Ded Reckoning

by William F Lee

  Ded

  Reckoning

  William F. Lee

  Ded Reckoning

  Copyright © 2012, by William F Lee.

  Cover Copyright © 2012 by Sunbury Press, Inc. Cover image “Atrani” by Lawrence von Knorr – used with permission.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 50-A W. Main St., Mechanicsburg, PA 17055 USA or legal@sunburypress.com.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Wholesale Dept. at (717) 254-7274 or orders@sunburypress.com.

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  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  October 2012

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-131-2

  Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-132-6

  ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-133-9

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Mechanicsburg, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania USA

  Also by William F. Lee

  The Bottom of the List

  The Boys in Blue White Dress

  The Light Side of Damnation

  Once Upon a Nightmare

  Home is a Long Time Ago

  Acknowledgments

  I thank the efficient and accommodating folks of Sunbury Press. As in the past, they make it happen. Larry Knorr, thank you for your confidence and aggressive spirit. To Allyson Gard, my Sunbury editor, a job well done once again. I repeat, and quote, "Your words have supported those who stumbled." The process has been prompt and pleasant.

  A very special thanks to Mary Hughes who once again assisted me on this journey. She was again figuratively at my side each step with encouragement and helpful suggestions. Most of all I value her friendship.

  Also I thank my "ole" Marine Corps buddy, Bob Reed for his assistance in the initial editing phase. He has helped me before and it is always valued, but not as much as his friendship. That is most important.

  And as usual a "thanks" to my compatriot members of The Lesser North Texas Writing Group for their valuable critique and insightful input in the early stages of this novel. A special thanks to the leader and benevolent dictator of the group, Carol Wood.

  Most important for me has been the input; the encouragement; the patience; and the love of the single most important person in my life, my wife, Jodi. She is, and has been, my wife; my best pal; my girlfriend; my "luv" for fifty-seven years. It doesn't get any better. I loved her the moment I saw her in Laguna Beach over fifty-seven years ago; have every day since; do now and will forever. Thanks for bearing with me ... my goodness, she has read every script of the six novels six times and every published book three times.

  Last, and certainly not least, I thank my readers for their support and excursions through my novels ... and for their continued suggestions and input.

  PROLOGUE

  "God be with you, because you'll probably

  be alone when it all goes bad."

  A gunfighter's rule.

  Samantha kisses him on the cheek and coos over her shoulder on the way to the front door, "I'm leaving, Hunter."

  "Sam. Hey, wai..."

  "Work to do; places to go; appointments to keep."

  Hunter shouts from the kitchen table as he shoves his chair back with his butt and shouts, "And miles to go before we sleep, and miles to go...whatever, before we...we...our brains out," his voice trails off becoming a sigh that transcends into a sly smile.

  "I heard that. Was close. That's yet to come. Tonight, Tiger."

  Hunter's eyebrows raise, and he smiles as he pads hurriedly to the front door in his bare feet and jockey shorts, leaving his coffee mug and San Diego Tribune on the kitchen table. The paper is opened to the Sports Page and the mug is more than half-empty like the '71 Padres season is going. He less than slams, and more than bumps, his left thigh on the sharp wooden corner of the dining room table as he hurtles through the room, then slides to a halt on the tiled front entryway.

  "Damn," rubbing the abrasion on his thigh as he reaches the wide-open doorway. Samantha is holding the knob in one hand and her briefcase in the other. Hunter is framed in the doorway for all the world to see with the outside entryway light acting as if it were an overhead theater spot. Sam's amorous gaze holds Hunter as if he were a mannequin in a shop window.

  "My, my, my. What jockey shorts do for you. Or better, what you do for them." She pauses, beaming. Actually more a cross between a grin and a feigned hungry snarl. She softly pats and rubs him. "My, my. Scandalous advertisement material."

  "Who's doing the vetting now?" Feeling sheepish he grins, remembering his similar jousting remarks yesterday when they first met at Lindberg Field. Then, as if the entire neighborhood could hear he whispers, "Why leave now? We can take up where we left off, or relax in the Jacuzzi, or both. I mean last night was great...one of the best."

