Fatal Strike

by DiAnn Mills

  Her heart beat so fast that it hurt. “You’ll need to make an appointment and complete paperwork.” Silvia opened the file drawer and pulled out the new-patient info sheet. “Since Dylan suggested I take care of your cleaning, why don’t you come on back and I’ll explain what’s needed?”

  “Appreciate the help, ma’am.”

  34

  JON DROVE SOUTH ON ROUTE 288 to the working farm prison near Angleton that Will Rawlyns called home. Another steamy August day, clear blue sky, and not a hint of a breeze.

  He and Leah passed a brick sign displaying “Wayne Scott Unit, Texas Department of Criminal Justice” and turned down a dead-end road, lined with live oaks. Rural and isolated. On the left side were one-story brick homes for prison employees.

  Beyond grazing cows and horses in green pastures stood towering grain silos and huge barns. Wayne Scott Trusty buildings housed offenders who’d been convicted of lesser crimes. That’s where Dylan had done his debt to society. The 5,766 acres provided plenty of farmwork to keep inmates busy.

  “I checked Rawlyns’s visitor list—a sister and Father Gabriel,” Leah said as they exited Jon’s truck.

  “Our priest is everywhere.”

  They walked inside one of the buildings, where they waited for approval to see Rawlyns. The dank smell of discontent and greed seemed to permeate the air. These men were lifers, no parole and nothing to lose. Desperation spun their world on an axis reinforcing “Only the strong survive.” How many were civil to family and friends? Usually the four walls and an open toilet plunged the inmates into a nasty attitude. For sure, chaplains and those committed to education and life skills had their hands full.

  Rawlyns entered the air-conditioned interview room flaunting cuffs like armor. A scar from the corner of his left eye to his jawline swirled red and angry. The way his white inmate uniform draped his frame, cancer claimed weight loss.

  Rawlyns slumped into a chair across from Leah and Jon. “I’m a busy man. What’s this about?”

  Jon introduced himself and Leah. “Mr. Rawlyns, we’re looking for information on three murder cases in Galveston.”

  He leaned toward Jon, his dark eyes flaring like a lit match. “Sorta hard for me to do anyone in when I’m locked up. Why do you think I’d help you?”

  “Because we can pull strings to make life easier.”

  Rawlyns snorted. “You aren’t the first suit who’s tried that approach.”

  “I’m thinking a once-a-week upgrade meal is better than the stuff served here.”

  Rawlyns hesitated. “I’m listening.”

  “Arresting officer Ian Greer, prosecuting attorney Marcia Trevelle, and Judge Nicolás Mendez are dead. We find it interesting since they were a part of your case.”

  “You askin’ if I ordered the hits?”

  “Did you?”

  “I should have. But I didn’t.” He pointed to his chest where a tat identified his gang. “I’m a Texan Warlord, not a Veneno.”

  “But you’re a smart man. You know what’s going on inside and out.” Obviously news about the three deaths being tied to the Veneno gang had reached this prison.

  “I’d rather talk to the pretty lady.” Rawlyns leered at her.

  Leah smiled at the lifer, but it was a kind gesture, not a come-on. “You’re saying the Venenos handled those murders?”

  “Haven’t they let everyone know it was them? You have interesting eyes. Full lips too. Real kissable.”

  Jon pinned Rawlyns with a stern look that said, Back off.

  “Names?” Leah said.

  “Can’t help you there.”

  “What is the Galveston gang into? Drugs? Prostitution? Alien smuggling?”

  “Not reconquista.”

  Jon made a mental note. Solid hit.

  She sighed. “What’s their moneymaker?”

  “No clue.”

  “Does the name Dylan Ortega mean anything to you?”

  Jon watched Rawlyns—not a muscle twitch or a blink.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He did eleven months across the road,” Leah said.

  Rawlyns shook his head. “Now how would I know that?”

  “Where would the gang get their supply of venom?”

  “Ask one of them.”

  “Were Greer, Trevelle, or Judge Mendez getting too close?”

