Blues Highway Blues (A Crossroads Thriller Book 1) Read online

  He’d started his journey as a victim, but somewhere in the pitch blackness of a New Mexico night, Daniel collided headfirst with the realization that maybe his current circumstances were not so unjust. It was a wreck no less painful than twisted metal, shattered glass, and spilled blood: perhaps the missing money and the relentless killers were simply karmic payback for the life he’d led for so many years.

  A million dollars had been taken from his safe, but the hard truth of it was that he hadn’t really earned a cent of it. He’d skimmed and scammed every artist he’d ever worked with, from Scott West to Mission. There were songwriters whose writing credits he’d shanghaied and overgrown adolescents who were too naive or chemically impaired to translate “Trust me” into the modern working English. There were business partners who’d failed to observe the thin line that separates business from partner and investors whose bespoke-suited lawyers hadn’t been nearly as persuasive as Preezrakevich’s gun-toting thugs.

  No, if Daniel was being cast out on a stony path to penance, he couldn’t deny he deserved to travel every painful step. And he could accept such a cosmic punishment as somehow just. What he couldn’t accept was the possibility Zack might have to walk it alongside him.

  Halfway between Albuquerque and the Texas state line, he took the Santa Rosa exit and slowed up the ramp until he came to a stop beneath the blinking red traffic signal swinging overhead in the howling desert wind. The only other light was a neon sign glowing half a mile down the road: FUEL. FOOD. BEER. Daniel didn’t need any of those things as badly as he needed a moment or two to escape the confines of the car—and the realizations that had found him there. He put on his turn signal (though there was no one within miles to see it) and headed toward the iridescent beacon.

  The dashboard clock glowed in the dark. 2:40. Sunday morning. His twenty-four-hour deadline with the murderous Russian gangster had come and gone. He tried to imagine Preezrakevich’s reaction but all he felt was the throbbing pain in his left hand.

  Daniel wondered how the genial giant and his evil, elfin sidekick had broken the news to their boss. Had they told him at all? It wasn’t like losing Daniel and his million dollars was something they could toss out as a casual aside. No, Preezrakevich wouldn’t accept their failure lightly. They’d both be lucky if he didn’t simply recruit a new team of killers to track them down.

  That thought hadn’t crossed Daniel’s mind before, but now it struck him like a shank in the back. Could there be a new team of killers out there? It was unnerving enough to know the big man and the pequeño psycho were hunting him down, but the possibility there could be new and unknown players in their death match made his troubled stomach even queasier.

  He pulled into the fuel stop and parked the Kia at the pump closest to the access road. Silence replaced the high hum of the 1.6 liter, four-cylinder DOHC as Daniel pulled the key from the ignition. There was a slight ringing in his ears like auditory floaters and his head spun round whenever he closed his eyes for more than a moment. His sensibilities weren’t much improved when he opened his eyes.

  His heart raced so wildly that he clutched at it, half to feel its crazy rhythm, and half in hopes the pressure might slow it down, or at least prevent it from bursting out of his chest. Waves of nausea washed over him as his stomach churned in revolt, gurgling and growling like it’d been invaded by intestinal squatters who’d organized Occupy Daniel’s Gut.

  Inside his head, some small sliver of instinct throbbed with fear, trying to tell him the small gas station/convenience store posted out in the middle of an endless ocean of impenetrable blackness was not a safe spot to stop, but a pit stop for lost souls wandering the highways like godless nomads. A place where anything could happen.

  There were four vehicles in the lot, maybe a dozen people on the property. Daniel was afraid of all of them. The innocent don’t travel at that godforsaken hour, that wicked time that night hasn’t quite given up on, but isn’t yet morning. Everyone looked guilty of something.

  And maybe, more than anything else, Daniel was afraid of joining them.

  At the next pump over, a kid with a keloid-scarred face, a loser’s sneer, and a head of greasy hair pulled back tight in a ponytail was fueling a Camaro that had more Bondo than paint. He looked over at Daniel and flashed a smile, a disturbingly knowing grin that seemed to dare him to get on with it already.

