The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “You know I’ve heard that the great thing about this procedure is that when the doctor’s done he’ll be about twelve inches long.”

  Lorraine blushed and then snorted. She had an extremely naughty expression on her face.

  “It’s all right.” I snickered. “We both know that size doesn’t matter.”

  We were both hysterical as Cabrera ambled slowly toward us, looking groggy and uncomfortable. “Oh, you find this funny? My pain and embarrassment is some kind of a joke?”

  “Yes,” I blurted and threw my arms around him. “Good to see you up and around.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said flippantly. “I can just imagine the conversation the two of you just had.”

  “Well, I mean, if two single women can’t share an occasional dick joke …”

  I saw the way that Lorraine was looking at him, as if she was waiting for her chance to be alone with him.

  I pulled two baseball tickets out of my bag. “Here you go, stud muffin, Yanks and Boston. Bring your Kevlar vest and a loaded .45.”

  Cabrera hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Semper Fi, Gumdrop. Get back out there, and kick some ass.”

  ~~END~~

  Keep reading for more Chloe Mather in Rules of the Kill.

  ~~~

  I hope that you enjoyed Secrets of the Kill. Now is the best time to tell me what you thought of Mather #1, so please click on the hyperlink, write to me right now, and sign up for my newsletter: larrykelter@aol.com.

  For more information on Stephanie Chalice, Chloe Mather, and my other books please visit my website: lawrencekelter.com.

  Three men have been executed in a very distinctive fashion and it’s up to FBI Special Agent Chloe Mather to bring their talented killer to justice.

  The murderer is no dull boy. He’s that one in a million psychopath with the brains, discipline, and originality, to take life after life and leave the authorities dumbfounded. Like most serial killers he lives for the rush and it takes a bigger thrill to get him off each successive time. His elaborately staged kills are nothing short of genius and the tableaus he creates taunt law enforcement’s best and brightest. It’s not enough for his victims to die; this villain seduces his marks with a game, a game designed to lure each man to his death.

  Mather must build a composite of a murderer no one has ever seen and become expert at his bizarre MO. What begins as a cold case builds quickly into an inferno, but is Mather the hunter or the hunted? Find out why this monster is so terrifyingly lethal in Rules of the Kill.

  Rules Of The Kill

  A Chloe Mather Thriller

  #2

  By

  Lawrence Kelter

  Rules of the Kill Copyright © 2014 by Lawrence Kelter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.

  Editing by

  Pauline Nolet

  Interior book design by

  Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  For

  Cherished Family and Friends

  Acknowledgments

  The author gratefully acknowledges the following special people for their contributions to this book.

  As always, for my wife, Isabella for nurturing each and every new book as if it were a newborn child, and for her love and support.

  Rules Of The Kill

  A Chloe Mather Thriller

  #2

  Lawrence Kelter

  Book I:

  A Killer’s Game

  Chapter 1

  August 10, 2012

  Big Indian Wilderness, Ulster County, New York

  A hunter in the woods far from alone—around him the telltale sounds of others signaled their positions in the pitch black.

  Hushed voices were all around him.

  Saplings snapped beneath the weight of heavy boots as hunters spread out and canvassed the woods in search of prey.

  Lewis Pesch spun to the left and then to the right, responding to unexpected noises around him. He was jumpy and acutely aware of every sound in the forest, those of the hunters, and those he listened for most intently, those of the hunted.

  Aside from two small cutouts for his eyes and a ventilated breathing panel, his face was completely covered by a black Boker SWAT mask. The other hunters were identically dressed in black combat fatigues and masks that had not been provided for protection, but to render each of them unrecognizable. It was the prime covenant of the competition—each and every participant had been guaranteed unconditional anonymity.

  Killers in the dark; whose senses were the sharpest?

  Who would adapt to the surroundings most quickly?

  Who among them would claim the prize?

  A wolf howled. The intimidating cry injected a healthy dose of fear into his arteries and sent a shiver along his spine. There were new dangers to address and worries he never had to concern himself with before. He was a particularly refined killer but not in this specific setting and not with the odds stacked so disproportionately against him. The forest was a new and unwelcomed environment, and he was doing his best to acclimate to the unfamiliar terrain and the accompanying hazards. Pesch’s identity and skill set were a mystery to the other hunters, just as theirs were to him, yet he continually worried, Who am I up against?

  He checked the shadows around his feet to make sure that the wolf he had heard wasn’t lurking nearby. Adrenaline surged and caused him to sweat profusely, and he could feel the moist heat of his own breath collect in the airspace behind the mask.

  “Unbearable,” he moaned.

  He squatted against the base of a tree and looked around to insure that he couldn’t be seen. He rested his bow on the ground and slipped the mask upward to expose his face to the forest air. The night air was muggy and damp, but a slight, cool breeze drifting by teased him and evaporated the sweat on his face. “Ah,” he sighed with relief. “Better.” He continued to scan his surroundings, doing his best to ensure that his transgression had not been observed.

