Deep Dirty Truth
Lori Anderson Book Three
Steph Broadribb
In memory of my wonderful Dad – Jim Broadribb.
I miss you every day.
With love, always.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
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24
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26
27
28
29
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31
32
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35
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57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Deep Dirty Truth
1
I never saw it coming. Got totally blindsided. That’s the God’s honest truth.
See, we’ve gotten ourselves into a routine of sorts – me, JT and Dakota. Living all together in my two-bed apartment at the Clearwater Village complex, playing our version of house. It’s still a little awkward, with each of us taking time to find our rhythm in the shared space of each other’s lives. But, you know, all that domestic stuff? It’s starting to feel real good, kind of natural. I should’ve known something bad was lurking around the corner, and some kind of evil was about to storm in and mess it all up.
Because that’s what happens when you’ve a dirty secret in your past, and a price on your head from Old Man Bonchese – the head of the Miami Mob crime family – because of something he’s discovered you did ten years back. Someone you killed: a lying, cheating, murdering mobster. Thomas ‘Tommy’ Ford; my wife-beating, son-of-a-bitch husband.
First they thought JT was responsible. Nearly had him killed a couple of months back – multiple stab wounds, busted ribs, punctured lung and a heart attack. But he’s strong. A fighter. And he’s convalescing well.
But they wouldn’t let it go. Word was they’d got new information and were now gunning hard for me; raising the bounty, getting every low-life, bottom-feeding asshole to think they should chance their luck.
As it was, they waited until September 19th to make their move. The day started with a shared breakfast of bagels and cream cheese, followed by me taking Dakota to school and leaving JT to do the dishes before his physical therapy appointment. It seemed like a regular day; just like the day before, and the day before that. But the schedule got changed up. Our rhythm violently disrupted. And by 08:29 that morning our world was shot to shit.
2
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 08:24
It’s mad busy outside the school, and I can’t squeeze the Jeep into the drop-off area, so I continue along the street a ways before finding a spot that’s clear. I glance in the rearview mirror at Dakota as I shove the gear into park. She’s fiddling with her cellphone, brow creased and front teeth biting her lower lip in concentration, playing whatever game is the latest craze.
‘Come on, honey. You don’t want to be late.’
She nods, but doesn’t look up. Jumping out, I run around to her side and open the door. She puts the cell into her bag and I gesture for her to get out. She’s got a coy expression on her that usually means she’s revving up to ask something.
She takes her time unfastening her belt and gets her bags together real slow. Clears her throat. ‘So JT said it would be okay, Momma, and you know how much I love the Tampa Bay Rays.’
Her love of the Tampa Bay Rays is new. It started the moment JT said they were his favourite local sports team, second only to the Yankees. I lift her science project – a papier-mâché model of the planets in the solar system – out of the trunk.
‘Sweetie, hurry.’
She dangles her legs out of the Jeep. Her knee socks are scrunched around her ankles, her shoes are new, but the toe of the right one is already scuffed. ‘So can I?’
They’ve been talking about it the last three weeks. JT wants to take her to a ballgame at Tropicana Field and she’s keen to go. I want them to have some father-daughter time, even if we haven’t yet told her that JT is her father, but I’m worried the trip is too soon. Not for their relationship, that’s doing just fine, but for JT’s health. He’s still healing, and although the external bruises have faded now, he’s no way close to being back to full strength. Standing for any length of time makes him dog-tired and he still can’t walk any kind of distance.
‘Maybe, honey.’
Dakota sits on the edge of the seat. She pushes her strawberry-blonde bangs out of her eyes and looks up at me through long lashes. ‘But why only maybe? Why not yes?’
I smile. She’s persistent. Determined, just like her momma. ‘How about soon?’
She frowns. ‘It’s better than no, I guess.’
I laugh. ‘Yes, it is. Now, scoot.’
She grins, and slides out of the Jeep. Swinging her bags over her shoulder, she takes the science project and trots towards the school gates. I stand on the sidewalk in the morning sunshine, leaning on the trunk, and watch her join the flow of kids rushing into school. She’s been through so much in the past year, yet she seems happy. She’s been abducted, seen men die and been in fear of her life. That’s stuff no nine-year-old should ever have to experience.
As Dakota reaches the school gate she turns, waves and disappears inside.
I watch her, daring to hope the psychological scars are fading. The guilt that what happened to her was because of me, because of my job, remains heavy in my chest, and I know I’ll never forgive myself for it. But I have to push through. Move on and stay focused on the future. We all do.
On the street close behind me, a vehicle brakes hard, pulling me from my thoughts. I hear a door slide open and glance over my shoulder, glimpsing a van with blacked-out windows that’s stopped, butted up against my Jeep, blocking me in.
I start to turn. ‘Hey, what are you…?’
