9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “I’ve got a headline I thought you would want to hear before it hits the newswire.”

  “Do they really have a wire?” I said. “Seems like a satellite might work better.”

  “Right,” Costa said. “I see you haven’t changed in my absence.”

  “I try to be consistent.”

  “Here’s your headline – Vengeful Mistress Kills Lover’s Wife.”

  “Ha,” I said. “That’s no headline . . . it barely makes page seven.”

  “For you, Beck, it’s a headline. The dead wife is Mrs. Sun-Hi Cho, found in her home last evening by a gentleman who identifies himself as a ‘friend.’ She had been stabbed forty-seven times with a ceremonial dagger of some sort. There was blood all over the place.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said, confirming what both of us already knew. “What’s the story behind the story?”

  “It seems that Mr. Cho had a rather steady ‘thing’ going on with the receptionist at his business . . .” He paused, apparently checking for data. “. . . one Young-Soo Park – a second cousin to Mrs. Cho. We have her in custody and she is being quite chatty.”

  “What does she have to say?” I asked, wondering why everything – even conversation – took so long with the FBI.

  “She blames Mrs. Cho for Mr. Cho’s – Ms. Park’s lover’s – death. Claims she poisoned the man for his life insurance money. She might be right, too. Mrs. Cho received a payout in the seven figure range on her husband’s death.”

  “Huh,” I said, remembering my conversation with Beth. “It actually was the wife.”

  “So it would appear,” Costa replied. “In any case, justice triumphs again.”

  I didn’t think one woman stabbing another to death should be anyone’s vision of justice.

  “Too bad we couldn’t have caught Mrs. Cho in the act of planting the ricin,” I said. “She’d probably still be alive today.”

  “. . . and in a cell on death row,” Costa said.

  He had a point.

  My bobber dove and stayed down.

  “Anything else?” I asked, holding the phone between cheek and shoulder as I picked up the twitching rod.

  “No,” he said. “That’s about it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Listen . . . I’ve got a fish on the line and I don’t want him to get away.”

  “I’ve got a feeling you’re going to catch that fish,” Costa said.

  “How’s that?” I said, wishing I’d put the phone on speaker.

  “You’ve got a talent for settin’ the hook and reelin’ ‘em in.” Costa said.

  I pocketed the phone and gave the pole a firm tug. Maybe I did have a talent after all.

  “Fish on,” I said, to no one in particular.

  EPILOGUE

  Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  This was a special day for me. It had been a little over three months since circumstances had introduced me to my new friend and Army Veteran, Blastus “call me Benny” Volnscheid. He and I had kept in touch on a more or less weekly basis since the time his surveillance expertise had helped us catch the agro-terrorist we’d come to refer to fondly as “The Cow Shooter.” But today, I was going to meet him at the Minneapolis Veterans Hospital and Medical Center, where he had said there would be a surprise in store for me.

  I had been to the VA – as the locals called it – on a number of occasions, mainly as a volunteer spending time with hospital-bound veterans, just to chat and help break up the boredom of the long institutional days. Many of them, especially the Korean War vets who were getting along in years, didn’t have family close enough to visit very often. A friendly face and a patient ear can go a long way toward brightening the outlook of a veteran whose typical daily highlight might be a wheelchair ride to the solarium.

  On my recommendation, and after some encouragement from Bull, Benny had sought treatment for his PTSD and alcohol problems at this facility. Although I had spoken with him regularly on the phone, and he was sounding a lot better, I hadn’t actually laid eyes on him since a couple weeks after the FMD attack. Benny’s treatment program at the VA hadn’t required him to relocate from his house near Red Wing, so I wondered why we were meeting at the VA and not someplace closer to home. I presumed I would have my answer shortly.

  I steered the Honda off Minnehaha Avenue and into the VA visitors’ parking lot, selecting a vacant spot at the corner farthest from the entry. Visits to this place made me grateful for my health. Someone less fortunate could have the parking spaces closer to the doors.

  When I told the receptionist I was there to meet Benny Volnscheid, she recognized the name immediately.

  “You mean Blastus,” she said with a smile. “He’s in the PT area right now. Just follow the signs.” She pointed me in the right direction. “And keep your ears peeled.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but took her advice concerning the signs.

  As I approached the doorway labeled “Physical Therapy,” I could hear the sounds of an acoustic guitar strumming and a ragged chorus of male voices belting out the chorus to Old Stewball Was a Race Horse emanating from within. I opened the door and stepped inside.

  On the far side of the room, adjacent to a wall of cloudy windows, a guitarist sat astride a black vinyl exercise bench, one hand banging the guitar strings, and singing for all he was worth – the obvious leader of this tone deaf glee club. A group of maybe twenty young men, mostly amputees, sat gathered around him and were obviously responsible for a majority of the racket.

  My eyes left the musician momentarily then darted back for a second look. He was almost unrecognizable owing to the short haircut, the clean shaven face, and the bright plaid flannel shirt. But I had no doubt, the guitarist was my formerly reeking and dissolute buddy, Benny Volnscheid.

