Trail of the Zodiac - Debt Collector 10 (A Jack Winchester Thriller) Read online

  Trail of the Zodiac

  The Debt Collector 10

  Jon Mills

  Direct Response Publishing

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  A Plea

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  Also by Jon Mills

  Copyright © 2017 by Jon Mills

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Debt Collector 10: Trail of the Zodiac is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For my Family

  Prologue

  History was never his strong point. Killing, on the other hand, that he had mastered. Jack thumbed through the request of the client and waited for confirmation of payment. While the jobs varied, the outcome was always the same — violent persuasion or death.

  Still, this one was different. In all the years he’d worked for the mob, he’d never tracked down a war criminal. He had no issue with the target’s nationality; nor was he emotionally conflicted by what heinous acts had been done. A target was a target, an easy payday, and nothing more than a means to right a few wrongs that the justice system would overlook.

  In this case, deportation was all the feds would do.

  Sure he would have faced trial, but that was a drawn-out process that could take years.

  No, it wasn’t justice in his eyes, and that’s why he took the job.

  The client knew what they wanted, and he had no qualms about delivering as long as the price was right. It certainly beat joining the nine-to-five rat race. He’d dipped his toes in those waters but soon realized that it was easier and more lucrative to use skills gained from running with one of the biggest mob families in New York — a skill set suited for hunting those who didn’t want to be found.

  Although his methods may have been deemed cruel, even brutal, he was always fair and just, and in a mad world where criminals got off because of sloppy police work, his brand of justice was exactly what people wanted — never mind the great deal of personal satisfaction he got from having helped the downtrodden.

  Jack took a sip of his Americano. His mind was distracted by the work at hand. He was sitting in a Provincetown café, at the tip of Cape Cod. It was a beautiful spot and reminded him of Rockland Cove, Maine. However, that morning the sun had all but disappeared behind the dark clouds that hung low above the North Atlantic Ocean. Moist air blew in through the open windows, carrying its salty scent.

  He gazed at the list of crimes and flipped through photos he’d taken over the past five days. Days, he’d spent following his target, observing his comings and goings and piecing together a pattern. A pattern that would reveal a flaw, an oversight that would eventually be the target’s downfall. Everyone had a pattern whether they were wanted for murder or not. Routine was ingrained in humans as was resistance to change. It’s what made the disposal of scum a walk in the park. They were predictable no matter how hard they tried to keep their head down and play it safe.

  However, in this case, it wasn’t the target he needed to observe, it was those he’d hired to protect him. They worked on a rotating schedule. Two juiceheads drove the mark to his appointments, lingered around his property like flies and hassled anyone who got close to the wrought iron gates. Unlike others who wished to blend in, this guy’s paranoia was on a whole other level. Jack figured they weren’t just bodyguards, but a way for him to be alerted if the feds or anyone like Winchester showed up on his doorstep. Although these knuckleheads didn’t realize that — to them, it was just a paycheck. Hell, it must have seemed like they were driving Miss Daisy around.

  Hanns Fanck was closing in on ninety years of age. He certainly was the oldest target Jack had ever had. He’d gone back and forth with the client. Why not just give up his address to the feds and have him extradited? Why go through all the trouble of hiring him to put an end to his life when he looked like he was about to fall off the mortal wheel, anyway? Justice, that’s what they wanted. They wanted to see the look on his face as he begged for mercy. It was personal.

  As he continued looking at a text message, Jack chuckled under his breath and shook his head. For a second he wondered who was the sickest, his client or the target?

  Jack had texted back, “It will be done in an hour.”

  “Send me the video.”

  “Understood.”

  Normally he wouldn’t send material but since he was using burner phones that were tossed after every job he didn’t see the harm in it.

  The hulking man with dark eyes and a shaved head rose from the table and tossed down a couple of dollars. He tucked a newspaper under his arm, placed a flat cap on his head and soldiered out of the café.

  Jack followed.

  Now under any other conditions he would have just waited until it was night, hopped over the surrounding wall on the sprawling estate and entered in his usual violent fashion, but he figured that a man like Hanns had considered security on every level. He knew he drove around in a bulletproof sedan as he’d tested it in a parking lot while he was inside a store running errands. Next was his home. There was probably an alarm system, guard dogs and even some kind of hidden escape route just in case the feds showed up. No one lived that long on the lam without having tested flaws in their security — that’s why he trailed his targets, learned their patterns and waited until the flaws revealed themselves.

