Two Guns Read online

  Two Guns

  Run Rabbit Run

  book 2

  Jette Harris

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Special thanks to Adi and Jamie. Without their prodding, this book never would have gotten done. Additional thanks goes to the firefighter that lives in my pocket, who made accuracy so much easier.

  Thank you to my editor, Coryl Reef, Briana Morgan, and Sean Hoade.

  Gratitude to those who inspired these characters, for being so easy to work with.

  Copyright © 2017 Bridgette Harris

  Cover by X-Potion Designs

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  http://jetterfly.wordpress.com

  1

  April, 2006

  Atlanta (“Avery Rhodes”)

  The back of the house still smelled like death, but that was because there was a corpse in the sunroom. The rest of the house smelled like Lysol and paint. When Avery Rhodes wasn’t renovating or running, he liked to keep to the kitchen; It smelled like coffee.

  Rhodes paused before his first sip to scratch at a streak of white paint on his torso. Much like glitter, every time he thought he had gotten it all off, more would appear in the most awkward places. He leaned against the counter in the corner and raised his mug again when he heard a door knob rattle. Rhodes froze, his eyes fixed on the door leading from the kitchen to the side yard.

  After a few scrapes and more rattling, the door drifted open a few inches. A young black man stepped inside, swinging a draw-string bag over his shoulders. Rhodes blinked rapidly at this unexpected guest. The young man did not notice him.

  Less than three weeks ago, the house had been a shithole: peeling, mold-speckled wallpaper, cabinet doors hanging off one hinge, chipped tile counters, cracked linoleum on the floor. Now all the cabinets had doors and were freshly-stained. Polished copper pots and pans gleamed from hooks over the island. The house no longer smelled like shit.

  The expression of wonder on the intruder’s face would have given Rhodes a twinge of pride, were he not wondering what the fuck this kid thought he was doing in his kitchen.

  The young man wrinkled his nose, sniffing the rich aroma of Rhodes’s dark roast. He finally caught sight of the shirtless, shoeless man in the corner and his eyes shot wide. Rhodes glowered. He lowered the mug from his lips and turned to the knife block by his elbow to slide out a long, thin filet knife. Flipping it, he caught it by the blade.

  Emerging from his shock with a gasp, the stranger turned to run. Rhodes flicked the knife. It struck the door with a hollow thud! just as the young man disappeared. The knife hung from the door for a few seconds before clattering to the floor.

  Rhodes groaned. He was losing his edge. He sipped his coffee—finally—and crossed to the gaping doorway. A small sliver of blood ran down the blade and two fat drops on the stoop pointed toward the woods. Rhodes picked up the knife, but the young man was much too far for another hit.

  The blade had left a deep notch in the door. Rhodes ran his thumb over it with a frown.

  No matter. He had been planning on installing a sturdier door anyway.

  2

  Washington, D. C.

  FBI Special Agent Remington didn’t know how to feel as he watched the stack of manila folders on his partner’s desk dwindle: some set in another stack, some passed off to a different division, many shredded, all no longer Senior Agent Richard Steyer’s responsibility. Steyer never said a word indicating what he was doing or why, but Remington had his suspicions. As the stack of folders diminished, a vague sense of dread grew.

  Steyer stood in front of his desk one morning, hands folded in his pockets. There were two stacks of folders now: A tall stack of about twenty, and a short stack of three. He placed a hand on the small stack. The top one was fat with papers and photos. The bottom looked empty. His hand rested a moment before Steyer drew it away. Instead of tackling those three remnants of the original pile, he hoisted the large stack and carried it to the desk of Samantha Wickes, administrative assistant for the Violent Crimes division. After a brief exchange, Wickes pulled out her keys, unlocked the door to the file room, and led him in.

  When Steyer returned a good half-hour later, Remington pretended to be busy reading an email. Steyer did not hesitate this time, but scooped the three files up and dropped them with a smack! on Remington’s desk. Remington avoided them and looked up at his partner instead.

