Vengeance (A Samantha Tyler Thriller Book 1)

by Rachael Rawlings

  I laughed without humor. No one was safe. I stared at my friend. I was tired of being alone. I was tired of taking on the world without anyone to help me. Vic had his circle of friends, but I couldn’t move back into the fold. There was a sharp line drawn now, something that divided us which was too deep to cross. I saw his face when he shot me. The expression would haunt me forever, I suspected. No, I couldn’t go back. But could I in good conscience put Alex at risk?

  “I don’t know.” I looked at her, seeing the steely resolve in her eyes. It was one of the things which consistently drew us together, that unbending will. “I’ll stay here for a few days. I have someone I need to contact. Maybe you can help me with that part.” I saw the hope spark bright in her eyes. “But afterwards, I don’t know, Alex.”

  “Fine, that’s fine,” she replied, a bit too quick for my taste. “We do it your way.”

  I narrowed my eyes, “You’re being awfully easy about this,” I said with skepticism.

  Alex smirked. “I think after you realize how clever I can be, you won’t be able to go after the bad guys without me.”

  Alex was brilliant. Her measured IQ placed her somewhere in the outer limits of gifted, her only relative weakness being dissertation writing and the development of written work. She found it a waste to devote considerable time seeking to shape a piece of work into something the world called acceptable when it could be expressed in a more efficient manner.

  I wasn’t surprised when she went into medicine. I dreamed grandiose visions of her working marvels, finding cures to vicious diseases, maybe making the next lifesaving vaccine which would be named after her.

  She settled on working in one of the most downtrodden neighborhoods in the area, serving her indigent patients with dogged loyalty. She pointed out she was repaid in kind because there were always people watching out for her when she went to work, intent on making certain she was protected. Besides, she teased, she possessed an inside track to the black market if she ever needed extra cash.

  It was typical for Alex to do the unexpected, to serve who she chose to, and to pave the way for others. It would be equally predictable for her to throw herself into any situation I asked her to help with, not pausing to worry about her own safety.

  I set up the meeting with Wheadon’s associate Kurt had identified for me, code named Hemlock, for ten o’clock the next morning. Hemlock, also known as George Lockley to those who knew him personally, lived and worked in Southern Tennessee. Kurt gave me his background, sending me pages and pages of biographical data in a long email, specially encrypted. The fact they used an alias for the guy didn’t surprise me. The fact he was a baseball loving, beer drinking, self-proclaimed redneck from Tennessee did. So far, the people I ran up against were more of the straight spine, stick up the butt group who tried for the holier than thou look. I wondered how they roped this good ol boy into their little plan. I hoped I could figure out what the next scheme was before it went down and took half the country with it.

  In the process, my ultimate objective was to figure out who was behind my capture and subsequent ‘stay’ at Wheadon’s house. I needed vengeance, and I wasn’t going to stop for anything less.

  Alex and I spent the rest of the day catching up and planning for our appointment the next day. I was still reluctant to get her involved, but our mission was reconnaissance information only with no fighting expected.

  “Um, Sam? What are you going to do about your hair?”

  “My hair?” I unconsciously raised a hand to my head, touching the tight ponytail, my hair tamed into a messy bun at the top of my head.

  “Yes, your very red and very noticeable hair.” Alex made a face and pointed at my head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t considered how unmistakable that makes you. How many people have hair that color? If anyone gets an idea you’re tracking folks down, the one quality they’ll mention first is your hair.”

  I sauntered over to the mirror and studied my reflection. The flaming hair was a gift from my mother, as was the pale skin and slender physique. My eyes were my father’s, a changeable green which looked too large in my face now. People, like Vic, called me beautiful. But that was before, and now I felt as if the demon who lived in my skin for a brief time, pressed at my bones, distorting my face in some indefinable way.

  Grudgingly, I was forced to admit Alex was right. If someone was out looking for me, they would recognize my most noticeable trait first. Red hair.

  “I can dye it,” I replied.

