A Perilous Pursuit

by Diane Gilmore

  Table of Contents

  A PERILOUS PURSUIT

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  A PERILOUS PURSUIT

  DIANE GILMORE

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  A PERILOUS PURSUIT

  Copyright©2017

  DIANE GILMORE

  Cover Design by Fiona Jayde

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-68291-320-8

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Acknowledgements

  To Michael Towner, for your invaluable help in developing my British characters. They wouldn’t be who they are without you.

  To my editor, Sharon Roe, for your enthusiasm, advice, and expertise in the finer concepts of word craft.

  Both of you made the dream a reality. I sincerely thank you, and Craig and Taylor thank you, too.

  Chapter 1

  “A vacation?” Taylor Fairchild asked her father warily as she sat opposite his massive oak desk. Her long, black hair cascaded over her shoulders and her hands rested on the arms of the plush conference chair. “I can’t just take off for London, Dad. There’s too much work to be done around here.”

  “We can do without you temporarily,” Bruce Fairchild replied. The bright California sun beamed in between the blinds of the large picture window, making the gray flecks in his sandy hair and beard appear more prominent on his tanned face. “You’re as stubborn as your mother was, and if she were alive today, she would tell you the same thing.”

  Leather creaked as he leaned back in his chair and surveyed his daughter.

  “I’m well aware of your hectic work schedule, and I know it’s entirely of your own doing,” he said, focusing on the tobacco he had just packed into his brown Savinelli Sistina pipe. He struck a wooden match and moved the flame in a circular motion over the bowl as he took a few brief puffs. He blew smoke out, then directed his gaze back to Taylor. “I think some time away from here will do you good. Besides, I have a reputation to maintain. I’ve had to build this company all over again after what happened in New York, and I don’t need you making a costly mistake from working too hard to jeopardize it. The rest of the staff can handle your artists while you’re gone.”

  Taylor sighed. “Dad, that whole scandal with your law firm was over twenty-five years ago. With today’s technology, it’s not very likely someone could pull off selling phony securities like Roberto Perez did back then. Besides, wasn’t he convicted and sent to prison? I think you’re being a little overprotective of the company.”

  “What happened then is not what I’m talking about now,” Bruce said. “I’m simply saying you’ve been keeping late hours for months since the divorce, and you could get careless from being overworked.” He leaned forward on his desk and purposefully banged his pipe loudly in the glass ashtray. “It has to stop.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes. “What is it, then? Derek? Dad, I’m well over him. I don’t need you jetting me off to London to convince me of it.”

  Taylor met rock sensation Derek “Diesel” Barnes when he became represented by her father’s company, Fairchild Management Group. She’d fallen head over heels in love with him, and after a whirlwind six-month courtship, Derek and Taylor were married.

  “Don’t use that disaster against me,” she continued. “How could I have predicted that he would fall for the Tinseltown treats that attract all new artists? He found out that I wasn’t willing to share him with every female background singer he toured with. He hasn’t been in my life for over a year now, and I’m fine with it.”

  At least, that’s what she told herself.

  Her father shook his head. “My decision is final, Taylor,” he said. “Whether the reason behind it, you’ve taken on a loaded schedule for too long. You won’t slow down, so I’m doing it for you. And you might like some company, so I’ve arranged for Susan to join you. I’m sure she’ll find plenty for you both to do while you’re there.”

  Taylor leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Susan was a wild beauty with bottle-blond hair that fell in sassy layers about her shoulders. She was like a Texas tornado, spinning from one relationship to the next, always looking for something more exciting out of life. She thrived on L.A.’s celebrity life, whereas Taylor possessed the prudent, levelheaded sided of their friendship.

  “You know perfectly well Susan exaggerates,” Taylor said. “She probably told you I stay up all night working.”

  Well, sort of, Taylor confessed to herself. Normal working hours for most people were not coming home at ten every night. Nonetheless, the long hours helped her mind stay occupied. She found her work therapeutic, giving herself the camouflage she needed to mask the hurt she suffered after the divorce.

  “Susan will be a fine traveling companion,” her father continued, ignoring her remark.

  Hello, Dad. I am not a child, and I don’t need a babysitter, she silently reprimanded him. If anything, it would be Taylor who would be babysitting Susan on a trip like this.

  “This whole idea of yours is absurd,” Taylor said, her mouth beginning to tense. “I don’t need you arranging trips for me like you’re sending me off to a sanitorium because you think I need a rest. I’m happy right here, working.”

  Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “And if you don’t ease up on your workload, your career will eat you alive. I’ve seen it happen too many times in this business, and I’m not about to let it happen to my own daughter.”

  “Whatever,” Taylor snapped, standing up. “I’m not going.” She started for the door.

  “That’s enough, Taylor.” Her father’s abrupt tone made her stop in her tracks.

  She stared
at him.

  He stood and glared at her. “As your employer, I’m giving you a leave of absence.” His voice was edged like steel. “Are you going to take it or do you need to clean out your desk this afternoon?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I know you don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t push me.”

  Although Taylor generally never lacked for standing up for her convictions, she knew that tone of voice. It meant that her father was not about to back down.

  He’s right, she admitted to herself. Diesel Barnes was in the past, and that was where he should stay. It was time for her to move on and live again. Perhaps some time off would be just the thing to spring her back into the social mainstream.

  “Oh, all right,” she said, throwing her arms up in defeat. “I’ll go.”

  “Your flight leaves next Friday,” Bruce said with a wink, looking pleased. “It’s all set. Your flight, hotel, everything.”

  Taylor’s brows raised. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

  Bruce grinned as he walked his daughter to the door. “You’ll come back feeling like new. I promise you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The four-door sedan sat silently in the dark alleyway of the rough East-End neighborhood, only noticeable to those who knew it was there. It wasn’t fancy by most automobile standards—plain, dark, with no extras. The only sound to be heard was the distant rumblings of a bustling city. The lights in the deserted street were dim and yellow with age, softly illuminating the walls of abandoned warehouses. They were adorned with graffiti-ridden slogans by some of England’s finer hoodlums: “Chelsea,” “National Front,” “Fuck All Pigs.”

  Strewn down the street were shells of cars, silent effigies to those who frequented this part of town. Probably stripped for spare parts and then set on fire by ten-year-old, would-be hooligans, Craig thought dryly. It had been drizzling all evening, and the deserted road and piles of garbage took on a shiny sheen from the chilly springtime mist.

  He glanced again at his watch. It was getting late.

  “Where the bloody hell is this guy?” he asked with annoyance. “We can’t sit here all bleeding night. We should be over in Soho by now.”

  “Be patient,” Eddie replied from the back seat. “They’ll be here, don’t worry.” A briefcase filled with bundles of cash lay in his lap.

  Eddie Scott, a muscle-bound, well-seasoned dealer in Cabrera’s hierarchy, had joined them at the last minute as some extra muscle, just in case. Eddie would hold the cash when he and Craig went inside, while Steve remained outside behind the wheel.

  Why the deal had to go down here, of all places, Craig had no idea. He was far more accustomed to meeting his employer’s business associates in rather exclusive locations around Britain. Meeting points were frequently changed to avoid exposure, but they were never anything less than first-class. The moves worked well, as Craig never encountered a problem during a drop.

  He pulled his .44 out of his waist and loaded the chamber with new rounds while his mind wandered to his band, Fury, that was scheduled to perform tonight in Soho. Now, because of this deal, he and Steve would be late. The sellers were taking longer than usual to arrive, and it annoyed him. He bloody well didn’t need the damn cops to come cruising by, asking them what they were doing in a deserted warehouse district, at this hour, with a briefcase full of neatly bundled cash. Where was that Yank, anyway?

  He had done this routine many times before, but doing business with a stranger made him jumpy. Robert Cabrera, his boss, was buying ten kilos of pure Peruvian cocaine from a Yankee dealer who showed up in London with a generous supply to sell. Craig knew Cabrera’s method for handling a new fish in town. He made a small deal with the guy, nothing major at first. The bigger loads came later, if all worked out.

  Cabrera said this one would be quick and easy. Duck into the warehouse, Eddie flashes the cash, guy hands over the goods. Simple.

  On the driver’s side, Steve lit a cigarette. The glowing flame caught the butt of Craig’s gun. Why was he feeling so edgy? Perhaps it was his impression of the situation, of doing business with a Yank in the first place. The European dealers usually stayed on their own side of the pond, using local middlemen to link their drug triangle from Africa and the Middle East. They simply didn’t bother with the States, and the States didn’t bother with them. Now a newcomer had shown up, and an American at that.

  Or maybe it was because the drops were getting more frequent, in more questionable locations, and with more hardcore smugglers than he ever bargained for. Now he spent more time keeping his fear of getting killed in check than enjoying the money he made for himself and the band.

