by Leslie Wolfe
“Get him something to eat,” I ordered, while focusing on covering a nasty cut across his brow, “a candy bar or something. He looks hungrier than a pound dog.”
The moment Huber stepped away, I plunged my hand inside my cleavage and extracted the backup Sig holstered under my bra, then I slid it quickly into Holt’s right pocket.
He grabbed my hand and stared at me with burning intensity, his pupils large, dark. “Why?” he whispered.
I looked into his eyes and couldn’t find the words, a storm of emotions threatening to bring down my act. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “You know why,” I replied, just as Huber returned with two candy bars.
Within minutes, Holt and the third, still unidentified goon left the building, leaving Snowman and Huber in the back with me, and Tiny Burch guarding the door from the outside. It was a moment as good as any other.
I walked aimlessly for a while, giving Snowman the time to cool off and take his usual seat on his throne, then strolled behind him casually. When Huber turned his head for a moment, I pulled out my weapon and shoved the barrel into the back of Snowman’s head.
“Greetings from Don Cardenas,” I said. “Not a move, wanker,” I ordered, then beckoned Huber over. “You, drop your weapon. Call Burch in here, disarm him and tie him up.”
“I told you she was bad news,” Huber said, looking at Snowman.
“Do it,” Snowman yelled. Like most predators who preyed on young, defenseless women, Snowman was a coward, and I was counting on that.
Huber did as he was told, disarmed Burch and secured his hands behind his back with cable ties taken off a shelf in the back. I disarmed Snowman and, while keeping my gun aimed at his chest, tied Huber’s hands together, pulling the zip tie snug.
Snowman must’ve thought it was a good moment to make a run for it, because he lunged from his chair, coming at me incredibly fast. I pulled the trigger twice in rapid fire, then once more, after he’d hit the ground.
40
Jailbreak
Fifty-four hours missing
They waited in Holt’s unmarked SUV by the Washington Avenue ramp on I-15, ready to start pursuit the moment the prison transport showed up. It was delayed by a few minutes, but Holt wasn’t worried; the transport could still make it on time. The first court appearance for one of the perps listed on that transport was at three in the afternoon, almost an hour away.
Under the watchful eye of Snowman’s trusted muscle, he contacted Dispatch and informed them he was picking up Tyson Klug; he was needed as a material witness in a matter that could not be delayed until after the perps’ court hearing.
The dispatcher let a moment of silence pass, then said, “I’ll need approval for that, Detective, please hold.”
The man sitting on the passenger seat of Holt’s vehicle prodded him with the barrel of his gun, shoving it against his bruised ribs.
“Don’t try anything funny,” he whispered, “or the boss will gut your kid wide open.”
Holt didn’t bother to reply; just shot the man a quick glance loaded with promise. If only he could get his hands on these people, after Meredith was home safely, there’d be no stopping him.
But it wasn’t a matter of if, he realized; it was a matter of when. And he counted the minutes ’til that was going to happen.
“Detective,” the dispatcher said, after the line crackled to life when she released the mute button, “the captain needs more detail about Klug.”
He’d feared that, so he had a story prepared. “Tyson Klug could be instrumental in identifying Alyssa Conway’s killer. We have reason to believe he was associated with him, that he was one of his many drug-dealing cohorts in his brother’s organization. We hope he’ll be willing to talk in exchange for a deal.”
Another moment of silence ensued, but this time Holt didn’t let it run its course.
“Dispatch, there are lives at stake; this killer could be torturing another girl right at this moment, while you’re concerned with the perp’s court dates. Could we just use some common sense here?”
Nothing, not a sound. Then, another crackle, and the dispatcher’s voice said, “You have approval to proceed, Detective. The prison transport has been notified to release Klug in your custody.”
“Copy that, Dispatch,” he replied, then ended the call. “There, happy?” he asked the thug sitting next to him, but all he got in response was a grunt and ridges on the tattooed forehead.
