by Ray Hoy
B.J. laughed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Well I don’t recommend it for ordinary dogs, of course, but he’s no ordinary dog.”
B.J. took another wary look at the gigantic sleeping Doberman. Then she took a deep breath and turned to face me. She slipped her arms around my waist. “You know, you could stick around another week or two. What’s the hurry getting out of town?”
“I have things to do,” I said. I kissed her on the tip of her nose. “But feel free to use your womanly assets to try to convince me to stay.”
She laughed. Then she stepped back, and in one smooth motion peeled the red dress up over her head and dropped it to the floor.
She stood there, completely naked, and smiled up at me. “I asked you once before if you wanted to take a shower with me, and you turned me down. You’re not going to do that again, are you Frost?”
“Nope!” I said. I scooped her up and headed toward the bathroom. “I have to tell you that it’s not a real big shower, so we’ll have to squeeze in there.”
“Oh, we’ll make things fit.”
I awoke at 2:00 a.m. with my arms wrapped around a warm, naked B.J. Her head rested on my chest, and her small breasts rose and fell steadily; she was sound asleep.
I slowly extracted myself and got out of bed. Ripper opened one eye and checked me out, then closed it again and resumed snoring.
“Ever alert, ever on guard,” I muttered.
“I heard a sleepy voice behind me: “Where you goin’ Frost?”
I turned and walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Can’t sleep,” I said.
“C’mon back to bed; I have a cure for that.”
“Okay if you insist,” I said.
As I climbed into bed, she attacked me with female heat and impatience. It was wonderful. Before I knew it I was flat on my back and she was sitting on my hips. She was trim and amazingly strong, which had to be the result of some sophisticated weight training. She pinned my arms down, leaning over far enough so that the hard nipples on her small, firm breasts brushed across my lips. Then she leaned back for a moment and examined my chest. She ran her fingertips over my maze of scars.
“Frost . . . what the hell happened here? It looks like someone took a weed whacker to you.”
I hesitated, then said, “I fall down a lot.”
A slow smile spread across her beautiful face. “You’re not really into answering questions, are you.” Without another word, she fiercely kissed me. Then she took my face in both hands and rested her forehead against mine. “Frost . . . dammit, I think I’m falling in love with you!”
“Okay, now take a deep breath and call me in the morning. You are not falling in love with me, B.J. You hardly know me.”
“I know you pretty damn well,” she said softly. “Pretty damn well. And I like what I know about you. There aren’t a lot of guys around like you.”
“God I hope not,” I said.
“Frost . . . I’m trying to have a serious moment here.”
I paused. “Okay, sorry.”
“Why do you have to leave? Can I go with you?”
I tried to sit up. “What?” I said.
She pushed me back down on the bed. “Does that scare you? The part about my wanting to go with you?”
I paused, too long I supposed. “No, of course not.”
She looked down at me, a dark angel hovering over me.
She is beautiful!
“B.J., it’s not a good idea to be around me right now.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Oh, really? Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have a lot of time.”
“Yeah, well I don’t,” I said. I tried to pull her close again, but she resisted.
“I’m not into ‘one night stands’ Frost.”
I didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “Is that what you think this is?” I said.
She paused, searching for an answer. “No, not really . . . I guess. It was my idea, after all.”
“And a very good one, B.J. I think you’re special.”
She looked at me, trying to make up her mind if I was serious or humoring her. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes, I do.”
She sighed. “Okay, then. I’m sorry I sprung that on you. Didn’t mean to scare you off.”
“You didn’t; I don’t scare easily.”
She flattened herself against my chest and placed her lips against my face. “No, I don’t think you do,” she said.
We didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then she said, “Are you in some kind of trouble? What can I do to help?”
“No, no trouble,” I lied. “But thanks for the concern.”
She pouted. “The good ones always get away. I’m going to hate to see you go, Frost.”
There wasn’t much to say. I held her close until she fell asleep again.
Chapter 13
After breakfast, I drove B.J. back to her apartment. I parked and started to get out, but she put her hand on my knee.
“No, don’t walk me to the door, please.” She gave me the most sorrowful look and fought back tears. “Stay in touch, okay?” And with that, she quickly got out of the car and closed the door behind her.
I watched her run to the apartment building entrance, where she stopped and turned to face me. I waved, but she just nodded solemnly and turned and went inside.
I pulled slowly away from the curb, feeling the knot in my stomach. How in hell did this happen?
* * *
Around 11:00 a.m. I dropped the RV off at the rental agency. As I signed the final paperwork and paid the balance due, I found myself amused by the wary eye the female cashier was keeping on my huge, toothy sidekick.
It took an extra twenty bucks to convince a taxi driver to allow Ripper into his cab. I watched the cabbie’s eyes as he glanced nervously at us in his rearview mirror from time to time.
I looked out the window as the cab sped toward the RV park, nestled at the base of the mountains. Urban sprawl reached a long way out now, and there were homes with “Bank Owned” signs stuck in overgrown yards everywhere I looked. Las Vegas was hurting, just like the rest of the country.
