Street Divorce: A Suspense Thriller (Hunter Series Book 2) Read online

  Street Divorce

  A Hunter Novel Book 2

  TR Kohler

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek

  Thank You

  Free Book

  Bookshelf

  About the Author

  Street Divorce

  Copyright © 2022, T.R. Kohler

  Cover Art and Design: Paramita Bhattacharjee, www.creativeparamita.com

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  Besides being complicated, reality, in my

  experience, is usually odd. It is not

  neat, not obvious, not what you expect.

  —C.S. Lewis

  It’s not the lie that bothers me. It’s the

  insult to my intelligence I find offensive.

  —Unknown

  Prologue

  Ember Squires eases her way forward. Cellphone gripped tight in her left hand, her right is buried deep within the gaudy purse she is carrying. An item picked up for this one specific purpose. Urban camouflage for the only measure of a weapon she is afforded.

  A means of prevention to keep something like what happened last night from recurring. An insurance policy to make sure she doesn’t end up with another damn needle jammed into her neck. Hours spent unconscious thereafter in the decrepit motel room that is her home this week.

  Waking up later with a headache that far outpaces any sort of hangover she’s ever experienced.

  Around her, the world appears to be nothing more than a beautiful afternoon in the park. An idyllic spring scene found in innumerable towns and cities across the country.

  On one side, a pack of marauding kids streak past. Little ones shrieking with delight, deep in the throes of whatever game they have concocted for themselves. Beyond them, children a bit older litter a ball diamond, the ping of aluminum bats and parents cheering audible.

  To her opposite side, the available grassy expanse has been commandeered by an older crowd. People still in business casual attire, having just left work and looking to let their pets burn off steam before heading home for the night.

  Activities all that – at one point or another – Ember has been an active participant in. Long ago as a child before later becoming a pet owner. Later still, a parent herself.

  Stations in a life that is becoming more foreign to her by the day. An existence she willingly left behind, traded in for the one she now finds herself embroiled in.

  The lone outlier on the scene, Ember has no interest in any of the assorted activities taking place around her. Same for the seemingly requisite joy that seems to permeate the air.

  In their stead, her focus is entirely fixed on the pavilion up ahead. The woman already seated on one end of it and the man lowering himself into position across from her.

  Someone Ember has been seeking for the better part of a day now.

  The very same one responsible for the needle that entered her skin just twenty-some hours before.

  With her stare boring into the back of the man as she grows ever closer, Ember barely notices the intense heat starting to emanate from her purse. Hardly does she even register the wisps of smoke that start to rise from the singed leather as they flit across her nostrils.

  Not until it bursts into open flame, singeing the palm of her hand, does she even realize that anything is amiss.

  Chapter One

  The handful of visits Maksim Bedford has made recently provide him with everything he needs. Preemptive trips affording him the chance to step inside and survey what he is working with.

  Get a look at the layout of the place, mentally filing away points of entry and egress. The number of occupants present. Even take a glance at the owner’s schedule book, the man’s reliance on old school pencil-and-paper methodology making things almost too easy.

  Not that there would be any doubt as to if the man is home, anybody within a three-mile radius able to hear the pulsating throb of death metal emanating from the speakers set up throughout the house. Floor-to-ceiling towers secured with metal strips and wood screws, the reverberations from the thumping base enough to send them toppling to the floor otherwise.

  The perfect background noise to what Maksim is here to do. A harsh audible assault serving to not only mask what is about to take place, but to actively drive off anybody that might accidentally venture too close.

  A secondary means of coverage that ensures the plan Maksim has put together for this very moment will be a success.

  As if a man armed with his very unique abilities needs any additional help.

  Hooking a finger through the handle of the rear door to the home, Maksim slides it open a couple of inches. An imperceptible nudge to the side that he doesn’t worry about being noticed.

  Even less, any squeaking of the door along its metal track, all sound completely swallowed by the blare of the music. Angry noise that grows even louder as Maskim turns his body at an angle and slips inside. A quick, deft movement that
he has employed hundreds of times before, both in his chosen profession and in the side gig that seems to be occupying more of his time these days.

  The one that now has brought him here, to the neighborhood on the edge of West Hollywood, tonight.

  Making his way past the collection of photographic displays that have replaced the actual purpose of the dining room, he heads on into the adjoining kitchen. A walk that he makes no effort to mask, knowing it is impossible for anybody to see him in his current state. Even less chance for them to hear a sound, each progressive step taking him deeper into the impromptu sound tube.

  The reverberating bass drum that is the entire home, music practically throbbing from the walls around him.

  Optimal cover that is fully integrated into his plans here this evening. Music that, normally, he wouldn’t be able to tolerate but tonight he willingly endures, knowing the backstory it helps to provide.

  A narrative far better than anything he could ever devise on his own.

  A take on one of the many truisms that life experiences have imparted on him, that being that the best covers are always ones that are closely aligned with reality.

  One step at a time, Maksim moves to get into position. A slow tread through the Spartan interior of the home, using the extra moments to run through his mental checklist one last time. An itemized inventory of everything that needs to be in place before he acts.

  Starting by reaching to the small of his back, he taps at the handle of the .38 Magnum stowed in his rear waistband. A ghost weapon, nabbed weeks before and hidden away for a moment such as this.

  One that he knew nothing about its ultimate use when snatching it up, but had a feeling one would be arising soon enough.

  His new secondary line of work seeming to have been heading this way for quite a while.

  Next up is to recall the dented Chevy sitting in the driveway. The vehicle driven by the girlfriend of the man he is here to see. A woman whose presence is as vital as the man himself, helping to serve the story that will later explain all of this.

