The Debt Collector (Book 1 of a Jack Winchester Organized Crime Action Thriller) (Jack Winchester Vigilante Justice Thriller Series)

by Jon Mills

  Her eyes narrowed as if she was weighing his words. “You’re here because of Matt, aren’t you?”

  He let out a sigh.

  “Tell me!”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I told you.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” she screamed.

  Her hands trembled as she tried to keep the gun steady. Jason slowly came down behind her. Both waited for an answer.

  Jack nodded. “I work for the mob.” He paused. “Well, I used to.”

  She grimaced. “A collector. Stupid. Oh my God, I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.”

  “Dana, let me explain.”

  Her hands were shaking. “Did you kill Matt?”

  “No,” he replied instantly, shaking his head. “God, no.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

  “There never seemed to be the right time.”

  “So are you going to kill us?”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t kill women or kids. Geesh, Dana, do you think I would have handed you my gun if I had planned on shooting you? If I wanted you dead, you already would be. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “How can I believe anything you’ve said or done?”

  “I don’t expect you to, but I would never harm you or your son.”

  The hands of time seemed to slow. Jack wasn’t unaware of the two officers who’d entered through the door behind him, nor was he confused by their initial command to comply. He was very much aware of his world caving in. But it wasn’t what would happen to him that bothered him the most. It was what could have happened to her—to them.

  “Drop the gun, and get on the floor now,” an officer repeated. “I won’t tell you again.”

  He never took his eyes off Dana, even as he followed their orders and dropped to the ground. A firm knee bore down onto his shoulder, his hands locking behind his back. The sharpened teeth of handcuffs bit into his skin as they restrained him then hauled him out the door. His mind didn’t register the words spilling from the roughneck cop’s mouth as he read off the Miranda Rights. His thoughts were of her. Thrown into the back of a patrol car, he gazed toward the house. Sheriff Grant spoke briefly with her before returning to the cruiser. He was unable to make out what was said. The car spat up gravel as it swung a u-turn and headed out of the lot. Jack glanced back at Dana before the car rounded a corner. Jason stood in the cloud of exhaust as it drove away. Two officers remained on scene.

  Seconds, maybe minutes, later an ambulance hurtled past them on their way to the station. A blur of lights painted the night sky as the siren became distant. Jack could see the officer’s eyes shifting back and forth between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Jack sifted through a barrage of thoughts. What had she told the sheriff? What would happen now? How would Vincent respond? He could feel his control of the situation slipping through his fingers.

  Chapter 26

  TURNING OFF SUMMER STREET, the patrol car closed in on a medium, rectangular-shaped building with red brick. A short driveway led down to it from Portland Road. It was vastly different from the busy police stations in the city. A few cruisers were parked out front. Unlike the city, where he was used to seeing cops trailing in and out at any time of the day, the exterior seemed more like a quiet library under the glow of lights.

  Sheriff Grant and another officer dragged him out of the back and escorted him into the station. The inside had all the appearance of a museum. Old police artifacts and history were prominently displayed behind glass cases, propped up on marble pillars. Brass plaques with the names of donators who supported a recent renovation filled another wall. On the station’s main level was an area for fingerprinting and criminal record checks. Behind the usual bulletproof glass that surrounded the front desk were three desks. Various metal cabinets lined the walls; one contained rifles and shotguns, others were for files. There were only two other officers in sight. One was punching keys at a computer. He peered over his monitor briefly before resuming. The other was a staff sergeant who stood beside a bubbling percolator, pouring a cup of coffee.

  “The shooter?”

  “One of them,” Sheriff Grant said, leading Jack into a booking area.

  Handcuffed to the leg of a chair, Jack watched the officer rummage through a desk before tapping a few keys to bring up the details of the arrest that had been logged.

  “Seems trouble has a way of following you, son.” He tapped his pen on the table.

  “I told you, it was self-defense. Dana will confirm it.”

  “Dana doesn’t want you near her. She believes you are a danger.”

  Jack considered what he was saying while the sheriff glanced back at his screen and continued punching keys. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair.

  “A stint in Riker’s. Links to an organized crime syndicate. A criminal record a mile long.” He paused. “Now I ask myself, what is someone with your background doing in our little town?”

  “I told you.”

  “Right.” He scoffed. “You’re an antique collector.”

  “People have a right to a fresh slate, Sheriff.”

  “You know how many times I’ve heard that?”

  Sheriff Grant looked at him for a moment, now tapping the end of his pencil in the palm of his hand. “So why the visit from these men? You owe them money?”

  Jack stifled a laugh, dropping his head back.

  “Something amusing?” The sheriff exchanged a glance with the staff sergeant before leaning forward and looking Jack in the face. “You are in a whole heap of trouble, son. I don’t think you realize—”

  “If you don’t release me right now, you are going to have more blood on your hands.”

  The two officers regarded him, stonefaced.

  “Then answer me. Who are the men, and why were they here?”

  Jack remained silent.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Get his prints. Put him in the holding cell.”

  “Am I being charged?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m free to go?”

