by Lynda Bailey
Well shit. It probably hadn’t been the best idea to insult this guy, but live and learn.
Shifting his left leg forward, Lynch angled his body to make himself less of a target, his muscles tense. He wrapped the towel around his hand, knowing the cramped quarters would either save or kill. A crap shoot either way.
Beck weaved the shank back and forth. He feigned a thrust. Lynch responded with a sweep of his toweled hand, almost knocking the blade free.
Beck’s eyes widened then tapered into slits. He adjusted his hold on the makeshift knife. “Guess this ain’t your first rodeo.”
Lynch didn’t bother answering. He kept his gaze trained on Beck, ready for the next attack—when the unit guard, Johnston, appeared. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
Beck quickly pocketed his weapon. “Nothing.” He glared at Lynch. “Right?”
Lynch refused to relax his bearing. “Right.”
Beck backed out of the cell with a warning look. “See you later. Guppy.”
“Count on it.”
After Beck left, Lynch unraveled the towel and tossed it onto his top bunk. He looked at the guard. “You need something?”
“Yeah. Your lawyer is here.”
Lawyer?
Lynch didn’t have a lawyer. He’d fired his public defender a month into his incarceration. But maybe his mom hired him a new attorney.
He dismissed the thought as soon as it formed. With her beauty salon in Stardust, his mom struggled each month just to make her mortgage, so paying for legal counsel was out of the question. Plus, aside from a couple of Christmas cards, he hadn’t had any communication with her, or anyone else, since he got inside. His choice. He lived in box now and having contact with people outside that box didn’t benefit anyone.
Johnston blocked his access to the door. “You want to tell me what was going on between you and that new guy, Beck.”
“Just inmate shit.”
“Anything I need to deal with?”
“Nah. Oscar’ll handle it.”
“Riiight.” Johnston moved to the side. “Just make sure Oscar handles it when I’m not on shift.”
With a nod, Lynch exited his cell and headed down the narrow walkway, the guard right behind him. Other convicts moved to the side to make room.
“I don’t remember you ever having a visit from your lawyer,” Johnston commented.
“Once.” Lynch stopped at the heavy unit door.
The metal hinges creaked in protest as Johnston opened it. “You remember the procedure?”
“Has it changed?”
With a small chuckle, Johnston shook his head.
“Didn’t think so.” Lynch descended the three flights of stairs.
Nothing ever changed in prison. Same schedule, same food, same shit-brown walls. If you were smart, you found comfort in the fixed routine. If not, well, you went a little batshit crazy.
All the way to the ground floor, Lynch felt the gazes of the sharpshooting guards on his head. That was something else that stayed the same in prison…you were never alone. Not ever.
At the bottom, he walked out into the lower yard. The April sun warmed his face. At least he thought it was April. Might be May by now.
Lynch sauntered across the expanse of dirt and gravel. Some convicts shot basketballs into net-less hoops while others lifted weights. Still others lingered in clusters for supposed protection.
He scanned the nearby area for Oscar even though he knew Jefe’s usual post was the handball court on the far side. He needed to tell his cellmate about Beck. But warning him would have to wait until Lynch finished his visit.
Another guard, Morgan, met him at the strip-out room. After disrobing and spreading his ass cheeks for inspection, Lynch redressed then walked with Morgan down the hall to a semi-private room. Through the window, he saw a man and a woman sitting at the table their backs to him.
The hairs on Lynch’s neck itched as he walked into the room. Something wasn’t right. The man sported a Marine buzz cut while the woman had her auburn hair drawn into a severe bun. Seeing their faces felt like Beck’s shank had found its mark in his gut.
These two were either former military or feds. Probably both. Neither of them bothered standing when he sat facing them, his palms flat on the tabletop. Morgan closed the door and took up his post at the window looking in.
“Mr. Callan,” the woman said. “I’m Special Agent Emma Jarvis and this is Special Agent Sam Newman. We’re with the FBI.”