  In this case, the chink in the armor was to be found in his security guards. One of them was in the habit of ducking out for a bite to eat when his employer was having his nap — at least that’s what Jack assumed because at all other times of the day and night they never left their posts. With Hanns’s age having finally caught up with him, he could no longer go all day without an afternoon siesta.

  Jack followed the man to his own personal vehicle, a sedan with tinted windows and New York license plates. At all ti
mes he stayed far enough back to not raise any suspicion. It wasn’t the first time he’d encountered bodyguards. They were either highly skilled or highly stupid. It was hard to tell which until one studied daily routine. Either way, he underestimated no one. The guy shot a cautious sideways glance before slipping into the vehicle.

  One more stop for the big guy before he returned within the thirty-minute window.

  It was this precise moment in his schedule that had given Jack the idea. To outwit him, he needed to be caught off-guard, sent into a panic, put in a situation that jeopardized his cushy little security gig, and he had just the thing.

  A cool ocean breeze whipped against his skin as Jack slipped behind the wheel of a truck bought from a wrecker’s yard near South Dennis. It was old, cheap, and perfect for what he had in mind. Back in his days working for the mob, anytime he needed a throwaway vehicle, wrecker’s yards were ideal. He’d contact wreckers in the area asking if they had any working models available for cash. Of course, they would jump all over it. Most of the clunkers dropped off were sold for parts, rarely would they find anyone willing to offer cash for the whole vehicle. For a few hundred bucks he could pick up an old set of wheels and drive away with no questions. Although many wreckers had tightened up their sales policy, occasionally he could still find the odd one willing to do a deal.

  Jack fired up the rusted-out Chevy and rolled out after him.

  He stayed three vehicles back as they wound their way up the hook-shaped peninsula. Overhead, a dark bulging cloud drifted over the woodland. They passed through several quaint villages by the sea and by a series of food shacks, lighthouses and tourists walking back to their motels. It was a busy place in the summer but even in the fall it attracted people from all over the world.

  Ahead, the dark sedan veered to the right.

  Jack glanced at his watch. Two-twenty, just like clockwork.

  The Chevy rolled past the turnoff and continued on Route 6 heading north. He didn’t need to keep following as he knew where he was heading next, what route he would take and how long he would take.

  Jack made his way to the secluded stretch of road.

  The tires crunched over gravel as the truck reversed back into a sandy driveway that led off towards a home set back from Route 6A otherwise known as Shore Road. The truck idled as he brought the driver’s side window down and looked through the leafy branches, biding his time.

  A gust of wind bit into the side of his face keeping him alert.

  The hands on his watch ticked over and he listened for the roar of the approaching engine. For a guy on the payroll, he was taking a big risk.

  While he waited Jack stared at the home across the street. Its blue clapboard siding and white trim around the windows was common for the area. Everywhere he turned in Cape Cod there was something that reminded him of his time in Rockland Cove. His thoughts soon drifted to Dana Grant. It had been a long time since he’d heard her voice, or felt the way he had about her.

  Though over the years, he’d been tempted to check and see how she was doing, he’d resisted the urge. The danger of being around him was too great. In his line of work, he couldn’t afford to have close ties. Heck, he didn’t even know if she was still at the old number scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked into the back of his wallet.

  He dropped his chin and pulled it out, running his thumb over the worn paper.

  Right then, he heard it. His head jerked south, and between the branches, he saw the sedan heading his way. Jack fired up the Chevy, revved the engine a few times and prepared to hit the gas. It needed to be sudden, fast, but non-fatal. He needed to be alive for this to work. Hanns would check in with him in less than twenty minutes.

  The engine growled, like a wolf getting ready to pounce. Fifty yards, thirty, twenty, ten and then he stabbed the accelerator, and the Chevy jerked forward, kicking up gravel.

  Just a blur of motion, then a sudden crash.

  The collision was quick and hard. Metal crunched, sparks flew and headlight glass shattered as he plowed into the corner sending the sedan off the road and over a mailbox. Jack slumped over his wheel for a second as the guy got out and cursed at him. He wanted him to think he was deaf. The driver’s door opened, and he began yelling in his ear.

  “What the hell? Are you a complete idiot? Are you blind?” the insults kept coming. Jack turned and moved his mouth and pointed to his ears acting like he couldn’t hear a damn thing.

  “Deaf?” the man yelled. “You might be deaf but you aren’t blind.” He threw his hands up in the air and stared in dismay at the sedan as Jack slipped out of the truck behind him.

  “Who the hell will pay for this? This is not good. Not good, I tell you. How do I explain this?”

  “You don’t!” Jack replied.

