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

by Dustin Stevens

  Both were better than letting them just see a bearded man snooping around outside.

  With my pulse racing, I finished the final strip on the camera, not caring as black paint bled out onto the white wall housing it. The instant it was finished, I slid the bag down from my shoulders and dropped the can inside. Rummaging through, I found the next item I needed, slipping my hand around the textured rubber handle and drawing it out.

  A faint bit of ambient light caught the polished steel head of the hammer as I extracted it.

  The clock in my head continued to pound forward as I gave the framework of the door another glance. Again the words of Pally echoed in my mind, though the fact was, I had no other choice.

  I had to get inside. I had to know if Elyse was here, and if she wasn’t, where she’d been taken. The windows along the front were made from glass block. The doors along the back were where the automotive theft and other things Pete Simpkins had told me about took place.

  This door was my only shot at entry. I didn’t have a pick gun to get through the lock and I didn’t have the time or tools to try and use a torch on the bolt.

  In lieu of all that, I was going to have to go old school. And every moment from this one forward was going to have to be spent with my head on a swivel, a Browning in hand.

  Reaching to my front waistband, I slid the gun free. Taking one last look over my shoulder, I checked to ensure the street was still clear before raising the hammer in my left hand. Aiming for the glass panel alongside the doors, the space just wide enough to slide my body through, I reared back.

  The first blow shattered the tensile strength of the glass. Just shy of the top, it sent a ripple of cracks the length of it, small pieces falling to the floor inside.

  The second shot, placed waist-high, cleared the rest, shards of glass raining down.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The stitches pulled slightly on Elyse Denman’s face. It felt like her skin was too tight, like each movement of the underlying muscles might cause it to burst open and blood to come oozing out.

  A couple of days before, the thought would have been enough to make her squeamish. Even the idea of such a thing on her face would have caused her to recoil, a wince on her features, a roiling in her stomach.

  Now, it barely even cracked the top five. Maybe the top ten, if she really wanted to think about it.

  Seeing her brother get shot. Having her car stolen. Being held hostage. Stabbing a guy.

  None of it felt real, all part of someone else’s life, scenes she was watching from afar. Even the situation she was now in, sitting in the front seat of the truck of the man that told her to call him John, his fake cowboy persona fast wearing thin on her.

  Pressed tight against the passenger door, she had no idea where they were off to next. Why he had kept her inside the truck for most of the day, letting her out only long enough to visit that gorilla dressed as a doctor.

  The one who might have stitched up her face, but insisted on rubbing his furry body against her as much as possible in the process.

  Just another item on the list of things she wished nothing more than to be able to banish from her memory.

  Glancing over, Elyse could see the side of the man’s face illuminated by the phone in his hand. Speaking in code, he offered nothing more than a series of short sentences and grunts, very little of it adding up to anything useful.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Pause.

  “Same time?”

  Another pause.

  “Roger.”

  A sideways glance her direction. A slight narrowing of the eyes.

  “Not at all.”

  Returning his gaze back to face forward, his mouth drawn tight. “Got it.”

  Twice more he grunted, the sounds barely discernible, before signing off the call. Dropping the phone to his side, it took a moment for the illuminated face plate to go dark, the interior of the truck doing the same without it.

  The place they were parked was a church. The front sign was dimmed for the night. No light passed through the windows. The only distinguishing feature Elyse could see that demarcated their location was a white steeple rising high overhead, a beacon of irony if there ever was one.

  The last street sign she had seen was for Goodlettsville, another of the outer suburbs surrounding the city that she knew by name, but couldn’t remember ever actually going to.

  If he were to hand her the keys or let her out right now, she wasn’t sure she could find her way back without a phone or the help of a stranger.

  All she knew for certain was that it was much darker here than in the city, or even where she lived. Forest seemed to be pushing in from all directions, branches blotting much of the sky from view.

  “You should eat that,” John said, nodding with his chin toward the sack of fast food on the seat between them. Picked up twenty minutes earlier, the trip through the drive-thru had been made with a gun held beneath the flap of the man’s jacket, the barrel pointed directly at her.

  Before entering, he had been explicit about how and where she would be shot if she made a sound or did anything to try and call attention to them. If she even thought of reaching for the door handle.

  Elyse had believed him.

  Taking her to the clinic wasn’t an act of chivalry. Damned sure wasn’t altruism. It wasn’t hard to figure out that the trail from Ronell and his friends to the enormous man at the warehouse to now this guy existed to serve a purpose.

  That purpose was her. The only question at this point was if he was the last stop, or if many more existed before she got where she was going.

  “It’s going to be quite a while before you get anything else,” the man said.

  More questions came to mind, more things that Elyse wished she could ask. Things like how much further they had to go. Why he still had her. Why he hadn’t eaten anything.

  Why they were now sitting in a church parking lot, fielding cryptic phone calls, seemingly waiting for something to happen.

  “Eat,” the man hissed, his voice rising, bits of anger seeping into it.

