Killing Season: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (Violet Darger FBI Thriller Book 2)

by L. T. Vargus

  Like some kind of mind-reader, he turned his head and said, “You dress down well, by the way.”

  Irritated at the little thrill that ran through her at the compliment, she murmured a half-hearted, “Thanks.”

  He leaned across the center console and sniffed her.

  “You smell good, too,” he said and held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Only the barest hint of slow-roasted pork belly.”

  Violet glared over at him.

  “I’m armed,” she warned. “It would be a shame if I had to shoot you.”

  Lifting her pant leg, she revealed her duty pistol. When she’d first gotten dressed back in her hotel room, she’d started to holster her gun at her belt like normal. But she realized that wouldn’t do. The Nameless Brotherhood would make her for law enforcement and probably run for the hills before she got within spitting distance. Luckily, she found her ankle holster still tucked in one of the zipper pockets on the flap of her suitcase. Finally a benefit to being a mess when it came to organization: if you never fully unpack your suitcase, most of the stuff you need is already inside.

  “No need to get testy, Miss Darger. Didn’t your mama teach you that the appropriate response when a gentleman compliments you is to curtsy and say thank you?”

  Not having any room to curtsy in the confines of the car, she thanked him with her middle finger.

  The Tanglefoot Saloon was bustling with activity on a Friday night. Violet wasn’t surprised. The parking lot had been jam-packed. There were plenty of bikes parked along the front walk, so she had high hopes that her quarry was inside, as Owen promised.

  Passing through the front doors, she saw them immediately. A large group of maybe a dozen men in denim vests clustered in the corner of the bar nearest the pool tables, and each of them was boldly flying the colors of their club. Even in the dim light of the bar, it was easy to read the letters on the bold red and black patch: NAMELESS BROTHERHOOD. Beneath the top rocker was the club insignia, a humanoid skull with the curved horns of a goat or maybe a demon.

  She had to admit, there was something ballsy about declaring yourself an outlaw so openly. Most criminals hid in the shadows. These guys literally wore their lawlessness on their sleeves.

  Owen led her to a pair of open stools at the far end of the bar, giving Violet a chance to scrutinize the rest of the place. The decor matched the Old West-inspired name, with plenty of big game animal heads adorning the walls and exposed beams along the ceiling.

  The wall behind the bar was mirrored, which meant she could keep an eye on the bikers with little chance of getting caught staring. The last thing she wanted to do was attract attention. Had Owen chosen these seats on purpose? She thought probably so.

  “Beer?” Owen asked. She nodded.

  An old Hank Williams song blared out of the overhead speakers. Combined with the chatter from the patrons, it meant they could talk about their task without much risk of being overheard.

  The barman set a bottle down in front of each of them. As soon as he moved off, Owen leaned in.

  “See the guy with the classic horseshoe mustache? The one sitting directly under the neon Budweiser sign?”

  Violet’s eyes flicked up and found the man in the reflection of the mirror.

  “I see him.”

  “That’s Donny Hardegree. President of the club.”

  Violet figured he was probably 55, maybe 60. He had thinning gray hair shaved close to his head. The mustache Owen had mentioned was well-kept, unlike some of the other men, who sported wild, unruly beards that made them look like Vikings and pirates.

  Hardegree had the look of a man who had been heavily muscled in his prime but was now starting to go to fat. An aging bull. Violet stripped away the tattoos and earrings in her mind. Redressed him in a button-down shirt and a pair of chinos. He would have looked like any number of suburban men. Someone’s dad, kicking back in a recliner on the weekends to watch the big game.

  “The guy racking the balls at the pool table is Randall Stokes. Second-in-command and still one of their top enforcers. Also happens to be Hardegree’s half-brother.”

