by Alex Ander
She tipped her head from side to side once and closed her menu.
He gave the server the ‘peace’ sign, “We’ll take two pieces each,” then gave up his menu.
Marci took the plastic-covered bi-folds, “Good choice,” and pivoted. “Be back in two minutes.”
Five minutes later, Jacob had finished his first slice and was a bite into his second. “So, back to our discussion,” he swallowed his food, “I agree with you. I’m picking up on a...”
Outside, a rumbling pickup truck, rock-and-roll music blasting from inside, made a left turn and parked two spaces to the left of Jacob and Stockwell’s rental.
“...on a,” Jacob zeroed in on the four men in tattered jeans and ripped t-shirts pouring out of the vehicle, “a strange vibe.”
Stockwell turned her attention toward the commotion.
The shaggy-haired, bushy-bearded ragtag band headed straight for the diner.
Both agents noticed the pistols strapped to each man’s right outer thigh.
Jacob beckoned his partner, “Get over here,” then made room for her at the table.
She stood, spun her chair ninety degrees, and sat on his ten o’clock.
The foursome pushed their way into the restaurant and stopped two feet inside the doorway.
Stockwell watched them out of the corner of her left eye. She lowered her voice. “I don’t like this, Jake.” Her right hand disappeared under the table to clench the hem of her blouse just forward of her holstered Glock.
Likewise, Jacob casually laid his right hand on his right thigh while picking out distinguishing features on the men. “If it comes to guns, I’ve got the ones with baseball hats.”
The lead man, the bill of an Atlanta Braves cap pulled down to his bushy eyebrows, scanned the folks eating, and nursing drinks.
She spied Braves, and another man wearing a hat with an AR-15 rifle emblazoned on the front, before focusing on the other men, her targets. “Copy that.”
Braves stopped panning when his eyes fell upon Jacob and Stockwell. He ambled toward their corner, AR-15 a step behind. Further back, the other two men fanned out.
His voice barely above a whisper, “We seem to have caught their attention,” Jacob took another bite of food.
Transferring more of her weight to the balls of her feet, Stockwell nibbled her slice up to the crust, dropped the inflexible dough onto her plate, and picked up her second slice. “That we have.”
Braves dragged a chair from another table, spun it around, and sat backwards at the agents’ table. “Good afternoon.” His smile showed gaps between blackened teeth. “Welcome to Mountain Lion, Georgia.”
AR-15 plopped his six-six, heavily muscled frame into a chair on Braves’ left, the chair groaning and creaking under the load.
The last two members of the posse stood guard a few paces behind their seated companions.
Braves lifted a finger toward Stockwell’s plate. “You’re not going to finish that? That’s the best part.”
She glimpsed the curved, dark brown rod. “Too hard.”
He snorted while plucking the breadstick from her plate. “A lot of women have said those exact words to me.”
The comment drew a round of laughter from AR-15 and the towering gents.
Feeling her cheeks warming, Stockwell pinched her pizza a little harder.
Jacob noticed. Calm down, Dee. They’re just words. “Is there something we can help you gentlemen with? Because we’d,” he noticed a few customers scurrying toward the door, “we’d sure like to eat our meal in peace.”
Braves bit off a length of the crust and used the rest as a pointer. “I hear you folks have been asking all over town about some kidnapped girls. You private investigators or something?”
Jacob ignored the query. “You’re really dialed in on what’s going on around here.” He gestured. “What’s with the guns? You the police?”
Braves sniggered. “Sure. We’re the police, all right.”
The men behind him let out another round of amusement.
“And, as such, we’re suggesting you stop pestering the good people of Mountain Lion with all your questions. Trust me. Aren’t any kidnapped kids in these parts.”
Jacob laid down his slice. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because,” Braves flipped the rest of the crust onto the table and stood, “we’re really...”
Jacob’s right hand inched closer to his Coonan.
Stockwell slipped fingers under her shirt and tickled her Glock’s rear sight.
