Читать книгу Inherited Threat - Jane M. Choate - Страница 14

The caw of a crow reverberated through the early morning air, scraping already frayed nerves. Senses spiking, Laurel Landry approached Bernice’s—she had never earned the title mother—storage unit. Bernice’s murder a week ago had brought Laurel to this shabby place at this moment.

Using the key she’d discovered in Bernice’s ancient double-wide trailer, Laurel let herself in and began her search. Sammy, her German shepherd, stood guard.

Buried beneath a stack of boxes, she found a familiar “go-bag.” From the time Laurel had been a small child, Bernice had kept a suitcase for when the two of them had to leave town in a hurry, usually just before the rent was due.

Inside the bag were three items: an envelope containing a picture of a lanky boy and a little girl that was labeled Jake and Shelley and dated more than twenty years ago, another photo, this one of Laurel’s mother and bearing the same date, along with a newspaper article about S&J Security/Protection; a ledger with what might have been names and dates written in some kind of code, the word Collective on the front; and packets of hundred dollar bills. A quick estimate put the amount at ten thousand dollars.

Laurel stuffed the contents into her pack. The shiver that skittered down her spine had nothing to do with the chill of the cold locker and everything to do with the single word Collective.

What was Bernice doing with a ledger bearing the name of a group of organized crime families that had infiltrated public and private sectors from banking to the US Attorney’s Office? News of the group’s exploits had reached her even during deployment in the Middle East.

Bernice, what had you gotten yourself into?

Laurel shook her head, the action one of resignation rather than denial. She’d long ago accepted that Bernice never thought through a decision and that she rarely, if ever, considered the effect her actions might have on others, especially her daughter. Her involvement with the Collective was but one more in an increasingly long string of bad choices. There’d be no more bad choices on Bernice’s part, Laurel reflected.

Though the Collective was based in Atlanta, its tentacles were everywhere, apparently even here in this speck of a town where Bernice had lived.

A chuff of noise outside the unit caused Laurel to go still. Had she been followed to the storage lockers? She’d been careful, but she had to admit that she had been more intent on reaching her destination than checking the rearview mirror.

Awareness feathered her senses. A tingle of apprehension raced through her. Ranger training had taught her to trust her instincts.

“Sammy,” she whispered to her dog as she pulled on her backpack, “time to go.”

Something in her voice must have alerted him for he went on point.

As she exited the unit, a large man swiped at her backpack. Fortunately, she had it secured around her waist as well as her shoulders.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she yelled and jerked away from him.

He broadened his stance, the menacing move designed to intimidate. Too bad. She didn’t scare. “Give me what I want, and you can go.”

Like she believed that. “I don’t have anything.”

He ignored that and reached for her again.

Sammy growled menacingly but remained still. He was too well-trained to attack without a command from her.

Laurel knew she could take down the intruder. Ranger training had honed the already formidable skills she’d earned courtesy of the US Army. She twisted out of his reach and spun, kicking with her right leg and catching him in the chest cavity. The grunt of pain told her she’d made serious contact. Good.

He went down. Hard.

“Sammy, now.”

Despite having only three legs, Sammy attacked, fastening his jaw around the man’s ankle.

The man yelped. “Get him off me.”

“Sammy, enough.”

Sammy released his hold on the man.

She glared at her would-be assailant. “Stay still or you’ll see what he can really do.”

While he figured out that he wasn’t getting away, Laurel did some thinking of her own. If she waited for the police, she’d be letting herself in for prolonged questioning. It didn’t take much to surmise that the man belonged to the Collective and wanted the money and the ledger. Though she didn’t understand the meaning of the coded numbers listed in it, she knew instinctively she couldn’t let him have it.

Laurel pulled her weapon and held it on the man. “Sammy, watch.”

With her other hand, she fished through his pockets, found a pair of handcuffs—had he planned on using them on her?—and a set of keys. When she pressed the key fob, a beep from a nearby truck identified it as his. She marched him to the vehicle.

“Open the driver’s and back doors, then put the right cuff on.” After he did so, she slipped the empty cuff through the exposed frame, clicked the second manacle around his other wrist and secured him there.

He struggled against the restraint, all the while spewing a stream of venom. Mean eyes glittered with hate. “This ain’t over.”

“You’re right. It ain’t. But you are.”

The brief exchange sent her thoughts in a different direction. What if her career with the Rangers was over as a result of the injury she’d sustained while deployed?

She’d meticulously constructed her life, a result of her chaotic childhood. A need to put order to everything had driven her first to the Army, then the Rangers. There, she’d found the first real home she’d ever known. Being part of something bigger than herself gave her life purpose.

