Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5) Page 2

  Even the smell of sativa smoke floating in from the backseat.

  All of it was nothing more than background, tiny details that were processed and dismissed, his focus singular.

  With an elbow propped on the sill of the window, he stared directly at his target. Hidden behind a tint far too deep to be street legal, he didn’t bother trying to avert his gaze, making it clear where his intentions lay.

  “You sure that’s the one?” Jamal Pierce asked from the driver’s seat. Reclined in his chair, he gazed through drooping eyes in the same direction as Ronell, his left wrist draped over the steering wheel.

  Long and lean, he was a few years older than Ronell, meaning he was the sole one in the car legally old enough to purchase alcohol. A former high school basketball star, his career had fizzled after a month or two at a junior college, though the signs of his former life remained.

  Striated muscles lining the caps of his shoulders, veins extended down from them. Large hands with long fingers. A body fat percentage that hovered on the high end of single digits.

  “No doubt,” Ronell replied, not once looking away from the target.

  As cars went, it wasn’t anything special, which was kind of the point. People noticed Ferraris and Lamborghinis and Jaguars. Little more than the automotive equivalent of sex symbols, they were designed to draw attention. Everywhere they passed, people were sure to glance over, some even going as far as to snap a photo or call on a friend for validation of what they were looking at.

  None of those things would do. Not tonight. Not with the goals the trio inside the Honda had.

  This trip was about accomplishing an objective. It was about doing as instructed and returning without leaving a trace of their passing.

  That’s why they were now sitting in the Honda. It’s the reason they had scouted the surrounding area and eventually settled on the parking tower they were now in, it being one of the few in Nashville that hadn’t started using cameras and active surveillance.

  “That thing?” Joey Bernstein asked from the backseat, his words pushing a plume of smoke between the front bucket chairs, the sharp scent of marijuana filling the small space. “Man, my mom drives a nicer car than that.”

  “Then maybe we should be staking out her new place right now instead,” Ronell replied. Despite the clear edge in his tone, the comment was still enough to draw a stifled chuckle from Jamal, his free hand moving swiftly to cover the bottom half of his face.

  “Come on, man,” Joey said, “why’d you have to take it there?”

  A smirk was Ronell’s only reply. He hadn’t actually taken it there, though it wasn’t hard to discern the meaning in his words. As the only member of the three with the privilege of checking the box marked Caucasian on any housing form or loan application, lobbing such barbs at Joey was so common it almost wasn’t fun anymore.

  Almost.

  A polar opposite of Jamal in almost every way, Joey stood no taller than five-eight. A week past twenty, he still carried a fair bit of baby fat, his cheeks round, his jawline covered with a patchy layer of stubble.

  Between his fingers was a joint fatter than his little finger, the herb inside courtesy of another in an unending string of midnight raids on his mother’s purse.

  How Ronell had ended up in the car with these two was something he had long since quit trying to figure out. Both had been fixtures in his life longer than any other living soul, having seen him through each step of the process. From happy childhood home to the death of his father to the son of a single mom to the abused teenager of an unwanted stepfather and eventual runaway, they had been by his side.

  The only things by his side. Trying out for S-2 without them would have been easier, but it was something he wouldn’t even have considered.

  Just as they hadn’t balked the first time he made mention of it to them.

  Keeping his loose grip on the steering wheel, Jamal leaned forward, peering beneath the rearview mirror toward the corner of the lot. His shoulder blades poked through the back of the ribbed tank top he wore as he stared out, close enough Ronell could hear him breathing, before pulling back into his seat.

  “How you figure on doing it?” Jamal asked.

  Just as he had for the better part of the last hour, Ronell said nothing. Leaning forward, he brushed his fingers through the tangle of garbage littering the floor, finally finding what he was looking for. Grasping the top end of an empty water bottle, he flipped the bottom of it over toward Jamal.

  “With this.”

  Chapter Three

  “I mean, I can appreciate how jacked she got for the role, but aside from that, what else positive can you say about the movie?”

  Elyse Denman had no way of responding. Everything she felt about the movie had been hashed and rehashed already. It had been discussed throughout the film, as they were exiting the theater, even as they stopped by the restroom on their way out.

  It was the reason she had even prompted that they stop off for some ice cream on their walk back to the car, hoping that the dual tasks of deciding on a flavor and then shoveling away said dessert would be enough to bring about her brother’s silence.

  Nothing doing.

  “Did you notice the CGI work in the cave sequence?” Eric Denman asked. “And the writing? Are you kidding me?”

  Figuring the questions were rhetorical, that the fact that she hadn’t said a word beyond placing her ice cream order in the twenty minutes since they left their seats would be enough, Elyse remained silent. She instead looked down to the dwindling mound of chocolate brownie ice cream in the bottom of her cup, already lamenting what would happen when it was gone and she would be without a readily available place to focus.

  Scraping off a tiny sliver, she looked to the parking structure looming ahead, just needing her built-in distraction to make it back to the car.

  “And to think the budget on that thing was more than a hundred million dollars,” Eric continued. “What was that money for? Paying off the director’s sexual harassment claims?”

