AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19)

by John W. Mefford

  Another shot hit a tree just above his head. “Shiiit!” he yelled as tears pooled in his eyes. But he kept running and running and running, down the slope of the winding path. He slipped, fell on his tail bone—it felt like a sledge hammer had just cracked his vertebrae. He’d deal with it later, once he was safe.

  Back on his feet, he bolted out of the thick woods and onto the rocky shore. The rain was coming down in sheets. Lightning lit up the sky in short bursts. He tripped over a rock and fell into the stormy water. He was right next to his boat. He glanced over his shoulder, but only for a minute.

  Pluto was coming. Pluto was coming. He pushed the boat off the rocks and threw his legs over the side. He landed on a backup gas can, but quickly got to his feet and started the single-engine boat.

  A bullet zinged off the console, creating a spark. He yelped and revved the engine, and the boat surged into the choppy sea. He looked back over his shoulder again. The skies lit up over the island, and he could see her standing on the shore, aiming at his boat. A few more yards and he’d be out of range.

  He could hear himself breathing hard. He’d fucked up. He hadn’t killed her. Didn’t matter now. He would get back to the mainland, ditch the boat he’d stolen, and then go start his life anew. He wouldn’t tell a soul where he was going, because he knew Pluto would find him if there was any scrap of a lead.

  Fuck her! Maybe someone else would find her and kill her. He was done with it. As the boat rocked up and down from the choppy waves, he looked into the sky and screamed until his voice cracked.

  A ping. The boat stuttered to a stop.

  He swung around and saw the engine on fire. He couldn’t believe his misfortune—she’d actually hit the engine! As he reached for the paddle, he remembered the spare tank of gas. He turned his head, but all he saw was a fiery explosion.

  41

  Alex

  I was sitting in a boat with Danny O’Shaughnessy, the owner of Boston Sport Fishing, when we heard the explosion.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked.

  I cringed at the sight of the ball of fire to the north of us. “No idea. Just keep going.”

  He nodded and reset his navy-blue cap on his head. He was steering his boat into the teeth of the storm, heading for Gateway Island. We were inside the cabin of his thirty-foot boat, although, somehow, the rain was making its way inside. I was soaked.

  I’d found Danny earlier on the dock, just as he was finishing up his latest fishing tour with four customers. I had no cash on me, but I showed him my FBI creds and said I was desperate to get to Gateway Island. The wiry man with gray stubble and calloused hands thought about it for a second. Once I mentioned this could lead me to the person who was responsible for the marathon bombs, he was all in.

  Not two minutes into our ride, a light sprinkle turned into a thunderstorm.

  “This better not fuck up my boat,” he said. He had a bit of a lilt to his voice. Plenty of Irish Catholics in the Boston area. “The missus will have my ass. This is our moneymaker.”

  “It’ll be okay. If your boat is damaged, the government will pay you back.” I wasn’t certain that was the truth, but I could try to twist Jerry’s arm. Later, though. For now, especially after seeing that explosion up ahead, we needed to get to the island.

  The boat bounced up and down like a bucking horse. I’d spent my formative years in Texas and rode a horse a handful a times. The most memorable was when my horse got spooked and started racing back to the stable. I tried pulling up on the reins, but my ten-year-old strength had no impact. Even worse, the saddle began to slip to the side as the galloping horse raced toward a tree. I tried to lean in the other direction—it didn’t help. I closed my eyes and held my breath just before impact. Nothing happened. I could have sworn someone moved that tree.

  Lightning flashed across the menacing sky, and I could see the outline of the island. I pointed straight ahead.

  Captain Danny said, “When you catch this fucker, are you going to include me in the picture?”

  I could have giggled. It sounded as though he’d said “focker,” and I quickly thought of the movie with Robert De Niro and Ben Stiller.

  “Yeah, Danny, I’ll include you in the picture.”

  “Just a good marketing opportunity and all. Want to show everyone my patriotism.”

  He veered right as we approached the island, saying he wanted no part of the rocks on the western shore.

