Effective Immediately
Effective Immediately
Chautona Havig
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Copyright 2014 Chautona Havig
Kindle Edition
Havilah Press Publications
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chautona Havig lives and writes in an oxymoron. This book, like most of hers, fits into the Rockland Chronicles, a fictional metropolis surrounded by towns and stories of the people who live there. In each book, you’ll find connections to others in the way of settings and characters. In all her work, Chautona strives to use story to nudge people to the feet of the Master Storyteller.
Edited by: Haug Editing
Fonts: Garamond, Bank Gothic, Coltaine 1, Alex Brush
Cover photos: Zurijeta/thinkstock.com
Lari Saukkonen/shutterstock.com
Cover art by: Chautona Havig
The events and people in this book are purely fictional, and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental and I’d love to meet them!
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All Scripture references are from the NASB. NASB passages are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE (registered), Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation
~Chelsea~
I spent forever trying to figure out the best way to have Keith “save” his phone, and Chelsea consulted with her IT fiancé, played with her own phone, and finally came up with the genius solution that Keith finally uses. Thanks for being a great help and an even greater Facebook Planner Friend. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you and chatting about our obsession passion for Erin Condren products.
~My “Escapeables”~
I didn’t know what else to call the fabulous group of “pre-readers” that I have. They read this book in two-chapter increments, often getting sections all over again as I rewrote or inserted new scenes or chapters. They sent amazing notes full of questions on things I had left too ambiguous and encouraging lines that kept me going when I just wanted to work on something else for a while. Thank you all. Seriously, you’re the best. I couldn’t ask for a better team of encouraging “butler kickers.” Thanks for sticking with it.
Table of Contents
Effective Immediately
~Chelsea~
~My “Escapeables”~
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
A Forgotten Truth
Chapter One
Chautona Havig’s Books
Chapter One
The night air, cooler than it had been in weeks, descended upon them as Keith led Monica Sheridan out the French doors, around the side yard, through a gate, and to his car. “Get in the back seat,” he murmured. “Buckle, and then lie down.”
The young woman nodded and crawled into the back of the sedan. Once she’d settled herself, he zip-tied her hands and feet. “Sorry about that.”
Not until they hit the Pacific Coast Highway did she speak. “I thought they said I was safe—”
“Well, you’re not anymore. Mark doesn’t know what changed, but they decided to take you in the morning when you stepped into the store.”
“I don’t understand.”
Keith shrugged. “I don’t either. Are you sure you didn’t say something to tip them off?” He shook his head. “No, you couldn’t have. They wouldn’t have let you leave. Someone else is watching—someone we don’t know.” He turned onto Malibu Canyon Road and sped toward the 101 Freeway. And that means my job just got ten times harder.
“I wish the police believed me.”
“Well, I bet they want to,” he tried to explain. “But if you were a cop and a girl walked in and said, ‘I overheard someone planning to kidnap me,’ what would you think?”
Her silence spoke the proverbial volumes. Several miles passed as they drove out of the hills of Malibu and onto the Ventura Freeway. A sniffle preceded Monica’s reply. “I would probably think it was some prank or a spoiled little rich kid with an ego.”
“And that’s why they gave you Justin’s card. He checked into what you said, there was something off, and he passed it to us.”
“Where are we going?”
“Sorry,” Keith murmured as he changed lanes, trying to dodge an idiot with a desire to play Indy 500 through Agoura Hills. “Can’t tell you.”
“So, why did you have to tie me up? I mean, Mark said you would, but he didn’t say why. He said he’d leave that up to the agent’s discretion.”
“It’s protection for me. If you were someone trying to infiltrate The Agency, or just out to get me, you might be insane enough to concoct an elaborate hoax like this.”
“Expensive one. My dad is still Hulked out about the cost.”
Keith tried not to grind his teeth at the thought—and the ridiculous slang. A man with Sheridan’s kind of money shouldn’t be stingy about his daughter’s safety. “He contacted us, though. He made that call.”
“He was mad that I went to the police.”
The pout in her tone sent a wave of frustration through him. The next few weeks are going to be torture. She’ll drive me crazy inside twelve hours. Men—boys really—her age probably found that pout attractive. He could imagine her lips with their perfect pucker at just the right moment. Monica had probably perfected it as a toddler and enhanced it with collagen for her high school graduation. The thought nauseated him. Why aren’t girls ever satisfied with the bodies God gave them? He could almost hear Erika’s response, “Because they don’t believe in your god. Hollywood is the god of this country, and she demands physical perfection.”
“Who ever said plastic was perfect?” Keith muttered as he changed lanes once more, watching the rearview mirror for any copied moves.
