The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) (20 page)

Derek stayed low, crawling towards the direction of the shooter. Moving further away would be exactly what a reasonable person would do. A reasonable person might have, as he had done, dropped to the ground, but then that reasonable person would most certainly get his or her ass as far away from the shooter as possible. The reasonable person might also consider screaming so as to draw attention to the dire circumstances the reasonable person had been thrust into. But Derek was pissed and being reasonable was simply not a reasonable tactic for him to take.

As far as Derek could tell, the newcomer had only fired once, which meant one of three things. One, the newcomer fired off a round, saw Derek drop to the floor and assumed he had hit his target. If that were the case, the newcomer had probably left the theater calmly or, depending on the severity of the newcomers probable psychosis, was now relaxing, eating what remained in his box of popcorn and watching to see if Han would pull off yet another miracle, save the day and get the girl. The second thing the newcomer could be doing was hightailing his ass out of the theater, away from the cinema and away from the area. He may have seen his shot missed, panicked, and got the hell away. And lastly, the newcomer realized his first shot missed and was now on foot, moving towards where he expected Derek—who the newcomer probably assumed was a reasonable man—would be moving towards.

Of the three options, Derek figured either option one or three were most likely. He continued scuttling towards the right side of the theater, towards the newcomer, and waited until the screen flashed brilliantly. He shot his head up above the row of seats, and caught sight of the newcomer who was moving across the aisle five rows down from Derek. He had both hands on his pistol, which was raised just below eye level. Derek’s quick movement alerted the newcomer. He turned towards Derek, fired a series of three rounds, each were close enough to start the wheels turning in Derek’s mind and make him reconsider his non-reasonable approach to the situation he was in.

Derek gripped his Smith and Wesson 638 in his right hand and extended his index finger to turn on the laser pointer. The 638 fired .38 caliber rounds that were certainly powerful enough to stop a man, but the under two inch barrel meant the gun was only accurate up to ten, maybe fifteen yards. If Derek wanted to end this gun battle as the victor, he needed to get closer. In a brazen and ridiculously unreasonable fashion, Derek launched himself up and over the row of seats in front of him, closing the thirty-foot gap between himself and the newcomer by four feet. He didn’t fire a round during his acrobatic fly over, but did make sure the 638’s laser made its erratic presence known. The newcomer did, unlike Derek, fire off a couple of rounds, both of which Derek heard whizzing past him as he crashed back to the floor.

Derek now crawled backwards, the opposite way of his original plan. After five-seconds, he shot his head up above the seat back, hoping to see that the newcomer had hopped over a row or two and was quickly advancing towards where he expected his prey to be. But Derek’s hopes went unfilled. The newcomer was nowhere to be seen. As quickly as his crouched position allowed, Derek moved backwards till he reached the aisle. He stood, revolver held firmly in both hands, and moved smoothly down the low-rise stairs, checking each row as he passed. When he reached the exit aisle, he sprinted towards the exit door.

The newcomer must have seen the laser beam, realized he was now facing an armed enemy, and retreated to fight another day. At the most, Derek figured the newcomer had a ten-second head start on him but knew he wouldn’t be running out of the theater, through the concessions area and out through the front doors of the cinema. He would be moving swiftly but not so much as to draw attention to himself. Depending on his level of skill, the newcomer may be holding a cell phone up to his ear, giving a visual explanation to any who might wonder why in the hell anyone would be walking out of Star Wars, way before the shit really started hitting the fan.

Derek, however, was less concerned whether he attracted attention or not. After all, some son of a bitch had fired several rounds at him and that son of a bitch needed a talking to. He shoved the theater door open, letting it swing harshly on its well oiled and virtually silent hinges, shoved the 638 into his front pocket, and moved rapidly towards the exit doors. He caught sight of the newcomer—or the man he hoped would turn out to be the newcomer—at the front doors of the cinema. The man held a phone up to his ear with his left hand, and his right hand plowed into a bulging pocket of his black khaki pants and pushed the door open with his shoulder.
 

