Runaway

by Susan Sheehey

  An online gaming app showed up first. Reed tilted his head. The site seemed like another run-of-the-mill sniper game, similar to ones he played in high school and college. A new one of these games popped up every other week. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Joe had played the game to pass the ample downtime they had during their case, but why would he choose this game to be his last words?

  Reed entered anything he could think of for Joe’s login and password. Scouring his memory for anything his partner might’ve used as a gamer ID. The man was too smart to use any personal info like middle name, birth date, or anything related to their real identities. After several tries, nothing worked. He’d have to dig further, try to crack some of his old cloud files to see if there was any mention of a login ID or password Joe used, which would potentially put the agency on his tail much quicker than he wanted. But he’d have to save that search for another day. His energy was draining, and the sun was setting, bringing in a beautiful twilight over Elliott Bay. The three-hour drive back was going to be a long one in the dark.

  Time to order a coffee-to-go.

  Diego Huerta stood silently with his arms crossed as he watched his uncle put a bullet into the temple of one of his youngest henchmen. Brains and blood splattered against the barn siding, a good distance from the hacienda in northern Mexico’s hills. The large compound housed the main family and extended familiars, along with at least two dozen other henchmen and their families. In the center courtyard between all the smaller buildings, children played with sparklers and pop rockets, masking the sound of the gunshot.

  By the time the man’s body crumpled to the dirt, Carlos Cabello, the cartel boss, and Diego’s eldest uncle, had already turned to Emilio, his second-in-command, and grabbed the outstretched handkerchief to wipe the gun residue from his hands. And the sweat from his brow.

  Diego didn’t move an inch nor showed a split second of disgust or remorse. All of that had been beaten out of him as a kid. In fact, he now relished this. The man had committed an honest mistake, losing a half-million dollars at the border crossing. For the honesty part of it, the cartel gave him mercy with a quick, clean death. If he’d been stupid enough to attempt stealing from Cabello, or worse, snitching, his death would’ve been much more painful, prolonged over hours or days. And much more inventive.

  All the men in this dirty circle of lifetime gang members were hardcore killers. Doing what had to be done in their vicious business. For Diego, it was the family business.

  The only thing that may have saved this man from the cartel’s justice was blood. Blood of the Cabello family that ran through Diego’s veins. His father was Carlos’s brother. Illegitimate or not, blood was blood.

  “Send his mother money to pay for the funeral,” Carlos instructed Emilio with casual indifference as though he were asking for extra salsa with his meal. “And a little more to cover her rent the rest of the year. Then bring his younger brother into the compound. We must groom a replacement.”

  And keep a hostage to ensure his mother’s silence. Diego’s lips curled into a small smile. He knew that tactic well. He was brought to this very compound at the age of ten, after his mother’s death. Only her crime hadn’t been as simple. She’d fallen in love with the cartel boss’s brother and gotten pregnant. Only when she’d learned her lover was in the cartel, she fled to the United States, gave birth to his bastard son, and tried to raise him in secret.

  But the cartel finds everyone.

  At first, he was angry at being taken from his mother. Then he realized what real power his father’s side of the family held. And he devoted his life to learning how to harness it.

  “Wipe that smile off your face.” Carlos scowled at him. “This is business, not a game. Seems the longer you work for me, the harder it is for you to tell the difference.”

  “I’m honored you would include me in more important matters than just my usual coding and virtual killing.”

  The man’s cold gaze met his. He tossed the handkerchief on the ground. “Every link in our chain is important—each one with their own specialty and strengths. The games you design are crucial to our family’s operation. Your talents are far too valuable to lose with the dirtier aspects of this process. But it’s still important for you to learn the consequences should members of our organization fail.”

  Diego didn’t miss the underlying threat but didn’t acknowledge it either. He followed his uncle to the side of the barn, the old man walking slowly as he surveyed his private kingdom of beautiful desert hills and a glorious sunset. The rest of his henchmen remained where they were, always scanning for threats, including among themselves. Not that Diego feared any of them. He was more than capable of defending himself.

