Raw Edges

by C. J. Lyons

  She kept looking, digging deeper into the computer’s files. No way could a sixteen-year-old kid from Monroeville hide all evidence of the logistics needed to assist a prison break. Maybe he had another computer he’d taken with him? Or maybe he’d used his phone for everything?

  No. Clint distrusted phones, he would have minimalized any communication using them. She scanned the room once more. It was obvious that the most-used piece of furniture was the gaming chair. She sat down in it, ignoring the reek of testosterone-laden sweat that emanated from it, and reached for Gibson’s controller. Computer games—the one piece of modern technology Clinton Caine had embraced.

  Especially after he discovered their dual function as communication devices—communication many adults were oblivious to. Before he was arrested, Clint had established a multitude of gaming aliases and used them to engage his “boys,” as he called the collected group of offspring spawned via his rampage of rapes and abductions.

  As Morgan scrolled through the games and retraced Gibson’s latest virtual steps, she shook her head at the irony. Of all his children, Clint had only truly been interested in the males, hoping to find a protégé worthy of continuing his bloody legacy. It had been Morgan, his eldest daughter, who had filled that role…and yet, even now, he was still focused on grooming a boy, not even his own blood, to be his partner in crime.

  Or maybe he was preparing Gibson as a Judas goat? Setting him up to take the fall? Typical Clint, he’d have a dozen scenarios mapped out, all of them ensuring that Clint escaped and someone else paid the price. She almost felt sorry for Gibson.

  Part of the gaming system was the ability to swap points earned in virtual reality for gift cards that could be used as real world cash to purchase merchandise. Once she cracked Gibson’s account, it was easy to trace the ebb and flow of points and cash gifted to him by various online sponsors—all of whom would eventually be traced back to Clint or the other two prisoners, no doubt.

  She envisioned Clint sitting in his cell, his fingers flying over a handheld gaming console small enough to be smuggled in and hidden from the guards, weaving his web of deception around lonely, desperate Gibson.

  Gibson was a good choice. Pliable enough that he’d obeyed Clint—as evidenced by the purchases of freeze-dried food, enough for several men for several weeks, a dozen prepaid calling cards and burner cells, a variety of knives and hunting equipment, oh, and look there, a nice stockpile of ammo and handguns. Now, if she could just discover where all of this treasure trove was sent…but Gibson wasn’t that dumb. He’d most likely completed the transactions using a burner phone. Untraceable.

  She went back to Gibson’s gaming history, tried to see if he’d created any other accounts tied to his real life activities. Wait. An account in his stepfather’s name—created two years ago but unused until last month. Then it was reactivated and used to buy several kilos of sodium metal, phosphorus, camping fuel tablets, two dozen large canisters of gel fuel, and remote car starters.

  Each alone was fairly unremarkable. Put them all together and…

  “How’s it going down here?” Andre’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, holding Diane’s precious envelope of memories. “Any luck?”

  “None of it good.” She didn’t mention Gibson’s communications with Clint—for right now, those were for her eyes only. But this new information made for an excellent diversion to occupy Andre’s time. She showed him the purchases made in Gibson’s stepfather’s name. “I have a feeling Gibson isn’t working on a project for the school science fair.”

  Andre squinted at the screen displaying the list, his forehead knotting. “Our lost boy is planning to blow something up.”

  “Not only blow it up—also burn it down,” she corrected. “He’s got the makings for several wicked incendiary devices. Enough to—”

  “Bring down a good sized building. His school?”

  Diane Radcliffe came into the room. Somehow she seemed even smaller and more mouse like here in her son’s domain.

  “Any luck?” she asked eagerly.

  “We found a few indications of intent,” Andre said, obviously stalling as he gestured for Morgan to turn off the TV.

  “Intent?” She echoed the word, her tone puzzled.

  “Gibson wanted to leave. He had a plan. And he covered his tracks.”

