by Tripp Ellis
"Okay."
"And afterward, you have to cuddle for at least an hour."
"An hour?" I asked.
"You didn't think this was going to be free, did you? I mean, you're going to have to work for it a little."
I smiled. "I don't mind work. Especially this kind."
"Good.
In the bedroom, she let the straps of the négligée fall from her shoulders. The frilly garment fluttered down, drifting over her supple curves, pooling at her ankles on the floor. She stepped out of it and climbed onto the bed like a cat.
She had my full attention.
”There's massage oil on the nightstand."
I proceeded to get undressed, then I grabbed the massage oil and squirted her back with a squiggly line of slippery oil. My hands caressed her smooth skin, working out her tense muscles. Her body relaxed, and a delicate moan escaped her full lips.
It wasn't long before the massage transformed into something even more pleasurable.
We performed our contractual obligations with vigor and passion. Our bodies collided. It was hot and sweaty and sweet and dirty, and when it was all said and done, I collapsed beside her, spooning her.
I held her close and caressed her silky form. I kissed the back of her neck and nuzzled her ear. "I think I could get used to this arrangement."
"Keep performing like that, and I might be inclined to extend our contract." She had a blissful smile on her face. She reached a delicate hand out and stroked my face. "You don't have to stay here tonight, but you're more than welcome."
"Does an overnight stay come with a complimentary breakfast?" I asked, playfully.
"It might,” she said. "But if I'm going to cook for you in the morning, you might have to work for it.”
"I think that can be arranged."
I dozed off with her warm body beside me.
The doorbell woke me up in the morning. I peeled my eyes open as the amber rays of sun filtered in through the blinds. I reached my hand out, feeling for Jen, but the bed was empty.
I heard the shower running.
My eyes flicked to the clock. It was 8:30 AM.
The bell rang again.
I climbed out of bed and pulled on my shorts, then stumbled through the living room toward the door. I pulled it open to see Tommy—the kid that lived across the street. I squinted from the bright light, still not fully adjusted.
He looked a little stunned to see me. "Is Jen here?"
"She's in the shower. What do you need?"
"She asked me to take a look at her car."
"Hang on. Let me go get her. I stepped away from the door, and headed back into the bedroom. I banged on the bathroom door and let Jen know Tommy was here.
She shut off the faucet, and the shower dripped. A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom amid a puff of steam with a towel wrapped around her torso. She fumbled through her purse on the dresser and found her keys and gave them to me. "Tell him it's making a clunking sound when I make a hard right turn."
"Sounds like a strut," I said.
"I don't know what that is."
I chuckled and went back to the front door and relayed the information to Tommy.
He agreed it sounds like a strut. “I’ll spin around the block and see if I can reproduce the sound. If she wants, I can drive her to work, then take the car into my dad’s shop. If it's something simple, I can probably have it ready by the time she gets off work."
"I'm sure she'll be fine with that."
I handed him the keys and he strolled toward the car. I closed the door and I heard the chirp of the alarm a second later.
Archer rounded the corner into the entrance foyer, and I told her what Tommy had said.
That's when it happened.
28
KABOOM!
The ground rumbled, and the walls quaked. The windows shattered, spraying shards of glass in all directions. The blast knocked the front door from its hinges, and the overpressure sent me crashing to the ground on top of Archer.
I felt like I had been hit by a Mack truck.
I shook it off, sprang to my feet, and moved to what used to be the front door. Black smoke wafted into the air, and a blazing fire engulfed Archer’s car. It crackled and popped. Metal pinged as it heated.
There was no way Tommy survived the blast.
The heat coming off the car was like a blowtorch. Debris littered the driveway and front lawn—twisted bits of sheet-metal, engine components, and hoses.
Archer’s face contorted, and she shrieked with horror at the sight. Her eyes welled, and tears streamed down her cheeks. She wanted to dart toward the car, but I held her back. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing anybody could do.
The smell of gasoline filled the air, along with the scent of burning rubber. The thick black smoke was noxious.
Before long, the area was teeming with FBI agents, firefighters, arson investigators, and forensics teams.
Archer sat on the couch in a stupor, wearing a robe. I recounted the details to Sheriff Daniels, and the FBI agents.
FBI Agent Miller stepped into the house, holding a small charred device. "This is the culprit. Car bomb. Wired into the ignition. We won't know until we get the chemical analysis back, but it was most likely C-4.”
"Can you run the design through the database and see if you’ve encountered any other similar devices?" I asked.
"We can try," Miller said. He didn’t seem thrilled to talk to me. ”Like I said, once we get the chemical analysis back, we'll know more. We'll be able to tell if the explosive is homemade, or if it was military grade. It looks like a fairly standard design, but every bomb maker leaves their signature. Like a fingerprint."
“But the creator could be trying to mimic someone else's style," I said.
“Its possible,” Agent Miller said, skeptical. “But lets not get ahead of ourselves.”
