Breaking Point: Mill Creek Mystique, #3

Breaking Point

Mill Creek Mystique, 3

BAILEY THOMAS

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Breaking Point

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Street, Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2023

eISBN: 978-1-959036-12-8

Copyright © 2023 Bailey Thomas All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Melody Pond

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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To my wonderful husband: You are

my inspiration, support system, and

happily ever after.

In loving memory of Marsha. Your big heart and unwavering support will be deeply missed.

Chapter One

Jasmine West flipped through her interview notes for the umpteenth time at the small desk in her London, England, hotel. The anonymous email she’d received a few weeks ago intrigued her. She’d never seen anything so cryptic. Her source had mentioned that they were a friend of the prominent Dubin family and wanted the truth to finally come out. That alone made this adventure exciting because she didn’t know where it would end up. She’d even titled her article "Senator Thomas Dubin and Secrets of the Mangled Family Tree." A burst of giddiness flooded her system due to all the potential story outcomes.

She’d spent the first part of this week in Washington, DC, interviewing some of the senator’s colleagues, past and present, along with his late wife’s best friend. Her source had suggested she meet the woman, and it had turned out to be rather informative.

It seemed that the senator and his wife had a turbulent marriage, and her trouble with conceiving hadn’t helped matters. His wife had been adored by everyone, but no one would talk to Jasmine about the events surrounding her death.

After Washington, Jasmine had hopped a flight from Dulles International Airport to Heathrow to investigate the small town of Holmberry Hill. There were definite concerns of infidelity and a cover-up. This town seemed to be the link.

She finger-combed her hair, which was now dry enough to sweep up into a messy bun, as she looked out her window at the big red double-decker buses passing. The streets were filled with people dressed for work and play on this early Friday morning.

She tapped her pen against her forehead as she thought. This anonymous source had mentioned that Jasmine’s photography, her primary source of income allowing her the freedom to travel and research, had caught their eye. They’d learned about her journalistic endeavors from her website.

A part of her wanted this exposé to be the story of a lifetime—Pulitzer-Prize worthy. That would irritate her dad because he couldn’t downplay that honor. Oh, she knew she’d already succeeded with her photography, but her father would never give her credit for those accomplishments. All Dad saw was that she wasn’t married and had strayed from his plan for her life. Really, it was the same for all his daughters—live close to him and Mom and raise their grandchildren.

Well, she liked adventure, traveling, and, most importantly, choosing what to work on because it intrigued and excited her. She sipped her coffee, hoping to wipe the fog from her brain. At least she’d gotten a good five hours of sleep, but hopping into another time zone had zapped her energy.

Thirty minutes later, she packed up the last of her belongings, then headed toward the car she’d hired to take her to Holmberry Hill. She planned to stay the night at the local bed and breakfast before flying back to the States the next morning.

When she approached the man waiting at the curb alongside his vehicle, she confirmed his name, then slid all the way across the back seat while he stowed her luggage in the trunk. The steering wheel located on the opposite side of the car made her smile. It was those differences that made her adventures memorable.

The overcast day matched her mood. The wipers screeched across the windshield as the car merged into traffic. The driver caught her gaze in the rearview mirror. Miss West, shall I drive straight to Holmberry, or do you have additional stops along the way?

No, please head straight to St. Paul’s Church.

She planned to take some pictures of the private hospital that had closed a little over a year ago since it was located down the road from the church. Apparently, when that institution closed, various documents, including adoption records, were sent to the church for safekeeping.

Her source had noted that the senator had made several visits to the area. Could the truth be that easy to uncover? Something said her no, but her curiosity had been piqued. The drive into the countryside was beautiful, and the history of the place left her speechless. The brick homes with multiple fireplaces surrounded by lush greenery truly were picturesque. It looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting.

Two hours later, they arrived at Holmberry. The chauffeur headed up the cobblestone drive toward the top of the hill where the episcopal church sat peering down over the small town.

Jasmine tapped the driver’s shoulder. Pull over here, please; I want to take some pictures of the hospital.

She lowered her window and used her phone, deciding to leave her camera in her backpack for now. Once her window closed, the car ambled forward toward the circular drive of the church.

A vehicle was parked in front of the entrance, so her driver opted for the other side to leave the doorway clear. The rental car barcode sticker on the back window of the other car caught her eye. She’d noticed similar ones on cars she’d rented in the past as she bent to grab her backpack from behind the driver’s seat.

When she sat up, a large, brawny man had exited the church. He stopped to survey the area for a moment before descending the steps to head to his vehicle. She had a fleeting thought that he seemed out of place. Nothing gave her a foundation for that revelation other than an instinct that was shouting at her.

Please wait here. I won’t be long, she said, halting the driver’s exit to open her door.

