Mastiff Security: The Complete 5 Books Series

by Glenna Sinclair

  Durango grumbled again. “I’m not that difficult to work with.”

  “You are, sweetheart,” Kyle said, rubbing his shoulder. “Now, if you were that particular with the girls you take into your bed . . .”

  * * *

  Durango stood in front of the bedroom mirror, struggling to adjust the cummerbund on his tux. He hated dressing up like this. He could remember the dozens of times as a child that his father had forced him into these monkey suits for his various awards ceremonies. Had to present a united front or the paparazzi would get too curious, he would tell him. You don’t want the press asking questions you don’t want to answer.

  That was one thing Durango realized now he should have listened to.

  It was the press more than his fellow cops and the judicial system that had destroyed him in the days, weeks, and months after Sarah’s death. Durango Masters was the lead detective on the Harrison Strangler case, of course he would know the killer’s modus operandi better than anyone. He could have duplicated it easily to hide the fact that he’d murdered his fiancée. That was the primary theory from the moment Sarah’s body was found. Never mind the fact that he’d been at the police station in front of dozens of witnesses when Sarah was killed. But the press grabbed the initial—and incorrect—time of death and convicted him before her body was cold. They didn’t care that the coroner who performed the autopsy determined she’d been strangled nearly forty minutes after Durango left the apartment.

  He should never have been charged. But the press forced the district attorney’s hand.

  It didn’t help that the detective working the case had some sort of beef against Durango. He was determined to pin the murder on him and refused to look at anything that might point to another perpetrator. And then there was Durango’s own captain who was ambitious enough to see that if he joined the anti-Durango Masters’ bandwagon that there were great opportunities in store for him.

  It was a horrifying mess. It should never have happened, never should have gone as far as it did. He should have been cleared within weeks of the murder based on the evidence alone. But cases weren’t tried with evidence anymore. They were tried in the court of popular opinion.

  If it’d been up to the press and the people who followed those bizarre stories, Durango would have been tied down to the lethal injection gurney within a year of the funeral.

  No one cared about Sarah. No one understood what a true loss to the world her death was. It wasn’t about the victims to the press, to the public. It was about the sensation.

  As the son of a Hollywood movie producer and brother of a television actor, Durango should have understood that. But he’d thought he’d left that world behind when he walked away from Los Angeles nearly twenty years ago.

  Durango’s cell phone rang, pulling him out of his own head.

  “Masters.”

  “I apologize for catching you at home, Mr. Masters,” a deep voice spoke in his ear, “but I arrived late at the office, and they informed me that you had wanted to speak to me about a new case?”

  “Axel,” Durango said, barely able to disguise the pleasure in his voice. He’d finally found his excuse to miss the damn party.

  Chapter 5

  Springfield, Illinois

  Axel Kinkaid folded and set another shirt in his duffle bag, slowly looking around the room to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. The room was bare, hardly anything personal lying around. In fact, it was neat as a pin as per Navy SEAL regulations. There were no souvenirs—he never saw a point in them—no pictures—he had no family outside of his former squad brothers—nothing that could be termed decorative. He wasn’t a fluff sort of guy. He liked everything neat and perfect. If some stranger walked into this room they might think the person living in it had just moved in or was on the way out.

  He’d lived here for three years.

  When he was forced out of the Navy because of a knee injury, Axel had been devastated. The military was all he’d ever wanted to do. He saw himself putting in his full twenty years, and then retiring somewhere quiet, somewhere he could work with his hands and avoid unwelcome company. He was a quiet man, a private man. He wanted to live his life that way.

  But then he blew out his knee cap when a tribal leader decided it would be better to run than reveal he was hiding half a dozen ISIS soldiers under the floor in his living room. Seven years in Afghanistan, dozens of fire fights, months of patrols in areas where insurgents laid improvised explosive devices, or IEDs, and it was a misstep while running after some damn fool that got him sent home.

  Months in rehab, multiple surgeries, and he was as good as new. But the Navy didn’t see it that way. It was a desk or an honorable discharge. He had to take the discharge. What kind of soldier would he be sitting behind a damn desk?

  He worked odd jobs for a while, moving around the country whenever the mood struck. He had no place to go. He grew up in Florida, a child of the imperfect foster care system there thanks to nosey neighbors and a mother who was too poor, or too disinterested, in fighting to get him back. He had no interest in returning there. Texas had been all right for a while, then Utah proved to be an interesting cultural mix. New York was too fast paced, Connecticut too slow. And the south had been too, well, southern. He was working as a rent-a-cop in Indianapolis when someone gave his name to Durango Masters. He was hesitant to take the call when it came, aware of the sensation around Masters’ murder trial in Chicago the year before. But he did take it, and he liked what Masters laid out for him. The idea of working with a new security firm doing something more like what Axel had done in the military was too exciting to pass up.

  He’d never regretted his choice.

  Mastiff Security had kept Axel busy, and they paid well enough that he would be able to retire long before he would have in the Navy. Hell, he could probably retire in a year or two and have a big enough nest egg to live comfortably for the next thirty years with a few well-chosen investments. But he was enjoying himself too much to do that.

