Barely registering any of it, I kept my focus straight ahead, the cruise control set as I moved on.
It’s natural for someone to feel a strong affinity for the people that they directly worked with. To perhaps place them on a pedestal, using the crucible of intense shared experience to impart a status on them that wasn’t quite earned.
I knew that. I wasn’t boorish enough to believe that my experiences were tremendously different from thousands of other servicemen in various branches. That my judgement was somehow beyond reproach compared to theirs.
But I also knew that of the multitude of people I had encountered in my time in both the DEA and the Navy, Shawn Martin was one of the good ones. The top whatever percent. The type of guy that as much I might have hated the thought of my daughter one day dating, I would have hoped would be the one she brought home to meet us.
Same for his wife. And - I imagine - their kids, barely more than babies when I last saw them.
Even if nobody had shown up at my office the night before, I couldn’t imagine any of the Martins to have been dabbling in anything illicit. To have crossed paths with anybody that might be willing to go to these lengths.
It all had to go back to our service in the Administration.
The only questions were who and why now, after all this time.
Exactly ten hours after rolling out of West Yellowstone, nothing more than a duffel bag and a gun case in hand, I pulled into the town of Snoqualmie. Dragging my phone over onto my lap, I called the navigational system back to life, raising the volume.
Following the instructions of the bossy automaton, I rolled past a small and quaint downtown. On the edge of it, I again stopped for gas, not knowing what the coming hours might hold and wanting to be prepared for anything.
In addition, I once more loaded up on a plastic sack of groceries. Protein bars and granola and Gatorade, easy fuel sources that could be eaten while driving if need be.
And the largest coffee the place sold.
Five minutes after that, I was back behind the wheel. My stomach too tight to even consider food, I left the sack in the passenger foot well. The coffee I took down in long pulls, starting to become faintly cognizant of the fact that I had just missed an entire night’s sleep.
Something that would have likely been more apparent if not for the cocktail of adrenaline and confusion that had been powering my mind for the better part of a day and counting.
“In a quarter mile, turn left.”
Doing as instructed, I took a narrow two-lane into thick forest. On either side, overgrown pine forest pushed in tight, almost blotting the afternoon sky from view.
“Your destination will arrive in one half mile.”
Prickly heat rose to my face and back as I followed the instructions. Pushing the coffee into the middle console, I leaned forward.
Gripping the wheel tight in both hands, I steeled myself for whatever lay ahead.
Chapter Twenty-Five
According to the address Pally gave me and the visual on the screen of my phone, the Martin home sat back more than a quarter mile off the road. Accessible via an asphalt drive carved from the forest, it shot out from the road I was on at a ninety-degree angle. Visible for less than fifteen yards, it disappeared into a hard turn, effectively leaving anybody driving by with a view of nothing but dense trees.
That part didn’t surprise me. It would have been one of a thousand tiny details Martin undertook to ensure his family’s safety.
It wasn’t like the man would bring them all this way out here only to have the place sitting right on the road, a neon sign flashing their name resting atop the mailbox.
What did surprise me was the cruiser sitting at the mouth of the drive.
Or, more aptly, the young deputy standing in the middle of the drive as I approached. Dressed in dark tan slacks and a matching winter jacket, a flat-brimmed hat was pulled low on his head.
Beneath it, red hair peeked out, offset by a thin moustache and pale skin.
Opie Taylor, in the flesh and all grown up.
At most, he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. The youngest man in the office, assigned to the worst possible detail.
Pushing down a handful of smart remarks, I unlatched my door and stepped out. Moving slow, I was careful to keep my hands visible at all times.
My gaze remained fixed on the young man as I did so. Even with the better part of twenty yards separating us, I couldn’t help but note his rigid posture and the way his upper body twisted to the side, hand inching back toward his hip.
“Good afternoon,” I said. Not wanting to trend into levity, I was sure to keep my tone even, my voice loud enough to be easily understood.
The young man flicked his gaze over me and the truck. “Afternoon.”
“My name is Hawk Tate, I was a friend of the deceased,” I said. Pausing, I added, “Served with him in the Air Force, long time ago.”
Of the original team, Martin was the only one that had been in the Air Force. I was a Navy guy, Diggs a Delta operator with the Army.
Not that there was any way this kid could know that. Or that it really even mattered, the point of the statement to build camaraderie. To make the young man think we were all parts of the same circle, provide some form of equal footing, easing away a bit of the obvious trepidation he carried.
The military was something most law enforcement could identify with. Even those like this string bean, who would barely be able to stand under the weight of full field gear, wouldn’t think to say anything against former Air Force buddies.
Mentioning the DEA, however, was a different animal. The history of local and federal agencies interacting was littered with stories both sides would just as soon forget.
Considering the statement for a moment in silence, the coiled stance of the young man relaxed just slightly.
