Devlin's Defiance: Book Two of the Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

  “Geez, they just can't restrain themselves, can they? Ah, well; it's good for that side of the biz. So what are the two? Okay; I think Cindy can handle that on her own, and she'll enjoy the home visit. Is she open? Good. Let her know. And the other?

  “Whoah, really? They've been after him for years, and no sign of him, and we find him in two weeks? Good for us. Guess we'll need to activate our girl over there. Right. And I'll talk to him; he might want to do this one himself, even if he's a little rusty.

  “Anything else? Okay, good. Say hi to Gisele and the girls for me, okay? Yeah, I will. Bye.”

  He hung up the phone, added a couple of notes to his files and headed up to the above-the-bridge deck, where Pam was making copious notes in a thick looseleaf notebook.

  “Sorry, Pam, but the teams came up empty on the florist shop. Totally clean, family business for 75 years, no new identities, no breaks in history, nothing. Just a few parking tickets on their delivery van.”

  “Ah, but where did they get those tickets?”

  “Looking for a Son of Sam thing, Pam? Sorry; no pattern there, nothing of any significance.”

  “How many tickets in all?”

  “In the last ten years, only fifteen.”

  “Maybe they're being too careful, way too careful. That could be suspicious by itself.”

  “A sleeper cell, Pam?”

  “Yeah, Jake; it's possible.”

  “Possible, sure. We haven't written them off yet, just looking at other stuff more closely, like his travel, phone and email records.”

  “And I'm correlating that all with my journal and my memory.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Nothing conclusive yet. A few things mesh, but they're part of his normal routine.”

  “Oh, well. We'll all keep at it.”

  - 115 -

  March 30, 2013

  9:41 a.m. local time

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  “Hey, Gordy, got a question for ya.”

  “Can it wait a minute, Vito? I gotta get up to the john, quick.”

  “Sure, Gordy, sure.”

  Five minutes later, Gordy returned and found Vito sitting with a new companion, a pretty young blonde woman whom Gordy had seen several times before, but had never met.

  “Okay, Vito, what's up? And who's this?”

  She said, “Hi. I'm Debbie,” and held out her hand, which Gordy shook.

  “Debbie? Oh, geez, I owe you an apology.”

  Tilting her head and wrinkling her brow, she asked, “For what?”

  “For the way I treated you in my book -- well, not you, actually; your namesake.”

  Vito laughed. “He's got a character named Debbie, and she's kind of a” --

  “No, no, don't spoil it for her, Vito.”

  “No, don't, please,” Debbie concurred.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “So, Vito, what'd you wanna ask?”

  “Is it true that you're gonna kill me and Danuta off in the sequel?”

  “Where'd you hear that?”

  “Norm told me.”

  “Hmm. Well, I was thinking I needed to kill someone off, and I may have mentioned you two. Is that a problem?”

  “Well, yeah, especially with all the stuff you wrote that actually came true.”

  “But that was just accidental, not intentional.”

  “But it still came true.”

  Debbie asked, “What stuff?”

  Vito replied, “Hurricane Sandy, a new Pope, first female Secret Service director, um” --

  “Wait, wait. You really wrote about that stuff?”

  “Yup, but again, not intentionally. And I called Hurricane Sandy Hurricane Valerie, off by two letters.”

  “But it was at the end of last October.”

  “Yeah, Vito, it was; but I didn't know that when the book came out.”

  “And that thing with the umbrella hitting you.”

  “Well, that did sorta freak me out.”

  “What was that?” Debbie interjected.

  “Oh, I wrote this scene where – let's see; how can I say this? – where a woman asks a guy on the beach about a scar on his left thigh, and he claims it was made by an umbrella that got loose and hit him, needed 13 stitches.”

  “Oh, wow. I've seen lotsa those get loose; idiots leave 'em open and walk away or go in the water.”

