Outside, the warm sunshine radiated on his face and arms. He let it wash over him for a few breaths. Then he turned and raised his hand to hail a cab.
Dak had a date with a sniper in Colorado.
Thank You
Thank you for taking the time to read this story. We can always make more money, but time is a finite resource for all of us, so the fact you took the time to read my work means the world to me and I truly appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed sharing it, and I look forward to bringing you more fun adventures in the future. If you this story kept you up late, on the edge of your seat, or burning your fingers as you swiped or turned the pages, swing by Amazon and leave a review. I’d appreciate it and so would other readers.
See you in the next one,
Ernest
Other books by Ernest Dempsey
Dak Harper Origin Stories:
Out of the Fire
You Only Die Once
Tequila Sunset
Purgatory
Scorched Earth
The Heart of Vengeance
Sean Wyatt Adventures:
The Secret of the Stones
The Cleric's Vault
The Last Chamber
The Grecian Manifesto
The Norse Directive
Game of Shadows
The Jerusalem Creed
The Samurai Cipher
The Cairo Vendetta
The Uluru Code
The Excalibur Key
The Denali Deception
The Sahara Legacy
The Fourth Prophecy
The Templar Curse
The Forbidden Temple
The Omega Project
The Napoleon Affair
The Second Sign
Adriana Villa Adventures:
War of Thieves Box Set
When Shadows Call
Shadows Rising
Shadow Hour
The Adventure Guild:
The Caesar Secret: Books 1-3
The Carolina Caper
Beta Force:
Operation Zulu
London Calling
Paranormal Archaeology Division:
Hell’s Gate
For Russell
Acknowledgments
Special thanks go out to my super fans. We ride together. I appreciate and love you all. And a huge thank you to Anne Storer, Ray Braun, Denyse Léonard, and James Slater for your extra effort in helping make this story a better reading experience.
Copyright © 2020 by Ernest Dempsey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Purgatory
A Dak Harper Thriller
Ernest Dempsey
One
Denver, Colorado
Dak had been waiting on this call for nearly two months. During that time, the warm embrace of late summer had rapidly given way to the chill of fall and the coming winter.
After the events in Mexico and the death of Luis, Dak Harper made his way back to the United States, circumventing the Border Patrol with the documents his friend Will had created for him back in Portugal.
It was the second time he'd been forced to sneak back into his own country, the country he fought and sacrificed for. The irony wasn't lost on him, but he did his best not to dwell on that. Those kinds of thoughts and feelings weren't productive.
He'd come to Denver, Colorado, immediately after re-entering the country. Luis told Dak that Billy Trask—one of the five men who'd left him for dead in Iraq—was holed up on a mountain somewhere in Colorado. Luis had failed to mention precisely where before he died in the firefight at the Mendoza cartel compound. Maybe he didn't know. Telling himself that made Dak feel a little better about the state of the unknown, but just barely.
Billy was a sniper and an excellent one at that. The obvious conclusion to Billy's selection of a mountain location was that he'd have a clear line of sight to any approaching threat. It was possible, of course, that Billy simply loved the mountains—a fact that Dak recalled from one of their conversations when they first met. If the sniper could have the best of both worlds, then that was just an added bonus.
Dak looked out the window of his seventh-story apartment. The downtown Denver skyline spread out across the plains leading into the Rocky Mountains. The city had witnessed a population explosion in recent years that resulted in rapid expansion both to the south and to the north toward Fort Collins.
He pressed the answer button and held the device to his ear.
"I've been waiting for your call," Dak said, half cryptically, half-jokingly.
"I bet you have," Will responded. "I hope you’ve picked up a hobby or two during all of this."
Dak snickered. He had picked up a hobby. Since arriving in Denver, he'd been learning more about drones—specifically racing and freestyle models capable of reaching speeds beyond 90 mph while taking incredibly crisp video via GoPro-mounted cameras. He'd built four drones in the last two months. He lost one high up in the mountains when it crashed into a rocky crag. He crashed another one, but that unit managed to survive—for the most part. It needed some new propellers, two new motors, and two new cameras, but the aircraft proved to be far more durable than he would have believed.
Flying the drones gave him the feeling of being on a motorcycle with wings. It was fast, adrenaline-fueled, and filled a need for excitement he didn't realize he had. Being in one of the more picturesque, breathtaking places in the world didn't hurt, either.
"I've been doing some photography and videography," Dak said, downplaying the new hobby.
Will burst out laughing. "Not weddings and birthdays, I hope."
"Not really."
"Well, that's a relief. I couldn't imagine you standing around one of those events, taking pictures and video. Besides, you're supposed to be keeping a low profile."
"I am."
Will huffed. "Man of few words today, I see."
"Simple questions deserve simple answers."
"Fair enough."
"So, you have something for me, or you just calling to check on my routine?" Dak leaned forward to look out the window to his right. Dark clouds rolled in from the north and a few flecks of snow fluttered through the air around his building.
