Revenge (A Travis Mays Novel) Read online

  Revenge

  A Travis Mays Novel

  Mark Young

  Mark Young Books

  www.MarkYoungBooks.com

  http://hookembookem.blogspot.com/

  Copyright © 2011 by Mark Young

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Acknowledgments

  Coming Works by Mark Young

  Copyright

  Katie,

  The love of my life

  Prologue

  Santa Rosa, California, December 2004

  Raindrops splattered the windshield as Travis Mays raised his binoculars. Come on. Come on. Where are you? He squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of any movement near the building through this infernal darkness.

  Nothing.

  Travis flicked the glove box open and snatched a bottle of antacids, tossing a handful into his mouth. Jaw muscles ached from gritting his teeth. These tablets did little to ease the burning inside. He raised the glasses once again.

  Carlos shifted in the passenger’s seat. “She’s still inside, dude. Don’t get your shorts in a twist.”

  Travis ignored his partner, straining to see through the windshield’s fogged-up glass. A two-story building loomed in the darkness fifty yards away. A black-grated fence circled the office complex. A droopy-eyed security guard — sheltered from pelting rain inside a lighted shack — sat twenty yards away, scanning all vehicles coming and going. No way to sneak inside to check on her safety.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock.

  Travis gripped his binoculars, searching for any signs of life in the darkened building. “Something’s wrong. I told Michelle to get out of there before everyone went home. Get in. Get the documents. Get out. This is taking way too long.”

  “Chill out. Maybe she’s just waiting until everyone leaves. Then she can grab and run.” Carlos chuckled. “Michelle, is it? Sound like this is more than business. I saw you making eyes at her. She’s just a snitch, man. Business is business. Don’t let it get personal.”

  “That snitch is risking everything. She’s putting it all on the line. We get paid to take these risks. Not her. She gets nothing out of this.”

  “Okay, Okay. She’s a saint. What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to give her some respect. Michelle willingly came forward to tell us what she found out. No one forced her. And now, we’re about to nab one of the most ruthless traffickers we’ve ever hunted down — because of her bravery. Who knows how far this network reaches.” Travis lowered his voice. “She went back in there — knowing the danger — because I asked.”

  Carlos raised his hands. “Whoa, man. Lighten up. To set the record straight, the suits higher up the totem pole sent her back in. Not you. They forced your hand.”

  “I had a choice. I could’ve told them to take a hike.”

  A car emerged from the parking garage beneath the office building. Two on board. He scanned the car as it slowed at the guard shack. Two burly men, no one else. “I’m telling you something’s not kosher.”

  “Okay, maybe you’re right,” Carlos said. “What are we —”

  Travis’ cell phone emitted several sharp beeps. He glanced at the digital screen and grimaced. His sergeant, Timothy Heard, supervisor for Santa Rosa Police Department’s criminal intelligence unit, was calling. “Yeah, sarge.”

  “Need you to break away right now. We just received a call from the county. Their VCI dicks are working a homicide near Goat Rock. I need you and Carlos to eighty-seven with them.”

  “We’re still waiting for the CI to come out. Once we connect, we’ll head out —”

  “— I need you out there now. Your CI’s a no-show, right?” Heard barged ahead, not waiting for an answer. “Their victim is a female. Description matches your gal.”

  “No way. She is still —”

  “— I need you to get out there immediately, Travis. That’s an order. The victim matches your snitch, that’s all you need to know. We may have some damage control issues.”

  “It can’t … what do you mean ‘damage control?”

  “I mean if your informant turns up dead, we’ve got to cover ourselves.”

  “You ordered me to send her back into that killer’s den. Damage control? You mean protect your sad—” He felt a hand squeeze his arm.

  Carlos leaned over, silently mouthing the words, “Be cool.”

  Travis snapped the cell phone shut, jamming it into his pocket. “The SO found a body out at the coast. They want us to check it out.”

  “The boss thinks the body might be our gal? And we’re just supposed to drive away? What if she’s still in there?”

  Grimacing, Travis fired up the engine. “Orders are orders. But if this victim is Michelle …” He let the words dangle, not wanting to give them life.

  Only six hours ago he’d held her in his arms. They’d met in a motel room where he gave her final instructions. Get in, get out. Carlos stood guard outside. It had been eight exhilarating months since she breezed into his life, gave him a reason to get up in the morning. The way she teased and cajoled him into doing things he never tried before — ballroom dancing, or using a palate machine with her instead of going out for a beer with the guys. Michelle squeezed joy and excitement into every day they spent together. For once in his life, Travis began to think about the future, about spending his life with her. It had been a long time since he thought about anything other than police work. She changed all that. Before they parted ways today, she reached up and drew him close, almost like a premonition. Jasmine perfume still lingered on his clothing. A fe
w moments later he followed Michelle to her car, watching her taillights disappear into the bowels of the garage across the street. The last time.

