Open Season

by Linda Howard

  In the distance they heard the whine of a motor, rising above the nighttime cacophony of frogs, crickets, and night birds. Jack felt the kick of adrenaline and got a firm grip on his reactions. It wouldn’t be smart to get too excited.

  The truck, a Ford extended cab pickup with a camper on the back, turned into the gravel driveway, and the driver immediately killed the lights. There was no signal of any kind, no tapping of the horn or flashing of the headlights. Instead, Sykes turned on the porch light and opened the trailer door, stepping out to stand on the highest of the three wooden steps leading up to the door.

  The driver turned off the motor and climbed out. “Hey, Sykes.” The guard stayed in the cab.

  “Have any trouble?” Sykes asked.

  “One of the girls got sick, puked a couple of times, but I figure it was just from riding in the back. Stunk, though. I had to stop and hose out the back, to keep the other girls from puking.”

  “Let’s get ’em inside, then, so they can clean up. Mr. Phillips is anxious to see this bunch.”

  “He’s waiting on the young one, right? She’s a pretty little thing, but she’s the one been puking so much, so she’s not real spry right now.”

  In the distance came the sound of another car, and everyone in hiding froze. The driver looked alarmed, and Sykes made a staying motion with his hand. “Hold what you got,” he said softly. “It’s nothing to worry about, just a car passing.”

  But the car seemed to be slowing. The driver stepped back toward the truck cab and opened the door, sliding half inside with one leg still on the ground, and the men under the trees knew he’d just armed him-self. They all held their fire, though, waiting to see what happened.

  The car turned into the driveway, headlights on bright. Glenn Sykes immediately turned to the side to save his night vision, his hand up to shield his eyes even more.

  The car, a white Lexus, pulled up right behind the truck, and the headlights were turned off. A man got out from behind the wheel, a tall man with graying blond hair brushed straight back. He wore a suit, though the night was muggy, and who wore a suit at three o’clock in the morning, anyway?

  “Mr. Sykes,” said a smooth voice, with the hammy kind of southern accent that actors always used. After two years in the south, Jack could pick up some of the nuances now, and he knew that wasn’t a north Alabama accent. Something about it struck him as fake; it was just too exaggerated.

  “Mr. Phillips,” Sykes said, surprised. “We didn’t know to expect you.”

  That was true. The Scottsboro police hadn’t been able to locate Mr. Phillips, though they’d been very low-key about their search. Until he was in custody, everything was being kept as quiet as possible, because they didn’t want him forewarned and perhaps able to destroy evidence, or even skip town completely. He had enough money to live very comfortably in Europe or the Caribbean, if he wanted.

  Sykes glanced at the driver and guard. “It’s all right. Mr. Phillips owns the operation.” The two relaxed, getting out of the truck. Their hands were empty; both of them had left their weapons in the cab.

  “There’ve been a series of mistakes lately,” said Phillips, walking toward Sykes. “I wanted to personally supervise this shipment to make certain nothing went wrong.”

  Meaning he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the thirteen-year-old girl in the back of the truck, Jack thought, and disgust curdled his stomach. Slowly he centered his sights on Phillips, because his presence was unexpected and in Jack’s experience the unexpected meant trouble.

  “Nothing will go wrong this time,” said Sykes, his voice calm.

  “I’m sure it won’t,” Phillips purred, and pulled a pistol from the right pocket of his suit jacket. He aimed and fired at Sykes before any of the men surrounding them could react; Sykes slammed back against the trailer, then toppled off the steps.

  Jack’s finger gently squeezed the trigger. His shot took Phillips exactly where he’d wanted it to, and Phillips went down screaming.

  All hell broke loose.

  To the uninitiated, the explosion of noise, lights, and motion as black-clad, heavily armed men burst from their hiding places, all shouting, “Police! Get your hands up!” or identifying themselves as FBI—whichever the case might be—would be nothing more than terrifying confusion. To Jack, it was a well-oiled operation, practiced over and over until each man knew what to do and what to expect. The two men still standing knew the drill: they froze, their arms automatically going up to lock their hands behind their heads.