Lynch maintained a neutral expression and studied the first woman he’d seen in more than seven years. Attractive enough…if you liked the button-up. G.I. Jane type. Green eyes assessed him through black-rimmed glasses. She pursed her lips which gave her a pinched look. The firm set of her chin said she was probably a ball buster. He switched his gaze to Newman. “I was told my lawyer was here.”
Newman folded his brawny hands on the table. “This meeting needed to stay as quiet as possible so as not to put a…damper on your life expectancy.”
Lynch swallowed his snicker. Anyone who got a look at these two would know exactly who there were. “What do you want?”
“Your help,” Jarvis said.
A smile split Lynch’s face. “My help? In case you missed it, I’m in prison.”
“We’ve missed nothing, I assure you,” she replied dryly. “Not even the part that the man you tried to kill is the sheriff of Grant County. However that doesn’t change the fact that we need your help.”
Lynch tensed at the mention of Dell Albright. Though he and the good sheriff had grown up as classmates, they never hung in the same circles. Not unusual considering Dell’s father had been sheriff twenty years prior to his son and Lynch’s mom had been the old lady to the Streeter VP. Fact was, Dell hated him. A sentiment Lynch returned.
But Lynch never tried to kill Dell because if he’d tried, he’d have succeeded. His grin widened. “Get me outta here and I’ll see what I can do to help you.”
“That’s exactly what we intend, Mr. Callan.” She thumbed open a file.
Lynch sobered. “What does that mean?”
“It means we can arrange a new trial for you.”
Distrust tightened Lynch’s skin. “In exchange for what?”
“Your cooperation with your old biker gang, the 5th Streeters.”
Lynch’s smile returned. “Biker gang? Oh, you must mean the 5th Street motorcycle club. It’s not a gang, though. Just a bunch of weekend warriors riding around on their tricked-out Harleys.” He pulled his lips into a thoughtful frown. “I honestly didn’t even know they were still around.”
Jarvis flipped over a picture and pushed it toward him. A man’s hideously bloated face looked up from under harsh autopsy lights. Lynch’s stomach did a slow roil.
“This is…” Jarvis’s voice hitched slightly. “Was Agent Olsen.”
She turned over more photos. Lynch immediately recognized his best friend, Hez along with Rolo, the Streeter president and Flyer, the VP. There were other club members…Mick, Grunge, Picket. His mom. Plus Ennis and Tiny—when did those two go from being prospects to full-fledged Streeters?
Jarvis added more pictures…of his crew riding their respective hogs down Stardust’s main street, the entrance to Rolo’s bowling alley, which housed the clubhouse in the rear and his mom’s beauty salon.
Nostalgia torqued his heart and clogged his throat. But he masked his feelings to focus on the faces of the people he didn’t know. He supposed Agent Olsen populated the group, but he couldn’t pick him out due to the disfigurement of the first image.
“Jerry…Agent Olsen,” Jarvis continued, “had been undercover with the Streeters for over three years. He went missing in October. We feared the worst, then got confirmation last month when a fisherman on Pyramid Lake snagged his clothing and dragged him to the surface. Weights had been attached to his ankles, but not enough to keep the body from rising once it started to decompose.” She leveled a hard stare at Lynch. “Jerry was a good agent. A
good man. He left behind a wife and two young kids.”
Lynch shifted in his seat. “My condolences, but what does any of this have to do with me?”
A short, neatly trimmed fingernail landed on Olsen’s distended image. “This is the work of your gang.”
“Even if that’s true, I sure as hell don’t know who did it.”
“We realize you don’t know who killed Olsen,” Newman interjected, opening another file. “Not yet anyway. Things have changed for the Streeters since you’ve been gone. They’re no longer a nickel and dime operation, growing and selling weed or extorting protection money from small businesses. They’ve moved into the big leagues. Smuggling heroin up from Mexico. Gun running.” He pivoted the file so Lynch could read it. “And more.”
Lynch leaned closer to examine the papers. “What am I looking at?”
“Missing person reports. Over two dozen young girls, some as young as twelve, have gone missing in Northern Nevada in the past six months. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We discovered reports going back five years of teenaged, mostly white girls simply…vanishing. Some from as far away as Portland and Boise.”
