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

by Dustin Stevens

  Along each of the curbs were small beds with white gravel, trimmed shrubs planted in even intervals.

  Nowhere was there a car to be seen. Not a single drop of paint beyond the plain white was on the building. The sidewalks were all swept bare.

  If forced to guess, I’d say this was a handling facility for UPS or FedEx, the sole items missing being logos plastered to everything.

  The only thing that even hinted that something more might be afoot was the cameras mounted on every corner, plain black models, easily seen from the street.

  Sitting behind the wheel of the SUV, I allowed myself a single revolution around the place before making a left away from it. As I went, I glanced repeatedly into the rearview, wanting so badly to go back and do more scouting, but knowing nothing good could come of it.

  Making it no more than a couple of blocks, I eased to the side of the road. I glanced again at the mirror, making sure I was beyond the sightline of the warehouse, before sliding the phone back onto my knee.

  I needed more information. I needed to ensure that the place was what Bernstein said it was, not just some random spot he’d thrown out there to get me out of the house and try to buy himself some time.

  Considering the state he was in when he divulged the information, I couldn’t imagine such a thing, but it wouldn’t be completely out of the question.

  Pulling my call log up on the screen, I scrolled to the listing for Pally, intent to call him back and have him start digging on ownership records, when a flash of movement outside caught my eye. Lifting my gaze from the phone, I extended a hand toward the bat, feeling my heartbeat rise, before recognition set in.

  Across the street, a man in black slacks and a matching shirt walked forward. In his hand was a briefcase. Around his neck was a cleric collar.

  Paying me no mind, he crossed the street, moving intently for the small building on the corner. Like a smaller version of the place I’d just been past, it was a single story and made of concrete.

  Unlike it, the outside was tagged with green and white paint, standard practice for an organization marking their territory.

  How I had I missed it upon pulling up I wasn’t certain, silently cursing myself for the oversight.

  Slowly, my breathing evened out as I watched him walk up to the front door and extract a wad of keys. His briefcase still in hand, he flipped to the one he needed and entered. A moment later, lights became visible behind the blinds pulled down over the windows.

  Processing what I was seeing, I looked down to the phone on my thigh. I stared at Pally’s name and number, considering it a moment, before thumbing the phone off and depositing it back into the middle console.

  Reaching across, I slid the bat down onto the far side of the passenger seat, hiding it from view, before stepping out of the car.

  Having Pally go digging through the records would be a good start. He could no doubt tell me the complete history of title on the place, beginning with when it was built and extending up through every transaction it had ever been a part of.

  Piece by piece, he would be able to tell me any connections to the S-2.

  But a man that lived and worked two blocks down from them would be able to tell me a lot more.

  With the Browning still wedged into the back of my jeans, I checked the traffic in either direction before jogging across the street. A warm breeze passed over my skin as I went. Around me, leaves were just starting to turn, a few having been pushed into the gutters lining the street.

  In a week or two, the entire state would be in the throes of fall foliage. People would come from all over the country to enjoy nature’s splendor, relishing the combination of warmth and color.

  I had no intention of being anywhere near either at that time.

  Coming up on the opposite side of the street, I passed along the side of the building, glancing sideways at the various announcements for the S-2 etched across the block. Bold and vibrant, the graffiti made no bones about declaring who the territory belonged to, a visual dare for anybody else nearby to try and step foot on their turf.

  Whether this man could help me or not remained to be seen, but there was no doubt I was in the right place.

  Increasing my pace just slightly, I made my way to the front door, the words West Nashville Youth Outreach Ministries stenciled across it in plain white letters. Beneath it was listed the hours of operation, the information barely registering as I swung the door open and stepped inside.

  As I did, a small bell at the top of the door announced my arrival, the smell of cider immediately finding my nostrils. Extended straight out before me was a hallway, the ceiling and walls pushing in tight from either side. On the floor was a thick woven rug, various maps and posters lining the sides.

  A moment later, the man I had seen enter stepped out from a side room, working his hands through a wad of paper towels. A smile on his face, it slowly faded as he looked at me, clearly not who he expected to find standing before him.

  Somewhere in his late-fifties, his black skin was made to look darker by the frame of thinning gray hair on his head.

  “Help you?” he asked.

  Opening my mouth to respond, I paused for a moment, considering my answer.

  I certainly hoped he could help me. Right now, the best outcome would be if he could provide some answers, keeping me and Pally from having to scramble, all the while using precious time Elyse likely didn’t have.

  At the same time, the artwork on the outside of the building made it clear who controlled this block. Whether that included the ministry I now stood in, I still needed to find out.

  “Yeah,” I said. Stepping forward, I extended my hand. “My name is Hawk Tate.”

  Giving me a wary look, the man released his grip on the paper towels. Reciprocating the offer, his hand was still damp as he clamped on it, his grip surprisingly strong as he pumped it twice.

  “Reverend Simpkins. Call me Pete.”

