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- Herausgeber: Paraquel Press
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Jump in, hold tight, and don’t look back.
Welcome to a world where every ticking second brings danger or heart-thumping suspense and no mystery remains unsolved for long. In Rapid Pursuit, acclaimed author Joslyn Chase delivers a riveting collection of fourteen tales that dive straight into high-stakes intrigue and unexpected twists.
From hurricane-threatened beachfronts to blizzard-blasted back alleys, Chase’s signature blend of tension and thrilling suspense captures readers at every turn. Whether evading the law in the dead of night, tracking down an elusive killer, or navigating treacherous alliances, these stories walk the line between good and evil like a tightrope artist on a dare.
Featuring tales that have gripped readers in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Mystery, Crime, and Mayhem, and Thrill Ride, this collection brings Chase’s best in the genre. Each story is crafted to keep you breathless and turning pages late into the night as her characters plunge into situations where every choice could be their last.
Get ready for Rapid Pursuit—where justice, revenge, and survival intersect in a relentless race against time.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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RAPID PURSUIT
14 Short Thrillers & Fast-Paced Suspense Stories
JOSLYN CHASE
RAPIDPURSUIT
14 SHORT THRILLERS & FAST-PACED SUSPENSE STORIES
Copyright © 2025 by Joslyn Chase. All rights reserved.
Paraquel Press ebook edition, published by Paraquel Press, 2025
https://paraquelpress.mailerpage.com
ISBN: 978-1-952647-32-1 (ebook) 978-1-952647-33-8 (softcover) 978-1-952647-46-8 (audiobook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2025900164
Excerpt from Nocturne in Ashes, copyright © 2017 by Joslyn Chase
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the exclusive rights of Joslyn Chase and Paraquel Press under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
This story is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is fictionalized or coincidental. For inquiries regarding this book, please email: [email protected]
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations for the purpose of a book review. Thank you.
"Fastpitch" was first published in Mystery, Crime, and Mayhem (MCM), Extreme Weather, November 2024
"Always Gonna Happen" was first published in MCM, Stolen Cars, May 2024
"A Band of Scheming Women" was first published in Thrill Ride Magazine, March 2024
"Still in the Family" was first published in MCM, Passionate Crimes, May 2021
"Kissed by the Snow Angel" was first published in Steadman's Blind, November 2019
"Death Makes a Dinner Date" was first published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, July/August 2021
"Beyond the Horizon" was first published in MCM, Black Widows, May 2022
"Colder Than Gazpacho" was first published in MCM, Betrayal, February 2024
"A Study in Cashmere" was first published in Short Fiction Break, July 2020
"The Wolf & Lamb" was first published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, May/June 2020
"Chamber of Vengeance" was first published in Mystery Magazine, October 2021
All other stories are originals. Copyright © 2025 by Joslyn Chase. All rights reserved.
Contents
Introduction
Conflictistheheart of story.
In a short story, that conflict is often concentrated into a potent little package that delivers a punch. That's one of the charms inherent in short stories, and a superlative reason for reading them.
Everyone, everywhere, every day, is after something.
In pursuit of a goal.
In a story, as in real life, reaching the goal is rarely easy. Obstacles stand in the way. Other people compete for the same objective. We struggle internally with diverging desires.
The characters in the stories of this book are the same. They are all in pursuit of one aim or another. And, as the title suggests, they are fast at it.
Short stories are like gold nuggets—little treasures you can read and enjoy without a large investment of time. By their nature, they allow the writer to take greater risks, with the potential of a big return in story value for the reader.
Despite the smaller package they come in, short stories must deliver an emotional impact. Some of the most memorable reading experiences I've had came by way of a short story.
Off the top of my head, I remember the lasting emotional impact these stories left on me:
O Henry's "The Gift of the Magi"
"The Lottery," Shirley Jackson
Ernest Hemingway's "Indian Camp"
Stephen King's "Quitters, Inc."
"A Good Man is Hard to Find," Flannery O'Connor
Susan Glaspell's, "A Jury of Her Peers"
"Haircut," Ring Lardner
Jeffery Deaver's "The Weekender"
"Catch and Release," Lawrence Block
David Morrell's "The Abelard Sanction"
"The Veldt," Ray Bradbury
"Success of a Mission," Dennis Lynds
"She Fell Among Thieves," Robert Edmund Alter
Roald Dahl's "The Landlady"
"Don't Look Now," Daphne du Maurier
"The Necklace," Guy de Maupassant
I had to stop myself there because there are so many more to list.
Short stories are often sorely overlooked as a source for reading satisfaction and emotional sway. Many highly popular Hollywood hits are based on short stories, such as Rear Window, Memento, and The Shawshank Redemption.
With this book in your hands, you are wisely indulging in the advantages of the short story!
