The Speaker: The Victor McCain Series, #3

By Tony Acree

Tracking and killing demons is all part of the job for the Hand of God, Victor McCain, God's bounty hunter. In this fast paced sequel to The Hand of God and The Watchers, Victor learns facing his inner demons may be deadlier than the real ones. Turning to the bottle to drown out the memories of a lost love, he begins to take risks which could get him killed. One night, drunk and alone in a bar in Tennessee, he's ambushed by members of the Church of the Light Reclaimed. He would have died in the attack, if not for a beautiful stranger named Elizabeth. Later he learns the attack was orchestrated by an old nemesis, Preston Deveraux, and Cyrus Tyler, the new Speaker of the House of Representatives. Victor must lean on the alluring Elizabeth to find the truth behind their plans-only she has secrets of her own which could doom them both. When yet another player shows up on the scene hunting Elizabeth, Victor must find a way to convince the two of them to work together to help him stop Tyler from reaching his ultimate goal: to throw the world into chaos and war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hydra Publications
• Release date: Dec 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386237631

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Eduardo kept watch out the front window while Congressman Owen Grenville committed suicide. True, the congressman was not doing so willingly, but in the end it would be suicide, nonetheless.

Outside all was quiet in this upscale section of Georgetown, not far from the university. A row of town homes crouched on each side of the street, occasionally illuminated by the light from a wan street lamp. It was a bit before ten p.m. at the end of July, the night warm and pleasant. Activity was starting to wind down, the sidewalks now mostly empty as residents settled in for the night.

Eduardo turned from the Norman Rockwell view out the window to take in the macabre scene inside this particular town house: Congressman Grenville stood on a dining room chair, a hangman’s noose fit snuggly around his neck with the other end tied to the wooden balcony railing above his head, while tears cut a path down the wrinkled folds of his aging cheeks.

Standing in front of him was a woman holding in one hand an iPad, turned in such a way the congressman could watch what was on the screen, and in the other hand she held a gun down at her side. About five and a half feet tall, with a ballerina’s build and long black hair cascading down to the small of her back, the woman was the picture of beauty.

Deadly beauty, Eduardo thought. For six years they were partners in death, hired assassins known for pulling off the perfect murders, the ones people never suspected were murderers at all. They charged exorbitant amounts of money for their services, but those in need paid. There was no one better than them.

He called her Donut because they could not pass a Krispy Kreme donut shop without stopping to buy a dozen for her to eat. It was her one and only vice, as far he knew. How she managed to keep her slim figure Eduardo had no clue, but she did. From time to time, they spent evenings in bed together and he knew her body was flawless.

She was the one who gave him the name Eduardo, saying his olive complexion reminded her of a Latin lover from her past she was forced to kill after he became too clingy. Neither knew the other’s real name, nor likely ever would.

His reverie was broken when he heard the congressman plead, Please, don’t do this. You can’t do this to me. You can’t.

A pudgy man with only a hint of hair circling a bald head covered in sweat, the congressman cut a pitiful figure as he begged for his life. Known as a party firebrand, he would stand for hours in the well of the House of Representatives, taking on any and all who stood in his way as he climbed the ladder of the party hierarchy.

Eduardo was sure he never pictured in his wildest dreams his life ending in anything but personal glory and power. Life could really be a kick in the teeth.

Congressman, you’ve seen what both my partner and I look like, Donut said, and either way, in the next five minutes, you will be dead. The only question is will your wife and daughter join you.

The congressman’s eyes darted back to the iPad where a video feed showed a view of his wife and teenaged daughter sitting on a couch watching television. The camera had a clear shot through a patio door in their suburban South Carolina home.

The man operating the camera also has a high-powered rifle. It’s five minutes to ten and if I haven’t called to tell him to stand down by ten o’clock, he will put a bullet through the head of your daughter first, and then your wife. Kick the chair out of the way, congressman, and your wife and daughter live. Don’t, and they die and we kill you another way. It’s all up to you.

Donut turned the iPad off and tossed it onto a nearby couch, waiting. Eduardo knew from experience she hoped the congressman missed the ten p.m. deadline. Donut loved killing people. She got off on the mayhem and destruction it caused in the lives of the victim’s families.

