Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  The fence posts were two-by-two brick columns, topped with flickering gas lanterns, the black iron running between each adorned with decorative finials, all of it very overdone and English-chic. The solar panel, though – the one that powered the gates and, according to Candy, an electric wire that ran along the top rail – was cheap, the sort of thing anyone could pick up at a local feed store. It was the work of a minute to disconnect it, and Fox watched the little red light fade and wink out before he fired off a text to Ten. Done.

  He moved to the gates. They operated off a keypad – whose power source he’d just killed – and so they weren’t locked together at the center with any sort of chain. Convenient for a rich man who didn’t want to climb out of his car and unlock his gates by hand – but far less safe in this situation. Fox disabled the hydraulic mechanism that opened and closed them with his knife, and pushed them inward. They glided, without so much as a squeak, but as he’d expected, the movement finally caught the guard’s attention.

  “Hey!” a voice called. A flashlight clicked on, its beam sweeping along the ground toward them.

  Fox took off at a run, quick and silent, straight for the man. By the time the beam lifted, and hit him full in the face, Fox already knew enough to go in blind, eyes clenching shut against the onslaught, muscles gathering for the spring.

  Eden’s distraction – a sharp “put your hands up” off to his right – sounded, just as planned, and the light swung that way. A quick, instinctual mistake – but a deadly one. They’d weighed the odds out on the ridge: if the guard had radioed first, and acted second, this could have been a very different scene. But he’d acted alone, and so Fox leaped, and twisted, body torqueing, and caught the man in the temple with a kick hard enough to send him crumpling boneless on first contact. He hit the asphalt with a sound like a sack dropping.

  Fox landed, lightly, and turned to the man, fishing a roll of tape from his coat pocket.

  Eden appeared on the other side of the fallen guard, gun held at the ready, head swiveling. “That was alarmingly easy,” she murmured.

  Fox slapped a bit of tape over the man’s mouth, and then set to work binding his hands. “Famous last words, darling.”

  ~*~

  “It’s done,” Ten said, slipping his phone in his pocket.

  Reese didn’t wait. He took three long strides back, got a running start, and leaped. His gloved hands caught the top rail of the fence: hard, square-edged iron, strong but narrow; it bit into his palms even through the gloves. He bared his teeth, tightened all the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and chest, and hauled himself up, up, up, until he could reach with one leg and hook the toe of his boot. He balanced there, poised over the finials, gathering himself. Then brought the other leg over in a smooth arc and flew.

  He landed in a crouch, one hand flat to the ground to steady himself, the impact jarring through his knees, his shoulders, his tightly clenched teeth.

  Tenny landed a half-second after. Wordlessly, they stood, and set off through the garden, low and fast, sticking to hedges. Ducking behind a gazebo and following its shadow round to the base of the house, and a curtained first-floor window.

  Candy had said he thought this room – marked by a whole wall of windows, white drapes drawn across them all – was a study. He’d been out here, once, when Doctor Gilliard first built the place, when he’d asked for a security consultation. He hadn’t ended up hiring the Dogs – too expensive, he’d said – but the visit had given Candy invaluable intel. For instance, he knew that there were alarms set at each window, contact points that, when separated, would set off a high shriek, and dial 911 automatically. Reese could see it on this window, the little white rectangle at the cross-piece of the frame.

  He reached into the half-zipped backpack Tenny wore and pulled out the drill, already fitted with a carbide bit. It was louder than Reese would have liked, as the drill fired, and the blade cut them out a perfect hole, but nothing stirred beyond the curtains; the room stayed dark. Ten reached through and disabled the alarm, and then flicked the window latch. It lifted easily, soundlessly, and they stepped down onto plush carpet, ducking around the curtain to find that Candy had been right: this room was a study. A desk occupied the center, facing the windows; during the day, with the curtains opened, the room would have been flooded with light, the view of the gardens spectacular. Now, the filmy drapes let in just enough moonlight to reveal walls lined with bookshelves, and a treadmill in one corner.

