Cisco Bandits: A Gwynn Reznick Mystery (Gwynn Reznick Mystery Thriller Series Book 2) Read online

  Cisco Bandits

  Inge-Lise Goss

  Olivebranch Press

  Copyright © 2015 Inge-Lise Goss

  Olivebranch Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopy), recording, or otherwise—without prior permission in writing from the author.

  Cover design and ebook formatting by EbookLaunch.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY MOTHER,

  Metha K. Thomsen

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My gratitude goes out to the wonderful people I worked with while I was an auditor. The knowledge I acquired through them about the oil and gas industry laid the foundation for this novel. I am especially grateful to my husband, Peter Goss, for reading very rough drafts and always giving me encourage words to continue writing. I also want to extend my thanks to Nancy Buford, Ernest Walwyn, Jo Anne Plog and Debbie Prince, members of the Rainbow Writers Group, for the education I obtained through their critiques. In addition I want to thank my beta readers who provided me with wonderful suggestions to improve my novel. Last, but not least, I want to thank my outstanding editors—Christine A. Walsh, Nancy Buford, and Toni Michelle.

  PROLOGUE

  Arne Boden stepped out of his truck at an oil well site and heard leaves rustling. Gazing in that direction, he saw branches swaying and strained his eyes to get a better look. Ambient light from the stars allowed him a glimpse of a shadow moving through the trees. Could it be the sought-after cougar—the animal that had attacked and mauled two unarmed hikers? He climbed back into the driver’s seat to retrieve one of his rifles hanging on the rack secured above the back window. The rifles were gone. He cursed to himself, believing Janice’s son had borrowed them again to do a little target practicing without asking. Arne reached under the driver’s seat to retrieve his pistol. Clenching his teeth, he came up empty handed and shouted, “That damn kid!”

  He stared through the windshield at the broken oil well pump and knew he should have tackled the repair job during the daylight, but Janice wanted him to see her new bedroom set. Arne would never turn down an opportunity like that. He leaned back in his seat and scanned the area for any sign of the cougar. Nothing. The branches no longer moved. He perked up his ears and intensely listened for unusual sounds. An owl hooted. With the clanging of the broken oil pump vibrating through the air, he couldn’t pick up any other noise. Arne opened the glove box, pulled out a flashlight and flipped the switch. No light appeared. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he blurted out. He fished through the compartment, searching for the new batteries. They were gone.

  Arne started the engine and repositioned the truck so the beam from the headlights glowed on the well. Still concerned about the cougar, he cautiously eased out into the crisp night, shut the door and grabbed a piece of pipe lying in the truck bed. Suddenly, he heard the click of the doors locking and knew his keys were dangling from the ignition. His eyes roamed over the area as he tried to comprehend how that could’ve happened. Everything looked peaceful. No sign of anyone else around. He gripped the car handle in a useless attempt to open it. Arne stuck his hand in his pocket to retrieve his cell phone, then remembered it was on the charger in the cab.

  He rummaged through the supplies in the truck bed, looking for a piece of wire to unlatch the lock. Snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves erupted behind him. Securing the pipe firmly in his hand, he spun around and saw three male silhouettes emerge from the dense foliage.

  Arne jumped down from the truck bed. “What do you guys want?” He backed away as the figures took a step closer to him. The men’s features came into focus and Arne sighed, recognizing them.

  “What are you guys doing out here?” he asked, dropping the pipe into the truck bed.

  “Rules,” the leader said.

  A cold chill swept over Arne. His eyes darted between the three stern-faced men. Glaring at them, he wondered why one member of the Brotherhood wasn’t among them—his buddy, the guy who promised to watch his back if something went wrong. “Where’s Turk?”

  “He couldn’t make it this evening,” the leader said with a sneer. “Did you forget your pledge?”

  “No.” Arne’s muscles tightened and a lump formed in his throat. “I only told one person. That’s all!”

  “When you agreed, you knew there were no exceptions.” The man moved closer to Arne.

  One of the other men stepped back into the foliage and dragged a canister labeled “Hydrogen Sulfide” out from behind a bush.

  Arne’s eyes fixed on it, beads of sweat lined his forehead and his hands became moist. A wave of terror shot through his body. “I won’t tell anyone else,” he stammered, gasping for air.

  “We know you won’t,” the leader said, clasping onto Arne’s arm.

  Arne grabbed the man’s wrist, jerked around and swung him against the truck’s tailgate. A blow struck Arne between his shoulder blades, followed by a smack to the back of his neck, sending him buckling to the ground.

  The leader staggered to his feet, jabbed a finger at Arne’s face and his mouth curled into a sinister smile, taking a breath. “Consequences. You violated the rules, a breach of trust. You were aware of the cost,” he said, while the other two men stretched out Arne’s arms and pinned them against the coarse rocks and crusted soil as he squirmed, wiggled and flung his feet, striving to escape.

