Remington Dean is Doc Holliday meets Raylan Givens, set in the modern Colorado Rockies. When a local murder hints at the arrival of organized crime and conspiracy in a small town, the former minister turned law man will rely on his quick draw and even quicker wit to solve the mystery. But the murder may hold answers for a deeper secret that ended his career as a Texas Ranger and sent him to investigate crimes with the National Parks Service.
The first book in the Rocky Mountain Gothic series introduces you to the complex characters in a world where the rich live in the valley, the poor scrape by on the mountaintops, and they are both trying to survive- even if it is at the expense of each other.
The first book in the Rocky Mountain Gothic series introduces you to the complex characters in a world where the rich live in the valley, the poor scrape by on the mountaintops, and they are both trying to survive- even if it is at the expense of each other.
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PROLOGUE
The sun was still a half hour from fully rising above the ridge, but the golden rays were already falling upon the aspens and pines of the Rockies just northwest of Denver. It was early October, and those golden aspen leaves twirled in the wind carrying a bitter chill that would deter most people from venturing out for a morning hike.
Remington Dean was not most people.
Dean was in his early-thirties and in exceptionally good shape. His brown hair was swept back on his head, but the strenuous hiking had caused a few tendrils to fall on the side of his face, framing a bearded and ruggedly handsome face. He wore a gray military style jacket, tattered at the cuffs and frayed at the edges, a fitting metaphor for the driven Texas Ranger that was chasing a bad man.
An evil man that needed to be put down.
One way or another.
About a year before, a handful of people turned up murdered in Dallas. The victims had at first been nothing to worry the authorities too much. A couple gangbangers. Then they killed a key witness in a case against a corrupt politician. Then the politician was found dead. That brought Dean onto the case.
All forensics pointed to the same caliber gun, and the connections became clear. The politician had been taking money from an organized crime ‘family.’ That term was used loosely, because no one knew who the members of the group were. But the witness did. And so did the politician.
Dean discovered the gangbangers were also low-level runners for several criminal outfits, and pieced together they might have also couriered for the mysterious crime bosses. Dean began to explore those connections, and the trail went cold.
No, it just…vanished.
Leads were gone, witnesses left town or died under mysterious circumstances. Shockingly, the evidence disappeared. He began to investigate corruption in his own unit of the Texas Rangers.
Dean was getting close.
Then Dean’s wife was murdered. And a note was left.
“Serves you right.”
After that, the murders stopped.
Until two weeks before that day on the mountainside. A murderer with the same M.O. came across the wire, and Dean had to go to Colorado to see for himself.
The two gangland style killings drew the attention of a couple Denver PD detectives, Walt Marino and Bart Lorry. Lorry was not really a fan of Dean, but Dean didn’t care- he got that a lot. But he and Marino hit it off well. After just two days, they found the suspect, one Dmitri Koskoff. Dmitri somehow realized he was being followed and made for the mountains.
Now, the sun rose on their pursuit, and Dean knew they were close.
“Slow down, Dean,” Marino called out. “We aren’t as young and virile as you.”
“But I am as young and virile as our query,” Dean pointed out. “Don’t want to lose him again.” He spoke with a noticeable Texas drawl, but not so overpowering that he sounded daft or unintelligent. It was a Matthew McConaughey timbre.
Lorry plopped down on the ground and leaned against a rock. “I-I can’t. Let the kid go, and I’ll stay here in case Koskoff doubles back.”
Dean paused and looked back. Lorry was in terrible shape, but Marino was fit, especially for a man of about fifty. Dean guessed the balding detective was trying to cover for his partner by claiming they were both having difficulty keeping up. Dean could tell things like that. He could tell a lot of things about people and their behaviors.
Like where Koskoff had gone.
“Okay, stay here, catch your breath. I’ll check up the trail a bit.” Dean trotted up a switchback and lost sight of the others as he tried to get the drop on the suspect.
Then he stopped. Koskoff was there, in the same area they were, Dean could feel it. Sense it. Koskoff was a professional hitman, and he was good at it. So the murderer knew how to get away, but he also knew when he had to take a stand and deal with his pursuers.
Then Dean heard the gunshots.
Back where Lorry and Marino stopped.
