One Rule - No Surrender, page 6
part #2 of One Rule Series
Thalma also had in mind paying a surprise visit to Louis's shop. There was a new "employee" she wanted to check out.
As she grabbed her pickup keys, Socrates clambered up the stairs and joined Plato in regarding her with appraising eyes.
"Be good you two," she said. She gave Plato a look. "Remember, you're in a trial period."
Ten minutes later, Thalma pulled up in front of Logan Custom Auto Works. A lot of cars in the lot, though she suspected most of them belonged to Max's Deluxe Pizzas next door. She hesitated at the front door, surprised by a tingle of apprehension. She could fight a two hundred pound dog and a three hundred pound man without fear, but an attractive woman working in close proximity to Louis...that was the stuff of true nightmares. She braced herself and entered the building.
At first the blond young woman behind the front desk didn't strike Thalma as anything impressive. She was about to breathe out in relief when the woman looked up and Thalma was peering into large, gold-flecked brown eyes strikingly similar in color to Louis's. Her face was a study in clean, symmetrical lines and planes and high cheekbones that hinted of something exotic - perhaps Asiatic or Native American. She was the pretty librarian/girl next door.
"Can I help you..." The woman cocked her head as their gazes locked. "Oh. Mrs. McDowell."
Thalma shambled forward on legs as stiff as a zombie's, pausing at the counter. The young woman rose to near Thalma's six feet height. Under her business suit she had broad shoulders and a muscular but curvaceous body, like someone who played beach volleyball and hit the gym three or four times a week. A couple of telltale bulges suggested handguns.
"I'm Maggie Iverson," she said, extending a hand.
After a moment, Thalma reached up and lightly clasped it. She couldn't stop herself from imagining the girl's shocked squeal of pain and the sound of crunching bones if she squeezed hard.
"I was about to get a bite," the girl said. "You want to join me?"
Thalma found her voice. "Aren't you supposed to be guarding Louis?"
"The pizza place next door. Anyone suspicious shows up, I – or we – can be back here in five seconds."
"Okay."
Thalma wasn't sure what the blonde had in mind, but she appreciated being handed the opportunity to vet her a little. She knew from WASP that some women could be tough daughters of bitches, but that didn't mean she'd trust most women to guard her man. It was hard to avoid the suspicion that Murphy had just palmed off some lower-level employee on them. Still, he did deserve some credit for his willingness to do even that.
Despite having just eaten, the smell of cheese and meat toppings got Thalma's stomach juices churning. They settled on a three-meat large pizza. Maggie Iverson stared at her with her large golden-brown eyes.
"Sorry," she said. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful. Murphy didn't mention that."
Thalma worked on not smiling. Do not blush, under any circumstances.
"What did Murphy mention?"
"No personal details, don't worry. Just that you and your brother are the most deadly individuals he'd ever encountered." Maggie smiled. "And he knows a lot of deadly individuals."
The pizza arrived, split in two. They each helped themselves to a slice.
"You're probably wondering how deadly I am," said Maggie, a smear of tomato sauce forming a bloody mustache on the upper lip of her smile. "Maybe Murphy snatched me out of his secretarial staff and sent me here?"
"Well, Lou – Logan" – Thalma wasn't sure she knew their real names – "tells me you're an expert at office organization."
"One of my most popular covers. I thought I might as well learn how to do it well. I'm someone who's somewhat fixated on doing things well." The girl regarded Thalma over her second piece of pizza, matching her bite for bite. No mean feat, Thalma thought. "But no, I was majoring in psychology at West Point until I was thrown out when I had a minor disagreement with an instructor over religion."
"I've read it's a fairly religious institution."
"That was a problem, because I'm not. And I got very sick of being treated like a second or third class citizen because of it. The point I made to my instructor when I punched him in the face."
Thalma raised an eyebrow and smiled.
