The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “I’ll look forward to watching him drive off.”

  “Have a good shift, Gavin.”

  After a quick chat with another colleague and a run to the restroom, Gavin exited the rear door, nearly bumping into three ladies deep in discussion.

  “We hear that we’ve got a Casanova working amongst us. I wonder who that is.”

  Gavin stopped in his tracks and glanced to his right where he saw the chubby, rose-colored cheeks of Brandy, a jolly woman who’d always been quite proud of her “junk in the trunk.” Usually harmless, she always offered a couple of humorous comments during any given workweek. Now, it appeared that Gavin might be the recipient of this week’s comedy.

  Momentarily, he felt that tug of apprehension, questioning if Mary might have shared their little moment, or even made fun of it.

  Brandy must have seen the look on his face. “Ah, come on Gavin. Don’t think for a minute that your refined lady friend spilled the beans about your upcoming date.”

  “Have a good ride, everyone.”

  All heads, including Gavin’s, turned to see Mary approaching her vehicle, waving. He could see her smile from a hundred feet away.

  “You, too, Mary,” Brandy said, turning back to Gavin and the others. “You see, she’s just the salt of the Earth.”

  He pulled up closer to the three women, a smile cracking his face. “She sure is. So did a little birdie tell you about our…discussion?”

  “Hell no. I just happened to be walking down the hall, and I saw your touching moment.” She put a hand over her heart and cocked her head to the side, then she howled with laughter and slapped high-fives with her friends.

  “Okay, ladies, go ahead and give me a full dose of your sarcastic comments. Go ahead, get it out of your system.”

  He flipped his fingers toward his body, as if he was waiting for their first verbal jab.

  “You’re cracking me up, Gavin. What’s gotten into you? You usually don’t like to join in our little games.”

  He put his hands on his chest. “Who, me? I’m the life of the party, right?”

  All three women rolled their eyes.

  “I get it. I don’t usually join you guys for many happy hours or team bowling events.”

  “Where did the real Gavin go?” Brandy asked, her eyes wide as she tugged on his jacket and looked behind him. “Hell, you’ve said more today than you have in the sixteen years I’ve been working here.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and could still see Mary’s red locks through the car window. His pulse skipped a beat.

  “Oh my, Gavin. You, son, are completely smitten.”

  His palms faced the sky, and he shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t have wiped the smile from his face if he wanted to. “Guilty as charged, Brandy.”

  The group session broke up, knowing it was time to hit the road. As they walked off to their cars, Brandy said, “Where you going, Gavin? Your lucky number thirty-two is up this way.”

  “Not today.” Gavin glanced over and saw Tyler’s white teeth as he got into the number thirty-two vehicle. “Tyler decided he wanted to break my habit of using the same car every shift.”

  “Why, that little prick! Why does he think he’s got to be such a bully to everyone?”

  “I don’t know. Because he’s lacking in other areas?”

  She hooted again. “Later, Gavin.”

  Proud of himself for not harping on Tyler’s latest offense too badly, Gavin flipped on his heels and headed for his new ride for the day, whistling one of the old Irish tunes, “Oh Danny Boy.”

  A split second later, an invisible force sent him airborne. An eruption from behind him. His eyes spotted flames as he tumbled to the ground, feeling an instant stabbing pain in his chest. Looking down, his chest was peppered with tiny pieces of thin metal.

  He jerked his head up and quickly realized where the explosion had come from.

  “Tyler,” he said with pain in his voice.

  Wait, where was Mary?

  He could hear moans all around him.

  Amidst the pluming clouds of gray smoke and charred metal and rubber, he could see that the epicenter of the bomb had taken out everything around it. Mary was two cars over. He jumped to his feet as the smoke caused him to choke, his vision now cut in half. He held his breath and moved closer, feeling the heat of the flames on his face.

  “Mary,” he called out.

  More moans and disgusting cracks of metal and plastic.