  The Russian girls inside the camper went into hysterics, screaming and crying and trying to escape, beating against the locked camper door. The INS agents got the key from the driver and opened the door, reeling back at the stench. The hysterical girls erupted from their prison, kicking and scratching as they were caught and held.

  One girl managed to slip past everyone and run full speed down the dark country road before sheer exhaustion made her stumble and fall; the INS agent who gave chase picked her up and carried her like a baby in his arms, while she sobbed and made hysterical exclamations in her own language. The INS, forewarned, had a Russian-speaking agent on hand, and she began trying to calm the girls, saying the same phrases over and over until they actually began to listen.

  There were seven of them, none older than fifteen. They were thin, filthy, and exhausted. According to Sykes, though, none of them had been sexually assaulted; they were all virgins, and were to be sold for ridiculously high prices to gangs who would then charge wealthy, depraved men even more for the privilege of being the first to rape the girls. After that, they would be used as prostitutes, and sold over and over among gangs who would work them for a while, then sell them off. None of them spoke English; all of them had been told that if they didn’t cooperate, their families in Russia would be shot.

  The INS translator told them over and over that their families wouldn’t be harmed, that they would be able to go home. Finally they calmed enough that, warily, they began to think she might be telling the truth. Their ordeal, the long trip from Russia and the brutal conditions they had endured, made it difficult for them to trust anyone right now. They huddled together, watching the black-clad people move around them, frightened by the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles as they arrived, but making no further effort to escape.

  Jack stood over Sykes as the medics evaluated the wounded men. Blood from the chest wound soaked the entire left side of his body, but Sykes was conscious, his face ashen as the medics worked to stabilize him. In the background, Phillips’s screams had deteriorated to guttural moans. Sykes looked up at Jack, his gaze vague with shock. “Will. . . he live?”

  Jack glanced over his shoulder at the second knot of medics. “Maybe. If he doesn’t die of sepsis. I didn’t nick the femoral artery, but groin wounds can be a bitch when the colon is involved.”

  “Groin...” Sykes almost managed a grin. “You shot... his balls off.”

  “I haven’t checked. If there’s anything left, though, it won’t be in good working order.”

  Sykes gasped for breath, and the medic said, “We’ve radioed for a helicopter to transport him,” meaning every minute counted if Sykes was to survive.

  “I’ll... come out... on top yet,” said Sykes, and looking down at him, Jack figured that if sheer willpower could keep the man alive, then Sykes would be testifying at Nolan’s and Phillips’s trials.

  At six-thirteen, Jack trudged into his office. He hadn’t been home, hadn’t showered, and still carried his black rifle. He was more tired than he’d been since . . . hell, since the last time he’d carried the rifle, but he felt good, too. All he wanted to do was take care of some details and go home to Daisy.

  Both Sykes and Phillips were in surgery at a hospital in Huntsville, but even if Sykes died, they had more than enough to prosecute.

  Sykes had been a regular fountain of information. Mitchell had been killed because of his habit of dosing the girls with GHB; he’d killed two of them, so N
olan had decided he had to be dealt with. When questioned about the date-rape drugs, Sykes had rattled off the names of the dealers he knew. A dozen different investigations had been launched as a result of what Glenn Sykes had to say.

  Having been given all the details by Todd, Jack had personalty asked Sykes if he knew anything about the woman who had been given GHB at the Buffalo Club and raped by at least six men. That was one question for which Sykes didn’t have any answers, though; Jack didn’t think there ever would be any answers.

  When he opened the office door, he stared in disbelief at Eva Fay, sitting at her desk. She looked up and held out a cup of fresh, hot coffee. “Here, you look like you need this.”

  He took the coffee and sipped it. Yep, it was so fresh he could still smell the coffee beans. He eyed her over the cup. “All right, Eva Fay, tell me how you do it.”

