Page 39 of Ace (The Deuces Wild #4)

Keller didn’t have to wait long. Just before noon, a black limo with darkly tinted windows pulled into RJ’s, blocking the few cars parked in the narrow lot.

The driver jumped out of the pretentious vehicle and ran to open the rear door just as a tall, lean, white-haired gentleman unfolded his body and stepped out and into the sun.

Wearing a straw Panama hat and dressed in an off-white business suit that looked like linen from this distance, he spoke to the driver before he headed across the unkept lawn and walked into RJ’s clinic.

Keller knew the guy. Bruce Fontenette, owner of the prestigious Champion Acres, stable of the most talked about racehorse in the country at the moment: Sand Dollar.

The one thing Keller had taken with him when he’d turned his back on the South was his love of horseracing.

He’d seen Sand Dollar run in the Kentucky Derby two weeks earlier.

A spirited chestnut stallion with a white slash between his eyes that extended down his high strung, aristocratic nose, Sand Dollar had roared past the other contenders.

He’d made them look like they were tired old nags and standing still.

Mighty Sand Dollar was currently favored to win the Preakness, the second gem in the Triple Crown.

The winnings from the Derby alone had to have been in the millions.

But the stud fees Sand Dollar would earn the split second that horse set one polished hoof over the finish line at Belmont would set Fontenette up for life.

Already wealthy, he’d recently hinted he might run for the governorship of Florida, his home state, possibly the Senate.

Maybe the White House. So why the hell was he down here in backwater nowhere Louisiana?

Keller hunched over his steering wheel, watching.

Since he’d switched locations, he had no eyes on the side door to the house or the barn.

That needed to change. Easing out of the truck, he walked briskly away from his ride to the corner opposite the road from the clinic.

Keeping it cool. Looking like he knew where he was going.

People tended to ignore folks walking away from them.

If RJ were on the lookout for trouble, that was precisely what Keller wanted him to see. No one important. Just some guy.

Backtracking, he made his way back to RJ’s barn in minutes, then broke and entered his way inside as quick as the latest 007.

The air in the barn was stifling, thick with musty, mucky animal smells.

Unlike Savannah’s barn, this one sported no overhead channel along the roof to allow any outdoor light or air inside.

He located no light switches on the wall.

Keller couldn’t see a thing, but the place was full. He sensed that much.

Keller dug into his jeans pocket for the tactical LED flashlight he never left home without. Sliding his right hand inside his shirt, he also extracted a pistol. Better safe than sorry.

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Something was off in this crowded, dark space.

Snapping the light on revealed a semi-trailer backed into the barn, its landing gear down, fifth-wheel coupling facing the barn door.

Creeping around to the rear of the trailer, he found the rolling door up, so he climbed in.

Inside the trailer were row after row of stacked wooden crates loaded two per pallet, four pallets wide and maybe ten, make that twelve, deep. Interesting. Several crates had been opened, their wooden lids standing on end between them. This wouldn’t take long.

Tucking the flashlight under his chin, Keller dug into the first crate to get a better look.

Contents seemed harmless. Nothing but painted clay pots packed and stuffed with brown, shredded paper, no big deal.

Grabbing hold of the first pot, he turned it over.

No stamp or label indicated price or country of origin, not like that mattered.

But why so many, and why pottery? Was RJ in the import business?

He dug through more pots and more shredded paper. But wait. A silvery blue glint sparkled from inside one of those pots. Keller had no more than upended it when a tiny fluff rolled out.

Oh, my hell. He found himself holding the prettiest, deadest-looking hummingbird.

Green and bronze feathers covered its two-inch long body.

Its needle shaped beak was black, but this little thing was unlike any hummingbird Keller had ever seen.

Two long tail feathers hung limp over the edge of his palm.

A feathered crest of brilliant, turquoise blue topped the little guy’s head.

A crest on a hummingbird? Who’d ever heard of that?

Keller ran his light over the tiny creature, worried he was holding a corpse. Where could it have come from?

“Hey,” he whispered into the bird’s cheek feathers, holding it as gently as his big hands were capable of doing. “Are you still alive?”

Man, it was hard to tell. The little guy’s head lolled, but its body wasn’t stiff.

That much was good. Savannah said she’d saved that pink and gray cockatoo’s life by sleeping with it inside her shirt, so Keller cupped his new best buddy against his chest to keep it warm.

Worried what else he’d find now, he double checked the crates he’d already investigated.

Damn. Each paper-stuffed pottery also held one comatose—or dead— hummingbird.

Some ruby breasted. Some with that same turquoise crest. All limp as hell.

Keller knew what RJ was into now. Illegal wildlife trafficking. But if all these crates contained exotic birds like this one… If RJ was the reason Rosie and that long-snouted gharial had gotten into the country…

Holy hell. Keller ran a hand over his head.

This trailer was stacked to the rafters, five crates high.

That totaled nine hundred sixty crates in all, and every last bird or animal in them could be breathing its last. Holstering his weapon, Keller did the only thing he could.

He snapped a picture of the tiny jewel in his hand and texted it, along with his current location, to his Deuces Wild team.

The Deuces Wild team, not his team. Damn it. The team. Then he facetimed home. Damn it, not home . He facetimed the pic to his office . Just his office. What the hell was going on in his head? He’d never called his office home before. That shit had to stop.

Tucker answered with an even, “Mornin’, Kell. How’s the vacation going?”

But not even his nickname rolling out of his boss’s big mouth irked Keller like he thought it would. He let the vacation comment slide, too. “You know anyone over at Fish and Wildlife?”

