Collateral Damage Read online

  Rave Reviews for Austin S. Camacho’s

  COLLATERAL DAMAGE

  “Hannibal Jones is a new kind of pulp detective. Larger than life; he is a world traveler. He knows how to use his fists, but he also is a sensitive soul who can relate to his victims. Camacho has done an excellent job of expanding Hannibal's influence in this second novel. Camacho has a great thing going."

  Midwest Book Review

  "In Collateral Damage, Austin Camacho brings back his harder-than-hard troubleshooter, Hannibal Jones, in a teeth-rattling tale of murder and treachery. It's conventional wisdom that the second novel by young writers rarely lives up to the promise of their first book. Camacho turns this old adage upside down with a powerhouse writing performance.”

  Warren Murphy, Two-time Edgar Award winner

  and creator of The Destroyer adventure series

  "Hannibal Jones is a professional problem solver, a hybrid of The Equalizer and Shaft. Collateral Damage is a well-plotted tale where not everything is what it seems, and when the truth comes to light the reader is certain to be satisfied. Author Camacho creates in Jones a likeable protagonist, tough and tender. Fans of suspense will want to call on Jones."

  Blether Book Review

  "Camacho employs a smooth, professional writing style that makes for easy and pleasurable reading, as does his well fleshed out and unique hero, Hannibal Jones. Multicultural characters, scenarios, and backgrounds provide depth and insight to Hannibal’s character, an uncommonly original lead for this missing person tale. Here’s hoping for more from both Hannibal and Mr. Camacho!"

  Denise’s Pieces Book Reviews

  Nicely worked plot, constant action, and likable characters recommend this to larger collections.

  Rex Klett, Library Journal

  COLLATERAL DAMAGE

  BY

  AUSTIN S. CAMACHO

  Copyright © 2008 by Austin S. Camacho

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

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

  ISBN 10: 0-9794788-3-9

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9794788-3-3

  Published by:

  Intrigue Publishing

  7707 Shadowcreek Terrace

  Springfield, VA 22153 USA

  COLLATERAL DAMAGE

  -1-

  SATURDAY

  Isaac sent Janet into the corner with one last backhand slap before responding to the pounding noise behind him. “If this is one of your nosy neighbor friends, they’ll get the same as you,” he said. He shuffled his broad frame to the door to stare through the small pane just below his eye level. Somebody was there but it was too dark to see them. Arrogance rumbling in his throat, he flung the door wide.

  His visitor offered more than a few surprises. First, his mode of dress - a black suit and tie - seemed rather formal. He wore black leather driving gloves and dark sunglasses, despite the fact that the moon was out behind him. He must have been black too, but he was awfully light for a black man, more like the color of coffee if you used real cream. And his hair was wavy, not kinky like all the black guys at Redskins camp before they threw Isaac out. For his temper, they said. As if a temper was a bad thing for a lineman to have.

  “You know, a woman screaming like that will attract people’s attention,” the black guy said. Isaac figured the most surprising thing about this guy was that he was smiling. He looked so relaxed that Isaac was tempted to relax too. Some of the rage was seeping out of him. He glanced down at his bruised left knuckles, then back up at the man at the door. Well not up, really. The black guy was a good four inches shorter, which would make him just about six feet tall.

  The newcomer also looked at Isaac’s big knuckles, and his smile dimmed just a bit. He kept one hand wrapped around the other in front of him. When he looked up, his gaze focused past Isaac for a moment, before he looked up into Isaac’s face. “My name is Hannibal Jones. My little friend back there called me because he thought you folks might be having some trouble. Mind if I come in?”

  Isaac twisted around to see a scrawny black kid, maybe twelve years old, crouching at the back of the room. As he did, his new visitor slid past him. None of the other busy bodies who came to the door ever tried to come in, not even the cops. Not until they asked Janet if they should, and she was always smart enough to say no. Not that this guy was any threat. Isaac had maintained his training weight, almost three hundred twenty-five pounds. From the look of the intruder, Isaac figured that gave him a good hundred fifty pound advantage.

  Hannibal walked to the center of the room, and seemed to anchor himself there. The boy stood frozen against the far wall. Hannibal stared hard at the woman in the corner, petite, cowering, waving him away. Her mouth formed the words “go now” without sound. He resumed that damned arrogant smile and returned his attention to Isaac.

  “So, eh...where’s your boy?” Not a question Isaac expected. Usually the intruders started with “why are you doing this” or “what did she do to make you do this” or some such idiocy, as if they really cared. This guy didn’t seem concerned about why. Isaac wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  “In his room,” Isaac growled, flipping his head so that his dirty blond hair dancing across his face. “What’s it to you?”

  Hannibal pointed to the boy leaning against the wall and said “Monty, please.” The boy ran to the back of the house. Isaac stepped toward him, but Hannibal moved into his path.

  “Monty goes to school with Nicky. He might just want to tell his friend goodnight, eh?”

  Isaac hesitated for a moment, but then his eyes flared as he realized for the first time that he was losing control of the situation. “Get out of my house!” he said, his voice a hoarse roar, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. “Get out now!”

