Cheyenne McCray - Point Blank (Lawmen Book 4)

by Unknown

  At the last moment, the car swerved into its own lane, headed back toward Bisbee.

  Brooks made sure both lanes were clear on the little-traveled highway before he jerked the wheel and turned his own vehicle in the opposite direction. His big truck didn’t make the turn as easily on the two-lane highway as the Volvo had. The vehicle’s wheels slid partially into the drainage ditch. The powerful truck gained traction, tires churning earth, and was back on the highway in seconds.

  He radioed in the change in direction as he chased the Volvo. His truck was fifty feet behind the car when, at the last moment, the man jerked the wheel to the right onto Double Adobe Road.

  Brooks stomped on the brakes at the same time a car rounded the curve from the direction of Bisbee. Brooks’s truck skidded to a stop, passing the Double Adobe turnoff. The driver of the oncoming car clearly saw Brooks’s lights flashing and probably heard the siren. The driver pulled his vehicle to the side of the road.

  An open dirt area, that had once been the parking lot for some long defunct restaurant, gave Brooks enough room to spin his truck and head back the hundred feet to the exit for Double Adobe Road.

  The Volvo was almost out of sight as Brooks crossed the cattle guard and headed down the narrow two-lane road. He jammed his foot on the accelerator and tore after the car. He called in the new information.

  Shit. Too much damned territory for law enforcement to easily cover. One thing about this part of the country was that with the low mesquite bushes, one could see for miles in the mostly treeless valley. The fact that the bushes were leafless from the cold of winter also helped with visibility.

  He bore down on the Volvo that was a good distance ahead. He closed in again. In a mile they would reach a dangerous curve where Frontier Road bisected Double Adobe Road. Brooks wanted to pass the Volvo and cut off the driver before they reached the intersection.

  Brooks started to pass the Volvo when the driver began swerving from lane to lane, blocking Brooks from passing the car.

  He gritted his teeth, falling in behind the Volvo again.

  When they were six hundred feet and closing in on the intersection and the curve, Brooks slowed considerably, knowing better than to navigate the area at high speed.

  The driver reached the intersection, not slowing, his brake lights never flashing. He spun the Volvo to turn north onto Frontier Road.

  He miscalculated the dangerous turn.

  The car fishtailed and slid across the asphalt toward an enormous telephone pole.

  Brooks came to a stop before the intersection as the Volvo’s driver lost control.

  The Volvo slammed headlong into the telephone pole. The crash was loud enough to be heard over the truck’s siren.

  Metal buckled around the pole, compacting the entire front end of the car.

  Shit. Brooks had wanted to question the suspect, maybe even get him to turn on Okle. Brooks doubted the driver had survived.

  Brooks radioed in again as he parked his truck cattycorner to the accident. He gave his location to the dispatcher, and requested an ambulance. Considering how far out of town they were, it would take a while for the paramedics to arrive.

  Not that Brooks thought the driver had survived the crash.

  He pulled his Walther and climbed out of the truck. He checked for traffic. Clear. He jogged across the intersection, holding his weapon down in a two-handed grip. The tick of hot metal and the sound of dripping gas hitting the dirt were the only things he heard.

  The gasoline smell was strong. When he reached the back of the car, he raised his weapon, slowly stepping around to the driver’s side.

  He took care as he cautiously approached and peered into the small space that was left of the driver’s side.

  All that remained behind the wheel was a compressed, headless corpse. The hood of the car had come through the window and decapitated the driver. Beneath the angle of the hood, Brooks saw that blood splattered the body’s clothing.

  More blood had sprayed the safety glass of the shattered window and the hood that was now inside the car. The door was crumpled—there would be no opening that door, so he didn’t bother. He couldn’t see past the body or over the twisted metal to check if someone was or had been in the front passenger seat.

  Brooks remained on guard, not knowing if someone else could be in the back of the car and have survived the accident. It was possible. Anything was possible.

