Target: BillionBear: BBW Bear Shifter Paranormal Romance

by Chant, Zoe

  The woman Kesley called “Aunt Julia” came dashing out, pale and wide-eyed. All lazy thoughts of intimate afternoons vanished. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Cannon—one of those horrible Nazi wingnuts raced up here not five minutes ago. Wearing a ski mask, no plates on his bike. He threw this through the window and raced away. It was tied to a brick.”

  Jameson and Kesley got out of the car, and entered the lobby, crunching over a million shards of glass. In the middle of the mess sat the brick.

  Julia Bashir handed over an envelope. No name or address was written on it. Jameson opened the envelope and took out the paper. In block print it said:

  IF YOU WANT THEM ALIVE, YOU BETTER SHOW UP ALONE

  “Them?” Jameson glanced up at the circle of distraught faces, deciding that now was not the time to explain his real name, or why he’d come with . . . He realized Marlo wasn’t there. “Where’s Marlo?”

  “She never checked back in last night,” Julia said, wringing her hands.

  “And Lenny hasn’t come back,” an old man wearing a machinist’s leather apron spoke up. “I caught her nosing around behind my shop yesterday. When I confronted her, she said she was looking for someone to show her the way to Dottie’s. Offered fifty bucks. My grandson Lenny volunteered. And I let him, figuring it would get her out of our hair.” He scowled, clearly worried.

  “What’s Dottie’s?” Jameson asked.

  Kesley said, “It’s a run-down old motel off Highway 1.”

  “That’s right, she said she was going to interview people at some motel. So, where’s the sheriff? Has anyone called him?”

  “Yes.” Chick spoke from the window, his voice cracking. “Phone’s busy.”

  “He might be on his way over, then.” Jameson’s mind worked rapidly. Somewhere, sometime, he had faced similar situations. By instinct he assembled a set of questions. “Until the sheriff gets here, shall we put together some ideas?”

  “Yes!” Everyone seemed to like that idea, and faced him intently.

  “Can you draw me a diagram of Dottie’s?” he asked Kesley. “I need to know dimensions, windows—if you can—where the obstacles are. If they are setting up a trap, there will be at least one perimeter of guards.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve only passed by there once or twice. And anyway, you aren’t going alone.” Her voice rose at the end. “The sheriff will think of something. That’s what he does.”

  Sheriff Odom had seemed like a good guy, but Jameson was very sure this sleepy town had ever been in a situation like this. “The target has always been me.” He pointed the note. No one argued. “So unless the sheriff shows up and offers another idea, I figure I need to take care of it. And fast. I’m not going to risk two innocent lives—”

  “I’ll help.” Chick was there, his voice cracking again. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do anything. Lenny’s my kid brother’s best friend. No way am I sitting around while something happens to him.”

  “Yeah,” David Zhao spoke up from the other side of the lobby.

  And the rest of those now crowding up spoke in agreement, or question.

  “How can we rescue them?”

  “Lenny! Who would threaten a thirteen-year-old kid?”

  “Bob Taggart has to be in on it.”

  “All I know is, I’m not standing by and letting some damn skinheads off Lenny!”

  “Yeah, count me in.”

  “Do you think we could . . .” Sidled looks and hand gestures flashed between people. Jameson saw that, and wondered what he was missing, but then the man in the leather apron said, “Young Abe told us you were in the military.”

  “I think so,” Jameson said. “But I don’t remember. I was in an accident.”

  “Yeah, he said that, too. But . . . you know what to do here?”

  Jameson studied the anxious faces around him—all ages, both sexes. “ How many of you have experience in the military, or defense?”

  He regarded the silent row of faces. Each anxious to take action on behalf of the missing boy, at the very least. Jameson suspected the only one who had a rudiment of training was the sheriff, and maybe his deputy, but those two, from the sound of things, didn’t have a lot of experience with this kind of situation.

  “There’s Ralph, up at the eatery. Did his stint twenty years ago.”

  “And my grandpa was a gunnery sergeant in the Vietnam war,” someone else said from the back. “I could go get him.”