  The last question managed to draw over the attention of a young couple walking in the opposite direction. Standing arm-in-arm, they appeared to be in their early twenties, the guy’s eyebrows rising in unison with his lady friend’s lips curling back into a smirk.

  Feeling heat rise to her cheeks, Elyse picked up her pace slightly, hoping to hurry them along.

  There was a time in the not-so-distant past where watching a movie with Eric wasn’t an unbearable experience. It did occasionally incur a few more horror pictures than she would have preferred, but it wasn’t an exercise in self-restraint.

  That unenviable distinction had started a month prior, when Eric was named the new film critic for their high school newspaper. A job that most before him had accomplished by repurposing professional reviews online, he had pushed it to another level, turning himself into this generation’s Roger Ebert.

  Or so he liked to think.

  The new sense of pomposity only seemed to add to the rift that had formed between them. Two years older than her brother, he had gone from the slightly annoying junior high student that she occasionally had to introduce to her friends to the omnipresent embarrassment that was having to share high school with a younger sibling.

  Especially one that had opinions much further reaching than whatever was playing at the local cinema, that just being his latest endeavor in self-importance.

  Already she was dreading the coming of winter and the start of the new Predators season.

  That very look was etched across her face as she led them toward the parking lot. Her jaw set, she pulled her chin toward her chest, looking out beneath her brows, focusing on the elevators growing mercifully closer.

  To either side of them, the crowd continued to thin out, their movie being one of the last showings of the night. Already storefronts throughout the mall were standing dark, teams of janitors moving in, anxious to get their work done and be gone as fast as possible. Pushing carts loaded wit
h trash cans and cleaning supplies, they moved in the opposite direction like a zombie hoard, already glassy-eyed, nobody giving the pair of blondes a second glance.

  If they had, they would have noticed the look on Elyse’s face, a clear sign of the situation at hand. Of an arrangement that her parents had put in place requiring her to take the budding New York Times film critic to all the newest releases in exchange for occasionally getting to use the car for things she wanted to be doing.

  With people she wanted to be doing them with.

  “Seriously,” Eric said, “what did you think of it?”

  A pang of dread crept through Elyse as she scraped the last bit of her ice cream from the bottom of the cup. Inverting her spoon, she smeared it across her tongue, savoring her last taste of sugar, before depositing her trash in a bin.

  The truth was, she hadn’t thought much of the film either way. Some movies were made for the purpose of surface entertainment, to be enjoyed and discarded much like the ice cream she’d just put down.

  Not that she could say anything of the sort. Doing so would only extend the conversation, something she had learned to avoid if ever possible.

  “I agree with you entirely.”

  Chapter Four

  “Gentlemen, thank you both for being here.”

  Although Sirr Asai felt no gratitude for the men’s presence – in fact, hated that he’d been forced to call on them – he knew enough about the accepted local customs to go through the motions. Putting on the requisite smile, he crossed over the parquet floor, hand extended before him.

  First up in order was John Kuntzman, a local fence, the man known to acquire and distribute goods as ranging and disparate as ancient antiquities or autographed guitars from country music legends. His past dealings revealed him to never have dabbled in what Asai had in mind, though his record on all other items was spotless.

  Enough so to take a look, at least.

  Which was more than Asai could say for the man’s appearance in general.

  Tight jeans and snakeskin boots with pointed toes served as the base. A country-western shirt tucked in tight with pearl snaps for buttons underscored a brushed suede sports coat. A belt buckle that resembled the hubcaps on the car Asai drove as a teenager served as the centerpiece of the ensemble.

  In short, a look lifted straight from the pages of a ranch owner starter kit.

  Rising from the padded chair he’d been seated in, Kuntzman shifted his tan Justin cowboy hat to his left hat, reaching out to take Asai’s hand with his right.

  “Mr. Asai,” Kuntzman said, his voice betraying a slight lilt. Able to blend almost seamlessly here in Nashville, Asai knew it to actually be based in Texas, where Kuntzman hailed from. “Nice to meet. Hell of a place you’ve got here.”

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Kuntzman” Asai said, pumping the man’s hand twice, making note of the extra emphasis placed on the grip. “I trust you were made comfortable while you waited?”

  “Very much, thanks,” Kuntzman replied.

  Stepping to the side, Asai kept his hand out before him. Taking two quick steps, he closed the gap to Benjamin Russo, the man having opted against taking a seat, instead spending the last few minutes perusing the shelves around him.

  A move that fit perfectly with everything Asai had been able to put together on the man.

  “Detective,” Asai said.

  Offering a weak grip, the skin of his palm like paper, Russo said, “Lieutenant Detective.”

  “My apologies,” Asai replied. “Thank you for waiting.”

  “Not at all,” Russo said, releasing his grip and using the hand to motion to the shelves. “Quite a collection you’ve got here.”

  Having no interest in literature, or diverting into a discussion about the dusty tomes lining the room around them, Asai offered only, “Thank you.”

