Half-blinded, she fumbled for the nightstand lamp. Her fingers brushed cold glass. She grabbed the crystal vase and, with a terrified howl, swung with all her strength.
The heavy glass struck his head—and shattered.
“Aaaah!”
Terrified at the tortured yell, she scrambled to the other side of the bed and stood. Looked.
He was on his side, hands pressed to his face. Shards of glass covered the carpet and pincushioned his cheek. Blood poured from between his fingers. Gut-wrenching moans filled the room.
Backing up, she thumped into the wall.
His head turned, and she gasped.
A huge glass shard had penetrated his right eye.
Bile rose into her throat. She couldn’t move.
“I’ll kill you…kill you, kill you, cunt.” At the guttural cursing, fresh terror gripped her.
Run, oh God, run. She banged into the dresser and grabbed her phone, purse, and keys. Don’t use the door. The other man would be coming back.
Opening the bedroom window, she shoved out the screen. Crying at the pain, she crawled through.
The back of the building was dark, the only illumination from the windows above.
Arms wrapped around herself, she staggered toward building D. Each footstep sent pain stabbing into her ribs. Keeping to the blackest shadows behind the buildings, she splashed through puddles. Icy rain plastered her skimpy clothes and hair to her skin.
Stopping at the corner of building E, she heard a car and froze. A black van drove past.
Her heart hammered so loudly it drowned out the sound of the rain, of anything. The New Yorker would find Spyros. Would come after her.
“Move, Audrey. Move.”
The night blurred around her as she lurched forward. Building F.
There was her car. Hot tears spilled over.
The engine started. Oh thank God. Grabbing a stocking cap from the glove compartment, she pulled it on, bunching her hair under it. She put on her driving glasses.
Taking painful shallow breaths, she drove slowly out of the parking lot.
No black van. No cars at all.
Blocks away, she pulled into an all-night grocery parking lot, stopped, and tried to pick up her phone. Her hands trembled so hard that it took three tries to get her fingertip in the fingerprint reader.
As the screen lit, she paused. What should she do? Her fingers hovered over the display of numbers. Over 911.
But Spyros had a person—or more—in the police department. And FBI. The sinking feeling of despair made her eyes burn. She couldn’t turn to law enforcement.
Nonetheless, she needed to warn Quentin’s Fed.
Dennison didn’t answer.
Eff-it-all. In a quavering voice, she left him a voicemail—about Quentin’s death, her attack, informants in the cops and FBI.
She got through it…and then cried, and oh God, crying hurt. Her face burned as tears ran over the cuts and gashes. Each sob hurt her ribs and her stomach, and she couldn’t stop.
A lifetime later, the weeping slowed. Shudders shook her as she wiped off her face. Bloody streaks stained the camisole.
Now what? What could she do for herself?
She was alone. So alone.
The memory of Spyros’s threats made her tremble. Once he healed, he’d come after her. He’d kill her.
She had nowhere to hide. No one to call.
But that wasn’t new. Her chin rose. She’d manage running on her own. Her first client had been a mystery writer who’d had her look up the various ways a fugitive might hide in this modern world.
Research would save her.
Chapter Three
At the railing of the MV Ketchikan, Audrey watched the rocky British Columbia coastline flow past. She tilted her face to the chill wind off the water, hearing the cries of the gulls. Beneath her feet, the deck rolled slightly.
Her first day on the ferry had been spent staring at the horizon and trying to calm her stomach. Her ribs were cracked—or broken. Throwing up would really hurt.
Today, her queasiness had disappeared.
And look at me go. She’d never traveled before, but in the last seven days, she’d crossed most of the continent. Wasn’t it odd how fear could spur a girl to doing new things?
The morning after her attack, she’d pulled on the spare snow clothes and boots she kept in the trunk, cleaned up in a gas station bathroom, and then gone shopping. She’d figured she had a short window of time before Spyros started to hunt for her. After all, he’d need to get his eye treated.
The thought made her stomach turn over.
