Snow Storm Read online

  First BEN Books Edition

  2017

  SNOW STORM

  © 2017 Bobby Nash

  All Rights Reserved.

  First BEN Books Printing.

  Book Production and design by Bobby Nash.

  Cover Art by Dennis Calero

  Printed in the USA

  Without limiting the rights of the copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright holder, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, blog, or journal.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by BEN Books, PO Box 626, Bethlehem, GA 30620

  http://BEN-Books.blogspot.com

  And so it begins…

  Getting in was easy.

  Getting out was an entirely different matter.

  This was, of course, by design. Much like those old cardboard roach motels he remembered as a kid-- the ones where roaches checked in, but they didn’t check out-- the house looked ordinary and inviting on the outside. Snow crashed through the window as sounds of gunfire echoed behind him. He hit the ground hard, tucked into a roll, and came up already on the run.

  Bullets smacked the ground nearby, but he knew better than to turn back to look. The only thing he could do was keep going and pray that the aim of the hired thugs chasing him did not miraculously improve before he made it to the road. He had considered firing back blind as he ran, but all that would amount to was a waste of bullets. He might need those before this was over.

  A few seconds later the guns fell silent.

  Snow breathed a sigh of relief, but didn’t slow down. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, both literally and figuratively.

  The sound of flying bullets was soon replaced by a new, more primal sound.

  Oh, great! Dogs!

  His brain screamed a warning and suddenly he missed the men who were trying to shoot him. Not that he imagined they had gone far. No. He was quite certain they were on his trail and it was a damn good bet the dogs could run faster than those gun thugs.

  Snow tore through the brush, felt the branches and brambles grab at him, scratching and clawing like a thing alive. There was no choice. He couldn’t slow down now. If he slowed up, even just a little bit, the dogs would be on him and that would certainly ruin his day.

  I need a favor, Snow thought, repeating back the words that had gotten him into this mess to begin with. When his brother, Douglas had asked him for a little “off the books favor” Snow should have suspected it would end up exactly like this, but when it came to his brother, he ignored little things like common sense and self-preservation instincts.

  You should have known better, Snow, that inner voice reminded him now as he huffed and puffed, trying to catch his breath. A pinched pain jabbed at his chest where the scar from the bullet wound now lived.

  The car was closer now, not far.

  Even over the racket his chase through the woods was making, he could hear the engine idling. The car was a thing of beauty-- at least under the hood. The outside was as unremarkable as you could get, kind of an eyesore, really. Big John Salmon had been working on this beast off and on for a couple of weeks, starting with the engine and working his way out. Bodywork was next, but until he gave it the magic touch, the car was a bondo and primer colored mess. That made it the perfect vehicle for a covert operation.

  Surprisingly, it hadn’t taken all that much prodding to get Big John on board to help him. Big John was working hard to keep his life on the straight and narrow since returning to the world after a short stint behind bars. Snow hated putting his friend in a bad situation, but there was no one else he trusted to drive the getaway car. He had expected to have to wheel and deal, but his childhood friend had agreed as soon as he asked.

  “Sounds like fun, the big man had said around a goofy looking grin.

  Snow leapt from the short incline down to the gravel of the old country dirt road, slipping as he lost traction on the loose rock.

  The car was ten feet away. He stumbled, regained his balance, and poured on the speed, kicking up small puffs of dust with each slap of sneaker on hard-packed red Georgia clay.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted before he was fully inside the car.

  Big John didn’t have to be told twice. Before Snow could close the door behind him, Big John had the old Chevy Camaro fishtailing down the dirt road, a plume of loose dirt filling the air behind it like a smokescreen. The engine roared beneath them, but even over the deep thrumming of the engine, Snow had no trouble hearing gunshots as the bad guys made it to the road.

  There was no chance they would hit anything, not the way Big John was driving, but he ducked into the seat anyway.

  “I think we’re clear,” Snow said.

  He regretted it instantly when a bullet smacked into the doorframe, just inches away from where he sat.

  “Or not,” Big John deadpanned.

  Snow spun around and could just make out the car in hot pursuit. From the passenger window, another gunshot rang out. Snow realized that the first hit was luck, but he also knew better than to press his own.

  “They’re firing blind,” he said, to which Big John simply grunted.

  “Can you lose them?”

  Big John turned to look at his friend and smiled.

  “Right,” Snow said, eyes rolling as if to say, Of course. What was I thinking?

  “Do your thing, brother,” he said instead.

