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  Table of Contents

  The Road So Far

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR:

  ALSO BY S.G. REDLING

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  Trigger

  Copyright © 2019 by S.G. Redling

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this book are solely the opinions of the author. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by: Starla Hutchton

  Interior book design by:

  Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  The Road So Far

  In 2013, Dani Britton worked as a data analyst at Rasmund, a private security firm investigating corporate and industrial espionage. Or so she thought. One November day, a team of assassins tore through the building executing everyone. She and audio analyst, Sinclair “Choo-Choo” Charbaneaux escaped, only to spend a terror-filled night racing through the streets of Washington, D.C. pursued by a relentless hitman named Tom Booker.

  Dani and Tom played a long, strange game of cat-and-mouse over the phone until they realized that they had both been targeted. Rasmund was in fact a cover for the CIA.

  The evening ended with everyone near death and imprisoned in a secret military hospital.

  Months later, Dani was released with nothing but the clothes on her back and her old Honda. She fled to the Florida Keys to rebuild her life. On Redemption Key, she found a home and convinced Choo-Choo to leave his wealthy family and move in with her. Trouble followed and so did Tom Booker. In late August 2014, a dangerous smuggling operation turned violent and Tom Booker, the face of her nightmares, proved to be an enigmatic ally.

  This story begins one month after the events on Redemption Key.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tulsa, Oklahoma

  Wednesday, October 8, 2014

  It was a better cover than most. Considering the working conditions of the past year, that didn’t say much but Booker appreciated the attention to detail. His invitation stuck out of his blazer pocket, the dark maroon border advertising the ten-thousand-dollar donation he had supposedly paid to gain admittance to the party. Few guests showed their invitations, accustomed to such cover charges. Between that and the cell phone he kept prominently in front of him, presumably to snap pictures with the other guests, Booker created space around him wherever he walked in the crowded ballroom.

  Tom R. Nalaborski, that’s what his identification and invitation said. A plumbing parts manufacturer and owner of a regional trucking fleet, Mr. Nalaborski operated his business with a seventy-thirty split on ethics and respectability. Booker appreciated his handlers’ rare display of preparation and attention to detail. Nalaborski supposedly had the money all campaigns opened their doors for, but the movers and shakers within this circle would be informed to keep any public connection between them and the not-completely-legitimate businessman to a minimum. That meant everyone would dodge photo-ops, few would engage him in anything but the most trivial bar chatter, and Booker could operate invisibly.

  It was the sort of identity he would have ordered for himself back when he worked as an independent contractor. God, he missed those days – choosing his own jobs, traveling when he felt like it, socking money away until he found the time, place, and reason to drop out of the business altogether.

  But twelve months ago, he had taken a job that had changed everything.

  One misstep, one lapse in judgment, and he’d been played, lied to, manipulated, used, and nearly killed. Twice. Sure, he’d killed dozens of people in the course of the Rasmund job, including one of the people who tried to kill him, but Booker couldn’t help but feel he’d paid the higher price. He’d spent months in a hospital having his face rebuilt; under sedation he’d given up three of his five bank accounts. Worse than that, he’d lost his independence.

  For the past year, his employers, whose name he still didn’t know, had run him around the country delivering hits and threats for targets he never would have entertained in his previous life – blunt force executions of blackmailers and corrupt business men, or businessmen who wouldn’t be corrupted properly. He’d blown up the cars of undesirable sons-in-law; he’d poisoned unfaithful or overly talkative mistresses. Every time Booker’s phone beeped with a new assignment, his hatred of his new life deepened.

  This job felt different. The fake IDs were top-drawer, the kind he would have ordered himself from his old contacts. The cover story held up to a cursory internet search and the down payment for the job arrived promptly. Even the weapon was well crafted and easy to conceal; it was one of his preferred kill methods when the job required discretion. As much as he enjoyed them, knives didn’t always fit the bill.

  A tight-skinned woman with a plunging neckline smiled at him from across the canapé station. Booker made a show of squinting to see if she had a nametag, his phone held up at the ready, his whole body sending a clear message: If you engage me, I will drag you into a name-dropping conversational black hole as I pump you for introductions to someone more important than you that I can photo-bomb to elevate my own status.

  He laughed as she broke eye contact. He knew she’d understand the message; she’d been sending it herself all evening.

  The room certainly held enough heavy hitters to climb. The quality of the identity, as well as the amount of the down payment, had prompted Booker to invest a little more time into research on the event. That felt good too, like exercising a muscle that had long atrophied. The event was a fundraiser for an unlikely candidate for Congress. But Booker understood that this event served a greater purpose. Politics was a long game. Midterm elections were just an inning.

