Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10)

  LAST CALL

  A Jack Daniels Thriller

  J.A. KONRATH

  INTRODUCTION

  LAST CALL was written as a standalone thriller and requires no prior knowledge of any previous books.

  If you read STIRRED, co-authored by Blake Crouch, you know that novel was supposed to be the conclusion to this particular storyline. But fan insistence, coupled with some unresolved issues at the end of STIRRED, prompted a follow-up. Besides finishing off the Jack Daniels/Luther Kite saga, LAST CALL also concludes the Lucy/Donaldson story from SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT. Characters from previous books also play key roles, including Chandler and Fleming (FLEE, SPREE, THREE, Tequila (SHOT OF TEQUILA, NAUGHTY), and Jack Daniels regulars Phin, Herb, and Harry.

  My frequent collaborator, Blake Crouch, was unable to join me on this book, as he’s currently committed to two hit television series based on his stories, WAYWARD PINES and GOOD BEHAVIOR. He’s given me his blessing to use some of his characters, for which I’m grateful. I hope I’ve done them justice.

  In LAST CALL, the reader will come across occasional hyperlinks when a character first appears, or when a passage nods to another story. These lead to the story being referenced. There is also an index at the end of the novel which lists all of the interlocking books in this universe.

  But, as I previously mentioned, this novel can be enjoyed without having read anything else.

  A word of warning, though; this book is called LAST CALL. So be prepared for some characters to die. But before you hate me, I humbly ask you to read the preview chapters of WHITE RUSSIAN, the next Jack Daniels thriller, at the end of this book. ☺

  As always, thanks for reading!

  Joe Konrath

  “It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience.”

  JULIUS CAESAR

  Somewhere in Mexico

  For forever and beyond…

  “Ándale, puto!”

  The leg shackles were removed, and the captive man was shoved roughly from behind. He still had his handcuffs on—heavy, rusty chains that had rubbed the skin on his wrists raw. As he was marched through the cell hallway, a machinegun at his back, the chains bumped against his broken ribs, causing a spike of pain with every step.

  Besides the ribs, he had a laceration on his scalp that had been fixed with superglue, a nasty burn on his chest, a dislocated pinky, and an abdominal wound that had required eight stitches, which had been done without anesthetic. They were given the barest medical treatment; sutures, bandages, splints, aspirin and penicillin sporadically.

  No one spoke much.

  It made sense, considering their predicament.

  Incongruous to their harsh treatment, they were fed well; delicious burritos and tamales, enchiladas, the best huaraches he’d ever eaten. If someone won a match, he got a six pack of Tecate beer. It was so woefully pathetic, it was almost funny. Even funnier, he’d found himself looking forward to that beer. Not because of what it represented, but because downing six was his only reprieve from this living hell.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here. Judging by his beard growth, at least two days. They were kept underground, no windows, no accurate way of judging time. When they were taken topside, sometimes it was daytime, sometimes night, and it was so disorienting and so brief he couldn’t tell east from west to check if the sun was setting or rising.

  Another shove from behind, and he was led through a heavy, iron door, and out into the arena. It had probably been an old bullfighting ring. A circle, perhaps twenty meters wide, surrounded by bleachers. He squinted in the lights, portable kliegs running on gas generators, and looked at the surrounding crowd. A hundred, maybe more. Some cheered when they saw him. Others booed.

  He’d made a few of them money, and helped others lose theirs.

  Above the seats and the lights, covering the arena like a shroud, was a roof of camouflage netting. He guessed it hid the place from satellite photos.

  The man looked to the right, to the board, and saw the number that had been spray painted on his shirt when he’d arrived. Number 17. Beneath it were his odds.

  1:2.

  That wasn’t good. Previously, the odds had always been in his favor, or at least 1:1. Now they were against him.

  A lump formed in his throat. There were a couple of big guys underground, and one certified monster. But he had an idea who his opponent was going to be.

  Number 12. A gringo, like he was. College student, half his age. He gave up two inches and thirty pounds to him, and the kid was built like a linebacker.

  As expected, they led Number 12 into the arena, and the crowd reacted with some lackluster applause. The kid smiled, hooting and raising his cuffed hands. He’d won eight matches, but during that time he’d lost his mind.

  Which was completely understandable.

  The sand underneath their feet was compact, hard, with dozens of rough spots where blood had seeped in and dried to the strength of concrete. The gamey smell of meat left out in the sun mingled with the scent of arid desert. Without wanting to, Number 17’s eyes were drawn to the corner of the arena, to the large, wooden cross. The man who’d been hung there days ago had finally died, as evidenced by the birds picking at his carcass. A terrible ending to a terrible murder. He wondered which son of a bitch in the crowd had come closest to predicting the time of death, and how much they’d won.

  There was an announcement is Spanish, booming over the sound system. It was repeated in English for the rich white people in the stands.

  “Last call for bets, last call for bets. Number 12, with eight wins, against Number 17, with two. Weight and age advantage to Number 12, and Number 17 pays two to one. The weapons for this match… aluminum baseball bats.”

