Blood in the Water (Dixie Mafia Series Book 2)

by Cynthia Rayne

  Blood in the Water

  A Dixie Mafia Novel

  BOOK TWO

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Books in the Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Want the prequel to Blood in the Water? Join my VIP Reader List and I’ll email it to you. The book can be read without the prequel, but it gives the reader added insight into the killer. You’ll also receive other short stories in the series.

  Trigger Warning: This book contains attempted sexual violence.

  Chapter One

  Hell, Texas

  Sometimes bein’ a dashin’ outlaw is a genuine pain in the ass.

  “The bookie’s been stiffin’ us. Whatcha wanna do about it, boss?”

  Byron Beauregard sighed as he contemplated Jasper Tan’s question. He sat in a leather office chair, feet propped on his desk.

  Times like this made him rethink his choice of career. His mother used to say Byron shot off his mouth so much, he must eat bullets for breakfast. Maybe instead of this life of crime, he should’ve gone to law school and put it to good use.

  Maybe not.

  Speakin’ of lawyers, it’s high time Jane came for another visit.

  He made a mental note to invent a reason to get her over here this evening. It’d been far too long since he’d seen her, and he was itching to take another run at asking her out. Someday soon, the lady would be his—for a time anyway, but she didn’t know it yet.

  “Byron?” Jasper tilted his head to the side.

  “I’m thinkin’. Gimme a second.”

  If a law-abiding citizen had a crooked employee, he could turn the problem over to a law enforcement officer—pick the alphabet soup of choice—local PD, FBI, ATF. Or his favorite, FU.

  Instead, Byron was stuck dealing with it himself.

  “We could put the fear of God in Tanner.” Jasper had black hair, pale skin, and called himself “whasian”—a mixture of Chinese and white. He’d worked his way up from soldier to the boss of his own crew over the past few years. The crew bosses reported directly to Byron since he’d become the new Underboss. And he, in turn, reported to Tucker Cobb, the head of the outfit.

  “I suppose we could.”

  “Raccoon him and call it a day?”

  “I say we kill ’em.” Tennessee Ross touched the hilt of his pistol. “Send a message to the rest.”

  “Big surprise—you always go straight to shootin’ people.” Jasper snorted. “If we let you have your way, we wouldn’t have no employees.”

  “Lead has a way of preventin’ future problems.”

  “You’re such an ègùn. You’d kill your own momma for an ice cream.”

  “He’s doin’ it again.” Ten turned to Byron.

  Dear Lord, this is like babysittin’.

  “No Chinese insults, Jasper.”

  “I only called you a bad guy,” Jasper grumbled.

  Ten’s smile was smug. “Can’t dispute a fact. And as for your comment—it’d depend on the flavor.” He didn’t so much as crack a smile, but he probably hadn’t been joking.

  Yeah, Ten is tall, dark, and freaky.

  He had a long, lean build with thick, dark hair and wore a pair of sunglasses—indoors. Weird. Like the rest of the men, he was dressed in an expensive suit, though Ten had scruffy hair covering his chin and cheeks.

  Byron didn’t mind doing dirty work. After all, it came with their chosen profession, but he didn’t get off on it either. As far as he was concerned, it was a necessary evil.

  Ten, on the other hand, lived for the kill, had a real passion for it, and always looked for inventive, cruel ways to dispatch his victims. Byron wondered if an excuse to commit murder was a perk of the job. Ten seemed the sort to stuff bodies beneath the floorboards at his house.

  “Nobody’s dyin’ in here.” Byron stood. “No more murders in the manor—it’s a rule.” The year before he’d put down an FBI agent in this very room, and it’d been messy in more ways than one. “We do the wet work outside so we can hose away the evidence afterward. Bring ’em in, and I’ll talk with the man.”

  Jasper and Ten retrieved Joe Tanner from the sitting room. Tanner reminded Byron of a weasel—dirty brown hair, twitchy eyes, and trembling. He took a seat in front of Byron’s desk and folded his hands in his lap, like a kid called into the principal’s office for bad behavior.

  “From what I understand, your last deposit was light, Mr. Tanner.” Byron raised a brow.

  “Business has been down lately, Mr. Beauregard.”

  He shut his eyes and prayed for patience.

  “Don’t start this conversation off on the wrong foot, by shiftin’ blame. It’s your responsibility to keep it boomin’. But this ain’t about the sad state of the economy.”

  Tanner shifted in his seat. “It ain’t?”

  “No. You’ve been pocketin’ a percentage of the cash, my cash.”

  He gulped. “I….”

  “I don’t wanna hear no more lies.” Byron held up a hand. “You’ve already been thievin’, don’t make it worse by addin’ another strike. Have you been stealin’ from me?”

  Tanner opened his mouth, gasping like a fish on dry land, then shut it.

  Byron waited it out.

  The man bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  Byron nodded to Ten and Jasper, who came to stand on either side of Tanner. He couldn’t afford to be disrespected by his employees—disobedience must be punished.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Beauregard, I’m gettin’ squeezed in the divorce settlement—”

  He held up a hand. “Ain’t interested in excuses. You’re fifty light, and you’ll have my fuckin’ money by sundown tomorrow, or you’re gonna have a lot more to worry about than your ex-wife. And just to give you a reminder…” Byron snapped his fingers.

