Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  Jason doubted this would boost Craig’s sea-level morale, so he decided to keep it to himself.

  One of the SWAT men, decked out in body armor, thick cloth gloves, and a metal helmet/visor, slid open the van’s door. Tall seats lined all walls of the interior, equipped with harness-like seatbelts that belonged in a space shuttle. The tactical officer gestured for Craig to enter.

  Dr. Weston took a deep breath and, without glancing back at Jones or Jason, climbed into the van, the entire SWAT team right behind.

  Jason watched his meek friend buckle himself in, a ten-year-old kid mounting a roller coaster that was way out of his league.

  “Craig,” he said, craning his neck to look through the sliding door. The doctor readjusted his sagging eyeglasses and looked at the detective. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t worr—”

  The door slid shut with a bang and the van took off, swerving out of the station lot.

  “Worry…” Jason finished, defeated.

  Jones cackled, and when he was done, let out a long, satisfied sigh. “Eh,” he said, “forget about them, Flynn. Harrelson there could’ve taken out bin Laden. You need to focus on Abel. Fortunately,” he smirked, scratching his frog neck while his thoughts wandered, “we have the ultimate trump card in our hand.”

  “The next victim,” Jason answered, staring at the empty road where the van had disappeared.

  “Potential victim,” Jones corrected as he moved back into the station.

  I think you mean “live bait.”

  Jason wasn’t the biggest outdoorsman, but he couldn’t think of a single fishing trip where the worm came out all right, whether the fish was caught or not.

  ***

  Craig

  The van buzzed down the road, its hydraulic engine advertising their every move. It wasn’t exactly what Craig would call “covert.” He sat in his cushioned seat, barely able to move thanks to the harness that was currently strangling his bladder. Harrelson and six other SWAT guys surrounded him, with one man driving the vehicle.

  On their way to the safe house in the Hills, they had moved out of the bustling sector of L.A. and were now moving on one of the roads less traveled; the street was a straight line with nothing but trees, grass, and the occasional confused prairie dog. Deep ditches flanked the asphalt, filled with murky rainwater at the moment.

  Lt. Gerald Harrelson hadn’t said a word. He didn’t seem to be the type for small talk, which was unfortunate for Craig. Small talk was his bread and butter, one of the few things he was really good at, beyond looking at dead bodies.

  “You really should relax, sir,” one of the SWAT guys said through his visor. It took Craig a second to realize the comment was aimed at him. “Too much stress robs blood and oxygen from your brain, and could cause a good deal of damage.”

  Craig gripped his seatbelt even tighter. “I’m not taking any chances.”

  Just then, the driver uttered something under his breath: “What in the world is that…?”

  The van’s high-power headlights illuminated the long stretch of road, revealing a small figure about two hundred yards ahead of the vehicle. It stood there, watching. Waiting.

  Harrelson looked out the windshield. “A person?”

  The driver debated slowing, but instead decided on playing chicken with the fool in the middle of the road. He continued his current high velocity.

  The figure didn’t budge.

  Forty yards, and approaching fast.

  Harrelson, with his mammoth voice, said, “Pull over now. Let’s see what this…” He trailed off.

  In the bright lights, the person raised its arms, pointing at the windshield.

  The SWAT lieutenant shouted, “Evasive action. Immediately!”

  Craig clamped his eyes shut and braced himself.

  “Move, man! Move—”

  A shotgun blast thundered through the night, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces. The group of buckshot tore through the driver’s exposed face.

  The van pitched violently to the left, careening out of control. Harrelson kept yelling at the top of his lungs, as if that would help. The rest of the SWAT men tumbled through the air, screaming and yelping as they smashed into each other like ping-pong balls.

  The next moment, they felt the van go airborne, turning sideways as gravity yanked the four-ton vehicle to the ground. It crashed into the deep ditch. Harrelson was tossed into the metal wall like a rag doll. He contorted in such a way, as well.

  For a second, it was still. Craig was still strapped in tightly, feeling a full panic attack coming. Harrelson was definitely dead, along with a few more men who had taken the full brunt of the crash. Many, if not all, of the others were knocked unconscious or were groaning in agony. He unbuckled and stumbled out of the van’s door, into the muddy ditch.

