Steel Trap: A Jack Steel Action Mystery Thriller, Book 4

by Geoffrey Saign

  Jessop respected his father. His old man had hunted everything, everywhere. But Arthur detested most big game hunters who brought down prey from a distance with scoped, high-powered rifles. Arthur had used only a bowie knife when he had hunted in the past. He took risks with his life. He believed the hunted animal should be respected. And he wanted to see the prey’s eyes when he killed it.

  “Tell me the mistakes,” demanded Arthur. “From the beginning.”

  “Erik shot the old man. He shouldn’t have. But since he did, he should have finished him off. He shouldn’t have taken the rifle.”

  Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “Your mistakes?”

  Jessop knew from past experience the old man would know if he was withholding or lying. And he wanted his father’s feedback. Arthur was a legend in hunting circles. “We shouldn’t have gone back to the same area, even if it was an hour east. We didn’t need to attack the girl and woman. We could have backed off and got the bear another time.” He paused. “Erik probably didn’t recognize the woman and girl as the targets until he captured them. By then he probably figured he had to take them.” He ended with, “I didn’t need to use the rifle on the bear. It was a small bear.”

  “Hmm.” Arthur unbuttoned his shirt. He turned and lifted up the back of it, along with the T-shirt beneath it.

  Jessop leaned forward. Across his father’s back were three parallel white scars—obviously a claw. He’d never seen these scars before and examined them with interest. A story he’d never heard.

  Arthur dropped his shirt and buttoned it up again. “Kenya. An injured lion went rogue and began attacking villagers for food.” He smiled. “I brought in three top hunters, along with myself. I was thirty-five. Strong. Cocky. Stupid.”

  Jessop knew his father was talking about him too.

  Arthur continued. “I left the hunters in the tents and went out by myself with the bowie knife. I figured an injured lion wouldn’t be too difficult to take down. I tracked it, dug a pit with short stakes, covered it, and waited on one side of it. No lion. What I didn’t realize is that the lion had been tracking me. He came at me from behind, clawed my back, and we both fell into the pit. He ended up beneath me and took the stakes. I lay there for hours before one of my hunters tracked me and found me, half-dead.”

  Arthur eyed Jessop. “The moral?”

  “Never underestimate your prey. Expect the unexpected.” Jessop leaned back. “Erik and I assumed the teenage girl wasn’t a threat. We also assumed the woman wouldn’t pose a significant risk to the two of us, given our training.”

  “And Erik paid with his life for those assumptions.” Arthur clasped his hands behind his back, continuing to walk around the perimeter of the room until he was back at his chair. “Jessop, you’re one of the most skilled men I know in the woods. Fighting. Hunting. Planning. I’ve seen you track everything from mice to lions. You have unique skills. Yet at this stage in your life, you’re still reckless. You assume your skills will get you out of any problem you create for yourself.” Arthur paused. “They won’t. End your arrogance or it’s going to get you killed.”

  Jessop responded calmly. “I’ve thought on this. I was surprised, and angry at myself. I realize I’ve acted impulsively in the past. And I agree. It’s stupid. And sloppy.”

  “I referred Erik to this contract. I feel responsible.” Arthur sat down. “So what are your next steps?”

  “Let things die down. Stay away from Bridger Mountain.”

  Arthur clasped his hands on his desk. “What are you going to do with the old man’s rifle that Erik kept?”

  Jessop had already thought on that. “Erik didn’t kill the old man, thus he didn’t deserve to take it. I already brought the rifle back. Tossed it a few feet off the trail so it would be easy to spot.”

  Arthur’s brow knitted. “The man who hired Erik, can he associate you with this mess?”

  Jessop shook his head. “I took Erik’s phone and ID off him. The Russian called later to say to hold off until after midnight, and Erik would just have to take the girl. The Russian said he would call again but never did.”

  “Good. It’s a dead end. Agapov called me to set this up, but he won’t know you were involved either.” Arthur sat back. “Our family code?”

  Jessop straightened. “We hunt what we want. Family first. Pay all debts.”