  A minute later, he was helping me off the boat near an old dock. There was another boat tied to it.

  “Want me to stick around?”

  “Too dangerous. You can head back. I already called in backup.” Actually, I’d asked Jerry to handle that duty. I wasn’t sure if he’d called the Coast Guard or was sending over FBI personnel. I just knew the time-suck involved in convincing a government agency to act with urgency based upon an uncertain premise was dubious at best. Jerry would figure it out.

  Part of the dock was under water—I stepped through the frigid water and made it to the shore. I pictured the location of the building, based upon an aerial view Gretchen had texted me while I was driving to North Quincy. I trudged up the sloped shore and made it to the woods, which provided some cover from the driving rain. I wiped my face and smeared black mascara all over my hand—maybe I could simply scare Sinclair into giving up.

  I trekked through the thick woods, wondering what or whom I’d find. Sinclair, hopefully. Was Elise somewhere on the island? Or had Sinclair disposed of her body after kidnapping her? And who else was involved? Maya was dead; so was Avery. I wasn’t certain of their connection to Sinclair, but it made sense that she’d wanted to exact revenge on her three IBIT colleagues. Angelia Alvarado seemed convinced of that theory the more we spoke about it.

  Was Sinclair working with another person to pull off this murder-robbery spree? And was she actually behind the marathon bombing with the sole purpose being to kill one of the three heads of her “Cerberus”—Salvatore Alvarado?

  I spotted the old building through the woods and paused for a moment. I could see lights through two windows—one in the middle of the building and one on the far end. Where was Sinclair? I decided to remain in the cover of the woods as I made my way around the building. It was in bad shape—busted-out windows, gutters hanging off the roof, chipped paint, warped siding. I could only imagine how many animals had taken up residence inside this place.

  I completed the full circle, and a question came to mind. What was Sinclair’s endgame? She would had to have known that by kidnapping Elise—the last of the three-headed dog, so to speak—it would send off flares of evidence, which would inevitably lead to this island. I could only hope that we’d moved quicker than she thought we would. Maybe she didn’t care about getting caught. Maybe she was driven only by the revenge itself.

  But what about the robberies at the Alvarado and Mack homes? That told me this was no suicide mission. Maybe she’d planned to take the money and run. By herself? Or did she have an accomplice? A lover, maybe?

  I’d forgotten to search Elise’s house for a safe. I needed to text Brad. I fumbled through my pockets, but I froze when a door opened. Out walked a tall, thick woman. She had on a yellow rain slicker, but I knew, based on the picture Gretchen had sent me, that this was Sinclair.

  She was carrying two black knapsacks. Was there money inside? Body parts? I had no real insight into her psyche, and I’d dealt with a lot of twisted people over the years.

  Staying back a ways, I followed her until she reached the shore. Just as I thought, she was headed for her boat—the only one on the shore. I couldn’t let her get away. I pulled my gun and readied myself to rush down the embankment. I watched her toss the bags into the boat and then turn back around.

  I had a few extra seconds, so I raced through the woods and walked into the building through the same door Sinclair had exited a few minutes earlier, my gun raised. “FBI!” I called out.

  I heard a moan, but it was distant. I turned my head i
n the direction of the light at the far end of the building. With my pulse peppering the side of my neck, I poked my head into the next room. It was large, mostly empty. I saw a lamp on one end, a big fireplace at the other, the opening covered in metal bars. Another moan. It echoed.

  Knowing I had just a minute before Sinclair returned, I picked up my pace. Twenty seconds later, at the edge of the room with the light, my mind couldn’t comprehend what my eyes were seeing. It was Elise Tran, naked and strapped to a table, covered in snakes.

  Snakes! I holstered my Glock and ran to the side of the table, not sure how to deal with this situation. They slithered around her body like it was their lair, I saw puncture marks all over her body. Her head rocked left and right.

  “Help me,” she said in the softest voice.

  “I’m here, Elise.”

