Hush Hush by Erik Carter (best short novels of all time .TXT) 📗

Muzzle flash from an automatic, another submachine gun like the dead man had used, firing at the vehicle.

Tat-tat-tat-tat!

Gavin had three rounds left in his five-round revolver. He squeezed the trigger rapidly, emptying the rounds in the vicinity of the muzzle flash.

And the muzzle flash stopped.

There was a thump of something falling and the crackle of branches.

Then a loud metallic crash in the distance as the Grand Cherokee ran itself into a tree trunk.

And then quiet.

Just the sound of the Grand Cherokee’s engine.

For a while, Gavin had felt nothing but adrenaline.

But now the pain returned. Flushing over him.

He collapsed onto the concrete.

Chapter Forty-One

Silence was hurt. He was hurt badly.

But not that badly.

Not as badly as he was letting on.

Among the many deadly skills Silence had in his Asset toolbox, one of the deadliest wasn’t at all violent.

Deception was a powerful tool. Silence could be a damn good actor when he wanted to.

So he could get past the pain of the beating he’d taken from the cans that now buried him.

And he could make the situation look a lot worse than it really was.

He groaned, loudly, as he got to his knees.

Mr. Accord approached at a slow walk, all the confidence fully returned to his smile. “You know, we’ve crossed paths all day, and yet we haven’t said a word to each other. Haven’t even made introductions. My name’s Finley. And you are?”

Silence didn’t respond. He just groaned again.

The groaning itself was genuine, as a fresh wave of pain rushed over his left ribs. But the volume and emphasis was all for show.

He’d made it sound as though he was on the edge.

He would continue the act.

But at the same time he kept his hand behind his back, fingers clenching a thin strip of metal, his hand weighted down.

“Not gonna give me your name? I wonder if that’s because you’re injured or because you just don’t talk,” Finley said. “See, earlier Carlton told me who he thinks you might be—a legendary vigilante, who hardly speaks, just tells his victims to ‘talk.’ Is that you?”

Silence didn’t respond. He just grimaced, moved his right hand out of the mound of cans, making sure it was clearly visible to Finley as it shook dramatically.

And with his other hand, he tightened his grip.

“Mr. Stokes didn’t want me to kill you until I figured out who you are,” Finley said. “But if you’re not gonna talk…” He reached to his waist, an undeniably characteristic movement, going for a gun concealed at his lower back.

It was time for Silence to drop the act.

He squeezed the paint can’s handle tighter and swung up, a huge, arching path.

A full can of latex paint weighs approximately 11.3 pounds. Silence knew this from both study and experience.

A full can of latex paint can easily break a man’s jaw. Silence knew this solely from experience.

This particular can wasn’t entirely full, but it was close. Silence approximated its weight at a bit over ten pounds.

Which was evidently still enough weight to break a man’s jaw.

Crack!

Broken bone. A moist, distorted shriek emitted from Finley’s now grotesquely distorted face, mouth open, half of his lower row of teeth jutting at a bizarre angle to the rest of them. His hands went up, hovering a couple inches from his flesh, searching without touching, confused bewilderment in his wide eyes.

Silence wouldn’t let him wallow in confusion for too long.

Silence was a nice guy like that.

He swept Finley’s leg, bringing him to the concrete with a loud thud.

Silence dropped, joining him on the floor, knees on either side of Finley’s torso. Hands on the upper part of Finley’s head, the intact part.

A swift, hard tug.

Snap.

And a clean death.

Silence stood.

His headspace was chaotic. He needed to recenter.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, embraced his pain, felt it surging through his body in electric waves, acknowledged it, respected it, recognized where it felt the worst, at his right trapezius where one of the first cans to fall had struck him, a tender spot on his hip, one of his toes, a deeper breath, in his center, through his core, the pain was acknowledged, another breath, his feet in contact with the floor.

Then his eyes snapped open again.

A five-second meditation.

His vision adjusted to the tiny bit of light in the garage. He spotted his Beretta, all the way against the far wall. He crossed the room, retrieved it. To the door, threw it open, cleared it. And he cautiously proceeded back into the house.

As soon as he rounded the corner, he saw Kim and Carlton Stokes at the second-floor landing. Carlton had a sharp object to her throat, some sort of tool, one so out of place that it took Silence a moment to recognize it.

It was a chisel.

Kim had a crude noose around her neck, made of decorative, shiny rope, its ends frayed and fuzzy. One end was tied to the banister.

“You’re The Shadow, aren’t you?” Stokes said. “The silent vigilante. The Angel of Death, come to stop me. C11 has been a way of life for a select group of people for years, decades, and you came in and destroyed that in one day.

“My daughter was trying to destroy it too. I never wanted kids, but my wife, God bless her soul, couldn’t live without one. And then she passed away when Amber was only three, leaving me to raise the damn cripple. Amber got all adult-like, her little wannabe detective skills kicked in, and she decided she was going to investigate C11, found out about the Well, was going to expose us. She asked me to come clean. I told her I would. After she got married—just let me see my daughter married before I face the music. So you know what I did?”

He looked intently at Silence.

“I had the bitch killed.”

Silence bristled.

Kim wailed.

A deep dread in Silence’s stomach. It flushed throughout the rest of his body, coursing over the pain, overtaking it.

The entire day—from the briefing Falcon had given him, to the press conference, listening