Bitch Out of Hell: Bella Hinton political thrillers, #2

BITCH OUT OF HELL

By DIANA DEVERELL

Published by Sorrel Press

www.SorrelPress.com

Table of Contents

BITCH OUT OF HELL by Diana Deverell

Praise for Diana Deverell’s other thriller series

DEDICATION

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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

OTHER EBOOKS BY DIANA DEVERELL

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COPYRIGHT

. . . 18 months earlier

I’m in the rear seat of our special-order Chevy Suburban watching cycle-rickshaws weave through traffic on a crowded four-lane avenue in Dhaka when the blond bodyguard on my left jams his stubby Belgian-made compact assault rifle under my chin.

In the high-end private security company where I’m the woman in charge of State Department contracts, we arm our bodyguards with FN P90’s. The personal defense weapon is one hundred percent ambidextrous and ideal for small spaces.

Though not for firing inside the heavily armored vehicle where I sit sandwiched between my employees Ron and Mary.

We don’t wear seatbelts and Mary quickly uses her wiry arm to pin my right arm against her padded torso. The charcoal-colored twill of her uniform jacket is rough against my bare skin. She slips a black flexcuff over my wrist.

Ma’am. Mary’s from Tennessee and she draws out the respectful contraction in a soft southern twang. Like most of our guards, she’s former military.

They sir and ma’am anyone higher up the chain of command. Mary intends no respect.

Lean forward, she continues, and put your other hand behind your back.

Though this is a former British colony, they drive on the right, same as in the US. Our driver Sean is up front in the usual spot.

Sean’s eyes flick to my reflection in the rearview mirror and quickly away. His auburn buzz-cut doesn’t twitch.

I’m fifty-five years old and my inch-long locks are now the color of brushed steel. Sean can’t see that he should bond with me as a fellow redhead.

Like Mary, he’s siding with Ron, the blue-eyed Minnesotan with his weapon in my face.

Up front in the passenger seat, dark-haired Timmy Joe shifts so his gaze is on me. He’s from Arkansas and his weapon points at my midriff.

Four against one.

—from Payback is a Bitch: A Bella Hinton Short Story by Diana Deverell.

This short tale introduces security professional Bella Hinton in her first starring role. Payback is a Bitch was named a Distinguished Mystery of 2018 by Otto Penzler, editor of the The Best American Mystery Stories series and is the genesis for this political thriller Bitch Out of Hell. You can read all the details of what happened that fateful day in Dhaka in the complete ebook short story, available from most online vendors.

Praise for Diana Deverell’s thrillers

Reader Praise for Bitch Out of Hell

Helluva read! I really enjoyed this. I hope there are more books coming. The characters are intriguing, Bella is intelligent and sassy, and the plot is entertaining. (Amazon reader review)

Diana Deverell’s newest book could be a story on the six o’clock news - the outsourcing of America’s military functions, shady corporate dealings, the suspicious death of a whistleblowing board member, and a special prosecutor’s investigation. (iBooks reader review)

. . . a delightfully humorous and suspenseful read with realistic characters . . . and the plot twists and weaves itself into a satisfying conclusion. For a fun thriller read, check this out. (Kings River Life review)

Reviews of the Casey Collins international thriller series

12 Drummers Drumming

Diana Deverell’s latest book is a must-read.Chilling suspense and heated passion—A brilliant debut." (Barbara Parker, Edgar-finalist author of Suspicion of Innocence)

Night on Fire

Deverell’s solid second Casey Collins novel [has] engaging narrative, gripping mystery, and wily plot twists. (Publishers Weekly)

East Past Warsaw

. . . a tale that makes you pray it’s fiction. (S.E. Warwick, mystery reviewer)

China Box

an intricate chess match of espionage, international wheeling-dealing, and love plays out in Washington and Silicon Valley. (Amazon reader review)

Reader Praise for the Nora Dockson legal thriller series:

A great character, a great series—I highly recommend it to people. (Stephen Campbell, CrimeFiction.FM)

Help Me Nora is a compelling gritty novel. I could not put it down and found the legal background fascinating. (Goodreads review)

The series is great; it’s got the theme of the hard scrabble up-from-poverty Nora doing her battle of wits against a scheming, social-climbing assistant attorney general, laced with tons of good detective work. (Amazon reader review)

Deverell has a gift that grabs the reader so one cares about what happens to every character in the story. Once one starts Nora’s clear sighted and brilliant pursuit of justice it’s hard to put the book down! (Amazon reader review)

DEDICATION

For Patricia A. Butenis

1

In a syrupy Georgia accent, the red-jacketed ticket agent informed me that my connecting flight to Norfolk failed the equipment check.

Like me, the agent was female, though much younger and far sweeter than I am.

According to her, the airline expected to have a replacement aircraft ready for me to board soon. I’d be only forty-five minutes behind schedule.

A nuisance, but I kept my cool.

I’m in charge of State Department contracts for Caprock Worldwide, a private security company.

Our bodyguards protect American diplomats abroad. I keep tabs on my people.

Over the past seven years, I’ve racked up a million air miles making routine visits to US embassies.

Flight delays are the least of my worries.

