Fusillade - a novel
First draft started May 2009
Third draft completed September 2014
​
​
overview:
​
When a newspaper reporter discovers that his estranged stepson's partner on the police force has stolen and is distributing large quantities of designer cocaine, he must ally with the stepson and a rogue private investigator to bring down a prominent civic leader responsible for the importation of the drugs and the ultimate murder of both his stepson's partner and one of the reporter's closest friends.
​
​
synopsis:
​
While trapped underneath his home in the aftermath of a tornado, newspaper reporter Peter Maher overhears that his estranged stepson, Trey Westbrook's, partner on the police force, Tommy Sanderson, has stolen and is distributing large quantities of designer cocaine. Owner of the cocaine, Carl Bracken is known publicly for running roughshod over zoning laws and environmentalists in his quasi-legal, single-minded approach to acquiring wealth and power. The loss of the drugs and a large quantity of cash put Bracken into a difficult situation with powerful Russo-Greek crimelord Nikolai Vassos.
Bracken enlists the aid of Jack O'Hanley, a former cop turned private investigator, to find out who has the drugs and money. At the same time, Sanderson's actions, both on and off the job, become markedly erratic once controlled by his spiraling cocaine usage, causing Westbrook to wonder about the downturn in his partner's behavior. When the rogue officer is arrested after a spectacular motorcycle crash en route to a drug deal rendezvous, eyes fall upon him from all corners. Westbrook finds himself grilled by local and federal authorities looking to associate him with his partner's criminal activities. O'Hanley uncovers details about Sanderson's wreck from an informant and turns the information over to Bracken. When the rogue cop is surreptitiously extracted from custody and murdered, Maher's curiosity is piqued. He begins preliminary inquiries into the matter and finds signs pointing to Bracken, but before he can move further, his employment is terminated in a power play orchestrated by Bracken.
When Westbrook's fellow cops turn their back on him, fearing he's involved and about to turn state's evidence, he grows angry and frustrated. Maher approaches his stepson and suggests he has evidence about Bracken's complicity in the partner's murder and involvement in the drug world. Soon they are joined by O'Hanley, who is assailed by guilt once he finds out about Sanderson's murder. The three join forces.
Going undercover, Maher becomes employed at a restaurant owned by Bracken, and plans an after-hours search of Bracken's office. Before breaking into the office, he seeks legal advice from a Chancery Court justice whom Bracken has forced from the bench, but the judge refuses to become involved. Maher moves forward with his search in spite of this.
Westbrook and O'Hanley drive out to the backwoods mobile home formerly occupied by Sanderson in search of the cache of cocaine. At the same time, two of Bracken's henchmen also head there. Westbrook and O'Hanley get there first and find the drugs secreted in an abandoned pump house, but before they are able to leave with the cache, Bracken's men arrive and, unaware they are not first on the scene, begin their own search. A gunfight ensues. One of the crooks is killed and O'Hanley is wounded.
That evening Maher breaks into Bracken's office and begins searching for evidence of the man's culpability. He becomes trapped there when Bracken arrives unexpectedly for a late night meeting with Diego Sanchez, a Bolivian hit man who has done work for Bracken in the past. Maher tries to escape but is captured and imprisoned. Only Westbrook's timely arrival saves Maher from execution.
All pieces of the chess game converge on Bracken's lake home. While Westbrook and Maher are surveilling the house, Sanchez arrives and takes out Vassos and his bodyguard. Westbrook sneaks into the house and tries to ambush Sanchez, but both are badly wounded in an exchange of gunfire. Bracken escapes into the woods, pursued by Maher. The chase leads onto Bracken's megayacht, where Maher and Bracken battle on deck. Maher emerges victorious but the boat wrecks on shore moments later. Maher is knocked unconscious while Bracken escapes again. Maher tracks Bracken back to the man's house, where the final showdown occurs.
​
​
an excerpt:
​
Trey was all business.
“I’m gonna work my way through those trees around back of the house. You stay here by the car.”
“And?”
“Give me three minutes to get behind the house and scope things out. I’ll buzz your phone, then you blow the horn. When he comes to see what’s going on, I’ll either get the drop on him there or ease into the house and take him from behind.”
“Toot the horn once?”
“No, try three. There’s always a chance he might not hear just one.”
Without waiting for acknowledgement, Trey dashed off into the woods, sidearm cradled loosely in his right hand. With admiration Peter watched him work his way smoothly through the trees. He was a natural at this, gliding catlike from tree to tree.
Halfway around, however, Trey stopped and hunkered behind a tree trunk. A second later Peter’s phone buzzed.
“Whatcha got?” he said.
“Bracken’s not alone. There’s a big, dark blue Cadillac parked next to his. You can’t see it from where you are.”
“Anyone in it?”
“No. You think it’s the Hispanic guy you saw?”
“Somehow I don’t. Doesn’t fit.”
“Hispanic guys don’t drive Caddies? Bullshit.”
“Call it a hunch,” Peter said.
“I don’t know, man. Our odds just got worse.”
“You wanna come back and rethink this?”
A long silent pause ensued. Finally Trey spoke.
“Let’s go with plan A for now. But keep your eyes peeled.”
“You got it.”
Peter closed his phone and turned his attention to the house. Whether it was the hit man or someone else, Trey was outnumbered. He wished he’d accepted Trey’s second gun.
