Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5)

by Dustin Stevens

  Keeping the gun leveled where it was, I asked, “John Kuntzman?”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking at the flattened remains of his tires before looking up at me. “Who the hell are you?”

  I didn’t bother to say a word. Instead, I pulled back on the trigger a third time.

  While I’ve never been as good with my left hand as my right, the round went exactly where I wanted it to, a red blossom exploding from his knee, folding the man in half where he stood.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  I was used to operating by moonlight. It wasn’t near as strong as it was at the ten-thousand-foot elevation in Yellowstone, and the stars weren’t nearly as plentiful, but whatever difference there might have been was more than made up for by the ambient glow of Nashville in the distance.

  Even though we were a few miles outside of Goodlettsville, I didn’t want to run the risk of leaving the headlights on. There was no way of knowing when someone might drive past, no shot at being certain there wasn’t a house somewhere nearby that may wonder what the persistent glare down the road was and drive down to take a look.

  Not with what I was currently doing.

  With what still needed to be done.

  The jacket John Kuntzman had been wearing when I pulled up was stripped away. The snap buttons on his shirt had been pulled open, exposing his bare chest.

  His nose was shattered, a matted mash of bone and cartilage smeared across his cheeks. Blood covered everything south of it, dried and caked to his chin, running in uneven splatters over his chest.

  All eight fingers on his hands were broken, the hammer that I still carried from the S-2 warehouse coming in quite handy.

  Pinned against the front driver’s side tire of his own truck, he was propped upright. His left leg was extended straight out to the side, blood soaking his jeans, staining them so dark they were almost black.

  His head lolled to the side as he looked up at me, his eyes nothing more than slits. Saliva slid from the corner of his mouth, mixing with the blood from his nose, a bead hanging precariously from his chin.

  Looking up at me, he tried to convey all the malevolence he felt, an effort that was impeded by his flagging energy reserves.

  Standing before him, I had the hammer in one hand, the aluminum ball bat in the other, the stain that had started with Bernstein now extended six inches down the barrel. On the ground nearby rested a Wilson Tactical Carry and Kuntzman’s cell phone, the only two items in the truck that had presented any real value.

  Bringing the bat up to shoulder height, I straightened it before me, peering down the length of the barrel. Making sure he saw my every move, I said, “There’s an expression back where I come from. It’s something people say whenever there’s about to be a tussle, or someone is about to experience something quite uncomfortable.

  “Things are about to get real western.”

  Lowering the bat to my side, I stared down at Kuntzman and said, “Now, I can see by your get up and your truck and all this that you like to think you’re a cowboy. But I’m willing to bet you ain’t got the slightest idea what it’s like to be western, do you?”

  The hair lining Kuntzman’s forehead was damp with sweat, hanging lank across his forehead. His head cocked to the side, he looked up at me sideways, managing only, “Go to hell.”

  “You and me both one day. But if you don’t start telling me what I need to know, you’re going to get there a lot sooner than I do.”

  The truth is, I have no taste for torture. Doing what I did, tracking the people I had to, I saw some of the most depraved acts that one person could do to another.

  And I saw the sadistic pleasure that so many seemed to take in doing them.

  I hold no false pretenses about the kind of man I am. I know with the things I’ve done and the places I’ve been, there are stains on my soul that can never be scrubbed clean.

  So be it.

  I sleep at night secure in the knowledge that never have I done anything that wasn’t in the service of something better. If I killed someone, it was so somebody else could live. If I inflicted pain, it was to stop it from popping up elsewhere.

  Just like I know that while I don’t enjoy a second of what I’m doing to John Kuntzman right now, I will take him apart one tiny bit at a time if it means finding Elyse and bringing her home.

  “Why should I tell you shit?” he mumbled. “You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

  And he was right. I was. But I didn’t bother to say as much. Clearly, he was just trying to bide time, was trying to keep up the tough guy façade right to the end.

  As if I hadn’t seen the tears that spilled down his cheeks after I first shot him, hadn’t heard him howl and beg as I used the hammer on his hands.

  I had no interest in arguing with this man. No reason to stand out here and go back and forth with him, hoping he’d divulge something freely.

  There was no time for it. Every moment that was spent was another moment where Elyse grew further away, becoming harder to ever track down again.

  Nodding slightly, I left him sitting against the tire. Turning on a heel, I walked back to my SUV, swinging the driver’s side door open and reaching just inside the frame for the hood release.

  Giving it a tug, I heard the latch spring open, the metal covering popping up a couple of inches. Slamming the door shut, I circled around to the front, unhooking the hasp and raising the hood.

  Holding a hand toward the engine, I felt what I was hoping for, the engine still hot from my drive across town, warmth radiating up from the block.

  “You’re going to tell me,” I said, “because if not, you’re going to find out that there are things out there worse than death.”

  Kuntzman barely managed to lift his gaze my way as I marched toward him, grabbing his shirt by the collar. Jerking him to his feet, he let out a loud moan, his weight uneven over his wrecked leg.

