“I hear you have some information for me.”
Blackshear smiled, “I do.”
“Okay, Blackshear, I’m listening.”
Blackshear chuckled and looked up, over her shoulder. She knew then someone was behind her. She spun around but it was too late. She felt a hard blow to her head. The blow sent her reeling backward. She stumbled a few feet before losing her balance and falling with a thud onto the concrete floor.
She writhed in pain but still tried to reach for her service weapon, still holstered. She felt an enormous hand grab her wrist. The man grabbed her by the hair and used his free hand to unholster her weapon. He gave it a hard toss. It slid at least thirty feet away.
She tried to see who had attacked her, but the pain from the blow was clouding her vision. She heard her attacker speak.
“You’ve done your job, Blackshear. Now, get the hell out.”
Blackshear looked at Julie Love holding her ear, continuing to writhe in agony.
“You clocked that bitch, something good,” he said, chuckling.
“I said, get out, now.”
Blackshear chuckled again and left. Love looked up at her assailant. She recognized him.
“Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
“You’re Alt. Greg Alt,” she replied.
“Very good, Agent Love,” Alt said, standing and delivering a kick to her ribs.
Love cried out in agony. Alt pulled his own weapon out of his holster.
“I’m an agent for the FBI,” Love spat out. “I’m with the Office of Professional Responsibility. I report directly to Director Rice.”
“As do I,” Alt said, jerking her up by the head of her hair. “Why do you think I’m here?”
Love screamed in pain.
“You are one stupid bitch, you know that?” Alt said.
“You’re helping Kelsey and Rice cover up Wounded Falcon, aren’t you?” Love said, shaking a few of the cobwebs clear. Her head still pounded with pain but some of the disorientation began to clear.
“Randall Rice is a patriot,” Alt snarled. “He’s had to make tough decisions for the greater good. We’ve had weak directors before. Rice is not weak. If he doesn’t complete Operation Wounded Falcon, people die.”
Alt’s declaration was the first concrete evidence that there really was an Operation Wounded Falcon.
“So, you’re going to kill me?” Love asked.
Alt sneered. The man was huge and powerful looking, with a bald head and massive shoulders, giving him a Stone Cold Steve Austin look.
“Yeah, you and that worthless piece of shit, Jim Andrews, both. I’ll head his way after I take care of you.”
Alt aimed his weapon at Love’s forehead.
“No,” she cried out.
“Say sayonara, bitch,” he cackled.
Love closed her eyes and held her breath, but before Alt pulled the trigger, she heard a loud cranking noise, not a gunshot. She opened one eye. All the lights had gone out. The place was nearly pitch black, illuminated only by filtered light seeping in through blacked out windows.
“What the fuck?” she heard Alt yell out.
Love’s eyes took a moment to adjust. The room was dark but she could see a dim outline of Alt’s silhouette. Alt held the pistol, pointing straight head, trying to scan for whoever shut off the lights.
“Blackshear!” Alt barked out. “Is that you?”
Suddenly, Love saw the dark silhouette of an enormous figure appear from nowhere and slam into Alt, knocking the big man to the ground. She heard the sound of metal against concrete. It had to be Alt’s gun dislodged, she thought. The two men struggled in the darkness. She heard punches land, but she could not see well enough to figure out who was gaining the advantage. Both men were grunting and crying out in anger and pain.
Her weapon, she thought. Love knew that Alt tossed it aside and it was now somewhere in the darkness. She stood on uneasy legs and began to feel around the floor in the direction she thought the gun had been tossed.
One of the men began gasping. Was it Alt? Or was it the man who attacked him? Could that man be Andrews? Did he follow her? It was the only reasonable explanation.
She found her weapon just as she heard a loud groan and the sound of a man gasping for air. The outcome of the battle was over. There was a victor. She picked up the gun and aimed it at front of her, directly at the silhouette of the lone man still standing.
