Redemption
Sara Vinduska
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Also by Sara Vinduska
Copyright © 2018 by Sara Vinduska
All rights reserved.
ISBN:1718836686
ISBN-13: 978-1718836686
Cover designed by Sweet ’N Spicy Designs www.sweetnspicydesigns.com
Created with Vellum
To Susie. I couldn’t ask for a better best friend. Sooz and Gooz rule.
1
The man was dressed in all black from head to toe, including the Steyr he held in his right hand, aimed at the man across the room from him. “I told you I would come back for you, and I always keep my promises.”
The other man did not show fear. It had been three years. He’d thought he was safe, and now he had no where to run. He was caught. “I’ll pay you,” he said with a smirk, though he knew the words would make no difference to the man with the gun.
The man in black laughed, but the gun didn’t waver. “You should know better than that, this isn’t about money.”
The other man shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying. You’ve done well for yourself, I hear.”
“You could have too, if you hadn’t betrayed me.”
It was pointless to argue. He’d known this day would come, so he looked his assassin in the eye as the trigger was pulled. A look of pain flashed in his eyes, then he clutched his chest, blood spurting through his fingers, as he pitched face first onto the ground.
“And cut!” A voice yelled from across the room.
“That was perfect,” Guy Sorenson said. “The blood looked great and Eric, that was one of the best death scenes I’ve ever seen.”
Eric Sutton didn’t move.
“Eric, come on, you were brilliant,” Guy said, giving the actor a playful kick in the side. He bent down when he didn’t get a reaction. “Eric,” he said, shaking the actor’s shoulder, then rolling him over when he still didn’t get a response. Guy’s face paled. He looked up. “Christ, I think he’s really dead.”
The stunt coordinator raced forward, knelt, and checked for a pulse. The set medic ran towards them, dropping to his knees next to the actor’s body, starting CPR. The actors and crew still on set were frozen in disbelief, the entire room eerily silent except for the exertions of the two men trying to save a life.
The stunt coordinator sat back on his heels, his hands covered in blood, and shook his head. “He’s gone.”
Corey Fulcher, the man in black, turned white and the gun fell from his hand. The sound of the gun hitting the floor echoed through the now silent set. “No, that’s impossible. We did it just like in rehearsal.” His voice had lost the strong arrogance of the character he’d been portraying and sounded weak and pathetic even to him.
One of the security guards came forward and led Corey back a step, kicking the gun aside.
“I’m going to be sick,” Corey muttered. He stumbled forward, found a trashcan. When he was finished, Guy handed him a towel.
“Nobody moves until the cops get here,” the guard shouted, trying to sound authoritative, but betrayed by his shaking voice.
Corey swallowed hard and sat down shakily in a chair. “I didn’t kill him, I didn’t, didn’t mean to, the gun wasn’t . . . it wasn’t even real. Guy,” he pleaded, “I don’t understand.”
Guy placed a hand on his shoulder. “Just relax, everything’s going to be okay.” Of course that was a lie neither believed.
Twenty minutes later, producer Robert Colt watched as the cops interviewed his leading man, who was pale, shaking, and sobbing openly now. It took three more hours for the cops to interview all the prop guys and report back to him. He imagined them lined up in a row, being called one by one.
It seemed like they had done everything right. There would be no easy answer to this one. Especially for the press camped outside. How could he spin this to his advantage? There had to be a way. He fought a growing sense of dread. And he knew that it would take a miracle to save his film now, but he would find one.
One way or the other.
2
One week later
Guy Sorenson was sick of wasting his mother fucking time. In his twenty years of directing major motion pictures, he’d never felt as much apprehension about a project as he did right now. Unfortunately, he’d also rarely felt this kind of connection to a project. He couldn’t stop his knee from bouncing up and down under the conference table. If only the rest of the assholes around the table would get on board with his vision, they could get this show on the road.
Guy fought down the urge to raise his voice. Robert Colt might be an amazing movie producer, he might be double the size of the other men in the room, but Guy was not going to be intimidated by him. Not when so much was on the line.
Producer Robert Colt sat at the conference table looking through bios and pics of leading men. He pushed them aside and rubbed his temples. His breakout picture was quickly turning into a nightmare. It had started out so promising. He had the financing, the locations, the director and stars he wanted, and most of all, a winning script.
But all of that had changed when filming started and things had gone from bad to worse after Eric Sutton’s death. He doubted whether Corey Fulcher would ever work in Hollywood again after his subsequent breakdown. Now they’d have to start shooting all over again with a new leading man, but who?
