The Chase

by DiAnn Mills

  “Not exactly. I want to keep it in my purse.”

  “Then you’ll need a concealed handgun license.”

  “Would you explain this to me?”

  “A concealed handgun license is commonly called a CHL. If you’re planning to keep this on you, then there are classes and testing to complete first. It’s a comprehensive procedure. I have the qualifications right here.” He reached for a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  Kariss glanced up at him and nodded before reading the list of qualifications.

  Be 21 years old. Members and former members of the armed forces must be 18.

  Have a clean criminal history, including military service and recent juvenile records.

  Not be under a protective order.

  Not be chemically dependent.

  Not be of unsound mind.

  Not be delinquent in paying fines, fees, child support, etc.

  Be eligible to purchase a handgun by completing the NICS check — National Instant Criminal Background Check.

  Complete required training.

  Kariss thought Tigo might have issue with the “unsound mind” clause.

  At the bottom of the paper were several websites. She’d need to check these out, possibly at the library in case Tigo ran a check on her computer. She didn’t know how close an eye he was keeping on her, but he didn’t need to know everything she did.

  She scanned the list one more time and realized she needed more information about the mandatory class. “What’s the required training?”

  “The course requires ten to fifteen hours and includes a written examination and a shooting practical.”

  This was exactly what she’d been hoping for. “What goes on in the workshop portion?”

  “Speakers will give you specific instructions and tell stories of their experiences. Then you take a test. Most people enjoy it.”

  Enjoy it? She’d consider it more research. “Okay. I can handle a workshop and instructions on how to shoot. Is there a cost for the class?”

  “Yes. Depends on where you go. I can make a couple of recommendations.”

  “Good. Then I get my CHL when I pass the tests?”

  “Not quit. You must pass both tests with a score of 70 percent or better before you make application. The form is extensive and there’s a $150 fee.”

  “When’s the next class?”

  “There’s one for the written portion next Saturday.”

  That wasn’t bad. “How long does the entire procedure take?”

  “If there are no problems, approximately sixty days.”

  She could be dead by the time she was approved to carry her gun. Was it worth it? She glanced at the 9mm on the counter. A single woman needed to be able to protect herself. That was why she’d taken the self-defense course.

  “Is there a way to speed up the process?”

  “Not that I know of. The state has laws.” He eyed her strangely. “Miss, are you afraid? If you’re fearful for your life, I strongly suggest you contact the police.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Kariss replied, sensing his comment fell under a stipulation that might disqualify her from the license. “This is more than what I expected, but safety and marksmanship make sense. How do I sign up?”

  Saturday morning, while sitting at his mother’s side, Tigo phoned a friend — a prosthetic disguise specialist who’d assisted Tigo the last time he and Ryan had gone undercover. Derek Kyowski was one of the best in the business, and he approached his job like a kid to candy.

  Previously, Tigo had used blue contacts, a mustache, and false teeth to achieve his undercover work — and end a drug ring. This time, he needed a facial mask. The enemies he’d made over a year ago still stalked the area of town where he needed to infiltrate the Arroyos.

  “Morning, Derek. This is Tigo. I need a facelift.”

  Derek laughed. “You just made my day. What’s the look you’re after?”

  Tigo glanced around his mother’s room where sunlight filtered through the blinds and onto the bed. Peaceful. So against the world he planned to enter. If she were coherent, she’d be listening to every word. He liked to think she still was.

  “Gray hair, wiry beard, glasses. I’m thinking acne scars on the cheeks or something along those lines.”

  “I can do that. Make a new man out of you. Or rather an old one.”

  “That’s what I need.”

  “Wanna come in today?”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “I haven’t heard any Tigo stories for a while.”

  “I could bore you with a few. All cold cases of course.”

  “I’m writing a book, you know.”

  Not another one. “Are you still at the same place?”

  “I am. Wife is helping out with a new grandbaby, and I could use the company. Why not come on over after lunch? That will give me some time to pull together ideas.”

