Not Forgiven: A Thriller and Suspense Novel: Ungoverned Series

by Shawn Raiford

Creed held out the cell phone, hitting the speakerphone.

  "The total number of deceased is unknown, ambulances have taken a few of the injured away, but if I had to guess, five or six deceased here on scene. At least twice that number are injured," Officer Varney informed us. "Shit! It's chaos here."

  Mitch could hear people shouting and crying, along with a siren, in the background. "Do you have any of the names of victims yet?"

  "No, I don't. Like I said it's chaotic here."

  He wondered why there was a drive-by in that part of town and at that time of day. Being a cop for so long, Mitch did not believe in coincidence. The murder and this drive-by were related, maybe. The drive-by could be related to Chloe, not Sarah. He had to be patient, and not jump to any conclusions. "Anything else you want to report?"

  "Yeah, a witness, one I just spoke to, said that an armed blonde female, fired back at the shooters. But nobody is sure if she killed any of them because the car drove off."

  "It could be Chloe."

  Creed nodded, his lips formed a thin line.

  "Any video surfacing yet?" Mitch asked.

  "Sorry, I guess I should have led off with that, sir. Yes, there are two witnesses that recorded the shooting with their phones, but I have not seen the video yet."

  Good.

  Mitch looked at the cell phone. "You got the witnesses there?"

  "Well, yes, they are still here," he said, continuing, "but I have the videos that they recorded."

  Mitch's brow furrowed. "You have the recordings? Where?"

  "On my phone. They offered to email the videos to me and I told them yes, figured it couldn't hurt. I can email them to you now if you want them?"

  "Yes, please send it to me," Creed said.

  Varney said he already had Creed's email address. A few seconds passed.

  "Alright, Stuart we are almost there."

  "Okay."

  Creed received the video, however, his phone wouldn't show the video.

  After parking a block from the crime scene, they threaded through the crowd and camera crews. It still boggled his mind how reporters and news vans got to crime scenes so fast.

  All the news agencies were here.

  Creed and Mitch kept their heads down, angling forward. They approached Officer Varney, who stood outside yellow-crime scene tape.

  Creed shook the young officer's hand. "This is my partner, Mitch Mason."

  Varney nodded at Mitch and shook his hand.

  "Show us the video," Mitch told him. "His phone crapped out, we haven't seen it yet."

  Stuart whipped his phone out, got the video started and handed it over to Creed.

  He held the phone at an angle so Mitch could see the phone's screen too. A small boy, about three years old, fed pigeons by tossing pieces of bread. The person recording, in all probability the boy's father, told him not to throw the bread too far.

  Another little boy, younger, got free of a woman's grasp, probably his mother, and ran, grinning ear to ear, into the middle of the pigeons. Half the birds flew off, and half swooped and came back to reclaim the sidewalk, undeterred in obtaining free food.

  Mitch glimpsed Sarah on the other side of the street. Her son sat next to her. He had met the little boy only a few hours ago at her house.

  The young boy in the video kept running, making another pass into the birds.

  Gunfire erupted in the background.

  The video dipped, showing the sidewalk. The father of the boy yelled at the mother to grab their son. A lot of shouting and screaming.

  A few seconds went by then the video showed the wife and boy entering the building behind him.

  The camera focused on the street, stopping on a black Mercedes, occupied by men in dark sweaters or hoodies firing handguns into the crowd on the opposite side of the street.

  "Oh my God!" said the man filming.

  It was tough to see, yet he spotted a couple of guys in the back seat. A muzzle flash on the driver's side of the car was bright.

  He no longer could see Sarah.

  Then more gunfire from the right of screen.

  The guy recording ducked behind a garbage can and kept filming, panning right. A blonde woman, wearing sunglasses, wore a black jacket, pistols gripped in each hand, fired at the shooters.

  Mitch showed Creed his teeth in a smile, signaling that he recognized this woman. Her sunglasses and blonde locks blocked her face very well. For the first time, Mitch watched Chloe in action. More than once, he'd wondered how it would be to catch a glimpse of her in action, and the few seconds of video impressed him tremendously.

