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

horror movie character trudging up the sidewalk? He’d take the risk.

Instant fire in his leg as he stepped out of the car. He clenched his jaw and went to the trunk, where he took out the tire tool and the emergency blanket. Using the wedged end of the tool, he pierced the blanket, then tore off a thin strip, wrapped it around his wound, and pulled tight. Another flare of pain, and he bit his tongue to keep from screaming.

He panted as he tugged a knot into place. The pressure was relieving, and it would keep the bleeding down for a while.

He hobbled down the sidewalk, his eyes trained on his house, looking for movement.

Nothing.

When he got to the fence at the edge of the property, he slipped into the shadows. He traced the fence’s edge until he was in line with the shallow side of the garage, where there was a seldom-used side door. He quietly unlocked it.

The garage was nearly pitch black, just faint outlines from the light coming in through the crack he’d left in the door, revealing his black Grand Prix in the center of the two-car space, the wood-paneled walls, the extra refrigerator, the workbench.

The workbench…

The car…

A plan materialized.

The room went black as he closed the door. He stepped to the bench and explored blindly until he found what he was looking for—the piece of broken bicycle chain.

He stepped behind the refrigerator, which sat beside the door that led into the house, and took his keys from his pocket. He rested his thumb on one of the rubber buttons on the plastic fob for his car’s security system/remote starter.

Keeping his thumb on the button, he looped an end of the bicycle chain in each hand. He crouched down and squeezed on the chain so tightly that that it hurt, the greasy metal digging into his palms.

He pushed the remote starter button.

The Grand Prix fired up.

He held perfectly still. Waited.

Footsteps from inside his house, drawing near, at a run. The man rush passed him, toward the Grand Prix, threw open the driver side door, and jabbed his Glock inside. He’d left the door to the house open, a patch of light falling in the garage, revealing the man.

It was Cobb. Not a leader among Burton’s minions, but no slouch either. White, late twenties, maybe early thirties. Brown wavy hair. Brown beard.

Jake jumped out and wrapped the bicycle chain around Cobb’s throat from behind. He clenched down hard.

Immediately Cobb retaliated, waving the Glock like a club. Cobb was well trained. No panic. Firing his weapon prematurely would draw unwanted attention.

Cobb slid his foot behind Jake’s, knee twisted behind his leg, and brought them both tumbling to the floor. Jake’s head smacked into the open car door as they fell, but he landed on top of their two-man pile, knocking the Glock free of Cobb’s grasp. It rattled against the smooth concrete and bashed into the wall at the far side of the garage.

He brought the chain in a full loop around Cobb’s neck and pulled tight, Cobb’s face instantly reddening.

Jake leaned away from Cobb’s clawing fingers, pulled the chain even tighter.

Cobb’s cheeks went from red to purple, eyes watering and bloodshot. Droplets of blood ringed his neck where the chain cut into flesh.

Small gurgles from his throat.

Jake gave the chain a tug, a finishing blow.

Except it didn’t finish him. Cobb kept slapping.

Weaker. Flatter.

Jake tugged again.

And again.

Then Cobb went limp.

Jake’s chest heaved. His breaths wheezed. He didn’t release the pressure on the chain for several long moments, staring down at Cobb’s face.

He needed to be certain.

A few seconds passed. He put two fingers to Cobb’s throat.

Cobb was gone.

Jake sat back on his haunches, pressure going to his knees, and to his wounded calf, which he’d forgotten about during the action, the adrenaline.

A surge of pain.

He grimaced and tilted his head back, looking up at the sheetrock ceiling. His mind went to what Burton had said.

I’m going to steal something from you. When I do, I want you to remember something—everyone will be involved, and we’ll take our time.

Jake’s attention snapped back to Cobb.

Everyone will be involved…

This was one of the men who killed C.C., destroyed her face, broke her body, left her swimming in her blood.

Now he was very dead.

Jake had murdered him.

And Cobb was only the first. Of several.

He would kill them all.

Everyone will be involved…

He would kill all eight of the new Burton gang.

He studied Cobb’s face, frozen in a look of bewilderment. Blood oozed down his neck.

One down; seven to go, Jake thought.

First, he’d make sure there were not other Burton visitors in the house.

He found Cobb’s pistol lying against the wall several feet away. It was a Glock 19. Second generation, as evidenced by the checkering on the front and back straps. It held the standard magazine, which meant fifteen rounds if it was fully loaded, sixteen if Cobb had stuck an extra in the chamber. 9 mm. Polymer-framed. Short-recoil. Efficient, reliable, and real-world tested across the globe by countless armed forces, security firms, and law enforcement agencies.

Ideal for what Jake had planned.

He used his new gun to clear the open doorway and the living room beyond. It was alight via the floor lamp that Cobb had turned on. He left it on.

That sense of disconnect returned to him as he moved through the house, clearing each room—the feeling that this was no longer his home. It was Pete Hudson’s. Not Jake’s. The home of a fictitious character who was now gone forever.

House cleared, he now needed to make a few preparations. He went back to the living room. The answering machine on the end table by his couch flashed a red 1. One new message. He pressed the eject button, took out the tiny tape, and stuck it in his pocket.

To the office. His simple, old desk—a gray metal job that the police department had picked up at a consignment shop—was on the back wall. He opened the center drawer, grabbed the handheld