  Shuffling forward as his eyes watered from the polluted smoke, he yelled with everything he had. “Mary, can you hear me? Tell me you’re okay!”

  Thirty feet from the number thirty-two vehicle, he saw Mary’s car on the other side…or what was left of it. The right half had been destroyed, but he could see her red hair. He ran around the flames, his shoes crunching on glass and other metal scrap. As he approached Mary’s car, he could see her torso leaning out of the open door. He fell to his knees.

  “Mary, Mary, are you okay?”

  Lifting her head, he saw nothing more than a cavity. Her face had been blown off.

  He fell backward against a tire as tears singed the burns on his skin.

  The bombs from Derry and Belfast had returned. He would never escape his past.

  11

  “Morning, Alex. Hope everything is okay.”

  With his frosted air billowing skyward, I quickly spotted Mr. Dunkleburger leaning over the row of hedges that divided our properties, a pair of clippers in his gloved hand.

  I paused for a quick moment on the path between our detached garage and the house, my heavy purse still swinging at my side, almost scraping the ground, initially mortified that I’d been caught in only my pajamas and robe. I immediately tried to rake my fingers through the tangled mess on my head, then caught a whiff of my own breath and almost gagged. While I knew my dragon breath wasn’t foul enough to travel fifty or more feet, my face could have scared a zombie.

  “Hey, Mr. Dunkleburger,” I waved a hand while keeping my face down. I wondered why he was asking if everything was okay.

  Then it hit me—I quickly determined that I looked like I was auditioning for The Walking Dead, I was sure of it. He was either frightened for me or frightened of me.

  “Okay, just making sure, since…you know.”

  That was an eighty-year-old man’s way of saying the sheer sight of me early in the morning with baggy pajamas, a stained robe, and matted University of Texas slippers had not only interrupted his daily routine but left him with a disturbing impression.

  “All is good. Tell Mrs. Dunkleburger hello,” I said, slipping through the back door and into the kitchen before he could respond. Once inside, I puffed out a breath and realized my shoulders had been frozen into a clamped position, the kind that takes all of your muscles and tendons and twists them into an excruciating, splintery knot. Another Boston winter that never ended, digging its blustery, tattered nails in for one final push.

  As I reached behind my back to find the center of said knot, I caught my own reflection in the microwave door. While I was one scary sight, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Dunkleburger probably thought he needed to look after me, even months after Mark’s death. I didn’t think he’d ever grasped the fact that I was an FBI agent and fairly capable of taking care of myself. Probably had something to do with him being eighty and me being a woman.

  I released a yawn that would make lions proud, then scratched my backside. I needed coffee.

  “Alex, why did you let me sleep in like that? You know I enjoy taking the kids to school.”

  Ezzy shuffled to the kitchen from her bedroom, looking a bit more disheveled than usual.

  “Because you needed the sleep, Ezzy. You’re not Supergirl. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

  I plodded over to the sink and filled the coffee pot with water.

  “The only person with super-human anything in this house is you. You were up till how late last night doing your little surveillance thing?”
/>   “Eh, not that late.”

  “I think I heard the alarm beep around one, or was it two?”

  I slipped the coffee pot onto the burner, shoveled out five scoops of ground cinnamon-flavored coffee into the top, and punched the button. “It really wasn’t that bad, Ezzy. Just doing my job,” I said, as an image of Jerry hugging his buddy outside Finnegan’s Tavern shot through my mind, followed by a replay of what I heard his friend say: If you don't stand for something you will fall for anything. The same phrase from the flyer in Jerry’s car.

  I glanced out the window and saw Mr. Dunkleburger using a level on top of his perfectly trimmed hedges. “Man, that guy is anal. I guess that’s what you do when you retire,” I said, turning to face Ezzy.

  Her hand slapped the bar counter as her knees wobbled and her mouth hung open.

  “Ezzy!” I lunged to her side and caught her in my arms before she hit the floor, then scooted her over to the kitchen chair.

  “Ezzy, are you okay?”

