I shook my head. That was Monroe all over, always working on a need-to-know basis, never telling anyone the full truth. I guessed that was why I didn’t tell him about Marco Searle and my suspicions.
Everyone needs to keep some secrets.
31
I didn’t go back to Dez McGregor’s bond shop that afternoon. I was tired from the travelling and the time difference, and figured Dez wouldn’t miss me; hell he’d probably be glad of the time without me. So I headed back to my hotel with the idea of calling Dakota on my mind.
As it was, she beat me to it. Back in my room, I kicked off my boots and pulled my cell and the burner from my purse, and saw I’d just received a bunch of messages. I smiled when I opened them.
Mom hey. Cabin trip Mont. Town. Very fun. Swimming in river with horses 2mrw – Beauty my fav horse. Here’s art I did. Counsellor Jen let me take pic. Says I could be art major! Love u. Miss u xox
I guessed she’d been allowed to use her cell to message me from the office, and I was real glad for the contact, but there was a deep ache in my chest. I missed my baby. Hated us being apart. But still, I felt proud at how she was coping.
I scrolled to the photo. Exhaled hard.
The picture was taken in daylight, Dakota was holding a painting towards the camera. She was grinning, but the picture in her hands was a jumble of angry, vivid colours. I tapped the screen, enlarging the image. It looked like oil paints layered onto canvas. There were dark shapes, the shadows of faceless people in the middle distance. A small figure, painted in yellow, was in the foreground. Thick crimson slashes criss-crossed the image. It was beautiful, and shocking. Mesmerising and violent. I’d never seen Dakota draw like that before.
I reduced the photo. Stared at my baby’s face, smiling into the camera, and wondered how much darkness her smile was hiding. I knew that, after everything she’d experienced recently, it must be a lot. She’d seen things no nine-year-old should ever have to see and I couldn’t undo that, no matter how much I wished I could.
So I didn’t mention the darkness, the angry red slashes, in the pictures. Instead I messaged her back:
Wow. Sounds awesome. And your art is stunning. I’m so proud of you. Missing you too. All my love xxx
Her reply came a few seconds later so I reckoned she must still be in the camp office: How’s JT? I miss him
I messaged back: He’s doing fine. He misses you too xxx
The white lie came easy enough. I couldn’t tell her the truth; didn’t want to upset her by saying how worried I was; that he’d been attacked and I’d not heard anything other than that his condition was stable. That he wouldn’t speak to me when I called. That he was in danger. Old Man Bonchese had people everywhere. I needed JT out of jail and cleared of the wrongdoing to which he’d falsely confessed. But most of all, I needed him to speak to me and, even if he didn’t care about getting the death penalty for himself, I needed him to understand why it was so important he stayed alive.
He’d refused to talk the last time I called, but I wasn’t going to accept that any longer. I’ve never been a quitter, and I damn well wasn’t going to quit now.
I flicked through my recently dialled numbers and called the infirmary at the Three Lakes Detention Facility. When it connected I asked to speak with JT. Told them I had special permission, gave them Monroe’s name. They didn’t argue.
I waited.
Heart banging. Throat dry.
The line crackled. No one spoke.
‘Hello?’ I said.
No words. But I heard breathing. Someone was there.
‘JT, is that you?’
‘I asked you to leave things be.’ His voice sounded weak. The gravelly tone was rasping, but I’d have known it anywhere.
‘I can’t.’ I said. ‘There’s something you need to—’
‘I wanted you safe. Dakota, too.’ A sigh. Barely audible. ‘…They know, Lori. I’ve … failed.’
I shook my head. Blinked back tears. Hated hearing him sound so weak. ‘You didn’t fail. We’re fine. And you’ll be fine, too. I’ll get you free and—’
‘They’ll never let that happen. You can’t be connected to me … too dangerous…’ His voice was getting fainter. ‘They’ll come for me again, I…’
There was a clatter at JT’s end of the line, as if the phone had fallen to the floor, then a rapid beeping as an alarm began to sound.
Oh Jeez.
‘JT? Can you hear me?’
No answer.
I heard voices, footsteps.
In the distance, a woman voice. ‘He’s crashing.’
