Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller) Read Free Page B

“Yeah, but he should have been here. It’s like he knew we were coming.”
    “Anybody else know—”
    “No, no one knew. Ballard doesn’t know we have his girlfriend in custody. I don’t get it.”
    “Either he’s very lucky, or somehow he found out. How trustworthy are the officials in the Caymans?”
    “I didn’t vet them if that’s what you’re asking.”
    Clearly he was in a foul mood. I guess I would be too if I had thought I was Super Agent Man riding into town to save the day only to fall flat on my face. I headed for the exit.
    Outside I saw Reilly, and I walked over to him. “I’m assuming you heard.”
    “I did. It’s disappointing.”
    I nodded. Just then, we both heard someone gasp.
    A woman, one of the neighbors across the street, pointed at the roof. “There’s someone up there.”
    I spun around and looked up. Even though the sun had set, we could make out a figure crawling on the roof.
    A couple of agents removed handheld spotlights from their vehicles and lit the figure up. More reaction from the peanut gallery except this time, the agents joined in. Crouched on the rooftop was Ballard.
    He stood up and seemed to struggle to stay on his feet. He wore a black robe and had no shoes on. His hair was matted against his head, he appeared to be sweating badly, and he hadn’t shaved in days. I had never seen the fashionable Prince display this look before. He was the poster child for metrosexual, and now he’d fit in as a zombie extra in a horror flick. He really looked to be out of his mind. A nut.
    “I thought the house was cleared,” Reilly commented.
    “It was.”
    An agent appeared on the balcony near where Ballard stood on the roof.
    “Stay away!” he shouted. “Keep away from me!”
    He took a step backward, and my concerns heightened.
    “He’s got a rope around his neck,” I radioed to every agent. A suicide was last thing we wanted. From where he stood, it was a thirty-foot drop to the ground—plenty of hanging room.
    It caught me off guard when I heard Reilly shout out, “Mr. Ballard, talk to us. What can we do for you?”
    “What can you do? It’s over. There’s nothing left to do.”
    No, don’t do it.
    Before another word could be spoken, Ballard ran forward and leapt from the rooftop. A woman’s scream pierced the silence. All eyes watched as his bare feet left the tiled roof. His arms reached out in front, and his mouth fell open. He didn’t scream or yell. He only had a look of shock on his face. Had he changed his mind?
    The jump propelled him straight out before he started to fall, at which point the rope picked up its slack and snapped tight, nearly decapitating him. It seemed as if hours had passed before a voice shouted, “Get him down from there.” Only then did we break from our voyeuristic lock on Ballard’s swaying body.

 
     
    Chapter 5
     
    The girl was nineteen. He was twenty. They both lived at home with their families, where privacy was a foreign word. The only place these two lovebirds, and many others, could find any time alone was in a field near the edge of their neighborhood. Such was life in Mitú, Colombia.
    That night, they had the field to themselves.
    The dull, reddish glow from a crackling log used to roast a chicken earlier lit the couple on the blanket—bright enough that they could stare into each other’s eyes, but not enough that they were visible to a passerby on the adjacent road. The jug of wine had been drained dry, and their bellies were pleasantly plump. The only satisfaction left to fulfill was their want for each other.
    The young woman giggled as she rolled on top of her boyfriend, pulling a part of the blanket over her. Their mouths embraced, and his tongue slipped between her lips and swirled around hers. His hardness pressed against her thigh, unrelenting since they first fell upon the blanket. It made her feel special. Wanted. Needed. Her own fire between her legs burned equally hot for him. She pulled away for a