Ambush, p.1
Ambush, page 1
Also by Alex Ander
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Watch for more at Alex Ander’s site.
AMBUSH
A MODERN SHERIFF
CRIME THRILLER in
The
BIG SKY
Series
Alex Ander
Fast-paced action.
Characters you’ll love.
Clean language.
I write what I enjoy reading – globe-trekking action thrillers packed with fistfights, gunfights, lovable main characters, and heart-pounding excitement and adventure...all with no vulgarity and no graphic sex scenes.
With more than 20 of my published works available to you, each book focusing on a protagonist from the military/law enforcement arena (U.S. Marines, Army Rangers, FBI, U.S. Marshals Service), you’re sure to find your next great Alex Ander novel at your favorite bookseller.
To see my complete library of action thrillers, visit my website at...
AlexAnderNovelist.com
.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 - Fresh Kill
CHAPTER 2 - Lost in Thought
CHAPTER 3 - Catch Me Up
CHAPTER 4 - The Coming Reckoning
CHAPTER 5 - Bartlett
CHAPTER 6 - My Request
CHAPTER 7 - All Right, All Right
CHAPTER 8 - Your Badge
CHAPTER 9 - Stakeout
CHAPTER 10 - You Two Again?
CHAPTER 11 - Closest Backup
CHAPTER 12 - Phone Call
CHAPTER 13 - Good Boy
CHAPTER 14 - Old Wooden Bridge
CHAPTER 15 - Walk Away
CHAPTER 16 - Zest for Life
CHAPTER 17 - Expecting Someone?
“For I am convinced that neither death,
nor life, nor angels, nor principalities,
nor present things, nor future things,
nor powers, nor height, nor depth,
nor any other creature will be able
to separate us from the love of God
in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
~ Romans Chapter 8; Verse 38-39
CHAPTER 1
Fresh Kill
20 October—8:32 P.M.
Big Sky, Montana
Partly cloudy skies had helped keep the day’s warmer air from escaping too quickly, leaving the temps in the lower to middle thirties. And a three-quarter moon’s rays bounced off the half-inch of wet snow that had fallen and collected on the grass and dirt beside the desolate country roadway.
Not five feet from the damp pavement, where snow-covered dirt met snow-covered grassland, two Gray Wolves—a male and a female—lay on their bellies, their snouts buried deep into the carcass of a 150-pound white-tailed deer, the pack’s latest kill.
On the perimeter, four other members of the pack, their gray-and-brown coats dotted with a layer of snowflakes, lay waiting, not daring to approach until the breeding pair had had their fill.
The breeding pair went for the organ meats first—heart, liver, lungs. Once exposed, the kidneys and spleen would be next. Lastly, the muscles. Tipping the scales at more than a hundred pounds, the male would eventually devour close to twenty pounds of deer, while his lighter-weighing mate would consume up to fifteen.
With his jowls stained red, the male swallowed half a lung then licked his chops. Preparing to go back for more, he stopped to spin his head to his right, toward an arcing glow above a sharp rise in the road fifty yards away.
The female, as well as the other four pack members, all faced the same intensifying light, their heads cocked at the sound of a low, oncoming roar.
Seconds later, the roar came to a fever pitch as a pair of white lights crested the hill and lit up the scene.
The breeding pair leaped over the dead deer and trotted toward the rest of the pack. From a safe distance, with their necks cranked backward, they watched the hard-charging mechanical beast race by the dead deer before resuming their meal.
...
While sharp, the rise in the two-lane road wasn’t enough to cause a vehicle to go airborne at posted speeds. At 90 miles per hour, however...
Sporting wide, wood-grained panels on its sides and tailgate, a boxy, old-style, hunter green Jeep Grand Wagoneer crested the incline, its tires close to three feet off the pavement. Moments later, the front wheels touched down a split-second ahead of the rear wheels. The vehicle bucked and rocked like a wild horse wanting nothing to do with the six-one, one-sixty-pound man holding the ‘reins.’
Inside the Grand Wagoneer, 45-year-old Sheriff Wade Lockhart bounced around in his seat before settling himself again. Gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white, the windshield wipers on high, the Jeep’s headlights illuminating a steady haze of fat white blotches that disappeared immediately upon impact with the warm concrete, Lockhart zoomed by the deer carcass, his mind barely registering the six wolves off to his right.
Up ahead, the road curved left. He eased off the gas pedal to veer left then right. Coming out of the second bend, he smashed the accelerator again. Taking his left hand off the wheel, he washed a palm down his face.
Wade, I-I got some bad news, Piper had told him over the phone.
