The shot looked like it had been taken at a barbecue or a picnic. In the center of it sat a girl that was fast becoming a young woman. Even at that age, she already bore a strong resemblance to her mother, and by extension my wife.
Again, the feeling of a clench developed in my core.
The last time I had seen Elyse, she was eight years old. Not much older than my own daughter, she had somehow skipped ahead, already in high school, college on the horizon.
In the image, she was smiling, young and spirited, destined to tackle whatever the world had planned for her.
Which I was willing to bet had nothing to do with being kidnapped in a parking garage.
Pushing the photo back into position, I allowed the image to harden my gaze. I kept my focus on the smudge of light as it grew ever closer.
Years before, I had promised my daughter Alice that I would always do what I could to help people in need. I wouldn’t be foolish, I wouldn’t put myself in harm’s way unnecessarily, but I would always try my best to help.
I had the ability to do so, which meant I also had the responsibility to do so.
This was different, though. This wasn’t just about the fact that it was Elyse, who was one of the few remaining family members I had.
It was because it could just as easily have been about Alice.
My rear teeth ground together as my final destination came into view. Expecting to find a country bar tucked away in the woods, my eyebrows rose as I pulled into what had once been a golf driving range.
A small parking lot sat just off the side of the road. At the front of it was a square building with peeling tan paint. Stretched out behind it was a grass field, the tattered remains of a net hanging from lines pulled taut between telephone poles spaced every eighty feet.
Where there once had been hole flags and distance markers, there were now sandbags and paper targets, the place a makeshift firing range.
Easing up in front of the structure, I idled between a rusted Chevy pickup and a dust-covered Jeep with the windows zipped out, a menagerie of hiking stickers plastered across the rear bumper. Coming to a stop, I climbed out, ignoring the feeling that my every move was being observed.
In the background, I could hear the telltale sound of gunfire, small popping noises indicating a handgun being used nearby. Small caliber. Based on the rate, I would say a semi-automatic, most likely a 9mm of some sort.
Keeping my hands out and in plain sight, I stepped away from the car and looped around the side of the structure. With each step, more of the range out back came into view, culminating with a man in a shooter’s stance with his back to me. Dressed in faded jeans and a denim vest, large earmuffs were clamped over his head. Long, stringy hair stuck out the button, obscuring his neck from view.
Making it as far as the corner of the building, I paused. I waited for him to finish the magazine he was working on before sliding the protection from his ears and turning to look my way.
“Hawk?”
I nodded. “Jack?”
Shaking his head, he jerked his head over his shoulder, motioning to the building beside me. “Jack’s inside. Go on in, he’ll get you set up.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The interior of the structure was designed in a way that I would have expected a former driving range shop to look. Perfectly square in shape, the room was a dozen feet in either direction. Instead of a rack of drivers and putters along the walls and shelves of golf balls filling the space in between, there were cases filled with rifles and stacks of ammunition.
On the walls behind them were posters advertising offerings from Remington and Winchester, the color on them fading, the corners torn.
Along the back wall was a glass case, three shelves inside it. Spread across each were a variety of handguns, ranging in size from small derringers to oversized .45s capable of putting down a man – or a small bear – with ease.
Atop the case was an aging cash register, best guess being it was the sole surviving remnant of the driving range. Behind it stood a man with silver hair buzzed tight on the sides, the top less than an inch combed forward. On his face was a thick layer of growth, all of it the same silver as his hair.
Leaning forward, he had his hands pressed into the rear edge of the display case. Thick throughout, the position caused his triceps to bulge, unhindered by the sleeveless t-shirt he wore. A heavy gut pressed tight against the glass before him.
Tattoos with thick lines that had blurred over time dotted both of his forearms.
Despite the better part of my working life having been spent in the navy and the DEA, I wasn’t a gun nut. I hadn’t been shooting cans with a BB gun since I could walk. Unlike many of my Montana neighbors, I didn’t own a personal arsenal tucked away in a bunker somewhere.
But I had been to a couple of firing ranges before. Enough times to know that, at a glance, the place looked exactly like it was supposed to.
If I didn’t consider the fact that while the room I was standing in was square, the outside of the building was rectangular. That three of the sides around us were made of drywall while the fourth – behind the cash register – was plain wood paneling, appearing to have been installed much later.
Or that there was only a single entrance into the place. And it was now being guarded by a man outside with at least one gun, the sound of which had grown silent after my passing.
“Jack?” I asked. Stepping across the center of the room, I ignored the spread around me, focusing on him alone.
Dipping the top of his head, he said, “Hawk?”
“That’s right,” I replied. “Thanks for responding so quickly.”
“Sure thing,” he replied. “We always monitor the boards in case we can help out one of our out-of-town friends.”
Small red flags began to erupt in the back of my mind. Tiny markers that had been instilled years before, responses to the most basic of all human instincts.
Self-preservation.”
