Serenity Avenged

by Craig A. Hart

  Serenity Avenged

  A Shelby Alexander Thriller

  Craig A. Hart

  Northern Lake Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 by Craig A. Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Also by Craig A. Hart

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Craig A. Hart

  The Writer’s Tune-Up Manual

  Becoming Moon

  The Girl Who Read Hemingway

  The Busy Writer

  THE SHELBY ALEXANDER SERIES

  Serenity

  Serenity Stalked

  1

  Jimmy Holstine snapped awake. He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding so hard he expected it to burst from his chest. Blood roared in his ears, sounding like the ocean surf, but less relaxing. His eyes widened as he struggled to see in the darkness. Light sifted through the blinds from the street lamp on the corner, but not enough to give definition to objects in the room. Then again, he knew everything there. He scanned the perimeter, searching for anything he didn’t recognize.

  First stood his dresser, piled high with clothes—some clean, some not. There were more clothes on top of the dresser than inside the drawers, but Jimmy didn’t see the point of folding and storing clothing when he knew he would yank it out of the drawer within a day or two.

  To the right of the dresser was his guitar and new amp. He'd used the amp only twice. It was mostly hidden by its own pile of shirts and dingy jeans. He’d purchased it, far beyond his usual means, after a good month with Darkmore. Many times since, he’d wished he could sell it. He’d tried to twice, but these weren’t good times for selling things like pricey amplifiers, and pawnshops would only offer a fraction of its worth. So it sat, gathering dust and laundry, while he ran himself ragged for a boss he was growing to both fear and despise.

  Next to the amp was the closet door, slightly open. Jimmy thought he remembered leaving it that way. Or had he? He stared, trying to penetrate the solid blackness of the closet’s interior, but saw nothing. If someone waited there, watching, they were safe from his probing eyes.

  After the closet should have been a space of empty wall, followed by the bedroom door. But the space was not empty. Something was there: a large, dark shape.

  As Jimmy noticed this, the shape detached from the wall and moved forward. Jimmy scooted backward on the bed, but the form—a man—was already across the room. A powerful hand closed on Jimmy’s throat, choking the life out of him, forcing his head back against the wall. Jimmy grabbed the man’s forearm but felt only steel-like muscle and sinew. He tried to speak but couldn't utter more than a rasping gurgle.

  “Shut up,” the man said.

  And then something coarse and scratchy went over Jimmy’s head—a hood. The hand released its death grip on his throat but switched to the back of his neck.

  “Get up. Darkmore wants to see you.”

  “Come on, man. You about crushed my throat. You don’t know your own strength.” Jimmy coughed.

  “Stand up.”

  Jimmy stood up.

  “Start walking. We’re going downstairs.”

  Jimmy walked to the door, expertly avoiding all of the items scattered around the floor. It looked like chaos, but he knew where everything was and could navigate blindfolded—as he was now doing. The man behind him stumbled once, cursing, but never relinquished his grip on Jimmy’s neck.

  They left the bedroom and turned toward the stairs. Knowing they were coming, Jimmy felt ahead with his feet.

  “Stairs,” the man said.

  The floor dropped away beneath Jimmy’s forward foot and he slowly made his way downward.

  “Come on, come on,” the man growled. "Move!”

  “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “Well, speed it up or I’ll speed it up for you. And you don’t want that.”

  Jimmy knew he didn’t want that. It was a steep, narrow flight and would certainly not pass modern building code. He went as fast as he could in his current sightless condition without tripping himself up.

  Then they were at the bottom. Jimmy sighed in relief. His breath was hot and moist inside the hood; he longed to yank it off.

  The man steered him around the corner and into the living room. They stopped moving and the man moved away. A moment later, the rasp of window blinds being drawn tight. Then the man was back and gripping his neck again.

  Another set of footsteps came from the kitchen. They stopped and Jimmy heard a low laugh, although it wasn’t a pleasant sound.

  “For Christ’s sake, Malone. Why the bag over the head?”

  Jimmy’s captor mumbled, “I…I thought…”

  “You know why we use bags and blindfolds on people, Malone?”

  “To scare em?”

  “To keep them from seeing where they’re going.”

  “Right.”

  “And why is that not an issue here?”

  Silence.

  “Because, Malone, we’re in his own house. Jesus! Take off the bag.”

  The hood was unceremoniously removed and Jimmy blinked. He stood in his own living room. The blinds were drawn and a single lamp cast shadows on the walls. Behind him stood his captor, Malone. In front of him stood Darkmore, smiling and larger than life.

  “How are you, Jimmy?” Darkmore said. He walked around the room, fingering the knick-knacks and examining the paintings on the walls.

  “I’m…fine, I guess.”

