Deepest Hatred

Deepest Hatred

Thriller by Neal Chadwick

The volume of this book corresponds to 113 paperback pages.

A series of attacks on clinics poses a mystery to investigators. Are there radical activists behind it? When the killing starts, the investigators have to rethink ...

Neal Chadwick (Alfred Bekker) is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime novels and books for young people. In addition to his great book successes, he has written numerous novels for tension series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden and Janet Farell.

copyright

ACassiopeiaPress book : CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK e-books and BEKKERpublishing are imprints by Alfred Bekker.

NEAL CHADWICK IS A PEN-NAME OF ALFRED BEKKER

Original: TIEFSTER HASS

© by Author /COVER TONY MASERO

of this issue 2018 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia.

All rights reserved.

www.AlfredBekker.de

postmaster@alfredbekker.de

1

Y ou can leave now, Meredith.

Dr Miles Guthrie was sitting behind his desk looking through some lab results that had just been brought into the practice by courier.

See you tomorrow, Dr Guthrie.

I'll just take a quick look at the results and then I'll go home!

Miles Guthrie heard his doctor's assistant's footsteps fade away in the corridor. A little later the door fell into the lock.

Guthrie ran over the lab results.

The phone rang. Guthrie took the phone by the ear.

Miles Guthrie? croaked a distorted voice.

Speaking.

You child murderer!

Listen, I ...

But tonight you'll be dead yourself.

It clicked. The connection was broken.

Guthrie sighed audibly.

That's all I needed, he thought. As a gynecologist, in whose practice abortions were also carried out within the legal limits, it was used to religious fanatics and so-called life guardians seeing him as a welcome target of their campaigns. This was also the reason why Guthrie set up his practice in Brandon Tower, 332 Washington Lane, Hoboken – a building with first-class security standards. Around the clock, the armed security guards of a private security company ensured that no unauthorized persons could enter the building. Corridors, the entrance hall and the elevators were also equipped with a video surveillance system, as was the underground car park belonging to the Brandon Tower.

Since Guthrie had been attacked with a knife at a medical congress three years ago by a fanatical life guard, he often carried a revolver with him.

Guthrie put the findings aside. He just couldn't concentrate on the results anymore.

At least, that’s what you managed, croaker!, Guthrie thought.

Croaker – that was the name he gave this caller personally. The croaker had been following him for a long time with his death announcements. Sometimes daily, then again every four to five weeks. The police had not yet found out the croaker’s identity. All known was that he had called at least three times from a particular payphone near Times Square and otherwise used different prepaid cell phones. In addition, the croaker was one of a good dozen callers who more or less regularly insulted, or threatened Guthrie. Two of them had been caught by the police.

Guthrie did not take most of them very seriously. Their rhetoric may have sounded martial, but Guthrie considered most of them harmless. People for whom only black or white existed and who were not prepared to deal at all with the need that may have led a woman to decide to terminate a pregnancy.

But at the latest since the knife attack at the medical congress Guthrie knew that there was a small minority in the ranks of opponents of abortion who were prepared to go further.

Once, his car had been set on fire. The police had not been able to identify the perpetrators, nor had the identity of the croaker and the other callers. Some of them had become a kind of good old friends of Guthrie over time.

Guthrie tried to think as little as possible that perhaps someone out there actually wanted to lurk for him.

The doctor was convinced that his work was important and had to be done. So he continued it despite the dangers involved and otherwise simply tried to take all conceivable safety precautions.

Miles Guthrie took off the white gown, hung it on a hook on the wall of his treatment room, went into the anteroom and took the jacket and coat from the cloakroom.

Just before he wanted to leave the practice, the phone rang again.

Guthrie hesitated. A woman in need or the croaker – both was possible. Finally Guthrie made an effort, went to the counter, behind which Meredith normally had her place and accepted the conversation. Unknown caller was on the display.

This is Dr Guthrie, he answered.

On the other side of the line, only heavy breathing could be heard. Then it clicked and the connection was broken.

The silent! Guthrie thought. I haven't heard from you for a long time!

2

Guthrie went to the elevators. On the way, he met mainly cleaners and members of the security staff. Only now and then one of the lawyers and architects, whose offices were also located in Brandon Tower, mingled in between.

He took the elevator down to the underground car park. Camera eyes followed him everywhere.

Guthrie drove a Porsche. A fixed place was reserved for him.

He had approached the car up to twenty yards when the light suddenly went out. It was pitch black. He was surrounded only by blackness. Miles Guthrie reached under the jacket where he carried his revolver. He pulled out the short-running.38 and was completely disoriented. His pulse was up to his throat. There was nothing he could've aimed at.

He couldn't see his hand in front of his eyes.

As if he was blind he stood there.

He reached for his cell phone. Not because he was hoping to get a connection. In these catacombs, any network contact was excluded. But the display was a light source – although not particularly strong.

He opened the device.

A faint glow lit up.

Only fractions of a second after the display flashed, a noise sounded that reminded of a powerful sneeze. Blood-red muzzle flashed. This happened twice in quick succession.

Guthrie fell to the floor with a muffled sound. The mobile phone and the.38 revolver slipped out of his hands and slid over the asphalt. The display remained lit for a moment and then turned off automatically. 

Footsteps echoed in the darkness.

A last muffled shot was heard. But this time not even muzzle flashes could be seen, because the killer had held the muzzle directly on the temple of the motionless lying victim.

3

As almost every day , I picked up my colleague Milo Tucker at the familiar corner. He couldn't suppress a yawn. I was in the same situation.

I hope Mandy's coffee will make sure we don't fall asleep, Milo said.

I grinned. This is the disadvantage of the comfortable seating in Mr McKee's office.

We had a long night behind us. For many hours, together with a dozen other colleagues from the FBI Field Office New York, we had to bang our ears out to catch Ricky Fratella, the head of a drug ring, red-handed on a deal. Fratella had believed he could do the business of a lifetime. In fact, he was trapped. It was probably possible to complete months of very time-consuming investigations.

Half an hour later we arrived in the meeting room of Mr Jonathan D. McKee, the head of our field office.

Besides us, agents Clive Caravaggio and Orry Medina and colleagues Jay Kronburg and Leslie Morell were