Revenge - A Jessie Carr Novel #1, страница 1
Published by JL Schneider
Written by JL Schneider
JL Schneider is the exclusive owner and copyright holder on this publication
Thank you for taking time to read my novel. I hope it is entertaining and enjoyable. Being an independent author/publisher means we succeed or fail by your reviews. Please take time to let me know what you think.
Also in the Jessie Carr Series
Gunslinger Book 2
Black Talon Book 3
Vengeance Book 4
Tormented Book 5
Redemption Book 6
Loss of Life Book 7
Without Regrets Book 8
Also by JL Schneider
Run Harry Run
The hard dirty concrete I am standing on is cold. My feet are cold and numb; it’s beginning to get painful. I take a deep breath of the cold night air and am greeted with a very unpleasant odor. This place has place been used as a toilet. The smell is not overpowering thanks to the cold, but very unpleasant. I’ve been here for 3 hours and haven’t moved more than 2 feet in either direction. I wonder for the hundredth time if I’m doing the right thing. I hear things moving in the darkness behind me. I know it must be rats, but I need to push them from my mind. I can’t stand rats, and can’t afford the distraction.
I feel the weight and the coolness of the High Standard Victor tucked in my belt. The feeling is both reassuring and ominous. If all goes as planned the High Standard will take a life tonight, if not, the gun will probably be found on my dead body. I know the High Standard weights 46 oz. empty, but right now its clip contains 10 rounds of Federal 22 Caliber Long Rifle Hollow Point ammunition. I know the velocity and trajectory at various distances for this ammunition. I have studied the charts and tested the rounds. As far as I’m concerned 10 rounds are 9 too many. I don’t plan on requiring the drop compensation I studied, I hope not to need exceptional accuracy, if it can deliver the bullet 2 feet and penetrate ¼ inch of bone; that will be all I need.
My name is Jesse Carr. I guess you could say I am a hired killer. Although I have killed before, this will be the first kill where I have no idea why this man must die. I am somewhere in South Philly, standing in a very dark, very cold, very smelly alley. How I got here and why is a long story, but for now all my attention is focused on the dive bar across the street.
It’s 2am. I followed my target here 3 hours ago and watched him park and enter the bar. I have been told his name is Raymond James Dunn. His friends, I doubt he has many, call him Rambo. The picture I have matches the man I followed here. He is 6’ 2” 245 lbs, shaved head, muscular body, ruddy completion. I understand he has a disposition to match his looks. He carries a Glock Model 19 9mm in an ankle holster in the inside of his right calf and a 9 inch switchblade in his left pants pocket. He is left handed. I have been told he is quick to act with either of these weapons, and has done so many times. He has a scar on his right shoulder from a bullet he had the misfortune of stepping in front of. He walks with a limp because of the bullet he still carries in his right leg. He has a wife, Angel, and a girlfriend, Dawn. He lives at 902 South Broad St. just down the street from the fire station. He drives a 1997 white Cadillac Deville. He meets his girlfriend, Dawn every Thursday at the Marriott Downtown. I don’t guess it’s for dinner. He is an ex-cop who got fired. Why, I don’t know or care? The only other thing I really need to know about him, my employer told me, he needs to die. I don’t know Dunn, until today I had never seen him before except in a photo. What he did to bring me here is beyond my pay grade. I know these things because the man I am employed by told me so. His Caddy is currently parked next to a fire hydrant 20 feet from the dive bar entrance. This I know because, I watched him park it.
I was parked just down the street from Mr. Raymond James Dunn’s house for 6 hours in my rented Taurus. No one in the neighborhood seemed to notice or care that a stranger was parked there. I removed the license plate on the off chance someone would notice. No one did. I guess I am lucky, because Mr. Dunn is home on this particular day and made his exit about 6 PM. He drove to the downtown Marriott Hotel where he turned his Caddy over to a Valet. My guess, he is meeting with Dawn, but I don’t know or care. I followed the Valet, watched him park Dunn’s car and waited. I really have no specific plan, I just hope at some point to get Dunn alone and close.