  Bracing him with my shoulder, I pulled him forward, smelling the stench of sweat and blood and urine on his skin. Bolstered by the cocktail of adrenaline and acrimony roiling through me, I managed to keep him upright, walking him the length of his truck before shoving his body against the front grille of the SUV.

  Hitting it hard, his weight sagged, folding forward at the waist. Without thinking, he extended his hands before him, his palms landing on the engine block.

  On contact, the sound of his skin burning could be heard, a faint whiff of charred flesh rising into the air. Jerked them away, he tried to recoil, making it no more than an inch.

  Standing right behind him, I used my knee to keep him pinned against the front bumper. With one hand I pulled his left arm away, holding it out straight to the side.

  With the other, I grabbed a handful of hair, jerking his head back toward me. His ear just an inch from my mouth, I gritted my teeth, letting him hear the sincerity in my voice.

  “One last time before things get really western around here. Where the hell are they taking my niece?”

  For a moment, there was no response. Nothing but more bloody spittle dribbling out over his lips. Sucking in a sharp breath, he managed to roll his eyes my direction, the whites visible as he stared at me.

  “Fuck you.”

  In one swift movement, I snapped his face down toward the engine, searing the flesh on contact, the sharp, acrid scent rising to my nostrils.

  Part Four

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  The weight of Paco’s hand rested square across the back of Elyse Denman’s neck. Not tight enough to harm her, he exerted just enough pressure to let her know he was there, that her complete compliance was expected.

  That bad things would occur if she did not give it.

  There since the moment she had stepped off the plane, he fell in beside her, directing her toward the enormous mansion stretched out before them.

  Fifty yards behind, the engines of the small aircraft still purred along, the sound drowning anything else from her ears. Overhead, the sky was completely dark, fr
ee of cloud cover, the moon and stars clear.

  Where she was, she hadn’t a clue. How long she had been on the flight, there was no way of knowing, her entire body gripped with fear.

  It had been a short trip, but beyond that, she would be purely speculating.

  Once she had read that basic human psychology dictated that when a person was placed in a situation of extreme peril, faced with overwhelming fear, they took on a state of tunnel vision. Their body only able to focus on a singular thing, they lost all peripheral abilities.

  Motor function dropped to nothing. Situational awareness was reduced to nil. All they could hold was the point immediately before them.

  And for her, that point on the flight had been Paco, the man facing her, his knees so close they almost touched hers.

  Not once throughout the trip had he said a word. Or offered her something to eat or drink. Or asked if she needed to use the restroom.

  Or even looked away.

  Like some form of an exaggerated staring contest, he had kept his focus locked on her, as if trying to see if he could break her under his gaze.

  Not that there was any need. Whatever resolve Elyse felt, what little bit of empowerment she had experienced while stabbing Joey just eighteen hours before, was now gone. With it had gone any bits of hope, any self-delusion, anything she could cling to as her own.

  Now there was only the numbness. The feeling of detachment that had grown more pronounced the longer they flew. That now permeated her body, causing her to trudge forward on unfeeling legs, the sole thing she was aware of being the heat of Paco’s palm on her neck.

  Unlike the airstrip in Goodlettsville, the one here was made of asphalt. On the far end of a lawn large enough to be a pasture, she stared up at the mansion before her.

  Or perhaps castle might be a better term, the place resembling the famous Walt Disney structure, with spires and archways and all the other trappings of things that existed in movies or theme parks, but never in real life.

  Sitting high atop a bluff, it seemed to hang suspended in the air, a focal point that kept grabbing her attention, no matter how much she tried to look away.

  Even more striking was the fact that nowhere could she see a single other person.

  The march from the plane to the house took the better part of five minutes. By the time they arrived, Elyse could see gooseflesh rising along her forearms, a natural response to the cool night air enveloping her, even if she couldn’t actually feel a bit of it, her mind unable to compute things like the temperature at the moment.

  Instead, her focus alternated between the main entrance at the center of the spread, the doors standing open atop a flight of stairs, twin ice dragons glistening on either side of it, and the path they were following. The one that ended in a small alcove carved into the underbelly, appearing to lead directly underground.

  Seemingly in no hurry, Paco led her toward the lower entrance. As they drew close, the door swung open, allowing them to enter without once breaking stride.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust as they did so, shifting from the semi-darkness of the grounds to the bright halogen glare of the basement. Once they did, she swung her gaze over the place, taking in her surroundings, unable to shake the feeling that she had just set foot in a detention center.

  The ground underfoot was plain tile, the lights above flashing off of it. The walls to either side were dark brick, their surface rough and unfinished.

  The air was cool, the faint smell of harsh disinfectant in the air, like a team of janitors had been through just minutes before her arrival.

  Every few feet on either side was a metal door. Painted slate gray, they were void of any numbers or letters, no way of demarcating one from the other.

  Maintaining his hold on her, Paco led her past half a dozen of them. Reaching an intersection, he veered her toward the right, passing another pair of doors before coming to a stop. Extracting a key ring from his pocket, he peeled one off and jammed it in, the heavy metallic click of a deadbolt ringing out, as loud as a gunshot along the silent hallway.

