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

by Dustin Stevens

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  I knew Rae hated the plan. Even without saying as much, the signs were undeniable, her letting me know that she would almost rather wipe the slate clean and walk away, regrouping to fight once she was recuperated and we had something resembling a decent strategy in place.

  Of course, we both also knew that this had to end tonight.

  Not so much as some form of misguided closure, meant to coincide with Jacoby’s event the way Skye wanted.

  More so it needed to end so that we could move on. We both knew that men like Jacoby and Celek, Dawson and his crew, were not the kind to just walk away. Never would they allow people like us or Skye, folks that had incriminating information on them or even that they just felt had gotten the better of them, to be left alone.

  And just as certainly, we also knew that we damned sure weren’t going to spend the foreseeable future on the run, looking over our shoulder or twitching at every stray sound we heard.

  That’s no way to live, and it’s damn sure not how we do things.

  It was that simple realization that had made pulling the trigger a few moments before so easy.

  In the army, life is conducted in shades of gray that run the full spectrum from virgin white to midnight black. There were plenty of both for sure, and everything in between, but there was generally always enough of either end to make identifying a spectrum fairly easy.

  There was always a right and wrong, a credible way to justify why we were there and what we were doing.

  One day that color palate had shifted for me, pushing everything into a state of charcoal gray. No longer was there anything to differentiate, a plausible justification being the only thing that seemed to matter.

  At that point I had walked away, swearing off guns and violence and anything that might make me feel that way again.

  That’s why this was so easy. Just like with the early days, there was no ambiguity here. Right and wrong were both clearly presented, just as certain as the things I had to do to ensure them.

  Rae might not have liked the plan, but I knew for certain she would not forsake me. There would be no going off script, no attempts on her part to play the hero.

  Hunkered low behind the base of the maple trees, I knew the moment she sprang into action, the steady flow of bullets piercing the woods around me growing a bit thinner. A hint of a smile tugged at my face as a moment later the hail of bullets slowed again, a second target having tasted her metal.

  In total, the time I spent huddled in a tight ball at the base of the tree was less than a minute. Most of that was spent with my hands covering my head to protect it from falling debris, Dawson and his men seemingly intent I was hiding high somewhere in a tree, their aim reducing the branches above to little more than barren twigs.

  Why they would think I was perched high off the ground, giving myself absolutely no chance at escape, was beyond me. For the first time I started to consider that perhaps I had given Dawson too much credit or that he hadn’t given me enough, the outcome the same in either scenario.

  A small flicker of confidence pushed through my system, mixing with the adrenaline already in my bloodstream. Combined, the two formed the most potent stimulant on the planet, my pupils dilating as excitement passed through me.

  This might even be fun.

  Just as fast as the shooting had started it died away, Rae having done her job, pulling their attention away from me. Counting off just a split second behind the base of the tree, I waited for the sound of feet tearing across gravel before spinning out, Clarice extended before me.

  Tucked away between the trees there was no way anybody could have seen me, nobody around to do so even if they could. From where I was kneeling I couldn’t see anything on the far side of the Taurus, noticing only a single figure as he sprinted over the last short stretch of open gravel before hurtling into the cover of the trees.

  In his wake a single spike of gravel rose in a miniature geyser, Rae ripping off a final last attempt before the man disappeared, being rewarded with a rare miss for her efforts.

  Swinging my gaze back to the Taurus, I could see the two men I had shot, plus the bottom half of one more on the far end. I had no idea how many lay beyond my sightline, but knew that Rae would have gotten at least two on her initial pass.

  That left at most two, each most likely tearing off in opposite directions.

  The fact that Rae had chosen to go after the one to the left told me she considered him the bigger target.

  That alone was everything I needed to know.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  From here on out I knew Rae would be mindful before pulling the trigger to avoid accidentally shooting me.

  I also knew that if anybody else in Dawson’s crew happened to be watching, they wouldn’t be nearly so cautious with their bullets.

  Pushing myself to a standing position, I remained tucked away in the trees on the opposite side of the road. Rising to full height, I gripped Clarice tight in my right hand and sprinted parallel with the road, not bothering to avoid any leaves or tree branches along the way.

  After the scene a moment before around the gravel bar, they already knew I was out there. No point in slow playing it, allowing my prey to get into position while I was busy tiptoeing through the trees.

  Just like when first returning from stashing the van, I ran in a straight line until the road started to curve back into me, keeping a path directly ahead. In no more than a half dozen long bounds I was out of the trees and across the pavement, plunging back into the forest on the opposite side just seconds after exposing myself.

  Sweat spread across my chest and shoulder blades, plastering my shirt to my skin, as my breathing grew shallow, pulled in and out through my nose in quick bursts. With my head cocked to the side, listening for the sounds of anything behind me, I continued to move forward.

  The man that had disappeared into the trees had less than a half minute head start on me. Judging by what I had seen earlier, he was also dressed in all black, though his advantages ended there. Wearing heavy gear and carrying a large weapon, he would be prone to tire quicker, would be a bit slower than me.