  “I’ve got a wash out color I used last Halloween for my witch costume. Its black, but it will fade after ten washes.”

  I grinned and nodded. The hair, the shade, was as much part of me as my temper and my stubbornness. I harbored a love-hate relationship with the color, but it was still part of me. A temporary dye would free me of the most identifiable characteristic without losing it completely.

  “Sure,” I agreed. “That’s a great idea.” I glanced at her. “Maybe I’ll enjoy pretending to be someone else for a change.”

  An hour later, my long hair was wound in a towel on top of my head and strands of inky blackness straggled from underneath. I pulled up the information Kurt gave me, and now I offered it to Alex to study. Two heads were better than one, and if I was going to let her in on this, I might as well use that sizable intellect.

  “Okay, I think I understand your plan,” she began. “If we get into his office and we can access his computer, what then?”

  “Then,” I replied smiling, my hand reaching into the box, “we use this little gadget Kurt’s friend Rob cooked up for me. All we need to do is get it in place. It will transmit all the information we want.”

  Chapter Four

  George Lockley’s office was an inconspicuous brick affair squeezed into a business park full of similar unimpressive buildings. I expected someone who dealt with the devil, even if it was second hand, to have more money than this.

  The wardrobe I brought for the trip wasn’t sufficient for this particular appointment, so Alex and I dropped in on one of the local shops for a tailored pantsuit, so I would look more like an accountant and less like an avenging angel. Alex chose a similar outfit, adding a pair of glasses without corrective lenses for a final change. We took the rental. Years ago, Alex fell in love with little fast cars and drove a snazzy red Mazda convertible which would stand out if anyone ever decided to investigate us. No, we preferred to blend in as much as possible.

  We eased into the parking lot, and I switched off the engine. Alex glanced at me, her eyes alight with excitement. I worried she might be enjoying this a little too much. She suggested we bring the dogs with us, but I squelched the scheme. We wouldn’t be inconspicuous if two giant Dobermans were at our side. In fact, I worried Lockley might have run into the dogs if he ever visited Wheadon at his residence.

  I had made an appointment for us with Lockley. While I knew what old George did for a living, which was management of real estate, especially commercial, with rentals for warehouses and storefronts over several states, I didn’t realize what specifically he did for Wheadon, and in close relation, the Church of the Light Reclaimed. Why they would call for more rental space, I didn’t have any idea. I knew they previously employed a warehouse owned by Mikey, Vic’s brother, to store some of the computers they planned to use in their scheme to massacre innocent school children, but I supposed there were other endeavors they were pursuing, no doubt trying to bring about Hell on earth.

  As I climbed out of the car, I paused to smooth my jacket, my fingers sliding over the dagger tucked in the sheath on my thigh. My gun was in my purse, a ladylike .22 which would perform fine in a close fight, but I felt more secure with the knife. The sword was locked in the trunk and leaving it behind would be painful. I became accustomed to its weight at my hip, like a loyal assistant, always at the ready, but it's not exactly business attire.

  Alex was armed as well. While I trained in the martial arts in my youth, she tagged along, at first to observe and kee
p me company; later choosing to learn with me, developing into one of my favorite sparring partners. Alex was a slight woman, and I think because of that, she was reluctant to let anyone get the best of her. She was tough and prepared to fight dirty. That was a good thing. Her weapon of choice was a Sig-Saur P938, this one better and a larger caliber than mine. Her handbag was also a little larger, leather with tasteful stitching, and perfect for carrying everything a lady might need, including a highly lethal weapon.

  We passed through a glass front door into a tiny reception area where two sweaty men were standing at a counter filling out paperwork. A thirty something woman, her blonde hair bound in dairy maid braids, was typing with impressive speed on a keyboard. As the door sighed closed, a little bell tinkled, and the woman’s pale blue eyes peered up to us.

  “Can I help you?” she inquired, her syllables running together as though she was pronouncing one extremely long word.

