Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn)

by J. D. Rhoades

  “The motel?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “That old house isn’t exactly handicapped friendly. And now that all those FBI types are moving out, I bet the motel could use the business.”

  Damn, Buckthorn thought. I need to warn Kendra. Get her out of there. The intensity of the feeling startled him. She’s a colleague, he thought, that’s all. But he remembered what she’d said: You’re ten times the cop your boss is. Even now, the words gave him a flush of pride. Well, so what if it did? She was, from what he could see, a good cop in her own right. Nothing unusual with being pleased about praise like that. Even if she was a fine-looking woman. No, he thought as he turned without another word and walked away from the smirking man in the wheelchair, nothing unusual about that at all.

  COUNTRY LIVIN’,” Florida Bob said as he stood on the front porch of the house that had recently been occupied by Tony Wolf.

  “Yee-fucking-haw,” Clay said sourly. “What’s next, humping sheep?”

  “I’ll leave that to Pete,” Bob said. “But you’ve gotta admit, Clay, our boy McCabe had a good setup here. Damn near impossible to get up here without somebody seeing you coming. He’d be crazy to try to come after us here. Hell, he’d be nuts to try to come after all of us anywhere.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Clay said. “He’ll come running. We’ll make sure of that.”

  EVER since the kidnapping, Lisa Powell had taken her boys, Evan and Earl, to school herself. The bus, she thought, was too dangerous, too open. She wanted them close to her all the time now, and she would have kept them out of school entirely if she could. She was even looking into the qualifications for homeschooling them. At first the boys had enjoyed not having to meet the bus so early, but after a few weeks, they began to chafe under their mother’s constant vigilance and her incessant reminders to be careful, to not talk to strangers, to tell her about anything suspicious. She didn’t care. Someday, they’d understand.

  As she walked out of the school building, she held out her hand. Earl pretended not to see it. “Earl,” she said.

  “Mo-om,” he said under his breath. “Take my hand, Earl.”

  “Mom,” he said a little desperately, “the guys are gonna see.” “I don’t care. Take my hand for the walk to the car.”

  “Mom!” He started to whine. “The guuuuys . . .”

  “Earl!” She stopped walking, her attention suddenly drawn away from her son. Her Lincoln Navigator was parked in the school parking lot. Behind it, blocking it in, was a large black motorcycle. No, she saw as she slowly drew to a halt, two motorcycles. With two very large men astride them. Both bikes were running, the low rumble of the idling engines sounding like distant thunder. They were looking at her. No. They were looking at Earl. Oh, no, she thought. Oh no dear God, not again, please no, God you can’t it’s too cruel . . . She reached into her purse, fumbling for her cell phone. As she pulled it out, almost dropping it, she saw a cell phone appear as if by magic in the hand of one of the motorcyclists. Instead of putting it to his ear, however, he raised it and seemed to point it at them. She let out a small moan of uncomprehending fear. Then she realized, He’s taking a picture. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, the man with the cell phone dropped his arm and the phone disappeared into the pocket of his denim jacket. The second man, who hadn’t moved or spoken since she’d seen them, raised his hand in a cheery wave. Then the rumble of the bikes increased to a roar, and the two men sped away.

  “Wow, Mom!” Earl was practically jumping up and down beside her. “Did you see those bikes? Were those guys bikers? Wow, that was so cool!” She didn’t answer, just walked numbly to her car with Earl bubbling and jittering beside her. She even forgot to insist that he take her hand.

  Gaby swore under her breath as the car in front of her slowed and stopped again. She was already running late, and a wreck on Interstate 40 had reduced the multilane highway to a parking lot. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. The car in front moved forward a few feet, stopped. Gaby sighed. She flipped open her cell phone and hit the speed dial. “Howard,” she said, “I’m hung up in traffic on 40. Can you get the word to . . .” She trailed off as a large motorcycle pulled up beside her on the shoulder of the highway, the vibration of its engine rattling her windows. The man seated astride the motorcycle turned his head to look into her window, straight at her. He smiled. She felt a chill run through her.

