Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  “My money woulda been on Benny,” Talis said. He leaned over the table and inspected the dead man, a pained grimace in place of his usual stony façade.

  Cantrell waved him back. “Don’t touch the evidence, Jesus.”

  Candy scanned the room. “Where’s Fox?”

  Eden stepped over a broken chair and joined their loose circle. “He went after Albie.”

  Shit. Albie’s girl had been taken, too.

  Candy wiped a hand down his face, eyes closing, briefly, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. All the people who looked up to and depended upon him. People who’d questioned his judgement in the last few days, but who’d called him brother and leader for far longer than that. People he couldn’t afford to let down, no matter if his heart was breaking, no matter if panic threatened to choke him.

  When he opened his eyes, he’d made a decision. “Someone has to stay here and man the phone in case Luis makes contact again. If he does, I wanna be patched through. You give him my cell number and tell him I was a word ASAP.

  “We’ll need guys on guard here. The man from the hospital: all my guys are okay?”

  Cantrell nodded. “Yeah. Two are pretty much useless, and ought to still be in bed, but they’re whole. The spooky kid and the smart-mouth convinced Maddox to bring them all here.”

  That was one small wave of relief. “Good. Reese can help here, and Gringo, too. Jackal, I want you and your boys with me. Colin, you too. We’re gonna kick every fucking anthill in this city and see what comes crawling out. We’re going to find them, and then tomorrow morning, Luis is mine.”

  Cantrell said, “The FBI–”

  “Can stay the fuck outta my way,” Candy said. “If you don’t like it, arrest my ass, but otherwise, I’ve got shit to do.”

  The agent looked like he wanted to say something, but gave a brief nod and stepped back. “Can my techs take samples here?” he asked, tightly.

  “Pull up the damn floor if you want. Whatever. Tell Jen what you need.”

  Jenny caught up with him at the door to the sanctuary, and he wanted to snarl at her for slowing him down. But when he turned to her, the softly encouraging, absolutely loving look on her face brought him up short.

  “You’ll find her in time,” she said. “I know you will. Don’t worry about us here. I’ve got it handled.”

  “I know you do.” To his great shame, his voice cracked.

  “Come here.” She stood on her toes, and put her arms around his neck. Hugged him tight. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I love you. Please be safe.”

  It didn’t matter if he was safe. Nothing mattered if he couldn’t get to Michelle in time.

  ~*~

  Albie’s arm was all pins and needles. Belatedly, he realized it was the bad one, the one he hadn’t been going to physical therapy for. He gripped the handlebars so tightly, his body coiled with so much tension, that it was igniting all the half-healed nerves there.

  He didn’t ease his grip. The pain was a good reminder of what could happen when you let your guard down.

  Which he’d now done twice.

  Only this time, he wasn’t the one to bear the consequences of overconfidence.

  Christ.

  Every time he blinked, he saw it replaying in slow motion. He’d heard the roar of the engine the second before the world had turned upside down. An awful crash, and a shove. It had been like a sudden fall, a sideswipe, a tumble of noise and pressure and the impossible. Not so different from the explosion in London, when his new little brother tried to blow him up.

  He’d hit his head hard, had blacked out, just a second – more of a fritz, really. A second of crowding black spots and muffled hearing, a dizzy swim back to the top. When he’d lifted his head, blinking against a cloud of dust, he’d seen scattered furniture and big chunks of drywall. The glowing yellow high-beams of the truck, bright and distinct as klieg lights through the haze of pulverized sheetrock.

  It came through the wall, he’d thought, wildly, and then he’d seen boots, and he’d seen bodies being lifted up into the air, two flags of long, bright hair, honey and gold.

  He’d scrambled to his feet – too slow, too dizzy, slipping on tufts of insulation – and pulled his gun, and he’d fired, right at the driver. But the girls were already inside, and the glass held, and then the truck was…

  Gone.

