Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1) (2 page)

Morrison took in the
picture real fast.

There were two men in the
black Navigator. He had never seen them. The driver. Two hands on the wheel. Dark
hair slicked back. Big aviator sunglasses hiding half of his face. And the guy
with the gun. Short bleached blond hair. Sitting in the rear left seat. Morrison
was seeing them both through the open front passenger window. That fact alone
already told him a lot.

They weren’t there to gun
him down.

If that had been their
intent, they would have rolled down the right rear window and they would have
stopped three feet further. That way, he wouldn’t have seen the gun coming. And
the position would have provided the shooter with a straight open line to him. Not
some messy diagonal where the headrest or even the rear-view mirror could
interfere with the bullets.

In addition, the blond guy
was holding the silencer gun one-handed in a relaxed way. More like he was
making a statement than getting ready to shoot him. Morrison was no gun expert.
Rather hated them in fact. But he knew that when you want to shoot a pistol
with some precision, you need to brace both hands around the butt and extend
your arms in an elevated position. You just don’t slouch like that guy did.

No, they had come in like
this because they wanted something else.

The blond guy confirmed
his deduction. “Why don’t you come in for a ride, Morrison?” he said.

They knew his name.

So this was not some
unlucky random thing. Right by a state correctional facility, that would have
been surprising. But in his lifetime, Morrison had seen worse. He took another
good look at them.

The driver’s head was
restless, his dark sunglasses alternately scanning the windshield and all three
rear-view mirrors. Paying no attention whatsoever to him. Like he should. That
was his partner’s job. Both men were pretty big. He guessed they were at least
six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds each. Easy. Strong arms working
for somebody else. Not bosses. Morrison could read people. He was even rather
good at it. His gut told him that these two were simply doers.

For a split second, he
thought that he could try to stall this. After all, the bus was supposed to
arrive within minutes, or another car could come by. If he engaged them long
enough, even someone around the prison compound could notice the big black Lincoln
Navigator lying still and decide to come have a peek. Anything he could use to
divert the two men’s attention. Force their hand. Prompt them to abort their attempted
abduction.

But then again, there was
a silencer screwed on the end of that gun barrel. That meant they could shoot
him if they had to. Otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered with it.

The blond guy seemed to
pick up on Morrison’s thoughts and showed that he had no intention of letting
the moment slip between his fingers. He wrapped his left hand around his right
already holding the butt and brought the gun up to his line of sight, steadying
his gaze. Then he addressed him again. “So what will it be, Morrison?” he said.
“A ride or a bullet?”

Logic told him that if he tried
anything and failed, he would be dead within seconds. All that blond thug had
to do to wipe him off the face of the earth was gently squeeze the trigger.
Then a high-velocity 9mm round—or more if this was an automatic, Morrison
couldn’t really tell—would pierce his forehead with a slight thump, tunnel
through his brain and smash his skull into a million pieces, spattering the
glass panel behind him with an impromptu Jackson Pollock.

The decision was simple
enough to make. There really was no alternative. Even if, after all, their job
was to kill him, only in a discreet place where his body would never be found. As
annoying as it was, he couldn’t rule out that possibility. Didn’t think that’s
what they had been instructed to do, but couldn’t be sure either.

So even if it would only buy
him some time, Morrison stepped forward and said, “All right, easy with that gun.
I’m coming in.”

The big black Navigator
got going as soon as Morrison climbed in. The window to his right rolled up with
a muffled hiss, sealing him off from the outside world once again.

From behind, the blond guy
with the gun gave him some instructions.

“Put your seatbelt on and
stay quiet,” he said. “Hands away from the door. And no funny moves. If you
blink and I don’t expect it, I’m gonna shoot you.”

Morrison fired back
immediately. “No, you won’t,” he said.

He had to engage them. Try
to get something going.

The guy scoffed. “Wanna
try me?”

“Bullshit,” Morrison said.

The guy was becoming
agitated. “Shut up, asshole,” he said.

“Trust me,” Morrison said.
“You don’t want to fire a gun in a closed car, even in a big SUV like this.”

“I will if I have to.”

“Makes a hell of a bang.
Even with a silencer. It’s enough to make you deaf.”

Morrison had once been in
the back of a van when a shot was accidentally fired. Helped to explain his profound
aversion to guns.

“Makes no difference to
me,” the guy said.