  Calm as a Buddhist monk as she fired at the shooters.

  The camera shifted then righted. "Look at her go!" said the guy filming.

  Mitch nodded. "I am!"

  Creed sighed.

  The filmer whispered, "I hope she kills them fuckers!"

  Mitch believed that when this video hit the internet that everyone would agree with that man. The firing from the Mercedes stopped completely—Chloe moved forward, firing.

  Mitch would have not believed this if he had not seen it with his own eyes.

  Stuart stepped away to tell a person with a news camera to back up. The cameraman tried to argue, but the uniformed officer did not want to hear any of it, threatening to arrest him.

  Mitch paused the video, leaning in closer to Creed. "That is Chloe but no one can tell."

  Creed pressed his lips together, making a line across his face, and whispered, "Yeah, that's her. I was the one who told her to help Sarah."

  Mitch stuck a finger in his partner's face. "Stop that! It isn't your fault, not Chloe's either. She is a goddamn heroine! She saved lives today!"

  "Alright. Who do you think they will give this case to?"

  Since this part of town was not located within their precinct, the case would go to other inspectors. They would not be able to identify her. Even if they did, would other inspectors really want to find her?

  "Not sure, but we can find out after this."

  They continued watching the video.

  He watched as Chloe moved forward until she ran out of bullets. With the white cracks, covering the windshield, it was impossible to see inside the car.

  While she, faster than Mitch could, racked in new magazines into each firearm. The Mercedes moved forward, coming at the camera (the guy recording did not flinch) crashing into a couple of parked cars.

  Chloe stood there in the middle of Grey Street.

  Eventually, a Hispanic man got out of the back driver's-side door. Bloodied, he couldn't raise the pistol. Two shots went into the street.

  Chloe did not flinch.

  Creed's eyes narrowed.

  She continued walking forward.

  The Hispanic guy jumped back in the car. Someone shouted something inaudible inside the Mercedes.

  Creed sighed. "I bet forensics could clean that up."

  Mitch agreed.

  Someone tried to start the car multiple times before the thing finally started.

  Chloe walked past the driver's door. He thought she would have not passed up a chance to put a bullet into that guy, but she didn't. Why?

  She walked around the back door and shot three times, assuredly hitting the guy that jumped back inside. Mitch couldn't see him though.

  Next, she reached around to her backside as if scratching her butt. Then Chloe leaned in, however Mitch couldn't see through the windshield, so he could not tell if she did anything significant.

  The car drove off.

  "What did she do there?"

  "It looked like she scratched her butt."

  Mitch didn't think she did that. "Maybe she reached for something in her back pocket?"

  His partner turned, facing him. "What could it be, she's holding a pistol."

  "Not sure, I'm just glad she can't be identified."

  "Yeah."

  The video showed the drive-by car leaving the scene. Then the video panned back and showed the crowd. People were runn
ing around, women and children were screaming and crying. Chloe could not be seen. The video ended a minute later.

  They walked over to Officer Varney. Creed handed his cell phone back to him.

  "We'd like to look at the bodies."

  Stuart said, "Ambulances arrived on scene fast. They've taken all the bodies to the hospital."

  Creed turned and spoke with the officer but something caught Mitch's attention.

  They stood outside a restaurant with a huge opened window. A TV was turned to CNN. The talking heads were pontificating about what happened. An anti-gun spokesperson called for more gun control. Mitch dropped his head. More control was always the answer from both sides of the fence. No one could protect themselves these days—everyone needed protection from the bad guys by the ever growing government. The pussification of this country is disgusting, he thought.

  Mitch turned to Creed and the officer. "Whose case is this?"

  Officer Varney pointed at two suits. "Theirs."

  He recognized one of them. Mitch walked up to them. "Hey, Reid."

