Deadly Shadow Read online

  DEADLY SHADOW

  The Assassin Chronicles - Book One

  Kim Cresswell

  About the Author

  Also by Kim Cresswell

  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

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Kim Cresswell resides in Ontario, Canada and is the award-winning author of the action-packed WHITNEY STEEL series. Trained as a legal assistant, Kim has been a story-teller all her life but took many detours including; working in legal and adult education before returning to her first love, writing.

  Her debut romantic thriller, Reflection (A Whitney Steel Novel - Book One) has won numerous awards: RomCon®'s 2014 Readers' Crown Finalist (Romantic Suspense), InD'tale Magazine 2014 Rone Award Finalist (Suspense/Thriller), UP Authors Fiction Challenge Winner, Silicon Valley's Romance Writers of America (RWA) "Gotcha!" Romantic Suspense Winner, and an Honorable Mention in Calgary's (RWA) The Writer's Voice Contest.

  Kim recently signed a 3-book German translation deal with LUZIFER-Verlag for the first three books in the Whitney Steel series: Reflection, Retribution, and Resurrect. The popular series will be published in German beginning in 2018.

  She has also published two action-packed novellas (Jet: Oblivion and Jet: Duplicity) featuring characters from her Whitney Steel series, and JET from Russell Blake's New York Times and USA Today bestselling JET series. Read Russell Blake's interview with Kim.

  The Assassin Chronicles TV series, based on Kim’s upcoming 4-book paranormal/supernatural thriller series: Deadly Shadow, Assassin's Prophecy, Invisible Truth, and Vision of Fire is in development with Council Tree Productions.

  Web Site: www.kimcresswell.ca

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/KimCresswellBooks

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/kimcresswell

  Also by Kim Cresswell

  Whitney Steel Series

  Reflection (A Whitney Steel Novel - Book One)

  Retribution (A Whitney Steel Novel - Book Two)

  Resurrect (A Whitney Steel Novel - Book Three)

  The Assassin Chronicles

  Deadly Shadow (The Assassin Chronicles - Book One)

  Novellas

  Lethal Journey

  Jet: Oblivion (Survival Series – Book One)

  Jet: Duplicity (Survival Series – Book Two)

  True Crime Short Stories

  Real Life Evil – A True Crime Quickie (Book One)

  Murder on Sunset Strip – A True Crime Quickie (Book Two)

  Garden of Bones - A True Crime Quickie (Book Three)

  Edge of Madness - A True Crime Quickie (Book Four)

  True Crime Anthologies Published by Grinning Man Press

  Serial Killer Quarterly “21st Century Psychos”

  Serial Killer Quarterly “Partners in Pain”

  Serial Killer Quarterly “Unsolved in North America”

  Serial Killer Quarterly “Cruel Britannia”

  Serial Killer Quarterly “They Almost Got Away”

  Serial Killer Quarterly “Lostmord: Murder in German”

  Deadly Shadow © 2018 by Kim Cresswell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Art © 2018 by No Sweat Graphics

  Edited by Wording.ca

  Published by KC Publishing

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9950578-4-5

  Subscribe to Kim's newsletter and keep up-to-date on exclusive content, upcoming releases, first-to-see book covers, contests, and more!

  For Justin, Carla, Porter, and Peyton

  In memory of Mary Beech

  Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.

  — From a headstone in Ireland

  CHAPTER ONE

  Within the hour, Derrick Lynn would kill his next target, a popular radio host known as ‘Big Mouth’ Bullington. He didn’t want or need any specifics about the target, only who and when. He’d learned a long time ago to keep that distance to make his job a lot easier to deal with. Never women or children. Never a non-target—which at times took an incredible amount of self-control. More than anyone could imagine.

  Like his grandfather and father, he could move about in real-time, watching people and events while his physical body remained asleep. The paranormal freaks called it Etheric travel. But his real gift was psychokinesis, a gift very few in the world had. He used his mind to move objects. It came in damn handy, turning anything and everything into a deadly weapon.

  For over twenty years he’d evaded the authorities—in particular FBI Agent Victory McClane. And he was hell-bent on keeping it that way, no matter the cost.

  In the large soundproof bedroom, Derrick laid on his back in his king-size bed, looking up at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head. Silk sheets covered his legs and, barely, his groin. The only light in the room came from the eerie glow radiating from the cell phone cradled in its charger on the nightstand next to his laptop. He glanced at the studio headshot of Eddie Bullington filling the phone’s screen as the podcast of the man’s radio show played at mid-volume.

  “... and while it's a bunch of bull that Republicans work to keep the Black man down...”

  His eyes shifted to the bathroom doorway to his dinner companion, Alessandra, a thirty-something runway model with long blonde hair and voguish features. She straightened her white blouse over her black skirt then put her hoop earrings back on. Alessandra shot him a soft smile and grabbed the silver faux-fur coat laying on the end of the bed. Before leaving she bent and kissed him, her lips warm against his. Derrick closed his eyes as Bullington’s podcast droned on.

