Night Vipers

by Carolina Mac

  “You don’t feel like eating, sweetheart?”

  “If the juice stays down, I might try a piece of toast.”

  “Stay away from the eggs,” advised Bobby with a grin on his face.

  “It snowed during the night, so I don’t think you should go anywhere today,” Jesse said to Marnie.

  “Maybe it will be melted away by the time I have to go for the ultrasound.”

  “I should stay here and drive you,” said Jesse.

  Marnie shook her head. “It’s not far and they need you at the Agency.”

  “Promise you’ll be extra careful.”

  Marnie smiled at Jesse. “I promise.”

  8:00 a.m.

  The Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  BLAINE sat at the head of the kitchen table ready to start the meeting. He’d spent so long looking for the tiniest clue in Dan Flaherty’s emails he woke with a pounding headache, and he was no farther ahead. Misty was the only option left.

  “Okay, Jesse is here now from the hinterlands,” said Blaine.

  “Morning all,” said Jesse and headed for the coffee.

  “Let’s rock and roll,” said Blaine. “He pointed the end of his pen at Luke.

  “Nope, nothing from the widow,” said Luke. “She’s going through the day and sometimes crying to herself. I gotta say no dice there, boss.”

  “Okay, drop her. Farrell has something going on and I haven’t got all the details yet because he’s still sleeping, but from what Annie told me this morning, we’re going to need the boss of the Cobras brought in. I looked him up and printed his jacket along with his top three. His name is Georgie Deleon, and if he’s with his top men—Sal Lara and Petey Jimenez, bring them in too.”

  “Let me write down the names,” said Luke.

  “I have them here for you,” said Lil, “along with the last known address of each of them and the current clubhouse address.”

  “Thanks,” said Luke. “What are these boys up to?”

  “Grabbing girls at the mall.”

  “Sex slavery?” asked Dillon.

  “We don’t know yet,” said Blaine, “but we’re going to blow the club wide open and find out. Four of their own are in the hospital and have to be interrogated when they get to our infirmary. One is in the morgue.”

  Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Was Ace there?”

  Blaine smiled. “Annie was helping Farrell.” He pointed at Luke. “You take Fletch and I’ll bring Dillon. The four of us will bring in whatever Cobras we can catch.” To Jesse: “I need you to go back to Isabel Flaherty and ask for personal items belonging to her husband—things she wouldn’t mind us borrowing temporarily. Bring them back here and Lil will courier whatever you come up with to Misty. I called New Orleans and she knows the package is coming.”

  “Okay,” said Jesse, “I guess Misty is the way to go if we have nothing else.”

  “We don’t have a thing,” said Blaine. “If it was a contract hit, we’ll never have anything. Ever.”

  8:30 a.m.

  Coulter-Ross Ranch. La Grange.

  ANNIE took her second cup of coffee into her office and called Tony Bardelli in Santa Fe.

  “Hello, my darling one. How are things on your gorgeous ranch in Texas?”

  “Things are wonderful, Tony, and you? Are you well and keeping busy?”

  “I am rushed off my feet, dear one, and was forced to hire an assistant who is less than adequate. My, I hate to chastise him, but he never seems to get anything right.”

  “Your standards are high, sugar pie. That’s what puts you in such demand.”

  “Oh, I’ve so missed you calling me. I dream about your beautiful face from time to time.”

  Annie giggled. “I have a job in February if you have time to come to Texas.”

  “Impossible, dearest Annie,” said Tony without hesitation. “The schedule has never been tighter or more brutally demanding than it is at this moment in time.”

  Annie smiled as she listened to Tony. “You’re turning down my job without asking any questions?”

  “It pains me to do so, but I have no choice. My calendar is full to overflowing—a cornucopia with far too many fruits of the harvest.”

  “I’m coming up there.”

  “Oh, no, you must not do that. I beg you. Do not come to Santa Fe. You know I can’t resist your charms in person.”

  “I’m coming, sugar pie. Prepare yourself.”

  “Oh, my. I can barely catch my breath.”

  Annie ended the call chuckling to herself.

  “He turned you down?” asked Travis.

