“Of course.”
Mostly.
“I have to go. Not much longer, Elise. Then we’ll be back to business.”
He hung up and she smiled. “Back to business!” she told Brad. “I guess our time together is ending. My sister always thought that you were smart, but you’re not so smart.”
She got up. A dead body was a lot harder to work with, so she figured as soon as the sun went down they’d toss him in the van, drive back to DEA headquarters (or maybe … Lucy’s house?) and kill him there. Yeah … on Lucy’s front lawn. That would totally mess her up.
She went into the garage and filled a bucket with ice, then filled it with water from the sink. She walked back into the “prison” and dumped it on Brad.
He screamed.
What a beautiful sound.
* * *
Nate heard a faint scream—distinctly male—from inside the garage.
He was already on the move. “Call it in now,” he ordered Aggie. “Then wait for my signal that it’s clear.”
He had his gun out and ran from their hiding spot on the other side of a retaining wall only thirty yards from the garage. They hadn’t seen anything for the last twenty minutes, when a van had arrived with two men they identified as Donny and Pablo. Aggie called in the sighting to SAPD and they were putting together a team, but Nate didn’t know how long it would take for them to get here, and he wasn’t going to lose Brad now when they were so close.
Nate entered silently through the side door of the garage, which was surprisingly unlocked. He was cautious, expecting a trap, but he entered without incident.
The garage had no cars inside and was smaller than it appeared on the outside because of an internal room in the rear. He waited a heartbeat, listened. He heard an adult male sputtering from the other room. He didn’t know who else was inside the room, so with his back against the wall, he walked to the partly opened door and peered inside.
Brad was naked and chained to a desk, drenched in water. Ice cubes surrounded him. He was bloodied, bruised, and extremely pale.
Nate stepped in and gave a low whistle.
Brad struggled to look up. One of his eyes was swollen shut.
His voice was raspy. “Coming back.”
Nate stepped inside the door and stood flush against the wall. Years of military and SWAT training made him calm; every sense heightened. Sound. Sight. Smell. He heard the door leading from the garage into the house open, a mere click of the lock, a faint scrape from the hinges. The footfalls were heavier than those of the petite Elise Hunt, so he prepared himself for what he now expected.
Donny Valeria stepped inside as he spoke, “Elise says it’s time, we’re—”
He noticed Nate far too late to do anything about it. “Shit!”
He had a gun in his hand and he brought it up, aimed at Nate, which was his fatal mistake.
Nate fired three bullets to his chest. Donny didn’t get one off before falling to the floor, dead.
The takedown was too noisy, which put Nate at a disadvantage.
He kicked Valeria’s gun away and peered out the door. He and Aggie had determined there were at least four people inside the house, but they hadn’t been able to confirm the number.
He looked around for a barrier, anything he could put in front of Brad to protect him from flying bullets. There was nothing. The room appeared to be a music studio based on the soundproofing. Or maybe Elise had built it just so she could torture people, hell if he knew. But there was nothing here except a folding chair next to Brad and the desk he was chained too.
“Behind the desk,” Nate ordered.
Brad struggled to move, but was making some progress to protect himself.
Nate looked back into the garage. No one was coming through either door.
He heard two gunshots inside.
He was not going to leave Brad unprotected.
He tapped his earpiece and called Aggie. “If clear, follow my path, I’ll cover you as soon as you get inside.”
“Roger.”
Thirty seconds later, he heard in his earpiece, “Hunt is leaving in the van. I can stop her.”
“No! Stand down! That’s an order, Jensen!”
He didn’t hear anything except the ignition turn.
Nate glanced at Brad, then left the room, closing the door behind him. He looked at the house door—no one was coming through.
He ran out the side door and heard Aggie shout, “Federal agent! Stop!”
Aggie stood at the corner of the garage, gun out.
Nate ran up behind her. Elise had backed the van out of the driveway so she had a direct line of fire at Aggie. She rolled down the passenger window and aimed her gun at them. She fired without hesitation.
Nate had Aggie on the ground immediately as he fired at the van.
Elise shot more rounds as she sped off. They went wild, one shattering a tile on the garage roof.
“Are you hit?” he demanded.
“No. I could have had her.”
“You were completely exposed!”
“Dammit! She’s gone, we can’t catch up to her.”
Nate was livid. Aggie needed more training or she was going to get herself killed. “Follow me,” he ordered. “I have to clear the house.”
They went into the garage. Nate opened the door to where Brad was being held. Aggie gasped.
“Stay with him,” Nate said. “Call an ambulance.”
He went into the house. Elise had left alone, but there could be someone hiding in here or leaving on foot.
He searched room by room. He found one body, female, deceased, in the living room. By the distinctive tattoo on her arm he determined she was Clara Valeria. He found the second body, male, breathing, gut shot, in the kitchen. He searched the man, who was barely conscious, and pulled two guns and a knife off his body. He cuffed him and then searched the rest of the house. No other victims or threats.
Nate pulled blankets off one of the beds and returned to Aggie and Brad. Aggie had taken off her jacket and put it around Brad’s shoulders. By that time, he heard sirens in the distance.
