In the Teeth of the Wind

In the Teeth of the Wind [Book 2 in the

WindTorn Tilogy]

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Copyright (c)2004 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

First published by Hard Shell Word Factory, February 2004

Hard Shell Word Factory www.hardshell.com

Suspense/Thriller

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or

distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a

violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.

To Charles Linwood Dixon and Roy Matheny:

Sons of my heart. I miss your smiles and laughter, guys.

*Prologue*

The thirty-seven-year-old officer had been with the Florida Drug Enforcement Agency only two years

when his life was drastically altered one cold, rainy November night. The last thing he remembered

before his ordeal began was hearing someone call his name while he was getting into his car outside the

apartment complex in which he lived. He stopped, car keys in his hand, as footsteps came toward him

out of the drizzling night.

"Hey, pig!" someone else snarled.

He turned and an ultra white light was thrust into his face, blinding him. He threw up an arm to ward

off the painful brightness.

Someone grabbed him from behind, another from the front. A sharp, stinging pain jabbed into the flesh

of his upper right arm, causing him to yelp in surprise. His world slowed.

He was vaguely aware of hands holding him, dragging him; the sound of a van's door sliding back on

its runners; other hands taking him, pulling him inside. The drug washed over him with such debilitating

force all he could do was blink up at the men whose faces were hidden behind black ski masks.

"Gonna take you on a nice, long ride, pal." The voice was chilling, deadly, full of threat, and he

wondered who had ordered his death. The face of Kiki Camareno, a friend and fellow DEA agent, now

dead and gone, slithered across his foggy mind.

They cuffed his arms behind him, tied his ankles together. One man leaned over him and taped his eyes

and mouth shut. An overpowering smell of duct tape - sourly-plastic and musky - drifted under his

nostrils.

They took him to a hot and musty place filled with a cloying stench. When the tape was ripped from

his eyes, they watered profusely. The air reeked of fertilizer and burned his nose.

Four assailants dragged him across a dirt floor, his legs useless against the numbness invading his

system. Hard hands gripped his upper arms, supported him as he hung helplessly between two of his

captors. One man gripped his chin in a cruel pinch and his head tilted upward so that he stared

wide-eyed at the masked face pressing in close to his own. "You wanna have a good time, pig?" asked

the man, his accent unmistakably Colombian.

"He's going to whether he wants it or not!" another man chortled.

His handcuffs were removed but he had little strength to free himself. He struggled - uselessly and

ineffectually - before they pushed him onto his back and dragged his arms over his head. They snapped

another cuff into place around his free wrist then he heard the rattle of metal against metal, the clink of the

cuff locking as his wrist was secured to the top of the cot. His left wrist was jerked upward and chained

to the cot as well.

He whimpered as they removed his jeans and shackled his ankles to the foot of the cot.

The DEA agent cringed as the Colombian moved over him, putting out a hand to touch him.

"Nice," the Colombian whispered, running his palm over the thick muscle of the agent's thigh. He slid

his hand between the agent's legs, to the inside of a tense thigh, probing for just the right place. "Very

nice."

The agent thought he knew what was coming.

Thought he knew what they were going to do to him before they killed him.

As his torture began, he believed he would die before the night was over. He began to pray in earnest:

"Hail Mary, full of Grace…"

He wondered if Kiki had done the same thing.

Long into the next few days, the agent lay where they'd chained him, wishing they'd kill him. He

wanted them to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger or put a blade to his throat and with one quick

slice, end his torment. He hadn't expected to live through the ordeal. He hadn't wanted to. But he had.

And he would later wish with all his heart that he had not.

*Part One*

*Chapter One*

Loud, tooth-jarring music bombarded Conor Nolan and Joe Cortesio as they pushed through the

double-oak doors into the interior of the dimly lit and crowded roadhouse. The cacophony of whining

guitars, piercing trill of a keyboard, and heavy thump of drums was deafening. The feedback from the

band's four huge speakers crashed through the over heated room like the blast-off from a lunar shuttle.

Over head a dense blue haze of cigarette smoke hung suspended from the exposed beams of metal

roof supports; the overpowering smell of spent tobacco attached itself to the men's clothing.

Accompanying the stench was the odor of sweat-slick bodies and sick-sweet marijuana. The

combination awakened a nest of butterflies in Conor Nolan's stomach.

Clustered around the dance floor at the north end of the cavernous room, four to six vinyl-covered

swivel chairs were pulled up to each of the twenty-odd, cluttered, sticky, chrome-and-laminate tables.

Nolan noted that every seat was full, some with more than one occupant.

The two men walked toward the East end of the room to a shadowed semi-circular nook with ten

booths set on a raised platform. Each booth was separated from its neighbor by a five feet high fieldstone

partition. Flickering light from electric torches looked like burning rushes.

Harried bartenders worked at feverish speed to fill drink orders. A dozen waitresses, dressed in short

black mini-skirts, circulated among the tables and booths.

At the long bar, crowded two people deep, a twenty-something blonde woman observed the dancers.

Watching intently, she swiveled from side to side on the barstool, sipping occasionally from a tall frosted

glass, ignoring the come-ons that now and again obstructed her view. A faint smile stretched her full lips

as her bored green gaze fell on Nolan's tall frame and held.

"Are they up there?" Joe Cortesio shouted over the din. He blinked against the intrusion of heavy

smoke.