  "One of the best?"

  "Okay. The best, but it's been a..."

  "Me too, but I have work to do. So do you." She slips her index finger in the band of his shorts; pulls the elastic out several inches, peeks in, and then lets it snap close. "Don't forget, call Joe. Bye." She brushes his gaping mouth with her glossy pink lips. The entire entryway is not only engulfed in the light but also swallowed up with her scent. Her auburn hair, smelling like spring flowers, bounces on her shoulders as she laughs. It announces her joy for the neighborhood to see and hear. The whole world for that matter.

  Before Hunter can say another word, she cavorts down the front walk toward her car on her long athletic legs which are needed to withstand the weight and jouncing of her more than generous breasts. It's the Blue Hour, after the French expression, l'heure bleue. It's morning civil twilight. Early by most standards, especially on a month-end Saturday.

  As she nears the end of the walk, both she and Hunter hear a shout from the neighboring house. "Good morning, Ms. McGee. Nice day." The neighbor, the contracted Property Manager for Hunter's leased home, is Mrs. Columbo. Teresa, or Dee. She has sing-songed her tiding from half-way down her front walk. Her minx-like smile, difficult to see in the twilight, betrays the lilt in her voice.

  Hunter glances at her. Thinks. Looks sweet; purrs deep; and plays rough.

  Samantha echoes, "Morning, Mrs. Columbo. Nice day." Her words are unenthusiastic and hissed like an angry cat as she pauses for the necessary prudent several moments before she opens the driver's door of her mist-green Pontiac Firebird and slides in.

  Hunter mutters, "Psssss. Ouch."

  Then he manages to break his stare from Sam's abundant share of the gene pool. Looks again at Mrs. Columbo standing in a loosely fitting sheer summer ankle-length caftan, holding her copy of the Tribune teasingly against the front slit of the robe. With her black hair she looks like a geisha girl standing in her oriental garden. Teasing, tormenting or simply embarrassed, nonetheless with claws out. His view in the civil dawn light is enhanced by his neighbor's outside light. Civil twilight, nautical twilight, light or not light, one can't mistake this vision or the intent.

  She ain't embarrassed...she's either teasing or tormenting, or both.

  He stands stunned by her appearance and the cat-like exchanges and i
magery of both women. Two felines, both with fur up on arched backs; spitting; hissing; tails swaying angrily. Hunter smiles, continuing to be mesmerized with his neighbor's morning "look" for a few additional moments. Damn. I mean, God damn.

  BOOM!

  The blast is deafening. The flash of light brings dawn early for a moment. The heat and flames searing hot. Windows shatter on both sides of Hunter's front door. The house across the street loses the three windows facing Arcola Street. The entire right side door of her sleek '68 Firebird and Samantha's upper torso, smash into and splinter the split-rail fencing in Hunter's front yard. Shrapnel-like pieces clatter on his and Dee's roofs. The trunk lid clunks on the asphalt roadway some twenty yards up the hill on Arcola. The hood rattles off the cul-de-sac metal barricade His forehead is creased by flying shrapnel, like the old days in the paddies. Blood begins to ooze into his eyebrows.

  Hunter is knocked halfway to his butt. Only his vise-like grip on the front door knob prevents him from going all the way down. The door slams against the wall and the force of his weight now thrusts him back up like a spring-loaded coil. That triggers the front door to whip forward, propelling him onto the outside brick entryway like a F4 Phantom hitting after-burner. The remnants of the car and what's left of Samantha are lost in the firestorm with plumes of thick, smoke spiraling upward like the chimneys of ghastly Auschwitz. Hunter Ardal William Kerrigan's instincts, his training, his experiences, his every fiber reacts exactly as one would expect. One being Joe Zachary, his CIA Handler; others being his numerous combat buddies in Nam; and one for sure being himself, the "Hawk." His initials.

