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Day of Reckoning

By Valerie Massey Goree

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ONE
Two hours crouched behind a reeking dumpster on a dead-end San Diego street must be the worst possible way to spend a balmy Saturday night. Private Investigator, Agent Lela Ortiz stretched, and massaged her taut neck muscles.
Heavy-metal music pumped out of the open living room windows of the suspect’s house. When would the rowdy party end?
The raid they’d been working on for more than a week had to go down tonight, or the life of a nineteen-year-old girl with a severe medical condition could be lost forever. If they didn’t rescue her now, she would surely end up bruised, broken. Perhaps dead. The tight burn scars on Lela’s torso pinched as if they had a mind of their own. At a minimum, dead inside. Like Lela.
She stood and slowed her breathing, a Tae Kwon Do technique she’d perfected in recent years. Patience was not one of her virtues, but the exercise lowered her stress level.
According to the last check of her watch, another half-hour crept by before the partygoers stumbled down the front steps of the aged house scheduled for demolition in the morning. In the darkness, Lela pressed her back against the warped clapboard siding of the residence. Peeling paint flaked off in her hand.
She counted the people as they staggered down the street or crawled into vehicles. Four. Five. Six.
Where was the last one? From the shadows, she peeked around the corner and almost collided with number seven. Flattening herself against the wall, she reached for her holster.
Drunk, or high, the burly man squinted at her. The streetlight strobed across his whiskered face. His brow wrinkled and he stepped closer, sucking in a deep draw from his cigarette.
A gust of wind swirled smoke in Lela’s face. The pungent odor roiled her insides, raking up bitter memories. No! She refused to visit the past.
“Why you hiding here?” A puff of alcohol-laced air sprayed out with his slurred words.
Lela held her breath.
His presence at that precise moment could jeopardize the mission. Silence him, but that would draw attention. Ignore him—
“Hey. I’m talking to you.” The man flipped his cigarette butt into the dumpster.
“I . . . I’m waiting for Doug. He said he’d meet me here after the party.” Good enough to explain her lurking presence.
“Sly ol’ Dougie Polk.” A gruff laugh rumbled up from his beer-belly. “Little blonde Chrissy inside, and a cutie pie brunette out here. Good for him.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Want me to keep you company while you wait?”
The music ceased abruptly.
Lela pointed toward the house. “I’m pretty sure Dougie wouldn’t like that. He’ll be coming out any minute.”
“Yeah. Too bad.” He turned away and waved over his shoulder. “Holler at me if you change your mind.”
Lela watched him stumble down the street, laughter floating like a boozy cloud behind him.
When he shuffled out of earshot, she tapped her earpiece. “Hank, seven people left the house. That’s how many guests were inside, correct?”
From his station at the rear of the house, her teammate responded. “Yeah. But . . .”
Something in his faltering voice prickled her scalp. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Are you sure we don’t need backup?”
“Not if your recon was accurate. I’m relying on you.” Lela eyed a small dog across the street. Shoo, mutt. Please don’t bark. He sniffed the air before resuming his trek. She blew out a sigh. “What’s your situation?”
Her partner’s voice crackled in her ear. “All’s quiet. Back door is still open. Doug and Chrissy are in the side bedroom. Are we going in?”
“Yes. Follow the plan. You enter the back, while I take the front. We’ll meet in the bedroom. Remember, we want the girl unharmed.” Sliding her pistol out of its holster, she climbed the lopsided front steps. “On my count.” She drew in a breath. “One.” Exhaled. “Two.” Steadied her hand. “Three.” Another deep breath. “Go!”
She turned the knob, nudged the door open. Gun raised, she scanned the hall. Three-legged wooden chair propped against the wall, uneven floorboards. Entered the living room. Torn couch. Beer cans strewn on the table. Kitchen. Overflowing trash can. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, spilling out onto the counter.
Agent Hank came into view as he crept along the other end of the hall. With a bob of his head he indicated a door to his left.
Lela edged closer. The low tones of the occupants’ conversation drifted out of the partially opened doorway. She strained to understand their words. Was either voice Chrissy’s?
Clutching her weapon, Lela pointed it upward. They must succeed. No way would she let this alleged drug dealer leave with a sick, young woman tonight. Stay with him and get hurt. Lela had worked for the International Retrieval Organization for five years and knew too much about what could happen when a vulnerable girl allowed a man like Doug into her life.
Lela signaled Hank with a nod. He opened the door, and she rushed in, but halted immediately.
Chrissy in a headlock, Doug holding a gun to her temple.
Drat. Lela and Hank had somehow advertised their presence.
“Stay back,” Doug said, maneuvering his pallid captive toward the window.
“There’s no way out.” Lela aimed at his head. “Let her go.”
He used Chrissy as a shield, holding her tight. She whimpered and clawed at Doug’s muscled forearm.
“I’m not leaving here without her.” Lela inched closer. The unmade bed in one corner, and the threadbare carpet faded into the background.
“She belongs to me.”
Lela narrowed her eyes. “Oh, no, she doesn’t.”
Short and stocky, this weasel stood mere inches taller than Chrissy.
His gaze shifted from Lela to Hank and he broke into a sudden smirk. “You two better drop your weapons. My friend is behind you.”
Typical ploy. Pretend to have a companion. “Not gonna happen.”
But a deep voice intruded. “Do as Doug says.”
Lela froze. So much for Hank’s recon. Why’d she trust him? She willed her partner to use his training.
A grunt and thump.
The smile slithered off Doug’s face.
She tilted her head, and fixed her eyes on him. The unmistakable sounds of the fracas behind her moved to the hall. Hank had engaged the surprise guest.
