The Hitman's Mistake

by Sally Brandle

  “Don’t worry,” he thumbed off the dampness.

  Jesse strode inside. “I’ve got Kyle’s maps. Bullseye’s managing local LEO’s. Squad, reassemble in the kitchen, please.”

  “Be there in a second,” Grant said. “Don’t bring in any more local officers until I talk to you, and don’t answer Venom’s phone on the couch.”

  Grant lifted her hand, and brushed his lips across her cool skin. “We’ll find my parents.”

  Her eyes pleaded for reassurance. “They have to be alive.”

  Scripted words of comfort wouldn’t come. Damn his boss for not divulging why he’d ordered them to overnight in Emma Springs. He should’ve questioned Sam for more intel. He brushed moisture from his own eyes. “I believe they’re alive.”

  “Go.” She squeezed his hand.

  “Now, I can.”

  Urgency burned in his belly. He entered his kitchen and stood opposite Jesse. “Maneski’s pushing hard to kill Miranda. Venom ordered the thugs holding my parents to sit tight until he texted them my address. He would’ve tortured them in front of me.”

  “Should we text a reply with the address?” asked a younger agent.

  “No.” Jesse said. “Patrol cars would scare them off. Where would they be holding your parents?”

  Miranda came to the doorway. “They mentioned a cabin on the creek.”

  “A creek narrows the search.” Grant grabbed the waist of her sweater and pulled her close. He leaned in to kiss her, then pulled back.

  “Venom’s phone’s rung twice,” the young agent announced.

  Kyle strode to the kitchen sink, peeled off bloody gloves, and washed his hands. “Can you trace the call?”

  “Not on short notice.” Jesse smoothed a map onto the table. “Let’s get searching.”

  Grant pulled several old phone books from a drawer and started to thumb through the pages. “We’ll contact rental agencies that lease cabins.”

  “There’s very few around here, Grant,” Kyle said.

  An image flashed of his mom’s anxious face. He’d been worried about Miranda, and she’d survived. His world would turn to dust if he lost Mom and Dad. “Call the realtors in Three Falls listed under vacation rentals.”

  “On it,” an agent said.

  Grant smoothed out Kyle’s tattered USGS map of the local area lying on his table. “My grandpa dragged me around to check on elderly neighbors. I remember cabins on Spruce Creek and on the river near Elk Drive.” He pointed to squiggles on the map.

  An agent replaced the handset and then handed a paper to Grant. “We’ve got addresses of three recently rented out vacation houses. One’s on a private road, Spruce Creek Lane.”

  Grant marked the map, and eyed his watch. His gut tightened. “They won’t wait forever for an address from Venom.”

  Jesse nodded. “Grant, you can get to Spruce Creek the fastest. Two of us will hit Elk Drive. Kyle, I’ll text Bullseye that she’s needed to accompany you to the other address.”

  “I’ll load the house number onto my phone and then unhitch the trailer,” Kyle said.

  “We’ll leave an agent and Miranda here in case any other calls come in.”

  “Stay here?” Miranda’s eyes darted between Grant and Jesse.

  If he’d been thinking straight, he’d have ignored Sam and gotten Miranda far away from Emma Springs. Braindead times ten. “There could be a shootout,” Grant explained. “You’re safer here.” He turned to the others.” Jesse drives my Mustang, I’ll drive the Suburban.”

  From the doorway, Kyle threw the set of Mustang keys to Jesse.

  Grant watched them fly through the air. He’d felt so cool after he’d bought it and driven straight to Mom and Dad’s.

  Would he ever see their smiles again?

  Chapter 13

  Miranda clutched the map, pressing her finger on Spruce Creek Lane. “Why’d Jesse decide to let me join the search?”

  “The only thing that matters now is finding my parents,” Grant stated.

  “Right.” She said a silent prayer, and then compared another hand-lettered street sign to the roads on the map. “Turn left at the diner ahead,” she instructed.

  The Suburban rounded the corner and sped past the Creekside Café and U-Fill-It gas station.

