The Hexecutioner
1: GAME OF THE WOLF
WILLIAM MASSA
CRITICAL MASS PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2020 by WILLIAM MASSA
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Raul Ferran/Jun Ares/shutterstock
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Also by WILLIAM MASSA
Chapter One
There was much to love about the small town of Nashland, Oregon. Founded in 1927, Nashland was nestled at the base of the Siskiyou and Cascade mountain ranges and boasted highly rated schools, a strong sense of community, and mild winters and summers.
Most of the town’s 15,000 residents felt it was a great place to raise a family or retire. A great place to live.
Sara Thwaites had come here to die.
The man navigating the silver-gray Ford Mustang through Nashland’s traffic-free streets wasn’t all that surprised by Sara’s decision. After all, the young woman had grown up here. The way Jaxon Weylock saw it, if you had to face the grim reaper, why not pick the place where it all started? There was something almost poetic about drawing your last breath in the same town where you’d drawn your first.
At twenty-nine years old, Sara was way too young to meet her maker. But the creature hunting this poor woman thought differently. What the beast didn’t know was that Weylock had no intention of letting Sara die.
It was around 10 AM when Weylock pulled into the parking lot of the Nashland Spring Hotel on Main Street where he’d booked a room for the night. Located about five minutes from the town’s popular downtown restaurant row, the 100-room hotel was the perfect spot for anyone who didn’t want to draw undue attention to themselves.
Weylock got out of his car and made his way to the hotel’s check-in desk. Sunshine shafted through the countless windows and accentuated the lobby’s elegant decor. The hotel was warm and classy with a sense of history, and Weylock wished he were here under more pleasant circumstances.
Unfortunately, death always cast a shadow over his travels.
The young, cute receptionist flashed him a friendly smile. She was in her twenties, visibly intrigued by the handsome, mysterious stranger approaching. In his black suit, starched white shirt, and aviator glasses, Weylock cut an impressive figure. He carried himself with confidence and professional cool, his leather attaché case signaling a seriousness of purpose.
Weylock returned the receptionist’s smile and engaged in a little light flirting. Partially because he didn’t want to arouse suspicion, but mostly because it allowed him to momentarily forget the real reason for coming to Nashland. Weylock made a mental note to leave a nice tip for the friendly receptionist when he checked out.
Keycard in hand, he beelined toward the small cafe and ordered a large Americano in a to-go-cup. Weylock had been on the road for hours and welcomed the pick-me-up. He expected it to be a long day and an even longer night.
Coffee was the only vice Weylock allowed himself nowadays. He drank it often, and he drank it strong. Despite the amazing powers he wielded and the unfathomable mysteries he was privy to, he still appreciated the little pleasures. So much of his old life had become a distant dream. Holding on to at least one habit of his old life helped him stay in touch with his humanity. Or at least that’s how he justified his caffeine addiction.
As Weylock headed for the hotel elevator, he didn’t run into anyone else. The place would fill up on the weekend once all the tourists poured into town. At the moment, he owned the place.
Weylock sipped his deliciously bitter brew as he rode the elevator to the top floor and located his room at the end of the hallway. Once inside, he paused in front of the large windows which overlooked the town in a spectacular fashion. He’d scored a corner room with an almost 180-degree view of the mountain ranges which enclosed Nashland’s forested hills.
As Weylock admired the beautiful homes thrusting from the sea of green, he wondered what it would be like to live a normal life in a place like this. Then again, what was normal nowadays?
Every town had its secrets; surface appearances could be deceiving. Normal was the cover the enemy used to blend in and hide until it was too late. None of the fine folks who called this lovely town home were aware of the evil converging around them.
Some might claim their ignorance was bliss, but deep down, Weylock didn’t think so. The sheep grazed without fear but imagine their horror when the wolf revealed their rational, civilized world to be a lie.
Weylock had long left such illusions behind him.
He faced reality head-on and lived with the horrors. But never as a victim. Only as a hunter.
He lowered his leather attaché case on the bedspread and snapped it open. It contained a leather-bound copy of what appeared to be the Bible. It was his only personal possession besides the FBI issued Glock 19 strapped in his shoulder holster and his old FBI badge.
In another life, he’d been Special Agent Jaxon Weylock, profiler of serial killers. A rising star at the bureau who played a key role in catching Paul Norris, aka the Shadow Stalker, and Robert Bordeaux, the Butcher of New Orleans, to name only a few of the sick freaks he’d helped put behind bars.
Special Agent Weylock hunted human monsters. The Hexecutioner pursued a different kind of beast.
