The Kate Jones Thriller Series 1-4 (Boxed Set)

by D. V. Berkom

  "What the fuck are you doing?" he hissed into my ear.

  With no small effort, I pulled away from him, and playfully patted his arm. "Oh, don't be such a silly, sweetheart. We have plenty of time." I turned to the guard who was looking at everything except the two of us. "Sir, could you tell me where the ladies bathroom is, please?"

  He cleared his throat and answered, "Of course, Señora. It's down that hallway and through those doors." He pointed toward the back of the bank.

  "Thank you. Now, honey, it won't take that long, I promise." Frank's expression was a mixture of cold, white fury punctuated with splotches of red on his cheeks. I turned around, fast, and headed down the hallway before my shaking knees and frayed nerves failed me.

  I burst through the bathroom door and scanned the room for an exit. A bank of high windows ran along the wall in back of the two stalls. I kicked open the door to the first one and climbed onto the toilet. The window opened easily, and I hoisted myself up and over the sill, head first.

  I fell to the ground and immediately got up and hauled ass. I made it several yards before I heard Frank scream at his guy to bring the car around. A bullet whizzed past me and pinged off the concrete wall of another building. I detoured through an alley and kept running.

  Panic welled up inside of me. I didn't know the town, didn't know where to go. I just blindly ran, hoping for inspiration.

  I rounded a corner and saw Jorge parked down the road in his pickup. Without thinking, I ran toward him, waving my arms, hoping somehow he could help me.

  As I neared the truck, Jorge opened the driver's side door and got out. I called out to him, but the words died in my throat when I realized he had a gun.

  A cry escaped me as I skidded to a stop and fell backward. I scrambled to change direction, mid-step. The weight of the backpack threw me off balance and I slammed into the ground. Jorge's bullet barely missed.

  I crawled onto my hands and knees, clawing at the dirt to get to my feet when I heard the music. A rusty old Volkswagen Bug kicking up dust roosters headed straight toward me. Classical music blared through the open windows. I dove behind a trash can on the side of the street. The driver of the VW drew parallel with me and slammed on the brakes, stopping in a cloud of dust. A large automatic gun attached to a skinny brown arm appeared at the side window.

  The driver pulled the trigger. The staccato burst of repeating gunfire split the air. Then, silence.

  I peeked around the side of the garbage can to look. Jorge lay sprawled on the ground, next to his truck. He looked dead.

  Behind me, a dark colored SUV flew past the corner and skidded to a stop.

  "Get in," the VW driver yelled. With no time to think, I ran around the side of the car and threw myself into the passenger seat.

  "Stay down," he barked, as the VW shot past Jorge and his pickup.

  I stayed on the floorboards, afraid to look up, waiting for Frank's bullets to perforate the car.

  I tried to anchor myself to keep from crashing into the door and the gear shift as the driver, howling like a madman, steered first one way, then the other. I gave up and curled into a fetal position. The car bounced and bucked to the crashing strains of Rachmaninoff. I hoped like hell he didn't drive us off a cliff.

  He spun the wheel to the left and crowed with delight as the VW fishtailed out of a spin.

  "You bastards'll never catch us," he yelled to no one in particular.

  We took a hard right, slowed to a crawl, and stopped. He killed the engine. I lifted my head to see where we were.

  "Stay down," he hissed. I did as I was told. After a few minutes, he started the engine, and began to drive. To say the road he chose had a few bumps would be an understatement. I covered my head to keep from banging it to a pulp on the dash. The VW hit one last hole, and then the ride leveled out.

  He turned in his seat to look behind us. "We confounded 'em," he chortled.

  I carefully lifted my head and looked out the window. We were outside of town, driving past scrub and open space on a paved highway. I breathed a sigh of relief and sat up in the seat.

  My rescuer appeared to be about seventy. His face looked like old leather, and his hair resembled Einstein's on a bad day. He had on a set of green scrubs and wore a pair of ancient huaraches on his feet. He turned off the tape player and we drove in silence. I did some deep breathing to still my pounding heart.

