Her annoyance was already high in the wake of her encounter with Sheriff Charbonneau and his lackey. It had spiked even further when finding Tim Scarberry’s cell phone in the front bushes, a spot that gave it even odds that it had been dropped or lost or stolen and ended up there, or had been purposely stowed by the man himself before fleeing.
What the latter could point toward, Lipski had spent most of the car riding over trying to determine.
Despite the visual carnage at the farmhouse, it seemed unlikely that Scarberry had committed the murders. The sheriff – for all his bumbling and false bravado – knew the name, never once giving the impression he thought there was involvement.
A pretty good sign, considering most people in his position would be quick to jump on the first option presented to them.
Making that supposition even stronger was the fact that the phone had been activated and left there, meaning it was more likely planted.
He would have to know he was being followed, more so that they would be watching for signs of life, the phone a tracking device to pull them straight in. Just why, she wasn’t sure, though she had a hunch something in the room ahead would give her the information she needed.
Given how important the young man in custody was, the insight he could soon be providing, the acrimony within Lipski spiked as she marched to the far end of the hall, Marshals Burrows and Marlucci fanned out behind her.
As they approached, the two young officers turned to face them, both standing as if they were some sort of flesh wall, meant to keep all intruders away.
A posture that did nothing to improve Lipski’s mood.
“Deputy Marshal Abby Lipski,” she said, flashing her badge before stowing it away. “Marshals Burrows and Marlucci. We need to speak with the young man inside.”
She didn’t bother adding the word now to the end, hopeful that her tone would be enough to make the point.
Judging by the glance shared between the two, she wouldn’t be so lucky.
Up close, the young men were nominally older than she’d originally suspected, though neither were within sniffing distance of thirty. Each fleshy and sporting crew cuts, the only discernible difference between them was one had blonde hair while the other brown.
A quick look to each of their breastplates showed them each to have the name Stanson, explaining the resemblance.
“We’ve been given strict instructions not to let anybody but hospital staff inside,” the blonde said, his lower jaw thrust out a bit, as if trying to appear tough.
A move that somehow raised the rancor Lipski felt a touch higher.
“Really?” she asked. “Even U.S. Marshals? A federal agency that outranks the-“ pausing, she peered at the patch on their shoulders a moment, “Knoxville Police Department by quite a wide margin.”
A touch of uncertainty crept over the young man’s features as he glanced to his colleague.
Matching the gaze, Brown Hair offered little more than a shrug.
“His, uh, doctor said he was sleeping,” the blonde managed.
Smirking, Lipski gave him a mirthless smile before pushing between them, each of her shoulders brushing against theirs as she passed through. Without waiting for a comment, having no desire to extend the ridiculous conversation a moment further, she opened the single door behind them and stepped inside.
The interior of the space looked like it was meant to house a long-term patient, the area much larger than usual recovery rooms, complete with an armchair and a small table for visiting family. In the corner above was a television, the screen dark, the light in the room subdued.
Most of what was visible was coming from the array of machines and monitors attached to the head of the single bed occupying most of the space. Stepping up alongside it, Lipski ran her gaze over each of them, seeing that the patient’s heart rate and breathing pattern seemed to be fairly stable, before lowering her attention to the person before her.
Not much older than the young men outside, most of his body was buried beneath blankets, a series of IV’s and wires hooked to him in various places.
While it wasn’t hard to imagine that as little as a few hours prior he had been thick and virile, his skin tan, now he looked nothing more than pasty, his body drawn in and weak in the wake of the earlier incident.
A fact she was there to exploit.
Leaning forward, she placed a hand on his arm, giving him a shake. Receiving nothing more than a flutter of eyelids, she added a second hand, jerking his arm several times, the entire bed jostling beneath her pressure.
Releasing her grip, she watched as his eyes again began to dance, this time opening wide enough for brown irises to peek through, glazed as they attempted to focus on her.
In unison, there was a noticeable uptick in the activities of the monitors above him, the sound of their beeping rising in kind.
Giving him no more than thirty seconds, Lipski reached out a single hand again, this time holding her thumb and middle finger a few inches from his face. Snapping them repeatedly before him, the sound loud, a distinct contrast to the steady throb of the monitors, she snapped, “Hey! You! Wake your ass up. We’ve got work to do.”
His eyes still no wider than slits, the young man shifted them toward her fingers, attempting to focus.
Based on the vacant look on his features, there was little actually managing to register with him.
“Dammit,” she whispered, casting a glance to the closed door behind her.
Right now, just a few feet away, her team was hopefully keeping the young officers at bay. If not, there would soon be a crew of doctors and nurses flooding in, demanding to know what she was doing, giving her the usual rigmarole about how this was a young man just out of surgery, needing his rest.
In sum total, a whole lot of runaround that she didn’t have time or energy for.
Somewhere – presumably nearby – was Tim Scarberry. And whatever he was after. And whoever had murdered those two boys back at the farmhouse.