  “He did, but not for long. I’ll have Tyler drop off the pictures and the floor plan while I’m looking for flights.”

  “Sounds like an exciting weekend after all,” said Travis.

  Annie winked at him. “Poker at Buffalo Thunder?”

  Travis grinned. “Yes, please.”

  9:00 a.m.

  Quantrall Ranch. Giddings.

  TYLER sat at the dining room table alone finishing breakfast. A mare had come in while he was at the barn for chores and he missed breakfast with Jesse and Bobby. Molly made him a couple of eggs and warmed up a chunk of corn bread for him and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. He was thinking about the house in Giddings and all the work involved when Annie called.

  “Morning, Annie. I’m always happy when you call me.”

  “I talked to Tony this morning and he says he’s too busy to start on our house.”

  “Too bad. Can you think of someone else?”

  “I don’t want anyone else,” said Annie, “because Tony is the best.”

  “But if he can’t do it, will we have to wait a long time?”

  “I’m going to Santa Fe for the weekend to persuade him to fit us in and I need you to bring over the floor plan and the pictures that the real estate woman gave you.”

  “If it’s my project, don’t you think I should go too?”

  “I have to convince him to take the job first. You could talk to him when he comes down here.”

  “No, Annie. You gave me this job, and I’m going to show you I can do it right. I’m not the hot-headed wuss you think I am.”

  “Tyler, I never once called you a wuss or anything close.”

  “No, but when you were doing all your spy jobs it should have been me there backing you up with a rifle in my hand and not that fuckin marine.”

  “Okay, Ty. We’re not going to get into that. I have to go now. Are you able to bring the floor plan over or should I send one of the boys to pick it up?”

  “I’ll bring everything with me when I come to the airport. Make sure you get me a ticket and call me back with the time.”

  Travis was staring at her as she ended the call.

  “Fuck,” said Annie.

  “Jesus on a nanny goat,” hollered Travis. “Do not tell me that hot-headed Roy Rogers is coming with us.”

  9:30 a.m.

  Lady Bird Lake. Austin.

  FOR the second day in a row, Jesse stood on Isabel Flaherty’s doorstep first thing in the morning. Today his mission was simpler. All he had to do was pick up a few things belonging to her late husband.

  She opened the door with a smile and welcomed him in. “Come into the sitting room and let me show you what I’ve picked out. I’ve never worked with a psychic before, so I don’t know what works best.”

  “Miss LeJeune does well with jewelry,” said Jesse as he sat down. “When my baby daughter was kidnapped, she used Charity’s picture book and her toy elephant, and we found her that same night.”

  “Your baby was kidnapped?” Isabel shook her head and looked horrified. “That must have been terrifying.”

  Jesse smiled. “I can smile now, but at the time, I didn’t know they had rescued her or anything. The minute I found she was gone I had a heart attack.”

  Isabel’s hand covered her mouth. “What an ordeal for you.”

  Jesse looked through the items on the table. “Is this a watch he wore often?”<
br />
  “Yes, his favorite.” She pointed to a folded tie. “And this was his favorite tie he saved for special occasions.”

  “Did he have a billfold in his pocket at the time of his death?” asked Jesse.

  “Yes, he did. The police gave it back to me.”

  “Could you remove the money and cards and just give me the empty wallet?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll get everything back as soon as Misty is done with it.”

  Isabel retrieved the wallet from the upstairs bedroom, then gathered all the items and put them in a bag. “I appreciate the fact that y’all are using every resource to find who did this. Dan was a good man and worked hard for his constituents.”

  “If Misty gives us something we can use, I’ll call you.”

  “Thank you, Ranger Quantrall. I’ll be anxious to find out what she sees… or who.”

  9:30 a.m.

  Southeast Austin.

  THE Cobra pit was locked up tight. There appeared to be no morning action at the club when the boys arrived to check out the membership. A square frame one-storey building on a short side street, the structure could have been a fruit market or a small store in its former life. Now decorated with graffiti, blackened windows and short a few shingles, it had been repurposed and not for the greater good.

