Always he had insisted on dealing in cash, on never putting anything in writing, but that didn’t mean that people hadn’t seen him around the place. Every one of those guys had eyes and ears, could be capable of almost anything if they thought it might save their own ass.
“You?” he asked.
“What the hell do you think?” Russo snapped, the condescension in his voice climbing higher still, a rare curse finding its way in. “I was about to feed them the OHB.”
The OHB stood for the Old Hickory Boys, a low-end click that was always up to something, a safe dumping ground they’d used in the past. Meaning that if Russo was looking their direction, someone else must have set them on the S-2.
“When police arrived, they found a glass panel to the front door had been shattered and the front camera painted over. Looks like the silent alarm was going off, but there wasn’t anybody inside to see it.”
Raising his face to the sky, Kuntzman took in a sharp breath. In the distance, he could see twin red landing lights come into view, one on either end of a small aircraft, the pair balanced evenly as it came in for the descent.
“Any idea who it was?”
“No,” Russo replied, “but like I keep telling you, she needs to disappear.”
Kuntzman didn’t bother to reply. Snapping the phone shut, he watched as the plane floated closer, preparing to land.
Chapter Sixty-Five
The second phone I snagged with the bright green casing was set with a password much more advanced than a basic four number sequence that any toddler could crack. After entering five different variations that Pally told me to, the screen locked down, stating that it would need a mandatory two-hour period to cool off before it could be accessed again.
Two hours we damned sure didn’t have.
If Pally was with me, or if I had some way to patch him through directly, there was little question he could have been past the meager preventive measures in moments.
As it stood, all we had was the device from the larger of the two, the de facto leader of the S-2.
The man’s name was Philip Gates, though he was known under the simple moniker of Big Man. Thirty-four years old, originally from Decatur, Georgia. In his youth, he had played football for the University of Tennessee, making it as far as a tryout with the NFL before returning home.
In the years after his sports career ended, he fast took up with the S-2, acquiring a string of arrests for things as ranging as assault to possession. Four different offenses netted him a total of eight months in jail, his last stint occurring six years ago.
Since then, he’d moved to Nashville, presumably sent up by the S-2 as a part of their expansion package, meant to get the fledgling organization up and running in the new city.
Based on the meager spread I saw at the warehouse, it looked like things had been slow going, to say the least.
All of that Pally was able to track down in a matter of minutes, pulling it up on one screen while running the information on the phone numbers I’d given him on others.
While he’d worked, I’d finished off the coffee and the ice water, both having the desired effect. By the time he began getting information back on the numbers I’d given him, my system was again redlined, bracing for whatever lay ahead.
Adding to the feeling pushing through me was the picture of Elyse still tucked into the front cupholder, the occasional glance all I needed to provide focus, to keep spurring me onward.
Leaving Pally on the line, I pulled out of the McDonald’s parking lot and began to head north. Chosen for no other reason than the need to be doing something, to feel like I was going somewhere, I jumped onto I-65, the north-south freeway bisecting the city.
Setting the cruise control, I fell in with the thin flow of late evening traffic, the city starting to quiet down for the night.
Following the turns of the Cumberland River, I cruised past a baseball stadium that announced itself as hosting some team known as the Sounders and LP Field, home of the Tennessee Titans. Behind them stood a tight cluster of skyscrapers, office buildings as standard and non-descript as those found in a thousand other towns the world over.
As I drove, I kept the wheel clenched tight, seeing veins rise along the back of my hands. Flicking my gaze to the passenger seat, I saw the pair of Brownings sitting out and ready, the handle of the baseball bat tucked against the opposite floorboard, the tip still stained red, capped with a plastic bag.
“Hawk,” Pally said, his voice shattering the solitude of the car.
Flicking my gaze to it for a moment, I replied, “Still here.”
“The list you gave me was seven numbers,” Pally said. “Five of those he’d only called once. Three of those are cell phones registered to young ladies in the area, all under the age of twenty-five, presumably groupies for the S-2.”
Grunting in agreement, I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
“A fourth was a junkyard outside of the city. The fifth was a pizza joint.”
Again, I grunted. The junkyard would fit with their side operation of stripping and selling cars. The stack of empty boxes and the sheer size of the man explained the pizza place.
“Okay.”
“Number six was a private number,” he said. “Guy named Rocco Benson, twenty-seven, from West Nashville. Known member of the S-2, arrested twice before for selling stolen property.”
Which was a crime reserved for non-living things, items such as cars or their component parts. Most likely also a member of the business associated with that aspect of their enterprise.
“And finally, lucky number seven,” Pally replied, “is a man named John Kuntzman.”
The way it was announced, the extra gravitas put on the words, made me lean forward in my seat. Moving up so my chest was just off the wheel, I glanced to the rearview, seeing nothing close as I drifted to the side, positioning myself to make a quick exit if need be.
“Kuntzman,” I repeated.
“Yep,” Pally replied. “Forty-five years old, originally from Odessa, Texas. Came to Nashville fourteen years ago, currently lives in a high-rise condo in one of the most auspicious buildings in town.”
