Shane snorted. “Like us? Them towelheads ain’t nothing like us. We’re Americans.”
“So are they.”
“I lost buddies in Iraq—”
“We all have.”
“What the hell do you know about it?” asked the third man.
“Enough to know the difference between these store owners and the kind of people you’re talking about.”
Tucker remembered his own reaction upon first entering the shop and felt a twinge of guilt.
Shane lifted his bat and aimed the end at Tucker’s face. “Get outta our way or you’ll regret siding with the enemy.”
Tucker knew the talking part of this encounter was over.
Proving this, Shane jabbed Tucker in the chest with the bat.
So be it.
Tucker’s left hand snapped out and grabbed the bat. He gave it a jerk, pulling Shane off balance toward him.
He whispered a command to his partner: “GRAB AND DROP.”
Kane hears those words—and reacts. He recognizes the threat in his target: the rasp of menace in his breath, the fury that has turned his sweat bitter. Tense muscles explode as the order is given. Kane is already moving before the last word is spoken, anticipating the other’s need, knowing what he must do.
He leaps upward, his jaws wide.
Teeth find flesh.
Blood swells over his tongue.
With satisfaction, Tucker watched Kane latch on to Shane’s forearm. Upon landing on his paws, the shepherd twisted and threw the combatant to the ground. The bat clattered across the concrete.
Shane screamed, froth flecking his words. “Get him off, get him off!”
One of the man’s friends charged forward, his bat swinging down toward Kane. Anticipating this, Tucker dove low and took the hit with his own body. Expertly blunting the blow by turning his back at an angle, he reached up and wrapped his forearm around the bat. He pinned it in place—then side kicked. His heel slammed into the man’s kneecap, triggering a muffled pop.
The man hollered, released the bat, and staggered backward.
Tucker swung his captured weapon toward the third attacker. “It’s over. Drop it.”
The last man glared, but he let the bat fall—
—then reached into his jacket and lashed out with his arm again.
Tucker’s mind barely had time to register the glint of a knife blade. He backpedaled, dodging the first slash. His heel struck the curb behind him, and he went down, crashing into a row of empty propane tanks and losing the bat.
Grinning cruelly, the man loomed over Tucker and brandished his knife. “Time to teach you a lesson about—”
Tucker reached over his shoulder and grabbed a loose propane tank as it rolled along the sidewalk behind him. He swung it low, cutting the man’s legs out from under him. With a pained cry of surprise, the attacker crashed to the ground.
Tucker rolled to him, snatched the man’s wrist, and bent it backward until a bone snapped. The knife fell free. Tucker retrieved the blade as the man curled into a ball, groaning and clutching his hand. His left ankle was also cocked sideways, plainly broken.
Lesson over.
He stood up and walked over to Shane, whose lips were compressed in fear and agony. Kane still held him pinned down, clamped on to the man’s bloody arm, his teeth sunk to bone.
“RELEASE,” Tucker ordered.
The shepherd obeyed but stayed close, baring his bloody fangs at Shane. Tucker backed his partner up with the knife.
Sirens echoed through the forest, growing steadily louder.
Tucker felt his belly tighten. Though he’d acted in self-defense, he was in the middle of nowhere awaiting a sheriff who could arrest them if the whim struck him. Flashing lights appeared through the trees, and a cruiser swung fast into the parking lot and pulled to a stop twenty feet away.
Tucker raised his hands and tossed the knife aside.
He didn’t want anyone making a mistake here.
“SIT,” he told Kane. “BE HAPPY.”
The dog dropped to his haunches, wagging his tail, his head cocked to the side quizzically.
Aasif joined him outside and must have noticed his tension. “Sheriff Walton is a fair man, Tucker.”
“If you say so.”
In the end, Aasif proved a good judge of character. It helped that the sheriff knew the trio on the ground and held them in no high opinion. These boys been raising hell for a year now, the sheriff eventually explained. So far, nobody’s had the sand to press charges against them.
Sheriff Walton took down their statements and noted the truck’s blacked-out license plate with a sad shake of his head. “I believe that would be your third strike, Shane. And from what I hear, redheads are very popular at the state pen this year.”
Shane lowered his head and groaned.
After another two cruisers arrived and the men were hauled away, Tucker faced the sheriff. “Do I need to stick around?”
“Do you want to?”
“Not especially.”
“Didn’t think so. I’ve got your details. I doubt you’ll need to testify, but if you do—”
“I’ll come back.”
“Good.” Walton passed him a card. Tucker expected it to have the local sheriff’s department’s contact information on it, but instead it was emblazoned with the image of a car with a smashed fender. “My brother owns a body-repair shop in Wisdom, next town down the highway. I’ll make sure he gets that flat tire of yours fixed at cost.”
Tucker took the card happily. “Thanks.”
With matters settled, Tucker was soon back on the road with Kane. He held out the card toward the shepherd as he sped toward his motel. “See, Kane. Who says no good deed goes unpunished?”
Unfortunately, he spoke too soon. As he turned into his motel and parked before the door to his room, his headlight shone upon an impossible sight.
