Fierce Protector: Hard to Handle trilogy, Book 1

by Kane, Janine

  Carl, he knew, had been drinking a lot, and it had been Zack’s insistence that he attend meetings which had pulled him back from self-destruction. A death in combat, even of a beloved brother, was reason for the deepest sadness, but such sacrifice was meaningful; perhaps it had brought peace to others, or saved the lives of good men.

  Nick’s death had brought no such consolation; an expensive piece of hardware had screwed up, and conjured the horrific cloud of flame and heat and pressure which had so nearly killed Zack, too. Was it merely luck, Zack asked himself a thousand times, which had spared him? Why had the pressure wave merely ruined his lungs and blown him across the hillside, when it had killed his Captain? The veteran’s group had promised that these were impossible questions, worth only setting aside. But they would never leave Zack alone, he knew, and seeing Carl brought them up in the most painful way.

  The young man was doing better, Zack saw at once; Carl had opted for a neat button-down shirt and, surprisingly, un-ripped jeans. His formerly unkempt dreadlocks were clean and neat, and the straggly beard had gone. He had even started much-needed car repair. “Got myself a new girl, too,” he smiled when Zack congratulated him. “Thinking of settling down in San Antonio, once I find a job there.”

  In the end, they talked mostly about Carl’s projects, his work on his car, his part-time job at the local radio station, and his volunteering with the VA. Zack described his recent fights, but didn’t feel like mentioning Eva; this was a chance to inhabit a different part of his life for a while, and to remember a friend whose luck, for whatever reason, had been eclipsed by his own.

  “I wanted to give this to you,” Carl said, as they sipped coffees after lunch. “It was mixed in with Nick’s things, you know, and . . . well. I thought of you straight away.”

  In the small, red box was his Nick’s SEAL insignia: a brilliant, golden eagle grasping an anchor, a trident and a flintlock pistol, symbolizing the Navy, the SEAL team itself, and their role on the land, where Nick had given everything. It had been repaired, Carl told him, and it gleamed with polish.

  Zack wordlessly shook Carl’s hand and watched him leave, taking time to mourn his friend who had fought - and died - right there beside him. Twenty feet away, at most. Nick had been fearless in combat, Zack remembered proudly, an expert at his work, and a brother to his men. He deserved so much more than to be killed by a goddamned computer glitch. In fact, Zack thought angrily, he deserved to be sitting right here, remembering his friend Zack Norcross; that’s what he deserved.

  The waitress, on her way to bring their change, stopped, thought twice, and left the muscular young man to his sudden tears.

  ***

  Outside Corpus Christi, TX

  Wednesday afternoon

  “Thanks for coming, Barry. I can always rely on you to be right on time.” The shaven-headed teenager hopped nervously into Gray’s unmarked car, carrying their usual sandwich lunch. “Reuben?”

  “That’s what you said, ain’t it?” he said curtly. These meetings were both inconvenient and dangerous for Barry – an alias with which Gray had set him up – and the faster and smoother they went, the happier Gray’s 19-year old informant would be.

  “You’re a gifted young man, Barry. I’m happy we were able to continue to connect like this.” Gray drove them along some back roads, past derelict cars and a few broken-down trailers, to a spot by the river they had used a handful of times in the last six months. Without Gray’s intercession, they both knew, Barry would be just another poor, imprisoned black kid, facing a century of jail time on narcotics charges. As it was, he was a free man, albeit one for whom regular meetings with the DEA had become a requirement.

  “I got what you wanted,” he said. “Those dickheads at the port, they ain’t the ones to talk to.” This was a theme for Barry, his insistence that it was, in fact, only he who could provide the best intelligence; the other lowlifes couldn’t be trusted to tie their shoes, he would say. It was part of his shtick, an act designed to convince Detective Alexander that his allegiance had truly changed. And, given the high quality of his information, at least of late, Gray was ready to believe that it had.

  “So tell me, young padawan.”

  “What ya callin’ me?” Barry asked.

  “You seen Star Wars?” Gray asked, taking a big bite of his reuben.

  “Yeah, yeah I get it. Very funny. You wanna hear about this boat, or not?”

