by Wesley Lewis
A loud pop shattered her fantasy. The car jerked toward the trees. Jennifer corrected the wheel and stepped on the brake. Her heart raced as the car came to a stop.
Blowout. The crash caused a blowout.
She shifted into park and looked back at the house, no more than a hundred yards away.
Something struck the front windshield. She turned forward to find a fog of cracked glass. The myriad of tiny fractures led to a small hole just below the rearview mirror.
A second bullet tore through the glass and whistled past her head. She fumbled with the seat belt and rolled onto the floorboard as two more shots crashed through the windshield. Peering over the edge of the seat, she saw a golf-ball-size hole in the laminated glass.
Stay or go? Stay or go?
She had no idea how many men were firing at her, no idea how far away the SWAT teams were.
Two more shots pierced the windshield. The second sliced the steering wheel.
Fuck it.
She lunged for the passenger-side door, opened it, and dove behind a tree as a shot impacted the open door behind her.
She crouched behind the tree and looked back at the car. The windshield was a spiderweb of cracks. Light streamed through a hole in the open door. The prop pistol lay on the passenger-side floorboard, where it had landed after her collision with the van.
Some backup plan.
She crouched as tightly as she could and prayed for a helicopter filled with FBI agents to descend into Crocker’s front yard at that very moment.
She listened for the sound of rotor blades but heard only the dinging of the Jeep’s door alarm.
She crouched and waited, unable to process the passage of time, not sure if minutes had passed or just seconds. She waited and listened for the sounds of rescue. What she finally heard was footsteps.
SWAT team, she told herself. It’s a SWAT team. They’ve had more than enough time to—
“Dobryĭ denʹ, Miss Williams,” said a familiar voice.
Jennifer turned toward the trees. Ten feet away stood Vladimir Dudka, half concealed behind an aspen, staring at her through the scope of a rifle.
“Your hands,” he ordered. “Show them to me.”
She complied.
He peeked around the rifle scope. “You have a gun?”
“In the car.” She didn’t see any point in telling him it was just a wall decoration.
Dudka stepped out from behind the tree, wearing camouflage fatigues that resembled an earth-toned Jackson Pollock painting, and sidled left until he could see into the car.
“Good,” he said. “Lie on your belly.”
Jennifer leaned down, placed her forearms on the ground, and crawled forward into a prone position.
“Now interlock your fingers behind your head.”
She kept her eyes fixed on him as she complied.
He lowered the rifle and walked toward her. “Ramming my men off the road was a bold move.” He continued past her, toward the Jeep. “Sasha reports that there are a couple of broken bones but that the majority of my soldiers will be joining us shortly.”
Fuuuuuuck!
He paused at the road, raised the rifle, and scanned in both directions before approaching the car. He checked the backseat, then lowered the rifle and knelt beside the open door.
“A Colt Peacemaker.” He picked up the gun. “What an odd—and uniquely American—choice for a defensive weapon.”
“Crocker had it lying around.”
Dudka tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants and walked toward Jennifer. “And where is Matthew?” His boots stopped just inches from her face. “Until I saw you dive out of this car, I was under the impression that both you and Mr. Crocker were still enjoying my hospitality back in Pahrump. But I have to assume that if you’re here, he is too.”
“You just missed him.”
Dudka placed the toe of his boot on the side of her face. “Has he perhaps taken up a sniper position somewhere above the cabin?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Dudka added a bit of pressure with his boot. “I was prepared for the possibility of snipers watching the road. That’s why my men waited for me to climb this godforsaken hill and take up a countersniper perch.” He pressed down harder. “But instead of sniper fire, I heard a car crash.”
Jennifer ignored the pain in her face and tried to think of anything that might keep Dudka busy until help arrived. “Would it help if I said I was sorry?”
“Oh, don’t apologize.” He pressed even harder. “I admire someone who can—what is the term?—oh yes, ‘think outside the box.’”
“You should come to one of my firm’s motivational seminars. They’re all about thinking outside the box.”
“Is that so?” He pressed harder.
“I don’t care for them much myself.” Her mouth caught dirt and leaves as she spoke. “There’s one coming up next month that I’m really dreading.”
He took his foot off her face and knelt beside her. “Don’t worry, Ms. Williams, you won’t be attending.”
She felt the gun barrel press against her ear and blurted, “I can show you where the others are!”
“The others?”
“They’re hiding. I can—”
“We’ll find them without you.”
