Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1)

Home > Other > Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) > Page 3
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 3

by Cameron Curtis


  “The eye patch looks good on you.”

  “Yeah. Ladies love it.”

  Lenson slows and pulls off the concrete highway onto an asphalt road. A white sign announces we are entering Salem, Texas. Unassuming, the road is easy to miss. A lonely diner sits at the crossroads. The Dusty Burger’s billboard is bigger than the city’s.

  The county seat, Salem remains a small town. Population of three thousand, three-quarters Latino. Most live in low-rent housing between main street and the Rio Grande. The houses are separated from the river by the great border wall. On the north and east sides of town sit more upscale residences owned by small businessmen.

  “Everyone is at the hotel,” Lenson explains. “Mary didn’t want to stay at the ranch house while arranging the funeral.”

  We drive past the sheriff’s station. It’s clean and modern. A single-story building with parking lots front and back.

  Lenson notices my interest. “We can walk over tomorrow,” he says. “Sheriff said the lab will finish with Keller’s truck by then.”

  “I want to ask the cops some questions.”

  Most murders are solved within twenty-four hours. The more time passes, the less likely the killer will be caught. It has been seventy-two hours since Keller’s body was discovered. By any measure, the trail has gone cold.

  “We all do. The sheriff hasn’t had much to say. To be fair, he’s been busy. Choppers have been flying overhead for three days. No deputies in town. They have all been manning roadblocks and processing the crime scene.”

  Salem’s main street is typical. A long strip of businesses. A Chinese restaurant, laundromat, and hardware stores. A drugstore. There, on the right, set off from the street by a wide driveway and parking lot, is the hotel.

  It’s not the tacky two-story motel ubiquitous in the United States. This is a converted mansion. It must have been built by a wealthy man in the nineteenth century. A rancher, or an entrepreneur. Sold off as the town and county evolved, converted from a personal residence to a business.

  I read the sign over the driveway. “The Salem Inn,” I say. “That’s original. Sounds like we’re in New England.”

  Lenson pulls into a parking space. Across the street from the hotel squat a 7-Eleven and gas station. They are strategically located to serve travelers staying at the hotel.

  We dismount the SUV and step into the oppressive heat. I take my garment bag and duffel from the back. Follow Lenson into the hotel.

  The interior is frigid from air-conditioning. The walls and furniture are dark mahogany. The nineteenth-century tycoon who built the house had good taste. The structure and all its furniture could have been transported from Boston. The house and everything in it seems out of place in dry, dusty West Texas.

  The foyer has been renovated to accommodate a front desk. Two large parlors on either side have been converted into a lounge and a restaurant. A pretty blond girl checks me in and hands me a modern key card with the number 205 stenciled on it.

  “You want to take your bags up,” Lenson says. “I’ll order us some drinks and find Hancock.”

  “Roger that. See you in five.”

  I take a small, modern elevator to the second floor. Find Room 205. The key card works perfectly. The room is clean, the bathroom modern. There’s a king-sized bed and a widescreen mounted on the wall. I hang my garment bag in the closet and set my duffel in a corner. Turn the light on in the toilet. I wash my face, lock the door behind me, and go downstairs.

  Hancock and Lenson are waiting for me in the lounge. The girl from the front desk approaches with a cocktail tray and three frosted mugs of lager. She sets them before us on a circular table. A nice hotel, a family-run business. Light on staff.

  “Breed, it’s good to see you.”

  Hancock’s aged twenty years in five. His boyish features are drawn, and he looks tired. Five years my junior, the hair at his temples has gone gray. He looks fit, but his right leg looks stiff as he reaches to shake my hand.

  “Let’s take a load off,” I say. “How’s the leg?”

  We sit at the table. Hancock lowers himself into a chair, careful to keep his right leg extended. He grimaces. “Femur’s healed,” he says. “All the way from hip to foot, the hydrostatic shock fucked the nerve. Pain won’t go away.”

  “They give you meds for the pain?”

  Hancock takes a vial of pills from his pocket. It’s translucent amber, with a white plastic cap. He holds the tube between his thumb and forefinger, rattles the contents. The bitterness and dissipation in his smile make me uncomfortable. “Oxycodone helps. And I get therapy at William Beaumont.”