After a few minutes, he saw the prison bus speeding by and he engaged in pursuit with his siren and flashers on. The bus pulled over to the side of the road, and he stopped in front of it.
“Stay here,” he said to his passenger. “Don’t move.”
Holt climbed out of his vehicle and approached the prison transport. Only a few detainees were taking the benches, and one of the officers was already removing Tyson Klug’s restraints, leaving his handcuffs on.
“Detective,” he greeted him with two fingers at his cap, “here’s your scumbag.”
Holt grabbed the man’s arm and turned to leave.
“What the hell happened to you?” the guard asked, frowning a little and scratching his chin, seemingly suspicious.
Last thing Holt needed was the curiosity of a prison transport officer to get in the way of his already flimsy strategy. He grinned awkwardly, pointing at his shiner. “What, this? Just another day at the office.”
The officer laughed. “I hate to think how the other guy looks. Not that good, I guess, huh?”
Holt laughed wholeheartedly, escorting Tyson down the steps toward his SUV. Then he opened the back door and shoved him inside, keeping his hand on the perp’s head, regulation style. Then he uncuffed him, reluctantly, under pressures from both men.
He climbed behind the wheel and peeled off at high speed, heading straight for the airport.
“Hey, homie,” Tyson said, happy to recognize the passenger. “I thought you were some piece-of-shit cop, man. You here to bust a brother out of jail?”
“What else I’d be here for, huh? Sure as hell ain’t for the company,” he added, looking derisively at Holt.
They both burst into laughter.
“Where you taking me, brah?”
“Airport, like you said. Snowman made it happen.”
“Cool,” he replied, moving his head and arms to a rhythm only he could hear, a happy dance for his freedom. “Got any music in this fancy ride, man?”
Holt didn’t reply.
“Hey, this brother asked you a damn question, bitch,” he shouted, speaking of himself in the third person.
“I’ve been told to break you out of jail, take you to the airport, and put you on a jet to Argentina. If you’re not happy with the agenda, I can always catch up with the prison bus and tell them I changed my mind.”
The barrel of a gun shoved forcefully into his ribs reminded him who was really in charge.
“Play some damn music,” his passenger requested. “Ain’t gonna kill you.”
He pressed his lips together, deciding it was wiser to keep his comments to himself, then turned on the radio. The knucklehead in the passenger seat played with the knobs until he found something they both liked and turned up the volume to the point where Holt felt like smashing the whole media center to bits.
Two endless songs later, he pulled in front of the gates at McCarran, parked, and escorted the two men to the VIP terminal.
“Do I need to go through there?” the muscle asked, pointing at the security check gates. “They’ll take my piece.”
“VIPs don’t do security checks,” Holt replied. “We go straight to the tarmac.”
He didn’t really know what he was doing; he’d never been to the VIP terminal before, nor had a private aircraft ever pulled up at the gate just for him. He followed the signs and asked a TSA agent for directions, but eventually he found it.
There was a lounge with large windows and glass sliding doors overseeing the tarmac, and a Phenom 300 was sitting in front of it,
with the engines running. He had no idea if that was the right plane, and there wasn’t anyone he could ask.
“Let me see if this is your plane,” he said, but the two men were understandably distrusting.
“We’re coming with you,” Tyson said.
An airport security officer stopped them before they could approach the exit. “Name and destination?” he asked.
Baxter had set things up, had somehow managed to make a private jet happen, and she knew what he’d ask, what he’d say, what he’d think, what issues he could run into. He needed to trust she’d done everything in her power to make things work without a glitch.
“Tyson Klug on a flight to Argentina,” he replied, hoping it was the right thing to say.
The man checked the list affixed to his clipboard. “I have you right here, sir. Please proceed,” he invited them, gesturing at the Phenom.
The muscle prodded Holt to be the first one to climb on board, and he obliged. The plane was empty, except for the pilot. Tyson and his homie climbed on board right behind Holt, grinning widely.
“Your ass is flying south in style,” the muscle commented. “Wish I was you.”