  “We have an appointment with Mr. Lockley.” I was proud of my cool and steady tone. I was feeling the prickles of nerves, ironic considering that when I went after Wheadon, I didn’t suffer a single tremor of anxiety.

  “An appointment?” She paused in the typing, utilizing the mouse to click to another page, presumably his calendar. “You’re Ms. Monroe?”

  “I am,” I responded. When I called to set up a time to see the man, my mind landed on the first name to pass through my brain. Who knew why I chose Monroe? I didn’t resemble the blonde bombshell in looks, or, I thought wryly, acting ability. I purposely didn’t introduce Alex. We never established our identities other than we worked together. Now it felt like maybe we should have planned ahead. It was an oversight, but I figured we could muddle through the problem. I didn’t think this guy was much of a player in the Church. Of course, I could be mistaken, and I had been wrong before. I bit my lip as the woman picked up an old fashioned corded phone.

  “Your appointment is here,” she said into the receiver. She nodded to herself and put the phone back down in its cradle. Her eyes traveled up to me. “You can go in,” she told us.

  We followed the direction of her gaze to the door to the right of her desk. It was cracked open, and I wondered if the man was listening to our conversation when we arrived. As soon as we crossed the threshold, I dropped my suspicion. Mr. Lockley’s office featured a full sized industrial fan set in the window next to his desk, and the window opposite was open to let in the cross breeze. The clamor of the motor and blades would have drowned out everything but the loudest of sounds.

  Lockley was seated behind his desk, but when we entered, he hopped to his feet, a swift motion for a man so broad. His plaid shirt was tucked into faded but clean blue jeans, his beer belly pushing over his belt. There was a cowboy hat, tan felted material with a brown leather band, on the desk next to his hand, and I suspected he was the type man to wear it almost constantly. The flattened ring of hair around the crown of his head confirmed my suspicion.

  “Well ladies,” he drawled in a honey and peaches tone. “Come in and take a seat. So sorry about the fan. The darned air conditioning went out yesterday, and I’m about to melt into my boots.”

  I nodded and forced a smile. A southern gentleman was not what I expected, but snakes could wear all kinds of skins, so I wasn’t going to pass a swift judgement.

  “So, you’re interested in finding an office, you said?” His eyes, a warm brown behind glasses which rested on the tip of his nose, readers if I was forced to guess, moved from Alex and back to me as though struggling to figure out our business and who was in charge.

  “We are,” I replied, relieved we worked on this part of our story ahead of time. “We are considering office space. My partner,” I stumbled here, realizing we failed to create a name for Alex, “Brenda, wants to establish her own hair salon.”

  “Well, that’s good, very good,” he declared, nodding, and putting his hands flat against the desk. “What kind of place do you think you would like?”

  This was Alex’s time to cover for me, and she commenced with the description of what type of equipment she would require while I politely asked where I could find a lady’s room.

  Lockley pointed in the right direction, and it was big enough for me to fish out the tiny electronic bug I planned to secrete somewhere in the office. Rob did an outstanding job of supplying me with this piece of equipment. The range would be plenty for the surveillance I planned. I was hoping for a reaction from Lockley, something which would prompt him to call his sources around Wheadon, and the sooner the better. The question was how I wanted to mention Wheadon. I had limited time, and while it would have been more convenient for me to use the bug first to determine what he knew, and who he spoke to before interrogating him, I didn’t think I could wait for the perfect timing. I needed to learn what he knew, and I needed to have the information sooner rather than later.

  As I slipped back in the office, I recognized I didn’t need to worry. Alex was standing over the sketches of her alleged beauty salon she prepared at her house, clumsy drawings of what she envisioned her business to look like, and her face held the false look of dismay people made when they discovered something appalling but were faking sympathy.

  “Becky,” she gasped, “you won’t believe what George here told me.” She blinked large blue eyes at me.

  It took me a moment to realize I was Becky, Becky Monroe, to be precise.

