Mask of a Hunter

by Sylvie Kurtz

  “Oh, and don’t try to make another call from that gas station phone. Remember Terra, our Verizon lady? She’s on duty today. Another call goes out of Craig’s Convenient Care any time in the next ten minutes, I’ll know, and the bitches go.” A sandpaper laugh grated over the line. “And just to make things more exciting, you’ve got fourteen minutes to make it to the boat ramp and hand Chief Simpson that goose or yours is cooked.”

  Before he could say anything, the phone went dead. Chief Simpson—the bumbling local cop who ran Summersfield’s six-man force was the inside man. No big surprise there. They’d suspected as much since Ace’s predecessor turned up dead.

  Fourteen minutes. Ace could play Taz’s way—fly flat out to the boat ramp, hand the chief some sort of goose that would scatter the task force away from the cook site long enough for Taz to pull up stakes. Or he could rocket it to Summersfield and hope he got there in time to save the women he loved.

  And that left him no choice at all.

  The goose was a diversion not only for the task force, but also for him. There was no way Tank could disappear without getting rid of Rory and Bianca. He’d leave their bleached bones behind for Ace to find—payback for Mike. A torture that would torment him more than death.

  He strode into the convenience store attached to the gas pumps. Terra may have him pinned to this phone, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a way around it. “Hey, man, the phone’s broke. You got a cell I can borrow to call my old lady before she chews me out for bringing home the wrong kind of tampons.”

  As expected, the clerk gave him a poor-sap look and shouted across the aisle. “Jack, this guy needs your phone for a sec.”

  Ace called Falconer, then bought the cheapest box of tampons off the shelf and high-tailed it toward Summers-field.

  HANGING FROM A HOOK tied to a supporting center beam like a side of beef, sweat basting her, Rory forced herself to appraise her situation. Her wrists—she could barely feel her hands anymore—and ankles were bound with something that looked like plastic anti-theft packaging ties. Duct tape covered her mouth. Fear sizzled her every nerve. For herself, for Bianca, for Ace.

  He wouldn’t follow orders. Not with Bianca involved. For his sister, he would come racing across the county and walk right into a trap. She had no way to warn him that this barn hosted an array of booby traps posted to kill him. She couldn’t move an inch without feeling as if her arms were going to rip right out of their sockets like chicken wings. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even fashion some sort of communication with Bianca who now swung from the fat knot at the end of the rope as if it were a swing. She sang lullabies with such sweet longing, it made Rory want to cry.

  Absolute helplessness jammed all her circuits. Always before when she found herself in a tough spot, she’d done something—even if that something was to run. No hitting the escape key this time.

  So her gaze buzzed around the barn. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Crushing the glass flasks on the worktable, kicking over the pails piled here and there, knocking over milk jugs filled with pills, all required freedom of movement and range she didn’t have.

  Taz bustled like a spider unweaving a web, dismantling, sorting, packing. Tank, who—surprise, surprise—was not the boot-licking pug she’d thought him to be, but the brains behind the organization, watched everything from his perch in the hayloft.

  In the distance she heard a high-pitched purr. Ace’s motorcycle. No mistaking it after the quality time she’d spent with it, what?, only a few days ago? Go away. Go away. Go away. She sawed the plastic strip binding her wrists against the metal hook, hoping to find a sharp burr in the metal. Please, please, please break. The purr settled, deepened. She sawed faster. All she managed to do was bloody her wrists. Vroom, vroom. Did Ace realize he did that when he was nervous? Frenzied thoughts scuttled like rats on garbage. Warn him. Warn him. Warn him. How? Oh, God, he was going to walk in and they were going to blow his head right off his shoulders—just as they’d done with Glasser.

  And then she went still. A lucid understanding cleared the cobweb haze of her childhood. She saw it then, the combination of fear and bliss in her mother’s blue eyes—the reason her mother had followed her father all over the world, the reason she’d chosen a life on the road rather than staying at home with her children, worrying, the reason she’d died with him. It wasn’t bravery. It wasn’t a love for action. It was love for a man. Her father with his birthday cake smile and sun-bright eyes. Her mother had loved him and saw no other way to share her life with him.

