by Jeff Carson
He remembered the door. And the blankets. And Ethan rubbing heat back into him.
“Hey,” he said.
Ethan flicked a glance at him and then looked back outside with rapt attention.
“What are they doing?”
Ethan zipped his jacket all the way up and said nothing.
“Hey.”
No response. Ethan pulled his coat collar up over his mouth and stared.
Rachette decided that jacket for him was like a security blanket to a child. That, and it was an expensive-looking piece of clothing compared to the rest. The sides of his leather boots were worn, and the laces were held together by their last threads. The jeans were like tissue paper. But the jacket was brand-spanking-new, with silver buttons on the breast pockets.
Grunting echoed outside, and then the sound of something heavy sliding on metal, like an object being pulled out of the back of a truck. Behind the strains of men, liquid sloshed inside a large container.
Ethan’s eyes widened.
“What’s that?”
No response.
Outside the doorway, feathers tumbled on the breeze. The Steller’s jay’s leg twitched, and the bird received a jolt of life and tried to get up, then flopped on its side and lay still again.
“One … two … three!”
More grunts, and then a thump.
“One … two … three!”
Rachette heard a scraping sound. As it got louder, a blue container came into sight through the cracks and he smelled gasoline.
Something told him the fuel was not for gassing up their cars.
The banter started up again and a flurry of feet approached the doorway.
Lucky Charms appeared with his pistol. He paused, aimed at the bird, and finished it off. Tucking the smoking gun in his pants, he walked inside with a satisfied grin.
Locking eyes with Rachette he said, “How’s the wee pinkie?”
“The shell, asshole!”
Lucky Charms’s laugh shook the building as he watched his compatriot pluck the brass off the work bench.
Rachette said nothing as the procession of men entered—Lucky Charms, two men with identical bodies but different shades and lengths of hair, and then a man with shorter hair, much younger and fitter-looking than his cohorts.
His lip twisted into a snarl, because the last man he recognized well.
“You,” he said.
CHAPTER 26
“David Wolf, the man with the brightest aura in Rocky Points.” Fabian Michaels looked up from a book on his glass merchandise counter and smiled. “What brings you in? Looking for a crystal for your new lady?”
Driftwood hanging from rope clanked as Wolf stepped into the entryway of the spiritual shop known as Fire and Ice on Main Street. Shutting the door, he saw no customers inside.
“Uh, no. Thanks.”
“Hey, you know, I’m going to stop by her art exhibit tonight. That girl can paint, brother. She is one gifted person. I’d like to buy some of her art, but I need my online sales to pick up a little. Besides, I have a couple of new toys on the way.” Fabian winked. “Nice doozies you’ll have to come check out.”
Wolf glanced behind him back out the window. Two people walked by, oblivious to the tiny storefront selling aura-enhancing knickknacks.
“Dreamcatcher?” Fabian pulled his wavy blond hair back and whipped it into a ponytail with a practiced move. “Wind chimes? Got some seriously boss new wind chimes made of beetle-kill pine. Look at those. Blue-tinged wood, see that? And the timbre of the clapper hitting beetle-kill tubes is something for the ear to behold.”
“I’d like to buy your M4.”
Fabian blinked. “Thought you of all people would have one of those.”
“I … no. I’d had enough of them in my army days so I never bought one.”
“And now you need one today?”
Wolf nodded.
Fabian swallowed. “Why are you in here asking me?”
“I know you have one in back.”
Fabian’s relaxed gaze landed on Wolf and stayed there. “All my firearms are properly registered.”
“I know.”
“And I store them here legally. I don’t sell anything.” He looked past Wolf.
“I know.”
Fabian let the silence draw out for a beat, then asked, “You need my help?”
“I just need your gun.”
Fabian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t have an FFL attached to this address.” Bracelets tinkled up his arms as he held up his hands.
“Listen, this isn’t a sting operation. You helped me out a few years ago. I need you to help me out again, without asking questions.”