  Another person that is currently locked away in the back end of the house. Somebody hidden with the owner, both hard at work on the task that necessitates the music thundering around Maksim.

  Striding to the exact center of the open kitchen, Maksim casts his gaze toward the blonde floorboards. A quick scan before finding what he is looking for. A small mark made three nights before, barely visible except to someone knowing to look for it.

  A faint X scratched into the surface of the wood, denoting the exact spot where he needs to position himself for maximum effect. The place equidistant between the kitchen cabinets lining the rear of the house and the front door standing across the open foyer behind him.

  Placing his feet on either side of it, he checks his positioning one last time. Quick glances to the front door and into the kitchen, making sure things align as he wishes, before moving straight forward.

  A direct walk to the cupboards along the bottom half of the back wall. The ones rising to waist height, separating the oven from the refrigerator a few feet away. Storage spaces he was also sure to check previously, knowing they house exactly what he needs.

  Pots and pans of various shapes and sizes. Cooking utensils made of solid steel, about to be balanced in an uneven tower on the counter.

  A wobbly stack that he will send crashing to the floor when the moment is right, emitting a distinct clatter through the house. A noise mixed of metal banging against itself and the floor below.

  A unique din serving as the only thing strong enough to penetrate the wailing of the music filling the house.

  A surefire way for Maksim to draw his targets out, putting them exactly where he wants.

  Chapter Two

  Alicia Sanchez can hear the music thumping from within the residence the instant she steps out of her vehicle. The thunderous sound of hard, angry rock reverberating from the home, easily passing through the windows lining its front. Carrying out into the night, the horrendous noise finds her ears, drawing a smile to her face.

  Not out of any affinity she might have for the stuff - the sound nothing short of nauseating - but from the thought of her friend wrapped in the music’s clutches.

  A musical cocoon allowing for disassociation.

  A means of fully immersing himself within his work, as much a part of the man’s style as the inevitable visit from the police later this evening. An outcome arising from some neighbor eventually getting sick of the auditory assault and deciding to call it in.

  A scene she has personally witnessed play out a handful of times, knowing for a fact it has occurred on at least as many more without her presence.

  An outcome she only hopes will take place after she has completed her reason for stopping by and has retreated back to the safe confines of her own apartment.

  Circling around the front of her vehicle, Alicia clutches her purse in one hand. With the other, she rummages deep into the recesses of the black leather bag. A search conducted entirely by feel as she bypasses her wallet and a handful of loose articles of makeup.

  Lipstick and coverup and the assorted things that someone in her line of work needs to have on hand at all times.

  A line of work that brings her here this evening, to the home of Stu Tuttle, one of the more ascendant photographers in the local scene.

  A title none too easy to come by in a place as chock full of them as Los Angeles.

  Shoving random items to either side, Alicia finds what she is looking for wedged deep in the corner of her bag. A simple medallion keychain attached to a metal loop carrying a pair of brass implements.

  Keys to the front doorknob and deadbolt on Tuttle’s house before her. A gift bestowed by the man when the two of them started working together months earlier.

  A nod to the fact that there is not a doorbell on the planet that can penetrate the sound of his music when he is hard at work.

  An open invite for her to let herself in whenever stopping by.

  Heels clicking against the concrete of the front walk, Alicia makes her way forward. An approach that becomes quicker with each progressive step, her pace rising in time with the volume of the music.

  A tact she has perfected in recent months, realizing that the faster she gets inside, the faster she finds Stu or his girlfriend, Linda Poytress. And the faster she finds one of them, the faster the raging noise they call music will come to a merciful halt. A reprieve both for her and for any poor soul residing within the immediate vicinity.

  Her gait raised to just shy of a jog, Alicia takes the front steps in two quick bounds. Short leaps covering a pair of stairs each, depositing her on the smooth wooden floorboards of the front porch.

  A surface that would produce a different sound beneath her feet if she could hear a single thing beyond the ongoing gurgling of whatever lead singer is currently being blasted. A deep and guttural wail that she has yet to decipher a single word of as she shuffles past the pair of armchairs framing either side of the front door.

  Aging Adirondacks faded badly from exposure to the Southern California sun. Items doing only nominally better than the array of potted plants clustered around them, many with vines and leaves well into the throes of wilting.

  An assortment of things speaking volumes to the recent demand for Stu and his work. Stuff that he used to take great pride in fussing over before his schedule simply became too hectic. Time turned into a commodity, tasks like watering the plants getting pushed aside in favor of building his business.

  Decisions Alicia cannot chide the man for in the least, herself having done something similar. The fact that she is now stopping by well after ten a prime example of as much.

  Key already in hand, Alicia uses the filmy yellow glow from the bulbs on either side of the door to sight in on her target. Going straight for the deadbolt, she twists it to the side, feeling the click of its release rather than hearing it.

  The instant any resistance is gone, she slides the key out. Swapping in
the second key, she goes through the same progression on the door handle.

  A progression that takes less than ten seconds in total. An expanse of time with the door open no longer than necessary so as to save the neighbors from any added decibels.

  A quick task ended by stowing the keys back into her purse as she steps across the foyer, making it all the way to the open doorway separating the living room from the kitchen before finally lifting her gaze.

  A movement that brings all forward progress to an abrupt halt. Her jaw sags, though no sound escapes her lips. The ability to even produce anything flees as well, her entire throat clenching shut as she stares at the macabre scene before her.

  The bodies of her friends sprawled on the floor, their feet no more than ten feet from her own.