Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  “Celek?” I asked.

  “Not him personally,” she replied. “I don’t suppose he introduced you to his friend Otis Dawson and his crew?”

  I could feel my brows pull together as I tried to place the name. In my entire life the only Otis I could ever remember meeting was an English bulldog, though I’d known plenty of Dawsons.

  It was a fairly common name.

  Drawing nothing to mind, I shifted my attention to Rae, a quick twist of the head letting me know the moniker meant nothing to her either.

  “Was he the one driving that black SUV last night?” I asked.

  Another sniffle could be heard over the line. “That, or he was the one that found our van and filled it with bullets.”

  I could tell from the anguish placed on the last few words that Skye’s friends – whoever they were – had been inside the van. Not only had she been forced to see what happened, or at the very least find them, she was also fighting a losing battle against enormous guilt.

  For an instant, I almost wished I could tell her it wasn’t her fault or that the sense of responsibility and resulting self-loathing would pass.

  Just as fast I dismissed it. The last thing in the world she needed right now was somebody lying to her.

  The number of questions I had for this girl was almost overwhelming, my mind trying to shift from what she’d just told me into determining how to best leverage the situation. Despite the fact that it made me feel like an enormous asshole for even considering such thoughts, the simple truth was, right now she was rattled. Never would I have a better chance to get to her and extract what we needed.

  Everything else could wait until then.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  Across from me, I saw just the tiniest flicker behind Rae’s eyes, the closest she would ever get to being outright surprised.

  There was another pause on the other end, a moment of uncertainty that was almost palpable over the line.

  “Skye, where are you?” I asked. “I don’t know what happened there last night, but I can say you were damn lucky to escape. That won’t happen again, not on your own like this, not against people like Celek and Dawson.”

  I had no way of knowing who Dawson was, but it bore to reason that he’d been brought on by Jacoby and Celek for a reason, that most likely being that he got stuff done.

  “Missouri,” she finally admitted. “Not far from Hannibal.”

  “Can you get to St. Louis?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rule one was, nobody ever came to see Bret Celek. Either he went to them, or more preferably, they found a patch of neutral turf and met there.

  Always.

  Being far from his home base meant that he was flying somewhat blind. He’d had very little time to scout out Chicago and the surrounding area, the decision to meet in Millennium Park with Laredo Wynn one based on the fact that it got such an exorbitant amount of foot traffic.

  Nobody, not even someone with the background and known propensities of the former soldier, would be crazy enough to try something in plain sight of thousands of tourists.

  The meeting with Dawson was a little tougher to coordinate. For one, Dawson and his men were well outside the downtown Chicago area. Having no desire to invite them in, or even tip his hand about being holed up at the Hard Rock, Celek offered to come to them.

  Compounding the issue was the amount of gear they had confiscated and the transfer that had to take place.

  Nothing paints a red flag on a clandestine meeting like a bunch of guys lugging computers and various equipment from the back of one SUV into another.

  When Dawson first called to meet, Celek told him he would circle back in twenty minutes. The excuse he’d given was some malarkey about needing to check in with Jacoby, something he knew Dawson didn’t believe for a moment but to his credit didn’t comment on.

  Every last second of that time was spent scouring the outer suburbs for a proper place to come together, the clock ticking down to the very wire before Celek found what he was looking for nestled into the southwest neighborhood of Burr Ridge.

  From there it was simply a matter of relaying directions, the rendezvous set for two hours later, the first quarter of which would allow him to get in place, the remainder to be spent doing recon on the area, watching and waiting for his counterparts to arrive.

  The arrangement with Dawson was one that had roots going back more than a handful of years. During that time both sides had behaved themselves, never once blurring the line between friend and enemy.

  As with most things in life, so long as services were provided and monies rendered, neither had any reason for animosity.

  Despite that, a lifetime of dealing with men like Dawson had instilled a healthy wariness into Celek that was difficult to shake. Clearly anybody that willingly did what he did for a living possessed morals that were slightly askew. Adding in the fact that he surrounded himself with a bevy of like-minded individuals only intensified matters.

  The Greater Chicagoland Flea Market advertised itself as the largest purveyor of foods, crafts, and goods in the area. Boasting more than two hundred and fifty vendors on a typical Saturday, Celek guessed the mid-week crowd to be closer to half that.

  Set up on the back end of an aging fairgrounds facility, an expanse of booths and food stands covered an area larger than a football field, an equal space set aside nearby for parking. Moving throughout all of it was a steady flow of foot traffic, the ground beneath them having long since been beaten into hard packed earth.

  Pulling into the corner of the lot, Celek felt a small smile form as he surveyed the place. Far better than any campus or mall parking lot would ever be, it provided them with exactly what they needed, enabling them to hide in plain sight.

  Settling in under the wheel, he reclined his seat with the intention of a ninety minute wait, hiding behind tinted windows and watching every person that passed by.

  To his surprise, it was closer to ten minutes before Dawson and his team arrived in two SUV’s, the oversized automobiles parking on either side of Celek’s rented BMW, pinching him in.

