Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5)

by Dustin Stevens

  At its most basic level, Asai and his crew were essentially high-level concierges. At least, that was how they held themselves out. They entered new markets, leaned on the high-end individuals in the area, the ones with the most sway across a number of different platforms.

  Business. Entertainment. Politics.

  In most cities, no particular industry was ever a vacuum. If someone attained a certain level of success or a modicum of power, the odds were good they were known by others sitting at the same level across the spectrum.

  Which made Asai’s job easier. Once a few became interested, started sniffing around what he could do, others soon followed.

  The model was set up in three distinct parts. First was the scouting phase. Most of that was done before the decision to enter a market was even made.

  In most of the cities they targeted, that wasn’t a problem. Gobs of new money was flooding into the area, replete with the expected level of ego and ambition one might expect.

  All Asai had to do was arrange a few meetings, drop a few names, and things quickly started to come together.

  Phase two was where things really started to progress. Beginning with a party much like the one that would be held that very night, it was the point where all the promises that had been made came true.

  Cigars. Alcohol. Women. Drugs.

  Whatever had been requested. Price was no concern. Import laws were a minor thing to be worked around.

  Always, the nights went off without a hitch, a huge success for all involved.

  From there began phase three. The part that Asai enjoyed the most. The aspect that brought the most wealth and prospect for advancement with it.

  His primary focus was on being the person the powerful elite in any given city could call on for whatever they so desired. A high-end concierge was a service that was always in demand, those needing it willing to pay dollar.

  That was how his enterprise paid the bills. Those that got along, that played nice, never saw past that first aspect.

  That was why his empire was still running unabated in San Diego, Portland, a host of other cities.

  The real promise, however, was with those clients that didn’t quite want to play by the rules. The ones that thought they might be able to extort something after the fact. That might have even felt a tinge of regret and tried to perform a bit of revisionist history.

  For those, Asai had the pleasure of allowing them to discover that every last thing they did and said throughout the various encounters was recorded. Faced with families at home and businesses to operate, most immediately backed down, fearing the backlash that could occur.

  Most, but not all.

  Some might call what he did extortion. They may say it was illegal or dishonest or immoral.

  He preferred to argue otherwise. All he was doing was creating an environment that allowed people to cater to their most basic desires. It wasn’t like he ever forced anybody to take part. Never had made someone inhale a line of cocaine at gunpoint or made them take an underaged girl to bed.

  And for his trouble, he was paid a handsome fee, no different than thousands of resorts and attractions the world over.

  How the course of that interaction went depended entirely on the client.

  Taking the rear stairwell from his office down to the meeting room in the basement of the spread, a smile came to Asai’s face. His hands extended before him, he fastened his French cuffs, thinking off all that would soon transpire. The glamour of the festivities, as lavish as any Academy Award party, a throwback to the Roaring Twenties, right there on his own small chunk of Tennessee paradise.

  It was almost too easy, the way things came together. Eight years ago, it had been much tougher, entering new markets and making a go.

  Now, with the information and technology and greed that existed, it was almost as if some of the fun had been stripped away.

  Almost.

  The sound of Paco’s voice was audible as Asai descended the final few stairs. Coming out on a small tile landing deep in the annals of the enormous mansion, he took the first right, slipping into the back of a conference room.

  Rows of white tables were set up in the space, narrow pieces split down the middle, a narrow aisleway separating the two sides. Behind each was a trio of chairs made from black plastic and polished steel, the room built to accommodate twenty-five or more.

  Less than half that many men sat with their backs to Asai. All dressed in suits, they sat upright in their seats, eyes forward.

  A projector hung down from the ceiling at the midpoint of the spread, a sleek black model, no more than six inches square.

  At the head of the room, standing in front of a projection screen pulled low, was Paco. His suit coat stripped away, he was in black slacks and matching dress shirt, his voice never faltering as he flicked his gaze to Asai before immediately moving back to the men before him.

  “Now, I don’t need to tell any of you how vital tonight is,” he said. “You’ve all been with us a for a long time now, so you know the general plan, but tonight we have some unique challenges ahead of us.”

  The first time Asai had met Paco was on a beach in Tijuana. Himself on spring break during his junior year of college, Paco was on leave from his post within the Mexican army. Already a sergeant, he had come to Asai’s aid in a barfight, taking out a pair of knife-wielding attackers without so much as a weapon, ending the scrum in under a minute.

  When it was over, neither of the men were likely to ever walk unassisted again.

  And Asai had found himself a future partner for the fledgling business idea he was already beginning to put together.

  Stepping to the side, Paco pressed a button on the remote in his hand. On cue, the projector sprang to life, a schematic of the grounds popping up on screen.

  “Now, as you can all see here, we have the river framing the property we now stand on from three sides...”

  As fast as he had arrived, Asai retreated from the room. Security was Paco’s area of expertise. He didn’t believe in micromanaging, especially when his partner was so much better versed than he ever could be.

  There was plenty of other things still left to get ready before tonight anyway.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Tell me you’ve finally upgraded from that old flip phone thing you carried around for years.”

