MYSTERY THRILLER DOUBLE PLAY BOX SET (Two full-length novels)

by Osborne, Jon

  Making it all the way down to the ground floor a few moments later, Claire lifted the gate there and exited the car before passing through what passed for the lobby of her apartment complex. Finally stepping outside onto the busy street and directly into the bracing wind that was whipping in hard off the boiling gray waters of Lake Erie a hundred yards away, she pulled her coat tighter around her slender body against the cold. Thankfully, her recently applied ponytail – painful as it might be – kept her hair firmly in place even in the powerful gale. Claire didn’t care how her hair looked; she just didn’t want it getting in her eyes, and she was willing to suffer a little bit of physical pain to ensure that. Nothing in this world more aggravating than rogue hairs finding their way into the corners of your mouth while you were trying to speak to somebody. Nothing more unprofessional-looking. Fifty feet away, her beloved 2005 Nissan Sentra sat waiting for her beside the curb like a knight in shining and extremely cost-conscious armor.

  Heading for it, Claire smiled at her modest vehicle, absolutely loving the way it looked. While she’d been attending college at Harvard during her senior year, she’d been absolutely mortified to drive the brand-new Bentley that her father had bought for her as a twenty-first birthday present. For a week or so, anyway. Hans Wexler was a great father – always had been ever since Claire had been just a little baby – but he’d never understood his daughter’s desire to live a more normal kind of life. “Why on earth wouldn’t you want to enjoy the life that your great-great-grandfather worked so hard to create for you?” he’d asked. “And why the heck would you want to be an FBI agent, of all things? Sounds like a pretty silly idea to me. A pretty dangerous one, too.”

  As she always did in those sorts of situations, Claire had simply rolled her eyes at her father’s befuddlement and had kissed him softly on his whiskered cheek before thanking him warmly for his generosity and proceeding to trade in the Bentley in favor of the Sentra at the first opportunity she got, refunding the substantial difference in price to him a few days later. “Well, you know I’m silly, Daddy,” she’d answered. “Always have been.”

  “And dangerous, too”’ he’d added.

  Claire had nodded at that. “And dangerous, too,” she’d agreed. What she hadn’t added was: “You just don’t know how dangerous I can be.” After all, she didn’t want the poor old guy losing any sleep at night wondering what in the world his sweet, innocent daughter might be up to when he wasn’t looking. Hans Wexler already suffered from enough insomnia as things were.

  Making it to her beloved vehicle a moment later while the wind continued to push back against her like an abusive boyfriend who hadn’t quite finished discussing all of the gory particulars of their stormy relationship yet, Claire switched off the Sentra’s security alarm with the keychain-control and slid behind the steering wheel. Pulling shut the driver’s-side door behind her against the chilly northeast Ohio weather that was turning her ears into icicles, she shook off the cold with a hard shiver and reached up to angle the rearview mirror toward herself, wanting to take just one last look at her appearance before she headed off to work.

  Claire lifted her heavy black eyeglasses onto the top of her head and rubbed the pad of her right index finger lightly across the small brown mouse that was sitting just underneath her left eye, wincing a little at the slight pain. As an amateur mixed martial arts practitioner who specialised in jiu-jitsu in her spare time while she wasn’t busy chasing down killers and various other dregs of society during the course of her professional duties, Claire had caught a straight left hand from an opponent in a local event the previous month and the bruise from the punch still hadn’t gone completely away yet. And a good thing, too. Much like her modest Sentra, Claire liked how the bruise looked. Loved how it looked, actually: another layer of her own kind of armor against a shallow world that had always placed far too much value in insignificant, skin-deep appearances.

  Claire smiled to herself remembering the punch, relishing the memory of the exquisite physical pain the left jab had caused. Although she’d lost her first two fights in fairly brutal fashion, the arm-bar in which she’d caught Misty Malvern during her last fight had brought on a quick tap-out from the other woman just thirty-four seconds into their bout, thus raising Claire’s record to a respectable four wins and two losses now. Claire was no Ronda Rousey, of course – not even close – but even if she wasn’t the best female MMA fighter on the entire planet (as the otherworldly talented Ms. Rousey had already claimed that title quite forcefully with a few tendon-tearing arm-bars of her own) Claire could hold her own when the conditions were right. And the conditions had been exactly right during her last bout. She didn’t know when she’d be fighting again, but she hoped it wouldn’t be too long. Much like being a special agent with the FBI, she found the thrill of participating in combat sports, well, downright thrilling.