  He’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of it, once, at that first stop sign headed into town: a black tailgate, and mud tires. He’d been so sure, back at that garage, so very sure…

  He couldn’t feel shame about his mistake, because he was full to the brim with shame for letting Michelle and Axelle be taken.

  Little Chelle, who’d sat on his knee when she was in diapers, who he’d given knives to for Christmas, and gotten tight hugs in return.

  And Axelle, who he’d promised to keep safe, who was so tentative and skittish under the tough-girl veneer, but who’d melted when he kissed her, responsive and touch-starved.

  Michelle pregnant.

  And Axe unused to this sort of life. Both of them scared to death. Both of them precious to him, to so many. How was he going to face Candy? How was he going to face himself each night in the mirror if anything happened to either of them?

  He and Fox rode side-by-side, running stop-signs, pushing speed limits along some stretches, and crawling down others, ignoring the irate honks and shouts of other drivers. This part of town was a rabbit warren of narrow side-streets lined by warehouses, garages, and industrial buildings of all sorts, a few sad houses with cracked foundations and weedy, chain-link enclosed yards interspersed. They passed lots of trucks sitting in driveways, many of them worth more than the buildings they were parked before, but none with the exact combination of traits they needed.

  Every turn, every boarded-up window, every red or blue or white truck ratcheted Albie’s pulse a little higher.

  At the next stoplight, Fox waved to get his attention, and then pointed off to the right.

  About a block down from the intersection, a long, low-slung building studded with garage doors sported a shiny new fence along the street: tall chain-link topped with razor wire. As they watched, a van rolled in through an open gate that a man standing attendance shut right after. He locked it with a piece of fat chain and a padlock before turning to follow the van up to a garage bay. The gun he wore on his hip was obvious.

  As was the glimpse of a tall-set, black tailgate through another open door.

  Fox leaned over, speaking just loud enough to be heard above the din of their idling motors. “That fence is brand new.”

  Albie’s heart lurched. “That’s the truck.”

  “Yeah. Follow me.”

  Albie did, reluctantly, palms clammy inside his gloves, as Fox went straight through the intersection and pulled over in the parking lot of a small grocery store with a Mexican flag in the window.

  When the engines were cut, Albie continued to feel the purring thrum in his chest, his heartbeat as charged as the Harley motor.

  “The fence makes sense,” Fox said. “Whatever I was doing, I’d want it roped off. Dartmoor locks down like Fort Knox at night.”

  Albie found he had little patience for speculation. “That’s them. You know it.”

  “I suspect it. You don’t know anything – you almost blew poor Ray’s brains all over the street in front of God and everybody.”

  “Glad you can be so calm about our niece getting kidnapped.”

  “I am calm.” Fox nudged his shades down his nose and gave him a steely look over the tops. Get it together. “Because that’s more useful than wringing my bloody hands. Shut up and listen to me.

  “This isn’t so bad a neighborhood as to warrant an armed guard on the gate in the middle of the afternoon – not unless something sensitive is going on. I do think it’s them. We’ve never bothered to find all their little dens here in the city, and I know they have to have them. Doc Gilliard’s place was a decoy, I think. The cartel had that littl
e bitch feed us bad information on purpose and we paid for it.

  “Now we have to be smart. If that’s the truck, then this is where they brought the girls – but the girls might not be here any longer. If it were me, and I had valuable hostages, I’d move them at least once, maybe twice, to throw off the scent.”

  Albie ground his molars. “I hate when you make sense.”

  “Doesn’t everyone? It’s worth a look inside, is what I’m saying, but don’t get your hopes up that we’ll find Michelle and Axelle.”

  “Are you calling Candy?”

  “Not yet. I have a better idea.”

  ~*~

  Fox strolled into la tienda as casual as you please, bought two bottles of orange soda, and had a lovely chat with the small, iron-haired woman running the till in her own language. She seemed surprised, at first, that he spoke Spanish so well, but warmed after he flashed her his good smile.

  When he asked about the garage just around the corner, she shook her head and clucked her tongue. Strange goings-on there, she told him. Ugly men with lots of ugly guns. Her family had fled Mexico twenty years ago to get out from under the grip of the cartels, she said, and it made her sick to see them setting up shop here.

