Chapter 43 Dom
DOM
I left the Missoula PD red tape to Boone.
“Colton’s gonna kill me,” he muttered as I turned away.
Yeah, Sheriff Colton, Boone’s boss, who was still laid up at home with a herniated disc, might just rise from the dead to tear Boone a new one. Or I’d beat him to it and send Colton right back to the hospital.
This wasn’t politics. This was Autumn.
And Boone needed to rattle cages.
I didn’t wait. I left him to it and headed straight to Allan Spears’s house.
I parked low behind a hedge on a street so quiet that it practically screamed money. His place had a gate, but it was useless when his wife was shouting loud enough to shake the lawn ornaments.
Susan had been right. Hell, Autumn had been right about this man.
I’d come prepared, with binoculars, my Glock, and everything else I might need for surveillance, or worse.
From the cracked window of my truck, I tracked him through the lenses. Spears moved like a statue on rollers, his torso turning, his neck stiff as rebar. That kind of damage doesn’t lie.
But whatever fight was happening behind those doors? It wasn’t about keeping someone hidden. It was too loud, too open. That wasn’t a hostage situation. That was a man losing control. Autumn couldn’t have been there.
Just then, Boone called.
“Sorry, Dom. Missoula PD won’t touch it. Without authorization, I’m tied up. The only way is through the Commissioner. And that’s pushing it too far.”
I ground my molars. Commissioner-level clearance wasn’t happening today. And I didn’t have days.
“So Spears didn’t even get looked into?”
“Sorry, Dom.”
I took his apology as permission, not that I needed it.
“Don’t be,” I said quietly. “I eat men like Allan Spears for breakfast.”
“Dominic Powell, you’re not in L.A. anymore.”
“Justice doesn’t care about my ZIP code,” I said. “And it sure as hell doesn’t clock out at five.”
“Dom—”
“I’m not gonna kill him.”
“That’s not exactly comforting.”
“Just making sure he stays alive. Alive and talking,” I said.
“Where are you?”
I hung up.
With my elbow braced on the window frame, I kept my eyes on the gate. Then the front door, the windows, and the empty driveway.
I glanced at my phone.
The lock screen still showed the photo we took that morning—me, Autumn, and Lulu in front of her mom’s house.
I had to get to her. Or I’d die. And I’d take the bastard with me.
Finally, Spears stormed out.
He disappeared into the garage, and a moment later, the door lifted to reveal a black Jeep rolling forward. There was no fancy chauffeur, just him behind the wheel, still mouthing curses.
The front gate began to slide open, but he didn’t wait for it to clear. He floored it, tearing down the street.
I followed from a distance.
He crossed town and headed toward one of his showrooms. He pulled into the lot, made a few calls, and disappeared inside. Twenty minutes later, he was moving again.
I stayed with him, close enough to track, but far enough to stay off his radar.
Then he turned.
“Oh, you filthy bastard,” I muttered. A man’s weakness…always predictable.
He pulled into a motel. One of those by-the-hour joints with neon that buzzed.
And waiting for him…was a girl.
She was in her mid-twenties, maybe, with curly hair, wide-set eyes, and the same build as Deborah Sinclair. It wasn’t her, but it was close.
Coincidence? No. It was a pattern.
She threw her arms around him and kissed him like the world wasn’t watching.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, and hit call.
Boone picked up.
“It was an affair,” I told him.
“What?”
“Deborah Sinclair. Spears was screwing her. I’d bet my life on it. That’s your motive. You find opportunity, I’ll bring you means.”
“Dom, just come back. We’ll plan this properly.”
“I’ll tell you where I’m going,” I said. “Soon.”
Then I hung up.
I grabbed my ball cap from the backseat, pulled it low, and knotted a handkerchief around my neck. My Glock sat snug at my waistband.
By the time I reached the rear entrance, Spears was already inside. The woman was all over him, her hands roaming as she whispered something that made him chuckle.
I waited just long enough to see them step into the elevator. Then I pulled the handkerchief up over my face, tilted my eyes up, and watched the floor number indicator switch until it stopped at the fourth floor.
I took the stairs two at a time.
At the top, I eased around the corner. The couple was still playing with each other, moving at a crawl. Then they went into a room.
I caught the door in time to wedge a folded napkin into the latch before it shut. I waited outside the door, listening.
Her laughter slipped through, light and careless.
I nudged the door open just enough to catch the edge of the room.
