Murder Plot (A Sam Rader Thriller Book 3)

by Simon King

  Murder Plot

  Simon King

  Contents

  Free Starter Library

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Afterword

  Free Starter Library

  Grab you free Simon King Starter Library

  Here

  1

  It was the smell that brought clarity to the situation for Boyd, the same heavy dampness as he was used to back in his cell. He looked around nervously, dropping a little lower to the ground as he tried harder to sink into the shadows. But the old crate wasn’t the ideal cover and only partially shielded him, the overhead lamps keeping the underground tunnel faintly illuminated. The many columns kept most of the tunnel hidden from him, but also acted as a shield from himself. If he couldn’t see far, neither would those chasing him.

  Boyd turned his head a little, pointing his good ear towards where he knew his pursuers to be. Their footfalls had faded out down the narrow side passage only a minute before, courtesy of his ruse. They had caught wind of his trail within minutes of him leaving his cell and Boyd wondered whether they were in fact using a tracking dog, or some other means of locating him.

  None of that mattered though, escape the only thing at the forefront of his mind. He had to find the exit, the only chance at freedom he would ever have. If he didn’t, Boyd knew the men now chasing him would end it for him as surely as if he was a rat caught in a trap.

  The silence was almost maddening as he held his breath, carefully listening for evidence of his pursuers. It also kept the stink out of his nostrils, the odor making his stomach turn. He looked at the wall beside him, the water stains appearing ancient on the old concrete walls. What was this place? An old holding yard beneath the prison? He didn’t care, peering around again, in search of his next hiding spot. The dozens of columns that held the roof up were scattered throughout the open space like an ancient Greek temple. If anything, they gave a great place to hide.

  Running in short spurts was better than a continuous sprint. If he just madly dashed from one corridor to the next, they would surely hear and put an end to him. He found that with very short bursts, he could control the noise he made, reducing the chances of the others finding him. All he had to do was stealth his way along this wall, stopping briefly to hide whenever possible, assess each section and ensure his pursuers weren’t on to him.

  He’d been told about the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the prison several times during the past few months, with some claiming their history stretched all the way back to the late 1880s. Although Boyd had done time in several jails, including San Quentin, those had been nursery schools compared to the experiences he’d had since finding himself at Bolton.

  At most prisons, the Warden remained behind closed doors, only appearing when needed by their officers. But Roy Perkins was a different kettle of fish, the man as involved with prisoners as much as his staff. Boyd wondered whether the man even had an office, the son of a bitch constantly on show.

  He’d greet each and every prisoner as they stepped from the buses, hover around the admissions center, as if following the entire induction process. The man would sit beside officers conducting interviews, lend a hand during strip searches, then follow the lines of inmates as they were walked to their allocated units.

  The man wasn’t skinny, his triple chin earning him the nickname “Bullfrog” from inmates and officers alike. Old Bullfrog would wheeze and puff his way from one unit to the next, the same smug grin on his face, as he watched each prisoner be taken into their new homes.

  Boyd had the unfortunate luck of meeting Bullfrog personally upon arrival, the man first conducting his induction interview, then performing the strip search on him. But he soon found that Bolton Prison was anything but normal, the population on both sides of the fence some of the hardest he’d ever experienced.

  Classed maximum-security, the prison had been active since the late nineteenth century, a breeding ground, as experienced criminals were mixed with the new. What eventually walked back out of the gate and returned to society, were the types of men destined to return to the inside again and again. They said that once Bolton had you, it had you for life.

  Boyd held his breath again and listened for any signs of life in the darkness. He had to move, of that fact, there was no doubt. If he continued sitting in the same spot, he may as well just stand up and start shouting for whomever was chasing him to come out and get him.

  His eyes fixed on a sliver of darkness to the right side of the furthest column he could see. There appeared to be the mouth of another corridor, maybe as wide as the one he just came from. If he could get to it, maybe it would buy him some time.

  After a final listen, Boyd rose up to his full height and slowly began to creep, feeling his way around the maze of columns. Using each as a temporary cover, he tried to monitor his own movement, as well as any indication from his pursuers.

  Only once he was sure there was nobody close, did he move in earnest, carefully feeling his way from one column to the next, his eyes fixed on where he’d last seen the others. The new side-corridor was about fifty yards from where he scrambled along, the path dotted with puddles and various pieces of debris.

  In some places, it appeared as if people may have sat around eating their meals, with glass bottles and empty cans littering the floor. If he happened to kick one of those, sending the traitor scuttling into shadows, it would no doubt give his location away.

  Watching each step carefully, Boyd continued his advance, meticulously stepping between puddles and each ancient artifact, as if playing a grown-up version of hide and seek. Only in this version, if he was caught, it didn’t mean he was the next to count. In this version, the game would end and he would be…

  He stopped, fingers held on either side of a column as he stared down at the floor. Just what would happen if he was caught? Would he be returned to his cell? Maybe sent to the slot? He shuddered, the thought of the latter crossing his mind. He’d only heard rumors about the slot and none of them appealed to him. No, this trip had to be one way, with him somehow finding his way back to the surface, preferably on the other side of the walls.

