The Grey

By Avery Stites

Two men...

A private investigator, haunted by his violent past.

A disgraced former soldier, driven to kill by feelings of injustice and vengeance.

A shared past...and the rash of brutal killings that bring them back together.

Sometimes there's a path in life you just can't escape.

Sometimes it isn't always either black or white; sometimes it's The Grey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avery Stites
• Release date: Oct 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781476495941

Avery Stites

Avery Stites is a native of North Carolina. He currently resides in Mebane, North Carolina, and when he isn't writing he enjoys playing with his dogs and making music.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Thursday afternoon

5:14 p.m.

Blue Ridge Mountains, NC.

The killer trained his vision through the scope at the target nine hundred yards below. He lay in position, on his stomach on top of the flat, massive grey rock, watching silently, patiently waiting, methodical and unexcited. He was focused. It was an act in which he was well trained and talented.

Nine hundred yards was a tough shot for many marksmen, but this distance was well within his capacities. He backed away from the sights for a moment, knowing there was no rush, and reached inside of his dark green coat. He emerged with a half empty soft pack of Camel unfiltered cigarettes from the left pocket, and using a Zippo lighter he had taken off of a dead rebel in Afghanistan in 2002, he put flame to his favorite vice. He took a hard pull, watched the orange cherry brighten quickly and move toward him, and then resume its normal glow.

He exhaled the light grey smoke, observing his surroundings and silently appreciating the beauty that engulfed him. The slanted, rocky landscape of the Blue Ridge Mountains provided plenty of excellent cover for the task at hand. While the evergreens maintained their usual resiliency and beauty throughout the year, the rest of the region’s greenery was just beginning to waken after the winter season. This was his favorite time of year in the mountains. Most people preferred the fall, when the leaves change, and brilliant displays of color take over the landscape, but he enjoyed the solidity of the green that came in the springtime. It also allowed him to blend in better, which was a factor of critical importance.

He wore a two week old beard, and his hair was greasy, unwashed, and hadn’t been cut in several months. He looked as he had when he was a member of the Special Forces Delta unit. Their dress and grooming was minimal, if at all, for covert purposes, to blend in with regular society. They operated outside of the normal parameters of the regular military, and possessed a secretive and lethal approach to their missions. Though he was no longer in the military, he was still the killing machine that could get lost in a crowd, becoming everyman. His appearance was that of an average small town construction worker or young farmer, but he was far from either.

As he lay finishing his cigarette, he thought of his hometown of Portland, Oregon, and his mother, who had passed away the year before from brain cancer. His sister was lost to the streets, and he hadn’t seen his father for thirty years, until a month ago. They lived on opposite sides of the country, and it was a struggle to build on that new relationship, but they were trying. As far as he was really concerned, however, he felt as if he had no one. No friends, no family, nothing. Just himself, his guns, and his memories, and what his life and experiences had now made him into.

My guns are all the friends I need.

He lifted a pair of binoculars that lay next to him, and observed the man nine football field lengths below who was casually fly fishing in the river at the base of the mountain.

Gary Trumthall.

He makes me sick.

The killer went over Trumthall’s profile in his mind once more: a high powered investment banker from Charlotte, North Carolina, who also happened to be the financier of a number of illegal crime rackets all over North Carolina, and was now attempting to extend his reach even further. He was currently investing in a growing drug operation in the Greensboro-Winston Salem area of North Carolina. He had put half a million dollars into the hands of an up and coming local street kingpin, whose methods were ruthless and highly effective. The result was a windfall of drug money, part of which flowed back to Trumthall, which he then washed in phony escrow accounts, and real estate investments. His initial investment was nearing a complete return, and within a year, would double. The plan was nearly perfect.

But not perfect enough.

The killer had put his ear to the street, researching and hunting the men he would choose to make an example of. The eventual main target was already established, but there were more kills to make, more justice to be served, and the path had led him to one Gary Allen Trumthall. He was number one. The killer had shadowed his movements for several months, learned of his solo fishing trip in the mountains by hacking into his personal e-mail account, and had followed him here, now, to serve the justice he deserved.

