When Danger Calls: Blackthorne, Inc., #1

When Danger Calls

A Blackthorne, Inc. Novel

Terry Odell

Copyright © 2011 by Terry Odell

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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.

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To Dan, for all his patience, understanding, support and love.

And to Jess, our very own Peanut.

When Danger Calls

Chapter 1

SOME CAKEWALK. A ROUTINE mission turned into a straight-to-video movie. To Ryan Harper, it smelled rotten—even more rotten than the garbage piled in the alleyway they’d trekked through to get here.

Senses on alert, Ryan cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. He waited beside Alvarez while the wizened man unlocked the warehouse door. Alvarez clicked on a light. Two feral cats yowled and hissed, then bolted outside.

Ryan stepped into the hot, stuffy room. Grime covered the sealed windows, and the ammonia stench of cat piss filled his nostrils. Why didn’t any of his assignments include rooms with air conditioning? Instead, they sent him to a deserted neighborhood in Panama—one the jungle desperately wanted to reclaim. "Where are the files, Señor Alvarez?"

Here, Alvarez said around the cigar stub that seemed permanently clamped between his teeth. He closed the door behind them. I show you everything. You have the money?

After I see the files.

Outside, a generator hummed. Three cats peered warily around upended tables and a maze of cardboard cartons. Avoiding broken glass, rubber tubing, and other assorted debris, he followed Alvarez across the room. A rusty gas stove stood at the far end next to a small refrigerator, and a Formica-topped table. In a blur, the cats disappeared behind the stove. Opposite, two file cabinets flanked a beat-up wooden desk, and a cracked vinyl armchair. Like an alien presence, a flat-screen computer monitor sat atop the desk.

One moment. When Alvarez reached under the desk, Ryan grabbed for his weapon. A button clicked and a hard drive whirred. Ryan exhaled. Maybe this was a cakewalk after all.

The door slammed against the wall. Flash-bang grenades hit the floor. Get down! he shouted at Alvarez, who still fumbled with the computer. Covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut Ryan scrambled for cover behind the desk as the room filled with brilliant light and an ear-splitting report.

Deaf and half-blind from the blast, Ryan pointed his Glock near the doorway. Gunfire sprayed the room. Alvarez gasped. Blood flowed from his chest. He turned and pressed a metal tube into Ryan’s hand. The ringing in his ears muffled the man’s words, but Ryan watched his lips.

"Importante." Alvarez clawed his way to the desktop. The computer exploded. Ryan’s body slammed backward. Alvarez sagged to the floor, half his face blown off.

Shit. First Colombia, and now this. Ryan jammed the tube into a pocket of his cargo pants. Blinking to clear his vision, he turned to engage his assailants. Three of them—-one of him. Some fucking cakewalk.

The desk and file cabinets provided cover, giving Ryan the advantage. He fired. Two shots to the body, one to the head. Repeat as needed. Two men down.

The third guy, built like a grizzly, bared his teeth in a malicious grin. "You are mine, señor."

Sorry. You’re not my type. Ryan pulled the trigger twice. His assailant fell backward, his weapon firing in a broad arc. A searing pain ripped through Ryan’s shoulder. His arm jerked and his gun clattered to the floor, skittering between the file cabinets behind him. He fumbled for the knife strapped to his ankle. Blood, hot and sticky, ran down his arm, and his fingers slipped on the knife’s hilt. He duck-walked backward for the file cabinets to retrieve his Glock.

He groped for the pistol. The man on the floor struggled to his feet. Body armor. Crap. Ryan’s gun hand was all but useless. The angle sucked. Holding the Glock in his off hand, he took a head shot. The man twitched, swinging his arm. He went down.

Ryan’s satisfaction shriveled when the grenade rolled across the room, stopping under the stove.

Fuck. Ryan burst through the door and dove for cover. He grimaced with pain from landing on his knee as the warehouse exploded in flames.

Dazed, he moved into the jungle. When he didn’t check in on schedule, an extraction team would rendezvous according to plan—three days from now. No sweat. Couldn’t be any worse than survival training hell.