  "Thank you," I said.

  He waved his hand at me. "I always hated that prick."

  "Enough to kill him?"

  He shrugged. "I euthanize sick animals. What's the difference?" He turned to me and grinned, extending his hand. "The name's Ogden. I'm the local volunteer vet."

  ***

  Ogden, or Oggie as he liked to be called, had been a veterinarian in the Midwest for over forty years. He'd grown tired of shoveling Nebraska snow and decided to retire in Mexico when his wife died. He'd lived here ever since.

  When I asked him how he came to be the volunteer vet, he banged on the steering wheel.

  "One day I woke up and decided I had a moral imperative to help the poor farmers in the area. So I started stockpiling medicine whenever I went to the states. Pretty soon word got around." He grinned. "Keeps me young. And, I'm never bored." He gave me a sidelong glance. "Why was a piece of shit like Jorge after you?"

  I sighed and looked out the window.

  "Look, if you don't want to talk about it, I won't ask again. I'd just like to know what kind of hornet's nest I stepped in."

  I owed him that much. Frank Lanzarotti was Anaya's man, not Salazar's. My life had just become exponentially more complicated.

  Still watching the scenery flow by, I said, "Apparently Jorge was working for someone I used to know, Frank Lanzarotti, who works for a drug dealer out of Central America named Vincent Anaya. I was actually running from somebody else and thought Jorge might help me."

  Oggie snorted and swerved to miss hitting an opossum lumbering across the road.

  "That's a good one. Jorge and the word help have never been uttered in the same sentence, at least, not in recent memory."

  "Look, you can drop me at the next town, the next bus stop, hell, the side of the road, even. I don't want to cause you any trouble. I owe you my life. You don't need to be part of this."

  Oggie whistled. "Must be some trouble you're in, Miss Kate. Tell you what-" He reached under his seat and brought out a silver flask, unscrewed the top and took a drink. "I'll drive you anywhere you want to go, provided you fill up ol' Bessie's tank." He patted the car's dash affectionately. "But I have to take care of something first." He took another drink and then offered me the flask.

  I shook my head. "It's too dangerous. There are some really bad people who want to see me dead, and they wouldn't have a problem killing you to get to me."

  Oggie's laugh ricocheted around the car.

  "Hell, Kate. I'm so old, dirt's asking me for advice. You think I give a rat's ass about being safe?" He looked at me. "When you get to be my age, you'll understand it's not about how much time you got. It's about how much life you get. Sitting on my ass in a rocking chair isn't a life, far as I'm concerned. Besides," he flicked on the cassette player and Rachmaninoff blasted through the speakers. "You need me."

  ***

  We pulled into Oggie's place an hour later. The small, cinderblock house with a metal roof sat in the middle of the square dirt plot surrounded by a split rail fence. A lemon tree and two mesquites stood sentry at the back of the lot near the house, providing the only shade.

  I glanced back down the driveway. My nerves screamed at me to get moving, now.

  "What's going to stop Frank from finding your place?" Oggie didn't appear to be a person who flew under the radar. His home would probably be the first place Frank would check.

  "Only two people know where I live. I pick up my messages in town, and if there's an emergency, the gal at the post office comes and gets me," he replied. "I like it that way. Less bother."

  Something
told me I wasn't the only person who didn't want to be found. "Who's the other one?"

  He shrugged a bony shoulder. "A lady friend. We haven't spoken in a while, though." He unscrewed his flask to take another swig, raising his eyebrows as he offered it to me again. I shook my head.

  "No thanks. I need my wits about me."

  "Wits are highly overrated," he muttered.

  The one room house had a small bathroom off to one side. The kitchen lined one wall and a bed and dresser stood in a far corner. A wooden table, piled high with old newspapers and stacks of books, took up half the living area. I didn't notice a television or a phone.

  "This'll just take a minute," Oggie said over his shoulder. He opened the small refrigerator and took out a clear plastic bottle and a syringe. Then he walked around the side of the table. "Wild Bill needs his shot, don't you boy?"

