by A. Gorman
Red wine doesn’t belong in the fridge. It’s to be served warm… I heard my sister’s voice ringing in my ear.
“I don’t give a shit,” I said into thin air. I can’t drink anything warm, not even fancy wine.
As it slid down my throat, I glanced at the papers again. This was huge, big, heavy, and… what the hell was I going to do?
Tell the truth…
The truth about what? I didn’t do anything! I’m no accountant. I had no idea what went on in the financial department. All I did was process the legal work and subpoenas from their clients. There was that one time, about a year ago, when Margie had quit and I had to try to sort out their finances, but that was short-lived until Angela had arrived…
Oh, my God!
I looked down at the date of the charges. They were recent, but the tax evasion dated exactly a year ago when I was trying to wade through their financials. The murder-for-hire charge was more recent.
Holy crap! George… Elmo… what have you done?
Chapter 3
Duke
My rumbling Harley wound its way through suburban Tampa. Cookie-cutter houses and half-grown oak trees lined the streets until I reached my home. I killed the engine once I reached the garage of my mediocre house. I looked around my neighborhood and shook my head. This was not how I pictured my life going when I was a young 18-year-old recruit getting ready to join the Marines.
As I slid the key into the lock, I smiled to myself at the memory of my father yelling at my brother Mason and me about our choices to join the service after high school. The old man had been so pissed. A Navy vet, he couldn’t believe his only two sons had decided to join the Army and Marines. I had big hopes and dreams for you boys to join the U.S. Navy as proud seamen! he’d touted.
Mason and I snickered at him, and were rewarded with slaps upside our heads. But it never weakened our resolve. We were not going to become squids. No way. I tried so hard to get Mason to join the Corps with me when he had graduated the year after me, but he wouldn’t budge. He said the United States Army was calling to him, and that was the end of that. Mason had done well in the Army, reaching almost as high as one could get being enlisted, and discharging after two tours in Iraq with full honors. He was now a detective here with the Tampa P.D., and I couldn’t be prouder. I needed to go visit that asshole soon and see what he was up to.
Throwing my keys onto the kitchen counter, I rifled without much interest through the mail I’d collected at the community mailbox. Junk, bills, and coupons. I chucked what I didn’t need into the trash and went to my bedroom to change into something more comfortable. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I plucked it out with reluctance. I had no desire to go back into work. I was beat.
The text on the screen read: I’m lonely, baby. Come over here and rub that beard between my thighs.
Looking at the name on the screen, I chuckled. Tisha. Tish with the nice tush, that’s how I remembered her. Long, wavy brown hair, full lips, and an ass I could spank for days. But… damn… I was so fuckin’ tired. Tish and her nice tush would have to wait.
I quickly shot off a text telling her I was tied up at work and couldn’t get to her place. Yes, it was a lie, but I wasn’t one to burn any bridges. Gotta keep them hanging on in case the need arose anytime soon.
I’m such an asshole…
I smiled, tossing my clothes into the hamper in the bathroom. I started the shower and stepped into the steam and water, tilting my head back and letting it wash over me.
This day had been taxing… horrible… and what I probably deserved. My mind was warring with my soul. I couldn’t do this. Yes, I could do this.
Witness protection detail…
I could babysit a couple of “victims” for a few months. Watch their homes, help them get new social security numbers and driver’s licenses and shit. But if I had to play bodyguard while they shopped, got manicures, and took their dogs to be groomed, I was gonna lose my fucking shit.
After drying off and throwing on some basketball shorts, I went into the kitchen and fixed myself a BLT on wheat. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I popped off the top and carried them both into the living room. I needed to chill out. My leg was bothering me more than usual today and I’d had to grit my teeth throughout most of the day to stay off the pain. I was done with painkillers and all that shit. This pain was just something I’d have to live with and try to get used to. Still, some days were worse than others. Like today.
I flipped on the TV and smiled to see the Florida State game was televised. The Gators were playing the Seminoles and I would definitely have to give Mason some shit if the Seminoles lost. After finishing my sandwich and beer, my body was relaxed, the pain in my leg was lessening a bit, and my eyes drifted closed.
