No Good Options Read online

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  Watch for more at Alex Ander’s site.

  No Good Options

  Jessica Devlin - U.S. Marshal

  Action & Adventure (Book #2)

  By Alex Ander

  .

  No Good

  Options

  Jessica Devlin – U.S. Marshal

  Action & Adventure

  .

  This story proudly

  Made in the U.S.A.

  .

  Copyright ©2020 Jason A. Burley

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events or locations or actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  “For this reason, I kneel before the Father,

  from whom every family in heaven

  and on earth derives its name.”

  —Ephesians 3:14-15

  .

  Chapter 1

  Easy, ‘Tiger’

  7 MAY—9:21 P.M.

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Although beat from sitting in front of a computer and crunching numbers for the last twelve hours—her company’s year-end reports were due by the close of the day tomorrow, and her boss had been hassling her to finish them today—Belinda had compelled herself to take the stairs instead of the elevator. Huffing, Any exercise is good exercise, she tugged open the third floor stairwell door and shuffled into the hallway outside her apartment, her two-inch high heels scuffing over the carpeting.

  Fumbling with a key ring, while listing to one side to keep a brief bag slung over her shoulder, she sighed. Dinner, she separated one key from the others, or straight to the wine? Either way...if I don’t get some sort of release, she clenched her jaw, I’m going to—

  Approaching her apartment door, she glanced at a couple down the hall, groping and kissing each other. The fifty-five-year-old accountant shook her head. These days they can’t even wait to get behind closed doors.

  Belinda turned a deadbolt and shoved open the door. This generation is so sexed-up. Pushing the bag’s strap further up her shoulder, When I was younger, we showed restraint, she ambled into her abode. We controlled our passions.

  She dropped the leather carrier, shed the top half of her red pantsuit, and pushed on the metal barrier, sneaking another peek at the indiscreet couple. “Carl,” her voice rising, her heart thumping a bit faster, she drew in her lower lip, “are you busy right now?” and shut the door.

  *******

  With the collar of her half-unbuttoned blouse down to her elbow, her back to her apartment door...

  “Carl, are you busy right now?”

  ...her lips commingling with another’s, Faith glanced to her left, toward the sound of a closing door and her neighbor’s high-pitched voice. Strong hands fondled her while she fed a key into a slot and twisted a brass-colored knob. A beat later, she and a man stumbled into the darkened dwelling, their mouths never parting.

  He kicked the door shut, yanked her white shirt from her body, and pushed her against the wall.

  Faith’s left butt cheek rammed into a small table, knocking over a picture. A short lamp wobbled but stayed upright. She pushed him away. “Easy,” she faltered, Steve? Stan? “‘Tiger.’ We have plenty of time for the rough stuff.”

  ‘Tiger’ pulled his t-shirt over his head.

  Kicking off her flats—bringing her to her five-ten height—Faith ogled his hairless torso, bulging and rippling in the right places. What is it with men shaving their chests?

  ‘Tiger’ resumed his oral assault, focusing his attention on her neck.

  I mean they’re supposed to have—ooh, she cocked her head to one side and pulled on the back of his head, right there, big man, while removing her gun and holster from her belt and tucking them into the short table’s drawer.

  His fingers finding her groin, ‘Tiger’ lowered a zipper and undid a button.

  Sixteen rounds of 45 ACP in a dual magazine pouch dragged her pants to the floor with a thud.

  Faith stepped out of the slacks, grabbed his belt buckle, spun him around, and slammed him into the wall. After clutching his neck and suckling his lips for a few seconds, On second thought... she led him across the living room, her fingers tugging on the waistband of his jeans, her eyes fixed on the bedroom door, “I changed my mind. I don’t want to wait.”

  *******

  ONE HOUR LATER...

  10:19 P.M.

  One foot on a mat, the other on the edge of the bathtub, Faith ran a towel over long, athletic legs before patting slender, toned arms with the white cotton cloth, her mind replaying the last hour’s activities with the college-age kid. She smiled. ‘A-plus’ for stamina...he gave his all. She recalled the time she had spent at the gym earlier in the day. What do you know? I got in two workouts today.

  Chuckling, the twenty-eight-year-old draped the towel over the shower rod, took a position in front of the bathroom mirror, and leaned forward. Her pubic bone touching a pedestal sink, she screwed up her face, recoiled, and put a hand to her private area. Maybe I should stick to only ONE per day.

  Dipping her chin, she examined her damp, long blonde hair in the reflective surface. Looks like it’s time for... she toyed with the dark strip down the middle of her scalp, some touch-up. Her hair naturally coal black, she had dyed her mane several years ago to distinguish herself from her older sister. Growing up, both siblings had fooled many people into thinking the two were identical twins.

