Wild Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 6)

by Dustin Stevens

  Just one more thing to chalk up to what I wanted and what actually came to pass not quite matching up over the last week.

  “Sorry about the extended guard duty,” I said. “After that initial attack, I figured she was safe, but with everything else that ended up coming to light...”

  Before leaving, I had only shared with Latham the bare minimum necessary for him to accept Tres Salinas and agree to look after Kaylan. Of that, I imagine he’d relayed even less to Ferry, leaving a pretty large gap between what had happened and what the man before me knew.

  Not wanting to expend the time or energy on detailing it all out for him right now, I left it there, hoping he would accept my explanation as it was.

  Given the current state of his features, I had a feeling he might.

  “Glad to help,” Ferry replied. “Appreciate what you did.”

  Much like me a moment before, I knew he was stopping well short of the full story. And like him, I was okay with letting it go at that.

  There was no need to belabor that Salinas had gotten the better of him at the clinic a few days before, a random turn of luck being what had enabled me to nab him and bring him back. Or that Latham had called that morning to relay that they had found Salinas dead in his holding cell, apparently having used some sort of homemade strangulation device.

  For days now, we had all been fumbling straight ahead, doing the best we could. No doubt mistakes had been made, things that we would all dwell on, berating ourselves over.

  But with the exception of Martin, we had all made it.

  Sometimes, that’s all that can be asked for.

  Lifting a hand, I patted Ferry on the shoulder. Turning myself to the side, I slid past him, moving down the hallway, neither of us saying another word.

  Beside me, the late afternoon sun poured through the bank of windows lining the hall. Coming in at an angle, it bathed my entire left side in bright light, combining with my rising heart rate to lift my body temperature several degrees.

  For the untold time over the last days, I could feel sweat appear on my brow, underscoring my beard, as I covered the last few steps to Kaylan’s room. On approach, I considered raising a knuckle to knock before remembering Ferry’s comment that she was still sleeping most of the time.

  Not wanting to risk waking her, I instead slid sideways through the open doorway, pulling up at the foot of her bed. Compared to the hallway outside, the room was much darker, my eyes taking just a moment to adjust.

  By the time they did, I could see she was awake, thin strips of pale blue irises peeking out at me.

  Only two days had passed since I’d last been in this exact spot, though it felt like so much longer.

  With more still yet to go.

  “Hey there,” I whispered, careful to keep my voice low.

  Slight crinkles formed around her eyes, a bit of mirth finding her features. “Hi.”

  “How you feeling?” I asked.

  The smile lingered for a moment before slowly fading. Her head lolled an inch to the side, her eyes narrowing. “Did you get him?”

  Even knowing what she had gone through, the state she was in, I wasn’t the least bit surprised she blew straight past my question. Much the same as I knew not to even try doing the same to hers.

  “Yeah, we got him.”

  “Did you get everybody else?”

  In the days or weeks ahead, I would sit down and tell Kaylan every last thing that she had missed. I’d start with the raid on Juana Salinas’s quinceañera and finish with the trip to Fruit of the Desert, filling in every detail and answering every question I could.

  She’d earned at least that much.

  For the time being, though, I simply replied, “Yeah, we got them, too.”

  “Good,” she whispered. Rolling her head back, she placed it in the center of the pillow beneath her, her gaze rising to the ceiling. “Hawk?”

  Taking a step to the side, I slid around the corner of the bed. Dropping myself into the same hard plastic seat that had been my bed two days before, I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees.

  A post I had no intention of leaving until Kaylan was released.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  Reaching out, I placed a hand atop her leg, the blankets she was wrapped in warm beneath my touch. The possibilities for what she was about to ask were infinite, a tiny clench appearing in my stomach as I braced for what might come next.

  “What’s that?”

  Shifting her focus my way, she asked, “Next year, can we just get that fudge brownie sundae to go?”

  Epilogue

  A week had passed since sitting in the conference room of the DEA’s Southwest Headquarters. Seven full days in which I’d sat vigil by Kaylan’s bed until it was time to help her return home. In which I’d returned to my office and replaced the front door and casing that had been destroyed by Luis Mendoza and his makeshift explosives. Time when I’d finished up the last few things I needed to in West Yellowstone and made my way up to the cabin that served as my winter home outside of Glasgow.

  One-hundred-and-sixty-eight hours of eating and sleeping and doing all of the other things a functional adult in modern society does.

  Not one of them spent without thinking about the conversation that took place in the wee hours of dawn a week before.

  And judging by the look on Carl Diggs’s face beside me, the same exact state he had been in as well.

  Standing shoulder to shoulder on the back deck of the home of Serra Martin’s parents, we both stared out at the thick tangle of pine trees encroaching within ten yards of the house. Despite the time being just half past four in the afternoon, what little daylight the milky white sky had been able to produce was already starting to fade.

  Barely enough to infiltrate the heavy boughs, we could just make a few tufts of white dotting the ground. In the air was the scent of pine and wood smoke, the latter pouring from the chimney behind us.

