Zero: A protective hero romantic suspense, page 2
What? Is there an emergency button under there? What if he’s caught? He’ll get us all killed.
Weapon still trained on the girl, the gunman focuses on the stacks of cash peeking from the bag on the counter. He’s wired, anxious to get the hell out of here, but also uncertain. It’s as if he didn’t count on witnesses and now doesn’t know what to do with us. All he wants is the cash, but what if one of us tries to stop him or cause trouble before he can get out the door?
The condensation from the cold and damp soft drinks seeps into my dress. The sides are slick and a bottle slips. I shiver and twitch, readjusting my arm to secure them against my ribcage. At the same time, the girl’s cell phone clatters to the floor causing most of us to startle.
The robber jumps, eyes glued to the skittering phone that slides under one of the shelves. Off in the distance, outside and most probably a few miles away, sirens howl, growing stronger with each whine.
Hope surges through me, help is on the way, and I fumble to keep hold of the drinks. The guy terrorizing us swings the gun in my direction. Fear oozes from his every pore like a virus eating at his humanity, and I see when it happens. When he realizes his grave error, and it isn’t the obvious, the fact he’s robbing this store at gunpoint.
No.
When he realizes that we all likely have cellphones. Anyone of us could have called the cops by now if we’d been lucky enough to go unnoticed by him.
“It was fucking you, wasn’t it.” Spittle flies from his twisted lips and his wild eyes narrow on me. “You cunt, you called the cops.” Arm trembling, he slides his finger onto the trigger, never taking his gaze off me.
My mouth opens to profess my innocence, and Cary lets go of my hand.
He dives in front of me, his body a protective shield. “No!”
A horrendous crack, a blinding flash, and the acrid stench of gunpowder rips through the air. Bags of chips and candy fall from Cary’s arms and splat onto the tiled floor.
He wheels sideways and clutches his chest, body jerking violently, as he stumbles into me. The bottles tumble from my hold and I grab his arms, trying to stop us from also plunging to the floor.
Splat.
Dark brown liquid, sweet and fizzy, bursts into the air and spreads fast and furious across the tiles.
Regardless of my efforts, we also spill and fall onto the hard, unyielding surface. My backside smacks against the cool floor, and Cary’s heavy body slumps on top of me like a large sack of potatoes.
Frantically, I squirm out from under him, calling his name though I can’t hear my voice. Shaken, I stare down at his pallid face, eyes lifeless and open.
An explosion of scarlet blossoms outward from the center of his chest, marring his once pale-blue button-down shirt. A river of blood flows from him, swallowing a bag of candy corn that lies beside him on the tiled floor.
2
ZERO
The bones in my neck crack as I slowly angle one ear to my shoulder, stretching the muscles and tendons holding my head up. From a distance, through the windshield of my car, I watch her lithe frame saunter toward the building she frequents at least once a week.
Her auburn hair glistens like fire in the sunlight, and like all the times before, she gathers the long strands high onto her head and effortlessly winds a tie around them.
Feeding the ponytail through the loop, she secures the baseball hat onto her head. Then she swings open the door and rests her hip against it, holding it wide for the burly, elderly man in dirty blue jeans and a baggy T-shirt exiting the building.
He tips the bill of his weathered cap and gifts her with an appreciative grin. Eyes on him, she doesn’t return the gesture, barely dipping her chin in acknowledgment before disappearing into the gun range.
What am I doing here? Is this the right move?
I stare down at the cream-colored file folder on the passenger seat of my car. My fingers bend around a corner of the thick stock, battling the urge to look inside. There’s no need to read its contents or listen to the recording of the 911 call that’s ready to go on my phone. Every word and every image is seared into my mind.
I should forget this, forget her, and move on with my life. But no. Instead, I’m on the emerald coast of Florida in limbo and unable to leave, not until I do something about it. Not until I talk to her. Though something tells me that once I do, I’ll want to do the exact opposite. I’ll stay.
My phone rings and the name of my once business partner flashes on the screen. I hit the green button and clear my throat. “Yeah.”
“Zero, where you at?” Griffin’s self-assured tone suggests he already knows my location, as he should.
“Nowhere.”
“You left Kauai ten days ago and have been in Destin, Florida, since then.”
Longing pinches the center of my chest at the mention of my home. I miss the peace and solitude of my quiet island.
Out here, in Florida of all fucking places, what will I do if things get to be too much? I can’t go back to the island; it’s too far. At least I have Andiamo.
Agitated by my weakness, my inability to work out stress in a normal way, my teeth grind together, and my response doesn’t hide my discomfort.
“If you know, why ask?”
While my business no longer exists, and Griffin’s moved on to working for Hart Corporation, a private security firm in New York City, our phone trackers are still activated.
The trackers were a core tenet of our business. As a two-man operation, we couldn’t afford to take unnecessary risks. We dealt with nasty, evil humans, and we each had to know where the other was at all times.
“Have you made up your mind? Are you coming to work for Van at HC or for the Feds?”
