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*****

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In memory of my wife Joyce Lynn Whitney DeLeo

Joyce was the finest woman and best friend I ever met. She was the greatest partner a man could ask for. Whenever trouble came, I had only to look at my side. There would be Joyce, fists up and game face on. She had no equal in my eyes. I wrote this to her for our 37
th
wedding anniversary. Joyce told me it was her favorite one I ever did for her.

We don’t talk about love, because we own love.

We don’t turn from trouble, because we own trouble

We don’t need life examples - we are life examples.

We don’t measure our success – we simply succeed.

We don’t seek others’ blessings – we count our own.

We don’t demand respect from others – we earn it.

We don’t cry when denied respect – we settle for fear.

When one of us needs help, we know who’ll be at our side.

When we’re in danger, we know who’ll bring the shotgun.

When danger ends, we know who’ll be at our side burying it.

We don’t waste precious moments trying to turn back time.

We spend what time we have left making precious moments.

Our kids don’t look for backup, because we are backup.

Our friends wonder how we’re still together – we don’t.

Rest in peace, baby. You were the best.

Chapter One

El Muerto Returns

Sweat ran salty and stinging into the young woman’s eyes. The dripping byproduct not a consequence of effort, but one based in fear. Her head swiveled anxiously, checking for movement behind her. Each time she jogged with her attention on the sidewalk ahead, rasping footsteps sounded on the cement behind her. The hair on her neck tingled upwards with the chilling sixth sense of danger human beings experience when in spite of all visual proof to the contrary, they know their lives hang in the balance.

Sharon Tennington jogged on the streets around the same set of blocks, measuring four miles from her house round trip, each night between eleven and twelve since working the late shift at the Alltown Roxbury convenience store. Her jogging route took her along Franklin Park, where with winter still in full swing, the near freezing temperatures, snow covered ground, and later hours kept foot traffic sparse or nonexistent. Nobody bothered her during those hours at all, especially during the week; but lately, Sharon noticed anxiety creeping into her nightly run – noises sounding haphazardly, without visual sighting, or precise direction. Habit ruled the the young woman’s life. She enjoyed routine to the point of obsession, and loathed the insecure uneasiness change threaded into her mind. Faced with the feeling of terror in competition with the angst of a lost routine, Sharon had vowed to carry pepper spray with her. Tonight found her in deadly danger due to procrastination.

At twenty-three, Sharon hoped to achieve her nursing degree from the College of Nursing in Boston, but paying her own way meant the grind of working the convenience store to supplement her parents’ financial support for tuition. It also meant interaction with many hundreds of people on a monthly basis, the majority of whom were like her, striving to get by. A small percentage represented the seamier and darker side of humanity. One in particular poked around in the store night after night, shopping for nothing, but watching Sharon with half lidded eyes, a lopsided grin on his face. With a lean, well-endowed figure, and long auburn hair, Sharon expected as well as appreciated the attention of men. She flirted, her outgoing personality and ready smile made her an instant hit with everyone she met. So dedicated to her life’s ambition, and independence, Sharon rarely dated unless in a group setting with her female friends from college. The flirtation she enjoyed employing with the men who frequented her place of employment had unfortunately drawn the attention of a deadly exception to the majority of harmless male customers.

* * *

Gavin Kroneg raped, mutilated, and murdered young women – all auburn haired, pretty victims very much like Sharon. Forty-three years old, with a tally of thirteen brutal slayings across the country behind him, the unobtrusive, quiet six footer moved from one location to another, never staying in one place for long, depending on his deadly vice. Kroneg limited himself to one victim in each area he lived in. Sharon haunted his every thought since seeing her at the convenience store. Her innocent flirtation with him as he paid for a six pack of beer unintentionally flipped his predator switch on. He hunted cautiously, picking his victims with patience. Stalking her home and habits became Kroneg’s pastime after leaving his work as a carpet cleaning assistant. To his fellow workers and neighbors, Kroneg interacted with polite respect, never giving offense or shirking his duties.

