Lifting my gaze, I stare through the trees, seeing the silhouette of the man as he steps around the barricade and makes his way down the forest path. His focus solely on the makeshift campsite I have set up for him, he gives the forest to either side nothing more than occasional glances.
What he hopes to see after staring intently at the fire, I have no clue.
Moving in a standard law enforcement pose, his weapon is drawn, extended before him. His knees are bent, one foot moving slowly past the other.
Staring at him, I again feel the familiar tingle that I first experienced at The Sundowner. That same sensation of adrenaline leaking into the bloodstream, the eyes dilating, senses heightening.
The feeling of skills and emotions long tamped down, finally released, beckoned back to the surface.
Without a sound, I pivot off my knee in the opposite direction. Careful to keep the glow of the campfire beyond my field of vision, I steal from the base of one tree to another. Tucking my body in behind low-hanging boughs, I alternate my gaze between the man and my path, ensuring I give no sign of my passing.
Looping in a north-northwest pattern, I settle in just behind him, no more than thirty yards separating us.
Weight pushed forward onto the balls of my feet, I keep my body low to the ground, my total mass no larger than a couple of square feet.
Still in the center of the narrow path leading away from the blockade to the clearing, the faint firelight catches his features. They illuminate a black man not much older than the one I put down earlier, his forehead slick with sweat.
Coming off the same assembly line that had produced his partner, his hair is buzzed short, his shoulders wide.
I can’t let him get all the way to the clearing. Right now, his focus is on it, thinking that Amber or Amy or me or whoever else is curled up beneath the lean-to. Once he gets there, discovers it empty, and finds the skin flap, he’s going to turn his attention outward.
In no way am I fearful of what would happen then. The SR1911 could put the man down where he stands now if I want to, even left-handed.
But the rock would be preferable.
Slipping three steps to the left, I narrow the space between us further. Slowing for just an instant, I tuck the gun into the rear of my waistband. Dragging my fingers along the bed of pine needles covering the forest floor, I grasp a second rock, this one the size of a walnut.
Ahead of me, the man closes in on the campsite. The tip of his gun is aimed directly at the structure, his total focus on what he believes is hidden there.
Never will I have a better chance.
Sliding out onto the path in his wake, I snap my left hand forward in an underhand motion. Sending the small rock hurtling forward, it takes almost three full seconds before it lands, smashing into the tree on the far side of the clearing.
Sweat streams down from the watch cap, the hat and the shirt both too damn hot but necessary evils for what I’m doing. My heart rate rises slightly as I increase my pace, breaking into a full sprint as the sound of the rock pulls the man’s attention forward.
Extending his arms before him, his body goes rigid. Years of training take over, too embedded to be ignored.
“Stop!” he calls out. “Police!”
Not once does he even hear my approach as I cover the last few strides between us. Aiming at the base of his neck, I strike with the rock as hard as I can, feeling the vertebrae snap beneath the pressure.
Even louder than the sound of Victoria Rosales’s arm breaking, the sound echoes out, followed by the man’s weight falling to the forest floor.
All life is gone before the noise even fades away.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Smudges of the man’s blood still cling to my fingers as I reach the Forester. After the two-plus mile hump through the woods back to the place where I hid the vehicle, the clothing and hat I’m wearing both have me sweating profusely. The thin material sticks to my back as beads drip down my brow, burning my eyes and tasting salty on my lips.
Going straight to the rear, I pop open the hatch, the overhead light disabled before I left hours before. Peeling the hat from my head, I can feel the long hair on top matted flat. Thick and wet, it covers my scalp like a heavy blanket.
Taking advantage of the moisture, I work my fingers back through. Prying it away from my skull, I let it hang in loose tendrils to either side, using the perspiration to wipe the red smears from my skin.
Twisting my fingers against each other and across each palm, I manage to strip away the heaviest of it before peeling away the shirt and using it to finish off the rest.
Free of the oppressive garments, I stand in only my sports bra for a moment, allowing the cool evening air to pick at my damp skin. Raising my face toward the moon, I drink it in, my nerves slowly settling.
After putting the man down, the next step was to use the same rock to rough him up. Not enough to look like a vicious assault, but sufficient to break the skin, carving a handful of gouges into him, exposing flesh and blood to the air.
Within hours, predators in the air will take care of the rest, finishing the scene I put together.
Snatching up the man’s gun and the bag with Amber’s skin tag, I left everything else untouched.
Given what the man was driving, there would be no point in stripping him of identification. Within minutes of running the plates, whoever happened to find the scene would discern that the car was law enforcement, checked out of the LAPD motor pool.
Taking his phone or wallet would do nothing to help keep my backtrail clear, only raising more suspicion, effectively working against the ruse I’d put together.
Some Californian coming up into the mountains looking to do a bit of camping and getting more than he bargained for, people in these parts can believe. Hell, given the disdain they have for the state, they’ll probably even laugh about it.
A law enforcement agent stripped of everything and found alone in the woods would be too much to ignore, regardless where they hailed from.