  “You failed Erik. He was family, yet you led him into a dangerous situation and got him killed.” Arthur leaned forward. “He must be avenged.” He sat back. “Who were the targets?”

  “The woman is Christie Thorton, the girl Rachel Steel.” Jessop lifted a hand a few inches. “I’ll wait. Do some more research. And when the time is right, Erik will be avenged.”

  Arthur nodded. “No spectacles. No more attention to our family, Jessop. Family first also means that you don’t put the family business or any member of our family at risk of exposure.” His face tightened. “But the girl and woman must pay. There are many ways to do this. But do it with honor. Not with a scoped rifle at a hundred yards.” He smiled. “Good to talk to you, Jessop.”

  “You too, father.” Jessop left, walking down the hallway. He found his father’s advice interesting, but Arthur was old school. Still, he had also done his fair share of hunting prey close-up. He would plan carefully, and then act when he was ready. He wanted to see their eyes. But a quick death wasn’t adequate given Erik’s place in his heart and family. The girl and woman would have to suffer a long time.

  WHILE YOU’RE WAITING for the next Jack Steel novel, how about trying the 1st hi-octane Alex Sight thriller?

  Skip the excerpt below and Click here to read Book 1, KILL SIGHT

  ~KILL SIGHT is now in development for a major motion picture.~

  A PSYCHIC EX-DETECTIVE hunts terrorists on a murder spree, and falls in love with his secretive partner. Both choices may kill him.

  (Special Author’s note: This is not a paranormal, crystal ball book. The main character has a special heightened sense, similar to people the author has met.)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  The Jack Steel series is in development for a major motion picture! Hooray! I can’t wait...

  Thank you for reading Steel Trap! It was a joy to write, and to take the characters to the next level in their journey. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!

  Reviews help me keep writing, and encourage other readers to take a chance on a new author they haven’t read before. So if you enjoyed the book, please leave a review! Every review, even a few words, helps! Click HERE to review Steel Trap.

  Thank you! ~ Geoff

  Excerpt from KILL SIGHT

  CHAPTER 1

  The late May southern California sun was a raging fireball in the clear sky, sending sweat running in rivulets beneath Odysseus’ black Lycra suit. The other three men also wore black hoods that covered their faces; goggles covered their eyes. They observed Odysseus carefully.

  Odysseus checked his watch. Noon. He took a deep breath, the image of Kristen tightening his jaw.

  Reaching up, his fingers and toes found the small indentations and outcroppings he had already spotted. Years of climbing gave him strength to move fast. He quickly inched his head above the ten-foot stone wall.

  His heart pounded. Laughter and a splash came from the distant pool. The guard was approaching from the far left on the grounds, walking along the inside of the wall. The guard’s suit jacket was open, his holstered gun visible.

  Lowering himself back down, hanging with one hand with his toes dug in, Odysseus pulled the silenced Glock from his waist pouch. After counting to ten, he silently swung himself atop the wall, and waited until the guard walked by just below him.

  Jumping down from the wall, Odysseus’ knees bent when his feet hit the plush grass. Straightening, he jammed his gun barrel against the whirling guard’s neck and held a finger over his lips.

  The guard’s eyes widened and he nodded slightly.

  Odysseus pulled off the guard’s ear piece and throat mik
e and tossed them to the side. Then he whispered, “If you want to live, on the ground, on your stomach.”

  The guard paled and complied.

  Odysseus put a knee on the guard’s back and said softly into his neck radio, “Go.”

  Rubber-coated grappling hooks made soft sounds as they sailed lightly over the top of the wall and snugged into the stone. In seconds the others joined him. Six-foot-four, Menelaus’ rounded shoulders and square back bulged beneath his Lycra. Patroclus, five-eight, had a thick torso, and Achilles stood six feet, his lean frame approximating Odysseus’ height and size.

  From his backpack Achilles pulled a Glock. Patroclus already held a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. Menelaus dug out a syringe and injected its contents into the guard’s arm, and then armed himself with a Desert Eagle. All the weapons had silencers.

  The guard went limp. Achilles zip tied his wrists and ankles, and then gagged him.