* * *
An hour later I headed out of Las Vegas on U.S. 95, toward Reno and Lake Tahoe. I’d taken the time to put the top up to protect us from the merciless overhead sun. But I didn’t have air-conditioning in the Jag, so I had to take the side curtains off and stow them in the trunk. The hot air buffeted the hell out of us and it was suffocatingly hot.
The last time I’d made this trip was late at night, and I had just managed to free Felicia Martinez from her velvet prison. I could still visualize her sitting there in the passenger seat, her eyes bright and excited, her arms wrapped around a contented Ripper. She was the only woman that big dog ever loved.
That made two of us.
About seventy miles out of Vegas, I drove past the old Nevada nuclear test site, where all the atomic bombs had been detonated in the 50s. I glanced at the sign that read “ATOMIC TEST SITE” as I sped past.
I grabbed lunch in Tonopah, an historic old mining town located about halfway between Las Vegas and Reno. Before we left town I filled the Jag with gas and washed the windshield and then headed out into the desert again. I was suddenly anxious to get back home.
I ran the Jag up to around the century mark and cruised for the next hour without meeting a single car. Lake Tahoe seemed like heaven waiting for me with open arms compared to the endless scrub desert I was driving across.
* * *
It was dark when I turned off Echo Summit and drove slowly down the long, wooded lane leading to my lakeside A-frame. Off to my right, Lake Tahoe glittered in the moonlight. The “Jewel of the Sierra” she is called, and for good reason.
I felt suddenly cautious as I slowly approached my dark cabin. I turned the headlights off and rolled to a halt, then sat there for a moment, listening to the creaking noises of the big
six-cylinder engine as it began to cool down.
I scanned the dark woods, looking for anything out of the ordinary. As I did so, I thought of Jerry McGinley’s fine psychological thriller, Miles To Go Before I Sleep. He had quoted from Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” and now the quote seemed to haunt me, somehow:
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
I shook off a chill and quietly got out of the car. Ripper clambered out my side, too and ran around excitedly, clearly as happy to be home as I was.
The long drive from Vegas had given me plenty of time to think about my situation. Giovanni will take his sweet time getting to me. He’ll do that to let me stew in my own juices, so to speak.
I don’t stew.
The woods talked to me. I listened to the wind blowing through the upper branches of the tall trees and savored the fresh pine smell.
My God, how nice to breath air that you can’t see!
I unlocked my cabin door and stepped inside and turned on the lights. Everything looked just as I’d left it.
I unpacked and put things away, then mixed myself a Rusty Nail. I poured some Scotch into a bowl, turned out the lights, and walked out on the deck and sat down, Ripper’s bowl in one hand, my Rusty Nail in the other.
Immediately Ripper appeared next to me, waiting not so patiently. I placed his bowl on the deck. He smiled up at me for a moment, then happily began to lap up his Scotch.
I gazed at the majestic, moonlit lake, then took a drink of my Rusty Nail and sighed contentedly. It was good to be home.
Chapter 14
The assassin, who was known as “Raptor” to only a select few in the very top tier of the organization, opened the sealed package and withdrew a plastic-encased CD.
Raptor opened the case and slipped the platter into a small military-style laptop. After entering a long, complex password, the assassin began to carefully read the document as it opened on the screen. It resembled a job resume. A picture of the “subject” appeared in the upper lefthand corner of the page.
Subject: Jack (no middle name) Frost
Age: 34
Marital status: Single (never married).
Physical description: 6’5”, 240 lbs. Black hair, short ponytail. Prominent facial scars (left jaw, right cheekbone)
Address: Lakeside A-frame located on Lake Tahoe’s South Shore just off Hwy. 50 in Zephyr Cove, Nevada.
Occupation: Rich. Holds military-related electronic patents. Making a living is not one of his concerns.
Previous occupations: NFL All-Pro wide receiver, Minnesota Vikings; Blackwater-type “advisor” to the U.S. military: Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan, and New Orleans (after Katrina).
Skills: Fearless street fighter, utilizing a blend of martial arts styles; expert with a knife; creative with explosives; familiar with a wide range of military weapons; has an exceptional mind for electronics; speaks fluent Spanish; high tolerance to pain, judging from past injuries and short recovery times.
Weaknesses: Fiercely loyal to friends, of which he has very few (Jilly and Vi Evans, Reno, Nevada being two of perhaps a half-dozen, at the most). Friends are his weak spot. Exploit this.
Noteworthy: Always accompanied by an enormous black and tan Doberman (“J.T. Ripper”). Animal is nasty, unpredictable.
Requested action: 60-10/31-x3-88
Raptor scanned the Requested Action line again. “60” meant “Do nothing for sixty days after opening this document” and that was undoubtedly to lure the “subject” into a false sense of security.
“10/31” meant the job was to be completed by the end of October, and “x3” meant triple pay for successful completion of this assignment.
And finally, “88” was the location where payment for this job would be waiting.
Triple pay for the assignment was a pleasant, highly unusual surprise. The assassin leaned back and stared at the screen. Frost must present an exceptional threat to a very important person in the organization.
Triple pay.