It was. In survival training, no one shot you, and then infected you with some nasty jungle bug. His meager rations were useless—he could barely keep water down. His knee looked more like a melon than a joint. His shoulder screamed and his teeth chattered despite the jungle heat. Hiding by day, traveling by night, Ryan reached the extraction point and waited. He wouldn’t be left behind. He only hoped he’d be alive when the chopper showed up.

The appointed time came and went. He fought to stay conscious. Ten minutes. Another five. He could hold on for one more. And one after that. The world faded in and out. Then from above, the welcome whup-whup of a helicopter sounded. Praying he wasn’t suffering from fever-induced hallucinations, he crawled out of his hiding place to the tiny clearing. He squinted into the darkness at the hovering helo and flashed his light in the prearranged pattern. He’d never make it up a rope ladder. He had to.

The ladder dropped. A body scrambled down. Someone—a face he should recognize despite the camo paint—put a hand on his shoulder.

Your limo’s here, Harper. Someone lifted him onto a stretcher. Relax and enjoy the ride.

A burst of fire shot through his shoulder as someone ripped his shirt open, then a sting in his arm.

And then nothing.

ENTER.

It was a command, not an invitation.

Ryan propped his cane against the outside of the jamb. He steeled himself and opened the door.

Squaring his shoulders, he did his damnedest not to favor his injured knee when he stepped into Horace Blackthorne’s private office. The sleek, modern public reception areas downstairs contrasted with this room, a time-warp from the fifties. The old-fashioned Venetian blinds were lowered against the late afternoon sun, blocking the view of the distant Golden Gate Bridge. Ryan squinted into the glare sneaking through the cracks. Although his boss didn’t smoke, the office always smelled of pipe tobacco. He cleared his throat, surprised at its dryness.

You asked to see me, sir?

Blackthorne looked up from the sheet of paper he’d been reading. No pleasantries, not that Ryan expected any. When the man didn’t gesture toward one of the two utilitarian chairs fronting the steel desk, Ryan held himself erect, squelching the urge to grab the back of one for support. He waited while the man placed the paper into a file folder, gave it a tap, then set it in the wire basket on the corner of the desk.

Blackthorne removed his half-frame reading glasses, snapped them into a leather case, and slipped them inside his jacket pocket. He pushed away from his desk and levered himself to his full height.

At six-three, Ryan usually looked down on people, but he adjusted his gaze upward to lock eyes with his superior. Blackthorne disguised his emotions well, but over the last ten years Ryan learned to eke out the subtlest signals. A shift in the eyes, the twitch of a jaw muscle, a minuscule shoulder shrug—these were flashing neon signs. Today, the man stood stock-still, like the bronze statue of General Whatshisname in front of City Hall back home.

Ryan waited out the silence, his eyes moving up Blackthorne’s furrowed brow to the salt-and-pepper hair, neatly parted, still thick. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through his own hair, hanging in unruly tendrils over his collar.

You met Alvarez. A statement, not a question. Where are the files? Blackthorne leaned forward. His gaze bored into Ryan’s. Did he detect a glint of eagerness in his boss’ eyes?

Uncertainty spread outward from Ryan’s middle like ripples on a pond. Two weeks in the hospital kept him out of the loop, but not so far he didn’t know about the rumors—-all blaming him for the screw-ups. That a leak existed at Blackthorne, Inc., and he was suspect number one.

He balled his fists, keeping his hands away from the flash drive in his pocket. The intel. Mr. Alvarez’s list of stolen artworks. Nothing worth killing for. But a sleazebag like Alvarez might be dealing in more than smuggled art. Was there a connection between Alvarez and the failed Forcada mission in Colombia? Ryan had to find the leak, and he’d do whatever it took to prove his innocence, even if it meant investigating Horace Blackthorne himself.

He kept his gaze steady. The grenade destroyed the computer, sir. Along with the entire building.

Blackthorne hesitated. Cleared his throat. Nodded, the barest twitch of his chin. Finish your rehab, take some extra leave.

I’m fine, sir. Give me the weekend. I’ll be ready for a new assignment on Monday.

Two fouled missions. You’re no good to me, the firm, or yourself now. I read your medical reports. I spoke with your doctors. We’re not negotiating, Harper. Six weeks personal leave while you finish your rehab, plus any vacation time you’ve accrued, if you need it. Three months on security detail, and then we’ll discuss your future as a field agent.

