The Assassin Awakens E-Book

Christopher Coates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Tasha Salen is a loving wife and mother. She is trained as a medical professional, but secretly awaits the next phone call for her other career.

A call that will mark her next target.

Assassination isn’t a trade easily broken into, and she has to prove herself every step of the way. Unable to deny the thrill of the kill, she secretly builds her career as an assassin, gladly taking any job they have for her.

Seeking out those that have use for her new talents, Tasha experiences the pain and challenges this new life brings. But what will she do when the lives of her family are threatened by someone wanting to control her and her talents?

Leseprobe

THE ASSASSIN AWAKENS

CHRISTOPHER COATES

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Epilogue

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Christopher Coates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

ChapterOne

A hospital bed stood in the living room adjacent to the large picture window. The patient’s wife wanted the man to be able to enjoy the view of the outside world. That was a fantasy. Connor Braxton wasn’t aware that the window was even there. He hadn’t been aware of anything since his skull was struck at fifty-five miles an hour by the windshield of the car that hit him while he’d been jogging four years earlier.

Today the curtains on the window were closed, and that was unusual for this time of day. Very unusual. Conor’s loving wife never closed the curtains except at night. She wanted the natural light to shine in. She thought it was appealing, and this was one of the dozen little things she did, hoping it would bring Connor back to consciousness.

It didn’t matter what the physicians, therapists, and family members told her. She wouldn’t give up. Her Connor wasn’t gone; he’d be back, and that was the delusion that she lived in for the last four years.

It was one-thirty in the afternoon, and a young woman clipped a small pulse oximeter to Conor’s left index finger. The device started responding immediately, indicating that his heart rate was 84 beats per minute and oxygen saturation was 96%, very normal.

Moving to the head of the bed, she held in her hand the mask she’d removed from a bag valve mask device. This device was typically used in attempts to resuscitate someone who wasn’t breathing; today, its purpose was quite different. Attached to the mask was a six-inch length of blue corrugated medical tubing. The other end of the tube had a one-gallon storage bag secured with a rubber band. She’d made sure the bag was full of air before attaching it to the tube.

With her makeshift device ready, she gently placed the mask over Connor’s mouth and nose as he finished exhaling. The woman was careful not to use much pressure, just enough to keep an airtight seal between the face and the mask. She didn’t want medical responders seeing marks from the mask on his face.

Watching, she saw the storage bag deflate as Conor inhaled and reinflated when he exhaled.

When Conor inhaled his first breath, the air he pulled in contained 21% oxygen. The air he exhaled only had 16% oxygen. With every breath he took in, the percentage of oxygen he drew in decreased further.

It only took a few breaths for the amount of oxygen to no longer be able to maintain healthy cells. However, it took a little longer for his damaged brain to detect the problem and respond by increasing his respiratory rate. The faster breathing only sped up the consumption of the rapidly dwindling amount of oxygen.

The woman glanced at the pulse oximeter. With growing excitement, she watched as the oxygen saturation steadily decreased and the heart rate increased.

As her own pulse rate increased, she was aware of her grip tightening on the mask, and she forced herself to relax a little.

She knew the signs of oxygen deprivation, but it was difficult to assess them on someone in a persistent vegetative state. However, the color changes, starting in the lips, were noticeable through the transparent mask.

At this point, his oxygen saturation was only 62% and still falling, and the heart rate was up to 130 beats per minute. If the assassin took the mask off his face, everything would return to normal relatively soon, but the mask didn’t come off. Instead, she prepared herself for the inevitable. After another minute, a seizure started. This was what she’d been concerned with. The seizure developed as the brain was deprived of oxygen. Her concern was if she’d be able to keep the mask on, using minimal pressure during the thrashing.

Fortunately, the seizure activity was minimal. His prolonged bedridden state had robbed him of most of his muscle mass, making the seizure unimpressive compared to most of the ones she’d previously witnessed.

During the seizure, the assailant noticed that the bag at the end of the tube was no longer inflating. That was expected. The question she had was if it would stay still once the seizure ended.

After twenty seconds, she got her answer. All activity stopped, and the bag remained still. While holding the mask with one hand, she slid two gloved fingers to his neck and placed gentle pressure against the carotid artery. She kept her fingers there for twenty seconds and felt nothing.

