Lead (Blackwood Elements Book 6)

by Elise Noble

  She opened the maps app on her phone. Yes, Seacroft could’ve decided to take the scenic route across the country, but the more stops he made, the higher the risk of something going wrong. He wouldn’t want to risk losing his prize.

  There were three main routes. Fastest would be to take I-10 to Pensacola, then go through Jackson, Shreveport, past Fort Worth, and across to Amarillo. The second route went up to Atlanta, then through Birmingham, Memphis, and Oklahoma City. Finally, he could take I-10 to start with, but turn south from Mobile and travel through Baton Rouge, Houston, El Paso, Tucson, and Phoenix.

  Whichever way he chose, he’d have to join I-40 east of Kingman then take Route 93 up to Vegas. A distance of a hundred miles, give or take. That looked like the best place to find him. How long did they have before he got there? Emmy did some rough calculations in her head and figured on fifteen hours minimum. Probably more because he’d have to stop to take a leak at least.

  “What’s up?” Black asked, leaning over her. “Did you pick out a new toy?”

  “Imogen got kidnapped, and you’re dripping on me.”

  Black shook his head, sending a shower of water droplets everywhere. “Sorry.” No, he wasn’t. “Kidnapped? I thought Malachi was taking her to a wedding?”

  “He did. One of the waiters turned out to be a nutter.”

  “So what’s the plan? I take it we’re looking for her?”

  “He thinks they might be heading for Las Vegas. I need to organise surveillance along Route 93, plus plan a takedown. The problem is, if he rolls into town when I think he might, it’ll be dark.”

  Pale strode up with a surfboard under his arm, and since he had beach-bum hair, that meant even more water.

  “Is there a problem? The kid’s got his thinking face on.”

  “I’m only six months younger than you, dickhead,” Black said. “And yes, there’s a problem. An acquaintance of ours has been kidnapped. We need to leave.”

  Pale peered down at Emmy’s phone. “And she’s in Las Vegas?”

  “Possibly heading that way.”

  “Well, so am I. I need to be back there by tonight, so we can take my plane. You can fill me in on the trip.”

  CHAPTER 16 - EMMY

  PALE FLEW A four-seater Mooney Acclaim Ultra he kept at a small airfield near his home. A nice little plane—agile, fast, and comfortable. They flew east as Malachi travelled west on board one of Black’s jets. Emmy had spoken to Mal just before they took off, and while he sounded outwardly calm, there was an edge to his voice. A tension that was never normally there, no matter how much shit hit the fan.

  Hmm…

  Could it be possible that Mal had a crush on a girl who wasn’t a raving lunatic? They could but hope. Somebody was going to do jail time if he hooked up with another Erin.

  “What’s the range on this?” Black asked as they approached the runway at Creech Air Force Base.

  “Eight hundred and thirty nautical miles at high speed, twelve hundred and seventy-five cruising.”

  “We don’t need another plane,” Emmy told him.

  “I know we don’t need another plane…”

  “You can only fly one at a time.”

  “And that’s why you have three cars in Richmond alone?”

  Okay, so Emmy had given in and bought another Aston Martin to go with her Dodge Viper and her Corvette Stingray. But the DB11 looked so pretty sitting next to them in the garage.

  “The Aston reminds me of home. Buy British and all that.”

  “Mooney’s American, so following your logic…”

  “Technically, you’re Colombian.”

  “Technically, you’re Russian.”

  “Half Russian.” Which was a touchy subject with Emmy. She hated to be reminded of her roots. “Fine, buy the damn plane.”

  Black reached back between the seats and squeezed her hand. “Love you, Diamond.”

  “Whatever.”

  It was Pale’s turn to laugh. “Women are all the same. Never stop talking, and they always have to have the last word.” He sighed. “Why did I take this damn job?”

  “Is your divorce final yet?” Black asked.

  “A month ago. If I ever get drunk and try to marry a stripper again, for fuck’s sake, stop me. With a bullet, if necessary.”

  “Worked out okay for me.”

