by Sylvie Kurtz
“I wish he could wear stripes. He’d look good behind bars.”
“He’ll give himself away eventually.”
Her eyebrows rose in a disbelieving arc. “Who else did you dig up dirt on?”
This was why he liked to work alone. He didn’t do the give-and-take well, and she was requiring way too much give and had him wanting too much take. “All the club members we had names for. Mike’s family. Felicia—”
“Felicia? But she’s a…”
“Victim?” Admitting that meant admitting something might have happened to her sister. And that, he thought, would mean Rory would have to accept failure. He was sure that didn’t come easily to her. He could empathize. “Victims and suspects cross paths for a reason. It’s good to look into what brought them together.”
Her body hummed like a brake cable strung too tight. Probing his face, she licked her lips. “How far did you go?”
“As far as we could.”
“So you know.”
“Know what?”
Hannah crawled away and Rory picked her up by the middle, diverting her path back to the quilt. “About our parents.”
He knew they’d died from a bullet to the brain. He knew Rory had been the one to find them. But black words on white paper didn’t give you the currents of human element that were bound to eddy in a case like that. Not knowing where she was heading, he didn’t say anything.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you…?” She pressed her lips tight. “Did you…?”
“What?” Her fingers, against Hannah’s purple bear, were quaking like aspen leaves.
She shook her head and the curls became liquid fire in the light of the setting sun. “They would never tell me why.” Her voice cracked.
He stared at her, stricken as surely as if a lightning bolt had used him to spend itself. It all made sense now, why she did what she did. She needed information. Specifically the information she’d been denied when the case of her parents’ murder was sealed. Information no amount of digging would unearth. But she couldn’t help herself and would keep digging for those answers until there was nothing left of her. Falconer was wrong. She wasn’t hiding; she was looking. “Classified. Need to know. We didn’t.”
She nodded. Another avenue closed. And though she hadn’t asked anything of him, the weight of her expectations sank him. Just as Carlotta’s and Bianca’s had. But they were family. Rory was part of the job. Nothing else. He didn’t have to be the white knight who would save her from her misery.
Except that Rory didn’t want him to take care of her. Unlike Carlotta and Bianca, she didn’t expect him to come running to clean up her messes. Rory swept her own. That’s why she’d become a reference librarian in Washington, D.C. That’s why she was here in New Hampshire, looking for her sister.
Still, he’d give anything to be able to hand her the answers she needed to calm the sea of unrest beneath her skin. Smile for me, sweetheart. A silent curse blasted through him. Where had that come from?
“Was Karla Leach on the list of people interviewed?” Rory asked quietly. Hannah reached for the bear in Rory’s hands and stuck an ear into her mouth.
“I’d have to look it up.”
“It’s okay, I’ll have Sebastian check on her for me.” She stood and dusted her bottom. Blades of grass cascaded to the ground. His fingers curled into his biceps.
She was getting ready to leave, but he wasn’t ready to let go. “Who’s Karla?”
The busy box, the red ball, the fat blue and yellow car all went back into the canvas bag. “Mike mentioned Felicia might have gone to Manchester to visit her friend Karla.”
A side trip to Manchester wasn’t on his agenda right now. “Look, everything’s being done that can be done. There are steps, procedures. Someone like you should appreciate that.”
Her dagger look diced him. “Someone like me?”
So much for his attempt at reassurance. “You’re a librarian. When you track down information for a patron, you follow logical steps. So do we.”
“Point taken.” She turned away.
He reached for her, rubbed her elbow with his palm and delved into the gold of her eyes. “Facts only get you so far, Rory.”
“But if you give up on getting information, then the rest won’t come.”
“You’re dealing with people here. Nobody’s going to spill his dark secret to a total stranger. It takes massaging—a slow, deep rub.” Like the one she needed to loosen the knot hiking her shoulders up to her ears.
“Until they figure out you’re a thorn. What happens then?”
