by Nancy Brophy
“Leave tonight. No fuckups. No failures. I hope I’m making myself clear. There will be consequences if you can’t pull this off.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Armadillo Creek
The powerful Harley pulsed beneath Cain as he opened it up on the deserted Texas back road. The speed and the wind mixed on his cheeks to create a freedom he'd not experienced in years.
Rolling into the small lakeside town was a letdown compared to the feeling of flying down the highway. But the need to connect with his little thief again pushed him like nothing else had.
Sophia had been in his control. He’d reveled in the power of life and death. Granted, he’d made a few mistakes like letting her die too quickly, but those could be corrected.
With Peata everything would be corrected. At first she’d be afraid, but she’d learn to trust him. To please him. To love him.
Maybe they’d even play another game of hide and seek, but this time no one would interrupt them. This time she’d be grateful when she was caught. This time would be perfect.
He circled the nine blocks that made up downtown Armadillo Creek twice before pulling into the alley and finding a secluded nook to stash his bike.
Eli and the pilots, Peter and Paul, had protested his leaving, but Cain wasn’t needed for the preparation. He’d done his part arranging for the hotel for the group session. Now the only requirement on his time was to interview the girls tomorrow and leave the following morning. Unless there was a major screw up, no one would dare call Adam to complain. Eli was capable of selecting the girls for the hotel.
After all, what was a few phone calls?
Dismissing Eli and the pilots with a casual wave of his hand, his thoughts turned to Armadillo Creek as excitement filled his steps.
“Peata. I’m coming for you. Are you ready, little thief?” he murmured as he removed the black jumpsuit and helmet. The ride from Fort Worth without a break took its toll. His legs and back cramped. His bladder pressured him to find relief while his stomach complained of hunger.
He replaced his boots with flip-flops and unbuttoned the printed floral shirt letting his bare chest show. Like the rest of him, his body had been sculpted by plastic surgery and heavy workouts.
He sauntered to the street then headed toward the diner he’d spotted earlier. The cold blast of stale air hit him as soon as he walked through the door, making him long for the warmth of the street.
Several diners glanced his way, but quickly dismissed him and returned their attention to their own tables. Yep, he had the tourist-look down cold.
“Sit wherever you want, hon,” a waitress said as she passed him with a tray of food. The trailing scent of hamburgers and fries teased his nostrils. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d skipped breakfast. He headed to the washroom, before choosing a window booth in the far corner.
He’d barely plopped his butt onto the bench when another waitress appeared with a menu and water. “New in town?” She gave him an appreciative once-over.
“Just passing through.”
“Lyndsay’ll be over to take your order in a jiff. If you need anything holler out.”
When a mousy brown-haired waif shuffled over to his table, he smiled, only to have her gawk, gap-toothed at him in response. He waited, never taking his eyes from hers, until a slow blush climbed down her neck and cheeks and must have stopped somewhere south of her cleavage.
“Do you know what you want?” she asked her voice barely above a whisper.
Yes, he did. Instead of answering, he did a slow perusal from head to her toes and back again. “Tell me what’s good?”
He concentrated so hard on watching the flow of emotions flit across her face that her stammered words blurred into a meaningless drone.
“That sounds fine.” Another slow look of appreciation curled his lips as he handed her the menu. She fled, but she’d be back. Women like her always were.
From his vantage point, he scanned the room. He hadn’t given any thought as to how to find his little thief. This one-horse town couldn’t be that big. The lunch crowd filtered in. Definitely locals. Judging by the patron’s work clothes and the familiar manner in which they greeted each other, the diner was not a tourist destination.
Four dark-haired men entered and took a table near the front. The waitresses obviously knew them and buzzed around like bees to flowers. The men bore a family resemblance hard to disguise even on a playground in the dark of night. Things were looking up.
Would they remember him? The boys laughed and joked while ignoring the other tables, too busy flirting with waitresses. Cain uncurled his fist and pressed his back against the hard plastic cushion.
“Who are those guys?” he asked when Lyndsay placed his plate in front of him. Liver and onions, mashed potatoes in a brown swamp of gravy? He really hadn’t been paying attention.
“Gypsies,” she murmured under her breath. Her tone made him look up. Did she hate one in particular or gypsies in general?
“Really? Are there are a lot gypsies in this area?”
She nodded prepared to leave, but he grabbed her wrist. “Do they live around here? Have they bothered you?” His thumb stroked her wrist. Her pulse spiked as he dragged her arm to his lips to kiss. He felt the blood hammering in her veins.
“Bothered me? Not really. They all live in a compound off Farm Road 82 at the south edge of the lake.” He waited, holding a question in his eyes, as he continued to stroke her wrist.
Finally, she whispered, “I get off at three.”
“Good.” He jotted the dummy cell phone number on the napkin. “Call me.”