  Travis gunned the engine, cutting through the darkness. Rain and wind rocked the car as he slowed at the next intersection. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, activating emergency lights embedded in the grill of his car. It would be a long drive to the coast.

  Travis tautly gripped the steering wheel until his fingers became numb, careening down River Road from Santa Rosa until they reached the coast thirty-minutes later. Red, white and blue emergency lights stabbed the darkness like flashing fingers as he pulled off Highway 1. Patrol cars and unmarks huddled together in a parking lot a quarter-mile below, flashing lights from several emergency vehicles acting as beacons.

  He guided the dark-blue Crown Vic — almost black from a moonless night — down a single-lane leading to the mouth of the Russian River. The road split at the bottom of a steep grade. One lane continuing to the left, leading motorists toward a rock-climbing attraction called Goat Rock, a hump of rock rising from the ocean floor. To the right, another sliver of asphalt snaked toward where the river met the Pacific Ocean. He followed this second roadway, parking near the closest police car.

  Grabbing a flashlight, Travis swung the door open and heaved himself into the night with a grunt. Bitter winds pushed him across the asphalt parking lot as if he was a child’s toy. The ocean pounded the shoreline. Crashing waves — churned by storms far out at sea like a witches’ brew — stirring the water into a white froth. Rain lessened for a moment, sporadic drops adding to the gloom.

  A voice cut through the windy darkness. “Travis, over here.”

  He flashed his light toward the familiar voice. A heavyset man — decked out in a dark rain jacket, denim trousers, and cowboy boots — plodded toward them. Jim Davis, a VCI investigator from Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department.

  Travis grasped Jim’s outstretched hand. “Hey, my man. My boss said you needed our help.” The two men endured the police academy together some fifteen years ago. Jim later joined the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office, earning his way to the homicide unit.

  “Need you to take a look at my victim. Dispatch advised you might know her?”

  Travis felt his stomach tighten. He shot a quick glanced toward Carlos, standing a few feet away. “Can’t tell until we take a look.”

  Jim nodded. He turned his back on the ocean, leading them across the parking lot until the pavement gave way to sand dunes. Here, they began trudging through the sand toward the river’s edge.

  For a moment, Travis tried to focus on other things. Like the mountain he knew stood guard around them in the blackness. Even in the blackest of nights, Travis could picture these coastal mountains embracing the powerful Russian River, standing watch over the centuries. The river’s slow-moving water — clear and refreshing — normally continued its sluggish journey to the sea without interruption. At this time of year, however, the river’s cadence began to heighten as recent rainstorms pushed water higher up the banks. He knew from experience that rain-swollen creeks began to empty loosened soil and debris into the swollen water, giving the river a menacing look. Sand dunes — draped with scraggly brush and green ice plant — separated the ocean from the rising river until the two bodies of water met further west. A man’s cough brought Travis back to the crime scene. Back to the task at hand.

  Jim cleared his throat. “A couple of lovebirds came out here to swap spit. They stumbled across this.” He shot his flashlight across the wet sand. Yellow evidence tape fluttered in the wind. Ahead, Travis saw a body sprawled on the sand.

  Jim handed him paper booties. “Here, put these on. Maybe your partner better stay back?”

  Carlos nodded with a look of relief.

  The homicide detective waited for Travis. “I’ll lead you in once you’re ready.”

  Travis finished and gave him a thumb up.

  Jim held up the crime tape to allow Travis to slip underneath, and then dropped the fluttering yellow tape, grasping Travis by the shoulder. “This way, my friend.” The burly cop ploughed through the sand leading them closer to the river.

  Travis felt a fire raging inside. The blaze began when Michelle failed to come out of the building as planned. Now, he felt a forest fire raging inside that medicine could no longer curb. As he drew closer, Travis felt his legs begin to shake and his feet felt like to cinder blocks. He’d visited hundreds of scenes like this, always able to wall himself from these emotions, never letting his feelings get in the way of the job.

  Tonight, everything changed. Those walls he carefully built inside seemed to crumble.

  At first, Jim’s bulk hid the victim from view. Silently, Jim stepped aside and signaled for Travis to continue alone.

  A howling wind swept over the sand dunes as Travis edged closer to the woman’s body. He raised the flashlight with icy fingers and pointed it toward her upturned face.

