The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 19

  Creed shifted gears and pounded the gas, pushing the speedometer needle over one-hundred.

  “Well, do you?”

  “Craig is a good man,” he said, as if it answered anything.

  Jessie tightened her seatbelt and hunkered down. She never felt so lost in her entire life. She would give up her makeup, piercings, and wardrobe like Mom and Alec wanted her to, just to get her old life back.

  She would even admit to Mom that she loved her. She would give anything to tell her that now.

  “You really think Creed is going to stumble into a lame trap like this?”

  Tanner sat on the floor of the room, his back against the wall, his legs straight out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, lounging like he had all the time in the world. He kept his gun in his lap, casual. He checked his watch.

  “You don’t know a whole heck of a lot about your value, do you?”

  “If you’re going to start up that BS about my real soul, you can skip it.”

  “An asset like you, you think someone like Creed would let you fall easily into enemy hands?”

  “I’m not worth risking his life. Besides, he has a more important duty.”

  “Protecting your daughter? Forget that, bro. He’d drop her in a flat instant if it came down to a choice between the two of you.”

  Lockman’s arms ached from hanging behind him for so long, the circulation stunted. He tried to adjust, but didn’t find much comfort. “Don’t you think your plan would have worked a little better if you hadn’t taken me from the cemetery? They’ll never find me here.”

  Tanner leaned his head back against the wall and laughed. “It’s so sick how short the leash they have on you is, yet you don’t even realize you’re choking.”

  “That’s supposed to mean something to me?”

  “You have a tracking device planted in your right foot. Creed knows exactly where you are.”

  “Fine. Let’s say you’re right. When he shows up and finds you on your ass there, what’s the big plan? Talk him to death like you’re doing to me?”

  Tanner scrunched up his face. “Please. I have backup.”

  “More vamps?”

  “Better. Angels.”

  Lockman gaped at Tanner for a moment, trying to decide if he was serious.

  Tanner cracked a grin. “I’m screwing with you. I’m not dumb enough to trust supernaturals to have my back.” He holstered his pistol, stood, brushed off his slacks. “He’ll be here soon. If you excuse me, I have to make sure my men know to keep the old man alive, but anyone else is expendable.”

  Lockman jerked against his restraints. The chair jumped and slammed back to the floor. The sound echoed like a shot in the bare room. “You better hope he doesn’t have any backup. Because if I get my hands on you, you’ll wish you’d killed me when you had the chance.”

  Tanner must have thought his teeth sparkled considering how much of them he showed when he smiled. “You’re such a badass. Gives me chills.” He pretended to shiver then strode out of the room.

  Lockman leaned forward and got on his feet, bringing the chair off the floor. He could do a half-assed duck walk with the chair pinned behind him, but he wouldn’t get far. He rocked backward and slammed back into place. He thrashed and jerked against the cuffs. A waste of energy. He only tightened the cramps in his arms. All he could do was wait and hope—first off that Creed had managed to round up some form of backup, and second, that he didn’t have Jessie with him when he came.

  Dolan gripped the head of the young soldier with the shaved scalp and slammed his skull against the concrete wall a second time. The sound of the crunch satisfied Dolan’s angry hands. The red blood smeared across the soldier’s pale pate soothed his crazed eyes. But it took three more strikes against the wall, until the soldier slipped out of his grip to the floor with part of his head smashed in like an overripe pumpkin, to quell the rage pumping in his heart.

  The four other soldiers who had rushed to report their findings after the commotion from the imps stood in a semi-circle around Dolan. They stared. None of them dared speak.

  Dolan pointed at the body on the floor. “This could have been any one of you.” He heaved a few breaths, winded from his sudden burst of violence. “It might still be if you fuckers don’t get out there and find our escapee and the fucktard that helped her.”

  The female with the blonde brush cut stood at attention. “Sir, all of us? Half of our mortal contingent is on the field. Now that we’ve lost Charles and,” she nodded at the dead man, “Mortimer, that would leave you with limited mortal support at HQ.”

