Chapter Twenty-Eight
HARD RAIN
The next night…
The sky had been clear the night before.
Not anymore. Now thunderclouds hung overhead, and flashes of lightning lit the sky.
A light drizzle had started, but Whip knew Oregon would soon deliver a hard rain.
Mud sucked at Whip’s boots as he hunkered beside Axel, his weapon gripped tightly.
They’d finally found Charleston, and it wasn’t what any of them had expected.
Rather than an abandoned property, he’d taken over a house with a family inside.
The frantic wife had called the sheriff, who forwarded the recorded call to Boone seconds later.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Please…” she whispered. “He’s here.”
“Who is there, ma’am?”
“Oscar…” she whispered. “The man… on the news.”
She choked out her address.
“What happened?”
“He killed my husband.”
“Is he alone?”
“No…” Her breathing hitched. “There are more… more men.”
“Are you hidden?”
“Yes.”
“Are there children in the home?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, ma’am, I have officers on the way. Stay on the line with me—”
A crash sounded over the line and then a scream.
The call disconnected.
The house sat at the end of a long gravel driveway on the outskirts of Summer Lake. It reminded Whip of half the homes he’d driven past growing up. Private without being isolated. Neighbors measured in acres instead of fences.
Two stories rose out of the darkness, faded yellow siding flashing white whenever lightning split the sky.
“I’m cold. Let’s get this fucker,” Axel muttered from beside him.
“I know,” Whip murmured.
Several SWAT officers hunkered down near their location.
All waiting on Boone.
Whip silently agreed and pressed his earpiece. “Team two, in position?”
“Ready at the back,” Grant said.
“On your signal, Boss,” Whip said.
“Go.” Boone’s command was strong and clear.
The front stack surged forward. SWAT slammed a battering ram into the front door.
Boom. The frame splintered. Wood chips flew through the wet air.
“United States Marshals! Search warrant!” Axel shouted.
Whip crossed the threshold first with Axel at his shoulder, rifles sweeping opposite directions as two SWAT operators flowed in behind them.
“Clear left.”
“Clear right.”
The living room was empty.
A television still played somewhere deeper inside the house.
Children cried upstairs.
“Move.”
They flowed through the dining room toward the kitchen while boots thundered through the back entrance as Grant’s team made entry.
“Rear’s inside,” Grant called over the radio.
“Copy.”
“Clear the kitchen.” Whip pivoted around the doorway.
The kitchen stood empty. A freshly cooked dinner still sat on the island.
Back into the hallway, he took the stairs with Axel on his six. A SWAT operator covered the landing while three more secured the hallway behind them.
Stepping inside the master bedroom, he swept the area.
Beyond the wide walk-in closet, a woman clutched two young kids against her, all three frozen in terror.
Three bodies littered the rug.
The woman’s wide eyes fixed on them.
“United States Marshals.” Whip lowered his muzzle a fraction. “Stay down. Stay where you are.”
She nodded frantically.
“Family secure,” Whip called. “Got three bodies up here.”
“Nothing down here,” Knox responded.
Axel walked over and crouched before the family of three.
“You’re going to be okay,” his partner murmured to the young boy sobbing against his mother. The teenage girl and her mother were in shock, the little boy terrorized.
One of the SWAT turned over the bodies.
Oscar Charleston was the third one.
Someone had cut his throat from behind.
Whip recognized the type of cut from his years in the military. It was clean. Deliberate. One decisive pull across the throat.
A piece of paper had been pinned to Charleston’s shirt.
Your list.
Beneath the words were names and addresses.
It was Fierce’s work.
Axel stood and walked over. “Son of a bitch got the names.”
“Yeah.”
Knox and Grant stepped inside. Along with SWAT, they helped the family out of the room and down the stairs.
Sirens blared in the distance as one of the county’s only ambulances came barreling down the gravel road.
The atmosphere inside the room suddenly changed when Boone walked in.
“Yes, sir,” Boone said into the phone at his ear, then his gaze flicked to the bodies. “He eliminated our fugitive. Yes, sir. You’re on speaker.”
“Gentlemen,” Secretary of Defense William Caldwell said over the speaker, “the list that Fierce left is now your job. From this point on, we won’t interfere.”
“How are we going to justify this shit?” Axel growled, and Whip bit back a smile.
Trust it to his man to state the obvious.
“I’ve already talked it over with Sheriff Mercer,” Caldwell said smoothly, the power and command rolled through the phone.
“Boone? Take me off of speaker.”
Boone punched the button and stepped back outside of the room.
The EMTs entered the room with the crime scene processors.
It wasn’t long before one of the technicians pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves and carefully removed the note from Charleston’s shirt. He slipped it into a clear evidence bag, sealed it, then walked it over.
“Deputy Tauber?”
Whip accepted the bag by the edge.
“Chain of custody’s started,” the technician said. “Sheriff Mercer said this goes with you.”
Whip looked down at the names through the plastic.
“Thanks.”
Hard rain pounded across the windshield as Whip guided the SUV down the empty county road.
The evidence bag sat between them on the center console with names and addresses. That one sheet of paper had turned half of the West Coast upside down.
He and Axel were headed to a nearby address. Knox and Grant had peeled off forty minutes earlier to check the farthest address on the list while Boone coordinated with Davis. Washington and California had already been notified. Their people would be moving before sunrise.
Axel looked out the passenger window, the dark fields rolling past in flashes of headlights.
“I hate loose ends.” Whip drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
Axel snorted.
“No, you don’t.”
Whip shot a quick glance over.
“You love loose ends.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You do. Gives you something to think about.”
“I’d rather have answers.”
“You’d get bored.”
Whip considered that for a second.
“…Maybe.”
Axel grinned at him.
“See? Knew it.”
Silence settled between them, and Whip smiled.
The tires hissed over wet pavement.
After a minute, Axel grumbled.
“I’m hungry.”
“You’re hungry?” Whip blinked.
“I skipped dinner.”
“We literally just walked out of a homicide scene.” Whip huffed and shook his head.
“And?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m six-four and two-forty-five. My stomach doesn’t care about dead sex traffickers.”
Despite himself, Whip laughed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You laughed.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Whip shook his head.
“You’re impossible.”
“Nah.”
Axel reached over, squeezed the back of his neck for a second.
“You’re stuck with me.”
Whip looked back out at the rain.
“Obviously,” he agreed quietly.
“So…food?”
He chuckled. “Jack’s is still open.”
“It’s in Paisley.”
“Or, gas-station hot dogs?” Whip asked with a laugh. He couldn’t resist.
“You are asking for it.” Axel shot him a look.
“Is that right?” The innuendo lingered in his voice.
Axel stared at him and adjusted himself. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Okay, no gas station food. I think there’s a diner called Molly’s off Hwy 31.”
“We hit the house first.”
“Yes,” Whip agreed.
The address on the GPS counted steadily downward.
Ten minutes.
Whoever was waiting at the next house had no idea their night had just changed. Forever.