No Remorse No Regret: Counterstriker's Revenge

By Ian Worrall

Once a victim...

...now a killer.

At the age of 19, Melissa's hopes and dreams were literally drowned when she was stuffed in a sports bag, tied to a cinder block and thrown into the sea.

Mistaken for a shipment of dope, she is rescued.

Indebted to the man who rescued her, she dispatches his enemies and carries on a personal side mission enacting revenge on behalf of women who've been raped.

But the serial killer who left her to drown resurfaces. And goes on his own personal mission to take out the one that got away.

With the police hunting them both, who will win the cat and mouse game?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Worrall
• Release date: Jan 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393481867

Book preview

Prologue

Hand in hand with her boyfriend, Ron Smithson, while walking into the high school gymnasium, seventeen-year-old Jackie Cruze looks up to Ron and asks, Do you know what this is about?

With the other kids talking so loudly, Ron must bend over as Jackie stands on her toes to repeat the question right into his ear. When she does, Ron stands straight, shrugs his shoulders, and shakes his head.

In front of the stage, they see four uniformed police officers and two men in suits. Jackie and her boyfriend see their clique sitting on the floor and join them. She sits in between his legs and he puts his arms around her, kissing her on the neck.

Anyone know what’s going on here? Jackie asks one of her friends.

Something about The Drowner psycho.

One of the men in suits approaches the microphone. Thanks for joining us today. I’m Detective Mitchell Burnlee. The detective starts going on about how the students, particularly the girls, should not go anywhere on their own; use the buddy system when they go out.

He’s cute, one of her friends says.

He’s probably old, like old enough to be your father, Jackie replies.

He doesn’t look that old, and besides an older man can get you to orgasm faster.

Maybe so, Jackie agrees, But the longer it takes to get there can make it better. Anticipation and all that.

And make sure not to leave your drinks unattended, the police detective ends. Any questions?

Jackie puts her hand up. So, are you promoting underage drinking? The other students burst out laughing.

No, young lady. It’s just the fact that it happens.

THE YOUNG POLICE DETECTIVE, Jared Torres, enters the back entrance of a dark warehouse, slowly guiding the door closed behind him. He takes one hand off his gun then wipes it dry on his pants. He does the same with his other hand. The gun won’t slip now, he thinks. Butterflies are swarming in his stomach as he shines his flashlight side to side. His gun follows the beam, beyond which is darkness where an ambush could be waiting. Torres starts to control his breathing. Three seconds in, three seconds out, just like they taught you. He thinks of the months of planning that went into this bust, Alexei Burlomov, you are going down.

With his flashlight shining back and forth, Torres inches forward, but there are no stacks of boxes or anything on pallets. Find the light switch. He turns around and, with the flashlight, he sees the breaker panel with a lever in the off position. The slam of the door closing from the front of the building reverberates through the warehouse. Torres drops to his knees while panning the flashlight back to the front of the warehouse. Chris, that you? Chris? Chris?

Still facing forward, he backs up, reaches the panel, and feels for the power switch. He pushes the lever up turning all the lights on and revealing an empty warehouse, except for him and a body lying on the concrete floor.

Torres rushes up and sees the bullet wound in the back of Chris’s head. He feels the carotid artery. No pulse. He yells into his radio, Officer down. Get an ambulance here now. Damn you, Chris. I told you we should have brought backup.

A ping sound comes from Chris’s right hand. Torres takes one of those new smart phones out of his dead partner’s hand. Not the standard department cell phone.

MELISSA VACELLI AWAKENS in darkness feeling groggy from the alcohol. She vaguely senses she is moving, just not under her own power. It must be the effects of the alcohol. As a nineteen-year-old university freshman, she has had her share of drunken party nights. Yeah, that’s what it is. I drank a little too much.

She tries to turn over and reach for the light. She strains on something. My hands are tied. And what is that holding the back of my legs? Her upper body bounces and her face hits something. She gets a slight poke in the stomach. Her heart skips a couple beats. Someone’s got me.

She has found herself being carried over someone’s shoulder so many times that she stopped counting after the twentieth ride. Is it a BFF playing a joke on her? At five feet nothing and all of ninety pounds, even her female friends would have little problem carrying her in this manner. But Eddie loves to do this, so it’s probably him.

She calls out, or tries to, but only a muffled sound comes out. What’s over my mouth? She can feel and hear her heart beating in her head like a thousand marching bass drums pounding away. The newspaper and television reports about those women found in sports bags flash before her eyes. He’s got me. The Drowner’s got me.

