Текст книги "Personal Justice"

Автор книги: Rayven T. Hill

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About This Book

When a man is brutally murdered and the suspected killer has disappeared, the family of the victim hire private investigators Jake and Annie Lincoln to track down the missing murderer.

A dangerous and deadly pursuit begins, in which both the hunted and the hunters become embroiled in a lethal conflict that could result in the Lincolns forfeiting their own lives in their battle to bring a ruthless killer to justice.

PERSONAL JUSTICE

Rayven T. Hill

Published by

Ray of Joy Publishing

Toronto

Dedication & Acknowledgements

Thanks to Merry Jones for her hours of editing and proofreading. Many thanks to my beta readers, whose comments, suggestions, and insight, have helped streamline this story and smooth out a few bumps. And not least, thanks to my wife for her patience. (1003)

Connect with the Author

You can go to my Web Site to contact me, or sign up for my newsletter to get updates on future releases.

Follow me on Facebook, Twitter or contact me by eMail at [email protected].

Even though this book has been thoroughly edited, typos or factual errors may have been missed. Please eMail me if you find any errors.

Books by Rayven T. Hill

Blood and Justice

Cold Justice

Justice for Hire

Captive Justice

Justice Overdue

Justice Returns

Personal Justice

Silent Justice

Web of Justice (Coming Next)

Table of Contents

About this Book

Dedication

Connect with the Author

Books by Rayven T. Hill

CHAPTERS

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | Epilogue

Also by Rayven T. Hill

Coming Next

About the Author

Tell Your Friends About Personal Justice

Chapter 1

DAY 1 – Monday, 7:12 p.m.

WERNER SHAFT drove through the gathering darkness, singing along with the radio, his head bobbing back and forth. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel as the first shot blasted a hole through the driver side window. Unfortunately, Shaft wasn’t destined to live long enough to appreciate the science behind the deflection of a bullet through glass, often causing it to miss its intended target.

Suffice it to say, the first bullet missed.

And so did the second. By then Shaft had hit the brakes with all his weight, causing the 2010 Corolla to spin fully around on the pavement, its headlights cutting through the late evening fog, now facing back toward the warehouse area of the city and the back-breaking job he had left but a few minutes before.

Though he heard the shot, the second projectile was lost somewhere in the darkness, its target no longer viable as Shaft ducked down in the front seat. He frantically unlatched the passenger door and pushed it open with one hand while the other dug for a pistol held securely in place by an underarm holster.

The shot had come from the open window of another vehicle. He hadn’t seen the danger, had never so much as glanced at the car in the lane beside him, never suspecting it held a killer.

He wormed out the open door, rolled to the ground, and crouched by the rear fender of his vehicle, his pistol cocked and ready to bring down the shooter.

His would-be assassin pulled over to the shoulder and stopped the car thirty feet ahead. Water vapor puffed from the tailpipe, red lights glowed from the rear, and the driver side door hung open, the interior light of the now empty vehicle splashing onto the pavement beside the car.

But the shooter was nowhere to be seen.

Shaft wished he’d stayed in his vehicle and tried a run for safety. His chances would’ve been better than what he now faced. Or rather, didn’t face, because there was no indication where the would-be killer was hiding.

The third shot blasted its way through the taillight, inches from his head, sending shards of glass and metal to the ground at his feet.

He raised his weapon, poked his head around the shattered light, and chanced a glance to where the shot appeared to have come from. He saw no one. The muffler of his vehicle rumbled noisily beside him, the car engine still running, and he heard the distinct crackle of footsteps on loose gravel somewhere to his left.

He dove back the length of the vehicle, keeping low, and crawled to a safe spot at the front of the car. Safe for now that is, but for how long? He couldn’t see his assailant, and perhaps there were more than one.

They’d caught up with him, coming to claim his life in lieu of the cash. Retribution.

