by Samson Weld
SUMMARY
He thought he’d had his revenge. He thought wrong...
Five years ago, Ash Wexler was left for dead after his family was gunned down. He took his time, trained and prepared, and finally avenged their gruesome deaths.
But now a highly professional hit team comes after him!
Ash doesn’t understand. He killed everyone months ago. The revenge is over. His life was just starting to go back to normal, especially with his new girlfriend. So why is he being attacked? Who’s behind this?
With his friend Detective Anna Bellucci, Ash will need to unpack his guns one more time to find out what’s happening.
And to take these scumbags down once and for all...
~ ~ ~ ~
Ash Reckoning
Wexler Vigilante Book 2
by Samson Weld and TW Gallier
Copyright © 2019
The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons depicted are models.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Ash Punishment Sneak Peek
About the Authors
Chapter 1
Trembling fingers clacked across the keyboard. He worried the inside of his cheek as his eyes scanned page after page, checking tracking numbers of items purchased. The first one, a Taser Pulse with two cartridges and an LED laser, showed DELIVERED.
Perfect, he thought. I need that before I can do anything.
His shoulders tightened. Eyes began to burn, forcing him to blink before continuing. With heart pounding, he checked his purchase from other site.
One more. If it’s here…
Typing in the online store’s address, he entered his user name and password. Then he clicked through to check his order. His breath whooshed out when he saw DELIVERED.
He closed his eyes a moment. It’s almost over, Romy. Walt won’t get away with what he did.
He looked at the picture of his purchase. A very sleek and scary looking skinning knife. Romy had suffered so terribly before she died. Her killer absolutely had to suffer a death ten times worse. And even that was too good for this scumbag.
Going to a window, he looked out upon the wooded creek behind the complex. Across the creek, and three complexes down, he spotted the apartment of his soon-to-be victim. The lights went out as he stared.
I wish you’d never come to our pawn shop, he thought. I curse the day my wife spoke to you.
He headed for the car. His one bedroom apartment sat on the second floor overlooking a creek in back, and the parking lot in front. He’d managed to get the parking spot closest to the outdoors stairs.
Descending as quietly as possible, he got into his blue Ford Fusion and headed for the south side of Lake Highlands. He lived in the same Dallas neighborhood, but on the north side of I-635, on Forest Lane. The Postal Depot where he rented a large box was just a few miles away.
The Postal Depot was in an older, run down strip mall. No security cameras anywhere, as far as he could tell. That was the main reason he’d picked the place. It was closed for the night, but he had a key to access the customer postal box area. Just in case, he kept his head down when he entered and opened his large box on bottom. Box 324. Two packages waited inside.
He smiled and picked them up. There was a satisfying weight to them, as if that made them more deadly, more frightening.
Taking his packages, he headed home. A sense of serenity came over him. His plan was coming together. It would soon be over. Romy would finally be able to rest in peace. It felt like a good omen when his parking place was still empty.
Once inside, he opened the first package on the dining room table. The Taser Plus was a pistol-like weapon with a range of fifteen feet. It came with two cartridges and a target, but there wouldn’t be any target practice. That would require him to buy more cartridges and delay his vengeance.
He loaded a cartridge into the business end of the Taser and then placed it on the table. The other package beckoned him. The Taser was to capture; the skinning knife was for the actual revenge. Though he had no intention of actually skinning his victim, a skinning knife seemed to him the perfect torture device.
The skinning knife only had a four-inch blade, but he found it razor sharp. The gut hook made it look even more wicked. He slipped it into the accompanying sheath.
Going to the bedroom, he began to dress all in black. New black jeans. A black shirt, long-sleeved of course. He had gloves and a pullover ski mask, too, that he stuffed into a cloth grocery bag. He added the skinning knife, the Taser and spare cartridge, and finally his lock-picking kit. Those items went on top of the pillowcase and old socks.
Everything arrived just in time for your vacation, Walt, so it’ll be two weeks before anyone realizes you’re missing.
If anyone even misses your stupid ass.
Picking up a shovel and a twenty-foot roll of quarter inch twisted white cotton rope as well, he turned off all of the lights and listened at the front door. No sounds of anyone outside, so he slipped out as stealthily as possible and eased down the stairs.
A car turned into the parking lot, the headlights flashing him. He froze, gawking. Then the pickup continued to an empty spot just three down from his car. Ford F-150. Blue. Was it the new neighbor on the third floor?
He turned and rushed between buildings, heading toward the creek with the shovel, rope, and bag. Most of the apartments remained dark, their occupants already in bed in anticipation of another day at work tomorrow.
