Lyons Snake Skin

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-939038-00-5
Verlag: Edgy Reads
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 384 Seiten

Reihe: Lucy Guardino FBI Thrillers

From New York Times bestselling author CJ Lyons:

An average Pittsburgh soccer mom, baking brownies and carrying a loaded forty-caliber Glock...
 
From New York Times bestselling author CJ Lyons comes an irresistible read that's 'everything a great thriller should be-action packed, authentic, and intense' (Lee Child). With over 500 five-star reviews!
 
A loving mom and wife, dutiful daughter, consummate professional, and kick-ass federal agent, Lucy is living the perfect life as a Supervisory Special Agent running the FBI's Sexual Assault Felony Enforcement squad.
 
Until the day she comes up against a predator more vicious and cunning than any she's ever tackled before, one who forces Lucy to choose between the life of the young victim she is fighting to save and her own daughter's....and Lucy's dream life is shattered.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Lyons, Cj

Leseproben

Chapter Two
Lucy Guardino hated this part. The right before it started part. The waiting part. Killing time, she rummaged through her frayed denim bag as she sat in the Blazer’s passenger seat. Fletcher had done a good job. Little girl’s barrette, a hair scrunchie, crumbled Giant Eagle receipt, and two key chains: one with a set of house keys, the other with a single Dodge van key. She closed her fist around the van key, its sharp edges biting into her skin. The pain helped her to focus, chased away silent stirrings of panic. All part of the waiting. She’d be fine once it came time for doing. She always was. The bank’s parking lot was quiet at this early hour, heat already steaming the blacktop. The air smelled of fertilizer, mowed hay, and burnt oil. Frogs trilled a duet with cicadas in the field across the parking lot, punctuated by the squeal of airbrakes from the highway beyond it. September in Pennsylvania. Steadying her breathing, she pictured Katie, only four years old. Pictured what the men wanted to do with her. No, that was no good—all she saw was her own daughter, all she felt was rage that animals like them were allowed to roam free. Tossing her head to crack her neck, she took another deep breath. Shoved the image of her daughter aside and thought instead about what the men wanted: power, devotion, adoration… control. She knew these men, knew how they thought, what they desired. The passions that woke them at three in the morning, sweaty and sick with need. The visions they held in their mind as they jacked off. The longing, sweet anticipation, clawing its way through their veins until they were as powerless to resist as a junkie offered a free hit … Oh yes, Lucy knew these men. Calm settled over her, hypnotic as the burble of childhood streams, cool water, warm mud between her toes. She and her father had loved to go fishing. He always said fishing was all about the art of dangling bait. Showing them what they wanted but not ever letting them have it. That’s all this was, a different kind of fishing. She closed her eyes for a moment, smiling at the memory. Dad was right. And Lucy was a good fisherman. She lived for that instant when the line snapped taut, ready to break, adrenalin stretching the moment, time holding its breath until she took control and finessed the fish into shore—right where she wanted it. Her phone rang, shattering the calm. “Now, don’t worry,” Nick said, which of course sent her pulse racing into overdrive. He always said that when there was something to worry about. “Megan just called. Her fever’s back. And her throat is sore again. I got a hold of the doctor. He can see her if we can get her there by nine, but my first client is already on their way—” Lucy glanced at the dashboard clock. The meet should be a quick in and out, just to confirm all the details and make sure there weren’t any new players to add to their roster. With Nick’s practice so new, he couldn’t risk angering clients by canceling. “I can do it.” “You sure?” She didn’t take offense—he had reason to doubt, she’d been held up before by work. But it was a Saturday. And he’d taken Megan to the doctor two weeks ago—if the strep had come back, Lucy wanted to be there to get some answers. “No problem. I’m sure.” “Call me, let me know what the doctor says.” “I will. She’s okay until I get there?” Megan had been miserable with the strep; she hoped it wasn’t back again. Guilt washed over her. Work had been busy, too busy, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been home in time to do more than tuck Megan in. Although, of course Megan refused to be tucked in by her mom anymore. Twelve going on twenty. “She’s fine. Worried about missing soccer.” “It’s time,” Fletcher called to her from outside the window. “I’ve got to go. Love ya. Bye.” Lucy hung up, pushing all thoughts of her family aside, locking them