  Dolan’s ears turned hot. He regretted the day he told his mortal followers they were his soldiers. Some of them took it to heart and used such ridiculous lingo, he didn’t understand them half the time. “I have imps. What the fuck do I need mortals for?”

  The blonde flinched. “Yes, sir.”

  He waited. They all stood there ogling the corpse at Dolan’s feet. He lifted his arms and waved them. “What are you waiting for?”

  The soldiers filed out. Dolan watched them go. Once they were out of sight, he kicked the man on the floor. Fucking mortals and their consciences. He should have killed the woman himself. Here he thought he was giving that young soldier an opportunity of a lifetime. Control over the supernatural. But no. The boy pussied out and ran for it instead.

  Now Dolan had an angry ghost on the loose and no way to contain it, which wouldn’t be such a big deal if the ghost weren’t angry with him.

  He almost regretted melting the vampires. Almost.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jessie sat quietly in the passenger seat while Mr. Creed cruised past the aborted condominium complex for a third time. She had seen it already, so she watched him, looking for some sense of his thoughts. Obviously Craig was somewhere in that complex, either in the newly minted yet empty condos or the half completed shells covered with torn plastic and exposed studs. She was anxious to know what came next. But the silence felt necessary. She didn’t want to disrupt whatever Mr. Creed was doing with a whole bunch of stupid questions.

  Finally, he looped around and parked in a side street, facing the condos. He cut the engine and the silence grew ten times as heavy. Jessie’s heart had picked up tempo, though she didn’t know when it had started. The cool air blowing from the vents died with the engine. While the air in the car remained comfortable, Jessie started to sweat.

  She looked at Mr. Creed, who stared ahead at the condos as if in a trance.

  She couldn’t take it anymore. “What are we going to do?”

  He picked up the GPS device from the dash and studied the screen, tapped a button, studied it some more. Then he tucked the device in his shirt pocket. “You’re going to stay here. I’m going to go in, find his exact location.”

  “Where are your friends?”

  “Probably already here.”

  “Probably?”

  “They’ll be here when I need them.” He reached over the seat to grab the duffel he had packed with guns before they left. Apparently these Agency guys liked to carry weapons in gym bags. He withdrew two guns. One silver and one a dull gray. The dull gray one looked boxy, more like a kid’s toy than a real gun. That’s the one he held out to her. “It’s a Glock. There’s no safety, so be careful. I’ve already put a round in the chamber. It’s point and squeeze the trigger.”

  She stared at the offered gun, her head buzzing. “I thought you were kidding before.”

  “This is last resort. In case someone comes after you out here.”

  “You know I’m more likely to shoot myself with it, right?”

  He lifted the gun slightly. “Take it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want it.”

  He set the gun on the dashboard. “I’ll leave it there. If you don’t take it, you better hope a cop doesn’t drive by while I’m gone. That would be an awkward conversation.” He tucked his gun into a holster he got from the bag and clipped the holster to his b
elt.

  “Be careful,” Jessie said. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “That’s how you’re supposed to feel when you’re walking into a trap.”

  He patted her knee and got out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition.

  Jessie watched him cross the street and enter the complex grounds. Several clumps of condos were built (or half-built) as connected units. Jessie could see at least three of these groupings from her vantage point. There could be more on the other side of those facing the street. Her dad was in there somewhere. A man almost as old as her grandpa was going in to save him. Here she sat, helpless.

  Seriously. What had happened to her life?

  When the shooting started, Lockman had managed to move to the gaping doorway. From there he could see down a short hallway as unfinished as the room he was in that bent to the left. The sound of the shots buzzed down the hall. A quick series followed by eardrum torquing silence. Lockman cocked his head, listening. Footsteps, soft and careful but definitely there. Getting closer.

