Wild Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 6)
Page 1
Wild Fire
A Hawk Tate Novel
Dustin Stevens
Contents
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part III
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Part IV
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Part V
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Epilogue
Thank You For Reading
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About the Author
Wild Fire, A Hawk Tate Novel
Copyright © 2019, Dustin Stevens
Cover Art and Design: Paramita Bhattacharjee, www.creativeparamita.com
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
The past will always come back to haunt
you. Whether it is to teach a lesson,
remind you of forgotten feelings,
or just to be a bitch.
—Rosen
When you are right no one remembers.
When you are wrong no one forgets.
—Proverb
Prologue
Eight years.
Eight years had passed since I last looked at the man sitting across from me. Since I peered into those dark brown eyes, malevolence burning so strong they appeared almost black.
The time since had certainly brought about some changes. The hair that was uniformly dark and shorn down close had grown out a bit, revealing the gray now threaded along either temple. The front edge of it had receded a half-inch up his forehead.
The face that was full and youthful in his late thirties had now grown lean and angular, the throes of middle age and whatever horrors he’d been subjected to since our last encounter both readily apparent.
But the eyes - the hatred they possessed, the way they settled into a glare as he stared across at me - that much was unchanged.
As were the feelings that bubbled up within me as I met his gaze, staring directly back at him.
“Tate,” he muttered, his expression revealing the word to taste like acid on his tongue. “The Hawk. The one that got away.”
Seated upright in his high-backed leather chair, his entire upper body listed heavily to the side, contorted by his left arm reaching across his torso. Pressed tight into the soft flesh above his hip, he was fighting a losing battle to stem the flow of blood steadily working outward against his white linen suit.
In just the few minutes I’d been standing there, already the underlying stain had grown beyond the reach of his fingers. A couple more, and it would begin to sap his energy, his systems flagging, going into preservation mode.
Not that I had any intention of letting it get that far.
Doing so being a fate much, much kinder than this man deserved.
“El Jefe,” I replied, letting him hear the derision in my voice, both for him and the title he so ardently insisted on being called.
In my previous life, I spent more than half a decade chasing men just like him. People that gave themselves some unfounded moniker and then tried like hell to convince everyone around them that they deserved it.
That because someone referred to them in a certain way, it had to be true.
“So you remember?”
Of course, I remembered. I remembered the day his file first crossed our desk and the months we spent tracking and researching him. The sleepless nights running surveillance, and the evening we finally put an end to it all.
All memories from a different life. Things that I wished I hadn’t been a part of, could banish from my mind forever.
Things that I had thought of incessantly for the last week, since the moment they were forced back to the fore, crashing down on me like a wave.
“Yes,” I replied, the front tip of my weapon never wavering, extended straight out from my shoulder, hanging above the desk separating us. Shifting my hips, I turned and slowly circled around to the side of it, my footfalls landing heavy against the hardwood floor beneath me. “I remember.”
Using his heel, the man spun his chair to match my movement, both of our gazes remaining fixed, our focus never once shifting.
A thin sliver of a smile creased his face, white teeth flashing beneath dark skin.
“So you also remember the question I posed to you that night?”
For a moment, my only response was the echo of my heels as I marched out the last couple of steps, clearing any barrier that might have separated us.
Not until I stood square to him, sizing him up, did I bother to respond.
“Yeah. And do remember my response?”
Part One
Chapter One
Normally, such a trip would require that Junior Ruiz be put into full walking restrain
ts. His hands and feet would both be linked together by standard handcuffs, neither able to be separated by more than a foot at any given time.
Constricting him even further would be a chain wrapped around his waist, keeping his hands pinned by his hips before extending down and connecting to the short tether between his ankles.
The human equivalent of hobbles on a horse, ensuring that his total range of motion was no more than a few inches.
Trying to throw a punch would be foolhardy, telegraphing his intentions, bringing about unwanted attention from the guards flanking him. Running would be completely out of the question, brisk shuffling being the best he could hope for.
These were far from normal conditions, though.
And it wasn’t like he was going far.
Bound only by a pair of manacles around either wrist, Ruiz walked between a pair of guards. Both the size of smallish NFL offensive linemen, they kept one hand attached to either elbow, their gazes aimed outward, scanning the area.
With each step their breathing seemed to grow louder, accentuating the sounds of their belts straining beneath the combined weight of their tools tugging downward and their enormous girth pressing outward.
One black and the other white, Ruiz knew both of them by sight the instant they had appeared in front of his cell. Saying nothing, warned not to draw any more attention than necessary, they had arrived and given a simple tap against the bars before stepping back.
Expecting their arrival, Ruiz had done what was expected without objection, rising and thrusting his hands through the slit in the front of his cage.
Their fourth such appearance in the last two weeks, Ruiz’s cellmate – a small, squirrely kid with buzzed red hair and a nervous tic named Burris – had barely looked up from the magazine he was flipping through.
Glancing to either guard in turn, he had gone back to the outdated issue of Car Trader, pretending to be interested in the going rate on a rebuilt engine for a 1985 Camaro.
Exactly as Ruiz had told him to.
Popping the door open just long enough to slide through, they had locked it back immediately in his wake. Moving faster than he would have thought possible a week before, they made a point of making very little noise, settling into their respective positions to lead him forward.