For two days, she had been playing from behind, always two steps back, trying to figure out her next move. A journey that had taken her from her family, had drawn her across the country, dropped her into a sauna as hot as Hell itself. She was tired, she was angry, and she was ready for it to be over.
Walking to the end of the bed, she took up the plastic chart hanging from the side of it. Checking over the top page, she saw that the man was still listed as John Doe, had been dropped off on the front steps earlier in the day.
Skipping past it, she went on to the second page, a quick rundown of initial findings upon his arrival. Preciously thin on details, it looked like they had been jotted in a hurry, the guy rushed straight into surgery.
But it had everything she needed.
Returning the chart to the side of the bed, Lipski walked back up to her original position. Still barely awake, the young man tracked her movements, his gaze a far cry from lucid as he watched her go.
A state that would not do for what she needed.
Meaning she was going to have to help him along.
“Can you tell me your name?”
There was no response, the young man simply continuing to stare at her.
Reaching out, she rested a hand on his right chest plate, exactly where the chart had noted his wound. Feeling the thick wad of gauze and tape beneath her palm, she applied the slightest bit of pressure.
As she did, the sounds of the heart rate monitor increased, the beeping almost doubling in rate beside her.
“Let’s try this again,” she said. “Can you tell me your name?”
Chapter Seventy-Five
“You ready?”
Radney Creel didn’t need to see the person asking the question to know who it was, the voice one that he had heard far too many times in the preceding week.
With each progressive thing that had come from it, his animosity for the owner, and the situation as a whole, had grown in direct correlation.
Now, sitting in the semi-d
arkness of the Baxter warehouse, the production line shut down and the employees sent home for the evening, he made no effort to hide the scowl on his face, letting the vitriol he felt for the entire affair spread plain across his features.
Ditto for the plume of cigar smoke drifting over, burning his nostrils.
He was better than this. Baxter knew it. Had known it when he saddled him with Elijah Pyle, when he insisted on sending over the young men in the gaudy yellow truck.
Tim Scarberry was just one man, somebody that had spent some time in the military before going state’s witness, tucking his tail between his legs and running off to hide.
Creel didn’t need help to take down anybody.
Especially someone like him.
“Are you?” he replied.
A slight chuckle was the only response as Pyle emerged from the shadows. Walking in a gait that could best be described as a saunter, he stepped into the stray light of the security post outside filtering in through the open door, reflecting off the moisture coating his skin.
Pulling up a few feet away, he leaned his body against the frame of a ’71 Gran Torino, the piece nothing more than a prop for the cover story the place was operating under.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he held no weapon for one of the few times since Creel had known him, despite knowing they were never beyond arm’s reach.
“I know our time together has been rather short,” Pyle replied, “but have you ever known me not to be?”
For a moment, Creel wanted to respond. He wanted to unleash the venom on his tongue, lash at Pyle about how thus far all he’d seen was the guy take a sadistic amount of pleasure in torturing an old man and shooting two unarmed kids.
Just as fast, he let it pass.
It wasn’t like there was anything good that could come from it.
“You think it’ll even matter?” Creel replied instead.
Raising his eyebrows slightly, Pyle shifted his gaze over a shoulder, looking to the second-floor office peering out over the operation, the light on, the silhouette of Vic Baxter still inside.
“Boss seems pretty convinced.”
A second batch of retorts sprang instantly to mind for Creel, each with even more concentrated wrath than what he’d wanted to hurl at Pyle.
“Yeah, well, boss has been convinced of a lot of things lately. Doesn’t mean they were all right.”
Twisting back, Pyle made no attempt to hide the smile creasing one corner of his mouth, his head rocking slightly.
“Yeah, no argument here on that one.”
Whether the comment was a shot aimed directly at him or not, Creel couldn’t be certain.
“What’s your plan for after this?” Creel asked, not in the least bit caring, but wanting to push the conversation into safer territory before they ended up shooting at each other.
Pausing, waiting just long enough to let it be known that the sentiment was noticed and matched, Pyle said, “Go back to doing what I do.”
What or where that was, Creel didn’t feign to know. Didn’t care enough to follow up on.
It wasn’t like that was the point in his original question anyway.
“You?” Pyle asked.
To that, Creel cast him a sideways glance, acting as if pondering the question.
In the wake of all this, he would have a great many things to consider, none more pressing than the status of his employment with Baxter, his place in the life in general.
Years before, he had fallen into it, his skillset and his need for employment making it a good fit.
Now, with his bank accounts full and his soul drained, it seemed like a decent enough time to consider a change of course.
Especially given the deterioration of things with Baxter.
“Go back to doing what I do,” he echoed.
Nodding as if accepting the answer, or merely not wanting to push it any further, Pyle shifted his attention outside, both men standing and staring into the semi-darkness, waiting for an enemy they weren’t entirely sure was going to show.