“You’ve never done it. I
can tell.”

“Shut up, you little wimp,
or I’ll crush you.”

“But you won’t shoot me.
No way. Not in here.”

The driver shifted in his seat,
gave a quick look up to his partner through the rear-view mirror and uttered
his first words.

“Shut up, Bob,” he said. “Remember,
don’t get drawn into his mind games.”

Morrison gave them a
silent thank you. Not much information to go by, but at least that was a start.
The blond guy’s name was Bob and their boss knew him well enough to warn them
about him. Morrison kept at it.

“Who told you that?” he
said. “Who’s your boss?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” the
driver said.

So their job was not to bring
him to some backwoods to put a bullet through his head after all. At least not
until he saw their boss. They had been authorized to shoot him down if that
proved necessary, but that was not their prime intent. That knowledge allowed
Morrison to relax a bit. Not much. Just a bit.

They entered a heavily
wooded area, the same he had seen Sheriff Sanford’s patrol car disappear
through minutes before, even though that already seemed like a million years
ago. Tall stands of maple trees were interspersed with the odd oaks and
birches. Horizontal lines of blue translucent plastic tubing ran from trunk to
trunk. Part of the corrugated steel incline of a sugar shack was visible
through the thick blanket of fresh springtime leaves. Perfect sugar maple
country. Only weeks before, the woods must have been humming with activity,
steam rolling from the cupolas in thick clouds. Morrison was seeing that
beautiful countryside up close for the first time in years, but he couldn’t
really enjoy it. He had to stay focused on what was happening in the black
Navigator.

He remained silent for a
while. Watched. Listened.

What struck him next was
what was not there.

There were no ties or
handcuffs. No blindfold. He was allowed to see exactly where they were going. He
was pretty familiar with the whole county—anybody who knew him was aware of
that. Yet he was allowed to see where they were headed. Couldn’t be some big
secret then.

After a moment, the forest
thinned out and gave way to some cleared land. Pastures where sheep were
grazing, wide open fields freshly ploughed, covered with seedlings. They were
getting closer to the town of Acton. Throughout, Morrison was taking in all the
changes that had happened to the scenery during his incarceration. Some of it
was subtle. Trees and hedges still in the same places, only having grown
bigger. Others were more striking, like when they reached the small industrial
estate on the outskirts of town. Perkins Electronics had had a plant there for
a long time. But now it was at least double the size. And a lot smarter. New
modern steel and glass office space now stood in the front, and the warehouse behind
seemed huger than before. New signage with stainless steel letters set on a
polished granite base floated above the front lawn, projecting an air of sleek
opulence.
Must be doing good business
, Morrison figured as the Navigator
zoomed past the impressive building.

At the next junction,
Morrison was surprised by the driver’s reaction. Instead of heading straight into
town as he anticipated, the Navigator veered left onto another country road.

“Not going into town?” Morrison
said.

His inquiry was met only by
silence.

Turned out they were only
skirting around town toward a farther destination. Morrison did not like that
one bit. Instinctively, he had liked the fact that they were heading to town,
which somewhat equalled a denser human presence with a reduced risk for
himself. The blond guy seemed to notice something.

“Getting nervous,
Morrison?” he said.

“Bored,” Morrison lied. “I
hadn’t planned to spend my first day out driving around.”

“Maybe you should be
nervous.”

At his side, the driver
grinned but said nothing. He kept pushing the big SUV farther and farther out.

The crossroads started to
thin out. And they were increasingly of the packed dirt, washboard kind typical
of deep rural upstate New York in the spring. Maybe two or three cars ventured on
each of these roads every day. They led nowhere. Or rather, to a million places
where you could vanish unnoticed.

They nosed on a private unnamed
road with a yellow “No Outlet” sign planted in the soft dirt shoulder. At least
a dozen bullets had shredded the thin metal plate. Another staple of deep rural
upstate New York.

They headed northwest
through much rougher terrain that Morrison did not know, then drove up a short
steep hill that opened up to a cleared plateau. At the end of the road was a
white clapboard house with a red front door and black window shutters. On its
right flank stood a separate garage and shed unit. Very clean and orderly. A
property obviously well maintained.

As they covered the last
few hundred feet leading up to it, Morrison started to worry. The key. He didn’t
know who they were going to see. He had never been to this house. But it could
spark questions that he was not willing to answer. He sensed enough trouble as
it were.