  He flung open the rear door with his gun still raised. The only thing in the back seat was the driver’s head, its eyes wide and sightless. Brooks recognized the open-mouthed head as the man who had been driving the Volvo when it almost ran down Christie and him.

  Brooks rounded the rear of the car to the opposite side and opened the right rear passenger door. Nothing was there but a pile of empty soda cups, fast food containers, and candy bar wrappers.

  The front passenger door was as smashed in as the driver’s side and the window was shattered. Brooks continued to hold his Walther up as he looked through the broken window. The seat was empty.

  When he had cleared the car of any potential threats, he looked through the passenger side window, surveying the scene. He glanced at the floorboard and caught a glimpse of a manila file folder. A portion of the contents had partially slid out, onto the floorboard. Several black and white photos peeked out of the folder, but he couldn’t tell what the subject matter was.

  The crumpled door was impossible to open. Brooks knocked out remaining broken shards of the window with his weapon. He pulled a latex glove out of a pocket and slid it on one hand.

  He leaned into the car, ignoring remnants of the window’s glass poking him through his T-shirt, pressing against his abs. He was tall and his reach long enough that he was able to push the photos back into the folder before he scooped it up and brought it out of the car.

  He moved to the back of the Volvo and set the folder on the trunk. In the distance he heard sirens. He opened the folder with the gloved hand and a chill rolled over his skin as he flipped through the photos one by one. The early evening winter sunlight was just enough to see the subjects of the photographs.

  Natasha. Christie. A close up of baby Jessica. An elderly couple—probably the grandparents. And a photograph of Trace. Pictures of people he didn’t recognize with the exception of Gary Orson—Natasha’s friend from the tradeshow.

  A handwritten list was behind the photographs. Home addresses for Natasha, the Davidsons, and a Florida address, which probably belonged to the grandparents. Work addresses for Natasha and Trace were also there. A few other names, including Gary’s, were below the information for each of her family members. The ones he didn’t recognize had to be more of her friends.

  Brooks almost crumpled the photographs in his fury and wished to hell the bastard hadn’t died in the crash

  If the man had survived, Brooks would have killed him.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Shut the fuck up.” Mark brushed Selena off with a wave of his hand when he had the desire to use his fist. “I fucking know it’s my morning to see Mother and I don’t need you reminding me.”

  Her expression turned unreadable and her dark gaze studied him coolly. It was clear she didn’t like that he’d gone off on her.

  Right now he didn’t give a shit. No, that wasn’t true. He was afraid of losing Selena, so the fact was he did give a shit. It also hit him that she was a cold-blooded killer. It probably wasn’t a good idea to piss her off.

  “Sorry I snapped at you.” His words still came out with a furious edge to them. “I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Of course.” Her expression hadn’t changed but she sounded like she was restraining anger at the way he’d spoken to her.

  “Considering the mood I’m in, I wouldn’t be good company for Mother.” He might even break the neck of one of those irritating bastards who always got on his nerves when he visited his mother.

  “Do you have something that would start your day out better?” Selena tilted her head
to the side. “Perhaps torturing the man you are holding downstairs?”

  It was the first time Selena had brought up the subject of the torture Mark was fond of. It made him feel powerful, untouchable, when he had someone else’s life or death in his control.

  Selena always seemed to know the right way to soothe and calm him. She also usually knew when to shut her fucking mouth.

  “Romero could have killed Natasha’s cousin.” Rage built up in Mark again and he felt like he might explode. “All I wanted him to do was scare the bitch. Instead Romero nearly runs the cousin down and hits some Good Samaritan who pushed her out of the way in time. EV gave the order. It should have come from me.”

  Mark balled his hands into fists then forced himself to relax. El Verdugo didn’t give a flying fuck if Christie was killed. Mark did. He liked the way business had been going with Natasha moving his product. He needed Natasha’s loved ones to keep her in line—if he started killing them right away, he would lose leverage.