“What?”
“I just said, ‘Not when his daughter arrives home safe and the men who plotted to kidnap her are behind bars.’”
“Sounded like something about plastic.”
“Sorry. Plotted, not plastic.” Lord, forgive me for the lie. I can’t antagonize her at this point. I need her to trust me. Attacking her devotion to her appearance will kill any chance of that.
“Will you call Daddy and tell him you took me early, or what?”
“That’s Mark’s decision. My job is to get you to safety and then keep you safe. He calls the shots.”
Silence hung heavy in the car for several minutes until she sniffled once more. “Have you ever lost a client? You know, like dead?”
“Me personally?” God, please let her say yes.
“Well, yeah. Who cares if someone else has? You’re guarding me.”
“I’ve never lost anyone, but one of my more recent clients shot herself in the leg with a tranq gun.” He waited for the shock—the gasp of surprise. It didn’t come.
“I thought that was all TV stuff—tranq guns.”
Stupid cop shows give folks all kinds of semi-accurate information—just enough to make it dangerous for them. “Mark had them specially formulated. It’s hard work to judge if we should take one shot or two, but we’re not in the business of killing folks.” He couldn’t help but add, “If we can avoid it.”
For the next hour, Keith answered questions and considered the circumstances. Nothing felt right—nothing. Why hadn’t Monica gone to her father first? She claimed she was terrified and went straight to the police, but the words rang false. Still, he would have done the same thing before he had Mark and the other agents to help him.
“Are you government?”
It had taken her longer than most to ask the question. Was that a good sign or bad? Keith couldn’t tell. “We are not.”
“So when Daddy said he just had to trust you, he really meant it.”
“Men like your father have the kinds of connections to find out enough to know we’re good at what we do.” Keith heard resignation creeping into her tone and began steps to fight it. “Look. You don’t have to trust me. You probably shouldn’t—not completely. But I’m here to keep you hidden and alive until the guys trying to mess with your family are caught and behind bars. That’s my job. Your job isn’t to like me. Your job is to follow orders and keep fighting.”
Once on the 33, he relaxed just a little. Monica sniffled again, but Keith chose to ignore it. If his instincts proved right, she would need him to not coddle her. Keep it matter of fact, and don’t compare her with Erika.
After this assignment, Mark had promised him two weeks off. One of the new guys, Dan, would go on full time. Keith had protested and reminded Mark they were still down two agents. He hadn’t wanted to object, but facts outweighed vacation time. Much to his relief, Mark had remained adamant and said, “You’ve had four back to back intense cases. You need the break.”
That kind of intensity—Keith hadn’t felt it since his first days on the job. Most weeks were drills designed to keep their instincts sharp. The need for protection didn’t come up every day—not at their prices. Four jobs back to back. It had to be some kind of record.
The thought of two weeks of relaxation made him want to push for a swift resolution. He’d visit his parents—maybe take Erika to meet them. Was that weird? Could you take a girlfriend who wasn’t a girlfriend to meet your parents when you couldn’t be serious even if you wanted to be? He didn’t know, but it still sounded like fun. He’d take her hiking. She’ll like that.
As his car climbed into the mountains behind Ojai, Keith wondered how it would be to hike through the hills, along the streams, and back down again. Maybe he’d have a chance to take Monica. Did she like outdoor stuff? He remembered the perfectly manicured nails and suspected not. Someday, you’ve got to come back—alone, or with a friend—and hike it. That thought annoyed him. Who was he kidding anyway? With a friend. Sure, he mocked himself. Because you don’t have anyone specific in mind.
The winding road prompted whimpers of carsickness from Monica. “I hate these kinds of roads!”
Then you might want to move out of the Malibu area, princess. Those aren’t exactly straight, flat grids up there. “We’ll be there soon.”
“Ugh! Maybe I should just go home and let them take me.”
Judgment calls. He hated them. Orders made his job easy. Follow them and leave others to the decision making. But now his mind spun with a debate. To tell or not to tell. “You wouldn’t be alive. We don’t know much yet, but we know they don’t plan to let you live.”
“What!” Hysterical sobs filled the car. Wails. Rants.
Not to tell—argh. Bad call.
His self-flaggelative thoughts nearly made him miss the turnoff. He’d only been to the house once and then in the daytime. Under cover of darkness, the little road nearly hid itself amongst the trees and turns. He wound his way along the narrow road and into the drive. Just as he turned off the engine, his phone rang.
The call came at 12:52. The man smiled as he listened and then he spoke one word. “Okay.”
