Diamond White: A Red Riley Adventure #2 (Red Riley Adventures)

by Stephanie Andrews

  Diamond White: A Red Riley Adventure #2

  Red Riley Adventures

  Stephanie Andrews

  Published by Piscataqua Press, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  DIAMOND WHITE: A RED RILEY ADVENTURE #2

  First edition. November 2, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Stephanie Andrews.

  Written by Stephanie Andrews.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  From author Stephanie Andrews:

  One

  I was at Ruby’s place on Nippersink Lake on a frigid December day when Selena Salerno caught up with me. It was a moment I had dreaded for months, hoping it would never happen. Now it had.

  When the silent alarm went off, I hoped it was a mistake. A deer, or maybe just the wind blowing so hard it tripped a sensor. The wind chill made it feel like Antarctica outside, and I wasn’t that excited about suiting up to trudge the quarter mile to the perimeter. But Marty had assured me that this security system was excellent, and after a few calibrations of the cameras in the beginning, they seemed to be doing their job.

  I picked up a walkie-talkie off the kitchen counter.

  “El, come in. El, are you reading me?”

  There was a long pause, and then a labored voice answered.

  “I read you, Kay. How much of this damn wood do I have to chop?”

  “How warm do you want to be?”

  “I’m actually sweating right now. And my arms are killing me.”

  “Can you check on camera six? The alarm went off.”

  “Will do. Can I come in after that?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, repeatedly thumbing the button. “You’re breaking up.”

  I turned off the talkie and stepped to the computer desk on the glassed-in porch. I’m pretty sure that before Ruby bought the house the old fisherman who owned it used this area as a fly-tying workbench. There was a battered countertop with a tiny little vice mounted on it, and old pegboard attached to the wall above. The house, for the most part, did not smell like old fish. For the most part. There was still some painting and renovation to do.

  It had only been six months since I became a ghost. Someday I’ll sell the book and movie rights, and you’ll be able to get the whole story. Short version: I was an unassuming Chicago police officer, who was wrongly thought to have been a criminal mastermind determined to bring down two large telecom firms. When the dust settled, I was exonerated, but believed to have been killed in a huge explosion at my apartment.

  Only a handful of people knew that I’d survived, and only Ruby and her nephew Marty knew that I had managed to walk off with a few million dollars, which I shared with them. Ruby bought this secluded cabin in the woods, where I spend most of my time training, and Marty leased a large office in downtown Chicago to expand his business, Technology Acquired.

  The alarm went off again, making me jump. Silent alarms are only silent at the point of contact. This one was loud in the quiet of the control room. Okay, the back porch. I was still working on all the nomenclature, but “control room” sounded pretty awesome.

  I scanned the feed of the six cameras, but all I could see was white. It had snowed hard the previous night and was still snowing lightly. I peered closely at the picture, which was sharp, but small and in black and white. It’s possible that I needed reading glasses.

  There! Something was moving through the trees, all but invisible in this weather. There it was again. A person, dressed all in white, was moving effortlessly in the deep snow, flitting like a ghost. I leaned closer and closer, until my face was inches from the monitor. The intruder leapt nimbly over a fallen log. They wore a skintight white body suit that covered them from head to toe, with only a small cutout for the face, which was mostly obscured by a pair of tinted goggles, and another cut out for the pony tail.

  I leapt back from the screen and gasped. Crap. It could only be one person. The agility, the audacity, and the fashion sense all told me it had to be Salerno. What on Earth had I done to deserve this?

  I raced back to the kitchen and grabbed wildly at the walkie-talkie, knocking over and smashing a drinking glass in the process. I frantically pushed the talk button, repeatedly, then realized the power was off.

  Hitting the switch, I hissed, “El! El! Park, do you copy? Stand down. Stand down now!” I was going to be the first spy in history to get their sidekick killed in the very first scene. I knew I should’ve have stayed solo. There was no response from the radio. I tried again. “Stand down,” I whispered. “In fact, hide. Hide and call Ruby,” I added, realizing that the noise from the talkie could attract Salerno’s attention.

  Thank God I already had my boots on, because those suckers took forever to lace up. I threw on my quilted jacket and ran outside and down the back steps. There was a utility shed between the house and the woods, and I slogged my way to it through the snow. Hanging on the back of the shed were two bright blue kayaks, and I pulled a paddle from one of them. It was rudimentary as far as weapons go, but at least it would be something. Damn, my fingers were already freezing, but my gloves were inside and it was too late to go back; I could hear the soft crunching of someone making their way cautiously through the snow.

  I centered myself and controlled my breathing. By holding one hand lightly over my nose and mouth and exhaling slowly, I made sure that my visible breath didn’t extend beyond the corner of the shed.

