Shelter From the Storm

by Peter Sexton

  SHELTER FROM THE STORM

  Peter Sexton

  Murderous Content

  SHELTER FROM THE STORM

  By

  Peter Sexton

  PAPERBACK EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Murderous Content

  COPYRIGHT

  2018 by Peter Sexton

  COVER DESIGN

  Sig Evensen, Inkubus Design

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Murderous Content, Print and Digital Versions, March 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1986152112

  ISBN-10: 1986152111

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address the publisher, Murderous Content, PO Box 1455, Camarillo, CA, 93011-1455

  for CAMERON

  my son; my best friend in the world

  One

  Wednesday, July 18, 2001

  “Randi.”

  From the shallow depths of her restless sleep, Miranda August felt herself being gently shaken by the shoulder.

  “Randi, get up. We gotta get out of here.”

  She opened her eyes and looked up to find her father leaning over her. Beads of perspiration damp-ened his forehead. His normally neat hair stood up in tufts. Miranda pushed herself up on her elbows and glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand: 2:17.

  “What is it, Dad? What’s going on?”

  Edward August’s hands were trembling as he fin- ished buttoning his shirt. His eyes were puffy as if he’d been crying. “We need to get moving...now.”

  “What?” Miranda’s mind, still foggy with sleep, could not grasp what he was telling her. “What about the funeral?”

  He shook his head gently. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Now she understood.

  Tears filled her eyes. “But we can’t leave.”

  Edward kissed the top of her head. “We don’t have a choice, Randi. Come on, we gotta go.”

  Summoning the last ounce of strength from her depleted cache of willpower, Miranda forced herself out of bed. She added jeans and a pair of sneakers to the T-shirt she wore.

  She knew what this meant. Though she had prayed it wouldn’t come to it, they were prepared for this possibility. Their bags were already packed and in the car. In the garage, her father’s Infiniti faced out to the street. They had gone over and over the plan until it was committed to memory.

  This can’t be happening, she thought. We need more time.

  When she entered the kitchen moments later, Edward handed Miranda her leather bomber jacket. She pulled it on as she studied his face, trying to read him. His usual calm was absent, replaced by a melan- choly and fatigue that frightened her.

  “You all right, Dad?”

  He nodded.

  “How do you know they’re coming?”

  “Text message.”

  “From who?”

  Edward didn’t answer. Miranda closed her eyes, shook her head in disbelief. She knew only one person could have sent the message.

  “Did he say how soon?”

  “They could be here any minute.” Her father’s voice faltered. “We need to get moving.”

  Fighting back tears, Miranda looked around at their kitchen for the last time. They would never share meals here again, conversation, laughter.

  As if on cue, the staccato chirp from the home security system status panel announced a perimeter breach. Someone was breaking into the house. The alarm would be activated in sixty seconds.

  “Oh, God,” Miranda cried. “I think they’re al- ready here.”

  Edward pulled his compact Glock 27 from his coat pocket. Miranda stared at the gun for a moment. Then she turned to her father’s pale, frightened face and knew that the danger was real.

  “Run, Randi. Get to the car.”

  They bolted through the door to the garage. Miranda dove into the passenger seat and pushed the button on the garage door opener. Edward started the car and jerked the gearshift into drive.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” she shouted, as the large door began to inch out of their way. The garage light came on when the door started to move, and light bled out into the dark night.

  A black Chevy Suburban parked on the sidewalk across the driveway blocked their escape.

  “Oh, Jesus! Now what do we do?”

  “Buckle up and hold on,” Edward ordered.

  The door leading from the house into the garage swung open. Framed in the doorway were two men pointing guns at them.

  “Don’t be stupid,” one of them yelled. Miranda recognized the voice. “Shut off the engine, Edward. We just want to talk to you.”

  “Get down!” Edward shouted at Miranda. He stomped on the accelerator and the car lunged for- ward. The roar of the engine almost drowned out the muffled thwups of the gunshots as the two men opened fire. Silencers. Bullets tore into the trunk of the car, screeching as they pierced the metal.

  The car cleared the mouth of the garage. Edward spun the steering wheel hard to the left. The Infiniti slid sideways, clipping the front of the SUV with the rear quarter panel.

  Shouts.

  Muted gunshots.

  Three more men appeared from the side of the house. Bright muzzle flashes from the gunfire. Bullets flew past the Infiniti.

  “Watch it!” Miranda screamed, ducking beneath the dashboard. She felt the sickening thud of the car slamming into flesh. She sat back up in time to see her father plow through their neighbor’s rose bushes. The tires slid from the soft lawn to the unyielding asphalt, the steering wheel wrenched out of Edward’s hands, and the car spun to a stop.

  Miranda tried to peek past her father through his side window, but all she could see was darkness. She heard another round of muted gunshots.

  Edward cried out in pain.