"Funny thing is, while being kicked out of West Point closes a lot of traditional employment doors it turns out it's like a job recommendation to certain employers. I was recruited by the CIA and Western Security Group International within weeks of washing out. Both were willing to pay my legal and school expenses, but I thought WSGI offered more career possibilities."
"That's where you met Murphy."
"Yes. Five years ago. I was impressed by his efficiency. His ethics not so much. In fact, the more I got involved with WSGI the more I realized that you needed to leave morality at the door. Now I may be a heathen humanist, as they called me at West Point, but I happen to be kind of fond of morality, of doing the right thing. So when Morgan Investigative Network, owned by the mysterious Mathias Morgan, offered me a job, I checked them out. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the mysterious Morgan was the equally mysterious Mr. Murphy."
Thalma chewed on her words as she chewed on her slice of pizza. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because I think you and I might be working together in the future. Heck, we already are, really, protecting your husband."
Thalma was getting her usual uncomfortable feeling when someone got too much up in her business. She took her time finishing her last slice of pizza. Maggie slid over her remaining slices.
"I'm good," she said, "if you want these."
"I'm good, too."
"Thalma..." She paused, noting Thalma's body freezing. "Sorry. Murphy did tell me who you are. Please don't worry about that. We're on the same team."
Thalma made herself shrug.
"I can see you're skeptical about me," said the younger woman. "I know you don't want people, including me, knowing about you. Living your lifestyle safely means keeping way below the radar. And yet you risked everything to help that girl. That tells me something."
"That I'm careless?"
"That you have values – that you can be trusted. That if we were working together – and Mr. Murphy seems to think we will – you're someone who would have my back, just as I would have yours."
Thalma liked this less and less. Speaking of them working as a team was too presumptuous by far.
"I assume you're armed," said Thalma.
"Ankle and holster nines and a 686 .357 snub in my purse, along with OC spray, a taser, and extra ammo. A KaBar in my jacket." She smiled. "I don't carry a lot of makeup in my purse."
Thalma didn't return her smile. "Combatives?"
"I've trained since ten in karate, judo, taekwondo, akido, and jiu-jitsu. Mixed martial arts at West Point. WSGI had an ex-Special Forces instructor work with me and a few others for six months on weapons training and close-quarters combat."
Thalma finished off the two remaining pizza slices while deciding whether to be impressed or not. The men Murphy had sent against her hadn't inspired any confidence in his judgment, but then maybe they'd been second or third tier and this girl was first tier. Only one way to know for sure.
"You want to take me home and try me out?"
The girl was giving her a knowing smile, but her eyes shone with a fierce competitiveness. But was her confidence a delusion?
"Have you fought to the death?" Thalma's voice was a soft rumble.
"No. I suppose I don't have to ask you that question."
Thalma didn't respond.
"Seriously, I'm open to some sparring," said Maggie. "If that would make you feel better. I'm open for tonight, after work."
"I'll think about that." Thalma rose abruptly. "I need to do some grocery shopping. I'll let you know."
"Okay. Good to meet you."
Thalma hesitated before nodding.
Raley's was still fairly quiet in the Wednesday mid-afternoon. Thalma moved unencumbered through the aisles collecting her groceries, dark thoughts her only obstacles. Of all the people Murphy could've hired, why someone who looked like a young Bo Derek? Why not some typical ex-military male hard-ass? Instead, Louis got to stare at a female hard ass all day. Crap.
She was so absorbed with that apocalyptic image that she didn't notice the two guys in camo green closing in on her from opposite ends of her aisle. She dropped the can of mushroom soup into her basket and lowered it to the floor. Hard to believe Asshole Nation would confront her here, but here they were.
"Not looking for trouble," said the one in front of her, holding up his head. "Lance just wants to talk to you. He wants to know what happened to Mikey. Says he knows you have his dog."
"Who's Lance?"
"The leader of our chapter here. He says you two met."
"Skinny? Scar on his face?"