  Ten took the lead, because he’d insisted as much earlier; Reese had conceded, not because, as Ten kept saying, he was in any way lesser, but because he thought Tenny might throw a fit otherwise.

  A door led out into a dark hallway lined with paintings and photos. Light awaited them at the end of it, starkly bright. Reese heard voices talking rapidly in Spanish, and his pulse accelerated the tiniest fraction. He swore his vision sharpened, in moments like these. He could see the wood grain in the dark floorboards underneath; make out the freckles across the nose of the girl in the painting he passed.

  He heard music, too. Several people laughed – male voices, all of them. They were watching TV, he realized, arguing in a friendly way, music and dialogue playing in the background.

  When they reached the mouth of the hall, Tenny paused, and glanced back over his shoulder. Reese read the look as a warning, Ten telling him not to mess things up.

  He really was hateable.

  He faced forward again, plastered his back to the wall, and glided out into the open on the balls of his feet.

  Reese followed.

  Candy had described this room, too, but it was more impressive in person.

  A living room with clay tile floors laid with rugs, a wall of glass that overlooked the pool – glowing turquoise with underwater lights. Another wall dominated by the largest TV Reese had ever seen, white couches and tan leather chairs situated in front of it. The high, timbered ceilings echoed sound strangely, and he saw the dark wood balustrades of a second-floor gallery above. The kitchen was off to the left, gleaming white and chrome. One man was there, his back to them, rooting around in the refrigerator. Three more lounged on the couches and chairs in front of the TV; two had women perched on their laps, girls who stroked the men on the shoulders and chests, but who held themselves stiffly: nothing like the languid, smiling posture of the girls in Knoxville, girls like Chanel, who played with Boomer’s ears until his face turned red.

  These girls weren’t willing, he realized. They didn’t want to be here. And whether or not he understood all the intricacies and rituals of sex, he knew that wanting to be on someone’s lap was a very important part of the whole proceeding.

  At a glance, it didn’t appear that anything of import was being kept here in this room with its soaring ceilings and open vistas. Save the girls, Reese thought. They weren’t paralyzed, like the Holy Father’s victims, but they were prisoners, he had no doubt. But there was nothing here to photograph: no bricks of cocaine, no bound trafficking victims. They had to keep searching, and that meant getting to the staircase, which was in plain view of everything.

  They’d have to subdue the men here. Quietly, Fox had stressed. He could do anything quietly. It was the subdue part of it he didn’t like.

  Ten caught his gaze and gestured toward the kitchen.

  Reese nodded and slid that way; his boots were well-oiled, his steps precise and slow, and he made no sound as he glided into the kitchen, right up behind the man still looking through the fridge.

  He was short, and heavyset, his bare arms covered with tattoos: Reese got a glimpse of one in detail, a topless woman with hands folded and face lifted in prayer, the hilt of a knife protruding from between her breasts. A gold chain winked at the back of his neck, and more gold glimmered on his fingers, heavy rings set with gemstones, dulled by the blue light inside the refrigerator.

  It would have been so easy to kill him. To put an arm around his throat and slide a knife into the other side. Messy, but silent, with Reese’s
gloved hand clamped over his mouth.

  He had his orders, though. Instead of a knife, he pulled a syringe, and it was only after he felt the bite of the needle that the man reacted. He slapped at the side of his neck, but it was too late, he was already going limp. Reese caught him, and laid him back across the tiles. The fridge door slapped shut above him.

  Someone called out. “Hector?”

  Reese stayed low, wondering. If anyone walked over to check, it would be a hand-to-hand situation, and their cover would be blown.

  “Hector?” the man called again, but there were no approaching footfalls.

  Reese pulled a zip tie and secured the man’s hands; tied a bit of rag around his mouth to act as a gag. Tape would have been better, but tape would have made too much noise.

