Rogue Justice (22 page)

Zora leaned in closer. "I get it, Mack, I do. Like I told you on the phone, the fee is substantial."

A long silence. She could see that he was thinking.

"Okay, you got a number to throw at me?"

"How does thirty grand strike you? For three days, four max. I'll even kick in an extra ten grand so you can pay your crew to go raise hell, stimulate the local economy a bit."

Bowen cracked his jaw, sighed. "Jesus, you weren't kidding, were you? About the money I mean."

Zora had done the math many times in her head, could tell Bowen was working through the same calculations. Even in good times, it would take him two or three solid runs to net that kind of cash. And solid runs had been in short supply of late.

They sat without speaking for several minutes. The wind whipped up and it was getting colder. Bowen tugged on his collar, rubbed his hands together, and said, "Well, captain, like the country song says, 'We all bleed red.' And right now, I'm hemorrhaging. Where do I sign?"

Chapter 24

31 March, 7:30 PM PDT

Port Townsend, Washington

The lean, graceful woman moved deer-like over a steep, winding trail that led to the highest point at Fort Worden State Park. Katrina Kincaid didn't jog, she ran, and this was a runner's paradise—an ever-green wonderland of towering fir trees and thick underbrush that gave way to breathtaking views of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Built in the early 1900s, the former Army outpost had once provided the first-line of defense for Puget Sound, its long-range guns concealed in a warren of cavernous, concrete bunkers. Predictably, the men in command had named the spectacular stretch of heavily fortified land Artillery Hill. But the guns had long since been silenced, and by the 1970s, the 443-acre site had been converted into a popular recreational, artistic, and educational retreat.

Katrina loved to sweat, loved what an exhilarating workout did for her mind, body, and spirit. She picked up the pace as she made her way to the top of the bluff, feeling stronger with every stride. From all around she could hear the sounds of the forest and the critters that lived there. A gentle wind danced among the tree tops, leaving only soft whispers behind. There was a scent of resin in the fine mist. The trail soon narrowed and turned back south where Katrina was greeted by a battalion of chattering squirrels and two wily raccoons.

She stopped briefly to commiserate with the animals, then moved on.

Five minutes later, she broke into a small clearing, an area known as Memory's Vault. It was here in the deep forest where plans for the Fort's gun batteries had originally been kept. All but one of the original structures was gone, replaced by seven Stonehenge-like concrete pillars inscribed with the works of poet Sam Hamill. This place where men had gathered generations ago, making plans for war, now stood as a testament to peace. For a moment, Katrina stood quietly, reflecting on the irony. Sometimes she dreamed she was the great blue heron from her favorite Hamill poem,
Black Marsh Eclogue
. She whispered the final stanzas to herself.

But when at last he flies,

his great wings cover the darkening sky,

and slowly,

as though praying,

he lifts

almost motionless

as he pushes the world away.

Katrina took several more deep breaths, murmured a few words of thanks, then headed back down the hill. Twenty minutes later, she stepped through the back door of her two-story Craftsman cottage on Castellano Way. She sat on the stairs and pulled off her new racing flats. Despite feeling energized, she couldn't shake the ominous thoughts rattling through her head—Samson's dire condition and the blackmail scheme involving Zora. The connection seemed obvious, but the question was what to do next? She sat down at her computer, typed in a few notes, and tried reaching Colby Freeman. The call went to voicemail. She left a brief message, not tipping her hand one way or the other. She then tried her friend, Leanne. No luck there either. This time, she decided not to leave a message. Leanne had enough on her mind dealing with her daughter's illness.

After showering, Katrina pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans, and grabbed
The New York Times
. She then curled up on the living room sofa with her best friend, a sweet marble gray tabby named Vera. Flames from an antique-looking gas stove licked at the walls, giving the room a soft, golden glow. As she finished reading the front section of the paper, the weather took a sudden turn. A driving rain began drumming the windows and gusty winds set in motion a Japanese wind chime hanging from the porch. The entrancing sound made her wistful, sleepy. She leaned her head back, lowered the newspaper, and closed her eyes. Vera quickly nuzzled in under her arm.

Sometime later, a high-pitched squeaking sound woke her with a start. Before she could react, the room went black. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a fleeting shadow. Vera shrieked like a wounded mountain lion and bolted from her lap, sending an antique lamp crashing to the floor. Katrina scrambled off the couch, slipped on the throw rug, and lost her balance. In the next instant, the intruder exploded out of the darkness, grabbing her from behind. A meaty, gloved hand covered her mouth, muffling another scream. She could smell the latex, feel the smooth rubber on the inside of her mouth. Jerking backward, she caught a glimpse of her attacker. He was dressed in black, wore a balaclava, and door-busting combat boots.

And he had animal strength.

He leaned into her ear, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I am not here to hurt you," he said in a cracked, reedy voice. "Do you understand, Katrina?"

She cringed at the sound of her name, overcome by a feeling of cold dread. The room pulsed darker, the temperature seemed to drop, and the rain picked up.

"Listen to me and listen
good
. I said do... you... understand?"

He was squeezing her neck and she couldn't speak. She nodded.