“I don’t have a key to get him out of these things,” Aggie said.
Nate walked over to Donny Valeria and searched his pockets. He had been coming in to take Brad somewhere, so it reasoned that he had the keys to the shackles.
He did.
Nate unlocked them and Brad sagged to the floor.
“I was a dead man,” he said in a raspy whisper.
Nate put the blankets on him. He saw that Elise had tortured him, cutting deep into his back. A big “H” followed by a message:
Elise was here.
“You’re going to make it.”
“Hunt.”
“Don’t talk,” Aggie said. “Help is coming.”
Brad shook his head and coughed. “Elise. Her father.”
“Jimmy Hunt escaped from prison this morning,” Nate said. “He took Sean with him. They’re at large.”
“He’s still in Texas. Called her, told her. Don’t know where.”
“He called her?” She would have taken her cell phone with her.
Brad struggled to speak, but he clearly wanted to give them information. “He was hired,” Brad said. He took a deep breath, then continued. “To get Sean. Someone with lots of money. She’s supposed to meet Hunt in Mexico at a safe house. I have no idea where. Clara knows.”
“Clara is dead.”
“They hated each other,” Brad said.
“Pablo Barrios is alive. I cuffed him inside.”
“He’s hired. Muscle only.”
Brad was shivering uncontrollably.
The ambulance was closer. “Go meet them, get them here,” Nate told Aggie.
She frowned, but did it.
Nate would apologize later. Maybe. He was still angry that she had put herself in the line of fire outside.
He squatted next to Brad. “What?”
“She said something I don’t understand,�
� Brad whispered, still struggling to breathe. “She’s not allowed to kill Lucy. Someone paid them to frame Sean, and this patron broke Hunt and Sean out of prison. His partner. But I don’t think Hunt’s calling the shots. Elise is going to Mexico. A safehouse.”
“Jack found Kane, they’re in Mexico right now. They might know where the safehouse is.”
“Can you reach them?”
Nate nodded.
“I owe you,” Brad said.
“Never.”
“Yes. They were going to take me to Lucy’s house and kill me on her lawn to mess with her. That’s all Elise could talk about, tormenting Lucy. She’s not happy that she can’t kill her, and I don’t trust her not to.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
HOUSTON, TEXAS
LATE SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Lucy was more than a little relieved that Brad was alive and would make it. He had been tortured and may never make a full recovery, but he was alive and getting the medical care he needed.
That gave her hope that they’d find Sean. The Hunts’ plans were falling apart, Elise was on the run, and Brad could identify her. She wasn’t getting out of this mess now. Pablo Barrios was going into surgery, but authorities would be talking to him soon.
So now she waited. Waited for news on Sean, information about where he was, what was happening in the search. Brad had made a statement about Hunt’s plan to break out and force Sean to go with him. The police had to believe that Sean was a victim in all this, and not a killer.
She hated waiting. She wanted to be out doing something, looking for Sean, proving his innocence. But Patrick was right. She wouldn’t be allowed to help the police, she could potentially blow the case against Elise—who, according to Brad—had been the one who killed Mona. And she might put Sean in more danger if there was a perception that she’d contaminated evidence or a witness statement.
So she waited.
And waited.
Her phone rang, and she grabbed it, desperate for news. It was an unfamiliar number, and her heart sank.
“Kincaid.”
“Agent Lucy Kincaid?” a man said.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Bill Anderson.”
Erica’s ex-husband. “Yes? Have you heard from Erica?”
“I’m scared. She called me, wouldn’t explain, wouldn’t say anything other than to get the kids out of town and someplace safe. I don’t scare easy, but I’m packing my kids up right now because I am scared. I’ve been trying to call her back, but she won’t answer.”
“I need that number.”
Bill gave it to her. “It’s not her regular number. I don’t know what’s going on, Agent Kincaid, but this isn’t like Erica. She’s spooked.”
“Did she give you any idea where she was calling from?”
“No. You have my number, please call me if you hear anything. I’m taking my kids to my dad’s place, he lives in the middle of nowhere. We don’t really get along, but he loves his grandkids and it’s safe.”
“I’ll call when I know anything. Thank you.”
Lucy called Kate. She told her exactly what Bill Anderson said. “Erica Anderson knows the prison system. Could she be behind Sean’s transfer?”
“She’s not in corrections anymore.”
“But she knows people there. I can’t find her; no one knows where she is.” Lucy gave Kate the number Bill gave her. “Can you trace it?”
“I’ll see what I can do, but it’s going to take time. I’ll call you back.” Kate ended the call.
They were getting close … but not close enough.
A knock on the hotel room door made her jump. She looked through the security hole and saw her sister-in-law, Megan.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said.
Megan was carrying a large box, and she put it down on the desk. “I just spent an hour talking to the AUSA prosecuting Michael Thompson.”
“The hit man Hunt testified against?”
“Yes. The AUSA—Neil Barnes—had Thompson dead to rights on killing a Houston council member last year, which was tied to a San Antonio case three years ago. During the investigation, which was a joint FBI/DEA/local investigation because of the multiple jurisdictions and evidence of drug running, the DEA determined that Thompson had been hired for both murders. He refused to talk.”
