The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  I held up a hand to block the piercing lights, trying to locate Cristina amongst the controlled chaos.

  “If you’re looking for your car, it’s parked next to mine, a gray Subaru with a baby tire on the back left. I put both of our cars over by the trees. Unfortunately, we’re now blocked in by all of these news vans and cars. We’ll never get out of here.”

  “Right now I’m actually looking for a friend of mine,” I said, walking off the porch. I stumbled over Red’s big foot and awkwardly dropped to my hands with my ass up in the air and my dress riding up my thighs.

  “Dammit, sorry,” he said, jumping out of his sitting position to help me up.

  I scooted my dress down and tried to regain a bit of dignity. “Why are you still here?”

  He chuckled. “Like I said, my car’s stuck behind a bunch of other cars. My bros went ahead and took off.”

  “Ivy!”

  I couldn’t see her, but I heard Cristina’s voice booming above the hum of car engines and generators. I started to walk toward the sound of her voice.

  “Hey, lady, do you think anyone would mind if I got a beer?” Red asked. “I saw a bunch just sitting on the island in the kitchen.”

  I spun around. “How old are you?”

  “Oh, forget it,” he said, swatting a hand in my direction.

  “By the way, which way did you say my car was?”

  “Over there,” he said, gesturing to his right, where I could see tall trees hover above a satellite pole protruding from a van.

  “Thanks. You can grab a soda or water if you want.”

  He mumbled, then sat back in his same spot, his arms on his knees.

  When I reached the fence, I could see each news crew separated by no more than twenty feet. All of them appeared to be taping or doing a live shot. I was just happy that they weren’t trying to shove a microphone or camera in my face.

  “Over here, Ivy.”

  I traipsed through groundcover and around landscaping boulders to the far end of the front fence. Tucked next to a large holly bush was a pedestrian gate—I never knew it existed. A female uniformed cop with two fingers in her belt loop rocked on her feet. I could see Cristina on the other side of the fence with a backpack hoisted over her shoulder.

  “Can you tell her I’m with you and not just some groupie who wants to break into the property?” She lifted her long hair off her neck. Even in low lighting, I could see her face glowing with perspiration.

  The officer shifted her eyes to Cristina then back to me. “She doesn’t have any identification. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Look…uh,” I looked at her badge, “Officer Schemmel, it’s been a helluva day. I just watched a man get shot and people thought they were going to die. On top of that, Dillon Burchfield, the owner and the gunshot victim, is counting on us, Cristina and me, to watch after his little girl, Emma.”

  She shuffled her feet and then adjusted her hat. “I believe you, Miss…”

  “Ivy Nash.”

  “Ivy what?”

  “Listen, you can contact Detective Moreno, who appears to be leading the investigation. He’s aware of the arrangement.”

  “Not necessary.” I heard the heavy footfalls of Stan just after I heard his voice coming from behind Cristina. He walked to the gate and held up his badge.

  “Cristina Tafoya is her name. You can let her in and feel comfortable that she’s here to help with the little girl.”

  The officer jumped out of her stance. “Of course, sir. Here to help. Just wanted to be thorough.” She unlocked the gate. I started walking out at the same time Cristina and Stan were walking in.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “Where are you going?” Stan countered.

  “I asked you first.”

  “I wanted to drop by, see how you and Zahera were holding up, and ask Moreno if I could help,” he said, scratching his whiskers. “Your turn.”

  Data points zipped through my mind. I had so much I wanted to share with him. Leading the list was the scoop about the failed merger between the global space companies and Claudio Belsito’s threat to Dillon—something that appeared to have been carried out. Ross had said he would eventually share the information, but I couldn’t trust him or when he would do it or what kind of spin he’d put on it.

  “Hey, I’ve got to pee, and I have a little toy in here for Emma that I think she’ll like.” Cristina was antsy.

  I looked at Stan. “We probably need to discuss a few things, but now’s not the best time. I need to get something out of my car and then get back to Emma. Maybe we can find a few minutes tomorrow.”