  As Rory heard the motorcycle’s engine sputter to silence, she knew she would do the same. She loved Ace. She’d follow him anywhere. She would rather die with him, than sitting alone at home, waiting. She could not let him walk in here and die.

  Bianca swung back and forth on the thick rope, her earlier melancholic songs turning to blubbery nonsense. Swing closer, Bianca. Please, swing closer. If she could get Bianca close enough, Rory could get her to scream.

  “I wouldn’t squirm too much if I were you,” Tank said. “The boards are thin and the stuff underneath’ll eat the skin right off your bones.” He jerked on a rope tied to a metal ring on the boards beneath her feet. A section of boards moved. A horrid stench of acid and death gushed through the opening. Rory stilled.

  “I can help it along.” Tank’s lips curled up, hyena-style, over his stained teeth. He lowered the rope tied to the hook from which she hung. The pulley squeaked like a trapped mouse until the toes of her shoes crept into the opening. “Add another skeleton to my closet.”

  Tank jerked Rory back up. The plastic cut deeper into her wrists. Pain sliced through her. As he tied down the rope, she swung like a piñata until she was turned around.

  She had a clear view of the open barn door, of the oak under which the horses grazed, of the curving dirt road. Not that her view did her or Ace any good. Neither did the rifles propped against the stalls as if they were pitchforks. She had to get something loose—hands, feet, mouth—something. She couldn’t just let Ace walk into this mess.

  Bianca’s blubbers turned into a cross between a wail and utter despair.

  Hang on, Bianca. Swing closer. Swing closer.

  WHAT BETTER PLACE to hide a meth lab than in plain sight? Who would think to look across a sewer treatment plant and a small industrial park to a bucolic farm where horses grazed? Who would notice the extra stink with so much stench already reeking the air?

  Curbing the motorcycle a quarter mile away, Ace made his first pass at the farm on foot. He spotted the government car outside the farm’s closed gates. He took in the horses, the dog, the two Harleys parked inside the horse trailer in the far barn next to the tractor. Few gang members knew the cook site—another reason its location had remained a mystery for so long. The less people knew, the less information they could vomit when trapped. Ace figured those in the know numbered less than five. The cook. The boss. The dispatcher. Maybe a moneyman. Maybe a higher connection. But you didn’t want all your eggs on site in case of a crush. Two bikes—Tank and Taz’s—two men. Maybe three. Tank was rarely seen without Deacon.

  The dog was barking before he arrived, so Ace ignored him. He slid to the horse trailer and slipped some tampons down the bike’s gas tanks. He fed the rest to the tank of the 4x4 pickup hitched to the trailer for good measure.

  As he approached the buildings, instincts twitched like antennas and picked up no good vibes. All the activity was in the middle barn. He noted entrances and exits.

  Glasser lay in a heap, blood pooled around him. The back of his head was missing. Dead.

  Bianca cried a lamentation worthy of an operatic aria. Whenever his mother had put on Lucia di Lammermoor, Ace had shoved on his sneakers and bolted out of the apartment. Opera meant another heartache Carlotta would soothe by braying along with Lucia and swigging meth-laced grape juice.

  Rory. Where was Rory? Then he saw her, hanging from a center supporting beam. Not rushing in took everything he had. But if he wa
s to get any chance to help her and Bianca, he had to make it on his terms, not the Sons’.

  He forced his gaze away, searching the darkness. Taz was packing crates with supplies. Tank, he could not locate, and that bothered him.

  Then he heard the unmistakable soprano whine of Tank’s voice high in the rafters. “His minutes are up. Did he show?”

  Ace knew he’d run out of time.

  TIME WAS OF THE ESSENCE and Sebastian’s Seekers were too scattered to round up in time. Halfway to the Bales farm, he’d received Ace’s call, made a U-turn and buzzed Kingsley. Felicia would have to wait. If she was dead, there was nothing he could do about it. If she was alive, then she was as safe where she was as she’d been for the past few weeks. One of his men was in danger and he’d have to depend on this task force still jockeying for position at the dock. But he didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t move now, he’d not only lose his chance to shut down this drug corridor, he’d lose a good man and a valued friend.

  After sending Kingsley on his way, Sebastian called the FBI agent in charge at the boat ramp.