She could not see his face. The shadow was too large to be Andrews. It had to be Alt. She felt a rage overcome her. She took aim and was prepared to fire.
“Stay right where you are, Alt, you bastard, or I’ll put two into the center of your chest, I swear.”
“I am not Alt,” the man called back. His accent was odd, she thought.
“Who are you?” she demanded to know.
“I am . . . a friend,” he said.
“My friends all have names,” she called back. “What’s yours?”
“They call me Rainhorse.”
Love pulled a pen light from her pocket. She flashed it at the man who’d just saved her life. He was a huge man, taller and more muscular than Alt, even, with long black hair and dark skin. He was breathing heavy. He held up his left hand to block the light from hitting his eyes.
“Did you kill him?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I never read the fine print, but killing an FBI agent would undoubtedly violate the terms of my release agreement with the government.”
“Can he talk?” Love asked.
“Not for some time. He’s going to wake up with quite a headache. I don’t suppose you could turn that light away from my eyes.”
“Oh . . . sorry, and uh . . .”
“I think the words you seek are . . . thank you?”
Chapter 14
Agent Julie Love leaned against her rental car, holding a towel on her injured head. There was blood coming from the site of the blow, but much less than she expected given how hard she’d been hit.
She wasn’t sure exactly what Rainhorse was doing, but he was still inside the building. She thought about her next move. Should she call the FBI? What a can of worms that would open, she thought. Hey Kelsey, it’s Julie Love. The man you sent to kill me is lying unconscious in an abandoned fairground’s building. Nope. She wasn’t about to do that.
For the moment, she decided to wait and talk with Rainhorse, first.
Right on cue, she saw the striking Cheyenne amble out of the building. Damn, he was big, bigger than Alt even. He was handsome in a very rugged, earthy way, with his long, silky black hair and bronze skin. As he got closer, she saw a scar across his cheek, which she thought made him look all the sexier.
He wore tight jeans with cowboy boots, and a tight t-shirt. His face was expressionless as he stopped and stood beside her.
“What have you been doing?” she asked.
“Securing the man inside,” Rainhorse said. “I have made a call to a friend of mine, who is coming to retrieve this man. My friend will hold him on ice until I say otherwise.”
“What? That’s kidnapping. Kidnapping an FBI agent is a Federal offense.”
Rainhorse thought for a moment and shrugged, “And sending one Federal agent to kill another is not?”
“No, it is, but . . . we need to turn him in,” Love said.
“I agree, but not until your situation is resolved. You believe turning him in now is in your best interests at the moment? Once the people who sent him to kill you realize he has failed, is there any possible outcome that appears positive to you?”
Love thought for a moment, “No, I suppose not, but we can’t hold him forever.”
“We do not need to hold him forever,” Rainhorse said. “I do not know many details yet, but whatever you are involved in, the Federal government believed you needed to be dead. The situation you are in is explosive. Whatever will happen, will happen in the next couple of days . . . and that is at the outside. We need to ice him until then.”
“
I want to talk to him when he wakes up,” she said.
The big man shook his head.
“A waste of time. The only way he will talk is if I get medieval on him . . . In the old days, I would have been happy to oblige. These days, there are women in my life who frown upon activities of this nature.”
She thought again, “I suppose you’re right. By the way, thank you very much. You saved my ass.”
“I would like to say it was my pleasure but to be perfectly honest with you, I did not set out this morning thinking I would have to beat an FBI agent unconscious, and I especially did not think I would save someone I did not know. Would you mind telling me who you are?”
“What do you mean? Don’t you know who I am?”
“I would not ask if I knew.”
“I’m FBI Agent Julie Love, from the Office of Professional Responsibility.”
“That is a mighty big title,” Rainhorse noted. “Tell me, FBI Agent Julie Love, from the Office of Professional Responsibility, how is it that you are here where your own employer is trying to kill you?”
Love scoffed, “You just beat a man senseless, and you don’t know why?”