  The man, nor the neighborhood, seemed to fit the name Pete Simpkins, though I held as much to myself. I needed the man’s help. Insulting him would hardly aid my case.

  “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Tate?”

  “Hawk,” I corrected. Pausing again, I considered how to best ask my first question before deciding to go straight ahead with it. Worst case, I could be out the door and back to the rental in less than ten seconds.

  Hooking a thumb over my shoulder, I said, “I couldn’t help but notice the, uh-“

  “Colorful display,” Pete finished, a sour look crossing his face. “Yeah, the first time I paid to have it repainted. The second, I did it myself, even though it didn’t look as nice.”

  Waving a hand, he added, “Now, I don’t even bother. They’re just going to come back. I appreciate you coming by to offer, but I just don’t have it in the coffers to keep trying to cover that crap up.”

  Creases appeared between my brows as I tried to decipher his meaning. Rotating at the waist, I glanced back before realizing what he was saying.

  He thought I was a painter, there to ask about covering up the S-2 markings.

  “Oh, no,” I said, “I’m sorry, I’m not actually here about the graffiti. I was hoping you might be able to tell me about the people that put it there.”

  Finishing with the paper towels, he turned to the doorway he’d just exited from, tossing them underhanded. Shifting back to me, he folded his arms across his chest. “What’s this about?”

  No part of me wanted to divulge what it was really about. Coming inside had been on nothing but a hunch, playing to some preconceived notions I already held about the man and his attire.

  Based on how wrong I’d been about the warehouse, I probably should have known better.

  Still, it wasn’t like I had much choice.

  “My niece,” I said. I didn’t put any undue strain in my voice, didn’t make my face crinkle as if I was about to cry. “And my nephew.”

  Pete’s lips parted slightly, a move looking to be equal parts surp
rise and sympathy. “Are they involved?”

  “No,” I replied. “They were carjacked.”

  His mouth closed, lips pressing into a tight line.

  “And in the process of that, my nephew was shot and my niece was taken.”

  Stopping there, I waited, watching as he worked his way through many of the same emotions I had a day before. Sympathy became sadness, which soon gave way to frustration.

  Which ended with barely contained rage.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “Two days ago at this time, I was fishing in Yellowstone. I know you don’t want to be answering these questions, but I assure you I don’t want to be here asking them.”

  Once more his lips parted, debate etched across his face.

  “Please. Anything helps.”

  For several moments, Pete chewed on what I’d just presented him. He nodded a couple of times, working his way through what was shared, before eventually extending a finger past me to the door.

  “Did you happen to notice the writing on the door when you entered?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, “Youth Ministries, right?”

  “That’s right,” Pete replied. “My staff or I am here every single afternoon and all day on the weekends. Basically, we exist to give the kids around here somewhere to go that isn’t there.”

  His eyes took on a faraway look, his head shifting to the side enough to see out through the glass door. “That damn group showing up was the worst thing that ever happened around here.”

  I knew better than to press just yet. Already, it was clear he was on my side.

  I just had to give him a little space to get around to what I needed.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The exchange hadn’t gone quite as well as Ronell Brinks would have liked. Big Man had been standoffish at best. He wasn’t even invited inside the building.

  But that was okay because the end result was what he wanted. It had been ugly, an uphill climb in getting there, but he had made it.

  That was what mattered.

  When Big Man told him to be prepared, he knew what was being referred to, even without being told us much. Gaining entrance into the S-2 followed a very specific protocol, outlined steps that every member to ever wear the brand had to go through.

  The first step was stealing a car. Or breaking into someone’s home. Or swiping something from a store. The particulars often changed, but the meaning behind them was the same.

  Anybody that wanted in had to prove they had skills, marketable abilities that could be presented to the group, both for financial and sustainability reasons.

  They also had to prove that they knew how to handle themselves. Getting pinched wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Rolling over on the others, ever saying a word that might get a sideways glance cast toward the group, was.

  Rumor had it that the S-2 had contacts with the local police, guys that would report directly back if their name was ever floated in the precinct.

  Ronell had no idea if that was true, but he knew better than to chance it.

  Not now. Not with everything he’d been wanting so close.

  Ronell and his friends had passed the first test. They’d been invited back for round two, a perfunctory exercise that he had no doubt he would pass. It was just a matter of hours now, a short time before he was fully inducted.

  Pulling up in front of Joey’s house, he could feel his adrenaline soaring. Despite the short night on the couch, he didn’t feel the least bit groggy, his eyes wide, his nerves on edge.

  Parking nose-to-nose with the Honda in the driveway, he hopped out and headed for the door. Ready to share the news with his friends, he pushed inside, a smile on his face.

  The first sign of trouble was the dark spot of blood on the floor. As large as a baseball, it was crusted almost black, a pair of flies buzzing around it, impossible to miss on the tan carpeting.

  Dropping to a crouch, Ronell poked at the fibers surrounding it, seeing that it had congealed into a solid mass, moving as one under the slight pressure.

  “Jamal!” he called, shifting his head toward the living room. “Joey!”

