Infidel Read online

  I nfidel

  Steve Gannon

  A

  KANE

  NOVEL

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  Infidel

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright 2016 by Steve Gannon

  Published by Steve Gannon

  http://stevegannonauthor.com

  Infidel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gannon, Steve.

  Infidel / Steve Gannon.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-0-9979152-0-4

  Dedication

  For Susan—muse, kayak coach, and love of my life

  And again for Dex, with a final “if only”

  “Men never do evil so completely as when they do it with religious conviction.”

  ~ Blaise Pascal

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Get Steve’s Free Starter Library

  Other Steve Gannon Books

  A Preview of A Song for the Asking

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Arleen, did you order pizza?” Gary Welch called up the staircase.

  “What, Gary?” Arleen called down from the second floor of their Bel Air mansion.

  Irritated, Gary pressed the entry button, watching on the security monitor as a Wiseguy Pizza van rolled past their wrought-iron gate and started up the driveway. “I asked if you ordered pizza,” he answered, thinking his wife seemed to have grown progressively more forgetful since the kids had left for college. “And if so, why? We were going to try that new Italian place in Westwood tonight, remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” Arleen replied, a slight frost to her tone. “Michelangelo’s. I made reservations two days ago. And I didn’t order pizza.”

  “Well, somebody did, and it wasn’t me. Thank God you’re cute, sexy, and smart, babe—because otherwise you’re starting to lose it. I hope you at least remembered to get pepperoni on my half.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, but I didn’t order pizza,” Arleen insisted, her voice turning from chilly to annoyed.

  “Whatever,” Gary grumbled as he walked to the front door. After nineteen years of a mostly happy marriage, Gary still loved his wife as much as the day he’d married her. Nevertheless, like anyone else, Arleen occasionally could be irritable, and over the years he had found it was sometimes best to just let things go. Anyway, overlooking one of Arleen’s occasional bad moods was worth it, as with the exception of their kids, Gary couldn’t think of anyone else with whom he could tolerate spending two straight weeks, let alone nineteen years. With a grin, he decided to cross the kids off the list. Which just left Arleen.

  By then the Wiseguy van had topped the driveway and was pulling to a stop beneath the porte-cochère fronting their estate. As Gary opened the door, he noticed a clean-cut young man climbing from the van. He was carrying a thin, flat box wrapped in an insulated covering.

  “Hey, Arleen. Know how to get a college grad off your front porch?” Gary called back into the house, deciding to calm the waters. As one of the Westside’s top divorce attorneys, Gary knew from years of experience that often the smallest disagreements resulted in the biggest consequences, and an argument over pizza wasn’t worth it. Besides, Westwood was generally crowded on Saturday, and he hadn’t felt like driving into town anyway.

  “How?”

  “Pay for the pizza.”

  “Good one,” Arleen laughed. “And so true.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Welch,” said the deliveryman as he topped the stairs to the landing.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” Gary said with a smile, thinking that the deliveryman really did look like a college student. Absently, he wondered how the young man had known his name. “My wife says we didn’t order pizza.”

  “No, sir, you didn’t. But there’s no mistake. This weekend Wiseguy is offering complimentary pies to some of our best customers in the area. Is it just yourself and your wife at home tonight, or will we need another pizza?”

  “No, it’s just the two of us here, but—”

  “Excellent,” the young man interrupted, turning to wave at the van. “Now, please step back into the house and call your wife.”

  Puzzled, Gary watched as three additional men began climbing from the delivery vehicle. All three were dressed in black coveralls and had on leather gloves. One appeared to be an older, harder version of the young man at the door. The second, a tall, thin man in his late twenties or early thirties, was carrying a camera and tripod. The third man, short and powerfully built, had a roll of black cloth tucked beneath one arm and what looked like a military rifle slung over the other.

  Something was wrong.

  “Now, hold on a minute,” Gary said, feeling the first tendrils of alarm. “I think we’re going to pass on the pizza.”

  “Too late,” said the deliveryman. “You’re having pizza, whether you want it or not.” Placing a hand on Gary’s chest, he pushed. Hard.

  Gary stumbled backward. “Hey—”

  “Shut up,” the deliveryman ordered, pulling an ugly-looking pistol from the back of his belt. “Call your wife.”

  “Which is it?” Gary demanded. “Shut up, or call my wife? Or maybe I should call the cops,” he added, raising his voice in the hope Arleen would hear.

  In a motion almost too fast to follow, the deliveryman backhanded Gary with the pistol, a sound suppressor attached to the muzzle opening a gash on Gary’s forehead. Gary staggered, blood gushing from th
e wound.

