The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  The mention of Jake, the backstabbing little weasel, galvanized me into action. I grunted something that was close to yes and took a definitive step away, down the aisle toward the bathrooms. “Look, I really have to hit the head,” I told him. “Good catching up with you.”

  “Oh, sorry. No problem,” he said as he moved back to give me a little more room. “I was just going to grab a drink for the road, but I’m not really in a hurry. We can talk more when you’re done. I mean, how crazy is this, bumping into each other way the hell out here?”

  I detected a bright, almost manic thread running through his cheerful tone, and found myself wondering if his memories of that week in New Heights were the same as mine. He seemed desperate to claim me as a long-lost friend. Maybe he didn’t have many of those.

  He’d probably act the same way if he ran into Jake, or even that psychopath Clemente kid who didn’t speak to anybody and spent most of his time sitting in a corner, tearing napkins he’d filched from the cafeteria into tiny pieces and swallowing them one by one.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I managed. “Excuse me.”

  As I headed down the aisle, I hoped Donnie-boy would decide to continue on his way before I was finished. I was definitely getting a mentally unhinged vibe from the guy that I didn’t like at all.

  A shiver of unease gripped me as I walked into the bathroom and pulled the door shut.

  The restroom was bigger than it looked from the outside. Four urinals, three stalls, and a closed door at the back across from the larger handicapped stall with a hand-lettered sign that read Showers $5 for 5 minutes, $1 per additional minutes. More highway robbery. Still, as I cozied up to a urinal and unzipped, I briefly considered paying for the privilege. I wouldn’t mind a hot shower right about now, and a few hours of sleep on top of it.

  But I couldn’t have that yet. No rest for the wicked.

  I was washing my hands at the middle of three sinks, idly wondering what kind of astronomical odds there were that I’d run into some kid I sort of knew from juvie who happened to be a dead ringer for me, at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere, when that grating door chime from the gas pump side went off. The people who worked here really had to hate that thing.

  Then I heard a male voice shouting, the sounds of a scuffle, a muted crash. And a woman’s scream.

  The crack of a gunshot ended the scream, and I knew exactly what was happening.

  Nicky’s thugs were here.

  Goddamn it, how? I wanted to shout, but there was no time to question. However it happened, they were here, and I had to deal with it. I palmed the Shield, knowing exactly how many shots I had — a fresh clip of eight, plus one in the chamber. I wasn’t sure how many guys were in the black sedan that had been following me, but it couldn’t possibly be more than the number of bullets I had. Five men, tops.

  I pushed the restroom door open and whipped through gun-first. The aisle leading to the truck-side entrance was clear, but I heard more shouting and crashes. Another gunshot. “There he is!” the same male voice I’d heard before bellowed.

  “Hey, what the hell?” a different voice called. That one belonged to Donnie. “I don’t—”

  Two more shots rang out, silencing him, and I went cold with realization.

  Nicky’s dumb goons must have mistaken him for me.

  Now I’d have to kill those assholes, before they found out they were wrong.

  I crept along the aisle, keeping low, and popped up when I got near the end. The first thing I saw was the goon in the suit standing near the end of the counter, just out of sight of the aisle I was occupying. He wasn’t looking in my direction — his attention was on whatever was happening in the far aisle. Behind him, the cashier sat sprawled on the floor, her back against the cabinets full of cigarette cartons across from the counter. She’d died in wide-eyed shock, as if she was trying desperately to understand the sudden hole that had been punched through her forehead.

  I took the goon out with a headshot before he even knew I was there and called it revenge for the cashier, who hadn’t deserved to be gunned down just for having to work this shitty job.

  The instant I fired, the male voice I’d heard before snarled, “What the hell? Danny, the fuck are you shooting at?”

  I had a feeling Danny couldn’t answer him, so I rushed around the corner at a crouch and stepped over the body, headed toward the shouting.

  The owner of the voice circled the last aisle and stepped toward the counter, and I recognized him as Nicky’s right-hand man. He caught sight of me and stopped with a whole-body flinch. His jaw dropped, and his heavyset features blanched. “I … you,” he spluttered.