Wolf referred to a crew of local men he’d assembled to help combat a drug cartel that had borne down on Rocky Points. Fabian Michaels had been there, standing tall with the aforementioned M4 assault rifle across his chest, and Wolf had never forgotten it.
Wolf had a pair of hunting rifles and a Walther PPK at his house, which were ineffectual against the threat he faced. And, besides, the drive home was a trip he had no time to make.
Fabian Michaels was a spiritual shop owner and diehard NRA member, two things that clashed in everyone’s mind but Fabian’s. Fewer bigger fanatics of firearms existed in Rocky Points, and that said something for a town in the Colorado mountains.
“Not a sting?”
“Not a sting.”
Fabian shrugged and gestured to the door. “Lock it.”
Wolf locked the entrance and followed Fabian behind the merchandise counter through a beaded curtain.
The back room was ten by ten feet, with work tables lining two walls. Jewelry and other craft projects were piled and spaced evenly on top of them, labeled with multicolored Post-it notes. The room seemed to be the source of the lavender scent emanating through the shop.
Fabian produced a set of keys and released three heavy locks on a black door. He opened it and slid inside, and then clicked a light switch. A fluorescent bulb flickered on and then hummed, illuminating another space that smelled like gun oil. The amount of weaponry adorning the walls gave the Sheriff’s Department armory room a run for its money.
“Have two Colt M4 series carbines, as you can see.” Fabian took one from the wall, pointed it down, and pulled the charging handle back. He checked the chamber, pushed it closed with a metallic “snick,” and handed it over to Wolf.
Wolf took the weapon and repeated the process. He brought it to his shoulder and aimed at a spot on the wall. A vision of an eight-year-old boy materialized in the crosshairs of the scope. With closed eyes, he lowered the weapon.
“Sighted it in yesterday,” Fabian said.
Wolf saw the other M4’s bulkier scope. “Night vision on this one?”
“Yeah. You need it?”
Wolf nodded and handed back the gun.
“This one has a BAE systems thermal-imaging scope with switch-over night vision. Best of both worlds without having to use head-mounted NVGs, so you don’t ever have to lower the rifle.” Fabian took it down and checked the chamber. He handed it over and showed Wolf the power and adjustments, then went and shut off the light.
The room went pitch black until Fabian pulled out his cellphone and bathed the space in a soft glow. “Try it out.”
Wolf put his eye to the scope and saw a bright white silhouette of Fabian’s hand waving in view. “That’s the thermal setting, obviously. Here, you can dial it up for more red.” Fabian twisted a knob and his hand turned to the color of glowing lava. “You see that?”
“Yeah,” Wolf said.
“Hit this switch for night vision.”
Wolf did so and the display turned to standard night-vision green.
“Pretty cool, eh?”
Wolf lowered the M4. “Yes.”
He wondered what kind of scope Ethan Womack would have on his .50 caliber sniper rifle. Probably something similar since he’d set a midnight meeting.
Fabian flicked on the light and shrugged. “Need anythin
g else?”
“How much?”
“Do you actually want to buy this stuff? Or do you need to borrow it?” Fabian scratched his head and put on a pained face. “I’d rather you borrowed it.”
Wolf nodded. “Okay, how much?”
“To what?”
“To rent it.”
“Yeah, right. Just bring it back to me, how about that?” Fabian smiled easily and gazed into Wolf’s eyes. “I can see you’re troubled with that, though. You sure you don’t need my help?”
Wolf ignored the question. “You have something I can put this in?”
Fabian eyed him for a few more seconds, then bent down and retrieved a black Pelican case and opened it up on the workbench. He detached the scope and seated it in a cutout, then placed the M4 inside. “Hundred eighty rounds enough?” he asked, holding up three high-capacity magazines.
“That should be good,” Wolf said, hoping he was right.
Shutting the case, Fabian said, “Hope you know what you’re walking into. You sure you can’t use my help?”
