by Barr, Sue
“Pizza?” I stammered.
“Yeah, I’m starved.” Tank grabbed his jacket and threw it on. Shoving his laptop back into his leather saddlebag, he tossed the strap over his shoulder and headed down the hall to the front door.
One minute we’re talking about spies, secret information, undercover operatives and he wants to go for pizza?
He called out. “I’ll be back in about thirty minutes, forty-five tops. Do you want everything on it?”
From the kitchen I yelled back, “Yes, no, wait… No anchovies.” I hated anchovies. Too salty and they made me bloat. I heard Tank roar off on his motorcycle and idly wondered how he’d carry the pizza home. I started to put the empty beer bottles in the recycling, then stopped abruptly.
He wasn’t going for pizza. He was going to meet someone.
Geez, Tank. When will you trust me?
I grabbed the keys and ran out to my car but the empty driveway reminded me that I didn’t have a car anymore. It had been towed. Stomping my foot in frustration I watched the tail lights of his bike turn the corner.
He’d be miles away before I could get Aunt Tillie’s 1964 Austen-Healy Sprite started. Shoving the keys into my pocket I turned to go back into the house. Tank better have a good explanation when he got home. A glint in the waning sunlight caught my attention. I paused when I saw, to my left, what looked like a copper wire snaking across my driveway leading into the neighbor’s shrubbery.
I don’t know what happened first, the deafening sound or the sudden force of wind that threw me to the ground. Immense heat seared my neck and arms and a piercing, sharp pain slammed near my temple.
Everything went black.
Chapter Thirteen
Tank rumbled down the quiet street and brought his motorcycle to a stop near 105 LaRue. He kicked out the stand and locked his bike. Not that it would do much good in this neighborhood. Shrugging the collar of his leather jacket up, he started walking toward a run-down section of tenement houses and buildings.
Late afternoon sunlight struggled to reach the asphalt, cutting a narrow ribbon through abandoned cars, strewn garbage and dilapidated, forgotten billboards. Faded curtains twitched in a murky window; the only sign of life. After a few minutes the acrid stench of garbage no longer burned the back of his throat, but his eyes still watered.
He thought back on Shelby’s attempted abduction and subsequent series of events that led to him revealing what he did for a living. A dead weight settled in his stomach when he thought about what could have happened if he hadn’t followed her this morning. If he’d have been even ten minutes later he probably never would have seen her again. He couldn’t imagine life without her. Even when she was mad, he loved being around her.
Sometimes he preferred her spittin’ mad. Kinda kept things interesting.
He remembered the dazed look on Tony’s face when Shelby stood over him like an avenging angel, holding a gun that was too big for her hand and a wry smile tugged at his mouth. She handled it like a pro. That was his girl.
He should be back at their place cozying up with her, trying to steal a few more kisses. Instead he was in this flea infested area meeting Rodie, one of the best undercover operatives the agency had.
Rodie left an urgent message in an encrypted e-mail to meet him behind 105 LaRue at eighteen hundred hours. Tank was uneasy. Everything about this stank, much like the neighborhood. In the seven years he’d worked with him, Rodie contacted him twice outside their arranged meetings. And both times had been nothing but bad news.
Tank itched in his don’t-wanna-itch-place, again.
The alleyway behind the row of neglected warehouses had two exits. He entered the one furthest away from 105 LaRue in order to get a lay of the land. He’d learned in Afghanistan to be cautious. A quick look at the roofline assured him no one was set up to sniper, although anyone could be hiding behind the dumpsters and recycling bins that littered the alley.
A scraping sound ahead made him pause. He eased around the corner, checking for the source and stopped cold at the sight of a woman, her back to him. Her curly black hair was pulled away from her face and poked through a bright red baseball cap. She was watching the other exit. He continued to slide closer when movement in his peripheral vision had him reach for her shoulder, instinctively moving her out of danger.
