by Dana Mentink
“Dunno.” Dan peered closer. “Looks like there’s no one home.”
Her pulse started to thrum a little faster. Was it a dead end...or a trap?
Be careful, guys. She wanted to pray, but Angela had it covered. She and Dan held hands and Candace laid her palm on her sister’s shoulder as Angela prayed for safety for Marco and Dev.
* * *
Marco took the lead, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom instead of turning on a flashlight. They crept to the side of the building so they wouldn’t be seen from the street and looked in a filthy window.
Marco couldn’t discern much, but he caught enough to realize the lower floor was empty. Lon’s source was wrong or they were too late. He squashed the frustration.
“Looks quiet,” he mouthed.
“That’s the way it always looks right before the chaos,” Dev murmured.
True.
They tried the door and found it unlocked. Not a surprise. The place was most likely an abandoned building that the Pack took over for their mobile chop shop, so if they’d cleared out, there was no reason for security.
But Dev was right. Chaos could be waiting on the other side of the door. Marco pushed it open slowly, a millimeter at a time, to check for any kind of trip wire and to minimize squeaking from the rusty hinges, and listened. A faint rustling indicated maybe the place wasn’t as deserted as it appeared.
He could tell Dev heard it, too. Dev was armed with a break-action pistol designed to shoot nonlethal rubber bullets, since they were, after all, civilians. Marco had his KA-BAR knife.
The bottom floor was a cavernous space, chilly and smelling of oil. Someone had done a bang-up job removing any evidence of illegal activity, but Marco knew the space they occupied was where the stolen cars would be disassembled and gutted for parts that could be sold on the black market.
He caught no movement, no further sound. Edging forward, he and Dev searched the space foot by foot, behind the drifts of torn paper and into the tiny adjoining bathroom, home to a stinking toilet and an overflowing trash can.
When their search of the garage area was concluded, they padded to the bottom of the stairwell. Dev flicked on a penlight, shielded by his palm. The steps were dirty, but the dust was disturbed. There had been some activity recently, many feet traipsing up and down by the looks of it.
Dev flicked off the light and Marco started up, Dev right behind. They kept to the edges of the stairs to minimize the noise, easing their weight down with each step. When they were two steps from the top, Marco signaled a stop so he could listen.
Nothing but silence and a soft sound behind the walls that he realized was probably the gnawing of rats.
Dev gave him an eye roll and Marco squelched a grin. On one of their South American missions where quiet was of the essence, Dev had woken up with a river rat sleeping peacefully on his bedroll. Only his torturous SEAL training kept Dev from a hollering fit to beat the band. Marco had never seen anyone have a completely silent freak-out. Dev had, of course, never lived it down.
At the moment Dev was poised and ready. Rats or no rats, his look said, let’s do this.
Marco did a slow count to three and charged up, Dev following. They emerged crouched low, bodies tensed.
The top floor was also empty, a mess of discarded boxes, rusted springs and washers, part of a disassembled carburetor. Again, the place had been stripped of anything incriminating. It galled him to know the Pack was one step ahead of them again.
Marco would have left in disgust, except that the hair on his arms was standing up, his instincts telling him that they were not alone. Listening to that instinct deep in his gut was the reason he’d survived so many missions intact.
He signaled to Dev, who nodded, fingers tensed on his gun.
Marco made a half turn to his right, approaching an untidy pile of cardboard boxes. Edging close, he had his blade out, ready.
The attack came quickly, but not at him.
Someone launched himself from behind the pile and hurled a heavy toolbox. Marco recognized the guy with the missing tooth from the earlier ambush.
“Incoming,” Marco shouted.
He ducked, and the box sailed over his head. Dev wasn’t fast enough, and the missile deflected off his raised forearm and struck him a glancing blow on the temple. Marco heard him grunt as the impact knocked him over. Teetering on the edge of the stairs, he fell backward. The attacker raced down the steps, following Dev’s tumbling path.
Marco bolted after them, outstretched fingers grazing the guy’s T-shirt, grabbing hold and yanking. The fabric ripped away, leaving him with a handful of sweaty cotton. They’d reached the bottom of the steps and the guy pushed out the door. It slammed against the wall like a gunshot.
Everything in Marco wanted to chase down the man, grab him around the neck and make him tell all he knew about Rico, but he would not leave Dev.
He raced back, finding him dazed, on his back, at the bottom of the steps.
“How bad?”
Dev opened an eye. “I’ll live. Go after him, Chief.”
Marco forced down the anger roiling in his gut and instead helped him to his feet.
Dev bent over for a moment, sucking in air and no doubt fighting the pain that was shooting through his head. Marco steadied him.
“Hey, sorry, Chief. Next time we’ll get them.”
Marco could only hope they’d have another shot at Rico.
ELEVEN
Candace cried out as the figure on the video feed leaped from behind the debris pile, tossing something. It must have struck Dev, because they heard his grunt of pain just before the camera went black.
Angela and Dan were electrified, as well.
“Stay here,” Dan said, jumping from the car.
“Dan...” Angela called, but he was already sprinting down the block toward the warehouse.