The killer stubbed out the remainder of the cigarette, and stuck it into his pocket. Experience had taught him many valuable lessons, and one common sense gem was: never leave anything you can be traced to. He had never had any trouble with this, but he had followed the stories of others, who had been sentenced to life terms or lethal injection for being careless for a moment. This thought didn’t sit well with him, and he was too careful and methodical in practice and game to get caught. He once again picked up his rifle, and this time fitted his custom silencer onto the end of it. It was a modified Remington tactical rifle, which he had outfitted to his tastes. It wasn’t the best gun he owned, but definitely his favorite and he was comfortable with it. At any rate, it was more than enough firepower to do the job. He went over the gun and saw that all was as it should be, and once again focused the sights on the man below. He pulled Gary Trumthall’s right temple and ear in the crosshairs, paced his breathing, and paused in between breaths-saw the man cast his fly into the river for the last time, and put his right index finger to the trigger, and applied measured pressure. He squeezed off two silenced shots, one right after another; a dead on double tap to the side of Trumthall’s profile. Trumthall was still holding his fishing rod as the second shot entered his head, sending pieces of his head into the water around him. A quick dispersing red cloud of mist was visible in the area in which Trumthall’s head had just moments before been located. The killer observed the scene through the scope for several seconds as Trumthall crumpled into the water. He backed off of the scope, stood up and noticed that even at this distance he could see the red pool growing rapidly in the water, being pushed and spread downstream by the current. One down, he smiled and thought to himself. He packed up his gear, and quietly made his way down to the carnage below.

Chapter 2

Friday morning, 4:49 a.m. , Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

Vince Darkwood groaned as he listened to the immensely irritating sound of his cell phone ringing and vibrating on the nightstand next to his bed. He rolled over onto his back, mouth pasty and head throbbing from the spirits he had consumed less than five hours ago. He looked at his alarm clock, picked up his phone, and checked the caller I.D. on the flip phone’s outer cover. He didn’t recognize the number, but knew if it came at this time of day, it was important. He flipped it open. Hello?

May I speak to Vincent?

Speaking.

My name is Clifton Henderson. I’m a Lieutenant with the Blowing Rock police department, up here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I was given your number by a contact I have in the governor’s office.

Hmm, Vince thought. He didn’t know anyone knew of him in the Governor’s office, but he said nothing.

He suggested you as the most knowledgeable person regionally in this type of matter. I’m sorry to bother you this early in the day, but we have a situation here that is a bit out of the realm of what we normally deal with.

And just what kind of situation are we talking about? Vince asked. This was not how he wanted to start his day, seeing as his automatic coffeemaker hadn’t even begun brewing yet. His mouth was ridiculously dry and pasty. He sat up in his bed, propping his back against the headboard. Why do they want me?

Have you ever heard of Gary Trumthall? Henderson asked.

Doesn’t ring a bell.

Well, he was a high profile commercial banker from Charlotte. Someone decided to put two bullets in his head yesterday up here while he was on a solo fishing trip. No witnesses. He was instrumental in some of the biggest commercial real estate and retail development projects in North Carolina over the last decade. From what we’ve been able to obtain information wise, he was also apparently tied in with some mob characters, and possibly the drug trade, though we have no idea at this time what the direct connection is. This is preliminary information, which is limited, at best.

No offense, Lieutenant, but there are plenty of investigators who could handle this for you. I don’t wear the badge anymore.

Maybe so. But you did. And from what I’ve heard, you have other specialties and experience that are the difference makers.

That sounds like bullshit, frankly. He wasn’t interested in being stroked.

Listen Vince, I don’t know you. I don’t know your politics, and I’m just a small town cop doing what I can. I went to the Rolodex and a couple of calls later your name was the one I wrote down on a piece of paper in front of me. If you are willing to help, that’s great, but if you aren’t, I won’t waste anymore of your time.

Vince banged the cell phone against his temple a few times, rested his chin on his chest and sighed. Damn guilt trips. Okay, I’m listening.

We’ve got a crime scene team on site right now. The SBI is on the way up, and the governor’s office is very concerned right about now. If this hits the press, it’s going to be a circus up here, and a town like ours can’t handle that. The tension in his voice was evident, and Vince could picture the guy sweating severely on the other end of the line.

Okay, I’ll get my things together, and be in the car within forty-five minutes. Call or text with any updates in the meantime. Also, as a condition of taking this on, I’m going to need you to provide me with whatever access I need, to anything.

No problem.

Excellent.

Henderson took a deep breath, and paused before he spoke. One more thing. My contact said you are as good as there is. Plus you aren’t limited by jurisdiction. I just thought you might like to know you were spoken highly of.

Vince thought about this. Thank you for that. At least the part about me not being strapped by jurisdiction is right.

I hope the first part is, too. I definitely need the help. See you when you get here.

Alright, sounds good.

Thanks.