  Just then, Claire’s iPhone sounded in her pocket, knocking her out of reverie just as efficiently as Sally Jansen’s devastating right cross had knocked her out during her very first MMA fight, leaving Claire dazed, bloody and lying face-down on the blood-splattered canvas, not even knowing what year it was. She shifted in her seat and dug out the phone before checking the name on the caller ID: Bill Krugman.

  She slid the digital answer bar at the bottom of the phone over to the right and placed the device against her left ear. “Wexler here.”

  “Agent Wexler,” Bill Krugman said, sounding just as impatient as he always did. “Where are you right now?”

  Claire placed her key into the Sentra’s ignition and lifted her left wrist to check her watch. A no-name, silver-plated contraption that she’d picked up for thirty bucks at the local Sears. She wasn’t in the business of conducting metallurgy tests, after all. She just needed to know what time it was every so often, and the inexpensive timepiece on her wrist did every bit as good a job in providing her with that information as a ridiculously pricey Rolex would have done. And Claire would know. She had three Rolexes stuffed into a desk drawer back at her parents’ summer place in Maryland. “Just leaving my apartment now, sir,” she said. “I’ll be over there in just about five minutes or so.”

  Claire breathed out deeply in satisfaction with the relaying of this information. Not unlike foregoing make-up each day, living downtown had its benefits time-wise. The FBI field office on Lakeshore Avenue was conveniently located just a mile and a half away from where she lived.

  “Good,” Krugman said, “because I want to get this briefing over with just as soon as humanly possible and I want you to get to work on this case immediately afterward. We don’t have a single second to spare here.” The Director paused. Then he cleared an obstruction from his throat and said, “So, tell me something, Agent Wexler.”

  Claire frowned, not liking the sound of her boss’s tone. Sounded downright ominous. ‘What’s that, sir?”

  Krugman exhaled heavily into the receiver on his end of the connection, tickling her left ear. “Are you ready for this, Claire? I mean, really ready for this? I know you’re fairly young and all, but this is a pretty big deal we’ve got going on here. The eyes of the entire world will be on you from the start. You should probably know that going in.”

  Claire leaned forward in her seat and turned the key in the Sentra’s ignition. The engine rumbled to life at once, purring like a contented tiger beneath the hood. And where was the great surprise in that? Much like watches, you didn’t need to spend a hundred thousand dollars to secure reliable transportation, either. The Sentra was proof positive of that much. “Yes, sir,” Claire said, slipping the vehicle into gear and pulling away from the curb before merging with the heavy morning traffic that was flowing down the busy street. “I’m ready for this. As a matter of fact, I was born ready for this.”

  Claire paused and hit her blinker. Checking her side-view mirror on the passenger side of the Sentra, she changed lanes and depressed the accelerator a little harder. Then, for good measure, she added, “And you should probably know
that going in, too.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Jack jerked awake with a panicked start the next morning, shocked right down to his very soul to find himself in his seedy motel room on the east side of Cleveland and feeling as though hundreds – if not millions – of cockroaches were crawling all over his tingling, bug-ridden skin.

  Jack bolted upright in his bed and slapped frantically at his arms and legs in a terrified effort to chase away all the non-existent insects swarming over his body, at the same time zipping his petrified gaze around the room. Gradually, he realized that he was safe. Not to mention bug-free. At least, safe for now.

  He breathed out a deep sigh of relief that deflated his chest completely while he tried desperately to control the hammering of his heart. Didn’t work. Not even a little bit. The goddamn thing felt like it was about to explode inside his chest cavity like a ripe tomato that had been left for too long in a microwave oven turned up full-blast before splattering against the opaque viewing window in pulpy streaks of red.