“Lash Brogan,” his production assistant, Sam, suggested, forcing Robert to open his eyes. “His agent’s been looking for the right script for him for a while.”
“You don’t think he’s a little too, oh, I don’t know, too much of a pretty boy?”
“Nah. We’ll dress him down some, age him a little. He was brilliant in Shores of Eden and his work on Broadway lately has been outstanding. And Guy wants him.”
Guy nodded from across the table. “He’s had an interesting life. An interesting life makes an interesting actor. His range now is unbelievable, the types of roles he’s taken on and nailed. We should have looked at him from the beginning.”
Robert raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Yeah, but he’s done things, he’s actually killed people.”
“That was self-defense. Everybody knows that. Besides, we’ll just re-shoot the scenes with Lash as lead, use some body shots of Fulcher. It happened early in filming, thank God. If Lash loses about fifteen pounds, we can just superimpose his face on Fulcher’s body for the pivotal scenes. They’ll be similar enough in build that the audience shouldn’t notice.�
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“The rumors are good for publicity, I guess. That’s one way to look at it,” Susan, the assistant director, said.
“It’s the only way I can look at it,” Robert said.
“I’ve also heard Brogan spent some time in rehab,” Susan said with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, well, who hasn’t? Look, whatever happened to him, his acting certainly hasn’t suffered for it. In fact, it seems to have added a new depth to him. I think he’s the right choice,” Guy said.
“Okay. It’s your ass. Make the call.”
Sam got up from the table then paused in the doorway and turned back. “Bob, how much should I tell him?”
“As little as possible. The last thing we need is panic on the set. It was a tragic accident, nothing more.”
“You’re the boss.”
3
FBI Special Agent Ward Calhoun didn’t like giving interviews. And he sure as hell didn’t like doing them from a damn hospital bed. But the bureau did love their favorable publicity, especially when it had been a while since the news was good. So at the insistence of his boss, Ward had agreed to do an interview for the local paper.
Not that he had much of a choice. Facing the wrath of the Special Agent in Charge of the Denver FBI Field Office was something Ward generally preferred to avoid, having experienced it firsthand on more than one occasion.
He was still learning to be a team player after nearly twenty years with the FBI, so he’d allowed the reporters inside his hospital room, he'd let them take their pictures, he'd made statements about justice being done. It had been exhausting and he'd hated every damned minute of it.
Ward wouldn't read the article when it was published. He had no desire to be made into a hero. He had just been doing his job. The fact that a little girl was home safe with her family now instead of in the hands of a child molester was enough thanks for him. He didn’t need public accolades for doing what he got paid to do.
The doctors said he was lucky, that the bullet passed cleanly thorough his side, missing anything vital by fractions of an inch. But Ward didn’t consider getting shot lucky, and he didn’t like the idea of spending weeks recovering before getting back on his feet. He was still in remarkably good shape at age forty-two, but it would take him longer to recover than it would have years ago when he'd first joined the bureau. He still had a lot of fight left in him, though. He'd get back out in the field. He wasn't made to sit behind a desk.
Now he was alone again, and the drugs the nurse had injected into his IV had worn off just enough that he could relive the case, visualizing every moment, every action taken to see if there was anything he could have done differently. Better. The truth was, they’d almost been too late. The things he'd seen in that house would live in his mind forever. But he couldn’t complain. He’d saved the girl and getting shot was a small price to pay for that, he thought as exhaustion sucked him back down into sleep.
Two days later, Adam Bishop read the newspaper article about the injured federal agent again, this time more closely. Special Agent Ward Calhoun. He wondered how many FBI agents with that last name there were. And the picture, the face was hauntingly familiar – the dark hair flecked with gray, the dark eyes and chiseled features.
It had to be him, the lead agent from Lash Brogan’s kidnapping case. And given the agent’s jurisdiction, he’d soon be given a very special new assignment. Adam smiled. It was just too fucking perfect, really it was.
The public had labeled him one of the best actors of his generation. Big time movie deals, and the associated salaries that came with them had followed. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the wealth and fame, but they came second to acting out some of the world's most perfect crimes. He liked to imagine his fans' faces as they digested the gruesome images, lost in a world they thought was fiction.
Of course most of his crimes would never be seen.
