Fatal Strike

by DiAnn Mills

  Jon drove his rental truck behind an Alvin police squad car to the location Henry Kantore had given for the rattlesnake farm. Everson drove a pickup behind him.

  Leah had been quiet, and he recognized her fear of snakes had surfaced like oil on water. How bad was her phobia?

  Her phone alerted her to a text. “Everson sent info about the owner of the property. The man lives in Iowa and inherited the land from his father. Clean record. Everson wants us to contact him now.”

  He placed his phone on the dashboard and pressed Speaker. When a man answered, Jon introduced himself. “The section we’re checking is on the northwest side.”

  “I haven’t been down there for years,” the man said. “The neighbor runs cows on part of the property. Would you call me if you find a rattler pit?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you have a caretaker for the property?”

  “If there’s a problem, the neighbor would let me know.”

  “I’d like his name and number.”

  Leah had her fingers poised over her phone’s keypad.

  “Sure.” The man relayed the neighbor’s information.

  “Has anyone contacted you about selling your property?” Jon said.

  “A man phoned me about a year ago wanting to know if I’d sell a hundred acres from the northwest section, but I refused. It’s been in my family a long time.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “I didn’t ask because I wasn’t interested. He did offer quite a bit. Told him there isn’t a public road access to the northwest acreage, but he was insistent. I think I kept his number. Anyway, I’m in Seattle and won’t be home until Wednesday. Want me to text it to you then?”

  “Yes, please.” Jon gave him his number. Could be something. Could be nothing.

  They drove down a dirt road, then turned onto a rutted lane bordered on both sides by waist-high weeds. The lane soon ended, and they bumped over pastureland to a weather-beaten shack. Trodden-down weeds indicated other vehicles had been there. He parked the truck and together with Leah, Everson, and the officers, followed a path around dense woods. Jon noted Leah lingered at a patch of yellow black-eyed Susans and silverleaf nightshade. The harsh caw of a crow and the hum of insects reminded him of the hours spent as a boy exploring the land surrounding his home in Oklahoma.

  A massive live oak to the west with its arching branches marked the direction of the pit, twenty feet north of the tree. According to Henry, the milking was done here, in the shack, and the equipment needed was brought to the site. The area was clean of any signs, only the bent weeds and scraping rake marks.

  Jon found the pit. A metal grate held in place by heavy stones kept the snakes inside. Leah moved to his right, and he studied her face. Her flattened lips failed to mask her fear.

  He lowered his tone. “No need to put yourself through this. Why not wait in the truck?”

  She stared at the pit. Her gaze flew to his, liquid fire. “Stand down, Jon. This is my private war. I’m no coward.”

  Stand down?

  “Agent Riesel,” an officer said.

  She swung toward the man who’d spoken her name. To her right, a four-foot rattler uncoiled, its head directed at her ankle, well within striking distance, just a yard away.

  Jon pulled his gun. “Easy, Leah. I’ve got this.”

  “No. I’ll kill it.” With shaking hands she slowly pulled her Glock from her back waistband.

  Her face paled.

  The snake rattled its warning.

  How long should he wait? If he jumped in to save her, she’d probably shoot him.

  “Jon.” Her voice trembled.

  He fired, blowing off the rattler’s head. “Stay away from its head. It can still bite.”

  “I know that!” Leah turned and walked back to the truck.

  Jon ached for her. He’d experienced gut-wrenching terror, the paralysis of despising yet protecting yourself.

  Jon and the officers removed the stones and used a dead branch to slide the grate and expose the pit.

  One of the officers swore. Jon snapped a couple of pics. He estimated it contained a couple hundred rattlers.

  “The Venenos won’t be getting their venom here anymore.” Everson peered over the lip at the poisonous snakes in the pit.

  “We could contact the Sweetwater Rattler Wranglers,” Jon said. “But it’ll take time for them to get here.”

  “Forget that.” Everson pulled his Sig.

  Jon held up his hand. “There’s a legal way to get rid of them. It’s up to the property owner.”