  Jesus Christ. He’d been dreaming that the FBI agents back in Queens had caught him. That they’d plucked him out of the manhole opening before dragging him downtown and kicking the living shit out of him in some dimly lit back room at NYPD Headquarters, concentrating on hammering their hard fists viciously and repeatedly against his ribcage and back so as to not alert the press to the illegal beating they’d just administered before gleefully parading their prize in front of the press during his perp walk while outraged members of the citizenry lined the streets, cursing his name and spitting directly into his face.

  Upon having exited the second manhole back in Queens, however, Jack had been stunned – not to mention downright grateful – to find himself standing in another long alleyway. A pair of homeless drunks had been snoring off their latest benders next to a dumpster there, but the smelly old sots hadn’t even twitched at Jack’s sudden appearance in the alley. Thank God for the little things. Added together, sometimes they amounted to the razor-thin margin between life and death. For both himself and others this time.

  Leaving the cover off the manhole in order to save precious time, he’d managed to make it down into the relative safety of the subway system ten minutes later, hearing the unwelcome and downright soul-freezing sounds of dozens of sirens wailing in the cold New York City air on just about every city block he’d crossed. From there, a hundred and ten bucks to the thoroughly disinterested clerk manning the disgustingly grimy booth at the Greyhound station ten miles away had secured his safe passage back to Cleveland.

  Jack had ridden all night with an obese Mexican woman resting her greasy head on his right shoulder and snoring loudly enough to drown out the sound of the bus’s groaning engine; unable to fall asleep himself until he’d finally made it out of the state that he’d never be returning to again. Unable to relax.

  Jack closed his eyes in his filthy room at the Manor Inn now and breathed out deeply in gratitude again. Skill was certainly nice to have, but you could never underestimate the value of just plain luck. And he’d gotten incredibly lucky back in New York City; even he knew that much. He’d need to be a lot more careful from here on out, though, that much was for sure. Not take any more stupid chances. But with Molly apparently enjoying her brand-new life with the Macklins these days – thoroughly unappreciative little brat that might make her now – he only needed to worry about himself going forward, which should make things infinitely easier on him from here on out. Still, Jack certainly didn’t represent the only person who should be worried about him now. Not by a long shot. Not on their fucking lives. They’d backed their hissing, spitting wildcat into a corner, true enough – temporarily, at least – but now they’d need to deal with the repercussions of that. The feds weren’t the only ones who could scratch, claw and bite, after all. And that’s something they’d just need to learn for themselves again the hard way very soon.

  Today, as a matter of fact.

  Jack glanced down at his left wrist and strained his eyes in an effort to read the face of his Timex watch in the darkened room. Wasn’t easy. As a matter of fact, it was damn near impossible to tell what time it was now with the heavy blackout curtains across the room that were blocking out the bright morning sunlight streaming down from the cloudless blue skies above just outside his ground-floor window.

  Jack refocused his vision some more, until he felt as though his eyes might cross with the effort. Finally, he figured it out. 8:15 a.m. A little later than he’d wanted to sleep, of course, but not too bad, all things considered. And exhausted or not – and he was supremely fucking exhausted at the moment, no denying that simple fact – it was time to get back to work. Time for him to execute Act Three in his beautifully written script.

  The final act before the real show began.

  Rolling off the uncomfortable mattress with a loud groan, he opened the curtains to let some light into the room and padded quickly across the dirty carpet in his bare feet, feeling crumbs and various other bits of nastiness sticking to the bottoms as he went.

  Making his way over to the scarred wooden desk that was sitting in the far corner of his filthy room, he unzipped his machinegun’s cushioned nylon case and extracted the sturdy weapon that he’d used to wreak havoc over at the movie theater in Rocky River just a few days prior, enjoying its heavy weight in his hands for a moment or two before reloading the machinegun with a fresh magazine for use in today’s mission. As always, Jack knew exactly what to do now. That recent horror-show back in Queens notwithstanding, meticulous planning meant that you were hardly ever caught unprepared. Act Three in his beautifully written script would begin with a little bit of breakfast. And a good thing, too, because he felt hungry again.

  Famished.

