Three Days to Forever (A Mac Faraday Mystery Book 9) Page 14

  Unintimidated, she asked, “Photo IDs?”

  “Their photos popped right up,” Dugan said. “They are FBI, and they staked their claim on this case.” He pushed up from the desk. “Now go be with your husband.”

  Cameron stood up and took her coat from where she had it slung across the back of her chair. “Right after I go talk to Agnes Douglas.”

  Dugan called after her on her way out the door. “Then you are officially on leave. I don’t want to see your face back in this office until Tuesday morning!” With a roll of his eyes, the lieutenant stomped back into his office and slammed the door.

  It’s over.

  Jessica Faraday repeated the statement in her head over and over again until she could visualize herself saying those words to Colt Fitzgerald.

  “It’s over?” His dark brown eyes would get big and round in confusion. How could she, Jessica Faraday, dump him, Colt Fitzgerald, former underwear model and television star lusted after by sex-crazed women everywhere? “What are you talking about?”

  The vision was so clear that she almost lost sight of the interstate on which she was speeding toward Deep Creek Lake.

  The thought of Spencer Manor turned her thoughts from her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend to her father and the tearful phone call she had received from Archie.

  Dad has to be okay. Of course he’s okay. He’s a rock. He can out-think and out-maneuver anyone he’s up against. He’s been cornered by cold-blooded killers and has walked away without a scratch. He’ll certainly get through this and make it to the church in time for the wedding.

  In search of comfort, she reached across the driver’s compartment of her purple Ferrari 458 Spider for her constant companion in the passenger seat. Spencer. Jessica had named the Shetland sheepdog after the grandmother she had never met, Robin Spencer.

  She had been in her second year of college and on the verge of dropping out due to financial difficulties when she was informed of her multi-million dollar inheritance.

  Like Cinderella, the penniless college student had become the lovely heiress overnight. She was the only granddaughter of Robin Spencer, and the daughter of that brilliant retired homicide detective Mac Faraday. Suddenly, she received party invitations from people she didn’t know … but didn’t mind meeting.

  The pursuing of her by dashing young men had increased in the last year after her father had been approached by a Hollywood producer seeking the movie rights for three Mickey Forsythe movies that would feature Robin Spencer’s most famous literary detective.

  After over a year of negotiations, Mac Faraday had signed the deal for an obscene amount of money. Contrary to how they do things in Hollywood, the producer had agreed to give Mac Faraday script and cast approval, which had opened the doors for unknown actors vying for the role of Mickey Forsythe in the big budget movie series.

  How better to get to the father for an audition than through his daughter? Twenty years earlier, the last series of Mickey Forsythe movies had made a star of an unknown actor who had actually won an Academy Award.

  Jessica half-believed some of the men chasing her sincerely wanted to be with the beauty with striking eyes that were the same violet hue as her grandmother’s. Jessica’s slender figure had curves in all the right places. That, combined with her long legs and biting wit, had made her a socialite in no time. Her busy social schedule made it a miracle that she was able to graduate at the top of her class from William and Mary University with a masters in behavioral and cognitive neuroscience.

  Jessica Faraday had the luxury of learning first hand that life in high society can get old fast. It got old especially fast when she was sitting across the table in a five-star restaurant with a fame-obsessed actor tweeting about having dinner with Mac Faraday’s daughter while his publicist was paying paparazzi to snap their picture to post on celebrity blogs.

  Four months after inviting her then-boyfriend to her father’s wedding, Jessica looked forward to a weekend with Colt Fitzgerald as much as she looked forward to having her impacted wisdom teeth extracted after the holiday wedding. According to “unnamed sources” across the Internet, the couple were head over heels in love. It was not hard for Jessica to deduct who the infamous “unnamed source” was.

  By the time she got Archie’s tearful call, Jessica welcomed the excuse to escape to go to Deep Creek Lake ahead of her planned arrival. Less than an hour later, she had tossed her suitcase into the trunk and plopped Spencer in the front passenger seat. With a wicked grin, she sent a text to her best friend, Penny.