  Faith stepped into baggy shorts before stretching a skin-tight t-shirt over full breasts and a flat stomach. Envisioning escorting ‘Tiger’ out of her apartment, she grabbed the doorknob, stopped, and scowled at the scale on the floor. “What in the world is his name, anyway?” After a few moments of speculation, she shook her head. This wouldn’t happen if you didn’t bring them back here.

  Exiting the bathroom, Faith heard a gurgling sound and pivoted her head to greet the noise. Her skin crawled. Perspiration beads formed on her forehead.

  Near the front door, one man stood while a second was down on one knee. Both wore black suits, white shirts, and black ties. Standing to join his partner, the latter male gripped a shiny knife.

  Her eyes darted from the blade—glistening red—to the dark-skinned man who held the weapon. Slapping at
her right hip and coming up with nothing but her shorts, she glimpsed the table just inside the door, the table that housed her engraved Colt 1911. Son-of-a—

  The man with the blade sidestepped the still form at his feet and headed toward her.

  Faith ran into her bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the flimsy lock. She put her back to the door and bobbed her eyebrows, That’ll buy me all of ten seconds, before scanning the room for weapons. Two men...one with a knife...both probably have guns. She saw ‘Tiger’ holding his throat, blood seeping between his fingers. Why would they kill him? They’re both—she shut her eyes and pressed fingers to her temple. You can’t worry about that now, Faith. You need to find something to defend yourself—

  A thump came from the other side of the door.

  The shock wave reverberating throughout her body, she flinched and inwardly screamed. She gave the room another look before grabbing a floor lamp and yanking the power cord from the outlet. Backing away from the door, she shattered the light’s glass globe against a dresser and aimed the makeshift weapon at the entry point. I’m not going out quietly.

  Images of her father, her deceased mother, her sister flashed before her eyes. I love you guys. Make sure you find the S.O.B.’s that did this to me, Jessica. Make them pay for—Faith stood taller. Jess.

  The door banged.

  She dropped the lamp and ran to the dresser. Scattering items around the surface, she found a scrap of paper. After opening and closing drawers, she ran to her nightstand, plucked a ballpoint pen from the drawer, and scribbled on the white fragment.

  Two successive bangs filled the room.

  Flinching, she shot a look over her shoulder before folding the paper several times.

  A loud crack followed the next blow to the hollow door.

  One more solid boot and that thing’s— Faith dropped to her knees, lifted the bedframe, slipped the one-inch square under one of the four posts, and leaped to her feet, scooping up the floor lamp just as the door burst inward.

  The men poured into her sanctuary; their guns pointed in her direction.

  Backpedaling, thrusting the lamp at the intruders, she eyeballed their pistols. Of course...Glock 22s.

  The men fanned out.

  Faith gaped at them. The stranger to her left, the one who had held the blade from earlier, was tall and lean. The man on her two o’clock, creeping up to her bedside, Blade’s linebacker-of-a-partner stared at her with black eyes under bushy eyebrows.

  Okay, why am I not dead yet? What do they want? She glanced at the mattress and saw herself there from an hour ago. They’re NOT getting that. She swung the lamp toward Linebacker’s head.

  He hunched a shoulder, and the bulb shattered against his upper arm.

  Blade lunged.

  She whipped the lamp around, and the bulb’s jagged glass and sharp metal base opened a two-inch gash under Blade’s left eye.

  Howling, he grabbed his cheek and pivoted toward the dresser.

  Faith reversed course with her brass ‘sword.’

  Linebacker parried the strike with his right forearm, clenched the lamp’s stem with his free hand, and pulled while sweeping her foot with his.

  Faith tumbled and rolled. Landing on her backside, she drew knees to her chest and drove out her legs.

  Linebacker redirected the attack upward, spread her feet apart, and fell on top of her, his stomach slapping onto hers, his groin smacking against hers.

  The air left her lungs, and she rolled her head to the side, her mouth opening and closing while gasping for oxygen.

  Linebacker forced her arms above her shoulders and pinned her wrists to the floor.

  Blade ransacked a dresser drawer, retrieved a t-shirt, and held the garment to his injured face as he made his way to the subdued woman.

  Not having taken her first full breath yet, Faith looked up at the man, pressure building behind her forehead.

  He holstered the Glock, flicked open his knife, sat on his haunches, and touched the blade’s tip to her throat.

  She sucked in a scant amount of air and swallowed, feeling the cutting tool’s sharp edge pierce the skin under her jawline.

  Blade smirked at the growing line of blood on her neck before meeting her gaze. “Be a good girl, Miss Mahoney. And make this easier on all of us.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 2

  Bad News

  9 MAY—1:01 P.M.

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Halfway through spring, Mother Nature had been displaying signs of new life. And today, her partly sunny skies and temperatures in the upper sixties had helped lessen the somber atmosphere at the cemetery, at the outdoor service for a late deputy marshal.

