Vigilante Dead (Kate Jones Thriller #8)

by Berkom, DV

  Needless to say, I learned to tune out distractions.

  “Well, darlin’, I think it’s time to try out your newfound talents.”

  “You what?”

  “Don’t you want to try out what you’ve learned?”

  My stomach did a little flip at her smile.

  “Why, I would think you’d be rarin’ to go, what with all the practicin’ you’ve been doing.”

  “I am, I mean, of course I want to, but are you sure I’m ready?” My mind scrambled for what Angie would deem “trying out my newfound talents.”

  She chuckled and rose from her chair. “The only way you’re going to learn is to actually use what I’ve taught you. Now.” She moved closer to where I stood. “Who’s the first target?”

  This was moving too fast. I needed to back her up. “I wouldn’t necessarily call him a target. More a person of interest. I need more information from him before I pick my target.”

  “Ah. So that’s why you were so interested in the enhanced interrogation techniques we covered on Wednesday.” She nodded, tapping her chin. “Well, then, let’s run over a few more things before we plan the operation. Have you been surveilling the subject?”

  “I know where he’s conducting business, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Let me guess. The warehouse where I followed you that first day?”

  I nodded. “That’s the one.”

  Angie paced in front of the small table, head down, thinking. “I don’t like the location. Too many variables. You need to follow him home, find out his vulnerabilities.”

  “What if he doesn’t have any?”

  She smiled. “Oh, believe me, he has them. Everyone does.” Walking over to a satchel resting near her chair, she pulled out a sheath containing two fixed-blade knives. “Let’s do a little more practicin’, shall we?”

  Twenty-Two

  SURVEILLING CHACON TURNED out to be simple. He was staying at a Craftsman-style home in a busy Seattle neighborhood, which made it easy to watch his comings and goings. Most of the older homes only had room for one or two cars. Everyone else had to find parking on the street. My Jeep was one of dozens of vehicles lining the curb. I just had to make sure I got there before five o’clock in the afternoon or I’d be out of luck.

  The owner of the home was listed as John Hastings, the same guy who had owned the Honda driven by Bobby the Barracuda’s homeboys, the Exterminator and Bruce Wayne.

  Visitors to the house were few. It looked like Chacon was using the warehouse solely for distribution. I’m sure my actions had a hand in that decision. Especially after the DEA descended on his home in Olympia. There was another plus to his new situation: no dogs at the house. They were back at the warehouse, guarding the goods.

  A few days into my surveillance, Angie insisted I’d done enough. It was time to try out my new skills. I argued that I hadn’t had enough time to really get his routine down, but she pooh-poohed my objections.

  Fine. It was time to put up or shut up.

  I chose to break in on Friday evening. My presence would be less likely to raise questions since more people would be out and about at the start of a weekend. I went in the back way, in case the DEA had the place under surveillance. Angie had insisted I put up a motion sensor camera with a wide view of the backyard when I first started my surveillance. The photographs were rife with raccoons and neighborhood cats, but no agents appeared in the frame, leading me to believe that either the DEA didn’t know where he’d moved to yet, or they were only watching the front of the house.

  Apparently Chacon hadn’t yet bothered to add security to the home, and getting in the back door proved easy. I used a glass cutter to scribe a hole large enough for my hand to fit through, making it easy to unlock the deadbolt. Carefully picking my way through the darkened first floor, I took long, deep breaths to quiet my hammering heart. When I reached a stairway, I slowly made my way to the second floor, making sure to use the outer portion of each step.

  From Angie McKenna’s School for Would-be Assassins, Module 2: Breaking & Entering Without Discovery. Stair treads tended to be weaker near the center.

  I reached the second floor and stood in the darkened hall, listening for movement, and went over what Angie had taught me. The semiauto had heft, a last-minute gift from my mentor. I knew all the moves, had practiced them with relentless determination, unwilling to make a mistake when I did the deed.

  Committed the act.

  Went off the rails.

