Windswept Danger (Blackthorne Inc Book 6)

  Windswept Danger

  A Blackthorne, Inc. Novel

  Terry Odell

  Copyright © 2014 by Terry Odell

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  To my readers who said they wanted to see more of Hotshot and Olivia.

  Here they are~~together.

  Chapter 1

  “I’ve seen prisons that would be easier to get into—or out of—than this estate. I’m thinking we’re going to need a Plan B.” From his hiding place twenty feet up an ancient Ponderosa pine in a thick stand of pines and aspens fifty yards beyond the imposing wall, Glenn “Hotshot” McCade lowered his binoculars. The mansion he’d been watching was a study in boredom.

  Above, the lack of stars told him clouds covered the moonless night sky. The tree boughs around him creaked and swayed. A faint vanilla aroma wafted from the bark of the tree where he perched. Pine needles scraped against his booted ankles, his camo cargo pants, his jacket—their quiet whispers the only other sound on this lonely Colorado mountain. Aside from the occasional shutter click when he snapped surveillance photos.

  He keyed his mic. “Fozzie, your magic equipment find anything we’ve missed?”

  “If I had, why would you blokes still be out there?” Fozzie’s Aussie accent was in full swing, which meant he was as frustrated as the ground team. Hotshot dreaded having to report a failure to the boss, but if their target was inside this compound, Blackthorne’s normal “in and out like the wind” approach wasn’t going to cut it. He doubted even an F Five tornado could penetrate the solid wall surrounding what claimed to be an exclusive resort. A place where the rich and famous could hide from the scrutinizing eyes of their adoring public, and the annoying flashes of the paparazzi.

  “Any weak spots in the wall? Loose bricks?” As soon as he uttered the words, Hotshot knew how ridiculous they sounded. A compound with a ten-foot-high brick security wall, complete with coiled barbed wire and broken glass—multi-colored, as if that made it decorative—wasn’t going to have a section with crumbling mortar.

  “The wall’s not really brick.” Fozzie’s voice came through Hotshot’s earwig. “Reinforced concrete.” He and Chuck Edwards, otherwise known as Cheese, the pilot, waited in the helo circling high above—and over a mile away—which was as close as they could get without being detected.

  Hotshot wouldn’t have been surprised to find armed guards on the roof of the building, but from where he sat, he couldn’t spot any. Apparently, a gate which did have a guard—possibly armed—was the single point of entry through the wall. This was the secondary point of the compound’s external security. The first was about three miles away, at a gate and guardhouse blocking the turnoff from the highway.

  “Cowboy, you have anything?” Hotshot adjusted his earwig as he waited for Dalton’s response. His recon partner on this op was belly-crawling around the perimeter of the wall. It had been five minutes since his last sitrep.

  Three clicks came over the radio. Dalton’s signal for negative. The same signal he’d given at every situation report over the last forty minutes.

  Hotshot shifted, bracing his feet against the limb of the pine, stretching against the massive trunk, trying to keep the blood circulating. His torso protested, the aches reminding him of the recent op in Mexico, aches he suspected would be with him for a long time to come.

  It would have been nice if Blackthorne had fielded a third ground operative, one who could be circling the wall in the opposite direction from Dalton. Would have cut their time in half, but would have doubled the chances of detection. And the boss had made it painstakingly clear that this was a preliminary recon, and their presence was not to be detected. Under no circumstances were there to be confrontations. An “out like the wind” mission.

  He’d had it with the milk run assignments Blackthorne had allowed him to participate in over the last several months. Using his position as team medic, Hotshot had proclaimed himself fit for this simple recon op, trusting it would be his steppingstone to the usual covert assignments Blackthorne, Inc. was known for. Not exactly known for, given they were covert, after all, but he itched to have something more meaningful to do.

  More out of boredom than anything else, he lifted the Nikon D4 and snapped off an additional set of shots of the compound, which wouldn’t look any different from the first ones. A yard, a three-story mansion, and a few lights filtering from behind curtained windows.

  Fozzie’s voice interrupted. “Back in ten. Work on that Plan B.”

  There was a no-fly-zone stretching in a two mile radius surrounding the compound, and even with Blackthorne’s helo in stealth mode, Cheese couldn’t keep her inside more than a moment or two without attracting undue attention. They’d leave, then return from another direction.

  “More like Plan J,” Hotshot muttered to himself, setting the timer feature on his watch. He trained his binoculars on the compound once again. Between the wall and the building itself, the land had been cleared until it was as bare as a golf course fairway, bisected by a driveway defined by small boulders on either side, which led to the house’s entrance. Near the house, the grass was neatly trimmed, the land level. Closer to the wall, another kind of grass grew in shaggy tufts, looking like so many sheepdogs peering over gentle hillocks, giving a more rustic feel to the space.

  A large wooden gazebo sat nearer the house than the wall. Benches circled the inside perimeter, with one gap at the entrance. But the gazebo’s open sides wouldn’t provide cover, assuming one could breach the wall and cross the expanse of yard to get there. A scattering of lounge chairs with small tables alongside were the only other signs that people used the space. These, too, were nowhere near the wall.