  Finally. Gray had suspected for months that this gang were moving their product to the big northern cities by sea. Three times since joining the DEA, Gray had watched couriers walk blindly into raids at truck stops; eventually the gangs had stopped risking the highways. Flying was out, certainly after 9/11, and the railways had had their share of raids, and one very inconvenient breakdown; it had proven easiest to discretely sail up the coast and unload somewhere quiet. He gave Barry his full attention.

  “It all come in the same way, right, at Corpus. Nothing changed”. Gray was nodding. There was no need to take notes, as Barry was unwittingly speaking directly into a microphone hidden in the upholstery. “It ain’t in Corpus for like an hour or two, they transfer it all across, like the Navy, man, they real slick.”

  “To another boat?”

  “Yeah, man, I’m telling ya. It’s like this rich playboy’s boat, I dunno where they got it. Looks like somebody used to have some good times on there, man. Got a stripper pole and everythin’.” Barry chuckled at his own mind’s lewd imagery. “They send it across on cables and on a little dinghy they got, man, zip-zip-zip, and then this fine-ass boat just takes off, you know, right after. They got this shit down, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  “When’s the next one due?”

  “Man, they be shipping this stuff just as fast as they can. Must be havin’ a whole warehouse stashed on the other side, ’cos they ain’t waiting around or nothin’”. Barry bit into his sandwich.

  “Did anyone mention where it ships out of, down there?”

  Barry shook his head. “Naw, man. That’s top-floor shit. Ain’t nobody knows ’cept the boss man.”

  “Vincent Heston? Is that who you mean, Barry?”

  The teenager grunted. “I ain’t sayin’ his name, not to you, not to no one. He’s the boss man, that’s it. Alrigh’?” In fact, the both knew, the only time Barry had spoken his boss’ name was to confirm his arrival, some ten months before, as part of a reorganization of the San Antonio operation. Since then, it had run like clockwork.

  “Alright, Barry. How’s the sandwich?”

  Barry gawked at him. “Fuck the fuckin’ sandwich, man. You listening to what I’m laying down? Cos I ain’t risking my life ‘less you paying attention.”

  “A hundred percent, Barry, a hundred percent.”

  “OK. So, they gonna unload somewhere with some weird-ass name, I never heard of it before, like Wal-Mart Island, or something.”

  Gray gave his informant a look. “Barry . . . You can’t just sit there and make shit up, alright? If you don’t know, like I told you, all you gotta say is . . .”

  “I AIN’T making up a damn thing, motherfucker, I swear to you right now! They mention this place a couple times and it sounded like that, like Wall-Mart Island, or Wyatt Earp Island, or some damn place. You ask me for the intel, and this be the shape of the intel, you got it?”

  Gray could only push Barry so far, he knew. It would be most unfortunate to show up for a meet and find himself staring down gun barrels, the object of some drawn-out and embarrassing hostage deal. “I got it, Barry. You did good, and I mean that.”

  Barry relaxed a little, nodding to himself. “There’s one more thing.”

  “I’m all ears, Barry.”

  “You got yourself a snake in the grass.” Alexander froze. He hadn’t expected this. “I heard there’s one o’ your guys who’s doing a double-agent kinda thing. You know?”

  Gray tried to keep emotion out of his voice. “Can you tell me any more?”

  “That’s all I’m saying, ma
n.”

  Thinking it over, Gray decided not to press further; this was too sensitive, and Barry’s value had just become incalculable. Slow and patient, that’s the way to do it. “Understand. You did real good.”

  With a smile, Barry asked, “So, how about a little expression o’ gratitude this time, huh? Just a lil’ something for your good friend Barry?” Gray sighed. “Oh, come on, man. I done good, you said it yourself.”

  With feigned reluctance, Gray reached into his jacket and brought out a business card. “Her name’s Monique, and you be nice to her, alright? Nothing like the last time.”

  “Oh, brother, I gon’ be nicer to her than anyone ever been.”

  “That’s nice, Barry.”

  “She all paid up?”

  “Fully paid,” the somewhat embarrassed detective confirmed.

  “No bugs in the rug?”

  Gray choked for a second, then said, “Clean as my mother’s kitchen floor.”

  “Sweet!”