  He staggered to his feet, head throbbing intensely, but he knew he had to move fast. Someone had come for him. Someone bold and reckless enough to take out a whole SWAT squadron. Someone with a shotgun.

  “Doctor…” One of the soldiers crept out of the van, his helmet having been knocked off. His eyes were radiant blue, his hair scruffy and naturally wind-swept. One pupil was more dilated than the other: a sign of severe brain damage.

  The officer wobbled toward Craig, clumsily brandishing his assault rifle. “Doctor, to the safe house…” he managed to mumble, even though he probably couldn’t remember his mother’s name.

  Another crack of the shotgun. The SWAT man crumpled into the water and floated there lifelessly. Craig fell to his stomach too, urgently cycling through his thoughts.

  The gunman stood at the top of the ditch, just a shadow in the night’s darkness. He slung the firepower over his shoulder. “Weston!” he called out in a gruff voice. “You there?”

  Craig’s heart jumped into his throat. What now? What options were left?!

  There. The SWAT man had a Sig Sauer handgun strapped to his belt. He didn’t need it anymore.

  Craig began wading through the water as slowly as he could bear. The gunman took a leisurely step down into the ditch, shotgun gleaming wickedly in the tilted van’s headlights.

  “Weston, where you at? C’mon, now…”

  Craig couldn’t wait any longer. He sprang to his feet. Water exploded around him, making enough noise to raise the dead. He dove for the handgun.

  The figure turned toward Craig. “There you are…”

  A gunshot exploded in one abrupt flash.

  ***

  Abel

  Abel emerged from the ditch, tossing his firearm into the standing water. He had a long night of cleanup ahead of him—the van, the bodies, the weapons, this whole big mess—but it oddly didn’t seem too bad. Sunrise was just a few hours away, and things were looking up.

  Chapter 13

  “…That my heart may sing your praises and not be silent. LORD, my God, I will praise you forever.”

  —Psalm 30:12

  Jason

  Residual water from the night’s downpour was left to congest the early morning streets, turning the air muggy and uncomfortable throughout the city. Jason clawed at his eyes as he drove down one of the emptier avenues. What little sleep he had gotten the night before—all twenty minutes—was agitated, leaving him in a similar state when the sun rose.

  Craig was gone. Abducted. The SWAT van had been found capsized in a ditch, riddled with buckshot. Four of the officers were dead, two from gunfire, two from the crash. And Craig was MIA.

  After all that, the station had gotten a call from a civil worker in the dawn’s adolescent hour, claiming there was a dead body in East L.A.’s Calvary Cemetery.

  Captain Jones had thought it was an incredibly dumb prank and hung up.

  Then, thirty seconds later, the phone rang again.

  A gruff, smirking voice greeted them. “Yes, there is a dead body in the cemetery. One that doesn’t belong there. You need to pick up the pace, Captain. I’m almost done, you realize.”

  Abel had paused for a moment,
then disconnected.

  Of course, the army was called in: forensics, uniforms, and detectives in droves. Now, Jason zoomed through the city’s early morning traffic, making a beeline east. All he could think about was what he would find there.

  Craig. Abel must have killed the doc and left his body in the cemetery.

  Jason pulled up to the Calvary Cemetery, rumbling over the gravel lot. A handful of cruisers and vans were already there, and the rocky dust hanging in the air told him they had all arrived very recently.

  A wrought-iron fence surrounded the 136-acre plot, and a tall, time-stained gate guarded the entrance. Grand mausoleums peeked over the trees, advertising the importance of the souls they contained.

  Jason exited his car, doing his best to not bend his torso. It still ached like no other, but it had numbed a bit over the hours. A good ice bath and a twenty-hour nap would be just what the doctor ordered—that is, if the doctor hadn’t been abducted.

  He began to hobble toward the entry gate when more wheels crunched over the parking lot’s gravel. He turned toward the noise and felt his blood pressure rise.

