The Business Of Strangers

Red-hot pain sliced through her as she brought the club down on his exposed forearm and heard the sickening crunch of bone breaking. The knife dropped to the ground and she kicked it away. With his injury, the field had leveled somewhat, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that this was over.

It would be a fight to the death.

As if in recognition of that, he aimed a lethal kick at her femoral nerve. Whirling away, she grabbed the club in both hands and rammed it at his groin. He caught it in one fist and moved sharply backward to pull her off balance. He pounced, spinning her around and pressing the club against her neck in a choke-hold. Angel could see gray spots forming before her eyes.

“By the way, Sammy sends his regards.” His voice was a poison-laced hiss in her ear. She balled her fist and punched repeatedly at the broken bone in his arm while stomping on his foot. Then she drove her elbow back into his solar plexus and finally felt his grip on the club loosen a little.

He tried a hip shot that threw her to the ground. She rolled with it and lashed out to kick him in the face, scrabbling for the knife while he dived down on top of her.

And as his hands went to her neck, no doubt intent on snapping it and ending the fight, she brought the blade up and rammed it in his heart.

For a moment his hands tightened, his eyes behind the mask going wide. Then his shoulders relaxed, his fingers leaving her to go to the knife hilt. She pushed him off her and, seeing his black and shiny blood in the darkness, kneeled beside him.

“Who are you? Who’s Sammy?” she asked urgently.

But he just smiled, a dreadful stretching of the lips that was more of a grimace. “He’ll…just send…one of the others. You’ll…die…” He released a shuddering breath, the sound rattling out of him. “Traitor…bitch.”

“Who am I?” Her hands clutched his shoulders and she shook him violently, emotionally. But her efforts were in vain. His body went limp and his eyes stared blankly, mocking her even in death.

She rose, swaying a bit, her breath sawing like razors out of her lungs. Then she stumbled toward the hut, aware of the pain in her shoulder. Touching it, her fingers came away sticky with blood.

Inside, she wet a towel with a bottle of water and jammed it against the wound. Then she lit a candle. Carrying it back to the body, she dropped to her knees and reached out to remove the man’s hood.

Angel waited for a glimmer of recognition, but there was nothing. He was blond, square jawed and his sightless eyes were blue. And he’d known her—his words attested to that. She’d thought that perhaps the sight of something, or someone, familiar would spark her memory, but it remained blank. He might as well have been a stranger.

His clothing had been stripped of tags. A search of his pockets yielded nothing, but the empty knife sheath secured to his belt hung beside a narrow pouch, eight inches long.

She took it off and emptied it. There was a large roll of bills in a sealed clear plastic bag, and a small vial of liquid and a syringe.

With quick movements she undressed him. Holding the candle close, she surveyed his body, looking for any marks that might help identify him later.

She almost missed it. The blood from the knife wound had smeared across his upper chest, leaving only a hint of white showing through the stain. Angel took his shirt and wiped away the blood to discover a small tattoo.

There was a roaring in her ears, and a wave of dizziness hit her. It was a small winged horse, identical to the one on her ankle.

A rumble of thunder reminded her that time was precious. From the little the stranger had said, it was obvious that there were others working with him. There was no way to be sure how long she had before they followed. Grabbing the man’s pouch, she rose and made her way back into the jungle, hoping that she’d find Maria.

After several minutes of calling, a bush stirred, and the child crawled out from beneath it. Relief—then grief— swamped Angel. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But it’s over now,” she said in Spanish as the child approached. “Come. I’ll take you to your grandparents’ home.”

Maria refused to grasp Angel’s outstretched hand. “I don’t need you to take me. I know the way.”

“I’ll go with you to make sure you’re safe.”

Tears poured from the girl’s eyes, but the venom in her voice was surprisingly adult. “Like Mama was safe? It’s your fault she’s dead!” The girl turned and raced out of the jungle toward the beach.

Angel’s answer was nearly silent, but it etched a guilt-filled scar through her heart. “I know.”

Chapter 1

Six Years Later

Sheriff Kingsley motioned for attention from the deputies and raised a hand to begin the signal. On the count of three, the deputy in front used the entry device to blast the door twice, then stood aside as the sheriff raised a booted foot to send it crashing against the opposite wall. The four people inside were already scrambling.

“Freeze!”

Kingsley went into the farmhouse, followed by Deputies Cook and Ralston. The scene inside was chaotic, the shouted orders mingling with the cries of the suspects. One went for his weapon and the sheriff brought up a rifle, sighted and shot with one fluid movement. The man slumped against the wall, hand clamped to his wounded shoulder. Another was attempting to flee through an open window, and Kingsley let him go. Deputies were stationed all around the house. He wouldn’t get far.