  A tremor passed through Elyse. Her bottom lip quivered. Moisture threatened to spring forth.

  Just as fast, it slipped away.

  The last thing she felt like doing was eating, the mere smell of grease enough to make her stomach turn. But she also couldn’t be foolish.

  Not now. Not with so much still left unknown.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Both already dressed for the evening – black suits and ties offset by white shirts – Sirr Asai and Paco stood on either end of the bank of windows outlining their office. From the third floor of the expansive home, it afforded a perfect view out over the grounds, the manicured lawn lit up by the beckoning light within the home.

  Along one side, a pale driveway knifed through the property, ending in a turnabout just feet from the entrance. In the center of it stood a concrete fountain, a wide fan of water rising from it. Framing either side of the stairs leading up to the door were ice sculptures more than five feet in height, twin dragons with mouths open and tails curled behind them.

  Yet another in the litany of small flourishes, things that wouldn’t be missed if they weren’t there, but were definitely noticed since they were.

  A couple of hundred yards away, they could see the airstrip sitting perpendicular to the home, the red landing lights lining it already on and flashing. In the far corner of the spread was the small hangar that served it, the interior shining bright as well.

  “You taking the plane?” Asai asked without casting a glance over to Paco.

  “Yeah,” Paco replied. “I just spoke to Kuntzman. He’s taking the girl to a small private strip in Goodlettsville. I’m going to meet him there.”

  Asai didn’t have the slightest idea where Goodlettsville was. He imagined it was every bit as tiny and derelict as it sounded, though he didn’t press it.

  He was just glad Paco had managed to arrange the swap without Kuntzman
or his mustachioed cohort arriving in person.

  Nothing killed a good party faster than a damn delivery truck showing up at the wrong time and overstaying their welcome.

  “ETA?” Asai asked.

  “I’m meeting him at nine,” Paco said. “Be back here by quarter after. The girl will be ready in time.”

  Of that, Asai had no doubt. And really not a great amount of concern either way. Like the ice sculptures downstairs, he had a feeling that she wouldn’t be missed too much. The list of ladies and other distractions they had on hand was already quite extensive.

  One more wouldn’t be a great loss.

  But her presence could be enough to put things over the top, the man that had requested her both quite influential and quite specific in what he wanted. The fact that he was the head of a major auto manufacturer that had recently relocated to the area didn’t seem to bother him much.

  Even less the wife and three young children he was leaving at home for the evening.

  Sometimes, what Asai did for a living was almost too easy.

  “I talked to Tracee,” Asai said. “She’s been given instructions on how to handle the girl. She’ll be ready and waiting for your arrival.”

  Grunting softly, Paco bobbed his head. His focus on the grounds below, Asai watched as he worked his way over the perimeter, checking his posted guards, even if he couldn’t see them from their current vantage.

  Sending him after the girl wasn’t ideal, but it had to be done.

  Raising his left wrist, Paco checked the time. Dropping it into place, he looked to Asai and said, “I’ll be back in less than an hour, here before the guests start to arrive.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  There was no alarm, at least not one that was audible. Most likely a decision made for the same reason the exterior of the building was painted plain white, the gravel beds and roll top doors all kept pristine.

  Anything otherwise would draw attention.

  No matter what the buildings such as the youth outreach down the street had scrawled across them, if the warehouse the S-2 called home was without a marker, the police had no reason to give it any special attention. Just like if there was no audible bell clanging as I slid through the front door, no neighbors or people passing by would have reason to look in.

  But that didn’t mean there wasn’t some form of announcement going off deep within the bowels of the place, alerting everybody present that they had been breached.

  Aware that I now had two simultaneous clocks to be cognizant of – one for Pally, the other for whoever was waiting inside – I turned my body sideways and slid through the impromptu gate. Careful to lift my exposed calves past any jagged edges, I stepped inside, my feet crunching against the loose collection of glass dotting the floor.

  Browning held at the ready, I drew in deep breaths. Sweat streamed down my face, a combination of my run and the adrenaline pulsating through me.

  Just as I had at the Bernstein home, I started by doing a quick survey of the place. Beginning on the far left, I made a long pass to the opposite end, moving fast, looking for any obvious signs of life.

  When that turned up nothing, I went back in the opposite direction, my pace much slower, focusing on any spots where someone might be hiding.

  Seeing nothing, I moved forward, crossing one foot over the other. Beneath me, the small tile foyer gave way to thin gray carpet, the covering eliminating the sound of the glass beneath my feet, swallowing any noise I might make as I proceeded.

  Before me, rows of desks were arranged to either side, a wide walkway pushed straight out from the door. Three to a side, five desks were arranged in each one, a total of thirty covering the space. All plain white with gray chairs, the pale color scheme made the room much lighter than I had anticipated.

  Along the back wall, I could see a copier and printer to the left, a small counter area with coffee pot and microwave opposite it.

