Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  The gentle rumble of the Hummer’s tires on the desert roads was the only sound that filled the cabin. The caravan escorting the two captains stretched for more than one hundred yards and was joined by four Black Hawk helicopters on either side of them.

  Being back in the mix with his fellow officers in a formal capacity felt different. He just needed to figure out what kind of different it was. As Howard looked through the front windshield, he could see the Hummers and armored vehicles in front of them begin to veer off the road and slow down.

  “We’re here,” Ford said.

  The Hummer’s brakes squealed to a stop. Howard stepped out onto the orange, dust-covered earth. The sun was dipping into the Pacific, but the heat was still scorching. He stepped in rhythm with Ford, and when they made it up to the front, they were greeted by the sight of hundreds of Mexican soldiers, with General Gallo standing at the head.

  “That’s a lot of men for a surrender,” Ford said.

  “Yes, it is,” Howard replied.

  The thumping of helicopter blades grew loud in the air, then dissipated in the distance as the Black Hawks continued their vigilant watch. A group of Marines escorted Howard and Ford to meet Gallo.

  “Hello, General Gallo,” Ford said.

  The only response from Gallo was the dust kicking up from the hot breeze. Despite the hundreds of soldiers at his back, Gallo only had two men by his side, both of whom echoed Gallo’s silence. The small table that was set up to sign the terms of the surrender had a box on it. The general reached for it and the marines escorting the captains drew their weapons.

  “You may check it if you like,” Gallo said.

  Ford nodded, and one of the Marines opened the box. Inside was an old pistol, most likely from the 1800’s. The decorative flowers etched into the handle were made of silver, and similar vines twirled around the pistol’s barrel.

  “This was the same gun that General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna Gave upon his surrender to the Texan Army. I thought it fitting to give it to you here, in this place,” Gallo said.

  The marine handed the gun over to Ford who examined it. “It’s a fine piece of art, General.”

  Gallo extended his hand. “May I?”

  Ford handed the gun over and Gallo gently held the pistol in both hands. He looked at it like a father would smile at a child, cradling with great care and love. “This pistol represents over one hundred fifty years of embarrassment.” Gallo looked to Howard. “And it ends today.”

  The moment Gallo aimed the pistol at Howard the marines opened fired. The sent a volley of bullets into his chest, causing the general to collapse. On his way down the pistol fired randomly in the air, and the two escorts by Gallo immediately opened fired on the surrounding marines.

  Howard reached for one of his escorts’ firearms as they drew their own rifles to aim and fire. One of the colonels at Gallo’s side drew on Howard, but he was too slow. A bullet sliced through the colonel’s head before he could aim his gun.

  The other colonel came barreling at Howard before the marines could take him down, knocking the both of them to the ground. The force of the blow caused Howard to lose his grip on the pistol, which bounced into the desert sand. The hail of gunfire was deafening. Both sides blasted each other savagely. Howard crawled through sand to retrieve his firearm but was stopped short by the hands of the colonel choking him from behind.

  Howard jammed his elbow into the colonel’s side repeatedly until the hold around his neck loosened. Howard jumped for the gun, turned, aimed, and fired three rounds into the colonel’s chest. The colonel stayed on his knees, looking down at the blood pouring out of the gaping holes in his uniform. He shuffled forward a few inches then collapsed in the sand.

  The Black Hawks flying above rained their fifty-caliber GAU-19/A Gatling guns on the advancing Mexican soldiers. Each bullet was five and a half inches in length. The GAU-19/A fired two thousand rounds per minute. With the Mexican soldiers exposed in the open desert, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Gunfire was followed by screams. Screams were followed by blood. And blood was followed by silence. Once the Black Hawks had emptied their rounds, the rapid succession of machine gun fire ceased, and Gallo, bleeding to death, lie on the ground.

  Howard pushed himself off the sand, splatters of red mixed with the orange dust covering his uniform. The pistol hung at his side. Howard hovered over Gallo, who was coughing up blood, spilling it over his face and neck.

  The general was dying. Howard kept glancing at the pistol in his hand. There were still bullets left in the magazine.

  “Do it,” Gallo said.

  The general’s head was shaking from the strained effort of keeping it tilted up. Gallo’s eyes seemed to hold the light from the sun hostage underneath his dark pupils. Howard raised the pistol, aiming it at Gallo’s head. All of the bloodshed, all of the soldiers who had died fighting this fruitless war were because of Gallo. One man’s lust for glory and war had brought this upon the men and women under Howard’s command.

  “Do it,” Gallo repeated, blood coughing up from his mouth and spilling onto his neck and chest.

  The pistol in Howard’s hand shook. His face tensed. He could feel the small sliver of steel on the trigger. Sweat rolled down the sides of his face. Every cell in his body was on fire.

  “No,” Howard said. “You’re not getting anything you want today.”

