Wings of Mayhem: Mayhem Series, #1

By Sue Coletta

When the cat burglar and the serial killer collide, HE looks forward to breaking her will, but SHE never gives up. Not ever. And especially not for him.

 

Shawnee Daniels — forensic hacker for the police by day, cat burglar by night — ignites the hellfire fury of a serial killer when she unknowingly steals his trophy box. Jack Delsin is a white-collar criminal accused of embezzling money from his employees' retirement fund. In Robin Hood-esque fashion, Shawnee's intention is to return their hard-earned cash, but she stumbles across a shocking spectacle.

 

Jack has secrets, evil secrets, secrets worth killing over.

 

A deadly game of cat-and-mouse torpedoes Shawnee's life. Can she outrun the killer, prove she's innocent of murder, and protect those she loves before he strikes again?

 

Described by readers as SILENCE OF THE LAMBS meets THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO, WINGS OF MAYHEM is a whirlwind of heart-thumping, non-stop action that takes your breath away. Impossible to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crow Talons Publishing
• Release date: Mar 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987998007

Book preview

When the cat burglar and the serial killer collide, HE looks forward to breaking her will, but SHE never gives up. Not ever. And especially not for him.

​​​​​​Shawnee Daniels—forensic hacker for the police by day, cat burglar by night—ignites the hellfire fury of a serial killer when she unknowingly steals his trophy box. Shawnee breaks into the home of Jack Delsin, a white-collar criminal accused of embezzling from his employees’ retirement fund. In Robin Hood-esque fashion, her intention is to return their hard-earned cash, but she stumbles across a shocking spectacle.

​​​​​​​Jack has secrets, evil secrets, secrets worth killing over.

A deadly game of cat-and-mouse torpedoes Shawnee’s life. Can she outrun the killer, prove she’s innocent of murder, and protect those she loves before he strikes again?

WINGS OF MAYHEM

Mayhem Series, #1

Sue Coletta

Author Copyright: Sue Coletta

Publisher: Crow Talons Publishing

Cover Art: EJR Digital Art (ejrdigitalart.com)

Editor: Sharon Pickrel

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEDICATION

To Bob, Dad, Bobbly, Kathy, Berlyn, Scarlet, and Joey.

I love you with all my heart.

Thanks for always being my loudest cheerleaders.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Big hugs to my loyal fans, my blog readers, and my writer pals. A special shout-out to Sharon Pickrel, my amazing editor, and to Elle Rossi, who created this stunning cover. Thank you! And to God, for blessing my life in unimaginable ways.

WINGS OF MAYHEM

Mayhem Series, #1

Sue Coletta

Prologue

Tuesday, October 2, 2011

9:00 p.m.

It didn’t surprise him that she screamed and begged for her life, even though it was pointless. He hadn’t gone to all the trouble of luring her over, slapping a rope around her neck, and dragging her into the Escalade for no reason.

Show some self-respect, he told the woman spouting the usual why me? I’d like to tell you it’ll be over soon, but that simply isn’t true.

Beth Cook thrashed in the restraints, shaking the metal table on its wheels. With an indelible black marker, he drew dotted lines around the shoulder joints, neck, where the thighs met the hip, and a Y from collarbone to collarbone with one long line down the sternum to the navel. He’d braced the woman in an upright position so he could work from front to back without having to flip her.

Once he carved along the dotted lines, he peeled the skin while chiseling away the meaty flesh underneath. Blood spilled into the crevice around the table’s edge and dripped onto his leather loafer. Now look what you made me do. He set down the scalpel and darted into the kitchen, where he sponge-washed the loafer in the sink. Blood-curdling cries ricocheted through the house, triggering the dogs to belt out long, steady bays. As usual, Apache was the loudest, his howl coiling through the hardwood floors.

That’s my boy, he muttered, scrubbing the loafer with dish soap and an all-natural sponge, not those cheap ones that ruined the environment. Soap didn’t work. He dragged a gallon of bleach from under the sink. With a folded paper towel, he dabbed the stain. The nutmeg leather faded to creamy beige, but at least the blood disappeared.