  Giving a quarter turn back to the door he’d entered through, he motioned to Paco positioned just inside it, his hands clasped before him. “My associate Paco, who shall be joining us, if you don’t mind.”

  The top of Paco’s head dipped just slightly as Sirr turned back. Not waiting for a response from either – having no interest in whatever they might have to say – he motioned to the array of chairs arranged in the center of the room.

  “Lieutenant Detective, if you would.”

  For a moment, it appeared Russo would decline, choosing to remain standing. Casting a glance to Kuntzman, he flicked his gaze back to Asai before moving slowly toward the center of the room. Choosing a seat opposite the cowboy, he lowered himself into it, the padded seat wheezing slightly under his weight.

  Only once he was in position did Asai too move to sit, positioning himself with the men on either side, the pointed tip of an isosceles triangle.

  “I understand you gentlemen are quite busy, so allow me to get right to it.” Pausing, he took in both men, reading the expressions on their face, before adding, “I have what could be construed as a rather unusual request...”

  Chapter Five

  The empty bottle was wedged beneath the front passenger tire. Ronell had read about the trick on the internet some time ago, filing it away for whenever his chance with the S-2 would come around. More than once he had wanted to give it a shot, resisting the temptation, knowing it was the sort of thing a person could only pull off once.

  And if he only had a single chance, it had to be used for this.

  According to the article, the place that most people messed up was by putting the bottle under the wrong tire. Use the rear wheels, and the owner was likely to notice it when they got in the car. Most everybody – especially in a parking tower – tended to pull straight in. That meant they often got a clear view of the tires on their return.

  Not guaranteed, but enough of a risk to be worth avoiding.

  The same basic rule applied to the driver’s tire. It was the one an owner was most likely to notice, having to pass within a few inches of it upon climbing inside.

  Rarely did anybody ever stop to check the front passenger side.

  With the top screwed on tight, Ronell had wedge it just out of sight, the bottom of it starting halfway across the treads of the tire, the remainder extended out beneath the engine.

  Start to finish, it had taken less than a minute for him to walk to the car and deposit the bottle. Despite that, and the rapidly cooling night air, he could feel sweat beaded on his forehead as he climbed back into the Honda, stray rivulets of it streaming down either temple. His exposed forearms and the backs of his wrists gleamed beneath the faint ambient glow of the orange sodium lights in the parking tower.

  “So now what?” Joey asked from the backseat. For the first time since they’d arrived, he was without a blunt in his hands, the smoke in the interior of the car having cleared.

  Leaning forward, he kept both hands on the back of the two front bucket seats, peering out.

  Behind the wheel, Jamal did the same, his demeanor decidedly more chill, as if he was the one that had been puffing on marijuana for the last hour.

  Not that there hadn’t been enough lingering in the air to give them all a slight buzz.

  “Now, we wait,” Ronell said.

  In his periphery, he could sense Joey turn to openly stare, the weight of his glance hot on Ronell’s skin. “For what?”

  Ronell didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he again focused on his target, running things through his mind.

  The car was a BMW, not brand new, but made within the last decade for sure. Glossy black paint, the body had been elongated slightly into what most car manufacturers called the Sport Model. The windows bore a slight tint. A pair of doors graced either side.

  It was exactly what the S-2 was looking for. Completely ambiguous, but high-end enough to still be worth their time.

  “For what?” Joey pressed.

  Keeping his chin aimed toward the window, Ronell’s eyes slid shut. With it came the slight burning of the sweat that had been on his eyelashes, the combination of that an
d Joey’s incessant questions both raising his annoyance.

  Already he was beginning to question the choice to bring him along.

  Ronell blew a long, loud sigh out through his nose. Letting that serve as answer enough, he opened his eyes, watching as the elevator on the far end of the tower opened. From it passed a boy and a girl, both younger than anybody in the Honda. Each with blonde hair, there was a faint semblance between them, the likelihood high of them being siblings.

  A supposition made easier by the glare the girl kept casting toward her brother, the younger of the two oblivious as he prattled on, his hands waving animatedly before him.

  Both dressed in the latest Abercrombie fashion, they had the look that hinted at most everything Ronell despised. Clean. Well-fed. Untouched by the world around them.

  Since the moment they’d been born, they’d been told they were special. That they could go to whatever college they wanted, and after that do anything they desired.

  And what made it worse was, they probably could.

  “Damn, who’s the chick?” Joey whispered, pushing himself forward an extra inch between the seats.

  Again, Ronell didn’t respond.

  This time, it had nothing to with wanting his friend to shut up. Instead, it was because his focus was on the set of keys the girl had just pulled from her bag. On the way she extended it before her, hitting the unlock button on her key fob.

  And the way the parking lights on the BMW he was there for flashed on command.

  Chapter Six

  One time after another, Elyse Denman reminded herself that Taylor Swift was coming to town next month. She had sold out LP Field down along the riverfront, home of the Tennessee Titans.

  “And, I mean, was a remake really necessary?” Eric asked, his voice rising as she circled around the back of the car. “It’s not like the Angelina Jolie ones are that old, and they’ve actually aged better than people remember.”