He wondered if they had already got to Norton. Perhaps his partner was dead already. The whole thing was a fiasco from the beginning, but he had been certain they made good their escape nonetheless. Now he wasn’t so certain.

A car whipped by, slowed a moment, and then sped off. Another car followed, both drivers unaware of the gunman stalking Shaft from somewhere in the darkness. The lack of streetlights was a detriment to his safety, putting him at a distinct disadvantage.

He licked his dry lips and wiped his brow with a free hand. He was sweating despite the chilly evening. His hand trembled and he wished he’d shut off the engine. Then he might have a chance of hearing his pursuer.

With his back to the front bumper, crouching low, he looked left, then right, each time swinging the pistol in rhythm with his head.

Where was the gunman?

Bullet number four grazed his shoulder as he made a dive for the sidewalk. He gritted his teeth and dashed over the patch of grass that separated the street from the adjoining building, a shoe store, now closed for the night.

Number five missed as his feet hit the gravel in the alleyway by the side of the shop. He heard running behind him. His pursuer was catching up. He stumbled once, caught himself, and ran headlong down the alley to the rear corner of the building.

He whipped around the corner, then spun back, leveled his weapon, peered around, and took a shot. He was shooting blind and must have missed the unseen target. He was never good with these things. The crunch on gravel continued and he fired again, dashing to his left. His thoughts were only to get as far away as possible.

A sudden panic overtook him as he dashed along the rear of the building. They tracked him this far, and they would track him forever, relentlessly pursuing until he was dead.

He needed to run and never stop until he was out of the city, maybe the country—that is, if he survived this night.

Shaft spun around a big blue dumpster at the rear of the building, narrowly missing it in the darkness. His shoulder was burning like crazy where the bullet entered, but that was the least of his worries. It could’ve been a leg, or worse. At least he could still run, and run he did, past the dumpster, around a parked car, all the while knowing his pursuer was mere seconds behind.

He dropped to a crouch, spun on one heel, leveled his gun, and squeezed the trigger.

No one was there. He heard a chuckle. Where was it coming from? Behind the dumpster, perhaps?

He straightened slowly and backed up, keeping his gun ready, finally reaching the far corner of the building.

It was another alleyway, leading back to the street, empty and bare. There would be no form of protection. He would need to be careful, and perhaps he might be lucky enough to make it the distance.

He backed into the alley, his weapon raised, ready at a second’s notice to pull the trigger. Step by step he retreated, watching, waiting, hoping to see the assassin step into his line of fire.

Except for the pistol shaking in his unsteady hand and the thumping of his heart, he felt tense and stiff. He could hardly breathe, managing short, quick breaths as he moved slowly toward a safer place.

Then from behind him, a footstep and a chuckle. The killer had retreated, circled the building, and now came at him from behind.

He cursed his own stupidity as bullet number six bit into his back, burrowed through his spinal cord, and entered his left lung.

He sank to the ground and lay flat on his destroyed back, shards of gravel biting the back of his head, his body numb, in shock, and his mind in turmoil.

He looked up at his murderer through dimming eyes. He saw a face, and a pistol grasped in a steady hand, its barrel aimed toward his skull, and then utter darkness as his eyesight faded to black.

Number seven had his name on it. The one destined to end his worthless life.

Werner Shaft took one last breath and spoke his final words, one second before bullet number seven left the assassin’s gun and made its way into the inner recesses of his brain.

“It’s you. Why?”

He didn’t hear the answer, if perchance there was one.

Chapter 2

Monday, 7:49 p.m.

ANNIE LINCOLN shut down her computer and leaned back, the annoying squeak of her swivel chair again reminding her to ask Jake to give it a drop or two of oil. She could just as easily do it herself, but anything that remotely smacked of maintenance, Jake stubbornly claimed as his territory.

It was an unremarkable day. Cranston’s Department Store had requested background checks on several perspective employees, a law firm needed some legal papers served ASAP, Richmond Insurance urgently wanted some research done, and the one that made her smile, a ten year old boy wanted to hire them to find a lost puppy. She politely declined that one.

