Left With The Dead Read online

  Ellenshaw continued calling out for Helena Rubenstein.

  Excerpt:

  HACKETT’S WAR

  By Stephen Knight

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004W48LZQ

  “This making war for cash thing is almost starting to get old,” Otis said as he lay stretched out in the hide site. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bald, black head, and his breath was heavy, almost labored. Ever since leaving the U.S. Army, he had put on forty pounds. Everyone in the company said the extra weight would kill him one way or the other. Otis presumed that meant his fat black ass was getting too slow for the battlefield, so he proved them all wrong by entering into an extreme exercise regimen that none of the other troops could match. The funny thing was, it did nothing to reduce his expanding midsection and nascent man-boobs. As long as Otis continued eating like a horse, he was going to be a hefty, hefty boy.

  “Anytime you want to quit, you just let me know,” Hackett said. He was stretched out beside Otis, lying on his stomach on a hillside some 60 meters from the road. He scanned the area below through his binoculars. The humidity was high and uncomfortable, and like Otis, Hackett sweated beneath the bug spray and sun block. Unlike Otis, he was not five foot nine inches tall and two hundred and sixty pounds; he was six foot three and much leaner, tipping the scales at one ninety-five.

  “I’m gone after this year’s bonus,” Otis said.

  “No bonuses this year.”

  “Then next year, damn it.”

  “No bonus next year, either. I’ve decided I want to buy a Lamborghini in every color of the spectrum. Sorry.”

  “Well shit then, boss. Guess you’re stuck with me and my bitchin’.”

  Hackett smiled and surveyed the gently rolling hills on the other side of the road. “Only until I decide to fire you.”

  “Man, with all the money that’s supposed to be in this convoy, we could all get a nice little bonus,” Otis said.

  “The money is not our objective, Otis.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get that—I’ve been awake for the past couple of days, I know what we’re doing here, Hack. But all of that cash is gonna be right there, just waitin’ for us…”

  Through the binoculars, Hackett could just barely make out the second sniper team, crouched in their own hide site. The only reason he could see them at all was because he knew exactly where to look. No one else would have such luck.

  Below, the assault teams were hidden from view. Two elements lay on either side of the road. The old Ford flat bed truck they had was parked across the road, as if it had experienced a blow out and went out of control. Two of Jerry Fletcher’s shooters milled around the vehicle. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and their weapons and body armor were hidden in the truck’s cab. They acted as if they were looking for a jack. In the far distance, small boats dotted the royal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. Fishing boats, plying their trade.

  What I wouldn’t give to be on one of those now, Hackett thought. He dropped the field glasses from his eyes and removed his Kevlar helmet, taking a moment to run a gloved hand across his close-cropped dark hair. He looked over at Otis. Even though the corpulent sniper was all mouth today, he was still on the job; he peered through the M24’s scope with his right eye, keeping the weapon oriented on the road.

  “If we have the time, we’ll scope out the cash. If it’s really in dollars, you can have some of it. All right?”

  “And the rest of the guys too,” Otis said. “Don’t let it be said I’m a greedy muthafuck. The other guys get their share too, right? I mean, why let a drug lord keep all of that cash? It’s just immoral, man.”

  Hackett sighed. “If it doesn’t get stolen from us or explode into flame, then sure.”

  He didn’t see the grin spread across Otis’s face, but he could hear it in his voice. “Man, that is simply awesome. Taking a couple of million bucks from a drug lord. That’s money well earned.”

  Hackett grunted and checked his watch. It was almost a quarter past twelve in the afternoon. The targets would be arriving at any moment now. Below, a man pulled a laden burro down the hillside road. He looked like a common campesino, his skin coffee-colored from years of exposure to the sun. The packs on the burro’s back were full of some produce. Bell peppers? Hackett wondered idly. The burro’s plodding pace kicked up a small amount of dust as it walked.

  “Shotgun Six, Floater. Vehicle traffic headed southbound. Three targets matching the description. Headed directly into the engagement area, over.”

  The voice was loud over Hackett’s tactical radio headset even though the speaker was dozens of miles to the west on a ship outside Mexico’s territorial waters. Despite the distance, the folks aboard the ship had eyes in the sky high overhead, small unmanned aerial vehicles that saw everything. Hackett pointed the binoculars down the road. Sure enough, there was the gleam of sunlight reflecting off glass and chrome.

  “Roger that, Floater. Hammer Two-Six, you are a go, you are a go. Remember, we need the principal alive, everyone else can go tango uniform if required, over.”

  Jerry Fletcher’s voice was clipped but even. “Shotgun Six, Hammer Two-Six, roger all.”

  “Time for some shootin’,” Otis said, as he stretched one last final time. “Then hopefully, it’ll be time for some countin’.”

  “Blessed are the beasts with the one track mind,” Hackett said. “You ready to line up on some targets?”

  Despite everything, despite all the razzing he took for his weight, no one could ever pretend that Otis Johnson was anything but a cold-hearted predator. As he looked through the M24’s telescopic sight, his index finger moved from the trigger guard to the trigger itself as the first red Range Rover came around the bend. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he spoke.

  “Oh yeah…”

  Excerpt:

  NO LIMIT

  By Fred Anderson

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003LBSJT4

  The westering sun hung low in the sky by the time I pulled the Jeep into the driveway. I checked the mailbox—nothing—and walked across the threadbare lawn to my two-bedroom bungalow. Bungalow. That’s what the realtor had called it when she led me on the grand tour, all four rooms of it. Shanty might be more appropriate. The cool amber light did nothing to mute the hideous teal of the flaking stucco, and so many shingles were missing from the roof I worried I might be in danger of drowning should it ever rain. Maybe it was nice forty years ago when it was built, but the ensuing years had not been kind.