  I swallowed hard as possibilities flooded my mind. I couldn’t think of any way to help her. I wasn’t going to out-quick a snake.

  “Please…” she said. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

  I glanced around the room, looking for something that I could use to push the snakes off her body.

  My gun. I pulled out my Glock again and tried to lift the tail of a snake off her neck. The snake turned its head and hissed.

  Dammit! This was not going to be easy or quick. And there was no time for indecision. I took a chance. Holding the barrel of the gun in one hand, I grabbed the tail of one snake and yanked it. Mid-air, it lunged for my arm—all I could see were fangs. But that was my target. I swung my arm across my body and connected the heavy grip against the side of its head. It bounced to the floor and slowly slithered away.

  It was like tennis practice. One down, maybe twenty more to go.

  “Please hurry.” Her eyes opened for a second.

  “I’m sorry, Elise.” I could feel her pain and her panic. Hell, I was feeling it too. I reached for another tail.

  “Look out!”

  As I swung my head around, I saw a yellow blur. A second later, something heavy smacked the back of my head. Dazed, I somehow grabbed for anything yellow as I fell backward. It was an arm, and I didn’t let go.

  Sinclair lost her balance, and the momentum of her weight sent us tumbling against the table, everything crashing to the ground.

  A yelp from Elise. There were snakes all around us, but most had fallen off her body.

  A breath to gain my senses. I was still dazed, but I spotted my gun. I lunged for my weapon—Sinclair put her big paw on it just before I reached it. I grabbed her wrist. It was thick, meaty. She swung her arm to the side—I somehow held on, but it felt like I was on the other end of a whip.

  “Fucking bitch. You and your family should have died in that bomb,” Sinclair snarled, our faces within inches of each other. She looked possessed—by what or whom I didn’t know. But she didn’t look human. Or, at least, any human qualities had left her long ago.

  While she was talking and trying to intimidate me, I grabbed her wrist with my other hand. I now had the strength advantage. Or so I thought.

  I was on my knees, not in a position of leverage. She took hold of both my arms, yanked me toward her, and head-butted me.

  Motes of light whirled in my vision. I couldn’t hold on. I dropped to my butt. I saw gray snakes all around me. Was that Elise yelling again? I blinked and rubbed my face.

  “You’re going to die just like the rest of them.” Sinclair was standing over me now. She seemed as big as Sasquatch, probably meaner. She had my gun in her hand.

  “You don’t have to do this, Jessica.” I wasn’t sure how I’d formed a logical sentence, but my whole body quivered—from the chill of being soaked, from having my head used as a pinball, and now seeing the wrong side of my gun staring me in the face.

  There was something about imminent death, though, that made me more sad than afraid. Earlier, I’d encouraged Ezzy to not give up, to believe there were many more life chapters to write. And with Luke and Erin, I’d seen so many wonderful things…the return of Luke’s softer side…and Erin, seeing her rise to the occasion by helping Ozzie with getting everyone out of the house safely…showing me the remarkable young woman that was evolving in her teenage mind. I wanted to see how it all played out, to be there for them whenever they needed me, and yes, one day, maybe, even to have grandkids to dote over. I wanted Brad, and I wanted to take our relationship to the next level. I wanted to bond with friends like Ozzie and his adorable daughter. And, of course, there was Nick, one of the nicest men in the world. Yes, so much to live for. Everything else was petty, not worth the worry. And I realized all this as I looked into the dark hole of a gun.

  Jessica chuckled—her voice low, like a man’s. “I don’t have to do this? Ha. I want to do this. You, all the rest of them, were put on this earth to bring me down. Well, that will finally end, right now. I’m going to kill both of you and then jump on my boat with all my money and jewels…” She turned her head to look at Elise. “Love your diamond necklace, by the way.”

  Elise cried out, cursing at her. That only seemed to invigorate Jessica that much more.