The five-foot chain link fence wasn’t an obstacle and soon he melted into the dark growth lining the dry creek below. He moved quickly through the willows and scrub oak, the occasional mesquite. The city had really let that creek go wild, which made it perfect for his purpose.
Finding the spot he’d scouted out previously, he immediately cut the rope into four equal lengths. He then laid down, spread eagle in the middle of four small trees. Perfect, since Walt was about the same size. So he tied each of the four pieces of rope to the ba
se of the trees.
That’ll hold him, he thought.
Then, just five feet away and in the dry creek bed, he began digging into the soft earth.
Chapter 2
What was that?
He pumped the brakes, but when he looked back the man in all black was gone. Cat burglar? Surely, they only dressed in all back in the movies. Besides, black guys weren’t cat burglars. That was a job for sexy young women and rich white guys.
He grinned. I watch too much TV.
Finding a nearby parking spot, Ash Wexler wheeled the big F-150 in and got out. The unexpected man was gone. His eyes quickly scanned the parking lot out of hard-learned habit. Where did he go?
His first thought was for all of the valuables up in his third story apartment. So he hurried up the stairs, not bothering to pull his black leather jacket on. It was cool in just jeans and a polo, but not so cold that he actually needed the very nice jacket his new girlfriend bought him. Besides, he couldn’t relax until he reached his door and found it secure. No sign of forced entry.
He still gave the single bedroom apartment a quick once over to ensure no one waited inside, and nothing was missing. Everything looked copacetic.
Going through the sliding glass doors and onto the balcony, his eyes scanned the dark, overgrown creek beyond for danger. Old habit. His psyche hadn’t quite recovered and it was hard to break some habits.
Movement caught his eyes before he turned away. He paused. Had to be his “cat burglar.”
Not my problem.
He walked across the small living room and turned off the lights. It was time for bed. Dinner and dancing had taken a lot out of him after a long day and he always hit the local gym at 5 AM sharp.
Still, that activity down in the creek bottom nagged at the back of his head. So with a resigned sigh, he sat on the couch and reached under the coffee table’s top. He pressed the release button and the tabletop turned into a lid, rising up on his side.
Inside, he found the expected weapons: Glock 17, Uzi submachine gun, and a passive light scope. Pulling the scope out, he hurried through the sliding glass doors and out onto the balcony.
It took a moment, but he found what he was looking for. A person lit up the scope like a beacon against the cold vegetation all around, or at least his head and hands did. The way the stranger’s head glowed green said he was completely bald. He couldn’t judge height at that distance, but the guy was medium build and too broad in the shoulders to be a woman. For some reason the man was digging a hole.
That’s too long and deep to be anything but a not-so-shallow grave, he thought. Dammit.
Murder? He couldn’t see a body anywhere around the man. Maybe he hadn’t committed the murder yet? Did the man have a good reason to kill his intended victim? Or did he just kill his wife or girlfriend, who was still in his apartment?
I should call the police and let them deal with it. Besides, I promised to give up my wicked ways.
Calling the police would bring unwanted attention to him, as well. Never a good idea. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, just wanting to go to bed and let the world take care of itself. But what if that man planned to kill a father or mother? What if he wanted to do evil and deprive a family of a loved one?
His heart began to thunder. Resolve pushed hesitation aside. His eyes narrowed.
“Trouble, I knew you’d come back to haunt me eventually,” he muttered.
An old familiar tingle rippled through him. Death and danger had been too close and personal for too long. He didn’t want that life anymore. And yet…
Shaking his head, knowing he was just courting more trouble, he strapped on a shoulder holster before pulling on a black fleece hoodie and blue Texas Rangers cap.
I’m going to regret this.
He left his apartment, descended the stairs, and slipped between the buildings. Vaulting over the fence, he eased stealthily into the wooded creek bottom. That was the first time he’d ventured down there. It was more of a place for stray dogs, snakes, and adventurous little boys to play, than for a grown man to plunge into.
All of his hard won skills returned effortlessly. It hadn’t been that long. The creek had a sandy bottom, so it proved easy to move quietly. There was just enough wind to cover the whisper of leaves and branches sliding across his body as he pushed deeper and deeper into the foliage.
The sounds of heavy breathing and digging guided him. The other man proved to be the African-American “cat burglar” as he expected, and he remained focused on the task at hand. It looked like the grave was already about two feet deep. It didn’t look like the grave would get much deeper by the way he was huffing and puffing.