  Veins stood out on Arne’s neck. “You won’t get away with this!” he yelled, fear gripping his features.

  Ignoring the outcry, the leader headed to the dark foliage. His comrades knelt on Arne’s shoulders, leaned on his extended arms with all their weight. When the leader returned with three safety masks, he distributed two to his associates and slipped on the third. Arne wiggled and screamed for help. The leader yanked the cylinder above Arne’s head, secured the attached mask over Arne’s face, glared at the man lying helpless on the ground and turne
d the valve. Within a few seconds, Arne’s eyes rolled back into his head. He stopped squirming.

  .

  CHAPTER 1

  The warm night wind blew through the trees and Gwynn Reznick’s feet ached as she trudged along the side of a dark, narrow, isolated road wearing a pair of stilettos. Not her choice of footwear, but a requirement in her assigned investigation role as Gwynn Wagner, accountant for Prudell Energy Company. Her flashlight began to flicker and she pounded the side of it, bringing it back to life. A large boulder stood in her path and she decided to take advantage of it. She sank down on top of it, slipped off her heels, wiggled her toes and sat peacefully, watching the dried leaves falling from the maple and oak trees swirling through the air and landing on the pavement. She raised her head and gazed at the moon and stars, wondering what Ruben—her boss, boyfriend and mentor, was doing at that very moment.

  Off in the distance she heard the sound of a diesel truck approaching and suspected it belonged to Dave Prudell, the guy who had been making passes at her since she started working for his family’s company. She pressed her lips together and thought: Dave’s looking for me. Doesn’t he understand I’m engaged! Gwynn wasn’t actually engaged, but that was part of her cover. After attempting to avoid Dave at Marty’s, a bar in town that served as a post-work hangout place for Prudell employees, most of the evening, she didn’t want another uninvited flirtation. She stepped into her shoes and ducked into the thick bushes behind the boulder.

  Tires squealed as the vehicle maneuvered a sharp curve. Gwynn tapped her index finger on her lower lip, trying to figure out why Dave would travel that fast if he was searching for her along the side of the road. He had to have seen her car still parked in Marty’s parking lot. Gwynn had assumed Dave was responsible for it not starting, so he could drive her home, just like he did last week when she mysteriously ended up with two flat tires. That evening she had given him the benefit of the doubt, thinking it could have occurred earlier from loose nails when she dodged construction debris scattered along the highway. Two car mishaps—not a coincidence. She shook her head, Dave isn’t the swiftest guy in town, but most of the single gals, even a few married ones, would have loved the attention of the good-looking cowboy.

  The clash of metal reverberated from the road. Gwynn dropped to her knees, peered around the boulder and saw two light-grey Chevy trucks barreling past—the second vehicle’s bumper whacking into the back of the first.

  Dust billowed and brakes screeched about five hundred feet ahead of Gwynn. Loud male voices rang out, but she couldn’t decipher the words.

  Staying hidden among the dense bushes and tall wild grasses, she crept closer with only the moon lighting her way. Hitting, smacking, the unmistakable sounds of men fighting, echoed through the trees as she stealthily moved forward.

  “You bastard!” a man shouted with a deep, raspy voice. “You did nothing!”

  “I couldn’t!” another man said, gasping for air.

  Gwynn reached the edge of the clearing with only a few tall, overgrown bushes separating her from the men. She hunkered down, peeked through a small opening between the brushes and caught a glimpse of cowboy boots. Suddenly, a shot rang out followed by a moan, then silence. Gwynn sank to the ground, felt the sheath on her calf to make sure her knife was still in easy reach. She pressed her lips together, angry with herself for not being armed with a pistol. It was attached under her driver’s seat, undetectable to curious strangers or thieves. Gwynn stayed motionless, waiting for an opportunity to get a better look and listened to heavy footsteps on the graveled shoulder of the road.

  A truck door slammed shut, an engine roared and the vehicle sped away, leaving a cloud of dirt and spreading rocks in its wake.

  Gwynn inched out of the bushes and saw a man, face down, surrounded by a pool of blood. She raised her flashlight, flipped the switch, but no light appeared. She pounded it again. Nothing. It was as dead as the man lying at her feet.

  In the dim nocturnal light, her eyes scanned the man. Gwynn thought she knew who it was and wanted verification, but couldn’t chance leaving fingerprints behind by moving the body with her bare hands. She darted into the trees and came back with two short branches. Holding them at different angles, she managed to turn the victim’s head and found herself staring at Mike Drumlin, a Prudell employee, a guy who she played pool with earlier at Marty’s.

