Adieu to Destiny (The Adventures of Anabel Axelrod Book 4) Read online

  ‘Oh, super, I’m a piss post,’ I moaned silently, as the eye-watering odor of ammonia permeated the small space.

  “I’ll tell you what, dog, I’ve had it with you. Git out here!” The man’s rage seemed to be winding up in direct proportion to regaining his wind. “You should have run those bitches down!”

  ‘The poor pooch is on a choke chain, you miserable old man!’ The sex kitten voice was shaky, but indignant.

  Tensing as the footsteps stomped noisily over the icy ground our way; I ignored the dog’s violent trembling and soft whimpers. My whole attention was riveted on pinpointing the man’s location from his muttered curses while he stumbled over the uneven ground and racked the gun again.

  ‘He’s determined to shoot something,’ the detective voice offered up calmly, ‘even if it’s his own dog.’

  From my position flat on my stomach, I agreed with that quiet assessment.

  I had dived into the doghouse because once past the cover of sparse fir trees, open fields surrounded the entire area on three sides with no place to hide on the flat ground. The fourth side was back towards the farmyard and barn where I had been posted as a lookout and run from when I lured the farmer to chase me. That was the direction I needed to go to escape back to the road.

  Under normal circumstances, sneaking past a drunken old man in the dark would be easy-peasy. Unfortunately, this particular old drunk was a raging redneck that was cocked and locked to blow my head off. Trying to quietly evade a man hunting me with a gun over ground covered in icy patches waiting to crack like peanut brittle was not a good plan. I had only one idea to avoid a complete disaster, if not my death.

  So I got up on all fours and started barking ferociously like a real guard dog should, nudging the shaking dog next to me.

  It took Stinky a second to get his nerve up, but then he remembered his balls and took over the barking. When he paused in his deep woofs of joyful revolt against his shouting master, I yelled out in my best impression of a massive dog voice, “Hurry, the bitches ran past me towards the east field.”

  The man was silenced for only a moment by the miracle of his talking dog before his voice roared out of the darkness, “What in the…who is that?”

  Lurching footsteps turned into a run. Not towards the east field in drunken gratitude for the helpful tip, but straight at the doghouse. Through the torn entrance tarp, I could barely make out the outline of a large figure in a light-colored jacket. He was waving a long gun while pounding over the frozen ground in a booze-fueled fury to come get us.

  I dropped flat to the plywood floor again. “Get down and cover your ears, Stinky. This can’t end well.”

  The heavy cloud cover in the night skies chose that moment to part. Angled beams of moonlight flooded the clearing through the treetops; illuminating the running farmer waving a long gun over his head. A bushy beard didn’t hide his vengeful grimace of a smile. I swear to God his eyes glowed incandescent red, but right then, I had no time to ponder the phenomena.

  Still running while swinging his gun down into a firing position, the lunatic was actually closing in for the kill. I steadied my two-handed grip on Rita, aiming for center mass like Luke had instructed. My finger was poised to pull the trigger because I’ll be damned before I was dying in a stinking doghouse.

  Once second, the drunken man was five yards away and not stopping. The next second, a chain jangled noisily and the man cursed painfully, flailing in shouting confusion. The third second, he dropped hard to the ground.

  The boom of thunder from the big gun was deafening in its finality.

  Several tense seconds passed while I lay there, stunned. Ears ringing, I moved to take stock of my favorite body parts, positive I was hit and had to be bleeding from somewhere, but too shocked to feel the pain.

  Past the doghouse door’s flaps, I could see the lower half of the farmer’s body twitching erratically. Quietly inching forward, I moved up next to the panting dog.

  When the man had tripped on the chain post, Stinky had let out a strangled yap as his head was violently jerked out between the flaps of the door. From what I could tell after a quick appraisal, the dog wasn’t shot, either. Rita at the ready, I pushed aside the ripped tarp to get a complete view of the outside.

  A few feet in front of us, the old man was sprawled face down in the churned up mud and dog crap surrounding the pitiful excuse for a doghouse. I lowered Rita, found my phone, and turned on the narrow, but powerful flashlight beam. What was left of the man’s head glistened wetly in a spreading pool of black blood. I didn’t see the gun.

