Fatal Justice
Fatal Justice
Jack Lamburt Vigilante Justice Series 1
John Etzil
Another one for my Family
What else is there?
Copyright © 2017 by John Etzil
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
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Airliner Down Chapter 2
Airliner Down Chapter 3
Airliner Down Chapter 4
Airliner Down Chapter 5
Airliner Down Chapter 6
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
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1
I killed an FBI agent last week.
I had nothing personal against the agent and I wasn’t proud of what I’d done, but it wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t like in Hollywood, where the FBI storms into an arrest situation, everyone sporting one of those dark blue windbreakers with FBI stamped across the back in big white letters so large that a guy could read ’em from two blocks away.
Nor did the dead agent come screeching up in a cloud of tire smoke along with twenty other dark-windowed SUVs and jump out with a megaphone, announcing their arrival.
None of that really mattered though, because I was put in a position where I had no choice.
2
I was hanging out in my favorite bar, the Red Barn. Yeah, I know, corny name, but it was a red barn, built in the late 1800s and located on Route 10 at Charlotte Valley Road in the quaint little town of Summit.
Sometime around the turn of the century, the owner of the red barn had decided to throw in some light fixtures, add running water and a toilet, install an oven to warm up finger food, and build a bar close to the front door so you could grab a stool and get drunk as soon as you walked in. Not much else to do on a Friday night in upstate New York.
A three-songs-for-a-quarter jukebox sat between the sawdust-covered shuffleboard table and the lone restroom, belting out country tunes on a crackling speaker. “Elvira” and Garth Brooks having friends in low places were the two most popular. If it happened to be a holiday weekend, there was usually a live band playing, and “Elvira” and Garth Brooks having friends in low places were the two most requested songs. What can I say? Summit had its share of simpletons.
The locals drank beer and danced to their favorite songs until they were too drunk to move. Come closing time, they’d stagger and weave their way home, most of ’em staying on their side of the faded double yellow line that ran down the center of Route 10. It wasn’t pretty, but that’s all we had in our quiet little town, so we were happy to have it.
“Can I freshen that up for you?” the bartender asked. She looked at me with those sultry almond-shaped eyes, courtesy of her Japanese mother, that made me melt every time she made eye contact with me. I felt knee-wobbling weak around her, but I thought I did a good job of hiding it.
“Nah, I’m good for now. Think I’ll play a little pool, though. Can I get some quarters?” I whipped out a five and handed it across the bar to Debbie. She sauntered over to the cash register and I admired the snug fit of her Levi’s. I didn’t bother raising my eyes or killing my grin when she turned around and came back with my night’s worth of pool table money. She was used to me undressing her with my eyes, so she didn’t bother to comment. Her sly smirk said it all.
She placed the quarters on the bar in front of me. “Good luck at the pool table,” she said. “Those guys look like players to me.” She gestured over to Max and Gus, the two old men that were smacking the balls around the beer-stained pool table as if they were playing bocce ball. “I wouldn’t play them for money if I were you.”
They were at least two times my forty-three years, but they moved pretty well and still had a bright sparkle in their eyes. Ice-cold beer worked wonders.
“Yeah, thanks. If I lose my pickup truck to them, I’ll be counting on you to give me a lift home.”
“Oh, I’m taking you home anyway, unless Frances over there gets to you first.” She turned to the other end of the bar and waved, her arms swinging overhead like she was waving off an errant F-18 that was attempting to land on the deck of the USS Stennis on a stormy night.
I looked over and there she was. My number one fan. She must have been pushing ninety-five, but goddamn, she still drank whiskey by the shot glass. She sat ramrod straight on her barstool and sucked on a Marlboro Red. At least she’d switched from those filterless Lucky Strikes.
She caught me looking over at her and winked at me, an exaggerated gesture that looked like she was having a stroke. Oh, jeez. She waved and called over to me. I cringed, praying she wouldn’t lose her balance and fall off of her stool.
“Sheriff Joe, come drink with me.” She raised her glass and smiled. “I’m buying.”
Sheriff Joe retired a few years ago. Nice enough guy, but aside from being about a foot shorter than me, sporting a walrus mustache that complemented his combover, and carrying around a gut twice as big as mine, he looked just like me.
Ever the polite civil servant, I grinned back and raised my mug. We made eye contact through the smoky haze, and her toothless grin widened to the point of nausea. Ugh. She had probably been attractive sixty years ago, but old age and dementia didn’t excite me like they used to, so I kept my distance from her.