  The stain had not been there two hours before. There might have been a small spot outside the bedroom from where he hit the girl, but that was on the opposite side of the house.

  This was new. Somebody had been here.

  Reaching to the small of his back, Ronell felt for the .38 that usually resided inside the band of his jeans. Feeling nothing, he remembered he’d been forced to leave it behind, the S-2 not allowing any non-member to show up strapped.

  He’d been able to get away with it two nights before because he’d been on an official assignment and was delivering the BMW to the shop. Doing so today, though, would have been grounds for immediate dismissal.

  “Shit,” Ronell hissed, pushing the word out between his teeth. Rising to full height, he stepped out into the living room, his hands curled into fists, raised by his sides.

  Cocking his head, he listened for any sound, swinging his gaze to either direction.

  The interior of the home was dark. All lights were turned off, most of the glow from outside blocked by the shades pulled down over the windows. In its stead, the place looked to be in a state of semi-darkness, like dusk had come much earlier than expected.

  Nothing looked different than when he’d last been there. No new food wrappers on the table. No clothes or towels tossed casually about.

  “Jamal,” he said, this time his voice raised to a heightened whisper. “Joey!”

  Inching forward, he peeked over the back edge of the sofa. Seeing nothing besides the pillow and blankets he’d used the night before, he rotated out to the left. Starting with the first bedroom, he peeked inside, taking only a moment to clear it before moving toward the back corner.

  Using the wall as a reference point, he kept his attention turned outward. Crossing one foot over the other, he made it as far as the door frame, giving one last look to the living room, before shifting his head around the corner and glancing inside.

  What he saw made his stomach constrict into a tight ball, compression seizing his chest. Dropping all pretense, he flung himself through, coming to a stop just a couple of steps after entering.

  His breathing grew heavy as he stared down at what he saw.

  Laying in the center of the room, Jamal and Joey were positioned on their sides, pressed back to back. Both had their ankles bound with pillowcases, their hands completely encased in duct tape. Thick bands of the same covered their mouths.

  Each lay with their eyes closed, unconscious.

  Both looked like they had been through hell, Jamal’s nose broken and shifted to the side, blood staining his cheeks. Beside him, Joey’s shorts and bare torso were painted red, the gaping wound on his side much angrier than when Ronell had last seen him.

  Dropping to his knees, Ronell started with the tape covering each of their mouths. Yanking it away, he gave no mind to their skin or any facial hair that might have come with it, instead slapping them on the cheek. One time after another, he swatted them, flicking his gaze between them.

  “Jamal! Joey! What happened?” The slapping continued, his voice growing louder with each word. “Wake up, dammit!”

  Chapter Fifty

  The holding room that the administration at Summit Medical Center had set aside for the Denmans seemed to be growing smaller by the moment. Even with the blinds open and late-afternoon sun streaming through, it felt like Amber Denman was suffocating.

  Almost two days had passed since her daughter had been taken. She hadn’t heard from Hawk in a number of hours, his lone call a cryptic conversation that included a handful of names she didn’t recognize. An hour of searching Google on her phone afterward hadn’t provided much more.

  And even less from the detective standing before her. With his hands folded together behind his back and his body pitched forward at the waist, he somehow managed to convey the impressions of both condescension and bowing at the same ti
me.

  A stance that heightened the aggravation she felt for him, the situation, and life in general.

  “Have you heard anything from the kidnappers?” Detective Russo asked. “A word about ransom or demands or anything?”

  Amber shot a glance at her husband seated on the loveseat. She watched as he pressed a button on the side of his phone, the screen lighting up.

  “Nothing to me,” Josh said. “And I had the home number transferred to this line. The ringer has been on loud, the phone hasn’t left my hand for two days.”

  Grunting softly, Russo nodded, shifting his focus back to Amber. “And you?”

  “Not a word,” she said. Her voice was quiet, even to her own ears, the sentence just passing her lips before she pressed them tight together again.

  In the last forty hours, she had felt every possible emotion a mother could. Anger. Denial. Hysteria. Sorrow. Fear. And a hundred more, all heightened exponentially by the reality of the situation.

  There was a cliché about how no parent should ever have to face the death of a child. For sixteen years she had believed that, finally understanding the full sentiment behind it.

  Only in the last couple of days had she started to think that maybe it was wrong. That while losing a child would be horrific, at least those people had closure. At least they went to bed every night knowing what had happened.

  She might never know such an ending. Two days hadn’t turned up much of anything, and it had easily been the worst stretch of her life. She couldn’t imagine what two weeks or months or years would do.

  “Have you been able to find the car?” Amber asked.

  “No,” Russo said, shaking his head. “Traffic camera footage showed it leaving the garage the other night, but soon thereafter it was lost.”

  Casting a look between them, he added, “The city is just too vast to cover every inch. Directly after leaving, they got on the freeway, and effectively became invisible.”

  Amber felt her head bob up and down an inch, her body feeling numb from the waist down. She was still standing, had been for hours, though she had no idea how.