Ames To Kill (Three Full-Length Thrillers): The Killing League, The Recruiter, Killing the Rat

by Dan Ames

  “Is this what SEALs do, Samuel? Kill old women and injured girls?” The words shoot from her mouth, and she knows they land with unerring accuracy. When he speaks, his voice is a mixture of acid and ice.

  “Shut the fuck up, Beth. Or I’ll kill you the hard way—with a lot of pain.”

  Suddenly the boat stops moving, and the engine throttles down. Beth is yanked to her feet, and she faces Samuel. His eyes are flat and cold. His hands move up around her throat. She kicks and hits him but to no avail.

  His hands tighten.

  Beth holds her breath, but the kicking and hitting takes her oxygen, and soon she has to gasp.

  But no air will come.

  She spits into Samuel’s face, but he remains impassive, looking at her with cool disinterest.

  Beth feels her eyes cloud over. She feels unnaturally light, like her feet are off the ground and she’s floating.

  This is what it’s like to die, she thinks.

  And then Beth hears a roaring in her ears.

  Not what she expected at death’s door, a roaring, but there it is.

  And it’s getting louder.

  Suddenly, Beth sees Samuel look away from her. His hands relax for a moment, enough for her to turn her head.

  And she sees out of the corner of her eye a police car with its lights and siren going.

  Samuel’s hands relax even more around Beth’s throat.

  NINETY-FIVE

  The blow to his testicles is brutal, and the pain blossoms throughout his body. He sinks to his knees. He rolls over and looks up into Beth’s eyes.

  “Beth,” he says. “I love you.”

  She hesitates for just a moment, and he kicks out, hard, catching her in the solar plexus. Then Samuel is up and into Beth, knocking her backward where she lands against the motor, breaking it from its wooden platform. The propeller comes out of the water, moving slowly, while the engine races in neutral.

  “You should have just drowned, Beth. It would have been far less painful,” Samuel says.

  “I don’t give up,” she gasps.

  “Admirable.”

  “High praise coming from a SEAL wannabe,” Beth says. “You’ll never make it, you know.” Her hair is in wet tangles, and her face is a sheet of pure white.

  “I won’t?”

  “You’re a coward inside. You’re a quitter. You take the easy way out. That’s got nothing to do with being a soldier. A soldier is all about honor and courage. You’ve got none of that. You’ll never be a SEAL. But you’ll always be a piece of shit.”

  He springs at her, but she rolls out of the way and swings the oar from the bottom of the boat. It catches him in the middle of the forehead, and stunned, he lands on his stomach on the bottom of the boat. He reaches out and grabs Beth’s left ankle. He wrenches it with everything he has, and she screams as Samuel feels the knee collapse. Beth falls forward, over the motor. She hears something crack, sees the plywood transom holding the small engine in place split in half. The motor swings free, roaring as the prop clears water.

  Beth’s leg knocks the throttle, and the engine howls.

  Samuel rolls onto his back, still holding Beth’s left leg. He wrenches it again the other way, and Beth screams.

  And then Samuel looks up.

  He sees the motor in Beth’s hands.

  Sees the prop comes down.

  Suddenly, the engine revs, and the prop is an invisible blur.

  And then she plunges the motor down.

  Into Samuel.

  EPILOGUE

  The gym is less than half full. This surprises Anna. She had always pictured college basketball games as gymnasiums packed full of crazy, screaming kids with their faces painted in the school colors, waving banners and yelling at the referees.

  But here, the bleachers are empty for the most part. And not very many kids are here. It seems mostly to be parents, who tend not to paint their faces and wave banners.

  Anna shifts her weight on the hard wooden surface. Her body has not fully recovered from the insanity of a year and a half ago. She nearly died that night. She remembers nothing after cutting through the tape that had bound her, breaking the trunk release, and confronting Samuel. The last image was of him swinging the fireplace shovel at her. After that, the new memories start in the hospital. Having her jaw wired, her ribs taped, and CAT scans done to see if there was any brain damage from when Ackerman had strangled her.

  But she is as good as can be, considering her life.