But what could he do?

The key was in his jeans pocket,
and he had a gun aimed at the nape of his neck. He couldn’t risk anything just
yet.

The driver stopped the
Navigator in front of the garage and ordered Morrison to get out.

“And don’t try anything funny,”
the blond guy said, still holding the gun.

They led him directly to the
shed. The guy with the slicked-back hair scrambled with a lock, then opened the
latch and pulled open a heavy wooden door. It was dark in there. The only light
came from the exterior.

“Get in there,” said the
guy holding the lock.

Morrison pondered his
situation. Outnumbered two to one. At his left, the guy with the gun was out of
reach and seemed steady enough. Ready to fire off at the slightest provocation.
There was still nothing he could do. So he made for the door.

“Wait,” the blond guy said
to his partner, “don’t you want to search him before we lock him up?”

Morrison stopped. He
thought about the key again. He didn’t want them to find it, whoever they were.
He really didn’t want that. It had to stay hidden.

The other guy shrugged and
said, “What’s the point? He’s just been released from prison. I don’t think
that sheriff chick slipped him anything dangerous. Right, Morrison?”

Morrison kept silent.

“Besides, he has a
reputation for avoiding weapons of any kind. At least that’s what the boss said.”

The blond guy motioned for
him to get moving again and said, “Don’t you wish you had a piece with you now,
Morrison? I betcha do.”

As soon as Morrison
stepped inside the slightly cool room, the door slammed shut on him with a
heavy bang. He heard fast metallic chirping sounds as the latch was fastened
and the lock put back in place. Then nothing. Just darkness and silence.

Here we go again
, he thought.
After
three years, two months and seventeen days, back in a new prison.

It was pitch dark in
there.

The only light came from a
thin ray under the massive shed door, not powerful enough to project inside.
Instead, it just vanished on the first half-inch of plywood floor. Compared
with outside, the air felt cool and slightly humid. At this time of year, the
nights were still cold out in the countryside. The shed’s walls had yet to absorb
substantial heat. Later on, Morrison had no doubt the room would turn into a
sauna. Before being locked up, he had seen that the garage and shed unit stood
clear of any tree.

A fresh spruce smell
permeated the air, as if the shed had not been constructed too long ago. Its
studs and joists still released the aroma of freshly felled timber. A weird
thought occurred to him:
Was this built for me?
The idea unsettled him
but he quickly waved it aside. He had more pressing things to do than worry.

First, he had to find some
light. He crept back up to the door. Put his hands on its surface. Felt his way
to its left edge, the side where it opened. There was no handle or hardware of
any kind inside. Just smooth plywood. He tried applying some pressure on it, but
it didn’t budge. The locked latch held it tight. He moved his hands further and
felt the framing. The timber was rough under his fingers, not like the smooth construction
lumber that you could buy at the hardware center. More like the raw product
that a self-sufficient farmer would get when he cut down good solid trees then
sliced them with a portable sawmill. A cheap but sturdy material that was more
than a match for its industrial cousin. In between the first two studs,
Morrison felt the plastic sleeve of an electrical cable. He let his fingers
course along its length up to a plastic box with a protruding switch. He flipped
it up. The lights came on.

The whole shed was made
like this. Raw studs and joists covered with plywood on the outside. Apart from
the door, there was no other opening. It contained no object either. No shovel,
no gardening tool. None of the usual stuff that would clutter a place like
this. Nothing at all that he could use to pry his way out of here.

But at least, now, he was alone.

He had some time to
himself.

Morrison took the key from
his pocket and held it between his thumb and middle finger. He had no idea how
long he would be held in here. No idea who he would be meeting. But one thing
was for sure. He needed to conceal this key as best he could. He couldn’t keep
it in his pocket. Way too obvious.

So he put the key down on
the floor. Untied his shoe. Removed it. Then he squeezed his fingers in the
opening and pulled delicately on the glued-on insole, where the toes were. The thin
leather strip gave way with a weak tearing sound. Then he grabbed the key,
slipped its end through the opening he had just made under the insole and
slowly pushed it in, feeling the tip slice through the hardened glue. He looked
at the shoe. The upper concealed the location of the key. Just by looking at
the shoe, you had no way of knowing it was in there. Not perfect. Far from it. A
thorough search by competent hands would soon reveal it, but not a casual one.
So this was good enough given the circumstances.