  When Benny noticed my presence, he lifted his chin in acknowledgment, but didn’t interrupt the song. I leaned on the wall and listened, a smile glued to my face.

  . . .

  Oh the fairgrounds were crowded, and Stewball was there

  But the betting was heavy on the bay and the mare.

  And a-way up yonder, ahead of them all,

  Came a-prancin' and a-dancin' my noble Stewball.

  I bet on the grey mare, I bet on the bay.

  If I'd have bet on ol' Stewball, I'd be a free man today.

  Oh the hoot owl, she hollers, and the turtle dove moans.

  I'm a poor boy in trouble, and I'm a long way from home.

  Ol’ Stewball was a racehorse, and I wish he were mine.

  He never drank water, he always drank wine.

  When the song was over, the singers erupted in cheers and applause for ol’ Blastus, a free man today.

  Find more books from John L. Betcher at his website:

  JohnBetcher.com

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  The Dark Path

  Luke Romyn

  The Legacy Chronicles Precursor

  Copyright © 2009 by Luke Romyn

  All rights reserved. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from Luke Romyn, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editor: Chuck David

  If you are interested in more writing by Luke Romyn, be sure to visit:

  LukeRomyn.com

  This novel is dedicated to my beloved wife, Sarah.

  The only one who stood beside me

  when I walked my own Dark Path.

  Prologue

  Antoni knew he had failed. This knowledge burned bitterly through his mind, but he refused to admit defeat. The child had no one else, and Antoni wouldn’t turn his back on her. Blood oozed down his left arm, leaving a grisl
y trail behind him as he shuffled slowly down the tunnel carved out beneath the mountain.

  The flow had slowed now, but Antoni knew his loss of blood had rendered him nearly useless. The Four had proven invulnerable, while he had only his mortality to challenge them with.

  He had cast aside his armor along with his equally ineffective weapons, after barely escaping from the battle into this tunnel. The only thing he retained was the package wrapped and hidden securely within his clothing.

  Blurred images flowed before him; he tried to refocus, but found it no use. Despair coursed through Antoni for the hundredth time, and he paused against the wall, hoping to regain some strength. Never before had the knight failed. Throughout his many battles during the Crusades, at times facing impossible odds, he always managed to prevail. This time was different.

  He was dead; his body simply hadn’t realized it.

  His enemies were too powerful and his strengths too few. Silently Antoni cursed his weakness. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself away from the wall, swaying on his feet before shuffling further into the darkness. The pounding within his head increased steadily and again his vision blurred.

  Antoni heard a soft giggling from behind him, but turning, found the tunnel empty. The Four were still out there somewhere; playing with him, like cats toying with an almost-dead mouse, letting it believe it might escape before pouncing once again.

  But Antoni wasn’t trying to escape. All that kept him going was the singular hope that the package he concealed would truly do everything its seller had promised. If his claims proved legitimate, there remained the slightest chance he could thwart the evil still to come. He couldn’t win, but if he could stop his enemies, at least life could go on.

  It would end for him though, of that he had no doubt.

  The tunnel seemed to loom for an eternity before his foggy vision, the flickering torchlight dimly illuminating the way. Agonizingly he shuffled onwards, ignoring the whispering and giggles echoing from the shadows around him.

  Suddenly, Antoni found himself face down on the rough stone floor of the tunnel. Realizing he had collapsed, he managed to painfully lever himself up to his knees and look ahead. At the top of a small rise, the entrance to a much larger cavern materialized and his hopes flared slightly.

  Stumbling up the small hillock almost proved too much for the former knight, and again he had to pause and rest amid the snickering shadows. Before him opened a massive chamber carved from the stone of the mountain. Burning torches surrounded the walls and sconces blazed throughout the room, illuminating the chamber…and the purest of horrors.

  A massive mound of bodies rose in the middle of the room, suffering various stages of decay. A small stone table had been erected, and sprawled across this altar of death lay the object of his search.

  The child.

  Tears threatened to choke the battle-hardened warrior upon seeing hope flicker in the girl’s eyes. Noticing his sorrow and weakened condition, her expression softened, as though understanding and resigned to her fate

  Without warning, something gripped Antoni from behind with such force that he wailed in renewed agony, his wound flaring and fresh blood flowing. The putrescence of rotting flesh permeated the air around him and a sibilant hiss rose in his ear.

  “You have caused us much inconvenience, Crusader. And now you shall witness the fruits of your failure, while you watch your precious savior die.” Antoni was yanked forward mercilessly toward the altar and thrown headfirst amid the bodies.

  “Do you like our decorations, Crusader?” taunted the voice. “Not really necessary for what we hope to achieve, but our followers bore no further purpose, so they now serve as ornaments for our pleasure. Such should be the fate of all meat sacks like yourself.”

  Antoni raised his eyes hesitantly toward the child. She gazed down at him, a glorious reflection of his love. He gritted his teeth in determination.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly. Only she heard it. The child merely nodded, and smiled so sweetly the crusader thought his heart would burst into flames.