Lincoln Investigations, the business she had started not so long ago with her husband, now flourished. In addition to their mainstay of research, more than their fair share of bad guys came their way. Their recent successes in apprehending criminals led to a surge of publicity that couldn’t be bought, with more business than they could handle, now in the position to pick and choose. It was exciting, often dangerous, and always demanding—but Annie loved it.

And so did Jake. He wouldn’t go back to his old job as a construction engineer for twice the money he once received. When he was laid off some time ago, turning Annie’s part-time research company into a full-fledged business was his brainstorm. Annie was skeptical at first, but now she wouldn’t have it any other way. It turned out to be challenging, satisfying, and exhilarating. Working alongside her husband was a bonus.

She straightened up some stray papers on her desk, filed a couple of folders in a drawer, pushed back her chair—it squeaked again—and wandered into the adjoining living room. Jake sprawled on the floor, a pillow under his head, watching television. His six-foot-four inch body stretched halfway across the room. He held the remote control in one hand, the other tucked behind his head.

A smaller copy of her husband lay beside him. Eight-year-old Matty was destined and determined to be like his father—somewhat reckless and impulsive at times, too cocky for their own good, and the best looking guys Annie had ever seen. Matty was intent on the TV, his eyes wide as the program wound down.

She stopped in front of them and looked down at her son. “Matty, is your homework done?”

Matty didn’t look up. “Aw, it’s only math, Mom. I’ll do it later. It’s a snap.”

“I think you should get at it now,” Annie suggested firmly.

Jake turned his eyes her way. “Five minutes, okay? CSI is almost over. I’ll make sure he gets it done.” He turned his eyes back to the TV.

Annie relented, navigated past the guys, and gazed out the front window toward the street. The neighborhood was quiet. The sun was already set, final shades of red and orange barely visible on the horizon. She pulled the drapes closed, snuggled up in her easy chair, and reached for her book—a book on real crime scene investigation, not the one hour TV version. She was always eager to increase her knowledge of investigative techniques and police procedure, and her library continued to expand as fast as she could devour them.

Half a chapter later, the television was dark, Matty on his way upstairs, Jake lounged on the couch. She felt him staring at her and she looked up. “Something on your mind?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing more than usual. Just enjoying your company. Things have been busy lately and we haven’t had a lot of quiet time.”

“You could read a book,” Annie said, glancing to one of two stuffed bookshelves flanking the fireplace. Reading was one of her passions and she couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t feel the same way.

“Maybe later,” Jake said, and she knew he wouldn’t. He crossed his arms and dropped his feet on the coffee table. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

Annie shrugged. “You can look for a lost dog if you want to.”

“A lost dog?”

“I really don’t have anything for you right now.”

“What kind of dog?”

Annie frowned. “I didn’t ask. I turned it down.”

“I had a dog once,” Jake said, his brow wrinkled in thought. “When I was a boy we had this ugly looking mutt. We called it ‘Ugly’ because it was.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I loved that dog. Broke my heart when it died. Dad wanted to get me another one but nothing could ever replace Ugly.”

“My mother never allowed a dog in the house. She said they were too messy.” Annie chuckled. “But we had a cat. A real mean beast.” She laughed out loud. “A bit like my mother. But Dad put up with it.”

A grin appeared on Jake’s face. “Like he puts up with your mother.”

Annie shrugged. “Maybe she’s getting better. She actually mentioned your name yesterday without having anything nasty to say about you.”

Jake gave a short laugh. “Maybe it’s me that’s getting better.”

Annie stood, went to the couch, and curled up beside her husband. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him an extended kiss. “I can’t find any room for improvement,” she said. “You seem fine to me.”

He grinned and gave her another kiss. “You’re a good influence on me. I can be bad when I want to.”

