Some Kind of Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Over there.” Dead-Eyes pointed to a support pillar, and Nelson’s minions forced Maddie to sit on the cold floor as they tied her to it.

  “Please,” she tried to say through the duct tape, “I’m thirsty.” But it came out just a series of weird-sounding whimpers, and it made them laugh.

  Dingo laughed with them, but he was looking around, scoping out the place with its dirty and cracked concrete floor, and windows that were up along the roofline. There was some kind of partitioned-off area up in the front corner—maybe an office or a waiting room—with a door that hung ajar.

  The walls looked like concrete block and they were far more solid-looking up close.

  “Where’s the loo at?” Dingo asked. “I gotta go piss out more fahking knives, before Mr. Nelson arrives. It takes me a good ten minutes to stop weeping after the pain.”

  He was still pushing the gonorrhea story. Only Good Dingo had a reason for doing that….

  One of the skinheads pointed toward the back, and Dingo swaggered off in that direction, taking a detour that brought him closer to Maddie. He suddenly lunged at her, feinting a punch to her head.

  She recoiled and squeaked in surprise and fear as he laughed and stomped his feet in amusement—but then she realized that he’d dropped something next to her. He now kicked her in the butt—or at least it looked that way. But in reality he was pushing it behind her, so that her hands could close around it—

  It was a…corkscrew…? Ow! Yes, it was one of the cheap folding kinds. They’d had one in their kitchen, back in Palm Springs. Lisa had loved a glass of red wine after work each night, and nearly always had an open bottle on the counter. The screw itself was pointy, but it was—yes!—the sharp little serrated knife that opened up to help remove the seal and expose the cork that made this a valuable tool for rope removal.

  Dingo—Good, good Dingo—must’ve grabbed it from his parents’ kitchen on his way out the door.

  As he meandered toward the bathroom—still laughing about “frightening” and then “kicking” her, Maddie pretended to cry as she opened up the little blade and got to work, sawing at her bindings.

  According to their GPS, Izzy and his three tadpoles were an hour away.

  “More like forty-five minutes,” Izzy’s voice rumbled through Pete’s speakers. “My GPS doesn’t drive like a Navy SEAL.”

  “Just get here as fast as you can,” Pete told him, and cut the call. He looked at Shayla. “I hate that you’re here. I need to put you someplace safe.”

  “Hot tip,” she told him. “Authoritarian language is not a turn-on. I will go somewhere safe, you will not put me there.”

  Fuck. “Sorry,” he said. “The Navy isn’t a democracy, and I’m an officer—”

  “And I’m not in the Navy,” she said. “I will never be in the Navy, so you will never be in command of me.” She paused. “Even after I marry you.”

  Pete’s world shifted as he met Shay’s eyes, and he exhaled, hard. He’d been starting to wonder if she’d heard any of what he’d said. And yeah, the timing had been dead wrong. They’d been navigating and surveilling furiously, as well as arranging for backup, ever since Dingo’s—had to be Dingo’s—text came in.

  “Although, hot tip number two, I do like to pretend,” she added, “so we could—at times—pretend that I’m in the Navy. That could really work for me—particularly if I get to be, oh, I don’t know, maybe an admiral…? You know, after the garage-sex gets boring.”

  Pete laughed. “Trust me, the garage-sex will not get boring.” Wasn’t the inherent nature of garage-sex extremely not boring?

  “Turn right, here,” Shayla ordered, and he took the right. They were attempting to circumnavigate the building where Dingo’s “run” had ended, and they’d yet to see what was directly behind it. The cell service was weak out here, and neither one of them was able to access a map with a satellite view of the area, so they were surveilling the old-fashioned way.

  According to the info that Dingo had sent, he and Maddie were being held in an old mechanic’s garage—a stand-alone concrete block structure with three giant bay doors and a rotting roof. The doors were metal—no windows to look through. In fact, the only windows—at least on the front of the building—were just below the line of the roof. The garage had an ancient gutter system that didn’t look very sturdy. If Pete was going to climb up to get a look inside, he’d have to use a different route—clamber up to the roof, and then lean over to look through the windows.