Derek picked up his pace towards the man. The newcomer noticed Derek jogging towards him and swiftly pulled his gun from his pocket, lowered the cell phone from his ear and took off running through the cinema doors and off to his right.

“Not a reasonable course of action,”
Derek thought to himself as he launched into a sprint, blasted through the front doors of the cinema—capturing the attention of the seven or eight people milling about the foyer of the cinema— and tore off in the direction the newcomer went. The cinema was located at the end of a quiet strip mall, the parking lot for which was virtually empty of cars. He caught a glimpse of a man dressed entirely in black running west, then turning around the corner of the strip mall.

Derek picked up his pace and charged headlong into, what he hoped would not be, a shoot out.

There were only a few cars parked in the side parking lot of the strip mall . Derek assumed the lot was used most often by the employees of the stores nearest the western end of the mall. But considering the time—which was now past eleven—most of the employees had probably gone home as most of the stores closed at ten.
 

Though he didn’t see any cars, Derek did see the newcomer charging across the empty lot and heading towards an expanse of trees that bordered the parking lot. He dropped his head and sprinted towards the shooter. By the time the shooter’s feet left the smooth and even pavement and bounded into the thicket of bushes and small trees, Derek closed the ten second head start the man had on him and estimated he’d catch up to the shooter within thirty-seconds. Though Derek’s peak of athletic abilities was six or seven years in his past, his commitment to working out six times a week was paying dividends. The shooter, however, didn’t share Derek’s commitment to staying in shape and, soon after entering the wooded area, was dealing with a painful stitch on his left side. He was breathing heavily and his tempo, already slowed by the darkness and thick underbrush, crawled to no more than a moderately paced walk.

Holding his Taurus 840, .40 caliber handgun in his right hand, the shooter ducked behind a thin white birch tree, turned and prepared to use the advantage of his somewhat concealed position to deter or drop his pursuer. But Derek had not slowed his pace. Derek did not stumble over the undergrowth but had instead hurdled over the low bushes and did not feel the same ripping, stabbing pain the shooter did.
 

As he finished turning towards his approaching pursuer, the shooter, for the briefest of moments, wished he had chosen a more mature tree to hide behind. Maybe there was a thick elm tree a few feet deeper in the woods. Or maybe, if he was lucky, he might have found a three-foot wide, towering oak tree ten feet deeper. But, motivated by his burning lungs and the sharp stitch in his side, he chose the six-inch wide white birch tree. The truck of the birch did cause Derek to alter his course when he launched his body towards the shooter, but not enough to keep the shooter on his feet.
 

Derek’s left shoulder slammed viciously into the shooter’s solar plexus, ramming every whisper of breath from his lungs, causing him to be thrown to the ground and his pistol to fly out of his hand. The shooter lost sight of his flying Taurus once it bounced off a rock and disappeared behind a three-foot wide oak tree.

Derek landed just to the right of the shooter. He jumped onto the shooter and slammed his fists, one after another, into the shooter’s face. By the time the fourth punch landed directly on the man’s nose, Derek held his raised fist above his shoulder and slammed the barrel of his gun into the underside of the shooter’s chin.

“Three options,” Derek said. “One, you struggle and I plow my right hand into your face again. Two, you really struggle and I remind myself just how much damage a .38 can do to a man’s head from point blank range. And three, you drop your arms above your head, relax your body and tell me how awfully sorry you are for trying to kill me.”

Derek felt the tension in the man’s body lessen, then watched as his arms slowly dropped to the ground.

“Still waiting for an apology,” Derek said.

“Go fuck yourself,” the battered and bloody man said.

“Close enough. Now, I’m going to ask you a series of questions. For each question asked, I will be expecting an answer. Should you respond with a hearty ‘Fuck you,’ I’ll demonstrate the proper method of knocking an opponent’s teeth out. However, should you answer my questions with appropriate answers, your face and your teeth will not suffer any addition damage. Question number one: Do you understand my expectations?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The punch was fast, viciously accurate and produced the results Derek had promised.

“Need I repeat my expectations?” Derek asked.

