Dead End Fix (3 page)

Lydia sat behind the console of her communications center and cursed. She'd spent several hundred thousand dollars on this equipment. Nearly that much again on specialized upgrades, task-specific software, and a genius tech—more interested in the challenge than the reason—who knew how to build what she wanted without asking questions. Over the years it had proved to be her finest investment. This gear, this secured room in her basement, allowed her to monitor police activities around the world and track her targets no matter where they tried to hide. For years these monitors, keyboards, relays, and servers had kept her effective, safe, and invisible.

But now, with the stakes never higher, her investment was yielding nothing.

Mort's daughter, Allie, a sociopath who could charm as easily as she could kill, had kidnapped his seven-year-old granddaughter. Mort was counting on Lydia to find them.

And she had nothing.

It had been only a few days ago. Four? Maybe five? Lydia and Mort were having a glass of wine on his houseboat. Mort had just wrapped up a difficult case. Lydia saw no need to spoil his well-deserved moment of relaxation by updating him on Allie's recent murderous rampage. She wanted to believe Allie was gone.

And then the phone rang.

Mort's son, Robbie, was calling. Lydia watched the color drain from Mort's face. She saw fear in his eyes as he calmly gave directions to his son. When Mort hung up, he turned to her. These subsequent days of no sleep and constant vigilance had done nothing to wipe away the memory of Mort's words.

“Allie's taken Hadley.” Mort relayed Robbie's account. After an uneventful family dinner on a day Lydia had been so certain she'd contained any threat Allie posed to Mort's family, his granddaughters took their baths. Hayden went first while Hadley read in their bedroom. When Hayden got out of the tub, Hadley wasn't there. Hayden didn't think anything of it, grabbed a robe and a brush, and went downstairs to have her mother brush her hair. Then Robbie sent Hayden back upstairs.

That's when Hayden found the note from her twin.

Hadley had scrawled, in red crayon, that she was off on an adventure.

Robbie and Claire searched the house. When they couldn't find her, they pressed Hayden.

“Allie must have made arrangements with Hadley. Convinced her to sneak out of the house.” Mort's face was cloaked in frustration. “Robbie and Claire teach the girls about stranger danger. But Allie's their aunt. Allie probably suggested a secret run for pizza or ice cream. Hadley would have thought it was a game. Allie has over an hour's lead on them.”

That had been nearly a week ago, but the dread she felt that night still lived in Lydia. She raised a hand to the side of her face, touching the swollen bruises marking her survival of a brutal assault by one of Allie's henchmen. She knew what Mort's daughter was capable of.

She keyed in a search request. Her query would require bypassing law enforcement firewalls, but two heartbeats later a listing of police dispatches in King County appeared on her screen. She scanned them all. Robberies, car thefts, accidents, domestic conflict…nothing out of the ordinary for a large metropolitan area.

No murders reported since I checked this morning,
she thought.
They haven't found Staz's body yet.

But Allie surely knew by now the man she'd sent was dead. By Lydia's hand.

I expected to hear from you again, Allie. But I thought you'd come for me. I wasn't ready for you to attack your own family.

Lydia had been able to track Allie's path out of the country. According to filed FAA flight plans, Allie had chartered a jet the night Hadley disappeared, leaving Seattle at 6:42 for Toronto. Two passengers: one adult, one child. But Allie's plane had touched down in Calgary. Lydia was able to access the pilot's digital log. His notes stated the adult passenger had requested an emergency landing due to illness but refused medical treatment after touchdown.

Passenger left airport accompanied by minor in private vehicle. This pilot returning to base.

She remembered Mort's despair when she had relayed the news.

“They could be anywhere,” he had said. “Allie has international connections. She could have had another plane waiting. They could be on a train or in a car. We've got nothing.”

Mort was right. Allie's criminal empire provided an endless stream of money. Her network of connections spanned the globe, fueled by the one motivator no one could resist: fear. Allie's pathology left her free of any moral restraint. She would stop at nothing to achieve her goals. She'd do anything, say anything, sacrifice anything to get what she wanted.

Even her niece.

Lydia slammed her hand against the console. She threw herself back in her chair and raked her fingers through her auburn hair.

