Hush Hush Erik Carter (read any book txt) 📖

had created so many years ago, a subcomponent of C11’s already shady dealings.

And Carlton knew who the mystery man was, who he had to be.

After years in the Orlando Police Department’s corrupt District C11, Carlton had heard plenty of rumors about The Shadow. Most thought he was just a legend, and for many years, Carlton assumed this to be the case. But after a while, there were too many coincidences, too many serial killers who randomly committed suicide, too many ruthless gang leaders found shot to death behind heavily guarded walls. Someone was out there. Or something. And Carlton started to believe in the myth of The Shadow.

He just never thought he would personally encounter him.

However, experience had also taught Carlton that adaptability was the most important attribute one could have, especially when one was doing things of the illegal variety.

And now Carlton would need to adapt once more.

Adaptation was how he would survive The Shadow.

He grabbed the tumbler, stopped before he raised it to his mouth. His fingertips tingled. He should quit. He needed his wits.

He put the tumbler back on the table, squeezed his fingers into fists, willing out a bit of the tingle, then grabbed the laptop and stood.

It was time to move on to the next step.

Time for adaptation.

The house was shadowy dark. He switched on a couple more lamps as he crossed the living room.

Up the stairs. His feet sank into the plush carpeting.

To the second-floor landing. Three doors—two bedrooms and a bath. One of the doors was closed.

He approached the closed door. Faint, warm light traced its edge, spilled out of the gap at the bottom.

He wrapped his fingers around the brass, lever-style doorknob, pressed down, slowly guided the door open. A slight squeal of the hinges. They would need to be oiled.

The door did a wipe reveal of the bed.

And the person lying on it.

Kim Hurley.

Lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Her wrists and ankles zip-tied.

She screamed.

“Hello, Kim,” Carlton said with a smile.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Finley was about to jump out of his skin.

Not because of his surroundings—a modern kitchen with all the latest appliances, everything chic and shiny, an aesthetic Finley needed to adapt to if he was going to continue his upward mobility—but due to the two people with him, the only two Finley had been able to wrangle on such short notice.

Despite the sophistication and size of the Well, its decades of operation tuning it into a precision machine, there were still only so many resources, only so many would-be prisoners to whom the corrupt police had given a second chance. In a short-notice situation, the pool of hired hands could be rather shallow.

The two behind him were Hayes, a barrel-chested, light-red-haired, smiling doofus who had been apprehended for domestic violence, and Schuyler, a dope dealer wannabe hippie with long black hair, streaked with premature gray, and scraggly whiskers poking out of an acne-riddled face.

A pair of idiots. Who wouldn’t shut up.

“Boss man said to keep it down,” Finley said.

They quieted again.

Fortunately, Finley didn’t have to look at them. He had his back turned to them as they played cards. Their game of choice was “war,” a game based not on a mix of skill and chance like so many card games, but one entirely based on chance, a glorified version of high card. It was a contest fitting of these two morons.

Finley had encouraged them to play the game, and it made him feel like a babysitter to two grown-ass men. But it only took so many people to watch the monitor, a four-inch, black-and-white screen in a white plastic housing. The image on the screen was divided into equal quadrants, tiny images that Finley had to squint to study. Each was a feed from the cameras positioned around the exterior of the house belonging to Carlton Stokes, the Oil Man.

Finley reclined, stretched his back, his arms going high. He rubbed the strain from his eyes.

The chime binged.

He snapped back to attention, leaning forward, his face inches from the screen, so close he could feel the monitor’s heat, its halo of static charge.

Excited murmuring from the dolts behind him.

“Shut up,” he said without taking his eyes off the screen.

The upper left-hand image—the feed from the far end of the driveway—showed a vehicle pulling onto the property, a Jeep Grand Cherokee. The image was grainy, but as the vehicle moved to a different quadrant of the screen—the feed for the second camera, farther up the driveway—Finley could clearly see the big man, Jonah Lund’s companion, in the passenger seat, his angular face, dark eyes and dark hair.

The Jeep pulled to a stop. The passenger door opened. And the big guy got out, moved toward the house with haste. Whoever was behind the steering wheel stayed back.

Finley whipped around in his seat, faced the others. “Wait two minutes. Then go out the side door. Anyone in that Cherokee, kill them.”

“What are you gonna do?” Schuyler said.

Finley turned back to the monitor. He watched the big man approach on the lower left-hand feed, the camera on the side of the house, near the porch.

A glance to the living room. Carlton was gone.

Back to the monitor. The big man drew a gun from beneath his sport jacket, a Beretta 92FS. He reached for the door handle.

Finley flashed the other two a look. “I’m gonna hang out in here.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The door was glass, framed with dark-stained wood and flanked by two sconces and a pair of sidelight windows. The house beyond was well lit.

Silence tried the doorknob. Unlocked. He threw the door open, cleared it.

And entered.

Into the bright light. Chilly air conditioning. There was the smell of fresh upholstery or maybe carpet and the sharp tang of cinnamon candles.

No people.

The house was spacious, airy, an open floor plan. Ahead was a hallway leading to the back of the house. To the side was a door, cracked open, that led to a darkened garage, evidenced by the unfinished quality of the wall