  “Get down and cover your ears!” he ordered. He lowered his window, pointed the Glock out of the car and returned fire. Miranda watched him squeeze the trigger four times. Then he took his foot from the brake, floored the accelerator again and raced off down the block.

  Even with her hands covering her ears, the explosions of gunfire from her father’s gun left Miranda’s ears ringing. She could barely hear their home security system begin to wail.

  Then a bullet screamed through the rear window of the Infiniti and lodged in the dashboard. The safety-glass webbed out from the bullet hole, and tiny shards blew into the cockpit. Edward hesitated for an instant, then he picked up speed.

  Head resting on her knees, Miranda glanced over at her father. He was driving with one hand now, holding the left side of his chest with the other.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Miranda cried, sitting up again. “You’re hit!”

  Edward didn’t respond.

  “Dad!” she screamed.

  “I’m okay,” he said, his voice sounding eerily calm in the chaos.

  Miranda had to struggle to hear him, her ears still not recovered from his loud gunshots. She nodded, unable to speak. She looked over, trying to see where her father had been wounded.

  “You hit?” Edward asked urgently.

  Shocked to her core by the violence and the deadly pursuit, Miranda couldn’t find the words to answer him.

  He took a few quick, shallow breaths. Then: “Randi! Are you shot?”

  She stared at him, struggled to find her voice. “No.”

  “Be ready to switch places as soon as I can find a place to stop.”


  Miranda couldn’t respond.

  Edward maneuvered onto a dark side-street and brought the car to a screeching halt.

  “Now, Randi. Hurry! Come around and take the wheel.”

  Holding onto the doorframe, Edward pulled him- self out of the car, faltered, fell to one knee. He climbed to his feet and stumbled around to the passenger side, leaning on the vehicle for support.

  As she rushed around the front of the Infiniti, passing through the headlight beams, Miranda tried again to steal a glance at her father’s wound. But she was moving too fast to get a good look.

  Back in the car, she threw it into gear and gunned it.

  They were headed east on the deserted Highway 126 toward Interstate 5. Edward glanced over at the speedometer; Miranda glanced at it, too: 76 MPH.

  “Faster,” he ordered. His voice sounded labored ...weak. She needed to get him some help somehow, somewhere.

  Edward struggled to remove his jacket, tossed it to the floorboard. He pressed his folded handker- chief directly over his wound.

  At ninety-seven miles per hour, they flew through the small city of Fillmore. Had she blinked, Miranda might have missed it. She took her eyes from the road just long enough to glance at her father. Perspi- ration streamed down his face.

  “How bad is it?”

  Edward pulled his hand away and looked down toward his wound. A deep crimson rose of blood had bloomed on the left side of his white shirt. He consid- ered the blood staining his fingers, the saturated handkerchief.

  “Pretty bad, I think.” Face pale.

  Miranda’s eyes welled up. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

  Edward shook his head. “Can’t risk it.”

  “We have to risk it.”

  “No!” He took several shallow breaths. Winced as he pushed out his next words. “We stick to the plan.”

  “You’re hurt,” she said. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  Edward said nothing.

  Miranda took one hand from the wheel and raked it through her sweat-soaked hair, trying to keep the perspiration out of her eyes. “Does Uncle Walter know we’re coming?”

  “No.” More shallow breaths. He closed his eyes, nodded as if working something out in his mind. “He’s gone for a few weeks.” Edward coughed, and blood trickled from his lips. “Better he doesn’t know, anyway.”

  “We need to get you some help, Dad.”

  Edward shook his head. Wiped his forehead, his mouth. “Just drive.”

  He struggled through several more shallow breaths.

  The strong smell of blood and gunpowder filled Miranda’s nose. In her peripheral vision she could see her father beginning to shudder. She wanted desper- ately to stop but feared Edward was right. If she stopped, they would be killed.

  They drove for a while in silence.

  Miranda glanced in the rearview mirror. “I think we’ve lost them.”

  “Yeah.” Little more than a whisper.

  Neither spoke as they hurtled through the dark landscape. They had moved from the 126 to the 5 and were on the 14 when Miranda noticed headlights behind them in the distance. They seemed to be closing in, coming up fast. She monitored their progress in the rearview mirror. The headlights grew nearer and nearer. Miranda held no doubt it was the SUV from outside their home.

  “We have company,” she said.

  No response.

  “Dad, I think they’re back.”

  Still no response.

  Miranda glanced over at her father. His head was tilted back and to one side, his mouth half open as though in mid-sentence. He was no longer shaking.

  “Dad?” she screamed. But she already knew he wouldn’t be answering her. She was on her own now. “Dad!”

  Then the Suburban slammed into the rear of the Infiniti.

  Two

  The door to the conference room opened and a tall young man, gaunt as a cadaver in a black Dolce & Gabbana suit, entered. Robert Anderson, CEO of Earth’s Own Flavors, Inc., moved the phone away from his face, considered the young man for an in- stant, then raised the phone again.

