ISLAND RUN
CK Kennedy
Copyright 2012 All Rights Reserved
Sintra Publishing
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. All characters and names are fictitious, although some actual places are referenced, with liberties as to actual features or may be used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format, electronic or mechanical, without express written permission from the author. Distribution of this work in any format is illegal. Your support of author rights is greatly appreciated.
Island Run has been amazingly fun throughout its creation with some realities blended in based on our trips to Hawaii. Back in our home territory, while bringing the characters and scenery to life, my husband, as always, played a critical role in keeping events and logistics straight. Watching personalities evolve and devising plots is a treat - and one we enjoy discussing throughout the process.
When the fun part is completed, it gets down to the tough stuff. And that’s where my favorite beta readers and editors come in. Brenda, in particular, gets right to the bare bones of each page, questioning motive while catching the smallest transgressions. Any errors found after that point are strictly mine - and I hope no one will fault me for those. I’d also like to thank Patricia for giving the overall green light. She provides the perceptions that others of us don’t see and she’s my gauge for any needed change in direction. A final thank you to my cousin Ed for providing weaponry for the front cover. (He even supplied the bullets.)
I’m also very excited about the sequel to Island Run - there’s another story dying to be told with Nick, Lindsay, Rock, and Lance.
CHAPTER 1
One thousand plastic cases rested in neat, square columns on a long metal table. Stiff paper liners, trimmed and scored following a late press run, marched upright alongside. Two cartons of compact discs remained to be packaged.
Flares of light sparkling off the shiny coatings made it impossible to read the label as each disc was carefully sandwiched in the liner, then placed, with a final snap, into its protective container.
Sunan Tarin, supervisor of production and shipping, was completing a rush order late on the day after Thanksgiving. He was accustomed to working extra evening hours and holidays, overseeing a final run or expediting a delivery. As a quality control measure, he often made random checks at the end of each day. In the past four months, he had put in longer hours on the pretense of double-checking the work of his people. They performed under stringent monitoring and Sunan hoped his appearance would raise no concerns.
He surveyed the large cinderblock basement production center. Devoid of sounds caused by the usual fifty immigrant workers, every physical movement became an echoing nymph, somersaulting off walls. Robotics would be a blessing for the company but could also mean an end to his employment. Over the past few months, the operations first aroused his curiosity and then suspicion. He continued looking for a reason — a tangible — that would provide the final proof. Then he could tell someone.
As he had done many times before, Sunan selected a disc from the pile and loaded it onto the room's single computer. He allowed himself a sly sweep of the security cameras while waiting for activity from the machine's speakers. The same music played out as before. This disc, it was among the special ones collected every day and inventoried. In his trusted position, he'd performed this routine many times over, trading a disc on one table for the ones he studied on another, always making sure the balance matched. Disappointed, he withdrew the disc. Someday he would find it; the one that gave up its secrets.
Walking past the end of a large electronic cutter, used to trim the stiff, ink-covered sheets of liner papers, he slid on a small pool of solvent. Expletives erupted in his native Thai language as he cursed an unknown service technician. The disc flew out of his hand, landing in the droplets of slime. Sunan whisked a dusky red shop cloth from his back pocket and sopped solvent out of the minuscule grooves; the disc would show damage, of course. He rubbed, expecting to see bare, corroded spots emerge. Held up to the light for inspection, no trace of the chemical showed.
An inkling of a revelation began to take form. Tapping on the keyboard, he watched as his password cleared internal firewalls. More taps. The screen lit up with hundreds of numbers. A few comparisons; odd reports — all stood out. Of course! His mind was a sieve and he scanned like a demon, memorizing shipment codes and tracking documents.
The workroom door opened with such force it slammed against the wall causing an empty metal clang. It bounced back twice. Not enough time to rescue the disc.
“What are you doing?” The intruder demanded.
Sunan wished for a moment to gather his sensibilities; for a second of practiced meditation to calm the nerves. “I’m just finishing the last run for shipment tonight.”
“What were you doing on the computer?”
“Nothing. Just playing a little music to fill the quiet spaces in here.”
Sunan cowered as the unwelcome guest approached. His own diminutive size eliminated a confrontation; the powerful human machine in front of him was at least seven inches taller and more than one hundred pounds heavier. He must escape, but the disc was far from his reach. He would have to survive long enough to return, to prove the secrets it bore.
Backing past the computer table and along the side of the paper cutter, he avoided the spill that had caught him earlier. The aggressor stepped in the goo, losing control. It was enough.