He left the trail and raced down the uneven ground, dodging small aspen trees and not-so-small stones strewn about the forest floor. He saw immediately that Lorry was badly wounded, lying back on the ground next to the rock he had propped up against. Marino was wounded as well, but not in danger.
If Koskoff stopped shooting at him.
“KOSKOFF!” Dean shouted. The shooting stopped, and Dean walked into the meadow.
“Dumb move, Ranger,” Koskoff shouted and began to fire.
Dean walked right into the hail of gunfire, never drawing his weapon. He shouted, “Be a real man and face me in a draw, you poser.”
The shooting stopped, and Koskoff stepped out. “Like a real gunslinger from the wild west?” Koskoff spoke with a faint Russian accent, but Dean knew the man had lived his entire life in the United States. The accent was from his time in numerous Little Odessas around the States, but it was often only used when he was trying to intimidate.
Or when he was scared.
Dean understood that.
He did the same with his Texas drawl.
“Something like that,” Dean crept closer, flipped his coat back to reveal the handle of his black Colt Python. He tapped the handle with his right index finger. “You go, I go,” he said casually. “But first, who put the hit on Amy Dean?”
A look of recognition came over Koskoff’s face. “It’s you! She was your wife?” Koskoff laughed. “Oh man, did you start trailing me because you thought I took that shot? Ha! Wasn’t me. But something tells me you aren’t going to take my word.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed at his prey. It was highly likely the man was lying to buy time. But if he wasn’t…
“Alright, say it wasn’t you,” Dean said. “Who was it that mimicked your style down to a ‘T?’ Evil twin?”
Koskoff laughed. “You got no idea how big the network is, Tex. You think I’m the only hitter that works for those guys? You’re dumber than you look. I guess it’s just my dumb luck you got yourself convinced I killed your wife, huh?”
“Maybe,” Dean said, his Texas drawl stretching the word out just a bit. “But if you don’t pull, and let me take you in, it could be good. You tell me who killed my wife, who ordered the hit, and you might be able to walk out of here. In cuffs, but alive.”
“What? Become a snitch? Nah,” Koskoff was eyeing Dean closely. “But I will tell you that you came to the right place.”
Dean cocked his head to the side. “Denver?”
Koskoff shrugged. “In the neighborhood.”
“The trigger or the client?” Dean asked.
“What makes you so sure they aren’t the same, Ranger?”
Koskoff went for his gun, but a thunderous crack rang out before he got it level. Dean stood, legs apart, his hand extended out at the waist and smoke pouring from the barrel of the revolver. Koskoff fell to his knees, blood pouring from his chest. “A revolver?” he asked, dropping his own semi-automatic to the ground. K-kinda old-fashioned, isn’t it?”
Dean walked over, kicked Koskoff’s gun away and knelt down. “Seems to work just fine. Now tell me, with your last breath, something that will redeem your worthless life. Who ordered the hit on my wife?”
Koskoff laughed, and blood bubbled out and ran down his lips. “No one. The hitters were looking for <cough> you. You found something <cough> that incriminated somebody connected. You just didn’t know it yet. They <cough> wanted to keep you from realizing it.”
“Hitters?” Dean asked, shocked.
Koskoff nodded and spat out blood. “Two or th-three I heard. You pissed off the wrong people, Ranger.”
Dean bit his lip and looked off at the rising sun. He looked back at Koskoff. “Thank you. Now, I sincerely hope you are right with the Lord, cuz you don’t have much time.”
Koskoff opened his shirt and showed a Russian Orthodox cross. “That’s right <cough> H-heard you were a man of the cloth before y-you <cough> became the law. Heh. Worry <cough> not, Ranger. You didn’t send me to Hell…” Coughing racked his body, and his breathing began to make a rattling noise. The assassin was a man of contradictions, it seemed. Dean could relate. Koskoff coughed more blood, then fell over, dead.
Dean stood up, pulled out a cell phone, and called for a helicopter rescue. Then he walked over to check the detectives.
“Marino, you good?” he called, going to Lorry.
“Been better, but I’ll make it. Lorry?”
“Hurt pretty bad, but not fatal if they get here quickly,” Dean said. “That’s the problem with those semis- what you get in compactness and mag capacity you lose in accuracy.”
