by CJ Lyons
Although she managed not to hit anything—including the idiot biker—the car stopped so violently that Caitlyn flew forward, hitting her head on the steering wheel. Not enough to black out, just enough to make her lose a second or two to the sudden pain. She kept her wits, enough to draw her weapon and hold it at her side.
Goose ran over and yanked her door open. “Are you okay? I just needed you to pull over. I wasn’t expecting Steve McQueen.”
She moaned and raised her head. Blood smeared the tan leather of the steering wheel. She undid her seat belt, keeping the Glock hidden from his sight. “De Niro. Ronin definitely had a better car chase than Bullitt.”
“Okay, we’ll compromise. Hackman.” He cupped her chin in his hand and peered at the cut on her forehead. “No pain anywhere else? Like your neck?”
“No. I’m fine. Hackman. French Connection. Sounds good to me.”
He leaned into the car, wiping her forehead with his bandanna. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Nasty bump, though.”
That’s when she jammed the pistol into his chest. Pushed him back as she climbed out of the car. Then she sidled beyond his reach, holding the Glock steady despite the trickle of blood seeping down her forehead and dripping into her eye.
“Turn around, hands up over your head, and look up at the sky.”
He obeyed, moving slowly, showing her he was no threat. “It’s not what you think. I’m trying to help and we don’t have much time.”
“Trying to kill me is more like it. Did you really think I’d fall for that fake phone call?”
“Wasn’t all fake. Lena Hale is in danger. But she’s not at her dad’s old house. If you want to save her, I know where she is. All I’m asking is that you listen to me.”
She considered that. Something about Goose had bothered her since she first met him. It’d be good to get the truth out. “Okay. Talk.”
“Not here.” He twisted his head to look over his shoulder at her. “Someplace private. I can’t been seen talking with you.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Up there.” He jerked his chin at the dirt road. It led up to Mingo Falls—her dad used to take her up there all the time when she was a kid. The Reapers could have set a trap up there, but this seemed an awfully complicated way to get her there. Everything about Goose’s posture said he spoke the truth.
Caitlyn decided to listen to her instincts instead of playing this by the rules. She lowered her weapon and nodded to his bike. “You first, no more than five feet in front of me.” No way she was going to let him ride with her, and if they left the bike behind and any Reapers saw it, they might follow.
Goose said nothing but the tension drained from his shoulders. He gave her a smile—not the smirk she was used to seeing from him, but a real smile that made it to his eyes. “Thanks.”
The dirt-and-gravel road was empty—tourists hardly ever came to the falls in the winter, and when they did, they took the paved road from the reservation side of the mountain. It didn’t take long to reach the parking lot, a secluded patch of cleared land at the trailhead.
Goose dismounted and waited for her, hands open and at his sides. No threat.
She got out of the Subaru, her weapon in her hand but not raised. Not yet. She remained far enough away that he couldn’t make a move on her but close enough that he’d regret it if he tried. Her head throbbed and her stomach felt queasy with the pain and aftershock of adrenaline. Not that she’d ever let him see any of that.
“What the hell’s going on here?” she demanded. He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and she had the sudden impression he wasn’t used to wearing it so long.
“My name’s not Jacob Clay,” he started. “It’s Jake Carver.”
Only one reason for someone to have an alias that stood up to the sheriff running it through NCIC when he was arrested. Well, hell. She knew there was something off with him.
“You’re investigating the Reapers. ATF? DEA?” Those were the usual suspects when it came to outlaw motorcycle gangs.
“All the swap meets and gun shows around here, the Reapers can buy any guns they need legitimately. And the only drugs I’ve seen them with are strictly personal recreational use.”
“So what’s their deal?”
“Money laundering.”
“Shit.” She eyed him. “You’re with the Bureau. Financial crimes?” Most of the guys she knew working white-collar crime were the suit-and-tie type. Anything but the muscled, tattooed, leather-and-jeans specimen Goose presented himself as.