Forty-five minutes later, Darkwood climbed into his white Toyota Sequoia and pulled out of his neighborhood. He took a left onto Weaver Dairy road, and came to the intersection of Weaver Dairy and Airport and took a right. He quickly came to the I-40 overpass and pulled onto 40 west. After his phone conversation with Henderson, he had gotten up, shaved, showered, put together some clothes and supplies for the trip, and rushed three cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal. His hangover was still announcing itself with vigor, so he opened the center console of the Sequoia and pulled out a bottle of Excedrin Migraine. He popped the cap, considered taking the whole bottle, but decided that would be a brash reaction to the annoyance he felt with himself, and settled on taking two. This better kick in quick, he said out loud to himself.

Now in his early thirties, Darkwood was a man of contradiction. He had grown up in Chapel Hill, NC, and graduated from Chapel Hill High School in the early 90’s. After graduation, he decided that he had had enough schooling for one life, and joined the military. After several years, surprising even himself, he became a highly skilled Special Forces officer, a member of the elite Delta unit, and earned a reputation as brutal and effective. He had completed missions in Afghanistan, Bosnia, Burma, Sudan, South America, and Thailand, as well as on United States soil. He had done things he could never forget, and could never tell family or friends. He had come to realize he was capable of things he could never have imagined himself being capable of growing up. This notion had been shocking at first, but as time went on, it became a part of his reality, one no more important than any other.

As his life changed, so had his mind on education, and he periodically took courses toward a bachelors of science in Criminal Justice online. In his core, he knew he wanted good things for his life and the world, and to make changes in himself and the world around him. But the darkness in him, that he lived, threw his mind to chaos, wracking his choices with indecision. He became disillusioned with the blood on his hands in Special Forces, and decided he had had enough of that life. After struggles within the unit based on his decision, and somewhat derisive treatment from his superiors, the military broke the usual protocol and gave him an honorable discharge based upon the level of service he had given during his time. He returned to Chapel Hill when he was 27 and started working for the Chapel Hill Police Dept. After several years on patrol, he became an investigator. He was excellent at this work, but during the next few years, his memories from his missions had turned to frequent nightmares and depression, and he began drinking again. He had drunk on and off during the years since high school, but now it had become a part of everyday life. At 30 years old, he took a leave of absence. The drinking and depression had affected his performance and his everyday life and career. The official paper work documenting the leave stated he was taking some time to straighten out some issues that were hurting his performance. He never returned to the Chapel Hill Police Department.

And here I am now, he thought to himself as he made his way toward the mountains. He reflected silently on the unexpected success of his private investigation firm, in both financial and respect terms, and was amazed at all he had been able to accomplish. Not having a family allowed him all the time he needed to go hard in his career. However, every time his ego attempted growth, he was left with the same thought in his head: I have everything I could ever want, but I’m still not happy. He rubbed his left hand through his hair. It was a move of frustration, and a pain he didn’t often share with many. His desire for a family sometimes overwhelmed him with despair.

Sometimes the important things seem so impossible.

He took I-40W to exit 36A, the Winston Salem exit. He plugged in his iPod car adapter, and began scrolling through the albums he had currently loaded in the memory. He was a huge music fan, to the point of being arguably obsessive, and his favorite genres were hard rock and hip-hop. His scrolling finally landed him on his favorite band, Linkin Park. He thought about how each of their records was a powerful departure from their previous, and wished his own life could reflect that. Growth, simply put. Whether he liked it or not, that was what transpired from record to record. He secretly desired for the same in the stages of his life to come.

He looked in his rearview mirror at himself. He knew he was a good looking guy, and in great physical shape, but vanity had led him to where he was now, which was alone.

He eventually pulled off of the interstate and covered the familiar highways that would lead him to his destination. He would be in Blowing Rock quicker than he had expected. He was admiring the brilliant colors around him as the trees and other plants began to take on the colors of the mountains. It was truly a gift from God that he created such beauty, Vince thought; there has to be some in this world, and this is it. His peaceful reflection time was soon interrupted by his cell phone ringing and vibrating violently, as if there were something inside trying to escape the casing. He looked at the caller I.D., saw it was Henderson, and answered.

Lieutenant. What’s the latest?

Well, it’s strange, Vince. The CSI guys were doing their poking and prodding thing, and came across a few items of interest. First, they found what looks like the numeral ‘one’ carved into his chest, right on the breastplate.

Ah. Vince knew where this was going. He had never worked a case like this since being a private investigator, but had heard of similar cases.

Ah, what? Henderson’s voice had taken on that edge of taut tension once again. Hopefully this guy uses an antiperspirant, Vince thought to himself.

Vince?

Yeah, sorry…I’m just thinking about what you said. Was there anything else of detail around or on the body?

