Shadow of the Storm

by Candle Sutton

  “Really?” He clears his throat. “I mean, great. Pick you up at nine-thirty?”

  “Sounds good.”

  We pause right outside the office.

  “I know it hasn’t been that long, but it’ll be weird not having you around. You’re like part of our crazy, dysfunctional family.”

  “Thanks.” I think. “It’ll be strange not being here. I’m really going to miss you guys.”

  You. I’m really going to miss you.

  The words burn my tongue, but I refuse to release them.

  Besides, what I said was true. I will miss everyone here. Drew, Charlie, Zak, Malachi, Sam. Everyone.

  But especially Drew.

  I don’t have any friends like this back home. Sure, I have some friends at work, and some friends outside of work, but it’s different.

  These guys took me in when I had no one else.

  It’s going to be hard to let that go.

  But I have no choice. I have to take my life back, even if it means sacrificing the new life I’ve found here.

  A life that maybe, just maybe, I like better.

  ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ

  Strand reached for his ringing phone.

  Hmmm. An unfamiliar number.

  He answered it anyway. “Strand.”

  “Agent Strand?” A man’s voice. Also unfamiliar.

  Strand’s eyes narrowed. “And you are?”

  “Detective Vic Evans, Reno PD.”

  He straightened. Airport surveillance footage had proven that Audra Parker had flown to Reno, but after that the trail had gone cold. Could it be…? “Detective Evans. What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I think I can do something for you. You’re listed as the contact for information regarding one Audra Parker.”

  Yes! Maybe this was the break he’d been waiting for. “Have you seen her?”

  A pause. Hesitation? “Maybe. A buddy of mine, well, long story. Anyway, there’s this woman who works with him and she matches the description. She’s using another name, but it feels like a burner ID. There’s a lot about her story that doesn’t add up.”

  Evans recapped Reno PD’s interactions with the woman.

  She’d singlehandedly stopped an armed robber. Interesting. And certainly something Parker was capable of doing.

  Working as a waitress at a place called the Midnight Lounge. Also plausible.

  “What name is she using?” Most of her aliases were unknown, but maybe he’d get lucky.

  “Stormy Jones. But here’s the thing. I can’t find much paper trail on her. And she looks exactly like the picture you sent out.”

  There had to be some way to confirm her identity. He didn’t have time to fly to Reno and hunt down the wrong person.

  Wait. The bruises.

  She’d sustained numerous injuries in their… altercation. Even now, almost two weeks later, she should still bear some of the marks of that encounter.

  He cleared his throat. “Does your suspect have any identifiable characteristics? Birthmarks? Scars?”

  “Actually, yeah. She’s really beat up. She claimed she’d left an abusive boyfriend.”

  It was her. He could feel it.

  “Okay, here’s how I want you to play this. Do not approach or engage. We know she’s connected to at least one murder and is a proven flight risk. I won’t be able to fly out for a few days and we can’t do anything to spook her before I arrive.”

  Not that he had any intention of waiting that long to fly out, but he couldn’t let Evans know that.

  No one could know.

  “Sure you don’t want me to take her in? I can hold her for twenty-four hours. Should give you plenty of time to get here.”

  “No. Do not engage.” How many times did he have to say it? “I’ve got some big investigations in process here and can’t get away that quickly.”

  Silence stretched.

  “Okay, then. If you’re sure.” Evans didn’t sound too happy about the arrangement, but Strand couldn’t care less. Just as long as the dolt didn’t do anything to spook Parker into running again.

  “I’ll contact you when I hit town, probably Thursday, and we can approach her together. You’ll have the appreciation of the FBI for your cooperation.”

  “Happy to help.”

  Evans’ tone was grudging, but at least the detective was agreeable.

  Strand terminated the call and promptly went online to book two round-trip airline tickets. The flight would leave in five hours. Plenty of time for him to alert Butch, get their IDs in order, and catch the flight.

  On Monday, he’d make arrangements with the SAC to fly out on the bureau’s dime to apprehend Parker and bring her home.

  What no one else knew was that she wouldn’t be alive for him to apprehend.

  He’d be bringing her home in a body bag.

  ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ

  It feels like I’m being watched.

  I pour another round of shots for the bachelor’s party in the far corner of the bar and let my eyes skim the room.

  Nothing looks out of place.

  Although the bar is pretty packed tonight so it’s hard to know for certain. Still, I see no signs of anyone watching me or anything even remotely threatening.

  And yet, it feels like an army of ants crawling all over my skin.

  I run through the day.

  A dreamless night left me feeling refreshed this morning. Drew picked me up as promised and church was a new, yet interesting, experience. Things have gone smoothly here tonight.

  So why is my flight instinct kicking into high gear?

  “Here you go. Another round of shots for the dead man walking!” I deliver the drinks with a flourish as the guys all laugh like I said the most hilarious thing ever.

  I think this might be the last round for them. They’re acting pretty wasted.

  At least it looks like they’ve got a designated driver. One guy’s been drinking nothing but soda.

  Wonder if it’s by choice or if he drew the short straw.

