by Carolina Mac
RIVERED
The Blackmore Agency: Book Six
Carolina Mac
Copyright © 2018 by Carolina Mac
RIVERED - 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-988850-51-1
All rights reserved
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To the few among us strong enough to turn our lives around.
Due to the rising cost of ammunition, I will no longer be able to provide a warning shot.
―THE WAY WE DO IT IN TEXAS
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday, August 7th.
Cherokee Junction, Texas.
PAINT CREEK ran deep in the woods behind the trailer park. More than a trickle, narrow for a river but just as swift, tall pines shaded the muddy banks and fostered teaming wildlife and dark pools full of fish. On the hottest days in summer it was always cooler by the river.
The park was not much of a park if you could call it that. Narrow hard packed dirt trails running zig-zag through the run-down single and double-wides that should have been towed to the dump and left there to rot long ago. Now they rotted where they stood—on cement blocks—crying out for tlc but never getting any—nests of poverty, despair, misery and violence. Becca was the dictionary definition of all those words. A 3D example in living color and an expert in all they entailed.
The river was one of the only good things about living here—maybe the only one. Yep, the only one. Fed from springs farther north up around Lake Brownwood—that’s what the boys at the Spur had said and it could be true. The Paint rarely dried up in the summer and thanks be to somebody—Becca wasn’t sure whether there was a God or not—this brutally hot August was no exception.
If there was a God, he’d never done her a lick of good.
Leaning her aching back against a rough tree trunk, she took a drag and held fast to the joint she’d stole out of Mason’s stash in his private drawer—the one she wasn’t allowed to open—closed her eyes and let her black and blue legs dangle in the river. The cold water numbed the pain in her legs and in her brain, and for that she was grateful.
The cicadas hiding in the leaves above her head sang a chorus of the ‘I love heat’ song and she drifted off. The feel of something nibbling at her toes woke her with a start and she let go a squeal as she jerked her legs out of the water. Her heart thumped a couple of times as she peered down and realized her attackers were a school of tiny silver minnows.
Now you’re scared of a minnow? Suck it up, girl.
The sound of a motor coming closer caused the dogs to bark and tugged her back to reality. A reality she didn’t want to face. Becca had done a decent job of forgetting about her past—the brutal years of her life spent with Billy-Don Donovan—but once in a while on hot summer days like this one, the horror of it played like a B-movie in her head and guilt overwhelmed her. Self-hate dragged her down like an undertow in the Pacific—an ocean she’d never seen, although she pictured it as being beautiful with huge curling waves crashing on a beach—and she was certain she’d never be able to swim to the surface and make her way out of the life she’d let herself drift into.
Fate. Nothing could change fate.
Huntsville Prison. Huntsville.
BILLY-DON DONOVAN sat on his bunk in solitary. He’d started the goddam fight on purpose to have a little private time away from the range and away from his fuckin idiot cell mate, Buster Chartwell.
Today was his fiftieth birthday and nobody was gonna ruin it for him. Nobody.
The plan was in place and when the time was right he’d get even. People in his past owed him and he’d make them pay. Everybody who’d ever crossed Billy-Don would regret it. He smiled.
MASON PARKED the Camaro in front of the double-wide and honked the horn—two blasts—for Becca to come out and see the paint job. He stood beside the car, noticed how bad the patch of grass out front needed to be cut and turned his head. He felt in his pocket for his father’s silver Zippo, lit up a Spirit and waited some more, but she didn’t show.
His perpetual smile spread across his scruffy face as the heat seeped up his neck and into his brain. “Where the hell is that bitch when I want her?” Flexing his right fist, he headed for the front door, but caught a glimpse of her pushing through the trees at the back of the lot. “About fuckin time,” he mumbled to himself, then restored the smile. As she came closer, the sight of her bruised up legs made his smile widen. “Come see how the paint job turned out, babe. Nate did a fuckin fantastic job on it. Can’t tell for a goddam second this baby used to be black.”
“Looks good, Mason.” Becca ran a finger down the hood. “I love red. Switch the tags out?”
Mason’s jaw tensed and still he held on to the grin. “Course I did, girl. Think I’m fuckin brain dead?”
Becca shook her head, turned and headed inside. “Too hot out here. Getting us a couple cold ones.”
Mason followed her through the screen door and let it bang shut behind him, still talking about the car, “Fantastic sound system—high end after market stuff. Musta cost the guy a fortune. You’re gonna love it.”
Becca reached into the fridge for the beer, grabbed two cans and juggled them as she fiddled with the fridge handle. The door never closed right but asking Mason to fix it hadn’t gotten any action. Never would. She handed him a can of Lone Star and popped the top on her own.
He fiddled with the cap. “You listening to me?”
“Sure am,” said Becca, “can’t hear nothing else.” She sank down on a chair at the kitchen table, cluttered with dishes and beer cans from the day before and the day before that. She held the beer can to her forehead and glanced up at the unmoving ceiling fan.