  He’d been groomed from the second he arrived at this hacienda as a scrawny chamaco to be part of the cartel. His father had died of a heart attack before he’d ever met him. An ironic death, considering the dangerous nature of his “day job.” Diego’s father had been addicted to tequila, fatty foods, and sex, in every order possible. During one of his weekend binge-fests, he’d collapsed mid-thrust on top of his mistress. Or so the other kids in the compound had retold him repeatedly during his first few months.

  Only when his uncle realized how smart Diego was and how quickly he’d caught on to the way of things—the “kill or be killed” mentality—did he consider using him for more ambitious endeavors. And not just because he had a US passport. Those were like gold down here. Easy access back and forth across the border. Invaluable to a cartel with millions of clients on the other side of the Rio Grande, and billions funding their lifestyle.

  Diego had something special. An innate survival instinct he’d inherited from his father, combined with an affinity for coding. So they sent him back to the USA for high school. Then Cal-Tech. All under his alias, Daniel Huerta, who now held two degrees in application development and business supply chain management. He quickly became one of Carlos Cabellos’ most coveted assets.

  Diego was determined not to follow the same reckless lifestyle as his biological father. He had much higher ladders to climb.

  As two men started dragging the dead body into the barn, his uncle turned his back and addressed Diego directly. “How is the next app’s development coming along?” He pulled a cigar and lighter from his breast pocket, the end already cut. He took his time lighting it.

  “Beta-testing starts next week. If all goes well, should be up and running next month.”

  Carlos blew a giant puff of smoke over Diego’s shoulder. “I still don’t think we should abandon the first game you developed. It’s been working marvelously for our efforts.”

  “You always say stay several steps ahead of our enemies. If they ever catch on to our latest methods, we have an alternative in place. With a legitimate side-income stream.”

  His uncle eyed him, his dark eyes troubled under his bushy eyebrows. Time and violence had weathered the old man like a used leather chair. “Speaking of our enemies, you still haven’t found that pinche DEA agent. It’s been a year.”

  Diego’s insides filled with fire. “His trace ran cold. Last we heard of him he was running up the desert through New Mexico. He’s living off-grid. But sooner or later he’ll pop up. If anyone can track him, I can. We’ll take him out then.”

  Carlos moved in suddenly, with surprising deftness for his advanced age. “I’ll take him out,” he growled. “You won’t move one toe out of your little cave.”

  Diego growled right back at him. He was the only one who even dared. “I can do more than just wreak havoc on a keyboard. Haven’t I proved that in El Paso?”

  “You stepped out of line in El Paso,” his uncle snapped. “I’d have killed anyone else for disobeying my orders. Had you done as you were told, we wouldn’t have this rogue agent still on the loose.”

  “I was the one who found that pinche gringo snooping around the game. Without me, DEA would’ve raided this compound, making a piñata out of your ass in federal prison.�
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  Carlos’s eyes darkened, and his whole face flushed with rage. In a split second, he’d cupped Diego’s face in his hands, squeezing his cheeks together and dragging him down a few inches to stare down into his face.

  Diego’s heart nearly stopped. His uncle was the only man he was truly afraid of.

  The burning end of the cigar was merely a fraction of a millimeter from his eye. “Do not forget yourself, Diegocito. As valuable as you are to me, everyone is replaceable. Your time will come. When you learn patience. I still see the scrawny pollito too good to piss in the dirt.” He released his nephew’s face.

  Diego rubbed his jaw, huffing out a breath to control his temper.

  “I have my own protections from the Americans,” his uncle continued. “You think I wouldn’t, after all this time? Dare threaten me again, niñito, and I’ll feed you to the wolves myself.” His uncle spat on the ground by Diego’s feet and tossed his cigar into the bushes. With a last glare, he turned and strolled back up to the hacienda, his hands in his pockets, like a fucking monarch who just finished washing his hands.