Security detail. A Blackthorne euphemism for chaperoning spoiled offspring of arrogant aristocrats or media hot-shots. Why not say, You’re fired. His gut clenched. That’s precisely what his boss had in mind.

Ryan reached for his wallet. He pulled out his ID. Ryan Harper. Six-three, brown eyes, two hundred pounds. Not much had changed. True, he was thinner since his illness. He focused on the photo. The face of a younger man, fresh and optimistic, stared at him.

The soft click of the laminated card landing on the scarred steel desk echoed through the room.

Ignoring the card, Blackthorne sat down and reached for the file folder on his desk.

Ryan pivoted, disregarding the pain in his knee. The one in his gut hurt worse. He retrieved his cane on the way to the elevator. On the ride down, he flipped open his cell phone. If there was anyone left he could trust, it would be Dalton. His ex-partner was out of the country on assignment, but even on his voice-mail recording, the Texan’s easy drawl loosened some of the knots in Ryan’s belly.

He waited out the message, concentrating on keeping his voice steady when he spoke. It’s Harper. Call when you can.

The elevator doors opened. He snapped the phone shut. Outside, sunlight bounced off the buildings, but its warmth eluded him. In the building’s grassy courtyard, a group of young children chased around an abstract sculpture, one that always reminded him of a bunch of asparagus. He hated asparagus. He tuned out the giggles, but he couldn’t turn off the image of Carmelita. His fingers ached, and he released his death-grip on the cane. On the way to the parking garage, he passed a wire trash bin. Without missing a step, he flung the cane inside.

Ryan sat behind the wheel, his mind replaying the afternoon in the warehouse, pieces falling into place. The smells he’d attributed to the cats. The clutter on the floor. At the time, he’d disregarded the Spanish writing on the cartons. He remembered one now, tilted on its side. Éter. Ether. An abandoned meth lab. With a sense of purpose, he put his Mustang into gear.

RYAN CRAMMED HIS CLOTHES into an oversize duffel and his other essentials into his backpack. He’d taken great pains to make sure he wasn’t followed to the bank after he left Blackthorne’s office. If someone at Blackthorne wanted him gone, he’d disappear—but on his own terms.

His laptop signaled it had finished burning the CD. He ejected the disc, slipped it into a jewel case and after wiping any trace of the file from his hard drive, shut down the machine. He scraped most of his scrambled eggs and toast supper into the garbage disposal and hit the switch. He walked through the apartment one last time, mechanically turning off lights and closing curtains as he’d done before countless missions. Duffel over his shoulder, pack on his back, he locked the door behind him, void of feeling. Nothing about this place had ever said home.

RYAN STOOD ON THE RANCH house porch, rubbing his shoulder. An owl hooted in the distance, and something rustled in the trees. The night air smelled of pine and damp earth, layered over the smell of horses and manure. The familiar scent carried a tangle of emotions he couldn’t take time to sort. He turned his gaze upward. Clouds blanketed the stars, but even so, the glow of the full moon cast everything in pewter.

He shifted his weight to his right leg, trying to ease the ache in his left knee. He should have traded in his manual transmission for an automatic, but that would have meant giving up his Mustang and admitting his knee wasn’t ever going to be one hundred percent. Damn, letting a car shift whenever it felt like it wasn’t driving.

He grazed his knuckles against the wooden door. Waited. Tapped again, harder. He counted to ten before lifting his hand again. This time he knocked, loud and clear. A shuffle of footsteps approached from inside.

Wrapped in a flannel robe, Pop appeared leaner in the legs, and thicker in the chest. He had the same full head of hair, the red Ryan remembered faded to a dull orange. The chest hair peeking out from the V of the robe was pure white.

You coming in? Not so much as a lifted eyebrow. As if showing up after being gone for more than ten years was a normal, everyday occurrence.

Pop’s voice hadn’t changed either. Not much, anyway. Maybe more gravel to it. Or maybe Ryan had gotten him out of bed. He looked at his watch. Twenty-one-thirty. Not that late. Shit. He’d forgotten the time zone switch between California and Montana. It was twenty-two-thirty here. Make that ten-thirty. He was a civilian for now.