“Appreciate it,” I replied. “Had to come across the country on short notice, couldn’t afford the time for trying to check in my own gear.”
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh yeah? Where from?”
Flicking my gaze away from him, I checked each of the corners of the false wall behind him. On the left, everything was square and flush.
On the right, a small notch had been cut, no doubt a camera looking down over everything.
“Idaho,” I lied. “Little more liberal about things out that way, if you know what I mean.”
Every internal function I had told me to go. To turn on a heel and head for the door. That nothing good could come from my lingering any longer.
Posting on the message board had been a longshot, and I had known it. I hadn’t had any other choice, no legal way of getting firepower in time to face whatever lay ahead, no chance of surviving without some form of weaponry.
Once before I had used the boards with decent success. It had been in a tight situation a year before, an older man in Southern California providing what I needed.
This was clearly trending in the opposite direction. A perfect example of the risk inherent with this sort of thing.
“I heard that,” Jack replied, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Whole damn world is getting so uptight, man can’t even own a gun anymore without the government thinking they should have a live camera feed on it at all times.”
Matching his half smile, I refrained from responding, not wanting to get into a discussion about gun rights with this man. Knowing nothing good would come from it, I instead circled slowly to my right, checking over the stacks of ammunition filling the thin metal shelving units, before ultimately presenting myself across the counter from Jack.
“Army?” I asked, flicking my gaze over the tattoos.
“Marines,” he replied. “Delta?”
Twisting my head slightly, I said, “Navy.”
“Ahh,” he replied, his head rocking back slightly. As he did, I could see hi
s eyes move toward the door. A short, quick movement, most people would have missed it entirely.
For me, it was enough to make things snap into place.
Right now, his friend was listening to every word we said. Those earmuffs he was wearing were likely wired straight to the speakers inside. What Jack was feigning as friendly conversation, just two veterans getting acquainted, was actually him scouting me.
They wanted to know exactly what they were up against.
Taking another half-step forward, I closed the gap between us to just a couple of feet. Shifting my body slightly, I opened my stance so the front door was visible in my periphery, though I was still facing Jack.
“So, what have you got?” I asked.
The corner of his mouth twitched again. “Well, that depends. Did you bring cash like I told you?”
This was the part that I knew he’d been waiting on. Right outside, his friend with the stringy hair was probably tucked up tight against the door, ready to burst forward, gun in hand.
No way could I let it get that far.
Pushing off my right foot, I shot my hand out, curling it around the base of Jack’s neck. Jerking my elbow back past my ribs, I snapped his head straight down, driving his cheek into the glass beneath him.
The sound of it cracking found my ears as I kept my hand pressed down tight on his neck, using it as a pivot point. Springing forward, I vaulted over the counter, pressing my weight down on him and swinging my legs out to the side.
For an instant, I hung suspended in the air, weightless, before my feet smacked down on the opposite side. In unison, the front door burst open, a flurry of dust and air and papers fluttering.
Through it walked the man I had spoken to outside a moment before, the muffs down around his neck. In either hand was a Browning Hi Power, both extended straight out from his shoulders.
A pained grunt slid from Jack as I pressed my body up tight behind him. My right hand I slid down around his chin. The left I placed atop his head, jerking him back against me, using his body as a shield. Pulling until we were tight against the wall behind us, I said, “Put them down. Now.”
The man made no effort to do as instructed. Instead, he took a step forward, his mouth drawn into a tight line.
“Jack, you good?”
Feeling Jack’s jaw flex as if he were about to respond, I tugged his head counterclockwise an inch, hearing a vertebra in his neck pop.
“Take another step, and I snap his neck,” I replied. I kept my voice even. There was no need for bluster, no desire to escalate the situation any more than necessary.
Weapons still extended before him, the man pulled up. Bending at the waist, he peered to the side, running his gaze the length of us.
There was no need. My body was completely hidden behind the girth of the man before me.
“You really think you can do that faster than I can fire?” the man asked. A heavy southern lilt permeated his tone as he spoke, matching his overall look perfectly.
To answer his question - I couldn’t, but that didn’t matter. There was nowhere for him to fire without hitting Jack, no way of getting to me without killing us both.
He was bluffing, and we both knew it.
Ignoring his question, I said, “Turn the guns and hold them by the barrel.”
For a moment, he did nothing, simply staring at us, trying to compute things in his head.
From the look on his face, it wasn’t his strong suit.
“Now,” I said. Applying a bit more pressure to Jack, I could feel his spinal column draw taut. A sharp wheeze slid out as he pressed back against me, fighting for a new position, trying to relieve the torque on his neck.
“Do it, dammit,” Jack wheezed, the words just barely audible. “Navy SEAL. He’ll snap it clean.”
I never said I was a SEAL, but I made no effort to correct him. I let the information strengthen my position, waiting as slowly the man lowered the weapons to his side. Rotating them both in his hands, he gripped them by the barrels, holding them for me to see.
“Now walk forward slowly and put them on the counter,” I instructed.
