Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1)

by Sebastian Blunt

  “That is a fascinating story.”

  “Yes, it is. The thing about Casper is that he is brilliant. The guy finished at the top of his high school class, despite spending most of his time working the street and keeping tabs on deals. The dude is someone to be reckoned with.”

  “So what?”

  “I think he killed the New York hitter who was chasing him in Italy. When he saw that Ms. Clark was dead, he ran.”

  “And now you, with your large organization, are going to find him? C’mon. He could be in Africa, Tahiti; who the hell knows?”

  “If he was involved with the Clark woman, then he might be looking for revenge.”

  Gold smirked and shrugged at the same time. “Glenda. Bad guys run and hide. They don’t stick their necks out.”

  “I’m not convinced that he’s a heartless scumbag. Besides, he’s got the pictures of Bruner and the drug woman. How much do you think those images are worth?”

  “A huge price on the scumbag’s head.”

  “Those pics would buy some serious witness protection. What I’ve gotten through the grapevine is that he is not the kind of person who will walk away from something like that rich, Brit girl getting stabbed.”

  “Your story is compelling, but something doesn’t fit. I can’t believe that he would have made it out of Italy alive. There would have been two or three guys in that room with the girl. But, they only found one? And he was killed with a broom handle wedged in his gut?”

  “Casper also broke the hitter’s neck.”

  “So Mike is Delta Force—Bruce Lee?”

  “I don’t know, Moe. He trained with his dad and other cops in Brooklyn. People reveal a lot when you work them the right way. Casper wasn’t street muscle, but he did a lot of hand-to-hand training—most of that was with fighters in the police gym in Flatbush—years of freestyle matches. The thing is, I want first dibs on his story. I want to bring down Bruner and nail the drug queen. If I’m right about Casper, then he will come back here when he’s ready. The Clark woman getting murdered in Italy might have been the kicker.”

  Gold stood up and stretched his intimidating frame. “I’ll go remove the Virginia plates from your used gas guzzler.”

  “Thanks, and it’s West Virginia. Different state and very different people.”

  Chapter 28

  At 10 p.m., Smith, the seasoned cab driver, pulled up in front of his Smithtown home. He stood up, closed the car door, and did his best to work out the kinks in his back. With any luck, Reggie, his wife Regina, left him a little dinner in the fridge.

  He pressed the lock button on his key chain. The reply was a couple of beeps as he walked steadily up the path towards the white front door in need of paint.

  “Hey, man.” Smith whipped around. “Are you a taxi driver?”

  The nearest streetlamp was too far to shed much light on the concrete path where he faced a lean, dark-haired man. The Vietnam vet’s anxiety rose quickly as he recognized a threat.

  “Sorry, friend. I’m off duty for the night. You can call the number on the side of my cab, and they’ll send a car.”

  The skinny, middle-eastern-looking guy inched closer. He had a scruffy beard and pearly white teeth that glimmered even in the dark. “I wanted to ask you about a black woman and a man that you dropped off in Calverton. You know who I’m talking about?”

  Smith remained cool. “I must have had thirty fares out that way today. At my age, I don’t remember a thing.”

  “You would remember these two. It was a Negro woman and a normal man.”

  “What did you just say? A ‘Negro’ woman? Young man, you should try using respectful words.”

  The guy stepped even closer. “I’m just trying to speak in a simple language you’ll understand, being that you are from that generation, old fella.”

  “I can’t help you. Good night.” The elderly vet turned toward his front door.

  Suddenly, a strong grip yanked him backward. His attacker slammed him hard against the side of the taxi. Smith’s head bumped against the border between the door and the roof. Disorientation flooded his thinking and vision for a few seconds, but he regained his senses.

  “Shut up, old man. Don’t say a word.”

  Donald Smith, Sr. was mentally working through his options. The best one was to talk his way out of this mess.

  “Mr. Smith. You see, I know your name, and I also checked to see that your Regina was home. So, let’s talk about how this works out. You tell me where I can find that darkie-woman, and I let you live. Or I can go into your house and cut your wife.”

