Prepper Jack: Hunting Lee Child's Jack Reacher (The Hunt For Jack Reacher Series Book 12)

by Diane Capri

  Ross nodded. He leaned one elbow onto the host’s stand and lowered his voice, as if he was sharing a secret. “See, Martin, this guy is a good friend of mine. And I’m worried about him, you know?”

  “Of course,” Martin replied, nodding, giving up nothing.

  “So you wouldn’t mind if I ask the staff about him, would you?” Ross asked reasonably, as if it mattered what Martin wanted.

  While they were busy being chums, Kim studied the two women who were setting tables. Like the other workers scurrying to prepare the buffet table, both were dark-haired Latinas. One of the women was average-sized, mid-twenties probably. Bent to her tasks and working quickly, attention focused.

  The other woman was astonishingly huge. The long-sleeved shirt and trousers covered her limbs, but her hands were wide and strong and the size of pumpkins. She was square from shoulders to knees and looked like 100 percent solid muscle.

  She could have played for the NFL or won a few trophies on WWF.

  Kim clenched her jaw to avoid gaping at her. She was a remarkable specimen of female evolution.

  Kim was acutely aware of her own diminutive stature and made every effort to compensate for it. She trained daily to maximize her strength and speed. She’d practiced her marksmanship until she became second to none. Along with her well-documented hyper-intelligence, which far exceeded all norms, she’d found these skills sufficient to give her the advantage 99 percent of the time.

  The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Her brothers had taught her that much. And most of the big people she’d come across couldn’t outrun her or outshoot her or outthink her.

  Most of them.

  For the rest, she avoided situations that involved outsized opponents.

  But there was no way to avoid the mammoth-sized female. She had to hope the woman was a gentle giant. Or at least, a civilized one who respected the law.

  As Kim watched, the big woman glanced toward her and then ducked her gaze swiftly toward the tabletop, like she had something to feel guilty about, which Kim’s gut said she probably did.

  Kim left Ross and approached the two women.

  She had no chance to identify herself or ask any questions before the younger woman bolted toward the exit at the back of the building.

  “Ross!” Kim called out before she turned to dash after the fleeing woman. She ran down the aisle in hot pursuit, toward the rear exit.

  Which was when the Falstaffian female blindsided Kim with her nemesis, brute force.

  She’d taken only two steps when the hulking giant tackled her from behind, knocked her to the floor, and landed on top of her like an anvil crushing a kitten.

  Kim had no warning. No chance to sidestep or evade the assault.

  She was slammed to the ground and pinned by the woman’s massive torso.

  Kim’s forehead mashed against the floor and her breath whooshed from her mouth as her lungs were pressed against the solid boards. She couldn’t speak.

  She squirmed and kicked beneath the impenetrable mass that smothered her, trying to break free. No such luck.

  Kim was an excellent swimmer. She could hold her breath under water for two minutes. Maybe longer. But she had no breath to hold.

  This was not the way she’d expected to die.

  She knew the statistics for suffocation. One minute to avoid all brain damage from oxygen deprivation. At three minutes with no oxygen, significant and lasting brain damage was likely. After ten minutes of asphyxiation, she’d be as good as dead.

  She fought to get free enough of the crushing weight to breathe.

  She tried jabbing her elbows and kicking her boots. She landed a few solid hits, but the woman barely flinched.

  Kim felt lightheaded. She struggled to inhale but the woman’s weight was too heavy on her back, pressing her chest against the floor.

  A loud roaring in her ears drowned out all other sounds. She couldn’t speak. Her field of vision was limited to the hardwood in front of her face.

  From a muffled distance, she heard footfalls and Ross yelled, “Let her go! Now!”

  The smothering heavyweight didn’t move.

  Ross’s voice was still muffled, but closer. Like he’d crouched to the floor near the woman’s huge head.

  He shouted, “Let her go or I’ll shoot you through the head and shove your dead carcass aside myself.”

  In response, the woman’s heavy arm swept swiftly forward along the floor and knocked Ross off his feet. He yelled in pain before he landed with a heavy thud and scrambled to fight back.

