Stoking the Embers (New Adult Romantic Suspense): The Complete Series

by Johnson, Leslie

  I smirk. “Good.”

  “He also said we needed to get our asses back before the ice cream melts.”

  Ice cream? Then it hits me. I still have hundreds of dollars of groceries in the back of my truck. Shit.

  Wishing I had a V8 instead of the six cylinder, I floor the truck as the Impala vanishes around the corner.

  “I bet they’re heading to the freeway. Call the captain back, give him our location.”

  I veer right onto the 215 onramp and punch it, ignoring the blast of horns in my wake. The traffic is bad, no surprise for this late in the afternoon. I see the Impala up ahead, zipping in and out of lanes.

  “Gage, throw my lights out.” He’s digging them out as I hit the emergency lane. Moments later, the LEDs are flashing on the dash.

  “They’re boxed in,” Gage yells, pointing ahead.

  “Fuckin-A.” They aren’t stopped, but they’re slowed down significantly.

  “Shit.” Gage is pointing again. “They’re weaving out. No way, they just pushed a Volkswagen out of the way.”

  I see them. They’re using their Impala like a bulldozer. Good damn thing they aren’t driving something bigger.

  “Come on. Come on. Blue lights. We need you,” I mutter under my breath.

  I’m getting closer, less than a hundred feet from where they are bullying their way through when some prick decides he doesn’t like me coming up the emergency lane and moves his car across to block me. I scream to a halt, sliding on some loose gravel and lay down on my horn. The moron must finally notice my lights and tries to get out of the way, but traffic is at a dead stop and he has nowhere to go. I lose precious seconds trying to get around him.

  “He’s out.”

  The Impala’s in the emergency lane and a tractor trailer tries to cut him off. The red car goes into the grass and gets around, but this time I’m close behind him and in my truck, the grass is a lot easier.

  The Impala’s faster and pulls ahead. At the last second, it zips off the exit to Eastern. Without my asking, Gage picks up the phone and calls in the new location.

  I roar down the ramp, flooring it to make the light, but it turns red. The Impala shoots through and I’m right behind him, lights flashing, horn blasting. Thankfully, all the other cars in the intersection wait for me and let me through.

  The car turns right on Warm Springs, speeding up and cutting through the construction lane. “These fuckers don’t want to get caught.”

  I’m behind them when they take a sharp left down a side street, cars squealing to a stop to avoid being hit. I slam on the brakes and wait for the cars to clear, trying to keep the Impala in sight. The confused drivers try to get out of my way, just not fast enough. Finally I’m able to turn, but they are nowhere in sight.

  Shit.

  I hear Gage tell dispatch where we lost them. Gage hangs up and says, “There was a bomb threat at the mall about fifteen minutes ago. All black and whites are working that.”

  I glance over at him. “Convenient.”

  He nods. “Yeah. We better head back.”

  Sunset is only a couple of long blocks away, but we’re in estate country—huge houses, private gates and lots of old Vegas money.

  “What do you think they have planned next?” Gage is still breathing hard. I am too.

  I shake my head. I can’t even hazard a guess.

  “I’m going to call the girls,” Gage says. “Make sure they’re o… shit.”

  Gage’s phone flies out of his hand and we’re both thrown forward. I almost lose control of the truck as I hear the sickening sound of metal screaming against metal.

  I glance in my rearview and see sun reflect off the barrel. “Gage. Down.”

  I pull his head down and then hunch beside him as the rear glass of my truck explodes around us.

  “Shit. You okay?”

  “Yeah, peachy.” Gage picks up his pistol from the floorboard where it was thrown.

  I hazard a look through the window. Two men in ski masks are getting out of the car. One is wearing a bandana. The other has a fucking LVFD hat sitting on top of his head. Bandana dude has a knife. Hat guy is carrying heavy.

  “They’re coming around. Knife your side. Rifle my side. We got to get out of here.”

  The truck stalled in the collision. I’m at an awkward angle, but need to start it. I turn the key. It turns but doesn’t catch. I try it again.

