An erroneous mindset evidenced by the fact that for more than an hour, they had been in direct eye line of The Promisor, and not once had they thought to ask him to leave.
Or to even wander over and say hello.
Pulling back from the riflescope, The Promisor flicked his gaze to the cellphone buzzing atop the pine needles beside him. A second warning, this one coming from the auxiliary trap he had set outside the backdoor.
A signal that the initial breach had been unsuccessful, either triggered intentionally or arriving with additional forces. A crew that had now proceeded all the way to the rear porch, confirming what he had already suspected.
There would be no going home until this was done, if even then.
A mission that very well may have trended over into a kamikaze run. Something he’d known was possible from the very beginning, doing nothing to deter him now.
If anything, it could even be construed as a bit liberating.
Staring at the warning flashing across the screen, The Promisor didn’t bother reaching out to take it up. Flicking his gaze to the corner instead, he checked the time, seeing that it was now fifteen minutes before five.
The hour that his target always tried to make it home by, beating whatever afternoon traffic he thought might exist over the short drive from the course to his home. An inconvenience a man of his stature couldn’t be bothered to endure, no matter how unlikely.
Feeling his heart rate increase just slightly, The Promisor pulled his gaze away from the phone. Returning it to the narrow focus of the riflescope, he counted the seconds in his head. One after another until reaching sixty before starting anew, the mental exercise keeping him sharp as two minutes ticked by.
And then a third.
A task he made it through exactly three and a half times before he saw the officers along the front walk begin to stir. As if a switch had been thrown, they both came to life, turning toward the driveway.
A charge passing through his core, he watched as the guards took off at a jog in unison. Moving down the front walk, they headed for the driveway, aiming to intercept the glossy black SUV rolling into sight. A vehicle The Promisor had seen too many times to count, the Mercedes always gleaming under the polish of a fresh wax.
The target’s Saturday morning chore of choice, after another trip to the golf course.
Leaving the officers behind, The Promisor fixed his attention on the vehicle. Watching as it slowed on approach, he saw as it paused just short of the driveway. A brief stop he imagined was the driver rolling down his window and leaning out to have a quick conversation with the cruiser parked along the curb.
A brief interaction to ask what had happened or to extoll his annoyance with the entire thing before the Mercedes began to roll forward again, making the turn into the driveway before easing to a stop.
Tapping the pad of his finger against the outside of the trigger guard, The Promisor saw as the brake lights were barely extinguished before the driver’s side door swung open, a man in his early fifties stepping out. Dressed in khaki slacks and a black polo, his shaved head reflected the overhead sun. Lean from birth, the onset of age had stripped away a fair bit of any muscle mass he might have once had, his frame nothing short of wiry.
Leaving the door standing open, the man stood with one hand resting atop it. The other he waved about, gesticulating wildly as the pair of officers stood across from him, attempting to placate.
An animated back-and-forth The Promisor was all too happy to let play out. The old man, clearly angry, trying to assert his dominance over the situation. The younger officers with hands outstretched before them, fighting in vain to calm him.
A swirl of bodies that wasn’t nearly as easy as Cara Salem or Avery Lawson, but was likely the best he was going to get. A line of sight putting the target in his crosshairs, likely for the first and last time.
An opportunity he was not about to pass up, The Promisor easing his finger inside the trigger guard and slowly tugging back.
A shot he watched as far as seeing all three men tumble to the ground, a spray of blood coating the window of the open SUV door, before snatching up his rifle and making his retreat.
Chapter Seventy
Reed heard three gunshots in total on the approach to the house. A trio of sounds that were parsed into two groups, separated by a brief burst of the deep braying of pit bulls.
All plainly audible even through the faint ringing in Reed’s ears, the initial noise was the unmistakable burst of a shotgun. A thunderous explosion much like the one Reed had taken to the chest earlier, the sound enough to send a jolt of electricity through him.
His entire body dropping into a shooter’s crouch, he extended his Glock before him. To his right, Jacobs did the same, his body obscuring what Reed assumed to be the same from his partner on the far side.
Barely was he into position before the next part in the sequence occurred. A series of barks punctuating the air, just as they had earlier. Pavlovian responses that didn’t have nearly as far to travel, emitting no more than a couple of howls before the final piece in the sequence occurred.
A pair of blasts from a much smaller handgun that brought the barking to an abrupt end.
Start to finish, the assorted sounds lasted no more than a few seconds. A meteoric burst of noise that confirmed the decision to bring in the SWAT unit before the world fell quiet, the only sound being the low growl of Billie by Reed’s side.
A guttural snarl that he couldn’t hear so much as feel, the vibrations of her diaphragm passing through her torso pressed tight to his leg.
Crouched in the center of the driveway, his gaze swiveling to either side, Reed waited with his weapon extended before him. A pose he maintained for nearly half a minute, even as sweat stung his eyes and lactic acid burned in his thighs and shoulders, before Ellis appeared on the front porch of the house.
