by Marlow Kelly
Wind Storm
By
Marlow Kelly
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Wind Storm
Published by Viceroy Press
COPYRIGHT 2020 by Marlow Kelly
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
ISBN 978-1-9991430-1-5
Cover art by Melody Simmons
EBook Indie Covers
https://ebookindiecovers.com
Edited by Corinne Demaagd
From CMD Writing and Editing
https://cmdediting.com
For news of Marlow’s next release sign up for Marlow’s Newsletter at: www.marlowkelly.com
Dedication
To
All the essential workers who are caring for us during the covid19 outbreak. I cannot express how much I value and appreciate you.
Chapter One
“The wind whispered to the warrior,
“You cannot withstand the coming storm.”
And the warrior whispered back,
“I am the storm.”
Unknown
Sinclair Quinn twisted her hips to the side, trying to absorb the punch with her pelvic bone instead of taking a blow to the stomach. She groaned, doubling over as pain ricocheted through her right hip and down her leg. It hurt, but it wasn’t debilitating.
The initial hit to her face had stunned her and allowed the two men to drag her into a nearby alley. The smell of stale urine burned her nostrils. A chewing gum wrapper lay on the ground at her feet. Her heartbeat hard in her ears, and she gasped for breath. Blood dripped from her cut lip; big drops landed on the ground and splattered. She concentrated on them, using them to focus her thoughts and slow her mind. She had her collapsible baton in her jeans pocket. Don’t overthink. Create an opportunity to escape.
“Tell us where the Indian is.” Her assailant grabbed her ponytail and yanked on it, pulling her up and forcing her head back so her throat was exposed.
Michael? What did they want with him?
The thugs had attacked her after she’d left the grocery store. Foolishly, she’d felt secure once she was home in Granite City in northwestern Montana. That was her first mistake. Her Glock 19 handgun was in the glove compartment of her car where it did her no good at all. Mistake number two. Her final error was not noticing she was being tailed. By the time she’d become aware of them following her, it was too late.
The shorter of the two, a man who wore a cheap suit, stood behind her attacker. His hand rested on the pistol in his shoulder holster. “Tell her it’ll only get worse for her the longer this goes on. We need to know where she hid Papin.”
“She’s got ears. She can hear,” the larger one snapped. He had the broken nose and muscle-bound physique of a fighter. He let go of her hair and turned to his partner. “You should do some of the work instead of standing back there, yapping. I hit bone with that last punch and hurt my hand.”
Sinclair grabbed her telescopic baton and flicked it open. She whacked the big guy’s knee, throwing him off balance. Then she struck Cheap Suit’s hand so he couldn’t go for his weapon.
Big Guy regained his equilibrium and pulled his arm back, ready to punch her.
She took advantage of his wide stance and smashed his ribs. He doubled over. Cheap Suit backed up, holding his injured appendage to his chest, protecting it.
She ran. Her groceries—eggs, flour, sugar, and milk—were scattered over the sidewalk at the entrance to the alley. She jumped over them. She’d just returned from a hellacious trip to Ukraine and had been looking forward to a couple of weeks downtime, starting with a day of baking. That wasn’t going to happen now.
She raced for the safety of her apartment on the corner at the end of the block. The fall sunset cast long shadows, setting the west side of the street in darkness. Luckily, there was no need for her to cross the road.
She slid to a halt at the entrance to the red brick building she called home. It wasn’t grand or new and it didn’t have a fancy security system, just an extra lock on the door to the street that could easily be picked or broken.
For years, she survived by obeying the acronym TLTV or Think-Like-The-Villain. If this was her operation, she would have a man waiting at her apartment in case the first attempt failed. Grateful that sneakers were part of her everyday wardrobe, she changed course and sprinted for her car, which was parked in the lot next to her building.
She slowed as she neared her old battered Volvo SUV and scanned the area, making sure no one was around. Her fingers ached from gripping her baton. She took an extra second to peek through the back window, making sure the trunk was empty, and then did the same with the backseat. Belatedly, she checked to make sure her purse was still attached to her belt. It was a small cheap pouch that hung from her leather gun belt and was just big enough to hold her passport, phone, and a small wallet.
She pushed the end of her baton against the ground, collapsing it. She would’ve liked to leave it open, ready, but it was the type that doubled as a keyring, and she had to close it to fit the key in the ignition. Maybe she needed a different model. But that was another problem for another day.
She rammed the car into drive. Normally, she didn’t access her phone while driving, but this was an emergency. She fished her smartphone from her purse, dialed Michael’s number. Up until the moment the thugs mentioned him, she’d assumed this was about her latest trip to Ukraine, but two months ago, she’d hidden him in a safe house.
“Hi.” His tone was soft and smooth, and for some reason always made her feel calm.
“You need to get out of there. I was just attacked by two men who wanted to know your location.” The words tumbled out. She was acting on instinct and training.