Many of the selections in Rapid Pursuit are companion pieces to my thriller novels. It is my hope that you will enjoy following the various characters to the novels they sprang from for more adventure, suspense, and impactful reading pleasure.
Thank you!
Fastpitch
Author's Note
IlivedinSuffolk,not far from Virginia Beach, for several years and remember the tension hanging heavy with each passing hurricane season. My husband was a US Navy submariner, and when a hurricane threatened, he was part of the crew that had to take the submarine into the depths where it was safe from the storm.
Leaving me and the kids to weather it on our own.
During one such monster storm, I stepped out onto the porch and saw the sky had turned green. I packed up the kiddoes and headed inland, to my sister-in-law's in Kentucky. Just minutes ahead of the evacuation order that would clog the highways.
A few days later, we returned to devastation and began the long work of cleaning up the mess.
When Leah Cutter, the editor of Mystery, Crime, and Mayhem magazine invited me to submit a story with an extreme weather theme, I harked back to that experience and used it to create a fast-paced short thriller I hoped readers would love. "Fastpitch" was originally published in MCM's November 2024 issue.
So, hold on to your hat, turn the page, and let yourself get blown away!
Cold rain pelted down like gunfire, peppering the concrete landing beneath Jake Parkin's feet and sending him into a skid as he rushed around the corner toward the staircase. The pounding barrage blotted out the sounds he was used to hearing—the plaintive cries of hovering seagulls, the whir and crank of traffic on the avenue running alongside the high-rise apartment building where he worked as head of security.
A low ominous boom of thunder, like a cannon in the distance, rose above the rainsound as Jake gripped the glass door leading into the staircase vestibule, fighting the wind to get it open. He had fifteen floors to patrol and rarely used the elevator. The stairs helped keep him fit. Maybe not as toned as he'd been before retiring from the Virginia Beach Police Department, but reasonably ready to roll with whatever punches fell his way.
This afternoon, he had a more immediate reason for shunning the elevator.
Hurricane Pablo.
The tropical monster was sweeping toward the coast with a voracious hunger, heralded by a lash of wicked thunderstorms. The city's power grid was holding, but the juice could stop flowing at any moment and the last thing he wanted was to be trapped between floors in a heavy, metal box.
Many of the building's residents had followed the recommendation to evacuate but by Jake's reckoning, thirty-two people remained. Harvey Browning, the building's owner, had offered to let him off the hook.
"It's going to be a bad one, Jake. People have been warned. The smart ones are long gone."
Jake coughed into his hand. "Some of those still here are staying out of necessity," he said, thinking about Anna and her bed-ridden grandmother on the second floor. He watched his employer's ginger-colored eyebrows waggle up and down like boats on a choppy sea and knew the man was worried.
"I can't force you to stay under these circumstances. Get yourself clear, Jake. Stay safe. Then haul your butt back here and help me clean up the mess."
A moment passed, punctuated by the wind howling at the window. "I'll stay, sir," Jake said quietly. "I wouldn't feel right leaving my post at a time like this."
Browning nodded. "I figured that's how you'd feel about it. As for me, I'm grabbing the wife and high tailing it out of here. I wish you the best."
Now, six hours after he'd made that choice, Jake wondered if it was the right one.
He'd spent the intervening time checking and re-checking the security system and storm protection measures, reassuring nervous residents about the approaching hurricane. The building housed eight apartments on each level, with a luxury penthouse occupying the entire fifteenth floor.
The couple leasing the penthouse were currently basking on the French Riviera, so at least they were safely out of it, though damage to the apartment could potentially destroy a lot of expensive furnishings.
Or worse—breach the security system, putting the Franzen treasures at risk.
Jake had seen a copy of their insurance policy. He knew they kept jewels on the premises, rare and valuable coins, bullion. He'd be willing to bet they had a hefty stash of emergency cash, as well.
Testing every door, every junction box and connection, Jake walked his beat. Each apartment's entrance opened onto a common landing in the center of the building, open to the sky and circling the two elevators and sets of stairs.
He'd made his rounds, floor by floor, to the top of the building and back down again, getting soaked by the wind-blown pellets of rain. He stopped now at Apartment 203 and pressed the doorbell.
Anna's face as she peered out was wan and creased with worry. "Jake, you're sopping wet! Come in. I'll get you a towel."
Jake waved off the suggestion. "I'm okay. How are you and Juanita holding up?"
"I'm hanging in there, and grandma's in good spirits. Dr. Caldwell—he's the new therapist she's been seeing—prepared her for this eventuality. She's feeling strong."
"Glad to hear it. How are you feeling?"
She laughed. "Some of the good doctor's healing has rubbed off on me, I guess. I attend all grandma's sessions with her and..." She stopped, a rosy blush coming up on her cheeks. "He's been kind enough to give me some free counsel, as well."
