The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1)

by J. F. Burgess

  ‘I need that money for my daughter’s treatment. She’ll die without it.’

  ‘Tell someone who gives a shit. Just toss it over or I’ll pop you right here.’

  Realising he had little choice, Blake reluctantly bowled the package under arm across the ground towards the mugger. Kneeling down with the gun still trained at him, the biker scooped up the package.

  ‘Turn around and put your hands on the hood. If you move an inch, I’ll do ya!’

  Blake’s fear turned to anger, and with clenched fists he did what was asked.

  He watched the man climb into the rust bucket, fire it up and swerve out of the lot like a madman, its solo tail-light bounced as it dropped off the kerb and screeched away. By now, pure adrenaline surged through him. Without hesitation he jumped into the rental, turned over the engine and spun out of the lot in pursuit with absolutely no regard for the consequences.

  Blake knew his SUV was a much newer and faster vehicle, giving him a serious edge. If he could keep close to the biker, then ram him off the road when no other cars were around, there’d be a fighting chance of getting the cash back. He could hardly report it to the cops.

  Glancing in the rear-view mirror an endless stream of suburban lights reeled away behind him. He narrowed the gap to three car lengths when a crossroads loomed about a hundred yards in front. Easing on the gas, he covered the brake. Surprisingly the three-lane road heading out of the city was quiet.

  Suddenly the lights changed to red, but, instead of slowing down, the mad bastard slammed his foot down and swung the rust bucket left straight across the path of an oncoming truck from the right. Luckily it was only cruising and braked to avoid impact. The truck’s horn howled, echoing like a ship in the fog, as it skidded and altered course. Tensely gripping the wheel of his stationary rental, Blake watched the biker’s rear lights shoot a few hundred yards into the distance.

  The lights changed, and he accelerated swinging a sharp left. The suburban sprawl thinned out as he continued in pursuit heading down a two-lane road. He burned through the gears glancing at the orange speed dial hovering over the seventy mark. What the hell was under that bonnet, he thought sweating profusely in the humid night air? Surely it couldn’t match a car forty years newer, could it?

  The winding road ahead twisted amongst the trees. Approaching vehicles were few and far between and, judging by its random swaying, the rust bucket didn’t look to handle the combination of bends at high speed too well. Conversely Blake’s rental tracked the surface with relative ease. Problem was, the loser in front was a native, meaning he’d know every turn-off and shortcut.

  He estimated they’d gone about ten miles and there was no sign of him stopping. Holding his resolve, he ploughed on drawing upon the skills he learned on the police high-speed pursuit course.

  Suddenly the road swung violently to the right, straightened for a few yards, before swinging back to the left out of an S-bend. His bonnet was now within touching distance of the rust bucket’s back-end.

  It bounced as if driving over a large rock; its brake lights flashed. Spotting his chance Blake tensed preparing for impact. Gripping the wheel he slammed his foot to the floor and rammed into the back, shunting his assailant’s nearside wheels off the blacktop onto the grass lining the sides of the road. Blake swerved just missing a large boulder, and jammed on the brake bringing him to a screeching halt at the deserted roadside.

  Darkness cloaked the surrounding area; a full moon silhouetted the trees like ghouls. He sat motionless, watching the car career over the edge of the road through a gap in the barriers, crash through a line of trees and rumble down a minor slope through dry grass. He traced its headlights until they halted and extinguished.

  Jumping out, he zipped up his jacket and turned the collar up to shield his aching neck from the Pacific breeze. Stealthily he paced through the trees wielding a heavy fifteen-inch torch he’d found in the glove box. The distant sound of waves crashing against the shoreline put him in a heightened state of alert. Hundreds of chirping crickets echoed amongst the grass.

  Emerging from the trees he could just about make out the hazy figure of the huge biker who’d abandoned his vehicle in the scrub and was stumbling across the moonlit beach heading towards a cluster of massive rocks for cover.

  Warily Blake approached him from behind. Did he still have the gun? Gripping the flashlight like a police baton, he sprinted across the sand, closed in and shoulder barged him side on, sending him crashing onto the sand. Blake dived on top of him and launched the flashlight into the side of his head. The biker wailed in pain as it thudded hard into his temple, his legs thrashed around, violently attempting to fend off Blake who’d dropped the flashlight in the struggle.

