Blood is Heavier: The Hunter Series, #1

By Ella Medler

Let the assassin retire and never, ever touch his family!

They kidnapped his son.
They killed his wife in front of his eyes.
Now they want him to carry out the ultimate evil. Will he do it? If it meant saving his son, is there anything a father wouldn't do?

A fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat read that will keep you turning the pages to the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paper Gold Publishing OLD
• Release date: Aug 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536531114

Book preview

Second Edition, 2016

License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the book store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Copyright © 2012-2016 Ella Medler

All rights reserved. Published by Paper Gold Publishing

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form of by any electronic or mechanical means, including information and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

Cover: Patti Roberts

Editing: Ella Medler

Formatting: Ella Medler

ABOUT ELLA MEDLER

Ella Medler is a U.K. author and editor who lives in a corner of Heaven, on the south-west coast of Ireland, overlooking the Atlantic. She writes fiction in many genres — some after her own tastes, and some to make her readers happy. Sometimes, those two happen to coincide.

A fierce supporter of genuine talent, Ella Medler founded Paper Gold Publishing, a modern-day publisher with old-fashioned values, because she believes there are authors out there who deserve a chance to shine, authors who would otherwise fall between the cracks of a crumbling, forever-shifting industry.

As an editor, Ella Medler has the tendency to nit-pick on plot issues while ignoring the type of rule that doesn't allow for a sentence to be finished in a preposition.

Ella Medler is active on all social media platforms, so all you have to do to find her is Google her name. She'd like to hear from you, whether you are a reader, a fellow editor or author, or another player in this publishing game. Drop her a line via [e-mail] or contact her through PGP: http://www.papergoldpublishing.com/

And if you've enjoyed her story, leave a two-liner on the site you bought it from. She'll love you forever for that.

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Also by Ella Medler in this genre

The Hunter Series

Blood is Heavier

Blood is Power

Blood is not Enough (Coming soon)

In the same world:

Deal with it! Tequila's Story (Coming soon)

Dedication

To my husband and daughters,

Brian, Christina and Willow,

For putting up with my moods and giving me the love I needed to keep going.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Specter

2. Nothing Left

3. Charred

4. Awakening

5. Eyes in the Shadows

6. Day Two

7. Kink in the Tale

8. Hope

9. Interruption

10. Message

11. Failed Plan

12. South Mimms

13. Harrock’s Wood

14. The Enemy You Know

15. Questions

16. Unwelcome Help

17. The West Country

18. Target

19. Time

20. High Moor

21. Break-In

22. Fire

23. Cameron

Epilogue: Hope and Tears

1. SPECTER

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Nick Hunter drove down the new Tudors housing estate with his gut clenching in anxiety. The first clue was that it shouldn't have done. It hadn't done in almost six years. Worry of any kind and stomach-churning dread were emotions Nick had left behind, with his alter-ego life, back on the Turks and Caicos Islands in the Caribbean. His new life was clean, honest, and free of the ghosts of his past.

As he turned the corner into Princess Drive, he could see Mrs. Budleigh waiting for him outside, by her front door. Anguished thoughts and unease would have to take a back seat for now. Mrs. Budleigh started talking as soon as she saw Nick’s boot emerge from the car.

I’m sorry to bother you again, Nick, dear, but what with my daughter bringing over little Oliver for the weekend, I really need that poor little bird out of the house. Amelia wouldn’t approve of feathers in the same house as a small baby. I mean, it’s not like I’ve invited the little blighter in. And there’s nothing wrong with a little bird in the house. I remember my dear old mother used to cook with the door open because the kitchen window was a little sticky, and the number of times we used to get birds fly right in — robins, mostly. They’re the cheeky ones. We even got a squirrel in, one frosty January afternoon. I used to think they were funny, you know, like an extra toy. We didn’t have many luxuries in them days. I suppose we are spoilt now, really; everything at the turn of a knob or push of a button... In here, dear, you know the way.

Nick suppressed a smile and went straight through to the little living room, dodging two fat cats and four coffee tables smothered in doilies and china figurines, and closely followed by Mrs. Budleigh who was keeping up a steady flow of chatter worthy of a world tournament. He had a good idea of what the little intermittent chirp that Mrs. Budleigh confused with a bird trapped in her lampshade was, so he’d agreed to pop in on the way home, despite the irrational need he’d felt all day to get home to Maxi as soon as humanly possible.