  “He’s not here.” Everson turned to one of his officers. “Bring me the gas can on my truck bed. In my glove box are matches.”

  Before Jon could phone the owner and explain the situation, Everson fired repeatedly into the pit, like each one of them was a Veneno. Jon made the call anyway.

  “I’m asking you to kill them,” the owner said.

  Everson added another magazine to his weapon and resumed firing.

  The deputy returned. Everson grabbed the gas can and poured what was left into the pit. “Stand back. I’m sending these snakes where they belong,” Everson said.

  Jon texted Leah. Asking if she was okay might embarrass her. Talking to her might unleash venom she’d rather no one saw.

  Everson eliminating the problem. Will scout the area. Be there in a few.

  K. I’m a wimp. This is not who I want to be. I’d rather face a dozen armed bad guys than one snake.

  He understood Leah more than she realized or might want him to know. She overcompensated as a sniper and agent to make up for the uncontrollable phobia. He wished he had a solution because he’d sign up for the program. But if he thought about it, there was much to learn about life, himself, and God while attempting to solve a problem.

  You are human. On the way back to Houston, I’ll tell you how my friends died.

  But he wasn’t sure spilling his guts would solve anything for her or him.

  49

  WHEN JON RETURNED TO THE TRUCK, Leah had news for him.

  “Some additional background information came in on our good buddy Henry Kantore. Guess who he used to work for.”

  “I give. Who?”

  “Will Rawlyns. Do you think he’ll talk to us this time?”

  “He likes you. Got a red dress? Dance music?” He swung her a grin.

  She shot him a look. “I’ll check on where things stand with CPS before we walk in.” She tapped in the number.

  At the Wayne Scott Unit, in the same interview room as their previous conversation, Will Rawlyns slowly lowered himself onto a chair. Lines across his forehead indicated pain. He frowned at Jon. “You’re not here to chitchat, and you know my terms. You get nothing without my boy.”

  “Agent Riesel would like a few words,” Jon said.

  He gave Leah a sideways glance. “Good to see you again, pretty lady. Where is my son?” He plopped his cuffed hands onto the table with a clang.

  “Young Will’s school requested CPS look into his home life.”

  “Isn’t she sending him to school?”

  “Truancy is a problem. But he’s getting into trouble—fighting.”

  Rawlyns jutted his jaw. “I want him away from her . . . permanently.”

  “Then you’ll like what we’ve learned,” Leah said. “Will Jr. was escorted from school yesterday afternoon to a foster home. The situation is under investigation.”

  “I still need to see him.”

  “We’re working on visitation, but we can’t promise anything.” Leah paused. “Because of your health, I’m doing my best to make this happen. Do you have many visitors?”

  “My sister occasionally. She never knows what to say. Not like I have this lifestyle of the rich and famous. Father Gabriel from St. Peter’s church in Galveston. He’s working on getting me to make confession. Ain’t happening.”

  Jon took over. “We’re looking for information about Henry Kantore,” Jon said. “A friend of yours?”

>   Rawlyns snorted. “I know who he is. What’s he done?”

  “Claimed to be a Veneno.”

  “He’s a skinny fish in a big pond. Tell you what, he ain’t smart enough to pull off three murders.” Rawlyns drew in a sharp breath that appeared to pain him.

  Stage 4 had a way of taking the fight out of a man.

  “He had a loaded syringe on him,” Jon went on. “Said he’d been ordered to inject it in Father Gabriel.”

  “He ain’t smart enough to fill a syringe with rattler juice either.”

  “But you know who is.”

  Rawlyns appeared to wrestle with how much to say. They needed to get his son to the prison.

  Jon pressed on. “What can you tell us about Kantore?”

  “I’ll give you his record. You could learn these things from his file anyway. He started back in 2013 with Houston cocktail.”

  Jon was familiar with the Texas-based drug, a mix of Norco, Xanax, and Soma. “And?”

  “Ecstasy, blow, oxy, some cheese.”

  The latter was another Texas-based drug, heroin with cold meds and an antihistamine.