  “Yeah. Me,” I agreed, and shot him three times. Mostly because I was pissed that he wasn’t Nicky. Right now, I really wanted to kill that son of a bitch, simply for believing I could’ve ever done anything like what happened to his girlfriend, and subsequently causing this clusterfuck. But he wouldn’t have come after me himself. He was busy running a mafia family and making false accusations.

  I never killed people unless I was getting paid, but I’d have done Nicky for free.

  Silence filled the store, broken only by the low hum of the coolers that lined the wall of the far aisle. “Anybody else in here?” I called.

  A sputtering cough responded, and a voice rasped, “Help … been shot.”

  Shit. My doppelganger was still alive.

  Though it was unlikely I’d be able to risk saving him now that he knew I’d killed two men, I’d probably try anyway. I headed for the cooler aisle where the weak cry had come from. Two bodies on the floor — one dead, the other headed there fast. The dead one was closest, dressed in blue coveralls with the name Henry stitched on the breast pocket. He must’ve been the driver of the tow truck at the diesel pumps.

  Just beyond him was Donnie from New Heights. He’d been shot twice in the gut. Even if I called for help, he’d never make it.

  But if Nicky’s idiot goons hadn’t been after me, he would’ve been fine.

  My stomach rolled in sympathy as I stepped over the tow truck driver’s body and crouched next to the dying man. “Ambulance is on the way,” I told him, knowing it was probably true. No doubt one or more of the truckers outside in the lot had punched up 911 the instant the gunfire started, so whatever I was going to do here, I had to make it fast. “Just take it easy.”

  He flashed a wan smile as blood dripped from his mouth. “Too late,” he rasped, and then started coughing again. It lasted for a long time. When he stopped, his eyes cleared briefly and he looked at me.

  His bloodied lips stretched wider.

  “One way … or another,” he grated. “Marco.”

  Oh, so he suddenly knew my name. And what the hell did that mean?

  Before I could ask him, his eyes rolled back, and the last breath rattled out of him.

  “Jesus, you morons,” I seethed as I shot to my feet and forced a hand through my hair, glancing around at the bodies. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  The morons, being dead, failed to speak in their own defense.

  Though I was sickened and horrified that all these people had died because Nicky’s dumbass employees shot first and asked questions never, part of me realized I’d been handed an unexpected opportunity with an extremely narrow window. Before I’d really thought the whole thing through, I found myself going through my lookalike’s pockets, grabbing keys, phone, and wallet. I transferred the items into my coat, then took out my wallet and phone. The three hundred in cash from my wallet went into my jeans pocket, and I tucked my belongings into Donnie’s jacket.

  Finally, I wiped my gun thoroughly on my shirt and put it in his hand. I knew that would cover it. Movies and cop shows suggested that in a scenario like this, some sharp-eyed team with diverse personalities would descend upon the scene of the multiple homicide and comb everything for evidence, carefully identifying each body with fingerprints and DNA and all manner of exhaustive tests, until they uncovered a mystery that ne
eded to be solved — for example, this dead guy was actually someone else. Cue dramatic music and half an hour of chasing leads to the shocking Big Reveal at the end.

  But in real life, they wouldn’t do any more investigating than they had to. The body had my ID and the keys to the car outside that was registered to me. Therefore, this dead man was Marco Lumachi, alleged hitman — they’d never been able to stick any charges to me in the city, even though I’d been under suspicion a few times — who’d apparently killed two mobsters before dying of gutshot. Case closed.

  That scenario actually made more sense than the truth.

  The next step was to grab a few supplies and get out of here. I helped myself to a plastic bag from behind the counter and filled it with a six-pack of Coors, three bottles of water, and a bunch of beef jerky and snack cakes on the way through.

  Just before I stepped out, I palmed my doppelganger’s keys and pasted an expression of shock and fear on my face. Then I scuttled outside, making a beeline toward the SUV at the diesel pumps like it belonged to me. I jumped into the driver’s side, tossed the bag on the passenger seat, and started the engine with a hard twist, peeling away from the pumps.