“...dialed in, like you said, to what’s going on in our town.” Braves planted hands on hips and went from Jacob to Stockwell, his demeanor becoming all-business. “I suggest you two enjoy the rest of your lunch and just,” he slowly extended a flat hand toward the windows on his left, “keep on going to wherever it is you’re bound for.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, but I like it here.” Jacob gave the restaurant a quick peek, “Good food,” then glanced outside. “Quiet, too.” He confronted the male cohort in front of him. “The welcoming committee isn’t much to look at, though.”
Braves’ body stiffened, and his eyes narrowed to two slits. “Like I said,” he glimpsed Stockwell then focused on Jacob, “enjoy your food and be on your way.” A beat. “I don’t want to see you again.”
“No,” Jacob squinted at his adversary, his voice dropping to a low growl, “you don’t.”
Braves stared at Jacob.
Jacob stared back. “Stay out of my way...or things won’t end well for you.”
On his feet, AR-15 took a step forward.
Braves put the back of his hand to the man’s chest.
Ten seconds of tension.
Braves bobbed his head once. “You all have a grand day.”
The four men strode out of the diner, climbed into their truck, and left, their vehicle spewing noise pollution and rock-and-roll music.
“I guess it’s true what they say. There’s a first time for everything.” Jacob faced Stockwell and saw a quizzical expression overtaking her features. “I’ve never been run out of town before.” He grinned. “Kind of feels like we’re in an old Western, doesn’t it?”
Stockwell slid her chair back around to face Jacob. “What do you make of that little exchange?”
“Two things.” He took a swig of water. “We rattled someone’s cage, and that someone,” he gestured out the window, “tipped off those guys.”
She downed her beverage and affixed the cap. “And the second?”
“Our first assumption was right. People here are scared.”
“Of what, though?”
A voice: “Excuse me.”
In unison, Jacob and Stockwell turned their heads.
Coming up on Jacob’s seven o’clock, the man who had been sitting near the front door, working with his computer, stooped, stood, and placed a folded twenty-dollar bill on the table. “You must’ve dropped this.” He moved on.
“Thank you.”
The man shoved his computer into a backpack and left.
“Wait a minute.” Jacob frowned at the note. “This isn’t mine.” He eyed Stockwell. “Did you drop it?”
“Wasn’t me.” She shrugged. “Look on the bright side. Our meal’s paid for.” She poked her chin at him. “So, what do you think people are afraid of around here?”
He unfolded the bill. With a twist of his thumb and forefinger, he flipped the paper over.
She watched the creases in his forehead get deeper. “You still with me, Jake?”
Jacob whipped his head toward the window, leaned right, then rocked forward to see as far down the other side of the street as he could.
“What is it?”
Standing, he gave her the twenty-dollar bill, dug out his wallet, and headed for the counter. “We need to go.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 9
Factory
1:09 P.M.
4 MILES WEST OF
MOUNTAIN LION, G
EORGIA
“This could also be a trap.” Sitting in the Suburban’s passenger seat, Stockwell twisted her head left, then right, her eyes scanning the area outside. “Have you considered that possibility?”
His left hand gripping the steering wheel, Jacob squinted at the sprawling, shuttered manufacturing plant fifty yards from the SUV’s front bumper. His head had been on a swivel, too, while he had eyeballed rusted dumpsters, stacks of pallets, darkened alcoves, distant doorways, and dirtied windows. “That had crossed my mind.”
For the twentieth time, she gawked at the twenty-dollar bill, reading the message written in all caps, no punctuation. ABANDONED FACTORY 4 MILES WEST 1 PM. “I’m no handwriting expert, but this guy’s writing is very,” a tick, “precise...type ‘A’ personality precise.”
Operating on the assumption that the man who had picked up the money and placed it on their table was also the man who had written the message on the bill, Jacob had gotten directions to the factory from Marci, their server. The agents had then driven to the location.
