Trees. Snowdrifts. Sean knew he was leaving tracks though, and even with the snow coming down as hard as it was, they wouldn’t be immediately covered up. Anyone with a flashlight could effectively pursue him. Though he was freezing cold and felt lightheaded, he knew he had to put more distance between him and the building before he stopped running.

  He glanced back over his shoulder; the wind instantly brought tears to his eyes. He could no longer see the building or anything beyond blowing snow. He felt his pants sliding down from his waist and he tugged them back up.

  His hand then went to his head and he cringed when he felt the burning of an open wound. His fingers searched for a bullet or an entry wound. They found neither. It had to be a graze, albeit a bad one considering the amount of blood he had lost. The back of his head still felt warm from whatever was oozing out, so he pressed the palm of his hand tightly to it. He hoped the pressure would end the bleeding.

  After a minute, he jammed his other hand into his front pocket, limping along as he did. His fingers were already turning numb from the cold, but he managed to detect the edge of the cellphone he’d taken from the desk. He pinched it in his grip and yanked it from his pocket. It fell to the ground in multiple pieces.

  “No!” he moaned, halting and falling to his knees.

  He sifted through the snow and found jagged pieces of plastic and some exposed wires. The phone must have been demolished earlier from his dive under the garage door. He wasn’t sure if it was fixable, but the weather and the darkness made it impossible to even try. He picked up every piece he could find, hoping he had them all, and shoved them back into his pocket.

  He climbed to his feet and pulled his pants up again. It was then that he saw a single light cut through the night from a distance away. It was in the direction he’d come from. It looked like a pinprick at first—so small that he had almost missed it. It quickly grew larger, however, and took on the shape of a rectangle. Whoever had the light was moving along at a good pace.

  It was possible that it didn’t belong to the doctor, but it likely did. The doctor’s actions had made it clear that he wanted Sean dead. If Sean got away, everything he and his family had been working toward would be brought to an immediate end. As far as they were concerned, a free Sean Coleman meant a dead Anna. It was obvious how they stood on that ultimatum.

  He pressed his hand back to his wound and continued running. He tucked his head low between his shoulders, enduring the weather as best he could in just a sweatshirt, loose jeans, and hiking boots.

  A humming noise began to filter its way through the whistling wind, and when he spun his head to look for its source, he found that the light had grown much closer. It was approaching so quickly that he discounted the possibility that it was a flashlight. It had to belong to a vehicle, and the hum that was loudening in volume was the sound of its engine.

  He was certain he hadn’t been spotted yet. The falling snow was too dense. Visibility was too limited. That would change at any second. The vehicle was just about upon him.

  He had no more time to think. He clenched his teeth and darted for the shoulder of the road. He leaped over a snow bank sandwiched by two trees. He expected to find ground on the other side, but there was nothing but air. He fell ten feet before his legs sank into the
side of a snow-covered hill as if they were two large lawn darts.

  The vehicle flew by on the road above him, its single headlight flaring up the night for a moment. Even before he could force his legs from the snow and climb to his hand and knees, he heard a reduction in the engine. It had to belong to a snowmobile. The sound was too distinct. The driver likely stopped accelerating once the footprints he was tracking came to an abrupt end.

  The slope he was on was steep, but the older, crunchy snow below the fresh powder gave him some traction to keep from falling down it. He worked down the incline quickly but deliberately, sliding on his chest at times and moving his arms in a swimming motion. Once a couple of large pines were between him and the view from the road, he clung to a bare aspen and positioned himself behind a long snowdrift covering an overturned tree.

  Though the ridge above gave him some marginal cover from the wind, his body felt frozen. He could barely feel his fingers and his toes were getting there as well. The hair in his nose had turned to ice and his face felt tingly. He struggled to breathe.

  The light above the ridge grew brighter as the driver of the snowmobile positioned the vehicle so that the headlight pointed in the direction where Sean had leapt from the road. Due to the steepness of the slope, Sean was still hidden in the dark. Only the tops of the tree he clung to were illuminated. He kept still, poking his head just slightly above the drift.

  A man’s shadow crossed in front of the beam of light before his silhouette came into view. He was bundled up tight, wearing a fat winter coat with a hood pulled firmly over his head. He appeared to wear ski goggles. The fur-trim of his hood was so dense that he looked like a lion whose mane was fluttering wildly in the wind, a predator stalking its prey.

  He stared out over the ridge for a moment before disappearing and quickly returning with a flashlight. Sean ducked down as its beam methodically traced the area. His teeth began to chatter and he wrapped his arms around his chest to try and keep the rest of his body from shaking.