  “I’m retiring,” Steyer announced.

  Remington couldn’t speak at first. He nodded slowly until he could make his throat cooperate. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” Although this was true, he couldn’t help but wonder why he was having trouble breathing.

  Steyer heaved a sigh. “I didn’t want to leave any loose ends, but…” He tapped the top of the three folders.

  Remington’s eyes flickered down to the tabs on the folders: PHOENIX, SFO—2002, PHOENIX, DTW—1997, and PHOENIX, PHX—1994. His forced pleasant expression slipped when he looked back up.

  “Some legacy, I know.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Remington slid the folders to the edge of his desk. He opened a drawer and tucked them in tightly, as if their contents might escape.

  “I know you will. One way or another.”

  ****

  One way or another…

  Remington imagined a variety of ways he would like to close those cases as he lay in bed that night. None of them were practical, legal, or even remotely possible based on the information they had. His thoughts were interrupted by the apartment door opening and closing. He lifted his head and listened. There were two taps on his bedroom door before Samantha Wickes stepped inside.

  Looking weary, she shed her blazer and kicked off her shoes.

  “You coulda warned me.” Remington tilted his head to get a better view as Wickes unzipped her skirt and shucked it off, along with her stockings.

  “Ritchie said he wanted to tell you himself.” She crossed the room in only her silk shirt and panties. “You taking it hard?”

  Remington smirked and shook his head to show her how not-hard he was taking it. “Nah.”

  “Liar.” She sat on the edge of the bed and kissed him. He slid his hand up the back of her shirt and unhooked her bra with a snap of his fingers. She chuckled and re-clasped it. “We need to talk.”

  “Talk now or talk after?” He pressed his face into the silk and kissed his way up her ribcage as he tugged her buttons loose.

  “Consider it a toll.”

  Sighing, Remington laid back down with an arm behind his head. Wickes looked away and pursed her lips. His smile disappeared. “You look like you’re about to tell me I’m getting fired.”

  “How bad would that be?” Her voice was distant.

  Remington shrugged. “Cars are almost paid off. I’ve got savings. It won’t be too bad.”

  “Good.”

  Blinking, Remington leaned up on his elbows. “I’m getting fired?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “Wait—What?”

  She fixed him with an even gaze. He sat up straight.

  “And it’s mine? You’re sure?”

  She nodded. “The doctor said seven weeks. I saw a guy week before last, but it was just you for five months.”

  Remington exhaled slowly. First Steyer, now Sam. What next, marriage? Start a family? “So… what…?”

  “‘So what?’” She glared at him.

  “No! No, I mean, so… what are our options? What do you want? Do you want to keep it?”

  “I don’t know. I wanted to talk over it w
ith you first.”

  “OK?”

  “I know you like your space and you don’t believe in marriage, but if I—if we keep it, we’d have to get married. One or both of us would get fired if the Bureau finds out and we’re not already hitched.”

  “How would they know it’s mine?”

  Wickes rolled her eyes.

  “I mean—Right. Sorry. Stupid.” Remington pressed his face into his hands.

  “And we’d have to move in together anyway, so you can help me take c—”

  “Fuuuuck!” It had taken him long enough to grow accustomed to Wickes staying overnight. He couldn’t imagine being thrust into the same space as another person 24-7.

  Wickes huffed.

  “I’m sorry,” Remington said through his hands. “This is just… the worst time.”

  “I spent all week hiding the fact I was violently ill. You know I hate doctors.”

  “I mean, I’m losing my partner, and now I’m losing…” He gestured over her. “… my partner!”

  That brought a small smile to her lips. He took her hand and pulled her closer.

  “I know this is scary for you—”

  “I’m not scared,” she breathed.

  Remington laughed. He didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I was scared when I was sick. I was scared when the doctor told me. But we have to look at his like a business decision. This isn’t the fifties; We have that luxury.”

