Slaughter (The Agency: Young Guns Book 5), page 1
SLAUGHTER
THE AGENCY: YOUNG GUNS BOOK FIVE
Carolina Mac
Copyright © 2023 by Carolina Mac
SLAUGHTER - 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-990882-02-9
All rights reserved
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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SLAUGHTER: To kill in a bloody or violent manner.
―MERRIAM-WEBSTER DICTIONARIES
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
Friday, May 26th.
Fisher Lake Trailer Park.
“I need to get my ride fixed.” Glen kicked an empty bean can out of his way on the way to the fridge. It clattered into what passed for a living room and came to rest against the leg of one of the plastic outdoor chairs he and Dean had stolen from their neighbor two streets over. Beat sitting on the floor.
“Can’t help you,” said his brother. “Got nothing to help you with, bro, is what I’m saying. Used my last twenty bucks for smokes. The club ain’t making nothing with that asshole we got as number one.”
“Ain’t up to us to get rid of him,” said Glen. “Everybody has to vote on the motion. To take out the president it has to be unanimous or he has to break one of the big rules—like the ones they kill you for busting.”
“Yeah, and there ain’t nobody brave enough in our club to make the motion to get rid of Santana.”
“We’ll have to wait it out,” said Glen. “Get better side hustles. That’s what we need. We can’t run our trailer and our bikes on air.”
“I ain’t getting no side job,” said Dean. “I pumped gas for so fuckin long I was scared to get close to anybody with a Zippo. I’ll get us some cash somehow.”
“Don’t do nothing stupid,” said Glen.
“Do I look stupid?”
“You ain’t no good to us in jail,” said Glen. “That’s what I mean by stupid.” He held the fridge door open and stared at the empty shelves. “We ain’t even got one fuckin egg, Deano.”
“No kin to call for help,” said Dean, “or I would’ve already called them. You and me, bro. We’re all we got. Make coffee and we’ll come up with a plan.”
“Lemme see if we got enough coffee left in the can to make a pot.”
The Blackmore Agency. Austin.
Blaine closed the office door and worked on the same project he’d been working on with Travis Bristol for the past few weeks.
The Donovan Project, they called it between themselves. They had finally located Dean and Glen Smith. Two brothers living together in a trailer park near Fisher Lake, north of San Angelo.
As Blaine dug deeper, he found both boys belonged to the San Angelo Devils, the club Farrell had belonged to years before. The same club that shot Farrell when he tried to leave and get a better life for himself and Neil. The same club that had murdered Rob and Perry Donovan when they found out the boys bore the Donovan name.
Travis was working on a plan to infiltrate the Devils, get to know the boys and get them out of the club without getting them dead. Could he do it? Not without taking the club down and that’s what he was good at.
He’d done it before in Houston. Could he do it again without getting himself killed in the process?
Blaine felt it was far too dangerous and he wanted to take a different tack. He wanted to go to the trailer, explain who the boys really were—part of the Donovan family—and offer them help—sanctuary if need be.
Travis was convinced Blaine’s way would have no success because the boys would be scared shitless to leave the club on the say-so of a cop, and they would think Blaine was conning them.
If they had as few brains as their brothers Rob and Perry had been gifted with, Glen and Dean wouldn’t have more than a couple of rational thoughts in any twenty-four hour period. The two of them would be poor decision makers.
Blaine was finished breakfast and was ready to leave for the Airport Road Station for the morning briefing when Chief Calhoun called.
“Good morning, Chief. I’m heading to Airport Road.”
“You’re going the wrong way, son.”
“Where should I be going?”
“Head out to Jonestown. Got a rancher out there with an axe in his head. Hired hand found him up in the hayloft.”
“Shit, Chief. Give me the address.” Blaine wrote the name and address in his notebook. Bart Moore was the name of the dead man. County road. Rural route. West of Austin.
Casey was waiting in the truck. Blaine slid behind the wheel and tried to think. “I’ll send Farrell to take the briefing at VCS and let him know how many people we’re going to need in Jonestown.”
“For what?” asked Casey. “What did I miss?”
“Axe murder. We’re not going to the station.”
Casey’s dark eyes widened. “Axe murder. We ever had one of those before?”
“Can’t remember, but we’ve got one now.”
Ross Harley-Davidson. East Austin.
Farrell took Blaine’s call in the kitchen. He was having a coffee with Laine and Adam who were both wounded and off work.
“Hey, bro. What’s up?”
“Farrell, take the briefing this morning. We’ve got a murder out in Jonestown and Casey and I are headed there now.”
“Sure. Call and tell me how many people you need.”
“I’ll call from the scene.”
“Copy that.”