“Get the fucking medics now!” I hear Sgt. Ellis Anderson scream through the horrific ringing in my right ear.
I want to tell him no, I’m fine, I can just get up and walk it off. But then I couldn’t. My words are slurred and I can’t think of anything other than the searing hot pain in my right leg. Through my haze, I manage to look down and see something shiny and sharp sticking out of it. God, it hurts so damn bad I might pass out. And this ringing in my ear is like a bell that won’t stop. It’s wailing and getting louder. I feel dizzy. Is the ground still shaking? It feels like it’s still shaking. Make it stop before I puss-out and throw up all over myself. My leg, though, it’s burning and bleeding and I just want it to stop. Lifting my head to look once more, it flops back to the ground as I lack the strength to hold it upright any longer.
“Stay with me, Hawthorne!” Anderson yells, slapping my face.
I try to nod, but it’s of no use. My world goes black.
Jerking awake on the sofa, I gasped in a breath. I hated that damn dream. I hated it so much. But it never stopped plaguing me.
I decided to get up from the couch, put my bottle in the trash and my plate in the sink, and head to my bedroom. I crawled into bed alone and prayed I could fall back to sleep without that fucking nightmare coming back.
* * *
“St. Petersburg? Are you serious?” I asked, looking down at the paper in my hand.
“Shut up, Hawthorne. St. Petersburg’s still in our district. Just take the assignment. Single white female set to testify against her employer in about two weeks’ time,” Jeff said to me, not even bothering to look at me, but instead, his eyes glued to his laptop.
“And then what?” I asked, gripping my new WPD assignment in my hand so hard, the paper began to crumple.
My boss took off his glasses and turned toward me. “The entire assignment is detailed out for you in the folder.” He pointed to the manila folder still sitting on his desk.
I plucked it up and opened it. “Virginia! What the f–”
“I’m gonna need you to get out of my office now, loose cannon,” Jeff said, his face back in front of his laptop.
Huffing but saying nothing, I turned and walked out of his office and back toward my desk. I sat in a large room full of cubicles on a regular day, when I wasn’t out in the field (which is what I preferred). Just not Witness Protection Detail. I’d rather sit at a desk.
Maybe.
I plopped down, and as I leaned back in my chair, it squeaked in protest. I slowly opened the folder.
VICTIM: Rayanne Lynch, age 27, Caucasian female, single, no children, Paralegal, lifelong resident of St. Petersburg, Florida.
A photo was attached. While pretty in a Barbie sort of way, she didn’t seem the type to get tangled up in a case. But then again, they never did. This was my first Witness Protection case, but I’d heard my colleagues talk about them plenty. Most victims – “vics” as we called them – were scared shitless. I’m sure this chick was, too.
I flipped the page.
DEFENDANT: George Watson, Caucasian male, age 52. Married, two children, ages 23 and 20. Lifelong resident of St. Petersburg, Florida. Attorney. One count Failure to Pay Corporate Taxes over One Million Dollars
. One count Murder-For-Hire.
DEFENDANT: Elmo Watson, Caucasian male, age 55. Married, four children, ages, 27, 25, 22, 20. Lifelong resident of St. Petersburg, Florida. One count Failure to Pay Corporate Taxes over One Million Dollars. One count Murder-For-Hire.
SUSPECT: Shane Watson, age 27, Caucasian male, single, no children. Lifelong resident of St. Petersburg, Florida. One count of Murder-For-Hire. Currently missing. Considered armed and dangerous.
I stared for a long time at the documents. Due to the defendants all having the same last name, I assumed they were all related, and the last one was probably the kid or nephew of one of the defendants. But who did they kill or try to kill since they’d already been charged? That particular victim’s name was missing from the file. Probably already knee-deep in the program was my guess. I seriously doubted it was the one I was sent to protect. She’d already be dead if that was the case. I was anxious to dig into the case some more and find out what the hell these dirtbag lawyers were up to.