  “Gaby?” Howard’s voice came over the cell. “You there?” “Howard,” she said, “there’s some guy on a motorcycle who just pulled up next to me. He’s just staring into my window.”

  “Hang up. Now. Dial star-four-seven. That’ll get the Highway Patrol. Do it now. Gaby? Gaby, can you hear me?”

  She was staring at the man on the bike, who had something silver in his hand. He pointed at her. Gun, she thought, and started to flinch away. But then she made out the object. Just a cell phone. The man pressed the button, then snapped the phone shut. He blew her a kiss and sped away, the bike’s fat tires kicking up a rooster tail of dirt and grass from the shoulder of the road.

  “Gaby?” Howard’s voice was sharper now. “Answer me!”

  “He’s gone, Howard,” she said, her voice shaking. “He’s gone. All he did was take my picture.”

  She heard Howard let out his breath, as if he’d been holding it. “Thank God,” he said. “Just a fan, you think?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I . . . I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.”

  “Get in here, girl,” he said. “Soon as you can. I’ll call the Highway Patrol.”

  THE PARKING lot of the pine Lake Motor Court was filled with motorcycles. A pair of men in jeans and leathers lounged in cheap plastic chairs outside the door of one of the rooms. They watched Buckthorn as he got out of his cruiser. One of them raised a plastic tumbler in a mock salute. Buckthorn briefly contemplated going over there, smacking the tumbler out of the smug bastard’s hand, then letting things develop from there, but he reined himself in. He walked up to the door of the room Kendra had told him she was staying in and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. He moved over to the next room, Blauner’s. There was no answer there, either. He glanced at the men outside the room. They were halfway down the long line of doors facing the parking area, between Buckthorn and the hotel office. They were watching him and grinning. He had to go past them to get to the office. He didn’t look at them as he passed by. Behind him, he heard one of the men whisper to the other, then a quick bark of laughter. He spun around and gave them a hard look. They gave it back. He turned and walked into the office. Mae, one of the owners, was behind the counter. Her lined face was tense and drawn. He noticed the usual plate of biscuits was gone from the counter.

  “Afternoon, Mae,” Buckthorn said. “Business looks good.”

  “I guess,” she said.

  “These boys giving you any trouble?”

  She sighed. “Nothin’ I can’t handle, I reckon. They’re just loud. Them motorcycles wake me up at night, then I can’t get back to sleep.”

  “Well, you know we’re keeping an eye on them. You see anything out of the way, you call me, hear?”

  She smiled tiredly. “Thanks, Tim. You know I will.” “Those FBI folks check out?”

  “Most of ’em. Couple stayed behind. That blond lady, and one other fella. The one with the German name.”

  “Blauner.”

  “That’s the one. Ev don’t like him much, ’cause of the German name. Ev was in the war, you know.”

  Buckthorn knew. Ev Carter, Mae’s husband and the other coowner of the motel, rarely let anyone forget it.

  “I stopped by their rooms. They weren’t in. They tell you where they were going?”

  “Naw. Didn’t see ’em leave, neither.”

  “Well, when they come back, ask them to call me, would you?”

  “Will do, Tim,” she said.

  When Buckthorn walked back out in the parking lot, the men were gone fro
m in front of the room. He walked back to the patrol car, feeling uneasy.

  THE PHONE wolf had taken from Stoney rang. He kept one hand on the wheel as he flipped it open.

  “We need to talk,” Johnny Trent said.

  “Don’t think we have much to talk about, Johnny,” Wolf said. “You’ve got my uncle pretty pissed off.”

  “Imagine how sad that makes me.”

  “You might want to be a little more worried,” Johnny said. “Considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering that some people have a lot to lose, even if you think you don’t. You sound like you’re in a car. You in a car, Tony Wolf? You coming to see me?”

  “Thought I might pay a visit. Once I get done here.”

  “Well, we’re moving your travel plans up a little bit. Pull over. And check out the pictures I’m getting ready to send you.”