  Hannibal stood his ground, his nose wrinkling as he stared up into Isaac’s big face. Was that some kind of subtle insult to Isaac’s breath? And so what if it was? Wasn’t a man entitled to a few beers on the weekend in his own house? Isaac could feel the blood pumping back into his face, knew he would be getting red as he always did just before the explosion. At least, that’s what Janet always said. His fists shook at his sides. The smaller man slowly raised his left hand to chest height, his palm facing Isaac.

  “How about we clear the field first? Doesn’t it seem crowded in here to you?”

  Isaac watched his son and the black kid run past behind Hannibal, and out the door. Isaac was surprised that Nicky left without even looking up, or even casting a backward glance at his old man. Something like regret flitted through his mind, and the rage dimmed just a bit.

  “My boy...”

  “Yes,” Hannibal said. “And now the lady, okay?”

  The black kid was back in the house, taking Janet’s hand, helping her to her feet. They were walking behind the smaller man. She walked slowly, limping. Isaac was aware then of his power. And while he watched her, she turned her face to him. A red trail led down from her nose. Purple patches stood under her deep blue eyes, almost like the paint he used to put on
before a game. But her eyes still cut into him, as they had earlier this evening, before it all started.

  “No!” Isaac said in a guttural scream, his right arm reaching out for her. Two gloved hands wrapped around his arm, at the wrist and just below the elbow.

  “Can’t we talk about this?” Hannibal asked. His voice was still calm but it sounded more urgent now.

  Isaac swung his arm outward and around. It lifted Hannibal off the floor and he sailed across the room to crash into a wall. Isaac centered his attention on his wife, so close to the door, about to leave him. “Get back here right now, you bitch!” he shouted. The woman stopped, and if not for the boy with her, may well have turned around.

  But then Isaac felt a thump in his ribs on his right side, and staggered to the left. Hannibal recovered from delivering the stamp kick and raised his arms as a guard. Now his posture was familiar. He was ready to fight.

  “Let her go, Isaac,” Hannibal said in a voice too gentle for the circumstances. “You don’t really want to hurt her. Or anyone else.”

  What the hell did he know? Isaac could feel the rage building again as he watched his woman vanish through the door. He would teach her to desert him. He would settle with her as soon as he was done with this intruder. He turned to square off against the other man. Hannibal stood with fists raised, feet spread apart like a boxer. Probably thought he was some kind of fighter. He would never know what hit him.

  Isaac dropped his shoulders and charged as if breaking through the line to sack the quarterback. Hannibal appeared frozen in fear at first. It would be easy. But then, just as Isaac reached him Hannibal’s body shifted to the right. One foot did not move, and Isaac tripped over that outstretched right leg. A gloved fist thumped hard against the back of Isaac’s head. Momentum sent him crashing into the sofa, forcing it back into the wall with enough force to create a long crease in the plaster. Hannibal was on Isaac’s back in an instant, wrapping his right arm around Isaac’s throat. His voice was close in Isaac’s ear.

  “How about we calm down a bit now?” Hannibal said. “No point in hurting each other...”

  Isaac wouldn’t let him finish. He stood easily with the man on his back, and ran backward as quickly as he could across the small room. He knew he had run out of space when the wall stopped him. He heard the breath burst out of the little man on his back. He raised his arms to reach behind himself, clamping thick fingers around Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal’s left arm swung under Isaac’s arm and his left hand clapped onto the back of Isaac’s head. Hannibal’s right, still across Isaac’s throat, gripped his own left arm, creating a simple but effective choke hold. Isaac pulled his own arms down, but that only increased the pressure on his throat.

  This little man wasn’t going to bring him down. He moved forward just far enough to smash backward into the wall again, crushing Hannibal between the cracking plaster and Isaac’s bulk. Again Isaac’s huge legs propelled him back into the wall. A third time. The intruder cried out in pain each time. He would have to give it up soon.

  But then the room began to spin and darken. Isaac’s head ached and the little breath he was getting rasped in his throat. Then pain shot through his knees. That’s how he knew they had hit the bare tiles of the floor. Then his hands slapped the floor, supporting him and the burden on his back.

  The last thing he remembered thinking was that he could have beaten the black guy easily if he had fought fair.

  * * *

  Hannibal freed his arms from Isaac’s unconscious form and pulled himself to his knees, swallowing and panting a bit. Pain pulsed from the center of his back outward in all directions. His arms ached from sustaining pressure against Isaac’s throat long enough to knock the big man out, and his throat was a little raw from Isaac’s thumbs digging into it, but at least he had managed to end this conflict without either of them getting badly hurt. He suspected that would answer the first question he’d hear when he got outside.

  As he closed the front door he saw Janet Ingersoll watching him. She was leaning against his white Volvo 850 GLT, her arms wrapped very tightly around her son. As he approached her he didn’t avoid her eyes. Instead he explored them under the street lamp for what they could tell him. He saw desperate fear there, but relief and curiosity hung close behind that. When he opened the passenger door and waved her inside. She only held her boy tighter.

  “He’ll be after us,” Janet said.

