The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “Dead center. Kill shot,” a voice said through the speakers.

  I placed my Glock 22 on the counter and nearly let a smile part my lips.

  “You were just toying with us at first, right?” My old partner, Nick, pulled up behind me, his arms splayed wide.

  I paused before answering that question, my eyes nearly blinded by Nick’s color coordination, or lack thereof. “Toying? You’re wearing a blue and white polka-dot tie. Add in your green suspenders and you look like a clown.”

  His jaw opened slightly, and I shrugged my shoulders, knowing I’d purposely held back from teasing him about his ever-shrinking red tuft of hair.

  Before Nick could get any words out, we were interrupted by the douche bag, Randy. “You’re either starting to lose your skills or you just like teasing us.” The ogre stroked his oversized mustache and gave me a subtle wink, then flipped a toothpick in his mouth.

  I rolled my eyes so the world could see.

  “Me? I think you just like teasing people, Alex,” Randy said quietly as he walked past me and called out for someone in the distance. His warm breath lingered in my ear.

  On pure instinct, I kicked out my foot, catching Randy on a down step. He tripped forward, lifting his arms just before his head bashed against a glass window behind us.

  “Oh, sorry. Our feet got tangled up, Randy. You okay? Or are you just getting too old to walk in a straight line?” I shifted closer to him, so he could see the steely stare of my blue eyes.

  He jumped to his feet and moved to within a foot of my face. I didn’t back away. Why the hell should I?

  “Giordano, Troutt, or whatever you’re calling yourself now, you just crossed the line.”

  I couldn’t help but stare at his finger that was jabbing the air just inches from my breast. I inhaled, trying to extend my chest a little farther, hoping that he’d connect with my body. I could feel my adrenaline surging, ready to launch my knee upward, to ram his gonads into the back of his throat.

  “Get over yourself, Randy. You crossed the line with me long ago.”

  He gnawed on his toothpick like cud, then shifted it to the other side of his mouth, likely pondering what to say or how he could try to outsmart me without coming across as a bigot in front of a growing crowd of FBI personnel.

  From what Nick had informed me about my pre-crash life, Randy apparently had shown me some of his suave moves. Or had tried to. I didn’t recall ever reciprocating his interest, and the thought of it literally made me want to puke. But I’d never asked him about it either. I didn’t want to know the truth—only the truth I thought I knew.

  “Are you on the rag or something, Alex?” He snickered to a couple of square-headed minions behind him, then turned back around and eyed me head to toe. “Then again, maybe that time has come and gone.” He gave me another cheesy wink.

  Inching closer, I could feel a hand on my shoulder. “Alex, he’s an SSA, and he’s not worth it,” Nick said under his breath.

  Nick was right, at least partly, in that Randy was a supervisory special agent over the newly formed Boston Critical Incident Response Team. He’d once led the Violent Crimes Squad, my new home. But given Randy’s nonstop digs at me, I wasn’t about to cower to him, even if he was about eight inches taller than me.

  “You know what, Randy?”

  “What’s that, Giorda—”

  “It’s Troutt, asswipe.”

  “Yes sir, Pouty Troutty.” He gave me a three-finger salute while chuckling out loud.

  How did he know about that nickname? I wanted to quickly flip around and question whether Nick had shared my longtime secret of how I’d been teased as a kid. But I couldn’t let Randy know it bothered me.

  “It’s nice to see your maturity level finally match your single-digit IQ.”

  I received a few oohs and ahhs on that one.

  “Listen, b—”

  “Zip it, Randy, or I’m going to shut you up once and for all.”

  Twisting his head, he shifted his eyes to the gun range. “You mean a duel of some kind? It’s on, sister. It’s on.”

  “That wouldn’t be fair,” I said over a murmur in the crowd.

  “Didn’t think so, I would have—”

  “Spare me, dipshit. You know and I know I’d kick your ass in a shooting contest. Hands down.”

  “Want to make a bet?”