He found himself looking at the barrel of a gun, pointed straight at his heart. Ice blue eyes assessed him from under the cap. Hands held away from his body, Tank backed up a step.
“You’re late.” She lowered the gun, tucking it back into a discreet holder clipped to her belt. He lowered his hands, but remained wary, not knowing if she was friend or foe. Probably friend, as she hadn’t shot him. That was always a good sign.
He checked the alley to see what spooked him and decided it must been a rat. Today’s activities had him a little on edge. The woman crossed her arms and leaned back on one hip, looking him over from top to bottom and then all the way back.
“So, you’re the famous Agent Jake Steele. Or should I call you Tank?”
Years of training kept his stance natural. How did she know who he was?
“Who—”
“Rodie told me.”
What was Rodie up to now?
“How’d you know Rodie?” Tank’s brain kicked into overdrive. Why wasn’t Rodie here? Was this a set up?
“Met him through Charlie and Slash.”
That would have to be One Eyed Charlie and J.D. ‘Slash ‘em, Stash ‘em’ Rogers. She was rattling off his contacts like she his smart phone in front of her.
“Look… Whoever you are….”
“Liz.”
“Alright, Liz. I don’t know who you are, or how you know my, uh… friends, but I’m supposed to be meeting one of them here and they won’t show if I’ve got company. Comprende?”
Tank heard her chuckle. She actually chuckled.
“Rodie told me you’d be tough. Why do you think I’m here? For my health?” Liz fished out a wallet and showed him her badge and identification card. She hailed from Washington. The uneasy feeling in his gut intensified.
“Head office sent me. Rodie’s gone so deep he’ll need a diver’s suit. But, he managed to get two messages out. One to you, to meet here and one to me, to give you a head’s up.” She flipped the wallet shut and stuck it into her back pocket.
His eyes narrowed at the last phrase. Heads up, for what? “I’m not a happy camper, Liz. You need to talk to me or I’m turning around, getting on my bike and going home to my wife.” He swung on his heel and headed back down the alley. Her hand on his forearm stopped him.
“Don’t you mean ex-wife?”
“We’re working things out.” He tried to shrug out of her grip but she tightened her grip.
“There’s been a hit put out on you.”
He froze and looked back over his shoulder. “What do you mean a hit?”
She let go of his arm. “Exactly what I said. A hit. Your cover’s been blown on the Grant case and Rodie said a contract’s been drawn up.”
“The timing’s all wrong. Rodie sent me the message last night, before my cover was blown. How could they know to put out a hit?”
“We think today’s fun and games were to draw you into the open. Confirm what Big Boss knew, or thought he did. You gotta hit the ground running and get out of here. We’ve got a ‘copter waiting. Is there anything you need back at the house?”
Tank started to say No, then realization hit him like a power-packed punch to the gut. He ran for his motorcycle.
Footsteps pounded as Liz raced behind him, “Steele! Where are you going?”
He hopped on his bike and unlocked it; cold sweat poured down his back. His lips curled into a feral snarl, “Shelby’s back at the house, unprotected.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He throttled the bike and roared off at top speed, toward their house. An agonizing ten minutes passed before he skidded around the final corner and screeched to a halt. Immediately he wa
s aware of fire-trucks, police cars and finally, a medical examiner’s car.
Black.
Solitary.
Death itself parked at the end of the driveway.
Fire fighters had the flames under control and police were busy keeping spectators from crossing the temporary yellow-taped lines encircling the yard. He was vaguely aware of a car purring to a stop behind him. Then he felt a hand on his arm.
Her soft voice filtered through the cold numbness. “Steele. You gotta get out of here. We’ll find out what’s going on. Come on.”
Anger, fast and swift, coursed through him. He shrugged off her hand. “Look, Liz. I don’t give a rat’s ass if everybody knows who I am. Get out of my way.”
He headed in the direction of the chaos. A police officer stopped him when he approached the yellow-taped barrier. “I’m sorry, sir, this is off limits to the public. You’ll have to step away.”