  Just a few moments more. Moments of risk—moments of reward.

  He wiped his face with his hand and found the spirit to press on. He heard a crunch as he stood. His heart thumped and continued to beat strongly for a few moments until he realized that a rotted-out tree limb had collapsed beneath the steel shank of his boot. Long enough, he lamented. He covered his face with his mask and continued his search.

  Where? he wondered. Where would you hide?

  A low-hanging cloud rolled past. After it cleared, the light of a full moon shone down on him as if he was under a stage spotlight, illuminating him and his surroundings in an intense beam. That was when he saw her, the prize, with her naked skin glimmering beneath the moon’s supernatural glow. He studied her for a moment, her slender waist and pert breasts. “Exactly my type,” he whispered in a choppy voice as an erogenous tremor rattled through him.

  This prize was meant for me to claim. Me, damn it. Me alone. Act now, he thought, calling himself to action. Now, before you’re too late.

  He realized that if he had spotted her, others might have as well. “You’re mine,” he said in a hushed voice. He quickly plucked an arrow from his quiver and set it on the arrow rest with the nock locked against the string. His left hand was steady on the grip as he pulled back with his right, creating tension on the bow. He pulled until his elbow was locked and the fingers of his right hand were alongside his ear. He lined her up and had her clearly in view through the bow sight. His heart began to knock in his chest, and with every thump he saw her position jump.

  Easy now.


  He had held the arrow for too long—his right arm became tired and began to shake. “Damn it!” He released the tension on the bow but kept a watchful eye on his prey while he took a few deep breaths to calm his heart and rest his fatigued muscles.

  His prey appeared to be frozen with fear. He could see that she was panting from exhaustion, hiding behind a tree, where she thought she was shielded from the clearing. He was behind her, waiting silently for his mettle to return, hoping that he hadn’t squandered the one opportunity he might get to kill her.

  She’s waiting for me. That’s a good girl. Hold still, just another moment. Almost ready …

  He slowly inhaled and exhaled over and over until he could feel his heart rate drop and the pounding behind his ribs subside. He once again pulled back on the arrow, stilled his breath, and calmed his mind. He could feel the weapon become one with him as the power of the taut bow aligned with his right arm. His senses bristled. The forest became silent, and he could feel the feathers on the arrow fletching prickle the pads of his fingers. He had only a second or two to line her up perfectly before he once again became arm weary. He centered her within the bow sight.

  Now!

  Pesch felt a razor-sharp knife pierce his belly just before the moment of release. He discharged the arrow and it flew toward the full moon, a target it would never reach. He watched it sail skyward and then fall back to earth. He clutched at his stomach as he collapsed onto the ground. The silver glow of the moon continued to shine down on him as splotches of crimson blood slowly began to seep through his combat fatigues. Another cloud arrived and blocked the moon rays momentarily. He touched his uniform and held his damp fingers up to his eyes. His blood appeared black in the dim light like a lifeless necrotic ooze, something vile and unholy that might seep from a long-rotting carcass.

  He felt his mask being pried off. The world blurred around him. His eyes were mere slits as he looked up at the masked commando who towered over him. Pesch uttered a solitary word, “Why?” and waited for a reply, but none was offered. “Is it because I removed my mask? Is it because I broke the code?”

  The voice he heard seemed distant, yet it came from just inches above him. A strange-sounding voice hissed through the ventilation panel of the all-concealing commando mask. “You’re such a fool. Why? Because you deserve to die.”

  Pesch’s throat was dry, and it was an effort for him to speak. “How long will I hang on?”

  “Long enough. You will have the slow and agonizing death you deserve. Your bleeding is superficial, and while the pain is intense, I took great care to sever the stomach wall but none of the major blood vessels. At this moment your stomach acids are seeping into your body cavity. They’ll poison you and you’ll fail just as you have failed your test on earth.”

  “Don’t let me die … I won’t talk,” Pesch swore; his words grouped and punctuated with guttural moans. “I’ll never breathe a word … ugh, about any of this.”

  “Of course you won’t,” his assailant insisted, most matter-of-factly. “You’ll endure each and every gut-wrenching moment while you’re slowly being eaten away from the inside out. The human body is really quite remarkable. Your immune system will rally to battle the poison your own body is creating, and you’ll be conscious to witness every second of your last few minutes on earth. You’ll beg for the torture to stop. You’ll plead with me to take your life … but I won’t. I’ll delight in your slow and agonizing demise. Even that’s too good for you. You deserve far worse.”

  Pesch was fading more quickly than anticipated. The other hunters raced to the dying man’s side. They surrounded him, the one who had stabbed him and the others, and then with a nod from the leader, they all removed their masks.

  Chapter 2

