Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  A classic two-birds-with-one-stone scenario. The L.A.P.D. team would move in, completely incognito, and corner both Harold and the Hearse. The uniformed cops would then swarm, taking two of the most notorious villains under the sun.

  Couldn’t be simpler.

  Jason adjusted the earpiece nestled deep inside his right ear. Again, just as it had been taking the Don on Venice Beach, they were all in constant communication.

  3:05 p.m. The presentation was nearly complete. Only the inception and the evasion remained.

  Sam’s voice, small and electronic through the earpiece, said, “Okay, I’ve got one. Why was Cinderella so horrible at baseball?”

  The team had gotten into a bad joke contest while watching the Kodak. So far, Sam was winning.

  Josh: “I give up.”

  Sam was already giggling. “Because she had a pumpkin for a coach and was always running from the ball.”

  Several groans rumbled through the earpieces as the team acknowledged how truly awful the joke was.

  “Tough crowd,” Sam mumbled, a smirk in his voice.

  Jason ended the contest abruptly. “It’s three-oh-six ladies. Look alive, remain calm, put your seats in their upright positions.”

  “Aw…” Josh sighed. “I had a really good joke.”

  “Tell it to Harold after he’s in handcuffs,” Cheyenne offered. “He’ll beg for mercy.”

  “No, really,” Josh pressed. “It’s awful. Like, so awful it’s amazing.”

  “Josh,” Jason thundered, not in the mood for the officer’s attitude today. “Close your mouth and focus. Vigilant, remember?”

  That shut him up.

  Like a mouse in his pocket, Jason’s cell phone began vibrating. He nearly jumped right out of his skin. A small yelp did escape from his lips, but he contained most of his shock.

  He had not been expecting that. Someone was calling him.

  Who on earth would be calling him? He was busy, in the line of fire—everyone who would want to call knew that.

  Jason decided to let the call go. Whoever it was could wait a few minutes while he captured Harold and the Hearse. The vibrating ended a few moments later, and all was normal again.

  But the thought kept prodding him: Who would be calling?

  He glanced at his watch and gulped. 3:07 p.m. had crept up on him while his phone had held his attention.

  Jason studied the Kodak Theater. It was a rather average-looking building, stout and wide, made of pale stone. It was practically invisible among all the cityscape that surrounded it. Yet every eager “star-to-be” in the country dreamed to be there someday, either accepting an Academy Award or being crowned American Idol. Several brass stars bearing celebrities’ names were embedded into the sleek walkway running in front of the theater. This was part of the world-famous Hollywood Walk of Fame. Tourists gawked and marveled at the walkway, each trying to find their own favorite celebrity’s star.

  Hidden among these tourists was Detective Sam Washington. He wore his favorite Lakers jersey and had a gigantic, pre-Stone Age camera around his neck. He took a snapshot of Keanu Reeves’s star on the walkway and giggled like a…well, like a tourist.

  The glass doors of the Kodak swung open, and an elderly Caucasian gentleman hobbled out, looking neither to the left nor right.

  Harold Lawson was in sight.

  The old man briskly walked from the theater, stepping right between the stars belonging to Harrison Ford and Kevin Spacey.

  In the middle of the thick crowds, Jason spotted Cheyenne move forward as she slyly followed Harold. She wore a thick, curly wig of gray hair and a horrifying dress only a blind grandmother would find appealing. Nobody paid her any attention.

  Harold headed for a silver BMW loitering on the side of the street twenty yards in front of Jason. A lanky black man stood in front of the car, arms crossed and eyes furious.

  This was the Hearse. Jason momentarily reconsidered their plan to attack this brute. His muscular build wasn’t too impressive, but his furious eyes and the brutal mood he radiated were enough to keep the passersby at a distance. A far distance.

  It would take the old man approximately forty-five seconds to reach the car. Jason opened his mouth to tell this to his team, but the vibrating in his pocket returned.

  Who was calling him? And what was so important that they felt the need to try a second time?