He’d had big plans for Redemption. There would be a steep price to pay for not hiring him. And they’d only begun to pay it. But now that he’d had time to think about it, maybe it was for the best. He could still accomplish everything he wanted to, just from the outside instead.
It had been his dream to have his work come to life on the big screen. But he wanted more. He wanted his work to be remembered long after he was gone. This would be his final masterpiece.
Adam Bishop had long ago accepted the fact that he wasn’t an attractive man. He wasn’t exactly unattractive, but at a slender 5’ 8” with thinning blond hair and pale skin, he was definitely average. Average didn’t attract attention. Average was to his advantage. He had a knack for observing people and finding their weaknesses before they even knew what was happening.
Upon meeting him, most people were surprised at his ability to transform himself into such interesting characters. Adam had mastered the ability to come across as your ordinary average Joe when interviewed. If the world only knew, he thought with a smile. Their ignorance only made him stronger.
4
They were going to kill him.
Fear jacked up his heart rate. He made a lunge for the gun on the floor.
Aimed.
Fired.
The man's head exploded. He turned towards the other man, just now raising his own gun, and pulled the trigger. The man staggered back as red seeped through the hole in his chest.
He tucked the gun into his waistband and ran through the open door and down the dim hallway. Outside, the sun reflecting off the snow blinded him.
Where the hell was he? He couldn't concentrate through the fog in his head. He wanted to believe this was a scene from one of his movies. But the aches and pains in his body were very real. So was the isolation and the cold.
And the fear.
And what he'd just done to those two men.
Desperation prompted him to keep moving away from the house. He limped into the cover of the trees.
He willed his legs to keep moving but his strength was running out. He was exhausted and so cold. That God-awful cold. He tried to remember what it felt like to be warm.
Lash Brogan sat up in bed and gasped in a breath. Sweat dripped off his brow, but his bare chest was covered with goosebumps. He panted and shivered, rubbed his aching knee.
He glanced at the alarm clock. Three thirty a.m. He swung his bare feet over the side of the bed, rubbed his forehead, and waited for the shaking to stop.
He threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, took the elevator from his penthouse apartment down to the lobby, nodded at the doorman on the way out. Outside, he took a deep breath, feeling the tension ease just a little. The more he walked, the more it lessened.
People thought of New York City as crowded, congested, rude. He wished they could see it as he did now, in the sleepy early morning hours. The beauty as the city came to life. He never failed to be humbled and in awe as he watched the sun rise between the towering buildings, saw the shops raise their gates, smelled the familiar scents from the bakeries and coffee shops on every corner.
It made his problems, his very life even, seem small and insignificant.
He stopped for coffee at his favorite corner deli when they opened at six. They were used to him coming in just as they opened. The old man behind the counter who barely spoke English smiled and handed him a paper cup of hot black coffee.
Maybe that was why he was drawn to the place. The old couple that ran it didn't have a clue who he was. Or if they did, they didn't give a damn.
Lash headed back towards his apartment, sipping the strong coffee.
He took a detour through the East Village. Being there brought back pleasant memories of a simpler time, when he'd just been another struggling young actor, dreaming of hitting the big time.
Here he could be anonymous.
He was unshaven and had grown his hair longer. He doubted he’d be recognized. Sometimes he told himself that he didn’t shave because it felt good to be lazy, but he knew that subconsciously, he did it to cover up the scar on his face. Not wanting to follow
that train of thought, he concentrated on the sights around him.
He walked along the streets alone, letting himself absorb his surroundings. The folk cafes, trendy restaurants, eclectic mix of people, and of course the hip off-Broadway theatres.
The familiar sights of the small theatres calmed him. This was where his heart was, acting in its purest form, without all the cameras and crew, just you and the audience. He'd done a couple of cameo appearances in sitcoms and movies over the past few months, but the work he’d done on Broadway lately was more true to where his head was at now.
He was different now than he'd been all those years ago. So much had happened to him since he'd been that young, eager Irishman looking for his first big break. Things had been so simple back then. He hadn't yet known the blessings and curses of fame. He hadn't really known himself at all, much less what true love was.
He was still driven to perform just as he'd been back then. Acting was his calling and he couldn't turn away from it any more than he could stop breathing. It was in his blood. He had to believe that the core of who he was had remained unchanged through it all. He still believed in hard work, still loved and admired his parents, still craved success. And he supposed he still believed in true love. He had been tested, but he kept going on, kept moving forward, it was all he knew how to do.
Redemption (Fateful Justice Book 2) Page 1