Parents with a bullet in the brain and an innocent daughter left to discover their murder. Why’d she have to get all messy on him? He didn’t want her to care. He didn’t want to care for her. This was a job. Nothing else. “The trick is to get what you need before they figure it out.”
A flash of movement snagged his peripheral vision. Too fast. Too hellbent. A patch with a white-horned death’s head flying a pair of wings. Hell’s Angel. He bit down a curse.
Swiveling around as if he were reaching for a napkin, he double-checked his impression. Trouble. Big trouble. Bruno Rudick had the build of a TV wrestler, the grace of a ballet dancer and the speed of a cheetah—and a beef with Deacon the size of a prize bull. He was bearing down on the Sons’ president who was talking to Mike three booths down across the walkway. The determined look on the Angel’s face said it wasn’t for a friendly handshake.
Deacon should know better than to leave his back exposed like that. You never knew who’d show up at these swaps. How was Bruno supposed to pass up the chance to get back at Deacon for stealing his girl—and worse, having her say publicly she liked life in the Sons’ fast lane better than the junkyard doldrums Bruno had shown her?
“What’s wrong?” Rory asked.
As plain as she was to read, somehow she’d become just as tuned to his vibration. “Nothing.”
“Who is that?”
“Trouble.” Trouble that was splitting him in half. Here was his chance to prove he was one of the Sons—willing to take a punch for the brotherhood. And there was Rory whose safety he was tasked with. “I want you to take Hannah and leave. Right now.”
“You’re not going to go out there.”
Why did she have to argue about everything? He swung his legs over the table. “I don’t have a choice.”
She grabbed the sleeve of his T-shirt to hold him back. “Are you crazy? You’ll get hurt.”
Focused on Bruno, he gave her a crooked smile. “And here I thought you didn’t care.”
“Of course, I care. You’re my insurance.”
Trust Rory to factor down his use to its basic element.
“I need Deacon alive and Bruno wants him dead.” He kept an eye on the developing situation. “Get out of here. Now.”
As Ace made his way toward Bruno, he forced himself not to look back at Rory. She wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t put Hannah in jeopardy.
Bruno reached for the chain belt he wore around his waist.
Someone whose face was red was not yet a serious threat. The real danger came when the body’s automatic command system prepared to minimize trauma where the body might tear, holding blood in place and causing the skin to turn white. Bruno’s face and fists were white. He was ready to strike.
And it wasn’t going to stop there, because just as he was advancing toward the fray, so were a dozen Angels. This could get ugly fast.
“Deacon!” Ace warned. “Behind you!”
He’d never had an appetite for fighting. But he’d learned early that the best way to stop a bully was to throw the first punch.
He fell back to an old childhood trick. He saw himself as a lion, hungry and fast. He was the predator; his target was prey. Nothing could hurt the lion. No punch could make him bleed or cry. Mostly it hadn’t worked and he’d ended up beaten to the ground. But it gave him enough roar to do what had to be done.
RORY COULD NOT MOVE
. The whole scene played in front of her as if she were watching a movie on an old television set. Even the colors faded to sepia. Unreal. Disjointed action flashed by like the Japanese karate flicks Felicia had so loved to laugh at and emulate as a kid.
Bruno’s whistling chain missed Deacon’s head by inches, but nicked his collarbone. The crack came a second later like the miscued report of a gun. Grunting, Deacon shook off the pain like a bear coming out of hibernation and reached for a weapon. His hand connected with a piston from a racing display in the tent behind him. He used it as a mace and aimed for Bruno’s head.
People shouted and gathered around, partially obscuring Rory’s view of developing events. The table’s edge pressed against her thighs. Hannah whimpered in her arms. Rory held on to her tighter. “It’s okay, baby. I’ll keep you safe.”
She had every intention of leaving, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. And her gaze couldn’t seem to disconnect from Ace advancing toward the fight—a deadly hunter, lank and lean, ready to carve his prey with fang and claw. She hadn’t seen that side of him and it frightened her. What if he got hurt? What if he died?