The light from the nearby parking lot’s street lamps provided just enough light for Derek to see the shooter’s face as he spit out ivory colored bits of teeth passed his already swollen and bloody lips. The bloody-faced man beneath him looked to be in his early forties. His hair, which was matted into the distinctive style most often referred to as “hat head,” was salt and pepper colored and still engaged in the battle many men his age were waged in against whatever genes directed their hairline to recede. The man was still breathing heavily and had taken on a high-pitched wheezed, that sounded a disturbing whistle with each labored exhale.

The man was fairly fleshed but still retained slight bulge of arm muscles beneath his long sleeved, back shirt.

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” the man said. “Just sending you a message.”

“Most people send messages via email, or, in the case of middle school aged kids, a passed note. Your message was sent at super sonic speed, was made of lead and was aimed directly at my chest.”

“If I wanted that bullet to hit you, I wouldn’t have missed. Didn’t you notice the first shot hit the seat next to you?”

“And all the other messages you sent my way? Am I to believe those were all intended to miss me as well?”

“Go f…” The man stopped speaking when he saw Derek’s arm returning to the locked and loaded position.

Derek released some of the tension in his raised arm, but kept it in the promising position. “Okay,” Derek said. “Let’s say I believe you and that you only wanted to send me a message. I don’t believe that, by the way, but let’s just pretend I do. It appears that I missed the meaning of your message, so why don’t you deliver the message in the old fashioned way, and tell it to me?”

The man spit out more bits of broken teeth and blood. “You’re not wanted in Ravenswood. Go the fuck home.”

“I will go home, but not until I figure out who gave you that message, why that person sent me that message and who the hell put my friend in the hospital with a fractured skull.”

“You have no idea the shit you’re in, Cole. No idea at all.”

“Enlighten me.”

The man flashed a newly-toothless and bloody grin. “I tell you and you know what happens to me?”

“Honestly, I don’t give a shit what happens to you. But let me tell you how I see things shaping up for you and your future life. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll probably blast your face with a few more punches. I have a temper, you see. Not that I’m proud of it, mind you, but a man’s got to know his limitations and my limitation is my temper. I’ll most likely continue with the punches until I am certain you are a sufficient distance away from consciousness. Then, I’ll pull out my trusty iPhone, dial 9-1-1, and stand guard over your limp and unconscious body until the authorities arrive. They’ll ask to see my pistol permit first, I imagine, considering this in New York State. But fortunately for me, I have a non-restricted carry license. That will make the cops happy and more comfortable proceeding with more questions. They’ll call for an ambulance, which is good for you, considering the condition you’ll be in and, after hearing my story and checking out the theater, finding the bullet casings and the holes in the seats you caused, they’ll arrest your for assault with a deadly weapon with the intent to kill. Those are felonies, by the way. I’m also willing to bet that you don’t have an unrestricted pistol permit, which would be yet another felony to add to your list of troubles.
 

“Once you wake up in the hospital and notice that you’re handcuffed to the bed rails, a detective or an investigator, and, by the way, I have a pretty good idea which investigator will show up at your bedside, will begin peppering you with questions. Should you decide to play nice, you’ll give them what they need to know and you’ll be able to spend the next ten to fifteen years in prison with the knowledge that, in the end, you did the right thing and cooperated with police. That will surely make you popular with your fellow inmates.”

The man on the ground with the toothless grin and flattened nose, spit out a bit more blood, then said, “I have a legal carry conceal license.”

“Well, zippidity fucking do da for you,” Derek said. “That will knock a few weeks off your sentence. Hell, I bet Governor Cuomo will consider making you the poster boy for his Safe Act law.”

The man smiled again. There was something in the way he smiled that unnerved Derek. Not the actual mechanics of the smile, but what was driving the smile. No one, at least no one in their right mind should be smiling in this man’s position. “Listen, Cole, you have no idea who you’re playing with here. So, why don’t you get your ass off me and we’ll just go our separate ways? You don’t call the police and I’ll report that you got the message and are leaving Ravenswood to go back chasing ghosts somewhere.”