The structure of the old church and its stained-glass windows charmed her. She could only imagine how many events had happened right here over the years. When she glanced to the right, she saw the town nestled below. It created a picturesque view that had a place on postcards, she imagined.

The concrete steps were steep, but when she opened the door to enter the structure, she couldn’t help but smile. The exposed wooden beams, ornate carvings, and statues dominated the space, but it was the decorative windows that softened the room with different hues of color. It was breathtaking.

Welcome to St, Paul; how may I help you? asked an elderly lady with a duster in her hand.

Hi, I’m Jasmine. I’m looking for Father Duncan.

The woman nodded and guided Jasmine toward a door on the opposite side of the church. Every footstep echoed as they walked farther into the emptiness.

It must’ve been hard on the town when the hospital closed, Jasmine said as her gaze took in the beauty of the church.

The woman slowed and turned back to address her question. The residents use the medical facilities in the next town over. The hospital was private and catered to people from around the world who had the means to take care of delicate matters.

That comment swirled around in Jasmine’s thoughts, intriguing her with all the situations that hospital must have handled. Then one particular question snapped to the forefront. Do you get many visitors here and for the hospital?

The woman stopped so she could face her. No, not really. I wouldn’t call this area a big tourist spot. Our busiest days are Wednesday and Sunday. Then she continued her way down the hallway. When they reached the closed door, she cracked it open briefly to converse with someone on the inside before swinging it wide.

Father Duncan stood and extended his hand. Hello, how many I help you?

She couldn’t help but notice how soft and smooth his hand was. Hi, I’m here for a birth certificate and an adoption record. I’m hoping you can help me. The father’s name is Thomas Dubin.

Father Duncan folded his arms in front of him. Please, have a seat. I’ll go check. I can’t remember the last time we had two people in same day searching for records.

That admission had her sitting up straighter. The image of the man leaving the church flashed again in her head. Never one to ignore her gut, she glanced down at his desk and scanned the surface. There was a basket on the corner of the desk with a file folder and a log of some sorts on top. Only a matter of minutes extended between that guy’s visit and hers, so that log interested her.

Twisting her head left and then right to ensure she was alone, she removed her phone from an exterior pocket on her bag. Her heart hammered against her chest while she aimed the device at the document. She snapped two pictures, then shoved it back into the backpack as she heard the father coming back down the hallway.

I’m sorry, he said as he reentered the room. I don’t have any records with that name listed. If you have the birth mother’s name or the child or adoptive parents’ information, I could look again.

I don’t at the moment, but could I contact you by telephone?

That would be fine, the man said and found a pen. "Here’s the number. Can I have your last name for my tracker, Jasmine?

Yes, it’s West. Thank you. I really appreciate your help.

She smiled and exited the office, hurrying toward the car. An insane thought drove her next action, but every fiber of her being told her to do it. This was what made a story, being strong enough to chase the unknown, even if might be the stupidest idea. That very idea was why she found herself at odds with her parents, especially her father.

He’d prefer she was married and raising her children like her sisters. Instead, she chose to follow the man who’d exited the church right after she arrived. If luck were on her side, and the fact she’d only been inside for a short time, the one-lane country road would slow him so they could catch up to him. It was a long shot but worth the try.

She slid into the back seat. Remember that car that left right after we arrived?

The driver turned around to look at her and nodded, his expression guarded.

Good, I need you to find that car and follow it. I’ll pay you double the rate agreed upon, but in cash. And if we do, don’t let the man know we’re following him.

The driver uttered his confirmation before he returned his focus to the road. He must have understood the urgency because they arrived back to town in half the time. They might not find the vehicle, or this might not lead to anything, but sometimes there was only a fine line between luck, gumption, and hunches.

The driver made a left on the main street that bisected the town and found the car leaving the bed and breakfast where she was going to stay. Her driver followed the car, and it wasn’t long until they were back on the roadway that would eventually lead them to London. Her stomach fluttered with both excitement and concern as they tailed the man.

She called the inn to cancel her reservation for the night. Then she sent a text to her big sister to say she was fine and having fun. Her family didn’t know the real reason behind her trip, and according to her father, Jasmine had ruined Thanksgiving by booking a trip to the UK rather than celebrating with her family. Once her story was published, she would share all the details about how she’d accomplished it.

The driver cleared his throat. Miss, it appears he’s heading toward Heathrow. Do you want to continue following him?

She finished sending her text and responded, Yes, but when he pulls into the rental facility, drop me off outside their office. I need to ride the shuttle, or I’ll lose him.

Forgive me for overstepping, but are you sure you want to do this?

She gathered her belongings and took out her wallet. Yes, thank you.

When the car came to a stop just outside the agency, she handed him the cash they’d agreed upon and exited. The balance would be billed to her credit card. She waited for him to retrieve her bag from the trunk and thanked him for helping her.

