The Suppressor by Erik Carter (best free novels .txt) 📗

in shards on the brickwork, leaving a huge open void into Burton’s house, a space easily large enough to accommodate a grown adult.

He got up and strode as briskly as he could toward the house without breaking his character of the casual nighttime beachgoer.

Easing his trajectory away from the waves, he climbed up the grade toward the house. He took out his Colt, peered through the busted door from the far side of the concrete slab porch. Saw nothing. Just shadows and glimpses of Burton’s high-end decor.

He ran along the side of the darkened house, up the hill, shoes sinking in the soft, unpacked sand, to the driveway. No out-of-state Maseratis. No vehicles at all.

Back down the embankment to the broken-out door. He avoided the shards of glass as he stepped inside, then halted, listened.

Nothing, just the crashing waves beyond.

Gun at the ready, he swept through the house, room by room, closet by closet, finding nothing.

He went to the office. As with the rest of the house, there were modern, chic touches—a lot of polished steel, a couple abstract sculptures. A wall of windows looked upon the moonlit water, the waves.

He sat at the desk, flipped on the small desk lamp. The desktop was clean, organized, a stack of paper in the center. He picked it up, flipped through the pages, unimpressed. Nothing significant.

To the side was a cherry, two-tier letter tray. He grabbed a stack of envelopes, flipped past the first two.

And stopped.

The Personal Manifesto of Delbert Patterson,

or Musings on the Transmogrification of Societal Frustration

What the hell?

He began reading.

Societies rise, and societies fall. A natural order. Now technological advances impede this earthly rhythm, and therefore it must also be technology—in the form of heavy armaments—that restore the order.

America refuses to come to a natural end. And so I, and others like me, will bring it to an end.

Jake had to stop for a moment. When he’d left the mansion, he’d expected to find something strange at Burton’s, and that feeling had been amplified when he saw the broken glass door.

But an anarchist’s manifesto…

Nothing could have prepared him for something like this.

He continued to read.

This is not an exercise. This is not a warning. This is certainly not a cry for help. Soon, I will attack all means of American infrastructure that have not yet…

A sound behind him.

He turned in time to see someone lunging from the shadows, a quick glimpse of a silhouette in baggy jeans and a baseball cap. He threw up an arm, partially blocking the punch, but it struck him with enough force to send him into the desk, knocking the lamp to the floor.

The lightbulb popped, and the room snapped back into near darkness, just reflected moonlight coming in through the massive windows.

Jake rolled over the desktop and landed in a crouched position on the other side of the desk. He immediately went for his gun, but the man delivered a swift high kick, knocking it from his hand.

It clattered on the tile.

He looked up in time to see another kick already in motion and got a quick glimpse of the man’s silhouette against the moonlight—he was about six-foot seven, and very small, his baggy-style jeans even baggier than their intended look.

The next high kick clipped the side of Jake’s face as he tried to stand, sending him rolling across the floor toward the glass wall.

The man rushed in his direction. Jake stretched for a footstool on casters, a few feet away, and shoved it hard toward the guy.

It smashed into the man, bringing him to the floor.

Jake leapt forward, and the man immediately flung him away, using his own weight against him, some sort of grappling move Jake wasn’t prepared for.

The man straddled him, got a hand around his throat, raised a fist...

And now, closer to the glass wall, in the moonlight, Jake saw who it was.

Christie Mosley.

“Christie?”

Chapter Ten

The garage was a massive stretch of subterranean concrete. Mottled twelve-foot walls surrounded a contrastingly smooth, traffic-polished floor that was marred by tire tracks and glistened with oblong patches of white shine from the fluorescent lighting. The damp air carried the scents of vehicle exhaust and rubber.

Behind Tanner was a line of SWAT trucks. He felt their massive, riveted, sharp-edged presence looming over him.

In front of him, seated in folding chairs interspersed among massive pillars and squad cars—which looked diminutive in their proximity to the SWAT trucks—were a dozen men in black tactical gear, sitting tall in their seats, facing him, awaiting his instruction.

Tanner adjusted an elbow pad. He wore the same gear as the others. His eyes moved over the faces looking at him. Most bore steely resolve, but several of them could hardly contain their excitement. Their muscles twitched, knees bounced. Satisfied smirks. Ready for action. The SWAT team didn’t assemble often in a sleepy city like Pensacola.

As for Tanner, he’d long ago lost his taste for explosive moments of violence. He couldn’t wait to strip this armor off and get back into normal clothes. A pair of his pajamas would be nice. Yes, the red pair. He’d slip into those bad boys and climb into his warm bed with Martha.

But first he had to get Jake out of his undercover assignment. It had been a long time. Too damn long. The guy was a protege, and Tanner couldn’t help but feel like he’d treated him like a workhorse.

He knew the risks, Tanner reminded himself.

He scanned the faces in front of him again.

To get Jake out, he was going to have to sate the pugilistic desires of a bunch of adrenaline-and-testosterone freaks. He was surprised they could contain their energy enough to listen to him for five minutes.

He sighed.

Then he turned to the whiteboard behind him, which was covered with papers, diagrams, and maps—the plans for that night’s operation.

“This is the man we bring in first,” Tanner said and pointed to the 8x10 file photo. “Some of you know him. Jake Rowe. He’s been undercover with the Farones for months, longest in PPD