  Again, Jason ignored the phone.

  The Hearse nodded slowly, greeting Harold from across the street. The elderly man grinned sweetly, as elderly men do, and continued to make his way toward the getaway vehicle. Jason half-expected a Boy Scout to appear and ask Harold if he needed assistance crossing the street.

  A sweat-drenched jogger rounded the corner and slowed to an exhausted pace. This was Josh Locke, sporting an iPod and sweatband. He put his finger to his neck to measure his pulse—and also to have his hand as close as possible to the Glock strapped behind his shoulders. He would need it in a moment.

  Harold was about ten yards from the BMW, grinning ear to ear. The Kenyan assassin turned to slip into the driver’s seat.

  Jason’s cell phone vibrated again, this time signaling he had received a text message rather than a call.

  “Come on…” Jason snarled, reluctantly reaching for his phone while keeping his eyes locked on the two criminals.

  His phone’s display read he had two missed calls from an unfamiliar number. The text was from the same number.

  He opened the text, keeping his stare locked on the BMW. Harold was just seconds from reaching the car. Jason quickly shot his eyes down to read the message.

  It read:

  Answer your phone, Jason.

  That made him pause. He didn’t recognize the number, but the number knew him.

  Despite the suffocating heat, Jason’s blood ran cold.

  The phone vibrated again. Another text from the same number.

  One word:

  Duck.

  Jason caught his breath. The phone dropped to the sidewalk from his limp fingers. He leapt to his feet, adrenaline making him tremble. Either adrenaline or terror.

  Harold stood just outside the BMW’s passenger door. He waved at his escort, leaned into the open window, and said something Jason couldn’t hear.

  Then the car exploded.

  The blast of hot air launched Jason backwards. All the breath left his lungs as he flopped against the metal bench. His ears were numb and ringing—he couldn’t hear a thing.

  The eerie silence made the scene more horrific. A towering column of black smoke shot straight up, stabbing the sky. The stench of fire and burning gasoline was everywhere. Pedestrians filled the streets, some cowering on the ground, some dashing back and forth. All without making a sound.

  Bit by bit, Jason’s hearing returned. He staggered to his feet and gazed at the lump of twisted metal and rubber where the silver BMW had sat fifteen seconds earlier. Bits and pieces of the car were strewn all over the street.

  North Highland Avenue had been a picturesque view of Hollywood at 3:06 p.m.

  At 3:07 p.m. it was a scene of chaos and violence.

  Harold Lawson and the Hearse had disappeared within the giant gust of fire. Upon further investigation, bits and pieces of them would also be found strewn all over the street, no doubt.

  Sam dropped his clunky camera and ran forward, holding his L.A.P.D. badge in one hand and his gun in the other. He gave Jason a dumbfounded expression. “What was that?” was all he could manage to scream. The next words out of his mouth were slurred by his anger, surprise, and panic.

  “Calm down! Everybody calm!” Cheyenne had shed her hideous wig and was using her badge to keep the pedestrians away from the blazing carnage. Luckily, however, the Hearse’s callous appearance had kept everyone away from the initial explosion. It appeared no one had been harmed. Except for the two criminals.

  A gigantic swarm of uniformed L.A.P.D. cops poured onto the avenue, corralling the citizens and checking for injuries. Most, howev
er, were too shocked to move properly, and their fear was contagious. The people began to bawl, or shriek, or struggle against the policemen.

  Again, as Jason stood immobile, he realized not a single innocent had been hurt.

  A buzzing sound came from under Jason’s feet. He looked down to see his cell phone was ringing again. Grunting from the stiffness in his bones, he bent over and picked up the phone. The display showed this call was from the same unfamiliar number that had called before and sent the texts.

  Jason stared at the number in his trembling hand, then answered the call and put the phone to his ear.

  “Who is this?” He started the conversation, trying to make his voice sound stronger than it was.

  “Hello, Jason.”