  “You’re right about one thing,” Diego muttered, well out of his uncle’s earshot. “Everyone is replaceable. Even you.”

  Skye normally loved Sundays. She could sleep in and study for her degree, just six credit hours away. This particular one rewarded Cascade Creek with sunny, warm temperatures that others would take advantage of by enjoying nature before autumn set in. Her best friend would spend most of it in church.

  But this particular Sunday, Skye hated it. The diner was closed. That meant she didn’t get to see Guy.

  In the two weeks since he’d started working there, she was completely intrigued by him, drawn to him. Many of the customers were too. She’d been asked so many times if she knew where he came from, or why he chose Cascade Creek to settle down in. Unfortunately, she couldn’t answer their questions. But she was as equally curious. Maybe because he was so fine to look at, and it made her day go by faster. Perhaps it was because he was new, and she still hadn’t learned much about him, which gave her imagination permission to roam freely into amazing, albeit improbable territories.

  Perhaps it was because she started to feel a little more alive with him there.

  Whatever the reason, his absence with a closed diner made Sundays more acutely depressing.

  How did he spend his days off? Hiking? Fixing up old houses? Perhaps reading an expansive library?

  The whole day crawled by slowly, until finally—thankfully—Monday arrived. She practically leaped out of bed and spent extra time doing her hair and makeup, putting a little more accentuation into her eyeliner and dusty rose shadow to brighten against her light gray waitress uniform.

  She pulled into the Rock Road Diner’s parking lot to see Mr. Nice Ass and his black truck already there. Her heart skipped a little. With a quick look in her rearview mirror, she fluffed her hair and took a calming breath. As she shut her car door, she noticed a few holes in the bottom of Guy’s rear fender. Small ones, in perfect circles that couldn’t be from rocks kicked up off the road. Like BB gun pellets, perhaps.

  Hm.

  Maybe he was an outdoorsman. Perhaps he’d spent yesterday hunting. But if he was a hunter, why would he use only a BB gun? This was certainly the right area of the country for those who loved nature. Is that why he chose Cascade Creek?

  Good God, can’t my brain just be quiet for ten seconds?

  She went inside.

  The man was switching on all the lights and starting up the grills. When the jingling bell above the door pulled his gaze to meet hers, his lips quirked up.

  “Morning. You’re here early,” she greeted him.

  He wore his ballcap backward again, and a few wrinkles crossed his SeaHawks shirt. A subtle layer of scruff covered his chin.

  “Want some coffee?” She stuck her purse under the counter behind the napkin refills and flipped on the coffee maker.

  “Love some.”

  “Black, no sugar, right?”

  He grabbed his apron from the hook on the wall. “Good memory.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re in Cascade Creek, by the way.” Hopefully, the quiet time together without others around would entice him to open up more.

  He pursed his lips, pausing as he tied his apron strings. “I’m a former secret agent investigating a murder.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks, holding an empty mug while the coffee dripped into the pot. With the most serious expression she could conjure, she replied, “The bodies were already there when I moved in.”

  He blinked. The apron strings fell from his fingers.

  Skye couldn’t hold the farce, and let the laugh explode from her chest. “Dangit, I would suck at a lie detector test.”

  “That’s a good thing,” he chuckled. “‘Cuz then I’d have to take you in. Good thing I left the handcuffs in my other getaway car.”

  She snorted and poured a fresh cup of coffee for him. “You almost had me with that video game malarkey the other day.” She playfully punched his upper arm. “One of these days, you’re gonna tell me the truth. I already know you can’t be a secret agent.”

  His smile faded behind a sip of his coffee. “Why, I’m too good-looking again?”

  “You have horrible aim with a BB gun.” She started refilling the salt and pepper shakers.

  He gave her a strange look. “BB gun?”

  “The holes in your rear fender. From a BB gun, right? A real hunter knows not to aim the weapon at their own truck.” She chuckled and kept working.

