Next Exit, Pay Toll

by CW Browning

  Next Exit, Pay Toll

  CW Browning

  Also by CW Browning

  Kai Corbyn Series

  Games of Deceit

  Shadows of War

  The Courier

  The Oslo Affair

  Night Falls on Norway

  The Iron Storm

  Into the Iron Shadows (Coming Soon)

  The Exit Series

  Next Exit, Three Miles

  Next Exit, Pay Toll

  Next Exit, Dead Ahead

  Next Exit, Quarter Mile

  Next Exit, Use Caution

  Next Exit, One Way

  Next Exit, No Outlet

  The Exit Series Box Set #1: Books 1-3

  Watch for more at CW Browning’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also By CW Browning

  About Next Exit, Pay Toll

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Note from Author

  Sign up for CW Browning's Mailing List

  Further Reading: Next Exit, Dead Ahead

  Also By CW Browning

  About the Author

  About Next Exit, Pay Toll

  All sins are punished one day.

  For the ruthless traitor protected deep within Washington, DC, that day has come. Alina Maschik has only one goal: find, expose, and eliminate the person who brought a terrorist onto United States soil. For an assassin trained to hunt for a living, this was a straight-forward, text-book mission. But nothing is ever simple with Alina. Unjustly labeled a rogue agent, she's made it to the top of America's Most Wanted list, her own government wants her dead, and everyone close to her is becoming a target. Now, in order to protect those she loves, Alina must work quickly to uncover the traitor...before they uncover her.

  Viper returns in the riveting sequel to Next Exit, 3 Miles, determined to ensure that a national traitor pays for their sins, once and for all.

  This book is dedicated to my beautiful daughter.

  I love you more than words can say.

  “It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; Their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.”

  ~ Deuteronomy 32: 35

  Prologue

  The explosion rocked the quiet valley out of its slumber, sending deep rumbles ricocheting through the earth and up into the hills. Flames leapt high into the night sky, lighting the darkness, while high above the valley a solitary figure watched as the fire rapidly spread through the compound below. The explosives had been placed strategically throughout the estate, ensuring maximum devastation. What sounded like one explosion from this distance was, in reality, several explosions occurring together. As each individual inferno met the next, the flames engulfed the compound within seconds.

  Hawk lowered his head to his night-vision scope and slowly scanned the flames, looking for movement. He was lying flat between two boulders high in the hills and both he and his rifle were covered with branches, making him invisible in the night. When he reached the end of the compound without detecting any movement, he slowly scanned back again. There were over thirty men in that compound, three of whom were the heads of the largest Mexican drug Cartels. Those three men were the reason for Hawk's visit.

  Movement in the midst of the raging flames made him pause and his finger slipped over the trigger of his rifle gently. When the shadow lurched out from one of the burning buildings, Hawk waited for it to stumble into his cross-hairs before he squeezed the trigger. It fell to the ground and Hawk watched for more movement. The flames were reaching a fever pitch now, engulfing the buildings and spreading across the gardens to the SUVs and sports cars that were parked in the expansive driveway.

  Another shadow appeared near the cars and Hawk squeezed his trigger. The shadow fell as the first SUV in the path of the flames ignited and the full tank of gas exploded. More flames leapt high into the air as pieces of the vehicle shot out in all directions. Hawk loaded another round into the chamber and continued to watch for movement. The hillside where he was concealed was silent in the night; the breeze was gentle and the sky clear. The smoke from the flames below hadn't reached him yet, and he took a deep breath of fresh, clean air. The fire had only been burning for about three minutes. There was still plenty of time.

  Hawk lowered his head to the scope again.

  Ten minutes later, the space between the rocks was empty. Far below, in the Mexican valley, a fire raged out of control as it licked past the fences of the estate and across the landscape. Six bodies were on the ground, the flames consuming them with everything else. If anyone bothered to examine the charred remains closely, they would find a single .50 caliber round embedded in each of their skulls.

  But the shooter had already disappeared into the night, leaving no trace of a man or a rifle, his mission accomplished.

  Chapter One

  The Puritans in Salem had the right idea; witches were meant to be burned, burned to a crisp, until even the buzzards hovering overhead wouldn't peck at the charred remains. That was the right and just punishment for witchcraft. It was the only way to eradicate the evil within them.

  The archer released her grip on the steel-tipped arrow and the bow sung briefly as the arrow whizzed along its course to the target. Tilting the bow back, she pondered the merits of fire versus arrows as her shaft buried itself in the target.

  The problem with fire was that nowadays you had to actually get the witch into a place where she could be burned alive. While one would think that would be relatively easy, the archer knew that it would not be that simple for this particular witch. This witch would find a way out before the fire even started. She was just that annoying.

  The archer reached behind her and pulled another arrow from the slender bag on her back. She notched it into the string with a practiced movement and brought the bow up to her shoulder.