Two men with shaved heads jump out of the vehicle. Hands yank me backwards. Fingers dig into my shoulders and hips, pinning my arms. I kick back, fighting hard, but they’re pulling me off balance. I can’t get any power into my blows.
The voice in my right ear is low, menacing. ‘You keep wiggling, you’ll only die tired.’
I pay their warning no mind. As they haul me across the blacktop I’m screaming, bellowing, frantically looking for someone who can help. But there’s no one; the other parents are inside the school gate, out of sight and oblivious. I’m too far away.
‘Let me go … get your goddamn hands off—’
Tape is slapped across my mouth, silencing my shouts. Trapped inside, my screams and curses echo in my head. Rough hands hood me. The black material turns the world around me dark.
Then I’m off the ground, lifted u
p and back. I’m still fighting, punching, bucking against them, but I’m outnumbered and they’re too strong. I’m losing the battle. Seconds later they release me. Gravity drops me onto the floor of the van. Pain shoots through my hip, my knee, my elbow. My face hits something solid and I hear my jaw crack. I taste blood in my mouth.
The door slides shut. The engine fires, and we’re moving.
Less than fifteen seconds from start to finish.
I doubt anyone even knows I’m gone.
3
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 08:31
Panic never helped no one, and I’ll be damned if it’ll get the better of me.
Heart punching in my chest, double-speed, I take stock of the situation. I’m on my back – not a good position as it leaves my stomach exposed, my vital organs vulnerable to easy damage, so I arch my back, turn myself over.
My captors have other ideas. One grabs me, pulling me across the van floor. I kick hard at them. Feel my toe connect and hear a grunt. The moment of triumph doesn’t last. I feel more hands on me, flipping me onto my side and clamping me still. My arms are yanked behind me and I feel tape against my skin, binding my wrists, then my ankles. Next moment they’ve gotten me hogtied. They’re are fast, practised and methodical. This isn’t their first time.
So I make a choice and quit fighting. Conserve energy. But I’m sure as hell not giving up. I’m harvesting data; every sound, every bump in the blacktop, every gradient in the terrain, is a clue about where they’re taking me.
I close my eyes. Listen real hard. At first I mostly hear the thump of my pulse gunfire loud in my ears, but as I force my breathing to slow, clearing my mind of panic, more sounds start to register.
The muffler’s rattling and the air conditioning is dialled up high. I hear low voices, male, up front. I can’t make out their words, but I can tell that there are two of them. Wondering how many others there are, I move about the van floor, act restless and try to push myself up with my elbow. Rough hands on my shoulders and my hips force me down hard. My face slams against the floor. Pain shoots through my forehead.
A third hand presses down on me. The same voice as before snarls in my ear, ‘Quiet down, bitch.’
I don’t appreciate his tone, but I’ve got me my answer: there are two people riding in the back with me, so with the pair up front that makes four in total. Four guys sent to grab one woman.
Numbers like that tell me these people take no kind of chances.
We come to a stop, at an intersection I’m guessing. Over the blowers of the air conditioning, I hear a blast of Miley Cyrus. It’s to our left, likely coming from another vehicle. Then the van’s engine guns hard, and we take a left, leaving the music behind.
I need to get my bearings but it’s tricky without any visual references. I think back to the route we’ve taken, run through each of the turns made since leaving Dakota’s school. I feel about-faced, but figure we’re maybe going north-east. Heading out of town. Question is why; is this a random snatch, or am I their target?
Right now, there’s no way to know for sure.
My captors are silent. The blacktop is smooth, the turns minimal. The van coasts on at a steady speed, doing nothing that might attract attention.
I concentrate on my breathing. Try to ignore the musty stench of the hood, the oppressive gag of the tape and the sweat running down my back. I push away thoughts of Dakota and JT, and the fear that I’ll never see them again. There might be four of these guys, but I’ll never go down easy. I’ll wait it out, looking for my chance to fight back.
Minutes later the van brakes and we start to reduce speed.
I flinch as a hand grips the back of my neck. ‘No noise, no tricks.’
We’re almost at a stop. I hear the buzz of a window being lowered and the clatter of coins hitting metal. The hand around my neck squeezes harder.
‘Have a nice day.’ A woman says from outside the van. There’s a pause, followed by an electronic ping. Then we’re moving again.
The window buzzes back up and the pressure on my neck releases. I know where we are. The woman was in a teller booth. We’ve just passed through a toll.
My captors used coins – they don’t have a resident’s sunshine pass that would’ve allowed them to use the lane for automated toll payments, and that means they’re most likely from out of town.
As the van reaches cruising speed two things are real clear: we’re on the freeway, and we’re not in Clermont anymore.
Not a car jacking.
Not robbery.
Not rape, at least not yet.
Then what the hell is it that these men want with me?
Again I run through the turns we’ve taken since leaving Dakota’s school. I concentrate hard on the direction we’re taking along the freeway. I think about the enemies I’ve made during my time as a bounty hunter, and the threats I’ve gotten since. The realisation of who could be behind this slithers up my spine and into my mind like a copperhead.