I didn’t expect a long layover.

Atlanta is my airline’s hub. Idle equipment’s parked all over the place.

The actual departure time may be sooner than the estimate.

The terminal was muggy on this last Friday in June. Still, I was comfortable in my yellow silk T-shirt, white cotton slacks, and Birkenstock sandals.

I was hungry but I didn’t leave the gate to grab a beer and a burger. As a rookie, I learned that waiting out an airport delay in the bar is a bad idea.

Parking my ass in a seat with a view of the agent, I settled in.

Turned out that my airline had no extra planes in Atlanta. The closest replacement aircraft was in Louisville.

It didn’t roll up to the gate until four o’clock. By then, we needed a fresh pilot and co-pilot. A new crew was on its way according to the same agent.

Faking a smile, she thanked us kindly for our patience.

Our ETD bumped to five-thirty.

I was going to arrive late at Caprock’s flagship training facility in southeast Virginia. I’d miss the anniversary banquet.

I’d be lucky to get there in time to play my part in the after-dinner program.

The prospect of missing the meal made me cross.

I accosted the gate agent. Explained my problem.

If she couldn’t guarantee a five-thirty takeoff, she should put me up in a hotel overnight. Send me to Norfolk in the morning.

In the honeyed tones of a southern belle, she assured me the new departure time was firm.

Skeptical, I reclaimed my seat.

When the ETD got pushed ahead, she was nowhere to be found.

I sent a text to my boss telling him that I wouldn’t make it to the party.

Jeff texted right back. He was at the facility. He’d pass on my message. He wanted to see me first thing Saturday morning.

Miss Georgia Peach reappeared at six-thirty and grabbed her microphone. Please come to the podium when I call your name.

I was in her face before she finished saying, Bella Hinton.

Sorry, Mizz Hinton, she crooned, but we aren’t gettin’ you to Norfolk, tonight.

If I’d had anything in my stomach, I’d have puked on her jacket. Showed her how sick I was of her phony politeness.

She rebooked me on a 10:00 AM flight. Swore she’d found me the last available room near the airport. Shooed me out to the shuttle boarding area.

The motel’s dented Ford van dumped me at an aged Econo Lodge just off a four-lane highway.

The two-story concrete-block building was tucked between a check cashing service and a Waffle House.

My stomach gurgled happily at the sight of the restaurant.

The motel office faced a cluttered and potholed parking lot. A liquor store sat on the far side. Flashing neon announced that all four establishments stayed open around the clock.

At the motel front desk, a black man in his twenties took the airline’s chit.

He eyed me. Like he was asking himself if I’d pay a higher by-the-hour price for an easy-access ground-floor room.

From the look on his face, he calculated I’d have trouble earning the money back. Lifting his nose higher in the air, he passed me a keycard.

Man’s risk assessment skills were lousy.

True, my inch-long locks are the color of brushed steel. My loose clothing hides my battle scars and the muscles in my calves.

But the desk clerk should have noticed my well-toned arms.

I was thirty years older than he was and still quite capable of teaching him better manners.

I was too hungry to bother.

I dumped my soft-sided carry-on bag in the cramped second-floor room. Turned the air conditioning up to run full blast in my absence.

Looped my berry-colored anchor-shaped leather handbag over my shoulder. Headed for the Waffle House.

Despite my hot-weather outfit, the ninety-second walk through a steamy Georgia evening had me dripping.

The high temperature made the kudzu’s rotten vegetable stink more powerful. Amped up the itchy insect hum.

Stir in the petroleum smell of hot pavement and a weaker woman would have lost her appetite.

But I’d starve to death if I let odoriferous foreign climes put me off my feed.

2

When I stepped inside the restaurant, the shiny brightness dazzled me.

Chilled air swirled across my skin. Sweat evaporated from my arms.

The aromas of baking waffles, fresh coffee, and frying bacon blotted out all other scents.

I spied an empty stool at the counter. Headed for it.

As frequently happens on the job, I was the only light-skinned person in the room.

At least these natives were speaking English. I was happy to find other females here, too.

Half the tables were filled by young women with their phones in easy reach.

I made a quick survey of their scanty apparel, heavy makeup, and high-maintenance hairstyles.

Most appeared to be on break between service calls to the hotels circling the airport.

I guessed that the men filling the remaining seats were mainly taxi drivers. I’d seen half a dozen marked cabs scattered among the vehicles parked outside.

Spotting nothing alarming, I dialed down my alertness.

A chubby eighteen-year-old in a pinstriped black apron and matching cap appeared on the other side of the counter. She filled my coffee cup and took my order.

I swallowed go-juice and texted my boss.

Told him the earliest I could meet him tomorrow was 12:30 PM. I’d wait for him at the facility’s admin building.

I added a C U Sat. Tucked the phone in my high-capacity bag. Ordered myself to relax.

Through no fault of my own, I won’t make it to tonight’s shindig.

I won’t apply expensive body-boosting product to give my newly-styled hair that natural-looking lift.

Line, shadow, and mascara my eyes to bring the fading green color back to emerald.

Don the gray Armani pants suit carefully stowed in my checked luggage. The saleswoman swore it was a perfect copy of one worn by Judi Dench in a James Bond flick.

