by Cara Carnes
Likely not.
They just didn’t like people meddling in their business. And she’d dived deep in their shit, so much so she stank from what all she’d uncovered. Funny how following people around gave so much insight into their secrets.
“You lost?” Lonnie’s voice fractured the awkward silence. “A big-time war hero like you is best served at Bubba’s. Head on back to Resino where you belong, Mason. We’ve got no beef with you and your brothers.”
“I’m thinking you do.”
The low rumble cast a heatwave of awareness within Kamren. Her gut clenched as she forced down another swallow of her beer. She’d drink an entire keg if it kept her quiet and out of whatever had brought him here.
“Get gone while you still can, man. We’ve got no beef with you,” Javier said. “For Dom, walk away.”
“Respect, Jav. That’s not happening until I get what I came for.”
“Have your say, then get gone,” Lonnie ordered.
“Someone slashed Riley’s tires today, second time.”
The statement charged the air with a ripple of shock, unease, and general fear. Marville might not have an appreciation for the Mason name, but they sure as hell had an aversion to it. A downright unhealthy fear, if the truth was told, mainly because Riley’s six brothers had spent many years beating down anyone and everyone who dared even glare at little sis the wrong way.
Sadly, most of those someones were the reprobates carted over to Resino due to the non-existent-past-elementary Marville public school system. Resino educated everyone in Marville past the sixth grade, so the Masons had beaten their fair quota of the local populace.
Or so Rachelle had said many a time in her I-wanna-be-married-to-a-Mason declarations. Whoever had made a move on Riley had been stupid. Really, really stupid.
Kamren laughed. The sound was low, but tumbled into the room at a loud enough volume to draw the man’s attention. He angled toward her, crowding her personal space until heat wafted against her back. A firm hand locked onto the barstool near her thigh and turned it until she faced him.
Gasps echoed around her, but her lungs were in her throat. She peered up, attempting a glare, but all thoughts of anger melted beneath the intensity within his gaze.
“You find my sister’s tires getting cut funny?”
“No.”
“Your laugh sure as fuck says otherwise, sweetheart.”
“I find the fact that someone was that stupid hysterical.” She lifted her beer and saluted the room. “Besides, that means I’m not the only one spending cake on tires.”
“That so?”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t catch a name, but I’m thinking I just found the second bullet point to my visit.”
“You have bullet points?”
“I do. I’m thinking you’re number two, seeing how you have the same button nose and lips as Rachelle.” He leaned forward and settled a hand on each side of the bar behind her. “I’m Dallas Mason. You’re Kamren.”
“Is Rachelle okay?”
“She’s been with us for weeks now, yet you haven’t been around. I’m not sure you deserve an answer.”
Ouch. The reply struck hard. She bit back the response rising in her throat. He wouldn’t care. No one cared. She was on her own, like always. She and Rachelle may have grown up in the same house, but they were worlds apart. And that was good.
It meant Rache had men like Dallas Mason in her life, people who gave a damn and kept her safe.
“Thanks for looking out for her and Cliff.”
“You’re done.”
The finality in his statement made her lean back. His lethal edge sliced through the silence as he leaned in. Hot breath trailed across her cheek.
“Whatever shit you’re mired in doesn’t hit her or my sister. Clean yourself up and move on. Get out of Marville, get out of Texas. Get gone whatever way is needed so Rachelle never breathes the shit you’re stirring up. You’re done.”
“Clean myself up,” she repeated.
Then the meaning of the words struck her like a shotgun blast. Drugs? He thought she was tied into drugs. Dirty.
Of course. She was from Marville. All folks from Resino thought they were better. Then again, she was a Garrett, trash by even Marville standards. Naturally, trash got tied up with drugs.
“You don’t know anything,” she replied in an angered whisper. She punctuated each word crisply, as evenly as possible despite the lump of emotion in her throat.
“We aren’t your enemy, Kamren. Whatever you’re messed up in, we’ll help.”