  What are you doing, Kate? Whispers from my good-girl self, long buried all these years, echoed through my head.

  Shut up and let me do what needs to be done. I’ll deal with the fallout later.

  But isn’t that how you’ve always done things? Act first, ask questions later?

  This is different.

  How?

  Be quiet. I’m in no mood to argue.

  Angie had delivered her last lesson that morning. The memory came galloping back with a force that was difficult to comprehend.

  I’d been lucky to survive.

  My gaze cut to my right arm, as though I could see through the darkness and under the bandage, at the angry red wound it covered.

  Angie didn’t dick around. I’d been shocked when she took a slice at me during our sparring session. I shouldn’t have been. She’d waved away my angry retort with “I wanted to see how you’d react to bein’ wounded.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d wanted to help instead of kill me. Money dictated her loyalties. With no current, remunerable contract connected to my death, she couldn’t have cared less if I was standing in front of her at point-blank range, handing her a gun.

  In her world, Kate Jones had ceased to exist.

  But wave a bundle of crisp, hundred-dollar bills at her? Why, yes ma’am, what can I do for you this fine evening? Her southern head turned so fast, I was afraid she’d get whiplash.

  A relief, really. After all those years of running, of looking over my shoulder, waiting for Angie or one of the others to strike.

  Gone. Poof.

  One minute I’m scanning restaurants and street corners for suspicious activity, and the next, nothing. Nada.

  Zilch.

  From what I understand, it’s a lot like giving up smoking. All of a sudden, you have too much extra time on your hands. You’re at a loss, really.

  And so it is with normal life. No more running. No more death threats.

  No more fear.

  But then again, there’s all that muscle memory. The fight-or-flight response that’s hardwired into our brains.

  That’s no way to live when no one’s trying to kill you.

  The bedroom door opened, and I moved deeper into the shadows. Soft footsteps padded along the corridor to the bathroom. The silhouette confirmed my suspicions.

  It was time.

  My inner good girl had evidently left the building, her recriminating voice finally silenced.

  I crept toward the bathroom, my feet whispering silently along the polished wood floor. I was glad I’d used the disposable booties like Angie suggested. Not only did they reduce evidence left behind by my sneakers, but they silenced my footsteps as well as if I’d been wearing socks.

  What if Sam finds out?

  There she was again.

  I thought you left. Good girls need their sleep, right?

  Not gonna happen, Kate. You know me. I’m tenacious.

  The idea of Sam finding out that this was my doing gave me pause. My sister Lisa’s face sprang unbidden into my mind. My cheeks flushed warm and my respiration increased, tightening my chest and giving rise to a mini panic attack. I took a deep breath and slowly released it, just like Angie taught me to do, and the bands around my chest loosened. The assassin’s ability to remain calm under pressure still amazed me, although I don’t know why. She was a stone-cold killer with the personality to match.

  At the sound of the toilet flushing I snapped back to the present and sprinted along the hallw
ay to the open bedroom door.

  You shouldn’t be here. Go home to Sam, now.

  Ignoring the good girl and wondering where the hell my bad girl had gone—because I really could have used her at the moment—I crossed the room, skirted the bed, and slipped inside the closet, leaving the door cracked open while I waited. The smell of cedar laced the air as I kicked a pair of shoes out of the way.

  The bathroom door creaked open, followed by the sound of feet scuffling into the bedroom. I gripped the gun and waited as the occupant kicked off his slippers and sat down heavily on the bed. The sound of covers being thrown back and a faint sigh as he settled in told me it was time.

  I waited until Chacon’s breathing deepened and grew more even before I stepped from the closet into the room. Gripping the silenced gun with two damp palms, I advanced toward the bed and stopped a few feet away. I adjusted the mask I wore to be sure he wouldn’t recognize me.

  Moonlight sliced through the window, giving his skin a blue cast. Gathering my courage, I listened to his breathing for a moment and then cleared my throat. His eyes popped open, the whites glistening in the dim light. His Adam’s apple bobbed, once, as he swallowed. A hoarse protest bubbled from his lips.

