Don't Shoot the Messenger: Hazard Falls Book 2

by Samantha A. Cole

  “Make it one,” he responded with a nod as Vic jumped back into the passenger seat. Turning to the guard, Grant gave him a quick situation report, then asked, “How’s Bruce?”

  “I think it looks worse than it is,” Vic said as the ambulance pulled away from the scene, its lights and sirens announcing the urgency of their call. “He’s moaning, so hopefully that means he’s coming around. The medics said he hit his head on the passenger door frame, which is the reason they think he’s unconscious and not from the bullet. Despite everything, they said his vitals are good. They’ll know more after they get him to the ER and have a CT-scan done.”

  A horn beeping had Grant looking through the windshield to see Lane signaling for Grant to pull out in front of him. Once they were on their way toward Chesterfield, Vic called Manny and updated him on Bruce’s status and what was going on with Drake. Grant was still worried this was a ruse to draw attention away from where Blair and the kids were being guarded, so he said no when Vic asked if he wanted Manny to catch up to them. Grant, Vic, and Lane all had specialized training. As long as Drake’s kidnapper was working alone—and Grant was almost positive he was—then three against one was all they needed.

  Grant prayed he was right.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The dampness of the rotted wood floor Drake was sitting on seeped through his jeans, making him shiver despite the temperature hovering around seventy degrees. Apparently, their stalker had been hiding out in the abandoned buildings in Chesterfield while they’d been searching for him. The unincorporated area was far enough out of Hazard Falls, and many people had forgotten about its existence, so it made sense that no one had thought to check the place out. There were no signs of human life remaining in the dilapidated house, but it looked like small creatures had been using it for shelter. Droppings from mice, birds, and raccoons were scattered about. All the windows had been knocked out, and what had once been floral wallpaper in the living room was peeling and curling away from the decaying drywall. A few broken pieces of furniture remained but were covered in mold and mildew.

  The only things that were new and out of place in the house were the Asian man’s sleeping bag, camping gear, and weapons. On his hip was a 9mm pistol, while resting on an old end table was the sniper rifle he’d used to shoot Drake’s bodyguard. God, he hoped Bruce was alive.

  Drake had been a little surprised when his client, a forty-year-old woman who was a bestselling author, had asked if he could bring her custom-made desk to her today instead of tomorrow. She’d explained that she was having unexpected company coming tomorrow and wanted it in place to show it off. She’d even said she’d understand if that wasn’t possible and if it wasn’t, they’d have to move the delivery to the following day. Drake hadn’t thought it would be a big deal to bring it early, but then none of his per-diem guys could help him with the last-minute change. When Vic had suggested taking Bruce along for both protection and lifting help, both men had easily agreed. When he wasn’t doing private security work, Bruce helped out his brother-in-law with his moving business, so he’d been more than willing to give Drake a hand. Talk about bad timing.

  While Drake had been doing the speed limit on Saw Mill Road, a van had approached them from behind, going about forty miles per hour faster than that. At first, Bruce had been wary and had unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled out his weapon, just in case, but the vehicle had passed them and kept going. There wasn’t much along that stretch of roadway and people rarely did the speed limit unless they had a reason to, like hauling a trailer. But when they’d rounded a slight curve, they came upon the same van pulled over to the side of the road. Drake remembered thinking it served the guy right to break down, seconds before his windshield cracked and Bruce had grunted in pain. A second gunshot had taken out the right front tire, causing Drake to lose control as the truck veered off the road into a ditch. Because Drake had still had his seatbelt on, he didn’t get thrown around the interior of the cab as harshly as Bruce had been. The guard had been knocked unconscious. Before Drake could assess whether the man was still alive and breathing, the driver’s door had been flung open and he’d been dragged out of the front seat at gunpoint by a man who was far stronger than he looked. A punch to his temple had stunned him long enough that he hadn’t been able to resist being handcuffed. After being unceremoniously thrown into the rear compartment of the van, he’d ended up in this abandoned house.

