Bringing his hands back together, he again cast a glance to Paco, seeing that the man was still stationed by the door, ready and waiting for whatever was asked of him.
“Drugs aren’t why we asked you here tonight,” Asai said slowly, carefully articulating his words, matching Russo’s cadence. “That we can do ourselves. But we’re new to the area, and there are some things we’re not quite as well-versed in.
“Things of a more animate nature.”
Chapter Thirteen
A pair of officers were standing by the front desk as Amber Denman made her way through the front doors of Summit Medical Center. Not having the patience to wait on the enormous revolving entrance that served as the centerpiece of the front façade, she had pushed through the single door on the side, sprinting across the open foyer.
At such an hour, the lobby was nearly empty. Open and airy, the place was designed to serve as a gathering point, an entry into the extended hospital spread. Along one side was a Starbucks, a gift shop tucked in tight beside it. A pharmacy for patients being discharged was along the opposite wall. Tables, chairs, and benches lined the front windows.
All sat lifeless, most of the lights turned off. Doors were shut tight, the place battened down until morning.
Amber’s footfalls landed heavy on the polished floor as she sprinted forward. Her destination was the single desk on the far side, a woman in nurse’s scrubs with thick glasses and grey hair sitting behind it. Flanking her to either side were the two cops, both in full uniform, black slacks and shirts.
Each in their mid-thirties, they both swiveled their bodies to stare directly at her. The one on the right went as far as to pull his hand back toward his hip, openly assessing her as she drew closer.
Amber ignored it completely. She ran straight through the lobby, her breath catching in her chest. Going right for the desk, she fell forward against it, her palms slapping the laminate wood. Barely able to speak through her body’s fight for air, she could feel a film of sweat on her skin as she looked up at the woman behind the desk.
“My name...Amber Denman...” she managed, drawing in deep pulls of air. “Son brought in...gunshot wound...”
Using her foot, the woman rolled her chair back a couple of inches. She flicked a look to the cops on either side of her, both taking a step closer toward Amber.
“You say your son was the gunshot victim that was just wheeled in?” the man on the right asked.
Pulling her attention his way, Amber looked up to see he was a bit younger than her, his dark hairline still thick and straight across his forehead. Lantern-jawed, he spoke with a slight lisp.
The metallic tag on his chest gave his name as Tysinger.
“Yes,” Amber said. Despite her heart pounding, she managed to slow her breathing. She shoved herself to full height, taking a step back so she could see all three people at once. “The girl that found him called me and said they were bringing him here. We rushed right over.”
“We?” the officer on the left asked. Shorter than his partner, his name was given as Velazquez. He had tan skin and a thin line of hair along his jaw and around his mouth, all of it the same length as his scalp.
“My husband,” Amber replied, each word seeming to push her impatience higher. She was not here for an interview. Not now, anyway. If in an hour, or two hours, or the next morning, these men wanted to ask her about everything she knew, she would be glad to answer their questions.
Right now, she just wanted to see to her son.
“He’s parking the car. He’ll be right in.”
“Mrs. Denman,” Tysinger began, “can you-“
“No!” Amber snapped, cutting him off before the question went any further. “No, I cannot. I cannot do a damn thing until somebody tells me where my son is and if he’s okay.”
The past twenty minutes had been an exercise in abject terror. For every vile eventuality that she had imagined while pacing, waiting for her children to answer their phones, the things that had crossed her mind in the time since were worse by a factor of five. Maybe even ten.
The entire drive over, she had sat perched on the front edge of her seat, silently imploring her husband to drive faster, to get them to the hospital.
Turning to stare at the woman behind the desk, Amber’s eyes blazed. Her nostrils flared. “Now, either somebody can tell me where my son is or I can just start pounding on doors until I find him, but we’re not doing this right now.”
For a moment, all the air seemed to pull out of the room. The nurse looked as if she wanted to push herself even further back from the desk, again casting a look to either side.
Eventually, she nodded.
“Of course, Mrs. Denman. Your son is in surgery now. I’ll take you straight back.”
“Thank you,” Amber replied, shoving the word out in a manner that indicated anything but gratitude. As she did so, she flicked a gaze up to Tysinger, adding, “If you guys want something to do, go find my daughter.”
Chapter Fourteen
The brakes on the BMW were a bit touchier than Ronell Brinks would have liked. They jerked him to a stop as a pulled up in front of the first roll top door outside the shop, one in a string of more than a dozen. Each marked with a series of bland numbers and letters, the place was the definition of non-descript, the sort of spot every city has but none really notices.
Lowering the driver’s side window, Ronell leaned a few inches to the side. He made sure the camera above the door could see him clearly, giving a two-fingered wave, before retreating back inside and rolling up the window.
As he did, the door before him raised upward, light spilling out into the night, revealing a working body shop. Racks of tires lined the walls. Hydraulic lifts framed each of the doorways. Rolling toolboxes were positioned alongside each of them. Air guns and electrical boxes hung from the ceiling.
