The Parmeter File

By Merle McCann

Someone is out to harm Holly Greer, and she's frantic to know why. Determined to stop the life-threatening madness, Holly sets out on a high-stakes journey to discover what evil provoked the attempts on her life. Her efforts take her far from home as she faces vengeance, manipulation and destruction. Amidst the threats and intimidation, her situation is dramatically changed when the handsome man from Chicago strides into her life intending to have his way in more ways than one. A born survivor, she dodges assassins, discovers blackmail, murder, and fraud within the United States pentagon, and a love is rekindled.

Fast paced, unpredictable and heart stopping, The Parmeter File is pure entertainment to the very last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twisted Vine
• Release date: Sep 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393595595

Book preview

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WHEN ALAN CULBERTSON stole the Parmeter file from Salvatore Tagliero, he believed he had secured his future. Always an optimist, he fully believed his life had taken a dramatic and positive turn. At long last, he would be out from under Tag’s thumb. Now, only he would control his own destiny. He grinned at the thought. Soon he’d be a wealthy man.

From the moment he glimpsed the file’s contents he knew he’d hit the mother lode, the big pay off. But this morning, thorns of doubt scratched the edges of his confidence. Not yet ten o’clock and his clothes were damp with sweat. It could have been the humid September heat in Phoenix that soaked his underarms, but it wasn’t. It was fear. He had taken an impulsive risk, something he’d always vowed never to do. He cursed himself for acting unwisely then reminded himself times were changing. If he didn’t protect his interests, who would?

People believed the Chicago mob was a thing of the past, but nobody had shared that news with Tagliero. The old capo stuck to his outdated ways with iron-fisted determination. Alan suspected once Tag was gone, the Phoenix wing of the syndicate would end, and he intended to be financially secure before that happened.

He continued his mental debate from his lookout behind the trunk of a dead palm tree, staring through field glasses at a shabby three-story house located at the edge of a low-end industrial park. Like others around it, the old gray structure was once an upper middle-class home, but today it served as the base of operations for an import/export business—at least that’s what the faded sign said. Even though the business attracted few visitors, the new, metallic-bronze Cadillac parked in the driveway suggested business was good.

A rangy oleander, growing through a chain-link fence helped to obscure Alan’s position as he watched the building for anyone moving about. During the hour he’d been there, nobody entered, and no one left. Perhaps there was a back entry. He lowered the glasses, chugged some water and checked his smart-watch. Another fifteen minutes to wait in this hellhole called the Valley of the Sun. Then he would screw up his courage and stride into Tagliero’s headquarters as if he owned it.

Alan raised the glasses to his eyes and scrutinized the house with the stained pink-tiled roof, peeling stucco and dried out wooden front door. His anxious mind flirted with crazy ideas and what-ifs. He flexed his fingers to stop his hands from shaking. Wasn’t surprising he was nervous, odds were he’d be dead by lunch.

Yesterday morning he telephoned Tagliero to set up the meeting and detected nothing unusual in Tag’s voice. But he wasn’t about to trust the old man, and he sure as hell wasn’t going in without his Glock tucked in his waistband. He agreed Tag had reason to be angry over the drug delivery glitch, but the file was Alan’s biggest worry.

He tried to shake his concern. Logic suggested if Tag had discovered the file missing and suspected him of stealing it, Tag’s guys would have come after him by now. The old man had goons in place all over the Southwest.

A shudder rattled his spine when he thought of Denny Simms propped up in a huge pool of blood in a San Diego back alley, throat slit, pants down around his knees, clutching his dismembered dick. The half-wit tried to cross the old capo and botched it. Why Danny ever thought he could pull it off, Alan couldn’t imagine. But unlike Danny, Alan was smart, thought out every detail, and his plan was foolproof—if he could just get through today.

Maybe he worried for nothing. No reason to be this jumpy. He was confident he hadn’t picked up a tail driving into Phoenix from Flagstaff. That alone suggested Tag hadn’t yet missed the file. Or if he had, he didn’t connect the theft to Alan. It had only been a week since Alan walked out with that beautiful file, and only three days since he sent his first demand letter. It probably hadn’t yet arrived in D.C. No need for worry. As long as he kept his cool, everything should go fine today.