  At times, she still can’t believe the miracle. Initially, she had tried to email Beth’s highlight video to the prospective colleges, but the file had been too big and every attempt to email it had failed. That was why she put the video on a thumb drive and asked Ackerman to mail them.

  But one of her email attempts had actually gone through.

  And it had gone to the right coach at the right time.

  A miracle.

  Anna’s thoughts are broken by the sound of the pep band blaring the opening notes to “Sweet Georgia Brown.” The teams run onto the court, and Anna automatically searches for Beth, spotting her instantly. Anna watches her, amazed as always at the recovery. After the scene at Ackerman’s cabin, Beth had yet another surgery on the knee and then had thrown herself into rehab like a woman possessed. No more feeling sorry for herself.

  Now, Anna watches Beth move through the pregame warmups. She is moving smoothly and confidently. Maybe not as quickly as she had been as a senior in high school, but with the same easy grace.

  Now, watching Beth, Anna thinks of all the people hurt by Ackerman. All because one sick mind put everything he wanted above everything else. Above life even.

  The shrill insistence of the referee’s whistle makes Anna look up. The teams are assembling at center court.

  The referee is ready to toss the ball.

  Anna finds Beth sitting on the bench. She watches her daughter shout out encouragement to her teammates. Beth is happy. Happier than she’s ever been in her life.

  She has come to grips with Peter’s death, thrown herself into her classes and is studying psychology. So far, she is acing all of her classes.

  The referee tosses the ball, and the game begins. It is not until shortly before halftime that the opposing players drop into a 2-3 zone. Beth is immediately called from the bench by her coach and placed in the game. Anna knows that Beth has spent most of her time in practice perfecting her shot. Relieved of ball-handling duties, she has turned her uncannily accurate, purely fluid shot into something even more precise and deadly.

  The point guard on Beth’s team, a small, lightning-quick girl brings the ball up the court. Beth fans out to the left side of the court.

  Anna sits back in her seat. She is calm. She knows what’s going to happen, and for her, it signifies the new life she and Beth have reconstructed since Samuel Ackerman walked into their lives and blew the old one apart.

  The point guard drives into the middle of the lane, and the opposing players collapse the zone to protect the inside. With a subtle flick of her wrist, the point guard shoots the ball over to Beth who has squared up toward the basket, her feet behind the three-point line.

  Beth catches the ball deftly and, in one silky motion, brings the ball in and then up. Her arms and legs all working together effortlessly. The textbook demonstration of a pure shooter.

  As the ball lofts through the air, the backspin perfect, Beth’s hand is hanging in the air in a perfect follow-through, as the ball swooshes through the net with barely a whisper.

  THE END

  KILLING THE RAT

  A Crime Thriller

  by

  Dan Ames

  “I have learned to hate all traitors,

  and there is no disease that

  I spit on more than treachery.”

  -Aeschylus

  “Honesty is for the most part

  less profitable than dishonesty.”

  -Plato

  ONE

  It was time for Tommy
Abrocci to make his move.

  At the home of Detroit mob boss Vincenzo Romano, the only sounds were the birds and the gentle waves of the lake. The giant, ten thousand square foot English Tudor sat on Windmill Point Drive in all its breathtaking grandeur. It looked out over Lake St. Claire and the northern end of the Detroit River where freighters passed on their way to and from the Atlantic Ocean.

  The home itself had eight bedrooms, ten bathrooms and five fireplaces. It was occupied by Romano and his wife Gloria. The Don’s consigliore, a man named Stanley Wessel, lived in the carriage house behind the main building.

  It was early morning. A warm breeze stirred the treetops. Giant elm, cottonwoods and maples fluttered in the soft wind. The bluejays and cardinals sang at the black squirrels rummaging on the ground for acorns.

  The sun, initially obscured by a thin morning layer of cirrus clouds, had burned the sky a clear blue. It was only ten in the morning and nearing eighty degrees. The early morning’s moist air had begun to dampen even more with the coming of the day. Warmed by the sun, it now felt thick and enveloping.

