The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  “Right. Is that the CIA agent or the Marine talking?”

  He actually laughed. “I guess it’s both.”

  Singer stepped down to level with him and stared out at the scene — the pulsing lights and squad cars, the ambo crew slamming the back doors shut, two deputies talking in low tones between them while a third spoke into a walkie. “Ronnie Quinton and Karen Copeland,” he said. “The by-God city mayor. This is the craziest thing ever happened around here.”

  “I believe that,” Jude said. “Hell, it’s one of the craziest things I’ve seen.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m impressed or terrified by that.” The sheriff shook his head. “Looks like I owe you an apology, Mr. Wyland.”

  “No you don’t. I’d have been suspicious of me, too.”

  “Yeah, I do. An apology, and my thanks.” Singer held a hand out. “All this would’ve gotten a lot worse if you hadn’t stopped it.”

  Jude hesitated, and then gripped the sheriff’s hand. “You’re welcome.”

  “All right. Now, I need to go and arrest Teddy Armstrong.” Sheriff Singer grimaced, tipped a nod and touched the brim of his hat. “You leave that to me, hear? An old man’s gotta have something to do.”

  Jude raised both hands in surrender and grinned. “He’s all yours.”

  He watched the sheriff walk toward the squad cars as the ambulance took off with a spectral wail. They’d bring Danica to the hospital in Victory Falls, the place he meant to go before all this happened.

  Tomorrow, he thought he could finally make it there.

  Chapter 23

  The next morning, the motel desk had a package waiting for Jude — his car keys, wallet and P.I. badge, dropped off by Sheriff Singer. Apparently Quinton had kept them on him to use in whatever plans he’d had for Jude. He’d taken Lobo’s bike to Danica’s house, retrieved his car, and then called the sheriff’s station to have someone pick up the motorcycle so it wouldn’t be sitting there when Danica got home.

  Now he was packed and ready to go, but he had a phone call to make first. This time he didn’t have to use the DMV records to get the number. It was listed in the actual phone book the motel provided on the desk.

  Malcolm Gardner answered right away, as if he was expecting a call.

  “Hey, Air Force,” he said.

  “Marine. I’m glad you called — saves me the trouble of tracking you down.” Jude heard relief in the older man’s voice. “So you’re still alive, and Quinton’s in custody.”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “And Ms. Murray?”

  “She’ll make it,” he said. “Her aunt didn’t, though.”

  “Well, I’m real sorry to hear that.”

  “So was I.” Jude closed his eyes briefly. What they’d put Danica through was horrific, but he had a feeling she’d pull through. “Listen, I wanted to thank you again for what you did last night,” he said. “You went above and beyond.”

  Gardner laughed. “Me? All I did was put a sticker on some guy’s phone.”

  “That sticker probably saved my life. I wouldn’t have known they were coming after me.”

  “Something tells me you would’ve come out all right, even if you didn’t know,” Gardner said. “You saved a lot more lives than I did stopping that crazy son of a bitch. Quit being such a Marine and take a little credit.”

  That made him chuckle. “I’ll try,” he said. “So what’s your plan now?”

  “Well, I got in touch with a lawyer this morning, started the ball rolling on getting Martin Lunn out of prison. So there’s that,” Gardner said. “And now that Quinton’s gone, I’m thinking about running for mayor.”

  Jude snorted. “Good luck with that.”

  “What, you don’t think I can handle being in charge of a city?”

  “I think you’d make a lousy politician. You’re too honest.”

  “You may have a point.” Gardner paused, and then said, “What about you?”

  “Not sure yet. But this guy I know told me about a place called Stone’s Throw that isn’t on any maps. I’m thinking about checking it out,” he said with a slanted smile. “I hear the fishing’s pretty good there.”

  “You fish?”

  “No. But I can learn.”

  Gardner let out a laugh. “What about the P.I. license?”

