Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (tools of titans ebook .TXT) 📗

I’d found in Baldy’s car and smoothed it open. It was dated a month ago… for running a red light. I checked the location of offense. Colorado Springs. Hmm. The limo rental place was in the Springs too. Colorado Springs is basically the opposite direction from Black Hawk. I felt like a fool. I looked back at Max for some comfort but he looked like he thought I was a fool too.

I decided to take a ride down to Ballard’s Rentals. I was pretty certain Mr. Spock wouldn’t leave any evidence behind or be stupid enough to have rented the car under a name that would be traced back to him or his employer, but hey, anyone can make a mistake. Look at me.

I had just gotten onto C-470 heading southeast when I saw a silver, nineties Chevy drive past me going north. I did a head shake. It couldn’t be. But I could have sworn I’d seen Baldy and Pimples in the front seat. Were they going up to Black Hawk for some gambling? Was I wrong about Nick Carlino not being involved?

Flooring the gas pedal I shot down the closest emergency turn around. It’s only to be used by cops and emergency units, but I used to be a cop and besides this was an emergency. I flipped a U and floored it again and was barely able to make them out, as they turned eastbound onto I-70. Huh? That was the wrong way. Black Hawk was west.

As I got closer I saw it was definitely them. Time for some answers. Black Hawk or Colorado Springs, either way, I was along for the ride.

As it turned out they didn’t go to the Springs or Black Hawk. They stopped at an old, broken down, two-story house on Beeler and Mexico, in unincorporated Cherokee County. Up here the county is in spitting distance of Aurora and Denver. Jurisdictional issues can be a real pain, with one side of the street belonging to Denver, and the other to Cherokee. Baldy and Pimples went into the house. Two other cars perched in the crumbling driveway. They were both hoopties; not the type of spaceship Mr. Spock would be riding in.

Hmm. More drugs? Or maybe a hiding place for kidnapped victims?

When I got out of my car, I unclipped the leather key-holder I keep on my belt and dropped it next to the door. I’d already redressed after leaving the casino and all my tools were back in place.

I left the car running to keep Max cool. I parked on the other side of the block and made my way around a limp, chain-link fence until I spotted the shabby, white two-story. Window wells grew from the ground on the west side wall, looking down into a basement. If Tom and Amber were here, my money was on them being down there; less likely for cries or screams to carry far through concrete and earth.

On the way over, I listened to the police scanner in my car; Denver was working a small structure fire on Clayton and 12th, Cherokee was clear. Aurora had a DUI over on 6th and Chambers, and a crash on 225 at the Mississippi exit. All in all a quiet weekday afternoon. Good. If I needed help it shouldn’t be far off. I hoped to do this quiet though, if they were here. No rough stuff; less chance of Tom or Amber getting hurt that way.

I snuck up on the west side of the house to a three-foot chain-link that ran along the back yard; it would be easy to hop if there was no gate on this side.

There wasn’t.

One window well on the south side of the fence in the front yard, the other on the north in the back. I checked out the front window. Drawn curtains, I couldn’t see a thing. Hopping the fence, I checked the back well. Spiderwebs filled the bottom third of the metal housing and a fat black widow lurked in the bottom right corner. I don’t like spiders. The window was yellowed and cracked, caked with milky white cobwebs at the corners. No drapes. Inside were cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly along the wall and extending out a way into the basement. Near the center of the room I saw a small section of chair legs with shoes poking out. Looking closer, I could see the ankles of whoever was sitting in the chair, secured with duct-tape. Had to be Tom. I slipped around to the back door. Unlocked. The curtains, tattered and nearly shear, hung off kilter. I could see through them. The kitchen was to the left and empty. A stairwell led straight from the backdoor to the basement and a room branched to the right. I could hear voices and laughing from somewhere in the house. The backyard was a lesson in xeriscaping. Layers of junk were piled throughout the yard, and a dilapidated swing set sat crookedly along the northeast fence.

I eased the doorknob, putting weight onto the metal to lessen squeaking from the hinges. The sun was already heating the day. Sweat popped out on my forehead. The door swung in almost noiselessly — almost. I closed it behind me, not letting it latch.

Inside the voices sounded louder. At least four in the front room. All loud. Stale cigarette smoke fought for top billing against the smell of rotting meat from a pan on the stove and old vomit on the floor that no one bothered to clean up. Buzzing flies swarmed the kitchen, laying their maggot eggs in the meat and vomit, then flying away to mate and buzz some more. I hate flies worse than spiders. Thudding steps plodded across the ceiling. There were more upstairs. How many? It wouldn’t matter if I could sneak Tom and Amber out. But if I couldn’t, if there had to be a fight, how many was suddenly very important.

I eased my .45 from its holster and