  I guess I could say the same about myself.

  The creak of the wooden steps up to the front stoop shattered the still evening. With each step the stoop shuddered. Bits of stucco, rubbed off the side of the house by its movement, rained to the ground below, and wisps of dust puffed out of the gap between the two structures. I wondered if the whole ramshackle thing was going to peel away from the side of the house with a scream of rusty nails and dump me unceremoniously in the dirt in a pile of splinters and broken bones, but it didn't. Thank God for small favors.

  Inside the house, I tugged off my tie and draped it over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. I rummaged in the refrigerator for something to eat, but nothing looked appealing. Why couldn’t Sara have at least gone out for a meal with me? Was I that low in her eyes now?

  I opened a can of food for Mister Boogers and fed him from a saucer on the counter. Who did I need to impress? I stroked the cat as he ate, soothed by his purr and the brushed cotton feel of his fur. No matter how awful you are, or what you’ve done, a pet loves you unconditionally.

  I wanted a drink, anything to ease the ache in my chest, even though I knew it wouldn't. Alcohol offers itself as a panacea, promising to fix all your problems if you'll just let it. One more drink will wash the pain away, it says, but it's a liar. It only makes things worse. Harry told me that, and he was right. Instead of whiskey, I poured a glass of orange juice and took some aspirin for the headache I felt building at my temples.

  I carried
the juice into the living room and turned on the TV. Something mindlessly entertaining might keep my thoughts about Sara and Andrew at bay. Settling into the recliner, I picked up the remote and tried not to think.

  The electronic burring of my cell phone pulled me to consciousness some time later. My cheeks were wet, and the phantom smell of smoke from my dream filled my nostrils. Despite the aspirin I'd taken, it felt like a construction worker was in my head working my brain over with a jackhammer. The taste in my mouth led me to suspect the cat had used it as a litter box while I lay in a stupor, and a large Rorschach blot of orange juice from the empty glass now lying in the floor stained my slacks. Another night in paradise.

  I looked at the digital clock on the cable box. Who calls at 12:17?

  An overwhelming certainty seized me: something had happened to Sara on the way back to Henderson. A drunk driver or juiced-up trucker, maybe, losing control and slamming into her, two lives destroyed in a fireball. Or maybe she nodded off at the wheel and drifted onto the shoulder, waking just in time to realize—

  My cell phone rang again. I pulled it from my pocket and answered the call.

  “Matt Freeman?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Great, a telemarketer.

  “I'm not interested in buy—”

  “Mr. Freeman, I’m an operator with AT&T, and I have your son on the line. He says it’s an emergency. Will you accept the call?”

  Her words stung me like a slap. Why would someone play such a cruel joke?

  “Listen, lady, I don’t know who you’ve got on the—”

  Then a single word that took my breath away.

  “Daddy?”

  I would know that voice anywhere. He sounded tired and scared, but it was my son. My baby. Alive.

  “Will you accept the call?” the operator asked.

  “Yes!” I nearly screamed. I struggled to catch my breath, but my lungs didn't want to cooperate. In my mind, I knew it couldn't really be Andrew. I remembered his death, and the funeral. All the well-wishers hovering around Sara and I for the first few days, offering their support.

  I knew it in my mind, but my heart told a different tale.

  “Daddy?” he asked again, and burst into tears.

  “Where are you, buddy? Tell me where you are!”

  “I don’t know,” he sobbed. “At a store by the road.”

  “What road? Where? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I was out of the chair, pacing. Frantic.

  “I’m okay. Please come get me, I’m scared!”

  My cell phone beeped, a sound I knew all too well. The battery was low. I didn't have much time. Sudden terror gripped me. What if I lost him again?

  “Tell me what you can see. What’s the name of the store? Is there a sign?” As I spoke, I hurried back to the second bedroom, where I kept my computer.

  “There’s writing on the side of the store. It says ‘Little Alley Inn.’”

  “Hang on, buddy, I’m trying to find you,” I said. A quick Google search showed lots of Little Valley Inns all over the country, but no Little Alley Inn. Panic rose in me like a dark tide. “Can you see anything else?”

  “Just the road. It’s really dark here, and there’s nothing around anywhere. I want to come home!”

  “I’m coming for you, Andrew, but Daddy has to figure out where you—”

  Of course. Caller ID.

  I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at the tiny screen. Area code 775. I added the word “Nevada” to the search phrase and tried again.

  The Little A’le’Inn, Rachel, Nevada. I felt a glimmer of hope.

  “Andrew, is the ‘alley’ on the sign spelled A-L-E?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I knew exactly where he was.

  Rachel is a wide spot in the road about 150 miles from Vegas, a place where the nuts gather to look for extra-terrestrials and UFOs near the infamous Area 51 at the Groom Lake Air Force base. The Little A’le’Inn got its name from a play on the word ‘alien.’

  “Daddy’s coming to get you. Just stay on the phone with me, you hear?”

  I checked my pockets for my keys and wallet, and ran for the front of the house.

  The cell phone beeped a second time. Please God, just let me make it to the Jeep and I can get it plugged into the charger.

  “Hurry, Daddy, I’m scared! They’ll be coming for me when they find out I’m gone.”

  His words stopped me cold. “Who, Andrew? Who’ll be coming?”

  “Bad people.”

  An icy finger traced its way up my spine.

  “Do you know who they are? Where are they coming from?”

  “I—”

  With a third beep, the cell phone shut itself off.