  “Okay,” said Blaine. “No bikes or vehicles here. The snakes are sleeping. Let’s move on to the boss’s home address and roust him out of bed.”

  Dillon held the list in his hand. “I’ll punch it into the GPS.”

  According to Georgie Deleon’s jacket, he only lived three blocks from his clubhouse. Conveniently close. He could walk in a pinch. Like that would happen.

  When the GPS woman assured him he’d reached his destination, Blaine stopped in front of a two-storey rowhouse, third from the end of a rundown string of them.

  “Lukey and I will take the back,” said Fletch.

  “You got your vests and your mics on?” asked Blaine. Standard procedure when taking down gang members. The boys knew the rules.

  “All set,” said Dillon.

  With a shotgun in his hand and his Beretta in his waist holster, Blaine knocked on the door. “Police, Georgie Deleon. Open up. I want to talk to you.”

  No sound from inside.

  Blaine pounded harder. “Police. Open the door.” They waited a few minutes, and nothing happened. Blaine took a step back, raised a chain-encrusted Harley boot and gave the door a vicious kick close to the lock.

  With a splintering sound, the old door gave, and Blaine stepped into the front hall with his shotgun levelled at anybody who might step into his path.

  “Georgie Deleon, show yourself. Don’t make me kill you in your bed.”

  The stairs creaked and a tall man, early thirties, Hispanic mixed with something else in his genes giving him the curly hair—possibly Italian—descended the stairs. “You trying to wake the dead, Super?”

  “Nope. I’m trying to wake you, Georgie. Time to come to headquarters and answer some questions. My brother wants to talk to you.”

  Georgie shook his head. “Nope. I ain’t talking to that fuckin Donovan. He’s a fuckin killer, what I heard. Four my best in hospital and one fuckin dead? What kind of law enforcement we talkin here?”

  “The kind that protects young girls from getting abducted while they’re shopping. That kind.”

  Dillon nodded.

  Blaine cocked the shotgun and levelled it at Georgie’s face. “Cuff him, Dillon. Let’s go.”

  Fletch and Luke came around the front. “Got him okay, boss?”

  “Yeah, do a quick search of the house. See what y’all find. Dillon will help while I sit with Georgie in the truck and get a forensic unit over here. I’m thinking missing girls might have passed through Georgie’s residence before he moved them to their final destination.”

  The boys headed inside. Blaine secured Georgie Deleon in the back seat of the truck and called for lab people. He lit up a smoke and tried not to listen to Georgie cursing and bad-mouthing Farrell.

  Twenty minutes later, the boys were out of the house with three different stashes of cocaine, heroin and weed and a large selection of guns and knives.

  “Good job, boys,” said Blaine. “Bag all of it and mark it for Sue.”

  “Copy that, boss.”

  10:30 a.m.

  “NEXT up is Sal Lara,” said Blaine, when the boys were ready to move on. “What’s his address, Dillon?”

  Georgie continued with his running commentary from the back seat. “Sal gonna shoot your eyes out, Super cop. You best not bother him.”

  “I’m gonna bother him, Georgie. Just like I’m bothering you.”

  “You be sorry.”

  “I bet I will.”

  “Are you watching the map, Dillon?”

  “I’m trying to hear the woman, but the back seat is drowning her out.”

  “Fuck, I missed the turn,” said Blaine.

  “Fletch turned,” said Dillon.

  Blaine turned around in a driveway and caught up as Fletcher was parking in front of a low rise brown brick building. “Which apartment?”

  Dillon had the sheet in his hand. “Four B.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to take him alive.” He winked at Dillon as he jumped out of the truck. “You’ve got the prisoner.”

  “I do.”

  Blaine jogged up the cracked sidewalk to the building with Luke and Fletch behind him. “Four B,” said Blaine. “Clear the fuckin stairwell first if there’s no elevator.”

  “Copy that, boss.”

  No security on the front door. Sign on the buzzer panel said the system wasn’t working. Blaine opened the unlocked inside door and walked right into the grungy lobby. His prediction came true. A sign stuck to the elevator door read—Out of service.

  “Okay, fourth floor. Watch the stair wells.” Blaine held his breath as he climbed, the stench of urine and shit overwhelming and triggering his gag reflex.