Mason took a step closer to the table and the smile had evaporated. “What’s that supposed to mean? I thought you’d be jumping over the fuckin moon and dead keen to cruise into town in the new wheels.” He tipped up the can, chugged what was left, then crushed the can in his big right hand. “Never could figure you out, Becca. Never could.”
Blackmore Agency. Austin.
BLAINE WOKE with a start when something wet touched his face. “Jesus, Lexi, do you have to do that?” The huge Newfie dog licked his face once more and thumped her tail on the hardwood, happy he was awake. “Have to go out?”
She bounded out the bedroom door and down the wide steps of the old Victorian.
“I’m right behind you,” Blaine muttered as he struggled with the covers, silently cursing his ribs that were far from healed. The doc said six weeks and they were a long six—he had about three more to go. “Hate it when I lie to my dog. Shows what kind of asshole I am. No wonder I can’t hold down a relationship.”
“What are you mumbling about, bro?” asked Farrell. He came out of the room next door wearing black Harley boxers, and nothing else, his
bare back still bandaged from the knife wound a ganger had inflicted.
Blaine’s foster brother was tall and blond, polar opposite to his own shorter, darker Latino heritage—still, apart from appearances, in all other ways they were brothers. “Talking to myself like a goddam nut case,” said Blaine, “Pissed I can’t seem to make a relationship work.”
“You gonna be mad at Bobby forever for taking Carson?”
“Mad at myself that I was too fuckin boring for her.”
“You ain’t boring, bro,” Farrell kept pace beside Blaine on the steps—one riser at a time was all the taped ribs and restricted breathing would allow— “I bet Einstein was no hell at relationships—too much thinking about splittin atoms and shit, and not enough screwin around time—just like you. I’m gonna Google it.”
Blaine snorted as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Go for it, Farrell. Can’t wait till you lay it on me.”
Farrell went straight into the kitchen while Blaine trudged down the long narrow hallway to the back entrance to let Lexi out.
Two mugs full of steaming caffeine and the cream carton were on the kitchen table when Blaine returned. “Looks different out there now that the bulldozing is done,” said Blaine. “Landscaper should start today.”
“Hot to be working outside,” said Farrell, “for anybody. Even assholes that are used to it.” He spooned three heaping into his coffee and stirred methodically.
Blaine eyed Farrell. “Lotta sugar. Ever thought about cutting back?”
A grin spread across Farrell’s unshaven face. “No. You?”
Blaine snorted and was still laughing at his brother when Carmelita hurried through the doorway wearing one of her spotless white aprons. “Buenos dias, mi Corazon.”
Carm answered in Spanish. “What do my beautiful boys want for breakfast?”
Carmelita Flores was the mother of Blaine’s former love, Fabiana, who had died while on a DEA assignment in Columbia. Even though he and Carm weren’t officially related, Blaine was all the family Carm had, and they’d grown close.
Annie Powell, Blaine and Farrell’s adopted mother lived on her ranch east of Austin.
“Waffles, Carm,” hollered Farrell, “and sausages, and I’m gonna drown those babies in syrup.”
“Jesus,” said Blaine, “you’re gonna be on one fuckin sugar high today.”
“What do you care, boss, if I’m letting fly at old ladies that look at me sideways? You won’t be working with me. You’re heading up to Abilene, ain’t ya?”
Blaine smiled at Farrell, but the smile faded when his cell rang. He pulled a face when he read the screen. “Chief.”
“Morning, son, and yes, I know you’re on vacay and heading up to Abilene today—I didn’t forget—but I need you to take this one for me. Just get it organized and then hand it off to your boys, is all I’m asking.”
“Does it tick my boxes?” asked Blaine as he reached for his yellow pad that was never too far away.
“Got the breakfast news on?”
“No, the TV’s not on in the kitchen, Chief. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“Been an increase in car jackings in the city, at events—you know how many fuckin events and concerts we have in Austin—anyway, this is the second one where the vehicle owner has ended up dead and laying in the parking space where his car or truck used to be.”
“The jackers are killing the owners?”
“Could be those were the only two that caught them in the act, but shows they aren’t backing down or running off when the owner shows up.”
“Give me the locate.” Blaine wrote it down. “Is the scene secure?”
“Yep, I’ll tell Mort to expect you soon.”
Blaine pressed end. “Yeah, soon. Fuck, bro, polish off those waffles and get some clothes on. We’re working.”
Mill Antiques II. La Grange.
TRAVIS STOOD in the living room of his apartment above the antique store, gazing down at the lush common across the street, his second mug of coffee in his hand. A couple of people sat on benches under the old oaks inhaling morning caffeine and enjoying a toasted bagel from Sterne’s deli on the west end of the town square.