Dropping the SR1911 and the man’s Glock onto the rear floor of the Forester, I use the tail of my damp shirt to wipe away the grease paint from my face. The sour smell of sweat crosses my nostrils as I scrub it clean, working over the skin a half-dozen times before accepting that the paint is all gone.
Only then do I take up the tank top I’d been wearing a day before and the plastic baggy beside it. Slamming the rear hatch closed, I move to the driver’s door and climb inside, tossing both items onto the passenger seat.
Glancing to the rearview, most of my reflection is shrouded in shadow, the whites of my eyes standing out in the darkness of the car.
Killing a cop is not something I get any joy from. While I may not have the highest of opinions on the profession, that is largely because of assholes like Spiers. Men that take the job solely because they were bullies growing up and need vocations that afford them chances to keep being bullies as adults.
Whether this man was one or not is irrelevant. Maybe he was just following orders, sent up here under some ruse about what he was doing. Maybe the same for his partner.
I don’t care either way.
What I do care about is currently back at the farm. It is my sister and her daughter and Glenda all able to sleep tonight without worrying that these two bastards are going to show up with guns blazing. It is the other girls all continuing to grow up believing that there are true sanctuaries in the world, places where they can seek refuge without having to worry about the evils of men.
And it is the reason I can’t go back. Not now, and maybe not ever.
Reaching into the middle console, I slide out the burn phone. Entering the digits from memory, I wait as it rings only a single time before being snatched up.
“Ham,” Glenda says, her voice strained.
“It’s done,” I say, looking away from the mirror, not wanting to see my own face as I utter the words I must.
“Where are you now?” Glenda asks. Already I can te
ll she knows the answer to the question.
“Gone.”
She sighs, just loud enough for me to hear her, a sound mixed with relief and exhaustion. “And when are you coming back?”
I know she is testing me, knowing that I would never overtly lie to her, that if I say I will return, I will.
And right now, that is a promise I can’t make.
IV
The Agreement
Chapter Fifty-Five
If Shag cares in the slightest about us using his house as a meeting location again, there is no indication. In fact, there is no sign the man is even home. His truck is gone from the driveway, the curtains pulled shut across the windows lining the front.
Forced to guess, I’d say it looks like he skipped town, though for what reason I haven’t the foggiest.
Nor the interest to even ask.
Instead, I stand in his driveway, the Forester parked just off from where his truck was sitting the last time I visited. After being crammed behind the wheel of the SUV all night, my ass and back are both sore, my neck aching. The sweat and grime from my time in the woods coat my skin like a film, my eyes burning from the smoke of the campfire.
It’s been a hell of a night, with more of the same on tap for the foreseeable future.
So be it.
Arriving fifteen minutes after me, I can see a pair of silhouettes sitting in the front cab of the SUV that pulls in. Vaguely resembling the Explorer I took to the Sundowner, I trust that that vehicle is already gone, standing and waiting with hands on my hips.
Despite the tempest of thoughts and emotions I am feeling, I remain motionless, my features unreadable as Mikey pulls his rig to a stop. The brakes squeal slightly before the engine cuts, ticking in a steady rhythm.
At eleven o’clock, already the sun is high above, the temperature significantly north of anything I encountered in Idaho. It flashes against the windows of both doors on the SUV as they swing open, feet appearing beneath them, before Mikey and Ramon step out at the same time.
Staring my way, they walk forward, meeting in front of the grill and coming to a stop, more than ten feet separating us. Waiting shoulder to shoulder, they look on impassively.
“Rough night?” Mikey asks.
“Not for me,” I reply, already hoping that I don’t have to deal with jokester Mikey at the moment.
I’d be lying if I said I was little more partial to the determined operator, given the circumstances.
The decision to meet at Shag’s wasn’t based on anything more than shared history and geographic convenience. As we were all here a couple days ago, finding the place isn’t an issue. Nor is worrying about Shag turning us in or having any nosy neighbors to snoop on the brief encounter.
Sitting a half hour northeast of the greater Los Angeles area, it also saves me the trouble of having to fight my way clear down to Santa Monica and back. Given the time and day of the week, that’s a trip that could take anywhere from four to seven hours, time I don’t have right now.
And requiring patience and clarity of mind I’m not sure I’ve ever possessed.
“You bring it?” I ask.
Taking a moment, Mikey looks at me before a corner of his mouth curls up. Nodding slightly, he glances to Ramon, signaling for the man to step forward.
Doing as instructed, Ramon reaches into his back pocket, extracting a small package the size of a pencil case. Still wrapped in plastic, he comes no closer than necessary before extending it my way.
Accepting it, I glance down, recognizing the brand, the model one I’ve never encountered. No doubt another product upgrade, one of many things I’ve missed since being away.
“You know there are easier ways of doing this sort of thing now?” Mikey says as Ramon walks backward, again falling in beside him.
