Fatal Frost Read online

  © 2016 by Nancy Mehl

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016942747

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3066-9

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible or from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  The poem “To My Son, the Officer” by Shaen Layle has been used by permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Wes Youssi / M 80 Design

  Cover photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.

  Nancy Mehl is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.

  This book is dedicated to the brave men and women of law enforcement. Thank you for your incredible commitment and sacrifice. You are true heroes, protectors of the people. I’m proud to bring you to life on these pages, and I pray that in some small way I’ve shone a light on your indomitable and courageous spirit.

  God bless you.

  TO MY SON, THE OFFICER

  We started out so differently, you know:

  you were the helpless one—suspended, unseen,

  in the cradle of my ribs. My body, a shield for yours,

  a galaxy of starry future. But years passed until

  you were the helpless one (suspended, unseen)

  no more. A protector yourself, shelter for others.

  A galaxy of starry future. But years passed until

  the scent of lilies hung thick in the air.

  No more a protector yourself. Shelter for others

  now only in the Redeemer, an embrace at your casket.

  The scent of lilies hangs thick in the air,

  as blue turns to eternal gold.

  Shaen Layle

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Nancy Mehl

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Chapter

  One

  The seemingly deserted street was lined with empty houses, their windows as blank and vacant as the eyes of those who had become casualties in St. Louis’s war on heroin. Deputy U.S. Marshal Mercy Brennan gazed out the window of the black van as cold tendrils of rain slid down the darkened glass next to her, reminding her of tears. It was as if the tortured city of St. Louis wept because of the treacherous drug that had invaded her. The influx of cheap heroin had turned neighborhoods into war zones. The gangs that claimed ownership over their communities were killing men, women, and children for the right to rule. Crime was out of control, and many good people were trapped in their homes, praying they or their loved ones wouldn’t become the next victims of the violence that raged around them.

  In the background, her team leader barked out orders. Tonight, the U.S. Marshals, in conjunction with the police, were hitting a beehive—a house used for the distribution of the noxious poison. Normally the Marshals would leave an operation like this to the local police or the Drug Enforcement Administration, but this time there was a good chance they’d be able to get their hands on Darius Johnson, a notorious gang leader who had recently started calling himself D-Money. Just a few hours before the planned operation, the police received a tip that Johnson had been seen hanging around this house. It was possible he was hiding out here. The Marshals had been trying for months to apprehend him on a federal fugitive felon warrant, but Johnson had evaded them. He’d actually been in custody a year ago, arrested for the distribution of narcotics. Unfortunately the prosecutor’s office had released him back out on the streets for reasons no one in law enforcement could understand. One week later, Johnson hunted down the officer who made the arrest and shot him. Thankfully, Officer Mike Galloway was still alive, but he’d never walk again.

  Mercy’s best friend, Lieutenant Tally Williams, looked at her and winked. The nervousness in her stomach quelled some. She and Tally were both worried about this raid. Just before they left the station, they were informed that Johnson may have been tipped off. That the gang knew they were coming. She could only hope it wasn’t true. Bringing Johnson to justice had become more than a job. It was a mission.

  Their team leader cleared his throat, the sound reverberating in the silence as the van slowed and turned off its lights. “Intel says our target was seen in the residence three doors down and to your right,” he said in a low voice. “We’re not sure where the players are positioned, so we’re playing hide-and-seek tonight. As always, try to approach the residence without alerting anyone. Our main goal is to find Johnson, but we also need to shut down the beehive, arrest whoever’s inside, and confiscate drugs, weapons, and money. Thankfully the weather is cooperating. There’s a good chance our targets are holed up inside. Sergeant Morris will lead the search.” He pointed to several officers, including Tally. “You’ll go with me through the front door. Stay alert. There are definitely guns inside. We don’t want anyone hurt if at all possible.” He pointed at Mercy and two other deputy Marshals. “You set and hold the perimeter. Be on the lookout for runners. Don’t let anyone get away.” He paused for a moment. “Look, we’re all hoping Johnson is here, yet we have to stick to normal procedure. If we get lucky, I want to make one thing very clear. I want him alive, folks. I mean it. We won’t honor Mike by killing this scumbag. We need him to answer for his crimes. We can’t allow this bust to get dirty. Got it?”

  Everyone in the vehicle nodded or grunted their assent. Many times, raids were exciting. Adrenaline-charged. But tonight officers and deputies were quiet. They all wanted Darius Johnson off the streets. There was absolute silence in the van as they waited for the order to start the operation. Mercy clasped her AR-15 rifle against her vest. All LEOs had on their tactical gear. Underneath it, most of the cops wore uniforms. The Marshals and the police detectives were dressed in plain clothes. With their coats zipped up against the cold, the only way to tell the difference between the various law enforcement agencies represented were the words stamped on the back of their jackets. But tonight, departments, even rank, didn’t matter. They were one unit with one goal.

