by R. T. Wolfe
"While your question is understandable, I am not going to answer it. The men needed to search and potentially excavate the sites are not the same men you'll use for busting human trafficking rings. You have the manpower for both. I do, too."
This was not entirely true, but his Nickie was an expert at not entirely true.
"Yours is faster. That's all," she finished. "What's it gonna be, Hurst?"
"What are the dates?" Hurst asked. Nickie said he would ask this and planned to give it to him as a breadcrumb.
"Date," she corrected, inhaled deeply and said, "July 2nd."
He nodded and ran his fingers over his jaw. "If I agree, you'll hand over Parker?"
"After. I need him for collateral."
He pulled his cell from the inside pocket of his black suit jacket. "With the press of a button, I could have you arrested for obstruction of justice, kidnapping and disobeying a direct order."
"Except you are responsible for the incarceration of sixty-three abused and molested children. Your organization is responsible for the breach in the Maine witness protection location and for the escape of Jun Zheng."
Duncan winced at the low blows.
"And you're a good man. A good cop. You have the power. This is in your hands."
Hurst held out his hand. "Okay, Nick. You've got a deal."
The corners of her eyes loosened. Her blink was a longer than usual, and her shoulders dropped. No one else would see it, but Duncan did.
* * *
The muscles in Nickie's neck ached like she'd just swum three miles. Unfortunately, she hadn't. Her purpose for this planet rode on this operation. There was no time for stiff muscles.
Lunch was over, but her stomach still growled. It threatened to toss back anything that went in. Jess caught his flight, and Dave took Amanda back to work.
Hurst, Duncan and she were left to hash out details. For now, she sort of wanted it that way.
The dry erase board with the conditions she'd given Hurst remained. Instead of erasing it, she pulled a clean one over the top of it. Before she numbered this board, she glanced to Duncan. He believed in her and, for whatever reason, loved her.
If she could get through this... if she could take down the organization that stole eighteen months of her life and continued to decimate the lives of children everywhere, she could focus on that starting a family thing. A brief image crossed her mind. She and Duncan as they held an infant between them. They were in a home in the—
Duncan cleared his throat. Shaking her head clear, Nickie blinked and spun around as she lifted the marker in her hand.
Number one: Professional boxing—Manhattan, NY.
Number two: Horse race—Cleveland, OH.
Number three: Car race—Daytona, FL.
Number four: Horse race—Louisville, KY.
Number five: Poker Tournament—Baraboo, WI.
Number six: Horse race—Albuquerque, NM.
Number seven: Celebrity poker tournament—Las Vegas, NV.
Plus a poker tournament in Lima, Peru, and horse races in Vancouver, but these were out of his jurisdiction. As they were out of hers. She glanced to Duncan. His subdued expression read confidence and support.
She drew a horizontal line between Daytona and Albuquerque. "Amanda Nolan will handle the placing of rescued children for location numbers one through three, Jess Larsen four through seven."
"This," she said as she circled Vegas, "is the rescue I'm leading. I have connections—" Or Duncan had connections, "—with sources who can get Slippery Jimbo inside the tournament." She hoped.
"Where will Detective Lynx be in all of this?" Hurst asked.
He knew exactly where Eddy would be. Nice try. She shrugged.
He walked to her, then around her. Picking up a red marker, he pulled the cap off with his teeth.
Across the top in all caps, Hurst wrote the words OPERATION FU HAIZI, then underlined it in one quick swipe.
Chapter 18
The new brushes Duncan ordered from Canada had arrived. Windsor and Newton. The studio he created in Andy's guest room didn't have a suitable easel or seating, but it had been so long since Duncan had painted, he dove in like a child in a candy store. The outline of his Nickie formed on the free hand paper in front of him. It was as he remembered her that day, standing in front of the room full of people she respected, presenting the most perilous proposal of her life.
