Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5)

by Dustin Stevens

  But that would never do for someone like Ronell. If he was going to get where he wanted, if the S-2 would ever achieve all he envisioned, it had to start by pressing forward whenever the opportunity arose.

  And this was an opportunity.

  He knew it. Big Man would soon know it. Whatever higher-ups there were would soon know it.

  He just had to get through the next few minutes first.

  “Call her out,” Big Man muttered. “Let’s see what you found.”

  Without turning around, Ronell bent at the waist. Using his left hand, he knocked twice on the hood of the car before raising the same hand and giving a waving motion.

  An instant later, the sound of a car door opening carried forward, drawing Big Man and his cohort’s attention to the side. Leaving Ronell where he stood, they circled around the side of the car, neither saying a word.

  Waiting until they were by, Ronell slowly turned, seeing the girl standing alone beside her seat in the back of the Honda, Jamal and Joey both remaining inside. Her hands clasped, she trembled slightly, her eyes still covered, blonde hair extended out below the bottom of the tie around her face.

  Saying nothing, Big Man left his partner by the driver’s door. Taking slow, exaggerated steps, he made a complete revolution of the girl, the narrow confines of the space barely able to accommodate his enormous size.

  Looming over her, the girl looked ridiculously tiny, like she could be picked up and tossed across the room for fun.

  “What’s your name?” Big Man asked, a bit of extra bass in his voice.

  “Uh,” the girl began, her lips parting slightly, as if surprised at being addressed directly, “Elyse.”

  “Elyse what?”

  “Denman.”

  As she spoke, Peanut scribbled down the name, adding it to his clipboard.

  “How old are you?” Big Man asked.

  “Nineteen.”

  A smirk pulled back a corner of Big Man’s mouth as he leaned in close, his face just inches from her ear. “How old are you really?”

  Recoiling slightly, she replied, “Sixteen.”

  Flicking his gaze up to his colleague, Big Man made a face that Ronell couldn’t quite decipher. Equal parts uncertain and intrigued, he drew himself away from her, resuming his full height. For a moment, it looked like he might continue the inspection, fire off more questions, but nothing more crossed his lips.

  Instead, he left her rooted in place, circling around behind her and coming back up along the side wall. As he passed the driver’s side door, his cohort turned and followed him, returning the clipboard to his side.

  “Keep your phone on,” Big Man said, reaching for the door. “We’ll be in touch.”

  A moment later, they were both gone, leaving Ronell and the girl both standing alongside the car in their wake.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The video feed from the camera in the garage had been recorded and sent to the computer in John Kuntzman’s office. Reclined in his rolling office chair, he had sat with the heels of his boots propped up on the corner of the mahogany desk. Crossed at the ankles, his legs had made the perfect surface for his lunch tray, a plate of hot chicken and biscuits spread across it.

  On the desk by his side sat a bottle of Amber Bock Ale, beer the only proper beverage for diminishing the effects of the inferno-level hot sauce covering his chicken.

  Alternating his attention between his meal and the interaction on screen, he had paused only briefly at the first sighting of the girl, taking in her look for a moment before returning his attention to his food.

  A man had priorities, regardless how much money the new guy in town was willing to pay.

  For most of the previous fourteen hours, the meeting Kuntzman attended the night before sat at the forefront of his thoughts. Alternating between excitement at the amount of money promised and annoyance at the general demeanor of Asai, his thoughts now rested somewhere in the middle, on the request itself.

  Doing what he did for a living was not a career path to be followed. There was no mention of it in the Occupational Outlook Handbook when he was in high school, no formal training that he was aware of at any college in the country.

  Mostly, it had come to be through a confluence of luck and timing, one thing leading to another until eventually he had ascended to where he now was.

  Still, even in all that time, through all the random trials and travails that came with it, not once had he fielded a request like the one the night before.

  Even as he put together the details and pushed it out to the various suppliers in the city, following the same protocol he always did when a new request came in, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Had no clue if he actually wanted a response to come back.

  Damned sure hadn’t expected one in just a few hours.

  In the wake of the short silent movie, Kuntzman had finished his meal before setting the tray and empty bottle to the side. Lowering his feet to the floor, he rolled himself up flush to the front edge of the desk, pushing aside the blank video window and scrolling through the written report that had accompanied it.

  Coming from most, such information wouldn’t have been possible.

  Considering the source on this one, it wasn’t a surprise.

  The first page of the report was about the girl herself. Sixteen years old, she was one of the youngest in the junior class at Wilson High School, not far from Mt. Juliet in the eastern suburbs. A decent enough student, she carried a 3.3 GPA and was involved in a couple of low-end extracurriculars.

  Concert band. Key Club. Things of that nature.

  Definitely not an athlete, or a cheerleader, or anything that would make her too readily noticeable in the community.

  At sixteen, she was a touch on the young end for Kuntzman’s own tastes, but he knew there was no shortage of people that wouldn’t see that as a deterrent in the slightest. Especially not give her blonde hair and smooth complexion, the girl looking like she sprang from a package of Swiss Miss Cocoa, a Hummel figurine come to life.