  The two words knocked all of Jason’s remaining confidence right out of his body. He began to heave gigantic breaths, but his chest seemed to be getting tighter and tighter no matter how much oxygen he sucked in. He ripped off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out…

  “Jason?”

  The voice on the other end of the line was deep and raspy, definitely male.

  His panic subsided for the time being. Jason stood up straight and responded to the caller. “Yes, and your name is? I don’t believe it’s appropriate that you know my name and I don’t have the same pleasure.”

  The caller paused for a moment, to breathe or think or simply to make Jason even more apprehensive. Then, he answered. “Abel. You may call me Abel.”

  Jason said, puzzled, “Able, as in competent? Or Abel, as in—”

  “Yes,” the man cut him off, “as in a Biblical shepherd with an extraordinary sibling rivalry. C’mon, Jason I know you know the text…”

  Jason gulped. He hadn’t recalled a Biblical verse from memory in years. He began digging frantically through his mind for the text, deciding to humor this mysterious man on the phone.

  “Jason!” Abel said sharply. “The text!”

  “Genesis, chapter four,” Jason spat out, “verses one through sixteen.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Abel spoke in a hushed, gruff voice, most likely to keep Jason from identifying it. Like the wind blowing through a thorn bush. It made Jason shudder.

  This unseen man had just made Jason appease him like a weak servant. The detective was supposed to control this conversation, not the assailant. The amount of power Abel held made Jason weak at the knees.

  “Now,” Jason continued in his best commanding tone of voice, “I am still at a loss for how we know each other. I know I’ve never met you.”

  “Not directly, no. Jason Flynn has never met Abel,” the rasping voice said. “But you know me now. Just look at the street in front of you. A man’s work is, after all, an extension of himself. You practically know everything about me.”

  Unimaginable chaos had developed on the avenue, and the police were attempting to make order of it. It simply couldn’t be done, though. Jason gazed helplessly as Cheyenne attempted to console a hysterical woman who was thrashing and clawing wildly. She wasn’t alone—everyone in sight had broken down and morphed into primal animals. With their lives threatened, all the charades were dropped. The cowardly, the brave, the moral, and the wicked were fully exposed.

  If this madness defined Abel, he was a man Jason never wanted to meet.

  “You also observed my handiwork last Monday morning. Flight Street and 8th, and also 37th Street? Remember?”

  “You murdered Max Black and Adam Fischer?”

  “Yes.”

  The one-worded answer, said with such calm simplicity, ran a chill down Jason’s spine.

  “And I’m rather disappointed in you, Jason…”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Jason snarled.

  Abel continued without missing a beat. “You fled the crime scene. My crime scene. In medieval times, it was considered the highest insult to turn your back on a courteous challenge. It was very out of character for you, Jason. There were lives on the line, and you fled.”

  Jason slowly took a deep breath, letting the hot air scratch the inside of his nose. Abel was trying to turn Jason’s own mind and decisions against himself, but he wouldn’t let that happen. Jason knew without a shadow of a doubt he didn’t regret leaving the case. He knew it…

  But this guy was really starting to anger him.

  The caller carried on. “I am, though, saddened by the deaths of the two gentlemen in the BMW. My plan involved ten corpses, no more, no less. But I had to get your attention.”

  “My attention? Murdering two men is your idea of asking for attention?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. In this day and age, you can’t simply talk to people in order to get a point across. You have to shout in their faces, and, if necessary, slap them. So, as I was saying, Mr. Lawson and the Hearse were not in my original plan, so let’s say we consider them collateral.”

  Jason chortled sarcastically, even though it felt extremely juvenile. He was willing to do anything to throw this guy off balance. “So, you’re saying that when we catch you, we should charge you for murdering two people instead of four?”