  Another shot rang through the house, the naked walls amplifying the sound ten-fold and bouncing the noise around, making it hard to pinpoint where the shot came from. A man in a police uniform staggered backward into the hall and thumped against the wall. He clutched at his belly. His hands grew slick with blood. Another shot snapped his head back and stained the clean wall behind him. He dropped to the floor without a second gasp.

  Cops?

  Lockman wasn’t sure if he should retreat back into the room or stick where he was. Either way probably didn’t matter. Might as well face his fate head on. But he had no way to expect the face that came around the corner.

  “Craiginator,” the familiar man with the familiar hillbilly twang said. “I thought for sure Creed was fucking with me when he said you were back.”

  Same half-cocked smile. Same shock of black hair, though with a hairline that had lost some ground in the intervening years. Same red, round nose, that had earned him the nickname, Clown. A thousand memories flocked Lockman’s mind at the sight of his old teammate.

  “Vincent, fucking, Corwin. The Clown himself.”

  Clown waggled his eyebrows. “I’m here to rescue you, fair princess. Now let’s get—”

  Just as Lockman was getting used to seeing a familiar face, that face blew apart in a spray of skull, bone, and brain. Lockman shouted and jerked helplessly against the cuffs. The shotgun explosion rang in his ears as he watched Clown fall backward onto the cop’s body in the hall.

  Tanner stepped into the hall and pumped his shotgun to eject the shell. He looked down at Clown, shook his head. “Stupid redneck.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Save it. If Clown had known who you really are he would have shot you cold.”

  “Creed,” Lockman shouted. “Get out of here. It’s a trap.”

  The butt of Tanner’s shotgun crashed into Lockman’s nose. Lockman twisted with the impact and momentum tipped him and the chair over. He thumped onto his side. The second he landed he realized the chair back had slid down the loop made by his cuffed wrists. He played up the agony from getting hit in the face—the tear-jerking pain made the act easy—and cocked one leg up until he could hook a heel against the chair’s seat.

  Tanner mashed the barrel of his shotgun into Lockman’s cheek. “Stay down and stay quiet. This will all be over soon.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Better chill, my man. One of my crew spotted a young girl alone in a car across the street. Seems Creed forgot how thorough I am.”

  Lockman breathed through his teeth and honed the focus of his mind on one thing—killing Benjamin Tanner. The time would come. Wait for it.

  Wait.

  Automatic gun fire roared from somewhere downstairs. The pressure of the barrel on Lockman’s face eased. An answering barrage of single shots silenced the automatic fire.

  “Damn,” Tanner said under his breath. He pulled the barrel off of Lockman, loaded another shell, then peeked around the corner of the hallway. The stairway leading to the second floor must have been in view from there. And whoever came up those stairs would be an easy target for Tanner.

  Lockman pushed with his heel and slid the chair away from him. Before Tanner could respond to the noise, Lockman leapt to his feet, then leapt again, swinging his cuffed wrists under his feet like jumping rope. He had his hands in front and ready when Tanner swung around to face him.

  Lockman ducked low and shoved the cuff chain between his wrists against the shotgun barrel, knocking Tanner’s aim high.

  Tanner squeezed off an instinctive shot and chips of drywall and dust rained down on them.

  Lockman kept charging forward and used his shoulder to hit Tanner in the gut. He poured all his anger and sense of betrayal behind the thrust and lifted Tanner off of his feet and sailing backward.

  Tanner let the shotgun drop as he hit the floor. He reached for the pistol in his shoulder holster and Lockman realized his mistake. He should have kept them close, but he’d managed to give Tanner the clearance he needed to gun Lockman down before Lockman could reach him.

  He backpedaled around the hall corner. A chunk of drywall exploded by Lockman’s ear and embedded shards in his face. He didn’t stop moving. Dropped to the floor and retrieved Clown’s Beretta, then scrambled back into the room where he came from.

  Another shot sparked above him.

  Once in the room he dove to one side and aimed the Beretta at the doorway.

  He waited.

  Then he heard Tanner’s feet twist in the drywall dust on the floor and his footsteps fade as he retreated through the house.

