Way tossed the phone on his workbench, watched as it clattered against the wood, then met Roni’s gaze. “No kidding. Let’s see what he does.”
* * *
This might be above Roni’s pay grade.
Memories of lying on a lumpy mattress, huddled under the covers, praying for peaceful sleep and no pervs peeking in her bedroom door, assailed her.
That feeling, that lack of control devoured her, making her stomach pitch.
Before she did anything, she needed a second to regroup, think the situation through. She settled onto the stool by Way’s workbench and closed her eyes.
His warm fingers touched her skin. Childhood instincts roared back and she flinched, snapping her arm away before popping her eyes open.
He lifted his hand, held them both up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t sneak up on you. You okay?”
Not even close. Somehow, her simple assignment to investigate Way Kingston had turned into a…thing. A thing that left her wondering if the CIA might be setting her target up.
Or if Way might be playing her. Slowly convincing her of his innocence just to get the agency off his tail.
Who to trust?
She shook her head and faced Way, gazing into intense dark eyes that might be holding all sorts of secrets. “You think threatening the CIA with the release of top-secret information is the way to go?”
“Part of this game is getting the killer’s attention. If someone in Harding’s department—maybe Harding himself—sold my design, I want them to know I’m not afraid of a public fight.”
“Even if it gets you killed?”
He waved that off like she was some fool woman. Well, this fool woman had seen enough criminal activity to know certain people had no soul. Zero conscience. And whoever was running around shooting acid bullets was driven by something. Something deep and angry and ferocious. Way Kingston shooting off his mouth would only fuel that anger.
A person capable of this kind of violence would have no issue with adding one more kill to their roster.
“I can take care of myself,” he said.
Idiot. As if any of this measured his ability to protect himself. “I’m sure, but taking on the CIA isn’t exactly the way to make friends in Washington.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care about friends in Washington. I won’t have my reputation destroyed because the CIA screwed me.”
She didn’t want to believe it. That the agency would so willingly sacrifice a contractor. But, she supposed, this was politics. Most times, politics stunk.
Her own phone rang. No doubt who this was. In her short time with the agency, she’d learned how fast information traveled. She pulled the phone from her back pocket and saw Karl Quigley’s cell phone number light up her screen.
She held it for Way to see. “Karl.”
He grinned. “See? That didn’t take long.”
At least someone was entertained. Roni? She had a hole burning through her stomach. After Karl’s impromptu visit last night, who the hell knew where he might be. He’d hopped into the rear passenger seat of the SUV and left.
Her best guess was he’d flown back to Langley after checking on her.
Might as well face this new round of wrath and get it over with. “I have to take this.”
Roni headed toward the back door for privacy. Way might eavesdrop, but there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot she could do about that.
She pushed through the door, stepping out into cool morning air and bright sunshine. “Hello, sir.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. How does Kingston know how Petra Cheevers died? You told him?”
Roni blew out a long breath. Her years in the system taught her many hard lessons. The art of deflection being one of them. “I’ve told you he has his own contacts. He doesn’t need me.”
“I’m on Clay Bartles,” Karl said, his voice loud enough to be heard in the next county. “Who else? I want their heads on a spit!”
A vision of her head mounted on a spike filled Roni’s mind. She glanced back at the door that had swung closed behind her.
“I don’t know,” she said.
In the grand scheme, it wasn’t a lie. How would she know who Way’s friends were? He certainly hadn’t offered her a list of their names.
“Sir, this latest shooting is still unfolding. Let me reach out to people. See what I can dig up. We may have a bigger problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The FBI, sir.”
“What the fuck do they have to do with this?”
“These murders were all carried out in the same manner.”
Karl didn’t get to his position by being a dope, so Roni let the silence play out while he absorbed her statement.
“Shit,” he said.
“Yes, sir. The common characteristics—the frangible bullets—suggest the possibility that these acts were committed by the same person. Which means—”
“Serial killer.”
Bingo. You’ve just won a microwave! “Yes, sir.”
Given the Bureau’s expertise in behavioral analysis, all a local law enforcement agency had to do was indicate they might have a serial killer running loose and the FBI could intervene.
Which meant more investigators searching for a top-secret frangible bullet. And if that bullet was found in a CIA lab?
“Political shitstorm,” Karl said.
“Yes, sir. I believe you are correct.”
The line went dead.
“Hello?”
Roni pulled the phone from her ear and checked the screen. Call ended. She tipped her head back, peering up at a sky so blue she couldn’t imagine one single bad thing happening under it.
But, oh, bad things had most definitely happened.
Stowing her phone in her back pocket, she walked to the door leading into Way’s workshop. He’d shot a rocket-propelled grenade into an investigation involving a dead ATF agent and two CIA executives. And, somehow, she’d wound up in the middle.
Worse, she didn’t know who the liars were. Professional suicide. That’s what this assignment was. She’d come to Steele Ridge fully aware that she’d have to use her friendship with Maggie to get to Way. To prove he had double-dipped on his design.
Except nothing pointed that way. The man’s finances were clean, his reputation even more so. Which shouldn’t have surprised her, considering his sister’s honorable qualities.