  “You’re civilian,” the FBI agent said. “You have no authority here.”

  “My man, my tip, my operation. I’m not sitting by watching everything fall apart just because none of you can decide who’s top dog. I don’t give a damn who struts for the TV cameras once this is all over. I’m getting my man out.”

  NO TIME TO WAIT for the cavalry. No time for finesse. Ace needed to get through the gate to give Falconer access and free up an escape route for himself. The gate was old-fashioned with two pieces that met and locked in the middle. He got into the government car.

  Although he wanted nothing more than to ram into the fence at full speed, he needed the car in good shape to escape with Rory and Bianca. Keeping the car at forty miles per hour took an act of will. He kept his foot on the gas as he went through and ducked just before the impact to avoid pieces of fence. A metal pole hit the windshield, spiked through. The glass spidered and crazed. Another pole vaulted off, away from the car’s underside.

  Now that he’d made his presence known, the trick was to keep all possibilities open. The barn was a chemical cloud waiting to explode. He couldn’t drive the car into it. Weapon drawn, he slowly made his way around the building. Keeping his body as small a target as he could, he entered through an open window.

  He dropped silently into an empty stall. Heat glued to him, wringing out sweat. What was wrong with this picture? The quiet. It was suddenly too damn quiet. Evil holding its breath. Bianca was no longer crying. Taz was no longer moving gear. He’d bet the change in his pocket Tank was no longer playing rooster in the rafters.

  Bianca railed at some unknown attacker two stalls down. Rory hung from the ceiling, pure bait. He was expected to charge in to the rescue. With peripheral vision, he focused on a flash to his left. Sunlight clashing against metal. Without moving his head, he followed the line of wire to the refrigerator door on the opposite side of the concrete aisle. No such thing as a harmless trip wire. Not with so much money at stake. Dirty tricks were stock maneuvers for paranoid rats.

  He had no choice. He couldn’t vault over the stall door because he didn’t know what or who was on the other side. He couldn’t simply shove the door open because that would trip the wire. He had to put his weapon down to disarm the booby trap or they’d all go up in smoke. He laid the weapon down close and reached into his pocket for his knife. That’s when the board hit him square in the back, knocking him flat on his face. A boot stomped across his back, crushing the breath out of him. And the business end of a rifle thrust into the base of his skull.

  “That’s the problem with being a hero,” Tank said in his mosquito whine. “Makes your actions predictable. I knew you’d come. I knew you’d crawl through that window. Now I can take care of all the dirty laundry at the same time.”

  THEY WERE GOING to kill him and there was nothing Rory could do. Tank cocked his rifle. The chuck-chuck tripped a surge of fear. A scream banged up her throat. Ace! But all that came through her duct-tape gag was a muffle. She sawed faster, frustrated tears cascading from her as heavily as the sweat from her efforts. Please, please, please break.

  Just as Tank’s finger curled around the trigger, Ace flowed, one hand sweeping the rifle’s barrel, the other sinking a knife into Tank’s thigh. The rifle fired, causing a boom and a distant thunder that shook the boards. Across the aisle, fire sparked and hissed, latching onto the dry wood, gorging on its fuel. Tank curled defensively around his wound, wailing like a schoolyard bully. Ace scrambled up, only to run into Taz as he grabbed a rifle from the wall and rounded the corner.

  Taz lifted the barrel. Aimed. Ignoring the searing pain at her wrists, Rory swung her legs back, then forward. Using all the force she could muster, she planted her feet square in the middle of Taz’s back and pushed off. He staggered forward, emptying his rifle’s load into the concrete aisle. Chunks of cement flew up. Smoke spewed from the barn wall, curling into the aisle. She dangled, a useless piece of meat, unable to control the rope’s sway.

  Bianca screamed, “Get them off! Get them off!” She thrashed in the stall like a wild horse saddled for the first time.

  Taz flipped to his back and lifted his rifle once more. But Ace was already on the move. Knife in one hand, supporting Rory by the waist with the other, he hacked at the rope holding her up. She landed in a heap against him. Swinging her away from the pit, Ace snipped through the plastic ties at her ankle and wrists.