Yeah, there was a note left in the guy’s shirt pocket. Its content is some outlandish anti-government, anti-establishment, loony shit. It says that Trumthall is only the beginning, yada, yada, yada. There were also a number of spreadsheet printouts stapled to his clothing that appear to be bank account numbers. None of our guys have any idea about this, and frankly, we’re relying on you to decipher this.

Are you kidding me right now?

Yes, Vince, it was a joke. We’re small town cops, but not morons. But we are doing our best here. We just don’t get violent murder here everyday.

Vince chuckled. All right, you got me. I was getting ready to turn around and go home.

Oh, don’t do that. We need you. The Governor wants answers.

I guess so. I’ll be there as soon as possible.

All right. Thanks, man. It’s just a nerve-wracking situation. Look forward to meeting you in person.

The line went dead. Henderson was right, whether joking or not; these guys definitely needed his help. They couldn’t punch their way out of a wet paper bag if their lives depended on it. He stepped on the accelerator, and then another thought hit him, and though he had briefly touched on it earlier, it now rose back up again.

Out of this whole state, I’m the only guy who was called? There are definitely guys with as much or more experience.

It was strange, he had to admit, but nevertheless he had proceeded without deeper reflection this morning and now alone on the road, he wrapped his head around it, trying to figure it out. Whatever the reason, he was now involved, and was sure he would find out soon enough. Luck of the draw, maybe, he said to himself. Maybe that’s it.

Chapter 3

The killer replayed the events of the hit, enjoying the satisfaction of knowing he had taken the worthless life of a scumbag. In fact, he would have liked to have cut Trumthall’s fucking head off and pissed in his neck, but knew that level of brazen barbarism could get you caught. Instead, he did what he knew best. He could pick off a target up to a mile away, if the conditions were right. It wasn’t sheer ego speaking in his head when thought that he might be one of the best shooters in the world. The military had taught him quite a lot of things, and killing with a high powered weapon at short or long distances was definitely one of them. He enjoyed it, as well; especially killing pieces of shit like Gary Trumthall.

It made him sick to see these drug dealers, corrupt politicians and corporate thieves, pedophiles, and other habitual lowlifes costing lower and middle America so much of their hard earned money, and causing so much suffering. There were so many different costs: the cost of supporting them in the correctional system, the cost of trials and appeals, and knowing that at the end, the stupid fucks that managed to get released would do it all over again, and be right back where they started. And then there was the level of hurt and suffering they caused society with their devious and evil ways. He thought about how the current fraud of a presidential administration had screwed his mom out of all of her social security. Tears of pain and rage formed in the corners of his eyes, as he thought of when his sister got hooked on crack cocaine after one time of trying it. God knows where she is now, if she’s even alive, peddling her sex for a substance that destroys her mind and degrades her body. He wiped his eyes with a dismissive motion. No time for self pity; he had work to do. Trumthall was only the beginning. The note and the number he had carved in Trumthall’s chest were his calling card. It was time to save the American people money and suffering, and fix what the justice system couldn’t. He pulled the hit list out of his briefcase, and crossed off the first name. Oh, and there were many more to come. He was beginning to enjoy this job. Justice was being served.

And then there was Vince.

The killer felt down to his right leg, and lifted the pants leg to reveal the horrific scarring that lay underneath. It didn’t hurt, but it was a mash of skin grafts and shiny scar tissue, no longer the leg he had grown up with. It was now a reconstructed Frankenstein leg; it looked awful and the memory was even worse. He had been captured and tortured by a rebel militia in South America. They had started by soaking his leg up to where his thigh met his pelvis with kerosene, and set him on fire. They had laughed as they had watched him scream and writhe in agony, tied down to a wooden table in their war camp.

All because of Vince Darkwood.

Vince had decided he was tired of the fighting life, and had asked for a transfer after they had arrived in South America. The military had been concerned about his mental health because of the reasons and information he had detailed in his request transfer paperwork, and they had asked him to wait for an evaluation before engaging in any further assignments. The unit was disgusted with his handling of the situation, and they had all felt like he was a coward. The timing had been terrible.

Their unit had been sent deep into the Colombian countryside to stop a rebel militia group that was murdering everyone they came in contact with. They had no ethical motive like many guerilla groups. They just wanted power and a portion of the profits from the lucrative drug trade, and killed anyone or anything that looked to be in opposition to their goals. It didn’t matter who you were: men, women, children, the elderly, everyone. In a matter of months from their inception, they announced their plans to become the new political party in charge, and they prepared to go to war with the Colombian government. It was at this point that the U.S. government sanctioned the military to deploy Special Forces troops to the region to protect their interests, which happened to be under the table dealings with the Colombian president at the time. No one in their unit understood the reasons, nor cared. They were there to do what they were told. The fighting went on for weeks,