  Her eyes were dilated, her breathing labored. “I’m okay. I’m okay,” she repeated, both of her palms flat on the table.

  I rested my hand on her back. “Ezzy, you’re not okay. Should I call nine-one-one?”

  She blinked a couple of times. “Maybe some water would be nice.”

  “You’re not going to fall to the floor, are you?”

  “Alex, I’m just a little dizzy, not ditzy.”

  She tried to laugh as her chest continued to lift at a quick pace. Keeping one eye on her, I ran over to the cabinet, grabbed a glass, poured some water, and was back at her side in five seconds max.

  “Thank you.” She barely got the words out before she tipped her head back and downed the entire glass. When she finished, water dripped from her mouth.

  “Is that better?”

  She appeared to be looking at the fruit bowl, or was she just staring at nothing?

  “Ezzy, are you drifting off?” I wondered if she was about to pass out.

  Her hand smacked the table, and I flinched. “Ah shit!” she exclaimed.

  She slowly turned and faced me. “I forgot to take my pill last night.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In my bathroom, right next to the sink. I keep them there so I won’t forget to take one every night. This old mind of mine is just not working right.”

  I’d play life coach in a minute. I ran to her bathroom and grabbed the pill bottle. As I jogged back through her bedroom, my eyes caught the heart surgeon material spread out on her bed. I paused for a split second and spotted that obnoxious shot of the doctor leaning against his fancy sports car.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing her the pill.

  She took it and set the glass down on the table with a little extra force.

  “You okay?”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes. “Doctor said I might get lightheaded if I forgot my pill. My heart was fluttering there a bit. But I’m fine now, at least physically.”

  I rested my hand on her shoulder. “Ezzy, you’re human. It’s no big deal.” As soon as I said the words, I wondered if I meant them. What if I hadn’t been at home? She could have fallen and hurt herself…or worse.

  “Alex, you and I both know that you can’t trust me to help run this house and take care of the kids if I can’t remember to take my pill. I’m so sorry.”

  “Quit beating yourself up.” Part of me wanted to ask why she was still studying the surgical material if she actually was okay, only needing to take the pill on a daily basis.

  She took a few more breaths, and color came back to her face. She stood up and started walking.

  “Are you sure you should be walking around? Maybe you want to take a nap, or rest on the couch in the living room. I can turn on the TV for you.”

  Suddenly very agile, she turned on her heels, pushed her sleeves upward, and wagged a finger at me.

  “Alex Troutt, I am not your child. I appreciate what you’ve done to help me, but you can’t spend all of your time worrying about little old me.”

  I nodded as a smile came to my lips.

  “What?” she asked with a hint of indignation.

  “I wondered where you’d gone there for a few minutes.”

  She set her hands on her waist, trying to maintain her stoic expression, then, slowly, she grinned.

  “This getting-old shit sucks, I tell you.”

  I went over and gave her a hug. She kissed my cheek. “Are you going to be able to pretend this never happened?” she asked, grasping my shoulders.

  I smirked, then said, “I’ll pretend it never happened if you can promise me you’ll come up with a foolproof method for not forgetting to take that magic little pill.”

  “Alex, remember, I could be your momma,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  In many respects, it felt like Ezzy was my mother. During my short time with my real mother, I’d never felt much of a kinship. She was always wrapped up in her religion, and she never communicated with Dad or me. I couldn’t even recall her hugging me or speaking to me with affection. Not once.

  Ezzy snapped her fingers.

  “Did aliens from another planet take over your body while you were working last night?”

  “Not exactly, although it did seem like an out-of-body experience.”

  She opened her mouth for a second, ready to ask another question, I was certain. Then she waved her hand. “Oh, never mind. You won’t tell me anyway.”

  The coffeemaker beeped, and I gave her a quick wink before moving over to the counter and pouring coffee into two mugs. As I turned to hand Ezzy the mug with a picture of a beach on it, I could hear a pulsating buzz. Both of us turned our heads to my purse sitting on the floor by the fridge.