  While the man had spoken to Drake in moderately-accented English, he’d used a foreign language while talking to Grant on the phone. If Drake had to guess, it was Korean. Aside from giving some simple directions to his captive—”sit down and shut up”—the man had refused to talk to him further or answer any questions. Now, all Drake could do was look for a way to assist in his own rescue and wait for Grant to bring the cavalry—he was certain his brother wouldn’t come alone, despite the kidnapper’s order. Drake knew there was only so much he could do with his wrists handcuffed behind his back, but his legs were still free. Hopefully, there’d be a moment when he could kick the guy off balance or something.

  The quiet surroundings were driving Drake nuts, increasing his anxiety. All he heard were birds chirping and unseen animals scurrying around outside the open windows, while his unnamed captor moved on silent feet as he kept checking all points of entry, waiting for Grant to show his face.

  Deciding to try to get some information out of the guy again, Drake asked, “Can you at least tell me why you’re after my brother?”

  Moments passed and Drake didn’t think he was going to get an answer, not that he’d expected one, but then the man turned toward him and glared. “As you disgusting Americans say, an eye for an eye. Your brother was a spy who was looking for ways to take my government down. It’s not enough that you have to destroy your own country, but when you come after mine—we will do whatever it takes to stop you.”

  Still confused, Drake shook his head. “I don’t understand why you said, ‘an eye for an eye.’ What did Grant do to you?”

  “It is because of him that my own brother is dead. And now, before I kill him, I will kill his only sibling, so he knows what it feels like.”

  Well, that sucks.

  Glancing around again, Drake tried to find a way to prevent Blair from losing not one but both men she loved. Maybe if he could keep the guy talking and distracted, it would help Grant stage an attack. He remembered something Lane had told him once—a lot of criminals were sociopaths, and those that were liked to brag they were smarter than everyone else. The trick was to get them talking. Once you did, they’d begin to fill in the silence on their own. “Why are you blaming Grant for your brother’s death? He was in a mountainside prison from what he told me.”

  His captor checked three windows before responding. “My brother was one of the guards your government killed on that mountainside. Your military, or whomever it was, illegally crossed into North Korea and slaughtered everyone to break your brother out of prison.”

  “And your government had illegally arrested him, tortured him, and kept him in a cage when he wasn’t in a hole in the ground,” Drake barked, his anger overtaking him. “So, you don’t get any sympathy from me!”

  The man strode over and towered over him, his eyes flaring in ire. “It is not sympathy I want. It is revenge. And I will have it. I was the only person to survive that . . . that massacre. When I returned from reporting to my superiors, I found the bodies of my men . . . of my brother. Only one man was still breathing, but he died shortly after telling me who had attacked them.”

  If the bastard hadn’t held Grant prisoner for years, torturing him, and then going after Blair and the children, Drake might have felt sorry for him. Might being the operative word. “How did you know who Grant was and how did you find him?”

  He sneered. “The internet is a wonderful thing, and so is facial recognition technology. We took several photos of our prisoners over the years. Like your United States, my government also employs computer speci
alists—hackers, as you call them. It took a few months, but, eventually, your brother was given a Florida driver’s license with his picture on it in a different name than what your CIA had given him. You can thank your wife for helping us connect the dots from there. You stupid Americans put your entire lives on social media, giving anyone the information needed to find you. Her memorial to him on Facebook several years ago was quite touching.”

  Shit. He was definitely not going to tell Blair that—if he got out of there alive, that is. When she and Grant had been living in D.C., Grant had told them not to post any pictures of him on the internet because of his alleged position with the Secret Service. But after his “death,” Blair had written a beautiful tribute to Grant and posted it along with the last picture she had of them together. It was the one and only time she’d put a picture of him on her profile. For months after that, she hadn’t even been on Facebook. It wasn’t until after Trevor was born that she’d gotten active on it again, showing off photos of her little boy.