  He laughed. “Meet my price—dinner, dancing, a bottle of tequila, and you in a short red dress—and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  “Consider helping us,” Jon said.

  “I might be dying, but I’m not stupid. What are you thinking? Pain pills on demand? Smokes? A vacation in the Bahamas?”

  Leah picked up the interview again. “I see you have a son. Leaving him an honorable legacy of a father—”

  His features softened. “My son’s twelve and already spent time in juvie. Doubt me giving up names to Feds would make a difference.” A bit of wistfulness touched his words.

  “Do you want him to end up like this?”

  “Listen, no one deserves to be locked up like an animal.” Rawlyns studied his cuffed hands for a moment. “A rattler can strike from any position. Some people think a rattler can’t kill when its head is cut off. But they’re wrong.”

  “What will you tell me?”

  “I gotta have a couple of things first. Number one—let me see my son. Number two—yank him from his mother and put him in a place where he learns school is more important than the streets.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Bring him here with proof he won’t be going back to her. Or don’t come back.”

  “That will take time,” she said. “It’s impossible to remove a child from a home without due cause.”

  “Then I suggest you get busy. When you come again, wear that short red dress.” He cocked his head at the guard. “I’m done.”

  Outside the prison walls en route to his truck, Jon deliberated the con’s comments. “Rawlyns could have helped us if he wasn’t so stubborn.”

  “True. I should have brought a change of clothes.”

  The image amused him. Leah’s brown eyes bored into his, and he inwardly staggered with the intensity. She stirred a longing in him he didn’t think possible—man to woman, soul to soul.

  Jon shook away his thoughts. He didn’t need someone who could get so close she would see through his control-guy facade.

  “He gave us enough to move forward and promised us more,” Jon said. “What he claimed about rattlers is true. If the leader is eliminated, the gang—Venenos or not—would continue to have lethal striking power.”

  “Two men are dead. How many more are they willing to lose or risk?”

  “Depends on what’s at stake.”

  35

  SITTING IN THE VISITOR PARKING LOT at the Scott Unit, Leah fought the rising irritation at not having more information. She pulled out her phone to review the relationship matrix. “Jon, Ian Greer’s widow lives in Angleton. Looks like it’s back up the road a little. Shall I see if she’s available?” When he nodded, she phoned the woman and introduced herself. “Special Agent Jon Colbert is with me. We’re working with the Galveston Police Department to find who killed your husband, Marcia Trevelle, and Judge Mendez. We’d like to stop by and ask a few questions.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m home for the day, and my daughters are with their grandparents.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  Leah watched the countryside roll by. At a stop sign, she rolled the window down and listened to the grasshoppers. “Love the sound of nature,” she said. “In Brooklyn, we have beautiful singing birds, but not nature’s constant reminder. Neither do we have this stifling heat and humidity.”

  “Do you like Houston?”

  “I do, especially the people.” And it was far from the angst of family issues.

  Jon’s voice broke into her thoughts. “How about dinner when we’re finished with Mrs. Greer’s interview?”

  She wh
ipped her attention to him. “Are you asking me out?”

  “Depends. Do you have a red dress?” He broke into a grin.

  “Not funny.” She attempted to smother a giggle, but a reminder of Rawlyns and his invitation bolted into her mind. “Yes to dinner but no to the outfit.”

  “Deal. Can’t picture you in a dress anyway.”

  She widened her eyes. “As if I never wear one? Keep it up and I’ll find the right moment to use you for target practice.”

  The teasing and the bantering relaxed her, and she needed a stress reliever. Would she grow tired of Jon’s company? She shouldn’t dwell on the other possibility. An update alerted her, and she read it aloud. “The barista at Warren Livingston’s shop is clean.”

  “One more person to cross off our list.” Jon pulled his truck into the driveway of the Greer home. A corner lot on a country road. A pasture with a few horses on one side of the property and thick woods on the other. The one-story home looked like it was built in the seventies with recent updates to incorporate a tin roof and front porch.