The killer removed the mask and was relieved to see that the marks it had made on the face were minimal.

Next, she took a minute and examined his eyes, face, and neck. She looked for the classic petechial hemorrhages that developed as someone fought to breathe while being smothered or strangled. There were none. In Connor’s death, there was no fighting for air; he had plenty. It simply didn’t contain the oxygen required to keep someone alive.

She disassembled her equipment and placed the mask back in the drawer next to the bed, with the other emergency equipment available for this patient. She put the tubing and rubber band in the plastic bag and shoved them in her pocket. Walking to the door and reaching for the knob, then she realized she’d almost made two fatal mistakes. She returned to the bed, retrieved the pulse oximeter, and shoved it in her other pocket. Then she opened the curtains, placing them precisely in the position where she’d found them.

When she’d agreed to come here and do this task for five hundred dollars, she was concerned about how she’d feel afterward. The woman was shocked, never expecting to feel so alive and invigorated. It was the best rush she could’ve imagined. She’d just taken her first life, and she loved it.

ChapterTwo

2 WEEKS EARLIER

Tasha Salen worked as a medical assistant in the Emergency Department at Metropolitan Hospital and was exhausted from working a double shift.

She was twenty-six years old, married to a great man with whom she had two wonderful young children, and she hated her life. That wasn’t always the case. Three years before, she was fresh out of the Army and working full-time as a paramedic as she finished nursing school. It was an exciting time in her life, and she had a bright future.

One cold, winter evening, she agreed to go out for drinks with her dear high school friend Bethany Braxton. The two had been very close for years and played basketball together throughout high school. Bethany always looked up to Tasha and all that she’d accomplished. Tasha had managed a full-time job while going to school. That was motivation beyond what Bethany had. Bethany was content working as an assistant manager in a convenience store.

That evening, both girls drank too much. On the way to drop Bethany off, Tasha was driving when she hit an icy spot and slid across the road, striking a tree.

Tasha regained consciousness moments before the police arrived and found herself moved to the passenger seat of the damaged car. Her head was pounding, and blood was running down her face. Uninjured, Bethany was now behind the wheel. She looked at her best friend and said, “I was driving.”

Tasha was in no condition to argue.

Tasha was still plagued with severe head pain and memory problems from the grade 3 concussion six months later. She had to drop out of nursing school and quit working as a medic. At the same time, Bethany was getting out of county jail after completing the sentence she served for a DUI causing injury, which she didn’t deserve.

When Tasha asked why Bethany had switched places with her, Bethany explained, “You had worked too hard and had much more to lose.”

Now, three years later, the headaches and memory problems were gone, but with two young boys, going back and finishing school seemed like an overwhelming prospect. Instead, she worked as a medical assistant for a fraction of what she would have made as an RN and resented every minute of it.

Still, she was eternally grateful to Bethany for her sacrifice. If it weren’t for her act of friendship, Tasha would have been the one in county jail, and she wouldn’t have met Danny Salen, her husband and the father of her two young boys.

She was a little surprised when Bethany texted her out of the blue, asking if she could meet up that evening. Even though Tasha had worked sixteen hours, she agreed to meet her best friend for dinner. For some reason, Bethany asked her to meet at a restaurant on the other side of town. It was a place Tasha had never even heard of.

The map on her dashboard screen led her to the parking lot behind the establishment. Tasha parked and got out, looking around at the less than impressive restaurant in a neighborhood that had seen better times. Avoiding several large holes in the pavement, Tasha walked towards the restaurant, opened the door, and was aware of the dim lighting. She assumed it was to hide the place’s lack of cleanliness. There was an unnaturally strong floral smell, which probably was there to conceal something more unpleasant. It was a little before 8 pm, and the place was nearly empty. She quickly spotted her friend sitting near the rear of the dining room.

As she approached the booth, Bethany stood, and the two friends embraced.

Bethany had always been a bit overweight, with a round face and long blonde hair.

Speaking first, Tasha said, “From now on, I pick the restaurants.”

Bethany smiled, “I thought we’d do something different tonight.”

Sitting down on the sticky bench seat, Tasha noticed that her friend already had a soft drink in front of her. “Does different need to mean gross?”

“Yea, this place is pretty nasty.”

The friends giggled.

A waitress with a filthy apron approached and said nothing. She stared blankly until Tasha ordered her Diet Coke.