  Stokes appeared about the same age as his brother, maybe a few years younger. He was wirier but by no means weak-looking. If Hardegree was a bull, this was the fox. He had a clever look to him. Violet played the same game, dressing him up in her head to play a new part, but unlike Hardegree, she couldn’t make it stick. Something about his eyes, she thought. They were black and sharply focused, scanning the room often, fixing people with a laser-like intensity. There was a mischievous, possibly malevolent light in those eyes. Violet felt a chill run up her spine.

  “Hardegree and Stokes paid for their power with blood. Back in the late 80s, they had a spat with the then-current president. He wanted to take the club in a more law-abiding direction. Cool it on the drug and gun-running. They apparently didn’t agree. So they abducted him, drove him down to the Everglades, shot him, set his body on fire, and then left the barbecued remains for the gators. That’s the legend anyway. Never found the body.”

  Stokes leaned over the pool table now, lining up his first shot. As he broke the stack, a loud whoop rang out from the table next to him. Stokes balked, and she could tell by the hard set of his mouth that he wasn’t happy with his opening move.

  He aimed a dark glare over at the inhabitants of the neighboring table. It was a group of four younger men, definitely not bikers. College kids, she’d guess. They barely looked old enough to drink. Judging from their boisterous behavior, though, they’d already had plenty. None seemed to notice the attention they were receiving from the dangerous-looking biker at the next table.

  Violet sucked in a breath, hoping they weren’t about to witness an all-out brawl. After a tense moment, one of the other Nameless guys clapped Stokes on the back, and his focus returned to the pool table.

  She let out a relieved sigh.

  “They’ve had a few run-ins with the Lost Horses lately. A rival club,” Owen continued. “The Lost Horse boys run some action in Alabama, Tennessee, and South Carolina, and now they’ve got their sights set on parts of Georgia. Couple of Lost Horses ran a Nameless guy off the road in Marietta back in April. Beat him so badly the paramedics assumed he was dead when they first got to the scene. In retaliation, the Nameless crew in Marietta set fire to a pawn shop.”

  “In other words, a genteel and refined bunch,” she joked.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I deal with a wide variety of thugs, hustlers, and malcontents in my line of work. Nobody makes my ass pucker like the OMGs.”

  “On that delightful note, who should we approach first?” Violet asked.

  “We shouldn’t approach anyone. I’ll do all the talking. You’re a silent observer. In fact, you should stay right where you are. Got it?”

  “Then why did you even agree to bring me along?”

  “I never turn down the company of a pretty lady,” he answered, a mock serious look on his face.

  She snorted.

  “You think I won’t argue with your plan if you butter me up enough? Is that it?”

  “Actually, the thought of you rolled in butter hadn’t crossed my mind before, but now… gimme a minute with that.”

  He closed his eyes and a grin spread over his lips. Violet kicked the leg of his stool, jolting him out of his daydream.

  “You’re awfully fucking flippant for a guy with a puckering asshole.”

  “For the record, I meant every word, Miss Darger,” he said, taking a drink. “I suppose part of it is that mouth of yours.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is this going to turn into a Deliverance-type scenario?”

  Owen had to pull the bottle away from his lips to let out a laugh.

  “I hope not. I was talking about your colorful language. Something about a Northern girl that curses like a sailor always did give me a little thrill.”

  Violet blushed a little and took a sip of beer to conceal a smile.

  “I don’t kn
ow what part of that sentence to address first.”

  He made a face as if he were genuinely curious for her to go on.

  “Is this a Catholic thing?”

  “How’d you know I was Catholic?”

  “Well, the giant bathtub Madonna in your front yard was a hint.”

  He chuckled.

  “That’s not mine. I mean, I suppose it is now. But it was the previous tenants that installed it.”

  “And what? It would be blasphemy to desecrate a statue of the Holy Mother or something?”

  “What? No,” he said, shaking his head with amusement. “It turns out to be a good way to give people directions. I’m sure you’ve noticed that all the houses out that way look exactly the same. Now I just tell people to look for the house with the giant Mary.”

  Darger smiled, thinking that was exactly how she’d remembered which house was his.

  “You know you could replace it with something else. A couple of pink flamingos. Or a collection of lawn gnomes,” she suggested.