  “Take a right on Parker Drive, and another right on Spruce Creek Lane. The cabin’s a quarter mile off the road, near as I can tell.”

  “I came out here as a kid,” Grant said. “We’re close.”

  He downshifted and swung onto Parker Drive.

  A creek flowed alongside the gravel road. Snow drifts made for a peaceful scene.

  Grant’s stiff posture and the knot in her belly didn’t.

  She pointed at a sign nailed to a tree. Rusted bullet holes pockmarked faint lettering. “There’s Spruce Creek Lane.”

  A single set of tire tracks led past the sign.

  “A car’s driven in recently,” she exclaimed.

  He shifted into four-wheel drive and crept down the narrow lane.

  Nervous energy shot through her body.

  They crested a hill and the vehicle pitched to a stop. In a meadow below sat a weathered cabin alongside the creek. No cars nearby. No smoke from the chimney.

  No sign of life.

  Grant’s shoulders slouched. “Those tracks led out. I’ll move closer on foot. If I see anyone, I’ll raise my hand. Immediately call Jesse and have him alert the State Patrol.”

  She checked her watch. “Maybe he’s found them at another cabin.”

  “He’d of called.” He handed Miranda his phone. His face mirrored her increasing distress. “If anything happens, you leave. Turn left on the highway and drive to the Montana State Highway Patrol office. Understand?”

  “Yes.” She glanced at the stick shift. “Be careful.”

  Grant crouched low while approaching the house. He veered behind snow-topped brush along the bank and then jogged to the porch. He shook his head before pushing open the door.

  She stumbled downhill and skidded through the open door. A threadbare couch and TV holding rabbit ears sat on one end. Dirty footprints covered the floor.

  Grant bent over the trash bin in the far corner. He plucked out a small box. “Dad’s brand of antihistamine. His dust allergies would’ve skyrocketed in this pit.” He turned to stare out the window, crushing the cardboard in his fist. His shoulders rose and fell.

  She put her hand on his arm, but he pulled away.

  Tears wet her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  A scent of scrambled egg lingered in the stale air.

  Miranda wandered to the sink and bent closer to the remaining yellow scraps in the dirty pan. “The egg in this fry pan’s fresh. They haven’t been gone long.”

  “Come on!” He strode to the door. “We’ll try the gas station. There isn’t another one for thirty miles. Someone may recall a non-local. We’ve got a chance, if they’re not . . .” His choked voice trailed off while he left the cabin.

  “The thugs could’ve Googled ‘Morley’ and be heading to your house.” She ran to his side and her boot slipped, sending her onto one knee in muddy slush. “Don’t you dare lose hope.”

  “Right.” Grant took her hand and led her to the Suburban. “Call Jesse. They’ll need to hide the vehicles at my house. He’ll alert the staters.”

  She’d barely shut her door before he slammed the truck into reverse and gunned it.

  “Jesse, it’s Miranda. Grant’s certain his parents stayed on Spruce Creek Lane. We’re heading to a nearby gas station to see if they stopped there first. Warn the agent at Grant’s to move the cars.”

  “Keep him calm,” Jesse whispered.

  “Sure.” She pressed the phone to her ear.

  �
�When it’s family, an agent doesn’t think rationally. We can’t afford errors, both for Grant’s folks and your safety.”

  He was still worried about her testimony? Now? What kind of men wanted this job? “We’re at the gas station.” She hit the button ending the call.

  Two vehicles sat at the pumps in front of the convenience store.

  Grant’s narrowed cop eyes scanned the area. “Duck and stay put. Honk if you need me.” He slowed the truck.

  She scrunched low in the seat.

  A white panel van stood unattended at the nearest gas pump. On the opposite side, a man cleaned the windshield of a station wagon.

  Grant parked the Suburban alongside the front of the service garage, attached to the store.

  “I’ll be right back.” He got out and strode toward a mechanic working on a car.