  Jack pressed his thin lips together in anticipation of what would come next, relishing the feeling of the calm before the storm that settled over his body like a heavy funeral shroud. He laughed out loud as the iconic jingle that he’d heard hundreds of times on TV and the radio played in his mind. He just couldn’t help himself. Once again, much as had been the case back at the movie theatre in Rocky River, this shit was funny to him.

  He sang the catchy jingle out loud to himself while he stood barefoot in the middle of his unsanitary room in an effort to gear himself up for the thoroughly exciting events of the day:

  “Ta-da-ta-ta-ta, I’m lovin’ it.”

  CHAPTER 29

  A thousand dollars cash – all in untraceable twenties, of course – secured Jack’s newest vehicle at the rear of the Manor Inn an hour later. And his fresh new ride was an absolute beauty, too – no two ways about it.

  With his trusty machinegun tucked and zippered into its padded case and slung safely over his left shoulder, Jack didn’t feel particularly intimidated even by the ferocious-looking black man in his mid-thirties who handed him the keys.

  Jack lifted his eyebrows at the man, not wanting to look like a complete nerd here and wanting to appear at least somewhat street-wise. Tough task to accomplish when you were a gangly teenager who hadn’t even started shaving yet and who barely tipped the scales at a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet if you were lucky, though. “You sure this thing isn’t hot?” Jack asked, knowing how dumb that sounded but also knowing that he needed to play the game here. People like this man standing in front of him weren’t like most other people in the world. They were more vicious, more predatory, smelled fear on others just as easily as a rabid dog that had just glimpsed a flash of bright red blood at a child’s pale-white throat before succumbing to the overwhelming instinct to attack. Still, no huge surprise there. That sort of brutal attack instinct had been bred into people like this man in much the way that aggression had always been bred into pit bull terriers. It was in their nature. In their blood.

  The black man – easily six-two or six-three and no doubt recently released from a long stretch in prison judging by the convicted-felon look about him – wore only scuffed and untied Uggs boots, dirty blue jeans with grimy black
streaks smeared deep into the thighs and a plain white wife-beater tank top that did a fine job of showcasing the rippling, tatted-up muscles in his bulging upper arms despite the freezing-cold weather outside. A member of the Crips street gang, according to what Jack could decipher from the elaborate ink. “If by hot you mean totally fucking awesome then, yeah, dude, it’s hot,” the black man said, screwing up his hard face and shaking his head impatiently. “As a matter of fact, Chrysler Sebrings are just about the hottest fucking cars on the market right now.” The man paused and laughed harshly. ‘My own personal black market, ya feel me? Anyway, you got any more cash on you, dude? Need anything else? I’ve got crank, coke, weapons… anything you need. Just name it. And if I ain’t got it, I’ll get it for you. Come to think of it, you should probably get yourself a heater if you’re gonna be walkin’ around this neighbourhood wearing that white skin of yours. I can hook you up with that.”

  Jack shrugged, trying to ignore the incessant crying of a baby that was coming from one of the ground-floor rooms at the Manor Inn. The ear-splitting cacophony hadn’t subsided the entire time he’d been outside and the kid sounded absolutely famished. Jesus fucking Christ. Somebody should just feed the poor thing already, if only to stop the ear-splitting noise.

  Jack shook his head quickly to chase away the thought, not wanting to get his mind off track here. The baby’s hunger wasn’t any of his concern. Much as he didn’t want anybody sticking their noses into his business, he wasn’t going to stick his nose into anybody else’s business, either. Made for a much smoother ride for everyone involved when you approached life that way. Live and let live. Die and let die. No judgments. No recriminations. No bullshit. Everybody had their own reasons for doing the things they did, no matter how horrible some of those things might seem at times. Hell, Jack knew that better than practically anybody else in the entire world. In any event, just as he’d never be returning to New York City again after what had happened there yesterday with Molly, he’d never be coming back to the Manor Inn following this purchase, either, so the current transaction taking place represented the only one that would be going down between the two. That being said, he certainly didn’t want his trading partner to know that. Gauging by the greedy look glittering in the man’s badly bloodshot brown eyes at the moment, it wasn’t very difficult to see that he was sizing Jack up for a quick strong-armed robbery right now.