On the way back to Beth Cook his foot squished and squashed and left a trail of wet shoeprints. Now he’d have to polish the floors, too. Murder was much harder than it looked in the movies, but he’d do anything for her.

Hours later, he pulled in front of the Methodist church and hopped out the driver door. From the back, he dragged Beth Cook, her corpse wrapped in plastic so as not to stain the interior. In front of the church steps, he posed her in a kneeling position, hands held in prayer. Blood dripped off the glorious wings he’d created from her ribcage. A flawless design with only the face left on the body, the rest of her skin-free.

A solid hour later rigor mortis finally set in and preserved the pose. So she wouldn’t topple over he tied ropes around her waist, braced her body between two trees. One final touch. He stuck a black feather between two of the ribs jutting from her back, and then escaped the scene clean.

Shame he couldn’t witness his reaction.

Chapter 1

Friday, October 5, 2011

Midnight

The still silence of the night was my addiction. There’s no better drug on earth. The sensation of being the only one awake, the only one stirring among peaceful, darkened homes sent tingles through my core. Alone in the dark, I was free. Alive. Invincible. Nothing could touch me.

With my head reclined back, I twirled in circles and let my arms float beside me. The cool night air sifted between my fingers, a light breeze whisking through my long, flowing hair. A slivered moon spilled through trees, casting shadows over the main drag of Bear Clave Estates, a gated community with million-dollar homes.

Flashlight leveled, I veered off the road, trekked through three backyards, jumped two fences, and arrived at an eight-foot wall running the property lines around a massive estate. My target was this dude’s place who thought he was an absolute genius by stealing hundreds of thousands from his company, siphoning a few bucks from each employee’s retirement fund over the course of three years, netting him close to a mil. If ever there was a guy who needed to learn a lesson it was Mr. Jack Delsin. Because I knew for a fact he wouldn’t be home, now was the perfect time to play teacher.

He lived in a gigantic contemporary fronted with stucco and glass. This cool catwalk bridged a pond filled with black-and-white goldfish; their bulging eyes made Don Knotts’ peepers look tiny. A manicured lawn fringed the sides, cherub statues and garden gnomes speckled the landscape. Pretentious as all hell, but hey, I wasn’t interested in the outside.

I climbed the wrought-iron gate, jumped off the top, monogrammed crest, and landed hard on the tarred drive. My knees barely had time to absorb the blow before the stomping of many feet headed in my direction.

I bolted for the catwalk, glanced over my shoulder at a pack of Dobermans charging straight at me. Long, white canines snapped at my feet when I pulled myself up the railing and sprinted along the wooden slats.

During my reconnaissance I never once noticed Dobermans. Okay, maybe once, but not a pack, and not loose on the grounds after midnight.

Why add more dogs? Unless he had something valuable to protect. If I weren’t about to become dog food, this notion might’ve excited me more.

Vibrations shook the catwalk.

Two humongous attack dogs were in the lead. Sleek muscles flexed with their fast-moving gait. Their short, fudge-colored hair hackled, pink lips flapping with the force of their stride. With one foot set in front of the other, I moved cat-like, my arms extended at my sides, poised on the three-inch railing as if it were a balance beam.

Snarling, the dogs bared their teeth, lips curled, sharp claws scratching and clawing the baluster rods, massive paws trying to knock me off.

My chest heaved in and out, my gaze shifting to the little darlings craving cat for their midnight snack. Incredible grace and speed had always served me well in the past, allowing me to outrun all sorts of trouble. A pack of hungry Dobies? Perhaps that was a bit optimistic on my part.

I turned toward my mark and narrowed my concentration on a wide ash tree with long, thick branches hooding the main entrance. The dogs barked, jumped, banged against the railing. White foam dripped off razor-sharp teeth.