  “Fuck, they’re here,” Gage says. He grabs the handle of the door and shoves it open, knocking the assailant backwards. Then he’s gone, the pistol in front of him as he goes after the guy.

  I see the barrel of the rifle before I see the guy who holds it. He’s too far back for my door to be any use. Weaponless, I make a judgement call and slide across the seat and I’m out of the truck and find that Gage has bandana dude subdued. I pick up the knife lying beside him.

  I get on my belly to see the other guy’s feet. “He’s coming around the front,” I whisper to Gage. He nods and the sweat on his forehead slides down his face. I wipe my sweat off with the sleeve of my shirt.

  “I’ll take this guy. You okay to shoot when he’s in sight?”

  “Damn straight,” Gage says out of the side of his mouth.

  I grab bandana dude and hold the knife to his throat. “Shhhh,” I warn him.

  Gage inches closer to the open door and waits for the guy with the rifle to come around. I try to get low enough to see his feet without losing a grip on my guy or puncturing his jugular accidentally.

  “Eleven o’clock,” I whisper.

  Gage nods and looks back at me. His eyes widen in surprise.

  “Ken, watch out.”

  Bang!

  Chapter 10 - Steph

  My stomach growls and I look at the clock again. Six-thirty? Where’s Beth? I stir the fajita mix again, cover it and turn it on low. I check the re-fried beans and fluff the rice.

  I pour another glass of that crazy good wine Ken got from Jeff, hoping alcohol will soothe my nerves and keep me company. Beth was supposed to be here over a half-hour ago. I look out the front window to see if traffic is at a standstill. It’s not; just the typical Vegas evening grind. We wouldn’t be having this logistical problem if I were still in my apartment, just four doors away from her.

  I plop down on Ken’s couch and pull a throw over my legs. I sigh and realize I don’t want to be back there, even if it didn’t harbor the imagined ghost of a mad man. I want to be here, with Ken. I look around his bachelor pad and realize I never want to leave. I pull the neckline of his LVFD t-shirt up to cover my nose and take a deep sniff. The smell the aftershave he wears, laundry detergent and him. I sniff again.

  Another five minutes pass and Beth still isn’t here. I call her—straight to voice mail. I send her another text.

  I stare at the phone, desperately missing my iPhone and the ‘read’ message it would show the second a message was opened. This phone isn’t bad. It just doesn’t give me that same comfort.

  I stare at the little black eye of the camera; it’s staring back at me and I slide my thumb over it, covering it up. This is a disposable, it’s supposed to be secure. Still. I slide my thumb away. Exposed. I slide it back. Safe. I leave it there. I’ll probably cover the little lens of every device I own for the rest of my life.

  Unease becomes a living thing inside of me as it circles around my stomach and I find it hard to breathe. It isn’t like Beth to be late or at least not to call. I think about calling Ken, but I don’t want to be that girl. The worrywart who has to rely on a man for every little thing.

  Besides… I’ve already given him enough to worry about.

  Looking for a distraction, I walk over to the bookshelf and Ken’s surprisingly large array of books. He prefers suspense and mystery, a thriller here and there. Horrors too. He’s got the entire Stephen King collection and a large array of Dean Koontz. I pull a Patricia Cornwell from the shelf and notice a book turned sideways behind it. Curiosity takes over and I pull another few books aw
ay. He’s hidden a copy of The Four Love Languages. Awwww! I pull it from the shelf and flip it open—there are notes in the margins. I melt in the sweetness of it all. I put it back and hide it behind the Cornwell collection and look for another author to select.

  Brrrr. Brrrr. Brrrr.

  I jump, then realize it’s the disposable phone Ken bought me. I lunge for where it’s lying on the couch.

  It’s Beth! Thank God.

  I press the green button and nearly shout, “Where are you?”

  Silence is on the other side. Then crying; loud, heart-breaking sobs.

  “Beth! What’s wrong?”

  There are noises. A little scream and what sounds like a struggle. Beth cries out again and I’m sure my heart is going to explode in my chest.

