Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  The Don made his way for a sidewalk, where, sure enough, a freshly waxed, radiantly blue Mercedes was waiting, its engine already purring.

  Jason took a deep breath and let it out slowly, cooling both his mind and his body. He had put away dozens of crooks, but it was never easy. A taking involved more than the element of surprise and a couple of shiny guns.

  Any taking of a criminal consists of three stages, in some form.

  One: The presentation. The desired target needed to be lulled into a sense of security. Everyday life went on around him, and nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  This stage was often the most difficult. Routine is altered when a new subject steps into it, as Jason and his team had to do to become part of the presentation. A change of routine can shatter the target’s sense of security, sending the mission down the tubes. Patience and commitment were critical in order to be worked into a routine, but it was worth it to set up a false sense of confidence around the target.

  Two: the inception. The target’s routine and sense of security is shattered. Here, the road could fork in two completely opposite directions. The target could be so surprised he soils his pants, throws his hands in the air, and surrenders. Or he could be thrown into overdrive, fighting back with all the vigor of a man taking his last stand.

  The team needed to be prepared for both instances. Research and reputable sources indicated that the Don would take the latter route, and Jason didn’t doubt it.

  Three: the evasion. Once the target is under the team’s control, they need to get out of the line of fire, and fast. The point of taking a criminal is to have him in custody in one piece. This is easier said than done, especially if the target takes the guns-blazing route during the inception.

  All the information flashed through Jason’s mind as he eyed Shane Drake edging closer and closer to the blue car.

  “And…” Jason muttered, getting restless.

  Finally, Slate Jones cleared his throat and spoke the signal: “Ignition.”

  Jason sprang from his chair as if electrocuted, dashing for the four men. From twenty meters away, he locked eyes with Red. The undercover officer nodded once and ducked into the crowd.

  Garth was the first to reach the target. Jason nearly didn’t recognize him through the disguise. He wore close-fitting jeans, leather boots, aviator glasses, and a feathered Stetson. Jason just about burst out laughing; Garth was the biggest city slicker he had ever met.

  “Police officers!” Garth announced. In one fluid motion, he pulled his badge from the jeans’ pocket and clipped it to his belt. The next instant, his daunting, all-commanding Glock 9mm was in his hand and aimed at the Don, Shane Drake.

  Cheyenne ran forward on bent knees, her own gun stretched before her. At the same time, Captain Slate Jones galloped onto the scene, drawing his firearm.

  The block-headed surfer in green swim trunks sprinted from the beach, a Glock pointed at the criminals. His stone-hard eyes probed the Don, his lip not quivering a bit. Josh Locke had arrived.

  One other officer named Sam Washington, incognito as a tourist with a clunky camera around his neck, strolled forward, his gun turned sideways as he had seen in the movies. “L.A.P.D.,” he said slowly, attempting with all his might to be cool.

  Jason stood beside Cheyenne, leaning forward on his toes in case sudden running was needed. Garth had been right to be concerned; Jason felt naked without a gun.

  One second of stillness occurred, which was far more than Jason had expected. The hundreds of spectators stood slack-jawed and stupid along with the Don and his men. A robin tweeted once, filling the awkward silence. Then, utter chaos.

  Forrest drew his gigantic pistol from under his shirt and leapt behind a nearby car’s rubber wheel. Jones and Garth fired at him, piercing the car and popping the tire. Hope that guy had insurance against firefights.

  Unsuspecting civilians scattered every which way, screaming and sobbing, looking for any form of shelter from the booming gunshots. It seemed as if the entire shopping strip had exploded, and people flew all over the place like debris.

  Somehow, the gargantuan ape Slax became inconspicuous in the crowd. He darted behind a fence, hiding from the bullets. No one saw him retreat. No one except Jason.

  He gritted his teeth and followed the bodyguard.

  Behind the wooden fence, the sounds of the violent confrontation between cops and robbers could be heard, but not seen. There were no witnesses. A city filled with a million people, and he just had to end up in the single spot with zero bystanders. Jason screeched to a stop, instantly regretting his rash decision to give chase alone and unarmed, but Slax had already spotted him.

  Terrific.