  I shared a speaking glance with Stinky. “Huh. Guess I was wrong. This did end well.”

  The dog tilted his huge head slightly and rumbled low in his throat. I snorted in response and then pushed and shoved at Stinky until he moved all the way out of the doghouse.

  My stunned reaction was wearing off and I needed to hurry. I cautiously stood up outside and listened the best I could for any other signs of pursuit or people curious about the gunshots. Jazy and Tre J’s report said the farmer lived alone, but he could have friends around or nosy neighbors. They’d been wrong about his habitual Saturday night bender at the local bar, so they could be wrong about his relationship status, as well.

  Sensing there was no imminent threat; I holstered Rita in the special side pocket of the new purse I’d ordered online that was designed to carry a gun. Squatting, I aimed the flashlight back inside the empty doghouse, slowly sweeping the bright beam from corner to corner. I next checked the contents of my open purse. Satisfied I hadn’t dropped anything or left any traces of my presence behind; I took out my father’s old Swiss Army knife and reached for the buckle on the dog’s choke collar.

  Stinky growled at me while I quickly worked the buckle open. “Oh, please, my fine, bi-polar puppy. Don’t even think of going all badass on me now. Not after scarfing my meatloaf and peeing on me twice in terror.”

  I nicked a small cut with the knife blade on the edge of the dog’s collar, grateful it was cheap nylon instead of leather. Using the pointed end of the can opener tool, I quickly worked at the slit until I tore the collar in half. I rubbed some dirt into the ragged edges. I fastened the collar buckle together again and used my hoodie sleeve to wipe off my fingerprints. I tossed the collar aside, still attached to the length of chain anchored to the post in the ground that the dead farmer had tripped over. It would look like the dog’s collar had ripped apart and the dog had run away, if anybody even cared.

  I was right about the dog being a monster. Standing on all fours, Stinky’s huge head came up to my chest; round, protuberant brown eyes met mine.

  “Geez, you look like an ex-relative of mine.”

  Running the flashlight beam over the creature, his coat of wiry hair was short. I’d never seen such markings on a dog. The brown and black stripes were reminiscent of a tiger.

  Staggering when the dog leaned against my side, I sighed loudly and fed him the breath mint from my Italian poison ring. I couldn’t tell if he was old or young, but I was right about the skin and bones part, too. The dog was obviously starved. I glanced a final time at the farmer, done twitching and lying dead on the frozen ground. I may have discovered my soul recently, but I haven’t evolved that much. My lip curled at the fitting irony of his death.

  Jazy and Tre J weren’t out stalking boyfriends or peering in men’s bedroom windows like I suspected, or at least not all of the time. They’d developed their impressive ninja skills by running a kidnapping operation to rescue neglected and abused horses.

  I didn’t “need to know”, so I wasn’t sure what they did with the abused horses once they were saved, though.

  Did they take them to the glue factory and put them out of their misery? Did they turn them loose on the high plains, like Free Willy, but horse-style? Did Minnesota even have any high plains or herds of wild horses? I was doubtful, but maybe they let them loose in Iowa or South Dakota, since nothing much was going on in those states, and then
shooed the horses west to God’s country. Were Mustangs a breed of horse, or did any horse that hung out in the wild get called a mustang as a sign of respect for surviving on their own? I wasn’t a huge animal lover, so I had no idea. Living in the apartment and running the store, I’ve never had a pet of my own--unless you counted a Chia Pet strategically named Barbara’s Bush that my nasty, sniggering brother bought for me one Christmas.

  In theory, I always thought it would be cool to have a fat tabby cat sitting on a counter in Bel’s Books that gave the customers dirty looks while licking its unmentionables, but anybody with half a brain knew that, sooner or later, tubby tabby would escape out the door and get hit by a car on Division Street.

  Who needed the heartache, much less a mess like that on their hands?

  I agree, I sure didn’t.

  The flashlight flickered and went out.

  “Darn it.” I smacked and jiggled the case, but my cell phone stayed dead. I still hadn’t replaced the battery. It was hit or miss how long the phone stayed charged, a fact that usually didn’t create problems, since I believed a good cell phone was a silent cell phone.