  “Vaya con dios,” I murmured as I drove around the building, floored the gas toward the mouth of the parking lot and swung a right onto the road, barely stopping to check for traffic. The highway onramp headed north was only about five hundred feet from the truck stop. I slowed, signaled, and made an easier turn onto the ramp.

  As I sped into the merge on the highway, sirens sounded from somewhere behind me, and I caught distant flashes of blue and red in the rearview mirror. The emergency vehicles banked to the right about a mile back, taking the exit I’d just barely left behind, and momentary relief slowed the hammer of my heart.

  I’d drive to the next rest stop, and then pull over and figure out exactly where in Vermont I’d been headed on vacation before I was so rudely murdered at a gas station.

  KILL SWITCH is now available from Amazon and Kindle Unlimited. Click or tap here to get your copy!

  Bonus novella: A prequel to THE BLACK DIRECTIVE, a P.I. Jude Wyland crime thriller.

  After the violent death of his partner drove him out of the CIA, former black ops agent Jude Wyland is struggling to return to civilian life. Opportunity knocks when an old high school friend learns about his past and asks for his help finding her aunt.

  Problem is, the aunt isn't actually missing. But Jude's friend believes the woman who came back from a two-month work leave isn't the same one who left -- and something terrible happened to her real aunt.

  It turns out she may be right. And the deeper Jude digs, the more he uncovers an elaborate scheme with devastating consequences for the people in his hometown.

  A scheme that someone is taking deadly measures to protect.

  Chapter 1

  Coming home had been a mistake.

  Jude Wyland sat alone in a darkened back corner of Winchester’s Pool Hall, working on his lost-count-how-many beer of the night. This place had been the high school hangout for kids in Providence Forge, Virginia, back when he’d been one of them. Used to serve a lot more soda and snacks than alcohol and peanuts. But it looked like the clientele had aged along with the place — no teens here tonight. Mostly thirty-somethings like him, plenty of faces he vaguely recognized from school. And none he had any desire to talk to.

  He wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered going out, other than this place was a block away from the town’s only motel where he was staying and he wanted to eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine. Didn’t take long to remember that a Winchester’s burger wasn’t much of a step up from stale chips. At least it’d been hot, and the beer was cold.

  Now it was going on ten. Not what you might call late, but no matter when he went to bed, he’d be up at six tomorrow morning. After four years in the Marines and nine in the CIA, rising early was an impossible habit to break. Time to call it a night.

  He was actually grateful none of his old classmates had recognized him. Any conversation would’ve led to questions or condolences about the double tragedy at the end of senior year that’d driven him away from this place. The last thing he wanted to talk about right now.

  Tomorrow morning, he’d get up and try again to face the last part that was still around here. The reason he’d come back.

  Not that his father would ever know he’d been here.

  He drained the last of his warming beer, dropped a ten on the table for the waitress who’d kept bringing him fresh bottles, and wove his way through the crowd to the back door. He’d walked over from the motel situated on County Route 95, the road across the culvert behind the back parking lot of Winchester’s. The Forge Motel was the last stop on 95 headed to Victory Falls, the nearest ‘big’ town that served three surrounding municipalities, including Providence Forge. The schools were in Victory Falls. So was the hospital.

  Twenty minutes away, and it was going to feel like the longest damned drive of his life. If he could ever convince himself to take it.

  Outside, the parking lot had filled up considerably since Jude arrived. A typical Virginia mix of pickup trucks, SUVs and midsized sedans, heavy on the pickups.

  Not so typical were the raised voices coming from the back right corner of the lot.

  “Let go of me, Dylan!” A female, mostly annoyed with an undercurrent of worry. “One of you assholes take him home. He’s drunk.”

  Male laughter responded. More than one man.

  Jude was already moving toward the fight.

