Killers, Bikers & Freaks: A Walt Asher Florida Thriller (The Walt Asher Thriller Series Book 1)

by Andrew Allan

  I hooked a left into the neighborhood beyond Ilsa’s and parked about a hundred yards up. No movement from me. Birds called each other, from tree to tree. I sat and waited.

  The coast remained clear for five solid minutes. So, I got out and walked up to a dull one-story home, which I estimated was right behind Ilsa’s property. There was no car in the driveway. The house’s dated design and wood exterior indicated an early eighties build. Not my favorite era.

  I walked up to the front door and pulled my keys out of my pocket as if I were returning home. Like I was supposed to be there. I glanced over my shoulder again. No one was watching. I cut away from the front door and dashed around to the side of the house. The fence gate wasn’t locked so I went right in.

  Cutting across the backyard, I was happy to see no dog on patrol. That would have screwed things up. I walked over to the back of the yard and hopped the fence.

  I landed on the soft dirt and stayed down. A small creek trickled below me. The water rolled towards a thicket of kudzu overgrowth, which helped to divide this neighborhood from Ilsa’s. Her house was straight across the water. I could see her inside the house, puttering around. She didn’t have a clue her house was being watched. Maybe that was good. If those were the same guys who busted up my place at least they weren’t hurting her. Yet. Maybe I could sneak her out the backyard without them noticing.

  My next move was risky. If someone were watching the house from the creek, I’d walk right into their view. They’d signal the others and thugs would pounce from all directions. No thanks. I studied the creek. No sign of other watchers on either side of me. Large tropical foliage swayed in the breeze. Do it, Asher.

  I hopped the creek and landed with a thud on the far bank. From there, I made quick work of it; I scrambled up the bank, across Ilsa’s backyard, and up to the rear sliding glass door. I looked back in the direction I had come. No thugs, no pounce. I turned back to the glass door, shaded my eyes, and looked in. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright sun to the dark interior.

  Ilsa strolled through the living room looking occupied in thought. She had almost passed me by when she startled at seeing me out of the corner of her eye. She screamed. I gestured for her to keep quiet, then for her to hurry and open up. She let me in and started to speak. I put my hand over her mouth, then closed the door and pulled her down to the floor. I didn’t want to be seen.

  Whispering...“Three cars outside. All watching the house. I don’t know who they are but I’d feel a lot safer with you outta here,” I said.

  She looked at me with a procession of expressions – annoyed, confused, worried. She finally looked like she understood and I confirmed with a nod.

  “I’m parked in the next neighborhood over. What do you need to bring?”

  “Just my purse, I think.”

  “Get it and let’s go.”

  She nodded and started to stand. I pulled her back down. She got the message. She hunch-walked over to the front door and found her purse on a table in the foyer. She grabbed it by the strap and—

  The doorbell rang. She looked back at me worried. I dove into the kitchen and peeked back around the corner towards the front door. A shadow outside. I waved for Ilsa to get down. She did as the shadow cupped its hand up to the frosted glass window framing the door and peered inside. I ducked out of site, and snuck out through the other kitchen entrance. My heart pounded.

  Crawling through the living room I saw one of the men from the other night – gaunt, scruffy, hair with a homemade chop and a scar running from elbow to shoulder – walking along the side of the house towards the backyard. I hurried to the front of the house, until I could see Ilsa, holding still in the foyer.

  “Psst.”

  She looked my way. I pointed to the door implying someone was right there. I waved her towards me. She moved slowly and against the wall, careful not to make noise or any noticeable movements.

  I held her close and whispered.

  “There’s one in back.”

  She acknowledged then took the lead back towards the kitchen. We were almost there when we heard the slow whoosh of the rear slider door open. I peered around the corner.

  There was the man I had seen out the window. He stood with his head tilted back. Like he was smelling the air. Tall and skinny, but he vibed menace. He moved his hand over the kitchen counter and set down a small micro-syringe tipped glass capsule with golden liquid inside and a label with code letters wrapped around the outside. Just like the capsule I’d found at Ken’s. Connection. Proof. Worst suspicions confirmed. Anger bubbled up, but I couldn’t let it distract me.

