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

by Dustin Stevens

  If the doors were to burst open, I would mow down the first few before they even knew I was here. After that, it would be a contest to see if I could get back to the front door before they overtook me, their numbers overwhelming any suppression fire I might put down.

  Less than ideal, but like so much else throughout the last two days, it was the best I had.

  Turning my shoulders parallel to the hall, I slowed my pace. Sidling up along the door standing open, I again checked the light on the opposite wall, looking for any shadows. Blotting out the sounds coming from the opposite side of the door, I listened for anything going on within.

  Hearing nothing, I lowered myself to a crouch. Extending the gun before me, I spun into the room, keeping my upper body square as I turned into the doorway.

  Nowhere did I see Elyse before me.

  What I did find was a decent enough alternative.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The first punch, Ronell was able to dodge. Telegraphed as a big looping right, he dropped into a crouch, slipping past it. As the hand sailed over his head, he shot an elbow into the man’s ribs, pushing him against the side of the Honda.

  The muffled grunt of his hitting square against it echoed out, followed a moment later by the hollow thud of Joey taking a punch and going down hard.

  Making no effort to even look back, Ronell pushed forward. Raising his left arm, he parried a punch coming in, raising his fist to fire back. His arm drawn tight to his shoulder, he snapped it forward, a piston aimed at the exposed bridge of a nose.

  It never got there.

  The group got to him in a rush, the sheer mass of bodies overtaking him. Engulfing him, they tossed him to the ground, his exposed shoulder blades smacking hard against the concrete.

  A tangle of arms pinned him down, each person pressing down on him with one hand, lashing out at him in wicked blows with the other.

  With his arms outstretched to either side like a crucifix, there was nothing he could do. Writhing to either side, he twisted as far as his captive position would allow, his eyes pinched shut tight.

  A vicious right smashed into the side of his cheek, rocking a tooth loose. The taste of blood passed over his tongue, the salty brine sliding back down his throat.

  Following right behind it was a looping left hook, a hard swipe that landed just above the temple. On contact, a dull ringing sounded out in his head, settling in his ears, the force of it rocketing his face in the opposite direction.

  With his head turned to the side, he looked back the length of the car, raising his gaze just long enough to see another group clustered around Joey. On their feet, the group took turns shuffling forward, lashing out at him with the toe of their shoes or raising their foot and stomping straight down.

  On the ground between them was Joey’s pasty form. His arms tucked up over his head, he lay inert, making no effort to fight them off. Blood stained his pale torso and leaked through the bandage on his side, speckling the concrete beneath him.

  It was all Ronell could see before another blow shot straight into him, oversized knuckles smashing his lips against his top row of teeth. Turning the strip of flesh to pulp, blood filled his mouth, spurting down over his bottom lip.

  Pain erupted the length of his body, shots coming in at his ribs, his knees, even his groin.

  Tears welled in his eyes, his body’s natural response to the pain receptors going off in a dozen different places.

  This was not right. This was not how these things were supposed to be. The idea was to throw a few punches, to draw some blood, to see how hard a potential recruit was.

  This was well beyond that. This bordered on savagery, people with a point to prove and angst to burn.

  Fear hurtled through Ronell as again he tried to turn his head to the side. Parting his blood-soaked lips, he called, “Jamal!”

  The word barely made it out before a pair of shots came crashing down on him. One to the neck and another to his solar plexus, lights erupting before his eyes, the air expelled from his body.

  This was so much worse than anything he’d ever gotten from his stepfather. So much more than he would have ever thought imaginable.

  “Jamal!” he called again.

  “Shut up,” a man grunted above him, punctuating the command by raising his foot and mashing it down on Ronell’s extended hand. Under the weight of the heavy rubber tread, the thin metacarpals disintegrated, more than a half-dozen breaks that immediately sent more pain running the length of his arm.

  A howl rolled up from his diaphragm as he managed to jerk his hand free. Drawing it to his chest, he rolled over onto his side, curling his body as tight as he could.

  Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth and down from his nose, forming small pools on the ground beneath him as he lay there, fighting for air.

  He didn’t try again to look to Joey or call Jamal. There was no point. His friends were already in a bad state before they arrived. No way they weren’t much worse than him right now.

  He just hoped they were alive. That whatever point the S-2 was trying to make was done.

  The message had been received.

  One after another, the blows continued to pour over him. They pounded at each exposed inch of skin, lashing at every appendage.

  Until, without warning, they stopped.

  Chapter Sixty

  From deep inside what was essentially a large concrete block, I didn’t know what kind of reception I might have, but it didn’t matter. Sliding the phone from the drawstring bag lying on the table beside me, I pulled up the most recent call in my log and hit send.

  Holding it before me, I stared at the half-bar of reception I had, hoping it would connect, waiting what felt like an eternity as the device searched for the required signal.

  As I did so, the bank of monitors stretched out on the wall before me continued to display what was going on behind the double doors, the source of the noise I could hear from the hallway.

