Deadliest Intuition Read online

  Deadliest Intuition

  E. Raye Turonek

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1 - Shield of Lies

  Chapter 2 - Coping

  Chapter 3 - Cecilia’s Return

  Chapter 4 - Their First Encounter

  Chapter 5 - Duty Calls

  Chapter 6 - A Girl’s Gotta Do What a Girl’s Gotta Do

  Chapter 7 - Hearts Aligning

  Chapter 8 - Take Nothing for Granted

  Chapter 9 - Gathering Intel

  Chapter 10 - Old Habits Die Hard

  Chapter 11 - Falling Hard

  Chapter 12 - Second Chances

  Chapter 13 - Date Night

  Chapter 14 - Dinner Guests Arrive

  Chapter 15 - A Special Ingredient

  Chapter 16 - Watchful Eyes

  Chapter 17 - High Hopes

  Chapter 18 - Shooting Her Shot

  Chapter 19 - Searching for Clues

  Chapter 20 - Torn between the Two

  Chapter 21 - A Love Connection

  Chapter 22 - A Bond Forms as Another Breaks

  Chapter 23 - The Catch

  Chapter 24 - Night Pursuits

  Chapter 25 - The Need to Know

  Chapter 26 - Friends

  Chapter 27 - On with the Show

  Chapter 28 - Making Headway

  Chapter 29 - Things Get Complicated

  Chapter 30 - The Call

  Chapter 31 - Family Ties

  Chapter 32 - Lover and a Fighter

  Chapter 33 - The Hero

  Chapter 34 - A Passionate Release

  Chapter 35 - Plotting Revenge

  Chapter 36 - Innocence Stolen

  Chapter 37 - Protecting What’s His

  Chapter 38 - Opening Up

  Chapter 39 - The Chase Is On

  Chapter 40 - His Turf

  Chapter 41 - Not so, Home Sweet Home

  Chapter 42 - Murderous Intentions

  Chapter 43 - Lying in Wait

  Chapter 44 - Multiple Enemies

  Chapter 45 - The Element of Surprise

  Chapter 46 - Freed from Afar

  Chapter 47 - The Cleanup

  Chapter 48 - Plotting His Demise

  Chapter 49 - Caught Unaware

  Chapter 50 - His Worst Fear

  Chapter 51 - Family Time

  Chapter 52 - Kill or Be Killed

  Chapter 53 - Could It Be Happily Ever After?

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Deadliest Intuition Copyright © 2021 E. Raye Turonek

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-6455-6234-4

  eISBN 13: 978-1-64556-235-1

  eISBN 10: 1-64556-235-2

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Submit Orders to:

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  Acknowledgments

  Looking back at what I was facing four years ago, my challenges seemed insurmountable. But that being said, God puts blessings along your path. Me? I’ve had more than a few. My wonderful husband has been the best blessing of all. Our family could not function successfully without him home, tag teaming the day with me. He is my support system and lifelong partner. To the woman that took a chance on a new writer, I thank you, my mentor and friend. I appreciate you more than words could ever express, N’Tyse Williams of Boss Magnet Media.

  Along with these godsends, I’ve had an exemplary support system, including Diane Rambert of Diamonds Literary World, Robert White of Robert’s Reading Room and Reviews, Martha Weber, Martin, and Ebony Evans of Eye CU Reading & Social Network. Many more have had their hand in ushering me along on my journey to accomplish my legacy. I want to say thank you to all of you from the bottom of my heart. This is only the beginning. Aspirations, here I come.

  —E. Raye Turonek

  The punishment which the wise suffer who

  refuse to take part in the government,

  is to live under the government

  of worse men.

  —Plato

  Chapter 1

  Shield of Lies

  Tearing out of the building into a torrential downpour of rain, Joe made a beeline for his pickup truck. A shimmering full moon obstructed by storm clouds neither helped nor hindered his way, thanks to the lights atop strategically placed posts landscaping the parking lot. He kept his head down low but flashed his badge at the security guard manning the booth at the gate’s entrance. The uniformed man exited without pause as the liftgate whipped back upon the guard’s approval. Now he was only fifty feet or so before making it to higher ground. His ten-hour shift at the youth correctional facility had ended. By the time Joe hopped inside his pickup truck, all he wanted to do was get home to a cold beer and a pair of dry pajamas.

  “Gonna be one helluva storm,” he remarked, wiping the fog from his windshield as he attempted to peer out into the nearly empty lot.

  The once-over he had given the glass not doing the trick, Joe started his engine, then turned on the defroster and wipers.

  “It’s looking like a helluva storm out there. Hopefully, everyone is home, tucked safely inside and not out there on the road. Those of you who are out there navigating this monster of a storm, Godspeed,” the radio disk jockey commented just as the radio had popped on.

  Joe flipped through the AM stations, searching for some sports talk before beginning his journey home from work. The old melody “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” being played in the background of a commentator’s rhetoric prompted him to settle on the current station. Patriotic rhetoric was one of Joe’s favorite forms of entertainment.