Rounding another curve, he watched a truck ahead of him slow before edging to the side of the road, the strobe light atop Lockhart’s Jeep reflecting off the other vehicle’s back window. His right foot never letting up, he swayed into the oncoming lane, blitzed by the truck, then came back into his own lane.
Bad news.
Lockhart had heard Piper’s voice crack on those words. The professional that she was, she had not been able to keep her emotions in check as she blubbered through the rest of what she had to tell him.
Coming up on a crossroad, he gave both directions a quick look before jamming his right foot onto the brake pedal while spinning the wheel to the left. When the headlights were pointing down the new road, he moved his foot back to the accelerator and straightened the wheel.
Balking at the rough treatment, the Grand Wagoneer fishtailed twice before staying true to its course.
A mile down the road, on his two o’clock, at the end of a row of trees, after another bend in the road, Lockhart could make out the parked vehicles of two sheriff’s deputies. They were dark brown—almost black—Ford Explorers, and they were flanking the bumpers of an identical third Explorer. Painted with the same Big Sky County Sheriff markings as the Explorers, a four-door Dodge Ram 1500 was stationed beside an ambulance.
Lockhart took the curve to the right then mashed his foot onto the brake pedal.
The Jeep skidded sideways, its rear end swinging to its left.
Lockhart ran the gear shift to ‘Park’ then peeled out of the driver’s seat, leaving the vehicle running and his door wide open. Wearing blue jeans, black cowboy boots, a mid-thigh black leather jacket, and a black Resistol fur cowboy hat, he strode toward the cloth-covered lump in the center of an assembly of deputies and EMTs.
Leaving the gathering, wearing blue jeans, brown cowboy boots, and a dark brown fur-collared sheriff’s jacket adorned with her badge, 35-year-old, five-six, 125-pound Undersheriff Piper Jennings hurried toward her boss while tugging down on a brown stocking cap to fight off a chill. Her straight, shoulder-length dirty blonde hair stuck out from under the cap.
Coming to within ten feet of her, Lockhart noticed puffy red bags under her blue eyes as she wiped a finger across her narrow, slightly upturned nose. When she opened her mouth to greet him, he saw a line of saliva going from her lower teeth to the noticeable gap between her two upper front teeth.
“Wade,” shaking her head, she sniffed while quickly dragging a hand over her prominent chin, near the beauty mark on her right cheek, an inch from her wide-lipped mouth, “I’m so sorry.” Spittle shot out of her mouth when she said the word ‘so.’ She pumped
“Out of my way, Piper.”
Like a door swinging open, she pivoted counterclockwise, away from him.
Lockhart brushed by her.
She followed him. “Honestly, Wade. It’s not something you...”
With his gaze squarely on the woolen blanket, he slowed before coming to a halt at the covering’s edge. He dropped hands onto his hips and took several deep breaths, his cheeks puffing outward on each exhale.
Behind him, raising her arms above her head, Piper waved off the two deputies and the two EMTs.
The emergency personnel backed away and gave the sheriff space.
Reaching out to lay a hand on Lockhart’s left shoulder, Piper stopped herself. She put her fist to her mouth then took a deep breath, looked away, and interlaced her fingers on top of her head, her jaw quivering ever so slightly among the crisscrossing headlight beams.
Steeling himself, Lockhart filled his lungs, took a knee, and pulled back the blanket with his left hand to expose the mangled remains of one of his deputies. He whipped his face away from the grisly sight and away from the other deputies. His breaths came in quick gasps. He put his right fist to his forehead, clenched his teeth, and fought against the tears. His hand moving to his chest, he clawed at his heart. His face twisted into an unrecognizable version of himself. He slammed shut his eyes and breathed in and out of his mouth, his lips vibrating, spittle dribbling down his chin.
Seeing his shoulders rocking, Piper covered her mouth with both hands and bent over at the waist, droplets falling from her eyes and nose.
Twenty seconds later, Lockhart covered his deceased deputy, stood, and wandered away.
Piper went after him, the hurt inside her coming through in her broken tone. “Wade.”
His right hand shot upward as if he were backhanding someone.
She stopped.
He walked off the road, deeper into the darkness, his boots leaving tracks in the snow, until he was out of everyone’s sight.
The deputies and the EMTs returned to the body, glimpsed Piper, then stared at the woods.
Listening, everyone gaped at where they thought the sheriff would be standing if they could have seen him. Now and then, above the quiet calm of the night, they could make out a low whimper followed by what sounded like a sharp breath.
CHAPTER 2
Lost in Thought
Three Days Later
10:07 A.M.
Wade Lockhart followed Jace into the kitchen of the elder Lockhart’s home. “Okay, son. What did you want to tell me?”