  “So, how does it feel to be married to your brother’s whore, hmm?”

  Drake saw red and yanked on his restraints. “Fuck you! Don’t you dare use that word for her.” He’d give anything to be able to put his hands around the bastard’s neck and strangle him.

  The man snorted then went back to checking the windows and doors. Over the roar of his anger, Drake heard an approaching vehicle. What the fuck? Grant’s pulling right up to the front door? It didn’t make sense to him—Grant had to know he’d be ambushed. Unless he’d brought backup. That had to be it. So, I have to be ready to help them any way I can.

  While his captor’s attention was on whatever was happening outside, Drake rolled onto his side and tried to pull himself up onto his knees. The other man heard him, pivoted, and aimed his pistol at Drake’s head. “Lay on your stomach, or I’ll shoot you right now.”

  Reluctantly, Drake complied.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The dirt road leading into what little was left of Chesterfield was full of potholes, causing Grant to drive slowly. They’d stopped about a mile ago, and left Lane’s patrol vehicle and he’d jumped into the back of the SUV. When they were a half mile from where they’d be in full view of anyone in the ramshackle homes, Grant tapped the brakes to allow Vic and Lane to exit from the front and rear passenger doors. The two men disappeared into the trees where they’d double-time it toward Drake and the kidnapper’s location, taking extra precautions not to trip any boobytraps along the way. According to Lane, there were only three buildings still standing—barely—so it shouldn’t take long to zero in on the right one.

  On the drive over, Vic had been pissed at himself for sending only one man with Drake. Grant kind of knew how the guy felt. They’d been so focused on keeping Blair and the kids safe, they hadn’t really considered Drake would be a main target. Grant was certain that’s what their stalker had wanted them to believe. And now, Drake was in a position he’d never been trained to deal with. No matter what happened in the next few minutes, Grant was determined to make sure Blair got both her men back. But, if it came down to only one of them returning to her, it would be Drake. Grant’s brother had helped her through the loss of a man she loved the first time it’d happened. He could do it again.

  As the woods opened into a large clearing, it was obvious which of the three remaining buildings they’d be in. Two of them were missing half their walls, and a dark-blue van was parked next to the third one. Grant brought the SUV to a stop a fair distance away from the dilapidated house, eying his surroundings and giving Lane and Vic a chance to get into position. He rolled down all four windows and listened for a moment. Other than the sounds of nature, nothing else caught his attention.

  In the center console, his phone vibrated. Lane had sent a text message, confirming he was south of the clearing and didn’t see any signs of an ambush or boobytraps. They’d created a group chat for all three of them to communicate, since the lawman was the only person with a handheld radio. A few moments later, Vic’s text said he was also in place.

  Leaving the SUV where it was, with the engine running in case they had to make a fast escape, Grant climbed out of the driver’s seat and didn’t bother closing the door. As he walked slowly toward the house, he held his gun in his right hand. No sense in hiding it—the stalker/kidnapper surely wouldn’t have expected him to come unarmed. Lane had also given Grant a .38 caliber pistol, which was now strapped to his right ankle. The officer figured Grant would probably have to toss the 9mm before he could get close enough to his target, so he’d need the backup piece before Lane would.

  Grant couldn’t see inside the building, since it was much brighter outside.

  “I’m here, you bastard,” he yelled in Korean. “Show yourself, or are you too much of a coward?”

  Calling any man a coward was sure to piss him off, but saying it to a North Korean was the equivalent of cutting off his manhood.

  From inside the house, came a string of foreign curses and insults, most of them aimed at Drake and Grant’s mother. They were followed by an order for Grant to drop his weapon and come into the house with his hands up, or Drake would get a bullet in his head. It looked like Lane had been correct with his prediction—not that Grant had expected otherwise.

