“I told you, I’m not the guy you’re after.” Micah said.
“Those operations must have done one hell of a job on your brain. Can’t say I’m surprised. Hell, you’re the first subject to have passed through all the testing done in the lead-up to this operation. If you weren’t being such a pain in the ass right now, we’d be celebrating with steaks and whiskey.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Those nightmares you’ve been having or, should I say, those memories you’ve been recalling.”
“How could you possibly have known about those?” Micah’s heart threatened to beat its way straight out of his chest. The realization that the disparate worlds that made up the cavalcade of thoughts and dreams and memories were tied together was almost too much to handle. Were the situation a bit more relaxed, he would have sat down almost immediately; though he wasn’t sure that would’ve done much good.
“Sonny boy, you’ve got some enough high-end tech in your person to feed a starving nation for a decade, at least,” Hurst said. “You didn’t take a shit without the smell coming back to us. And your girlfriend, don’t even get me started on that.”
Micah fired a warning shot at the reattaining wall. “This is between us, old man. Leave her out of it.”
“It’s Hurst, son. It’s pitiful how sure you are of things with that lady of yours. You think you’ve got something special, that you can trust her with anything, but the truth isn’t so squeaky clean. Right now, you’re expecting Valerie to be at home, waiting for your arrival, so the two of you can skip town. Maybe go off and, oh, I don’t know, disappear somewhere no one would think to look.”
“What are you…?”
“She’s been with us the whole time. Hell, that’s why we never had to keep tabs on you more seriously than the basics. At least not past the time you fed that egghead to Lolita.”
It was all Micah could do not to lose his cool. Hurst knew specifics that few had knowledge of. Hell, only Valerie had any idea about their plans for the moment he made it out of his current predicament. Was Hurst really telling the truth? Maybe it was just a lucky guess, or two. He could feel the walls collapsing.
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we never had you check in with us?”
“How many times do I have to tell you, old timer? I’m not Ross Sheridan. My name is Micah Brantley. I can write it down for you if it makes it easier to remember.”
“No, son, you’re not,” Hurst said. He stood up from his perch behind the retaining wall and held his gun at his side, finger on the trigger guard rather than with any overt intent to make use of the tool. “Micah Brantley is dead. Has been for a few months now.”
“Bullshit,” Micah said. He stood up and took aim at Hurst.
“I watched you pull the trigger.”
Micah lowered the pistol and clutched his forehead, the tinge of pain threatening to take over all nerve endings in his forehead. Memories rushed in and out of focus, clear for a moment. He was in a vehicle, calling someone. He heard a jumble of words, some sort of code meant to convey a message he no longer understood. Now he stood at a door, gun drawn, as it opened. He pulled the trigger back until the only sound left was a click.
“What the actual fuck?”
“That’s right. It was all you, Ross. Only a select few people in the world know any of the truths related to the murders of Micah Brantley and his family. To the rest of the country, it would be one of those sad, unsolved mysteries that rocked a community and encapsulated a nation for a short while,” Hurst said. He spoke to Micah as though he were consoling an injured child. “The limelight faded quickly, as it often does, when the next travesty took over the top spot in the minds of the masses. The beauty of our justice system is that it only takes one person willing to testify to bring you down. A jury of your peers hears about the case you’re linked to, and you’re headed upriver. Like it or not, you’re Ross Sheridan, and unless you come willingly, your life is over.”
Micah looked down, attempting to come to grips with this most startling revelation. His life, or what he considered it to be, was nothing more than a lie created by men with motives that ran in opposition to his desire to exist of his own accord. The sound of footsteps brought him back to reality. He raised his pistol and stopped Hurst dead in his tracks.
“Stand still.”
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Hurst said, complying with Micah’s demand. “We’re not alone. Kill me and you’ll have a bullet in your brain before you even get that pistol back to its holster.”
“I’ve lived my life with one regret and that’s no longer an issue. You can say all you want about how much of a loss I stand to face, but I see it differently. This is a release.”
Micah fired two shots at Hurst, striking him in the middle of his chest and the abdomen. He turned to flee down a side street as Hurst’s body hit the ground. A bullet ricocheted off the retaining wall of a nearby home as Micah ran past. He flinched, expecting to be hit, but continued to run away from imminent death. A couple more shots rang out, but none connected with their target.
Moments later, he sat down in his car. The engine warm, Micah awkwardly maneuvered the vehicle out of its parking spot on onto the street, careful not to relinquish his grip on the pistol. He rolled forward slowly at first, maintaining a level of speed reasonably close to the posted limit. It wasn’t until he heard the dual whine of sport motorcycles that he tensed up once more.
The riders closed on him quickly. Neither one seemed remarkable, but it didn’t seem prudent to wait around for their arrival, so Micah punched the gas. The bikes followed suit, weaving through angry motorists Micah had nearly missed. Micah cut down a side street lined with extravagant homes, narrowly avoiding an ornate mailbox on the corner as he attempted to straighten out the car. Mere seconds later, the riders appeared behind him and opened fire, peppering the rear windshield with bullet holes. For a moment, the glass resembled a frozen lake on the verge of splitting, hazy with cracks spider webbing to every corner. Micah cut left suddenly, veering toward the main road, and listened as the glass exploded in protest.