“I noticed that, too; however, Mister Type ‘A’ is nine,” Jacob checked his watch, “now ten minutes late.”
She folded the bill and placed it in a cup holder. “Accountant? Lawyer?”
He shook his head. “He was wearing jeans, not a suit.”
Stockwell faced him. “So, accountants and lawyers can’t wear jeans?”
He smiled and gave his surroundings another visual pass. “He also had one of those shoot-me-first vests on over his t-shirt...the ones with all the pockets that concealed pistol carriers like to wear?”
She hiked a shoulder. “So? He could’ve been, in fact, concealing a weapon.”
Jacob shook his head. “The vest flared when he leaned to give me the money. I saw no firearm or spare mags. I did notice the vest’s pockets were stuffed with heavy items, though.”
She made a face. “How do you know that?”
“One hit my arm. And,” he spied the time on his watch—1:11, “the way the thing hung on him, it was obviously carrying a lot of weight.”
She smiled. “Ten bucks says he’s an accountant or a lawyer.”
Jacob confronted his partner, “I say photographer,” before half closing an eye and tipping his head, “or a journalist.” He squared shoulders with her. “Let’s say we make this more interesting. The loser cooks a homemade dinner for two. And I’m,” he shook his head, “not talking about anything from a box, either. I mean from scratch...dirty-pots-and-pans-overflowing-in-the-sink homemade.”
Stockwell gritted her teeth.
Knowing how much she hated cooking, he grinned at the muscles in her face growing taut. “How confident are you now, sister?”
“Don’t you worry about me.” She wagged a finger in his direction. “You just start picking out your favorite apron. And, so you know,” she paused, “I like my sirloin steak with a,” she lifted her hand, her thumb and forefinger a sixteenth of an inch apart, “thin line of pink in the middle and drizzled with garlic butter.”
His shoulder bounced once. “You can have it any way you want...since you’ll be the one cooking it.”
She laughed. “I’ll remember to whisper that in your ear when I wrap my arms around you from behind to tie your apron strings.”
Looking away, he pictured the close-contact scene she had painted before he regarded her again. “Well, now you have me hoping I’ll lose this wager.” A pulse. “Not that that’s going to happen, of course.”
Shaking her head, Stockwell opened her door. “Let’s have a look around. Maybe our,” beaming, she gave him a playful shove, “accountant...has been waiting for us on the other side of the building all this time.”
They stepped out of the Chevrolet and headed for the factory.
A gunshot shattered the countryside’s calm.
“Get down!” Jacob tackled Stockwell.
She landed on her back.
He draped his six-two body over her.
A hissing sound came from Jacob’s three o’clock.
A second shot.
The SUV’s right-front tire flattened.
“Second story.” Stockwell bench pressed her protector and rolled to hands and knees. “Third window from the right.”
“I saw the flash.” He hopped to his feet, drew his Coonan, and grabbed her right elbow. “Move.”
They ran to the back of the Suburban and darted behind the cover.
“Let go of me. I—” Stockwell tugged once before wrenching her arm free of his hold and drawing her Glock, “I can’t get to my gun.”
“Sorry...first priority is to get you to safety.”
Spinning clockwise, she turned on him, her eyes blazing.
Recognizing the expression, one he had seen on a previous assignment with her, he backtracked. “Us...first priority is for us to get to safety.”
She shook her head, pivoted away from him, and peeped out from behind the left-rear corner of the Chevy. “No ‘joy’ on the shooter.”
Jacob risked a peek over the top of the vehicle before squatting again. “Me neither.” He pulled on a handle. “Watch yourself.”
Stockwell ducked under the rising tailgate. “What are you doing?”
“No one uses us for target practice. Get in.”
They clambered over the Pelican Storm Cases and into the rear seat.
“Stay down and watch for tangos. I’ll,” Jacob slithered between the front seats, dropped behind the wheel, and started the engine, “get us closer.”
