The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Read online

  She giggled like a little girl. “Just transferred here from the New York City office. I’m a staff support specialist, and I’ve been working alongside Brad for about a month.”

  “So you kind of work for him, in our strange organizational structure.”

  “I guess you could say that. But I’m telling you, Alex, it’s everything I can do to not throw him into a closet and jump his bones.”

  She giggled for twenty seconds straight. I tried to laugh with her, but I found myself laughing at her.

  “Actually,” she said, pausing in between laughs, “I only want to jump on one bone.” She hooted so hard she began to squeeze tears through eyes that were no larger than coin slits.

  “You want me to help you get Brad’s attention?”

  “I’d be your best friend for life,” she said with a serious tone.

  Life. It sounded like a prison sentence.

  “So, where do I start?”

  Dropping my hand in my pocket, I felt a hair tie. Five minutes later, I said, “Until we have a chance to visit a couple of places to enhance your best features…” I paused a second, trying to think what those might be. “I think you’re ready to play the game.”

  She turned and faced the mirror to take in the minor transformation I’d performed.

  Her hair was wet, but pulled back into a tight ponytail, which also happened to pull open her eyes. The top three buttons on her blouse were now open, and I coached her on how to position some toilet paper inside her bra. I also made her take off her hose.

  It was a start, but she was beaming. “Thank you, Alex.”

  I wasn’t sure it would do much good. Brad was a cross between Pitt and Cooper, while Gretchen looked like she might be ready to break out in a dance for the Lilliputian cast of Wizard of Oz.

  Before I could move, she reached up and pulled my neck downward—her version of an appreciative hug.

  “Now I’ve got my confidence back. Nothing can stop me.”

  A thud pounded the bathroom door, and our heads turned that way. “I guess they don’t know the bathroom is for more than one. Let’s get out of here.”

  As I reached for the handle, another thud, followed by a desperate groan.

  Throwing the door open, the thin waitress from earlier was trying to hold up Monty Senior.

  “Help me,” she squawked, as her pencil legs buckled from the pressure of trying to hold him up.

  He slowly slid down the wall, knocking pictures to the floor. Glass smashed everywhere.

  I got to him just about the time his oversized derriere plopped to the cloudy tile. “Good, it’s probably safest if you stay down there.” I glanced up at the waitress.

  “Laverne. My name’s Laverne.” She grabbed my shoulders. “I think he’s having a fucking heart attack.”

  “Crap.” I looked down and saw him pulling at his shirt, his chest heaving like an airbag. He was sweating profusely. I took out my phone to call for paramedics as I crouched lower.

  His big mitt slapped at my arm, knocking the phone to the floor. Then I heard him mumbling.

  “Monty, it will be okay. I need to call the paramedics.”

  His mouth opened, but nothing audible. His chin quivered, and I instantly felt sorry for the guy, even if he was an ass.

  “How long has he been like this?” I asked Laverne.

  “Maybe a minute before you came out of the bathroom. Shit, I don’t know. He’d just come in from outside.”

  She flicked a wrist behind me. I turned and spotted a metal door with a red exit sign above it.

  Senior belted out another groan and grabbed at my shoulder. I crawled to get to my phone, then dialed nine-one-one. A few seconds later I said, “It’s okay, Monty. Help is on the way.”

  “Laverne, do you or anyone in this place have any aspirin?”

  “Uh, maybe. I know Junior would know. Where is he, dammit?” Her pained face looked back into the bar.

  “Chip, get us some aspirin. Quick,” she called out to a younger kid wearing a dirty, white busboy outfit.

  He stared down the hallway at us. “I’m on it.” He ran off.

  Another groan, this one more like a wailing walrus, and then Senior tugged on my shirt, nearly exposing my breast. If he wasn’t having a heart attack, I would have flipped his arm around and pinned his hand against his back.

  “Junior,” he said.

  “What? What about Junior?”

  “He...he...” Senior’s eyes looked to the door. I handed my phone to Gretchen, who turned and started talking to the operator, who’d finally answered.

