PJ turned to Michelle. “You're the boss and the most together woman I know. I don't know how to say how much I respect you and all you've done. You of all people must understand, those are my girls. I don't have a choice, I have to go. Because of you, I have a chance to make my life worth something. I won't cross you, but please Michelle, please don't take this away from me. From all of us.” PJ looked at everyone in the room.
“Shit, fuck, Goddamnit to hell and back! What's wrong with you guys?” Michelle threw her hands in the air. “Can't you see I'm not some big leader? I'm good. No, I’m very good at what I trained for, but not this. Every time I lead you into something, someone is kidnapped or hurt.” She looked at Nikky. “Christ girl, you could've been killed last time. I can slip in, do those guys, and slip out. We don't have to be the ones to break those women out this time. We can let the police do that.”
“Hey everyone.” G‑Baby looked around at everyone. “Look, we're all exhausted. This isn't going to be settled standing out here in the yard, not tonight. Michelle is right about one thing. We all need a good night's sleep. We can meet at my place in the morning and figure this thing out.” He put an arm around Michelle's shoulder. “You're spending the night with us. No ifs, ands, or buts. We'll talk more tomorrow.”
* * *
The still quite attractive, slightly plump, middle-aged woman walked into G‑Baby's spare bedroom where Michelle slept. She carried two cups of coffee with her. “Good morning Michelle.” The woman sat on the edge of the bed and handed Michelle a cup. The smell of toast and frying bacon followed her in. The closed curtains were bright with the morning sun hitting them. It was not a bedroom for sleeping in late.
“Huh? Oh, hi, Miss Betty. Good morning.” Michelle took the offered coffee and inhaled, “mmmm, that smells good, thanks. What are you doing here? What time is it? When did you come in?” Michelle rapid fired questions.
“G‑Baby called me last night, more like some God awful hour this morning, and asked me to come over. It's almost eleven. I've been here since about eight. The coffee is fresh. And, I'm here to talk to you about this foolishness of you going off alone.” Miss Betty patted Michelle’s hand.
Michelle groaned and sat her coffee on the nightstand. “Called in the big guns huh? Okay, we'll talk, but first, I have to pee.” She jumped up and slipped across the hall to the restroom.
Miss Betty had known Michelle from the time her mother first brought her as a newborn to church. Growing up, Michelle didn't have a clue that Big John, Betty's husband, ran the street drugs in the hood. Later, after Michelle’s parents were killed in an auto accident, she didn't know her brother, Michael, had gone to work for Big John. She knew Michael sold drugs, but not who he worked for.
It was only several years after Michael and her cousin, Gabe Jr., Uncle G’s son, were killed, that she learned Big John had been Michael’s boss. Michelle found out after she avenged their deaths by taking out the men responsible for their murders. She also learned, when she killed her brother’s murderer, she’d inadvertently taken out Big John's murderer. Miss Betty made it clear she owed Michelle a debt of gratitude that would never be paid off.
It took some time for Michelle to switch her view of Miss Betty, who sipped coffee visiting her mother, to the widow of the man who ran the hood. Michelle had also changed. Before Michael's murder, she was a naïve sophomore in college. After his death, Michelle focused fiercely, trained hard, learned with a vengeance, and became a different person entirely. She became a deadly professional assassin.
When Michelle learned about Miss Betty's larger than life history, she accepted it and soon came to rely on the older woman's insights into the street life. They had already been close with a respect built over a lifetime. Then they became friends.
Michelle returned from the restroom, hopped back on the bed, leaned back on a pillow, pulled the covers up over her lap, and took a sip of coffee. “Do your best, but I've made up my mind. You can't talk me out of it.”
“It's your decision,” Miss Betty said. “Everything you do is your own decision. Even, sitting here having coffee with me is your decision. The hundreds of little decisions we make every day are what truly count. They make up who we become. The big things follow because of the foundations we put under them with all of those little things.”
“Why do I feel I'm going to regret asking this? What do you mean?”
