Hard Road to Redemption

by Alex Ander

  “You’ll be sixteen tomorrow.” Hendricks paced to his right. “A big day. You’ll become a full member of our community.” He spun and paced the other way. “I’ve kept my eye on you ever since you came to us a few years ago.”

  Miranda clenched her teeth. Since you bastards took me, you mean.

  “You’ve always been quick to look out for the other children, especially the younger ones. You’ve made their,” he paused, “transitional period here much more enjoyable.” He did a one-eighty and retraced his steps. Stopping a few footfalls later, he cranked his head toward the teen.

  She looked away.

  He smiled. “You needn’t be afraid, child. Like a good shepherd, I care for, I love all in my flock.” He pivoted his six-foot frame toward her. “You should know I’ve received requests from a number of eligible suitors for you.”

  Miranda’s stomach muscles contracted.

  “Normally, I make the final decision; however,” he jabbed a finger at her, “you’re a special young lady. And, as such, I wanted you to have a say in deciding on the man with whom you will be joined.”

  She bit her lower lip.

  Hendricks cocked his head and admired the five-six, lanky girl who had flourished over the years in all the physical areas teenage girls usually did. She’s practically a woman. His eyes went down and up her figure. “I’d like you to come see me tomorrow night.”

  Miranda’s heart rate jumped. Her knees went rubbery.

  “Until then...” Hendricks smiled and motioned toward the door.

  She spun and fast walked for the first few steps, Slow down, before controlling her pace. Don’t let them see fear.

  *******

  Miranda crossed the compound with long and determined strides. She stared straight ahead, but noticed several men in her peripheral vision, all of them rubbernecking her. Hendricks’ words: I’ve received requests from a number of eligible suitors for you. Her insides quaking, she neared her cabin. Keep it together. You’re almost there. Don’t let them see... she burst through the front door and rushed toward her room.

  Chrissy stood. “Miranda. What’s wr—”

  Miranda stormed into her bedroom, slammed the door, and closed a curtain, hiding her from the outside world. Folding hands over her nose and mouth, I’d like you to come see me tomorrow night, she made several passes by the foot of her bed.

  A knock.

  She shot a look at the door.

  “Miranda? Are you okay?”

  “Not,” Miranda’s voice cracked, “not now, Chris—Emma. I’m,” as he had done with every new girl, Hendricks had given Chrissy a new name, Emma, “I’m,” Miranda pumped hands toward the voice, “just leave me alone, Emma.”

  Ten back-and-forth trips later, Miranda dropped to her knees near the bed’s headboard, slid fingers between the mattress and bed rail, and withdrew an object from one of several hiding places in the cabin. Resting elbows on the bedspread, she leaned forward and pressed down on the object with her forefinger.

  The blade on the stiletto flipped open.

  His words played over and over in her mind while she stared at the knife...come see me tomorrow night. I’d like you to come see me tomorrow night...I’d like you to...

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 11

  You’re in Luck

  5:17 P.M.

  MOUNTAIN LION, GEORGIA

  Seated on a couch, Jacob studied the image of a chessboard Higs had sent via text message. Ever since the two men had discovered the common interest, they always had a game going. Jacob thumbed out his move—rook a4 to a8 check—and tapped ‘send.’

  Light snoring.

  He dipped his chin.

  Her head on his right thigh, palms on her stomach, ankles crossed, Stockwell lay spread out, napping.

  Jacob half grinned and set his phone on a nearby Pelican Storm Case. Supporting her head, he eased his leg out from under her while letting a pillow take his place. After pecking her forehead, he meandered to the window, pushed aside a curtain, and looked down at the town of Mountain Lion.

  Following the incident at the manufacturing plant, with the Suburban’s air conditioning out of commission, Jacob and Stockwell had waited ninety minutes in ninety-degree heat and high humidity for a tow truck to arrive.