  “Gary, what’s going on down—” Arleen froze at the top of the stairs, her eyes widening. She hesitated a split-second, then turned and ran.

  By then the men in black coveralls had reached the front door. “Get her,” the older one snarled, shoving his fire-plug accomplice toward the staircase.

  Thinking that this couldn’t be happening, not to them, not in their own home, Gary watched as the shorter man bolted up the stairs. As the one with the camera pushed past into the house, the older man strode to the kitchen and lifted a landline phone from its cradle, punched in several digits, and set the handset on the counter. Then, returning to the entry, he addressed the young deliveryman. “Cuff and bag him,” he ordered. “Then move the van.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Gary said, hating himself for the fear he heard in his voice. “We’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t hurt us.”

  “Oh, we’ll take whatever we want,” the young deliveryman said. Keeping his pistol trained on Gary, he reached into his jacket and withdrew a double-cuff, cable-tie restraint. He secured a plastic cuff on Gary’s right wrist, then roughly turned him and cuffed the other wrist, fastening Gary’s hands behind him. Again reaching into his jacket, the man withdrew a cloth sack and pulled it over Gary’s head. Alone in the smothering darkness, Gary once more thought that this couldn’t be happening.

  The man forced Gary to his knees. “If you cooperate, you won’t be hurt,” he promised.

  Although Gary wanted to believe him, somehow he didn’t. He heard a crashing noise coming from the upper floor, like someone trying to break through a wall. With a sinking feeling, Gary wondered what was happening to Arleen. He prayed she’d had time to call the police.

  Upstairs, Arleen cowered in the master bathroom, thankful that during construction she had insisted on installing heavy oak doors throughout the house, even for the bathrooms. Nevertheless, this one wasn’t going to hold out much longer against the furious attack from outside. One of the raised oak panels had already cracked, and it was just a matter of time before the intruder got in. If only she had been able to reach the panic button in their bedroom.

  Well, it was too late for that.

  Frantically, Arleen dialed 911 on her cellphone. Her call didn’t go through. Eyes filled with tears of frustration, she disconnected and tried again.

  Same result.

  Damn! Why isn’t it working?

  Abruptly, the man punched a fist through the cracked panel. Withdrawing his hand, he glared at Arleen through the hole, his eyes red and angry. Then, reaching in an arm, he groped for the door latch.

  Without thinking, Arleen rushed forward. Baring her teeth, she bit down on the man’s forearm. The man screamed. He tried to withdraw his arm, but Arleen bit down even harder, drawing blood as her teeth tore into flesh.

  Bellowing in pain, the man ripped his arm back through the splintered panel.

  Trembling, Arleen readied for another onslaught. If the intruder wanted to come through the door, she vowed she wouldn’t make it easy.

  Taking another approach, the man began slamming his shoulder into the door. Seconds later, with an earsplitting crack, the doorjamb gave way. Torn from its hinges, the eight-foot slab of oak toppled into the bathroom, crashing to the tile floor inches from Arleen. The man followed close behind, his arm dripping blood, his eyes filled with rage.

  With a scream, Arleen rushed at the intruder—teeth bared, knees and elbows ready, fingernails searching for his eyes.

  If I can just make it past him, she thought, maybe I can get to the stairs and escape. Please, God, please help me get past him.

  With a grunt, the man struck her in the chest with a hamlike fist.

  Arleen sank to the floor, unable to breathe.

  Take shallow breaths, she told herself, struggling to inhale. Don’t panic. Take shallow breaths. You can get through this . . .

  The man kicked her in the stomach. “That’s for bitin’ me, bitch,” he growled.

  Arleen’s world became a crucible of pain. Her ribs were on fire. The man kicked her again. Retching, Arleen sensed her vision dimming. She couldn’t breathe. Her consciousness fading, she felt the man kick her again, his boot tearing into her side.

  For the first time in her life, Arleen thought she was going to die.

  As darkness closed in, she wondered whether this would be the end.

  Chapter 1

  My daughter once told me that she thought the old adage, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,” was wrong. She thought that some things make you weaker.

  At the time, following a brutal sexual assault, Allison was experiencing an uncharacteristic lack of confidence, as well as suffering the feelings of worthlessness and despair so common to victims of violent attack. Although my wife, Catheryn, and I had found Ali the finest possible counseling and done our best to support her, only the passage of time was able to restore my daughter’s belief in herself. And Allison is one of the strongest persons I know.

