Easing the door shut on his truck parked along the curb, The Promisor stepped around the front grille and made his way up onto the sidewalk. A smooth and well-maintained length of concrete befitting the neighborhood he was in. A place that was a step above a standard Midwestern suburb, though still a full level or two below the lakeside community where he spent most of the afternoon.
On either side stood homes rising two stories in height. Big, expansive residences with plush green lawns large enough to allow visible gaps between them and their neighbors. Structures made entirely of brick or lined with river stone with towering oak trees providing shade in the summer and places to hang Christmas lights in the winter.
In the driveways sat midsize SUVs and small luxury sedans, overseen by freestanding basketball goals.
Having been through the area no less than a hundred times in vehicles both owned and rented, The Promisor gave his surroundings nothing more than quick glances. Furtive peeks meant to maintain his bearings, matching his position against the map laid out in his mind.
Each step, he was careful to keep controlled and even. Much like during the afternoon spent pretending to fish, his intent was to look as if he belonged. A neighborhood resident out for an evening stroll. A man dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, running shoes on his feet.
An outfit selected to be as nondescript as possible, slipped into at a gas station bathroom a few miles away. A visual providing no reason for anybody to even glance his way as he made it to the corner and turned right, his final destination coming into view.
Certainly, no call for them to let their gaze linger long enough to notice the outline of a handgun tucked into his waistband at the small of his back.
Already, The Promisor had accepted that his ideal version of events was beyond reach. The moment the sensor on his front gate was breached, he knew that any chance of doing things in a slow and measured approach was gone.
In their stead, he had no choice but to work with what was available.
A change of plan that was solidified less than an hour ago with the second alarm being breached. The one telling him that his home had been entered, Kratos and Bia cast to a fate he could only guess at.
A confluence of events that brought his teeth together, his entire upper body clenching tight, his breath held in his chest.
If things had gone exactly to script, The Promisor would not have even fired on Terrance Benedict yet. Just a day removed from the ravine in Newark, he would be at home, cleaning the Mossberg. Later, he would have dinner with the pit bulls he’d raised from pups before the three of them bedded down for the night on the back porch.
A thought he let linger only for a moment before pushing it away, expelling it with the air held tight in his lungs. An audible exhalation of both, there no point in dwelling on what would never be.
Just as there was no reason why any of the shortcomings between what he desired and what actually existed should keep him from completing what he promised to do.
Silently ticking off a pair of houses as they slid by on his right, The Promisor put his focus on the third dwelling in order. A home with the front partially obscured by a trio of oak and pine trees in the front yard, what could be seen of the structure a mixture of round gray stone and light green paint.
A motif that looked as out of place in central Ohio as the Benedict house before it, both seeming to wish they were someplace more remote, hundreds of miles to the west.
In the driveway rested a pair of vehicles. A Nissan SUV and a Chevrolet pickup, both manufactured within the last couple of years, replete with every extra feature available.
Status symbols sitting out for all to see. Gleaming emblems of everything the owner had accomplished, his hubris exemplified in automotive form.
Vehicles The Promisor barely even noticed, his focus moving instead to the apple red Mustang parked out along the front curb. The one with the convertible top bent down and a pompom hanging from the rearview mirror.
Affirmation that the person he had actually come to see was at home.
His final target, marking the completion of a task months in the undertaking.
For the first time since things began days before, The Promisor felt his pulse rise. Warmth rose to his features as he walked the length of the front yard, continuing to cast sideways glances up at the property. Final checks to ensure everything appeared as it should, nobody out of position.
One tiny thing that appeared to go his way in an afternoon that had at times felt designed to ensure his failure.
When first putting things together months before, The Promisor had known that this was to be the final stop. A conclusory piece to the narrative he was going to tell. An endpoint that also carried by far the highest level of difficulty, the variables to be navigated numerous.
The dense neighborhood location of the site. The erratic schedules of the parties involved.
The very emphatic statement that needed to be made.
Things now compounded by most of the law enforcement in the area now out looking for him, bound to arrive at any moment. Harsh realities that meant he had just the next few minutes to finish what he needed to.
One last chance to fulfill his final promise.
Making a turn from the sidewalk onto the driveway, The Promisor threaded his way between the SUV and the pickup. Following the poured concrete, he looped around the front of the truck and made his way up toward the front door.
One final leg of a journey months in the making that ended with him raising a fist, banging three times on the solid glass storm door. Contact that reverberated through the enormous home as he took a single step back.
Perched on the concrete slab before the front door, he waited as the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard. Faint sounds that grew progressively louder, culminating with the inner door swinging open to reveal a man with a shaved head and a goatee standing before him. Wearing khaki shorts and a striped Under Armor polo, his brows came together in confusion at the sight of The Promisor standing before him.
Pushing the storm door open, he stood with one hand on the frame, leaning out onto the front landing.
“Can I help you?”