  He wasn’t taking any chances. If Natasha panicked and went to the cops, he’d kill all. He had men following each one of them and they wouldn’t survive two minutes after he gave the order to eliminate them.

  “Join me downstairs.” Mark put his fingertips at Selena’s slender waist. “I know you enjoy seeing me torture scum like Faderic.”

  He thought he felt a shudder go through her but she remained calm and cool. “As usual, you are correct.” She smirked. “I like seeing you enjoying yourself.”

  Her answer made him smile. It was intoxicating having this beautiful woman at his side, a woman who clearly reveled in the same things he did. She was the perfect partner. A life partner.

  Marriage had been something he’d thought was not for him. Selena was changing his mindset day by day. He wanted her at his side, attached to him by the marriage bond.

  Later. He would consider that later.

  He guided her through the warehouse where he kept art objects that he used to transport drugs when he had an order to fulfill. Natasha had been instrumental in some of the biggest deals he had arranged in the past six months. She was making him rich. Fucking richer than he was already.

  It was never enough. The more money, the more power he had. He was surprised he’d ever considered getting out of the business. It was far too lucrative.

  They went to a corner of the warehouse where his office was, and strode into the room. Mark guided her to the closet where a hidden set of stairs would take them to the old boiler room.

  He slid open the paneled door then placed his hand on Selena’s tailbone, at the top of her ass, as they walked down into the concrete-sided and floored basement. The floor was rust brown from blood in areas surrounding Mark’s favorite torture location. To the left were huge rusted black pipes and ancient pieces of equipment, including the boilers, which would be considered antiques if anyone cared to dismantle and sell them.

  Mark smiled as his gaze rested on the scum who had betrayed him in more ways than one.

  The sniveling shit now hung naked from his ankles over a fifty-gallon barrel of acid. A candle had partially burned into a heavy rope attached to a ring in the wall and looped over a pulley above Francis Faderic’s head. Mark had lit the candle earlier with no intention of killing the bastard—yet. But psychological torture was one of Mark’s favorite ways to deal with employees who tried to cheat or ruin him in any way.

  The candle had burned down so that the flame barely licked at the rope suspending him over acid. But the rope was thick—later Mark would make the flame more intense.

  Faderic’s tiny dick was shriveled and sweat rolled down his naked body. He wasn’t blindfolded—Mark wanted the shit to watch the candle burn into the rope. The room stunk of Faderic’s fear as he shook above the barrel of acid. Mark was certain the short man had pissed himself, the urine likely running over his face and the cut on his cheek from the breaker bar.

  His missing index finger was wrapped for the time being. It had been enormously satisfying, almost erotically so, to listen to his screams when the rubbing alcohol was poured over the bleeding stub.

  Feeling particularly sadistic this morning, Mark picked up the acetylene torch. He placed the cold nozzle beneath the rope where the candle had partially burned through.

  “No.” Faderic flailed above the drum of acid, tears rolling from his eyes, over his forehead and into his hair. Droplets of sweat and tears plopped into the acid. “Please. You gotta believe me. I told you everything. Don’t kill me.”

  “You cost me a lot of money because I have to change the location of the delivery.” Mark narrowed his gaze. “The price dropped by a hundred grand and I won’t get paid until the new date. All thanks to you and your fucking big mouth.”

  Mark turned on the torch and bright blue flame tinged with yellow shot out of the nozzle and began burning into the rope. “By the way. Your mother has been dealt with and I have the drugs and money you stole from me.”

  Faderic burst into tears. He was incoherent as he sobbed and watched Mark burn away more of the rope.

  Mark’s mobile phone rang. He shut off the torch, and Faderic’s sobs were louder. Mark pulled his cell out of his pocket, and when he saw the screen, he knew without a doubt it was EV.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Mark commanded Faderic. “Or I will finish burning through the rope and you will die here and now.”

  The sniveling bastard bit his lip, his features strained to keep from letting out any sound.