The girls engaged in small talk and agreed to share a pizza.

Halfway through an unimpressive meal, Tasha said, “So why did you pick this place? I’m sure it wasn’t for the quality of the food.”

Fidgeting and not looking at her friend, Bethany said, “I wanted to meet somewhere we’d never go again.”

“Well, you certainly did that. What’s up?”

“It’s my parents,” Bethany said.

“What about them? Is there any change with your dad?” Tasha was very fond of Bethany’s parents. They’d always been kind and friendly when she visited, until the accident that destroyed Connor Braxton’s life.

“No. No change, and the doctors say there won’t be. You know, they call it a persistent vegetative state. There’s no awareness and no response to anything, and there never will be.”

Tasha nodded; she understood the situation well.

“My bigger concern is my mom. She’s becoming despondent. She rarely even gets dressed, never leaves the house, and won’t let anyone else take care of him. We’ve tried to talk her into getting a visiting nurse, but she refuses. And don’t even try suggesting a nursing home to her. Tash, she needs her life back.”

Tasha understood; she’d seen the situation before. It wasn’t uncommon when a loved one has a severe accident for the spouse to become fixated on providing care. Over an extended period, it could wear someone down. It certainly sounded like this was happening to Bethany’s mom.

“If she doesn’t get help, this will start affecting her health,” Tasha said.

“I know. Mom needs help, but not like that. My dad has been gone since the accident. My mom’s killing herself over his shell. As long as his body is alive, she won’t change.”

Tasha nodded.

“It’s time. This has to end, or it will destroy my mom.”

Tasha nodded, agreeing with her friend.

“My brother and I came up with five hundred dollars. I wish there were a way to make both of their suffering end. If only there were someone who owed me a big favor who knew what to do. I’d be so grateful.”

Tasha didn’t nod. Instead, to hide her shock, she took another piece of pizza, closed her eyes, and slowly started eating. Eating and thinking.

After several minutes of silence, Tasha finally said, “Are you sure you’ll be able to live with yourself if this happens?”

“I won't be able to live with myself if I don’t do something. What we have now is much worse than if he dies.”

After several more minutes of silence, Tasha nodded.

ChapterThree

PRESENT-DAY

Lieutenant Jerome Seymour had served on the Brownstown Fire Department for the last eight years. Ever since he was a child, all he’d wanted to do was fight fires. Now Jerome was getting to work as a firefighter/ paramedic; it was a dream come true. He worked out of Station Four and was responsible for Engine Six and the five other firefighters assigned to that truck.

The lieutenant stepped out of the shower at the fire station and headed to the kitchen, hoping that one of his crew had put something together for a late lunch. He smiled as he saw a plate of sandwiches waiting on the table and a few of his men already eating.

Twenty minutes ago, he and his crew had returned to the station after extinguishing a fire in a commercial-sized dumpster. Despite all their gear, they all ended up reeking of the foul smoke.

As he entered the room, the alarm tones sounded, followed by the dispatcher’s voice, “Station Four, Engine Six, medical response. 1642 Dickerson Court, bedridden male possibly not breathing.”

The message repeated, but no one heard it they were all moving quickly to the truck.

As the officer in charge, Lt. Seymour looked at the vehicle-mounted computer as they pulled out of the station. The onboard system already had the address and map up. The Lieutenant tapped a button on the screen, which signaled the dispatcher that they were en route.

The information on the screen had updated, stating that the ambulance was about four minutes behind them.

Upon arriving, they all grabbed their assigned equipment and headed into the home. This engine was outfitted for Advanced Life Support and had all the same equipment the ambulance did, except for a stretcher.

As they came through the door, a distraught woman in her late fifties greeted them. She identified herself as the patient’s wife.

“Ma’am, what happened today?” Lieutenant Seymour asked.

“I woke up from my nap and came down and found him like this. I don’t think he’s breathing,” she said as she led them to the living room. There they saw a hospital bed in front of a large window.

Checking his crew, he saw that they’d begun assessing the patient and were hooking up a cardiac monitor.

Taking the woman aside, the lieutenant asked, “What’s his medical situation? Why is he bedridden?”

The wife answered, “He was hit by a car while jogging four years ago. He’s been in a coma since then.”