  Something big was going on. And, they weren’t here to ask us questions. They were here to kill. The intruder pulled what looked like a small, homemade gun out of his pocket. It had a handle and a trigger – but with an open track on top, like a crossbow but without the bow string. He set the glass capsule inside the track, pressed it into place, and held the syringe gun up, ready to fire.

  I pulled back as he looked our way. Ilsa gripped my arm. Slow now...I looked into the kitchen and saw the heel of his scuffed work boot as he disappeared down the hallway leading to the foyer. Without looking back, I grabbed Ilsa’s arm and pulled her to follow.

  We crept through the kitchen. I listened for more of the intruder’s footsteps, to gauge his location. I could only hear the blood in my ears. Outdoor heat poured in through the open glass door. Our escape route. It was close. All we needed to do was sneak out and run like hell. Yes, I know I said this wasn’t a problem to solve by running away. But, knowing this operation went beyond these three yokels made it clear we had better to run and fight another day. Plus, I didn’t want Ilsa getting hurt. And, as willing to fight as I may have felt at the moment, I was nervous about taking on one guy. I was real worried about taking on three.

  A sound. A door unlocking. I peeked around the corner. The intruder opened the front door to let the other thugs into the house. We needed to run, now.

  I grabbed Ilsa’s wrist and pulled her. Quiet steps at first. But, then the front door opened. Another man walked in and saw us stepping out.

  “Hey!”

  The other thugs turned to follow his gaze. The scrawny man raised the syringe gun and fired. Glass shattered against the doorframe next to my head. Glass shards stung my skin. I pushed Ilsa out the door and we ran.

  “To the creek!” I said.

  We hauled ass. Ilsa knew where to go. Looking back, I saw one goon coming after us. The other two ran out the back door, then broke off and ran back to the front of the house. To their cars, I presumed.

  Ilsa staggered down the riverbank, hopped over with no hesitation, and landed on the far bank. The force of the landing slowed her momentum, so I decided to run right through the ankle-deep creek. Big mistake.

  My wet shoes slipped on the far bank and I slid back down, ankle deep in the creek. I scrambled to get up, but kept slipping, the soil turning to mud under my wet clothes. My heart thundered, fear crept in.

  Over my shoulder I could hear the scrawny thug’s approaching footsteps.

  Ilsa was at the top wanting to come down and help but worried about the man approaching.

  My hands found a knotty tree root jutting out of the soil. I grabbed it and pulled myself up. Still not enough. My feet kept slipping and I could only get so much leverage.

  The scrawny man landed on my back and knocked the air out of my lungs. We rolled down the bank and splashed on our backs into the creek. I landed on top and flipped myself over. I delivered three rabbit punches to the gut then pushed off to create space. The blows didn’t faze him. He got up and dove at me. I jumped out of his reach, but landed off-kilter on the riverbank and fell back into the water. It would look funny if someone wasn’t trying to kill me.

  The man grabbed a rock and slammed it down at my head. I rolled away in time, but not fast enough to dodge his follow up blow to the side of my neck. That hurt bad. I screamed rolled onto my back. He pounced. I ki
cked and connected with his gut. He lost his wind. His spittle laced my cheek. I shoved him off me and he tumbled into the creek.

  I found a rock bigger than his and threw it, feeling the pain in my neck as I extended my arm. The rock hit the side of his head after hitting the creek first. It was only a mild blow, but enough to buy me a couple of seconds.

  I grabbed a thick, wet log, raised it high, and slammed it down hard on him just as muddy water trickled into my eyes. I wiped them clear with my arm. As I blinked the last of the water away I saw his hand pulling a glass capsule from his pocket. No gun this time. He held the capsule stabbing style, ready for my next approach.

