by Carolina Mac
“You can’t. That will tip them off. Let him go to Houston and the ATF will take care of him… or I’ll do it for you.”
“But that won’t be me taking him out, will it?”
“The result will be the same, Mom.”
“Dougie’s phone isn’t sending me anything anymore. He took the tracker out, or he’s using a burner.”
“What are you thinking?”
Annie shrugged. “It’s just a hunch.”
“He’s not going to the warehouse?”
“Dougie is all about Dougie,” said Annie. “I know him a little now and he’s a user. Did you get the tag on his ride?”
“Yep. Farrell did.”
“Okay, you go east, and I’ll go west.”
“You think he’ll go home to Vegas?” asked Blaine.
“I don’t know what his long-term plan is, but he’s not a fool, and he absolutely has an agenda.”
“Farrell will want to go with you.”
“You need him in Houston.”
“I’ll be okay. Travis and Hammer have already left Austin to join the party.”
“The answer is no.” Annie shook her head. “I’m going alone.”
Houston.
BLAINE WAITED until Greg gave the signal that the Rule had left the junkyard and were on their way to Houston, before he put his own team on the road.
Two hours and forty minutes of hard driving put them in downtown Houston. The Rule were ahead, but not by much. In constant contact with Special Agent Kramer, Blaine was confident the ATF had put it into high gear and was prepared to mount the best offensive possible when the bikers arrived.
The warehouse was in an industrial section of the city near the docks. When Blaine closed in on the location with his people the noise from inside indicated that a firefight was already in progress.
His convoy parked on the road, his men surrounded the building and covered all exits. As Blaine and Farrell ran to the open overhead door, they saw Travis and Hammer, already in position and firing their weapons.
Sirens sounded in the distance and more help was on the way. Maybe Kramer asked for help from Houston PD. It was his battle to fight. Violent Crime was there for one reason only—to put the Rule out of business.
Bodies of blood-soaked bikers were strewn haphazardly across the concrete floor of the warehouse. Dozens of them dead and wounded. Most would die. Few would recover to go to trial.
Blaine searched the battlefield for Langois and didn’t see him. The warehouse was huge, and from the door where Blaine stood, the tractor-trailers blocked part of the view. Then, there he was. Langois darted out from behind one of the trucks with an AK in his hand. Blaine waited until he was in full view, lined up his shot and pulled the trigger.
Langois dropped like a rock, his brains shooting upward out of his head like a fountain and plastering the side of the semi.
Another ten minutes of deafening noise and it was over. Houston police arrived in a swarm to a silent warehouse. Ambulances arrived for those lucky enough not to be dead, and there were less than a handful in that category.
That’s all she wrote.
Kramer smiled as he zig-zagged through the bodies to where Blaine was standing with his rifle and stuck out his hand. “Thanks to you, we’ve plugged a huge pipeline of guns into our country.”
“Glad to help,” said Blaine. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Which one was the president? Do you know?”
Blaine nodded. “That’s him right over there. Paul Langois. I had the pleasure of taking him out personally.”
The fucker made remarks about Annie and for that alone, I’d kill him.
I-10 West.
ANNIE RODE WEST following the tracker on the Dog’s ride. It didn’t feel right, and she didn’t know why. Was Dougie pulling off another fancy maneuver to trick her?
She followed without stopping until Dougie pulled in for gas at the Kerrville intersection. His Harley was parked at the pumps and Annie ran inside looking for him. A young kid in a black leather jacket stood at the counter paying for gas.
“That your ride at the pumps?” asked Annie.
“Who wants to know?”
“Where’s the Dog?”
The kid grinned. “Who?”
Annie ran back outside, opened the saddlebag on the bike with the snarling dog air-brushed on the gas tank and tossed in her bracelet.
I’ll get you, Dougie. Consider yourself dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday, January 29th.
Coulter-Ross Ranch. La Grange.
ANNIE woke in her own bed at the ranch, miserable and unhappy. After losing Dougie to another of his ploys and not getting to cap Langois, she felt like a total failure. She dreaded the text she knew would be waiting on her phone. The man always wanted confirmation when she was finished.
I’m not finished.
She inhaled a big breath and reached over to the nightstand for her cell. Missed messages.
“The Rule has been eliminated. Good work, sweetheart. Don’t worry about Robertson. You’ll get him later.”
“That was nice. I didn’t deserve it,” she said to herself.
The next missed message was from Dougie. “I did what I had to do. I love you, girl. That’s the part that’s true.”
The Blackmore Agency. Austin.
BLAINE woke after only a couple of hours sleep. He rolled over, reached for Misty and pulled her close to him. She’d been sound asleep when he’d climbed into bed close to morning.
She turned towards him, her hands in his hair, and kissed him. “I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”
Governor’s Mansion. Austin.
CAT hadn’t heard from Blaine for a couple of days and had tried her best not to badger him with calls, but when CNN broke in with news of the huge shootout in the ATF warehouse in Houston, she almost came unglued. What if Blaine was hurt? What if he got killed? How would she survive. She didn’t mean to love him and depend on him the way she did. It just happened.
He was probably up all night. She’d let him sleep and talk to him at noon.