  No sneaking across sixty yards of open space, not with the searchlights randomly painting the grounds with light. He timed the searchlight sweeps. Random. Watched the grounds. Deserted.

  He radioed Dalton. “You’re the genius at getting in and out of tight places, Cowboy. Your brain seeing something I’m not about how to get inside?”

  Another three clicks of the radio.

  Followed almost immediately by barking dogs and five rapid-fire clicks. The signal for haul ass.

  Crap. Hotshot checked the time. Three minutes, thirty-seven seconds since the helo had left. The barking got louder. More insistent. He risked another look, using the telephoto lens of his camera instead of the binoculars. A flash of motion appeared in the frame. He tracked it, firing off shots, not really seeing what was happening through the lens. A high-pitched shriek. Female.

  He studied the viewfinder.

  A woman. Small. A man. Large. Two dogs. Big enough. The woman tripped over a lounge chair. The man grabbed her. With the dogs snapping at the woman’s heels, the man dragged her toward the house. The four-legged guards remained outside.

  “Mayday,” Hotshot said into his mic as he packed his gear. “Cowboy. You gonna make the exfil site?”

  Two clicks of th
e radio said yes. All thoughts of milk runs and boredom vanished. Moves honed by countless missions became automatic. He shouldered his rucksack. Slipped on night vision goggles. Upped the gain to counteract the lack of ambient light. Waited a moment to adjust to the green glow before reaching for the nearest branch. His ruck shifted. His foot slid from the limb he’d balanced on. His arms flailed, reaching for any support. Pine needles whipped across his face. His fingers found a branch. It swayed under his weight, but held. He eyed the ground. Counted to three. Took a breath. And let go.

  He landed with a thunk. Rolled about three yards before getting his feet under him. Footfalls crunching on the surrounding gravel made him freeze.

  “Nice move, Hotshot.” Dalton’s voice. “I give it an eight point three.”

  His partner didn’t stop moving, and Hotshot followed. The uneven terrain and crumbling substrate, not to mention the thin air at this altitude, kept them to a slow jog.

  His gut burned. Had he re-injured something? No time to worry about it. Ignoring the pain, he kept up with Dalton until they’d reached the clearing where Cheese had dropped them off.

  Thankful for the darkness so Dalton couldn’t see him wince, Hotshot scanned the sky overhead for any signs of the helo. Not that there would be any, but it passed the time.

  “All I can say is the client had better be loaded,” Dalton said. “I thought the Mexico job was one nasty bronco, but this one makes that look like a saddle nag. Makes me think they’re doing more than hiding celebrities.”

  Before Hotshot could voice his agreement, Fozzie’s voice sounded in his earwig. “Mind the stairs. See you topside.”

  “Age before beauty,” Dalton said when the rope ladder dangled above them.

  Hotshot reached upward, hissing between his teeth as fire knifed through his ribcage. He hadn’t fallen hard enough to crack a rib, had he? He managed to climb to the open helo bay door with only one breath-catching stop along the way. Fozzie grasped his arm and helped him inside. Trusting Dalton would be right behind him, Hotshot staggered to the nearest seat, shrugged out of his ruck, and collapsed.

  Eyes closed, he heard the helo door slam shut. “Hang tight,” Cheese announced.