  The brute gazed at him, disbelieving that anyone would be dumb enough to follow without a weapon. Jason was thinking the same thing.

  Slax’s fingers twitched for his gun but then stopped. A grin spread across his face like butter across bread. Moldy bread.

  He strolled forward, stretching his arms. Jason gulped and took a step back. It looked like Slax wanted to have a good, old-fashioned, down-’n-dirty, laceration-ridden fistfight.

  Again, terrific. Things just kept getting better and better.

  Jason straightened his back, mustering every inch of his height against the Goliath before him. He pathetically held his fists before him.

  “Y’know,” Jason said, raising his eyebrows, “you can get into some serious trouble for threatening an endangered species. I feel pretty endangered right now.”

  Slax grunted, or chuckled, and socked the L.A. detective square in the cheek. Jason spun like a top and collapsed.

  A rumbling crash of laughter erupted from Slax at the sight of the small man sprawled out on the dirt.

  Jason began to push himself up, determined to beat this brute at his own game. He blew the hair out of his face, the thought that he hadn’t written a will yet crossing his mind, and stood, grabbing a handful of dirt as he did.

  Once again, he faced Slax. Or rather, he looked up at Slax.

  The Don’s bodyguard snorted again at him, and, as he was inhaling, Jason tossed the dirt into his face.

  Slax grimaced, his eyes full of dirt, annoyed, and, more importantly, surprised. He no longer had the upper hand. Jason was in his element now.

  The world around the two fighters slowed. Jason focused, utilizing all his knowledge and intuitions.

  Block the blind swing.

  Dazed and confused, Slax threw a blind punch out of instinct, which Jason had been expecting and easily blocked with his forearm.

  The brute was a heavy drinker, as evidenced by his downing of the beer earlier.

  A sharp jab to the liver.

  Jason stabbed his fist into the giant’s lower abdomen. Slax doubled forward, clutching his torso in agony.

  Stun his senses.

  He sandwiched Slax’s head between his palms, slapping his ears. His opponent staggered backward, scowling in fury but unable to act.

  A strike to jaw.

  Jason threw his fist at Slax’s face, making contact with a crack.

  A shot to the diaphragm, fracturing the third and fourth rib.

  A punch to the torso.

  Fracture jaw completely.

  One final punch to Slax’s mouth, and he toppled, unconscious in the dirt and garbage.

  Jason cleared his mind of the instincts and leaned over Slax. He drew the bodyguard’s gun. “If you don’t mind…” he muttered to the hulk. He wiped a speck of grime off the barrel with his thumb and checked the magazine. Just three shots left. He reinserted the magazine and glanced at Slax one last time.

  “Nighty-night,” he said as he gave the man’s motionless face a pat and ran out from behind the fence.

  Shots stabbed the air along with people’s screams of terror. Jason didn’t break stride, yet took in all of his surroundings. He noted a pack of women cowering under a table at the open-air cafe, shrieking and shrieking and shrieking some more. Each store was packed with pe
ople cowering from the high-octane action that would look awesome on a movie screen but was more terrifying in real life.

  The team of officers was scattered across the strip, each member taking cover behind miscellaneous piece of scenery. Forrest evidently had the upper hand at the moment, as he was firing rounds at the cops’ hiding spots. With each gunshot, his small body recoiled violently.

  Jason narrowed his eyes and spotted Shane Drake scurrying through the horrified crowd. His destination was clear: the blue Mercedes.

  Jason dashed for the Don, arms pumping furiously. Forrest spotted Jason and focused his pistol on the galloping policeman.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw this, and his instinct screamed at him. He leapt through the air, landing hard on the stone street behind a metal table. He kicked the furniture on its side, using the small metal tabletop as a shield from Forrest’s bullets.

  He peeked out from behind his shelter. The Don was just about to reach the car. Jason didn’t have much time. As he tried to inch out into the open, a shot from Forrest nicked the table’s edge, making him shuffle back to safety.

  “Garth! Cheyenne!” he yelled into his earpiece over the chaos.

  “Copy, Jason.” It was Garth who answered. “We’re a little busy at the moment. Forrest has a bit of a temper problem.”