As for the shit Tag would dish out because Alan screwed up and didn’t deliver the fourth package, he could sweet talk his way out of it. He just had to play it smart. Tag would pay him off, and he’d get the hell out of Arizona.

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HOLLY GREER CHECKED her rear view mirror frequently as she labored to see through the steady, early September rain. The last time she looked, the stretch of highway behind her was empty. Now, a mud-spattered, green pickup truck was unexpectedly close behind, practically in her trunk. It seemed to come out of nowhere. She pressed harder on the gas than she should considering the wet, winding road, but her hammering heart compelled her to move it.

She searched for a place to pull over but guardrails dashed her hopes. Hugging the edge of the two-lane road, she glimpsed the river below. Giant boulders, worn smooth from a million years of rushing water, jutted from the shallow river bottom, a common sight this time of year.

Ahead, the rusted upper structure of the old Green River Bridge arched against the leaden sky. She braked to a crawl, turned left and cautiously drove onto the slippery wooden surface. Behind her, brakes squealed like an eagle’s scream. Her side mirrors reflected flying gravel from the truck’s wheels as it slid into the turn and sped onto the bridge. Holly set her jaw, stared ahead and clamped onto the steering wheel.

The truck rammed her car with jolting force. Her head snapped back against the tall seat. Metal scraped with a sickening sound. Her antique Jaguar XK120, built in 1950, shot forward into a skid. Her hands spun the steering wheel, trying to fight the force. Voices in her head screamed don’t panic!

Screeching tires demanded she look again. The truck had backed off, but now it barreled toward her. Its crashing blow slammed her under the steering wheel; her knees smashed the dashboard. The Jag careened toward the bridge’s low steel rail. She shut her eyes and screamed as she whipped the wheel to the left. She prayed the tires would grab, but the surface was too thick with slime. Her rear quarter panel scraped the guardrail, sending sparks into the air as red as lipstick. Without warning, the Jag ricocheted across the centerline. Holly held her breath and spun the wheel to the right. The Jag slid onto the road, tires caught, and she exhaled in a rush.

Behind her, the truck’s engine roared and it veered into her, crumpling her left rear quarter panel and shoving her toward the roadside ditch. She braced for the inevitable then glanced up at the truck.

A man in the passenger seat leaned out his window, dangling an arm down the door. His eyes locked on her. Her breath caught. He laughed menacingly, and the sun glinted off a gold tooth hardly noticeable under his full mustache. His arm shot forward with something in his grip.

Stunned by his horrifying expression and the threateningly hostile swing of his arm, her mental processes slowed. His muscles flexed, he reached back and threw a can in her direction. Light reflected of its metal an instant before it struck and cracked her windshield. As if in a dream, the splintered windshield faded to white, blinding her view ahead. Fearing of dying snapped her mind back to real time.

She stomped both the brake and throttle. Her protectively crossed arms flew toward her face. The car fishtailed, and its metal grill ripped into an unseen barrier. She shot forward, slammed into the steering wheel then bounced back against the seat. Both feet came off the pedals. The engine shuddered and died.

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REPEATED DEEP BREATHS didn’t stop the buzzing in Holly’s head. She sat still, gulping air, seeing only white. Thankful tears filled her eyes. She was alive! Her hands shook uncontrollably as she watched from her side window the truck’s taillights race out of sight.

Comprehension slowly returned. She dug her cell phone from her purse, expecting there would be no service. She was right. She touched the bruises on her face and arms. If only she’d had an air bag, let alone a shoulder harness on her after-market seat belt.

She wiped away moisture trickling from her hairline. Fear the men might come back prompted one more deep breath. How bad was the car damaged? What if she couldn’t drive the car—couldn’t get it out of the ditch? She needed help. Fat chance. Few cars drove this road. Somehow, she had to get into Silverview in case the men decided to double back.