  She looked through the mini mart’s glass door. Goosebumps rose on her arm. The creepy window washer from Seattle stood at the register, doling out money.

  Her eyes darted to Grant, talking to a man in stained coveralls.

  Could he see her? She slid out the driver side and pulled Grant away by his sleeve. “I recognize a guy in the store. He started washing windows in the Justice Building right before they shot Ike. He acted strange, kept watching the elevators.”

  “Which guy?”

  “Shaggy brown hair, wearing a Seahawks jacket.”

  “Stay behind me.” Grant moved toward the door of the garage. “There’s a kid in the car seat of the station wagon. The perps must be driving the panel van,” he whispered. “My folks might be hidden in the back. If they’re not, we’ll have Jesse pull them over for questioning.”

  “I’ll call Jesse.”

  Grant turned. “Go hide in my truck. Get it running and be ready to leave. Don’t take any chances.” His eyes gleamed with purpose. “I’ll whistle if I find my parents.” He pulled a pair of dark sunglasses out of his pocket. “Put these on,” he plucked a ball cap bearing a greasy Amsoil logo off a work bench. “And tuck up your hair.”

  He circled behind the pumps and approached the van.

  The window washer ambled out, his arms overflowing with pop and chips.

  Crap, he’d hear Grant. She cranked the volume on the Suburban’s radio, peeled off Kyle’s coat, and hopped out, waving the map.

  “Excuse me, mister,” she began in a Southern drawl, then stuck out her boobs, and sashayed her hips while she approached him. “I’m lost, and I’m not the best at these here maps.”

  “Well, now.” He smiled and then narrowed his eyes.

  She lowered her cap’s brim and broadened her smile.

  The map fluttered on the sloped hood of the Suburban. “Could y’all spare me the tiniest minute and try to help me figure out how to get to Miss Oula? My Granny’s expectin’ me, and I don’t have no idea the best route.”

  “Shame you’re lost.” He threw his packages into the cab of his van and pulled up his pants.

  “I’m sorry to delay your party,” she teased.

  “Always glad to help a pretty little lady.” In a few strides, he’d closed in.

  The stench of cigarettes drifted from his clothing. His shoulder inched near her chest as he leaned over the hood. “Let’s take a peek.”

  She stepped aside, holding the far corner of the map.

  A tall guy with a blue-tipped Mohawk came from around the side of the garage, zipping his fly. “The can’s freezing.” He patted the top of his hair. “What ya need a map for? Straight shot to Three Falls after we visit the river.”

  The window washer scowled. “Not us, dimwit. This little sweetie needs help finding her granny.” He sidled closer, using his hip to bump her thigh.

  She dug her fingernails into her palm and smiled demurely. “Y’all are the kindest gentlemen.”

  ~ ~ ~

  As a kid, Grant drove his folks nuts with the “shave and a haircut” knock. He tapped the tune on the back door.

  The “two bits” reply came in the form of two thumps.

  He released a long breath and inched open the door. His eyes adapted to the dark interior.

  Dim light outlined upright bodies sitting back to back on the floor, their knees bent to their chests. Ropes bound them, and gags covered their mouths.

  He put his finger to his lips, requesting silence.

  Their heads bobbed in unison.

  While he tugged the rope at their waists, they scooted to the edge of the metal floor.

  He sliced through the cords and swung their feet out. Placing an arm around each waist, he moved them to the far wall of the convenience store. Slashing cords, he set his dad’s hands free and pulled out his Glock.

  A woman’s hillbilly voice carried to where they stood. “You boys are so smart. I think I may be able to find my way now. Where’d ya say you’re off to? A river?”

  Miranda. Grant wet his dry lips and managed a shrill note. “You two stay here while I get Miranda away from the thugs.” He slipped behind the gas pump.

  “Wanna have a drink? There’s a tavern outside of town,” the one with blue hair offered.

  “Granny’s waitin’ for me,” Miranda said. “Thanks, though.”

  The shorter creep moved his hip closer to hers, making Miranda struggle to fold the map.