  Lenson and I exchange glances.

  “See this?” Hancock extends his right foot, pointing the toe of his dress shoe at the next table. “I can extend the joint. But—I can’t flex it.”

  Hancock pulls his toes in the direction of his knee. Grits his teeth with pain. Relaxes.

  “Does the physiotherapy help,” I ask.

  “Some. It maintains muscle tone.” Hancock shakes a white pill onto the tabletop. Washes it down with a gulp of beer. “Bullet in your thigh fucks up your foot. Go figure.”

  “Can you sleep,” Lenson asks.

  “VA gives me trazodone,” Hancock says. “Fucking horse tranquilizer. Yeah, I sleep.”

  Trazodone treats insomnia—associated with severe depression. How do I know? The medics offered it to me. I tore up the prescription two minutes after walking out of the hospital. When I came home, I decided I was off pills. It sounds like Hancock is a walking pharmacy.

  “I do weed gummies,” Lenson laughs. “You should try it, dude. Sleep like a baby.”

  “Might give it a try.” Hancock looks skeptical. “The pain’s worst at night.”

  I should have refused to go into that valley. Escalated the issue through the Delta chain of command. Uncomfortable, I want to change the subject.

  “Where are Mary and Donnie?”

  “In their room.” Hancock slips the vial into his pocket. “Mary’s exhausted, we’ve been making arrangements all day. I don’t think it’s physical, she’s under a lot of strain. Can’t blame her.”

  Lenson looks up at the widescreen. The news is playing the same coverage of the New York City subway bombing. It’s on a reel. “We killed them over there so we wouldn’t have to kill them here.”

  “They’re tough,” Hancock says grimly. “And committed. They’re not going to stay over there. It’s like Whack-a-Mole.”

  “This war,” Lenson pronounces, “is ideological. It’ll last a hundred years.”

  I stare at him. “Unless we kill them all.”

  5

  Salem, 2100 Hrs Friday

  Mary Keller’s voice is gentle, but betrays her exhaustion. “It’s your bedtime, Donnie.”

  “Mom, I’m not sleepy. Can’t I stay up a bit longer with Uncle?”

  “You go on to sleep, Donnie,” I tell the boy. “I’ll be here all week. We have lots of time.”

  “I miss Dad.”

  We’re sitting in the hotel bar, sipping drinks after a long day. Donnie has finished his Shirley Temple, a 7-Up with cherry juice. Drowsy, he fights to stay awake.

  “Come on, Donnie.” I get up and pat his back. “I’ll take you to bed. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  I look to Mary. “He got a room key?”

  Mary fishes in her bag and holds a key card out to me. “Use mine.”

  The number 312 has been stenciled on the plastic. I leave Mary with Lenson and Hancock. Usher Donnie to the elevator.

  The lounge is one of two converted parlors on either side of the front desk. The other is the restaurant. Above the bar hangs a widescreen. It is tuned to the news, but the sound has been turned off. Instead, captions for the hearing impaired scroll across the bottom of the screen.

  We all attended Keller’s wedding. The squadron wore full dress uniforms. The arch of swords is normally performed at officer weddings. Lenson took charge of borrowing a set of swords from t
he drill detachment at Fort Bragg.

  After the ceremony, Dan and Mary emerged from the JFK Memorial Chapel. Two rows of Deltas raised their swords in an arch over the couple’s heads. The couple walked under the arch. Mary’s long blond hair shone in the sun, and her cheeks glowed. She was just twenty-two, beaming with the rosy blush of youth. At the end of the walk, Lenson and I lowered our swords to block their path. Mary looked surprised and Keller grinned.

  “Give that man a kiss,” Hancock yelled.

  Mary melted into Keller’s arms, and they kissed like there would be no tomorrow.

  Lenson and I lifted our swords. “Welcome to Delta, ma’am,” I said.

  I push the button for the elevator, and the doors hiss open. Donnie and I get in and I push number three. The doors suck shut on the image of Mary, Lenson, and Hancock sitting around a table in the lounge.

  “Uncle Breed.” Donnie stares at me. The boy has his father’s features. In ten years, he will look exactly like Keller. Will he follow in his father’s footsteps. For this boy, everything is possible.

