Saddles & Sabotage
Lindy Johnson Series Book 2
Nellie K. Neves
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Sneak Peek
Note from the Author
Saddles & Sabotage Copyright © 2018 by Nellie K. Neves. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Nellie K. Neves & Sariah Hathaway
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Nellie K. Neves
Visit my website at www.nellieknevesauthor.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: Sept 2018
ISBN-9781719916837
For Eric- for the worried glances. For letting me find my own feet but having arms outstretched to catch me before I fall. For never talking about the monster that threatens me, but always being ready to listen. You see me through the rubble.
May you live forever in my words.
Being strong doesn’t mean you’ll never hurt. It means even when you get hurt, you’ll never let it defeat you.
—Unknown
Chapter 1
I cut the headlights a block before my intended destination and parked three blocks from the address St. Anthony had messaged me. The element of surprise was my only chance if I wanted the upper hand. If the Chief knew the list of moving vehicle violations I’d racked up on my breakneck drive to Montana, my consultant deal would surely be off the table. Who was I kidding? If he knew any detail of what I’d chosen to do, I’d never work with the police department again.
There was no choice in my mind though. It was the only option. Twenty-four years before, my sister Jackie had been stolen from our childhood bedroom. I’d been only four, and too weak to stop it from happening, but at twenty-eight, I had other options at my disposal.
Guilt pierced my heart as I thought of the date I’d broken with Ryder Billings. We’d finally figured it all out, and despite his warnings not to, I’d left him waiting alone. Once he knew the truth, I hoped he’d understand. As the cold Montana night air swirled around me, I doubted it and because of him, I doubted my choice.
Because St. Anthony’s call had come moments before I’d planned to meet Ryder for our date, I found myself in a dark alley in a crimson dress, complete with ruffles at inclined edges and strappy black heels. I wasn’t intimidating, and that put me at a disadvantage that I didn’t appreciate. Beneath the fabric, my 9mm semi-automatic was strapped in my thigh holster, but my hands felt awkward without the rough texture of the polymer grip joining them together. Exhaustion tore at me and threatened my sanity. I’d driven all night to meet the man who had stolen my sister, a man who threatened to erase all the evidence that could reunite me with her again.
Morning. The thought weighed heavy. He said I had until morning. The golden hue hadn’t yet crested the distant hills. The sun had only begun to warm the back side of the mountains. I had time. At least that’s what I told myself as my skin prickled in the cold of first light.
With one block left before I arrived at my coordinates, I glanced over my shoulder. It was habit more than anything, and maybe a touch of guilty conscience. What penalties were there for meeting a man as evil as St. Anthony? I smelled smoke and my pace quickened. What evidence did he have? Would it link me to Jackie again? Would Ryder forgive me for standing him up?
I shoved the last thought away and focused on the sound of my heels on the sidewalk. The sound of a radio crackling stopped me in my heels like a deer in headlights. When I looked, there was nothing but a homeless man at the end of a long alleyway, foraging for food under the shield of a thick quilt. I pressed on.
Thoughts and voices churned through me, some felt internal, and some I worried had escaped my mind and taken shape in the shadows of the alley. Lack of sleep didn’t agree with me. I felt my shoulder for where I’d slipped my cell phone beneath a tight strap. It was still there, even if I couldn’t feel it. At times of great stress, my multiple sclerosis often decided to switch off the nerves that allowed me to feel. I wasn’t paralyzed, but I’d long since learned my dependence on touch for awareness and decision making.
I slowed my pace as I heard the crackling fire. I hoped I wasn’t too late. Stepping out from the corner, I peered into the alley and set my sights on the man who had destroyed my childhood. I knew to expect anger, hatred, and revulsion, but I’d forgotten fear. No, pure terror filled me as I looked at his features illuminated by the fire rising from the depths of an oil drum. Cold dread inched over my skin as his hushed words came back in my mind, “Stay quiet, or it’ll be you instead.”
My footing faltered and the sound alerted him to my presence. A slippery gaze evaluated me like meat on a butcher block. He was older, no longer a chiseled, gloved menace who haunted my dreams, but a wizened wraith who yearned to create new nightmares. I would’ve ran, but he held a stack of important papers in his left hand and I’d risked too much to leave without them.
“St. Anthony?” I asked into the stillness. The high brick buildings that created the alley caused my voice to echo and fragment around me.
“Lindy?” his response hissed from the depths of the alley.
“I’m here,” I stated, as if it weren’t obvious, “so you can hand over those papers and move on like you planned.”
His face was rawhide, scarred and disfigured in places. Injuries from a fire or a fight; I couldn’t be sure in the uneven light. St. Anthony’s tongue darted from the corners of his mouth, a snake testing the air.
“Come and get them, darling.”
