Hard to Kill

By Darryl Matter

The trial was over. Jessica Snow had provided the evidence that convicted Senator Shawn Holland. As she left the courtroom, however, Jessica knew that Holland and his powerful underworld friends wanted her dead. As she begins another undercover assignment, Jessica is determined about one thing--she's going to be hard to kill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darryl Matter
• Release date: May 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463694954

Darryl Matter

Hello,I'm an ancient, long-retired college professor who likes to write stories. My educational background is somewhat varied. I first earned a B.S. Degree in Mechanical Engineering with a Management Option. The industrial management and psychology classes interested me in human behavior, and I eventually earned a Ph.D. in Human Development. In addition to writing stories, my interests include reading and stamp collecting.I grew up in a rural Kansas community, and I now live with my wife in a retirement community. I appreciate each of my readers, and I thank you for reading my stories. Furthermore, I encourage each of you to write something of interest to you and then publish it--to share with the world.Being the antique person that I am, the tech-side of publishing doesn't come easily to me and I appreciate the support staff at Smashwords.Again thank you for your interest in my stories.Sincerely,Darryl Matter

Book preview

Hard to Kill

A Jessica Snow, Undercover Cop, Novel

By Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Darryl Matter

This ebook 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 Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Hard to Kill

A Jessica Snow, Undercover Cop, Novel

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

A hush fell over the packed courtroom and the people assembled there quietly took their seats as the judge entered from his chamber. It was time to learn the verdict of the trial that had lasted for almost a month.

Has the jury reached a verdict? the judge asked.

Yes, we have, replied the lead juror.

No one in that courtroom was more anxious to hear that verdict than I was. I'd spent the past two years working undercover to gather information that would put Senator Shawn Holland away for a long time, possibly for the rest of his life. I'd not only gathered information linking Holland to Roger Hentz, reputed head of a drug importing and murder-for-hire empire that worked the entire west coast, but I'd gathered video recordings of Holland accepting massive illegal campaign contributions and granting favors accordingly. Furthermore, one of his strongest opponents in the past senatorial election race had been murdered, and I'd uncovered evidence of Holland ordering that hit. It would be my testimony that would put Holland away--assuming that the jury believed me.

How does the jury find the defendant? the judge asked.

We the jury, the lead juror began.

This was the moment that would mean everything to me. My undercover infiltration of Senator Holland's staff, the stake outs, the recordings, the disappointment of having to deal with a corrupt cop who almost sold me out to Roger Hentz--all would have been for nothing if the jury wouldn't convict Holland.

We the jury, the lead juror began again, find the defendant guilty on all charges.

The courtroom erupted in noise as the judge called for order. I felt like cheering myself. Instead, I stood up and took a last look at Shawn Holland.

Holland looked back at me, his eyes ablaze with rage and hate. His career as a senator was over, and he'd likely be out of circulation for some time.

Cynthia Holland, Shawn's current wife and a sister of Roger Hentz, was in the courtroom as well. Her social world had obviously crashed hard along with her husband's conviction. She, too, glared at me, her eyes filled with hate. Frankly, I wasn't sure which one of them would be the most dangerous.

There would be no appeal of the conviction. I knew that. Holland could and did hire the best attorneys in the business, and they'd gone after every bit of information I and the other witnesses had given the jury. The guilty verdict would stand.

Well, I'd done what I'd been assigned to do. It was time to get on with my life.

Getting on with my life wasn't going to be easy, not for awhile, at least. Holland or Hentz would have a contract out on me soon, if they didn't already, and my boss, Captain David Barkley, had made arrangements for me to move into one of the safe-houses maintained by the police department. The minute that damned trial is over, I want you on your way to a safe-house, Barkley had told me. Sam Knight will be waiting for you in an unmarked car behind the courthouse.