Miss Betty chuckled. “Because you know me too well, and your heart is telling you something different than what your head is saying.”
“Yeah, well, my head or something is saying I'm worried that if I take a bunch of amateurs out to Tulsa, some of them might not come back alive. I couldn't live with that.”
“Fair enough.” Miss Betty conceded. “Back to your question. You're worried because you care and feel responsible.”
“You're damn right I feel responsible,” Michelle said. “I'm the only one of us who has the foggiest idea of what to do, and what not to do.”
“Why is that?” Miss Betty tilted her head down slightly, raised her brows into a question and looked at Michelle.
“I'm a pro. You know that. I'm the only one who spent the time, sweat, and tears, having my ass kicked and learning the business of how to move in and out without being seen or leaving a trace. I can take care of myself in a situation like this. They can't.”
Miss Betty sipped her coffee and sat the cup on the nightstand. “You're a pro because every day for three years you decided to go to martial arts training, learn how to shoot, and only you and God knows what else it took to become a world class assassin. You made thousands of decisions. Any day you could have made a different decision. You could have said no. You were in Thailand for most of those three years, you could have done anything from learning how to sail a boat to who knows what. But you didn't do just anything. You made decisions. Every day, every hour, you decided to do the next thing on the path that has made you the leader here.”
“No, Miss Betty.” Michelle shook her head and blinked back tears. “I decided on revenge for Michael's murder. That was all I decided.”
“Exactly, and all of those decisions you made have allowed you to have your revenge and made you who you are today. Since coming home, every decision you've made about loyalty, keeping your word, helping the street girls when you didn't need to, all of those things led you here.”
“Well, I don't want to be here.” Michelle knew she was losing but wanted to avoid agreeing for a little longer.
A light tap sounded on the door, and it opened. “Can I come in?” Nikky walked in and sat on the side of the bed opposite from Miss Betty.
“Oh sure, come on in,” Michelle said. “I could've been enjoying some well‑deserved wild sex in here.”
“I knew it was safe, I heard Miss Betty’s voice. Where don't you want to be?”
Before Michelle could answer or refuse to answer, Deja strolled in and leaned against the tall chest of drawers. “Yeah, where?”
“This keeps up, it’ll be this bedroom.” Michelle leaned forward to peer out the open door. “Who else is coming in?”
“Just us,” Nikky said. “So, where is it you don’t want to be?”
“Where? Responsible for you guys, that's where. I can't take you guys to Tulsa where you can be hurt or even killed.”
Nikky rolled her eyes. “Good God, Michelle. We're not the Cosby kids. We've dealt with bangers and thugs all our lives. Hell, we have several on the payroll for muscle watching the girls on the streets every night.
“These people are different than the thugs we deal with every day. They're every bit as tough and twice as organized. They're the ones you see. The one's you don't see are who you need to worry about. The real pros kill you before you know you're in danger.”
“I don't understand. Billings is part of the same organization. Why’s this so different from Billings?”
“Everything.” Michelle blew out her cheeks. “Okay, look. Billings is a podunk one hundred percent Maybe
rry burg. The guy running the show is a rooty‑poot that couldn’t make it in the big city. True or not? Deja, true or not true?”
“Probably true. Certainly the part about Billings being a podunk nothing town.” Deja agreed.
“Right.” Michelle said. “And you can take it to the bank, that asshat pimp wouldn’t last ten minutes in a real city. Tulsa won't be like that. Tulsa will be some serious shit with serious people.”
Baby‑Sister knocked on the now open door and stuck her head in. “G has breakfast ready.”
“Good. Now, everybody, a little privacy please,” Michelle said.
Miss Betty looked up at Nikky and Deja. “Give me a minute; I'll be right behind you.”
Deja pulled the door shut behind her.
“You know you just made your own argument for leading this thing.” Miss Betty smiled looking coy and clever like a cat that ate the canary. “Some of them will go no matter what you say. They are still who they are and can't leave women in slavery here in the States. You know as well as I do, a disaster is on the way if you don't lead this. Would you be able to live with yourself if you let that happen?”