The overhead lights in her office dimmed ever so subtly.

Lydia snapped to attention. Someone was on her property. The nearly imperceptible fade of her lights had been a silent signal she'd asked her electrician to install. It tripped whenever someone approached her home and was part of an overall security system that would make the Secret Service yearn for a consult.

She wasn't expecting anyone. She never did on the two-acre estate she had transformed into her fortress. She entered another command. A six-view display appeared on her monitor, each camera recording a different view of her property. The tension clenching her spine relaxed as she identified the car coming up her long driveway. Lydia shut down her computer, locked her communications room, and bounded up the stairs in time to open her front door to her visitor.

“Mort.” He looked like hell. Stubble shaded his cheeks and chin. His skin had the ashen pallor of someone surviving on caffeine and desperation. His bloodshot eyes stared at something over her shoulder. “Come in.”

He walked past her, more robot than human. “Anything?”

She closed the door and followed him down the hall. This time he didn't stop to drink in her view of Dana Passage, the islands, and the snow-capped mountains in the distance. This time he didn't ask about her practice or why she wasn't dating that nice fellow from the coffee shop or the Olympia detective he knew to be a stand-up guy. He seemed to be using his last bit of energy to find his way to her sofa and collapse.

Lydia sat on a chair across from him, steeling her heart against the sight of his depleted body and crushed spirit.

“I'm tracking the credit cards she's used in the past. There's been no activity since she left the Larchmont. I captured recent photos of Hadley that Robbie and Claire posted on Facebook. I've got those synced to surveillance cameras at airports and train stations, both U.S. and international. My computer's programmed to alert me to any facial recognition beyond 60 percent.”

“Anything?” He didn't bother to ask how she had come to have the type of equipment most governments couldn't afford.

“Nothing yet. What's on your end?”

“The FBI's still camped out at Robbie's. There's still the tap on the phone. And of course there's the APB on Allie.” He scraped his hand across his face and sighed. “But it's all useless. Allie's not going to call. She doesn't want ransom. She wants Hadley.”

She wants revenge,
Lydia corrected.
She wants to destroy us all. She'll wage her war on your family by taking Hadley. And she'll punish me by leaving me helpless to stop her.

“Has the FBI brought in any international agencies?”

Mort shook his head. “They're operating as if she's still local.”

“They're what? She was in Calgary. The charter pilot dropped them off when Allie feigned illness. My God, Mort. She's in the wind. Her connections are more European and Russian than American. Why aren't they on it?”

“They don't know about Calgary.” His voice was weak, drained. “They don't know about the jet Allie chartered.”

“Why not?”

“I can't tell them what you've learned. Not without implicating you. They'd have all kinds of questions about how you were able to learn what you did. And once they got a load of your system…that would kick off questions we don't want asked.”

“Tell them! Tell them who I am. How I come to have the hacking power I do. Tell them why I needed it. Tell them I'm the Fixer and bring Hadley home!”

“But it
won't
bring Hadley home.” Mort spoke in a defeated whisper. “The whole damn agency will get so wrapped up in the drama of bringing you in that any search for Hadley will be shoved to the back burner.”

He was right. She could see the headlines now.
INTERNATIONAL ASSASSIN CAPTURED…LEGEND IS REAL: THE FIXER IS CAUGHT.
News stations would fixate on Lydia's exploits. Mort would face prosecution for his role in allowing the Fixer to go free. And Allie would have all the time she needed to take Hadley to a place no one would ever find her.

Until she tires of her. Until she chooses to deliver her final, vengeful blow that will destroy everyone who loves that little girl.

Lydia stood and stalked down the hall. She grabbed blankets and pillows from a closet and came back to the living room.

“Sleep, Mort. You're no good to anyone in this condition.”

She didn't have to tell him twice. His exhaustion was complete. Mort kicked off his shoes, stuffed a pillow at the end of the sofa, and stretched out. By the time Lydia opened the blanket and covered him, his breath had already fallen into the deep, steady cadence of slumber.

She stood over him.

“I'll bring Hadley home,” she whispered. “Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.”

Whoever has to die.