More footsteps, rushing. The beeping became a continuous sound. More voices. I couldn’t make out their words.
‘JT?’ I screamed his name into the phone. ‘JT, answer me, please!’
The call disconnected.
‘Shit. Oh, Jesus.’ With shaking hands I redialled the infirmary.
No answer.
Redialled.
It rang and rang.
Redialled again. A man answered. Not JT.
In a voice that sounded unlike my own I explained what happened. Asked to speak to JT. There was a pause, then the man told me James Tate had suffered a cardiac arrest. They were trying to stabilise him, but it was too early to tell the prognosis. Call back in a few hours, he said. They might know more then…
He left the rest of the sentence unspoken: …if he’s still alive.
Dropping my cell onto the bed, I pulled my knees up to my chest, and hugged my arms around them. I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Felt the fear of losing JT in every sob, every heave. Cried until there were no more tears and I felt as dry and empty as a husk.
I stayed that way until I got the call.
Bobby Four-Fingers’ voice sounded urgent, breathless. ‘The spotters have a confirmed sighting. We’ve found Fletcher.’
32
We crossed the border into Mexico at sundown. McGregor and Jorge travelled in the lead truck; I rode shotgun with Bobby Four-Fingers in the second. We’d left our weapons at the bond shop – easier to cross the border that way. Jorge’s spotters would sort us out their side of the border. It was part of the deal.
The mood was tense, the conversation minimal. Even Bobby turned serious as we approached the rendezvous point – a patch of land surrounded by dirt and scrub, about ten miles east of Palm Valley.
I checked my cell phone. It was almost three hours since I’d spoken to the prison infirmary. Call back in a few hours the man had said, and the fear had been eating away at me ever since. What if they couldn’t keep JT stabilised? What if he died? I had to know he was okay. Couldn’t wait any longer. I dialled the infirmary number once more.
Nothing. Then the call aborted.
I checked the screen: no bars – meaning no signal. I cussed. Felt fear tighten in my chest.
Bobby glanced at me. ‘You doing alright, momma?’
‘Yep.’ I didn’t tell him about JT; couldn’t trust myself not to break down. ‘Phone signal’s out.’
‘Always goes around here, that’s why McGregor has us use the radios rather than cell phones for comms.’ Bobby smiled. ‘It’s not just because he likes things old school.’
We travelled on in silence. A couple of miles later, in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, McGregor turned his truck off the highway and kept going across the baked wasteland, along a barely visible track. Bobby followed. I gripped the seat as we bounced over the rutted ground, dust flying out behind us. Wondered if this was their usual meeting place, or if McGregor was working off coordinates. Aside from a few scraggy trees and cacti there were no obvious landmarks.
The light had all but gone. The country around us was cloaked in darkness, leaving just the stars and our headlamps to keep us from blindness. I was in an unfamiliar country, with a team of guys I’d never worked with, hunting a fugitive with a history of extreme violence. The combination had me feeling real uneasy, but that wasn’t what was making me sick to my stomach. The
nausea was caused by the memory replaying in my mind, over and again: the frailness in JT’s voice, the beeping of the machine going from intermittent to continuous, and the infirmary nurse telling me JT had suffered a cardiac arrest. I was in the toughest place in the world to be a bounty hunter and my head wasn’t in the game.
McGregor’s voice crackled over the comms channel; the tiny earbuds and mics we wore connected to a set radio frequency. ‘ETA one minute. Be ready to meet our spotters. We’ll do a quick briefing, then it’s time.’
Bobby glanced at me and I nodded. I waited for the familiar energy buzz to kick in; for my mind to get clear and sharp, ready to act and react fast like I was taught, but it didn’t happen. My head stayed full of JT, my emotions overriding my training, saturated with the fear that he wasn’t going to make it. I checked my cell phone again; still no signal.
A few yards ahead, illuminated in our headlamps, was a white pick-up truck. McGregor’s vehicle came to a halt in front of it, and Bobby swung us around to park alongside McGregor. A man and a woman climbed out of the pick-up. McGregor and Jorge joined them.
Bobby opened his door and gestured for me to get out. ‘You ready?’
