The Gauntlet (A Thriller)

The Gauntlet

How far would you go

to save the one you love?

by

Jason Melby

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-440-0

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2013 by Jason Melby. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Also by Jason Melby

A Dangerous Affair

Enemy Among Us

Without a Trace...

To all the friends I've met thus far and all those I've yet to meet.

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength,

while loving someone deeply gives you courage."

–Lao Tzu

PART I

Calm Before the Storm

Chapter 1

A padded elbow smashed the frozen window pane above the deadbolt in the basement entrance. Inside the three-level, brick-front townhouse, a flashlight beam panned the walls before casting a hollow circle on the door at the top of the stairs.

* * *

With satin sheets above his waist, Zach Taylor reached for the universal remote and yawned. He clicked the OFF button and replaced the wand on his nightstand. He could still hear the shower running in the bathroom. Honey? he shouted above the noise. What time are you getting up?

The shower stopped. A minute later, Jenny Taylor emerged from the steamy bathroom with a towel around her slender figure. Damp blonde hair clung to her shoulders. Five at the latest.

She walked across the plush pile carpet to her antique armoire and rubbed scented cream on her hands. The top drawer held an ensemble of colored bras and panties from Victoria's Secret. She chose the red and white striped pair with pink pajama bottoms. What are you thinking?

I'm thinking the steam must have clouded your judgment, said Zach.

Jenny took her toothbrush from the crystal jar atop the marble vanity and rubbed a clear spot on the mirror. I have a workshop tomorrow and a ton of grading to catch up on. She squeezed a dollop of mint-flavored Crest on the bristles. With thirty-three students in her class, the extra workload took a toll on her physical and emotional stability. More students meant more papers to grade, more report cards to evaluate, and more parents to contend with after school. Impromptu conferences were the norm, as well as parents who had no interest in volunteering for classroom projects.

She rinsed her mouth and spat. You can set it to five-thirty but not a minute later. I need time to get ready.

Zach stared at his trophy wife in the bedroom mirror and admired the way her breasts poked out from the front of her robe.

Jenny rinsed her toothbrush. She wiped her mouth on a towel and tore a length of floss from the plastic dispenser. She worked the upper teeth first, starting with the back molars before flossing around the front. Talking with her fingers in her mouth, she asked, Did you turn on the mattress pad? I'm freezing.

It's on.

What was that? Jenny asked from the bathroom, swabbing her ear with a Q-Tip.

What was what?

Jenny flicked off the bathroom light and joined Zach beneath the sheets. Never mind. I thought I heard something. She kissed her husband of five years and rolled on her side with her back toward him. When she felt his hand rub her ass, she said, My feet are cold.

Zach persisted. "This isn't."

I'm too tired.

Zach moved his hand to her thigh, prompting Jenny to roll over and kiss him. What am I going to do with you?

Everything...

Jenny planted a wet kiss on his lips. I love you, but I need my sleep.

Zach withdrew his advance and kissed her shoulder. With sex off the menu, he started thinking about the market. The damn market; the one thing in life he'd mastered; the only thing he knew well enough to manipulate and achieve the financial success his parents never could; success that brought him the good life with a house Jenny dreamed of and a pair of luxury cars in the driveway. Real jewelry, high-end clothes, and expensive dinners had become the norm—until a prolonged financial downturn threatened everything he'd worked to achieve and landed him in a slump.

Jenny rubbed her feet together. Did your bonus check come in yet?

Not yet.

We need it to cover the mortgage this month.

We'll be fine.

That's what you said last month when I had to pull from savings to cover us.

How short are we?

Almost two thousand.

"Pesos?"

Jenny sat up against the headboard and rubbed her eyes. I'm serious, Zach.

Me too. Don't worry so much. It will give you wrinkles.

I don't have wrinkles!

Shhhh.... Zach pulled the sheets away and rolled out of bed. I think there's someone in the house.

Don't change the subject.

I'm serious.

Jenny held her breath and listened closely. Where?

Downstairs.

Zach made his way to the walk-in closet and flicked the light switch. Women's clothes filled the closet top to bottom, except for a few feet of rack space where he hung his suits and ties. He pawed through a box in the corner behind the laundry hamper and found his old Louisville Slugger. Nicked and dinged from his glory days of college ball, the wooden bat felt solid in his hands.