The Valet retrieved the car about 10 pm; presumably Dunn had finished his business by then. Dunn drove south with me in trail. I had no idea where he is going, but since his house was North, I knew it wasn’t home. The neighborhood got seedier and seedier the further south we drove. Quite a step down from the Marriott.
He parked his car by a fire hydrant and entered the What’s Up Bar. I don’t know what’s up, but it definitely isn’t this place. The windows in the front are painted over. A small amount of light escapes. The door is dirty and without a lock or handle. Patrons use a rope attached to the door to enter, classy joint. I guess it’s a 24 hour establishment. The music from the interior is loud. No neighbors around here to disturb. As Dunn slowed to park I drove 2 blocks and parked the Taurus, legally. I walked back and now still stand freezing my ass off in this smelly alley. My hope is he didn’t leave while I was parking. Since his car is still here I assume not. But, assumptions can get you killed.
Several interesting patrons have entered and left the What’s Up Bar over the past three hours, but not Dunn. From the clientele I’ve seen, Dunn isn’t here for the company. A fair amount of what appeared to be hookers entered and very few left. I doubt Dunn is here for that, since my assumption is he just met Dawn at the Marriott. He is dressed in what is obviously a very expensive suit. The other patrons were dressed as if they lived on the street. I don’t know if there is a back or side exit, I’m too afraid to be seen and remembered to check that out. I haven’t seen a police car since I’ve been here. I’m not sure if that is a good sign or not but if I had to guess, I would say they don’t want to be in the neighborhood either.
3:30 AM, out he comes. Of course, he isn’t alone, let’s not make this easy. He is with a short wiry man in a dark suit. These two look nothing like the other characters I have seen entering or exiting. They stand and talk for several minutes. I can’t understand what is being said, I guess it makes no difference to me. They look around like they feel me watching. I’m squeezed in the shadows against the cold damp wall and pray I am not visible. The short guy shakes hands with Dunn and reenters the bar. Dunn lights up a cigar, his face illuminated in the flame looks even harsher than before. He stands there for several more minutes puffing away. My nerves are so tight I feel like I am about to explode. I have to pee. If I move now he will see me immediately and the last thing I need is a firefight on the street when I am outgunned. Finally he heads for his car.
Time to move, I can smell his stinky stogy as I move out of the alley. He is walking briskly toward his car. I cross the street and walk as if to enter the bar. He doesn’t seem to notice me. He presses the remote and I hear the Caddy chirp. I am twenty feet behind him. He slowly opens the door and sits in the front seat. He is a large guy and it takes a couple of seconds for him to swing his legs in. Before he can close the door I am standing beside him blocking the door with my body. I had pulled the High Standard from my belt as I crossed the street and held it tight against my right thigh. I point the gun at his head. He turns and looks, a sudden shock registering on his face. I squeeze the trigger, nothing I forgot to take the safety off. He makes the last mistake of his life. Had he sprung from the car he could have taken me before I moved, but, he reached for his ankle holster in
No time to examine my work, I begin walking away from his car. I tuck the High Standard back in my belt. I forgot to put it on safe. I remove it, click it on safe and tuck it back. A quick glance around, nothing, no lights coming on, no curious patrons. I guess gunshots are a frequent occurrence around here. The two block walk to the car feels like miles. I am numb from fear and cold. I get in the Taurus and notice my pants are wet. I pissed my pants. Christ, what a hit-man. I’m shaking so bad I can’t drive. I sit there numb wondering why I feel nothing for this man. I just took a life and all I worry about is getting away, I have no emotion about the killing at all. I finally am able to put the keys in and start the car. I hear sirens in the distance. I drive away and for some reason u-turn and drive back toward the What’s Up Bar. The interior lights are still on in the Caddy. From my side I can’t see Dunn, but I guess he is still there. Where else would he be with 4 bullets in him. I catch the faint smell of a cigar. I guess it’s still lit. No cops, no onlookers. I continue to drive and head toward my hotel. I just fulfilled my first contract. How was I to know it would be far from my last?
