Not Forgiven: A Thriller and Suspense Novel: Ungoverned Series

by Shawn Raiford

  I angled my body, right foot closer to him. Swiftly raised my right boot, I bent at the knee, then kicked aiming for his crotch.

  Any man's instinct told him to block the kick—his hands shot out in front of his body, but my boot was not there—I brought my boot back. Raising my leg at the hip, I extended my leg, my boot slapping his left cheek.

  The impact only dazed him. I followed up with a punch with the brass knuckles. His head whipped to the side, and then he fell to the ground as if his hip went out.

  He laid out on the ground, not moving a muscle like a Macy's mannequin.

  The kick and punch took all of three-seconds. I tied his wrists and ankles together with a zip tie.

  Easy, peasy, Japaneasy.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  This Unbearable Pain

  Tony dangled like a slab of beef in a Mexican meat market.

  Flies were the only things missing.

  He had already pissed and shit himself. Funny how depending on the situation, some things did rank as important. Excrement literally was on his body, but he did not care. He only cared about the pain. He was cold as shit when Happy got started on him, but now, the cold was a distant concern.

  Tony had no idea the human body could sense pain at this level. He was not sure how long Happy had been working on him; he only wanted the pain to stop.

  In spite of the pain, Tony wanted to talk to his mom before he died. He didn't care to talk to his ex-wife or his ungrateful son, Little Tony. At seventeen, Tony spent his days smoking pot and playing video games.

  Guadalupe, his ex-wife who Tony called a bitch, carried most of the blame. She spoiled the boy beyond belief.

  The last time Tony spoke to his mom he yelled at her; Tony wanted one last time to hear her voice.

  To apologize.

  To tell her that he loved her regardless of what nasty things had been said that day. She put up with all of his shit. A lot of drugs, and easy girls littered his youth, but in time he got his shit together after joining the Army. Finally, did something positive with his life.

  His knees lit up with white-hot pain. Happy used a razor blade to remove the skin covering his knees.

  Happy laughed and pointed to someone. "Hey, grab the tequila bottle from my office."

  He laughed with his boss and went to get Happy's tequila bottle.

  Tony had passed a gallstone once, and that pain was a little scratch compared to this unbearable pain.

  Thick, industrial-sized jumper cables attached to a big battery. Earlier someone mentioned attaching the cable to the safety pins. Tony hoped that he wouldn't last long enough for them to use them on him.

  Happy had taken off his shirt. Tony's blood covered his hands. The psychopath was definitely in his element now.

  Happy appeared to be in a good mood.

  The tequila arrived.

  Happy grabbed the bottle, put some tequila in his mouth and leaned over, spraying Tony's flayed pinky finger.

  Tony screamed, his throat felt raw.

  "Bring me a pair of pliers!" Happy ordered.

  Pliers appeared from nowhere. Tony whimpered. "Please stop, Happy, please, I'm begging you."

  Happy ignored his pleas and began pulling out his fingernails.

  That caused him to yell out. The edges of his vision darkened. "Please, God," he mumbled, hoping his death would come quick.

  Then it got dark.

  He heard something in the darkness. Tony could not see. His head dipped down. There was no light. His head came up, but not by him.

  "Tony!"

  His head snapped back again. Someone slapped him.

  He took a deep breath, and it hurt his chest and ribs. Blinked, things were a little blurry.

  "Hey, Tony! Wake up!"

  Happy came into view.

  He was awake. "What happened?"

  "You were whimpering like a baby about how sorry you were. You said, 'Mom, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry.' Why are you telling your mommy that you are sorry, Tony?"

  He said nothing.

  Happy flicked the left safety pin.

  More pain pulsated throughout the left side of his chest. He begged God to let his heart give out.

  "Why you talking to your mommy?"

  Tony swallowed. "We had a big fight last time I saw her. I wanted to tell her that I'm sorry."

  Happy sniffed.

  He stared the psycho in the eyes.