Putting the pieces together, Lieutenant Jerome Seymore asked, “Did they say that he has a traumatic brain injury?”

“Yes. The doctors say he won’t wake up.”

Glancing over again, he saw one of his team placing a mask over the patient’s mouth and nose and squeezing the bag that forced air into the lungs. This medic noticed his mask aligned perfectly with the faint indentations in the skin from another mask that was on Connor’s face forty minutes prior and was confused about what this meant.

From his position by the wife, the Lieutenant could also see the flat line on the cardiac monitor. Calling out to his team, he said, “Guys, basics only while I get this sorted out.”

He received responses, understanding that they’d do CPR but no advanced resuscitation efforts.

“Mrs. Braxton, does your husband have a Do Not Resuscitate order?”

“Yes, my kids and I signed it after his accident.”

As they were talking, a woman in her mid-twenties came running into the room. Lieutenant Seymour noticed that she looked concerned but not surprised by what she saw.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“Oh, Bethany! I went down for my nap when you left after lunch. I was exhausted, and when I woke up, your dad wasn’t breathing.”

Looking at the Lieutenant, Bethany asked, “That’s my dad. How’s he doing?”

“He isn’t breathing, and his heart’s not beating,” the fire medic explained. As they spoke, they could hear the sirens of the approaching ambulance.

“Please stop. He has a DNR,” Bethany said.

“Do you have a copy of it?”

“I know right where it is.” And the daughter left the room.

Looking at his team, Jerome Seymour ordered, “Stop CPR. He’s a DNR.”

He then activated the radio on his belt and said, “Dispatch from Engine 6, advise EMS this is a DNR.”

At that time, a very relieved Bethany returned to the room with a folder of paperwork.

ChapterFour

Tasha Salen drove her nearly new electric blue Audi Sports Coupe down the highway. Even though she was heading into an awkward situation, she was still riding the wave of excitement and euphoria, which started in the afternoon four days ago. Her husband and co-workers had all noticed the change. One friend said she seemed like she’d won the lottery the way her mood had changed.

She thought back to when this all began. Ten days ago, after the late pizza dinner with Bethany, she went home. Tasha had been stunned but not appalled by what Bethany had hinted at. She cared about the Braxtons and agreed that their situation needed to come to a close. She was bothered that Bethany was trying to use her earlier sacrifice to push Tasha into this plan. But Bethany was right. Tasha owed her and could never say no.

The following day, Tasha sent a single text message to Bethany. It read “OK.”

Two days later, Tasha walked to the street to get her mail, and there was a small, sealed manila envelope in her mailbox. There was no writing on it.

Taking it back in the house, she opened the envelope and found a shiny brass-colored key. It looked like it went to a deadbolt. The teeth were sharp to the touch, indicating that the key had recently been made. There was no note with it.

That evening she got a text from Bethany, “Had a good time at dinner. You’re right; we need to get together again. What’s your schedule this week? I was thinking lunch would work for me.”

Tasha replied, “I have Wednesday and Friday off. Lunch works for me.”

“Great, how about Friday at 1 pm?”

Agreeing, Tasha replied with a thumbs-up emoji.

Returning her focus to the present and her driving, Tasha took the exit, drove half a mile, and arrived at the Sandy Lake Funeral Home. Exiting the car, she headed inside. The crowd was large, and Tasha worked her way to the guest book, signed in, and then looked for the family. She saw Mrs. Braxton near the casket and went to her.

“Tasha, thank you for coming.”

“I’m so sorry. He was such a nice person.”

“He’s better off now. Just lingering as he did for so long was terrible,” Connor’s wife admitted.

“So, what happened?” the fledgling assassin asked.

“Bethany surprised me by stopping by; she was so kind and made me my lunch and tea. We talked for a while. I usually take a nap in the afternoon, but after lunch, I was exhausted. Almost as if I’d taken one of my sleeping pills, so when she left, I went down for a nap early. He was fine when I lay down. I was out for an hour and a half, and when I awoke, he was gone.”

“Do they think it was his heart in the end?” Tasha asked.

“Because of his condition, they didn’t do a full autopsy. Just some blood work and a visual exam of Conor’s body. They’re calling it respiratory failure secondary to the traumatic brain injury. I got a call from the county prosecutor last night. Now that he’s died, they’re considering new charges against the guy that ran him down and fled.”