I’m not surprised by his question. He doesn’t like talking about his feelings—or the fact that he’d like me to work at HC with him—but it doesn’t stop him from pestering me for a decision.
“No. I’ve still got time.”
“Not much.”
“Last I checked, I have over thirty days to give them my answer.”
Thirty-nine to be exact. We agreed on August first, and I have until then to make up my mind before both parties fill their respective positions.
He releases a long exhale, clearly frustrated with me. “Fine. Look, I said I wouldn’t pressure you—”
“And yet you’re riding my ass.” My fingertips tap on the cover of the folder, the burning need to look inside harder to resist.
“I’m only calling because things are moving on this end and some of the decisions…about the tech…they’re happening now.” He raises his pitch into a nerve-grating whine, or at least that’s how it sounds to me. “And if you end up here, at HC, you’ll bitch and moan about the surveillance equipment and apps when you get here. Why didn’t we get this or that?” He mimics what I’m guessing is supposed to be me. “And don’t deny it because you’re an asshole like that.”
My lips twitch, biting back a laugh as I absentmindedly flip open the folder on the car seat. Breath catches in my lungs at the crime scene pictures. Despite how many times I’ve studied them, it never gets easier.
Images of her are on top. Always the first thing I see.
“You still there?” His doggedness cuts into the dark haze of anger I get trapped in whenever I think about what happened to her.
“Yeah.”
“How are things working out with the Feds?” There’s a slight hint to his tone that suggests he wishes he was also on this case.
Grateful for his shift in topic, oxygen moves freely throughout my body. “Fine. I have a feeling something’s going down soon.”
Months ago, while trolling the usual chatrooms on the dark web, I learned of a new human trafficking ring and shared the little I had with the Feds. I’ve been tracking activity since then and slowly gaining intel.
“Is Boris still active?”
The mention of the buyer causes my muscles to tighten. Griffin and I are very familiar with Boris, though that’s an alias. We don’t know his real name.
Boris is wanted by not only the FBI, but Interpol, other international agencies, and private businesses like mine. And while capture is the end goal, at the very least, we need to find out his identity, something I’ve been unable to do for years.
This pisses me off.
“Yeah, the sadistic motherfucker is still very interested in making a deal.”
Boris is the proverbial canary in the coal mine and is usually the first to know when something is about to happen. In the past, we’ve been successful in getting him to snitch, albeit small and mostly insignificant details. He likes being part of the game.
“Fuck,” Griffin snarls. “And JungleCat, that was the username, right? Anything more on them? Have you made any kind of contact with either of them?”
JungleCat appears to be in charge of this new ring. The screen name popped up out of nowhere and has been talking with Boris, among others, online.
“Yes, that’s the name. They’re still chatting but cautious and coded in what they say. Right now, I’m only lurking and gathering info, and I’ve got nothing to work with to find out who JungleCat is or where they’re located.”
“I looked into them too and I found nothing. Not a mention or a peep until you first noticed them.”
“Not surprised. We might get a break. There’ve been rumblings about Miami.”
“Is that why you’re in Florida?” His question isn’t unfounded. I do most, if not all, of my work online.
Florida is among the top four states with the highest rates of human trafficking in the US, and from what I’ve seen, it looks like JungleCat does most of their business there.
“Yeah, um, I haven’t changed the way I work.” I hope my tone’s casual and not at all awkward like the way I feel. “But I offered to stick close by. The Feds have their own cyber unit, and this way I can debrief in person if needed.”
“But why Destin and not Miami?” He isn’t buying my excuse, and I’m not about to tell him about her.
“If you must know…”—my pause is deliberate, drawing out this rare confession—”I needed something to keep me busy while I figure out my next move.”
He chuckles dryly. “You wouldn’t have this problem if you just chose HC like we both know you’re going to. I never figured you for someone who would play hard to get.”
“Fuck you.” I grip the steering wheel. “Not going to talk about this. And come on, you know how I get when something stumps me. I will find out who JungleCat is and stop them, and damn, if we get Boris too, even better.”
“Yeah, I so want to nail Boris.”
Blinking, I glance out the window at the double doors of the shooting range. It’s too soon for her to be finished, but if I’m going to do this, time is wasting.
“Griffin, I should go.” Straightening, I man up and just say it like it is. “I’m taking some time to get my head on straight.”
He snorts. “Yeah, like that’s possible.”
“You’re one to talk.” I shift in the seat, my back sticking to the car leather in this stifling summer heat. “When I know what the hell I’m doing, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Okay.”
“How’s Cora?”
She’s his woman, and surprisingly he’d readily admit, his everything. They’ve been in Manhattan for a little over six months, and while I haven’t seen them since then, I’ve been keeping tabs on her.
Griffin would kill me if he knew. Hell, come to think of it, Cora would kill me. She’s one tough cookie and has her work cut out for her, but if anyone can do it, she can.
“She’s great. While you insist on avoiding her attempts at a friendship—why she likes you, I don’t know.” He laughs and I smile. I am an asshole. “She wants you to come work for HC. She thinks we work well together.”