Being an animal lover, spraying mace in their adorable, albeit murderous, faces was not an option. Though my mentor, Bo Adams, a deceased cat burglar, would’ve had my burglary credentials revoked if he witnessed this particular lapse in judgement.

I blocked all distractions and fixed my sight on that tree. The limbs closest to the catwalk seemed plenty strong to hold my weight. I lunged for the massive branch, caught it with my fingertips and swung my legs over, twisting to an upright position. I scrambled to the end of the branch and hopped on the roof, above the main entrance, thrust out my chest and flung up my arms. In your face, bitches.

I regained composure. This was no time to be cocky. With a quick snap of the finger, I flipped the hungry Dobermans the bird and followed the roofline to the backyard.

A bathroom window beckoned, Shawnee, come in and play.

Okay, maybe it didn’t actually call my name, but it may as well have.

Residents rarely locked bathroom windows, especially on the second floor, so I gave the wooden frame a gentle nudge, and it glided open like a long-handled spoon through whipped cream. One last glance in all directions and I crawled inside. Feet-first, I landed on the toilet seat—thankfully, it was closed—then padded to the doorway and scanned both ends of a wide hallway.

The house was hauntingly quiet. Too quiet, for some reason.

Granted, ol’ Jackie boy was still in holding until arraignment. This was a different kind of quiet. A strange aura, with an ominous evil that rode the air. The creepy sensation screamed for me to turn back. You’d think that would’ve been my first clue.

This job had to turn out better than last week’s. After all the trouble of hacking a Knox box, a supposedly un-hackable box used in gated communities for emergency vehicles, I discovered my mark snorted everything he owned. A few trinkets were hardly worth my time. Not to mention the skill involved to pull off a heist of that nature. To walk away empty handed...in laymen’s terms, sucked.

Average folk had no idea what went into pulling a professional heist. Half the general public believed what they saw in the movies, and the other half didn’t care. In their eyes, we—and by we I mean the artistically inclined—were no better than a common thug. A remark I found truly offensive. A common thug couldn’t swing from trees like Tarzan of the Jungle, hang from third story windows by one hand, or scale rooftops like Mary friggin’ Poppins.

Prowling down the hall, I stepped on a squeaky floorboard—and froze. Normally the rush of almost getting caught rippled across my skin, but tonight was not the night to dance with danger. I was on a mission to make Jack Delsin regret ever stealing from hard-working folks.

The irony was not lost on me.

The steam furnace kicked on and wailed like an injured animal. Clangs and crashes from old pipes rattled the house. Floorboards shifted like they were alive and breathing.

My thunderous heartbeat slowed to a quick pitter-patter—just enough adrenaline to make it interesting. If experience told me anything, it was when to cut my losses and bolt. No one caught me yet. Well, okay, once, but it wasn’t something I put on my resume. The whole mess wasn’t my fault, anyway. If some goofy-looking dude with a neck the width of Rhode Island hadn’t thrown a hissy fit when his steroid-infested body didn’t...shall we say...cooperate in the bedroom, the soles of my boots would’ve hit the asphalt before the last fake moan from his wife.

The open floor plan in this place was the bee’s knees. I especially dug a massive chandelier that hung from the second level and reached into the first. Crystal teardrops dripped from long curved arms. Their twinkle captivated me. Ever since I could remember, I’d always been attracted to shiny things. It’s no wonder I chose this profession. Chose wasn’t the correct word. This life was one I fell back into when I saw rich assholes stealing from innocent people.

I crept through a partially open doorway, into a feminine master bedroom. An ivory lace comforter topped with pillow rolls had tassels dangling off the end. On the outside walls stood an antique vanity, rocker, matching his and hers dressers, and an armoire.

In the dark, gold glinted in my light beam atop the narrow six-drawer dresser.

Nice, I murmured, stuffing a select few of the necklaces and rings into my backpack. In my trade, it wasn’t wise to steal all the jewelry. Everything in moderation. A clueless homeowner equaled no urgent calls to the cops.