Which left what?
Karl Quigley.
In his attempt to protect Don Harding, Karl had misled her about someone on Don’s staff possibly leaking Way’s design. And, well, making sure Don hadn’t done anything illegal.
Stuck. That’s what she was. Caught in what could turn into one hell of a nasty scandal.
No way out.
Nuh-uh. She hadn’t survived foster care with that kind of fatalist thinking.
She could do this. Even if it meant taking on the CIA.
* * *
Ditching Way wasn’t as easy as Roni would have liked, but she’d give the man credit for his persistence.
He’d peppered her with questions for ten minutes until she admitted she wanted to speak with her contacts regarding the case, but wasn’t at liberty to share and would fill him in later.
Scout’s honor.
Eventually, he’d agreed. Only after Sam arrived, distracting him with a business issue.
Thank you, Sam.
Now, Roni pulled into a vacant parking space on Main Street across from Blues, Brews, and Books, affectionately known to locals as the Triple B. Unless things had changed in the last six months, the Triple B, a combination bar, coffee shop, and bookstore was owned by Miranda Shepherd, significant other to Britt Steele, Maggie and Way’s cousin.
At this hour, the morning rush would be in full swing, giving locals plenty of opportunity to catch up on town gossip.
And ignore Roni, who’d phoned Maggie and asked her to meet at the B for coffee so they could compare notes on Petra Cheevers.
A
fter dodging an older woman driving an ancient Lincoln, Roni scooted across the street and spotted Maggie, in full uniform, her hair up in the requisite ponytail and her eyes hidden behind a pair of sleek, dark sunglasses that had Jayson Tucker written all over them. Maggie strode along the sidewalk, her gait even, but not rushed. All command presence like they’d been taught in their respective training.
“Girl,” Maggie said, “you take your life into your hands jumping in front of Mrs. Royce. She and that Lincoln would crush you like a bug.”
“No kidding.” Roni jerked her thumb. “She had to be speeding.”
“Please. Don’t get me started. Remind me to tell you the story about the great duck rescue. My cousin Reid almost became a pancake.”
Small-town drama. Had to love it.
An older man pulled into a reserved parking space, and Maggie grabbed Roni’s arm. “Let’s walk. That’s Mr. Greene. When it comes to gossip, he hears everything.”
Maggie led her away from the B, heading past a cute little boutique that hadn’t yet opened.
“So,” Maggie said, “what’s up?”
With Maggie being a no-nonsense woman, Roni cut right to it. “Petra Cheevers.”
“The murder last night? It’s not my jurisdiction, you know.”
“I’m aware.”
Maggie halted on the sidewalk, checked behind them for busybodies, then cocked her head. “Then why are we talking about this?”
“Because Petra was killed with a frangible bullet similar to the one that blew away Roy Jackson.”
From behind the sunglasses, the tops of Maggie’s eyebrows hitched up. “And Chad Hopkins. Also out of my jurisdiction.”
“Correct.”
“Are you telling me it’s a serial? That’s crossed my mind.”
“Sure looks like it. What do you know about Petra Cheevers?”
“I don’t know anything. Again, it’s not my case.”
Roni clucked her tongue. She’d have to be careful. Maggie was unaware of the alliance between Roni and Way. He’d made it clear enough that he didn’t want her involved, and Roni respected his intention to keep his sister safe. However, Maggie had access—lots of access—to databases and federal agents and crime labs.
In truth, Roni had that access, too. But it would require her to either come out of the shadows on her secret investigation, or bring Karl and Don up to speed.
Right now, both options stunk.
“Well, Sheriff, how do you feel about making a call and comparing notes with the agency investigating the Cheevers murder? I think this case is connected. And not just by the bullets. It’s more than that. At first I thought it was the gang members. But Petra has no gang affiliations.”
Maggie dipped her head, peering over her glasses at Roni. “Are you still thinking this has something to do with Jeff and the task force?”
Yes. “What I think is that these murders are connected. The bullets tell us that. We just don’t know why.”
* * *
Here I am, once again sitting in a rental car, two doors down from Waylon Kingston’s home, pondering my situation. It’s dark and the night is unusually warm for February in North Carolina. I inhale the fresh breeze through my half-open window.
I’ve seen a lot in life, and there are things I constantly question. Terrorism. The intentional deaths of innocent children.
Politics.
Most days, I’m disgusted by the filth wandering this earth. How in hell did we become such a selfish, uncaring society?
Even as I sit here, I feel the weight of my crimes. The deaths I’ve caused to further my mission.
Guilt? Perhaps.
Sadness.
Absolutely.
It’s more than that, though. I’m unable to satisfy the rage that gnaws and scrapes at me from inside, desperate for relief—for freedom—that never comes.
What it’ll take, I’m not sure. With each kill, there’s another reason to move to the next. I’m not stupid. I know my time will run out. I can live with that.
What I can’t live with is the idea that this hateful need inside me will go unfulfilled. That, undoubtedly, will drive me insane.
A motorcycle engine roars, cracking the silence that comes with evening.