  Daniel got out of the car, took a deep breath of the night air, and tried to shake off his growing paranoia. For a brief moment, he felt better.

  The kid at the pump probably had a connection for some crystal or weed. And it wouldn’t have surprised his own mother if he’d slapped around one of his baby-mamas or had snatched a TV or laptop from a trailer he knew was temporarily unattended, but he was no assassin for the Russian mob.

  And neither were any of the rest of them. A fat, old man with a Burl Ives beard. A tattooed lady with the shakes impatiently waiting for the cashier to fetch her a carton of smokes. A scarecrow of a man coupled with a woman who could’ve been dropped on a witch. No, there was no killer elite among them.

  And even if there was an assassin hidden in the motley bunch, how could any might-be assassin have found the desolate outpost before he did? Daniel wasn’t quite sure where he was; how could anyone else know?

  He forced himself to take a deep breath and then swiped his credit card at the pump before plunging the fuel hose into the Kia’s tank. As the gas began to flow and the LED numbers started rolling, it occurred to Daniel that even though he had a wallet stuffed fat with cash he’d planned on dropping in Vegas, as a matter of habit, he’d put everything since he’d started his adventure on plastic. Every tank of gas, every Diet Sunkist, every pack of pumpkin seeds had gone right on his Amex. Every single stop he’d made. Every purchase. Everything.

  His mind began to spin faster than the numbers on the pump. He knew the government could track credit cards. For half a second he wondered if Filat had those sorts of connections too.

  It was a nauseating realization: of course he did. People with Preezrakevich’s stash of cash have connections to get whatever they want. Daniel doubted obtaining an activity report on his credit cards would be all that troublesome for the former KGB officer. And that meant that every step of the way Daniel had been leaving a neat trail of receipts for Moog and Rabidoso—or whoever else was trying to kill him now—to follow.

  What little he’d eaten began to rise in his stomach. It was more than a feeling now; he was certain he was about to vomit. The fuel pump shut itself off and Daniel jumped at the sudden click it made behind him. He didn’t bother to replace the fuel hose but ran straight for the bathroom, afraid he wouldn’t make it in time.

  The graffiti-covered room beyond the swinging door marked MEN reeked of methane and gasoline. It was almost too filthy to retch in. Almost.

  When he was certain he had no more road snacks to lose, Daniel turned away from the bowl and staggered over to the sink stained with what he hoped was rust. He ran the tap but the water never got more than lukewarm and smelled suspiciously like what he’d just pumped into his car. He splashed whatever it was that came out of the spigot over his face and then glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. The face staring back didn’t look even vaguely familiar. He braced himself against the porcelain basin and tried hard not to cry.

  He might have been successful in restraining his tears, if his phone hadn’t rung at that exact moment. He pulled the device from his pocket and there on his iPhone screen was a boy’s smiling face. His boy’s. It was Zack.

  Unable to control his emotions any longer, he let out a barking sob as a trembling finger pressed Accept Call. He ground his teeth until he thought they might shatter, took a deep breath, and sniffed. “Zack! Where are you? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  The response on the other end was a piercing shriek, so loud and shrill Daniel could almost feel the excruciating pain that had caused it.

  “Zack?” Daniel’s stomach sank and his hea
rt raced. “ZACK!”

  “Oh, he’s here, papi.” The voice on the other end was familiar. Not his son’s. “But maybe he can’t hear you so well. I just cut off his fucking ear.”

  Daniel lowered his phone, but he could still hear Rabidoso’s psychotic cackle on the other end.

  It had been a good day for Randy Baldwick. He’d awoken for an early session of “Wabbit Season” with his middle-aged Sugar Mama and then dropped her off at LAX to start an entire week of living the life he regretted leaving behind: Running with the old crew. Hitting the clubs. Chasing after—and catching—women who were still young enough to make him feel young too.