  Odysseus led them across the tennis court single file in a crouched run to the six-foot-high patio wall. Built out of designer cored brick, it separated the court from the pool area.

  Odysseus looked through the brick, past the pool, at the glass doors at the back of the house. He prayed there would be no surprises. Waiting until the girl was swimming away from them, her head down in the water, he strode around the north side of the patio wall, his gun level. Patroclus followed him.

  Achilles and Menelaus rounded the south end of the wall and headed for the house doors, running undetected behind Wheeler and his wife.

  Wheeler was in his bathing suit, lounging on a chair and listening to his iPod, while watching his daughter swim. His plump body revealed his easy lifestyle. Sunbathing in a chair next to him, Wheeler's trim wife wore a yellow bikini. Her eyes were closed and she looked asleep.

  Odysseus’ lips pursed. The good times were over for Wheeler. It took Wheeler five seconds to notice them. By then Odysseus was in front of him.

  “What the...” Wheeler sat up, looking at each of them. His face quickly turned several shades of darkening red, before turning pale. Sweat beaded his forehead. He didn't reach for the cell phone on the table by his drink, but he did pull out his earbuds and tap his wife’s arm. She woke up and sat rigidly, her eyes wide.

  Standing in shallow water, Wheeler's teenage daughter had stopped swimming. Her face blanched as she crossed her arms across her chest.

  A twinge of pity struck Odysseus. The girl reminded him of Kristen. Innocent.

  Muffled shots of the MP5 came from the house. Achilles and Menelaus. Odysseus listened, relieved when the gunfire stopped. Menelaus’ whispered voice came through his ear piece; “House secure.”

  Odysseus glared at the two terrified people in front of him. “Mr. And Mrs. Wheeler, you’re going to reap what you sow.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Alex Sight felt death hanging in the air—like a fading memory. He wanted to ignore it but couldn’t. Pausing in the living room, he stared out at the patio, swallowing over what was coming.

  Persian rugs, expensive wall art, and pottery on pedestals betrayed Wheeler’s wealthy lifestyle. None of it meant anything to them now. He wondered what they thought it had done for their lives.

  Taking the last few steps to the patio doorway, he stopped when his senses exploded with sensual details. Like the million bursts of sunlight dancing off the surface of the swimming pool in the backyard, and the hundreds of fiery points the late-morning sun created on his arms and face. Even the holstered Smith & Wesson M&P Shield 9mm in the inner waistband of his jeans felt extra hard against his skin, as did the ankle sheath holding his OTF Microtech double-edged blade. The notes of a nearby singing warbler seemed acutely crisp and sharp.

  Walking through the open glass doors, he noted a large blood-red numeral 5 spray-painted on the patio. They were making a game of it. His arms stiffened over the chalk outlines of the victims beside the pool.

  He walked to the left.

  FBI Deputy Director Joseph Foley was sitting with a woman at a small white table with an enormous purple umbrella shading it. Three glasses of pink liquid were on the table, coffee and a manila folder in front of Foley.

  Alex reached the shade of the umbrella and stopped, staring at Foley.

  Foley took off his sunglasses. Smudges beneath his eyes indicated a lack of sleep, but his six-three, solid frame seemed alert. Dressed in a dark blue suit and tie, his graying hair swept back above commanding eyes and a jutting jaw.

  Alex hadn't seen Foley for nearly a year. Wrinkles lined the corners of the man’s eyes and mouth, betraying his forty-eight years and lack of sleep. Alex wondered if at thirty-eight he appeared older too, and if his lined forehead gave away his own weariness.

  Foley extended a hand. “Good to see you, Alex.”

  Not wanting contact, he kept his hands to himself and nodded.

  Retracting his hand, Foley’s eyes narrowed. “Alex Sight, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Megan Detalio. She’s an information analyst. One of the best.”

  In her mid-thirties, she wore an expensive blue suit and white blouse. An olive complexion added to her striking, unconventional appearance. A mix of Caucasian and maybe Pacific Islander, long, dark curly hair framed her soft-featured face. Alex found her attractive, but what held his attention were her dark eyes. Smoldering emotion.