“I have a few friends in FWS Law Enforcement. Whatzup?”

“Not absolutely sure, but I just sent a picture to you of a bird I found smuggled inside crates of pottery at Doctor Rudy John’s property.

Also sent the coordinates. RJ’s smuggling animals and birds into the country.

I’m looking at close to a thousand crates.

I can’t tell for sure, but I think this little bird’s heart’s still beating.

But it’s been drugged. Also…” Keller rotated his cell, scanning the length and breadth of the container to relay the size of what could be a huge smuggling operation. “Take a look at this.”

“Son of a bitch,” Tucker murmured. “Where are you?”

“I’m a mile or so from Mariposa Church’s place, only her houseboat’s not there anymore. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened the last two days.”

“Enlighten me, damn it.”

Keller explained how Mariposa Church had been deceased when he’d arrived, and how that led him to Savannah, then to her saving Isaiah. Which led to a quick summary of breakfast, the drive to Sanctuary, the ambush, the alligators, the theft of Mariposa’s houseboat, and…

Keller ran a hand over his shaved skull, shocked at all that had happened since yesterday.

It didn’t seem humanly possible, but so much of it went down quick and dirty, and.

.. There Keller stopped, not letting himself even think about the sweet time he’d spent making love with Savannah.

No, just no. Tucker did not need to know everything.

“You’re just not good at taking vacations, are you?” Tucker asked drolly.

Keller could’ve laughed out loud, and that all by itself—spontaneous laughter—was an impulse he hadn’t experienced in years.

“Let me make a call,” Tucker said. “Sit tight. ”

Concerned for what could be hundreds, maybe thousands of exotic creatures on the verge of suffocating, Keller ended the call and tucked his tiny charge into his shirt pocket.

He was busy popping the cover off another crate, trying to provide ventilation to as many creatures as he could, when he heard men arguing.

RJ and another male. Could be Bruce Fontenette.

Hurriedly, he replaced that cover, then watched from the rear of the trailer, holding his breath as he listened.

“But you never said you wanted her place gone that fast,” RJ sputtered as the side door opened inward, casting just enough light that Keller could see him as he gestured for the other guy to enter.

Dressed in gray hospital scrubs, he almost looked professional.

“You shoulda told me. I coulda helped. She had stuff in that old boat I coulda used.”

“Don’t take it personal, John,” the man said as he ducked his head and stepped inside.

Bruce Fontenette didn’t look happy. “This is just a business transaction, and that’s the way these things go.

I provide the goods, and you keep them breathing and quiet until my people arrive to transport them north.

But the next time I say now, I really mean yesterday, understood? ”

“Yes, suh, but that guy with her yesterday mornin’…” Keller could almost hear RJ groveling. “He’s FBI, and he was there when the old lady died, too. I seen him with my own eyes, and Miss Savannah went with him when he left yesterday, too. ”

“And you’re just telling me he’s FBI now?” Fontenette bellowed as both men approached the rear of the trailer. “Damn you, John, I never would’ve sent my guys after her if I’d known she was traveling with a Fed!”

Glaring to his left, he’d crossed both arms over his chest, his fingers tapping.

His lips pursed into a scowl. Reaching inside his jacket, he palmed a cell, stabbed in a number and told whoever was on the other side of that call, “Plans have changed. I need you here now.” A heartbeat passed.

“Then find a way to do it, I pay you enough. Yes, a refrigeration unit will work. I don’t care, I only need fifty percent of this shit to survive.

Okay, okay, yeah, understood. You’ll get that ten percent bonus, but only if you’re here in the next sixty.

No, damn it, you’re already late. The FBI’s involved.

I need this shit out of here. The clock’s ticking! ”

Keller stepped farther into the trailer, wedging himself between two towers of stacked crates to keep an eye on the men if they decided to board the trailer.

Yes, the FBI was involved, yet he didn’t dare make himself known, not without understanding precisely what RJ and Fontenette were into.

Powerful men didn’t just sell exotic birds for the fun of it.

But damn, a fifty percent survival rate meant certain death for half these creatures.

Keller patted his hummingbird buddy again as RJ and his boss came to the open end of the trailer. What a tragic waste.

“At least show me what you’re so damned proud of,” Fontenette groused. “I don’t have all day. ”

“Yes, suh.” RJ pulled a remote from his pocket. Instantly, a fine vapor drifted down from a latticework of PVC pipes overhead. “This is why I needed all these trailers modified. With one button, I can now put everything in it to sleep.”

Oh shit! Keller ducked his nose and mouth into his shirt collar.

“It’s my own special blend,” RJ explained while a bored Mr. Fontenette looked on. “It’ll keep this shipment quiet until they gets to where they’re going. Yes, suh, quiet and undetected by even the smartest cops on the road, even that bitch, Brinkman. You’ll see. It’ll be smooth sailing now.”

“Except for that FBI agent,” Fontenette growled.

“Don’t you worry none about him,” RJ purred. “I got friends in low places who gonna take care of him.”

I’ll just bet you do, Keller thought. Like some rednecks in a monster truck and another who likes to play with bombs and remote detonators.

The vapor drifting over the cargo had to be some kind of anesthetic. Keller took a deep breath before it settled over him. He had to get out of there. Once RJ closed and locked the door, he’d be as useless as Junior.

Palming his phone, he hit redial and turned the screen to capture a view of the two men.

But he was too late. Keller sagged into the narrow space he’d wedged himself into.

The gas was getting the best of him. As darkness closed in, he could only hope Tucker was half as smart as Tucker thought he was.