  The house was completely dark when he got back from his first night out. He thought he’d left the outside lights on, but his recollection of all the night’s events was more than hazy. His ears were still ringing from the clubs’ deafening THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. His head was still swimming in a sickly sweet sea of cranberry and vodka. His body was still tingling from the blonde he’d taken out to the Escalade. And the brunette who’d joined them there.

  It had been a good day. A very good day.

  His unsteady hand finally found the lock with his key and the tumblers clicked as he turned it. He pushed the door, but something on the other side resisted his efforts to open it. “What the fuck?” He shoved it harder but still couldn’t budge it. He lowered his shoulder to the stubborn portal and put all his weight to it. Whatever had been blocking the door finally gave way.

  There was a light on at the far end of the house, but the foyer was completely black. He felt the wall for switches and flipped them, but no lights came on. He stepped into the darkness, unable to see there was something wet and slippery spilled on the marble floor. Without warning, his foot slid out from beneath him and sent him falling onto the flat of his back. He landed hard, smacking his head on the foyer tile.

  Did he lose consciousness? What little he could make out by the single, distant light was blurry and swirled around his now aching head. He turned over and struggled to get his knees beneath him. On all fours, he lifted his head just slightly and discovered what had been blocking the door.

  There on the foyer floor, split open and splayed out like a Staffordshire bull terrier rug, was his beloved Hades. He was surrounded by a pool of thick, slippery blood.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Randy tried to get to his feet but the tile was impossibly slick and his “goin’ dancing” shoes offered no traction. “Oh, Christ, no!” he screamed as he fell.

  Like a mouse caught in a porcelain sink, he frantically tried and tried to get up, his feet scurrying again and again, until he finally managed to get a steady foot beneath him. He started to rise. And that was when the pipe came down on the back of his head.

  There was no question he’d been unconscious this time. Given the choice, he would’ve rather stayed in its dark depths, but a pain—much sharper than the throbbing gash that had been opened across the crown of his head—dragged him out of that black refuge. He tried to fight it, but consciousness fought back, grabbed him, and wouldn’t let go. When he finally came to, his hands were bound tightly behind him and there was a man kneeling on his chest.

  Rabidoso leaned forward, so close to where the young man’s ear had just been that he could almost taste the sweet, salty blood spilling out of it. “Where is the money?” he whispered into the wound he’d opened.

  Randy screamed in pain as his oversized arms struggled vainly against the restraints. A small fist, curled up tight like a cue ball, smashed into his left cheek and shut him up. “Where’s the money, sonny?”

  Confusion hit him as hard as the fist had. “The money? I don’t know anything about—” But before Randy could finish, a steel blade carved a crimson path across his not-so-handsome-anymore face. His howl would have split the soul of any man who’d had one, but it only further excited Rabidoso.

  The Mexican adjusted his grip on his victim who was slick with blood and sweat. “I know your papi gave you the money.”

  “No.” The word was nothing more than a whimper slipping past Randy’s severed lips, but it was impossible to tell whether he’d uttered it in response to his interrogator’s accusation or as a preemptive plea for mercy.

  Rabidoso looked around the well-appointed living room. “This your mami’s house?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “My mami used to tell me I was el diablo’s child, not hers.” He showed Randy the knife blade covered in his blood. “And do you know what?” He paused for effect, enjoying a long look into Randy’s terrified eyes. “She was right.” He jammed the point of the blade into Randy’s thigh. “I killed the puta.” He freed the knife, only to plunge it back in again. “I killed them all. Killed them hard.”

  Randy began to shiver violently, maybe from shock caused by blood loss, or maybe just as a physical expression of his overwhelming emotions as desperation and terror fought for control of what remained of his senses.

  Looking into his victim’s tearing eyes, Rabidoso tenderly brushed away a strand of sandy, blond hair that had stuck to the young man’s sweat-covered brow. “And if I would do that to my own mami, just imagine what I will do to you now.”

  “I swear I don’t know anything about any money!”

  The Mexican knelt down next to him, so close that his gestures almost seemed like the prelude to a romantic interlude. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” His hand slithered into the front pocket of Randy’s blood-soaked jeans and pulled out an iPhone. “Why don’t we just call Daddy and see?”