  Michelle’s lifeless eyes stared at the darkened sky.

  Her body — like a crumpled doll discarded by a child — lay with arms outstretched as if beckoning to the night. Unlike a doll, a bullet hole marred her forehead, a single shot to the head. Travis froze as a thought struck him. Michelle saw the killer moments before the gun fired.

  His legs buckled, knees sinking into the sand. Darkness crashed into his soul — as hard and cold as those ocean waves pounding into the shore. Everything inside him seemed to die.

  Chapter 1

  Lochsa River, Idaho, five years later.

  A dark image flickered over emerald waters. Travis Mays glanced skyward to see a vulture searching for carrion, its tip feathers spread like blackened fingers against a hazy-blue sky. He crouched by the river, listening to rushing water as he eyed the scavenger winging a path above the Lochsa River.

  A flash from the mountains caught his eye across the water. Travis turned away from the river, scanning the forest behind him.

  Zilch. Nothing.

  He tried to turn his attention back toward the water, though his thoughts kept wanting to drag him to another place, another time. Travis closed his eyelids for a moment, forcing his mind to shed the past and return to the present. That flash a moment ago troubled him. A feeling that had been plaguing him for several weeks.

  A woman’s light footsteps forced him to smile. Ah, yes. The river guide. Jessie White Eagle. He twisted around as she approached. She drew close with almost effortless movement, although rocks, pebbles and boulders made for treacherous footing. Her long raven-black hair — normally reaching to her waist — had been tucked beneath a gray helmet.

  Drawing closer, Jessie peered down at him for a moment before giving him a soft nudge with her hip. “Hey, professor, waiting for the Lochsa to run dry?” She tugged on straps of her safety helmet — headgear straight out of an old WWII movie. The ugly helmet somehow made her more attractive. “You hired me as a river guide, Willie boy. Can’t teach you anything just sitting here!” Jessie flung him a get-down-to-business look before turning toward the river. Two orange kayaks, partially in water, rested on the shoreline. She leaped into one of them while simultaneously shoving the bow into deeper water in one graceful move. She made it look simple.

  Travis cringed. Where’d she come up with his middle name?

  Then he remembered. Three Rivers Company. The name printed on his driver’s license when he signed up for this trip.

  Travis Willie Mays.

  He grimaced. “My name is Travis. Only my momma calls me Willie.” He fought the urge to say his mother became a die-hard Giants fan, worshiping the ground Willie Mays played on. Thanks to her, Travis got tagged with the ball player’s name. “Everyone else calls me Travis.”

  “Okay, Willie,” she yelled back with a fleeting smile. “I’ve got a lot to teach you. Let’s get cracking.”

  Travis grasped his paddle and stepped toward the remaining kayak.

  Jessie’s smile a moment ago reminded him of the first time they’d met.
A woman burst into the front office at the raft company while he spoke to one of the co-owners about a week ago. Moments before, he’d confided to the owner that he’d never tried whitewater rafting before and needed a trustworthy guide. He failed to mention he’d never set foot in a kayak. The office door swung open before the owner responded. Jessie strolled in, giving him a smile that seemed to brighten the room. The owner pointed at Jessie. “That is the person you need to speak to.” He chatted with Jessie — who described their whitewater trips with enthusiastic animation — for a few minutes. They agreed to meet in a week and he signed up with a little less hesitation.

  Everything felt different today. Jessie’s smile a moment ago was her first since they started up the river at dawn. Before dragging their kayaks to the river’s edge, she’d pulled him aside and meticulously covered all the information to safely navigate down the river. Unlike last week, she spewed out regulations and procedures with less emotion than a pre-recorded voice on an automated phone directory. Her first attempt at a joke — calling him Willie—seemed contrived, almost listless.

  Something seemed off.

  Travis turned once more and glanced up the mountain slope. He felt that strange sensation returning, tugging at his insides, calling for his attention. He heaved his own craft partway onto the water, stern still resting on the rocky shoreline. He straightened for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Surveillance? Was that what he was picking up?

  An uneasy feeling continued to nag at him. It felt like when he was a kid on his own, walking home from a friend’s house late at night, knowing someone or something lurked in the shadows. He couldn’t define it or put a name to it. He just knew it was out there. As a kid, he knew his imagination kicked into overdrive.

  His childhood melted away a long time ago, but over the years those childish instincts — alerting him to danger — became honed to a fine point as a man. Those years in foster homes and orphanages forced him to grow up fast, and his years in police work taught him do know the difference between imagination and real danger. His danger needle had been flickering in the red zone for several weeks even though he could not come up with one rational fact to justify these feelings. He just knew.