Fierce Protector: Hard to Handle trilogy, Book 1

by Kane, Janine

  “Curt, it is these keen powers of observation which I intend to put to good use,” Vincent said, his Minnesota accent still jarringly alien to south Texas, even after a year here. “You’ll remember our good friend, Hank Montgomery?”

  Curt grunted. “A delivery boy, right? Low-level.” For Curt, people were either ‘low-level’, in which case they could safely be treated like crap, or ‘high-level’, which meant they received deference, obedience and instant loyalty. It was a stark social division which had served Vincent well.

  “A delivery boy, as you say, Curt,” Vincent confirmed, “but not a very good one. He appears,” Vincent explained, puffing frequently on his cigar, “to have allowed his delivery to go missing.”

  Curt shook his head. “Dumbass.”

  “Quite so, Curt. Your judgment of character is as perspicacious as your architectural analysis.” Vincent loved to bandy around these huge words, the better to cement his status as a ‘high-level’ player; with intelligence, he had come to understand, came respect, in much greater amount (and more genuinely) than through violence. Though physical action still had its place, so much more could be achieved by mental agility.

  “Want me to smack him, boss?” asked Curt, eager to please, as ever.

  “I think not, on this occasion. How, one might ask, would a battered and bruised Hank Montgomery produce cocaine and cash which an undamaged Hank Montgomery was unable to produce?”

  Curt thought this one over. “Want to put some pressure on, instead?”

  Ah, you’re learning, my muscular, young apprentice. “He’s in the booming metropolis of Sutherland, Texas. Do you know it?” Curt shook his head once more. “No, I’m not surprised. There’s no reason to. Still, our Hank has found commodious lodgings at a motel near town, and has been making contact with family in the area. “

  Curt frowned for a second. “How do we know that?”

  “We have the technology,” Vincent said cryptically, tapping the side of his nose. “Now, why would you think he’s bothering to visit Sutherland?”

  “To borrow the money?”

  “Good analysis, my muscled friend. But one would be surprised, would one not, to discover that one’s family were able to produce from under their floorboards six kilograms of high-grade Colombian cocaine?”

  Curt smiled, enjoying his boss’ favorite methods of delivering news. And work. “One would,” he replied.

  “Still, money is money, and wherever he gets it from, it will end up right here,” he said, tapping the table. “All you have to do is make sure his family, or friends, or whoever, sufficiently understands the gravity of the situation.”

  “I’m pretty good at gravity,” Curt responded, cracking his knuckles.

  “Ah, no. I fear yours is the violent road and, on this occasion, it is the road less traveled which I need you to take. Follow him. Take pictures. Make notes. Call me every few hours and tell me what he’s doing, who he’s talking to, where he’s eating. I want a file on this little rat that’s thick enough to choke him with.”

  Curt rose and waited for the usual envelope of cash, which arrived from Vincent’s inside jacket pocket. “And Curt, do me a favor. Leave the shooters with me. The last thing we want is this thing going nuclear when it’s just a simple misunderstanding.” With unconcealed reluctance, Curt unloaded his two pistols and laid them on Vincent’s table. “I appreciate that, Curt. Now, go and build that file. And keep your distance. This is a fish to be reeled in slowly.”

  ***

  Outside Pearsall, TX

  Sunday morning

  They had been bound, gagged and shot in the head, just like the others.

  The coroner was taking photos and notes as Grayson Alexander arrived in his unmarked car, coffee in hand, and made his way under the yellow police tape. Not that any prying eyes had shown up. This spot, ‘just outside of the middle of nowhere’, as his Captain had put it, was as innocuous as they came, the service roads of a tiny airport used almost exclusively for flying in agricultural supplies for the huge, circular fields to the east. It was, therefore, the ideal place to carry out a pair of executions and dump the bodies.

  “Thirty-six hours at the most,” the coroner said. “We’ve got sufficient residual spatter to indicate they were shot right here.” One of the first facts to be established was whether the killers had done the deed elsewhere and transported the bodies here for dumping, or whether this had been where these two men had met their end. Not that it made very much difference to the victims.