  Unless the back of the structure was more accommodating.

  But this turn didn’t help as they bumped into another dead end. “Fuck!”

  “Sorry,” Shay said. “The map on the GPS makes it look like the road goes through. Try the next street north.”

  Pete swiftly turned around—the road, with its odd mix of warehouses and boarded-up shops, wasn’t wide enough for a U-ie. He headed back the way they’d come, banged a right, and then another right. And yes, this road went through.

  But the back of the garage didn’t extend all the way out to this street.

  Shayla’s phone whooshed and she grabbed for it. “Another text from Dingo,” she told Pete. “Whoa, it’s a long one.”

  She read it aloud: “In danger need help.

  “3 men, at least 3 guns, with their boss, Bob Nelson, on his way w his posse. No idea how many men will be arriving.

  “NOW IS TIME.

  “If something goes wrong, please tell Maddie I loved her.

  “Dear Maddie’s father, she read me your story about how you met her mom, and I’m sorry your heart was broke by Lisa, but know this: You and Lisa made someone special. Maddie is everything. She’s perfect. Good job. And no, don’t be angry, because I know I’m to old, so I said no. It was hard, but I stood strong. Right now I wish I didn’t, because I think I’m gonna die so you can’t kill me twice. Ha ha, but no. I love her, so I protected her even from me. Please love her twice as much if I die.

  “She acts like she doesn’t care but she does. Lisa not perfect, you know this. Life was hard but Maddie love her mom so much and still so sad, missing her. Give her time. Be gentle and kind.

  “I know best case means I probably go to jail. That’s ok.

  “I love her.

  “Please come now to help me save her.”

  “Text him back,” Pete said. “Hang on, on my way.”

  “No! It didn’t go through,” Shay reported. “He blocked you.” She tried with her phone. “Me, too. Damnit!” She looked up. “Although it makes sense. He’s in there with them—three armed men—probably doesn’t want an On our way text message to pop up and give him away.”

  Pete nodded. Dingo had risked a lot just to send those texts. “I’m going in from this end,” he said. He pulled off the street into a pitted gravel lot in front of a boarded-up gas station, so he could quickly change out of his bright white uniform while Shay drove.

  She was not happy. “I thought the plan was to wait for Izzy and the nicknamed Johns. Who, by the way, are all cowboyed up, as per your command. That means they have weapons, right?”

  “Yes. And I do, too,” he told her. “A Glock, nine millimeter. It’s in a lockbox under…well, here. Switch seats with me.” He got out and went around to the passenger side as she slid behind the wheel. “Drive,” he ordered as he closed the door. “Please. Head back to the main road—to that gas station with the convenience store. I want you to wait there. Please.”

  She shook her head and didn’t put the truck into gear. “Are you going to drop me there?”

  His lockbox was under his seat, and he quickly keyed in the combination and pulled out the Glock. “No, I want you to have the truck. I’ll run back here.”

  She made a vaguely laughter-like noise as they still sat there. “That’s a mile away. At least. Also? You’re not exactly dressed for running.”

  “I’m changing,” he said.

  “Into what?”

  “I keep BDUs and a pair of boots in a go-bag, so I’
m always ready, you know, to go.”

  “It still looks military. You’re going to catch attention. Maybe not as much as me running, but…”

  He inserted the magazine, and set the spare in the cupholder. “You ever use one of these?” he asked.

  “I’m a writer,” she said.

  “Yeah, but you write about men—and women—who carry, usually concealed. Everything I’ve read—so far, at least—is correct, so I’d hoped—”

  “Research,” Shay admitted. “And fact-checking via experts. I went to a gun range with a group of writers, so yes, I’ve fired one. Once. I know the basics. Point and squeeze; never point the barrel at anything you don’t want to accidentally kill.”

  He smiled. “Those are the basics. I’m putting it into your handbag; it’ll be right here on the floor.”

  “Wait,” she said as he began to unbutton his shirt. “What? You’re not taking it with you?”