Tank reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flashed his badge in the officer’s face. “Agent Steele, N.S.U.”
The young officer allowed him to pass, but the look on his face let Tank know that whatever he’d find, it wasn’t going to be good. As he walked across the lawn Tank formulated a plan to get as much information as he could before the authorities realized who he was and cornered him in some room for questioning.
Tank ran an experienced eye over the house. The first floor looked like it had heavy damage, the second floor untouched. Damage was concentrated around the front door and porch. All the windows at the front of the house had been blown inside.
Crossing the lawn, he approached what looked like one of the investigators. A short, balding man watched him. Tank flashed his badge again. Never missing a beat the man drawled, “Didn’t take long for the big boys to come and play in our sandbox.”
He crushed out a cigarette with the toe of his shoe. “I’m Lieutenant DeMarco and that’s—” nodding over to a tall, skinny, red haired man, “—my partner, Detective Rawlins.”
Tamping down his fear, Tank asked, “So, what’ve you got?” He wouldn’t look at the medical examiner’s car.
“What we got is a blown up house. Whoever set the charges wanted to make sure there was a lot of noise and smoke.” He extracted his duty book and scanned the few notes he’d already started.
“Any casualties?” Nausea racked Tank’s body.
DeMarco nodded his head at the coroner’s vehicle, which was slowly pulling away and read from his notes. “Yeah. Female, mid-twenties. A passer-by found her on the driveway. Never knew what hit her…”
Tank didn’t hear any more. He sprinted toward the Medical Examiner’s car and banged on the driver’s window. Startled, the Coroner slammed on the brakes. The whir of the window sliding down was followed by a tired sigh from the man seated behind the wheel.
“Yes?” The Coroner glanced in his rear-view mirror. Tank figured he was checking to make sure the gurney holding Shelby’s body hadn’t tipped over when he hit the brakes.
“I’m her husband. Could I…? Could I see her before you take her away?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, son.” The kind face of the Coroner caused Tank’s control to slip a little further. The doctor put the car in gear.
Tank gripped the man’s shoulder. The doctor braked again and looked up at Tank.
“Wait. You don’t understand. I need to see her.” Tank released his hold when the coroner shifted and winced. “Please.”
Eternity passed before the doctor slid the car into park. Tank stepped aside as he opened the car door and shuffled around to the back of the vehicle. The Coroner grabbed the door and swung it wide, reached in and pulled out the gurney Shelby’s body was strapped to. He untied a few ropes and gently peeled back the blanket covering her face.
Tank’s heart stopped beating for a few seconds and then thudded back to life. She was so still, he could almost believe she was only sleeping. Her hair curled about her shoulders and her lashes looked like dark smudges against ashen cheeks. He reached out a trembling hand and brushed the errant curl that was forever getting in her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.
Oh God! She was still warm!
He’d been this close to saving her. Anguish ripped through him and he almost doubled over, his breath catching in his throat.
“Are you okay, son?” The Coroner replaced the blanket and pushed the gurney back into the car.
Unable to speak, Tank nodded his reply and watched as the man climbed back into the car and drove off into the dark night.
He turned and walked away, back toward his bike and Liz, waiting in the shadows. As he passed where she stood, concealed in the dark, he bit out, “I want who did this dead. Pull Rodie out if you have to, I want them dead.”
Chapter Fourteen
Crisp air, daffodils and tulips struggled to push through the ground. Tank sat at Shelby’s gravesite with Polly clutching his hand, sobbing quietly. As she dabbed a tissue to her red rimmed eyes, he looked around at the few friends of Shelby’s who’d gathered.
He caught a glimpse of Regis, lurking behind a tall cedar.
Polly followed his line of sight and sniffled. “Who’s he gonna haunt now that Shelby’s gone?” They both watched Regis slink back to his beaten up truck, and drive off with a loud backfiring bang.
