House of Fire (Unraveled Series)

House of Fire

This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 Raen
Smith.
All rights reserved.

PROLOGUE

Matthew 10:28

“And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather
fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell.”

The thumping in his trunk persisted.

He tapped the volume
control on his wheel until the rich soul of Frank Sinatra’s croons drowned out
the sound. The thumping ceased in Holston Parker’s trunk.

He stared at the
oncoming lights, the flash glaring in his eyes before blackness surrounded him again.
He adjusted his headlights, allowing the high beams to illuminate the aged pavement
that stretched out before him. The residual light made the familiarity of the
passing fields and patches of trees into a glowing, comforting scene. He had
driven the road many times before, but never with a man in his trunk. At least
not one that was alive.

The Mercedes glided
along the road at a smooth forty-five miles per hour, exactly on the small tick
line of his odometer. His tires had rolled diligently at this pace along the
country roads for almost two hours. The sleek gray sedan shone in the full moon
- the epitome of luxury and success. Power. The humming of the road soothed him,
coaxed him to finish what he had started. God had given him the strength, the
will, to continue
His
plan. Taking Kurt Dodd’s life was the beginning of
the end.

Holston breathed the scent
of polished leather from his seats as he turned off his headlights. His
gleaming Oxfords eased off the gas while the steering wheel shifted to the
right in his hand, sliding against his palm as the gravel crunched beneath the
wheels. He begrudgingly silenced Frank Sinatra, the echo of his serenade
replaced with the thumping and muffled yells. He entered the driveway as silent
as he could; he didn’t want her to stir, not yet anyway. She was a restless
sleeper, a result of a fateful night more than fifty years ago. It hadn’t
stopped her husband from sleeping like the dead, though. His snores would exude
from the bed and into the rest of the small, run-down home - if it could be
considered a structure fit for dwelling.

He pulled along the
dilapidated out building behind the house, crumbling from the decades-old
mortar that barely held the bricks together. It would serve as Kurt Dodd’s
resting place, just like all of the scathing devils before him. But unlike Kurt
Dodd, the countless other men had already been dead before they had gotten
here. Gunnar had taken care of them. But now that Gunnar was gone, Holston would
have to finish the work himself. Holston reached in the glove compartment and
pulled out the eight inch blade wrapped in white cloth. He rolled it in his
hand, letting his finger graze the tip. It was only fitting that he used
Gunnar’s weapon of choice.

The gravel crushed
beneath the sole of his shoe as he stepped out of the car, shutting the door
with the slightest of thud behind him. The black consumed him, heightening the
sounds of crickets and the rustle of leaves from the light breeze that graced the
warm summer night. The trunk opened with a light push of his finger, the
muffled screams lingering in the air.

Kurt Dodd thrashed in
the trunk, desperate to reach the edge of the opening, but he was bound in
plastic wrap from shoulder to knee, preventing his body from moving to his own
commands. He jerked instead, like a fish out of water as it flapped before its
final breath. The duct tape secured over his mouth puffed back and forth with
his breath. Blood spilled down his face from a wound that had rendered him
unconscious after he had given Holston Parker his boss’s name. He had thought
it was his pass to freedom, to life. But Kurt was wrong. He knew that now. Kurt
Dodd knew he was going to die.

Holston stood over
him, gripping the handle of the blade as he emulated Gunnar’s stance the same
stance he had watched so many times before. Killing had looked effortless,
almost peaceful to Gunnar. But for Holston, it was a necessary means to an end.
The peace would come later in the stillness of the body. The realization that
he was one step closer to his final kill. One kill closer to
her.
He
slipped his hand into his jacket to retrieve a small, pink ball of fabric. The mask
dangled beneath his fingertips before he tucked it inside the plastic wrap near
Kurt Dodd’s chest. The panicked eyes of Kurt Dodd questioned Holston before he
let out one last muffled scream. It was Kurt Dodd’s last audible sound to the
world.

