Hush Hush Erik Carter (read any book txt) đ
- Author: Erik Carter
Book online «Hush Hush Erik Carter (read any book txt) đ». Author Erik Carter
Muzzle flash from an automatic, another submachine gun like the dead man had used, firing at the vehicle.
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
Gavin had three rounds left in his five-round revolver. He squeezed the trigger rapidly, emptying the rounds in the vicinity of the muzzle flash.
And the muzzle flash stopped.
There was a thump of something falling and the crackle of branches.
Then a loud metallic crash in the distance as the Grand Cherokee ran itself into a tree trunk.
And then quiet.
Just the sound of the Grand Cherokeeâs engine.
For a while, Gavin had felt nothing but adrenaline.
But now the pain returned. Flushing over him.
He collapsed onto the concrete.
Chapter Forty-One
Silence was hurt. He was hurt badly.
But not that badly.
Not as badly as he was letting on.
Among the many deadly skills Silence had in his Asset toolbox, one of the deadliest wasnât at all violent.
Deception was a powerful tool. Silence could be a damn good actor when he wanted to.
So he could get past the pain of the beating heâd taken from the cans that now buried him.
And he could make the situation look a lot worse than it really was.
He groaned, loudly, as he got to his knees.
Mr. Accord approached at a slow walk, all the confidence fully returned to his smile. âYou know, weâve crossed paths all day, and yet we havenât said a word to each other. Havenât even made introductions. My nameâs Finley. And you are?â
Silence didnât respond. He just groaned again.
The groaning itself was genuine, as a fresh wave of pain rushed over his left ribs. But the volume and emphasis was all for show.
Heâd made it sound as though he was on the edge.
He would continue the act.
But at the same time he kept his hand behind his back, fingers clenching a thin strip of metal, his hand weighted down.
âNot gonna give me your name? I wonder if thatâs because youâre injured or because you just donât talk,â Finley said. âSee, earlier Carlton told me who he thinks you might beâa legendary vigilante, who hardly speaks, just tells his victims to âtalk.â Is that you?â
Silence didnât respond. He just grimaced, moved his right hand out of the mound of cans, making sure it was clearly visible to Finley as it shook dramatically.
And with his other hand, he tightened his grip.
âMr. Stokes didnât want me to kill you until I figured out who you are,â Finley said. âBut if youâre not gonna talkâŠâ He reached to his waist, an undeniably characteristic movement, going for a gun concealed at his lower back.
It was time for Silence to drop the act.
He squeezed the paint canâs handle tighter and swung up, a huge, arching path.
A full can of latex paint weighs approximately 11.3 pounds. Silence knew this from both study and experience.
A full can of latex paint can easily break a manâs jaw. Silence knew this solely from experience.
This particular can wasnât entirely full, but it was close. Silence approximated its weight at a bit over ten pounds.
Which was evidently still enough weight to break a manâs jaw.
Crack!
Broken bone. A moist, distorted shriek emitted from Finleyâs now grotesquely distorted face, mouth open, half of his lower row of teeth jutting at a bizarre angle to the rest of them. His hands went up, hovering a couple inches from his flesh, searching without touching, confused bewilderment in his wide eyes.
Silence wouldnât let him wallow in confusion for too long.
Silence was a nice guy like that.
He swept Finleyâs leg, bringing him to the concrete with a loud thud.
Silence dropped, joining him on the floor, knees on either side of Finleyâs torso. Hands on the upper part of Finleyâs head, the intact part.
A swift, hard tug.
Snap.
And a clean death.
Silence stood.
His headspace was chaotic. He needed to recenter.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, embraced his pain, felt it surging through his body in electric waves, acknowledged it, respected it, recognized where it felt the worst, at his right trapezius where one of the first cans to fall had struck him, a tender spot on his hip, one of his toes, a deeper breath, in his center, through his core, the pain was acknowledged, another breath, his feet in contact with the floor.
Then his eyes snapped open again.
A five-second meditation.
His vision adjusted to the tiny bit of light in the garage. He spotted his Beretta, all the way against the far wall. He crossed the room, retrieved it. To the door, threw it open, cleared it. And he cautiously proceeded back into the house.
As soon as he rounded the corner, he saw Kim and Carlton Stokes at the second-floor landing. Carlton had a sharp object to her throat, some sort of tool, one so out of place that it took Silence a moment to recognize it.
It was a chisel.
Kim had a crude noose around her neck, made of decorative, shiny rope, its ends frayed and fuzzy. One end was tied to the banister.
âYouâre The Shadow, arenât you?â Stokes said. âThe silent vigilante. The Angel of Death, come to stop me. C11 has been a way of life for a select group of people for years, decades, and you came in and destroyed that in one day.
âMy daughter was trying to destroy it too. I never wanted kids, but my wife, God bless her soul, couldnât live without one. And then she passed away when Amber was only three, leaving me to raise the damn cripple. Amber got all adult-like, her little wannabe detective skills kicked in, and she decided she was going to investigate C11, found out about the Well, was going to expose us. She asked me to come clean. I told her I would. After she got marriedâjust let me see my daughter married before I face the music. So you know what I did?â
He looked intently at Silence.
âI had the bitch killed.â
Silence bristled.
Kim wailed.
A deep dread in Silenceâs stomach. It flushed throughout the rest of his body, coursing over the pain, overtaking it.
The entire dayâfrom the briefing Falcon had given him, to the press conference, listening
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