He opened up the set of steps under the light, to humor the old woman.

Careful, dear. You don’t want to frighten it now. It might fly out to another room, and then we’ll have a job on our hands. I’ve left out a little food for it — some biscuit crumbs; ginger nuts and shortbread. That’s all I had around the house. And I put down a little saucer with water and one with milk, but he’s not come down to drink yet. That’s why I think he might be trapped there, the poor dear.

Nick smiled and swiftly unscrewed the shade from the light. He turned it upside down under the shocked gaze of the old lady.

No bird in here, Mrs. Budleigh. But I bet I know where that little chirping sound is coming from. When was the last time you changed the battery in your smoke alarm, Mrs. Budleigh?

Er... well... I don’t know, dear. Are you sure that’s what it is? She followed Nick to the small fitting on the stretch of wall between the living room and the kitchen, craning her neck around his elbow to watch him changing the battery. I really don’t want Amelia to come and find a dead little bird in the house. It would only give her more reasons to stay away. She visits so rarely these days... I never know when I’ll see her next...

There’s no bird, Mrs. Budleigh. I promise you. Look, I’ve just changed the battery. Now, you can leave the food and drink out for the bird if you like, but you saw there wasn’t one in the living room and it can’t be in the kitchen because that light’s a neon strip. Have you been hearing the bird upstairs at all?

No, dear, I don’t think so. The old woman shook her head to reinforce her words.

Just what I thought. Give me a call tomorrow morning if you hear it again and I promise I’ll come right back and we can have another look for it, ok?

Yes, dear, if you’re sure you don’t mind.

Now, would I mind helping my favorite lady in the whole neighborhood? Of course I don’t mind. Nick winked at her.

Ooh, steady. You’ll be making me blush and then what will the neighbors say? Mrs. Budleigh swiped her brow and fanned a little air over her face with one shaky hand.

Nick smiled and waved goodbye, then made his way back to his van. Another satisfied customer. His small electrical business had taken off faster than expected, probably due to the fact that he actually knew what he was doing. Maybe there was something good he could take out of his army life, after all. A silver lining.

Maxi would most likely grin and say ‘I told you so.’ His lips stretched into a wide smile as he remembered the evening they’d met — not the most romantic circumstances, but memorable nonetheless.

*

TURKS AND CAICOS, five years and 8 months ago

Balmy Christmas evening. White-blue sky and turquoise waters fringed with the daintiest white lace and soft, pale sands as far as the eye can see. And a bar to lean back on as you let your thoughts wander.

Nick Hunter stretched his legs and leaned back on his bar stool. Christmases just didn’t come any better than this. He smiled and nodded to himself in contentment as his eyes idly followed a party of rowdy revelers. One of the girls was dressed in floaty white organza, so they must have been fresh out of a wedding ceremony, he reasoned. What was it that made people desperate to get married on tropical islands these days? Why couldn’t they just get married at home? Or not get married at all?

You know, I still think Marty’s accident wasn’t an accident.

Nick’s head snapped up, his thoughts abruptly redirected towards less pleasant conjectures. Tequila, the pretty blonde with almond eyes and deceptively unruffled demeanor sitting close by his elbow took a long sip of her cocktail, picked out the lime and sucked at it noisily.

Why do you say that?

I just... feel it, you know? I can’t explain it any better. Call it women’s intuition. She crossed her legs and swished her poker-straight long hair so that it slicked down her back, leaving her perfectly tanned shoulders bare.

Nick kept quiet for a minute, hesitating, unsure whether he should finally crack this prickly subject wide open. Then he ventured forth. He’d been close to asking for Tequila’s opinion for a while now; he might as well let the conversation go that way and see what she made of it. Her intuition was dead-on, as per usual; she had good instincts for a girl.

"Is it the message? Did that freak you out?" Nick shot her a quick sideways glance, his eyes still on the partiers by the water’s edge.

There had been a message — everything happens for a reason — clumsily etched in white blackboard chalk on the narrow wooden dock, right in front of the boat that killed Marty.