Melissa swings her upper body back and forth. God, let me get away. Please, I’m begging you. When the one carrying her slams her to the ground, she somehow sees stars from her head hitting the ground. She tries gasping for air through her nose. Something grabs the back of her head. She tries to twist out of the grasp as something pierces her under the collarbone. I’ve been stabbed. In and out twice more goes the knife, that’s what she figures it is, tearing flesh and grating against bone as it enters her body.

Then there’s a voice in her ear. I am your worst nightmares come true. The reason you fear the dark. I am The Drowner. The bleeding should get the sharks to you fast.

She feels herself being swept off the ground again, one of the attacker’s arms around her back, the other under her knees. The fingers dig into her. Where am I being taken? With a bounce up, she feels the weightless sensation of falling for what seems like forever as her short life passes before her eyes. I love you Mommy, Daddy, Pete, and Eddie, I hope you’ll all be okay. And then...

Chapter 1

Melissa wakes up to the knocking on the hotel room door. A few shakes of the head to lose the morning cobwebs and she’s ready. It was a good slumber for once . How hard that has been to come by over these last ten years.

Yes? Melissa says.

Your room service order, miss.

Leave it on the floor.

She gets out of bed, turning on the light. Taking off the old shirt, she grabs her right shoulder as she bites her lip then puts the shirt on the bed. Standing at the foot of the bed, she clenches her jaw and breathes out slowly as she runs her finger along the scar under her collarbone. She starts to put on a clean shirt, biting her lip again and stifling a yelp. Don’t show anyone pain, not even yourself. On the dresser sits her bag from which she pulls a mirror used for searching under cars.

Turning off the motion sensor, Melissa opens the door and checks the hall for anyone who might be there. With the coast clear, she smirks as she grabs her food—pancakes, orange juice, and coffee.

Closing the door behind her, she puts the food tray on the counter just inside the bathroom, the door to which blocks the bathtub. Turning back, she grabs her bag and a chair from the desk and enters the bathroom. Sitting down in the chair, she puts the food on her lap and faces a naked man in the empty bathtub secured with duct tape to another chair. His mouth is taped shut and surgical tubing is attached to his left leg.

Melissa whistles and taps on his head to wake him up. What wild times did you get into last night?

With muffled screams, the man strains against the tape securing him to the chair.

Cat got your tongue? Melissa smirks at him as he starts crying.

"Oh, that’s right. I did a role reversal. I put the roofie in your drink and put you in here. So not such a fun night after all, was it?"

Melissa takes a sip of coffee as her captive continues crying while trying to speak through the tape.

Are you crying for your mommy? Melissa mocks him. That’s what those fourteen-year-old girls did as you raped them, wasn’t it?

The man gives her a look that says how did you know?

She gives him her evil smirk again. That’s right, Mike. I know who and what you are. And this is a just payback for what you did.

Placing her food tray back on the bathroom counter, she stands up from the chair and turns on the spigot and the blood starts draining down the tube directly into the drain. She blows him a kiss. Sorry, Mike. I really do wish I could make this last longer. But I have a paid gig to do and a girl’s got to pay her bills. Surely you understand that, don’t you?

He tries more violently to shake free as Melissa stares into his eyes, mockingly searching for his agreement. She purses her lips. Oh well. I guess it doesn’t really matter if you understand or not. But just so you know, I kill rapists for free.

The blood gushes out of the femoral artery and her victim dies within a minute. After she finishes her food, she cleans the dishes with bleach wipes.

She next removes the surgical tubing and duct tape from the dead man and then pushes him down into the bath tub. Removing the chairs from the bathroom, she wipes them down and puts them back in their places at the desk and the corner table.

After packing up her murder kit, she taps on an app for her smart phone and she puts the Do Not Disturb sign on the door knob as she leaves.

IN THE HOTEL SECURITY office, the security guard sees the picture freeze and come back over different cameras, almost like someone is flicking a switch on and off. This goes on from the seventh floor to the elevator, then in the elevator then into the parking garage. He taps the monitor muttering, Damn thing.

THREE MINUTES AFTER leaving the hotel room, Melissa steps off the elevator into the parking garage. Taking three steps and then stopping, she looks in every direction. No one is visible. She quiets her breathing and hears no car engines running, no footsteps coming toward or away from her; only the sound of the ventilator fan. She continues walking while checking the windows of cars. The only reflection is her own. At a dark red Chevrolet Cobalt, she clicks the unlock button on her key set. The beep reverberates through the garage.

In her car, she checks to make sure the app is still active on her phone. She then checks the address for her next target. Gary Taylor.