  “No,” Lockman shouted and scurried out after him. He couldn’t let that traitor get away. No fucking way.

  He leapt over the bodies in the hall and rounded the corner, catching a glimpse of Tanner on the stairs going down. Lockman charged after him and fired a couple of wild shots, hoping to get Tanner to stop his retreat to dive for cover.

  Tanner ignored the shots and kept running.

  Lockman followed him down the stairs into what was probably meant to one day serve as the condo’s living room. The interior wall separating this room from the next had yet to have drywall hung, the studs left bare.

  Tanner weaved between a pair of studs and headed for a doorway beyond that led to the outside with only a sheet of plastic separating inside from out.

  Lockman chanced another shot, but it went wide. He bolted along Tanner’s path and slipped between the same pair of studs. By the time he reached the doorway, Tanner was out of sight. He blasted through the sheet of plastic which tore loose and tangled around him. His hands cuffed and holding the Beretta, he tried to push the plastic off of him with his elbow. The plastic caught under his feet and he stumbled like a rookie on his first foot chase. He rolled into the fall and quickly returned to his feet, free of the plastic, but disoriented for a precious second.

  He heard the shot. Then felt the burn on his side as if a flaming whip had lashed against his ribcage.

  Lockman twisted in the direction he thought the gunfire came from and squeezed off blind shots. He caught sight of Tanner sprinting toward another row of condos, but in the open. Lockman took a knee, lined up the sight on his weapon with Tanner’s back, squeezed.

  Tanner jagged left, but a spray of blood plumed from his shoulder. He staggered, managed to keep running.

  Each breath felt like inhaling fiberglass. Lockman’s chest ached. So much adrenaline coursed through him he shook like a caffeine junkie. He tried to line up another shot, but Tanner disappeared around the corner of the opposing building.

  He forced himself back to his feet and jogged on. He ignored the searing pain along his side. He could feel a warm wetness sticking to his shirt.

  While he had lost his edge in so many ways, he did have enough presence of mind to stop at the corner of the building he saw Tanner go around instead of blindly chasing after him and possibly into a bullet.

  He lea
ned against the brick façade of one of the few completed buildings on the grounds. He peered around the corner. This must have been the front of the complex. The building he stood by faced a road with an overgrown lawn in between.

  No sign of Tanner.

  Lockman inched a little closer to the corner to get a view of the face of the building. Several cement staircases led up to the front porches of the individual condos making up this row. The porches were all inset, out of Lockman’s view. Tanner could have scurried into any one of them like a rat into a hole in the wall. If Lockman tried to break for the street, he would offer his back to Tanner for target practice.

  Then he remembered what Tanner had told him—Jessie was in a car somewhere across that street. He scanned the several cars sat parked at the curb on both sides. He didn’t see any that obviously had someone inside. Would Creed really have left her right out in the open?

  No. But he would have tucked her within sight of the condo. A side street maybe. The closest side street was about fifty yards to Lockman’s left. At the corner, a maple tree thick with leaves provided shade for the yard of the ranch style house there. An old Mustang in prime condition sat parked under that same tree. With the tree’s shadow over the car, he couldn’t see inside.

  Lockman called out Tanner’s name. “You’re not getting out of here. Show yourself.”

  Tanner made the smart move and stayed quiet.

  Lockman glanced toward the Mustang again. He peeked back around the corner of the building. Looked back the way he had come. Tanner had to have at least two more men with him. Had Creed brought more than Clown? He didn’t hear any more gunfire. Maybe Creed and Clown had taken out Tanner’s backup. But if Tanner really had Detroit cops at his disposal, more could be on the way.

  He had to make a decision soon. The pain in his side went from a burn to a shark-toothed chewing.

  Move forward. Capture or kill Tanner. Go.

  Gun up, he rounded the corner and inched his way to the first porch. He took a deep breath, stepped sideways, pivoted so his gun led the way in.