by Linda Ladd
Novak started out after them, curious as to what the hell was going on. His gut was telling him that the woman was Alcina Castillo, so he needed to catch up with her and get her the hell out of danger. Wherever that hooligan had come from, there were bound to be others incoming and dressed just like him. They liked to travel around in packs. About ten yards up the beach, he heard them behind him. He turned around. Two guys were running straight at him. A third guy was kneeling beside their bleeding buddy. They all had on those skull vests. Novak stood his ground and waited for them to reach him. Both were bigger than the first guy, but neither had weight or height on Novak. They didn’t look particularly strong or intimidating. They looked like the kind of guys who needed guns to take care of business because they couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag. They also looked like the type who would use those guns to hunt for victims in numbers, like timber wolves.
Novak was unarmed, which was unusual for him, but he’d jogged the beach every night since he’d arrived with no problems. It was a tame tourist area and not known for serious criminal activity. That was about to change, but Novak could mess it up with the best of them, and he could disarm these two kids any day of the week. His military training often came in handy. So he stood and waited for them to get close enough to put down.
They had the smarts to pull up a couple of yards away and point their Ruger semiautomatics at his bare chest. In the condo’s lights, Novak ascertained that one man looked to be Hispanic, but the other one was definitely Caucasian. Both had heavy beards and long ponytails tied at the nape and more tats on their bare arms than a Folsom Prison lifer. To Novak, they looked more like frat boys at a Hells Angels party. They didn’t threaten him verbally, which surprised Novak, judging from his past encounters with similar types who liked to scream out profane threats and cocky bravado.
“You got a problem?” he asked them, already on the balls of his feet and ready to move, only waiting for one of them to step in closer. These sorts always came closer so they could attempt to intimidate him. These two didn’t. Instead, the short Hispanic man said, “Shut up and start walking. Down that way.” He motioned toward the nature preserve with his gun.
“How about telling me why I should do that?”
The speaker wore a gang-inspired black-and-yellow bandanna tied across his forehead. He had lots of badges on his vest, mainly skulls and crossbones in various configurations to match the big one on his back. The name Mario was embroidered across the front. The other guy’s said Larry. That wasn’t smart at all. If they were going out to perpetrate crimes like drowning women and children, they shouldn’t wear their names on their clothes. These guys were stupid, all right, but definitely members of a gang. Novak needed to know which gang it was; he’d found out the hard way that these sorts of clubs posed different threat levels.
Mario said, “Just start walking, unless you want us to end you right here.”
“Maybe you should tell me where we’re going?”
“You just asking for a beatdown, aren’t you, dude?” That was the white guy, getting in on the fake bluster.
Novak hated it when somebody called him dude; it was just a little quirk he had. Unless it was Lori Garner, who loved to spill out all kinds of social media crap and abbreviations he’d never heard of, but he liked her and she was good looking, so she got away with it. These two didn’t appeal to him. “I’m not going anywhere with you, so get the hell out of my face before I take that gun and shove it up your ass.”
What that got him was Mario’s gun barrel jammed up under his chin. A mistake, that was. Novak moved so fast that the younger guy was caught flat-footed. Ducking to his left, he snatched the gun out of the man’s hands before he could even move, then slammed it hard against his cheekbone. He shoved him to the ground and beaded the Ruger on the other guy’s face. This one was not so circumspect and pulled his trigger in panic. Novak felt the burn of the bullet on his left biceps. It barely tagged his arm, so he ignored that and disarmed the second guy and then knocked him unconscious with a hard uppercut with the Ruger. Unfortunately, the condo lights went out about the time two more gangbangers showed up out of the dark and grabbed Novak from behind. He managed to throw one off but was now outnumbered by three. So he gave it up, stood still, and put his hands up as a gun barrel was thrust hard into his kidneys.
Lucky for him, they didn’t shoot him right then and there. That was a mistake on their part. It probably meant they weren’t used to murdering people in cold blood, or maybe they didn’t want to do it in front of a four-building condo complex. Maybe they thought drowning was less noticeable. They started prodding him down the beach with four weapons pointed at him, front, back, and either side, boxing him in as tightly as Secret Service agents guarding a president. They stopped next to the first guy Novak had put down, who was still wallowing and moaning in the shallows.
Fingering the flesh wound on his arm, Novak decided it was nothing to worry about. He glanced at the condo complex, hoping for signs of concerned residents dialing 911, but no such luck. It was pretty much dark. Surf was too loud and the beach was too dark. Maybe he’d get lucky and some Good Samaritan hiding behind closed curtains had already summoned the cops. He listened for the shriek of sirens, but no luck there, either. He was on his own with a gang of incompetent but heavily armed little bullies. Not such good odds. Still, they had picked the wrong victim this time. He would wait until he got the chance and then take them down as best he could. He could take one of their guns easily enough, no problem. That would even things up considerably, so he said nothing and did what he was told.