Jace grinned from ear to ear. “Not here. Tonight...at dinner. Let’s go out...somewhere nice.”
Lockhart noted his son’s unusual giddiness. “All right. Sounds good. Where do you want to go?”
Jace thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I’ll text you later today. Oh, and,” his gaze shifted toward the living room, toward his father’s new friend, “you should bring Sierra, too. Something tells me she’s soon to be part of the Lockhart Family.”
A woman’s distant voice: “Sorry for your loss.”
“Well, now,” Lockhart shook his head at the floor, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.” He scratched his chin. “Find out what your thoughts are on,” he paused, “you know, with your mother and I—”
“Pop,” said Jace, gripping his father’s upper arm, “you don’t have to run anything by me. I know Mom wouldn’t have wanted you to spend the rest of your life alone.”
Lockhart smiled.
“And besides,” Jace glimpsed Sierra again before coming back to his dad, “you landed a great gal. I really like her.” He checked his watch. “I need to get going. My shift starts soon.”
A different woman’s quiet voice: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Be careful out there, son.”
“Don’t worry about me, old man.” Jace slapped his father on the back and made his way toward the back door.
“Yeah, just remember this old man can still take you, punk.”
Jace laughed. “If you say so, Pop.” He raised a hand toward the living room. “Miss Courtright.”
A man’s voice: “Sorry for your loss.”
Sierra waved. “Bye, Jace.”
Jace backed out the door and was gone.
“You have my deepest condolences, Sheriff.”
Wade Lockhart blinked a few times, vaguely aware of him shaking someone’s hand. Still lost in his thoughts, he nodded at the elderly man in front of him. John, he thought to himself. He nodded at John, and the man moved on to acknowledging Sierra on Lockhart’s right.
Gathered on the concrete landing outside the century-old country church, the tall wooden double doors propped open on Lockhart’s left, he stood between Sierra on his right and his father on his left. Funeral goers filed by, offering their condolences. The church had been full, standing room only. With most everyone in Big Sky County having voted for and known their hometown sheriff, this funeral had truly seemed like a countywide affair.
Fifty yards away, a black crow squawked.
Squinting against a rising sun, Lockhart observed the bird resting on one of the tree’s barren branches. For a moment, he longed to grow wings and fly away, away from this place, this time, and the events that had come before.
“Clayton,” said a man in his seventies, “I’m truly,” he pumped Lockhart’s father’s hand, “truly sorry.”
Clayton Vaughn Lockhart laid his left hand on the man’s right hand. “Thank you, Ellison. And thank you for coming.”
Ellison greeted Lockhart. “Sheriff Lockhart.”
The two men shook hands.
“It’s a damn shame. Your boy was a fine young man. A fine young man. Big Sky won’t be the same without him.”
His throat closing, Lockhart swallowed hard while whipping off a single nod.
Ellison touched the brim of his cowboy hat while acknowledging Sierra. “Ma’am.”
She smiled then bobbed her head at the gentleman.
Fighting his emotions, Lockhart spied the throng of people yet to pass then glimpsed those meandering toward the parking lot. After regarding the crow once more, he laid his right hand on Sierra’s lower back. “I have to go.” He stepped in front of her, descended the steps, strode toward the parking lot, and made a hard right-ninety at the sidewalk.
His head down, his strides long, he made a beeline down the walkway, his destination the fenced-in cemetery behind the church. He had almost made the snow-covered grass when a young woman cut him off.
“Sheriff Lockhart?”
He pulled up short, but his eyes and his attention were focused on headstones he could see around the back of the church.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He came back to her and nodded once. His soul was screaming to escape yet another ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ but he stood his ground and did his best to give her his full attention.
She looked to be about twenty years old and was a petite thing, five-one at the most. She wore a tight-fitting long black dress and a white shawl under an open olive-green winter coat. The outer covering seemed too small to be zipped up over her belly bulge without breaking the zipper. Absent the heavy garb, she couldn’t have weighed much over a hundred pounds.
“I knew Jace,” with both eyes showing vertical streaks of mascara under them, she dragged a middle finger under her right eye, “from The Buckin Bronco. I work at the restaurant there. He,” she faltered, “he used to come in, and we’d talk. He was a sweet man, Sheriff.”
Lockhart nodded. “That he was.”
“Well,” she hesitated, “I’m sorry for stopping you. You looked like you were going somewhere.” She gave him a strained smile. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Jace was,” she cocked her head at Lockhart, “he was,” her mouth hung open for a beat before she glanced down, “he was a good man. I’ll miss him.”
Lockhart dipped his chin again, “Thank you,” then made his way toward the cemetery.
...
