The Fiercest Enemy Read online

  DANGER IN DARK PLACES

  In rural Indiana, the underground mines that once held coal and iron ore have become killing grounds. In two counties, five corpses have been discovered. Their deaths appear accidental, from drowning or suffocating in flooded and abandoned mines. But local authorities, including Chief Shaunda Lynch, have uncovered evidence suggesting they’ve all been murdered.

  Assigned to the case as Federal Agents, Detectives Jack Murphy and Liddell Blanchard take charge of the investigation. Shaunda’s proven herself more than capable of policing her jurisdiction and resents the intrusion of male authority figures. As Jack digs deep into the case, he discovers the victims have checkered pasts. But no matter who believes the killings are justified, someone still has to pay for the crime . . .

  Highest Praise for Rick Reed’s Thrillers

  THE DEEPEST WOUND

  “Reed gives the reader a genre story worth every minute and every penny spent.”

  —Book Reporter

  “Whew! The murders are brutal and nonstop. Det. Jack Murphy tracks killers through a political maze of lies, deception and dishonor that leads to a violent, pulse-pounding climax.”

  —Robert S. Levinson

  “The things Reed has seen as a police officer make for a great book.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  THE COLDEST FEAR

  “Everything you want in a thriller: strong characters, plenty of gory story, witty dialogue, and a narrative that demands you keep turning those pages.”

  —BookReporter.com

  THE CRUELEST CUT

  “Rick Reed, retired homicide detective and author of Blood Trail, the true-crime story of serial killer Joe Brown, brings his impressive writing skills to the world of fiction with The Cruelest Cut. This is as authentic and scary as crime thrillers get, written as only a cop can write who’s lived this drama in real life… A very good and fast read.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “Put this one on your must-read list. The Cruelest Cut is a can’t-put-down adventure. All the components of a crackerjack thriller are here, and author Reed knows how to use them. Readers will definitely want to see more of Reed’s character Jack Murphy.”

  —John Lutz

  “A jaw-dropping thriller that dares you to turn the page.”

  —Gregg Olsen

  “A tornado of drama—you won’t stop spinning till you’ve been spit out the other end. Rick Reed knows the dark side as only a real-life cop can, and his writing crackles with authenticity.”

  —Shane Gericke

  “A winner of a debut novel… Reed is a master of describing graphic violence. Some of the crime scenes here will chill you to the bone.”

  —Bookreporter.com

  Also by Rick Reed

  The Jack Murphy Thrillers

  The Cruelest Cut

  The Coldest Fear

  The Deepest Wound

  The Highest Stakes

  The Darkest Night

  The Slowest Death

  The Deadliest Sins

  The Cleanest Kill

  The Fiercest Enemy

  Nonfiction

  Blood Trail (with Steven Walker)

  The Fiercest Enemy

  A Jack Murphy Thriller

  Rick Reed

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  Highest Praise for Rick Reed’s Thrillers

  Also by Rick Reed

  The Fiercest Enemy

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Sneak Peek

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Rick Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: February 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0460-4 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0459-5 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: February 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0461-1

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0461-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to my brothers Tim and Mike, and my sister Betty. They will always be an inspiration.

  Chapter 1

  He jerked awake. He was on his back, on a hard surface, in a pitch-black world. His head felt like it would explode. He felt he was on a slight incline, covered with grit and small rocks. He pushed himself into a sitting position and the movement caused him to slide downward. He rammed his elbows and palms of his hands against the rough surface and felt the sharp rocks cut into his flesh. Before he got stopped his feet and lower legs plunged into icy cold water. He reflexively pulled his knees up and pushed with the soles of feet that were already pinpricked with pain. He dragged himself backward on his elbows. The grit and stones cut deeper into his skin.

  Once his feet were out of the water he lay still, panting from the adrenaline rush, feet throbbing with pain. Using his heels and shrugging his shoulders he was ab
le to gain a small distance from the water. He stopped and lay his head back. Mistake. Pain shot through his skull and pounded behind his eyes. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. His grip on consciousness was tenuous. All he wanted to do was go to sleep, but he didn’t dare. He knew he had a concussion. He needed to stay awake.

  “Where the hell am I?”