  I waited. And waited. The steps sounded closer, yet they barely made a sound. For a moment, I panicked. What if it were El sneaking back to the cabin? No, the movement was too quiet, almost indiscernible. In fact, I was just beginning to wonder if I was actually hearing it at all when suddenly, a cloud of vapor drifted past the end of the shed.

  I stepped forward, shouting a kiyup, and swung the paddle with both hands. Sure enough, the intruder was right there. She managed to get her forearm up to block the blow, but the force of it sent her into the side of the shed with a thud. Still, she was able to kick her leg out, strong and high, and catch me in the hip as I turned through my swing. The force knocked me sideways onto the ground. The snow was packed here in the middle of the yard, and I purposefully rolled away from her, eight or ten feet, still clutching he paddle, before I jumped back up to a ready position.

  She laughed that deep-throated, sultry laugh of hers, pulling off her goggles and smiling at me. It was her alright. She reached up and pulled off the hood, shaking her head and flipping her long brown ponytail from side to side. I took the opportunity to step forward and take a swing at her head, but she saw me coming and side-stepped the paddle.

  “R
ed,” she said, still with a smile on her face. “I’m not here to fight you, honestly.” She held out her hands, palm up, as if in supplication. I took a step toward her, and with a lightning-fast move she grabbed the end of the paddle and yanked. I was holding it in my left hand, which was missing the ring and pinky fingers, so my grip was poor and she easily snatched the paddle away. I kicked myself for making a rookie mistake, pushing my hair out of my eyes and backing up slowly as she advanced. A few steps more and I passed the large woodchopping block, continuing to backpedal until my lower back hit the neatly stacked woodpile. I looked for the axe but it was nowhere around.

  “You’ve got to be freezing in that outfit,” I told her. Delay and diversion were two of my strongest assets, and among the only ones currently at my disposal. “How did you find me?”

  “Well, after our incident with the diamonds, it was clear you weren’t dead.” She began to circle slowly around the chopping stump, and I matched her step-for-step in a slow clockwise circle. “Nice, job, by the way. Pulling that off.”

  We had circled one and a half times around the stump, both wary.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “it took some digging to find that your friend has a secluded cottage in the countryside. I thought it was worth a look. Eschúcha, I’m only here because I need your help.”

  That seemed unlikely. It was true that I had helped her, probably even saved her life, but I didn’t think she knew about that, what I had done, or even that it was me. Besides, what could she possibly need my help for? She was a one-woman strike force.

  “Well, that is interesting—”

  I was interrupted by Ellery Park, who had been hiding behind the wood pile the whole time. She popped into view behind Selena, holding the axe backward, gripping the handle just below the blade. Before I could say or do anything she struck Salerno hard across the back of the head with the butt of the axe.

  Selena dropped to the ground, groaning. Deep red blood flowed from her head into the white snow as El and I rushed to her side. I scooped up a handful of snow and held it against the back of her head where the gash was. She tried to roll over, but I lightly put my knee on her back, just to keep her in place.

  “Woah,” said El, somewhat in shock. “Do you think she really wanted your help?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Good thing you didn’t use the sharp end, or we’d never find out. Let’s get her inside.”

  Two

  So, the Diamond Affair, as I like to call it. What follows is the whole story. Get yourself a tall drink and some snacks, because it’s another riveting tale of how I almost got myself killed, and how through luck, good friends, and a little quick thinking, I survived.

  Plus, you’re probably wondering where the Ellery Park woman came from. Hey, every great vigilante needs a sidekick. I’ll explain her presence as well.

  Here’s where the swirly flashback music would normally play.

  It all started in September, about three months after the whole nightmare with Illcom and Farnham, the telecom giants, which had ended with me presumed dead.

  I was sitting at a table at the Palm Court in Arlington Heights, a good way outside Chicago, just to be safe. Across from me, using a piece of bread to sop up the last of the gravy from his plate, was Nick Shelby.

  Nick had promised me a date if I cleared my name and was still alive at the end of it. Well, I did and I was, and now he was keeping up his end of the bargain.

  It was a fantastic dinner, and the company was pretty good, too. Nick is tall, with dark wavy hair and dark brown puppy-dog eyes behind dork glasses. He seems to have a permanent three-day beard, which is hilarious, because it comes from forgetting to shave. It certainly isn’t a fashion statement, because Nick has no sense of fashion. Although that night he seemed to have made an effort. He was wearing a black suit with faint grey pinstripes, and a sparkling white shirt with no tie.

  I was wearing a stunning emerald green sleeveless dress that showed off the new muscles in my shoulders and triceps. My hair was its natural red, styled into a pixie cut. I was probably going to grow it long again—I hadn’t enjoyed having a shaved head—but in the meantime, I was playing up the whole Audrey Hepburn vibe, and it seemed to be working on Nick. He likes to act aloof, but I repeatedly caught him staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  I pushed my plate away. I had stuck to a salad and French onion soup, not because I didn’t like steak, but because I was still super self-conscious about my hand. Not only did it look incredibly creepy and unsettling, with its strange, scarred pink skin where the fingers should be, but it was hard to use a knife and fork at the same time. I was learning, but it was taking a while. I mostly kept my left hand under the table, on my lap, while I ate.