  “She’ll blow your head off with her .38 revolver.” Don was amazed at how cool he’d said that.

  “An old bitch is gonna shoot me?” The skinny man held up a six-inch blade. “You can live if you tell me what I want to know.”

  From seventy-five years of experience, including time in the jungles of Vietnam and Cambodia, Smith recognized the look on the face of the killer gazing at him. He spit in the guy's face. “Go fuck yourself. You pencil dick racist.”

  “Have it your way.” The disheveled hitter named Ismael thrust the blade below Smith’s solar plexus. The pain took the cabbie’s breath as blackness rushed in.

  The killer snatched the keys from the man’s quivering hand, shoved the dying senior to the ground, and quickly opened the driver’s side door. Old farts were so predictable—there it was, a little notebook scribbled full of penciled-in names and addresses. Too damn easy, he thought. On the front seat was a ball cap—a free souvenir. He sprinted away and then stopped by a tree to shove the knife and latex gloves into a plastic zip bag.

  Thirty yards further down the road, a car with fake plates waited. Ismael dashed into the back and pulled the door shut behind him. “Got it.”

  The driver was already fantasizing about his fat paycheck.

  *

  Claire left her brownstone on 70th and walked west to a deli on the corner of 3rd Avenue. Her order was waiting. She took the bag with the deli sandwich and cola, then headed north. This part of Manhattan was her turf. She knew where every nook and niche, where every surveillance camera was, and where every path led. After a hundred yards, she descended into an underground parking garage.

  “You’re exactly on time.” Lowell, her prime operator, stood in the dim, moist, and dank space. His cigar didn’t improve the odor.

  “Did you receive the address?”

  “Yes. The Arab kid sent it to me.”

  “Fine. Open up. And toss that stupid thing. It’s bad for you.”

  Lowell reluctantly threw the cigar into a shallow, grimy puddle. He popped the trunk. It was lined with a thin foam mattress and pillow.

  “Will that do?”

  “Avoid the potholes.” She climbed in and unwrapped her dinner.

  “Pastrami?”

  “Close the trunk, asshole. When we’re done, you can go buy yourself a few hundred of these.”

  He clicked the lid shut, got into the gray sedan, pulled out onto 71st Street, and headed for the Long Island Expressway.

  *

  “I’m in desperate need of a shower. Could you do me a favor, Kim? Make sure the bolt is latched. I’ll be out in a few minutes. After that, we can watch whatever you want.”

  “Princess Stories?”

  “Not a chance.” Before she could make another suggestion, Mike sprinted to his room and shut the door. Simultaneously he realized it was five weeks since Cassie’s murder. His heartache was overpowering at times. He wondered if killing Claire German would ease his pain even a little.

  *

  “Clean up that trunk.” Claire stepped out onto the dark street not far from the Manshu woman’s rental. The address they’d retrieved from the taxi log book matched the listing of the only rental house available in the partially wooded neighborhood.

  She looked at the two men from the other car. They’d waited patiently for almost three hours. The older guy was visibly pale white, even while standing on the dimly lit
tree-lined street. He was the moron who’d been spotted while tailing the Belize woman from Manhattan. He looked at her like a dog waiting for a treat.

  “What’s your name?”

  “They call me Munch.”

  “Cute.” She turned to the skinny younger guy with the stupid hat. “And you?”

  “Call me Ismael.” His feeble attempt at humor failed.

  Claire couldn’t restrain her contempt. “An Arab?”

  “Does that matter? I’ve been in this country since I was five.”

  “Hey. Ahmed or Ismael. I don’t give a damn as long as you don’t screw up. Clear?” Claire pierced him with a menacing stare. “If you do anything stupid, I’ll kill you myself.”

  He scratched his thick black hair under the ball cap. Women talking down to him was infuriating, but she was paying a lot.

  “Absolutely. You’re the boss.”