  “Yes, Donnie.”

  “Mom told me Dad died in an accident.”

  Trapped in a steel box with a merciless eight-year-old.

  Donnie’s voice is matter-of-fact. “That’s not true, is it?”

  Should I tell the truth or back up Mary’s lie. “No, Donnie. It isn’t.”

  Donnie blinks back tears. “Don’t tell Mom I know.”

  “Okay.” I let out a breath.

  We get off on three and follow the signs to 312. I slide the card into the key slot and turn the handle. The door opens.

  Donnie says, “Are they going to find who did it?”

  “I don’t know. They’re trying.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Breed.” Donnie steps into the room and turns to face me. “I’ll be okay now.”

  “Goodnight, Donnie.”

  “Good night.”

  The door closes and the lock clicks.

  I walk to the elevator. Think of Keller and Mary cutting their wedding cake with a ceremonial sword. Serving each other the first slice.

  I feel like shit. By the time I get back to the lounge, I want to punch somebody.

  “Donnie’s exhausted,” Mary says.

  “He’ll be fine.” I hand Mary her key card. Collapse into my chair and stare at my beer. Right now a bottle of Bourbon would better suit my mood.

  Lenson and Hancock exchange glances. After years watching each other’s back, we’ve become sensitive to each other. For years, we spent more time together than with our own families.

  The sooner I finish my beer, the sooner I can order something else. I drain the glass in one long gulp.

  I stick my head up, catch the bartender’s eye, and wave him over.

  “Double Bourbon,” I tell him. “Maker’s Mark if you have it.”

  The bartender smiles. “I’m sure we do.”

  I watch him walk to the bar. On the other side of the lounge, an attractive woman is staring at me. Slim, dark-haired, serious eyes. Polite, not embarrassed, she looks away.

  “You know,” Mary says, “I always feared Dan would be killed over there.”

  “Don’t you hate the army,” Hancock asks.

  “No.” Mary shakes her head. “Of course I wanted Dan to come home. But if he wanted to stay in the army, I would have supported him one hundred percent. I told him that. He wanted to come back.”

  “I know,” I tell her.

  “I was prepared for him to be shot while he was in the army.” Mary looks helpless. “It’s part of a soldier’s job. Getting shot is not part of a rancher’s job. Not this century.”

  The bartender brings my Bourbon, and I drink half. Fight the urge to buy the whole bottle.

  Lenson and Hancock look thirsty.

  “Did Dan have enemies,” I ask.

  Mary shakes her head. “Dan worked hard and was fair to everyone. The only enemies he had were over there.”

  Keller respected the Taliban and Al Qaeda. About the enemy, we had spoken many times. Delta were the best warriors the United States could field. Sent to kill fighters as committed to their ideology as we were to ours. Combat was simple. We met the best the opposition could send and put them down. Sometimes, they put one of us down. That was the merciless calculus of war.

  “Did Dan mention seeing strangers on the ranch?” Hancock asks.

  “I’ve been through this with the sheriff,” Mary says. “Dan never mentioned strangers. Certainly not illegals. He would have told me if he had. Larry and Bo say the same thing.”

  The names are unfamiliar to me. “Your ranch hands?”

  “Yes. The sheriff spoke with them. They’re staying on. I need them more than ever.”

  Mary’s voice trails off. Distracted, she stares at the wall. I straighten in my chair, prepared for her to break down.

  Instead, Mary folds her hands in her lap. “It’s my bedtime,” she says. Looks at Hancock. “We have things to do in the morning, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” Hancock says. “Some loose ends, but things are under control. It won’t take long.”

  Mary stands up. “Be that as it may, I should get some sleep.”

  The three of us stand politely.

  “Good night,” Mary says.

  We watch Mary walk to the elevator. Her body is lean and straight, her walk sure-footed. A soldier’s wife.

  I turn to Lenson and Hancock. Exhale through puffed cheeks. “Fuck this,” I say. Signal the bartender to bring us the bottle of Bourbon.

  The thin brunette is nowhere to be seen.