  She had raised her shoulder enough to give Kim a chance to suck air into her aching lungs before the giant lay flat on top of her again.

  Darkness encroached from every direction. Moments seemed like hours. Kim’s consciousness began to fade.

  “You cut me, you bitch! I’m warning you! Let her go or I’ll shoot!” Ross shouted from the floor out of the woman’s reach. “Let her go! I swear I’ll shoot you! One! Two!”

  The whale made no effort to comply.

  “Last chance. Let her go! Three!” Ross yelled. Then a brief pause before he made good on his promise.

  Through the dead weight holding her hostage, Kim heard the muffled roar of gunshots. A double tap. If he’d shot her through the head like he’d promised, the big woman could not have survived.

  Whatever muscle tension the woman had held in her body relaxed and she flattened out, seeming heavier, as if she’d been holding some of her weight off Kim before.

  Kim felt increasingly faint. In small bursts, she jerked little gasps into her lungs, attempting to oxygenate, consciousness fraying more at the edges.

  Ross pushed against the woman’s dead weight. She must have outweighed him by a hundred pounds or more. She didn’t budge. He called out, “Martin! Get over here! Help me move this body! My partner dies, it’s on you!”

  Kim gasped again and again, small sips, searching for air, but there was little to be had. She squirmed and tried to speak, to let Ross know she was still alive, but no sound came out. She worried that Ross would need a crane to get the dead woman off her, which would take way too long.

  Nonsensically, she thought what she needed was a big man. Like Reacher. Either one. Jack Reacher or his nephew, Jake. Ross was reasonably sized and fit, but he wasn’t getting the job done.

  Reacher could have lifted the dead weight that Ross couldn’t budge.

  Kim heard Martin’s muffled steps approach. Felt the heavy weight of the woman’s body begin to move. As Ross and Martin shoved to roll the dead woman aside, Kim pushed with her last bit of strength to crab toward free air.

  She drew her first unobstructed breath. Then another. Until she felt strong enough to help. After a solid five minutes of struggling with the body, the three of them were able to free her.

  She scrambled clear of the oppressive weight, rolled onto her back, and sucked breath into her lungs, gaping like a fish.

  “Are you okay?” Ross asked as he used his cell to call for paramedics and backup.

  She nodded and lifted her hand weakly to signal that she was still alive.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Thursday, April 14

  11:15 a.m.

  Chihuahuan Desert, New Mexico

  Vigo and his sister, Maria, were suspicious by nature and cautious by necessity. Several cartels were engaged in open warfare against Vigo now. Cartel members were killed at an alarming rate, sometimes five or more died every day.

  Which meant Vigo and Maria took extra precautions.

  Each morning, they opened new burner cell phones before she left Glen Haven for the Last Chance Saloon. They used the burners exclusively to communicate with each other, and only when necessary. At the end of each day, they destroyed the phones.

  It was a crude security system, but it worked well enough.

  When the daily burner phone rang twice at eleven-fifteen a.m., followed by a coded text message from Maria, Vigo knew instantly they’d suffered another disaster. He s
tomped around the barracks and swore out his rage while Hector and Freddie wisely kept their heads down until he controlled himself. For now.

  The mole inside his organization had struck again. This time, Maria’s message made clear, was worse than all the others.

  The text was a single digit. The number 4, meaning death of an important member of the cartel.

  Vigo texted back a single character, a question mark.

  Maria replied with an X. She wanted to meet. She was at the safehouse.

  “I have to go out. You stay here,” Vigo ordered Hector and Freddie on his way out the door. “If those two in the basement give you any trouble, shoot them in the knees. Don’t kill them. Not yet. I’ll take care of them myself. Understood?”

  Both men nodded.

  “What happened, boss?” Hector asked with a quick glance toward Freddie. They were nervous. Vigo wasn’t long on patience or forgiveness, and they’d seen the results too many times.

  “That mole dies today,” Vigo said and slammed the door behind him. He stomped toward his truck, jumped behind the wheel, and headed down the long driveway to the two-track and then onto the highway, cursing all the way.