  “I’ll be there about one-thirty.”

  Tigo paced the floor, feeling his grin spread until he laughed aloud. When Derek had helped him with a disguise in the past, he’d fooled Linc and Ryan. Imagine the fun he could have with Kariss.

  He leaned over the bed and planted a kiss on his mother’s forehead. “When I get back, I’ll read to you from your favorite Elizabeth Barrett Browning book. Promise.”

  Promptly at one-thirty, Tigo arrived at Derek’s office. An appointment with the widely acclaimed prosthetic specialist was like taking a field trip to a museum — totally fascinating. Derek had a scrapbook of makeup and prosthetic disguises for clients to choose from, along with plenty of pics of those he’d helped. At least July wasn’t as busy as other times of the year, like Halloween.

  Derek escorted Tigo into his office, and the two men examined the various effects achieved from hair, beard, and glasses.

  “Remember the different looks of Jennifer Garner in Alias?” Derek pulled up a website that showed the many faces of the actress during the TV run. “Want to go blonde or redhead instead of gray?”

  “Maybe balding. I need to look wealthy, mean, and tough.”

  Derek chuckled. “Figured that.” Turning his attention back to the computer, he brought up another site and pointed to four photos. “This one has thinning gray hair, wiry brows, black-rimmed glasses, and facial scars like you suggested. The second one has less hair and a double chin. You could use light makeup and blue contacts on that one. The third changes your ethnicity to more of a Jamaican.” He grinned. “We’d need to darken the hands on this one. The last one is an alternate of the first, but I’d add a larger nose and ears.”

  Tigo studied each one, considering the role needed as a weapon’s buyer. “I like the first one, but add the double chin. Gives me a greedy look. I’ll team it with an expensive suit.”

  “Are you soloing this one, or does Ryan need my expertise?”

  “I’ll have him give you a call. He worked with me last time, and we nearly got our rears kicked.”

  “When don’t you?” Derek settled back in his chair. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Too busy.” Tigo hoped this wasn’t about Derek’s niece again. “Couldn’t ask any woman to put up with my schedule.”

  “The danger aspect might not be too appealing either. Just thought I’d check. My niece just ended a relationship. But she’s a bit high-maintenance.”

  Kariss Walker was enough trouble without adding another. “If I ever decide to look, it would have to be with a woman who’d put up with my job — and my independence.”

  “Got it. Now I’m ready for a few stories, fully embellished to Hollywood proportions.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Kariss held her breath as Vicki led up to breaking the news about her pregnancy to their parents. They didn’t like Wyatt any more than Kariss did, but their remarks in the past had been less … colorful. They were about to learn their next grandchild would inherit some of their ex-son-in-law’s genes. That tidbit would sour their stomachs — at Dad’s favorite home-style cooking restau
rant.

  “… I have exciting news.” Vicki beamed, but Kariss refused to go there. “I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a Pawpaw and Grammy again.”

  Dad set his fork beside his plate and stared at the mashed potatoes and fried fish. He met Vicki’s gaze and offered a tight smile. Real tight. “I can tell this is something you want.”

  “Very much so.”

  “Do I dare ask the father?”

  Kariss breathed the closest thing to a prayer she knew.

  “Dad,” Vicki said. “It’s Wyatt’s child.”

  “Figures. Not sure why he brings his new girlfriend and baby to our church. I know we’re all sinners, but I don’t think he’s repented of what he’s done to God or you. Does he know?”

  “Yes.”

  Dad played with his napkin. “Those babies will be less than a year apart.”

  Mom’s face was ashen, and she touched Dad’s hand. “Take it easy. Vicki knows what he’s done.”

  “Why did you tell him?” Bitterness seemed to crawl from Dad’s voice.

  Whoa. Kariss hadn’t expected that response.

