American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1)

by McAdams, K. D.

  “What are they going to do, shoot me in the library?” Abbey looked incredulous.

  “If that’s where they find you with the document, yes,” Dylan insisted. “It’s more likely that they’ll come into your home, do unspeakable things to you, and either leave with the document or something else they liked.” His face conveyed the seriousness of his words.

  “Fine, the police station it is,” she grumbled while pulling open the door.

  Dylan strode quickly across the room and slammed it shut. She was surprised by his speed and strength.

  “They could be watching the house. Let’s go out a different way.” He smiled at her.

  Dylan led the way across the small living room to a door. He opened it and stepped through to the small room that housed the furnace and oil tank. Toward the back of the room and to the left was a small basement window.

  “I know I can fit, but are you going to make it?” Abbey asked him with a raised eyebrow.

  “No, I’m going out the front door. When you’re in position and ready to go, we’ll count to fifteen and then exit at the same time. If they’re watching the house, the guy going out the front will draw their attention,” Dylan explained.

  But Abbey still looked worried. “And they might shoot you right there in the driveway.”

  “Well, I’m not going to be an easy target, and we’ve already seen that their accuracy is lacking. Go through the woods, and we’ll meet at your truck. If you hear gunfire, or I’m not there in five minutes, get the hell out of here.” Dylan offered her a hand after stacking two plastic storage bins under the small window.

  Abbey climbed up unsteadily. Dylan realized that she was usually in control and could imagine how it felt to follow another person’s plan, especially when her life was at stake. He wanted to offer her more details on the plan, but then he realized that getting to the truck was the whole plan.

  The gravity of the situation suddenly appeared on her face.

  “All my life, I’ve known that the American Lease was significant. I love it for the combination of mystery and history it represents.” She spoke softly. “Before today, though, the power it represented was academic, something to read about and discuss over coffee in Harvard Square.”

  “We’re going to be okay. I’m done letting them control me.” Dylan offered assurance.

  “There are people killing for this document.” She clarified the gravity she was realizing. “Is it was worth dying for? For me the answer is an easy yes, but how can you feel the same way?”

  “The document is interesting, but they killed Montana. I can’t just let it be for nothing.” He frowned.

  “See you at the truck?” She leaned down and kissed him quickly.

  “Fifteen Mississippis starting…. now.” He didn’t acknowledge the quick peck and walked out of the small room, headed for the front door.

  Dylan counted quickly. He wanted to make sure that he was the first one out of the building. If they were going to be shot at, Abbey needed time to get to her feet after climbing through the tiny window.

  At thirteen, he ripped open the door and dashed out. He took a diagonal path to the far side of the driveway. At the very edge of the pavement he planted his left foot and cut back toward the front lawn.

  He stayed loose, like when he was running in open field. With each step, Dylan felt better, the adrenaline building.

  A few steps into the lawn, he turned and headed parallel to the driveway. His plan was to not stop running until he was across the street. Hopefully there were no cars coming down the road.

  The lack of gunshots was surprising but he didn’t want to stop. These guys were smart and it was possible that they were trying to lull him into a false sense of security.

  Instead of cutting back to the left, he darted right and ran along the rock wall. At an almost imperceptible dip in the wall, he veered left and jumped over it, sprinting across the street.

  Once he was across the street, he slowed his pace. If they were covering the door to his apartment, they probably would not have a decent shot at him here on the opposite side of the street. Plus the trees had enough leaves on them to make it hard to see.

  He picked his way through the trees and fought the urge to stop and look behind him. This side of the road had the ever-present stone wall as well, but the trees were thick; it hadn’t been cleared in decades.

  At only twenty yards from the parking area that marked the head of the trail to Monson, Dylan froze. There was a car parked next to Abbey’s truck.

  Not just a car—the fake FBI agent’s car. Obviously, he had needed some way to get here, but how could he just drive around when there was surely an APB out on him? He had to have been the one who shot at them, but where was he now?

  To his right, Dylan noticed movement on the other side of the street. He dropped low, hiding behind the rock wall. Just as his line of sight cleared the top of the wall, he saw Abbey step slowly into the road.

  His sense of relief was short-lived—the FBI imposter followed closely behind her, a gun leveled at her back.

  When they arrived at the cars, Abbey stopped behind the generic black sedan.

  “You have a few choices, sweetheart,” the man with the gun said, loud enough that Dylan could hear.

  “I don’t have the lease, and we have no idea where the hell it is, or should I say was,” Abbey seethed.

  “Give me the lease, give me the last clue you found, or get in the car. Simple, really,” the attacker said calmly.

  From behind him, Dylan heard the growl of a motorcycle and knew this was his only chance.

  As the sound grew closer, he slowly walked toward the clearing, without ever taking his eyes off Abbey. Loud pipes save lives, he thought sarcastically. Hopefully they would save Abbey’s life.

  “Call attention to yourself, and you and the biker die. Then I go back and kill your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a dumb jock that was just trying to get in my pants”—was the last thing Dylan heard as the motorcycle thundered up to their location.