  Remington tilted his head, reminded of why he enjoyed her company so much. Her level-headedness competed with Steyer’s. “How long do we have to make a decision?”

  “I could start showing within four weeks.”

  “That’s not what I mean…” He shook his head.

  “Oh…” Wickes gazed up at the ceiling and exhaled sharply. “Thirteen weeks, I think. But we need to make a decision before that.”

  Remington fell into a thoughtful silence. He didn’t want to think heavy thoughts tonight. He tapped her hand. “Why don’t we wait until after the retirement ceremony? That way, I don’t have that… looming over my head and distracting me.”

  “Aww…” Wickes gave a soft smile and lifted his chin. “You’re really sad, aren’t you?”

  “‘Sad’ isn’t the word.” He shook his head, at a loss for an accurate description.

  “You’re going to miss him. I felt the same way when I was little and my big brother went off to college.”

  Remington smirked and shook his head again. “If I admit to being sad, what would you do to cheer me up?”

  Her smile brightened. “What wouldn’t I do?” she whispered, and threw the blanket aside.

  3

  May, 2006

  Atlanta

  Fog rose hot off the asphalt and settled around the base of Kennesaw Mountain, muffling headlights and obscuring unfortunate possums. Jamal Byron struggled to focus on driving the patrol car, but his mind kept wandering back to the case. He checked the clock: 11:24. Chuck Witt and Zachariah Vlasov had been missing for exactly twenty-five hours, and they had nothing, no clues but the blood splattered inside Chuck’s Nissan Titan.

  Lieutenant Kondorf—being the ranking officer and an old fogey—had the honor of riding shotgun. Byron had no qualms with this, as it meant Kondorf had to fill out the incident report. The older officer paused over the carbon paper and rubbed his forehead.

  “You remember Tex’s real name? I heard it a million times back when he was in and out of the drunk tank, but I can’t ever remember.”

  “Brewer.”

  “Right.” Kondorf scribbled in the name. “Russel Brewer, AKA ‘Tex,’ cracked a few jokes, humiliated his granddaughter, and was ultimately useless.”

  “We knew when we heard the connection between Tex and Z, it would be useless.”

  “Yeah, well…” Kondorf sighed. “After interviewing worried-sick mothers all day, I needed a laugh.”

  “It was good—” Byron snapped his mouth shut and cleared his throat.

  “Hm?” Kondorf continued to scribble an appropriate version of the interview with Tex and his granddaughter.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Oh, yeah. Officer Jamal Byron kept a close eye on Heather Stokes throughout the interview.”

  Byron’s face burned. “Come on.”

  “… eventually chasing her up to her… bedroom.”

  “That was Tex’s fault.”

  “… pursuit failed.”

  Byron groaned. He was never going to hear the end of it now. It was bad enough Tex and Kondorf kept exchanging glances and smirks while he and Heather spoke. After Heather fled the kitchen, Byron had resisted the urge to give pursuit, opting instead to go up when Tex and Kondorf landed on the topic of Vietnam-era firearms.

  Byron had been drawn, as he often was, by the feeling he had forgotten to tell Heather something important, like congratulations on her last track meet, or that he loved her. But her light had been off, and she didn’t respond when he tapped. He leaned his forehead against the door and whispered good-night to the silence.

  When he re-entered the kitchen, Tex and Kondorf abruptly clammed up. Swallowing a doubled sense of rejection, Byron took his leave and stood on the porch until they finished their private conversation.

  Kondorf held the report up to re-read in the dim cabin light, then folded it and tucked it away. The pouch he tucked it in also contained three speeding tickets, a noise complaint, and notes from interviews with Chuck’s parents and Z’s mother.

  “What do you think?”

  Byron glanced over to ensure Kondorf was addressing him again. Sometimes the senior officer spoke aloud to himself, or the Lord, or whatever hypothetical character he was speaking with in his mind. Right now, though, his eyes were on Byron.

