Made to Be Broken (Nadia Stafford 2)

That was it? I hadn't even had time to regret what I was missing.

They staggered off, leaving her panties still floating in the mud puddle. Once the couple had driven away, Jack gave an all-clear whistle. I crawled out and glanced in the truck cab. Our target was still snoring.

I prepped my materials, then took a deep breath. That brief rocking might not have woken him, but it could have started the process. I counted to five, then threw open the door and lunged across the seat, gag going around his mouth, turning his face away from mine before his eyes opened.

I didn't need to bother. I had the gag tied, the blindfold on, and the guy pulled flat on the seat and he kept sleeping. If it wasn't for the now-muffled snores, I'd have thought he was dead. It was only when I tried to bind him that he woke, flailing and elbowing me in the gut, knocking my wind out. Tight quarters for a takedown. Even tighter when Jack got in the passenger side to drive us out of there before someone noticed the struggle.

There were a few moments of chaos as I got the guy's hands and feet bound while trying to keep him off Jack's lap. Jack got kicked and elbowed a few times, including one in a place that probably smarted, but he didn't say a word, just drove from the lot.

By the time we reached the road, I had our guy fully restrained and on the floor at my feet. Then I sat up, face toward Jack, as if talking to him. The streets were empty, but if anyone did notice us, they'd see only a couple heading home. I didn't say a word, though. I wasn't giving our guy any sign that he was dealing with a woman. If he took that story back to White Rock, I'd have Don Riley on my doorstep in a flash.

When we neared the town limits, which didn't take long, I pulled out the man's wallet. Peter Weston. I showed it to Jack, so he'd have the name, then stuffed it back in the wallet and tossed it behind the seat.

Jack pointed to a sign announcing Eagle's Nest lookout.

I shook my head. It was a great location - a thickly wooded hill with a winding road going up - but on Saturday night, even this late, we couldn't be sure local teens wouldn't be using it for more than sightseeing.

It didn't take long to leave the town lights behind. Out here, civilization is just a hole carved from the wilderness, the thick woods always at the outskirts, waiting patiently to reclaim their territory. In more than a few places up here, that's exactly what's happened. Our ghost towns are nothing like the empty buildings and dusty streets of the old West, but just village ruins overtaken by Mother Nature, the footprint of man growing fainter with each year.

Jack drove a couple of kilometers from town, then he headed down side roads until we found a lot with a For Sale sign so weather-beaten it was almost illegible. There are plenty of good building lots up here. This just wasn't one of them. Maybe the forest was too dense to clear, the ground too rocky, the lakes too far, or - the kiss of death - it was too near a potential native land claim.

Jack drove up a rutted lane and parked behind a curtain of brush. I hauled Weston out and dragged him deeper into the woods as Jack cleared a path with his crutch, the harsh thwacks betraying his frustration at leaving the heavy work to me.

Once I got Weston in place, facedown in the undergrowth, I retreated, staying close enough to hear but too far to be tempted to jump in with "extra persuasion."

Jack reached down, grabbed Weston's hair, yanked his head back, and ripped off the gag. Weston only moaned and mumbled something about his head.

"Out celebrating tonight, Peter?" Jack said. "Feeling a little extra flush?"

"Ow, my head. My head hurts."

"Answer the question, Peter."

"I don't know what you're talking about. My head - "

"Janie Ernst."

Weston went rigid and, after that, it didn't matter what he said. We knew we had Janie's killer.

"I don't know no - "

"You were involved with her. You were seen coming out of her house tonight, right before one of my associates went in and found her with a broken neck, shoved behind the sofa."

It took Weston at least ten long seconds to muster up an appropriate exclamation of shock and dismay. Then he stopped short.

"Are you guys cops?"

Jack gave an ugly laugh. "You wish. Have you ever heard of the Rock Machine?"

"S-sure. A biker - um, I mean motorcycle club. Janie used to run with them back in the day. But they were swallowed up by the Banditos and the Angels." Again he stopped. "Are you guys from - "

"Let's just say Janie's relationship with our organization isn't as far in the past as she led you to believe."

"That bitch! That cold, sneaky bitch. She was holding out on me. Said she didn't have any money coming in, but she did, didn't she? She was working for you guys."

"If she was, you can see how her untimely death might cause us some concern."

"I didn't have nothing to do with - "