by Rick Reed
A key rattled and the bolt turned. Soft-soled shoes, more than one set, quietly moved into the condo’s foyer.
He risked a quick glance toward the living room and saw two black silhouettes. One tall and one short with a faint green glow floating around the heads. Night vision.
He reached around the doorway and flipped a wall switch. The townhouse was immediately illuminated.
He watched gloved hands scrabbling for the night vision goggles, the bright light causing a searing pain and effectively blinding the wearers. Before they could pull the goggles off, he shot the closest one in the neck and chest. He swung the pistol toward the shorter of the two and shot him in the mouth. Both targets were down.
He calmly examined the bodies.
Cleaners. And not very good ones. He was insulted.
The shorter one seemed familiar. He knelt beside the body and pulled the goggles up and for a moment felt something he hadn’t felt since he was a child. Embarrassment. Shock. Disbelief.
The face he was looking at had been ruined, but there was no doubt it was Pamela.
He looked out the window for signs of a backup team and there were none or at least they weren’t aware of what was happening. These two should have reported in to their team, and so he only had minutes to leave.
He picked up his briefcase from beside the sofa and went to the massive wooden entertainment center where he lifted the plasma television out and tossed it to the side. In the back of the cabinet was a panel to a secret compartment where he had installed a wall safe before Pamela moved in. He worked the combination and opened the inch-thick steel door revealing a silenced pistol, several passports, other identification, and stacks of twenty and hundred dollar bills.
He took the silenced pistol and money. He considered leaving the Identification kits and passports. If Pamela worked for the Agency, she would have found his hidey-hole and may have reported his alias’s to the Agency, as he would have done. Perhaps she had recorded the serial numbers on the money, but he would chance it until he was well on his way. The last item he removed from the safe was a small canister that resembled a can of shaving cream except for the metal cotter pin on the top. The incendiary device could be detonated remotely and would create the diversion he needed.
He stood over Pamela and looked down. He knew why he had liked her better than the others. She was like him.
“You broke my heart, Pamela. Let me return the favor.” He fired several more shots into her body and left.
The backup team that Pamela brought was sadly disappointing. Had she thought it would be that easy to kill him? He spotted a man by the elevator as he stepped into the hallway and shot him in the throat. As that one lay gagging on his own blood, another opened the stairwell door and was dispatched with a double tap to the face. He shot them both once more in the head before stepping over the bodies and descending the stairs. As he stepped out the service door, he keyed in a sequence of numbers on his cell phone, hit the Send button, and heard a small explosion. There would be nothing left of his presence in the condo, and the fire may even burn the building down.
He walked into the street where an obviously intoxicated man and woman were getting into a DC cab. He walked to the cab’s open door and shot the couple multiple times and then shot the barely aware cabbie through the back of the seat.
He pulled the driver’s body onto the street and drove away.
CHAPTER TWO
Three weeks later, far west side of Evansville, Indiana
1800s military strategist, Helmuth von Moltke, once said, “No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy.”
That statement was apropos of the position Detective’s Jack Murphy and Liddell Blanchard were facing. Four robbers armed to the teeth with fully automatic weapons and hand grenades against Jack and Liddell, who were armed with p-shooters compared to the other side of the equation. They weren’t supposed to be taking on the team of bank robbers alone. The detective’s job was to direct the takedown from a safe distance while a heavily armed SWAT Team converged on these assholes like ducks on June bugs. But Jack Murphy’s Law says, “Anything that can go wrong will, and always at the most inconvenient time.”
Jack rode shotgun as Liddell turned off Red Bank Road, whipping the Crown Vic into the lot of Citizens Bank. Three figures in ski masks, black tactical vests and clothing ran toward a waiting car. One robber was as big as Liddell and Liddell was as big as a full-grown Yeti. It was hard to tell the build of the other two because of the bulky weapons vests, but they seemed slighter and were moving slower than the big guy. The robbers made it to their car and looked up, hearing the Crown Vic’s engine screaming, coming at them fast.
They were carrying black duffel bags that looked heavy and what looked like MAC 10’s or UZI’s. The robbers reached their car and began spraying bullets at the car bearing down on them.