  “Do what?” she asked, a look of astonishment on her face.

  “How do you know when I’m coming in? How do you always have hot coffee waiting for me? And what in hell are you doing here at six-fifteen in the morning?”

  “Yesterday was a busy day,” she said. “I had a lot of stuff I didn’t get done, so I came in early to handle it.”

  “Explain the coffee.”

  She looked at him and smiled. “No.”

  “ ‘No’? What do you mean, ‘No’? I’m your boss, and I want to know.”

  “Tough,” she said, and swiveled back to her computer screen.

  He knew he should go home and clean up first. He knew he desperately needed some sleep. But what he needed most was to see Daisy, to be in the company of a woman who would never park in a fire lane or even jaywalk. After the filth and sordidness he’d seen, he needed her cleanness, her simple good-heartedness. And even though he knew she was all right, he needed to see her, to let his eyes reassure his brain. He wasn’t sure exactly when she’d become so important to him, but there were some things a man couldn’t fight. Besides, she’d let him use her shower.

  She opened the door almost as soon as he knocked. “I heard you drive up,” she said, then got a good look at him. “Goodness.”

  “It’ll wash off,” he said, swiping at the remnants of black face paint. He’d done a halfhearted job using paper towels in the men’s rest room at the station, but there hadn’t been any soap, and the job definitely called for soap.

  She eyed him dubiously. “I hope so.”

  She was carrying Midas, and the puppy struggled madly to reach him. Midas didn’t care what he looked like, Jack thought, reaching out to take the fuzzbutt in his arms. Midas began his frantic licking ritual, and Daisy frowned at him. “I don’t know if you should let him do that,” she said.

  “Why not? He always does this.”

  “Yes, but you usually aren’t covered with . . . stuff. I don’t want him to get sick.”

  Jack thought about grabbing her and getting some of that stuff on her, but she’d probably smack him. She looked good enough to eat, he thought, with her blond hair tousled and her odd-colored eyes sleepy. Her skin was fresh and clear, and the thin pink robe she wore was almost thick enough to keep him from being able to tell she wore only a pair of panties underneath.

  “I thought you’d like to know it’s all wrapped up.”

  “I know. Todd called me.”

  “Todd.” He growled the name. He liked Todd, even trusted him, but suddenly he felt the hot bite of jealousy. He didn’t like Daisy’s easy friendship with the man, because even if she still had doubts about Todd’s sexual orientation, he didn’t.

  “Don’t just stand there, come in,” she said, taking Midas from him and setting the puppy on the floor, where he bounced off in search of recreation. “Go take a shower while I cook breakfast.”

  That sounded like heaven. He was already pulling off his clothes as he left the room, though he still had enough wit about him to take everything with him and not leave it on the floor for sharp puppy teeth to shred. Something, a sudden sharp need to get everything in order and nailed down, stopped him in the doorway. He looked back at her. “Daisy.”

  She paused at the kitchen door. “Yes?”

  “Remember the deal we made?”

  “Which deal?”

  “That I’d marry you if you got pregnant.”

  Her cheeks got pink. He loved it that she could still blush. “Of course I remember. I wouldn’t have begun this affair with you if you’d said no. People have to be responsible, and if you think you can weasel out of the deal now—”

  “Let’s go to Gatlinburg this weekend and get married.”

  Her eyes rounded and her lips parted in surprise. “But I’m not pregnant. At least, I don’t think . . . It was just that once, and—”

  “So we try again,” he said, shrugging. “If you insist on being pregnant before we get married.”

  “My goodness, of course not! You mean you actually want—”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said softly. “I want.”

  Midas pranced back into the living room, a dishcloth trailing from his mouth. Daisy stooped and caught him, and took the dishcloth away. “You don’t mind having children? Because I really do want at least a couple of kids, and you seemed horrified when I asked you if you had any.”

  “I was horrified at the thought that I might have had any kids with my ex.”