As she walked farther onto the property, one of the workers approached her. Miss, can I help you?

She’d learned a long time ago that if you acted like you belong, most people would let you pass with minimal interference. I’m heading inside to pick up a bag I accidentally left behind earlier today. I’m so thankful you had it.

Oh, that’s great. Have a good afternoon.

She wheeled her bag through the line of vehicles and toward the crowd of people waiting for the shuttle after completing their returns. She caught a glimpse of the man toward the back of the group, so she turned to the female next to her to start a conversation. This way, she could keep an eye on him while it looked like she was conversing with a friend.

When the shuttle arrived, he boarded toward the rear and stood in front of the door, holding on to the overhead bar. Jasmine opted for a seat in the back of the bus. After all, she was one in a thousand people flying out of an airport to some destination. Why would he think anything different? He didn’t seem to be paying her any attention, or he was just good at hiding it.

When he jumped off at the terminal, she followed him and got into the same line. She watched him approach the counter, then was waved forward to the open station next to him. That was when she heard the ticketing agent say Mexico City, so now she knew where he was headed. She bent to retrieve her wallet from her backpack as he passed by heading toward the security.

Jasmine told the ticketing agent. I need to purchase a ticket on the next flight to Mexico City, please.

The agent asked for her identification, then proceeded to click a ton of keys on her keyboard before coming back with an answer. First, business, or coach?

Coach is fine. I’d prefer an aisle seat, if available.

It’ll be $843.00 dollars, and I’ll need your credit card.

She handed over her plastic and stood there while the agent’s fingers danced on the keyboard. Finally, she gave Jasmine a receipt and boarding pass.

The gates are to the left; have a safe flight, the ticket agent said.

Holy crap, what am I doing?

Jasmine’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch and needed dinner. Once she cleared security and located her gate, she’d eat. She’d do a little work on the plane and then sleep for the bulk of the flight.

A pub across from her gate caught her eye. A burger, fries, and cold beer sounded delicious. She had just over an hour to kill before she boarded her flight. When the time came, she paid her bill and moved toward the boarding area, pleased to see that her male companion had boarded with the business-class travelers. At least she knew for certain he was on the flight.

After her group was announced, she forced her eyes toward the rear of the plane and walked right past him. The moment she was clear, she let out a deep breath and found her seat.

The flight was uneventful and quiet, which made her happy. She slept for most of it and had just finished her breakfast when the pilot announced they were preparing to land. Deciding it was best to use the facilities now so she wouldn’t risk missing him, she made her way to the rear of the plane. She brought along her small toiletry kit to freshen up and brush her teeth, that way she’d be ready to go when the aircraft door opened.

After the plane arrived at the gate, and she cleared the jetway, she picked up her pace until she had him in her line of sight. She weaved her way through people until she closed the gap, but careful to keep some distance between them. He walked at a decent pace with his long stride, so she had to walk faster than normal to keep up with him.

He exited the airport and climbed right into the back of a waiting Range Rover complete with tinted windows. Crap! Her stomach tightened, because she was going to lose him. Seeing the taxi line, she dashed over and cut in front of everyone. Since she only knew a small amount of Spanish, she hoped this would work instead of making a big scene.

"Lo siento, tengo la emergencia con mi familia. Por favor," she said to the people in line.

The family in the front of the line relented and motioned for her to take their cab.

Gracias, she said, then jumped into the waiting vehicle. "Sigue a ese Range Rover negro. ¡Rápido!"

The man turned, pointed forward into traffic, and said in perfect English, That one way up there?

She saw his line of sight when she leaned forward. Yes, and please don’t make it obvious.

He smiled and steered away from the curb, her back molding to the seat when he stomped on the accelerator. The knot in her stomach increased with every mile they covered. She glanced at her watch and noted they’d been driving for close to forty-five minutes.

Her body listed right when the taxi merged lanes and exited the highway. After passing a series of traffic lights and making several turns, the taxi came to a stop at an open market. Across the street, the black SUV they’d been trailing stopped behind two identical rovers.

I’m going to leave you here, the driver announced while he printed the receipt for her ride.

She took the slip of paper and looked it over. Where are we?

Bonita Verde.

The driver accepted the wad of cash she handed him. This includes your tip, thanks.

After she retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, she moved away from the cab. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw movement across the street. Since her phone was already in her hand she used it to snap a few pictures before removing her camera from her bag and shoving her phone inside.

The weight of the camera felt good in her hands as she moved between the groups assembling in front of the restaurant. She adjusted her lens and snapped a few of the surrounding area and open market.

