Hit List (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

  She walked around the front of the car, down the side, put her hand on the door handle, opened the door and started to get in. Suddenly a sound came from behind her, almost as if someone was lunging at her.

  Before she could turn something happened to her back.

  Something awful.

  Something serious.

  It was as if someone had taken a red-hot spike and nailed it into her spine.

  She tried to call out.

  The pain was everywhere.

  It tore at every fiber of her being.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Day Six - April 21

  Saturday Evening

  ____________

  A strong wind blew out of the northwest, carrying an invasive chill through the night. Ganjon shivered, slipped back into the Camry while the gas pump ran, and took the opportunity to dial Jay Yorty to tell him the good news. On the second ring, Yorty’s voice came through.

  “Jay, it’s me.”

  “John,” Yorty said. “I’ve been waiting for you, man. Tell me something good.”

  Loud music pounded in the background and Yorty was shouting into the phone to get over it. South Beach was two hours ahead of Denver and the little trust-fund brat was obviously at a club somewhere smack dab in the middle of his next pussy hunt.

  Ganjon smiled to himself.

  “Something good.”

  “Screw you. Am I an owner, or what?”

  Ganjon grinned.

  He loved giving people good news.

  “You’re an owner. I just closed the deal.”

  “Bingo!” Yorty said. “You’re the best, man, the absolute best.” Ganjon heard Yorty cover the mouthpiece and tell someone he just bought a ’57 Chevy. All original, primo condition, stole the little shit. Then, “Listen, my man, good job. And, hey! I’m going to throw in a little bonus for you, next time you’re down here. A little thing called Caressa.”

  “Caressa, huh?”

  “She’s going to rock your world, friend.”

  Ganjon hung up and waited for the pump to finish.

  Caressa.

  Rock his world.

  Outside the wind howled and he could actually feel the car want to fly away under the pressure. In the back seat sat three bags of groceries. Milk and yogurt, both no-fat, vitamin fortified cereal, apples, oranges, bananas, tomatoes, wheat bread, sliced turkey, orange juice, power bars and one naughty little bag of Lay’s potato chips, sitting on the top of everything where it wouldn’t be crushed. He thought about breaking it open but before he could make up his mind the pump shut off with a clank.

  He pulled the baseball cap down as tight on his head as he could and stepped outside.

  Damn wind.

  He put a hand on his hat to keep it from blowing off, then replaced the nozzle, screwed in the gas cap and scurried inside to pay.

  Always pay cash.

  Inside, overpowering fluorescent lights cranked out twice as many watts as they needed, washing an ugliness over everything. There was only one cashier, a middle-aged man who obviously knew how to drink beer, in no particular hurry, hence the line.

  Four people stood in front of him.

  Each one held a credit card, of course.

  Shit.

  What the hell ever happened to money?

  He pulled his hat down at far as he could over his face without looking weird and took his place at the end, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Lines equaled wasted life and pissed him off more than just about anything else on earth.

  A cheap color TV, mounted on a wall bracket over in the corner, was in the process of spitting out an infomercial, trying to sell him a stupid looking car. Then the picture switched to a news update.

  Suddenly Megan Bennett’s face popped up on the left half of the screen. On the other half, some mean looking cop by the name of Nick Teffinger was talking to some blond reporter with a big white smile and even bigger tits.

  The look in the cop’s eyes was unmistakable.

  Ganjon had seen the same thing in his own eyes enough to recognize it.

  The man was serious.

  He was on the hunt.

  So, you want to dance?

  Is that what you want, pretty boy?

  He hated this Teffinger cop immediately. He knew the type—a good job, a rough edge, tons of hair. Every door in his life opened oh-so-goddamned-easy. Women, success, friends, sports. Guys like him had no idea what the real world was like.

  Well, if you’re not careful, you’re going to find out, asshole.

  You’re in my world now.

  Megan Bennett’s face suddenly disappeared from the left side of the screen, immediately replaced with a picture of a black Camry. Not his exact Camry. More like something from an advertisement.

  Damn!

  How in the hell did they know he was driving a Camry?

  “Sir?”

  The word seemed to come from a million miles away but was unmistakably meant for him. He realized that he was at the front of the line now and the beer-gut behind the cheap Formica counter wanted his money. He handed over a twenty, already in hand, stuck the change in his front pants pocket, saw that the news report was already over, and walked out.

  The wind grabbed him immediately and held on until he got into the car and managed to muscle the door shut.

  He cranked over the engine and pulled into traffic.

  So many thoughts jammed up in his mind that he had a hard time concentrating on just one. Obviously the cops knew about the Camry somehow but—and here’s the important part—didn’t appear to know much more than that. They didn’t know his name, license plate number or what he looked like, otherwise it would have been splattered all over the screen.

  He started to calm down, just a tad.

  Things were definitely not as bad as they first appeared.