  I looked down and realized what I'd thought was a sweater on one of the dining room chairs was actually a large cat. Oggie gathered Wild Bill up in his arms and sat on the chair. He kissed the hairy feline on the head and murmured into his ear.

  "We don't have time for this." I kept a nervous eye on the driveway.

  "If I don't give the little feller his insulin, he'll lapse into a coma and probably die. Now, if you'll just quit your chit chat, I can give him the shot and we'll be on our way."

  He injected the cat and set him on the floor. Wild Bill meowed at me, annoyance plain on his face. Then he shook his head and slowly trundled out the door.

  Oggie and I heard it at the same time. A dark-colored SUV barreled down the dirt drive toward us.

  "Oh, God. It's Frank." My voice matched the panic that constricted my chest.

  He squinted at the car. "Quick-" He shoved me toward the back door. "There's a root cellar behind the mesquites."

  I grabbed my pack and ran.

  The cellar turned out to be a hole in the ground with a weathered wood door covering it. I heaved the door open and dropped the pack inside, then scrambled down the handmade ladder, slamming the door behind me.

  Not the best hideout. The thought of disrupting a nest of snakes or scorpions crossed my mind. Scorpions I could live with. Snakes, not so much. Light streamed in through gaps in the door that allowed me to see, once my eyes adjusted. I pulled the gun out of the front pocket of the pack and crawled as far back as I could go, behind jars filled with some kind of preserves and boxes of dried vegetables.

  I stuffed the pack in the rear of the space, underneath a couple of boxes, then turned back toward the door and held my breath, listening. A sickening feeling twisted my stomach, and visions of Frank beating Oggie to death for information played like a bad movie in my brain. Frank wouldn't care who he killed to get the money.

  I had a gun. I could use it to help him. But, then again, so did Oggie. He knew how to take care of himself.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I needed to be calm. If I tried to make a decision in panic mode, things could go to hell, fast.

  The gun felt faintly reassuring. I opened my eyes and stared at the door, willing Oggie to appear and tell me everything was fine. The longer I sat there, the less certain I became.

  I raised my gun at the sound of someone approaching, and aimed it at the door. The footsteps stopped and a shadow fell across the gaps in the wood.

  The door opened and fell to the side with a bang. I blinked against the bright light, at first unable to make out the person who peered inside the cellar. Then, I recognized him.

  And pulled the trigger.

  A Rock and a Hard Place (Chapter 3)

  Frank's guy dropped his gun and fell to the ground, groaning and clutching his knee.

  I moved to the front of the cellar, next to the ladder under the door, body humming with tension.

  "You're not going to make it, Kate." Frank's voice sounded like he was near the house. "I guarantee I've got more bullets than you do. And a hell of a lot more time."

  I leaned back and pounded my head against the cold dirt wall.

  "I don't have the money, Frank," I yelled back. I searched the darkness at the rear of the cellar to make sure the pack couldn't be seen from the doorway.

  "Well, then we have a problem, don't we? Tell you what-" Frank paused.

  I waited, but he didn't say anything. Then, "You tell me where the money is and I'll let the old guy live."

  He sounded closer. Frank was using the conversation as a diversion so he could move in on my little hideaway. I turned and aimed the gun at the doorway, perspiration running down my back despite the chill of the cellar.

  The ragged breathing from Frank's guy made me want to scream at him to shut the hell up. I was tempted to pull a Jack Bauer and climb out of the cellar shooting for all I was worth. But this wasn't a television show and that would get me killed. My mind raced for an alternative to winding up dead. At least Oggie had survived.

  Unless Frank was lying.

  "Come on out, Kate. It's over."

  He was right on top of me, near the door. The bastard was smart. He stayed out of my line of sight so I didn't have a clear shot.

  If I stayed below, he'd wait me out and eventually I'd either fall asleep or die of thirst. If I surrendered, he could kill me, which didn't seem likely since I knew where the money was. No, he'd torture me until I told him where I'd stashed it.

  Then he'd kill me.

  I could always try to wait them out, hope they fell asleep first. Maybe Frank's guy would bleed out and then it would be a more equitable standoff.