Waiting until the door was no more than six inches above the top of the car, Ronell eased inside the garage. He barely lifted his foot from the brake, not wanting to repeat the jerking motion from a moment ago, before coming to a full stop.
Remaining behind the wheel, he waited as the door lowered back into position.
The instant it hit the ground with a shudder, he killed the ignition and stepped out, a host of men seeming to materialize around him. Coming from every possible spot in the garage, they converged on the car, more than a dozen strong. All in their twenties or thirties, their attire ranged from ribbed tank tops to hooded sweatshirts. Most every race was represented.
The sole thing they had in common was the S-2 tattoo etched down their left forearms, the letter and numeral visible on many as they extended a hand toward the car, admiring the latest arrival.
Sounds of approval dotted the air as they circled around, all careful to keep a wide berth, leaving Ronell and the vehicle as the eye of their storm of humanity.
Standing in the center of it, Ronell waited. He drew in a breath, pushing Jamal and Joey and the girl from his mind. Instead, he focused on the part that he knew came next, the aspect of the evening that would dictate how things went moving forward.
Since the moment he had lowered himself into the passenger seat in the parking garage across town, this was what his focus had been on. This was what would determine if he got what he wanted, or if he was forced to look for it elsewhere.
Less than a minute after Ronell pulled in, a shrill whistle sounded from the back of the room. On cue, the crowd went quiet. The men in front of the car fell away to either side, clearing a path.
At the end of it stood a man Ronell knew only as Big Man. A more apt nickname there had never been, the guy standing six-foot-eight and weighing north of three hundred and eighty pounds. A former left tackle on the Tennessee football team, his stomach had gone to seed in the decade since, his prodigious midsection festooned with an array of tattoos.
The rest of him still very much hinted at the powerful run blocker that had gotten invited to training camp with the Atlanta Falcons. His shoulders were broad and hi
s arms thick, deep creases separating his various muscle groups.
Around his neck hung a trio of necklaces, the overhead lights glinting off them.
To his side stood Peanut, a guy that was small in his own right, his adjacency to Big Man making it that much more pronounced. In his hands were a clipboard and a stopwatch. Around his forehead was a sweatband, matching bands on either wrist.
Moving in unison, they walked forward. A scowl locked onto his features, Big Man walked forward, each step raising the rate of Ronell’s heartbeat.
Stopping just short of the hood, Big Man turned to his cohort. “Time?”
“Two-twenty-five,” Peanut replied.
Glancing up to Ronell, Big Man nodded slightly before jutting his chin down at the car. “Pop it.”
Snaking an arm in through the open door, Ronell pressed the hood release. The top sprung upward an inch, allowing Big Man to slip a meaty hand beneath it, pushing it the rest of the way up.
Remaining rooted in place, Ronell waited as Big Man gave a visual inspection of the engine, men on either side leaning in, nobody saying a word. His pulse raced, sweat again rising to his features.
After what felt an eternity, the hood was slammed back into place. Behind it, Big Man stared back at him, the scowl still visible. “Mileage?”
“Thirty-eight,” Ronell said.
“Where?”
“Hermitage.”
Big Man’s brows went up slightly. He shifted an inch, looking over a shoulder to his sidekick.
The smaller man consulted his clipboard before saying, “Nothing reported stolen from there all night.”
Nodding once, Big Man turned away from Ronell. He moved slowly, his steps almost a saunter as he made a slow lap around the car. Using the space afforded him by the others on hand, he kept his focus down on the vehicle, looking over every aspect of the car.
Never did he move closer than necessary. Not once did he touch a thing, careful not to leave extra fingerprints.
“Where?” he repeated.
“Shopping center parking garage,” Ronell said, having seen this play out a time or two before, knowing exactly what the man was referring to. “No cameras.”
Coming up on the driver’s side of the car, Big Man drew even with Ronell. He arched a single eyebrow, peering down at him. Each breath sounded loud and angry as he held the position, his body more than twice the size of Ronell’s.
For his part, Ronell remained in place, his posture pulled as tall as possible, his face hiding the competing emotions swirling within.
Side by side, they remained that way for what felt like hours.
Right up to the part where Big Man raised an enormous hand, slapping Ronell on the back, the force of it almost enough to topple him over.
“Nice job, Rook. You passed.”
Part Two
Chapter Fifteen
The morning sun was nothing more than a pale yellow disc. The color of straw, it sat just above the horizon in the east, peeking over the Absaroka Mountains. With the calendar already halfway through September, most of the warmth it promised was still at least four hours away, the air brisk and chilly.
Not enough that I could see my breath, but enough that I was already wearing a wool Filson vest over my long-sleeved t-shirt.
Standing along the bank of the Gibbons River, I drew my head back, pulling in a deep breath of air. I let it fill my lungs, relishing the feeling of my chest expanding, before slowly expelling it.
With my thumbs hooked into the front loops of my jeans, I stared out over the valley floor before me, a faint smile crossing my lips.
Born and raised in the greater Washington, D.C. area, I spent the first twenty-some years of my life within spitting distance of a major metropolis. Urban blight was never something I considered. It’s just the way things were.