Quantrall Ranch. Giddings.
JESSE saw the report on the morning news and called Annie to make sure she was safe. “Just making sure, my girl is in one piece. I saw the warehouse shootout on the news this morning.”
“I haven’t seen it, sugar. I didn’t get home until the middle of the night.”
“Sorry to wake you, Ace. I was worried.”
“I was awake, cowboy. Can we have lunch?”
“Stonehouse?”
“I would so love that. I’ll sleep another hour then get up and get ready.”
“I love you, Ace.”
“Same.”
The Blackmore Agency. Austin.
QUARTER to nine by the time Blaine dragged himself out of bed, showered and made it to the kitchen. The smell of bacon mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and Blaine was instantly cheered. Carm gave him a good morning smile as she stood at the stove whipping up pancake batter for Farrell.
Blaine filled a mug and sat down across from his brother. “Sure as hell don’t feel like it, but we’ve got to go to Dallas to Reg Bromwell’s funeral and talk to his wife afterwards.”
“Cat going?” asked Farrell.
Blaine shook his head. “Hope to hell not. Terrible idea. If she mentions it, I’ll talk her out of it.”
Lily whizzed into the kitchen and filled her coffee mug. “I gave Hammer and Travis the day off, Fletcher’s off until Monday, and I called Mary and she’ll be here by nine-thirty.”
“Okay, good,” said Blaine. “Fletcher put in some ball-busting hours with Greg on surveillance in San Antone and he’s beat.”
The dogs bounced and barked and greeted Mary in the foyer at nine-thirty. Since their breakup, Farrell was antsy any time she was around, and opted to stay in the kitchen with his pancakes and syrup while she and Blaine worked on the story in the front pa
rlor.
“I saw it on the news this morning,” she said, “but the Houston station only filmed the outside of the building. The ATF wasn’t letting any media people inside where the bodies were.”
“I don’t know the exact body count, but you could say the club was eliminated and it wouldn’t be far from the truth.”
“Any names I can use?” asked Mary.
“Not yet. Bikers have next of kin who need to be notified. I didn’t at one point, but most do, so I’m thinking all you can say is Dougie the Dog Robertson, club enforcer, was not found at the scene.”
“Was he high up in the club?”
“After Goldsmith was killed at the rest area earlier in the week, Dougie moved up to number two.”
“And now he’s number one,” said Mary.
Blaine smiled. “He’d be number one if there was a club, but there isn’t. And we’re all hoping the Rule is history.”
Hamilton Funeral Home. Dallas.
THE FUNERAL HOME Mrs. Bromwell had chosen for her estranged husband seemed to be brand spanking new, but Blaine was only guessing. He’d never been to a funeral in Dallas before to know an old funeral home from a new one. The one-storey stone structure was luxuriously appointed inside and well-landscaped outside. The thick gray carpet in the foyer smelled new, and a hint of fresh paint lingered in the air. Maybe a renovation.
The only mourners he expected to recognize were a few attorneys from Powell and Associates who cared enough about Reg Bromwell to make the drive up to Dallas. Wouldn’t be any of the female attorneys on staff filling up the pews, if Lil was on target. Any or all of the paralegals Reg had made out with in the janitor’s closet surely would not make the trip to mourn his passing.
Blaine and Farrell sat near the back of the chapel observing and hoped they’d get a read on someone who stood out from the crowd as not belonging.
The service was brief, with no eulogy or personal remarks given by anyone. Reg was being cremated, so there was no interment either. At the conclusion, the minister mumbled one final prayer and invited all the guests to the second-floor lounge for refreshments.
“I could use some coffee,” said Farrell. “I’m still wiped from last night.”
“Me too, but I didn’t want to miss this opportunity.” His cell rang at the top of the stairs. “Cat,” he whispered to Farrell. “I’ll duck into the washroom. Meet you near the coffee.”
He closed the door of the men’s room and pressed ‘talk.’ “Hey, Cat, how’s your day going?”
“Better today, I’m getting the hang of it, I think.” He heard her inhale a breath. “I was worried when I saw the news.”
“Big shootout. Job done.”
“The ATF made a big announcement on the news at noon, giving themselves full credit of course.”
“Of course, no need to mention that Violent Crime set the whole fuckin thing up and said, ‘here you go.”
Cat giggled. “No need.”
“I’m at Reg’s funeral in Dallas, Cat. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want you here when I question the wife.”
“Oh, my God, thanks for that.”
“Let me get back to you later.”
“I’ll be waiting,” said Cat, “but the reason I called was about tomorrow. You hadn’t confirmed if you could make it to my panel.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d be finished in San Antone. What time do you want me?”
“One thirty.”
“I’ll be there. Lil is getting some figures together for me.”
“I can breathe now. Thanks, sweetie.”
Blaine joined Farrell at the buffet and filled a plate with pasta salad and a half sandwich. Farrell’s plate was piled with slices of pie, brownies and coconut squares. They sat in the corner while family and friends of Reg Bromwell’s paid their respects to the widow. After most had gone and only a few stragglers remained, Blaine approached Mrs. Bromwell.