“I’ve got to take the briefing,” said Farrell to Laine and Adam. “We have a new murder.”
“Wish I could go,” said Adam.
“You can’t and neither can Laine.”
“I’m going to work on Monday,” said Laine.
“Nope. You’re not.”
Adam smiled listening to them argue. “I’m thinking about not going back at all. What the hell would I do if I wasn’t a cop?”
“Why don’t you and Laine work on that today?” asked Farrell. “What the hell both of you are gonna do when you’re not fuckin cops. Laine’s quitting too, so work it out together.”
As soon as Farrell left, Laine shook her head. “Farrell wants me to quit. It’s all in his mind so far. He’s trying to project the quitting thing into my head, but it’s not working. Not yet.”
“What would we do if we weren’t cops?” asked Adam. “Have you ever considered another career?”
“I was army,” said Laine. “I liked it except for the macho stuff. I can follow rules if I have to, but I’d rather make up my own.”
“So, you need a job where you’re more freewheeling,” said Adam, “like if you were a…”
“A what?” Laine laughed.
Adam shrugged and it made him wince. “No idea.”
“I’ll get us more coffee. Sorting this out is going to take time.”
Pecan Creek.
Tommy had gone back to work and trusted Travis to keep a sharp eye on his brother, Lukas. He was antsy, unsettled, twitchy, and ready to run. Nowhere safe for him to run to—that was the worry. The Eights would find him wherever he went. Running was not the answer but try to tell a wild kid that.
Putting a couple of fried eggs in front of the kid, Travis said, “I might get a job where I’ll be away for a long while and you’d have to stay here alone and take care of the dogs. Could you do that without taking off and leaving my dogs with nobody to watch out for them?”
“Yeah, I could stay here and I can live alone. I like it, and I like the dogs. They’re smart and you taught me most of the commands.”
“Okay, if you’re in for that, I have to get things in place for this job. It’s going to be undercover. That’s what I’m trained for—that and recon.”
“You serve?”
“Marines. Special ops.”
Lukas nodded. “You’re letting your hair grow?”
“Got to for the new job.”
“You gonna get paid good for the new gig?”
Travis shook his head. “Nope. Won’t get paid much, but you’ll be okay. There’s a hou sehold account where the bills get paid and you can debit groceries and dog food.” Travis laughed, “Just don’t go buying anything big—there won’t be enough for a Stang convertible or nothing like that.”
“I won’t buy a Mustang.” Lukas laughed.
“You can get my ride out of the shed and clean it up for me,” said Travis. “I’m getting a new paint job for this project.”
“You gonna be Dale on this one?”
“Yep, like that, but another name. Too many people want to kill Dale.” Travis chuckled. “No point in saying—like here I am—Dale Burden—come and get me.”
“Nope. Don’t do that. They gonna recognize you?”
“I’m gonna dye my hair black, grow a beard and darken it down. I’m not looking to get dead.”
“Why you gonna… like expose yourself?”
“There’s a reason. When I get farther under, I’ll let you know what I’m doing because I might need your help.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready,” said Lukas.
“We’re gonna go to the gym every day for the next couple of weeks,” said Travis. “We’ll both go. You could bulk up a bit for your own protection. You get as strong as Tommy and you’d be doing something. That kid is made of fuckin steel.”
“Didn’t notice it,” said Lukas. “He does look solid.”
Travis chuckled. “I wouldn’t try throwing a punch at your little brother.”
Lukas smiled. “He work out a lot?”
“Works out and he’s a runner. Runs for miles.”
“Huh. I never did that.”
“I used to in the Marines. Not too fond of running with a heavy pack on my back.”
“I’ll go get the bike out,” said Lukas. “I’m anxious to take a look at it.”
“You any good on mechanical?”
“Maybe, not bad. Can fix my own ride pretty good.”
“Good enough. See if you can tune my ride up a little, then we’ll decide on some new paint.”
“You going under in a club?”
Travis nodded.
“Fuck, that’s dangerous.”
Coulter-Ross Ranch. La Grange.
Annie languished at the center island after the kitchen had been cleaned up and the dishwasher was humming away. Since the day of the long sleep—Memorial Day—she hadn’t felt like herself and she knew Dec was worried. Neither one of them knew what was happening with her brain injury. An appointment with Doctor Kaplan had been scheduled.
Annie checked her cell and she’d missed a call from Montana’s father. He’d called several times since the picnic to see if she was feeling better.
She called him back. “Stuart, I’m so sorry I missed your call.”
“No problem. Are you feeling better, Annie? I’ve spoken to Declan on the phone and he’s beyond concerned for what happened to you on Memorial Day. I trust you’ve made an appointment with your doctor?”