  They steal from me, she said, and threaten me. I can’t call the police.

  Fox had an elbow leaning on the counter at this point, sipping one of the sodas. He flicked the patches on the front of his cut. You’re telling me now.

  The Lean Dogs help good people who need it, she said. And unlike the police, they take care of the bad guys.

  “Your confidence in us is inspiring, abuelita,” he said, saluting her with his half-full bottle as he backed out into the parking lot, bell jangling in his wake.

  Outside, Albie sat tapping nervous fingertips on his handlebars. His head whipped around at the sound of the bell. “Took you long enough.”

  Fox popped the top off the second soda and offered it.

  Albie made a face – disgusted with Fox and what he saw as wasted time.

  “You’re shaking,” Fox said. “The sugar will help with the shock.”

  “I’m not in shock,” Albie grumbled, but took the bottle and sipped at it. “What’d she say in there?”

  “Pretty much what I figured. The cartel owns that place – or at least she thinks they do. Buncha young guys come into her shop now and then, shoplift, give her a hard time. She doesn’t give them any lip, which has probably kept it from escalating. She was glad to see me, she said. Hopes the Dogs are going to flush the bad guys out.”

  Albie gave a little eyebrow shrug and took another sip. His shaking had already eased. He’d always been useless when he had nothing to do; it was talking shop more than the drink that was helping, Fox knew. “So what’s the plan?”

  “We go in quietly, stealth-mode. Have Candy and the boys meet us in half an hour, which gives us plenty of time to poke around and see if there’s anything useful to learn until the big boys start bashing heads.”

  Albie nodded. “Can you get over that fence?”

  Fox grinned. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

  ~*~

  It turned out they didn’t have to go over; they went through. A narrow alley ran behind the grocery store, one that was fenced on both sides, and offered access to all the backsides of the buildings that ran down two parallel side streets. The tienda’s proprietress let them through her back gate with a key and wished them luck with a crinkle-eyed smile. Fox blew her a kiss and led the way.

  It was dim and cool back here, the shadows of the buildings mated together to keep out the sun. The alley – just wide enough for a garbage truck to back down – was full of every building’s trash cans, and smelled of rot and piss.

  The garage was easy to spot, its corrugated steel and a series of pedestrian and roll-top doors. The cars parked behind it were a mix of work vans, pickups, and a few sleek Mercedes sedans. The fence out front had been gleaming and new, tips of the razor wire winking in the sunlight.

  But no one had thought to replace the old fence in the back. Why would they? It was high, and already in place, and there wasn’t street access back here.

  Fox carried an array of tools on his person at all times, and the fence was rusty enough that the pliers in his interior cut pocket went right through it. A few snips, some peeling, and they had a hole large enough to wriggle through.

  “What are the chances they have cameras?” Albie asked, once they were through.

  “Look at this fence. If they do, there aren’t any aimed at this spot. Let’s go.”

  In truth, there were cameras, and he’d already spotted them, one on each corner of the rear of the building, but stationary, rather than oscillating, and pointed forward to catch any movement coming around the sides from the front. The psychology of it was simple to him: This ratty old fence, this rarely-used alley, felt like a wall to whoever worked and plotted inside this building. Any watch they kept would be on the street, on the front of the house; a braggart’s false sense of security.

  A quick check proved all the roll-top doors were cinched tight from the inside, but it was laughably easy to pick the lock on one of the pedestrian doors; one with a shade pulled down over the window from the inside, and patchy rust on the unpainted metal face of it. He checked that Albie had his gun drawn, drew his own – suppressor screwed securely onto the barrel – let them in.

  The hinges squeaked. He gritted his teeth against the noise, tensed for an attack. Waited a few moments, a count of four breaths. No one came running.