The way he says the last bit, it’s as if he wants me to believe he questions that very thing. Bullshit. We are a good team.
“Fuck off. You know, if I do, it doesn’t mean I’m settling in New York. Fuck that shit.”
He chuckles. “Too many people?”
“Too many everything.”
“So where would you settle? One of your existing places or Kauai?”
I’ll never sell my home in Hawaii. Never. That’s my heaven on earth. In the past, I’ve worked from there if I had to, but for the most part, I’ve been successful at not letting in the filth and depravity of the world when there.
It’s my sanctuary.
I’ve got small homes in northern California and another in Louisiana. Both are what I consider offices though I live there for long stretches of time.
“I’ll figure it out. Gotta go.”
“Later.” Griffin ends the call, and I drop the phone onto the seat beside me.
The crime scene pictures glare at me. Pools of blood are in almost every image. Food and drink litter everywhere.
A woman’s upper body is covered in blood. Her white sundress is now crimson, bare shoulders smeared red. Face tear-stained, amber eyes bloodshot and smudged with dark half-moons, and jawline blood-streaked.
She tried to save him, give him CPR, but it was too late. He didn’t stand a chance. Died quickly, maybe not within the first seconds of the bullet ripping through his chest, but close to it. Within a few minutes at most.
I scan the report, not really looking at anything in particular. Detective Polk kept meticulous notes, and though the crime took place eight months ago, the details and interview notes…it’s as if the robbery is unfolding on the pages. Here and now.
Is that how she feels every day? As if it’s happening over and over again?
Fuck, I know how that goes.
The case isn’t classified as cold, but the police are at a dead end with no new information. They captured the getaway driver, Louis Davy, two days after the robbery. The idiot hid out at his sister’s in Orlando, and I figure she felt no familial loyalty because at the first chance she got, she turned him in.
Randy Poole, the shooter, now he’s a different story.
He’s still out there, and the police have no leads or any useful information from Louis, Randy’s family, or other known associates. Randy isn’t a genius, and sooner or later, he’ll relax, get cocky, and turn up. But until then, he’s in the wind.
I know all this because I hacked into the police system. It isn’t something I’m quick to do despite my skills, but I will when I have no other choice. And it isn’t because I’m worried I’ll get caught. Not a chance. I don’t leave a trace.
No, it’s more that I prefer to do the work and gather my own intel. Moreover, I trust only the information I obtain firsthand or that Griffin—when he was my partner—finds. Anything else we come across or hear secondhand, I always verify.
In this particular situation, I’ve relied heavily on the policework. Maybe that’s why I’m here. To see for myself if there are untapped leads? Find Randy Poole? And then what? I get on a plane to New York or Langley…If only I knew my next move.
This case isn’t special and it’s happened before where I come across a random case that has nothing to do with my business, yet I’m compelled to investigate. Usually, if I find something the police can use, I’ll drop the info into the right hands and walk away.
Part of my job includes a lot of trolling…of the dark web, online, and police scanners. While we work with law enforcement and the private sector in identifying targets, I’m always listening and looking for predators hiding in plain sight.
More often than not, human trafficking gets misclassified in police databases as other crimes through no intentional fault of the police. Some aren’t adequately trained to recognize the signs, and the targets aren’t willing to divulge anything about their captors.
This particular night, I was listening to scanners all over the country when a police dispatch came in for a convenience store robbery along the Florida panhandle.
A man was shot and the gunman got away. I’m not sure what caught my attention.
None of the details screamed human trafficking, just another senseless act of violence, but I was intrigued enough to follow up a couple of days later. I hacked into the police files.
The photos.
The murder.
The hunt for the shooter.
Then I listened to the 911 call.
Her voice.
That was it. Her indescribable fear and desperation. Her utter helplessness.
Even if our situations were different, and I knew nothing about being held at gunpoint, I knew her. I had a pretty good idea how Morgan felt and I’d never wanted anything more than to end her suffering.
The urge to help her, deep in my gut, grew until I could no longer ignore it, no matter how nonsensical.
It was easy to get swept away in this real or maybe imagined connection to Morgan and her plight because I wanted a distraction from my life. For a delay in facing the career choice I had to make.
So, like a tourist, I came to Destin and rented a condo by the week and watched this woman from afar. But I’ve done this long enough, and if I’m to help her, I need to make contact.
Generally, I’m direct. Why waste time with bullshit when straight through is the shortest and easiest route to answers. Like everything else in my life right now, I need to act, not languish in indecision, so with that thought, I get out of the car and hit the key fob to lock the doors. I amble toward the entrance with my cased weapon and gear in hand. I’ve contemplated going inside before but never have.
Once I pay, sign the paperwork, and put on eye and hearing protection, I enter the range. The steady din of shooters hits my senses first, followed by the stink of burning gunpowder. Empty shells litter the range with more than a handful of strays on the wrong side of the yellow line.
Down the length of the room, almost all the stalls are occupied with a few people against the back wall, watching the shooters. I spot her immediately at the far end of the line, two stalls from where I’m assigned.