An acidic taste coated Lynch’s mouth. He swallowed. “So?”
“So, Olsen learned a man—a Mr. Blackwell—is behind the disappearances. He supposedly pays ten to twenty-five grand per girl—depending on her age and whether she’s a virgin.”
“And you haven’t arrested this Blackwell dude because why?”
“Because no one knows what he looks like,” Newman explained. “No pictures of him exist.”
“But you’re sure he’s connected to these disappearances?”
“Yes. According to our sources in the Mexican Federal Police, Blackwell resells the girls to Luis Fuentes, a Columbian businessman headquartered in Mexico City. Fuentes is one mother of a badass. Not only is he a known human trafficker with international ties stretching from the Philippines to the Middle East, but he’s also the go-to guy in this hemisphere for any dirt bag who wants to start their own private war. Fuentes can get anything and everything from C4 to AK 47s to missile launchers.”
Lynch sat back. “Okay. Have your Federale friends take care of Fuentes. That’ll cut the head off the snake and not only stop young white girls from disappearing on this side of the border, but should put a dent in the gun trade.”
“It’s not so simple. Fuentes is well connected in the local police forces. Every time a move is made on him, it ends in a blood bath—for the Federales. The FBI has formed a joint task force with the Mexican authorities in the hopes of back tracing to Fuentes from this side of the border. Agent Olsen was our point man.”
“I still don’t get what this has to do with me or the Streeters.”
“Your hometown, Stardust, is ground zero for the trafficking operation. Which means the Streeters are involved.”
An icy fist squeezed Lynch’s heart. “No way…no fucking way would Rolo have anything to do with something like that.”
“Believe it,” Jarvis stated, “because it’s true.”
“So you say.”
“So the evidence says,” she countered, sitting forward. “I don’t think you’re grasping the gravity of this situation, Mr. Callan.”
“Oh, I’m grasping it just fine, Agent Jarvis,” Lynch bit out. He crossed his arms, causing Morgan to move to the door. Lynch placed his palms back on the table. “You want to spring me from this joint in exchange for ratting out my crew. Ain’t. Gonna. Happen.”
Jarvis glared. “We have more than enough evidence to bury—and I mean bury—your precious crew.”
Lynch’s heart rate spiked. “Do that and you’ll probably never get Blackwell. Which means you’ll never get Fuentes.”
“Oh, I’ll get them. I’ll get them both.” Her smile lacked any warmth. “Eventually. In the meantime, I’ll make do with the biggest consolation prize I can get my hands on.” Her flinty gaze drilled his. “If you don’t help us, I swear—on my life—that not only will you spend the rest of yours behind bars, but so will everyone who’s ever even remotely been affiliated with the 5th Streeters. Including your mother.”
A deadly stillness blanketed Lynch. “You’re threatening my mom?”
“Call it…motivation.”
Narrowing his gaze, Lynch pressed his palms to the table so hard, the tendons bulged. And people claim criminals had no moral compass. He tilted his head. “Fine. Say I agree. Say you get me outta here. What’s to keep me from flipping on you to this Blackwell dude and Fuentes?”
Jarvis’s complexion flushed an angry red. “If you do, so help me God—”
“But you won’t, Callan,” Newman interrupted.
Lynch swiveled his attention to him. “Really? What makes you so damn sure?”
“Because I’ve read your file more times than I can count, and I know nothing matters more to you than loyalty.”
“If you know me so well, then you know I’ll never turn on my crew.”
“Not even to avenge one of their murders?” Jarvis asked.
Lynch snapped his gaze back to her. “Come again?”
Newman slid another photo of a gruesomely disfigured man across the table. “After finding Jerry’s body, we dredged that part of the lake and discovered he wasn’t alone. Jerry had been working a source inside the Streeters. Someone who had a serious issue with the club’s new business model. This source agreed to help us find a direct link to Blackwell and ultimately Fuentes.” He tapped the picture with a thick-set finger. “Recognize him? That’s Flyer Gemstone. Shot once in the back of the head, execution style.”