  “It looks like the Don’s gonna reach the Mercedes in less than thirty seconds,” Jason spat out, feeling another bullet whiz past him, “and we can’t lose him. Forrest has me pinned down to his northeast. I’m gonna make a break for it, and I need you guys to cover me.”

  Cheyenne’s voice piped up, “I have a good position, Jason, and so does Sam.”

  “Right-O,” Sam confirmed.

  “All right, here’s the plan,” Jason said as he propped himself up behind his shield. “I’ll fire two shots to draw his attention toward me. Then I run like crazy and you give him everything you got. Ready…I’m going in three, two, one.”

  Jason stuck out his Glock and pulled the trigger twice. Then, not even waiting a beat, he flew out from behind the metal table, running with all the strength he had left. He heard several shots explode behind him, but his focus was on the Don, who was mere feet from the escape vehicle.

  A few seconds later, the Don reached the revving car. He grasped the cane in his right hand and reached for the door handle with his left. Jason snarled and sped up, still ten yards away.

  The Don grabbed the door’s handle, prepared to step into the air-conditioned ticket to freedom, but Jason Flynn had different ideas.

  Jason raised his gun and fired a round through the car window, shattering it into a hundred pieces. The Don froze.

  Jason screeched to a stop a dozen feet away, gun leveled at the drug-dealing crime lord. “Hold it there, Drake,” he said, huffing and puffing. Sweat dribbled down his brow and into his eyes, but he didn’t dare blink.

  The Don held up his hands in surrender, but he kept an arrogant smirk on his face. He continued to edge backward toward the humming Mercedes.

  “Drake!” Jason bellowed. “I said stop!” He aimed his gun at the car once more, hoping another gunshot would scare the Don into submission as the first one did. He did his best to still his shaky hands and pulled the trigger.

  Then came the sound all cops fear the most.

  Click.

  He nearly gagged. He desperately tried again.

  Click. Click.

  Out of bullets. He hadn’t paid close enough attention to the number of shots he was firing.

  The Don cackled, then spun around and again reached for the car door’s handle.

  Jason called out, “Nope!” as he dropped his useless gun and sprinted forward, arm outstretched. The Don heard the rapidly approaching footsteps and spun around, swinging his black cane with the expertise of Babe Ruth, making contact against Jason’s face.

  Spittle and blood smeared across Jason’s chin. He glared back at the Don only to see himself reflected in the oversized sunglasses. Drake cackled and swung the cane again.

  Jason shot his hand up and caught the cane scarcely before it hit his face. He twisted his arm around, swiping it out of the Don’s hand.

  The Don stumbled backward, staring in disbelief at his empty hands. Jason cracked the cane across Drake’s bare face. The sunglasses clattered to the stone walkways and the Don stared at Jason with his own green eyes. The detective held the tip of the cane under Shane’s neck, keeping the Don completely erect.

  No cocky smile from the dealer this time. He was done.

  A police siren chirped and a swarm of cops in the traditional blue uniforms entered the scene. Jason kept his gaze locked on the Don. Garth trotted over to them as he holstered his Glock.

  “We have all the evidence we need, Mr. Drake. We won’t have to ask you a single question. You know how this show runs. I’ll leave this up to you. Would you like to hear your Miranda rights now, or should we wait a couple hours, let you sweat a little?”

  The Don’s upper lip curled into a snarl.

  Garth chuckled. “You have the right to remain silent, Mr. Drake…”

  He cuffed Shane Drake and began to lead him to a black and white cop cruiser, guards flanking them on all sides. The Don glared at Garth, his gaze dripping with spite. There was something else in the gaze, too, Jason noticed. A strange gleeful knowing, as if he were telling a magnificent joke only he knew the punch line to.

  “Any casualties?” Jason asked Garth.

  “Red took a bullet to the thigh, but he’s definitely alive and well.”

  The duo arrived at the car. One of the cops was even gracious enough to open the door for the ole Don.

  Garth gave Shane a crooked smirk. “Hasta la vista.” He raised his hand to place it on Shane’s head and force him into the car. The Don cocked his head toward the incoming hand.