  “Henry snorted his profits,” Rawlyns said before abruptly leaning back and calling an end to the interview. “Been a nice visit, but I’m done here. Don’t come back without my boy. Best hurry ’cause I’m dying, and you want to know who’s doing the murderin’.”

  The guard escorted Rawlyns from the interview room, leaving the stench of an unwashed body, laden with bitterness and unmanaged pain.

  As Leah and Jon left the prison, Leah looked back at the closed doors. “I’m finding a way to get his son here. Rawlyns has nothing to live for but hope Will Jr. won’t travel the same road as his father.”

  Jon drove them back to Houston, his thoughts lingering on Rawlyns. When this was over, he’d make a trip to visit the man again, try to offer some comfort. Maybe Father Gabriel was rubbing off on him. Speaking of priests . . . he needed to find a church for tomorrow, which meant research. He’d be visiting a lot of them in the weeks ahead until he found the right one.

  His dry mouth was due to only one thing—baring his soul. In the early hours of this morning, he’d turned his life over to Christ, and now he planned to tell Leah about his last jump? What next?

  “You have a strange look on your face. Angry?” she said.

  “Thinking about what I wanted to tell you.”

  “I’m listening, Jon.”

  “My ego tells me I’m about to look like a coward.” His forced bravado fell flat.

  “Doubt it. You couldn’t look any worse than I did today, failing to confront my snake fear. Someone could have been hurt out there. Never understood how I can be okay on a sniper mission where they’re usually located.”

  “Every person on the planet has secrets, some worse than others. I think you’re braver than I am.” He glanced at Leah, who graced him with a wide smile.

  Time for honesty. Truth. He waded through how to begin. “Ever feel stalked or haunted? Just plain scared?”

  “I assume you’re not talking about our job.” She paused. “You mean the kind of fear like being around you?”

  Okay, he’d take this segue. Might make his confession easier. “What are we going to do about this crazy attraction?”

  “I’d like to run, but I’m stuck on the passenger side of this truck, traveling sixty miles an hour. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  He chuckled to ease his nerves. “I used to be a smoke jumper.” What had he gotten himself into?

  “I had no idea. Were you a hotshot? Daredevil? No fire too huge kind of guy?”

  He tossed her a feigned scowl. “I was the spotter. I had two close friends, partners—Hanson and Chip. We were like brothers. We came from different places, different backgrounds, but we shared the drive to stop wildfires. I led out, the jumper in charge. My job was to calculate wind, topography, ground hazards, and the beast’s behavior.”

  Vivid scenes from that final fire played like a movie montage. “In Utah, we learned a man had hiked into the mountains, fell, and was trapped. A fire was sweeping toward him. He requested a rescue before the battery on his cell phone died. The three of us went after him. We choppered over the fire. It was an inferno. No place to jump.” He could practically feel the heat of the flames, taste the smoke in his mouth. “I should have turned them around. Instead, I believed we were invincible. Thought I’d found a decent jump spot on a slope. Thick timber, but not far from the fire. I parachuted first. Chip and Hanson followed.” Jon swallowed hard. “The smoke and flames got to Hanson and Chip. They didn’t make it. I carried the injured man out.”

  She moaned softly. “I’m really sorry.”

  “I walked away.” He swiped at the sweat on his forehead. “After six weeks, I went out again to lead a team into a wildfire in California. Thought I was ready. When it came time to jump, I froze. A coward.” Stating his weakness cut deep. “That’s when I resigned. Floated around for eight months before applying to the FBI. Being a sniper suits me. I’m still helping people, doing what most people fear. Different kind of fire.”

  She reached across the truck and touched his arm. “I don’t see how your friends’ deaths are your fault. The three of you were trained smoke jumpers.” She stroked the top of his hand. “We’re quite a pair. Two snipers who wrestle with strange fears. And scared to death of each other.”

  He liked the feel of her hand atop his. “What I’ve discovered is our strengths will overcome the junk holding us back from being better people. Faith, too.”

  “I have a part two to my story.” She pulled back her hand, and he wondered briefly if the remark about faith was too much. “More personal than snakes.”

