American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1)

by McAdams, K. D.

  Abbey and Dylan didn’t notice him.

  Dylan read the scratch on his napkin: “Lease is safe. Hidden behind my wife’s contribution to the town.”

  “It feels like it makes sense, but I don’t understand it,” Dylan said, after a minute.

  “Who was his wife?” Abbey was too excited to recall this detail that she had probably read a dozen times.

  “I think we were counting on you for that.” Dylan wasn’t sure if she was waiting for a response.

  “What are you two looking at?” The agent appeared next to Dylan, surprised.

  “This is book one of the Lovejoy family history. It contains what we think is the final clue.” Abbey summarized roughly.

  “Clue to finding the Lease?” Brinson asked.

  “No,” Dylan interrupted Abbey before she could speak. “Um, the clue to an age-old town debate about who planted the first Sweet Bay Mulberry tree.”

  “This really is the sticks.” The FBI man shook his head. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me that the American Lease doesn’t really exist?”

  “Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life living here and looking for it,” Abbey started to explain, picking up on Dylan’s deception. “In fact, I have a failed Ph.D. bid related to the American Lease. If anyone can talk about the Lease with authority, it’s me.”

  “And is it real or not?” Brinson didn’t seem interested in drawn-out conversations.

  “It was real, and I emphasize was,” she said. “The odds of it being recovered intact are slim, and I am confident that it is not hidden anywhere in Monson.” Abbey was clear and convincing.

  “And you wouldn’t lie to a federal agent, would you?” he asked.

  “Of course not.” She placed a hand over her heart.

  “Well, I want the men. Historic documents are a different issue,” he explained.

  “You said the guys are wanted dead or alive. How big are the rewards?” Dylan asked after a few minutes of thought.

  Agent Brinson opened the manila folder in his hand. He flipped one page and scanned it.

  “Five hundred for the imposter, and two-fifty for the Irishman,” he finally said.

  “Less than a grand for a guy who fired on a police officer?” Dylan was not impressed.

  Brinson looked at him and shook his head.

  “Five hundred thousand dollars, and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Dead or alive,” he clarified.

  Dylan’s brain almost exploded. It took him a second to do the math, dividing seven hundred and fifty by two. It wasn’t almost a million, but three hundred and seventy five thousand dollars would really help him out.

  “That’s it!” Abbey screamed.

  While Dylan and the agent had been talking, Abbey was off in her own world again.

  “Care to elaborate?” Dylan asked.

  "Benjamin Wallingford had been something of an outcast. Not only did he refuse to leave his home in Monson even when the threat of Indian attacks were high, he had married a close relative who technically owned the property. Some reports said she was crazy and he kept her secluded there on the property with him until she died.” Abbey stood and walked aggressively towards the exit.

  “Slow down.” Dylan called to her without moving.

  “When he married Bernice Lovejoy in the summer of 1798, it was his second marriage. That marriage caused something to change in him. He moved into Brookford and let the old Monson property fade into disrepair.” She walked back towards Dylan and Agent Brinson. “Later, he offered any salvageable building materials to the town for their use in construction of the Town Hall.”

  “So he went from being die hard Monson to being Brookford’s biggest fan?” Dylan was in awe of her energy.

  “Why didn’t I see this connection before?” Abbey wondered out loud.

  “Maybe you did and ruled it out after hours of research?” Dylan offered while Agent Brinson observed in silence.

  “But I never had the link between the Lovejoys and Monson.” She let a faint smile creep across her lips.

  “Maybe tomorrow we can—“ He was cut off.

  “I really need to get over to town hall,” Abbey finally said to the stunned men.

  “Can you just call them?” Dylan asked, confused.

  “No. If I don’t file my permit for a variance before close of business today, I’m screwed with the state. I could lose my farm.” Abbey shot daggers toward Dylan, who sensed that he was supposed to play along with something.

  “Absolutely not. There are ruthless men out there who want to kill you, and now I think you have a lead on a document that is directly to related to national security. You are not leaving my sight,” Brinson ordered.

  “You can’t keep us here. If we want to risk our lives, that’s our choice,” Dylan countered.

  “I can place you under protective custody. These men aren’t messing around, and neither am I.” The agent said crisply.

  “Oh crap,” Abbey complained. “I left the document list and the medallion in my tractor. If they find both, they might have enough to figure out where the Lease is. It’s parked in the orchard over by your house, Dylan.” She looked at him hopefully.

  “I remember where you hid the medallion. I doubt that anyone could find it.” Dylan wasn’t sure how to play along with this.

  “Do we really want to take that chance?” she asked.

  He wasn’t sure about being bait, but he was sure that he didn’t want the bad guys coming to find him or Abbey. They would take down this whole police station if they thought it would help get what they wanted.

  “Your call, Brinson.” Dylan struggled to come across as casual. “If you drive me over to the tractor there’s a good chance you’ll end up with the final clue on the Lease and the guys looking to steal it,” he said.

  “Fine. Let’s go,” Brinson answered abruptly and headed for the exit.

  Abbey stood and hugged Dylan tightly. He wasn’t surprised when she whispered in his ear: “I know where it is. I’m going to get the Chief to take me to the town hall and I’ll get it.”