  Romano was in Las Vegas, overseeing the tenuous foothold he was trying to establish in the casinos, via a connection with family members from Chicago. He was scheduled to return in the evening.

  Tommy Abrocci was more than aware of Romano’s schedule. He’d thought of nothing else for the last three days. He’d lain awake, rehearsing the scenario over and over again. He’d slept less than five hours over the course of three nights. This morning, he’d looked in the mirror and had seen a man who looked like death warmed over. He'd forced himself to drop that comparison. It wasn't a good omen.

  But he’d had five cups of strong coffee. In fact, he’d packed the freshly ground coffee into the filter himself. As much as he could stuff in there. He wasn’t worried about being overly jumpy. That much caffeine would just bring him up to where he should be, counter the sleep deprivation he’d suddenly developed.

  Tommy stood in Romano’s kitchen. He could see Lake St. Clair through the giant picture window in the living room. The natural light was brilliant in the morning, even the kitchen was brightened by the angle of the sun. Out on the water, Tommy could see a few small sailboats tacking toward the other side of the lake. Toward Canada.

  It was quite a view. He imagined the big man standing here, his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe, making the big decisions of the business. Sometimes, even deciding who was to live or die. Simultaneously playing with his balls and people's lives.

  Bile rose in Tommy’s throat. Romano would be standing here tonight, no doubt, fantasizing about getting his thick hands around Tommy’s neck. Choking the life out of him. Tommy glanced out at the lake. Maybe he’d be out there tonight, sitting on the bottom wrapped in chains and an old tarp from Romano’s garage. Zebra mussels sucking on his face.

  Stop it, he told himself. Negative thinking wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He’d read about visualization and all that in one of those motivational books. It all had to do with the power of positive thinking. Visualizing success, that sort of thing. Envisioning the future you wanted was half the battle.

  Tommy did that. He imagined himself somewhere far away. A new place. A new town. And best of all, a brand-new name. He’d lose some weight, get a super short haircut, maybe even bleach it blonde for awhile. With all the golf and tennis and lying around on the beach, he’d be so tan no one would recognize him.

  Even better, he’d have plenty of money to live life the way he wanted to: cash in his pocket and days chock full of freedom. Freedom to do whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it. Maybe he’d sit around and carve coconuts. Maybe he’d take a pottery class or grow garlic and peppers in a garden. Who the hell knew?

  One thing he was sure of, though. There would be babes. Lots and lots of babes. Young ones. Old ones. Divorcees. Widows. Native island babes, maybe. Dark-skinned and dim-witted. That’s the way he liked ‘em.

  Tommy savored his positive imagery for a few more seconds, then closed them up, like drawers in a dresser. He brought himself back to the present and went over his plan for the next twenty-four hours. He’d taken into account every contingency he could think of. All of the people who’d turned his life into shit were factored in. Even that fucking FBI agent who’d started the whole mess. It was a good plan, he thought with no small amount of pride. Everyone had made assumptions about Tommy Abrocci. They’d all made assumptions of the kind of man he was. Well, they were all wrong. They’d made a big mistake.

  They all underestimated him.

  He had a plan. And now, he just needed to execute it properly.

  Tommy Abrocci drained the last of the black coffee from his cup, walked back into the kitchen and set it into the sink. He shook a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped off the small bead of sweat that had formed at his hairline. He dialed a number on his cell.

  “Nick?” he said. “Quit jacking off.”

  He listened and a moment later he heard the sound of flesh slapping and a man’s voice began a low moan. Tommy rolled his eyes, pictured Nick Falcone tugging his cheek, letting it slap against the inside of his mouth to create the required sound effect.

  “Hold on, Tommy,” Falcone said, his voice somewhat distorted. “I’m almost there.” Falcone’s moan escalated until Tommy cut him off.

  “Get in here,” he said.

  Tommy pulled a .38 Smith & Wesson automatic from his shoulder holster. From his pocket, he retrieved the five-inch silencer. He screwed it onto the muzzle, then jacked a round into the chamber and clicked off the safety. He put the gun inside his waistband, camouflaged by his sportcoat. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need it. Hopefully, Falcone would do as he wanted. But if not, he’d take care of it. There was no going back at this point.