Sunan keyed in on his larger opponent’s gut. He eyed the handgun, which was stuck into a worn, brown leather belt. Stature, or lack of it, was now to his advantage. Less than two seconds lapsed while the solvent performed its magic. He ducked low, crouching on tiptoes with knees forward in an almost comical duck walk. He extended one skinny arm sideways and upward to tug at the gun. It came loose — to his grateful surprise — and he was gone; out the door, down an empty hallway, and up concrete stairs. Pounding feet behind him lessened as the slower, larger attacker trailed, each few feet of increased speed creating a greater distance.
He mentally studied the opportunities, all the escape routes. Few options guaranteed success.
One remained, however, and he did not hesitate as he crested the stairs and pressed the bar downward on a painted metal door. Familiar noises greeted him on the other side as the door slammed shut behind him.
CHAPTER 2
“Enjoy your Earthwave candles.” The clerk smiled as she passed a sales receipt across the unvarnished wooden counter, studded with knotholes and slatted boards. Nature’s Depot, a small chain of Polynesian-owned stores, was proud of its cachet: merchandising only earth-friendly products.
“Thank you. I actually bought them as gifts.” Lindsay Mason collected her bag, pleased with her purchases. The colorful, fragrant candles, advertised as conducive to inner peace and happiness, would complete her holiday shopping list. Friends in St. Louis, her hometown, would be thrilled with a selection of local products.
Lindsay’s first six months in Honolulu had not yet triggered a single twinge of longing for home. She was even finding adventure in Christmas shopping amidst summer-quality temperatures and thousands of bewildered tourists.
Maneuvering her way down the single main aisle filled with bargain-hunters, Lindsay clutched her shoulder bag and recyclable paper sack to her chest in a struggling attempt to reach the front of the store. Crowds were not her idea of fun, especially while shopping, but the mall’s Midnight Madness sales were too tempting. She was happy to leave the narrow, brightly lit store for the open mall arena.
CHAPTER 3
The owners of Lanakila Mall must be quite pleased with their success, Lindsay thought as she slipped into the crowd. Shoppers moved in a plodding flow past each store and around the perimeter. She recalled reading a recent newspaper article that this mall's unique marketing plan was winning over its competitors. The conglomerate, she couldn’t recall its name, also owned distribution rights to several mid-list music groups. Various artists arrived monthly for mini-concerts and the mall could accommodate spectators at its epicenter. A circular, see-through recording studio was part of the draw. With its external audio system, performers could test their songs on local crowds. Shops and viewing balconies ringed a middle level while offices lined the third story perimeter. This ploy attracted the eighteen-to-twenty-eight-year-olds, deemed by marketers, Lindsay knew, as the population segment with the most disposable cash.
At twenty-five, I'm teetering on the ebb of advertising desirability, Lindsay mused to herself. She watched as two young males and a female, just completing the evening's recording session, emerged from their fishbowl-like studio. They began signing autographs as enthusiastic new fans lined up for a closer glimpse of the trio. Lindsay made a wide berth of the gathering masses.
A holiday frenzy permeated the building and she could feel elbows and parcels of her fellow shoppers as she continued a methodical journey to the outside to wait for a bus. Even at this late hour, public transportation remained in operation.
Lindsay switched the paper bag to her left hand. She struggled to reach inside the black tote looped over her shoulder and hanging just past her waistline. It was an odd, compulsive habit: checking for her door key before getting onto the bus that would stop in front of her apartment. As she reached for the purse flap, she felt puffs of warm, moist air hitting the back of her bare neck. The sensation was of human breath, which alarmed her. She turned in disgust at an invasion that was more stifling than the crowd warranted.
Lindsay’s backward glance met with the tightening of an arm around her waist and the indent of a small, hard cylinder pressed at a vertical angle across her right shoulder. A brief hissing, perhaps a spoken sentence, spat into her ear.
Before the nightmarish events could register in her mind, two shots burst from a distant point. She felt the object on her shoulder explode with a bruising impact. Its sound reverberated through the right side of her head. The crowd began to implode in response, trampling its members and launching a complex mass of confused, terrified flesh that had lost all reasoning or intellect. Many fell to the ground while others stumbled in frantic hip-hop steps toward the open exits.
In an involuntary reaction, Lindsay pulled her shopping bag up to her face, as if willing it to become an impermeable defense. She tried to drop to her knees, but her captor held her with a tremulous squeeze against his own body. She could not struggle and she stiffened, her eyes searching for attackers, awaiting a final round that would lead her into agonizing pain, then the black hole of death.