  A flash of understanding struck Randy when he saw the cell phone he’d taken from Zack the night he’d thrown him out of the house. “No, that’s not mine,” he cried.

  “It’s in your pocket, esse.” Rabidoso put his finger on the screen above the Contacts icon. A list of names and numbers appeared on the screen. He scrolled through them and then pressed the listing marked DAD. Rabidoso grinned triumphantly as a picture of Daniel appeared on the phone. “Let’s just call papi and see what he knows.”

  “No,” Randy pleaded. “That’s not my dad. That’s not my phone.”

  A self-satisfied sneer spread across the Mexican’s scarred mouth. “Riiiiiiiight.”

  A second later, Daniel’s voice was on the line. “Zack! Where the hell are you? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Rabidoso leaned forward so that his lips brushed Randy’s left ear. “This for lying to me,” he whispered to his victim, but his words were drowned out by Randy’s piercing shriek as the Mexican’s blade sliced off the ear.

  “Zack?” Daniel called out from nine hundred and forty miles away. “ZACK!”

  “Oh, he’s here, papi,” Rabidoso answered for him. “But maybe he can’t hear you so well. I just cut off his ear.” The little man cackled.

  The line was silent for too long. Rabidoso had no intention of making this easy. “You there, papi?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Well, that’s the problem, pendejo. You’re there when you should be here.”

  “You better not—” Daniel warned, his voice shaking with emotion.

  “Better not what?” Rabidoso dared. “Do something like this?”

  A second latter there was a bestial scream on the line that made Daniel wince and pull the phone away from his ear again.

  “Now your boy’s missing an ear—and a nose,” Rabidoso relayed. “You better shut your mouth, esse, ’cause baby boy’s running out of parts here.”

  “Please! Please!” Rabidoso’s victim cried out from beneath him.

  The voice was barely intelligible, distorted by gasps and sobs, but Daniel recognized it right away. Relief replaced horror. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” An exaggerated explosion of laughter. “What the fuck do you think I want? I want you and the money back here in an hour.”

  “I can’t make it there in an hour.” Daniel was certain of that.

  There was commotion on the line, the phone being passed around. Daniel could hear the exchange
. “Come here and tell your daddy what I’m going to do to you if he doesn’t get his ass here in an hour.”

  “Please,” the voice begged. “Tell him I don’t know anything.” As fractured as it was, Daniel knew the desperate plea was Randy’s. In its echoes, everything else fell into place. Randy must have taken Zack’s iPhone. And then Rabidoso understandably assumed the young man in his early twenties was the son, not the ex-wife’s lover.

  “Erickson, you sonofabitch,” Randy screamed into the phone. “Tell this fucking psycho I’m not your—”

  From the first sleepless night spent walking the floor with a crying infant in their arms, every parent comes to wonder what they’d be capable of doing for their child under the darkest of circumstances. Some have limits, moral or otherwise. Some don’t have any bounds at all. “Zack,” Daniel called out, though he knew it was a lie.

  The best way to help his son at the moment was to convince the sadistic psychopath that he already had him. If protecting Zack’s life meant offering Randy’s life in its place, then it was a bargain Daniel was willing to strike. And if making that trade was the moral equivalent of wielding the knife himself, Daniel was OK with having that sin on his soul. “Zack, listen to me.”

  “What are you talking about, Erickson!” It wasn’t clear from Randy’s voice whether he was more terrified of Rabidoso’s knife or Daniel’s treachery. “Tell him I’m not your fucking son!”

  “I’m sorry, son,” Daniel lied softly, though the “sorry” part of it was true enough.

  Randy Baldwick had stolen Daniel’s wife, sent his life into a near-fatal tailspin, and finally put his son out on the street. There was every reason to hate him—and Daniel did—but there wasn’t any vindictive satisfaction in turning him over to such a sadistic monster. It wasn’t personal; it was simply what had to be done.

  “I’m going to send his soul straight to Santa Muerte,” Rabidoso hissed into the phone, breathing hard from his exertion. “That what you want for your son?”