  “Can anyone say, ‘gangland style execution’?” Grayson asked rhetorically. “Who are we dealing with, Bob?” His photographic survey finished, the coroner helped Grayson turn the two men over.

  “One male Latino, maybe thirty-five years old, two hundred pounds, heavily tattooed. I’d say an ex-convict, judging by the quality of these ones here,” he said, pointing out two clumsy, thick-lined tattoos made with ersatz prison materials. “The other guy is younger, not older than twenty-three, I’d say. White, good teeth, no marks inside his elbows,” the coroner added, establishing that the deceased had not been a habitual heroin user. “Not exactly peas in a pod, are they?”

  Grayson took notes, partly in writing and partly in a dictaphone, called two colleagues at the crime lab and then took his usual slow walk around the area. It was flat, nondescript farmland of the kind found all over Texas. The airfield was silent, with one very obviously broken aircraft sitting forlornly at the end of the runway. There were seed storage buildings across the highway, and a couple of temporary huts housing offices for a produce market, probably the only people who had noticed the area was now cordoned off. For all he could tell, it was a random, quiet spot for a bit of late-night murder before heading into San Antonio for a beer.

  “You ready to move these two?” he asked. The coroner nodded and his small team began the process of transferring the unfortunate pair to their truck for the journey to the morgue. Grayson sat in his car and continued his notes. He had resisted the urgings of younger colleagues and insisted on hand-writing everything, rather than ‘outsourcing his brain’, as he had called it, to an IPad or something similar. He was the same about his coffee; black, unvarnished, no damned pumpkin or cinnamon. Some things in this crazy world, he had concluded, needed to stay the same. His gleaming Harley, awaiting the weekend patiently in his garage was, to Gray, a powerful symbol of that belief.

  He considered the two dead men, now being loaded into the coroner’s van. It was always the same pair of questions: how did you come to be here, and how did you come to be dead? Somebody obviously felt that it was worth risking the death penalty in order to entirely remove these two human beings from the population. Ergo, they must have done something so irritating, or unwelcome, or costly, that such a risk became reasonable. What could that have been?

  Neither had been, as far as Gray knew, an informant. Neither were known to be on the west Texas distribution scene, although the dramatis personae of local dealers and pushers was in constant flux. Still, that remained the most likely reason: a territorial dispute which had escalated. Gray could readily imagine the sequence of events, beginning with initial warnings, moving on to direct threats, and then a sudden smashing down of their door, the disorienting bag over the head, the terrifying claustrophobia of the trunk of a car. Then the brief, one-sided conversation with whoever had ordered their execution, a calm explanation of the rules of the business and the inevitability of moments such as these. Perhaps they were even told that it wasn’t personal.

  Gray had just finished his notes when his phone rang.

  “Gray, it’s Zack Norcross. You got a minute?”

  ***

  Sutherland, TX

  Drawn curtains on such a sunny morning was a strange way to greet the day, Gray felt as he pulled up outside Zack’s house. Sutherland was almost entirely deserted; those who weren’t asleep were at church or tending their garden. He knocked on the door, making sure his badge and gun were hidden away, at least until
he know more about what Zack needed from him.

  “Hey, buddy, thanks for coming over so quick.” Gray hugged his former SEAL comrade with the back-slaps of men too long kept apart by busy schedules. “We got something here I know you’ll be able to help with.”

  Gray took a seat on the couch and gratefully received a glass of cold water before being introduced to Eva. “Miss Evaline Montgomery, I want you to meet Grayson Alexander, formerly Chief Petty Officer and member of a certain world-class SEAL team. We’ve done things together that his momma should never know about.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Alexander,” Eva said shyly, angling her face so that he might not see her bruises.

  “And you, Miss. Montgomery. I’ll do you a deal,” he said. “You call me Gray, and I’ll call you Eva, and how’s about you show me what happened to your face there?”