  A golf cart puttered into the arena, carrying four guards brandishing Tec-9 machineguns. They unlocked the combatants’ chains and gave each a bat. More armed guards—never fewer than four—stood at attention in the wings. Mounted on the north and west sides of the ring, shrouded in bulletproof glass, were belt-fed M60s with 7.62mm armor-piercing NATO rounds. Number 17 had been keeping careful watch on the security, noting the egress points, the personnel, the security cameras, and concluded there wasn’t even a remote possibility of escape. The only way out of this hellhole was one chunk at a time, in the bellies of crows.

  His opponent immediately picked up his bat and raised it above his head, letting out a crazed whoop.

  In a moment, this college kid was going to try to kill him.

  He didn’t want that to happen. He had too much to live for.

  The man closed his eyes and stretched his arms out over his head, then touched his toes, flexing to force blood into his tired limbs. He picked up the bat and held it in front of him like a sword, and stared up at the freak show duo presiding over this ongoing crime against humanity.

  A man and a woman. They sat in a balcony above the arena. He wore a crown. She a tiara. Both were clad in purple capes, velvet or velour.

  But they weren’t royalty.

  They were monsters.

  The puppet king lifted his gold staff, a human skull forming its bulbous top, and banged it against the Chinese gong next to his throne. The clang resonated out over the crowd, who once again applauded and cheered.

  Let the games begin.

  The man tensed, and the college kid, predictably, charged at him with his bat upraised. He no doubt expected his speed and strength to be enough to win. And in this particular death match, he might be correct.

  Previously in t
he arena, Number 17 had fought with machetes and spears. Weapons that pierced and slashed. It hadn’t been toe-to-toe battles with each fighter standing his ground; instead it was about causing one fast and fatal wound, then keeping away as the opponent bled out.

  But it would be tough to kill a man via blood loss with a baseball bat. Beating a man to death with a blunt instrument was likely to be a long and tiring task. The only killing method Number 17 could think of was via concussion, and that favored bigger muscles.

  When the college kid got within striking distance, he made like A-Rod and swung for the stands, aiming at no particular part of his opponent’s body. If it landed, it would break bones.

  Number 17 anticipated the move, rolling beneath the swing, and giving a stiff pop to the football player’s groin with the butt of his bat. As the larger man doubled over, Number 17 dipped a shoulder, came up behind him, and connected with the spot between the base of the skull and the neck, giving the blow everything he had.

  Number 12 went down, face first into the sand, and was still. Maybe knocked out. Maybe paralyzed. But not dead, since his chest continued to move up and down.

  The crowd howled a mixture of boos and cheers.

  Number 17looked up at the balcony and waited, keeping his scream bottled up inside.

  I came looking for this. And I found what I was looking for.

  And it’s worse than anything I could have ever imagined.

  I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

  The puppet king held out a gaunt hand, and turned his thumb down.

  As Number 17 smashed the bat into the college kid’s head, over and over, he focused on the woman he loved, and their child, and tried to picture their faces instead of the atrocity he was committing.

  For them.

  I have to get out of this for them.

  After all, I got into this for them.

  When the football player was no doubt dead, the man wearing the number 17, Phineas Troutt, dropped the gory bat and held up his hands to be cuffed and hauled away again, thinking about the six pack of victory beer waiting in his cell, and wondering if his wife, Jacqueline Daniels, had begun to search for him yet.

  He hoped, for her sake, and for the sake of their young daughter, that she had not.

  Because if she came, Jack, and anyone else she brought with her, would be caught and caged just like Phin had been. Forced to compete in these perverse gladiator games, run by a ruthless Mexican cartel and an insane, sadistic maniac wearing a gold crown and purple robe.

  A maniac who now stood up and began to applaud Phin with a feeble golf clap.

  A maniac named Luther Kite.

  THREE DAYS EARLIER

  JACK

  Tampa

  It was love bug season in Florida, and the sky was filled with so many it looked like it was snowing black. Giant clouds of hundreds of thousands of bugs, joined at the ends as they mated, flying everywhere and getting into everything; hair, drinks, food, mouths, etc. Mom moved to Tampa because she called it paradise, but my version of paradise didn’t have copulating insects flying up your nose every time you took a breath.

  Samantha was chasing the love bugs around the pool area on wobbly, toddler legs, smiling and giggling. We’d brought her out here to go swimming, but there was an impenetrable love bug layer floating on top, and no matter how quickly the pool boy skimmed them off, they returned.

  “How often does this happen?” I asked my mother. I was considering putting on more sunscreen, but I figured the bugs blocked out at least enough sun to be a natural SPF 20.

  “Twice a year.” Mary Streng took a sip of her virgin Pina colada, through the napkin that had been placed over the glass rim to keep out horny insects. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  “That’s not the term I’d use.” I kept my hand over my mouth.

  “Lighten up, Jacqueline. When was the last time you had sex in public?”

  “Phin and I keep it behind closed doors. And we don’t fly into people’s drinks.”

  “I did it two nights ago, with Al Feinstein from 125-B. At midnight, in that very chaise lounge you’re sitting in.”

  “That nice old guy we had dinner with? Who showed us pictures of his grandchildren?”