A department store visit gave her an assortment of wigs and makeup, hats, scarves, and cheap clothes, vanity glasses, sunglasses, and jewelry.
After covering what she could with makeup, she’d visited an internet shop, using Bitcoin and the Dark Web to purchase two different sets of fake ID, then arranged delivery to Denver and Seattle. The IDs probably wouldn’t pass a close inspection, but they’d be good enough.
She hoped.
Then she’d visited her bank to cash out almost all of her savings. When the teller voiced concern, Audrey’d said, “My boyfriend is abusive, and I have to get away. Please hurry.” It’d worked. The sympathetic female teller sped through the withdrawal process.
She’d considered flying to the opposite side of the country, but airport security was too tight. Her credit card and ID would be scrutinized; she’d be on camera. It’d be too easy for Spyros’s bribed FBI agents to trace her.
So, after leaving her car in long-term storage, she bused to South Side Chicago and used her credit card to buy a nondescript, used car. If her pursuers could access her credit card usage, this would make it look as if she was headed south. Hopefully.
She drove west.
Even now, she winced at the memory of those long painful days of driving. Twice, in scary slum areas, she abandoned her current vehicle, leaving it running with keys in the ignition. Each time, before buying another car, she altered her hair and skin color. Various glasses and hats covered her eyes and ears. Lipstick changed the shape of her mouth. Facial recognition systems were scarily accurate.
After picking up her ID in Seattle, she bused to Bellingham, Washington and boarded the ferry to Alaska.
As one of the boat crew passed with a nod, she smiled. Men had been friendly to this persona. She was wearing a dark red, short-and-perky wig, hooker-heavy makeup, and a padded bra that made her a couple of sizes larger.
She’d used the men’s interest to get them to talk about Alaska’s small towns. Because she needed somewhere to disappear. She wanted a town small enough to have no traffic cameras. It’d be even better if it lacked any law enforcement yet was big enough to have a way for her to earn a living, no matter how pitiful. She also needed to be close enough to Anchorage to have a way to fly out.
Homer was too big and too far from the city. Girdwood, Cooper Landing, and Moose Pass were all about the right size.
Or there was Rescue, a town not too far from Cooper Landing. It had a small lake on one side and the Kenai River on the other. The boat crew wasn’t impressed with the place. Said it was rather dead.
Rescue had possibilities.
Anticipation rose within her. In a few more days, when the ferry docked in Whittier, she’d break out her final ID and change her appearance. After that, she’d take the train to Anchorage to buy a used car.
And then find the town where she wanted to live.
Chapter Four
Men, we are surrounded by the enemy. That means we have the greatest opportunity ever presented to an army. We can attack in any direction we choose. ~ General Tony McAuliffe
* * *
Rescue had two whole blocks of businesses, and most of them were empty. Gabe slowed his Jeep as he drove down Main Street. Like an old derelict living on the streets, the town looked gaunt and faded. Older than its age. Paint was chipping off the wooden storefronts; the sidewalk in front of the stores was cr
acked, and most of the streetlights were busted.
He didn’t see any massive wave of tourists wandering the streets. Only a few cars were diagonally parked in front of businesses. Then again, the middle of May was a bit early for fishing season.
If there was a tourist season here.
There were no stop signs. No Welcome to Rescue signs. If the townspeople wanted this place to be welcoming, they needed to up their game.
He drove to Grebe Avenue, made a left, and left again down the gravel alley.
Caz said the municipal building housed the town offices and records rooms, the police station, and the medical clinic. All the departments shared the reception area. As he parked in the huge parking lot at the rear, he spotted a tattered windsock. Apparently, the lot also served as a helicopter-landing pad.
Three back doors led to the different sections of the building. Rather clever, actually, to house tax-funded services together. Many Alaskan towns were census-designated areas, not incorporated, and the services came from the borough. Rescue, though, had been large enough at one time to have incorporated and gotten a home rule charter.
As Gabe got out of the Jeep, movement caught his eye. He froze, adrenaline flooding his system.