  He’d actually given that more thought than he expected to. He didn’t want to open an office, have clients, get hired to catch people’s cheating spouses, research wills, or dig up dirt in custody cases. On the other hand, taking Quinton down felt like the first good thing he’d done in a long time.

  “I think I’ll keep it,” he finally said. “But I’m only taking missing persons cases, and not for just anybody.”

  “So you’re gonna be some kind of secret underground P.I.”

  “Yeah. I’ll meet clients and dark alleys, use code words and shit.”

  “I got one for you,” Gardner said. “Neon Fire Fly.”

  He frowned. “Kinda sounds like a guy wearing orange spandex, running around and saving the city.”

  “Uh, no,” Gardner said, nearly choking on a snort. “It’s a rare, antique fishing lure. Something you’d never hear in casual conversation.”

  “Got it.” He smirked. “Well, if you’re ever in Stone’s Throw and you need someone found, just ask for the Neon Fire Fly.”

  “I hope you’re not planning to wear orange spandex.”

  “Not anytime soon.”

  They said goodbye, and Jude ended the call feeling lighter than he had since he left the CIA. He had somewhere to go, and something to do. Maybe he’d even take up fishing.

  For now, it was time to make that twenty-minute drive.

  Jude stood against the wall in the hospital corridor next to room 225, hands shoved in his pockets. The door was ajar, and he could hear the steady, mechanical rise and fall of the breathing machine from inside.

  He couldn’t make himself go in.

  This was his second stop in the hospital. The first was to check on Danica, who was on the fourth floor in room 408. The nurses told him that the break in her leg had been clean, the bullet had only grazed her, and she would be discharged later today. He was glad to hear it. But she’d been sleeping when he stuck his head in the room, so he’d come down here thinking he would get this over with.

  That didn’t seem to be happening.

  He’d just decided to visit the cafeteria, grab a coffee and maybe try this again later when a familiar figure in a hospital gown rounded the corner of the hall. Danica was moving slowly, with a blue air cast on her left leg and a crutch tucked under her arm, but she smiled when she saw him.

  He walked toward her, shaking his head. “I have a feeling you’re not exactly supposed to be up and about right now,” he said.

  “Well, you know me. I’m stubborn.” She stopped, looked him up and down. “I have a feeling you should’ve checked in here with me last night. You look terrible.”

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  “I mean … you know what I mean.” She leaned on the crutch and tilted her head. “The nurses told me you were here,” she said.

  “Yeah. I was going to come back up when you were awake.”

  “I figured you would. But I knew there was someone else here you probably wanted to see, too.” She glanced past him to the slightly open door. “Your father’s in there?”

  He nodded. “Most of him, anyway.”

  “Jude…” Danica caught her lower lip with her teeth. “I remember the accident,” she said. “Horrible as it was, mostly I remember thinking how it just wasn’t fair. How you’d just lost your sister, and now your parents were gone too — but at least you knew what happened to them. Which didn’t seem like much of a comfort.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It wasn’t. At least not then.”

  “What about now?” She reached out and took his hand. “The way I felt when I didn’t know what happened to Sherry, it was awful. Indescribable. I can’t even imagine how much worse it mus
t be for you with Amy after all this time. But I know you, of all people, understand exactly what a gift you’ve given me by finding out … and I can’t thank you enough.”

  He managed a smile. “You’re welcome.”

  “I had another point, too,” she said. “I can see how hard it is for you to be here. But your father, you know what happened to him. Seeing him isn’t going to change that. The only thing it’s going to change is you, and I think the change will be positive.” She looked up at him. “You don’t have to feel guilty. It wasn’t your fault.”

  A tangle of nameless emotions rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. He took a moment to breathe past them. “Dad was in the Navy,” he said for some reason, not sure where he was going with this. “Always wanted me to enlist, but I ended up with the Marines instead. Do you think he’d approve of that?”