Not a bit surprising. Anna, with her sweet, earnest face and obvious devotion to her grandmother, would elicit kindness in an eel. Jake touched her gently on the arm.
"Do you have enough flashlights and fresh batteries?" he asked. "What about bottled water?"
"We've got all that," Anna told him, a small smile easing the tension behind her eyes. "We'll fare better here on the second floor than those in the apartments above."
"Yes, count yourselves lucky," Jake said, packing some cheer into his voice. He refrained from pointing out the flaw in her reasoning, because she was right.
Unless the storm surge led to extensive flooding.
Originally from Puerto Rico, Anna Torres moved last year to Virginia Beach to be with her grandmother and help care for the ailing woman. The 28-year-old paramedic was known and loved among the residents for her warm and open spirit, bravery, and dedication to helping others.
Sentiments heartily shared by Jake.
With almost twenty years between their ages, Jake tried to squelch anything else he might feel for her. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to tamp down the admiration that grew as they spent time together on their local fastpitch softball league where she covered second base while he manned the pitcher’s mound.
The after-game pizza dinners. The good-natured joking around while waiting in the dugout. The euphoric group hugs after a victorious game.
"Don't worry, Anna," he said, giving her hand a quick squeeze. "This'll blow over before you know it. In the meantime, I'll do all I can to keep everyone safe."
"I know you will."
Her words rang in his ears as she shut the door, leaving behind a bitter and mocking resonance. She believed him, trusting that he would do all he could to keep everyone safe.
But she didn't know about the man lying dead after the last disaster Jake had managed.
She didn't know about David.
Maxwell Kane braced his palms on the sill as he stared out the window, his back to the three-man crew waiting silently behind him. Two of them, Joiner and Conrad, didn't want to be here, had voiced their opinions on the violence of the storm and their desire to join the residents fleeing the city.
Lutz, the remaining member of the team, had impressed upon them the necessity of staying. Impressed it very firmly upon them, backing his argument with a description of what had happened to the fourth crewman as he'd attempted to run.
They would stay.
The rain continued, flung sideways by the turbulent winds and carrying the taste of salt from the Atlantic, just two blocks to the east. It spat against the window glass with monotonous severity. Kane turned, jaw set, and surveyed his men.
"There is no security on this earth; there is only opportunity," he said, quoting his favorite role model, General Douglas MacArthur. "This, gentlemen, is ours."
"Tailor-made, in fact," Lutz added. "With the Franzens out of the country and the building's security force pared down to one man, the pickings ought to be easy."
Kane felt a grim stab of satisfaction as he thought of that lone man standing between them and the Franzen treasure house. He wouldn't be standing for long.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he cautioned. "Easy may not be the best word applied to our situation. But possible. Yes, gloriously possible."
He lifted his bottle of beer from the table, gone warm in the sullen humidity brought by the storm. "To Pablo," he said, tapping the amber glass against Lutz's own.
"To Pablo," the crewmen echoed, raising their bottles.
Back at his security post, Jake reviewed the emergency protocols for the building as he chewed on a roast beef sandwich that stuck dry in his throat. He considered tossing the whole thing in the trash but knew he'd need the energy to get through this storm. Instead, he washed it down with half a glass of gingerale and ignored the burn rising in his gut.
The TV screen mounted high on the wall to his left cast a blue glaze over the desk, tinting the spreadsheets and loosely organized stacks of paperwork scattered over its surface. A change in the shifting colors caught Jake's attention and he peered up at the screen, pointing the remote to raise the volume.
"...now classed as a Category 5 hurricane and predicted to strike land along the North Carolina and southern Virginia coastline sometime during the next hour."
Jake watched the news reporter's expensively-styled glossy dark hair pull away from its moorings and flap around her head like a flock of desperate bats. With the palm trees blowing sideways in the background, it made for dramatic television viewing.
"Despite orders to evacuate," the woman continued, shouting to be heard over the shriek of the gale, "some residents are opting to ride out the storm, stocking up on bottled water and non-perishable snacks, boarding up windows and sandbagging against the flood."
Something that looked like a barn door blew past behind her head and the camera angle shifted violently for a second or two before static claimed the screen. Jake switched it off.
Outside, the whiny pitch of the wind rose to a maniacal roar, shaking the building and sending a shiver along the fine hairs at the back of Jake's neck.
Pablo had arrived.
Maxwell Kane steered the white panel truck down the deserted avenue, tightly gripping the wheel as a long series of vicious gusts threatened to take control. There was virtually no traffic to deal with, but flotsam thrown by the storm littered the road, some of it stationary, requiring him to dodge around it.
And some of it still moving in jerky, unpredictable snatches. It gave Kane the willies, making him feel like prey stalked by a pack of moonstruck wolves.