  “Hell of a thing,” Diggs said, the first words from either of us since stepping out onto the deck.

  What exactly he was referring to, I couldn’t be certain. Maybe it was the funeral of our friend that had just concluded a short time earlier, both of us still dressed in black suits. Perhaps it was what had transpired to bring us here, Junior Ruiz making an ill-fated attempt to right some perceived wrong from long ago.

  Or, more likely, it was the same thing that had been nagging at me all week.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “You able to talk to Diaz?” he asked.

  Glancing his way, I could see the lights from the interior of the home reflecting from the back of his shaved head. Flickering in uneven tones, the sight was punctuated by the sound of voices filtering out, nobody seeming to notice as the two of us stepped outside.

  If they did, they didn’t care enough to comment, Serra being only one of two people over the age of ten either of us had ever met before.

  And she was tied up with her own responsibilities at the moment.

  The other was currently squirreled away on the first floor, likely to join us whenever whatever had called him away was resolved.

  “Couple times,” I answered. “I guess we started a cascade of dominoes out there in the desert. The problem with Reyes trying to run things as a legitimate business was once the feds figured out what was actually in the wine-“

  “They had a damn paper trail leading them to every single person that had ever bought the stuff,” Diggs finished.

  Hands shoved into the front pockets of my slacks, I shifted back to the trees. “Exactly. She was able to bring in field offices from all across the country. Biggest bust they’ve had on domestic soil in decades.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny sliver of white flash, the first hint of a smile my friend had shown all day. “She keeps going like this, she won’t be able to keep her ass out of D.C., no matter how hard she tries.”

  Snorting sli
ghtly, I felt my own mouth curl back into a smile. The assessment wasn’t wrong, something she and I had both spoken of at length shortly before I’d gotten in the truck and headed back across the Northwest in time to be here.

  The first time she and I ever met was working a case that had ended with a large international conglomerate being put out of business. At the time, D.C. had tried prying her out of the desert, but so new to the Southwest post, it had been easy for her to beg off.

  Her biggest concern now was that they would force the issue, making her turn in her gun and badge to start working exclusively behind a desk.

  Or, even worse, as a poster child.

  “Could have easily gone the other way,” I said, feeling the smile fade.

  Beside me, Diggs glanced my way. His eyebrows raised, he nodded slightly, not needing to voice his agreement.

  Diaz had gone out on a major limb for us with this one. The fact that it had yielded a large score that made her virtually bulletproof with both the Administration and the media was irrelevant, both of us knowing exactly how much we owed her for this.

  “She say anything about the other...?” Diggs asked.

  Falling silent, I let my eyes glaze, my mind again drifting back to the pair of very real agents with very fake names several days before.

  The stack of papers that Jones and Smith handed over that morning had managed to answer one set of questions. They had detailed that they – acting on behalf of the very Agency that we had suspected all along – had been behind the release of Junior Ruiz. The goal in doing was so that he would do just as he was when we found him, returning to helm the organization that had brought him such notoriety a decade before.

  That much hadn’t come as much of a surprise. What did was the reasoning behind it.

  Even more so the role they were hoping for us to play now in the wake of his death.

  For decades, most of the cocaine production in the world was concentrated on the northern border of South America. Providing the perfect climate for the plant, growing had started in Colombia before eventually working its way next door into Ecuador. A single tight geographic region that was easy enough to monitor, the Agency and various other players from around the globe keeping a close watch on things without becoming too actively involved.

  In recent years though, that had started to shift. Burgeoning methods of hydroponics and gene modification had allowed production to go widespread. Third world countries spanning the globe were now able to generate new and lucrative economies where they hadn’t previously existed, the sudden influx of cash tilting power balances in ways they were never intended.

  Places such as Peru, where the organization Ruiz had overseen for so long was now getting its product.

  “Same as us,” I replied. “Half shocked, half pissed at the whole thing.”

  The first part of the statement was clear enough. The back end was because neither one of the men had cared at all about the dope making it into America.

  It was all about Peru and the concerns that were fast growing there.

  The very same concerns they now wanted our help in quelling.

  Grunting softly, Diggs fell silent as the door behind us opened. Bringing with it a spike in ambient noise, we both stood without turning. The smell of roast turkey and vegetables made its way out to us as the door closed quietly, followed by light footsteps across the wooden planks of the deck.

  Just a moment after stepping outside, Mike Palinksy appeared along my left shoulder. His long hair pulled back into a ponytail, he had shed his ill-fitting sports coat, his usual baggy green sweater underscored by a white Oxford dress shirt.

  Hands in his pockets, he glanced my way before assuming the same stance as us, his focus aimed at the trees out back.

  “Sorry about that,” he muttered. “Everybody always thinks everything is a damn emergency.”

  Leaning forward at the waist, Diggs peered past me to Pally. “Was it?”

