The Beast: Thriller

By Jack Raymond

The Beast: Thriller

by Jack Raymond

 

The size of this book is equivalent to 108 paperback pages.

A dangerous professional killer escapes from custody - and New York investigator Murray Weiser must nip at his heels. A bone-chilling police thriller

 

Vandermoore had managed to free his hands in the meantime. His right hand jerked forward with incredible speed. A stunned expression froze on the fake cop's face as Vandermoore hit him in the neck with a murderous hand edge blow. The uniformed man rolled his eyes and staggered. Vandermoore pulled him toward him and used him as cover, ripping the SIG Sauer P226 from his open holster - the standard weapon of all New York City police units. Vandermoore dropped sideways with the dead man as the MPi rattled away. Several dozen rounds rattled close over him, perforating the side front of a half-rusted van. Rolling on the ground, Vandermoore jerked the weapon up in his fist, then fired a single well-aimed shot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BEKKERpublishing
• Release date: Mar 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215565384

Book preview

1

Rod Vandermoore bared his teeth grimly. Three cops.

And all of them armed to the teeth.... That was a bit much even for a man called 'The Beast', who was facing trial for twenty-five counts of murder for hire.

Vandermoore sat chained in the back of the prisoner transport van. His hands were handcuffed and he also wore chains on his ankles.

Two uniformed men sat on the bench across from him, one next to him. He was to be transferred to Newark State Prison.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vandermoore noticed a street sign that read WEST NEW YORK/ UNION CITY.

It was pretty nice on Riker's Island, Vandermoore flattened.

I don't even understand why I can't wait there for my trial!

The van made a sharp right turn.

The road was littered with potholes. The van's shock absorbers were put to the test. The van drove past industrial ruins that stretched for miles in this area. Dilapidated smokestacks, dilapidated factory buildings and a wild car graveyard.

Vandermoore felt the rumble and bump with which the car traveled over the potholes.

Surely this wasn't the way to Newark! Where did these guys take him?

His instinct for danger kicked in. He took a deep breath.

The transporter reached the car graveyard.

Hundreds of vehicles were rusting away here. The owners had simply parked them, cannibalized everything that was still somehow usable on them and left the rest to themselves.

Drive somewhere where we can't be seen from the road, Birdy! the man in the passenger seat said to the driver.

He laughed hoarsely. Nobody in their right mind drives here anyway!

Nevertheless. I want this thing to be finished properly...

Vandermoore, sitting in the van's prisoner compartment, realized there was a damn mess going on.

The guy sitting directly across from him had an MPi in his hands and twisted his face into a wry grin. The guy sitting next to him did the same, but with a slight time delay. A gold tooth flashed in the process.

What's going on here? hissed Vandermoore.

The killer's face had turned chalk white.

The guy with the MPi twisted his mouth into a wry grin. His seatmate did the same, only with a slight time delay. A gold tooth flashed.

Just wait and see! the MPi man replied.

The car came to a stop with a jolt.

Vandermoore surreptitiously pulled a nail-length piece of wire from behind his wristwatch with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was not the first time he had used such a tool to open a pair of handcuffs.

You're not cops, huh? he said. "Who sent you?

Any of them afraid I might mention their names in the trial? Vandermoore laughed hoarsely. That's what I thought."

The guy with the gold tooth pushed open the rear doors of the van.

Guess what, 'beast'! grinned the man with the MPi.

Who sent you? growled Vandermoore.

Think! Maybe you'll figure it out for yourself in the last few seconds you have left...

The muzzle of the Heckler & Koch MPi was now pointed directly at Vandermoore's head, while at the same time the third

Cop' tampered with his ankle cuffs and took them off.

Come on, get him out of here now! the man with the gold tooth said. Vandermoore stood up, turned toward the open back door. He received a brutal shove in the back and stumbled out of the car. He fell hard to the ground on his stomach.

Two of the uniformed men grabbed him by the upper arms and dragged him back to his feet.

We don't feel like carrying you, 'Beast'! one of the guys grinned. Ain't included in the price.

The other uniformed men laughed.

Best we put him in one of those car wrecks! said another. No one will find him there in a hundred years!

Let's get this over with! said the guy with the MPi, They formed a semicircle around Vandermoore.

"Don't take it personally, 'Beast.' You know how it is.

It's just a job. That's all it is. Besides, with what you've got on your plate, you'd probably get the needle anyway. But to some people, it makes a little difference whether or not you can run your mouth in public first."

Vandermoore had managed to free his hands in the meantime. His right hand jerked forward with incredible speed. A stunned expression froze on the fake cop's face as Vandermoore hit him in the neck with a murderous hand edge blow.

The uniformed man rolled his eyes and swayed.

Vandermoore pulled him toward him and used him as cover, ripping the SIG Sauer P226 from his open holster as he did so -.

the standard weapon of all New York police units.

Vandermoore dropped sideways with the dead man as the MPi rattled away. Several dozen rounds rattled close overhead, perforating the side of a half-rusted van.

Rolling on the ground, Vandermoore jerked the gun up in his fist and then fired a single well-aimed shot. He hit the guy in the middle of the forehead with the MPi. Vandermoore whirled around, spun the barrel of the SIG

a few degrees and fired again. He caught the guy with the gold tooth in the torso before he could pull his own gun out completely. A groaning sound escaped the lips of the hit man as he folded like a rusty pocket knife. Vandermoore threw himself to the side as projectiles slammed into the dusty ground to his left and right. He dove behind a Ford that at one point had been painted blue.

There were two enemies left and he had 14 rounds left in the magazine, one in the barrel. Unlike the fake cops, he had no spare ammunition and therefore could not engage in protracted gunfights.

But as a professional killer of the special class, he was used to working precisely. With a minimum of effort.

He took the SIG with both hands and carefully dove out from behind the junk car. A hail of bullets greeted him. Vandermoore flinched again.

Behind a Chevrolet, he had registered a darting movement. One of the fake cops had apparently made a U-turn to catch Vandermoore from the other side.

The uniformed man fired his pistol twice in quick succession. Vandermoore threw himself to the side in the same second. The bullets punched holes the size of a thumbnail in the rusty sheet metal of the car behind him.

Vandermoore jerked his gun up and fired. The first shot hit the fake cop in the thigh, the second pierced his neck.

The next moment, Vandermoore heard the prisoner transport's engine start. The car sped away with tires spinning.

Vandermoore sped up, tried to catch the tires with one shot, then lowered the gun.

Coward!, he thought.

2

I almost choked on Helen's excellent coffee as I sat in Mr. Leigh's office that morning attending a hastily called meeting.

What Mr. Leigh, the Chief of the New York FBI District with the rank of Special Agent in Charge, had to share with us G-men left us all speechless.

Rod Vandermoore - known in the tabloids and the underworld as 'The Beast' - had escaped from Riker's Island prison.

Just over three months ago, this man, who was one of the most dangerous wage killers in the history of organized crime, had fallen into the FBI's net. My partner Lew Tucker and I were only indirectly involved. Our colleague, Special Agent Fred Raska, had been in charge of the arrest. A tip from gangster circles had ensured that Vandermoore ended up on New York's Riker's Island prison.

Meanwhile, an entire department of the District Attorney was working on the indictment.

I exchanged a quick glance with Lew. He