  Wolf hesitated, then pulled the truck to the shoulder. He glanced at the screen. The first picture that appeared was a young boy, walking hand in hand with a blond woman, apparently his mother. It was hard to make out features on the tiny screen, but he could see the woman’s mouth open in an O of surprise. It took him a moment to recognize the boy as Earl Powell. Wolf gritted his teeth and thumbed to the next picture. It was Gabriella Torrijos. She had the same shocked expression as Earl’s mother. Wolf put the phone back to his ear.

  “We can get to them, anytime we want, Tony. Anytime.”

  “So?” Wolf said. “They don’t mean anything to me.”

  “You’re lying, Tony. You blew your cover to rescue the boy. And you can’t tell me you didn’t get to like that hot-assed little reporter. But that’s okay. They’re not the only people we can get to.” There was a brief rustle; then Kendra’s voice came on. “Tony?”

  Wolf felt the blood pounding in his temples. “Kendra? Are you okay?”

  “Tony, for God’s sake don’t come, they’re going to—” She was abruptly cut off. There was a pause; then he heard her scream. It was a sound of raw agony, and it tore through Wolf ’s guts. He put his head on the steering wheel and bit back the sobs that threatened to erupt from his chest.

  Johnny came back on the line. “Clay just cut off one of your wife’s fingers,” he said. “Just to let you know we’re serious. Don’t worry, though. It was just a pinky. And we’ll make sure she doesn’t bleed out. You’d better get here, though, before we start cutting off something else.”

  Wolf raised the phone to his ear. “I’m going to kill you,” he said, his voice toneless.

  “You missed your chance at that,” Johnny said. “You should have shot me in the head. I actually wish you had. But all you took was my legs. And when you get here, I’m not going to kill you either. See, I’m a fair-minded guy. I’m just going to take your legs from you. Let you know what it’s like to live like a cripple. Or, you don’t show up, I can take your wife’s legs.” He chuckled. “That’d be a shame, ’cause they look like pretty nice legs. But it’s your choice. We’re at your old house. Be there by noon tomorrow. Alone, no cops. And unarmed. Or Clay goes to work on your bitch here with an ax. And after that, everyone you ever tried to protect dies screaming for mercy.” The phone went dead.

  Wolf stared at it for a moment. Then he slammed it against the dash. The plastic case splintered, shards flying throughout the truck cab. He did it again, cracking the interior works of the phone in half. A voice resonated in his head.

  Mad now, boy? That’s why you gonna lose. You get mad, you lose. Get icy, boy. Get icy.

  He took a deep breath. He dropped the destroyed phone onto the floorboard. Then he pulled back onto the road and started to drive.

  SHE SWAM back up through the darkness, the pain in her left hand flashing in her fogged mind like a beacon. Consciousness returned to her abruptly, welded to the sick realization of what had been done to her. She was seated at the kitchen table. Blood covered the battered Formica tabletop. A stout rope around her waist held her to the metal chair. Another bound her right hand to the chair. For a moment, she didn’t dare look at her free hand, at the damage that had been done. Finally, she glanced down.

  The tip of her little finger was gone above the first knuckle. It had been tightly wrapped in a bandage. The bandage was soaked with blood. The blood was bright red. Kendra’s head abruptly started spinning. She leaned over and vomited on the kitchen floor. The man standing next to her jumped back, but the splatter caught his pants legs. “Goddammit!” he yelled. “Fucking bitch!” He yanked her upright by the hair. He reached for the bloody cleaver on the table.

  “Clay,” Johnny Trent said. “Leave her alone.” He turned to the bearded man standing beside his wheelchair. “Bob,” he said, “get her some Oxys out of the truck. The blue pills, from my bag.” Bob nodded. He didn’t speak or look at her as he started out the door. “No,” Kendra said, her voice still fuzzy with shock.