  “Nah, I couldn’t do that. Maybe at first. But now I’ve grown quite fond of her. Besides, Mary keeps the solicitors at bay. I’m spoken for.”

  Something near the pool tables caught his attention. Violet saw a younger looking guy in Nameless gear and a black bandana greeting his comrades.

  Owen tilted his beer back to polish off the dregs at the bottom of the bottle. The empty made a hollow noise against the bar as he set it back down.

  “Game time. I’ll be back. Remember what I said about you sittin’ tight, you hear?”

  He planted his hand on the top of her head as if that might help root her to the spot. She swatted him away.

  “I remember,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Violet tracked his movement across the room in the mirror, doing her best to appear nonchalant. Inside, she was anything but. The idea of sending a civilian into the wide open jaws of the Nameless Brotherhood wasn’t sitting well with her.

  She supposed Owen would bristle at being called a civilian. And at her doubting his ability to handle himself. In truth, she didn’t doubt him. She sipped her beer and glanced over to where the bikers clustered near the pool tables. She couldn’t trust a group of men that sold drugs and illegal weapons for a living.

  Owen was in their midst now, and Violet had to stop herself from chewing on her nails in suspense. He and the new arrival, Mr. Black Bandana, seemed friendly enough at least. Black Bandana grinned and clapped Owen on the shoulder as he approached. Owen said something into Black Bandana’s ear and the grin widened. Both men turned and headed for the door, disappearing outside.

  Violet sat tight, clutching her beer as if it were some kind of lifeline tethering her to the real world. She didn’t like this. She’d been under the impression that she’d be able to watch Owen’s interaction. If things went wrong, she could jump in to help. But from her seat at the bar, she had absolutely no idea what was going on outside.

  She split her focus between the door and her watch. When Owen had been gone for about three minutes, she saw two more Nameless brothers rise from their seats and head for the parking lot. Violet really didn’t like that. Not at all. She considered getting up and trying to peek out the door. She reminded herself that Black Bandana had been smiling. And Owen hadn’t even given her a glance to suggest that anything was off.

  When six minutes passed and Owen still wasn’t back, Violet couldn’t take it any longer.

  Maybe she hadn’t been close enough to notice that Black Bandana’s smile wasn’t a kind one. And now that she thought about it, hadn’t he guided Owen all the way out with a hand on his back? Like he was marching him out to the firing squad or something? What if Owen was out there right now, going twelve rounds against three bikers? Violet imagined another trip to the emergency room and having to explain to Mrs. Baxter how she’d managed to get her other son a bed in Critical Care.

  Violet released her grip on her beer. That settled it.

  She was going after him.

  Chapter 33

  She lowered one foot to the floor. At the same moment, the front door of the roadhouse swung open. Black Bandana sauntered through first, along with the other two bikers. They appeared relaxed and in good spirits. But where was Owen?

  A few seconds passed, and Violet’s fingernails squeezed into the flesh of her palms.

  The hinges of the door squeaked, and there he was, looking just as footloose and fancy-fucking-free as the other three men. Owen and his bandana-clad buddy paused and exchanged a final word or two. Owen’s mouth moved and the biker threw his head back, guffawing. Black Bandana nodded, gave Owen a playful punch in the arm, and then the two parted.

  Owen sidled over to the seat next to Violet, his body language as calm and serene as the ocean on a windless day.

  Violet waited for him to say something, but he waved at the bartender and ordered two more beers.

  She lifted hers to her mouth and used it to cover up a scowl.

  In a low hiss, she said, “What the hell took so long?”

  His head drooped near hers.

  “Why, did you miss me?”

  Her frown deepened, and Owen reached out to squeeze her shoulder.

  “Relax, Miss Darger. The wheels are in motion.”

  He’d bent a little closer now, and she recognized a familiar glassiness in his eyes. She also got a whiff of something… particular.

  Her eyes widened. She leaned in and sniffed.