She was nothing if she wasn’t persistent. If I had a dime for every time she grabbed my ass when I made my way to the restroom, I could’ve retired. I swear she took the stool at the end of the bar every night so that she could reach out and touch all the men that walked by her to get to the restroom or the jukebox. Or the ones who just happened to be unlucky enough to walk past her before being warned about the Frances Fondle.
I shook my head and turned back to Debbie. She was grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
“Thanks for that. I owe you one.”
“Sure. Anytime.” She blew me a kiss, flashed her killer smile, and wen
t off to pour a drink for one of her many fans who spent their nights across the bar from her, getting drunk and savoring the eye candy. Everybody loved Debbie. I couldn’t blame them. What’s not to like about a beautiful woman who laughed at all of your drunken one-liners?
Okay. I admit it. When we first started dating, I was a bit jealous at all the attention she received from the male patrons, but I’d grown and I was mature enough to handle it. Sometimes.
We’d been dating on and off for over a year and had talked about moving in together, but neither of us were ready for that, so we killed that idea. My hesitation was from some past relationship baggage, along with a few other issues I had. Nothing major, but they still needed to be addressed before the start of cohabitation.
I wasn’t sure what her reluctance to live with me stemmed from. We enjoyed each other’s company and got along great. Most of the time. We had many mutual interests. Hiking, working out, the great outdoors, dark beer, red wine, gin, whiskey, relaxing with a good book in front of a warm fire on a cold night, Barry White, love of animals, especially dogs. And hot sex. Man, did we light up the planet.
That wasn’t enough for her, though. Maybe it was the age difference, me being ten years her senior? I don’t know. I’m almost six foot six inches and still in great shape. Not as good as when I played basketball at Notre Dame, but still better looking naked than most men half my age. I silently toasted Arnold Schwarzenegger, whom I’d idolized growing up. He’d turned me on to weight training when I was just a kid, and man, does that pay huge dividends. I flexed my pecs, just ’cause I can, and drank some beer.
Maybe Debbie was thinking longer term? As in, when she’s turns seventy, I’ll be eighty? Perhaps, but damn if we weren’t smoking hot together right now. Have I mentioned that? After a glass of red wine and a little Barry White, she looked at me with a sultriness that all my pole dancer friends combined couldn’t equal.
I looked at her one last time before heading over to play some pool, and I regretted it right away. A drunk named Bobby was leaning across the bar, a dirty hand cupped tight to her ear, no doubt whispering something inappropriate. I saw her lean away and laugh right before I rolled my eyes. Jeez.
She played along like a good bartender, and guys like Bobby always left her a big tip before stumbling home, flopping into bed with their flannel shirts and jeans still on, and wet-dreaming of my Debbie.
I grabbed my beer and walked over to the pool table.
“Evening, gentlemen.” I placed a dollar’s worth of quarters next to the money slot.
“Howdy, Sheriff Jack. How’s business?”
“Nice and slow, just the way I like it.” I raised my glass and silently toasted the lack of criminal activity in our neck of the woods. Lots of folks think that being a sheriff in a peaceful no-stoplight town would be boring. They’d be right. But I’ve had enough excitement for two lifetimes, so I’m perfectly fine with my simple existence.
Mary Sue came over to me, put down her serving tray, and gave me a big hug. “How’s my favorite sheriff?” Her mom, Meredith, and I have known each other ever since we went to Richmondville High School together more years ago than I cared to count. Spitting image of her mom, too. A little taller, about five-ten, curvy, dirty-blond hair, and a warm smile that invited everyone into her circle.
“Wow, it’s great to see you.” I grinned and gave her a fatherly hug. “How’ve you been? How’s college?”
“Good. Eh, it’s okay.” She shrugged.
“Boys treating you well?”
“Heck yeah, once I tell them that my Uncle Joe’s a sheriff.” She loved digging on me about Frances’s inability to remember my name.
“That’s good. Tell ’em about my gun collection too.” I winked at her.
“Oh, don’t worry, I do.”
“Mom and dad good?”
“Yeah, they’re fine. They just left for their annual Florida jaunt.”
“Key West?”
“Yep, fisherman’s paradise. You know my dad and his fishing.”
“Yeah, I do. Kindred spirits, he and I.”
Stuart is a well-known cardiac surgeon and works in Albany, a fifty-mile trek up Route 88. They live in a spacious but modest two-story colonial on over sixty acres that adjoin Clapper Hollow State Forest. When he’s not mending broken hearts, he’s planning his next fishing trip to the Keys.
