THE THOUSAND DOLLAR CRACKDOWN: A Colt Ryder Thriller, page 1
THE THOUSAND DOLLAR CRACKDOWN
A Colt Ryder Thriller
J.T.Brannan
Grey Arrow Publishing
Copyright © 2024 J.T. Brannan
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Fofr Jakub and Mia;
and my parents, for their help and support
“It is the obligation of every person born in a safer room to open the door when someone in danger knocks.”
Dina Nayeri
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
Prologue
Trust me, don’t get shot. Even a couple of months later – and even with the best medical help in the world – it’s still going to hurt.
But if you are going to get shot, at least make sure it’s with a low-caliber round, to a non-fatal area of the body. That definitely helps.
I’d been hit in the side of my abdominal wall with a .380 just before Christmas, a present I really hadn’t wanted. Some might argue that it was what I deserved, but I’d beg to differ. But unpleasant though it was, the good news was that it was now all but entirely healed, although I still wouldn’t like to try some of the more elaborate yoga poses for the foreseeable future. I needed to avoid getting punched there too, which was perhaps the more likely danger, given the way I made my living.
After being invalided out of the military – where I’d served in the elite recon unit of the US Army Rangers – many years before, I’d tried my hand at various professions, before circumstance, and perhaps fate, had led me to my current vocation, which was essentially a vigilante-for-hire. For a thousand dollars, I would solve any kind of problem a person might have, from finding missing family members to protecting people from violent criminal gangs. It was dangerous work, and if a thousand bucks doesn’t sound like a lot of reward for the risk involved, that would be right. But it was a symbolic amount only, and I made plenty more from my “liberation” of the proceeds of the various criminals I was forced to deal with. Not that I needed a lot of money. I didn’t have a house, or a car, or even a cellphone. What I did have, as I wandered across the United States from town to town, looking for people who might need my help, was a rucksack filled with clothes and weapons, a good pair of boots, and my best friend Kane by my side.
I touched the scar gingerly – still slightly raised, compared to the myriad of others that crisscrossed my body, reminders of a singularly dangerous lifestyle – as I put my shirt back on, having finished a decent half-mile swim at the Lakewood Family YMCA. It was good exercise after an injury, due to the lack of impact and the gentle resistance of the water, and I’d been sure to try and spend as much time as possible doing such rehab over the past few weeks. Now it almost looked as if I knew what I was doing.
Lakewood was a suburb of Cleveland, a city I’d ended up in for no other reason than that was where the truck driver was headed, when I’d hitched a lift back in New York. When Kane and I weren’t walking across the country, that was how we traveled, hitchhiking with truckers. They were more often than not glad of the company, and unlike most drivers, weren’t put off by our appearance. Kane and I might have been friendly – to the right sort of people – but I would be the first to admit that we might not look that way to the average citizen. But most truckers could hold their own, and almost all of them had a weapon or two within arm’s reach at all times.
Public transport was generally out, because of Kane’s size; he wasn’t made very welcome on Greyhound buses and Amtrak trains. But in any case, I liked the uncertainty of where a trucker might take us. I didn’t have any particular plans about where I went, although if I’d spent some time thinking about it I might well have chosen somewhere warmer this time. Cleveland in the winter is no joke, with snow flurries and driving rain and a temperature that hovered at a consistent thirty degrees. Nice if you’re a polar bear.
That morning hadn’t been too bad though, all things considered; it hadn’t rained, and the sun had even popped out from the clouds for a little while. As I finished dressing and closed my locker, I considered that I might head over for some lunch at a local bar I’d taken a liking too. Well, not the bar so much as the fiery redhead who worked there. I’d been working on her for the past couple of days, and I figured it was time to make my play.
Just as I was making plans and heading for the door, I glanced at the noticeboard, saw something that hadn’t been there the past few days. It was a letter-size poster which consisted mainly of white space, the few words capitalized and in bold.
THOUSAND DOLLAR MAN!!! it read, as many such posters did, HELP NEEDED!!! URGENT!!! PLEASE CALL!!!
It then gave a cellphone number, which I assumed was a burner. At least I hoped it was, because if this was a genuine plea for help, it would be a major mistake for the person concerned to have put up their own number. There were all sorts of assholes out there, trying out all sorts of scams.
I started committing the number to memory, unwilling to take the poster with me. It wasn’t unknown for these things to be put up in the hope of flushing me out. It could be the cops, or it could be some criminal group I’d upset in the past; there were certainly enough people out there with an axe to grind. As a result, I didn’t want to be seen taking an interest in the poster, and I would also be circumspect in how I called that number, and then how I arranged any meeting that might follow.