  Claire ignored him as inconsequential and turned to her number one and to Munch. “We do this quickly.” She adjusted the long blond wig that was bugging her. “Who has a weapon?”

  “I do,” said Munch.

  “Leave it in the holster. Stealth is the operative word. No noise. Period. When we get in there, you take out the guy. I’ll deal with the woman. The three of you should be able to handle one man. Just put him down quietly.”

  There were nods of agreement.

  “Okay. Gloves go on before we go in. Let’s move.”

  The house was as plain as everything else in the middle-class neighborhood. It was a single-story mildly antiquated home. The good thing was that the garage was apart from the house and provided fair cover from any nosy neighbors to the right.

  “There’s no car,” Munch whispered.

  Lowell turned. “Maybe that was the reason for the cab?”

  Munch shut up.

  Claire eyed her main guy. “Do a once around.”

  He stalked off quietly to circle the property. Claire crouched down with the other two and waited.

  Despite his soft shoes and extreme care, Lowell’s steps made a mild crunching noise.

  Kim heard a light pitter-patter outside the living room sliding door. If she hadn’t been wound up to a heightened state of alert, she might have written it off as a dog poking around. Casper told her that paranoia was not always a bad thing. She walked quickly down the carpeted hallway to Mike’s room.

  “I saw the woman. She’s in the living room on the backside of the house. There’s a sliding door there. Besides the front door, there is a flimsy-looking wooden door under that overhang.” He pointed to a pitch-dark indent directly across the driveway from the garage.

  “That’s our entrance. It’s probably a laundry room or something like that,” stammered Munch.

  “Shut up.” Claire was trying to concentrate. “Lowell. Use the crowbar for popping open that door. No one in this neighborhood will get too excited about cracking wood from far away. We’ll go in Lowell, Munch, me, and then Ismael. I will head straight for the woman. You three take care of the man.”

  Kim tapped lightly on Casper’s door. He was very alert and opened the door slightly. Mike was in a pair of jeans, with no shirt. Having never seen him shirtless, Kimberly couldn’t help noticing his chiseled and tense muscles.

  “I heard a noise outside.” She was standing there holding a cast iron frying pan.

  “What kind of noise?” He asked while looking for the closest thing he could use as a weapon. Days earlier, some sort of stick or knife was placed in various rooms—just in case.

  Mike pulled a broom out of the bathroom. He didn’t miss the significance or the irony while stepping on the wooden shaft to snap it in two. Each half seemed sharp and potentially deadly. He handed the lower part to Kim.

  “Unscrew the brush. You don’t swing this if you need to use it as a weapon—instead, jab straight at anyone coming at you. Do not open this door. If someone breaks it down, then be ready and stab them until they drop.”

  Kim was trembling. He looked at her without mercy. “Get your damn shit together right now!”

  Something about Mike’s grim determination calmed her. He could see that too and gave her a powerful and sympathetic look. “We’re going to live.” She locked the door behind him.

  Lowell wedged the crowbar between the frame and the worn edge of the painted door. Pushing hard got the blade part of the tool deeply inserted. It didn’t take much. The door popped open with a little crack as the bolt ripped through the flimsy jam.

  Claire’s guy looked around as he stepped inside. The big mouth Munch guessed right. To the left were a washer and dryer with shelves on the right. The light was off, and there was another hollow interior door just ahead.

  Mike stood waiting behind that door. He was uttering a sub-audible prayer, hoping that it would only be one guy without a gun, but the chances of that were low. The lights in the small area where Mike waited were off—as were the lamps out in the living room. A little splatter of illumination came from the kitchen and played on the laundry room door. Casper stood in the shadows and did his best to slow his breathing and prepare.

  Lowell gripped the knob, turned it, and swung the door open. The light from the kitchen caught his eyes. It was a momentary distraction that gave Casper a chance.