I nodded, even though it wasn’t the truth.
Told myself to focus.
*
The man was Ortiz and the woman Rosas. Both had black hair and wore dark clothes, the bulge of their guns obvious beneath their jackets. Ortiz was as lanky as Rosas was petite. Introductions were kept minimal: no first names, no details, just family names and nods of hello – that was all we had time for. They’d been tailing Gibson Fletcher since he’d been spotted three hours earlier, and had tracked him to a small shack in the wasteland, surrounded by nothingness.
Turned out our meeting place was a mile from the shack, over a ridge that concealed our location. Time was short; every minute without line of sight on the shack was a minute Fletcher could get away unseen. Conversation centred on the best way to extract him.
Rosas led. She kept her voice low, as if she feared Fletcher could hear us, but there was no doubting the conviction of her words. ‘It’s a good location for him. Approaching unseen is impossible. There’s only one way to do this – we go in fast and hard.’
Bobby Four-Fingers glanced at McGregor. ‘That’s risky.’
‘It’s high risk however we do it,’ Rosas said, her tone firm, her expression serious. ‘This way we don’t give him too long to think about it.’
‘But if it’s open ground he’ll see us coming as soon as we go over the ridge.’ Bobby sounded worried. ‘There’ll be no element of surprise.’
Rosas frowned. ‘We do what we can. Go in dark, no headlights. Take two vehicles. Minimise the chances he’ll see us until we’re close and it’s too late for him to get away.’
Jorge looked at the three trucks we had surrounding us. ‘Two vehicles?’
Ortiz nodded. ‘Four people in the lead vehicle. Two in the secondary, approaching from the opposite side in case he gets spooked and runs.’ He looked at McGregor. ‘We brought guns for each of you, as instructed. Tasers, too.’
Rosas looked at McGregor. ‘So are we agreed on the approach?’
McGregor nodded. ‘Yep. Hard and fast. There’s six of us and one of him. He’s outnumbered and outgunned.’
Don’t make assumptions, JT had always told me. I looked at McGregor. ‘As far as we know.’
He glanced at me as if noticing I was there for the first time. ‘What?’
‘Ortiz and Rosas said they’d not seen anyone else enter or exit since they tailed Fletcher there. Doesn’t stop someone from being inside before they arrived.’
Rosas nodded. ‘She’s right. We can’t be sure he’s alone. It’s likely, but not certain.’
McGregor ignored me, kept eyes on Rosas. ‘So what do you propose?’
‘Two vehicles, three people in each. Equal teams to the front and rear. There are no side windows, only two exits. We sweep the building even once, we have him.’ She looked at me. ‘No assumptions. We make certain it’s clear.’
‘Sure,’ I said, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. Even if McGregor paid no mind to my input, at least Rosas had listened. ‘I’m comfortable with—’
‘Agreed,’ said McGregor, his gaze still on Rosas. ‘I’ll take the front. Jorge and Rosas, you’re with me. Ortiz, you’re with Four-Fingers and Anderson. Communicate using the comms channel. Hold the front and the back. Only merge once the fugitive has been contained.’ His tone made it pretty clear I was not part of the A team.
As we hustled to Bobby’s truck I told myself McGregor’s disrespect didn’t matter. I was only working with him because that’s what Monroe wanted. He was a means to an end. I didn’t need to like the guy. Once we had Fletcher I never needed to see McGregor again. For me, that time couldn’t come soon enough.
At the truck Ortiz handed Bobby a Glock 18 and a semi-automatic X2 Defender taser, then offered the same combination to me. I lifted my jacket and tightened the bottom tabs on my concealed body armour, then took the X2 and tucked it into the waistband of my jeans.
Ortiz looked me up and down, frowning. ‘You brought a gun?’
‘No.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Then why aren’t you taking this one? You crazy?’
I climbed into the passenger seat, turned to Ortiz as he settled in the back. ‘I prefer the Taser.’
‘I prefer both.’
‘With my history, you’d change your mind.’
‘Wouldn’t get the chance,’ Ortiz said. ‘Without a gun, in my job, in this place, you’d already be dead.’