“Sorry about your friend. I didn’t know him, but my captain said he was a good guy.”
Shawn Martin was a good guy. The kind that would have made a point to find the local police captain and introduce himself. Not just the way I had with Latham, but as a genuine offer to help should the need ever arise.
“Thank you,” I replied. “He was that.”
Flicking my gaze to the drive twisting away behind the cruiser parked before me, I saw nothing but dense woods. Aside from the young officer there didn’t appear to be any signs of life, the initial crime scene crew likely having come and gone.
“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but Serra asked if I could come out and grab some things for her and the kids. They left in such a hurry after what happened...”
Whatever bit of hesitance had seeped out of the man a moment before seemed to return, his hand drawing back another quarter inch, his eyes bulging.
A stance I had to admit was fair. If standing in his shoes and a man that looked like I did showed up claiming to need access to a fresh crime scene, I would have likely reacted in the same way.
Widening my fingers just slightly, making it clear that they were empty and would remain that way, I added, “Last I talked to her, she was still at the station. Feel free to call and verify.”
The ruse was weak at best, but it was all I had. It had been years since I’d had Serra’s direct number, and I knew that any hope of getting into the house without her explicit say-so wasn’t happening.
Not without resorting to overrunning this poor kid, a prospect that wouldn’t have been an issue - even with him being the only one of us armed - but it would have created a whole host of other problems I didn’t need.
Not right now, having no idea what else I might be delving into in the near future.
That left relying on educated inference, hoping that she was still with the local police or easily accessible. And that Pally had gotten through to her earlier and told her I was on my way.
“For her and the kids?” the young man asked, his voice betraying just a hint of uncertainty.
“Yeah, the twins,”
I replied. “Stevie and Samantha.”
Cracking a thin smile, I added, “What can I say? Folks like the letter S.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The instructions on the call that morning hadn’t been explicitly clear, but that was by design. Famously paranoid, the man never said a word that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
All with good reason, as Tres Salinas was abundantly aware.
Over a phone, from a thousand miles away, every snippet was meant to be deliberately vague. It was to ensure that if anybody was listening – on either end – there would be enough wiggle room that any decent lawyer could get it tossed.
And more importantly, that nobody looking for the slightest hint of their intentions would be able to decipher them.
Not that Tres needed things to be any more obvious than they already were. The real information underlying the exchange had been shared a week earlier, before he ever left for Seattle.
If anything was to go sideways, if Tres’s counterpart was unable to complete the mission in any way, such a call would be coming. And if it did, the new goal was to snip away the loose end.
Delivered one-on-one, it was a mirror copy of the talk Tres was certain the other man sent north had gotten in the event that he fell short.
After receiving the call that morning, Tres had attempted to get a couple more hours of rest. Finding it a futile gesture, his body still too charged from the night before, his mind unable to slow down, he had risen and gone straight to the shower before heading down to breakfast.
An hour later, his stomach full and his bag packed, he had called for an early checkout.
An hour beyond that, he was already east of Seattle. Taking advantage of morning traffic heading in the opposite direction, he had set the cruise control at a conservative four miles above the speed limit.
Not wanting to give anybody any extra reason to glance at the vehicle with the out-of-town plates, he had steadily worked his way across the state. Not until he reached Spokane, just miles from the eastern border, did he stop.
Going straight to the airport, he had performed essentially the same swap he had in Seattle. Leaving his car in the long-term lot, he’d picked up a nondescript sedan with Idaho plates, the lady behind the counter barely glancing up at him as she completed the paperwork and handed over the keys.
Looking strictly at the map, going on to Bozeman would have made the most sense. Infinitely closer to his destination, he could have gotten a rental at the airport there, done what he needed to, and swapped things back when it was over.
If not for common sense, he might have even done so.
The vehicle he was currently driving was registered in California, with plates that bore out as much. Plates that didn’t raise a ton of eyebrows in Washington, but definitely would as he crossed into Idaho. Even more as he made his way across Montana.
Not exactly the best approach for trying to slip in and out of a place unnoticed.
After the week Tres had had - the long drive north, the days spent in surveillance - the trip was one of the very last things he wanted to be doing. But he understood it. He recognized the need for making a clean break, of finishing what they had set out to.
Especially given the changes that would soon be upon them.
Hours after leaving Spokane - and nearly half a day after getting the phone call in his hotel room - Tres rolled into the town of West Yellowstone. Like every other place he had been in the last week, it was his first time there, the place fitting with every preconceived notion he’d ever had.
Buildings that were made from logs with metal roofs and signs carved by chainsaws. Pickup trucks driven by guys wearing boots and cowboy hats.
Bone-numbing cold, the temperature staring up at him from the display on his dash, flashing on the roadside signs of every bank he passed.
Arriving just before dark, Tres made a slow and careful loop through town. Going just fast enough not to be noticed, he took in every detail of the small enclave, from the medical facility sitting on the western edge to the sheriff’s office just off the main drag.
