The Lion’s Mouth
A Nick Lawrence Novel
Book 2
By
Brian Christopher Shea
The Lion’s Mouth is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Brian Christopher Shea all rights reserved.
Cover Six Publishing LLC
www.brianchristophershea.com
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ISBN: 9781983313462
Editor: Karen Rought
Author Photograph by Adam Rembisz
Cover design by Momir Borocki
The Nick Lawrence Series in order:
Unkillable (A Nick Lawrence Short Story Prequel)
The Camel’s Back (Nick Lawrence Book 1)
The Lion’s Mouth (Nick Lawrence Book 2)
The Rabbit’s Hole (Nick Lawrence Book 3)
The Wolf’s Door (Nick Lawrence Book 4)
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Next In Series
Review and Connect
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the taken. To those children swallowed by the beast that is human trafficking. Keep your strength and stay in the fight. Know that there are good people out there looking for you and hunting those responsible.
Check out an organization that is on the front lines trying to shut down human traffickers:
https://www.deliverfund.org
Chapter 1
It was the sound that woke her. The rumble of the truck’s tires as they slowly veered off the roadway and into the breakdown lane. The stagnant air was ripe. She assumed it must be night or early morning. Her exposed leg was pressed up against the cool metallic wall of the box truck. It had been hot earlier. Almost burning her skin.
She could hear the muffled voices of the two men in the cab of the truck. Why are we stopping? The last time it was bad. This time could be worse. They had taken an interest in her. She knew the interest from men like this was never good.
Death has a unique smell. Mouse was not unaccustomed to it, but in the enclosed space of the truck, it sickened her. He’d been dead for over a day. The humidity didn’t allow for his blood-soaked shirt to dry. Mouse could feel the moistness of it dampen hers. She managed to shift the weight of the lifeless man off her but could not completely separate from him. Too many people. Too little space. His bowels had released. That smell had intertwined with the others who had turned the 6x14 foot living space into a toilet on wheels. Mouse had urinated in her pants too many times to count, but they were beginning to dry now that dehydration had set in. She’d hoped that the smell of her urine-soaked clothing would deter the two men in the front from their intentions.
The last time the truck pulled off the road they had already been riding for a while, but time was an elusive thing under the circumstances. The door had swung open. It was still dark, but Mouse had been able to see a hint of light in the background, though she was unable to determine if the sun was rising or setting. Everyone stirred when the truck door opened. Any hope that the long journey was over quickly dissipated. The fat man with a scar over his left eye had grabbed Mouse’s leg and began pulling her toward the opening. The thin man stood beside his fat friend, his long greasy hair slicked back with sweat. His eyes were wild. Mouse feared him most. The thin man started to unzip his faded, dirt-covered jeans. The old man realized what was happening. He tried to protect her. He had smacked the hand of the fat man. A mistake.
The thin man withdrew a large knife from a worn leather sheath that hung from his sagging pants. The sound of the knife plunging in and out of the old man was a sound Mouse never wanted to hear again. Pop and thud. Pop and thud. The old man never screamed. He whimpered softly in sync with the plunge of the blade. Each sound softer than its predecessor until the old man slumped over and onto Mouse. The thin man smiled and zipped his pants. His primal needs had been satiated. The fat man retreated and closed the door. Darkness again. A few of the others sobbed quietly at what they had just witnessed. Mouse did not.
That was yesterday, or what felt like yesterday. This time would be different. There was no kind-hearted old man to save her. She would have to fend for herself. Her father had long ago prepared her for this journey, for the potential gauntlet she’d face. And he’d prepared her well. The men in the cab of the truck would underestimate her. Her small size had earned her the nickname. But she knew that Big things come in small packages.
Mouse could hear the two outside. The harshness of their voices muffled by the heavy doors. Then laughter. An unsettling sound. It did little to belie their true intention. Focus. Visualize what you need to do. Commit to the action needed. Then act. Her father’s simple words replayed in her head as they had a thousand times before. She had proven the value of their meaning and this would be yet another test.
The padlock attached to the latch stirred. In the darkness, she edged closer to the door. The grunts of the others as she crawled over them seemed louder in the silence. There were men, women and children of all ages huddled together in the truck’s dark interior. They were unknowingly sold into servitude with the promise of reaching America. Each of her cabin mates destined for different services. There were whispers among the imprisoned that the younger women and children would undoubtedly end up in the sex trade. The older men and women would be put to work in sweatshops or as day laborers. The desperation of their circumstance seemed to drain their will to fight back. Not Mouse. It fueled a fire inside her.