What are you doing? Jenny whispered from the bed.

Shhhh.

Jenny grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. I'm calling 911.

* * *

Zach tiptoed in the dark, his footsteps masked by the thick, pile carpet. Peering around the corner at the top of the stairs, he waited and listened beneath a chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Moonlight reflected off the crystal fixtures. He could hear the sound of muffled conversation and tightened his grip on the bat, holding the wooden club like a caveman.

He descended the stairs one step at a time, hanging close to the guardrail for balance. He froze when he saw a shadow from the kitchen on the second floor. His heart pounded in his throat.

Another step brought him closer to the second floor landing where a dried pine needle pricked his foot. He cringed from the pain, drawing a sharp breath as a flashlight beam traced the wall in front of him.

He crouched to avoid being seen.

When the light disappeared, he glanced around the corner to the living room and made his way toward the edge of the basement entrance. From the top of the stairs, he saw a tall man in a ski mask carrying a laptop under one arm with his shirt hanging out of his pants.

Zach crept forward, shifting his weight to his foot on the lower step when he saw a second man in a ski mask holding a black canvas bag and a gun.

Do something, Zach thought. But all he could focus on was the gun. Part of him wanted to go back and wait with Jenny for the cops. Part of him wanted to defend his wife and property.

He swallowed dryly, clenching the baseball bat.

Prepared to confront the intruders, he changed his mind at the last second, slipping his sore foot on the step and banging his knee in the process. He stumbled and knocked the bat against the wall before he lost his balance and tumbled down the basement stairs. Dizzy and disoriented at the bottom step, he looked up and watched the world as he knew it go black.

Chapter 2

Zach paced inside the kitchen beneath a panel of fluorescent lights. Every lamp in the house was on, including the bulb in the hood fan above the stove. What took you so long to get here? he asked the senior patrolman in his living room.

The patrolman shook his head. A twelve-year veteran of the Alexandria Police Department, he spoke in well-rehearsed tones. He wore his uniform with extra starch and his shoes with high-gloss polish. A patch on his sleeve bore the city's emblem with the words To Protect and Serve stitched beneath. His partner, a rookie with two months on the job, scribbled furiously on a black memo pad.

Zach sighed in disgust. I thought you'd get here sooner.

Mr. Taylor, the senior patrolman started, we responded as soon as your call came in. He observed the elaborate furnishings in the upscale residence.

My wife dialed 911 an hour ago.

More like ten minutes, Jenny downplayed her husband's frustration as she entered the kitchen. Would you like some coffee? she asked the officers.

No thank you, both men declined as garbled voices broke through their radio speakers.

We'll need a list of all your missing property, the senior patrolman continued.

Zach glanced up at the ceiling. They took my laptop, the flat screen in our guest room, and a bunch of silver candlestick holders. I'm not sure what else.

My Rolex is missing, Jenny added. She frowned at Zach. I left it in the kitchen. I never thought something like this would happen.

Anything else? the senior patrolman inquired.

Jenny sipped her coffee. I don't know.

I'll need you to write an itemized list along with the serial numbers and any distinguishing marks you could identify the missing items with.

Zach shrugged his shoulders. I have no idea what the serial numbers are.

Do the best you can. I'll need your list for our report. It's standard procedure.

How long will it take to get our stuff back?

The rookie put his pen in his shirt pocket. We'll do our best.

Zach rubbed his temples, hoping to massage his migraine away. I really need the laptop back. I have files on my hard drive I never backed up. I'm screwed without them.

I understand, the senior patrolman acknowledged. Did you see anyone in the house?

I saw two men downstairs.

Can you describe them?

They were tall and thin. They both wore ski masks.

Were they younger? Older? Black? White? Hispanic?

Zach shook his head. I couldn't tell.

What about their clothes?

Zach inhaled through his nose. The hazelnut decaf smelled good, but a stiff shot of whiskey seemed more in order. One of them had a gun.

Jenny shook her head. A gun?

What about their voices? Did you hear them at all?

I heard whispering.

And your wife, where was she?

In the bedroom. I told her to call 911 when I heard the noises downstairs.

Jenny set her coffee cup on the granite counter. Are these people gang-bangers or convicts on early parole? They could they be hiding out in our attic.