  “Quiet. I’ll do the talking.” Surprisingly, my voice sounded strong and steady. Keeping the gun trained on him, I walked to the nightstand and turned on the light. The blanched white skin of Chacon’s face contrasted markedly with the midnight blue sheets.

  Chacon clamped his mouth closed and frowned. He didn’t recognize me. Good. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, emphasizing a capital C stitched in cursive on the breast pocket of his pajama top. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

  Good. He’s afraid. Unbidden, a picture of Sam floated through my mind. I mentally shook it off and returned my focus to Chacon.

  “Where did you get these?” I reached into my pocket, pulled out one of the painkillers from Lisa’s stash, and held it up. He started to shake his head, but I lowered the gun barrel until it was in line with his crotch and he stopped.

  “Who are you?” His voice wavered slightly.

  “Answer my question.” I took a step forward, bringing the suppressed pistol closer. Angie’s interrogation techniques were based on three essential requirements when prying information from a recalcitrant subject: be relentless, unemotional, and stay on task. That way, there would be no misunderstandings.

  Chacon eyed the gun. A sheen of sweat on his forehead gleamed in the lamplight. “Who are you and why are you here?” This time the question lacked force. The confident, dangerous man I’d encountered at the house in Olympia had disappeared, leaving a deflated and frightened low-level drug dealer.

  Having a gun pointed at you in the middle of the night while wearing your jams can do that to a person.

  The tension in my neck and shoulders drained away. I’d threatened way more dangerous characters than Chacon. I flashed on a similar confrontation from years earlier when I’d pointed a gun at Vincent Anaya’s right-hand man, Frank Lanzarotti. It seemed so long ago. I’d been a different person then. Cocky. Self-assured.

  Maybe it was time to resurrect my old self. I was getting tired of scaredy-Kate.

  “Wait. Who’s holding the gun?” I asked, dripping sarcasm. I’d always had good luck with sarcasm.

  Chacon remained silent. Even though he gave the impression of being afraid, he wasn’t going to make this easy. Looked like I’d have to resort to what Angie called “Fun and Games,” also known as torture. My stomach squeezed tight at the thought. Would I be able to go through with it?

  You have to, Kate. You’ve gone too far to turn back now. Remember Lisa.

  I reached into my back pocket and slid out a six-inch fixed-blade knife, another gift from Angie. Staring at the wicked-looking weapon, Chacon scooted backward so that he was flush against the headboard.

  “What are you going to do with that?” His eyes were fixed on the blade.

  I inspected the knife as though it was something new. Then I cocked my head and gave him a look. “Well, I don’t know. What do you think I should do?” With the gun still aimed at him, I used the tip of the knife to flip the bedspread off of his right leg. He winced as though anticipating the pain.

  The thought of actually cutting Chacon stopped me. What if I nicked an artery? He’d bleed out before I could get the information. I took a deep breath, trying to control my thudding heart. Why couldn’t he just give me what I wanted?

  Or try to fight back. At least then I could justify my actions with self-defense.

  Well, except for the whole breaking and entering in the middle of the night thing.

  Damn it, Kate. You’re losing your advantage. Just do it! Angie’s recriminations cascaded through my head. Remember why you’re here. What he’s responsible for.

  He must have picked up on my hesitation, because he shifted his leg and his foot disappeared beneath the covers. Taking a page from my encounter with Frank Lanzarotti, I stepped forward, shoved the gun between his legs, and fired into the mattress.

  Even though the pistol had a suppressor, the result was impressive. Chacon yelped and tried to disappear into the headboard. When that didn’t work, he covered his face with his hands and choked back a sob.

  That was more like it. I stepped back, once more aiming at his crotch. I doubted I could actually shoot him.

  But he didn’t know that.

  “Who’s your supplier?” I asked again, this time with more force.