“Yes, I’m sure. But thank you.”
“You deliver this thing back to me,” Fabian said. “Then, you know what? Payment is that you have to buy one of those beetle-kill wind chimes. Those things are clogging up the corner of my shop. They sound like the Three Stooges bonking their heads together.”
Wolf smiled. “It’s a deal.”
They walked back out into the main shop. Wolf took the weighted plastic case and Fabian locked up his armory behind them.
Wolf waited for Fabian to join him at the entrance.
“Thank you.”
Fabian looked past him and pushed open the door. “Hey, ladies.”
A pair of women with their noses pressed to the window backed away.
“Are you open?” one of them asked.
“Sure am.”
Wolf squeezed outside.
“Hey! Wolf!”
Wolf turned around.
Fabian finished ushering the two women into his shop and raised a finger. “Wait there for one second.” He disappeared inside and reappeared a few moments later with a wad of clothing in his hands.
Stepping close, Fabian gestured to the south. “You hear the weather forecast for tonight?”
Wolf nodded. “More thunderstorms.”
“Yeah.” He pushed the clothing towards Wolf. “Take all this. Got a rain coat, fleece gloves, winter hat, and a sweatshirt right there.”
“I have some supplies,” Wolf said, catching the body-odor whiff coming off the clothes.
“Good. Now you have more. Just in case, right?”
Wolf eyed the dark skies beyond Williams Pass and checked his watch—5:13. Fabian was a spiritualist and a former marine, and he was being practical.
“Thanks,” he said, and he meant it.
Fabian squeezed his shoulder. “See you later.” He disappeared back into his shop. “Now, ladies, I want you to look at these wind chimes. Are you familiar with beetle kill—”
The door slammed shut.
CHAPTER 27
Heather Patterson had walked the seven blocks back to her office through the blurry lens of her tears. She’d retrieved her extra set of car keys from her desk drawer, carefully keeping out of Bryce’s sights. Then she’d driven to the Sluice–Byron County building.
She’d seen the helicopter lifting into the sky on the drive over, and she’d also caught sight of Wolf leaving in his SUV.
Since that moment, now sitting in her car in the rear parking lot of the county building, shame gripped her heart and wouldn’t let go.
She’d never felt such a tearing of her soul. Rachette was in trouble, his pinkie severed by a crazy man who’d already killed Pat Xander, and now she’d let Wolf go up and face him alone.
She had the coordinates for the midnight meeting spot on her phone. She could simply defy Wolf and make her way up the trail behind him without him knowing. But Ethan Womack had guns—fifty-caliber sniper rifles—and probably planned on using them. Which meant going up there was likely a one-way ticket.
“Shit!” She slammed her hand down and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. The sound of her frantic breathing filled the silent cab.
“What’s the plan here?” she asked herself out loud. “You gonna follow him?”
She leaned back and flicked her eyes to the picture of Tommy taped to the inside corner of her windshield. Normally her two-year-old’s smile brightened her mood every time she looked at it, no matter what shit assignment she was on, but right now, it failed to do the job.
Three years ago, she would’ve been riding shotgun with Wolf, and if he’d had a problem with it she would’ve followed him. Plain and simple. Now, the primal love for her son overwrote everything in her DNA. David Wolf had put his life on the line to save hers before, and now she’d let him go into the darkness alone.
There had to be a way she could help.
If she had to bet on who’d win in a fight, David Wolf or Ethan Womack, she’d bet on Wolf every time. But she knew little to nothing about Ethan Womack. He was a tournament shooter and had set the time and place for a meet, which gave the man hours to prepare. Not only that, but he was mentally impaired due to head trauma. What did that mean? He had a record. Aggravated assault meant to harm somebody with intent to kill, or without regard for life. Had his head injury turned a dangerous man into an even more lethal one? Had his brother’s suicide put him over the edge?
She leaned her forehead on the steering wheel again. Shit.
