State of Killers: A Mystery Thriller Novel (Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Series Book 11) Read online

  State of Killers

  Virgil Jones Book 11

  Thomas Scott

  Thomas Scott Books

  Copyright © 2021 by Thomas Scott. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without written permission from the copyright owner of this book. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, governmental institutions, venues, and all incidents or events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, locales, venues, or government organizations is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact:

  ThomasScottBooks.com

  Linda Heaton - Editor

  BluePenEdits.com

  Contents

  Virgil Jones Series in order

  State of Killers

  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

  Epilogue

  Next Book Quick Look

  Also by Thomas Scott

  About the Author

  Virgil Jones Series In Order

  State of Anger - Book 1

  State of Betrayal - Book 2

  State of Control - Book 3

  State of Deception - Book 4

  State of Exile - Book 5

  State of Freedom - Book 6

  State of Genesis - Book 7

  State of Humanity - Book 8

  State of Impact - Book 9

  State of Justice - Book 10

  State of Killers - Book 11

  Updates on future Virgil Jones novels available at:

  ThomasScottBooks.com

  In memory of Massachusetts Detective Lieutenant Charles D. Heaton, III. You will be missed, Sir.

  Killers

  /ˈkilərs/

  plural noun:

  a person or persons that kill;

  an extremely difficult or unpleasant thing.

  “Killing is not as easy as it might seem”

  —Unknown

  “Certain things are set in stone. They can’t be changed.”

  —Mason Jones

  Chapter One

  The ties that held them all together were a tangle of knots, some so snug and secure they’d never come loose, others so slack they could be shrugged off as if they weren’t there at all. And while some of them slipped off with ease, the ones that refused to give way mattered the most…because as it happened, Virgil had been right all along. It would eventually become one of those stories he told over and over again at the bar as an old man, his friends nodding along as if they’d never heard the tale before. But what Virgil didn’t know at the time—and what he still didn’t know—was that this particular story wasn’t over, and its finish would leave one of them slipping free of their earthly tethered bonds forever.

  They were in trouble and they knew it. Murton was covered in blood, Cool dying in his arms, the governor barely able to keep his head up, Bell flying a crippled, vaguely unfamiliar craft, with Virgil and Sandy scrambling to switch seats. Then suddenly it looked like they might make it, Murton and Sandy’s thought processes at once one and the same. Becky had already been arrested, though no one knew it at the time.

  Most of the gunfire originated from the other side of the fence. And then, when the trucks came rolling through, it all seemed to stop at once, the silence broken only by the sounds that emanated from the big diesel engines, the shouts of the uniformed men, and the faint beat of rotor blades as the state helicopter flew away. The trucks and the Guard came in on a single vector, leaving one side of the yard open and exposed. The smoke—though he never really did figure out how that got started—gave him the cover he needed. When he got to the back gate and saw his cousin, Billy Hawk, dead in the dirt, he may have slowed, if only for a fraction of a second. If he wanted his freedom, he needed to get out of the yard, and quick. Freedom. What had he been thinking? It became something of a mantra, one he kept repeating over and over again in his head: Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. The word bounced around in his brain with every step he took as he ran for his life, away from the yard and the chaos he’d helped create.

  Johnny Hawk, his men now all dead or dying, ducked out the open gate, made his way across the road, and within seconds was lost to the woods beyond, Freedom getting both further and closer with every step he took. He was never arrested or even questioned because no one ever saw him. He made his way through the trees, washed his face and hands in a stream at the far side of the woods, then tucked his hair under his hat, his shirt into his pants, and began walking the back roads toward the cultural center in Shelby County. He’d gone no more than a mile or so when an ancient pickup with an equally ancient driver slowed behind him, then pulled up alongside, matching Johnny’s pace. “Where you headed young man?”

  Johnny looked at the driver’s rheumy eyes, his nicotine-stained fingers, and said, “The new cultural center over in Shelby County.”

  “You lose your ride?”

  “Something like that,” Johnny said.

  “Hop in. I’m headed close to there. I can get you most of the way.”

  Johnny popped the door and slid into the seat. The old man reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. He shook the pack a few times until a cigarette came free, then stuck the butt end into his mouth and lit up. When he offered his passenger one, Johnny took the cigarette and stuck it behind his ear. The driver eased back onto the roadway, the truck’s front tires shimmying like they were out of balance.

  “You injun?” the old man asked. He said it without disrespect, but Johnny missed the friendly nature of his tone.