  People would eat it up, no doubt.

  Guys like those Asai had mentioned the night before, his open-ended statements hinting as much without being overt.

  Next up was information on the family. The girl’s father was named Josh, owner and operator of a pair of coffee shops in Mt. Juliet. Each was doing well, bringing in a net profit of $120,000 per year, most of which he claimed on his taxes. A tidy income, but far from a heavy hitter.

  Her mother was named Amber Denman, a freelance interior decorator that made just over thirty grand each year, putting the family squarely in the upper-middle class demographic. The three-bedroom home they were halfway through a twenty-year mortgage on proved that. As did the SUV and BMW they drove.

  Neither had ever run for office. No extended search turned up anybody in their family that was well-known, well-financed, or well-connected.

  A younger brother, Eric, turned up even less remarkable than the girl herself.

  Pushing aside the report spread across his screen, Kuntzman reached out, picking up the phone. Dialing from memory, he did something he truly despised and pressed it to his face, knowing better than to put it over the speaker.

  Not that he was worried about neighbors overhearing a word, the office nestled into an empty floor of a downtown high-rise, but one could never be too careful.

  Especially not in his line of work.

  “Yeah,” Big Man answered.

  The arrangement between Kuntzman and the S-2 was loose. In the last couple of years, the two had only worked together a handful of times, each successful enough to keep terms between them solid.

  Enough so, anyway, that when Kuntzman first sent out the request, Big Man had been on the shortlist. The one that included proven commodities, not just those chasing dollar signs.

  “What’d you think?” he asked.

  Despite their occasional business dealings, the two were not friends. There was no reason to even pretend as much.

&
nbsp; Letting out a long sigh, Big Man began to speak, his voice detached, as if bored. “Scared to death. Trembled like a leaf the entire time, especially when I got close to her.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Kuntzman opted against commenting that that would be the common response for most people standing under someone with his enormous size.

  “Otherwise, got that classic All-American thing down to a T. Blonde hair, tanned skin, couldn’t see her eyes but I’d bet they were blue.”

  “Virginity?” Kuntzman pressed.

  “Didn’t ask,” Big Man said, a hint of distaste creeping into his tone, “but I wouldn’t be surprised. She was dressed in the latest style, but didn’t have the self-confidence of a hooch.”

  The hinges on Kuntzman’s chair squeaked slightly as he leaned back. Propping an elbow on the front edge of his desk, he kept the phone tight to his cheek, processing what had been shared.

  Asai hadn’t used the phrase All-American, but it was the first thing that had popped into his head the night before. If he could also package that with the promise of her being chaste, they might have struck gold already.

  “Fighter?” Kuntzman asked.

  A derisive snort was the immediate response. “Uh, no. Not with the pussies that nabbed her. If she was, she’d already be free.”

  The comment pushed them straight on to the next question Kuntzman had cued up to ask. “I take it that means there won’t be a problem with the supplier?”

  “He’s not a supplier,” Big Man replied. “Hell, kid was still out on his initiation run.”

  Feeling his head rock back an inch, Kuntzman asked, “Initiative or sloppy?”

  “Not sure,” Big Man replied. “And it’s unlikely I’ll ever get a straight answer on it.”

  “Right,” Kuntzman agreed, hiding whatever concern he might have.

  Initiative would be fine. Crime of opportunity or not, if it hadn’t raised suspicion at all, they could move forward as expected.

  If it was sloppy, people could have seen something. In today’s digital world, it was far easier than most people realized to end up on tape, almost everybody having video and recording capability.

  That was an eventuality he couldn’t begin to condone. That much Asai had been painfully clear about.

  All of that, Kuntzman let go without comment, not wanting to push further, not needing to insult the man in any way. The two, despite their myriad differences, worked reasonably well together.

  The key reason for that was both recognized their own strengths and – more importantly – limitations.

  Trying to tell Big Man how to do things was definitely a limitation Kuntzman was not willing to overstep.

  “So what do you think?” Big man asked. “She what you’re looking for?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Kuntzman replied. “New buyer, very discerning. I’m going to send him over this tape, let him take a look. Should have an answer for you by tonight.”

  Big Man grunted in reply. “You trust the guy?”

  “Like I said, he’s new,” Kuntzman replied. “But, yeah. He had us out to his house last night, asked us for something pretty unusual. I’d say he’s on the level, wouldn’t you?”

  Again, Big Man grunted. “Just asking. My face is on that tape, is all.”

  Understanding the worry, Kuntzman nodded, even though he knew he couldn’t be seen. “You’re good there. We’ve all got each other by the short hair there. Anybody tries something, we all go down.”

  Kuntzman knew it probably wasn’t exactly what Big Man wanted to hear, but in their line of work, it was often the closest they would ever get.

  “Where is she now?” he asked.

  “They’re still holding her. I told them we’d be in touch, figured I should talk to you before I took custody.”

  Which made sense. If he didn’t want her, she would likely be killed or cut loose. In neither event would Big Man want his fingerprints anywhere near her, maintaining complete plausible deniability.

