ONCE BURNED
SUSAN VAUGHAN
“Strong characters and plenty of romance.”
–Kat Martin, New York Times Bestselling author
TASK FORCE EAGLE -When federal agents Rick Cruz, Jake Wescott, and Holt Donovan go after a Mexican cartel kingpin, they face unexpected hazards—to their hearts.
ABOUT THIS BOOK:
When tortured ATF Agent Jake Wescott, undercover in his Maine hometown, becomes the reluctant protector of beautiful and defensive Lani Cameron, scarred in the long-ago fire that killed her twin, intimacy ignites passion. As they uncover secrets, they face dangers more explosive than they feared.
Published by Gullwood Press
Copyright 2013 Susan Hofstetter Vaughan
Cover design and digital layout by www.formatting4U.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at [email protected]. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For more information on the author and her works, please see http://www.susanvaughan.com
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to the other writers and to the law enforcement experts of Crime Scene Writers for your advice and information.
Dedication
For my husband, who has my back. Always.
Chapter 1
May
Dragon Harbor, Maine
Jake Wescott opened the driver’s door and eased his bad leg out of the Jeep Cherokee. The muscles had tightened up. Too damn much. After his punishing run on the Dragon Harbor Middle School track, he should’ve done the damn stretching exercises his physical therapist had prescribed.
He ought to have more improvement by now. Ought to be a hundred percent. They’d cleared him for duty—light duty, which this gig was supposed to be. He dug his fingers into the thigh muscle and kneaded. When the spasm eased enough, he gathered his mail and the Bayport Chronicle from the passenger seat, stood, and locked up.
In the harbor, power and sailing yachts as well as fishing craft bobbed around the three rocks that gave the town its name. At low tide, they were a boating hazard, but now at mid tide, the massive rocks formed the undulating back of a mythical beast.
The salt-scented air and the waves lapping against the pilings brought back memories of carefree summers. He half expected to see his dad, like he was back then, young and tall and strong, wave from the stern of his lobster boat. Something about returning here gave life to the dead and clarified what was important.
As he made his way onto the docks, Ed Pascal waved a greeting. “How much distance you puttin’ in now, Jake?”
“Made three miles today.” He nodded to the harbormaster.
Pascal lifted his khaki ball cap and resettled it on his dark hair. Touching a finger to his flat nose, he grinned, digging creases around his eyes, squinty from forty-some years on the water. “Makin’ progress. Not too shabby for a guy who could barely walk when you got here.”
Jake thanked the man as he passed the harbor office, a one-room shingled building by the docks and floats. The finger docks took him to the boat slip where the Amy Jo sat in calm water. Once Uncle Joe’s lobster boat with the typical high bow and roomy cockpit, she’d been retrofitted for cruising. Peeling paint and worn teak showed her age but she was seaworthy.
Living on board was only temporary but not too tough a lifestyle to take. Despite the reason for his return to town, life on a boat soothed his soul. Living here supported his cover story—fixing up Gram’s house to sell and looking out for his mom—which was truthful as far as it went.
He climbed aboard, gratified he could swing his left leg over the toe rail with minimal strain. A check of the companionway found no disturbance of his low-tech security—two paint chips stuck across the gap between the padlock and the hatch frame. Probably unnecessary here but taking no chances was good procedure. Especially if his investigation turned up anything.
Either investigation. Hell, looking into the fire by printing out news articles on the old Cameron fire hardly qualified. Stopping by Gail’s grave had gotten him thinking. Probably no chance he’d find anything new. He had skills and experience now he didn’t have twelve years ago. Maybe that’s why he itched to have all the facts.
Below deck, he deposited the items he’d carried aboard on the small dining table. He glanced at his watch. Overdue to check in. He opened his lock box and moved his ATF ID and service pistol aside. He took out his laptop, ready to take notes, before tapping the number into his phone. The receiver clicked after three rings.
“About time, Wescott.” Holt Donovan’s western drawl stretched out the syllables like a rubber band. “Partyin’ on that yacht instead of working?”
Jake chuckled at his contact’s characterization of the Amy Jo. The DEA agent had never been Santa, but he morphed into Scrooge when schedules fell apart. Agents in Jake’s Boston ATF office had joined with other federal agencies in Task Force Eagle to work on a smuggling case involving multiple jurisdictions.
“Yeah, Donovan, I just kissed the last of the girls good-bye and threw out the empty champagne bottles.” A snort was the reply. Ginning, Jake said, “You got anything for me?”
Muted voices and computer hums of the big office filled a moment of silence. “I got a couple things on my end,” Donovan said. “Report from our man inside says at least one Dragon Harbor local, maybe two, are part of the smuggling ring. We’ve IDed one of El Águila’s men in the Northeast, Hector Vargas. Vargas has moved explosives into Maine. Might be the C-4 you were hunting in New Hampshire.”
“The same C-4 they used on us. You know how much I want these guys.” Too often lowlifes murdered innocent people and destroyed property with impunity. He knew from painful experience. The primary reason he’d joined the ATF. He keyed in the new information before asking, “Anything else? What about Ruiz?” ATF Special Agent Ruiz was deep undercover with the Mexican cartel offshoot in New Hampshire.