Positions they still maintained now ten minutes later as they marched deep within the underbelly of United States Prison Lompoc. Far removed from the traditional meeting rooms up on the main level, gone were any windows or cameras. Also missing were the traditional tile floors and bright lighting that was meant to put on a display for visitors, this underworld a sea of gray.
Nothing but concrete block and steel bars, everything left bare.
Forced to give his best guess, Ruiz would speculate they were two or three floors below ground. The air temperature was cooler, the smell of mildew in the air.
Not that he minded in the slightest.
Especially not given the information he was being summoned to receive.
Down here, deep within the confines of the facility, Ruiz abandoned his usual posture. He didn’t keep his head on a swivel, always aware of who might be lurking nearby, anxious to take a swipe at him.
Walking on with shoulders square, he stared straight ahead, almost daring one of the yard punks to appear before him.
Moving in complete silence, the trio marched on for more than two hundred yards. To either side, doors of various colors and textures filed past, their contents a mystery Ruiz didn’t have the slightest interest in trying to decipher.
Not once did the crew slow their pace, going on to the same destination as the previous three meetings before the white guard on the right squeezed his elbow. Just strong enough to get his attention, Ruiz slowed his pace accordingly as the man peeled to the side.
Pulling up in front of a plain slate gray door, he raised his balled fist and thumped twice on it. The echo of the blow traversed the length of the hall, joining the faint hiss of the exposed pipework above before receding.
All of it nothing more than theater, the kind of thing the bastards Ruiz had first been called to meet with weeks before insisted on performing.
The sort of thing that was fast growing old, no matter how enticing the carrot they were here to dangle might appear.
In the wake of the knock, the guard stood with features screwed up, his body turned to the side. Head aimed downward, he flicked a gaze to Ruiz and the second guard, all three waiting in silence.
Until, finally, a single voice called out from the opposite side, ordering them to enter.
Chapter Two
Kaylan Quick passed the edge of the white cloth napkin from one hand to the next three inches at a time, moving until she made it to one corner before shifting ninety degrees and starting over. One time after another, she bunched and straightened the linen grasped between her fists, her eyes wide, taking in everything around us.
A look I had decidedly never seen on the woman before.
And one - I had to confess - I couldn’t help but find a bit humorous.
“Everything alright?” I asked, letting her see the bemusement on my face as she flicked her gaze back to me.
Leaving it there only a moment, she replied with a simple, “Hawk,” before again giving the place a onceover.
The name of the restaurant was The Smokehouse, the newest spot in a town that some publications were saying was fast trying to make itself a player in the burgeoning domestic staycation industry. A direct result of the influx of expansion dollars flowing into the area surrounding Yellowstone Park.
Or so said the online article I had read two days prior after asking Google to recommend a good steakhouse in West Yellowstone.
If left to my own devices, I would have been fine with the hole-in-the-wall spot we went to for lunch on days I was in the office. Or even one of the chain restaurants on the south end of town.
Never let it be said that I am a slave to pretension.
“Okay, what’s wrong?” Kaylan asked. Forcing the napkin down flat atop her thighs with both hands, she fixed her gaze on me, blue eyes opened wide. Atop her head, a mess of curls was piled high, blonde hair contrasting against the cranberry sweater she wore.
Feeling the smile on my face grow a bit larger, I asked, “Why does anything have to be wrong?”
Lifting one hand, she motioned to the scene around us, sputtering twice, attempting to find the words.
Not that she needed to. Already, I knew what she was hinting at, the two of us glaringly out of place, the bevy of sideways glances we were receiving making sure that much was known.
The website for the restaurant had merely stated that it specialized in locally sourced meats and produce. What they seemed to have omitted was that meant organic Angus products. Beef and bison steaks cut to more than an inch thick. Side dishes that were ordered standalone, rather than being part of the dinner.
All served on custom China by waiters and waitresses wearing vests and ties.
A harsh contrast to Kaylan and her curls, me and my beard, both of us wearing jeans and boots.
“Are you dying?” she asked, ignoring my question.
A couple of months ago, I had been shot while across the country in Tennessee helping my niece. In the moment, it had been painful as hell, even requiring a brief stay in the hospital to put together some of the underlying soft tissue. Immediately thereafter, the rehab had been cumbersome, and the Montana cold hadn’t done any favors, but for the most part everything was back to normal.
“No more than yesterday,” I replied.
Not seeming to appreciate my response, Kaylan’s nostrils flared slightly. Leaning forward at the waist, she shot back, “Am I being fired?”
As a partner in the guide business I founded less than two miles from where we were now seated, I wasn’t sure if that was even possible. For a variety of reasons, not the least of which being Kaylan was a whiz with all the things I hated.
Marketing. Outreach. Websites.
&n
bsp; Customer interaction.
“Never.”
“Are we shutting down?” she fired back, undeterred.
“No ma’am,” I replied.
It was clear from the expression on her face that there was no less than a dozen follow-up questions she wanted to ask. Reasons we were now sitting where we were, what it could mean, her mind trying to wrap itself around the oddity of the moment.
“Are we,” she asked, crinkle lines forming around her eyes as she lowered her voice, “on a date?”