When she tried to turn back around to focus on the group across the street, a strong hand grabbed her arm and jerked her backward. Shock and fear snaked down her spine. The man snatched her camera from her neck and demanded her phone. Panic flooded her system as a black hood came down over her head. She kicked and screamed, trying to break free or get someone to help her.

The grip on her arm tightened to the point of pain. This is your only warning, a deep voice said into her ear. Be quiet and I won’t drug you. Do you understand?

Tears pooled in her eyes and threatened to spill down her cheeks. She nodded. Are you going to hurt me?

I won’t, but I can’t answer for the others. Why are you taking pictures of my boss? He values his privacy and has found your actions reprehensible.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset your boss. Her voice wobbled. I’m visiting the area. If you give me my camera, I’ll delete the photos.

There was a loud, grinding sound, and she was shoved into a vehicle. No more words were spoken to her, and forceful hands pushed her to the floor. Her legs were cramped in the small space. At first, the roads were smooth, but the terrain changed and became rough and bumpy like they were on a mountain path. She figured they’d been moving for at least thirty to forty minutes.

Abruptly, the wheels skidded to a stop, and before she could catch her breath, the door behind her opened. Hands slid underneath her armpits, and she was dragged backward and onto her feet. It wasn’t long before a tingling sensation slammed her extremities as blood rushed back into them.

The hood she wore was snatched from her head, leaving her temporarily blinded from the bright sun. She caught a glimpse of the man who had taken her camera back at the market before he hopped back into the running rover and disappeared.

A man with a gun in his hand spoke rapid Spanish and motioned for her to walk forward. When she passed him, he prodded her toward a hut and shackled her ankle to a huge cement block inside. The moment he turned back to face her, he holstered his weapon and assessed her from head to toe. Then, his gaze swept over the small space.

Dread filled her, and her stomach churned with anxiety. All she could hear in her head was her father telling her over and over again that she shouldn’t travel alone.

"Quiero tus zapatos," the man said, pointing at her feet.

A split-second decision had her acting like she didn’t understand his words or intent. Having shoes would be better than being barefoot. Seconds felt like hours as he repeated the command and glared at her.

Finally, he squatted in front of her to remove her shoes. The grimace on his face worried her. The moment he stood, something hit the back of her head, and her world went dark.

~ * ~

The clacking of poker chips and male laughter echoed down the hallway toward the kitchen in Noah Parker’s new house. He’d officially been a resident of Mill Creek for over three weeks, and he loved it.

The quaint old styling, especially on Main Street, reminded him of an old western mining town. The decorative storefronts, hitching posts, and wooden-planked sidewalks added to the allure. The small-town atmosphere appealed to him. So far, he’d spent his time getting to know many of the residents and eating at all the local restaurants. The area was a foodie’s paradise.

Mill Creek was totally different from Washington, DC, and that was a cathartic release. The small town had politics, but those were centric to its residents. Some might say people were nosy, but the residents protected their own. He preferred the different vibe to constantly having to watch his back. Maybe that was a bit harsh, but it was his perspective.

Being closer to his friends and his recent promotion made him happier than he’d ever thought possible. His new role allowed him the freedom to work on special assignments that leveraged his cyber and analytic skills. He loved working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation because he knew his contributions helped to make the world a safer place. There would always be threats, but he could sleep a little easier knowing he did his best to eliminate a few.

Noah turned from the cabinet where he stored paper napkins and plates and asked his friend, Trent Jacobs, a question that had been on his mind. Do you miss working with our team back at the Bureau?

Trent opened a package of plastic cutlery. Yes, but after Dalton’s death, everything changed for me. I miss being an agent, but I don’t regret becoming the sheriff of Mill Creek. I needed that change for me, even if I had trouble seeing it so clearly at the time.

Noah snorted. Yeah, that whole hindsight thing’s a bitch.

Trent turned to face Noah. What’s gnawing at you? Do you regret moving here?

"No, not at all, I couldn’t be happier. It’s just…my father called and pissed me off. He tried to hold the son card over my head. He even tried to act like my decision to move here without telling him had hurt him."

Trent’s forehead crinkled in confusion. Why? It’s not like you two are close or even communicate regularly.

Noah ran his hand through his hair and sighed. I know, right? Something about there being a target on his back, and he needs his son to stand by his side. But here’s the kicker, he says it’s complicated. Blah, blah, blah.

Trent’s eyes widened. What does that mean?

Don’t know. What I do know is that he only cares about being a senator and getting reelected. Looking back, he was self-absorbed and really lacked the ability to demonstrate empathy. He disappeared from my life altogether after the death of my mom and baby sister, Noah said, shaking his head.

Sorry, man, his actions were cruel, and there’s no excuse. How’d you end the call? Trent asked in a low voice.

Noah shrugged. I suggested he use his vast network of resources to save his ass.