  As we left the restaurant, Nick stopped me in the lobby, turning me around and pushing me back against the beige wall. I raised my eyebrows and grinned.

  “Here, sir? I thought we might wait until we got to your place.”

  He stepped back and reached into his inside jacket pocket. In one quick motion, he removed his iPhone, snapped a picture of me, and returned it to his pocket.

  “Hey!” I cried. “What was that for?”

  “I just want to remember our first date,” he said, and took my good hand to lead me out to his car.

  “Well,” I said, in my sultriest voice, “the best way to do that is to make it memorable.”

  “Oh,” said Nick. “What did you have in mind?”

  “The better question is what don’t I have in mind…”

  Later, we were in bed. He was on his back and I was straddling him. I put my arms above my head and stretched luxuriously, then looked down at him with a grin.

  “That,” I said, “was excellent.”

  “I agree,” he murmured, running a hand along my side and over my hip. “Your body is getting amazing.”

  “Getting?”

  “You know what I mean,” he laughed. “You’re getting really strong.”

  “Coming along,” I admitted, rolling off and lying beside him. “Apart from little jobs here and there for your uncle, I’ve pretty much been working out six or seven hours a day up at the camp. Sit ups, pull ups, kayaking. I’ve been watching taekwondo videos to try and refresh what I know, but I really need to find a class. I started rock climbing lessons last month.”

  “Rock climbing?”

  “You know, so I can be a better cat burglar. Scaling walls and picking locks, and such.”

  “Well,” said Nick. “I don’t know about scaling walls, but I can set you up with some lock pick lessons.”

  “Really?” I was psyched. “Marty’s got me a little gadget for electric locks and keypads, but I really want to know how to do a tumbler, old school, you know?”

  “Is this what everyone talks about after sex?”

  “Oh,” I teased. “You don’t like to mix business with pleasure?” I raised my hand up in front of my face and studied my scar. It was a bad habit, and when Nick turned his head to me I quickly dropped it back to the bed.

  “Now that you mention it,” Nick offered, “Uncle Elgort does have something for you. Something big.”

  “Big? Really?” I sat up and straddled him again, excited. “So far it’s just been a few surveillance jobs. Not very exciting, but I’m trying to keep a low profile. Being dead and all.”

  “Yes. Some breaking and entering, I think. Your friend Martin’s toys will come in handy. Can you meet him tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, of course!” I bounced up and down with excitement, making the mattress creak.

  “What do you think of this bed?” asked Nick, propping himself up on his elbows.

  “Not bad,” I said with a shrug, looking around the Shelby Furniture showroom. “Let’s try that one over there next,” I said, pointing to one with a big brass bedstead. “Or bunk beds!”

  I awoke the next morning in Nick’s townhouse, which was just next door to the furniture store. We decided it was probably not good for
Margaret or Don to find us sprawled across the merchandise.

  I sat up and looked around for Nick, who was just coming in the front door with a bag of pastries in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other.

  “Morning, early bird,” I said, snatching a croissant.

  “Not in the bed please,” he admonished. “Crumbs.”

  “Oh please,” I huffed, but I got out of bed and put the croissant on a side table. I found my underpants and bra and put them on, then picked up my dress.

  “Crap,” I said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I didn’t bring any other clothes,” I bemoaned, holding up the sexy green dress.

  “So?”

  “I can’t go to a 9 a.m. meeting, with your aged uncle, in this! It’ll look like the morning after.”

  He shrugged. “It is the morning after.”

  “Nick! I want him to respect me.”

  “Elgort’s a lot more liberal than you might think. But if it bothers you, we can get there early and you can borrow something from wardrobe.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and pecked him on his scratchy cheek. “I’ll just get this on and go to the bathroom, then I’ll be ready to go.”

  “Hang on a minute,” he said, setting down his coffee. “I have a birthday present for you.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small brown paper bag.

  “But my birthday’s in April,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining. I love presents.” I shrugged my way into the dress and sat on the edge of the bed, facing him.

  He handed me an Illinois driver’s license. The name said Riley McKay, and the photo was an edited version of one he had taken of me last night after dinner. It was flawless.

  I leapt across the space between us, nearly spilling his coffee.

  “Thank you,” I beamed. “It’s perfect!”

  “I’ll get a passport done this week. But at least now you won’t have to put your Wrigley disguise on every time you want to go somewhere.”

  Georgette Wrigley was the identity I had been using ever since I was wanted by the police in April, for a crime I didn’t commit. It came with a long black wig, and the need to apply makeup every time I wanted to go out.

  Nick stood and drank down the rest of his coffee in one long gulp.