The Devil's Due: Jack Carson Stories, #1

By CM Raymond and LE Barbant

Doing the right thing ain't cheap…not when you've got to pay the devil's due.

After a lab explosion leaves him changed forever, wanted fugitive Jack Carson knows only one thing for certain; he's just one wrong move away from a fate worse than death. Struggling to make sense of life on the run, Jack assumes that middle-of-nowhere, Iowa would be the safest place to lay low. But small towns can hide big secrets.

When a free drink and a misguided act of chivalry blows the town's sleepy veneer straight to hell, Jack is left to deal with the mess. Blackmailed into criminal service by a backwoods gangster with delusions of grandeur, Carson finds himself faced with the ultimate choice…save the town or save his own skin.

Can Jack use his otherworldly powers to rescue the town's beautiful bar owner and bring the small town mob to their knees? Or will a pair of ambitious federal agents find him before he has the chance?

The Devil's Due is a heart-pounding new thriller. If you like edge of your seat thrills, harrowing suspense, and nonstop action then you will love this new installment from CM Raymond and LE Barbant—The Devil's Due!

Note: The Devil's Due is a novella with 34,000 words (approx. 115 pages) of action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Smoke and Steel Press
• Release date: Jun 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386505709

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The last time Dana MacLachlan got called in so early, the world nearly ended.

Judging by the gristle in her CO’s voice, this case would be worse.

Dawn crested the rolling Virginia hills, the light bringing the valley to life.

But the serenity was only skin deep. As she pulled into the agency’s lot, her discerning mind couldn’t help but note the contrast. The stately brick building shattered the pastoral landscape. Thick pines failed to mask the structure’s presence in the otherwise rural woodland. It wasn’t a place built for peace, but for war.

Perspiration threatened to seep through the jacket of MacLachlan’s charcoal pantsuit as she navigated the heavily guarded entrance. A guardhouse behind a sandbag wall, multi-point identification card readers, full-body imaging, and a palm-activated biometric scanner marked the hurdles of her daily commute. After five years in the agency, the airtight security had become commonplace, almost a nuisance. But that morning everything was different.

Not yet 6 AM and the office already hummed with a manic energy. The hive of agents, assistants, and analysts buzzed with a unified purpose and singular mind.

The attack was the biggest since 9/11.

MacLachlan moved with short strides. Her athletic frame pivoted through the angry throng of ringing phones and raised voices. Frantic bits of conversation broke through the din.

...mass casualties...

...completely unprepared...

...conflicting reports from the FBI, NSA, CIA...

...the President is scheduled to make a statement...

Reflexively recording snippets of dialogue, she remained focused on the solid door situated on the far side of the cubicle maze. A rapid knock on the hardwood rewarded her with a gruff command to enter.

The office, like its occupant, was large and imposing. Deputy Commander Holt prided himself on his military past; photos of handshaking with generals and presidents decorated the walls. Holt sat behind a dark, stained desk the size of a pool table, a family heirloom surviving from the Jackson Era.

MacLachlan remained standing.

I appreciate you coming in on such short notice. Have you met Special Agent Faber? MacLachlan’s boss pointed in the direction of the long-legged man sitting casually in the chair opposite the Deputy Commander. Dark hair cropped short gave a military precision to his face that went unmatched with the wrinkled, ill-fitting suit draped over his spindly frame.  She didn’t need to look to know that Faber was slowly sizing her up, his eyes loitering on the curves of her suit.

She fought the urge to shudder and addressed her commander.

Yes, sir. Special Agent Faber and I have...worked together before.

The deputy commander leaned back in his tall leather chair. He rubbed a meaty hand over the top of his bald head and nodded in agreement.

Of course. I take it you’ve had a chance to see the briefing?

A thin folder marked classified sat on his desk. Its maroon color matched the one in her hand.

Yes, sir. You’re not taking the suggestion seriously, are you? A deep-cover operative working out of—

He cut her off with the flick of his hand.

I’m not paid to make those kind decisions, Dana, and neither are you. A terrorist is a terrorist. Your orders are simple: find the fugitive and bring him in.

Faber shifted in his seat yet kept quiet.

She took a breath and plunged ahead. With all due respect sir, why is our office handling this? Homeland Security or the Marshalls are better suited for this kind of thing.

Believe me, every agency in the country has their eyes on the same target. Nevertheless, somebody much higher up the ladder wants our department to get there first. So, I’m sending you and Faber to head up the search. Have a problem with that? His tone indicated the desired response.

No, sir. The two answered in unison. MacLachlan could hear glee ringing in Faber’s voice.

Dana turned to leave and her new partner stood to follow her out. Before she could shut the door, the Deputy Commander called after her.

And Dana, don’t fuck this one up.

MacLachlan angled out of the office and skirted the edge of the cubicles. Opting for quiet over the madness of the pit, she moved into an empty conference room.