He needed proper lighting, a bigger canvas and more comfortable clothing. None of it mattered that evening. His Nickie, his partner, his wife. She was coming closer to grasping her purpose, her meaning. Not that precise moment, of course. Currently, she was thirty minutes into her standard forty-five minute shower. The true meaning that had become her life had become his as well. He assumed this happened to people who became as one.
A deep charcoal created the lines of her hips and thighs as they fit beneath the slacks she'd chosen that morning. The purest of blues created the curves that filled her blouse and her posture. Golden browns helped express the way she spoke with her hands.
Most of his life had been marred with his memory, his curse. He searched from location to location and occupation to occupation for his reason for being. He spent his childhood pretending it wasn't real, his high school and college years using it for selfish ambitions.
He'd searched for purpose in the armed forces and left with post traumatic stress disorder. Painting for the rich and famous? The time had been the pinnacle of his failed attempts, yet its essence was what brought him and his Nickie together.
The sound of her hair dryer ceased. In the few years spent with this woman, he'd been part of rescuing more abused children, finding more missing women and saving more captive persons than he could have dreamed of in his wildest imagination. And he had a vivid imagination.
Her boots deserved the deepest of his blacks. He chose the medium that would leave the best impression of the black patent leather ones she'd chosen for that day. The door to the bathroom cracked but didn't open. He assumed she released the moisture from the air inside.
They were going to succeed. Operation Fu Haizi. The words written in Special Agent Hurst's handwriting would be etched in Duncan's mind for the rest of his life. Red and in all capital letters. In less than two weeks, they were going to gather the rest of the damning data from the Peru headquarters database, rescue the children from the eight locations, arrest the pedophiles identified on the hacked databases and put Jun Zheng and Edward and Ivanna Monticello away for the rest of their lives.
He blinked at the movement from the corner of his eyes. His Nickie stood in her pajamas, a new pair of shorts she'd purchased since the fire. They had pink ruffles around the bottoms and matched the color of the lacy tank she'd put on. She wore pajamas, yet she styled her hair. Closer scrutiny revealed she wore makeup as well.
She tilted her head and walked around his makeshift art studio. The ruffles were a numbing distraction, as were the thighs beneath them.
"This is quite a set up you've made," she said and laid her lips on his cheek. She stepped away before his brain caught up to the other parts of his body and he had a chance to grab hold of her. Curiosity won over as his eyes followed her purposeful movements.
Placing his brush in the case next to him, he waited patiently. She took the chair from the desk and set it in the center of the room. Then, she strode to the side of the bed and picked up her cello stand. The physical reaction to this was more than acceptable. It was like Pavlov's dog. Did she realize how many hours he could paint when she played her cello? Yes. The muscles in his face relaxed. She was well aware of this.
She set the stand down, stepped away and judged the placement before readjusting the black metal piece of equipment he'd purchased for her. Twice. She could adjust it another dozen times if it meant he could watch. Her thighs and calves tightened, flexing with each shift in her body weight.
The cello was next. It took less adjusting. His eyes closed, and he contemplated starting a new paint
ing. His wife in one of his most cherished spots, playing her cello as he painted.
Looking at the paper that rested in front of him, he noticed a spot on the forearm of his drawing that needed adjustment. So, he picked up the smaller brush.
Without pretense and just as if it were something as simple as showering or placing her instrument, she took hold of the lacy tank and pulled it over her head. Every corner of his lungs emptied. Beneath was nothing but the creamy skin of his wife. The paintbrush fell to the floor. Had he covered the bristles with paint? He had no idea and no plans to investigate.
With the most ordinary, methodical expression on her face, she stepped out of the ruffled pink shorts and underwear in one single swoop. Her bare toes were painted an aqua blue. Had he noticed this before? She smiled at him as she rosined her bow.
As his mouth was certainly shaped in a wide O, he imagined his chin hung close to the floor. As only his detective could do, she slung a bare leg over the top of the chair and sat. She adjusted the cello between her legs, tuned it for the longest few moments of his life, then pulled the bow across the strings.