  I walked back to the door, then glanced back at Senior.

  With sweat pouring out of every orifice on his face, he nodded, as if he agreed with the direction I’d moved. Were those tears mixed in with the perspiration?

  I gripped the metal handle bar. “Is there something out here?”

  “Uhh. Juniorrrr!” He grabbed a fistful of his own shirt and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Dear God, Monty.” Laverne put two fingers against his plus-sized neck. “Shit, your pulse is moving so fast I can’t keep up. You’re like a damn rabbit. And you’re burning up.”

  Just then, Chip raced around the corner, banging into the wall, sending more pictures crashing to floor.

  “Here.” He tossed the aspirin at Laverne as if they were on fire. Unfortunately, he missed her open hand.

  “You dumbass. Help me find them.”

  Chip dropped to the floor without saying a word, and I ran back over and got on my hands and knees, feeling across the hardwoods. “There,” I said, just as my hands spotted the two pills against the baseboard.

  “Water. He needs water,” Laverne called out.

  Chip produced a water bottle off his belt loop, which drew a couple of confused stares. “What? I have to stay hydrated.”

  Senior downed the two pills, although water trailed out of his mouth and down his bulging neck.

  He took in a heaving breath and then pointed a beefy finger at the door.

  “Junior!” he yelled with much more clarity.

  I moved to the back door and slowly pushed against the bar.

  “Alex, do you see anything?” Gretchen asked, pulling up behind me.

  “No.” In the dark alley, I spotted the outline of three parked cars and two trash bins.

  A cat jumped out from behind a tire and scurried into one of the trash bins.

  “Shit!” Gretchen dug her nails into my arm as she looked over my shoulder. She’d been startled by the cat.

  “Please let go,” I said.

  “Sorry.”

  The door bumped against something. I reached at my waist for my Glock but only felt air. I’d left it in my car.

  “What is it?” Gretchen asked.

  I held my finger to my lips, motioning for quiet. I could feel my pulse thumping at a rapid pace, my body ready to launch toward whatever was behind the door.

  Swinging my body around, I landed on both feet, just inches away from a man staring up at me. His eyes didn’t blink.

  Gretchen gasped. “Holy shit, is he dead?”

  “It’s Junior.” A partial moon shone just enough light onto his face. I ran my eyes down his torso. “What the hell? Give me my phone.”

  Taking the phone from Gretchen, I tapped the screen, shining a cone of light onto his chest.

  “I’m going to hurl.” Gretchen scooted off to the side.

  I’d barely taken a breath, when Laverne ran out the door, followed by Nick.

  “What the hell is that?” Nick crouched next to me.

  I tried looking away for a second. “Someone gutted his chest and tore out his heart. It’s just sitting on top of his ribcage.”

  Laverne screamed from behind us.

  “What kind of fucking psycho…” Nick let the thought trail off as he moved to a standing position.

  I pushed myself to standing; Laverne instantly planted her face into my shoulder.

  “Let’s get everyone inside an
d call the locals so they can process the scene,” I said to Nick.

  Laverne peered over my shoulder and began to quiver. “Why…who…?”

  “I’m sorry, Laverne. I…I just can’t explain human behavior.”

  Quietly, I wondered if we were dealing with something that was more beast than human.

  3

  Cutting through Columbus Park on the east side of downtown Boston, she slowed her pace to a leisurely stroll to ensure she blended in with the many other patrons sauntering this way and that. She instantly noticed the fog from her breath thrusting into the nighttime sky.

  An obvious sign of exertion. And, she admitted to herself, the result of a fulfilling exhilaration she hadn’t experienced in years. She stuck her hands into her pockets of her North Face jacket and focused on reducing the cadence of her air intake.

  Taking in the scene, she spotted treetops speckled with remnants of a few flurries that had begun to fall. It might be seventy degrees in Coronado, California, or even eighty in Basra, Iraq, but winter treated Boston like its bitch. It was merciless and unforgiving.

  Just like her.