  “Wake Colt up. Tell him my father needs me. I’ll C U 2 later.”

  That should be good for causing some high anxiety between the little cheaters.

  If she cared, Jessica would have been upset about her best friend sleeping with her boyfriend. Instead, Jessica was relieved to know that when she dumped Colt, he would have someone else’s arms to fall into.

  If I’m lucky, he’ll dump me before the wedding. Jessica sighed. I should be so lucky. As long as the role of Mickey Forsythe isn’t cast, Colt Fitzgerald will be hanging onto me for all its worth.

  When it came to relationships, Jessica Faraday felt like a woman dying of thirst in an ocean. Water, water everywhere, but not one drop to drink.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a man of substance.” With one hand, she stroked the top of Spencer’s head. “Someone with enough brains that I can have a conversation with him about something other than his tight butt and his ranking on the A list.” With a shrug, she grinned. “But do I really have to give up the sexy butt, too?” She sighed. “I am spoiled, aren’t I? I just can’t give up having my beefcake and eating it, too.”

  Like her master, Spencer had descended from a long line of blue bloods. The champion Shetland sheepdog was called a blue-merle. Her lush black and white coat had a dusting of long white fur that created a white filmy effect over the black spots. The overall result was a bluish cast to her coat. Her blue eyes made her as striking as her master.

  At nine months old, Spencer had the disposition of a toddler. Riding in the passenger seat, Spencer sat up with her paws on the door, peering out at the passing scenery. Occasionally, when something caught her attention, she would yap her high-pitched bark. It was almost as if she sensed that she was on her way to see her “Uncle Gnarly,” as Jessica had come to dub her father’s German shepherd. Surprisingly, Spencer was such a bundle of energy that she exhausted even Gnarly with her antics.

  When Jessica had visited at Christmas, Spencer had nipped at Gnarly’s back legs so much that the German shepherd had resorted to hiding under Mac’s bed to escape the young pup, who stood guard at the edge of the bed and barked at him non-stop in a plea for him to come out to play.

  Jessica felt a pang in her heart thinking about Gnarly. He’s with Dad. I hope he’s okay. No matter how much Mac denied it, he loved Gnarly. David O’Callaghan referred to him as Mac’s partner.

  After driving through Cumberland, Maryland, Jessica eased her Ferrari convertible onto Interstate 68 to head toward Deep Creek Lake, Maryland. She had to tap the brakes to keep from skidding on black ice, which was a serious threat during the winter morning hours. Traveling up and down the mountain roads in the freezing weather was dangerous.

  A check of the gas gauge told her that she was running low on gas.

  “You probably need a bathroom break,” she told Spencer, who turned from the passenger side window. The pup’s ears perked up and she wagged her tail.

  “Okay,” Jessica said. “We’ll stop at the truck stop in Grantsville to fill up and let you stretch your little legs.”

  The thought of a bathroom break made Jessica’s body remember the extra-large coffee she had drunk after filling up her gas tank shortly after leaving Williamsburg. Anxious about her father, she hadn’t eaten breakfast, and it was almost lunchtime.

  When Jessica got to Grantsville, she left Spencer strapped
in the passenger seat while she raced into the truck stop and rounded the corner to the restaurant section. Spencer’s just going to have to wait. She doesn’t have a pot of coffee sitting on her bladder.

  The truck stop smelled of burgers on the griddle and fries in the deep fryer. Many of the tables were filled with drivers who had stopped to gas up their rigs and chow down before continuing east or west across the mountains.

  A middle-aged woman in a server’s uniform carrying a full coffee pot shot Jessica a grin. “Looking for the ladies’ room, honey?” The name plate she wore clipped to her bosom read “Madge.”

  The burly and rough-looking truck driver dressed in a hunting jacket who she was serving chuckled. They weren’t the only two to do a double take upon Jessica’s entrance.