She convinced me the Armani was the look I wanted.

But I won’t transform into Bella-the-Beautiful after all.

Won’t parade on stage and hear the applause for my stellar efforts on behalf of the company.

Masquerading as Agent 007’s boss isn’t really my thing.

Truth is, I’m happier stuck in this delicious-smelling eatery. Surrounded by people cheerfully taking care of business. Taking no interest in me whatsoever.

I’ve been in worse situations.

A loaded plate appeared on the countertop. I sampled the high-rise cheddar-and-bacon omelet. The dish had an eggy puffiness I’ve found nowhere else on earth.

Only southern grill cooks know the secret.

I heaped my fork. The mix of fluffy egg, melted sharp-tasting cheese, and crisp, salty bacon sent my spirits soaring.

I ate every bite. Mopped my plate with homemade biscuits.

Content, I stayed happy until ten o’clock.

Curious about the anniversary party, I called Latoya Moore for a report.

Latoya’s in charge of human resources for Caprock. She organizes our special events.

She was at the Virginia training facility, doing behind-the-scenes stuff.

Backstage was damn noisy, I discovered when she answered.

Shouting over the hum of voices and clatter of dishes, Latoya told me to hang on.

The rumbling in my ear slowly diminished. Hinges squeaked. A door thudded shut.

A chorus of crickets told me she’d gone outdoors.

Damn, girl. Latoya spoke softly in her rich contralto. What happened?

Airline screwup. I’m stuck in Atlanta till morning. I texted Jeff. Didn’t he tell you?

Not a word. I had no warning. Suddenly, Carter Ramsey was done speaking and I was scrambling to get the next act out front.

Poor you.

Three years ago, Caprock was sold to an umbrella corporation. We became one of seven subsidiaries of Synergy Group, providing risk management services in fifty countries around the globe.

The Synergy CEO Carter Ramsey is also chair of the corporation’s board of directors.

I felt my forehead wrinkling into a frown. Jeff said he drafted a five minute speech for Ramsey. I guess the man cut a few things?

"He cut everything. His speech totaled seven words. I’ll repeat them for you.

Latoya cleared her throat and said, Bella Hinton was unable to join us.

Her words came out in perfect imitation of the CEO’s deep growl.

I grunted. Sounds like Ramsey isn’t happy with me.

You got that right. Latoya’s voice returned to normal. What’d you do to piss him off?

Damned if I know, I lied and ended the call.

Earlier this week, I ended a month of globe-trotting at our San Diego training facility. Some disturbing rumors reached me during my two-day stay in southern Cal.

Mentally, I added sausage, country ham, and smothered hash browns to my breakfast order.

The odds that I was a condemned woman just went up.

I seize any excuse to enjoy a hearty meal.

3

Saturday morning, I landed at Norfolk at 11:36 and found Hertz had run out of midsize rentals.

The rental agent apologized. He couldn’t honor my reservation. But he could give me a bargain rate on a subcompact designed in Japan and assembled in Tennessee.

It’s the cheapest subcompact sold in the US. Infamous for its stingy design.

At least the red four-door sedan he gave me was the higher-end model.

I didn’t have to deal with a manual transmission, roll-down windows, and a door lock that opened only with a key.

I was stuck with the wimpy engine and slow acceleration.

Still riding the endorphin high from my luscious breakfast, I focused on the upside. The car smelled good and was fuel-efficient.

I inhaled the new-car perfume and calculated my gas savings as I motored west across the Virginia coastal plain.

I passed through a quaint town famous for selling tasty Virginia ham. The highway skirted grass-and-mud pastures enclosed by stock fencing sized for hogs.

Only a faint whiff of pig shit slipped into my vehicle.

I reached our forty-five hundred-acre facility just after noon. Sunshine glinted off the corrugated metal roof on the shed by the entrance.

The shed cast a meager shadow on the freshly resurfaced blacktop drive. The scrawny redhead manning the gate was bathed in sunshine.

Like me, he wore a midnight blue polo shirt with Caprock embroidered in red over his heart.

In imitation of the casual uniform worn by our instructors, he’d paired his polo with beige cargo shorts.

I hadn’t bothered to dig my shorts out of the gunmetal-gray twenty-six-inch hardside spinner I’d checked through to Norfolk. Yesterday’s loose white slacks would get me by.

I recognized the gate guard. Buzzing down the window, I hollered, Hey, Zack, howya doin’?

I breathed in blacktop fumes. Listened to my engine’s feeble idle while I waited for his reply.

Last night’s phone chat with Latoya had spooked me.

What if my name was no longer on the admit list?

Zack glanced up and grinned.

When I smiled back, a puff of air came out of my mouth. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.

I’m fine, Zack said. How ‘bout you?

I’m doin’ great, I retorted.

He waved me onto the property.

Most likely, the CEO’s crankiness had nothing to do with me.

I’d relax and spend the rest of the long weekend catching up with Jeff and the facility staff.

I headed for a two-story building fronted with log-cabin-look vinyl siding. The fake river rock pillars were formed from medium density polyethylene.

The nearby lodge, inn, and dining hall sported