  He kept his gaze on me.

  “What?”

  “Something’s on your mind.” He took a step toward me. “Did you learn something that you should share?”

  I looked away.

  “Ivy, you can talk to me. We agreed to work together on this, right?”

  “I know.” I said, turning my eyes back to him. “It’s just…complicated.” I backed up a few steps.

  “You don’t need to be outside of this fence without someone with you.”

  For the first time all day, an image of Milton Weber shot to the front of my mind. My own safety seemed less important than the safety of the others at this point, particularly a four-year-old girl. The mixed feelings stirred in my stomach.

  “I’m fine, Stan. There are dozens of media people out here. I’ll be right back in two minutes.”

  He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a chirping phone. “Hey, Moreno,” he said into the phone. He put a hand over the phone receiver and whispered to me, “I’ll wait inside for you.”

  I waved a hand at him and Cristina, then walked off. Twenty feet from the gate, I realized the only way to my car without making a cameo appearance on four different local newscasts was to circle the entire group, which meant walking on the other side of a small island of brush and trees.

  No big deal, right?

  And it wasn’t. The dark woods did seem a bit creepy, especially with a full moon looming over the leafy limbs, but there were a lot of people no more than fifty feet to my right. I would be safe.

  Coming around the island of vegetation, I stopped in my tracks. Cars and vans were parked in every direction, some on the road and others near a dark cluster of trees.

  “You can tell our news director that I’m not sleeping with that witch just to get information out of her.”

  A man walked up from the side of one news van in shorts, hiking boots, and a discolored shirt. He was on his phone, making a beeline for one of the vehicles. I jingled my keys so he’d notice me.

  “Okay,” he said, waving a hand in my direction, “tell him I’m not sleeping with her again.” He looked at me, shrugging his shoulders. I tried to ignore his conversation and shuffled a few steps into the knot of cars, searching for Black Beauty.

  The man walked just in front of me then stopped on a dime and looked me square in the face. He was sweating profusely, and I flinched. Taking a step back, I opened my lips, but before words came out, he covered his phone mic and said to me, “Can you believe the media business? They want me to sleep with some crazy woman just to get the inside scoop on that pervert billionaire—”

  His words ceased abruptly as he looked me over, noticing my fancy dress—a dress that was more suited for a party than anything else. I could see his gears whirring—I might know the so-called pervert billionaire.

  “Listen, Tony. I gotta run. Just remember to pass along what I said. No negotiation on my package, do you hear me?”

  He ended the call, then wiped sweat off his forehead. “You one of them?” He gestured toward the mansion.

  “Not sure what you mean by that, but, yes, I was at the party.”

  I picked up a stench of what smelled like a combination of body odor and Cheetos. I took a step backward, wary.

  “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out.” He shuffled over to a news van, gripped the handle of the sliding do
or, and paused. “I’ve had about ten Red Bulls today after two hours of sleep last night. This business is just nuts. And now they want me to… You heard me, didn’t you?”

  “Doesn’t sound like a very healthy work environment.”

  “Everyone wants to break the story. We all want that golden ticket to the network.” His gaze edged upward to the sky.

  I nodded, took a couple of steps around an old Volvo station wagon. Beyond a certain point, I could only make out the frame of vehicles. The lighting sucked. “How am I supposed to find my car in this mess?” I ran my fingers through my hair and could tell it was well on its way to being untamable. I just wanted to find my car, pull my gun from the center console, and go check on Emma.

  “Eh, it’s kind of like this at every big news story. No one cares how cars are parked. In fact, you kind of hope that you pinned in someone important from the rival station,” he said with a chuckle. “Anything to gain a competitive advantage. I make fun of the media, how we’ve devolved over the years, but here I am. It’s kind of like a drug. Once you get hooked on the high, it’s impossible to walk away.”

  He reached into his van, grabbed a couple of things, and put them in his front pockets, then closed the van door. “Good luck in finding your car.”

  “Thanks.”