Tan drapes pulled partly closed masked a glass wall overlooking the backyard. I peeked between the folds. The slivered moon cast a glow upon a massive oak tree, in the corner of the yard. Opal-white stones formed an oversized circle around the base. No flowers planted within and too wide and lopsided for the intention to be merely decorative.

Like the rest of the property, I wrote it off to bad taste. Garden gnomes, was there nothing uglier?

I checked in nightstand drawers, in the pockets of Dockers flung over an upholstered chair, between the mattress and box spring, inside the armoire, dressers, and under the bed. All in all, the bedroom held a treasure-trove of valuable items: a gold watch, cash, and a fourteen-karat-gold rope chain that was so my style.

I stashed the goods in my backpack and moseyed down the hall. Skin tingling, warmth radiated through my core. Nothing compared to wandering through an empty home, twirling round and round, arms floating beside me.

Lining the walls hung framed drawings in what looked like charcoal. Two upside-down stick figures, one in a dress, one without. A handprint, and two vertical rectangles with no bottom bars. Jackie boy was one strange dude.

A door on my left held a sign that read Enter at your own risk. Of course, I turned the knob. The sign seemed more like an invitation than a warning.

At first, I hesitated. This was obviously a teenager’s bedroom, evident by posters on the wall and an old corded-phone decorated with nail polish. Hitting kids’ rooms was not something I did.

On further inspection, the newest poster was of David Lee Roth from Van Halen. Either this chick was living in the eighties, or Daddy never redecorated after she moved out.

Next to the phone sat a wooden puzzle box like the one I had at seven years old. I swiped it more out of sentiment than value. Made from pine, it wasn’t worth much. The box possessed an intricate pattern that drove most people bonkers.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket, and I checked the caller ID. Shit. Whassup, Nay?

Where are you?

I skimmed the contemporary. Home. Why?

You’re out catting again. Aren’t you?

She knew I hated that word. What? No.

Christopher drove by your house, and your jeep wasn’t there. Don’t lie to me. You promised me you were done with that life.

You checkin’ up on me now?

I knew it!

You don’t know shit. I ran outta kitty litter. If there’s nothing else, Your Honor, I’ve gotta bounce.

But—

I didn’t have time for the third degree.

Click.

I ambled toward a wide, sweeping staircase, similar to the ones in old black-and-white films, and ran gloved fingers down the rod-iron railing, twirled off the end of the banister, into the main level. First, I hit the kitchen. Whoever told the wealthy to hide their valuables in the kitchen did them a disservice. There wasn’t a thief alive who hadn’t figured that one out.

I swung open the freezer door and rooted around inside. As I jiggled a half-gallon of fudge swirl, a smile broke across my face. How stupid did he think I was? A fake ice cream container or coffee can didn’t fool anyone. Neither did stashing valuables in the ice cube trays. In which, I found two loose diamonds suspended mid-cube.

I gave the greedy bastard an A for ingenuity, but he’d have to step up his game to beat me.

In total, I pocketed about thirty grand worth of stuff. Most of which I’d return to the retirement fund via electronic transfer from Delsin, minus my fee. He wouldn’t understand why, of course, but since he was in a world of hurt, his lawyer would advise him to keep his mouth shut and roll with it. Which he would do. I’d seen it happen many times. His attorney would argue this was his way of making retribution because the theft was all a huge misunderstanding, or bookkeeping error. The prosecution would argue Delsin acted with intent, yada, yada, yada...same drill, different mark.

I crossed a short, hardwood-floored hall and landed in the living room. With a running leap, I swan-dived onto a puckered black-leather sectional, flipped on my back, and gazed at the stars through another glass wall. Bright pinpricks of light danced across an inky-black sky.

It’s important to take a moment to appreciate God’s little gifts. Years ago, Mom drilled that nugget of wisdom home.

