Dallas Fire & Rescue: The Darkness Within Him (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Ryker Townsend FBI Profiler Series Book 4) Read online

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Paige Tyler. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Dallas Fire & Rescue remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Paige Tyler, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  The Darkness Within Him

  Jordan Dane’s Ryker Townsend FBI Profiler Series – Book 4

  Crossover with

  Paige Tyler’s Dallas Fire & Rescue Amazon Kindle World

  The Darkness Within Him

  Cover Art by Fiona Jayde Media

  Formatting Services by Wizards in Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Bibliography

  The Darkness within Him

  Ryker Townsend FBI Profiler Series – Book 4

  When seventeen-year-old runaway, Bram Cross, is threatened by a vicious derelict with a machete, he wants to run but can’t. An odor on the homeless man triggers a seizure that catapults Bram to another time. He collapses to the ground with his mind under siege—forced to relive the worst day of his life.

  Bram wakes up next to the corpse of a homeless man in the shadow of a haunted bridge in Washington DC. His only friend has left him behind to face murder charges and Bram is arrested for a shooting he didn’t do. In desperation he calls the only man he trusts—someone who saved his life five years ago.

  Dallas fire fighter Jax Malloy receives a frantic call for help from a kid he’s never forgotten. He first set eyes on Bram as a twelve-year-old boy, the sole survivor of a horrific tragedy. His mother, Evangeline, had shot her three children before she took her own life. Jax held Bram in his arms as he clung to life. Although the kid survived, he would never be the same. Jax has only one friend in DC he would trust with Bram’s life—Ryker Townsend.

  FBI Profiler Ryker Townsend is a rising star at Quantico, but he has a dark secret. When he sleeps, he sees nightmarish visions through the eyes of the dead, the last images imprinted on their retinas. After he agrees to help Jax Malloy with a teenage runaway, he senses the real damage in Bram Cross. Ryker must reenact the boy’s terror in painful detail—and connect to the dead—to uncover buried secrets in the splintered psyche of a broken child.

  Dedication

  To Mom & Dad

  I love you more.

  Chapter 1

  Clifton, Virginia

  Bunny Man Bridge

  Midnight

  Seventeen-year-old Bram Cross knew what Josh Atwood meant to do would be illegal and dangerous, but that didn’t stop him from following his friend in the dark, down an eerie footpath lit only by a sliver moon. He had his own self-destructive reasons for ignoring the voice in his head.

  The night’s fragile breeze didn’t have the muscle to follow him through the ravine, where thick, fetid air stuck to his skin. From the dense underbrush alongside the narrow path, the high-pitched trill of crickets and frogs rose and fell at the sound of his unlaced boots crunching on gravel.

  The grating drone put Bram on edge.

  He gazed ahead at the sinister tunnel under the Colchester Road Overpass. Locals called the landmark ‘Bunny Man Bridge,’ one of the most haunted places near Washington, D.C. The creepy location had become legend—especially at midnight.

  He couldn’t see the meth dealer that Josh had come to meet, but Bram sensed they were being watched. His skin bristled with goose flesh. Not even the layers he wore under his navy hoodie, or his hands jammed into the pockets of his worn jeans, could ward off the mounting chill of a foreboding adrenaline rush.

  When a startling vision triggered a memory he thought he’d buried, an icy shard carved through his body The macabre and haunting face of his mother lurched from the pitch-black of his mind—her eyes, what she did.

  No, I can’t do this. Don’t make me. He fought hard to stifle his childish, irrational refusal, but he had to say something.

  “You’re an asshole. We shouldn’t be here,” Bram said. “Someone’s watching us. I can feel it.”

  “Shut up. You’re paranoid,” Josh spat. “You said you’d come with me. Quit your whining.”

  “Something’s not right.”

  Josh stopped, dead still, at the mouth of the infamous tunnel. He stood on the spot where the mutilated, half-eaten bodies of dead rabbits had been found in 1904—killed by ‘Bunny Man,’ an insane prison escapee named Douglas Grifon. The bad omen made Bram step back, but too late. By sheer stupidity and bad luck, Josh had jinxed them both.

  Josh glared at Bram as he reached into a pocket of his jacket.

  “I brought insurance, courtesy of dear old dad. We’ve got nothing to worry about.” He pulled out a gun and grinned as if he had all the answers.

  “Are you insane? Put that away.” Bram stared at him and fumed. “I’m out of here. I didn’t sign up for this.”

  Bram turned to go, heading back toward the car that Josh had parked at the trailhead, but his friend grabbed his arm.

  “You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got the car keys. Man up, shit for brains.”

  Staring into Josh’s eyes, Bram knew everything would go sideways. Had he secretly wanted something bad to go down? The tweaked asshole had convinced him to be his wingman to score his precious crystal and Bram had agreed because he didn’t care what would happen, but the gun Josh brought ramped up stakes that were already stacked against him.

  Bram realized he could die tonight under Bunny Man Bridge. Did he even care? He wasn’t a kid anymore. He had choices now, didn’t he?

  “Hand over that gun. Empty your pockets.” A deep, raspy voice crawled under Bram’s skin.