He tightened his jaw and kept his eyes fastened on the rain-lashed street ahead. The apartment building's underground garage was blocked by a wall of sandbags in an attempt to keep the storm surge from flooding in.
Pulling the van to the curb, he set the brake and glared out the windshield. He'd planned this operation and waited for a big storm, counting on it to provide the cover and confusion he'd need to pull it off. But, capricious and volatile, the hurricane could work against him, as well.
A lot would depend on luck.
"The best luck of all is the luck you make for yourself," he growled under his breath, reaching once again for the wisdom of MacArthur. Kane had spent the last year grinding out the details, making his own luck. Things would fall his way.
He shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, locking eyes first with Joiner and then with Conrad in the back. Turning to Lutz, he nodded.
"Let's move out."
As they'd been drilled to do, his crew grabbed their equipment and deployed, moving into position. Kane, Lutz, and Joiner slipped quickly inside the building, melting into the shadows, while Conrad made ready in the van parked far below the penthouse balcony.
Uniformed as maintenance workers carrying toolboxes and wheeling large protective packing crates, each had a vital function to perform in a short amount of time. Seventeen and a half minutes later, Kane joined Lutz in the foyer outside the penthouse apartment. He watched his lieutenant wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead.
"It's done," Lutz announced. "The entire alarm system is ours."
"And the elevators?" Kane asked.
"Locked down tight. No one is going anywhere."
Kane ran a diagnostic to confirm he had control of the building's security system. As the green light flashed on his tablet's screen, he heard the clang of metal on metal and looked up to see Joiner snap the padlock on the last looped chain blocking off all doors to the stairwells.
"Building is secure, sir," Conrad said, standing at attention.
"Excellent." Kane slipped the tablet into his pocket and turned to Lutz. "Time to advance. Get us in there," he commanded.
Jake watched in horrified frustration as the malfunctioning security network beeped and wailed. He'd cast in his two cents when Browning asked his opinion on the building's new protection system. He thought it relied too much on internet connections and not enough on old school redundancies.
The hurricane was wreaking havoc on it and the surveillance monitors had been the first to go. Jake felt like a blind man as, one by one, the screens winked out, going black. He fiddled with the control panel to no avail and tried rebooting the system without success.
Something was wrong.
Jake checked his weapon and holster. Zipping into a charcoal gray windbreaker, he raised the hood and exited the security office. Buffeted by frenzied gusts, he pushed his way toward the staircase vestibule and froze. The chill that feathered down his spine had nothing to do with the cold rain slapping against his bowed head.
A heavy chain snaked through the door handles, secured by a sturdy padlock.
Jake yanked the cell phone from his pocket, almost dropping it, and dialed 9-1-1. The call didn't go through.
He wasn't surprised. He knew cell towers were likely overburdened or knocked out of commission by the storm. Jake also knew exactly what the chain and lock signified.
Burglars in the penthouse.
He thought about the Franzen's hefty insurance policy. Though it cut against the grain, he reasoned that maybe his best move was to hunker down in the office and let it happen. He had no way of knowing how many intruders were involved and it appeared as if they'd planned well. It was only material goods, after all. Property that the insurance company would pay to replace.
But what if it wasn't?
What if someone else tried to intervene, got in the way? What if the burglars decided shaking down one rich plum at the top of the tree wasn't enough?
Jake had pledged to protect everyone in the building. He could not just sit on his hands and hope no one got hurt. He knew, by wretched experience, how it felt to carry the guilt of a death he should have prevented, and he didn't want to add a single ounce to that burden.
Rubbing a hand across his forehead, he flicked rainwater off his face and gnashed his teeth, squinting up through the building's open central column at the fifteen stories rising above him.
He was going up.
Jake let himself into the maintenance room and surveyed the shelves, hoping something helpful would jump out at him. The air felt heavy on his skin—ominous, smothering, and briny. It cast over Jake the sensation of drowning and he gulped down a breath, savoring the swell of oxygen in his lungs.
He found a length of nylon rope and a box of large metal hooks the manager used for suspending heavy potted plants in the building's exterior walkways. Using three of the hooks along with a couple feet of sturdy flexi-wire and a bottle of no-nail super tack adhesive, Jake fashioned a grappling hook and fastened it to the rope. He knotted the rope at four-foot intervals.
The storm, as he stepped back outside, sounded like a hell-bound freight train full of shrieking passengers. He shuddered to think of the devastation it was leaving in its wake. Here, down low and inside the protected column of the well-built high-rise, the raging effects were mitigated. But each floor he ascended would bring him closer to the monster outside.
And the demons within.
The rain had slackened but still dripped down, bringing occasional debris with it, plucked from the littered sky. Jake gathered some essential items into a backpack and slung it over his shoulders, glad now that he'd forced down that roast beef sandwich. Something told him he'd be calling on all his energy reserves before the storm blew over.
