The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2)

by John W. Mefford

  My only hope was to look for an opportunity as we got to the parking lot. I definitely couldn’t get in his car. If that happened, I’d be writing my own death certificate.

  “Hey, Alex!”

  I glanced up to see Archie waving his hands, running toward us, saying something about Cynthia and him…getting married?

  Yancy stopped, but didn’t say a word. I could feel it. He was going to wait until Archie got closer and then shoot him. I didn’t think it was possible, but his grip tightened, nearly cutting off the blood flow to my arm.

  “Don’t flinch or give that dipshit any reason not to run right into my forty caliber bullet,” Yancy said, his whiskers brushing against my ear.

  “Alex, everything okay?” Archie said, closing at about fifty feet.

  I didn’t respond. Could he see my expression in the reduced morning light? I looked up, then glanced back down about six times—anything to give him pause. He was ex-CIA; he should be able to sense imminent danger.

  But then I remembered I was talking about one of the most self-absorbed people on the planet, and I lost all hope that I could save his life, let alone mine.

  The barrel of the gun dug into the small of my back. Yancy’s breathing cadence tripled in no time. It was obvious he was under pressure, and all he could do was exert more energy in anticipation of taking down Archie.

  “Are you and Captain Rex now dating?” Archie asked as he moved closer. “I’m cool with the whole age-gap thing. Kind of like Cynthia and me, except I don’t look like a fat walrus wrapped in a white, wrinkled sack.”

  I could feel the gun slide away from my back. I yelled out just as Archie stepped on a sand crab, causing him to leap into the air. Yancy threw me aside while lifting his gun. The shot missed Archie, but hit a car headlight in the distance behind him. Archie then dove to his left as Yancy fired two more shots. I pushed off the ground and put everything I had into a right cross off his chin. He barely moved. Then he swatted me with the back of his hand like I was a pesky flea. He fired two more shots at Archie, and I heard Archie cry out. Yancy stopped for a second. I tasted copper from the bloody lip he’d given me. I looked up; his back was turned to me. I jumped up and swung my foot up between his legs until I hit meat.

  His instant yelp signaled a direct connection, but he didn’t crumble to the sand. He teetered for a second, while turning toward me, his face a hairball of pain. He raised the gun, and his lips turned up at the corners. “Why delay the inevitable? It’s time to kill you, bitch, and move on.”

  The gun fired, and every muscle in my body clenched as I closed my eyes. But I didn’t feel anything. I opened my eyes and saw blood spewing out of Yancy’s mouth, his eyes dancing uncontrollably. As he dropped the gun, he put a hand to his chest, where blood seeped through his fingers. He coughed, and more blood gushed out onto the sand.

  “Archie,” I called out.

  Yancy passed out and tumbled to the sand.

  I could see Archie with a wound in his arm but pointing his massive pistol to the sky. “Cynthia named my gun. She calls it Long Duck Dong.”

  I’d never been so happy to see his goofy grin.

  19

  “I could have sworn we buried your ankle bracelet right around here.” Mario rotated his arm, drawing an imaginary circle about ten feet in diameter. “Remember we said it was right in front of the lamp post off that deck?”

  Holding my sandals in my hand, I stopped and looked up and down the beach, the evening sun dipping below a stack of condos behind Mario. “That’s not what I remember.”

  “Hmm,” he said, continuing to walk.

  We’d been walking and talking for almost an hour. He’d asked to spend some time with me before my flight took me back to Boston, back to my family. I wondered if I might feel a spark, but nothing happened. We were comfortable around each other, but it was friendly, nothing more and nothing less.

  “So you know everything about me, Mario. What have you been up to in the last two decades, besides being a kick-ass DEA agent?” I smiled, but his eyes looked down to the wet sand.

  “You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay. I know I haven’t been a very good friend.”

  “Eh, I never reached out to you either, even though I thought about it a lot, especially those first couple of years after you left.”