  Something threatening surged at him from her, details that he couldn't quite grasp. It felt oddly out of place with the calm woman who sat in front of him. Try as he might, it was an elusive thing, evaporating before he understood it.

  “I'm pleased to meet you.” Her voice was slightly husky, her tone genuine and easy to read. She stood, five inches under his six-foot height, and extended a hand.

  Ignoring her, Alex turned back to Foley. He was aware of the woman frowning. “Get on with it.”

  Foley cleared his throat. “Megan, could you please wait inside the house?”

  “Of course.” She looked annoyed, grabbed her sunglasses from the table, and left.

  As she walked away, Alex noted that her athletic frame made a distinct V to her waist. Loose fitting slacks tightened around her ankles, above low-heeled shoes. She moved like an athlete, with good balance and a smooth stride.

  Alex skewered Foley with his gaze. “The case. Show me.”

  Foley put on his sunglasses. Rising fluidly, he strode around the pool, taking several mints from a small tin. He didn’t offer Alex any.

  Foley gestured at the stone wall surrounding the estate. “The killers came over yesterday at noon. Maybe from Avenida Primavera. They knew the layout.”

  As Foley talked, Alex’s eyes were drawn to the wall, and settled on one round, coarse stone. Anger. It leapt at him, clamping on his throat like a vise. He grasped at the word, trying to hang onto it. The emotion changed subtly, expanded, and he felt the rage as it swept into his chest like a hot brand. Revenge. That emotion slowly withered away as he listened to the deputy director.

  Foley handed over a sheet of paper. “Here's the statement this Threshold terrorist group put on the Internet. A blogger informed us last night of the possibility of foul play with the Wheelers. I happened to be in Los Angeles. Thanks for taking a late flight.”

  Alex glanced over the words, looking for anything that might trigger a reaction. Some phrases he absorbed, while others slid out of his perception like water through open fingers. Denton and Patty Wheeler...selling toxic agricultural chemicals...toxic deaths and sickness... victims avenged...no compromise until guilty... brought to justice.

  Nothing jumped out at him so he handed it back to Foley. They strode back to the table.

  Foley continued talking. “The killers left footprints made by climbing shoes and wore black Lycra with hoods and red-tinted goggles. Wheeler’s teenage daughter said they talked to each other using Greek names from the Trojan War. Menelaus, Patroclus, Achilles, and Odysseus. She had a course in Greek history so the names resonated.

  “She said Achilles dragged one of the dead dogs into the poo
l, but Odysseus stopped him from throwing the second one in. Achilles made some sarcastic remark. Then Odysseus gave the sentencing speech, accusing the Wheelers of poisoning the planet. They sedated and removed the daughter so she didn’t have to watch her parents die. One guard and the maid were tranquilized too.”

  Foley grimaced as he sat down again. “So we have one slightly compassionate killer and at least one psycho who enjoys it. And they don’t like each other. The daughter described Odysseus and Achilles as slender and tall, Menelaus big and strong, Patroclus short and stocky.”

  Sitting at the table, Alex closed his eyes, not focusing on anything, letting his gift have its way with him. He heard Foley’s words in snatches and listened for something beyond them.

  “Two guards killed...Heckler & Koch MP5 machine gun...Glock...”

  Billings. The word hung in his consciousness and had deep anguish attached to it. Before he could explore it further, black and white images filled his mind, surrounded by darkness—bullets spraying everywhere, men and women toppling over, shouts...

  Desperately he grasped at the vision, trying to return to it, wanting more of the small taste he had.

  However his senses abruptly closed down, shrinking back to the mundane as he dropped out of his state. He made a feeble effort to cling to the fading imagery, but it dissipated like rising smoke.

  Dismayed, he opened his eyes. Joseph Foley sat in front of him, seeming a bit more solid and perturbed than he had been aware of earlier. Waves of heat rose from the surrounding patio stones.

  The atrocity he had witnessed, a small-scale massacre, curled his hands on the arms of the chair. He always witnessed death or its possibility in his imagery, but never of this magnitude. And never precisely where it would occur. Not knowing the details always left him feeling anxious. The word Billings wasn’t attached to the site of the massacre, but made him curious.