“Yes, Doctor Kaplan is my neurologist in Austin and I’m going this week. I feel like I was a terrible hostess. Invite people for the weekend and sleep through their visit. There is nothing ruder than that.”
Stuart laughed. “You are blameless, Annie. I totally forgive you. Despite worrying over you, the boys and I had a wonderful weekend.”
“I had fun too, up to a point.” Annie laughed and Stuart laughed too.
Moore Ranch. Jonestown.
Blaine parked the Navigator behind the county sheriff’s Bronco. The county medical examiner was there too. It had taken them close to an hour to get to the scene and Blaine hated it when things were touched or moved before he arrived.
“Hope they didn’t move the body,” said Casey. “I want to touch the guy, at least for a few seconds before they bag him.”
“Let’s get into the barn,” said Blaine. “That’s where he was killed.”
They walked into the barn on the lower level and gave a shout out. “Ranger Blackmore, Sheriff Torres.”
“Up here, Ranger. Climb the ladder and be careful. It’s not that steady.”
“Go ahead,” said Casey. “I’ll catch you if you fall.” He laughed.
Blaine clunked up the ladder, the chains rattling on his Harley boots. The sheriff and a couple of deputies were standing next to the ME who was on his knees next to the body making notes.
Blaine kicked loose straw out of his way as he shuffled across the loft, unsure of his footing. The wide boards underfoot felt weak—like they might crack under a bit of weight.
The dust from the hay and straw stored in the loft was going to bother his breathing. He couldn’t hang around too long and keep breathing normally.
Blaine stopped beside the victim and gazed down. The straw on the barn floor had turned crimson all around the victim’s head. The axe was embedded solidly in the man’s skull and the doctor hadn’t tried to remove it.
Blaine shook hands with the sheriff. “Ranger Blackmore, Sheriff. State Violent Crime. You familiar with the victim?”
“Bart Moore. Yep. Went to school with him. Known him for years.”
“Any thoughts on who might have killed him?”
The sheriff smirked and Blaine instantly knew the man wasn’t going to enjoy giving the case to the state. “I have a few ideas on who had it in for Bart.”
“Any names you want to share?”
“No, thanks. I can’t guess at anything this violent. I’d say treading softly was the way to go.”
Casey squatted down and placed a hand on the dead man’s arm. He left it there for a minute, then stood up.
“Mister Moore’s wife in the house?” asked Blaine.
“Yep. My female deputy, Earline is with her, Ranger. Velma is a bit hysterical. Don’t know if she’s up to answering any questions. I’d leave her alone for a bit if I were you.”
“Where’s the hired hand who found the deceased?” asked Blaine.
“He’s in the house with Velma.”
“Is there another way into the loft besides the ladder access?” asked Casey.
The sheriff turned and pointed. “Yes, sir. Those doors right over there. They come in from the back of the barn. Mostly used for tractor or wagon access at harvest time.”
Casey strode over and opened the doors and closed them again. They squeaked a little but he could smell the WD. The door hinges had been recently lubed.
Casey took pictures of the victim from all angles and got Blaine out of the dusty hayloft as soon as possible. They headed for the ranch house next.
The sheriff was correct about Mrs. Moore’s emotional state. The victim’s wife was close to hysteria and far from rational enough to answer questions about her husband.
Blaine introduced himself and left a couple of cards on the coffee table. He’d have to talk to her later. He strolled out onto the porch with Casey and the hired hand.
The hired hand, Elmer Clausen, was devastated by his employer’s untimely demise. Elmer was almost as old as the Moores5 and more of a friend than hired help. He recounted his discovery of the body and Blaine let him go back inside to sit with the widow.
“Where do you want to start, bro?”
“Hope we get prints from the axe handle,” said Blaine, “but if this is a brand new killer, the prints won’t do us any good.”
“You say’n this feels brand new to you?”
“Yeah, it does. Feels like a practice run. Hayloft of a barn. Play it safe before going anywhere that takes more nerve and more skill.”
“Huh,” said Casey. “Unless Bart Moore was the targeted victim for a specific reason.”
“Funny, I’m not feeling that” said Blaine. “Not at all. I’m feeling practice kill or else the killer is very young. Somebody came in the top doors, waited in the loft, and took his practice shot.”
“A local somebody?” asked Casey.
“You tell me.”
“Somebody familiar with the area? Or somebody who came out to a rural area to practice.”
“Did Bart know the guy?” asked Blaine.
“Nope. Never saw him before,” said Casey.
“Was that all you got?”
“Stranger and a quick look before the axe came down on his head.”
“Description?”
“Just a kid. Camo pants and ball cap.”
Blaine made notes. “How did he get here?”