The sound of a hammer cocking hit Jennifer like a punch to the stomach.
Dudka whispered, “Do svidaniya, sladkaya.”
Jennifer opened her mouth to protest but was preempted by the loudest click she’d ever heard.
She looked up and saw that Dudka—crouched so close his knee was almost touching her cheek—was holding the prop pistol he’d taken from the Jeep. He scowled at the gun and tossed it to the side.
Jennifer raised her right hand into a fist and brought it down in a hammer blow to the crotch of his camouflage pants. He gasped and tumbled backward.
She jumped to her feet.
On the ground, Dudka reached for a black handgun holstered on his hip.
Jennifer ignored the pain in her ankle and sprinted for the road. She curved her path around the Jeep, trying to keep it between her and the gun—the real gun—in Dudka’s hand. She reached the other side of the narrow road and skidded to a stop.
The embankment was not too steep to climb down, but it was definitely too steep to run down. She dropped to her butt and tried to slide, but the rocky ground kept her from picking up any speed.
She heard footsteps just behind her and turned to see Dudka standing at the edge of the road, less than ten feet away.
He raised the pistol and took aim. “Glupaya suka.”
The gun seemed to discharge twice. The first shot shook Dudka’s whole body, and the second sent up a spray of rocks a few inches to Jennifer’s right.
Dudka collapsed face-first onto the rocky slope.
Jennifer watched his motionless body for several seconds before noticing a small, bloody hole hiding in the camouflage pattern of his shirt, just below his left shoulder blade.
Crocker!
She scrambled back up to the road. As she reached the top, she stood and yelled, “Crocker!”
But it wasn’t Crocker standing thirty yards down the road, holding the rifle.
Ashley lowered the gun and slipped her left arm through the sling.
Jennifer swallowed her surprise and gave a slow wave. Ashley waved back—the same enthusiastic wave she’d given two days before in the bar at La Condamine. Before Jennifer could say anything, her young friend broke into a run.
Jennifer opened her arms and caught Ashley in an embrace. “What happened to going to the helicopter?”
“We were halfway up the hill when we heard a crash. I had the rifle, so I just came run
ning.”
Ashley let go of Jennifer and stared down the rocky slope at Dudka’s body.
Jennifer placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The young woman turned away from the embankment. “Now I remember why I never liked hunting.”
Jennifer nodded as if this made perfect sense. “We need to get back to the house. Dudka’s men rolled to the bottom of the ravine, but they’re still alive.”
“I think these guys can handle them.” Ashley nodded at something over Jennifer’s shoulder.
Jennifer turned to see a convoy of vehicles with red and blue flashing lights coming around the bend. “Oh, thank God.” She glanced back at Ashley. “Maybe you should put down that gun.”
“Oh.” Ashley glanced at the rifle. “Oh yeah.” She dropped it to the ground and began waving to the SWAT vehicles.
Jennifer waved too.
After a few seconds of waving, Ashley leaned over and said, “Did you hear me say, ‘Smile, you son of a bitch’?”
Jennifer stopped waiving. “What? Like in Jaws?”
“Uh-huh. Right before I shot him, I said, ‘Smile, you son of a bitch.’”
“Seriously?”
“Nah, but I should have. That would have been cool.”
EPILOGUE
When the hot water finally ran cold, Jennifer decided it was time to get out of the shower. She couldn’t swear that this had been the longest shower of her life, but it had certainly followed the longest sleep of her life.
Aside from occasional trips to the bathroom and a short visit from Crocker, who’d brought her a cream cheese bagel sometime the previous afternoon, she’d slept for the better part of thirty hours.
Now she was moderately rested and completely famished and eager to see if the sunrise view from Crocker’s back porch lived up to the photo she’d seen in his trailer. She wrapped her hair in a towel, slipped on the ankle brace the paramedics had given her, and donned a white robe with arrowhead butte b&b embroidered across the back.
The second-floor hallway was still dark. She paused outside the master bedroom and considered the possibility that Crocker would prefer a few more hours of sleep over getting up at five thirty to see the sunrise.
She was on the verge of turning back toward her room when inspiration struck. She would slip into bed with him and coax him awake in a way he couldn’t object to.
She eased open his door, stepped quietly inside, and gasped at the sight of Ashley’s blond curls bouncing rhythmically above her toned, arched back as a pair of strong, masculine hands gripped her perfectly round ass.
Ashley screamed and rolled to the side, covering herself with the blanket as she did.
