by Jeff Carson
“Want a ride?”
“Not today,” Wolf said. “There's too much happening here this weekend for me to go killing more time running around with you.”
Luke nodded and smiled. “Well, maybe you’ll give me a call when things let up?”
Wolf smiled. “That sounds good.”
Luke nodded again and turned around. “Okay, I’ll let you get back to your—” She spun around on her heels. “Hey, wait. I almost forgot. You’re a complete asshole.”
Wolf peaked his eyebrows. “And why is that?”
“I just met your son inside, and that picture you showed me, that night you almost ran me off the road? That wasn’t your son. That kid in the picture was younger and had black hair. Totally different looking.”
Wolf squinted. “Oh yeah, that was Wilson’s kid. He has a ton of pictures all over his desk.”
Luke grinned ear-to-ear and then turned around. “On second thought, don’t call me.”
Wolf watched her swaying hips as she walked down the sidewalk toward her Tahoe.
“I’ll come over and we can have a beer again,” he said.
Luke popped open her door and stepped one foot inside. She stopped and looked him up and down, then covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.
“What?” Wolf’s face dropped.
“I was just thinking about the last time you came over for a beer.”
Wolf stood dumbly. “You’re thinking about me naked.”
She whipped her head to the sky and climbed in. “You’re trouble, David Wolf,” she said, and shut the door.
Chapter 55
Wolf stood alone in a vast park in Aspen, sweating through the armpits of his T-shirt. Alone, yet surrounded by tens of attentive parents and over a hundred scrambling pre- and post-pubescent kids in full football gear. It was mid-July, without a breath of wind, in the mountains of Colorado, which meant it was dry and hot—not good weather for full pads. Despite the skin-scorching sun, the two-day football camp was scheduled to end in authentic fashion, and so it did for all age groups—with a full-length scrimmage, with referees and everything.
Wolf couldn’t help but think back on that fateful night for the thousandth time since, and Jack and Wolf’s conversation. Though Jack still hadn’t grown a lick since then—it had only been a month—Wolf felt somehow more assured for his son’s safety. Then again, as he watched three of the largest kids on the opposite team lumber onto the field, he decided he could have been jumping the gun.
“Your son on black or yellow?” a female voice asked from a few feet away.
Wolf turned and saw an attractive woman hanging on the muscular arms of a tan, gold-adorned man behind her.
“Yellow,” Wolf said.
The man and woman turned back to the field without a response. Black.
Wolf studied the happy-looking couple for a moment and then turned back to the field. He couldn’t help it; the sight of the big guy draping his arms around that beautiful woman had him thinking of Sarah and Mark. Again. Mark, and his unshakable presence in their lives—and apparently Wolf’s thoughts. Not that Wolf was necessarily trying to shake him—mentally or physically. Not that Wolf didn’t appreciate the help and the positive influence in Sarah’s life. After all, Mark was keeping her straight and healthy. And happy. Hell, Mark had even driven Jack the hour and a half to this football camp when Wolf had been stuck at work the day before.
Wolf supposed that if he hadn’t had Special Agent Kristen Luke as a prospect in his life at the moment, he’d be a hell of a lot more depressed when he saw big guys with beautiful women on their arms. But Luke was a prospect. They’d enjoyed dinner together on a few occasions in the past month. It was clear they liked each other’s company, and it was more lately discovered that they were extremely compatible in other ways.
Wolf couldn’t help but smile a little and exhale as he daydreamed about their recent date. It was a shame she was so close, just thirty minutes up the road, but couldn’t make it down to visit.
A month later, she was still wrapping up the case—their case. Apparently, some bigwigs from DC had flown in earlier that day, and she was debriefing them on one of the more high-profile crimes the mountains of Colorado had seen in over thirty years.
Looking into the lives of the McCalls was turning out to be quite a candle-burner for Luke and the FBI. Forensic accountants had uncovered that Adam and Tyler McCall not only jointly owned the Mountain Goat Bar and Grill, but had been deeply involved in the distribution and sale of cocaine and marijuana in the valley Wolf stood in at the moment. The McCalls had been millionaires before the gold, and had apparently used Sergeant McCall’s position of authority to keep suspicion off themselves.
The fact that they’d run a cop and FBI bar as a front establishment was turning out to be an embarrassing and unrelenting topic in the local papers, which were raising questions about the effectiveness of law enforcement and local FBI. The illegal drug underground was another hot topic in print—just where they burrowed, and whether there were more corrupt men of authority, and, if so, where. Wolf had to admit being intrigued by it all and was keeping up with the news with the rest of the population.
Luke was compounding her own work by ruffling buzz cuts, trying to get someone in the army to help her look for her brother’s body in Tora Bora. It wasn’t working, and Wolf found there was little in the way of his contacts either. All he could do was point to the mounting evidence that Brian Richter had been killed, completely detaching him from the whole incident, and console her.
“Set, hut! Hut!” The field of boys broke into a swarm of movement and ground to a halt after the whistle, with half the kids ending up in a pile.
Wolf took a deep breath and searched through the kids for Jack. He was a good head shorter than most, but zoomed around the field and was easy to spot.