  The candidate wasn’t the target. Booker peered through the melting body of an ice mermaid sculpture. There, propped up at a table near the front of the gala, sat Desmond Nestor, looking hearty for his age. At eighty-six, the former senator had been a titan of industry,
held a cabinet position under two administrations, been an ambassador to Poland, and had probably lost count of how many buildings he had his name on.

  For all his former power, however, Booker felt Nestor made a strange target. He’d already suffered two heart attacks; both Parkinson’s and Type II diabetes were taking their toll. He couldn’t imagine what could be so important about his death that his employers couldn’t just wait him out.

  But Booker wasn’t getting paid to wonder about that. He was getting paid to kill him.

  A loose crowd hovered around the old man, led by a sixty-something woman who was either his daughter or one of his later wives. People smiled at him, patted his shoulder, shook his hand. Desmond Nestor didn’t rise for anyone, and not just because of his growing infirmity. His star might be fading but the elder statesman did not relinquish his prominent status.

  Booker slotted himself into the crowd, slightly behind his target. The thin group gave way, accustomed to such interruptions, giving him a chance to clasp the old man’s shoulder. He stuck his other hand out at an awkward angle, forcing Nestor to shift in his seat to shake his hand. As he prattled some useless nonsense about admiring his career, Booker saw the man’s cloudy eyes squinting, struggling to make out the words, a lifetime of diplomacy training kicking in to engage however he might.

  What nobody saw was the small injection pen slip from Booker’s left cuff. Sleek and plastic, not bigger than a fountain pen, the syringe would never set off a security check. The old man didn’t feel the fine gauge needle pierce the skin just above his collar. Booker smiled and shook hands as he released the plunger, injected the contents, withdrew the needle, and pocketed the injection pen. The entire act had taken less than twenty seconds.

  Getting free of the old man proved the most difficult part.

  Desmond Nestor had launched into a story of some sort, seeming to mistake Booker for the son of an old comrade. Fortunately, nobody in the man’s entourage took any notice, nor did they seem surprised when Booker withdrew his hand mid-story. He didn’t know how long it would take for the Novolog to kick in. Could be an hour, could be just minutes. He didn’t want to be anywhere close when Nestor’s body reacted to the enormous dose of insulin and his blood sugar bottomed out. He’d feel lightheaded and sleepy; he’d become sweaty and confused.

  He could easily fall into a coma before anyone noticed.

  Booker stepped through a clot of people laughing too loudly at a joke. He pretended to take a picture with his phone of the candidate shaking hands with an elderly woman and then headed at an easy stroll toward the door, pausing before one of the tables of food.

  He didn’t know or care why his employers wanted Desmond Nestor dead. They had their plans; he had his. Feeling the happiness that came with a high-quality job, relishing the memory of good cover identities and the subtle details that used to make his work interesting, Booker had come to a decision. Next month marked the one-year anniversary of his indenture to his new employers. There would not be a year two.

  Scanning an elevated tray of food, Booker picked up a tiny taco shell filled with steak tartar and avocado and popped it into his mouth. Delicious.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Philadelphia, PA

  Thursday, October 8, 2014

  6:45 a.m.

  “Breakfast is on me.”

  That Booker didn’t return the sunny smile of the woman sitting across the booth from him did nothing to dim her shine.

  “Mr. Booker, I’m Cara Hedrick. Please let me say that I am a huge fan of your work.” She held out a pale hand. When Booker only stared at her, she raised her eyebrows in amusement. “Oops! They told me you were focused. All work, no play.”

  Cara gestured to the waitress and Booker studied her under the ugly diner lighting. Early forties, pale skin, green eyes, well taken care of. The sort of woman who spent a small fortune on skin regimens and spa treatments. It paid off; Cara was beautiful in a calculated sort of way. She certainly wasn’t the type of representative his employers usually sent.

  The waitress set down two black coffees and a pair of menus.

  Booker ordered without looking at his. Cara waved hers off as well.

  “Just coffee for me, thanks.” She winked. “I’m a beast until I’ve had enough coffee.”

  Cara was charming. Her flirtation was overt enough to be noticed, subtle enough to be misinterpreted. She was a woman who knew how to use her appearance to sway opinions. He didn’t begrudge her that, but Booker wasn’t in the mood for this.

  “Cara, if I may.” He leaned forward on his elbows, meeting her gaze with his own straight forward stare. The amusement he’d seen there earlier faded, faltered, to be replaced with a well-acted replica. He definitely had her attention. “You asked for a face-to-face. That’s an unusual request at an unusual time. And you’re not the type of messenger they usually send.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “No.”