Seeing the furry black rump disappearing into a clump of bushes, Gabe relaxed. The black bear had probably been scoping out the garbage cans.
And Gabe’s heart rate was still elevated. He shook his head. The minute he hit town, he started looking for insurgents behind every building.
Because a village was where he and his mercenary squad had been ambushed.
The hypervigilance from being in town would diminish with time and familiarity. Although it sucked at the moment.
He breathed out, forcing his shoulders, his chest, and his gut to stand down, then walked to the police station’s back door. In his pocket were the station’s keys he’d found on the kitchen table after Caz and Bull had left.
It’d taken him two weeks to leave his refuge. Bull was right about him being barn sour.
Damn brothers. Gabe scowled and entered the building. He was a fool, stepping back into a war zone…because that’s what being a law enforcement officer meant.
At least he’d just be a lowly officer and not responsible for anyone but himself…and the town. The entire damn town.
The tiny police station was empty. Somewhat dusty.
One long room obviously served as the bullpen with scattered desks for the officers. He’d have to pick a desk and settle in.
The front had a window to Main Street. The left side of the room had a door that opened into the building’s main reception area.
He kept exploring. On the right wall was the door to the staff area with a few lockers, a shower, and toilet area. Another room functioned as the lockup for evidence and contained the gun vault—open and empty.
The final door near the front opened to the police chief’s office. Gabe studied the dust and the desk piled with junk mail and notices. Didn’t look as if anyone was filling that position.
To his surprise, he spotted a paper with his name on top of one pile.
* * *
- - - -
Gabe.
The town council appointed you Chief of Police. Here’s your badge, stars, and the contract. Welcome to Rescue.
Caz
- - - -
* * *
Chief of Police? What the hell?
Gabe closed his eyes. Talk about being railroaded. Welcome to Rescue, dumbass. You’re now the person in charge of enforcing the law.
Growling, he glanced through the paperwork—all in order. Of course it was.
Was he going to let himself get pushed into this shit? He considered the papers, the badge, the stars. Considered saying no. But did it matter what title he carried—officer or chief? In a one-horse town, there wasn’t much difference.
With a sigh, he signed the contract. All right, he’d play. For now. He’d find whoever was sabotaging his brothers’ construction, beat the shit out of him…no, wrong. Arrest the bastard. After that, he’d help Rescue hire on an officer or two.
Then, he could return to Mako’s old cabin with a clear conscience.
After tossing the badge up in the air a few times, feeling it grow heavier each time, he pinned it onto his jacket. He attached the stars to his jacket collar tabs.
He’d need to give the State Troopers’ dispatch a heads-up that he was in Rescue. Later.
What kind of idiotic council did Rescue have anyway to appoint a police chief sight unseen?
They might well change their minds once they met him. Gabe snorted. At one time, he’d been friendlier. Not like Caz, who could charm the hair off a poodle, but more approachable than Hawk, who’d rather be skinned than dole out an entire sentence.
Gabe frowned. As a kid, he’d actually liked people. As a Navy SEAL too. Then his years in law enforcement had sent his idealism into a nosedive. Too much corruption in the force. Too much hatred from the public he was pledged to protect. Eventually, he realized he was risking his life for the same people who’d break the law a second later. He’d hated how he’d grown cold and calloused.
After a goatfuck of a drug raid, when Gabe’d been shot and his partner killed, Hawk had talked him into joining a mercenary outfit. Gabe’d figured, why not? The LA citizens sure hadn’t appreciated their police. He might as well get paid the big bucks if he was going to risk his life.
But merc work turned out to be ugly. Even worse, after the private military company was sold to investors, the jobs had become questionable. He’d lost the feeling of doing anything worthwhile with his life.
With the inexorable movement of a glacier, ice had finished burying his emotions. Aside from the gap he’d left for his brothers.
He shook his head and caught the bright glint of the badge on his chest. Back in the force again. “You are a dumb son of a bitch, MacNair.”