  With another shudder running up his spine, Boyd pursed his lips as sweet Emily’s face drifted into his mind. Despite being the reason he was here in the first place, it was her he needed to find once back out. Sweet Emily. The woman with whom a future had seemed so perfect, just a few weeks before.

  He couldn’t blame her for what happened. It wasn’t as if she knew any better. While he’d come from a hard life, one where hard work was often in close company to hard playing, she had come from another world entirely. One where people did things the right way, living a life with words like morals and ethics resting firmly on their shoulders.

  They had met quite by accident only a few months before the screw-up, Emily’s car letting her down after a long day at the rescue shelter where she worked. Boyd happened to be driving past and stopped to offer a helping hand. That helping hand had first led to a drink later that evening, followed by dinner the very next day.

  A week later came the first kiss and it wasn’t long before they began calling themselves a couple. Things would have continued on if it hadn’t been for the invitation from one of his friends for a night on the town.

  He’d never been able to turn down an invitation to go drinking with friends and when Hal had asked him that fateful after
noon, he’d accepted. Emily had still been at work and he left her a note leaning against the flowers he’d given her the night before. It wasn’t long into the relationship that he discovered her weakness for flowers, the bunches always leading to what she liked to call “sweet stuff”.

  “You want some sweet stuff?” she’d asked that first time, leading him to the bedroom and giving him everything he’d ever imagined.

  But drinking with buddies was his own weakness and once out, didn’t hold back as they hit one bar after another. It wasn’t anything unusual, the night continuing until well into the morning, ending only when their wallets had finally been emptied. Despite knowing he was way too drunk to drive, Boyd had slipped behind the wheel of his pick-up anyway, positive he’d manage the dozen or so blocks in the quiet morning hours.

  It had been Emily he was thinking of as he drove, picturing her curled up in bed, her nakedness waiting for him beneath the sheets. Thats what his mind had been transfixed on as he drove, caught up in the moment as Emily’s bare breasts filled his mind. He never saw the kid on the bike, the crash at first sounding as if he’d maybe hit a deer or something. But this wasn’t Wisconsin. Deer didn’t run wild around the streets of San Diego.

  After slamming the brakes on and hopping out of the truck, he saw the horror of what he’d done. The bike the kid had been riding just moments before, was lying crumpled on the side of the road, the rolled-up newspapers lying scattered around it. But the kid wasn’t there, instead, still wedged under the truck, his hand somehow caught in the undercarriage. Boyd dropped to his belly and slid under, working his way as close to the kid as possible. But once he felt for a pulse and found none, he knew the consequences of his actions.

  That’s when the greatest bitch of all stepped in, the mother of all deceivers. Panic gripped him tight then, his mind lost in a torrent of what-if’s. Before he realized what he’d done, Boyd was back in the truck, driving down the road with the kid left lying beside his crinkled-up wreck.

  It was Emily that put two and two together, only too aware of his panicked state when he came in the door. Once she saw the damage to the truck and then, later in the day, heard the tragic news of the 14-year-old hit and run victim, she knew what the go was.

  Once Emily came home from work, it didn’t take long for the confession to fall from his lips in a flood of tears and rants. Somehow, she managed to calm him enough to see reason and by the time most people were sitting down for their evening meal, Boyd Tomlinson was walking into the local sheriff’s office. An hour later, he was taken into custody, processed and led to a cell. That was the beginning of a 7 month journey that would end with him transferred to Bolton Prison.

  Surprising him just the way she had all throughout their brief relationship, Emily remained by his side, going as far as to visit him the very day after his sentencing. He felt guilty for doubting her, expecting the conversation to turn to such words as “continue with life” and “it’s too long to wait”.

  But despite his 14-year sentence, nothing during that visit hinted at her making a break. Her promise to remain by his side had been affirmed by the steely resolve in her eyes. She was there to stay, regardless of how long things took.

  The woman who had once confided in him about losing her virginity to another woman because she needed to understand the other side, was as strong as she was pretty, her smile hiding one of the strongest hearts he’d ever know. But despite her promise of waiting the years needed until his release, there was one weak link in the chain that would ensure failure. While Emily may have been prepared to wait, Boyd was not.

  When the opportunity for escape presented itself, Boyd instantly knew what he needed to do. He also knew that if given the opportunity to drag his balls across a nest of fire ants, with Emily waiting on the other side, he would have taken it. The girl had worked herself into his heart and there was nothing that would keep him locked up for 14 years.

