Deadly Shadow

by Kim Cresswell

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Inside the living room of his Fairfield Avenue home overlooking the Ohio River, Derrick poured two double shots of scotch, an expensive thirty-five-year-old sweet toffee and fruit blend, his father’s favorite.

  “It's good to see you, son.”

  He hadn't seen his father since last summer and couldn't remember the last time they’d had dinner or even a drink together.

  His father, Roland, was a tall and regal-looking man with the same dark hair as Derrick with a splash of gray at his temples, cut in a longer than usual military-style buzz cut. He was dressed impeccably in his usual Washington attire; a black suit, crisp white shirt, and black and red pinstriped tie.

  “Good to see you too. The palace intrigue keeping you busy back in D.C.?” Derrick handed him a drink and sat across from him in one of the modern wingback chairs.

  “As long as there’s a thirst for political power, my kind will never be unemployed. Nor will yours, son.” Roland took a drink of his scotch. “I’ve been reading that your business is doing quite well, considering it was supposed to be just a front in the first place. I’m proud of you.”

  “Come on, Dad. You didn’t make an eight-hour drive to tell me you’re proud of me.”

  Roland set his glass on the coffee table. “No. It’s related to the previous task.”

  “Another loudmouth blowhard on the radio?”

  His eyes shifted to the window then back to Derrick. “Any problems with Bullington?”

  Derrick’s thoughts jumped to Victory. He wasn’t going to tell his father about his little slip with the FBI agent. He knew the man wouldn’t approve. “Everything went smoothly.”

  His father leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. “Do you know why Bullington became a task, Derrick?”

  “Nope, and I don’t want to. It’s not in my job description.”

  “He found out about the Elara Project.”

  “You’re kidding. How? And how did he keep his mouth shut about it?”

  “He had every intention of exposing us, waiting for the most opportune moment to get the most bang for his buck. He planned on doing a live show next week.”

  “Let me guess. During the president’s visit on infrastructure.”

  Roland nodded. “That’s when he was going to unleash his expose—he and his source.

  “Who’s the source?”

  “A television reporter.”

  Derrick downed his drink, got up, and went to pour another. “But we control the networks and what can be reported about us. That’s never been an issue.”

  “She’s not from a network. Keeping her in line hasn’t been an option, not without admitting the project is indeed real.”

  Derrick glanced over his shoulder. “Who’s her source?”

  “Your immediate concern should be—who is she?”

  “Alright.” Derrick sat back down, clutching his drink.

  “Melissa Mann. She works for a local TV station —”

  “I know who she is.”

  Roland leaned back in the chair. “She needs to be stopped. She’ll be quite frightened after hearing about Bullington’s death.”

  “She could snap and start talking right away.”

  “Or…she could protect the information in the event of her untimely death. The woman isn’t stupid.”

  “You know the deal, Dad. No women.

  “Would you rather have the whole house of cards come toppling down? On top of you? On top of us?”

  Growing up, he remembered his father telling him about a female government official he had taken care of in the early ‘80s for the sake of national security. “I’m not the only one who can perform the task. You could do it.”

  His father’s jaw tightened, and his eyes hardened. “This is not a request, son. Comes directly from the top. The last thing we need is a category four shit storm. Shelter from the storm. That’s what you must provide for us.”

  A few beats of tense silence passed between the men.

  Roland downed his drink, then checked his Jaeger-LeCoultre watch. “I need to get back.”

  Derrick could tell this side trip had cost his father a great deal of valuable time. As they walked to the front of the house, a tight knot formed in the pit of Derrick’s stomach. He didn’t like feeling stuck with no options. But protecting the Elara Project was the only thing that mattered. He didn’t have a choice. He opened the front door. Chilly air tunneled inside. At the same time as his father stepped outside, the three black Secret Service Suburbans in the driveway fired up. Headlights flicked on simultaneously.