  “I think he’d be proud of you. I know I am.” Danica smiled and squeezed his hand. “If you want some company, I’ll go in with you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  With her hand in his, Jude walked back toward the door. This time he didn’t hesitate before he went in. He’d told Danica that she was still alive, still breathing, and she should keep it that way.

  Maybe now, he could start being alive too.

  Thanks for reading!

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  MORE BY THIS AUTHOR

  P.I. Jude Wyland Thrillers

  DEADLY MEASURES

  THE BLACK DIRECTIVE

  --Read on after the story for an exclusive preview of The Black Directive--

  House Phoenix (thriller series)

  BREAKING ANGEL | Book 1

  DEVIL RISING | Book 2

  TEMPTING JENNER | Book 3

  SHADOWS FALLING | Book 4

  WICKED ORIGINS | Stories & Novellas

  Standalone Thrillers

  WHAT SHE FORGOT

  THE LIFE SHE STOLE

  Preview: THE BLACK DIRECTIVE

  How far would you go to save a stranger’s child?

  Three years ago, former black ops agent Jude Wyland got the hell out of the CIA. So far out, they could never find him. Or so he thought…

  Today, the CIA deputy director is standing at his door with a mission he can’t refuse. One that dredges up the worst of his dark past and throws it in his face.

  A little girl has been kidnapped, and the clock is ticking. A group of mercenaries is involved in a twisted plot to buy the next election at any cost — including a child’s life.

  For Jude, this mission is about more than finding the girl. It’s about redemption, a chance to find closure for old wounds that have never healed. And he’ll do anything to save her…

  Even if it means working with the psychopath who killed his partner.

  PROLOGUE

  They called him Beast, because he never said no to a job. Even the fucked-up ones. A few years back, this whack job client wanted to hire someone to kill a guy mummy-style — while he was still alive. Cut him open and remove his internal organs, yank his brain out through his nose with a metal hook. Keep him screaming the whole time. And the client wanted it all on video. Some of the guys bet Beast he’d never do it.

  He’d won that bet.

  This new job almost rivaled live brain extracting in levels of screwed up, but it was a lot simpler. Kidnap a little girl from her bedroom. Bring her here, and do whatever the client said to her. So far the instructions had not been pleasant — and they’d only get worse. It was made clear that this kid was never going home.

  Not too many people would take a job like this, especially knowing the outcome. Beast didn’t give a damn. Long as the check cleared, it wasn’t his problem.

  The kid was in the next room right now, still bawling at full volume. Had been for hours. She had a set of lungs on her. Five years old, just as pretty as a picture. Well-spoken for such a young kid. And she did not like to follow directions.

  He finished his beer, crumpled the can and tossed it on the floor. It was training time.

  He grabbed his training materials on the way into the room.

  “Let me go home!” the little girl shrieked as soon as he stepped through the door. “I want to go home, I want my mommy and daddy! You’re a bad man!”

  “You’re right. I am,” he said cheerfully. The girl was sitting on a stained mattress, knees huddled to her chest, her wrists tied with rope. There was a wooden chair in front of the wall to the left of the mattress. He grabbed her around the waist and hauled her to the chair, ignoring the wild kicks from her small, bare feet, and plopped her down on the seat.

  “Take me home!” the little girl cried. “Take me—”

  “Shut up,” Beast growled, raising a muscled arm backhand-style.

  She understood that. She shut up.

  Beast knelt in front of her and took two more lengths of rope from his back pocket. “You kick me while I’m doing this, and I’ll break your legs,” he said. “You don’t need working legs to sit in that chair. Understand?”

  Her still silence said she understood.

  He tied her ankles one by one to the chair, drew a knife and cut the ropes from her wrists. “We’re going to play a little game now,” he said. “And we’re going to keep practicing until you get it right.” He pulled the rest of the materials over and set them beside the chair. “Pick that up,” he said.

  The kid looked at them. Fresh tears coursed from her eyes. “I don’t want to play this game,” she said in a small, shaking voice.