Sorry if I woke you, Pop. He took a step into the room. Instead of Rusty, the familiar Irish setter at Pop’s side, a large German shepherd curled its lip and growled. Ryan froze.

He’s okay, boy, his father said. Friend.

The dog lifted his eyes. A slow wag of his tail said, If you say so, but I have my doubts.

Ryan extended his hand, knuckles up, to the dog’s muzzle. A sniff, a lick, and an energized tail wag followed.

Wolf, his father said. He scratched the dog’s head. You gonna stay awhile?

I’ve got some things to work out. Taking a little time off, you know. It’s kind of complicated. I don’t want to bother you. The getaway cabin? Is it...still Josh’s? I mean, if he’s using it, I could...but he’s away a lot. Shit. His voice was cracking.

With a plaintive whine, Wolf came over and nudged his muzzle under Ryan’s hand. Reflexively, he rubbed the dog’s ruff.

Your brother is on a shoot somewhere in one of those countries that needs to buy a few vowels. Keys are on the hook by the kitchen door.

Thanks, Pop. I really appreciate—

It’s after eleven. Tomorrow’s soon enough. Your old room’s always made up. Might as well use it. I’ll see you at breakfast. His father scuffed toward the stairs. Wolf didn’t move, except to lick Ryan’s hand.

He poured himself a whisky and sat in the dark, waiting for the alcohol to take the edge off frazzled nerves. Wolf sat at his feet, watching. He’d braced himself for his father’s anger, or at least resentment. Not this time warp, like he’d come home from the prom, late, but forgiven. Only the dog was different. Once Ryan thought he could sleep, he hoisted himself to his feet.

Boots in one hand, he pulled himself up the stairs, avoiding the third one from the top that always squeaked. After ten years, he needed no lights to find his way, although moonlight filtered through the window at the end of the hall.

Pausing outside the door to his father’s bedroom, he heard Pop snoring—the lullaby of Ryan’s youth. He crept down the hall to his old room, Wolf at his heels.

He gave the dog a pat. Go to bed, boy. The dog whined, cocked his head, then gave it a shake.

Ryan urged the dog to the door. Go on. With apparent reluctance, the dog left his side for the hallway. Ryan heard his toenails click down the stairs and shut the bedroom door. Pop had redecorated his room, an obvious guest room now, but a familiar comfort eked out. He stared out the window and the years peeled away. Like his father, the oak tree outside hadn’t changed much. Leaving the curtains open, he sat on the edge of the bed and stripped to his briefs.

He pulled back the comforter, turned off the lamp and lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, and watched the shadows from the oak tree pirouette on the ceiling. The smell of clean sheets carried him back to a time when geometry theorems and getting up the nerve to ask Pammi Calder on a date were his biggest challenges, and he drifted off.

Even in sleep, hairs prickled on his neck and the nightmare returned. Icy fingers reached inside his chest and grabbed his heart.

He hid behind the couch in the Forcada’s living room, the little girl trembling beneath him.

Shh, Carmelita. It’ll be okay, he said, knowing damn well it was anything but okay.

She looked at him with huge brown eyes. Trusting brown eyes. Si. Okay.

He peered underneath the couch into the room. Boots. Too many boots. Gunfire filled his ears. Smoke assaulted his nostrils. If he fired, he’d give away his position. Someone tipped the couch forward. A faceless man with a gun.

He tried to move. Tried to fire. When the faceless man pointed the gun at him, he tried to scream, but no sound would come.

This time, in the shadows, a man, tall and broad, broke through the dream and knelt at his side, pushing the hair away from his sweat-soaked forehead.

It’s all right, a familiar voice said. You’re safe, son.

For the first time since the incident, the terror faded, and instead of waking with a pounding heart, Ryan slipped back into sleep.

Sunlight streamed in the window. From the foot of the bed, Wolf looked up at him. Ryan squinted and rubbed his eyes, staring at the closed bedroom door then back at the dog. A lump formed in his throat.

Thanks, Pop.

Chapter 2

FRANKIE CASTOR ADJUSTED the bustier under her blouse and threw her stilettos into her tote. Not telling anyone where she was going wasn’t the same as lying, was it?

Are you going out again, Mommy? Molly peeked into the room. You said we would be together a lot when we came to Gramma’s.