“There’s time for that later.” She ran her fingers through his short, dark hair and got off the couch, settling back in her easy chair, her feet curled underneath herself.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Jake said, looking at his watch. “But right now, I have to give the other love of my life a rubdown. She gets lonely without me.”

Annie laughed. She didn’t mind playing second fiddle to a car. After all, it was a 1986 Pontiac Firebird, and even though she wasn’t much for cars, she was first to admit, it was a beautiful machine.

Jake stood. “I’ll give it a quick polishing and be back soon. It got spotted from the rain this afternoon. Should’ve parked it in the garage.”

“Bring back some oil with you.”

“Oil?”

She pointed a thumb toward the office. “My chair squeaks.”

He nodded and Annie watched him leave. She went to the kitchen, fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate, and carried it to the living room. She settled back into her chair, sipped the drink, and picked up her book. It was nice to have some peace and quiet for a change, just her and her family.

She grimaced when she heard a roar from the adjoining garage. Jake was warming up the Firebird. There goes the quiet, but at least it was still peaceful.

And peace was what she needed. The previous week had been a hectic nightmare, its frightening events still fresh in her mind, and she looked forward to a week without vicious killers, violent criminals, and treacherous thieves.

Chapter 3

Monday, 8:19 p.m.

FOR THE FIRST time in weeks, Detective Hank Corning had been able to skip off work a few minutes early. The small Canadian city was growing, and his post as head of Richmond Hill’s robbery/homicide division kept him busy as crime grew along with the city.

Hank had used the opportunity to take his ever-patient girlfriend, Amelia, out to an early dinner at Tommy Tomatto’s, a little Italian buffet, and one of their favorite places to dine. They had just returned to her house and snuggled up in front of the television when his cell phone rang.

Hank’s deep-brown eyes narrowed at the news. There was a homicide, their tranquil evening interrupted.

He sighed and stood up, brushed a hand through his short-cropped hair, and called his sometimes partner, Detective Simon King, arranging to meet him at the scene. Though Hank preferred to work alone, his growing workload required him to depend more and more on King. The unkempt cop wouldn’t have been Hank’s first choice for a partner, but the captain had insisted.

The scene was a hub of activity as Hank approached. First responders had immediately cordoned off the street in front of a pair of shops. Three cruisers, their lights flashing, parked outside the yellow tape, the forensic van close by. Other cars were stopped at haphazard angles. Orange cones, wooden barriers, and a cop at each end of the area, detoured the sparse traffic to other avenues.

An officer waved Hank through. He parked beside a cruiser and glanced across the street. King was already there, sitting in his vehicle. As Hank crossed over, the greasy-haired cop stepped out and shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn-out jeans. “What took you so long?”

Hank disregarded the question and turned toward the crime scene. A 2010 Corolla sat in the center of the taped-off area, parked awkwardly in the middle of the street, its passenger side door hanging open. The interior light of the vehicle still shone, and its headlights cast streaks of white light down the asphalt. The engine was still running.

The empty vehicle stood in front of Master Footwear, a shoe store boasting half-price sales year round. Beside it, Nortown Bakery sat with a darkened interior, its backlit overhead sign glowing.

A narrow alleyway between the two shops was the center of attention. Remote area lighting was set up, bringing the brightness of daylight to the entire sealed off area as well as the alley and the rear of the buildings.

Investigators processed the scene, a painstaking job and a massive undertaking considering the extent of the area.

It was going to be a long night for CSI.

The detectives approached lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson. “Evening, Rod,” Hank said, and King grunted.

At six foot two, the investigator looked down a couple of inches at Hank and pointed toward the deserted car in the center of the street. A deep, hollow voice came out of his thin frame. “It looks like the action started over there.” He swung around and pointed to the alleyway. “And ended over there. The body’s in that alley.” He consulted a clipboard. “Victim has been ID’ed as Werner Shaft and this vehicle is registered in his name.”

They followed him to the idling car. Hank circled around, taking note of the bullet hole in the driver side window, the broken taillight, and the open passenger side door.