  Mark looked away from Faderic and answered the phone.

  “I want you to recruit more fucking mules to traffic my merchandise at every tradeshow possible.” El Verdugo immediately launched his demand in Spanish. “We can move more product across the U.S. and give the fucking addicts what they crave. Find enough mules and I will arrange for buyers in every city.”

  For a moment, Mark was too stunned to speak. “I’m in a small town and my operation isn’t large enough. Anything bigger would draw attention.”

  “You think I give a shit?” EV snorted. “Open a branch in Tucson and prepare to move more product.”

  “I don’t have the cash to start up a whole new operation.” Sweat rolled down the side of Mark’s face as if he were Faderic, hanging over the barrel of acid.

  “I will get you the cash.” EV growled out the words. “You get the mules and the operation going.”

  “Yes, El Verdugo.” It was the only thing Mark could say. He had no options. No options at all. “Right away.”

  When EV disconnected the call, Mark stood in place for a long time, not aware of anything but EV’s voice in his mind. Every word the cartel leader had spoken played on an endless loop in Mark’s head.

  His phone rang again and he jumped. He prayed it wasn’t EV calling back. Mark looked at the screen and saw that it was Pancho.

  “What do you want?” Mark all but screamed when he answered.

  When he spoke, Pancho had a note of fear in his voice, as if he was afraid of Mark killing the bearer of bad news. “Last night Romero died…and the woman with the baby is gone.”

  Heat tore through Mark from his head to every extremity, and the hand holding the phone trembled. “Start with Romero.” The man had been one of EV’s hired killers and had been the one to almost kill Christie Davidson.

  “Some cop spotted his car and there was a chase. Romero crashed into a telephone pole. My sources say he died instantly.”

  Mark was certain his entire body was turning dark purple with as much rage as he felt. EV would be beyond furious to lose one of his best men, and Mark might pay the price in some way. At least Romero couldn’t talk. He might have if he had survived and been taken into custody.

  “What about the woman?” Mark ground his teeth as he waited for Pancho to answer. “You were to watch her.”

  “She left in the night.” Pancho cleared his throat. “I tried to follow her but I lost her in Tucson.”

  “You fucking idiot.” Mark’s voice rose to a near scream again. “
Get back here—to the boiler room.” He nearly threw his phone as he ended the call.

  Mark was aware of Selena standing next to him and for the second time he wanted to hit her, just because she was the closest person to him. She would probably shoot him between the eyes without a second’s hesitation.

  Instead, he strode over to the corner where he kept all of the tools and instruments of torture he kept. He selected a bullwhip.

  The terror in Faderic’s eyes grew as Mark reached him and raised the whip.

  CHAPTER 21

  Natasha reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulled out the crystal butterfly, and let it rest in her palm. She moved it in the light that streamed in through the shop window and it threw rainbow prisms of light onto the wall behind her.

  That Brooks had given her such a special gift pulled at her heart in unexpected ways.

  For a log moment she studied the beauty of the piece, marveling at its loveliness.

  The cell phone rang, jerking her out of the trance she’d been in. No doubt it was Mark. She’d been dreading the call. Afraid of it.

  Last night Brooks had returned and stayed with her until early this morning. Being with him made her feel safe, and as if she wasn’t alone in this.

  But now that he wasn’t with her, she felt beyond alone.

  She slid the butterfly into her skirt pocket and stared at the phone. It was face down on the table beside the cash register, and she was unable to see the screen. She bit her lower lip as she reached for it, wrapped her fingers around it, and turned it over. Her stomach flipped over, too.

  Mark could be calling about Christie. Or he could be calling about Brooks, who’d spent the night. What if Mark had found out who Brooks was and that he was a Federal agent?

  Or Mark could be calling about both.

  She swallowed and answered, going for the more casual-nothing’s-changed route. “What do you want, Mark?”

  “You warned Christie.” Mark had fury in his voice. “She’s gone.”