As for himself, he was in it for the money. And the challenge. Killing people in ways which went undetected was an incredible high for Eduardo. He considered the two of them artists. They didn’t paint on a canvass like Da Vinci or work with marble like Michelangelo to make beautiful statues. Their art came in the form of murders which required great creativity and precision. Tonight, a suicide was preferable, but the client wanted him dead, in whatever way they wanted.

The congressman swallowed hard a couple of times, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the tightness of the noose. I’m in line to become the next Speaker of the House. I have very powerful friends. If you do this, there is no place you will be able to hide.

And you have very powerful enemies, it seems, hence why we are here. Tick-tock, tick-tock. She pulled a phone from her pocket and waved it at the congressman.

His shoulders slumped in defeat. You swear you will let them live?

I swear it, said Donut. She glanced at the phone’s screen and said, Three minutes, congressman.

The Congressman straightened and hate filled his gaze. Eduardo had to hand it to the little man, he finally looked like the man who struck fear into the hearts of his rivals in the House. I’ll see you in Hell, bitch.

And with a kick of his foot, he knocked the chair backwards to the ground. The fall was only a few feet, but gravity did the rest, with the congressman’s feet kicking back and forth mere inches from the ground as the noose strangled him to death. Fingers scrabbled for purchase, as he tried to loosen the rope, but without success.

Donut smiled, waved the phone at Grenville, and then slipped it back into her pocket. Grenville reached out towards her in what might have been a pleading gesture, but Eduardo couldn’t be sure.

Soon his efforts grew feeble, then stopped all together as the noose cut off the blood flow to his carotid artery. Eduardo knew it would take another ten to twenty minutes for the congressman to die and they would wait until they knew for sure the job was completed.

Donut picked up the iPad from the couch, walked over to stand next to him, dropping the iPad into a bag on the floor near the window, her disgust evident. O.K. You win the bet. I thought for sure he wouldn’t kill himself to save his family.

Eduardo laughed. No biggie. I had a fifty-fifty shot at winning. But it does mean you get to do the driving tonight. The dumb-ass died not even knowing the iPad video was shot two nights ago. The power of suggestion. That was cruel, though, waving the phone at him.

Perception is reality, she agreed. I didn’t like him. He was the one who lead the effort to kill the Equal Pay bill for women in the last Congress. Besides, he earned those last few minutes of torture when he called me a bitch.

When they were sure Grenville was dead, Eduardo pulled out a phone, took a picture of the congressman to send to their client later that night, assuring the rest of their fee would be placed into an offshore account for them the next morning.

He picked up the bag and they left the congressman’s town home, leaving no trace of their visit behind. They quickly walked the three blocks to their car, with Donut sliding in behind the wheel, while he tossed the bag in the seat behind him, hopped in the passenger seat and hit the recline button.

She pulled slowly down the darkened street, while he closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep. They would be on the road for many hours as they drove to their next job and he wanted to be well-rested so he could watch the news coverage the next day.

The suicide of Congressman Grenville would be national news. And though the next murder wouldn’t be as newsworthy, in the end, it would be the one to bring a nation to its knees. 

CHAPTER TWO

God, I hate running. Especially when it’s for my life. When you’re six and a half feet tall and weigh nearly two-hundred and eighty pounds, running is right up there with water torture and being forced to watch a Bachelor rerun marathon.

Yet here I was, sprinting through the woods in the mountains of North Carolina, faster than I’d ever run before. Then again, I’d never gone running while being chased by a monster. If I had, I would have lost a lot more weight.

I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder and concentrated on making sure I didn’t trip on a rock or tree root and fall on my face, which would be fatal if a nightmare pounced on my back.

The plan nearly worked to perfection, right up until the moment it didn’t. A few weeks earlier, I learned about a man in these mountains raising hellhounds. Seems he found out it was more profitable to create monsters for Satanists than it was to create moonshine from several stills for the locals.

Down at the end of a deep holler, Thornton Hopper built special dog runs made of thick steel beams, strong enough to hold the hounds. Think of St. Bernard’s, then double the size and replace the lovable face with a snarling mass of razor sharp teeth and you get the picture.

Thornton kept three hellhounds at any one time. A male and female for breeding and one pup. When hellhounds give birth, they usually did so four at a time, but then one of the pups will kill the other three in an ultimate battle of the fittest. The three losers become the winner’s first meal.

In the current training cycle, the pup was nearly a year old. I’d faced one like him the year before in the Bluegrass state and was lucky to still be alive to talk about it. Taking on three of them at close range was not something I cared to do.

