“On three.”
Shifting himself into position, Burrows put a shoulder against the outer wall, prepared to breach the moment she crossed the threshold.
“One...two...”
Lipski never got the third word out, a deep and guttural sound replacing it. Hurtling herself forward off her left foot, she drove the heel of her right at the door. Connecting just millimeters from the knob, the door flew inward, the aging boards of the casing splintering beneath her weight.
Shearing away with a loud cracking sound, Lipski’s momentum carried her across the threshold, the smell of sawdust hitting her nostrils as she stepped to the side, Burrows rushing in behind her, weapon poised.
Shifting in front of her, he checked over the living room they stood in before taking a few steps forward, peering into the neighboring room. “Clear.”
Waiting until he was in position, Lipski moved past him into the kitchen, every item cleaned and put away, the place looking like it hadn’t been used in quite some time.
Going past him, she positioned herself at the foot of a narrow staircase, the wooden steps ascending before her at a sharp angle.
“Clear,” she echoed, Burrows moving past her. Squeezing his thick frame into the stairwell, he moved in short, choppy steps, his girth filling the space, each step echoing through the house as he pounded his way upward.
Reaching the top, he stopped and glanced her way before disappearing from view, venturing forward. Following the sound of his footfalls, Lipski maintained her pose by the door.
Since they’d first arrived, she knew what they were going to find – or rather, wouldn’t find – an assumption that was made final a moment later.
“Clear,” Burrows called down, Lipski relaxing her shoulders, letting her weapon dip toward the floor. Exhaling slowly, she felt the tension release from her shoulders, the disdain she had for Scarberry still present.
Just like the trip to Maine, this was already starting to look like another false lead.
“Deputy Marshal Lipski?”
A spasm roiled through Lipski as she snapped her weapon up a second time, adrenaline seeping into her system. Pressing her body tight against the wall, she stood poised to act before recognition set in.
Standing just a few feet away, her mouth open, her shoulders turned to make her body as small as possible, stood Marshal Marlucci.
“Dammit, Jessica,” Lipski said. Pushing up from the wall, she lowered her weapon, drawing in a deep breath. “I thought I told you to stay with the car?”
Her face void of any color, Marlucci peered at the gun in front of Lipski, her focus on it for several moments before she raised her attention back to eye level.
“I’m sorry. You did, but I thought you’d want to know, we just got a hit. Tim Scarberry’s phone just came back online.”
Part V
Chapter Sixty-Nine
It wasn’t hard to find the truck. Exactly zero effort had been put into hiding it, the guy behind the wheel going just a couple miles down the road, far enough to ensure he was completely out of sight in both directions, before turning onto a dirt lane.
Much like the one leading back to Uncle Jep’s place, or even the one I’d used for the Charger a couple of times, or a thousand others just like it in the area surrounding the lake, it passed through a narrow cut in the tree line.
Had I not been looking for it – on foot no less – I might not have seen the brief flash of yellow paint.
May not have even noticed the swirls in the dirt alongside the road where the second car had pulled up and collected his cohort before spinning out, back on their way again.
Careful to go around the tracks, I stepped down the two track to find the truck angled between a random assortment of trees, low-hanging branches scratching at the windshield and body of it, obscuring the smokestack and most of the glass from view.
The rest was shrouded in shadow, as good a job at tucking it out of sight as could be done in ten seconds or less.
Which I’m guessing was about all the guy had put into it, his sole focus on getting out of the shiny lightning rod and into something more inconspicuous.
Sliding the Beretta from the waistband of my pants, I approached wide around it anyway, eschewing the driver’s side door and coming up on it from the right. Flicking my gaze to the world around me, I heard little, saw less, everything seeming to be holding a collective breath as I approached the door.
Inching close to the side of the machine, I peeked into the bed, seeing thin red stripes of blood splashed across the bed of it, remnants from our earlier encounter.
Sidestepping past it, I kept the gun in my right hand, reaching across it with my left. Grasping the handle to the truck, I jerked it back in one quick movement, the metal moving smoothly, barely making a sound.
And revealing nothing at all, save a plume of ammonia, the scent so strong it brought a sheen of moisture to my eyes.
Stepping back, I returned the weapon to the small of my back, raising a fist to my mouth. Coughing twice into it, I lifted the front edge of my tank top up over my nose, the saturated fabric providing nominally more comfort as I ventured a second pass into the truck.
The source of the smell was obvious at a glance, a spray bottle cast into the footwell showing exactly where it had originated.
Venturing a hand out, I dabbed at the top of the cloth bench seat before me, seeing beads of moisture collected across the steering column and front dash.
Leaning backward, I drew in a deep breath, clenching it tightly as I came back inside. Lifting my knee up onto the seat, I stretched my body the length of it, searching for anything that might be of use.
Fast food receipt. Credit card gas purchase. Anything that might have a time or location stamp on it.
Best I could tell, there was nothing visible, the interior cab having been worked over by someone that knew what they were doing.