“This goes down - if it goes down - I got dibs on Scarberry,” Pyle said.
Not giving a damn what the man thought he had dibs on, Creel didn’t bother to respond, keeping his features glacial as he maintained his stare, eyes focused on nothing.
A pose he kept even after Pyle pushed himself away from the Gran Torino, retreating back into the darkness.
Chapter Seventy-Six
The hinges on the trunk of the Charger rose without a sound. As they did so, an automatic light tucked up high in the back corner sprang to life, illuminating everything within in a filmy yellow glow.
An abundance that was not insubstantial, as evidenced by the audible gasp of Lou beside me.
“Damn,” she managed. “It’s like an episode of Supernatural back here.”
With one hand resting atop the trunk lid, I shifted to look at her, my expression blank.
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what that means.”
“Supernatural,” she repeated, staring down at the assorted weaponry before looking up to me, “it’s this show about two brothers who drive all over the country, fighting off evil spirits and things.”
Based on the look I was giving her, she must have registered that her explanation was doing little to help her cause.
“Anyway, they have a massive collection of stuff in their trunk like this,” she managed, turning to look back down, her frustration growing. “Where the hell did you get all this anyway?”
Reaching down, she snapped up a snub nose grenade launcher, the circular assembly already loaded with shells, everything but the stock removed for easy firing.
“Uncle Jep,” I replied, releasing my grip on the lid and going down beside her, rummaging for my own battle gear of choice. “A great man, but it could be argued he was a bit of a doomsday prepper.”
“Uh, yeah,” Lou said. “A bit. And it looks like he was preparing for the zombie apocalypse as well.”
Parked just off the edge of a small country two-lane, the sole light beyond the reach of the one under the trunk was from the moon and the occasional firefly floating like dust motes through the air.
Around us, the forest pressed in tight from every angle, crickets just beginning their evening serenade.
And just as it had been since the moment I’d gotten to Tennessee, the heat was overbearing, somehow seeming a bit higher now that we were in Georgia.
Grasping a pair of Heckler & Koch’s from the bottom of the collection, Lou held them up to the light, rotating them slightly, checking over the frame of each.
“Nice,” she muttered.
Grunting in agreement, I continued rooting around until I found what I was looking for, a Bizon submachine gun. Pulling it out, I ejected the helical magazine, hefting it in my hand to ensure it was full, before reinserting it, the metal ramming home with a satisfying click.
Beyond the initial comments about the bounty stowed in the trunk – obvious attempts at levity in the face of peril – we both worked in relative silence, selecting what we wanted, steeling ourselves for what lay ahead.
What exactly we would find up there was anybody’s guess. A quick trip through Google Earth had given us a rudimentary schematic of Baxter’s compound, but beyond that, we could be walking into anything.
And likely were, especially given that at least two men had driven away that afternoon, giving him plenty of time to regroup.
Not that it especially mattered to either one of us at this point. Each had been personally offended, attacked, prodded into action.
No chance we were going to sit back any longer.
Come what may.
The plan, as it were, was preciously thin, decided on after more than two hours of back and forth between us.
Even at that, no small amount of trepidation existed, the air between us so taut it threatened to burst, like a helium balloon pushed beyond maximum capacity.
“You good?” I asked, setting the submachine gun
aside and grabbing two more clips for the Beretta, my knife still stowed in the rear of my pants.
“Good,” Lou replied, holding her hand up to catch a bit of moonlight, the glow glinting off the set of brass knuckles she was wearing. Staring at them for a moment, she jerked her attention up to me, and said, “When we get up there, just remember what we talked about?”
“What’s that?”
“No cowboy shit, no hero complex,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
Without even meaning to, I couldn’t help but smirk. Slamming the hood of the trunk, I motioned with my chin toward her outstretched hand, the array of hardware strapped to her body.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
HK was the shorthand term for the weapons manufacturer Heckler & Koch, a German defense contractor that had been making weapons dating back to World War II. Smaller, sleeker, than most guns built by their American counterparts, they boasted all of the traditional hallmarks of German engineering while sacrificing nothing in terms of power or precision.
Both good reasons why there was one now gripped in either of Talula Davis’s hands as she made her way through the forest.
But not the biggest one.
That honor was reserved for the fact that to her knowledge, the Baxters had never manufactured a single knockoff HK, the German design much too advanced for their operation, which by extension meant that none of them had ever made it to the reservation.
The very same reason her father had always insisted on carrying one, even when the higher-ups at his job took him to task for it.
Squeezing their grips in her hands, Davis picked her way through the trees, moving as quickly as silence would allow. Raised up onto the balls of her feet, she darted from tree to tree, ignoring the sweat that flowed freely down her body, striping her exposed torso.
Not that she was too overly worried about somebody lying in wait for her, the night vision goggles strapped to the top of her head giving her a clear read on her surroundings, nothing more than a squirrel or the occasional bird dotting the area around her.
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