  “Can you hold her until tomorrow?” Kuntzman asked. “Once I hear back, I’ll arrange transport from there.”

  “You got it.”

  “Same finder’s fee upon pickup? Plus an additional slice from the asking price for such short notice?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Leaving things at that, Kuntzman cut the line. He returned the phone to its cradle and returned his focus to the screen, staring at the image of Elyse Denman standing in the holding stall at S-2 headquarters.

  “A blonde virgin. You are going to make someone very happy,” he whispered, a thin smile coming to his face. “And me a shitload of money.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The sum total of everything I know about Nashville can be summed up by the words country music. Growing up around the nation’s capital, I was familiar with it the same way I was familiar with most major cities. New Orleans had Mardi Gras. Detroit was Motown. St. Louis was the Arch. I’d never been to any of those places, but certain things are just emblematic in America.

  In the time since, I’ve been everywhere, but seen nothing. Navy transport has carried me all over the world, but we weren’t exactly sightseeing. Same for my time in the DEA.

  I’ve put boots down in every single country in Central and South America, but it’s not like I’ve ever been to Machu Picchu or Chechen Itza.

  Which means for as much as things have changed in the last decades, most of my initial impressions remain.

  Meaning, I know Nashville has country music. I now also know there is no direct flight from Bozeman to Nashville, having had to route through Denver and then on across. Flying on some airline named Frontier, I was treated to extra narrow seats and no free beverage service, staring out the window, trying to formulate how the next days or more was going to play out.

  A planning session that came up with a lot of questions, but unfortunately very few answers.

  I have no problem with country music. Living in Montana, it seems to be the desired background noise for most establishments, and by and large, I get by just fine with it.

  But that doesn’t help me much right now. Of even greater concern are the facts that outside of Amber and her family, I know nobody in the city. Because I booked last minute, I didn’t have time to go through the endless paperwork of checking a gun, meaning I don’t have a weapon.

  And I have zero familiarity with any of the groups working in or around the city, who they might be or what they might want with my niece.

  With that cluster of grim realizations swirling through my mind, I turned east out of the Nashville International Airport in a rented SUV. Using the GPS mounted to the dash, I let it direct me away from the city, taking me no more than a handful of miles before directing me off the freeway.

  Given the time of connecting flights and the loss of an hour due to the time change, the clock on the dash said it was pushing nine as I wound my way toward my destination. Outside, the neon allure of fast food and diners called from every corner, though I ignored the hunger I felt, focused solely on getting to Amber as quick as I could.

  Already, I was nearly a full day behind. What that could mean for Elyse, I didn’t want to speculate on just yet.

  “Your destination is a quarter-mile ahead on the right,” the automated voice of the GPS spouted. Whoever had used it last must have thought it funny to turn the volume up to full blast, the sound just shy of a jet engine. My eyes folded up into a wince as I shot out a hand, cutting it off just as she was about to tell me I would arrive in one minute.

  Not that I needed her to let me know that.

  The place they were keeping Eric was known as the Summit Medical Center, a monolith that reminded me of a Las Vegas casino as I pulled up before it. More than a dozen stories tall, the place was fully lit for the night, neon signage announcing its presence to people driving by on the freeway.

  Out front, a parking lot large enough for an NFL game was almost filled, the place what I would guess to be the latest in the recent for-prof
it hospital craze.

  Pulling in, I sat and stared up at it for a full minute, contemplating how to best approach, before deciding against even trying.

  Instead, I pulled my phone over onto my lap and punched in: Parked out front. Come down when ready.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Until early this morning, it had been six years since I’d said a word to my sister-in-law. More than half a decade since I stood in the center of the shitty motel room I had holed myself up in with the phone pressed to my ear. Since I had heard her berate me, call me every name imaginable and wish me harms that were worse than anything ever conjured by some of the cartel leaders I had encountered in the course of my work.

  And because I had just buried my wife and daughter, was fighting a minute-to-minute battle about whether or not I was going to join them, I made myself stand there and take it.

  Deep down, I even believed I deserved it – and so much more – practically hoping that she would continue.

  Prior to that, it had been two years more since I’d actually seen her in person. With our living in the Southwest, just miles from the border, and my crazy work schedule, I wasn’t often around whenever the family got together. Sure as hell didn’t make it a point to fly back on the few free days I did get to see them.

  All told, more than eight years had passed since I last set eyes on Amber Denman, but I recognized her the instant she walked out the front door.

  Largely because she was the spitting image of what my wife would look like if she was still with us today.

  Feeling a weight press tight on my chest, I stared for a moment, watching as she pushed through the side entrance and stepped out, casting her gaze in either direction. Compact of build, she moved with an efficiency that didn’t allow a single wasted movement. Her steps were short and to-the-point. Her hands never swung further than a few inches to the front or back of her hips.

  A slight puff of breeze pushed the honey blonde hair from her neck.

  Pulling in a large draw of air, I held it for several seconds, letting the initial shock of seeing her again pass. Exhaling slowly, I reminded myself of the things she had said on the phone that day, of the fact that she was reaching out because she needed help, not because she had any interest in seeing me.