Right.
Kamren considered the offer for a few seconds but realized the foolishness. Even if they believed her, they wouldn’t care. She couldn’t get anyone to care because, like her, her father had been a nobody living on the outskirts of town and surviving off land he’d tended with little help from anybody.
He’d always warned her folks wouldn’t want much to do with her. Kamren had always suspected he was paranoid or delusional, but he was right. She hadn’t realized exactly how right until that day eighteen months ago when…
She pushed the thought away, straightened her spine, and stood. Lonnie and the majority of Marville were watching. As far as they were concerned, Dallas Mason had just declared war on her and her little mission. He had no clue what she was up to, yet he’d weighed in and declared her done, obliterated sixteen months of hard work. What little patience the Marville folk had for her snooping would be at an end soon because the almighty Masons had given them a permission slip to stop her.
“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” she spat angrily.
“If it keeps Rachelle and those I care about clean and safe, I’m good with whatever you think I just did. You know where to find me when you’re ready to wake the fuck up and move on.”
He knew? The statement implied Rachelle had told him about her mission. Then again, he was a Mason. Riley and her brothers adored their father. The man’s death had been a sad time in the tri-county. Even Marville folk respected Dallas’s father—he’d been country through and through, a rancher to the bone.
“None of this concerns you or your family.”
“It concerned us the day Riley made it her mission to keep her best friend from ghosting through life.”
Kamren squeezed her eyes shut at the statement. Rachelle wasn’t as settled with Riley’s family as she’d initially thought. Was she taking her meds? Maybe Kamren could call Cliff, make sure.
No.
As harsh as Dallas’s words were, he was right. She needed to get answers quickly, especially now that the Marville Dogs had heard the declaration. Everyone assumed the Masons were behind her because Rachelle was at their ranch. Now? Now she was truly alone, which meant she was no longer untouchable by the Marville Dogs.
Though her fight wasn’t with them, she’d learned more than she should. They’d left her be, but she suspected that wouldn’t last long. Javier rose from his perch at the table and sauntered over like he owned the joint and everyone in it. In many ways, he did.
Dani had yet to reappear, which meant even she wasn’t willing to weigh in on what was going down. Even best friends had limits, and Kamren was real good at shoving past them.
“We’ll help you move on, but you’re done. It’s not healthy, Kamren,” Dallas said.
What had Rachelle told them? Concern filled his eyes as he watched, waiting for a response she couldn’t give. She was already neck-deep in trouble. One wrong play and she’d drown without knowing who’d killed her dad. He’d been an asshole, but he was her father. No matter what, he deserved to rest in peace.
“I’m not your concern, Mason. Never have been, never will be. I was just passing through, so I’ll be gone by daylight. Tell Rachelle I’ll be in touch in a couple months.”
“Thinking that’s not a good idea,” Dallas replied. “Come out to the ranch. We’ve got some people you can chat with. They’ll help you.”
Right. Cause she was d
rugged out of her noggin or something. She nodded, snagged her backpack and headed for the door.
The sooner she got gone, the better. A whistle rose in the air. She froze. Javier’s voice chilled her bones.
“He’s right, Kamren. You’re done. Get gone and stay gone. We don’t need your mess in Marville.”
3
Two weeks later…
She shouldn’t have come.
The realization shuddered through her in a ripple of nausea and unease as she entered the Sip and Spin. Two weeks hadn’t calmed the situation Dallas Mason incited. Whispers rippled through the area as her gaze darted from one table to another. No Javier, but a few Marville Dogs sat in the appointed section.
Son of a bitch.
“You need to go,” Lonnie said. “Things have calmed with you gone. Masons aren’t sniffing around no more.”
Because everyone had run to ground and laid low when she fled town. She’d made the perfect scapegoat to keep the Masons from nosing around Marville and uncovering whatever shady bullshit people were into.
“Just grabbing a beer and catching up with Dani.”
