Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) Read online

  No sharpening of a razoresque blade to cut me apart.

  There is nothing to hear except the constant repetitive plink of water escaping and connecting, one drop at a time, with the surface that halts its course. It’s not the same as a leaky faucet—contained and protected by a sink—there’s another dimension that accompanies the sound—an echo that occurs when it strikes.

  What’s it hitting? Cement? Stone?

  I take assessment of my body. I don’t feel injured. I’m not in any real pain, except that my muscles are sore, like I’ve been in the same position for too long and need to stretch.

  Involuntarily, my body shifts to remedy the insult, but the movement is cut short. I’m bound by cuffs constricting my wrists behind my back!

  Anxiety electrocutes me. Jesus!

  Fuck!

  I can’t help it, I immediately lurch forward, trying to free myself. My feet and legs are loose, but I can’t stand! I roll up to my knees.

  Full of panic, my breathing becomes erratic as I cry out, “Nonononono . . .” and pull and yank at the chain that holds me captive, willing it to let me loose.

  The links protest and grind. I’m going nowhere.

  Oh my God! There is nothing as frightening as this—no comparisons, nothing my mind can process as a connection—nothing but terror.

  Quickly, I move what I can, anything I’m still free to control. I create small twitches in my toes and then my calves. Almost microscopically, I clench the muscles in my belly, my glutes, my arms. I twitch my biceps and elbows, adding my fingers and neck, jaw and tongue. Tiny movements that remind me I can still move of my own accord.

  It’s really just a mind game. A trick to relax—I know that—but it still seems to help. I won’t get out of this if I panic. I have to be smart.

  When I get closer to normal breathing, I realize that no one’s said anything. No one is touching me. A temporary sensation—not quite relief—allows me to regain some composure.

  My clothes don’t feel wet. I’m warm enough and dry.

  Except for my head—and the bass-like pulsing sensation trapped behind my temples—I conclude that I’m mostly unharmed.

  But what I can remember is a vague, frayed thread I’m barely able to follow through the thick, murky haze plaguing my mind. It’s like I do and don’t have amnesia at the same time. Like attempting to retrieve a word as it sits on the edge of your thoughts and the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite capture it. There, but elusive.

  I may not know exactly where I am, or how I got here, but I absolutely remember why.

  Ryder

  I chase the skip up the neglected back stairs of the housing project. I hear babies crying, and a few people watch us from their dirty windows or back porches. He slides down a garbage strewn hallway and ducks into an apartment.

  The sound of grinding metal on metal comes from the other side of the door as the locks engage.

  “Now that just pisses me off,” I tell him, looking threateningly through the wrong side of the eyehole. “If you make me come in there to get you, I’ll shoot you in the leg for the fucking trouble.”

  No response.

  “Excellent decision because I haven’t shot anyone all day,” I announce before blowing a hole between the lock and the cheaply-made doorjamb.

  He shouts in surprise. I like that he didn’t expect me to do that.

  “You scream like a baby,” I taunt.

  “This is, uh . . . illegal entrance!”

  “Call the cops.” I shoot out the jamb next to the second lock.

  “You need a warrant, motherfucker!”

  “Stop fucking swearing, douchebag,” I scold before putting in another round. “And I don’t need a warrant, I’m a bounty hunter,” I say, laughing.

  “STOP SHOOTING!”

  “Nope. This’ll make it easier to kick in the door.” Light from the apartment shows through the next hole I blow. “I sure hope one of these bullets doesn’t get a mind of its own and shoot directly through the door into you.” I tap across the door with the gun barrel.

  If I have to chase criminals all over town, I’m going to have some fun.

  “ALRIGHT, MAN! ENOUGH! I’LL COME WITH YOU!” perp-boy cries out.

  I listen as the last lock is slowly undone.

  “You’re not gonna kill me, right?” His voice is shaking.