  A tall, lanky figure stood at the road’s edge cloaked in a translucent rain poncho with hands resting on his hips as he surmised his dilemma. The conversion van he was driving just minutes earlier had slid off into a ditch, trapping the front tires in the mud. No matter how many times, or alternate angles he had tried to reverse it, the tires would merely spin in place. There was no way he was getting out of there without assistance. Lucky for him, there was a truck coming up the road right toward him.

  From afar, Joe could barely see the man. What he could see was the vehicle seemingly stranded on the side of the road. He fought with himself about if he should lend a hand, but by the time the headlights of his vehicle illuminated the shimmering, chrome badge clipped on the man’s waistbelt, there was no question of what he needed to do.

  Joe pulled up to the ill-fortuned stranger, lowering his passenger window. “Looks like you’ve gotten yourself in a pickle.”

  “I’m stuck in the mud. I think I’m going to need a tow,” the stranger responded over the sound of roaring thunder.

  “I have a hitch and tow on the front of my pickup. I can hook it to your frame and try to pull you out.”

  “Thank you. I think that would do it,” the stranger replied as he seemed to hold his trembling arm at his side.

  “Anything for a fellow man of service. Let’s get you out of this storm.
You may want to go and get that arm checked out if you hurt it in the crash,” Joe rambled on as he hopped out to attach his tow to the conversion van’s underbelly. “I’m Joe, by the way. What can I call you?”

  “Ronald. Ronald Doolally.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ronald Doolally. I wish it were under better circumstances, I must admit.”

  Before Ronald could respond, a loud click sounded off. “That’s it. It’s hooked. You can go ahead and hop inside. When I flash the lights at you, put it in reverse and start backing up.”

  Ronald climbed inside of his van as Joe climbed into the driver’s seat of his pickup. Within a few seconds of tugging, the plan had proved fruitful. Ronald’s conversion van was out of the mud and back on solid ground.

  Joe hopped back out of his truck, ready to receive kudos for the brilliant idea and save, but once he made it to Ronald’s driver’s-side door, something else caught his eye. “Your front tire is nearly flat. That’s probably why you couldn’t get out of the mud on your own. You really shouldn’t drive with your tire like that. It’s way too slick out here,” Joe warned.

  Ronald climbed back out to assess the damage.

  “I have a spare. I can change it,” he calmly replied as he opened his side door to grab a tire iron and jack.

  “I’d love to be of more assistance, but I just worked a ten-hour shift.”

  “No need to explain. You’ve done enough. Besides, I have a raincoat on. You should probably get home and out of those wet clothes. I appreciate your help.”

  “Like I said, it’s a pleasure helping a fellow man of the shield. I hope your night gets better from here.” Joe tipped the brim of his hat, then turned to head back to his vehicle.

  “Much better than yours, I’d imagine.” Ronald lifted the tire iron above his head, then came down with such force that the blow to the top of Joe’s skull knocked him out cold, sending his limp body crashing to the ground.

  * * *

  When his lids opened, he found his legs had been bound at the ankles and arms at his wrists and tied to a metal beam supporting the ceiling. The duct tape covering his mouth kept his lips sealed. Screaming for help wasn’t an option. His eyes studied the hollowed-out cement structure still in the early stages of being constructed. Steel beams lined the ceiling while drywall sat off to the side waiting to be installed. There were holes made for windows but no glass encasing them, which allowed rain from the storm that had yet to let up to pour inside. Joe had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there, for that matter. The last thing he remembered was pulling Ronald’s conversion van out of the ditch.

  What the hell is going on? Why would he do this to me? Joe thought as he struggled to break free from the bondage holding him captive.

  That’s when he heard the steel door open, then slam shut. Footsteps neared him second by second until they stopped alongside his head.

  Ronald bent over, ripping the duct tape from Joe’s face with one quick snatch.

  “What the fuck is going on here, man? You need to let me go. I work for the county, ya know? You’re making a big mistake. Hey, I helped you. Don’t you remember? The guy who got you out of the ditch? Why would you do this to me? Is this how you repay a Good Samaritan?”

  “You’re no Good Samaritan. You’re what we call a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, man? I’m no threat to anyone. Look, I’ve got a wife and kids. You’ve got the wrong guy,” Joe pleaded.

  “We’ll see about that. You yell for help, you die,” Ronald threatened before hooking the winch and cable to the rope around his ankles. He untied the rope keeping Joe attached to the beam before leaving the room, yet left his arms bound.

  Joe sat up immediately, fueled with the motivation to get the hell out of there. First, he had to get his wrists and feet untied before his captor would return. He reached for his ankles, but before getting a grip on the rope, his body started to slide across the floor. It was slow, initially, giving him the impression that he had time to loosen his restraints. Then, suddenly, his body yanked back. Head slamming against the concrete floor, he was dragged out of an opening in the structure.

  Joe hollered out in horror, fearing he would surely plummet to his death, the sound of his screams drowned out by sounds of crackling thunder. He dangled there in the air, upside down but eye to eye, with Ronald seated in the wrecking ball crane. It only took Joe a moment to realize his body had replaced the missing wrecking ball.

  “How many?” Ronald asked, assuming Joe knew why he was hanging there.