  The biting wind hurled invisible spears off the Atlantic. She turned her face in that direction, and her eyes rolled shut as she emptied her lungs. In a near-hypnotic state, a quick playback of what she’d just accomplished flashed through her mind, jolting her back to the present. She couldn’t help but feel a tingle permeate her core.

  It was almost orgasmic.

  She quivered, parting her lips for a brief moment. Damn, this feels good.

  A scream sliced the frigid air, and she spun on her heels while slapping at her front pocket.

  With her adrenaline spigot fully open, her body fell into its natural position, prepared to take on any aggressive action. Her hand fingered the girth of the instrument through the Velcro pocket.

  “Oh my God, Paul. What have you done?” A squirming fashionista jumped up and down, her curled locks bouncing off her shoulders, a look of shock and awe covering her face.

  The woman instantly relaxed her muscles and took a casual stance.

  Thankfully, no one had noticed her assertive response. As she glanced around, a few park dwellers had stopped to take in the scene.

  A man, presumably Paul, had dropped to one knee. He held a tiny box in his hands. He lifted his Hollywood chin as if he were ready for someone to start filming.

  Fuckin’ A. That’s exactly what happened. Four, five, maybe six phones came out and started recording this marriage proposal. A special moment not to be forgotten.

  It made her want to vomit in her own mouth.

  Well, Paul would soon develop temporary amnesia about the proposal the next time a piece of ass floated by. That was how the male brain behaved. The woman in the North Face jacket knew this all too well. She had firsthand knowledge.

  And her hands-on experience in this department is what got this party started, right? As she ticked off names and incidents, it was difficult to really nail down what had initiated this unrelenting urge to leave her mark, to right a wrong. Over and over again.

  “Karma, you’re my best friend, my confidante, my biggest supporter, and the greatest lover any man could ever wish for.”

  What kind of name is Karma?

  The twenty-something bobblehead, wearing a red beret and matching Berber coat, whinnied like a horse.

  “Paul…I…what’s in that box?” Giggling uncontrollably, the Barbie doll couldn’t help but paw at the box. He playfully gave her a stiff-arm and moved the box to his chest.

  “Hold on. There’s more.”

  “There can’t be more. I don’t need more,” she said in a breathy tone while giggling at the same time.

  “But I can’t help what you’ve done to my life. You truly are the wind that holds up my wings.”

  A smattering of oohs and ahhs from the crowd. The woman literally tasted bile in the back of her throat.

  “Karma Elizabeth Macy, will you make me the happiest guy in this solar system and be my partner in crime for the rest of our lives?”

  He bowed his head as if he were standing before royalty or the Virgin Mary. And the woman knew this bimbo was neither.

  “Yes, yes, yes!”

  He peeled open the box, and her amber eyes nearly exploded. The moment he slipped the stone on her finger, she jumped his bones, wrapping her legs around Paul’s waist until her boots clapped together. The pair smooched, and the crowd applauded and whistled.

  The North Face woman’s mouth was suddenly parched, and she could feel a burning sensation pulsating in her chest. Turning away from the frivolity, she barreled through a horde of gawkers, many of whom were still cheering the young couple.

  Once free, she moved toward the darkened sea and sucked in the salty air, only a few twinkles of white and red lights illuminating the harbor.

  By the time she reached the end of the park, her breathing had calmed and her mind regained its focus. She approached a food truck that was selling fresh lobster, where she heard one man berating another.

  “You piece of shit, this is my truck, and this is my business. You’re nothing more than a throw-away tissue.” The taller man with a widow’s peak bumped his chest against the shorter guy, who turned his cap around.

  “Fuck you, Marv. I came up with the idea.” His face was blue and red at the same time.

  “Take your idea and get the hell out of my truck.”

  “Gladly.” The smaller guy ripped off his apron and tossed it out of the truck, landing it at the woman’s feet. Then he stomped out the side of the truck, leaving a trail of expletives.

  “You want something?” The man who could have doubled as Dracula was shouting at her.

  She almost laughed.

  “Me? I’ve got everything I need.”

