Whirlwind (Rachel Hatch Book 8)

by L T Ryan

  As Hatch ran to the two, Banyan called time. Hatch dropped her hands to her knees and took two big inhales. "How'd I do?" Hatch gasped between ragged breaths.

  "8:34," Banyan said, looking at his watch.

  Cruise held out his hand. "Pay up. A bet's a bet."

  Words had obviously been exchanged during Hatch's navigation of the obstacle course. This was evident by the roll of Banyan's eyes as he fished out his wallet.

  "Banyan's just mad because you almost beat his best time."

  Banyan's face reddened.

  "Not everyone runs it in six minutes." Cruise tapped the cane against his braced right leg, the damage done during their last op in Alaska. "I think those days are long gone. I'm not an Honor Man like you."

  "Those days are never gone."

  "But come to think of it, I’ll take you on a double or nothing."

  Banyan ran his thumb across the money in his billfold and cocked a curious eye at Cruise.

  "I bet Hatch here can best your time. Shoot, all she has to do is drop two seconds. If she hadn't fallen off that second tier of the tower, she would've had you."

  "Whoa!" Hatch threw up her hands, taking a big inhale of the cool morning air. "Who said I’d ever run that thing again? Remember, this all started because you guys wanted to know which obstacle course was tougher."

  "And the verdict?" Banyan asked.

  "Nasty Nick is everything as nasty as they say. But if I’m being honest, this course provides some X factors I’ve never seen anywhere else. The sand makes it a totally different challenge. And that tower almost got me."

  "About that," Banyan said. "You tried to go up by swinging your leg to the side. A lot of guys do it, but there’s an easier way. Not all of us are tall drinks of water like your friend Cruise here. Guys like me, in the Smurf crew, we had to adapt and overcome."

  Banyan was four inches shorter than Hatch, so about five-foot-six. "The way to do it with minimal effort and best success is to start deeper, underneath each tier, and jump and grab with both hands on the lip, swinging your legs underneath you, using the momentum of both legs to pull you up and over, like an intense kip-up."

  "I’ll keep it in mind. But as of right now, don’t bet on me running this again."

  Cruise opened his mouth to speak when the cell phone in his hand vibrated. He'd been holding it for Hatch and handed it to her. She flicked it open.

  "It's Tracy."

  The message from Jordan Tracy, Talon Executive Services Commander, read, "Brief at ten?"

  Hatch messaged back, "RGR."

  She looked up at Cruise. "Briefing at ten."

  "Oh, the Bat signal has sounded. Don't want to keep you from your secret lair," Banyan cut in.

  "Banyan's not a big fan of private contract work. He'd rather help midlife crisis males and overweight homebodies try to get their SEAL shape on." Cruise teased.

  "Hey." Banyan raised his hand in defense. "I’m doing my part to make people at the beaches look better. It’s a public service, really. The world can thank me later."

  Cruise looked at his watch and then checked his phone.

  "No message?" Hatch asked.

  He shook his head no. "Strange."

  Hatch got another message. It was the name of a café. "Stranger, the briefing is not at the office."

  Banyan pulled out his money to pay his bet. Cruise put his hand out, refusing it. "I’d still like to keep the double or nothing on the table."

  "Keep it on the table all you want," Hatch said. "You're not getting me back on that tower."

  Three

  The pen stopped where it always did. The part where he started to write the three words he’d never had the heart to say but always wished he had. For spending such little time with someone, he had never thought about anyone more in his life. As he set the pen down, this would be another letter to Rachel Hatch that he never finished.

  He sipped his coffee. Hatch’s mother, Jasmine, had made him a thermos-full when he had stopped by earlier that morning to check on the kids and say, "Hi." Something he did whenever he was close, and sometimes when he wasn’t. In the absences between Hatch's comings and goings, he had taken on the role of surrogate father or uncle for the kids, and Jasmine Hatch doted on him like a son.

  Savage set the letter aside on his desk. He traded his pen for the thermos and took a long pull of Jasmine's brew.