Miller had dark hair, brown eyes, and was around 5’11. The air between us was tense, and he kept glaring at me.
"We can talk about this later, if you prefer, Agent Archer?" Daniels said.
"No. I'm fine. I just… Tommy didn't deserve this."
"Nobody deserves something like this," Daniels said.
The FBI agents milled about, conferring with one another.
Daniels pulled me aside. ”Do you think this has something to do with the Kingston case?"
"Absolutely. Somebody doesn’t want us on this case."
"Have you got any concrete leads?" "
"Nothing concrete,” I said. “Not yet."
"I'd say you’re probably getting pretty close." Daniels said. "You tell me what you want to do. I understand completely if you want to back away from this."
I looked at him like he was crazy. "I never back down. This kind of shit just pisses me off."
"When I asked you to come in on this, I never thought it would get this complicated. I thought it would be simple and by the numbers."
"Nothing is ever simple."
Archer got dressed and left with the investigating agents and went to the field office.
I stuck around her place and cleaned up the mess after everyone had gone. I caught an Uber to a home improvement store and got some heavy mill drop-cloth and duct tape and used it to seal off the broken windows and the front door. It wouldn't do much to deter a criminal, but it would keep the bugs out.
I called several different door companies and got estimates on replacing the front door. Let me tell you, a good door isn't cheap, and there's a 6 to 7 week lead time.
I went back to the home improvement store and found a 36 inch door with the same in-swing. It was in stock. It wasn't much to look at—just a white metal door—but it would do the job until a more permanent replacement could be installed. It was $400, and for an extra $150, they’d delivere that afternoon.
When I got back to Archer’s place, I used a prybar to pull off the trim around the door frame, and I started demoing the area. By the time the door arrived, I
had the area prepped. It took me another several hours to get it installed and sealed. By the time Archer got back late that evening, the new door opened and closed and locked. The flat white color didn’t look as nice as a stained wood finish, but it got the job done.
Archer looked astonished. "Did you do that yourself?"
"No. I had little elves come in and fix it up."
Her eyes narrowed at me.
"This is just a temporary solution,” I said.
"Thank you. Wasn't expecting this. This goes above and beyond our agreement." She smiled.
I shrugged, modestly. "Well, you know, I like happy clients."
"I'm anything but happy. But that's not your fault. She stepped into the living room and plopped onto the couch, tossing her purse aside. She let out a deep breath.
"Need a drink?"
"Two. Maybe three," she said.
I moved into the kitchen, uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir, and poured a glass. I brought it to her in the living room.
“Now this is what I call service." She took a sip, then set the glass on the coffee table. “Durant has taken me off the case."
"Really? That's your boss, I assume?"
She nodded. "Says I'm too close.
"So what now?"
"He wants me to take a vacation, preferably out of the area. He’s concerned for my safety.”
“That’s probably not a bad idea.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
“Good.”
“What’s up with Agent Miller? Does he always have a stick up his ass? Or did he have a particular disdain for me?”
Archer hesitated a moment. “We went out a few times. Nothing serious.”
“That explains why he was giving me the evil eye.”
“He wasn’t very happy about the way things ended.”
“How did they end?”
“I really don’t want to get into it right now. But, I just felt like he was always hiding something. I’ve got no time for games. And he was a little too… controlling.” She thought about it. “Needy. He’d freak if I didn’t respond to his texts right away.”
She shivered, shaking the memory of him away. “Ugh, what was I thinking. He’s not even cute.”
Archer sat there for a moment and had another sip of her wine. Then her eyes filled with tears again. The damn broke. She’d been holding her emotions back all day. She sniffled as she wiped the tears away. “I feel so bad about Tommy. It breaks my heart. He was such a good kid. I’m sure his parents hate me.”
I sat next to her and put my arm around her. She leaned into me and slumped on my shoulder as I tried to comfort her.
29
“You don’t have to stay here tonight if you don’t want to,” Archer said. “I’ll be fine. Durant is sending two agents to watch the house.”
“I don’t mind staying,” I said. “I never did get my breakfast.”
“I’ll be sure to make you a nice one tomorrow. That was really sweet what you did around here. It would totally have sucked to come home to a house with no front door and no windows.”
“I’ve been wearing the same clothes since last night. Why don’t you come back to the boat with me so I can get changed?”
We caught a cab over to the marina.
The FBI agents on protection detail hadn’t arrived yet, so we were on our own.
I scanned the parking lot as the cab dropped us off at Diver Down. There were a few cars in the lot. The mercury vapor lights buzzed overhead, and I suddenly felt a little too exposed. These people weren’t going to stop until we were dead, or had lost interest in the case.
We strolled down the dock toward the Slick’n Salty. The air was quiet and still. Water lapped against the hulls of the boats. I suddenly had that feeling in my gut that something was wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stood tall, like they had always done before walking into an ambush or a bad situation.
About that time, Archer put a hand on my arm, stopping my forward progression. I flashed her a curious look.