  “I’m just going for a quick sneak-and-peek.” Pete stripped off his shirt and reached for his go-bag. He pulled on an olive drab T-shirt and then unfastened and pulled off his white uniform pants as he told her, “That’s SEAL for surveillance—looking in the windows, seeing what’s up. I’m going to trust you to drive over to that convenience store after I get out. Wait there for me to call. Do you understand?”

  Her beautiful brown eyes were wide in her expressive face as she nodded. He fastened his cargo pants and reached for his boots, stashing his white shoes in the back.

  “I’m trusting you,” he said again as he tied his boot laces. “Please note, I am not putting you anywhere. But I am trusting you to keep to your skill set, okay? If something goes wrong, if you don’t hear from me in, say, twenty minutes, call the police. When they arrive, put the weapon back in the lockbox and make sure the latch clicks.”

  She nodded, but then asked, “And we’re not calling the police right now, because…?”

  “Because my daughter is in there with three armed men who have killed before,” he told her, covering his head with a boonie. The hat would both shade his eyes and keep his fair hair from reflecting the bright sun. “Because I know, absolutely, when Izzy and his guys show up, the five of us will get both Maddie and Dingo safely out of there—after which we’ll call the police.”

  She drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I’m trusting you, too,” she told him as he put on his sunglasses and silenced his cellphone, securing it in the front right pocket of his pants.

  He got out of the truck and patted his other pockets—he kept them loaded with bungie cords and duct tape, his Ka-Bar dive knife…He went into the back of the truck and got a length of blue rope from one of the side pockets of his truck bed—useful to have when climbing, especially for getting back to the ground. He kept it coiled to fit around his neck and one arm, slanting across his chest. He slipped it on and was good to go.

  He leaned in to the cab and kissed Shay. “To quote my future son-in-law, Dingo,” he said. “Who is less of an idiot than I thought: You’re everything. And I’ve had a few more years of experience under my belt, so I know you’re not perfect, but you’re pretty damn perfect for me. Drive to the convenience store and stay there. Please.”

  She caught his arm. “Be careful.”

  He nodded. “I got this.”

  This time she pulled him in for another kiss—sweet, hot, and over far too soon. But he had to move.

  Pete quietly closed the door behind him—but stood there, waiting. Yes, that’s right, Shayla. He was going to watch her drive away. Stick to your skill set, thank you very much.

  The taillights of his truck vanished around the corner, and Pete started across the dusty ground between the former gas station and the warehouse that neighbored it, staying close to the crumbling building as he moved toward the back of the garage where his daughter was being held.

  “What the fuck?” Izzy said as they rounded a curve—and hit a wall of red taillights. He jammed on the brakes. “Isn’t your GPS app supposed to warn us about shit like this?”

  “Major accident ahead,” Seagull reported as Izzy swiftly worked his way over to the far right through a chorus of bleating horns. He made it to the shoulder, where he braked to a stop. “Whoa, it’s a bad one. It must’ve just happened.”

  All three of their heads were down as they locked eyes with their phones, searching for an alternate route.

  “Schlossman! I need your head up, looking out the back,” Izzy ordered as he put the car in reverse. “Eyes on the road! You know those assholes who back up all the way to the last exit? We are now co-presidents of that exclusive club, only we’re gonna do it as fast as we fucking can.” He stomped on the gas. “Seagull, find us another way there; ’Bomb, I need both hands on the wheel. Use my phone and dial Grunge and Shayla. I need to let them know we’re gonna be late, then grab the California map book from the pocket behind my seat, and find out where the fuck we are and how to get to where we want to go, the old-fashioned paper way. Because if our electronics fail us, I do not want to be the one to have to tell Grunge that as we sit here with our dicks in our hands!”

  “Be careful”? You had a chance to go big and you chose “Be careful”?

  “Shut up, Harry. You’re not helping.” Shay didn’t even try not to say it out loud. With Peter out of the truck, she connected her cell to his truck’s Bluetooth, so that she’d be ready and waiting, hands free, when he called.

  But as she was driving to the convenience store parking lot, it was Izzy’s cell number that suddenly popped onto the screen. She pushed the button and connected the call.

  “Are you here?” she asked. “Please say you’re at the garage!”