  “Talk to me, Beth. What’s wrong? Please, talk to me.” I’m crying too. I’ve not heard her sound so tortured since…

  “Steph?” The voice is so small, the voice clogged with emotion and tears.

  “I’m here. What’s wrong? Where are you?” Panic is like a vice around my brain.

  “I… I don’t know where I am.” Her voice grows smaller. “Stephanie, I’m scared.”

  This last part terrifies me. Beth’s a warrior. She’s tough as nails. She doesn’t fall apart.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say. “I’m going to come get you.”

  “No! You can’t. I’m just calling to tell you goodbye...”

  Beth screams and I hear another struggle. There’s the sound of skin connecting on skin and Beth cries out. “Steph. Don’t listen to them.” She’s screaming, her voice getting more distant. Another smack, then, “Don’t list…” Then she’s gone.

  “Beth!” I’m screaming into the phone. The call is still open. Stop. Think. I don’t dare hang up; maybe the police can trace it. I begin to run for the door, to call for the security detail sitting in their car. Surely they can do something. I reach the door and hear…

  “Hi, babe.” Jerome’s voice is so smug, drawing out each syllable, taking his time. “How’re you doing?”

  Oh God, please no.

  “We need to have a little conversation, don’t you think? But first, you need to step away from that door.”

  My hand falls from the doorknob.

  Chapter 11 - Ken

  Gage’s gun fires and I turn just in time to see a third man fall lifelessly to the ground. There are three of them? I look into the sightless eyes of the man. Were three, I correct myself as I watch the blood quickly coagulate on the sizzling asphalt.

  A gun is still in his hand, his fingers curled around it. He was twenty feet away, well within shooting distance. What made him hesitate?

  With no time to think now, we still have the rifle man to contend with. I drop to the ground, my arm still around bandana man’s throat.

  I don’t see anyone. No feet. Nothing.

  “Gage, I can’t see him.”

  “Shit.”

  Gage begins to edge around the door. The guy I’m holding onto is a liability. I can’t let him go and I can’t help Gage with him under my arm. Flipping the knife in my hand until the handle is pointed down, I bring the end of it down on the man’s skull.

  “Night night, sweetheart,” I say as he sinks to the ground. It buys me a few minutes at least. Then I go down on my belly, look for feet again—nothing—then raise up carefully to peek in the bed of the truck. I had an image of him being there, ready to ambush us. But it’s empty aside from the jumble of groceries. I creep around the back of the truck while Gage covers the front.

  “Clear!” Gage calls.

  I stand up and look around, feeling like a sitting duck.

  “Where the hell did he go?” I ask, not expecting an answer. Gage doesn’t have one so he stays quiet.

  “Where the hell are the black and whites?”

  Then I hear them again, still in the distance, barely audible. I double check my guy, make sure he’s still taking a nap. He is. I yank the bandana off his head and then the ski mask. I don’t recognize him. I flip him onto his stomach and use the bandana to tie his hands together.

  “Stay on lookout for the guy with the rifle. Any idea the range on that thing?”

  Gage shakes his head. “Couldn’t get a good enough look.”

  I pat my guy down and check his pockets, hoping I’m lucky enough to find some identification. Nada. Not even a receipt for a pack of gum. I look over at the dead guy, eager to check him, but not willing to leave the relative cover of the truck.

  One by one, doors open and neighbors peer out of doors. One brave old man comes outside with a rifle, but doesn’t make any offensive moves. He stays on his porch.

  Forever seems to pass before the first black and white pulls up; a second quickly follows. The guys come out, weapons drawn, ready for battle. Gage and I lift our hands in the air, weapons still clearly visible.

  “Lay the weapons on the ground and back away five paces.”

  We do what they say, knowing they’re only following protocol. I respect the job they’ve got to do right now as much as I hope they respect mine. Thankfully, I recognize most of them.

  “One assailant got away, had some type of rifle. He’s the one who took shots at us before.”

  “Against the truck, please.” My buddy, Mike, smirks at me. “Sorry. Protocol.”

  We spread and get into frisking position. I’m getting to be a pro at this.

