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  VIGILANCE

  The Blackmore Agency: Book Eleven

  Carolina Mac

  Copyright © 2018 by Carolina Mac

  VIGILANCE - 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-988850-59-7

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  To the guardians of the night

  Music is medicine.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday, March 6th.

  THE BAND rocked. Southern rock with a lead singer head and shoulders above any who’d dared to audition in front of the arrogant asshole who thought he ruled the TV talent shows.

  Farrell waved the waitress over and ordered another pitcher of Lone Star. He asked for an extra glass and requested more chips and salsa.

  She smiled at him and she wasn’t too bad looking in the dim light. Every goddam time he looked at another girl he thought of Mary and wondered if he should have broken up with her. Maybe he should call her.

  “Somebody joining you, Farrell?”

  Farrell shrugged then winced at the pain the motion caused. When would his fuckin shoulder stop killing him? He spit out the words through clenched teeth. “Supposed to be, Beth. Big ugly guy with a tat on his neck. If you see him before I do, ship him over.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that. Sounds like a winner.”

  No, he ain’t a winner. He’s a two-time loser and that’s why I need to see the fucker.

  Midnight. The band was on break and had one more set to go. A CD mix blasted out of the speakers polluting the air with noise. A cheap replacement after a band that goddam good. Where the hell was Kamps? He’d picked the bar where he wanted to meet. It wasn’t like the asshole couldn’t find it.

  The T n T wasn’t bad for a hangout. Better than a lot of the downtown bars. This one had food you could eat without regrets and a handful of antacids, and live music most nights. Two points in its favor. Big roadhouse style bar in downtown Austin, home to non-stop tourist traffic and a huge live music district.

  Décor wasn’t a strongpoint, a few southwest touches and a solid plank dance floor. He’d danced there once with Mary to a slow song. He wasn’t much of a two-stepper, although he longed to be. The waitresses were dressed in red satin skirts and blue vests with a big white star on their right boob. No blouse or shirt underneath. Who needed more than a vest?

  Farrell tipped his glass up and saw Kamps swaggering towards him. Fuck, the ugly dude had a huge dose of attitude.

  Farrell gave him a finger wave.

  Kamps saw him and nodded.

  “You’re late.”

  “Got held up. Unavoidable.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Got a problem with it?” He plunked his big body down. “This my glass?”

  “It is.”

  Kamps did a one-eighty then filled his glass from the pitcher. “Not a good place for me to be seen,” he mumbled.

  “You picked it.”

  “Did I?” He dumped the first glass of Lone Star down his throat without a pause and refilled.

  “Got anything interesting for me?” Farrell leaned closer so Kamps could hear him over the music. Leaning forward in that position pulled on the unhealed shoulder muscle and made him want to grunt with the effort. But he didn’t.

  “Ewing Thompson gets out on Monday.”

  “How’d he manage that?” asked Farrell. “Three strikes.”

  Kamps grinned and showed off his gold tooth. “The word is his legal team proved one of them strikes was only a foul ball.”

  “Legal team? How the hell is he affording that?”

  “Dude has assets.”

  Farrell chuckled. “Source?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “I bet you can’t.”

  Kamps held out his hand.

  “That it? Can’t be,” said Farrell. “I expect more for my money.” He put his hand over the brown envelope on the table close to his elbow. “Way more. I could have found that out reading the alerts at DPS.”

  “There is more,” said Kamps. “I ain’t delivered the punch line yet.”

  “Lay it down and if I think it’s worth it, I’ll give you my hard earned cash.” Farrell took his hand off the envelope.

  “Super’s money. It ain’t yours.”

  Farrell shrugged and winced again.

  “Grapevine says Thompson has big plans.”

  “How big?”

  “Huge. The man’s gotta a fuckin hate on for Austin.” Kamps grabbed up the envelope and left.

  BLAINE sat in the renovated kitchen of his old Victorian nursing his second cup of coffee. Lexi was in the yard, he could hear her barking at the birds, and Farrell still wasn’t up. His foster brother spent more and more time at night working on his network. Maybe it would pay off but who could you trust in that shadowy army of snitches? They’d sell their mama for a hit.

  Blaine ran the Blackmore Agency out of his house and it was working well since he’d doubled the size of the property and installed security fencing. His own little fortress in the middle of east Austin.

  Today would be the high shits for him. Introverts hated doing interviews—Lil pointed that out—but they needed another man on the team. Fletcher didn’t have a partner and nobody working for the Agency worked alone. Thank the Fates Blaine’s partner, Jesse Quantrall, was coming to help with the screening.

  Carmelita, his friend and housemate, called to him in Spanish from the prep area of the massive kitchen, “You want breakfast, sweetheart, or do you want to wait for Farrell?”

  “I can eat, mi Corazon. Jesse is coming, and I have to get ready for the interviews.”

  “Do you want muffins or tarts for the people?”

  “No muffins or tarts. Coffee only.”