Frankie’s heart tugged at the look of betrayal in her five-year-old’s face. I know, Peanut. And we will. It’ll be spring break tomorrow, and we’ll have lots of time together. Be good for Gramma, and I’ll kiss you when I get home.

Can you make macaroni and cheese?

Frankie glanced at her watch, weighing the tradeoff of a speeding ticket versus being late again. Neither option was acceptable. She leaned down and kissed Molly’s cheek. I have to go. I promise we’ll have lots of fun starting tomorrow. Why don’t you get a story to read with Gramma? You can ask her about macaroni and cheese.

Molly stormed in and out of her bedroom, closing the door loud enough to voice her displeasure, but not hard enough to earn a reprimand for slamming, before her footsteps clattered down the stairs.

Frankie raced downstairs, across the porch and into the old Chevy Cavalier waiting in the driveway.

Come on, baby. Start for me. She patted the dash with one hand and turned the key with the other. As the car wheezed into compliance, she longed for the company BMW she’d had to relinquish when she’d left Boston. Not to mention her office with a view of the Commons. But family came first.

Guilt followed her down the highway, out of Broken Bow, Montana, toward Stanton. Not that anyone in the Broken Bow PTA would come into a honky-tonk like the Three Elks, but her day job as an elementary school art teacher would be over if the parents found out she worked there.

She swung into a parking slot in the alley behind the Three Elks, grabbed her tote from the backseat and raced inside.

I’m here, Mr. Stubbs.

Mr. Stubbs, owner and bartender made a point of looking at both his watch and the clock over the bar. I can see that.

Drained from a day spent helping third and fourth graders create a collage, she was already counting the minutes until her shift ended. She squirmed into her skimpy uniform. It’s temporary, she reminded herself while she fussed with foundation and blush, with bright red lipstick and black eyeliner. But the money was good. She was already thinking of a new furnace instead of a repair job. Soon she’d have to tell Mom what she was doing, but not until she figured out how to talk about the budget.

She pulled her shoes from her tote and rubbed her feet. Mr. Stubbs, always looking for a gimmick, insisted the wait staff spend twenty minutes of each hour dancing with the patrons. It wouldn’t be half-bad if he didn’t insist on stilettos. She slipped into her shoes and took a few warm-up steps. Before unlocking the door, she pinned on her Gladys nametag. Satisfied, she opened the door and headed for the bar, strutting the way Mr. Stubbs liked.

Right on time, Mr. Stubbs, she said.

I told you, call me Stubby. Everyone else does.

Tall and lean, if ever there was a man who didn’t live up to his name, it had to be Clarence Stubbs.

Right. Stubby. Anything on special tonight? She grabbed an order pad from below the marble-topped bar and hoped he hadn’t come up with another gimmick. Last week’s Chinese tacos had been a disaster.

Two-for-one margaritas until seven, he said. Frankie gave a hello smile to red-headed Belle, who pulled beers at the taps. Patti, the other server, wasn’t due in until eight, which meant more tables—and more tips—until then.

You like to cut it close, don’t you? Belle asked. She glanced in Mr. Stubbs’ direction, then touched Frankie’s wrist. How’s your mom?

Frankie gave a noncommittal shrug. About the same.

Belle leaned forward, her D-cups swelling over the low-cut uniform blouse, and lowered her voice. Look, it can be tough. I’ve been there. But sometimes a nursing home is the best, you know? Like, it’s better than them forgetting to turn off the stove and burning the house down. Think about it.

Mom’s nothing like that. Just a little absent-minded.

But you’re at work all day, and here three nights a week. What if something happens? You’ve got a kid.

Guilt rose again, and she tamped it down. Brenda’s there. Mom cut back her rent so she helps around the house and babysits.

Belle shrugged. If you say so. She’s still a grad student. My money says either school or guys are her top priorities.

She’s practically family, Frankie said. Molly loves her.

Mr. Stubbs coughed. "Take table seven, Gladys. You’ve got section three tonight."

She looked up. Table seven held a party of six—three couples, wearing clothes that said they worked in an upscale office. The promise of decent tips lightened her step as she began her evening. Hi, I’m Gladys. What can I get you?