Out of habit he watched as she walked off, now with a spring in her step. He no longer had time to waste. The tasteless food was shoveled into his mouth as he concentrated on his plan.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Washington DC
For a man who was wheels-up on a regular basis, John seldom rode in the FBPA’s private jet. It was rare for the entire team to be called to one specific location.
The break on this case had finally come, but with a price. The Fort Worth branch of the FBI had spotted the Internet ad. Not an exact duplicate of Biloxi, but with enough similarities it couldn’t be overlooked. Quick-thinking local agents called DC. Despite the fact it was past midnight on the East Coast when the call came in, the entire team was in the air two hours later.
At a workstation in the rear of the plane John googled the distance between Fort Worth and Armadillo Creek, tapping his fingers as he waited for the answer.
One hundred and twenty-eight miles. Barely over two hours drive time. Close enough Cezi would be in danger.
Stillwater dialed every number associated with Shallowtail Hollow. No one answered. Frustrated he texted Cezi’s phone for the fourth time. No response.
Some of the team slept, but not all. D’Sean’s deep brown eyes met his when he looked up.
“Have you reached her yet?”
No point trying to deny his concern. His partner understood. “No.”
“Keep trying.”
“If I don’t get an answer soon I’m going to call the Sheriff’s office and insist they go check on her.”
D’Sean brows shot upward and he grit his teeth, but didn’t comment.
“What? I know you’re dying to say something.”
D’Sean leaned across the seat and spoke in a low voice. “How much help do you expect them to be? If she was found stabbed in the back seventeen times, they’d tell you she committed suicide. You’re better off not getting them involved.”
Dammit. D’Sean was right, but what other options did he have?
# # #
Swallowtail Hollow
“NO!!!!!”
Cezi read her father’s scribbled note by the dim light of the computer monitor. Had silence not been required, she would have asked if five exclamation points were really necessary.
The sun had set hours before, but blankets covered the windows of her cabin so no ligh
t gave away their location.
She tried a wounded-puppy-dog look, hoping he’d relent. The trouble with family was all your good moves had already been practiced on them. And her father wasn’t buying the sad eyes and quivering lips.
Was it too much to ask she be included when they surrounded the man who’d been staking out the compound for the past two hours?
Apparently it was.
Nicholae checked his watch for the third time in two minutes before leaning over and kissing her on the forehead. Cezi scowled, but her father only grinned and tweaked her nose like she was five years old.
More than anything she didn’t want to laugh. It was difficult to maintain her anger with him, particularly when her immediate response was to snicker. She followed him to the door. Her father, dressed from skullcap to boot in black, slipped into the shadows and headed toward the front gate.
The night sky was a moonless mass of stars. But in the compound, not a single light burned. And yet she knew. In every house, at least one male sneaked out to join her father while the women and children huddled at home. It wasn’t fair, but she suspected she was the only female who felt that way.
For the past two hours, they’d monitored the gate cameras and the man who sat across the road poorly concealed by shrubs and grubby mesquite trees. Luca with sons, Rolf, Andrej, and Tomas had set out an hour earlier, crossing over the southwest pasture, navigating the creek bed and now hemming in the intruder, blocking his escape.
Cezi studied his face on the computer screen. Like the men in her family, the stalker wore all black with a baseball cap pulled low, covering his hair. Unlike them, he scanned the compound with a hand-held listening device. Lights and cell phones were shut off. Each house remained on high alert.
The cameras she’d installed only two weeks ago operated on motion detection. The blank computer screen ridiculed her. It was her setup, her plan, and yet, she was the one forced to stay behind. The girl.
If she didn’t leave the compound, but only went as far as the gate, she wouldn’t be disobeying her father, particularly, if no one saw her. She’d learned how to creep along, walking without sound, avoiding being seen.
Silently, she donned her gloves and ski cap. Her father and uncle prevented her from owning a gun, but one could purchase almost anything online. She slipped the taser deep into the pocket of her lightweight black jacket and quietly cracked the front door far enough to slide into the cloudless espresso of darkness.
A river of sweat dripped off her hair and face, soaking the ski cap. Once she reached the mesquite trees, she pulled the cap and gloves off to let her skin breath. The bushes rustled; she froze. Several long minutes passed, before she dared to make another step forward, then waited again. Five minutes passed, then ten. She bit her inner cheek to keep her impatience tamped down.
The nasty buzzing of mosquitoes reminded her there were worse things in the woods. The last thing she wanted to do was step on a snake.
Before she’d cleared the trees, gunshots and shouts filled the air. Her stomach lurched and then sank. Everything was happening before she got there. She was going to miss it.
Darting out of the cover of the trees, she crossed the park, sprinting toward the entrance. A fierce roar echoed as a mighty engine fired up. It may not have been the same motorcycle she’d heard when she hid on the playground, but it sounded familiar. The noise faded into the distance as the security gate came into sight.
The voices were drowned out by the sound of the gate cranking open to let a host of men to enter. Instead of walking her direction, they headed toward the golf carts. She strained, not wanting to venture closer, but too curious to stay back. A man was being carried. Someone was hurt, maybe dead.
