Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10)

A Jack Daniels Thriller

L
AST CALL
was written as a standalone thriller and requires no prior knowledge of any previous books.

If you read
STIRRED
, co-authored by Blake Crouch, you know that novel was supposed to be the conclusion to this particular storyline. But fan insistence, coupled with some unresolved issues at the end of
STIRRED
, prompted a follow-up. Besides finishing off the Jack Daniels/Luther Kite saga,
LAST CALL
also concludes the Lucy/Donaldson story from
SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT
. Characters from previous books also play key roles, including Chandler and Fleming (
FLEE
,
SPREE
,
THREE
, Tequila (
SHOT OF TEQUILA
,
NAUGHTY
), and Jack Daniels regulars Phin, Herb, and Harry.

My frequent collaborator, Blake Crouch, was unable to join me on this book, as he’s currently committed to two hit television series based on his stories,
WAYWARD PINES
and
GOOD BEHAVIOR
. He’s given me his blessing to use some of his characters, for which I’m grateful. I hope I’ve done them justice.

In
LAST CALL
, the reader will come across occasional hyperlinks when a character first appears, or when a passage nods to another story. These lead to the story being referenced. There is also an index at the end of the novel which lists all of the interlocking books in this universe.

But, as I previously mentioned, this novel can be enjoyed without having read anything else.

A word of warning, though; this book is called
LAST CALL
. So be prepared for some characters to die. But before you hate me, I humbly ask you to read the preview chapters of
WHITE RUSSIAN
, the next Jack Daniels thriller, at the end of this book. ☺

As always, thanks for reading!
Joe Konrath

“It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience.”

JULIUS CAESAR

F
or forever and beyond…

“Ándale, puto!”

The leg shackles were removed, and the captive man was shoved roughly from behind. He still had his handcuffs on—heavy, rusty chains that had rubbed the skin on his wrists raw. As he was marched through the cell hallway, a machinegun at his back, the chains bumped against his broken ribs, causing a spike of pain with every step.

Besides the ribs, he had a laceration on his scalp that had been fixed with superglue, a nasty burn on his chest, a dislocated pinky, and an abdominal wound that had required eight stitches, which had been done without anesthetic. They were given the barest medical treatment; sutures, bandages, splints, aspirin and penicillin sporadically.

No one spoke much.

It made sense, considering their predicament.

Incongruous to their harsh treatment, they were fed well; delicious burritos and tamales, enchiladas, the best huaraches he’d ever eaten. If someone won a match, he got a six pack of Tecate beer. It was so woefully pathetic, it was almost funny. Even funnier, he’d found himself looking forward to that beer. Not because of what it represented, but because downing six was his only reprieve from this living hell.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here. Judging by his beard growth, at least two days. They were kept underground, no windows, no accurate way of judging time. When they were taken topside, sometimes it was daytime, sometimes night, and it was so disorienting and so brief he couldn’t tell east from west to check if the sun was setting or rising.

Another shove from behind, and he was led through a heavy, iron door, and out into the arena. It had probably been an old bullfighting ring. A circle, perhaps twenty meters wide, surrounded by bleachers. He squinted in the lights, portable kliegs running on gas generators, and looked at the surrounding crowd. A hundred, maybe more. Some cheered when they saw him. Others booed.

He’d made a few of them money, and helped others lose theirs.

Above the seats and the lights, covering the arena like a shroud, was a roof of camouflage netting. He guessed it hid the place from satellite photos.

The man looked to the right, to the board, and saw the number that had been spray painted on his shirt when he’d arrived. Number 17. Beneath it were his odds.

1:2.

That wasn’t good. Previously, the odds had always been in his favor, or at least 1:1. Now they were against him.

A lump formed in his throat. There were a couple of big guys underground, and one certified monster. But he had an idea who his opponent was going to be.

Number 12. A gringo, like he was. College student, half his age. He gave up two inches and thirty pounds to him, and the kid was built like a linebacker.

As expected, they led Number 12 into the arena, and the crowd reacted with some lackluster applause. The kid smiled, hooting and raising his cuffed hands. He’d won eight matches, but during that time he’d lost his mind.