  Simultaneously, Jasper and Ten slugged Tanner in either eye—a double punch, making him yowl in pain.

  Byron sauntered around the desk and leaned down to view their handiwork. The skin was red now, but soon it’d turn black and blue.

  “Smarts, don’t it? That’s what we call raccoonin’ somebody. When you wake up, you’ll have a pair of shiners as a reminder to keep your hands out of my goddamn till. Get me the money by sundown tomorrow, or I’ll do somethin’ more permanent.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tanner stumbled out of the room, clutching his face.

  Ten cracked his knuckles. “Still say we shoulda handled it with a bullet.”

  “If he don’t pay up, you got my blessin’.”

  Tanner was by no means irreplaceable, but Byron hoped he coughed up the cash. Situations like this irked him—ganging up on a fraidy cat like Tanner reminded Byron of something his father would pull, only Buckley Beauregard would enjoy it.

  “Least he didn’t piss himself.” Jasper wrinkled his nose. “Hate when they let loose.”


  Byron agreed. This job didn’t have quite the glamor Hollywood supposed. More often than not, he ended up feeling dirty—slogging it out in the mud and the blood and the muck.

  “We got us a fed in the lobby.” Rebel Jackson, one of the new soldiers, busted into the room, puffing and eyes wide.

  “A fed? What’s the man’s name?” Byron had sources in the FBI, but those meetings were clandestine. None of those fine, upstanding gentlemen would dare be seen with him in the light of day.

  “Uh, I didn’t catch it.” Reb scratched his head. “Sorry, boss. If it helps, he acts like John Wayne.”

  Fantastic. We have a hero in our midst.

  He’d be having a talk with Rebel about getting pertinent information and maintaining a certain level of decorum. The man was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine somedays, but at least he could shoot straight.

  “We’ll cover it later. Invite the man in, and for God’s sake, try not to look guilty.”

  “You want us to wait outside?” Jasper hooked a thumb toward the door.

  Byron buttoned his coat and smoothed his hair back. “Might as well stay and enjoy the show. Let’s be on our best behavior, gentlemen.”

  A minute later, Reb escorted the tall and lanky agent into the room. He wore a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots, faded Levi’s, and a shiny silver belt buckle so big a fella could see the damn thing from a mile back. The agent had a buttoned-up black shirt and a silver cross around his throat. Unlike most of the FBI agents Byron had the misfortune to meet, this one didn’t wear the requisite blue or black suit.

  Byron placed the fed in his early forties, owing to the gray hair at his temples and the lines on his forehead. A couple of days’ worth of stubble covered his square jaw. And his eyes missed nothing—scanning the room like a hawk. Probably looking for incriminating evidence.

  “What brings you to my neck of the woods, Agent…? I’m sorry, Rebel didn’t get your name.”

  “It’s Special Agent Jim Hawthorne.” He flashed a badge like it was something to be proud of. “Most folks call me Thorne.”

  As in thorn in my side?

  A fed was about as welcome as an outhouse breeze in these parts. The last thing he needed was the FBI crawling up his backside.

  “Please call me Byron, Thorne.” Byron shook his hand then gestured to his companions. “These are my colleagues, Jasper Tan and Tennessee Ross.”

  “Gentlemen.” The agent nodded.

  “Please have a seat. Can I get you somethin’ to drink? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  Byron sat at his desk and gestured to the chair in front of it. Jasper and Ten stood behind Thorne, a little intimidation tactic. The agent shot a glance at them before he grasped the back of the chair and hauled it to the side, so he had a clear view of everyone in the room.

  “I’m sorry, you didn’t finish your thought earlier. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Byron chuckled to himself. It was always polite to make small talk before one got down to business. That was the Southern way, and Byron played his role of hospitable host to the hilt.

  “I’m new in town, and I thought I’d be neighborly, stop by and introduce myself.”

  Bullshit.

  The agent had dropped by unannounced to make an impression, and he had. Namely, there was a new player in town, and he was putting them on notice.

  “Awful kind of you. Is this a new meet and greet service the federal government’s providin’?”

  “Only to a very distinct set of citizens.”

  They gazed at one another, taking each other’s measure.

  “I see.”

  “I dropped by on my way from the new federal supermax in Waco. Ever been to one of those?’

  “Can’t say I have.”

  Byron was aware of supermax prisons, where the government kept its most dangerous criminals. With the solitary confinement, extreme security measures, and surveillance, supermax prisons made GITMO look like a vacation spot. He intended to never see the inside of one of those if he could help it.

  “What about you boys?” Thorne turned to glance at Jasper and Ten.

  “I have.” Ten raised a hand.

  “Really? They don’t allow visitors.”

  “I know, Agent.” Ten’s face was utterly blank.

  Byron rolled his eyes. Ten could be downright cagey. Who knows if he was lying or telling the truth? Maybe he just enjoyed fucking with them for sport.

  Thorne’s brow furrowed. “Then how’d you…?”

  “Long story.” He shrugged.