“You can do both,” she said out loud, not knowing yet what she meant.
She lifted her head and watched a deputy walk through the building’s rear automatic doors.
What do you mean? she thought. Then out loud she said, “You might be able to learn something that might help him. You can help and stay out of harm’s way.”
But how?
Either way—out loud, or in her head—her words sounded like a coward’s.
A thought tickled her brain, and a voice told her to shut up with the self-pity and listen.
She stared into nothing, thinking about Ethan Womack. She thought about Pat Xander’s car being pushed off the side of the road, Rachette’s phone, the spent cartridges, and the pool of Pat’s blood. Ethan’s fingerprints were on all of it.
She thought about the last text message. It had said, “I’ll be watching.”
Looking around, she saw nobody watching her. It had been an empty threat. There was no way Ethan Womack could be watching her because he’d have to be in two places at once.
With a light feeling in her stomach, she wondered if her car had been compromised. Was there a video camera in the rearview mirror feeding out a video right now? She twisted the mirror, looking at the back side of it, then shook her head and took a sobering breath. She had the most sophisticated alarm system money could buy. If anyone passed gas near her car, much less planted a device inside it, the thing went berserk,
“There are others involved,” she said. Staring out the window, she tried on that idea for size.
The anonymous caller had led the Sheriff’s Department to the crime scene, which had led to Ethan Womack’s fingerprints easily identifying him as the culprit.
She blinked.
Maybe Ethan Womack was being framed. The thought made her pulse jump.
Wolf had gotten the video, which added a motive to the equation—that Ethan was pissed that his brother had killed himself and blamed Wolf.
The crime scene had shown who did it, and the video had given them the reason.
It was all tied up in a bow – but a little too neatly.
Who else would want to come after Wolf, and had a connection to Ethan Womack?
Somebody who was mad at Wolf from his past. Someone connected with the army. Maybe a former Ranger.
She knew little about Wolf’s past because he liked to keep it that way. Rachette had once told that Wolf had shot an eight-year-old boy in India. Or was it Sri Lanka? Where
ver it was, thinking about that gave her the same sick feeling now as it had hearing it back then, and that was enough reason to never seek confirmation from Wolf.
She shook her head, steering her thoughts back on track. Why else lead the cops to the crime scene, slathered with your own prints, unless you want the cops to know your identity?
Ethan was mentally impaired. Was he easily manipulated? A pawn in someone else’s game?
But he was a fifty-caliber tournament shooter and armed to the teeth. He had an aggravated-assault charge on his record.
She stared out the windshield some more, trying to put the pieces together, but the darkening storm clouds to the south were taunting her. They were telling her she’d let her boss go into the darkness alone.
Wolf was going to be ambushed. Picked off from a thousand yards.
Ambushed by him? Or by them?
There was her subconscious again, telling her more people were involved. If she was right, figuring out who could be her ticket to becoming useful. Maybe she could even ambush the ambushers.
She picked up her phone and dialed.
A few rings later Charlotte Munford-Rachette answered. “Hello?”
“Where are you?”
“At the station. Where are you?”
“I’m downstairs. I need you to come let me inside.”
CHAPTER 28
6:04 p.m.
Wolf’s head hit the Explorer’s ceiling as he barreled through another pothole.
He’d made the drive up and over Williams Pass in record time, passing every vehicle he came upon without hesitation. The descent past the Cold Lake turnoff and into the Ashland Valley was where he could really open up the engine, and where he’d clocked himself going over a hundred and twenty miles per hour with the windshield lights twirling and siren screaming.
That stretch of relatively flat, straight road had been short-lived, however, because the location he had to find was up a county road that shot west off Highway 734.
County Road 997 was a 17.3 mile stretch of road that burrowed its way into steep mountains, gaining a lot of altitude in its short distance. What started as flat dirt climbed to rocky switchbacks, and now he was in dense forest and had seen smoother ground in bombing ranges.