  I collect the empty shot glasses from the table. “So when’s the big day?”

  The groom and his drunk buddies are too busy reaching for the full shots I just delivered to be bothered to give an answer, so the DD turns to me. “Day after tomorrow. Good thing, too. Brittany would kill him if showed up to the wedding hung over.”

  “The wedding’s on a Tuesday?”

  The guy holds up his hands. “Yeah, I know. Weird. The date means something to them, though.”

  “Makes sense.” I pause for a second. “Just so you know, this’ll be the last round. I think your friends have had enough.”

  He watches as one of the guys throws back a shot, half-misses his mouth, and hits his cheek and chin instead. “Agreed.”

  I laugh along with the rest of the guys, then head back to the bar, stopping at several tables along the way to chat and check up on customers.

  The creepy feeling follows me with every step.

  Okay. My instincts have saved me far too many times for me to write this off.

  But without some kind of clear threat, there’s not much I can do. Except be overly cautious and aware.

  And maybe loop Zak in. He seems to have pretty solid instincts, too.

  I grab a pilsner and sidle up beside Zak. “It might be nothing, but something feels off.”

  “Cryptic.” He arches an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

  Keeping my eyes on the pilsner as I fill it, I wait until the foam reaches the rim before replying, “Like there’s someone watching. Can you let me know if you see anything suspicious?”

  “Sure thing.”

  At least he doesn’t tell me that I’m as crazy or paranoid as I feel.

  Well, if someone is watching me, the best thing I can do is act normal.

  Lucky that acting is kind of my thing.

  The evening passes quickly. The bar is only about a quarter full when my shift ends.

  “Want me to get something going for y
ou?” Zak asks as I remove my apron.

  “Sure. Iced tea?”

  “You got it.”

  The hair on my arms is still prickly, but I haven’t noticed anyone watching me. And I’ve been looking.

  I push open the kitchen door and cross to the lockers.

  Darkness looms, its presence snuffing the air from my lungs.

  Has it always been this dark in here or is tonight different?

  I’m sure this is nothing unusual. It’s probably me. I’m more on edge tonight than I usually am so I’m extra alert.

  I open my locker and set my apron on the shelf before grabbing my wallet.

  Smoke.

  The scent tickles my senses.

  Not like a fire, like cigarettes. Old cigarettes.

  Like–

  A hand claps over my mouth. Another snakes around my body, pinning my arms to my sides and drawing me against someone solid.

  The wallet slips from my fingers.

  I drive my elbow back, but lack the momentum to do any damage. Twisting my head, I try to break loose, but the man is bigger, stronger, and has a firm grip.

  He drags me back several steps.

  “Get her wallet. And close that up, will you? Don’t need no one pokin’ around.”

  The gruff voice has haunted my nightmares for the last two weeks. Agent Strand. And he’s not alone.

  They found me! But how?

  I scream.

  Muffled by the sweaty hand sticking to my face, the sound comes out as little more than a pathetic whimper.

  No one would’ve heard that.

  Strand pulls me with him toward the back exit.

  If we make it to that door, I’m as good as dead.

  I go limp. Strand’s steps falter, but he pushes on, dragging me with him.

  We’re almost to the door. If I can scream, just once, that should be enough to alert someone.

  I plant my feet and propel myself toward him.

  The sudden attack causes him to stumble.

  I bite, but my teeth don’t touch his hand.

  I kick and stomp, but don’t connect with anything.

  I twist and thrash.

  He curses softly. His grip shifts enough for me to pull my arm free.

  I drive my elbow back, feel it connect solidly with his solar plexus.

  Breath whooshes past my ear and the arms loosen enough for me to jerk away.

  Sucking in a breath, I open my mouth. “H–”

  Something slams against my skull, killing the cry in my throat. The room swirls and darkens.

  No! I can’t black out.

  If I do, I’m a goner.

  My legs shake. I blink in an effort to clear my vision, even as my arm shoots out to find something to steady me.

  Pain explodes across my face.

  And then there’s nothing but blackness.

  Seventeen

  My head feels like it’s been run over by a freighter. What happened, anyway?

  I reach to touch my face, but my hands won’t move.

  They’re stuck. Behind me. What the…?

  Memories trample through my mind.

  The attack by the lockers. Strand dragging me to the exit. Almost getting away. The blow to the head. The dizziness. The second blow.

  Strand.

  The agent who served as my contact on a few of my undercover assignments. The man who is now trying to kill me.

  He betrayed me. Betrayed the badge.

  How could he?

  It doesn’t matter. All that matters is making sure he pays.

  I pry my eyes open.

  At first all I see is my lap. Then I lift my head.

  An old television. An abstract orange and blue bedspread that screams 1970. Dingy walls that were likely once white. Threadbare carpet.

  I’m in a motel. And not a very classy one from the looks of things.

  Probably one of those with hourly rates where occupants ignore noises from other rooms, no matter what that noise is. These men could kill me and I could scream my head off and no one would lift a finger to help.

  Of course, I’d have to get this gag out of my mouth before I could scream.