"Okay, now we're going to have a friendly chat here and it's important you listen carefully. Because if you don't, there will be consequences.
Serious
consequences."

Katrina felt a choking panic as the man leaned closer, his lips now directly against her ear.

"Are we clear on that too?"

She nodded again.

The man inched his hand away from her mouth. "Let me hear you say it."

Katrina squirmed.

"
Say
it!"

"I get it," she mumbled. "Stop hurting me."

He loosened his grip. "See how easy this is? Now the message here is easy and simple. You need to forget you ever laid eyes on Samson. I repeat, forget you ever laid eyes on that whale. See what I mean? Real simple. You can do that, right, Katrina?"

She blinked, hesitated.

"
Right
, Katrina!" he barked.

"Yeah, but a lot of people know I've been treating Samson," she lied. "What about them? You can't shut us all up."

"The others are not your concern," the man said. "Now, I need your files. Everything you've got on the sick whale."

"They're in my office, upstairs."

"Let's go."

The intruder grabbed her elbow, pulled her to her feet, nudged her toward the stairs. He then followed her up to the landing. Katrina clicked on a desk lamp and opened the top drawer of her desk. She pulled out two green folders, handed them over. "Here, that's it."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Good," he said, tucking the folders under his arm. "Now the computer."

"You have everything. There's nothing
on
the computer."

"I don't believe you. Turn it on."

"I told you—"

"
I said
turn it on
!"

Katrina booted up the laptop. The man leaned over her shoulder, scanning each of the icons on her desk top. None was labeled, "Samson."

"Pull up the Documents file," he said.

She did. Nothing there either.

The man seemed satisfied. She quickly logged off and moments later they were back in the living room. Just then, something in his eyes, his manner, sent chills up her spine.

Jesus, he's going to rape me.

It had happened to her once before—when she was fifteen—and she swore... never again.

With a sudden burst of energy, Katrina drove her elbow into the man's gut. It was like hitting a block of concrete, yet the blow landed with enough force to knock him off balance. She broke loose, bit hard into his wrist, and made a run for it.

"Fuck!" he shouted, clenching his arm. An instant later the man gave chase, moving like a coiled spring. Katrina was ten feet from the front door and freedom when her legs flew out from underneath her. She careened across the hardwood floor, crashing head first into the dining room table. Her attacker was on top of her before she could move. He then grabbed a handful of hair and wrenched her up like a rag-doll. "You're one stupid bitch, you know that?"

"And you're a useless piece of shit," she fired back. Then she spit in his eye. The big man lost it. He grabbed Katrina's wrists with his left hand pinning them to her chest. An instant later, a flattened, rigid right hand lashed out and crushed her cheekbone. She rocketed backwards, falling hard, her head striking something sharp and unmovable. Katrina felt a piercing stab at the base of her skull, but didn't hear the sickening thud. There was no sensation of pain, only the suffocating darkness that closed around her like a shroud.

The room lost color, turned to black and white.

Then... only black.

* * *

The man yanked off his hood, revealing the menacing, lantern-jawed face of the Black Stallion operative known as Iago. He pulled a penlight from his coat pocket, swept it back and forth over Katrina's face. Her mouth was slightly parted, her right ear oozed red, and her dark, green eyes were fixed wide, staring at the ceiling. Kneeling down, he gently lifted the hair away from her neck, pressed two fingers against the carotid artery.

Just as he thought, no pulse.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Iago stood, took an unsteady step back, staring at the body in disbelief. His blood was boiling, his heart pounding. He thought back to the "evade and escape" training during his days as a Navy SEAL, how he had learned to control his breathing, slow his whole system down. It took only a moment to get there. Another deep breath and his heavy chest muscles began to relax. But nothing could change what had gone down here. He'd taken many lives before, yet the names and faces had meant nothing to him. It was kill or be killed. This was different. This woman did not deserve to die.
He looked closer, a cold sweat glistening on his brow.

She's beautiful, even now
.
Why did she have to be so fucking stupid?

His next thought went to the man who called the shots at Black Stallion, Darnell Atwater. Atwater was defined and obsessed by perfection. He demanded the same of his men and Iago knew this pathetic effort had fallen far short of the mark. Every member of the team was expendable. He knew that, too. Damage control was the best he could do now.

He looked around. The place was a mess.

Iago moved stealthily into the kitchen, found a roll of industrial strength garbage bags under the sink, and a broom and dustpan in the small utility closet. Methodically, he went to work, sweeping the floor of broken glass and cleaning up the blood. He was especially careful to wipe down the edge of the propane stove where the woman had hit her head. Twenty minutes later, the job was done. The house looked neat as a pin. If the cops came snooping around, they would find no sign of a struggle, no incriminating evidence. He wrapped a plastic tie around the garbage bag and set it next to the door.

The question now became what to do with the body. The answer, he soon discovered, was lying on the kitchen table—a single sheet of paper with a map of Fort Worden State Park on one side, a description of the old gun batteries on the other. There were several designated running trails, one that had been highlighted in yellow.

That's it. The woman loved to run. And runners have accidents, especially in bad weather.