  Gray began taking notes, an act as habituated as any in his life. He was an excellent listener, and transcribed the conversation in a quick short-hand, better and faster than most professional stenographers. Zack made sure Eva left nothing out.

  “And where do you think he is now?” Gray asked. “Could he be staying somewhere local?”

  “I’m not sure,” she confessed. “He had his car, so I guess he drove all the way down from Chicago. But I don’t want you to arrest him, not for this or anything.”

  Gray closed his notebook. “It’s entirely your choice whether to press assault charges, Eva. That would be a matter for the local police anyway.”

  Zack interjected. “I think Eva just wants to keep this small, to draw as little attention as possible. You know?”

  “I get it,” Gray replied, nodding. “Stirring things up might bring bad people to your little town, here.” Eva and Zack were both relieved that Gray quickly caught on, despite the complexity of the situation. “Now, tell me about this car.” Eva gave him the license plate number, as best she remembered it. “Thanks. Unless he’s sleeping in it, he’ll have stayed in a hotel last night. That’s where we start. Now, you said he felt he was in danger?”

  “He was convinced he would be hurt . . . or killed, maybe, if he didn’t do what they wanted.” Eva was still shaken by events, and her face throbbed annoyingly, but she took regular, deep breaths as Zack had advised. Having him there made everything easier.

  “Who do you think these people might be?” Gray asked, resuming his note-taking.

  She shrugged. “Drug people in Chicago, that’s all I know. He worked for them for a while.”

  That’s not work, thought Zack to himself, biting down his anger. Work is where you contribute, you try to change things for the better. He’s an insult to those who plug away at the nine to five. Look at Gray, here at half an hour’s notice on a Sunday morning. That’s work. He had decided, before Gray arrived, to keep his thoughts to himself. But a grinding, whirring, uncontrollable need had already begun, deep in his gut; he needed to hurt someone for doing this.

  Eva poured out everything she could think of, every last detail, while Grayson nearly filled a notebook. After two hours, he asked if he could have a quick word with Zack outside. “Thanks so much, Eva. I’ll do everything I can. Meanwhile, I want you to rest up,” he handed her a card, “and call me if you think of anything else, or if Hank gets in touch. It would be better for everyone,” he said with a glance at Zack, “if Hank came to speak with me, off the record. I think a lot could be achieved that way.”

  He bid Eva a polite farewell, then followed Zack and sat on a small bench by the front door. “What do you think, Zack?”

  He blew out his cheeks. “Man, I figured it was just some crazy ex or something. I couldn’t believe it when she said it was her brother. I mean, what kind of . . .”

  “Put it aside, Zack,” Gray said firmly. “Our job now is to keep her safe, find this asshole brother of hers, keep him safe too, and get to the bottom of who’s dealing out the threats. And that’s all, OK?”

  They quickly caught up on recent events in each other’s lives; Gray had been promoted within his department in San Antonio and was rapidly becoming one of the most respected DEA men in south Texas. He had been in a shootout three months before, a short but nasty exchange with three drug-runners who had decided not to go quietly. He had gotten two, his partner the other. Medals were pinned to his chest, but he found it hard to take pleasure in having ended lives.

  “They needed ending,” Zack reminded him. “There are people alive and healthy today because of what you did. Focus on that, not the other side.” It was sage advice, Gray knew, from someone who had faced the same issues, but much more frequently and on a far larger scale.

  “Good to see you fit and well, Zack. Stay in touch, OK?”

  ***

  Eva made breakfast in that halting, uncertain way of someone in an unfamiliar kitchen. “Where’s the salt?” she asked.

  Zack reached up to the spice shelf, his shirt raising up to reveal his incredible abs, and as he passed the cylindrical container to Eva, he noticed that her gaze was not exactly on her work. “Here you go,” he said helpfully, sliding past her in the cramped space to grab plates and coffee mugs from the cupboards.

  “Erm, could I go back to Trish and Tyler’s for a little bit today? I kinda need some things.”

  Zack shook his head. “I don’t want you out of my sight.”

  “You could come with me,” she said, turning to him. “I mean, it’s just some clothes I need.”