  His bald head had so many liver spots it looked like the constellation Orion.

  “Don’t let his wheelchair fool you,” Mom said. “The man is a sex machine. He can tie a cherry stem into a knot with his tongue.”

  “Nice.”

  “I was so pleased I just got that Brazilian wax.”

  I grinned. “You’re such a slut, Mom.”

  “I like that word. We need to reclaim it.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” I clinked my beer against her glass, and then quickly took the cardboard coaster off the top to take a sip.

  “So what’s wrong, dear?” Mom asked. “Is it a sex thing? I could get Mr. Feinstein to give your man some pointers.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “You’ve been here three days. Why can’t you relax?”

  Relaxing didn’t come naturally to me. My two speeds were heightened awareness, and exhaustion. Lounging around my mom’s retirement community pool, watching my toddler run around eating as many love bugs as she could catch, was not conducive to relaxation. Add in the fact that her father had left me a voicemail three hours ago, saying he was going up north to fish with some old friends, and my unease had been steadily growing since.

  Phin didn’t have old friends, as far as I knew. And he didn’t fish, either. We’d recently had a bad experience up north; so bad I couldn’t see him going back this soon. My calls to him had gone unreturned—which was something Phin said might happen because he was going somewhere without any cell reception—but I wasn’t buying it.

  A paranoid woman, especially one who was a decade older than her husband and still hadn’t lost the ten pounds she’d gained while pregnant, might think he was having an affair. But my thoughts tended to be darker. While I was a homicide detective in the Chicago PD, I’d made a lot of enemies. Phin also had a violent past, much of it spent on the other side of the law. I would actually prefer him having an affair than getting tangled up in some of the dangerous things we once did.

  We’d promised each other we’d given all of that up. I hung up my badge, he stopped doing all the crazy shit he used to do, and we lived off of savings, my pension, and the money I brought in as a part time private investigator. Phin had seemingly taken to being a fulltime father. He did most of the cooking and housework, raised our daughter, and kept the romance alive. Our relationship wasn’t perfect, but no one had shot at either one of us in more than three months.

  However, his “I’m going fishing with friends” story didn’t pass the sniff test. He was up to something, and it probably involved violence. Since he didn’t include me, he must have been trying to protect me. And since I hadn’t heard from him, I was getting the feeling he’d found the trouble he was looking for.

  “It’s Phin’s fishing trip, isn’t it?” Mom said. “You smell bullshit.”

  “Yeah. Will you be okay watching Sam for a few days?”

  “Of course. You’re going to go find him?”

  I nodded and rocked myself out of the chaise lounge.

  “He’s a big boy, Jack. And he knows you’re a big girl. If he wanted you involved with whatever he’s doing, he would have asked.”

  “I know. That’s what’s bothering me.”

  I looked at Sam, swatting at love bugs and giggling. She caught my eye and said, “Mommy!”

  I scooped her up and hugged her, then gave her a kiss on the head. “I love you, Sam.”

  “Love you, Mommy. I ate three bugs.”

  “Were they yummy?”

  “I ate them on accident. Can we go swimming?”

  The pool looked like it had a black blanket floating on top of it. A wiggling black blanket.

  “How about we get some ice cream instead?”

  Sam pursed her lips as she weighed the dec
ision, then said, “Okay.”

  My mother stood up, taking my daughter’s hand. “We’ll be back in a few,” she said to me. Then Mom’s face became hard. “Jacqueline… do you think it’s…”

  Her voice trailed off, but I knew what went unsaid. Out of all the loose ends in my past, there was one in particular that kept me up at nights.

  “Hopefully Phin’s just cheating on me,” I told her.

  Then I took out my cell phone and searched for the next flight to Chicago.

  PHIN

  Near Chicago

  A few hours before he called his wife and told her he was going on a fishing trip, Phineas Troutt was checking the security camera on his computer monitor to see who was at the door. It was a tall, slender woman, mid-forties, black hair done up in a large bun, dressed in khakis, hiking boots, and what looked like a tactical vest over a short sleeved shirt. She was staring into the camera, a neutral expression on her face. The way she stood, legs slightly apart, hands at her sides, reminded Phin of the at ease position in the military.

  Phin pressed a key on his computer while he checked the other perimeter cameras. No one else was on the property.

  “Can I help you?” he spoke into the monitor mic.

  “Phineas Troutt?”

  Phin didn’t reply.

  “My name is Katie Glente. I’m here to speak with you and Lieutenant Daniels.”

  Jack was in Florida with Samantha, visiting Jack’s mother. She also hadn’t been a Lieutenant for a few years.

  “Jack is unavailable,” Phin said.

  Katie’s expression remained unchanged. “I have information you both might want to hear. About Luther Kite.”

  Phin opened the desk drawer and took out an FNS 9mm, double-checked the seventeen round magazine to make sure it was full, and said, “Hold on, give me a minute or two.”

  Phin was at the front door within ten seconds. He gave Duffy, their chubby basset hound, the silent hand command for stay quiet and watched the video monitor on the wall. Katie was still in the same position. Phin disarmed the burglar alarm and pulled open their steel security door in a quick motion, the 9mm at his side.