  A man stepped from the tunnel as if he’d been born from the shadows and threatened them with a machete. Bram stared at the long blade that glinted under the moon until he forced his eyes to look at the man wielding the weapon. When a wall of stench hit him, Bram held his breath. The hulking man wore disheveled, filthy clothes and he reeked.

  He had the urge to run, but Josh ruined everything.

  “Back off, asshole.” Josh’s voice cracked as he aimed the gun at the old man’s face. Even in the dark, Bram saw the muzzle shake in his hand.

  “Give him what he wants, Josh,” Bram pleaded. “Please. It’s not worth it.”

  “I didn’t come here to get ripped off. My dad would kill me if I—”

  Josh never finished. The homeless man—looking like the crazed ghost of Douglas ‘Bunny Man’ Grifon—grabbed for Josh’s gun and wrestled him to the ground. Bram couldn’t move. He gasped for air and panicked when he couldn’t fill his lungs.

  “Stop. Please. We don’t want any trouble.” He yelled at the hefty man who outweighed Josh by fifty pounds.

  “Help! Someone help us!” Bram screamed until he lost his voice, but no one came. No headlights on the road over the bridge. Nothing.

  Josh’s eyes grew wide as he fought for his life. The old man grappled for control of the gun with one hand. With th
e other, he hacked at Josh with his machete in a brutal, frenzied attack. For a split second, Bram thought Josh stared up at him until a loud blast erupted. The shocking explosion shattered the night’s stillness and muzzle flash blinded him.

  Oh, God. Josh, no!

  Time froze, with Bram’s ears ringing and his body numb. As the man clamored to his feet and staggered toward him, Bram braced for a fight. He couldn’t move, not even to save his own life.

  The homeless man lurched for him, but he stayed put, his boots rooted to the path. He smelled the old man’s acrid breath and his foul odor, but something else froze Bram where he stood. A faint smell—rooted in his darkest memory—opened the floodgates to the horror he had witnessed at the age of twelve.

  Bram straddled a dangerous line—thrust between the looming threat of a man who would kill him and the terror of a past he couldn’t fight. As his mind filled with his worst waking nightmare, Bram saw the man’s eyes glaze over. When he clutched at his chest, black ink spilled through the homeless man’s fingers.

  Blood.

  He collapsed at Bram’s feet—shot dead by Josh—and Bram’s reality withered. He dropped to his knees and crumpled to the ground, shaking and under siege. Terrified faces and chilling screams spewed from his memory. Blind and helpless, he stared into the night sky as an ominous darkness ravaged his mind.

  ***

  Hours later

  His eyes fluttered open and Bram squinted into a blinding light. He raised a hand to shield his watery eyes. Something pressed hard against his back. It took him awhile to realize he lay on the cold ground and stared up at the sky, seeing the pastel and gray traces of morning.

  “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” A man’s voice coiled around him.

  He couldn’t place where the sound came from. A kaleidoscope of blurred colors spiraled through Bram’s fingers until a face emerged from the shattered pieces—a cop in uniform. What the hell? He sat up with help from the officer. His clothes and skin were soaked from the dew glistening on the grass around him and he had a blinding headache.

  From the corner of his eye, Bram saw a flurry of activity. When he turned to see the commotion, his eyes fixed on the dead man lying next to him—and he jumped. The old man’s eyes were milky white and his skin had turned doughy gray. Gnats and flies spiraled like a cloud over his face and landed on his eyeballs.

  “Holy shit!” He flinched and shoved away, but the cop stopped him.

  “Get up slow. Our techs need to gather evidence. Try not to disturb the scene,” the man said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  A warning sounded in his brain, blaring like a fog horn. Cops are not your friend. Keep your mouth shut. Bram crossed his arms and shook his head, determined to wait the cop out with his silence.

  “You’re under arrest, tough guy. Stand up.” The officer helped him to his feet. “Where’s the gun?”

  The gun. Josh had brought a gun.

  In a flash of recall, Bram remembered he hadn’t come alone. He searched for Josh, not knowing if his friend had lived or died last night.

  “Where’s Josh? Is he dead?”

  “Josh who?” the cop asked as he pulled Bram’s hands behind his back. “Are we gonna find another body?”

  After the officer handcuffed him, he winced when the metal cut into his wrists. Bram refused to answer. While Five-O frisked him, he searched the path and the weeds where Josh had fought the old man. The dirt and grasses had been trampled and Bram saw traces of blood, but he didn’t see his friend.

  He forced his gaze to the body at his feet. The dead man had a bullet hole in his chest and blood had soaked through his filthy clothes and congealed in the grass. The sight stirred more fragments of his memory, but the cop glared at him as if he knew what had happened. The officer saw nothing but a killer—and without Josh to tell his side of the story, Bram had nothing. What would Josh say to the police…that he pulled the trigger in self-defense, after he’d come to buy crank?

  If Josh ran and left him behind to take the fall, Bram would be alone to face murder charges. He could give up Josh’s name to the cops. His friend had admitted to taking the gun from his father’s collection. If Josh hadn’t tossed it, detectives could run ballistics tests on the weapon to confirm the gun had been Josh’s. That fact could tip the scales in his favor and support his side of the story, but it wouldn’t mean he’d be free. The police would make two arrests. He’d drag Josh down with him.