Pressing his lips tight, the man swallowed hard, a lump traveling the length of his throat. Again, he glanced around, trying to weight his decision, before taking a step forward. And then another.
Stopping a few feet short of the glass, he bent forward at the waist and slid the guns onto the counter.
“Back away toward the side wall,” I said, jerking my head to the left.
Keeping his body square to us, the man took an exaggerated step to the side. Hands balled into fists, he kept moving, going until he was flush against a sign detailing the concealed carry permit regulations for Tennessee.
Pressing my shoulder blades into the wall, I levered us forward a few inches. With Jack off-balance before me, I held him upright for an instant before swinging out to the side, tossing his body down behind me.
His body landed hard against the thin carpet on the floor as in one fluid movement, I snatched the guns up from the top of the counter. The grips were warm in my hands as one went straight down to Jack, the other to the man along the wall.
The goal in coming had been to get a couple of clean weapons, something I could use should things turn sideways, or if I just needed to instill the fear of bodily harm into some people. This wasn’t at all how I had planned – or even wanted – things to go, but I couldn’t say the trip was a failure.
Like I had realized on the drive in, this was about Elyse. And if stealing the personal guns of these thieving bastards helped me get to her, so be it.
Moving to the far end of the case, I stepped out from behind it. Keeping a gun on either one of them, I made my way toward the door, seeing the open loathing on their faces as I went.
Not that I gave a damn.
“You know what the worst part of this is?” I asked. “If you assholes had just been straight up, I would have paid you twice what the damn things were worth.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
John Kuntzman stepped through the front door of his apartment, his boot heels clicking off the polished hardwood. Swinging the door shut behind him, he pulled the Justin felt cowboy hat from his head and hung it over a peg on the wall. Shrugging out of the suede sports coat he’d been wearing, he hung it up alongside the hat, raising a hand and rubbing along the strip of depressed skin where the hat band had rested around his head.
At forty-five years old, he was still deep in the throes of what most would consider middle age, though most days he didn’t feel it. His hair was still dark and thick. He still weighed exactly what he had the moment he graduated from college.
There would be no need for glasses any time soon.
Stepping through the open living room of his apartment, he went straight to the wet bar along the wall. Grabbing for the decanter, he poured two fingers of Jack Daniels into a tumbler. Downing it in one long pull, he dropped in two more before turning and heading for the bank of windows that comprised the outer ring of his home.
Fifteen stories below, the lights of Nashville winked up at him. Long jokingly referred to as Nash Vegas, only in recent years had the place begun to take on the look of being just that. Large swaths of neon beckoned travelers in, the businesses stretched from Broadway all the way down to Vanderbilt and Music Row. A sea of light and sound, it didn’t matter that it was after midnight in the middle of the week, there was money to be made.
And making money was one thing Kuntzman could appreciate.
Underscoring the scene was the Cumberland River, the water thoroughfare knifing across the center of town. Serving as a mirrored reflection of everything going on above, it seemed to double the scene in size and scope, giving their sleepy southern town a truly cosmopolitan feel.
Raising his glass in a silent toast, Kuntzman moved to take a drink. Making it no further than his lips, he was stopped by his phone buzzing to life on his hip, the sound obtrusive in the silence of his apartment.
A s
our look crossed his face as he lowered the drink, sliding his phone from his rear pocket and checking the screen.
“Aw, hell,” Kuntzman mumbled. He took a step to the side and set down his drink, knowing this was likely not the sort of conversation that he would want to be mixing with alcohol.
Or have something in his hand that might easily become a flying projectile.
“Kuntzman,” he said, pushing the phone to his face.
“I know. That’s why I called.”
Ben – or as he preferred to be called, Benjamin – Russo was the very definition of an asshole, one of the few people Kuntzman had encountered in his time in Tennessee that he genuinely despised. Even in his line of work, given some of the people that he interacted with regularly, rare was there anybody that rankled him as much as the detective.
The fact that he wasn’t local, was a New Yorker born and bred, was not lost on Kuntzman.
Double for the fact that of the two million people in the greater Nashville area, that was the one he had ended up in a loose working relationship with.
“Okay,” Kuntzman replied, “so what do you want?”
The two were not pals. There was no pretense of this being a social conversation, or even a civil one.
At best, it could be deemed an arranged marriage, a relationship put together out of necessity. One needing coverage from local law enforcement, the other wanting a slice of Kuntzman’s action, most of the professional kinks had been worked out.
To say nothing of the personal ones that still existed.
“What did they say about Denman?” Russo asked.
Down below, a barge worked slowly up the Cumberland. The wake of it pushed out in a wide fan behind, gentle waves rippling against either bank, distorting the lights of town.
Raising his free hand to his face, Kuntzman rubbed along his chin with the back of it.
“Just got a call a few minutes ago,” he said. “They asked us to sit on her until tomorrow night. Paco will come get her personally.”
Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5) Page 10