  His cell phone rang as his radio came to life. The radio always took priority. When he had taken over as Sheriff of Hawk's Landing, he said that both his cell and radio would be accessible twenty-four hours a day.

  "Sheriff Savage? Sheriff Savage, are you there?" He had tried to get everybody in his small department onto a code system similar to the one Denver PD used, but it hadn’t taken.

  "Go ahead Barbara. What do you got?" Savage said, draining the last of his coffee, figuring this call would take him late into the night.

  "It's at Westin's Grocery. Some crazy with a gun went in and shot Glenn Miller. I mean, somebody shot to death a 72-year-old man standing in a grocery store! This is Hawk's Landing, not Los Angeles!" Her voice was on edge.

  "Barbara, I need you to tell me, where is the shooter now? What’s the situation on scene at this moment?"

  "Chaos. But the caller I spoke with said he fired the gun until empty, but he didn’t take aim at anyone else. And he didn't run."

  "He's still on scene?"

  "Caller said he's standing there with the gun in his hand. He hasn’t moved."

  "Is anybody else hurt or wounded?"

  "No. An older woman was knocked down as shoppers fled."

  Savage was already in his SUV and speeding toward town center where the Westin's was located. "Besides Miller and the shooter, is there anybody else still inside?"

  "No. I've got the caller on the line and will keep you posted."

  Savage keyed the mic. "Sinclair, did you copy?"

  "Already on my way." Sirens blared in the background.

  "As long as the shooter remains inside and there are no other reports of gunfire, you hold on the outside and wait for me before entering."

  "Yessir."

  "The second that changes and the shooting becomes active again, you're going in. With or without me. Understood?"

  "Yessir." This time, her voice was less resolute.

  "Hold the perimeter. And whatever you do, do not let him leave." Tires squealed as he took a hard right. "I'm on my way."

  Savage tore down the winding mountain roads and headed into the downtown area of Hawk's Landing. As he turned onto Main Street, he could see the siren lights flickering. He navigated his way around some pedestrian bystanders looking on from a distance and found a spot next to Sinclair’s squad car. She was standing outside with her gun in front of her, pointing to the storefront.

  There was no sign of the man with the gun, but they maintained a loosely held perimeter out of the sheer fear and panic of the moment. Savage walked toward it all. He never ran, always taking his steps carefully to process the scene, making sure the shooter hadn't slipped out and pretended to be a bystander. He made sure there was no odd man out. Seeing none, he proceeded to Sinclair’s position.

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing since the call came in."

  "We need to move in now. We have to open the line of communication and render lifesaving aid to the downed man."

  "But the shooter killed him. "

  "I don’t care if they shot him with a bazooka. Until I confirm life or death, I’m assuming he’s alive, and we're going to try to bring him out as such."

  "Understood, sir."

  "Stack up. We're moving."

  Savage and Sinclair pressed forward, moving with their weapons tight against their chests, sighted in the direction of the known threat. Sirens bounced off the neighboring buildings as Littleton's squad car screeched to a halt on the other side of the road. The lanky deputy sprinted awkwardly toward them and joined their gaggle just as they entered the store.

  An eerie sil
ence cast out the chaos of the terrified citizenry on the outside of the doors. Soft elevator music played over a PA system. They moved slowly, using the aisles for cover. Savage at the lead, he cleared each one before stepping to the next, moving ever closer to the bakery area.

  He moved soft shoe, rolling his heel along the outside to his toes, a trick he'd learned from one of his partners who'd done a stint in the military He could hear Littleton and Sinclair trying, but failing, to move noiselessly behind him, into the last barrier where aisle one and two divided.

  He leaned against the fresh garden veggies open refrigeration unit and could feel the cool blast of mist showering the produce. Through the baker’s door across the way, Savage glimpsed the shooter in the reflection of the glass. He stood still in a white short-sleeve button-up and white denim pants. He was looking forward and down, the opposite direction from Savage and his team.

  Savage held his non-gun hand behind his head and began a countdown with his fingers: three, two, one.