"I can't see a damned thing!" answered Conor Nolan. The flash of a strobe, emanating from the hard

rock band light show, underscored his night blindness. The jerky movements and blue-white appearance

of the people in the room made his stomach roil.

Cortesio stumbled as a drunk swerved off course and collided with him. He ignored the slurred

apology and shoved the offender away, grimacing with distaste at the stench of vomit that assailed his

nostrils. He reached behind him, felt for the bulge of his wallet in the pocket of his jeans and was satisfied

it hadn't been lifted in the encounter.

Nolan tapped Cortesio on the shoulder and pointed. Squinting, Cortesio nodded.

They threaded their way through the room, jostled and blocked with every step - disengaging playful

arms thrown around them by bold women - the two men finally made it to the platform of booths.

"Where the hell you guys been?" snapped Neville "Trip" Triplett as Cortesio slipped into the booth at

one end and Nolan the other.

Nolan glanced at his friend, taking in the thinning dark hair. "What's with you? Turning forty still got

you bummed?"

Trip shifted his six-foot, two-inch frame in the seat and drew a hand across his spreading middle. He

fastened Nolan with a dark gray stare but let the good-natured jib drop. "We were beginning to think you

guys weren't coming." Trip forced his gaze from Conor's grinning face.

"Hell, Triplett," said Cortesio, "we weren't even breathing hard."

Nolan leaned over to kiss the only woman in the booth. "How's it going, pretty lady?"

Rhianna Marek was, indeed, a pretty lady. With her soft, dewy brown eyes and long, straight sable

hair, she could pass for a teenager, and had when the New Gregory police force needed an insider at the

local high school. Her soft Georgia accent further belied her age; she would be thirty-two on the next

Summer Solstice.

"You're late," Rhianna complained, dark eyes glowing. She returned his quick kiss and laid her hand

on his thigh as he put his arm around her and drew her close.

"Traffic was a bitch," said Nolan. He glanced up at the skimpily clad waitress who placed two new

napkins on the table. "How you doing tonight, Myra?"

"Okay. What'll it be, Irish?"

"The usual," said Nolan. He checked the glasses of the others who'd been there awhile. None were

empty.

"Gin and tonic," Cortesio called as the waitress glanced at him. "What's cooking, Myra?"

"Same old, same old," she shrugged. "How's it hanging?"

"Eight inches and growing!" The Italian chuckled and waited for the collective groans of his friends to

subside before reaching down to rub his crotch. "Make that nine."

"Pervert," pronounced Trip. Dave Donne, the man sitting between Trip and Cortesio, opened his

mouth, stuck his finger in, and pretended to gag.

"How do you put up with him?" Rhianna asked Conor, shaking her head at Cortesio's antics. "He's as

randy as a teenager." She exchanged a taut smile with Trip. He knew how worried she was by some of

the outrageous things Joey had been doing of late. Her main concern was Joey's wife finding out about

his indiscretions and putting an end to their fifteen-year marriage.

Nolan grinned. "I just never bend over when he's close around."

"When are you and me gonna get married, Myra?" Donne asked, reaching over to stroke the waitress'

arm.

"Why buy the beef when I already get the bull for free?" At his hoot of laughter, she picked up her

tray, letting her hand brush Nolan's, but when he pretended not to notice, she left with a sigh.

"She keeps trying to get your attention, Irish," Trip laughed. "The least you can do is pat her on the

ass."

"Not if he wants to keep his hand," said Rhianna. She didn't like the waitress and knew Conor had

slept with her more than once. Hell, she thought, as she took a long pull on her drink, probably every

man within a hundred-mile radius had humped the sleazy bitch.

Nolan bent toward Rhianna and nuzzled her neck. "The only ass I wanna pat is yours," he whispered.

"Knock it off." Rhianna dug her elbow into his ribs. When he moved away from her, grinning wickedly,

she stuck her tongue out at him.

Myra squeezed her way through the barrier of customers lined up at the bar. She put her tray on the

counter and leaned toward the bartender, shouting to be heard over the raucous music. She gave him the

order, straightened up, and glanced down the length of the bar, waving at a few steady customers. Her

attention encountered the blonde sitting a few stools away. Myra smiled nervously and was about to turn

around when the blonde crooked a finger toward her. Myra's smile twitched as she moved toward the

woman. "Yes, Ma'am?"

"Who is the man in the black denim jacket?"

The waitress' forehead puckered for a moment, then smoothed. She risked a glance toward the

Irishman. "Nolan," she answered. "Conor Nolan. His friends call him Irish. He's a cop."

"Conor Nolan," the blonde repeated. Myra heard the satisfaction in the slightly-accented voice.

"Who's the chippy with him?"

The waitress' mouth tightened into a fine line of dislike. "She's a cop, too. They all are over there at

number eight." She saw the blonde's gaze shift to the platform of booths before re-settling on Myra.

"What is she to him?"

Myra shrugged. "As far as I know they just work together. They all come in here every Monday night.

Sometimes there's a black guy who comes with them, too."

The blonde nodded then turned to give the bartender a long, steady look. "Thank you, Myra," she

said. "That'll be all."

"About Irish, I…"

The blonde put a silencing finger to her lips.

"Don't worry about it, Myra." The blonde returned her green-eyed gaze to the bartender, dismissing