  He twisted his head to the right and left hoping to catch even a glimmer of light. There was only the dark and the effort made him nauseous. The nausea eased and he tried to calm himself. To think. How had he gotten here—wherever here was? He remembered drinking Jack Daniels in the Coal Miner Bar and then someone was buying him Tequila shots. He didn’t like Tequila, but it was free and he was out of work.

  He shifted further from the water, cinders cutting into his feet and arms and elbows and palms. The incline eased to a more level surface. He rolled onto his front and pulled his knees under him. He stood. Dizziness washed over him and his legs buckled. He slid on the scree and plunged up to his waist into the icy water. His feet could find no purchase now. The incline was even steeper in the pool of water. He rolled onto his front and clawed at the slick surface. The cold seemed to climb up him as his body was drawn backward into the pool. He frantically clawed his way up the side and crab-walked up the slope. He lay on his back panting and fear hammered through him with every beat of his heart.

  He lay still and took mental stock. He was naked except for his jockey shorts. He was cold but not freezing. It was mid-March. The temperature sometimes dipped into the single digits at night and reached sixties and seventies by noon. He had to get warm or he’d become hypothermic. His lower legs already felt weak to the point of useless.

  He dragged himself further away from the water and with every few feet the air seemed to get warmer. He moved in the only direction possible—away from the water. He’d gone to the bar at night but was it still the same night? He couldn’t remember anything that had happened after he’d drank the Tequila. He woke up here. Naked.

  Someone’s playing a joke, he thought. Surely the lights would come on and he’d be given his clothes back. They would pat his back and buy him a drink for being a sport. Screw that. Screw them. He could have drowned.

  “Not funny!” he yelled and thought his eyes would explode out of their sockets. “Come on guys. You had your fun,” he said a little less loudly. Nothing. “I’m serious. I’m cold and I almost drowned.” Still nothing. He muttered a string of curse words not caring if they heard.

  He shivered and felt his skin prickle with the cold. He wrapped his arms across his chest and rubbed and patted. It had little effect. His fingers were like ice cubes, felt thick and began to hurt. He rubbed his palms together and flexed his fingers to get some blood circulating. The pain eased. He couldn’t see it but he felt his breath as a mist in front of his face.

  “You’re going to be sorry when I get out of here,” he said. “Do you know who my dad is? Do you?”

  He listened. There was no answer. He rubbed his hands over his upper arms and danced from one foot to the other, ignoring the sharp scree that cut into the soles of his feet. “I’m not screwing around here. My dad will have your asses. I’m dead serious. This isn’t funny. Get me out of here.”

  The back of his head ached. He gently probed the back of his skull and felt a lump. His fingers came away sticky. I hit my head when I was dumped in here his rational mind thought, followed closely by I was drugged. Rohypnol. That’s why I can’t remember where I am or how I got here. That was the only logical explanation. He tried to think who had been in the bar. He had nothing. He didn’t have many friends and the ones he did have wouldn’t do something like this.

  The effort of dragging himself out of the water had made him breathe deeply and something in the air tickled his nose. A familiar itch started in the back of his throat and in his lungs.

  He hugged himself tighter and yelled, “Where am I?” His voice bounced back to him, not quite an echo. “Where am I?” he yelled again and it brought on a sudden coughing fit. The tickle in his nose grew worse. He had a breathing condition. Not COPD. Not yet. He’d never smoked anything but pot until a few years ago. Now he carried an inhaler, which, of course, was in the pants he wasn’t wearing. To make matters worse he hated the dark. Wherever he was it was damp and cold and dark. He imagined spores from mold floating in the air. He slid his boxer shorts off and held them over his mouth and nose. If he could filter the musty stuff, calm himself, take slow shallow breaths, he would be okay.

  He concentrated on each breath, felt his lungs expand and contract, expand, contract. It was working. The tickle was subsiding and with it the growing panic. He listened. Nothing but a steady dripping sound. The water might be from an underground spring. Like in a cave. The ground beneath him was more than just damp. Water was steadily coming in from somewhere.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Can you hear me?” His words flattened. “Where am I?” Only the steady drip answered.

  He got to his hands and knees, afraid to try to stand again or fall into another pool. He hadn’t gone far before his hand struck a vertical wall. The surface was pitted and uneven and smooth and damp. He ran his fingers around the ground and crawled a few feet. His fingers came upon a metal rail protruding from the ground. A train track. The gauge of the steel wasn’t heavy enough for a train. Not a cave. A shaft. A mine shaft. The track was for a rail car in a mine.