  Emmy kicked the back of Black’s seat as Pale turned to look at him. The two men didn’t have many secrets, but that particular snippet of Emmy’s history wasn’t common knowledge.

  “I meant the getting married while drunk part,” he clarified. “What story did you tell her?”

  “She may have been under the impression I worked in telesales. I rented a shitty little duplex and everything. Things were okay for three weeks, then she got on my case about earning more commission to pay for her shoe habit.”

  This was Pale’s problem. He never told his wives the truth about anything, and if you didn’t have trust in a marriage, then what was the point? Wife number one, the hula dancer, had thought he was a retired banker, and he’d convinced wife number two, a cocktail waitress, that he was an advertising executive. Apparently, he’d been in love once, real love, but that had ended in tragedy, and ever since, he’d favoured superficial affairs with rings involved. Emmy wasn’t supposed to know all of that, of course, but she and Black did have trust.

  “You deserved everything you got, buddy,” he said.

  Pale didn’t answer, just dropped the landing gear as they descended. Two minutes later, they taxied towards the hangar where his jeep was parked. Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas. The heat was already oppressive, the sun beating down from a clear sky to form a haze in every direction, and Emmy still hadn’t worked out how to run airtight surveillance on Route 93 at night. Problems, always problems.

  “Where are you going?” Pale asked. “To your hotel?”

  Emmy and Black owned the Black Diamond hotel on the strip, and they kept a private apartment on the top floor. Great if Emmy wanted to drink cocktails or play poker, but not so good for planning a security operation.

  “Nah, I should head to the office. I’ve got surveillance to plan. My absolute favourite.”

  “I’ve got a better idea for that. Follow me.”

  Emmy looked at Black, and he shrugged. They followed. First to the jeep, and then into a giant hangar filled with what looked like beige shipping containers on the other side of the base.

  “Storm’s office,” he explained. “You met her in North Carolina, right? That was some police chase.”

  Ah, yes. The airship debacle of two months ago. Storm had offered up her piloting skills, but she’d muttered something about being shy and disappeared as soon as they landed. Emmy hadn’t even had a chance to thank her properly. Storm was based in Las Vegas?

  Yes, it seemed, because Pale tapped away at his phone, and a moment later, she appeared at the far end of the hanger, this time wearing jeans and a camisole. Civilian clothes. Was she one of his choir girls?

  Again, the answer appeared to be yes, since she saluted. “What’s up, boss?”

  “We need to find a missing van, and there’s a good possibility it’s on its way here from Fort Lauderdale with a kidnap victim on board.”

  “Do you have the description? A registration number?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got the number, and if he’s changed the plate, there’s also a distinctive dent in the rear door. I’ll get a picture sent over.” Emmy scribbled the registration details on a flyer she pulled from a nearby noticeboard and passed it over. Weekday special—any two pizzas for the price of one. Great, now she was hungry. “Here you go.”

  “ETA?”

  “The soonest he could get here is about thirteen hours, but it’ll be dark.”

  Storm turned to Pale. “What am I supposed to tell the colonel?”

  “I’ll handle the colonel. He owes me a favour. Some blonde came over to talk to us in a bar the other day, and when his wife saw and got pissy, I told her she was my gir
lfriend.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell the truth?” Emmy asked.

  “That she was his mistress? I didn’t have time for a trip to the emergency room that day.”

  Okay, fair enough. Emmy had to give him that one.

  “How are you gonna find the van?”

  Storm grinned, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears. “With unmanned aerial vehicles. Drones. How are your security clearances?”

  “They’re good,” Pale told her.

  “Then do you wanna see?”

  Definitely. Drones? They were something Emmy hadn’t had any experience with, but the technology fascinated her. What were the chances of getting one of those for Blackwood? She’d have to be very nice to President Harrison. Black stayed close behind as Storm led them into the furthest container, set up with two ergonomic seats, a bank of screens, and a selection of controllers at the far end. It looked like a cross between a flight simulator and a teenage boy’s bedroom, apart from the pair of pink fluffy dice hanging from the ceiling and the orchid sitting in a glass vase beside a mug of coffee. A whiteboard held a tally chart and a note to pick up the dry cleaning.