Which, I’d venture to guess, hadn’t been any of the three young men that had first shown up in the rig.
Sliding back out, I hooked a finger under the bottom hem of my tank top. Extending it before me, I unlatched the glove compartment, nothing but the owner’s manual tucked away inside.
Reaching for it, I felt the burner phone I’d picked up the day before begin to vibrate on my hip. Low and persistent, it was coming too fast to be a text.
And as best I could tell, only one person knew the number and would be calling.
Pulling back, I dropped the makeshift kerchief away from my face. Turning away from the cab, I drew in a deep breath, extracting the phone and pressing it to my face.
“Hey, Lou.”
“Where are you?” Short and direct, I could tell she was even more worked up than when I’d seen her last, this a marked change from the woman that was dealing with the sight of carnage before her, wrestling with how to handle it.
“You called it in, I take it.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Got my ass fired for the effort too.”
Raising my face toward the sky, I could feel sweat pooling in my eyes, stinging as I exhaled slowly.
“How the hell did they get that from what happened there?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Lou snapped, a bit of wind whistling through the receiver.
Nodding, I said, “Damn. Sorry.”
For a moment, there was no response, just the continued push of a slight breeze over the line.
“Just, where are you?” she asked again, this time with slightly less angst than before.
“I’m at the truck,” I replied. “About two miles down the road, small turnout on the right.”
“Anything?” she asked.
“Naw,” I replied. “Ditch job. Even sprayed the interior with ammonia before they bounced.”
Over the line, I could hear a string of muffled obscenities, that being the same response I’d have had if not for having to deal with the damned scent.
“Stay there,” she said a moment later. “I’m on foot, h
eaded that direction.”
Handfuls of questions came to mind immediately, everything from wanting to know why she was on foot to what her plan was moving forward, but I let them pass.
She was on her way.
“Roger that,” I replied, finishing the call and stowing the phone on my hip. Turning back to the truck, I lifted the tank top over my nose again, going directly for the glove compartment and the owner’s manual.
And right into the single thing they had missed when cleaning out the front seat.
The same thing that answered damn near every one of the questions I hadn’t just gotten to ask Lou.
Chapter Seventy
I heard Lou’s arrival long before I saw her. Dragging her heels with each step, they scraped loudly over the asphalt of the road, muffled only slightly once she stepped off the street and up the dirt lane.
A few moments later, she appeared through the narrow break in the trees, a plume of dust rising around her. Having stripped away her uniform shirt, she stood in tan pants and a black sports bra, skin gleaming with sweat, dirt clinging to her as she stopped and stared at the truck.
Standing stationary for a moment, she said nothing.
Pushing off her back foot, she moved on it in one quick movement, closing the gap in a sideways motion that belied her athletic training. Pulling back her arm at the shoulder, she drove her palm at the rear tailgate, striated muscle standing out along her arm and shoulder as she smashed her hand against it.
Drew back and did it again. And again.
Like a piston driving home, she hammered at the smooth metal, continuing until the single plate was dented inward, a single arc swung in at a concave angle.
Lasting more than a minute, by the time she was done her breath had become short, somehow even more sweat rising to the surface of her skin.
Standing a few feet away, I kept my back pressed tight against the poplar tree I’d been leaning against, well beyond the stench of the ammonia inside the cab of the truck.
Though I could do nothing for the spot already soaked through the knee of my pants.
“Sorry,” Lou said, glancing my way before dropping her gaze. Her hands on her hips, she continued taking deep breaths, droplets of sweat clinging to the thin wisps of hair extended outward above either ear.
“Not as sorry as that tailgate.”
Jerking her attention my way, Lou looked like she was tempted to come and do the same to me, a snarl on her face, before the tension she wore broke. Smirking slightly, she raised her face to look at me fully.
“Tell me you found something useful in there.”
“Better than useful,” I said, keeping the slight pang of excitement I felt under wraps, no matter how much it pained me to do so, the find from the glove compartment tucked away in my pocket, aching to come out.
Soon, but not quite yet.
“What happened?” I asked.
Lowering her gaze just an inch, Lou shook her head, muttering something unintelligible. Taking a step to the side, she looked up at me, the previous angst back.
“Exactly what I knew would happen. Fat ass showed up, took one look around, blamed everything on me, said I was fired.”
“Just like that? Did you tell him-“
“Of course I told him,” she said, “but he didn’t hear a word of it. He showed up all butthurt about what I’d said earlier, was just looking for a reason to can me.”
Having not been present for her earlier outburst, I couldn’t speculate on the veracity of her statement.
Having been around more law enforcement than I’d care to remember the last six years though, I knew that they carried pretty healthy egos and extremely thin skin.
If she truly had gone off, it wouldn’t be quickly forgotten.
And it wasn’t like there wasn’t already a tone at that house that looked plenty damning, under the best of circumstances.
“Did you do what I asked you to?”
