The Debt Collector (Book 1 of a Jack Winchester Organized Crime Action Thriller) (Jack Winchester Vigilante Justice Thriller Series) (16 page)

J
ACK SQUEEZED
THE WHEEL tight as the cruiser roared its way beyond the town, tires squealing and pushing the engine to its limits. His eyes darted back and forth between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. Every nerve was on high alert. Only one thing now shot through his mind:
Getting to
Dana and Jason before Vincent.
A green sign for Rockland Breakwater Lighthouse, indicating five miles, flashed past in his peripheral vision. There was one road in, one road out. Where else could they have gone? It was the only place she felt safe. They had to be there. The sound of the police radio to his right brought home a harsh realization. He’d stolen a police car, and his word against an officer of the law wouldn’t stand up. Jack hammered the wheel with a balled fist as he tried to comprehend the sheriff’s involvement.

Then, from seemingly out of nowhere, the black sedan appeared behind him, speeding up and closing the gap between them. Jack instantly went into diversionary tactics, skating the shoulder and fishtailing the width of the road to prevent them from coming up alongside him. He pinned the gas and maneuvered the cruiser with fearless confidence despite still being cuffed. With the back window shot out, he expected nothing less than more brutal violence. Sure enough, he heard the snapping of bullets. They were trying to take out a tire.

Rumbling down the open road, he pushed the car to a speed of almost hundred and twenty. His eyes were on fire, alert to every attempt to come up beside him. Jack knew if he didn’t stop them before he reached the breakwater, he would have little chance.

Jerking the wheel to the left, he released pressure off the accelerator and allowed them to slide up, catching a glimpse of Vincent for a split second. Before they were completely parallel, he slammed the brakes to the metal and slid behind them almost effortlessly. Smoke billowed up off the tires as he pinned the gas, and hightailed it up behind them. A foot, then inches from the bumper, he plowed hard into the back of the sedan. The vehicle’s tires screeched as they tried to keep control. Again he forced the cruiser directly into their rear. Both headlights’ glass shattered, and the bumper tore away. Barely hanging by a thread of metal, it scraped the asphalt, kicking up hot orange sparks. Each time he slammed into them he saw them jerk forward. Relentless, he didn’t let up for a second.

As if anticipating the next assault, Vincent tried to keep him from coming up alongside them. With each hit, Jack’s ability to keep control was getting harder.

Then he saw his opening.

Jack hammered it, adrenaline surging through his tense body. The front end slid up the right side. Aligned to the back wheels of the sedan, he braced himself. Within a fraction of as second, too fast for them to counteract, he executed a dirty but effective PIT maneuver and rammed the corner of the patrol car just behind their back wheel. Metal crunched and hot sparks spat wildly before the sedan abruptly turned sideways.

Jack slammed his brakes.

Unable to keep control or stop, the sedan launched off the hard shoulder and landed with a sickening thud. Soil kicked in the air; small trees and undergrowth flattened as it continued down the embankment and collided with a thick tree stump.

The car idled as he waited a minute or two to observe the aftermath.

Black smoke rose from the crumpled front end. Instinct told him to get out and make sure they were all dead, but the risk was too high. Injured or not, going up against them handcuffed and with no weapon would be foolish. Then there was that little matter of the cops. Police could be on scene any moment. Who knew if the sheriff had called them in? He cranked up the radio inside the car. It crackled. A couple of officers mumbled about an incident on the west side of town. A domestic between a couple they had dealt with before. He cast a glance back to the sedan. Flames now engulfed the engine. Still listening to the radio system, he didn’t hear mention of his escape, which only confirmed his earlier suspicions about Sheriff Grant.

Jack took one last look, only to see Vincent’s bloodied frame drop out of the driver’s side window and collapse. He didn’t wait around to see the other three crawl to safety. A spiral of gray and black smoke appeared in his rearview mirror as he peeled away.

* * *

D
ana could barely concentrate
on her drive out to the lighthouse. Something about it all just didn’t add up. Churning it over, her stomach felt queasy, and not even the sight of her parents’ home made her feel safe. But staying at the motel wasn’t an option. The department didn’t have the manpower to leave an officer on scene; at least, that’s what she was told, and the whole incident had scared her on so many levels. She was still in shock. Her mind was a nonstop highway of questions, each one crowding out all sense of normalcy.

Had Jack been telling the truth? Who had killed Matt? And if Jack had been sent by the mob, why hadn’t he killed her?

He’d had plenty of opportunity.

But maybe she was looking at this from the wrong angle.

Having been married to Matt for twelve years, she had thought she knew him. Sure, their financial difficulties were a burden that came between them, but still, what an earth would have got into him to get wrapped up with the mob? And over what? An unpaid loan? Drug money? If there was any, she hadn’t seen it.

She searched for answers in her memories. Any sign, indication, phone call that she’d overlooked. All she had to do was close her eyes and Matt was there. Their arguments replayed in her head. The nights when he would return from the city were always the most brutal. The heated shouting matches over how they were going to pay the bills and her failed attempts at trying to discuss the sale of the motel had always been a sore point. In his mind, to sell the property was to declare himself a failure. To her it was just common sense. In the final year before his disappearance, she had avoided any subject that didn’t involve bringing him his supper or Jason needing picking up. The beatings had become more frequent and always followed his returns from the city. It had reached a boiling point and forced her to sleep in a separate bedroom. She knew it was only a matter of time before they divorced or she wound up hospitalized.

They had lived on borrowed time—that was for sure.

Then, as she sifted through his words and actions, she remembered one thing he’d repeated in a drunken state before his final trip into the city. He’d been slouched in his Lazyboy armchair, surrounded by four empty bottles and the scraps left over from his meal.