  Happy's eyes teared. "Did you know that I lost my mama when I was young?"

  Happy could not hurt him if he was busy talking.

  "No, I'm sorry. Moms are the reason why we exist. We shouldn't argue with them or yell at them. We owe so much to them."

  Happy nodded in acknowledgement, a tear ran down his cheek. Hanging here, everywhere on his body.

  He turned, glaring at a soldier. "Give me your burner!"

  The thug reached in his pocket, pulled the phone out and handed it over.

  He glared at his men. "I want everyone to be quiet."

  Nobody said anything.

  "If someone makes a sound, I will cut your throat. No questions asked."

  He turned back and smiled at Tony, more tears coming down his face.

  "Tony, before you leave this Earth, would you like to tell your mother that you are sorry?"

  He didn't understand. Why was Happy doing this?

  "Tony you have to answer me, instead of just thinking it."

  He nodded. "Yes, I would."

  "What's her number?"

  Tony actually knew it. He and Felix always used burners, so he had memorized his mother's number.

  Happy dialed the number Tony gave him and put the phone up to his ear. "Hello, is this Tony's mother?" Happy smiled and nodded. "Oh, yes, Tony is here and wants to talk to you."

  He put the phone up to Tony's ear. "Mom?" Happy moved in close so he could hear too.

  "Hey, baby! Who's that man?"

  A part of him, wanted to yell out Happy's name, but he didn't need to give Happy any reason to hurt her. "Mom, I wanted to talk to you about the last time we talked."

  "Oh, okay."

  "I wanted to tell you that I am sorry, and I love you. I shouldn't have yelled at you, I'm very sorry."

  "Oh, Antonio, I forgot about that. You are my son, I love you no matter what. But thank you for telling me that, mothers need to hear 'I love you' from their sons."

  He understood. "Yeah, I understand mom, and I should've told you a million times."

  "Thanks son, I love you too."

  Happy gave him the let's-wrap-it-up motion.

  "Mom, I got to go, I love you, so very much!"

  Happy ended the call before Tony could hear his mom reciprocate the sentiment.

  "That was nice, Tony. I am happy that you got to talk to your mother."

  Talking to his mother gave him a renewed outlook. "Happy, I have something you might want, but you have to let me go, then I'll disappear forever." Tony would find a way to kill Happy and most of his soldiers.

  Happy eyeballed him.

  "It's that big."

  Happy gave the phone back to the soldier and moved close to him. "Oh, I see. You still have information inside your head. Information so important that it should be enough for me to release you?"

  Tony had nothing to lose. "Yes."

  "What is this information about?"

  "It's about me and a guy I know. His name is Felix. It's important and you'll want to know." Tony felt like shit giving up his friend, but he wanted to live and figured he could warn Felix once set free.

  "Felix? Who's Felix?"

  "He's a guy I work with sometimes."

  Happy turned around. "Does anyone here know this Felix guy that Tony's talking about?"

  Nobody did.

  "Tony, why haven't I heard about this Felix before if he is so important?"

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Treated Women Like Things

  Spider lay on the grass beyond the back porch, knocked out.

  I
snapped on purple latex gloves and took his pistol, a Glock 37 with standard ten round magazine, from his waistband.

  I scoffed, remembering him telling me about sucking him. His words stuck in my craw. Fucking punk, in all probability he treated women like things, like possessions.

  I fought the urge to take out a knife and insert it into his ear.

  No telling how long he would be out so I couldn't ask him how many guys inside the house.

  Fuck it.

  Gazing at the backdoor, thinking of the number of bangers inside, I thought of Sarah, taking her last breath while in my arms.

  Tiny Timmy's broken and bloodied body on the sidewalk like discarded road kill.

  These bangers were animals. Savages. They not only killed my friend and her son, they used and abused women, making them pregnant, keeping them down. I personally knew bangers who had eight, nine, twelve children from three, four, or six baby mamas.