  “I apologize for the rude awakening. As you know, Malone isn’t known for the soft touch. He gets carried away in the moment.”

  Jimmy knew all too well. He’d seen Malone in action, but had never expected it to be turned on him. Although, so far, the treatment had been mild—Malone was capable of doing much worse.

  Darkmore picked up a small ceramic rabbit and turned it over in his hands. “An interesting place, Jimmy. Not the sort of décor I would have expected from you.”

  “It was my grandma’s place, sir. I never redecorated.”

  “Sir, yet.” Darkmore looked at Malone. “Isn’t it interesting how deferential people get when they think they’re in trouble?”

  “Yeah, deferential.” Malone guffawed, then grew thoughtful.

  “I’m speaking of your job, Jimmy.”

  “My job?”

  “Yes. Your job. You’re falling down on it.”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  In one motion, Darkmore dropped the ceramic rabbit on the floor and ground it under his heel. “I’m not here to play games with you, Jimmy. Tell me: how much money have you gotten from that bitch so far?”

  Jimmy took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Maybe five grand?”

  “And how much does she owe?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty grand…on top of the five she already paid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when was next payment due?”

  “Last week.”

  “And did
you bring me the next payment?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And why not?”

  “She didn’t have it.”

  Darkmore cupped his ear and looked at Jimmy expectantly. “Pardon?”

  “She didn’t have it, sir.”

  “She didn’t…have it.” Darkmore began pacing. “Do you know what happens to people who don’t fulfill their obligations to me, Jimmy? They don’t usually survive. You see, I have a reputation to maintain. I must be fair, yet just, and can’t afford to broadcast weakness. The moment I do that, I’m finished. Do you know what that means, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy shook his head.

  “It means that not only do people have to pay what they owe or pay the consequences, but my men have to do the jobs I give them or pay the consequences. Now…have you done the job I gave to you?”

  “I’m doing it! I’m a little behind, is all.”

  “Right, see, that’s it, Jimmy. I can’t have that. If one guy starts falling behind and getting away with it, then the next guy thinks he can get away with it too. Before long, I have a crew of worthless rebels who do nothing but lie around all day and drink my liquor. Now what kind of business model is that?”

  Jimmy stood motionless. There were no good answers to any of the questions Darkmore was asking. He was frightened, yes—but he didn’t think Darkmore was planning to kill him. Not yet, anyway. Darkmore was not likely to travel to someone else’s home turf to kill. No, he preferred his victims brought to him, so the execution could be performed in a controlled environment. Jimmy had never seen Darkmore’s killing room…but he’d heard enough stories to know he wanted nothing to do with it.

  “It would be unsustainable,” Darkmore said. “I would be overrun and killed within a week. And it isn’t only about me; I have responsibilities. People—families!—are dependent on me to keep things afloat. But I can’t do that without good men, now can I?”

  Jimmy sensed he should answer this question. “No, sir.”

  Darkmore walked forward until he stood mere inches away. He looked Jimmy in the eye and gripped him by the shoulders, almost as a father might.

  “When I brought you in, I saw great potential in you, Jimmy. You’re quick on your feet. You have natural charm. The kind money can’t buy and training can’t teach. I liked you. Still do. But you’re letting me down, Jimmy.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “The bitch has to pay—the full amount—on time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you handle it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because if you can’t, now would be the time to tell me.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “You won’t keep going soft because it’s a woman?”

  “No.”

  Darkmore stood, eyes locked on Jimmy’s, hands gripping the younger man’s shoulders, for a full minute. Then he dropped his hands and stepped away. He walked back across the room and sat down on the old sofa. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. He took his time toasting the foot, before lighting and taking his first draw. He puffed a few times, then looked up at Malone and gave a slight nod.

  And Jimmy knew that, while he wasn’t going to die tonight, he might wish he had.

  2

  A red flashing light flooded the interior of Shelby’s car. He glanced at the speedometer: 85 mph, fifteen over the limit. Damn it, he was only an hour out of Grand Rapids.

  He slowed down and eased onto the shoulder. The patrol car followed, right on his tail. Shelby stopped, put the car in park, and watched in his side view mirror as the cop fiddled around in his vehicle before getting out and sidling up to Shelby’s window. The cop had unsnapped the leather strap that looped over the top of the sidearm. Shelby found that annoying but understood the cop didn’t know what to expect. Shelby could be a crazy person with a gun of his own. He wasn’t crazy, but he did have a gun—and a permit—resting in the glovebox. He reached into the compartment and pulled out the car registration and insurance so the cop wouldn't see the weapon. The sight of guns in civilian cars made law enforcement jumpy these days; Shelby couldn’t blame them. He wasn’t an avid follower of the news but heard enough to thank God or whatever was up there he wasn’t a cop on the streets. His friend Jerry McIntyre, a retired cop, was always talking about it. Then again, an ex-cop always took the side of the law in these cases, even if the law was in the wrong. Cop culture.