But as the Hand of God, God’s bounty hunter on earth, ridding the planet of creatures like the hellhounds came with the job description. The ones who came before me, I’m sure, had no choice but to get up close and personal and then do what was needed. Me? I came up with a plan using modern technology more likely to ensure I’d live another day or two.

After watching a 60 Minutes episode about personal drones, I envisioned many ways I could put them to use. I did some research and then ordered one at a cost of about thirty thousand dollars, mere chump change when you consider I stole thirty-million dollars from the Church of the Light Reclaimed, a bunch of Satan-loving idiots. This one came equipped with a high resolution camera which allowed me to do some aerial surveillance with little danger to myself.

I spent several days in the hot July heat on the ridge overlooking the holler, with my drone hovering high over the kennels using it to watch Hopper care for and train the hounds. With him, they were incredibly docile and obedient. With others? Not so much. On the second day of my stakeout, Hopper and two friends set loose five pit bulls into the cage with the young hellhound. The men then sat in folding lawn chairs, relaxing and drinking Budweiser to watch the show. 

In less time than you can say, Holy crap the five pit bulls were dead. The young hellhound moved with an agility and speed only a supernatural creature could possess.

And while Junior destroyed his lesser rivals, mom and pop hellhound sat peacefully watching and waiting. When the carnage was over, their son picked up a dead pit bull and dropped one near the bars of his parents’ cages, offering each a share of the spoils of battle.

Hopper and his friends high-fived each other, clearly enjoying the massacre. My guess is they also cheered when someone stole candy from a baby. Watching the slaughter, even from a distance, turned my stomach.

I kept tabs at night and learned the area around Hopper’s double-wide trailer was surrounded by light sensors, bathing the area in bright light any time someone or something came near the cages, which was a rare event. Even the animals of the holler gave the hellhounds a wide berth.

I felt I could get close enough to take out Hopper and then kill the hounds in their cages, despite his precautions, but I wanted to try something else and this gave me the opportunity to use the drone for something other than surveillance.

I drove back to Louisville for a day and spent the time modifying the drone. The drone was made to handle a load of up to five pounds and came with clamps to hold several items.

In each clamp I put a dummy grenade and then pulled the pins. The pressure from the clamps proved strong enough to keep the grenade spools from flying off.

I then flew my drone up about sixty feet and hit the release control for each clamp. The grenades dropped quickly to the ground, and the spools came off the moment the grenade cleared the clamps. I had the option of releasing them all at once or one at a time.

With a weight of fourteen ounces each, I could drop four grenades at a time with the use of the drone, taking out targets from a discreet distance, much like the U.S. military does. Modern technology sure does make our lives a lot easier. It also opens up scary doors warped minds can step through to create havoc on those they choose to target...warped minds like mine.

With my machine of destruction tested and ready to go, I returned to North Carolina. Early in the morning, I climbed the ridge above Hopper’s house, getting into position as the sun climbed slowly over the mountains.

I enjoyed the fresh air and slightly cooler temperatures at this elevation. I pulled a flask from my pocket and took a deep swig of Fireball Whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat.

I put the flask away and used the remote controls to lift the drone to head height, reached into my duffle and carefully took out four M67 grenades. The uncle of one of my cohorts in hunting down the forces of evil, fellow bounty hunter, Winston Reynolds, is associated with many of the militias around a good portion of the country. If you’re looking for black market military grade equipment, he’s your go-to man. Procuring several M67 grenades proved to be no problem.

I set each grenade in place, tapped a few buttons and closed the clamps. I then pulled the pins and managed not to blow myself up in the process. Score one for the good guys. The grenades hung suspended below the drone, dangerous fruit waiting for their drop of destruction.

I sent the drone flying high into the air, then down the ridge to hover over the cages of the hellhounds. When the little drone closed in on the first of the three cages, the hounds looked up, then came to their feet.

The drone came with a camera only and no microphone, so I couldn’t hear their reaction, but I could see it. Teeth pulled back into snarls letting me know they didn’t care for the drone’s approach.

When I judged the drone was about thirty feet overhead, I punched the control to drop the first grenade. I watched as the grenade spool came off, the grenade bouncing off one of the metal bars, before landing in the cage with Junior.