  Snow wasn’t a man unaccustomed to taking risks, clearly, but his friend and that smile behind the wheel were a lethal combination that made him just a little bit nervous. Big John Salmon was an artist behind the wheel. Even when they were kids, he managed moves with a big wheel, a bicycle, or a go-cart that Snow could scarcely fathom. Or, as his grandfather so succinctly put it, “that boy can drive the shit out of anything.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Snow, himself, had even joked that Big John could drive a brick if someone slapped some wheels on it. He could have gone pro and used his gifts on the racetrack, which, granted, he tried for a time, but eventually he took a wrong turn and ended up in the company of some very bad people. By that time, Snow was already gone, having run off to enlist right after high school-- the day after, to be exact. With Snow gone, Big John had found some new friends and they taught him a few new skills, most notably, how to steal cars. Apparently, he was as skilled at boosting them as he was at driving them.

  It was the fencing of them where he got busted.

  John served his time and when he got out, Snow’s grandfather gave him a job and a purpose. He’d been on the straight and narrow ever since.

  Until today.

  Snow had hoped the job would be a simple snatch and grab. Doug’s client, or was it his friend, he couldn’t remember, had lost a very important package when his car was broken into at a hotel in Atlanta a few days earlier. The man had his reasons for not calling the cops. High on that list was an interest in keeping his job, which involved protecting company property. His losing the package outright would have been frowned upon by his employers, no doubt.

  He had offered Doug a rather hefty finder’s fee, which Doug then offered to split with Snow in exchange for his help. There were only two conditions: they had to get the package back fast and they had to keep it quiet. That meant off the books and off the rada
rs of both Dominic and Archer Snow. Doug was adamant that neither their father nor grandfather find out what had happened.

  Not the easiest of tasks, but Snow agreed.

  “I should have stayed in bed,” Snow muttered as Big John took the Camaro into a slide as they took a steep curve. Despite the pressure pushing him deep into the seat, the car was never out of Big John’s control. Like the man said, an artist behind the wheel.

  Crosscut Lane was a long, winding path through the middle of nowhere. Once upon a time Crosscut Lane had been used by lumber trucks to pick up cut timber for transport to the mill, but those days were long gone since the mill had burned to the ground decades earlier under suspicious circumstances. Nowadays, the road was mostly used by teenagers looking for an out of the way place to drink or get high because there were only a handful of houses accessible by the dirt and gravel road. Most of the houses in the area connected to another road that ran parallel to this one so the dirt road was pretty much abandoned, which also made it the perfect spot for racing thanks to its sharp turns and gravel that offered plenty of sliding challenges.

  Good drivers could have a lot of fun taking the curves sideways out there-- as long as there wasn’t another car coming the opposite direction. Those of lesser skill generally ended up either in a ditch or upside down in the Ocachobee River that ran parallel to the Crosscut Lane.

  Snow had studied the atlas before heading out for the job, but Big John told him he had it covered. No surprise there. This was exactly the kind of road he would love to practice on and most likely knew it so well he could drive it blindfold. It was out of the way, quiet, secluded, and usually empty.

  Of course, if there was one time that would not be the case…

  Big John swerved hard when he saw the car coming right at them as he rounded a steep curve sideways, the wheels threatening to slip off the road as they kicked up massive plums of dirt. Without slowing, John shifted gears and took two wheels of the Camaro off the road onto the embankment, lifting the passenger’s side into the air.

  Snow grabbed hold of the door and held on tight, wishing he had buckled his seatbelt and thankful that it was embankment instead of a ditch. On this road, the odds were better than even, which you’d find around any given turn. Behind him, he heard the sound of blaring horns and wondered if the guys chasing them knew how to handle their ride the way Big John Salmon did. Somehow he doubted it, but there was no time to worry about that now. They weren’t turning around and he could see the intersection ahead.

  Snow braced himself.

  The Camaro slide sideways from the dirt road onto asphalt, kicking and jerking as the tires fought for purchase on the two-lane blacktop. The rubber grabbed the asphalt like glue and jerked the car into position. Another shift of the gears and the car sped off without losing any time.

  “Did we lose ‘em?” Big John asked.

  Snow turned to look.

  “Coast is clear,” he said and blew out a breath. “I just hope they didn’t get a good look at your license plate number. Don’t want them tracking you back to yours or my grandpa’s place.”

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Big John reached up and pulled a thin sheet of aluminum from above his sun visor and handed it over to his passenger.

  “You mean this license plate?” he said with a knowing smirk.

  Snow barked a laugh. “When did you…?” he started.

  “What?” Big John joked. “Did you think I sat in the car twiddling my thumbs the whole time you were inside playing secret agent man?”

  “You are full of surprises, brother,” Snow said.

  “Aren’t you glad I talked you into bringing me along?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Snow said. “I couldn’t have done it without you, pal.”

  He dialed his cell. The person on the other side answered on the first ring. Snow dispensed with pleasantries and got straight to the point. “I got it,” he said instead.

  After he ended the call, Big John gave him a questioning look. “Where to now?”

  “Now,” Snow said, letting out a breath. “Now, I could use a drink.

  1.