  Jason’s eyes widened. “No, Garth!” He flew through the air and snatched Garth’s hand before it reached the Don’s scalp.

  The fellow detective jumped, taken aback. He caught his breath and glanced at Jason, his eyebrows raised. The assisting officers guarding the cruiser had grabbed the butts of their pistols, ready to pump lead into anything that breathed. They looked at Jason anxiously, eager for action.

  Jason reached up his index finger and thumb to Shane’s head and gingerly plucked a long needle that was hidden in the Don’s scraggly dreadlocks. The crime lord gave Jason a glare that could melt the polar ice caps.

  Garth let out a shaky breath. “W-What’s that?”

  Jason faced the Don. “You play dirty, Drake. If I know you, this needle in HIV-infected, am I right?” Jason slowly and delicately placed the metal needle on the roof of the car, then faced Garth. “One prick from this, and you’d join a statistic and be in a world of hurt.”

  Garth stared at the long needle as the cops wrestled Shane into the cruiser. If Jason hadn’t have stopped him, he would’ve grabbed right onto the needle. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “Th-Thanks,” he said with an unstable grin.

  “Look for things that aren’t there,” Jason said and headed for the adjacent ambulance.

  As he moved across the shopping strip, he observed the gathering crowd. The cops had done their job, keeping the spectators out of the vicinity, but they all wanted to be as close as possible to the scene. All were yammering to their neighbors excitedly, all previous horror gone.

  A shadow briefly passed over Jason’s head. He looked up, gaping at the bright sky. The V-shaped flock of speckled seagulls had returned from the ocean. The point of the V, the flock’s apparent leader, dived straight for the sidewalk like kamikaze warriors. At the last moment, it swooped upward and landed delicately, a ballerina of both land and air.

  The flock followed its leader, blindly trusting him to make the right moves just as it trusted him to form the V. Jason eyed the flock one last time, then approached the ambulance.

  Red was lying on a gurney outside the ambulance. A gigantic wad of gauze was strapped to his left thigh, absorbing
a growing red blot. The red ball cap was still snugly fastened on his head.

  Jason eyed the bullet wound and smirked. “I get the feeling you were really bad at dodgeball in high school.”

  Red gave Jason a tired grin. “I expect a lot of gifts in the hospital.”

  Jason chuckled and laid a hand on the undercover officer’s shoulder, realizing then that this officer was no longer undercover. “I’ve got a nice cheese plate from last Christmas with your name on it, buddy.”

  Red laughed and raised his hand to shield his vision from the relentless sun. “I’ve never noticed how nice the breeze from the ocean is. Like jumping into a pool. Refreshing.” His eyes closed and he inhaled slowly, seeming to treasure the very oxygen.

  “Hey,” Jason said, and the Latino looked into his eyes. “You can sleep easy tonight.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Jason stepped aside as a couple of officious EMTs began to haul the gurney into the ambulance.

  “See ya later, Jason.”

  “‘Til next time, Red.”

  Chapter 2

  “Be on guard. Stand firm in the faith. Be courageous. Be strong. And do everything with love.”

  —1 Corinthians 16:13

  “What is the capital of…Peru?”

  Jason stood in front of his stove, holding a pan of popping eggs on its cooking surface. Monday morning wasn’t exactly Christmas in the Flynn house—it was the ending of the weekend’s solace—but Jason did the best to pep up his son before they went their separate ways, one to school, the other to the police station.

  Sitting at the small dining table, Ted Flynn furrowed his eyebrows, mulling over his father’s simple question as if it were a trap. Jason smirked; they thought the same way.

  “Lima,” Ted finally answered with an obvious sense of accomplishment.

  “Correct,” Jason looked away from the eggs. He pulled out his best Bob Barker voice and said, “Next question…”

  Ted was ten years old but rather small for his age. Often, his lack of height or strength just wasn’t enough for his peers’ acceptance, which killed Jason. What Ted lacked in athleticism, though, he more than made up for in brain power. Many teachers had complimented Jason on his son’s mental prowess. The boy had surpassed all of the so-called “athletes” by miles, and then some. “Einstein couldn’t shoot a basket to save his life,” Jason often told him.