  There was a buckling sound, like someone getting off the hood of a car. “Come on, honey. I ain’t gotta be sober to enjoy you.” Male, definitely drunk. He could see the tops of a few heads now, three of them grouped in a rough circle in front of a dark green Civic. A little closer and he made out the woman in the middle trying to get around the man right in front of the car. The one who must’ve been sitting on the hood. Probably her car, and they were keeping her from leaving.

  He recognized the woman and two of the guys. In fact, she was one of the few people in this town he might’ve talked to, if he’d seen her inside.

  But this wasn’t a good time to talk. Dylan McCabe, who’d been just as much of an asshole in high school as he apparently was now, had grabbed her wrist and half-perched back on the hood, trying to pull her into his lap.

  Jude stepped out into the small clearing. “Pretty sure she told you to let go, buddy,” he said. “You should probably listen to her.”

  Four faces swiveled in his direction. Three drunken leers, one shocked blink. The instant he finished speaking, the woman twisted from Dylan’s grasp and took a rapid step back. “Get the hell off my car,” she breathed. “Right now.”

  “Hang on. Just hang on a sec.” Dylan’s leer turned into a broad, predatory grin. “Do we have ourselves a hero, right here at Winchester’s?”

  “Dylan, don’t.”

  The woman tried to stop him as he straightened, but he brushed her away and moved toward Jude. His buddies were right behind him. They were all at what he called the 2-F stage of plastered. The only things that interested them were fucking and fighting, and they’d take either one.

  “You lost or something, man?” Dylan stopped maybe five feet from him. Beyond him, the woman had gotten in her car and was on her cell phone. “You’re not from town. So maybe you’re here on business,” he said in a mocking tone. “If you are, lemme tell ya — this ain’t none of yours.”

  Jude managed not to roll his eyes. Great, a witty drunk. “Look, either go home or back inside. I don’t give a damn,” he said. “Just lay off the lady.”

  One of his pals — Brent somebody, the other man he vaguely remembered — was looking at him with drunken speculation. “I know you, don’t I?” he said, and elbowed Dylan. “Dude, he went to VF. That’s … uh, Jeremy? Jeremy Wyland.”

  Dylan blinked, and his grin widened suddenly. “Nah, man, that’s Jeremy’s little brother. Jude.” He ey
ed him slowly. “Your brother was a dick,” he said, one hand clenching into a fist. “And you’re a little snotrag wuss.”

  Jude didn’t even have to move particularly fast to dodge the blow. Dylan stumbled when his fist failed to connect, and Jude stepped back with his hands raised. “You don’t want to get into this,” he said. “Just back off.”

  Dylan straightened with a deep red flush staining the back of his neck. All at once, he looked a lot more sober. “Oh, we’re gonna wipe the ground with you, little fucker,” he said, jerking his head at the other two. “Kick his ass.”

  Jude sighed and loosened his stance. “Fine. I tried to warn you.”

  There was a senseless roar as Dylan charged him. He dropped low and popped him twice in the gut, just hard enough to wind him and double him over. A swing from Brent passed over his head, and he came up with a fist to the man’s jaw.

  As Brent spun away, the third guy slid a glancing blow across his ribs. He grabbed the guy’s wrist, twisted his arm back and throat-punched him.

  While Good Ol’ Boy Three gagged and clawed at his windpipe, Dylan drove at Jude, rammed his thick skull into his stomach. He pushed out the breath, resisting the natural urge to gasp, and brought an elbow down hard between Dylan’s shoulders, spiking him onto the pavement.

  That left Brent. Three quick rabbit punches dropped him to his knees, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.

  Jude stepped back and glanced toward the green sedan, where the woman stood on the opposite side watching with her lips parted in shock. Just as she met his gaze, the ghostly wail of sirens filled the air, followed in short order by flashing blue and red.

  He groaned. “Great. You called the cops?”

  “I, um…” The woman swallowed once. “There’s three of them,” she said. “They were going to … uh, holy shit.”

  “Well, it won’t matter to the cops. I’m still standing, and I’m not local. That’s going to make it my fault.” He flashed a rueful smirk and ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks, Danica,” he said. “Next time maybe don’t help me.”