“Tommorow it’s all gonna change,”
he’d muttered.

Those had been his last words. Slurred, almost incomprehensible—they made as much sense now as they had then, but then again she’d gotten used to ignoring anything that came out of his mouth. Promises, threats, and pleas for forgiveness were usually what spilled from it. In many ways, he had become a shadow of his former self.

Nursing a cup of coffee, she heard the faint spitting sound of gravel outside. It was rare to hear anyone approach the house; it was common knowledge in the town that it was private property. The only ones who came out were utility workers and the coastguard.

“Who is it, Jason?” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

Hauling himself off the couch, he kept his eyes on the baseball game on the TV.

“Well?”

He cast a glance outside before returning to his seat. “It’s the police.”

She frowned. She had already given a statement. Not that she had given them much. Something had told her to hold back the little Jack had told her. She wasn’t sure why they would come all the way out here when a phone call would have sufficed. Perhaps they had extracted more from Jack? Maybe they had more on him? Or she’d forgotten to sign the paper?

When she reached the screen door, her eyes widened. She blinked. The mug slipped from her hand, and coffee splashed all over the pine floor. At the clatter of ceramic breaking, Jason bolted up from the couch.

“Mum?”

“Get upstairs.”

With desperation and purpose, Dana didn’t think twice. Racing over to the double-barreled shotgun above the fireplace, she wrenched it off the wall hooks, feeling its weight in her hands. Cradling it in one arm, she snapped it apart and reached for a box of shells in a nearby drawer. All the while she kept her eyes on Jack, who was approaching the house at a fair clip.

The cartridges scattered as she emptied the box from the side. Some rolled off the side of the table and clattered on the floor. Punching two cartridges into the chamber and locking it in place, she turned around just in time to find Jack stumbling into the hallway.

She raised the gun and yelled, “Don’t come a step closer!”

Jack was panting hard. He held up his handcuffed hands, speaking slowly. “Listen to me, Dana. Put the gun down.” He cast a glance back over his shoulder. “I’m not here to harm you. But there are men coming who are.”

She glanced back out the window toward the cruiser. “How did you get out? Where’s Frank?”

“He’s a part of this.”

“A part of what?”

Jack cast a cautious glance outside. “Listen, there is no time to explain.”

“You’ve got two minutes to tell me what’s going on, or as God as my judge, I will shoot you where you stand.”

He smirked ever so slightly. “Dana, I’ve seen how you shoot.”

She squinted. “Not with a shotgun you haven’t.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, but get these off me.”

He motioned with the cuffs.

“They stay right where they are. Now start speaking.”

She kept the barrel leveled at his chest as he began to bring her up to speed: his first time meeting Matt, his time inside Riker’s, and his sister being used as leverage to force him to take on one last job. How he’d imagined it would be a simple collection: in and out. He’d never intended anyone to get hurt.

“A little late for that, don’t you think?”

He could see the pain in her eyes. She had already suffered more than anyone should have.

“I know I’ve not given you any reason to trust me. And I’m not looking for forgiveness for my past. I’m trying to do what’s right here.”

“Which is?”

“Keeping you and Jason safe.”

“Why?”

Before he could reply, his eyes picked up a dark moving dot in the distance, making its way up the breakwater. Trailing behind it was a plume of dust, spurring speed and the urgency for him to act.

“They’re coming.”

She glanced out.

“You need to decide right now who you’ll trust. If not for your own sake, do it for Jason.”

He stepped closer, holding his cuffs down and pulling them apart. “Shoot.”

She hesitated, a look of anger spreading across her face. Jack turned his head.

“Shoot them, now!” he yelled.

Aiming at the cuffs, the tip of the barrel touching the metal chain, she pulled the trigger. A sudden explosion, a ringing in his ears, then he was free.

“You’re going to need this.”

Jack turned to see Jason holding his Glock. Jack squeezed his shoulder before taking it and tucking it behind the small of his back. He reached for the shotgun in Dana’s hands. Reluctantly she released her grip, allowing him to take it.

“Do you have any other guns?”

“In the gun cabinet.”

Jason ran to retrieve one.

Jack gave another quick look over his shoulder. “Is there any other way off this place?” he asked.

“Um. Yeah,” she said nervously. “There’s a small boat my father used for fishing.”

“Go. Go now. Don’t look back. No matter what you hear.”

Snatching what cartridges he could and tossing them into his pockets, he gave them one final glance as they raced out the back.

Jack’s heartbeat was a drumroll as he headed for the front door. Not missing a beat, he quickened his pace and ran toward the cruiser. Dropping down behind it and panting hard, he closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he willed his pulse to slow. There had been numerous times in his life where he’d had to confront armed thugs; however, he’d always had the element of surprise. He had known who he was up against, and by the time they could react he had dropped them.

But this, this was different. He knew very little about Vincent, other than the fact that he was younger than him. He wasn’t invincible; the years had slowed him and time inside made him feel rusty. He snuck a peek around the corner of the bumper.

The dot in the distance was now clearly defined. A blue V8 Ram truck roared its way toward him. He wondered if the occupant had been killed. He knew there was no other way he could have gotten a vehicle in such a short time.

He waited until they were within seventy-five yards, give or take, before he was sure it was Vincent. Convinced, he hauled himself up and strode forward without fear. He knew the moment they reached the house his chances of being hit were high. Stopping them was unrealistic, but to inflict as much damage before they got close, that was doable. He unloaded a round into the engine. Steam burst out. Pinning the gas, it began picking up speed. With an arm out the window and the sun reflecting off the steel of a gun, Louis returned fire. Jack focused, and with his breath under control, he pulled back the trigger a second time. A round slammed into the window.