  Regaining balance he hammered his fist into the biker’s nose. With bloodied hands the biker suddenly found a burst of strength. Shielding his face with an elbow, his free hand pushed hard under Blake’s chin. His muscular arm forced Blake’s head back, his other fist pummelled him hard in the kidneys. Winded, Blake swayed off balance to the side and the biker heaved him over. In one swift movement he whipped the gun from his jacket and shoved the barrel into Blake’s forehead.

  Pinned to the sand, hands held out in surrender, Blake clamped his eyes. Devastated, knowing his life was about to end, leaving his sick daughter stranded in America to fend for herself, he heard the click of the trigger, followed by a deafening blast.

  CHAPTER 105

  The gunshot echoed across the pitch-black sky, followed by an agonising cry. Blake’s ears pounded, and his forehead burned with pain. Opening his eyes he lay motionless, gazing at the moon, its ghostly white refection pale as linen.

  Something heavy lay on his chest. Fearful he glanced down; a tiny star glinted in the moonlight. A chrome spur on the end of a Cuban heeled boot came into focus. It took all his strength to heave the biker off. A stabbing pain shot through his arm.

  Rising slowly he stood over the man lying sprawled out on the sand. He bent to pick up the heavily bloodied flashlight, turned it on and scanned the huge corpse. His head was splattered in blood. Closer inspection revealed a mutilated, partially burned-off face missing the left eye, blood leached from its empty socket. The cheek flesh flapped, like a charred piece of liver. His mouth was twice as wide as it should be, exposing upper jawbone and a skeletal set of molars. Blood trailed down his neck leaving an indelible stain on the sand as it filtered through the grains.

  Blake shone the torch on the man’s hand; it was clasped tightly around a piece of mangled metal. The back end of the gun had exploded, burning a hole into his wrist. The bullet obliterated his face on its deadly trajectory into his brain. He’d seen something similar in a cop drama, where a re-bored gun backfired.

  Blake entwined his fingers and looked skyward. A bizarre twist of fate had dragged him from the clutches of death.

  Dropping to his knees, he leaned in and checked the biker’s jugular vein for a pulse, but struggled to find it through the river of blood trailing down his neck. No beat. He was dead as the driftwood that lay by his side.

  What a nightmare; he’d only been in US for twenty-four hours and was embroiled in an illegal artefact’s deal. Now, even worse, he was the victim of a robbery, which ended up in the death of the assailant. Calling the police would lead to detainment and probing questions. Ultimately he needed to get back to Isabel as quick as possible.

  Frantically he rummaged through the biker’s jacket. Patting him down, he realised the money wasn’t there. Shitting hell! He must have left it in the car in a panic. Blake stood silent, listening for a sign that someone might have heard the gunshot. Nothing audible except the constant sound of waves crashing against the shoreline.

  Left with no option, he dragged his aching body through the dark, across the deserted beach, back towards the rust bucket. The vehicle was embedded into a tree, bonnet poking up like a half opened can. Its windscreen was shattered, leaving shards of glass over the seats.

  Blake’s ey
es adjusted to the dark; he could see the passenger door was still intact. Placing the torch on the ground, he pulled his sleeve over his hand and yanked it open. Retrieving the torch, he climbed in and scanned the dated coffee-coloured interior of the vehicle. It reeked of putrid cigarette smoke.

  Where the bloody hell was the money, he wondered, trying the glove box but the impact must have jammed the lock.

  He climbed back out, grabbed the top of the doorsill and launched the sole of his shoe into the glove box lid. It dropped open like a drawbridge, revealing the brown package sat beside some photo ID and what looked like a bag of weed. He grabbed the envelope in his left-hand and took a peek at the ID. James Darryl Carney, aged forty-three, Miami Florida. Judging by the date on the driving licence, it had expired two years earlier… hardly surprising. He tossed it back in the glove box and carefully closed the door.

