Read an Excerpt
Justice
By Debra Webb Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
Copyright © 2004 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
All right reserved. ISBN: 0-373-51336-4
Chapter One
Kayla Ryan eased her Jeep Cherokee into the alley between two long rows of U-Store-It buildings. She lowered the driver's side window and cut the engine.
For a full thirty seconds she sat very still, utilized all her senses to estimate the threat level.
The cool December air felt thick with tension in spite of the utter silence enveloping the deserted storage facility. Nothing moved.
They waited. Listening. Anticipating her move ... her risk level. At least two men. Maybe three.
Now or never.
Ten seconds more and she'd be made.
No way backup would arrive in time.
Her partner would be pissed.
It wouldn't be the first time. She doubted it would be the last.
Her heart rate ramming into overdrive, Kayla opened her door and got out. She strode straight over to the nearest storage unit, number forty-two, and reached for the lock. Though she had no key, only a couple quick flicks with the lock pick she carried were required before the mechanism disengaged, falling open in her palm.
She removed the lock and raised the four-foot-wide overhead door. The grind of metal on metal screeched, shattering the silence and sending a clear message to the men about ten units down and on the next row who would be listening.
Nothing to worry about. Justsomeone adding to or taking from her storage unit.
Her gaze roving left and right, Kayla slipped into the shadows of the ten-by-twelve cinder-block unit. Whatever the boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling contained was of no significance. This wasn't about unit forty-two or its contents.
Keeping her attention fixed on the vacant alleyway, she relayed a text message to Jim Harkey, her partner, from her cellular phone. The message was simple. SOS ... UStoreIt.
She'd sent it once already. He hadn't responded. Today was his day off. Hers too. But some things couldn't wait.
With the phone clipped back on her utility belt, she wrapped her fingers around the butt of her weapon. The hiss of cool steel sliding from her leather holster prompted a sense of calm that instantly neutralized the negative effects of the adrenaline pumping through her veins.
She might be off duty but she never went anywhere, not even to bed, without her weapon. To a cop, being unarmed was the equivalent of being naked on stage in front of a jam-packed stadium. Not a good thing - unless you're a part of a living art exhibit.
The muted sound of voices reached her position. She'd been right. Three. All male. All comfortable with continuing business since her presence had obviously been assessed as insignificant.
That kind of carelessness told her something else about her targets. They had grown complacent. Risky business for criminals.
Adopting a battle-ready stance, she eased out into the light of day. Her rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the concrete that formed the drive through the alley between the rows of storage units.
Four more units ... three ... she moved toward the end of the long row ... two more. When she reached the final one she halted, held absolutely still and listened.
The voices were clear now.
"Twenty of the best," one man bragged. "I can get you as many as you require." Kayla didn't have to see the product to know what the man was hawking. High-end bikes. Valued at upwards of hundreds, even thousands, of dollars each.
The goods were stolen from tourists who preferred to bicycle their way around Arizona's trails and from university students who considered the designer bikes to be "all that" and more. The more expensive the product, the better the students from wealthy families liked it. Titanium frames, leather seats ... topend bikes came just about any way a customer wanted them.
Though the consumer might have to work hours, days or even weeks to earn the cost, it only took the average thief about eight seconds to cut a lock and scarcely a few moments more to ride off. Especially on campus, where the thieves easily blended into the student population, likely wearing backpacks filled with the tools of their trade.
The risk proved minimal in most cases, the reward more than sufficient. At one time a thief could only hope to turn a twenty-five or thirty-dollar profit on a three-hundred-dollar bike, but now was a different story. The better ones went for hundreds or even thousands a pop. Considering the risk and the slap on the wrist thieves got if caught, it was a far more desirable business than running drugs.
No middleman required. No recipes to concoct. No dangerous chemicals to dispose of. Just simple bolt cutters or lock picks and a backpack. Well, and the physical endurance to ride the stolen bike to wherever your pickup contact waited.
This particular group of thieves had been eluding law enforcement for months now. No one could determine where and how they disposed of the stolen bikes. Serial numbers were apparently changed, since the few registered ones stolen never surfaced. These guys would get more than a mere slap on the wrist. Petty larceny was one thing, but this was considerably bigger. Estimates put these guys at a six-figure business annually.
Athens was the perfect location. Situated close to Phoenix, a big college town, Athens offered a quick, neutral place for storage and distribution. Far enough away from the scene of the crime for comfort and yet close enough to facilitate the job.
But this was her town.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Justice by Debra Webb Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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