The boat in which Nick should have sailed.

At the last minute, Marty had become inexplicably apprehensive about using his own boat, so he’d asked Nick to do him a favour and swap. Nick did not care much about racing, so he agreed with a smile, wondering exactly what new business tangle Marty had got himself into, to make him so nervous. Marty was a very likeable guy, but with a deeply dubious business sense; his plans often went wrong and if he ever came out of any trade richer, it was more by luck than judgement. Often, he ended up owing money. This time, again, it looked like his lenders had caught up with him.

As it happened, Nick never even made it to the Turtle Cove Marina before the start of the race because he had been checking up on a suspicious-looking newbie who was prowling around the narrow lanes of the small town, home to the small indigenous population. It was much less salubrious there. Why would a tourist walk purposefully around, unaccompanied, staring over walls and scrutinizing side alleys? Not exactly the behavior of your classic holidaymaker.

It was a good thing to do — keeping an eye out for troublemakers. The locals knew that and, over time, Nick had learned to not only listen to these home-grown pearls of wisdom, but also feel and act as much a native as the rest of the islanders.

Besides, the police hadn’t needed to raid this neighborhood in months, and it was simply more convenient to keep it that way. That the constant passage of drugs through the small cluster of islands was well known didn’t mean that you had to make it easier for the drug lords to infect the few remaining ‘clean’ areas, too. Providenciales had stayed safe in that respect, so far.

You could not even blame the small police force. It would be simply impossible to know exactly what happens on each and every one of the forty-odd little islands of the Turks and Caicos, especially when only eight of them were inhabited. So, in time, the locals had learned to be a little more self-reliant and a little more wary of strangers who strayed away from the lavish hotels with their posh bars, spas, private beaches and swimming pools.

No, it’s not that, Tequila mumbled around the soggy lime. Though that is certainly something to think about. The message itself doesn’t worry me as much as its sudden disappearance does, mere minutes after it was found. She sighed. If only the police were a bit quicker to react. Now there’s no proof it was even there, and poor Marty will become just another line on the accident stats.

Still, you’ve got the picture of it on your phone, Nick pointed out, remembering with vivid acuity the surge of icy dread he felt when Tequila had sent him the message. You could always share it with the police.

"Like that will stand up in court. She kept her head straight, squinting into the distance. And you know they’ll start asking questions — how long have you known him, where did you meet... Do you really want them sniffing that close to home?"

Hmm, Nick muttered, scowling at the white sand that was threatening to completely take over the little hut’s wooden floor. Tequila’s question was only rhetorical, but she had a point. In their line of work, one could not be too careful. You definitely didn’t make best friends amongst law enforcers.

And then, who was the intended victim? Was it Marty? Or was it him? He’d spent the whole night thinking about it, but that could well have been because he was so highly strung that almost every move anybody made or didn’t make and every word, spoken or merely implied, seemed a threat. He had lived in a climate saturated with threats and violence for far too long; these days, he could spy dark, gloomy shadows even in the brightest sunshine.

Anyway, that was a decision he’d already made — he was going to leave his old life behind and never look back. A clean cut. A fresh start.

That was mainly why he had refused to do the last job. Axel Stern had given him the message behind The Fat Jackets Grill. Nick had said ‘no.’ Then Axel’s henchmen appeared either side of him and Axel himself thrust the small envelope with instructions into Nick’s hand. Nick took it and tore it to pieces without affording it the merest glance. Then he turned on his heel and went back inside to finish his steak in rum gravy.

Neither Axel, nor his heavies attempted to stop him. Clever of them, though somewhat surprising. Maybe they’d realized that beating up a contract killer was not going to do much to raise their own life expectancy, always assuming they succeeded in getting that close to him in the first place. Or maybe they had been instructed to take it easy and keep a low profile. Whatever the reason, Nick had considered the matter closed. He didn't want trouble at home, and they didn't either. They'd wait for the right moment to start that, no doubt, the first time he traveled off to another country, but he wasn't going to make it that easy. He had a boat ready, and he would get in the small craft one high tide and lose his trail. Worked every time.

But that night, at the grill, the accidents started to happen. Not to him. Never to him. But close by, close enough to see.