  I nudged his arm. “You missed me?”

  “Yeah, but something else was going on.”

  I paused and let him share it at his own speed.

  “I…” He exhaled. “I started running with the wrong crowd, got in trouble a few times. And I got hooked on coke. It took me about three or four years to get my act under control. It was tough.”

  “I’m sorry. Man, I’m really sorry.” I touched his arm, and his jaw flexed a bit.

  “Life got a lot better. Found a great girl, got married. I have three great kids, ages sixteen, thirteen, and nine.”

  “Cool, although two teens might be rough at the same time.”

  He stopped and then turned to look me in the eye. “I fell off the wagon five years ago. Wife left me, and I thought my life had ended. But Raul took me under his wing, got me help. And I’ve been clean ever since.”

  “I’m proud of you, Mario. Can’t be easy battling those demons every day.”

  “True. Life isn’t easy. I got divorced, and now I see my kids half the time, if I’m lucky. But my job gives me purpose and helps remind me why these fucking drugs are so bad. I’ll do anything to keep my kids away from them.”

  We kept walking. After a few minutes, we started up with the high school stories again, embellished a couple of degrees. We reached the levee and climbed to the top of the stones and just stood there, letting the warm breeze blow against our faces as the ocean churned whitecaps.

  There had been a lot of activity in the two days since Yancy was killed. Dad and Carly were trying to figure out a way to not serve time. Cynthia Gomez was deemed a local hero, as was Archie. From what Archie said, she’d received a call from a national network…and instantly acted like he had VD. Archie claimed he was back on the market. I told him I’d ask Jerry to send a warning to all local law officials. I got a big grin with that one.

  Raul and Mario were able to expose the entire drug operation, which had apparently begun to lay roots in college campuses throughout the Southwest. Sadly, down in Mexico, local officials found a mass gravesite. Among the dead was a missing American college student, Cameron Gurlich.

  I thought about my life, my kids, and how I’d been influenced by my past. I still had some work left to truly come to terms with my dad and all the pain he had caused. I gazed across the endless blue ocean and watched two seagulls gliding a few feet above the choppy waters. Despite all I had endured, all that I had witnessed, I was still kicking. Stronger than ever, in fact. I actually felt at peace with myself. And life couldn’t get much better than that.

  AT Dusk

  An Alex Troutt Thriller

  Book 5

  Redemption Thriller Series - 5

  (Includes Alex Troutt Thrillers, Ivy Nash Thrillers,

  and Ozzie Novak Thrillers)

  By

  John W. Mefford

  1

  Thirty years ago

  Racing across the yard, his breathing came in short bursts. He could hardly suppress his excitement.

  He swung open the screen door until it smacked against the cracked siding on the old home and barreled into the kitchen, eager to share what he’d found in the backyard. He was only ten years old, but he’d always been perceptive enough to recognize an opportunity, especially one that showcased one of his many talents.

  Darting into the living room, he found his mother cutting out coupons, one of her daily routines to save the family a buck or two. Her brow was furrowed over her dark eyes as she went about her task. She looked up at him, and her smooth, almost pasty-white complexion coiled into a prune as she swatted her hand in front of her face. “Take that thing out to the garage. It smells to high heaven
.”

  He held the dead squirrel by its tail, its gray and brown carcass already stiffening. “You said the next time I found one, you’d let me do my artwork.” He knew he sounded like a whiner, but she had promised.

  “I never said you couldn’t practice your new skills, Junior.” She placed her scissors on the coffee table and folded her hands on her lap. “You know how much I’ve encouraged you to learn new things. You’ve mastered so much already. Come on, let me hear it,” she said with a smile that had always been able to cajole him into anything.

  “La meilleure mère au monde”

  She brought her hands to her mouth, her grimace quickly replaced by an expression of happiness. “Such flattery,” she said, even though he’d said the same phrase to her for the last two years. “Now, go put that stinky thing in the garage. After you practice your piano for thirty minutes, then I’ll help you get started on your new project.”