  Diane shook her head, her gaze darting around the room as if expecting her son to pop out of the woodwork and tell her this was all a joke. “I don’t understand. Why would a sixteen-year-old boy plan to simply vanish? Leave everything, his family, his life behind? It makes no sense.”

  Sure it did. But Morgan said nothing, let Andre do the heavy lifting. The mother responded better to him anyway.

  Andre continued, “You told me Gibson was having trouble with some of the kids at school. Is there any chance that he might want to get even? That he might be planning something?”

  “No. No. He’s not like that. He’d never hurt anyone.”

  “I’m sorry, we have to ask.”

  “No. That’s impossible.” Her tone grew strident and for the first time she raised her face to meet Andre’s gaze. “Why would you even think that?”

  Because he fits the profile of a mass murderer, Morgan thought. Even before he hooked up with a psychopathic serial killer as a mentor and father figure. But she kept her mouth shut. She was more interested in the SUV idling at the curb. A black Tahoe. Exactly like the feds used. More than surveilling if they parked directly in front of the house—a very weak tactical position unless you wanted to make sure whoever was inside the house knew you were coming.

  Which meant they weren’t here for Gibson or his psychokiller mad bomber plans. They were here for her.

  Chapter 9

  JENNA FOLLOWED OSHIRO’S directions to the site of Clinton Caine’s money cache. They followed the switchbacks of a county road over a mountain then into a valley that appeared virtually uninhabited except for one lone farmhouse in the far distance and a few buildings clustered together about a mile ahead. Fields plowed for the spring planting spread out on both sides of the road, leaving them no cover for their approach.

  She pulled the Tahoe to the gravel shoulder. “That’s the place?”

  “That’s the place,” he confirmed, nodding to the crossroads ahead. A second black Tahoe pulled in behind them. Oshiro’s partner, a slim black woman with her hair pulled back in cornrows, waited at the wheel.

  Jenna and Oshiro got out. Jenna opened the rear hatch and pulled out a monocular while Oshiro one-upped her by retrieving a pair of thermal imaging binoculars from his own vehicle. She climbed up to the roof of her SUV and scouted ahead.

  “There are a few trailers, two buildings—one looks like an old service station, the other I’m not sure—and a Quonset hanger with a bunch of vehicles scattered around it. Maybe a junkyard.”

  “Or chop shop,” he suggested, handing her the thermal binocs. “This should give you a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  She scanned the buildings once more. This time she could see the heat signatures of several people. “Looks like four or five in the hanger, two in the first trailer, one in the second, and…” She focused on the brick building beside the service station. It was cube-shaped but with a high pitched roof—some kind of church? It had a solid feel to it, as if it had been there much longer than any of the other structures. Whatever it was, there was a lot of activity going on inside. “I count at least eleven in the second building—hard to say, they keep moving, and there are several blind spots.”

  “The only people we’ve seen in the past ten miles and they’re all right here where Clinton Caine stashed his cash?”

  “Clint isn’t exactly the social type.” Jenna accepted his hand as she climbed down from the Tahoe’s roof. “Maybe the stash is nearby? The crossroads are simply a landmark?”

  He squinted at his phone, zooming in. “Morgan’s coordinates would be directly over that second building. The brick o
ne with all the people in it.” He glanced around, assessing their approach. “Maybe they know something. Can’t hurt to ask.”

  “They’ll see us coming, know exactly who we are.” Well, at least Oshiro—no mistaking him for anything except law enforcement.

  “We’re not hiding anything. Let’s see if they are.”

  “If you go in and Clint’s there, you’ll scare him off.”

  “And you won’t? He knows your face.”

  “He won’t run. He’s not scared of me.” Exactly the opposite. Caine saw her as one of his victims, his “fish,” he called them. “I’ll go in alone.”

  Oshiro’s frown tightened his face into a fearsome scowl. “No. I don’t like it. Not until we see who’s in there.”