Drawing in a sharp breath, I could feel my core draw tight. “What’s he do for a living?”
“Not real sure,” Pally replied. “He has an office downtown, is listed as an antique dealer, but has no website, no real footprint at all in the ether detailing any transactions. At least, not any business ones.”
Not sure exactly what he was getting at, I remained silent. Along my right, a pair of exits slid past, the usual list of food and gas options dwindling, the signage indicating I was pulling away from the thickest of the city.
“Guy seems to have money, though,” Pally said. “He’s known around town, shows up at all the requisite events-“
“But nobody knows where it comes from.”
“And in the last two days he’s spoken to Gates a total of three times,” Pally finished.
Bit by bit, I could feel vitriol rising within me. Combining with the caffeine I’d just ingested, it set my nerves on end, my senses sharpening.
“Where is he now?”
Chapter Sixty-Six
The man was as different in appearance as possible from the giant that had been waiting for Elyse Denman at the warehouse earlier in the day. While the previous man had been huge, his bulbous stomach bare, skin etched with tattoos, this guy was much smaller. His thick dark was gelled perfectly, matching his dark complexion.
Wearing a black suit and tie, there was zero wasted movement. No flashy rings or necklaces.
He stood just a few inches taller than Elyse.
But he was easily one of the most menacing people she had ever been around.
Stepping off the fold-out stairwell along the side of the small Raytheon aircraft, he strode across the short expanse of grass, walking directly to the truck. As he did so, he made no effort to extend a hand in greeting. Not the faintest crack of a smile graced his featur
es.
“Kuntzman,” he said, flicking his eyes to the man Elyse had been riding with before shifting his attention to her.
“Paco,” John replied, his voice steeped in either respect or not wanting to speak too loudly.
Most likely a bit of both.
“Any heat?” Paco asked.
“Not on her,” John replied.
Shifting his gaze toward him, Paco remained motionless a moment. He arched an eyebrow, waiting for further explanation, his features unreadable as he stood just beyond the front hood of the truck.
“The kids who nabbed her got into some trouble, caused a bit of a spectacle,” John said, “but there’s nothing out there on the girl.”
The strain in his voice was palpable, a development that did nothing to alleviate the fear coursing through Elyse’s system.
All day, she had watched him act as if he were the man in charge. He had sauntered into the S-2 warehouse and interacted with Big Man as if it was completely natural. He had gone to the doctor and had her face stitched up with no questions asked. He had held her at gunpoint through most of the evening, making it abundantly clear that he would have no problem getting rid of her and leaving her body along the side of a road.
Now, he could not wait for the conversation to be over, visibly aching to hustle things along.
Whoever the man now standing across from her was, he was not someone to be tested. This was no longer an issue of being held in a back bedroom by a couple of kids.
She had ascended the criminal ladder to a place where her fate was almost assured. No more could she hope to slip away. The thought of rescue was now obsolete.
Hot tears rose to the underside of Elyse’s eyes as the man leveled a hard glare on John. Keeping it there long enough to make a point, he shook his head slightly, the anger he harbored palpable, before shifting his attention back to her.
As he did so, the previous acrimony he displayed slipped away, replaced by an expression that was completely unreadable, void of emotion.
If he saw the tears on her cheeks, he gave no indication. If there was even the slightest tinge of sympathy for her plight, it was buried well beneath the surface.
To him, she was nothing more than an asset, a good to be bought or traded.
“Come.”
Elyse felt her chest constrict, her lungs fighting to pull in air as she remained rooted in place. Her knees turned to rubber beneath her, barely able to support her weight. Bits of color began to flash before her eyes.
“Now.”
Gingerly, she pushed her right foot out in front of her. Used her toe to make sure there was firm ground before inching forward. Placed her left out after it, inching past the man toward the plane parked a few feet away.
She was alive. Save a small cut on her cheek, she was unharmed. Despite every warning mechanism her body contained telling her that nothing good waited onboard that plane, she couldn’t reconcile trying anything else.
Right now, she could barely walk. She could hardly breathe. Her vision was clouded with tears.
If she attempted anything, this man would track her down in no time. Would likely do things to her that would make her wish she was back in that warehouse with the S-2.
One step at a time, she moved for the plane. She heard as the steady drone of the engine grew louder. As the wind produced by the twin propellers became stronger, touching against her skin, picking at the tears on her cheeks.
Arriving at the base of the stairwell, she paused. Staring straight up at the eight steps, her mind again rifled through every possible action, unable to seize on anything beyond the panic gripping her.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her left foot and began to ascend.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
“Turn left.”
Pally’s voice was infinitely preferable to the sound of the automaton attached to the GPS system. Flat and even, free from inflection, he’d directed me toward the beacon that was Kuntzman’s cell phone since the moment he’d gotten a lock on its location.
