Clayton

 

I don’t mean to stare. Well…actually, I do. She’s fucking hot. My eyes roam over every inch of her, taking in mile-long legs and the way the blue denim clings to her curves. When she bends to dig for something in her purse, a sliver of creamy white skin flashes just below the hem of her shirt, and the curve of her breasts protrudes from the collar.

Working the muscle in my jaw, I force back a slew of obscenities, as the crotch of my jeans gets tighter. “Pull it together, Clayton. You’re acting like a fucking teenager,” I grumble, yet allow my gaze to linger.

Her face softens as she pulls her hand from her purse and holds up what appears to be a cell phone. Once her body straightens, her mouth drops open and her eyes go wide. She pauses, the cell phone midway to her ear as her eyes land on me.   

“Fuck, this isn’t good,” I mutter, ducking behind a tree and running a hand through my hair. The rough bark presses into my back as I lean against the trunk and contemplate what to do next.

Standing in the shadows of Magnolia Woods rehab facility was not part of the plan today. For several weeks, we’ve been monitoring the facility’s surveillance video, which included watching and timing employees as they came and went. I’m here now because no one else should have been. That makes my options limited, but I run through a few scenarios.

One: I could approach her, with the intel I have on Magnolia Woods. Convincing her I’m a family member of one of the patients would be easy enough.

Two…two would involve a cocktail served from a syringe. Not only would it make her forget she saw anyone, but if someone had enough time, they could alter her memories.

The syringe tucked in the pocket of my jeans rolls easily between the tips of my fingers while I consider the third and least likely option.

Three...well, three involves a gun.

My need for a decision is cut short when the crunch of tires on gravel and click of pebbles colliding midair draws my attention. Her pecan locks fluttering in the wind as the silver Camaro convertible speeds away.

Narrowing my eyes, I focus on the bold black letters of her license plate and repeat the letters SLVR SS in my mind until I’ve committed them to memory. Then once she’s at the end of the drive, I slide a hand across my brow and switch to stealth mode. My steps are light, quiet, but also quick as I cover the ground between the trees and the back of the facility.

While grand, the building is not much more than an old Southern estate that’s been converted to a rehab facility. If anything, it makes my job easier since it’s not fitted with the latest technology a newer facility might have. With little effort, we were able to hack the system and link it to the device in my pocket. The unit can unlock any door with an ID scanner, and it can re-route any video feed from live to loop as needed.

Nearing the employee entrance, the area is void of any employees. I press my back against the aged vinyl siding and sidestep to the door, staying out of range of the surveillance cameras. They are on a loop now, but I don’t want to take any chances.

With a hand on the handle of the door, and the other in my pocket, I press the button. The click of the lock being released is my cue, and I slip through the door.  

The room is dark. A mixture of coconut, vanilla, and spicy cologne permeates my senses, making me think I’m in a kitchen, but stepping farther into the room, an overwhelming scent of bleach has me reconsidering. When my eyes adjust to the lower light, the shadows begin taking shape, and I can make out rows of lockers. I’m in the employee locker room. Swiping the screen of my phone I retrieve the floor plans of the facility. And once I’ve determined the manager’s office is only two doors down, I direct the screen of my phone to the floor, then move to the door and pull it open a crack. My eyes narrow at the bright light protruding from the hall. I wait until they adjust once again, then open the door enough to gaze down the deserted hallway. With my back straight and stride confident, I step into the hall, appearing as though I belong there.

When I get to the manager’s office, the window in the center of the door reflects a dark interior. I override the scanner, then quickly slip inside. Working from the light shining through the window, I move to the desk and stick the bug on the underside of the desktop, then slip back out the door and backtrack down the hall.

It’s not until I’m safely back in my vehicle that I let out a deep breath and pause for several moments, while the pounding anxiety in my ears begins to recede. When the silence takes over, the ring from my phone startles me. “Mrs. Witt?”

“Is everything taken care of?” Her tone is pointed, as always.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well. Meet us at the location discussed.”

“Will do.”

This is the extent of every conversation with Deloris. Perpetually to the point. Any personal or small talk is essentially unnecessary, and understandably so. In our line of work, personal equates to distractions—and distractions can be deadly.