Tom covered himself with the sheet and yelled, “Jennifer, what the hell?”
Jennifer averted her eyes. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I was looking for Crocker.” Pulling the door shut, she added, “I’m really so sorry.”
♦ ♦ ♦
She found Crocker on the back porch, drinking coffee with Special Agent Eastland. The sun was just beginning to crest the mountaintops.
Crocker looked up and smiled. “Morning, sleepyhead. In case you’re wondering, it’s Sunday. You slept through Saturday.”
“Apparently that’s not the only thing I slept through. When did you get here, Agent Eastland?”
“Call me Bruce.” He stood and motioned for her to take his seat next to Crocker. “I got in last night.”
Jennifer accepted the seat. “Thank you.”
Eastland pulled up a chair across from them. “I’d hoped to convince you all to come straight into protective custody, but Crocker was quite insistent that I not wake you.”
Jennifer smiled at Crocker. “Smart man.”
Crocker returned the smile. “Bruce brought some good news.”
“Oh?”
Eastland nodded. “It looks like both Sheriff Cargill and Larry Chappell are going to be okay. I got word just before I arrived that the sheriff came through his second surgery with no complications. His prognosis is good.”
“And Larry’s?”
“He’s going to be eating through a straw for a while—they had to wire his jaw shut—but he’ll recover.”
Jennifer took a deep breath. “Good. I’m not sure I could stand to lose anyone else right now.”
“Me either,” said Eastland. “That’s why I’d like to put you and your friends in safe houses until we confirm that Dudka’s organization is permanently out of commission.”
Jennifer turned to Crocker. “What do you think?”
He set down his coffee cup. “You need to do what’s right for you, but I’m going to stay right here. Dudka is dead and Ilya is in jail, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let any of their half-witted minions scare me away from my home.”
Jennifer took in her surroundings. “I guess that works here, but my apartment in Dallas is a little more vulnerable.”
Crocker looked surprised. “I meant that you should stay too—I mean, if you want to—until the FBI figures out whether the threat has passed.” Before Jennifer could reply, he added, “And there is plenty of room if Tom and Ashley want to stay.”
Jennifer giggled.
“What did I say?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Nothing. I just didn’t realize you’d let them keep the master bedroom.”
“Oh?” A look of realization passed over his face. “Oh! Sorry about that. They haven’t come out long enough for me to ask them to switch rooms.”
Eastland looked a bit confused.
Jennifer smiled again. “Don’t sweat it. It was the best surprise I’ve had all week.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The writing of this novel involved a great deal of research; however, I must confess to taking some creative license. Virtually all the details regarding casino security, at both the fictional La Condamine and the real Stratosphere (StratosphereHotel.com), are the product of my imagination. As much as I enjoyed researching real casino security and real casino robberies, I wanted to be sure I didn’t create a how-to guide for real criminals.
My portrayal of human trafficking is also highly fictionalized. Although human trafficking is a real problem in the United States and throughout the world (PolarisProject.org/Human-Trafficking), real human trafficking typically involves the exploitation of vulnerable adults or children and hardly ever involves kidnapping by a stranger.
The town of Pahrump (VisitPahrump.com) is very real; however, it is not—as Al disparagingly calls it—a “shithole,” and it is not (to the best of my knowledge) plagued by organized crime.
There really is a world-famous shooting school outside Pahrump. Front Sight Firearms Training Institute (FrontSight.com), one of the world’s largest private shooting schools, served as the inspiration for the fictional First Shot Shooting Academy.
The Prickly Pear Ranch is fictional, though it would fit right in with the real brothels located along Pahrump’s Homestead Road, which does turn into a dirt road and cross the California border (as Mesquite Valley Road) before running into a dry lake bed. To the best of my knowledge, nobody has ever hosted a skydiving tournament at the lake bed; however, skydiving is a regular part of the annual Burning Man festival, which is held on a dry lake bed in northwest Nevada.
This novel would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of my wife and parents, to whom it is dedicated. I also owe a great deal of gratitude to my friends Daniel and Madison, who—along with my wife and parents—offered their input on early drafts and helped me avoid countless missteps.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wesley S. Lewis grew up in Lubbock, Texas, and now lives in Austin with his wife, Anna, and their dog, Noodle. Wes’s nonwriting résumé includes st
ints as a filmmaker, skydiving instructor, political activist, and commercial real estate agent. West of Sin is his debut novel. Follow him at WesleySLewis.com.