  “You are being held while we conduct our investigation.”

  The staff sergeant unlocked the handcuff and strong-armed him away.

  “You’re making a mistake, Sheriff.”

  The officer led him over to a fingerprinting area. Smearing his fingers in the pad of ink, he rolled each one on the paper until they had his ten digits. Jack didn’t kick up a fuss. There was no point. He’d use what little time he had to think of what to do next.

  Afterward he stood there while an officer routed through his pockets, removed a few dollars in coins, a wallet, and his watch. His shoes were removed, since obviously they didn’t want him hanging himself with shoelaces. Jack shook his head in amazement. He placed all his belongings in a tray. Later it would be bagged and tagged.

  From there the cop led him over to an adjourning area. The cell block was on the same floor. No need to climb stairs or go down elevators. It gave them easy access. Divided into five cells, on the outside they looked like any typical rooms, except for five large metal doors. All of them were made of dull industrial steel, built to withstand any fits or drunken outbursts.

  Inside there was a place to piss, a steel water fountain, and a bench that was an extension of the wall itself. Cinder blocks for walls were covered in thick cream paint. A large number three was painted in red on the wall, indicating which cell it was. By all accounts it was plush compared to Riker’s, but it was still your typical cell. As the cell door clanged behind him, he felt his stomach turn at the sound of the key in the lock. He’d imagined he would never hear another cell door close. How foolish that had been. Jack wandered around the cramped cell in circles, staring at the walls. Taking off his jacket, he slung it down onto the bench and took a seat.

&n
bsp; Charged or not, he didn’t like being held one bit. Out of sight, out of mind had always been his policy. He reassured himself that all they had was circumstantial evidence. There was no way they could know why he was there, unless Dana had told them. But she couldn’t have; otherwise, they wouldn’t have been asking what his connection to the men were. Why hadn’t she told them? What had she said to the sheriff? Better question: What had her husband told her before he was killed? Logic said she didn’t know about the money, but maybe Matt had told her not to touch it. He laid there, his mind in turmoil, tossing around questions. Beyond the door, muffled police communication transmitted over the radio. A phone rang. Footsteps passed his door, and the noise of computer keys being punched blended together.

  It wouldn’t be long before they figured out who the men were. Before they located Matt’s bones, wherever they had dumped him. And yet that wasn’t what concerned him most.

  Vincent wouldn’t wait for him to show up; he would strike first.

  That’s what Jack would have done. He had to get out. Speak to Dana. Get her and Jason to safety and finish this. But how? He pressed fingers against his forehead and began kneading to relieve the band of pressure building. Minutes, then hours, passed. Pent up energy eventually turned into exhaustion and his eyes closed.

  When his crusted eyes blinked open, he noticed his jacket was damp with drool. With the zipper squished into the side of his cheek, he let out a groan, turned over, and glanced at his wrist. They had confiscated his watch along with all other personal items. The events of the evening played out again. Sadness overwhelmed him at the thought of Apollo. He shook his head around, clearing the fog from his mind. There was no way of telling how long he’d been asleep or how many hours had elapsed. He rose to his feet and stretched out his aching joints with a grunt. The muscles in his back ached. Rubbing the back of his head, he leaned against the cell door and banged on it.

  “Hey!” he yelled as he continued slamming the door with a closed fist.

  Several minutes passed before an officer appeared through the slot in the door. Jack immediately recognized him as one of the officers who had remained on scene at the motel.

  “You want to stop banging on the door?”

  “What’s the time?”

  “Close to seven.”

  He’d slept the night away. A wave of anxiety crashed down on him.

  “Don’t I get a phone call?” he replied.

  “You haven’t been charged.”

  “I still want my phone call.”

  The officer scowled at him. “Hang tight.”

  He slammed the metal shutter on the door. Jack ran a hand through his hair. It wasn’t long before his mind started thinking the worst. A short time later, he heard the noise of heavy boots approaching. The lock turned, and Sheriff Grant swung the door open.

  “Let’s go.” He made a gesture with a wave of his arm.

  “Where you taking me?”

  “County.” He paused as Jack threw him a confused glance. “The county sheriff’s office is in Sanford. This is just a satellite office.”

  Jack rolled his eyes as he slipped his coat back on, and approached the door.

  “I thought I wasn’t being charged.”

  “As it stands, you’re not. But I have two dead bodies on my hands.”

  “And I told you—” Jack said.

  “Self-defense. Right. But there is still procedure we have to go through. You’ll get a chance to tell your side of the story to the judge.”

  As he stepped out, the sheriff slapped a pair of handcuffs on him.

  “Are these really necessary?”

  “Precaution. I’m sure you understand.”

  Jack shook his head. “You think I’m a threat?”

  “I think there are things you are not telling me.”