“Never seen someone so quick on the draw,” Marino said propping himself up on his unwounded shoulder. “You get the answers you wanted?”
“Not really.”
“So, what’s next?”
Dean looked at the sun, now about halfway up the ridge, still covered by the rising granite yet unveiling its light upon the valley all the same. As if the dawn signified both the end of a long dark pursuit, and the beginning of a whole new hunt.
“Keep askin’ the wrong questions of the right people.”
The sun was still a half hour from fully rising above the ridge, but the golden rays were already falling upon the aspens and pines of the Rockies just northwest of Denver. It was early October, and those golden aspen leaves twirled in the wind carrying a bitter chill that would deter most people from venturing out for a morning hike.
Remington Dean was not most people.
Dean was in his early-thirties and in exceptionally good shape. His brown hair was swept back on his head, but the strenuous hiking had caused a few tendrils to fall on the side of his face, framing a bearded and ruggedly handsome face. He wore a gray military style jacket, tattered at the cuffs and frayed at the edges, a fitting metaphor for the driven Texas Ranger that was chasing a bad man.
An evil man that needed to be put down.
One way or another.
About a year before, a handful of people turned up murdered in Dallas. The victims had at first been nothing to worry the authorities too much. A couple gangbangers. Then they killed a key witness in a case against a corrupt politician. Then the politician was found dead. That brought Dean onto the case.
All forensics pointed to the same caliber gun, and the connections became clear. The politician had been taking money from an organized crime ‘family.’ That term was used loosely, because no one knew who the members of the group were. But the witness did. And so did the politician.
Dean discovered the gangbangers were also low-level runners for several criminal outfits, and pieced together they might have also couriered for the mysterious crime bosses. Dean began to explore those connections, and the trail went cold.
No, it just…vanished.
Leads were gone, witnesses left town or died under mysterious circumstances. Shockingly, the evidence disappeared. He began to investigate corruption in his own unit of the Texas Rangers.
Dean was getting close.
Then Dean’s wife was murdered. And a note was left.
“Serves you right.”
After that, the murders stopped.
Until two weeks before that day on the mountainside. A murderer with the same M.O. came across the wire, and Dean had to go to Colorado to see for himself.
The two gangland style killings drew the attention of a couple Denver PD detectives, Walt Marino and Bart Lorry. Lorry was not really a fan of Dean, but Dean didn’t care- he got that a lot. But he and Marino hit it off well. After just two days, they found the suspect, one Dmitri Koskoff. Dmitri somehow realized he was being followed and made for the mountains.
Now, the sun rose on their pursuit, and Dean knew they were close.
“Slow down, Dean,” Marino called out. “We aren’t as young and virile as you.”
“But I am as young and virile as our query,” Dean pointed out. “Don’t want to lose him again.” He spoke with a noticeable Texas drawl, but not so overpowering that he sounded daft or unintelligent. It was a Matthew McConaughey timbre.
Lorry plopped down on the ground and leaned against a rock. “I-I can’t. Let the kid go, and I’ll stay here in case Koskoff doubles back.”
Dean paused and looked back. Lorry was in terrible shape, but Marino was fit, especially for a man of about fifty. Dean guessed the balding detective was trying to cover for his partner by claiming they were both having difficulty keeping up. Dean could tell things like that. He could tell a lot of things about people and their behaviors.
Like where Koskoff had gone.
“Okay, stay here, catch your breath. I’ll check up the trail a bit.” Dean trotted up a switchback and lost sight of the others as he tried to get the drop on the suspect.
Then he stopped. Koskoff was there, in the same area they were, Dean could feel it. Sense it. Koskoff was a professional hitman, and he was good at it. So the murderer knew how to get away, but he also knew when he had to take a stand and deal with his pursuers.
Then Dean heard the gunshots.
Back where Lorry and Marino stopped.
He left the trail and raced down the uneven ground, dodging small aspen trees and not-so-small stones strewn about the forest floor. He saw immediately that Lorry was badly wounded, lying back on the ground next to the rock he had propped up against. Marino was wounded as well, but not in danger.
If Koskoff stopped shooting at him.
“KOSKOFF!” Dean shouted. The shooting stopped, and Dean walked into the meadow.
“Dumb move, Ranger,” Koskoff shouted and began to fire.