If she couldn’t be a Ranger any longer, she feared her life would lose its meaning.

Nothing she could do about it now. At the moment, she was running for her life. There’d be time enough to worry over the future.

Whispers of pink streaked the sky as she headed out of town on a narrow road of chewed-up asphalt. She put a call in to the local police, gave the location of the storage unit and reported the man as a burglar.

Outside one of the small towns that dotted the backwoods road, she found a coffee shop that advertised free Wi-Fi. Though she was anxious to be on her way, she booted up her laptop. First, she contacted a friend at the DOJ and asked for any information he had on the Collective.

His answer came swiftly. Stay out of their way.

She typed back. Too late.

Okay, but you asked for it.

Page after page of text filled her screen. She dug out a thumb drive and copied the information to it.

Next she ran a search on S&J Security/Protection of Atlanta, Georgia. Articles about the firm were abundant, as were mentions of Jake Rabb and Shelley Rabb Judd and their emphasis on hiring ex-military and police personnel as operatives.

Laurel did some quick calculations in her head, taking in the date on the picture and the probable current ages of the Rabb brother and sister. Could it be? Did she have a half-brother and half-sister?

The idea filled her with such longing that tears stung her eyes. In the lonely years growing up, she’d prayed for a sister or brother, someone to laugh with, to cry with. The possibility that she had both a brother and a sister revived that childhood dream. If only...

She put away the wishful thinking and turned her attention to the practical. She was going to have to do something she hated, something that stuck in her craw like having to bow and scrape to a smarmy politician: she was going to have to ask for help. She texted the contact number for S&J Security/Protection, gave a bullet point explanation of her situation, adding that she was a Ranger in the States on medical leave. When a reply came within minutes saying that an S&J operative, an ex-Ranger no less, would meet her, she knew she was on the right track.

With a to-go mug of coffee and a bottle of water for Sammy’s bowl, Laurel left the shop and started on her way once more. The road climbed, an easy ascent until it reached the ridge. From there, the ribbon of asphalt narrowed, twisting and looping back and forth on itself like a sidewinder as it gradually descended.

As she rounded the curves, she thought she caught a glimpse of headlights in her rearview mirror. When the pinpricks of light didn’t appear again, she returned her focus to hugging the centerline of the road. Relief sighed through her when she reached the base of the valley and the road straightened out once more.

The breath caught in her throat when she noticed a jacked-up truck with oversize wheels following close behind.

Looked like she’d picked up a tail. The truck closed the distance between them until it was riding her bumper. Hard.

Laurel refused to give way to the truck that was trying to run her off the road. She made out two men. If she let them send her into the ditch, she’d be at a distinct disadvantage. A grim smile touched her lips at the understatement.

Rule one in combat: keep the upper hand.

“Hold on, Sammy.”

The German shepherd, who rode shotgun, woofed in response.

She swerved, cutting off the truck’s attempt to come up on her right side.

Despite its battered appearance, the truck had muscle behind it, and she had combat driving training on her side. She called upon every skill she had and slammed down the accelerator, rocketing ahead. She stepped on the gas and didn’t let up. As the speed increased, her breathing slowed, steadied.

When she spotted a rutted road up ahead, nearly hidden by underbrush, she turned sharply, then held her breath when the truck passed in a tail of battered air and a boil of dust.

She wasn’t one to waste time on self-congratulations, but she couldn’t hold back a fist pump in the air followed by a brief prayer of gratitude. A scripture flashed into her mind. If God be for us, who can be against us?

Then it was back to business. The men would be back. What’s more, they undoubtedly had others in their network who would be coming after her as well. She was outmanned and outgunned.

Laurel didn’t run from trouble—Rangers typically ran toward it—but she wasn’t foolhardy. Admitting that she needed help hadn’t been easy, but she was grateful that an S&J operative was on his way. She only hoped he arrived in time.

* * *

Mace Ransom nosed into a parking spot at the mom-and-pop grocery store and waited for the client to show up. He climbed out of the truck and leaned against the fender. Anticipation sent adrenaline pumping through him as he replayed his boss’s words in his mind.

We’ve got a new client who’s found herself on the wrong side of the Collective. Laurel Landry. She needs backup, and she needs it now. Shelley Rabb Judd, founder and co-owner of S&J Security/Protection, had rattled off a name and directions to the meeting spot. By the way, she’s a Ranger, on medical leave.

He had kitted up, including flexi-cuffs, flash bangs and a few other goodies, such as an H&K UMP, suppressed and chambered, along with his NVGs. His night vision goggles had come in handy on more than one occasion.