  How many people could say that they’d just brought down a stalker who was threatening a state politician and was now jetting off to protect a woman whose benefactor was paying three times the usual rate and wanted the operation and his name kept anonymous. It was something straight out of a Tom Clancy novel.

  There was never a boring assignment with Mastiff.

  Axel walked over to the dresser and dug out the extra clips for his Glock 9mm. He slid those into his duffle under his nicely folded shirts before zipping the whole thing up.

  Time to get to work.

  Chapter 6

  Rain Drop Farms

  It snowed again last night.

  Abigail crawled out of bed, moaning when her feet hit the cold wood floor. She padded over to the window and looked out over the white blanket that covered the familiar landscape of her property. The barn seemed like a million miles away. She wanted to crawl back into bed and hide under the covers, but the chickens had to be fed and the horses brushed. A curse slipped from Abigail’s lips as she pulled her nightgown over her head and struggled to pull on her jeans.

  Getting up at dawn to do chores was never going to be the comfort to her that it was to her father. She used to insist that she’d been born to the wrong family, the wrong family occupation, but her father promised she would adjust to it someday.

  She hadn’t yet.

  Her boots secured on her feet, Abigail stomped down the stairs, missing the smells of Terri’s hot breakfast cooking on the stove and the sound of the older couple’s morning conversation. Josh had worked for her father since Abigail could remember, the foreman without whom many crops would never have been harvested. And Terri was a God send, a jack-of-all-trades who’d helped do everything from housework to fixing machinery to getting out there planting seeds right alongside the men.

  The house was too quiet without them around.

  Abigail dragged her feet through the wet snow to the barn, opening the door to the sound of the horses sno
rting in their stalls, waiting impatiently for their morning oats.

  “Morning, Romance,” she said, running her hand over the horse’s muzzle as she paused at her stall door. “You hungry, girl?”

  The other horses snorted in the cold air, a couple pawing at the stall doors.

  “Okay, okay, I’m getting it.”

  Abigail fed the horses, pleased to see the stalls were fairly clean. Only a little mucking required today. While they ate, she went out to the chicken coop and laid down the feed before searching the nests for the day’s eggs. Almost a dozen. Production was a little slower than usual but not as bad as it could be considering the early snowfall. And there was supposed to be another storm tonight. Better enjoy it while she had it. Abigail checked the artificial lights she’d hung in the coop to make sure the chickens were getting what they needed, then let herself out again. She was halfway to the barn when something blew passed her cheek. She stopped and turned, wondering if an injured bird had rushed passed her, but she didn’t see anything.

  Weird.

  Abigail started toward the barn again, the crunch of her boots on the snow the only sound for miles. But then . . . what was that? She heard something, a thud. Was it just her imagination?

  She paused, looking around the yard. There was nothing there, no footsteps other than hers in the snow. Had to be her imagination.

  She sighed as she began walking, letting herself into the warmth of the barn. The horses had their noses in their feed, their tails swishing as they merrily finished their breakfast. Abigail busied herself with chores, quickly forgetting the strange noise she’d heard outside. She didn’t think about it again until later in the day. Dark clouds were already moving over the area, heavy with snow. She was sitting in the living room, trying to make the numbers in her ledger grow even as she tallied the orders for hay and grain she’d had to place this afternoon. The phone rang just as she was about to give up and go make herself a hot cup of tea.

  “Abbie?” a kind, familiar voice said in response to her greeting.

  “Mrs. Philips,” she said with a sigh. Mrs. Philips owned the property that touched the back edge of Abigail’s property. She was a kind, elderly woman who was always calling just to chat. Abigail knew she was lonely with her kids spread all over the country and her husband in the ground ten years now, but her calls were often long and tedious chores that Abigail could do without. “What can I do for you?”

  “Are you prepared for the snow tonight? They say we’ll probably get eight or nine inches to add to the two we’ve already gotten.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “Did Josh get the heater working in the barn?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, good. I’ve been concerned about you, dear, on that big farm all alone.”

  “I’m fine. I grew up here.”

  “I know, I know. Your mother, God rest her soul, was such a good woman, but I’m sure she didn’t intend for you to run that place all by yourself. Poor child. You really need to find yourself a good man to help you around there.”

  Abigail bit back a sigh. “Josh and Terri are all the help I need, Mrs. Philips.”

  “Yes, but they’re not there now, are they?”

  “They are not, Mrs. Philips. But this is the first vacation they’ve taken in fifteen years.”

  “They are loyal, aren’t they?”

  Abigail held the phone away from her lips, a few choice words slipping out as silently as she could keep them.

  “Was there a reason why you called, Mrs. Philips.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. I almost forgot. You know that old barn that backs up against my pasture?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ve always thought it was odd that your father never tore it down. You don’t use it that much anymore, do you? What’s the point of leaving an old building up when it’s just collecting rats and other pests? He should have—”

  “What’s wrong with the barn, Mrs. Philips?”