“Is there anything I can do for you? I’m available if you need anything.”

“Thank you, dear, but I’m okay. Bethany has been staying with me, and we’ll get through this.”

Tasha hugged her friend’s mom before surrendering her to the next person wanting to speak to her.

Walking to the casket, she looked in and admired her handiwork. She felt genuine sorrow because she’d been quite fond of Connor, but there was also a pleasant warmth coursing through her body. After a few seconds, she forced the smile away and went looking for her friend so that she could offer her condolences.

Bethany was talking with some of her co-workers when Tasha approached. She stopped, and the two girls hugged.

“Hey Tash, thanks for stopping by. It means a lot that you came,” Bethany said.

Tasha had considered slipping the key back to Bethany here but thought better of it and had dropped it down a storm drain instead.

“Of course I’m here. I really liked your dad. I’m so sorry he’s gone,” Tasha said for the benefit of anyone listening.

Inwardly she wanted to thank Bethany for suggesting this course of action. It had awakened something deep in Tasha that she already knew would never sleep again.

ChapterFive

Darius Roberts was an intelligent person. He was African American with a bald head and stood a little over six feet tall. He led a local street gang and hadn’t been arrested since he was a juvenile. His crew respected him and followed his orders. He knew what jobs were risky and handed those off to his less valuable people. He kept a few flashy but safe ones for himself in order to maintain his reputation.

Years earlier, as he was working his way up the gang’s ranks, he’d gotten his hands dirty many times, and his people knew that if needed, he would do so again.

Today he was standing with his back against the wall of a local convenience store listening to the thunder of an approaching storm. His purpose was to be seen by his people, who headed to the back alley. They all had cash from the day’s sales to turn in. Yesterday, collections were conducted somewhere else, and tomorrow would be another location. They kept it random and communicated the location in code as each day was ending. This reduced the chance of a rival gang attempting to try to score quick cash. It also kept law enforcement from having time to organize and make an appearance.

He was conversing with one of his crew when he noticed a woman get out of a fancy, bright blue car that looked out of place in the neighborhood. She was of average height and weight and had bi-racial features, with medium-length black hair. He knew all of his working girls, and she wasn’t one of them. Also, her confident walk showed that she wasn’t looking to score one of the products his organization provided. Yet, he was sure he knew her. She was still twenty yards away when he figured it out. Without the uniform, she was out of context. This was the paramedic who saved his brother’s life four years ago. Juan had accidentally overdosed that day, and Darius had found him unconscious and barely breathing. This medic, Tasha, had been the one to arrive, and she and her partner had saved Juan’s life.

Her ambulance passed through the neighborhood two days later, and she stopped to ask him about his brother. Darius remembered that.

As she approached, Darius said, “Tasha, right?”

“Hey, Darius. You remember me.”

“I didn’t recognize you at first without the uniform.”

“Those days are behind me. I’m in the hospital now.”

“Too bad. You did good work out on the street.”

“Thanks. How’s Juan?”

Shaking his head, Darius answered, “You saved his life that day, but there wasn’t anyone around a year later when he did it again. He’s gone.”

“I’m real sorry about that. He was a nice kid.”

Darius could tell that her words were sincere.

“So, what brings you to my neighborhood? Looking for work? I can always put a pretty girl like you to work,” he said with a smile.

“No, that’s not what I’ve got in mind. Can we talk alone?” Tasha asked with a smile.

Darius nodded to the man next to him. The guy gave Tasha an appraising look as he walked away.

When he was gone, Tasha said, “I’m looking to go into business for myself, and nothing like you’re thinking. No conflict of interest. I’d like you to introduce me to your boss. The people who you have to report to.”

Darius’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head, “It doesn’t work like that. I don’t take people to them.”

“If you had a good reason, could you throw my name their way?”

“They don’t like that kind of thing. Too easy for the police to get involved.”

“What if you had good reason and were sure this wasn’t police-related?”

“What are you talking about, girl?”

After thinking for a moment, Tasha said, “Let’s do this differently. Think about this, who’s the one person out here on the streets that’s your biggest problem? Who do you wish would go away and never return?”

Snickering, Darius said, “Just one?”

“Who’s the one you hate the most.”