That was the downside of Denver. Winters were hard. That wasn't a problem for the people who loved to head into the mountains to hit the slopes. He fit into the other category, though he hoped that one day he might be able to return and visit Vail again. He'd been there once before and loved the little mountain village. It felt like being in Germany or Switzerland, two places he enjoyed visiting on his travels. For now, though, he had work to do.
"Your friend Billy Trask," Will said, "he's definitely in Colorado."
Dak felt a wave of relief crash over him, followed by an injection of adrenaline pumping through his veins.
"That's good to hear. Would be unfortunate if he was in Australia."
"No doubt," Will chuckled. "He's down in the south, in the Sangre de Cristo mountains area. It was difficult to track him down. Based on what you told me before, I wouldn't have thought this one to be as resourceful, but he clearly tried to work every angle he could to disappear."
"I assume he has an alias."
"Now, you and I both know what happens when we assume." Will let the statement linger for a few seconds before going on. "But yes, he goes by the name of Tyler Mumford."
"He looks like a Mumford."
Dak turned away from the window and walked over to the kitchen counter, where he perpetually kept a pen and paper waiting just for this call. He took the pen and pinched it between his fingers and thumb, then jotted down the information.
"I don't know what that means, but whatever. He bought an abandoned
ski resort just outside the town of Cuchara."
Dak froze for a second, wondering if he'd heard correctly. "Did you just say he bought an abandoned ski resort?"
"Yeah, I did a double-take on that one too. Apparently, that area has a few of them. Not sure why. I guess it wasn't the destination that some of the more popular resorts are. Whatever the reason, there was one available and your boy scooped it up. Has a sweet chalet at the top of one of the peaks, too. I bet the view up there is one in a million."
"I'm sure it is," Dak said begrudgingly. A view like that would make it easy for Billy to see someone coming. He also knew Billy couldn't be on watch 24/7, which meant he likely had a couple of security personnel watching for him, or at the very least cameras and sensors.
"I sent the address to your secure email. You need anything else?"
"No," Dak said, shaking his head. "This is good. Thanks again, Will."
"Not a problem. Two more after this one, right?"
"Right. Talk to you soon."
"I hope you do."
The call ended and Dak stared at the name and location he'd scribbled on the piece of paper.
"Okay, Tyler," Dak whispered. "You're up."
Two
Cuchara, Colorado
Tyler raised the rifle and then lowered it down onto the wooden fence rail. He felt the familiar nudge of the stock in his armpit, cradled against his shoulder. The target lined up in the crosshairs as he centered the scope in his line of sight. A gentle breeze rolled across the field. He compensated, easing the weapon just a fraction of an inch to the right to compensate.
"Well? Go on then?" a voice behind him prodded. "What are you waiting for?"
Tyler didn't answer immediately. He kept his breath steady, a monotonous rhythm he always employed when taking down a target.
"Being an expert sniper takes patience, Tripp," Tyler said without so much as a sideways glance at the pest.
"Uh huh," Tripp mocked. Standing a few feet behind Tyler, he watched with his arms crossed, a skeptical smirk on his face, and a bottle of beer in one hand.
"Leave him alone," Steve said. "He's trying to focus." He took a swig of beer and tilted his head up. "Don't pay any attention to him, Tyler."
"Thanks for the tip," Tyler responded unappreciatively.
Steve was the shortest of the group, but built like a rock. He'd played Division II college football at one point in his life, but knee injuries and a lack of height caused coaches to pass on him going any further. He still worked out hard, though, and bore the look of a starting collegiate fullback.
To his right, John Collinsworth was the polar opposite. The giant towered over the other men at six feet five inches. He played college basketball, and like Steve, had suffered injuries that kept him from pursuing a career in it, though he admitted on more than one occasion that professional basketball was probably never in the cards for him. He sipped his beer while the others were happy to chug theirs.
"You just want to win our money," John commented to Steve's intrusion.
"Yeah," Tripp agreed. "Besides, if you're a good shooter, you have to be able to do it under pressure."
Tyler didn't say anything, instead letting the statement blow away on the cool, late fall breeze.
He kept his eye on the target—a beer bottle sitting on a fence post at the other end of the field, nearly five hundred yards away. Tyler—Billy Trask in his former life—had picked off moving targets from farther away when he was in the military. These buffoon friends of his had no idea how good he was or the things he'd done. That, he knew, would always have to remain the case. He couldn't take the chance of them catching on to his true identity. If they caught wind of that, he doubted they would cause any trouble, but he couldn't risk it. Dak Harper was still out there, as far as he knew, and all it would take would be a single slip up. Then there would be trouble.
Billy had been careful, keeping his backstory in line as a former ROTC guy who attended Virginia Tech in Blacksburg. His new crew accepted the explanation without dispute. The fact that he was a deadeye with a rifle attested to at least some kind of military training. Since none of the guys had ever spent as much as a second in the military, they had no foundation to question anything he said.
