Shadow Spy (A Bryson Wilde Thriller / Read in Any Order) Read online

  SHADOW SPY

  R.J. JAGGER

  1

  Day One

  June 9, 1952

  Monday Night

  THE LAST CUSTOMER, a white man, sat at the end of the bar peeling the label off a warm bottle of Coors. A few last swallows were left. Seven empties sat to his right, all with sticky glue where the labels should be. So far he’d paid for each bottle but hadn’t tipped. That’s why Visible Moon let the bottles sit, to remind him. In five minutes the bar would close and she’d find out if the guy was going to stiff her or make things right.

  The smart money was on stiff.

  Outside the evening was turning to night.

  A twilight glow hung in the west. In another ten minutes it would morph into that total and absolute blackness that can only be found in the desert.

  Tehya would be here to pick her up any time now.

  The bar wasn’t much.

  It was basically a crude wooden shell out in the middle of nowhere, just off the main road in northern New Mexico, technically on reservation land. The one and only sign was wooden, small and said Bar in red paint—not The Desert Bar, or Last Chance Bar, or The Running Deer Bar—just Bar. The electricity came from a temperamental generator out back. The water—brownish with a hard mineral edge—came from a well.

  Visible Moon wiped the counter down with a wet cloth.

  She was Navajo, 22 years old, with long black hair braided into a ponytail. Her cheekbones were high, her skin was dark, her eyes were hazel and her teeth were whiter than white. Most of the men who saw her were ugly and drunk and made passes as if she was attractive.

  She knew otherwise.

  Tehya was the attractive one.

  She cast a sideways glance at the white man, braced for trouble and said, “We close in five minutes.”

  He turned his head slowly, almost as if being pulled out of a trance, then locked eyes with her.

  He pointed to a closed door that led to a back room.

  “I’ve heard about that room back there,” he said. “Is what I heard true?”

  She knew what he meant.

  The room had a mattress.

  Sex took place there.

  Sex for money.

  She wasn’t the one who gave it though.

  Tehya was.

  “It’s just a storage room,” she said.

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Then you heard wrong.”

  SHE CONTINUED WIPING THE COUNTER.

  Underneath it, within grabbing range, was a loaded Colt 45, put there by Mojag the day the bar opened and pulled out three times since but never fired.

  The man stared at her for a few intense heartbeats, then put the bottle to his mouth, tilted his head back and drained what was left. He laid the bottle down sideways and spun it. When it stopped, the neck was pointing at her.

  The man smiled.

  “Looks like you’ve been chosen,” he said.

  Visible Moon narrowed her eyes.

  “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Me either.”

  He pulled a five out of his wallet, waved it slowly so Visible Moon could see what it was, then folded it into a paper airplane and tossed it at her. It didn’t fly and dropped to the floor.

  “Now is that back room open?”

  SHE PICKED UP the money and tossed it back on the counter, apprehensive but not scared. The man was too drunk for speed. Visible Moon could have the gun out and a bullet in his chest before he knew what was happening.

  With Tehya’s help, she’d bury him out in the reservation in some out of the way corner.

  No one would ever find him.

  “Time to go,” she said.

  Suddenly a light flickered outside.

  A car was coming down the road, still a ways off, but definitely coming.

  Tehya no doubt.

  Visible Moon exhaled.

  Then something happened she didn’t expect—the man got off the stool, got his footing and headed for the door. The five was still on the counter.

  “You forgot your money,” she said.

  “Keep it.”

  Then he was through the door and gone.

  SHE STUFFED THE MONEY in her bra and walked to the window. Outside, the man started his car, backed away from the building and squealed to the north.

  His headlights were off.

  Another vehicle was coming from the opposite direction.

  The headlights were high and bounced like a truck. The left headlight was weaker than the right. Visible Moon had seen the sight a hundred times.

  It was Tehya.

  She drove a third-hand 1942 Ford pickup.

  The stars were already coming out.

  Hundreds of them.

  Off in the distance a coyote barked.

  Then another.

  Within seconds a whole pack was yelping. Visible Moon pictured a jackrabbit scrambling for ten more seconds of life.

  It would be lucky to get five.

  2

  Day Two

  June 10, 1952

  Tuesday Evening

  SHORTLY AFTER DARK Tuesday night, a mean thunderstorm rolled off the ocean and pounded Havana, Cuba with black, heavy fists. Shade de Laurent watched it for a few heartbeats from the window of her rat-in-the-closet hotel and got comfort from it. Bad weather meant people stayed inside. That in turn meant her chances of being caught were slimmer.

  She let the curtain fall back and checked her watch.

  Five minutes.

  That’s when the taxi would come for her.

  She wore nylons, high heels and a sexy red salsa dress that showcased a 28-year-old body to perfection. The cleavage was just right. The thighs were just right. The ass was just right. The mocha skin was just right. Visually she could pass for a Cuban.

  She knew Havana well.

  She knew the streets.