“Gentlemen, welcome aboard,” the pilot said, as he rose off his seat and came to greet them.
Holt nearly choked but managed to maintain a straight face. The pilot was none other than SA Glover, dressed as an aviation captain with four gold stripes on his sleeves.
“Miss Gaines has me flying you straight to Argentina,” the pilot added. “This aircraft has a maximum range of two thousand miles, which means we will stop twice to refuel along the way, first in Guatemala, then in Ecuador. Total flight duration will be sixteen hours, not including the layovers.” He smiled professionally. “Will all of you gentlemen be flying today?”
“No, just me,” Tyson replied. “Let’s get those wheels up in the air, man.”
“You’re welcome to hang out on board until we’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot said, then took his sea and buckled his seatbelt. Tyson looked at him, wondering what the hell he was waiting for.
Glover pressed a button on the throttle. “Las Vegas ground, Phenom Whiskey-Alpha-Two-Four-Niner, Phenom 300 uniform, at the Centurion Lounge, requesting taxi for departure to Buenos Aires, with Tango.”
The radio crackled, then a voice said, “Phenom Whiskey-Alpha-Two-Four-Niner, taxi twenty-five, at or below two thousand.”
“Copy that.”
Glover turned toward Tyson and smiled. “I was instructed to proceed after we have confirmed the location of a particular item. I’m supposed to call with the item’s location, then wait for confirmation before takeoff.”
Tyson lunged at the pilot and grabbed him by the throat, choking him. Glover didn’t fight back, just sat there, taking it.
“That’s not what was supposed to happen, you hear me? I’m not sayin’ shit until we’re up in the air,” Tyson shouted, his voice raspy, choked with fear.
“Only an idiot would strangle his pilot before flying out of the country,” Holt said calmly.
Tyson let go of Glover’s throat and turned to the muscle. “That wasn’t the deal, homie. And where’s my brother?”
“He couldn’t come,” he replied. “Just tell this dawg what he wants to hear and get the hell out of here, all right? Don’t screw this up.”
Tyson pressed his lips together, looking around like a trapped animal. He had no idea how trapped he really was, but maybe he was starting to sense something was off.
“I can make you take off,” Tyson said. “I’ll get Chuck’s piece and shove it down your throat until you do as I tell you.”
So, the muscle’s name was Chuck, Holt reflected. Good to know. He smiled, and his grin got Chuck angry as hell.
“Chuck ain’t giving you his piece, you moron,” Glover replied, “’cause you’re too stupid to walk this earth with one. Give that location already, or the deal’s off, and I’ll let this cop throw your ass back in the slammer.”
“That’s what my brother said?”
“Yeah, dumbass, that’s exactly what your brother said. He ain’t exactly sweet on you these days.”
“All right,” Tyson reacted, his rage visible in the way he paced the tiny space between the flight deck and the front row of seats, more like twirling in place, restless, colorful oaths spilling endlessly out of his mouth. “If you screw me, Chuck, I swear to you, you’re going to wish your momma never got laid.”
Glover smiled again, calmly, inviting Tyson to talk. The man stood silent, as if stuck in a daze of undecided angst. Holt understood his dilemma; he was about to trade his only bargaining chip before he felt safe enough to do so. He actually deserved some credit for realizing the implications of his decisions. But with every passing moment, Holt feared something terrible could happen to Meredith and would’ve gladly tortured the perp for that piece of information.
The radio crackled. “Phenom Whiskey-Alpha-Two-Four-Niner, what’s the delay?”
“Las Vegas ground, we will be proceeding shortly. We have a passenger issue we’re working on.”
“Copy, Phenom. Request new clearance when ready.”
“Understood,” Glover replied, then looked sheepishly at Tyson.
Glover said, “We can sit here all day,” he added, “or we can leave as soon as Miss Gaines approves the departure.”
Tyson grunted, slamming both his fists against his legs. “All right, it’s at CubeSmart Self Storage on Maryland Parkway, unit 223.”