  ‘Is this where I say I told you so?’ The mean mommy’s voice was saccharine sweet. ‘What if that farmer hadn’t fallen down and gone boom? There you’d be--trapped in a crappy doghouse with no phone to call for help.’

  “Oh, bite me, bite me, BITE ME!”

  The dog bared his teeth and rumbled low in his throat again.

  “Not you, starving Stinky. Okay, listen up--I’m leaving.” I patted his massive black head and then waved him off with a disgusted frown when he panted up in my face. “Holy Hannah, your breath still smells foul. Go be free and live off the land, or whatever dogs do in the wild. Try not to gobble any small children.”

  I had run like a cheetah with its head cut off when leading the old man away from Jazy and Tre’s activities in the barn, but based on the vague map of the farm in my head, I had a general idea of where I was.

  Without looking back, I started jogging in the direction the road should be. Behind me there was a pitiful whine and the scrambling of claws on the icy ground.

  I ran faster, and even zigzagged through the pines, but just when I thought I’d ditched the mutt, he’d let out a piteous whimper to remind me that he was still back there.

  Finally, I stopped and threw my hands in the air. “Fine, you damn actor. I’ll take you to my sister. Are you happy now?” Waiting for the skulking beast to catch up, I muttered, “It’s not like you can’t pass for a small horse.”

  Chapter II

  “Big Girls Don’t Cry” by Fergie

  Saturday, 12/15

  7:30 PM

  Stinky slowed me down, so I had plenty of time to think on the miserable trudge to meet my sister at our prearranged spot. The temp hovered somewhere in the low teens. I got away with wearing a hoodie for a coat, and my hands were warm in their fleece-lined mittens, but under my wet jeans, my thigh was starting to complain about chafing due to my recent impersonation of a pee post.

  To take my mind off the stinging pain and my tiredness, I thought about the mission tonight. From what the farmer had been shouting, he knew more than he should. Maybe he hadn’t randomly arrived home earlier than normal, but had been getting his drunk on at the bar until something or someone tipped him off. When his truck pulled in the driveway, he’d made a beeline directly for the barn, big gun in hand. Looking back, it was plain he expected to find some bitches stealing his animals. The farmer shouldn’t have even known there were bitches plural. He’d caught only the merest glimpse of one bitch--me-- outside the barn before I lured him away with the horse recording. I would talk it over with Jazy and Tre J, but it could be the girls had a traitor in their operation.

  Next, I thought about the farmer’s scary red eyes the moment before he tripped and fell.

  Was the expression “seeing red” to describe unholy rage a literal translation? Could people be temporarily possessed by evil and manifest the possession with eyes that glowed like red-hot coals from the fires of hell? Could I believe angels and demons existed in our world without also subscribing to a belief in God and Satan?

  Shivering, I rubbed my arms briskly. In response, Stinky bumped my arm with his head.

  “I bet you believe in evil, don’t you, puppy?” I reached out to give his bony spine a stroke with my mitten, and then pushed him away with a grunt of effort. The big dog was walking so close to my side, he kept pushing me off stride and I kept tripping over his big paws.

  The barn’s roof came in sight, outlined as a huge shadow against the night sky. I didn’t want to be dwelling on evilness while I was out here walking alone, so instead, I summoned up the image of another devil that made me shiver in good places.

  That’s right, I thought about my boyfriend, Luke Drake.

  Yes, I said boyfriend, not fiancé.

  As Stinky and I tread cautiously down the graveled lane past the silent, dark farmhouse, I considered the reoccurring nightmare about Luke that had woke me up in a cold sweat for the past six nights. I’ve had a progressively harder time falling asleep. When out of exhaustion I finally did pass out, the same bad dream crept up like a sly vampire intent on sucking more of my mojo out of me each night. The nightmare was responsible for the weariness of spirit that I couldn’t seem to shake off during the day, too. At the rate I was going, soon I’d be a dry husk of a girl with no feisty juice left in me at all.

  Like most of the nightmares I’ve had in my life, this one was based in reality, too, and started last Sunday night.