  Angelo’s Bar and Grill had become one of Snow’s favorite hangouts since returning to Atlanta. The food was delicious and reasonably priced, two things which, in his experience, rarely went together, especially in a major metropolitan city. Angelo’s had a wonderfully shaded outdoor patio that looked out on the always-bustling Peachtree Street, offering a halfway decent glimpse of the FOX Theatre marquee an easy walk away. About the only thing Snow could figure the place was missing was an actual Angelo. Neither the owner nor any of the employees were named Angelo, which he found rather amusing.

  Whenever he came into the city to hang out with Mac or Doug, he made it a point to meet them at Angelo’s. This trip was no different.

  Snow and Big John had been the first to arrive and they started off with some appetizers and drinks. Big John ordered a soda while his friend ordered up a beer in a bottle. Big John was driving, but that wasn’t his only reason for abstaining. He had given up the sauce in prison. It was a painful detox and not an experience he ever cared to repeat so drinking became one of those habits he chose not to pick back up once he was on the outside. Snow knew that he occasionally attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and had even offered to pass on the booze when they were out together, but Big John wouldn’t hear of it. He explained that it didn’t bother him and for Snow to enjoy a drink if he wanted one. Big John told him he would be his designated driver any time he needed one and that was the last time they talked about it.

  Tom McClellan, who they had called “Mac” since they were kids growing up in the same neighborhood, joined them shortly after they sat down. Like Big John, Snow’s friend Mac had changed a lot in the decade he was away. Surprisingly, he had gone to work for the FBI as a field agent, a revelation that had surprised Snow to no end when he first heard the news. Growing up, he would have put even money on Mac being the one with a criminal record instead of Big John. Funny how that worked out, huh? From everything he had heard since he got back, Mac was damned good at his job. He joined them on the patio and ordered a beer of his own while loosening his tie, a sure-fire signal that his work day was done.

  Snow’s older brother, Douglas was the last to arrive. He looked tired and Snow told him as much, but he assumed much of that was from stress. Douglas worked for their father at Snow Security Consulting, which was more stress than Snow cared to handle. Then again, Douglas and their father got a long a lot better than Dominic and Abraham Snow ever had. Sometimes Snow envied that relationship.

  “Were you able to take care of that little job for me, baby brother?” Douglas asked after the server walked away with his order of a double bourbon.

  “Little job?” Snow wanted to laugh. “You and I really need to talk about your definition of little.”

  “Come on, Abraham.”

  Snow pushed a padded envelope across the table to him. “It’s here. No worries.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “You mean besides the fresh bullet holes in John’s car?” Snow deadpanned.

  “Wait? What?” Mac said, suddenly interested in the conversation.

  Snow waved it off. “Nothing you need to worry about, Mac. Just a minor domestic disturbance.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mac said, taking a pull off his beer.

  “Trust me,” Snow said.

  “Whatever you say, Hambone,” Mac said.

  “I assume you have something for me,” Snow inquired.

  Douglas smiled. “Of course.” He tossed an envelope across the table to his brother. “My client thanks you.”

  Snow pulled out a crisp one hundred dollar bill then a second one. He tossed the remainder of the envelope across the table to Big John.

  “What’s this for?” the driver asked.

  “Your cut.”

  “A bit uneven, don’t you think?” he said as he counted the cash inside.

  “Consider it bond
o expenses,” Snow said. “There’s at least two bullet holes you’re going to have to patch up.”

  “You sure?” John asked.

  “Yep.” Snow dropped the hundred on the table and sat the salt shaker on top of it. “These two should cover dinner and drinks. Speaking of which, where is the server? I’m starved. Let’s order.”

  And order they did. For the next couple of hours, the guys laughed, talked, cheered, joked, told tall tales, and enjoyed themselves. It felt like something normal people would do, which is exactly what Snow had been hoping for. Spending the last ten years moving from one deep cover assignment to another had been an escape from the problems he had left behind him at home, but it meant being in control all the time. There were very few moments in the past decade where he could let his guard down and relax. One slip of the tongue, one wrong word and it was all over. Now that he was home he wanted to catch up on all of the normal things he had missed.

  Things like just hanging out with the guys.

  “Hey, did you guys see this?” Mac asked as he dropped a postcard onto the table.

  Snow picked it up and glanced at the images. The postcard was for a local sci-fi and pop culture convention held in the area. Snow and his mother had attended a few times when he was a kid. “I didn’t realize they still did these here?’

  “Every Labor Day,” Mac said. “Lots of traffic in the city that weekend. This place is a mad house.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Did you see who’ll be there?” Mac said, motioning with his finger for Snow to flip over the postcard.

  Snow’s face broke into a wide smile. “Well, I’ll be,” he said.

  “Who is it?” Big John wanted to know.

  He held up the card for all to see. “Miranda Shake.”

  “Isn’t that the woman from that TV show?” Douglas asked. “Oh, what’s it called?”