  “Yeah,” Pally replied, sighing heavily, “but still...”

  Diggs and I both let out a small chuckle as he returned to full height. For a moment, the three of us stood there, our first time together in more than half a decade.

  The only thing missing being the friend we put to rest not two hours earlier.

  Each lost in our thoughts, we remained that way for a long time. Past the ebb and flow of conversation behind us. Even beyond the sound of car doors opening and closing out front as people began to climb in and drive away.

  Clear on to the point when Pally finally pulled in a deep breath through his nose, using it to lift his gaze toward the sky. Remaining there a moment, he slowly exhaled before asking, “What do you guys think?”

  A week solid, I’d been asking myself that very same thing. Mulling what Jones and Smith had proposed, considering their motivations behind it. What they wanted from us, and how it might play out if we refused.

  All of which was to say that after a solid week to think on it, I still had not one clue on how to best respond.

  Thank You For Reading

  Greetings y’all!

  Per usual, I would be remiss if I didn’t begin this letter with heartfelt thanks. This journey started for me a number of years ago, scratching out story ideas I’d been carrying around in my head, thoughts that just refused to go away. Fast forward nearly half a decade now (?!?!) and somehow I am still here getting to do this, something I would have never thought possible and have all of you to thank for.

  Nowhere is that path more apparent than with this Hawk Tate series. Beginning five years ago with a single scene that came to me in a dream (no…seriously :), this is now the sixth entry in the canon, and if you’ve read this far, you know it won’t be the last.

  In each of his previous stories, I often allude to his past experiences, but with the exception of the vengeance he sought in Cold Fire, never have I made it a central aspect of the story. Feeling like it was a veritable treasure trove of ideas and possibilities that needed to be delved into, I started playing with different scenarios, eventually landing on this one.

  I hope you enjoyed it.

  Finally, if possible, I would like to ask one small favor from you. If you would be so kind as to leave a review – whether online or to me directly if you’d rather - I would greatly appreciate it. Every email I read personally, and do take all feedback very seriously.

  As always, if you haven’t yet, please accept as a token of appreciation for your reading and reviews a free download of my novel 21 Hours, available HERE.

  Thanks again!

  Best,

  Sneak Peek #1

  HAM, A Ham Novel Book 1

  Prologue

  The ground absorbs any sound made by my footfalls. Walking heel-to-toe, I make sure each foot is placed down carefully, the thick bed of pine needles insulating the earth and masking my movements.

  Moving in a serpentine pattern, I trace a path through the thin underbrush of the forest, this place one of the few in the world I have ever called home.

  And right now, this man is here violating that. Not just with his mere presence but with everything he represents. Everybody he is associated with, every intention he has in mind.

  With every thought, every realization, every moment, I am in his presence I can sense my animosity growing higher. I can feel as it raises my pulse, increases my body temperature, even tightens the grip on the rock in my hand.

  To shoot this man would be easiest. To simply sight in on the back of his skull and ease back the trigger, knowing from this distance there is no possible way I can miss.

  But the easiest path right now won’t necessarily be the easiest moving forward.

  And it would damned sure be far, far kinder than this man deserves.

  Chapter One

  The last sliver of orange has just slid beneath the western horizon as the ring announcer steps through the ropes. It sends a thousand shards of shimmering light across the surface of the Pacific Ocean with its last gasps, the sudden a
bsence plunging the world into a state of exaggerated darkness.

  And just as they always do, the strands of bare bulbs strung high above the ring kick on a moment later, casting a straw-colored pallor over everything below.

  The aging ring is built on pressure-treated 4x4’s buried directly into the sand, spots of blood and assorted detritus dotting the canvas mat. The twin aluminum risers are on either end, both loaded with drunken revelers, their skins painted shades ranging from tomato red to dark tan. Beers in both hands, tobacco juice or sunflower seeds hang from their lips and the assorted forms of facial hair stuck to their chins.

  Per usual, the overwhelming majority of onlookers are men, the few women that are mixed in serving clearly as accompaniment, still dressed in bikini tops from the day or already in leather anticipating the night ahead.

  No in-between.

  On the east and west ends of the ring are scads of wooden folding chairs, what were once even rows already a twisted jumble. Housing most of the regulars, they’re grouped into random clusters, seats turned so they can see some combination of the sunset, the ring, or each other.

  Considering that every last one of them had to pay to get in, I’m not sure anybody rightly gives a damn what they look at.

  Least of all, me.

  Despite the open-air venue, the recent sunset, the faint breeze pushing in from the sea, there is a palpable charge in the air. That familiar buzz that I’ve known for decades now, the unshakable feeling that seems to reach deep inside, igniting the parts of me I spend most of the week keeping tamped down.

  For the last hour, the crowd has sat and watched the undercard for the night. Beginning with less than half of what is now on hand, the combination of buckets of beer and the cheap cover charge has managed to pull in enough to fill the bleachers, easily the largest crowd we’ve drawn in a while.