Hunted

By John R. Beyer

A killer without remorse, burning with pride, and having the time of his life, Zachary Marshall is unstoppable—until Detective Jonas Peters unexpectedly arrives in the midst of one of Marshall’s heinous crimes. After a bank robbery goes from bad to worse and leaves three dead—including a little girl—Marshall finds himself the target of the most intensive manhunt Riverside, California, has ever witnessed. But an innocent remark to the media by Detective Peters changes the entire scenario—and now the hunter has become the hunted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Opal Books
• Release date: May 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626940147

Book preview

A killer without remorse, burning with pride, and having the time of his life, Zachary Marshall is unstoppable—until Detective Jonas Peters unexpectedly arrives in the midst of one of Marshall’s heinous crimes. After a bank robbery goes from bad to worse and leaves three dead—including a little girl—Marshall finds himself the target of the most intensive manhunt Riverside, California, has ever witnessed.

Detective Peters becomes frustrated and half-crazed as the case falters due to lack of clues and evidence. Ordered to take a vacation from the department before he drives all the other detectives crazy with his constant tirades, he heads to his sister’s in Arizona. But an innocent remark to the media changes the entire scenario—and now the hunter has become the hunted.

KUDOS FOR HUNTED

In Hunted by John R. Beyer, with one off-handed comment said in the heat of anger, personal pain, and his own frustration at the death of a child in bank robbery gone bad, Detective Jonas Peters goes from being the hunter of evil, to being hunted by the most vile evil he has ever encountered. Someone who will stop at nothing and kill whomever is in his way as he tries to get to Jonas in this gritty, hanging-on-the-edge-of-your-seat thriller. Bodies start to collect in gruesome ways and the personal death toll leaves Jonas both devastated and running out of time to save his own life and the lives of the next victims before Zachary Marshall can unleash his final and most gruesome killing spree ever. I really enjoyed Hunted, but due to the graphic and violent nature, both physically and sexually, this book may not be for everyone. – Taylor Jones, reviewer

Hunted by John R. Beyer is a fast-paced, down-to-earth, crime thriller of the first order. The book is timely due to all the crime in the world today and, unfortunately, all too believable. Some of the violence is a bit graphic, but I think all but the most sensitive souls can handle it...The book is a bit graphic, but that doesn’t detract from the page-turning plot and very fast pace. It is one that I, personally, would read over and over again. – Regan Murphy, reviewer

HUNTED

John R. Beyer

A BLACK OPAL BOOKS PUBLICATION

Copyright 2013 by John R. Beyer

Cover Art by Jackson Cover Designs

Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626940-14-7

EXCERPT

He didn’t know who was after him, but he did know they were playing a deadly game...

The phone went dead and Jonas suddenly felt himself paling. Roger, we need to get Maggie and the kids out of this house, now!

What’s going on? Roger asked.

Just do as I say, Jonas commanded. He threw down the phone and raced from the kitchen. Roger followed.

You get Maggie, yelled Jonas as he ripped open a bedroom door and cast his eyes for the sleeping figure he expected to find. I’ll get Annie and Tim. Get yourselves out to the backyard now! Get into the pool!

Jonas found Annie’s sleeping body stirring beneath her bedclothes. He roughly grabbed the little girl and tucked her under his arm as he hurried from the room. She started to cry in confusion, but Jonas didn’t stop to explain. He kicked Tim’s bedroom door open and grabbed the boy by the hand, yanking him out of the bed. Tim resisted for a moment, but then followed his uncle out of the room without asking a single question.

Carrying the slightly struggling Annie in his arms and pulling Tim, who was trying to keep up with his uncle’s large steps, Jonas met Roger and the still-half-asleep Maggie by the french doors that led to the backyard. Every second counted right then, and having to unlock and open the glass doors would have cost precious moments.

Jonas’s mind kept track of the seconds quickly clicking away in his head. He herded the family to the edge of the pool and, without ceremony, pushed Maggie and Roger into the deep end, knowing they wouldn’t jump in if he told them to. He threw Tim into the water after them, and then leapt over their heads, still cradling Annie, who was now screaming. As Jonas’s feet touched the water, he heard the blast. It came from within the house and the heat from the explosion ripped across the surface of the pool. Shards of broken glass and other debris sprayed across the backyard like so many pieces of shrapnel.

PROLOGUE

The pock face man sauntered up to the boy who was filling the gas tank on an ’eighty-six, baby blue Ford Mustang.

Hey, kid, need any help with that?

With a look of disgust, the baggy-trousered youth ignored the older man, who stood only a few feet away, and kept his eyes on the nozzle he held in his hand.