  Among the men dressed in heavy, worn driving clothes and gear, Jessica Faraday looked out of place in her brown suede ensemble. Her ankle-length skirt revealed her high-heeled brown suede boots. The ensemble was topped off with a fitted winter jacket that showed off her trim waist, which also served to accentuate her abundant bosom encased in a light brown fitted sweater with a plunging V-neck.

  Clearly the best dressed customer in the restaurant, Jessica was accustomed to attracting attention when entering a room. Accentuated by her thick raven-black hair that fell in a single wave to touch her shoulders, Jessica’s striking violet eyes grabbed attention not only from men, but also from women.

  As a child, Jessica had been teased by cruel classmates for her odd-colored eyes, and she had called her mother a liar when she tried to console her by saying that one day she would love the striking color. Jessica’s violet eyes were one more blessing from Robin Spencer. Now, she proudly accentuated them with her dark hair and cool-colored clothes.

  Madge pointed to a small hallway off to Jessica’s left. The sign overhead read “Restrooms.”

  With a quick ‘thank you,’ Jessica practically ran down the hallway and through the door on the right that had a sign with a silhouette of a stick figure wearing a shirt. All four stalls were empty.

  I guess trucking is still a men’s world.

  She rushed into the corner stall and hung her handbag on the hook inside the door. After finishing, flushing, and redressing, she heard the door opening and the heavy footsteps of more than one person entering.

  The stall door next to hers swung open, but no one entered.

  Peering through the crack between the door and the stall’s panel, she saw two men waiting outside her stall. They were clad in dark heavy clothes and leather jackets. A police officer’s daughter, she recognized the bulge under one of their coats.

  Shoulder holster.

  She saw the man outside her door motion to the other that she was inside.

  This is not good. Not good at all.

  Jessica thrust her hand inside the handbag just as the stall door was kicked in.

  After grasping the handle of her thirty-eight caliber Colt Mustang Pocketlite, a small handy semi-automatic that she carried inside her bag, she was propelled by the force of the blow back against the far wall of the stall. With both hands gripping the weapon inside her bag, she aimed it, bag and all, at her attacker and pulled the trigger while falling to the floor.

  The first man coming through the door took two bullets to the chest before collapsing on top of her and pinning her to the floor with his dead weight.

  Struggling to crawl out from under him, Jessica fought to keep hold of the gun in order to fire on the second man, who raced into the stall and dropped down to the floor to press a white cloth against her face.

  The sweet scent filling her head, Jessica jerked her head away while he pressed the cloth to her face.

  “Get your filthy hands off me!” She delivered a kick with her high-heeled boot to his knee.

  “Bitch!” He backhanded her across the face and pressed the cloth hard to her nose and mouth.

  Jessica fought to hold her breath while fighting him.

  “We need you to deliver a message to your father,” she heard as darkness enveloped her.

  Murphy Thornton had been on the road on his motorcycle for over two hours. His plan had been to get some sleep after flying in on a military charter from Germany, but he was too keyed up to sleep—especially after his commanding officer told him that his father had been shot and was on the run.

  Donny is all alone at that ski resort and doesn’t know if Dad is going to make it. Dad has to make it. He’s tough. It takes more than a death squad to take out a Thornton. I need to get to Dad. Get him home safely. Kill the slimy devils behind this. And deliver the package, whatever it is, to—oh yeah, and keep Donny with his raging hormones away from the snow bunnies at the Spencer Inn.

  As soon as he got back to the states, Murphy had called Donny to see how he was holding up at the Spencer Inn without their father. He felt some relief to learn that Police Chief David O’Callaghan was spending the night in the suite with him.

  This Chief O’Callaghan sounds like a nice enough guy. Donny said he was one of the groomsmen in the wedding. Close friends with Mac Faraday. Still, I’ll feel better seeing Donny myself and getting the lowdown from O’Callaghan about finding whoever hired that team of hit men. The sooner I get to Dad, the better we will all be.