  Wading through the grass, amongst partially moonlit trees, back towards his rental, he glanced down at his jacket and hands; they were smeared in Carney’s blood. If the cops pulled him, they’d throw the book at him. Besides, returning a rental car with a bloodied steering wheel would arouse suspicion.

  With the cash tucked in his pocket, Blake anxiously made his way back across the beach to the ocean. The salty Pacific air flooded his senses, but somehow felt different, becoming eerily peaceful and calm. From seemingly nowhere the heavens opened unleashing a torrent of rain. He guarded the money under his shirt, but the envelope was getting damp. Through blurred vision he ran, stumbling in the heavy sand; rain sodden hair dripped into his eyes.

  At the water’s edge he scanned the beach before tearing off his clothes and stuffing the envelope under them to keep it dry. A deafening thunder boom echoed across the sky, exploding his head. Bolts of lightning splintered through the inky blackness. Highly charged forks of white heat ripped through the previously calm horizon illuminating the desolate beach for a split-second through the rain.

  Apart from Carney’s corpse, the vast Pacific and judgement from above, he was alone in this horrific predicament.

  Kneeling in just his boxers, in a few inches of freezing sea water he spread his fingers wide and thrashed them around. Then with cupped hands he threw copious amounts over his face and chest, baptising away the blood. The lashing rain gave his body a second cleansing.

  After an extremely paranoid thirty-five-minute journey back to his motel in damp clothes, Blake parked the rental in front of his ground floor room around three a.m. He’d offloaded the bloodstained jacket into a large dumpster at the back of a restaurant in downtown Miami. Unbelievably his shirt and trousers came out of the near-death experience wet but relatively unscathed, apart from back spatter drops of blood.

  Momentarily sheltering from the rain under the small veranda spanning the ground floor, Blake slipped the key into the door of room fifteen and entered. Immediately he reached for the bottle of duty free Jack Daniels he bought on the plane.

  He poured a three-finger slug into a tumbler on the dresser, then slammed it straight down without hesitation and refilled. The dark-amber liquid warmed his throat and the larger repeat dose took the edge off his shattered nerves.

  Gazing around the room he contemplated calling John Murphy for advice, but, however much he needed support, his first call would be to the hospital to check on his daughter.

  The night nurses’ reassurance Isabel had eaten a hearty meal of chicken and potatoes and was soundly sleeping comforted him. However desperate he wanted to visit, it was out of the question at three-thirty a.m., battered and already half pissed.

  CHAPTER 106

  Blake woke the following day sprawled out on top of the floral-patterned duvet of the king-size bed, his head pounding. The searing Florida sun streamed through a gap in the curtains. He flung an arm over to the bedside cabinet to check the time. Bollocks! His mobile battery had died in the night. Thankfully, his trusty Rotary never missed a second.

  Ambling over to the bathroom like a pensioner pushing a Zimmer frame, he grabbed the titanium timepiece off the Formica sink top. Shit, it was 8.30 a.m. already. A quick glance in the mirror over the sink showed a reddish swelling under his left eye, which, combined with his ghoulish white complexion, gave him the appearance of a phantom.

  Leaving the bathroom, he stubbed his toe on something hard. ‘Bastard!’ Rubbing it in agony, he saw the half-empty bottle of JD he’d kicked across the carpet. The bourbon must’ve knocked his lights out.

  Plugging his mobile into the charger, he called the hospital and arranged a 9.30 a.m. meeting to discuss Isabel’s treatment program.

  With under an hour to spare, he downed two Ibuprofen with half a bottle of mineral water then jumped into the shower. Its flow was weak, and the cheap curtain, with ‘Welcome to Miami Dolphins’ logos, did little to prevent overspray. He didn’t care; the hot water eased his aching neck and back; besides there were far more important things to worry about.

  He lifted clean clothes from his case, slipped on a polo shirt, jeans and brogues and headed across to reception in search of breakfast.

  Blake entered the reception and found a man in his mid-fifties arched over a large wooden display stand, fastidiously tidying a plethora of tourist-attraction leaflets. His garish Hawaiian shirt was even more vibrant than his ginger comb-over. Sensing Blake’s presence, he greeted him in accented Floridian. ‘Mornin’.’