  The entire time I worked with the DEA, the other guys on my team gave me shit about my extreme deference to technology. I didn’t have a Facebook account. My work-issued email was the only address I had. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have owned a cell phone, acquiescing only because my wife insisted on it.

  Even at that, the thing was a Nokia flip phone that was probably last produced in the late nineties. Lacking even a basic screen, I couldn’t have sent text messages if I wanted to.

  The device was called a phone because it was intended to make phone calls. That was good enough for me.

  Such a position – especially in the evolving times at the turn of the decade – became an unending source of humor with the guys. As they ran out every year to buy the newest and shiniest model, mine became ever more outdated.

  Good for a few laughs, though something told me that’s not at all what Pally was now trying to ask me.

  “What have you got?” I asked.

  Easing to the side of the road, I turned into the closest establishment I saw. A place called Church’s Chicken, the building was all white with blue and yellow trim outlining the signage and the front windows.

  The strong smell of chicken and biscuits hung in the air.

  Ignoring both, I pushed through the parking lot and slid into one of the diagonal spots in the rear corner. A few feet away, a pair of men in matching polos with company insignias pulled in. Barely glancing my way, they shuffled on toward the door, seemingly fearful that I might get there first and delay their lunch by a minute or two.

  “Good call on the time frame,” Pally said. “Picked them up eighteen minutes after
the hour, plain as day.”

  As he spoke, I glanced around the interior of the car, looking for anything that I might be able to use to take notes if need be.

  In true rental car fashion, there was the rental agreement and the post-it note Amber had given me, but nothing else. Not even a pencil to write with.

  Cursing myself silently, I asked, “Any idea where they went?”

  “No,” Pally said. “I can tell you they went west, or at least they started that way, but after that, there were too many gaps in coverage. Just aren’t enough cameras on the freeway to maintain a visual.”

  I nodded. Tracking someone in the city would be easy. Every street light and business establishment these days had their premises under perpetual surveillance.

  The same level of need just didn’t exist on the roadways. And given where the Galleria was located and the various arteries it connected to, trying to comb through the rest of the city in hopes they might pop up later in the night would be a fool’s errand.

  Especially with time already at a premium.

  “Were you able to see her?” I asked. “Was she okay?”

  “I did, and she was,” Pally replied. “Got a clear shot of her about a block after she left the garage. Crying, but appearing unharmed.”

  A tiny tick of adrenaline seeped into my system. With it, my hands balled into fists, anger the first response, before I managed to push it to the side.

  There would be plenty of time for that later.

  Bringing reason back to the forefront, I fit what he had said against what I knew. “If you got a clear view, that mean’s she was in the front seat.”

  “The driver’s seat, in fact,” Pally replied. “Riding shotgun beside her was the kidnapper. That’s why I asked if you have a newer phone yet. I have a screenshot I can send over.”

  “Do it.” My stomach drew tight as I lowered the phone from my cheek. Using my thumb, I navigated to the messaging center, waiting as a download slowly came into view.

  It took what felt like an hour, the image coming in one horizontal line at a time. Bit by bit, it peeled lower, confirming what Pally had said.

  Elyse, looking scared and crying, behind the wheel. Beside her, a man in a black ski mask staring out. His right arm was propped up against the window sill. His left rested along his thigh, likely meaning he was holding a weapon of some sort.

  “In the mask, I couldn’t pull anything for facial recognition,” Pally said, “but I did find this.”

  The phone buzzed once, alerting me that a second message was coming in. Pulling it up, I stared anxiously as it loaded, this one revealing a small tan sedan. In it sat a pair of young men, the driver black and wiry, the passenger white and fleshy.

  “These two pulled out immediately after your niece. I went back in the camera history and the same car entered two hours earlier. They were pointing the wrong way at that time to get a read on any of the faces, but there were clearly three people inside when they arrived.”

  Nodding, I stared at the two men in the image. If I was forced to guess, I would peg them as around twenty, both looking older than Elyse, but nowhere near as old as me.

  In actual age, or life experience.

  Pally’s reasoning made sense. The timing of them waiting so long before exiting right after Elyse was too much to ignore, as was the fact that they were now light a passenger.

  “Any idea who they are?”

  “License plate puts the car registered to a Sandra Bernstein,” Pally said. “Thirty-nine years old, address in Belle Meade.”

  I had no idea where Belle Meade was, though the rest I fit into the information I already had.

  “The mother?”

  “Unknown,” Pally replied, “definitely not the driver’s.”

  Ridges appeared between my brows as I looked down, considering that. Of the two, it was clear which one would have the name of Bernstein.

  And Pally was right, that person definitely wasn’t the one driving.

  “Facial recognition has the driver as Jamal Pierce, twenty-two. In the system for two assault charges, did a stint in juvie six years ago after getting caught at school with half a pound of pot.”

  My eyebrows rose slightly. Eight ounces was clearly over the limit for being classified as intent to distribute. He would have done a fairly lengthy stint.

  Not a good sign.