  “How many what, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe contested as the blood rushed to his head, leaving veins protruding and his face beet red.

  “I know what you’ve been up to, Joe. This is your opportunity to confess and avoid being buried alive.” Ronald maneuvered the controls, swinging Joe’s body hard to the right.

  “No! Please . . .” The fresh grave Joe had found himself hanging over did plenty to convince him that Ronald meant business. “Come on, man. I’ve got a family to take care of. You can’t kill me.”

  “Then for your family’s sake, you better get on with it.”

  Joe yelled in frustration, knowing there was no way he was weaseling out of the situation. “I don’t know how many, man. I didn’t keep count.” He let out an exhaustive sigh.

  Ronald scoffed, disgusted at the very sight of him. “People like you always keep count. How many?”

  Joe hesitated before eventually muttering the answer under his breath, “Twelve.”

  “Louder, so that we can hear you,” Ronald demanded.

  “Twelve,” Joe screamed. “Twelve. Got dammit. What else do you want to know? You want to know where? When? How? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, you fucking psychopath.” Secrets having been laid bare, Joe released his fury in an onslaught of insults. “How dare you sit there and judge me? Look at what you’re doing. You think you’re better than me, you sick fuck? How many people have you hurt? Huh? How many, you fucking reject?”

  Ronald allowed Joe to air his grievances over panicked breaths before launching his body further right, then abruptly left, driving him toward the building as if he were wrecking ball.

  Joe protested, fearing it would be his end. “Stop. Nooo.”

  “Lights out,” Ronald teased just as Joe’s body collided with the cement structure. “The chickens have come home to roost, Joe.”

  Chapter 2

  Coping

  The next morning, Ronald lay atop the leather sofa, yet again recalling the day his life had changed for good....

  * * *

  That fateful afternoon back in 1972, the pitter-patter of little feet echoed through the old wooden, two-family flat on Gable Street—wood creaking as infectious giggles bounced off the walls.

  “Knock it off, you two. It sounds like you’re going to go through the floor,” Mrs. Doolally called out to her children as she rubbed the porcelain saucer dry to place it inside the cupboard. A soft smile wrinkled her cheeks near the edges of her mouth. Still, she shook her head, that not having been the first time she had to instruct her rambunctious twins to settle down. The sound of her children’s laughter, although distracting, touched the warmest spaces of her heart. Mrs. Doolally loved her little family . . . herself, her husband, and 7-year-old twins, Ronald and Cecilia, both pale with freckled cheeks and thick, ginger coils.

  Cecilia’s pigtails bounced atop her shoulders as her brother gave chase through the kitchen, past the apron-draped woman who then stood swatting a hand towel in their direction. “If you two don’t get out of here with that,” she threatened, shooing them from the room.

  The pair didn’t skip a beat, Cecilia being the first to tackle the basement stairs. After dashing halfway down the staircase, she grabbed hold of the banister, swinging beneath it as a shortcut into the Michigan basement. The moment her red Chuck Taylors hit the cement, she darted off into the darkness.

  “I’m gonna get y
ou, Cecilia,” Ronald vowed, having kept on her tail until then.

  Cecilia was as smart as a whip with a keen intuition to boot. Once, a neighbor attempted to lure her into his home under the pretense he’d give her mounds of sugary sweets. Something about him, though, told Cecilia the man was bad news. So much so, her hand had begun trembling at her side. It was her way of determining when she could not trust the energy around her. She could sense it, the evil in him.

  Her big, gray eyes widened, attempting to see beyond the blackness in front of her. “You’ll never catch me, Ronald,” the little girl teased, rounding the living space.

  The basement, spanning the length of the home, was a circle with a furnace room at its center. Cecilia had landed in the laundry room but made her way around into the other rooms, ducking behind dampened bed linens hanging from cords lining the ceiling. If not for the clanking of the buckles affixed to the suspenders of her blue jean overall skirt, he would never have found her there hiding underneath the table in the dining area.

  “Told ya I’d catch ya,” he whispered at the base of her earlobe, having snuck up beside her.

  His presence sent a shock wave through her tiny body, catapulting Cecilia off into another escape attempt. That time, she shot up a separate set of stairs, leading to a large, wooden door. A loud, dragging sound erupted as she pulled the door open, allowing beaming rays of sunlight to shine in. Ronald missed her by an inch, almost laying a hand atop her shoulder before she took off into the big backyard. Attempting to tire him out, Cecilia took a couple of laps around their aboveground pool. Ronald, most times, would succumb to exhaustion, leaving his twin sister the victor. But let’s just say that day Ronald had eaten his Wheaties.

  Being the reigning champion, Cecilia had a few more tricks up her sleeve. She took her chance tearing off toward the humongous, blooming apple tree, kicking fallen green apples from her path along the way. Her target was the garage alongside the rooted monster. Anyone could tell it was ancient. Other neighborhood children found it frightening. Torn bark depicted the image of a face howling in pain, a fact that didn’t stop Ronald and Cecilia from finding solace between its branches. They often climbed its limbs to hop over onto the roof of their garage, the pair’s star-gazing spot.