  ‘Morning. Just wondering where I can order breakfast?’

  ‘If you follow me, Mr…?’

  ‘Blake.’

  ‘Mr Blake, I’ll take you through to our dining facilities. I’m Jeffrey Osgood, the hotel manager,’ he said, leading the way out of the reception. After ambling ten yards, he fished keys out of his pocket and opened a door to the self-serve dining room overlooking the empty lot.

  With the worrying events of the previous evening heavy on his mind Blake scoffed a bacon bagel he’d warmed in the microwave, and made his way out to the parking lot towards the rental, thinking things couldn’t get any worse, when a large dent in the front bumper glared right at him in the morning sun. Letting out a deep sigh, he rubbed his temples recalling ramming the rust bucket off the road, although that could be easily explained to Auto Rental. He’d feed them bullshit about some jerk banging into him; after all bumpers were there to protect the bodywork. But that was before he noticed a deep scratch running full length of the driver’s side sill.

  CHAPTER 107

  Blake eased the rental into a bay by the reception, trying his level best not to cause any more damage to the already battered midnight-blue Chevrolet.

  On the drive down he’d been mulling over the delicate payment situation. He’d already sent the initial £50,000 deposit via BACS. But there was no way he could bowl in and slap forty-five grand down on the counter. With this in mind, the second instalment was paid on three credit cards, taken out specifically. He’d drip-feed those with the cash over the next month.

  Thankfully, unlike the NHS, there was no queuing and a twenty-four-hour dedicated care nurse was assigned to Isabel. Sophie McCarthy stood chatting to the receptionist as Blake entered the plush reception.

  The petite south-east Asian receptionist he’d spoke to yesterday addressed him. ‘Good morning, sir, how may I help you?’

  ‘My daughter is a patient here – Isabel Blake, she was admitted yesterday for proton therapy?’

  ‘Nurse McCarthy will take care of you,’ she said, gesturing toward her colleague.

  The attractive brunette smiled, revealing a glimpse of her immaculate pearl-white teeth. ‘Mr Blake, I’m Sophie McCarthy, your daughter’s dedicated nurse. If you’d like to come this way, I’ll take you through to see her.’

  He accompanied her down a series of clinical corridors lined with framed photographs of America’s finest scenery until they entered into another small reception area facing a series of glass panelled doors, leading to the patients’ rooms.

  Isabel was in C6, a luxury suite with matching high-end mahogany furniture,
and floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors overlooking the Pacific.

  Overcome with emotion, Isabel’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Dad!’

  ‘I’ll give you a few minutes alone,’ McCarthy said, before closing the door behind her.

  Blake sat on the bed and flung his arms around his daughter, fighting back tears, which eventually got the better of him. Dragging his sleeve across his face, he looked vulnerable. ‘I really missed you yesterday, princess; how are they treating you?’

  ‘This place is like a hotel. I’ve got my own bathroom and a fridge full of fruit, drinks and healthy snacks. What’s happened to your eye?’

  ‘Oh, that. I slipped on the motel bathroom floor and banged it on the sink.’

  ‘There’s ice in the fridge dad, get some on it?’

  ‘I’ll be ok.’

  ‘Where were you? I was so worried?’

  ‘I had to organise your funding, Izzy. It took longer than I thought. I called the hospital last night, but you were asleep. Anyway, I’m here now and we can spend all day together. When does your first treatment start?’

  ‘The doctors want to speak to you about that?’

  ‘Is everything OK? How did the scan go?’

  ‘I had a panic attack; they had to give me something to calm my nerves. That’s the second MRI in two weeks. Bloody horrible things.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, I should have been here,’ he said, feeling guilty.

  She pointed to a two-seater perched in the corner. ‘That sofa pulls out into a bed, Dad; you can stay tonight. We could have tea together and watch DVDs later?’

  ‘At almost a hundred grand for ten days, I should bloody think so,’ he joked. ‘Your laptop and DVDs are in the car. I’ll bring them in later, but let’s get you sorted out first. I’m just going to have a word with the nurse. Back in a min.’