  He thought about debating the order of the tasks, but he knew it would do no good. He had another plan, a backup he’d used countless other times. Scooting outside, he tossed his new friend over by the tree. Then he scampered back into the house and made his way into what his mother affectionately called the music room. He peered over the top of the piano to ensure all was clear, then he opened the piano bench, shuffled sheet music to the side, and pulled out a tape recorder. He set it on the bench, rewound the cassette, then punched the play button. A Chopin number he’d recorded a week earlier bounced off the walls. It was called “Ballade No. 1 in G Minor,” and he knew it would calm his always-anxious mother. He couldn’t help but smile, not only at his talent but also his ingenuity. His mother had taught him that word, along with a host of other words and phrases outside of his regular schoolwork. Anything to make him more learned and worldly, she often said.

  He quietly slipped through the back door, picked up his dead squirrel, and took it into the garage, where a table was set up for his craft. His tools were holstered in a leather pouch that clung to a hook on the side of the table. Reaching above his head, he pulled a string to turn on a single lightbulb just above his workstation. He popped his knuckles and then rummaged through the tool pouch, searching for just the right instrument. He picked up an X-Acto blade and twirled it between his fingers, a spear of light gleaming off the clean, flat surface. Then he went to work, pulling skin and tissue away from muscle, ligaments, and bone. He worked meticulously, ensuring the layers of skin were not damaged. He could envision himself a few years from now performing surgery on a human, as one of the world’s renowned open-heart surgeons. But for now, he’d hone his skills on animals.

  “Junior.”

  His breath caught in his throat. He froze, the blade still clinging to the squirrel’s exposed skin.

  For the next ten minutes, his mother chided him for lying. He stood like a statue, looking straight ahead, but occasionally peeking at his work of art. As her voice droned on forever, it took everything in his power not to rush back and continue his work—what he realized had become more of his passion.

  Finally, the endless speech about how to act like a gentleman ceased. And as usual, she leaned over, stared him in the eyes, and then pinched his cheek. “I can’t stay mad at my boy long. You’re just too good, too smart. Let me watch you perform your work. And remember, it’s all about mastering whatever you do. You have the aptitude to do great things, to be the best the world has ever seen. You must think and behave like a winner—a boy who will grow to be one of the great leaders of his generation.”

  “Yes, Mother,” he said graciously. Then he popped his knuckles and went back to work.

  He’d studied under some of the most experienced taxidermists in the tri-state area, and there was no uncertainty in his movements. He had no problem asking his mother to help. He knew he just had to act in a cordial manner, and she would gladly take on the role of his assistant, following his instructions with each precise task.

  Among the many instruments at his disposal, he used a sharpened spoon to scoop out the brains and a #15 scalpel blade to carefully sever each of the six muscles holding each eyeball in its socket, ensuring the delicate eyelids would not be damaged. All very important steps, and all necessary to create a believable final product.

  Two hours later he had finished his work, at least the portion he could complete without taking a trip with his mother. His heart ticked faster in anticipation of the conclusive step of the process. “You said you’d take me to the taxidermy to shop for a pair of eyes, right?”

  “Wash up, and I’ll take you there,” she said.

  An hour later, the boy was transfixed on deer and buffalo mounted to the walls of the shop. Mr. Trimble, the owner of the shop, stood behind the counter, pointing out various options of eyes. “Those over there, they are the most authentic. It will seem like your little squirrel friend is alive. His eyes will appear to follow you across the room.”

  “Wow,” the boy said. He knew he had to have that pair. He looked at his mother. Her lips were pinched together as she stared at the white price tag taped to the counter.

  “Junior, I can teach you how to sew in a pair of old buttons.”

  “But you said I could get eyes for my squirrel,” he said as his blood boiled warmer under his skin.