Kashawn Meadows watched the neighborhood roll by. Here he was. Sitting in the back of D'Loco's cruise. J-Fox driving. Big Cheeks riding shotgun. Feeling like,
Man, it doesn't get any better than this.
His only wish was that the windows weren't so dark. Heads turned when this ride rolled by. Everybody knew it was D'Loco in back. Even the old church ladies shaking their heads as if anyone in that car gave a care for what they thought. Kashawn wanted everybody to know who was sitting next to the man. He was the newest member of the 97s. Freshest horse in the posse. Maybe he'd roll the window down a bit. Let folks catch an eyeful of who's knocking elbows with D'Loco.

For sure he'd do it if LaTonya happened to be strolling down the street. Wouldn't
that
give her something to think about while she was on her way to her school chores. She'd have to think twice about feeling sorry for somebody just because he couldn't afford that slop in the cafeteria, now wouldn't she?

“Green K. I'm talking at you, boy.” D'Loco shoved his shoulder against Kashawn's. “I ask if you're up for this.”

Kashawn pulled his gaze away from the street.

“I'm okay. Just drinkin' it in's all. And hell, yeah. I'm up for this. I tole you, D'Loco. I'm up for anything. You name it. S'done. No doubt.”

D'Loco laughed and slapped the back of the driver's seat. “You hear the man, J-Fox? Say he ready for whatever. Was Green K up for some shit when them ladies come by the house last night?”

J-Fox and Mouse joined in on D'Loco's laughter. It had been a long night. After D'Loco had given him his gold chain—after he was made a full and forever member of the 97s—his new brothers had started the party. Liquor, pot, coke. It was all brought out to celebrate the family's expansion. Kashawn knew he was being judged by how much he could handle, and most everything they were throwing at him was new territory. But he couldn't let them know. He was a player now. Had to act like one, and he had a plan. Everything seemed to be working fine. He paced himself. Whenever the booze or the bong got him feeling too mellow to continue with the festivities, he'd snort a line. Revive himself. Thump his chest and reach for the next glass of whatever was handed to him.

But somewhere past midnight his calculations let him down. What happened next would be a part of 97 legend for years to come. When Kashawn stood up to walk toward some girlie giving him the eye, he didn't make it five steps before he dropped straight to the floor like his skeleton had suddenly gotten the notion to vacate the premises, leaving him nothing but a sorry-ass sack of skin kissing the rug.

His brothers had taken care of him. Kashawn had woken up this morning in a quiet room. Sheets smelling like piss where he'd wet himself in the night. Big Cheeks came in a few minutes later, telling him never mind the mess. D'Loco got ladies who come in to clean stuff up. Told him to hit the shower. Get himself ready to work. A new set of gear was waiting in the bathroom for him. Price tags still on the clothes. Kashawn probably spent too long running his hands over the jeans and sweatshirt, but this was the first time he'd ever had the chance to put on straight-from-the-store, never-been-worn clothes. He wished he had a camera so he could take pictures. He liked the shoes the best. Kashawn knew those kicks cost two hundred, easy. But there they were, right size and everything. Like they were made for him. Like this whole life was cut and sized especially for Kashawn Meadows. He came downstairs a half hour later to the smell of bacon and biscuits. There was an open place at the table for him, next to where his brothers were drinking coffee and telling tales.

Nobody looked twice when Kashawn reached for seconds.

Yes, sir. His crew had his back. Kashawn's head might be screaming in pain, and his eyes might be burning for sleep, but hot damn, yes. He was up for whatever D'Loco needed.

“Pull over here,” D'Loco said.

Kashawn knew the procedure for exiting any vehicle carrying D'Loco. The first time he'd seen it was ten years ago. Kashawn had been a scared and scrawny seven-year-old walking back from his third school in six months. In no particular hurry to get back to his current foster mother and her nasty older son. It had been a Cadillac Seville, he remembered. Black. Shiny. And to his young eyes the kind of car only a king could drive. Kashawn had watched it pull to the curb, where it sat for a long minute. Long enough for anyone walking by to stop and wonder what might happen next.