  Roland's eyes narrowed. “Don’t ever forget what you are, son—who you serve.” He handed Derrick a piece of paper with an address written on it. “Let me know as soon as the task is done.”

  His father’s voice was icy, hard. Derrick reluctantly took the paper and watched the man climb into the back of one of the vehicles. A few seconds later, the vehicles backed out of the driveway and paraded up the street.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Victory watched the morning sun slowly poke through the slate-colored clouds. At ten o’clock she was still tired and worn out from yesterday’s long hours. Despite exhaustion, sleep hadn’t come easily. Melissa Mann still hadn’t returned her call. Victory suspected the reporter was giving her the runaround.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Ryan asked. “I know this isn’t the easiest thing for you, coming back in Cleveland.”

  No, she wasn’t okay, but she didn’t have a choice. “I have to be.”

  At some point, Victory knew she’d be returning to Cleveland regardless of how she felt. She pushed down the guilt and anxiety, knowing she could never escape the past. Part of her wanted to drive by her old house to see what the place looked like now. It was too soon. She’d fall apart. She needed to focus on her job because it was the only thing keeping her together.

  In the distance, open snow-covered rolling hills came into view. They were entering farm country. Light snow danced in the air and twinkled in the sunlight like glitter.

  Victory glanced at Ryan. “Guess who sent me flowers?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Hermes?”

  “Derrick Lynn.”

  Ryan’s eyebrows raised. “What? How the hell did he know where you live?”

  “It’s a mystery, like all the other mysteries we’re dealing with right now.”

  “I’m not liking this, Vic. Kinda creepy.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m on it.” She turned down the heat and cracked open the window an inch or so. “The farm should be coming up soon.”

  Unsure of how Michael Vertus would react to their arrival, Victory wasn’t taking any chances. She’d witnessed first-hand what white supremacist members could do from church shootings to bombing a Sikh temple. “We go in hot. Vests and 12 gauges.”

  Ryan slowed the SUV and turned right onto the bumpy road, leading to the property as Victory’s phone rang. She snatched the phone from her jacket pocket. “McClane.”

  “Hey Vic, it’s Sean. I had a chat with Bullington’s bodyguard. He’s not the guy we’re looking for. Tyler Wilson isn’t The Shadow. He said he followed Bullington home as usual and made sure he was inside before he left for his next security gig. He was meeting a corporate suit at the airport. His story checks out.”

  She wasn’t surprised. “I doubt Michael Vertus is involved either. I’ll let you know if we learn anything new. We’re just pulling up to the farmhouse now.”

  “Stay safe. You never know with those wing-nuts.”

  “We will.”

  Ryan steered the vehicle to the side of the road and parked under a row of trees about five hundred yards from the main house. He shut the engine off and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Brody?”

  Victory nodded and opened the door. “We can rule out the bodyguard.”

  “I figured as much.” Ryan opened the door and got out. “Looks like our friend has company.”

  She sp
otted five men, including Michael Vertus, smoking and talking on a shabby wooden front porch of the dilapidated two-storey brick house. All the men were wearing heavy red and black-checked flannel jackets. Their heads were shaved, marked with various tattoos and swastikas.

  Ryan opened the back of the SUV, folded back the seat, and unlocked the compartment containing their ballistic vests and Remington 870 shotguns.

  Victory removed her winter coat and tossed it in the vehicle. A chill skated across her skin, the wind cutting through her thick sweater. After securing her vest, she grabbed one of the shotguns, pressed the safety switch forward, pulled back the pump slide, and placed a 12-gauge shell against the loading port. She pushed a shell inside and forward, then repeated the action until all the shells were loaded. She grabbed her phone from her coat and shoved it into the back pocket of her pants.

  Ryan finished loading his weapon and peered over the roof of the vehicle. “Not too thrilled about being outnumbered if this goes south. You never know how many weapons these assholes have stockpiled on the property.”