  Mercy’s grip tightened on her rifle a
s the sound of the rain intensified. It was as if it were directly connected to the increased concentration surging through all the members of the unit. Seconds later, the commander yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”

  The doors of the van burst open and everyone jumped out, intent on taking their assigned position. Mercy ran around to the back of the house, keeping as low to the ground as possible, thankful for the dark and the heavy showers. They were shields of protection until the residence was breached. She crouched down near the back door. Seeing another deputy take his place at the back of the yard, she signaled him with a wave of her hand to let him know she was in place. He signaled back. They were set. They both had to be ready to move quickly. If they had the right house, there would be runners. There were always runners.

  Seconds later, she heard a shout. “Police! We have a warrant!” Several other voices echoed the same warning. Then came a loud bang, making it clear the front door had been broken down. Everyone inside the house was now aware of the raid. Mercy pulled the flashlight from her belt and trained it on the back door, her rifle held firmly with her other hand.

  “Over there!”

  Mercy swung her flashlight toward a lone figure running away from the house. He must have exited through a basement window. “Watch the door,” she shouted to the other deputy. She sprinted after the runner, identifying herself as a police officer and commanding him to stop. Even though she was actually with the Marshals’ office, calling herself a cop made it simpler for everyone to understand, especially the perps.

  It was obvious this guy wasn’t going to make it easy for either one of them. As she raced through an adjoining yard, a woman came out onto her back porch and began screaming obscenities at Mercy, ordering her to get off her property. Mercy swung her flashlight toward the woman and instructed her to get inside the house, but this seemed to incense her even more. Mercy had no choice but to ignore the irate resident and stay focused on the fleeing suspect. The icy rain not only made it hard to see, but the ground was also slick and Mercy slipped several times. Hopefully the suspect was having the same problem. As she rounded the backyard, she spotted someone in the alley. As she approached, the figure turned to face her. A streetlamp revealed a gun in his hand.

  Mercy dropped her flashlight and took her stance. She raised her rifle to firing position. “Put it down now,” she shouted. “Drop the gun or I’ll fire.” She was close enough to see fear on the man’s face. Unfortunately it wasn’t Darius Johnson.

  She didn’t want to shoot him, but if he didn’t comply with her order, she might not have a choice. Instead of lowering his gun, he raised the barrel. In that instant, Mercy hesitated. For just a moment. That one second of uncertainty cost her. She felt the first bullet strike her vest. The second pierced her shoulder, and searing pain knocked the gun out of her hand, sending her to the ground. The shooter advanced slowly, the apprehension gone from his expression. It had been replaced with hate and victory. He pointed his gun at her, and Mercy prepared herself for the bullet that would end her life. She wanted to scream out that she was only twenty-six. Too young to die. But she knew the man with the gun wouldn’t care.

  As expected, she heard the sound of a shot, but surprisingly the expression on the suspect’s face changed once again. This time he looked shocked. As he fell to the ground, Mercy heard Tally’s voice calling her name.

  Then there was only darkness.

  Chapter

  Two

  Angel Vargas pushed back the revulsion he felt as he looked into the face of a man he’d sooner shoot than speak to. Darius Johnson was a pathetic, dim-witted narcissist who saw himself as someone forceful—someone to be reckoned with. To Vargas he was nothing more than a cockroach. Something to be stepped on once his plan was successful. His father needed Johnson—for now. But once everything was under way, he’d squash him like the bug he really was. When the idiot shot a cop, the cartel almost took him out then. Thankfully their association with the gang leader wouldn’t last much longer. Too bad the guy was so clueless he’d never see it coming. He was as good as dead already.

  “I don’t get it,” Johnson huffed. “Why not just shoot this pig and be done with it? Ain’t no reason to go to all this trouble.”

  “Because, Darius, shooting police officers will bring us the kind of notice we don’t want. People are already up in arms about that crippled cop. Your stupidity brought a lot of heat down on all of us. Now isn’t the time to go after more of them. Not only will this work, no one will suspect us. And if the cops’ attention is directed somewhere else, it’ll make our lives much easier. I can bring in three times the stash you’ve been getting. It will open the door to everything we want. And the cops get the blame. Not you. Not me.”

  Darius frowned. “I ain’t Darius no more.”

  Vargas shook his head. “Sorry.” What was the ridiculous name the gang leader wanted to be called? He racked his brain for a few seconds before remembering. “I meant D-Money.”

