Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(70)

"I know this sounds crazy. It was the best plan I could come up with to save your life."

"I'm not sure what kind of life that leaves me with."

"I know you. I know the type of person you are. I know your code. In my division at Talon, we help people, good people in bad situations."

"What division would that be?"

"Kidnapping and ransom risk management. All ex-military and police special operators like yourself. We handle private high-dollar contracts, both domestic and abroad. Our team cuts through bureaucratic red tape like a warm knife through butter. We save lives. And get to put down some bad guys in the process.

“What is that thing you always used to say? Something your father told you about helping good people? That's what we're doing. I mean we're dealing with life and death situations. Doesn't get more real than that. Plus, we've got a damn good track record of bringing those victims back.”

Hatch pondered the opportunity while sitting in the shadow of the Hotel Del Ray, which was blocking the view of the sand berms where future SEALs battled shore breaking waves in hopes of serving in a Tier One capacity. Hatch was being given an opportunity to rejoin the life she’d left behind. Since leaving Mexico, Hatch had been giving thought on how to best honor her code as she moved forward.

"How do we do this? Set up some type of job interview? Do I have to give you a résumé?"

"You just did." His smile broadened, stretching across his golden skin. "Does that mean you're in?"

"I'm in."

"Let me be the first to welcome you to Talon Executive Services."

"I do this on one condition. I can walk away at any time. No questions asked. Nobody comes looking for me or my family. Once I do this, they are off the radar forever. Understood?"

"They were never on any radar of mine. I hope you know that."

"I wouldn't have accepted this offer if I thought otherwise."

"I think I can work all that out. Your family is safe. You have my word."

"What's next?"

“Funny you should ask, on my way to meet you I got a message. I've got to go in for a briefing. Wheels up in two hours."

”Will you call me when you get back?”

"No. You're coming with me. We've got a rapidly evolving hostage situation."

"Nothing like hitting the ground running."

"We'll have to get you a change of clothes."

"Why's that?"

"We're going to Alaska."





Aftershock Chapter 3





Macintosh stood facing Walter Grizzly, Grizz, as he was known to most, a six foot-nine, three-hundred-eighty-pound behemoth. His muscle was only matched by his will. A thin layer of fat insulated his bulging muscles. It was bitter cold outside and not much better in the concrete shed they were standing in. Yet Grizz wore nothing but a sleeveless hooded black sweatshirt in lieu of a coat. He looked like a cross between Bill Belichick and Rumblebuffin, the fabled giant from CS Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia.

His body was covered in tattoos. The overlapping images coated his flesh and disappeared under the thick red of his beard. Grizz's head was shaved smooth. A solitary red triangle with a thick black W was tattooed on the back of his enormous head.

Grizz was the founding member of their Aryan brotherhood. Full membership could only be attained through the rite of passage. Full initiation meant the prospect had to commit murder. The red triangle pointing up was symbolic of The Way's belief structure. “Blood is the only path to purity. Blood is The Way.” Macintosh's tattoo was etched into the side of his neck using a prison made tattoo needle. A skin infection, a byproduct of the unsanitary process, left a section of the W blotched with scar tissue.

Macintosh earned his ink while at Stone Creek Correctional. He'd saved Ray Winslow, one of The Way's founding members, during a prison yard fight. Macintosh had seen the other inmate, a wild-eyed man by the name of Paul Banyan, make a move on Winslow with a shiv made out of a toothbrush handle. Macintosh had knocked the weapon out of Banyan's hand just before he would've struck paydirt in Winslow's jugular. Banyan died in the yard that day.

Although Banyan's death could not officially be laid at the feet of Macintosh, the State did find cause to extend his seven-year sentence for a failed armed robbery by three years. It’d also earned him a place among The Way.

The ankle holster concealed along the inside of Macintosh's left leg just above the ankle seemed heavier now, as if the gun itself was somehow rooted to the poured concrete floor Macintosh stood on. Deputy US Marshal Dawes was duct taped to a metal folding chair in the center of the room. Underneath was an eight-by-eight drop cloth.

Grizz towered over all the men in the room. But with Dawes seated before him, he looked even more menacing.

He said nothing, standing with arms folded behind the chair. He stared at the man between them who was groaning. His head was bobbing more steadily as he tried to bring it up. Macintosh looked at the man's eyes as they flooded open, and then saw the shock and horror of them when they recognized the man standing behind the chair. He twisted against the restraints, and only worked to kink up the tape, further cutting off his circulation. Dawes’ hands were a shade of dark purple, matching the bruising along the side of his beaten face. His eyes shot wildly around the room and locked with Macintosh's. He was begging. No discernable words penetrated the gag in his mouth. Tears started to stream down the man's blood-crusted face.