Authors: Cathy Perkins,Taylor Lee,J Thorn,Nolan Radke,Richter Watkins,Thomas Morrissey,David F. Weisman
Dear Reader,
For a writer, some projects are just a lot more fun than
others. This was one of those stories where the characters on both sides were so
colorful and engaging for me that I may have to see them again in some future
project.
Richter
For Aaron, Richard and Jocelyn and those great
trips to Lake Tahoe.
Contents
Chapters:
1
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2
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3
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4
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5
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6
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7
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8
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9
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10
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11
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12
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13
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14
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15
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16
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17
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18
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19
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20
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21
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22
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23
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24
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25
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26
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27
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28
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29
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30
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31
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32
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33
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34
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35
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36
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37
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38
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39
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40
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41
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42
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43
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44
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45
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46
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47
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48
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49
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50
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51
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52
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53
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54
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55
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56
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57
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58
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59
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60
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61
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62
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63
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64
1
A door? Or did something fall?
Alone that Sunday afternoon in the closed fish hatchery,
Sydney Jesup, holding a tiny cutthroat fingerling trout in one gloved hand, a
syringe in the other, paused when she heard a noise that might have been a door
in the other building. She ignored the hum of generators, focusing only on the
noise.
Finally, deciding it was her overwrought imagination, Sydney
just shook her head and laughed at herself. All the damn stress had built to the
point where she found herself hearing boogie men and talking to fish. She wiped
sweat off her forehead with her arm. It was a lot cooler in the cavernous
hatchery than out in the boiling sun, but she had on rubber boots and jeans, and
that didn’t help.
But then something made her stop again to listen.
Her weapon, a snub Colt—her backup piece when she was with
the sheriff’s department and, later, chief investigator for the DA in South
Lake—was in her shoulder bag fifty feet away in the clean room. She suddenly
felt naked.
C’mon, ease down. Damn. It’s probably Dave.
I’m getting paranoid,
she thought. The fish hatchery
in Lahonton, managed by her cousin, was the safest place for her anywhere around
Lake Tahoe these days, she figured, mostly because it was government property.
She went back to work, shaking off the lingering feeling of
caution. What she needed to do was concentrate on the problem at hand. They were
dealing with an outbreak of Ich and Furunculosis that had nearly destroyed the
cutthroat trout. They’d been using UV disinfection after having had to euthanize
something like a quarter-million production fish that had been targeted for
release by the Pyramid Lake Paiute Tribe. Only about two hundred thousand were
saved and released into Walker Lake.
“You think you have it bad…” she said as she inserted a
syringe with red dye into the fins of the tiny fingerling. She held the tiny
body firmly yet carefully between the fingers of her left gloved hand, while the
flow of negative thoughts swirled angrily in her mind about the disastrous
investigation and the deaths of her two witnesses.
She struggled to stay focused on this welcomed temporary
job. Her cousin, and about everyone else she knew, had advised her in no
uncertain terms to get the hell out of the area, take a long vacation. Move. Let
it go. And she knew they were right. She couldn’t win, but she couldn’t let go,
either.
I’m nuts,
she thought.
Maybe I’m getting OCD. Or is it
obsessive stupidity disorder.
She chuckled to herself.
Lost in bleak thoughts, it took a moment to realize that she
was definitely hearing something. The clean-room door opened. She was no longer
alone in the “wet” building with the fish tanks.
“Dave, that you?” she called out, knowing even as she spoke
that she shouldn’t have, not without knowing for certain who it was.
Christ,
I’m getting rusty.
A man stood in the doorway.
“The hatchery is closed to the public,” she said. “And this
building is in quarantine.”
He stepped forward from the clean room, a dark cutout
beneath the dull ceiling lights of the cavernous interior of the hatchery’s main
floor.
Ah, shit.
She saw the gun. This was no tourist. The short, heavyset
guy moved gingerly and awkwardly down the center aisle, his gun hand shaking a
bit, like he was nervous or even a little drunk.
Thorp sent a drunk to get me on government property?
He was in enough light now that Sydney could see the weapon
he carried was most likely a Glock fitted with a suppressor as long as the
weapon’s barrel. Extending from the trigger housing like a goiter was a TLR-l
light, an utterly useless bit of additional apparatus.
He was now about twenty feet away. A real pro would never
have come down the center aisle. Or, for that matter, come in from the clean
room. The side door would have been the preferred entrance. He was giving her
the fish tanks for cover and the side door for an escape attempt.
Unless he had a partner waiting out there.
The intruder stopped. “The man says hello,” he said as his
other hand came up to steady the one with the weapon, and then he turned, as if
mimicking a TV-show detective.
Sydney ducked and bolted between the tanks for the side
door, holding the fish bucket up by her head as a shield. The gunman fired
multiple times, the
crack crack crack
amplified in the metal building
like cannon blasts.
Bullets ricocheted off fish tanks, generators, the walls.
She felt a sharp sting on one side and as she crossed the side aisle, another
sting on the inside of her leg.
Sydney dropped the bucket as she slammed out the side door,
hoping like hell the shooter was alone, that she wasn’t going to run into his
backup as she emerged into the brutally harsh sunlight. More bullets clanged the
door behind her as she sprinted between the outside mesh-enclosed fish
reservoirs, glancing left and right and looking for a potential ambusher.
In her visual search, she spotted a black Ford pickup truck
parked over by the visitor’s kiosk near the front entrance, where no vehicle was
supposed to be. She believed her wounds were superficial, probably just grazes.
Otherwise, she figured she wouldn’t be able to sprint all out. She ran in the
one-hundred-ten-degree heat under a blazing sun toward the open field.
The hatchery was isolated between the rise of the Sierras, a
quarter-mile west, and a steep hill leading up to the highway on the other side.