  Darius offered him a self-satisfied smile. “But won’t they know this ain’t real, man? I mean, you and I know who hit this dude, and it sure wasn’t no lady cop.”

  Vargas sighed inwardly. He needed Johnson and the other gang leaders in St. Louis to pull off the cartel’s plan. They were coarse, mostly uneducated, and could act like rabid dogs when they were crossed. But they’d built a powerful kingdom based on fear, and fear worked to Vargas’s advantage. In fact, the cartels thrived on it. Fear was power—and the gangs had power in several major cities. He and his father had hatched a plan that could ignite a time bomb capable of tearing the nation apart while strengthening the cartel and bringing in more money than they’d ever dreamed of.

  “It will work,” Vargas said, trying to hold on to his last shred of patience. “We’ll be releasing these all over the country. It’s easy. We shoot somebody, and then we fix the video to make it look like a cop did it. Show the video to the cop, threaten to release it, and we’ve got him dancing to our tune. If he resists, we send the video to the media. While the city burns, we take over. No one will care if it’s real. A cop shooting an unarmed citizen will cause immediate chaos. Riot first, ask questions later. The truth gets lost in the mayhem.”

  Darius jumped to his feet. “Whaddaya mean it ain’t real, man? The pigs are always stoppin’ our cars. Throwin’ us around. Tryin’ to make us look like criminals. They’re killers, and they gotta be stopped. Permanently.”

  Vargas heard this same song from every gang member he’d talked to. It was their mantra. Vargas could have pointed out that Darius and his thug pals were the actual criminals, as well as the real killers. But these guys had no use for common sense or reasoning. They were beyond it. Hopped up on drugs and violence, full of twisted logic, they could be easily manipulated if you knew which buttons to push. Drugs, money, power, and hatred for law enforcement. Appeal to those things and they were puppets dangling on strings that the cartel was holding. They were perfect for Vargas’s purposes. Right now the gangs were a sure means to a lucrative end.

  “Settle down. I have no love for the police.” He pushed Darius’s computer back toward him. “Don’t let anyone else see this. In fact, delete it after you show it to the cop. Make sure he knows it will go viral if he betrays us. If that happens, his darling daughter’s career will be ruined. After he leaves, delete everything. Do you understand me?”

  Darius nodded. “I’m not stupid, man. I get it.”

  “Have you erased all our emails and the original video you shot on your phone?”

  Darius sank back down into his chair as if he’d lost all his enthusiasm for the conversation. Vargas assumed his Swiss cheese brain had moved on to something else.

  “Yeah, it’s all gone. And after the cop sees his kid’s future, I’ll delete the new video you sent me. I promise. No one will never know nuthin’ ’bout either one of them, aight?”

  Vargas let his eyes travel up and down the gang leader’s thin frame. Darius wore untied sneakers, blue jeans dropped low to sho
w his blue boxers, and a white T-shirt. The uniform of the Crips. Vargas shook his head. If his son ever walked around with his pants hanging down like that, he’d beat him within an inch of his life. When Vargas was in school, kids who didn’t know how to pull their pants up were sent to special schools.

  “Give me your phone,” Vargas said.

  “Man, I told you I deleted the real shooting.”

  “I said, give me the phone.” Vargas held his hand out. Darius swore and took the cellphone out of his pocket. He handed it to Vargas, who quickly ran through it, checking pictures and videos. Most of the things he found disgusted him, yet the original video wasn’t there. Vargas gave Darius back his phone.

  “Meet with the cop no later than tomorrow.”

  “You know he ain’t caused us no trouble. Likes the money we give him. I don’t know why you’re worryin’ about this dude, man. He’s okay.”

  “He’s important. We need him to achieve our goals here. I just want to make sure he stays ‘okay.’ This city is the perfect place to test our plan.”

  Vargas stood to his feet. Darius had been holed up for a long time in a house that belonged to another banger’s mother. The place was dirty and smelled of sweat and hopelessness. Vargas couldn’t take it another moment. Law enforcement might call him a criminal—just like Darius—but they weren’t the same. Not at all. Vargas had a nice home. A family. Anyone looking in from the outside would think he was exactly what he purported to be: a successful businessman and church leader. In his mind, it was true. It’s just that his business was drugs, and the bodies left behind were unfortunate casualties.

  He shook the gang leader’s hand and walked out of the house, wiping his fingers on his jacket. He could now assure his father that Darius would do what he was told. After that, Darius would die. Either by his hand or by some other gang leader’s.

  Either way, his fate didn’t matter to Vargas.

  And neither did the cop’s.

  Chapter

  Three

  “You look good.”