I check my watch: 9:30. Apparently, Way likes an evening ride. I jot that in the notebook next to me, then return my gaze to the windshield.
On a night like this, I can’t blame a man for getting out. I myself enjoy long rides in the country.
A motorcycle. Open road, fresh air, being in control.
That’s what I need. I make a mental note to research the best motorcycles for beginning riders and feel…hopeful.
Maybe there’s an answer. A quenching to this awful thirst.
Two doors down, a lone rider reaches the end of Kingston’s driveway. The rider—Kingston, I assume, based on the long, jean-clad legs—pauses and checks traffic.
Did he spot me?
I hunch down, wait for the roar of the engine, and do a quick-peek as he hooks a left, speeding off in the other direction.
The minimal streetlamps on the quiet mountain road works in my favor. Even if Kingston saw the car, he wouldn’t have seen me.
I consider whether to follow.
Mountain roads, darkness.
It doesn’t take long to decide.
Way Kingston may have just made my life a little easier.
* * *
This was what Way craved. A long ride to clear his head and figure out his next steps. Plus, he needed to distract himself from a certain petite brunette who kept creeping into his thoughts.
He didn’t know what the hell to do with Roni. Well, he knew what he wanted to do with her. He wanted to bury himself inside her and give her multiple orgasms. Over and over and over. All day long he imagined what she’d sound like as she came. Would it be a hard exhalation? Or maybe a sigh.
A long moan.
That one was a killer and, even now, the stir of an erection took his thoughts to places other than the winding road in front of him.
Damn the woman.
What was she doing now? Alone at the B&B only a few blocks west.
At the stop sign, he set his feet on the ground and flipped the visor of his helmet up while contemplating his direction. A light breeze blew across his cheeks and he closed his eyes a second, let the fresh air settle his thoughts. When this mess got cleared up, he’d take off for a couple weeks. Get some downtime.
He loved being on this bike.
But first, the CIA. And how the hell they lost track of his bullets.
He opened his eyes.
Right. He should definitely go right, away from Main Street and the heart of Steele Ridge.
Away from Roni.
Except, on his way out, he’d strapped the extra helmet—the much smaller one for a woman—to the bike. And even as he did it, he knew why.
As if maybe, by his blessed luck, he’d run into her somewhere in this sleepy little town at this hour.
Behind him, a car’s headlights swung around the curve, reflecting off the road signs.
Right.
Definitely.
He slapped his visor back in place and made the turn just as his phone rang, the sound coming through his Bluetooth system.
“Hello?”
“Hi.”
Roni’s voice. She must be psychic. He accelerated, felt the vibration of the engine and the whip of wind against his neck. “Hi.”
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Wind noise. Are you on your bike?”
“I am. Just left. Needed a ride.”
“No prob. Do you want to call me back? I have a question about the bullets.”
The bullets. Of course. What did he think? That she’d call him up and announce she was butt-naked, waiting for him? Not with his luck. “What’s your question?”
“The capsule the acid is in. I’m assuming you bulk order them?”
“I ordered two hundred right before I sent the revised batch to Lang
ley. I test-fired twenty-eight, I used a hundred on the samples now at Langley and I still have the remaining seventy-two. I counted them all to make sure. Why?”
“I was able to get a copy of Roy Jackson’s autopsy report.”
Please let her tell me something good. Anything that might clear him of any involvement. “And?”
“There’s a fragment of the capsule. I don’t have photos—yet—but the report says there’s part of a number on it.”
The manufacturer’s lot numbers. Brilliant. He hit the throttle again and his mood lifted. “You’re thinking we might be able to match the lot numbers with my stash?”
“It’s a stretch, but…”
“It’s worth a try.”
“Do you have records of the lot numbers?”
Every goddamned one of them. He wasn’t about to release the samples without recording all identifying features.
“I absolutely do. They’re in my safe.”
“Excellent. Where are you riding to?”
“Not sure yet. Figured fresh air would help me on our next move. You’ve done it for me.” He eased to a stop at the next corner. An image of Roni in one of her tight tank tops filled his mind. “Wanna come for a ride?”
Well, shit. Inviting the woman to hop on the back of his bike, her curvy body snug against him, wouldn’t exactly help the semi hard-on he sported.
So much for going right, asshole.
“Now?” she asked.
“I’m eight blocks from you. Throw on boots and a jacket. I got a helmet on the bike.”
“Really?”
The raised pitch in her voice indicated a certain level of interest. “Roni, get out of your own head for two seconds. Don’t think this to death. Take a break, get some air, and we’ll go back to my place and check lot numbers.”
Even as he said it, he made a U-turn in the street, passing a black sedan with a lone driver as he doubled back toward Tasky’s B&B. “I’m on my way. Jacket and boots, Roni. Be there in two.”
16
Don’t run with scissors.
When Roni was seven, her father had given her that sage advice. Now, at thirty-two, that’s all she could think about.
Because, make no mistake, climbing on the back of a motorcycle with the hotness known as Way Kingston wasn’t just running with scissors. It was running with a multitude of scissors.
Burning Ache Page 16