  “... if you think the Dems are squeaky clean then I've got some prime Louisiana property for you. Those Limousine Liberals keep their boots pressed against the back of our necks, pretending to be on the side of equality and justice…”

  He inhaled and exhaled slowly a dozen times and visualized his target’s bedroom. His body felt light, floating. Before losing consciousness, he jerked himself awake, then let himself go under again. Deeper into a half-sleep state, he felt as if he were bobbing in a boat. As the rocking intensified, high-pitched ringing sounded in his ears and his limbs vibrated and buzzed like a bee's nest. He left the physical plane, his astral body flying.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Eddie Bullington stood in the shower. Steaming hot water pulsated hard against the back of his shoulder blades. The “God Bless America” Muzak-like ringtone blasted from the phone sitting on the counter next to the double sink. He shut the water off, stepped out of the shower stall, and grabbed his regal-looking red and gold bathrobe from the back of the door. He quickly slipped it on and answered the call.

  “Let me guess, Sid. You want to talk about last week’s show.”

  “Sure do. Ratings are down five-percent from last quarter. That’s a cause for concern.”

  “Just relax, okay? Anything else or are you going to keep
on complaining about the same old thing?”

  “Five percent is a big deal, Eddie.”

  “Go to bed, Sid. I got this. I’ll be in a little earlier than usual for the show.” Eddie disconnected and shook his head.

  His producer, Sid Moller, was a pain on a good day. Eddie didn’t feel like dealing with the man’s silliness. His ratings were fine. He was still the top radio host in the United States, his shows syndicated on four continents.

  With the phone clutched in his hand, he strolled barefoot into the spacious antechamber located next to his bedroom and flopped down into the extra-wide recliner. After setting the phone on the end table he picked up the TV remote, along with a half bag of Cheetos. He flicked on the TV to watch the latest episode of “Tucker Carlson Tonight” and dug into the snack bag.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Derrick's eyelids fluttered. Blackness. Then a long, dark tunnel emerged and grew wider. Sounds, natural and alien, came and went as a frantic rush of lights, faces, and places blazed toward him. He bobbed and weaved. Images, some distinct, others not, warped and flew toward him, through him, past him. The sounds and images intensified. Then they stopped. He was in Bullington’s bedroom.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Derrick stood behind Eddie, his naked body blurry and silhouetted in shadow. The room was filled with over-stuffed antique furniture, gaudy gold and green patterned drapes, and a Victorian rug in various hideous shades of red and pink. A mounted rhinoceros head glared down at it all.

  His eyes shifted to the end table, then to Eddie’s phone. He trembled. Sweat dripped from his forehead and ran down the sides of his face. His gaze moved to the colorful ad for gold on the TV screen while the male announcer excitedly implored viewers to act now because there has never been a better time to buy. Derrick directed his energy at the end table drawer. It quietly eased open. Inside was a Baby Glock. He concentrated harder, staring, focusing as much energy as he could at the weapon.

  The gun twitched. And turned. And rose from the drawer. The barrel moved within an inch from Bullington’s right temple.

  Eddie twisted his head as if sensing something was about to happen. “What the—”

  An angry gunshot cracked.

  Blood, bone, and brain matter splattered and sprayed across the room. Various colored fluids and small lumps ran down the TV from a splotch at the top of the screen.

  Derrick grunted. The gun traveled back to the end table and the drawer slammed shut.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Derrick’s physical body and astral body snapped together like strong magnets, slamming him back into the bed. His body jerked. Intermittent banging and dinging invaded his head. Then the familiar headache kicked in. Like an elastic band tight around his forehead, traveling down the base of his skull. His eyes jolted open. He stared for a long moment, disoriented, before slowly sitting up in bed. Bullington’s podcast continued to play.

  “... oh, yeah. Give them freedom then lock them up in prison cages for years. That's all I'm saying. Thanks for tuning in.”

  Once he got his bearings, Derrick grabbed his laptop from the nightstand and opened the lid. The brilliant screen illuminated his tense face as it booted up.

  He opened a new email and typed “task completed”, encrypted the data, then tapped the “send” button. It would only be a matter of seconds before he received confirmation that the payment had been transferred to his account at the Panama National Bank under the name, Miles McGrath. A million dollars. Not bad for less than two hours work including surveillance. A soft beep. Then a message popped up on the screen.

  ((0400TCHCLVGHEPUOFJJHPLJO7IAJKHBG2NDLF))

  With a couple of keystrokes, he ran the special decryption software he’d been given, and within seconds the garbled message became readable.

  Fee transferred. Face-to-face requested

  He shut down the laptop and wondered why his contact had requested meeting in person. His face reflected on the black screen, yet his blue eyes shone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In the warmth of the SUV, Victory clutched her cup of coffee with both hands, and stared at her partner.