“They seem to be waiting around for more. Ruiz said talk is it’s AR-15s and Bushmaster assault rifles, more like the ones we rounded up in Portland back before you— Sorry, don’t mean to keep reminding you what happened after that.”
Jake rubbed the scar on his thigh. He didn’t need reminding about the biggest fuck-up of his career. He had let the gang sucker him. The same bomb that injured him also blew apart his partner. He swallowed past the clog in his throat. “No problem. What do you know about this Hector Vargas?”
“Not much. Vargas may be an alias. Ruiz has never seen the man, so we’re nada on a description.”
I’ll keep an eye out, but a Mexican would stand out on this lily-white peninsula like a cactus in a pine grove. Any progress on tracking down the drug lord himself?”
“Inch by fucking inch,” Donovan said. “Task force’s cutting a deal with the Federales for a joint op, some sort of a trap. I’m itchin’ to get in on it.”
Jake balled one hand into a fist. “That could take months. Won’t do any good to catch the sons of bitches here in Maine if El Águila’s free to set up shop somewhere else.”
Donovan put him on hold for a call on another line.
No one else should suffer because of those Mexican thugs. He had to connect the Dragon Harbor link to them and seal up this harbor to the smugglers. If Donovan an
d the others could capture El Águila, the whole cartel would go down. He relaxed his fisted hand as the other agent returned. “Does Ruiz have any idea of a deadline here?”
“Hard to tell when the shipment will move. Make it three, four weeks. They know we’re pressuring them. They could move up the timetable.”
“Won’t Ruiz let us know?”
Donovan cleared his throat. “That was my other call. Ruiz is dead.”
The announcement blasted through Jake like a Nor’easter. “Dammit! How?”
“He was driving back to the compound after reporting in. A sniper shot from an overpass. Bullet went through the windshield. Cops found nothing. Said it was probably a hunter out of season. The SAC figures the cartel made Ruiz. Don’t let that happen to you.”
Jake’s temples pounded. “I got this one. No problem.”
*****
June
Lani Cameron parked her car in the Birch Brook Farm driveway. She put the house and attached small barn behind her and crossed the pasture. As she’d done twice a day since her arrival a week ago, she stopped at the splintered frame of the burned-out horse barn’s doorway.
She turned her face to the late-afternoon June sun, absorbing brightness before lowering her gaze to the blackened remains. Not much left after twelve Maine winters. She bent to pick up a scrap of pine board. Her fingers clenched around the charred wood.
The remembered smell of creosote turned her stomach. If she closed her eyes she could feel the searing heat. Hear the roar. But she couldn’t see more, couldn’t see Gail’s body, limp on the floor, couldn’t— She dropped the wood as if it scorched her hand.
The sun shining through the structure’s skeleton cast eerie shadows over the witch grass and daisies. Cow vetch twined its way up one of the posts. Green life amid the ashes—a mockery.
She needed to sell the farm, but without that phone call from Nora she might not have had the courage to return to Dragon Harbor to do it herself. When school had ended the second week of the month, she finished her students’ final reports and booked it out of Concord. She prayed braving the scene of the fire would end her nightmares and help her remember, but the dreams were haunting her nightly, becoming more vivid. More real. The murderous fire monster, bigger and more frightening, woke her up in a cold sweat. She rubbed her arms in the sudden chill of memory.
Dammit, she would put up with a lack of sleep if her efforts led to answers.
She strode toward the farmhouse, seeking comfort in its white clapboards, peaked roof, and front door painted shut because everyone used the side-porch entrance to the kitchen. Repairs had to be done before the real estate agent would list the property.
As she reached the pasture’s edge, a blue Jeep SUV pulled into the driveway and parked behind her car. A tall man in jeans and a faded University of Maine T-shirt emerged.
She held up a hand to shade her eyes from the sun and watched as he ambled toward her. Light-brown hair and strong boned features with bold planes and angles made her pulse flutter. He stopped a few feet from her and raised his gaze.
Her heart drummed, slamming against her ribs. Jake Wescott. The same blue eyes, but older, wiser, sadder. She’d expected to see her twin’s old boyfriend, planned on it, but not yet. She’d wanted this first meeting on her own terms. Never mind. She would deal.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just—” His mouth dropped open and he took a step back as if a horse had kicked him in the gut. “Gail.” Shaking his head, he blew out a breath. “Lani, is that you?”
Her throat closed. How long had it been since someone mistook her for her twin? A cruel joke, except he wasn’t joking.
The best defense is a good offense. She cocked a hip and flapped a hand at the scar on the left side of her face. “Who else would it be, Jake? Mrs. Frankenstein? And I repeat, what are you doing here?”
Tension crackled in the air between them. Her heart pounded like a kettledrum.
His face was a blank mask. Time had changed him. He was taller and broader shouldered. Lines etched into his cheeks added more than the three years he had on her. No familiar crooked grin, the one that used to melt every girl in Dragon Harbor. Including her. Although she’d kept it to herself. Back then he’d been open—funny and kind. But that wasn’t the Jake here today. She didn’t know this Jake with the unreadable, hard eyes.