  “No drugs.” She thought of the baby inside her. She didn’t know what a powerful painkiller would do. She couldn’t take the chance. But she didn’t want them to know why. God knows what the man in the wheelchair would order the other one to do. They were both clearly insane, each man’s madness feeding off the other’s. Some of the others, rough and brutal as they were, seemed almost sane by comparison. The one called Bob, for example. He seemed stunned by what he had just seen. Maybe, she thought, she could play on his sympathies, on whatever humanity he had left. But he had been the one who, at Johnny’s orders, had grabbed her hand and stretched it out across the table, holding it steady for the cleaver. No, maybe she couldn’t trust him. If only she could think clearly through the agony in her hand. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. Oh, some savage part of her snarled deep inside, now you cry. Now, when you need to think. “Please,” she croaked, “can I have a glass of water?”

  Bob moved quickly to the sink.

  “Clay,” Johnny said. “Get a mop. Clean this mess up.”

  “Get the bitch to do it,” Clay snarled. “I ain’t a goddamn maid.”

  “Clay,” Johnny said patiently, “to do that, we have to untie her. We had enough trouble getting her here. Now, you don’t want to clean this up, find someone else to do it. But get it fucking done, okay, cuz?”

  Clay continued grumbling under his breath as he walked out. Johnny followed, leaving Kendra alone with Bob.

  Bob came over and held the water to her lips. She took a long drink, trying to wash the taste of bile from her mouth. “Thanks,” she whispered. Bob didn’t answer. He pulled a chair out from beneath the kitchen table and sat down. He didn’t look at her.

  A few minutes later, Clay came back in with a mop and a bucket. His face was red with anger. He began mopping up the blood and vomit on the floor. “You’re gonna pay for this, bitch,” he said in a low, savage voice. “I ought to make you clean this mess up with your tongue. Johnny says no, though. I’m supposed to leave you alone.” He stopped mopping and leaned over, bringing his face to within inches of hers. “But you’re only safe till your darling hubby gets here. Then you and me, we’re going to have some fun. At least I am. I’m thinking you won’t enjoy it much.” He straightened back up. He didn’t speak again until he’d finished the job. Then he hauled the bucket to the back door and tossed the water out. He turned to her. “You and me, babe,” he said. “You. And. Me.” He walked out.

  She looked at Bob. “He’s going to torture me to death,” she said, keeping her voice even. He didn’t answer. “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “Shut up,” he said.

  “I’m a federal agent,” she said, making her voice a little stronger by sheer force of will. “That’s a death penalty if you’re convicted, Bob. Even as an accessory. There’s about five ways I can think of, off the top of my head, that what’s going on here is pointing you straight at a gurney and a needle. And for what?”

  “I said shut the fuck up,” Bob muttered, his tone more miserable than angry.

  “You can get out from under this, Bob,” she said. �
��You help me out, I can help you out.” It was the same vague promise she’d made in a hundred interrogations, dangling the glimmer of hope just out of reach if the guy in the chair would just give up what he knew. But this time it was her in the chair, and she was trying to keep the glimmer of hope alive for herself. It sputtered and died, however, as Bob took a roll of duct tape out of a kitchen drawer and ripped off a piece. “No,” she said. “Wait—” She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed her under the chin and held her firmly. He pulled the tape tight over her mouth and fastened it there. He took a length of rope and fastened her maimed hand to the chair. With her arm pointed down, the blood rushed into the stump of her finger. She could feel it beginning to bleed again, wet and sticky, saturating the bandage. If I’m lucky, she thought, maybe I’ll bleed to death before Clay comes back. God, she thought, despair dragging at her, please let me die. Then the voice came again, strong and savage and clear inside her skull. No, it said. Like hell you’re giving up now. Not with all you’ve got to lose. It was only then that the tears began to spill down her face. She couldn’t just accept the death she knew was coming. She was going to have to keep fighting, for herself, for Tony, and for the life she had within her.

  But she was so very, very, tired.

  THE PATROL car picked wolf up on the outskirts of town, falling in behind him at a discreet distance. Wolf swore. This time, he couldn’t run. Before, he had been headed out, with all the world in which to lose himself. Now, he had only one place to go. They’d follow him there, and Kendra would die. He had to think of something else. He looked over at the weapon propped up in the floorboard of the passenger seat, did a mental inventory of the knapsack resting in the truck seat. The explosion of blue lights in his rear window interrupted him. Wolf gritted his teeth and pulled over.