Inside, she laughed again as Spears tangled his fingers in her curls and breathed into them, grunting. They started to undress. His jacket dropped to the floor, her top following. She kicked off her shoes as he unbuckled his belt and let it fall.
Jesus Christ. Walking in on a live-action X-rated mess never got easier.
Back when I was a newbie, I took whatever paid, and there were plenty of bottom-of-the-barrel cases involving sleazebags with their flies down and excuses ready.
A lot of motel sheets, moaning, and cheap air fresheners. Still the worst kind of scene I knew.
They climbed onto the bed like this was routine. Neither of them noticed me.
I tiptoed inside, then eased the door shut behind me.
Still nothing.
She crawled over him, her lips trailing down his neck.
I cleared my throat.
She shrieked and scrambled for the sheet. He froze mid-reach, his eyes locking on mine. Yeah, I’d just kicked down his reality.
“Allan Spears. Get dressed,” I said, leveling my gun at him.
“What the hell—”
“Now.”
The girl bolted to the corner, her fingers inching toward the motel phone.
“Call Pickle,” Spears snapped.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said, whoever Pickle was. “If you’re calling anyone, it’s the cops.”
I flicked the muzzle toward him. “Up.”
He yanked his shirt on, hopped into his pants, then raised his hands.
“Act normal.” I jabbed the barrel against his side.
He lowered his arms, and I marched him out and down the fire stairs, angling my face to escape the stink of the guy’s cheap sweat and bruised pride.
Outside, I shoved him into the passenger seat of my truck, then secured his wrists with a zip tie I’d bought from the hardware shop.
I pressed my Glock to his temple. “Where is she?”
He smirked. “Somewhere. I was going to take you to her anyway. That was the plan.”
“Don’t underestimate a man like me, Mr. Spears.”
He turned his head. “A man superstitious enough to carry an old coin?”
“Fuck you.” I cocked the gun. “Take me to her.”
“Gladly.”
I drove as he gave directions out of town and into backroads.
This could’ve been a bluff or a trap. But I believed him. Whatever Spears wanted, he thought putting us in the same room would do the damage for him.
Loved one pitted against loved one. Classic control tactic.
But I couldn’t think that far ahead.
I just had to get to her.
The bars on my phone kept dropping. I pinned my location on the map and hit send. Boone needed a lead. Reception was shit, but if I went dark, at least he’d have a direction. Roads like this only led one way in and out.
We reached a lodge, which was bigger than I expected. An SUV was already parked out front.
I pulled my Glock and motioned Spears forward. “Take me to her.”
He glared. “You’ll see her soon enough.”
“Move!” I jabbed the muzzle between his shoulder blades.
He lifted his hands and stepped toward the door.
Something nudged the abandoned rain barrel beside the porch, and it scraped against the boards, but it wasn’t the wind.
I turned, but it was too late. A body slammed into me.
My Glock hit the ground and skidded out of reach.
The man kept forcing me sideways, away from Spears. His momentum sent the barrel tipping, nearly bowling Spears over.
“Jesus, Pickle!” Spears yelled.
So that was him. The girl hadn’t called the cops. She’d called this slab of cured ham instead. Funny how a guy like Spears could buy loyalty in women.
Pickle crashed into me again, pinning me to the dirt and blocking the sky like a collapsing tent. Bastard moved fast for a man built like an ogre.
I twisted and slammed a fist into his jaw. I felt the bones in my hand protest, but he took it like it was a slap.
His fist buried itself in my gut. Again. And again.
I shoved him back and rolled. I had no breath left, but I swung again anyway.
Pickle grunted, more irritated than hurt. He lifted me clean off the ground and drove a punch into my face.
Stars. Heat. Blur.
“We need him alive,” I heard Spears say.
Then came a thump against my head.
“That’ll do it,” Pickle muttered.
Blood streamed down my temple, and my mouth filled with iron.
Pickle yanked my arms behind me and locked them there with one meaty arm across my throat.
“Once this is all over, we’ll make sure you fall face-first down a ravine,” Spears said. “By the time the bugs are done with you, no one’ll care if it was the fall or a thousand cuts. Dead is dead.”
Pickle opened the lodge door and shoved me inside. Then, he loosened one arm from around me long enough to cut Spears free.
I tried to fight, briefly. But he had me locked down again in seconds. I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t do anything but stumble wherever he forced me to go.