CHAPTER 1

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Every light of the old English manor flicked off. A foreboding darkness blanketed the house and grounds. Former Secret Service Agent, Jake Rayne, stopped mid-way up the drive, killed the lights, and shut down the engine. He noted no signs of movement in the windows, no motion outside. Only slivers of light fluttering through the trees from the neighboring homes, casting ominous shadows across the property.

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Jake grabbed a tactical light from the center console. Then flipping off the cabin lights he softly opened the car door. A cool breeze brushed past him as he stepped out into the moonless night. A melody of chirping crickets filtered through the air and a ballet of fireflies in the distance caught his eye. Scanning the property, he quietly pulled his Glock from its holster, stepped around the open car door, and started up toward the house. 

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With each step, pebbles on the paver drive cracked and scratched under his feet. As he closed distance on the front porch, he paused, the door stood slightly ajar. 

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With his Glock in one hand leading the way, the other hand gripping the tac light underneath, he clicked the flashlight on, and crept up the porch steps between two of the columns that fronted the house. He nudged the door open with the barrel of his weapon, and scanned the light across the entry. The beam shot back off a wall mirror, blistering his sight. He fluttered his eyes several times to clear his vision, no movement, no signs of struggle. With a heavy breath he proceeded inside. 

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As Jake stepped through the foyer into the living room, a faint menacing odor lingered. The scent of rotten eggs––gas, he thought, and pocketed his tac light to call 911. He paused for a moment adjusting to the light levels. Listening for any clue as to which way to go, praying if he had to fire his weapon, the concentration of gas wasn’t yet high enough to ignite. 

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As Jake reached for his cell, a shuffling sound echoed. He paused again, and retrieved the flashlight. He reset his hand posture. “Mr. Bradley,” he called out, “this is Jake Rayne.” No response, it was eerily quiet. He prowled forward toward a room with open French doors next to a hallway.

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The odor grew stronger, almost sickening, as he peered around the edge of the door frame. He scanned the room with the tac light. On one side of the darkened space were book shelves, an office desk, and an empty chair. On the other––a cold, ornate fireplace from floor to ceiling. Jake panned the light down across the floor and there, between the desk and the fireplace a body lay still. It was a gray-haired male, facedown, dressed in dark slacks and a light blue sweater. Jake assumed it to be Thomas Bradley, the high-powered attorney who requested he come by that night. Two dark splotches stained the man’s sweater, upper center mass. Jake swept the light through the rest of the room, no one. He stepped over and kneeled down next to the body to check for vitals––nothing. The body was still warm, the killer must still be here.

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Jake jerked his head up when a sudden shifting noise came from the hallway––the loud stomping and thumping of someone running. Jake jumped up, and started after them. He panned the light as he followed the clomping of footfalls through the house and out the front door. As he bounded through the threshold, a shot rang out. Splinters of wood shattered off the column in front of him. He ducked behind the column on the other side of the steps. He doused the flashlight against his jacket. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. His breathing was weighty, he licked his dry lips and exhaled to calm himself.

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The tac light still on and in hand, he turned to face the column. He slid the light out past the inside edge of the column nearest the front door, just as another shot cracked the quietude of the night. Jake returned two rounds toward the source of the shot. A shadowy figure took off running into the trees toward a dead-end cul-de-sac. Jake sprinted down the paver driveway to cut them off. 

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A car rumbled to life in the cul-de-sac just as Jake got near the bottom of the drive. He kept his light dark against his jacket and took position behind a massive Oak. Timing would be everything. The car’s tires squealed as the driver punched the gas. Jake readied, then just as the car came near, he stepped out, flashed his light at the driver, and triggered two shots into the windshield. With a resounding crack of the glass, the car swerved onto the gravel shoulder. Pebbles pinged off the metal panels, shooting off in all directions. The car slid and skidded in the loose aggregate, veering back and forth before the driver regained control. Then, the car sped off, kicking up a spray of dirt and rocks, the tires screeching in the still night air, as it fishtailed back onto the pavement.

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Jake stood in the road, shaking his head, reprimanding himself for missing. All around, the neighbors’ lights were flipping on. He holstered his Glock and headed back up the drive, dialing 911 to report the gas leak and, of course, the murder. The dispatcher confirmed all units were enroute as Jake leaned against the front of his car, facing the house, still catching his breath. 

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Jake looked up at the house as the stench of rotten eggs and a hissing sound grabbed his attention. The odor grew stronger, the hissing grew louder, and his eyes grew wider. “Oh shit.” Boom––the house exploded in a mountainess ball of fire. The heat hit Jake like a blowtorch, and a wall of pressure the strength of a cyclone slammed into him as the structure blew apart hurling debris in all directions. The roar of a freight train hammered his eardrums and clapped as thunder in his skull. Was this the end? Would he die here, alone? The shock wave tossed him across the hood of his car like a speck of dust. He hit the ground with a thud, knocking the wind from his lungs.

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Jake laid in the grass next to his car groaning as he gasped to catch his breath. His ears pounding with a muffled echo and his vision blurred, he wiped his eyes, blinking repeatedly to clear his sight. The acrid odor of smoke and ash thickened the air, churning his stomach. He coughed, and coughed again, shaking his head as he rolled himself over to his hands and knees and vomited in the grass. Bracing himself against the car, moaning, struggling to find balance, he pulled himself up off the ground, swaying unsteadily as he staggered to his feet. 

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Burning scraps of wood and charred metal lay all around the property. Nearby trees smoldered after being instantly torched in the blast. Jake licked his dry lips, and wiped his face on his sleeve as ash and smoke encircled him like a shroud of death. The heat from the blast and the retching afterward burned and scratched at his throat as he stared at what little remained of Thomas Bradley’s home. Then in a strained, raspy voice to no one but himself and the scorched scraps that smoldered all around him, Jake said, “What the hell is going on.”