  Abbey was so desperate to get her hands on the lease that she didn’t mind putting Dylan at risk to get the FBI agent out of the way. But she was putting herself at risk, too—there was no way she could consider finding it and dying a success.

  “Don’t, it’s too dangerous. Later, when we’re together, we’ll get it safely,” he whispered back, hoping she would listen.

  Abbey didn’t respond and they broke their embrace. Dylan started for the door, unsure of what was to come.

  Agent Brinson wasn’t a talker; he waited at the door in silence until he and Dylan walked out together.

  The FBI vehicle was a standard white fleet car, nothing fancy. If you didn’t know the guy driving was a Fed, nothing in its appearance would give it away. Dylan assumed that it was intentional.

  “I read your file. You’re no Boy Scout. If you think you’re working an angle on this, forget about it,” Brinson said as he started the engine.

  “I’ve never broken a law while sober. I’ve been clean now for a long time and don’t expect that to change,” Dylan answered clearly.

  “One other time in my career, I came across a mythical piece of history. It was supposed to be a painting by some old French master. There was a small group of rich people lying, stealing, and killing to get their hands on the thing. This American Lease reminds me a lot of that situation,” the FBI man explained.

  “Did anyone find the painting?” Dylan asked.

  “Yeah, but it was a fake,” the agent responded.

  “Lives ruined, fortunes lost, I assume. Abbey is more Indiana Jones than Thomas Crown. She’d be just as happy to go study the thing in a museum as find it herself,” Dylan lied, but he thought it might be part of the truth.

  “Well, you can both keep looking, but be clear, the laws don’t bend because you think there might be something historic to be found,” Agent Brinson said firmly.

  Chap
ter 38

  “Stop, stop, stop!” Dylan commanded the Agent Brinson.

  In the parking lot of the trail head at Monson, the official-looking vehicle of the wanted man was still parked.

  “This is where her tractor is?” Brinson asked, puzzled.

  “No. That’s the car your fugitive is driving. He’s still here,” Dylan answered.

  “Are you sure?” the agent probed.

  “Turn around in the next driveway on your left. Then pull over to the side of the road where you can see his car,” Dylan instructed.

  Agent Brinson bristled. “You don’t give orders to me.”

  “Look, we both know the longer things drag on, the harder they are to solve. If this guy gets in that car and drives away, you may never catch him,” Dylan explained.

  “We’re not going to sit on a stakeout,” the agent insisted, and smiled at the outdated notion.

  “Got that right.” Dylan opened the door and jumped out of the moving car. He ran toward the parking lot.

  The Brinson turned the car in the driveway and pulled over to the side of the road just as Dylan suggested. Chasing Dylan into the woods left them both exposed and gave the suspect an open escape. Driving somewhere else would take him away from the scene and his best lead for finding the criminal. He swiped his phone and called in to the police headquarters to request backup.

  Dylan stopped running just as he came out of the woods.

  When he reached the Gould house, he pulled his phone from a pocket and pretended to swipe it alive. The phone went to his ear as he walked and he thought about what to say.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he said loudly. “I can barely hear you, the signal is weak here.”

  He paused like he was listening to someone on the other end of a call.

  “Okay. I promise I didn’t write anything down. If they stop me before I get the Lease, there’s no way they can find it on their own,” he yelled, immediately embarrassed by his overacting.

  Keeping his head focused in front of him, he used his peripheral vision to detect the slightest disturbance.

  It took over a minute, and much more space than he expected, before he saw the branches move opposite the wind. Then a pair of birds was scared out of the trees. While there was the possibility that it was a deer, coyote, or other large animal, Dylan sensed that it was a man. Besides, most of the animals would be resting quietly at this time of day, preferring to feed in the dawn and dusk hours.

  Knowing that speed was one of his few advantages, Dylan came up with a plan.

  “The FBI guy is following me,” he said into his fake call more softly, but still loud enough. “I’m going to ditch him and then circle back. No way are we letting the Feds take this into evidence.”

  He sprinted down the old dirt road.

  If things worked out the way he hoped, the guy in the woods would have been looking behind Dylan in search of the FBI agent. When he noticed Dylan running, he would realize that he had no hope of moving through the dense forest quickly and quietly enough to catch up. The thief’s best option would be to sit and wait, like he had been for most of the day.

  Well past the last cellar hole, Dylan veered left and directly into the woods. He made no special effort to be silent at first. Once he was twenty yards into the trees and brush, he stopped completely and listened.

  Silence.

  Not knowing how deep into the woods the fake FBI man was hiding concerned him, but he did not stop. He made each step slow and careful with the knowledge that the sound of a leaf or breaking branch was related to its size. Big branches made big cracks.

  His running had taken him further away than he thought, and the trip back to where the road opened up required more energy than he expected. Sweat ran down his back and dripped from the end of his nose.

  Finally he spotted a navy blue patch against the red, yellow, and orange backdrop of autumn leaves. The imposter may have been well-trained and lethal, but he was not dressed for hiding in the woods.