“Worse. IRS.”
She couldn’t stop her snort of laughter.
He sighed and slumped against his bike, but smiled at her, eyes crinkling, telling her he was used to the jokes.
“You’re an IRS agent?”
“Originally. Reassigned to the FBI the past few years.”
“So that makes you a”—she gave a shudder of mock terror—“CPA?”
“And a CFA. Certified forensic accountant.”
Good God, what were they thinking? Sending an accountant undercover as a biker? “How long you been under?”
“Fifteen months, six days. Not that I’m counting.”
“Where’s your cover team?”
“Tricky keeping them close given that everyone knows everyone around here, so they usually rotate in and out as gamblers or tourists, fishermen. Two of them were on the dance floor the other night, started the fight that so conveniently got you and your boyfriend out of trouble.”
“Where are they now?”
He shrugged. “Nice thing about new technology, they don’t have to stay in line of sight to hear everything.”
The Bureau routinely outfitted cell phones with omnidirectional microphones and recorders. But, although those could record anywhere, they wouldn’t get a signal to his cover team when there was no cell reception. Which meant he’d spent the better part of fifteen months basically on his own. “Yeah, but that also means they can’t back you up if there’s trouble. At least not quickly.”
“As opposed to you coming in, stirring things up all by your lonesome. At least I have backup.” He turned to her, his expression serious once more, a glint of the bad-boy Reaper Goose reemerging. “Point is, we’re almost ready to nail these bastards. Not just the Reapers but the men behind them.”
“And I’m in your way.”
“You have no idea. I’m here now because Poppy wants you dead. He sent me to kill you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The big cat leapt, landing in Bernie’s truck bed. Lena yanked the Honda’s rear door open and tried to shove Smokey inside. The chimp balked. The leopard stretched, its front paws balanced on the wall of the truck bed. Lena met its gaze, fear holding her hostage.
Smokey saved her. The chimp finally scampered into the rear of the Honda, giving Lena room to jump in and pull the door shut just as the Honda rocked violently.
The leopard was on the roof.
Lena leaned forward to the driver’s seat and clicked the locks shut. Then laughed as she realized the futility. Like a leopard was going to use a door handle. She laughed so hard tears squeezed from her eyes. Smokey made a cooing noise and patted her head, combing Lena’s hair with her long, leathery fingers.
The chimp’s maternal instincts made Lena want to curl up onto her lap and give in to the tears. Instead she wiped them away.
The leopard scraped at the metal above them with its claws. She drew the pistol from her pocket. Smokey recognized it, tried to slap it out of Lena’s hand, her teeth bared. Lena yanked it back as the chimp curled into the farthest corner of the backseat. Then she realized she couldn’t shoot the gun, not inside a car—what if the bullet ricocheted and hit her or Smokey?
She returned the gun to her pocket. Nothing to do except wait out the cat.
Smokey calmed down, inched back across the seat toward her, draping her arms around Lena’s shoulders. There was a strange squeaking noise. The leopard slid backward down the wi
ndshield to the hood. It sprawled across the hood, its front paws against the glass, nose pressed to the windshield, and peered in at them, looking confused to see them so close yet unable to reach them.
Lena was tempted to blow the horn but wasn’t sure if that would scare it off or just make it angry. She decided to pretend to ignore it, hope it would go off after easier prey. Her messenger bag was on the front passenger seat where she’d left it two—no, three—nights ago. She stretched a hand and hauled it back to the rear seat.
Smokey sniffed at the canvas bag, trying the buckles and yanking on the straps. She jerked back at the sound of the zipper. Lena rummaged inside the side pocket and found her cell phone. Dead. It’d been on four days straight. And her charger was with her suitcase back at the VistaView.
