Page 30 of Bossy Hero (Redleg Security #8)

Chapter 29

At last we meet

Big Al

T he tension in this SUV is downright suffocating.

Gone is the friendly and cooperative vibe I’ve always had with Chief Bigsby. In its place are silence and sidelong glances of annoyance.

In the thirty-odd minutes we’ve been driving to an unknown destination, he hasn’t spoken a word. Each time I attempt to ask a question, he raises his index finger to his lips and shushes me.

Like I’m a fucking preschooler.

If I’d known he wasn’t going to talk, I’d have stayed in my car and followed him to this safe place he insisted we go. Not that he gave me a choice.

If you want to talk, Lancaster, I’ll take you somewhere safe, where we can speak freely. No weapons. No trackers. No phone. No comms. That’s my deal. Take it or leave it. And if I were you, I’d take it, assuming you want to end Lenkov as badly as I do.

Of course I took it.

Even without my weapons, I could fight this fucker off with one hand tied behind my back and my head shoved into a horse trough. The chief is way past his prime. And while I’m not at my fittest, there’s no way he could overpower me.

And besides, my gut is as calm as can be.

However, if I were looking objectively at this situation, I’d be second-guessing the accuracy of my intuition. He’s giving off red flags left and right.

Again, doubt creeps in. The magnitude and length of Tomer’s deceit has wrecked my confidence in reading people.

A little late for doubt, though.

All I can do is be ready for anything. I’m sure my team has realized my phone and locators are in my car several miles behind us. Knowing Tomer and Mia, they’ve entered the police department’s server and are tracking the chief’s vehicle. CPD has tags on their entire fleet, just like Redleg does.

So I’d imagine that Lionheart is nearby or will be soon. Klein’s probably piloting a drone this way to get a visual on me.

Oh shit .

Klein went home early to take care of his mother.

Meh . That’s fine. Tomer or Mia would have thought of it by now, assuming they’re concerned about me. No doubt they are.

For now, there’s nothing wrong other than the chief’s unusually paranoid behavior.

My vision sweeps from left to right, absorbing as much scenery as possible to get my bearings. We’ve traveled farther inland, away from Clearwater. Taking winding back roads, he’s brought us deep into a wooded area. Although I haven’t seen signs, I’m fairly certain we’re north of Oldsmar near the Booker Creek Preserve.

Nice and remote, which should trigger my gut.

Still nothing.

Bigsby turns left onto a gravel pathway that’s blocked by a closed chain-link gate. Overgrown brush lines both sides. He shifts the gear into park and shoots me a stern glare, which I read as don’t move.

I hold up my palms in wordless agreement.

He exits, uses a key on a padlock on the gate, then slides it open. After returning to the vehicle, he drives us deep into a densely wooded area. I glance behind us, noting that he did not close and lock the gate.

For the first time tonight, my gut fires a warning shot.

Son of a bitch.

I wish the lighting had been better when he lowered his face to the window of my vehicle and told me his terms. It would have been nice to glimpse behind his eyes to see his motivations.

My pulse steadily increases the farther we proceed along the dirt road. The vehicle jostles us from side to side over the rough terrain.

After we careen through a particularly large pothole, I grab the oh shit handle to brace myself and shoot an annoyed side-eye at him.

He tucks his chin towards his chest and whispers, “This path doesn’t see much traffic.”

Well, that’s certainly ominous as fuck. Low in my stomach, the pulsating warning becomes more insistent.

The SUV comes to a jerky stop, and I lean forward to scan the area. About twenty feet ahead is what appears to be a caretaker’s shack.

Exactly the type of place I would take someone if I were about to kill them.

This is absolute fucking bullshit. All I wanted was a chance to talk to the chief man-to-man. The opportunity to look him in the eye and find out what’s up with his detective.

Of course that was too much to ask for someone with luck as shitty as mine.

Instead, I was hauled out to the middle of nowhere, to a ramshackle shed straight out of a B-rated slasher flick.

While studying him carefully, I wait for him to make the next move. I’m in no hurry to kick his ass.

Rather than addressing me, he whips his head to the sides and looks long and hard behind us. Once satisfied with whatever he sees or doesn’t see, he reaches for his door handle. Pausing there, he catches my attention and bounces his gaze toward the hut.

Reluctantly, I exit the SUV, keeping my head on a swivel as I trail behind him. The fact that he didn’t push me to lead the way relieves some of my concern. If I were with a hostile, I wouldn’t turn my back on them to give them a chance to escape or hit me from behind. Given his law enforcement background, I assume he’d take a similar approach. I’ll take this as a good sign.

Two feet ahead of me, Bigsby tugs a long string hanging from the ceiling. A single old-fashioned light bulb flickers to life, illuminating the interior of the shack in a yellow haze.

Keeping half my focus on him, I study the room. Dust motes flutter through the air, stirred around by our slight movements.

As I suspected, we’re in a one-room groundskeeper’s shed with floor-to-ceiling shelving filling three walls. The floor is littered with dirt, leaves, and the occasional twig that’s been tracked in from the surrounding forest. The faint smell of motor oil and gasoline permeates the air, likely from the chainsaws and other implements hanging from hooks on the lone shelf-less wall. Folding chairs lean against that same wall.

Bigsby commands my full attention, planting himself in front of me and bracing both hands on his hips. “When did you figure it out?”

“When did I figure what out?”

He opens his mouth to respond when the sound of a car crackling over the gravel road diverts both of our attention.

On instinct, I scurry to the side of the shed for cover. My right hand goes to the empty holster at the back of my belt. Shit . Fortunately, there are several tools I can use as weapons on the shelves.