  Howard lowered the weapon just as the medics arrived, but after a fit of coughing the general’s heartbeat finally gave out. The medics pronounced the death after a failed resuscitation.

  “Captain, are you all right?” one of the medic’s asked.

  Both Ford and Howard watched the slow pooling of blood behind Gallo’s head. The metallic red pushed its way across the tiny rocks and granules of sand, beginning its aimless journey until the fluids ran dry.

  “I’m done,” Howard said.

  One of the medics bent down and covered Gallo’s face with a tarp. The war was over.

  ***

  The hallways of the Capitol building buzzed with the news coming out of the Southwest. Gallo’s last stand would be front-page headlines for the next week. But Smith could only focus on getting to his office, brushing off the congratulations still lingering from his debate win over Jones.

  Smith found Edwards talking with a pair of senators from across the aisle. Edwards had a drink in his hand, waving it around and spilling some of it on the floor.

  “I did it because it was the right thing to do,” Edwards said, his words slow, lazy. “And I’d do it again.” He took a sip from his drink, missing his mouth on the first attempt.

  “Benjamin,” Smith said, panting and out of breath. “I’ve been trying to contact you. Where have you been?”

  “David!” Edwards said, throwing his arm around Smith’s shoulder. “We won!”

  “Yes, I know,” Smith answered, peeling Edwards’s arm off him. “If you’ll excuse us, Senators, I need the congressman for just one moment.” Smith pulled Edwards over to an area not populated with drunk politicians.

  “David, what’s wrong?” Edwards asked, swaying on his feet. “We don’t have to worry about anything anymore. We did it!” Edwards thrust his hands in the air, sending a rain of gin and tonic down on the two of them.

  “Benjamin, I need the number of the man that was putting together our contingency plan,” Smith said. “I need that number now.”

  Edwards furrowed his brow, straining to understand what Smith was talking about.

  “The number, Benjamin,” Smith repeated.

  Edward shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Um, I have the number in my office.”

  Smith grabbed Edwards’s arm and pulled him through the thick crowd of politicians, all of them reeking of booze and self-indulgence.

  Beth was in the car, waiting for them. Once she spotted them coming down the steps she got out of the car and immediately dialed a number. She caught up with Smith, who was dragging Edwards at this
point.

  “What’s going on, David?” Edwards asked, stumbling on the road to his office.

  “Daniel’s in trouble,” Smith answered.

  Edwards yanked his arm away forcefully, stopping abruptly. “And why on Earth would I want to help him?”

  “Because he helped save us,” Smith answered, his tone sharp and slow.

  “He also helped Jones put us behind bars.”

  “They had something on him. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Jones has something on everybody, David! That’s what he does! That’s who he is!”

  “His entire family is in trouble! Do you want their blood on your hands? Because that’s exactly what will happen if you don’t give me that number!”

  The two men were nose to nose. Beth hung up her phone and stepped between them. “Congressmen, I think we should continue this conversation in a more private location.”

  Smith glanced around at the pedestrians who had stopped to watch and listen to what he and Edwards were yelling about. “I think that’s a good idea. Wouldn’t want to stop the celebrations and end up on the news during all of this. Would we, Edwards?”

  Even in his inebriated state, Edwards was smart enough to know that he wouldn’t be doing himself any favors by making the headlines in his current condition. “No, we would not,” he answered.

  The three of them pushed through the celebrating crowds on the sidewalk and headed up the steps to the building to Edwards’s office. Inside, most of the offices were empty. Congressmen and their staff members were out enjoying the atmosphere of good news, which the capitol had been lacking for the past decade. The three of them piled into Edwards’s office, and Beth shut the door behind her.

  “Where is it?” Smith asked.

  Edwards pulled open one of his desk drawers. He shuffled through papers, then slammed the drawer shut. He opened another, and the shuffling of papers intensified. “It’s not here.”

  “What?” Smith asked, rushing over to the desk.

  “It’s not here!” Edwards repeated.

  “Who’s been in your office?” Smith asked.

  “I haven’t been here all day. Anyone from my staff or the building’s staff could have come in.”

  If Smith couldn’t enact their contingency plan, then they wouldn’t be able to get to Daniel in time to save him. There was only one person who could undo what had happened. Jones.

  ***

  Jones’s laptop sat open on his desk. A piece of software was running on the screen. A loading bar rested at fifty-six percent. The grind of a paper shredder chewed up documents as Jones tore apart papers from his personal files.

  In between the shredder’s humming and grinding, the celebrations beyond his office walls crept inside. Jones had let his staff members go so he could be left alone to finish his final preparations. With Gallo defeated, he wouldn’t be able to deliver on his promise to Strydent about United States assistance in taking over Brazil. He knew Smith would resubmit bill HR 285016, and with the support of the American people now behind him, it would pass.

  Jones just needed to get out before any of the blowback landed on him. There would be a bloodletting of politicians in Congress, and he would be a vessel in the hemorrhaging, but that was not why he was leaving.