The casket began its slow descent and his stomach clenched. Tank stood, refusing to watch his only love leave the sunlight forever. He wished he could stay and offer comfort to Polly, but he couldn’t. This wound was too raw, too deep to focus on any reminders of Shelby.
Polly glanced up, understanding on her face. She reached out and touched his arm, but he turned away. The two women had been inseparable for so long, he couldn’t look at her without seeing Shelby.
The solitary walk back to his motorcycle was interminable. He swung his leg over the seat and for a moment, his attention was caught by the sight of a plump robin, head cocked to one side, waiting for the worm to make one wrong move in the ground. Shelby loved the red breasted bird. She’d often said her first child would be called Robin, boy or girl.
He ruthlessly cut the thought off. There would be no children, no tomorrows for him and Shelby. There was nothing.
He roared off to a motel and changed. Bundling the suit he’d bought for the funeral into a large ball, he stuffed it into a bag, and dropped it off at a clothing collection depot. He needed no reminders of today. He drove for hours before exhaustion forced him to find a motel by the side of the road. Before registering, he stopped at an all-night liquor store.
He’d just unlocked his motel room when a familiar ring tone emanated from his jacket pocket. Irritated for not turning his phone off, he hesitated, unconsciously squaring his shoulders before answering.
“Mother.”
“Montgomery, you know how much I dislike your monosyllabic greetings.”
“Yes, and you know I don’t answer to Montgomery. My name is Jake.”
“There’s no need to be so confrontational. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days. I’d heard that girl you lived with has died. Are you okay?”
“She was my wife, mother. My wife, not some ‘girl’ I lived with.” Tank forced his response through stiff lips.
His parents never met Shelby. Whether by accident or design, Tank never knew. No one in their eyes was good enough for Montgomery Jackson III, a persona and lifestyle he’d shed a lifetime ago.
“Mont— Jake, please.” Her voice pleaded over the phone. “Come home, son. We need you. Your father needs you.”
It took all his energy to keep his voice civil and not yell at his mother, who never even tried to get to know the woman he loved. To find out what her favorite color was, or what made Shelby laugh so hard she’d fall back into her chair and almost tip it over.
“You mean the business needs me.”
“Yes it does, but that’s not why I called. We…” She sighed deeply. “I miss you. Please come home.”
“I can’t and I won
’t.”
He turned off his phone and entered the motel room with a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. The heir to Jackson Steele, worth a few billion dollars, intended to get stinking drunk.
****
Tank leaned back onto the bar with his elbows and surveyed the room. Smoke hung in the air, creating a hazy fog and he could barely see to the other side over crowds of people. Music twanged out of a jukebox and a young couple swayed on the tiny space carved out between close set tables, oblivious to everyone around them.
Don’t they all look just freaking happy? Here’s to your continued happiness.
He went to toast the dancing couples with his drink and realized the glass was empty. Turning slightly to his right, he placed the empty on the bar and called out to the bartender.
“Yo, buddy. One more.”
The bartender, drawing a mug of ale glanced at him. “I don’t think so. You’ve had enough.”
Tank straightened and turned fully around. “I said I wanted another.”
“Look, buddy. Y’all had enough.”
Over Tank’s shoulder the bartender signaled the bouncers. Grinning, Tank rolled his shoulders. Finally he could get rid of a little frustration and have some fun.
Alright. Let’s see if these boys are ready to rumble.
He turned and looked directly into the chest of what had to be the largest man Tank had ever seen in his life. Which was pretty large. Tank knew he stood six foot, five inches in bare feet. His line of sight rose to a big smile, minus one or two teeth.
Hesitation had him stall for a second, then he thought, “Got nuthin’ to lose,” and drew back his fist. Time slowed down and in that small bit of eternity he saw his clenched hand connect with the giant’s palm and then a sledge hammer disguised as a beefy fist hit him square between the eyes. His next solid memory was being tossed through the door, onto the parking lot gravel.
“Don’t come back, if you know what’s good fer ya.”