  Ryan glanced at her, then back to the road. “I’m still thinking.”

  “You've been thinking for five minutes, at least.”

  “Okay.” He sighed. “His father is...my father's son...and I have no siblings.”

  “That's established.”

  “My father's son...me...is...my grandfather. The man is my grandfather.” He slapped the steering wheel in triumph, then flicked on the turning signal and turned right.

  “How'd you ever become an FBI agent?”

  “My uncle bought my way in.” He grinned. “Is it his uncle?”

  “What?”

  “That man’s father is his uncle.”

  “No. Jesus C—”

  The car ahead came to a dead stop.

  “Watch out, Ryan!”

  “Jesus.” He stomped the brake.

  The seatbelt tightened across her chest. Luke-warm coffee splashed onto her jeans. The Chevy Suburban fishtailed and slid on the snow-covered road, finally coming to a stop almost kissing the bumper of the car ahead. The driver of the car suddenly turned on his hazard lights.

  Ryan tossed the vehicle into reverse, and then drove around the car.

  Victory set her coffee in the holder between the seats and glared at the driver as they passed. “A little late for that, don’t ya think, pal?”

  The driver gave her the finger.

  She shook her head. “Moron. Don’t people stay home anymore in crappy weather?"

  “Guess not. The first November snowfall brings out all the idiots.”

  She hated November. Hated the snow. It reminded her of death.

  “You seem a little off tonight, Vic. You okay?”

  “Eighteen-hour day so far and no end in sight, apparently. I hate celebrity crimes. And I'm going to be forty-five years old in a couple days. That's halfway to fifty, in case your math skills are as poor as your riddle-solving skills. At least Jade's coming home for my birthday so there's that but, Jesus...forty-five.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Says the guy born nine days after me.”

  “Hey, I’m just a kid compared to you, and always will be.”

  Victory watched the giant snowflakes disintegrate on the windshield. “Man, what do you think we’ll find there? The friggin’ ghost of Houdini? I doubt it’s nearly as perplexing as we’ve been told. We shouldn’t have to deal with this, not when…why aren’t the locals handling it?”

  “Bullington was an important guy.”

  “He wasn’t the least bit important.”

  “He was hugely popular. Popular and important have become synonyms in this wacky new age of alternate facts and the divine right of media personalities,” Ryan said dismissively before returning to the issue at hand. “I guess when the Bureau was called in, the brass figured they needed the top players for this game.”

  “Like the guy who can’t figure out a simple riddle and his elderly partner?”

  “Is it my cousin?”

  Victory shook her head again. “You ever listen to him? Bullington?”

  “Hardly my cup of Sanka. I’m not big on politics or government conspiracies. Except for JFK. That one still doesn’t feel right to me.”

  “Someone told me Bullington said the Obama birther thing was just a ruse to obfuscate the fact he really came from...” She pointed out the window at the sky. “…up there somewhere and dropped in to find out what really happened to his pals at Area 51 back in the day.”

  “Well, the Bullington-types always said he was some kind of alien.”

  Victory rolled her eyes.

  Ryan grinned. “So Big Mouth was kooky, or just capitalized well off other kooks, but I don’t know who would’ve wanted to blow his brains out.”

  The guy hadn’t earned the name ‘Big Mouth’ for keeping his big mouth shut. He was controversial about anything and everything from gun cont
rol to religion to racism. There was probably a mile-long list of people who wanted to shut the man up for good.

  Victory took a drink of her coffee. “Profiting from others, further dividing the country and fueling dissent for no reason other than money and fame? Who wouldn't want to kill him?”

  “Point taken,” Ryan said.

  Flashing red and blue lights came into view ahead, and so did Eddie Bullington’s vulgar, gated mansion, lit to the hilt.

  Ryan stopped the SUV behind one of the many police cruisers parked on the street.

  Victory pulled the FBI badge that was hanging down her shirt and put it on the outside of her Bureau-issued winter coat. They opened their doors at the same time and got out of the vehicle.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  In the enormous foyer of Bullington’s home in the affluent North Avondale neighborhood, Victory and Ryan put on a pair of Nitrile gloves and protective booties.

  She stopped a young rookie officer heading toward the front door. “Who’s the lead?”

  “That’d be Detective Lynch. He’s up there.” He nodded to the stairs. “He’s the guy in the Cardinals ball cap.”

  “Thanks.” She and Ryan climbed the grand winding staircase that seemed to go on forever. At the top, to the right, they entered a massive room, an antechamber, connected to the man’s bedroom.

  “Christ, Vic. Your whole apartment could fit in here. Be a swell place to live, huh?”

  Ryan was right about the room’s pointless immensity. To fill space, it was embellished in what she could only describe as Victorian ugly. Red, gold, floral, ornate. Not her taste, that’s for sure. She preferred modern contemporary, and simple, functional.