  Murphy pressed on the accelerator to kick up the speed a notch on his black BMW motorcycle.

  After more than two hours of riding on his BMW K 1300 sports motorcycle over the mountains, Murphy opted to stop in Grantsville to get a drink of organic orange juice and to hit the men’s room.

  Nearing noon, the truck stop was littered with semis warming up and drivers milling around. The gumball purple Ferrari 458 Spider sports car with the young sheltie sitting in the passenger seat looked out of place among the men and some women dressed in worn winter clothes shivering in the cold and drinking hot steaming coffee.

  “Well, hello, beautiful,” Murphy greeted the young dog after taking off his motorcycle helmet and placing it in the traveling compartment on the back of his bike. The sheltie jumped up and planted her front paws on the window. Yapping, she wagged her tail.

  Rubbing his rear end, sore after hours of riding his bike, Murphy strolled into the truck stop. The scent of burgers, hot dogs, brats, and greasy fries filled the diner.

  Among the truck drivers and travelers waiting for their lunches, Murphy spotted six men in heavy dark coats, black slacks, and military-style combat boots waiting at the entrance to the short hallway, which was marked “Restrooms.”

  Murphy wasn’t the only one who noticed the men. Most of the patrons in the diner were eying them, as was a buxom middle-aged server who was going from table to table filling up coffee mugs.

  “Men’s room, sweetie?” she called out to him. Before Murphy could answer, she nodded toward the hallway behind the thug barricade.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Murphy replied.

  The six men eyed the young man when he approached them to go down the hallway.

  The silence in the truck stop thickened when the sea of men refused to budge to allow him to pass.

  Wordlessly, Murphy returned their glare. After a long moment of silence, he stepped forward into their space. His sheer will parted them to allow him through the barricade.

  Moments later, he was washing his hands when he heard two gunshots.

  Dropping to his knee, he grabbed the gun from his ankle holster and braced himself at the door. It was best to ascertain what the situation was rather than rush out blindly into a firefight. He could tell that the sounds of fighting and screaming were not coming from outside the door or in the diner. They were coming from across the hall in the ladies’ restroom.

  “What’s going on?” Murphy heard one of the truckers demand in a firm tone from out in the diner.

  Opening the men’s room door a crack, he could see one of the remaining four brutes at the end of the hallw
ay open his coat to show the truck drivers what had to be a weapon. “Everything is fine,” the gunman declared. “Go back to your lunch and mind your own business.”

  The door across the hallway opened. A muscle bound man emerged carrying the unconscious body of a young woman clad in a long skirt and boots.

  Murphy closed the door before they could see him. When he stepped from the door, he almost tripped over a bucket with a mop inside.

  “Where’s Sid?” he heard one of the men ask.

  “Dead,” another man answered. “She shot him.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be an easy snatch,” the third man replied. “Pampered daddy’s girl.”

  “How was I supposed to know she was packing and not afraid to use it? Let’s get out of here before the police show up.”

  Kidnapping! Murphy thought again.

  The diner was littered with drivers and employees. With the young woman and the drivers, there were too many potential hostages and possible victims. He tucked his weapon into waistband behind his back.

  Six, now five, of them. All armed. They already have one hostage. I need to free her and take down five armed men without getting anyone hurt.

  Placing his hand on the door, Murphy’s eyes fell on the mop.

  Having heard the shots, every trucker in the diner was looking toward the restrooms when the four thugs guarding the hallway stepped aside to allow their leader, who was carrying Jessica’s limp body, to step out.

  “What did you do to her?” Madge had to fight to keep from dropping the full fresh pot of coffee that she had just carried in from the kitchen.

  “The young lady isn’t feeling well,” the thug carrying her announced. “She’ll be better once we get her out of here.”

  Those who might have thought of confronting them paused when they saw that all five of them were armed with guns on their belts. Even the two cashiers behind the counter in the restaurant were frozen in fear.

  The brutes chuckled at the collected panic.