by Cindy Stark
LAWLESS
By Cindy Stark
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
C. Nielsen
www.cindystark.weebly.com
Lawless © 2012 C. Nielsen
All rights reserved
Amazon KDP Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Also by Cindy Stark:
Relentless
Moonlight and Margaritas
Sweet Vengeance
DEDICATION
To the sexy men of country music who've provided many hours of enjoyment and inspiration. Thanks Jason Aldean, Brantley Gilbert, Luke Bryan and Jake Owens.
Also to my beautiful daughters—I couldn't be more proud of you.
CHAPTER ONE
Deputy Sheriff Milo Sykes's police radio crackled to life. "All units respond to a reported 10-71 at Mt. Uintah Medical Center. Suspect is at large and considered armed with possible multiple weapons. Four wounded. Suspect is wearing a camouflage t-shirt and brown pants."
Milo's pulse paused as his brain digested the information. "Shit." He grabbed his radio. "2A12 responding to 10-71."
With a quick swipe, he gathered the driver's license and registration sitting on the clipboard on his lap and exited his SUV. He sprinted to the older model Mustang he'd pulled over for speeding and dumped the identification on the driver's lap. "Drive safe, ma'am."
Within a couple of seconds, Milo was back in his vehicle, lights blazing and sirens blaring as he headed the three miles back to Pinewood.
When he arrived on scene, the late-afternoon August sun bore down on two identical Chevy Tahoes that blockaded the entrance to the small two-story medical center that serviced the entire county. Another pair of SUVs blocked the staff entrance. There was no other way out. He scanned the area, not seeing anyone except the two officers in front of him squatting on the ground, peering through the sights on their shotguns.
Milo pulled up behind them and cut his sirens. He scanned the area, following the direction of the other officers' weapons. His heart pounded as he ducked out of his car and crept toward his two comrades. "What the hell is going on? We have a sniper?" The rural county hadn't experienced anything that dangerous in decades…if ever.
Charlie Adams kept his eye glued to the scope on his rifle. "We've got a gunman hunkered down behind the sand pile on the south side of the parking lot. Witnesses say he's shot one EMT and wounded three other civilians. Sheriff Williams is in contact via cell phone with one of the vics. Reports are the EMT is unconscious and bleeding severely. The others are wounded, but conscious and stable."
Deputy Eric Larsen removed his sights from his gun long enough to eye Milo. "Karen Jensen is the wounded EMT."
Milo jerked as though Eric's punch had been physical. "Not Karen." He and his cousin Karen had grown up together. They'd made mud pies as kids, gotten sick off a stolen cigarette when they'd been ten, and nearly burned down their town with illegal fireworks as teenagers. She couldn't die. She had two kids of her own that she'd only half raised. "What's the plan?"
"Sheriff Williams should be here any moment. We're keeping the gunman contained until he arrives."
"While Karen bleeds out?" Sheriff Williams was an exceptional peace officer, but that was a dumb ass plan.
"It's not like we have a SWAT team and air patrol," Charlie answered.
Milo peeked over the hood of the vehicle. A shot pinged not five inches from his head. "Son of a bitch."
"Keep your head down," Eric responded. "The guy is an expert marksman. Must have some military training or something."
Yeah? He wasn't the only one. "Anyone else on scene, yet?"
"Nope." Charlie cracked his neck before refocusing on the sniper.
Enough time had been wasted. "I'm going to try to draw his fire away from the victims. Maybe that will distract him enough someone can help Karen. If I get a shot, I'm taking the asshole down."
"Kick some ass, bro," Charlie said as Milo slipped around the edge of the vehicle.
More shots exploded around him as he made his way along the row of cars. He had to wonder if he was the idiot, not Williams. But Karen's life was the prize, and with Milo's Army training, he was the most qualified out of all of Williams' men to take out the perp.
Milo reached the last vehicle on the row. Nothing between him and the ruthless marksman but 100 yards and a yellow VW bug. A bullet ricocheted off the metal next to him. The bastard was good. He'd give him that.
He followed the ritual he'd perfected in Afghanistan and took a second to clear his thoughts. Pinewood's summer-long heat wave had expanded into fall, and the glaring sun cooked his shoulders. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck, but a cool composure blanketed his emotions. Years of training with the military and then the U.S. Marshals had forged him into a cool piece of machinery. Many accused him of wasting his talents on a rural county sheriff's department, but this was where he wanted to be.
The brilliant sun was good though. He'd taken up this position instead of moving around to the back of the hospital because, although he was more exposed, the bright glare would handicap his opponent.
He checked his weapon. Ready.
Milo changed his stance, lifting slightly. A bullet shattered the VW's front windshield and rear passenger window. Perfect. Having no glass would make his shot easier.