  No. Fire was out of the question.

  There was another hiss as she released the second arrow and watched it impale itself next to the first one. She considered the target that was seventy feet away, pursed her lips, and then turned to walk back a few feet. Stopping at around seventy-five feet, she turned to face the target again.

  Sadly, death by arrow was almost impossible as well. The odds of her being able to somehow maneuver the witch into an archery setting were non-existent.

  The archer notched another arrow into her bow and took careful aim, her hands steady as she pulled it back.

  No. It was best to stick to the original plan. As much as she would love to listen to the witch screaming as flames licked around her flesh, consuming her, it was always best to stick to the original course of action, especially when one had already embarked upon it.

  The arrow soared through the air and buried itself between the other two, piercing through the picture taped to the target. The archer lo
wered her bow in satisfaction.

  The last arrow stayed, trembling, where it had struck between two black eyes on the rearing head of a Viper.

  Stephanie Walker stepped into the silent house, leaving the sliding door open behind her. The feeling of emptiness was oppressive. The electricity had been off for three months and the air was stale and hushed. No sound came from the refrigerator in the large kitchen and Stephanie found the silence disturbing. She glanced around, taking in the emptiness in the fading afternoon light. The carpeted living room was to her left and the couch and recliner were covered with furniture covers. Looking to her right, she saw that the dining room furniture was also covered. The bar separating the kitchen from the dining room had been left bare, and the once-shining black granite top was dull with a layer of dust.

  Walking forward, Stephanie set her keys down on the granite, absently swiping a finger through the dust and rubbing her fingers together as her eyes traveled into the still kitchen. The kitchen island was bare and the pot rack above it hung empty. Top-of-the-line appliances stood silent, waiting for the day when they would be called into use again.

  Stephanie sighed, depressed by the emptiness. She looked around again and wandered into the living room. Three months ago, her old friend, Alina, had come back to Jersey from God only knew where, doing God only knew what, and saved her life. When Stephanie came to thank her, the house was empty and locked up tight. The furniture was covered with protective covers and the entire residence had been swept clean of any trace of occupants.

  A few phone calls had elicited the information that the house had been sold a few days previously to a Ms. Raven Woods. The entire sale had been completed through lawyers. A call to the lawyer representing Ms. Woods led to a dead end.

  Alina had simply disappeared.

  The growl of a motorcycle engine dragged Stephanie’s attention from her thoughts and she went out the sliding doors again to stand on the deck that ran the length of the house. The property was buried, out of sight from the road, in the middle of South Jersey's pine barrens on about sixteen acres of land. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees and left speckled patches of light on the manicured lawn. The house was empty, but a local lawn service had standing orders to come once a week. They had been paid up front, in cash, for the whole summer until October.

  That, too, had led to a dead end upon investigation.

  Stephanie watched as the motorcycle roared around the side of the house and stopped behind her car. Her partner got off and removed his helmet, turning to come across the lawn. John Smithe was tall, with blond hair and broad shoulders. He was dressed in jeans and a green shirt, with his FBI badge clipped to his waist and his 9mm holstered next to it. He didn't look happy.

  “I guessed you would be at the Bird House,” he said, joining her on the deck.

  Stephanie grinned despite herself. When they found out the owner's name was Raven Woods, a snort from John was his only acknowledgement of the hawk that had terrorized him there. He looked past her now to the open sliding door.

  “Breaking and entering?” he asked, stepping past her to the sliding doors.

  “I didn't break anything.” Stephanie followed him and John glanced at her, his pale blue eyes glinting in amusement.

  “Of course not,” he murmured. They stepped into the living room and John looked around. He was silent for a moment, his eyes taking in the furniture covers and bare walls. He walked into the dining room, glancing into the kitchen. “What are you looking for?”

  “Oh, I don't know.” Stephanie sighed and looked around. “Maybe just closure.”

  John leaned on the bar and looked across the room at her. His pale blue eyes considered her thoughtfully.

  “You don't think she's coming back?” he asked softly. Stephanie shrugged.

  “I don't know,” she answered truthfully. “She bought the house, which would indicate that she will eventually.”

  “Well, according to the deed, her damn bird bought the house,” John said disgustedly.

  Stephanie chuckled. She had been amused by the name on the deed of sale, but John had not. In fact, John had been pretty UN-John since Alina had disappeared again. Normally very talkative and light-hearted, John had been quiet and morose for the past three months.

  “That really bothers you, doesn't it?” Stephanie asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the back of the couch. John shrugged.

  “You're supposed to be starting your well-deserved vacation,” he said, changing the subject. “Why are you here, poking around in a house that can't tell you anything?”

  “I don't know.” Stephanie shrugged.

  “We went over this place twice and didn't find anything. Not even DNA,” John pointed out. “The place is clean.”