The only other items in the bag were a few energy bars—which she tucked into her coat pocket before Smokey could tear into them—her notebook, and a few books she’d checked out of the tribal archives: a bound edition of the Joseph G. Hester 1883 Eastern Band of Cherokee tribal census and Dr. Bearmeat’s own doctoral dissertation from 1987, a history of the Eastern Band that discussed the Freedmen Pact at length.
Dr. Bearmeat had been so excited by her interest in the pact and the prospect of seeing his work used for the Duke Law Review that he’d told her she could keep the books longer than the usual seven-day lending period. After all, he’d said, no one else had checked them out in decades.
They’d had several lively discussions on the legal ramifications of the pact, especially given the recent rulings in the Oklahoma Cherokee freedmen case. He’d used the special large-format printer to make her a copy of the pact, which she’d dropped off with a woman he’d recommended as a translator.
The most fascinating thing—and Dr. Bearmeat agreed—was how no one seemed to remember or even care about the pact. No Freedmen had lived on the land granted to them for generations; in fact, the Hale family was the last freedmen family who’d lived anywhere near the Qualla Boundary, and they’d moved away after Eli was sent to Butner.
“It’s like someone wants to bury our history,” she’d said as he fixed them tea. The several times she’d visited the archives no one else had come in. She had the feeling Dr. Bearmeat was a very lonely man, anxious to share the knowledge he had before he died and it was lost in the masses of documents he so painstakingly tended.
“Computers,” he said, stirring milk into his Earl Grey with more vigor than he needed. “I blame the computers. If they can’t find something in two nanoseconds on Google, people assume it never existed. They aren’t patient enough to trace the original sources, not like you.” He beamed at her like she was a star pupil.
“You said the original pact was lost?”
He squirmed and focused on his tea. “Yes. When Tommy Shadwick’s house was burned.”
“By my father.” Over the past few weeks since Eli had ordered her to stop appealing his conviction, she’d come to terms with the fact that her life had built upon a lie: her mother and sister’s belief in his innocence. As she accepted Eli’s guilt, she felt a guilt of her own, a strange impulse to seek out her family roots and find some way to restore the Hale name. Learning of the pact signed by her ancestor seemed like a Heaven-sent opportunity.
Dr. Bearmeat nodded. “Yes. When Tommy died and his house burned, we lost an irreplaceable historic document. Of course, no one other than myself saw it that way. As long as there were copies, they couldn’t care less. Back then these archives were merely stacks of boxes dumped in my dad’s garage. The Bearmeats have long been the history keepers for the tribe, so folks got used to collecting any papers or old books they found and giving them to us like hauling out the trash.”
His voice filled with scorn. “That was the 1980s. Everything had to be rebuilt, shiny and new and chrome. Modern. They all wanted modern. Forgot about their heritage.”
“Not everyone, Dr. Bearmeat.” She patted his arm. “If it wasn’t for you, all this would be lost.”
He smiled at that. “And you’ll carry on the tradition. Let the world know about the pact.”
More than that. Now that her time wasn’t filled with conjuring legal arguments to appeal Eli’s conviction, Lena wanted to settle down. She liked it here in Cherokee. The mountains, as stern and forbidding as they looked down from the heavens, felt like home. She began to fantasize about using the pact to restore her family name on the Eastern Band rolls, getting a job helping Dr. Bearmeat, maybe even setting up a small practice here. Combining history and the law to help people. It felt right.
Until she’d taken a good look at the books she’d checked out. Dr. Bearmeat was right: no one had taken the books on the pact from the archives in decades. Twenty-six years to be precise.
When Sean Tierney had checked them out. The week after Tommy Shadwick was killed. A few days before her father was arrested and Sean died. Dates all indelibly etched into her memory.
If Eli killed Tommy because the elder refused to give freedmen tribal status under the terms of the pact, then maybe Sean Tierney was simply curious about Eli’s motive. Wanted to understand what had driven his best friend to kill a man.
Made sense. Except for a sliver of paper she’d found tucked between the pages of Dr. Bearmeat’s dissertation. A handwritten scrawl with a question: Casino?