“I saw a big man approach a smaller woman from behind and hit her on the head. What should I have done, phoned in for a pizza?”
“How is it you are here? Didn’t Andrews send you?”
“No. Hank Patterson called me.”
“Who the hell is Hank Patterson?”
“You mean you do not know? And here I was beginning to believe you knew everything.”
“Save the sarcasm, big guy. Just tell me.”
“Hank Patterson runs a protection service out of Montana. It is called The Brotherhood Protectors. I work for Hank sometimes, when he needs me. Agent Jim Andrews is a mutual friend of Hank and myself. He called me yesterday morning—told me Andrews was in trouble—said it was urgent. So, here I am.”
“That doesn’t explain how you found me out here,” Love replied.
“Andrews told Hank where he was staying, and Hank told me. I arrived at the hotel early this morning, before six o’clock. I didn’t want to wake Andrews up, so I ordered breakfast in the courtyard café and waited. I saw you coming out of his room. I figured you had to be his partner . . . uh, partner with benefits, I guess.”
Love squinted and frowned at the Cheyenne. He continued.
“I decided to wait until you left before visiting Andrews, but as I saw you leave, I saw a big, bald white guy eyeballing you. He followed you out the door.”
“Alt?”
“If the guy in there is Alt . . . then yes.”
“Go on.”
“I thought you might be in danger and by the time I got to the parking lot, you were driving away and he was following you. I decided to follow you both.”
“Luckily for me . . .” Love interjected.
“At a certain point, the man you call Alt, pulled off the freeway and went a different direction. At that point I thought I might have misread the situation, so I decided to quit tailing you.”
“But that’s when you noticed me turning around?”
Rainhorse nodded, “That is right. You were nearly at the airport and then turned around. I did not think it was because you left your sunglasses back at the hotel.”
“No, it was because my boss in Washington sent me to be killed. He was really going to execute me. Whew!” exclaimed Love. “I’m certainly glad you followed, but beating and holding him comes with complications.”
“The alternative was much worse,” Rainhorse replied.
“I mean, wasn’t there another option?”
“Yes,” the big Cheyenne replied. “I could have allowed him to kill me, but I did not believe that would work out well for either of us.”
Love looked at Rainhorse and sighed. “You’re right. It’s the bump on my head—I’m feeling a tad off my game. We have a lot to talk about, Mr. Rainhorse, starting with, please call me Julie, or Love. That long name and title you’re repeating is getting on my nerves. You said you ordered breakfast at the café. Did you actually get to eat?”
“No. I was interrupted by your sudden departure.”
“Does Andrews know you are here, yet?”
“No. I was going to call but I thought his phone might be tapped.”
“Good thinking, because it is,” Love said. “Come on, big fella. I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“You had a gun pointed to your forehead less than thirty minutes ago and now you want breakfast?” Rainhorse said. “You are one cool customer, Agent Julie Love, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m one hungry customer,” she corrected, “and we have a lot to talk about.”
“I see my friend’s car now. Hang on.”
Love looked toward the entrance. She saw what appeared to be a normal looking Toyota rental car. The car had stopped. It was too far away to make out the driver.
Rainhorse dialed his cell, turned his back to Agent Love and spoke in a low voice. After a minute of conversation, he hung up.
“My friend will pick up Alt and hold him for a while,” Rainhorse said. “Alt will be treated for his injuries, blindfolded and secured, but otherwise treated well.”
“Who is your friend?”
“I’m not ready to say.”
“I’d like to meet this friend.”
“No. Sorry. Not possible.”
“Why not?”
“My friend is shy.”
“Is this the same friend who saved you from Quince’s henchmen the day you were shot up so badly?”
“I’m not ready to say. Should we call Andrews, now?”
“We will, but not just yet. I’d like to talk to you myself, first. We’ll bring Andrews in later. Ever been to the Black Walnut Café in Houston?”