Stadium-level noise, combined with the buzzing deafness in her ear, masked the fact she was no longer a captive. A small area around her had cleared of people, leaving Lindsay standing alone near a huge column. The octagonal pole, situated along a perimeter wall, left just eighteen inches of space. Lindsay squeezed her slender frame into a crevice. She prayed that no part of her was visible, should there be more gunfire. With no room to cower on her knees, she remained upright. Inner, violent vibrations had begun in her legs, working their way upward and consuming her entire body. She fought to keep her jaws from producing an uncontrolled staccato rattling, much like the onset of a sudden, feverish chill.
Unable to decide whether to step out into the open pathway, she waited. As her faculties began to regain a sort of useful function, she listened to the moans of unknown compatriots. Squeezing her eyes closed, she fought to regain composure.
CHAPTER 4
“Lieutenant? I’m Karl Grober, head of security for the mall.”
Lieutenant Frank Walea, thirty years on the Honolulu police force, inspected the disarray. Interior lighting, intensified to its full wattage, illuminated the agonizing scene in graphic detail. The officer had been nearby, drinking coffee with an old friend, and was the first to arrive on the scene.
“I assume your people have made an assessment of the injured?” Frank observed a handful of men dressed in official mall uniforms. They assisted small teams of paramedics tending to those who were mobile.
Karl nodded. “I have six men here who have acted responsibly and quickly. Others will be arriving soon.” He looked around as wrinkles of concern deepened across his face.
Frank noted an edginess in Grober’s reply. He continued. “My men will take over from here. We’ve ordered in all available ambulances and the hospitals have been alerted.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Your assistance is appreciated.”
Again, the lieutenant recognized a tinge of condescension in the security chief’s voice. Detecting a heavier accent in certain spoken words, he assumed the man to be of German ancestry. Frank made notes on a clipboard, raising his head often to view the destruction, then continuing his scribbles.
~~~
Lindsay allowed herself a precautionary peek from behind the protective column. The lieutenant and security officer were six feet away, which explained why she could hear them in spite of one ear remaining numb from the gunshot. Nerves still tingling, she inspected her surroundings: tattered mounds of merchandise-filled shopping bags littered the floor among which at least two dozen fallen shoppers lay. She searched for blood around the bodies closest to her and saw none.
The rise and fall of shrieking sirens continued as ambulances and fire engines advanced with a frenzy across the mall’s front parking area. A rush of paramedics continued from one victim to the next.
Still fearful of further shooting, Lindsay drew back into the safety of her hiding place. She could sense the two men were moving away and strained to hear their conversation. Another peek from her post gave her a discreet visual as the men turned their backs.
“As far as I can determine, no one was shot. The only injuries are from trampling. I just hope we don’t find anyone dead. That, of course, could be disastrous.” Karl Grober continued his visual inspection.
Lindsay listened, hoping for additional reassurance that it was safe to emerge and tell her story.
“So,” the Honolulu police lieutenant spoke, addressing Karl, “tell me what you know about the events here tonight.”
“I was positioned on the second balcony,” the security chief nodded upward with a broad, beefy chin, “watching my force mingle with the crowds. We had experienced very few problems; mainly kids here and there trying to stick stuff in their pockets.”
“You were still on the balcony, in the same spot, when the shooting began?”
“Yes, and I could see where the flashes of light were coming from, which was about right here.”
Lindsay squeezed her diaphragm inward in an attempt to remain out of sight, while tilting her head just enough to watch the interaction.
Karl continued, “I’m pretty sure he was not Caucasian, although I can’t be positive. Hard to guess his age, but he definitely was the perpetrator. He was short, dark hair, no different in appearance than a million other people on this island.”
“Go on,” Lieutenant Walea prodded.
“I saw a disturbance, and this guy had already taken a hostage.”
“A hostage? Where were your men when that happened? Where is this hostage?” Frank glanced around.
“I don’t know what happened to her after the shooting, Lieutenant. And my men are not trained in combat. Under my command, they are instructed to keep their distance rather than risk their own lives and, possibly, others.” Karl provided a tight-lipped smile. “I think we both know there are certain...dangers...in providing some individuals with excessive weaponry.”
“Was the perpetrator being pursued?”
“Not that I’m aware of. At least I saw no indication of such.” Karl continued his story. “That’s when he shot upward, toward me.”
He’s lying! Someone else shot first! Lindsay restrained the urge to leave her hiding space.
