Dead Shot (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 1)

Chapter 59

Chapter 59

Gold couldn't sleep. Refusing to show any emotion but anger despite his son's death, Gold's nerves became more frayed by the minute. And his anger grew. Tonight, he had already looked into the eyes of one man he considered his friend and killed him. Could he kill two more?

Gold decided he needed to oversee this final loose end himself. While he trusted Yukon with the darkest secrets Statenville and Cloverdale Industries held, he wanted to see the two reporters' dead bodies at the bottom of Cold River Canyon for himself. No more wondering what surprises would come his way the next day. This was going to end tonight.

Sitting in his car at the end of a dirt road in Cold River Canyon, Gold tapped his steering wheel as he awaited Yukon's arrival. He took another pull on the flask that he brought with him. Gold could be cold hearted, but even he needed help to get up the nerve to kill more than one person in a night. It wouldn't be the first time he had done this - but it had been a long time.

Gold slowly shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the nightmare scenario running through his mind that his empire would be busted. This wasn't what he wanted. He was tired of the killing, the dirty work that sucked away a portion of his soul with each person he murdered. It was why he left Boston. He couldn't escape a life of crime, but he could escape the murder. To Gold, selling drugs was a simple transaction, an exchange of cash for a product. What the buyers did with the drugs was up to them. He at least hoped they used and enjoyed it responsibly. But why anyone would want to do drugs was a mystery to Gold. Like any good businessman, he saw the need and created a way to supply product to meet the demand. Because dealing drugs was criminal, it required the extra level of difficulty that came naturally to Gold. For several years, he had masterminded the best crime scenario he could've ever imagined - filthy rich, no dirty work, and nobody poking their noses around his business.

But Cal and Kelly changed all that. They couldn't accept the coroner's report and leave well enough alone. Three teenagers overdosed on the same batch of drugs. Obviously the drugs were bad, which led to their deaths, right? No need to whip up some conspiracy out of thin air just to sell a few newspapers. The whole town consumed every word in every edition of the paper. This was never about selling newspapers.

Now Gold had to find his mayhem moxie and stamp out this substantial threat, Scarelli style. There wasn't going to be a trace left of them - not because Gold was vengeful; he learned a long time ago that vengeance got you nowhere. No, Gold disposed of dead bodies as a necessary precaution. He wasn't going to get pinned for someone's murder. He was likely to be a suspect or a "person of interest" should a full-blown murder investigation commence by outside law enforcement agencies. But Gold wouldn't be seriously implicated. He had slipped up five years ago by reverting back to his former self and inserting a gold coin into a victim's mouth. But he vowed not to do it again, ceasing to carry gold coins in his pocket so he could resist the temptation. He didn't want the FBI crawling all over his backyard. For Gold, a quiet crime was the best crime.

With his windows rolled down to take advantage of the cool summer breeze, Gold heard the sound of truck tires ripping down a dirt road. The glow of headlights illuminated the back of a boulder just off to the left of the road, announcing Yukon's impending arrival. The lights then beamed into Gold's car, getting larger as Yukon sped toward Gold. The truck skidded to a stop as a cloud of dust rushed by Gold.

Gold scrambled out of his car, anxious to put an end to his misery. The bodies of two dead reporters would do that for him.

***

Yukon climbed out of his truck and ambled toward the back of the bed where he met Gold.

"So, let's see them, Yukon," said Gold, dispensing with any formal greeting.

Yukon smiled and reached down to pull the tarp back but stopped himself cold. His smile morphed into a frown in a nanosecond, followed by a rant that included screaming and swearing. Four sacks of potatoes held down the bottom tarp; the top tarp layer was nowhere to be seen. Gold began seething.

"How could you let this happen, Yukon? Where did they escape?"

Yukon said nothing. He was busy retracing his steps, trying to think of where Cal and Kelly could've possibly escaped from his truck. A long and intense day of driving had likely left Yukon's timeline jumbled - well, that and the four beers he had chugged since capturing the pair. He couldn't come up with any theories - so he wisely offered none.

Yukon realized Gold had driven out to the canyon to see Cal and Kelly die firsthand. He knew his inability to keep his captives subdued let a once-manageable situation evolve into a more dangerous one - at least, dangerous in the sense that Cloverdale Industries could be exposed. Now they would be much more difficult to find.

Gold let out his anger on Yukon's truck, kicking the tires and slamming the side of the truck with his fist. He unleashed a few more rhetorical questions on Yukon, who stayed silent through the tirade. After a few minutes, Gold finished letting out his frustration with a final kick along the ground that sent pebbles flying through the air.

"Go find them, Yukon - and if you don't, don't bother coming back to Statenville."

Yukon knew Gold was serious. There was no more money to exchange hands, even if he was successful. So instead of launching a search that would have to extend multiple counties all the way to the Idaho border, Yukon decided to go home and pack his bags. If he was lucky, he might escape with his life. He would disappear. He was good at that, being a professional grifter, one who could undoubtedly find an employer in another town willing to pay for his services. Dead reporters or not, Yukon was through with Gold, Cloverdale Industries and Statenville. He knew he wouldn't miss it. There was no use being loyal to a man whose loyalty only extended as far as your usefulness to him.