  If it was an attempt to call a bluff, it more than worked.

  Feeling his pulse rise just slightly, Celek considered bringing along the Kimber Ultra Carry in the glove compartment before thinking better of it and climbing out. Raising his hands to either side in a faux jovial greeting, he plastered a smile across his features.

  To either side of him a pair of men exited the SUV’s, all four drifting in toward Celek.

  “Looks like it didn’t take you guys long to get here, either,” he said in opening, glancing to both sides, knowing how dire things could get for him if they had a mind to.

  If not for the fact that he really needed what they were carrying, there was no way he would be anywhere near the place. For a moment he almost wished he’d gone with a shopping mall, trading in a little less discretion for a lot more witnesses.

  Despite having only met the man in person once, it wasn’t hard to pick Otis Dawson from the crowd. At least a dozen years older than his employees, his head was shaved clean, his mouth encased in a salt-and-paper goatee. Wearing black cargo pants and a spandex t-shirt, a litany of dark tattoos could be seen snaking down his right arm.

  Practically the walking poster child for a Special Forces soldier, even if he was five years removed.

  “I guess so,” Dawson said, walking around to the front of his SUV and extending a hand.

  Celek met him there and returned the shake, noticing the grip was more firm than necessary, a clear point being made.

  “Hey, Boss, where you want the stuff?” one of his men asked, pulling the attention of Celek and Dawson both toward the rear of the SUV Dawson had climbed from.

  Cocking an eyebrow in question, Dawson shifted his gaze to Celek, remaining silent.

  Sensing that he was being deferred to, Celek reached into his pocket and pressed the bottom button on the key fob he’d been given at the ren
tal counter, holding it down until the trunk hatch popped open.

  “Squeeze whatever you can in there, the rest goes on the back seat.”

  Without a word the men began transferring things over, all of it appearing to be high-end electronics.

  “Any problems this morning?” Celek asked.

  “None,” Dawson said. “That location you gave us made it almost too easy.”

  Nodding slightly, Celek shoved his hands down into the front pockets of his slacks. Every part of him wanted to turn back and check the progress of the loading going on behind him, almost willing them to hurry along, though he managed to refrain.

  “Yeah,” he said, “once we figured somebody must have called Wynn to warn him, wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. You can imagine how many calls went into that shit hole around that time last night.”

  Smirking slightly, Dawson said, “Shit hole doesn’t begin to describe whatever the hell that place was.”

  Behind them Celek could hear things being dumped into the trunk of his car, listened as the trunk was slammed shut and the rear doors wrenched open.

  “So, she’s gone?” Celek asked.

  “Yep,” Dawson replied. “The boy, too.”

  “Nice,” Celek said, feeling the previous bit of dread within him start to pull back.

  Meeting with Dawson out in the open like this wasn’t ideal, but putting this entire situation behind them made it more than worth the risk. As soon as they were done he would take the hardware to someone that could do a deep dive into all of it, making sure that everything they needed was accounted for.

  “The bodies?”

  “Right where we found them,” Dawson said. “Van still parked in the middle of nowhere, not a shred of evidence on the scene. Ought to have the cops scratching their watch and winding their ass for months over that one.”

  It wasn’t the first time Dawson had made light of such actions, Celek now well past commenting on it.

  “Anything more from Texas?”

  “Not yet,” Dawson replied. “The house is toast, my guys are waiting for sign of the girl. My guess is she’s on her way to Wynn.”

  “Most likely,” Celek agreed.

  “And you know where he is?” Dawson asked.

  To either side of them, the men finished loading the supplies and climbed back into their respective rides. Nobody said a word as they did so, the sound of their doors shutting carrying a clear finality with it.

  “Oddly enough, looks like he’s headed back this way.”

  At that, Dawson turned on a heel and began moving back for the driver’s seat.

  “Send me the coordinates.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After the previous day we’d each been through, Rae and I would have both preferred to ride together. Not so much for the conversation – of that there would have been precious little – but for the presence we provided as a unit.

  Taken as individuals, we were both capable looking people. Neither one of us was especially large, didn’t spend an absurd amount of time in the gym gaining muscle definition that could only be obtained through very specific, non-functional movements.

  Combined, though, there wasn’t more than a couple pounds of body fat to go around, total. We were both cut of veins and striations and sinew, a healthy swath of scars strewn across them for good measure.

  I’d heard it said before that a soldier wears the uniform even long after they take it off, and the two of us are walking proof of that. Never once have we had anybody utter so much as a cross word, our unspoken response right out in the open, almost daring someone to be so foolish.

  If my theories were correct about Dawson, he wouldn’t be phased by either one of us, nor would his men. Most likely they all had a similar background, recognizing the commonality between us without backing down from it.

  Men like Celek and Jacoby and whoever else we might encounter, though, would. They had served, but in a different time and in a far different capacity from people like Rae and I. Never did they get down in the mud with grunts, then as much as now.