“Mrs. Bromwell, I’m Blaine Blackmore, Reg’s employer at Powell and Associates, and I’m also investigating his death. Would you have a moment to talk to me?”
Barb Bromwell was medium height with platinum hair cut in a bob and light blue eyes. She may have been pretty once upon a time, but now wore heavy makeup to cover damaged skin. She pointed to a deserted corner of the room and took a cup of tea with her. “Have you made any headway solving his murder?”
“Not much,” said Blaine, “I was hoping you could give me a starting point.”
“Reg and I haven’t communicated well for several months. He talked mostly to my lawyers.”
“Simms and Simms?” asked Blaine.
“Yes. Jacob Simms was handling the settlement and Reg was giving him a hard time of it.”
“I’ve uncovered several things,” said Blaine. “Reg needed money to pay off a huge mortgage on the marital home, plus you wanted a cash settlement because there was to be no alimony. If you were keeping the house why were you insisting on him paying off the mortgage?”
Barb Bromwell nodded. “I see where it might look confusing, but I had the house paid off a few years ago when we were still together. Reg needed money for an investment too good to miss, or so he said, and he borrowed all he could against the house. At the time he swore he’d clear the new mortgage off in less than a year.”
“But that didn’t happen?” asked Blaine.
“Never happened.”
“Do you know what the investment was?”
“Not at first, but I made him tell me when things began to unravel. He put the money into his brother’s casino.”
“How did things unravel?”
“Reg began flying to Vegas every weekend on casino business and I could tell he was cheating on me at the same time. Our marriage went to hell in a hurry.”
“Then you separated?”
“Reg got a place in Austin and moved out. I went to a lawyer and started divorce proceedings. He kept stalling, telling my lawyer he’d soon have the money and I figured it was a lie. Reg was slick, and a practiced liar. I heard rumors that he was seeing somebody, but I didn’t know if it was serious or even true.”
Mrs. Bromwell paused to sip her tea. “I got tired of waiting and put pressure on my lawyer. He kept on Reg and Reg told Mr. Simms he didn’t have the money, but he was trying to raise it. Then one day a couple of weeks ago, Mr. Simms called and told me Reg confirmed that he had the money and had asked that the final papers be prepared.”
“Do you have any idea where he got the money?”
“No, I don’t, although Mr. Simms might.”
“What was the amount of the final settlement?”
“One point five million.”
“And did Reg deliver the money to Simms and Simms?”
“A cashier’s check arrived by courier. Mr. Simms confirmed that he was finalizing all the documents.”
“I see,” said Blaine.
“Does the money have something to do with his murder?” asked Mrs. Bromwell, “Is that why you’re asking me these questions?”
“There is a strong indication that Reg stole the money, and in my mind, whoever he stole it from killed him.”
Mrs. Bromwell sucked in a quick breath. “He stole it?”
“It looks that way,” said Blaine. “Do you think he would go to his brother if he needed a large amount of money?”
“No, I don’t. Since Reg invested with his brother, they’d done nothing but fight. I had no idea of the casino finances, but from what Reg let slip from time to time, I had the feeling our money was down the drain.”
“Do you think he would have asked for his investment back when he needed money so badly?” asked Blaine.
“He might have asked, but Harry controlled the casino finances. Reg was a silent partner with no authority.”
“Why would he go for a deal like that when he was an attorney?” asked Blaine. “Wouldn’t he have protected himself?”
“He trusted Harry at that time, I guess.”
“Were there other partners?�
� asked Blaine.
“I believe there were other investors, but I don’t know who they were, and I can’t believe Reg would steal money from anybody. He was a tax attorney, as you well know. He had a lot of wealthy clients who trusted him with their funds.”
Blaine nodded. “And I’ve checked the files at the office and didn’t find anything out of place.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you, Mr. Blackmore-Powell, but I just don’t know.”
“One more question,” said Blaine. “When you received the check, did you put it in the bank?”
Mrs. Bromwell smiled. “I did. I took it straight to my bank and the money is sitting in my account. I’ll talk to somebody before I invest it.”
“Thank you for your time.” Blaine handed her a card. “If you think of anything, give me a call.”
“I absolutely will. Reg was a lot of things—a liar and a horrible husband—but I don’t believe for a minute he was a thief.”
BLAINE thumped the steering wheel when he jumped into his truck. “Dammit, Farrell. She got most of the money.” He lit up a smoke and called Travis. “Need you and Fletcher in Dallas.”
“We need to bring the unit, boss?”
“No. This is a protection detail.” Blaine explained about Mrs. Bromwell and gave Travis the address.
“She don’t know she’s in danger?”
“No, and I’m not sure if she is. They may not know most of the money went to Reg’s wife.”
“They cut up Reggie pretty good,” said Travis. “He may have spilled the beans.”
“True enough.”
The Old Stonehouse Restaurant. Smithville.
JESSE picked Annie up at Coulter-Ross and they drove together to the Stonehouse outside of Smithville. The restaurant had long been their favorite with a lot of happy memories made there.
“We haven’t been out alone for a long time,” said Jesse. “My fault, of course. It always is. I’m a born procrastinator. I mean to call you, then I go to the barn, get busy with the horses and forget everything else. I should be shot.”