  Shelby rolled down his window.

  The cop halted behind the open window, his hand resting on the sidearm. “Evening, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  Shelby yearned to make a sarcastic remark, but experience told him no good would come of it. “I’m afraid I was speeding.”

  “Any reason you were going fifteen over?”

  “It’s my daughter. She’s in the hospital.”

  Skepticism flashed across the cop’s face. “Hospital, huh? Where at?”

  “Grand Rapids.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “Spectrum. Labor and delivery.”

  “A baby, huh? Congratulations.”

  “It’s a little early. The baby’s not to term.”

  The cop paused as if digesting this information. He nodded. “License and registration, please.”

  Shelby handed them over and the cop returned to his vehicle.

  Within a surprisingly short time, the cop returned and handed back the documents.

  “All right, Mr. Alexander. I'm not sure if you’re telling me the truth or feeding me a line, but I’m going to let you off with a warning.”

  “Thank you, officer.”

  “Promise you’ll slow it down. I know you want to get to your daughter, but you won’t help anything by wrapping your car around a tree or the front of a semi.”

  “Understood.”

  “Have a good night.”

  Shelby waited until the officer returned to the patrol car before putting the car into gear, checking traffic, and pulling back onto the interstate. He accelerated slowly until he reached 75 mph, then engaged the cruise control. He wasn’t worried about cracking up, but he didn’t want to kill any more time getting pulled over.

  Shelby had never been the worrying type. He’d kept his nerves under control during most of the trip, except for the lead foot, but as he came around the 196 curve and saw the city skyline, anxiety settled like a bowling ball in the pit of his stomach. He wondered how Leslie was doing—and the baby. He’d kept his cell within easy reach and checked it every few minutes to make sure he hadn’t missed a call or text. But the device had been quiet throughout the trip. No news was good news, as far as Shelby was concerned.

  He found the hospital with only a couple of wrong turns—he was surprised by how overwhelming the city seemed. Grand Rapids wasn’t huge, but after Serenity, it felt like a swarming metropolis. It seemed the ability to navigate cities was a skill that rusted over time.

  He found a ramp near the hospital, parked, and made his way inside. He stopped at the first information desk, where the attendant delivered vague, rapid-fire directions Shelby knew he’d never remember. But he followed the attendant’s pointing finger, hoping to find another kiosk along the way.

  After navigating aimlessly through labyrinthine corridors, and through some combination of luck and providence, Shelby saw a sign for Labor and Delivery. There was a nurses’ station outside a set of main doors. Shelby stopped to check in.

  “May I help you?” the nurse said, barely glancing up.

  “Leslie Alexander. She came in with early labor symptoms.”

  The nurse checked her computer. “Oh, yes. And you are…?”

  “The father.”

  The nurse looked up again, taking her time to look Shelby over. Her eyebrows raised and Shelby realized what she was thinking.

  “Leslie’s father.”

  The nurse nodded, as if she’d never doubted it. “Room 217. I’ll buzz you in.” She indicated the large double doors. “
Be aware you’ll have to be buzzed out as well.”

  Shelby walked toward the doors and, as he approached, heard a whirr and a click, and the doors swung open. He entered, feeling as if he had gained entry to an ancient vault of secrets.

  His cell chirped and he glanced at it. A text from Helen.

  WHAT IS YOUR ETA?

  He paused to reply.

  ABOUT FIVE SECONDS.

  A moment later, Helen walked out of a room down the hall. Shelby inclined his head in recognition and quickened his pace. Outwardly, he remained calm and, he hoped, inscrutable. But the sight of Helen, combined with his anxiety for Leslie, was having an effect. He hadn’t considered what it would be like to see Helen again and her sudden appearance struck him hard. She looked older. Of course she did; it had been almost ten years, during which he hadn’t even seen pictures. As he approached, Shelby saw lines around her eyes and mouth, lines that hadn’t been there a decade ago. Helen had always looked younger than her age—still did. But Shelby could see life on her face in a way he never had before, and he found the idea of Helen aging to be uncomfortable. He was also uncomfortable with the realization that she looked good to him. She’d always had that look of classic beauty. In some ways, the years had sharpened her features. Yes, Shelby admitted. Helen was still quite a looker.

  They exchanged a quick hug.

  “How is she?” Shelby said.

  Helen bobbed her head to indicate a moderate condition. “Things have calmed a little. They ran some tests and we’re waiting on the doctor.”

  They entered the room. Leslie looked up and saw Shelby. Her face brightened. Shelby warmed with relief.

  “Hi, Leslie. How are you feeling?”