  “Fair warning.” Bent over, hands on knees, her skin glistening, she had looked up at him and said, “five more minutes of this, and I’m stripping down to bra and panties.”

  Smiling, he had replied, “You’ll get no pushback from me.” Moments later, his spirits were dashed when the wrecker came into view. I can’t seem to catch a break, today.

  After fifteen minutes of connecting chains and operating machinery, the owner of Dan’s Wrecker Service had the disabled Chevy up in the air and ready to roll.

  On the way back to town, Dan, the jovial, overweight, bald man at the wheel had called Paw Prints Diner to speak with Marci, the server who had waited on Jacob and Stockwell.

  “You’re in luck,” Dan had said while glimpsing his passengers. “The couple renting the room checked out before noon. Marci will have it ready for you by the time we get back.”

  Once the Pelican Storm Cases had been lugged up to the cozy, minimalist room above the restaurant, Stockwell and Jacob had taken turns showering before staking out spots on the sofa.

  He had sat on one end—the bathroom on his left, the bed behind him, the room’s only window straight ahead and facing Main Street.

  She had assumed her current position—spread out on his three o’clock and using her man as a pillow.

  Both had then conducted a makeshift after-action report of the day’s events before dozing off. Half an hour later, Jacob had awakened first.

  He peeled back the other half of the drapes to spy on the rest of Main Street.

  Yawning and groaning.

  He cast a backward glance to see a sitting Stockwell rubbing her eyes, her bare feet on the carpet, her elbows on knees. His gaze dropped to the deep cleavage showing between her forearms and above the swooping neckline on her lavender tank top.

  “What,” she yawned, “time did he say the car would be ready?”

  Dan had told them he could have the radiator fixed, and the tire changed, in a couple hours, but he would have to order the parts for the A/C.

  Jacob had replied, “We can live without air. Just get us on the road again as fast as you can.”

  Jacob spied his watch and went back to peering out the window. “We have another forty-five minutes.”

  Stockwell stood, stretched arms, did a couple side bends, and touched her toes. “I can’t remember. Did we finish our conversation about the guy who gave us the twenty? Do we think he set us up or what?”

  “Well, that’s going to be my first question for him when I,” he turned away from the window to see her bent over at the waist, palms flat to the carpet, long hair tickling her fingers, her shirt sliding up her back and exposing her deep purple underwear, “get my hands,” he faltered, “around...his neck.”

  “Just remember. I want a piece of that, too.”

  He crossed forearms over his chest, leaned back against the windowpane, and admired her form, his mental voice stealing her last sentence and reiterating the words as his own.

  She righted herself and exhaled before weaving fingers through her hair while eyeing him. “What’s up with you?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, nothing.”

  Her head lolling to one side, she planted hands on hips and shifted her weight to one foot. “I know that look, Jake. It usually precedes one of your straight-faced innuendos.”

  His amusement faded when a moment from earlier in the day invaded his thoughts.

  “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. />
  “Look,” Jacob’s focus fell to the floor, “about earlier...when I took you by the arm and pushed you behind our car,” he sighed and met her gaze, “I didn’t mean anything by what I said. You know I respect you for the talented professional that you are, right?”

  After regarding him for several moments, she padded across the carpet, curved arms around his waist, interlaced her fingers behind his back, and tipped her head to see him. “I know you do. We’ve been over this and,” she fell in love with his silver eyes for the thousandth time, “and I’ve come to realize that that’s just who you are, Jake. Your first instinct is to protect others.”

  He cupped her smooth shoulders.

  “I’m not mad at you now...and I wasn’t mad at you then.” She chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I think I was ticked off that the bullets were flying, and I couldn’t reach my weapon fast enough.”

  He snickered.

  Stockwell laid hands on his chest and kissed him. “I feel blessed to have you, Mr. St. Christopher.” She recoiled in the next heartbeat. “Did I just say blessed?” She turned her head then came back to him. “Maybe all this praying we’ve been doing,” she tilted her head to the right, pushed the curtain further apart, and squinted at the street below, “is taking,” she wavered, “root.”