away safe and sound. She searched for that calm again. No luck. All she found was an electric current of adrenalin sparking her skin. One last check in the mirror that she looked the part: large dangling earrings, clunky ugly choker, too-small Lycra tank top, tight fitting black stretch jeans, way too much makeup, big hair teased and sprayed to an inch of its life, and three-inch high heeled boots. Typical trailer trash mom doing whatever it took to make ends meet, that was her. Except for one small detail. She slid her wedding band free and completed her final ritual. A quick kiss for luck, smearing the ring with her too-bright lipstick, she carefully placed the ring in the change section of her real wallet inside her real bag. She climbed out of Fletcher’s Blazer and slowly spun around for him. “Wow. You look good,” he said as he approached from the side of the SUV. Fletcher wasn’t a tall man, was reedy thin as if he forgot to eat sometimes, with the permanent squint of someone who spent most of his waking hours staring at computer monitors. Lucy shot him a glare and he stammered, “I mean, you look, er—” “Everything ready?” she asked him. “Yeah, sure, I think.” She folded her arms across her chest, interrupting his appraisal, and he looked up, flushing. “I mean, yes, I’m ready.” It was time. Lucy crossed the parking lot to where the battered Caravan with tinted windows waited. The macadam, soft with heat, grabbed onto her boot heels, giving her one last chance to change her mind. She wasn’t changing her mind. She peered into the back seat, scrutinizing the still form buckled into a booster seat. She circled the van. Checked from every angle. A girl, sleeping, dressed in her Sunday best, slumped in the seat, streams of golden curls tangled and askew, concealing her features. Lucy got into the van and turned on the ignition, cranking the AC. It was even hotter than yesterday, already eighty-three degrees according to the bank thermometer. Pittsburgh’s idea of Indian summer. “Okay, Katie Mae, it’s just you and me, kid.” The men had changed the meeting place at the last minute. She hadn’t liked that, but it happened. Not too surprising given what they were meeting for. Now it was an old water pumping station off of Route 60. Her team had already done their recon, said the building had been bought by Walter, their main target after standing empty for a decade. By the time Lucy arrived, the AC had only begun to cool the inside of the van, leaving her clammy with half-dried sweat. Two other cars waited in the gravel parking lot—a beat up Pontiac sedan and a Ford 350 pickup. The whitewashed concrete building was on a wooded lot with a stream running along the east side, rusting pipes tunneling through the building’s side wall down to the water. She knew her team’s positions but couldn’t spot them in the woods surrounding the lot. Good. A crudely forged steel cross perched on the roof’s peak—a call to worship or a lightning rod? Then she noticed the hand carved wooden sign hanging over the front door, one end a little lower than the other—Lucy itched to straighten it—reading: Church of the Holy Redeemer. A church? She worked her jaw from side to side, ligaments crackling with tension. A church. These guys were full of surprises. Nothing much she could do about it except hope this was the last one. She left the van running and locked the door behind her. The only obvious luxury the Caravan had was the keypad door lock. In her line of work, it wasn’t a luxury, it was a necessity. She touched the window, her fingers tracing Katie’s sleeping form. Anxiety resurfaced, splashing through her gut, a trout caught in a net. Another deep breath reined it in. She wasn’t expecting trouble. She’d had meetings like this before—so many, she’d lost count—and had never had any trouble. That didn’t mean she wasn’t prepared. A short-barreled Smith and Wesson .32 concealed in her denim jacket. Single working mom type of gun. Tugging her jacket into place, shifting her shoulders until she felt her thirty-two nestle against her ribcage, she walked towards the building. The cornerstone read 1923, the windows were arched and mullioned with carved keystones over the top of each. Back then even a lowly pumping station received an artisan’s attention. The door, an arched slab of wood, popped open while she was still ten feet away. A bearded man, thin, with wire-rim glasses, wearing black slacks and a starched white shirt buttoned all the way to the top collar button, emerged. “Sister Ruby?” “Yes.” She stopped a few feet shy of the entrance. He stood directly beneath the crooked sign. “Are you Walter?” “I am.” “I’m not sure about this—I mean, a church?” “Would you like to see our facilities?” He spread an arm open in invitation. Despite his formal tone, his accent was strictly country, rolling in cadence just like the hills surrounding them. He was working hard to play a role. Lucy’s jaw spasmed, sending a shock wave of pain down her neck...