This whole altercation was all about the woman and boy, no doubt about it. Both had disappeared into the darkness and hopefully headed somewhere safe. These guys were not well-trained military personnel by any stretch of the imagination, but they weren’t Eagle Scouts, either. They weren’t as tough as they liked to think, but they knew how to pull a trigger, had already done so, and that made them dangerous and unpredictable. He would make his move at the right time and find out how tough they really were. Fortunately, they made no move to tie him up, thinking it was over and he was afraid of them.
One particularly annoying guy kept jabbing Novak in the back with his gun barrel. They were taking him into that nature preserve, which would be a damn good place to kill him and leave his corpse to rot hidden under thick tropical undergrowth. There were plenty of beach houses and hotels all over Sanibel Island, but most places were hidden from the main roads by these kind of natural thickets, which meant lots of places to murder at will and in private. Still, once out on the street, a gang of men marching a guy at gunpoint ought to draw someone’s attention sooner or later, unless they were planning a quick bullet in the head once they got him off the beach.
Instead of murdering him when they should have, they walked him over the bridge and down a dark path into the preserve. Nobody said a word as the sound of the ocean subsided, muffled by thick vegetation and palms and palmettos. The night was impenetrable black, but they herded him along and seemed to know where they were going. He wondered what they were waiting for and why they hadn’t brought flashlights. Nobody would ever accuse them of being geniuses. Novak strained his eyes but couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. All he had to do was take one down, get his gun, and they’d all be dead in minutes. They were pathetic, really. He walked along inside their ranks and tried to remember how the path meandered from the times he’d been in there before. Once he had his bearings, he took a deep breath, poised to make his move.
High-powered beams suddenly flashed on all around them, blinding Novak and his captors. Dark figures burst out from behind the lights. Shocked, Novak didn’t have time to duck down, but it didn’t matter because the assault was not about him. Whoever these guys were, they were quick and efficient and knew exactly what they were doing. Within minutes, his not-so-tough captors were on the ground, bloodied up and unresponsive. Novak was th
e last man standing. Then he heard a woman whispering. He started to turn toward her, but something slammed hard into the back of his skull. He went down on his hands and knees and wobbled there, trying to right the tilting ground as the flashlight beams swung about and further disoriented him. He couldn’t quite get his mind to work before the second blow hit him in the same place. After that, he was out for the count, unconscious well before his face hit the ground.
About the Author
Linda Ladd is the bestselling author of over a dozen novels, including the Claire Morgan series and the Will Novak novels. She makes her home in Missouri, where she lives with her husband. She loves traveling and spending time with her grandsons and granddaughter. In addition to writing, Linda enjoys target shooting and is a good markswoman with a Glock 19 similar to her fictional detectives. She loves to read, play tennis and board games, and watch fast-paced action movies. She is currently at work on her next novel. Learn more at lindaladd.com.
NO FRIENDS
Mardi Gras whips New Orleans’ French Quarter into a whirlpool of excess, color, booze, noise, motion. So the woman in the sights of Will Novak’s binoculars stands out. She’s bruised, barefoot, wearing a man’s raincoat. And she’s looking right at him.
NO FAITH
In a moment she’s fleeing into the crowd, but Novak knows she’s not gone for good. When she comes back, it’s with a gun to his head—and a story about crony politics, a crooked judge, a kidnapped whistleblower, and children in deadly danger. Novak can’t let this one slide.
NO FURY
Through the grit of Houston’s underbelly to the grime below Beverly Hills’ glamour, a trickle of rot connects the powerful to the desperate and corrupts the men and women who are supposed to stand against it. Deceit is everywhere. If he’s going to do right, Novak is going to have to do it alone . . .
SAY YOU’RE DREAMING
When a scream wakes Will Novak in the middle of the night, at first he puts it down to the nightmares. He’s alone on a sailboat in the Caribbean, miles from land. And his demons never leave him.
SAY YOUR PRAYERS
The screams are real, though, coming from another boat just a rifle’s night scope away. It only takes seconds for Novak to witness one murder and stop another. But with the killer on the run and a beautiful stranger dripping on his deck, Novak has gotten himself into a new kind of deep water.
BUT DON’T SAY YOUR NAME
The young woman he saved says she doesn’t know who she is. But someone does, and they’re burning fuel and cash to chase Novak and his new acquaintance from one island to the next, across dangerous seas and right into the wilds of the Yucatan jungle. If either of them is going to live, Novak is going to need answers, fast—and he’s guessing he won’t like what he finds out . . .
BAD MEMORIES
Not many people know their way through the bayous well enough to find Will Novak’s crumbling mansion outside New Orleans. Not that Novak wants to talk to anyone. He keeps his guns close and his guard always up.
BAD SISTER
Mariah Murray is one selfish, reckless, manipulative woman, the kind Novak would never want to get tangled up with. But he can’t say no to his dead wife’s sister.
BAD VIBES
When Mariah tells him she wants to rescue a childhood friend, another Aussie girl gone conveniently missing in north Georgia, Novak can’t turn her down. She’s hiding something. But the pretty little town she’s targeted screams trouble, too. Novak knows there’s a trap waiting. But until he springs it, there’s no telling who to trust . . .