Captain Barkley had not wanted me to testify in person at the trial. Holland's legal defense team had insisted that I do so, and the judge agreed with them. That didn't surprise me because I suspected that the judge and Holland were, well, shall we say connected, politically speaking. Not that it made much difference in the trial's outcome, but it surely set me up for revenge by Holland.

Of course, both Captain Barkley and I knew that neither Holland nor Hentz would be satisfied with someone simply putting a bullet in my head. I can easily imagine what all they'd want to do with me before they killed me--and I suspected that a gang-rape and a fierce beating would only be the beginning.

Well, I'd do the best I could to watch where I walked and keep an eye on my surroundings. Furthermore, I'd prepared myself for the likelihood that Holland or Hentz would want me dead--and I intended to make it very hard for anyone to kill me.

For one thing, I'd tried out a variety of concealed-carry holsters for my favorite pistols and gotten advice from a number of cops. Did I ever get the advice about concealed carry! One of the older cops even tried to fit me into a shoulder holster. That was a laugh! No gal with breasts the size of mine could comfortably wear a shoulder holster rig--at least not the kind the cop tried on me.

Instead, I settled on a holster that would carry a small pistol in the small of my back. That would be easily concealed under the light jacket I usually wore. A two-shot derringer would ride in my left boot. (Yeah, I wear Western-style boots.) Two shots would be better than none, and I could get it into action with my left hand. And, of course, I carried a Beretta 9 mm in my purse, that is, when I carry a full-sized purse, which isn't too often. Well, like I said, if they're out to kill me, and I'm sure they will be, I'm gonna make their job just as hard as I can.

In addition to being well-armed, I have another self-defense thing going for me. My dad taught hand-to-hand combat for the United States Army for twenty-some years. When he learned that I was joining the police force, he gave me a whole lot of instruction--for which I've been grateful, considering I didn't get much hand-to-hand or street-fighting instruction from the police.

Did I mention that I also carry the switch-blade knife my dad gave me? Yep, I sure do--and it's razor-sharp. And he taught me how to get it into action fast--maybe faster than some guys can draw a gun. Hoped I never had to use it in self-defense, but it was there if I needed it.

Sam Knight, the cop who was taking me straight from the courthouse to a safe-house that day is a good friend of mine, a young cop just a little older than me who'd served two tours in the army and graduated from the police academy a year after I did. He'd helped me out a few times over the past two years when I'd needed serious back-up. I trusted him.

Sam's a tough, but good looking, guy. He's about six-two and muscular, with a way of carrying himself that says, Don't give me any trouble. His years in the military toughened him. Well, I'll be honest, I really like that guy. He's the kind of guy I could go for in a serious way.

His military training included serious hand-to-hand combat training. He and I used to square off in the gym and practice some of the moves that might keep us alive in a street fight or a back-alley brawl.

It was practice that served Sam well, I might add. He'd found himself in a situation where he was confronted by three armed punks who'd just robbed a liquor store at gunpoint and were high on drugs. Although that confrontation was two weeks ago, two of those punks are still in the hospital and the other is recovering in jail.

The moment I stepped out the back door of that courthouse, I heard Sam call, Hey, Jessica, over here. He was holding the car door open for me. My suitcases were in the trunk. Moments later we were on our way to the safe-house.

I'd used the name Annette Smith while I was on the last assignment--but I was back to my real name now. I'd get my hair cut differently and colored dark instead of my original blonde before getting on with my next assignment. Not that those changes would keep me from being recognized for too long by anyone seriously looking for me, but they might slow down my being recognized.

With all of the smart-phone cameras around these days I was sure that my photo would have been taken by at least some of Holland's staff. They'd no doubt share it with Roger Hemtz and anyone else who might be interested in collecting the bounty on my head. We'd be wary, Sam and I would. We'd better be.

Both Sam and I kept a sharp eye out for any indications that we were being followed as we left the courthouse. We couldn't be absolutely certain, of course, but we didn't see any vehicles following us, not right away. But then, as Sam did a counter-surveillance circle around the block as we neared the safe-house, we both spotted a blue Cadillac that we'd seen parked a few blocks from the courthouse.