"If they booby-trapped my car, what's to say they haven't done the same thing to your boat?"
She had a good point.
I scaled the transom and moved forward along the gunwale. The plastic covering I had placed over the broken window rippled in the breeze. I peeled it aside and peered into the salon, checking to see if the hatch had been rigged.
I didn't see anything that looked troublesome.
I moved back to the cockpit, drew my pistol, and cautiously opened the hatch.
The boat didn't blow up.
I pushed into the salon with my weapon in the firing position and proceeded to clear the salon, the heads, the guest stateroom, and the master stateroom.
"Clear!" I shouted, holstering my pistol.
Archer climbed over the transom and I met her at the aft hatch in the salon. I decided it was a good idea to check the ignition lines and anything else that might trigger an explosive device.
I didn't find anything.
I had worked up a sweat putting in the new door, so I took a shower, then got dressed. "Do you want to go back to your place, or do you want to stay here?"
"Honestly, I'm torn. The plastic over my windows isn't going to stop anybody from coming in. I don't really want to leave the place unattended, but I also don't want to sleep in a place that lacks security."
“Let’s stay here. If you want to get out of town, we can talk about taking the boat somewhere for a small vacation."
"Is this thing seaworthy?" she asked, half joking, half serious.
"It needs a little work. Okay, a lot of work. But, she hasn't sunk yet."
"I don't want to run from this problem. I want to get these bastards.”
“You find any information about Votraxx Industries?"
"It's a holding company that's a subsidiary of another company. Which I'm sure is a subsidiary of something else, which will be equally as hard to track down. You know how these things work."
"I might be able to call in a favor and get some additional information."
Archer raised a curious eyebrow. "You know people with more intelligence assets than the FBI?"
"I do, actually,” I said. "But every favor I call in costs me more than I want to pay."
Her eyes narrowed at me. “What’s your real story?”
“No story,“ I said.
“Guy’s like you just don’t hang out on Coconut Key, volunteering as a deputy sheriff."
"I got tired of the rat race."
She surveyed me for a moment, probably making up all kinds of scenarios in her head about my past.
"No pressure. You can tell me as much, or as little, about yourself as you like. I mean, this isn't a real relationship. So I don't have those expectations."
I didn’t say anything.
“So, what do we do? Sit back and wait for someone to attack again? One of these times they might be successful."
"They won't be successful," I said with confidence. "I can guarantee it."
She flashed me a skeptical glance. I had to admit, I was a little more concerned than I let on.
My phone rang, and Ashley's frantic voice filtered through the speaker. "Tyson, what the hell have you and JD gotten me into?"
"What's going on?"
"My house has been trashed. All of my computers have been taken. It looks like a fucking hurricane hit this place."
"Are you there now?"
"No. I'm not that stupid. I got out of there right away."
"Where are you?"
“Bumper.“
"Stay put. I'm coming to get you. Don't go to the bathroom. Don't go outside. Make sure you are in plain view at all times. Nobody's going to do anything in front of an audience."
“Who did this?”
"I wish I knew."
"How much danger am I in?"
I wasn't going to sugarcoat it. "A lot."
She grumbled to herself. "You think a pub
lic place is going to stop a determined assassin?"
“Your odds are better in a public place. Hang tight. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Hurry!"
30
I hoped we would get there in time.
We raced across town in an Uber and spilled out onto the curb in front of Bumper. The flash of my badge let us bypass the line, and we stormed inside without paying a cover.
Bumper was fairly crowded for a weekday evening. Techno music pumped through massive speakers, vibrating my chest. Of all the places Ashley could have picked, this was probably one of the worst.
Half of the crowd was chemically altered, dancing in a trance to the music. It was so loud, you could probably fire a gun and no one would notice. The club was dim and foggy, and multicolored lights slashed the air, swirling around the dance floor.
I scoured the tables by the main bar. I didn't see Ashley anywhere.
We made a lap around the club, searching for her. We checked the smokers’ patio and the back hallway by the restrooms. I sent Archer into the ladies’ room, and she returned a few moments later and shook her head.
There were three bars in the club, and I asked all the bartenders if they had seen a girl that matched Ashley's description. She was gorgeous and would stand out to any man with a heartbeat.
None of them had any recollection of her.
A text came through from Ashley's phone. [Cooperate, or the girl dies.]
I clenched my jaw. Mother fucker. They'd gotten to her first.
A tall, baldheaded man stepped up to us. He wore suit, dress shirt, no tie. The jacket could barely contain his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. If he wanted to, he could tear the back of the jacket just by flexing. He had a hand in his coat pocket, and I was relatively sure there was a pistol in there, aimed at me.
"Move," he said with a thick Russian accent. "Into the alley."
I exchanged a wary glance with Agent Archer. We turned around and strolled toward the back exit.
The baldheaded Russian mobster kept a safe distance from me.
We left the booming club behind as we pushed through the door and stepped into the alleyway. There were several other Russian mobsters waiting.