  The shipment was due to arrive tomorrow. All he had to do was hold his crew together until they distributed the inventory. By Sunday, he’d be happy to burn the whole of Glen Haven to the ground along with everyone in it. Then, he could move on. The very thought cheered him considerably.

  Vigo drove to the parking lot, left the truck, and took the bus. An hour had passed before he reached the safe house. He’d passed the time controlling his hot temper and stoking the cold anger that would fuel him now.

  Maria’s gray Toyota sedan was parked in the driveway, he noted.

  He climbed four steps to the front stoop of the bungalow. At the reinforced steel door, he knocked twice, paused briefly, and knocked twice more. The heavy deadbolt slid back on the other side. He turned the knob, crossed the threshold, and closed the door.

  Inside, Maria waited. She was still dressed in the garb she wore at the Last Chance Saloon. She’d been pacing the floor, a bottle of water in one hand. Strands of dark hair had escaped the low ponytail at her neck and curled loosely around her face. She’d chewed her lipstick off.

  “You find the mole?” she demanded.

  “Not yet. I’m working on it,” he replied.

  “Yeah, well, you’d better work a hell of a lot faster,” she snapped like a rabid vixen.

  His sister was no emotional female. They were spawn of the same cold-blooded father. Ice ran in her veins.

  She was rattled. Which meant her news was exceptionally bad.

  “What happened?” Vigo asked as he sat with a resigned sigh.

  “FBI, that’s what,” Maria barked like she was the one in charge here.

  “FBI?”

  “That damn Agent Peter Ross. Walked into the saloon with another agent. Tiny Asian bitch.”

  “She’s not literally Asian. FBI agents are required to be US Citizens.”

  “Yeah, whatever. She looks as Asian as Lana Condor.”

  “Who?” Vigo was truly baffled. What the hell was she talking about?

  “Just take my word for it, Pinto. Don’t be so literal. The problem is not what she looks like,” Maria fumed. “They were asking questions about your Treasury agent.”

  “Lawton? What kind of questions.”

  “Whaddaya think?” Maria spat, palpable rage fairly rising off her. “Had we seen him. Did we know where he was. Crap like that.”

  “Martin is good with such situations. That’s why we chose him to interface with the public. He handles law enforcement well enough.” Vigo nodded. “Martin told Ross nothing, I assume.”

  “Less than nothing.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The Asian is the problem. She left Ross at the front with Martin and came at me.”

  Vigo frowned and cocked his head, trying to grasp the facts. “Okay. Then what?”

  “Like I’m gonna stand there and let her arrest me?” Maria shook her head. “So I ran out the back and left Big Sela to take care of her.”

  Vigo suppressed a groan. “Sounds like that should have been simple enough.”

  Maria replied. “Should have been. It wasn’t.”

  “So what happened?” Vigo asked again, staring at her with amazed horror. Big Sela had never failed to protect Maria. Never. “Did the FBI arrest Sela? We need to send her a lawyer?”

  Maria leaned one shoulder against the wall and hung her head. “She caught Sela by surprise. Got past her. Big Sela tackled the bitch. Crushed her, you know, like she does. Would’ve killed the bitch, too, because she’s so damn small.”

  Vigo nodded. He knew. Sela had crushed her enemies before. It was an unusual but effective method of murder.

  “But Sela didn’t kill her. Tell me she didn’t. The last thing we need is a dead FBI agent at the saloon, Maria.” Vigo’s temper was rising again, too.

  He was already working through the problems in his head. He had contingency plans. Exit strategies. Extraction protocols. Getting his assets out of Glen Haven on a moment’s notice. Leaving his business in Albuquerque. Running out of the country ahead of the feds. None of that would be simple. Or easy. Collateral damage was inevitable.

  Maria’s nostrils flared and her eyes flashed. Deadly calm, she said, “No, Pinto. Sela didn’t kill her. Know why? Because the other guy, Ross. He killed Sela first.”

  Vigo frowned. He blinked. Had he heard correctly? “Big Sela’s dead?”