  Both men turned. Inspectors Lou Reid and William Nelson. Reid stood at six foot tall, and looked around Mitch's age, a year or two under forty. Nelson was older, about fifty, and big, six-three and almost 300 pounds.

  "Hey Mitch, how you been?" Reid stuck his hand out.

  Mitch accepted it. "I have been better, you two catch this one?"

  "This is my partner, William Nelson."

  Mitch grabbed Nelson's meaty paw. "Nelson."

  "Mason, good to meet you," William said.

  "This is my partner, Henry Creed."

  Creed shook hands with Reid and Nelson.

  "We got the introductions over with, why you guys here?" Reid asked.

  "What's the body count?"

  "The official total dead is nine. So far, there are two men, four women, three children dead. "

  Creed took a step forward. "You got a female vic, Sarah Jennings?"

  William checked his notepad. "Yes, and a little boy that we think is her son."

  "Damn it!" Creed walked off.

  Reid jutted his chin at Creed. "Friends or relation?"

  "Yes. Friends. He knew her and her husband and their two boys. How old is the boy?"

  "Toddler."

  He nodded. "His name is Timothy Jennings, and the husband is Brendan Jennings."

  Nelson wrote in his notepad.

  Mitch also gave them Brendan's phone number. "Sarah is our witness in a body dump early this morning. She's a friend of my partner and his wife." Mitch explained the rest.

  Reid put his hands in his pockets. "We solve this case we might just solve your case."

  Mitch liked Reid. Though he acted a little cocky at times, he was a team player. "If you get anything you let me know?"

  Reid pointed at his partner. "What you think?"

  William responded, "You don't worry about it. This is your case. We will let you know what we find. But you send us anything that might help. Like you said, we solve one case it might solve the other case."

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Retarded Cunt Calls Me A Bitch

  I entered the storage unit, one of many I had all over Houston.

  Shutting the door behind me, I flipped on the lights. This storage space, my main supply room, I used as my office and base of operations. Trunks stacked up against the back wall. To the right boxes of stage makeup and brushes sat on the floor under the clothes rack. Next to the clothes rack were shoeboxes containing high heels, tennis shoes, and work boots. A box of MRE's (meal ready to eat) and bottled water lay under the cot.

  I could stay in here for days, weeks, if necessary. A five-gallon bucket with a bag of kitty litter—to shit and piss in and to mask the smell—sat in a corner.

  A desk was positioned against the wall, on the left. A laptop and tablet lay on top, with a small chair tucked underneath. A lighted mirror hung on the wall above the desk.

  Lukas gave me that chair years ago.

  He'd bought it from an antique auction once, about nine or ten years ago. He'd met some young ditzy blonde, Crystal, a smoker who wanted antique furniture in exchange for the pussy she gave him.

  I went to meet Lukas at his club one night to talk about a contract. Crystal sat at the bar, not drinking, eating olives. She looked my way, putting an olive back into the jar. Crystal, stepping off the stool, stood in my path.

  "Who the hell are you, bitch?" she demanded.

  I was amused.

  "Why are you smiling?"

  I was smiling? "It's funny when a retarded cunt calls me a bitch," I answered with a shrug.

  Crystal didn't do anything except smile back at me. The bartender didn't warn her. "My name is Rose." I held out a hand.

  "Uh, Rose, you better not try anything with Lukas! He's mine! I'll kick your ass if you try to fuck him," she threatened.

  I laughed and tried to continue through the door to the back where Lukas usually waited for me, but Crystal had grabbed my arm. "You need to leave, bitch!" Then she tried to slap me, except she moved too slowly.

  I karate chopped her throat.

  She coughed, bending over, grabbing her throat.

  Snatching her by the hair, I shoved her through the door. Her high heels did not traverse the floor well, so she fell face first, her legs curling upward, creating a human doughnut.

  Lukas, his son Stan, and Archie sat at a table, with a few lower level men talking shop, telling lies about the whores they screwed, and the length of their spaghetti-thin cocks.