Standing in the central courtyard, Jake swung the rope, propelling his makeshift grappling hook up and over the railing of the second floor. It caught and he tested it with his weight before using it to help him climb up and slip over the balustrade.
Releasing the hook, he took his contraption with him as he hurried to Anna's apartment and quickly explained the situation.
"Stay hidden," he warned her, "and keep your grandmother safe."
"But Jake, I should go with you. I'm a paramedic. There's no telling what you'll encounter up there. You may need me."
He gave her a quick smile. "I appreciate that, Anna, but Juanita needs you more. You have to be here for her."
A crease rose on Anna's forehead. Jake wanted to reach out and smooth it away. "You know I'm right," he said instead. "I have to go. Stay safe."
Hearing the door of her apartment snap shut behind him, Jake felt utterly alone. He was probably stupid for pushing ahead on his half-formed plan to defend and protect, yet he knew he couldn't do anything else.
Doubt pressed heavily on him as he leaned out over the second floor railing and tossed the hook up to the third floor landing. He was remembering the last time his plans had gone all wrong, forcing his retirement from the job he loved.
What if something like that happened again?
Despite the dark and violent frenzy happening outside the thick plate glass windows, the interior of the Franzen apartment looked like the layout of a glossy magazine. Kane felt a jab of malicious glee that went beyond the satisfaction of riches within his grasp. Such a perfectly put-together life deserved to be disrupted. Begged for it.
He was happy to oblige.
The three polyethylene packing crates lay open on the living room floor, ready to receive. Lutz had found the wall safe and was working his magic on the dials. Joiner began filling a crate with silver from the dining room, wrapping pieces of priceless Sevres porcelain and Capodimonte figurines. The place was like a museum filled with treasures.
Kane couldn't wait to see what the safe contained. Geoffrey Franzen collected coins and was quoted in Forbes as a big believer in stocking up on precious metals. His wife adored extravagant jewelry and Geoffrey was known as an indulgent husband.
Licking his lips, Kane peered over Lutz's shoulder, gauging his progress. He was about to urge him on when a voice sounded from the front hall.
"Geoffrey? I saw your door was open...Hope it's okay if I come in."
A high-pitched male voice. Finicky-sounding. "I thought you were still enjoying the sunshine in southern France. What a day you picked to come home!"
Joiner looked up from his wrapping, a question on his face. Kane shook his head. "I'll go," he mouthed. Drawing his pistol, he stalked into the penthouse apartment's entrance hall.
"Back out, the way you came," he commanded, holding the gun steady, aimed at the guy's head.
Geoffrey's neighbor stammered, his sweaty moon face going pale, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, like a fish. Raising his hands, he stepped backward on the marble tiles. Kane motioned with the gun for him to continue out the door.
Following, he backed the hapless neighbor up to the railing and sensed the guy was about to find his voice in a nasty scream. Before that could happen, Kane stepped forward and rapped him hard with the butt of his gun. The man crumpled.
"Joiner!" Kane called. "Help me out."
Together, they lifted the unconscious man.
"He got a good look at your face," Joiner said, scowling.
"True," Kane agreed. "But anything could happen in a storm like this."
Joiner met his eye. Nodded. "Yeah, anything."
Both of them grunting under the man's considerable weight, they heaved him over the rail.
From the corner of his eye, Jake saw something flash past, falling from above. It thudded onto the pavement below with a sound that sent an icy weight sinking in Jake's gut. He was nine stories up now, climbing the slippery rails floor by floor with his rope and homemade grappler, fighting the squall that threatened his every move.
Peering down into the courtyard below, he saw a dark human-shaped heap on the pavement and knew that some malevolent force—storm or otherwise—had claimed a victim. Despite his best efforts.
It was clear there was nothing he could do for the man on the ground, and there were others at risk, vulnerable and unaware of hazards beyond the storm. Jake pressed onward and upward.
The lights outside each apartment flickered and went out, casting a dark shadow over the courtyard and the tiers rising above it. Power to the building had failed.
Or been deliberately cut.
As Jake flung his leg over the rail of the tenth floor, he heard a long, drawn-out scream. The roar of the hurricane rose to an unbearable pitch, drowning out the rest of it. Jake leapt from the rail as a nearby apartment door burst open, almost blowing off its hinges.
A man and woman rushed out, clinging to each other, their faces etched with terror. Behind them, the interior of the apartment seemed to swirl and buckle, one entire wall blasted away by the ferocious gale.
Jake shoved the door closed, managing to latch it shut. Another couple erupted from the apartment next door, shouting something Jake couldn't hear over the howling storm. Wordlessly, he shepherded the Crowleys and Goodmans to the leeward side of the building and dug in his pocket for the master key, using it to open a vacant apartment.