The FBI badge and title were the remnants of another life, but they allowed him to get around without drawing additional attention. A quick flash of his Bureau credentials opened many doors and provided access to countless crime scenes. But if anyone were to check his qualifications, they would learn that Special Agent Jaxon Weylock had left the Bureau a few years ago following a horrific murder investigation in New York City.
Weylock’s final case as an FBI agent had nearly killed him and almost cost him his soul, but it had also opened his eyes to a larger and much darker world. It had turned a traumatized FBI Agent into the Hexecutioner—judge, jury, and executioner of the supernatural terrors that plagued humanity.
Weylock rifled through the well-worn pages of his leather-encased book. To Christians, the book would appear to be a tattered copy of the King James Bible. Muslims would see the book as a well-worn copy of the Koran, Jews the Talmud. A person’s faith determined what they saw. This was all part of the book’s camouflaging system, a way to blend in and hide its real secrets.
To Weylock’s eyes, this was a vastly different text, one far more ancient and filled with answers to dark questions. A book of nightmares and secrets that could both inform and confound.
This was the Necrodex.
Like the mantle of the Hexecutioner which Weylock had inherited, the Necrodex had been passed down through the generations. The yellowed pages within the ancient tome assigned a Hexecutioner his missions and pointed him to the next beast that needed to be tracked down and destroyed. The book was Weylock’s guide and compass in this new war.
The monks referred to the mysterious text as the Book of the De
ad for a Hexecutioner’s missions weren’t directed by some higher magical police force but came from the victims of the monsters themselves. The Necrodex served as bridge between the monster hunter and the monster’s victims, between the living and the dead.
The book had spoken to him a day earlier. It had shown him the faces of young men and women cut down in their prime by a vicious beast, whispered their names in his ears so the world wouldn’t forget them.
Weylock opened the book and the pages took on a life of their own. Phantom fingers flipped through the pages of the book, the parchment fluttering loudly.
Then the wild rifling stopped. The correct page had been identified.
Weylock took in the dense text written in a language older than time. The words began to spiral across the page, bleed into each other, forming images—the faces of both men and women etched in stark black-and-white.
The ghostly pallor and haunted quality of these faces didn’t come as a surprise. These faces belonged to the victims of the monster Weylock was now hunting. Young men and women cut down in their prime. Accusatory gazes from beyond the grave demanding justice.
Demanding retribution.
Why didn’t you help us sooner? Why didn’t you save us? the faces seemed to say.
Weylock’s jaw grew tight with frustration.
Out loud, Weylock said, “I’m sorry you had to die for no other reason than to satisfy the sick, twisted appetite of a beast. But I promise I will avenge you so you may rest in peace.”
The voices in his mind calmed, and Weylock took a deep breath.
The faces on the page dissolved into the lovely features of a woman in her mid-twenties. This time the image was in color, which as Weylock had learned, signified that the woman was still alive.
Her name was Sarah Thwaites. Weylock knew this because the dead had told him.
Sara was going to be the creature’s next victim.
Save her.
Weylock nodded.
“I can’t bring you all back, but I swear I’ll do everything to save this woman. The monster will be punished so you can rest in peace.”
A sense of inner calm filled the Hexecutioner after he spoke those words. The vow strengthened his resolve, focused his thoughts, and provided a clarity of mission.
Even the restless dead seemed to approve as Sara’s distressed face morphed into the drawing of what appeared to be a small Irish pub. The sign identified the establishment as The Black Sheep.
Weylock suddenly knew where to find the woman who’d brought him to Nashland.
He scanned his Rolex, another souvenir of another life. About seven hours remained before nightfall.
Before the full moon.
Before the beast would be coming for Sara Thwaites.
Chapter Two
The sun was warm against Weylock’s face as he explored the main strip of downtown Nashland. Charming local-owned shops, restaurants, and pubs filled the street without a chain store in sight.
He homed in on a small Irish pub called The Black Sheep. The smell of spilled beer and sizzling burgers greeted him as he entered the establishment.
Back in another life this would have been his kind of place. Divey and homey and without pretense. Real.
Weylock immediately spotted the young woman who’d endured so much over the last thirty days.
Sara cut a miserable figure, all alone in her shadowy booth, and Weylock’s heart sank when he noted her sorry, frightened state. Sara was a woman gutted by loss and horror. Weylock wished he could somehow set back the clock and spare her all the moments of fear and suffering she’d been forced to endure.
Sara registered Weylock’s arrival, raised her head slightly as he crossed the bar and sat up straight when she realized that the stranger in the sharp black suit was headed straight for her table.
Weylock hated to cause further distress for this poor woman, but there was no way around it. With sunset only a few hours away, it was time to go on the offensive.