A roar filled Lynch’s ears. Bile splashed his throat. He searched for Flyer’s image from one of the other pictures. The lanky, half-breed Cherokee, who was the closest thing Lynch had to a father, stood next to his mom, his arm slung over her shoulders, beaming a smile like he’d just been told a joke. Anguish constricted his chest. He shoved the photo away. “I can’t even be sure that’s Flyer.”
“It’s him all right,” Newman declared. “Now let me tell you what else I know about you. I know if given the chance to find out who killed Flyer Gemstone, nothing or no one will get in your way.”
Holding Newman’s gaze, Lynch clenched his jaw.
The agent squinted back. “Maybe you’re willing to gamble that we don’t have enough to convict your mother along with the entire Streeter network—which we do. And maybe you can even live with the lie that the Streeters aren’t trafficking in young girls. But someone killing Flyer? Executing him?” Newman shook his head. “No. That requires retribution. Especially since he was more than likely killed by a fellow gang member.”
Lynch sawed his molars together and maintained his stony silence.
Everyone who got patched into the 5th Streeters knew being a brother carried risks, including going to prison or dying. That was the chance you took to play the game. And as far as his mom went, she had the chops to fight her own battles. If he snitched to save her, she’d kick his ass six ways to Sunday.
But someone murdering Flyer? Newman had that right. Lynch would give anything—would do anything—to avenge him, or any of his brothers. Even if that meant betraying them.
He looked back at the grotesque photo these agents claimed was his mentor. Though logic demanded he shouldn’t believe the horrific image was Flyer, in his gut…his heart…Lynch knew the awful truth.
A wave of heat flashed up his neck. He bowed his head. Flyer dead? Who killed him? A Streeter? Impossible. Brothers didn’t kill brothers. Did they? But if Olsen’s cover had been blown, and someone discovered Flyer had been helping the undercover agent…
None of this made sense. Just like the human trafficking allegations made no sense. Since when would the Streeters have anything to do with the buying and selling of young girls? Many of the men had daughters themselves. Hell, Rolo had three. It went against everything Lynch knew, or at least thought he knew, about these men.
But seven years had passed. People changed. God
knew he had.
“So what’s it gonna be, Callan?” Newman’s voice broke into Lynch’s thoughts. “Are you willing to have Flyer’s death go unavenged? Or risk more girls being abducted? Shit’s been brewing for a long time in Stardust and it’s all gonna hit the fan unless you help us.”
Help them by becoming a snitch. A mole. How far was Lynch willing to go to get at the truth?
Determination lifted his head. “What will I have to do?”
Jarvis collected the photos. “Find out everything you can about the connection between the Streeters and the slave trade. Find out who Blackwell is and who killed Agent Olsen.”
“Okay, but how will this work? Am I just gonna waltz outta here? As you said, I was convicted of trying to kill a sheriff.”
“I’m a lawyer,” she replied. “I used to work for the attorney general’s office in DC, and I’ve been over your case file and the court records. All the evidence against you seems circumstantial at best. A first year law student could have mounted a better defense than your public defender. It won’t be hard to get a judge to sign off on a new trial.”
Lynch gave her is best roguish grin. “Too bad I didn’t have you as my attorney during the first go-around, counselor.”
Her lips curled into a sneer. “While the evidence in this case seems sketchy, I’m sure you’re guilty of other crimes that would earn you a lengthy prison stay.” She closed the file with a slap. “You’re a criminal, pure and simple. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve to rot behind bars.”
Lynch couldn’t fault her candor. He’d done more than his share of illegal acts, but that list didn’t include trying to off Dell Albright. In actuality, his public defender hadn’t been so much inept as Lynch had refused to help mount a defense. Because going to prison had been the only sure way to protect Shasta—the woman he loved—who also happened to be Albright’s sister.
He’d been a goner the first time he stared into those caramel eyes. But with him a Streeter and her brother the sheriff, any chance at a relationship died before it began. Didn’t stop him from having one with her. Guess love was blind. And fucking stupid.