“Bobby Wilks. I told him to stay away from my brother, but he didn’t listen. He got him hooked and sold him the last fix that killed him.”

“Wilks? I don’t know him,” Tasha said casually, hoping for more information.

“He runs with the South Side Cobras.”

Nodding, Tasha said, “One more question. I’ve got a friend who broke his back, and the pain is real bad. I know you don’t do illegal things but do you’ve any suggestions where I could get 20mg of Fentanyl?”

“Girl, what’re you doing? No one out here cares about milligrams. There are many names for what you’re looking for, but it’s known as jackpot around here. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it best not cause me any problems.”

“I promise. No problems,” Tasha assured him.

“I don’t know about such things, but from what I’ve heard, there’s often a jackpot dealer at 5th and Jefferson this time of day.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Tasha smiled and walked back to her car.

ChapterSix

The stainless steel blades of the mini food processor spun at over seventeen hundred times a minute. Within seconds, the four green tablets were reduced to fine dust.

Wearing an N95 medical-grade facemask and blue rubber gloves, Tasha carefully transferred the lethal powder from the processor to a small glass bowl, where she added 8ml of sterile saline.

She was going to use plain tap water since she wasn’t concerned with keeping this sterile. But she’d become paranoid, wondering if there was anything in her home’s water that could be traced back to a specific neighborhood.

Tasha mixed the fluid and powder until it was completely dissolved and all that remained was a nearly clear liquid. She drew the contents of the bowl into a 10cc syringe and attached a 20-gauge, inch and a half long needle. Leaving the needle capped, Tasha put the syringe aside and proceeded to wash the food processor and bowl four times each and then ran them through in the dishwasher by themselves. Her family’s food went in these items, and she wanted no trace of the deadly narcotic to remain.

Next, Tasha wiped down the counters twice, making sure that no residue remained. Her kitchen had never been cleaner. After that, she removed the mask and gloves, took the syringe, and looked for a place to hide it where neither the kids nor her husband would find it. In the end, she stashed it under the driver's seat in her car.

Glancing at the clock, Tasha was pleased. Everything was ready right as naptime was ending. She’d promised the kids to take them to the park when they woke up.

As she waited for the kids to awaken, she thought back to how easy her first-ever illegal drug purchase had gone.

After meeting with Darius, she arrived at the intersection he mentioned and found a spot to park by the curb as the rain started falling. No sooner did she stop than someone was at her door. Rolling down the window, she saw a boy who looked to be about ten years old.

“Tasha?” he asked.

Surprised, she said, “Yes?”

He handed her a small package.

“What do I owe you?”

He waved a dismissive hand at her as he ran back across the street. It was clear that this kid was experienced in such things, as there was no hesitancy in his actions.

Relieved to have the transaction over, she left the area, glad to still have the $300 she’d brought with her. She hadn’t been sure what the street value of Fentanyl was and didn’t want to ask a drug dealer to wait while she ran to an ATM.

ChapterSeven

Standing in the shadows, partially hidden behind an old full-size piece of plywood that was leaning against the house, Tasha waited. It had been a warm autumn day, but she was cold and shivering after hiding here in the rain for two hours.

To make matters worse, this was the second night she’d stood in this yard.

The previous night she’d positioned herself so that she could make her move as Bobby Wilks approached the front door. She wasn’t aware that he used a back entrance, and when he arrived home last night at 2:40 am, he never entered the area she was in. If she chased him down, the chance of him making noise and attracting attention was too risky.

Last night she felt ready; tonight, she felt cold and was concerned her hands might be numb with only rubber gloves for warmth.

It’d taken her three days to locate and identify Bobby, then follow him to his home and determine his schedule. A couple of days ago, the bare outside lightbulb had mysteriously been shattered in the night, removing most of the illumination in his yard. As expected, no one had yet bothered to replace it.

Tonight, she had on an old dark grey hoodie that she wore inside out to hide a school logo. She’d bought the hoodie at a thrift store two days ago and would re-donate it tomorrow if all went well. Tasha knew her sneakers were leaving tracks in the muddy yard, but they’d come from the same thrift store and were two sizes larger than her feet. She’d discard them off the bridge over the river, several miles away, when on her way home.