At nine, ready for a break, Frankie filled a mug with coffee and ducked behind the bar, her back to the customers. The antique gold-flecked mirror reflected distorted images, giving the room an underwater feel.

Belle’s stage whisper penetrated the background noise. Oh, great. Mr. Tall, Dark and Grouchy’s here early.

It didn’t take long to see who Belle was talking about. Over six feet tall, the man radiated a presence that said, Hands off. He trudged to the far corner booth and slid into its darkness like a bear into its cave.

What do you know about him? Frankie asked.

Nothing, Belle said. He’s been coming in almost every night, after your shift. Has a drink, messes around with a computer, has another drink, then leaves. Always alone. Pays cash. Reasonable tips. He’s not looking for action, that’s for sure.

The computers had been another one of Mr. Stubbs’ gimmicks, less than successful. Why he thought anyone would come to a tavern to work was beyond her. The few who used them tended to nurse drinks and leave lousy tips.

The man glanced in the direction of the bar. Patti sighed and reached for her order pad.

Wait, Belle said. Give him to Gladys—five bucks says even she can’t get him to smile.

Frankie took a last sip of coffee and adjusted her Gladys nametag, her own gimmick. Who’d want to hit on someone named Gladys? Just about anyone, she discovered her first night.

She watched the man, slumped in the corner as if the world sat on his shoulders. A smile? she said. I’ll take that bet. She pulled a five out of her tip pouch and set it under her coffee mug. Giving her uniform skirt a quick tug, she stepped across the floor, forgetting her aching feet.

What’ll you have, sir? She leaned forward to light the candle in the red jar on the table, displaying her chest the way Mr. Stubbs insisted. Not that she had a lot to display, despite the bustier. Belle got the big tips.

Don’t, he said, his voice a harsh bark.

Frankie straightened, and in the match’s glow, gave her customer a closer look. Long, wavy brown hair mingled with a full, scruffy beard that said he didn’t bother to shave. He kept his gaze low, his eyes shadowed behind half-lowered lids. Nostrils flared on a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once.

She fanned out the match. There might be a chip the size of a redwood tree on his shoulder, but there was a pain in his eyes that reminded her of Buddy, an abandoned stray she’d tried to befriend as a child. Things are always better in the light. What can I get you? Besides a shoulder to cry on. Nobody should hurt that much. His eyebrows moved up a few millimeters, as if he expected her to know his usual drink.

Jack.

She flashed him her friendliest smile. Hello, Jack. I’m Gladys.

The eyebrows went up an inch this time, but his mouth was set. Daniels.

She tried again. Sorry. Mr. Daniels.

He glowered. Jack Daniels. As in whiskey. Neat.

Sure thing, Jack. Coming up.

She stepped back to the bar. Aware Mr. Stubbs was watching, she widened her smile and shifted her gait to the hip-rolling strut he preferred. Knob Creek, she said. Neat.

Mr. Stubb’s eyes snapped up from her hips, back to her face, where they belonged. He order that?

I’m sure that’s what he said, Mr. Stubbs. If you want, I can go back and ask again.

He waved off her comment. One Knob Creek coming up. He poured the drink and slapped the glass onto the counter. Frankie picked up a round tray and added the drink and a bowl of peanuts. She glanced back at Jack’s table. He fingered the unlit candle, as if the solution to all of life’s problems could be found encoded in the plastic mesh covering the jar. When Mr. Stubbs turned to take another order, Frankie sneaked a basket of chips and a dish of salsa, and strutted back to the booth, using enough hip-wiggle to get Mr. Stubbs off her case for a while.

Here you go, Jack, she said and placed the glass and snacks in front of him. You want to run a tab?

He grunted and pounded back half his drink. His eyes widened. This isn’t Jack. I’m not paying extra.

Smile for me and it’ll be covered. You don’t even have to leave a tip.

This time, he looked her dead in the eyes. "Tell you what, lady. You leave me the hell alone, I pay for the premium stuff and leave a little extra for you." He wrapped both hands around the glass and stared into its amber depths.

His voice was quiet, his tone even, but it said he was used to giving orders, and having them followed without question.

She felt Belle and Patti’s eyes boring into her from opposite ends of the bar. The band segued into the opening strands of Take it to the Limit. She reached for Jack’s hand. "Please. You’ve