Target … Cop!

Copyright © 2013 Chuck Johnson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8841-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8842-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8843-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907653

iUniverse rev. date: 5/8/2013

Contents

Prologue

1.   The Nightmare Begins

2.   Viet Nam Style Boobie Traps

3.   Same Old Faces

4.   Gas, Gas, Gas

5.   Game Changer

6.   A Crude Scare

7.   Point of Attack

8.   The Feds

9.   Get the Wheels Rollin

10.   Action

11.   Changing Methods

12.   Searching high and low

13.   Back to Square One

14.   Working the Streets

15.   Familiar Grounds

16.   A bazooka? You have got to be kidding!

17.   Is it ever gonna stop

18.   And the hits just keep on coming

19.   The rat slithered out

20.   Green Light

21.   The Trial…a house of cards!

Acknowledgments

Words cannot express the heartfelt gratitude that must be given to all men and women of the military and law enforcement. Their work is never done; their work is never safe. Putting their life on the line for all that’s honorable.

John F. Kennedy; Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.

Prologue

He struggled to peer through the grimy windshield of the old pickup truck, softly cursing his worn wipers and the steady rain. Visibility was additionally hampered because he had turned off his headlights halfway down the block, and the dismal darkness matched his mood.

His spirits elevated when he finally saw his objective and stopped next to the driveway. Good, he thought. No lights on inside. Pulling the hood over his head, he stepped out into the falling rain and moved quickly, spurred on by excitement mixed with trepidation.

The truck’s bed contained four black plywood boards exposing numerous long nails fashioned into barbs covered with fecal matter, oil, and broken glass. There were four vehicles at the residence. Two vehicles were on the street and two in the driveway.

Working quickly, he carefully placed one of the punji boards next to the driver’s door of each vehicle. Next he tied a strong, dark-colored rope to the rear of the black Ford Crown Victoria in the driveway, anchoring it to the tongue of a boat trailer parked nearby. Under the rope he placed a black painted broom handle. His plan was to have his intended victim come rushing outside and either step on one of his punji boards, slip on the broom stick, or trip over the rope and fall onto the punji board.

Brushing water off his hooded sweatshirt, he slipped back into the cab of his truck. Now it was payback time. No way was this cop going to testify against him in court. Dead men tell no tales, and dead cops would never testify.

He rolled down the window, picked up his sling shot, and sent three steel ball bearings flying toward the front of the house. Two struck the metal garage door, and one hit low on the kitchen window. Surely that would wake his victim and send him running outside in the rain clouded darkness.

Smiling confidently to himself, he quickly sped away, not wanting to be seen. Come and get it, Shaw, he said through clenched teeth. Now you’ll see what happens when the police screw with me.

CHAPTER ONE

The Nightmare Begins

Jason Shaw’s head snapped off the pillow as he strained to listen. He glanced quickly at his bedside clock. The glowing digital numbers showed 4:16 a.m., casting a green shadow across the wall. Concentrating, he tried to focus. Had he heard something?

He felt rested but a little distraught at what had awakened him a full hour before the buzzing alarm was scheduled to erupt. Still straining to focus, he could hear nothing unusual from inside or outside the house, yet there was something. He could feel it, deep down, nagging, stirring, like a stomach full of bad food.

Stretching first then swinging his legs over the side, he let his toes kneed the soft carpet next to the bed. The cobwebs of sleep began to disappear, and he could hear the soft sounds of rain hitting the back bedroom window. Still puzzled by his early arousal, he wondered if it were a dream that startled him out of a sound slumber. He could not recall anything specific, but what he did not know was that this would be the first day of the rest of his life.

His third life would be where someone was trying to kill him.

His first life was twenty one years in the Marine Corps. His second was ten years as a police officer, and his third, starting that day, would prove to be the biggest nightmare of all.

Satisfied, at least for the time being, there was no imminent threat, he slipped back under the covers, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared at the dark ceiling. Listening to his wife Bonnie’s gentle breathing, he made a concerted effort to drift back to sleep, but the nagging sensation would not let that happen. Forty-five minutes later he was headed for the bathroom and a quick shower. Maybe that would make him feel more at ease.

The hot shower helped a little, so after shaving, Jason headed downstairs to feed their two dogs and munch on a breakfast bar while waiting for the coffee to perk. Since he was up early, he decided to put in some extra time at the gym.

The workouts were something he did daily, or at least tried to do on a daily basis. There were occasions when his schedule did not permit enough time, and then there was the age factor. At fifty-three, he was still in better shape than most men half his age, but he wasn’t eighteen any longer either.

Grabbing a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator, he glanced up as Bonnie walked into the kitchen rubbing her eyes.

You’re up early, she commented, running her fingers through her long brown hair and reaching for the coffee.

So are you, he answered. Since I couldn’t sleep, guess I’ll hit the gym early.

Busy day, she asked?

Not bad, he answered. DA’s office wants me to testify as an expert in a drug case, but that’s not until this afternoon. Maybe we can go out for Mexican tonight.

Sounds good, she said adding a little cream to her cup, then, See you later, she called after him before taking a sip of the hot liquid. Be careful.

Jason grabbed his workout bag and headed for the door. It was Monday, December 7, 2009. Sixty-eight years since the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, and the day the attacks against Jason Shaw would begin. This day would change everything, not only for him, but for his entire family. As if some ominous omen, it was raining outside, and he was only a few steps away from the beginning of this new nightmare.

Jason stepped onto the front porch and tugged at the brim of his worn baseball cap. It was still early, still dark, and still raining, although instead of a steady downpour it was now only a soft drizzle. Habit made him reach back and check the door handle. If he had learned anything after his years in law enforcement, it was to always lock the house.

He glanced around,