That night the bar caught fire. Not unusual for an open-grill kitchen, one would say. And at first, Nick thought it a coincidence that the police officer taking the statements that night also found it necessary to give the witnesses assembled in the church hall opposite the wrecked building a lecture on how our decisions can affect the people around us.

A week or so later the glass bottom boat Nick happened to be on stuttered to a stop just as the severe weather warning came on the short-wave radio. They were bobbing about the wrong side of the reef with a hole in the fuel tank and waves getting choppier by the minute. Glass bottom boats are not built to withstand stormy seas, and the currents around the reef can be a nightmare even on perfectly sunny days.

Nick’s quick thinking and good knowledge of the area got them all back to shore, tired from fighting the swell with only makeshift oars for tools, but alive. Nick’s phone showed a missed call and a message: Have we changed your mind? — caller number withheld, of course — and the glass bottom boats flotilla got a thorough and well-deserved inspection. All the boats had been tampered with, and the police were concentrating on finding a connection between that incident and a previous one, of property damage to a building, which had been reported by the tour operator almost two years previous. Yeah! It would be fair to say that no one expected an imminent breakthrough.

Nick paid better attention after that, keeping away from crowds, moving base more often than before, changing course and decisions, discussing his plans with no one, trusting no one. No one but his side-kick, the faithful Tequila.

The day after he had bought his BMW GS off-road bike over in the US, there had been a shoot-out and the dealer’s apprentice was shot dead on the forecourt. They never did catch the gang of unhinged bikers who did that. Nick had collected his pre-ordered bike a day early by sheer fluke; he had been so eager to ride it that he’d popped in on the off chance, and there it was — waiting for him.

This last one could have been a coincidence, of course. Not many people knew he was going to buy a bike in the first place, never mind the exact location of the dealer. Yet something — the early onset of paranoia, perhaps — told him that the shooting, too, happened for a reason.

Then, there’d been the salt-water croc in the pool incident at Raphael’s. Lucky that he happened to look in before Raphael’s ten-year-old son, Panchito — the birthday boy — dived in. Tequila had been there, too, and she was supposed to have been keeping an eye on the neighborhood, but she said she’d seen and heard nothing suspicious.

And then the following Friday night the knives-juggling act at The Crystal Palace went wrong. The human ladder toppled over, knives flying in all directions. A young lad standing right next to Nick was stabbed in the neck and a couple of other people had superficial stab wounds; the jugglers were sacked and the act was removed from future performances.

Nick’s nerves were violin strings by then, taut and ready to snap. So there really was only one way to construe the message on the dock — it was a warning. A warning received too late to save Marty’s life. A warning Nick felt inclined to heed.

He wondered if he would have noticed a change in his boat’s handling, if he were the one in it. He felt pretty sure he would — when he was sailing, the boat was an extension of his own body, like an extra limb; he knew precisely what every creak was trying to tell him as if the boat were hardwired straight into his brain; every twang of rope, every shudder of the hull, every whisper of sail... Marty should have noticed the change; he was experienced enough — would have noticed a change, Nick amended mentally, if he’d been sober and if it would have been his boat. Not so easy to pick up on a change in an unfamiliar vessel.

Eyes tight, Nick sniffed, his mind running through the seemingly unconnected incidents again. What sort of disturbed psycho would hurt innocent bystanders simply to make a point? They hadn’t targeted him, he was quite sure now. Last time, with the boat, they had been after Marty. And they must have been pretty slick, if they’d managed to keep a step ahead despite the last minute substitution.

But he could see it was getting closer, the snare, if that’s what it was.

The first few were strangers. But Raphael, he knew well. Nick had spent hours... days... diving with him and Panchito, exploring the reef. Raphael was a fisherman — poor, kind-hearted and honest. The sort of guy you could count on. As was Marty, only on a more inebriated, less immaculate scale. Still a nice guy, good with boats. He owned a small fleet of dugouts, kept in perfect working order, which he rented by the hour. It provided him with a nice, steady income, which trickled straight through his fingers and onto shiny bar counters without gathering dust. He’d spent nearly every evening drinking alongside him, these past few days. Was that why they'd picked Marty? Did their