  They entered a narrow, linoleum-floor hallway that smelled stale and unused. Doors were set in the wall to either side, and ahead, the hall took a hard right turn. Fox pressed his ear to both doors before he tried them, and opened them to find a janitor closet that looked like it hadn’t been touched in a decade, and a storage room lined with shelves of dusty boxes. Whatever went on here, this wasn’t a high-traffic area.

  The only way to go was forward.

  Fox moved silently, and Albie nearly managed, the occasional bit of grit crackling under his boot soles not enough to give them away. Th turn opened into another hallway, lined with more doors, but there were signs of foot traffic on the lino here, a clean, shiny path down the center, and turning in at the thresholds. Fox heard voices, echoing as if in a large space.

  A window lay ahead on the left, waist-high, covered in cheap miniblinds. When Fox reached it, he gapped the blinds with two fingers and peeked through. He had a view of a vast garage space, bay after bay, all open to one another. Several had car lifts, but most sat empty. He spotted the truck, black, and covered in dust and debris, with a camper shell on the back and big chrome towing mirrors, just as Ray had said.

  A knot of four guys dressed in black stood chatting in Spanish. A younger man, a lackey, was unrolling a water hose toward the truck, where a bucket topped with soap suds waiting. They were going to wash away the evidence of the crash.

  He couldn’t see anything else that looked like office space, though the tall, industrial cabinets along one wall warranted a closer look.

  Fox released the blinds and stepped back. “We’ll search these rooms first.” The clock was ticking on Candy’s arrival, and he wanted to do his snooping before the shit hit the fan.

  Albie wore an impatient expression, but nodded, and they split up.

  Fox checked the rooms on the left. A bunk room with a few messy cots, a TV, and a microwave. A bare bones office with one filing cabinet it would take too long to search; he nicked the scribbled-on notepad by the phone and stuffed it in his pocket.

  When he stepped out into the hall, he found Albie hanging out of a doorway, motioning him over.

  “Come look,” he whispered.

  Fox looked, and felt his brows jump.

  It was a work room, a series of folding card tables laid out in a horseshoe pattern; large flat squares of glass, boxes of plastic wrap, rolls of tape. A few tightly-bound bricks of cocaine, and more along the walls, peeking out of
plastic tote bins. The bins on the opposite wall contained cases of small vials, all full of cocaine, ready for retail distribution – of a sort.

  “They’re distributing locally out of here,” Fox said, pulling out his phone to snap photos. He pocketed one of the vials, and crossed to the door, peered out into the hall. Still clear. Went to the window, and peeked through. A car was pulling into one of the empty bays in the garage, and the knot of chatting men were moving to meet the driver: a pimple-faced white kid smiling through white-lipped terror.

  Albie appeared at his shoulder, gapping a section of blinds for himself, and they watched a roll of cash get traded for a paper lunch sack through the window of the car.

  “Recognize him?” Albie asked.

  “I don’t remember his name. Something with a D. Part of this little group of wankers always wanting Candy to cut them in on the business. I think he tried to prospect, once, but he couldn’t even cut it as a hangaround. Somebody got knifed at a party and he puked all over himself.”

  “So he goes and gets himself tied up with the cartel.”

  “No one in the cartel cares if he’s a right fit. If he fucks up, they’ll kill him.”

  He let the blinds fall closed as the beat-up Dodge was backing out of the garage. “There’s a staircase out there, which means these offices have an upper floor. I want a look.”

  “And how will we get to the stairs, genius?”

  Fox shot him a grin, and Albie rolled his eyes.

  Forty-Five

  Jenny had always found that keeping busy in moments like these was the best way to keep upright and keep from giving in to despair. “Do you know where the shop vac is?” she asked Nickel.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He headed to fetch it immediately. She had no idea why his nickname was Nickel, because he’d been solid gold since this madness started. When they were past it all, she was putting in a good word for him with Candy.

  She turned to survey the room for what felt like the thousandth time. Darla had wanted to help, but she’d sent her to look after Jack and TJ. Darla was a godsend in all things, but her nerves were shot, Jenny could tell, and Jenny had plenty of stomach for this sort of thing.