Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

NOTHING SACRED

NOTHING SACRED

DOUGLAS WICKARD

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright 2014 Douglas Wickard

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of Douglas Wickard.

Book
s by Douglas Wickard

The Sami Saxton Series

A Perfect Husband

A Perfect Setup

Perfect (12.25.14)

The
Dan Hammer FBI Series

Nothing Sacred

Encounter

~
Early Praise for
NOTHING SACRED
~

★★★★★
“…superb, chilling, visceral, raw…a masterpiece. Wickard deserves a place amongst the key writers of suspenseful thrilling crime writing.”

Helen White
, Goodreads Review

★★★★★
“
NOTHING SACRED
is the enthralling, emotionally charged and evocative prequel to [Wickard’s] powerful thriller
ENCOUNTER
. It will captivate, unsettle, evoke deep and passionate feelings and haunt you long after the final page is read.
”

Pat O’Meara
, Goodreads Review

★★★★
★
“…Mr. Wickard is a master at scene setting.

All the senses are used when a new scene is revealed.”

Dana Griffin, Author of
COERCED
and
THE COVER UP

★★★
★
“Mr. Wickard is fast making his place in history as one of THE best authors out there.”

Melanie Adkins ~ Have You Heard
My Book Reviews

ENCOUNTER

★★★★
★
“
Once again, a tour-de-force from Mr. Wickard.”

Helen White
, Amazon Review

“Sexy, hot & heart-pounding, this thriller will turn you inside out.”

Melanie
Adkins ~ Have You Heard Book Reviews

A PERFECT HUSBAND

“Up there with Jonathon Kellerman…” Fleur Smithwick,

Author of HOW TO MAKE A FRIEND

A PERFECT SETUP

“Wickard surpasses Jeffery Deaver…”
 
 
★★★★★

Nancy Silk
, Amazon Review

WARNING

NOTHING SACRED contains graphic descriptions

that
may be offensive and unsuitable for some readers.

Parental discretion is advised.

strike

“You yourselves are your last hope.”

“Possessing the Secret of Joy”

~ Alice Walker

June 14
, 2007

Thursday

Citadel Mall

Charleston, South Carolina

1

Choosing?

I love choosing.

Having a choice is one of the benefits I derive for this little hobby of mine. That and cleani
ng the environment of filth. No really, I have an unnatural sense of cleanliness. To the point of being obsessive, some people might think. I’ll give you an example. I carry razor blades with me to scrape off all those annoying pieces of sticky paper plastered on everything; display boards, bathroom stalls… actually, anywhere messy pigs migrate and have the incessant need to vandalize. Back before the neurotic use of cell phones, I’d even clean off public telephones. In case of an emergency and I needed to use one, (God forbid) the phone had to be spotless. Bacteria free and purely pristine. Some people look at me strangely. They stare. They think I have a problem. I don’t. I just prefer it that way. Clean and tidy.

No one assigned me this position. I took it. Like most things in my life. Not to mention the fact that I really enjoy getting what I want, when I want it. Better yet, that incredible high I achieve in getting away with it. Kind of like playing God. That’s an added bonus.

A dividend.

The mall is one of my favorite places to hang out. To “choose” from, that is. It’s big and spacious with plenty of people milling about, roaming in-and-out of brand name stores, spending all their hard earned cash. I stay pretty inconspicuous with all the foot traffic. Not that you would notice anything different about me from the next person. You wouldn’t. Trust me. Well, you might think I’m attractive. Give me a second glance, a look, maybe even… choose me.

I’ve got my eye on a girl. I’ve been watching her really close. Her boyfriend’s been calling her “Angie.” Of course, I immediately think of Mick Jagger!

“Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear…”

But, I’m running out of time, checking my watch a little too frequently, waiting to make my move. I can’t afford to be careless. Nobody can ever afford to be careless. Everything according to plan. Just like the last time. They still haven’t found the body. I doubt they ever will. That’s how good I am. That stupid slut never knew what hit her.

Beautiful, Angie…             

Her boyfriend is walking in my direction. He moves toward me, a loaded spring in each step. She follows close behind him like a dizzy puppy, texting on her cell phone. Dainty, pretty fingers fly over the miniature keyboard in a heated frenzy. They’re eating a disgusting pretzel, dipping it into some gooey orange sauce and feeding it to one another. Taking pictures, laughing, posting on Facebook, Twitter or some other social media outlet. How cute. I play cool and continue sipping on my coffee. I don’t pay them the slightest bit of attention. They sit down next to me on the wooden bench. Her arm brushes up against me. Accidentally. I almost drop my Styrofoam cup. Her sweater is tight, cottony; her nipples stand erect, playing hide-and-seek through the fabric. Her jeans are faded, that “washed-a-thousand-times” blue. A patch is sewn on her ass that reads: “DON’T GO THERE.” I can’t help but be offended, because that is precisely what I did. I went there. And everybody else, too. Another year, and she’ll be ruined. A whore for sure.

