Whitewater (Rachel Hatch Book 6)

by L T Ryan

  Sweat formed on Ayala's brow, coating him in a light sheen, as he waited patiently for Sanchez' thumb to move. It was resting just to the side of the red detonator switch in his hand. Sanchez had used his primary skillset from his time with the special forces. Demolition.

  The long bike chain securing the rusted bike to the base of the tree trunk was actually a thick strand of det cord, shrouded in a plastic coating and shaped to look like a bike chain. It was connected to the bike, but only so the signal receiver, underneath the bike seat, could run the thin, black wire along the frame of the bike.

  The luncheon lasted nearly an hour and a half. And even with the air conditioning running, both men were now soaked through with sweat, further darkening the stain on Ayala's Hawaiian shirt.

  "I think I can see them moving around in there. Looks like the party's breaking up."

  Ayala gnawed on the end of the unlit cigar in his mouth. The man at the door stepped forward, his head swiveling from left to right. He kept his gun hand close to the pistol underneath his sports coat. He looked back into the cafe and nodded. The doors opened a moment later.

  Hector Fuentes exited with Juan Carlos Moreno close to his side, moving him towards the limousine that pulled up, like he was a dignitary under protection. Moreno shut the door on his boss and began to make his way around the back end of the vehicle to speak with the security man who had been posted at the door.

  Sanchez moved his finger over the red plastic button. With no hesitation, he pressed it. Silence followed the click until a moment later, it was broken by the detonation.

  White light exploded out in a concentric circle from the tree.

  The driver and doorman were killed instantly. It took a second to find Moreno because the cartel head of security's body was scattered in several different places. It wasn't until Ayala saw Moreno's head impaled on a stop sign that he let out a breath.

  A loud crack followed the initial explosion.

  The blast had badly damaged the limo. But somehow, Hector Fuentes had survived.

  Ayala watched him crawl away, badly injured, but alive. The cracking sounded again. It rumbled the ground and felt and sounded like an earthquake.

  The explosion severed the massive tree. The cracking was the release of the thick trunk's resistance to the blast. It fell forward onto the fleeing Fuentes, who was incapable of escaping its path, and crushed him under its branches.

  The cigar fell from his mouth as Ayala's jaw dropped wide. He thought of his good friend, Ernesto, and left the cigar where it lay. He looked on at the sight before him one more time before driving away in his patched-up Nissan.

  He thought, how wonderful it would've been for Ernesto to see him prove to the devil himself, the seed is mightier than the boulder.

  Forty-Five

  On that day I was to kill your parents, fate put me in line with you. As you have rightly guessed at but never asked, I am not a tobacco farmer. I am a killer of men, women, and children. I know where my journey ends. I will be in good company as the fires of hell lick at my flesh. But rest assured, I do not fear this end or its consequence for the life I have led. I say this not out of a bout of boastful machismo, but for the simple reason that the path I walked led me to you. And for that, I would roast in a thousand hells if it meant I could do it again.

  If you are reading this, then you know I am gone. Hopefully in the five years of life we have shared together you have felt in some small measure a fraction of the love and adoration I had for you.

  I will not feel the lash of the devil's whip, for my spirit will wander above it all. I will be with you in the wind that passes through your hair. I look on as you live the rest of your existence in peace and tranquility. In those moments of doubt, when you need a father's hand, you will hear my wisdom in the rustle of leaves.

  For you were more than a servant girl who became my daughter. You were the girl who planted the seed of love that blossomed into a flower, replacing darkness for light.

  In you, I see a different path than I have traveled. And on it, I hope you continue to spread your seed wherever the wind takes you.

  Maria stepped out of the busy café onto the street and walked over to the man in the blue ambulance carrying her heavy satchel. He turned to face her. "Are you the one they call Azul?"

  "I am."

  Maria then fished out a metal box the size and shape of a brick. A turquoise bracelet dangled loosely at her wrist with beads that rattled noisily. Azul accepted the box containing twenty-five thousand dollars. Maria hoped it would do well for the man she'd read about in the newspaper.

  The article had struck a chord with Maria when she'd first read it. The three hundred thousand dollars Machado had left her was more than she'd ever know what to do with in two lifetimes.

  She set aside enough to carry her through the rest of her life. And then looking at the pile left over, Maria contemplated how to best use her newfound wealth. The answer came with a breeze pushing its way through the clustered branches of a nearby tree. Maria was instantly found by a hissed whisper and set forth to do its biding.

  Standing beside Azul and looking upon his blue ambulance, Maria was suddenly inspired to do something else.

  Maria pulled a paintbrush and palate from her oversized satchel. She then took a step back. Holding the bristled end of the paintbrush in front of her, she angled it and turned it and angled it, squinting her eye while taking in the blurred image of the blue backdrop. And thought of the flower she planned to paint.

  The whisper she'd heard had told her what to do with the money. In the leaves jostling, she heard Machado's slithered tongue tell her what to do. She heard it as plain as if the man, who she had loved as a father, said four words to her.

  Make light the dark.