Submachine gun supported by a shoulder harness and his left hand, he raised his right high overhead, signaling them in.
“All clear!”
Slowly unfurling himself, Reed released the clench in his body. Lowering the Glock before him, he exhaled slowly, bringing himself up to full height.
A drop in tension that Billie sensed beside him, loosening her coiled stance.
Maintaining their spacing across the driveway, together the group made their way up to the house. A cabin that looked to have originally been fairly modest in stature, expanded over the years in fits and starts. Additional pieces added to the front and sides for a motif that seemed to work, even if the various pieces weren’t quite in perfect alignment.
Shingle styles or paint colors that didn’t exactly match. Window sizes and shapes that were a bit off.
In total, a single-story house that looked to be large enough for several people, a pair of secondary structures positioned off to the side. A small shed that Reed would guess to be a workshop of sorts, wooden barn doors marked with white X’s held together by a padlock at the front.
Behind it stood a detached garage with a wooden slat door and a smaller entry beside it. A miniature version of DMick’s warehouse, this one big enough to hold a couple of vehicles at most.
Each of the three looking to have been built long ago, it was apparent that the forest had crowded in around them. Trees of varying heights and diameters covered much of the ground, nothing more than a band of grass encircling the place. A swath that was at most ten feet across, ruts striped through it hinting of recent mowing.
Otherwise, it seemed that great effort had been taken to keep the place as natural as possible, to the degree that the forest threatened to overtake things at any moment.
A choice rooted either in a love of nature or a desire to hide from the world, Reed having strong suspicions as to which Reese was going for.
“There was one more shotgun rigged to the back door,” Ellis said as they stepped up to the porch. “No sign of the dogs until it went off, then they came running.”
Flicking his gaze down t
o Billie, he added, “Looked like they’d already been through hell. Daughtry tranqued them anyway, just to be sure.”
“Was anybody hurt?” Reed asked.
“No,” Ellis replied. “Shot took a hell of a chunk out of the side of the house, but since we knew what to look for, everybody was sure to stand clear.”
“Anybody home?” McMichaels ventured.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Ellis answered. “Guys are going to fan out now, go through each of the outbuildings. You’re free to start in on the main house.”
“Appreciate it,” Reed said, rising onto the first step as Ellis turned and headed inside. Beside him, Jacobs and McMichaels did the same, the three of them making it almost to the threshold before Reed paused.
“Down,” he said, the command bringing the entire group to a stop. Confusion on each of the officers’ faces, they turned as Billie reluctantly lowered herself to the ground in the center of the front porch.
A spot she clearly didn’t care for, but Reed didn’t want to run the risk of her entering to find the two sedated pit bulls. A sight that might incite her again, his concern more for the fresh stitches lining her body than for the safety of the animals.
When they were finished inside, he would send the mobile vets down to check on them.
Until then, he had much bigger worries than the dogs that had squared off against his partner, trying to attack him while he was unconscious.
“Smell that?” Jacobs asked. Nostrils rising a couple of times in order, he rotated his head back toward the house. Taking a step inside, he paused on the bare wooden floorboards, his head cocked to the side.
“Gunpowder?” McMichaels asked, entering behind him.
Following behind them both, Reed lifted his chin. Pulling in a deep inhalation, he picked up the smell of the recent shotgun blast and sawdust from the wooden siding it chewed through.
More than that though, he noticed what Jacobs alluded to, his focus going to the fireplace on the far wall.
“How cold did it get last night?” he asked.
“Warm enough I wouldn’t call it cold,” McMichaels replied. “Sixty-five? Sixty-eight?”
Grunting softly, Reed strode through the center of the living room. A space designed to serve as the focal point for the home, though it looked as if it was used rarely, if ever.
Along one wall was a sofa that was at least twenty years old. Across from it was a box television Reed had last seen at his grandparents’ house before their passing. On the floor was a woven loop rug.
Leaning against the wall beside the fireplace rested a folding canvas sling chair and an iron poker, the tip stained white with ash.
Otherwise, the place was largely barren, down to the faded spots on the wall where framed items had once hung before being removed some time prior.
Taking it all in with a few quick glances, Reed walked over to the fireplace. Dropping himself to a knee, he peered in at the collection of misshapen nubs of firewood in the center of it.
“Looks like our guy had himself a little bonfire in here last night,” Reed said. Jabbing a finger out before him, he pointed to the small wisps of charred paper lining the edge of the open space. Pieces that were stained past recognition, brittle beyond recovery.
No doubt a mountain of usable evidence all turned to ash, detailing what Reese had done to Cara Salem and Avery Lawson.
Outlining whatever he had planned next.
Thoughts that caused Reed’s molars to come together as Jacobs appeared alongside him, peering into the open maw of the fireplace.
“I don’t suppose there’s a damn thing in here we can use, is there?”
Chapter Seventy-One
The answer to the question Jacobs posed was in the affirmative, though only just barely.