  “You know,” Jessica said, turning back to me. “This place used to be a quarantine station, a gate to determine who deserved to get the ticket to become an American citizen. Well, as long as there are people like Elise on this earth, and I guess you too, Alex, this country is not the land of opportunity. It’s the land of roadblocks and people throwing shit in your face, not recognizing the brilliance that some of us possess. That’s right. I said I’m brilliant. How do you think IBIT became such a moneymaking machine? Me, that’s how. And now, I get to reap at least some of the benefits while everyone else rots in the ground. Say goodbye—”

  Her words broke off and were followed by her screams. She looked downward, and I followed her gaze. Two snakes had crawled up her leg, and one had its fangs embedded in her calf. She flailed her arms and legs, tried to knock the snakes off with the gun, but more snakes enveloped her body. She continued to scream, now at a near-falsetto pitch. She was panicking. She backed up a few steps, but the snakes crawled up her back, jabbed their fangs into her neck. She tried stomping on them, but that just agitated them more. She threw the gun at the ones that were coming after her still, flipped around, and ran away, with snakes dangling off her body like streamers.

  I crawled to Elise and unlatched her straps. She fell to the floor.

  “Go get her. I’ll be fine,” she said.

  I got to my feet, lumbered over to the wall, and grabbed my gun. Most of the snakes were in pursuit of Sinclair, just like me. I dodged them. I heard a door slam open. When I got to the door, I saw her running into another section of the woods while trying to pull a snake off her neck. I tried to run after her. It was slow-going; I had the balance of someone who’d downed four shots of tequila in five minutes. But she couldn’t keep going much longer either.

  I made my way into the woods, as rain pounded on top of me. The path was muddy. I saw a bend in the path. I’d made up some ground on Sinclair. I pushed off a tree, feeling more lucid, allowing my anger to give me focus, drive me to run faster, to catch this woman before she escaped or had an opportunity to kill again. I rounded the curve—she was just twenty yards in front of me.

  “Stop where you are!” I yelled, my gun aimed right at her.

  She didn’t hear me, or she didn’t care. I fired a warning shot just over her head as she hit another curve in the path. I doubled my speed, even in the mud. When I rounded the next curve, I had her in my sights. “Sinclair, stop or I’ll shoot you in the back.”

  Just as Jessica Sinclair began to turn around, she dropped straight down—into some type of pit. I raced up to the hole in the ground. She was on her side, moaning about her leg being broken.

  Within minutes, the island was overtaken by FBI and Coast Guard agents. They gave all three of us antidotes for the snake bites. Their main concern was Elise, since she’d been on the receiving end of countless bites.

  Inside the buildin
g from hell, I was wrapped in a blanket. Jerry walked in. He didn’t say a word. He just walked up and gave me a hug. That wasn’t the Jerry I knew.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I almost lost my two best agents in the last few days.” He wiped his rubbery face. “You and Nick, though, are more than damn good agents. You’re…I don’t know.”

  I knew what he meant. But I just wanted to go see my family.

  42

  Ozzie

  Alex and I sat in the second row of the Suffolk County Courtroom. We were waiting on the judge and the arrival of Jessica Sinclair, who would be wearing an orange jumpsuit and likely be shackled. It had been two days since Alex had hunted down Sinclair. And since then, a lot had come together.

  The kids were back in school, although we were all still living in the FBI safe house, since Alex’s home had been destroyed. She’d said that she wasn’t sure of her future plans: rebuild the house on the same site or buy another home. The old home, she said, carried a lot of memories—and not all good ones, since she’d shared it with her late husband, Mark, the one who’d screwed the nanny in the laundry room.

  Alex had a couple of cuts and a large bruise on her forehead. But she looked anything but defeated. Her legs were crossed in her fancy gray pantsuit, her matching Kate Spade bag next to her. She had this air of confidence, of not letting anything faze her. I knew she’d been through a lot—we all had—but her spirit seemed unwavering. She was an interesting combination of badass agent and confident woman. A great role model for her kids, all kids. Hell, even for adults.

  She leaned toward me. “Do you think Sinclair will say anything to the judge other than just enter her plea?”