  Zack was far from convinced, she could see from his scowl. “You can borrow some of mine.”

  “Sure,” she chuckled. “What bra size do you take?”

  “Huh?” he grunted, caught off guard.

  “I bet you’ve got some really comfortable panties in your wardrobe, too.”

  “Panties?”

  She cracked up laughing, his perplexed scowl only making her laugh more. “Underwear, Mr. Norcross. I’m going to need some.” Especially if you keep showing me those perfect abs.

  The two of them finished assembling breakfast, getting in each other’s way a few times. Eva didn’t mind one bit as he squeezed through, his chest to her back, his hips quickly sliding past in brushed, tantalizing contact with her butt. Too many layers of clothes, her confused, horny, distractible mind insisted; his boxers, his jeans, my borrowed gym shorts (draw-string maximally tightened) and my panties . . . just too many. Sore face or not, worried mind or not, her body knew only how to react to the incredible stimulation of having him close.

  As they ate, Zack couldn’t but notice her occasionally wince as she lifted her fork to her mouth. “You OK?”

  Eva stretched slightly to her left but stopped almost at once. “I don’t know if it’s a bruise or a pulled muscle. I guess I landed on it after he hit me.”

  Zack silently fumed in yet another expression of his unbridled anger, but then gently asked her to show him. Lifting her borrowed t-shirt, Eva showed him her right side, where a large, unpleasantly dark bruise had appeared just under the line of her bra.

  “Yeah, you dinged yourself up there. Do you mind if I take a look? You might have cracked a rib, for all we know.” He quickly cleared up the breakfast plates and joined Eva on the sofa.

  “Let me move this out of the way,” she said, sliding the t-shirt up over one shoulder so that Zack could examine her right side. She winced once more, her pained expression distracting Zack from the lovely sight of her right breast, held firmly in an attractive, lacey white bra. She turned to show him the bruise. “It hurts when I turn, but I haven’t dared to press it with my fingers yet.”

  “OK, this might hurt, but I need to check, OK?” He warmed his fingers with his breath, and then very gently pressed from the front of her ribs to the back, feeling for cracks and looking up at her to check for moments of sudden pain. As his fingers approached the bruised area, she wriggled and winced again. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s OK. Can you feel anything?”

  “Just your ribs, nothing broken I don’t think. The bruise goes
all the way under your arm, though. Can I continue?” His fingers moved higher, touching the fabric of her bra. “Do you think you could fold this back a little?”

  “Ummm, sure,” she said, and then a moment later, “Actually would you mind un-hooking me? It hurts to bend my arm that way.” She leaned forward and felt his fingers on her back, then a quick release of pressure as her bra came undone. “I don’t want to make you blush,” she said gently. “And thanks for warming your hands.”

  Zack gently prodded the skin above and around the darkest part of the bruise. It was an angry color, dark purple and black, and around it were areas of yellow; all were painful, and he regretted every moment of discomfort he caused. Eva let her bra fall forward, slipping down the strap from her shoulder, over her elbow, holding the other half in place so that only her right breast was exposed. She glanced down and confirmed what her body had told her: her nipples were incredibly hard, like little strawberry candies. She prayed that he wouldn’t notice. And that he would.

  Zack’s fingers followed the long bones of her ribs as they curved round under her arm. With soft, progressive circles of his fingertips, he traced the bones until the upper parts of his fingers contacted the wonderful, warm smoothness of Eva’s breast. “Feels fine to me,” he said, letting the double entendre hang in the air.

  “Me too,” Eva said shyly, surprised that she was able to speak. “Those parts aren’t as painful,” she felt it right to say, despite her body simply agonizing for him to go on, to touch the begging, straining nipple which felt as if it might explode with excitement. Kiss it, her body told him. Put your mouth on it. His fingers went lower, checking the endings of her rib bones, and then back across, under her arm.

  “I’m not a doctor,” he said, “but I don’t believe you’ve broken anything. You’d not have been able to stand contact like that.”