  “He’s just walked in,” Anderson said. “No, it’s all right. I’ll take care of it.”

  William Puckett looked around at the group of executives seated at the mahogany table. Everyone stared at him with curiosity. Anderson rose from his chair.

  “Ladies,” he said, “gentlemen, I apologize for the interruption. If you would please excuse me, this will only take a minute.”

  No one objected, and Anderson led Puckett from the conference room into the hallway, closing the door behind them. He ushered the man into a smaller, unoccupied conference room across the hall.

  “What happened? You were supposed to call me once the objective was met.”

  “Yeah, well. We kinda ran into a snag.”

  Anderson nodded. “So I heard. Give me the details.”

  “Jackson and Harris are dead.”

  “What?” Anderson knew his blood pressure must be rising. He struggled to maintain his calm and cool demeanor.

  Puckett continued. “August and the girl got away.”

  “How? Explain it to me.”

  Puckett shook his head slightly. “We fucking had them, man. They should be dead right now.”

  “So how did they get away?”

  “We were behind them, east on the 14. The recovery mission at August’s house had gone to shit and we were in a high-speed pursuit. It should have been easy. The girl was behind the wheel when we slammed into the back of their car.”

  “And?”

  “And she went off the road. We had to turn around, double back.” He paused. “When we got close to the car, the girl opened fire. She fucking ambushed us.”

  “Miranda?”

  “Yeah. The bitch can shoot, man. She got two of our tires then took off again. We couldn’t follow them.”

  This news infuriated Anderson. He made a conscious effort to slow his racing heartbeat.

  “And it never occurred to you to shoot out their tires?”

  Puckett didn’t answer.

  “What about the tape?”

  “We didn’t get it.”

  “Christ!” Anderson struggled to restrain his voice, not wanting to be heard by the board members in the nearby conference room. “What about Trammel and Stone?”

  “Trammel’s downstairs with the car. We left Stone at the hospital with a broken leg.”

  An uncomfortable silence grew between them as Anderson digested what he had just heard.

  Puckett ran the length of his index finger under his nose, sniffed. “What do you want us to do?”

  Anderson suspected Puckett was high. He stared at him before grabbing the phone on the conference table and punching in a ten-digit number. While waiting for the call to connect, he said, “You know where they are?”

  Puckett shook his head. He produced a pack of Gauloises Blondes and started to tap one out.

  “You’re not lighting that up in here,” Anderson snapped. “You’ll stink up the whole damned place.”

  Puckett slid the cigarettes back into his pocket with a scowl.

  “You need to find them. We can’t—” Anderson held up his hand and spoke into the phone. “They’re still alive.” A pause. “No, I’m on it.” Another pause. “Hold on.” He covered the receiver with his hand and addressed Puckett. “You search the house?”

  “We didn’t have time. Like I said, there were ...complications.”

  Anderson rolled his eyes.

  “It was a fucking mess, man. We barely had time to get everyone out of there before the cops started showing up.”

  Anderson was disgusted with his wannabe tough-guy. “Damn it. This is not good.”

  Puckett shrugged. “It was like they were expect- ing us, like someone tipped them off that we were coming.”

  Anderson brought the phone back up and relayed the information to the person on the other end. He listened for a time, then said, “Good. Don’t worry
, we’ll fix this.”

  He hung up and stared at the phone as if waiting for some sort of sign, some idea of a direction in which to proceed. He looked up and glared at Puckett.

  “The police are all over the house. Anything else you need to add, do it now.”

  “Nothing.”

  “All right. Our people are doing what they can to clean up your mess back there. You and Trammel find August and his daughter. Do whatever it takes. And pray that they have that tape with them.”

  “No problem.”

  “The next time I hear from you I want there to be good news. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” The young man started out the door but Anderson stopped him mid-stride.

  “And Puckett?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t fuck up this time.”

  Three

  Two Days Later…Friday

  The young woman caught Lawrence Blackwell’s at- tention the moment she slipped into the crowded art gallery. In fact, it would appear nearly everyone at the black-tie affair had become transfixed by this new arrival, dressed as she was in blue jeans and weathered, brown-leather bomber jacket. She stood out in this crowd of overdressed art aficionados.

  Even from across the room Lawrence could see the haunted look in the woman’s eyes. He wondered what had put it there. Lawrence watched her make her way through the room, scanning the faces of the guests. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The harder he tried the more it eluded him.

  “Larry? You still with me?”

  Lawrence regained his focus and, with effort, pulled his gaze away from the young woman, re- turned it to the man he had been talking to. “Yes. Sorry.”

  They had been discussing the new artist his wife had discovered—the reason they were all here tonight. Gillian had lobbied diligently to persuade the owners of the art gallery, Richard and Penelope Wiseman, to support this new talent, and as it would appear from the turnout and initial response, her intuition had been right on the mark.