 

 

***

Our rendezvous point is an abandoned metal building Deloris somehow gained access to. I don’t ask, and she doesn’t tell. The metal door creaks as I step through. She’s sitting at an old workbench, using it as a makeshift desk. “Mrs. Witt.” My tone is confident as I extend my hand to her.

She accepts my hand and nods to the seat next to her. “How’d it go?” Her voice echoes through the empty building. 

“Everything went as expected. I’m somewhat disappointed, actually. I was fully prepared to kick some ass if necessary.” My lips curve up in a smirk, but hers remain in a straight line.

“I’m not surprised. It’s why we do our due diligence before setting any task in motion. For the next day, we’ll be laying low, monitoring the manager’s conversations and keying in on anything we can use about what goes on at Magnolia Woods. I expect you have a plan in place for obtaining the ambulance?” She clicks through a slurry of emails scrolling across the screen of her laptop.

“Yes, ma’am. They have two ambulances. One is an older model—mid-eighties Ford F350. I suspect it will be the least missed of the two. There are also two sets of keys hanging just inside the employee locker room with numeric key tags that match the number on each ambulance.”

“Very well. Anything else I need to be aware of?” Her brows arch and her intense eyes meet mine, questioning, almost as if she can read my mind.

“Yes.” I match the intensity of her stare and continue. “There was a young woman—brunette, five-ten or so, with an average frame. I wasn’t close enough to catch her eye color or name, and she didn’t notice me…at first.” The corner of my lip turns up as my thoughts drift back to how sexy she was.  

“Clayton, do I need to remind you we have been given strict instructions by the Demetris to stick to the plan? You know what happened to Jerrod, and I’m not willing to risk my reputation or my job so you can wet your dick.” She closes her eyes, her head shaking in disappointment, and her tone comes out more as a growl. “Anything else?”

My brow raises at her forwardness, but I quickly recover, and bite out, “I can assure you, Mrs. Witt, this won’t jeopardize my ability to do my job. I understand the task at hand and the consequences explained by you numerous times, if I fucked anything up. This is not about wetting my dick, as you so graciously put it. It’s about finding out why the girl was at Magnolia Woods.”

Silence fills the air as our conversation morphs into a standoff. Our eye contact doesn’t falter. Hers dart between mine, as if she’s trying to read me. I understand she’s good at what she does, but so am I. Years of training has taught me how to avoid people getting in my head. Attempting to relieve the tension, I lean back in my chair and casually say, “I did get her license plate.”   

With a heavy exhale, she concedes, “You’re right. We need to make sure this girl doesn’t have any involvement with the Fitzgeralds or Spencers. Let’s get it done so we can move on.”

Using what seem to be wizardry skills on searching the web, she has everything we ever need or want to know about the girl on her laptop screen in less than ten minutes. 

My stomach drops and the muscle in my jaw flexes when I read the details.

Lacy James. Twenty-six-year-old graduate from Colorado State University with a degree in journalism. She has one sibling, and her mother, now deceased, was recently a patient at Magnolia Woods where Lacy currently works as a nurses’ assistant.

“Why in the fuck would her mother have been in that facility, of all places?” I mutter, though my voice comes out louder than expected.

Deloris turns the laptop toward me. “I don’t think the reason her mother was at Magnolia Woods is what you need to worry about right now.” She points to the screen, zooming in on a clip from a Denver newspaper. The author is none other than Lacy James. I scan over the title, then move down.

Injured in the Line of Duty

“Sometimes, the road to recovery can bring even the strongest person to their knees. Perhaps even have them wishing they weren’t a survivor at all. Clayton Andrews gives us some insight into what his recovery was like…”

My eyes close, not wanting to read any further.

Deloris clears her throat. “Is this going to be a problem for you?”

“No, ma’am. That was a long time ago.” Meeting her gaze, my tone lacks the confidence emanating from my eyes. I’m not really sure if this will be a problem.

She doesn’t question, instead; she continues skimming through the rest of the article. When she reaches the end, her gaze is back on mine, but her words are out of character. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I appreciate the offer, but no,” I grit out, my tone harsher than intended.

She closes the laptop and her voice softens. “I think we’re done for the day. You can head back to the hotel. If there’s anything else we need done tonight, I’ll take care of it.”

Not wanting to risk the conversation going any further, I nod in agreement and head back into town.