The windows were mirrored, preventing us from seeing anyone inside the Cadillac, but knowing we'd seen that car parked near the courthouse made us both jumpy. Sam immediately turned a corner and drove down a street that took us away from the safe-house. A few more turns and we seemed to have lost the Cadillac. Or, could it be that whoever was in that car had an idea of which safe-house we were headed for? After all, it wouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that I'd be staying at a safe-house for a time, and any government official could find out where the safe-houses were located. Holland or one of his aids could easily find out where they were if they didn't already know.

Sam and I debated about trying to locate the Cadillac and get its tag number, but we decided against it. Maybe it would show up again. I'd almost bet that it would.

Watch your back, Jessica, and keep in touch, Sam told me as he helped me carry my suitcases into the safe-house. I thanked him for his concern, gave him a quick hug, and assured him I would keep in touch.

By the way, Sam said, before he left, I'm going to keep an eye on things around the safe-house, and I'm going to keep an eye out for that blue Cadillac--all unofficially, of course. I'll let you know if I learn anything of interest.

Sam was involved for a time with a military intelligence unit, and the things he learned there have proved invaluable in his work as a cop. It seems to me as if he's very suspicious of anything that seems a little out of the ordinary, things like seeing that blue Cadillac twice, and he knows how to check things out with other cops.

At any rate, I certainly did appreciate Sam keeping watch over me. I'd sleep better at night, knowing he was out there--and near by. There was no doubt in my mind as to what Shawn and Cynthia Holland had in mind for me. And wouldn't Roger Hemtz's outlaw motorcycle gang just love to get their hands on an abducted lady-cop with a hefty price on her head. They'd have a lot of fun with her before they collected the bounty.

Chapter 2

That evening I got a call from Captain Barkley. Sam Knight and I had a serious conversation regarding a blue Cadillac and some other things, he began, and I'm checking to see if such a vehicle might belong to Shawn Holland or any of his associates. Regardless, Jessica, I want you to know that we haven't abandoned you. I've assigned extra cops to keep an eye on that safe-house where you're staying. Then, as he was about to conclude our conversation, he said, I've got another undercover assignment for you that should provide you with some cover. We'll talk about it in another day or so. Perhaps tomorrow.

Another undercover assignment? Maybe that would be the best thing for me, I thought. At least it would get my mind off people like Shawn and Cynthia Holland and Roger Hemtz and what they might be planning for me. With that thought in mind, I shoved my pistol under my pillow, just as I had every night for over two years, and went to sleep.

* * * * *

Sam picked me up the following morning and drove me to the Police Station. Chief Barkley wants to talk with you, he told me. I had a good idea of what we'd be talking about, and I hoped Sam would be a part of the assignment.

On the way to the Police Station, Sam and I kept an eye out for a blue Cadillac. We didn't spot it, but that didn't mean someone wasn't watching for us. Or maybe they knew where I was living and didn't have to watch for us. Let things settle down a little so I'd be less cautious--and then strike.

Chief Barkley doesn't waste much time with chit-chat. The moment I was seated in his office, he told me that he'd located the ownership of a blue Cadillac that just might have been the one that shadowed Sam and me from the courthouse to the vicinity of the safe-house. It was owned by one of Shawn Holland's bodyguards. We're going to get you into another safe-house right away, Barkley told me, and then I've got another undercover assignment for you that'll take you some distance from the political figures you've been working with.

Okay.

We'll move you out of the safe-houses and into an apartment soon, Barkley told me. You can work from it on your new assignment. Maybe we can keep Hemtz's crew guessing.

Maybe such a move would keep Holland's crew guessing as to where I was. I wouldn't count on that, no way, not with their resources, but it wasn't my call. What's the new assignment?

"There's