“Tighten your seatbelt,” Liddell said, and they leaned down, trying desperately to get below the dashboard as the windshield imploded and the air was filled with buzzing lead and glass projectiles.
Liddell stomped the gas pedal to the floor. They hit hard and were slammed forward. The impact deployed the Crown Vic’s airbags choking them with a cloud of white powder.
“You okay?” Jack asked when the worst was over and Liddell nodded. “You are one crazy mother. Next time I drive.”
Coughing, they kicked the doors open and bailed out with guns in hands.
The getaway car had rolled onto its passenger side. Jack ran to the front of the suspects’ car and saw one of the robbers about thirty yards away, carrying his weapon and a money bag and limping toward an alley. The other two suspects were down and weren’t moving. One had his legs pinned beneath the cars’ body.
Liddell peeked inside the getaway car. It was an older model GTO, with no safety devices to protect the driver whom was slumped, ass over head, the side of his face covered in blood. “I got these,” Liddell called to Jack. “I’ll call an ambulance. Go.”
Jack heard sirens coming closer. He ran past the two downed robbers, pausing only long enough to kick their weapons out of reach, and then sprinted after the one that was running.
Reaching the mouth of the alley where he had last seen the robber, he pushed himself close to the brick wall and risked a quick peek around the corner. Something was rolling towards him.
Jack fell to the concrete, protecting his head with his arms. A split second later a massive explosion rocked the ground.
“Oh, no, you didn’t!” he said through gritted teeth, his voice sounding muted and coming from far away. Without thinking he was up on his feet and running into the alley.
The robber was getting to his feet from behind a dumpster, saw Jack, and turned towards him. Jack’s .45 was at shoulder level and pointing at the robber’s head from less than fifteen feet away. He could see the eyes behind the ski mask wide with indecision, and then turn to steely determination. He was going to try it.
Jack’s finger tightened on the trigger, and then the dye-pack in the money bag exploded, enveloping the robber in an expanding cloud of red smoke and tear gas.
The tear gas’s effect on the robber was immediate. The moneybag fell to the ground and the robber began rubbing at his eyes and coughing, gun still in hand.
Jack moved forward, gun out front at shoulder level, yelling, “Drop the gun, asshole! I said drop the gun!”
The robber shook his head, but Jack could see their eyes were red and swollen almost closed.
“Drop the gun!” he growled and pointed his .45 at the robbers’ head. He saw the head turn slightly to one side, eyes slitting, trying to focus, grip tightening on the gun. Jack shot him, lowering the .45 at the last moment, the bullet striking center mass like a sledgehammer. The robber fell straight down but stubbornly held onto the gun.
Jack crossed the distance before he could recover, stomped the robbers’ wrist and kicked the gun away. The man was gulping for air, like a politician caught in a lie. Jack rolled him over and handcuffed
him. He patted him down, and then rolled him onto his back.
“You’re alive,” he said to the still gasping man. “The wind was knocked out of you. Calm down and it’ll come back.”
Jack knelt and pulled the mask over his head.
“What the . . . ?”
“You shot me,” the girl said.
Photo by George Routt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SERGEANT RICK REED (ret.), author of the Jack Murphy thriller series, is a twenty-plus-year veteran police detective. During his career he successfully investigated numerous high-profile criminal cases, including a serial killer who claimed thirteen victims before strangling and dismembering his fourteenth and last victim. He recounted that story in his acclaimed true-crime book, Blood Trail.
Rick spent his last three years on the force as the commander of the police department’s Internal Affairs Section. He has two master’s degrees, and upon retiring from the police force, took a full-time teaching position with a community college. He currently teaches criminal justice at Volunteer State Community College in Tennessee and writes thrillers. He lives near Nashville with his wife and two furry friends, Lexie and Belle.
Please visit him on Facebook, Goodreads, or at his website, www.rickreedbooks.com. If you’d like him to speak online for your event, contact him by going to bookclubreading.com.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013, 2016 Rick Reed
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
An earlier version of this book was published by Suspense Publishing under the title Final Justice.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LYRICAL PRESS is Reg. U.S. Pat, & TM Office.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND and the Lyrical Underground logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Lyrical Underground edition: April 2016
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3638-0
First trade paperback edition: April 2016
ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-639-7
ISBN-10: 1-60183-639-2