She reached her destination, feeling the cool metal
of the double doors. Mouse rolled silently onto her back. Her head rested against the back of one of the others. It would give her added leverage when the time came. Mouse’s feet rose high and the soles of her worn sneakers now rested lightly against the door. Commit to the action needed.
The clank of the hinge told her that the time had come. The tension in the doors released and they swung wide. The darkness of the sky seemed bright against the pitch of the box truck’s interior. Act.
Mouse shot her feet outward, striking at the two men. Her back arched on impact as they found their intended targets, one foot connecting with each man’s throat. Big things CAN come in size 5 shoes. A gurgling cough erupted from the fat man. The thin man was quiet. As Mouse sat up she understood why. His eyes were wild but not like the day before. This was fear. A palpable terror on the man’s bony face. His hands clasped tightly around his throat. A horrible wheezing sound expelled from his crushed windpipe as he staggered backward. The thin man fell and rolled into the shallow ditch that ran alongside the road. His body continued to writhe in agony, twisting to avoid the end that was fast approaching.
The fat man was not down. He was recovering from the initial blow, but his hands were no longer held near his throat. His body hunched over and his palms were on his knees. Mouse had planned for the possibility that the fight wouldn’t be over with one action.
Earlier, she had taken the tattered leather belt from the old man and now it was wrapped tightly around her right hand. Even in death, he would protect her one last time. The oversized belt buckle was exposed across her knuckles. The image embossed in the steel depicted a cowboy on a bronco. Apropos in the desert landscape of this standoff.
Mouse slipped out and onto the roadway. Her legs momentarily unsteady, adjusting as she stood for the first time after the long confinement. The fat man did not notice her. He was loud, spitting and cursing. She swung upward, hard. Again, she found her target. The trachea. This time with the added devastation of the buckle. The blow sent his head straight up. Bewildered, the fat man tried to account for this new injection of pain. His hands were back at his throat. Remember, Mouse, no matter how big your enemy, the throat is weak. Her dad’s words. Wise and true.
The fat man dropped to his knees. The jagged scar above his eye seemed more menacing in his current state. Fearful that he would recover and overpower her, Mouse moved quickly, timing her next assault.
The belt hung loosely in her hand as she shot behind the fat man. His hands lowered as he went to all fours, trying to find her like a dog chasing his tail. She wrapped the leather strap around his throat. Mouse quickly slid the open end through the buckle and pulled it taut. A make-shift choke collar. Mouse was airborne. Her knees landed squarely in the fat man’s back, toppling him face-first into the asphalt. Mouse now stood with the heels of her small feet rooted in his shoulders. She leaned back hard like a water skier in the wake of a speedboat.
The fat man flailed his arms, but the lack of oxygen weakened their movement. Mouse counted in her head. Six…seven…eight. She felt the fat man’s chest sink. His arms no longer reached for her. Eight seconds without oxygen reaching the brain and a person will sleep. Mouse was not content with sleep. She couldn’t afford to have this man come for her later. Survival was an ugly business. Under the circumstances, it was fortunate that Mouse learned this sad fact early on in her short fifteen years of life.
She pulled hard until her grip could no longer hold the leather of the belt that was now slick with her sweat. Mouse released, letting the strap fall from her hand. Nothing. No movement from the fat man. As morning’s light began to cast its eerie glow, she stared at the fat man’s chest. No rise. No fall. It was done. She rummaged through the pockets of both men, taking a wad of cash from each. The sheathed knife that had been used to take the life of the old man now hung from the belt on her hipline. The same belt used to finish off the fat man. Mouse’s slim waist was comparable to the old man’s, making it a perfect fit.
She set off in the direction the truck had been headed. Mouse did not know where she was, but she did know that anything was better than here. She looked back just once, as the other passengers in the truck clumsily started to climb out. What can I do to help them? The tentative looks they sent her way assured her she was making the right decision to carry on alone. God, save them.
Chapter 2
“Move!” Rusty Harrison directed his frustration toward the man lagging behind him. “We’ve got to stay on his ass. That means you’ve got to keep up!”
“Jesus-I-can-barely-breathe.” The voice of the slow man labored as the two ran up a hill covered in shrubs and thickets.
“If you can talk, then you can breathe, buttercup!” Rusty called back with a laugh.
Rusty’s pace quickened and the two separated further. It was of no consequence. His real partner was relentlessly pushing on ahead of him.
Jasper’s head was down low, swiveling back and forth as he moved across the rugged terrain. He was sure-footed, anticipating any divots or obstacles. He was unrelenting in his pursuit. And, as a result, Rusty had to be too.
