Cheyenne McCray - Point Blank (Lawmen Book 4) (26 page)

Trace pushed himself to his feet, and Brooks stood as well.

“I don’t like being left in the dark,” Trace said, “But I appreciate you coming to tell me in person. I’m going to get my wife someplace safe and hire a couple of Joe’s men or women operatives to stay close to her and the baby, too.”

Brooks clapped Trace on the shoulder. “You’re on my team once you get Christie squared away.”

“I’ll give you a call.” Trace walked with Brooks to the front door. “Promise me you won’t let this happen again—shutting me out from anything that involves family.”

Brooks nodded. “Let’s hope to hell there isn’t another time.”

They shook hands and slapped each other on the back before Brooks picked up his western hat and left. Normally he would have gone in to talk with Christie, but he knew Trace would be packing his wife up to take her somewhere and she would be getting the baby ready to go.

It was late afternoon when Brooks left the Davidson’s home. As he drove down the dirt road, back to Double Adobe Road, Brooks’s phone rang from where he’d set it on the console tray. He glanced at the screen and saw it was Jase Wright.

He answered via the truck’s Bluetooth. “What’s going on, Jase?”

“I’ve had Okle under surveillance like we discussed earlier,” Jase said. “Followed him to his warehouse. He’s been in there all damned day. A couple of his key men have gone in and out, along with his
staff
.” Jase referred to Okle’s employees with distaste.

Brooks “Anything interesting?”

Jase sounded thoughtful as he spoke. “I keep asking myself what’s a gorgeous woman like that brunette, Selena Gallos, doing hanging around someone as bad, not to mention bad-looking, as Okle? The woman is hotter than the desert sun.”

“Good chance it’s his money.” Brooks pictured the stunningly exotic, leggy, model-beautiful woman from surveillance photos with Okle. Brooks agreed with Jase—how could a woman like that go for a loser like Okle? In the photos she looked intelligent and sophisticated, not like some gold-digging bitch fawning over the bastard. But then it took all kinds. “From all we’ve gathered, he’s loaded, thanks to his dealings with the cartel.”

“You’re probably right,” Jase said. “Damned waste of one fine-looking woman.”

“We need to know if Selena Gallos is involved with Okle’s drug trafficking.” Brooks frowned as he halted his truck at the stop sign at Double Adobe Road and Highway 80. “And just how deep the woman is involved.”

“I’m up to the challenge.” Jase had a note of exaggerated humor in his voice. “Just put me in a bar with her and a few beers, and we’ll be tighter than barbed wire strung to a fencepost.”

Brooks couldn’t help but laugh. “You wish.”

“I sure as hell do.” Jase snorted. “If she’s innocent. She looks like she’d be a wildcat in bed.”

Brooks pulled his vehicle onto the highway and headed toward the DHS/ICE office near Douglas. “You’d better stop thinking with your dick and see what you can learn.”

“Yes, sir.” Jase said it with mock seriousness before his tone went hard again. “Another thing is bothering me.”

“What’s that?”

“One of Okle’s lowlifes was supposed to meet Dylan Curtis yesterday, some creep named Francis Faderic.” Jase went on, “Faderic told Dylan he had information to sell on Okle—about a location for a drug shipment—but the scum never showed up to the meet.”

“Okle might have gotten wind of it.” Brooks passed a slow-moving car on the left before returning to the right lane. “If Okle did, Faderic is probably dead.”

“Or wishes he was,” Jase said.

“You could be right.” Brooks considered it as he closed in on another vehicle a good distance ahead. “Murder is just one more charge we should have against Okle by the time we’re finished. He’s had more than one employee and associate vanish. Not to mention death threats against Natasha and her family and friends, and for ordering the attempt on Christie’s life.”

“I’ll get back to this exciting surveillance assignment.” Jase spoke in an exaggerated bored tone. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Same here.” Brooks approached the brown car ahead of him. He narrowed his gaze. “Hold on a sec.”

“All right,” Jase said, but Brooks barely heard him as he neared the car.

A damaged fender, no license plate, and an older model rusted brown Volvo.