I clench my fingers together. Grit my teeth beneath the tape.
I’ve seen the faces of the two men with shaved heads, and I’m clear about what they’re capable of. If I’m right, if these men work for who I think they do, then my situation is way worse than a random abduction. If I want to live, I have to figure out a way to get free. I need to be ready. Stay vigilant for any opportunity. Because one thing’s for sure: these men are playing this game for keeps.
If they get their way, I won’t get out of this alive.
4
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 12:54
We take a right turn off the highway. The wheels judder across the uneven track. The muffler rattles louder. I wince as my ribs bash against the van floor. The men up front are talking in low voices. I figure we’ve reached our destination.
Minutes later we brake to a halt. Doors open. Heat floods the vehicle. There’s shouting, new voices, then I feel hands grip my ankles and I’m yanked across the floor of the van and dumped onto the dirt outside.
They cut the hogtie but keep my wrists and ankles bound. As they haul me to my feet I feel sensation start to return to my limbs. Pins and needles stab at my muscles, waking the nerves that went numb hours ago. My mouth’s as parched as a storm drain in the dry season. I could really use a drink.
Doesn’t happen. My captors keep me gagged and hooded. Powerless. Disoriented. That tells me that they’re still being careful, not taking chances. The hood blinds me to my surroundings, and if I can’t see where I am, I can’t figure out the best escape route.
‘Barn two,’ a man says. His accent has a hint of New York about it. I search my memory, but I come up empty. ‘Get yourselves to the house when it’s done.’
I inhale sharply. When it’s done – what does that mean?
The hands grasping my arms lift me off my feet and drag me across the dirt. I want to fight back, but that’s not the smart play here. I have to conserve my energy, pick my moment real careful. So I go limp, make them work harder at moving me. Tell myself to bide my time and hope to hell I have time to bide.
The guy on my right mutters under his breath about me being heavier than I look, and the one on my left grunts in agreement. Even through the hood I can smell his cheap cologne; it’s vinegary and applied overzealously. The scent of a low-rank foot soldier aspiring towards a style they know nothing about.
They continue dragging me across the dirt.
I hear the distant clank of machinery. The sun’s high and hot. This morning, in my hurry to get Dakota to class, I forgot to put on sunscreen, and now the rays burn my skin. The air is still, no hint of a breeze. I figure it must be near on lunchtime, and I wonder if JT is worried yet.
‘Here?’ the cologne-wearer says.
‘Yeah.’
I smell them before I hear them. Way stronger than the cologne, and a whole lot nastier. Then I hear the stampede of cloven feet across baked earth, and the grunts and snuffles getting louder.
Pigs.
I tense.
Dig my heels into the dirt and swallow hard. If they toss me into the pigpen I’m a goner for sure. Hooded, with my arms and legs bound, I’ll stand no kind of chance against a herd of hungry swine, and, from the noise they’re making, they sure sound hungry.
The guy to my right laughs and jabs me in the ribs with his elbow. ‘You can smell ’em then, our little pets?’
I try to get my heart rate under control and think logically. It makes no sense to snatch me and drive all those hours just to feed me to these beasts. If they wanted to get me dead right off the bat then a bullet in the head would’ve done the job real nice. They’re messing with me, but I don’t think they’re going to kill me, not at this moment anyways. So I force my body to relax, release my heels from the dirt and wait to see what happens.
We keep going, past the pigs and a few hundred yards further. Moments later, even through the material of the hood, I can tell from the change in light that we’ve passed from sunshine to shade. The stench of the pigs is replaced with sweet meadow hay. I figure we’re inside barn two.
Seventeen steps later the men spin me around and push me backwards against a pillar. The wood is rough and splinters rub raw against my skin. Cologne guy holds me upright, as close to the pillar as he can make me, while the other one ties me. They use rope this time. I feel him loop it tight, around my neck, my waist and my legs. My wrists and ankles are still bound with the tape. They leave the hood on.
The one with the growly voice slaps me on the shoulder. ‘See y’all later, blondie.’
‘If you’re lucky,’ cologne guy adds.
I say nothing; the tape over my mouth is keeping me silent. I hear their footsteps retreat, and the bang of a door slamming shut. Then I’m alone.
It doesn’t take long for the discomfort to set in. My muscles ache right from the get-go and before long they’re burning from the forced immobility. My head throbs like a bitch. My mouth’s dry and I feel nauseous – a sure sign of dehydration.
They’ve tied me real snug. I feel along the rope where it’s closest to my hands, but there are no knots for me to try to loosen, and the tape around my wrists is too high for me to get a finger through. I bend my knees and try to slide down the pillar, but I’m stuck; the noose around my throat won’t shift.
Deep Dirty Truth Page 1
