Stolen Vengeance: Slye Temp book 6

Copyright © 2015, Dianna Love Snell

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This book is dedicated to June Tinker who has always supported me and shares her smile with everyone she meets.

Chapter 1

Dingo Paddock kept his head down and his shoulders stooped as he swiped a threadbare sleeve across the sweat running into his eyes. Nighttime heat turned the layers of too-large, secondhand clothes into a furnace, but he’d chosen them as camo, as well as for mobility in a fight. The layers lent him the appearance of the homeless who wore everything they owned.

Plus, the clothes concealed a Chris Reeve knife, ankle-holstered Glock 42, and a Sig Sauer 226 9mm in a shoulder holster.

Atlanta sometimes suffered a brittle cold night this late in June, but not this year. The temps had shot up over ninety earlier in the day.

Being armed to the teeth trumped comfort tonight.

Meeting a snitch wasn’t out of the norm for anyone who lived in the shadows of intelligence work like Dingo, but meeting with this
particular
snitch tonight ... it shouldn’t happen.

Coming out of hiding lowered this snitch’s life expectancy to zero, and hinted that Dingo might have made a mistake the last time they met. Six years ago.

If he had, the fallout would be bloody.

Something was up. He’d used his electronics skills to search for any reason this snitch would return, but there was nothing.

Because there was
supposed
to be nothing–and no one left–from back then.

He took his time walking across a street that ran through the West End. At two in the morning on a Tuesday, most of the city slept. This area had once been a nice place to live, but that was years ago, long before the current transient residents and less fortunate were even born. He shuffled into a space between two ramshackle buildings that offered a false sense of safety to those sleeping beneath blankets of newspapers.

The area reeked of piss, rotted food and the despair of knowing tomorrow would be no better.

A reminder of Dingo’s life back when abusive adults had called the shots.

He’d put a stop to that by the time he reached sixteen.

A fire burned in a fifty-gallon drum, and three men hovered around it out of solidarity and for the offer of light. Eight days to Independence Day, but this bunch had nothing to celebrate.

If Dingo closed his eyes, he could see seven-year-old Sabrina’s joy at watching her first fireworks display. She’d been so excited until she noticed kids sitting on their dads’ shoulders. He hadn’t been big enough to carry her on his shoulders yet, and felt lacking as the big brother she considered him.

Stay in the present to stay alive.

One of the men at the fire made a move, shifting in Dingo’s direction.

Tall guy who wore a faded flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows and pants sagging on his wiry frame. Lean muscle and prison tattoos on his forearms hinted at risk for anyone tangling with him.

A jagged scar ran south on his cheek.

That only made him ugly, not dangerous.

But the menace peering out of those black slits for eyes said he considered himself the most dangerous beast in this corner of the homeless kingdom.

And it might not be an empty boast.

He was sizing up Dingo as a potential threat in his territory.

Scar Cheek’s next move would be to test for a weakness.

Dingo remembered his kind from hard times on the tough streets of Queens, New York, as a twelve-year-old piece of white trash with an Aussie accent to boot. Opening his mouth back then had flagged him as foreign scum, another step below homegrown.

Hadn’t taken him long to think twice about speaking if he didn’t want to spend more time fighting than eating. First rule of survival was to choose your fights wisely.

How many times had he told Josh and Sabrina that?

Food had been sparse enough for one before he met a punk named Josh and a scrawny hellcat called Sabrina.

He’d taught them that brains could outmaneuver brawn.

Those two had caught on fast. Before Dingo knew it, Sabrina had turned fourteen and promoted herself to the head of their little gang and he’d let it stand. He’d never wanted to run the show and had warned both of them not to get attached to him.

Only fools get attached to anything or anyone.
That’s what he’d tried to drill into their thick skulls.

Josh and Sabrina might have learned that simple lesson if Dingo hadn’t up and marked them as being under his protection.

What’d that make me?

The king of fools, because at thirty-one he’d still step between either of those two and a bullet. They were the closest he’d ever come to having family. Some things
had
changed since then, but not by much. Sabrina now ran covert teams of deadly operatives, which included Dingo and Josh.

As Dingo passed by the drum with flames flickering out the top, Scar Cheek drifted further in Dingo’s direction.

This guy thought fresh meat had just wandered in.

Even at twelve, Dingo had been no pushover. Since then, he’d faced off with predators far worse than Scar Cheek and walked away ... okay, limping sometimes, but he had no time to waste proving who was dominant tonight.

Not when he was down to eleven minutes to make his meeting with Bergman, the snitch who shouldn’t be in Atlanta again.

Not after what went down all those years ago in California.

Bergman had left this country so fast his shadow had to run to keep up. He shouldn’t be back now. And to be honest, Dingo doubted the snitch waiting on him
was
Bergman. More likely, it was someone Bergman allowed to use his identity to get a message to Dingo. But for tonight’s discussion, he was Bergman.

If Bergman was truly stateside? That was bad news.

Understatement.

Bad would be holding a pellet gun against an enemy toting a double barrel shotgun. This kind of news was more like shaking a stick at someone holding a howitzer.

Misery balled in Dingo’s gut and banged against his chest.

Just thinking about Bergman reminded Dingo of all he’d lost. Biggest loss of all? Valene Eklund.

He shoved that agonizing memory back deep into its hole. This couldn’t be connected to her. Dingo had cut the head off that snake and stomped it to pieces before he’d crawled out of the viper pit half alive.

Valene was safe.

She’d stay that way as long as he never went back.