  But did the experience make her weaker? I’ve had occasion to think about that lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that weakening Allison isn’t what happened—not exactly, anyway. I don’t know the correct description for what happened to my daughter, but one thing is certain. Like so many of the heartrending events that life can bring, Allison’s rape forever changed her.

  A little over two months ago, in some essential way, I was changed as well. A bullet intended for me took the life of my wife, and nothing has been the same since.

  Over the past months I had worked through my anger and guilt, and I’d put aside my “what ifs” and “if onlys” and “why didn’t Is,” and I had learned to accept all the other self-accusatory regrets that accompanied the death of my wife. Yet one fact remained: Catheryn was gone. And nothing I could do would ever bring her back.

  “Deep thoughts, amigo?”

  I looked up to find my ex-partner and best friend, Arnie Mercer, regarding me with a look of concern. Years back Arnie had been my training officer when I first graduated from the LAPD police academy. Six years later when I made detective and moved up to homicide, he had become my partner. Arnie and I had been through a lot together, and I knew he was worried about me.

  “Deep thoughts? Maybe a few,” I answered. I attempted a smile, my hand unconsciously traveling to my shoulder where the bullet that had taken Catheryn had also wounded me.

  Noticing this, Arnie asked, “How’s the recovery going?”

  “Okay,” I replied. After the shooting I had taken a six-week injury leave from the department, during which time several reconstructive surgeries and hours of physical therapy had mended my wounds, at least the ones you could see. Nevertheless, I still hadn’t returned to active duty, and for the past several weeks instead of rejoining the force, I had been burning through a backlog of accumulated vacation days.

  “I saw Banowski and Lieutenant Long on the way in,” Arnie continued. “Banowski says everyone at the station is wondering when you’re coming back, especially considering the homicides last night in Bel Air. He said they could really use you in West L.A. right now. The murders were, uh . . . particularly disturbing, from what Banowski told me. You hear about them?”

  “Nope. Been busy with Ali’s wedding. She’s getting married today, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, partner,” Arnie replied, feigning insult. “Why else would I be here wearing a monkey suit with a present under my arm?”

  Instead of responding, I glanced around the Adamson House grounds, pleased with the wedding location that Allison and her fiancée, Mike Cortese, had chosen. The expansive, thirteen-acre site embodied a huge chunk of Malibu history, dating back to the days of the Chumash Indians. Adjacent to the Malibu Pier and the white sands of Surfrider Beach, the Adamson Estate was part of the Malibu Lagoon State Beach Park, and in my opinion, the beautiful, historic spot provided the perfect setting for Ali’s wedding. Even the January weather, which could often b
e foggy, rainy, and cold in Southern California, seemed to be cooperating.

  I’d initially had reservations about scheduling the wedding so soon after Catheryn’s death. Although Allison and Mike had felt the same way, shortly after Catheryn’s memorial Ali had revealed that she was pregnant with Mike’s baby, and unless we wanted to wait until after the birth, there would never be a better time. And reluctantly, I had agreed.

  “Wedding or not, I don’t see how you could’ve missed that kinda news, a multiple homicide on the Westside,” Arnie persisted. “Banowski said they could really use your help on the case.”

  “Yeah, you said that. I’ll talk to him at the reception.”

  When Arnie had retired from the force, I had assumed his position as the D-III supervising detective for the West L.A homicide unit, and I knew that in my absence everyone at the West L.A. station was working overtime to take up the slack.

  “So are you going back?” Arnie asked again, not letting it go.

  “I’m not sure, Arnie. I still have a lot of thinking to do.”

  Arnie regarded me for a long moment. “It wasn’t your fault, Dan.”

  I looked away, my gaze traveling the sunny lawns and flowered gardens of the Adamson House grounds. “I wish I could believe that.”

  “It’s the truth. You were just doing your job.”

  “Yeah, my job,” I said, remembering something that Catheryn had once said about my being a cop. We had been discussing my position on the force—arguing, actually—and she had pointed out that my profession was giving me a slanted view on life, contending that it was isolating me from everyone, even my family. “And for what? Do you actually think you’re doing any good?” she had demanded. “Arrest one criminal, and two more spring up to take his place.”

  Angrily, I had replied in kind, certain that I was doing something meaningful.

  Now I wasn’t so certain.

  “You were just doing your job,” Arnie repeated.

  “If I’d been working a regular job like everyone else, I wouldn’t have had some psycho stalking me with a sniper rifle,” I countered. “What’s worse, that wasn’t the first time I had put my family at risk.”