  With prayers having been said, respects paid, and last words shared, all the well-dressed funeral goers, except for two of them, were making their way to vehicles. Standing at the base of a shallow hill, those two persons had spent the last ten minutes expressing condolences, reliving the recent past, and discussing the future, discussing business.

  “Well, I should get going.” Dressed in a black suit, black tie, and a white dress shirt, the thirty-six-year-old, five-eleven, one-seventy Noah Randall ran a palm down his clean-shaven face before lightly scratching the scalp beneath his short dark hair. “Since my new job will have me living here in Alexandria,” the former DEA agent dug out black sunglasses from a coat pocket and slipped on the eyewear, “I need to start looking at some apartments.”

  “Let me know if you need any help.” Twenty-nine-year-old United States Marshal Jessica Devlin tucked a flyaway lock of her medium-length raven black hair behind an ear, revealing more of her facial features—dark brown eyes; petite, slim nose; full lips; slender lines along the jaw. Her two-inch black pumps brought her five-ten athletic figure nearly even with Randall’s height. “I have contacts in the housing sector. I’m sure they can get you a lead on a nice place.”

  Randall glanced beyond her shoulder at the casket holding the body of Blake Hawkins, Devlin’s former partner, “Thanks,” before facing her. “I might just take you up on that offer.”

  “After all,” she noticed his mood darken, “I can’t have my newest deputy marshal living in some dump. I need you fresh and ready to go.”

  He flashed a disappearing grin, glimpsed the grass between his black shoes, looked up at her, and laid a gentle hand on her left shoulder. “Again...I’m sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry for my part in all of it.”

  “I don’t blame you for,” she half pivoted to take in the flag-draped coffin, “for what happened to Blake.”

  ONE WEEK AGO...

  Hawkins engaged the gunmen, firing one handed. He felled one and sent another sprawling to the ground. The slide on his Glock locked to the rear.

  Two bullets penetrated his upper chest.

  He twitched twice, thumbed the 22’s magazine release, and reached for the left side of his belt.

  Another bullet struck him in the belly.

  He staggered backward, his left hand slapping at his magazine pouch.

  As round after round entered her close friend’s body, Devlin watched Hawkins jerk and convulse. She shut her eyes as the men rounded the Suburban, their guns aimed at Hawkins’ prone, still form.

  Turning back toward Randall, Devlin envisioned herself screaming at him in a clearing in Mexico shortly after witnessing her friend being gunned down...

  “You think this is some damn game?” She thrust a finger behind her. “Three agents were killed back there, protecting you.” Her voice grew louder. “One was a close friend of mine. He leaves behind a wife and newborn baby. He did his job. He gave everything, so that...” she jammed her finger into Randall’s chest, “...you could live.”

  “Okay, so I,” Devlin bobbed her head from side to side, “don’t blame you anymore.”

  Pressing his lips together, Randall looked down.

  “So you need to stop blaming yourself, Noah. You were following orders from your age
ncy. The plan went sideways. And,” she paused, “well...we know the rest.”

  He nodded several times while biting his lower lip. “You’re right. This isn’t about me. It’s about you. You’ve suffered a terrible loss.” He offered her the warmest smile he could muster. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Now that you say that...there is something you can do for me.”

  “Name it.”

  Without breaking eye contact with him, she sent an index finger toward the parked cars. “Go scope out somewhere nice to live, will you?”

  He smiled.

  She matched his expression. “The sooner the better, so we can start focusing on our first assignment.”

  He dipped his chin once, “Will do,” and regarded her, admiring her courage amid a time of sorrow. “Take care, Jessica.” He patted her arm and drifted away, “I’ll be in touch,” before turning his back on his partner.

  *******

  THREE MINUTES LATER...

  Lifting the hem of her tight fitting, long-sleeved black dress an inch, Devlin planted a high heel on the passenger side running board of her black cherry Ford F-150, climbed inside the truck, and shut the door. She affixed her seatbelt and stared through the windshield before flicking her eyes toward Blake Hawkins’ ultimate resting place.

  “How are you doing?”

  Her focus shifting further left, she gave her driver, her husband, a feeble smile. “Meh. All right, I guess.”

  Twenty-seven-year-old former FBI agent Curtis Ashford laid his right forearm on the center console, his palm facing upward. “Anything I can do?”

  “Yes.” She clasped his hand. “Take me home and hold me in your arms.”

  “Heck,” he raised the console and scooted closer to her, “I can do that right now.”

  She met him halfway, buried her left cheek into his chest, and hugged him.