The passenger seat of her car has a small tear and the vinyl of her dashboard is starting to crack. She sees a red Mercedes parked across from her and on the passenger side is a silver Ferrari. I could buy both of those cars and pay cash. Would be nice. But anonymity and being inconspicuous is the name of her game.

The money she makes does allow her to keep her center open; even not-for-profits must pay the bills. She didn’t much care as to why her next target had to die, but she was told anyway. A couple of Gary’s crew had put a severe beating on one of her mentor’s crew. The gang Taylor leads, The Black Roses they call themselves, has been trying to muscle in on her mentor’s drug turf. They’ll find it’s a big mistake going against the Russian Mafia. The last ones who tried it got wiped out.

The philosophy of the Russians is to cut the head off the snake. Decapitate and the body will die. In this case, the body being the underlings of Gary Taylor who will be scared back into their home neighborhood, assuming they know what’s good for them.

As she puts her key in the ignition of her car, Melissa is startled by a knock at her window. A man whose hair might have once been blonde but is now matted down with dried mud, his clothes stained with dirt, is at her window pointing a knife at her.

Where was he that she didn’t see him? Must have been hiding somewhere and heard the beep of the car unlocking. I should have had the sound of the beep disabled. Even the best and most careful make mistakes, as she now discovered. This won’t ever happen again. The Drowner was supposed to be the last one to ever catch her unaware. Another predator will now become prey.

Lowering the window, she gives her would-be robber a fake smile, a smile that instantly changes into a gag as the stench from a man who hasn’t seen a shower in over a month crashes into her like a tsunami wave. Her eyes are watering as she grabs her mouth and stomach with her breakfast climbing back into her throat. She stifles the vomiting at the last second and sees the track marks on his arms, the white knuckles of his hand gripping the knife trying to avoid dropping it from the withdrawal shakes.

Give me your wallet, bitch, he says in a shaky voice as he sticks the knife into the open window.

Melissa winks at him. Sure. No problem. Your last fix is coming up.

Reaching in her purse, she pulls out a small metal canister. Sticking it out of the car, she sprays the man in the face then closes the window to her car. The man clutches his chest, dropping his knife as he falls to his knees and then flat on his face.

She kisses the canister—what great work you do—and as she drives off, Melissa puts the canister back in her purse. Cyanide spray. In the right dosage, it is indistinguishable from a heart attack, a death that is not all that uncommon once people reach the age of forty-five. A drug addict dying of a heart attack would not raise any suspicions.

In less than half an hour, she has killed two men, one of whom simply picked on the wrong target; a small female he thought he could intimidate into providing his next fix. And in less than two more hours, her third kill for the day should be complete. How she got into this dirty business, she’s been going over in her head for ten years. But, now more importantly, how will she get out?

Exiting the parking garage, it is still dark out, but she does see the beginning cracks of daylight on the horizon. It would be good to enjoy the sunrise for once, but not today. Good thing for room service. Hard to do your job on an empty stomach.

She turns right at the exit of the parking garage. As she clears away from it, she taps the app on her cell phone, turning it off.

BACK INSIDE THE SECURITY office of the hotel, the security guard has finished rebooting the security camera monitor computer. Great. Now everything’s fine.

ANOTHER ONE OF HER creations was the CCTV blocker app. After several attempts, she was able to make one that rolls with her as she moves throughout an area. Now for you, Gary Taylor, your time is about to end.

FIVE MILES AWAY, HEAVY metal music is blaring in the cargo van as two men in their twenties, Valeri Kucherov and Sergei Kamenski pull up to a red light. Except for hair and eye color—Valeri is dirty blonde with brown eyes and Sergei is red-haired with green—they are almost identical. Both are twenty-two years old, wearing black leather jackets and black jeans with black combat boots as they try to look tough.

Think any of the guns are duds? Valeri asks.

Sergei shrugs his shoulders. What does Boss do if they are?

Da, Valeri laughs.

Sergei grunts out a laugh too. They have both seen what happens to someone who makes the mistake of messing with this crew, especially if it impacts the boss personally. One of the Russian crew, Dimitri Varlamov, a runner, was beaten into a coma a month ago by a bunch of black guys trying to muscle in on their drug trade. Their boss has promised swift retaliation. It hasn’t happened yet. But like a good boss, Danil Burlomov protects his people. Any attack on his crew is an attack on him.

With the light turning green, Valeri and Sergei start to move into the intersection when eight marked police cars rush onto the scene, blocking their escape in each direction. Two each to the front, rear, right, and left. The SWAT team van pulls up behind the other police cars. Eight heavily armed police officers in full body armor rush out of the back of the van. Their assault rifles are aimed at the two Russians.