  So, I didn’t approach. I made another attempt to run up the riverbank. This time my shoes caught dry dirt and I got traction. Ilsa was straddling the privacy fence I had hopped earlier waving me up, It was a quick three step move from the top of the bank, to the fence, and over.

  “That way!” I said and pointed to the gate across the yard.

  Out the gate, around the house, and over to my car. She took the passenger side; I took the driver’s. I hadn’t locked the doors. We slid in. I reached in my pocket.

  No keys.

  I checked by the floor mats. Nothing. I opened my door and checked the pavement. No. I looked back towards the house and found them...twirling in the man’s hands.

  He sneered as he stalked towards the car, muddy and angry.

  “What? What’s--?” Ilsa saw him and gasped.

  The man raised the syringe gun in his other hand and fired.

  I ducked back into the car, forcing myself onto Ilsa’s side. The gearshift in the center of the console dug into my gut. I was too adrenalized to feel the pain. The syringe flew in with a whoosh and pierced the rubber coated steering wheel horn. Too close.

  The man staggered up to the car. I shot out like an NFL safety, shoulder aimed right at his belly. It knocked him flat on the pavement. I grabbed his hair with my left hand and cocked back my fist. He kneed my balls. I keeled over and felt the sun-soaked pavement hot against my face. He sprang up and landed astraddle of me.

  He fired off series of one-two punches to my gut that made me nauseous. I punched the side of his throat and he froze, shock on his face.

  I let go of the glass syringe and let it dangle from his throat. I had grabbed it on my way out of the car. It drained slowly but the poison acted fast.

  He gazed down at me, a terrible look. Disbelief and sadness. I wondered if Ken had the same dumbstruck expression when they poisoned him. I pushed him off me and he was dead by the time his head smacked against the pavement.

  No time to worry. I grabbed the keys off the street and ran to the car. Ilsa looked back at the body on the ground.

  “Is he dead?” Ilsa said as I started the car.

  “I hope so.” I wheeled the car around and drove us out of there. I swerved to avoid running over his legs. But, I didn’t swerve far enough. Thump, thump.

  The car raced through the idyllic suburbs that lined 22nd Street leading up to University Avenue, where I cut west towards Interstate 75. Ilsa and I didn’t say much the first few minutes of the drive; we were too busy checking the mirrors and catching our breath. And, we were in shock.

  Ilsa spoke first. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay with not being dead. Bruised to shit, otherwise.”

  “We need to call the police.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  A hand on my shoulder. “Someone just tried to kill you. Again.”

  “They tried, I succeeded. The heat will be more on me.”

  She started to speak but came up short.

  “Besides,” I said. “I’m not so sure the cops are going to help us with this.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a hunch these guys found me thanks to the Dunnellon Sheriff’s department.”

  “But, this is Gainesville.”

  “Look, Ilsa. Something big is going on. Nadine Evers, another one of Ken’s activist friends was killed last night. It’s in today’s paper. Whoever these guys are, they’re working for someone powerful enough to use killers to solve their problems and have the cops assist as needed. Like pretending Ken’s murder was a natural death.”

  I pulled on to I-75 and headed south towards Tampa.

  “Why are they trying to kill you? You’re not an activist!”

  “I found the body and I made my doubts known from the beginning. I’m a loose end and they can’t have that. And, now that I know they’re trying to kill me they won’t stop until I’m dead.”

  “So, I can presume they will probably kill me, too?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “If the police are involved, what can you do?”

  “Maybe the press. Once I have proof.”

  “Make the roaches scatter,” she said sly grin, which melted away to a worried grimace.

  She sighed and leaned back on the headrest. “I can’t go home, can I?”

  “No,” I said, gripping the steering wheel and pulling myself up in the seat. “Clearwater house is out, too. They’re probably watching it.”

  “And, probably all roads into Dunnellon.”

  “Think they’d be looking for us in your car?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Then let’s disappear until we know what to do next.”

  “Go west on Archer. I know a place.”