Moving around the digger, he looked for any dead bodies. Nothing. All he spotted was a reusable grocery bag that seemed quite full. And was that lengths of rope tied to the base of trees? What an odd thing to do.
Oh man. I think he plans to do the killing right here.
That sent a chill up his spine. Someone was out for revenge, or was some kind of sadist killer. Maybe a serial killer. But as best he knew, there weren’t any serial killers preying on people in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex.
As expected, the guy stopped digging a few minutes later. He printed the shovel deep into the pile of dirt and left it there. Picking up his cloth grocery bag of goodies, he headed down the creek instead of heading back up to the apartments as expected.
It’s never easy, Ash thought before following.
They didn’t go far before the African-American turned right and headed for the back of another complex. Following the man, he watched from the treeline as the guy dropped to one knee by a ground floor door. It took a moment before he realized the other guy was trying to pick the door’s lock.
This is not going to end well, he thought, feeling adrenaline beginning to flow.
Chapter 3
The click of the door unlocking sounded thunderous in Desmond’s ears.
He froze, listening for sound inside. Nothing. He pulled the Taser out of his bag, turned off the safety, and then gently turned the knob and opened the door.
Holding his breath, he listened intently. He heard the sound of breathing in another room after a few seconds. Not quite a snore, but loud enough to hear. That allowed him to relax just a bit, but his hand remained painfully tight around the Taser. He was still on plan. Just a few more minutes, and the hardest part would be over.
He set his bag just inside the door before moving inside himself. It felt good to be out of that lit breezeway. He’d felt so vulnerable out there, liable to be caught picking the lock. Desmond remained crouched over, leading with the Taser, eyes huge in the dim light of the apartment. There was a night light in the bathroom, but that was about it.
Pausing just inside the door, he listened for the sound of sleep breathing. Still sounded good, so he could let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Soon the furnishings began to take shape. Couch. Recliner in front of a small TV, with a TV tray to one side.
The small round dining table looked cluttered with junk, and even the seats of the two chairs were piled high with stuff. The galley kitchen sat behind a pony wall beyond the table. The bedroom door stood open just past the bathroom.
Desmond froze. The enormity of what he planned overwhelmed him. Could he actually kill another human being? Did it even matter how badly Walt Foreman deserved to die?
I’ll go to Hell for this, he thought, making his heart race. But it’s for Romy. He can’t get away with killing her.
Walt was supposed to be her savior, of sorts. Romy had suffered from chronic pain after knee surgery a few years back. The doctors wouldn’t give her the pain meds she needed, out of fear of getting her addicted to opioids. The medication they’d given her instead hadn’t done much.
But then one day Walt visited their pawn shop to sell a few things. Romy struck up a conversation with the skinny white guy, learning that he worked as a pharmacy technician. He could get her the pain meds she needed. For a price.
Two days later, Walt had returned with what he said was Hydrocodone. One hundred pills. They paid an obscene amount for that small bottle of pain relief, but if it helped Romy with her pain then Desmond would’ve sold his soul.
Romy immediately took two pills, and that’s all it took.
He had to know, Desmond later concluded. The son of a bitch knew it was fentanyl. He knew it would kill her.
Sucking in a deep breath to calm his nerves, Desmond shored up his resolve to see this through to the bitter end. His life had ended when Romy died. He started toward the bedroom.
The light dimmed dramatically. Desmond froze. It took a second before he realized the lost light was coming from the open front door. And the dark shape of a man stood in that doorway, pistol in hand.
“Oh shit,” he whispered.
Desmond’s eyes began to burn. He’d failed Romy. He’d failed miserably.
I should’ve brought a real gun and shot him dead, he thought desperately. I have a pawn shop full of all kinds of guns. But no, I had to buy a Taser to capture him. I had to torture him. Now God has slapped me down for my evil.
He glanced at the bedroom door. Walt’s breathing hadn’t changed, but the newcomer wasn’t going to let him finish the job. Desmond’s shoulders sagged when the armed man motioned with his pistol for him to come back outside.
Reluctantly, full of dread, Desmond turned toward the door. The other man backed out into the breezeway, allowing him to see his face. White man. Average looking, but with cold determination in his eyes. A cop? He seemed awfully comfortable with that gun in hand.
Glock 17. He takes good care of it, Desmond thought, his pawn shop owner’s mind kicking in. He could sell it for about five hundred dollars in the current market.
Desmond kept his eyes locked on that Glock as he slowly walked out the door. The white guy shook his head woefully.
“What the hell are you thinking?”
His first instinct was to lash out, tell him to mind his own business. However, the anger had left the man’s eyes. Desmond saw more concern than anything.