  Vicki flashed a helpless look at Kariss, then back to Dad. “I understand your disappointment, but he is the father. I’ll make sure Wyatt provides financial support, even if it takes a few trips to court. If he refuses to be a father, then my baby is better off.” She lifted her chin, but her lips quivered.

  Vicki’s gumption brought a smile to Kariss. Her sister could do this.

  Dad slowly nodded. “That’s all we can ask, sugar. We’re here to help you and our grandbaby. You made a mistake with Wyatt.” He hesitated. “Make that two. Maybe he’ll ‘fess up to being a man. But I doubt it.” He paused again, which was his manner of thinking through whatever he had to say. “I’m being blunt when you’ve already been hurt by him too many times to list. And … you don’t need any more of my lecturing. So let me say your mother and I will be praying for you and this baby. I believe I speak for the entire family.” He picked up his glass of iced tea and toasted her. “You’re my little girl, and I’d still like the opportunity to break Wyatt’s nose.”

  Kariss hid a grin. Good old Dad, the man who made sure he was cleaning his rifle when boyfriends came calling. Another reason why she’d shied away from weapons.

  Vicki let out a sigh and whispered a thank-you.

  “Would you like to move back home?” their mother said. “Goodness knows our house is big enough, and the rural area is a great place for a little one to grow up.”

  “You’re sweet, and I appreciate the invitation. Don’t know what I’d do without you,” Vicki said. “Kariss made the same offer, and I think I’m going to take her up on it.”

  “Yeah.” Kariss lifted her iced tea for another toast. “My three-thousand-square-feet condo needs company.”

  “Families stick together.” Dad picked up his fork. “Kariss, let’s talk about where your life is going without God. Your mother and I …”

  Kariss drove home on I-45 North from Texas City after filling her tummy with food and her heart with laughter. Dad’s wishes about her spirituality were a common additive to any family event, and she’d grown used to it, expected it. And she’d never disrespect him by not giving him eye contact. Her soul was another matter. The God thing didn’t work for her … hadn’t for years. Maybe when she reached their age, faith would make sense. She’d grown up memorizing Scripture, going to church camp, and then youth group. But none of those practices made sense to her after the fire.

  She wished her siblings lived closer to each other. A family reunion was coming up the end of August, and the date couldn’t come fast enough. No matter what disagreements or misunderstandings a family of her size experienced, they loved each other, and that bond helped them work out any problems.

  She found her favorite radio station and listened to smooth jazz while her car whizzed past the others. At this rate, she’d get a speeding ticket and ruin a perfectly good day. She eased on the brakes and pulled into the right-hand lane. The traffic thickened with those returning from Galveston to Houston, forcing her to slow down. She remembered her first encounter with Tigo and laughed aloud. Then she sobered. He had a daredevil side. He’d earned a reputation for getting a job done because of his courage and determination. She’d seen glimpses of it. Certainly a man who’d earned her respect and admiration.

  Maybe more, if she allowed her heart to take a dive.

  A black pickup followed close behind her. She sped up a little, and it stayed on her bumper. Now what was that about? She moved into another lane, and the truck swerved over with her.

  Kariss glanced at her rearview mirror. Two men of Hispanic descent occupied the truck. She’d never been prejudiced, but the events of late had made her jumpy. She changed lanes again. The truck followed.

  Her full stomach moved to her throat.

  Don’t overreact. Think. Use your head.

  This wasn’t a plotline in a book, but reality. And she’d seen enough blood in real life to know this had dangerous potential. But she wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

  Kariss glanced into the mirror again and swallowed hard. The pickup was only inches from her bumper. Did he have his window down so he could shoot at her?

  She trembled … Stop it, Kariss. Think like Tigo. Then do it.

  She swerved back into the right lane and pressed her foot on the gas. She’d bought the Jaguar for its performance. Now was the test. The car in front of her loomed closer. She swung into the left lane and back into the right with the black truck imitating every turn of her wheels.