Once inside the gloom-shrouded space with the door closed, he was able to make himself heard. "Stay in here," he told the foursome, "and keep the door locked."
"Shouldn't we go down to a lower level?" Gene Crowley asked. "Hurricane could blow the whole top off the building."
"I'm afraid we're dealing with more than just Pablo," Jake said.
Jill Goodman stared at him, her eyes wide and rimmed with smeared mascara. "What do you mean?"
Jake didn't want to scare them more than they already were. "Just stay in here together and lock the door."
"Jake's right," Crowley said. Giving his wife and the others a nudge toward the kitchen, he drew Jake aside. "I saw the rope hanging from the railing. What's going on, Jake? Why don't you want us going down?"
"The stairs are blocked, elevators useless. I'm using the rope to make my way to the penthouse."
"Blocked how? What are you talking about?"
"The building is under seige, Gene, and the hurricane's knocked out all communications. I'm sure the Franzens are the target. I'm hoping the intruders will limit their activities to the fifteenth floor."
"But you're going up there? To what end, Jake? To try stopping it?"
Jake shifted, impatient to get going. "That's not my primary objective. I'm concerned with the safety of the tenants. We've already—"
He broke off, but Gene Crowley picked it up. "We've already...what?"
"We've already lost one," Jake admitted. "There's a sight on the courtyard floor you won't want the ladies to see. Just stay here and keep your group safe."
Crowley's face was gray in the shadows, his eyes like sunken pools of darkness. "Okay, Jake. I see your point. I'll man the fort."
"Thank you."
Without another word, Jake left the apartment and hurried back to his grappling hook, half afraid the storm might have stolen it. But the hook and rope waited for him, and Jake used them to gain the eleventh floor and then the twelfth, checking each before proceeding.
Hurricane Pablo showed no sign of weakening or departing. It continued to rage and Jake felt the savagery of its bite more and more with each level he rose. Poised on his slender rope, high off the ground as the tempest buffeted him like a kite on a string, Jake fought his way from the twelfth floor to the thirteenth and then to the fourteenth.
His stomach knotted tighter than the rope as he threw his leg over the rail of the penthouse level, pulled himself up, and reached for his gun. With the stairway doors secured and the elevators out of commission, Jake figured the burglars would not be expecting him or anyone else.
He was wrong.
"Hello, Jake."
Shock rammed the breath from his lungs and Jake gasped, working to get it back. Squinting in the dark, he stared at the man in front of him and felt the fine hairs at the back of his neck rise to attention.
Maxwell Kane stood before him.
David's brother.
Kane allowed himself a smile, gratified at the look of stupid amazement stamped over Jake Parkin's features. Maybe the man had been trying hard to forget him, to forget how things went down that day.
Trying to forget how David had died from the bullet meant, instead, for him.
Maybe the man before him, panting like a dog, had put all his efforts into forgetting. But Kane had spent every day since that awful event remembering.
And anticipating.
Kane pointed his pistol at Jake, motioning for him to drop his own gun. After a moment's hesitation loaded with a dirty look, he did.
"Kick it over the side."
Another pause while Jake glared. Then, almost casually, the man nudged the gun under the railing with his boot. It disappeared into the gloom.
"Why don't we go inside," Kane suggested, pitching his voice like a thoughtful host inviting his guest in for lemonade. Once past the threshold, he shouted for Joiner who brought a dining chair into the living room and placed it beside the three crates, now nearly full and ready to be closed.
"Have a seat, Jake. We're just finishing up." He nodded to Joiner and watched him fasten Jake's wrists and ankles to the chair's appendages with sturdy cable ties.
"You may be wondering why I don't just shoot you now," he said.
Jake said nothing.
"Or maybe it's occurred to you that I could simply bludgeon you over the head with any number of handy instruments and blame it on Pablo."
Jake said nothing.
"Or shove you over the side like I did with your fat former resident."
Kane waited, but the man in the chair remained silent.
"I do none of these things, Jake, because any one of them would be too quick. Too painless. I want you to live with the torture of guilt for a good long while. I want you to suffer, as I have, for eternity."
Kane moved to the crate now filled with the contents of the wall safe. It had met, and exceeded, his expectations. Opening a velvet case, he lifted an exquisite emerald necklace and let the silken jewels slide across his fingers.
"Have you noticed the howl of the storm letting up? The eye of the hurricane is upon us. In this lull, we will lower these crates to the van below and make our escape. I do not think anyone will stop us."
Jake's silence and expressionless face fanned the flame burning in Kane's gut, fueling his desire to stab at the man, get beneath his skin.
"Oh, but there's one stop I have to make before I leave here," he said, squatting to put himself on Jake's level, not wanting to miss one scintilla of the pain and fear he meant to instill.