  Slowly, Antoni pushed his battered body to his knees amid the laughter of his captors – for they had all emerged, now that their victory seemed imminent.

  “What brave words will you say before you die, Crusader?” Their leader almost spat the word. “What threats will you now convey?”

  “No threats,” said Antoni softly, groaning, but finally managing to stand. He would not die on his knees before such as these. “Merely a present.”

  He produced the package from within his clothing. Antoni had purchased it from a Chinese merchant who had told him of the mysterious black powder’s capacity to level mountains. How appropriate, he thought mirthlessly, offering the parcel.

  “A present for us? How thoughtful. Pray tell what it is you have bought for your hosts.”

  “It is death!” roared Antoni, hurling the package into the nearest brazier.

  The Crusader never saw the blast that followed, never heard the howls of outrage from his enemies, suddenly realizing their plans had been thwarted. He never saw the cavern caving in around him and never felt his body being crushed and broken beneath tons and tons of stone.

  All that Antoni saw was the girl-child, and all he felt was her love.

  And that was all he would ever need.

  Chapter One

  The Dark Man

  “Please don’t kill my wife,” pleaded Rico San Diablo. “I’ll pay double what Bucelli is paying... triple, just don’t hurt my wife.”

  The cries fell on deaf ears, the Dark Man calmly continuing his work. He had finished torturing San Diablo, and gained the information he’d been paid to collect. That this greasy little drug-dealer cared about his wife meant nothing to the assassin. San Diablo might as well have screamed at the stars for all the good it would do him.

  All that mattered to the Dark Man was finishing the job, and that would soon be done.

  He’d been impressed with the smaller man’s stamina. The Dark Man had tortured him steadily for almost two hours before he had finally cracked. He’d had to revive Rico three times during the interrogation. Most men could stand losing a couple of their digits or appendages before breaking, but Rico hadn’t cracked until the Dark Man had approached his unconscious wife with the blowtorch. Without a word the assassin had insinuated similar treatment for her if the man remained silent.

  He hadn’t.

  Now the job neared completion... almost, but not quite.

  He picked up the large black bag from the floor. Reaching inside, he removed two items. One, a bottle of powerful smelling salts.

  The other, a hacksaw.

  Rico’s screams echoed through the hallways of his mansion, but the only ears besides those in this room, belonged to the bodyguards lying dead in the courtyard. His screams were not of pain, but anguish at the sight of the Dark Man first waking his wife, and then slowly setting to work on her.

  Finishing, the assassin approached Rico, and lazily tossed his wife’s head into the dealer’s already stained lap. He settled himself, waiting for the end of the screams and sobs, anticipating the beginning of the threats. He had learned long ago that it was best to endure them, otherwise the victim’s mind filled with thoughts of vengeance and they couldn’t focus on what you had to tell them.

  After an eternity of screaming and cursing, both in Spanish and English, Rico finally settled into a quiet sobbing. Finally, the breaking point the Dark Man had been waiting for: the victim realized what they had lost – and could be easily reminded of what they still had, and how simply it could be taken away.

  “You will not enter Bucelli turf anymore, Rico.” The words were flat, emotionless, and more terrifying as a result.

  “WHAT? You mean this is all because some of my guys strayed too far south?”

  The Dark Man nodded.

  “Why’d you need to know about my damn import schedules?”

  “Just making conversation, I guess.” A note of b
oredom crept into the Dark Man’s voice. “Plus, knowing your schedules gives my employer prior knowledge of your every business movement, thus enabling him to beat you every time.”

  “You’re talking like I’m gonna live through this. Just shut up and put a bullet in me you fucking lackey! Do it and you’ll see the biggest damn gang war this town has ever witnessed. You’re dead! The whole Bucelli clan is dead, you asshole! You just wait and see!” Rico screamed, spraying spit and blood from his mouth.

  “First of all,” the Dark Man began, acid dripping from every syllable, “I’m nobody’s lackey. The man paid me for a job. One job. My life is my own, what there is of it. Secondly, there isn’t going to be any war.”

  “Oh yeah, tough guy? How come? What makes you so invulnerable after you walk into my house, and kill my beautiful Bella?”

  “Because I know of your son.” A malicious smile crept across the Dark Man’s lips.

  San Diablo stared incredulously at the man above him. There could be no way anyone knew of Leo. The boy didn’t even know who his father was. He lived with his mother in Los Angeles – a woman no longer connected with Rico in any way. That this man knew of his existence seemed inconceivable.

  “I take it by your silence that you know who I’m talking about. If any of your people even look in the direction of Bucelli territory, I will be sent for your son,” the Dark Man concluded, moving away. “And there is nowhere you can hide him from me.”

  His business complete, the Dark Man packed his tools into the black bag and moved toward the rear door.

  “You mean you’re really not going to kill me?”

  The Dark Man paused and turned.

  “I think this may be worse than a clean death, don’t you?” he responded, motioning toward the head in Rico’s lap, its lifeless eyes staring up at the dealer. “Every day you’ll remember this anguish. Every day is another day when I might return, a day that your son might also receive a visit from Vain.”