Deacon feinted, then aimed the piston at Bruno’s head. The blow missed. Bruno attacked again with the chain. Deacon countered with another shot of the piston. The metal connected with Bruno’s head, and he went down heavy like a moose. But Deacon kept coming at him. Using the piston, he aimed for the felled man’s ribs. The crack of bone splintered the air.
As if some signal was given, Angels and Sons grabbed for weapons and all was now fair game. Baseball bats, knives and chains appeared. Ace snatched something that looked like a wrench from a display as he went by. He swung at anyone wearing an Angel’s patch. Boots scuffled on gravel and grass. Roars and grunts played a counterpoint to the thuds and smacks of landing punches and kicks.
Some customers panicked and scattered like beetles toward the parking lot. Others stopped and gaped like rubberneckers at an accident site. Someone shouted for the police. By now a full-on battle raged. There were seventeen Angels to ten Sons, and Ace was right in the middle of the mess. Skin ripped. Blood flowed freely in arcs and spurts. Bones snapped.
A blade came Ace’s way. Huddling around Hannah, Rory shouted, “Watch out!” Not that he could hear her.
He was right in the middle of a turn and couldn’t completely avoid the knife’s thrust. It sliced into his arm, spreading blood toward his elbow and down his hand. He finished his swing and the wrench struck the knife-wielding Angel on the solar plexus. He hadn’t hit the ground before Ace swiveled to face the next Angel whipping a chain his way.
By the time sirens shrieked over the hill, the Angels were losing. One bleeding member shouted, “Angels to the hill! Angels to the hill!” The men climbed over, through and around people to escape.
In the ant-mill of fleeing people and moaning and bloodied bodies lying on the ground, she couldn’t locate Ace. Her heart gave a funny leap.
He was all right. Of course he was all right. And when she caught up with him, she was going to let him know exactly how she felt about his misguided show of machismo. Really, how was he ever going to find his methamphetamine lab or Felicia if he got himself knifed to death? God, knifed. She searched the crowd, keeping a now-weeping Hannah tight against her chest. In her mind, the blade sliced his arm over and over again. Then, as the crowd shifted, she saw him.
He stood there like some bloody hero in an action movie.
Mike thumped him on the back as he smiled broadly down at Deacon who was tentatively feeling his collarbone. “Ain’t no backdown in that dude.”
Deacon spat a mouthful of blood and muttered something Rory couldn’t hear.
“You’re coming to the party at the clubhouse tomorrow,” Mike said to Ace.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“There’s a couple of people I’d like to introduce you to.”
Ace jerked his chin toward the spinning blue and white lights of police cars making their way over the wooden drainage bridge separating the orchard parking lot from the field. “Better get going before the cops get here.”
Mike nodded, helped Deacon up and they disappeared in the maze of tents.
Nobody’s going to spill his dark secret to a total stranger. It takes massaging—a slow, deep rub.
One that had cost Ace six months, a black eye and a pint of blood. She finally understood. He’d shown he was one of them and had now earned the entry he’d coveted.
“YOU’RE BLEEDING.” Rory bounced a crying Hannah on her hip. He smelled like blood and sweat and looked dark and deadly. His physical intensity at this moment made her feel small—something that rarely happened despite her lack of height.
“I’m fine.” He took the bandana she offered him, wrapped it around the wound. Once they reached Mike’s booth, he hid the evidence of the bleeding cut under his leather jacket.
“What are you doing?” Rory asked. “You need to have that seen to.”
“Not now.” He took a handful of napkins, doused them with water from a bottle and cleaned his face and hands of blood as best he could. He discarded that evidence in the plastic grocery bag containing what was left of the pasta salad and stuffed it in the basket beneath the stroller.