  “Yup. Anyhow, the day after I wrote that scene, an umbrella did get loose and hit me, but on the right shin, no blood, no injury, just a coinkydink. I'm not superstitious, but that did sorta freak me out. But if Hurricane Gabrielle is a disaster this summer, that'd freak me out a lot and I might just stop writing.”

  “But, Gordy, I am superstitious. So I'd really like it if you could keep from killing me off in the sequel.”

  “Tell ya what, Vito. I'll change that part, but I lose a pretty cool car chase. No, wait, it's okay; I think I can just cut a part of it off and keep you two alive. Okay?”

  “Okay, and thanks.”

  “No problem, really. Nice thing about writing fiction, I can do whatever I want to do with it. But lemme get back and write that down before I QH it.”

  Debbie piped up, “Before you what it?”

  Vito and Gordy spoke simultaneously, “Quarterheimer; forget.”

  Debbie chuckled. “Quarterheimer. That's good.”

  Gordy said, “Yup. Sometimes it feels like Thirdheimer's, even Halfheimer's.”

  Debbie laughed louder, and Gordy smiled.

  “Glad you like that, Deb – oh, may I call you Deb?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anyhow, Deb, nice to meet you, and thanks for beautifying the beach.”

  Debbie blushed, visible even through her light tan. “Thank you.”

  “Gotta run now, though. Have a great day – oh, sorry; I don't mean to sound like I want to control your life. Have a great day, if you want to.”

  Debbie chuckled again while Gordy headed back to his lounge, but before he got there, two 40ish women stopped him.

  “We overheard you talking with that guy up there, and if you want to use our names in your book, we'd love it,” one of them said.

  “And if you want to kill one or both of us off, that's okay; we're not superstitious,” the other added.

  “You sure?” Gordy asked.

  “Sure we're sure.”

  “Okay, if you've got cool names.”

  “Rebecca, but my friends call me Becky or Becks,” one said.

  “Camelia, Cam to my friends” the other said.

  “And if you want to use my kids' names, you can,” Becky added. Tiffany and Blake.”

  “Those are cool names; I'll see what I can do.”

  “Great. I'll tell my husband.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Nate .”

  “Another cool name. Like I said, I'll see what I can do.”

  He started on to his lounge, but an older woman sitting on a nearby macramaed chair piped up and said, “My name's Fiona. Can you use that?”

  “Wow; that is a cool one.”

  “I know; you'll see what you can do.”

  “Fiona, you not only have a cool name, but you're also psychic.”

  “Naw, just got a good hearing aid, sonny. Now you go write all those names down before you forget 'em.”

  “Definitely psychic, Fiona.”

  He hurried back to his lounge, wrote in his notebook, lit a small cigar with his magnifying glass, and lay back down, closing his eyes and chuckling.

  - 116 -

  April 4, 2013

  11:38 a.m. local time

  Northwest of Eureka, Montana, USA

  Bullets whizzed by on either side of the Cowgirl's head, one close enough that she could feel its heat on her ear, but she did not pull her 30-30 from its scabbard on the side of her stallion. She knew that the chances of hitting someone from atop a galloping mass of horseflesh was less than one in a dozen, so she saved her ammunition for when the chances would be better.

&n
bsp; She also knew that the chances of hitting someone while facing forward and shooting blindly over one's shoulder from a distance of more than a hundred feet, as her target was doing, were at best one in a thousand.

  She also knew that the target thought that by crossing the border into Canada, he would be safe. But she knew that he didn't know that borders meant nothing to her. Back in Europe, she had tracked targets across many, many borders before terminating them, and one poorly protected boundary might complicate in minor ways disposal of the corpse, but little else.

  The target had now shot six bullets back at her, and she knew he was packing only a revolver, so now the worst he could do was throw the gun at her, with little chance of that accomplishing more than causing her to either knock it aside or duck away from it. Or maybe just catch it and save it for later, if the opportunity presented itself.

