Blind Instinct: A Tess Barrett Thriller

by Michael W. Sherer

  Blind Instinct

  By

  Michael W. Sherer

  Blind Instinct

  Copyright © 2016 by Michael W. Sherer

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 U.S. Copyright Act without the prior permission of the publisher. Published by Cutter Press, Seattle.

  Cover Design: Anne Kaye-Jewett

  To the too few gentlemen

  in the world who understand

  how to treat a lady.

  Girls rock.

  Also by Michael W. Sherer

  Tess Barrett Series

  Blind Rage

  Blake Sanders Series

  Night Drop

  Night Tide

  Night Blind

  Emerson Ward Mysteries

  Death On A Budget

  Death Is No Bargain

  A Forever Death

  Death Came Dressed In White

  Little Use For Death

  An Option On Death

  Suspense

  Island Life

  Praise for the Blind Rage:

  "Tremendous book. Flat out loved it." —Ken Bruen, Shamus, Macavity and Barry Award-winning author of Green Hell

  “Blind Rage has a bit of everything for almost everyone. There are military secrets, technology, a couple of resourceful teenagers on the run—one blind, some rather nasty, bullying teenagers, unseen bad guys, and a stalwart hero who trades the evils of the Mideast for the evils of Seattle. The book is a definite page turner.” —Polly Iyer, bestselling author of Indiscretion

  “Entirely engrossing and unusual clandestine operations fare. It’s well worth the read.” Douglas Wolfe, critic for the TVFanatic website.

  Praise for the Blake Sanders Series:

  Night Drop

  “Looking for an adrenaline rush? You'll find that and more in Night Drop. Blake Sanders is back, and that means the action is non-stop!” —Alan Russell, author of Multiple Wounds and Burning Man

  “I LOVED this story. Night Drop is a fast-paced, tension-filled thriller that will grab you by the throat until the very last page. Blake Sanders is one of the most intriguing characters I’ve read in years. This is definitely Sherer at his best.” —KT Bryan, author of Team EDGE

  Night Tide

  “A great, great read! Even better than Night Blind, and that’s not easy.” – Timothy Hallinan, author of The Fame Thief

  “…a cracking good story and a first-rate thriller.” – J. Carson Black, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Survivors Club

  “A tight, well-constructed story and characters that leap from the page. I’ll definitely be back for more.” – Robert Gregory Browne, author of Trial Junkies 2: Negligence

  Night Blind

  “An appealing, empathetic lead…” —Publisher’s Weekly

  “This is an exciting, well-crafted thriller and most certainly a satisfying one.” —Mysterious Reviews

  “Thriller writer Sherer renders a sympathetic lead character and an engaging…story line in his latest…” —Allison Block, Booklist

  “Loved every page of it.”

  —Brett Battles

  “A tightly paced page-turner that's impossible to put down. Terrific!"

  —Allison Brennan

  “Pay attention. You won’t want to miss a word."

  —J.T. Ellison

  “…rich, complex, and deeply satisfying.”

  —Bill Cameron

  Blind Instinct

  Prologue

  Washington, D.C., a few weeks earlier.

  Austin Dunn sat across the table from his father and drew patterns on the linen tablecloth with his finger. He stifled a yawn. Quickly looking away so his father wouldn’t see how mind-numbingly bored he was, he pretended to take in the trappings of the formal dining room and the people at the other tables. As usual, his father had picked one of the stuffy, high-end restaurants in town not far from his office. He’d sent a car to pick up Austin from the private school Austin attended near home. Well, the house where they lived, if you could call it that. More like a museum. Huge, ostentatious, filled with someone else’s old crap, er, antiques. Nothing like the modern suburban home they’d left behind four years earlier. He still hadn’t forgiven his parents—his father—for that brilliant move.

  Only snippets of the conversation at the table registered as Austin’s gaze bounced from the couple at a booth in the back leaning over the table murmuring in low tones to the maitre d’ at the front desk greeting a fearsome foursome from the Hill, dressed in expensive suits, silk shirts with French cuffs and Italian leather shoes. Austin knew the drill, knew that the men, now following a hostess into the atrium dining area, paid for clothes like that either with taxpayers’ money or the money they got under the table from lobbyists and the companies those lobbyists represented. Nothing got done in Washington without a little grease, and grease in this town was green, not that nasty black stuff smeared all over a mechanic’s coveralls at a service garage.

  Two athletically built men, also dressed in suits, took the table closest to the maitre d’. Their suits, however, were more utilitarian lightweight wool, and these two held themselves with military bearing. Whereas the powerbrokers disappearing into the atrium had polished nails and carefully styled hair, the pair at the table had short haircuts and no hint of having been anywhere near a salon of any kind. One faced Austin, but his eyes scanned the room and the hallway back to the kitchen. The other had his back turned, head swiveling from the front door toward the atrium, and Austin saw the coiled wire leading from his ear under the back of his collar. Secret Service agents. Austin knew the detail included at least two more agents, one in the driver’s seat of an SUV parked across the street from the restaurant, and another somewhere on the street, probably in the alley behind the restaurant.