  “Want to unload?”

  “Not tonight. But I will if you’re going to ask me out,” she said.

  “Already confirmed. Dinner, dancing, and a short red dress.”

  “I don’t own a red dress, partner. Should we talk about the case?”

  “I suppose. Want to have lunch tomorrow and work on it?” An idea struck him. “I’ll pick you up at noon, we can have lunch, and I’ll show you my little acreage. I have a stocked pond, and the fishing’s great.”

  She hesitated. “Okay, but I’ll drive myself.”

  “Don’t trust yourself with me or is it the control thing?”

  “What do you think?”

  He laughed. “Both.”

  “Spot-on,” she said. “I’ve never been fishing in my life.”

  “First time for everything.”

  “Any snakes?”

  “On occasion.”

  She glanced at the road ahead. “Got to start somewhere on all counts.”

  “I’ll text you the address.” Once he found a church, he’d invite her along. For both, one step at a time.

  50

  LEAH DROVE TO TERRI’S ADDRESS, a brick two-story in a solid neighborhood in west Houston. She parked her Camaro at the curb and breathed in and out.

  I can do this. Be a friend. Put my past where it belongs.

  Grabbing a dozen assorted muffins and another dozen mixed scones and pastries, she shouldered her purse and made her way up the front walk. The landscaping framed the home perfectly, as though guiding her to a house filled with love. She rang the doorbell and hoped the shakes stopped before Terri answered.

  They didn’t.

  Terri opened the door, and both burst into tears. “We’ve officially become junior high girls,” Terri said.

  “I’ve missed you so much.” Leah offered the breakfast treats.

  Terri tucked a long brown lock behind her ear and took the boxes. “Come in. Boys, I have someone special I want you to meet.”

  The aroma of bacon greeted her. A tall auburn-haired man wearing an apron and a huge smile walked down the hallway.

  He stuck out his hand. “I’m Chris, and you must be Leah.”

  She shook his hand. “Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re so tall.”

  “I think my height i
s the only reason Terri ever went out with me.”

  The stairway rumbled with the sound of footsteps, and two wide-eyed boys grinned. They introduced themselves as Caleb and Asher. “You’re Mom’s friend, right?” Caleb, the taller one, said. “You fight bad guys too.”

  Their candor put Leah right at ease. “I am. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Mom’s got a big breakfast made.” Caleb pointed down the hall. “My brother’s kinda shy, but I’m not.”

  Leah bent to Asher, who looked to be about five years old. “I brought some dessert treats. Do you like muffins?”

  He turned his head to look at Terri. “Mom and Dad say I have a sweet tooth.”

  “I do too. After breakfast would you and Caleb help me bring in a wedding gift for your mom and dad?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the boys echoed.

  “Wonderful. There might be something for each of you.”

  Leah straightened as the boys dashed off to the kitchen. “Your family is beautiful,” she said to Terri and Chris, and for a moment she feared her eyes would drip again.

  “And complete.” Chris wrapped his arm around Terri’s waist. “Food’s about ready. Let’s eat.”

  After breakfast, and the delivery of a mammoth basket filled with sheets, pillowcases, towels, and scented soaps for the newlyweds, and a Marvel action figure for each of the boys, Leah toured their home.

  “Your bedroom is so clean,” Leah said to the boys, eyeing their bunk beds.

  “We cleaned it for you,” Caleb said. “But don’t look under the bed or in the closet.”

  Leah held up a hand as if swearing a solemn oath. “I won’t.” She wished she hadn’t made a fishing date with Jon. The boys seemed to have unlocked a padlock on her heart. Good memories gushed in about her siblings. “Hey, guys. Can I have a few minutes with your mom? Then we could play a quick game of basketball before I have to leave.”

  “Dad says we’re the best he’s ever seen,” Caleb said.

  “Maybe so, but I was pretty good in high school.”

  They bounded off, leaving her with the best friend she’d ever known. They walked back to the kitchen, where Chris was loading the dishwasher. “Outside, you two. This is my job.”