“But you have no reason to think it would have been at you,” the lieutenant continued.
“Correct.”
“How many shots were fired in your direction?”
“Just one.”
“And what happened next?”
“That’s when I fired two shots in the air, toward the center. I didn’t want to take any chance of appearing to be firing at someone in the crowd, but I had to do something.”
“Weren’t you worried about using a loaded weapon inside the building?”
A slight smile formed again on Karl’s face. He held up the thick-barreled pistol at his side. Viewed at close range, it was easy to identify. “No, lieutenant. I used this. We keep these on hand for emergencies. I always carry one when we’re dealing with large crowds.”
The piece Karl produced was a starting pistol. The chrome-plated gun, a police special with a four-inch barrel, fired blanks instead of bullets.
“You had no other weapons?” Frank asked.
“No, but I am licensed to carry a gun and sometimes do so,” Karl replied.
Enough! Stepping from behind the salmon-colored pole, Lindsay waved her right arm above her head to attract the men’s attention.
The security chief detected her movements, turning his head in her direction. His eyes squinted into slits.
“What are you doing here?” Karl demanded.
“I, well, the man you described was hiding behind me when someone shot at us.” Lindsay wiped a damp palm on her shorts. Without realizing it, she still clutched her sack filled with candles. The paper handles drooped with perspiration.
“Oh?” Frank looked at the security chief.
“I believe this young woman to be the hostage in the situation,” Karl said.
“I got the impression this is where the shots came from first.” The lieutenant turned back to Lindsay, who had taken hesitant steps closer. “What do you have to tell us?”
Lindsay stumbled over her words. “I heard shots, but they came from somewhere else.”
“Please go on.” Creases deepened in the lieutenant’s forehead.
“I mean, I was held so tightly I couldn’t move. It felt like he had a gun and then he fired. Once. Then he let me go. I’ve been hiding ever since. Over there.” Lindsay pointed. She glanced at the security chief, waiting for confirmation.
“That’s not true, of course. This young lady is incorrect in the sequence of her story. The perpetrator — the man who used her as a shield — shot first.”
Lindsay replied, “But I am telling the truth. I was there! With the guy!”
The lieutenant held up one hand. “Before we go any further, I have a question or two. First, can I have your name, miss?”
“Yes. It’s Lindsay Mason.”
“What were you doing here at the mall?”
Lindsay thought, well, that's obvious. “Shopping, like everyone else.”
“Are you here on vacation?”
“No, I moved here six months ago.”
“Your address?”
Lindsay hesitated. “It’s 5514 Palo Drive.”
“House?”
“No, sir. Apartment.” Another hesitation, but she knew he would ask. “Number 120.”
“You’re working, I assume? Or a student?” Frank was jotting Lindsay’s answers on his clipboard.
“Working. For a real estate company — Pau o le’ Real Estate.”
Karl interrupted. “I know you’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Miss Mason.” He paused. “We should talk further. I’m afraid the media will be bursting in at any moment and we would like to keep this as quiet as possible. For the moment, anyway. Come to my office, now, if you don’t mind.” He turned on his heels.
Lindsay looked at the lieutenant, who had just opened his mouth to issue a counter order.
“Wait just a minute. She’s not going anywhere, yet.” The three of them turned, surprised to hear an unknown voice as it made its demand from the shadows of an enormous, potted banana plant.
The police lieutenant spoke in surprised recognition, as the tall male figure interrupted his investigation. “Nick?”
“Yeah, Frank. How are you?”
“Better question,” the lieutenant said, “how are you, and what are you doing here?”
“Just a little shopping for my niece.” The stranger held up a shopping bag identical to Lindsay’s. “You remember Becky? She’s into those Earth things right now.”
“Why are you still here?” the lieutenant continued.
“When the shots were fired, I figured it was safer to stay put. Didn’t want to get run over by a bunch of tourists.” The man smiled. Wavy blond hair shone under the bright lights in contrast to tanned skin.
The nonchalant reply made Lindsay wonder if this person identified as “Nick” was perhaps involved in the shooting.
Frank Walea made an introduction. “Miss Mason, Mr. Grober, this is Nicholas Bennett.” Then, “Did you see anything, Nick?”
“Not really, but I wasn’t too far away when I heard the shots. I’m happy to assist in getting this young woman down to headquarters so you can question her further.” He turned to address Karl. “Would the Security Chief care to meet us down there for our statements — instead of in a private office?”