  She took in a measured breath, glanced again at the price tag, and then pinched the boy’s cheek. “I’m sorry, but it’s not something we can afford right now. It will be okay. Some day you will be a real surgeon, and then you can use the finest instruments to save lives.”

  They went home, and she taught Junior how to sew. At the end of their session, she asked if he was ready to attempt the exercise on his squirrel.

  “No thanks. I’ll wait. Maybe another day.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, picking up her pair of scissors to restart her coupon-cutting campaign. “By the way, where did you find the squirrel? I’m wondering if you have other specimens you could work on.”

  He pondered the question. “Found him near the edge of the woods out back. I guess he just died of natural causes.”

  The boy thought about the feeling of crushing the throat of the small animal. It had been euphoric. He knew the passion would never leave him.

  2

  There was no way in hell I’d let him get away.

  Just between the thick foliage, I spotted flashes of blue, and my heart momentarily redlined. I had him in my sights.

  I motored up the incline and whipped around the dirt embankment, taking a high angle to maintain top speed, my legs chugging as hard as they could go on my off-road bike. Looking more like a jockey than a weekend workout warrior, I lifted my butt off the seat to absorb the quick drop back to the path, the deep-tread tires spitting up gravel and dirt.

  A scream from up ahead. Instinctively, I pushed up to a standing position on my pedals. The voice echoed off the trees. It was Brad, playfully mocking me for not being able to keep up.

  We’d been going at it for a good ten miles, and up until the last cross street, I’d kept him within four bike lengths. But when a Great Dane broke free from its owner and galloped right in front of my path, I had to take evasive action—clamping down on the rear brake and leaving rubber on the concrete. My front tire came within an inch of ramming him, but the dog barely turned its head as slobber sprayed off its wagging tongue. I somehow stayed upright. After glancing over his shoulder to ensure I was okay, Brad started chuckling as he pulled away.

  My colleague at the Boston FBI office and the man of my affection was dead meat.

  I approached the area I called Slalom City, a series of quick curves marked by giant trees, where a miscalculation could destroy a bike and break a few bones. I used it to make up time. Leaning into the first bend, I never stopped pumping the pedals, and I hit the next turn two seconds later, moving at nearly an uncontrollable speed. But I knew my limits, and I knew this course like the back of my hand.

  I zigged in and out of turns three and four, then gripped the handlebars with everyth
ing I had as the bike rumbled over a series of five stumps. Safely out of Slalom City, yellow spears of sunlight bounced off branches and leaves, peppering my sights. Brad wasn’t far ahead. I could practically smell him.

  Around one more bend, and I hit the final stretch. I could see his blue jersey near the top. I had closed the gap, but he was still a good fifty feet in front of me. He disappeared over the ridge as I hit the halfway point up the hill. Not letting up for a moment, the legs on my five-six frame churned like pistons on an engine. I was moving so fast when I hit the top, the bike went airborne for a split second.

  My weight fell forward as the front tire came back to earth. Looking ahead, I saw Brad zipping out of the woods and gliding across the street. On the other side, he spun around to face me. I could see his smug but very cute dimples from twenty yards. Still motoring at breakneck speed coming down the final hill, I planned on flying right by him, just to show him how lucky he was the Great Dane had saved him from humiliation.

  As I released a smile, his eyes popped out of his head. He flapped his arms and screamed something.

  For a split second, I didn’t know what he was saying or doing.

  I began to turn my head, just a few feet before my front tire hit pavement.

  It was too late. A black SUV that looked to be the size of a tank was barreling down the road, headed right for me. I crunched the brakes and started to skid. Another two seconds and I was going to be a grease spot under the SUV’s giant wheels. I did the only thing I could do—I bailed.

  I jumped off the bike and threw my arms in front of me to stop the forward motion of my body. But I didn’t slow. The pavement came up and ripped me to shreds as I bounced off the unforgiving surface. I smelled something awful at the exact moment I heard tires screeching.