  After setting his gun on the ground, he slowly approached what had once been the front door to the house. Again, he was giving Lane and Vic a chance to move in closer from the south and north, respectively. Stopping in the doorway, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darker interior. There was no way this bastard was going to shoot him right away. He hadn’t been fucking with them all this time to just end it now without any drama or fanfare. He’d figure he had all the time in the world, out there with no one else around to interrupt whatever he had planned.

  “In!” the man barked, this time in English. “Inside! Now!”

  When Grant complied, he finally connected the horrors of his past with that of his present. Yung Nam-Kyu had been a lieutenant at the prison camp. His younger brother, Yung Min-ki, had been one of the guards—one of the now dead guards that Carter, Sawyer, and the rest of the rescue team had killed. So, this was all about revenge, and Drake had been the target all along. Blair and the kids had been ruses to draw the attention away from the real objective. An eye for an eye. A brother for a brother.

  Yung stood above Drake, who was face down on the rotted wooden floor, aiming his pistol at his captive’s head. Drake’s hands were cuffed at the wrist behind him.

  “You okay?” Grant asked his brother. He doubted Drake would believe he’d come without backup, but hopefully the other man wouldn’t think it.

  Drake shrugged his shoulders the best he could in that position. “Right as rain. Although, I could do without the handcuffs, damp floor, the big-assed spider that just crawled up to the ceiling, and the gun pointed at my head, but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

  “Shut up!” The North Korean ordered Drake before sneering at Grant. “So, we meet again, Evan Walker. Or should I say, Grant Hadley.” He reached behind his back, produced another set of handcuffs, and tossed them to the floor in front of Grant. “Put them on.”

  When he just glared at him, Yung gestured with the gun. “Do it! In the back.”

  In no rush, Grant set one metal cuff around his left wrist with a click, then putting his hands behind him, he fumbled a moment until he closed the second one around his right wrist. He may have lost the use of his hands, but he’d been trained to fight without them. With any luck, he wouldn’t need to go that route—Vic and Lane were still outside and unknown to Yung.

  Grant turned slightly and wiggled his fingers to show the other man his hands were indeed restrained. “This is a little unfair, isn’t it? I mean, your brother and the other guards had a fighting chance. This is cheating, in my opinion.”

  He stepped further into the room to his right, forcing Yung to pivot as well, away from the window closest to him. Lane would be coming from that di
rection. Vic’s advancement would be concealed by the kitchen’s windowless north wall in the other room, which Grant had spotted upon entering.

  “I do not care for your opinion; it means nothing to me. Revenge is all that matters.”

  Grant didn’t doubt it, but he had to keep the bastard talking until the calvary got there. Silently, he urged Lane and Vic to hurry the fuck up. “How did you find me?”

  Yung snorted as if Grant was an imbecile. “I am not repeating myself. Your brother can fill you in when you both reach Hell.”

  He pointed the gun at Drake’s head again, forcing Grant to make a move. He rushed forward, hoping the muzzle would switch to the greater threat. Yung’s eyes widened and his hand came flying up. A gunshot filled the air, and Grant cringed for a second before realizing he hadn’t been hit. An expression of shock covered the North Korean’s face, and blood bloomed on his shirt and drizzled from his mouth. He crashed to his knees and fell to the side. Lane appeared in the window, ready to fire another shot if necessary.

  Vic ran into the living room from the kitchen, his gun at the ready. After he quickly took in the scene, he kicked the gun out of Yung’s hand, then bent down to check for a pulse. Grant doubted there was one, and a moment later, Vic confirmed it. “Nice shot, Lane.”

  Rolling onto his side and struggling to stand, Drake was white as a sheet. “I agree, but next time, could you not wait until the last possible second?”

  Grant smirked. “Hopefully, there won’t be a next time.” He stepped over to the glassless window, putting his back to it, and sticking his hands out a little toward Lane. “Now, get me out of these fucking things, while Drake fills me in with whatever that asshole told him.”