  Emmy pointed at the tally chart. “What’s that for?”

  “Confirmed kills this month.”

  “Sixteen.” Emmy wasn't sure whether to be worried or impressed. “Congratulations.”

  “Aw, thanks. But nine of them were in one go. They were having some sort of get-together, and…” She shrugged. “Boom.”

  “Even so… What kind of drones do you fly here?”

  “The regular team flies Reapers. We used to fly the smaller Predators too, but they’ve been retired.”

  “Are you part of the regular team?”

  “No, I work on testing. They give me the new toys to play with, and I try to break them. This control station is for a Hunter. It’s the size of the old Predators, but faster and more agile and with a bigger payload. And most importantly for your task, better optics. This thing’ll read a licence plate from twenty thousand feet.”

  “How many Hunters do you have?”

  Storm held up three fingers. “We can fly them above the main roads leading here. If your guy’s on his way and he didn’t take a detour, we’ll find him.” Her grin got wider. “And you’ll owe me another favour.”

  Emmy would pay up. She always paid up, even if it half killed her. “Thanks for helping out.”

  With the surveillance in hand, Emmy and Black headed back to Pale’s place since it wasn’t too far from the base. He’d gone for a spacious mansion on a two-acre lot this time, and it was a good thing he’d never brought the stripper there or she’d probably have wound up owning it.

  Inside, the house smelled of rose with a hint of vanilla. Pale took a deep breath and gritted his teeth.

  “Okay, who’s been burning scented fucking candles again?”

  Nobody answered. The house was silent. Still.

  “Abandoned by your harem?” Black asked.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Black picked up a pair of curling tongs from the coffee table. Put them down again. Cleared a copy of Cosmopolitan and a half-eaten packet of marshmallows off the sofa so he could take a seat.

  “Perhaps living with Emmy isn’t so bad. She’d have finished the marshmallows.”

  Emmy unrolled the top of the bag and popped one into her mouth. “Too bloody right. Now, if we do find Seacroft, how are we gonna get him out of his vehicle? Want one?”

  She held out the packet to Black, and he turned up his nose in disgust. So did Pale. Did the CIA train them out of eating anything tasty? Oh well, more for her.

  Black counted the options on his fingers.

  “One, we can cause a crash, but that would put Imogen at risk. If she’s riding in the back, she probably isn’t wearing a seatbelt. Two, we can give him a reason to pull over—a broken-down car or a staged accident—but there’s no guarantee he’ll stop to help. Three, we can follow him to his destination and incapacitate him then.”

  “Three,” Pale said. “No question.”

  Emmy had to concur. “Agreed. Mal reckons Seacroft’s got a revolver, so we’ll have to be a little careful.”

  “Do you need more weapons?” Pale asked. “The girls collect guns like they’re going out of fashion. I think they enjoy matching them to their outfits. And Dusk’s a kleptomaniac. I caught her stowing a surface-to-air missile in the basement last month.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “Never know when that shit’ll come in useful.”

  “Don’t the girls have their own homes to go to?” Black asked.

  “In Vegas? Sin’s bought a fixer-upper that she hasn’t fixed up yet, Storm’s got an apartment, and the rest have rooms at Creech. But apparently, my pool’s better.”

  “Sin?”

  “Super Intel Nerd. My predecessor gave her the nickname.”

  “Have you tried locking them out?”

  “If you tried locking Emmy out of Riverley, would it work?”

  Black laughed. “Sounds like you’re fucked. How long’s your contract?”

  “Another year or until I get committed, whichever comes first.”

  “Are the girls good at what they do?”

  Finally, a sly smile spread over Pale’s face. “Oh yeah, they’re good. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of any of them.”

  CHAPTER 17 - EMMY

  “SALTED PEANUT?”

  EMMY offered the packet to Mal, but he shook his head.

  “Suit yourself. Did you eat lunch?”

  “A protein bar.”

  Good. He shouldn’t be working on a totally empty stomach, although she understood why he wasn’t hungry. Having your pretend girlfriend snatched from under your nose was kind of awkward.