Bobby Four-Fingers exhaled hard and tapped his palms against the steering wheel. ‘Come on – enough, yeah?’ His voice sounded strained. He put the truck into drive. ‘I’m trying to concentrate here.’
I met Ortiz’s gaze. He nodded, and I turned back round. Bobby was looking real nervous. Not a good sign. I knew it, and I could see Ortiz did, too. Nerves made people unpredictable, more prone to overreaction. Nerves made everything more dangerous.
*
As we neared the top of the ridge Bobby killed the lights. McGregor, his lights already off, crested the ridge and continued straight ahead along the dirt track. We followed. Then, as we coasted down into the valley, Bobby hung right, starting a wide sweep that would bring us around to the back of the property at the same time McGregor arrived out front.
We stayed silent. Our eyes on the shack. Our thoughts on the need to move real fast as soon as our feet hit the ground.
Five hundred yards from the shack I glanced at Bobby. ‘You okay?’
He nodded, but he didn’t look okay. His jaw was clenched and he looked real tense.
I looked back at Ortiz. ‘Ready?’
‘Yep.’ At least he looked it; one hand on the door release, the other braced against the seat, poised ready to leave the vehicle the moment we stopped.
Two hundred yards out, I noticed the nose of a vehicle parked on the far side of the shack, and saw a low light was glowing inside the building. The place looked tiny; one room, two at the most. There’d be nowhere much for Fletcher to hide.
On the other side of the shack, McGregor’s truck accelerated fast towards the target. Bobby stepped on the gas.
One hundred yards and closing.
I heard Ortiz draw his weapon behind me.
At twenty yards, Bobby braked. McGregor did the same on the other side.
It was time.
‘Go!’ McGregor’s instruction came through my earbud.
We jumped out of the truck, our boots stamping onto the dirt. No time for stealth. Crouching low, running, we spread out; me in the centre, Ortiz on my left flank, Bobby on my right. I couldn’t see the others, but I knew they’d be doing the same, approaching the front as we went for the back.
There was no sign of movement from inside. No clue as to whether our fugitive had seen us. Either way, it didn’t matter none. We had him trapped, and that could be good or bad – he might
surrender, or he might try to fight his way out. Whatever happened, I needed him alive. Monroe had been real explicit on that.
Reaching the back door, I turned the handle and felt the catch release. I signalled to Bobby and Ortiz to follow me. We entered and found ourselves in a small utility room; crates of dusty supplies were stacked against the wall, in the corner was an ancient toilet and wash-basin. No sign of Fletcher. The air tasted stale. The smell of decay was strong and fuggy in the air. I fought the urge to gag. Stayed focused.
‘Back room, clear,’ I said, hoping the mic picked up my voice. ‘Moving towards the front.’
‘Confirmed,’ Rosas said, her voice a whisper in my earbud.
I heard a crash from the front of the shack – McGregor kicking his way inside.
Rapid footsteps. Friendly or not, I didn’t know.
‘Situation?’ I said.
No response on the comms. I hated not knowing what was going on. Working in a team this way felt alien to me.
I heard shouting in the next room, McGregor’s voice: ‘Gibson Fletcher, give it up. Hands in the air. Keep ’em high.’
There was a loud crash. More shouting.
McGregor’s voice yelled, ‘Put the weapon on the floor. Put the weapon on the floor.’
‘You need help?’ I said into the mic. Again, no response.
I hurried to the connecting door. Tried the handle – locked. We were supposed to be covering the back and we’d gotten it secure, but the action was going down in the front and we had no clue what was happening. It sounded as if Fletcher was armed. Did McGregor need our help?
I looked at Bobby. His expression was grim. Ortiz was behind me. I took a snap decision. Launched myself forward, shouldering the door. It broke on contact, splintering apart, and I burst into the room.
Halted.
McGregor, Rosas and Jorge had their weapons raised. On the far side of the room, in front of a battered couch with an upturned plate of beans and a spilt beer beside it, a man stood facing away from them. I couldn’t see his face but he was Gibson Fletcher’s height, muscular and dark-haired. He wore a plaid shirt, dirty jeans, and scuffed black sneakers. In his right hand was a gun.
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