My father was in the military, stationed near the nation’s capital, determined not to let us become another example of the service family that bounced around the globe.
Which, as fate would have it, I ended up becoming anyway, enlisting in the navy after my education.
After spending the first chunk of my life residing near the beltway, the next portion was along either coast and on various ships around the world. From there, I matriculated over to the DEA, where most of my time was spent in Central America and the American Southwest, growing ever more adapted to the various shades of green and tan that jungle and desert terrains provided.
Not until I was in my early-thirties did I ever set foot into Yellowstone Park. On the heels of the tragic event that saw the death of my wife and daughter and precipitated my exit from the DEA, I found myself a man without a tether. I had a decade of training, very little money, and a strong desire to be alone as much as possible.
Yellowstone provided the closest thing I could come up with for an answer to all three. By summer, I worked as an independent guide, drawing on those skills the government had given me by keeping rich yuppies alive in the woods. The rest of the year, I retreated to a private cabin deep in Montana, content to be left alone.
Now, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in the world.
Standing along the banks of the river, I stared out over the landscape stretched before me, an endless sea of gold and bronze and tangerine hues. Threaded through the middle of it was the river bed, a nice contrast to the bright fall foliage on either side.
Rising high behind it all were the mountains, their peaks already covered with snow.
In short, it was heaven, or at least my own version of it. The place was tough and rugged, demanding to be respected at all times.
But what it gave back to those that did was irreplaceable. It had taken a man like me, as lost and broken as a soul could be, and it had given him a purpose. It had provided an anchor, a spot in the world where he could be content.
A place he could call home.
Staring out, I didn’t feel like a man surveying his dominion. I wasn’t foolish enough to ever think that, knowing the place would never abide it. The moment I thought I was in control, that I somehow was greater than any single thing before me, it would turn things just to prove it could.
That much I knew from experience.
What I felt was as part of a whole. Someone that the elements had tested and deemed worthy of inclusion. A man that was allowed to enjoy moments such as this one, staring out at the start of a new day.
Even if that meant also sharing it with the client standing less than fifty yards away, his arm outstretched before him, his cell phone in hand. Alternating it between extended and pressed up to his face, he yelled time and again, trying to raise someone on the other side, oblivious to where he was standing or the display nature was putting on before us.
Not that he was the first city boy that ever pulled such antics on my watch.
Nor would he be the last.
“I asked him not to bring that damn thing,” a voice said from behind me. Full of scorn, there was no effort to hide how the speaker felt.
Turning at the waist, I shifted to see the man’s son coming my way. No more than twelve, he was dressed in jeans and a nylon jacket, his hands thrust down into the pockets. Shaggy brown hair hung down over his ears and across his forehead as he glanced the length of the riverbank to his father.
“Must be something pretty important,” I replied.
The angry glance lingered on the young man’s face. “Naw. He just thinks the world will stop turning if he’s not there to tell it to keep going.”
My right nostril pulled back, an involuntary snort about to arise, though I was able to tamp down any sound. Leaving it with a slight rock of my head, I didn’t bother glancing at the man again.
Not that I needed to. After just a single night, already I had seen more than enough of what the boy was referring to, his father’s self-importance so thick it practically rolled off him in waves. Most of the day had been spent on the phone berating some poor assistant, demanding things that no reasonable person could
ever ask of another.
Which may or may not have been a deciding factor in my decision to camp in the valley, the place notorious for having spotty cell service. At best.
“What’s that smell?” the boy asked, pulling his focus away from his father and up to me.
“Sulfur,” I replied. “It’s because of the geothermics in the park. It comes up with the water from deep in the earth’s core.”
His brows creased slightly as he nodded. “Cool.”
“Very,” I agreed, “it’s what gives us the geysers and the boiling mud and all the other unusual things here.”
Taking a step forward, he kicked at the loose river stone piled along the banks. Deposited during the spring runoff season, it now made for a bank that was several feet wide on either side, the rocks polished smooth by years of exposure to the swiftly moving water.
His hands still thrust into his pockets, he moved until his toes were just inches from the water’s edge before drawing in a deep breath, just as I had a few moments before.
“Smells kind of like rotten eggs.”
“It does, but you get used to it pretty fast.”
A thin slash of a smile graced the boy’s face as he glanced my way. “I don’t mind it, but he was bitching about it all night.”
Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. “Tonight, we can try and move up to higher ground. It’ll be colder, but the smell won’t be as strong.”
Leaning back at the waist, the boy looked toward his father, the phone still outstretched before him. Time and again, he tried raising someone on the other end, his increasingly loud voice puncturing what was otherwise a perfect morning.
“No need. I thought it was hilarious.”
Chapter Sixteen
I ran the tag end of the leader through the eye of the hook, the thin filament string passing through easily, despite the small metal implement being designed specifically for trout. Pulling an extra four inches through, I doubled it back, wrapping it around the standing end a half-dozen times before looping it back through the hole created at the base.
Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5) Page 5