I’m sure there are, but this is the way I know. Right now, I am on a very truncated timetable. I don’t have the energy to be learning new technology nor the trust to be basing my next several hours on something I’ve never vetted before.
The package in my hand might be old-school, but it works, and that’s what matters.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say, ignoring his comment. Holding it up, I give the package a small shake, already intent to be on my way again.
“You’re welcome,” Mikey replies. “After all, you did pay for the full-service package.”
Not feeling the need to reply, I take a step back toward the Forester.
“Also,” he adds, stopping my movement, “I’m not sure what you’re planning to do with that, but they took Spiers’s partner to West Covina General.
“As of this morning, he was still there. No plans for discharge until at least Saturday.”
How he knows any of this, I can’t be certain, though I have no doubts about the veracity of the information. For as big a prick as Mikey can occasionally be, he knows not to mess around with intel.
And despite what he said, he also seems to know exactly what I plan to do with this.
Chapter Fifty-Six
The swill that the West Covina General Hospital cafeteria passes off as coffee is lukewarm at best. Bitter and acidic, bordering on putrid, Jensen Spiers can force down no more than a few swallows before flinging it at the trash can sitting in the corner of the room.
Paying no mind to the trail of brown liquid striped across the bare tile between himself and the receptacle, even less about the litany of stares and dirty looks aimed his direction, he grabs his phone from the interior pocket of his jacket. With his back to the room, he doesn’t bother checking to see if he’s missed any calls or messages.
His ringer has been on high all morning. No more than a couple of minutes have passed since he last looked.
Instead, he goes to the most recent listing in his call log and highlights the number. Pressing send, he wedges the phone against his ear, the faceplate cool to his cheek.
Four times the same plain ringtone he’s been hearing for the last twelve hours echoes in his ears, ending with the same automated message coming in over the line. Cutting it off before it has a chance to instruct him to leave his twentieth message in the last ten hours, he keeps the phone in hand, striding away from the room.
If forced to admission, Spiers could acknowledge that the last several months had gotten to him. It had inflated his ego, made him feel invulnerable. The unending parade of commendations and applause, awards and promotions, had given him the feeling of invincibility.
A false sense of security, the ends more than justifying the means, insulating the unit from the sort of scrutiny and repercussions that befell other, less successful, teams.
The last week has brought that to an instant halt, a fiery crash of every worst-case scenario he might have imagined.
And then some.
This latest development is just one more thing he doesn’t want or need. Another thing to be dealt with, the time and manpower at his disposal both dwindling quickly.
Stepping into the elevator outside of the cafeteria, Spiers can smell the stale scents of stress and sweat emanating from him. The chest and lower back of his T-shirt cling to his skin, pinned down by the weight of the sport coat he is wearing.
Even without the mask for a few precious moments, he can feel beads of perspiration lining his forehead. A dull throbbing seems to have settled in behind his eyes, refusing to relent.
Agitation rising, Spiers reaches out and jabs at the button for the top floor. Despite his effort having no discernible effect on the speed of the car’s ascension, he continues to press it, needing somewhere to release even the tiniest bit of the animosity he feels.
Soon enough, there will be ample targets, plenty of places to aim a week’s worth of concentrated vitriol.
Until then, this is the best he has, hoping it will be enough to at least give himself the appearance of being calm as he finally reaches his destination and steps out into the hallway. His gaze aimed down, he strides straight ahead, barely even noticing that he is past his partner’s
room before a voice barks out, snapping him from his thoughts.
“Hey!”
Pausing midstride, Spiers can feel his brow come together, a quick stab of pain accompanying the gesture. Moisture rises to the surface of his eyes as he slowly turns, seeing Wilton Lucas sitting up in bed. His hands spread to either side, he adds, “Where you going?”
Glancing to a pair of orderlies walking in the opposite direction, Spiers waits until they are out of earshot before replying, “I was expecting to see Bryce sitting out there. Wasn’t really paying attention.”
Hooking a thumb to the side, Lucas motions to the empty chair sitting beside his bed. “Esme took him home a little while ago so they could both shower and change. Get some real food. They’ll be back later.”
Grunting softly, Spiers steps inside the room. Moving to the side, he closes the door behind him, flushing out most of the ambient light from the hallway. In its wake, the space is much darker, the array of monitors and the yellow bulbs above the sole sources of illumination.
While he isn’t crazy about the notion of Esme and Bryce having returned home to the place Hector Lima and his crew was traipsing through two nights before, there isn’t a lot that can be done about it at the moment. He hasn’t shared what happened with his partner or his wife yet, knowing it would only cause a lot of anger and anxiety that nobody can do much about.
Not with Lucas lying in bed, propped up in an awkward position demonstrating just how stiff and broken his body is.
Damned sure not with Spiers having a half-dozen other things that all outrank having to accompany them home in the middle of the day to take a shower.
“Don’t blame her,” Spiers manages, shuffling over and lowering himself in the chair he’s been sharing for the past few days. “Kill for a decent cup of coffee right now.”
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