Hit List (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

She uncrossed her legs, and re-crossed them the other direction.

  “So, I have question for you. How would you like to come and work for the bureau?”

  Teffinger hadn’t been prepared for that.

  “Are you serious?”

  She nodded.

  “Very. I’ve already talked to a few people.”

  He tilted his head and pondered the implications.

  Suddenly his phone rang, not his cell phone, the one on his desk. “Excuse me,” he apologized, picking it up. “This is the way my life works.”

  “Teffinger?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Richardson.”

  The detective sounded excited.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Give me the scoop. What’s going on?” Richardson asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The phone call . . . What’d you get?”

  “What phone call?”

  A pause.

  “Didn’t someone just call your cell phone about fifteen minutes ago?”

  Teffinger wasn’t sure which call he was referring to. “You mean the hang-up? Was that you?”

  “He hung up? Okay, hold onto your seat, buddy boy,” Richardson said. “Do you remember D’endra Vaughn, the dead school teacher?”

  “No, who’s she?”

  “Bad,” he said. Then, “We got a ping on her pen register about fifteen minutes ago. According to the phone company, the call from her phone went to yours. The call that you got fifteen minutes ago was from D’endra Vaughn’s cell phone. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He did.

  “I want cars at two places, Kelly Ravenfield’s place and the Paramount Café. Now!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Day Six - April 21

  Saturday Evening

  ____________

  Kelly was stuffed in something confined and tight and dark, absolutely terrified about it. She couldn’t see a thing or straighten her body out. The side of her face ached from lying on some kind of hard surface for so long. The bones in her hips and knees felt like someone had taken a hammer to them. The muscles in her legs had stiffened and were threatening to convulse from being in the same unforgiving bent position for so long. Noise filled the space; the noise of an engine, sounding as if it was right underneath her. No, not an engine, a muffler. There was a muffler right underneath her.

  She was in the trunk of a car.

  She remembered what happened in the parking garage; the movement of someone behind her, the hot white excruciating pain in her back. She tried to move her legs, first one, then the other. They both worked. Whatever that asshole did to her back hadn’t paralyzed her.

  Thank God for that.

  The tires whined almost as loud as the muffler. She couldn’t think straight, not with all that noise in her head.

  Someone was taking her somewhere.

  She tried to shift around, to get her body in a different position, any position at all, as long as it was different. At first she couldn’t and almost slipped into a panic attack. Then, little by little, she was able to find nooks and crannies to put the parts of her body into as she shifted around.

  She managed to get on her back.

  That was so much better.

  So very much better.

  Okay.

  Calm down.

  Gravitational forces pulled her body to one direction and then the other. The road twisted. It seemed like they might be out in the country somewhere, or maybe heading up into the mountains.

  Could the trunk be opened from the inside? She felt around in the dark in the area where the latch would be. She found some kind of mechanism and pushed and pulled at it from every angle she could but the trunk wouldn’t open. Her car was ten years old, probably built before that type of safety feature.

  A string of five or six cars whizzed by, going the opposite direction.

  She shivered.

  It was freezing.

  If cars were going the other way, maybe there was one behind them, too. Maybe if she could get to the wires for the taillight, she could flash them somehow. Or maybe knock them out and get the police to pull them over. She shifted her body to the left, towards the front of the car, and was able to get her right arm over her head, with her hand up and in the corner of the trunk where the taillight would be. The wires weren’t exposed. She could feel only carpet.

  Damn it!

  Come on!

  There had to be a way to get behind the carpet. She needed to find the edge and felt around for it. Her arm ached beyond belief and she had to consciously fight off the pain to keep from bringing it back for a rest.

  Everything was so tight.

  Ten more seconds.

  Then she found her fingers on something that might be a seam. She gripped it as hard as she could and tugged at it. It moved. She felt the carpet pull away from the side of the trunk and tugged even harder and felt a snap open. Suddenly there was a faint red light inside the space, backsplash from the taillight. She could actually see now, not much, but some.

  She twisted her head as best she could and looked up above her. She could see the back of the taillight and the wires going to it.

  She couldn’t tolerate the pain in her arm anymore and brought it down to her side. That felt so, so good.

  She could see the latch mechanism now and felt around with her hand in that area again. But the amount of light wasn’t much and she couldn’t get her head close enough to really see anything.

  There was no inside safety latch.

  Just forget about it.

  Forget it!

  It’s not going to happen!

  She managed to get her arm up above her head again and was able to get her hands on the wire, but couldn’t get to the end of it, where it actually plugged into the bulb. That’s what she needed. If she could get to that she could connect and disconnect the wire and send out an SOS, which was dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot, or vice versa. Anyone behind them would see it and should be smart enough to call the police.

  The wires ran through some kind of a plastic part, something like a funnel. She couldn’t get her fingers through that stupid plastic part to grab the plug.