  Bram heaved a sigh when he realized what would happen. If detectives looked into his past, they’d know they had their killer—like mother, like son.

  He shut his eyes and fought the burn of tears. Bram deserved his fate, but a part of him wanted to fight.

  In a moment of clarity and desperation, a name came to him—the only guy he trusted.

  “I need to talk to Jax Malloy. He’s a fire fighter in Dallas at Station 58. I have his number in my cell. I’m not saying anything until I see him. I have to see him.”

  When the cop rolled his eyes, Bram reasoned with him another way.

  “I’m only seventeen. He’s my guardian.”

  “If he’s your guardian, why are you in D.C., smart ass?”

  The cop hadn’t bought his story, but Bram had no incentive to cooperate. He needed to stall. One phone call to Jax and the man would fly to D.C. He had to.

  “Good question, but I meant what I said. I’m not talking until I see him.”

  The cop clenched his jaw and grabbed him by the arm. After Bram slid his long legs into the backseat of a police cruiser—a red, white and blue Ford Interceptor sedan—the officer shut the door and left him alone with his thoughts. He remembered the face of Jax Malloy, the man who had thrown a lifeline to a twelve-year-old kid on the worst day of his life.

  Ashamed to reach out to Jax now, Bram didn’t know if he could face the man, but he had no choice. At seventeen, he’d hit rock bottom—again.

  Chapter 2

  Malloy ranch

  Dallas, Texas

  Two hours later

  Jax Malloy didn’t hesitate after he received a long distance call from Washington to his ranch and he spoke to Bram Cross, a ‘hard to forget’ kid. His gut twisted when he heard Bram had been arrested for murder.

  The kid’s voice cracked over the phone. Jax heard the fear and raw emotion, loud and clear. Bram had been dealt a bad hand and things had gotten worse. Although he’d lost touch with Cross, he would never ignore his cry for help—not after their lives had careened together five years ago.

  Bram had become his ‘Cross’ to bear.

  Jax had to do something. He needed somebody he trusted in D.C. and that meant one man—Supervisory Special Agent Ryker Townsend, a profiler with the FBI. Before he made airline reservations to Washington, he’d have to explain things to his wife, Skye, but she would understand. She had a generous heart.

  Jax made the call to Townsend to ask him a huge favor.

  “I need to speak to SSA Ryker Townsend. This is extremely important.” Jax conveyed his urgency, but the operator at Quantico hadn’t been impressed. No doubt the woman had heard it all.

  “Hold please.”

  Jax rolled his eyes and paced his kitchen. To calm down, he settled by the farmhouse sink and stared out the window at his ranch.

  Come on, Ryker. Take my call.

  He’d met Ryker in D.C. through the International Association of Fire Fighters during its annual International Burn Camp. The IAFF selected teen survivors, ages thirteen through fifteen, and paired them with fire fighter camp counselors from each region for a week-long annual tour of D.C. in late September—all expenses paid. Jax never turned down the IAFF when it called for volunteers and still kept in touch with the burn victims he’d met over the years.

  He met Ryker as a younger agent during his first years at the bureau, before he became a rising star within the FBI. Ryker had volunteered to conduct the IAFF tour of Quantico and had made an impression on Jax.

  “Hey, Malloy,” Ryker c
ame on the line with a smile in his voice, but that changed. “The operator said your call was urgent. What’s up?”

  “I need a favor, Ryker. A big one.”

  He told his friend about Bram. Townsend led a team of investigators who traveled wherever investigations led them, all over the world. Jax knew a murder case on Ryker’s doorstep wouldn’t fall under FBI jurisdiction, but he had no one else in D.C.

  Whatever Ryker would do, it had to be personal. If Townsend intervened, it would be a long shot.

  ***

  Metropolitan Police Department, D.C.

  Seventh District Station – Alabama Avenue

  1:00 p.m.

  Ryker Townsend

  “Who are you here to see…again?”

  “Lieutenant Desmond Waters. He’s expecting me.”

  I reached into my pocket to retrieve my FBI badge. Waters headed up the district’s Detectives Unit. Before I went directly to the lead man on the case, Detective Reginald Barry, a courtesy call to the man in charge of the unit never hurt. I didn’t like politics, but I’d learned to play the game in D.C.

  The wary desk sergeant gave me the side eye when I flashed my creds. The FBI had a cordial relationship with the MPD when politics called for it, but a contentious one whenever individuals butted heads over case jurisdictions. He directed me to a seat in the waiting area and made a call. Ten minutes later, I heard my name.

  “SSA Townsend?” An older woman dressed in a tan suit and pearls came to escort me behind secured doors. “Lieutenant Waters can see you now. Right this way.”

  I played nice and pressed the flesh with the LT, something I normally hated. My team’s number two lead and my number one girlfriend, Lucinda Crowley, usually intervened to do ‘meet and greets’ while I worked crime scenes alone to connect with the dead.

  Lucinda knew my secret.