  The man turned fast, surprised that he’d understood him without seeing his lips. Before he could register it, two electrode projectiles from a stun gun struck his stomach. Fifty thousand volts coursed through his body causing his muscles to spasm. He hit the ground and flopped around like a fish out of water.

  Jack moved fast, he hopped back into his truck and reversed it into the driveway. After, he dragged the muscle-bound freak into the ditch and took off his jacket and cap and bound him with zip ties. Jack popped the trunk and tossed him inside. A feat that wasn’t easy to do being as the brawny man had to be closing in on two hundred and fifty pounds. He gazed around to make sure no one was coming as the guy mumbled behind a rag stuck in his mouth.

  Before he slammed the lid, he lightened his pockets by removing his firearm, and access card. The guy’s eyes bulged, his face went red, and he thrashed as Jack brought the trunk lid down with a thud. Back behind the wheel, Jack hit the gas and continued on, leaving behind a trail of broken glass.

  * * *

  Upon arriving in Provincetown, he made his way up Duncan Lane to the mammoth home set into the sand dunes near Route 6. It wasn’t far from Provincetown Municipal Airport, a key location Hanns would have used if he’d learned the feds were closing in. Hell, if the feds had been coming, it would have been better than having Winchester on his doorstep. By the time they processed Hanns, extradited him to Europe and had him stand trial for his crimes he would have probably died from old age.

  Jack was about to speed up the process. He just didn’t know it.

  Upon reaching the wrought iron gates, he parked outside the small booth used by either one of the guys. He hopped out and kept the cap low as he entered the booth and retrieved the two-way radio. Within minutes of arrival, the call came in, right on time.

  “Karl, come in.”

  Jack took the radio over to the back of the trunk and popped it open.

  “Now you listen up. Say the right things, you get to walk. You give me the slightest sense that you’re about to screw me over and this will be your final resting place. You got it?”

  He nodded. All the while the other guard repeated, “Karl. You better not be sleeping. Pick up.”

  “Now I’m going to remove this duct tape. Give your buddy the all clear.”

  Jack ripped off the tape, then pressed the button on the radio and brought it up to his lips.

  “Liam, we are all good.”

  Static and then his voice crackled. “Fifteen minutes and I need you inside. The old man’s ready for his swim.” Jack brought the radio to his lips again.

  The guy snarled. “Roger that.”

  As soon as he confirmed it, he covered his mouth back up and gave him a slap on the side of the cheek. “That’s a good boy.” He mumbled something as Jack slammed the trunk. In the cold of the day, he was liable to freeze to death before anyone found him. That was the cost of protecting a war criminal. Jack approached the gate and swiped the access card across the front of the machine. It beeped and then the gates opened.

  The wide driveway wound its way around to a two-story, red-brick home. After getting out, he kept his head down low and reached for his Glock 22 with the suppressor.

  Of
f to his right was a fenced area where three Doberman pinschers paced back and forth, their eyes studying him. They leaped up at the fence, barking uncontrollably.

  He noted the cameras positioned in multiple locations around the grounds. Days before accepting the job, he brought up as much as he could find on the property, searching old real estate records to get a layout of the home without ever having to step inside. That was the beauty of the Internet. Once online, it was forever online. He’d even toured the property using a 3D video. From that, he was able to piece together where Hanns could likely be.

  Jack let himself in through a set of French doors at the side of the property. He could hear the other guy talking, and Hanns with his thick German accent. Calmly he pressed into the corridor only stopping for a split second to decide whether to go left or right. Both would take him around to the kitchen.

  He chambered a round and kept the muzzle low.

  Rounding the corner, he saw the guy sitting at a breakfast bar smoking a cigarette with his back turned towards him. The windows were open, and Hanns’s voice drifted in. It wasn’t a conversation but a song, he was singing.

  The bodyguard sipped at coffee while swiping a tablet screen. He lifted his head to check all was well with Hanns. When Jack entered the kitchen, the thud of his boots against the marble floor didn’t even faze the guy. He was so used to the routine, he didn’t even turn. Jack fired one round into the back of his skull and he slumped to the floor in a crumpled mess. Stepping out onto the patio, he eyed the decrepit old man while pulling out his phone to record his death. Hanns was doing the breaststroke, gliding through the water away from him when he took a seat on a folding chair. The old man’s head bobbed up and down oblivious to the gun barrel. As he turned at the far end of the pool, he caught sight of Jack and paused. A smile flickered on his face before he made his way back.

  “Is he dead?” Hanns asked. “Karl, I mean.”

  “Not yet. But the other is.”

 
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