  There were only two negatives of substance as far as he could tell. First, they somehow knew he was driving a Camry. Maybe someone saw it when Megan Bennett came out of her house that night—if that’s how they knew, no big deal. It had been raining like crazy that night and the likelihood that anyone had actually seen his face would be slim to none, and Slim just left town.

  The only other bad thing was this Teffinger cop. Ganjon wasn’t afraid of him but he really didn’t need someone like that running around in his shadows. The guy was trouble. He looked fairly big, too, although not as big as he was, and nowhere near as strong.

  But, still, he could be an opponent if it ever came to it.

  Plus he’d have a gun and five hundred other people on his team.

  The city lights started to fade off now as he got farther and farther into the country, south of Denver. Santa Fe Drive turned into a measly two-lane road more than five miles back. He’d done his grocery shopping and filled up the tank not far from Donald Vine’s house, after closing the deal on the ’57 Chevy. That was a good location because it was more than twenty miles from the farmhouse.

  Always shop and gas up as far away as you can. That way they can’t triangulate you.

  Okay.

  Think.

  The cops had some semblance of a net in place. Not much of one but more than he was used to, just the same. The Camry was a liability at this point. He most definitely had to take care of that little fact somehow.

  What were his options?

  He could complete his work with Megan Bennett and get out of Dodge, even as early as tonight, if he wanted to. That was the smartest thing to do. Just get the hell out of here and jump straight down the devil’s throat where they’ll never find him.

  Or, he could just lay low, continue the dance with Megan Bennett for another day or two or three, and then jump. This wasn’t as smart a plan but was definitely the one he wanted to go with, unless he thought of a reason why it was just plain stupid.

  How much risk did he want to take?

  That what it always comes down to, isn’t it?

  He must
have been thinking for some time because he now found himself on the gravel road that led to the turnoff for the house. He couldn’t even remember the drive here.

  Everything around him was black and he couldn’t go more than thirty miles an hour because the road was so uneven. The occasional chunk of gravel kicked up from the tires and slapped against the underside of the car.

  Repeated glances in the rearview mirror told him that no one followed.

  He was totally safe, at least for the moment. Maybe he’d go out tomorrow and pick up a rental under one of his aliases. Something with a trunk that he could stuff Megan Bennett in if the need arose.

  He turned off the road and onto the so-called driveway for the farmhouse.

  In another half mile he’d be home.

  Megan Bennett.

  He smiled.

  Daddy’s home, baby.

  Get yourself ready.

  When the house came in sight he immediately knew that something was wrong but couldn’t tell what. Almost by instinct he killed the headlights and stopped the car. What bothered him so much all of a sudden? Then he knew.

  There were lights inside the house.

  Damn!

  How could that be?

  Were there cops inside?

  Had they found the place?

  He twisted around in the seat to see if there was a caravan of cars closing in on him from behind. No, nothing. Everything around him in every direction was black.

  He powered down the window and stuck his head outside to see if he could hear anything. But the wind was too strong and filled his ears with noise. There could have been a freight train running next to him and he wouldn’t have been able to hear it.

  Back inside.

  Damned useless wind.

  What to do?

  He reached under the front seat and felt around until he found the leather sheath. He pulled it up, slipped the knife out and instinctively pressed his thumb on the blade, drawing strength from it.

  Razor sharp.

  He turned the vehicle around and parked it, pointing towards the road just in case he needed to make a quick getaway. Then he put the keys in his pocket, tightened his shoelaces, picked up the knife, and walked towards the house in the dark, briskly but not so fast that he’d be out of breath when he got there. He encountered no one and had a thought that kept nagging at him.

  Maybe he left the lights on.

  That was possible, because if the cops had found the place, the whole area would be swarming by now. And if Megan Bennett had somehow escaped, which was impossible anyway, there’s no way she would be hanging around.

  This could be one great big false alarm.

  Or maybe the old man who rented him the place, Ben Bickerson, dropped by to see if everything was all right. If that was the case, then the little jerk just made the biggest mistake of his pathetic redneck life.

  The wind whipped around like some primitive unleashed force and he could feel his tolerance for it start to seriously fade. In anther few minutes it would drive him officially crazy.

  Damned wind!

  He was getting close to the house now, really close. Then he saw something that he didn’t expect, the black shape of two motorcycles. Even from this distance, in the dark, he recognized them as Harleys, and not new ones either, older models with huge saddlebags, and sleeping bags bungeed on top.

  Drifters.

  They were probably a couple of lowlifes looking for a free place to crash for the night, maybe hiding out from the law. So they pull in here looking for a barn or something and end up finding a house with a woman inside tied up on a bed. It’d be like winning the bikers’ lottery.

  Ganjon realized that he had never stopped walking towards the house and was almost at the front door now.

  Back door, he told himself.

  Go through the back door.

  He headed around the side of the house, towards the rear, walking briskly.

  He tightened his grip on the knife and knew he was prepared.