  “Yeah. She’s dead. He shot her. In cold blood. Right through the head,” Maria pointed her finger gun at her head and pressed her thumb down to demonstrate.

  Vigo was shocked into silence. Big Sela had never failed. She was as loyal as any dog. And twice as effective.

  “And the feds are all over the saloon now. They’ve got everybody lined up for questioning. They’re inspecting the scene with tweezers and who knows what all,” Maria said, still angry. “I was lucky to get out when I did. Otherwise, I’d be sitting in a cell now.”

  “You left our people there?” Vigo couldn’t quite process the magnitude of this disaster. He tried to wrap his mind around it. “Our product? Our cash?”

  “That’s what you’re worried about? Your damn business?” She glared at him while she gulped air to retain control. When she spoke again, her tone was soft and quiet. “Big Sela was my closest friend in the world, Pinto. I grew up with her since I was a baby. She’s like my shadow. I’ve never been without her. And now she’s dead. And that little bitch will pay. Ross, too.”

  Vigo clasped his hands between his knees and stared ahead to think. “Where is she now?”

  “The Asian? Still breathing, unfortunately. They took her to the hospital in an ambulance.” Maria’s lip curled and her eyes narrowed. “If she’s very lucky, maybe she’ll die there before I have a chance to finish what Sela started.”

  The embers of Vigo’s anger became a hot flame in his belly. Maria wasn’t the only one who wanted revenge. Starting with the mole. He was the one responsible. He would pay first. Everyone else would follow. Vigo had applied scorched earth plans before. He wouldn’t hesitate to use them again.

  His nostrils flared as his breath came in staccato bursts on his way to the door. “We can’t stay here any longer. I have loose ends to tie up. I’ll let you know when it’s time. Follow the plan. Be ready to go.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Maria promised, her voice as hard as steel.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Thursday, April 14

  2:00 p.m.

  Glen Haven, New Mexico

  The door at the top of the stairs opened and two men descended wearing heavy work boots. Both men were armed.

  The big bearded guy who had abducted Mason came first, carrying a shotgun. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all, which wasn’t improving his mood.

  Mason had never seen the shorter, slighter man before. He’d have remembered the fa
ce. His pockmarked cheeks were deeply scarred. Hard eyes stared from beneath heavy brows drawn together, frowning above his full lips. He held a pistol casually in his right hand at his side.

  The bearded man stood to one side, facing Lawton, shotgun loosely ready, like he was prepared to deal with whatever trouble came along. Shooting live rounds inside the basement would cause a lot of problems, but the shotgun could be used effectively as a club.

  Before anyone had a chance to say anything, the pockmarked man strode across the floor, lifted the pistol, and smashed it across Mason’s cheek and recently broken nose. Mason cried out. The blow knocked him to the floor. The sharp, throbbing pain in his face made his eyes water. He began to cry.

  “Stop sniveling!” the pockmarked man commanded as he gave Mason a swift kick.

  Lawton bolted upright and took a step forward. The bearded guy pointed the shotgun and growled, “Keep coming, lawman. Nothing would make me happier.”

  Lawton stopped. “You’re not going to shoot me, genius. The ricochet would blowback on you. And the blast would be heard all over this place. You don’t want that. You’re hiding out here because it’s quiet and you want to keep it that way.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t want to push me too far, Lawton,” the pockmarked man said quietly. He turned and delivered another fast, hard kick to Mason’s soft gut.

  Mason cried out. Tears streamed down his face. He whimpered and groaned, crabbed on the floor grabbing his stomach, and pressed his lips firmly closed, afraid he might vomit.

  The pockmarked man kicked him again and again, until Mason lost all control of bodily fluids. Vomit and urine splashed on his attacker’s shoes.

  The pockmarked man jumped back and cursed.

  Lawton made good use of the distraction.

  He lunged toward the bearded man.

  He grabbed the shotgun and deflected it to one side and moved in fast. He hit the bearded man with a solid blow directly to the skinny triangle between his pecs and abs. A huge blow filled with momentum and rage and payback straight into the solar plexus.