  “When, Jason? No, no.” The man was smiling—it was clear in his voice, and he was not trying to hide it. “I’m about to make you three promises, and I never lie: One—you will not find me until the time is right. Don’t worry, I’ll help you keep up. Two—my plan will succeed. You can’t stop it. I know you don’t believe that, so I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you. But it’s the truth. And, most importantly, three—once my plan is completed, the world will never be the same. There will be no going back. Things will change for the better, and a new era will begin. Remember, I’m no liar.”

  Jason snapped back. “You’re changing things for the better? All it looks like to me is you’ve killed a couple innocent people that never—”

  “What!” Abel interrupted, suddenly enraged. “You can’t be serious! You say these criminals, these lowlifes are innocent? You can’t honestly tell me you’re saddened by the deaths of a man that lived to fund sin and an assassin with enough blood on his hands to fill the oceans. Yes, Harold Lawson and the Hearse deserved to be blown to pieces. And Fischer and Black?”

  The unseen man scoffed like a furious lion.

  “You call them innocent? My respect for you L.A. cops just dropped a couple pegs. Either learn your lesson or throw your badges in the ocean! Maybe you investigators should actually do some investigating! Once you do, only then will we continue this conversation. Good-bye, Jason.”

  Abel aggressively sighed one more time and hung up.

  Chapter 5

  “Those who seek my life set their traps, those who would harm me talk of my ruin; all day long, they plot deception.”

  —Psalm 38:12

  Ding-dong.

  Hello.

  L.A.P.D.

  The pleasure’s mine.

  We’re sorry for your loss.

  What a lovely home.

  That’s fine, ma’am. Take your time.

  Detectives Cheyenne Childers and Jason Flynn had arrived at the home of Marge Black, wife of the late Max Black. Mere hours had passed after Abel’s double-assassination and haunting phone call to Jason. The killer had demanded the police department investigate Max and Adam more, so Cheyenne and Jason set out to do so immediately, as that was all they had to go on.

  As he stood in the Black household’s kitchen, Jason felt nauseous and numb all over, as if he had been on an intense roller coaster and then gone thirty rounds with Muhammad Ali. Abel’s searing words still echoed in his ears, taunting and threatening without the slightest hint of uncertainty.

  Abel had suggested Jason get back on the case, and he didn’t seem the type that would take no for an answer. That bothered Jason. Abel was very keen with him, sharing all sorts of information about his upcoming plan. Why him? What scared him the most was that he was sure Abel had his reasons—nothing here was happening by ch
ance.

  Detective Flynn was back, chasing down homicidal killers as he had done nearly a decade before.

  Jason had dashed home from the scene of the explosion, flustered and frankly scared. Ted had acted innocently enough after Jason had told him he was going to be out “working” for a while. But once Craig Weston and his son Alex showed up, that small portrait of a face said it all: He knew his dad was out catching bad guys again. The baddest bad guys.

  Homicide. Murder. Death. That kind of stuff.

  Dr. Craig Weston had agreed to stay with Ted while Jason was out on the Abel case. The instant friendship between Ted and Alex picked right back up where it had left off.

  “How’s Tracy?” Jason asked.

  A shadowy weight pushed down on the mortician’s shoulders. “Same. Deteriorating piece by piece.”

  The two men had glanced at their two sons. Ted was sharing some obscure fact with Alex, and Alex was teaching Ted some obscure dance move that looked more like a medical symptom. Both were smiling.

  The present caught up with Jason. He and Cheyenne stood in the unfamiliar home’s kitchen with Marge Black, waiting sympathetically as the woman quietly sobbed. She had learned of her husband’s murder only the day before, and the news still hadn’t sunk in, it appeared.

  Marge was small, slim with matted hair and an even more matted personality, like the human version of a mouse. She was pleasantly attractive and seemed sweet enough. She and Max had been happy together, Jason could tell.

  The two Black daughters, Gayle and Edith, currently sat in the living room across from the kitchen, watching Toy Story on the television. As the detectives had entered the house five minutes earlier, Marge had explained with a frail smile that this was the family’s favorite movie and the only thing that would distract the girls from their father’s sudden death.