Sitting on the bench before his cabin was a woman—a ghost out of his past. Only this figment wasn’t outfitted in desert khaki or in the blues of her dress uniform. Instead, she wore jeans and a light-blue blouse with an open wool cardigan.
Tucker’s heart missed several beats. He sat behind the wheel, engine idling, struggling to understand how she could be here, how she had found him.
Her name was Jane Sabatello. It had been over six years since he’d last set eyes on her. He found his gaze sweeping over her every feature, each triggering distinct memories, blurring past and present: the softness of her full lips, the shine of moonlight that turned her blond hair silver, the joy in her eyes each morning.
Tucker had never married, but Jane was as close as he’d come.
And now here she was, waiting for him—and she wasn’t alone.
A child sat at her side, a young boy tucked close to her hip.
For the briefest of moments, he wondered if the boy—
No, she would have told me.
He finally cut off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. She stood up as she recognized him in turn.
“Jane?” he murmured.
She rushed to him and wrapped him in a hug, clinging to him for a long thirty seconds before pulling back. She searched his face, her eyes moist. Under the glare of the Cherokee’s headlamps, he noted a dark bruise under one cheekbone, poorly obscured by a smear of cosmetic concealer.
Even less hidden was the panic and raw fear in her face.
She kept one hand firmly on his arm, her fingers tight with desperation. “Tucker, I need your help.”
Before he could speak, she glanced to the boy.
“Someone’s trying to kill us.”
2
October 10, 8:22 P.M. MDT
Bitterroot Mountains, Montana
Tucker studied Jane’s every movement as he held his motel door open. She passed by him, her back stiff, her fingers tightening on the boy’s shoulder. Her gaze swept every corner of the room before stepping fully inside. Only after finding the place empty did she seem to relax, sagging,
letting her exhaustion show. She guided her son inside and sat down on one of the twin beds with a small sigh.
The child—a blond-haired boy of three or four—climbed atop the bed and leaned against her side. Jane stroked his hair. His eyelids immediately began to droop.
Tucker took the opposite bed, sitting down, his knees almost touching Jane’s. She shifted slightly farther away, a reflexive wary movement.
Perhaps catching herself, she placed a hand on her knee. “It’s been a long drive,” she offered.
Tucker knew it wasn’t the drive that had shaken up the hard, competent woman he knew from six years ago. He gave her the leeway to open up with her story on her own and didn’t press her.
Kane approached. He came with his nose held low, his tail wagging slowly, perhaps also sensing her tension.
A small smile creased Jane’s lips. She patted the bed next to her. “Hey, handsome,” she said softly. “I missed you.”
At her words, Kane’s tail swept more widely, plainly also recognizing Jane. The shepherd hopped smoothly onto the bed, gently enough so as not to disturb the drowsing boy on Jane’s other side. He lay down next to her and rested his snout on her thigh, his nose sniffing at the boy’s tousled hair.
She rubbed one of Kane’s ears, earning a contented umph from the shepherd.
Lucky dog.
Tucker watched as Jane turned and settled her son onto the bed, drawing a blanket over him. She was still strikingly beautiful. Her features were small, her eyes as blue as the deepest marine trench. He noted that she continued to keep herself wiry and athletic. In the army, she’d run marathons and practiced Kendo, excelling at both, earning her the nickname Zorro. Additionally, her tough physical conditioning had sculpted her silhouette into the most inviting curves.
With her son settled, Jane’s gaze turned to him, sizing him up as well. He was a year older than her, his shaggy straw-colored hair several shades darker, his build just as athletic, but bulkier with muscle. He could tell she was searching through his many scars for the younger version of himself, the kid who would sweep her up in his arms and swing her around whenever they met, the one who could laugh easily, who didn’t wake at night in sweat-soaked sheets.
They stared across the gulf of years between them.
Perhaps finding the depth of that gulf too much to face, she turned her attention back to Kane, to easier footing.
“Kane’s gotten bigger, Tuck. How is that possible?”
Tucker let a small grin show. Jane was the only person in the world who called him Tuck.
“He pumps iron.”
“Shush. He’s as beautiful as ever.” Her eyes found him again. “I heard about Abel.”
Tucker felt a stab in his heart at the mention of Kane’s littermate. His gaze flashed to the fall of knives, his nostrils suddenly filled with the smell of smoke, while his ears echoed with screams of his wounded teammates. His sight dimmed to a vision of a dark-furred form sprawled on red rock.
Abel . . .
A touch on his knee drew him back to his own body.
“I’m so sorry, Tuck,” Jane said, her fingers squeezing. “I should have called. I should have stayed in closer touch.”
“It’s okay,” he answered hoarsely. “Kane and I’ve been on the move a lot.”
Jane straightened, her palm shifting to Kane’s side. “I know how much you both loved him.”
He swallowed hard.
“Well,” she said, “at least most of the old gang is back together again. Wayne, Jane, and Kane.”
An amused wistfulness softened her features. Back in Afghanistan, the rhyming confluence of their names had been a source of jokes among their unit.
Tucker paused a few moments to collect himself more fully, then nodded toward the sleeping boy. “So, Jane, tell me about this newest member of our gang.”