Holly’s heart slugged against her ribs as she opened the door and tested her legs. They shook with her first steps. Pain shot through her knees as she stumbled toward the front of her car. The damaging, quart size can rested in a tuft of tall grass. She rubbed a trembling finger through the goo coating her windshield then sniffed. Paint! It covered the windshield, part of the hood and dripped down the fender making her fancy black sports car look like a zebra.

She limped through the tufted grass to the front bumper to see what she’d hit—a fat, rotting stump. Both front fenders were badly dented, one pressed against its wheel, the hood was crushed, the twisted bumper dangled to one side. A total wreck. She moved around the car and touched the shattered taillight. Would she be lucky enough to get the temperamental motor started?

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USING BOTH HANDS to tug at her fender, Holly attempted to pull it away from the tire. It moved little, if at all. She thought of using her tire iron, but doubted she could open the crushed trunk lid. Besides, she feared she was out of time. She gave up and hurried into the car to try the engine. It caught with her fourth effort, but the wipers couldn’t clear the paint. Frustrated to the point of tears, she grabbed the wad of fast food napkins from under the armrest, stepped out and with quick stabbing swipes mucked away enough paint to barely see to drive.

Her muscles protested as she climbed behind the steering wheel and gripped it tightly to keep her emotions from falling apart. After rocking the car forward and back, she jammed the accelerator to the floor, popped the clutch and jolted away from the stump.

The Jag rattled and shook as she crept toward Silverville and the police. The stink of burning rubber infiltrated the car, probably from a front tire rubbing against its fender. She didn’t care; nothing she could do about it. Instead, she focused on retaining the image of the man in the truck: his dark hair, heavy mustache, and the gold bicuspid that glinted when he sneered. The police would want a clear and accurate description.

The man looked too old to be a kid out joy riding. Maybe he and the driver were drunk, or high on drugs. But their actions seemed calculated, as if they had more in mind than scaring her. They had nearly killed her. Anger smoldered. Thanks to a charge of adrenalin clarifying her mind, she thought of the damage. Had they waited for her, or was it simply y chance she came along when she did?

A clanging noise from behind drew her attention, and she checked her side mirror. A hubcap rolled off in a wide arc, weaving like a drunk toward the side of the road. She saw the humor in it, but felt more like crying.

As she neared Silverview, nestled in the shadow of Mount Rainier, she flexed her aching hands, told herself not to squeeze the steering wheel so tightly then gripped it equally hard when she once again took hold. Her knees hurt when she moved her foot to the brake. She dismissed the pain. She’d been lucky. The low-slung Jag had kept her from crashing over the bridge’s guardrail. The ranch’s Suburban SUV might have gone over. She imagined careening through the air and shuddered at the thought of crashing onto the monoliths protruding from the river.

Holly turned right on Field Street and found a parking space in front of the police station. Suddenly, she felt weary—again like crying. She took a breath and pushed through the door. Silverview’s little police force oversaw a town of four thousand people. They rarely dealt with anything more than parking tickets and Saturday night drunks. She wondered how they’d react to her complaint.

At the counter beneath a sign that read Police Reports she started to explain in detail the attack when the officer’s phone rang, silencing her. He picked it up and responded with surprise.

Cows? How many? Roaming loose near the lumberyard? Her eyes followed his hand as he reached under the counter. Any damage? He gave Holly a form and pointed to a table along the wall. We’ll get right on it.

She frowned. Too bad she wasn’t a cow on the loose.

Holly filled in the blanks on the questionnaire and provided a clear description of the man she’d seen then handed the report to the would-be cowcatcher. He looked it over and slid it toward her. You didn’t fill in the make of the truck, nor its license plate number.

It all happened so fast. I didn’t see it. The plate was covered in mud.

You mean they didn’t stop?

Nope.

Hit and run. He made eye contact with her. You hurt? Your head’s bleedin’.

It’s not bad. I’ve a few bruises.

You were lucky. May I see your driver’s license?

She took it from her wallet and handed it to him. He held the little card close to his thick lenses then peered at Holly.