  “We don’t have time to wait for backup.” She reached into the Tahoe for her ankle holster and strapped it on, then pulled her pants leg down over it. Clint would know she was armed, but he wouldn’t care—it would probably make him laugh. “Besides, what are the odds that he’s even there? He’s been free for four days now, has most likely already been and gone. It’s info we’re after, not an arrest or capture.”

  He strode back to the other vehicle, handed the binoculars to his partner, and spoke to her for several moments before returning to Jenna’s Tahoe. “Lester is going to hang back, cover the perimeter for us. Just in case.”

  “Lester?”

  “Monica Lester. Sorry, should have introduced you.”

  “Not so much concerned about the social niceties as I am one woman covering our backs.”

  He grinned. “You haven’t met Lester. Don’t worry, she’s up to it.”

  They climbed back into the Tahoe and drove toward the crossroads. Jenna glanced in the rearview mirror as the SUV following them peeled off, heading cross-country to a small knoll in the center of the field, the only high ground available. “She’s a sniper?”

  “One of the best.” He glanced out his window, following the trail of dust Lester’s SUV left in its wake. “That will place her at an angle where she can cover most of the pie—we’ll need to worry about the blind slice between the rear of the building and the gas station.” He waved his hand, indicating an area from around ten o’clock to eleven.

  They reached the intersection. Jenna came to a stop, even though there was no stop sign in either direction. The peaked roof brick building dominated the landscape. Up close, she made out brass letters across the soffit above the entrance: Crossroads.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked Oshiro. “A church?” Wouldn’t it be just like Clint to hide his ill-gotten gains in a house of worship?

  Oshiro shrugged, too busy using his mirrors to scout their surroundings one final time. “You’ll want to park there, gives us cover if we need to make a strategic retreat.”

  Jenna pulled the Tahoe around to park it face out where he indicated, a spot diagonally in front of the brick building, where they’d be in Lester’s sights. “You know we did have tactical training in the Postal Service.”

  “Only reason why you’re here. Not that it matters, you’re staying in the vehicle.”

  “Like hell I am.”

  He squinted at her over the top of his sunglasses. “I could arrest you. Accessory. Material witness.”

  “Good try, but we don’t have any proof that the information I gave you has anything to do with Clinton Caine, not until we go inside. Besides, it came from Morgan, not me.”

  She was expecting an argument—Lucy would have argued, then ignored whatever Jenna told her and done things her own damn way. In truth, Jenna teetered on the knife-edge between adrenaline and fear, and she secretly hoped for a reason to stay behind.

  Oshiro merely pushed his sunglasses back up his nose with one knuckle, hiding both his eyes and any hint of expression on his face, before finally nodding his acceptance. He couldn’t get rid of her, the twist of his lips suggested, so he might as well make use of her. “Guess that means you go in first. After I scout around back and see what we’re dealing with.”

  “I’m not an idiot. But I’m also not about to be a sitting duck. You realize they have eyes on us right now.”

  He glanced out the window and adjusted his side mirror. “Not just from our target building. Across the street, as well.” He nodded to the Quonset hut that filled his mirror. “Guess we do it your way. We’ll go in together. You do the talking, I’ll do the shooting.”

  He was joking. At least Jenna hoped he was. But the way his face was set, all expression erased, it would have been easier to read a stone.

  Chapter 10

  MORGAN THOUGHT ABOUT running. But what good would that do her except land her firmly on law enforcement’s radar? Something she’d worked very hard to avoid. She quickly ran an inventory. Barrettes with their handcuff shims, no way the cops would notice those or her sunglasses. Decoy wallet with her fake ID was in her coat pocket hanging in the foyer. She had her knives—nothing illegal there, so she wasn’t worried—but her pistol with the serial numbers removed would need to be left behind.

  As Andre revealed the damning evidence found in Gibson’s game console, Morgan sat down, slid the pistol from her boot, and nudged it under the sleeper sofa. Given the dust bunnies rustling in the wake of her swift movement, it was safe there, especially as she doubted that Diane ever let her younger kids down here in Gibson’s territory. The cops would find it, think it was part of Gibson’s stash.