  “Ready for me to drive you back?” Gray asked, hiding his mounting exasperation.

  “Yeah. Home, James!”

  Gray dropped off his effervescent young spy and got straight on the road back to San Antonio. There was, he grinned to himself, a lot to report.

  ***

  Downtown San Antonio

  Wednesday afternoon

  It had turned into a perfect fall afternoon, Vincent noted contentedly as he eased himself out of the pool. Marcella handed him his Egyptian cotton towel, then his unforgivably loud Hawaiian shirt and beach shorts. Twenty-three, unashamedly sexy and wonderfully attentive, she smiled by her boss’ side as he took in the God-like views of Downtown amid the healthful glow of a good, long swim. As angular as a Lego city, Vincent often mused, San Antonio’s pale, sun-bleached architecture shone intensely from up here, its towers as familiar to him as the warmth of the sun on his neck, as comforting as Marcella’s tender, bare ass under his fondling hand.

  “Right, my dear,” he said, enjoying her shy smile, her perfectly smooth skin . . . and the aroused gasp, the bitten lower lip as his fingers found their favorite place. “That’s more than enough goddamned fitness for one day. A Montecristo, if you’d been so kind,” he requested politely. “Number Two,” Vincent added, slowly withdrawing his hand and, for clarity, holding up a pair of deliciously wet fingers.

  “Si, señor Heston,” Marcella said softly, slipping her panties back into place with the half-feigned shame of the innocent – although, as Heston’s assistant and ‘masseuse’, she was anything but – and returning a little propriety to her posture. With fabulous wealth, Vincent Heston remarked often to himself, came some treasurable perks; leasing the top three floors of this building gave Vincent valuable privacy, affording him this extravagant pool as playground, fitness center and outdoor conference room for his – and Marcella’s – exclusive use.

  There were less ostentatious benefits, like these fine, Cuban cigars . . . and his little Marcella, shapely and discrete, a feast for the senses and a salve for an often overworked mind. Vincent reclined in a deck chair and blew smoke rings at the azure sky; Marcella slid into his lap and, opening herself for her generous, doting boss, welcomed his two fingers inside her once more.

  She had just come, noisily and wetly, when the intercom buzzer sounded. “Darling, would you? I’m very busy,” he grinned, motioning to the cigar. The Number Two really was superior, he judged after a decade’s experience, smoother and more pleasingly spicy.

  “Señor Heston, Mister Curt is beneath.”

  Vincent rose and chuckled. “Beneath me, for sure. Beneath you, even. But how will the chariot of success proceed without my giving instructions to its horses?” Marcella frowned slightly and buzzed the gate open. “This will be business, my angel,” Vincent said with something approaching kindness. “We’ll continue this,” he slipped his hand between her legs once more and flicked her swollen clit, “immediately after, have no fear.”

  “Si, Señor Heston. Will be special, like this morning?” she asked lustfully.

  Vincent made a show of considering this as though it were a billion dollar deal. “I think, my dear, that can be arranged. So, don’t forget the lube.” He spanked her perfect ass, within which his climax had been so memorably ‘special’ earlier, and washed up before Curt’s lumbering arrival.

  “Jesus, man.” Vincent regarded the big enforcer, who looked incongruously formal in suit and tie, with alarmed eyes. “I’m in fuckin’ beach shorts and I’m moments from jumping in there, just to cool off.”

  Curt stood, glancing left and right, perplexed. “Marcella said you like your employees to wear suits.”

  Vincent let out a raucous belly laugh. “Not suits . . . Uniforms!” He was nearly helpless. “And that only goes for her, numbnuts. You wouldn’t believe her French maid routine. It’s outrageous. Anyway,” he said, getting his breath back and reaching for his cigar, “’What news on the Rialto?’”

  “Where’s that, boss?” Curt had a great deal of affection for this powerful and genuine man, but grew a little weary of being made to feel like a second-rate mind.

  “Merchant of Venice. A story of debt and revenge. Rather a propos, wouldn’t you say?”

  Curt lost his jacket and pressed on regardless. “Hank Montgomery,” he began.

  “Ah, yes. The rabbit in the headlights.” Vincent slid back into his deck chair. “What of him?”