  “Si, only coffee.”

  “Who’s not getting any muffins or tarts?” Farrell barreled through the kitchen door in his boxers, bare-chested and tattooed from neck to waist, his straw blond mop sticking out from under his cowboy hat.

  Blaine snorted. “Why do you have your hat on when you ain’t even dressed?”

  Farrell flopped into a chair. “My hair’s fucked.”

  “Got it.” Blaine tapped the yellow pad that was a permanent fixture in front of him. “Interviews in an hour.”

  “I ain’t helping.”

  “No need. Jesse is doing it.” Blaine emptied his cup and stood up to get a refill. “Anything interesting from your meet last night?”

  “Nothing worth a hundred bucks.” Farrell strode across the kitchen to see what Carm was cooking for Blaine. He stood behind her, towering over her petite frame. “That psycho Ewing Thompson is being released from Huntsville on Monday.”

  Blaine stopped in mid-pour. “They can’t let him out. Three fuckin strikes.”

  “Legal t
eam were the words Kamps used. The fucker has a legal team and they got one of the strikes turned into nothing but a foul tip.”

  “How’s he affording that? Did they ever recover the money from the last armored truck he hijacked?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Anything else enlightening come out of Kamp’s mouth?”

  “He said Thompson has big plans and he don’t like Austin no more.”

  “That’s vague. That could mean he’s never coming back here, or it could mean he’s gonna get even. Perry Leighton put him away. I’d better talk to him today.”

  Huntsville Prison

  EWING lay on his bunk reading Stephen King. He didn’t share a cell and that was the way he liked it. Privacy, that’s what it was all about. Cell mates were a fucking nuisance, ‘specially when they kept dying.

  Prison time had turned him into a reader and he’d learned so much shit it was unbelievable. Some stuff he’d made notes of and he’d be using it for goddam sure in the real world. He’d be leaving this hell on earth a lot smarter than when he’d arrived, yeah, and when he’d arrived the two fuckin times before. Strikes one and two didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was what he was gonna do with strike two and a half. He closed the book and smiled.

  Three days to go.

  WITH TREPIDATION building over the pending interviews, Blaine moved to his office.

  Got to get this shit over with.

  Carmelita had placed the coffee tray on the table in front of the fireplace for the interviews, the first candidate due any minute. Blaine glanced at his watch wondering where Jesse was, then decided to phone the DA and have a chat with him about one of his favorite people being cut loose from Huntsville on Monday.

  “Hey, Mr. Leighton, Blaine here. How’s your day going?”

  “Not bad so far, son, although it makes me nervous when you call.”

  “Nope, nothin major. Just a heads-up. Nothing more.”

  “And what do I need to be aware of that concerns the violent crime team?”

  “Ewing Thompson is being released on Monday.”

  “No way. Impossible. I put him away for good. He’s got three strikes.”

  “Heard a rumor, but it might bear verification.”

  “I’ll do that right this minute and get back to you.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  JESSE WAS LATE. His appointment with his naturopathic doctor had gone on longer than anticipated—because he was kissing her in her office and couldn’t seem to stop—and now he was late to help Blacky with the interviews.

  He walked in the front door of Blacky’s mansion without knocking and Lexi didn’t bark. Just ran over and licked his hand. “Hey, girl. Haven’t seen you in a while. Don’t tell your boss I’m late.”

  Lily Duke, Blaine’s personal assistant came hurrying down the long narrow hallway from her office at the back of the house. Always perfectly groomed and dressed in a pant suit or a pencil skirt and sweater, she contrasted nicely with Blacky who wore ripped jeans and a Harley shirt most of the time. “Oh, it’s you, Jesse. I thought it might be the first candidate.”

  “Just me and I’m a little tardy. Where’s Blacky?”

  “In his office.” Lil shoved a blonde strand of hair behind her ear. He’s ready, but these sessions make him grumpy and not too receptive. Maybe you could have a little more compassion for these poor assholes looking for work.”

  Jesse grinned. “I’ll try, Lil.”

  “Take into account, I’ve already gotten rid of every single one who was a definite ‘no’. These three guys have experience and strong resume’s. It depends who would be the best fit.”

  “Uh huh. I get it. You’ve done most of the work already.”

  Lil smiled. “You could say that.”

  Jesse stuck his head in the kitchen in passing. “You sitting in, Farrell?”

  He picked up his mug and followed Jesse, “Wasn’t going to, but after Blacky hiring Hammer on the last round, maybe I should keep an eye on him.”

  “I read Hammer’s resume,” said Jesse. “He was a former MP. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Nothing except he was an asshole and he sure as hell wasn’t Jack Reacher.”

  BLAINE WAS pouring himself a coffee when Jesse and Farrell entered the office. “Hey, glad to see you, Jesse. Have a coffee and we’ll get caught up before the guys get here.”

  “Lil said they were the best of the best. Shouldn’t be too hard to decide.”