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  But she didn’t give him a definite answer, just stood there looking preoccupied, and he began to get worried. He dropped his shirt to the floor and crossed the room to her. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he pulled her against him and put his other hand on her throat, using his thumb to tilt her chin up. “I know I’m dirty and smelly,” he said, “but I’m not letting you go until I get the answer I want.”

  “Not just an answer, but the answer you want, hmm?”

  “You got it.”

  “I have a question.”

  “Ask it.”

  “Do you love me?” She immediately blushed again. “I didn’t think you were my type at all, but it didn’t seem to matter. The more I was around you the more I wanted to be with you, and I’d love to marry you, but if you don’t feel the same way I feel, then I don’t think we should get married.”

  “I love you,” he said clearly. “That’s as plain as I can make it. Now, will you marry me?”

  She beamed at him, the million-watt smile he’d noticed the first time he’d ever spoken to her, when he’d gone to the library to sign up for the virtual library. That smile did more for him than blond hair and makeup ever could. “Yes, thank you.”

  Then he had to kiss her, and when he stopped, he didn’t feel nearly as tired as he had when he’d arrived. He began dragging her toward the hall. “Forget about breakfast. Take a shower with me.”

  “Midas—” she began, looking around for the little demon.

  “We’ll take him with us.” Jack scooped him up and removed his shirt from the puppy’s mouth. “He needs a bath, too.”

  “He does not, and besides, I don’t think I can do it with him in the tub with us, watching.”

  “I’ll blindfold him.” He tugged her into the bathroom.

  “You’ll do no such thing!”

  “Then we’ll close the door and let him play on the floor.” He suited action to words and decided the sacrifice of a shirt was worth it for the peace. He dropped the shirt, and Midas pounced on it.

  Daisy immediately leaned down to take it away from him, but Jack stopped her and efficiently stripped her out of her robe and panties, then bundled her into the tub. He shucked off the rest of his clothes and let them drop, too. Let Midas have a field day.

  He got into the tub with her and turned on the water, then when it was hot, turned on the shower, shielding her with his body until the initial icy blast turned warm. As he lifted her, she put both arms around his neck, her expression serious. “Could we start trying right away?”

  Maybe he was too tired to think clearly, or maybe he just had other things on his mind. “Trying
what?”

  “To have a baby,” she said, exasperated, then gasped as he slipped into her. Her gaze immediately unfocused and her head drooped back as if it were suddenly too heavy for her neck.

  “Sweetheart,” he promised, “you’ll never have to buy another PartyPak.”

  EPILOGUE

  Evelyn and Aunt Jo had outdone themselves with Sunday dinner, a sort of celebration for Daisy and Jack. There had been a dinner in Gatlinburg the week before, right after their wedding, but that had been at a restaurant and didn’t count. Now the table fairly groaned under the weight of all the food. The whole family was there, as well as Todd and his friend Howard, whom Daisy had been astonished to recognize. She hadn’t thought Howard was gay, because why would he have been at the Buffalo Club if he was? Of course, Jack was still adamant that Todd was straight, so maybe she wasn’t a good judge of such matters.

  Midas prowled under the table, unerringly locating her by her scent, and plopped down on her feet. His little tongue lapped at her ankles, and she peeked under the tablecloth to check on him. He had that sleepy look that meant he was settling down for a nap. He’d worn himself out, greeting so many different people, and of course each had to be played with before he moved on to the next.

  Only a few short weeks ago she’d been agonized by how empty her life was, and now it was brimming over. Her family had always been there, of course, but she had found some very dear friends, she now had Midas—and then there was Jack.

  How could she ever have thought jocks weren’t her type? This particular jock was just what she needed. He always looked so tough, with his short-cropped graying hair and his broad shoulders and thick neck, and the cocky way he had of walking, like a man who took up all of his allotted space and then some. He still crowded her, in bed and out, but she had learned to adjust. If he took up more than his half of the bed, then she had no where else to sleep but on top of him, so if he wasn’t getting enough sleep these days, it was his own fault.