The expression on her face was part peaceful bliss and part ornery blonde. He had no idea which he preferred, but found himself switching to a canvas and starting a new painting. His fingers couldn't move fast enough. The cello, the stand. His wife. The position on the chair caused her hip to protrude like an invitation.
She planned this. She styled her hair and put makeup on just before midnight in his brother's home. He was certainly the luckiest man alive.
The fingers on her left hand danced along the neck of the instrument like the legs of a spider as her head moved back and forth with the bow. Part peaceful bliss.
Never once did she give the impression she was naked. "I find it interesting that in the fleeting moments we've had to replenish material possessions, you've chosen clothing and makeup before home goods," he said to her. Part ornery.
A single eye opened to him. "Interesting or disturbing? Didn't know you're stuck with a material girl, did you?"
"Material as in one who needs next to nothing in the way of shelter, possessions, vacations or vehicles?"
"Oh no. My vehicle is huge. Size matters."
He nearly choked on his tongue, but kept his pretense and dipped his brush. "Agreed. However, when the price of said vehicle is ten percent of the cost of an average vehicle, I say nay to the materialism."
"What about you?" she asked.
"Hmm?" World War III took place within him.
"You're used to living in big houses, with the best furniture, indoor pools—wow, do I miss that by the way—ginormous vacations, and the best cars money can buy. Except, all you've bought so far is painting stuff."
"And a cello."
That made her smile. "A Stradivarius. Sometime we should probably think about a place to call home."
"This is ridiculous," he said and set his brush down. "What kind of restraint do you think I have?" He walked to her, took the bow and set it on the desk. She plucked the first several lines of the Jazzy Cello at Barbas. He remembered.
He held out his hand and, without disagreement, she accepted and stood. He placed his hands on the sides of her face, lacing his fingers into her hair. Looking into each of her eyes, he noted that the steel gray was both peaceful and ornery. It was a familiar yet sparse expression in the past few months, and he looked forward to helping her keep it there.
First things first. Slipping his hands behind her bare knees and naked back, he lifted her from the light oak floor and carried her to the bed.
* * *
Nickie offered to take a turn at riding the perimeter. The sun would go down soon. Without a cloud in the sky, the bright orange blinked in and out between branches as she rode in the trees.
Clean air blew through her hair and her mind. Abigail trotted her happy trot. Nickie missed their rides together. Xena's tail wagged like mad as she zigzagged and circled around her and Duncan. Yet, it did little to erase the wrong or unjust in her world.
As she came to the highest spot outside of Andy's property line, she slowed Abigail to a walk before stopping altogether. From this vantage point, the blackened spot that was once her home showed through the trees. The unjust.
Xena came and sat in front of her, then tilted her head the way dogs did. "I don't know what that means, girl." It made Nickie smile. She gave the command, "Free," and the pup took off. She sniffed and searched and romped, but kept within eyesight of Nickie and Duncan.
He led the horse he rode next to Abigail and stopped. Leaning over, he stroked the white spots that covered Abigail's golden brown snout. Her long tail swished behind them as she snorted happily and stomped a foot.
"What are you thinking?" Duncan asked her.
The wrong. How the abuse she suffered both internally and externally likely left her unable to have a child. "I was thinking about how life is ten percent the shit that happens to us and ninety percent the way we react to said shit."
"Introspective and forward thinking, and spoken as only my Nickie could."
She smiled and dipped her chin. The setting sun warmed the side of her face and left the jacket she'd tied around her waist unnecessary. "What about you?" She turned to him. When was the last time they had a moment like this? His expression did not look like he considered anything wrong or unjust. The wind in his dark brown hair made him look sexy.
He reached out his arm and opened his hand. She placed hers in his. The ring that sat on her left finger rested on top like a flower on a wedding cake. He laced his fingers in hers as he turned his head from the left to the right.