Raptor’s eyes went back to “Occupation” again, and the one word description that followed: “Rich.”
Amusing.
Satisfied, the assassin ejected the CD and destroyed it.
My last two assignments were routine . . . boring. This one should be interesting . . . and challenging. I will take my time killing Jack Frost . . . and his nasty dog.
Chapter 15
I decided to head on over to Reno and drop in on Jilly and Vi. I felt sure that I had a bit of time before Giovanni’s man would come after me. I’m betting he’s thinking, “Let him look over his shoulder for a while, and when nothing happens, he’ll get sloppy . . .”
No I won’t.
I thought about taking Ripper with me, but decided against it. He’s such a pain in the ass.
I paid for my decision, of course. He glared at me as I walked out of the cabin and shut the door behind me. His look said, “Goodbye and good riddance, you selfish rat-bastard,” but it didn’t work on me this time. I needed some “alone” time.
My classic old Jag roadster gives me that “alone time” and a drive over Echo Summit is the perfect place to mull over life’s little problems.
I put the top down, then settled into the bucket seat and fired up the engine. I sat there for a moment, soaking up the sound. She was manufactured in 1952, and yet she still still suggests “don’t’ screw with me” power, even though a lot of modern day cars can outrun her. That’s not important; they don’t have this lady’s style and class.
I found myself hesitating. That damn Ripper . . . .
I sighed and killed the engine. I got out and walked back to the cabin and up the steps. When I opened the door Ripper was standing there, a smug look on his face.
“You win again, you miserable drunk,” I said. He gave me a triumphant, toothy smile as he walked past me. I closed the door and followed him down the steps.
Ripper didn’t wait for me to open the door for him, he just jumped over the low passenger-side door and plopped his big ass on the seat. He stared through the windshield as I got in and closed my door.
“Happy now?” I said.
I started the engine again, and poked the car into gear. I drove slowly down the dirt road until I reached Highway 50. I paused for a moment, looking both ways, then pulled on to the road and made a left turn.
I floored the throttle. The Jag jumped ahead, sounding healthy and young-at-heart. I found myself smiling as I watched the tachometer approach the redline in each gear before I shifted up. Ripper stuck his nose into the wind, a happy dog indeed.
When I reached Echo Summit, I backed off to the legal speed limit and sat back and enjoyed the ride. I motored casually down the far side of the mountain. Gardnerville sprawled across the Carson Valley, far below.
The smell of pine trees and clean air was a welcome change of pace after the blistering heat of Las Vegas.
Come find me, you bastard. I’ll kick your ass and send you whimpering back to your boss. I was in a rare mood.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later I cruised into the outskirts of Reno. Jilly and Vi live in a mansion that is built on a five-acre piece of land in an upscale—way upscale—gated community. I turned off the wide, tree-lined street and slowly drove up a long, curving driveway until I reached the electronically controlled steel gate. A uniformed security guard exited his guard shack and walked to my side of the car. I noticed he was armed.
“Good morning, sir. Are you expected?”
“No. The name is Jack Frost. I’m a friend of Jilly’s.”
He looked me over for a moment, then stared at Ripper. Finally he nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Frost. I’ll just be a moment.” He turned and walked back to the guard shack and got on the phone. He listened for a moment, then said something I couldn’t hear. When he put the phone down, he push
ed a button and the gate slid silently open. He motioned me on.
I nodded my thanks as I pulled slowly past him.
I drove a couple hundred yards up the winding driveway, then rolled to a halt in front of the mansion. Standing just outside the front door was Fred, Jilly’s ancient butler. He was tall and slat-thin, a living replica of Ichabod Crane, and God knows how old. He had been with Jilly for as long as I could remember.
Ripper bailed out of the Jag and waited for me. I got out of the Jaguar and walked up the steps, Ripper at my side.
A wan smile cracked Fred’s leathery face. He held out a hand, which I gently shook. His grip was still firm but his skin was as dry as parchment paper.
“How nice to see you again, Mr. Frost. I was very happy when Swanson called from the front gate a moment ago to tell me you’re here to see Mr. Jilly.”
I smiled at Fred’s reference to “Mr. Jilly.”
One evening while we were sharing a drink, Jilly had told me about the first conversation he’d had with Fred after he’d hired him, some thirty years earlier. On Day One, Fred naturally began calling him “Mr. Evans,” but Jilly quickly put an end to that. Jilly said, “I told him, ‘Fred, my name is Jilly, and that’s what I want you to call me, okay?’”
According to Jilly, his suggestion had caused Fred, who was the picture of propriety, some discomfort. But after hesitating for a moment, Fred had replied, “Sir . . . could I call you, ‘Mr. Jilly’ instead? It seems more appropriate to me.”
Jilly said that had struck him funny, and he had laughed and immediately agreed, just to make Fred feel more comfortable. “And from that moment on,” Jilly had told me, “I was always ‘Mr. Jilly’ to Fred.”
Fred stood on the front steps and looked down at Ripper. “Mr. Ripper looks to be in good health,” he said, but he didn’t try to reach down and pet the brute; he had tried that one time and nearly lost a hand.