  “Do you want some water?” Emmy steered with one hand while she used the other to fish around in the door pocket. “I have a bottle.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Nah, dude, you're anything but good. Look, shit happens, okay? We all fuck up. Black got kidnapped from under my nose once too, but I got over it.” Eventually. It did screw up Emmy’s life for the best part of a year. “We’ll find her.”

  “I’m surprised you didn't bring Sofia.”

  “Sofia’s not feeling well.”

  “She’s sick?”

  “No, depressed.”

  “Over what?”

  “No idea. Even she doesn't know. I left her at home self-medicating, and Leo’s taken the day off work to look after her.” Leo was her boyfriend. A nice guy. Not the kind of man Emmy would have imagined her ending up with, but they loved each other. He was a former fitness model, and now they ran a gym together when she wasn't killing people on the side. “But stop changing the subject. We’ve done loads of jobs like this. Planned, trained, practised… It’ll be fine.”

  “This one’s different. I… I like her.”

  “Like her, like her?”

  “I think so.” He paused for a long moment. “Yeah, I do. She’s easy to talk to. Sweet. I already told her about my past, and she seemed to be okay with it.”

  Well, that was big. Mal usually kept his teenage indiscretions quiet, and as far as I knew, he’d kept Erin in the dark throughout their entire relationship.

  “That’s good. Isn’t it?”

  “Too bad everything between us is a pretence,” he said.

  A pretence, but for how long? If it came down to a choice between Jean-Luc and Malachi, there was no contest.

  “Look on the bright side—this’ll be over soon. And Imogen’s still alive.”

  “You don’t know that for certain.”

  “Well, I’m ninety-nine percent sure. Seacroft’s two hundred miles from Las Vegas. If she was dead, he’d have stopped in the desert to bury the body and then headed home.”

  Instead of driving merrily along I-40 at sixty-five miles per hour with four cars tailing him and a Hunter UAV flying overhead. Storm’s magic drone had spotted Seacroft east of Kingman
three hours ago, and the teams had hopped into their vehicles to join him—Black with Pale, Emmy with Mal, plus two guys from Blackwood’s Las Vegas office in a third car and a pair of Pale’s girls in a fourth. He’d offered them up in an effort to stop them from rearranging his patio furniture.

  They’d headed across to intercept Seacroft, and now they were running a rotating surveillance pattern, taking it in turns to follow behind the van before dropping back to throw off any possible suspicion. As Emmy drove, she daydreamed about shooting out a tyre or jumping across to pry open the back door because just tootling along the highway was getting really boring.

  But Imogen took priority, and the safest way to rescue her was to let the asshole stop first. How long until he ran out of gas? Would he make it to the city without refuelling?

  No, was the answer.

  At two in the morning, he signalled right and pulled into the deserted forecourt of a run-down gas station. Perfect. Two cameras—one mounted on a pole to cover the pumps and the other inside the kiosk by the door, facing the register. Emmy took out the exterior camera with a shot from her silenced .22 before it recorded any of her team. Nobody wanted to be a YouTube star.

  The cashier didn’t notice, just kept staring at his phone while Pale jammed his Jeep Wrangler in front of the van. The Blackwood car did the same at the rear, and Mal and Black were out and running before Emmy stopped her borrowed Ford Explorer. Pale’s girls slewed sideways across the entrance to prevent any unwanted company from joining them.

  By the time Emmy got to the van, Black had already dragged Seacroft onto the concrete and cuffed his hands behind his back, giving Mal enough room to clamber over the seats into the back to help Imogen. The gun and a handful of rounds lay beside a pile of candy wrappers on the passenger seat. Seacroft hadn’t even loaded the damn thing? What a bloody idiot.

  “Get the back doors open,” Mal shouted from inside the van. He had his knife out, cutting Imogen free from the cord that bound her ankles. A pair of open handcuffs lay discarded beside him. Fast work, but Emmy wouldn’t have expected anything less. Meanwhile, the cashier had come to life and had his face pressed up against the glass window of the kiosk as he tried to work out what was going on.