  Guy cleared his throat. “Why are you in Cascade Creek, Skye? Born and bred here, or are you just really into mountain men?”

  The salt spilled from filling a shaker. She set it down and grabbed a napkin to wipe it up. For a moment, she forgot he wasn’t a native. Everyone already knew the reason she’d come back to Cascade Creek, and most were kind enough to spare her the retelling. Despite the all-American mentality of this small town, everyone here had skeletons. Except hers just wouldn’t stay in the damn closet like everyone else’s.

  On a deep breath, she left the salt shaker on the table to pour her own coffee with extra cream and sugar. “Let’s just say I got the nerve to leave town for college only to be burned my first year out. Badly.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  She stirred her coffee a little too hard. “I hate being predictable.”

  He shrugged. “Sorry to hear that. Nice ones always seem to get burned.”

  She sipped her coffee, hoping if she blushed, she could blame it on the hot caffeine. She hadn’t expected that compliment. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been as nice.”

  He shook his head and took a step closer. “He shouldn’t have been an asshole. Whoever he is. You never change who you are, especially not for an asshole.”

  She smiled over the rim of her mug. “How insightful, doctor. You should start your own self-help podcast. You know, between all your book tours and cooking classes.”

  He smirked and stepped back. He leaned against the counter. “Very funny. What happened after the asshole?”

  Thank God he didn’t press for details. “I came back home, licked my wounds, and decided to save money for a European backpacking trip. Until I found out how expensive that was, instead, I enrolled in classes over in Greenville, and next year I’ll be the proud owner of a bachelor’s degree in communications.”

  He nodded a few times. “In between all that, you read mystery books.”

  She grinned. “I do.”

  He scanned her from her canvas sneakers up to her curly hair. “Cute bookworm.”

  Her face grew warm, and her stomach flip-flopped. Damn, he had a way of lighting her up inside.

  Somewhere in her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was disguising himself too. Was he an asshole like Vance, trying to throw her off his real scent? Dazzle her with mystery and intrigue, hook her in like a fish, only to yank her out of the water to reveal a monster.

>   No, she couldn’t think like that. Doubting everyone, because of one prick. Stuff like that didn’t happen in this tiny town anyway. Besides, Guy had kindness in his eyes. Something settling, comforting.

  Before she could ask him about it, the front door jingled with Ralph’s entrance.

  “Good, you’re both here already. Help me unload the potatoes from my car.” He went back outside to open the trunk.

  Skye shook her head and called after him. “Would saying please burn your tongue? Or do you think you’re charming enough without manners?”

  Guy chuckled and held open the door for Skye. The trio carried in multiple bags of spuds, Guy heaving several over his shoulder while she let them dangle at her sides.

  “We’ve got a busy week ahead,” Ralph continued, dropping the bags by the storage closet behind the kitchen. “It’s the beginning of flounder season, and I’m expecting Rufus to deliver a bunch today. I’ve paid extra for the pre-prepped filets, so our new cook doesn’t have to de-bone them himself. You’re costing me money, Guy.”

  “I’ll make it worth every penny,” he replied. He dropped the bags on top of the others and grabbed the other ones from Skye, so she didn’t have to take them farther.

  “Thank you. It’s also the Apple Picking Festival on Saturday.” Skye brushed the hair from her face. “Are you going?”

  “What’s the Apple Picking Festival?”

  Ralph rolled his eyes. “A lot of work and plenty of tight-fisted customers.” He retreated to his office.

  “This place will be packed from sunup through closing,” Skye added. “With a wait around lunchtime. We make a special apple cider kicking off with the festival. Then people head out to the apple orchards and pick however many bushels they can carry. Down the main street in town, there are booths with people selling their homemade apple butter, jellies, and pies. Obviously, craft brews and hard ciders flow freely. Not to mention the annual apple pie eating contest. Ralph won second place last year, behind Tommy Krantz.”

  “That dirtbag cheated,” Ralph chimed in from around the corner. “He grabbed the smallest pie.”