  Noise that wouldn’t have mattered, because a moment later, he heard a shout, a curse, a scream, and the unmistakable sound of someone getting kicked in the face.

  Reese stood and turned in time to see Tenny landing on the other side of the couch, body tight with coiled energy. The man he’d kicked lay slumped over on the sofa, unconscious, nose gushing blood onto the white leather of the couch. The two women had thrown themselves to the floor – the source of the screaming – and cowered with their hands clapped over their heads.

  One of the other men had a gun drawn, aimed at Tenny. Tenny disarmed him with a lightning fast strike; the man shouted when the blow hit his wrist, his hand spasmed, and the gun dropped to the carpet. Tenny moved too fast for normal comprehension, gliding in close before the man could recover. Reese saw the light glint off the brass knuckles he wore before the punch connected with the gunman’s temple. He went down like a sack of hammers.

  The third man had a gun, too, though, and he was a good five strides away from Tenny.

  Reese took off at a run.

  The crack of the shot echoed in the vast space.

  Tenny shuddered, and fell back a step, as the round caught him in the chest – in the Kevlar vest he wore beneath his hoodie. It would bruise, and it would hurt, later, but the gun was a nine-millimeter, and it hadn’t penetrated.

  The second shot never sounded, because Reese reached the man, and clubbed him over the back of the head with his own gun.

  “You could have just killed him,” Tenny said, watching him drop, massaging his chest where he’d been hit. “The whole house will have heard that.”

  He heard door slamming, shouting, and the pounding of feet up on the balcony.

  Reese shot Ten a fast glare, before they were set upon. “You weren’t supposed to engage anyone unless absolutely necessary.”

  He shrugged – and then winced. “I got bored.”

  ~*~

  The garage was empty – of people. But full of wooden shipping crates, neatly stacked on pallets, bound with plastic tarps, all ready for transport. By the time Fox had cleared the space – and it was massive, with room for four cars and a whole wall of cabinets and storage space – Eden had pulled back a tarp and was examining the lid of one crate in her flashlight’s beam, frowning to herself.

  Fox plucked a crowbar off the wall and joined her. “Here. Let me.”

  “Ooh, how chivalrous.”

  He grinned. “Can it, you.”

  She chuckled.

  Holy shit, they were having fun.

  Fox knew the urge to laugh – that scarce tickling in his chest that never accompanied the sort of laughter he used for effect around the clubhouse. A giddiness.

  Right here, right now, the shadow of Devin Green was very small and far away, and he was being useful, employing all the skills that were his own – his, and no one else’s, because he’d earned them, learned them, perfected them. He was the him who Eden had fallen for years ago, and then again only months ago, and he didn’t feel even a little restless, not at all.

  The wood was new, and so were the nails that had been used to secure the lids; it was only the work of a moment, and pressure in the right place, to pry them out with the crowbar. The lid came off with a few quiet shrieks of clean metal, and then Eden pawed away the packing straw and let out a low whistle. Cocaine, bricks and bricks of it.

  “They’re not even trying to dress it up like something else,” Eden whispered.

  “They’re cocky,” Fox said. “They…no, they’re confident. You’d have to be the stupidest criminal alive to be this cocky. They know it won’t be a problem.” He frowned, considering, and pulled out one of the topmost bricks. The question is, why?”

  “Nothing about this whole case makes any sense,” Eden groused. She pulled out her phone and started snapping pics.

  Fox opened the brick with one of his knives, and rubbed a bit on his gums. In the past, the Chupacabra product being moved through Texas had been cut with everything from baking powder to confectioner’s sugar, but this was the good shit. He used his knife to scrape some into a baggie he’d brought for the purpose, and then replaced it, the straw, the lid, and tarp.

  The flash on Eden’s phone continued to go off as she moved through the garage, snapping photo after photo.