  He knows Sam is gone. He sees a man pushing himself off the ground in the weed-ripe mesa below the cul-de-sac at the end of Arcola. The man staggers, turns to look back for several fatal seconds. Then starts walking briskly, but not so much so as to attract unwanted attention. He's in a business suit. Odd. He doesn't belong there, and he's carrying something in his right hand. Not a weapon, or it might be what was his weapon.

  As Hunter instinctively starts his run for the man, he glances toward Dee and shouts, "Are you hurt?"

  "No. What ..."

  "Get inside. Call the police. Don't come out." He leaps over the remaining split-rail fence in the corner of his front yard, and in two bounds hurtles the two foot high metal protector at the end of the cul-de-sac and vanishes down into the mesa below. He's running full out.

  The man is still at the same pace and hasn't looked back. Hunter is closing fast. Bare feet. Jockey shorts. Beginning the final glide and swoop, hands like talons.

  The troops have said. Joe Zachary will say.

  The Hawk is out and flying on ded reckoning, or deduced reckoning, or dead reckoning. However it's spelled. Old, new. Oxford or Webster's. It means ...

  Someone else is going to die.

  CHAPTER 1

  "Be aggressive enough, quickly enough.

  There's no such thing as

  'too aggressive' once the fight is on."

  A gunfighter's rule.

  The man hears the Hawk's accelerated breathing before the sound of Hunter's bare feet thrashing through the knee-high grass and weeds. Either way, it's much too late. The man quickens his pace and begins a body turn to face who or whatever is swooping down upon him. The momentum of his turn is hastened by Hunter's hand clutching and jerking his shoulder, spinning the fleeing man around as if at the end of a bungee cord. Hunter follows with a jackhammer blow to the man's chest with the heel of his right hand. The blow is directly over the heart and, if desired, can be a killing one by an expert. Hunter is exactly that; however, he wants only to stun and fell the man.

  His quarry snaps backward as if his feet are swept from beneath him, landing on his shoulder blades and butt. His slender shoulder line at the edge of the mesa with a forty foot drop to a metal storage building hidden in the canyon's shadow at this July 31st Blue Hour. Hunter straddles his unconscious prey; the man's head drapes backward over the edge of the mini-mesa. He searches through the man's coat and trouser pockets and finds a Walther in a shoulder holster, one electric detonator, a rent-a-car document, and a wallet. Hunter rifles through the billfold, thumb flips through fifteen hundred dollars in hundreds, American. A few extra twenties, and a driver's license. Hunter mumbles, "John Smith. Yeah, right." The rummaging also produces a few credit cards, each with different names. Stolen. Or provided.

  John Smith stirs as he regains consciousness. Hunter reaches down, grasps him by the knot of his tie, pulls his head up and slaps him several times to hasten his awareness.

  The man's eyes open, and he begins to stammer. Hunter growls, "Let's talk, asshole. Who are you?"

  Still groggy and gasping for breath, the man begins to reach inside his suit coat with his left hand. Hunter delivers a crushing karate chop to the man's left shoulder, shattering his collar bone and causing the arm to drop to the side. Hunter's blow is the concentrated visualization of the hand, as a blade, going through the target. In this case the fragile collar bone.

  Hunter barks in the well-known Drill Instructor lingo. "Speak, maggot." Slaps him twice, the last a back hand. Then snarls, "Who are you and why this shit? Why her? And don't give me any John Smith crap."

  The man sucks in some civil twilight humidity, eyes watering with pain, and with a heavy Irish accent, spits, "Fook you."

  Hunter growls again, "Wrong answer."

  He grabs the man's arm in his hand, lifts it up and lays it on a rock beside John Smith. Smith slowly rolls his head to his right. A look of fearful wonderment drapes across his face. Hunter smashes another chopping blow through the man's forearm. It splinters like balsa wood, and the man's anguished scream can be heard for hundreds of meters. It's a picture compound fracture, bone splitting the skin. The man screeches in pain, writhing on the ground but only from the hips down, unable to move his arms and shoulders.