  “I don’t like taking candy from babies. I’m talking about a real fight. You and me in the ring of death.”

  His face actually twitched.

  “Hadn’t heard that term since your training in Quantico, huh?”

  He started nodding, slowly.

  “Just you, me, and a referee. No fans cheering you on. The ring of death. Can you get up for it?”

  Randy’s nostrils flared.

  I held up the tip of my pinkie. “Two weeks. And leave your toothpick at home. I wouldn’t want you to impale yourself.”

  I flipped on my heels and shoved my way through a sea of observers. With my heart chugging at maximum speed, I desperately craved fresh air. But at the end of the procession, I spotted a small hand raised in the air.

  “You go, girl.”

  A miniature lady in a silk blouse and plaid skirt glanced up at her own hand. I smacked it and kept walking. “Thanks.”

  A minute later, I popped open the front door of One Center Plaza in Boston’s West End and took in a chilly dose of air, just as a bus motored by, leaving a gray plume of exhaust in its wake.

  I coughed before I completed one full breath.

  “Damn, you kicked his ass. About time someone did.” The lady from the firing range had sidled up next to me, one arm full of folders and notebooks. Her pinched voice matched her diminutive stature.

  Before I could reply, my coughs overtook me. I held up a finger, needing a second to get my breathing in order.

  “Hey, Alex. Everything good?”

  My hands went to my knees as I hacked up a lung. I looked up to see my old buddy, Brad, approaching. A twenty-something intelligence analyst, he’d played a pivotal role in bringing down the perp in what became known as the ring killings. Brad had this easy-going, all-American look about him. Wavy, blond hair, a chiseled physique, and a couple of cute dimples were among his most noticeable traits. But he also happened to be a sweet guy, and every female seemed to notice.

  “Just sucked in some toxic fumes, that’s all.” I sounded like I’d swallowed a toad, and tears started flowing from lack of oxygen. Within seconds, Brad offered me a handkerchief.

  Another quick image shot across my memory bow of my dad offering me his handkerchief. It had grossed me out then, and Brad’s offer must have elicited a similar facial expression.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “I’ll take it, Brad.” The woman snatched the handkerchief from his hand and dabbed her forehead, as if she’d been perspiring. It was March; we’d just had a fresh two inches of snow the previous night, and our space was filled with the smoke from our collective breaths.

  I think someone had a crush.

  “Oh, okay, Gretchen.” Brad knew her, but still seemed a tad surprised.

  Just then, the doors burst open again, and I could hear the thick Boston accent of my old boss, Jerry, booming above all others.

  “We’re going to happy hour,” he declared.

  “I got kids, remember?” I moved to a standing position, knowing I was good at providing a solid excuse for anything social these days. “I’ll take a rain check.”

  “The hell you are. I know you’ve got help at home now, Alex. You’re coming to happy hour if I have to pick you up and carry you there.”

  Minutes later, we pulled up to the last place I had seen my husband alive.

  2

  “Here’s to...me.” Jerry raised a shot of Irish whiskey to the group of FBI employees gathered around the table at Monty’s, a well-appointed bar located in Back Bay. Just two months earlier, I’d seen Mark exit this building with a woman attached to his hip. They dis
appeared into the back of a dark sedan. A winter storm had just rolled in, which greatly impaired my ability to follow the car, but not as much as the sedan that ran me off the road—the second one in just a few weeks. Not two hours later, Mark died at the hands of a nut job with an obsession toward numbers.

  “Alex, you with us?” Nick nudged me with his elbow.

  I joined the crowd. “To Jerry,” the crowd said.

  Sitting at the head of the rectangular wooden table, Jerry rested an arm over the back of his chair. I’d never seen him so jovial or relaxed. The four shots of whiskey probably contributed, but he’d recently shared that it was official: he’d been named SSA over the Violent Crimes Squad. He was most recently my boss in the White Collar and Art Theft squads. Somehow he’d convinced FBI brass that he could handle all three gigs.

  “Hey, Jerry, do you always like to follow in my footsteps?” I said with a wink.