Morrison put his shoe back
on and stood up.

He was thirsty. He went to
the door and banged on it.

“Anybody there?” he said.
“Can I get something to drink?”

There was no response. The
two men were probably inside the house. Or they were ignoring him. Morrison sat
down against the far wall, setting his sight on the door. Now he was also
hungry. He called out again at the two guys, still without any feedback. He
shook his head. Bummer. At least in prison he had three square meals a day, and
he could snack and drink whenever he wanted.

Earlier, he had promised
himself he’d stop at Elena’s Bakery and pick up cinnamon buns and decent coffee
when he got to town. If it weren’t for these guys, he would probably be having
them right now. He shrugged and tried to chase that thought away. Concentrated
instead on trying to figure out who was behind all this.

Sadly, there was no
shortage of suspects. Considering how he had made his living since he was a
teenager, he was rather more exposed to this type of event than the average Joe.
It could be the work of rivals determined to block the re-entry of a fierce competitor
in a lucrative market. Now would be the time to strike, when he was barely out
of prison and still unsettled. He could see some logic in it. It could also come
from disgruntled partners, associates he had dealt with in the past and who bore
him grudges, perceived or justified. Sometimes the line was blurred between those
two. People would more easily blame somebody else for their failure than take a
long hard look at themselves in the mirror. Especially in his line of business.
Lastly, it could come from would-be partners, suitors he had turned down and
who now wanted to get back at him.

He spent the next few
hours alternately sitting and standing, walking a few steps to and from the
door to shake his legs, all the while going through all the possibilities. At
least the ones he was aware of. A carousel of faces filed one after another in
his mind. Then he heard the sound of the Navigator’s door slam shut, followed
by the engine starting. He interrupted himself to go back to banging on the
door.

He called out at his captors
but to no avail. Nobody either heard him or cared to respond.

Out of sheer frustration,
he yielded to an impatient gesture and gave a hard punch on the door. Then he
cursed himself for doing so.
Keep your focus, dammit,
he thought.
This
is no time to break a knuckle
. He went back to the far wall and squatted down
again.

It was getting warmer and
warmer in his plywood prison, the air becoming stuffy and stale. His mouth was running
real dry. Sweat beads were forming on his forehead. He closed his eyes and disciplined
himself back into thinking.

He thought he was making
progress.

An hour or so later, the
Navigator came back and parked close by. The doors opened and slammed shut again.
Somebody came to the shed and yelled, “Morrison? Move away from the door!”

He recognized the blond
guy’s voice. He stayed right where he was. Didn’t have to budge an inch as he
was already crouching at the far end.

The scrambling and
chirping metallic sounds were back and the door opened. A draught of fresh air
swirled into the shed. The guy dropped a McDonald’s bag with a large soda on
the plywood floor.

“How long are you going to
keep me in here?” Morrison said.

“As long as it’s gonna
take,” the blond guy said.

“It’s getting real hot.”

“Not my problem.”

“At least bring me some
water.”

“You’ve got a Coke.”

“That’s not gonna be
enough. Especially with junk food like that. Too much salt. Makes you drink
like a fountain.”

The blond guy smirked. “Have
we got ourselves a fussy eater?” he said. “I can take the bag away if you don’t
want it, you know.”

“Come on. Just bring me
some water, OK?”

The guy shook his head. He
said, “That’s not gonna be necessary. Shouldn’t be too long now.” And he
slammed the door shut again.

Morrison got up, grabbed
his lunch and came back to his squatting position. They had brought him a Big
Mac, large fries and baked apple pie. He was starving. He scarfed down his meal
in no time. Except for his soft drink. He drank about half of it, then decided
he was going to make the other half last.

It turned out that the blond
guy was right. He did not have to wait too long. He soon heard the sound of two
large vehicles making their way up the driveway. Big bold SUVs, possibly carbon
copies of the black Lincoln Navigator judging by the hum of their engines. Then
he heard doors slamming and the now familiar sounds of the lock opening.

And there he was. His host.
Framed in the doorway with the blond and the slicked-back hair guys at his side.
The man said, “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Morrison? But you
probably don’t mind. By now, you must’ve grown used to waiting.”

Morrison didn’t say
anything.

He just stared at him.

Of all the faces he had
been reviewing, that one was among those he had deemed the least likely to be
responsible for this.

By a country mile.