Right Behind You

RIGHT BEHIND YOU CHUCK LEMOINE Copyright © 2023 by Chuck Lemoine All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. I would like to thank a great group of women who have supported me from the beginning. The Bag of Moms book club, affectionately known as the BOM Squad. You’re the best! Chuck 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 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Epilogue 1 Max Salgado let out a breath, slow and steady. He opened his eyes and focused on the dark silhouette at the end of the lane. His arms were outstretched in front of him, and the weight of the 9mm Luger semi-automatic settled heavy and felt grounding in his hands. Pull the trigger, he thought. You got this. The dark form of the man was right where he needed it to be—a clean shot. It was something he’d done a thousand, make that ten-thousand times before. Max closed his eyes again, but this time, rather than the soothing calm of darkness he often used to settle his nerves before taking the first shot, memories came flooding back. Unwanted memories. As if he’d been flung back in time and space, he could hear the incessant dripping of the pipes he’d been tied to years ago—held captive, chained like an animal. This isn’t happening, he thought. But it felt so real. Drip, drip, drip. A squeak of a sewer rat as it scurried by sent his heart racing. The bindings around his wrists tightened when he tried to move away from the disease-ridden rodent. But that wasn’t his only fear, if he let himself sleep, or God forbid, pass out, the little fucking rat would be back—only this time with a hundred of his friends, hungry and looking for flesh. Drip, drip, drip. Sweat dripped from his hair and ran in streams down his back. His shirt, now soaked, clung to him as he tried his best to remain standing. I’m so tired. I’ve been standing for what feels like days. The thought of the rats, blood dripping from their teeth, made him shake, adrenaline seeping back into his veins. The pipe he was tied to was strong; industrial strength if he had his guess. After hours, or had it been days, of trying to pull it from the wall or beams overhead, he’d given up. His stomach lurched. What was worse? The pain in his wrists where deep cuts had formed, or the sheer agony of defeat? He shook his head. “Fuck you,” he yelled out into the darkness and then added under his breath, “I’ll kill you, if it’s the last thing I do.” Drip, drip, drip. Clink. Was he back? Max’s legs began to shake, not with the strain of holding up his own weight after so long, but with the last bit of energy he had left. The last bit of self-preservation he could muster. Had the monster who’d taken him here come back to finish the job? A series of chains rattling and the screech of metal on metal grew louder as the killer approached. How far away was the entrance to his makeshift prison? It was impossible to tell, but he hoped it would be close enough that, if given half the chance, he could make a run for it—despite whatever injuries he would no doubt acquire along the way. Across the room was a single white door, dingy and barely on its hinges. The sound of foot falls against the concrete floor scraped to a halt, and the knob turned. C’mon, open the door. Fight me. I’m not spending another day in here, he thought. Bolstered by his new-found rage, he stood tall, arms still tied above his head. The pain in both wrists, the ache in his low back, even the stinging gashes on his face that never seemed to heal enough to stop hurting when he sweat, suddenly vanished. Now, the only thing he felt was the beating of his heart and the ragged breaths he desperately tried to control. Show no fear. The door creaked open and in stepped the Los Angeles Butcher. The monster was responsible for a dozen kidnappings and murders across the city. His victims were seemingly random targets with no rhyme or reason; old and young, men and women. The look in the Butcher’s eye sent goosebumps spreading across Max’s body. A sudden chill in the air as if the presence of evil had somehow sucked the hot, humid, and moldy conditions right out of the room. “Ah,” the Butcher said. “You’re awake.” His yellow, crooked smile made Max’s belly sour. He’d seen the bite marks left behind by the Butcher on many of the victims. These marks weren’t just bruises, but premortem, deep, savage cuts and punctures. The sight of the madman’s dentition, jagged and wild-like, made Max shudder. Had he tasted the victim’s blood? Had he consumed bits of them to gain power or forever have them with him? Or had he simply been a sick piece of shit who relished in the pain and fear of others? No way in hell are you going to eat me. Max swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. The Butcher closed the gap between them with surprising swiftness, pulling out a large knife from a sheath attached to his waistband. The blade was well-suited for a horror movie; long, shiny, and glinted ominously in the sparse lighting. Only, this was no slasher film, and he would never give this psychopath the pleasure of hearing him