  She used her laughter as an excuse to break from his stare. “I told them this wouldn’t be as easy as they thought.”

  Booker went still. If his employers had decided to eliminate him, he’d have to rely on luck and speed to dodge their bullet. At least two dozen people moved around them. There were dozens of unobstructed lines of sight.

  “Why are you here?” He twisted slightly in the seat, feeling the comforting presence of the small knife in the waistband of his khakis.

  “Two reasons. The first, your unusual request.” She pulled a Tyvek envelope from her red pebbled-leather purse. “Is there a reason you requested cash this time? You’re not becoming one of those kooky preppers hiding cash in Mason jars, are you?” She laughed at her own joke. “Don’t get used to payments like this. If I hadn’t needed to meet with you in person, you would have received the balance in the usual manner. I’m certainly nobody’s bag man. Today, however, is a special day so you are in luck. You get what you want. That was nice work in Oklahoma. Not a hint of suspicion. Had you ever been there before? Oklahoma? I hear it’s the worst. I would hate to die there.”

  Booker put his hand over the envelope and drew it closer. They always acted so nonchalant about these assignments. Booker didn’t flinch from taking a life, but he had earned that callousness in practice. For his employers, it was just another task to farm out. It shouldn’t bother him as much as it did.

  Cara smoothed the napkin beneath her coffee and smiled.

  “Interestingly enough, the second reason I’m here also involves Oklahoma in a roundabout way. You remember Danielle Kathleen Britton, don’t you? Of course, you do. She was from Oklahoma. She still is, I guess, since she’s still alive.”

  He didn’t take the bait. His thoughts on that situation were complicated, to say the least. He had no desire to discuss them with his employers.

  Cara sipped her coffee. “Mr. Booker, you were hired at great expense to address the Rasmund issue. You were given very specific instructions and,” she heaved a great sigh, “you left that job unfinished.”

  “The Rasmund plan was a disaster from the start. I was lied to. I was given incomplete information that made it impossible to do the job properly.”

  “Um-hmm. You left the job unfinished.” Cara waved away his complaint like so much smoke. “So now we are wondering why you snuck down to Florida where the only loose ends from the entire Rasmund operation are tucked away and not only left them alive – again – but also left such a nice, clear calling card. They recognized your work. Your knife leaves something of a signature.”

  Booker pictured the signature he wanted to leave on Cara’s pale throat.

  Of course, his employers knew about his trip to Redemption Key last month. Stalking in the shadows of the United States government, they had their fingers in every branch of law enforcement. Despite all his precautions, despite the fake identification and the extra steps he’d taken to remain invisible, as soon as he’d seen the FBI helicopters circling the island, he’d known they
would discover his presence.

  “And so, they sent you to tell me to go back and finish the job?”

  “Oh gosh, no! Quite the contrary, Mr. Booker. I’m here to make sure you don’t finish that job.” He couldn’t stop the little huff of surprise that fell from his lips. Cara thumbed a trace of lipstick off the rim of her coffee cup. “There’s a new plan and, good news for you, my boss wants to give you a second chance.”

  “A second chance? For what? To do more of these ridiculous jobs? You could have sent a monkey out to do them and not wasted my time.”

  “Well, Rasmund went so badly, maybe the brass at ISOC want to be sure you’ve still got what it takes. Maybe they wanted you to prove yourself.”

  “ISOC.” Booker’s palm warmed with the desire for his knife. “So, they do have a name.”

  “Independent Security Oversight Committee.” Cara sighed, leaning back in her seat. “Don’t bother looking them up and don’t wait to see any letterhead. That’s the name for them I know. That’s the name the people I answer to answer to. For all I know, this could just be one level of a much deeper lie. You know how these operations go.”

  “You seem to know a lot more than I do, Cara.” He unwrapped his silverware, taking an extra moment to place the knife precisely. “For example, you know my job. I don’t know yours. I don’t like being at a disadvantage.”

  “I am a facilitator. People pay me to get what they want.” She rested her chin in her palms and wiggled her fingers against her cheeks. “I’m a pleaser. I make people happy. I get them what they want.”

  “And what is it you think I want?”

  “I think you want Dani Britton.”

  Booker entertained a momentary fantasy of taking her hands in his and snapping her long fingers one by one.

  She watched his face. “I think you dream about taking her apart piece by piece with that little knife you’re so fond of.”

  “And so here you are, seeming to enjoy letting me know that I can’t.” He smiled. “And they call me sadistic.”