I didn’t have a phone of my own – I was an off-the-grid kind of guy, unless I was on a job – and I wondered if I might be able to use one at the bar. Maybe if –
My thoughts were cut off as I heard a ferocious barking coming from right outside the YMCA, where I’d left Kane.
I responded immediately, running for the front doors, all too aware that he didn’t make such a noise just for the hell of it.
No, something was happening outside, and I had to get there fast, find out what it was.
I bolted through the foyer and out of the doors that led to the parking lot, heard immediately that Kane’s barking was coming from the other side of the building, where the back of the YMCA faced the main road.
I ran down the side of the building, the air cold as it whipped around the exposed skin of my face and neck, still not completely dry from the pool; but the mild discomfort was the furthest thing from my mind, as I sprinted hard toward Detroit Avenue.
I could see Kane on the sidewalk up ahead, his attention directed toward the other side of the road; he quietened as I arrived at his side, but still his head faced whatever it was that he was reacting to.
I looked across the road along with him, saw a two-story brick building which housed a restaurant, an antique store, a State Farm insurance concession, and a bar.
People were walking along the street seemingly without a care in the world – except to turn up their collars to ward off the sharp wind – and I just couldn’t make out what it was that had Kane so bothered.
But a second later, I noticed the car parked up outside the insurance office, its engine running. I moved closer until I could see the driver, noticed that he was wearing a hoodie pulled up over his head, his face obscured. The head was constantly moving too, the man scanning the road, the sidewalk, then back to the door of the insurance company, then to his watch, checking the time.
I was already moving across the street before I knew what I was doing, sure that a robbery was taking place inside the insurance office.
I felt Kane next to me, clearly wanting in on the action. I knew that he’d only been waiting for me to show up, probably desperate to get involved; he’d probably been wondering what the hell had taken me so long.
I reached the car just as the hooded driver turned my way to check the street; but my hand was already on the door handle, and I jerked it open and slammed by fist into the side of the guy’s head, knuckles colliding hard with his temple, which was hidden but not protected by the hoodie. He sagged in his seat, and I gave him another dose of the medicine, a repeat of the hammer blow to his temple just to make sure he wouldn’t wake up for the next few minutes.
I looked up across the roof of the car, saw the door of the office opening, two men walking out, trying to act as nonchalantly as they could.
Late twenties, beards on both of them – maybe real, possibly fake – and dark glasses to help disguise their faces. Long coats, to help disguise the weapons they were probably carrying. Two large sports bags each, one in each of their hands, no doubt filled with cash.
They scanned the sidewalk in both directions, looked at their car, did a double-take as they saw me stood there by the driver’s side door; and in the blink of an eye, they were dropping the bags and reaching for the weapons hidden under those long coats.
Time seemed to slow, my mind processing everything in startling clarity, aware of every sight, every sound.
I ducked low behind the bulk of the vehicle, just as the first man got his sawn-off shotgun clear of his coat and opened fire, the blast ripping across the roof. If I’d still been there, it would have blown my head clean off my shoulders.
There was another blast, and I was covered with shattering glass as the windows were blown out of the vehicle.
Chaos was erupting in the street now, as people started to realize what was going on, and I hoped that nobody would get hurt – or at least nobody except the two sons of bitches on the other side of the car.
There was another blast, and a pounding of metal as they aimed lower, hoping to punch right through the car to get to me, and I wondered if they even cared that they might hit the driver, or if the adrenalin had hit them so hard that they were operating on pure, animal instinct.
Talking of which, the next sound I heard was an horrific scream, and I knew Kane had taken the initiative, had sped around the car and attacked at least one of the men.
Following his lead, and capitalizing on the confusion – and desperate to get to the second man before he could aim his weapon at my buddy and take him out of the picture – I rocketed to the left and then over the hood, feeling the engine still rumbling beneath the metal as I moved over it, at the same time drawing a folding knife from my pocket and thumbing open the razor-sharp three-inch blade.
I landed on the sidewalk at the other side of the car, just inches from the second man. He was distracted, watching as Kane mauled his friend, huge jaws punching through the man’s forearm, the shotgun abandoned on the concrete in a pool of blood. The second guy was raising his own weapon, finger starting to squeeze.
“Hey!” I shouted, and the man turned instinctively at the sound; immediately, I grabbed the shotgun and pushed the barrel upward, where it discharged loudly, but harmlessly, into the air above us. At the same time, I slashed across with the knife, cutting through the underside of the man’s sleeves and severing the extended triceps muscles of both arms. The man screamed and, arms now useless, dropped the shotgun to the floor. I was about to plunge the knife through the man’s chest – after all, he’d have been happy to do the same to me – but at the last moment changed my mind and, gripping the hilt of my knife tightly to reinforce the strength of my fist, cracked him with a solid right hand to his jaw that felled him like a tree. As he fell, I let loose with a soccer kick that connected perfectly with his jaw, whiplashing his head violently backward, and he was completely out of it by the time he hit the floor next to his gun.