  “The other one?” I asked.

  “Not in the system,” Pally replied. “At least, not the criminal databases. I’m running driver’s licenses now, but you know how that can go.”

  I did. Like all things associated with the DMV, even their databases were notoriously slow.

  Staring at the picture of the young men a moment longer, I scrolled back to the shot of Elyse and her kidnapper. I focused on his arm cocked unnaturally, clearly positioned to convey a message.

  “Thanks, Pally.” I didn’t bother telling him I owed him because keeping score wasn’t how we did things.

  “I’ll keep you posted as soon as I get anything else,” he replied.

  The line went dead without another word from either of us.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The girl weighed next to nothing as Ronell Brinks hefted her from the floor. Grasping her by the back of her jeans, he hooked both hands under the top waistband and walked her back into the bedroom. Moving in short, choppy steps, he dropped her down on the bed.

  Not once did she make a sound. Her limp body flopped against the mattress in a heap, arms and legs in a tangle.

  Across her left cheek was a splash of pink, the skin already red and puffy. A tendril of blood was streaked across her cheek, dropping down from where his fist had made contact. Soon it would be an angry bruise.

  Big Man wouldn’t be pleased, nor would the buyers, but that was something they would have to deal with later.

  He had enough on his plate already.

  Turning away from the bed, Ronell cast his gaze on Joey. Lying on the floor, he was twisted up into the fetal position. Bunched against his side was a sheet, chunks of it and his hands both stained with blood.

  His eyes clamped shut, his teeth were squeezed tight, every breath being drawn in through them.

  “She cut me...I can’t...she cut me...”

  “Shut up,” Ronell said, his voice relaying the disdain he felt.

  For years, Joey had been the weak link in their trio, the token guy that every crew needed from time to time. The white guy. The Jewish guy. The guy with some money, a house, and a mom that was never around.

  He wasn’t cut from the same mold as Ronell and Jamal, but he didn’t need to be. That was never his role. And for years it had been fine, the occasional mishap more than worth the other things he provided.

  But this was different. This was their shot – Ronell’s shot – at getting ahead. And he’d be damned if Joey was going to ruin that for him.

  “I...that bitch cut me!” Joey spat, his voice increasing as he opened his eyes wide to stare at Ronell. “Can you believe-“

  “I’m going to do a lot worse than that if you don’t be quiet,” Ronell replied, the edge in his voice clear.

  Before him, Joey fell silent. He stared up as Ronell took a step closer and bent down. Tapping Joey on the wrists, he eased back the sheet.

  There was blood, there was no mistaking that. It had saturated through the t-shirt Joey wore and a wide swath of the sheet he was using as a makeshift plug.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Ronell said. Pinching the bottom hem of Joey’s shirt, he peeled it back, peering at the injury beneath.

  From what he could see, it was mainly a puncture wound. A little more than an inch in width, there was a small scratch leading up to it, the weapon scraping over the skin before penetrating the outer layer.

  The problem was more to do with the depth. On either side, flaps of skin were flayed back like lips, leaving the hole open and gaping.

  Staring at it for a moment, Ronell dropped Joey’s t-shirt back into place. He raised the
same hand to his brow and furrowed the skin there.

  “How bad is it?” Joey asked.

  It was very bad. Not the injury, but the fact that the girl now had an open cut and future bruising on her face, just hours before she was to be delivered.

  As for Joey, he was insulated with enough fat that nothing vital had been touched.

  “How did this happen?” Ronell asked.

  Staring up at him, his features peeled back in pain, Joey looked like he might cry. His breathing was so pronounced, it sounded like panting. His hair was matted to his forehead with sweat.

  “I was just coming in to let her take a piss,” Joey said. “Got one foot in the door, and she tossed this damn sheet over my head, stabbed me with a butcher knife.”

  Arching an eyebrow, Ronell lifted his gaze to the carpet around them, his focus settling on the shard of plastic laying against the wall, a smear of blood on the tip of it. Leaving Joey on the floor, he walked over and picked it up, rotating it before him, examining the homemade weapon.

  The work was shoddy, would never be worth much on the street, but in a pinch, it had done what it needed to.

  As much as he hated to give the girl credit, it was impressive. A lot of guys a lot older than her wouldn’t have had the stones to attempt something like that.

  Joey damned sure wouldn’t.

  If he hadn’t decided to stick around, it would have worked.

  “Butcher knife, huh?” Ronell said, holding the shiv up for Joey to see before tossing it onto the desk, the thin plastic landing with a clatter. Moving back to the foot of the bed, he looked down at the broken chunks of a tray lying on the floor.

  “I thought I told you to give her only paper cups and plates?”

  Behind him, Joey continued panting. “Huh? Wha? I did.”

  “Yeah,” Ronell said, turning to glare at him over a shoulder, “but did you think that maybe that meant not setting them on a damn tray?”

  His mouth hanging open, Joey looked from Ronell to the floor. For a moment, his features cleared, replaced by a flicker of recognition, before he retreated back to looking like he was in tremendous pain.