  “Yeah. That gonna be a problem for you?”

  “Of course not. Why in the hell did you think I stopped for you? My great-grandmother was injun. Guess that means I am too. Partly anyway. Not exactly sure how the math works out, but blood is blood. My name’s Wilbur. What’s yours?”

  “Johnny.”

  “Well, it’s damn good to meet you, Johnny.” Then after a moment of silence, “You seen any of them National Guard troops roll through Freedom a while ago?”

  “No,” Johnny lied. “What were they doing?”

  The old man took a drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Then he reached under his seat and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He took a quick look in his mirrors, then tipped the bottle up before passing it to Johnny. “Hell if I know. Looked like there was some big ruckus out near the salvage yard. I had to pull almost
all the way into the ditch to get out of the way. It was either that or get run over by them trucks. Heard some shooting, too. That’s when I decided maybe it was time to get on down the road.”

  Me too, Johnny thought.

  “What was that? You’ll have to speak up. My hearing ain’t what it used to be. Fact is, pretty much everything on me ain’t what it used to be if you take my meaning.”

  “I do. Take your meaning, that is. Listen, I don’t want to be disrespectful, but would you mind if I closed my eyes for a while. I’m exhausted.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll wake you when we’re close. Let me have that bottle back though.”

  Those were the thoughts Johnny Hawk had running through his mind, thoughts about what happened in Freedom over two years ago. The truth was, he still couldn’t quite believe he’d gotten away. Though his cousin was dead, along with the rest of his men, he alone made it out of the salvage yard and back to the cultural center in Shelby County, where he now lived and worked as a janitor. Except pushing a broom and cleaning out toilet bowls wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Who would? Johnny thought, as he pushed a dirty mop across one of the hallway floors. But the bottom line was this: He’d had a chance at the biggest score of his life, then blew it. But like twisted minds everywhere, his ego was done up in blue, refusing to let him sleep at night. Had he done everything right? he asked himself. Of course you did, his ego answered back. The events in Freedom turned out to be nothing more than bad luck.

  That was about to change though because if Johnny knew anything, he knew this: Luck was like a giant, slow-moving pendulum, forever swinging back and forth, its weight and momentum taking it from one end of the spectrum to the other. The call he’d gotten just last night proved it.

  The call came from a couple of his buddies who’d managed to find work at one of the RV manufacturers in the northern part of the state. They made excellent money, working the factory floor as the line crept ever forward, rolling out high-end, double axle diesel pushers at the rate of twenty units a day. Unfortunately, because they were Native Americans, what they didn’t find was acceptance in the workplace. Both men were fired inside of a year.

  “Who knows?” The plant foreman had told them. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing.”

  Both men stared at him like he was a dolt. Then one of them said, “Doesn’t seem like a cultural thing with all the Mexicans you got running around this joint.”

  The foreman nodded in thought, his face showing no emotion. “What can I tell you? They show up on time, work hard, and don’t give anybody grief. You fellas feel like you belong in the same category?” When neither man answered, the foreman said, “That’s what I thought.” He passed each man a white envelope. “Here’s your final paycheck, plus two weeks’ severance. If you haven’t found work by the time that runs out, you can always file for unemployment. Sorry it didn’t work out.”

  Both men took their envelopes, gave the foreman a blank stare, and walked away without another word. What more could they say? Sure, the Mexicans worked hard. So did many of the whites, their eyes glazed over, their hands flying across whatever parts they were assigned to assemble. They did it with such speed and effectiveness, they often had their individual jobs done by noon, if not earlier. Piece-rate wages often meant they could do their work in the amount of time it took to mow the lawn and pull a few weeds. Part of it was nothing more than the fact that they were good at their jobs.

  The rest of it, they knew, was the north’s dirty little secret.

  They gave Johnny a call and told him what was going on, then laid out a basic plan. Johnny polished the rough edges of their idea until it shone like river rock twinkling under the surface of a stream. If it worked, a current of money would be headed their way. In short, he was all for it. Better than cleaning toilets, he thought.

  And Johnny being Johnny, well, he saw the pendulum swinging back his way. After he smoothed out the plan over the phone, he told his buddies to get moving. They packed their belongings and headed for their destiny…down in Shelby County.