Just a heartbeat of panic hit him, wondering whether he’d done the right thing by convincing Sarah that Jack was ready, despite his size. But Wolf was sure of it—he would be okay. He’d seen Jack get through hell, albeit with a healthy dose of fear, but with zero hesitation and a clearer head than a few soldiers Wolf had served with. Jack could take care of himself, and Wolf didn’t want to deny his son something that made him so happy.
“Hut!” Grunts and the dull plastic thud of helmets filled the air, and then the thump of cleats as two wide receivers and their defensive counterparts flew by, sending a swirl of wind into Wolf.
Just when the chaos behind the line of scrimmage looked to be collapsing into another heap of motionless bodies, a tight spiral sailed into the blue sky.
Wolf watched the trajectory of the pass and flicked his eyes to where it would land—smack into a group of players with black jerseys. One huge defensive player shuffled backwards, and may as well have been licking his lips as he eyed the ball, while another tall kid slowed his trot to get underneath the ill-aimed pass. The ball dropped lower, and before it reached the group of defensemen with outstretched arms, a yellow jersey streaked in and bounced out of the sea of black, snagged the ball with two hands, twisted, and dipped down out of sight.
A barrage of shouting erupted from the sidelines, and the black jerseys began dropping like dominos as they tripped over themselves and mowed into one another, trying desperately to catch Jack, who was now sprinting his way past defenders, down the line of orange cones, and into the end zone.
Jack dropped the ball and gave some of his teammates five, ignoring the slaps on his helmet, acting like it was just another touchdown, like he was used to it.
“Damn, that kid’s got some skills,” the man next to Wolf said, still gripping the woman tight.
Wolf made eye contact with Jack and nodded, unable to hold back his smile anymore. “Yeah,” he said. “He does.”
THE END
Deadly Conditions
David Wolf Book 4
Chapter 1
The man leaned over the wheel, squinting through the windshield as another powdery gust of wind hit the si
de of his truck.
All he saw was a swarm of snowflakes illuminated by his headlights, and he felt his eyeballs twitch back and forth as he tried desperately to get his bearings. When he instinctively let off the gas, the truck lurched and stuttered, rocking him in the seat. He kicked the clutch and downshifted to first, and then he felt the truck meander to the side, though to which side was impossible to tell.
It was useless trying to orient himself. Like looking through the eyepiece of a twisting kaleidoscope. Just as he was about to stomp the brakes, the whiteout let up and the two pinpoints of red light flitted back into view on the otherwise deserted county road ahead.
Dammit. He turned the wheel left and got back into the twin ruts in the snow he’d been following, hoping to God they were somewhere near the center and safe from drainage ditches, roadside boulders, and anything else hidden under the blanket of ever-thickening white that could derail his plans.
County 15 was a desolate, winding dirt thoroughfare with steep drops off the left shoulder in a few spots. Houses were few and far between. If a driver got in trouble here, it was a long walk to get help, and an even longer one in weather like this—overall a stupid place to be driving tonight.
He was waiting for his quarry to call it quits, turn around, and coast back down the hill before the deepening drifts stranded them. Maybe they would take the girl back to one of their places or go to a hotel or something.
He looked at his watch—11:26 p.m., Saturday night, on the eve of surely the biggest powder day on the mountain in years. Fat chance of getting a hotel room. Out-of-town skiers on the mountain today would have sensed the opportunity and snatched up any vacancies after the big gala.
What a night to have a big event on the mountain, he thought with a shake of his head. It was going to be mayhem for people getting back down the gondola and to their homes and hotel rooms.
He scratched his nose and grasped the wheel with a two-hand white-knuckle grip. The defroster howled, blowing hot air on the highest setting against the windshield. Regardless of the wipers’ speed, an immovable arc of water remained on the glass. The red taillights ahead illuminated it, and it reminded him of oozing fresh blood.
For the past day he’d seen red, and the way this girl was acting was only driving him madder as the seconds ticked by. Picking up two men in the span of half an hour? She’d simultaneously proven herself a bigger whore than he’d already thought and killed his entire plan in one slutty move.
He shook his head and gripped the wheel even tighter, and then spat onto the floor of the passenger seat and growled aloud. He’d never felt more disgust with any human beings than with those conniving behind the scenes of Rocky Points.
Well, he’d felt a similar disgust once before. And that? That had ended badly. Was he going to remember anything after this? Or was he going to wake up in blood again? The thought made him nervous and his hands were slick on the wheel.
Because the memory of his first time was buried deep in the cave of his mind and he didn’t have a map to find it, he knew this was going to be like his first time all over again. It had to be done. He would not fail. He turned the heater knob down and the cab quieted. The digital clock changed to 11:30. This was looking to be futile. They were going to her house, if they could make the last mile, and then what? It was sure to be full of roommates, and the neighbors who lived in that line of six houses in the middle of nowhere, and no opportunity. The driver bared his teeth and shook his head.
Ahead, the taillights rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. All he could see was the thick curtain of swollen flakes flying into the lights, the windshield and the twin tire grooves.