  “Are you high?”

  Owen tried to stifle a giggle and failed.

  “Jesus Christ! That’s what you were doing out in the parking lot? Smoking pot?”

  “Relax. I didn’t inhale,” he said, chuckling at his own joke.

  What had she gotten herself into? She was already disobeying orders by investigating this lead. Now her accomplice was getting baked with the potential witnesses.

  She clutched the neck of the bottle in her hand so tightly, she started to worry it might break. Owen let out another snicker.

  “Now what’s funny?”

  “I was about to tell you to chill out. We don’t want any of those guys to figure you out. But then I realized it’s fine. Works out perfectly, really.”

  “What does?”

  “You gettin’ all bent out of shape. You’ll read like the disapproving girlfriend.”

  She glowered at him.

  “Good. Great. Keep making that face.”

  Violet had the overwhelming urge to punch him but resisted. Then again, wouldn’t that be exactly the kind of thing a pissed off girlfriend might do? An evil smirk touched her lips.

  Owen caught the change in her expression.

  “What?”

  She socked him in the arm. Hard.

  “Ow!”

  “Just playing my part,” she said with an innocent batting of her eyelashes.

  Violet took a drink and refocused her attention on the mirrored wall behind the bar. Black Bandana moved closer to the inner circle of the gang, nearer to Stokes and Hardegree. She forced herself to look away.

  “So what exactly is the plan here?” she asked.

  “I whispered a little something in my friend’s ear, that I’m looking for certain information, totally off the record.”

  “And?”

  “Patience, Miss Darger.”

  She wanted to explain that it was hard to be patient when there was a psycho gunman on the loose, but she figured Owen knew that well enough. Her mind went to Ethan lying in that hospital bed, clinging to life by a thread.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I got the impression that Ethan was dead set on keeping his so-called source a secret. Why wouldn’t he just tell me it was his brother?”

  “Oh, Ethan doesn’t exactly approve of my line of work. Kind of a snob that way. Always has been. Thinks P.I.s have a tendency to be a little too loose with the law. I doubt he’d want you other Feebs to know he has such a dubious and uncouth man as myself as
his brother. His twin brother, no less.”

  Owen tried to keep the same jovial nature he’d had before as he talked, but Violet sensed something somber beneath it all. Bitterness at Ethan’s disapproval? Or maybe worry over his brother’s health? Possibly a little of both. Some sense of regret that they weren’t closer after Ethan’s brush with death.

  Violet nudged the coaster under her beer with a fingernail.

  “Does it bother you that he thinks that?”

  “Why should it? I figure it’s more his problem than mine,” Owen said with a dismissive twitch of his shoulder.

  He drank and then pointed at her with the business end of his beer bottle.

  “You a shrink or something?”

  Violet noted that not only had Owen avoided answering the question, he was now redirecting the attention back at her.

  “I used to be a counselor of sorts.”

  He nodded, smiling to himself.

  “All the pieces are falling into place.”

  “Care to explain that?”

  “You think it’s your mission to save everyone, right? The problems of the world are somehow your responsibility.”

  “Where is that coming from?”

  “Come on, you’re a classic control freak. Gettin’ your panties in a twist over a little bit of weed, for example.”

  “My panties,” she started to say, but movement in the reflection of the bar mirror caught her eye, and she quit talking.

  “Don’t stop there, Miss Darger. What were you saying about your panties?”

  She scooted closer, angling her mouth to his ear and keeping her voice low. By the satisfied smirk on his face, Owen must have thought all of his flirting was starting to pay off.

  “I think your friend in the black bandana is heading over to us.”

  The pleased grin on his face faltered, but then he reached out and squeezed her thigh.

  “Follow my lead, darlin’.”

  Owen spun around in his seat, lifting his beer in salute.

  “Roach! I was just tellin’ Violet here about the time Enzo peed on that electric fence and got shocked so hard it threw him on his ass.”

  Roach, she thought. Nickname or surname? Could be either.