Over the loudspeaker, they are given their commands. Driver, turn off the vehicle and slowly put your hands out the window.

Valeri looks over at Sergei and winks. Someone from the sellers must have snitched on us. Guess this is where we’ll see if the money the boss is paying the cop was worth it.

He floors the gas pedal and swerves the van up onto the sidewalk in front of them. The driver’s side mirror smashes off on a lamp post as they drive around the two police cars that were blocking the front.

The police open up, firing several rounds each. Three bullets smash through rear windows and miss Sergei’s head shattering the windshield. Returning to their cars, the police start to give pursuit when the engines of the vehicles inexplicably die one by one.

Valeri sees the cop cars stopping in the rear-view mirror. Poshyol ty, fuck you, as he gives the police the finger.

Back at the cop cars, Detective Jessica King steps out of the police van, slamming the door behind her and her fist on the hood of the van.

What happened, people?

Don’t know. Everything just died one after the other, one of the uniformed officers says to her.

She rolls her eyes. Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know.

The other cops stand there dumbfounded.

Got nothing else to say? she asks.

Detective King looks up at the SWAT team leader pointing her finger. Do you have any answers?

No, ma’am.

It’s Detective.

The SWAT leader shakes his head apologetically

Call in to HQ and get tow trucks out here Jessica says, Torres is going to have my ass for this one, she doesn’t add as she turns back to the van where she sees the male cops checking her out in the window reflection. Pigs. As a black woman in a traditionally white male-dominated work force, she has had to work harder than most to gain the respect of her superiors and the acceptance of her colleagues. With some exceptions, like the men checking her out here, she’s gained it and then some. Nothing is going to take away from me what I’ve earned, she thinks as she slams the van door behind her.

SITTING IN THE COMFORT of his home study, Jack Quincey closes his laptop. A program installed on police cars three months ago enables the department to track the activities of their officers’ use of the vehicles. A skilled hacker can get into the program and disable the cars. A fine job well done, he tells himself as he leans back in his chair sipping on rum. Press a few buttons and another easy twenty grand. It also enables him to let his controllers in the Russian Mafia know of any police car location; one of the many ways he has kept the Russians at least two steps ahead, which has kept his retirement fund full and growing larger.

THIRTY MINUTES AFTER leaving the hotel, Melissa parks her car three blocks up from her next target. Looking out her window, there is not one single No Parking sign in sight. Either they were stolen or never installed. She checks the side mirror. The scratch at the bottom aligns perfectly with the reflection of the curb, the exact distance required. Getting a parking ticket in this neighborhood on this day would not be good.

She grabs a small cylinder from her glove compartment, lays it on the passenger seat, then changes into a pair of sneakers one size bigger than her normal shoes before she leaves her car. Pulling on the door handle three times, it’s locked. She cocks her ears for any noise. Just the sound of early morning crickets.

As she turns from her car, she checks around her. She sees no early morning joggers or dog walkers. The street workers must have gone in for the morning. This time there will be no one around. She arrives at her target’s home smirking as she observes his so-called security sleeping in a chair outside of the garage. Apparently even a criminal mastermind, or wannabe in this case, needs to spend good money to get good help.

She walks around to the side door of the garage, picks the lock, and gains access. Entering, she sees the three cars—a Mercedes Benz, a BMW Z4 Roadster, and an Audi R8. With the last three weeks of tailing Gary, she knows that on this day, Tuesday, he will be taking the Audi out to see his mistress. And most importantly it will be without his seven-year-old daughter in the car.

Melissa was adamant with Danil that only Gary will die. No collateral damage, especially not a child. Nevertheless, it’s a perfect day to do a murder or three.

Sliding underneath the car, she places the small cylinder next to the driver’s side brake. Twisting then pulling on it three times to make sure the magnet will hold, she then turns on the receiver. It’s a small bomb with enough force to destroy the wheel but not enough to kill anyone else.

Pulling herself out from underneath the car, she tiptoes as she leaves the garage, locking the door behind her.

THE SUNRAYS ON THE face of Karissa Lanskey wake her from a restful slumber with her head on the well-muscled and tattooed chest of Danil Burlomov. She wakes him with kisses to the lips as she straddles him.

What are you getting me for breakfast? Or should we have dessert again?

Danil kisses her back as she runs her fingers through his jet-black hair. Personally, I’d like a workout first.

Placing one hand on her chest and the other on her groin, he spins her around so she is lying across his chest. Lifting her off him, the bed sheets fall from around her as he starts bench pressing the naked woman. She grabs his arm, barely getting her hands around his thick forearm, and starts giggling.