  A rickety NewsNine van lurched into the parking lot, the door whipping open before the vehicle had even come to a stop. The shrewd, redheaded reporter Jessalyn Hooker leapt out, fixing her makeup midair.

  Jason could think of a thousand things he’d rather do than talk to the press, especially this lightning-mouthed woman. He turned his back to the reporter and began to march into the cemetery.

  “Detective Flynn!” Jessalyn called out, hurrying after him as quickly as her skintight skirt would allow.

  “Not now, Hooker, unless you want that microphone shoved someplace the sun doesn’t shine. It’s been a long day.”

  Has it really only been twenty-four hours? It amazed Jason. Everything had changed, and yet, things were no better.

  The intrepid reporter pressed on, unfazed. “Any developments with the killer who has targeted the entire city, including such innocents as the Asian immigrant Aarti Rao?”

  How is she getting these confidential names? He kept walking.

  “Or any comments on the woman who was broadcast live to all of Los Angeles confessing of her embezzlement, Malorie Daniels, or the Guilty Victim, as she has been dubbed?”

  “No.” The best answers get right to the point.

  “Detective Flynn…” Exasperation entered her voice. “Can you please—?”

  “Miss Hooker, you are about to enter a police-controlled scene. I suggest quitting while you’re ahead.”

  He strolled through the metal gate without looking back.

  Jessalyn huffed, but wisely stopped short at the entry’s threshold.

  The scene of the crime was a quarter-mile away, meaning he had to pass hundreds of headstones and buried bodies in order to reach it. Cold, electric fingers tickled his bones as he walked among the graves. So many past lives, so little time. The whole place gave him the willies, like a setting from a recurring nightmare. A dramatic performance set up around Craig Weston’s stiff carcass.

  A group of cops appeared up ahead, and Jason’s heart skipped a beat. He nearly froze in his tracks, but something engraved in his unconscious kept him moving forward, closer and closer to the body of his friend.

  One of the men heard Jason’s shuffling steps and turned. It was Garth, looking as exhausted as Jason felt. The detective walked out to meet him, leaning in and whispering, “It’s not Craig, Jason.”

  “What?” The weights on his shoulders disappeared, only to be immediately replaced with different concerns. He wanted to feel relieved his friend was alive, but he was instead terrified of what curve ball Abel had hit them with next.

  Jason moved forward. With each step, the soaking wet grass sucked down his feet. He maneuvered through the group, stumbling a few times from his painful ribs. When he finally made it past them, he let out a gasp, then shook his head.

  “I don’t believe it…”

  There, crumpled on the marshy turf, kneeling reverently before a dual headstone, was the corpse of Shane Drake. The Don himself, dressed in his finest Italian suit—though it was stained grimy brown and green by the weather. His scraggly dreadlocks were shaved, thanks to the L.A. Detention Center, and he clutched an elaborate bouquet of flowers in one hand.

  But why here? Why now, Abel?

  Jason took in the scene piece by piece: the expensive outfit, the bouquet of roses and tulips, the headstone…

  The headstone. Jason leaned in to read the inscription and epitaph on the gray slab of stone:

  Dante and Kimmie Drake—

  Loving husband and wife, together forever.

  Proverbs 15:17.

  Shane’s parents. Abel had arranged a private visitation and funeral for the ole Don.

  Jason recalled the press conference following the Don’s extravagant capture on Venice Beach. The drug dealer had lashed out against his parents, cursing and blaspheming them, blaming them for his horrid life. To quote exactly, “Their calling in life is to be fertilizer for tulips, and now, I pray they are! I know, I know they’re frying in hell right now, and I say, peace to ‘em! Deserved, every second of eternity!” if Jason’s memory served.

  Commandment number five: Honor your mother and father.

  Forensics men moved about carefully, most likely searching for wet imprints of the killer’s feet in the grass. Jason stifled a yawn, wishing for a cup of coffee—or perhaps a shot of medicinal adrenaline. Whichever was more convenient. The rising sun reflected off a cop’s aviator glasses, aggravating Jason’s headache.