  Smith is not a big man, five-six, seven at best. Dirty blond hair, left long and straight. He is shaven but his suit, tie and shoes cry cheap. He stares at Hunter. Angry eyes reflecting pain, surprise and anticipation in puke-greenish hue. By comparison, Hunter is huge. Six-three with an in-top-condition powerful frame formed like two wedges placed on top of one another. Wide shoulders, tiny waist. Thick hips and thighs, sleek muscular legs. Black, well-trimmed hair and dark eyes, now flashing rage.

  Hunter snaps again, "It's goin' to get worse. Who are you and why this? Why her?” He pauses, "Or was it supposed to be me?"

  The man sneers in pain. His twisted face scarlet in Shanty-Irish anger. He clinches his teeth in anguish, shakes his head in refusal.

  Hunter snarls, "For Samantha," and smashes a driving blow with his fist into the man's nose, splaying and splintering it across the face. Two upper front teeth shatter. Blood gushes from the man's nose and mouth. Just the one painful utterance. Followed now with only loud, anguished whimpering. The blood flow, among other factors, interferes with meaningful conversation.

  Hunter, in a deliberate, calm tone, says, "Last chance, Mick. Tell me."

  The man, his eyes now registering veritable fear, responds in his thick Irish accent, "Me name is Patrick Shanahan. Paddy. Paid to kill the girl."

  "Who paid and why?"

  The man hesitates. Hunter snaps, "For Sam again," and takes his right fist with the middle finger knuckle gnarled outward, posturing it as a blunt spike, smashes it into the left eye crushing the man's eyeball. The scream this time is through the gaps where his front teeth were moments ago, blood still spewing from his gums and nose. He cries out, "The Army. The RA."

  "The RA?"

  The man blinks and with anguished pride, says, "PIRA. Provisional Irish ..."

  Hunter finishes, "Republican Army. The friggin' IRA by any name."

  "No. It be the PIRA now."

  Hunter grits his teeth, "The Army, the RA, PIRA, it's all the same fuckin' thing. The IRA. What the hell are you doing over here? Why my woman? Here with me? You useless piece of shit!"

  "Payback for years
ago. The lass's father. First 'er mum, then 'im and now 'er."

  "Her father? Why? Who ordered it? Who paid you?"

  "Don't know. Am a soldier...doin' it for the cause."

  Hunter aims his left fist, middle finger knuckle gnarled, at the man's right eye. Shanahan screeches, "Please. 'Ave mercy." His accent more pronounced now. "I don't know names. I just come, follow me orders. Do me job. 'Tis for the cause. Nothing personal." He continues to twist on the sun-baked soil, loose stones and fire-prone grass in the canyons north of Mission Bay. Tears run from the one good eye of the confessor, Paddy Shanahan.

  Hunter snarls, "The cause? The Army?" Then slightly louder, "Nothing PERSONAL?" Still louder, "NO NAMES?" Then with a hissing tone more deadly than the sidewinders that dwell in these canyons, "Well, I believe you." Hunter lets out a breath, then says blandly, "But you see, lad, it's personal now. Patrick or Paddy Shanahan, John or Johnny Smith or whatever your name is, you made it personal. You murdered my friend. My woman." Hunter pauses, looks at the lightening sky, growls, "And I can't let you go back, or get word to anyone about me...or talk to your Irish asshole buddies. You've gotta die, lad. But I will recommend a closed casket."

  The Irishman, the PIRA soldier is virtually comatose.

  Mindful of the mesa's drop-off, Hunter steps over the man, says, "But if someone does come after me, Paddy me lad, they're goin' to die hard." He lifts the smallish man by the neck, with its protruding Adams-apple, and with a violent wrench snaps Shanahan's neck like a dry twig. The Irishman's body goes limp. One heave and he's over the edge of the mesa. Hunter watches him tumble, roll, and bounce to the bottom, arms flailing like loose wires in a hurricane. Patrick Shanahan is but a muffled thud on the concrete slab below, minus one shoe and followed by a stream of loose rocks and floe-like sand. And a few up-rooted weeds. The cheap suit is ruined, not much of a loss. The Shanahan clan, if there is one, is one less. A loss to them but not to Hunter. To the PIRA, a KIA, per chance more.