The man nodded. "Like I say, he just wants to talk."
"Where?"
"We got a house out of town. Or someplace public."
"McDonald's at two," said Thalma. "Just him. If anyone else shows up, the meeting won't happen."
"I'll tell him. And one more thing." He grabbed Thalma's food basket as she started around him. "If you had anything to do with what happened to Mikey, I don't care what Lance or anyone else says. I will personally kill you."
"Get out of my way."
"Say please."
"Okay."
She punched him in the temple with moderate force. He released the basket and flopped sideways against shelves lined with canned vegetables. She sensed movement behind her and back-kicked, catching the second man in the midsection. He slammed into the same shelf, propelling more cans onto the floor.
"Please," Thalma muttered, stepping around the men and the cans. A young woman who'd been standing near the end of the aisle pulled her wide-eyed four year old son back out of Thalma's way as she passed.
She encountered a supermarket employee around the corner and pointed behind her. "Some trash needs cleaning up in aisle 10."
Thalma drove home in a pissy mood, not even bothering to stop by and say hi to Louis, which she'd usually do during a trip to town. She didn't want to face Ms. West Point with her challenging eyes again or Louis pretending not to notice her. Her irritation had gotten the best of her in the supermarket. Way too easy to violence. That might've been the punch she wanted to launch into Maggie Iverson's beautiful, self-confident face. Which was nuts. She might very well be a decent person. Kudos to her for having ethics – or claiming to have them – and for standing up for herself at West Point. It would take a special person not to just play along and accept the golden ticket that West Point graduation offered. But the thought of Louis hanging around her smiling, self-confident blondness all day was sidelining her rational thoughts.
Her mood didn't improve much when a Tahoe Police cruiser pulled out from the trailhead as she passed and followed her into her driveway. The handsome young police detective emerged from his Interceptor wearing a grimmer expression than their last meeting.
"Hello, Mrs. McDowell," he said.
"Detective Dahlgren."
"I wonder if I might have a word."
Thalma turned to the house. The Ovcharka had reared up in the nearest living room window and was woofing in measured, almost metric rhythm. Socrates offered a quieter, cooler gaze from the kitchen window. She motioned the officer along with her to the picnic table to one side of their house.
She dropped down on the table. Dahlgren remained standing, one foot braced on the bottom board.
"I noticed some ambulances roll by on the trail earlier," Thalma said.
"Yes. A body was reported earlier." He met her gaze. "A member of the Aryan Nation named Mike Falwell – up the trail a mile or so from here. He'd apparently fallen – or was pushed – down a steep rock incline."
Mike Falwell? Thalma shook her head and smiled in disbelief.
"He was discovered by some gang members," said Dahlgren. "They noticed his dog in your front yard." He nodded to the living room window, where Plato now regarded them silently. "That's him, isn't it?"
"He just wandered down here yesterday," said Thalma. "I've been feeding him until I could locate his owner."
"I also just got a report of two men injured in an apparent altercation with a 'tall, dark-haired woman' at Raley's. Did you happen to be shopping there today?"
"Yes. I seem to recall a couple of guys tripping over themselves and knocking down some cans."
"You think this is some kind of joke, Theresa?"
"Only in a 'no good deed goes unpunished' kind of way."
"You know they believe you killed their friend?"
"That doesn't surprise me."
"You have to admit there seems to be a certain pattern here. Every time gang members come in contact with you they end up being injured." He started at her for a moment. "Or perhaps worse?"
Plato released a few more woofs from the window, and Socrates added a rumbling growl. Thalma guessed they were reading aggression in the police officer's stance.
"Was there something else, Detective Dahlgren?"
"Just trying to figure out who the heck you are, Mrs. McDowell."
"I'm just a lady with a great husband and a simple life living out the American dream."
"I know these gang members are bad guys and that they're probably harassing you. But you can't go around killing them or even punching them out."
"Not even in self-defense?"