It was time for the
mask to go, for Delaney’s sins to be buried deep with Kurt Dodd. Holston
slipped his hand inside his jacket again, this time pulling out a small vial
with a blood stained cotton swab. He hesitated for a moment, hovering over the
plastic before tucking it back into his jacket. He couldn’t part with it yet;
he may need it. Holston Parker raised the blade above his head, holding it high
and steady - the silver glinting in the moonlight. Dodd deserved it. He wasn’t
worthy of walking the same ground Holston walked on, drinking the same water he
drank. Dodd closed his eyes.

“Lord Jesus, I am a
sinner. Please forgive me. Wash me clean of all sin and give me strength to
endure with your power. I ask this in your name, Jesus. Amen.”

Holston lifted the knife, ready to strike, but he wasn’t Gunnar. Dodd’s eyes flashed open in one last desperate hope of salvation. Holston slipped his hand inside
his jacket and emptied a single shot from his 9mm into Kurt Dodd’s waiting
forehead.

1

June 13 - 6:00 p.m.

Her index finger
pulled the trigger back slow, feeling the tension near its peak before it
released. The bang echoed in Delaney’s chest as she felt the light sting
radiate through her palm and into the tips of her fingers. Her arm flinched
back, her eyes blinking from the explosion at the end of her hand. The hole
tore through the outermost ring of the target.

“You blinked again.”
Randy White stood a few feet from her left, leaning against the wooden ledge which
separated the stations.

“Damn, I thought I
had it that time,” Delaney replied as she dropped her arm, the borrowed 9mm gun
resting along her thigh. She pulled off her ear protection, letting the muffs collapse
around her neck.

“Take a deep breath
and loosen your shoulders a bit more. When you’re ready, go at it again,” Randy
coached from his position, his round belly protruding underneath his
camouflage, cotton t-shirt. A buck’s antlers sprouted up his shirt, the
animal’s neck bulging from the belly stocked with latent years of beers and
brats. Randy, a retired police officer from the Ripon Police Department, hadn’t
been a part of the force for a good fifteen years. He had taken his retirement
seriously, like that of his counterparts and predecessors. A couch. A beer. A
brat. The usual in Wisconsin.

Delaney liked Randy.
There was something about him that made her smile. Maybe it was his white beard
that he scratched with the back of his hand or maybe it was the way he tooled
around the shooting range, calling out tips to anyone and everyone shooting,
even if they weren’t up for criticism. Maybe it was that Randy believed, for
whatever reason, that Delaney could be a good shot. Delaney hoped to hell he
was right.

“Get a little fire in
ya, girl,” Randy continued, finally staggering off the railing. He leaned
forward, only a foot away from her when he whispered, “You got it. Take ‘em
down.”

Delaney exhaled, drew
the 9mm up and set herself into position. She rolled her shoulders back,
letting her elbow crease with the slightest tension. She lined up her sights,
focusing on the black center on the white paper target that was adhered to the
bale of hay set off in the distance. Delaney zoned in, her mind materializing a
gray fedora on the top of the target. She blinked, listening to the echoes of
the bangs next to her. She wanted to be steady, resolute in her shot. Dead on. She
envisioned the holes tearing through the black bull’s-eye.
It’s my turn.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.

The shells hit the
concrete slab with four successive, clattering plinks, her shots even and only
seconds apart. She pulled the gun down, focusing on the holes in the black
circle.

“That a girl.” Randy
clapped Delaney on the back with a huge grin. “I knew you had it in there. Just
gotta dig it out. You still blinked, but you got ‘em.”

“Thanks, Randy,”
Delaney replied, still staring at the holes as a surge of triumph sparked
through her body.

The fedora had disappeared,
the bale and target alone along the backdrop of the shooting range. It was her
fourth week in lessons at the Ripon Gun Club’s Outdoor Range, just thirty
minutes outside of Appleton. Delaney was grateful that the club had paired her
up with Randy. He had made an arrangement with the club a few years ago only to
give lessons to newbies, particularly females; he particularly enjoyed working
with females who had never shot a gun. “Virgins. A clean slate to work from
with no bad habits,” he had said with a wink. Randy felt it was his duty, as a
retired officer and father of four girls, to give every female a fighting
chance. Firearm education and practice, according to Randy, was necessary for
every self-respecting, smart woman.