  I kick the bottom of my steel-toed boot against the door. It whips open, and I train the barrel of my Glock onto the blue of his left eye. “I don’t know, Tyson, I’ve had enough running for the afternoon. If you tried hauling ass again, I might not kill you outright, but I wouldn’t hesitate to blow out a kneecap.”

  His arms reach to the ceiling; sweat and terror are all over his face. “I won’t run no more.”

  “Then get out here nice and easy, and make sure your hands stay where I can see them.”

  “I’m unarmed.” Tyson steps through the doorway.

  “Turn around and get your hands on the wall,” I say, grabbing him with my left hand by the scruff of his worn, filthy jacket.

  He does.

  “How did you find me?”

  “’Cause I’m the best.”

  “Full of yourself much?” he quips before I shove him so hard into the wall I knock the air from his lungs. He groans.

  “It comes easy when you’re as good as me.” I wedge my boot between his feet and kick his legs apart before I clamp the silver steel bracelet around his right wrist. “But you wouldn’t know that, would you, Tyson? You keep on making poor life choices.” I bring down his arm, cuffing both behind his back.

  He keeps his mouth shut.

  “Why would you want to live here? Don’t you want to make something of yourself someday? Christ, the scum you’re rolling with don’t give a rat fuck if you live or if they cut your head off with a dull-bladed saw,” I explain as I drag his ass down the stairwell of the dingy building.

  The few middle grade kids standing in the street admiring my ’89 Dodge Charger scramble away fast when we come out of the hot, stink-filled building.

  “Those kids are watching everything you all do here, scumbag.” I shove him across the street then into the back seat, smacking his head on the way in. “Clean up your act and put some time into becoming a better fucking example.”

  Holstering my Glock, I don’t bother snapping the leather strap over it. Odds of getting jumped in this neighborhood are too high. “I fucking hate this part of town, and I fucking hate you for making me come into it.”

  I pat the KA-BAR at my side for reassurance, reach into my inner vest pocket and pull out my cell phone.

  After I dial home base I hear, “Axton Security and National Bail Bonds.” Briggs has said those words way too many times.

  “Dude, you sound like a robot.”

  “It’s been a long day,” he groans, more human.

  “Tell me about it,” I quip, shooting a look over my shoulder. “Fuckface made me chase him halfway across the city of Memphis.”

  “Did you get him?” he asks.

  “What the hell kind of question is that?” I smile for the first time today. I always get my skip.

  “You got a call from D’Angelo this afternoon. He mentioned Homeland Security.”

  The smile is gone.

  “Have you seen today’s national news headlines?” Briggs inquires.

  “No, man.”

  “I sent the video to your inbox. Find a hotel, clean up, get a meal and we’ll go from there.”

  “Yeah okay, I’m heading to the precinct to deliver Tyson now.”

  Fuck! I’d wanted to go home and catch a breather—share a few brews with the guys back at House of Ink and Steel . . . and most definitely pick up a girl to help me celebrate my victory here today. Thanks for the cockblock, Briggs.

  After putting some distance between me and Memphis, I pull off the highway and head to a crappy off-the-exit Motor Inn. Idling trucks, a neon sign that reads, “Thirty dollars, one person,” and a greasy dine
r with probably lousy coffee—it’s the ambiance I’m looking for.

  I get into my room and immediately set up my cell phone and laptop, both cradled in government grade protective cases, and go through the secured network via my phone.

  An email from Briggs leads me to a CNN news bulletin.

  “Eduardo Miguel, the primary suspect in the July shooting of Tulane University student Drew Jameson, escaped prison transport early this morning in St. Paul and is still at large. He is considered highly dangerous. A nationwide manhunt for Eduardo Miguel is underway.

  The public is urged not to approach or attempt to apprehend Miguel in any way, but if you have any information you’re encouraged to please call the FBI information number.” The screen flashes with a photo of Miguel—dark hair and eyes, defiant expression—along with a hotline number.

  Pausing the CNN bulletin, I open a second search tab on Google.

  “The fuck,” I mutter aloud, leaning closer to the screen.

  Two videos that have been posted to YouTube capturing Miguel’s sensational getaway have gone viral.