  The driver could be looking for some Sunday afternoon fun — see who could outrun the fancy sports car. They could be drunk or high. Or their forearms and bald heads might be tattooed with gang signs and one of their names might be Froggie Diego.

  Tigo had become her hero in more ways than one. She’d handle this situation like a pro.

  Weaving in and out of traffic at eighty miles per hour, she nearly clipped a Lexus, then another truck. She looked for an exit ramp. Where were the cops when she needed them? She reached for her phone on the passenger side to punch in 9-1-1. But that required her to look at her phone. If she didn’t pay attention to the road, she’d lose control of her car and kill herself and someone else.

  The traffic slowed and forced her speed to a crawl. Up ahead, vehicles were at a standstill. What now? She cut off a car on her right to get into that lane. The truck couldn’t get over, and she stole a moment to take a breath. An embankment separated I-45 from a feeder road. Tigo and her brothers wouldn’t think twice about this. She crossed over the shoulder and down toward the feeder.

  The Jaguar bumped over the rough terrain and to the road. She tore her gaze from the jarring ride to her phone and pressed in 9-1-1, then held the phone against her shoulder with her head. A crack met her ears. A bullet had shattered the rear window and then ripped into the windshield, not two feet from her head. She gasped. Yesterday’s gun purchase lay in her panty drawer at home.

  “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

  “Help me. A truck is chasing me, and the driver just fired a shot at me.”

  “Where is your emergency?”

  “I just jumped I-45 to a feeder road near Dickinson.” Kariss slammed onto her brakes as she neared a stop sign. The truck had followed her. “He’s behind me, and I’m going to run a stop sign.”

  “We’re sending help.” The calm voice did little to settle her nerves.

  Another bullet cracked the windshield on the passenger side.

  “Someone is trying to kill me!”

  “We have police cars heading your way from Dickinson. One is in your vicinity.”

  “The truck’s gaining speed.” She pressed on the accelerator, ready to barrel through a farmer’s fence if it meant getting out of the shooter’s firing range.

  “Do you need medical attention?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Stay on the line until it’s safe to pull over and help
has arrived. What’s your name?”

  “Kariss … Kariss Walker.”

  “Do you know who’s following you?”

  “No.”

  “Keep talking, Kariss.”

  “I hear the sirens.”

  “Good. Where is the truck now?”

  Cars ahead were stopped on both sides of the shoulder, and she feared the traffic light ahead might turn red. She took another glance at the rearview mirror. “It’s gaining speed. Maybe—” She gulped for air. “Maybe they’ll hear the sirens and leave me alone.”

  She sailed through a green traffic light at the intersection where a police car approached from the right side, forcing other vehicles aside. The truck pursuing her whipped under the bridge in a U-turn and headed back south on I-45.

  Kariss pulled over onto the right shoulder, noting her white knuckles seemingly attached to the steering wheel.

  “Kariss, are you all right?” the 9-1-1 dispatcher said.

  “I’m stopped now. I think some police are after the truck.”

  “Take a few deep breaths. I’m right here until the police arrive.”

  “Okay … thanks.”

  The phone slipped from her shoulder. How would she explain this to Tigo?

  CHAPTER 26

  Monday morning, Tigo parked his car in the parking space allotted for guests of Phillips Commercial Realty Company. He hadn’t decided his real motive for talking to the owner, except to narrow down who’d followed Kariss and her sister the previous Friday.

  Tigo’s to-do list had grown to mammoth proportions, and he intended to make this call short and to the point. Inside the office, a middle-aged woman with bright red hair smiled and welcomed him.

  “I’d like to see Wyatt Phillips.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Santiago Harris from the FBI, and I’d like to ask Mr. Phillips a few questions.” He showed her his ID, then tucked it back inside his jacket pocket. “This won’t take long.”

  The woman paled. “Yes, sir. I’ll see if he can free his schedule.”

  Did she have something to hide?