Damn, it was deep, he thought, looking to the left and barely seeing the trees in the forest. The snow had started at sundown, and really ramped up after nine. By the looks of the ruts, at least twenty inches had accumulated already, and the storm was still coming in full force.
Enough was enough. He should quit and get back home while he could. He started scanning for the widest part of the road to turn around.
Ahead, the lights flared red and he jammed his foot down on his own brake. The truck had stopped.
He shut off his headlights and the chaotic scene outside went black. He squinted and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Finally, he could see the twin grooves running up the road, disappearing into a television-static night, and then the faint lights of the motionless truck.
It was almost impossible to see—the snow and wind were relentless—but he swore that the cab light flicked on and then off. The tail lights shone as the truck backed and K-turned, and then the truck’s headlights were coming straight at him.
His pulse jumped as he considered his next play. He flicked on his headlights and shifted into first. His knobby tires spun briefly and then caught. He shifted into second, following the tracks ahead. Less than a minute later the truck’s headlamps glared into his cab as it passed. He squinted and held up his hand to cover his face, figuring the truck’s occupants might be pressed against their windows and wondering who in their right mind was out in this weather along with them.
He sighed and looked in his rearview mirror. The taillights disappeared around the corner without braking.
It was over, he decided. He followed the ruts to the point where the truck had turned around. There was no sense breaking new ground and risking falling over the edge of the road, sitting in a snowdrift overnight, and possibly dying for his carelessness.
As he drove, he tested the high beams. Visibility was worse, so he shut them off.
He leaned forward again and squinted. When he’d flicked off his lights, he could have sworn he’d glimpsed a dark figure along the right shoulder several yards ahead.
He blinked rapidly, then squinted again. And when the shape moved, his pulse jumped. It was a person.
“Holy shit,” he whispered to himself, and sat up straighter in his seat.
It was her. There was no mistake. She was waving, and then she held up a gloved thumb.
The man swallowed, letting his brain process the opportunity standing in front of him. His mission, melting away moments ago, had now dropped in his lap, and he found himself wondering what to do.
He slowed down and stopped next to her. Before he knew it, her face had filled the passenger window. As she pressed against the glass and peered inside, the driver opened up the center console, grabbed the gun’s rough plastic handle, and pulled it out.
If he shot her when she opened the door, would he black out and wake up a few hours later? Just sitting in a car, engine running, door open, and a bloody corpse lying nearby, waiting for early-morning plows to discover them? Was he even conscious now? Was he dreaming?
His breathing was frantic, and his skin tingled as sweat glands opened up all over his body.
She pounded on the window and yelled something too muffled to hear.
He clicked the lock and she opened the door. The dome light went on and a blast of snow and cold swirled into the cab as she bent inside. He tucked the revolver in between his legs way too late, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Hey, it’s you! What the hell are you doing up here? Don’t answer, I don’t care. Can I get a ride?”
“Yeah, get in,” he said. His voice sounded a mile away in his own ears. He reached into the center console again, pulled out his leather gloves, and put them on.
She jumped up onto the seat butt-first and knocked her feet together out the door to drop off the snow, and then twisted into the chair and shut the door.
The cab was suddenly filled with her sniffling and breathing and a flowery scent. She pulled off her wool hat, flipping snow all over the dashboard.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Shit. Thank God you’re up here. Oh, man … do you think you can get up the rest of this hill to my house? Do you know where I live?”
The driver stared at her and smiled. Or was he sneering? He couldn’t tell.
She looked at him and frowned. “Are you okay
?” she asked.
The driver picked up the revolver and pointed it at her face.
“Oh, God!” She twisted and grabbed for the handle, and then put her hands up and shut her eyes. “Please. Please. Don’t hurt me. What are you doing?”
“You know you killed her, right?”
“What?” she said, still cowering against the door. “What?”
Every muscle in his body tensed as rage overtook him.
“Unzip your coat,” he said, flipping on the cab light.
Her eyes were wild and wide, pupils tiny, mascara running down her cheeks. She nodded profusely. “Yeah, okay,” she said, fumbling to take off her gloves. At first, she moved quickly to unzip her jacket. Then she looked up at him as if a sudden brainstorm had given her an idea, and she slowed down, arching her back a little and taking a calming breath. “Yeah, let’s get comfortable.”
He set his jaw and inhaled deeply to contain his rage. It figured this whore would think if she puts out, he would punch her ticket out of this. He kept his aim steady and pulled up on the emergency brake, shifted into neutral, and let up his feet from the clutch and brake.
“Now pull open your jacket with both hands, and pull it down your back, and push out your boobs again.”
She smiled and gave him a wink, and then slowly did as she was told.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted his chair all the way back, watching her closely. She was now sitting with her hands effectively wrapped against her sides, but he would need to make sure she couldn’t fight back, so he put the gun to her head and climbed on top of her, and then put his knees on her arms.
She gave him a smile and closed her eyes, trying to look like she was enjoying it, unconvincingly so.
He dropped the gun on the driver’s side seat and grasped her neck. First, he just gripped her and started squeezing. And then she started to squirm.