“I have never been to Houston.”
“You’re in for a treat. They have the best chocolate chip pancakes in Texas.”
“You need to have your head examined,” Rainhorse said.
“Men are always saying that to me,” she replied.
“No, I mean, you should see a doctor.”
“I know what you meant. I’m fine. Get in your car and follow me.”
Chapter 15
The Black Walnut Café was a staple in Houston. The restaurant had an impressive brick structure and a clean, spacious interior that relied heavily on mahogany fixtures.
The dining room looked to be about half-filled with customers.
Rainhorse was drawing stares as he entered the restaurant with Love, who understood why. He had to be over six-feet-five, she thought, and with his thick main of long black hair and his statuesque body, it was easy to believe the other patrons hadn’t seen many like him walking by.
Rainhorse surprised the hostess, a thirty-ish year old perky brunette, who was facing away as he approached.
“Two for breakfast,” he said in his slow, deep voice.
The young woman turned and gasped when she saw the enormous Cheyenne standing before her. She recovered quickly, though, made eye contact and smiled, “Sure. Would you like a booth by the window?”
“Perhaps someplace a little quieter,” Rainhorse replied. “We have business to discuss.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Right this way.”
Once Rainhorse and Agent Love were settled in a booth, a pretty waitress named Vivian, arrived with water, menus, and described the specials. There were three: a fruit plate with bran muffin; an omelet; and chocolate chip pancakes.
“I’ll take the fruit plate,” Love said. “If it has honeydew melon, could you hold that please?”
“I guess so,” Vivian replied. She glanced and smiled at Rainhorse, “And you, sir?”
“I will have the pancakes, Vivian,” Rainhorse replied. “Wait . . .”
He looked at Love, “Who is buying breakfast?”
“It’s on me, big buy,” she replied.
He nodded and looked back at Vivian, “I will have the pancakes and the omelet.”
&nbs
p; She chuckled, “Yessir. What would you like on your omelet?”
Rainhorse shrugged, “Whatever you have that is good.”
Vivian smiled and nodded, turned and left. Love rolled her eyes.
“Why are guys that way?” Love asked.
“What way is that?”
“Never mind. So, tell me, Mr. Rainhorse, why are you here?”
“As I said earlier, I heard Andrews needed me.”
“So, you rushed in here from . . . where?”
“Someplace not here,” he replied.
Love smirked, “So, you aren’t saying?”
Rainhorse winked, “You catch on quickly. Tell me the trouble you face.”
“Before I get into that, I need to ask you a couple of questions?”
Rainhorse grunted and sucked in a slow, deep breath through his teeth, “I am not so good with answering questions. It requires much . . . talking. Talking is . . . not my thing.”
Love chuckled, “I’ll make it easy. I promise.”
Rainhorse shrugged.
“Andrews is being accused of collusion,” she said. “Specifically, two instances involving yourself: when you two first met and you were badly wounded during the Lindsay Vanderbilt kidnapping, and when you escaped from FBI custody to chase down Barnabas Quince on your own.”
“Collusion? Andrews?” scoffed Rainhorse. “Not a chance. It did not happen.”
“Tell me what happened then?”
“Hmmm,” Rainhorse grunted.
“What’s wrong?”
“That would require a lot of talking. I am hungry, Agent Love.”
“It’s Julie, remember? And I believe you . . . just give me the short version.”
“When I was shot, I was near death,” he said. “I was helped by . . . a friend.”
“Not Andrews?”
“No.”
“Not Sam Steele, not Lindsay?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“A friend.”
“Same friend who is taking care of Alt?”
“Yes.”
“Who is this friend?”
“Just . . . a friend.”
“Okay, I didn’t think you’d answer,” she sighed. “Let’s go for door number two. When you escaped FBI custody to chase down Barnabas Quince, did Andrews conspire with you, so you could get away?”
Wounded Falcon: Brotherhood Protectors World Page 9