I crawled off the sofa, my gaze roaming around the living room. Off to the left, oak pocket doors protected either a den or office. Straps dug into the top of my shoulders, the backpack overflowing with sterling, gold, jewelry, and cash.

A solid score.

With gloved hands, I slid one of the doors aside. The moon spilled a cascading smolder through the slats of wooden blinds behind a long mahogany desk, kitty-cornered in the center of the room. On top, sat a banker’s lamp and burgundy desk pad with calendar, where Jackie boy scrawled single digits on some of the days.

I snapped a quick cell phone photo. One never knows when information could come in handy.

To the right of the desk, a padlocked door drew my attention. In seconds, I picked the lock. A foul odor struck me in the face like the slap from a jilted lover. I cupped a hand over my mouth and nose. The stench was like...like...decay.

I swallowed hard.

Pitch-blackness blanketed the inside. I leveled my flashlight. The beam dimmed, flickered, and then died. I banged it against a flat hand. Not now. C’mon, stay with me.

No dice. The damn thing refused to cooperate. Using my cell phone, if I triggered the camera, the flash could, in theory, light my way.

It’s worth a shot.

Bright light saturated the room in stark-white for a split-second, and nearly blinded me. Multicolored spots filled my vision. I pressed the heels of my hands in my eyes and this time, I flipped the camera, so the flash faced the room.

Flash.

Framed portrait of a woman.

Flash.

Apron.

Flash.

Metal table.

Flash, flash.

Plastic...on the walls?

Flash, flash.

Red splashes. An art studio, perhaps? I aimed toward the table.

Flash, flash.

A power tool.

Flash, flash.

Hedge clippers?

Flash. Flash.

Wait. If those were hedge clippers, then what was—?

Flash, flash, flash.

I cocked my head. Huh?

Flash, flash, flash, flash.

My sight narrowed on the floor beneath the table.

Flash, flash, flash, flash, flash.

I straightened, shifted in my stance.

Flash, flash, flash, flash, flash, flash.

Can’t be. A jolt of raw adrenaline shot through me. What are the chances I’m in his house? I sprinted out the room, missed the hole for the padlock three times before re-engaging the lock and hightailed it toward the staircase, tripping over my own feet. At the top, I slid around the end of the banister, the soles of my boots screeching across the hardwood.

Keys in the front door stopped me cold—metal jingling against metal.

My gaze tunneled on the doorknob.

The door creaked open. Slow. Methodical. Deliberate.

I forced myself to breathe—to move—and hauled ass toward the bathroom, where I crawled onto the window ledge. I dove for an oak tree, caught a branch with my fingertips, and slid down the bark, hopped two fences, screamed through three backyards, and didn’t stop till I reached my jeep, parked on a dead-end road around the corner from Bear Clave Estates.

Fumbling with the key, long scratches gouged the paint around the door lock before I managed to get inside.

My piece-of-shit jeep wouldn’t start!

I got out and slammed the door, punched and kicked the front quarter-panel and hood till my knuckles bled. Raw open cuts stung when I slipped behind the wheel and pumped the gas pedal, cursing the day I ever bought the hunk-a-junk. Sweat ravened between my furrowed brow, snaked down my nose, and leaked into my open mouth—salt niggling my taste buds.

Again, I tried the key. The engine still wouldn’t turn over. Come...on. I drummed the steering wheel, punched the roof, and made promises I couldn’t keep.

No dice. The little bitch flat-out refused to cooperate.

Stroking my mother’s rosary beads, hanging from the rearview mirror, helped ease my temper. With a calm exhale I twisted the key. The battery ticked as though Ol’ Bessie wanted to comply. Before she changed her mind, I gently nudged the shifter into neutral—careful not to upset her again—and coasted down the hill. Halfway down, I popped the clutch.

That got her motor purring.

As I shifted into fourth gear, my cellphone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID told me I better answer. In a groggy voice, I said, Hello?

Sorry to wake you, Ms. Daniels, but we need you to come down the station. Say, one hour?