  Jameson repressed a sigh. “Okay, next question. How about the next town, what is it, Overton? Do they have the manpower and equipment for this situation?”

  Another flurry of quick looks, then Leather Apron said, “They might. But their police captain is one of those ‘damn the torpedoes’ men—he’s likely to send in heavy hitters, and consider two dead hostages acceptable collateral damage, as they say in the news.”

  Jameson considered that as he assessed the semi-circle of people facing him. Clearly no one wanted to call the hot shot in Overton. “Okay, so what you are saying is, you’re with me on resolving this?”

  “Ourselves,” Julia Bashir said.

  “Just tell us what to do,” Leather Apron put in.

  All around came nods and “Yes,” and “That’s right.”

  “Okay. We first need a recon mission, if we can, to survey the situation. Fill in our map with blind corners, if any, where their outer perimeter is, how many of them there are, what weapons they have.” He didn’t have much hope, but he asked anyway, “Is there anyone who might be able to do that?”

  Several hands went up, and four people headed toward the door, the last one, a middle-aged woman, saying, “We’ll be back in an hour.”

  That took Jameson completely by surprise. “But no one responded when I asked about military experience.”

  Leather Apron didn’t meet Jameson’s eyes as he said, “But we know the terrain, you might say. You let them go—they’ll get the answers you want.”

  Jameson accepted that. “Okay, good. Second thing, we should post watchers on the hills above us. If they aren’t already there—whoever goes should be in groups, and take any weapons you have.”

  “I’ll see to that,” Leather Apron said. “I’ll get Ralph.”

  He took off, and Jameson said, “That woman on the reconnaissance team said they’d return in an hour, and I know I need to get some breakfast into me before the next step. So let’s break, and meet again, say . . . at ten? And we’ll go from there.”

  The half-circle of people nodded, accepting his suggestion as an order—as a way to proceed in a situation no one had experience of. They walked off in knots of three and four, talking in low voices as Jameson turned to Kesley.

  She looked up from her phone. “Maddy just texted. Breakfast will be waiting when we get there.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Since it’s just up the block, how about we walk instead of drive?”

  “Sure. Just, let me get one of my sketchbooks out of the trunk.”

  As soon as they reached the sidewalk, and had gained distance from the dispersing townspeople (some of whom were stopped by others coming out of shops, or cars, everyone asking questions and talking in low voices with quick looks in all directions), Jameson turned to Kesley. “What am I missing? There’s something those people aren’t telling me.”

  Her steady gaze met his, then slid away. “Can we talk about that later?”

  Something hovered in the air unspoken between them. He’d established his baseline by trusting Kesley. Now, before there was action, he felt that trust wavering. There was something. And she knew what it was.

  At least she’s not feeding me some lie, he thought. She was also obviously really unhappy about the question. Someone else’s secret, maybe? Trust had to go two ways—was she keeping someone else’s trust? It wasn’t some other guy. With every cell of his body he was convinced that Kesley was no cheater, and further, he sensed that she had opened to him the way she never had to anyone else.

  Okay, so this
situation here, it was some kind of crossroads. Shitty timing—he had enough to deal with—but it was what it was.

  So . . . what next? It took a few more steps to figure out the restless sense of urgency compelling him to trust her. It was that inner voice again. It fretted there inside his ribs somewhere, or maybe that sensation was only in his head, but it didn’t subside until he said, “Sure. Your call.”

  Yes, the inner voice whispered. Trust your mate.

  ‘Mate.’ There it was again. He would swear the word was not in his usual vocabulary, but as he listened to Kesley’s quiet steps in rhythm with his on the sidewalk, breathed in the scent of her tea tree shampoo and below that her own delicious scent, felt the brush of her arm against his own, he knew the rightness of the word. ‘Mate’ resonated deeply in a way he could not explain any more than he could explain how he knew how to establish covering fields of fire.

  They reached the eatery, where Ralph’s wife waited, along with Maddy and a guy who looked like he had to be her brother. The two of them brought out plates of hot food, then stood by the table. “What’s been decided?” the brother asked.