“Easy, Lancaster. He’s with me.”

“Who is it?”

“My lead detective,” he answers, sending a chill down my spine.

I return to his side cautiously. “I thought we were going to talk.”

“Oh, we will. The things we’ll be discussing require total privacy.”

Patterson’s engine turns off, and the sound of his car door closing reaches my ears, followed by his footsteps crunching over the pine-needle-covered path.

“Anyone follow you?” Chief asks him.

“No,” Patterson answers, shifting his gaze to me. He pumps his eyebrows. “Nice to see you again, Big Al.”

It’s not nice to see him, so I won’t return the sentiment.

I dip my head, offering a single nod. “Patterson.”

“This might take a while. Let’s sit,” Bigsby announces. His eyes dart to my left, landing on the folding chairs stacked against the wall. He gestures towards them with an open palm.

With my guard up, I retrieve a chair from the wall and hand it off to Patterson. I grab another for the chief and then one for myself.

All three of us unfold them at virtually the same time, slamming them down on the shed floor with a confrontational force. It’s like a Machiavellian standoff.

I’ve long considered these men my partners in the fight to clean up the city. And more recently, to take down Lenkov. Yet in the last hour, everything I thought I knew has gone to shit.

Irritation coats my words like barbs when I say, “I’m not here for a circle jerk, gentleman. Somebody needs to get to talking before I lose my fucking patience.”

Chief Bigsby has the motherfucking audacity to pointedly roll his eyes at me.

He must not like how his face looks if he’s so blatantly asking me to rearrange it.

I stare him down, rebar straightening my spine.

He breaks first, dipping his head in a lone nod of concession. “Go ahead and ask what you wanted to ask me, Lancaster.”

My line of sight quickly bounces to Patterson and then returns to the chief. They both catch the movement.

Dammit . I tried to stop it, but it was involuntary. Because the things I want to ask the chief have a hell of a lot to do with Detective Patterson. Something tells me that asking right in front of the man won’t go well.

Then again, it seems all our cards are about to be laid on the table.

Unfortunately, I don’t know what side they’re fucking on right now. Although, I’m starting to strongly suspect it’s not mine.

Keeping my voice flat, I start with an innocuous question, one I planned to use to feel him out before all of this went sideways. “I thought we could start by discussing Undersheriff Dempsey.”

Bigsby’s thick brows knit together. “What about him?”

“I’m sure you’ve interacted before. What’s your take on him?”

They share a confused look, then Patterson leans forward in his chair, getting in my eyeline. “We’re wasting time. Is that really what you want to ask?”

Fuck it.

“Fine.” Irritation flares outward from my chest, tinging my vision. I focus solely on the chief. “What I really came to ask is why you assigned Patterson as the liaison for our partnership.”

The corner of Bigsby’s mouth quirks. “To keep an eye on you, of course. I needed to know if I could trust you and your team.”

His answers continue to toe the line, never clearly revealing which side he’s on.

“And what did you decide? Are we trustworthy?”

He waves his age-weathered open palm around the shed. “I’d have thought that bringing you here would answer that question.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

So he’s in Lenkov’s pocket too. That’s perfect.

Well, I wish them both the best of luck in the afterlife. This is about to end.

On the bright side, there’ll soon be two fewer cogs keeping the Lenkov machine running.

I rise to my feet, sending the folding chair clattering to the ground behind me. “I’m tired of pussyfooting around. Let’s get this over with.”

Neither of them flinches. Bigsby purses his lips, sparing a quick peek out of the corner of his eye at his henchman. Or designated ball guzzler. Whatever you wanna call this traitorous fucker.

Wish we would have realized Patterson was dirty sooner. I might have seen this connection with the chief before it came to this.

Once again, my gut has proven to be untrustworthy. A dozen times or more, I’ve met with this man. Had drinks or dinner with him while we plotted out the partnership between CPD and Redleg. Looked him in the eye.

And yet, not so much as a single warning bell. If anything, it was the opposite. I’ve always felt a deep sense of morality in him. A similar desire for justice as me.

How did I read him so wrong?

Detective Patterson, a.k.a. Sergeant Sabotage, leans back in his chair and crosses his leg nonchalantly over his knee. “Chief, I’m beginning to think we got our wires crossed here.”

“Ya think, asshole?” Bigsby snaps at him, finally dropping the nonplussed act. He rises, matching my height. “Lancaster, sit down.”

Standing toe to toe with him, I take another look under the surface, probing deeper.

Again, I don’t see the inherent evil that would be required of someone working with Lenkov. It’s simply not fucking there.

He drops my stare at the sound of tires popping and crunching over the terrain.

“It’s about damn time.” He slithers his sight to Patterson. “They’re here.”

“Who’s here?” I ask, arms stiffened at my sides.

“A mutual friend,” he says through a sneer as he casually lowers to his seat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I scan the room again, mentally cataloging the locations of all the things I’ll use to fight my way free. Because if that’s Lenkov, he won’t be here alone.

I’ll use the folding chair first, then grab the heavy paint can and swing it right into the face of whoever gets up soonest.

Bigsby flicks his wrist at me, motioning for me to take my seat. “For fuck’s sake, sit down.”

Car doors slam, one after the other. Four of them in total.

Time’s up.

I shift my weight to the balls of my feet and wrap my right hand around the edge of my folding chair.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Patterson warns, his hand hovering over his firearm.

A contingent of bulky men enters the shed, handguns visible on most of them.

I’m grossly outnumbered and utterly fucked.

Like Moses parting the sea, they move to the side in unison, allowing a well-dressed man to come into view. Familiar eyes lock on mine.

In a thick Russian accent, he says, “At last we meet.”