  He noticed her demeanor turn stoic.

  She pointed while dipping her forehead. “Isn’t that...”

  He twisted his upper body ninety degrees counterclockwise. “What is it? What do you—” he saw what she had spotted. Son-of-a-pup. “Get dressed. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 12

  Feminine Wiles

  5:27 P.M.

  Designed in the shape of a squared-off horseshoe, the open part facing Main Street, Mountain Lion’s only motel was set back from traffic and had a center courtyard filled with trees, shrubs, and plants, giving guests some privacy from passersby.

  Fast walking down the right side of the ‘horseshoe,’ under a long, green-and-white-striped outdoor awning, Stockwell slipped on dark sunglasses, undid her ponytail, arranged her long hair over her chest, and moved a few locks to cover more of her face. “How’s this?”

  Jacob glimpsed her, “You’re a totally different woman,” before going back to glancing at numbers on metal doors painted green. A half step in the lead, he rotated his upper body clockwise, toward her, and raised a finger in her direction. “Make sure you use your sexy voice. And when he...”

  “I didn’t know I had a sexy voice.”

  “...opens the—” Jacob arched eyebrows at her, his mind hearing her deeper-than-normal pitch for a woman. “Seriously? You have the sexiest voice of any woman I have ever known. Now...”

  She beamed.

  “...when he opens the door—” Jacob stopped, “Forgive me,” and gently pushed her breasts upward before pulling down on her tank top’s neckline.

  Her smile disappearing, she spread her arms wide. “So, this is what our relationship has come to? You’re pimping me out?”

  “Hey, I had to show the manager back there,” he slid one of her garment’s straps an inch down over her shoulder, “a little leg...to get her to give up a room number. Now it’s your turn to use your...”

  “Oh, please. All you did was...”

  “...feminine wiles.”

  “...flash your pearly whites.” Stockwell huffed. “There was...”

  The door on her three o’clock opened.

  “...no leg involved.”

  They turned their attention toward a blonde-haired woman in her mid-thirties wearing a white blouse, short red skirt, and matching high heels.

  Jacob nodded at her. “Ma’am.”

  The woman peeked at his breast-filled hands and gave the couple a quick back-and-forth. “Don’t let me interrupt.” Shutting the door, she slung her red purse and squeezed by them while tossing Stockwell a ‘lucky you’ smirk.

  The FBI agent cranked her head toward the parking lot, toward the woman heading for her car. “It’s not what it looks like.” She faced her fellow agent. “And why is it I’m the one doing all the work while you,” she gestured toward her chest, “get to have all the fun?”

  “I assure you, Special Agent Stockwell.” His features deadpan, his tone businesslike, Jacob primped her. “I take no pleasure in this.”

  “Look me in the eye and say that, Mister St. Christopher.”

  He stepped back and flashed two upturned thumbs at his work. “Perfect.” Whirling around, “Let’s go,” he took off and resumed his search for room eleven.

  “Yeah,” she half smiled at the back of his head, “that’s what I thought,” before falling in line behind him.

  “As I was saying, once you get him to open the door, back away. I’ll take it from there.” Spotting the target room, he passed by it, spun around, and scanned the area.

  Stockwell stopped in front of the door.

  He looked at her and held up a finger while eyeing the well-dressed woman from earlier.

  Sitting in her car, she pulled down the visor, turned her head left and right, and patted her lips together. After dropping a small tube into her purse, she flipped up the visor, started the car, backed out of the space, and sped away.

  Jacob rotated his finger toward his partner.

  She put her left hand on her hip and rapped on the door.

  From inside the room, a man’s voice: “Who is it?”

  “It’s,” hearing Jacob in her head, Make sure you use your sexy voice, she cleared her throat. “It’s the,” she paused, “entertainment you ordered.”

  Five seconds.

  “I didn’t order anything.”