Micah forced the riders to mimic his moves as they approached the main road, turning in unison with the larger vehicle in front of them. They followed suit as he turned right, shifted gears, and raised the throttle as Micah’s car abruptly lurched forward in front of them, attempting to pick up speed in short order.
A loud horn bellowed out in the distance; one long honk followed shortly afterward by a second blast of similar tone. Micah glanced ahead at the drawbridge and saw a uniformed man lean out to search for the source of the noise. A party barge. Suddenly, the barricades lowered on either side as the bridge separated, making way for the safe passage of the vessel full of drunk people enjoying their weekend.
“Son of a bitch,” Micah muttered. He was running out of options. Making the play for the drawbridge only worked if it remained stationary. The hope, albeit naïve, was that the riders would be less inclined to pursue, or cause a scene, with witnesses. Though, they hadn’t seemed the least bit perturbed about opening fire in a neighborhood, so he had little faith that things would suddenly change given the circumstances. The drawbridge continued to open, each section slowly rising, oblivious to the three vehicles approaching at high speed. Micah watched as the riders closed the gap. He was running out of real estate almost as quickly as his options disappeared. “Well, fuck it. Don’t have much to lose at this point.”
Micah pushed the pedal down until it threatened to snap, forcing his car to speed up to the limits of what would likely achieve in the less-than-ideal conditions. He burst through the barricade, sending the fragments of wood flying off into the distance. The uniformed man jumped out of his guardhouse to yell something, like a retired man angry at school children for walking on his lawn. But Micah was too busy flooring his car up the newfound ramp, wondering what lay in wait on the other side. His car reached the top of the se
parated portion of bridge and careened over toward the other side. It touched down a moment later and spun into a bannister.
The sport bikes followed suit immediately, their riders unwilling to let the man responsible for Hurst’s murder escape unharmed. They wove through the onlookers at the base of the bridge, and around the scattered fragments of barricade. Both riders glanced at the rising bridge, then at one another, nodding slightly in affirmation of what must come next. The first bike jumped the gap, barely landing both wheels on the other side before crumpling. The rider went sliding down the incline. His partner wasn’t so lucky, reaching the zenith of the jump a few seconds too late and without the momentum necessary to clear the gap. He careened into the underside of the bridge in a fiery explosion that echoed for half a mile.
Groggy, blood pouring down one side of his face, Micah opened his eyes to see the body of one biker walking toward him. He fumbled around for the pistol, finally retrieving it as his door creaked open. Micah fired three shots and sat still in anticipation for a feeling of pain that didn’t follow. He got out of the car and felt in the pockets of the first rider. Inside were a set of keys and an identification badge. He flipped it over and saw Victor Perez’s face scowling back at him. Micah’s stomach gurgled as he rushed over to the bike and fired it up.
Chapter 58
Micah rode the sport bike to a stop down the street from his apartment. The lights were on inside, but it was hard to tell if anyone was home. He hoped Valerie had heeded his warning, not just treated it as his rambling for nothing. There was a tightness in his chest at he walked toward the building. He pulled out his key and unlocked the door slowly, hesitant to open it without knowing what would greet him on the other side. The faint sound of voices down the hallway forced him in to action and he stepped inside. Valerie immediately rushed over and hugged him tightly.
“I’m so glad you’re okay, sweetheart,” Valerie said. She led Micah over to the living room, mindful of his every move. He placed his pistol on the dining room table, content that it would be of no further use to him that afternoon, and sat down on the couch.
“You don’t have to worry anymore. It’s all over now.”
Valerie smiled at Micah and grabbed hold of his hand, a litany of thoughts running rampant in her mind. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but she hadn’t the foggiest idea where to start. She wondered how he could be sure everything was over, that they were safe, when he did not know what any of that would even entail. The sound of her phone ringing eventually broke through the stupor that had formed.
She walked over to the dining room table and grabbed her phone. A quick glance at the screen revealed an unknown number. They called a second time, and she put the phone to her ear. She felt her heart drop as the voice on the other end instructed her on what came next. She never spoke a word, but hesitantly grabbed Micah’s pistol. Tears streamed down her face as she walked behind him. A brief silence was snuffed out by the unmistakable sound of gunshots.
THE END
Dear Reader,
Before you go, I’m incredibly humbled that you’ve chosen to read Murder in the Magic City. Whether you loved or hated the book, or maybe had a reaction which lies somewhere between those two, please consider leaving a brief review, even if it’s just to say this book reminded you of another book. Short or long, reviews and word of mouth are incredibly helpful for independent authors like me.
No matter the rating, every review makes me happy as it shows someone was passionate enough about the work to share their thoughts. Again, thank you for taking the time to read and thank you in advance if you decide to leave a review.
Sincerely and with warmest regards,
G.P. Sorrells
Author Bio
G.P. Sorrells is an independent author hailing from the sometimes obnoxiously sunny state of Florida. He is a husband, father, and gaming enthusiast (both digital and tabletop). He earned his Bachelor of Arts in English, with a focus on Creative Writing, from Florida Gulf Coast University. Although he currently makes his living toiling away in the confines of retail management, he hopes to one day make the jump into writing as a full-time venture.
If you’re interested in finding out what makes him tick, or just want to stay up-to-date on the next works of prose and poetry from this author, please head over to the G.P. Sorrells Facebook Page and click on the Like button. You’ll also be able to find more detailed information on the author’s website, gpsorrells.com.
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