“That’s true,” she said. She smirked and turned a little snarky on me. “He’s almost as bad as you and your hunting trips.”
“Hey, don’t be jealous now. Just ’cause I pack up my rifles every summer and fly all over the place killing ferocious animals, that doesn’t make me a bad person. At least I feed the needy.” I raised my mug and toasted my annual meat donations to the local food banks.
“Yeah, that’s swell of you, but you disappear for like eight weeks at a time.”
“So? Wait a minute… You miss me, don’t you?”
“You go by yourself and nobody knows where you are. What if something happened to you out in the wild?”
“Aww. You worry about me. That’s sweet Mom.”
She laughed at my teasing. “Fine. Be that way. I have to get back to work, see you in a bit.” She grabbed her tray and went to take an order from a young couple two tables away. What a great kid. Her parents did a fantastic job raising her.
I sat down on a stool, my back against the wall, and watched the two ball-smacking grandfathers engage in teenage banter while they took turns missing shots. I’ve always loved math, and after a few minutes I calculated that they each averaged seven missed shots before they sank a ball. My quarters were going to last me a long time tonight.
In between the errant shots, I glanced over the pool table, across the sawdust-covered dance floor, and into the far corner of the room. That’s the real reason I was sitting here. Playing pool was fine and all, but if I measured that up against sitting at the bar and chatting with Debbie all night, I’d pick ogling her every time. But not tonight. I needed to watch someone, and this was the perfect position to observe without being noticed.
I spied on the three middle aged men at the corner table for a while, and as the night wore on, I felt a bad feeling grow in my gut that our long run as a sleepy little town was about to end.
3
If you counted the two-inch heels on his ostrich cowboy boots, he probably topped out at five foot six. Slicked-back hair, pinky rings, flashing cash, gold chains parting his half-unbuttoned silk shirt that hid his potbelly. It was the complete wise guy costume, straight out of a Goodfella’s wardrobe closet. Throw in his New York accent, and he stuck out like an honest politician.
As soon as I’d walked into the bar, I’d found him. It was too easy. One of the habits I’d formed from being in law enforcement was scoping out every structure I entered, even while off duty. Whenever I walked into a room, my eyes went right to the corners. Also known as the power seat, it’s a location where you could see everyone and where no one could sneak up on you from behind. There I’d find cops, military folks, or bad guys. Sheepdogs or wolves. It was easy, even for a novice, to distinguish between the two. Tonight, it was the wolves who were setting up camp in that corner.
But tonight wasn’t a normal night. Earlier today I’d received a heads-up, and now I was doing recon for my third job. The secretive one that I do for free. I smiled and took a sip of beer.
Ostrich Boy’d been holding court with two of his hammerhead associates at that table for a few hours, and the three of ’em looked to be tying a good load on.
They were boisterous, with exaggerated table slapping and hand movements, and when the fatter of the two underlings stood up and worked his way over to the restroom, I saw the outline of a pistol under his shirt. He might need that to fight off Frances, but I doubted he knew about her male molestation practices, so I was confident he’d had other things in mind when he’d strapped it on.
Fatty returned a few minutes later, none the worse for wear after his transition through Fra
nces’s fun land, and when he sat down, the other man rose up to make his trek to the restroom. He was thinner than Fatty, and the outline of the pistol wasn’t as clear under his loose-fitting shirt, but it was still visible for microseconds at a time to the trained eye.
With each round of drinks, Ostrich Boy got a little hands-on friendlier with Mary Sue, who unfortunately got stuck waiting on their table, and with each passing refill, he became a little louder and his jokes more colorful.
When the latest round was delivered, he’d put his arm around Mary Sue’s waist and pulled her in close to him, resting his ear against her stomach, the top of his greasy head nestled tight against the bottom of her breasts. His fat tongue wagged like he was a hungry dog about to be fed. I thought he was going to start drooling.
“Hey, someone do a selfie of me and my wench,” he said.
The two underlings guffawed and fumbled with their smartphones while Mary Sue, eyes wide as saucers, looked horrified. She was just a college kid who waitressed part-time, and she probably didn’t have much experience with handling clowns like him. I thought she was going to whack him with her serving tray—that’s what I would have done. But to her credit, she stayed cool. She pushed his arms open, freed herself from his unwanted pawing, and walked away while brushing the germs from the front of her blouse.