  Stephanie nodded, her dark hair falling into her eyes. She reached up to brush it out of the way.

  “I know,” she agreed with a sigh. “I just keep hoping that maybe we missed something.”

  “Honey, they're long gone,” John said, straightening up and walking over to her. “The latest report this morning had her sighted in Peru.”

  Stephanie lifted her eyes to his and laughed shortly.

  “Yesterday she was in Hong Kong,” she exclaimed. John grinned.

  “I thought yesterday was Moscow,” he murmured. Stephanie shook her head and John put his arm around her shoulders, turning her toward the sliding doors. “Come on. You need to relax and forget about it. Enjoy your vacation and clear your mind. She'll turn up eventually. Even Alina can't hide from the US government indefinitely.”

  “I wouldn't be too sure of that,” Stephanie retorted as she allowed herself to be led out of the empty house.

  The heavy, solid wood door to the bar swung wide, allowing a gust of humid August heat to sweep in from the street. Late afternoon sun sliced through the gloom inside, glinting off the dust particles floating in the air, and caused a patron sitting at the bar to turn his head and blink owlishly at the bright light. There were only a handful of customers, but they all fell silent and turned to look at the open door.

  The newcomer glanced around the bar, highlighted for a brief moment in silhouette by the ray of hot sunshine. Broad shoulders and a solid frame blocked the light before the door swung closed behind him and the sunlight was swallowed up. The gust of hot air dissipated and the patrons went back to their drinks and low-voiced conversations, their momentary interest exhausted. Setting down the pint glass he was drying, the bartender leaned on the bar and waited for the newcomer to approach.

  “Hey, Danny.” The newcomer nodded, stopping at the bar. “How’s it going?”

  “Just living the dream,” the bartender replied. “The usual?”

  “You got it.” The newcomer looked around. Even though the summer heat outside was oppressive, few people had taken refuge in the cool, dark bar. “Slow day?”

  “It’s early yet,” Danny replied, pouring a draft of craft brew into a pint glass. “It’ll pick up later.”

  “I hope so, for your sake.” The newcomer pulled out his wallet as the beer was placed in front of him. “Who’s that at the end there?” he asked, lowering his voice as he handed Danny a bill.

  Danny leaned forward and turned his head slightly to look where the newcomer had motioned. At the far end of the bar, hunched over a double scotch, was a woman. Her mousy brown hair was streaked with threads of silver and pulled back into a twist at the back of her head. She was dressed neatly, but drably, in a beige, summer-weight suit. Glasses perched on her nose and she peered owlishly into her scotch, ignoring everything around her.

  “She’s one of the new regulars,” Danny answered readily. “She’s alright. She comes in every day after work and nurses a double scotch. She works over at J.A. Associates as some sort of administrative assistant.”

  The newcomer grunted.

  “I would need a double scotch every day too if I worked there,” he muttered. “Does she always sit there?”

  “Yeah, but don
’t worry.” Danny turned away with the money to ring up the drink. A minute later, he returned with the change. “She has a hearing aid. You have to practically shout before she hears you. She got some kind of an infection in her ear a few months back and it never healed. She's learning to sign.”

  “Chatty with her, are you?”

  The newcomer took his change and dropped a few bills on the bar. Danny picked them up with a nod of thanks and dropped them into the tip jar behind the bar.

  “I’m a bartender,” he retorted.

  The newcomer grinned and picked up his beer. He moved away down the bar, toward the hearing-impaired woman. She glanced up as he drew closer and he encountered a blank look from dark, glittering eyes. As quickly as she caught his glance, she looked down again, and spun her glass around absently on the bar. He walked by, noting the flesh-colored piece of plastic stuck in her ear, and seated himself in the booth behind her. He watched her for a minute before losing interest. She had returned to staring into her scotch morosely. Danny was right.

  She was no kind of threat.

  Settling against the worn back of the booth, Michael sipped his beer and watched the door. Marty was late, but there was nothing strange in that. He had never known Marty to be on time. He usually rolled in when Michael was halfway through his beer. He had learned to expect it and took the opportunity now to relax a bit. His eyes wandered over the handful of bar patrons as he sipped his beer. Aside from the woman at the bar, they were the same demographic: tired, disheartened, out of work professionals. They were all over the city now. The woman drowning her sorrows at the bar may work for a notoriously horrible company, but at least she was working. A few of her fellow patrons would probably kill for her job.

  Michael brought his eyes back to the woman curiously. She had shifted on her bar stool and crossed her legs. He tilted his head slightly, looking at the length of thigh that was exposed by the short skirt of the suit. The legs were a surprise to him. Given her overall mousy appearance, he wasn’t prepared for legs that were that long and perfect. He lifted his beer again, and then his eyes, meeting an amused look from Danny. He grinned sheepishly as Danny shook his head and Michael returned his attention to the front door, dismissing the mouse with the great legs from his mind.