The Killing Game (An Alexa Chase Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

CHAPTER ONE Sonora Desert, 25 miles southwest of Tucson, Arizona June 24, Noon “What you have to remember, Alexa, is that there are three types of people—the strong, the weak, and those who think they’re one but are really the other.” Deputy United States Marshal Alexa Chase ignored her prisoner and looked through the steel mesh of the prisoner transport bus at the beautiful Sonora Desert rolling by. The glaring spring sun had shot the temperature up to the high 90s, but it couldn’t wash out the varied colors and subtle beauty of the desert. Unlike the rolling sand dunes people typically associated with deserts, the Sonora Desert was alive with life. Prickly pear cacti and barrel cacti were interspersed with the low green domes of sweet bush. Here and there a majestic saguaro rose up twice the height of a man, looking like stationary sentinels against the clear blue sky. Birds flitted in the air, and a jackrabbit darted across the road. The rocks were varied hues of browns, oranges, and reds that would turn brilliant in the region’s matchless sunsets. A much nicer view than the one inside the prison bus she was riding. But she forced herself to look back at her prisoner. Only an i***t would take their eyes off Drake Logan for more than a few seconds. He was a small man, barely five eight and slight of build, but Alexa knew he compensated for this with a surprising strength and coldblooded ruthlessness. Soft, intelligent brown eyes looked out from an angular, poorly shaven face beneath a shock of unruly brown hair. Drake smiled a little, knowing she didn’t want to hear what he said but also knowing she was a captive audience. Not that he needed much encouragement. Dad would have said he “could talk the spines off a cactus.” “You see,” Drake said, raising one manacled hand to his thin lips as if to smoke a cigarette, an odd habit of his. “The duty of the strong isn’t to crush the weak, like a lot of people think; it’s to expose the weak who think they’re strong. That’s the only way to show society what true strength is. That’s why I don’t kill children, not even bratty ones. Too easy.” A slow clap came from the seat behind him. U.S. Marshal Robert Powers, still clapping, said, “Alexa, I never realized we were in the presence of a humanitarian.” “I am a humanitarian, in a way. Inspiration helps people far more than handouts.” “Humanitarian contains the word human,” Robert said, studying the arm and leg manacles that kept Drake secure to the metal seat bolted to the bottom of the bus. “There’s nothing human about you.” “On the contrary, my dear friend,” Drake said, raising a forefinger like a university professor. “I’m more human than anyone on this bus.” Alexa snorted. The only other people on the bus besides the two U.S. Marshals transporting the prisoner to a new maximum security prison in the middle of the desert were the two prison guards up front. Usually this bus would have twenty prisoners packing the seats. But the prison Drake was being transferred from was full of murderers, rapists, meth dealers, and human traffickers. It wouldn’t be right to subject that quality of people to the company of a scumbag like Drake. The man had killed dozens of people across the Southwest in the most horrible, humiliating ways possible. He was a monster. A highly intelligent monster. It had taken Alexa and her partner more than a year to track him down, and even then, it had been as much luck as it was policework that nabbed him. Going to prison hadn’t stopped his killing spree, either. Drake put his hands to his lips again. He was a chain smoker, and the five-hour drive without a single menthol must have been t*****e for him. Good. “With one exception, of course,” Drake said, his eyes lingering on her. Even chained up that felt creepy. Alexa knew he was trying to draw her into the conversation. She didn’t take the bait. She wanted to get this transfer over, go home, and take a long shower. He looked out the window. Alexa watched his eyes. You could always tell a lot about a perp from the eyes. Drake’s never stopped moving. Always searching. Always assessing. The few witnesses who had survived to testify said he always looked like a scientist who had just discovered something fascinating under a microscope, even when strangling someone with their own intestines. Those eyes were especially watchful on this trip. They flicked a bit to one side as the bus sped past a mile marker. “People like me are helping humanity,” Drake declared. “Yeah, sure you are,” Powers said. He was a rugged man in his fifties with the deeply tanned, seamed face of someone who had spent a lifetime outdoors. His gray eyes, bright by contrast, never strayed from the prisoner, and his strong hand never strayed far from the Glock 9mm at his side. Neither did Alexa’s. She had learned a lot about law enforcement from Powers. A friend of her uncle’s, it had been Powers who had noticed the aimless twenty-something with an urge to be something more than a rancher and convinced her to try her hand at law enforcement. It had been Powers who thought her deadly aim to be something more than cute, and besides one of her brothers, he was the only person to notice her brains at all. “I am helping humanity,” the prisoner continued. “Modern society crushes people down. Puts them in a position of powerlessness. They are dependent on the system for their food, electricity, livelihood, everything. The system keeps them from being independent, keeps them from being strong. Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, taught me that. Ever read his manifesto? Interesting stuff. So anyway, by killing the weak masking as the strong, I show society for what it is—a mirage. Society is weak, my friends. It can only enforce its will through its agents of law enforcement and sap the spirit through mass entertainment. But when a little runt like me strikes back, people’s spines straighten a bit.” “You going to babble on like this for the entire trip?” Powers asked, rolling his eyes and looking at Alexa, who smiled but never took her eyes off Drake for long. You had to act professional at all times in a job like this. Otherwise you get distracted, and distracted agents ended up dead agents. Powers had taught her that too. He had told her, in gruesome detail, how every U.S. Marshal who had died in the line of duty came to their end. Then he had given her pop quizzes. “Elwin Hubbard?” he would ask. “Failed to check the back seat of his car.” “Ricardo Gonzalez?” “Walked into the suspect’s bar alone.” “Robert Forsyth?” “Didn’t think a woman would shoot him in the back.” Drake laughed. “Why shouldn’t I? You two caught me when no one else could. That makes you among the strong, although not as strong as me; and the strong need to stick together. It was nice of you to give me a solo ride. Most of the inmates back in Phoenix are boring as hell. Nothing to learn from those losers.” Alexa grimaced. The reason Drake was riding alone was that he had killed two inmates in the five years since he had been incarcerated, and seriously injured three more. Every time he got out of solitary he’d strike out at someone, usually the biggest, best connected g**g member he could find. Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings, MS-13 … they were all terrified of him. It was remarkable that such a small man could get away with it, but he had lightning fast reflexes, and always seemed to have access to a shiv, a couple of lookouts, and an accomplice to distract his victim. He had a whole network of followers on the inside, attracted like cult members to his sermons about personal liberation. Drake kept staring out the window. Another mile marker flicked by. He turned and looked directly at Alexa, studying her under those microscope eyes. She tensed. She had never gotten used to that. “Some people are naturally strong, as I said. Like your partner here. That man’s got a will of cast iron, and I salute him for it. But he’s not our kind. The two donut boys in the front sure aren’t our kind either. Weak. Their badges and guns don’t change that one bit. Took jobs bullying men locked in cages. Weak. You and I, on the other hand, we were strong and thought we were weak. We grew. And in growing, we became the strongest of the strong.” Alexa turned away, an unpleasant memory welling up inside of her. Sixteen years old on her father’s ranch. The new ranch hand, only a few years older and super cute, asked her to help him in the stable. She had thought nothing of it, until Alexa discovered what he wanted help with. She felt flattered, nervous, tempted. Then he got rough. Teeth lying scattered amid the straw on the stable floor. He bled so much. Alexa running out to apologize to her dad before he even knew what she had done. Training took over. Alexa shrugged the memory off and watched the prisoner. Shackled hand and foot, he was helpless, but you could never assume that, especially with someone like Drake Logan. The previous year, he had come one fence away from escaping a maximum security prison. “I’m glad you volunteered for this assignment, Alexa,” Drake said. “You too, Robert, despite what I just said. You’re good company. I’m going to miss you.” “We won’t miss you,” Robert Powers grunted. “But we’ll sure be happy knowing you’re buried in Arizona’s brand new maximum security prison.” “They’re coming for me soon,” Drake replied. “The strongest of the weak.” “Oh, that’s right,” Powers said, shooting a smile at Alexa. “All those g**g members who you attacked have homies in this new place. You’re going to have to prove yourself all over again, and this time they’re ready for you. They’ve had time to prepare.” Powers had been frustrated that Drake didn’t get the death penalty. Drake had pled guilty, which meant he could only face prison. That frustrated Alexa too. How could he plead anything else when he owned a trailer full of body parts? “Nobody’s ever ready for me,” Drake said. Suddenly he bent over, getting into the brace position like he was on an airplane in freefall. Alexa stared at him for a second, confused. Then she had a sudden shock of realization—followed instantly by terror. She whirled around to look through the metal grill, past the two officers in the front seat, and out onto the road ahead. They drove along an isolated stretch of two-lane highway, uninhabited desert stretching to the horizon on either side. Only one other vehicle was visible, an armored car with the Arizona Bank and Trust logo. It was in the opposite lane, coming in their direction. It was almost to them. “Look out!” Alexa cried. The driver of the prison truck and his partner both turned around to look at Drake. “No! The armored car!” They both turned back. Too late. The armored car swerved into their lane just as it passed, slamming into the side of their bus with a screech of tortured metal. Alexa felt an impact, her head slamming into something, her ribs feeling like they were being crushed in a gigantic vice. Then her world spun. Her ears filled with the sound of crumpling metal as the bus turned over and over, each turn hurting some other part of her body. She raised her arms, doing her best to protect her face and head. Finally the rolling stopped as the bus crashed to a hard stop in a dry wash. She tried to raise her head, but it hurt too much. Then, only blackness.