  Mike’s first broomstick lunge penetrated the killer’s gut—then withdrawing the unexpectedly deadly weapon, Mike thrust it into the man’s throat. Lowell was flailing his arms, confusing Munch behind him. A woman’s voice was shouting, “Go. Go,” but the large buffoon of a man blocked Claire, who was stuck in place.

  After a few seconds, Lowell dropped, incapacitated and dying on the carpet. Munch saw Casper, and the man moved surprisingly fast. The second killer pressed the attack despite being struck with a piercing wound to his stomach. He slammed Mike against the far wall. Without looking, Claire ran in shouting, “Kill him!” as she bolted past, grasping a blade in search of Kim.

  The third guy dashed in but tripped on Lowell’s body and plowed into Munch’s back. The clumsy attack gave Mike time enough to recover. He had to finish the big guy.

  Again the broom handle saved him. The second stabbing motion into his oversized enemy caught the man once again in the gut. This time, he rammed it in with all his strength. The sharp point penetrated as blood gushed down the wooden stick. It was so slippery that Casper lost his grip.

  Ismael leaped forward with his knife. The dim room made it impossible for Casper to defend himself. He bolted to the kitchen; the thin man was only steps behind.

  On the white marble island sat a steak knife—it was the best that Mike could prepare. He snatched it and turned to see Ismael swinging the blade. Casper twisted his body out of the way, but the point poked and nipped him on his left arm. Speed was the difference between life and death now. He lunged. The steak knife penetrated Ismael’s breastbone. It didn’t pierce all the way through, but the wound was enough to stagger the man. Claire’s third guy fell back against the refrigerator and dropped his weapon. Mike stepped back to size up the threat. Then he noticed the hat—it had a Brooklyn Dodgers patch.

  “You sonofabitch. What did you do to Smith?”

  “Was he your friend? I left him dead by his front door.”

  There was no time to pay the murderer back what he truly deserved. Instead, the simple kitchen knife slid between Ismael’s ribs and into his heart. The bastard collapsed with a look of disbelief.

  Claire!

  He ran down the short hallway. The psychopath failed to see Casper closing on her. Instead, she focused on throwing her body at the locked door—it gave way.

  Kim shrieked as the woman with murder in her eyes jumped at her; knife raised for the kill. Mike was two steps too far. Claire swung the sharp blade, but then, something happened that no one in the bedroom anticipated—the heavy frying pan in Kim’s hand whipped and whistled horizontally into Claire’s head. The psychotic murderess was knocked off her feet and dropped hard onto the bed as her knife fell point down and stuck in the
parquet floor. The move and power of that stroke saved Kimberly’s life.

  Casper, bleeding slightly from his left arm, snagged her and pushed her away from the dazed killer. Claire was already trying to get up when she saw Mike’s face and gasped.

  “This is impossible!” It was a scream of disbelief laden with insane wrath.

  He pushed her back down hard on the bed. She fought against his powerful arms but could not unpin herself.

  “Get off me, you fucker!” She was kicking and screaming to no avail.

  Kim stood back. The pain of Kenny’s death swamped her brain, but as she watched, it was clear that killing Claire with her own hands would be impossible.

  Mike flipped Claire onto her stomach. She couldn’t break free. He put his right knee hard into the middle of her back, which caused her intense pain.

  “Don’t look, Kim.”

  Kimberly started to turn but stopped and forced herself to watch. Killing the evil woman might have been too much, but she had to think of Kenny, and she had to see it.

  “I’ll pay you!” Claire pleaded.

  “Can you bring Cassie back? Can you bring Kenny back?” Mike spat out the words like fire as he pulled the long wig from her scalp. He yanked her head back and wrapped the blond wig around her neck. Claire’s struggling intensified as she felt the constriction around her throat.

  His muscles flexed as the strands of hair-like polyester compressed Claire’s trachea. Tighter and tighter. No sounds came from her mouth, but her arms and feet rocked up and down. Eventually, they just trembled and then froze. Casper held tight for a while longer, to be sure. He got up and checked Kimberly. She was uninjured and safe. Justice and vengeance had been delivered.