Deadly Silence (Silence Jones Action Thrillers Series) by Erik Carter (the best books to read TXT) 📕

at the bow, head just visible, looking toward the ceremony.

Silence could just make out the long hair he’d been looking for, the protruding brow.

Lowry.

Holding a scoped sniper rifle.

Silence shoved the binoculars back into his pocket and surveyed his surroundings. To get to the boat, he was going to have to sprint all the way around the peninsula, through the parking lot, up the marina’s main dock, and down the farthest dock, nearly to its end.

Of course.

Distance. Isolation.

They’d planned this out perfectly.

Get the shooter on the other side of the water, separated from any immediate retaliation from gung-ho good Samaritans, and place him in a convenient getaway vehicle.

Clean. Organized. Well-planned.

The only way to best a well-conceived plan was to cut it off at the pass.

So Silence snuffed out his candle and dashed off, sprinting along the edge of the peninsula.

He raced past the group in the back and into the less-crowded part of the park, stealing glances across the water at Lowry, who looked very far away.

An amplified voice boomed through the trees. Hardin’s. Coming from the tip of the peninsula.

“Thank you all for joining us here for this solemn occasion. I’m Commissioner Matthew Hardin. Our city has faced…”

Silence’s lungs burned as he reached the end of the peninsula, slowed somewhat to turn to the left, and bounded down the long parking lot toward the marina.

People getting into and out of their cars called out to him.

You all right, buddy?

What the hell’s the matter with you?

Another turn, onto the marina’s main dock, down the long stretch of concrete, past the crowded restaurant, people watching with awe from the outdoor tables.

“…which has left our police department reeling, our citizens in fear.” Hardin’s voice continued, crisp and clean as it traveled over the water. “Every soul who’s lost their lives…”

Another turn, onto the farthest dock. Gently bobbing sailboats, water lapping against their hulls. His feet clanged on the boards, ruining his element of surprise. He no longer needed it. There was no telling how little time he had before Lowry would fire.

He reached beneath his jacket and took out his Beretta.

“…I’d like you to meet Adriana Ramirez, my housekeeper. She was the intended target of an attack tonight that could have…”

Lowry’s boat was in the fourth slip from the end. Silence had counted during the glances he’d stolen while running over. But with all the masts and stays and booms tangled in his line of sight, he was having difficulty locating the exact boat.

He retrieved his silencer, screwed it onto the end of the Beretta.

A little splash in front of him. One of the boats rocked harder than the others. A flash of movement.

A figure. Lowry. At the bow of a decrepit boat.

Taking aim with his rifle.

Chapter Twenty-One

The boat suddenly rocked beneath Lowry, right as he was squeezing the trigger, the scope’s crosshairs resting over Sizemore’s chest.

Lowry didn’t break his concentration, not for a moment—he just immediately pivoted, bringing the gun around to the stern.

Instinct had told him why the boat had shaken, who had shaken it.

The Quiet Man.

Lowry rolled onto his back. His finger tightened on the trigger. Millimeters of travel, a minuscule amount of pressure, a fraction of a second, and a round would blast out of the barrel. An inevitability.

But it didn’t happen.

A sensation on his fingertips. Movement. Then the cool tickle of emptiness. The rifle was gone, wrenched from his grasp.

But how had—

CRACK!

Something hard. Against his jaw. Piercing pain and sudden disorientation. He’d seen the shadow figure and the sky. Now he saw the deck; he was on his side. Tasted blood. And saw blood. Before him. A rope of it slung from his mouth and splattered on the teak.

A clatter from the stern. Something heavy. The rifle being tossed away. Footsteps. A black chukka entering his line of vision, stomping inches from his eyes, splashing the puddle of his blood.

Pressure on his shoulders. A pair of hands grabbing him and with a powerful thrust inverting him. He looked back into the shadow figure again. More features were visible, the same ones he’d glimpsed from a distance outside the Ramirez house—the hewn cheeks; cold eyes; dark, choppy strands of hair falling into his face as he glared down at Lowry.

Lowry had one shot at this, one chance of survival. The tiny revolver, the Colt, in his rear pocket.

Every bit of energy, the last drops in his reserve tank. His hand went to the pocket, got the gun, aimed.

And for a fraction of a moment, satisfaction. Because he’d seen something in the Quiet Man’s dark eyes. Not fear, but recognition.

The satisfaction was short-lived, a fractional moment before there was fresh pain.

Searing heat and a crack-crack-crack from his wrist. Lowry screamed. The gun was gone, vanished faster even than the rifle had. His hand was bent backward.

Damn, this guy was fast.

And as quickly as the Colt had disappeared, a realization took shape.

This was the end.

“You’re a killer,” Lowry said. “So am I. The only difference is, I’m getting paid and you’re getting revenge.” He stopped and let a wave of ache ripple out of his dead hand. “Whatever your mission is, at the end of the day, we both kill people. Show some professional courtesy. Make it quick.”

The Quiet Man didn’t reply. He placed his hands on either side of Lowry’s head.

A blur of movement. An electric, mesmerizing current of pain.

And all was white.

Chapter Twenty-Two

As Matthew Hardin stepped out of the brisk air conditioning and into the thick night, he was feeling surprisingly good.

Sure, his plan had failed.

Sure, he’d found Lowry dead in the cheap sailboat he’d purchased last week.

But that was all fine.

Why? Because Hardin was keeping things in perspective. There were several reasons to count his blessings, the chief reason being the fact that he was even alive with the Quiet Man in town doling out justice for the arson attacks—undoubtedly how Lowry had ended up with a broken neck

Nothing could be traced back to Hardin. He’d made sure of that. There were no written communications between