He loved his rented space almost as much as he loved his landlord, but that love could go nowhere. Every day was a battle to put Annie out of his mind and concentrate on work or something else—someone else—anything else.
The day before, he had cleaned his whole space and it was huge, the entire second floor above the store. He inhaled the lingering pine scent and congratulated himself on a job well done. He hadn’t been a Major in the Marines for nothing. He knew how to work.
What the hell am I gonna do today? I’m no good at vacation time.
“I’m damn fortunate I got my job back,” he mumbled to himself. “Got to get my head on straight and do a decent job for Blacky, or the next time my retirement will be permanent.”
Got to put Annie out of my mind. From here on in, we’re friends and friends only.
He strolled back to the kitchen for a refill and his cell was jangling on the kitchen table. “Yeah, boss, what’s up?”
“Meet me at this address,” Blacky sounded pissed as he hollered out directions. “We’re working.”
Travis grabbed a scrap and scribbled the address. “Thank the Lord.”
Blaine chuckled. “Too much down time, Trav?”
“You know it. What are we looking at?”
“Rash of car jackings—some more brutal than others.”
“Car jackings ain’t us, boss.”
“They are if the vehicle owners are dead on the pavement.”
“How many?”
“This is the second one, but the powers are antsy.”
“Yep. Give me twenty and I’m there.”
He grabbed his Steyr and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans. “Too fuckin hot for a harness.”
ANNIE AND NEIL both waved to Travis as he backed his silver F-450 out of the tiny parking lot behind the store.
“Looked like Travis was in a hurry, Mom,” said Neil. “Maybe there’s another crime wave in Austin.”
“You have an active imagination, sweetheart. He’s probably just late for work. He just got his job back and he can’t afford to goof off right now.”
“How long has Travis been a tenant upstairs?” asked Neil, “like forever?”
“Not forever, but a few years. I guess since he started working for Jesse and Blaine. He’s a good tenant. Quiet—almost silent—I never hear him up there, and he always pays his rent on time. Almost always.”
“Wonder if I’ll ever be a landlord,” said Neil. “Hope I’m not one of those slum landlords that you see on the crime shows on TV. They look like a mean lot. Turning off the heat on babies in the winter and stuff like that.”
Annie giggled. “I don’t think you would do that, honey. It’s not in your nature.”
“What if I’ve got stuff in my nature that I don’t know about—like from my biological parents? Farrell told me my dad was a bad, violent man. He drank himself crazy and beat my mom up all the time and that’s why she got hooked on drugs and left us.”
“She must have had a life-threatening reason to go and leave two beautiful boys like you and Farrell, honey bunny. A bad move by her, but a gift to me.”
Neil grinned as Annie unlocked the back door of the store. “I love you, Mom.”
Quantrall Ranch. Giddings.
JESSE PUSHED CHARITY’S stroller to the barn after breakfast. He had a couple of horses to break in and Tyler had set up a playpen in the office, so he could watch her while they both worked.
“Hey, baby, are you gonna work with your Uncle Ty this morning?”
“Ty,” said Charity, and reached out her little arms.
Ty unbuckled her from the stroller and lifted her out just as Jesse’s cell rang.
He grabbed it off his belt and answered. “Hey partner, how’s the vacation time going?”
“Not worth a flyin fuck, Jesse. We g
ot a case this morning, just as I was ready to leave for Abilene.”
“Right, you’re going up to talk to Mr. Park about your parents.”
“Calhoun called and dumped one on us. Seems he’s got car-jackers playing a little rough. Two dead so far with their rides in the wind.”
“Shit,” said Jesse, “Most times the jackers boost them from parking lots and there’s no contact.”
“I’m headed to the Events Center now, and I wondered if you could get hold of the file from the Chief and give the boys some direction while I’m gone?”
“The victim is in the parking lot at the Events Center?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll talk to Calhoun this afternoon and tell him I’m taking the lead until you get back. When are you leaving?”
“Hoped to leave today, but it’s not happening.”
Events Center. Austin.
A LARGE SECTION OF THE PARKING lot at the Events Center had been cordoned off, but that didn’t prevent the media from swarming around the outside of the barricades like hungry barracuda. They zeroed in on Blaine’s tricked out diesel as he turned off the street, and they rolled towards him like a wave on Maui. The uniforms at the gate waved him through and stopped the media in their tracks.
Blaine parked and tried to cope with his restricted oxygen supply and the instant pain that too much movement caused—there was a reason he was taped up like a mummy and on leave. He struggled out from under the steering wheel, out of breath and more than a little bit pissy. He grunted as he stepped down from the side-step and slammed the truck door.
“Thought you were on vacay, Mr. B?” asked one of the uniformed officers.
“I thought so too.” Blaine winked at the officer. “Funny how that works.”
Mort Simon, the medical examiner was on his knees beside a man in his late thirties. The victim’s head lay in a pool of congealed blood, his skull split open by something heavy-duty.