  “No he won’t. Not for a while. Get in the car.”

  “Is he okay?” Now her face showed more concern. She still loved him.

  “He’s asleep, but not hurt. Please get in the car.”

  “You’re not the police,” Janet said. “Police don’t act like that. Who are you?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car,” Hannibal said. When Janet didn’t move, Monty squeezed past Hannibal and squirmed into the back seat. He pulled Nicky in behind him, out of Janet’s embrace. She looked more confused now, as if her son was her touchstone with reality. Eyes darting left and right, she finally dropped into the front seat. Hannibal closed her door, hurried around the car and got behind the wheel. His eyes clamped shut as he sat back and swallowed a gasp of pain.

  “You’re hurt,” Janet said.

  Hannibal nodded and started the car. “Not bad. This really went better than I expected from what Monty told me when he called me from your kitchen.”

  “What now?” Janet asked as Hannibal guided his car away from the curb and down the darkened streets of Southeast Washington, DC. “I can’t just leave.” She turned in her seat and Hannibal wished he could see what passed between mother and son. Then she turned back to Hannibal and her voice was different.

  “I didn’t say thank you,” she said, wiping the wetness from her blackened eyes. “Thank you. Now, who are you and why did you become involved with us?” She didn’t attack him for interfering in her personal life. That meant Monty had been right. She was ready for the torture to end.

  “My name is Hannibal Jones and I’m a professional troubleshooter.”

  Janet ran her fingers through her short-cropped blonde hair, momentarily scratching at its darker brown roots. “Troubleshooter? Like a private eye or something?”

  “Well, I do have a private investigator's license, but I don’t do much P.I. work. I make my living helping people in trouble, whatever kind of trouble they can’t get help with otherwise. And sometimes,” he glanced back at Monty, “sometimes I do it as a favor for a special friend.”

  Janet sat silent for a moment, as if considering his words and how she might qualify as a person in trouble. And as each block passed separating her more and more from her husband, Hannibal could see her shoulders rise and straighten a little more. He wasn’t sure what had kept her in that house with that dangerous man, but he began to believe she would not be going back. When she seemed to have it all neatly in order in her mind, she looked at him again.

  “Okay, back to my original question. What now? Where are we going? Some halfway house or something?”

  “For now I’ll take you to the safest place I know. Monty’s house. Actually the home of his grandmother, Mother Washington. I imagine you’ll come to the barbecue I’m giving tomorrow, and then we can decide what you want to do from there. The important thing is for you to be in a safe environment for a little while and have time to think.”

  Hannibal’s explanation brought the first word he heard from Nicky, who leaned forward between the front seats and said, “Barbecue?”

  -2-

  SUNDAY

  Hannibal loved the smell of a charcoal fire. And there in his building’s backyard, behind the three story brick he called home, he hovered close enough to his round Weber kettle grill to absorb the smoke of the coals and mesquite chips into his pores. He leaned back, filling his lungs with the sweet scent of steaks and ribs dripping with Mother Washington’s dark red sauce, and stared up at the clear blue sky. Nature had sent him a perfect crisp autumn day and he was enjoying it to the fullest.

&
nbsp; For most folks, the middle of Columbus Day weekend was a bit late in the season for cooking out, but this was Hannibal’s idea of a good time, and the neighbors who wandered in and out seemed to agree. He scanned the yard, an almost square patch of green a little wider than the building. A dozen or so of his closest friends and neighbors occupied folding chairs, lawn chairs, and the occasional kitchen chair dragged outside for the event. Three picnic tables groaned under the contributions so many guests had brought: potato, macaroni, green and cold pasta salads, plus coleslaw and baked beans.

  Everyone who lived in Hannibal’s building had turned out. Virgil, Quaker and Sarge had even invited ladies. Ray was hunkered down over a big plate of ribs across the table from his daughter Cindy. While Hannibal watched, she looked up, perhaps deciding that she had spent enough time on family, and headed for Hannibal over at the grill.

  Cindy’s form still made Hannibal’s breath catch in his throat. She was tall and svelte, with a broad inviting smile and eyes the color of dark sweet chocolate. She wrapped an arm around his waist, pressed her ample bosom into his chest, and brushed her lips across his.

  “Why don’t you grab a plate and come enjoy some of this party? All work and no play you know.”

  “This from the lady I had to pry loose from putting in a full day at the law firm, like she does most Sundays?” Hannibal asked. He was teasing, but they both knew that he had long since given up trying to resist Cindy’s suggestions. He laid the last of the meat on a serving plate and covered the grill, but hung behind a few inches so he could watch the seductive sway of her hips as she headed for the tables. He waited for her to sit to make sure he got a seat facing her. Virgil poked at the boom box two tables away, and the Crusaders filled the yard with their unique smooth jazz sound. That music and sociable laughter filled Hannibal’s mind as he stared deep into Cindy’s eyes and filled his mouth with sweet, tender rib meat. A soft breeze flipped the collar of his knit shirt against his cheek. Hannibal said a silent prayer that if he was slick enough to talk his way into heaven it would be just like this.