  Peering through the back door window, I did not catch a glimpse of anyone, so I tried the doorknob—it was open.

  Easy access.

  The smell of cooked meat lingered in the air as I entered the kitchen. A tortilla covered some food in a skillet, but I passed. Someone cleaned the kitchen, leaving four dishes and two glasses in the sink. Not that strange because this safe house needed to be ready at a moment's notice.

  The living room proceeded.

  Two thugs sat on the couch, playing Grand Theft Auto on a Playstation. I could give the Playstation and video game to a child in need.

  Two handguns, an AR-15, and ammo lay on the coffee table in front of them. I could sell them to a couple of rednecks in Crosby, east of Houston.

  A door to the left, led to an empty bathroom. A hallway entrance after that. Most likely led to bedrooms, which could have more bangers.

  The right side of the house, dining area with three windows. The curtains were open. I saw the driveway outside the window to the right.

  Spider and these two winners made three. Three men were more than enough to baby sit the car and three bodies. What were they doing here, besides jerking each other off?

  Those bodies would've been dismembered already, and the car parts buried in the woods somewhere.

  Perhaps they could dig a hole under the garage and bury the bodies and the car. Or drive the car into the Gulf of Mexico. Many options existed when a person needed a dead body to disappear.

  Not sure why Happy didn't have guys here already making the evidence disappear. Maybe the idea was not to bring attention to this house?

  I monitored their play for almost a minute while waiting for anyone else to come out. No one came out. Although that could mean that someone could be asleep or fucking in one of the bedrooms.

  In order to avoid fighting too many at one time, I had to act now.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ups and downs

  Mitchell Mason loved his job.

  There were ups and downs like any job. Last month he and his partner Henry Creed caught a case involving rich people.

  A very wealthy man was murdered, shot to death in a liquor store. Shot to death along with the store owner who worked the cash register. The robber got about fifty bucks and the rich man's watch and wallet.

  The rich man had two daughters with his ex-wife. He had a son with his current wife, the widow, a woman literally half his age plus seven.

  The ex-wife, a very bitter divorcee, eight years later, still upset, claimed she deserved way more in the divorce. She got the house, paid for, and three million cash, and twenty thousand dollars a month in alimony.

  She claimed that her ex-husband left her in the poor house. His daughters took the mother's side even though he paid for both of their apartments and living expenses.

  Mitch and Creed checked the widow because in any murder case a victim's spouse and any exes are automatic suspects.

  The widow was much younger than her husband, and their friends believed that she truly loved her husband.

  She was an accomplished woman. Bachelor's degree in business followed by her MBA. She owned her own business, three clothing boutiques and a hair salon. Not rich rich, but she didn't have to worry about money.

  The case appeared to be a plain old ordinary robbery homicide until a nearby business owner called and claimed to have video footage of the robbery.

  Mitch didn't think to ask for video from that office because offices usually did not have security cameras set up. He felt stupid because the company was a private security services company.

  They viewed the video of two assailants pull off the robbery and homicide. Both wore dark clothing and black ski masks and were thinly built. Drove off in a four-door sedan. From the video, they obtained the plates of the getaway car and the owner turned out to be the maid of the younger daughter of the victim. At sixty-one-years old and tipping the scales at 300 pounds, Mitch was sure the maid did not murder the man.

  The murder victim's daughter had borrowed her maid's car and picked up her big sister. Familiar with where and when he bought his wine.

  Come to find out, his daughters would inherit half a million dollars each. The current wife would receive a million and his son would receive five million, the rest of his wealth would go to charities.

  His daughters, so outraged, got a life insurance policy that paid out ten million dollars.

  Arresting the daughters was an example of an up.

  Their current case—a prime example of down.

  Sarah was living her life, being a mommy and wife. She wanted to help with the dump job, the girl who had been tossed to the side like used bubble gum wrapper next to a dumpster in a parking lot.

  For that she and her baby are murdered in the street.