  “Jesus,” said Blaine. “I don’t want to make another fuckin mistake, like hiring that goddam whiner Hammer.”

  “That’s what me and Jesse are here for, boss,” said Farrell. “We’re the voice of reason.”

  “Fuck off, Farrell. You’ve never had a reasonable thought since the day you were born.”

  Farrell pointed at Jesse. “Maybe not, but that right there is somebody who can tell the difference between a horse and a longhorn.”

  Jesse snorted and almost spilled his coffee.

  Lil tapped on the door and escorted the first applicant in. “This is Clarke Chow.” She introduced him, then seated him in the hot seat in front of Blaine’s desk.

  Clarke Chow was short. Five feet six and no more. Small Asian man. Well-groomed and not too formidable in appearance. Maybe he was a ninja.

  Blaine opened the folder and stared at the resume he’d already read three times. “You were a detective on Dallas PD specializing in blue collar crime?”

  Chow nodded. “Long days on the computer and difficult to make charges stick. I tired of it. Applied for a couple of transfers and was told I was perfect where I was.”

  “Now you have your investigator’s license?” asked Jesse.

  “Yes, sir, I do. I’ve had it for a year now, trying to make it on my own, but the only cases I’m getting are divorces and cheating spouses. Seems so pointless.”

  “You believe you’re more suited to violent crime?” asked Blaine.

  “Definitely.”

  “What makes you think so?” asked Jesse.

  He smiled. “Just a feeling I have.”

  “Have you ever worked with a partner?” asked Blaine.

  “No, sir, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I get along well with people.”

  Blaine reached across the desk and shook Chow’s hand. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Chow. I have interviews for the next few hours, so I’ll have Lil call you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blackmore. Everything you need to know is in my resume. I’m looking forward to working with you and your team.”

  Lil showed Mr. Chow out and went to fetch the next guy who’d been waiting in the front parlor.

  “What did you think of him?” asked Blaine.

  “Didn’t get a lot of positive vibes from him,” said Farrell. “Have to think about it. You didn’t ask him about his shooting. Is it in the folder?”

  “Yep, it’s in there,” said Blaine. “High scores on the range with his police issue. Never fired his gun on the job.”

  “Fuck that,” hollered Farrell, “we’re dead.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Okay, on to the next one.”

  Lil brought candidate number two in and introduced him. “This is Lane Forget.” She pointed at the club chair. “Have a seat Mr. Forget. Can I get you a coffee?”

  He grinned and said, “That would be nice, Miss Duke. Mighty nice.”

  Oh, oh. He’s a chic magnet like that fuckin Travis.

  Lily brought the coffee and set it on a coaster on the desk in front of Lane, then left the room.

  Lane Forget was a big guy. Six feet two at least. Dark hair and tanned like he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was wearing dress pants and a long sleeved shirt, so his biceps weren’t showing, and neither were his tats—if he had any—but he filled out his clothes pretty solidly.

  “Tell us about your last position, Mr. Forget.”

  “Sure, be happy to. I was hired as security advisor to a wealthy couple in Dallas. They owned a galler
y and had a lot of artwork in their home as well. I was at the gallery during one of their big shows. I had wanted to hire temporary people for the evening because the crowd was supposed to be large, but they didn’t want to spend the money. They argued that they were spending a huge amount on the caterer and the wine and I’d have to manage. Nothing went wrong at the gallery. It was all perfect, but when we went back to their estate, the house had been robbed. They fired me on the spot.”

  Farrell nodded. “You were supposed to be in two places at the same time?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Fuck that,” said Farrell.

  Lane chuckled. “That’s what I said.”

  “Ever worked violent crime?” asked Jesse.

  “Never did, but I saw a lot of action in the service.”

  “You were a Seal,” said Blaine. “Impressive record.”

  “Black ops, so a lot of stuff ain’t even there.” Lane smiled. “Missions I was on don’t exist.”

  “Uh huh,” said Blaine. He gave Jesse a glance and saw the slight nod of his partner’s head. “You look like a good fit to me, Mr. Forget.” To Farrell: “Take him to Lil’s office and get started on his paperwork while Jesse and I talk to the next customer.”

  “Yes, sir, boss.” Farrell loped across the room and shook Lane Forget’s hand. “Guess that means y’all got hired.”

  “Couldn’t be happier. Read everything about this team and it’s my first choice in the whole state of Texas.” He grinned. “Dream job.”

  The third dude was a young Hispanic named Pablo Acosta. About five feet ten, stocky and strongly built with a military haircut, he was twenty-eight years old and Lil had chosen him because he’d just completed seven years in the army—the last three as a Ranger.

  Blaine reached across the desk and shook Pablo’s hand after Lil had done the introductions. “Army Ranger,” said Blaine. “Great training.”

  He had a brilliant smile. Dark complexion like Blaine. “Happy I made the cut. Been home for three weeks and I’m about done with the down time.”