The casino was the Hale family’s current source of income. Before his conviction, Eli had invested heavily in it through Jimmy McSwain’s development company. Tommy Shadwick had also opposed the casino development—which only added to Eli’s motive, although no one had ever mentioned it during Eli’s short trial.
But given that Sean Tierney’s note was shoved between the pages containing the maps of the Qualla Boundary and the area allotted to the freedmen under the pact, she couldn’t help but wonder if Sean had stumbled onto something more.
Something that maybe had gotten him killed. By her father, his best friend.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Goose seemed to expect some kind of reaction with his pronouncement, but Caitlyn was more interested in answers.
“Who are these people behind the Reapers?”
He narrowed his eyes. “We don’t know yet. Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. But I can give you one thing.”
“What?”
“I really do know where Lena Hale is. And she doesn’t have much time. Poppy put out a hit on her and Bernie, one of the Reaper prospects, who’s been helping her.”
“Bernie—Bernard McSwain?”
“Yeah. He’s your cousin, right?”
“I haven’t seen him in years.”
“I suggest you get going now before you miss the chance at a family reunion. Permanently.”
“You just want me out of your hair.”
He shrugged. “Two birds. But Lena and Bernie really are in danger. And I can’t help. Weasel isn’t going to be tied up for long. I can’t risk my cover. Not to mention an operation that’s taken a year and a half out of my life.”
He was right. She knew exactly where he was coming from—years ago she’d worked undercover in Boston. Nothing was more important than preserving your cover and finishing the op.
But if she went after Lena and Bernie, she might miss her chance to get the answers she needed from the Cherokee interpreter. Although Lena might already have all the answers. Then another thought occurred to her. “If Poppy’s coming after me, he’ll be after Paul as well.”
Shit, shit, shit. And here she was, standing around talking. She holstered her weapon and yanked the Subaru’s driver’s door open.
“Pick him up after you get Bernie and Lena. They’re at the old Teddy Roosevelt Lodge.”
“The lodge?” She glanced at his Harley. “That thing any good on rough roads?”
“Yeah, why?”
“The lodge is only a few minutes away if you cut across the old logging road just down the mountain. You watch over Lena and Bernie while I get Paul. I’ll meet you at the lodge, pick up the kids, and you’ll be in
the clear to wrap up your operation.”
He frowned. “I can’t take too much time. We still need to find the cash. Tie it to the principals.”
“Is it tagged?”
“Yeah, some of our guys in Florida managed to slip marked bills into a stash used for an arms deal with the Nomads. They gave it to Caruso to launder. Now we need to document Caruso taking it to the bank.”
“You mean the casino.” Millions of cash flowing in and out every week, the VistaView made for a perfect money-laundering center. “How are they doing it?”
“Not sure. The casino is off limits to the Reapers. My team’s been in there monitoring operations during times when we know the money is being exchanged, but came up empty every time. At first we thought it was a few of the dealers at the tables or one of the cashiers, but we haven’t been able to get any concrete evidence.”
“Have you talked to my uncle Jimmy or his security chief? I’m sure they’d cooperate. It hurts the casino as much as anyone if it’s being used by the Reapers.”
He was silent. And the penny dropped. “You suspect my uncle.”
“Not just him. We suspect anyone connected with the VistaView. That much cash walking in and out every day, there’s a dozen ways from Sunday they could be making the exchange.”
“Why are the Reapers so interested in Lena? She doesn’t have anything to do with the money laundering, does she?”
“Nope. I have no idea what they want her for. Poppy acted like it was maybe personal. You know about her father, right? Killed some tribal elder a while ago.”
He obviously didn’t know much about the local history—or her own family history. “Yeah, I know. He’s dead. Killed at Butner.”
“Really? When?”
“Yesterday. About two minutes before I was about to question him.”
“Well, hell. Anything to do with my case?”