“Take Hannah home.” He leaned his backside against the table and stretched his long legs in front of him. Everything about the way he carried himself said relaxed, but she’d learned there was little about Ace she should take on appearance alone. He wore his masks well. And beneath the ease she recognized a wary tension that took in every detail around him.
He was a professional. A cop. One of Sebastian’s undercover Seekers. A man who worked for an organization as confidential and as covert as the one her parents had died for.
Police and ambulances arrived. The bleeding and battered were sent to the hospital. Those stupid enough to hang around were cuffed.
Ain’t no backdown in that dude.
He wasn’t going to leave. Not until he was satisfied the Angels weren’t going to come back with reinforcements.
A man of honor among thieves.
Don’t fall for that. Emptiness rustled inside her. Don’t fall for him. When he leaves for his next assignment, where’s that going to leave you?
She knew the answer to that question only too well. Alone.
Stay objective. “I’m going to take Hannah home, then I’m going to come back with something for your cut.”
“I’m fine.”
She freed the stroller’s brake and wheeled Hannah around the table. “You’re the one who brought up the need for logic and proper procedure. If we don’t take care of your cut, it’ll get infected. Then you won’t be able to go to the party and meet Mike’s special guests. And if we can’t go to the party, then neither of us will get the answers we want.”
No factory. No Felicia.
No release from guilt.
Chapter Seven
“When last we saw our intrepid hero, he was facing a band of thugs and armed with a wrench.” Rory dumped the grocery bag of first-aid supplies onto the table at the Fletcher Automotive booth, eyeing Ace. Except for the bruise on his cheek, he looked none the worse for his crazy stunt earlier.
The customer traffic around the rows of tents had slowed. Most of the people still at the swap meet had gathered around the bandstand where country music filled the air. The scent of beer now overpowered that of charred meat and sugar. The breeze had kicked up a notch and flapped the pile of flyers held down by a box containing a carburetor kit.
Ace, lounging in a folding chair, gave her a crooked smile. “I thought librarians were above reading trash like that.”
“A common misconception. I happen to have quite a collection of comic books.”
“Really?” He gave her a look that said he thought she was pulling his leg. Nice to know she could still surprise him.
“Really.” She handed him a bag of frozen peas. “Put that on your cheek.”
“Peas?”
“You can
have them for dinner. Practical.” She lined up the rest of the supplies www.personalmd.com had suggested for the care of a wound.
“Comic books fall in the practical column?” He pressed the bag of peas to his cheek and his shoulders relaxed a notch.
“Not everything has to be practical.” Sometimes you needed something unpractical to take away the sting of reality.
“I can’t see you curled up with a comic book.”
His grin had a wicked bent, and her mouth couldn’t help tugging up at the corners. “This flagrant aberration started when I was eleven. My dad brought me back a hardbound book from Europe. Inside were all sorts of stories told in pictures. Some were serials like Prince Valiant. Other stories were stand-alones. My favorite for a long while was the story of Anna Pavlova, the famous ballerina.”
“Let me guess. You wanted to be a ballet dancer.” He propped his elbow on the table to support the pea bag on his cheek.
She couldn’t help smiling at her foolish younger self as she removed the tube of antibiotic cream from its cardboard wrapper. The story had said that Anna’s secret to success was perseverance. The panels showed the hours of practice, the blisters on her feet, the sacrifices she’d made to achieve her dream. Rory had thought she had that kind of drive, too. Until the first dance class where she realized a dancer also needed a modicum of talent. She was blessed with two left feet. No amount of lessons was going to turn this ugly duckling into a swan. She stuck with the lessons for a few years—so she’d be able to say she had persevered—but had given up on the hope of making dancing her career long before that. “I made an awkward ballerina.”
“I doubt that.”
His dark gaze was studying her much too intensely. She didn’t like the warm feeling it had rippling inside her. Stick to the situation at hand, Rory. She jerked her chin toward his chest. “Take off your jacket.”
He crossed his free arm across his chest. “I’m fine.”
