Search and Destroy by JT Sawyer (top non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📗

he retrieved his iPhone from beside the dumpster and turned off the grating baby wails.

“Who the fuck are you?” shouted the man.

He kept his boot planted on Donnelly’s chest.

“Cal Shepard. America’s Most Wanted Criminal these days. And we’re gonna go on a short drive.”

52

Roth paced back and forth in his office on the third floor of his ranch home, alternating his glares between Hunley and Rimaldi, who were sitting on the couch beside the albino grizzly bear in the center of the spacious room. On a mahogany coffee table in the middle were two large suitcases with neatly arranged stacks of cash. It was the final installment of Roth’s campaign financing before the election. After Rimaldi finished his last speaking engagement with the remaining exiled Venezuelan elite in Dallas, he and Roth were meeting to work out the final details of the election.

To their right was a woman with a black hood over her head and her hands zip-tied behind her back; Carlos Montoya stood watch with a pistol in his hands, frozen still like one of the trophy animals on the wall behind him.

“Are you going to tell me why the hell there’s a person being held against their will here?” said Rimaldi whose face seemed to grow more tense with each passing moment.

“She’s none of your God-damn business,” snapped Roth who shifted his footing to squarely face Hunley. “Are you fucking crazy detaining her?” Roth said. “This is just going to be the start of another shit-storm on an apocalyptic scale.”

“She will be the leverage we need once Shepard arrives,” said Hunley. “Then we’ll stage things to make it look like he tried to kill you and took her out at the same time.”

“It’s been a week. Shepard hasn’t reared his head since he killed Landis and Rourke. What makes you think he’ll show? He’s probably squattin’ under some bamboo hut in the Philippines.”

Hunley stood up, pouring himself a drink from the wet bar near the patio doors. “I’ve been tracking him since the day he fled his home. Trust me, he’s close. I’ve got a source that hasn’t let me down yet.” Roth peered out the large window to the left, seeing a set of headlights coming down the main road in the dark.

Hunley raised his glass up like he was toasting. “Ah, that should be them right now.”

53

The woman felt like her ribs were going to be bruised after bobbing along the bony shoulders of Blake Weissman as he carried her limp figure into his bunkhouse, setting her gently down on his king-sized bed at the back of the two-story stone building.

The air smelled of woodsmoke and old leather, which was just pungent enough to override the man’s considerable body odor. She leaned her head back, staring at the log rafters in the ceiling as he stood between her legs, undoing his belt.

“Just hold still, baby. I think you’re gonna enjoy this.”

She smiled, cooing as she held a leg up to his chest. “Take my boots off first.”

He grinned, holding her ankle. She pulled her other knee back then shot her leg forward, driving a vicious kick into his lower jaw, shattering his front teeth. The woman bolted upright, slamming her fist into his groin then kicking her boot into the side of his left knee, snapping the ACL and collapsing the immense figure. He groaned as rivulets of blood streamed from his lips.

She rushed up to his side, kicking him in the ribs. “That’s for assuming there was consent, you piece of shit.”

The woman grabbed an old lassoing rope off the wall above the fireplace and wound it around his hands then tied the end to the wrought-iron legs of the bed. She secured his legs in a similar fashion, lashing the other end of the rope to a couch leg.

She grabbed his truck keys from his pants pocket then headed out to the Ford F-350, retrieving the small duffle bag she’d stowed under his back seat during a bathroom break at the bar.

Bringing her gear back inside, she laid out the contents, quickly assembling a takedown AR-10 rifle then attaching the Leupold scope. She inserted a 20-round magazine with .308 rounds then racked the slide. When she was done, she pulled out the two Glock 19s inside along with the vest, which had six 15-round magazines.

Heading to the door, she slid out a pair of night-vision goggles then turned off the lights. Inserting a comms piece into her right ear, she peered out the door, seeing a sheriff’s vehicle approaching the main gate at the other end of the compound.

The woman took a deep breath, knowing the serene desert setting around her was about to become a battlefield.

She tapped on her mic. “This is Viper. I’m in place.”

54

The two Colombian mercenaries at the front entrance gate gave each other surprised glances at the sight of another vehicle approaching. They were about to radio Montoya when they saw it was the familiar outline of the sheriff’s patrol car. They’d met the deputies two days earlier, who gave them a warm welcome, which meant the officers were being paid handsomely to look the other way at whatever was unfolding within the Roth compound.

The larger merc with a thick beard waved his hand as the cruiser came to a stop at the entrance.

“How you boys like being in this dry heat compared to the tropics?” the driver said.

The first guard, who had a wispy mustache, shone his flashlight inside, lighting up the sheriff’s badge and then the back seat.

“You have better tamales here than we do,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent.

The driver leaned out slightly, pointing to the main house in the distance. “I just need to talk to Vincent for a few minutes. Something’s come up that he’s gonna wanna know about.”

The men nodded, stepping back to unlock the massive wrought-iron gates with the Diamond T logo on them. The driver pulled through, pausing on the other side and waving the