  Part IV

  Chapter 27

  IN THE CRUISER, neither Jack nor Frank spoke until they were on the highway. Jack occasionally saw Frank’s eyes glance at him in the rearview mirror. Years gone by, Frank would have been dead by now. Life in Gafino’s world had taught him that it was better to kill than to be taken in. No one trusted anyone. Most would give up their own mother if it meant getting a lower sentence. They all knew that. That’s why it hadn’t surprised him when there were multiple attempts on his life inside. It was also the reason they had never visited him in four years. Out of sight, out of mind. It was a motto they were taught to live by.

  Jack had never murdered a cop, but there had been times he’d come close to it. Fortunately, he’d escaped custody many times. Chased through the underground subways, across rooftops, and busy streets. It was a game that had excited him when he was a teen. The thrill of being chased or pursuing another made him feel alive, whether that was a cop or a gang member. It didn’t matter.

  Jack squinted as the light momentarily blinded his eyes. The yellow sun was beginning to rise above the tree line, feeding the air with humidity and heat. No doubt it would again be a hot day. Few cars passed them on the way out of town.

  His mind drifted back to a time when wrongdoing felt right and anything but his life seemed absurd. In the early hours, a favorite pastime of his was drinking coffee at one of the many cafés in the city and watching the masses on their way to their menial, soul-crushing jobs. How many of them rose each day and were truly happy about their life? Slaves to a corporate world, an existence they only wished was as exciting and dangerous as the one he led. How many of them spent a few hours each evening escaping their lives of desperation immersed in tales that were based on a life he actually lived? Contract killer, assassin, a gun for hire. Only glamorous portrayals that most assumed were nothing but tales were very real and far from glamorous.

  He would have traded it all to live a normal life. Getting the job done without any emotion is what had earned him his reputation. Where others trembled, faltered, and collapsed under pressure, Jack rose, only becoming more confident with each passing year. Yet for all the confidence he had, it was nothing more than a false sense of security. He wasn’t immortal. He couldn’t outrun trouble for long. Eventually even those who had revered him soon changed their tune and hated him. Jealousy burned strong among crime families. Everyone wanted to be a made man, a somebody in an ocean of faces. They would think nothing of clawing their way to the top, even if it meant stepping on toes, crushing fingers, or stabbing another in the back. Of course, on the surface, those around him held their cards close to the chests. That was what separated those who won and those who lost. It was all a game. No, what he came to learn was those who were taken into the inner circle weren’t feared or revered; they were loathed.

  “Taking a different route?” Jack asked, noting they had missed the exit sign for Sandford.

  “I need to swing by Dana’s. Pick up her written statement,” Frank responded.

  Jack’s brow knit together. “Wouldn’t the officer last night have taken it?”

  “If she was in the right frame of mind. But after what she went through…There was no rush.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. Must be a small town thing.”

  Frank lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “And by that you mean?”

  “You know. After the biker incident, I would have imagined a background check would have given you ample reason to question my motives.”

  “Why? Are you trying to hide something?”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Right. That’s why you were so forthcoming about who those men were.”

  Jack’s mind churned over details from the previous night. Something had been niggling at him, something didn’t quite add up. As they pulled into the parking lot outside the motel, the sheriff killed the engine.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Before he exited the vehicle, Jack spoke. “Tell me, Sheriff. When you showed up last night, how did you know?”

  “What?”

  “How did you know about the men being there?”

  “A neigh
bor reported gunshots.”

  Jack locked eyes with him. The sheriff flashed him a look that made him feel uneasy. Slamming the door on the car, he watched Frank make his way up the steps to the house. Jack pondered what he’d said. He recalled what Jason had said the day they fired off some rounds.

  They’ve never called the cops.

  Jack noticed four things. Behind the office window was the “WE’RE NOT OPEN” sign. The power to the main sign had been shut off. Dana’s Ford truck was gone, and in its place was a black sedan. His pulse began to race. Jack strained his neck to see the back of it.

  It had a yellow New Jersey license plate.

  Realizing the precarious nature of his position, his eyes flicked back to see Frank standing at the door. He was speaking with someone, but he couldn’t see who it was.

  Jack had to act fast.

  He slipped the cuffs from behind his back under his legs. Diving between the two seats until he could get in the driver’s side, he went for the keys—but they weren’t there.

  Operating on pure instinct, he tore at the plastic panel beneath the steering column. His heart thumped hard in his chest. Once the ignition cylinder was visible, he yanked free a collection of colored wires leading to it. To any other person it would have been confusing, but to him it was like tying shoelaces. It didn’t matter what car it was; they all functioned the same. Two red wires handled the power, and two brown wires were connected to the starter. After the longest minute of his life and few hot sparks, the car rumbled to life.

  “Hey,” the faint sound of the sheriff’s voice coupled with the sight of Louis storming out of the house sent his mind into overdrive.

  Still handcuffed, he slammed the car into reverse with both hands, tearing backward at breakneck speed. He spun the car a sharp one-eighty, almost losing control. Two shots rang out, and the back window shattered. Shards of glass covered the backseat. The tires barely gripped the tarmac as Jack hammered the accelerator to the floor and the car surged out, spitting up gravel. If there had been an easy way out of this tangled mess before, it was all but gone now.