  She and Jon greeted a dog of mixed variety and rang the doorbell. A slender woman with light-brown hair checked their identification and invited them inside to a living room that held a restored upright piano and family photos.

  Once seated and past the pleasantries, Leah opened the conversation. “Our condolences in the loss of your husband.”

  Mrs. Greer pressed her lips together. “Thank you. Zachary, I mean Chief of Police Everson, told me you might call.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Agent Colbert and I have reviewed his report. Your husband and Judge Mendez had been friends for years.”

  “Since they were kids.” A slight smile met them.

  “Were you friends with Rachel Mendez?”

  “Not really. We run in different circles. I’m more of the country type. Mrs. Mendez is a fine woman and has contributed much to the community.”

  “Were you friends with Marcia Trevelle?”

  “Our mothers were close friends, and although I was older, she became a dear friend.”

  “I’m sorry for your losses.”

  “Some moments are harder than others. Zachary told me he didn’t think our closeness had a thing to do with the murders. Anyway, you have a job to do, and I’m grateful, thankful to God, there are people like you to keep killers off the streets.”

  “Your husband was a courageous man. I’m sure you’re proud of him.” Leah stole a look at Jon. “I see you have two teenage daughters. How are they holding up?”

  “Not well. Their father and Marcia were dear to them, too. We have a family reunion in October, and I can’t bear the thought of going without Ian. Promise me you’ll find who’s killed good people.”

  “We won’t give up until we do. Can you tell me if your husband, Ms. Trevelle, and the judge were investigating a case together?”

  “They did work together and shared like interests. Give me a minute to think.” She tapped her chin several times. “They used to meet for breakfast. For the past month or more, those breakfasts were more frequent, twice a week. I was thinking about it yesterday and wondered if there could be a thread that I needed to mention to Zachary. My Ian was restless, preoccupied.”

  “Did he mention what they’d been discussing?”

  “Ian seldom told me about a case. I learned more from the media than my own husband. He didn’t want to worry me.”

  “He must have cared for you very much.”

  On their way back to Houston, Jon cleared his throat, and Leah waited for him to speak. “So we’ve confirmed Ian Greer, Marcia Trevelle, and Judge Mendez met for breakfast periodically, no doubt to discuss whatever they were investigating.”

  “And apparently kept these meetings and what they might have discussed secret—even from their spouses. Do you think Everson knows anything more than what he’s told us?”

  “I think he would have shared it.” Jon continued. “Will Rawlyns could have ordered a hit from his cell.”

  “He didn’t strike me as the type to exact vengeance in this way.” But Rawlyns’s cryptic comment about rattlers lingered in Leah’s mind.

  “If he isn’t responsible, we’re back to square one: find Dylan Ortega.”

  36

  JON UNLOCKED THE DOOR to his home, dark and empty. Some days he wished for a dog, but the animal would starve on Jon’s schedule. His ten-acre gentleman’s farm south of Houston held a stocked pond, thick woods, and lots of wildlife. The quietness usually soothed him, helped him unwind and think through critical information. Tonight, restlessness poured into his bloodstream. Dylan Ortega remained at large. Elena James was missing. Aaron Michaels was dead. Landon Shaw, a newly identified player, also lay in the morgue. A message on Jon’s phone reported the speedboat from the Venenos’ escape had been found in a vacant slip—and was reported stolen earlier in the week.

  Jon’s inability to make progress on the case reminded him of an out-of-control wildfire, and more people were bound to be hurt or killed. A mother who was frantic. A priest who wanted to save the world. Not good signs.

  His mind rolled over methods of fighting fires. Remove the oxygen and starve the beast. How did he equate extinguishing a blaze to taking down a gang of killers? Was this even the work of a gang?

  Jon opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a bottle of water. In this case, the oxygen could be the source of income, a hidden agenda the trio had stumbled upon. So what crime was feeding this blaze? Not one stinking bit of evidence pointed to arms dealing, prostitution, or illegal drugs.

  But they had found strong indications of prescription drug theft.