We’d had some classes on WPD during our training at Quantico, and it was those classes I was desperately trying to conjure up in my mind as I left the office and headed home to pack a bag. The instructions said I was to go to her house, help her pack, and then take her to Virginia, some place called Pembroke, to be exact.
I’d been a lot of places, thanks to the USMC, but I’d only been to Virginia once for my FBI training. Trying to think positively, I told myself, at least I’d get to see another part of it now. Not much of it, mind you, but it was the only positive thing going for me at the moment.
Parking my bike in the garage, I killed the engine and sighed as I stared at my beauty. I would miss her gleaming black paint with red flames painted on the side and shiny chrome pipes when I was away on that fucking assignment. The FBI was forcing me to take one of the undercover rides. A rookie agent was set to deliver a car to me within the next hour.
I rummaged through my closet until I found my battered camouflage duffel that was as big as I was. I stared at my gym clothes and sighed, realizing I probably wouldn’t be able to get a workout while I was on this assignment. I absently began to empty jeans, slacks, T-shirts, a couple dress shirts, my boots, sneakers, and one pair of dress shoes into it. I then emptied my drawers of underwear, socks, and T-shirts, zipping the duffel once it was full. I had no idea how long I’d be gone. Which reminded me.
Plucking my phone from my pocket, I dialed my buddy, Kyle Adams, and it rang three times before he answered. “Hello?”
“Hey, man. I gotta jet outta town. Can you look after my house?”
“Hey, Duke. Absolutely. You mind if Lucas and I use your pool? And can I bring Lucy?” he asked, his voice friendly, as usual.
Lucas was Kyle’s kid, and Lucy was his service dog. A yellow lab, I think. I’d done my first tour in Afghanistan with Kyle, and unfortunately, Kyle had come back from that tour missing half of his left leg. He was strong and determined and I was proud of him for handling such a loss the way he did. Unfortunately, his old lady hadn’t been cool with the whole disability, and had left him to raise Lucas on his own.
Stupid, selfish redheaded bitch.
“Absolutely, mi casa es su casa,” I said in the worst Southern redneck Spanish ever.
He chuckled. “Thanks, man. How long you will you be gone?”
“I honestly have no idea, and I can’t tell you why or where I’m going.”
“I get it, dude. Just take care of yourself. When do you leave?”
“Today, hopefully,” I replied.
“Okay. We’ll head over tonight. Mind if we just house-sit?”
I smiled in relief. “No, please do. It would make me feel better. Just please watch your boy near the pool.”
“Luke’s part fish. He already knows how to swim and I would never let him swim without me in the water. It’s all good, brother.”
I sighed in relief again. “You’re a lifesaver. Key’s in its usual spot, and I’ll call you when I can. Oh, and mow the grass when you get a chance. Fucking rain, it never stops.”
“Of course,” he replied, a smile in his voice.
I kept the key inside a planter in the backyard, and Kyle knew which one. I was gonna owe that guy big time.
Chapter 4
Rayanne
I jumped when my phone’s text notification chimed. I had been doing a lot of jumping and flinching lately since receiving the death threats. That day I’d received the subpoena was nothing compared to this past week.
At least once a day, if not more, I would receive disturbing and horrifying phone calls about what would happen to me if I testified in the Watson trial. I had come close to just bolting and finding a nice safe place to hide. I thought about booking a trip to someplace tropical just to get away from it all. I had a cousin in Hawaii who said I was welcome to stay with her and her husband for as long as I wanted. The problem was – there was no way to book any sort of travel without a paper trail. Everyone wanted a credit card for incidentals. You had to show I.D. to get through security at the airport. It seems there was no way to just disappear for a while – unless you were a criminal, of course. There was also the chance of putting my cousin and her family in danger too, and there was no way I would do that. I was obviously toxic to everyone around me now.
Two agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation had come to see me a couple of days ago. They’d searched my home from top to bottom and installed little microphones they disturbingly nicknamed “bugs” around my house and in my phone. They had told me to stay put and I’d be okay until a permanent agent came to be my personal security. A continually manned unmarked car had not left the front of my condo since then. So far, the horrifying phone calls never lasted long enough for the feds to trace them, except one time, when one came back to a prepaid cell phone purchased here in town. It was a frustrating dead-end. The FBI had also made it clear that my personal security only extended to their resources as long as I agreed to testify against the Watsons.