Fuck, he needed some coffee.
As Gabe walked into the squad room, the door from the receptionist area opened.
The person who entered was male, 5’10”. Short, dark blond hair, light blue eyes, muscular, wearing a khaki shirt, jeans, and tan jacket. And a police badge.
The man frowned, then grinned. “Hey, you must be Gabriel MacNair.” His eyes narrowed at the stars on Gabe’s jacket. “Chief MacNair.”
Gabe nodded. “So it seems.”
Crossing the room, the man held his hand out. “I’m Earl Baumer. Your one and only patrol officer. Welcome to Rescue.” He had a pleasant tenor voice with a strong southern accent.
“Thanks.”
Baumer tried to dominate the handshake.
Not that he could. Mildly irritated, Gabe asked, “When did you get hired?”
“About two weeks ago after the town council approved the budget to reopen the station.” Baumer shrugged.
“I heard it’d been closed for a decade. Why open it again?”
“Eh, with McNally’s Resort open, we’ve got tourists who get upset if there isn’t an officer right there to hold them up. Most of the town council jumped on the increase tourism bandwagon.”
Most, not all? Interesting.
Gabe eyed Baumer. The patrol officer was friendly enough, but was he competent? “Where did you work before?”
“I put in close to ten years in Thibodaux. It’s in Louisiana.” Baumer headed for the coffee pot on a table against the wall.
Ten years should have netted Baumer the rank of sergeant, if not higher. Gabe’d been a lieutenant when he quit the force after eight years. Then again, maybe Baumer didn’t like the god-awful paperwork.
That’d be a shame since Gabe was already wondering—after he cleaned up Caz and Bull’s problems—if he could dump the chief job on Baumer and head back to the cabin. “Louisiana to Alaska. Quite the change.”
“Yeah, sure was.” Coffeemaker primed, Baumer flipped the switch. “It’s why I wasn’t working when this position opened. We moved to Alaska over a year ago, but my wife and I wa
nted to make sure we liked the winters before I committed to a job.”
Not a foolish notion. Although Alaska summers were glorious, the cold, gray winters drove a lot of people south.
Gabe eyed the coffee drizzling into the pot. Pale brown. Might as well be piss. Mako’d taught his boys that coffee should be strong enough to use as an offensive weapon.
“I need to scope out the town before anything else.” And get some decent coffee. “Let’s meet here at one o’clock. We’ll discuss scheduling, and you can brief me on the town’s problems.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Baumer gave him a laid-back smile before turning to pour himself a cup of coffee.
Gabe went out the front, walked down the sidewalk, and studied the town. Scattered among the closed stores were a few open businesses. The grocery. A hardware store.
A buzzing from the right caught Gabe’s attention. A floatplane soared upward from the lake, a graceful silver silhouette in the fathomless blue sky. The far end of the lake had a non-manned airport. One gravel strip and a couple of floatplane docks. Probably all in poor shape.
Hawk lived to fly. Maybe he’d return and take on the upgrading.
Gabe’s mouth tightened. For two years, he and Hawk had been on the same mercenary squad. Then, a month before the ambush, Hawk’d requested reassignment to another squad. When Gabe asked him why, he’d walked away.
The asshole. Gabe shook his head. If he’d done something his brother didn’t like, would it have killed the bastard to tell him?
Despite Gabe’s anger, he thanked God that Hawk hadn’t been with the squad that day. Hadn’t been ambushed. Hadn’t died like the others.
Gabe hadn’t seen his brother since the reassignment. The terse, rude bastard. His absence left behind a hollow ache.
To hell with memories. I need coffee.
He crossed the street to an old-fashioned coffee shop. The bell over the door clanged softly as it closed behind him.
Aged wooden pews, probably from a church, formed booths along the front windows and right side. A few tables and chairs dotted the center. Customers sat in the booths, enjoying coffee and desserts. To the left, a glass-fronted pastry display ended in a short counter with stools.
Not a Hero Page 4