  The younger officer shrugged. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities anymore. He had never spoken to Z beyond placing an order at the coffee shop, but he had played football with Chuck, back when he was a senior and Chuck was a freshman. The poor boy had been afraid of anyone who wasn’t white, flinched when the coach yelled, and refused to change with the others in the locker room.

  “My money says Witt—I mean, Chuck… ran away.” With a firm nod, Byron committed to the least terrifying theory. “Z is probably helping him hide away somewhere.”

  “Why’s that?” The drawn-out tone in Kondorf’s voice implied skepticism. Someone had called 9-1-1 to say the boys were in danger. Someone’s blood was sprayed across the inside of Chuck’s truck door.

  Byron pushed those thoughts aside. “His dad’s a dick. They act all Brady Bunch, but Mr. Witt is rotten to the core. When we were in school, Wi—Chuck would show up with bruises and shit—”

  Kondorf’s eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his hat. “He beat him?”

  “He sure didn’t get them during practice.” Byron turned to see Kondorf’s reaction, but the older man slapped the dashboard.

  “Whoa! Stop!”

  Byron hit the brakes. The cruiser squealed to a stop, throwing them against their seatbelts. A Honda sedan was sitting at a stop sign, lights off, driver’s door gaping wide. Kondorf squinted. The decal of the Queen crest across the back window told them whose car it was.

  “Is that—”

  “That’s Heather’s car!” Byron unbuckled his seatbelt and kicked the door open.

  “Wait!”

  But Byron was already walking toward the Honda, flashlight in hand. He started as the blue lights flashed on. Kondorf popped his door open and stood behind it as he radioed dispatch.

  Byron could see (at least, he hoped) the car was empty. There were skid marks on the road behind it. Low speed, sudden stop. The trunk and bumper were dented. Larger vehicle, possibly an SUV. He approached the open door and peered inside. Airbags deployed. Blood on the driver’s airbag. Both driver and passenger-side airbags had deployed; Someone had been in the car with her. There was a purse on the passenger-side floorboard. Heather never carried a purse…

  Pulling out his phone,
Byron dialed Heather’s number. Inner Circle began to sing “Bad Boys” from the cup holder in the center console. The screen of a cell phone lit up with his induction photo.

  “Fuck…” Byron was too worried to see humor in his ring tone. He jerked his head to look around. The terrain on one side of the road was even and grassy for about twenty feet, then gave way to dense pine woods. The other side dropped into a deep ditch lined with granite riprap. Walking around the front of the car, he shined the beam into the ditch. No blood, no broken body. Kondorf walked with his own flashlight and offered Byron a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

  “She wasn’t alone,” Byron said. “There’s a purse in the car that isn’t hers.”

  Nodding, Kondorf turned to the passenger side and paused. Byron followed his gaze. Blood fanned up the side of the car. Byron’s throat tightened. He turned to look at the woods around them, but nothing looked back out.

  “Heather?” he shouted. “Heather!”

  Kondorf opened the passenger door and peered inside the purse. A Cheatham Hill Magnet High School ID smiled at him with curly hair and hazel eyes.

  “Monica,” he greeted it.

  Byron spun toward him. “Huh?”

  “Your mystery passenger was Monica Shatterthwaith.”

  “Oh.” That made perfect sense: Heather and Monica lived next door to one another, and Monica was always hitting her up for rides.

  Kondorf stared at the ID blankly. His mouth twitched.

  “What?”

  He shook his head slowly. “We now have two young men and two young ladies—”

  “Heather hates Witt.”

  “—missing. This is not good.”

  Byron’s eyes were wide, his face pale. “We… we need to go back. Tell Tex... And Monica’s parents... Fuck, what’re we gonna tell them?”

  Kondorf blinked and took a deep breath. “Stop.” He placed a hand on each of Byron’s shoulders. “You’re getting too far ahead of yourself. Way too far. This may or may not be related to the boys’ disappearance. Or, like you suggested, they might be helping Chuck run away.”