  Again I felt confidence surge within, knowing that was all the help I would need.

  Slowing my pace to a jog, I cupped the base of my gun with both hands, finger inside the trigger guard, arms extended at an angle before me. Rising onto the balls of my feet, I moved diagonally away from the road, hoping my target would make a mistake.

  Thirty seconds after I entered the woods, he did.

  The sound was low but distinctive, like something from a heavy utility belt being caught on a limb, snapping it away clean. Given the solitude of the woods, it was a distinctive sound, finding its way to me, drawing my attention toward it in an instant.

  Again I felt the sense of confidence surge through me, my pace picking up, pulling me forward.

  There was no second sound, no grunt or curse of anger at what had happened, but there didn’t need to be.

  All that was required was a single dark shape passing over the path before me, the straight line of a weapon extended out before it being too clean to exist in nature.

  Without pause, without even slowing my pace, I raised Clarice and pulled back on the trigger, squeezing it four times in order.

  By the time I was done my night vision was gone, the muzzle flashes erupting like tiny flares behind my eyelids each time I blinked. The smell of smoke and gunpowder burned my nose as moisture collected in the corners of my eyes.

  My footfalls became heavier as I stumbled forward, half blind, managing to pull up just steps before tripping over the inert body lying in the middle of an old game trail.

  Positioned face down on the forest floor, I took no chances as I stopped a few feet back from him and aimed the gun at the base of his skull, squeezing off a fifth round.

  As best I could tell, that left just one man remaining.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The fact that Otis D
awson was still alive was a complete fluke. He’d just so happened to have been positioned at the tail end of the line when coming upon the scene, having chosen to take the rear, to cover their back as they approached.

  As such, he had been on the far side of the car when they arrived, had been clear of the initial shots as they came from the opposite side of the road.

  In a second bit of luck, he had also been positioned forward enough that when the shooting started from on high, the targets had been Minkus and Roush, both posted on the back end of the car.

  The situation was what he had originally expected, what the group had discussed on the ride in, though they had all fallen victim to the pair of bodies sitting upright in the front of the car. Despite their previous visit having been just thirty-six hours before, the fact that the van was gone had led him to believe that it had been found, that the bodies inside were now chilling somewhere in a morgue cooler awaiting identification.

  Not until it was too late was his mind able to compute things, realizing his mistake just seconds before the shooting started.

  Once it began, things played out much the way he had first envisioned they might. Wynn and Sommers, knowing they were outnumbered and probably working with a finite amount of firepower, would want to use misdirection. They would put one up high, trying to confuse his crew, allowing someone on the ground to begin picking them off.

  Given that Sommers was injured, that would put her as the shooter, with Wynn coming through on clean up.

  Never would Dawson have imagined it being the other way around, even his aim pointed toward the treetops after the first shots were fired his direction.

  One failing after another passed through Dawson’s mind as he worked his way through the forest, having discarded his assault rifle for a much smaller Beretta, the weapon easier to handle in the close confines of the woods. With it poised out ahead of his waist, he tried to force the various thoughts from his mind, finding it difficult to keep from cursing himself.

  Otis Dawson was a man that prided himself on these sorts of situations. He had cut his teeth in Sarajevo during the Clinton administration, had formed a reputation in the decade and a half after that he spent in uniform.

  Even since mustering out and moving into the private sector, his status, his entire sense of self-identity, was predicated on being the best in situations such as these.

  Now he was finding himself being outmaneuvered and outclassed by someone that had not only been out of the game even longer, but had spent that time working on a ranch in Texas.

  The thought brought a bitter taste to Dawson’s tongue, forcing his face into a crinkle as he jogged forward, his weight rolled up onto his toes, his gait just short of a prance as he moved in silence.

  When rounds first started coming in from high above the gravel bar, he had acted in pure self-preservation, turning and sprinting out in the shortest route possible. From there he had regrouped, sitting and watching for a full minute, seeing Laredo Wynn as he flashed across the open road a hundred yards away from him.

  With that in mind Dawson had set his own course in the same direction, careful to remain under cover of the forest, avoiding even the slightest openings that might allow Sommers to squeeze a round in on him.

  Breathing only through his nose to mitigate any sound at all, Dawson moved as quickly as possible, wanting so badly to shed the gear he was wearing, to be able to move freely without the weight of the Kevlar strapped over his chest.

  Unwilling to sacrifice the time it would take to do so or the sound the heavy Velcro straps would make in wrenching free, he kept moving, keeping his pace even, not once changing a thing until the sound of gunshots rang out.

  Close and clear, Dawson recognized them instantly as a handgun, something with more heft than a basic 9mm, but a far cry from some of the serious hand cannons he had seen in his day.

  In short order four quick shots rang out, the sounds practically a tracking beacon, pulling Dawson straight toward them.