Fifteen minutes of carefully sifting through the ashes revealed a small fragment of cloth Reed was willing to bet matched the camouflage garment that he found days before on the hillside in Gallipolis. The piece that Billie had been using to track Brooks at the various sites, the man having discovered what happened and attempting to destroy the evidence.
A piece that was no more than the size of Reed’s hand that was bagged for future analysis, though he didn’t expect a great deal to come from it. Not after the heat it had been subjected to and the mat of ash it was resting under, the remains of the garment stained black.
A fact that would have been disappointing in and of itself, if not for what Ellis and his team were able to discover in other parts of the property.
Namely, the basement where Reed currently found himself.
Standing at the foot of the bare wooden steps leading down from the kitchen, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the space Deke called his home and office. One large square matching the dimensions of the original structure framed entirely in block, with bare concrete underfoot.
An area with ample room to be transformed into the type of quarters his friend in Hilliard enjoyed, this one instead left in a much less refined state. Space used for storage of various kinds, the items stowed around the outer wall ranging from Christmas decorations and a deep freeze to boxes labeled with magic marker. Single world titles denoting either a specific room in the house or whatever was stowed inside.
Things as disparate as dishes or albums, all tucked away, appearing to have not been touched in years.
Given them barely a passing glance, Reed instead pushed his attention over to Ellis, the man having called up to him a moment earlier. Standing with his body positioned at angle, he still held the MP5 before him with one hand as he met Reed’s gaze before rotating to stare at the rear wall.
A corner recess shrouded in shadow, Reed unable to make out much in the way of detail as he descended.
“Take a look at this.”
Doing as instructed, Reed made his way down the last couple of steps and across the open floor. The soles of his running shoes squeaking slightly against the bare concrete, he followed Ellis’s gaze, needing no more than a moment to seize on what he was alluding to.
A spread lining the entire rear wall, it was clear that whatever time Brooks spent underground was clearly focused there.
“Damn,” Reed whispered, running his gaze across a collection of wire racks affixed directly to the concrete block. An arrangement that covered the entire expanse, scads of metal hooks distended from each of them.
Homemade gun racks that weren’t quite as extensive as those found at Jim Bob’s, but still easily housed more than two dozen firearms. Pieces arranging from handguns to assault rifles, all with hard silhouettes and oiled bodies that caught the faint bits of light that made it that far.
An attention to detail that exceeded anything else Reed had seen on the property, with the possible exception of the trap that nearly ended his life.
“How many?” Reed asked.
“Here?” Ellis replied. “Twenty-eight.”
Extending a finger before him, he wagged it at a gap before him. “But there’s room for at least three more that are missing.”
“Shit,” Reed muttered, his gaze landing on a pair of barren hooks resting at shoulder level. Metal braces just a few inches apart, each intended for handguns of some sort.
“So far, he’s been using .300 Winchester Magnum rounds.”
Grabbing the unstated intention, Ellis drifted a few feet to the side.
“That’s too big for those,” he said. Stopping just shy of the corner of the room, he raised a boot, pointing with his toe to another wide opening.
Several feet in length, it had four different hooks running the length of it, all equally spaced. Placement that hinted at a single firearm rather than a series of smaller ones.
“But this one here sure as hell could.”
“Shit,” Reed muttered again. Taking a few steps closer, he dropped himself into a crouch. Letting his eyes glaze, he tried to imagine the weapon that had previously been resting on the open hooks.
A rifle of some sort, with an elongated barrel polishe
d to match the rest of the guns placed against the wall.
An image that he was able to call with vivid clarity to mind, just as he was able to place it on the hillside down in Gallipolis. And the top of the ravine in Newark.
A snapshot he allowed to linger in his mind, letting it permeate his thoughts, pulling the various emotions he’d battled with throughout the week to the surface. A host of things strong enough to push aside the buzzing in his ears and the aching in his shoulders and even the pain at the back of his skull.
A mixture sufficiently potent to even mask the sound of his phone buzzing, only Ellis motioning with his foot in Reed’s periphery able to pull his from his revelry.
“Yeah?” Reed asked, blinking several times as he shifted his focus up to Ellis.
“You should probably get that.”
Taking a moment to grasp what was being alluded to, Reed raised himself back up to full height. Snapping the device from his hip, he glanced down to the screen before accepting the call and holding it out before him.
“Hey, captain,” he answered, “I’m here with Sergeant Ellis now. We’re just staring at Reese’s rather extensive gun collection, minus a few key pieces.”
“I know,” Grimed replied. “That’s why I’m calling.”
Moving his focus to meet Ellis’s, Reed said, “What happened?”
“He just took a shot at Judge Benedict’s husband. He didn’t get him, but hit one of the officers that was sent to protect him.”
“Is he-”
“He’s alive,” Grimes said, cutting the question off short, “but it’s bad. I’ll text you the address. Get there as soon as you can.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
The fourth and final real promise The Promisor ever made – or would ever make - was three months prior. Standing in the rain in the same cemetery he’d visited more than a thousand times over the years, it was made to both of the two newest headstones in the small burial ground.
The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller Page 30