  Fletch was at the top of the stairs before anyone else. He was a runner and always the head of the pack.

  Jesus, I wish I was in the same shape as Fletch.

  Out of breath when he finally got there, Blaine sucked in oxygen for a few seconds before he pounded on Four B. “Police, Mr. Lara. Open the door. I need to talk to you.” Blaine motioned Fletch to stand to the one side of the door and Luke to the other.

  The dead bolt slid off with a click and the door opened a crack. “What do the cops want with me?” Lara’s voice was thick with sleep and he sounded hung over.

  “Need you to come to headquarters and answer some questions,” said Blaine. “Open the door, then drop to your knees and put your hands on your head.”

  “No fuckin way. I ain’t done nothing.”

  From what Blaine could see, Sal Lara looked like a big guy, unshaven, lots of tats and long tangled brown hair.

  Blaine pushed on the door and Sal pushed back trying to close it before they got in. Fletch stepped in front of Blaine, put his shoulder into it and forced the door open.

  Lara pulled a Glock out of his waistband and before he could aim it, Blaine fired with his left hand past Fletcher.

  Bang.

  The Glock flew and Lara yelled. “You goddam cop clown. You shot me.”

  “Damned right,” said Blaine. “I’m not gonna let you shoot my men.” He gave the Glock on the floor a kick with his Harley boot and said, “Lukey, find a towel and wrap up this asshole’s arm. We don’t want Cobra blood in Fletcher’s truck.”

  “Thanks, boss,” said Fletch.

  11:00 a.m.

  Austin- Bergstrom Airport.

  ANNIE felt the stress already and they hadn’t even left the ground. She sat with Tyler on the left side of the aisle and Jackson sat with Travis across from them. It was the only way it would work. Tyler and Travis couldn’t be anywhere close to each other or something would erupt.

  Jackson was still upset with Tyler for leaving them, so he didn’t want to sit with
Tyler. This was shaping up to be a weekend to remember.

  What a nightmare.

  11:30 a.m.

  Southeast Austin.

  THE last one on Blaine’s list was Petey Jimenez. He sent the first two handcuffed Cobras to headquarters with Luke and Fletcher. They could do the booking and enter everything they’d found in both residences into evidence. That would keep them busy until he and Dillon came back with the third one. Then maybe they’d have time for barbeque and a draft.

  “Does this guy live far from the others?” asked Blaine.

  Dillon stared at the little GPS screen. “Only a few blocks. A lot of these gangs are hood things.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “If this Petey is number three, he’s the enforcer,” said Dillon.

  “Is that a question?” asked Blaine.

  “Guess it is. I’m thinking out loud.”

  “Yeah, he should be the enforcer and he’ll be the tough guy, not that most of them aren’t pretty tough anyway.”

  Dillon pointed to a long low rancher that used to be white stucco. “That’s it on your left.”

  “Harley in the driveway,” said Blaine. “He’s home.”

  After only one knock on the door a woman answered. A lady in her fifties wearing an apron and smoking a joint. Her gray hair was tangled and held on the top of her head with a clip. She stood and stared at them and never spoke.

  Blaine held up his creds. “Police, ma’am. Wonder if we could speak to Petey?”

  “Petey is asleep and he don’t like it when I wake him up for no good reason.”

  “This is a good reason, ma’am,” said Blaine. “We’re arresting Petey and taking him to jail. Best reason I can think of.”

  “Nope. Not happening. Nobody takes Petey away from his mama.” She gave the door a solid push and tried to shove Blaine out. He pushed back and knocked her against the wall of the tiny front hall. She stumbled, went down on one knee and came up waving a hammer in her hand.

  Dillon reached out, grabbed the hammer and wrenched it out of her grasp. “That’s not polite, ma’am.”

  Blaine smirked as he looked for the way to the bedrooms. The house was small, and it didn’t take him long to pick the hallway to the left. One bedroom door was closed. Blaine drew his Beretta and opened it as soon as Dillon caught up still holding the hammer. Petey’s mother continued hollering curses behind him in Spanish.