Heated fury rose inside Brooks. “I need backup.” He gained on the car in front of him. “I’m driving behind the sonofabitch who tried to run down Christie.” He gave his location.

“Holy shit.” Jase said. “Will do.” He disconnected the call.

Brooks flipped on his grill lights and siren.

The car sped up, shooting down the highway. A more powerful engine than what the car had been manufactured with had to be under the hood.

Brooks floored the accelerator. Considering his truck had been intended for use in law enforcement, the engine had been built with more horsepower than standard vehicles. Still, Brooks had some difficulty catching up with the car in front of him.

He clenched his jaw, and closed in on the vehicle.

The driver slammed on his brakes and spun the old Volvo around on the two-lane highway, barely avoiding going into the drainage ditch. His car was small enough that he was able to make the turn without much effort.

He straightened out the wheels and swerved into Brooks’s lane, coming head-on toward the truck. Brooks didn’t waver, keeping his truck steady. Hell if he’d play chicken. His truck was bigger and the other guy wasn’t likely to come out ahead.

At the last moment, the car swerved into its own lane, headed back toward Bisbee.

Brooks made sure both lanes were clear on the little-traveled highway before he jerked the wheel and turned his own vehicle in the opposite direction. His big truck didn’t make the turn as easily on the two-lane highway as the Volvo had. The vehicle’s wheels slid partially into the drainage ditch. The powerful truck gained traction, tires churning earth, and was back on the highway in seconds.

He radioed in the change in direction as he chased the Volvo. His truck was fifty feet behind the car when, at the last moment, the man jerked the wheel to the right onto Double Adobe Road.

Brooks stomped on the brakes at the same time a car rounded the curve from the direction of Bisbee. Brooks’s truck skidded to a stop, passing the Double Adobe turnoff. The driver of the oncoming car clearly saw Brooks’s lights flashing and probably heard the siren. The driver pulled his vehicle to the side of the road.

An open dirt area, that had once been the parking lot for some long defunct restaurant, gave Brooks enough room to spin his truck and head back the hundred feet to the exit for Double Adobe Road.

The Volvo was almost out of sight as Brooks crossed the cattle guard and headed down the narrow two-lane road. He jammed his foot on the accelerator and tore after the car. He called in the new information.

Shit.
Too much damned territory for law enforcement to easily cover. One thing about this part of the country was that with the low mesquite bushes, one could see for miles in the mostly treeless valley. The fact that the bushes were leafless from the cold of winter also helped with visibility.

He bore down on the Volvo that was a good distance ahead. He closed in again. In a mile they would reach a dangerous curve where Frontier Road bisected Double Adobe Road. Brooks wanted to pass the Volvo and cut off the driver before they reached the intersection.

Brooks started to pass the Volvo when the driver began swerving from lane to lane, blocking Brooks from passing the car.

He gritted his teeth, falling in behind the Volvo again.

When they were six hundred feet and closing in on the intersection and the curve, Brooks slowed considerably, knowing better than to navigate the area at high speed.

The driver reached the intersection, not slowing, his brake lights never flashing. He spun the Volvo to turn north onto Frontier Road.

He miscalculated the dangerous turn.

The car fishtailed and slid across the asphalt toward an enormous telephone pole.

Brooks came to a stop before the intersection as the Volvo’s driver lost control.

The Volvo slammed headlong into the telephone pole. The crash was loud enough to be heard over the truck’s siren.

Metal buckled around the pole, compacting the entire front end of the car.

Shit.
Brooks had wanted to question the suspect, maybe even get him to turn on Okle. Brooks doubted the driver had survived.

Brooks radioed in again as he parked his truck cattycorner to the accident. He gave his location to the dispatcher, and requested an ambulance. Considering how far out of town they were, it would take a while for the paramedics to arrive.

Not that Brooks thought the driver had survived the crash.

He pulled his Walther and climbed out of the truck. He checked for traffic. Clear. He jogged across the intersection, holding his weapon down in a two-handed grip. The tick of hot metal and the sound of dripping gas hitting the dirt were the only things he heard.

The gasoline smell was strong. When he reached the back of the car, he raised his weapon, slowly stepping around to the driver’s side.

