Mastiff Security: The Complete 5 Books Series

by Glenna Sinclair

  One child, a tiny little girl, rushed up to Axel and tried to hide behind his leg. He reached down and swung her up into his arms, perching her on one shoulder.

  “I think this belongs to you,” he said to Missy.

  The child giggled, a sweet melodic giggle, as he lifted her high above his head before setting her safely in her mother’s arms.

  The other children were finally placed in their appropriate seats, and everyone settled down to the meal. Jacob led a prayer—the only good thing about that was that Axel could hold Abigail’s hand—and then carved up the roast that was already falling off the narrow bone. The food was exquisite, the company interesting.

  It was easy to forget the danger that waited outside for them. That was, of course, until it came back to remind them no place was safe.

  Chapter 21

  Virden, Illinois

  Mmm, the food was amazing.

  Abigail tucked into the roast Ali had made for her family, the meat melting on her tongue the way her mother’s roast used to do. She sighed after every bite, making Ali look over at her like she was convinced she’d been eating nothing but Cheerios and Pop-Tarts for the past year.

  She wasn’t far from the truth, to be honest.

  Cooking was not one of Abigail’s strong points. When Terri wasn’t around, she usually just warmed up a frozen dinner in the microwave. So this . . . this was heaven.

  Abigail was so lost in the food she didn’t notice when Axel suddenly stiffened beside her. He set down his fork carefully, pushing slowly away from the table. She didn’t see any of that, either, until he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back from the table.

  “We need to go.”

  “We can’t just go in the middle of dinner,” she said, confused and embarrassed, aware of every member of the Bernard family watching them closely.

  But then Axel gestured with his head toward the large picture window behind Jacob and Missy. In the middle of the street, ignoring the deep snow, was a man in a white snowsuit walking toward this house. Abigail didn’t understand who it was at first, unable to see anything but the white of his suit. But then she saw the rifle strap over his shoulder.

  “Shit!”

  “Abigail, the children!” Ali said, shock dripping from her words.

  “I’m sorry, but we have to go.”

  She reached for another roll, her belly making unreasonable demands. Axel pulled her toward the door roughly, nearly popping her shoulder out of place. They ran down the hall to the den where the football game was still playing on the large screen television, the sounds of whistles and commentary mind numbing.

  “The back door—”

  “We need the keys.”

  “What keys?”

  “Jacob’s truck.”

  Abigail started shaking her head, not really interested in being responsible for the theft of her childhood friend’s precious truck. But Axel had already found the keys, lying on an end table. He grabbed her hand again and led the way to the garage door. Jacob was standing in the archway that led to the dining room, a curious, but not alarmed, look on his face. Axel ignored him, veering off toward the garage door a few feet before the dining room.

  “Where are you going?” Jacob demanded. “You can’t go back to Karen’s on foot. You’ll freeze.”

  Abigail almost laughed because the whole thing was so insane. Instead, she let Axel push her inside the tall truck and watched as he dug around for the garage door remote. The truck started with a roar, finally alerting Jacob to what we were doing. He came out the door, yelling something we couldn’t hear above the sound of the truck’s engine. She could only guess that he was telling them not to take his truck. She mouthed an apology as Axel threw the truck into reverse and floored it, leaving rubber on the smooth surface of the garage floor.

  The first gunshot came almost immediately. The side window next to Abigail’s head exploded. Axel shoved her head down toward her lap, keeping his hand on the back of her head as he drove wildly with one hand. She could feel the movement of the truck, knew he was struggling to get traction on the frozen street. Another shot took out the back window, another pinged off the metal truck body. Abigail felt like she was in the middle of some sort of video game, a target in a shooting gallery.

  Pain ripped through her lower hip as Axel finally got the truck moving forward. The back wheels spun for a moment, but then the chains on the heavy tires bit into the snow and pushed them forward. She’d never been more relieved to be driving away from something in all her life.

  Axel let her sit up. She immediately turned and saw the killer chasing them down the street, running like he really thought he might be able to keep up. Jacob was standing in the opening of his garage door, a shotgun in his hands. He was yelling something, but the killer wasn’t listening. He was focused on the departing truck and nothing else.

  Abigail turned back around and settled in the seat, pulling the seat belt across her shoulder and hooking it before she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Are you hit?” Axel demanded.

  Abigail didn’t understand the question at first. She shifted in her seat, turning toward him when pain once again shot through her hip. She looked down, touched her side just above her upper thigh. Her fingers came away with thick, dark blood on them.

  “Abigail!” Axel demanded. “Are you hit? Did he get you?”

  “No. No, I’m fine.”

  He nodded, glancing at her even though the road required every bit of his attention. “Good.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just fucking pissed that he found us! How the hell did he do it?”

  Abigail shook her head. “How did he intercept my call to nine-one-one?”

  “That’s just a computer trick. He essentially blocked the call and then spoke to you over the open line. That I understand. But he keeps finding us, and I don’t get it. The house, yeah, I get that. We didn’t have many places to go. But just now? That was a fucking good guess.”