The Glock 17, his preferred weapon, he placed in a custom-made shoulder holster. All that was left was his K-bar knife, which he slid inside his boot. He traveled light and liked it that way. Too many possessions, too many emotions, slowed you down.

There’d been no one to contact, no one to let know that he was going out of town. He supposed he ought to be grateful for the freedom. Instead, it only emphasized the fact that he was alone.

The spurt of self-pity annoyed him, and he shoved aside the unaccustomed feelings to focus on the job.

A battered sedan pulled in and a tall woman climbed out, accompanied by a dog. She raked Mace with a long look, then nodded, apparently satisfied, and strode toward him.

“You’re S&J, right?”

“Mace Ransom.” He drew in a sharp breath, not expecting the kick-to-the-gut attraction to the lady. Beautiful didn’t begin to describe her.

She was a job. He’d do well to remember that.

“Laurel Landry.” She stuck out a callused hand. “I’ve got two tangos on my tail. They’re locked and loaded. I lost them a few miles back, but they’ll catch up. Sooner rather than later, I’m guessing.”

“Who’s that?” he asked, gesturing toward the dog.

“Sammy. My partner.”

She had no more gotten the words out of her mouth when a high-riding pickup pulled into the parking lot. Two men climbed out. They were loaded for bear with pistol-grip Mossberg twelve-gauge shotguns at the ready. The twelve-gauge shotguns would take down a grizzly. He didn’t want to see what they could do to a man.

The bigger of the two men, who held his weapon with casual ease, pushed his way forward and addressed Mace. “No sense beatin’ round the bush. Let us have the woman and we’ll kill you fast, rather than take our time with it.” Nicotine-stained teeth flashed in what Mace supposed was the man’s version of a grin.

Mace knew the lady was waiting for his reaction. Did she expect he’d just hand her over? He widened his stance. “Not gonna happen.”

“What’s she to you?” the man challenged, shifting his grip on the twelve-gauge ever so slightly.

“None of your business. And I take it real personal when someone says they’re gonna kill me. Fast or slow.”

The one doing the talking was clearly the leader. The hard look in his eyes spoke of a lifetime of bad choices and bad company. He stank of sour sweat and cigar smoke.

Mace switched his attention to the second man.

He was twitchy and shorter by several inches than his partner, with the compact, dense muscles of a wrestler or football running back. That spelled strength, but it also might mean he didn’t move as quickly as his leaner companion.

His head swiveled back and forth, and he shuffled from one foot to the other. Clearly, he ranked far down in the Collective hierarchy. Probably brought along for backup only. Dark hair sprouted around the armholes and neck of the camouflage-colored T-shirt he wore.

The first man aimed his weapon at Mace, an obvious show of power. Mace studied the man’s hands. He’d always found that hands telegraphed a man’s intention more than did the eyes. The man’s hands were sweaty. He wasn’t as calm as he pretended. Mace saw through the cocky facade to the fissures beneath.

He could use that.

“Whoever’s paying you to do this isn’t paying you enough,” Laurel said, speaking for the first time since the men arrived.

“Yeah? What’s it to you?”

“Only that if you’re going to kill me, I’d like to know my murderer was getting a big payoff.”

He grinned, a stretch of thin lips that held no trace of humor. “We’re not gonna kill you. Just take you to some folks that’ll pay us ten grand.”

“I figure I should be worth at least fifty grand.”

Confusion crossed his partner’s face. “Fifty grand?” Outrage rimmed his words.

“It’s like I said in the first place, you’re not being paid enough. I’d take it up with your boss.”

Mace edged closer to his goal, knowing that Laurel was trying to draw the men’s attention to give him time to get in position.

The second man shot the leader an accusing glare. “You said ten grand was it.”

“Too bad,” Laurel said, a pronounced drawl creeping into her voice. “I’m sure you could get more. Maybe you ought to call this boss of yours and demand a better deal.”

“And maybe you oughta shut up,” the first man said as he cut a hard look at his partner. “She’s playing you.”

Mace angled closer to the leader.

“But fifty grand...” A whine crept into the second man’s voice. “Homer, that’s a sight of money.”

“What’d I tell you about using names? Now shut your trap and let’s get on with it. We ain’t getting nothin’ if we don’t deliver the woman.”

Mace watched as the first man shifted his grip on the shotgun once more. He was getting ready to make his move. Mace telegraphed his intention to Laurel with a small nod. Not by so much as a flicker of her eyes did she indicate that she was following his progress as he closed the distance between himself and the man.

“Now!” he shouted.