Reaching beneath the collar of his shirt, he pulled forth a lanyard with a laminated ID card attached. He showed it to Jake, reveling in the look of distressed alarm crossing the hated man's face.
"Dr. Caldwell needs to make a house call," he said.
Jake stared at the ID card dangling before him, recognizing the name. Understanding its significance.
Kane had been watching him, planning this moment with meticulous cunning. Somehow, the vindictive man had been masquerading as the therapist treating Juanita Torres and worming his way into the confidence of her unsuspecting granddaughter.
Preparing to betray them all.
Kane smirked, malicious and gloating with delight. "And here’s the kicker, Jake. You’ll enjoy hearing this—Anna imagines herself in love with you.”
The words hit like a sucker punch to the gut—lightning fast, unexpected, releasing a blast of pain. Jake gritted his teeth, determined not to show how hard the blow had landed, and glared at the man in front of him.
Kane's eyes, cold and calculating, held his gaze. The corner of his mouth flickered in contempt. "I thought you should know that before I kill her. You can live with the agony of how things could have been, stew in the misery of losing the one who loved you."
A wave of anguish shimmered through Jake as he thought of Anna in the hands of this monster. But it was David's face that flashed in his memory, the look crossing his features as he'd fallen, struggling to speak and unable to utter anything beyond a burbling groan.
Whether David had deliberately shielded Jake or stepped inadvertently into the trajectory of the bullet fired from Kane's gun no one would ever know. But there was something Jake knew about David that his brother didn't.
Jake had believed he was being merciful and discreet by not divulging it, by sparing Kane the sting of knowing. If he’d let the whole story come out, would any of this be happening now?
Or would the rage and malice riveted on Jake be exponentially greater if Kane knew? If he'd understood that David was the confidential informant working with police to foil the meticulously mapped-out bank job?
Despite the fact that he had been the one to pull the trigger, Kane held Jake solely responsible for the death of the big brother he idolized. If Jake cracked that veneer, revealed David's betrayal, what would happen then?
He thought it could be the straw that would break Kane, stripping away the leash holding his fury in check, turning it loose.
It could be the last thing he ever said, but it would focus Kane's killing intent on Jake.
Away from Anna.
And once Jake was dead, Kane's reason for harming Anna would be too. His sense of self-preservation would kick in and he'd vanish along with his stolen riches.
Would it happen that way?
Jake thought it would. He opened his mouth to speak.
And the world went black.
It was the smell that woke him.
Jake swam up into consciousness, the strong odors of ozone and sea brine acting like smelling salts, pulling him to the surface. The roar and swirl of the storm hit him like an ocean wave and his eyes snapped open, staring about him in the dimness of the Franzen apartment.
Still strapped to the chair, Jake tugged at his bonds but they held tight. Kane and his crew were gone. The crates were gone. The balcony slider gaped wide open, letting in gusts of wind as the eye of the hurricane passed and the storm's violence began to rise again.
Rocking and scooting the chair, Jake inched toward the apartment's stone fireplace, hoping to find a projection within reach and jagged enough to saw through the cable tie holding his left wrist.
He had no luck there, but found an artsy brass-rimmed table nearby that offered a semi-sharp edge. Jake's efforts caused the tough plastic of the zip tie to tear into his flesh and the honed brass left its bite, as well.
Accompanied by the ghostly shrieks and wails of the strengthening gale, his forearm now slick with blood, Jake continued to work the tie back and forth, leaning into it, until at last the cable popped, falling away.
He flexed his wrist, feeling the pins and needles of returning circulation. With frantic haste, he hobbled the chair into the kitchen, grabbing a knife from the butcher block with his freed left hand.
The roar like a freight train in the distance grew louder as Jake cut through the remaining ties. He ran to the balcony and ventured to the rail, peering out into the gathering darkness. On the street below, he saw a white van and one of the crates. Presumably, the other two had already been loaded.
Debris fluttered and flitted along the road, but Jake saw no human movement. He went inside and closed the door.
He hoped to heaven he wasn't too late.
Grabbing a heavy Remington sculpture from the brass-rimmed table, Jake ran from the apartment to the chained stairwell door. He used the Remington to smash open the padlock and raced down the stairs, pausing on the second floor. The chain and lock disabling the door were on the outside, out of reach.
Agonizingly torn, Jake weighed the option of going down to the courtyard to search for his gun against the need to reach Anna and her grandmother as rapidly as possible.
He raised the Remington and heaved it against the glass of the door.
It bounced off, leaving only a small crack. Jake retrieved the sculpture and threw it again. And again.
Desperate with fear, unable to keep visions of what Kane might be doing to Anna and Juanita from flooding across his brain, Jake picked up the heavy bronze horse and hurled it with all his strength.