I’d faced down evil before, but my instincts told me it was a bad idea. “Set them down and walk away. I’m not coming any closer,” I told him.
The phantom’s untrimmed eyebrows shot up, as if to question me. “Set them down? Maybe here?” Two papers fluttered from his loose grip into the barrel. The flames shot up momentarily to remind me that they had no mercy, no bias in this arrangement.
“No,” I growled, “on the ground.”
I considered wielding my gun to emphasize my point, but I had no idea if he had one as well, and I couldn’t afford to lose the papers in a fire fight.
His finger ticked back and forth like a scolding parent. “Not how this is done, my dear. Come closer. Let me have a look at you. Then I’ll put them down.”
The cold metal of my gun against my thigh told me I’d still have the upper hand. It was that simple comfort that allowed me the bravery to take ten steps in his direction. I paused, still three feet away and instructed him, “Take your look and p
ut them on the ground.”
I had to avert my eyes while he visually inspected my body. Growing up as a tomboy, I’d gotten dirty with mud pies, bike rides in the back country, and hunting for tadpoles all summer long. Still, I’d never felt as filthy as I did with St. Anthony lusting after me like I could be his slave. When my psyche could take no further abuse, I spoke my command through clenched teeth. “Put the papers down.”
St. Anthony picked out his words with deliberation as if relaying a long awaited tale. “I was a dishonest with you. Yes, I did bring the papers you want, and yes I am getting out of the business, but not entirely. I deal in much older merchandise now. Men all over the world will pay a pretty penny for someone like you, Lindy.”
Bile churned in my stomach at his words. Voices swirled up inside of my head, warnings that told me my life was in danger. Screaming thoughts lit up my urge to run, some voices so loud I felt them hiss against my ears even if they were only in my mind.
“I don’t need to know about your plans. They don’t involve me. I’m here to get my sister back.”
His disfigured face twisted and what I once found ugly became hideous in the firelight. “I lied when I said I didn’t remember your sister, or that I didn’t remember you. I remember everything about that night, the color of your sheets, how hot my hand felt over your mouth, the way your sweat smelled, all of it. I have wondered for years what you would grow up to be, that budding defiance that flashed in your youthful eyes as I considered smothering the life out of you.” His malevolent smile eroded into a sneer. “And to have you call, to live to see the woman who grew from that night...”
“Put them down!” I screamed. My voice cracked at the edges and tore through the waning darkness, silencing every sound in and out of my mind.
Like a snake striking after its prey, his hand shot out and locked around my forearm. In one fluid motion I was in his grasp, the gnarled portion of his face smashed against my smooth skin. The edge of the knife he’d concealed pressed in at my abdomen, six inches of blade jagged against my sheer dress.
“You smell just like I remember.” Flecks of his spit grazed my neck as his whispers slithered over my skin. “You’ll be my new favorite girl.”
Every inch of my body writhed in torment under his touch. Cigarettes and alcohol stained his clothes, and oozed from his breath. The voices in my head began again, clearer and more agonizing as I tried to formulate a plan that would free me from the groping hands of my captor and his weapon.
Drive your elbow into his gut, Uncle Shane advised in my mind, then stomp on his foot and draw your weapon.
I wriggled and jerked, but my movement only thrilled my attacker. The challenge was what he longed for. The knife slipped against my crimson dress and tore the fabric in a crooked line. The blade was cold against my skin with nothing left to defend its threat. Fear gripped my chest and clouded my judgment as my captor laughed wickedly at my futile struggle. I was four years old again, weak and alone, defenseless and vulnerable.
Why do you do these things to yourself? Why can’t you be a lady and get married already? my mother’s voice asked in my head.
There were other whispers in the alley, other phantoms that lurked beyond the shadows. The horrible demons of a future spent in the grasp of someone as evil as St. Anthony. His leathery hand clamped over my mouth. Wet heat flecked my ear as he spoke. “I’ve been waiting for you, Lindy.”
Why would you choose this instead of me? Ryder asked in my mind.
His was the only voice I was willing to respond to. He was the only one I felt I owed an answer.
Because she is my sister, and I have to find her.
St. Anthony tightened his grip around my waist like a python, as if he wanted to crush the life out of me. My eyes blurred, but I saw white on the ground by my feet.
The papers.
The entire purpose of my trip was within my grasp. With my arms pinned at my sides, I had only one option. I grasped the grip of my gun through the thin fabric of my dress, disengaged the safety, tilted it away from my body and squeezed the trigger.
I’d only hoped to scare him, but as the gun fired, he recoiled and I spun free. The bullet had caught him in his foot. Screaming obscenities, he grasped the papers and clutched them to his chest. St. Anthony’s voice shook as he growled under his breath. “All this just to lose what you came for.”