The small cabin on the north end of town with crime scene tape stretched across an open doorway.
Committing it all to memory, Tres pushed north out of town as fast as he’d arrived. Knowing better than to step out, to let anybody see his face before it was absolutely vital, he leaned on the gas.
Acting now would be the polar opposite of what he’d just done in Snoqualmie. It would be hasty, and it would be sloppy.
He refused to let that happen.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I wasn’t surprised to find that Serra was no longer at the house when I arrived. Given what had happened, it would have been a stretch for anybody to stay onsite where their husband had been shot in cold blood less than twenty-four hours before.
Every room, every item, would be an associated memory. Every noise would cause a flinch, the fear being that the shooter would return to finish the job.
From the moment Serra came to and found her husband dead, her chief concern would have been protecting the children. Both in the literal sense of keeping them alive, and in the grander view of shielding them from everything that had just taken place.
If forced to guess, I would imagine that she would return to the house at most once, ever. She would ask local law enforcement, or her family, or even me, to escort her up during daylight hours. A mad dash through the place, she would snag whatever she could for her and the kids, tossing it all in the car before leaving, never to return.
Anything beyond that would be left to movers.
Or auctioneers.
I also wasn’t surprised that the on-the-fly tale that I put together wasn’t enough to get me past the officer standing guard, but it was sufficient for him to take a step back and put in a call to the office. Even without having heard the run-up, the mere mention of my name was enough for Serra to offer her blessing to allow me inside the house.
Once such an edict was issued, the man before me visibly relaxed, as if relieved that he didn’t have to act in some way. Stating only that I wasn’t to impede on the crime scene itself at all, he happily stepped aside to let me pass.
Even offered his condolences for my friend and thanks for my service.
Handshakes and well wishes all around.
Both retreating to our respective vehicles, I had waited behind the wheel as he eased the cruiser to the side of the lane. Turning parallel to allow me a clear lane to pass, I raised a hand as I passed, the deputy returning the gesture before pulling back into position, effectively closing the gate behind me.
And ensuring that I had at least the next few minutes to operate without fear of someone walking up on me unexpectedly.
Nudging the gas just slightly, I followed the winding driveway. Behind me, the cruiser disappeared from view, swallowed by the thick tangle of pine and birch trees pushing in tight along either side.
To the front, the paved driveway cut an asphalt ribbon through the dense forest, visibility limited to no more than a few dozen yards at a time.
Classic Martin, if there ever was such a thing.
Feeling one corner of my mouth rise into a smile, I couldn’t help but give a slight shake of my head at the thought of my friend.
Just as fast, the smile faded, replaced by the realization of how long it had been since we’d actually spoken.
A hundred times over I’d thought about the guys in the preceding years, maybe even considered picking up the phone and giving them a call. As was human nature, though, it hadn’t happened. Always there had been an excuse. Some bullshit rationalization or belief that whatever I was doing was more important. Or that they wouldn’t want to hear from me.
Or, whatever.
It was the same as it had been with the last of my remaining family until just recently, my niece being kidnapped the kick I needed to finally bridge that gap.
More of the self-loathing I’d been feeling since the incident at my office the nigh
t before rose through my core. Rising the length of my throat, it tasted bitter on my tongue as I nudged the gas a touch higher, pushing my truck almost a quarter mile before reaching a clearing carved out of the forest.
Obviously done for the purpose of construction, the space was the better of a hundred yards square. Positioned in the exact center of it was a home, anybody attempting to approach being forced to cover forty yards or more of open ground, regardless which direction they were coming from.
A two-story structure, it appeared to be made in one of the newer modern styles utilizing nothing but steel and glass. Boxy in nature, thick poles rose straight to the roof every ten feet or so, effectively cutting the front façade into eight equal pieces.
Of those, the two bottom corners had both been fashioned into outdoor areas, the one on the right serving as a front porch beside a concrete landing for car parking.
On the back end, I could see the hot tub where Martin had taken his last breath, the entire quadrant of the house sectioned off with yellow police tape. Most of the snow on the ground around it had been stripped away by the warmth of the day and untold amounts of foot traffic, leaving behind mud and matted grass.
Fighting to keep any emotional responses at bay, to not let them cloud my true purpose for being onsite, I followed the curve of the driveway.
Approaching from the south end, the side of the home was built much like the front. Instead of there being four equal sections across, there was only two in depth, the same glass and metal design comprising the outline, allowing for clear lines of sight.
Climbing out, I pushed the door shut just far enough to catch the latch. For a moment, I stood rooted in place, my gaze flicking back through the driver’s side window, considering whether or not I should return for the gun stowed behind the seat.
Images of the night before passed through my mind, my initial response being to go back for it, before deciding in the negative.
Wild Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 6) Page 10