Jasper stopped in his tracks but only for a moment as they crested the rise. He broke right, tugging the leather strap of the leash, urging Rusty onward.
Rusty’s eyes strained to adjust as dawn began to break. Light filtered in slowly, and he could begin to make out the details of his surroundings. This was the first time he was able to do this since the track began, over three miles back. Longer than most dogs could hold a scent. But Jasper wasn’t most dogs.
Rusty could barely hear the labored breathing of Officer Fontaine as he worked in vain to keep up. Rusty was used to being separated and alone on a track. Fontaine wasn’t the first who couldn’t hang. And he wouldn’t be the last. Rusty’s frustration came because he now had to have his gun out while trying to navigate the uneven landscape and simultaneously manage his partner’s leash. Not the best shooting platform if the situation dictated. The other problem was that Rusty’s radio was set to the County channel and not the agency he was assisting. Essentially, Fontaine’s inability to keep up had isolated them in the Texas woodland with the enemy. A desperate and armed enemy.
Jasper stopped again. His head lifted and cocked to one side. The brown and black ear on the right side of his head flickered. Rusty had seen his partner make this gesture countless times and knew, with certainty, that this early morning track was about to come to an end.
Then Rusty heard it. The rustle of dry brush. It could have been an animal, but Jasper didn’t care about such things. At least not while on the hunt. His focus was unparalleled to other dogs Rusty had managed in the past.
Rusty released the leash’s clasp connected to the collar. Free from restraint, Jasper stilled his body. Waiting. Rusty slowed his breathing. Then he heard the distinct sound, the clink of a metal object on stone. A gun.
Before Rusty could give Jasper the command, Fontaine bounded down the hill. He crashed through the thick ground vegetation and shouted, “Jesus! You boys sure can move. I swear to God I’ve never run so fa–.”
The sentence was left unfinished as the shot rang out. Fontaine dove for the cover of a nearby tree. He hit the ground, flopping onto his protruding belly as he crawled for safety. Rusty stood ready and pointed his gun in the direction of where the shot originated but couldn’t find the target. Jasper had.
Jasper was gone. Full throttle through underbrush, snapping branches as he moved like a torpedo through water. The land shark on attack was a beautiful thing to witness. His legs moved effortlessly over the terrain. Rusty had given no command. Jasper reacted to the situation. Training played a part, but loyalty played a bigger one.
The man stood up from behind a clump of shrubs. He was rail thin. His bony frame was readily apparent through the sweat-drenched t-shirt that clung to his body. His hair was shaved short and his face gaunt. The visible scabbing on his forehead and cheeks bore the trademark of his drug habit. Crystal methamphetamine usage was c
ommon in this part of the country where open spaces lent to clandestine laboratories, or homegrown “cooks.” Meth-head tweakers were almost always unstable. Armed ones were the worst.
The gaunt man stumbled back as he saw Jasper closing the distance, looking for his escape. His limited brain capacity obviously struggled with the choices of running, fighting or giving up. Overwhelmed, he glanced down the hill and then back at Jasper. Eyes wide, the gaunt man raised the gun.
Jasper was airborne. As if shot from a cannon, he launched at the gaunt man. Rusty had often joked about getting his dog a red cape. He was in awe every time he saw his four-legged partner fly.
Bang! The sound was deafening in still morning air. The gun went off again as Jasper smashed headlong into the gaunt man. The two toppled over and rolled further down the hill in a blur of man and animal.
Rusty momentarily froze after the shots. Not out of any fear for his own safety but out of that for his best friend’s. He suppressed the sick wave of panic that rose up inside him. Rusty ran at the two who had stopped their roll after colliding with a large tree stump.
Rusty heard what he was looking for as he ran. Screams. That almost lyrical vaulted yell that people gave as Jasper found purchase with his teeth. Jasper’s jaw was stretched wide as he held onto the rear of the gaunt man’s upper right leg. The growling that accompanied the bite added to the man’s hysteria.
The gaunt man clawed at the ground, reaching frantically. Rusty instantly realized that this man was not only trying to escape the clasp but was also trying to find the gun. Rusty closed the last few feet quickly. The gaunt man’s fingertips were outstretched, nearing the brown handle of the revolver that peeked out from under a broken tree branch. Rusty delivered a solid kick to the meth head’s ribcage. The effect was immediate and had the desired reaction. The gaunt man’s hands retracted and Rusty positioned himself, stepping on the revolver as he pointed his Glock at the man’s head.
“Get him off of me!” the gaunt man shouted. “Help! Help me!”
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