  The two of us rolling up together, especially with the AR-15 Rae had brought, might not be enough to stem any form of altercation, but it would quell a great many things coming right out of the gate.

  At the same time, doing so would mean leaving one of our vehicles parked in Wichita. Seeing as it was the first time either of us had ever been to the city, and neither had any inclination or reason to ever go back, that didn’t seem especially wise.

  More importantly, it meant the two of us would be showing up together, putting us in the same place at all times. Down to one vehicle, our ability to flank an opponent or perform recon of any kind would be greatly diminished, something neither one of us was willing to concede.

  Not even for a few less lonely hours on the road.

  The trip from Wichita to St. Louis was right at four hours, the city sitting exactly halfway between where we were and Chicago, should we end up heading back that direction. Another anonymous Midwestern city that neither of us had ever spent any time in, my total knowledge about the place consisted of the Arch, the Cardinals, and Nelly.

  The last one was courtesy of a guy I had served with, having not heard a single song by the man since being discharged.

  After getting a total of forty-five minutes sleep the night before, which was almost a full hour more than Rae, neither of us had even the slightest desire to spend another four hours on the road. Before leaving Wichita we made a single pit stop to fill both gas tanks and to grab the largest coffees the station sold, each of us going to our respective rides and taking off without so much as a word.

  By the time we arrived some hours later the only lingering effect the drink had was leaving me with a full bladder, my eyelids started to feel heavy as the city came into view.

  Ten miles outside of town we found what we were looking for and pulled off, placing a single call to Skye to tell her where to meet us. After that it was simply a matter of sitting and waiting, an exercise in constantly checking our perimeter for an enemy we were reasonably certain had no chance at showing.

  Even at that, we were both ready should it occur, Rae with her pair of .45 ACP’s and me having swapped out my knife for her hawksbill blade, both of us carrying them in the back waistband of our jeans, an extra magazine slid into the front pocket of Rae’s jeans should she need it.

  Seeing as how there was just the two of us, and the location we had picked was wide open, anything more than that was just taking on extra weight.

  More than once over the years Rae and I had discussed the best locations for various events, whether they be a clandestine meeting, a Mexican standoff, or full-on siege warfare. How or why those conversation came up I had long ago stopped trying to ascertain, figuring that every couple had random things they liked to discuss.

  Neither one of us watched much TV, so that was what we were left with.

  Over the course of those talks we had both agreed that for something similar to this, a stadium would be the optimal venue. Wide open, it provided clear sightlines for hundreds of yards around, ensured both sides were on fairly even footing.

  In this instance, neither one of us thought Skye Grant herself was a threat, though there was no way of knowing if she was working alone, or had even been captured and forced into doing Celek’s bidding. As such, we needed to ensure we were best situated for whatever may arise, one of us taking either side of the field and moving in equal sweeps, making sure only one was ever exposed at any given moment.

  Working my way through the supporting undercarriage of the visitor’s side bleachers, I was the first one to spot Skye. Approaching from the north, she was driving a rusted out Mazda, the exterior light tan with a thick stripe of mud brown painted down the side.

  The last time I had seen anything even close to it was at some point in the early ‘90s, meaning it was probably stolen, or picked up on the extreme cheap.

  Sliding my phone from the butt pocket
of my jeans, I called Rae, neither of us saying a word as it connected, the move in an instant letting her know that I had a visual and was setting up an open line of communication for her to listen in.

  The plan was for me to begin the conversation with the girl alone, and if after a few minutes we were certain she hadn’t been followed, wasn’t working with anybody, Rae would join us.

  We both knew that meant she would actually continue working the perimeter as usual, I somehow landing the position of the talkative one in the pairing.

  Drifting back through the weave of crisscrossed supports under the bleachers, I faded from sight of the parking lot and made my way up into the middle of the seats. The aluminum pinged slightly with each step as I avoided the stairs and walked in a diagonal across the rows, eventually settling into a spot at midfield.

  Six minutes later, I spotted Skye Grant in person for the first time.

  She emerged from the east end of the bleachers, taking the long way around from the parking lot and coming up near the closed end of the stadium. With her head aimed down at the ground before her, she made no effort to check her surroundings, didn’t seem to be concerned with much at all in fact, as she walked in a straight line before turning up the nearest staircase and coming my way.

  As she grew closer, it was clear that she was just a shell of the young woman she had been in the pictures Celek provided. Gone was the well-coiffed girl with an extreme level of self-awareness, seemingly cognizant of both her appearance and the area around her at all times.

  In her place was someone that looked every bit the part of a twenty-five year old child. Hair mussed, her eyes appeared to be puffy, her cheeks swollen, both indicating she had been crying recently. Wearing sneakers, yoga pants, and a hoodie that swallowed most of her body, there was no sound as she walked up the stairs, stopping just a few rows short and looking up at me for the first time.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I replied. “Laredo Wynn.”

  “I know,” she said, nodding slightly. “I saw you on the webcam at the library.”