  “No, sorry,” Izzy shouted over the weirdest whining sound.

  “What is that noise?”

  “We hit traffic—a bad accident on the freeway. We’re rerouting. Best guess is we’ll be there in—” he paused “—Fuck. An hour.”

  “Shit!” But okay, okay. “At least that means this Nelson guy’s gonna be slowed down, too.”

  “Not if he’s coming from San Diego,” Izzy shouted. “It’s a different route.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah. Very very big and smelly shit. Is Grunge with you? His phone went right to voicemail.”

  “No, he’s…sneaking and peeking.”

  “Ohhhh.”

  “What does that mean?” Shayla asked.

  “Nothing,” Izzy said a little too fast. “Just, Oh. Like Oh, okay.”

  It means Peter’s going to look in those windows and see his daughter tied up and possibly beaten and bloody, Harry said, and it’s going to be hard for him to not take action.

  “Hurry,” Shay ordered Izzy.

  “Aye, aye, Commander.” The call ended.

  She was at the traffic light for the main road. The convenience store where Peter wanted her to wait for him was to the left, down about a half mile. The garage where he was doing his sneak-and-peek was around the block to the right.

  Shayla took a deep breath, and made the left as she used her phone to call Peter. He needed to know that Izzy and his men were delayed. But just as it had done for Izzy, the call went right to voicemail. She tried again. Same thing. When she pulled into the convenience store lot and parked, she sent Peter a text. Izzy delayed. Call me. Please.

  It took forever to send, and when she received the not delivered message on her phone, she realized that this part of town was in a cellular dead-zone. She didn’t even have a single bar showing to be able to make a call or send a text.

  So she put the truck back in gear and headed toward the garage. Her phone had worked over there.

  She’d make contact with Peter and then find another safe place to wait—one with cell service.

  The little knife was sharp, but Maddie had to wait for the stupidity trio to not be staring at her in order to saw away at the ropes.

  Dingo must’ve known that, because he kept trying to pull their attention away from her.

  “Does this thing work?”
he asked as he pushed the button to one of the car lifts, and yes, it worked, and everyone ran over to get him to turn it off.

  But now, Dead-Eyes’s cellphone rang and he rapidly went from jocular—Hey, bro, y’almost here?—to a more subdued No, sir. No, Mr. Nelson, we didn’t….No, sir. He moved to the back of the room, and as Maddie watched, the skinhead clones exchanged a Do you know what’s up glance, and then both shook their bald heads before they trailed after Dead-Eyes, trying to listen in.

  Go, go, go! Maddie widened her eyes at Dingo, and moved her head in a gesture that she hoped said, Watch them for me!

  He nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward where Dead-Eyes and the clones were now in a huddle after what was apparently a sobering phone call from their fugly asshole boss.

  “What the fuck!” exclaimed the skinhead with the neck tattoo—he was named Stank. It was definitely Stank—his voice was higher pitched than Eddie-with-the-nose-ring or Dead-Eyes. “He’s dead? He’s fucking dead? We didn’t hit him that hard!”

  A murmur of lowered voices as Dead-Eyes tried to calm him, then Stank again: “I’m not going to jail for-fucking-ever! No fucking way! Or…worse! Yeah, dudes, you know what’s going to happen? It’s going to be seriously worse!”

  More murmurs.

  “You just said he’s going to be here in thirty fucking minutes! What do you think Nelson’s going to do when he arrives, huh? He’s going to come in here and he’s going to fucking pop us! He’s not even going to say hello, just, bang, bullets in our heads. We are so fucking dead!”

  More murmurs.

  “Yes, he will. Because we fucking connect him to the dead guy—Darron or Daryl or whatever the fuck that fuckwad’s name was!”

  Oh, dear God. Maddie looked up at Dingo, who was frozen there, across the room. “Ding!” she said, but of course it came out “Mmph!”

  Still, it was enough to get his attention, and his gaze moved jerkily over to her, and she knew that she’d heard right. Daryl Middleton—Dingo’s best friend since seventh grade—had died from his injuries, which meant that these three men had killed him.