  In an effort to be inconspicuous, the fake agent lowered his gun and took a step around the car, toward the driver’s side, within a few feet of where Dylan had come to a stop.

  The sun flashed off the chrome of the big Harley and Dylan made his move. He cocked his right arm back and ran at the man.

  Throwing the hardest punch of his life, Dylan’s fist landed squarely on the man’s cheek. He allowed the momentum of his body to carry him into the imposter and they both fell to the ground.

  “GO!” he screamed at Abbey, who stood watching, terrified.

  Whatever the suited man’s background, he was like a mountain. The first punch should have rendered him unconscious or at the very least dazed, but he fought back almost instantly.

  Dylan pushed himself free and landed a glancing blow with is right hand. The fake agent countered with a left that knocked Dylan off of his feet and onto the ground.

  “GO!” he screamed at Abbey again.

  This time she moved. With trembling hands, she fished the keys out of her pocket and hurried to the driver’s door. It opened and she climbed in, quickly starting the engine before even closing her door.

  The assailant wanted by Interpol picked up his gun and directed it toward Dylan.

  In a flash of panic, Dylan lashed his left foot up, connecting with the hand first and then the gun. The weapon went flying into the underbrush and Dylan scrambled to his feet.

  Suddenly stunned and not sure what to do, the fake agent paused momentarily before heading where his gun had landed.

  Abbey had the truck in gear and spun the tires on the dirt as she backed out of the parking space.

  Dylan ran as fast as he could and leapt into the bed of the truck a fraction of a second before it shot forward, down the road and away from danger. Shots rang out and Dylan covered his head as glass from the rear window shattered and rained down into the bed of the truck.

  Chapter
36

  The truck skidded to a halt right in front of the doors of the police station. Abbey jumped out and, without closing her door, sprinted into the building. She likely was unaware that Dylan had been in the bed, holding on for dear life.

  Dylan climbed out of the truck slowly. His mind felt foggy and he blinked hard to push the cobwebs away. He had to admit that the other guy was tough, though the punch wasn’t the only blow he’d received.

  In the bed of the pickup truck there’d been little to grab onto. As Abbey raced around corners, Dylan had been tossed from one side to the other, slamming into the side walls each time. Her abrupt stop at the station had sent him careening into the front wall of the bed.

  Before going into the station, he checked behind him and noticed that the town was quiet. None of the people knew that there had been shots fired in Monson or that an international thief had tried to kidnap one of their own.

  He hoped the town would stay quiet, but knew it was unlikely when word of the Lease and the battle between those trying to retrieve it finally reached the national media. This thought made him realize that he was home; he liked it here and was going to stay, regardless of what happened with the Lease or with Abbey.

  “Hello?” he called out, a little too loudly, once he was several feet into the building.

  The lobby was empty and he slowly opened the door that led to the back where the officer’s desks were.

  Abbey rushed at him from out of nowhere and jumped into his arms. She hugged him tight and he was happy to return the embrace. Somehow, through all the running and fear, she still smelled amazing, like apples and cinnamon.

  She kissed him deeply and when they finally separated Dylan noticed that there were several people watching them.

  “How did you get here?” she asked, seeming blind to the audience.

  “The back of your truck. I dove in just as you were taking off.” He winced at the memory of the ride.

  “Ms. Holt, Mr. Cold, I presume?” A deep, confident voice came from the back of the room.

  The two looked back in silence.

  “That’s us,” Dylan finally spoke.

  “I’m Special Agent Nick Brinson. Why don’t you come back here? I think we have a lot to discuss.” The agent was rigid and formal.

  Abbey was on the offensive. “Like starting with the fact that I was almost killed by a wanted man? One that apparently feels safe enough to just drive around our town without even trying to hide,” she snarled.

  “Easy, he’s here to help.” Dylan put his hand on her shoulder and nudged her toward the back of the station.

  Reluctantly, she walked to the back of the building.

  The conference room where they had caught the imposter looked more official now. On the table, a laptop was open and there was a manila folder with a pad of paper and a pen on top of it.

  The Chief hoisted his pants as he stepped out of his office. “Abbey. Mr. Cold, I see you’ve met Agent Brinson. He’s the real deal, I checked his ID.”

  “Thanks, Chief. Any word on how the guys are doing out at Monson?” Abbey’s face showed her concern for her friends.

  “I’ve called them back in. There was no obvious trail, and I don’t want them to be out there walking around the woods with no leads. Jim really outdid himself and got both cruisers repaired; make sure he knows how much I appreciate it.” The chief looked from Abbey to Dylan when he mentioned Jim.

  “His car was in the parking area next to Abbey’s truck. He almost got her and then he shot out her back window. Are you going to increase patrols until this guy is caught?” Dylan asked, knowing he was one of the targets.

  “The guys saw the car. One of them is going to stay with it while the others come back to get cruisers and supplies. As far as increased patrols, we’re all double-shifting. We live here, Mr. Cold. None of us like the idea of a bad man running roughshod over us. We’ll find him and bring him in,” the chief answered confidently.