  Falcone came in through the mudroom. He was a short, powerful man, nearly ten years younger than Abrocci. He wore a black T-shirt beneath a linen sportcoat and had on Armani dress slacks. Tommy knew that Falcone loved to take off the sportcoat and strut around in the designer T-shirt, putting his bulging muscles on display. On more than one occasion, Tommy had passed through the exercise room where Falcone sat pumping iron. Falcone would tilt his head down toward his arms and tell Tommy to “check out the pythons.”

  Now, Falcone walked into the kitchen and smiled. “Tommy, I need to wipe my hand off, hand me that towel.” He smirked at Abrocci who ignored the request and instead tossed the younger man a set of car keys.

  “Gloria wants raspberry scones. A half-dozen. From Great Harvest Bread. And bring back some of those little plastic tubs of honey.”

  “Great Harvest Bread? Where the hell’s that? In the village?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Birmingham.”

  “Birmingham?” Falcone said, his thick brows rising in unison. “I gotta drive all the way out to Birmingham for scones? You gotta be kiddin’. Have Joe do it.”

  Tommy figured he would say that. Which was why he’d sent Joe on a similar bullshit errand a half hour ago. He wouldn’t be back for hours. Tommy shook his head. “Joe’s busy. You’re up. You also gotta stop at Kroger, too. She wants butter. Sweet cream. Unsalted.”

  “Jesus,” Falcone said. “She shouldn’t be eating butter in the first place. All that cholesterol. Has she had her cholesterol checked lately? I bet she’s way over 200.” Falcone was a weightlifter and subscribed to every men’s health and fitness magazine that was published.

  “She didn’t ask for a check-up, Nick, she asked for some scones and butter, okay?”

  “From Great Forest?”

  Tommy sighed. “Great Harvest, not Great Forest. It’s off Woodward, just before Maple Road. On Adams.”

  Falcone raised his hands. “Fine, whatever.” He thought for a moment. “Mind if I stop at the GNC out there?”

  Tommy shrugged his shoulders. Actually that would be perfect. “Sure. Running low on creatine?”

  Falcone nodded.

  “That stuff’ll shrink your equipment. And from w
hat I hear, you can’t afford to lose anything.”

  Falcone shot him the finger and left for the garage.

  A moment later, Tommy watched Falcone back the big Lincoln out of the garage, turn and drive down the long driveway. When the car disappeared around the corner, Tommy quickly walked up the mahogany staircase, past the textured plaster walls, down the long hallway adorned with expensive original artwork, and stood in front of the third door on the right.

  It was Vincenzo Romano’s bedroom.

  And inside, was Gloria Romano.

  The Don’s wife.

  TWO

  Gloria Romano examined herself in the mirror. Her skin was still wet from the shower, a towel was wrapped tightly around the dark hair that framed her face. Two big brown eyes looked back at her, a solid but not substantial nose, high cheek bones and a strong jaw. She was a handsome woman, but not a delicate one. Still, men desired her. Whether or not it was because of the power associated with her husband, or her own forceful personality, she didn’t know. And frankly, she didn’t care.

  She unscrewed the cap of her face cream and slipped two fingers into the smooth milkiness. She brought them to her face and applied it upward with gentle strokes. Gloria remembered when she was a girl and was trying out her mother’s face cream, her mother had walked into the bathroom and seen the young girl. Gloria had been scared, sure that she had triggered her mother’s volatile temper. Instead, the woman had sat down next to Gloria and said, “Never rub down. Always up.” And then she’d demonstrated the right way to apply face cream.

  Now, nearly forty years later, Gloria the Woman did what her mother told. The cream worked its magic, bringing a soft luster to her skin. Gloria Romano was still young, nearly fifteen years younger than her husband. And she liked to think that age was enhancing her beauty, not detracting from it. Still, a little face cream never hurt.

  She had nearly completed her routine when there was a soft knock at the door.