  Chapter Two

  It took them a month to get rolling. Johnny had found an old, unused barn out in the middle of exactly nowhere. The floor was cracked concrete, the roof had more leaks than actual shingles, and the hayloft smelled of mold and mice droppings. When Johnny saw the truck parked next to the barn, he knew he had the right place, no matter how much work it’d take to get them going.

  “You’re offering me how much?” Wilbur said.

  “Five hundred a month, and we’ll cover all the repairs,” Johnny said.

  “Hell, boy, giving you that ride might be the best thing that ever happened to me. I was fixing to tear this thing down.”

  Johnny gave the old man a smile, then said, “I hope you’ll take the deal.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Wilbur said.

  Johnny looked around the barn for a few seconds before answering. “Maybe because I got a couple of conditions.”

  “Like what?”

  “First, once we shake on this deal, we don’t want you or anyone else nosing around out here.”

  Wilbur wasn’t stupid, just old. He knew Johnny and his crew were up to something, said something most likely illegal. “For five hundred a month, I know how to keep my mouth shut. Injun goes with Injun, if you know what I mean. What’s the other thing?”

  “The truck is part of the deal.”

  Wilbur laughed. “That truck is almost as old as this barn. You can have it. I’m going to get a new one anyway. Can’t imagine why you’d want it though.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Johnny said. “Anybody who drives past here probably knows this is your barn, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So if they see your truck, they’re not gonna think twice about it.”

  “That’s probably true,” Wilbur said. “But you don’t have to worry anyway. Most folks around here don’t think much of me.”

  They shook on the deal, and Johnny looked at Wilbur for a long hard minute. When he spoke, he put a little bite in his voice. “I mean it old man. Don’t come snooping around here. You did me a kindness not long ago, and I’m grateful, but keep your mouth shut and your nose out of our business. If you don’t, the renegotiations won’t take long, and they won’t be pleasant.”

  “I know how to keep to myself. Long as it ain’t little kids and movie cameras, I got nothing against whatever it is you’re fixing to do.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Fair enough, then,” Wilbur said. He handed over the keys to his truck. “Give me a ride into town?”

  “I guess so. What for?”

  “What else? I need some new wheels.”

  “Good idea,” Johnny said. “I do too.”

  Johnny’s job at the cultural center didn’t pay all that much, so he didn’t feel bad about quitting without notice.

  Patty Doyle, the head of the center looked him in the eye and said, “I know it’s not the most glamorous job in the world, but it is steady work. And that means steady income. You’re not going back to the Rez, are you?”

  “No, I’m not, but pushing a broom and cleaning out the bathrooms…it just ain’t for me. Don’t think it ever was. Sorry about no notice and all that, Miss Patty, but I’ll be on my way. Give the job to someone from the Isabella who needs it.” Then with a little chuckle, “Or maybe someone who deserves it.”

  Patty nodded. “I will, of course. If you don’t mind me asking, what are you going to do?”

  Put my name on the map, Johnny thought.

  “What was that?”

  “I said I think I’ll take a nap. You know, sleep on it. Something will turn up. It always does.”

  Patty knew she’d lost him. “Well, I hope you’re right, and I wish you luck, Johnny.”

  He stood and shook hands with Patty. “I’ll have my stuff cleared out of my unit tomorrow morning if that works for you.”

  She said it did, and when he walked out the
door, Patty went back to work, Johnny and his life out of her mind almost as soon as he was out of her sight.

  Patty Doyle was a busy lady.

  Johnny’s job didn’t pay much, but his new one would. And on top of that, his buddies from the northern part of the state, Brian Kono and Chase Dakota had saved enough money during their year at the RV plant, that it didn’t matter. They fixed the barn roof, patched the concrete as best they could, and put up a few new boards on the exterior walls. They even cleaned out the hayloft and converted it into their living quarters. With that complete, they looked into the equipment they’d need to get started.

  The equipment itself wasn’t a problem, as most of it could be bought right out of the hardware store. But the supplies were another matter. Sure, you could get most of them from the same hardware store—paint thinner, drain cleaner, and battery acid, just to name a few—which meant the only real difficulty was getting their hands on the main ingredient to make the meth, either pseudoephedrine or ephedrine.

  “That won’t be a problem,” Kono said. They were sitting in the loft eating microwaved sandwiches and drinking beer that had been iced down in a cooler. “I know a guy. Well, the truth is I don’t know the actual guy, but I used to get it on with his girl quite a bit after our shifts ended. Anyway, the guy runs a truck that delivers the stuff to a bunch of the local pharmacies up north.”