  Like an old-time silent movie, the scene played out in black and white, a visual like few things I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Hawk,” Pally said, his voice sounding faint and far away.

  “I don’t know how strong this connection is,” I said, “so I need to be fast. Call the cops and get them here now.”

  “You found her?” There was not a moment’s pause in the delivery of the question, nor was there a single change in his voice inflection.

  “No.”

  A quick trip through the vast space I was now standing in had revealed a lot of things. An apartment that looked like it was designed for a giant, the bed and furniture all oversized, the clothes strewn around the floor sized XXXXL. A kitchenette in the corner that had last been cleaned when Obama was still president.

  A small office area replete with visitor seating and a computer, a pair of cell phones sitting atop the desk.

  Otherwise, there was nothing of use written anywhere, the place void of paper, much like the fake office set up out front. The screen on the desk was dark, the time and effort it would take me to call it to life and dig around more than I could afford.

  The bank of monitors I was now standing in front of showing the video feeds coming in from every spot on the grounds.

  More than a dozen in total, they were arranged in two even rows, their combined screens stretched more than six feet in either direction. All flat screens, they lay flush against the wall, showing various visuals from around the compound.

  The top left corner was completely black, no doubt the incoming feed from the front entrance camera I had spray painted earlier. A handful of others showed depictions from the outside, the world dark and quiet, no signs of movement about.

  The remaining screens were all from the interior of the space, a litany of rooms and angles displayed.

  Not that I needed them, every last member of the S-2 crammed into the middle two screens on the bottom.

  “She’s not here,” I said. “I’m looking at the camera feed for the w
hole place. There’s not a single female here, doesn’t look like there ever was.”

  Pally paused a moment, considering what I’d said. “But you still want the cops?”

  My focus tightened, zeroing in on the screens at the bottom of the spread.

  The space looked to be a garage of some sort. Wide and open, it was where I guessed the part of the operation that Simpkins had mentioned specialized in stripping stolen cars took place.

  Not that one could tell to look at it now. Every bit of mechanical equipment had been pulled away, leaving behind not so much as a hammer or air wrench.

  In their stead was nothing but the open floor, benches lining it, each of them covered in flickering candles of various sizes.

  Moving about under the uneven glow, there looked to be around fifteen members of the S-2. All with shirts off, they were sweaty, their bare skin flashing under the pale light. Clustered into three tight groups, their attention was aimed at the ground. Taking turns, the men flung punches or lashed out with their feet, their targets completely hidden from view.

  At the head of the room stood the man whose home I now stood in. Looking every bit as large as his clothing and furnishings would indicate, he stood with arms crossed, his folded limbs resting atop a prodigious midsection, tattoos sprinkled liberally across his skin.

  Beside him stood a munchkin-sized counterpart in matching arm and headbands, the pair the only two men that weren’t taking an active part in the beating going on before them.

  “Looks like an initiation ritual or something,” I said. “They’ve got what I’m guessing are the three kids that snatched Elyse pinned down, are beating the holy hell out of them.”

  If that’s in fact what it was, there wouldn’t be enough to put the S-2 behind the bars. They would likely claim it was a common part of their culture, the decision to participate completely voluntary. The three boys under all that mass of humanity would refuse to press charges.

  All parties would be right back here by the end of the week.

  I didn’t give a damn. I felt for Pete Simpkins, and I damned sure wanted these bastards to pay for the role they had played in what had happened to my niece, but right now she was the most important thing.

  She wasn’t here, which meant I needed to be moving on to wherever she might be.

  And doing so without having to look over my shoulder for these guys the rest of the way could only make things that much easier.

  “How long do you need?” Pally asked.

  For another moment, I stood and watched the display on the screen. Of the three groups, two were already slowing, their attack reduced to a few errant blows, their target lying prone and motionless.

  The center cluster seemed to be the only one still going strong, a half-dozen men flailing with everything they had, smears of blood on their knuckles visible even within the shades of gray I could see.

  “Call them right now,” I said. “I’m leaving and heading straight back to my ride. By the time they get here, I’ll be in the wind.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Ronell Brinks was beyond pain. He was past the point where each blow resonated with him, where he could taste blood in his mouth or feel the broken bones in his fingers.

  Instead, there was only numbness. A systemic feeling that permeated every part of him, putting him into a state of detachment. A place where he could hear a faint buzz in his ears, could feel his corporeal connection lifting.

  Why the blows had stopped, he wasn’t sure. Where his friends were or what state they were in, he had no idea.

  What he did know was that this wasn’t right. They were well past the point of a simple initiation, beyond anything he’d ever seen or even heard of before.

  He had messed up. That much was now clear. What he had thought was a show of initiative had crossed a line. He had offended those in control, and now he and his friends were being made an example of.

  Rolling his head to the side, Ronell tried to peer to the right. He attempted to look to Joey, to see if he was still alive, if his chest rose and fell even a tiny bit.

  But he could see nothing. The gashes that had opened over his eyebrows allowed blood to rush down into his eyes, blinding him in a curtain of red.