Today it was another Cadillac. Still black and shiny, but this time an Escalade. They let folks get their eyeful. Then the front doors opened simultaneously, just like Kashawn remembered from a decade ago. Big Cheeks got out first. He surveyed the area, jacket open, hand resting on his hip, ready to draw his piece if things didn't look right. J-Fox stayed behind the wheel, set to bust out of there if Big Cheeks caught so much as a whiff of trouble. Every 97 knew their number one job was to protect D'Loco. When Big Cheeks nodded the all clear, J-Fox was the next man out. He made one circle of the car, lending his own eyes to Big Cheeks' continued monitoring.

Once J-Fox and Big Cheeks were in position—one man on the driver's side, the other opposite, both keeping their eyes away from the car, scanning the street, the buildings, the people, always assessing the threat—Kashawn knew it was his turn to get out. He arced around the rear of the Escalade, opened D'Loco's door, and stepped aside. When his leader stretched out first one long leg, then the other and stood his full six-feet-five, 240-pound mountain of chiseled muscle, Kashawn fought the tears welling in his eyes.

This was D'Loco. Owner of the streets. And Kashawn was his man now. He was Green K.

D'Loco raised his chin and a man standing thirty feet away trotted over. Kashawn knew him as Turk, D'Loco's rep for this six-block area. Turk hadn't been part of Kashawn's initiation last night, but he had been there afterward, at the party.

The men shared fist bumps, shoulder hugs, and greetings. Kashawn pulled himself a little taller. He was the youngest crew member there by at least five years, as far as he could tell.

“How goes?” D'Loco asked Turk.

“ 'S all good.”

Kashawn made Turk to be about his own height. Five eight. Kashawn worked hard to keep his own 160 pounds tight and strong, but Turk looked to be carrying twenty pounds more. All muscle. With shoulders wide enough to strain the leather jacket he wore. And Turk's thighs suggested anyone planning to outrun him best think again.

D'Loco laid a hand on Kashawn's shoulder and squeezed. “Turk been working this zone two years now. Good man. Keep his customers happy.”

Kashawn nodded his appreciation.

“Time comes a man gotta move on,” D'Loco continued. “Move up. Turk's time to do that now.”

J-Fox and Big Cheeks murmured their approval. Kashawn figured he ought to do the same.

“I'ma need a body fill Turk's shoes.” D'Loco slapped Kashawn on the back. “You just tole me you up for anything. How 'bout this?”

The air in Kashawn's chest left him. His right leg wobbled. He forced himself to inhale.

“Easy work,” D'Loco said. “This here be your zone. From Water Street to Clive east to west. Railroad tracks to the high school north and south. Small zone, I know. But they good customers. Loyal. Give 'em what they need. Don't take no shit from nobody. Nice place to cut your teeth.”

“And don't take no credit,” Turk added. “Some these folks see new meat, they try to talk you into payin' later. Ain't how this shit works. Cash. No food stamps. No checks.”

“ 'Cept the welfare checks,” D'Loco corrected. “Third of every month. I'ma give you extra bankroll those days. Some folks want you to cash they U.S. issues. You do them that service and pick up a 20 percent fee for the trouble.”

Kashawn nodded like he understood. Doubt rolled in his belly, but he coughed it away.

“Where I get the goods?” he asked.

Turk pointed east, where a kid, no older than nine or ten, sat on the stoop of a boarded-up warehouse at the end of the block. He was all alone, spinning the wheels on a beat-up skateboard. “That's Jerome. I call him Jay-Jay.”

Turk then pointed west. Two boys, each looking to be the same age as Jay-Jay, dribbled a shared basketball on the cracked asphalt of an empty parking lot. “Them two be brothers. Twins. Shante and Duarte. Can't nobody tell them apart. They answer to about anything you call 'em. Jay-Jay hold the weed. Twin One hold the pills. Twin Two hold the crack. Customer come up, tell you what they buyin', you take their cash. No credit, you hear me?”

Kashawn nodded.

“Somebody need weed, you look to Jay-Jay and he come runnin'. Meet the customer halfway and hand off. Same with the twins. Pills you hold up one finger. Crack you hold up two. Customer walks away, twin meet 'em for the handoff, everybody happy.”

“And you hold the money,” Kashawn said.