The hound pounced, snapping up the grenade in its massive jaws right as the Composition B explosives lit, sending out the metal casing of the grenade in thousands of pieces and destroying Junior’s head.

I quickly moved the drone over mom’s cage and repeated the process. Instead of attacking the grenade, she tried to move away into a far part of her cage. Seems these nightmares were smarter than your average hound and she was trying to avoid baby boy’s fate.

But she couldn’t move far enough and when the grenade exploded, so did a huge portion of one of her back legs. She howled in rage and I could hear her easily from my position on the ridge. 

She drug herself into a corner of the cage trying to get away from my flying machine of death. I nosed the drone over to where she lay and dropped the third of my four grenades. When the dust cleared from the detonation, mom lay twitching in death.

Before I could position the drone to take out dad hellhound, Hopper came running out of his double-wide in his underwear, shotgun to his shoulder. I saw him take aim at my drone and before I could move it or drop the next grenade, he blew it out of the sky, and the camera screen went dark.

Crap.

I threw the controller into my duffle, yanked the bag over my shoulder and took off at a quick shuffle down the ridge. When I hit level ground, I broke into a run, back where I’d parked my car. I could hear the one hellhound let out a howl which sent a chill down my spine because I could tell he was on the move.

I could only imagine what the other people living in the area thought hearing his battle cry echoing through the holler. I’m sure there would be stories for generations about the monsters of Jackson County, North Carolina.

Sweat beaded out on my forehead as I tried to release my inner Usain Bolt. I heard the hellhound crash up the ridge, plowing through underbrush to my former position. He must have picked up my scent as he began moving down the ridge, his bellows of rage getting closer as he battered down the side of the mountain like a deadly boulder.

I broke into a clearing and hit it at a full out sprint. My car, a Ford Flex, was parked behind an abandoned church. I guess the parishioners found other churches and left this one to rot away. Perhaps they sensed the evil lurking in the area. Who knows?

The hellhound burst into the clearing and I looked over my shoulder, knowing I shouldn’t. The hound was huge and chewing up the distance between us. I tore my gaze away from my quickly approaching doom and focused on trying to keep from becoming a late morning snack.

With extra motivation, my feet flew over the ground and with a final jump, I dove through the open front doors of the church, turning onto my back, gun in my hand, sending a stream of lead at the hellhound as he crashed into the side of the church, rattling the entire building. Not that bullets would do much damage. I knew this from past experience. It’s like shooting an elephant with a pellet gun. All I managed to do was piss it off even more.

There are very few perks to being the Hand of God. One of them, however, was as long as I’m in a church, I can’t be touched by creatures spawned from the depths of hell. I am safe from harm and no hellhound can touch me, as long as I don’t step back outside.

That didn’t stop him, however, from pacing back and forth in the area in front of the door, his yellow eyes fixed on where I escaped within. Good thing I left the doors open when I left for the morning’s mission. I could hear his deep growling and smell his foul stench from behind the church doors.

I moved out of site of the hound and started to put on the rest of my gear. Outside, I heard the roar of an ATV and glanced out a dirty window, watching as Hopper rolled up, coming to a stop a bit behind the hellhound.

The man’s gut arrived a few minutes before he did. Stepping off the ATV the machine’s shocks let out a sigh of relief. I know I shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses, but this man’s stomach was frickin’ huge.

He held the shotgun loosely in his hand, walking up and scratching the hellhound behind one huge floppy ear. He’d gotten dressed in a hurry, his boot laces untied and his hair sticking up in all directions with a bad case of bed head.

I don’t know who y’all are or where yer from. But if y’all come out now then I’ll be sure to blow yer damn head off before I let Biggin’ here get atcha.

I continued to make my preparations and wondered if Hopper was under the same restrictions about entering a church as the hound. I was still new at this whole divine retribution gig and wasn’t sure of all the ins and outs.

It’s all on-the-job-training, with death being the ultimate penalty if you fail. I got the job when the previous Hand of God, Dominic Montoya, died at the hands of my brother, Mikey. Losing my own soul in the process, I’d been working every day since to punch my own ticket to the pearly gates. The jury was still out on if I’m going to make it or not.

Y’all hear me? Hey, asshole. Who do ya think you are coming out to my neck of the woods and attackin’ what’s mine? Y’all got no right to be doin’ such.

I have every right, I yelled back. "I’m with animal control and it seems you failed to get tags for your hounds and the county found you in violation