  Abigail didn’t know what to say to that. Axel was the expert here. If he didn’t know, then no one would.

  “What now?”

  “We go to Springfield. My firm has several safe houses where we can put you until we figure this out.”

  “Would you . . .?”

  He glanced at her again. “I’d work with the investigators to find him and put him where he belongs.” There was clear anger in Axel’s voice. “I’m going to make sure this guy never comes near you again.”

  She believed him. Why wouldn’t she?

  They drove out of town and hit the narrow two-lane highway that led into the capital city. Abigail’s hip ached painfully, every bump, every jostle, making the pain that much worse. She was gritting her teeth, holding on to the door handle in hopes of keeping her body still enough to end the pain. But it wasn’t helping.

  They were maybe fifteen, twenty minutes out of Springfield when she couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Axel,” she said, pain dripping from her lips. He glanced at her and all hell broke loose.

  They must have hit a massive pothole or some other hidden obstacle under the snow. Whatever it was, it made the truck’s front dip almost at a right angle, the tail coming up off the ground. That was enough to make them roll over, the top-heavy truck flipping over and then rolling off the road, turning more than three times before it got caught between the edge of the ditch and a tree growing nearby.

  Abigail’s body jerked against the seat belt in a dozen different directions. The pain in her hip was nothing compared to the pain that burned, jabbed and jerked all over her body. She remembered screaming at least once, maybe more than once. And then she lost consciousness. Her last memory was of the ground jumping up to destroy the windshield.

  Chapter 22

  Springfield, Illinois

  Durango’s head was pounding. Or was that someone pounding on the damn door?

  He rolled over and found himself on the floor. He groaned, running h
is hands over the top of his head. How much had he had to drink last night? He remembered the girl at the first bar, remembered losing interest—though he didn’t really remember why—and going to the second bar. He remembered a bottle of tequila. But after that, his memory was a little vague.

  He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten home.

  The pounding came again, and it was definitely the door. He groaned as he slowly forced himself to his feet. At least he was dressed, though it wasn’t the same slacks and sports coat he’d been wearing last night.

  When had he changed his clothes?

  The pounding came a third time, this time clearly impatient.

  “I’m coming!”

  He looked at the clock. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. When was the last time he’d been drunk enough to sleep that late?

  He snatched open the door, prepared to meet with some neighbor angry with the way he parked his car or some similar complaint. But what he found was a dozen cops led by a detective in a cheap suit.

  “Durango Masters?” the cheap suit asked.

  “What is this about?”

  “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “For what reason?” Durango demanded, moving to block the door even as he found himself wondering what they might find upstairs.

  “Move out of the way, Mr. Masters.”

  “Where’s the warrant?”

  The detective took a piece of paper out of his suit jacket. Durango took it, tearing an edge of it in his hurry to open it. The warrant allowed them to search the entire condo for evidence related to a murder.

  “What murder? What the hell! Why are you looking for wool socks? Who doesn’t have wool socks?”

  The cops ignored him as they pushed passed him and walked into his condo uninvited. He looked down at the warrant, reading the things they were allowed to search for.

  Wool socks.

  Leather gloves.

  Size ten athletic shoes.

  A key to an address across town.

  Durango’s head was aching miserably; his eyes going in and out of focus. But he recognized Kyle’s address when he saw it.

  “What the hell is this?” he demanded again. “Why are you looking for these things?”

  The cops moved around the room, mumbling to each other as they began opening drawers and looking through shelves. Then a woman came down the stairs, dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt and a pair of his boxer briefs.

  He didn’t remember her, either.

  “Durango, sweetie,” she said in a sweet, seductive voice. “What’s happening?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  The detective gestured for a couple of the uniforms to go upstairs. Then he turned to face Durango.

  “You’re a suspect in the murder of Kyle Peters.”

  Chapter 23

  Outside Springfield, Illinois

  Axel was stunned by the accident. It took a few minutes before he could think straight enough to release himself from the seat belt. The truck had landed on its side. He was on the low side, so he had to crawl out through the broken windshield. Abigail, on the other hand, was unconscious and hanging against her seat belt.

  “Abbie,” he said, crawling up the hood so that he could reach her. She didn’t respond, didn’t even move. And there was blood everywhere. He was bloody, too, but it wasn’t as concerning to him as seeing the blood smeared on her sweater and running down her face. He reached across and tugged on her seat belt, but she was hanging from it, putting too much strain on it for it to release. He’d have to get in there and lift her up, hold her while he released her.

  And all this time he was concerned about the killer catching up to them somehow.

  He crawled back in through the broken windshield and stood on the frame of the driver’s side door. It was a tight fit because the roof had collapsed in several places, narrowing the space to half what it was before. He squeezed up beside her and pressed his shoulder against her hip, pushing her weight toward the side window as he worked the seat belt. It was stuck, but he finally managed to work it free. She fell against him, pushing his knees out from under him for a second. But the tight squeeze kept him on his feet.