  Abigail almost hoped it was burning down. Only that would make this call worthwhile.

  “There’s a light burning inside. I thought you should know. A vagrant might be hiding out there for the night, and you wouldn’t want him to light a fire and burn the place down, you know? Could be a liability for you, and I know you can’t use any more trouble than you already have.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Philips.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want to be the reason something bad happened to you, dear. Your parents and grandparents were dear people. I feel like I owe them that much, at least.”

  Abigail suddenly felt like a heel. “I really appreciate that.” She sighed as she settled back in her chair, the cup of hot tea forgotten. “How’s your daughter? Didn’t she just become a grandmother?”

  “Oh, she’s so excited . . .”

  Chapter 7

  Rain Drop Farms

  Abigail bundled up, wearing three shirts over her thermal underwear and under her heavy work coat before heading out into the chill of the evening. The skies were heavy with snow, but it had yet to begin to fall. The weatherman said it wouldn’t be until well after midnight when the worst of the storm came, so she had more than six hours to get out to the barn and back. She decided to take Romance rather than the truck because the horse loved to run in the snow. She was like a puppy on days like this, prancing through the snow like another horse might dance in a sweet-scented meadow.

  The horse saddled, Abigail decided last minute to grab a few blankets and her shotgun. One for compassion, the other for potential danger. She didn’t know for sure what she’d find when she arrived at the old barn. It occurred to her that the vagrant in her barn might be the man with the dark, heavily fringed eyes she’d given directions to town a few days before. Was it possible he had decided to return to Rain Drop Farms for some reason? Had he lied about his intention to head into town? Was he lacking the money or means to get a place to stay in town? His clothing had seemed nice, expensive. But they could have been a lucky thrift store purchase, she supposed.

  There was only one way to find out. And she’d be lying if she said she’d be disappointed to see that handsome man again.

  It was cold, the wind freezing the moisture on her face before she was even a few yards from the barn. Romance, however, was loving it. She was thrumming with energy, eager to move faster than the slow cantor Abigail was allowing. Tugging her collar up higher over her face, Abigail loosened the reins and urged Romance into a hard gallop. Together they flew over the fields, the horse strong and confident as Abigail hung on tight, unable to stop the smile that slipped over her lips.

  It wasn’t the ideal, but it was an invigorating ride. Abigail was almost disappointed when they arrived at the old barn.

  Abigail reined the horse in and looked up at the building, the weathered boards that could have used a new coat of paint twenty years ago, the doors that still hung strong from their hinges, the loft that was just visible behind one loose shutter. Abigail climbed off the horse, securing the reins to a U-bolt on the side of the building meant for that purpose. She slipped her shotgun from the saddle holster and turned toward the huge double doors, her pulse beating hard on the side of her neck.

  She could see the light Mrs. Philips had been concerned about. It was dim, but it was shining through the boards on the right side of the building. She thought it might be a flashlight or some other source of electric light. There was a lamp in the office that was on that side of the building, but she didn’t think the place was wired with electricity anymore.

  Her heart was in her throat as she pulled the doors apart, moving as silently and stealthily as she could. She didn’t want to frighten whoever might be inside. And she really didn’t want whoever it was frightening her.

  The barn was mostly empty, but the smells of the animals that had once been housed there and the machines that had been repaired there filled her nostrils. Dust coated everything, including the exquisite beams that formed the roof supports above her head.
She hesitated in the doorway, her gun pointed in the direction of the light source. She couldn’t see anything, but there were so many shadows. She tugged her own flashlight out of her back pocket and turned it on, a teeny thing that shone a powerful beam of light. But it didn’t illuminate anything new.

  Forcing confidence into her voice, she yelled out, “Whoever might be in here, this is private property. You cannot be here!”

  There was no response.

  She stepped farther into the building, her hands surprisingly steady as she walked slowly toward the small office where her grandfather had once kept his maintenance books on the farm equipment. Contrary to Mrs. Philips’ thoughts, her father had used the barn. It was only in the last five years or so that it had been abandoned. Originally built to house the plow horses and other equipment, it had been used for too many things since the early ’20s. Tearing it down was an emotional thing that Abigail herself was still struggling with. She’d spent many summers here, watching her father and grandfather work together. Memories were attached to every beam, every plank of wood.

  This was Grandfather’s barn. It was his office.

  Abigail shivered; the sound of the wind moving through the chinks in the walls was almost haunting. She remembered how as a child she took such solace just in being in this place. Now, she wished she’d stayed at the main house and saved this investigation for the morning when the sun would be high in the sky. But she was here now.

  “Whoever’s in there, this is private property! You need to leave!”

  For the second time, there was no response.

  She hesitated a moment longer before moving forward. There was a wide door that once stood regally over the entrance to the small office. At some point over the years, the top hinge had come loose, so it now hung at something of an angle. Abigail used the barrel of the gun to push it open, the light spilling out at her feet when she did. She still couldn’t see the source. No one had ever removed the desk or filing cabinets Grandpa had left in his office. The light source seemed to be coming from behind one of the tall, grease stained cabinets.