  He began to walk away, then flipped around and put a business card in my face. “I tried to hold back, but it’s in my blood, you know what I mean.”

  I took the card so he would simply leave me alone. “Thanks,” I said with little enthusiasm.

  “I’m just the camera guy, but I also double as a producer. Any tip would help,” he said, briefly glancing over his shoulder at his media colleagues.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing.

  “Or not. I don’t mean to be pushy. Just looking for that break to take me to the big time.”

  “Right. The big time.”

  He chuckled. “By the way, I also do freelance video work, so if you have a wedding coming up or are planning a big fancy party like the one here tonight, Rob is your guy.”

  I glanced at his card and smiled. “One-Eyed Rob Productions.”

  “Yeah, one eye to look through the lens of the camera. You like it?” He reached over and patted my arm. “I came up with that name myself.”

  “Witty. If I ever have any video needs, I’ll keep you in mind, One-Eyed Rob.”

  He gave me a two-finger salute and walked off.

  “Now where the hell is my car?” I muttered, turning my body to squeeze between two cars.

  From deeper in the trees, a light flickered for a brief moment. It came from the inside of a car. I turned to see if anyone was walking toward me from the media farm and then looked closer into the trees.

  Was that a figure leaning into a small car? I blinked twice. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks.

  I blew out a breath, telling myself to keep my imagination in check. Moving heel to toe, I made sure to not make any noise as I walked deeper into the darkness. I slowly edged my way past a large news van, the sounds of voices and generators dissipating behind me.

  That was when sound and sight finally intersected. A person was hunched over into the front door of a dark, two-door sedan—I was almost certain it was Black Beauty. I could hear a glove box shut. My glove box.

  My heart ticked faster. Could that person be Milton? Had he decided to return and hunt me down?

  I tried swallowing, but my throat was suddenly too constricted. My mind was racing with grotesque images of what he might do to me. Surely, he wouldn’t kill me quickly. He’d let it play out…anything to lengthen my suffering.

  I felt lightheaded. Too much oxygen was being pumped into my brain as my breathing increased. I blinked my eyes, put my hand on the car next to me as I thwarted a panic attack.

  Calm your ass down, Ivy. Think through this logically.

  Why would Milton be searching my car? My gun. He must have known I’d taken lessons and bought a gun. Probably even knew it was a Luger. He could have hacked into my computer. He could have figured out the location of my new apartment. Maybe he’d planted more cameras and had been ogling me.

  Chill, dammit.

  I pressed my key into the palm of my hand and thought through my options.

  Run back and find a cop? Knowing Milton, the way he’d done a Houdini before, he’d probably be gone. And then what? The smoldering fear would return. Every moment of every day, I’d wonder if it was my last.

  I could simply scream. One-Eyed Rob or some other media person would run over, and then we might be able to chase him down.

  Or I could finally confront the man—the fucking monster—without me being tied down or drugged.

  Then I remembered the tiny canister of pepper spray on my keychain. I’d bought it years ago, but never used it. After a while, it had just become part of my key chain, instead of a weapon. I devised a plan: spray the sick bastard in the face, then, with my key wedged between my fingers, slash him relentlessly until I ripped a hole in his neck. And then watch him hiss out his final breaths.

  Panting like a dog, I unsnapped the button that gave my finger access to the pump on the pepper spray. I clenched the key in my other hand and shuffled closer, lowering my body. I moved within two cars of him. I was as quiet as a cat. Zorro. Yes, this would be payback for terrorizing Zorro. Terrorizing me.

  Suddenly the man rose out of the car and began to turn my way. Was that really Milton? I didn’t pause another second. I launched my body over the hood of a Camry and pressed my finger on the pepper spray, taking dead aim at his face.

  He screamed, throwing his body backward until he rammed into my car. My momentum sent me tumbling over the side of the Camry. The pepper spray fell out of my hands and off to the side somewhere. Sprawled out on dirt and sticks, I felt around but couldn’t find it.