Nodding slightly, Lou said, “Turned the phone on, tossed it into the front bushes on my way out.”
“Nice,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Want to tell me what that was all about?” she asked.
The reasoning behind it was massive. I knew that Lipski and her team were probably in the area. By now they had run down the spot in Maine that Uncle Jep used to disguise his real location, had worked their way back here.
They were close, and based on everything Lou had shared about her crew, they were the closest thing to real law enforcement in the area.
Leaving the phone behind for them was a flare, a chance for them to see what was going on, to lend a hand in any way they could.
Keep them close enough to us that they could be called on if the need arose.
“Just covering our bases,” I said. “Doesn’t sound like the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department will be of much use from here on.”
Snorting, Lou gave me a sideways glance, her intent clear. “If they ever were.”
“If they ever were,” I echoed.
Raising a hand, Lou swiped a thumb across her brows, flinging away a stripe of sweat.
“Okay,” she said. “Tell me you’ve got something here.”
“So you’re not done with this?” I asked, my brows rising slightly.
“Bastards got me fired, have tried to kill me twice,” she replied. Turning her head, she rattled off a few more sentences, too low for me to make out. “Hell no. Not by a long shot.”
Remaining motionless, I studied her for a moment. She didn’t have near the reasons I did for hating Baxter and his men, but hers were mounting at an alarming rate.
And she had proven herself more than capable in a scrap, her tackle back at the house being what likely caught me from catching a bullet to center mass.
Digging into my pocket, I slid my fingers over the top of a single sheet of paper, the stock heavy, folded in two. Extracting it, I held it between my index and middle finger, extending it her direction.
“They stripped most of the car, but I found this folded up in the owner’s manual. Using it as a bookmark for – get this – how to use the caution lights.”
Not biting on the weak joke, Lou accepted the paper. “Let me guess, vehicle registration?”
“Pay stub,” I replied. “Made out to Bobby Padilla, signed by none other than one Vic Baxter.”
Chapter Seventy-One
From his seat behind the desk, Vic Baxter couldn’t help but think the two looked like a couple of schoolkids that had been caught fighting on the playground and had been sent to the principal’s office. Seated across from him, they both wore open scowls, tossing each other occasional glances before turning back to look his way.
After the last couple of days he’d had, the impending timeframe they were facing still bearing down, he wasn’t the least bit in the mood for it.
“How was the drive back?” he asked.
A test, pure and simple, he wanted to see how they reacted, get a barometer for where things were.
As it stood, these two were the best at what they did, a bridging of generations. On the right was Elijah Pyle, someone that Eric had handpicked years before, groomed into his do-everything contact for all items that weren’t considered above board.
How he found him, what his background was, where he had been for the previous half decade – all questions Baxter didn’t have full answers to.
What he knew for certain was that Eric trusted him implicitly, had demanded that when this moment finally arose that Pyle be included.
At the time of his employment, Vic’s role had been much smaller. He knew Pyle only tangentially, was aware of why he was on the payroll, but made a point to keep himself strictly on the business side of operations.
Still, it wasn’t like stories of the man’s prowess didn’t eventually make their way over.
And judging by what had been reported back from Tennessee and the excruciating ending handed to Jessup Lynch, it didn’t appear he had lost a bit of his previous form.
Sitting just over an arm’s length away – a deliberate choice by both men, no doubt – was Radney Creel. Recommended by a trusted source, he had been one of Vic’s more recent hires, someone used exclusively as a freelancer, avoiding becoming a full-time hand.
Even at that, he had proven impeccable in his abilities, his reputation well-deserved.
Trained up by the military, he had opted for early retirement over becoming a lifer, bringing his skills to a private sector able to pay a much better wage.
A few years younger and a bit heavier than Pyle, he seemed to attack everything with a feverish zeal, wearing the gamut of emotions on his sleeve, whereas his counterpart liked to play the part of being aloof, a cocksure grin or a smirk his two trademark responses.
Not that Baxter really cared what their face looked like as they were working.
As long as things got done, which is why he had now called them back.
“Good,” he said. Fully reclined in his seat, he pressed the pads of his fingers together, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair he sat in. “Now then, let me start with apologizing for sending those boys over. I thought they’d be some moveable pieces for you, but it turns out...”
“Rank amateurs,” Pyle said, the words accompanied by a sour look from Creel beside him.
Nodding slightly, Baxter flicked his gaze to Creel, seeing the man give a small nod and nothing more. Apparently, he was still angry that his role as leader had been usurped, that first Pyle and then the others had been thrust upon him.
Right now, Baxter could not give a damn.
His focus, his sole goal in all of this, was Eric.
“I take it that little problem has been solved?” he asked.
Again, only a nod from Creel.
Forming his index finger and thumb into a gun, Pyle said, “Two in the chest and one between the eyes for each.”
It was far more detail than Baxter would have liked, orders like that – especially to young boys he had handpicked to send – were his least favorite part of the job.
Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic Page 25