“You know Miss Betty, sometimes I really do hate you.” Michelle held out her arms, and Miss Betty gave her a good hug.
“I love you too.” Miss Betty picked up her empty coffee cup. “Let's see what G‑Baby’s made for breakfast.”
.
Fifteen: Strategic Snitch
JACK‑MOVE WALKED INTO Galletti's temporary office. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. “What's up boss?”
“Who's working the case in Billings?” Galletti asked.
Jack‑Move plopped down in a chair in front of the desk. “If you mean the police, not a clue. None of my business.”
“Make it your business.” Galletti snapped. “Then give him a tip about Nick. Tell him the killings are related,” Galletti said.
“Sure, if you say so. I don't get it. I thought we wanted to kill her, not give her to the cops.”
“Just do it. Now, get out of here.” Galletti turned away and lit another cigarette.
Jack‑Move closed Galletti's office door and looked at the man sitting in the outer room. “Say, Tony, why would the boss want me to drop dime on that bitch who's been causing us so much trouble?”
“Do you know where she is?” Tony asked.
“Nobody does.”
“You got a couple hundred grand to spend on people looking for her?
“Like you do?” Jack‑Move asked.
“You still don't see it do you,” Tony said. “Christ Nick was right about you. Fucking dumb and dumber. Look numb‑nuts, you can't kill someone you can't find. The boss wants the cops to find her. Then he'll kill her.”
* * *
The full cup of coffee on Detective Thompson's desk had gone cold. She sat in front of the monitor, fingers resting on her keyboard, gazing up at nothing.
“Hey Thompson,” Detective Pendergrass said, “Listen to this. It came in on the hot tip line.”
“Yeah, what is it?” Detective Thompson asked.
“Some guy said there was killing down in Cheyenne that's connected to our case,” Pendergrass said.
She pushed back from her desk, swiveling around in her chair to face Pendergrass. “Let’s hear it.”
After listening to the tape, she asked, “Opinion?”
“Sounds interesting,” Detective Pendergrass said.
“That's a cop‑out, not an opinion. What's your opinion?”
“I don't honestly have one.”
Thompson shook her head. “Then say so. Don't go pussyfooting around with bullshit answers. You'll never make Detective One being a wuss.”
“Does he sound Black to you?” Pendergrass asked.
“Yeah,” Thompson said. “I'm not good with accents, so can't tell where from, but definitely Black and from the South.”
“I agree. Now what?”
“Road trip, that's what. Looks like I'm going to Cheyenne.”
“How will you know if the cases are linked?” Pendergrass asked.
“That's why I'm lead and you, young buck, are support.” Detective Thompson winked, grabbed her blazer off the coat rack, and headed to the Chief’s Office.
* * *
Several hours and quite a few miles later, Detective Thompson stood at the front door of the Flying J store. She flipped to a new page on her notepad, wrote the location, and entered the store. It was the ninth gas station convenience store she had checked so far on this trip.
All nine were variations of the same theme; a mixture of fresh and burnt coffee overriding industrial cleaners. Rows of bagged chips, cookies, junk foods and a couple shelves of magazines dominated. One or two walls were lined with glass front coolers packed with beer, sodas, and assorted power drinks. In this one, on her left, a long three station counter held several racks of impulse buy items. The middle station had a closed sign.
Detective Thompson walked up to the young woman behind the counter at the first station. In her early twenty's, the woman had dyed black hair in bad condition, a silver stud in her lower lip, a gold ring in the outer end of her left eyebrow, and a row of mismatched earrings in each ear. Completing the impact of impulsive rebellion, a colorful serpentine tattoo climbed up out of her t‑shirt collar, wrapped around the back of her neck, and appeared to nibble on the bottom of her right ear. Thompson put the printed photo of Nick on the counter, showed the clerk her badge, and asked, “Have you seen this guy in the last day or so?”