Suddenly Peter became aware of gravel crunching from back down the driveway. Somebody else was arriving. The odds were definitely deteriorating.
Peter eased himself over the berm and shrunk back into the trees. From behind the bole of a thick oak he peered at the approaching vehicle.
It was a black BMW M3 coupe with darkly tinted windows. Nice car, but he doubted the driver was commensurately nice. Somehow Bracken’s pals rarely merited that attribution.
As the M3 neared Trey’s Blazer it slowed, then stopped. Smoothly the driver’s side window rolled down. Peter withdrew fully behind the tree trunk and dropped to his knees. Daring a glimpse around the tree he got a clear look at the driver’s face.
Even behind dark aviator sunglasses, the man looked familiar. Though Peter hadn’t seen his face while secreted in Bracken’s armoire, he was sure this was the hit man. No surprise he’d turn up. Probably here to get paid.
The door opened and the driver stepped out, leaving the engine idling. Peter suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. This was the man who’d helped him push start Loomis’s car after work last night at Maurizio’s. The Good Samaritan had stuck around long enough to accept orders from Bracken to assassinate several Knoxvillians.
For a second Peter’s blood ran cold. To think he’d been close enough to touch—or be touched by—this professional killer, not long after or before the man had done his lethal work, gave him a sick, fluttery feeling in his gut.
The hit man bent and peered into the windows of the Blazer, then walked behind it and appeared to stare at the license plate. He nodded. Suddenly he turned to the woods, his gaze cast directly at Peter’s hiding place. Panic sticken, Peter pulled his head back behind the tree and held his breath. Had the killer seen him? For an unendurably long moment Peter felt the man’s icy gaze upon the tree. Any second now, the assassin would race around it, weapon drawn, and in a deafening fusillade end Peter’s miserable life. What had he been thinking? Why had he come? No way could he hope to outrun, outthink, or outfight a professional killer. He bowed his head as to an executioner.
Then the door to the black coupe slammed. Gravel crunched again as the car moved off toward the house. Relief flooded through Peter, his heart beating like a triphammer. He finally caught his breath and yanked his cell from his pocket.
“Trey! Did you see that?”
“Yeah, it’s like there’s some big party we didn’t get invited to.”
“It’s the fucking hit man I told you about. In the BMW.”
“Interesting. Wonder who he’s here to hit.”
Peter stopped. He hadn’t thought of that. Maybe Bracken had ordered the hit man to take out the driver of the Caddie. What was the name of that fourth victim? Vassos? Maybe that’s his Caddie. Maybe these thugs might make his and Trey’s job easy and whack each other while they waited outside.
“I’m not sure, but I bet that Cadillac belongs to Vassos.”
“No idea who he is?”
“No, but I got a hunch he ain’t gonna be anybody much longer. I think there’s a hit going down.”
“Okay, then. Lay low.”
“Hey Trey. I don’t think I like our plan any more.”
“Why not?”
“These odds suck. I want that other gun.”
Trey didn’t answer for a moment. Peter wondered what he was thinking.
Finally Trey replied.
“Hang loose. I’m on my way.”
As Trey edged through the woods, the man in the M3 parked behind the Cadillac, stepped from his car, and crept up the steps toward the front door. At the top, rather than knocking, he stole along the porch that lined the south side of the house. Each time he reached a window he stopped, peered inside, then hurried past. Soon the killer stood near a door at the far end of the house. A moment later, Trey made it back to the Blazer.
“Dude’s on the porch there,” Peter said, pointing. “See him?”
Trey nodded.
“What should we do?” Peter asked.
“Let’s just watch for a minute.”
“You okay with letting one private citizen bang another?”
“In this case I don’t have a problem in the world with it.”
“Is that standard police procedure?”
Trey chuckled.
“Not exactly,” he replied as he bent and retrieved the PM9 from his ankle holster. “But neither is arming another private citizen who’s not been deputized or trained in the safe and proper use of firearms. You sure you want this?”
Peter looked at the pistol in Trey’s hand. About five inches long and four high, it was the smallest gun he’d ever seen.
“Is it loaded?”
“Wouldn’t be worth much if it weren’t. It’s got six bullets in the magazine and one in the chamber.”
Peter reached out, a bit shakily, and took the gun, keeping his finger off the trigger. The gun was heavier than he’d expected.
“Has it got a safety?”
Trey shook his head.
“It’s got what you call passive striker block safety, meaning it will only discharge when you pull the trigger.”
“Okay to keep it in my pocket?”
“Yeah. Just keep your finger off the trigger.”
Peter held the pistol out at arm’s length and sighted along its barrel through a v-notch marked with a small white blaze. His hand shook.
“Let’s hope I don’t need to use this,” he said, stuffing the PM9 into his jacket pocket.
“Amen.”
They stood there in silence, each with gun in hand. In the woods around them the afternoon grew quiet. No birds sang or flew. Even squirrels ceased their raucous cavorting. It was as if the forest held its breath.
Then, as if a curtain had fallen, it abruptly grew darker. All warmth was sucked from the air. Peter looked over his shoulder. A thick, ominous row of dark clouds scudded overhead from the west, obscuring the October sun. The wind rose, chill and keen.
A gunshot rang out inside the house.