What had been an adventure had taken an ugly turn for the worse. Cezi froze. The truth hit her. The hunter had come for her. For the past two hours she’d watched the monitor denying the possibility. Who else would be watching?
Someone, a friend maybe a relative, had died because of her. Died.
Shadowy figures drifted toward their homes. Cezi had to know.
“Who was hurt?” she called to a passing shadow.
“Rolf,” a familiar voice answered. “What are you doing here? Go home.”
Cezi didn’t move. Rolf. What if he was dead? She dropped to her knees and clutched her churning stomach. Why Rolf? It should have been her. Her eyes stung. She quickly wiped her eyes. No tears. Tears would sear his heart and damage his ability to heal.
She could not give in to self-pity, Rolf needed her strong. She heard a motor. The golf cart with his prone body was headed toward the dining hall. Someone would have run ahead to summon Vadoma, the healer. For several long minutes, she knelt suspended between her need to be with Rolf and the equal strong desire to flee to the safety of her cabin.
She didn’t want to see their faces when her family heard who was responsible. But this was putting off the inevitable. Resolutely, she marched toward the hall, knowing regardless of the outcome, she’d never escape being the scapegoat now.
No one would say anything. No one ever did, but her name already dented from previous incidents would be tarnished forever.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fort Worth
Dawn crept over the horizon as Cain braked the bike, slumping over the bars to apply sufficient pressure. The strength required to hold himself upright during the long ride abandoned him, and he crumpled to the ground, pulling the bike down on him. His upper arm burned from the pressure of the self-applied tourniquet that had slowed the bleeding.
A hospital was out of the question. Police investigated gunshots wounds. Damn gypsies. He’d plotted his revenge on the ride back. No one would escape. He’d take out the entire bunch.
He’d already proven himself more than capable.
The mousy waitress had been another disappointment. When would he learn?
She’d forced him to gag her to muffle her cries. Naked, her body was little more than a bag of bones. So disgusting, she hadn’t even enticed him to get it up.
She’d begged him. That’s what whores did. But like all sluts she deserved to be punished. He’d taken his time. Tracing each of her six tattoos, careful to get all the detail with the point of his knife. Asking her questions.
By the time he’d finished she’d told him everything she knew about the gypsies. The girl had been a bloody mess, but alive. Whimpering like a wounded dog as he rolled her into the rug and stuffed her body into the trunk of her car. The sun had set, but finding a deserted boat ramp had been easy enough.
He’d opened the trunk one last time to remove the gag. But she had passed out and he wasn’t able to hear her final screams as the car slowly sank into lake.
Weeks would pass before they’d find her.
Now, he was exhausted. Too tired to lift the bike up and drive it up the loading ramp into the plane. Too weak and worn out to pound on the door to get someone to load it for him, he sank to the ground, fumbling for his cell phone.
For once, let Eli be a man and take over.
# # #
Armadillo Creek
As night faded into day, Cezi chugged her second thermos of coffee. Rolf lay in the dining hall surrounded by the clan, fighting for his life from a gunshot wound to the chest. Not for the first time, she wondered why her cousin couldn’t be taken to a hospital.
She understood the Nazi’s had used gypsies as well as Jews for medical experiments during WWII, but that was then and this was now. Rolf needed help. Uncle Luca sat with his arm wrapped around his wife, Jaelle as she stared straight ahead refusing to let tears form.
Cezi twisted her fingers and paced the thirty-six steps between the kitchen door and the rear entrance. She had to do something. Anything.
“Go outside,” Nadya whispered as she re-shuffled her tarot deck. “You’re in the way.”
The group of women seated at the long benches watched the interplay with undisguised interest. Cezi rolled her eyes and immediately regretted it.
Exhaling a tortured breath, she tossed her head making sure everyone knew exactly how annoyed she was and stormed out the rear exit. No doubt her father would hear about her lack of respect before the hour was out.
Nothing to do, but wait. Her body refused to follow her mind’s direction and head toward her home. Instead she found herself at the front gate.
A short time later she completed her own criminal investigation including a cast of the Harley’s tire tracks and shoe prints. Every scrap of evidence she found at the site had been photographed, labeled and bagged. Gum wrappers, a piece of torn fabric caught on bark, and spent shell casings. Her best find had been the discarded listening device caught in the tangled underbrush.
Samples of splattered blood, along with photographs and drawings of the entire scene were preserved. Pictures indicated where each piece of evidence had been found. Cameras recorded the entire event the night before. Everything had happened so fast the film was a blur of action. The only person she knew with enough computer skills to slow it down to a frame-by-frame photo flitted between life and death in the dining hall.
She refused to think the worst. Thinking negative thoughts only invited marimé. Enough problems existed. She didn’t need outside help. None of them did.
Not for the first time she wished John were here. For once she was willing to let him be in charge. If her phone hadn’t been all the way up the hill, she might have called him just to hear a friendly voice.