Easy—this one would be so easy. The girl—dead within the hour. “‘Just like pickin’ off a flock of turkeys,’” he misquoted. Sergeant York—highly underappreciated these days. Guy was a genius—even if he was a bit of a fanatic.
The windy road—not so fun—but he drove with the agility of a racecar driver. The girls never believe me when I tell them I am. Their loss.
Few cars on the road meant ease of crossing into the opposite lane for smooth corners, and of course, it also meant he was free to use his high beams as liberally as he chose. However, as he neared his target, he pulled the turn signal back into place, dimming the high beams, and squinted at each slight turnoff, looking for the one he’d studied. A text appeared on his phone attached to the dash. AUGER.
“Oh, yeah. This’ll be sweet.”
He passed the little road that led opposite the one he wanted. Decisions, decisions. Though a risk, he drove another five miles, turned off his lights, and pulled into another little road leading to another overpriced house owned by people who probably had no clue that things were going to get very interesting up the road a bit. Somewhere, a dog barked.
His thumbs slid over the phone with fluid precision. One acronym only. It was one of the few rules he had to follow. Limit communication while on the job. Don’t let anything trace you to your employer. He punched send. ETA?
The dashboard clock read 1:51. A second passed—a minute. Five. Nerves tingled in his fingers and toes as he waited for some clue as to his options. “I’ll give it two minutes and then I’m going back,” he muttered to the empty car.
Under the canopy of trees, he saw nothing around him. Heard nothing. The dog—must have been a coyote—had gone quiet. Finally. Just as he reached for his keys, his phone lit up. He reached for it, but something moved in front of the car. Before he could react, a dog—Doberman if the silhouette were right—jumped onto his hood, barking and snarling. “Aaaarrrgggghhh! Oh my—” A string of expletives followed. He jerked the key in the ignition, punched the phone to read the time, and compared it to his clock. “Fifteen minutes. That’s all I need.”
The car rolled back down to the road, the dog sliding and barking with each yard traveled. Once on the highway, he jerked the car in reverse and floored it. The dog slid off the hood and ran back to his own drive. “Sayonara, Cujo.”
At the turn off to the house, he pulled forward, backed into the opposite drive, and rolled to a stop near the house, praying the owner was a cat lover. Shoulda worn leather. I’m gonna have battle scars for sure.
Once he had his car hidden but ready to go, he stepped out, crept around the back, and popped the trunk. With his gun ready, loaded, and slung over one shoulder, he jogged across the highway and scouted the premises—again. Vulnerability: no one to guard until arrival. Dumb. They just handed her to me— A car pulled into the
next drive—with lights off. A scowl materialized as he watched it. —us, anyway. Frustration filled him. I can do this in my sleep. Why send out the team? The answer came to him in a word—a name. Auger. He’s that good, eh? Not good enough.
They met at the corner of the house. Wordlessly, he pointed to each team member and sent them in an arc around him. No sooner than they’d all found their places and hid, lights pulled into the drive. Show time.
The tablet glowed as Karen wove above the Mariposa Highway, waiting for the arrival of Keith and their latest client. The Skype session required sign language, but it worked well in helicopters. The screen blipped and distorted before Mark’s face and hands appeared again. It works except when it fails, she grumbled to herself.
“Looks like all is well. The copter on the 101 reports nothing out of the ordinary.”
Mark nodded. His eyes shifted and then he picked up his phone. She watched as alarm filled his face. Oh, man. I wanted to go home for the weekend. This just got— Mark interrupted her thoughts with two finger spelled words. MISSION COMPROMISED.
She touched the com button on her headset. “Get to the house—ASAP.”
“What’s goin—?”
“Compromised!”
Chapter Two
Keith touched his Bluetooth, answering the call. “I’m here.”
Mark’s voice—panic infusing each syllable—shouted. “Get out of there!”
Bright lights shone behind him. Keith dove between the seats, cut the ties around Monica’s wrists and ankles, and pointed to the door. “When I say go, you run!”
“What—”
“Just do it.” He wriggled back into the front seat and twisted the key in the ignition. The vehicle complained as Keith jerked the gearshift into drive and floored the gas. He avoided the rearview mirror, but the lights still reflected, effectively blinding him. As trees neared, he shouted, “Open the back door and get ready.”
“But I—”
A tree loomed. He had only seconds for them to jump. “Go!”
That she listened, stunned him. That she ran, relieved him. He shoved open his door and dove from the vehicle just as it slammed into a pine tree. Keith flattened himself on the ground behind the wide trunk, pulled his night vision monocular from his belt, and jumped to his feet taking off at a run. Monica stumbled through the brush, whimpering and crying out with each rip of branches or twigs on her skin.