  Sangin District, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  Aliah Mata had made a happy home. She had a young son, a reasonably faithful husband, and two healthy goats. Who could ask for more? Certainly not a woman living in the desert of Afghanistan. One could hardly call hers a Stepford existence, but she was a contented woman all the same—I knew that because she told me so in her own words. Many of the Afghani women I had interviewed seemed nervous and obsessed with worry, but not Aliah—she had her shit together.

  I was out with my battalion and the Afghan National Army on a counterinsurgency mission during my days with the Marine Corps’ Female Engagement Team.

  I entered her home while Sadeq Rahi, an officer with the ANA, waited outside. “Make it quick, Mather,” he said. It was one of the few basic English phrases he had mastered, and he spoke the words forcefully.

  Sadeq could not enter Aliah’s home—being an Islamic republic, it was against religious and local customs for Afghani men and women who were not relatives to interact with one another. Afghani women were restricted to their compounds, so we FET officers would go in and try to get them to open up to us. Just meeting them and showing our faces usually did the trick. I’d yatter away in the appropriate dialect, piecing together bits of Pashto or Dari as best I could. I’d ask about their kids, their health and education … and their security—the principals any mother would hold dear whether in Afghanistan or Beverly Hills. They usually seemed to enjoy talking with a female American soldier, and they were mostly flattered to see that American armed forces had taken the initiative to show that they respected their culture.

  We were fortifying the relationship between the two countries, but we were also doing something else, something vitally important. Improvised explosive devices were a major factor in the war against the Afghani insurgents, a very lethal factor. Taliban terrorists were planting more than a thousand IEDs each month. It had become their number one offensive protocol, and they were using that specific element of terror to try to convince civilians that they could beat the American forces. In the past ten years something like two-thirds of all coalition casualties had been caused by IEDs. The insurgents would get their hands on old munitions or explosive ordnance and convert them into booby traps that they’d bury along the roadsides, hoping to take out an entire battalion with one destructive blast. We’d sweep for insurgent activity and search their homes for IEDs. To date there had been about sixteen thousand IED events in Afghanistan and thousands of lives, both of armed forces personnel and civilians, had been lost to Taliban-built bombs. It was our job to improve the allies’ odds.

  I had already searched her home for IEDs and noticed that Sadeq was growing antsy. He kept glancing over his shoulder into Aliah’s home, looking extremely impatient about something. Knowing the Afghani diet, he probably needed to make an urgent head call.

  “Moneṛ pases qerez̤ keṛa da.” Aliah had just told me that they had borrowed money from her husband’s cousin to buy a second goat because they needed more milk for their son. “Hegheh ḍ areh ḍoḍa khora (He eats a lot),” she said with a grin.

  Sadeq’s voice boomed, “?tashnab cherta di.”

  I could see that he was dancing in place, but I wasn’t going to cut my interview short because Sadeq had eaten too much kofta and corn. I had one last important question to ask. “Not now,” I shot over my shoulder and turned back to Aliah. I asked her if she had heard about any Taliban activity in the area and if she could offer any information that would help us prevent villagers from being hurt by Taliban-built bombs.

  At first she seemed reluctant to speak but then said, “My husband and I … moneẓ̌ peh da hekeleh khebera keṛa.”

  “You talk about it?” I asked, unclear about what she meant.

  She nodded. “Some men … heghwa deleteh raze.”

  “Some men came to your village?”

  “We no know them, but … d maz la neda.”

  I wasn’t completely sure what she was telling me. Her Pashto translated into under the table. “Mehrabani wokra bia ye wowaya.” I asked her to repeat what she had just said, and she did as requested, verbatim. I was pretty sure that she was telling me that the strangers she had seen were dishonest men.

  “One of them
say, ‘Zeh da odanola shem (I can build that).’”

  It sounded as if she and her husband had overheard some outsiders talking about building a bomb—at least that’s what I thought she was implying.

  I asked if she could show me who those men were.

  She replied, “No. heghwa ḍar zher leh na ped ad shol.”

  Shit! She said that they’d left the village in a hurry.

  I guess that Sadeq was about to crap himself because he blurted out, “Be right back,” and dashed off with dire urgency. I saw him race off in the direction of some foliage on the far side of the road a good distance from the village.

  Gee, was that so difficult? In any case, it gave me a little more time to interrogate Aliah.

  She looked remorseful. “Zeh kola she che beṣheneh oghwaṛe … for these men.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, Aliah.”

  I heard a bloodcurdling scream coming from outside Aliah’s home. “Mather … Marasta!”

  I jumped. Sadeq was crying out for help.

  I turned to Aliah and said, “Bṣ̌nh (Sorry). Dekhedaa ph aman (Bye).” I raced from her home.

  Sadeq was a good distance away from me, so I brought my rifle into position and zoomed in on him through my scope. I saw that he was squatting in the bushes. His face looked pale, his expression tense, and I could see droplets of sweat on his brow. He had either blown out an O-ring in his haste to relieve himself, or he was sitting on an IED pressure plate. If it was the latter, he was just moments away from reluctantly receiving the greatest honor any Muslim could ever hope for. He was about to meet Allah.