  I look around the room.

  At least I’m alone.

  I don’t know where the men have gone or why, but this may be my only chance to get out of here alive.

  My jaw aches. Probably from the blow earlier, although the rag tied around my head sure isn’t helping.

  The coarseness at my wrists proves that this time they used rope, not handcuffs.

  Electricity tingles up and down my arms. I move my fingers to try to get the feeling back. The hard wooden chair beneath me wobbles with every movement.

  There has to be a way out of this mess.

  Think, think.

  Not easy to do with the pounding in my head.

  I flex and pull at the rope, but it doesn’t give. Figures these guys would know how to tie a knot.

  Okay. I don’t have to free my hands. If I can stand up and make it to the door, I can run outside where someone will see me.

  Surely someone would see me.

  I try to straighten, but I can’t.

  They tied me to the chair.

  Of course they did. I already got away from them once. They’d want to make sure it couldn’t happen again.

  The fact that my feet are free is small consolation.

  The best I can do is hobble around like a hunchback, but I’ll never be able to open the door in this position.

  I scan the room. No sign of a knife or anything I can use to cut through the rope.

  So I need to break the chair. It feels rickety enough that it shouldn’t be too hard to do.

  But how?

  I look around the room. Maybe if I smash it against the wall?

  I don’t have any better options so I plant my feet and shuffle toward the closest wall.

  Hopefully those men aren’t too close or they’ll hear me and this will all be over.

  I swivel away, then swing the chair toward the wall as hard as I can. It connects with a bang that seems as loud as a gunshot.

  The jolt vibrates down my torso and through my legs, threatening to drop me on the floor.

  I lock my knees and remain bent over, waiting for the impact to pass.

  The chair’s still intact, but I’m not done yet. I swing again.

  The hit is even more solid this time and it rattles the cheap picture right off the wall.

  The glass shatters across the carpet.

  Even better.

  I waddle toward the glass and carefully position the chair, then rock to the left. The chair wobbles, but doesn’t fall. I rock again, harder.

  Two legs lift off the floor. The chair teeters on the other two legs.

  I lean into it. The floor rushes to meet me.

  My head and shoulder slams against the carpet. I scream into my gag as the chair pins my forearm to the floor. Light bursts across my vision, chased away quickly by darkness.

  No! I can’t pass out. Not again.

  I draw in a deep breath.

  Urine. Vomit. Smoke. Alcohol. All swirled together in a rotten concoction of stench.

  My stomach lurches. The heave works its way up my body, but I force it back. Puking with this gag in my mouth would be even viler than those smells.

  Focus.

  I blink. Several times. My vision clears.

  Okay. Now to get to work.

  If I can free my hands, I can get out of this dump. Away from the smells. More importantly, away from the men who are trying to kill me.

  Stretching behind me, I dance my fingers across the carpet.

  They connect with something smooth.

  Smooth, yet with a sharp edge.

  Okay, careful now.

  I grab the glass and maneuver it around so the sharp edge is facing inward.

  Here goes nothing.

  I press the edge against the rope and saw. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. Is it working? I c
an’t tell.

  The glass slides in my grasp, the edge slicing my palm. Pain shoots through my hand. My fingers splay and the shard slips free.

  A small cry escapes into my gag. Tears burn and the room churns in a sick kaleidoscope.

  I don’t have time for weakness. Those men might return any time and I have to be free by then.

  Not just free.

  Away.

  Which means I need time to run before they return.

  I blink. The tears escape, but at least I can see again.

  I strain against the restraints. They give a little, but not enough for me to pull free. I have to keep cutting.

  I feel around for the glass.

  My fingers connect with the piece I was using.

  The slimy surface is harder to hold now, thanks to the blood coating my fingers and the glass.

  But I don’t have a choice.

  I twist it around and keep slashing at the rope. The glass slides between my fingers, but I manage to maintain my grip.

  Am I even making any progress?

  I finger the rope. Frayed edges and loose strands.

  I pull against the rope but it holds firm.

  It has to be close to the breaking point. I keep sawing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  I flex and pull. The rope snaps.

  Yes!

  I yank my hands free. Pull away from the chair. Plant my hands and push myself to my knees.

  Fire races down my arms. I shake them out, trying to get the blood flowing through them again, then examine the cut on my hand.

  It looks deep, but the blood is already congealing.

  My hand and sleeves are a red, sticky mess and I’ve left plenty of DNA evidence for the police to find if those guys succeed in killing me.

  No.

  I will make it through this. Just like I will see them both behind bars.

  I stagger to my feet. Almost as if it has a mind of its own, my hand rips the gag from my mouth.

  I should call for help. That way if those guys are waiting outside, at least I’ll have alerted the authorities.

  My gaze skims the room. A bed, nightstand, scarred table, twenty-year-old television, but no sign of a phone. Either this place doesn’t have one – unlikely – or those guys removed it. Just in case.

  I don’t have time to hunt for it.

  I don’t know where those guys are or why they were stupid enough to leave me alone, but I can’t take the chance they’ll return and still find me here.