  She could yank the wire out and kill the taillight if she wanted. But that wasn’t anywhere near as good as an SOS. Plus she’d never be able to get to the other light, down by her feet.

  What to do?

  The pain in her arm was beyond tolerance again and she brought it down and let it lay next to her side, where it throbbed.

  For some reason she just now remembered her purse and frantically felt around for it. The cell phone was in there, plus that emergency GPS that Northway had given her.

  Damn it!

  No purse.

  It was sitting in the car on the passenger seat. She could feel it there.

  Shit!

  Okay, think.

  The taillight.

  Maybe she could find something to break open that plastic funnel part. Maybe if she could get to the jack kit there’d be something in there she could use. But where was it? Probably underneath her in the spare tire compartment. It may as well be on Mars.

  The cold gnawed at her bones and tried to get her to forget about everything and just close her eyes. She had to make a conscious effort to fight it off.

  Help!

  Someone help me!

  Jesus.

  This wasn’t happening.

  She hadn’t done anything to make something like this happen.

  She had to think. Sooner or later the car was going to stop and someone would open the trunk. What to do? Money. She’d offer him money. That’s it, lots of money. More money than he could ever imagine. And she’d never say a word to anyone. Not a word. All he had to do was let her go.

  Then, suddenly, wham!

  An explosion erupted from underneath the car, followed by a sudden jerk to the left and the panicked squealing of locked tires. The car was off the asphalt now and on di
rt or gravel or something, sliding out of control. The front end of the vehicle shook from side to side as if the two front wheels were pointed in different directions. Then the forward momentum stopped with a violent jerk.

  They must have hit a rock or boulder on the road.

  She pictured a smashed tie-rod.

  If that was the case, they weren’t going anywhere.

  The red glow in the trunk disappeared. He had turned the lights off. Then he shut off the motor and the sound of the muffler died. Everything was suddenly eerily quiet, except for some sound that she didn’t recognize coming from somewhere outside the car. She heard the driver’s side door open and then the footsteps of someone walking to the front of the car. She pictured the dark silhouette of a man up there, kneeling down to check the damage, and wondering what to do with her if he determined the car was dead.

  Should she shout out?

  No.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Be quiet.

  Just be quiet.

  Don’t draw attention to yourself. Maybe he’ll just run away and someone will find you in the morning. You can last until the morning if you have to.

  Can’t you?

  Then she heard the footsteps coming her way and clenched her gut.

  Vomit shot up into her mouth.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Day Six - April 21

  Saturday Evening

  ____________

  At first, Ganjon thought he would bury the two biker scumbags in a single shallow grave in the barn, just deep enough to keep the animals out and the stench in. But if he did that someone would find them sooner or later. Then there’d officially be a crime scene at this location and he’d be inextricably intertwined with it because he’d scattered more forensic evidence around at this point than he’d be able to remove in a thousand years. So, instead, he emptied their pockets, threw their stinky bodies in the trunk of the Camry, drove south for thirty minutes and found a nice quiet place to dump them.

  When he got back, the biker bitch, who he hadn’t killed, was still hogtied and gagged on the barn floor just like he left her, except she was conscious now and watching him with wide eyes.

  He wheeled one of the Harleys into the barn past her, parked it without saying anything, then went back out and brought the other one in.

  Now he could relax a little.

  He squatted down and checked out his new catch.

  She had more than enough road stink; that was for sure. Her hair was dark auburn, halfway down her back, tangled and greasy. She wore dirty jeans with a rip in the ass, and a blue flannel shirt over a tank top, with no bra. She looked to be about thirty-seven or thirty-eight. She was full of tattoos and had a defiant look in her eyes, like she’d been kicked around more than enough for one lifetime.

  He pulled the gag out of her mouth and she immediately gulped for air.

  “Do you want to join your two friends?” he warned.

  Her eyes flashed.

  “Screw them and screw you.”

  He couldn’t help but respect her attitude and chuckled. Then he untied her legs, leaving her hands tied behind her back, and pulled her to her feet.

  “Don’t make me change my mind about you,” he said.

  By the look in her eyes she took the words seriously, as she should.

  He walked her into the house, straight into the bathroom, and untied her hands. She stood there, still shivering from the cold outside, not making a move. He turned on the shower to get it warmed up and told her to strip off her rat-infested clothes, every shred of them, and throw them over in the corner. It somewhat surprised him that she did it immediately without even a hint of a protest.

  He felt the water with his hand, determined it wasn’t quite hot enough, adjusted the knob just a tad, felt the flow again and told her to get in.

  She did.

  Then he tossed her a bar of soap.