Chapter Seventy-Six
Warden.
Superintendent.
Commanding officer.
Reed had heard the various titles to describe the head overseer at a prison facility used interchangeably over the years. A series of monikers that seemed to be selected at random, the best he could tell being that they were picked based upon whoever was paying the bills for a particular site.
A quirk of the system he did not give a damn about at the moment, just as he could not possibly care less what the head man at the Franklin County Corrections Center 1 had stenciled on the door of his office.
All he cared about was that the man was named Jonathan Wilde, his home address just outside of Gahanna.
And that twice already Reed had tried to call him, neither one being picked up.
How long the list of people Reese originally intended to go after from the prison actually was, Reed couldn’t be certain. If the methodical approach he took on the legal side of things was any indicator, the number was probably at least a handful. Guards and staff supervisors and whoever else might have existed in the hierarchy charged with watching over Reese’s son.
People that he would all hold responsible for what took place. Individuals fortunate enough to have slipped by under the tightening pressure on Reese, logic dictating that in the face of a shrinking timeframe, he would look to jump right to the end. Anybody else lower down in the pecking order would be skipped over by him looking to make the biggest statement.
An impactful finale, really driving home the point he was trying to make.
Whatever the hell it might be.
“How fast can you get to Gahanna?” Reed barked into his phone. No more than a couple minutes past hanging up with Deke, he had taken the time to update McMichaels on the change of plan while punchi
ng the new destination address into Jacobs’s phone. From there, he’d attempted to contact Wilde before getting McKeon back on the line.
A call that was picked up in the middle of the first ring, the man seeming to be cresting on adrenaline as well, crawling the walls of the conference room at the Newark Police Department.
“Gahanna?” McKeon asked. “Running wide open, probably fifteen minutes, depending on the exact location. What’s there?”
“The home of the guy running the FCCC1,” Reed said.
“You think that’s who Reese is going after next?”
Reaching up with his right hand, Reed grabbed hold of the handle above the passenger door. A way to brace himself as Jacobs tore through a turn, slowing just enough for them to make a looping change of direction.
A shift that left them feeling weightless for a moment, Billie scrambling across the backseat in a fight for purchase, before leveling out as they shoved forward again.
“Two calls to him have gone unanswered,” Reed said. “Might not mean anything, but it beats going up and sifting through another crime scene after the fact.”
“It does,” McKeon said, the words barely audible over a burst of activity in the background. Movement hinting that he was on the move, headed toward the door. “How far out are you now?”
Releasing the grip of his right hand on the wheel, Jacobs snatched up his device from the middle console, turning it so Reed could see the screen.
“Four minutes,” Reed said.
“Text me the address,” McKeon replied. “I’m on my way.”
Ending the call there, Reed did as requested. Tapping out the address from memory after just entering it moments before, he sent it off before dropping his phone into the lone remaining free cupholder.
Releasing his seatbelt, he pulled his hips back as far as he could, raising himself up so he could lean forward, peering out through the windshield.
“Two minutes,” Jacobs said, flicking his gaze from the phone to the screen.
“Kill the flashers,” Reed said.
If Reese was already onsite, running with them on would only alert him to their presence. If he wasn’t, they might be able to lay a trap, waiting for his arrival.
Keeping his focus aimed outward, Reed saw the flickering light cease before them as he surveyed the streets to either side. Neighborhoods that weren’t nearly as compact as those around The Bottoms, but were still far more urban than either of the previous crime scenes.
A locale with plenty of trees standing solo or in small clusters, but certainly nothing to afford a firing platform like in Gallipolis or Newark.
“He probably won’t be able to fire from distance here,” Reed said, his gaze rotating in either direction. “There’s some space between the houses, but nowhere giving him a couple hundred yards.”
“Nope,” Jacobs agreed. Jabbing a finger at the phone, he added, “Looks like Wilde lives in the middle of the street too, making it even more narrow.”
For a moment, Reed considered trying to call a third time. A notion he pushed aside as quickly as it arrived, their impending arrival rendering it moot.
A conversation they were either about to have in person, or not at all.
Grabbing the receiver from the radio on the dash before him, Reed got McMichaels on the line. A quick update telling him to hang back, the cruiser he was in much more visible than the unmarked sedan they were driving.
A missive that was accepted without opposition, the officer pulling to the side of the road at the end of the street Wilde lived on while Jacobs continued to push them forward.
“Drop us off right out front,” Reed said as they inched closer. “If it looks like Reese has been here, I’ll motion you in. If not, I’ll get them to cover, you circle the block, see if you can spot him nearby.”
Tapping on the brakes, Jacobs slowed the sedan. “Got it.”
His knuckles flashing white beneath the skin as he gripped the steering wheel, he glanced from the phone to the road. “Next one up ahead here.”