  He stepped wide, bringing the weapon up to target and began barking orders in a loud, controlled tone.

  "You in the white shirt, drop the weapon. This is Dalton Savage, Hawk's Landing Sheriff. I have three guns trained on you. We do not want to hurt you!"

  Nothing. Silence. Except for the repetitive click of the trigger.

  The shooter continued looking down at the floor, soaked slick with Glenn Miller’s blood. There was no doubt Miller was dead from the amount of blood spreading out. Rendering aid was a moot point. Surviving the deadly encounter now took precedent.

  "Drop the gun. Now!" Simple commands, simple words.

  Sinclair shifted her position and stumbled. She knocked into a rack of potato chips, sending the rack and its contents to the floor. The loud bang of the metal hitting against the hard floor, startled the shooter. Like a starter pistol, the boy in white seemed to come out of a trance, looking around as if he'd just woken from a nightmare.

  His stunned gaze shifted from Sinclair as she recovered to lock eyes with Savage.

  Savage saw a fleeting look of horror on the young face. The weapon fell from his hand and clattered loudly to the floor beside him.

  In the minutes that followed, while Savage’s team took the shooter into custody, the boy didn’t utter a single word. Savage looked through the rear window of Sinclair's cruiser, noticing the white clothing dotted with the spatter of Miller's blood.

  The young shooter sat with his back rigid and stared ahead at the wired cage separating him from the vehicle's front compartment. Only his trigger finger moved, rhythmically tapping his knee.

  Tap…tap…tap.

  Four

  Hatch arrived at the café a few minutes before ten. It was set among the bars and restaurants of San Diego’s Gaslamp district. Several outdoor dining areas had their lamps lit. Even in the six weeks that had passed since her time in Breakneck, Hatch still felt the chill of Alaska in the cool California breeze.

  As she entered the quaint café, she saw Jordan Tracy already there, sitting in the far-right corner of the restaurant with his back against the wall. Sipping his coffee, he waved to Hatch as she crossed the floor.

  "Sorry to pull you away from your morning," Tracy said.

  "You didn’t interrupt anything. I just finished a workout on the beach," Hatch replied.

  "That sand plays hell on your legs."

  "Tell me about it." Hatch rubbed her thighs, still feeling the tingle of the O-course.

  "Cruise put you up to it?"

  "You could say that."

  "He took me on some of his beach runs, though I’m more of a pavement or backwoods runner myself. How's he doing, by the way?" Tracy asked.

  "Good as possible. His latest physical therapist hasn’t quit yet, so that's a good sign."

  "Cruise will push the pedal until he’s out of gas."

  "That's what makes him who he is."

  "You're not far off his mark."

  Hatch shrugged off the compliment.

  "How'd he take not getting the message?" Tracy asked.

  "Good, I guess. Confused as I am." Hatch said.

  "I'll clear it up with him later, but this one is off the books."

  Hatch gave a slow nod.

  "My niece went missing last night." Tracy divulged.

  "Where?"

  "She lives with her mom in a small town outside of Nashville. Jericho Falls, barely a blip on the map."

  Hatch thought of her tiny town of Hawk's Landing and the big trouble that had found its way there. "Are the police involved?"

  "Yeah, they're looking into it."

  "So what do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to be eyes on the ground for me. Make sure the investigation is in lockstep, that everything within their power is being done."

  "And how do you suppose I go about that?"

  Tracy slid across a thick envelope. Hatch reached inside and fished out a new driver’s license and employment badge.

  "Figured I'd use your name easier. Less worry about slip-up. Unless you prefer to use the alias you chose while in New Mexico? Daphne Nighthawk, was it?"

  "How'd you know about that?"

  "Talon had a pretty extensive file on you." He offered an apologetic smile. "The choice is yours. I can have my guy whip up new creds if you want."

  "Using my name won't have repercussions?"

  "None that I see. Everything else has been adjusted. The driver's license is clean, age-appropriate, and approximate. I put you living in Nashville. It's a big enough city for someone to be anonymous."