Karl shrugged. “Of course. When do you want to meet?”
“I’d like to send Miss Mason down now,” Frank said, “while it’s still fresh on her mind. Mr. Grober, I realize you’ll need to stay here to oversee operations for now. Can you come down to the station first thing in the morning?” The lieutenant offered, “If that’s agreeable with you.”
Karl shifted wary eyes between Nick and the lieutenant.
Nick said, “Frank, if it’s okay, I’d like to ride down to the station with Miss Mason. Perhaps I can be of help in speeding things along.”
Frank nodded his approval of the request while Lindsay looked around with alarm. She was not sure she wanted to ride in the same vehicle.
Nick added, “It’s okay. I really think I can be of some help, if you don’t mind.”
Lindsay nodded, almost against her will. But she wondered how well the police officer knew this man and if she was exposing herself to even more danger.
“Also,” Nick continued, “we’d like to have an escort drive around to another entrance. I agree we should avoid the media at all costs.”
Karl nodded and pointed with a wave of his meaty arm. “You can go down that corridor; the fire door alarms have been turned off.”
“Hey, Luke!” Frank called out. A young officer came to attention several feet away. “Would you drive Nick and Miss Mason to the station? We need to get a statement.”
“Yessir! Lieutenant. Hey, Nick. Good to see you.” Luke turned and jogged out the front entrance of the mall.
CHAPTER 5
“Miss Mason, I can take you back to your car, now.” Luke, the young officer who had documented Lindsay’s account of the mall shooting, stood to escort Lindsay out of police headquarters.
Lindsay rose from the wooden chair and stretched, realizing she had become stiff from sitting for an hour-and-a-half. “I don’t have a car, yet. I’ve been taking the bus everywhere.”
Luke glanced down at his notes, searching for Lindsay’s address. “I’ll be happy to drive you home, then.” He turned to Nick. “Is your car at the mall?”
“Yeah, I’d really appreciate a lift back. I could even take Miss Mason home, if you need to stay at the mall.”
Lindsay made a sudden, nervous step backward.
Luke said, “It’s really okay. Nick’s family has been around for a long, long time. Practically everybody on the island knows him.”
Nick interrupted, “It’s all right, Luke. I can understand her reluctance to ride off in the wee hours with a complete stranger.”
Lindsay spoke, not wishing to offend the man who had volunteered to be with her at the station. “Thank you, anyway. And I really do appreciate your time. You were quite helpful in helping me recall some of the details.”
Was this man always gallant and self-assured? Lindsay wondered. The fact that Nick had been present — almost as if he had observed every movement — had been a tremendous aid in defining each action and emotion Lindsay had experienced. She had made a covert study of Nick’s appearance throughout the interview process. Tall, just over six feet, she guessed. He had brown eyes and his bronzed skin corroborated her assessment of much time spent on the beach. He might not be good-looking by classic standards, but his facial features were sculpted, which made him quite attractive, Lindsay thought. For an older guy, that is. Nick must be about thirty - maybe less, maybe more, she determined. Lindsay was curious about his background: Why did so many people seem to know him and even revere his presence? As they had first arrived at the station and walked past a number of desks, people looked up from their work and waved at Nick with various greetings back and forth.
Lindsay addressed Nick, tilting her head to one side. “Why didn’t you tell the security guy you corroborated my story about where the shots came from first?”
Nick paused, then answered. “I just felt we were better off getting down here as quickly as possible. And away from the mall. The security chief just didn't impress me as a person you could exactly trust.”
Thanks to Nick, Lindsay reminded herself, the final, typed statement would be accurate. Very few details had fallen through the cracks of her memory, and she felt a sudden, renewed horror in the process of recalling specific events of the evening. She was exhausted, weak, and wanted to lie down. Just a little longer, she thought, and I can crawl into bed and forget about it all.
The trio returned to the police car. At Lindsay’s insistence, Nick sat on the passenger side in front with Luke, allowing her to relax in the back seat. The neon red numbers on the dashboard clock produced a defiant glare, turning over to one-thirty. Lindsay allowed her head to fall back on the rounded top edge of the seat. Idle conversation from the front washed over her, bearing little comprehension, as they left the bright lights of downtown Honolulu behind.
A few minutes later, the police car eased onto the parking apron in front of a small, boxy apartment building. She had been lucky to find suitable, first-floor accommodations, along a regular bus route, that were in livable condition and affordable on her savings. The darkened building reminded her of the dimmed lights of the mall and she was overwhelmed with a reluctance to enter.