  “Well, they give me the creeps, like concrete tombs or some such.”

  “I thought it was homey.” Ten’s lips curled.

  Byron could almost see the agent making mental notes to follow up on Ten’s story.

  Thorne turned to Byron. “I’m surprised you’ve never been, given your family’s history.”

  Was he making a veiled threat? Byron had heard they were rounding up high-ranking mafia members in prison and shipping them to supermax, as a way to break the lines of communication. Some criminals were able to run their operations from the inside like Buckley had with Byron’s help.

  “Ah, now I won’t deny my family has a lawless past, but we’ve got a respectable present and a bright future. We’re all law-abidin’ citizens these days.” It was a half-truth. Most of his relatives were respectable, but not all, and certainly not him.

  “Is that right? Ain’t how I heard it. How many reputable citizens have their own private army?”

  “You flatter me, makin’ me sound all grand. It’s a little bitty security detail—nothin’ special. When you’re wealthy and famous, it pays to have protection.”

  Thorne’s eyes hardened. “I’m sure it does in your line of work.”

  “Now that we’ve discussed my background, it’s time to talk about yours. Whereabouts you from?”

  “I’m a ’Bama boy. Grew up outside of Birmingham, but my most recent assignment brings me to Abilene.”

  “Been there a time or two.” Abilene was about a thirty-minute ride from Hell, Texas. The nearest FBI office was in Dallas, and Byron liked the added distance—it kept a good three hours between him and the feds.

  “The FBI opened a satellite office?”

  “Yeah, for a special task force. I’ll be headin’ it up.”

  Thorne didn’t offer any info on the nature of the task force, and Byron didn’t ask. There was a chess game going on between them, and he wouldn’t be the one who blinked first.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you kindly.” He inclined his head. “I’m really lookin’ forward to gettin’ started.” Thorne leaned back in his chair. “Come to think of it, I think you might’ve met a friend of mine.”

  “Oh?” Byron didn’t so much as breathe. But you’d never know he was perturbed by looking at his face. Over the years, Byron had mastered keeping his body language in check.

  “Yes, Chris Warner, out of the Dallas FBI field office. He came to Hell to investigate a motorcycle gang, the Four Horsemen MC. Heard of them?”

  Holy shit.

  Chills raced down his spine. That was the very man Byron had murdered in this room.

  “Why, yes, I’m familiar with the Four Horsemen.” They did dirty work for the Dixie Mafia and not by choice.

  “And Agent Warner?”

  “The name rings a bell. Although, I believe he was lookin’ into the Raptors MC, a group out of Canyon City.”

  “You’re right. He got curious about the Four Horsemen and checked them out too. And he mentioned lookin’ into you—right before he up and vanished.”

  “Don’t that beat all?” Byron rubbed his chin. “Hope you find him. While I enjoyed meetin’ you, and at the risk of bein’ impolite, I’m afraid I got a business meetin’.” Byron stood and buttoned his coat.

  “No problem. I don’t want to keep you any longer.” Thorne tipped his hat and swaggered toward the door like a Wild West lawman racing out to sa
ve the townsfolk.

  “Agent Hawthorne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Earlier, you said you were with a new task force…?” The man hadn’t volunteered the information, and Byron had to know, given his last question.

  He turned with a wry smile. “Yeah, it’s a brand new organized crime unit.” Thorne tipped his hat. “You gentleman have yourselves a real nice day.”

  Chapter Two

  Dallas, Texas

  Jane Hunter suppressed a shiver.

  She couldn’t stop staring at the crime scene photos from the Oscar Valentine murder case. April Sanders lay on the ground, hands folded on her chest, sightless blue eyes gazing at the police officer’s camera lens.

  Jane must’ve examined them a dozen times, and it never failed to unnerve her. There were dozens of crime scene photos just like it—April was merely the first. The killer had put the victim in a white dress and shorn her blonde hair, like a virgin sacrifice or something. The body had been drained of blood, her wrists and ankles sliced open to bleed her.

  According to the autopsy report, April’s lungs were full of water, yet she was found on dry land. So the killer must’ve drowned her, then put her body on display—and she’d been raped too. All the young women had been sexually assaulted before he’d tortured and murdered them.

  Their last moments must’ve been spent in abject terror.

  Jane bit her lower lip. I shouldn’t be looking at these. It only made her angry and sad.

  She’d been doing this job a long time and she had a thick skin when it came to most crime scenes, but something about these murders bothered her.

  The bulk of her cases had involved organized crime, rape, and robberies. Occasionally, there’d been a murder, but they’d always occurred in the commission of another crime.

  This was the first time she’d personally dealt with a serial killer—someone who murdered people for a thrill. And the victims were young women—all of them pretty and innocent. None of them had criminal records or engaged in risky behaviors like drug use or prostitution, factors which increased the likelihood of being involved in a violent crime.

  Jane had been working on Oscar Valentine’s case for months. He’d been accused of a half-dozen murders, and yesterday the grand jury had decided not to indict him. Since Valentine was her client, Jane should be pleased her skill in the courtroom had paid off, but if he hadn’t killed those women, someone else had—and the monster was still out there.