  The pain in his head was forgotten. The first glimmer of hope stole into his mind. If he followed the tracks they would lead to an exit. He couldn’t be that far inside. Why in the hell would he wander into a mine? He’d been in one mine in his entire life and that was a high school party. He was drunk, on drugs, fearless. Stupid. He remembered some of what happened that night and quickly pushed the thoughts away. He had bigger fish to fry.

  He got to his feet slowly this time, reached above his head and felt a hard ceiling. He was over six feet tall. The roof of the shaft was just in his reach. The water at the bottom of the shaft must be runoff from the rain. He remembered that a lot of mine shafts were closed because they were unworkable from continual flooding.

  His heart sank at the thought. The dripping sound was steady behind him and he couldn’t hear a pump. If the shaft was flooded was he more likely than not in an abandoned mine? If he was in an abandoned mine he wouldn’t know which direction would lead him out. There were miles and miles of shafts, some deeper than others.

  He licked a finger and grimaced at the taste of charcoal and sulfur. Definitely a coal mine. He held the finger up to detect a hint of a breeze. If air was coming in that was the direction out. He could feel the slightest movement of air. It seemed to be coming from the direction he’d been crawling. That made sense because behind him was water.

  He shuffled slowly along the tracks, one foot always touching the rail. He’d gone another few feet when the rail ended. He continued in the same direction and went a few more feet when his bare toes struck something hard. He stumbled forward and went down hard. His reflexes were too slow to break his fall. He heard his nose crunch and felt cinders grind into his lips and cheek.

  He pushed himself up to his knees and examined himself with his hands. He could taste the blood running from his nose but he ignored the pain. His toe felt broken and throbbed even harder than his head. He got to his feet again and ran his hands along the wall in front of him. It was made of rough wood, like cedar planks. It was just as he thought. The shaft had been closed off.

  He yelled, “Help! Someone help me!” and pounded on the wood with the side of his fist. He heard a sound like hinges squeak coming from higher on the obstruction. He reached up and ran his hand over the wood in time to feel an opening and air coming through. It was a pass-through. A door. The pass-through slammed shut pinching his fingers and he heard a bolt slide into place. He put his damaged fingers in his mouth and reached up with the other hand. He found the pass-through and pus
hed on it. It didn’t budge. He beat on it with the side of his fist but it didn’t give.

  He yelled. “Hey! Don’t go. I’m in here. Help me!” Nothing. “Help! Help me! Someone’s locked me in here! I’m in here!” Still nothing. No sound from the other side of the door.

  His heart pounded and he frantically scrabbled around the wood for a handle but found none. He ran his hands over the entire surface but the only thing was the small pass-through. He felt for a seam around the pass-through and then around the entire door. It was made tight. He beat on the door and yelled until he was hoarse and the pain in his head pounded behind his eyes until they felt as if they would explode.

  He stopped pounding, put his back against the door slid to the floor. He was trapped. He scooted until he could put his cheek against the seam in the door. Cool air came through. Not much but it was something. At least I’ll have air and water if it’s drinkable. I’ll get out of here. Someone will come.

  He tried again to remember where he’d been. It was a bar. He remembered drinking Tequila. Why was he drinking tequila? Thinking made his head hurt but he had to remember. He had to know why he was here. Who he had been with. He recalled being in a bad mood and he wanted to fight someone. Maybe he’d beat someone’s ass and this was payback. Was he in a fight? Is that how he got the bump on the back of his skull. Or was this part of a hallucination. Maybe the drink was laced with something, and none of this was real. His scratchy throat told him it was all too real.

  He was angry and scared. He had night terrors of being trapped. In the nightmare he would be in an old, dark, musty house and going up a wide flight of stairs. As he neared the top the stairs would become narrower and narrower and the ceiling would come lower until he was forced to crawl on his belly where he would end up stuck. He would try to turn back but the stairs behind him disappeared and he was in a tight wooden box. He’d beat on it and scream until he awakened, his throat sore, his heart beating wildly.

  He’d been having these dreams since high school. His mother told him it was nothing to worry about. His conscience told him he was being punished for the evil things he and his friends had done. Maybe this was his penance. A fist of emotion seemed to swell in his chest and tears streamed down his face.