He was silent for a moment and then said, “What about you? Are you hurt?”
Her face throbbed. She took a hand off the wheel and touched her swollen lip, which stung. She had no doubt that once her adrenaline spike wore off, she would hurt all over, and not just her bruised face and hip. “Nothing serious.”
“Where will you go?” His tone was flat and devoid of emotion.
“I’m heading to Finn’s office. I’ll fill out a report. It probably won’t do any good, but…” It didn’t matter. She needed a safe place to regroup and figure out what was going on, and the federal building in Granite City met that standard.
“I’ll meet you there.” He hung up.
She’d given him the burner the last time she’d seen him. That was four months ago. He had been limping and in pain. Just walking to her vehicle had been laborious and agonizing, and by the time he lay down on her back seat, he was dripping with sweat.
She slammed on her brakes. She’d been so caught up in her memories she hadn’t noticed the stop sign at Hellebore and First Street. She counted to three, making sure she came to a complete stop and then proceeded through the intersection.
They hadn’t talked on the long trip to the safehouse. He’d slept or pretended to sleep as she drove him around in circles for hours. She’d told Finn she was taking Michael across the border into Canada, but that was a lie. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, but relying on disinformation was a habit born out of years of hiding the vulnerable.
She pulled up Finn’s contact inf
ormation and called him. He didn’t pick up so she left a message telling him she was on her way.
Her grip on the stirring wheel loosened, and then her stomach fluttered as the federal building came into view.
No matter how far she traveled, she’d never met a man who measured up to Michael Papin.
Chapter Two
Michael slipped his backpack off his shoulders as he slowed his pace. The run from his dingy apartment on the east side of Granite City to the federal building had only taken five minutes.
He inhaled, breathing in the cool fall evening. In a few short months, it would be winter.
To most people, Granite City, Montana was a family-friendly town. A large square with a fountain sat at the center of the city. The area, which was used for festivals and concerts, was surrounded by the law courts, the police station, the federal building, and a large granite building that housed the headquarters of Public Domain Energy. But for him it would always be the place where he had begged for food and struggled to survive.
He scoured the area. He didn’t like to label his ability to remember everything he saw. Psychologists argued that people didn’t actually have eidetic or photographic memories, citing numerous studies, but he’d learned a long time ago that their opinion didn’t matter. All that counted was his capacity to recall this moment and recollect license plates, a face, or anything else that might help him in the future.
He tugged the hood of his sweatshirt low over his brow. As far as he knew, he was still being hunted by the Syndicate, a powerful organization with unlimited resources. There were an untold number of cameras watching at any given time. Traffic, weather, and security services all had legitimate reasons for recording the actions of everyday people. Unfortunately, public video surveillance was susceptible to criminal abuse. It would be easy for the Syndicate to obtain the feed and run it through a facial recognition program.
He figured it was only a matter of time before they tracked him down. That reasoning had forced him to commit to a rigorous rehabilitation regime. Losing his mobility had made him feel absolutely powerless. Initially, he hadn’t even been able to boil a kettle without help. Even after months of work, he still wasn’t as fit as he was before he’d been injured, but he could do fifty push-ups and fifty sit-ups, which wasn’t bad. But it took him ten minutes to run a mile, and by the end, he was limping. Before being injured, he’d been able to run two miles in sixteen minutes. Even after all his work and physical therapy, the fractures on the left side of his pelvis sent shooting pains down his leg and caused numbness in his foot. He hadn’t had access to a doctor while he’d been lying low, but he had googled his symptoms and discovered sciatic nerve damage was very common with pelvic fractures. Maybe he was trying to do too much too soon.
He slung his bag over one shoulder as he entered the building. It contained his laptop, which had a top of the line processor with a memory cache he had boosted to maximum capacity and a battery that would last fifteen hours. His pack also included all the cash he’d managed to save, his fake ID, and a burner phone with a ghost chip. Just to be on the safe side, he’d destroyed the cell Sinclair had given him after he’d received her call.
Once again, he scoured the area. The place seemed deserted, which wasn’t a surprise given the time of day. He flicked his hood down and proceeded to security.
“I’m here to see Supervisory Special Agent Callaghan.” Michael placed his backpack on the conveyor belt that led to the X-ray machine.
“Name and ID?” The guard was an older man in his late fifties with a receding hairline and an expanding waistline that flopped over his gun belt.
“Papin.” Michael placed his driver’s license on the desk. Once the guard was done checking his credentials, Michael walked through the scanner and collected his bag on the other side.
He headed for the elevator. He’d just finished a particularly grueling workout and would’ve liked time to shower before he saw Sinclair. His heartbeat kicked up a notch, the way it always did whenever he thought of her. He tamped it down. She was his friend and had shown no indication she wanted a relationship. But every time he saw her, she grew more striking.
The elevator door swished open. He stepped inside and pressed the button.