  Victory wasn’t thrilled either. There wasn’t much cover on the way up to the house, and the last thing they needed was a shootout. Victory held the shotgun a little tighter than normal, preparing herself for the worst.

  As they plodded side-by-side up the driveway, crisp snow crunched and squealed under the rubber soles of their boots. Two make-shift signs made from wooden slabs crudely painted with red spray paint were hammered to tree trunks. One said, NO TRESPASSING, the other, WHITES ONLY. Victory kept the shotgun pointed toward the ground and her eyes glued to the men, searching for any indication things could turn nasty.

  Michael Vertus, a tall beanpole of a man with a crooked nose spotted them first. He was well-known to the local cops and had a long record, including numerous weapon and assault charges. He sauntered down the front steps and stopped on the last one. The other men clustered around him like groupies.

  Vertus laughed like a manic. “Well, what have we got here?”

  “Keep an eye on the short one,” Ryan said to her quietly. “He’s too fidgety.”

  Victory’s pulse sped up. The short one might have been height-limited, but he had a thick neck and was bulked unnaturally with muscle. She stopped and planted her feet firmly on the ground in case she needed to use the weapon. Her eyes shifted back and forth to each man. “We just want to talk to you, Vertus.”

  “You’re trespassing.” He shot her a cocky grin. “Can’t you pigs read the signs?”

  “Tell them to get the hell out of here,” the shortest man of the group said, as he flicked his cigarette butt over the porch railing.

  Ryan raised his shotgun a few inches higher as a show of force.

  Victory followed his lead, then took a few more steps and stopped again. “We aren’t leaving until we talk to you. We can do this the easy way—or I can have two dozen cops here in an instant. You don’t want that to happen because the odds won’t be in your favor—actually, they aren’t in your favor right now.”

  Vertus looked at her with a confused expression on his face. “Odds?”

  “Do you want the ATF here searching the property? I’m guessing not.”

  The smug grin on his face immediately disappeared. He strutted toward them with his arms at his side.

  Victory raised the gun and aimed the barrel evenly at his chest. “That’s close enough.”

  Ryan moved to the right of her and trained his shotgun on the others. “Tell your friends to beat it.”

  A few seconds went by before Vertus peered over his shoulder and nodded to his men.

  They headed to a beat-up black Chevy Blazer parked next to the house. Short-man had a set of keys dangling in his hand. He opened the driver side door and glared at Victory with stormy brown eyes, while the others walked to the other side of the vehicle.

  Victory had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes darted to Vertus and then back to Short-man. He reached into his jacket pocket and started to pull something out.

  Her heart pounded double-time. She spotted the glint of shiny metal. Victory fired.

  The slug slammed into the back window of the Blazer, punching a hole the size of a large grapefruit. Glass exploded. Chunks showered the trunk and into the back seat.

  She yanked the pump slide back and prepared to shoot again. “Drop the gun.”

  “Do what she says,” Vertus yelled. “We don’t need any more trouble.”

  She gripped the weapon tighter. “Listen to him. At least the light bulb is partially on.” She aimed the barrel of the shotgun at Short-man’s leg. “You may want to keep that leg.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and held a steely determination. Finally, he chucked the weapon in the snow.

  Ryan cautiously stepped toward the men. “Everyone up against the Blazer. Keep your hands where we can see them.” After he searched each one, he found two more weapons and confiscated them. “Get the hell out of here, you damn fools.”

  Victory exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath. They were fools, lucky she hadn’t arrested them.

  The Blazer did a three-sixty, snow spitting out under the tires, like a snowblower stuck in high gear, firing snow in every direction. The vehicle blasted past her and off the property.

  Ryan came up behind Vertus, yanked his hands behind him and handcuffed him. He did a body search and discovered a gun tucked in the back waistband of the man’s jeans. He threw it on the ground.

  Victory lowered the shotgun. Her eyes traveled to Vertus’ gun. “Beanpole. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” Then her phone rang. “Take him inside.” Clutching the shotgun under her arm, she awkwardly extracted the phone from her pocket. “What’s up, Sean?”