With much more interest than Thompson expected, the woman leaned over to look at the picture. She picked it up. “Umm, let me see . . . Yeah, might be the guy George talked to, but I'm not sure. That guy didn’t have a hole in his head.”
“Who's George?”
The woman nodded her head sideways toward the other end of the long counter. “Him.”
“Thanks” Thompson looked over at the middle aged man. Shaggy thin brown hair mixed with gray. Old faded blue tats on his forearms and sticking out below his short sleeve uniform shirt. She made him for an ex‑con. The type who did time for small stuff and eventually figured working at a regular job was easier than dealing with the daily threats of prison life. He'd lie to avoid any involvement, but would also respond to a little squeezing.
“Hello, George.” Thompson held her badge up high where he could make no mistake it was her in the photo. “I'm working a multiple homicide and believe you are somehow involved.”
George's eyes darted around the room. His expression changed from mild hostility, when he first saw her badge, to fear when he heard her words. He opened then closed his mouth, squinted slightly, pressed his lips, tilted his head, then asked, “What do you mean?”
Thompson handed him the photo. “This guy. You were seen talking to him.”
George flashed a look at his coworker at the other end of the counter.
“Tell me, George, what will I find when I look at the tapes? Will I see enough to have the local sheriff pull you in for a few days? Will your job still be here when you come back? Is your boss aware you spent time in the joint? How will he feel about you being in the middle of a murder?”
“I didn't do anything. God's truth detective, I only talked to this guy one time here at the station. I never seen him before or since.”
“George, I want to believe you. I’m not here to cause you any trouble and don't want you to lose your job. So how about you and me sit down, let me buy you a cup of coffee, and we talk?”
George glanced up at the camera focused on the register area. “I can’t leave, but we can talk here.” He walked to the end of the counter.
“Well?” Detective Thompsons pressed.
“Yeah, he was here and wanted to know if I’d seen a bunch of women traveling together.”
“And . . .”
George passed her the number. “It’s a young Black woman. That guy was real interested in her. He seemed more interested in her than all of those White women she was with.”<
br />
“That’s good George. You made the right decision helping me out here.”
George scratched his jaw and pulled on his ear. “Do you think she did it? Shot him?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. What do you think?” Detective Thompson figured George was a lightweight but she’d learned even losers sometimes had good instincts.”
George pulled on his chin again. “Yeah, maybe. I hope not. She was nice. Respectful you know. Not like a lot of young people these days.”
“Is there a name to go with this number?”
“Michelle. She said her name was Michelle.” George sounded sad to give her name.
Detective Thompson returned to her car. Here goes nothing, or something . . . She dialed the number.
“Sup?” the young sounding female voice said.
“Don't hang up. We need to talk,” Detective Thompson said.
“Why, who are you?”
“My name is Pat Thompson. I'm a detective in Billings Montana. I'm working on a case where two people died. I'm trying to determine if it was self‑defense or homicide.”
“Okay, detective I’ll talk with you a minute. This is a burner so you'll learn your call appears to end in Southern California. That's all. When we hang up, the phone's history.”
“Fair enough. What can I call you?”
“Really? Are you going to try that kind of lame ass shit? I don't roll like that. Now, either you get real or get gone.”
“Can't blame me for trying.” Detective Thompson fidgeted in her seat.
Silence.
“This is what I have,” Detective Thompson said. “Two people were killed in my city. Fifteen women were removed from the scene, either by force or voluntarily. Those women were seen at several truck stops leading along the way to Cheyenne where another man was killed. I have it on good authority the three killings are related. How am I doing so far?”
“You tell an interesting story. What's it have to do with me?” Michelle’s neutral tone didn’t give anything away.
“You were seen with the women at all of the truck stops. More importantly, you had an interest in anyone who might be asking questions. This is the good part. The dead guy in Cheyenne came through a couple hours later asking pretty much the same questions.”
Hard Run: Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #4 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series) Page 10