Chapter 2

12:30 a.m.

When Jack Delsin inserted his key into the lock, he swore someone was inside his house. He cracked open the front door and scouted downstairs for an intruder.

No one was around. Nothing seemed out-of-place. Perhaps the early release had him on edge. He shrugged off the paranoia and strode into the kitchen, where he poured two fingers of scotch into a lead-crystal glass, dropped in two ice-cubes, and swirled the whiskey. The ice crackled and clinked against the crystal edge, echoed in the deadly quiet stark-white kitchen. Clean. Sanitized. Perfect.

He shot back half the scotch, topped off his glass, and shuffled to the stairs. Long day, he muttered. Bitch got lucky. He adjusted his crotch, his gonads aching from his latest conquest’s only means of escape. Cheap shot.

After changing into sweatpants and a short-sleeved Polo shirt, he stepped down the stairs to watch a game he’d TiVoed in the living room. When he passed his home office, one pocket door was slightly ajar.

He shuffled his feet backward.

Crystal shattered on the floor, whiskey and glass shards scattering over the hardwood.

He raced into his office. The banker’s lamp was on. He tore through his desk drawers.

Nothing missing.

He slid the last drawer closed—waited for a beat—and whirled toward his playroom. Hmm...the padlock hung at an angle. Did someone pick the lock? From around his neck, he slipped off a gold necklace—a key dangling from the chain—and unlocked the padlock. Clapped twice. Neon-yellow lights bathed the room in brightness.

He sniffed the air. Poison perfume. A female intruder?

In the living room, he snarled. What a mess. Jack swept the broken glass into a pile and mopped the whiskey puddled on the hardwood. He darted into the kitchen and poured himself a new drink, but when he fished for ice, he found the bucket empty. He withdrew one of the trays.

Also empty.

Blood roiling in his gut, he set the glass on the counter and brought out four plastic ice cube trays. No diamonds. Mind racing, he sprinted into the foyer and removed a clock from the wall, opened the rear of the face, and withdrew a small camera.

Perfect. He smirked. It’s still here.

In his home office, he fired up the computer. A recording of the foyer filled the flat-screen as Jack dropped into his leather swivel chair. He twirled toward the clock on the wall facing his playroom, ensuring the hidden camera was still in place. When he swiveled back toward the computer, the image of a woman crept down the stairs. Dressed in all black with black-leather gloves, her red, chunky highlights shimmered in raven hair, framing porcelain-white skin—long, spiky strands tipped cherry.

He cocked his head. Who are you, darlin’?

The intruder stood about five-foot-seven, with electric-emerald eyes that could burn holes through the coldest of hearts. A diamond-stud nose piercing twinkled in the flickering glow of her flashlight. Her Goth-like makeup gave her an exotic allure. Normally she wasn’t his type, but her phlegmatic confidence revealed a stunning beauty.

Jack leaned in and studied every inch.

He pulled back—blinked—leaned in again and scrutinized her every move. How she gracefully swept down the stairs and moved across the foyer as if dancing to music only she heard, strong arms and legs swaying in perfect harmony.

Chin resting on an open hand, he pawed the screen. Self-assurance oozed out every pore on this feline burglar. I’m betting you wouldn’t want your secret identity revealed. Seems we have some common ground. He tapped a few keys. The screen split into two, one side per camera.

When the intruder moved into the frame, he snapped a screenshot of her face. A close-up that looked like she’d modeled for the camera.

Gotcha.

Chapter 3

1:33 a.m.

Lieutenant Holt met me at the door of the Revere Police Department.

Everything all right, Lieutenant? You sounded stressed on the phone.

You know that hard drive we asked you to hack?

How could I forget? Yeah. Why?

Mr. Delsin was released.

No shit. Why wasn’t he in holding till arraignment?

Shawnee... He exhaled as if it’d been one hell of a night.

I could relate.

"I don’t have all the details yet. Somehow he was released. Which is what I need