  She knew the language.

  She knew the haunts.

  She knew the people.

  She had all the right papers—fake, but perfect in every detail.

  Still, even with all that, there was always a risk.

  The risk never went away.

  Right now it was under her skin, in her lungs and in the quiver of her fingertips.

  Headlights flashed against the window.

  She took one last look in the mirror.

  Her face was nice.

  Her eyes were mysterious.

  Her hair was long, black and thick.

  A horn honked.

  She blew herself a kiss and grabbed her purse. Inside was makeup, a thick sealed envelope, a wallet and a six-inch folding knife with a razor sharp serrated edge.

  She flicked off the lights and headed outside.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER a cabbie with a gold tooth dropped her off at Loca, a whiskey-soaked salsa club in the center of Havana with a reputation for attitude. She had been there once, two years ago, and ended up leaving with a man who fucked her silly for two straight days.

  Inside, the bodies were thick.

  The band was loud.

  The dance floor was sardine tight.

  The air was smoky.

  She wedged through the bodies to the bar, ordered a double-whiskey on the rocks and threw it back. The bartender, impressed, poured her another and said, “On the house.”

  He wasn’t bad looking.

  She grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close and licked the side of his face.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. What’s your name?”

  “Trouble,” she said.

  He smiled.

  “In th
at case, I think I’ve met you before.”

  “I’ll bet you have.”

  SHE ENDED UP HUGGING THE WALL and watching the dancers. No one had approached her yet but her perfume was in the air and eyes studied her.

  She’d dance with the first man who asked her.

  It didn’t take long.

  He was tall, dark and dangerous.

  He moved with a manly cockiness and let his hands roam freely over her body. She didn’t stop him. In another time and place he would have been a serious consideration for more, but not tonight.

  Tonight was business.

  She stayed with him for a half-hour, checking her watch with more and more frequency. At exactly 10:13 she said, “Excuse me,” and headed for the ladies’ room.

  “Hurry back, baby. I have big plans for you.”

  She blew him a kiss and disappeared into the crowd.

  Game time.

  NO ONE WAS INSIDE the restroom. Shade entered the left stall, shut the door, pulled her dress up and her panties down, then took a long piss. Before she was done, someone entered the adjacent stall and shut the door. Almost immediately, knuckles rapped on the wall and a woman said, “I’m sorry, but do you have any paper in there?”

  Shade slipped the envelope under the partition.

  “Is that enough?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  A small packaged got passed her way.

  She stuffed it in her purse.

  There.

  Done deal.

  Then something happened she didn’t expect. The woman said, “Can you pass a little more?”

  Shade swallowed.

  That was code.

  It meant something was wrong.

  It meant to take every precaution.

  She passed toilet paper under the wall, flushed and left.

  OUTSIDE she was tempted to hang around and see who came out.

  Then she shook her head.

  “No.”

  That was against the rules.

  Rules were everything.

  They were there for a reason.

  Suddenly arms wrapped around her abdomen from behind and strong hands cupped her stomach. Lips nibbled the back of her neck. She knew who they belonged to, the dangerous man, the dancer.

  He’d be a good protector.

  She’d leave with him.

  Right now.

  This minute.

  She turned and raised her lips to kiss him.

  IT WASN’T HIM.

  It was someone else.

  It was someone she’d never seen before, a muscular man with a bad-boy face and a crisp white shirt with the top three buttons undone.

  He pricked the point of a knife into her side and said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  3

  Day Two

  June 10, 1952

  Tuesday Evening

  THE MAN’S EYES made clear that he’d shove the blade into Shade’s gut if she gave him half a reason. He’d be ten steps away before she dropped to the floor. He’d be out the door before the first person screamed. He gripped her arm with a powerful hold and pulled her towards the door.

  “Come on!”

  She hesitated.

  Bad move.

  The blade sunk into her skin, not far, only a quarter inch, maybe less, but enough to break through and draw blood.

  “Do you want to live?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t fuck with me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  He yanked her again and this time she fell into step.

  Think!

  Think!

  Think!

  Once he got her outside, she’d be totally at his mercy. He’d take her somewhere dark and abandoned, strap her down good and tight and then interrogate her at his sick little leisure.

  She didn’t want to die.

  Not like that.

  Suddenly the man’s step slowed and his grip softened. Shade immediately twisted and pulled away, bracing for the blade but possibly not all the way in.

  It didn’t happen.

  Instead the man stood there, then wobbled and dropped to the floor. A knife was in his back. Suddenly a woman grabbed Shade’s arm and said, “Come on! We got to get out of here!”

  Shade had never seen her before but recognized the voice.

  She was the woman from the restroom.

  4

  Day Three

  June 11, 1952

  Wednesday Morning

  WHEN A WOMAN walked into Bryson Wilde’s office Wednesday morning, his first thought was that she didn't want to be here. She was conservatively dressed in a gray pinstriped skirt with a matching jacket and a crisp white blouse. Her hair was packed close to her head and her lips weren’t smothered under ruby-red lipstick. In her hand was an expensive leather briefcase.