“Gave her the night off; she’s racing.” Lonnie crossed his meaty arms. “You’d best head on out. I’m sure there’s a room in Nomad you can crash in.”
Nomad was twenty miles north of Marville and the third town in what locals called the tri-county area, with Resino and Marville being the other two. It was bigger, and no self-respecting Marvillian would crash there.
No matter. She’d catch up with Dani later. Truth told, she’d needed a break to contemplate her decision. She’d spent the past couple of weeks digging deeper into her latest suspects. Though she wasn’t sure what she’d stumbled across, her gut told her she was closer than ever.
Which meant it was time to clear the air with Dallas Mason.
Though Dallas’s assumptions had initially pissed her off, Kamren could understand why he’d made them. Her only friend was a Marville Dog. They weren’t exactly upstanding citizens. The longer she’d thought about their altercation, the more she’d realized he’d expressed no ill intent. He had offered help. It wasn’t his fault he suspected she was wrapped up in drugs or some other nefarious activity. What else could there be?
Did he even know her dad was dead, much less murdered?
It wasn’t like Rachelle would’ve wasted a breath mentioning their father.
“I’ll be back later, Lonnie. I’ve got questions, but they can wait.”
Kamren pushed away thoughts of Dani and the Dogs. They were something else she’d left on the back burner too long. She needed to make nice with Javier and his crew soon because she didn’t need trouble from them. Staying away for two weeks had probably not been the smartest play. The fact that they hadn’t attempted a conversation just now unnerved her.
They were brash assholes who enjoyed public confrontations, especially if it let them preen like peacocks. No matter. She’d deal with Javier later, after she’d sorted Rachelle and the Masons.
She’d parked the battered pickup truck at the far end of the overflowing parking area in front of the Sip and Spin. A crisp breeze flowed as she got into her vehicle and it rumbled to life. She pulled her rifle from beneath the seat out of habit, one she’d learned from her father.
Always be prepared, girl. Don’t let anyone take you by surprise.
She glanced in her mirrors and flicked the headlights on. Two minutes later, she was chewing up highway and heading to The Arsenal. Her cell phone sat beside her, the number to the compound’s main line already programmed in. She didn’t expect to get in, not when it was already after midnight.
Waiting until tomorrow would be smart, but she’d never been smart. That was Rachelle.
The road yawned as she settled into the rolling countryside around her. She slowed as the Resino lights appeared around the bend. Headlights appeared in her rearview mirror. The Arsenal was on Mason land, which was a right at the four-way stop and five miles out, maybe seven. She couldn’t remember exactly where the entry gate was.
She made the turn at the four-way and rolled her shoulders as she navigated onto the road leading to the sprawl of Mason land. She’d find a quiet space to park and catch some sleep, then she’d approach the entry gate when daylight came. Stakeouts had become commonplace for her the past several months. The who and where had changed, but sitting on her ass watching people was the same no matter the subject.
Headlights appeared in her rearview mirror, closer than before. A second set flashed on from the side and lurched toward her. She swerved left, avoiding the brunt of damage from getting T-boned—just barely.
Son of a bitch.
Someone didn’t want her near The Arsenal. Did they think she meant to turn over what she had found so far to the Masons, get their help? Like any of them would ever help someone like her. They were too busy fighting wars in foreign countries and protecting America.
Marville trash wasn’t worth worrying about.
Clean yourself up and move on. Get out of Marville, get out of Texas. Get gone whatever way is needed so Rachelle never breathes the shit you’re stirring up. You’re done.
It’d been two weeks since her face off with Dallas Mason. He’d made assumptions she hadn’t corrected. Why bother? He was right. Rachelle was better off away from her and the troubles she’d stirred.
The troubles slamming her off the highway.
It’d been a mistake going to the Sip and Spin. Coming to The Arsenal.
The truck lurched forward against a grind of bumper-on-bumper contact. Her teeth rattled, her body slammed against the seat belt. She gunned the truck and powered on. Her pulse quickened, but a calm settled over her—a steady, rumbling awareness of everything around her. She scanned the area ahead.