  She stood up with a bloody nose and messy hair.

  Crystal reached up and touched her nose and started cussing me when she saw the blood on her fingers. "You fat whore! I'll kick your ass!"

  I said nothing.

  Crystal charged.

  I reared back with my right fist, hitting her.

  All the guys yelled out, "BOOM!"

  Crystal laid out on the floor like a corpse.

  Later that day, I got the chair, an antique, and a gift for Crystal. Lukas had her killed when he discovered Crystal was blowing two of his guys, including Stan.

  Most of my contract work came from Lukas Zimmerman. That is, until I killed him. He had forced my hand, after going after my family last year. He went after Henry when he accepted a contract from a despicable man, Norman White. I killed him after he kidnapped Henry's wife, Julie.

  Sitting down, I didn't think the chair was worth $1,400, yet he paid that much for the thing. Dumb.

  Several pictures popped up when I opened the laptop. One of them caught my eye, a picture of a monster: Jonathan James Hyde.

  At forty-nine years old, married with two children, he held the title as minister at Heaven's Gate Church.

  Taking a gander under the desk, I found a box full of pictures and profiles of monsters, and grabbed it.

  Some of the pictures had a red X drawn across the faces, meaning they were deceased. People would miss them like they'd miss their favorite venereal disease.

  I opened up an internet browser, and opened the "Find My Phone" application. A green dot appeared on the map. My phone, the phone I threw into the drive-by car, at that location.

  Those guys were gangbangers, lowlife scum, who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. They were armed to the teeth, but they will not see me coming.

  Chapter Twenty

  Have To Mourn Later

  News-radio was reporting the total number of dead was up to eleven, including four children.

  Felix only wanted that woman dead. If a couple innocents were killed, so be it. He was no psychopath, he did not like killing anyone. But killing was preferable to getting ass raped in prison for the next several years. Happy's guys killed almost a dozen people, including women and children.

  Mental pictures of his kids, Jeanette and Nate, danced inside his head. His daughter was such a cute girl. He remembered the first time she drew a picture of him, Terri, and her. He proudly placed it on the fridge. And he remembered Nate's
first baseball game he played as first baseman. Because of him, four children lay dead on a sidewalk like road kill. He would have to mourn later; now he had to think.

  This was a national, if not a world, news story now. Houston would be under a microscope for weeks, perhaps months to come.

  His hand trembled on the steering wheel. Felix needed to calm down before he lost control.

  Breathe.

  Calm down.

  Breathe.

  He took a deep breath.

  Breathe again.

  Nothing he could do about the situation now. It's done.

  To move past this moment meant his very survival. A part of him wanted to walk away and leave right now before the shit hit the fan.

  His chest hurt.

  Felix closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to calm down before speaking to Rogelio.

  He spotted an Exxon gas station on the side of the road and pulled into the lot. Only bought a twenty-ounce can of beer, Felix left the change in the little plastic change-collector next to the register.

  He got back in the car, popping the top and chugging the beer. The burning down his throat, like a cleansing chemical cleaning the crap from a clogged pipe, felt good.

  Releasing a belch, Felix extracted a burner from his front pocket. He could use the phone a few more times before tossing it in the trash. He made a mental note to make sure Tony and Rogelio threw their burners away too. He would have to buy more burners for them.

  He hit the number on the phone's screen with his pinky.

  It rang.

  "Hello?"

  "It's me, Felix."

  "Hey, so what's going on?"

  Ever since he and Tony started the side business with Rogelio, a few years ago, there was a go-bag under the spare tire, in the trunk of a nondescript four-door Oldsmobile. Five-thousand dollars hidden inside the driver's side door. He would make his way down to Mexico. "Shit has hit the fan."

  "What do you mean, Felix?"

  "The guys who we hired for the hit did not follow orders!"

  "How do you mean?"

  "Instead of just killing that witness and taking her purse, they did a drive-by and killed a lot of people, including three children." He didn't think Rogelio needed to be told the particulars.