  “So,” Fox said, stepping back from the crates, surveying the rest of the spotless floor. It didn’t look like a car had ever been parked here, though that might have been owed to the epoxy and sealant. He’d never understand the trouble rich people went to in order to beautify even the most necessary and unbeautiful of spaces. “The cartel trucks the coke up from Mexico, stores it here, and then hires out private trucking companies to take it deeper into the country.”

  “According to what we’ve found so far.”

  “Gilliard’s in on it,” Fox said, and knew it in his gut.

  “Or his place is just convenient.”

  “No, no, that’s not it. Why not buy up a plot of empty land and build a warehouse? This place, lit up like a Christmas tree, is conspicuous as hell. A well-known local doctor’s estate? There’s a reason for that.”

  She sent him a questioning look.

  “I’m still figuring that part out.”

  She pocketed her phone. “All of it stinks,” she said. “This isn’t shaking out like any drug case I’ve ever worked. We’re missing something.”

  “Obviously.”

  From inside the house, he heard the crack of a gunshot.

  ~*~

  Reese ducked down behind the sofa as gunshots zipped overhead. He heard rounds strike the marble on the fireplace. One of the huge windows shattered, the glass tinkling musically as it rained down on the floor. This was why he hated Tenny. This going off book, reckless, stupid behavior.

  “Are you bored now?” he snarled, surprised by the venom in his tone.

  Tenny was surprised, too, if his lifted brows were anything to go by. “No,” he said, simply. “Stay here if you’re afraid.” And he stood, gun in hand, and vaulted back over the couch, returning fire.

  I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

  Reese didn’t work like this, normally. He was the one who got the drop on people, who had the upper hand, not the other way around. Tenny was being flashy – why? To show off? To prove something to Reese? Or was it really a matter of boredom?

  It didn’t matter. Right now, Tenny was providing a target for their assailants, and he meant to take advantage of it.

  He tucked and rolled out from behind the couch, toward the kitchen, away from the broken glass. Got his feet under him, and took up a position behind an end table carved from heavy marble. The lamp that had been on it lay in shards on the floor, and its cleared top gave him a good view of the gallery above. Three men at the rail, two barreling down the stairs, on a collision course with Ten.

  He considered, in the span between breaths. That’s what an effective killer did – thank you very much, Tenny – considered, in moments like these, who to kill first. Two quick shots would take out the men rushing at Tenny, and buy him some time, since he was flying in like he meant to go hand-to-hand rather than shooting them like he ought to.

  But that would draw the attention o
f the men on the gallery, shooting now with wild inaccuracy and gouging big chunks in the floors. Them, he decided; he’d go for them, and let Tenny deal with the mess he’d thrown himself into.

  One breath. Analysis, and on the next inhale, he aimed, fired, and dropped the first of the gallery thugs.

  Clean center-of-mass shot. He wouldn’t be getting back up.

  One of his companions let out a startled sound and glanced toward the dropped body, then swung his head around, searching for the source of the shot. The movement threw off Reese’s aim, and his shot caught the man in the throat. A messy gout of arterial spray fanned up the wall as the man fell back against it and slipped down out of sight.

  He had to duck, then, as return fire chipped the top of the marble table. He wished he had his rifle; he always preferred to be in possession of the stronger gun in tight situations.

  He heard the muffled thumps of impact, a pained grunt that definitely wasn’t Tenny. Heard a gun go skidding across the floor. The show-off.

  He popped up, and took aim at the third man on the gallery, who’d turned his attention, mistakenly, to the fight happening at the base of the stairs. Reese took him with a clean torso shot, already glancing away before he’d fallen.

  One of Ten’s assailants was down and either dead or unconscious. Ten grappled with the other one, to Reese’s surprise.

  This was a big man, heavily-muscled, athletic, and aggressive, and not the sort of gang hanger-on just looking to drink and fuck and spend the boss’s money. This was a bodyguard of some sort; someone with some proficiency – and was taller and heavier than Ten besides.