Ain’t nice to ignore people, son, returned the man with a grin in his voice.

Listen, old man, started the teenager as he completed draining the last drop of regular unleaded from the hose in his hand. He hated adults who thought they could tell kids how to do things. Didn’t this old fart know he belonged to a gang? One more word from the wino and he would let him have it. I don’t need—

That’s right, boy, continued the man, now standing dangerously close to the youth. You just keep your goddamn mouth shut. I’m gonna borrow your car for a little job, and, if you is a good little asshole, I may let you live. Get in and slide over to the passenger’s seat.

Fear shot through the boy as he stared down the barrel of a large-caliber handgun in the stranger’s hand. He could not move. He could barely breathe, let alone think.

Replacing the fuel hose, the boy gingerly stepped in front of the larger man and entered the vehicle through the driver’s-side door. He thought about jumping out the passenger side, but then he realized this stranger wasn’t fooling around. The boy knew he’d be dead before he got a chance to grab the door handle. He could tell from the look in the man’s eyes. This guy wasn’t sane. Lifeless, cold eyes stared right at him and sent chills down his spine. The boy was scared, truly frightened. This man was one serious badass.

The gunman tossed a large brown duffel bag into the rear seat. He pushed in beside the boy, settled himself behind the wheel, and started the Mustang. Slowly, he drove out of the ARCO gas station.

I noticed you have one of those No Fear stickers on your rear window. The man smiled as he turned onto the main roadway. Is it true?

W–what? the youth stuttered, badly shaken.

Are you stupid as well as ugly, kid? Don’t you fear nothing?

I–I–

I bet you peed your pants already. The man laughed as he turned north onto De Anza Avenue. You shitheads with those stickers. You go out and skateboard or ride your silly-assed, off-road bikes and think you’re some sort of brave men. You all are nothing but a bunch of weekend weenies. Shit, you’re probably scared of the dark, ain’t you? With your pants hanging below your ass you gotta be some kind of queer or one of those big bad gangstas those niggers are always singing about. Pukin’ sissies!

He was scared. Out-of-his-mind scared. Mister, what do you want?

Nothing, now, the driver answered calmly. I got what I wanted. I got me a car and a young boy.

Oh, Jesus. The youth suddenly felt sick to his stomach and started to reach for the door handle beside him. He stopped as the barrel of the man’s revolver pressed into his left temple.

That would be real stupid, the man whispered as he turned into a strip mall parking lot, drove behind the businesses, and slowed the car to a stop. This is where you get out.

The young man was suddenly shaking as he realized this nightmare was almost over. You’re letting me go?

What’d ya think I was gonna do? Break your cherry? The man stopped talking and pointed to a dumpster tucked up into a narrow alleyway behind a small Mom and Pop Liquor store. Get out and climb into that dumpster. If you stay there until you hear me drive away, you’ll live. If you don’t...well, I guess you won’t.

The boy didn’t hesitate as he jumped from the car and made it over the side of the dumpster in one tall leap. Quickly, he burrowed down into the trash, trying to put as much distance between him and the carjacker as possible. His heart suddenly skipped a beat as he heard the Mustang’s door open. Don’t worry, kid. I gotta take a leak.

There was silence and then the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps on blacktop.

Hey, boy! Fear this!

The youth looked up and saw the barrel of the stranger’s gun pointing directly at his head. It was the last thing he saw.

The man shot the youth twice in the face. Not bad, boy—very little noise, and it’ll be a while before they find you in the trash.

The killer looked around, shrugged his muscular shoulders when he realized no one had come to investigate, and walked back to the dead teenager’s car. No fear. He chuckled to himself as he pushed the revolver beneath the driver’s seat.

Fuck him.

CHAPTER 1

April Phillips glanced right, left, and then right again before she stepped off the southwest corner of Central Avenue and Riverside Drive and into the crosswalk. Her parents always warned her and she always remembered. Hadn’t Sammy Mathews been run over last summer because he had darted into the traffic lanes without even taking a look for oncoming vehicles? April was a smart girl. Everyone told her so and she liked hearing it.

Staying between the two wide yellow lines painted on the asphalt, April walked her bicycle across the busy street. A red truck slowed to a stop and the driver smiled at the twelve-year-old girl in the crosswalk. April wanted to smile or wave back but, again, the advice of her parents sprang to her memory and she didn’t dare.

Never get involved with strangers, her mother had told her time and time again.

She always followed that advice. Safely on the other side of the street, April lifted her little pink BMX up onto the sidewalk and started riding west down the cement path toward Riverside Plaza.