  “Tease me all you want. I’m just glad to be back in the game.”

  It seemed like that was Jerry’s way of saying he’d been in the FBI doghouse. I couldn’t say for certain, especially since my memory of internal politics remained dormant. Or was it that I didn’t give a shit?

  Pulling my phone from my purple Kate Spade bag, I checked for any text messages from my kids, Luke and Erin. Nothing. They must be doing okay.

  “No worries, Alex. You deserve a couple hours of fun,” Nick said.

  I pressed my lips against my teeth. “I guess.”

  “Really? You’ve got Ezzy taking care of the kids and the homestead now. You’re allowed to relax, you know.”

  I nodded, realizing my guilt factor had sabotaged my life...again. For reasons that were difficult to acknowledge, I partially blamed myself for Mark’s death. I glanced around the table and saw a horde of folks who I knew had kids. I sipped my water and finally convinced myself to look at the other side of the coin, starting with Ezzy.

  “You’re right, Nick. That gray-haired woman saved my ass just as I was about to give up.”

  He clinked my water glass and downed the rest of his shot as I recalled the day Ezzy entered our lives...for the second time. I’d been back at work for all of two weeks and my work-home juggling act was failing miserably. The kids were still emotional about their father’s death, which meant that tempers were short and hormones were raging, at least from my teenage daughter, Erin. Work wasn’t much better. I struggled to keep up, which only frustrated me. I wasn’t used to being just an average contributor. Not at something as important as...well, all of those things.

  The day I decided I wanted to return to the Violent Crimes Squad, Ezzy rang the doorbell at our Salem home. She said a few words, but it wasn’t until she hugged me and tears streamed down her face that I recalled her place in our lives. She helped fill in the gaps.

  “I was your nanny up until about seven months ago.” Her hands moved with each syllable, giving a sort of rhythm to her words. “I remember it vividly. It was a Tuesday, and Mr. Giordano called me at home and told me that my services were no longer needed. When I questioned him, he told me not to contact you. I asked him why, and he only said that if I did, he’d find a way to have my green card rejected and I’d be forced to return to Guatemala, even with all of my family in the United States.”

  And then I knew. Mark’s trickery for removing Ezzy and inserting the bouncy, bubbly flower child, Sydney, wasn’t just underhanded. By threatening Ezzy, it was criminal. And it gave me another reason to hate him.

  Then why did I still miss him? Or was it that I only missed what I thought we’d shared?

  I sipped my water as I heard Jerry’s bellowing laughter and then another toast. Glancing around the table, I tried to think like a woman who wasn’t shackled to the past. Then I recalled the pleasant man I met when I walked into the bar a couple of months back looking for our perp. The younger Monty.

  Just then, the older Monty waddled by, his face etched with pure attitude. Some things never changed. I reached out for him.

  “What ya want, lady?” he said as his face curled into a fleshy hairball.

  Oh yes, he was all about the customer. “Just wondering where Monty is...your son?”

  “Eh.” He threw up a hand. “Junior’s around here somewhere, doing something. And don’t ask me to find him. I’m busy.”

  He lumbered off, leaving behind a stench that reminded me of a locker room.

  For a moment, I chastised myself for even thinking about another guy. I looked around and noticed Gretchen, who must have been ten years my senior, sitting across from Brad, ogling him. I almost offered her a spit bag to hold her drool.

  “You’re that FBI agent, aren’t you?”

  The beanpole waitress I’d met the night I was introduced to Monty Junior was balancing a tray of about ten beers.

  “Yes, how are you doing?”

  “Struggling at the moment. I was standing next to Monty Junior when you guys came in, and he actually pointed you out. I’m sure he’ll be around to talk to you,” she said with a wink. “Gotta run.”

  He noticed me?

  I scooted a little higher in my chair.

  Nick leaned in and asked, “What are you smiling about?”

  “I’m not smiling.”