The other man was silent now, the screaming over, and I called Kane off and checked the damage, wondering if he’d gone for the throat as well as the arm; but it was only the guy’s forearm which had been savaged, and he must have passed out from the pain and shock. Far from pleasant for him, but better than some of the alternatives.
In fact, both Kane and I had been particularly merciful today, it seemed; both of the gunmen were still alive, and would get to have their day in court. Shame I didn’t trust the legal system to ensure they got their just desserts, but I couldn’t exactly just execute them there and then. The moment had passed, and I wasn’t that kind of guy. Well, at least today I wasn’t.
I was moving again, even as I had these thoughts, pocketing the knife and picking up one of the shotguns, edging gingerly toward the door of the insurance office; I didn’t think there would be other bad guys inside, but I had to check. The last thing I wanted was for the staff to be held hostage, or killed out of hand.
I left Kane to guard the unconscious crooks and edged to the side of the door, body out of the way in case bullets started flying in my direction, and risked a glance through the dark glass. I couldn’t see anything inside, the winter sun reflecting too strongly.
That left only one thing for it, and I turned and kicked through the door, the butt of the shotgun tight into my shoulder, ready for anything.
But there was nothing there, the small insurance office empty. There were two desks, one on each side of the room, chairs arranged around them; bookshelves stacked with pamphlets and advertising material; an area in the corner with an easy chair, a sofa and a coffee machine; and not much else. Certainly no sign of people, or of any kind of violence.
There were a couple of doors ahead, one that was evidently a restroom, and another with “Private” on the front that presumably led to the manager’s office.
I tried that one first, steeling myself for any kind of danger; I reached for the handle, turned it and burst inside, ready to rock and roll.
But there were no armed criminals hiding there; instead there were four people – three men and a woman – tied up and gagged, backs to one of the walls, terror in their eyes as they saw me and the shotgun I was holding.
I backed out without a word, to check the restroom; I didn’t want any hidden bad guys escaping – or shooting me – while I untied the hostages.
But there was nothing there, except a window that led out onto a rear yard, unopened and clearly not having been used for anyone’s escape.
I went back to the manager’s office and pulled the gag off the first man, the one with a name tag that read “Burt Hoskins, Manager”.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m one of the good guys. You can vouch for these people here?” I asked, pointing at the other three apparent hostages. But I knew that sometimes the bad guys liked to pretend they themselves were being held hostage, if they thought it might help them escape.
But the man nodded his head vigorously. “Yeah, yeah, I got two employees here, and this guy, this is Mr. Harris, he’s a customer, yeah, I can vouch for everyone, yeah. What the hell happened out there? We heard shooting, and –”
“Well, the bad guys are down,” I told him, “and it looks like you’ll be getting that cash back sooner than you thought. How much was it, anyway?” I asked, as I cut through his bonds with the knife, and we both set about freeing the others.
“Nearly half a million,” he said, pointing to an empty safe that sat underneath his desk. “Don’t normally keep that level of cash here, but we got it in yesterday for some big payout to a local rancher that only deals in ‘real money’, you know? Hell of a thing, I just can’t believe that –”
I heard Kane calling for me then, and grabbed the shotgun from the desk where I’d put it and jogged out of the office and back to the front door, wondering what it was. Had the bad guys woken up already?
But then I heard the sirens, and realized it was past time to get the hell out of Dodge. Yes, I’d helped foil a half-million-dollar armed robbery, but I didn’t fancy taking the time to explain that to the cops. Maybe they’d pat me on the back and give me an attaboy, maybe they’d haul me into the local jail. And given what Kane had done to that guy’s arm, there was also the very real possibility that they would impound him, and maybe even put him down.
I got to the door, saw cop cars already arriving on the scene. Damn, did they use quieter sirens here or something? I realized they would see me standing in the doorway with a shotgun, knew that it didn’t look good for me, and immediately retreated back inside, gesturing for Kane to follow.
I wiped my prints off the shotgun as I went – no point making it easy for them – and ran past the four people who I’d freed just moments earlier. “Cops are on their way,” I told them as I headed for the restroom. “Word of advice, walk out of here right now with your hands in the air, and put yourselves on the ground when they tell you. You don’t want to avoid getting killed by the bad guys just to wind up being shot by the cops, right?”
I knew if they stayed in the office, the cops – not knowing who was inside, if anyone had weapons – would treat it as an armed hostage siege, and then who knew what might happen as a result. Better that they show themselves as soon as possible; their story could be verified by the cops later, once they were safe.