At fifteen, he’d been madly in love with her. Even living on the street, she’d managed to keep clean. Back then, it wasn’t unusual for her to cover her long strawberry blond hair with a knit cap. She’d been trying to disguise her beauty so as not to attract the attention of pimps and thugs who preyed on the young and vulnerable. In Michael’s opinion, it hadn’t worked. It was impossible to hide the exquisiteness of her large green eyes and slim oval face.
He knocked on the door to the office Finn shared with his partner, FBI Special Agent Kennedy Morris.
“Come,” he barked.
Michael entered, expecting Finn to immediately give him a sitrep. Instead, the FBI agent glanced at him, gave a slight nod, and then went back to rummaging through the first aid kit, which lay open on his desk.
Sinclair sat in a cheap office chair opposite him. She turned in his direction. Her hair was disheveled, one eye was swollen, and her bottom lip was split and covered with dried blood.
“What the hell?” The bastards had beat her. He dropped his backpack and rushed to her side and knelt on the ground in front of her. Without thinking, he smoothed her hair away from her face, being careful to avoid her bruises. “Who did this?”
She gave him a weak smile but didn’t meet his gaze. “It isn’t as bad as it looks. I’ve been hurt worse.”
He wanted to beat the crap out of the son of a bitch who had hurt her. He forced himself to stare at the ground. Losing his temper only served him. It wouldn’t help her. Right now, she needed… He had no idea what she needed, but he was certain she didn’t want his impotent fury.
“They were after your location,” Finn said as he paced around his desk and passed an icepack to Michael.
“Do you think it’s the Syndicate?” He squeezed the product until it felt cold. His hands shook, whether from rage or seeing her again, he couldn’t say. He held the pack to her black eye, trying not to press too hard.
He’d done a lot of soul-searching since his confinement and had come to realize he’d always been a coward where she was concerned. He’d run out on her when he’d enrolled in Officer Candidate School at eighteen. Which had effectively ended any chance they had at a relationship because she was a private. Enlisted personnel weren’t allowed to fraternize with officers. He had justified his decision by telling himself his country needed his intelligence and talents. But in reality, he was just too scared to commit.
Finn cleared his throat, drawing Michael’s attention. “Are there other people looking for you? Someone you might have put away when you were CID?”
Michael considered Finn’s question. He hadn’t thought about his work with Army CID. CID was the acronym for Criminal Investigation Command, which used to be “Division” but when they changed names, they kept the D. “Anything’s possible. You know how it is. You close cases and put the bad guys away. Sometimes there are ripple effects that touch people…families, friends, business partners. There are always more threads than you know. But my initial answer would be no.”
“Why?”
“I was kicked out at the beginning of the year. That was nine months ago. I didn’t go into hiding until four months ago. If someone from my days as a federal agent wanted to get me, they would’ve done it after I got hit by Portman’s car, when I was at my most vulnerable.”
Using his index finger, he brushed the bruise on Sinclair’s cheek. It was starting to swell and turn purple. “The Syndicate is the only group who have the talent and money to figure out Sinclair hid me.”
She pulled away, took the pack from his hand, and pressed it against her hip. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”
He doubted it would have much effect with her jeans in the way. It was obvious she’d been in a fight for
her life. Surprisingly, he was shaking more than she was. He pointed to the kit on Finn’s desk. “Do you have another icepack?”
“Never mind the freakin’ pack.” She jumped out of the chair and threw the cold compress on Finn’s desk. It landed with a dull thud. “I want to know what’s happening.”
Michael stood, facing her. They were the same height, but his muscle mass meant he was heavier. Her clothes weren’t fancy, just jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket and, yet, they accentuated her long legs, slim waist, and small bust. The urge to kiss her was almost irresistible, which was stupid because, as angry as she was, she’d probably punch him.
Finn crossed his arms and sat on the front edge of his desk. He was wearing navy cargo pants and a soft cotton shirt with a collar, casual dress for him, but it was eight at night and he’d probably come from home. “It’s about a case—”
“Never mind the damn case.” She turned on Finn. “I just got off a plane. I was all set for a relaxing few days, but that’s not going to happen because I just broke a man’s hand and another man’s ribs.” She swung back to Michael, poking him in the chest. “I hid you, no questions asked. Now I’m telling you I need to know. Who are these people and what do they want? I have women and children who rely on my ability to hide them from the vilest people on the planet. One of the ways we survive and do our jobs is by keeping a low profile. I will not allow these victims to be put at risk, so you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
Her good eye, the one that wasn’t swollen, was wide, her nostrils flared to the point she was almost breathing fire. Damn, she was hot when she was angry.
He paced to the window and looked out over the Granite City Square. Luckily, the office was large with Finn’s desk at one end and Agent Morris’ workspace on the far side near the window. An old couch was positioned beside the door. Every other inch of wall space was taken up with filing cabinets. He sat in Special Agent Morris’ chair at her desk.