  The road Miguel’s armored transport vehicle is following is dark and virtually empty. Until it approaches what appears to be an official state law enforcement barricade. When the transport halts, the passenger opens his window to speak with the detaining officer.

  No conversation takes place. The barricade officer raises his pistol and shoots into the cab several times. Immediately afterward, he climbs into the driver’s seat and wipes the blood off of the windows.

  At this point, the flashing lights revolving atop the escort police vehicles go dark, and the cop cars quickly and quietly back up and drive away in separate directions.

  The man recording the scene on his iPhone begins a chain of profanities in shocked disbelief as he watches the hitman drive the prison transport away into the night.

  My cell rings. “Axton.”

  “D’Angelo,” the caller announces. “Hope you put on a pot of coffee.”

  “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Bad timing.”

  “Will there ever be a good one?”

  “US Intelligence was tracking Miguel before he got sloppy and put two rounds through Jameson’s skull,” Police Chief Salvador D’Angelo, my contact and friend from the St. Paul police force, explains.

  “What was Miguel’s connection to Jameson?”

  “Theory points to Jameson having been Miguel’s Tide-cleaned and Clorox-fresh liaison, serving the high society kids at a couple prestigious southern universities, including Tulane in New Orleans and Rice in Texas.”

  “You think Jameson got greedy?”

  “Maybe. But again, it’s all just speculation at this point. All we know right now is the two obviously had some sort of falling out.”

  “Obviously.” I Google Drew Jameson’s name and immediately locate his Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Tumblr social media sites.

  D’Angelo says, “Jameson is—was—a straight-A student, he had never been arrested or even cited with a traffic violation, and seemed close to his family. His parents are devastated.”

  “Tox screen?”

  “Still in the works.” He continues, “And until now, Miguel was under surveillance simply for being an underling for the FBI’s real target, Juan ‘El Carnicero’ Cruz.”

  I know of Cruz. El Carnicero is a high officiating political leader in his country, operating out of Mexico City. He’s a powerful man who’s spent years forging friendships, connections and loyalties, becoming Mexico’s most deadly cartel leader in over a decade. He’s the gatekeeper between South America, Cuba, Mexico and the US and controls the Gulf. When his activities spilled north of the border, so did American blood. The FBI wants him bad, and with very good reason.

  “Any IDs on Miguel’s transport accomplices?”

  “Not yet, but analysts are taking bets it was Cruz’s men behind it.”

  “They think Cruz busted Miguel out before he could give incriminating testimony?”

  “He wasn’t dead at the transport site. Cruz is either Miguel’s friend or enemy, but we’re not sure which yet. What we were led to believe, according to Miguel’s sob story, is that Cruz was unhappy and wanted him dead because of a botched deal—he lost nearly a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of Cruz’s cocaine.”

  “And that’s how the feds thought they’d secured Miguel’s testimony. Makes sense. Do we know where Cruz is now?”

  “Sources say he’s still operating out of Oaxaca,” D’Angelo replies. “Satellite imaging doesn’t show us any out of the ordinary activity at Cruz’s compound, and no one is taking credit for Miguel’s escape or death.”

  I make a mental note before asking, “Where was Miguel’s transport vehicle located?”

  “Located thirty miles south of the city. They were bringing him to the FCI in Terre Haute, Indiana to await trial. All five guards were gunned down and Miguel was gone.” He pauses. “And Ryder, it’s a real stain on the department that it all went down here.”

  “I get it, sir,” I say then ask, “What was Miguel doing in St. Paul?”

  “Possibly making inroads through Canada while hiding from police. He got caught at a dive strip joint with a buddy of his from the Canadian border patrol.”

  “Nice.”

  “I could read a laundry list of dirty deeds Miguel perpetrated, with prior convictions from prostitution to drugs, but all of it was nickel and dime shit compared to being the primary suspect for the murder of Jameson—and now, tampering with a federal witness.”