  6

  Salem, 0900 Hrs Saturday

  Sheriff Garrick is a classic West Texas lawman. Fifty-five years old, lean and leathery. He wears a Stetson, cowboy boots, and dark tan pants. His sheriff’s star is pinned over his left shirt pocket. His mustache is neatly trimmed. A tan man in a tan country.

  Men like Garrick haven’t changed in a hundred and fifty years. The only modern thing about him is the nine millimeter Glock he wears on his right hip. Garrick wears the holster high. Policing a town like Salem, I doubt he’s ever drawn the weapon.

  “County lab’s done with the truck,” he drawls. Holds the keys out to Lenson.

  Lenson accepts the keys. “Did they find anything?”

  Garrick shakes his head. “No. Come on, I’ll walk you over.”

  The Salem police station is small. Enough for Garrick, two deputies, and an administrative assistant who doubles as dispatcher. The sheriff’s office is at the rear. There is a public service counter for the dispatcher to sit behind, and a desk for each deputy. The dispatcher is a young woman in her thirties. One of the deputies, a clean-cut man in his twenties, sits at a desk, filling out paperwork.

  “Where did they find Keller,” I ask.

  “Keller owns a small spread.” Garrick leads us out the back way, and we step into the sunlight. “About ten thousand acres. Started out with three thousand, bought more. We found him right in the middle.”

  Ten thousand acres is over fifteen square miles.

  “In the middle.”

  “Middle of nowhere.”

  There are three vehicles in the parking lot. A Ford Police Interceptor with a light bar stands next to an open-topped Jeep CJ-5. The Jeep has a Winchester 94 lever-action rifle clamped vertically in the front cab. The CJ-5 is an old model, long out of production, but the vehicle is well maintained. I’m guessing it’s Garrick’s Jeep. He’s probably owned it most of his life.

  My attention is drawn to the Ford F-150 two-door pickup parked across from the other two. It’s been washed down. Drops of water glisten on its surface. They are evaporating in the heat. A good thing. The sun, shining through the water droplets, might damage the truck’s glossy red paint.

  Garrick and Lenson go to the cab, and Lenson opens the driver’s door. I circle the truck and study the vehicle. A four-wheel drive, it’s built for farm and ranch work. An eight-foot bed. Thirty-five-inch tires, eighteen-inch wheels, and six inch
es of lift. A glossy black grille protector and five-liter V8 engine. A practical, no-nonsense truck for a practical, no-nonsense man.

  “Was he killed in the truck,” I ask, “or outside.”

  “Outside.” Garrick turns to me, hands on hips. “No blood in the truck. None in the bed. None on the outside. Lab went over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Mounted on a rack in the cab, a high-powered rifle and shotgun hang within easy reach. I know them well. “Either of those fired?”

  “Neither one.” Garrick shakes his head. “Your friend was shot once in the chest with a pistol. Difficult to determine the caliber.”

  I open the passenger door. No frills in the cab. The showroom model would have had bucket seats. Those have been replaced by a long, nylon-upholstered bench that seats three. The kind of modification a practical farmer or rancher would make. Nylon surfaces are easy to wipe down if muddy. Or bloody.

  “Lab go over the interior with luminol?”

  “The works.” Garrick’s laconic drawl betrays a hint of offense. “There was no blood in the truck.”

  The pickup has a standard instrument panel, air-conditioning, and a wide glove compartment. I turn my attention to the gun rack.

  The rifle is a World War I eight millimeter Mauser. Bolt-action. Keller bought it for two hundred dollars. I was with him when he sporterized it. Welded on a larger bolt handle, re-barreled the weapon, customized the stock. The Ernst Apel mount allows the scope to be swung out of the way of stripper clips. He shot half-minute of angle groups with this rifle at eight hundred yards. The scope is a 3.5-10x variable power optic. Keller kept the weapon in pristine condition.

  I take the rifle from the rack and jack open the bolt. The rifle’s empty. Keller kept his weapons clean, except for an optimal layer of copper fouling he left in the barrel. He knew a freshly cleaned barrel never fired true. Rifles are always most accurate with a certain amount of fouling. The regular army has strict cleaning routines. Delta allows its operators latitude to optimize cleaning for best results.

 

‹ Prev