  Strydent would send someone to kill him, who was probably already on his way. The company wouldn’t risk letting him get away; he knew too much. And there was also the fact that they would now lose billions of dollars because of Dr. Carlson’s research. Strydent was a sinking ship, and it was going to take as many people down with it as it could.

  Jones’s office door creaked open, and his hand went for the pistol on the chair, concealed underneath his jacket. His heart raced. He tore the jacket off, and the gun flipped to the carpet. He picked it up just as his secretary Cindy poked her head through.

  “Congressman Jones?” she asked.

  Jones immediately hid the gun behind his back. “Cindy, I’m busy.”

  Cindy surveyed the condition of Jones’s office. Boxes were packed. Papers were spread over the floor and stacked on chairs. And the paper shredder that Jones hovered over was packed full with different-colored bits of paper.

  “Um, sorry. I just didn’t know if you wanted something from the party?” Cindy asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Goodnight, Congressman.”

  Cindy backed out and closed the door. Jones rested the gun back on the top of his jacket and picked up the next document in the folder he was working through. He still had more than half of his stock to go through. He checked his phone. Ken still hadn’t called. Jones needed him here to finish this. He couldn’t waste much more of his time with these trivial tasks.

  There was already enough evidence to impeach Jones just with what Smith and Daniel knew, but what was contained in these files was much worse. The secrets of a career lay within the documents he shredded, and while he couldn’t prove his innocence in recent events, he wasn’t going to give authorities any additional incentive to come and find him once he was gone. The evidence in these documents was enough for the government to use a considerable amount of resources to find him, interrogate him, then kill him.

  The door creaked open again. Jones kept his head down, feeding the shredder another document. “Cindy, I told you I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  When Jones looked up, he was staring down the barrel of a .45 Smith and Wesson, complete with a suppressor. It was the same man that visited him before, the one that delivered Strydent’s “message.”

  The man was dressed in similar clothes; his only additions were two jet-black gloves, allowing him the luxury of avoiding leaving fingerprints.

  Jones’s eyes locked on the gun. The only sound the room offered was the shredder finishing its work on the document Jones had just given it. Once the paper was destroyed, the room went silent.

  The man was as still as a statue. He didn’t even look like he was breathing. Jones eyeballed the pistol still lying on the jacket. It was within an arm’s reach.

  “They don’t think they can trust me? Look,” he said pointing to the shredder and the papers around him. “Nothing will get traced back to them.”

  “They know.”

  “How much are they paying you? Hmm? You think this won’t come back on you? Killing a United States Congressman? You think that just because people will hate me they won’t want to find out what happened?”

  Jones found himself unable to control his arms, which were flailing at his sides. The confidence and composure he had displayed in so many speeches, rallies, events, and political sessions slowly slipped away. The assassin in front of him couldn’t be swayed with his talented tongue or the stroke of a pen. Jones was now facing the ultimate invoice to all of the charges he’d made during his tenure in politics.

  “Well?” Jones asked.

  “Pick up the gun.”

  “What?”

  “The gun. Pick. It. Up.”

  Jones’s left hand twitched, knowing full well what fate greeted him once the gun was in his hand.

  “No.”

  The man took a few steps forward, the barrel of his pistol inching closer. “Do it.”

  Jones reached his left arm, slowly, over to the gun. His bony fingers curled around the gun’s handle, and he lifted it from the chair.

  “Shoot the wall behind me,” the man said.

  The pistol shook in Jones’s hand as he reluctantly raised his arm. The man didn’t move. Jones couldn’t believe, he was actually letting him aim the pistol at him. Did the man think Jones wouldn’t shoot him? Did he think Jones was too frightened? Intimidated?

  “I could kill you,” Jones said.

  “You could, but you won’t.”

  “Why not? I have the gun. You entered my office threatening to kill me. I could use it against Strydent. I could use your death to turn everything around. I could still win. Why couldn’t I do this?”

  “Because you don’t pull the trigger, Congre
ssman.”

  Two quick thumps and two bullets sliced through Jones, one hitting his chest, the other hitting his shoulder. He collapsed to the floor, the gun falling with him. Jones lay there on the carpet, moving his arms, unable to feel the papers scraping up against him.

  Jones stared at the ceiling of his office, feeling cold. His eyelids started to feel heavy. The crushing weight, which he struggled to fight, drew them down. He suddenly felt thirsty. His mouth was dry, and he could feel his body screaming for water. But it didn’t come. The last bits of life left him, and the final feeling of his life was the want and need for water.

  ***

  Fire trucks, ambulances, and police vehicles were all crowded outside Jones’s office when Smith showed up. Smoke broke through the windows of the building as politicians, aides, and interns who had escaped the fire stood looking back at their ruined offices. All of them were dripping wet and stinking of sulfur. The water from the sprinkler systems was treated water from the sewage plant.