“Hands in the air. In the air! Don’t make a move toward that weapon!” Three other officers raced by to secure the rest of the house. Kingsley kept the rifle trained on the drug dealers they’d surprised, as Deputies Simpson, Cook and Ralston cuffed them. Only then was the weapon lowered and handed to another deputy.

“Need some help there, Ralston?” Kingsley asked.

The hulking man the deputy was attempting to pat down was huge, over six and a half feet tall, and even in restraints he wasn’t proving cooperative. It had taken two officers to put cuffs on him, and he was still actively resisting. Kingsley started forward to assist.

“I got him.” Ralston’s sullen, barely civil tone was familiar, as it was the one he’d used to address the newly appointed sheriff for the last six weeks.

Because it appeared that the deputy had subdued the man, Kingsley drew on some latex gloves and approached the coffee table. Amid piles of bills was a clear bag containing what looked like shards of glass. Picking it up, the sheriff gave a low whistle. “This just might turn out to be a major bust.”

Simpson craned his neck to look. “What is it? Coke?”

“Looks like crystal meth to me.” Kingsley dropped it into the evidence bag another deputy produced, while the wounded suspect snarled, “It ain’t ours. You planted it. We’ll all testify to that.” He looked around at his companions, as if for support.

“Better hope none of your prints is on it then, genius.” To the deputies, Kingsley said, “Get them in the cars. Simpson, once the medic has your prisoner stabilized, take him to the ER.”

One by one the officers led each cuffed man outside. But when Ralston passed by the sheriff with his prisoner, the deputy seemed to stumble a little, loosening his hold. The suspect used the opportunity to pull away, lowering his head and then swinging it hard, connecting with Kingsley’s face.

Two deputies leaped to assist, but it wasn’t necessary. Kingsley grabbed the man’s shirt, using his forward motion to flip him to the floor, and placed a foot on the back of his neck to keep him there. It usually wasn’t all that difficult to ignore Ralston’s attitude, but the smirk on the deputy’s face, coupled with the pain from the blow the suspect had landed, had the sheriff calling, “Meyer. Backstrom. Take over for Ralston here.”

The order brought a familiar glower to the deputy’s face. “That’s not necessary, Sheriff. I’ve got him under control.”

“No, Deputy, I’ve got him under control. Back away.” Reluctantly, Ralston stepped aside to allow the other two officers to accompany the suspect to the car. Only after all the cuffed men had been taken outside did Kingsley turn to the deputy.

A hand on his arm stopped Ralston as he started to shove by. “No harm done this time, but making mistakes like that with suspects can get other officers injured or killed. Don’t let it happen again.”

The deputy wheeled around, his thin face flushed and his eyes narrowed. “Is that what you big city hotshots call a mistake? Reading your press, I figured a cocky dyke like you could take this whole crew single-handedly.”

Kingsley nodded. “If I had taken them on, one of the first things I would have done with a large struggling opponent would be to incapacitate him completely. Sort of like this.” A stiff-fingered jab to a neural pressure point at the base of Ralston’s throat had the man sinking to his knees, both hands clasped to his neck, his breathing strangled.

Sheriff Rianna Kingsley stepped around him. “I wonder which will bother you the most now, Ralston. That you’re working for a dyke sheriff or that she just kicked your ass?”

It was hours before the arrest and booking procedures were completed. There were reports to be filed, evidence to be labeled and bagged and phone calls to dodge. All of those calls had come from Eldon Croat, local county commissioner and primary reason Ria had been appointed to fill out the prior sheriff’s term. She was in no mood to listen to the commissioner’s jubilant crowing at this latest bust, or about his own brilliance—even when that “brilliance” had to do with his hiring of her.

Her cheek throbbed where the suspect had nailed her, and the ongoing hostility from Ralston hadn’t improved her mood. The man had been a major pain since she’d taken the job six weeks ago, and ignoring him hadn’t helped. She doubted she’d improved matters any by embarrassing him in front of some of the others, but it had been completely satisfying for her, so that was something.

She glanced at the clock. It was after six. Saving the report she was typing at the computer, she stood and hung up the navy SHERIFF windbreaker she’d discarded earlier, along with the body armor. Grabbing her purse, she headed out. What she needed right now was a thick steak, two fingers of Scotch and the privacy to enjoy both. That meant traveling beyond the confines of Tripolo, Alabama. And probably even outside Fenton County.

Marlyss, the big blond secretary/dispatcher, looked up from her paperwork as Rianna walked by. “Leaving for the night, Sheriff?”

“Going out for a bite. Where’s the best steak to be found around here?” She’d already learned that Marlyss considered herself a culinary connoisseur. From her talk on Mondays it appeared she and her husband’s primary socializing on the weekends centered around discovering new restaurants. Her girth was testament to the success of her search.