Jessie Carr was born on October 3rd 1948 in Hotel Dieu Hospital, New Orleans, LA. He was an only child of middle class parents. There was nothing particularly outstanding about Jessie. Average grades through school, average size, and average weight. When Jessie entered high school he began to excel in track and field. He was fast but his real talent was distance. He set school and State records in the mile run. Another trait became apparent, Jessie was a born leader. People gravitated toward him and followed his lead. His personality made him instantly likable.
Jessie was offered several track scholarships and accepted one from Louisiana State University. Unfortunately for Jessie during his first semester he discovered his love for partying. Louisiana State has a very active party scene and Jessie jumped into it with both feet. His grades and athletics suffered. His Coaches and Counselor tried but were unable to get Jessie back on track. At the end of his first semester he failed all his subjects and lost his scholarship. He returned to New Orleans and began working low wage jobs. His partying kept him moving from one job to another, never able to sustain a decent work record.
When Jessie turned 19 he was making minimum wage and because of it, was unable to move out of his parent’s house. He desperately wanted to be on his own. The Vietnam War was in full swing and Jessie felt it was only a matter of time before he was drafted. Jessie’s self esteem was at an all time low. He thought of joining the Marines but didn’t feel he had what it took. He thought of the Navy, but didn’t want to spend six months on a ship. He considered the Air Force but really wanted to see some action. On October 4th 1967, the day after his 19th birthday, he enlisted in the Army. Times being what they were he was able to ship out the following week and began basic training Monday October 14th.
During basic his stamina and leadership abilities were immediately noticed. He completed basic on November 22nd and began Infantry training on November 25th. Shortly after completing the Advanced Infantry course he entered Ranger School. Due to the pressure from the Pentagon to get more men into Vietnam the training was accelerated and Jessie completed his Ranger training on February 17th 1968. He was given leave until February 25th 1968 and was headed to Vietnam on February 28th.
The Army had been slow deploying sniper into the field and because Jessie had fired expert in training he was assigned to an in country sniper school. Jessie had completed Ranger training at the top of his class and again finished at the top of his class in the two week sniper school. On March 17th Jessie was a newly minted U.S. Army Scout Sniper.
Jessie was assigned as a scout for several snipers during the next two months. In June he was assigned as a scout for Carl Rome. He was to be Carl’s spotter for the remainder of his tour. They became friends and could almost read each others minds. Carl introduced Jessie to CWO Shelby Wilson, a rotary wing pilot, and they became friends. Their method of operation allowed them extreme latitude in their movement and they were able to get together with Shelby frequently. Their skill in the field became legendary. Their tours ended at approximately the same time. Jessie returned home but missed the camaraderie and action of Vietnam. He had fallen in love with his old High School sweetheart, Rachael, and during his leave they saw each other often, but the call of combat was strong. He and Carl volunteered for a second tour and were again paired as a sniper team. Carl taught Jessie how to move silently and track in the field, and Jessie taught Carl how to party and drink. When not in the field they drank and raised hell together, often with Shelby.
Jessie corresponded with Rachael but Jessie told her he planned on a third tour. Jessie received a letter in December during his second tour. Rachael was marrying a doctor and was having a child. Jessie was still in love with her, but wished her well.
With one week left in their tours Jessie was wounded in a firefight with a patrol. The patrol had stumbled upon their hide. They had killed the patrol to a man but Jessie had taken a bullet to the leg. He was air lifted out and shipped home a week later. Carl completed his tour and returned home. He visited Jessie in the hospital. They discussed another tour but the wound had dampened Jessie’s enthusiasm. Carl would return to do a third tour, but Jessie decided an Army Career was not for him, he was discharged on October 19, 1973.
Jessie returned to New Orleans, returned to night school, and completed a degree in Business. While he was in school he began a clerical position with a design firm and upon graduation was promoted to a management position. He married and was at peace with the world until almost 20 years later.