  Lowering his pace to a walk, he bent at the knees, making himself into a smaller target, moving sideways with the Beretta ready in hand.

  The smell of cordite drifted to him through the trees, igniting his senses, letting him know that Wynn was close, that the culmination of a much tougher task than he had envisioned was finally within reach.

  Pulling to a stop, Dawson watched as a darkened mass moved through the trees ahead. It walked straight and true, never once slowing, before it came to a halt and fired a fifth round toward the ground.

  Without even knowing which of his men it was, Dawson felt a surge of animosity, of hostility, of ecstasy, bolt through his system.

  This was something he’d been waiting a long time for.

  Finally, it was here.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  “Drop it. Now.”

  The first thing that went through my head was a four letter word. In my haste to cut down the man I had seen enter the woods, I had not been careful enough to check for anybody else, blindly plunging ahead, jumping for the first thing that caught my eye.

  For all I knew, the branch snapping earlier was a setup, the man already injured, one of his teammates selling him out to get me to give away my position.

  And I had done so, without a moment’s pause, no questions asked.

  The kind of amateur move that would have gotten me killed within minutes in the service, or at the very least bounced out of Delta and onto my ass.

  The second thing to enter my mind was that at least my prior supposition was correct, that there was just one remaining.

  Any more than that and they would have cut me down already and started to make a move on Rae.

  The voice behind me was the same one that had issued the commands around the car, the tenor deep, the tone relaying it was accustomed to giving orders.

  Raising both hands out to either side, I made a show of releasing Clarice, allowing it to drop to the ground, the thick grass and dried leaves of the forest floor cushioning its fall. Moving in short, stilted steps, I rotated slowly to face the man that now held my life in his hands.

  “Mr. Dawson.”

  Across from me he stood thick and wide, a sheen of sweat shining off his bald pate. In his right hand was a small caliber handgun, the barrel level with his shoulder, pointed directly at me.

  “Wynn,” he replied. “You’re a pretty tough guy to track down.”

  The second sentence surprised me. I had expected him to be like Rae or I, wanting only to complete the assigned task, not one to waste a lot of time on unnecessary posturing.

  Having now seen his appearance, having heard the opening line, I knew that wasn’t the case.

  I had served with guys like this before, men that got off on combat, used it to justify themselves, to measure their own place in the pecking order. Slower than most to buy into the notions of evolution, they still believed that society was predicated on the hunter-gatherer sort of system, that a man’s worth was defined by how they measured up to others.

  Dawson wasn’t just opening a dialogue, he was issuing a challenge.

  And there was only one way for me to respond to it, especially if I hoped to have any chance of making it through alive.

  “At first I just didn’t want to be found,” I said, careful to remain in place, not to push too far too fast. “After that, it started to become a little fun.”

  Incredulity passed over Dawson’s features for a split second, an instantaneous scowl that disappeared as fast as it had arrived, before a half-smile split his face horizontally.

  “Yeah, it kind of was, wasn’t it?”

  The response was exactly what I’d anticipated.

  “Sorry about your men,” I said, hooking a thumb back toward the guy behind me. “You know how it goes.”

  “I do,” Dawson agreed. “Besides, these aren’t my men, just some guys I hired to do a job.”

  The insinuation was subtle, but it was there nonetheless.

  “Iraq?” I asked, m
y eyes narrowing just slightly.

  “Bosnia,” Dawson corrected. The front barrel of his gun dipped slowly, moving in an unbroken arc toward his waist before coming to a stop along his side. “You?”

  Two things surged through me in tandem. First was the realization that he wasn’t going to shoot me, at least not yet. Knowing that pushed relief through me, the feeling short lived.

  Coming right on its heels was the fact that we were about to brawl, hand-to-hand combat the only sort of thing a man like Dawson really considered to be the truest form.

  “All over,” I said. “Delta.”

  Dawson’s only response was a slow rock of his head backwards, his right hand disappearing behind his back as he stowed his weapon. He didn’t bother responding to what I’d said, presumably because his own branch was lower on the prestige totem pole than mine, but the expression on his face was unmistakable.

  Raising his left arm out beside him, Dawson reached across his body and wrenched free the thick straps holding his Kevlar vest in place. One at a time he tore them away, three different bindings in total, before letting it crash to the ground beside him.

  Even without the extra covering it was clear that he was a big man, much thicker than me for sure, his body pumped up in a way that signified he spent a significant amount of time in the gym. Raising his hands before him, he bounced on the balls of his feet a few times before motioning me forward, not once saying a word.

  He didn’t have to.

  The thought of going back for Clarice never entered my mind. High on a mix of adrenaline and anger, my body exhausted and nerves frazzled, I pushed forward off my back foot and sprinted straight forward.

  I didn’t take a fighter’s stance, made no effort to engage him in any sort of boxing or MMA. Instead I aimed my forehead directly at his center mass, running with everything I had. A low and guttural sound rolled from me as I went, everything I had been through in the preceding days bubbling out.