  “What?” I sounded as empty headed as I felt for a moment. “You know how you said the computer guy you knew in Florida gave you George’s name? That old guy.” She crinkled her nose in a mock charming way.

  “You mean Mr. Wheadon? I haven’t seen him in months,” I replied, seizing her train of thought but trying to appear bewildered.

  “Yes,” Alex went on. “George here said he died. They found him yesterday morning. He jumped off a balcony at his mansion.” Alex looked suitably horrified as I didn’t tell her what transpired with Wheadon. The comment, ‘he won’t be a problem anymore,’ probably didn’t mean the same to her as it did to me.

  “That’s terrible.” I answered with feeling. Well, at least part of it was true, he was terrible.

  “I'm sorry to have to tell you about it,” Lockley said, his face puckered with concern.

  I felt a surge of uncertainty, my instincts battling with each other. Guilty or innocent? Was Lockley really feeling bad about the death, or was he putting on some of his distress for my benefit? Little did he know I played a part in Wheadon's demise. I didn’t kill him with my own hands, true, but I certainly forced him to the edge. And what did he see to cause him to make the final leap? I felt the surge of nerves and pushed the thought from my mind.

  “It's okay,” I responded firmly. “Like I said, I hadn't seen Mr. Wheadon for a very long time.” I let my gaze fall to the floor in a brief show of emotion.

  “How did you know Mr. Wheadon?” Alex asked George. She didn’t have to make a pretense of feeling. She never knew the dead man, and I was grateful for it.

  “Me?” Lockley grabbed his hat off his desk and turned it in his hands, molding the rim restlessly. “Well now, we were both business men. He leased some buildings from me.” He hesitated, and his face registered his discomfort. It caused me to wonder again how close the two men were. Wheadon gave Lockley the absurd code name, Hemlock, but maybe the reason was a way of maintaining secrecy.

  “You didn't like him much, did you?” Alex asked.

  I held my tongue. Her blunt statement, so soon after the man's death, seemed brutal, but Alex appeared correct because Lockley dropped the hat back on his desk and sat back in his chair, hands folded over his big belly.

  “I don't speak poorly of the dead,” he responded, “but I will admit Mr. Wheadon was, on occasion, a difficult man to deal with. He had an inflated idea of his importance, and he could be very intense about the details. He probably cost me more money, upgrading the spaces, and trying to match his requirements, than I ever made from leasing the spaces to him. But as for personally,”
he hesitated, “I never had any worries with him.”

  “What exactly did he do?” Alex was still pressing, and I let her have the lead.

  Lockley seemed to feel like he revealed enough. “Now that’s not my place to say,” he answered. “How about you ladies explain to me what you’d like in a place, and we can read through some of my listings.”

  Alex nodded, recognizing she would get nothing else from Lockley on the subject. Now that it was common knowledge Wheadon was dead, and a violent death to boot, I could feel doors closing. I didn’t regret it. Wheadon was getting his just reward, everything he earned in his efforts here on earth, but I still wanted to pursue whoever was pulling his strings.

  “Well,” Alex’s eyes slid my way, conveying a message I quickly picked up. “Let me show you precisely what I need.”

  I took the time while Alex kept Lockley’s undivided attention to slip the electronic bug in place to the frame of an exceptionally clumsy painting of a horse and rider strolling into the waning sun. The frame was broad and coarse. The tiny bug wouldn’t be noticed unless they took the piece down for closer examination.

  My task completed, I stood to the side and listened to Alex prattle on as I scanned the room for any clues. Lockley was a busy man, I was sure, with a file cabinet bursting with papers and an untidy heap of documents on his desk. His computer looked like something out of the last decade with a boxy monitor and a dot matrix printer that jumped to life, spilling out a ream of spooled papers which puddled on the floor while Alex and he talked. I planned to try to get information from the computer to add to what we already learned from our conversation but could see it would be more difficult to lure old George out of his office. We would have to start with what information we gleaned from the bug.

  I started making leaving motions over George’s head, and Alex finally managed to extricate herself from the exchange.