  There was only haze, the darkened sanguineous hue of failure.

  If he had it to do again, he wouldn’t have touched the girl. He’d have snatched the keys the instant she pressed the key fob, the parking lights flashing. He would have waved the gun, would have scared them both, might have even given them a few good licks to make sure they didn’t call the police until he was well on his way.

  But he wouldn’t have taken her. He wouldn’t have tried to press the orders. Wouldn’t have forced his friends to be involved, holding her at the house, bringing them here tonight.

  He would have played by the rules.

  Not that such a revelation now did him any good, the clarity of hindsight providing nothing more than guilt and self-loathing.

  His cracked and broken lips parted slightly, his mouth gaping like a fish. Barely able to draw in air, he attempted to call for his friends, the faintest of sounds passing from him.

  Twice he tried pressing his fingertips into the floor, willing himself to move, but it was no use. The group had been thorough. His body was destroyed beyond functionality.

  “You’ve got grit, I’ll give you that.”

  With the buzzing in his ears, the singular focus of his mind, Ronell hadn’t heard Big Man approach. He hadn’t realized that anybody was even close to him. At the sound of his voice, Ronell stopped his attempt at moving forward. The sound he was making fell away.

  Still, he kept his head turned to the right, there being no point in looking over. It wasn’t like he could see. Not as if looking at Big Man would change what was about to happen in the slightest.

  “Not a damn lick of sense, but you’ve got grit.”

  Again, Ronell felt his lips move slightly. Blood spatter dripped from them, rolling off his chin, hitting his throat and rolling over his bare collarbones.

  No sound escaped.

  “You don’t have to worry about them anymore,” Big Man said, as if sensing the question that was about to be asked. “They’re gone, just like you’ll soon be.”

  Ronell felt his eyes close. The blood that had collected in them streaked down to either side, red tears staining his cheeks.

  His breathing slowed. The ringing in his ears grew fainter.

  All he had wanted was a place to belong. A group of men to stand beside him, to have his back, to ensure shit like what his stepfather had done never occurred again.

  A way to feel powerful. A standing in the community. A reason for people to look at him a certain way when he walked down the street.

  “And let this be a lesson to all of you,” Big Man said, his tone changing, adding bass, as he addressed the crowd. “The rules exist for a reason. Break them and we break you.”

  The words were a bit much, but they weren’t wrong. He had gone off script, had thought he saw a shortcut, and had brought heat down on the organization as a result.

  What was happening was to be expected. He just couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before, had so willingly walked into it.

  One last time, Ronell felt his head roll to the side. He felt the cool of the floor against his cheek, felt the warmth of bone marrow as it leaked from his broken bones, numbing his system.

  He never felt Big Man’s heel as it crashed into his neck, breaking it clean on contact.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Pally had done exactly as promised. I could hear sirens wailing in the background as I pulled away from the curb, pushing the nose of the SUV back toward the freeway. On the passenger seat beside me was the drawstring bag, heavy a pair of cell phones.

  Wanting to put as much distance as possible between myself and the S-2 warehouse before stopping to go to work on them, I retraced my route from earlier in the day. Climbing onto the freeway, I worked south, looping away fr
om west Nashville.

  On the support poles arching over the road, I could see names of roads and suburbs I’d never heard of passing by. Routes toward places such as Smyrna or Brentwood bled past. Nothing more than names to me as they disappeared overhead, I kept the speedometer pinned at sixty-five.

  Leaning forward over the wheel, I gripped it in both hands, feeling my heart rate slow. In a few minutes, the adrenaline in my system would start to seep out as well, taking both energy and motor function with it.

  Unless I did something to stem it before things got that far.

  Drifting a lane to the right, I watched as a square sign along the road announced the various hotel offerings appearing at the next exit. Seeing a good handful of recognizable names, I pushed over another lane, trusting that if there were that many housing options, the thing I really needed would be next in order.

  True to form, the announcements for a small cluster of fast food restaurants appeared a moment later.

  Nudging the nose of the SUV off the freeway, I exited onto a four-lane street, orange sodium lights every fifteen feet bathing the world in a tangerine hue. Glancing in either direction, I opted against the Chik-Fil-A to my left, instead turning toward the McDonald’s on my right.

  A decision that was made entirely based on the number of cars sitting in their respective parking lots.

  Right now, I needed a few minutes to make a couple of phone calls, something that would draw a lot less attention in a place with three times as many patrons.

  Going straight for the drive-thru, I ordered a large coffee and a large ice water, needing one to keep my physiology spiked, the other to make sure my body functioned despite the extreme amount of stress I was placing it under.

  A moment later, I gave a kid with shaggy hair and droopy eyes a buck to cover the drinks before looping around and settling into a spot in the back.

  Somehow in the course of my trip to the warehouse, more than an hour and a half had slipped past. Fast approaching nine o’clock, the sky above had a kind of washed-out tint, the faint glow of the city blocking all else from view.