“I’m living on my boat in the harbor while I take care of some family business. Fixing up Gram’s house to sell it, for one.”
Not what she meant but she’d get to that. “Nora told me you’ve been here since March. That you’re in the FBI.”
“Not FBI, ATF. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. I’m on leave. You mind me looking around in the horse barn, what’s left of it?”
“No problem. Knock yourself out.”
Chapter 2
Permission received, if grudgingly, Jake strode toward the rectangular black scar stitched up by a few stubborn two by fours. He hadn’t expected Lani to follow him but behind him, her sneakers swished through the grass, stirring up green smells of the freshly mown grass. If she noticed the awkward hitch in his stride, she said nothing.
She stopped at what was left of the barn doorway. He wondered if she could step inside, breaching some emotional barrier. She stood by stiffly, watching him meander through the charred wood.
“What are you doing? Looking for something?”
Not the first time he’d looked, but doubtful any clue to that horrible night would still be here. He kept hoping for insight. He kicked aside a board and bent, coming up with mangled metal. “A bicycle wheel. Yours or Gail’s?”
“I don’t know. Both of them could be in there. Gail called bike riding juvenile but I considered it healthy exercise. I rode to my job at Dragon Stables that summer. I still ride a bike.” As if she couldn’t bear to look anymore, she turned her back.
Seeing the wheel revived memories of that summer. The summer that had changed all their lives. His throat tightened. He couldn’t bear to see this any more either.
He dropped the wheel and dusted off his hands as he joined her. “I’m surprised you came back. Seeing all this has to be doubly painful for you.” He made a sweeping gesture.
As if considering her answer, she sighed and set out toward the house. The two of them walked silently away from the scorched relic of their past.
She turned to him, her eyes solemn and guarded. She was still smart-mouthed but not the light-hearted girl he’d once known. “Guess I thought it was time to face down my demons. The house is going up for sale. Granddad left the farm to me because of, well, you know. The caretaker kept the house in shape until he became too old. He died last year and I decided to sell. Porch needs shoring up, among other repairs. I’m doing some of the interior painting.”
His return was more complicated than fixing up a house to sell, but he couldn’t tell her his reasons, not all of them anyway. “Your grandfather used to paint the shutters every summer. They look crusty.”
“I’ll add it to the list for the outside painter. I can’t afford everything but my father’s covering me until the sale.”
“Maine saltwater farms sell for millions these days, especially ones with hundreds of acres and deep-water frontage. You’ll have to wait for the right buyer.”
“Only a major developer could afford it. Ugh.” Her shoulders moved in a shudder of revulsion. “No, I’m negotiating to transfer most of the acreage to the Coastal Land Trust, which will preserve it, maintain the fields, and allow some recreational use. The house and these two acres by the road will go separately.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “I can’t picture condos or resorts on your grandfather’s farm.”
As they reached her car, she stopped him. “When I asked you earlier why you were here, I meant here, at Birch Brook Farm.”
At the emotion in her voice, his throat tightened. “I need to know exactly what happened that night. Late to find much of a clue but I h
ad to see what was left.”
“Nora also told me you’d been reading up on the fire. You’re investigating? Officially?”
He shook his head. “Nothing official. I’ve read over all the old news stories. That’s all.”
“If I’d gone out to the barn with her, if I’d seen the fire earlier...”
He knew all about survivor guilt. The beast clamped him in its jaws. If he hadn’t left, Gail would still be alive. And a mottled white puckering wouldn’t mar the skin of Lani’s face. Other, more recent, images flashed through his mind, and pain jabbed him.
Forcing away the onslaught, he said, “Too many ifs. Neither of us can go back. A guilt trip gets you nowhere. No replay or do-over.”
He drew in a breath, harnessing the emotions kicking around in his chest. Lani’s perception had made him angry at himself because the elegant curve of her neck—identical to Gail’s—and the pain in her eyes made him ache to touch her. No, the attraction was merely a flashback, a reaction to Gail’s lookalike. He’d hurt her, calling her by her twin’s name. If he ran into her again, he’d be more thoughtful.
He didn’t know how to deal with this new Lani. Twelve years ago, she hadn’t tempted him. He’d been so blinded with lust for Gail. Teasing, seductive, partying Gail. He’d laughed with Lani, traded barbs with her, but hadn’t known her well. The twins shared identical drop-dead gorgeous looks, but Gail and Lani had very different personalities.
And this Lani was different from that one. He couldn’t have prepared for the change. Not the scarring, but the change in Lani the woman—hazel-gold eyes sharp enough to score glass. And her voice—low and smooth, like whiskey chased with honey. Sexy, even when she was skewering him.
Scars remained beneath the surface too, judging from the flashes of pain in her scorched-earth eyes. Defensiveness, and some bitterness, for damn sure. Who could blame her? The knowledge of what she’d suffered—still suffered—curled around the muscles of his chest and made it ache. He began edging toward his Cherokee.
Once Burned (Task Force Eagle) Page 1