“Sor-ry,” she coos with that sweet, saccharine southern drawl.

I look the other way. I bite at my upper lip.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, do you have the time?” her boyfriend asks. They compete for the thickest accent. She wins. Hands down. He looks like he just walked off the set of a Steven Spielberg movie. You know the type. All American, wispy brown hair, athletic. Already has facial hair. He wears braces to correct an overbite. A capital “F” is sewn with confidence on the front of his athletic jersey. Does it stand for varsity football? Or “fucker?” I bet he has a nice, big cock. Everything overdeveloped. Shows off in the shower after gym class, giving less fortunate boys a complex. Yeah, you definitely know the type.

I extend my arm in their direction, advertising my expensive Rolex wristwatch. I graze my hand up against Angie…

Beautiful Angie…

I don’t speak. I just act polite and smile.

He thanks me as they jump up and leave their trash behind. That really pisses me off. Filthy pigs! I snatch up the paper napkin coated with mustard or cheese and walk to the trashcan. I don’t take my eyes off her. Not for one second. I pitch the pig’s trash in the receptacle, take a hand sanitizer cloth from my pocket and follow them. Slowly. Her walk attracts the attention of several people, predominately older men. Their heads turn as she passes by. She is a looker. And to tell you the truth, I don’t blame them.

That’s why I chose her.

I must act quickly now.

“Wait for me,” I hear him say as he enters the men’s restroom.

“No way! I’m coming with you.”

Smart girl. But not smart enough.

She follows him into the bathroom. An elderly man exits with the aid of a cane. He shakes his head in disapproval before disappearing into a sea of shoppers. I stand still. I wait for the right moment. I saunter into a Barnes & Noble Bookstore and pick up the latest bestseller. Interesting. I choose James Patterson. A romance novel. He’s changing genres. I chuckle as I place the book back into the bin. I’m not an avid reader of the genre.

Her boyfriend exits the restroom and positions himself as guard at the door. Such gallantry. After a few seconds, she exits. She wipes her hands on her ass and pushes back light, curly hair across her shoulders. It falls in perfect ringlets to her waist. They kiss and grab at each other’s hands. Lovebirds. She must be what? All of thirteen. He looks older, at least seventeen. And I can tell Angie isn’t the first girl he’s ruined. He has that cocky stride of a winner. A peacock practicing his skills, perfecting his lines, sharpening his tool for the next young thing that falls prey to his desires.

It’s up to me now. I must save her before he spoils her. Ruins her untouched excellence. And, I must be quick about it. I hurry across the polished tile floor toward the main exit. I wave goodbye to the pimply-faced barista at Starbucks who made my coffee. My café latte. See? Nobody knows. Nobody suspects. I pass by the miniature police station located at the mall entrance. I smile at the nice black lady sitting behind the desk browsing through a magazine. She nods her head in my direction.

The glass doors open automatically. A gentle, cool breeze invigorates me. I take advantage of the last hint of cold weather and take a deep rejuvenating breath. The warmth from the sun surrenders to dusk. Magenta ribbons streak across a pale blue sky.

I keep a keen eye on the two of them as they stumble over each other’s hungry advances. They head down a row of parked cars. He unlocks her side first. Always a gentleman. He has a jeep.

He would have a jeep!

I quicken my pace two rows over, grabbing at the bottom of my coat pocket for keys, checking over my shoulder for fear I might lose them. I unlock the door to my rental car and slide in. I lower the window to dispel the heat. Engines turn over. I watch through the tinted glass of my windshield. I remove my sunglasses to get a better view. No obstructions.

My plan is in place. On the passenger seat beside me, positioned in plain view, is my freedom. My tools, encased in orderly fashion at the bottom of a small, nondescript wooden box. My exquisite instruments. I run my hand over the top of the box. Folded neatly beneath the box is the dress she will wear. The cotton smock, white like the virgin she still is. It will soon turn red from the blood she will spill. For her sins. My soul will then be cleansed. Then and only then.

My small sacrifice.

I put the car in reverse and back out of my tight parking space. Guiding the automatic gear shift into drive, I turn the steering wheel in their direction.

The sacred ritual will take place at sunset.

You want to know why? Because I planned it that way.