Jagged pain sawed through him again. Tough shit. He had to accept losing her as the cost of keeping her out of the crosshairs of an insane criminal.

She was fine.

She had to be. He’d stayed out of her world completely for six years now, not even using his world-class skills to check on her from a distance, because ... he did that to hunt down the nastiest humans this world had ever seen.

He’d never use his abilities to snoop on those he respected and cared about, and even if he didn’t have his own moral code for how he used his electronics skills, he still wouldn’t snoop on Valene.

No point searching for more heartache.

Valene deserved to be happy, but that didn’t mean he wanted a front row seat to her joy when it had nothing to do with him. She’d been
more
than fine when he’d seen her a month ago. When she’d turned her back on him.

There was no reason for the ball of dread churning in his belly right now, but good luck convincing his gut.

Footsteps scuffed close behind him.

Dingo sighed. Scar Cheek was not giving up.

If tonight’s meeting with Bergman fell apart, the best-case scenario would be a twenty-four-hour delay before Dingo received a second cryptic message with new meet details.

Worst case? No second meeting, because Bergman hadn’t made it through the night to see daylight.

From behind Dingo, Scar Cheek cleared his throat.

His next move would be to call Dingo out in three, two, one...

“Hold up, bitch.”

At the same instant, Dingo heard a deep voice through the earpiece of his comm unit ask, “Want me to deal with your fan club?”

That would be Tanner Bodine, another member of Sabrina Slye’s elite team, who had eyes on Dingo’s six from where Tanner perched on a rooftop across the street.

Dingo whispered to Tanner, “When I turn, if I scratch my nose, pop him.”

“Roger that.”

Dingo tucked his chin against the rags wrapped around his neck and head as a makeshift scarf. Between that and his dark brown hair that had grown out in dense waves, no one would see his earpiece audio receiver unless they got up close and personal. Pivoting slowly, he kept his shoulders tucked to look as non-threatening as possible and lifted his hands waist high, palms out.

He didn’t want to hurt any of these guys. “No worries, mate.”

With all the Aussies now on commercials, these days his accent actually drew a positive reaction more often than not.

Scar Cheek crossed his arms. “Nobody passes without paying. What you got?”

“Not a thing, just like everyone else here.”

“That’s too bad, because I don’t like your kind.”

Seconds were ticking away. “Let me pass and I won’t be back.”

That drew a mean laugh from Scar Cheek who started forward again. “Hand over the scarf and anything in your pockets.”

Fuck it.

Dingo frowned as if he was considering what Scar Cheek said and lifted his finger to his nose then started walking backwards.

Scar Face kept coming. “I’m not joking, fucker–”

Dingo heard the muted pop of Tanner’s suppressed shot, but only because he knew it was coming.

Scar Cheek flinched and arched his back, twisting around, trying to see what had hit him.

Dingo backed away as Scar Cheek muttered, “What the hell...” He jerked his attention back to Dingo and took a step forward then folded at the knees, hitting the ground face first.

The two men still hovering at the drum looked up at the sound of Scar Cheek’s body slapping the hard ground. They took him in, then sized up Dingo and went back to attending the fire.

Tanner hadn’t killed the guy.

He could have, but Tanner had carried a .300 Blackout Remington 700 sniper rifle. It was suppressed, so the shots were barely audible. An elastic cuff on the buttstock held five tranquilizer rounds–a special new tranq round Sabrina was testing. The tranq wound would hurt like a bad bee sting for the thirty seconds it took the drug to work, but now Scar Cheek would sleep long enough for Dingo to handle his business with Bergman.

In a few steps, Dingo reached a dark opening seventy feet from the men at the drum. It had once been a side entrance to the two-story building. A body-sized lump covered with a soiled blanket slept on the tiny landing between the doorframe and a stairway that
should
go up twenty steps.

That had surely been the plan when they built this place, but after the first two steps, the next eight were missing.

A metal handrail attached to the wall ran all the way up though.

Dingo leaned into the opening to be out of sight, then pulled on his night vision monocular that lit up the dark and changed everything into greenish-gray hues.

Leaping over the body, Dingo landed on the second step, then lunged up to grab as high as he could on the metal handrail. It gave under his weight, but not much. He didn’t waste time as he pulled himself up in case the anchor bolts gave out. Swinging his booted foot onto the next metal step, he dragged his weight to a standing position and paused to check down below.

No one could see him up in this black hole even if one of the homeless got curious.

He hurried up the last steps to the top landing where busted wood hung from the doorway on his left. Bits of broken furniture lay scattered everywhere.

Muffled noises erupted halfway down the hall.

Bergman wouldn’t have anyone else here. He operated alone.

Or he had at one time.

Dingo had known the snitch for five years before he left the country. The man normally waited so silently in the shadows you’d think you were alone if he was two feet away.

That second person creating noise might be a party crasher. Dingo had to keep Bergman alive or lose intel he desperately wanted. Needed. Just to be damn sure Valene was still safe.

He rushed forward carefully, watching his step so he didn’t fall through the rotted floors. What little noise he made would bother him, but it was being covered by Bergman’s high-pitched voice that cried out. “Stop. Stop! How many times I gotta tell you? I don’t know. If I knew the name, I’d tell you.”

“Then you’re of no use to me old man. You should be careful who you screw over in the future, but then again ... you have no future.”

“
Nooo.”
Then silence.

Shit.

Dingo pulled out his Sig and shoved the door open, banking on the element of surprise.

That might have worked if not for rusty hinges squealing like stuck pigs.