She joined him as they scanned the area for signs of wildlife, a passerby or any Fu Haizi insurgents waiting to shoot them. The scene was like a picture. The lush green that came with late June was everywhere, but not only ninety percent everywhere. Ten percent of what she saw was the brown of the tree trunks and the occasional dead tree.
"I am thinking," he answered. "That we cannot make a fire until all of this is finished."
Reality, yes. The tracks in and around the vast area that surrounded Andy's home belonged to his horses and their Rottweiler with thin trails of deer hooves and thinner yet where rabbits ran. The location of Dale Parker at the Reed Ranch was safe. For now.
Their fire circle. It was hidden to the west between them and the black pile of rubble that once was their home. Smoke signals would not help their concealed state. The small circle of stones with fallen logs arranged as seats around it would have to wait for the end of Operation Fu Haizi.
"I am also thinking," he continued and squeezed her fingers, "that although we cannot make a fire, we can still take time to paint and play."
Paint as in finish the nude he started the night before, and play as in her new Stradivarius. She liked this idea.
"I believe you should be required to finish what you started," he said.
She had started last night, hadn't she? It made her blush and look around like someone might hear him out in the middle of nothing but trees. That was when she saw it. Movement to the north. A deer? Coyote? "Xena!" Nickie commanded. The pup raised her nose from deep in a pile of brush, then turned her head in the direction of Nickie's pointed finger.
Xena sprinted in a straight line, zigzagging only when she needed to avoid a tree or sapling. Duncan's heels flew out to the side, then nudged his horse. Abigail took off like a thoroughbred out of the gate.
Through the trunks, she spotted him as Abigail pushed the limits of her speed. Dressed in black, he mounted a motorcycle. Stray branches whipped Nickie's arms and legs as they left the beaten path. She searched for others as she and Duncan converged. The engine of his bike revved and his tires spun, but it was too late. A few yards to go, Xena leaped. She soared through the air with her four legs extended as the bike fishtailed and moved.
The girl landed on his back and sank her teeth into his shoulder. He wailed as his arm flew back and struck her. Xena went down. The man went down on t
op of Xena, the bike on top of both of them. The throttle was stuck as the back tire raced circles.
Nickie and Duncan hit the clearing just as the bike slid from the man's legs, cut out and died. Xena snarled and bit like a rabid animal. The man covered his head and ducked.
In a volume Nickie rarely heard from Duncan, he commanded, "Xena, heel."
Both Nickie and Xena jumped at the sound. Xena didn't heel, but she did let go of the man and sat. He thrashed and gripped his shoulder. Binoculars fell out of his pocket.
Duncan looked to her. "It's time to relocate," she said and dismounted, pulling her handcuffs from her belt.
Chapter 19
If anyone tried to tell Nickie she would be back at this place a second time, she would have doubted it. But a third? And to stay for who knew how long?
The moment she'd spotted the Fu Haizi scout near the Reed Ranch, she knew where to relocate. Maybe subconsciously even before then. It was the only location she could hide Parker that Fu Haizi would never check. A place Jun Zheng had abandoned himself.
"It's difficult for me to imagine this neighborhood ever recovering from the housing crash," Duncan said as he turned onto the drive in the blistering desert heat.
"Same tall weeds covering the driveway," Nickie said. They smacked the bumper as Duncan crawled along the gravel until he reached the single car, detached garage.
"Fuck," Parker said under his breath.
"Anytime you want us to send you to the wolves, Parker, just let us know."
She checked the surroundings. No tires had driven on the property in weeks, maybe months, but she did notice a narrow trail worn in the weeds that led from the alley behind the garage to the back door. It was thin, like the ones made by the deer in the woods behind Andy's place.
"We went from a mansion in Maine, to a ranch in Northridge, to this," Parker whined. "Just sayin'."
"Shut up, loser," Eddy barked, "Or we keep you in the basement."
He was justified. The bullet wound Parker put in Eddy's gut wasn't even healed yet. "There is a basement, right?" he asked Nickie.