  Jameson suppressed the urge to talk, and let Kesley brief the couple. She did it quickly, placing a slight emphasis on the words, “Kate Odom, Tonio DelGiorgio, and the Ryans are going to scout. Then we’re meeting at ten to figure out where to go from there.”

  Jameson sensed an unstated importance in the names of those going on the recon. Again that inner voice stirred, restless. He felt he ought to know, but once again he slammed against the limits of his own brain.

  Ralph’s wife nodded grimly, then said, “We’ve got news, too. And it’s bad. Just heard from Bailey. Ted Odom and Abe Rosen were both found unconscious, hurt bad, at the barn. The assholes had friends who snuck up and attacked sometime during the night. The prisoners escaped. Left ‘em just lying there.”

  Kesley paled. “That’s horrible. Are they—”

  “Doc Weinstein’s with them right now. Teddy’s got a broken kneecap and arm, and Abe got a bad whack on his head, then some dickwad kicked the crap out of him while he was down.”

  “Did anyone tell Kate about her brother?” Maddy asked.

  “She went with the scouting party,” Kesley said. “And now we know why no one heard from the sheriff.” She turned to Jameson. “I thought it was weird that neither of them showed up. Abe lives right above the grocery—he’s usually first one here. This is getting more awful every minute. And we don’t know why.”

  “Eat up,” Maddy said, pointing to the food. “Nobody does well without a good meal in them.”

  “Agreed,” Jameson said. “Only I’d change that to superlative, judging by what I’ve had here so far.”

  Ralph’s wife gave him a short nod, her grim expression easing a little, and Jameson wondered if she was related to the missing teen.

  Maddy led away her mother and brother, leaving Jameson and Kesley to eat. Jameson dug into the deliciously fluffy omelet, which was loaded with finely chopped vegetables in a cheddar filling. He enjoyed watching the way Kesley cut tiny squares from her waffle, eating neatly. Once again that immense tenderness flowered inside his chest, so strong and hard it almost hurt. He could spend a lifetime watching her eat. Watching her sleep. Watching her smile, draw, be.

  “I’m sorry about Marlo,” Kesley said, blinking as though becoming aware of his stare.

  “I think this entire shtick of hers is crazy,” he replied, picking up his fork again. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t try my best to get her safely out of whatever she stumbled into. Her and the kid.”

  Kesley nodded, her gaze clouding. “I hope we can get them both out without . . .” She didn’t finish that sentence, but one of her hands stole into his, questing for comfort.

  He took her hand, trying to convey wordlessly his determination to keep her safe, her and her friends and family. These people were important to her, so they had become important to him, too.

  They finished up, and headed for the door. As Jameson reached to open it for Kesley, he glanced through the darkened glass at the top of the door just as a limo drove by, heading slowly down the street.

  The windows had been tinted completely dark, but the back windows were down. Jameson got a brief glimpse of a man’s profile, wearing dark glasses. His head turned away, then swung around as the car drove on past.

  White lightning flashed through Jameson. Though he only remembered seeing that face once, his buried memory must have stirred because he breathed, “Charlie.”

  Kesley stilled. “Who’s that?”

  “My assassin brother seems to have hunted me down.”

  “Assassin?” Kesley scowled.

  “Seems to have tried at least once to off me. The second time, he was lurking outside my window, and he may have been the one to put that poison in those meds. I don’t know. I didn’t think he got inside the room, but he might have.”

  As he spoke, Jameson watched the car vanished down Main Street, then turn onto Pacific Coast Highway.

  Jameson gritted his teeth: one more thing to deal with. “One thing at a time,” he said.

  “Right,” Kesley said, and they left the eatery.

  As soon as they cleared the building, Jameson scanned the hilltops—and caught sight of a man-shaped silhouette waving. Had to be Ralph. Jameson lifted his hand, and together he and Kesley walked down Main to the hotel. As he walked, he kept watching for the limo to return, but there was no sign of it.