  Rifle anchored at his shoulder, Taz rushed them. His weapon jammed. Discarding the dud, he swerved, searching for a replacement.

  Ace stood her up on weak legs, handed her the knife and pushed her toward Bianca. “Get her out. Now!”

  Choking on the smoke, Rory hesitated, wanting to pull him to safety with her.

  “I’m right behind you,” he said, his voice all steel and edge. Spinning into a crouch, he snagged a rifle leaning against the stall wall. “Hurry, this place is going to blow.”

  He turned to face the smoky silhouette charging toward him.

  Ripping the duct tape from her mouth, Rory rushed toward the stall and unlatched the door. “Bianca, hurry. We have to go.”

  The girl pulled at her hair, yanking hanks out. “Get them off! Get them off!”

  Rory tugged at Bianca’s arm and got slashed with nails for her trouble. She threw herself at Bianca, bringing her down. Bianca kicked, bit and punched. “We have to go, Bianca.”

  “Get them off! Get them off!”

  Bianca was high and out of reach, Rory realized. So Rory used a hold she’d once read about in a street-fighting self-defense book. As they’d predicted, Bianca fainted. Half dragging, half carrying the girl, Rory escaped through the back opening of the barn.

  A series of shots rang out. A guttural cry. Then silence. Grip tightening around Bianca’s limp body, Rory whirled. “Ace?”

  Just as she was about to drop Bianca to find Ace, Sebastian and Kingsley appeared. “Ace is in there. Hurry. Tank. Taz. They have rifles.”

  As they stepped toward the barn, a tremor shook the ground.

  “Get down!” Sebastian yelled.

  A second later, a flame shot through the roof. Splinters of wood and metal catapulted through the air, bringing down the whole structure as if it were a handful of pickup sticks. The concussion knocked Sebastian and Kingsley back like plastic toy soldiers. Rory was flattened on top of Bianca.

  As fire rained from the sky, something in her burst. Pain shattered through her like a mirror breaking. Rory clawed at the ground and crawled toward the building. Tears smudged the white-hot flames into a mirage. She loved him. He couldn’t leave her. Not like this. A scream clambered out of her chest, climbed her throat and scraped it raw. It ripped out of her mouth, tearing her soul in two, and crashed against her brain in a shockwave. “Ace!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sebastian surveyed the damages at the farm.

  The fire had burned so hot, nothing
remained of the wood structure but a pile of ash. Outside the concrete slab that was the floor of the barn, the crime scene team—dressed in full haz-mat suits—stacked the evidence: charred metal containers of camp stove fuel, blackened glass flasks stained with red sludge, partially melted five-gallon buckets of white crank powder and the yellow MSM powder used as a cut to turn a pound of pure meth into four pounds of pure profit. Tank, aka Darren Stocking, had used his sister’s horses as a cover for his consumption of veterinary supplies, and this property, rented by his sister, as a cover for his lab.

  In the second barn, hidden under the boards of the tack room, they found a storage container jam-packed with small bags filled with waxy yellow chunks in the shape of puffed rice. In the loft with the hay, they seized assault rifles, bulletproof vests and seventy-five thousand dollars in cash.

  At ten pounds of meth per cook and a cook every month, Tank’s retail business exceeded four million dollars a year. No one would have ever guessed it by the way he lived. He was always the most low-key member of the gang.

  The pseudoephedrine came from a family who owned a wholesale grocery supply company and filtered the drug to Laci Drake, a distant relative and also Deacon’s girlfriend. She ran a health-food store in Summersfield. Laci in turn passed the cold medicine on to Taz, who got it to Tank, using his printing business delivery truck as cover. Taz and Mike laundered the dirty cash through their clean businesses.

  The whole thing was as choreographed as a ballet and they kept one twirl ahead by buying off Summersfield’s chief of police, who conveniently was a member of the task force.

  Taz and Tank had gone up protecting their assets. Fifty-one staples held together Mike’s battered skull. But even the brain surgery could not put Humpty back together again. He would always be a mere shadow of himself and most likely would never leave the nursing home. Twenty-three gang members were in jail, awaiting trial. Some would sing, implicating others in return for lesser sentences. Sebastian hated the way the system worked, but putting the big fish behind bars was worth letting a few little ones go free.