Tonight, Kroneg smiled as he shadowed his intended victim, taking pleasure in Sharon’s fearful glances. The next block bordered the park Kroneg planned to take her down near. He sped up, sticking closely to the houses along the way, racing ahead each moment she looked away until he passed her on the opposite side of Seaver Street bordering Franklin Park. Although in excellent shape, Kroneg sweated in the early March cold air. Snow still blanketed the ground in spots, making sudden acceleration a dangerous chore, but the stalker decided days ago the exact spot he would take Sharon down at.

After achieving nearly a hundred yard lead, Koneg slipped across darkened Seaver Street into the line of trees. Taking deep breaths, he waited in excited readiness to overwhelm his target, all thought of discomfort replaced by fevered anticipation. Each step in his deadly game flashed through his mind, now only seconds away from fruition. This hunt felt as near perfection as he could make it. Kroneg would move on immediately, after giving two weeks’ notice to avoid suspicious discussion. His sudden disappearance in conjunction with the grisly headlines he was sure to engender might cause complications which would prove disastrous. He envisioned two weeks of heightened delirium, rejoicing in the bloody speculation the papers always reveled in, while commiserating with his neighbors and fellow employees about the tragic death of a young woman.

* * *

Sharon relaxed finally, slowing her pace. The feeling of something or someone behind her diminished with every step. Her feelings of dread threatening to turn the night jog into a terror race left her, leaving Sharon wondering at what she figured was silly paranoia. Beautiful Franklin Park lay ahead on her right, where the night stillness coupled with winter snow to suppress any anxiety from imagined danger.

Horror hit with cold efficiency, as a flurry of movement on her right preceded a blow to her head. Sharon gasped at the movement before Kroneg’s fist struck her behind the right eye socket. Arms flailed in panic, but could not keep the woman on her feet. Wavering between murky darkness and unconsciousness, hands gripped her parka, dragging Sharon through the snow into the park’s tree lined parameter. In the ensuing moments, she blearily tried to claw at her attacker as he dragged her into the shadow of a structure within the park. Koneg’s gloved left hand jammed her head down onto a hard surface near the structure by the throat, pinching off a terrified scream welling up within her. Kroneg’s face pressed close to hers, while he straddled Sharon with a grunt of satisfaction bordering on sexual excitement.

“Hello pretty,” Kroneg whispered, heat from Sharon’s fear driving him insane with desire. Her wide eyed choking anguish worked like an aphrodisiac as his stalking hunt came to an end with prey in hand. “You and I are going to have such fun, my sweet. Just a few cuts to get you in the mood, baby.” His right hand flicked the switchblade out to its deadly length, provoking a stifled agonized whine from his victim. As he slowly moved the blade toward Sharon’s face, everything went suddenly very wrong.

* * *

“Shit! We’re late, Gus,” Nick whispered urgently, sighting on the Franklin Park tree lined perimeter he had watched for days, gauging his enemy with professional expertise. His night vision range finders located Kroneg in the spot where the killer practiced his approach each evening. Sharon Tennington’s increased speed during her run made Nick’s calculations crucial seconds off schedule.

Nick McCarty wrote bestselling novels about an international assassin named Diego. Even now, he and his partner, Gus Nason, stayed in Boston for a combination of a family reunion with Gus’s brother, Gus’s wedding, and book signings in the area. They traveled his publishing agent’s book tour route to a planned family and friend gathering in Boston. Gus’s brother and wife were due to meet Nick’s family: wife Rachel, stepdaughter Jean, and Deke the dog, along with Gus’s fiancé Tina. It would be an uneasy reunion, because at one point Gus had secured Nick’s help to save his brother Phil, along with Phil’s friend Damian, and Damian’s sister, Julie. Nick had blasted his way into a Jamaican Posse hideout, freeing Phil, Damian, and Julie, killing without mercy. The event forever stained any relationship Gus tried to smooth into place between Nick and Phil, who married Julie after their ordeal. Their daughter Katie, only three years of age would see her Uncle Gus for only the second time. Gus reminded his brother of their debt to Nick, and the fact Nick was the reason Phil and his wife Julie still breathed.

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