Candace had to remind herself to breathe. “Don’t let anyone else get hurt,” she said, not realizing she’d uttered it aloud until Angela shot her a look.
Candace kept her eyes trained into the darkness while her sister radioed their mother and Lon.
“We’re circling the block, trying to see which way the guy headed,” JeanBeth said. “Have you heard from Marco or Dev?”
“No,” Angela said. “No video feed, either. We’re—”
“Look,” Candace yelled, pointing into the darkness at someone running along the sidewalk. “It’s the guy who took out Dev. I recognize him now. He’s Rico’s driver.”
Angela immediately relayed the information to Lon.
“Stay put,” he said. “We’re coming to you.”
The man was running at top speed. Candace was in agony. Once he reached the main road he would dash off into a side alley, and they’d never find him. He was close enough now for her to make out his ripped T-shirt. He would pass them in a matter of moments.
“He doesn’t know we’re in the car,” Candace whispered.
“That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” Angela whispered back.
“We can catch him.” The man was yards away and closing fast.
“Absolutely not, Candace,” Angela said.
Her sister was right—smart and practical, like always.
But this wasn’t the time for practical. When he drew alongside them, Candace flung the car door open, listening with satisfaction as he ran right into it, the air whooshing out of him. Candace grabbed a can from her bag and sprang onto the sidewalk, hands clasped.
“If you move, I’ll Taser you.”
The guy clutched his middle, sucking in air.
Lon screeched up, slamming to a stop and leaping from the car with a bat in his hands. He looked from Candace to the guy on the ground, whose face was a mask of disgust. Lon looked in puzzlemen
t at her hands.
“Hair spray,” Candace said sheepishly. “It’s pretty handy stuff when you don’t have a Taser or pepper spray in your purse. It was sure awesome to have at the courthouse.”
Lon smiled and stepped close, making sure the guy on the ground wasn’t going anywhere.
Angela and JeanBeth examined him.
“You work for the Pack,” JeanBeth said. “I’ve seen your pictures. Your name is Leonard, but they call you Champ.”
No answer.
“You went to prison for assault,” Angela said. “What are you doing here? Why did you throw the toolbox? Rico sent you, didn’t he?”
Champ blinked. “I was minding my own business. Your guys blew in and scared me. I defended myself. I wasn’t the one breaking and entering.”
“Big picture here, Champ,” JeanBeth said. “You’re in an abandoned house, all alone at night. Unless your name is on the deed, that is breaking and entering, and the cops already want to get their hands on you for the freeway ambush. You were here cleaning up evidence of the chop shop, weren’t you?”
He glared angrily at her. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Talk to us or the cops,” Candace said, “your choice.”
He stared in steely silence.
Realizing they would get no more out of Champ that way, Candace thought for a minute. “All I want to know is doesn’t it make you mad that Rico plays favorites? I mean, he let you go to prison, didn’t he? And here he’s knocking himself out trying to free Kevin Tooley. Why?”
Champ’s mouth twitched. “You’re not the cops. I’m not saying a word.”
Candace pressed on. “It’s not an importance thing, is it? Both you and Kevin are pretty low on the totem pole, so why does Kevin get such special treatment?”
Champ growled an expletive at her until Lon tapped him with the bat.
“Don’t talk to ladies like that,” Lon said.
She’d clearly hit a nerve. A weakness in Rico’s organization?
In the distance, Candace saw Dan, Marco and Dev walking toward them. Dev was moving gingerly, but under his own steam. She was going to call out to them, but a rumbling sound announced two vehicles approaching. Rico’s people, she had no doubt.
“In the car,” Lon said.
Champ jerked to his feet and took off running toward the approaching cars.
“He’s getting away,” she cried.
“We’ll call the police,” Angela said. They got back into the car, and Lon and JeanBeth did the same in theirs. Angela drove at breakneck speed to the curb, where the three men squeezed into the backseat, Candace sat in the front and quickly made the call to the police. They were off, rounding the corner just as other vehicles pulled onto the road.
Candace was nearly overwhelmed with relief that Marco appeared unhurt, but Dev had a trail of blood snaking down his temple, disappearing into his beard. Dan handed him a wad of cotton.
“Are you hurt badly, Dev?” she said.
“Nah. Just took a toolbox to the head and fell down the stairs. I’ve been through worse.”
“He may have a concussion, but nothing’s broken as best as I can tell,” Dan said.
Dev looked skeptical. “No offense, but aren’t you a heart doc?”
Dan chuckled. “Don’t worry. They make us learn about all the parts in medical school. I know a thing or two about heads, even really hard, stubborn ones like yours.”
“Good to know,” Dev said, with a wan smile.
Marco frowned at Dev. “What happened? Didn’t you hear me shout ‘incoming’? You’re supposed to duck, remember?”
Dev grinned. “Must have been too distracted by the rats.”
Marco sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I’ll feed the video to the cops, but basically we got nothing.”
Candace thought about Champ’s expression when she’d brought up the question about Kevin Tooley’s treatment. “Not nothing. I’m not the only one who’s wondering why Rico is so bent on protecting Kevin Tooley. Champ has been wondering, too, I can tell.”