  “You can call me Dylan. I didn’t mean to come across as rude. I live here too, and I know you have some good guys out there.” Dylan nodded and stepped into the conference room.

  While Abbey sat down, the FBI agent walked around the table and flipped open the manila folder. He pulled out a large black-and-white photo, turned it, and slid it across the table.

  Dylan grabbed the plastic pitcher of water from the table and poured some into the only cup he could see. After a long drink, he refilled the cup and handed it to Abbey, who drained it as well.

  “So that’s definitely the fake agent. Do you have a picture of the other guy?” Dylan asked.

  “Other guy?” Abbey and Agent Brinson asked in unison.

  “Yeah, I don’t know if it’s a partner or a competitor, but I was also threatened by an Irish guy who seemed to at least be aware of the Lease,” Dylan explained.

  “Hold on.” The agent sat at the computer and began typing quickly.

  “We need to look at the files again. I want to go through the arboreal survey one more time and see if the names around the Lovejoy tree trigger something,” Abbey said, continuing to focus on the Lease.

  Dylan didn’t want to argue with her. “Something tells me it’s that date. Figure out what it matches, and you’ll find the next step,” he said.

  “This the guy?” Agent Brinson spun the laptop around.

  “Yup, that’s him. Had at least one flunky with him. Told me if I give them the Lease I get rich and live, if I don’t, I die,” Dylan said, offering a summary of his conversation in the gas station lot.

  “These guys aren’t subtle. The Interpol rewards for their capture are dead or alive. They have pissed off some serious people,” the FBI agent explained.

  “Well, follow me around for an afternoon and you’re bound to make contact,” Dylan offered.

  “Or find the Lease first and get them to go away.” Abbey smiled.

  “For now I request that you both stay put. There is nothing worth risking your life for and I may come up with something else that needs your input.” Brinson was not interested in using bait, human or historic.

  His phone rang and he looked at the screen before answering.

  Abbey stood from the table and walked out into the open office space.

  “Chief, do you have a computer I can use to access the scans of the files from Dylan’s kidnapper?” she asked.

  The Chief directed Abbey to a desk. Dylan left the conference room and stood behind her.

  She shook the mouse and the screen came to life. Navigating to the file manager, she double clicked on a folder before Dylan even had time to read the name. The numbered list of files they had parsed through at her house filled the screen.

  “Ugh,” Abbey sighed.

  The rest of the station had returned to the tasks they were working on before Dylan and Abbey arrived. There was a focused bustle to the action, but no one paid any particular attention to Abbey and Dylan.

  Dylan didn’t need to be told what to do; he took a pad and pen from the desk and prepared to write.

  Abbey looked back at him, a little surprised. She smiled warmly. “I like you.”

  Double-clicking on “1.jpg,” she called out, “1.jpg—map of Monson.”

  She went through the files more quickly this time, but Dylan was able to keep up.

  After file 33— “Grange inventory”—Dylan stopped writing.

  “Go back,” he said urgently.

  “Grange inventory?” she asked.

  “No, before that, why are there two Lovejoy documents?” he asked.

  The first time they had gone through the files, he’d had no context. They were old documents about a small New Hampshire town. Now that he knew the Lovejoys were somehow linked to the Lease, he felt like these document had to hold the key.

  Abbey didn’t share his enthusiasm. “Lovejoy-one covers the time when the family was the town blacksmith. Lovejoy-two covers the time when they were farmers. I’ve been through both documents dozens of times. There is no
mention of the Lease or anything suspicious that even feels like a clue. We can add those to the short list, but I don’t think there are any references to January 1777 in either.”

  “When plays are sent in from the sideline, they’re coded. And they don’t send in just one play, usually it’s three or four, and part of the code is which one we’re supposed to pay attention to,” Dylan started explaining.

  “We’re not talking about football,” Abbey said, still skeptical.

  “I know, but we were football players, not spies. We didn’t invent simple codes, we just used them. The Wallingfords and Lovejoys didn’t invent them either, but they could have used one.” He felt the pieces coming together.

  “You’re back to the date.” Abbey spun back to the computer screen.

  The document she’d called lovejoy1 was opened and she scrolled quickly to the third page. Moving her cursor over the first word, she started counting.

  After highlighting the seventy-seventh word, she leaned back in her chair and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Lease” stood out from the text like a beacon. In context of the page it was written on it was innocuous, mundane. When tied back to the medallion, the arboreal survey, and her grandfather’s framed leaves, it was the clue she had spent most of her life looking for.

  Chapter 37

  In comparison, the next word of the clue was easy to find.

  The first attempt—one more page, third word—was wrong: smelt.

  The second attempt was initially inconclusive— “is” was the seventh word after Lease. But seven words after that was “safe.”

  “Lease is safe.”

  They’d cracked the code: The seventy-seven in the date meant that after the first word, go seven more, and then repeat seven more.

  Dylan scratched each new word on a napkin that had been sitting on the desk. Abbey raced through the text, counting words and shouting out the next discovery.

  After she read the word ”town,” Agent Brinson came out of the office.

  “Looks like this is a popular place for some pretty bad dudes,” he said to no one in particular.