  Austin caught the eye of the operative facing him, waved and gave him a goofy grin. The man’s steely expression didn’t change. Austin’s smile turned to a frown and he shook his head. Jerks couldn’t take a joke. He shifted in his seat and turned his attention back to his own table.

  “…can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support, Josiah,” his father’s guest was saying. “Senator Latham’s been pretty tough about meeting deadlines.”

  “He has to be,” said Austin’s father. “Chairman of the subcommittee on defense spending can’t be seen showing favoritism.”

  “Of course not,” the guest said hastily. “Just as I wouldn’t expect you to when you win the election in November.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Travis,” Dunn said, “but I’ll be able to give you even less support if I’m elected than I can now. You know that.”

  The guest nodded. “What I meant was that everyone knows defense projects get delayed all the time. No one blinks an eye. Senator Latham’s really holding our feet to the fire on this one.”

  “Then I guess you better not disappoint him,” Dunn said. He glanced at Austin and went on. “Look, I appreciate your support, too, Travis. Your campaign contributions have been more than generous. But there’s really nothing I can do or say that would change Jeremy Latham’s mind about anything, let alone your project. And even mentioning it could compromise my impartiality and reflect negatively on my character.”

  “I’d never ask you to do that, sir,” Travis said. “
I just wanted you to know where we stand.”

  “Noted.” Mr. Dunn looked at Austin again. “Have you decided what you’d like to eat?”

  Austin glanced at the menu in front of him and nodded. As fancy as it was, at least the restaurant had a hamburger—for eighteen freaking dollars—and fries made from weird kinds of potatoes, even a blue one. Austin ordered the burger and a side of mac-and-cheese, in which they put a few drops of truffle oil so they could charge twelve bucks.

  “So,” Austin’s father said when they’d ordered, “would you like to tell Mr. Barrett what you’ve been up to at school?”

  Austin shrugged and flipped his fork over. “Not much.”

  The guest gave him a smile that looked genuine. “Can’t be that much fun getting dragged to one of your dad’s business lunches.”

  Austin shrugged again. The guy couldn’t be a total geek. After all, he wasn’t that old, and his dad had said he’d taken over the top job at MondoHard when his brother had been killed in an accident. MondoHard made some of the coolest video games in the world.

  “Tell you what,” Barrett said. “Do you have a smart phone?”

  No, duh. “Um, sure.” Austin whipped his phone out.

  Barrett took out a pen and a notepad from his inner suit coat pocket and jotted something down. He tore off the slip of paper and handed it to Austin.

  “Check out this website. There’s a game app on the site you can download with the promo code I wrote down. It’s still in beta testing, but I think you’ll like it. One of our young developers wrote it. I’ve had my eye on him for a while.”

  Austin reached out as if the slip of paper might bite and slowly took it. “Cool. Thanks.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “I’m sorry that Austin’s being a bother,” his father said.

  What a shame. He’d disappointed his father again. The words quickly faded from hearing as Austin typed the URL Barrett had written down into the browser on his smart phone. In less than two minutes he’d downloaded the game app and pulled it up on his phone. The title scrolled up along with some sick graphics. Never Bitten. He toggled some virtual buttons to get a feel for the game. On screen, two hands came into view, one holding a mallet the other a wooden stake. He toggled the button again and the hands disappeared. He moved right and saw a nighttime street scene. He toggled the other way and saw the street in the other direction. He toggled up to see a full moon. With a swipe of his finger his screen character started walking down the street. All of a sudden a werewolf jumped out of a doorway ahead of him.

  Never Bitten, huh? This game app had possibilities.

  Chapter 1

  Total darkness forced Tess to rely on her other senses. She practically had to feel her way around, but fortunately she was in familiar territory. She scrabbled toward a better position on silent feet, straining to hear the slightest sounds, to feel and smell changes in the air around her.

  She turned and stood her ground, panting from exertion. He’d stalked her for the past fifteen minutes, circling, assessing her weaknesses, slowly running her to ground. She knew what he was capable of, the violence he could wreak with a few small moves. He could easily kill her if she let him. She would not, despite the heart that banged her ribs like a prisoner rattling the bars of a jail cell, the tremor that threatened to knock her knees together. Despite the fear that ran in a cold rivulet down her spine, she wouldn’t let him take that from her.

  Openness surrounded her. Level ground buttressed her stance. He’d tried to back her into a corner, but she’d been too smart for that. Now he had nowhere to hide, no way to disguise his approach. She ignored the thumping in her chest and rasp of her breath, and focused instead on the sound of his breathing, his beating heart. The hitch in his breath, the sudden increase in his heart rate gave her a second’s warning as he coiled to spring. The air in front of him moved as he did, and she felt it whisper past her cheek. The pop of an ankle joint, the rustle of fabric, the change in his breathing all told her the direction, speed and angle of his attack.

  It came with a fierceness even she hadn’t anticipated, but she was ready. A foot and leg whistled toward her side. She whirled, turning her hip into the blow, and leaned away from it. When it landed, she snaked her arm around his leg, wrapped her palm on top of his kneecap and pressed down hard as she continued to spin away. He grunted in pain, and rolled with her throw to lessen the pressure on his knee. His momentum took him over her leg and onto the ground beyond with a thud and the smack of his palms as he broke his fall.