  “I tracked him to Sutherland and tossed his motel room, but there wasn’t a dime there, nor any real intel.”

  “’Alas! I blame you not, for you are mortal.’” He paused. “As the bard would say.”

  Curt cleared his throat awkwardly. “He spent the night in an RV park in the boonies, then drove back into town and met up with his sister.”

  “Evaline, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Twenty-four, kinda cute, works at the bakery in Stockdale. And there’s this guy who’s always with her.”

  Vincent snorted. “That’s often the way, dear Curt, with desirable women.”

  “No, boss, I mean . . . always, like he’s her protection detail.”

  “Wait, you’re telling me they hired private security already?”

  Curt shook his head. “I figure he’s just a boyfriend. Looks pretty serious.”

  Vincent rose from the deck chair with almost pained reluctance, as if unwilling to sweat the small stuff on such a beautiful day. “Curt, let me ask you this. Are you pretty serious?”

  The bigger man straightened his back. “You bet, boss.”

  “And, perish the thought, but should some form of violence become necessary in the course of this meandering shitshow, could you handle that?”

  “Anytime, anywhere, boss. I can take care of them.”

  Vincent reached up to pat him on the shoulder. “I have absolute confidence that you can. In the meantime, if it’s little Evaline he’s run to for help, shall we perhaps encourage her generosity?”

  Curt caught on quickly. “Like a down payment?”

  “A security deposit, let’s say. A way of persuading us not to perform surgery on Mr. Montgomery without anesthetic.” Vincent mimed a knife running down his chest, from neck to balls.

  Curt smiled. “No one wants that.”

  “I suspect you’re right,” he agreed, and then his smile became a murderous sneer. “But let’s find out.”

  ***

  Sutherland, TX

  Wednesday Evening

  Eva warily eyed the last slice of pepperoni, but decided against it, tossing the box in the fridge.

  “I’ll help, Sis,” Hank said, rising to wipe down the little living room table and run a Dustbuster over the floor. “I suspect Mr. Norcross likes to keep a tidy home.”

  Eva finished the brief chores and sat down, yet again, in front of the TV. “He’s not OCD, or something, just neat.”

  Hank shrugged. “Sure. Lot of military guys are like that.”

  “He’s out of the military now,” she explained. “He was injure
d.” Hank ignored her, focusing on Jeopardy. “In combat,” she added pointedly.

  “He was there for combat, Eva. He knew the risks. What is Thelma and Louise?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you not watching this?” he asked. This had been his favorite show since childhood.

  “Not really. Did Zack say when he would be back?”

  Hank shook his head, then ladled on the Austrian accent and intoned, “’I’ll be back’. That’s all he said.”

  Eva threw a cushion at him. “He’s not some robot, you know. He’s actually pretty cool.”

  Hank muted the commercial break and turned to his sister. “His muscles are pretty cool. His ever-so-handsome face and his nice lifestyle are pretty cool, right? But I wouldn’t say he’s been all that cool to me.”

  She explained for the sixth time. “If you hadn’t hit me, he’d be much nicer. He’s got a real problem with violence.”

  “Hah!” he laughed derisively. “A martial-arts-expert-Navy-SEAL with a Buddhist streak! Give me a break!”

  “Violence against women, I meant.” She was running out of cushions to throw. “You can imagine that, right?”

  “I can imagine him being pretty screwed up by the fuckin’ ‘War on Terror’,” he said, hand-quotes cynically aloft, “that’s what I can imagine. I’ve seen those commercials about the soldiers who come back with PTSD or something. You said it yourself, he was injured. He’s got hate issues; he’s there thinking, ‘if you live an alternative lifestyle, you’re just like the terrorists’”.

  Eva folded her arms, for twenty years her signal that Hank had upset her. “You don’t know shit,” was her accusation, followed by the last cushion, thrown hard at his head.

  “OK, OK. I get it. Evie’s in love and won’t hear a thing against him.”

  “He gave you a roof over your head, you ungrateful turd. And you see that car out front?” Hank hadn’t noticed, and flicked the curtains briefly to check. “That’s an off-duty fireman, a friend of Zack’s, and he’s keeping an eye on us while Zack’s out. Do you get it now?”