  “C'mon, Shacody, now's our chance,” she said into her trusty steed's ear, digging her spurs into his flanks. Shacody responded as he usually did, picking up speed, narrowing the distance between pursued and pursuer to 90 feet, then 80, 70, 60, 50. Then 60, 70, as the target goaded his horse to also speed up. Then back to 60 as she coaxed more speed out of her mount.

  Ahead, a stand of fir trees bordered the meadow through which they were galloping, and the target rode into them no more than ten seconds before she did. But when she followed him in, he had completely disappeared.

  She discovered at that moment that the tracking skills she had learned growing up on a Wyoming reservation were now inadequate, and, stymied, she stopped her horse cold and listened intently. But all she could hear was her winded mount's panting and the beating of her own heart.

  “Where the hell did he go?”

  - 117 -

  April 4, 2013

  9:27 a.m. local time

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  “What the hell? Did you see that, Ro?”

  “What?”

  “Those kids down there, one of 'em just punched that old man in the face, knocked him down.”

  “Those teens there?”

  “Yup, six of 'em, and they're laughing and coming this way. And the kid in the orange board shorts looked like he was videoing it all. Call 911 and go down and see if you can help him, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As Rosemary dialed, Gordy stood up from his lounge and moved casually in front of the oncoming gang. When they got close to him, he put his hand up to stop them and said, “What do you assholes think you're doing?”

  “Just having some fun. Whatcha gonna do about it, Grampa?” the musclebound teen who'd hit the man said, smirking and poking his finger at Gordy.

  “Not a good move, sonny,” Gordy said, grabbing the boy's finger and bending it back, then applying a kote gaeshi wrist lock, which brought the teen to his knees and then flat on his stomach, his face in the sand.

  Two of the other boys ran forward and started beating on Gordy's back, but he kicked out and tripped one and then the other, then shouted, “Any of you punks come any closer and I break your buddy's arm. Got it?”

  “Ow, ow, ow! Let me go, you old fuck!! Ow!! Let go!”

  “I don't think so, punk. Now, tell your buddies to back off.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Another not-so-good move, asshole,” Gordy said, breaking one of the kid's fingers.

  “Ow! Oh, shit!”

  By now, several regulars had gathered around the gang, cell phone videos recording. Norm and Joel stepped out of the crowd and grabbed two of the teens in chokeholds, pulling them back away from Gordy. Rona, Janet, Jenny, Sharon, Jill and Carie stood in front of the remaining boy, who pulled out a switchblade and began swinging it in front of him.

  “Stay back, you fuckin' whores! I'll cut you!”

  The women spread out, now encircling the teen, dancing in and out of his knife's range, taunting him. Finally, as he lurched toward Carie, Jenny grabbed him from behind, immobilizing his arm in a fierce grip, and then the other women moved in, immobilizing the rest of his body and forcing him down until he, too, was facedown in the sand. Jenny pulled his hands behind his back, holding them down, and sat on his butt. Jill moved in and held his legs down. Carie pushed the knife out of reach with her foot.

  “On your knees, the rest of you!” Gordy shouted. “Hands behind your heads, fingers interlocked.”

  “Hell, Gordy, I'll bet all of them know the drill,” Norm said, letting his teen loose from the chokehold and forcing him to his knees. Joel did the same with the teen he was holding.

  The two that Gordy had tripped scrambled to their knees and put their hands where Gordy had instructed, fingers interlocked. Gordy released his teen and pulled him up to his knees, then pushed his hands behind his head. But the teen had difficulty interlocking his fingers.

  All of the teens glared at everybody around them, defiant, until they heard sirens approaching.

  First to arrive were the EMTs, who were directed south to the man who'd been punched.

  Next came four Collier and two Lee deputies, followed by Sgt. Dooley, who immediately strode down to Gordy, the other regulars and the teens kneeling on the sand.

  “What's going on here?”

  “This kid punched an old man down there,” Gordy said, pointing south, “and we caught 'em and held 'em for you.”

  “He fuckin' broke my fuckin' finger! Asshole!”

  “Shut up, kid,” Dooley said.