  “Good, ’cause I’m closing up shop. Fuckin’ prick,” he said to himself, shuffling out of the truck.

  She walked over the apron on the ground and kept moving, her gaze returning to the water.

  Witnessing the young couple’s proposal was meant to be, as pathetic as it was to watch. It reminded her how the seed of torment had sprouted and devoured her soul. But, she acknowledged, she was a modern woman. One who continued to develop, even as society devolved around her. And that had only brought more clarity. A victim no longer, she could finally envision her path to ultimate fulfillment.

  Her own laughter filled the air, then disappeared into the flurried sky. Her checklist had just grown tenfold, and she couldn’t wait to let the world see her from the inside out.

  4

  The orange tabby flipped over on its back, spread its legs, and chirped like a wounded bird. With more heft in his jiggling body than Jabba the Hutt, his head appeared unnaturally tiny in comparison.

  Blowing out a tired breath, I leaned down and did as he desired of me—I scratched his belly. His oddly strong paws quickly caged my wrist, and he snapped his fangs into my skin.

  “Little shit.” I pulled back my arm and stood up, inspecting the five-inch scratch to see if he’d drawn blood. “I’ll never understand that sassy cat.”

  “Perhaps he’s taken on the personality of his owner?”

  I looked up to see Ezzy walking into the kitchen, her familiar faded pink robe cinched tightly around her waist. Her worn slippers shuffled across the hardwood floor to the counter, where she set down her mug and ambled over to me.

  “Let me see that arm of yours.”

  Lifting her readers that had been hanging from a chain, she stretched the skin on my forearm, then wet a finger and ran it along the scratch.

  “You didn’t flinch. You’re good to go.”

  “Thanks, Ezzy. You don’t have to take care of me like I’m a kid. We’ve got two on our hands as it is.”

  “Everyone needs a little TLC.”

  A tired smile parted my lips. “Not sure you get any TLC.”

  “Those two sleeping upstairs, Erin and Luke, they warm my heart. That’s the best kind of TLC a woman can as
k for, especially at this age.” She arched a silver eyebrow.

  I just shook my head. “You’re not playing fair.”

  “What?” She splayed her arms.

  “You refuse to tell us your age, but then you act like you’ve hit some milestone birthday. Come on, Ezzy, you’ve been back six weeks. Isn’t it time you share it? You always say we’re family.”

  She looked down at Pumpkin, who was rubbing against her shin. “You want a late-night snack, gato? Okay, just this once, I’ll give you a snack.”

  As she fed Pumpkin a snack from the drawer, I sifted through the mail Ezzy had organized on the counter.

  “Bills, bills, bills,” I said, shuffling the envelopes into one pile and purposely leaving them unopened. “I’ve been living in a dream world, Ezzy. Minus Mark’s income, I think we’re going to have to find a smaller place in a neighborhood without privacy fences or luxury cars parked up and down the street.”

  “You worry too much,” she said, shutting the drawer that held Pumpkin’s snacks.

  I glanced around our kitchen, noticing the granite countertops, wood floors, fancy china displayed in an antique hutch, and high-end appliances—all acquired when Mark was alive and before I crashed my car and lost my mind, at least a good portion of the long-term memory component.

  She was in front of me before I knew it, and grasped my shoulders with both hands. “I can see stress in your eyes. Dr. Alex needs some homemade pupusas and then we can talk.”

  She’d addressed me with the fancy title the day she returned. Oddly, it sparked a memory for me, or at least a fond feeling inside. She’d apparently always referred to me as Dr. Alex, a term of affection, as it were. She’d watched a long-running daytime Mexican soap opera for more than thirty years, where her favorite character was a strong, independent woman who happened to be named Dr. Alex—Alejandra, to be specific. While it was probably more likely for me to join the professional tennis tour at age thirty-nine than suffer through medical school to get my medical degree, I found it sweet…endearing even.

  But that was Ezzy. The kind of person who reminded me that people of character weren’t defined by their bank accounts or social media posts. She was salt of the earth—who happened to use a great deal of said salt in everything she cooked.