“San Antonio three years ago? That was right before I moved there. Was it connected to Rollins or Hunt?”
“There was no evidence at the time, but now they think the victim in San Antonio was connected to the Hunt family drug network. After the murder, they connected the victim to the drug trade. They had a description of Thompson and his vehicle—a rental. He had a fake identity, but they got his prints. Thompson disappeared for two years. When the councilman was killed in Houston, they found his image on security and a shell casing they recovered at the scene.”
“Not a smart hit man.”
Megan shrugged.
“He could have been rushed, or something distracted him. But the San Antonio victim is connected to Jimmy Hunt, and Hunt claimed he took the hit out on him because he was skimming and thought that he’d been compromised to the DEA. The second victim—no connection to the drug trade.”
“Do they know why he was targeted?”
“Not yet. After the councilman was killed, they identified Thompson, got warrants for his financials and learned he’d been paid $100K for each murder. That’s the assumption—they can prove that the large sums of money were deposited into his account from an unknown source. Thompson files tax returns and claimed the income from a company called Fair Play Inc. Thompson hasn’t spoken since his arrest. He pled not guilty, and that’s it. He didn’t testify in his defense and has no plans to. He wouldn’t cooperate during the investigation. But somehow the investigators knew to talk to Hunt, and he was questioned while he was in prison. He said that Thompson had been hired to kill Davidson, a teacher in San Antonio, because Hunt’s people believed that he’d been compromised and that the DEA was looking into him.”
“Were they?”
“No, but they had been looking at a drug-related death at a local high school where the victim taught. Hunt claimed that he was a ‘weak link’ and feared he’d turn state’s evidence.”
“And Houston? What’s Hunt’s connection here?”
“Hunt has no knowledge of that murder, just the San Antonio crime.”
“But what does this have to do with Sean and the escape?” Lucy asked, exasperated. “This isn’t telling us anything—except that Hunt manipulated a current case to get transferred here, to Houston, at the same time as Sean was in jail.”
“You’re right, but I just don’t know how or why. Hunt himself went to the warden in California with information about the San Antonio case after he heard of Michael Thompson’s arrest.”
Lucy opened the box of files that the AUSA had given Megan. First thing she did was organize them—depositions, Michael Thompson’s rap sheet, investigative notes, trial transcripts. First things first—figure out who Thompson was, why he was a hit man, who else they suspected he killed, to see if there was a pattern.
It was going to be a lot of work, but she was motivated.
If there was something here that they could use to prove that Jimmy Hunt had orchestrated this in order to facilitate the escape, they would be one small step closer to proving Sean’s innocence.
There was a knock on the door and Lucy jumped. She hated being so antsy.
“Room service,” the visitor said.
Lucy reached for her gun. “I didn’t order anything.”
“I did,” Megan said. “You need to eat, and I ordered it when I got here.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We both need to eat.”
Megan answered the door and signed. RCK had reserved them a suite, so they’d be staying here tonight—Megan and Kate were sharing an adjoining room.
She’d ordered salads, soups, and sandwiches. “I didn’t know what
you wanted, but I went with healthy over junk food. I know you and Jack love spicy, so ordered the spiciest dishes on the menu.”
“Thanks.” She picked at a salad as she read over the information in Thompson’s file.
Michael Thompson was born in Maine. He’d served in the military for six years, honorably discharged, then came home and worked for a construction company. Ended up starting his own business in Maine, married, and had two daughters. He left Maine seven years ago … and fell off the grid.
Something was missing.
“Megan, what happened seven years ago to Thompson? He had a wife and two kids, and then he fell off the grid.”
Megan opened her laptop and did a more detailed background on him. “His older daughter was raped and murdered at the age of ten. How awful.”
Megan skimmed the information she’d found. “The killer was their next-door neighbor, a repeat sex offender from New York who hadn’t registered in Maine. Thompson became despondent and paranoid, his wife left him and took his younger daughter. He disappeared … until he got on our radar after the San Antonio hit.”
There was something very familiar about that story, Lucy thought. Had she read about it? Studied it?
“What happened to his daughter’s killer?”
Megan scrolled. “Roger Tyson. Convicted of all counts, life in prison. He was killed in a prison fight a year after he was convicted.”
Lucy took a bite of a sandwich. Hmm. This was familiar … why did she know this case?
She continued reading, then turned to Megan and said, “Where did his wife go?”
“She took their younger daughter—then eight, now fifteen—to Colorado. Remarried last year to a cop, a widower with two kids. There had been a restraining order against Thompson in Maine, but she never refiled it when it expired.”
“And we don’t know where he went after he left Maine?”
“No.”
“Can you dig deeper on him? Where he went to high school, whom he served with in the military, family connections.”
“Why? What are you seeing?”
“I don’t know. But there’s something really familiar about Thompson, and I can’t put my finger on it.” She bit her lip. “I think I know him, but I don’t know why. I don’t recognize his picture, I don’t think I’ve met him.”
Cold as Ice Page 28