Well now, Mrs. Greer, let’s go take a look at your car. He stepped around the counter and held the door for her. Aren’t you the lady way out the highway who’s built that fancy horse farm? Arabians, right?

She hoped that wouldn’t make a difference in how he treated her. Before she could answer, he said, I thought I recognized the name on your license. I remember reading about your husband’s surprising death. I’m real sorry.

She felt the familiar stab to her heart. Thank you. My car was a gift from my husband. He loved old cars. She picked her way down the steps.

Holy-be-Jesus! His brow scrunched. They really did a job on that ol’ girl. He took his time circling the car. What a shame.

She nodded. Tim had been so proud the day he surprised her with the car. He’d laughed and hugged her. I hope you’ll let me borrow it now and then.

The officer interrupted her thoughts. Could you identify the men in the truck?

Not the driver, but I won’t forget the other man. I described him in my report.

Ever see him before?

Nope.

Undoubtedly not from around here. By now he and the driver are probably long gone. If we do find them, we’ll call you. Sorry, I can’t give you much hope.

Her fear and frustration turned to anger. "Is that the best you can tell me? Really? They nearly killed me!"

We’re gonna try, Mrs. Greer. Do you want to have your car towed?

Holly’s jaw tightened. No, I’ll drive it home. Might take a while but I’ll get there.

The Jag started on the third try, and she headed for the farm. The image of the man in the truck repeatedly flashed across her mind—those cold, vicious eyes. And his expression—vengeful. It made no sense.

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AT TEN O’CLOCK, Alan walked into Tagliero’s old converted house. Sweat dotted his upper lip. His veiled eyes flashed around the tastefully decorated waiting room in search of something or someone out of place. Everything seemed okay. It didn’t feel like a trap. To wet his dry throat, he helped himself to a wrapped candy from the dish on the coffee table and waited for the sexy looker seated at the reception desk, to lead him down the hall to Tag’s office.

He’d been there a half dozen times, and she never varied the routine. He didn’t mind. She was a tits and ass blonde with an undulating walk that said she knew what made a man’s world turn. It was great to walk behind her and drink in each move of large and small muscle groups.

She smiled. Please follow me.

Her throaty voice suggested unspoken invitations. In the doorway, Alan smirked as his upper arm grazed her breasts when he ambled into Tag’s office.

The large walnut paneled room with its quiet boardroom-elegance always unnerved him. It simply wasn’t the expected environment for a man who dealt in human flesh. Too much class for the squat, oily-haired capo seated at the partners’ desk. A pool hall seemed more appropriate for the likes of Sal Tagliero, or a back booth in a dingy bar. Alan’s dampish collar felt cold in the air-conditioning. He attempted to smile at the man who had controlled his life for so long.

Tagliero glared at him. So, Alan, another fuck up? You usin’ the shit now?

No way. A bead of sweat snaked down the middle of Alan’s chest. Denny Simms’s execution flashed across his mind. For once, he controlled his emotions and thought before speaking. His answers had to sound good.

It wasn’t my fault, Mr. Tagliero. I’d never cross you. While I was makin’ the third drop, some asshole broke into my motorhome. You can’t blame me for that. Besides stealin’ the shit, they trashed my rig. I’ll be months getin’ it fixed.

Tagliero’s reddening face grew large. He slammed the desk with his fist. I don’t want to hear your whining about that damn bus! You’re nothin’ but a dumb-ass punk. You’ve been too long in the joint. Christ, you can’t even make a simple delivery.

The door opened slightly. Alan couldn’t see her but her familiar perfume wafted into the room. He fantasized her dabbing it on her skin in warm, soft places. Tagliero surged to his feet, shuffled to the door while barking at Alan. Stay put.

Anger burned, but Alan remained still, determined to play it smart. He recalled last week when he was in this office. Tag stepped out then, too, leaving him enough time to search through the file folder left on top of Tag’s desk. The instant he saw its revealing documents and clear, explicit photographs, he knew his future was made. The bald-headed old fart in the photos, whoever he was, would pay for the nasty fun he was having.