  After Luke’s public proposal at Anna’s bridal shower, and after I’d run out the door of Mac’s bedroom, I hadn’t gone more than a few feet before sliding to a stop.

  What was I thinking? Luke and I couldn’t get engaged with Svettie on the loose. The woman was deranged. There were more questions than answers, but if she was the one behind hiring Dickie to kill me, she murdered the odd, chubby dude in cold blood when the plan backfired. My God, that meant she was already delusional over Luke. What wrath might the kook unleash on my family and friends if she found out that we’d become engaged?

  I had done an about-face back to the bedroom. I paused to watch Luke through the open door. He was still seated on the side of Mac and Diego’s bed, black brows meeting in a thoughtful frown, the long fingers on his left hand drumming absently on his thigh.

  Too flustered when he’d shown up at the party, I hadn’t noticed before that he had dressed up for the occasion in black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. The sweater wasn’t bulky, but a silk blend that clung to Luke’s delicious muscles and lightly outlined his washboard abs. It was the perfect sweater to wear for a marriage proposal. A feeling of foreboding swept over me and I had a sudden urge to run to Luke and cling to his muscles, but I squared my shoulders. I was doing the right thing.

  Luke looked up then. I watched his harsh features soften slightly when he saw me regarding him from the doorway. A study in black from head to toe, Luke’s green eyes, keen with intelligence, stood out in vivid contrast. Beautiful and unusual, when his glance was tender as it was now, their color rivaled a lush lawn of summer grass.

  No matter the slight softness of feeling my Devil’s observant gaze was always sharp, but his tone was light as he drawled, “Ah, I see someone has come crawling back to apologize to the mighty Khan for running off when she should be worshiping at his feet.”

  I looked over my shoulder. “Nope, it’s just me.”

  Luke snorted and held out a hand. “Come here, tough girl.” As I walked towards the bed, his brow arched. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Hot men and green grass?”

  Luke regarded me for a beat before he muttered, “Okay, that was my fault for asking.” I giggled as he pulled me to stand between his legs. His lips curved, although his deep voice was serious when he asked, “We’re not announcing our engagement, are we?”

  We shared a long look of rueful understanding and
then I sighed. Holding his hand up to my cheek, I brushed a kiss across his knuckles.

  “I’m sorry, but if you agree, I think we should wait until Svettie is caught. If she thinks we’re living happily ever after,” I nipped my Dark Prince’s knuckle recalling the next thought, “no telling what that creepy, skinny stripper could do to somebody in our families.”

  “Ouch!” Luke laughed. “You little savage, how many times do I have to promise that I don’t picture Svetlana naked more than once or twice a day?” I bit him harder and Luke laughed again. Shaking his hand from my grip, he hugged me around the waist and pulled me close, effectively straitjacketing me. Nuzzling the side of his face into my breasts, he said, “Besides, I’m a little more concerned what she’ll try to do to you.”

  I stood stiff and chilled in his embrace while the silk fabric of my dress absorbed Luke’s body heat. Slowly, his warmth seeped deeper to calm the cold anger his words had churned up that Svettie might actually try to kill me again.

  Except for my ex-cousin, the sociopath with no nicer feelings so her vote doesn’t count, I have never been hated by anyone. Well, maybe the Hammer and Ron Hansen hated me, but the Hammer could rot in hell and Hansen’s vote definitely didn’t count. I’d be much more concerned if he didn’t hate me. All of Team Anabel agreed it was an unsettling feeling to be despised to such an extreme.

  It wasn’t fear exactly, but more the in-your-face comprehension of how fragile life was and how easily it could be snuffed out. If I contemplated my death in the future, it meant falling asleep one night in bed when I was one hundred-and-fifty-years old and never waking up. That was my plan, and I sure as heck didn’t appreciate Svettie putting a spoke in my wheel of fortune playing her F’d up version of Russian roulette with my life.

  I luxuriated in Luke’s affectionate nuzzling as it crossed my mind that I may have misjudged Svettie. If she had the wherewithal, not to mention the cunning, to hire Dickie to kidnap me and leave me to die, she wasn’t just some helpless bimbo girlfriend temporarily needing rescue from the Russian mob. There could be much more to her than met the eye.