  “Vic, you and Ryan need to get back here. We’ve got a missing girl.”

  Victory lowered the phone and imagined the worst, as she watched Ryan shove Michael Vertus toward the house.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Inside his office at the Pentagon, Roland picked up his phone from his desk and punched in the set of numbers.

  After three rings, the voice on the other end said, “I was expecting your call.”

  “I spoke with Derrick earlier,” Roland said.

  “I hope you have good news.”

  “He was reluctant. But I drove the message home. He knows he doesn't have a choice. He was reminded who he works for. I'm confident the issue will be taken care of in a timely manner.”

  “I'm sure it's difficult for him, but he knows what he signed up for years ago. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made to protect others. In this case—all of us, and the project.”

  There was a short pause on the other end. “We're at war on many various levels. This is one of those times. The Elara Project must remain buried at any cost.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  He wondered how long this one would scream before she passed out from the pain. She had to be punished, like the rest. She looked so much like Lily, the resemblance uncanny. The thought of his ex-fiancé made every muscle in his body tight and hard and crawl with hatred. He couldn’t find her, and not from the lack of trying. He’d searched for years after she’d disappeared, leaving him for another man a week before their wedding.

  No one walked away from him.

  Inside the barren warehouse, he stared at the woman dressed only in panties and a bra wrapped in bubble wrap, bound to a metal kitchen chair with a thick steel cable. For now, this one would have to do until he found Lily.

  She was a pretty, petite, twenty-three-year-old he’d met the night before at a dance club on the other side of town. She was more than willing to go home with him, where he had kept her drugged before transporting her to the warehouse.

  He was happy with his choice. Long brown hair hung over her breasts, and wide green eyes stared at him with fear and dazed awareness. She knew she was going to die.

  With a gloved hand, he gently moved greasy strands of hair from her slick forehead and inhaled the sweet sc
ent of the baby oil he had doused her body with earlier.

  The woman flinched at his touch. Bubble wrap popped.

  Poor thing. If she only knew what was about to happen. He bent and whispered in her ear. “It’s okay.” Soon, the duct tape from her mouth. He couldn’t wait.

  Her eyes bulged, bug-like. Tears streamed down her oily cheeks.

  He double checked the four space heaters encircling the woman, each set less than a foot from her body, positioned at different heights, and he thought about the nickname the FBI had given him, The Wrapper.

  He booted one of the thick extension cords aside. He had watched the FBI’s news conference earlier. What a joke. Agent McClane made him sound like a fucking rapper on MTV. At least they’d labeled Jeffrey Dahmer, The Milwaukee Cannibal, and Posteal Laskey had earned the name, The Cincinnati Strangler. He deserved the same respect. He was Ohio’s Bubble Wrap Killer. Nothing more. Nothing less. The FBI agent was just angry she couldn’t catch him and never would. He laughed, his deep, roaring voice reverberating throughout the destitute space.

  He donned a new HazMat suit and stood in front of the woman, smiling. Adrenaline spiked through his veins. With a flick of a handheld switch, all four heaters clicked on and roared to life. Their burners turned fiery red, producing a brilliant glow. Dust particles danced in the light as a horde of rats scurried by, their beady black eyes darting back and forth, sensing the imminent danger.

  Within minutes the baby oil would heat, and the bubble wrap would melt into her skin. Oh, the glorious pain he was about to inflict on her. She looked so much like Lily. The woman deserved it.

  They all did.

  He hesitated for a second, his hands shaking from the adrenaline rush, then ripped the duct tape from her mouth and jumped out of the intense heat. Euphoria flooded his body, a high he felt with each kill.

  Shrill screams and begging surrounded him. He tilted his head and watched as her once-stunning features blurred and deformed like a melting wax figure. It didn’t take long before her body went limp, as burnt flesh and blood slid from her bones onto the concrete floor.