He positioned his rifle, ignoring the pinging of bullets around him as he sighted his subject through his high-powered scope. The man, somewhere in his late thirties, sported a head of unkempt bushy brown hair and a full beard. "Sheriff's Department. Drop your weapon and come out with your hands up. If you don't, I will use deadly force," Milo yelled across the distance.
"Fuck you, pig." Another shower of bullets danced off the metal around him.
Couldn't the guy come up with something a little more original than "pig"? "Last chance," Milo answered. He'd barely gotten his words out when a red hot piece of lead burrowed into the flesh above his left elbow. "Awe, shit," he cursed under his breath. The last bullet he'd taken had cost him a night's stay in the hospital.
With renewed determination, he ignored the fire in his arm, sighted in the prick, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked against his right armpit, barely registering in his consciousness.
The perpetrator jerked before dropping from sight.
Milo lowered his weapon and stealthily made his way back between the row of vehicles getting as close to the shooter as he could without giving up his cover. A limp hand extended beyond the edge of the small sand hill, but Milo kept his weapon ready. Adrenalized blood thrummed through his veins as he peeked around the corner. The sniper's body lay prone, his weapon a good eight inches from his body, a neat bullet hole just left of center in h
is forehead.
He pushed the button on his shoulder radio. "Target neutralized."
* * *
Milo slumped at a stool in Sparrow's Bar and Grill, doing his best to ignore the rocking country anthem playing over the sound system. At the moment, he couldn't care less about partying all night long. He'd already stuffed in two pieces of apple pie, compliments of the grateful citizens of Aspen for saving their quiet little county from the big, bad sniper. Other than that, his life had come to a screeching halt. Not a good thing for someone with a restless spirit.
"Dude, you should be celebrating. You're the hometown hero." Scott lifted his mug of beer in a mock toast.
Milo drew a finger through the condensation on his glass of soda. "I know, but it's hard to get excited about two weeks off work when I can't do anything but sit around." He needed his job, needed to be busy. He was a live-hard, play-hard kind of guy. The shooting had cost him a minimum of two weeks of administrative leave while internal affairs conducted an official investigation. The bullet hole in his arm along with the consequential drugs from said shooting, left him with very little to do. No mountain biking, no dancing, and certainly no drinking, at least for a few days. "I can't even enjoy a damn beer." He'd been on leave exactly 18 hours and was already bored out of his ever-loving mind.
He should be happy. The shot to his arm was barely more than a surface wound as far as he was concerned and had only cost him a couple of stitches. No blood transfusions. No days in the hospital. Sheriff Williams had given him quite the dressing down privately for not following protocol, but publicly he'd proclaimed him as a quick-thinking hero who'd saved many lives. Karen, along with the three other victims, was still in the hospital, but all were expected to make a full recovery.
"That's tough." Scott swiveled on his bar stool to watch the few couples who'd come out to dance on a Thursday night. "You can still fish, though, right?"
He did have that. "Doc said no activity, but I'm pretty sure fishing doesn't count." The river that ran through his property provided some of the best fly fishing in the region and had afforded him solace on many occasions.
"When are you going to show me that honey-hole you keep talking about?"
"Never." Milo laughed. "A man does not share his honey-hole."
Scott gave him a sideways glare. "I think you're making it up anyway."
The vibrating phone in Milo's pocket saved Scott from his smart-ass remark. He pulled it out, surprised to see the name Quinn Crawford on the screen. Although they'd been close during their years together in the Army and the U.S. Marshal's Service, he'd only talked to his friend a handful of times since he'd left the service three years ago.
Milo pressed the answer button. "Quinn?"
"Milo, buddy. How have you been?"
He could barely hear his friend over the music. "Hang on a second." He looked at Scott. "Be right back."
He stepped out the door and into the early evening light, grateful for the quiet Aspen streets. He put the phone back to his ear. "I'm good, man." Except for the annoying bandage on his arm. "How are you?"
"Great. Sounds like you're a celebrity now."
The side of the brick building scraped his shirt as he leaned against it. "Heard about that, did ya?" Milo knew a couple of national networks had run a brief report on the standoff during the early morning news shows, but he'd expected the story to fade after twenty-four hours without much notice.
"I did, and I have to say it couldn't have come at a better time."
He drew his brows together. "How so?"
Quinn chuckled. "I'm about to make your loss my gain. I need a favor. I need to place a witness under your protection."
"A witness?" The proposal surprised him. "You know I'm no longer a marshal, Quinn."
"Exactly why I need you. This particular witness has been compromised four times already, and I'm starting to suspect our organization has somehow been infiltrated. She's a high profile witness in the Trasatti trial, and I need to keep her safe for another four weeks."
"John Trasatti, the mobster?" He'd guess that pretty much anyone who'd turned on a TV during the past year had heard about the arrests of several members of the infamous crime family. It had been a sweet coup for the Chicago Police Department. "You think they have someone on the inside? That's hard to believe." The Marshal's Service prided itself on its flawless protection record.