Dean walked right into the hail of gunfire, never drawing his weapon. He shouted, “Be a real man and face me in a draw, you poser.”
The shooting stopped, and Koskoff stepped out. “Like a real gunslinger from the wild west?” Koskoff spoke with a faint Russian accent, but Dean knew the man had lived his entire life in the United States. The accent was from his time in numerous Little Odessas around the States, but it was often only used when he was trying to intimidate.
Or when he was scared.
Dean understood that.
He did the same with his Texas drawl.
“Something like that,” Dean crept closer, flipped his coat back to reveal the handle of his black Colt Python. He tapped the handle with his right index finger. “You go, I go,” he said casually. “But first, who put the hit on Amy Dean?”
A look of recognition came over Koskoff’s face. “It’s you! She was your wife?” Koskoff laughed. “Oh man, did you start trailing me because you thought I took that shot? Ha! Wasn’t me. But something tells me you aren’t going to take my word.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed at his prey. It was highly likely the man was lying to buy time. But if he wasn’t…
“Alright, say it wasn’t you,” Dean said. “Who was it that mimicked your style down to a ‘T?’ Evil twin?”
Koskoff laughed. “You got no idea how big the network is, Tex. You think I’m the only hitter that works for those guys? You’re dumber than you look. I guess it’s just my dumb luck you got yourself convinced I killed your wife, huh?”
“Maybe,” Dean said, his Texas drawl stretching the word out just a bit. “But if you don’t pull, and let me take you in, it could be good. You tell me who killed my wife, who ordered the hit, and you might be able to walk out of here. In cuffs, but alive.”
“What? Become a snitch? Nah,” Koskoff was eyeing Dean closely. “But I will tell you that you came to the right place.”
Dean cocked his head to the side. “Denver?”
Koskoff shrugged. “In the neighborhood.”
“The trigger or the client?” Dean asked.
“What makes you so sure they aren’t the same, Ranger?”
Koskoff went for his gun, but a thunderous crack rang out before he got it level. Dean stood, legs apart, his hand extended out at the waist and smoke pouring from the barrel of the revolver. Koskoff fell to his knees, blood pouring from his chest. “A revolver?” he asked, dropping his own semi-automatic to the ground. K-kinda old-fashioned, isn’t it?”
Dean walked over, kicked Koskoff’s gun away and knelt down. “Seems to work just fine. Now tell me, with your last breath, something that will redeem your worthless life. Who ordered the hit on my wife?”
Koskoff laughed, and blood bubbled out and ran down his lips. “No one. The hitters were looking for <cough> you. You found something <cough> that incriminated somebody connected. You just didn’t know it yet. They <cough> wanted to keep you from realizing it.”
“Hitters?” Dean asked, shocked.
Koskoff nodded and spat out blood. “Two or th-three I heard. You pissed off the wrong people, Ranger.”
Dean bit his lip and looked off at the rising sun. He looked back at Koskoff. “Thank you. Now, I sincerely hope you are right with the Lord, cuz you don’t have much time.”
Koskoff opened his shirt and showed a Russian Orthodox cross. “That’s right <cough> H-heard you were a man of the cloth before y-you <cough> became the law. Heh. Worry <cough> not, Ranger. You didn’t send me to Hell…” Coughing racked his body, and his breathing began to make a rattling noise. The assassin was a man of contradictions, it seemed. Dean could relate. Koskoff coughed more blood, then fell over, dead.
Dean stood up, pulled out a cell phone, and called for a helicopter rescue. Then he walked over to check the detectives.
“Marino, you good?” he called, going to Lorry.
“Been better, but I’ll make it. Lorry?”
“Hurt pretty bad, but not fatal if they get here quickly,” Dean said. “That’s the problem with those semis- what you get in compactness and mag capacity you lose in accuracy.”
“Never seen someone so quick on the draw,” Marino said propping himself up on his unwounded shoulder. “You get the answers you wanted?”
“Not really.”
“So, what’s next?”
Dean looked at the sun, now about halfway up the ridge, still covered by the rising granite yet unveiling its light upon the valley all the same. As if the dawn signified both the end of a long dark pursuit, and the beginning of a whole new hunt.
“Keep askin’ the wrong questions of the right people.”