  When he throws that second piece of info at me, it’s like a scorpion is dropped in my pants. It stings fast, and I want to stamp it under my boot until I hear its body break and crack apart. “Did he kill him too?”

  “Her,” D’Angelo corrects. “Twenty-two-year-old Rachel Farrington was a fellow student with Jameson at Tulane. She was the only eyewitness to the murder. During Miguel’s disappearing act, she went missing too. She’s presumed dead.”

  “Went missing? Wasn’t she in protective custody?”

  Nothing but silence from D’Angelo.

  “Jesus Christ! Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “She was holed up with two officers in a hotel in Wichita. The officers were shot dead, and she’s missing.”

  “Is she being considered a suspect?” I speculate. “Why didn’t he just off her too?”

  “We don’t know yet. Investigators are searching to find out if she had any tie-ins to Jameson, but so far it seems like the two may not have even known one another—”

  “And Miguel?” I interrupt.

  D’Angelo sounds tired. “It’s highly doubtful she was in league with him. Reports say she was a real wreck after what she saw, and she was terrified of the shooter. After working with artists, she picked Miguel’s photo from the database. She nearly had a breakdown just looking at the picture.”

  I search the net for photos and leads while I piece together possible scenarios. “He probably got what he wanted from Farrington then killed her before skipping south-of-the-border to his home base in Tamaulipas. Is he known to own any other property?”

  “DEA suspects he has a safe house in Tijuana.”

  “How about in the States?”

  “They’re still linking other known aliases.”

  “And they’re going to take a fucking millennium,” I say, now sifting and combing through both Farrington’s and Jameson’s social media sites. “No offense—there are a lot of bad guys out there—I know workloads are heavy.”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  “Always is.”

  “The DEA was in the middle of a wet dream over the charges they held over Miguel; his testimony against Cruz was solid. If we can find Miguel, we’ll have enough evidence to convict Cruz—and I don’t have to tell you that infiltration into that level of the Mexican Cartel is the modern day equivalent to crumbling Capone’s empire.”

  “Not to mention putting away a drug trafficking murdere
r like Miguel himself,” I remind him. But I get it. The government’s obsession with cracking down on El Carnicero is nothing new—they’ve been after him for years. They thought Miguel’s eyewitness-murder fiasco would be the key to bringing the cartel king to his knees and putting an end to his virile command. He headed the export of billions of dollars in drugs, which flooded into the US each year. His cartel also brought everything from gang violence, not only in Mexico but north of the border too, to human trafficking, to murder-for-hire, kidnappings, prostitution and extortion.

  “You do know, unless he’s a lot more important to Cruz than the feds suspect, Miguel is probably already dead,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But Homeland Security isn’t taking any chances. They just put a seven-digit bounty on Miguel’s head,” D’Angelo responds, sweetening the pot

  Chapter Two

  Rachel

  Adrenaline isn’t my ally.

  I hear footsteps approach. Fight or flight kicks in full-throttle, and what are you going to do with that when you’re locked up like an animal?

  Wrenching at the chain, involuntary whimpers escape my throat as I try to move my body to run, escape, fight, anything, but the steel links keep me steadfastly bound.

  “Tranquila hermosa. No estas lastimado.—Quiet, beautiful. You are not harmed. The voice speaks soothingly before placing what feels like a plastic bottle to my lips. My first instinct is to back away, but as the cool water dribbles down my chin I’m struck by my voracious thirst.

  I open my mouth like a greedy child and try guzzling the liquid until I choke—sputtering and drowning in my captor’s offering until he pulls it away.

  “Cálmate. Cálmate.”

  It takes me a moment before I can regain my breath and he gives me the drink again. This time I command myself to try and be slow. The water still pours down and around the sides of my mouth, soaking down over my shirt.

  “¿Hablas español?” Do you speak Spanish?

  I don’t move. My blood chills. He’s asking me if I speak Spanish. Somehow I don’t think it’s wise to admit I’m fluent. Let them think I don’t understand a word they’re saying. I silently thank my mom for enrolling me in a dual language program when I was in school.