She rolled down the left-rear window while spying steam billowing out from under the hood. “Jake, this ride’s crippled.”
“It can at least...” he ran the gearshift to ‘drive’ and stomped on the accelerator.
Tires tossed gravel.
The behemoth fishtailed right before straightening.
“...get us out of this killing field.” Jerking the wheel back and forth to compensate for the blown front tire, Jacob pulled the disabled transportation alongside the structure’s main doors. “Get to that alcove.”
Stockwell scrambled out of the backseat, bolted for the recess he had pointed at, and slammed her back against the far side.
He met her there two seconds later and pressed his back to the opposite side of the enclosure.
She grabbed a couple breaths. “Do we breach?”
The building to his left, he shook his head, “No,” leaned right, and tossed a quick look beyond her left shoulder and back behind his right shoulder. “He’ll need to come down to escape. When he does, we’ll be waiting.” He gestured toward the chain and padlock on the doors to his left. “This exit’s secure. Come on.” He bypassed her, jogged to the corner of the building, and touched his left shoulder to the shop’s exterior.
Stockwell stopped two feet from him, her weapon at a downward forty-five, and angled off to her right.
He stuck out his head and quickly pulled back. “It’s clear. Stay on my six and watch our rear and right flanks.”
“Copy.”
He peeled around the corner, thrust out his 357 Magnum straight ahead of him, and fast walked in a low crouch parallel to the brick wall on his ‘nine.’
Raising her Glock and alternating her aim between the trees and brush on her starboard side and the direction from which she and Jacob had come, Stockwell moved like the dancer she had once hoped to become. Taking care not to cross her feet, the FBI agent took turns sidestepping and backpedaling while following her team leader.
A motor started, rumbled, and revved higher.
Tiny objects pinged off metal.
Jacob heard the noise. Tires...gravel. He picked up his pace. “Double-time, Stockwell.”
She quickened her choreography, performing the ‘covering dance’ as fast as she dared.
Halting at the next corner and listing to his right in time to spot brake lights up ahead, he hefted his 1911 and got off two snapshots.
The brake lights disappeared behind a thick stand of trees.
“Talk to me, Jake.”
His gun up, he panned the area twice, stood tall, and let his Coonan hang loosely by his side. “They got away. We’re clear.”
Not convinced of their safety, she lowered her nine-millimeter to a low-ready position and kept her eyes trained on her areas of responsibility while throwing her words over her left shoulder. “What did you see?”
“I,” he rubbed his chin, “I think it might’ve been the same pickup truck from earlier.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but,” he faltered, “the noisy muffler sure sounded familiar.” A beat. “Come on.” He raised his pistol again. “Let’s search that second-story location where we saw the muzzle flash.” He crept forward. “Maybe they were sloppy...and left behind something that might help us identify them.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 10
Come See Me
3:03 P.M.
Miranda raised her right fist to the door and froze in place while her gaze dipped. In the next instant, she swallowed, wet her dry lips, and knocked on the solid panel.
“Enter.”
She slunk into the room and took in the space—subdued lighting, plush brown carpeting, wood-paneled walls, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the left wall, fireplace on the far wall, mounted animal heads above the fireplace mantel.
“Ah, Miranda.” Seated at a desk in front of the fireplace, Hendricks stood and ambled to the other side of his workspace. “Please,” he motioned, “come here.”
Her eyes shifting, her mind processing the rest of the den—couch on the right, floor lamps emitting a yellowish glow, bearskin rug under Hendricks’ feet—she walked up to the bear’s snout and stopped to stare at the dead animal’s black eyes.
Rocking back and forth on his feet, his hands clasped behind his back, the over-fifty man smiled from underneath a thick, gray mustache and displayed whiter-than-usual teeth for someone half a century old.
Miranda shot him a look—weathered, tanned skin, receding hairline, wide nose—before gawking at the deceased beast again. She caught a whiff of aftershave. Dad had something like that. Her mind drifted. Mom. Dad.