April was very excited this morning. She had one hundred and forty-two dollars in the left front pocket of her jeans, which she planned on depositing into the Citibank located near her home on Laura Lane. First, of course, she had to open an account. But she had her parents’ permission and knew they were proud of her. She had done a good job saving that money from the small, around-the-house chores she did every week. She was still too young to do any serious baby-sitting, but in a year or two she would get all the sitting jobs she wanted, and then the savings would really start to grow.

Slowing the BMX as she approached the bank, April took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. Then she slowly climbed off the brightly painted bicycle and locked it to a steel rack by the front door. Patting the money safely tucked into her pocket, she pushed open the heavy glass door and walked into the foyer of the bank.

Today was the day. She was going to be an investor.

***

Zachary Marshall sat in the stolen Mustang near the east entrance to Riverside Plaza off of San Diego Avenue and looked down at his Timex. He knew the time was never going to be any better than right now. With a flick of his right hand he started the Mustang and slowly cruised toward the stand-alone Citibank building.

The sweat was beading up on his acne-scarred nose, and with a nervous gesture he wiped the little balls of moisture away.

I’ve done this too many times to be nervous, he ridiculed himself as he eased the Ford into a parking space fifty feet from the double glass doors at the back of the bank.

He glanced around the parking lot and, instantly, the nervous twinges subsided. Piece of cake. He smiled as he shut the Mustang down. Casually, he reached behind the passenger seat and zipped open the bag he had tossed in earlier. Retrieving the light brown windbreaker he always wore on jobs, Zachary actually chuckled out loud. This was going to be easier than he had imagined.

***

April approached the woman seated behind the oak desk and stood still. The woman looked up and flashed a large smile at the pretty little blonde. Good morning.

Hi, April returned, feeling funny standing in front of the big desk. It felt like being in the principal’s office.

Is there something I can help you with? The woman pointed to one of the empty chairs in front of the desk. Have a seat.

April took the money out of her pocket and laid the neatly folded bills on the top of the desk. Then she sat in one of the chairs. I’d like to open a savings account, please.

Well. The woman smiled even wider. That is a lot of money for someone as young as you to be carrying around.

I want it to be safe, April replied matter-of-factly.

I think you’ve come to the right place. The woman continued to grin. Wait here a minute and I’ll just get some paperwork for you. Of course, your parents know you are opening this account, right?

Of course. April nodded. They said there would probably be some papers for them to sign and I have a note and their phone number if you need to call them.

You seem to have some pretty smart parents. I’ll be right back, replied the new accounts specialist.

I’ll wait right here, April said.

***

Zachary edged out of the Mustang, whistling to himself as he tucked the butt of the heavy sawed-off shotgun beneath his right armpit under the windbreaker. As he started walking the few short feet to the bank’s entrance, he touched the butt of the .44-caliber revolver that he had shoved behind the front waistband of his pants. You never know. He was ready. He started for the doors. Through the glass he could see a couple of customers and maybe five bank employees.

Five minutes tops, he thought, as he pushed open the heavy glass door and entered the cool marble foyer.

***

S–so, I say to her, the heavy-set man sputtered as a piece of toast crumbled from his lips, If you want to do nothing but shop, then you better get a job. I mean, Jonas, I love my wife and I don’t mind her spending money, but right now with two kids in college and a third starting next year—sheesh.

You could divorce her, Steve. Jonas scanned the dog-eared report in his hands. He threw a quick grin at his partner and then took another sip of his coffee. Jonas thoroughly enjoyed talking to Steve, but wouldn’t trade places with him for the world. Marriage just wouldn’t work for him. It hadn’t in the past, sadly.

She’d kill me. Steve sighed as he finished off his plate of scrambled eggs. Nah, I adore the woman. I just wish she’d understand we have heavy expenses right now.

Stephanie is a very bright and sensible woman, Steve. I’m sure she knows how much you guys have in the kitty. Of course, I don’t, so tell me...I could use a loan.

Steve laughed. Funny, but you’d have better luck getting money out of one of your bookies than me.

That’s who I need the loan for. Bad group of ponies last week. Jonas sighed. He laid the thick file onto the table and signaled the tall, redheaded waitress for more coffee.

You really should eat breakfast, Jonas. Drinking coffee all the time just makes you nasty. Steve slurped down a short glass of orange juice, pulp and all.

And that’s the way you like me.

Anything else, gentlemen? the waitress asked, edging up to their table and pouring coffee.

Everything seems fine. Jonas showed a handsome smile to the green-eyed beauty. She had curves that would make Mulholland jealous."

Well, if there’s anything else you need... the waitress offered as she began to saunter away from their table.

How about dinner tonight if you have no other plans?

The woman smiled over her shoulder. I work until six, but I have no plans after that.