Well, isn’t that nice? If I’d said, no, I wouldn’t testify, I guess they would have just left me here to fend for myself – which would not have been a good thing. Yes, I could shoot a gun. Did I actually own one? No. I thought about going to my dad and asking for one – Lord knows he had enough to choose from – but that would have just freaked him out, asking why I needed one. He’d given me some pepper spray, but I wasn’t under any illusions that that would help me very much if someone came in to try to kill me.
A deep shudder racked my body, and I took another sip of wine. It was 6 p.m. and I really hadn’t eaten anything today. It’s not like I could leave the house to get food – that seemed dangerous and stupid. I thought about getting pizza or takeout delivered, but the thoughts of having a delivery driver come to my door made me nauseous. What if this person threatening me took a driver’s uniform and pretended to be him, and then killed me?
Yeah, my overactive imagination had been with me since childhood and it wasn’t slowing down any time soon.
I sat at my dining room table and put my head in my hands. I had been quarantined here for four days now and I was going insane. I wasn’t allowed to use my cell phone or the computer if it required Wi-Fi. It was either TV or books. I chewed my thumbnail as I wondered how the hell I was gonna pay my bills. I obviously was out of a job, and had been forbidden to go out and get another. My savings was gonna diminish quickly if I didn’t supplement my income. But how? I was so stressed out, I just couldn’t relax. I did need to get something in my stomach, though.
Getting up, I went to the kitchen. As I rummaged through the cabinets, I found some boxed mac and cheese. Putting on a pot of water to boil, I turned on the burner and stood there with my finger to my lip, watching it without seeing, as thoughts engulfed me. Fearful, awful thoughts of death and hopelessness.
I’m not gonna lie, the death threats were terrifying. I kept telling myself they were just trying to scare me, get me to back off from testifying. But what if they weren’t? Ha
ving me buried six feet under would help the Watsons’ case greatly. After all, I had recently been told that the case hinged on my testimony. It all happened when they were between accountants and I was trying to eke my way through their financials and try to keep their bills paid and their business afloat. I truly had no damn clue what I was doing, but I had tried nonetheless. I’m a paralegal, not an accountant. I could barely balance my own checkbook, but the selfish bastards obviously hadn’t cared about that. They just used me to get a job done ‘til they could hire another. They should have called a temp agency instead of relying on my inexperience. But maybe that had been done on purpose. Deep loathing and resentment was beginning to take root in my gut. Anger was starting to stew inside me at their selfishness.
The hissing and smoke of boiling water caught my attention and I threw the pasta into it, stirring it a little as I went back to my musings. Again chewing my nail, I wondered what was gonna happen once this agent arrived to “protect” me. Was he going to stay here? Sleep on the couch? I have two rooms but had yet to furnish the second one. It was nothing but four walls, a closet, and a few of my boxes. Maybe he was going to take me somewhere? How long would I be on the run? What if I had to run forever? What if I had to change my name, move to a different state, say goodbye to my family and friends and become someone else forever?
The smell of something burning caught my attention. The water had completely boiled out of my pasta and now it was scorching the bottom of the pan. I turned off the burner and sank to my ass on the floor of the kitchen and burst into tears, cradling my face in my hands. I was in shambles, crying over ruined pasta.
No, I was crying over my ruined life.
* * *
I woke the next day the same I’d had the past four days. Full of despair and wondering what the point was of getting out of bed. But I knew I had to. I was 27 years old, and my life was far from being over. I had to fight for what was left of it. So I slogged out of bed, showered, and forced some instant oatmeal down my throat. I didn’t, however, manage to bother fixing my hair or putting on any makeup. I mean, what’s the point of looking pretty in prison? Because really, that’s where I was – in prison. Imprisoned in my own home. It felt like Hell. Yes, that’s where I was. I was in Hell.