“You got it. I hold the cheddar.” Turk looked Kashawn up and down. “This ain't tough. End of the day you back at the house. Make your deposit, eat yourself some dinner, get yourself some jelly if the mood strikes. Next day you open shop all over again. Kids'll meet you here 'round four. Folks know I like to close the store 'round midnight.”

“Who supplies the kids?” Kashawn asked.

“You let me worry 'bout that,” D'Loco said. “You do your part and we'll be fine.”

“What about the police?”

“You let me worry 'bout that too.”

Kashawn nodded.

“Folks know you,” Kashawn said to Turk. “They gonna take to me?”

“You and Turk run this zone together rest of this week. Few more days if need be,” D'Loco said. “Training camp. Turk teach you everything you need. Folks see you standing next to my man, they know you stand for me. Time will come you on your own. Turk's making his payday someplace else.”

“Sounds good,” Kashawn said. “You gonna show me what to do, some junkie knows I'm holding cash and decides to make a run? Or maybe they go after one of the kids? Grab hold of them and take their stash?”

The four men—D'Loco, Turk, Big Cheeks, and J-Fox—stepped closer, forming a ring of muscle around Kashawn. They each scanned the area. The two heaping piles of bacon Kashawn had had for breakfast threatened to climb his throat.

D'Loco pulled a Glock semiautomatic from his jacket. Kashawn stifled a whimper.

“Here.” D'Loco put the Glock in Kashawn's hands. “Don't worry about them kids. They fast. Somebody make a jump, they know how to move.”

“And where to go,” Turk added.

“You protect you. Somebody reach for your cash, you don't need nobody schoolin' you what to do.”

Kashawn tucked the gun in the side pocket of his new Seattle Seahawks jacket. He might not actually be ready, but he needed to act like he was.

The men stepped back. D'Loco walked toward the Escalade, his posse following.

“Green K will meet you here tomorrow,” he called out to Turk. “Teach him everything.”

Turk walked back down the block to where two customers were waiting. Kashawn watched him slip the money the women gave him into his pocket. Turk put his hand behind his back and held up two fingers. The women walked toward the parking lot. Twin Two ran toward them. Anyone watching would have sworn the kid trotted right on past, chasing his basketball. But Kashawn saw the quick handoff of a small plastic bag.

I can do this. I can.

He climbed into the backseat, taking his place beside D'Loco. J-Fox turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

“You like that room back at the house?” D'Loco asked Kashawn.

“You mean the one I woke up in?”

“Yeah.” D'Loco's voice rumbled with power.

“It's a piece. Own bathroom and all. That wasn't your room, was it?”

D'Loco laughed. “No. I live someplace else. That house for meetings. And brothers not yet ready to fly solo. How 'bout that be your crib for a time?”

Kashawn wished he'd been alert enough to remember details about the room. There was a bed, he knew that. He wouldn't have to share it with anybody. The only way into that bathroom was through his room. He'd never seen anything like that before. He thought there was a dresser. Maybe even a chair. He wondered what he would do with all that space, just for him.

Then he thought of LaTonya. Maybe he could fix it up nice and ask her to come visit. Show her how he was moving on up in the world.

“Thank you, D'Loco. Thank you.” Kashawn made a silent vow never to piss in the bed again.

“You come home every night,” D'Loco warned him. “You deposit every dollar you collect. Nothing gets stuck in your pockets. You don't lose one penny in the seats of your car. Every dollar comes home. I'ma pay you 15 percent what you deposit end of each week. You make me smile, could be a bonus now and then.”

Kashawn thought about his room. First thing he'd buy was a sick sound system. Maybe a flat-screen to mount on the wall. He'd get himself a desk where LaTonya could put her books and do her studying.

“How I make you smile?”

D'Loco stared at him in that way Kashawn could never figure out.

“Like you say, Green K. It's all about the Bens. Bring me the money. Make sure there no trouble in your zone. You have me smiling so much you be seeing my grill in your sleep.”

They drove back to the house without speaking. Kashawn ignored the pounding bass of hip-hop blasting from the Escalade's speakers. For the first time in a long time he let himself think about his mother. A social worker had let slip a couple of years ago that his mother's name was Ettie and that she was fourteen when he was born. Said she probably had a chance to hold him a time or two in the hospital before they took her back to juvenile hall.