She turned to the boy, her face softening with a love that glowed from her skin. “His name’s Nathan. He’ll be four in a couple months. To be honest, he’s the other reason I never called. It’s hard. I always thought you and I would . . . well, you know.”
I know.
“Five years ago, I met a great guy—Mike. An insurance agent, if you can believe that.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe that?”
“You know what an adrenaline junkie I am. In the back of my mind, I always saw myself with someone risky. If not you, then a bull rider or a mountain climber or a cave diver. Then I met Mike. He was funny, sweet, handsome.” She shook her head. Memories drew out a smile, while sadness welled in her eyes. “We fell in love, and I got pregnant.”
“And where’s Mike now?”
Jane looked to Nathan. “He died in a car accident three weeks after his son was born. He was so proud . . . so happy . . .”
Tucker hadn’t been expecting that. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “I’m so sorry, Jane.”
She nodded, wiping at one eye. “After that, I pulled away from everyone. My son and my job became my entire life. At times, I thought about looking for you, but we’d been out of touch for so long already, and I didn’t know what to say.”
“I get it.” He stared around the small motel room, ready to move on to a less uncomfortable subject. Jane had sought him out for a clear reason. “How did you find me here anyway?”
She shrugged. “Friends in shady places.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Okay. I placed a credit card trace on you. If you truly want to stay lost, you’ll have to work better at it.”
She meant it as a joke, but he filed away her advice, reminding himself that he had become lax of late in covering his trail.
Getting careless.
Using her thumb and index finger, Jane tucked a stray lock of hair behind her right ear. Tucker remembered the mannerism; he loved it about her, though he’d never quite understood why. Just one of those things, he supposed. He found himself staring at her.
“What?” she asked, catching him looking.
“Nothing. Where’re you living now?”
Jane hesitated. “I’d rather not say. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just the less you know, the better.”
Tucker would have scoffed at this kind of cloak-and-dagger talk coming from anyone else. But this was Jane; she was as even-keeled as they came. Jane had been the best intelligence analyst in the 75th Rangers, attached to the Regimental Special Troops Battalion. In the past, she and Tucker had worked closely together coordinating missions, until she’d left the army seven months before him.
“Jane, you said you thought you were in danger. That someone was trying to kill you.”
She took a deep breath. “I may just be paranoid. With my work, it comes with the territory. But with Nathan, I’m not taking any chances.”
“Okay, then tell me what’s going on.”
“You remember Sandy Conlon.”
Tucker had to think for a moment before he could place the name. It had been so long ago.
Jane slipped out a photo from a pocket and passed it over to him. He stared down at a younger picture of himself, grinning goofily, thrusting out his chest, his arm around Jane, who in turn had her arm around a shorter, slender woman with mousy brown hair, wearing black-rimmed eyeglasses. At their feet sat two proud young dogs, Kane and Abel.
A soft smile rose to his lips, remembering when this picture was taken. Sandy had been a civilian intelligence analyst attached to the 3rd Ranger Battalion out of Fort Benning, Georgia. She had been a frequent part of their gang. Thinking of her now, Tucker remembered her wry sense of humor, her bright laughter. This was another friendship he wished he’d never let slip.
“What about her?” he asked.
“She’s gone missing. I hadn’t heard from Sandy for about a month, so I called her mother three days ago. She lives outside Huntsville, up in the mountains. Backwater county. Banjoes, square dancing, moonshine, the works.”
“Colorful. What did you learn from her?”
“Not
a whole lot, but enough to make me worried.”
“Go on.”
Jane took a deep breath. “Sandy had taken a new position about a year and a half ago. Prior to that she was working as an analyst for the DIA.”
Defense Intelligence Agency.
“In fact, it was Sandy who helped get me a job with the DIA. We worked alongside each other until she left.”
“But you still work there.”
She nodded.
Tucker knew better than to ask for more details. Jane’s skill set had no doubt landed her work in a classified field.
Jane continued. “After Sandy left, we stayed in casual touch. E-mails a few times a week. Phone calls a couple times a month. That sort of thing. But for the past several weeks, I sensed something off about her. At first I thought she was just preoccupied, but when I pressed her about it, she kept saying everything was fine.”
“And it wasn’t.”
“I could hear something in her voice, especially the last time we talked. She sounded scared.”
From what Tucker remembered about Sandy, the woman wasn’t one to scare easily. She had steel in her veins.
“Where was her new job?” he asked.
“Out at Redstone.”
Tucker recognized the name. “Redstone Arsenal?”
She nodded.
Redstone was a U.S. Army post down in Huntsville, Alabama. It was home to a slew of military commands, mostly involved with the aerospace industry, including the Missile Defense Agency and NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center.
“And her job?”
“She never said. Maybe couldn’t say. I assume she was hired as some kind of consultant out there. Involved with some highly classified project.”
“And now she’s gone?” he pressed. “And she left no word with anyone?”
“According to her mother, Sandy visited her three weeks ago, said she was going to be out of touch for a couple weeks and not to worry. But what struck me as strange was that Sandy also told her mother not to call the base or make any inquiries.”
“Odd thing for her to say.”
War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel Page 3