“Got ideas on how to proceed?”
She considered. “Dan, we know Kevin’s mother, Yolanda, was killed in a hit-and-run while she lived in LA. I can get the date for you. Is there any way you could track down some info about her?”
He nodded. “I might be able to rustle something up if we can dig up what hospital treated her.”
“I’ll find out,” Angela said. “Dan and I will work that angle.”
“I will, too,” Candace stated. “And I think we should try and track down Champ, find out his last known address, if we can. If he’s disgruntled about favoritism, maybe we can get him to give up some information on other Pack chop shops before we hand him to the cops.”
They fell into silence as they drove back to Coronado. It wasn’t until Marco and Candace were rolling back to the safe house in a borrowed car, with Dev in the backseat, that they brought up the subject that she knew was bothering them both.
“They knew we were coming, didn’t they?” she said.
Marco nodded. “Yeah.”
“Just like they knew we were going to the courthouse. How? How did the Pack get word we were coming, in time to clean up the chop shop?”
“That,” Marco said his face grim, “is the million dollar question.”
* * *
Marco brooded well into the night, sitting in a chair in the darkened living room when he’d finished endless laps of pacing. Dr. Dan had pushed hard for Dev to go to the hospital for a concussion check, but his patient had cheerfully declined, as Marco figured he would. As a general rule, Dev didn’t like chatting with doctors any more than cops. He’d made an exception for Dan, but doctors were the people who could get a fellow scratched from a mission, and above all things, Dev couldn’t tolerate that thought.
He was snoring softly in their shared room, which left Marco free to let his thoughts roll over the events of the day. Again, Rico had known they were coming, and they’d come up empty one more time. The weeks before the trial were winding down. The clock was ticking and each day increased the risk of exposure. It would take only one careless move, one small error, for Rico to find out about the safe house.
Tension roiled in Marco’s gut. More pacing did not help, nor did four sets of push-ups. He picked up the tattered Bible that had accompanied him on every mission since his mother had given it to him before his first day of boot camp. He fingered the well-worn pages framed with scrawled notes he’d written in the margins.
“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. 2 Timothy 1:7.” He’d always known that fear did not come from God, which was why he didn’t allow it to enter his thinking. But lately there had been tingles of uncertainty, like the cold breeze that blew in before a storm. What if he failed this time? The stakes were so unimaginably high. Tracy, Candace, the well-being of the little family that depended on him... Rick, a fellow soldier who had made the ultimate sacrifice, would expect his comrade in arms to watch over his family now that Bruce Gallagher was gone. Wouldn’t he? Yes, to watch over them, but not anything more, Marco’s gut told him. Candace had made that painfully clear.
He refocused on the words. “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love...” He repeated it silently to himself and his path became clearer, the beat of his thoughts more steady and sure. Marco would arm himself with that power and keep the love part restricted to the fond connection he’d always had with Candace. A friend to support and protect. A good friend, irreplaceable.
He sprawled on the overstuffed chair and rested the Bible on his chest, closing his eyes as the first flutters of fatigue crept in.
Quiet footsteps roused him.
Tracy stood next to the chair, shivering in her flowered
pajamas, a limp tissue in her hand and Bear at her side.
“Hey, half pint.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost midnight. Way past your bedtime. What are you doing up?”
“I got a cold,” she said, coughing. “And I heard noises,” she added, so softly he almost didn’t hear.
“There’s a storm coming,” he said, getting up and grabbing a blanket, wrapping it around her. “The wind is blowing pretty hard.”
“It’s scary. Bear doesn’t like it, either.”
“Well, Bear’s a chicken about thunder. He may need to hide under the bed if we get any.”
At the sound of his name, Bear shook his head, sending his ears flapping.
Tracy didn’t smile. “I don’t like it, either.”
“It’s just noise, like you and your friends at that pool party last summer. Remember that? Man, was that loud.”
She grinned. “The noise hurt your ears.”
“I almost cried. Bear, too.”
She was laughing now and he was gratified to hear it. “You gave me Blue Bunny that year, remember?”
“Of course I do.” When she was three they’d found an orphaned rabbit underneath JeanBeth’s porch. Using a baby bottle, they’d nursed the newborn along, but it had not survived more than a week. He’d been helpless to explain death to her, but Candace managed to guide Tracy through it, like she always did. To soothe the anguished child, he’d carved her a tiny bunny out of wood and painted it with her favorite colors, and it sparked a tradition. Now, back home on his boat, he was working on her bunny for this year, pink with green eyes and tiny whiskers.
Her voice was hoarse and her eyes looked puffy.
“Sore throat?”
She nodded.
He tried to think of what Candace would offer. “Want me to make you some warm milk?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ick. Can I have hot cocoa instead?”
“Afraid not. Your mom said you’ve been having too much ice cream, so she’s put us on sugar lockdown. Anyone who gives you a dessert has to go to the brig.” He felt sure Candace would approve of that mandate. “How about some tea?”