  Milton stumbled a few steps, moaning out loud. It didn’t sound like him, but I wasn’t about to let up. A leg swung in front of my face. I reached my arm around and jabbed my key into his ankle.

  He cried out, then jumped up and down on his opposite leg. Something about this wasn’t right, but I couldn’t stop myself. Not until it was over. I jumped to my feet, set myself, and attacked.

  I didn’t see the tree stump. I tripped, toppling like I’d been shot. My face landed in a bed of thorns. I shouted expletives as I pulled the spikes out of my skin. I looked up and saw Milton disappear into the thicket of trees.

  Pushing back to my feet—my heels had fallen off—I tasted blood at the corner of my mouth. I stared into the darkness, my brain trying to play catch-up with my out-of-control pulse. I’d felt my key dig into his flesh. On the same ankle that Milton had cut off to escape from the crashed car.

  There was no way that my key had hit a prosthesis. He’d screamed in pain. His voice sounded different…a lower register. This man wasn’t as tall or as thick. He wore a long-sleeve, button-down shirt and Wrangler’s. Was there any way…?

  I bolted out of my stance, lifting my knees with each step to avoid another stump. I felt light on my feet. Quick. I dodged trees like a slalom skier.

  I thought through what was on the other side of the trees. It was a two-lane road. Knowing I would soon see more light, I ran even faster. A few seconds later, I saw a figure emerge out of the darkness and run left. He was hobbling, not moving very fast.

  I burst out of the woods like I was shot from a cannon, skidding as I leaned left. I saw brake lights a hundred feet in front of me. It was a pickup. I sprinted toward the vehicle, hoping I could jump into the bed before it took off. I knew I was acting insane—insane with determination. At thirty feet away and closing fast, I heard tires screeching off concrete. With the smell of burning rubber invading my senses, I pumped my arms like a mad woman.

  It didn’t help. The truck kicked up loose gravel and separated itself from me in mere seconds. I came to a stop, leaned over, hands on my knees, wondering if the man who had followed us home from Emma’s preschool was the s
ame man who had just tried to kill Dillon.

  I wished like hell the pepper spray or the key stab had disabled him, but it wasn’t a lost cause. Before the silver Dodge Ram motored away, I had been close enough to take two mental snapshots: a license plate and a window sticker.

  My quick breathing continued for another minute. I may not have ended my Milton nightmares, but I might have enough information to stop a different murderer.

  I raced back to the mansion.

  18

  I sat on the edge of the king-sized sleigh bed and rotated my arm forward, looking for the place in my shoulder joint where it felt like a nail had been driven into it.

  Found it. “Ooh,” I said, continuing to adjust my arm, hoping I’d just slept on it wrong.

  What was I thinking? I knew that I’d hurt it when I tripped over the tree stump and fell to the ground last night. I’d been so focused on prying my face off the crown of thorns and then trying to chase down the cowboy, I never noticed my shoulder pain.

  I padded to the bathroom, doused my face with water. It stung, but not as bad as last night. I looked in the mirror, touched a couple of my puncture wounds. I looked like a teenage girl who’d gone on a chocolate binge.

  I wish. For a few paralyzing moments last night, I thought Milton had returned to kill me. Or even worse, to torture me for days or weeks and then kill me.

  You didn’t wilt, Ivy. You fought back.

  I wrenched my shoulder and thought about the mental transformation I’d experienced, when my mind slowly figured out the man digging through my car wasn’t Milton. The man’s ankle was the first clue in that direction. His voice, clothes, and general build all moved the needle away from Milton. On one hand, I was thankful to avoid another Milton confrontation. But part of me was disappointed that I couldn’t finally put an end to my nightmare. An end to his life.

  Fortunately, the night hadn’t been a complete loss. I’d acquired some valuable information about the cowboy. After being sprayed with pebbles from the pickup screaming off, I’d decided on the walk back to the mansion that I would open up and share everything with my detective friend. The history of Dillon’s association with Claudio Belsito, the threat, and now my second run-in with the cowboy.