Delaney had hesitated
after the first class; his night-long safety lecture and dry practice with a “pretend”
gun more than two hundred times had seemed a bit extreme to her. But she
returned later that week for her second lesson and the 9mm was laying in its open
case, waiting for her. Randy had watched silently, his arms clasped behind his
back as she’d loaded it herself, double checked the safety, and held it with
just the right amount of grip. She had aimed at the target and fired three
shots, each hitting the inside ring of the target before turning to see his
mouth curved in a wide smile beneath his beard. The second lesson had gone much
better.

“Not bad,” a man’s
voice mused behind her. Delaney pulled the gun down and spun to see the familiar
face. She caught her reflection in his mirrored aviators, his face even tanner
than what she’d remembered, glistening in the warm heat of the early summer
evening. His full black uniform wasn’t doing him any favors.

“Police Chief
Sanchez,” Delaney said, forcing a smile on her face. She looked down at his
large, black duffel bag; he raised it in the air.

“A little practice
after a day’s work,” Sanchez said. “I don’t get a lot of practice sitting
around the office all day. I gotta get out and stretch my legs every once in a
while.”

“This is the best
place to do it,” Randy chimed in, holding out his hand to Sanchez. “Retired
Officer Randy White from the Ripon Police Department.”

“Oscar Sanchez, with
the Appleton Police Department.” Sanchez met Randy’s hand in a strong shake of camaraderie.
Once a police officer, always a police officer. They were among friends.
Delaney was thrilled.

“Police Chief
Sanchez,” Delaney corrected him, still eyeing Sanchez’s body movements. She
felt the sweat gather beneath her knees and in the crooks of her armpits. The
moisture began to bead down her hand, the grip on the gun becoming wet.
What
was Sanchez doing here?

“I haven’t seen you
around here before, but it’s good to see one of my own,” Randy said as he moved
back to his perched position on the railing. The deer bulged out again from his
rounded belly as he rested his hand on its neck. “What are you carrying?”

“Sniper rifle, Glock
22 and .44 Magnum.”

“Holy shit, who are
you taking down?” Randy asked with a scratch of his beard. “You’re packing
heavy.”

Sanchez raised his
bag again with a glint in his smile before turning his attention back to
Delaney. “Dr. Jones, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a frequenter of a gun range,”
Sanchez said. He studied her from beneath his silver rimmed glasses, his eyes
unrelenting. Her pulse quickened as she scrambled to respond. Her eyes jolted
down, her neon green Nikes glaring back at her.
Holston Parker. Is that a
good enough reason?

“Always looking for a
change of pace,” Delaney mumbled with a smile.
Damn.

“Smart girl, if you
ask me. Every woman should be properly educated on firearms. Every single one
of my girls is a damn fine shot. Twenty-two, nine, twelve gauge. You name it,
they got it covered. And safe. All my girls are safe with those guns. Ain’t
nobody gonna be messing with my girls,” Randy rattled off, much to Delaney’s
relief.
Thank you, Randy
.

“I couldn’t agree
more, Randy,” Sanchez said, nodding his head in agreement before taking one
last look at Delaney. “Carry on, Dr. Jones. I don’t want to interrupt your
session. It looks like you’re in good hands.”

Delaney nodded her
head as Sanchez sauntered off in his black uniform with his black hair,
carrying his black bag. It was all a bit too ominous for Delaney as he settled
into a lane a few stations down. Randy’s voice echoed in the background as
Delaney turned her attention back to her target.

“Always good to know
the Police Chief in town, and a doctor? I didn’t know you were a doctor.
There’s a lot I don’t know about you, isn’t there?” Randy asked to an
unresponsive Delaney. “Smart girl,” he added as he rubbed the neck of the deer.