  Not many choices.

  "You know, Frank. I'm kind of caught between a rock and a hard place." I hoped that my voice so close to the door would make him show himself and I could get a shot off.

  "That's true."

  No such luck. He stayed where he was.

  "See, giving myself up just doesn't seem to be a healthy alternative, if you know what I mean."

  The sound of Frank's chuckle sent chills up my spine.

  "Well, Kate, you probably should have thought that one through before you took the money."

  I sighed. The gun weighed heavily in my hand.

  "Tell you what, Kate. I'll give you a break, for old time's sake, all right? You throw out whatever firearms you have down in there and come out real peaceful-like, and after you tell me where the money is, when I do kill you I'll make it quick."

  "Gee, Frank. You're the man."

  I had no choice. Killing myself wasn't an option. I'd figure out a way to escape before he killed me. I had to.

  After I quieted the screaming in my head, I took a deep breath and tossed the gun through the door.

  "You win, Frank. I'm coming out." I climbed the ladder and crawled onto my hands and knees. Frank picked up my gun and aimed his 40 caliber at me. I stood, hands behind my head, and glanced at the man I shot. He'd removed his shirt and was using it as a tourniquet around his leg. He looked pale and clammy and was shaking like a wet dog.

  "You should probably get your guy to a doctor, Frank. Looks like he's going into shock."

  "Shut up." Frank walked behind me and gave my arm a vicious twist. "You should be more worried about what I'm going to do to you." He shoved me forward and marched me toward the house, leaving the other man on the ground.

  I stumbled through the front door, Frank's gun at my back. Oggie sat taped to a kitchen chair, his face a mess. Frank pushed me into another one along side of him. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from the table and proceeded to wrap it around my wrists and ankles, and then to the chair.

  Oggie's right eye had swollen shut. I gave him a look that I hoped said how sorry I was. He shrugged and shook his head. It broke my heart.

  Frank dropped the roll of tape on the table and walked out the door without a word. I turned to Oggie.

  "God, Oggie, I'm so sorry you had anything to do with this."

  One-half of his mouth twitched up in a grimace. The other side was too bruised. It gave him a macabre look with the streaks of blood down his face.

>   "My choice, Kate. Not yours." Wild Bill meowed at him and rubbed against his leg. "Probably one of the worst ones I ever made, but it's mine."

  I grew silent at the sound of crunching gravel. Frank walked back inside.

  "I usually let Manny do the honors, but since you shot him, it's up to me. Now," he slid a chair over and sat down in front of me, leaning his arms on the back. "Are you going to tell me where the money is, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?"

  "It's gone, Frank. I just wired the last thousand to a friend when you found me at the bank." If I could get them away from Oggie, maybe he'd forget about him. Let him live.

  Frank sighed and shook his head. "Now I'm the one caught between a rock and a hard place, Kate, darlin'. If I don't bring the money back, my ass is in a sling. I already searched the house and that rat-infested cellar. It ain't here. Your old buddy here didn't know anything about it, either. Didja, killer?" He reached over and ruffled Oggie's hair. Oggie jerked his head away.

  "I can't kill you until I get my hands on that money, so I think we're at what you call an impasse." He rose from his chair and moved it out of the way. Then he stepped closer and punched me, hard, in the stomach.

  I hinged forward, gasping. Good thing I hadn't eaten recently.

  "Stop!" Oggie strained against the duct tape.

  "Why? Are you going to tell me where the money is? Hmm. Didn't think so." Frank cracked his knuckles and turned to me. "Salazar said not to mess you up too badly. I won't leave any marks."

  So I'd be a blemish-free corpse? I sucked in a breath and sat up. Little spots appeared before my eyes.

  "What do you mean, Salazar? I thought you worked for Anaya?" I wheezed.

  "I do." He grinned and leaned over, next to my ear. The thick, oily scent of Aqua Velva drifted toward me. My gag reflex was working overtime.

  "You stole Anaya's money." His hot breath skated across my cheek. Icy dread reached deep into my gut and twisted.