"They want her pretty bad."
"Her?"
Another long silence crawled across the phone line. "The witness is Trasatti's daughter."
Milo whistled. "She's turned on her family? Wow. That had to take guts. She may never be able to show her face in public again."
"Yeah. She definitely has…uh…tenacity. Not to mention, her testimony is vital to bringing down several key players. Chicago PD has the granddaddy by the balls, but, with what she's giving them, the DA will be able to cripple the organization so badly, they'll never stand again."
Milo wondered if the girl knew exactly what she was getting herself into. She'd grown up with the mob, so she had to know they'd use whatever means necessary to seek her out and destroy her. The Trasatti organization was worth millions of dollars. Even if the grandfather sat rotting in jail, the rest would never go down without a fight.
"Okay, let's say I'll consider helping you. I still have a day job." Even though he was currently cooling his heels. "Also, the higher-ups are not going to be too keen on you using someone they now consider an outsider."
"Milo." Quinn used a cajoling tone. "These aren't things you need to worry about. You know me. I've already spoken with Sheriff Williams. He said you'll be down at least two weeks healing and waiting to be cleared for work again. Good ol' Bill also said he'd be more than happy to extend your time off if needed."
"Good ol' Bill? Since when have you been on first-name terms with my boss?"
Quinn chuckled. "Like I said, you know me, Milo. I need someone extremely discreet that could shoot the balls off a chipmunk from two hundred yards away, and you're that man."
It was Milo's turn to laugh. "Damn, you make me sound good."
"You are good, and I need you. What do you say? Can you meet me in Salt Lake to take custody of her?"
He sighed. "Why the hell not."
Back inside, he dropped a five on the bar for a tip. "I'm outta here," he told Scott. "Looks like I've found me some entertainment for a few days."
"Must have been a good phone call. What's up?"
"I'm headed to Vegas. An old friend is getting hitched, and he just invited me to attend." At least the old friend part was true, and if Scott and his other buddies expected him to be out of town, it would give him a chance to get this woman hidden before anyone started nosing around. "It sounded like a good excuse for a wild weekend, and it's not like I'm doing anything else." He glanced at his bandage. "Well, semi-wild weekend."
* * *
Milo woke with a start and automatically reached for the Glock he kept on the nightstand. He had his hand wrapped around the butt of the sidearm before he remembered he was in a hotel room on the outskirts of Salt Lake, and the noises that had woken him were from other guests. He'd honed his knee-jerk reaction from his days in the military, and sometimes when he wasn't quite coherent, his old training automatically kicked in.
He flopped back on the bed, hot and sweaty. The temperature had registered 95 degrees when he'd driven into town late yesterday afternoon, and it hadn't cooled one bit.
He glanced at the clock. Five minutes to six. Quinn and the woman would be touching down in another hour. If he got up now, he'd have time to gas up, grab some snacks for the way home, and eat a decent breakfast before he was supposed to meet them.
As he showered and dressed, he couldn't shake the strong feeling that agreeing to help had been a mistake. Sure, he and Quinn were friends, but he'd left the Marshal's Service because he didn't want that kind of stress and pressure in his life. Now here he was, right back in the thick of things. Maybe, deep down, he really h
adn't shaken that underlying need to make up for what had happened three years ago.
Sixty minutes later, Milo pulled into a secluded neighborhood park in a suburb of Salt Lake, not surprised to find it deserted except for a man and a woman. He recognized Quinn immediately. Brown hair, muscular build. He sat on a shady bench facing away from Milo. Next to him was a woman wearing a white ball cap, her dark ponytail sticking out the hole in the back of her hat.
Milo exited his truck, a hot wind blowing in his face. Quinn caught his eye before he had taken two steps toward them. Always the alert one. That's part of what made his friend so good at his job.
As Milo drew closer, he could hear the woman speaking.
"…ridiculous. I don't understand why I can't stay here close to the city. This place is out of the way. No one will find me here. And it's not so far from civilization that I feel like I might suffocate."
"You know the mob is everywhere, Ariana. Your family might not have direct connections with anyone here, but word gets out."
Milo paused a few feet from their bench to allow them to finish their conversation before he interrupted.
Ariana slumped her shoulders. "I'm so tired of this game. Why can't I testify now, give a deposition or something and be done with it? If I'd have known what this entailed and how drawn out it would be, I might have made a different decision."
If first impressions were correct, it appeared Milo might have a spoiled diva on his hands. If so, he'd be giving Quinn hell later for not mentioning that part of the deal.
"You made the right choice. You only have to tough it out for one more month."
"This isn't right. It seems I'm being incarcerated along with my father. When this is over, I expect you to send me somewhere warm and tropical. Hawaii. San Juan. Somewhere far away that has a pulse, with perhaps a library and a university nearby. These nowhere towns are stifling."