Glover pulled out his phone and sent a text message.
“Now what?” Tyson asked.
“Now we wait,” he replied. “Miss Gaines said it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”
“Got any booze in here?” Chuck asked, taking a seat in the back. He ran his hand against the soft leather of the seat in front of him, then the lacquered surface of the table. “I want to feel like a VIP today.”
“There is liquor and wine in here,” Glover said, opening a small storage cupboard. “How many glasses?”
Holt refused with a hand gesture, and Glover poured whiskey generously in two, cut crystal glasses, adding ice from a small bucket.
Tyson and Chuck started chatting casually while the minutes dragged on, painfully slow, leaving Holt to mull over his many thoughts. What was going to happen next? Snowman would never release his daughter, not without a fight. Maybe Baxter could find out where he was keeping her. Baxter… he couldn’t believe the nerve of that woman, the recklessness she’d proven by waltzing into Snowman’s lair on her high heels like she owned the place. That wasn’t how undercover work was done. Baxter’s actions were brash and desperate, and she risked a bullet in the head with every minute that passed. How long did she think she could keep up that ruse? He’d been undercover himself; it took months to gain the trust of a drug dealer, not… minutes. She should’ve stayed out of it, working Alyssa’s murder case, going home in one piece at night, and leaving him to worry only about Meredith, not Baxter too.
A chime alerted Glover, and he checked the message on his phone.
“Gentlemen, we’re ready to proceed,” he announced, but didn’t take his seat. Instead, he stood smiling. “As soon as you two non-passengers disembark, I will close the aircraft door and take off.” He locked eyes with Holt for a brief moment, nodding almost imperceptibly.
Holt got the message and stepped out of the plane, climbing down the ladder, plunging his hand in his pocket to find the gun Baxter had put in there. Four more officers took positions around the plane’s door, waiting for Chuck to step out.
When he appeared at the top of the stairs and saw all those weapons trained on him, he instantly put his hands up.
“Ain’t done nothing, just took a friend to the airport. Is that a crime?” he asked, his pitch higher and higher as he was being handcuffed. “Tell me, is it?”
Two officers held him to the side, while Holt climbed back inside the plane to see about Tyson, but Glover already had him cuffed and ready to ship out. The s
cumbag was crying, begging the pilot to take off.
“Yeah, we’ll take off in just a minute,” Glover replied, pulling the zip ties tightly around his wrists. “And we’ll land you in jail, nonstop flight, courtesy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Was that Baxter on the phone?” Holt asked Glover.
“No, it was my partner, SA Rosales.”
Holt rushed back outside and ran over to Chuck, then slammed his fist in the man’s face. “Where is she?” he shouted. “Where the hell is my daughter?”
41
Incentives
Fifty-five hours missing
Huber and Tiny Burch sat on the floor, their hands tied behind their backs, leaning against a shelf loaded with shop vacs in big, cardboard boxes. I’d secured their handcuffs against the bottom railing of the shelves with loops of cable ties, leaving them with little room to move. If they struggled against the restraints, they risked bringing down a twenty-foot tall shelf loaded with heavy materials.
They grunted and gave me an endless barrage of oaths and dirty looks, while I paced slowly in front of them, thinking what to do. How could I get them to tell me Meredith’s location? They seemed more likely to die than cooperate with me.
There was no time to do things by the book; taking them in, reading their rights, then taking a stab at them in an interrogation room would’ve meant hours that Meredith didn’t have. They’ve both been inside; they knew not to say anything to the police without a lawyer present, and that would’ve killed all my chances.
I could’ve tried torture; the thought had crossed my mind and, in my current state, I wasn’t unwilling; I was tired and angry as hell, still reeling from what I’d witnessed out there, in the Mojave, from the death of that poor girl who jumped off the balcony of the Scala out of fear of those guys who sat, cursing and uttering threats at my feet. Yeah, torture was tempting, but it could take too long.