One, two—you’re a light workout, dear—three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Setting her back down on his chest, he rolls her off him and kisses her on the top of the head. Order whatever you want for breakfast. I’ve got to get to work.

I thought you own the hotel?

I have other business interests I need to attend to. I’ll call you when I can see you again.

I love you, she says before they kiss for several seconds. I hope you love me too, she thinks before Danil lets her go, and then enters the hotel bathroom, turning on the shower. One of his many shadow companies owns the hotel, which has so far kept any forensic audits from tying his illegal activities to him. Laundered money helps keep a lot of people employed, providing a great public service with the jobs he creates and keeping the small-time thugs in line.

TWENTY-THREE MINUTES after leaving Gary’s home, Melissa stands waiting on the side of a two-lane highway. Her car is parked about thirty feet off the road, a remote location where opposite her is a guardrail that blocks a 400-foot drop. In one hand, she holds a tablet computer and in the other she has her travel mug of coffee.

While practicing her stone-faced look in the reflection on the screen of her tablet, she sees a blip. Along with the bomb, the device she planted allows her to track her target on her tablet.

Just five more minutes. Patience is a virtue in her line of work.

Four minutes.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

At one minute, she can see the view of the car with the naked eye. Fifty seconds to live, Gary Taylor, and you don’t even know it.

Forty seconds as she puts her coffee cup on the ground, taking care not to spill it.

Thirty seconds. She can practically taste the smell of the forty thousand dollars cash she’ll be getting for this job.

Twenty seconds, she can almost see his face.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

She hits the activate button on her tablet.

Inside the car, Gary Taylor feels the jolt from the explosion like a small landmine. He yells out, What the – The scream of the metal on asphalt drowns out his words as he feels the car tip to its side and he loses control, careening towards the guardrail. He screams out more curse words when he sees smoke and sparks shooting out from underneath his car as metal grinds against asphalt.

The car slams into the guardrail with enough force to break through but not enough to go over the edge. It has stopped with three-quarters of it on solid ground. Despite being stunned by the airbag deployment, Gary turns the car off. With it being a front-wheel drive, he couldn’t back out of the predicament he was in.

Looking in the rear-view mirror, he sees a woman walking towards him. He sighs in relief that he is going to be saved. He rolls down the window as she stops at the side of the car. Eyeing her up and down, hot chick. I’m gonna tap that if she gets me out of this.

Don’t know what happened, but help me out and I got something for you.

I happened, Gary Taylor.

What do you mean? How do you know my name?

I’ve got a message from Danil Burlomov.

He changes from smiling to wild-eyed and breathless. He fumbles at the door handle as he sees her pulling out a small metal canister. She points it at his face.

Fuck with my crew, I’ll fuck you worse.

She sprays the cyanide mist into his face. As he gasps for breath his body starts shaking, the cyanide preventing him from being able to absorb oxygen. Within seconds he collapses onto the steering wheel, sounding the horn. Melissa pulls his head off the wheel and feels for a pulse. He’s dead. Melissa snaps a picture of the dead man on her phone and texts the picture to another number.

Whistling to herself as she makes her way to the back of the car, she braces herself in a low stance and starts pushing with all her weight. The car inches forward, and within thirty seconds it rolls over the ledge, tumbling back over front.

She walks to the edge, taking a few seconds to admire her work. She looks at the wreck of twisted metal and shattered glass on the rocks below. What a shame to waste such a beautiful car, she thinks as she turns away from the cliff then runs across the street to her car, picking up her coffee and tablet off the dirt. She upends her coffee cup, finishing it off as she takes her seat in her car.

Unzipping a cooler bag on the passenger side floor, she uncaps a smoothie meal replacement drink and then drives off towards home. Three weeks on this job. Maybe he’ll let me take a break.

AS HE ENTERS AN OFFICE of an electronics store, Danil’s mobile phone pings. He pulls it out and sees the picture of Gary Taylor dead in his car. Erasing it from his phone, he says to Anton Chekov, A thorn has been clipped.

Good news, Anton says. He hands Danil the report on the earlier altercation Valeri and Sergei had with the police.

We do have a snitch, but Quincey came through for us, Anton says.

Still running smoothly then, Danil replies.

TURNING ON HIS MOBILE phone, Quincey sees he has a text message:

Got the information yet?

He answers back:

It will be at the dead drop that I get my money for this job

The return answer comes a few seconds later:

The money will be there 2am tomorrow

Leaning back in the chair, he pours himself another glass of high-quality rum and takes a sip, swirling it around in his mouth, buttery smooth. A perk to being a dirty cop? You get to have some of the best Cuban rum for free. With the embargo on, it was a premium. With