August 16, 1993; a clear hot Monday in New Orleans, I worked late and arrived home just past 8pm. The house is quiet and still. No barking dogs, no wife. I called and got only an echo. Strange, she was supposed to be home all day. I grabbed a beer and walked up the stairs. Empty rooms and silence was all that greeted me. No reason to worry, she probably went to visit a neighbor or ran to the store.
Two hours later I was still alone. I called around and no one had seen or heard from her. Now I was beginning to get worried. At 11 PM the phone rang. The nightmare had begun. I rushed to the hospital where the police said they had taken her. Long on speculation and short on details, the police said she had been raped and tortured. The police wanted to know where had I been? I guess the husband is always the first suspect. She had been found near the river batture by a jogger. I had seen men torn apart by war, but nothing could prepare me for what I saw that night. Much of the next hours were a blur. She had been brutalized, raped, tortured, and burned. Mercifully she passed away before morning.
I had no answers, the police had no answers. She was buried 3 days later and I was supposed to move on. I wish I could have. I called the police daily for weeks. No answers no suspects. 2 more women were found in the same area and in the same condition.
Finally on October 3rd, my birthday, a suspect was taken into custody. James Allen had been caught as he grabbed a woman from her home. Finally justice would be served. Louisiana has a death penalty and I was sure it would be used in this case. What a fool I was. James Allen was from a wealthy family and had the legal consul of the law firm of Buckle and Shuster, high priced, high powered, and highly connected. It seemed Mr. Allen’s rights had been violated during his arrest. No evidence from his arrest would be allowed and the woman he had grabbed had disappeared. He was released and couldn’t be touched. The cops were pissed, the DA was pissed, I was pissed, but nothin
It was an unusually hot October that year. The heat did nothing to improve my mental state, which was very bad. I just couldn’t believe the justice system would fail so miserably. My friends said that in the end, James Allen would pay. James Allen was only 31 years old. It just seemed like a long time to wait for God to collect his due. I considered moving, to try and put the past behind me, so many memories in my house. But why should I be the one to run? I hated James Allen and his legal team, but, most of all, I hated myself for doing nothing. I tried church, I tried booze, I thought of suicide. My mood got progressively worse. Sometime during the last week of October I made up my mind. I had to do something. If the law couldn’t do anything about James Allen, then I would. But what, I was just your average guy. I had served in combat, had weapons and tactics training. I had killed men before, but that was combat. I knew whatever I did had to be fast and it had to be brutal. I spent another miserable month hating myself and dreaming of revenge. I had a little insurance money but drank and pissed most of that away. I didn’t work and took the small pension offered me. I couldn’t think of anything but death. I knew it had to be me or Allen. No other outcome was possible.
The first week of December I formulated a plan. I wasn’t going to just kill Allen, but wanted him to know why he was dying and who was doing it. I wanted him to suffer the way I knew my wife and the others had suffered. With a plan of sorts formulated in my mind, I set things in motion. I used an assumed name and leased an old warehouse on the Mississippi River. It was used at one time to store cotton offloaded from ships and the warehouse had been abandoned for years. The walls were 2 feet thick made of heavy brick, the place was virtually soundproof. The beauty was that both adjacent warehouses were empty. I really didn’t care if I got caught, as long as I had some quality time with Mr. Allen.
Monday December 16th dawned a cold dreary day. The skies were heavy and ominous. I had followed James Allen for the better part of two weeks and he rarely varied his schedule. Monday he was in his office, his daddies business of course, for 9 AM. He took lunch around 11:30 AM, during which time he consumed several martinis. His usual lunch mates apparently had to work for a living and returned to work around 1:30 PM. James consumed a few more martinis and headed for home. He lived alone and never left until 9 PM to head for his favorite bar. If he stuck to his schedule no one would miss him after lunch. I waited outside the Acme Oyster House on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter while he dazzled his friends with bullshit. He normally left between 2 and 2:20 PM, drunk. This day he didn’t disappoint. At 2:16 PM he stumbled out of the restaurant. His car was parked in a lot on Poydras St. since he worked at One Shell Square, several blocks away. This walk presumably sobered him up enough to drive home. Today it wouldn’t matter.