  I did as she commanded.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TWO HOURS LATER we were in a dive motel off U.S. 19 near Crystal River. To our relief, they took cash. I didn’t want our credit cards showing up on any tracking system. It sounded crazy. But, who knew what kind of reach the bad guys had? They had access to hired killers. They made a police department look the other way, or so it seemed. They might have had access to the different law enforcement agencies and therefore access to their toys—the kind of toys that find people in an instant.

  The room was a depressing tomb fashioned with cinderblock walls painted a bland baby blue, chunky brown curtains that looked like they’d accelerate a fire, and thin, brown indoor/outdoor carpet with cigarette burns in it. The place smelled like a damp ashtray and bathroom sanitizer.

  Ilsa tended to my wounds with some ice and first aid items she kept in a kit in her car trunk. To her credit, the kit also included whiskey, which we imbibed well beyond any doctor’s orders. With the edge off and the pain numbed, my mind cleared enough to start working out next steps.

  I needed to know two things: what did DG find out through his network, and what did Tom find out about the glass capsule? I’d seen the capsule’s lethal ingredients in action. Ingredients that surely killed Ken. There was no doubt about that now. It would be good to know what those ingredients were. Maybe they could be tracked down and that could provide a clue. I placed a call to DG. No answer.

  It wasn’t very late when Ilsa showed up with food - fried chicken and southern fixings from a nearby gas station.

  “Walt, I did some thinking. We need to leave.” Ilsa said.

  “Agreed. Crystal River’s a drag,” I said.

  “Listen to me. We need to leave the country. Things are only getting worse.”

  “But, I can’t fix anything if I’m thousands of miles away.”

  “You can’t fix things if you’re dead!” This wasn’t "worried" Ilsa anymore. This was Ilsa getting fired up and ready for battle. She wasn’t going to back down.

  “Ilsa...”

  “No, you listen. We can stay with my parents in Holland. We have some money to last for a while. We have friends there. You can even write from there. To not go there while this blows over is insane.”

  “What if it doesn’t blow over?”

  “We make a very nice life there. The key word is ‘life’. I’d be fine moving back.”

  “I can’t leave my kids.”

  “You won’t see them if you’re dead. Fly them over.”

  “Carol won’t let them go.”

  “Take them.�
��

  “That’s kidnapping,” I said. “Look, what if they’re willing to wait however long it takes to kill me? Running may not solve this.”

  She slumped onto the far corner of the bed. “I love you and I’m scared and I don’t want anything to happen to you...or me. Why is that not enough? Why can’t we just protect ourselves first and then deal with it?”

  Her logic was sound. But, I couldn’t stomach the idea of sitting back and hoping for the best. Even though I had very little idea what to do next. I just stared back at her.

  She opened the greasy bag and tossed over my food.

  “We’re going to Holland.”

  I caught the food but didn’t respond. We ate in silence. The food wasn’t fancy, wasn’t hot, and wasn’t delicious. But, it worked. Once fed, the exhaustion overtook us and we conked out hard.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I WOKE UP thirteen hours later. The shower rejuvenated my wherewithal, but I felt like I was wrapped in one giant, swollen bruise. It hurt to move my body. I dried off with the kind of crispy crunchy, paper-thin bath towels these types of motels were famous for as I checked out the massive bruise spreading across my neck and chest. It matched the bruises on my arms.

  Ilsa didn’t stir when I sat down on the bed next to her. Now dressed, I dialed DG and got him on the line.

  “DG, it’s Walt.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “More of the same.”

  “And, you’re not dead? I’m impressed. These are some bad dudes you’re messing with.”

  “What’d you learn?”

  “I learned you’re wanted for murder.”

  I went cold.

  I looked over at Ilsa, perhaps wondering if she’d heard the news. “It’s in the papers. Police are after you,” said DG.

  “Donnie, that guy tried to kill me. It was self defense.”

  “Don’t worry. I know you’re not the killing type.”

  This was bad. Now, I couldn’t go to the cops or the press. Flying to Europe was the better option. But, they’d grab us before we got on the plane.