He took care as he cautiously approached and peered into the small space that was left of the driver’s side.

All that remained behind the wheel was a compressed, headless corpse. The hood of the car had come through the window and decapitated the driver. Beneath the angle of the hood, Brooks saw that blood splattered the body’s clothing.

More blood had sprayed the safety glass of the shattered window and the hood that was now inside the car. The door was crumpled—there would be no opening that door, so he didn’t bother. He couldn’t see past the body or over the twisted metal to check if someone was or had been in the front passenger seat.

Brooks remained on guard, not knowing if someone else could be in the back of the car and have survived the accident. It was possible. Anything was possible.

He flung open the rear door with his gun still raised. The only thing in the back seat was the driver’s head, its eyes wide and sightless. Brooks recognized the open-mouthed head as the man who had been driving the Volvo when it almost ran down Christie and him.

Brooks rounded the rear of the car to the opposite side and opened the right rear passenger door. Nothing was there but a pile of empty soda cups, fast food containers, and candy bar wrappers.

The front passenger door was as smashed in as the driver’s side and the window was shattered. Brooks continued to hold his Walther up as he looked through the broken window. The seat was empty.

When he had cleared the car of any potential threats, he looked through the passenger side window, surveying the scene. He glanced at the floorboard and caught a glimpse of a manila file folder. A portion of the contents had partially slid out, onto the floorboard. Several black and white photos peeked out of the folder, but he couldn’t tell what the subject matter was.

The crumpled door was impossible to open. Brooks knocked out remaining broken shards of the window with his weapon. He pulled a latex glove out of a pocket and slid it on one hand.

He leaned into the car, ignoring remnants of the window’s glass poking him through his T-shirt, pressing against his abs. He was tall and his reach long enough that he was able to push the photos back into the folder before he scooped it up and brought it out of the car.

He moved to the back of the Volvo and set the folder on the trunk. In the distance he heard sirens. He opened the folder with the gloved hand and a chill rolled over his skin as he flipped through the photos one by one. The early evening winter sunlight was just enough to see the subjects of the photographs.

Natasha. Christie. A close up of baby Jessica. An elderly couple—probably the grandparents. And a photograph of Trace. Pictures of people he didn’t recognize with the exception of Gary Orson—Natasha’s friend from the tradeshow.

A handwritten list was behind the photographs. Home addresses for Natasha, the Davidsons, and a Florida address, which probably belonged to the grandparents. Work addresses for Natasha and Trace were also there. A few other names, including Gary’s, were below the information for each of her family members. The ones he didn’t recognize had to be more of her friends.

Brooks almost crumpled the photographs in his fury and wished to hell the bastard hadn’t died in the crash

If the man had survived, Brooks would have killed him.

“Shut the fuck up.” Mark brushed Selena off with a wave of his hand when he had the desire to use his fist. “I fucking know it’s my morning to see Mother and I don’t need you reminding me.”

Her expression turned unreadable and her dark gaze studied him coolly. It was clear she didn’t like that he’d gone off on her.

Right now he didn’t give a shit. No, that wasn’t true. He was afraid of losing Selena, so the fact was he did give a shit. It also hit him that she was a cold-blooded killer. It probably wasn’t a good idea to piss her off.

“Sorry I snapped at you.” His words still came out with a furious edge to them. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Of course.” Her expression hadn’t changed but she sounded like she was restraining anger at the way he’d spoken to her.

“Considering the mood I’m in, I wouldn’t be good company for Mother.” He might even break the neck of one of those irritating bastards who always got on his nerves when he visited his mother.

“Do you have something that would start your day out better?” Selena tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps torturing the man you are holding downstairs?”

It was the first time Selena had brought up the subject of the torture Mark was fond of. It made him feel powerful, untouchable, when he had someone else’s life or death in his control.

Selena always seemed to know the right way to soothe and calm him. She also usually knew when to shut her fucking mouth.

“Romero could have killed Natasha’s cousin.” Rage built up in Mark again and he felt like he might explode. “All I wanted him to do was scare the bitch. Instead Romero nearly runs the cousin down and hits some Good Samaritan who pushed her out of the way in time. EV gave the order. It should have come from
me.
”