  “Looks like he's got a broken jaw and a broken arm, but he's conscious,” Rosemary said as she returned. “The paramedics are looking after him. And another guy down there got it all on video.”

  “And this clown was videoing it, too, we think,” Gordy said, pointing at the teen in the orange shorts.

  “Oh, shit,” one of the other teens mumbled.

  When the man who had videoed the actual punch came up and Sgt. Dooley watched the video, he thanked the man and asked him to stand by.

  “Read 'em their rights and handcuff 'em all,” he said to the Collier deputies, who followed orders, using flex ties to bind the six teens' wrists behind their backs. The Lee deputies kept watch, but stood their ground, out of their jurisdiction.

  Once witness statements were taken and the teens had been removed, Sgt. Dooley said to Gordy, “That was foolhardy; you should leave that kind of thing to the professionals.”

  “I know, Sarge, but I had to intervene or they would have gotten away and you would have had to go looking for 'em.”

  “You're right on that, but still – but where did you learn that hold?”

  “Uh, a woman on the beach who teaches martial arts.”

  “Oh, right, right; the one you had the girl use on that drunk spring breaker in the book.”

  “Right.”

  “I read it, and I meant to tell you that I'm okay with you using my name in there. But I would have confirmed Pamela93's credentials and I would never do what he did in the end.”

  “I don't doubt that.”

  “Okay. Off to see to the bookings. Take care.”

  “You too, Sarge.”

  “You okay, Gordy?”

  “I'm too old for this crap, Ro. But yeah, I'm okay.”

  - 118 -

  April 4, 2013

  11:42 a.m. local time

  Northwest of Eureka, Montana, USA

  The Cowgirl weighed as many possibilities as she could come up with, starting, as she always did when speculating, with abduction by aliens, not because she believed in them, but to remind herself that she was only speculating, and not to put too much weight on any particular possibility without facts or evidence.

  Had he done an immediate turnaround and headed back out to the meadow? A quick look back assured her that no, he had not.

  Had he swerved to the left or the right and halted? Possibly, but she could see no evidence of either.

  Had he kept riding forward, but placed padded booties on his horse's hooves to run silently? Highly doubtful.

  Had he run into a group of his fellow
eco-terrorists and gone to ground, perhaps in a tunnel or cave? Almost as remote as the aliens idea.

  Could he have somehow raised the weight of both his body and a 16-hand horse into a nearby tree?

  “C'mon, Cindy, Cindy, no fantasy,” she whispered to herself. But as she wracked her brain, she was stumped.

  What else? What other possibilities were there? Where in hell could he be?

  She pulled her rifle from the scabbard, and holding it under her arm, she slowly prodded Shacody further into the forest, which thickened and darkened the further in they went.

  - 119 -

  April 4, 2013

  12:53 p.m. local time

  Bonita Springs, Florida

  “Do you still want me to sit in on that interview next week?”

  “Only if you want to, Ro.”

  “I keep forgetting her name.”

  “Sondra something.”

  “Right. I'm not sure. Maybe you should talk to her by yourself; a third person always changes the dynamic.”

  “Yeah, but you're a big part of it all. Whatever; I'll leave it up to you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “But if you want to come along, you're welcome.”

  “I'll think about it some more. Feeling a little better?”

  “Oh, yeah, Ro, lots better. You've got magic hands. You ever go to massage school?”

  “Nope, just picked it up over the years.”

  “Ahhh, maybe just a little more to the right.”

  “Here?”

  “Oh, yeah. Mmmmm.”

  “Those kids really beat on you. I don't know how you didn't feel it.”

  “Probably just adrenaline. Knew they were doing it, but I just reacted and got 'em away. And this was nothing compared to those fake FBI assholes.”

  “Oh, yeah. So glad you're all healed up from that.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You know who surprised me?”

  “Who?”

  “Jenny. She got right in there with that kid with the knife.”

  “Always knew she was an alpha female.”

  “Yeah. And now that Ron's gone, she's having a lot easier time with everything. Impressive.”