At about 2:20 am, a car rolled to a stop. Bobby exited the vehicle, said a few words to the two remaining occupants, then headed toward the house as the car drove off. Since the yard light was out, he moved slowly, not wanting to slip in the mud. He had no reason to look behind the sheet of plywood that had leaned against the house for months.

As he walked past, Tasha stepped out, bringing the Taser pistol up. Bobby detected movement and started to turn.

She fired, and the two steel darts, propelled by compressed air, blasted forward with minimal noise. Thin wires connected the projectiles to the gun. The steel barbs passed through his T-shirt and embedded themselves in his flesh. One was in his right shoulder and the other in the right side of his back.

Fifty thousand volts at 3.5 milliamps traveled at light speed down the wires from the pistol to the embedded barbs. The electric charge immediately overwhelmed Bobby Wilks’ central nervous system. He yelped once, then hit the ground as every muscle in his body contracted. The continual shock lasted thirty seconds. The intent was for the person using the device to drop it and run from a would-be attacker.

That didn’t happen. As the shock continued, Tasha, safe from the Taser’s effects, forced Bobby’s right arm flat and pinned his wrist to the ground with her knee. Taking one hand, she grasped his upper arm and, using all her strength and weight, restricted the blood flow returning to the heart from the lower arm. This makeshift tourniquet caused the vein in the crook of the arm by the elbow to become engorged with blood and stand up. The vein was visible in the dark thanks to the micro-LED flashlight Tasha held in her mouth. Using the other hand, she took the 10cc syringe, thumbed off the cap to free the needle, and expertly inserted it into the enlarged vein of the still twitching arm. As she finished pressing the syringe’s plunger, she released the upper arm, allowing the extremely potent pain medication to surge into Bobby’s body.

Very carefully, she recapped the needle and slid the syringe into the belt pouch at her hip. Taking a small set of plyers from the pouch, she ripped the Taser barbs, which had finally stopped their assault on Bobby, out of his flesh.

Already, the massive dose of fentanyl had removed any pain from the Taser and its barbs. Bobby’s consciousness and respiratory drive rapidly faded.

She swiped away a drop of blood that had formed at the injection site with her gloved thumb, got up, and walked away.

In the bushes of a neighboring house was the bicycle she’d stashed there. She’d stolen it on her walk up from her car. The bike was much too small for her, but it still allowed her to speed up the quarter-mile trip back to her vehicle.

By the time she reached the car, her adrenaline level was returning to normal, but the thrill of the kill was just peaking.

ChapterEight

Detective Mike Wilcox walked into the station house early in the morning. As he made his way up the stairs, he saw his partner coming down.

“Turn it around; we’re up.”

“Already? I haven’t even gotten coffee yet,” he grumbled.

Smiling, senior detective Emily Filk held out the cup she’d brought for him, complete with travel lid.

They’d been partners for almost a year. Emily had been on the force for fourteen years, eight of them as a detective. She was relatively short with curly red hair and glasses. Mike was her junior with only five years on the job. He too was short with glasses, which caused some to refer to them as the twins.

Taking the cup, Mike asked, “Thanks. So, what do we have?”

“Someone found a body on the south side. The patrol officers want us to take a look. The crime scene unit is already there. The night guys had them hold it until we got in. So, patrol won’t be too happy when we get there.”

They got in the department-issued, unmarked SUV and took off with Emily driving. Mike sipped the lukewarm coffee as they drove.

Twelve minutes later, they were in a poor section of the south side and approaching several marked police vehicles with their lights flashing. There was a van parked alongside the cruisers with the words “Medical Examiner” on the side. Next to it was a truck from the department’s crime lab.

They exited their vehicle and approached, noticing that a large section of the yard was blocked off with yellow crime scene tape.

As they approached the tape barrier, two men met them. The first was an officer from their department whom they knew.

“You took long enough getting here,” he said with unhidden irritation.

“Night guys had this held for us. We came out as soon as we arrived.”

“Yeah, they wanted to go home on time. It doesn’t matter that we’re scheduled to leave at the same time,” the frustrated patrol officer said.

“Don’t take it out on us. We aren’t the ones who left you hanging,” Emily said. “So, what do we have?”

Still irritated, the officer began his report, “We have Bobby Wilks.”

With a surprised voice, Mike said, “Bobby Wilks, really? Well, this isn’t a tragedy.”

“Yeah, very few tears will be shed over this,” the officer agreed.