  Pulling it open, he nudged Elyse inside, finally releasing his hold on her.

  All breath left Elyse as she stepped over the threshold, the space confirming her initial assessment. Made in the style of a standard holding cell, it measured no more than eight feet in either direction. Dominating the space was a cot extended straight out from the side wall, on it a thin mattress and pillow.

  The mattress was made of a shiny vinyl material she had never seen before, no seems visible. There was no case on the pillow, no blanket on the bed.

  Along the back wall was a toilet and a sink, both made of stainless steel.

  Above it, tucked just below the ceiling, was a digital clock. On it was displayed the time in bright red numbers, it now somehow only minutes after nine.

  Nothing else at all, the space designed as a brief holding spot, stripped of anything she could use as a weapon – on herself or anybody else.

  “Wash up,” Paco said, his voice just as menacing as it had been while addressing John earlier in the night. Flinching at the sound of it, Elyse felt her shoulders move to the side, gaining an extra inch of space between them.

  Oblivious to it, he added, “Someone will be here soon to get you ready.”

  Chapter Seventy

  The watch on Amber Denman’s wrist showed it was now after midnight, though the man standing before her looked exactly the same as he had the last time he stood in that spot.

  With his hands clasped, Detective Lieutenant Benjamin Russo peered across at her and her husband, his slacks unwrinkled, every hair shoved into exact position.

  And on his face was the same look of condescension, the clear tone of derision apparent in his voice.

  A half hour prior, he had called and said he was coming by. Unwilling to say a word over the phone on what the visit was about, he had cut the conversation off in less than a minute, more or less ordering Amber and Josh to be ready.

  Not that she was sleeping anyway, rest being someplace where her mind was free to roam, pulling up all the horrible images she was working so hard to keep tamped down.

  “Have you heard a word from anybody yet?” Russo asked, looking from Amber to Josh and back again.

  Flicking her gaze to Josh as well, Amber said, “No. And I’ve been awake all evening. Ever since Elyse went missing, really.”

  Nodding his head no more than a fraction of an inch, Russo said, “I’ve come to let you know that a great deal has transpired since the last time we spoke. I apologize for the gap in communication, but we’ve been out following up on every lead possible.”

  Based on the man’s posture and his delivery, Amber had a hard time believing the man felt sorry about anything in the slightest.

  “Have you found our daughter?” she asked, unable to hold back the question, feeling it exit before she had even a moment to stop herself.

  Pressing his lips tight, Russo twisted his chin just an inch to the side, a small puff of breath sliding out.

  As sure a sign as existed that he did not appreciate being interrupted. And a move that did nothing for the way Amber already felt about the man.

  “We were able to follow up on traffic camera footage to determine that the people responsible for the theft of the automobile she was driving was an organization known as the South Side,” Russo said, skipping right past her question. “Have either of you ever had any dealings with them?”

  Amber was familiar with them. Not before an hour ago, but that was enough, the words Hawk had recently shared with her ringing in her ears.

  Working to shove aside the pang of venom she felt for being ignored, making sure not to divulge anything that might hint at Hawk’s involvement, she looked to her husband. “No.”

  “I’ve never even heard of them,” Josh confessed.

  Looking between them, Russo added, “Sometimes they are referred to as the S-2.”

  Pausing, as if waiting for some additional ac
knowledgment or clarification, he again gave them each a glance.

  “Still no,” Amber said, as much to hurry him along as anything. “Do they have my daughter?”

  This time, Russo raised a hand, showing her his palm, signaling for her to wait.

  “Earlier this evening, we breached the known headquarters of the S-2, and while there was no sign of your daughter – or anybody else being held captive – we have brought them all in for questioning.”

  Feeling her fingers curl up into fists, Amber clenched. The tips of her nails dug into her palms, threatening to break the skin, as she held it tight, working to keep the aggravation she felt from her face.

  “So shouldn’t you be there now?” she asked.

  Giving her a withering glare, Russo let out another puff of air. “There were almost two dozen members in total. They are currently being processed, and I am heading there directly after leaving here.”

  Why he had felt the need to make the drive just to ask if they had ever had any dealings with the South Side, Amber wasn’t certain. It was clear from his demeanor how little he thought of them, his manner seeming as if he wanted nothing more than to head for the door as quickly as possible.

  “Also,” he continued, “in the course of processing the scene, we found evidence of contact being made between the leader of the South Side and a man named John Kuntzman.”

  Opening the front flap of his sports coat, he slid out a small photo, extending it to Josh.

  “Do you happen to recognize this man?”

  Taking a step to the side, Amber looked sideways at the image clutched in her husband’s hands. For a moment, Josh stared at it before shaking his head and holding it her way, allowing her to get a full view.

  The picture was a headshot of a white man around their age wearing a country western shirt, jacket, and cowboy hat. In it, he was smiling, a bit of a Christmas tree visible over his shoulder.

  Printed on standard typing paper, it looked like it had been taken from an article online somewhere and cropped down to size, everything but his face removed.