  Taking advantage of the noise created by a few steady gusts of wind, Dylan closed to within fifteen yards of the man who had previously assaulted him. In truth, he had never expected to get this close and wasn’t sure about how to close the last space between them.

  Another gust of wind would help, but maybe not enough now that he was so close. He needed another distraction.

  His phone.

  Taking the cell phone from his pocket, he texted Abbey.

  “Call me in thirty seconds. –Dylan”

  A few moments later, the reply came: “Counting down. Be careful. –Abbey”

  Dylan counted to ten, quickly, and then threw his phone off to the right of the suit in front of him.

  When the phone landed, he could see the man shift and search the area the sounds had come from.

  Dylan found a branch slightly thicker than a baseball bat and gripped it firmly. The next twenty seconds passed slowly.

  As soon as the phone began ringing, the would-be killer raised himself up slightly to get a better view.

  Dylan crossed the space between them in just a few strides. He swung the branch forcefully, making direct contact with the back of the man’s head. The body slumped over the log he had been hiding behind and the gun he was holding fell down into the leaves.

  That was easy, Dylan thought, regretting it immediately.

  A shot rang out and the log in front of his left leg splintered violently.

  Without hesitation, he dove to the earth.

  Another report cracked the still forest and bark from the tree directly behind him exploded and rained down on his back.

  The gun from his unconscious stalker was on the other side of the log. Taking three quick breaths, he mustered his courage.

  This was no dash for the end zone where a hard hit would be softened by pads and the adrenaline that comes with a touchdown. This was life or death.

  He reached over the log and grabbed the gun quickly.

  Another bullet splintered the log, inches from his hand.

  As he lay back on the earth, Dylan saw that the last bullet had blown a hole in the log he was hiding behind. Soggy, rotten wood spilled out on his side in a gaping hole that tapered to a narrow opening only slightly larger than the bullet that created it.

  With the new opening he could see across the road into the woods behind the cellar holes.

  Not only were these assailants better shots, they were also better at hiding.

  His phone had already worked as a distraction, and now it was out of reach, deep in a bed of leaves. How could he flush them out of hiding when he couldn’t see them?

  Looking at the unconscious body on the ground next to him, he started to worry about the man regaining consciousness. To keep him out of the fight, Dylan would need to incapacitate him, but he didn’t want to kill him.

  Wiggling around on the ground in his best effort to keep below the cover of the log, Dylan grabbed hold of the man’s suit sleeve. Laying his head back, he moved himself into a position where he could see through the hole and still maneuver his hands.

  Slowly, he raised the arm of the fake FBI agent, making it clearly visible above the log.

  Within seconds a shot rang out and Dylan was able to see the flash from the muzzle of the gun that fired it. He did his best to note the exact tree that hid the shooter but knew that when his perspective changed it would be tough to find.

  The man on the ground next to him screamed in pain. Blood poured from his hand —his first two fingers were completely gone.

  Dylan saw a rage-filled face staring at him and a flash of steel.

  He was able to move his leg just before the knife slashed down and dug into the soft earth.

  Dylan kicked hard and struck the man in the head.

  Another growl came from deep within his attacker as the knife was raised for another strike.

  Using his other foot, Dylan pushed at the man’s shoulder. Apparently unaware of the other shooter, the FBI imposter used the push as
leverage to rise up to his knees for a more powerful strike.

  Brain matter and blood created a fine mist in the air. The impact from the bullet caused the body to fall backwards, harmlessly away from Dylan. He couldn’t tell if he’d heard the gunshot or not, but his breathing slowed while he checked his own body for injury.

  Chapter 39

  The dead man next to him was no longer a problem. A greater problem existed in the form of a sniper across the road.

  Looking out through the peephole in the log, Dylan was surprised to see two men casually walking between two cellar holes. Both were dressed in full camouflage and one held a long rifle in the crook of his right arm. They looked like triumphant hunters casually strolling to collect their kill.

  As they approached his side of the road, Dylan could see that they were the men who had threatened him in the gas station parking lot. He doubted they were partners with the man who had been killed, but he knew for certain they were not on his team.

  They must have triangulated on his phone and not seen him attack the fake agent. He would have to act before they arrived at his hiding place.

  Giving the gun in his right hand a squeeze, Dylan closed his eyes and visualized the chest of the man carrying the rifle. He knew that close to a hundred yards was a tough shot with a handgun, but hoped that the gunfire would at least buy him time to get lost in the trees.

  Rolling up to his knees, Dylan aligned the rear site and the barrel site squarely on the man’s chest before squeezing off three quick shots.

  Without waiting or watching, he rose to his feet and ran into the trees. He dodged each of the first trees in a different direction; left, right, left, right.

  A series of gunshots rang out and Dylan hunched his back, waiting for the painful impact of a bullet.

  No bullets whizzed past and none found their mark on his body.

  After passing a large maple, Dylan stopped and took cover. Looking back to gauge the pursuit of the hunters resulted in a pleasant surprise.

  Off on the old Monson road, Agent Brinson carefully approached two camouflaged lumps on the ground. His gun was drawn and Dylan thought he could hear talking.