by C. J. Pinard
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 headed 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’ve 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 never been to Virginia. Trying to think positively, I told myself, at least I’d get to see 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? Having 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.
As I flipped on the TV to stare mindlessly at daytime television, my cell phone chirped. I reluctantly went over and checked it. The FBI had made me turn off my data (okay, they had called my service provider and made them disable it) but I could still get texts and calls. I had a text from “Jack-N-Jill” – the not-so-cute name they had made me add to my phone’s address book to indicate that the FBI was texting or calling.
The text read: He’ll come calling around 4.
I rolled my eyes. Cryptic much?
My reply: Who?
The response was immediate: Your knight in shining armor.
I laughed at that. At least whoever was texting me had a sense of humor. And here I didn’t think the FBI had one.
So my agent was on his way. I glanced at the clock on the phone. It was 9 a.m. Well yippee, I get to mope around my condo for the next 7 hours and hope the guy sent to babysit me arrived on time and was a decent person.
Deep down, though, I had a feeling I was in for a rude awakening, and the next 11 days until the trial was going to very much suck.
Chapter 5
Duke
The damn GPS sent me down the wrong road again. What the fuck is wrong with this thing? I pulled the cord from the cigarette lighter and chucked the entire device into the floorboard of the passenger seat. Spying a gas station up ahead, I decided to put away my man card for the first time ever and just ask for some damn directions.
Slamming the car door and fumbling with the little key fob lock thing, I managed to find the lock button. The government had given me a tiny little black Nissan 370Z sports car. The thing had speed and style, I’ll give it that, but I’m 6-foot-3 and could barely fit in the damn clown car. Another one of the government’s confiscated drug dealer cars, I was forced to take whatever they had to give me. After all, it’s not like I could go driving my vic around in a plain white sedan with government plates.
The small gas station’s door chimed as I entered. The smell of coffee and something sweet hit my nose. Deciding I could use some coffee, I filled a paper cup with the black nectar and secured a small white lid on top. Taking the cup to the counter, the young girl working behind it smiled at me shyly as I approached.
“I’ll take a can of Copenhagen Snuff,” I said to her, pointing at the display of chew cans behind her.
After retrieving the small round black can from the display, she plunked it on the counter and slid it toward me. “That’s six-nineteen,” she said with a cute Southern drawl.
I pulled some bills from the front pocket of my jeans and passed them to her.
She gave me my change and I said, “Hey, do you happen to know where Lakewood Street is? My GPS is jacked.”
Her light eyebrows furrowed together in concentration, and then as if a lightbulb had gone off in her head, she pierced me with knowing blue eyes. Snapping her fingers, she said, “Oh! Lakewood is downtown.”
I nodded. “Okay, well how far is that from here?”
She smiled. “Oh, you’re out in the country, sweetheart. You keep going another mile or so west and you’re gonna be hittin’ dirt roads that lead to the state park.”
Shit. Not right at all.
Seeing my stress, she continued. “Take Gerald Highway all the way to Four Mile Road, then take the 275 East to the downtown exit. Hopefully your phone GPS thing can help ya from there.” She nodded toward the phone attached to my belt.
That, I could do. “Thanks, gorgeous,” I drawled, lifting my coffee cup up to her as I headed for the door.
> She slid some blonde hair behind her ear and her cheeks turned pink. “Anytime, Hugh.”
I stopped in my tracks and turned around and looked at her. “Hugh?”
“Yes,” she giggled, “you look like Hugh Jackman.”
I chuckled as I opened the Snuff can and shoved some dip into my bottom lip and then pushed my way out of the store. Wasn’t the first time I’d heard that.
The cutie in at the gas station hadn’t been wrong. Once I reached the interstate, the vic’s address had been easier to find with my phone’s navigation thing. Who knew a city as big as St. Petersburg had so many unknown back roads?
I sucked in a breath as my car reached the edge of town where the waters of the Gulf of Mexico flanked the city. To my left, a huge bridge spanned over a breathtaking body of water, the late afternoon sun glinting off of the choppy waters of the bay. I continued on the interstate until I reached my exit. I followed directions on the navigation system until I reached a swanky new set of condos built on the edge of the water. I parked in the guest parking and got out, my hand hovering over the 9mm piece I carried under the light jacket I wore. I scanned the parking lot for anything suspicious but didn’t see anything. I then spied the unmarked sedan with government plates parked in the lot. I made my way slowly toward it.
The windows were tinted so dark, I couldn’t make out how many were inside, let alone the occupants. I rapped on the window once with my knuckle, and the window slowly lowered. My arm still unconsciously hovered over my right hip where my service pistol sat flush against my hip.
I showed the two guys sitting in the front seat my badge and credentials. One guy was white and one black, both equally as boring in their white shirts, loosely fitted ties, and short haircuts. They both looked up at me.
The driver didn’t look older than 25 as he said, “Knight in shining armor?”
