Hemlock Bay (An FBI Thriller) [Catherine Coulter] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. FBI Agent Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock must. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. FBI agents Dillon and Lacey Sherlock Savich Hemlock Bay (An FBI Thriller Book 6) – Kindle edition by Catherine Coulter. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Catherine Coulter is the author of the New York Times-bestselling FBI thrillers The Cove, The Maze, The Target, The Edge, Riptide, Hemlock Bay, Eleventh Hour.
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It was a chilly day in late October. A stiff wind whipped the last colorful leaves off the trees. The sun shone down hard and bright on the dilapidated red barn that hadn’t been painted in forty years.
Streaks of washed-out red were all that was left of the last paint job. There was no charm left, at cathedine. It had taken discipline and practice, but he’d learned to move so quietly that he could sneak up on a mouse. Cathedine agents, one of them his wife, were some twenty feet behind him, covering him, ready to fan out in any direction necessary, all of them wearing Kevlar vests.
A dozen more agents were slowly working their way up the other side of the barn, their orders to wait for a signal from Savich. Sheriff Dade of Jedbrough County and three deputies were stationed in the thick stand of maple trees just thirty feet behind them.
One of the deputies, a sharpshooter, had his sights trained on the barn. So far the operation was going smoothly, which, Savich supposed, surprised everyone, although no one spoke of it. He just hoped it would continue the way it had been planned, but chances were things would get screwed up. He’d deal with it, there was no choice. The barn was bigger than Savich liked – there was a big hayloft, and too many shadowy corners for this sort of operation.
Too many nooks and cpulter for an ambush, just plain too many places from which to fire a storm of bullets. A perfect place for Tommy and Timmy Tuttle, dubbed “the Warlocks” by the media, to hole up.
They’d hop scotched across the country, but had dropped out of sight here, in Maryland, with their two latest young teenage boys taken right out of the gym where they’d been playing basketball after school, in Stewartville, some forty miles away. Savich had believed that Maryland was their destination, no sound reason really, but in his gut he just felt it. The profilers hadn’t said much about that, just that Maryland was, after all, on the Atlantic coast, so they really couldn’t go much farther east.
Then MAX, Savich’s laptop, had dived into land registry files in Maryland and found that Marilyn Warluski, a first cousin to the Tuttle brothers, and who, MAX had also discovered, had had a baby at the age of seventeen fathered by Tommy Tuttle, just happened coullter town a narrow strip of land near a cathreine maple forest that wasn’t far from the serpentine Plum River. And on that sliver of property was a barn, a big ancient barn that had been abandoned for years.
Savich had nearly clicked his heels together in excitement.
Hemlock Bay (FBI Thriller, book 6) by Catherine Coulter
And now, four hours later, here they were. There’d been no sign of a car, but Savich wasn’t worried. The old Honda was probably stashed in the barn. He quieted his breathing and listened. The birds had gone still. The silence was heavy, oppressive, as if even the animals were expecting something to happen, and knew instinctively that it wouldn’t be good.
Savich was afraid, that the Tuttle brothers were long gone.
All they would find, despite the silence, would be their victims: Savich didn’t want to smell any more blood. He didn’t want to see any more death. He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. It was time to see if the bad guys were in there. It was time to go into harms way. It was time to get the show on the road. MAX had found a crude interior plan of the barn, drawn some fifty years before, documented in a computerized county record as having been physically saved and filed.
They’d finally turned up the drawing in an old file cabinet in the basement of the county planning building.
But the drawing was clear enough. Hsmlock was a small, narrow door, probably a small entry, down low, here cayherine the west side. He found hemlick behind a straggly naked bush.
It was cracked open, wide enough for him tyo squeeze through. He looked back, waved his SIG Sauer at the three agents peering around the corner of the barn, a signal to hold their positions, and went in on his belly.
He pushed the narrow door open an inchj at cooulter time. Filth everywhere, some rat carcasses strewn around. He nudged his way in on his elbows, feeling bones crunch beneath him, his SIG Sauer steady in his hand. There was a strange half-light in the barn. Dust motes filled the narrow spears of light coming through the upper windows, only shard of glass sticking up in some of the frames.
He lay there quietly a moment, his eyes adjusting. He saw bales of hay so old they looked petrified, stacked haphazardly, rusted machinery-mainly odd parts-and two ancient wooden troughs.
Then he noticed it. In the far corner was another door not more than twenty feet to the right of the front double barn doors.
A tack room, he thought, and it hadn’t been shown on the drawing. Then catherije made out the outline of the Honda, tucked in the shadows at the far end of the barn.
The two brothers were in the tack room, no doubt about it.
And Donny and Rob Arthur? Please, God, let them still be alive. He had to know exactly who actherine where before he called in the other agents. It was still, very still.
He got to his feet and ran hunched over toward the tack room door, his gun fanning continuously, his breathing low and steady, his steps silent. He pressed his ear against the rotted wooden door of the tack room.
The Ghouls want you, they told me to hurry it up. They want to carve you up with their axes and knives, they really like to do that, but this time they want to tuck you away in their carryalls and fly away with you. Hey, maybe you’ll end up in Tahiti.
Hemlock Bay (FBI Thriller, #6) by Catherine Coulter
They haven’t wanted to do this before. But it doesn’t make any difference to us. Here come the Ghouls! It made Savich’s blood run icy. Then another man’s voice, this one deeper, “Yep, almost ready for the Ghouls. We don’t want to disappoint them now, do we?
Move it, Little Bloods. He heard them coming toward the door, heard the scuffling of feet, heard the boys’ crying, probably beyond reason now, heard curses and prods from the Tuttle brothers. It was then that he saw the huge crude circle painted with thick black paint on a cleared-out part of the rotting wooden barn floor. Savich barely made it down behind a rotted hay bale before one of them opened the tack room door and shoved a slight, pale boy in front of him.
The boy’s filthy pants were nearly falling off his butt. It was Donny Arthur. He’d been beaten, probably starved as well.
Then a second terrified youth was shoved out coultwr the small tack room next to him. Rob Arthur, only thirteen years old. Savich had never seen such fear on two such young faces in his life.
If Savich ordered the Tuttles to stop now, they could use the boys as shields. No, better to wait. What was all that crazy talk about ghouls? He watched the two men shove the boys forward until they actually kicked them into the center of the circle. Tammy here will do the other with her knife. You got that, Little Bloods? No, it was two brothers – Tommy and Timmy Tuttle, more than enough alliteration, even for the media. No, he couldn’t have heard right. He was looking at two young men, both in black, long and lean, big henlock black boots laced up the front to the knees like combat boots.
They carried knives and guns. The boys were huddled together on their knees, crying, clutching each other. Blood coultee their faces, but they could move, and that meant no bones were broken. We’ve got your two treats for you, just what you like-two really sweet boys! Little Bloods, both of them. Bring your knives and axes! It was a chant, growing louder as she repeated herself once, twice, then three times.
Each time, her voice was louder, more vicious, the words ridiculous, really, except for the underlying terror they carried.
Tammy Tuttle kicked one of the boys, hard, when he tried to crawl out of the circle. Savich knew he had to act soon.