As far as Billy's money was concerned, he told "the boys" he ran an e-commerce website that he claimed took off—even went as far as buying the domain and throwing up some merchandise to make it look like the real thing. That story kept his new friends off his back, as well as any newcomers that found their way across his path.
It didn't hurt that he was almost always happy to pay for everything when the group went out to the bars or even up to one of the larger cities, such as Colorado Springs or Denver. Coincidental bribes were always an easy way to throw people off the trail.
He felt himself ease into a familiar groove. Even with the alcohol pumping through his veins, Billy was cooler than the other side of the pillow when it came to shooting.
He squeezed the trigger, and the rifle discharged. The thunderous boom echoed through the valley, rolled up into the mountains, and dissipated.
The bottle atop the fence post exploded into a hundred pieces. For a moment, the other three could only stare in disbelief.
John was the first to say anything. "Bam! Looks like you two owe us a hundred bucks a piece," he exclaimed. The usually stoic giant let the thrill of victory overcome him.
Tripp merely stood there speechless. Steve shared his sentiment, staring slack jawed across the vast field at the fence post. He raised the binoculars he held in his right hand and peered through them just to make sure he wasn't seeing things.
Satisfied with his workmanship, the shooter stood up straight, grabbed his bottle of beer from the ground at his feet, and took a swig. He swallowed and clicked his tongue. "You can look through those all day, Steve. You won't find much of that bottle left."
Steve lowered the binoculars, shaking his head. He looked over at his pal and swore. "I ain't never seen anyone shoot like that before, Tyler. I mean, I knew you were good, but that's insane. And with a breeze, too."
"You have to compensate for that," Tyler confessed. "Little trick they taught us when we went out to the sniper range."
"I went to the wrong college," Tripp said, finally able to find the ability to speak.
"Maybe."
"Nah, I've never seen anything like that. None of us even came close."
That part was true. The other three took two turns each at the bottle before Tyler stepped up to the plate. The empty shell casings littering the ground at their feet reminded the other three of their failure, though John didn't seem to mind. He'd put his money on the winning horse.
Tyler shrugged. "You boys want to go double or nothing?"
He gauged Tripp's interest, though Steve appeared to know when to tuck tail and run. Tripp was about to respond when they heard the crunch of tires on gravel and the accompanying sound of a patrol car's engine.
The men spun around in time to see the county deputy's car pull up. The driver blipped the siren for a half second to get their attention, as if he didn't already have it, then parked near Tyler's, concrete-gray four-door Jeep Wrangler.
"Great," Steve spat.
The deputy cut off the engine, stepped out of the vehicle, and put his police-issue hat on. He slammed the door and sauntered around the hood with one hand resting on his belt near the pistol.
"Got a call about some gunfire coming from out here at the old Huxley place," the deputy said, stopping twenty feet from the four men. "Now, I don't suppose you four would know anything about that. Would you?"
"If it ain't Deputy Andy," Tripp groused. "Why don't you just scurry on back into town and see if you can't catch some speeders? I'm sure someone's going four or five miles an hour over the speed limit."
Steve snorted at the comment. "Yeah, Andy. We're not hurting anyone. And no one lives here anymore."
"Makes me wonder who called it in," John added.
Tyler
inclined his head and leaned the rifle against the fence rail. "I'm surprised you're working today, Officer Eller," he said casually. "I thought Mathews was on duty."
"Glad to see you're keeping tabs on the county's business," Andy said. "Officer Mathews called in sick. I'm covering for him."
"That's a shame. Be sure to tell him I said I hope he gets to feelin' better soon." Tyler's words oozed with venom, full of unspoken warnings.
Andy didn't say anything at first. He knew Tyler and his cronies had Brad Mathews in their back pocket. Brad was too easy on them; let them get away with pretty much everything. Rumor had it the newcomer, Tyler Mumford, had been slipping little rewards now and then—sometimes cash, sometimes other, more subtle bribes of a more feminine persuasion.
"I'm sorry, Tyler," Andy said, his words catching in his throat. "I'm going to have to confiscate that rifle. And your beers."
"My rifle?" Tyler sounded hurt.
Andy did everything he could to stand strong, to not let Tyler and the others intimidate him.
"And the beers?"
The deputy gave an exaggerated nod. And with the threat, he inched his thumb closer to the pistol. The men couldn't see the move since his body was turned slightly.
"Yep," Andy said. "The beers too. That's what I said."
Andy stood as tall as Tyler, maybe a half inch taller. Their lanky frames mirrored each other, though Tyler's arms rippled with veins and sinew from his years in the military. He clearly kept up at least a semblance of his former training regimen. The deputy, on the other hand, appeared slimmer, though not weak in his own right.
Tyler nodded, pouting his lips in a sort of mocking surrender. "Well, all right then." He lifted the beer and drained its contents down his throat in less than three seconds, then tossed the empty bottle at the deputy's feet. It hit the ground with a clank and rolled to a stop when it hit the tip of Andy's boot. Tyler looked at his friends. "You heard him, boys. Give him your beers."
The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 22