  He grabbed his laptop and sat on a barstool at the kitchen counter. After entering his secure password, he searched for unsolved gang-related activities in the Houston area with an emphasis on prescription drugs. Considering the Venenos’ presence in Dallas, San Antonio, and Austin, he contacted the FIG to cross-reference related incidents in all four cities. They’d have an answer for him in a fraction of the time it would take him to make an analysis. In the meantime, he navigated to where his curiosity led him and learned that nine months ago, Molston Pharmaceuticals in Beyero, Texas, reported a theft with a street price of over sixty-five million dollars. Jon requested the details.

  Closing the laptop, he leaned back against the stool. Transferring illegal goods in and out of Galveston wouldn’t be a problem for someone determined to do so, but until they figured out what those things were and who, investigators were just spinning their wheels.

  Clasping his hands behind his neck, he let his thoughts dwell on Leah . . . more than a great partner. He’d be a liar if he didn’t admit her looks, brains, and personality had him in overdrive. Dark wavy hair and those incredible copper-colored eyes that softened in one breath and lit up with fire in the next. Working with her had taken his heart to a place he’d never been. She had a secret, and he sensed it when his comments touched on some pain disguised as sarcasm or teasing. Oddly enough, he didn’t think it had a thing to do with snakes.

  How would she feel about him if she knew his secret?

  Hanson’s and Chip’s deaths were Jon’s fault. His daredevil attitude. Poor judgment. Nightmares stalked him—the raging flames, crackling as though scoffing at all they devoured, shouting victory over every living thing. At times, he would swear he could hear Hanson speaking to him, calling for help.

  A counselor told him he had survivor syndrome, a condition Jon had seen in others but not himself. The instructions were to accept the guilt, get involved with something constructive, and embrace his feelings—sounding like advice for a women’s self-help group.

  A Bible sat on the counter, a reminder of his promise to Hanson. Most days Jon read a few chapters. He’d gone through the book once and was now in the Gospel of John in the New Testament. Hanson said the answers to life’s problems were in God’s Word. Jon had doubts. But he owed it to Hanson to keep searching.

  37

  LEAH JARRED AWAKE AS her pho
ne alarm blared. She and mornings were no longer friends—but with much to accomplish on her and Jon’s list, she should start the day at 4 a.m. Should. She groaned. She wanted optimism to lace her thoughts, but the lack of progress on the murder cases made any positive thoughts difficult.

  While whipping through her hair and light makeup routine, she scrolled on her phone and considered popping onto Facebook where she could catch a glimpse of her family.

  Sixteen years had slipped by since she’d seen any member of her family, and not a day passed without a memory to prompt her to make contact. Sometimes she pressed in Mom and Dad’s number, but she always lost her nerve after a few rings or one of them answered. A sniper and an agent who worked violent crime but didn’t have the guts to call home. Sad.

  For a moment, the idea once again tempted her. Dad used to make a pot of coffee every morning at 5 a.m. He’d serve Mom a cup in bed to wake her up. But he was older now and habits changed. Waking him with a blast from the past might defeat her thoughts of reconciliation.

  Why had they chosen not to tell her about her great-great-grandmother, her namesake? She’d escaped slavery in Alabama through the Underground Railroad and made her way to New York. There she’d started an orphanage and helped countless children find love, purpose, and an education. Leah learned this five years ago when she decided to examine her ancestry. The courage of the woman inspired Leah to be a better person, made her so proud she wanted to burst.

  Years ago, her dad’s brother suffered a childhood accident, leaving him to spend his days in a wheelchair. As a child, Leah thought her uncle’s condition led her parents to adopting hard-to-place children. But they hadn’t been honest, and if they’d taken the time to explain the family’s heritage, life might have taken a different slant. She’d have better understood the chaos and craziness of her family.

  Leave it alone.

  Shouldering her bag with a change of clothes for the prayer service, she locked her apartment on the way out. This morning she’d buy the coffee. In the darkness on the way to her car, her phone rang. Terri.