Jonas smiled in return. I’ll be back at six, then.

Steve shook his large head and the waitress returned to her rounds. Man, I don’t know how you do it, Jonas. Every place we go you seem to be able to latch onto a woman and you’re nearly forty-three.

It’s a curse, Steve, commented Jonas. Look what it’s gotten me in my long and sad life.

A lot of sex I would think.

Jonas nodded thoughtfully over his coffee mug. That’s true, but also the unhappiness that strictly carnal pleasure can bring a person. It’s been hell.

Steve grinned at his partner, unaware of the dried egg stuck to his chin. I feel for you, buddy.

Don’t feel anything for me, my friend, except pity.

Right. Steve wiped his face. The egg fell to the table like a piece of loose skin.

Anyway, away from the topic of my miserable existence—let’s discuss this screwed up case I’ve got in front of me. Jonas pointed to the file next to him on the table.

Steve shook his head from side to side like a large walrus. We didn’t forget anything in that damn collar.

Then why would a jury find this scum ball not guilty?

Idiots! snarled Steve.

Jonas tapped the cover of the file. That jury was trying to send a message to somebody, but all they succeeded in doing was proving how stupid and gullible they were.

But the evidence was there. The guy chopped his wife to pieces with an axe and then threw her down the frigging garbage disposal. Forensics verified the whole scenario when they took the kitchen apart and found human tissue on the blades of the disposal system. We got the damn axe out of the garage with his prints on it and his and her DNA all over it.

Steve pushed a few strands of hair from his forehead. He took a quick breath and continued. But his attorney stated that Farmingdale had even booked a flight for his wife two days after she was supposed to have been murdered. He got the tickets through that local agent, Hegener, who swore Mrs. Farmingdale picked up the tickets herself. Of course, that could have been a screw up on dates or an accomplice, but you know as well as I do that an eyewitness is a tough bullet to dodge, especially for a jury. And don’t forget, Farmingdale’s attorney claimed the remains on the blades could have been raw meat that had gone bad. Maybe it was a sirloin steak like the defendant said. Maybe she had cut herself sometime in the past over the disposal and that’s where the blood match came from. Maybe she had been chopping wood and that’s why her prints were found on the axe. Hell, too many maybes.

Jonas huffed. You believe that crap? The DNA testimony should have stopped that argument. Skin tissue on the blades and the jury couldn’t figure it out?

You’re asking a group of twelve ordinary people, and many times not the brightest, to understand the science mumbo-jumbo they had to listen to for four days in that courtroom. Hell, I didn’t understand all the linking and unlinking of the DNA strands, and I was just as involved with the case as you were. Medical jargon is the legalese the slime ball attorneys’ use to confuse the juries of our peers. It sounds great until you try to figure out what the hell they’re really saying but by then it’s too late.

Juries are kinky, Jonas muttered, reaching for his coffee. But still, that son-of-a-bitch killed his wife and— He was interrupted by the sound of a long piercing beep from the handy-talkie that was sitting on the table between the two detectives.

The dispatcher’s voice crackled. Be advised, a two-eleven in progress at the Citibank located at three-six-zero-five Central Avenue. Any units nearby please advise.

Simultaneously, Steve and Jonas turned and looked out the window next to the table in which they were seated and then glanced at each other. Jonas grabbed the small, hand-held radio. He was the first of the partners out of the restaurant, just east of the bank, and quickly barked into his hand-held radio, Unit three-five-six, ten-ninety seven. Roll back up and give details.

Steve followed, yelling over his shoulder to the waitress that they’d be back to pay the bill. As he busted through the door, he drew his heavy, snub-nosed forty-four magnum.

Unit three-five-six, ten-ninety-seven, repeated the dispatcher. Be advised we have no further information at this time. A landline has been tried with no response and the bank should be open and answering.

Ten-four. With one hand Jonas stuffed the radio into his rear pocket. With his other hand he ripped out the black 9mm semi-automatic he wore beneath his jacket. Steve, let’s enter through the back—those bushes by the door will give us some cover.

Got ya, Steve said and huffed as he followed his partner across the three hundred feet of parking lot to the bank.

Jonas cast his eyes over the almost empty asphalt, looking for anything that would tell him what was going on. Years of experience enabled him to read most situations better than other detectives in the Riverside Police Department. Steve, his partner for the past six years, swore that Jonas had a sixth sense. No one had ever argued the point. The team had stayed alive more than once because of Jonas’s special talent.

The two men slowed to a crouched walk and held their guns at the ready. Jonas silently pointed to a car and Steve didn’t miss the gesture.

The Mustang, Steve, whispered Jonas,