She headed toward the old farm buildings a hundred fifty yards north of the
hatchery.
Sydney was in great physical condition, but the rubber
goulashes were like dead weights on her feet, and she had to get them off. When
she glanced back, she saw the shooter getting into the pickup. At the barn, she
paused to get her breath and looked back to see the bastard driving across the
field. She ran to the street, stopping there just long enough to yank off the
goulashes, her socks coming with them.
Glancing back, she saw the pickup having some trouble
getting through a rough patch, slowed now to a crawl for a brief moment before
lunging forward. With no time to put the socks on, Sydney took off running
again, the sizzling tarmac quickly scorching the bottoms of her feet. She headed
for the closest housing development, cursing herself again for not having her
weapon on her.
You really didn’t think they’d come after you there? You
idiot! Damn, girl!
The only thing she did have was her cell phone. But, given
that the local sheriff was best friends with her worst enemy, she had no
intention of calling law enforcement.
She heard the truck gunning up the bank by the barn a
hundred yards behind her. Her right leg was starting to give out from the stress
of the wound and the intense heat, reducing her run to a limp as her left side
wound also flared. And, adding insult to injury, the boiling tarmac was burning
her bare feet. Ahead, the housing development looked abandoned.
Where the hell are you people? Church or the goddamn mall?
That’s when she heard the deep-throated purr of a big
engine. She turned and saw a red Mustang convertible swing onto the road coming
from the highway, heading her way about two or three times the legal speed.
The backup?
She figured, given his speed and her location, she had
nowhere to go.
I’m dead. You had to leave your fucking weapon in the clean
room. Get yourself killed. Jesus!
Caught in the middle of the street, Sydney had nowhere to
run, nowhere to hide. She turned toward the onrushing car. Definitely a Mustang,
but when it barreled closer, she recognized the macho front grill. A Shelby, no
less. A beautiful death machine.
That bastard Thorp got me like he said he would.
She faced the onrushing Mustang. Her only regret at the
moment was that she didn’t have any way to fight back.
The Mustang’s engine backed down into a lower gear, giving
off a powerful guttural grumble. The guy in it looked Mexican—black curly hair,
music blasting on his radio—for him, a fun day for an easy kill. Would he shoot
her or run her over? She decided he’d shoot her to avoid damaging his beautiful
machine.
Sydney Jesup faced death with the same attitude she’d faced
a lot of things in her life lately: she gave the finger to the Mexican killer in
the bright red Shelby Mustang convertible and prepared for a bad end…
Fuck you and the horse you’re riding in on.
2
What the hell do we have here?
Marco Cruz pondered the question as New Amsterdam’s “Turn
Out the Lights” boomed on his radio. The lady on this hot Sunday afternoon stood
in the middle of the street in a bloody, sweaty T-shirt, bloody jeans, no shoes,
no socks, bare feet on boiling hot macadam, flipping him the bird as his music
blasted. He expected, when he got close enough to see, she’d be some haggy,
worn-out drug addict on her last legs.
He turned off the radio.
This is my welcome-home committee? I didn’t do it, whatever
it is.
He eased down the Shelby’s big 660 engine into first gear.
The smart voice in his head, the one that’s supposed to protect a person, told
him to wave
hey, have a nice day,
and get the hell out of there. But that
was a voice he never did listen to. Coming to the rescue of some distressed
female was such a quaint, old-fashioned notion, but instincts are what they are.
It had been, until now, such a great ride coming back to
Tahoe after what he’d been through. He had been just one more former
border-patrol agent who’d spent two miserable years in a Mexican prison and was
now, after services rendered to Uncle Sam, “free and sanitized,” as the Homeland
agent told him on their last meeting.
“Free, free at last,” he’d yelled more than once as he hit
speeds equal to the one-hundred-ten-degree temperature across the desert up 395,
laughing and singing, his curly black hair popping and dancing in the wind, his
life back on track and big things ahead. He’d done his time in hell, now he
wanted a little taste of heaven and, to him, Tahoe was heaven.
Don’t stop, you fool.
He downshifted the magnificent beast to a crawl and drifted
up to the woman.
He leaned toward her and said, “You okay?” About as pathetic
a question as he could muster.
She looked shocked, as if he wasn’t what she’d expected. Her
offending hand dropped to her side, the angry finger holstered.
He saw her turn, as if whatever was chasing her might be
catching up. He turned and, indeed, there was a pickup heading toward them a
quarter-mile back. Without an invite, the lady opened the passenger door, slid
in all bloody, sweaty, and—now up close, he realized—she reeked of a rank, fishy
smell.
“Get the hell out of here fast!” she commanded. “That moron
is aiming to kill me and he’ll kill you as well.”
As if to amplify the truth, the guy in the pickup was now
leaning out the window and started pumping lead in their direction, the Shelby
taking at least two pings.
Marco jumped on the gas and the rocket of an engine threw
them back in their seats as it shot forward. He weaved violently to throw off
the shooter and put some fast distance between them, then made a hard turn at
the intersection and headed south.
“You coming from church?” he asked her.
In spite of her situation and condition, she actually
emitted a dry chuckle. “No. Actually, I was injecting cutthroat trout.”
“The hatchery?”
“Yeah.”
In an instant, he liked this woman’s hardcore attitude. “I
take it the blood is from gunshot wounds?”
“Yes.”
“You take any deep penetration?”
“Not lately. These are superficial.”
Didn’t look all that superficial to him. He figured she was
no regular civilian.
He shot down the road shifting gears and hitting sixty,
seventy, eighty, ninety.
Glancing at her, he saw her looking back at their pursuer
but saw no panic, no terrible fear on her face. Good-looking woman with a
street-hard disposition. Her reddish hair snapped like flames in the hot wind.