  Mitch drove, remembering what his boss told him on the phone.

  "We can't work the drive-by, Sarah and Timmy's murder," Lehaney informed.

  "What the ..." Mitch protested.

  "Mitch! Work the body dump, the drive-by isn't yours! So stop crying and get to work!" Lehaney told him before ending the call. His boss could be undude sometimes.

  They were sure the drive-by was linked to Sarah witnessing the body dump earlier in morning.

  No question.

  "What do we do now?" Mitch asked, feeling defeated.

  Creed shrugged. "We do what we can. What evidence do we have?"

  "She was strangled; he did it with his bare hands. No prints."

  Creed said nothing.

  "Driven from murder scene and dumped there next to the dumpster like garbage. I'm going to kill him!"

  Creed nodded in agreement.

  Mitch continued. "Doesn't look like she was raped or had sex before death. Her clothes were nice, expensive. Her heels are Jimmy Choo, over a thousand bucks a pair. She had a pair of diamond earrings, worth a few hundred dollars, but no necklace or bracelets."

  "What?"

  Mitch peered out the front windshield. "She was probably a pro?"

  Creed shrugged. "Maybe."

  "But she didn't deserve to die."

  "Nope."

  Mitch perused his notes. "We have her purse. No ID, some makeup and a small mirror, two pens, a pack of cigarettes, no lighter, but she had a book of matches." He read the next page in his notes. "The matches were from a restaurant."

  "Where?"

  "Aldo's restaurant."

  Creed turned and did something Mitch didn't think he would see his partner do for at least another week; he smiled. "Mitch, we start there. A girl that pretty would be remembered by the wait staff."

  Simple police work took time and legwork. You got off your ass and walked the crime scene, knocked on doors, found the evidence. Mitch loved his job. "Good! Do you know where Aldo's is located?"

  Creed frowned. "Don't be undude, dude, of course I know the location."

  Mitch leaned back in his seat and said, "Then what are you waiting for partner, let's go!"

  Chapter Thirty

  Like JJ Watt Hitting Tom Brady

  Pulli
ng out another zip tie, I threaded the end through the eye of the other end.

  I checked, holding the loop out in front of me, the diameter was big enough.

  I walked up to the one on the right. He wasn't wearing a cap. I placed the looped zip tie over his head and closed it tightly around his neck.

  Quickly standing up, the thug kicked the coffee table, which would alert anyone else in the house of trouble.

  Before the other one understood what was going on, I punched him, the brass knuckles connecting with the side of his head. He laid down on the couch like an old man after lunch and did not move. Out cold.

  Then before I could react someone charged from the left out of the doorway that lead to the rest of the house. A man hit me like Brian Cushing hitting Tom Brady. The impact lifted me off my feet, and we landed hard on the wooden floor. The want-to-be linebacker landed on top of me, knocking the wind out of me. Bright motes danced across my field of vision.

  "Ouch! Fuck!" He pulled his arm out from under me, rolling away from me.

  Not the first time I had the air knocked out of me. The main thing was not to panic, my air would return.

  I hit my head hard.

  It's going to leave a lump.

  Laying there not moving, I acted like I was not conscious. He laid there too.

  Ever so slightly I opened my eyes, and it was another thug. He appeared about thirty years old, covered in tats, bald, and thick-necked. He'd spent some time in prison working out, and no doubt pushing other homies shit in.

  Just another winner at life.

  "Goddamn it!" Sitting up, he held up his arm and his hand bent backward at the wrist. Most likely broken. Must have instinctually reached back trying to soften his fall, but he could not hold our combined weight.

  The banger with the zip tie around his neck fell to the floor with a thud and tried to yell, but only whimpered.

  It took half a minute before I could draw a breath. The linebacker stood before I could. He held his wrist, grimacing.

  Good.

  He reared his right leg backward, as if to kick me, but I was quicker. I kicked the ankle he stood on, sending his legs out from under him.