  “You’re wrong,” Diane kept repeating. “You must be wrong.”

  Time to end this. Morgan stood and joined Andre and the distraught mother. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Radcliffe, but we need to tell the authorities.”

  “What? No, you can’t. What will my husband say? And you can’t prove Gibson has done anything wrong.”

  “Actually, ma’am, we can. I’m afraid your son also assisted Clinton Caine in his prison break. Federal agents are outside. They’re going to need this gaming console and access to Gibson’s computer and other belongings.” It was her ace in the hole and she hated to give it up, but the feds could trace Gibson’s online activity faster than she could. Besides, wherever he’d had them delivered, she could guarantee it was nowhere close to where Clint was now. Gibson was merely the marionette—Clint was pulling his strings, and Clint was no dummy.

  Andre glanced at her, startled. Morgan took over the game controller and scrolled back to the messages she’d tied to Clint. He frowned. “She’s right, Diane. We can’t wait any longer.”

  “We’ll get you through this, Mrs. Radcliffe. All part of the Galloway Stone service.” Morgan sweetened her performance by wrapping an arm around Diane and helping her to the sofa. “Mr. Stone, should we invite the agents inside?”

  Andre creased his brow at her but followed her glance out the window and nodded. Together they went upstairs to the foyer.

  “They’re here for me,” she whispered before he could open the front door. “But I can’t help them, not as much as the info we’ve found on Gibson can.”

  It only took him a moment to put everything together. “It was no coincidence Diane called us. Your father planned all this. But why? What good does it do him if you’re picked up by the police?”

  “It wasn’t Clint. I think it was Gibson himself. He knows who I am, and he wants to send me a message—that he’s better than me, that he’s the one Clint should be working with. He’s trying to prove himself a worthy partner.”

  He glanced back down the stairs to the basement where they’d left Diane. “She didn’t even ask when we’d called the police.”

  “I don’t think she’s the type who questions much of anything in her life.” It sounded harsher than she’d intended. She softened her tone for Andre’s benefit more than Diane’s. “I get the feeling she’s never had that luxury.”

  He gave a slow nod and returned his attention back to Morgan. “I hope you’re not thinking of going out the back, because I can’t cover for you.”

  “No. Wouldn’t do me any good in the long run, anyway.”
Not because she intended to stay with the cops, but because she needed time to see what they knew about Clint. “You know they won’t want to let me go, right?”

  “Might not be a bad thing. Couple of days stashed away in a safe house.”

  “You more worried about keeping me safe or keeping me out of trouble?”

  To anyone else, his expression would have been unreadable through the scars that lined his face. But she saw the smile flit across his lips. “Both.” Then he glanced at her. “You worried about something else?”

  They both knew she was too smart and too careful to have ever left anything easily incriminating at a crime scene—not even her fingerprints. “Not about anything they’d find today. But I don’t like being bagged and tagged like some sort of wild animal, a trail of digital footprints waiting to catch up to me someday.”

  “They don’t have anything to arrest you for. Not like you’ve been helping Caine.” God bless him. Jenna would have twisted the last into a sneer and a question, while Andre stated it as fact.

  “The only way they could have known I was here was if Jenna sent them. What if she told them I helped her by giving her the locations of two of Clint’s stashes? If she finds anything there and tells the cops, then I’m an accessory. If she doesn’t and tells the cops, then I’m obstructing justice.”

  “Jenna wouldn’t do that.” A trace of doubt tainted his words. They both knew if it suited Jenna’s purposes, she’d betray Morgan without blinking twice. “She needs you,” he added, his tone firm, back on solid ground. “What good would it do her to have you taken into custody?”

  Leverage, Morgan thought. Not to mention the ability to use Morgan’s fingerprints against her in the future, if they were recorded in a federal database. Jenna was smart, she knew how to build an air-tight frame-up if she ever decided Morgan was a liability. Morgan didn’t hold it against Jenna—it was exactly what Morgan would do if their roles were reversed.