  Once cleared, they back away. “Which way did the guy go?” Mike asks.

  I shrug, but point in the only direction he could have escaped to. I give him a description and Gage jumps in to fill in any missing details.

  Another officer speaks into his shoulder mike. “Suspect at large. Armed and dangerous…” he describes the guy and the manhunt begins.

  To Mike, I ask, “Can I check him?” I nod at the man Gage took out.

  “No need,” Mike says, but walks in the direction anyway. “Morgan did a quick check. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

  I kneel down and press my fingers to his neck. Either Gage is a great shot, or, as they say here in Vegas, ‘better lucky than good’. It was a perfect shot with only the slightest trickle of blood beside the wound. I know the real gore would be at the exit wound, but don’t turn him over. The blood coming from under his body would quickly run out of the exit wound, gravity doing what his blown apart heart couldn’t.

  “Which of you took the shot?” Mike asks.

  “I did,” Gage volunteers, his face a tense mask. “He was sneaking up behind us and appeared to be ready to shoot.”

  “And this guy?” He is looking at bandana boy, who is being cuffed and hauled up none too gently to his feet.

  I raise a hand. “I hit him to keep him down while we dealt with the shooter.” I wish I’d kicked him the balls while I was at it.

  Officer Morgan approaches us and says, “The detectives will be here soon, the ones following your case. My understanding is, this is part of a pretty big picture.”

  I look at him. “You have no idea.”

  He claps me on the back. “Sorry to hear that. Hope they get it all settled soon. We’ve called a tow truck for both the perp’s car and your truck.”

  “You’re towing me?” I felt slapped.

  “Crime scene shit, Ken,” Mike said. “Twenty-four hours max, then you can haul it off to get it fixed.”

  Morgan says, “More bad news. We’ll need to take Mr. Larson in for official questioning. Standard protocol.” He looks at me. “We’d have to take you in too, but Flores said to leave you to the feds.”

  “Any word if they spotted the guy with the rifle?”

  Morgan shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re searching hard.”

  “I heard you all were tied up with a bomb threat over at the mall? Anything come of it?”

  Morgan blew out a breath. “Are you kidding? Guy called in saying he’s going to off his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend in the mall and take down as many others as he could with him. Gave deta
ils on the device, trigger, shit like that.”

  “Did 911 get the number they called from?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Disposable cell phone.”

  I walk over to the Impala. Mike yells, “Don’t touch nothin’.”

  “I won’t.” I peer into the still open door, careful to keep my fingers to myself. A cell phone sits in the cup holder. “Can you get someone to call the bomb number?”

  Mike speaks into his shoulder mike and we wait. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.

  Circus music comes from the phone in the car.

  I turn to Mike. “Looks like you can close the books on that one.”

  Chapter 12 - Steph

  “Babe, go sit down. We need to talk.”

  Shock makes me obedient. I stagger to the couch and follow his instructions, grateful to sink into its depths. I just can’t get the sound of Beth’s screams to stop ringing in my head. The sound of her being slapped. The sound of her fear.

  “You’re doing great, babe,” Jerome says. “I really want to help you save Beth, but you have to cooperate with me first.”

  I nearly laugh into the phone, but shut my lips before the sound bursts forth. Yeah, right. Help. My hero.

  “Don’t believe me?”

  How does he see me? He knew I was at the door. He knows I nearly laughed. What else has he seen? Recorded? Stored for future distribution? We were assured that Ken’s apartment was safe. I guess they were wrong.

  “You really need to pay attention. Concentrate. Can you do that for me?”

  I nod, unable to answer verbally.

  “Good girl.”

  “Are you going to continue to be a good girl, Steph?”

  I nod again.

  “Speak!” I nearly yelp in surprise when he yells at me.

  “Y… yes.” I hate myself for stuttering.

  “Perfect.” His soothing voice is back.

  “Listen carefully. In order for you to help Beth, I need you to leave the apartment by the back balcony. At the bottom of the steps, turn right and follow the sidewalk to a black van. Are you with me so far?”

  “Yes.” My voice is firmer; the quaver is gone.