  “Turns out the Don was escorted out of the Detention Center yesterday afternoon by someone claiming to be from the L.A.P.D.,” Garth said. “Security footage missing. We searched Adam Fischer’s apartment and Malorie Daniels’s body again,” he continued. “We must’ve made some mistake, thinking Craig was next. But his evidence was definitely there. Maybe Abel is introducing a new pattern…”

  “That’s all we need,” muttered Jason.

  “There must be something there leading to the Don. Some planted evidence…”

  Jason shut his eyes and focused, drawing back all his recollections of Adam Fischer’s apartment. Satin pillows and throw blankets. Bizarre pieces of art. Bullet hole that had dispatched an enormous mirror, courtesy of Officer Josh Locke. Stenches of hair gel, Lysol disinfectant, and garlic. Heavy shutters pulled across the windows, only allowing thin beams of sunlight to enter. Short table next to the door, a sleek black lamp sitting atop.

  There. Jason opened his eyes and groaned.

  “The lamp. Black and wooden, made from Drake’s walking cane.”

  Garth gaped, “You sure?”

  “Yeah, there’s no mistaking that black African Baobab wood.” He wanted to yank his hair out, but he stomped the soft ground instead. “How could I not notice that?”

  He sighed, realizing it didn’t even matter now. Shane Drake was already dead. They were too late. Mission: failed. Who cares what evidence Abel had planted?

  Another thought chilled his bones. That lamp had been in Fischer’s apartment eight days ago, long before the L.A.P.D. had even caught Abel’s scent. This whole ordeal had been planned from the start, and so far, had been executed without a single hitch.

  Abel wasn’t scared or scrambling for victims; he was right on schedule.

  A deep sense of urgency made Jason light-headed. There had been seven killings. Seven commandments. There were only three left. Abel’s words to Captain Jones, “Pick up the pace, I’m almost done,” suddenly cascaded over him. If Abel finished this battle ten for ten, there would be no stopping the flood of others taking up the reins. Religious vigilantes, punishing any man, woman, or child who violate the ten sacred rules. Complete, bloody anarchy.

  And it had fallen on them to stop it.

  “We need to find what’s planted on Drake.”

  Garth nodded and placed his hands on his hips, surveying the scene with a cool gaze.

  Jason turned and loo
ked at him. “Now.”

  The word acted like an icy wind, making Garth shift and stumble forward, a bit discombobulated. He cleared his throat and began shooting commands at everyone in sight—scientists, officers, sanitation workers, even the pigeons got a direct order to “shoo.”

  Thin clouds shimmered across the sickly pale sky, doing little to hide the big orange ball as it crested over the Los Angeles cityscape. It was becoming a horribly warm day. Jason wiped his cuff across his forehead and moved away from the Drakes’ family gravesite.

  There was nothing more for him to do at the Calvary Cemetery. Nothing Garth couldn’t handle, at least. He desperately wanted to leave the scene. Every brain cell told him to break into a dead sprint for the exit. The whole place made his skin crawl like no other.

  He snuck a peek to make sure the NewsNine crew had left the parking lot, then exited through the tall iron gate.

  The first row of gravestones eyed the detective as he ignored them. He didn’t look at them, not a glance. He especially didn’t look at the sixth grave from the end, no matter how much he longed to. He didn’t read its short epitaph. He didn’t have to—it was carved into his mind.

  Keri Flynn—

  Wife, mother, and Mouth of God.

  He got in his car and drove away, those words ringing in his head.

  ***

  The whiteboard sat in the center of the bullpen, its red writing mocking the entire police force. There were ten phrases, seven of which were crossed out. Three remained:

  1. No other gods

  3. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain

  10. Do not covet

  Jason paced in front of the board, staring at the words without really seeing them. His vision was blurry, eyeballs achy and dry as a desert due to his lack of sleep.

  The Don’s body was being iced and examined in the adjacent morgue. Shane Drake had always thought of himself as the next great American gangster. Well, for such a criminal mastermind, he sure died just as easily as any other average Joe. Back in the day, the inert bodies of Jesse James and John Dillinger had been wildly popular tourist attractions, drawing in thousands of people hoping to get a glimpse of the famous outlaws in person. Not a soul had shown up to see the Don, Shane Drake.