Her best option? A round house kick? One more step, and she’d be within reach.
Balancing her body, she swung her leg and connected with Doug’s elbow. The weapon discharged before he let go, the bullet whizzing over Chrissy’s head. His grip slackened, and the girl dropped to the bed.
The sound of Chrissy’s head thudding against the rough metal frame was followed by her shriek and a half dozen cuss words.
Doug staggered backward, off kilter. Lela kicked again, catching him in the chin this time. For a moment, he lay motionless. With a quick swipe of her foot, she booted his weapon away, then secured his wrists with plasticuffs.
Heaving a sigh, she turned to Chrissy, ready to offer comfort.
The wailing girl held a piece of clothing to her bleeding head.
A hand vise-gripped Lela’s arm.
“Drop your weapon.” The same deep voice.
She hesitated.
“Do it.” The muzzle of a gun prodded her back.
Lowering her arm in a pretense of releasing her pistol, she twisted around, but the guy countered with a punch to her face.
Lela reeled backward, stumbling over the rumpled rug.
The pudgy man smirked, fists ready to pummel her again.
Bad move on his part.
With a low growl, she lunged forward, landing a solid kick to his groin.
He doubled over.
Lela tightened her hand into a knife edge, and slammed it against the vagus nerve in his neck, rendering him disoriented long enough to secure his wrists.
A shadow in the doorway. She raised her pistol.
Hank lurched in. “Sorry. He got away. You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She holstered her weapon. “Call 9-1-1, then meet me in the kitchen.”
Lela slid her arm around Chrissy. “You’re safe now. No one’s gonna hurt you. Come with me, let’s check your injury.” She escorted the trembling young woman to the kitchen and gently set her in a chair. “I see a small scrape.” Through Chrissy’s stringy hair, Lela packed a wad of paper towels over the wound. “It’ll bleed a bunch, but it’s not serious.”
Tall and wiry, Hank folded himself into another chair. “Ambulance and cops are on their way.”
“Good.” Lela pressed her lips together. With the threat neutralized and Chrissy safe, she should be able to relax, but Hank’s mistake brought back too many memories. She buried her latent fear, and struggled to keep her tone even. “You were responsible for the recon. I relied on your intel.” Chest rising and falling, she wiped sweat from her upper lip. Ouch. Her jaw would be swollen in no time.
Chrissy sucked in a deep, ragged breath, scowling at her rescuers. “Did my parents send you? Are they in San Diego?”
“Yes.” Lela swallowed. “Your folks are frantic. You need to take your meds.”
“How do they know I’m not?”
Puffing out his chest, Hank said, “IRO has resources—”
Lela thumped his shoulder. At that moment, she wished she could do way more. “Your prescription hasn’t been filled for several months. You might not feel bad now, but your condition will get worse.”
“I don’t care.”
“But your parents do.”
Chrissy tugged at the neck of her stained T-shirt. “Dougie said all I need is his special blend of . . . of pills. I’ve been taking them and I’m fine. Most of the time. Right now I’m tired.”
Lela gathered another wad of paper towels. “Hold this against your wound.”
Surprised she obeyed, Lela sat next to her. She covered the girl’s other hand with hers. Cold. A possible symptom of not taking her thyroid meds. “Didn’t the doctor explain the seriousness of your condition?”
Chrissy shrugged. “I told you, I don’t care. I want to have fun, like all my friends.” She rested her elbow on the nicked wooden table. “You don’t look like cops.”
Before Hank could reveal more than necessary, Lela said, “We’re IRO agents. International Retrieval Organization.”
Chrissy’s eyebrows arched. “Wow. Daddy must have shelled out the big bucks.” Her voice caught, and her shoulders sagged. She sniffed. Tears filled her eyes and soon streamed down her cheeks.
“Your parents will meet us at the hospital.” Lela’s phone vibrated in her shirt pocket. She yanked it out and checked the screen. “Hank, it’s the boss. Take care of Chrissy while I talk to Bowen. You can do that much, right?”
He sat straighter and nodded.
“Hey, Bowen. Mission accomplished.” Lela strode to the far end of the hall, her heartrate increasing with each step as she rehearsed the list of complaints regarding Hank’s performance.
“Another check in the done column. How’s the girl?”
“A scrape but she’ll be fine when she’s back on her medication. At least that’s what her parents said.” Lela bit her lip. Don’t lose your cool. “I, on the other hand, am not OK.”
“What’s wrong? Did Hank—?”
“Why are you asking?” She rolled her eyes. “Did you expect him to mess up?” She gave Bowen no time to answer. “Well, he did. Reported seven visitors, but there were eight. Could have cost us lives.” Hand on her hip, she kicked at the baseboard. “Why’d you saddle me with a rookie?”
“Slow down, agent, and watch your tone.”
“Bowen, I’ve never known you to send in someone who wasn’t ready.”
“You could have called for backup. Why do you always try to do everything on your own?”
Not again. “I know my capabilities. I expect other agents to give one hundred percent, like I do. Hank let me down. If that’s his best, then it’s not good enough.”
“Take a breather, Lela. You’re one of my top agents. Have a perfect record. But you were hurt tonight.”
She nibbled her thumbnail. “Did Hank tell you?”
“Yes.”
“He’s the reason I got punched.”
“Ortiz, you must rely on others. I don’t expect you to do it all yourself.”
“But—”
“I know you’re upset. You’ve been working for two weeks straight. I don’t want to see you in the office until Tuesday. Enjoy your break.” Bowen ended the call.
She hung her head. His reprimand stung.
Was he right?
Deep within her soul, she knew he was. People always let her down. How could she relinquish control when she only felt safe when she held the reins?
Wailing sirens closed in. Tires screeched. Red and blue lights flashed through the living room windows. As Lela hurried to open the front door to the authorities, she removed the band from her disheveled ponytail and shook her hair loose.
Was there anyone she could trust?

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