A spiderweb of cracks appeared and Jake kicked at it with his boot, clearing away enough of the glass for him to crabwalk through the gap. He sprinted to Anna's apartment. The door was locked, and he used the master key to let himself in, hands trembling, mind fizzing with urgency.
As he entered, he heard Juanita's voice but couldn't distinguish her words. The tone was fretful and bewildered, rather than frightened. It was Anna's voice, as she comforted her grandmother, that held fear and awareness. She understood they were in danger.
Thank heaven they were both still alive.
Jake drew a shaky breath and moved stealthily toward the hall closet door. The noise of the storm provided cover as he opened it and grasped the softball bat Anna kept there. He'd seen her stow it after their Saturday morning league games. After a second's hesitation, he grabbed the ball, as well.
The short entryway ended in a ninety-degree-angle turn into the dining room and the living room beyond that. Jake stood, his back against the wall as the sound of Pablo outside spiked intermittently, wiping out most of the tense exchange taking place. Risking a peek around the corner, Jake saw the women seated on the sofa with Maxwell Kane standing six feet in front of them, holding a gun.
He wasn't aiming the gun at Anna or Juanita. Just holding it casually at his side, knowing the threat of it would be enough for his purpose.
Which was what, exactly?
Jake fully believed Kane's announcement that he intended to kill Anna. Why hadn't he done it immediately?
Because he meant to do it in such a way to cause maximum pain to Jake. Which translated to maximum pain for Anna.
He meant to do something unbearable to her first.
The clamor of the storm washed over Jake, sounding like a crowd gone wild at a close-run ballgame. Biting his lip, he stepped around the corner and blasted the softball at Kane's gun hand as if the league championship—and something far more important—depended on that single pitch.
The ball struck Kane on the wrist and he dropped the gun, stepping back in surprise.
Jake rushed him, switching to the football tactics he hadn't used since college. They landed together in a heap on the floor, knocking over the coffee table.
"Take Juanita and get out of here," Jake shouted to Anna. He couldn't spare a glance to see if she'd heard and was complying. All his attention was on the man straining beneath him, trying to reach the gun three feet from his groping fingers.
Outside, Pablo was roaring and the seas were rising at his command. From the corner of his eye, Jake saw foamy waves licking against the window glass of the second-floor balcony.
Kane had given up on reaching the gun, instead aiming his clawed fingers at Jake's eyes. Jake grabbed his hand and twisted hard, feeling something snap as Kane growled and writhed beneath him.
They wrestled. Sweat dripped into Jake's eyes, stinging. He felt himself tiring and as he struggled to find his second wind, the floor suddenly sagged beneath them, dipping so they both slid along its surface toward the hole opening in the dissolving wall of the apartment.
Kane got a foot planted and levered himself over, flipping out from under Jake and ending up on top as they rolled along the slanting floor. He slammed a fist in Jake's face, smashing into the cheek bone. A gray haze crept into the corners of Jake's vision and Kane's hands went to his throat, squeezing.
But whatever Jake had done to his fingers made the stranglehold impossible to sustain. With a curse, Kane let go and Jake gasped in a breath as a piece of the apartment wall disappeared, sucked into the maw of the storm.
"Know this, Jake!" Kane shouted. "I'll find that girl and kill her. Like you killed David. No one in this world cared about me as much as he did."
Face twisted with fury and malice, Kane stared down, locking eyes with Jake. "You took him from me!"
Jake bucked, trying to shake Kane off him. "I'm sure you're right. David probably did care about you more than anyone else.”
Grunting in rage, Kane dug an elbow into Jake’s gut. Jake knocked it aside and huffed, “Maybe that's why he came to me and filled me in on all the little details of your heist. He wanted to stop you from doing something stupid."
Kane's eyes flew wide, and he grabbed Jake's face with his good hand, gouging in with the fingers. "You're lying! David would never!"
Jake bit at the hand and Kane pulled it away. "David did. How else would we have known all about your plans."
"You lying sack—"
The floor beneath them collapsed. The wall opened wide, a hungry mouth, sucking greedily. Salt spray slapped, cold and shocking the breath from Jake's lungs. He scrambled to grab hold of something solid and got a hand around a pipe as Kane slid off him and tumbled into the watery void, disappearing, his scream cut off like a butcher's cleaver coming down.
"Jake!"
Getting both hands on the pipe, Jake clawed his way up to firmer ground as turbulent salty water sloshed over him. Anna stood in the entryway of the apartment, her face chiseled thin by fear.
Fear for him.
"Get back, Anna."
Instead, she grabbed the softball bat he'd dropped and edged into the living room. Another piece of the floor fell away, almost knocking Jake from his clinging perch.
"Anna—it's not safe. Will you please get back?" he pleaded, scrabbling for a better hold.
For answer, she stretched herself flat on the floor and extended the bat, both hands wrapped tightly around it.