  Bust in fast and quiet and take out the closest one as quick as you can. Then go for the other one. Don’t let them get you between them.

  If you screwed with Megan Bennett you’re going to wish to God you never turned down this driveway.

  I’ll rip your head off and piss in the hole.

  That’s a promise.

  He turned the doorknob, opened the door and walked straight in.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Day Six - April 21

  Saturday Evening

  ____________

  It was eight o’clock on a Saturday night and Teffinger was still at his desk, trying to squeeze the last bit of energy out of the day.

  Kelly should be calling pretty soon.

  She’d been roped into some kind of a law firm function tonight with out-of town clients but she was going to break away as soon as it was politically correct. Then they were going to join forces and see where the evening took them.

  He sat alone in the room with his shoes off, his feet up on the desk and his eyes closed. Everything was quiet, in fact strangely quiet, except for the hum of a couple of fluorescent ceiling lights that were at the wrong end of their useful lives.

  Megan Bennett.

  Hold on, Megan Bennett, if you can.

  The day had been long and frustrating. The FBI had taken the lead in trying to obtain information from the airlines, hotels and car rental agencies. But the going had been tedious and so far no correlations had been discovered. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. That’s just the nature of that type of investigation.

  Lots of tips had come into the telephone hot line. Sydney had done a wonderful job sorting the wheat from the non-wheat, and allocating resources to the ones that most justified the effort. But so far nothing solid had come of it. One thing for sure, though, the Denver community was really lining up behind the investigation.

  Suddenly his cell phone rang. Someone breathed into it for a couple of seconds and then hung up. He pulled up the menu for calls received to get the caller’s number. It was Unknown.

  Weird.

  Very strange.

  It definitely wasn’t the call he was expecting, from Kelly, because his phone recognized hers.

  It rang again. This time someone was there. “Nick? This is James, from the Carr-Border Gallery,” the voice said.

  Teffinger recognized the voice. James was the husband of the woman who owned the gallery that had taken him in. “James, did you just call?”

  “No.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Hey, listen, Picasso,” James said. “We sold five of your paintings this week. We’re getting low and were hoping you could bring some fresh stuff by.”

  “Five?”

  James laughed.

  “Crazy, isn’t it?”

  Teffinger couldn’t believe it.

  “Wow.”

  He found himself talking art for the next five minutes, learned that the market was picking up, the pieces priced at under a thousand dollars were moving the fastest, and that summer landscapes were the hot ticket right now, which was just fine, because that’s exactly what he painted. By the time he hung up he was missing the smell of turpentine and the challenge of an empty canvas.

  “You’re a workaholic,” someone aid. He looked up and found the FBI profiler, Dr. Leigh Sandt, walking into the room. “I like that.” She had changed out of her intimidation suit and into casual white shorts with a pink cotton shirt. He was surprised to see her but glad. Her voice made him realize that his thoughts had started to drift.

  “I have no life,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Me either. Nor do I want one.”

  Her legs were muscular and tanned and looked exceptionally good. She had maintained herself well for her age and had to be respected for that. She must have been an absolute, incredible knockout back in her heyday.

  “So what’s going on?” he asked.

  She was at his desk now and sat down in a chair. He pull
ed his feet off so she wouldn’t have to look at them.

  “Nothing, just thought I’d check in.” She picked up a pencil and started fidgeting with it. “So what are you working on?”

  What, indeed?

  He shrugged and combed his hair back with his fingers. It immediately flopped back down over his forehead. “To be honest? I’ve been racking my brain all day trying to think of a way to flush this guy out. I need him to call me and get a dialogue going.” He looked at the woman. “I always have room for brilliant ideas, of course.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She seemed intrigued with the idea.

  “Yeah.”

  He studied her face as she pondered it. “The indicators are that he’s incredibly smart but his emotions can get the best of him. Take the attack on the three men outside Megan Bennett’s window, for example. If you want him to talk to you, my guess is that the best door to entry is through his emotions, not his brain.”

  “Meaning what?” Teffinger questioned. “Get him pissed-off at me? Get on the TV and say we have evidence that he wets the bed or something?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “I had a case in upper Minnesota several years back where we came up with plan. We captured the wrong person, one of our own actually, on purpose, and then put out a news alert stating that we caught the guy we were looking for and the hunt was off. We had great visuals of the so-called capture with helicopters and dogs and you-name-it to put on the TV. The real killer sees all this and calls us to tell us how stupid we are, which is exactly what we were going for. That started a wonderful series of phone calls that got us where we needed to go.”

  Teffinger was impressed.

  “Very nice.”

  “Of course,” she added, “when it was over, the news media jumped all over us for catching the wrong guy in the first place. We could have told them the truth, but didn’t really see the need to get a public debate going as to whether it’s ethical for law enforcement to provide false information to the public in the name of catching the criminal. So we just left the egg on our face and got out of town.”

  “Devious,” he said. “I like that.”