  “Here they come,” Eddie’s voice spoke from the darkness in the back seat.

  The three watched as a sleek, black sedan turned the corner from the far end of the alley. Its lights were low, casting an eerie orange glow on the dirty red brick of the adjacent buildings. The car came to a stop about a hundred yards from them. It sat still, its engine purring flawlessly, waiting. Steve flashed his parking lights twice. The other car responded similarly and then slowly pulled up to the doorway of the dilapidated, abandoned warehouse bay.

  The seller, known only to them as Rick, emerged from the car, accompanied by two beefy men who looked as if they spent most of their lives in weight-lifting competitions. In Rick’s hand was a brown canvas bag. Without giving Craig a second glance, the men walked purposefully toward the doorway. Their driver remained outside.

  “Ready, mates?” Eddie said coolly, opening the back door. “It’s party time.”

  “Yeah, let’s get this bloody thing over with,” Craig said, putting his gun back into his waistband and opening the car door. He headed toward the building with Eddie.

  “Be quick about it, pal,” Steve called after Craig. “Soho, remember?”

  Rick’s men were already inside when Craig and Eddie came to the door. Craig pulled it open. Eddie strolled inside to make the sale, with Craig following.

  Craig shut the heavy metal door behind him. He surveyed the room, and as soon as he saw the group of men facing them with guns drawn, he knew the deal had gone bad. One of the men raised his weapon, aimed it unwaveringly at him and Eddie, and fired.

  Time seemed to grind to a complete halt. The shots sounded like a slow, amplified, explosive roar as chaos broke out. Eddie staggered and fell forward to the concrete floor, sending the briefcase flying out of his hand to Craig’s feet. In that instant, Craig knew he was about to be the next victim. He reacted in record time. Leaving Eddie behind, Craig scooped up the briefcase and tore out of the building. He slammed the door shut behind him and ran toward the car, clutching the money with one hand while groping for his gun with the other.

  Outside, Steve and the other driver had evidently heard what was going down. Rick’s driver opened his door, reaching for his gun, as Craig kept his eyes glued on the passenger door. If he didn’t reach it in time, he would be the second casualty of the night.

  Steve sprang out of the driver’s side and propped his gun on the open car door. He took aim at the other car and began emptying his clip non-stop. His shots hit their mark, for the other driver fell in a heap on the sidewalk. Craig dove into the front seat, and they both slammed their doors shut in unison.

  “Go! Go!” Craig cried as Rick and his men piled out of the building, firing bullets that screamed around them. “Get out of here!”

  Steve’s foot jammed the accelerator to the floor, and they sped off, skidding on the slick cobblestones, as another round of bullets bounced off the car’s trunk. Craig heard the men they left behind shout after them.

  Within seconds, the other car was giving chase.

  “Holy shit! What happened?” Steve shouted. The car careened through the city streets, but the chase car began to quickly close in behind them.

  “Ju
st drive this damn thing!” Craig called back as he watched the action through the rear window.

  Suddenly glass exploded onto the back seat. The rear window was shot out. Craig leaned over the front seat and emptied his .44 through the gaping hole—anything to slow down the enemy. His shots shattered the other car’s windshield, where it burst into a blossom of cobwebbed designs. The other car slowed, putting some distance between them.

  “We’re coming into Smithfield,” Steve called out, as buildings and intersections zipped by their windows. Steve swung blindly around the few cars still on the road, making sure they didn’t find themselves head-on with an oncoming car or bus. The chase car kept up. Did they want to silence the witnesses of the crime that had just occurred? To get the money? Or both?

  “Here they come again,” Craig said, dropping a spent clip on the seat and slapping in a new one. “Jesus, when are they going to give up?”

  Suddenly the chase car began to gain on them. If they fired at them this close . . .

  Steve sped down the street and made a sharp left turn at the next intersection. Craig looked back to see the chase car barely make the narrow turn. But the American driver, unfamiliar with London’s twisting streets and unable to see through his shattered windshield, misjudged it. The car hit a curb and flipped sideways. It then became airborne like a guided missile, finally crashing through the large picture window of a street-side bookstore. The distant whoop of a siren followed a minute later as Steve sped on, not daring to even glance into the rearview mirror.

  Spotting an alleyway, Steve hooked into it. He jerked the car to a stop next to a group of garbage cans. He cut the engine and lights, and they sat, breathing hard but otherwise silent.

  At first, neither of them said anything, too stunned to utter a word. Finally, Steve spoke.