"If you reported killing or battering someone in self-defense, especially under these circumstances, I doubt the district attorney would be inclined toward prosecution. But if you don't report it, that tends to place you in a negative light. You could be arrested and prosecuted as a murder suspect."
"Huh," said Thalma.
"It's not too late to make that report, Theresa. I would back you up, if you did."
"Thanks, but I have nothing to report."
"You think you can take this gang on by yourself? I don't care how skilled in combat you are. There are too many of them, and they won't stop coming at you."
"Are you suggesting that you can stop them?"
A note of consternation broke through his stern expression. "I'm suggesting we can help you."
"How? Assign Louis and me around the clock protection?"
Thalma raised a scornful eyebrow. Dahlgren's mouth grew pinched. She had to smile as she watched him struggle for a plausible answer as he clung to his authoritative expression.
"Have you ever noticed how little power you have, Detective Dahlgren?" she asked. "Sure, you can arrest an occasional shoplifter or murderer or break up a fight or pull someone over for speeding or drunk driving, but you can't put a measly gang like the Aryan Nation out of business – not to mention even touch the truly powerful evil people in this society."
"We're working on shutting down the Aryan Nation in this city," he said through clenched lips.
"No, you're working on opposing them. If you wanted to shut them down, you'd go in and take out their leaders. Putting a few lower level thugs into jail won't do a damn thing."
"There's a little thing we call 'due process,' Mrs. McDowell."
"Really? Where's due process when the police shut down the Constitution in whole cities during 'shelters in place,' breaking into any house they want without a warrant? Or you're disappeared without habeas corpus because some government agent declares you're an 'enemy combatant'? Or when drones assassinate American citizens without oversight or a trial?"
Dahlgren's mouth and jaw were growing more clenched by the moment.
"I'm not going to argue politics with you. Are you saying you won't testify against those three bank robbers?"
"I'll testify. But only because those three assholes deserve not to walk away and because it will piss off their friends."
"All right. I don't know what your real story is, Mrs. McDowell, but fair warning: we won't tolerate vigilantism in this town. Any more gang members end up dead or punched out in grocery stores, we'll be looking to you."
"Thanks for the heads-up."
She watched him drive away with the familiar sinking feeling that always dogged her after talking with a cop. Their every word and motion growled authority and her every fiber, no matter how much she strained to be nice, snarled fuck you. It was matter and antimatter. And on some level they knew that just as she knew it.
She dug out the special cell Murphy gave to her and hit the only private contact listed: "Charles." I wonder if that makes me a Charlie's Angel?
"Greetings." Murphy's cultured voice. "I've heard you had a busy last couple of days."
"Who told you that?"
"A little birdie called the local news."
"I forgot to ask – how safe is this phone?"
"Not safe enough to spill your deepest, darkest secrets, I'm afraid." After a pause: "I understand you met your husband's Girl Friday today."
Thalma bit down on a scowl. "You couldn't have hired some ugly ex-SF guy? You had to hire the swimsuit model from Sports Illustrated?"
Murphy chuckled. "I have plenty of elite ex-military men in my employ. But Maggie has special talents."
"I'll bet."
"Interesting. Even with everything else going on, you still have the time and energy to be jealous."
Thalma barely resisted a strenuous protest and accepted the hard truth. She'd become that girl. She didn't like it, but she sure as hell wouldn't be discussing her feelings with Murphy.
"The cop I originally talked to just showed up," she said. "They found the body of an Aryan Nation member up the trail from my house."
"So I heard. On the local police band."
Thalma bowed her head and rubbed her tight jaw.
"I also heard that there was an altercation in the grocery store. I must say, your devotion to keeping a low profile is truly inspiring."
Thalma rubbed her jaw with more force, adrift in a sea of anxiety.
"I have something for you," he said. "Maggie's bringing it over shortly. I think it may be of some assistance in resolving your current dilemma."