  And Maria planned to, using the money gifted her to help those in need. Maria looked at her canvas and it came to her. The flower would be a rose. It seemed a fitting flower for the van, since Maria planned on meeting with the reporter who'd written the article at a restaurant called Rosa's Café.

  Maria squirted a deep red into the recessed bowl and, looking at her canvas, she wondered if the reporter, Miguel Ayala, would like to see one of her flower drawings.

  READ on for a sneak peak at AFTERSHOCK (Rachel Hatch Book 7), or pre-order your copy now:

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08X93GBZ9

  Be the first to receive Rachel Hatch updates. Sign up here:

  https://ltryan.com/hatch-updates

  The Rachel Hatch Series

  Drift

  Downburst

  Fever Burn

  Smoke Signal

  Firewalk

  Whitewater

  Aftershock (pre-order now)

  RACHEL HATCH SHORT STORIES

  Fractured

  Proving Ground

  The Gauntlet

  Aftershock

  Rachel Hatch Book Seven

  by L.T. Ryan & Brian Shea

  Copyright © 2021 by L.T. Ryan, Liquid Mind Media, LLC, & Brian Christopher Shea. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  Aftershock Chapter 1

  The moon hid under a thin veil of wispy gray clouds but still managed to cast its glow over the freshly fallen snow.

  Chris Macintosh’s hot breath melted the flakes falling in front of him and covering his face in a glimmering sheen. He snapped an icicle from his nose with the rough edge of his sleeve. The leaking pipes that were his nostrils worked to replace the stalactite of snot. The cold air pinched his throat and stung his lungs. He'd forgotten how much he hated the cold. Breakneck, Alaska, was a lifetime away from his Austin, Texas, childhood. The company he currently kept worsened his tolerance for the cold, wet embrace of Mother Nature.

 
Lank cursed under his breath as he turned his face from the wind. The man assisting Lank’s right side complained in hushed curses, most of which were washed out by the high winds that blew in their faces every few minutes or so. "How much did you say this guy weighs?"

  Lank's pitchy voice irritated Macintosh to no end. He’d been listening to Lank moan for the past ten minutes since they'd pulled the body out of the trunk of the Bronco a half mile back. Todd Lankowski, better known as Lank, was by all accounts an idiot. And his question about the weight was the third time he’d asked, thus making this Macintosh’s third attempt to explain. “Because he’s dead weight.”

  Lank spit. The wind blew it back into his face, instigating another round of expletives. His use of the f-bomb would give a sailor pause. Lankowksi peppered that word into just about every sentence the wire-thin man uttered. Macintosh tolerated Lank out of necessity. In other circumstances, Macintosh would’ve probably already punched him in the face.

  Macintosh had spent the last two weeks kissing ass with the scrawny lackey in the hopes of getting an audience with the king. He’d spent the last seven years at Spring Creek Maximum Security networking himself into this position. And the last two weeks had led to this moment.

  “Are you sure he’s gonna be here?” Icy wind stung the back of his throat.

  “He said he was.” Lank stopped walking. The dead weight of the man between them anchored Macintosh. He turned in annoyance to see Lank eyeing him.

  “You seem real eager to see Grizz.”

  “I am. Been waiting a while.”

  “Doesn’t mean the feds couldn’t have gotten to you.”

  Macintosh balled a fist. “Accuse me of it again and you’ll be the second asshole I drag up this hill tonight.”

  “I’m just sayin’ is all.”

  “You think I did ten years in Spring Creek just to cop a deal? And you remember, it was Ray Winslow who tapped me and brought me in. I didn’t go looking for any brotherhood. It found me.” Macintosh tapped at the swastika tattooed in dark black against the side of his neck.

  “It’s just—ya know—been crazy ever since Grizz whacked those three Marshals.”

  “Then we best not be wasting any more time out here.”

  Lank began moving again, although the lion’s share of the load was still being shouldered by Macintosh.

  A few feet from the door, Lank's feet shot out from under him like a poorly placed Charlie Brown kick after Lucy had just yanked the football away. The unconscious man between them broke his fall.

  A long slow grunt rumbled from their prisoner.

  The prisoner muttered something unintelligible. The wind obscured any sound not absorbed by the rag taped to his mouth. Macintosh pressed on the man’s shoulder, keeping him pinned to the ground while Lank scrambled to get his feet under him.

  Macintosh knew the unconscious man’s name was Dawes. He also knew Dawes was a member of the United States Marshal Services Special Operations Group, as indicated by the OD green patch sewn into the shoulder of his black tactical uniform. Dawes had been unconscious for the better part of the past twenty-four hours since they’d captured him after a failed breach of their compound.

  "Grab his damn arm," Macintosh barked. Lank pulled Dawes’ other shoulder. "We have two feet to go to the door. Do you think you can do it without falling on your ass?" Macintosh was cold, he was tired, and he was terrified of what lay on the other side of that door, and what he might be asked to do.

  They made the last few steps across the glass surface. The light above the door bathed Lank in a pale glow, making his bony form look more skeletal in the light.

  Macintosh adjusted Dawes’ weight and gripped the doorknob. As he turned the knob to open it, Macintosh knew one thing for certain. Today would be somebody’s last.