  She caught it and said, “Hope you enjoy the show, asshole,” and began lathering up while he sat down on the toilet and watched. Surprisingly, her body was in pretty good shape considering the neglect it must have suffered over the years. Life without TV and potato chips had kept her stomach fairly flat. Her tits were nice too, not too big or too small. But she’d ruined her skin with tattoos. They were everywhere. Some of them were higher quality but most of them were cheap junk. They ran together and bumped into one another without rhyme or reason or planning.

  It was too bad.

  When she was done and had toweled off, he gave her a clean T-shirt to put on and then tied her hands behind her back. He expected her to resist and was prepared to apply some persuasion but she ended up being totally passive about it. For some reason he was almost left with the idea that she wanted to be tied if that would please him.

  He grabbed her arm, pulled her into the living room and sat her down on the couch. She sank into it, spread her legs ever so suggestively and looked him straight in the eyes without saying anything.

  The stress of the night rose inside him and he suddenly had a craving for alcohol.

  “You want a beer?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Sure. Okay.”

  He walked over to the fridge, keeping a close eye on her, counted the beers left, which were eleven, grabbed one and popped the top on his way back. He took a long swig and then held the can to her mouth. She tipped her head back and drained the rest of it.

  Ganjon couldn’t help but smile.

  That was pretty impressive.

  “More,” she said.

  “More?”

  “More.”

  Why not?

  He fetched another one.

  “I never saw anyone fight like that,” she said. “And I’ve seen some shit.”

  He looked at the bruise on her forehead. “Sorry I had to hit you.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s okay.”

  The woman intrigued him.

  He didn’t know why, exactly, but the fact remained.

  She scrubbed up pretty good and turned out to be not half-bad looking. He sat down on the couch next to her where it would be easier to share the beer and organized some of the things he needed to know.

  “So who are those two guys?” he questioned.

  “Nobody,” she said. “Nobody worth anything.”

  “Are they wanted?”

  She nodded. “Ninety-Nine is.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “The ugly one.”

  “Which ugly one?”

  “The ugly one with the red shirt,” she said, tipping her head back. He held the can up to her mouth and let her drink.

  “What’d he do?”

  She looked bothered. “Shit, I don’t know, armed robbery or something. It was before my time.”

  “What about the other guy? Is he wanted?”

  She shook her head negative. “That puss, I don’t think so. He’s done stuff, but there’s no arrest warrant out on his ass, that I know of.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “John-Boy.”

  “Which bike is his?”

  She tried to dismiss the question as if she’d had enough. “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “No, it’s thirty questions. Which bike is his?”

  “The purple one. Why?”

  Ganjon cocked his head. “Because his is the bike that’s not contaminated.”

  She looked like she understood.

  “Oh.”

  She licked her lips and spread her legs wider, then looked him straight in the eyes. “So are you going to fuck me, or what?”

  Ganjon laughed, a nervous laugh.

  He wasn’t used to women like this.

  Things were moving way too fast and way too easy.

  He wasn’t sure if she was trying to control him with her body.

  “Show me your tattoos first,” he said.

  She looked genuinely interested in that. “Good idea,” she told him. “Untie my hands so I can take this
shirt off.”

  He considered it.

  “Don’t even think about trying anything,” he warned.

  “You scared of little old me?”

  “I’m serious. Be good.”

  “Yes, master.” As he untied her, she asked a question. “Who’s the bitch in the bedroom?”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I’ll do her, if you want. You can watch.”

  He laughed.

  “You are a wild one, aren’t you?”

  “Who, me?”

  They spent a good hour, and lots more beers, going over her tattoos. She had a story for every one of them. They were a roadmap of her life and by the time she was done he was actually starting to like them.

  He found his hand in her hair, playing with it.

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “You’d look better with shorter hair.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, I really do,” he said, which was true.

  “Then cut it,” she said.

  The words surprised him. “Are you serious?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “You want me to cut your hair?”

  “Hell, it’s only hair,” she said. “It’s been getting on my nerves anyway. Go ahead and get it the way you like it.”

  So he cut her hair, using his knife—shoulder length with some feathering.

  She looked really, really good like that.

  Afterwards, there on the couch, she gave him the most incredible, uninhibited sex of his life.

  Then he closed his eyes, just to rest them for a second.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Day Seven - April 22

  Sunday Morning

  _____________

  At three o’clock in the morning, Teffinger realized that he had now been rolling and tossing in bed, unable to sleep, for more than two hours. He was tired as hell but had two pots of caffeine in his gut pulling him the wrong direction. He was a rubber band stretched as far as it would go.

  Kelly had been missing now for seven or eight hours.

  She’d been taken by the same sick ass that strung up D’endra Vaughn last weekend. That much was clear from the fact that the little shit had used D’endra’s cell phone to call Teffinger shortly after he took Kelly last night. It was his demented little way of playing with people, announcing what a clever little prick he was.