  He gripped the pillar tight, barely noticing the smoothness of the concrete beneath his fingers. It was his ears that were pricked, the heart beat in his chest loud enough to sound like drums. A light sweat had begun beading on his brow with each quick burst between hiding spots. He was sure they had him at the foot of the last set of stairs he descended in a few quick hops, but when he reached the bottom and listened, the distant footfalls were still high above him.

  Boyd looked around again and wondered just how deep the labyrinth went. What was he on now? The third level since he left the starting cage? It was difficult to tell, more so because he had no idea on what floor he started this crazy attempt at freedom.

  He peered towards the corridor again, positive it was the right way. He’d always had a good sense of direction and instincts were telling him that the dark exit ahead was the right way to go. As if for a final reassurance, Boyd looked briefly over his shoulder, made sure there was no-one following and started his run. Despite trying to step as gingerly as possible, light-footedness proved fruitless, his boots crunching debris on the concrete floor. Each step seemed to echo around him and he felt his pulse quicken, more so from his nerves than exertion.

  There was a distant rapport somewhere behind him, like a slamming door or something similar. It put an extra spring in his step, Boyd picking up the pace considerably. The initial sprint was only around 30 yards or so and he’d already covered more than half the distance. Shortly, the shadows in the new corridor would swallow him and he’d once again be hidden from those pursuing him.

  As he rounded the corner, relieved for the welcoming darkness, something bumped into his chest. At first he thought it may have been a protruding metal pipe or something. The walls in the previous corridors had bits and pieces hanging from the ceilings and walls. But the bump didn’t feel like that, not completely. There was something sharp that bit into him. A protruding nail of some kind?

  Time seemed to slow considerably as Boyd’s legs suddenly stopped propelling him forward, instead feeling numbed and unable to move. He looked down to make sense of it, but the darkness had already consumed him. Boyd slowly turned, to see if he could see the shadow of whatever had bumped into him, his hand slowly reaching up to where it had hit him.

  But instead of feeling his flat chest, something was sticking out of it. As his fingers felt the warmth of his blood seeping from the wound, a shadow slowly stepped from the darkness and moved into the doorway. Boyd tried to understand, his mind racing faster than the beating in his chest. The warmth of the blood flowed down his stomach as his mind confused what it was seeing. His legs felt awfully weak, suddenly collapsing beneath him. The shadow began to take the shape of a man; a man standing before him as Boyd kneeled, as if in worship. The lights suddenly came on, the shadows instantly pushed aside as Boyd looked down at the knife handle sticking out from his chest.

  The confusion of what he was seeing took hold as the man folded his arms, staring down and meeting Boyd’s gaze.

  “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen,” Boyd tried to say, but his words failed to take flight, instead caught in a gargle of blood and gore. As he finally fell forward, the man above him began to shout something, the words sounding distant and foreign. With the world fading into the darkness and the shadows returning to claim him once more, Boyd’s final thoughts were of Emily, hoping she would be there when he woke up. And as he took his final breath, that’s the one thing he was sure would happen.

  The world hung heavy across Lucy Denton’s shoulders as she turned the key in the door. The day had been a long one, just another in a long line of long days that lately, felt as if they would never end. But while she wasn’t a stranger to hard work and stress, it was the stress from recent events that had weighed heavy on her.

  The house seemed to scream its silence at her as she swung the door open, feeling more empty with Cooper in jail. Her only son, she’d raised him alone after his father had run out on the family when he was just 2.

  She set the shopping on the kitchen table, snapped the small television t
hat sat on the edge of the bench on and headed for the bedroom. Job one had always been to get out of the work uniform as quickly as possible and today, the act felt more urgent than ever before.

  She watched as an ad for a new Ford played out, then turned and headed for the bedroom. Dinner would be another simple TV dinner, her urge to cook having faded with each passing day after Cooper’s arrest.

  She listened to the television turn from the Ford ad to one from Coca Cola, as she slipped on her sweats. Once a plain t-shirt had been pulled over her head, she headed back out into the kitchen, grabbed one of the fresh microwave dinners and began to tear at the packaging. The singing on the TV filled the room, the crowd dancing their way through the commercial.

  She smiled as her mouth began to water at the thought of some cold Coke, the marketing team at the company once again winning the day. She went to the fridge after setting the microwave, grabbed the bottle sitting in the door and returned to the table with a small glass.

  As she began to unpack the rest of the shopping bag, the commercials ended and the channel returned to regular viewing, the six o’clock news bulletin’s familiar jingle kicking in. Lucy felt her chest tighten a bit, remembering when the same newsreader had announced the robbery Cooper had been involved in. She didn’t know it at the time, but the phone call had come later that very night, her boy arrested just a few short hours later.

  CHING! The microwave interrupted the news anchor just as she welcomed viewers to the bulletin, Lucy recognizing the warm smile as false hope. She knew the smile wouldn’t last, turning stern with the opening story, always something sad and gut-wrenching. She grabbed a towel, opened the microwave door and carefully pulled out a dinner she would never eat.