“We’re heading out in fifteen minutes tops,” Cain said. “We’ll get loaded up and call him from the road.” He disconnected the call. “We’ll take The Rig,” he said.
The Rig was their black Chevy Suburban, modified for their needs. A cranked-up engine, extra fuel tanks, bulletproof glass and tires, and a satellite communication system. Because you never knew when a simple situation could shape-shift into something more dangerous.
“I’ll gather the duffles,” Harper said.
The duffles, eight in total, varied in their contents. Cain and Harper kept them ready to go at all times. For situations such as this. Where every minute created a colder trail, and a greater chance for a bad outcome. Some of the bags were packed for surveillance, some for full-on warfare, most somewhere in between.
A kidnapping could go in many directions. From a simple rescue to a hostage situation to a hellfire shootout.
Ten minutes later, they lugged four duffles to the elevators and descended to the basement parking area.
CHAPTER 4
7 1/2 HOURS EARLIER
Dalton wasn’t panicked. Panic was not in his nature. But he was furious, and such fury had always been embedded in his DNA. Even as a kid, his switch could flip on a moment’s notice, and with little provocation. That constantly simmering anger was probably the reason he did poorly in school and why he now did what he did. Dirty work for Frankie. Things like sending messages and settling scores. His fury never left room for panic. He always did what was necessary and completed the job. No matter what. That’s what Frankie paid him for. He had no doubt that he would have to earn his keep before this night was over.
Dalton twisted and turned the black Lincoln Navigator through several of the quiet neighborhood streets. Jessie rode shotgun. Dennie lay in the cargo area, moaning. They had folded the rear seats forward so Dennie had room to stretch out.
“How bad is it?” Dalton asked.
“It’s bad,” Dennie said. “Hurts like a bitch.”
“What’re we going to do?” Jessie asked.
Dalton considered the question as he turned west onto Main Street. What could they do? This was supposed to be a clean hit. As simple as one, two, three. Take out the family, walk away, message sent. But now? Dennie’s blood left at the scene, a huge stain on the light gray carpet. Tommy’s un-silenced gun going off with explosive intensity.
Did the neighbors hear anything? Had they called the police already? The houses in the neighborhood were spaced a couple of hundred feet apart so they might’ve gotten lucky, but Dalton knew anything was possible and counting on luck was never an acceptable strategy. Sure, luck could smile on you, like drawing to an inside straight when the pot was piled high, but in Dalton’s experience, it more often offered an unfriendly face. Like a gun appearing from nowhere. Fucking Tommy.
If they were in Memphis, he’d know where to go. The boss had a doc on retainer for just such emergencies. He could fix things off the radar, no record and no one the wiser.
But here? In Fucktown, USA?
“I don’t know,” Dalton said.
He rolled past the hospital on his right, and to the left, the town’s park, quiet this time of night. Main Street became Highway 57, a narrow two-lane blacktop that wound into rural darkness. Dalton glanced back at Dennie. His bloody hands clutched his side and he winced with each bump in the road.
“Think you can make it to Memphis?” Dalton asked.
“No. I need a hospital now.”
“That ain’t going to happen.”
“Come on, brother. Memphis’ll take hours. It’s on the other side of the fucking state.”
Dalton’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “A hospital’s out of the question. We might as well drive to the local PD and let them cuff us.”
“You gotta do something,” Jessie said. He spun in his seat to look back at Dennie. “He’s losing a lot of blood.”
The highway led them through what was mostly farmland punctuated with wads of trees. There was no real traffic. In fact, they passed only two cars, each headed in the opposite direction. A few miles out of town, Dalton saw a church. On the left, set back from the road a ways, it was a white frame structure with a wide gravel parking area. Empty at this hour. He wheeled into the lot and circled to the back, the chapel blocking them from the road.
“What are we going to do?” Jessie asked. “Pray?”
Dalton gave him a look, then pushed open the driver’s door. The interior lights popped on.
“Somebody’ll see us,” Jessie said.
“Not here.” Dalton climbed out and tugged open the rear door. “Let me see.”
Dennie rolled out of his fetal position, and onto his back. He lifted his blood-soaked shirt.
It was bad. No way to sugarcoat this. The bullet had entered the left side of Dennie’s abdomen. It had to have damaged some important shit inside. Dalton rolled Dennie to his right side, drawing a deep moan. He searched for an exit wound but found none.
“Hand me that towel,” Dalton said to Jessie. He passed it to Dennie. “Hold pressure on the wound. The bleeding is slowing and that’ll stop it.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Jessie said.
Dalton stood and looked up at the night sky. “Give me a second. I’ll figure it out.”
CHAPTER 5
7 1/2 HOURS EARLIER
“What happened to you, partner?” Dr. Bradley “Buck” Buckner asked.
The young boy was stretched out on the ER bed, lips trembling, eyes big, gaze directed down toward his loosely tied Nikes, as if afraid to look at Buck, as if all this would simply go away if he didn’t. He sniffed and then gathered himself. Somewhat. “My brother hit me,” the boy said, his voice small, frightened.
“Not an uncommon thing in our household.” The woman sat in a chair across the stretcher from Buck.
“I take it you’re Mrs. Newland?” Buck asked.
She nodded. “Joyce. Matthew and his brother are
