Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

Along the way, Grogan and Quinn had slipped on their body armor and checked their weapons. The convoy was bound for a long-abandoned homestead known properly as the Vickerson Ranch, and a place to avoid. According to DEA intel, an outlaw motorcycle gang with ties to ex-cons operated a meth lab there. All of the best information and investigation gave the FBI reason to believe that the suspects in the kidnapping of Caleb Cooper had taken the baby to this location.

The vehicles had gone about a mile west of town when they’d stopped by a line of trees and a dirt road that ran adjacent to it.

Agent Steve Elling stepped into the rain and set up the command post. Steadying himself on the hood of an SUV, he found the target building in his scope through the distant trees. Keeping radio contact, he directed his squad to move quickly to set up a perimeter around the old residence. Hockley County deputies and members of Lubbock PD helped form an outer perimeter.

No other houses were in sight.

Next to Elling, Grogan and Quinn used binoculars to sweep the property as they braced themselves. Quinn’s stomach tensed at the thought of the baby being held here.

There was no phone associated with the residence.

Everyone was in position. FBI negotiator Andre Kuper was with the forward team. Elling radioed Kuper to call to the occupants over the bullhorn, and the air crackled.

“This is Special Agent Andre Kuper with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like the occupants to please walk slowly out the front door with your hands above your head now.”

No response.

With the weather-warning fresh in her mind, Quinn glanced at the darkening sky.

The clouds looked menacing.

As Kuper called a second time, SWAT team members tightened on the house, peeking inside windows with miniature dental mirrors.

No signs of movement.

Kuper called a third time.

Nothing happened.

Elling checked with his sharpshooters. None reported any movement; none had a clear shot. Several moments passed and Elling made a decision.

“Throw in some flash-bangs then assault and extraction. Go!”

Seconds later came the sounds of glass shattering, then the deafening crack-crack and lightning flashes of stun grenades followed by white smoke billowing from the house as the team kicked in the front door. Two SWAT members dived through the broken glass and rolled on the floor before coming up on their knees with the automatic guns pointed to fire. The rest of the team moved in a quick coordinated search of the building, breathing hard through the gas masks. Room after room yielded nothing.

“No sign of life here,” the team leader radioed Elling.

Elling turned to Grogan and Quinn. “Nothing.”

The two case agents then walked to the house in disappointment and joined the search. Discarded take-out food wrappers, yellowing newspapers and the layers of dust confirmed that the property had not been inhabited for months.

“Looks like we got this one wrong, Phil,” Quinn said.

Grogan stood there inhaling the acrid air of defeat. “What about that Varno guy you were telling me about, Nicole?”

Near Lubbock, Texas

Mason ended his call with Garza.

From under the tree he glanced at the charcoal sky. The rain had stopped, but the worst was still to come.

Looks like a bad one’s gonna hit us. Well, bring it on. I don’t care. It’s all good for me. The deal’s sealed with Garza. I’m gonna pull this off.

Mason returned to the cabin and the kitchen for a beer.

He was still riding his blissful crack high.

He stood at the open rear door watching the clouds boil while drinking in his future and his sweet setup in Belize. Garza and his investors were going to buy a nightclub in Belize City near the harbor where the cruise ships docked.

Garza had it all set up with his ties to the crews. They’d use the club and the ships as transit and distribution points for drugs. The return on Mason’s investment would be huge. Along the way, Mason would create an identity and a whole new life. Given what had happened to Lamont and Arlen, it should be enough to keep DOA away.

All Mason had to do now was ensure the selling of Remy’s kid to Hedda. Then he’d take care of Remy. For good. The stupid bitch . Mason took pride in how he’d parlayed his painful relationship with that whack job into a hundred-thousand-dollar ticket to paradise. The other cons used to mock him when she’d visited Hightower, pregnant.

How big a fool are you, bro, letting someone bang your woman on the outside?

Mason grinned, shaking his head. Who’s laughin’ now, huh?

Remy was a piece of work, no doubt about that. She’d bought his BS about wanting to be a carpenter, have kids, be a daddy and live that white-picket dream. Well, he had plans for her. Garza had told him once about the unmarked graves at the edge of the property.

Ain’t nobody gonna find her there. End of story. Tomorrow Remy’s dream ends and mine begins. I’ll drink to that.

Mason guzzled the last of his beer, crushed the can and tossed it out back. Better go check on her. Make sure that she’s on board to hand over the baby tomorrow.

“Remy!”

She wasn’t in the living room. The place seemed quiet. Maybe she was sleeping with the kid? But she wasn’t in the big bedroom when he checked there, or any of the other rooms.

There was no sign of the baby.

What the hell?

“REMY!”

He rushed back to the big bedroom. Some of the bags were gone. He looked through the window. The pickup truck was still there. Did she just walk away? Maybe after all that’s happened she had one of her spells? Damn, that baby was his ticket.

Grabbing his keys Mason hurried to the front of the house, looking through the window, scanning the property. If she was walking, she couldn’t have gotten far. He’d get in the truck and look for her, talk sense into her like last time, he thought.

When he went through the kitchen to get to his pickup, he heard what sounded like something heavy knifing through the air as the blade of a shovel came at his face.

Near Lubbock, Texas

“It’s not Anton!” Kate said.

“What?”

In the chaos following the attack on her, Kate had forgotten that she’d jotted notes of the dying man’s last words on the back of a business card she’d jammed into her pocket. Studying the card, she’d deciphered her notations as “A-F ton,” not “A-N ton”-and the map confirmed it.

Blake and Jenna turned to look at Kate in the backseat of the SUV. They were on U.S. Route 84 coming up on Post about forty miles south of Lubbock when Kate circled a spot on her map.

“It’s not Anton. It’s Afton! Take the exit here at Post for Afton!”

“How did it become Afton?” Blake entered the town’s name into the GPS. “Are you sure?”

“I took notes, just a couple of the wounded man’s last words.” She held up the business card. “I completely forgot when the suspects hit me. I was wrong about Anton. The wounded man was trying to tell me that it was Vickson’s Farm in Afton!”

“Look.” Blake was tapping the GPS. “There’s Afton, there’s East Afton, there’s Anton, there’s Anson, there’s Arden! Christ, how can we know now where to go?”

“Blake.” Jenna touched his shoulder and looked at Kate. “How do you know it’s Afton?”

Kate shut her eyes. “I’ve replayed it a million times, and when I saw Afton on the map it connected with me. I can’t explain it, Jenna, it just did. That’s what he was trying to tell me. It’s Vickson’s Farm in Afton. You’ve got to trust me.”