  Wondering what their real mission might be, Hotshot was thrown against the seat as Cheese sent the helo hurtling through the darkness.

  ~~~~~

  When Olivia Fairbanks had wished for an escape from the obligatory appearance at her father’s funeral, a text summoning her to the boss’s office—with a 911 at the end—wasn’t what she had in mind. Especially since his office was in San Francisco, and she was in Oklahoma.

  She whispered a quick, generic apology to her grandmother and brothers and crept out the side door of the church. Her long-sleeved black wool dress—her only black dress—absorbed every bit of the unseasonable June heat wave bearing down on her, but the sweat trickling down her back was a result of the phone message, not the temperature.

  Her mind raced, trying to replay her last job for Blackthorne. Wondering if she’d screwed up, Olivia sucked in a breath, stilled her trembling hands, then punched the redial button. When Horace Blackthorne himself, not Madeline Scott, his admin, answered, Olivia’s heart thumped even harder until she thought Mr. Blackthorne would be able to hear it. Before she could say anything, his deep bass cut through the blood pounding in her ears.

  “My apologies, Miss Fairbanks. I know this is a difficult time for you, but your services are needed. I’ve arranged transportation. Someone will meet you at the car rental return at two p.m.”

  And with that, he disconnected.

  Olivia stared at the phone’s blank screen for several heartbeats before her brain kicked into gear. My apologies? Then not an ass-chewing.

  Two o’clock. It was ten-thirty now. Barring a major road disaster, it wouldn’t take much more than an hour to get to Nonnie’s house, pack what little she’d brought with her, and drive to the airport car rental drop-off. Which meant she had no legitimate excuse to skip the service, no matter how tempting it was to claim she had to leave right away. She’d have to go to the cemetery, too. More listening to people extolling the greatness of the bastard they were covering with dirt. No speaking ill of the dead. Hell, hardly anyone ever spoke ill of the man when he was alive—a town full of blind-eyed people.

  Olivia picked her way along the uneven brick walk to the church’s main entrance so she could sneak in and find a seat at the rear. To leave now, no matter how much she hated funerals, wouldn’t be fair to her family. At least to Nonnie. Never mind that her father had made her life a living hell. She suppressed a snort. Maybe that’s where he was headed.

  The church door opened at her touch, its ominous creaking muffled by the organ music. Nevertheless, her grandmother turned. Olivia had never been able to pull anything even remotely bordering on sneaky when her grandmother was around, which had been most of the time when Olivia was growing up. She acknowledged Nonnie’s raised eyebrows with a tiny head shake and slid into an empty pew in the half-empty church. Nonnie gave Olivia the look of tolerant acceptance she’d come to know as her grandmother’s standard keep me out of it approach to life.

  Which may or may not have been a good thing. In a small town, one never aired one’s dirty laundry in public, and her father’s private laundry was as filthy as the mud and manure covered work clothes he’d tromped through the house wearing after a day working cattle.

  Jared, her oldest brother, also turned, but his look was a glower. Timothy, the next oldest, frowned. Paul, two years her senior, didn’t even acknowledge anything had happened.

  The organ music faded, and the minister stepped to the pulpit. He addressed the congregation, his reedy voice showing no signs of his advancing years. Less hair, more wrinkles, a sag to his jowls, but otherwise, he was no different from the man she’d seen there every Sunday as a child. The same man who’d told her that her concerns were unfounded, that her father was to be obeyed and respected simply because he was her father.

  If nothing else, Blackthorne’s summons had her curiosity aroused so her mind was occupied while the minister droned on. Funeral service 5b, she thought. A boilerplate, using the insertion of her father’s name and one or two examples of life events making it different from any other service.

  Jared’s voice jerked her out of her speculations. He’d replaced the minister at the pulpit. She glanced up as he adjusted the microphone to suit the extra four inches of height he had over the minister. He caught her gaze, dipped his head enough to glower over the rims of his readers—ever so subtly, but she knew that glower—then adjusted the glasses on his nose and began to speak. A eulogy filled with glowing praise, piling one superlative atop another. The greatest man, the most wonderful father, a clichéd pillar of the community. Heartbroken when his wife had abandoned him, but persevering, he stepped in as both father and mother for the four children she’d left behind.

  Olivia fought the urge to scream. Or be sick. She wished she could see her grandmother’s face as Jared delivered one damn lie after another. Or maybe he believed it. God knows, the rest of the town probably did.

  Shivers began at her toes, worked their way up her spine, crawled over her scalp. Her stomach roiled. She crouched, rushing to the ladies’ room.

  Running cold water over her wrists, Olivia glared into the mirror at the angry-faced woman staring at her.

  Another hour. You can hang in that long. You’re not part of this community anymore. What’s the point of trying to make people see the truth?

  Tears welled in her eyes. Hell, she was at a frigging funeral. Nothing wrong with an emotional reaction. Let everyone think she was grieving.

  Daubing her face with a damp paper towel, she gathered her resolve. On a Blackthorne assignment, she could be anyone she needed to be. She shifted her mindset. She was on an assignment. A personal one, playing the dutiful, grieving daughter, returning to the fold. For another hour, anyway.

  She resumed her place at the back of the church, pretending
to sing along with the closing hymn. Afterward, she climbed into the second of the two limos her family had arranged to take them to the cemetery. More words from the minister, and then her father was lowered into the ground.

  Stepping forward and throwing a shovelful of dirt on his grave gave her the one positive feeling she’d had since she’d been notified of his death.

  She lasted about fifteen minutes at the post-funeral wake before sidling between the mourners in her grandmother’s cramped living room. Far be it for her brothers to host a wake at the larger ranch house. Let Nonnie do it.

  Olivia found Nonnie in the kitchen, sticking serving utensils in the myriad casseroles proffered by her friends.

  “Sorry, Nonnie. I got an urgent message from the office. Please give my regards to everyone. Love you.” Which was the first honest statement she’d uttered since she’d arrived home. No, not home. In town. But she did love Nonnie, who’d tried to keep things running smoothly in a family where everything had gone sideways when Olivia’s mother—Nonnie’s daughter—had left.

  Nonnie set a pie server beside a wobbling green Jell-O mold. “It can’t wait?”

  Olivia shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Nonnie didn’t know what Olivia did on her Blackthorne assignments. Hell, Nonnie didn’t know Olivia worked for Blackthorne at all. As far as her grandmother was concerned, Olivia worked as a Physician’s Assistant at a women’s medical clinic outside San Francisco. Which was true. She did work at the clinic. On a part-time basis, leaving her available to do free-lance work for Blackthorne.

  She embraced the sturdy woman, kissed her plump cheek.

  “You’ll let me know you arrived safely,” Nonnie said.

  “Of course.” She felt no guilt deceiving her grandmother. If Nonnie took Olivia’s words to mean there was a life-and-death matter at the “office” where she worked, it might not be too far off. Why else would Horace Blackthorne have summoned her away from her father’s funeral?