  “Pick it up. Now.”

  It took her a minute, and she dropped it a few times. But she managed.

  “Good. Now, hold it in front of you. Just like that.”

  “Please.” The little girl started sobbing faster. “I don’t like this game.”

  “Hold it and shut up.”

  She did. For a very long, shaking minute.

  “All right. You can let go.”

  She dropped the materials with a wrenching cry. Snot ran from her nose now, mingling with her tears. “Please, I don’t want to play anymore!” she wailed.

  “Shut. Up.”

  This time her reaction was faster, her silence more complete. He was pleased.

  “We have a message for your daddy,” Beast said with a sanguine grin. “And you’re going to send it, loud and clear.” He pointed to the materials. “Do it again.”

  Trembling all over, the little girl did as she was told.

  CHAPTER 1

  Clover Perkins looked positively alarmed when Jude came out of the back office with a battered tackle box in one hand and his keys in the other. “You’re leaving us?” she said. “Mr. Wyland—”

  “I told you, it’s Jude. Not mister anything. And yes, I’m headed out for a few hours,” he said, managing a slight smile as he closed the office door. It wasn’t really a smile kind of day, but sometimes he had to remind himself to do it anyway. To not scare the civilians. Because that’s what he was these days — one of them. “You two will be fine by yourselves.”

  There was a minor crashing sound, followed by a muffled ‘ow!’ from the front of the shop near the live bait coolers. Dale Jones, the other half of Jude’s summer staff, popped up with a frown, rubbing his head. “Hold on, sir. You’re leaving us alone?”

  “Jude,” he said firmly. “Not mister, definitely not sir.”

  Dale shot a look at his worried co-worker. “But we’ve only been doing this for a week,” he said. “What if something goes wrong?”

  “We don’t want to get fired,” Clover chimed in. “I mean, there’s not exactly a lot of summer jobs around here, you know?”

  Jude held back a smirk. Dale and Clover were good kids, far as he could tell from the short time he’d known them. They’d just finished their junior year of high school up in Sigma, the closest sizable town to this t
iny bump in the road on the north end of Back Bay. Stone’s Throw, Virginia, population 350 or so, had exactly eight businesses. Most of them, including Jude’s bait shop, catered to the slightly savvier tourist and outdoor crowd who’d done their homework on the best bass fishing in this part of the country. And all of them had already wrapped up their summer hiring.

  “You’ll be okay,” he finally said. “Look, the morning rush is over and it’s going to be slow here until dinner time. I won’t be gone that long. And I promise I won’t fire you.”

  Clover looked sour. “Not even if Dale sets something on fire?”

  “Come on, Clo. That was an accident, and it was in fourth grade,” Dale groaned. “Are you ever gonna drop it?”

  “No, I’m not. I worked for hours on that birdhouse.”

  “And it still looked like a pile of kindling,” Dale muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  “All right. I trust you both not to set anything on fire,” Jude said. “I’m leaving now.”

  Dale raised an eyebrow. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “Where does it look like?” He hefted the tackle box.

  “Oh. I didn’t know you fished.”

  Jude shrugged. Truth be told, he was a lousy fisherman. Mostly he wanted to get out on the bay as far from everything as he could, drink a few beers, and forget for a few hours. Forget what happened exactly three years ago today — the brutal, pointless event that had signified the beginning of the end of his life.

  Not something he talked about with the locals.

  He hadn’t taken two steps when he remembered something important. “Forgot my hat,” he said, turning on a heel to head back into the office. And my gun, he didn’t say out loud. The Beretta went with his side job, but he also didn’t feel right unless he was carrying.

  The door swung mostly closed behind him. He set the battered tackle box on the floor next to the equally battered desk, walked around to open the top drawer, and took out the holstered piece. As he strapped it in place and started looking for the stupid floppy hat that marked him as just another hobby fisherman, the muffled jingle of the bell over the front door reached him.