  She was twenty-nine or thereabouts.

  She studied him briefly from the doorway.

  Then she said, “I’m sorry, I’m in the wrong place.”

  Two heartbeats later she was gone.

  Wilde walked to the window, pulled a book of matches out of his shirt pocket and struck one, bringing the pungent aroma of sulfur into the air. Then he lit the whole book on fire and watched the street through the flames as he waited for the woman to emerge.

  He was thirty-one, six-two with a solid frame, green eyes and longish blond hair that he combed straight back. He wore his usual attire, a long-sleeve white shirt rolled at the cuffs, a gray suit and spit-shinned wingtips. His suit jacket was over on the rack. So was his hat, ashen-gray, which would dip over his left eye when he went out.

  He waved the matchbook until the fire went out and tossed the remains in the ashtray.

  Hot black smoke snaked towards the ceiling.

  His office was in the 1600 block of Larimer Street, on the second floor above the Ginn Mill and two doors down from the Gold Nugget Tap Room. Once the retail heart of Denver, now Larimer Street was an unhealthy mix of liquor stores, bars, gambling houses, brothels and flophouses, occasionally punctuated with the sound of gunplay.

  He could afford a better place.

  He liked it here.

  The woman emerged from the building and hesitated briefly next to the water fountain sculpture, a throwback to the area’s better days.

  The water no longer ran.

  It hadn’t for years.

  The bowl was littered with crushed packs of cigarettes, candy wrappers and butts.

  The woman turned left towards 16th Street and disappeared from view behind an ice truck.

  Wilde cocked his head for a moment, deciding.

  SHE HADN’T BEEN in the wrong place.

  The door lettering wasn’t fancy but it was clear: Bryson Wilde – Investigator for Hire.

  She’d come to see him then changed her mind.

  Why?

  He grabbed his jacket and hat and went after her.

  She was all the way down by the Daniels & Fisher Tower before he caught her.

  “You weren’t in the wrong place,” he said.

  She was about to deny it but didn’t.

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “That sounds like a yes.”

  The woman exhaled.

  “Not me personally, someone else.”

  “Come on back to the office,” he said. “We’ll talk about it.”

  She hesitated.

  “I’d need a hundred percent confidentiality,” she said.

  Wilde nodded.

  “Agreed.”

  “I’m not talking about ninety.”

  “You’re in luck,” he said. “I’m running a special this week, a hundred for the price of ninety.”

  The corner of the woman’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. Then she got serious and said, “If what I told you ever got out, a life could be ruined.”

  “You’re in luck again,” Wilde said. “I’ve already ruined my month’s quota.”

&nb
sp; They turned and headed back.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Senn-Rae Vaughn,” the woman said. “I’m a lawyer.”

  5

  Day Three

  June 11, 1952

  Wednesday Morning

  FALLON LEIGH DROVE north out of Santa Fe doing full speed in a 1942 Packard that she stole from the parking lot of Jose’s Kitchen. Stealing a car wasn’t on the agenda when she got up this morning. It was something that happened before she checked in for her waitress shift, while she scouted the parking lot looking for a stray pack of cigarettes sitting on a dash or stuffed up in a visor. A half-filled pack of Camels drew her to the Packard. Then she saw the keys in the ignition.

  In the split second that followed, everything in her life got too small.

  Her apartment.

  Her job.

  Her friends.

  Her whole screwed-up existence.

  Just like that, it was time to leave it all behind, every last stinking crumb of it. It was time to start over. It was time to get fresh. It was time to get out of this stinking cow town before it sunk its hooks irretrievably into her every inch of flesh.

  She hopped in, cranked over the engine and headed north.

  She didn’t look back.

  That was an hour ago.

  NOW MILES INTO HER NEW LIFE she had to pull over, and fast, otherwise her bladder was going to explode right here in the turquoise vinyl of the front seat. The topography shooting by was an endless sea of sagebrush, pinions, prairie grasses and arroyos, with an occasional red canyon or cliff. Traffic was almost non-existent. She wasn’t smack dab in the middle of nowhere, but was within a few miles of it.

  She was twenty-two.

  Her body was strong, taut and perfect.

  Her face was built to break hearts.

  Her hair was long, fluffy and blond.

  Her eyes were the color of the New Mexico sky in early morning, during that magical crossover time when the yellow changed to green and the green changed to blue and you never really knew what color you were looking at.

  Her skirt was short and white.

  It rode up and showcased shapely tanned legs.

  Vogue legs.

  Glamour legs.

  Denver would be a good place for the next chapter of her life. If things didn’t work there then screw it, she’d go to New York. If that didn’t work, then Paris. That, of course, assumed that she didn’t get sent to prison for stealing a 10-year-old Packard. She’d ditch it an hour outside of Denver and then hitch the rest of the way.