  “Look, I was told to go to room eleven and collect fifty bucks for some action.”

  Jacob threw glances in all directions. Come on, buddy. Just open up the...

  “If you don’t want the action, that’s fine with me. But if you don’t—”

  “You’ve got the wrong room. Go away.”

  “If you don’t pay up, my boss isn’t going to be happy with you. And I think you know what that means.”

  “I’m telling you. I...”

  Door locks turned.

  “...never ordered...”

  The door opened.

  “...any entertai—”

  Drawing his Coonan, Jacob slapped his left forearm across the man’s chest, grabbed a handful of clothing, and drove him further into the room.

  “Hey...”

  Stockwell followed.

  “...what’s—”

  He touched the muzzle of the 357 Magnum to the tip of the man’s nose. “Scream, you die.”

  Casting a glance outside and not seeing anyone, she slammed the door and threw the deadbolt.

  Jacob forced the tenant backward.

  The man backpedaled until his knees hit the bed, and he fell onto the mattress. Looking up, he screwed up his face. “It’s you...from the di—”

  Jacob clutched the man’s shoulder and flipped him onto his belly. “Cuffs.”

  Stockwell underhanded her handcuffs to him.

  He caught them. “Cover him.”

  She sidestepped right, to the foot of the bed, and pointed her Glock at the prone man’s head. “Got him.”

  He holstered his gun, yanked the man’s hands down to the small of his back, ratcheted the steel manacles onto his wrists, and stood.

  “Why are you two doing this to me? I did nothing wrong.”

  Jacob rolled the man from the diner over, grasped Diner Man’s polo shirt, and pressed his fists up under the soft, fleshy part of the man’s chin.

  “Ow!”

  “You set us up. Why?”

  “No, I—” he gulped, “you’re...hurting...me.”

  Jacob pushed harder. “Getting shot at hurts, too.”

  “That,” the man gurgled out, “wasn’t,” he swallowed, “me.”

  “Bull! You gave us the twenty-dollar bill with the message written on it.
Only you,” Jacob forced the man’s chin further upward, “knew we would be at that plant.”

  “No. I left,” Diner Man struggled for a breath, “when...the...shooting,” his chest heaved, “started. I...swear.”

  Stockwell laid a firm hand on her partner’s swollen bicep.

  He faced her and saw thin lips and down-turned brows.

  She shook her head once. “He can’t help us if he can’t talk to us.”

  Jacob turned back to the gasping man, stared at him for two beats, released his hold, and stood straight.

  His upper body rocking forward, Diner Man coughed.

  Jacob turned away and ran hands through his hair.

  Stockwell holstered her pistol and helped the detainee into a sitting position against the bed’s headboard. “Let’s start with an easy one. What’s your name?”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 13

  Freelance

  5:32 P.M.

  “Dexter Childress. I’m a—” his back still against the bed’s headboard, Childress hacked for five seconds straight before filling his lungs and exhaling. “I’m a freelance investigative reporter.”

  “What’s a journalist doing in a rinky-dink town like Mountain Lion?”

  Childress confronted Jacob. “I am not a journalist. I’m an investigative reporter.”

  On Childress’ two o’clock, his weight transferred to one foot, his fingers stuffed into back pockets, Jacob shrugged. “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Is a security guard the same thing as a cop? Are police officers the same as,” his gaze went from Jacob to Stockwell before he jutted out his chin, “federal agents?”

  Jacob exchanged a look with his partner before coming back to Childress. “You think we’re federal agents?”

  “I know you are.”

  Standing at the foot of the bed, Stockwell crossed arms over her chest. “What makes you so sure?”

  Childress glimpsed his boxer shorts. “You think you could toss me a blanket or something? I’m feeling a little exposed here?”

  She peeked at his pasty legs and knobby kneecaps before her gaze went back to his long face and three days of black, patchy stubble covering his cheeks and chin. “Lucky for you, I’m in a committed relationship. Now...”