  Hatch picked up the badge. A plastic, sealed laminate coating covered it and it had a metal clip to attach to her pocket or sleeve. It read, "Investigative Reporter, R. Hatch. The Blaze, Tennessee’s independent voice for the people."

  "I thought you said this op was off the books. Yet, you whipped up a backstory, some credentials, and an ID pretty fast."

  "A lot of people owe me, so I collected on a favor or two. But as far as Talon's support, there won’t be an overwatch. I'd go, but we're having Taylor’s service this week and I'm attending to his wife and children."

  Brad Taylor—the former special operator and Talon Executive Service triggerman—was taken out by a force of nature on the same Alaskan mountaintop that had nearly claimed Hatch's life. She understood the heavy burden Tracy felt as commander, and the debt he shouldered in honoring his responsibility to Taylor's family.

  "This wouldn’t even register on Talon's threat matrix, and if we started deploying our assets willy-nilly, even for family, we'd overstep our reach and undermine our sole purpose. But that’s not to say you’re not going in unprotected. That backstory is clean. If they investigate you, The Blaze is an online news agency. There's a full website, several articles written in your name, and the number goes straight to me. As far as funding goes, I will take care of everything. I’ve already arranged the airfare and rental car."

  Hatch blinked and shook her head in astonishment. "Why me?"

  "Not considering your performance in salvaging what was otherwise a failed operation, your military police background would serve this situation best. My guys are hit-them-and-forget-them operators. You come with a different set of skills, and from what Cruise tells me, you're a hell of an interrogator."

  "Thanks. So what should I know about your niece?"

  "Her name is Kyla. She's twelve years old. Her mother is Dorothy Green. Kyla took her mother's maiden name. My brother Benjamin was in jail when she was born. In and out of prison for several years after. Hasn’t had contact with Kyla in six years. Said he was trying to get a court order invoked for visitation rights."

  "I hate to point this out," Hatch interrupted, "but in cases involving a domestic issue, when a child goes missing, the first place we have to look is the family. And if you're telling me, there is a custodial argument, I'd be looking at your brother first."

  "My brother is the one who called me."

  The waitress came by and refreshed Tracy’
s cup. Hatch flipped her mug for her own fill. The waitress asked if they wanted to order from the menu. Tracy said they needed a moment. The waitress then bounced her way around to her other tables.

  Tracy let out a sigh and rubbed the gray of his temples. The seasoned operator reminded her of Dalton Savage, Hawk's Landing's sheriff and someone for whom Hatch cared deeply. She hadn't figured out where things stood with her and Cruise and it left her conflicted, furthering her state of limbo.

  When it came to entering a room and handling an adversary, Hatch was smooth, cool as ice. When it came to handling the relationships in her personal life, Hatch was all thumps. She felt the fumble and could do nothing to stop it.

  She'd called Savage only once since Alaska, letting him know everything was okay, that she was safe, and that there were no more threats. He had asked her when she was coming home, and her answer had held true. She didn’t know.

  The thought thrummed in the back of her mind, a constant hum behind every step forward she took with Cruise. Quieting it, she focused on the man in front of her.

  "I didn’t even know I had a niece until last night."

  Tracy stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup, foregoing cream. He took a sip and continued. "All families aren't postcard perfect. My brother Ben, he's ten years younger than me, so our relationship was always a little strained. I felt more an uncle than a brother at times. When he got into the drugs and started stealing from our family, I tried to intervene. The last time I talked to him ended in blows. We hadn't spoken in fifteen years. So I'm playing catch-up myself. All I know is that my brother said he’s clean, and that at some point during the chaos of their relationship, during one of his stints at either rehab or prison, his on-again-off-again girlfriend and mother to his daughter joined a religious group known as The Eternal Light."

  "What kind of religious group?" Hatch asked.

  "I pawed through the internet to see what I could find out. Not much there at all, really. Just a small piece in an out-of-print newspaper from fifteen years back when the group moved into town. The little that was written suggested the group's belief structure, while founded in Christianity, crosses with a lot of elemental stuff in the preachings of their leader.