  His Silverado’s door stood wide open. Gwynn suspected the assailant could be back soon, so she hurried to the vehicle to take a quick look inside. Documents were strewn on the floor. Leaning in with only her elbows touching the mat she picked up one sheet and used it to gather the papers. Hearing the sound of a diesel engine, she dropped the papers, except the one with her fingerprints on it and swiftly moved behind a cluster of overgrown bushes. She knelt down and stuffed the page into her purse. Wanting to identify the assailant, Gwynn broke off a few twigs to clear a small opening and looked through it. A minute later, a dark sedan zooms past without even slowing down, as it maneuvered around the protruding truck.

  Gwynn headed to the Silverado again. A headlight beam from an approaching vehicle struck the nearby trees. She leapt behind a cedar tree, breaking off her stilettos heel in the process. She crouched, ran her fingers along the dirt searching for it, but came up empty handed.

  “You take his feet. I’ll grab his shoulders,” the raspy-voiced man said.

  “Get all that stuff out of there!” another man shouted with a nasal twang in his voice.

  Peering around the tree, Gwynn saw several pairs of feet clad in cowboy boots. From her vantage point, everything above the men’s knees was outside her line of sight. One voice seemed vaguely familiar, yet she couldn’t pinpoint where she had heard it.

  “He’ll be right up to clean the area,” the raspy-voiced man said.

  Gwynn knew it was time to leave even without her heel. Staying low she prowled deeper into the foliage, remaining parallel with the road and feeling grateful the full moon helped illuminate her way. When she could no longer hear any voices, she moved to the pavement and awkwardly sprinted up the road, running on the balls of her feet in her damaged stilettos for quarter of a mile.

  At the head of her driveway, she stopped to catch her breath. The sound of metal crashing, glass shattering and a horn beeping erupted from the woods behind her. Assuming the noise was caused by someone cleaning up the crime scene, she briefly glanced in that direction, then shuffled two hundred feet to the house. It was a modest 2-bedroom with white, wood siding that she had supposedly inherited from her Uncle Virgil Sorenson, who had passed away at the age of 84 without any heirs.

  Gwynn flopped on the couch, yanked off her shoes and raised her feet to the cushions. Every breath she took burnt her lungs. Remembering the sheet in her purse, she fished it out and unfolded it. In the center of the page, printed in bold letters, was “Flow Line Layout.” Under it the word “Adjustments” was handwritten. She noted in the bottom corner it stated: “Project #112.” She speculated if it might have any significance to Drumlin’s death. In case there was a connection, Gwynn decided she’d look through Prudell’s project files on Monday.

  Feeling hot and sweaty, she inhaled deeply, rose and strolled into the bathroom. She quickly showered, slipped on a robe and headed to the kitchen.

  She pulled out the top drawer, set it on the floor and retrieved her N-phone, a non-traceable cell phone, tucked behind it. She stared at the device. It had never been used during the time she had been in Bloomfield, New Mexico. She shook her head Two months—six weeks longer than I thought I’d be here and I still don’t even know why I’m here.

  She pushed the on button and was both surprised and relieved when it lit up. She punched in the contact number and waited. It rang twice.

  “Why are you using this phone?” Ruben snapped over the airwaves.

  “Well hello to you, too,” Gwynn replied, irritated.

  “What’s up?”

  Gwynn filled him in on the events of the evening
.

  “You didn’t recognize the voices?” Ruben asked.

  “The one sounded familiar. It might have been the guy who played pool earlier with Dave at Marty’s, but I’m not positive.”

  “Does he work for Prudell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When will you be around him again?”

  “Monday. Ashton Prudell is having a meeting with all the employees to go over some changes he’s planning to implement.”

  “Do you know what they are?”

  “Haven’t got a clue. I could be more helpful if I knew what I’m supposed to accomplish here.”

  “You’re right on task—you became a Prudell Energy Company employee.”

  “That was easy with my impressive, doctored resume.”

  “It was your striking looks—high cheek bones, slender, curvy body, long legs and seductive hazel eyes,” he said in a sensuous tone.

  Gwynn’s cheeks flushed. “Ashton checks out my boobs every time he walks through the door.”

  “Five days a week. I’d like that.”

  “You can, seven days a week.”

  “I wish I could. The job here is dragging on longer than I had anticipated.”

  “Any idea when you can come and at least visit me? Remember, you’re supposed to be my fiancé!”

  “Soon.”

  “You’ve been saying that for a month!” Gwynn hissed.

  “One of these days, I’ll surprise you. Sunday I’ll call on your regular cell phone. We can talk like lovers—no mention of business.”

  “Haven’t slipped up yet.”

  “In case you should encounter additional crime scenes, make sure you’re carrying more than your knife,” Ruben said with an edge to his voice.

  “It was just because I didn’t have my car.”

  “That’s not an acceptable excuse.”

  “Okay, boss, got it.”

  “Talk to you Sunday,” he said and disconnected.

  “Thanks for letting me say goodbye,” she said, turning off the phone.