  My head on a swivel, I walked forward to the closest desk. Easing up alongside it, I kept the Browning pointed toward the back of the room, alternating my glance between the open doorway and the workstation beside me.

  Bending my knees slightly, I slid open the top drawer, finding exactly what I had suspected.

  Absolutely nothing.

  The room was just as I figured upon first seeing the place. Staged to give the appearance of a working office, the space was laid out more like an old-time typing pool than a functional workspace. Despite the abundance of furniture filling the room, there was precious little that would actually lend any believability, the bare minimum put into keeping up the façade.

  On the desks were no more than a handful of monitors, none of them connected to anything. Not a single piece of paper was visible anywhere. Ditto for trash cans.

  In the air was the scent of dust and paint.

  Using the tail of my shirt, I wiped my print from the metal handle on the drawer before rising to full height. Increasing my pace, I jogged forward, pushing hard toward the back of the room. Aiming for the left side of the open doorway, I pressed my shoulder tight against it. Using it to brace my weight, I slid to a knee.

  Waiting, I counted off ten seconds, my ears straining, listening hard for the slightest sound.

  As best I could tell, there was nothing.

  Leading with the Browning, I cupped the base of it with my free hand. Leaning out into the hall, I peered the length of it.

  The first thing my mind registered was the extreme shift in design. While the front was carpeted and painted, meant to be presentable should anybody peer through the front door, no such care had been given to the inner hall.

  Polished concrete comprised the floor, overhead light flashing off it. The walls were plain block. Bare fluorescent bulbs ran parallel to it, positioned every twenty feet or so, long shadows filling the gaps in between.

  The second thing to hit me was that the path I was on ended abruptly at the far end of the hall, the wall forming a T. Covering the black back there was scads of gang graffiti, the color and design matching what I saw while meeting with Simpkins earlier.

  Clearly, I was in the right place.

  The third was the fact that not a soul was present. Nor were there any doorways or anyplace for somebody to be hiding.

  The smallest breath of air passed through my lips, pushing a droplet of sweat away from me. Based on what I saw from the road, the building was the length and depth of a square block. Given the distance I’d already traveled through the front office, this hallway looked to extend another twenty yards or more.

  That would put me halfway through.

  If Elyse was inside, the number of places she could be stowed was fast dwindling. As were the spots that the S-2 could be lying in wait.

  Pushing up off my toes, I rose to full height. Gun held at the ready, I slipped from the office into the hallway, using the wall as a guide. Raising my pace to a trot, I moved as fast as prudence would allow, careful that my running shoes didn’t make a sound against the floor.

  From one end to the other took no more than ten seconds, my heart rate rising with each step. By the time I got there, the back of my shirt was matted to my skin, my breathing shallow, coming in short spasms.

  When I had made raids like this in the past, it was always as part of a team. At least two others were riding shotgun with me, all of us trained, equally committed to protecting one another.

  Between use, there would be four or more guns. Various explosives. Kevlar vests. Pally on the earpiece providing whatever data was needed.

  Now, there was only me, each step taking me deeper into the inner sanctum of an organization known to dabble in grand theft auto, peddling drugs, and a host of other things.

  Chief among them, snatching young girls like my niece.

  This might be choppy. It might be foolish. It might be the last thing I ever do.

  But there’s no way in hell I’m stopping now.

  The rough texture of the concrete block dug into my exposed bicep a
nd forearm as I pressed tight against it. Once more I cocked an ear, listening. Hearing just the faintest sound coming from the left, I leaned out into the hallway, peering toward the right, making sure I wasn’t being lured out before looking in the opposite direction.

  At the end of the hall stood a set of double doors, both closed tight, bare metal stretched across the width of the hallway. Halfway there, a trapezoid of light extended across the floor, splashed over the concrete and illuminating the opposite wall.

  Again, I could see nobody, nothing save the dense collection of colorful imagery covering every square inch of wall space.

  Glancing back to the right, the hall dead-ended fifteen yards away, a solid block wall keeping anybody from going further. Along either side were a handful of doors, all made of metal, all shut tight.

  Any one of which would have made a sufficient holding cell. Checking each of them would take time I didn’t have, would require tools that weren’t available.

  All I did have was the belief that if she was being held, there would be a guard standing watch.

  Thus far, the only indication that anybody was around was the faint sound of voices to my left. Sounding like a small crowd, they ebbed and flowed from one moment to the next, as if watching a sporting event.

  Or something much worse.

  Sensing the clock rush ever forward, I slipped out into the hallway, my pulse continuing to rise. One step at a time, I pushed forward, flicking my gaze between the doors and the splash of light on the opposite wall.

  Every inch I progressed caused the voices to rise. If forced to guess, I would peg the total at well over a dozen, the cacophony sounding as if most of the S-2 role was present on the other side.

  The gun I held contained thirteen rounds. I hadn’t bothered bringing the other one, it stowed away in the SUV, for the simple reason that I wouldn’t be able to carry them both simultaneously, unable to be jogging through the streets with two loaded weapons bouncing against my back.