Shaken

SHAKEN

A Jack Daniels Thriller

J.A. KONRATH

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright ©2010 J.A. Konrath
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by AmazonEncore
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140

ISBN: 978-1-935597-21-6

From the Author

T
his e-book was deliberately written out of sequence. Normally, thrillers are linear, following a single timeline. With
Shaken
, I jump backward and forward in time, with a structure more like a crazy quilt than a straight line. This allowed me to explore Lt. Jack Daniels at various stages in her career, comparing who she once was to who she would ultimately become.

I’m pretty sure my readers have the mental prowess to follow this skewed timeline. But since this is an e-book, and the form is evolving, it allows me to do something new and different and potentially fun.

This book is actually two books. You can read
Shaken
as I intended it, out of sequential order. That’s the first version presented here. But I’ve also included the linear version, if you prefer to read the novel as it happens chronologically. You can start that one by clicking on the
Shaken
linear version in the table of contents.

The story is the same in both cases, but the switching around of scenes does make for a different reading experience. Let me know which one you prefer.

Also, there’s an author afterword that’s worth checking out, to help prepare you for the next Jack Daniels novel,
Stirred
. It explains a bit about the ending and where the series is headed next.

As always, thanks for reading. I hope you have as much fun with this one as I did.

Joe Konrath

Schaumburg, IL

Contents

SHAKEN Original Version

Author’s Afterword

SHAKEN Linear Version

Author Biography

J.A. Konrath’s Works Available on Kindle

SHAKEN

ORIGINAL VERSION

Twenty-one years ago

1989, June 23

T
his guy isn’t a killer,
Dalton thinks.
He’s a butcher.

Dalton isn’t repulsed by the spectacle, or even slightly disturbed. He stays detached and professional, even as he snaps a picture of Brotsky tearing at the prostitute’s body with some kind of three-pronged garden tool.

There’s a lot of blood.

Dalton wonders if he should have brought color film. But there’s something classic, something pure, about shooting in black and white. It makes real life even more realistic.

Dalton opens the f-stop on the lens, adjusting for the setting sun. He’s standing in the backyard of Brotsky’s house, and his subject has been gracious enough to leave the blinds open. From his spot on the lawn, Dalton has a clear view into Brotsky’s living room, where the carnage is taking place. Though Brotsky has a high fence and plenty of foliage on his property, he’s still taking a big risk. There are neighbors on either side, and the back gate leading to the alley is unlocked. Anyone could walk by.

It’s not a smart way to conduct a murder.

Dalton has watched Brotsky kill two hookers in this fashion, and surely there have been others. Yet the Chicago Police Department hasn’t come knocking on Brotsky’s door yet. Brotsky has been incredibly lucky so far.

But luck runs out.

At least Brotsky has the sense to put a tarp down,
Dalton thinks.

He snaps another photo. Brotsky’s naked barrel chest is slick with gore, and the look on his unshaven face is somewhere between frenzy and ecstasy as he works the garden tool. He’s not a tall man, but he’s thick, with big muscles under a layer of hard fat. Brotsky sweats a lot, and his balding head gives off a glare which Dalton offsets by using a filter on his lens.

Brotsky sets down the garden tool and picks up a cleaver.

Yeah, this guy is nuts.

Truth told, Dalton has done worse to people, at least as far as suffering goes. If the price is right, Dalton will drag someone’s death out for hours, even days. But Dalton gets no pleasure from the task. Killing is simply his business.

Brotsky is killing to meet baser needs. Sex. Power. Blood lust.
Hunger,
Dalton muses, taking a shot of Brotsky with his mouth full of something moist.

If Brotsky sticks to his MO, he’ll dismember the girl, wrap up her parts in plastic bags, and then take her severed head into the shower with him. When Brotsky returns, he’ll be squeaky clean, and the head will be gone. Then he’ll load the bags into his car and haul them to the dump site.

Dalton guesses it will be another eleven minutes. He waits patiently, taking occasional snapshots, wondering what Brotsky does with the heads. Dalton isn’t bothered by the heat or the humidity, even though it’s close to ninety degrees and he’s wearing a suit and tie. Unlike Brotsky, Dalton doesn’t sweat. Dalton has pores. He just never feels the need to use them.

Exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds later, Brotsky walks out his back door, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a wrinkled blue Hawaiian shirt. He’s lugging several black plastic garbage bags. The man is painfully unaware, and doesn’t even bother looking around. He walks right past Dalton, who’s hiding behind the girth of an ancient oak tree, gun in hand.

The hit man falls into step behind the butcher, his soft-soled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails Brotsky, close as a shadow, for several steps before jamming the Ruger against the fat man’s back. Brotsky stops cold.

“This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to run and I’ll fire. The bullet will blow your heart out the front of your chest. Neither of us wants that to happen. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Brotsky says. “Can I put down these bags? They’re heavy.”

Brotsky doesn’t seem frightened, or even surprised. Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro than Dalton had guessed.

“No. We’re going to walk, slowly, out to the alley. My car is parked there. You’re going to put the pieces of the hooker in the trunk.”

Brotsky does as he’s told. Dalton’s black 1989 Eldorado Roadster is parked alongside Brotsky’s garage. The car isn’t as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and driving the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact that Dalton isn’t Italian.

“Trunk’s open. Put the bags inside and take out the red folder.”

Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and they land with a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and the summer heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from the man’s back to his neck.

“Take the folder,” Dalton says.

The light from the trunk is sufficient. Brotsky opens the folder, begins to page through several eight-by-ten photos of his two previous victims. He lingers on one that shows him grinning, holding up a severed leg. It’s Dalton’s personal favorite. Black and white really is the only way to go.

“I’m a schoolteacher,” Brotsky says with the barest trace of a Russian accent. “I don’t have much money.”

Dalton allows himself a small grin. He likes how Brotsky thinks. Maybe this will work out after all.

“I don’t want to blackmail you,” Dalton says. “My employer is a very important Chicago businessman.”

Brotsky sighs. “Let me guess. I slaughtered one of his whores, and now you’re going to teach me a lesson.”

“Wrong again, Victor Brotsky. See the lunch box in the corner of the trunk? Open it up.”

Brotsky follows the instructions. The box is filled with several stacks of twenty-dollar bills. Three thousand in cash, total.

“What is this?” Brotsky asks.

“Consider it a retainer,” Dalton says. “My employer wants to hire you.”

“Hire me for what?”

“To do what you’re doing for free.” Dalton leans forward, whispers in Brotsky’s plump, hairy ear. “He wants you to kill some prostitutes.”

Brotsky turns around slowly, and his lips part in a smile. His breath is meaty, and he has a tiny bit of hooker caught in his teeth.

“This employer of yours,” Brotsky says. “I think I’m going to like working for him.”

Present day

2010, August 10

T
he rope secured my wrists behind my back and snaked a figure eight pattern through my arms, up to my elbows. Houdini with a hacksaw wouldn’t have been able to get free. I could flex and wiggle my fingers to keep my circulation going, but didn’t have a range of movement much beyond that.

My legs were similarly secured, the braided nylon line crisscrossing from my ankles to my knees, pinching my skin so tight I wished I’d worn pantyhose. And I hate pantyhose.

I was lying on my side, the concrete floor cool against my cheek and ear, the only light a sliver that came through a crack at the bottom of the far wall. All I had on was an oversized T-shirt and my panties. A hard rubber ball had been crammed into my mouth. I was unable to dislodge it—a strap around my head held it in place. I probed the curved surface and winced when my tongue met with little indentations.
Teeth marks.
This ball gag had been used many times before.

My sense of time was sketchy, but I estimated I’d been awake for about fifteen minutes. The first few had been spent struggling against the ropes, trying to scream for help through the gag. The bindings were escape-proof, and my ankle rope secured me to a large concrete block, which I felt with my bare feet. It was impossible for me to roll away. The ball gag didn’t allow for more than a low moan, and after a minute or two I began to choke on my own saliva, my jaw wedged open too wide for me to swallow. I had to adjust my head so the spit ran out the corner of my mouth.

Based on the hollow echoes from my sounds, I sensed I was in a small, empty garage. Some machine—perhaps an air conditioner or dehumidifier—hummed tunelessly in the background. I smelled bleach, a bad sign, and under the bleach, traces of copper, human waste, and rotten meat. A worse sign.

Fighting panic and losing, I made myself focus on how I got here, how this happened. My memory was fuzzy. A hit on the head? A drug? I wasn’t sure. I had no recollection of anything leading up to this.

But between the smells and my past, I knew whoever abducted me was planning on killing me. I used to be a cop. Now I was in the private sector.