Faber trailed behind.

So...it looks like we’re together again. You look good, Mac.

Cut the shit, Kyle. Obviously, this partnership is not ideal, but I’m not expecting this to take long. Let’s just find this asshole and be done with it. Deal?

He twisted his mouth in a thin-lipped smile.

Fair enough. So, where do you want to start?

MacLachlan stared down at the classified file in her hand.

Where else? We’re heading to Philly.

CHAPTER ONE

1,000 miles of toll roads and truck stops left Philadelphia comfortably in the distance. The Greyhound pulled to a stop, kicking up a plume of fine dust common to the Midwest. The swirling debris brought a sick taste to his mouth, along with a memory he had spent the last 40 hours trying to forget.

The cloud reminded him of the incident.

Jack Carson looked around the bus, his eyes searching for any signs of departures. But the dozen or so sleepy passengers seemed content to keep their seats. A young man in new fatigues sat across the aisle, his leg bouncing like a sewing machine’s bobber, his gaze fixed on some point off on the horizon. He looked barely old enough to drive, let alone put his ass on the line in a distant war zone.

This Illinois or Iowa?

The kid looked Jack over. Not sure. Iowa, I hope. I’m heading to Colorado.

This’ll do, Jack thought.

Carson pulled his smartphone out, slid the SIM card into place, and pressed the power button. Watching it come to life, he jammed the device deep into the crack between the two coach seats. With a full battery and little use, it should stay on for a day, maybe more—enough to muddy the trail, if anyone was watching. He grabbed a dirty-gray duffle bag from the window seat and stood. Glancing back down at the soldier, he gave a two-fingered salute. Thanks for serving, kid. Stay safe out there.

The private offered a silent nod then looked back out the window.

With his heart racing, Jack stepped off the bus and into the strip mall parking lot. His eyes were set forward, but he trained his ears behind him. When no one followed, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

A closed down K-Mart sat desolate next to a local chain grocery store, whose name he didn’t recognize. A tobacconist remained open but just barely by the looks of it. Jack considered buying a pack of smokes. It had been a long time since he’d kicked the habit, but he thought nicotine might be just the thing to settle his nerves and give him an anchor to the life that lay miles behind. Remembering the thirty-one dollars and forty-three cents in his pocket, he thought better of it. Cash was tight and tobacco was a luxury he couldn’t justify. Credit cards were out of the question, of course. He’d ditched them miles ago, along with his driver’s license and work credentials.

A wanted man couldn’t afford many of the finer things in life.

Jack looked at the scratched up Timex on his left wrist. The time read 2:42, but the July sun baked down from directly overhead, marking midday. He tried but couldn’t remember when the watch had stopped working.

Scratch another asset off the list.

The list had become frighteningly small.

Searching for his next move, he turned and spied a beat up roadhouse sitting across the two-lane country highway. Domestic pickups spotted the lot with a single Volkswagen parked among the behemoths. Dry grass fought its way through potholes large enough to swallow the Jetta whole.

Jack stepped across the white line and felt the withering heat emanating from the pavement. He wanted nothing more than a short-sleeved shirt or breathable shorts, but necessity shaped his wardrobe: a dark, long-sleeved tee, faded blue jeans, and a brown leather glove on his right hand. His left hand trembled as he slid on the matching glove, the best way to avoid the Michael Jackson jokes—although he wasn’t sure this was the kind of place that would make them. A white trucker’s cap pinched from a rest stop in Ohio completed the ensemble and afforded some relief from the blistering temperature. Over the past two days, he had almost grown used to the attire. Nevertheless, sweat drenched the small of his back and soaked his new gloves. Comfort was no longer a convenience afforded him. The new normal required discretion.

Dirty guitar rock thumped out of the bar’s brick walls. The lot was packed full for mid-day, indicative of a small city either down on its luck or a factory town with a thirsty third shift. Carson peered down the road and saw the buildings rise toward a modest town center a couple miles off, before giving way to open fields. It was a perfectly unknown stop off the interstate. The right place for him to gain his bearings and make a plan.

A plan.

He had none.

Hours of contemplation had left his questions unanswered. Most of the ride west had involved staring out of the window into the night. The darkness burned away with the rising sun, illuminating miles of cornfields as empty as his mind. Walking across the steaming asphalt, he knew the bar wouldn’t provide many answers either. But it would at least take care of his thirst, and maybe let him take his mind off things for a minute.

He pushed his left hand into the pocket of his Levis and took stock. Fingers ran across his few bills, an empty Zippo, and the slick surface of a Polaroid picture taken two years earlier. The glossy photo turned his mind to the girl, and he swallowed the anger threatening to spill out of him.

There was no telling what would happen if it did.

CHAPTER TWO

Jack pulled open the door and let the music wash over him. Natural light invaded the old bar and even older patrons, each of them