King crouched down and examined the street. “Looky here, Hank.”

Hank glanced to where the detective pointed.

King continued, “Those skid marks look fresh. It appears there might’ve been a second vehicle that made a quick stop, heading south.” He pointed to the car. “And those skid marks indicate this one was heading south as well, then the driver hit the brakes and spun around.”

“And the shooter was in the unknown vehicle,” Hank said. “Makes sense.”

“You can see by the skid marks, the vehicles were in adjoining lanes, probably side by side when the shot through the driver side window occurred.”

“Then the victim stopped quick and spun around,” Hank said. “He then exited through the passenger door in an attempt to get away, leaving the vehicle running.”

“And the assailant stopped a few feet later.”

Hank brought King’s attention to the broken taillight. “It looks like a shoot-out ensued, then the victim ran across the street and down the alley.”

“He didn’t get far,” Rod said. “There were three shots to the victim before he was brought down. There’s no way to tell how many might’ve missed their target.”

“We’d better go take a look,” Hank said.

The medical examiner, Nancy Pietek, had finished her preliminary examination when Hank and King approached the body of the victim.

Nancy turned her always cheerful, round face upwards. “It’s another lovely evening, Hank.”

“Wonderful,” Hank said, and looked down at the body. It lay face up, a gaping wound in the middle of the forehead. Blood pooled under the abdomen and soaked into the gravel below. A semi-automatic pistol lay near his right hand.

“What can you tell me, Nancy?”

Nancy stood up, straightening her short, pleasantly rounded frame, and craned her neck up at Hank. “It appears the cause of death was a GSW to the head by a small caliber weapon. Gunshot residue on the victim indicates it was fired from a distance of eighteen to twenty-four inches. No more than that.”

“So the killer was face to face with the victim when he fired the final shot,” Hank said.

“It appears so,” Nancy said, turning her eyes back to the body. “There are also two more gunshot wounds, one to the left shoulder, entering the deltoid muscle from the rear at approximately a forty-five degree angle. Exited at the front. Not fatal. No residue.”

“And the other?” Hank asked.

Nancy crouched again and rolled the body halfway over. She pointed to a large blood-covered area at the back of the victim’s shirt. “GSW here, almost dead center of the back, through the spinal cord. There’s no exit wound, so the bullet’s probably lodged somewhere inside the body, possible in the lung or heart area.”

Hank crouched down beside Nancy. “Gunshot residue?”

“No. No residue, but given the area and severity of the wound, a shot like that would’ve brought him down.”

Hank pulled a rubber glove from his pocket and put it on. He picked up the pistol that lay by the victim, held it close to his nose, and announced, “It’s been fired recently. The victim tried to defend himself. Obviously, unsuccessfully.”

Nancy agreed. “Gunshot residue on the victim’s right hand will confirm that.”

Hank put the weapon back down, stood up, and considered the medical evidence. “The fact there’s residue on the shot to the forehead, appears to have made that the final wound of the three. There would be no need to shoot the victim in the back after he’s already dead.” He scratched his head. “Looks like the victim was already on the ground when the final shot was taken.”

King added, “The killer chased the victim into the alley, wounding him in the shoulder first, then brought him down with a shot to the back.”

“And then finished him off with a bullet to the head,” Hank said.

“It appears that way,” Nancy said, as she stood. “The body wasn’t moved after death. The victim died right here. I expect you’ll find the bullet embedded in the gravel under the head once they take a look.”

“Time of death?” King asked.

“One to two hours ago,” Nancy said, pointing toward the street. “Apparently, there’s a witness.”

Hank raised his brows. “A witness?”

Nancy nodded. “A man—on his way home from work. He’s waiting out front. I believe an officer is taking his statement.”

“We have the cause of death and the victim’s name,” Hank said. “That’s the easy part. All we need now is a motive and a perpetrator.” He nudged King toward the street. “Let’s go see what the witness can tell us.”