  His jaw clenched.

  The outline of a gun bulged in blue-hair’s coat.

  Grant’s fingers tightened on the Glock.

  “Bye, Sugar.” The shorter one blew Miranda a kiss, they climbed in the van, and drove onto the highway.

  “My folks are alive,” he called. He holstered the gun and dashed to her.

  As Miranda tilted her smiling face to him, an undeniable truth beat in his heart. He wanted her to share his life.

  He drew her against his chest and covered her quivering mouth with his needy lips. Tasting her awakened strong desires.

  Heavy sighs rasped from her throat.

  Pent up tension slid away while he pushed off the cap and ran his fingers through her hair.

  She melted against him, her return kisses igniting more than physical senses. She completed him, every soft, warm, brilliant, and brave inch of her.

  From the side of the building came a series of sneezes.

  She pulled her head back. “Thank God they’re alive!”

  He kissed her brow, and swiped tears from her cheek.

  “I never thought I’d be glad to see the creepy window washer,” she said.

  Creepy window washer. Yes, the whole thing had been planned down to each excruciating detail. Grant squeezed his eyes shut.

  He should’ve figured out the computer connection. Of course Karpenito would’ve checked what sites Miranda had visited. Maneski never overlooked unturned stones and made sure his underlings didn’t either.

  But he had.

  Because of her.

  His textbook control of a situation had slipped, a mistake that nearly killed Miranda and his parents.

  Distracted and deadly. The realization struck his gut harder than a close-range bullet fired into Kevlar.

  ~ ~ ~

  Grant shivered, so Miranda nestled against him. They’d all survived, thanks to the crooks buying snacks in the convenience store behind her.

  There’d been more than relief in Grant’s sensual kisses, much more. She placed her fingertip on his swollen cheek. “I heard them beating you. It nearly killed me.”

  “Everyone survived.” His tense tone shredded the tender moment.

  Grant shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Stay here.” He loped back to his parents, who’d shuffled around the corner of the building.

  Warmth cocooned her now, but he’d changed. Impassioned Grant had left, and his eyes had gone stone
cold. What happened?

  He approached her, supporting a parent on each arm. His dad held his ribs, and his mom limped. “These are my folks, Pat and Tom Morley. Please meet Miranda Whitley. She was instrumental in your rescue.”

  From death. Now she understood his withdrawal. Her coming to Emma Springs had nearly killed them all.

  “Very nice to meet you,” Tom said and sneezed again.

  “Extremely pleased to meet you,” Pat agreed, and squeezed Miranda’s hand.

  She held the clasp, then stepped back. “I’m so thankful you’re both okay.”

  “Stinky ride, if I do say so.” Pat fluffed her dusty bangs, exposing red welts on her wrists.

  Miranda covered her mouth. “Oh my God! Did they torture you?”

  “No,” Tom said. “Verbal threats. By your bruises, you got the worst, son.”

  Grant brushed a strand of dusty brown hair off his mom’s forehead. “Miranda recognized one of your captors from Seattle.”

  “Good girl,” Pat said.

  “Got your ribs, too, I bet.” Tom gave Grant a gentle hug. “Those guys planned to transport us to our final stop today, crime scene B.” He ran work-hardened fingers through his short hair. “We knew you’d find us alive.”

  “I’d never quit searching. To the moon and back,” Grant said to his mom. “Are either of you hurt?”

  “Nope.” Pat’s hazel eyes, the same color as Grant’s, blinked back tears. “Only bruised and delighted we’ll see another moon.”

  Miranda dropped her chin to her chest. They knew how close they’d come to dying. From her mistake.

  Grant punched numbers into his phone. “Jesse, my folks are safe. Heads up, there’s a white panel-van coming your way. Montana plates, perpetrators on board. I’ll call for backup . . . We’ll stay until you signal.” Next, he alerted the Montana State Highway Patrol.

  “My staters will collar them,” his dad said. “Can we wait in the diner?”