Ma'am, I wouldn't lose any sleep over this. These were probably punk kids looking for a quick score. They're long gone by now.

What about the basement? Zach asked, walking the officers through the living room.

Do you have any enemies, Mr. Taylor? Anyone who might want to steal from you?

Not that I know of.

Do you ever keep cash in the house?

Not really. Maybe some spare change on the bedroom dresser.

Jenny turned to the senior officer. Now what?

A number of similar burglaries have been reported in your neighborhood.

How many?

Several.

Are the same robbers involved?

We're looking into it.

Zach stuffed his hands in his pockets. How soon will I get my stuff back?

The officers exchanged glances. The probability of full recovery depends on a number of factors.

Like what?

The senior patrolman spoke up. Recovery of stolen property usually hovers around ten percent depending on how quickly the stolen goods are bought and sold. We'll investigate the local pawnshops. With any luck, your belongings will turn up there.

And if they don't?

Then it could take a little longer. At this point I can't make any promises. We'll do everything we can.

That's it?

For now. The senior officer handed Zach a business card. If you think of anything else, please let us know. And one more thing, burglars often hit the same residence twice, especially homes they consider easy targets. If I were you, I'd have the window fixed downstairs and leave the patio lights on.

Should we buy a security system? Jenny asked.

Buy a big dog instead, the rookie chimed in.

Zach shook his head. I'm allergic. He watched the officers escort themselves out and walk back to their patrol car. Then he closed the front door and turned to Jenny. Are you all right?

I don't think I can stay here tonight.

Zach hugged her and kissed her forehead. Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you.

Chapter 3

Music played through Sammy Biddle's headphones while his tree trunk arms swabbed a mop back and forth in time to the Motown rhythms of Marvin Gay. A custodian of North Side Baptist Church, he often relied on music to transform an otherwise monotonous job into something he could tolerate eight hours a day.

The chorus room remained the first stop on his morning agenda. Dusting and mopping the room's terrazzo floor was gravy. The hard part came when he had to shuffle chairs around to clear a path for the wide dust mop.

The floor beneath the grand piano posed a challenge all its own. Even on wheels, it took brute force to move the heavy instrument without grinding the wheels into the floor.

Hours spent vacuuming, mopping, and emptying trashcans had become familiar tasks over Sammy's five-year tenure with the church. So had scrubbing the bathroom toilets, especially the ones in the men's restroom, where one of the choir boys always shit like a wildcat and never flushed.

On occasion, light maintenance broke up the monotony of cleaning. The repair jobs were minor: fixing a broken door handle, oiling rusty hinges, or cleaning leaves from the gutters.

An old storage room the size of a walk-in closet served double duty as his workshop area and a make-shift space for storing church supplies. Inside the cramped confines, he kept a power grinder for cutting and sharpening and a vise mounted to a wooden bench. Along the walls, an assortment of hand tools hung neatly from a sheet of pegboard. He had a knack for working with his hands, a skill he'd cultivated over years of practice.

With the chorus room finished, he dunked the mop head in the bucket of cleaning solution and pushed the janitor's cart down the hall toward the sanctuary. When the bucket hit a rough spot on the floor, it jerked and splashed, casting floor cleaner on his khaki overhauls. Undeterred, he continued down the hall, pushing the bucket with the protruding mop handle while he moved his hips to the music pumping through his headphones.

Outside the janitor's closet, he parked his equipment against the wall and extended the key chain from his belt. With the door opened, he found the canister vacuum where he'd left it the night before. He tossed rolls of toilet paper in his cart along with stacks of paper towels before he lifted the vacuum from its resting place. Wielding the industrial machine like a toy, he advanced the cart toward the sanctuary, swaying his head to Sexual Healing.

The vacuum hummed when he turned it on. Starting near the back, he felt a draft coming through the rear exit doors. Surrounded by a faint glow from the light seeping in through a pair of stained glass windows, he worked diligently to finish his first row of pews. Near the middle, he stopped to reposition his gear, adjusting the vacuum hose to keep the canister in line behind him.

He removed his headphones when he felt a tap on his shoulder and stared at the familiar face of Reverend Michaels.