  “Work calls,” she said, sipping her coffee. “I’m going out to get the newspaper.”

  “Ezzy,” I called out as she rounded the corner into the living room. I took one step after her, then heard the incessant buzzing sound again. I jogged over and riffled through my purse until I found the phone.

  It was Nick. “What’s up, partner?”

  “Yeah, right. We’ll deal with that little charade later. But for now, get your ass to Brighton. There’s been another bomb explosion in the last hour.”

  “There’s a Catholic church in Brighton? Or did this maniac take out another priest at his home?”

  “It’s a post office.”

  I got ready in five minutes, then ran to my car as I heard Mr. Dunkleburger yelling, asking me again if I was okay. After the bad feeling I got from Jerry and his buddies at the tavern the previous night, I honestly wasn’t sure.

  ***

  Standing in triangular formation, the three women hugged each other. I could hear their heaving weeps above the orders being barked out by firemen and others in uniform.

  Nick approached me.

  “A post office.” I knew I needed more information on why this was the chosen target.

  He leaned in closer. “When it was called in, the woman, a clerk who runs the car farm, said one of the mailmen kept repeating that the bomb was meant for him.”

  “Nick, over here.”

  That was Small’s voice. I craned my neck while following Nick through the chaos and around the side of the building. The scene looked like something out of Basra or Baghdad.

  “Alex, keep up,” Nick said. I’d almost slowed to a stop, my eyes peeled to the suffering faces. I caught up with him at a makeshift medic tent where the wounded were being treated on-site. I’d already seen one ambulance leave.

  Small emerged from a crowd of people. “Hey, Alex.”

  Just a day earlier, he’d asked me out for a drink. Now wasn’t the time to discuss entertainment plans, if I actually decided to say yes. I’d been so preoccupied with this bomb investigation and trying to determine if Jerry was a traitor to the country, I hadn’t given it a minute of thought. Was that a good thing or not?

  “Hey, Allen.”

  “I’m done with my initial
questions,” he said. “Now that they’ve removed the bodies, I need to get back over to my team and continue sifting through the blast site.”

  “Bodies?” I said. I held up my hand, which brushed his arm.

  He paused and said, “Two dead, from what I know. One more is hanging in the balance.” He turned and rushed off before I could respond. I turned and looked at Nick.

  “I just got here about five minutes before you,” he said.

  “Have you seen Jerry?”

  “Not yet. Remember, Alex, until recently, he would never show up at a crime scene,” he said. “Not until Drake started riding his ass about the priest bombings.”

  I nodded. “And apparently they can’t really be called priest bombings anymore, right?”

  “Guess not, although maybe someone used to be a priest, or knows one.”

  “Solid point. Never assume until we know the facts. Welcome back, partner.”

  I flicked my fingers against his chest, hoping to elicit a typical Nick smirk. It never came. He almost seemed to blow me off. Something was up.

  He continued. “Over there, two uniforms are flanking the man who said the bomb was meant for him. He’s getting medical attention now. He apparently saw the blast go off and might have known someone who got killed.”

  Nick and I weaved through more people, then flashed our badges to another BPD uniform at the edge of the tent.

  It was easy to spot the man in question. And it wasn’t because he lay partially elevated on a gurney, his chest bloodied and wrapped in bandages, or that his face had burns all over it and most of his eyebrows were singed.

  I could see the hollow stare in his eyes, like he’d seen the devil up close. I knew that seeing people die—in this case, blown up—could create an immediate emotional response that was the opposite of screaming or lashing out. Their damaged psyches essentially retreated into a tiny cocoon to protect what little semblance of sanity they could still grasp.

  Nick held an arm in front of me, and we paused about ten feet from the gurney. “One of the detectives told me his name is Gavin. Been a postal carrier for twenty-eight years. Moved over here from Ireland.”

  A few more steps and I traded a quick glance with the female medic, who shook her head as if to say Gavin was a lost cause, at least for now.