Which was completely understandable.

The sand underneath their feet was compact, hard, with dozens of rough spots where blood had seeped in and dried to the strength of concrete. The gamey smell of meat left out in the sun mingled with the scent of arid desert. Without wanting to, Number 17’s eyes were drawn to the corner of the arena, to the large, wooden cross. The man who’d been hung there days ago had finally died, as evidenced by the birds picking at his carcass. A terrible ending to a terrible murder. He wondered which son of a bitch in the crowd had come closest to predicting the time of death, and how much they’d won.

There was an announcement is Spanish, booming over the sound system. It was repeated in English for the rich white people in the stands.

“Last call for bets, last call for bets. Number 12, with eight wins, against Number 17, with two. Weight and age advantage to Number 12, and Number 17 pays two to one. The weapons for this match… aluminum baseball bats.”

A golf cart puttered into the arena, carrying four guards brandishing Tec-9 machineguns. They unlocked the combatants’ chains and gave each a bat. More armed guards—never fewer than four—stood at attention in the wings. Mounted on the north and west sides of the ring, shrouded in bulletproof glass, were belt-fed M60s with 7.62mm armor-piercing NATO rounds. Number 17 had been keeping careful watch on the security, noting the egress points, the personnel, the security cameras, and concluded there wasn’t even a remote possibility of escape. The only way out of this hellhole was one chunk at a time, in the bellies of crows.

His opponent immediately picked up his bat and raised it above his head, letting out a crazed whoop.

In a moment, this college kid was going to try to kill him.

He didn’t want that to happen. He had too much to live for.

The man closed his eyes and stretched his arms out over his head, then touched his toes, flexing to force blood into his tired limbs. He picked up the bat and held it in front of him like a sword, and stared up at the freak show duo presiding over this ongoing crime against humanity.

A man and a woman. They sat in a balcony above the arena. He wore a crown. She a tiara. Both were clad in purple capes, velvet or velour.

But they weren’t royalty.

They were monsters.

The puppet king lifted his gold staff, a human skull forming its bulbous top, and banged it against the Chinese gong next to his throne. The clang resonated out over the crowd, who once again applauded and cheered.

Let the games begin.

The man tensed, and the college kid, predictably, charged at him with his bat upraised. He no doubt expected his speed and strength to be enough to win. And in this particular death match, he might be correct.

Previously in the arena, Number 17 had fought with machetes and spears. Weapons that pierced and slashed. It hadn’t been toe-to-toe battles with each fighter standing his ground; instead it was about causing one fast and fatal wound, then keeping away as the opponent bled out.

But it would be tough to kill a man via blood loss with a baseball bat. Beating a man to death with a blunt instrument was likely to be a long and tiring task. The only killing method Number 17 could think of was via concussion, and that favored bigger muscles.

When the college kid got within striking distance, he made like A-Rod and swung for the stands, aiming at no particular part of his opponent’s body. If it landed, it would break bones.

Number 17 anticipated the move, rolling beneath the swing, and giving a stiff pop to the football player’s groin with the butt of his bat. As the larger man doubled over, Number 17 dipped a shoulder, came up behind him, and connected with the spot between the base of the skull and the neck, giving the blow everything he had.

Number 12 went down, face first into the sand, and was still. Maybe knocked out. Maybe paralyzed. But not dead, since his chest continued to move up and down.

The crowd howled a mixture of boos and cheers.

Number 17looked up at the balcony and waited, keeping his scream bottled up inside.

I came looking for this. And I found what I was looking for.

And it’s worse than anything I could have ever imagined.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

The puppet king held out a gaunt hand, and turned his thumb down.

As Number 17 smashed the bat into the college kid’s head, over and over, he focused on the woman he loved, and their child, and tried to picture their faces instead of the atrocity he was committing.

For them.

I have to get out of this for them.

After all, I got into this for them.

When the football player was no doubt dead, the man wearing the number 17, Phineas Troutt, dropped the gory bat and held up his hands to be cuffed and hauled away again, thinking about the six pack of victory beer waiting in his cell, and wondering if his wife, Jacqueline Daniels, had begun to search for him yet.