Doing as instructed, I pushed left off the main strip in a tiny berg outside of Nashville known as Goodlettsville. Every bit as small as the name would suggest, it had held the requisite handful of restaurants and hotel chains, most of their lights out for the night. In their stead, only the sporadic glow of gas stations lit the path, aided slightly by the small handful of street lights along the way.
Making the turn onto a small state route, any residual light they might have provided fell away behind me. Without it, the world grew darker almost instantly. Farmland opened up to either side. A handful of stars popped up in the sky, offset by a waning gibbous moon.
“One-point-eight miles,” Pally said. “Then you’re there.”
Squeezing the steering wheel tight, I ground my hands into it, shards of rubber shaving off, dropping to my thighs and nesting in the hairs above my knees.
As a matter of course, I hated wearing shorts. In my lines of work – both in the DEA and now in the park – having my legs protected wasn’t just a suggestion, it was a maxim that prevented a great deal of injury.
Still wearing the running attire from earlier, I hadn’t had a chance to change. Likely wouldn’t for some time.
Not that it made a bit of difference. I could be wearing a kilt right now, and it would make what was about to happen to John Kuntzman no different.
“And what is there?” I asked.
“From the aerial schematics I have,” Pally replied, “looks like a private airstrip. Grass runway, just big enough for small personal craft.”
Hearing the information, my mind processed what it meant. That Elyse was alive. That she was on the move. That if she made it onboard a plane, it would be hell finding her again.
Rocking my foot forward on my heel, I ground the gas pedal down. The odometer needle spiked as I hurtled down the road, fence posts whipping past, barely visible in the periphery of my headlamps.
“One mile,” Pally said.
I kept the accelerator down as far as it would go. Clenching my teeth, I felt my lips peel back, sucking air between them.
The last thirty-six hours had been a sprint. Beginning with standing along that riverbank with the Gentries, I’d been in a headlong rush to find my niece. I’d been all over the city. Had been held at gunpoint by greedy rednecks and beaten the hell out of a couple of wannabe gangbangers.
I’d laid eyes on my sister-in-law for the first time in years, the closest I’d been to my wife or daughter since their deaths.
No way would I let it end here. Not now. Not like this.
“Quarter mile.”
Giving the gas one last push, I let up, bringing it to a coast before mashing on the brake. The back end fishtailed slightly, the faint scent of charred rubber reaching my nostrils, as I made the turn, instantly punching the gas again.
“Now what?”
“Two hundred yards,” Pally said. “On the left, just off the side of the road.”
Flipping the front lights to high beams, I drifted to the left side of the road. Having not seen a single other car since leaving the strip in Goodlettsville, I wasn’t concerned about oncoming traffic, had no worries about a wayward police officer seeing me on the wrong side of the yellow line.
Sweat dotted my forehead, settling into my brows, dripping down over my cheeks as I kept my pace steady, counting seconds in my head.
I made it to seven before I saw it.
Parked perpendicular to the road was a custom Chevy, the vehicle almost twice the size of the SUV I now sat in. Much larger than anybody living within city limits would ever need, it looked like it had been designed by someone looking to compensate.
A guy needing the validation of being noticed as he drove down the street.
Staying on the road for another thirty yards, I nudged the steering wheel to the left, the driver’s side tires veering off the side of the road. As it did, the front end bucked slightly, sending the phone flying from my lap. Tall grasses slapped at the
undercarriage, tires chewing through the loose soil.
Again, the odometer jolted upward as I punched the gas. Keeping my left hand on the steering wheel, I reached with my right onto the passenger seat, grabbing up the closest Browning.
Keeping it in that hand, I hit the automatic button to lower the window, wind instantly flushing into the car, the cool sensation rippling over the perspiration on my face. The smells of grass and soil found a way in as well, the faint aroma of jet fuel just barely apparent.
Shifting the gun to my left hand, I kept the SUV on course, pushing hard until I was almost even with the back end of the truck before once more mashing on the brakes. Pressing my shoulders into the seat behind me, I felt the vehicle twist slightly, the tread of the tires tearing through the grass, fighting for purchase.
My jaw still clamped, I kept the brake down as far as it would go, pressing until the muscles of my calf and quad began to burn, finally bringing the machine to a halt, just a few short feet separating me from the tailgate of the truck.
Extending the Browning out the window, I pointed directly at the driver’s side tire. Squeezing off a single round, I heard the air bladder in the tire explode, the telltale wheeze of air pressure escaping.
Shifting forty-five degrees to the side, I aimed for the right and pulled the trigger a second time. This time there was a small spark, the bullet passing through the rubber and slamming into the wheel rim beneath it.
“Sonuvabitch!” a voice yelled, snapping my attention back in the opposite direction.
A moment later, a man emerged, his hands held high to either side. Dressed in a sports coat and boots, light reflected from the pearl snaps of his shirt. A gray Justin cowboy hat rested on his head.
All in all, a carefully cultivated image that had no business being in Nashville. Or much of anywhere, for that matter.
Exactly the kind of man I would expect to be driving a truck such as this.
“What’s your problem, asshole?” the man yelled, the look on his face a mix of shock and agitation.
Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5) Page 23
