store.
Nick ran his fingers through his hair and looked at his Timex watch. He folded the map, placed it with his key to a safety deposit box in a folder and wrapped it with a huge rubber band. Nick searched for a place to hide the folder. He walked over to the vent return, popped it open, and put the folder in front of the air filter before securing the latch.
It was nearly two in the morning, and he needed to get home to relieve his wife’s sister, Alice. His wife, Martha, had a stroke six months ago, impairing her speech and leaving her bedridden. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Alice, did I wake you? I’m sorry I’m so late. How did she do today? Oh, good. Do you need me to pick up anything? I’ll be along soon. Tell my girl how much I love her.” He hung up.
Nick walked to the front door and flipped the open sign to closed. After bolting the door to the shop, he jogged across First Avenue to the parking lot close to the Cumberland River. A sudden chill ran down his spine. He looked over his left shoulder and quickened his steps.
Once inside his car, Nick started the ignition, backed out of the spot, put the car in drive, and pulled onto the street. He turned left at the intersection and drove along Broadway when a car pulled in behind him with its headlights on high beam.
Fear and panic gripped Nick as he pressed his foot on the gas pedal. The car behind him was riding on his tail. He ran a red light and decided to take a detour home through Music Row. He drove swiftly through the side streets, trying to lose the car, but the car gained speed and hit his bumper.
Nick swerved his car onto 17th and Edgehill. He lost control of his vehicle and slammed into a brick mailbox. The black Ford Explorer swooped in and blocked his exit. He was trapped. Nick slammed the car into park, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his gun.
His assailant was quick to open the door and knock the gun out of Nick’s hand. “Where’s the book, London?”
Nick pressed his lips together in a tight line. One of Cole’s thugs, Hammer, backhanded him across the face. “Tell me where the book is or you’re dead meat.”
Nick narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m dead whether I tell you or not. So, I think not.” An explosion of light and sound released as Hammer shot Nick in the chest. Nick watched his murderer race to the Ford Explorer and flee the scene.
Everything went silent and time seemed to move in slow motion. Nick didn’t feel any pain. A bright light appeared before him, and he wasn’t afraid. His last thoughts were of his wife, the love of his life. He muttered, “I’m sorry, Martha.”
Sandy released Nick’s arm. She turned left and right, looking for help. The NPD blues lights and an ambulance with blaring sirens flew into the driveway. She stepped away from Nick as the paramedics arrived and the officers secured the area.
Sandy began setting up her camera as Detective Bob Wade sauntered over with his signature Camel behind his ear. She encountered the detective nearly every week.
Bob wore a brown leather aviator jacket and a pair of Levi’s with Timberland hiking boots. “How did I know you’d be here?”
Sandy flipped the camera on, reached into her bag for her mic. “Well, if it isn’t the Bob Wire. It looks like our mystery killer has struck again. I’m glad you boys could join the party. If you’ll excuse me, I have a story to cover.”
Bob placed his hand over her mic and whispered in her ear, “You’re playing with fire, girlie. These boys don’t mess around.”
“What boys? And is that on the record?” Sandy stared at him with a level gaze and straightened her shoulders.
“You know it’s not. I can’t comment during an ongoing investigation.” His dark brown eyes seemed to reflect compassion.
Sandy pinned the mic to her sweater. “You and I know who’s behind the shooting. I’m going to prove it. Don’t you get sick of it? Don’t you get tired of all the bullshit?
Nick ran his fingers through his hair and looked at his Timex watch. He folded the map, placed it with his key to a safety deposit box in a folder and wrapped it with a huge rubber band. Nick searched for a place to hide the folder. He walked over to the vent return, popped it open, and put the folder in front of the air filter before securing the latch.
It was nearly two in the morning, and he needed to get home to relieve his wife’s sister, Alice. His wife, Martha, had a stroke six months ago, impairing her speech and leaving her bedridden. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Alice, did I wake you? I’m sorry I’m so late. How did she do today? Oh, good. Do you need me to pick up anything? I’ll be along soon. Tell my girl how much I love her.” He hung up.
Nick walked to the front door and flipped the open sign to closed. After bolting the door to the shop, he jogged across First Avenue to the parking lot close to the Cumberland River. A sudden chill ran down his spine. He looked over his left shoulder and quickened his steps.
Once inside his car, Nick started the ignition, backed out of the spot, put the car in drive, and pulled onto the street. He turned left at the intersection and drove along Broadway when a car pulled in behind him with its headlights on high beam.
Fear and panic gripped Nick as he pressed his foot on the gas pedal. The car behind him was riding on his tail. He ran a red light and decided to take a detour home through Music Row. He drove swiftly through the side streets, trying to lose the car, but the car gained speed and hit his bumper.
Nick swerved his car onto 17th and Edgehill. He lost control of his vehicle and slammed into a brick mailbox. The black Ford Explorer swooped in and blocked his exit. He was trapped. Nick slammed the car into park, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his gun.
His assailant was quick to open the door and knock the gun out of Nick’s hand. “Where’s the book, London?”
Nick pressed his lips together in a tight line. One of Cole’s thugs, Hammer, backhanded him across the face. “Tell me where the book is or you’re dead meat.”
Nick narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m dead whether I tell you or not. So, I think not.” An explosion of light and sound released as Hammer shot Nick in the chest. Nick watched his murderer race to the Ford Explorer and flee the scene.
Everything went silent and time seemed to move in slow motion. Nick didn’t feel any pain. A bright light appeared before him, and he wasn’t afraid. His last thoughts were of his wife, the love of his life. He muttered, “I’m sorry, Martha.”
Sandy released Nick’s arm. She turned left and right, looking for help. The NPD blues lights and an ambulance with blaring sirens flew into the driveway. She stepped away from Nick as the paramedics arrived and the officers secured the area.
Sandy began setting up her camera as Detective Bob Wade sauntered over with his signature Camel behind his ear. She encountered the detective nearly every week.
Bob wore a brown leather aviator jacket and a pair of Levi’s with Timberland hiking boots. “How did I know you’d be here?”
Sandy flipped the camera on, reached into her bag for her mic. “Well, if it isn’t the Bob Wire. It looks like our mystery killer has struck again. I’m glad you boys could join the party. If you’ll excuse me, I have a story to cover.”
Bob placed his hand over her mic and whispered in her ear, “You’re playing with fire, girlie. These boys don’t mess around.”
“What boys? And is that on the record?” Sandy stared at him with a level gaze and straightened her shoulders.
“You know it’s not. I can’t comment during an ongoing investigation.” His dark brown eyes seemed to reflect compassion.
Sandy pinned the mic to her sweater. “You and I know who’s behind the shooting. I’m going to prove it. Don’t you get sick of it? Don’t you get tired of all the bullshit?
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