  “Okay, why are your lips doing this?” He pushed the edges of his mouth upward, revealing spotty gums that could have belonged to a canine.

  “It’s nothing, Nick.” I patted him on the shoulder and he rejoined the celebration.

  I pushed my chair back. “You’re not leaving yet, Alex, are you?” Jerry roared from the far end of the table.

  “Going to the little girl’s room, that’s all.”

  As I spotted the hallway with the restrooms and started to move in that direction, I felt a tug on my arm. “Mind if I bend your ear? Need some girl advice about...you know.” Gretchen’s smile was so intense I couldn’t see the color of her eyes.

  “Sure.” I looked down at her and immediately felt like an Amazon woman, even though I stood just five six.

  We maneuvered through the crowd, trying to avoid swinging elbows and fast-moving busboys. Without appearing too obvious, I craned my neck, hoping to spot Monty Junior. What I would say to him if I ran into him, I had no clue. For all I knew, he’d only want to use a possible connection I had with the government to ease a zoning restriction or take care of a speeding ticket. Of course, I had no pull in that world.

  “Down this way,” Gretchen said, practically yanking my arm as she turned down a hallway lined with framed pictures of people who’d been patrons of Monty’s.

  Even with Gretchen pulling me along like I was a reluctant child headed to the dentist, my eyes spotted a picture on the wall of Tom Brady standing between both the senior and junior Monty. Hanging at an angle next to that picture was a shot of Ben Affleck, his arms wrapped around the Monty men. I started to point, shocked to see Senior wearing a massive smile. It almost didn’t look like him.

  “Did you see—”

  “Let’s go.” Gretchen’s little body angled forward, and we stumbled into the ladies’ room.

  “Damn, I guess you really gotta go.” I found myself in front of the mirror. Gretchen and I locked eyes through the reflection.

  “Hell no, I don’t need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Well, I kind of do.”

  She rolled her eyes and let out an exhaustive breath. “If you must.”

  I paused, wondering what had gotten into the sweet little woman who was all about girls sticking together.

  I did my thing, and we met back at the sinks, where she had pulled out her makeup bag and was reapplying her eyeliner, rouge...the whole works.

  “Something on your mind?” I ripped a paper towel off the rack, turned, and leaned against the counter.

  Now working on her eyelashes, she paused mid-stroke and eyed me through the mirror. “I want to get laid.”

  I coughed out loud, choking on my saliva, or maybe the bluntness of her message.

  “Okay. I’m
not really a candidate.”

  “I know you’re joking,” she said, sounding like Minnie Mouse the more I heard her speak.

  I tried to release a chuckle at the end of my coughing spat. “Sorry, just a little tickle in my throat. So, you’re trying to say that you’re on the market and you’d like to start dating. Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “Eh. Dating is overrated, although I can’t say I’ve had a lot of experience in the last...” she mumbled.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s just say it’s been a while.”

  “Since you’ve had a date or...”

  She forced out a breath and dropped her shoulders while keeping her eyes on me.

  I held up a hand, acknowledging that the details weren’t important.

  “Have you marked this date on your calendar...that if something doesn’t happen by today, then it’s time to take pervasive action?”

  “Alex, I’m not getting any younger. I know I still got it and all, but eventually I’ll start to show my age. And by that time, I need to have my man on the hook.” She shot me a wink, then had to pry apart her goopy eyelashes.

  Running my fingers through my hair, I wondered why I’d been chosen to be Gretchen’s confidante.

  “So, you got any ideas?” she asked.

  Now I felt more like her personal coach, feeling like I’ve been given the task to map out a specific game plan using Xs and Os, with the goal of getting Gretchen a score.

  I looked down and noticed her beige hose and two-inch brown heels that matched the color of her silk blouse, but also dated her entire outfit twenty years. Her hair had the stripes of a tiger. I wanted to ask who had colored her mane, but instead I said, “Are you open-minded about who you...you know?”

  Pressing her lips together, she turned to face me. “As a woman, I don’t just sleep around. I want one man and one man only. Brad.”