  So he forced his murderous brother from his mind as they entered the hotel lobby, where they found pretty much the same crowd waiting for them. All the glass had been swept up, the remaining shards knocked out of the window so it was now a big square open to the cold sea breeze. Several new people had lined up at the window to look in, because the lobby was packed.

  As Jameson and Kesley walked in, the crowd shuffled to make space.

  Waiting for them in the center of the lobby was the dark-skinned, middle-aged woman named Kate, a tall, thin, dreamy-faced college-aged kid Jameson figured was Tonio, and a pair who gave off newlywed vibes in the way they stood side by side, his arm around the wispy little woman’s shoulders and hers around his plump waist. These had to be the Ryans. Jameson looked the four over, wondering how much scouting any of them had done, much less been trained in, and mentally began to formulate plans based on no knowledge.

  But then the four exchanged a quick glance, conveyed by shoulder lifts and chin nods that Kate would be spokesperson, and she said, “We didn’t see Bob Taggart, the owner. Either he split or he’s holed up somewhere. There are twenty-two of the strangers. The weapons in sight are at least one gun per.”

  Here Tonio cut in, his voice breaking as he gave the stats on the weaponry, with the enthusiasm and detail of inveterate gamer.

  Jameson mentally catalogued those stats, aware that somewhere, sometime this had been a familiar task. As the Ryans then went on to describe the outside of the house in detail, he began building a picture of the situation, which suggested possible approaches.

  He noted Kesley busy sketching as they talked. When the four had finished, he glanced down at the drawing she’d made, and mentally readjusted the image he’d formed in his mind.

  “Okay, sarge,” Leather Apron said with a grim smile. “What’s the plan?”

  Jameson let his mind feel its way. Oh, yeah. Definitely somewhere, sometime, he had done this before. “As I see it,” he said, “they want me. So I’m going to show up. Alone.”

  Kesley whispered, “No.”

  He smiled her way. “Hang on. If you guys are willing to help me, I’m only going to seem alone.”

  At that, nearly the entire crowd nodded and muttered agreement.

  “Okay, so first thing, we need to sneak up and take any perimeter guards out one by one.”

  “I can sneak,” Tonio said. He glanced from side to side. “Sneaking’s easy. Most of us can do that. But when it comes to attacking, I don’t think I could take out some big-ass
ed biker.”

  “I know you can’t,” Chick cracked, and Tonia flipped him off.

  “Yeah, let’s see you take one of them on.”

  “I could if I had an automatic weapon—”

  “None of you kids are going any-damn-place shooting weapons,” a red-haired man leaned in the window to snap.

  “Aw, Dad,” Chick muttered. “I was just kidding.”

  Leather Apron turned a scowl to Jameson. “None of these squirts is trained in gun safety.”

  “I don’t hold with kids waving firearms around either,” he said. “And maybe they aren’t necessary. If you really can get close, and assuming you have a vet or a farrier or farmer who has access to trank guns, you could take them down long enough for the house to be stormed and the hostages rescued. Nobody gets worse than a long nap and a hangover when they wake up.”

  That caused a ripple of whispered comments and small signs of determination.

  Chick jammed his glasses up his nose and said, “I’ll go talk to Doc Weinstein.”

  “And stop by Neil’s,” Kate called after him.

  Jameson leaned down to Kesley, who was putting the finishing touches on her sketch. “Neil?” he asked.

  “Hochstetter, our vet. He also deals with big farm animals. I know he has trank guns.”

  Jameson nodded his thanks at Kesley, whose sketch was a perfect layout. Jameson put it on the floor and invited the volunteers to make a football huddle around him. He pointed at the sketch as he talked.

  “Ideally, I need two teams to be ready to storm the inside once I make my approach. They’re going to expect me to try something, even if they don’t believe anyone in this town can come in heavy. So I need a team to make a shitload of noise in front here—that could be older, more responsible people who know something about firearms—to distract them from the real team executing a covert sneak from the back, like this and this. Of course, this will only work if the lookouts posted at the back are incapacitated. So the sneaks have to be the ones with the trank guns.”