Weylock registered the full pint of craft beer that sat next to Sara’s uneaten burger and fries. He’d always wondered how folks on death row could enjoy that last meal before their execution, knowing an express ride to Hell was up next. Sara must have felt the same way.
So, if food or booze hadn’t drawn her to the pub, perhaps she’d sought security in numbers, believing herself safe as long as she stayed in the cozy watering hole.
You may be safe for now, Weylock thought. But once the sun sets and the full moon rises above Nashland, death will come knocking no matter where you hide.
Nothing in this world will stop the wolf.
Nothing but me.
Panic crept into Sara’s gaze, almost as if she’d read his thoughts. She stole a glance at the two College kids playing pool next to her table, perhaps believing their carefree presence could somehow hold all the devils in the world at bay.
Then her gaze shifted back to Weylock, studying him as if he was death incarnate.
I’m not the beast that’s hunting you, he thought. Quite the contrary.
“Sarah Thwaites, I know you’re scared, but I’m here to help,” Weylock said. He tried to inject as much warmth into his voice as possible, but if Sara’s nervous expression was any indicator, he was failing miserably.
Her eyes ticked back and forth, almost like she was looking for a quick escape. Sensing she would never get past Weylock, tears welled up in her haunted eyes.
The poor woman had reached her breaking point. She was tired of running, tired of being afraid, ready to make her last stand.
Weylock saw her reach under the table and shook his head.
“I wouldn’t go for that gun, Sara. I’m not your enemy.”
He held her probing gaze, his features set. He knew she’d purchased the Luger while passing through Phoenix and had considered using the pistol on herself more than once. Weylock also knew the bullets would have no power against the monster who was after her now.
Weylock produced his FBI badge.
“I’m Special Agent Jaxon Weylock, and I’m investigating the murder of your husband. I know also that the same man who murdered your husband has been harassing you for the last month and plans to kill you tonight.”
Sara’s face went white.
“How do you know? I told no one…” Her voice trailed off, her gaze wide with confusion.
“I’m with the FBI. We have our ways.”
Weylock tried to infuse his voice with good humor, hoping it would calm Sara’s ragged nerves a little. It didn’t.
“I’m sorry about your loss, ma’am, and I’m sorry for what this bastard put you through over the last month.”
“How can I be sure you’re not him? He wears a human face when he’s not…”
“A wolf,” Weylock finished.
Sara stared at him, her lips quivering, trying to determine if his warm smile and calming gaze was a mask hiding the beast beneath.
Weylock’s heart went out to the woman. He understood real fear—had experienced it himself and was well aware of its paralyzing power. He’d seen it in his own haunted gaze back in NYC. He was seeing it now in Sara’s bloodless visage.
He had to show that he was on her side. That she could trust him.
Weylock lowered the collar of his shirt to reveal the mismatched row of crosses and religious symbols tattooed around his neck. They came in different shapes and sizes, belonged to different traditions of faith, but the message was clear: I work for the good guys.
“I understand what you’re going through,” Weylock said gently and reached out for her shaking hands. “I’ve read the report you gave the police. And I believe you.”
“The cops said I was suffering from post-traumatic stress. They thought I was crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
Sara’s guarded features softened, and the dam holding back her emotions broke.
“Nobody would listen,” she said, her voice thick with anguish.
“I can n
ever give you back what you lost, Sara, but I can offer you the next best thing.”
Sara studied him through a curtain of fearful tears, her face a question mark.
“I can avenge your husband.”
“Tell me your story, Sara. Tell me exactly what happened a month ago in that cabin in Colorado.”
Weylock leaned closer. “Tell me about the beast so I can avenge your husband.”
These weren’t the words of Special Agent Jaxon Weylock.
They were the words of the Hexecutioner.
Chapter Three
30 Days Earlier.
Sara Thwaites sighed with pleasure as she sat down in the steaming hot tub. She took a sip of champagne, the bubbly liquid tickling her throat, adding another layer of sensual bliss to the experience.
She smiled at her newlywed husband, Brady, who reclined across from her in the tub. After a six-month whirlwind romance, they’d eloped in Vegas five days earlier and then hit Boulder, Colorado for their honeymoon.
Neither Brady nor she had the money or the interest to organize a traditional wedding. Both of them were children of nasty divorces and understood the fragile nature of relationships. Why expose themselves to the pressure that came with costly ceremonies and months of wedding planning, not to mention having to make sure friends and family members approved of their union?
All that mattered to Sara was that her relationship with Brady felt right. She didn’t need some giant, super-expensive party to know that she was the luckiest gal on Earth to have such a caring, loving guy in her life.
Almost as if to remind her of this, Brady lifted his new bride’s feet onto his lap and began massaging them. Sara licked her lips with pleasure and pretended to purr like a cat.
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