With the gun in my hands it was easy to remember that I wasn’t a scared little girl anymore. “Put them down!”
St. Anthony dove at the oil barrel and the flames that could extinguish my link to Jackie forever. In sheer desperation, I leveled the gun and took the shot. It echoed off the walls, one shot turned into multiple shots, fractured and split. His body arched backward, but not before the papers dipped over the side and into the fire below.
The alley exploded in commotion. Bodies materialized from the shadows shouting commands and wielding weapons. The pandemonium drowned my screams of anguish as I rushed toward the barrel. For a second I feared the voices in my head had escaped and descended on me in real life. But the bulletproof vests and the jackets that boasted POLICE, told me otherwise. Their shouts were directed at me.
“Put the weapon down!”
“Get on the ground!”
I couldn’t follow orders, not while my sister’s whereabouts burned in that barrel. The papers rested on the pile of burning debris well within my grasp. I thrust my free arm deep into the fiery pit.
“Get down!” I heard the shout.
“She has a gun!”
My fingers locked around the white stack, charred and burning. An excruciating pain ripped through my upper arm. The force spun me all the way around. A second force slammed against my body. White light flashed in my vision as my head cracked against the brick wall, but I took the papers with me. A second impact to my skull wracked my system with pain as my head slammed back against the asphalt. The gun slipped from my grasp. Despite my agony I threw my broken body over the flaming stack to extinguish the fire that enveloped my only lead to Jackie. Pain rang behind my eyes and rattled through my mind. I heard my gun clatter away as someone kicked it. Liquid filled the void where the asphalt didn’t quite meet my face.
Blood.
My blood. Crimson, the exact shade of my ruffled dress.
“Tell Shane to find her,” I spoke the words to the night. “Tell Shane to find Jackie.”
They weren’t listening to me. Chaos breeds more chaos and there is no friend or foe in such a situation, just those who followed orders and those who didn’t. The hot coals seared against my left side, but nothing on my right. Protected by the pain from nerve damage. St. Anthony stared back at me through my hazed vision.
His vacant eyes glassed over with death, but remained frozen with burning hatred for what I’d done. I’d killed the man who’d destroyed my family. The information wouldn’t compute through the constant barrage of pain from my injuries. I’d never killed anyone before. As I slipped away into the void, I hoped Aunt Stella would plead my case on the other side.
Chapter 2
There was this place, somewhere between living and death, a place where I could feel aware, but not be coherent at all. It wasn’t like the movies, floating above my body or anything like that. I was in my body, yet tethered by two thin strands threatening to snap. I could hear shouting, medical terminology, machines and demands I couldn’t understand.
Then darkness took over.
There was no way to measure time. It would come back at odd intervals, sounds, sights, feelings, snippets of the living world and the harsh racket that came with it, and then without warning, it was gone. There was no thought in the black pit. It wasn’t heaven and it wasn’t hell—it was nothing because I wasn’t dead—yet. I was waiting to see where I would land. Waiting for the final verdict on where my limits would be exhausted.
Over and over again I heard my father’s words, “You were weak, Lindy.” He was referring to the mental break I’d suffered as a four-year-old
after Jackie was kidnapped. I became almost catatonic for an entire year. My desperate parents had taken a last ditch effort to save me. The opportunity presented itself as a German scientist who boasted the ability to overwrite memories. I still held the scar, but could remember nothing from that year except for the implanted memory. It was truly awful that the only recollection I retained from my fourth year of life was an implanted memory of my older sister drowning in front of me.
The procedure saved me. I retained the drowning memory and buried the kidnapping memory. It restored my ability to thrive and eventually I coped with it all, except swimming. I never swam again. It wasn’t until I discovered an open case file on my Uncle Shane’s desk that I learned the truth. It had driven a wedge between my parents and me and my new obsession to find Jackie had been born. I found St. Anthony with the help of my friend Kip, and set off on a doomsday mission to retrieve the papers that might lead me to Jackie. Through all of it though, my father’s words echoed in my mind.
You were too weak, Lindy.
In that delicate balance between life and death, in the slippery, teetering block of non-time, I wondered if I was strong enough to hold on.
♦ ♦ ♦
Each time the darkness gave way to any sort of awareness, I scrambled to grab hold. It never lasted long before it slipped through my grasp and was gone again. It left me with little snippets of the world around me.
The sound of a machine beeping.
A sharp pinch at my wrist.
Pain and then the immediate relief of that pain.
Hands that fidgeted with me and refused to leave me be.
Then darkness, a total void, waiting, ever waiting for the verdict on my life.
I tried to break through the fog that anchored me and wouldn’t set me free. I wanted to tell the mystery voices that I was Lindy, Lindy Johnson, but my mouth wouldn’t work. A series of alarms echoed in my ears.
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