  She whirled toward him and settled into a low, wide stance, waiting for his next move. He gathered himself in a crouch and sprang at her, snarling. She felt his hands close around her throat, smelled the ginger and garlic on his breath. Before his fingers locked, she thrust both hands up between his arms, breaking his grip. Wrapping one arm around his neck, she turned her hip into his body and grabbed her wrist with her other hand, securing him in a headlock. The move likely would not have worked on a larger man, but she’d judged his size correctly, not much bigger than her. But then she was tall for a girl.

  As she continued to spin into him, his feet left the ground and she flipped him over her hip. She held on tight, squeezing his neck in the crook of her elbow and fell back with him, landing on his chest as he went down, her weight forcing the air out of his lungs. She heard him try to suck in a breath behind her and quickly straddled him, pressing her knees onto his arms to keep him from striking. Crossing her arms, she slid her hands up alongside his neck, fingers grasping the collar of his shirt. She gripped the fabric tightly and pulled her elbows apart, the leverage squeezing the back of her wrists against his carotid arteries, cutting off the flow of blood to his brain. If she kept up the pressure she would render him unconscious in about fifteen seconds, now ten, nine, eight…

  For a moment he bucked wildly under her, and she strained to hold on. His movement grew weak, and he tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She let go, and jumped to her feet, gently rubbing the sore spot on her neck where his fingers had dug into her flesh. She extended her other hand. Her foe clasped it and pulled himself to his feet beside her.

  “Better, missy,” he said. “I not kill or kidnap you this time.”

  “What’s the matter, Yoshi?” she said. “Can’t admit you got beat by a girl?”

  Despite her sarcasm, Tess glowed inside from the rare praise and the knowledge that she’d done it. She’d finally bested her jiu-jitsu teacher. And it hadn’t really been a fair match. Yoshi was a black belt; Tess Barrett was blind. Her gratification was short-lived.

  “Yes, you beat me,” he said. “After you die five times before that.”

  “Come on, Yoshi,” she said. “Give me a break. At least I got you this last time.”

  “Sure, sure, I give you break. But bad men no give you break. You beat them or they kill you. Simple truth. We go again.”

  “Again? No way! I’m exhausted. Can’t we just quit?”

  “Again. Now.” His voice was stern.

  Every muscle in Tess’s body ached. They’d been at it for more than two hours, twice as long as her normal afternoon practice, and Yoshi had been relentless. She didn’t know what had gotten into him, but he’d been especially rough today, less forgiving of her mistakes. Before she could even assume jigohontai—defensive stance—Yoshi grabbed the lapels of her gi, the traditional martial arts uniform, and easily threw her over his hip. She landed hard and gasped for breath, blinking back tears of pain and frustration.

  “Again,” Yoshi commanded.

  Warily, she got to her feet and quickly adjusted her stance. Once more Yoshi attacked before she was ready, grabbing her arm and pulling her into a shoulder throw. She smacked the mat with her hands as she landed, absorbing some of the force then rolled away, ending up in a crouch. She heard Yoshi’s footsteps cross the mat toward her. Instead of rising to her feet, she leapfrogged on a diagonal, planted herself as Yoshi changed direction, and tripped him up with a leg sweep.
She was on him in a flash, and as he rolled underneath her she blocked a flailing hand, quickly grasped it in a wristlock and applied pressure. Slowly twisting his arm, she rolled him onto his stomach and bent one knee into his kidney, putting her weight on it.

  When she heard him slap the mat twice, signaling surrender, she let go and settled back on her haunches to catch her breath.

  “Better,” he said.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off, stood up, and stepped away from him, eyes burning and legs trembling, not only from fatigue, but the anger that seethed through her.

  “Okay, we finish for today,” he said.

  Tess didn’t reply. She wanted to bolt from the room, but she forced herself to stand still, arms at her sides, her face a bland mask. She waited for the words a sensei formally used to end class.

  “Gokurosan rei,” Yoshi said finally.

  “Doitashimaste,” she replied, bowing.

  He stepped in front of her, and when she grasped his sleeve he led her out of the gym. When he stopped in the hall outside, she let her arm drop to her side.

  She bowed again and said, “Domo arigato gozaimasu, sensei,” putting a little emphasis on the last word.

  Yoshi sighed.

  She’d made her point, but she didn’t feel any better.

  Chapter 2

  Travis cursed under his breath as the razor nicked his skin. He snatched a tissue from the box on the bathroom counter and daubed at the spot of blood welling from the tiny wound. He didn’t have time for this. When he pulled the tissue away, blood continued to ooze. Quickly putting the tissue back on the cut, he pressed harder and continued to shave with his other hand. Not the most ideal way to get it done, but he was running late. By the time he finished scraping off the day-old growth of beard his face had stopped bleeding. He rinsed off the remaining shaving cream, patted his face dry then hurried into the bedroom and dressed.