Samuel, the Reverend spoke loudly over the vacuum noise. Dressed in slacks with a white dress shirt and a V-neck sweater, the man with a salt and pepper beard looked inquisitively at Sammy.

Sammy powered down the vacuum. Reverend...

Samuel...

Sammy clicked the STOP button on the portable tape recorder he'd owned since high school. Almost there.

Looks good in here.

I'll be done in a bit.

Reverend Michaels scratched his chin. No rush. You look tired.

I feel good.

Are you sleeping?

Sammy sat on the pew and nudged the vacuum nozzle on the floor. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and sneezed.

Bless you.

Sammy turned away to blow his nose.

Reverend Michaels put his hand on Sammy's shoulder and squeezed gently. In his twenty-five years as head pastor, he'd seen his share of troubled souls from all walks of life. Give it time.

Sammy nodded.

If you need me I'll be in my office. Reverend Michaels smiled broadly. Will I see you in church on Sunday?

Sammy grinned. I expect you will.

* * *

By late afternoon, the sun had set on the Nation's Capital where Sammy took his usual route home on the Metro's blue line. Twenty minutes and twelve stops later, he found himself lumbering over the familiar path to the subsidized apartments. A high-rise building constructed in the 1960s, the once touted complex had devolved to accommodate pimps and drug dealers among the struggling unemployed and the working poor.

He approached the brick steps leading up to the first floor entrance and felt the bone-chilling wind nip at his hands and face. The temperature had dropped another ten degrees since he'd left the church, causing sections of the streets and sidewalks to ice over.

With its share of graffiti-stained walls, the iron-fenced courtyard displayed a virtual cornucopia of sights and smells. Cigarette butts and broken liquor bottles adorned much of the concrete floor. Obscenities scrawled in orange spray paint covered black graffiti on the elevator doors.

Once inside his own apartment, he flicked the light on and turned up the thermostat. He heard shouting from the apartment upstairs, followed by a door slamming and the sound of stomping feet. The same commotion had played out the night before. The woman wanted her man to leave. The man wanted to stay.

So long as the shouting didn't escalate to excessive violence, Sammy felt content to ignore the dispute. What went on upstairs was none of his concern so long as no one flew out a window or started shooting.

A hot shower and a cold beer took the edge from a long ride home. A single serving of pan fried ham with diced potatoes took the edge off his hunger.

Seated behind a card table across from the wall with a large gold cross and a framed portrait of his wife, he stared at the small television with his elbows resting beside his empty plate. He laughed at the silly weatherman dressed in a suit and tie, gesturing at the simulated storm patterns swirling over the eastern United States.

He flipped to the next station where footage of another homicide made the news. This time a double murder in the Southeast district left two men dead outside a convenience store. Both were black and in their twenties, a statistic he'd grown complacent with. The report ended with another episode of violence in the same district. Unlike the previous confrontation outside the convenience store, the second shooting was labeled as a random act of violence rather than a gang related incident. Stupid fools, he said out loud. Uneducated punks with no jobs and nothing better to do than kill each other.

Fed up with the news, he added his dirty dishes to the pile of dirty plates in the kitchen sink. In the living room, a cardboard box sat next to an old table cloth reeking of paint thinner and model airplane glue. He covered the table first. Then, as if lifting a baby bird from its nest, he removed the model plane from the box and set it in the center. Every piece of the A-10 Thunderbolt had been meticulously glued together. The model plane, a cheap leftover from an after-Christmas sale, had been transformed from a plastic toy into a work of art. Careful attention to detail produced a striking replica of the legendary ground attack plane.

A favorite of his since he'd read a book on military aircraft in high school, the A-10 Thunderbolt had been built to withstand the punishment of heavy ground fire. The pilot flew the plane from a cockpit lined with titanium panels. Protected by layers of armor plating, the twin engine craft flew ground support missions in support of infantry troops. A massive machine gun mounted beneath the nose fired up to 70 armor-piercing rounds per second, obliterating anything that could walk, run, or roll—including enemy tanks.

Seated at the edge of the table, he dipped a narrow paintbrush inside a jar of clearcoat paint. He applied the finish with deliberate, yet careful strokes, starting at the tip of one wing and working toward the fuselage. Holding the model in one hand, he used the other for dipping the brush. A missed spot here or