Die, McKee! Thriller

By Henry Rohmer

Die, McKee!

Thriller by Henry Rohmer

 

The size of this ebook is equivalent to 140 paperback pages.

He is the head of an important investigative agency - but in his past there seems to be a dark secret. A maniacal killer has it in for him and presents an old, bloody bill.

For the investigators, a race with death begins....

 

Fast-paced action thriller by Henry Rohmer (Alfred Bekker)!

 

Henry Rohmer is the pseudonym of the well-known fantasy and young adult author Alfred Bekker. Bekker has also co-written numerous suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, John Sinclair, and Kommissar X.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BEKKERpublishing
• Release date: Mar 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201661472

Book preview

Die, McKee!

Thriller by Henry Rohmer

The size of this ebook is equivalent to 140 paperback pages.

He is the head of an important investigative agency - but in his past there seems to be a dark secret. A maniacal killer has it in for him and presents an old, bloody bill.

For the investigators, a race with death begins....

Fast-paced action thriller by Henry Rohmer (Alfred Bekker)!

Henry Rohmer is the pseudonym of the well-known fantasy and young adult author Alfred Bekker. Bekker has also co-written numerous suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, John Sinclair, and Kommissar X.

1

Mister McKee froze when he saw the red dot twitch across the gray of his coat.

The laser pointer of a target acquisition device!

Mr. McKee reacted with lightning speed. He threw himself to the side, behind one of the vehicles parked at the side of the road.

A fraction of a second later, a projectile hit the asphalt. There was no sound of a gunshot. Mister McKee crouched behind a Ford, pulled out his service weapon and waited.

Somewhere in that narrow, confusing side street, a killer was lying in wait for him.

Mister McKee circled the Ford in a crouched position.

Attentively, his gaze roamed the facades of the Brownstone houses, the balconies, the fire escapes, the row of parked cars on the side of the street....

The killer had all the advantages on his side.

Again, Mister McKee saw the laser dot dance.

He ducked.

Bullets smashed through the Ford's sheet metal, blowing out one of the tires and shattering the windows. One set and Mister McKee had dug in behind the van of a plumbing company parked behind it.

Passers-by stopped, here and there a cry of panic could be heard.

Mister McKee reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out his cell phone. The number of the FBI Field Office New York was programmed into the menu. One push of a button and he was connected.

This is Special Agent in Charge Jonathan D. McKee, he reported. In brief words, he gave his position and situation.

Reinforcements were on the way.

But it would be a while before that arrived.

Mr. McKee folded the cell phone, put it away and carefully dove out from behind his cover. He held the SIG Sauer P226 pistol in a two-handed grip.

A shot whizzed a hair's breadth past Mister McKee's head.

His gaze slid up, along the facades of the houses.

Feverishly, he tried to discern from where he had been targeted.

He saw movement at a third-floor window.

A rifle barrel was withdrawn.

Mister McKee circled the van in a crouched position, walking across the street. Some passersby watched him suspiciously. Mister McKee pulled out his badge, held it up, and shouted, Get out of the line of fire! There's a killer up there...

Mister McKee reached the other side of the street. He rushed along the sidewalk. His physical condition was not as good as it had been back in Korea, but he was in good physical shape for a man of his age.

From a distance, he heard the sirens of a City Police vehicle. He couldn't wait for his colleagues to arrive on the scene. He wanted to confront the mysterious killer who was targeting him. Mister McKee ran towards the entrance of the building where he had seen the killer.

House number 234.

It was not a modern building.

And that in every respect. The facade was crumbling, and the video camera above the door had a cracked lens.

Mister McKee pressed a dozen or so bell buttons.

A whirring sound was heard.

The door opened. Mr. McKee rushed to the elevators.

They, too, were actually monitored by video cameras.

Someone had torn out the cables. There didn't seem to be any security personnel at number 234. They relied on the video cameras, which created something like an illusion of security.

One of the elevators opened.

A man in a dark brown jacket stepped out. Over his shoulder he carried an elongated bag like the ones used for golf clubs.

Mister McKee held his ID card under his nose.

FBI! Please open the bag!

The man was somewhat taken aback, but then obeyed. Very carefully, he opened the long case. It actually contained golf clubs.

Excuse me, said Mr. McKee.

It's okay, what's going on, agent?

Where do you live?

Third floor.

Did you just run into someone?

No. I live in apartment C23, walked through the door and then to the elevator.

No one there?

No.

Is there a second exit?

Yes, but it's locked, so you can't get through easily - unless you live here and have a key...

Thank you.

Meanwhile, sirens wailed through the street. These were the colleagues of the City Police.

The elevator door moved. Before it could close, Mr. McKee put his foot in between. Someone had activated the elevator on one of the upper floors. But as long as the sliding door sensors registered resistance, the safety circuitry prevented the elevator from being used. Mister McKee took off his coat, rolled it into a bundle, and placed it on the floor in such a way that the door could not close.

Don't touch that! instructed Mister McKee to the man in the brown jacket. His voice had an authoritative tone that brooked no argument.

Go out to the NYPD people and tell them to surround the house!

The man stood there frozen.

Come on! demanded Mr. McKee emphatically. What are you waiting for?

The man in the brown jacket started to move hesitantly.

Mister McKee, meanwhile, walked carefully up the stairs.

After the elevator was inoperative, there was only this way down. That was what he had wanted.

Mister McKee took the SIG in both hands.

Normally, he resided in his office at Federal Plaza, coordinating the operations of New York's FBI Field Office. A desk job. But while he wasn't as in training as the active Special Agents in the field, he hadn't lost his touch.

He worked his way up to the first landing. He let the barrel of the SIG whip around, yanked it up.

There was no one to be seen.

He continued to walk up with large steps, always two or three steps at a time.

He reached the second floor, glanced down the hall. There was no one to be seen. Perhaps the killer was long gone, having fled down one of the fire escapes on the other side of the building.

Mister McKee returned to the stairwell, reached the next floor. Here too: nothing!

Most tenants were not home at that time.

When he reached the next floor, he crept down the hallway with extra caution. On this floor, he thought he saw the killer's rifle.

The floor plan was different from that of the lower floors.

The hallway made a bend.

Then it led right along a row of windows.

One of the windows was pushed up a bit....

No doubt, from here the gunman had fired at him. Cautiously, Mr. McKee approached the spot.

Several cartridge cases were lying on the floor.

Carelessly, the killer had left them behind.

Either that meant he was a rank novice at his murderous job, or....

...it was on purpose!, thought Mister McKee. The killer wants me to see exactly this!

Mister McKee's instinct for danger, developed over so many years of service, spoke up.

His cell phone shrilled.

With his left hand, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the device.

Yes? he came forward.

The voice he then heard was little more than a whispered croak. I know exactly where you are, Jonathan D. McKee.... I know everything about you. Your habits, your preferences, your weaknesses.... A giggle followed. At any moment, I could kill you - without you being able to do a thing about it!"