  He maneuvered carefully to get them both out the windshield. Once free of the truck, he dropped to his knees, breathing heavier than he should have—likely from shock—as he quickly ran his hands over her body, looking for the worst of the injuries. It was then that he saw the copious amounts of blood oozing from her upper thigh, but he couldn’t find the source of the injury. Cursing under his breath, he climbed to the top of the ditch and surveyed the area, searching for a safe place where he could take her and better assess her wounds.

  Could this assignment go any more wrong? Fucking insane killer, fucking insane target! Fucking snow, fucking rural towns! He’d have to think twice before taking an assignment like this again.

  Axel spotted what looked like an abandoned farmhouse a little more than half a mile away. He turned and surveyed the street behind him, studying the flat landscape for any sign of the killer. There was none, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t out there somewhere.

  He carefully slid back down into the ditch and picked Abigail up, tossing her as gently as he could over his shoulder. Climbing up the side of the ditch was a chore with her on his shoulder, but he managed. And then there was the trek through the foot-deep snow in a field that hadn’t been plowed in years. His legs were shaking by the time he got to the old farmhouse.

  The place had clearly been abandoned a long time. The floors were rotting, the cupboards hanging from loose nails, the walls peeling and crumbling all around. But it was cover from the wind, and there was a stone fireplace that was in good shape—not that he could light a fire without attracting attention, but it was good to know it was there.

  He lay Abigail on the rotting counter, quickly undressing her so that he could see what was going on with her upper thigh. He immediately recognized it for what it was: a bullet wound.

  Fuck! Why hadn’t she told him she was shot?

  There wasn’t a whole lot he could do for it here, under these conditions. He tugged the lower part of his shirt out from under his jacket and tore a long strip that he used as a bandage, pulled tight around the wound to stop the bleeding. That done, he began moving her clothing this way and that, looking for other injuries. There were bruises already forming on her chest and ribs from the seat belt, cuts on her hands and neck, her pretty face. She would have an intense black eye in a day or so, and there was a gash along her hairline that required another bandage. But no broken bones, nothing that looked unrecoverable.

  She was beginning to come around as he fixed her clothes. He was tugging her t-shirt into place when he felt something odd in the hem. Something hard and unmalleable.

  “What is this?”

  He wasn’t really asking her, but she answered anyway.

  “The hem? I don’t know,” she mumbled, clearly still fuddled by the accident.

  Axel lifted it up so that he could see it, could feel it. The object was small and round, but it had some pliability. As he studied it, he realized the thread closing that section of the shirt was different from the rest. He tugged at the loose end of it and it came off easily, allowing him to pull the object free.

  It was electronic. A tracer of some sort, he assumed.

  “Who’s been in your house recently?”

  Abigail rolled her head, then winced from the pain of her gash. She reached up to touch it, surprised to find the strip of t-shirt wrapped around it.

  “Has there been workmen or a neighbor or anyone unusual in your house lately?”

  “No,” she mumbled. “But we’ve been working in the barn a lot, doing repairs to equipment. The house has been unattended most days.”

  “Anyone could just walk in?”

  “We don’t lock it.” Her voice was stronger now, filled with indignation. “We live in the middle of nowhere. Who’s going to break int
o a farmhouse?”

  “Someone who wants to place a tracker on you that you can’t easily lose.”

  Axel held the tiny unit up on the tip of his finger so she could see it. She sat up, a little woozy as she did. But she leaned forward and stared at the thing.

  “That was in my shirt?”

  “My guess is that there are multiple shirts back at your place with these things sewed into the hem. That’s how he found us at your friend’s house.”

  Abigail’s face crumbled with his words. She bit her lip and held back the sob he could feel just under the surface, but her eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t do that,” he said gruffly. “You couldn’t have known. I didn’t know.”

  “But it’s my shirt. I should have felt it.”

  “Do you make a habit of running your fingers over the hem of your shirts?” Axel carefully set the tracker down and took her face between his hands. “It’s not your fault.”

  She leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his. They stood like that for a minute, and then he stole a kiss before pulling away. She reached up and tugged at his jaw, drawing him back to her.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He reached up and brushed his forehead, but nothing came off. She touched his ear and showed him the fresh blood on her fingers.

  “The accident must have torn your stitches.”

  “Nothing we can do about it right now.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  He picked up the tracker and walked over to the stone fireplace, thinking how nice it would feel to have a big fire burning in there. He held the tracker out, prepared to drop it and smash it below his toe. If he did that, the killer would lose their signal, but they’d have to move on, walk through the snow until they could find another car or get a call into Mastiff. And she didn’t look like she could handle that sort of stress right now.

  Or they could keep the tracker and wait here for the killer to find them.

  The more he thought about it, the more he thought the latter was a brilliant idea. End this thing once and for all.