LITMIR.BIZ

      1

      Maple Trails, a gated retirement community

      Longview, Texas

      11:30 p.m.

      A lightning-fractured sky, followed by the quick crack of thunder, gave clear warning that the approaching storms weren’t only accelerating across Texas, but intensifying. Precipitation would be welcome in this section of the piney woods where residents continued to miss out on replenishing rains due to another El Niño in the Pacific. To the most grateful, the storm would serve as a lullaby.

      To Campbell Cody, it felt like a combination of mockery and curse. Standing with her hands on her hips as the overly warm February wind tugged at her hair and khaki uniform, she had to wonder—would tonight be the night she got deep-fried? Like the answer of answers, the next bolt shot into the earth with the precise and deadly trajectory of a smart bomb achieving a direct hit on her nerves, elevating her tension to a level she had experienced all too often in the last fourteen months. She turned her back on the intimidating scene, but the damage was done. Dark memories, rife with immutable images flashed before her—scenes from another night filled with fury: a domestic disturbance turned Code 30, followed by a torment-filled wait in Emergency and, days later, a funeral. She could almost hear the condemning voices of the bitter and the bereaved within the gusting wind.

      Another crack of thunder snapped her back to the present. It came as fast as it took Internal Affairs to convince her that her career with the Longview Police Department was over.

      Uneasy as she was with what was about to befall the area, Campbell had anticipated trouble hours ago. Company policy required all staff to review the latest weather report and the local news, and to make notes on significant alerts coming over the police radio scanner before reporting to their posts. These procedures were twice as strict for the daughter of Yancy Cody, owner of Cody Security, Inc. The company might only be a regional name in the expanding and increasingly complicated world of corporate and private protection, but they were a growing one thanks to a solid reputation—another reason why she could not succumb to old vulnerabilities tonight. But neither could she rid herself of concern over what could become a worst-case scenario.

      Two air masses were colliding over the Lone Star State tonight, resulting in a system that was powerful enough to evolve into one of those freak, heart-of-winter storms that sent eighteen-wheelers flipping, splintered houses, and ripped apart lives. It was no time for man or beast to be outdoors, and while, technically, she could avoid that, the stone-and-glass gatehouse marking the entrance to the private and exclusive retirement community of Maple Trails could be just as dangerous. Come what may, it was Campbell’s post until her twelve-hour shift ended at six the next morning, and there was no use wishing she could have avoided working tonight.

      Her father had always been as selective in scheduling staff as he was in hiring new employees, and that practice was all the more evident at this exclusive community just outside the eastern perimeter of Longview’s city limits. Maple Trails had been the firm’s first sizable client, and personnel were not arbitrarily switched from one location to another. In addition, no one worked at a Cody-protected site who didn’t know it as well as their own home. Unfortunately, that could catch them in a bind. Morton “Munch” Robbins, who should have had Campbell’s shift tonight, had split open his thigh earlier in the day while testing his newly repaired chain saw, and Doug Sutton, their backup, had developed pneumonia. She would not be relieved until tomorrow, even though this was her fourth twelve-hour shift without a break. Company guidelines prohibited staff working without adequate rest, but Campbell refused to complain. Her father had just come through his own health scare and needed support, not whining.

      “Another week, ten days tops, and we’ll be back to normal,” Yancy had assured her six hours ago as she’d prepared for work. “The background checks on the new applicants are coming in as clean as I expected, and we should be ready to start training by Friday.”

      She wasn’t the only staff member who hoped he was right. These were challenging times for security firms, and investigating the people who were issued badges, carried guns and had access to private homes and the most privileged areas in corporations needed to be screened with increased care.

      The next sky-to-ground flash had Campbell ducking deeper into her fluorescent-yellow rain gear, but there was no escaping the high-pitched crack that left the earth shuddering. Pushed by the wind, she stumbled to the gatehouse and reached for the hand radio.

      “Gate to Patrol One, over.” She released the speaker key.

      “Patrol One” came the static-filled reply. “Seen any flying cattle yet? Over.”

      Campbell appreciated Ike Crenshaw’s attempt at humor. The widower and grandfather of five was often her partner on these shifts, and since the movie Twister, he’d been referring to that cow scene whenever this region came under a storm alert.

      “Not yet, and the likelihood of having a shot of tequila anytime soon is nil, so I guess spotting Day-Glo pink pigs with wings is out, too. Listen, Ike, you’d better go ahead and pull into the recreation center to get some solid shelter. The lightning has become downright ugly. Over.”

      “You’re the one out on the ledge. Over.”

      Built on a slight bluff, the entrance to the Trails, as it was sometimes called, did seem precarious, especially as the driveway cut a serpentine path through the terraced ground, which, after four hairpin turns, spilled onto Highway 259. Highway 259—or 59 as it was known farther south—was frequently used as a reliable alternate route for drug traffickers using Houston as a hub.

      The gatehouse was built of the same stone as the semicircular walls that flanked it. On each side, the walls bore the distinct three-foot-high brass nameplates of the beautifully designed community.

      When weather conditions grew treacherous, those on duty were instructed to dive into the deepest corner of the booth, tuck under the built-in desks and cover up with a blanket from the first aid closet for protection from breaking glass and other flying debris. However, Campbell was one of the few people in Tornado Alley who didn’t live in fear of them. She had her own particular dread.

      “I’m about to retreat into my hole,” she told him. “But I’ll sit this out better if I know you aren’t parked under some ancient old tree or playing Good Samaritan by chasing hyper pets at the risk of your own safety. Over.”

      “No way I can do that—not with the arthritis this storm is aggravating. You know where to find me, then. I’ll holler as soon as the worst is past.” The radio cracked as another flash streaked across the sky. “Now, get off this thing. Over’n out.”

      Reassured

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