Saying nothing, Reed reached for the tactical holster on his right thigh. Sliding his Glock from it, he checked the slide, ensuring there was a round chambered, before glancing back over his shoulder.
“You ready, girl?”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
The Promisor held the Wilson Combat 1911 handgun that had been stowed in the waistband of his shorts out before him at shoulder height. A visual that had dissipated any confusion the man might have exhibited upon their initial interaction, his features shifting through the entire spectrum in just a matter of moments.
Incomprehension, followed in order by anger and realization, before ultimately landing on fear.
Concern not for himself, The Promisor surmised, but for the others at home with him. The understanding that the time and approach were not by mistake, the implication so forthright it couldn’t even be construed as underlying.
More like foreshadowing, letting the man know exactly what The Promisor intended. The final part of his act, this time with the extra poignancy of not just taking away someone the man held dear, but making him watch.
A fellow parent, about to discover what it was like to lose a child.
“Please,” Jonathan Wilde said for no less than the fourth time since The Promisor crossed into the house.
“Where are they?” The Promisor asked.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Everything about the man, from the droplets of sweat forming on his bald scalp to his pleading voice, infuriated The Promisor to no end. A collection of annoying traits leaving him wanting nothing more than to rush forward and use the base of the gun to bludgeon the man to death.
A hail of flailing limbs that wouldn’t end until his arms were coursing with lactic acid, inhibiting him from lifting them again. A course of action that, no matter how cathartic, would not achieve what he came for.
Maybe later, but not until his promise was first fulfilled.
“This is not a discussion,” The Promisor replied, jutting the tip of the 1911 out before him. A prod used to drive Wilde back, making him walk backward through the center of the home.
A layout that was designed perfectly for what he was looking to do, a straight corridor existing from the front entrance to the French doors out back. A clear line of sight allowing him to see through the kitchen and dining area and out to the backyard.
“You do what I say, how I say it, only one of you dies. You try anything else, try to call out for help, try to be a big hero, you all die.”
“Pl-”
“And do not say please again!” The Promisor spat through gritted teeth, jutting the weapon out before him. A hard stab to the man’s right chest plate, forcing him back, the soles of his sandals sliding atop the hardwood floors.
Slowing for an instant to resume the spacing between them, The Promisor flicked his gaze to either side. Quick glances that revealed an open kitchen to his right with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances. A space that looked to be in the early stages of dinner prep, a cutting board and plates with various food items already strewn about.
On the opposite side was a living room with a sectional couch formed into a rectangle nearly a hundred feet square placed in front of a television that was taller than either of them.
Goods and furnishings far outpacing any utility the man might have, his ineptitude being the reason The Promisor was even there.
“Where are they?” The Promisor repeated.
Once, twice, he watched as Wilde’s mouth opened and closed. Further pleading that went unsaid. Silent attempts to try and placate or reason with The Promisor.
Messages he thought better than to actually verbalize, instead curling down the fingers on his right hand, leaving his thumb distended and using it to motion over a shoulder.
“Out back.”
Leaning a few inches to the side, The Promisor peered past Wilde into the enclosed backyard. A space he had seen nearly a dozen times alrea
dy, having slipped in on foot late at night, repeatedly taking advantage of the fact that Wilde’s daughter often left the gate along the side of the house unlocked.
A way for her to sneak in after hours or for her friends to come and use the pool when they weren’t home.
Events that The Promisor had witnessed more than once in the last few weeks.
“Let’s go join them,” The Promisor said.
“Please-” Wilde replied, the word out before he even realized it.
A single syllable muttered without thought, the sound of it still hanging in the air as The Promisor drove forward off the ball of his foot. Gliding over the gap between them, he raised the 1911 over his head before driving it downward in a clubbing motion.
An impromptu tomahawk with the base of the gun mashing into the man’s bare pate. A direct shot Wilde could do nothing to deflect, the butt of the gun creasing the skin directly above the bridge of his nose.
A gash more than a half inch long sending twin tendrils of crimson streaking down. Uneven streams racing to his brows, saturating the thin hairs before dripping down onto his cheeks and eventually his shirt.
Seeing the man’s eyes glaze for a moment as he stumbled backward, The Promisor decided to take advantage. Rushing forward a second time, he lashed out with his right foot, planting into the man’s solar plexus. A second blow in as many seconds that drove him the last of the length of the home.
A direct contact knocking the air from his lungs, bending him at the waist as he staggered through the open doors and out onto the back patio.
Content to let the man flail along for the time being, to not get too hasty and alert the others nearby, he returned the gun to shoulder height. Extending it before him, The Promisor followed the man out into a small patio area. A square of concrete nestled between the distended living room and kitchen. An alcove with climbing plants clinging to the sides of the house and the wooden beams extended overhead.
A partial enclosure eventually giving way to the rest of the yard. A space stretching well beyond the width of the house to either side, the rear of it lined with willow trees for privacy.
The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller Page 32