  Aftershock Chapter 2

  Hatch sat in the same restaurant booth they’d shared years ago. Being back here felt odd. She’d always wondered what it would be like to see Cruise again after all these years. Ten years with the SEAL Teams before opting for the private sector. Their six-month love affair following the amphibious assault course where they’d met had proved they were just as intense in the bedroom as they were on the battlefield. But the brightest flames burn out fastest, and it wasn’t long before life and circumstance interfered.

  Sitting at the café where they’d said their last goodbye seemed like as fitting a place as any to pick up again where they’d left off. If Cruise hadn’t alerted Hatch to the Talon Executive Services hunter-killer squad sent to kill her, it was unlikely she would’ve been able to get ahead of the power curve. She owed him a debt of thanks but couldn’t ignore the question burning a hole in the back of her mind. How did Alden Cruise know?

  The person capable of answering that question walked in. It’d been five years since Hatch last saw him. She felt the tingle in her scar return. Hatch rubbed her fingers along the raised puffiness of twisted thorny branches wrapping her right arm from wrist to shoulder. The wise café owner in Africa had taught her she had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. And she’d accepted his wisdom. She embraced her ravaged flesh as a reminder of times long past.

  Hatch no longer hid her damaged arm from view. But seeing Cruise approach, she felt ashamed. She felt an irrational urge to cover it. Cruise hadn’t been touched by the ravages of time since they had last been together. In fact, he somehow looked even better. The years between them had had markedly different impacts, at least outwardly. Hatch looked at the chiseled former SEAL as he made his way toward her.

  “Rachel Hatch in the flesh.”

  In the flesh. Even his words had an unintended effect. His eyes immediately shot to her damaged arm. Cruise tried to casually retract his glance, but Hatch could see the shock resonate on his face. She met his gaze and he offered an apologetic look. Great. The last thing she wanted was a pity party.

  Hatch stood. The two embraced. Cruise leaned in for a kiss. Hatch redirected its intended destination of lips for the side of her cheek.

  “I should've been there for you.” Cruise slid into the opposite side of the booth.

  “You were deployed. It didn't matter anyway. Whatever we had ended long before this.” Hatch slapped the scar.

  "I heard you died."

  "I heard that too."

  "Well for a dead person, you look great.”

  Hatch felt her cheeks warm with a redness blocking her pale complexion. She knew Cruise well enough that, beyond his charm and golden boy looks, he was more than a cookie-cutter superhero.

  She remembered it being one of his most endearing qualities. Beneath his tough exterior was a kind soul. Cruise had laid it bare to her while on a midnight picnic overlooking the San Diego Bay. Cruise had taken her to Turner Field, a grassy sports field located on the Naval Amphibious Base in Coronado. The Silver Strand Boulevard separated the main base from the SEAL candidates being run through the grinder of the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL, or BUD/s. Cruise had been named Honor Man for his class, a distinction earned by outperforming all other trainees. He hadn't stopped at surpassing his peers but went on to dethrone the obstacle course longtime record holder.

  As they’d shared a glass of wine and looked out on the lights of the bridge connecting Coronado to the San Diego mainland, Hatch remarked at the stillness of the bay water compared to the ocean feeding it. She had said the moon looked as though it were kissing the water. Then he proposed to her using a piece of foil he'd shaped into a ring. He deployed for eighteen months the next morning. Hatch had just been selected for Task Force Banshee. Even if the foil ring had been real, it would've ended the same. Married to the military left them lonely in life. Or at least for her it did. Cruise now wore a black plated tungsten wedding band.

  "They still make those coffee cakes?" Hatch asked.

  "Best in the world. My humble opinion, of course." Cruise leaned back in his seat and called over in the direction of the kitchen, "Sherry, two of the usual."

  Sherry, a cu
te waitress in her late twenties, approached with the two plates balanced in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. Cinnamon sugar filled the air. The waitress topped off both mugs before returning to the kitchen.

  "How did you know about that Talon team coming for me?"

  "Same old Hatch. You don't beat around the bush."

  "Never really been my way." The warmth of Hatch's coffee warded off the coolness still clinging to the air of the spring morning.

  "There's a long and short answer to that question."

  "That's not an answer."

  "I'm with Talon."

  Hatch nearly spat her coffee. Her mind reeled. She quickly scanned the interior of the café. No threat.

  "Relax. It's me. Just me."

  "I don't understand."

  "You've got Talon all wrong. It's not what you think. They are on the cutting edge of defense contracting, handling some of the most dangerous missions in the world."

  "Like hunting a woman and her family? Are my niece and nephew these dangerous threats you speak of?" Hatch felt a surge of rage rise up inside her.

  "What happened to you was an anomaly. It's a private security company, plain and simple. Government contract work, foreign and domestic. What happened to you was done by a rogue element, a couple old war horses with skeletons in their closet."

  "My dad was one of those old war horses."

  "I know."

  "That's all you got?" Hatch suddenly wasn't as hungry.

  "I only came upon it by accident. I was putting together a proposal to bring you in and make you an offer. I was using our internal system to draft the request when I found your name had been flagged. When I tried to access it, it was beyond my clearance. At the time I thought there was nobody beyond my level.