Lights.
The Arsenal?
Maybe.
The vehicle slammed into her truck’s side. Metal crunched, but Kamren swerved into the impact and gunned the accelerator. Close. So close.
Break away. Prepare a response.
She snagged the cell and hit the call button.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
Answer. Answer. Answer.
“Arsenal.” The gruff response was huskier than she expected, as if half-asleep.
She grunted as the vehicle slammed into her backside once more. Tires spun as she battled with the steering wheel. Damn it. They’d screwed up the alignment somehow.
“Who is this?” The voice—sharper, more determined—drew her attention. Adrenaline surged, fueling her thoughts.
“Kamren Garrett. Someone’s after me. I’m close, but not going to make it. I’ll draw their fire, but keep Rachelle safe. Don’t let anyone outside Resino County get my backpack.”
She doubted any of it made sense, but she had no time to repeat or play twenty questions. She angled the vehicle off the road and barreled out the passenger door as it lurched to a stop. Right hand on her rifle, left hand on her backpack, she did an awkward, curled roll into the overgrown grass in the bar ditch.
Headlights danced and bobbed as her two opponents pulled over. Voices fractured the otherwise silent night. Gasoline filled her nostrils. The fuel tank was damaged from the impact earlier. Good. Her pulse quickened as a plan formed in her mind.
She belly-crawled deeper into the grass toward the massive fence line denoting Mason land. She waited until the voices were nearer the vehicle she’d escaped.
Deep breath in. Pained breath out. She rolled into position. Up on her knees.
Aim.
Fire.
Flames shot upward from the pooled gasoline she’d ignited. Fiery rage chewed a line along the asphalt until it swallowed the truck she’d been in. Angry voices rose on the other side of the inferno. She settled deeper against the ground and waited more heartbeats than she expected.
The concussive boom rattled the ground. Flames shot out and chewed up the dry grass nearby. Shouts rose above the frenzied, fiery dance. Shadows sprinted and darted near the flame�
�s brightness.
Aim.
Fire.
Fire.
Her ears rang. She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, willing her mind to focus beyond the shots, the flames. Voices. She needed more voices. Voices translated to targets. Targets were good. Targets kept her breathing.
The backpack.
She sat her ass on the backpack and raised her rifle as more shadows appeared beyond the flames. Headlights. A stream of headlights and raised voices. Gunfire.
She crawled deeper into the bar ditch, sliding the backpack through the grimy mud. Cow manure filled her nostrils. She crawled along the fence line, away from the fiery inferno she’d created. A beam of light fractured the night, spewing down on her.
She rolled.
Aim.
Fire.
“Stand down, Quillery. I have eyes on her.” The order was deep enough to break through the ringing in her ears, but barely.
Her breath quickened as she did another roll. Positioned atop her backpack, she aimed. The light returned, brighter and aimed at her eyes. She squinted.
Pain swept up her arm as a massive weight settled atop her. She bucked and kicked. Right hand grasped on her weapon, she fisted her left hand.
Aim.
Punch.
The figure looming above her grunted. A firm hand settled atop her right hand and pushed hard until she slammed backward on the ground. Shock detonated as she was summarily flipped onto her belly. Both hands were yanked behind her back and up until pain radiated from her shoulders.
“Stand down,” the voice growled.
She squirmed and bucked to no avail. The heavy weight pinned her firmly as her hands were secured behind her back. She stared at the lights of The Arsenal.
So close.
She swallowed the regret and hoped they’d keep Rachelle safe.
Kamren grunted when she was turned over and hauled onto her knees. Knees firmly on her backpack. She glared up at her captor. Breath swooshed from her lungs as the annoying beam of light circling overhead spotlighted unruly dark hair and a muscular torso. The business end of a Sig Sauer aimed at her head demanded her attention for a few heartbeats.