  Chacon’s sobs had degraded into hiccoughs, and his shoulders heaved with each breath. Lowering his hands, he shook his head. “He’d do worse to me than you ever could.”

  “Yes, but if you’re dead, that won’t really matter, will it?” That was a good line. And, I sounded confident.

  I was getting the hang of this.

  He spread his arms, providing a larger target. “Then you’re going to have to kill me. I can’t do what you ask.”

  Crap. I’d practically shot the guy. Even Lanzarotti had capitulated when he’d been faced with the choice of losing his bits. The supplier must be a heavy hitter. I’d have to actually cut him or shoot something. My stomach lurched at the thought of him bleeding all over the mattress.

  At that moment, the door slammed open and bounced against the wall as a dark figure burst into the room. Angie McKenna’s expression could only be described as massively annoyed. She marched to where I stood, grabbed the knife from my hand, and turned on Chacon.

  “Who the fuck is your supplier?” she growled, brandishing the knife.

  What the—why was she here? My mind raced for an explanation. The only thing I could think of was that she was checking to see how I did on my first foray into the world of intimidation and torture.

  Not well, apparently.

  Chacon’s wide-eyed gaze flickered from Angie to me and then back to Angie, alarm obvious on his face.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Your worst nightmare.”

  Twenty-Three

  I HAD TO admit—Angie looked impressive wielding the knife. I would have told her whatever she wanted to know.

  She advanced on Chacon, her body coiled tight like a well-dressed leopard ready to pounce on her unsuspecting prey. All she needed was a long tail to swish behind her.

  Except that would have ruined the look.

  “I—I—” Chacon worked his mouth like a fish out of water, eyeing the blade in her hand.

  “You’re going to tell me now, or you lose the top joint of your right pinkie finger. First.”

  Attention riveted on Angie, Chacon tried to swallow but could only make a dry smacking sound.

  She shrugged. “All right. Your choice.” She seized his right hand, pinned it to the nightstand, and brought the knife down, hard, chopping off the tip of his little finger. Chacon screamed and yanked his arm away, clutching what was left of his pinkie.

  Damn. That blade was sharp. My stomach churned at the blood
flowing from his hand, and I gawked at Angie, who acted as though she’d just diced a carrot. I was relieved that he’d only lost the top of his pinkie. Knowing Angie, he could’ve been missing a whole lot more than that.

  Still think you’re cut out for this? Good Kate asked. If she’d been real, she’d have smacked me upside the head.

  “One more time. Who is your supplier?” Angie loomed over him. “This time I think I’ll take a bigger chunk. What do you think?”

  Chacon shook as he stared at her through pain-filled eyes.

  “His name is Mick Dobson,” he said, stifling another sob.

  I guess you just never knew who was going to fold and who was going to play the tough guy.

  “And where can we find him?” Angie held the knife aloft, its razor-sharp tip shining in the lamplight.

  “He’s the CEO of Pro-Pharma.”

  My mouth dropped open in surprise. Pro-Pharma was one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the state of Washington. My little operation to try to find the main distributor for the tainted pills had just blown up. If Chacon was telling the truth and the executive officer of a legitimate pharmaceutical company was involved, then this was way bigger than I’d anticipated.

  “You mean that Pro-Pharma knowingly released contaminated drugs onto the street?” I asked. Pro-Pharma’s reputation as a progressive, green drug company was well known. Their tagline was “Give. Growth. Goodwill.” They prided themselves on being a different kind of corporation. As in, putting people before profits.

  Chacon looked at the floor. “Not exactly.”

  “Then how did they get there?”

  “Wait a minute. Let me get this on video.” Angie pulled out her phone and aimed it at Chacon’s face. He winced.

  “If this gets out, I’m dead.”

  “Honey, if you don’t tell us, you’re dead. And I promise it won’t be as pleasant.”

  Chacon closed his eyes for a moment and then continued. “The full batch was slated for the DRC. None of them were supposed to have been distributed here.”