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

a hand along his mustache. “He’s saving Burton for last.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

It had been a fifteen-minute drive from Pensacola to Pensacola Beach. In theory, there had been plenty of time for Jake to cool off.

But he hadn’t.

The same rage roiled in his gut, the same clouded vision that he both perceived and didn’t perceive.

And by the time he took the curve around the road to reveal Burton’s ultramodern beach house, he still felt venom pulsing through him.

Several cars lined the horseshoe driveway. He recognized all of them. Burton had called in the forces. In the middle of the night. Word must’ve gotten out about Jake’s killing spree. Just as Jake had predicted. That’s why he’d come here.

To get them all in one fell swoop.

Jake stopped two houses up, parked on the side of the road, edging the wheels into the packed sand of Burton’s neighbor’s lot.

He stepped out of the Grand Prix. Onto the road. And started toward Burton’s house.

As he took out the Glock, he made a quick mental calculation—an assumption that Burton would have a man waiting for him.

The assumption was immediately validated.

There was a figure at the side of the house, a dark outline at the peak of the beach’s embankment. The man stood by the concrete stilts, holding what looked like a shotgun.

Jake crossed the road, approached the house from the opposite side.

As he came around the corner, where the embankment met the flat bottom of the primary floor, he peeked beneath and saw the other man.

It was Knox—twenty-something, black, mocha skin tone, square jaw with the strong, scrubbed-clean features of a would-be Hollywood actor. He held a pump-action, much like the Mossberg Jake had faced back at the Farone mansion.

Jake went farther down the embankment, soft white sand silencing his footsteps, and he eased onto the concrete patio area, which held a propane grill and an upscale set of lawn furniture.

Knox’s back was turned to him, still facing the road. If Jake could stay quiet enough, this would be a clean kill.

Too late.

Something caught Knox’s attention.

Knox spun around, the shotgun swinging with him, aimed in Jake’s direction.

Jake lunged forward, his left boot slipping on the sand-covered concrete. Knox’s finger tensed on the trigger, but Jake’s shoulder collided with his ribs before he could squeeze. Knox buckled.

The Glock struck the shotgun’s barrel with a metallic clank. Both weapons dislodged. The men’s arms tangled as momentum carried them forward, off the concrete, away from the house.

Jake landed on Knox as they thudded in the sand. He reached for Knox’s neck, missed. Knox swiped Jake’s arm, pulled at his hair. Fire from his scalp. His face snapped back.

A fist connected with Jake’s side. The pain registered muffled and distant. Unimportant. He immediately threw a punch of his own, cracking his fist across Knox’s jaw, throwing the man’s head to the side.

The grip on Jake’s hair released, but Knox took the blow well, his face snapping right back around. His big, dark eyes locked on Jake. A line of blood trickled from his upper lip.

The shotgun was a few feet away, half-buried in the sand. Jake reached. His fingertips grazed the stock. The gun shifted.

He threw another punch at Knox, missing the face, hitting the shoulder on the follow-through. He pulled their combined weight through the sand toward the shotgun. Reached again. Grabbed it.

And smashed the stock across Knox’s head.

A sickening, wet thwack. Knox’s jaw had broken. The lower half of his handsome face was rearranged. He looked like he’d crawled out of a cubist painting. A horrible moan. Hands to his cheeks, patting at himself dumbly, weakly.

Dazed. Little strength left.

That would make this easier.

Jake wrapped his hands around Knox’s neck, and Knox slapped back with his remaining energy. All ten of Jake’s fingers squeezed tight, thumbs digging into the esophagus.

Sputtering noises escaped Knox’s lopsided mouth, from somewhere deep inside him. Spittle gurgled from his lips.

The sounds faded. His arms padded Jake weakly.

And he was still.

Jake leaned back, his hands remaining on Knox’s neck—no longer squeezing, but resting.

His chest heaved.

As it had been with the other kills, Jake hadn’t realized how exhausted he was. Adrenaline and rage had fueled him.

He needed to keep moving, to get into the house and continue his mission. But he’d give himself a moment, just a few seconds, to catch his breath.

Which was a mistake.

A metallic click from behind. An unmistakable, telltale noise. He didn’t turn around.

A jolt of pain as the barrel of the gun jammed into the back of his neck.

Then a sharper pain to his head that made his eyes shut and his body drop back to the sand.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Pressure on Jake’s upper arms. And his wrists. His thighs. His ankles.

There was a sharp snapping noise. Irritating. Almost painful.

He opened his eyes.

A pair of fingers snapped an inch from his face. Each snap brought another pulse of pain to his throbbing head.

It was Burton. Smiling.

And in a flash, Jake took in the entire situation.

He was tied to a small wooden chair in the center of Burton’s living room, on the dark gray area rug, next to the square, concrete coffee table, all of it encircled by the long planes of Burton’s stylish sectional sofas.

At the far wall, a few feet in front of him, Burton’s home theater projector screen had been extended. It was aglow with the bright blue standby screen. Otherwise, there were no lights on in the room, just moonlight coming in through walls of glass.

There were four other men in the room, all standing: Burton, Glover, Gamble, and Hodges, the remaining members of Burton’s contingent, the ones Jake hadn’t killed yet.

With the theater screen in front of him, Jake’s overactive brain flashed on a strange, out-of-place notion: that this scenario—tied to a chair, surrounded by adversaries—was one that a big-screen hero in a typical action movie would face with steely, unflinching resolve.

But here in the real world, Jake felt fear, deep down inside. Dread. Lots of it.

Burton leaned over, getting closer to his face, smiled. “Hello.”

Jake couldn’t