Alan glanced at his phone. Tag was taking his sweet time. Alan rose from his chair, stuffed his fists into his pants pockets and paced, wondering what was keeping Tag. He wanted this meeting over. He hated this office. He hated Tag, with his manicured nails, his expensive suits and his expensive sweetie out front.

His groin tingled when he thought of the woman. He couldn’t help himself. What a piece of work she was. High priced clothes. Jewelry. She couldn’t afford to look like that on a secretary’s salary. She must be doing more than typing. Did she like it that way or was she in too deep? Too scared to get out?

Alan sneered. He wasn’t too scared and by God, he was getting out. Doing it in style. Tag wouldn’t push him around anymore. Sure, Tag had a regiment of hired guns in three-piece suits, but they didn’t have brains like Alan’s. He’d show Tag; he’d show ’em all. Make ’em sweat the way Tag made others sweat.

A click sounded when the doorknob turned. Alan headed back to his chair as Tag returned looking more relaxed. We have another shipment, Alan. A big one.

Alan slumped in his chair. A blood vessel at the side of Tag’s forehead pulsed. The sonofabitch was lying.

Really? I figured I wouldn’t be doing any more deliveries for you.

Before Tag could respond, his phone rang. Tag grabbed it and pushed the button. Yeah?

A woman’s voice crackled through static. Washington, D.C. calling Mr. Tagliero.

Tag turned his back to Alan and listened for several seconds then roared, Pasqual, whatcha want? No fucking way! I can’t believe it. Who signed the Goddamned letter?

Tag’s head moved up and down in silent responses. Was it Alan’s letter they’d gotten? If so, his plan was working. His face warmed. Soon he’d be a rich man. All he had to do was get away from Tag in one piece and everything would be effin great.

Tag muttered, Thanks, Pasqual, I’ll take care of it. He hung up the phone and turned back to his desk. The vessel on his forehead pulsed harder as he leaned down and pulled open the file drawer next to his left knee. Goddamnit! he hissed then slammed the drawer, rattling the squat Waterford jar filled with Cuban cigars, sitting at the front corner of the desk.

Drops of sweat appeared on Tag’s forehead and he slumped slightly forward. His hand shook when he reached into his pencil drawer for his nitroglycerin tabs. Alan eased his hand closer to his side, inches from his weapon, as he studied Tag’s movements, afraid he was going for a gun. It didn’t appear so. Either Tag was the world’s best actor or he was no longer interested in Alan.

Alan relaxed slightly. Was he home free? Had he pulled it off? Exhilaration mounted in Alan’s chest. He squeezed the arms of his chair. Tag, are you okay? Can I get you something?

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TAGLIERO WAVED ALAN off while his head swayed slightly from side to side. Give me a minute, he rasped. I’ll be all right. The color slowly returned to his face and his eyes brightened. Look Alan, let’s forget what I said. You’re a good boy. I’ve been havin’ a shitty day. He wiped his forehead with a fresh handkerchief. Everyone fucks up, ya know—even my kids.

He slid an envelope across the desk. Here, take this. It’s your cut from the last shipment. Twenty-five percent light ’cause that’s what you fucked up. Be glad all we cut was your take. Tag gave him a knowing look.

Anger and hatred exploded behind Alan’s eyes but he remained calm. He longed to tell the pompous shit how contemptible he was. It took all his control to keep his face expressionless. What he couldn’t control was the sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. He had to get out of there before he did something stupid. That’s fair, Mr. Tagliero.

There’s also a list of instructions in there for your next delivery. Tag stood, and Alan followed his lead. They moved toward the door. You know, I’ve always liked you, but if you screw this one up...

Tag reached up and rested his hand on Alan’s shoulder. Alan turned in time to see Tag’s eyes. Was it hatred he saw, or resignation? Did it matter?

Call before you make this delivery. You may need my help. He sounded exhausted.

Sure, whatever you say, Mr. T.

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ALAN CROSSED THE street with the sun drilling into the top of his head, but he couldn’t care less—everything was perfect. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. If it weren’t for the money Tag had owed him, he would never have come back.

He’d taken a gutsy gamble and it paid off in a big