On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  “But we’ll get Bowyer and Blackwell. I swear we will. Then everyone’ll be safe.”

  “Can’t risk it.” Moisture seeped from Rolo’s swollen eyes. “Can’t do it myself…too weak…you gotta…please… don’t make me beg.”

  Lynch bowed his head.

  Christ.

  He understood Rolo’s fear because if he did survive, his daughters would eventually reach out to their father. That’s how tight knit they were as a family.

  He also knew Blackwell wasn’t only cold-blooded and ruthless, but brilliantly cagey. No guarantees existed he’d be caught this time, if ever. And if that fucker lived, Rolo’s girls would never be truly be out of danger.

  Still…kill Rolo? A man he’d known all his life? There had to be another way. But given how merciless Blackwell was, he couldn’t think of it.

  He pulled the gun from his waistband…

  “Here…”

  Lynch looked up. Jarvis held out the nine mil she’d taken from the kitchen shooter—and a rubber glove.

  He stared at her. For the first time since meeting the FBI agent, he read compassion in her green eyes. Mutely, he donned the glove before accepting the gun.

  Jarvis glanced at Rolo then rose. Without another word, she left.

  Lynch swallowed hard—and pressed the Glock muzzle to Rolo’s heart.

  Tears trickled down the president’s cheeks. He smiled. “Thank you, brother…but I’se got ‘nuther favor.”

  “Wh—” Lynch coughed the emotion from his throat. “What’s that?”

  “Cut’s on the chair…take patch…” Rolo’s eyes coasted close. “You were right before…never shoulda done business like we did…need to make it right. Promise…you’ll…make…it…right…” He slumped to the floor.

  Through his own file of tears, Lynch hunched close to the other man’s ear. “I promise, on my honor, I will make this right.”

  Rolo’s smile grew then faded.

  Shutting his eyes tight, Lynch pulled the trigger.

  During his life, Lynch had fired plenty of guns—hell, he’d even killed a few men in the process—but this discharge sounded different. It resonated in his head…his heart.

  He gulped back a sob as the acrid smell of gun powder filled his nose. His chest ached. He should’ve been able to help Rolo. Should’ve been able to save him. But he couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t save Flyer…

  He banged the nine mil to his forehead. A noise from behind whipped him around.

  Jarvis stood there, a plastic evidence bag in her hand. “I’m sorry about your friend, Callan, but backup’s almost here. I can hear the sirens.” She plucked the gun from his grasp and dropped it in the bag. “We need to move. C’mon.”

  Lynch nodded and shoved to his feet, stripping off the glove. He stuffed it in his back pocket then rounded the desk and grabbed Rolo’s cut off the chair. With a few expert slices, he removed the president badge. Gripping the worn piece of fabric in a tight fist, he gave a final look to Rolo before following Jarvis to the front of the house.

  In the living room, Newman knelt by the gunman under the window, snapping pictures with his phone. He stood, his gaze sliding from Jarvis to Lynch then back. “All done?”

  “Yes.” Jarvis handed him the evidence bag. “Put this with the other weapons. Let’s get this scene processed fast. The sooner it’s done, the less questions there’ll be.”

  “You got it.” Newman placed the bagged handgun on the shot-up easy chair with the AKs. He looked at Lynch. “Sorry, man.”

  “Uh…” Lynch cleared his throat. “Thanks.” He held up the black cell. “I’m…uh…gonna call my mom…tell her what happened.”

  Jarvis nodded, then she and Newman shifted through the surveillance cables piled on the sofa. Lynch walked into the dining room, hit speed dial number three and gazed out the window. It rang twelve times before he disconnected the call. Strange that his mom didn’t pick up. She was home, given she didn’t work on Mondays. But maybe she went to the grocery store and couldn’t hear her phone. He tried Hez’s…

  Again no answer.

  He shivered at the sensation of a spider crawling along his neck. Just because his mom and Hez weren’t picking up didn’t mean something was wrong—they could be at the store. He’d talk to Jarvis about heading over to his mom’s house as soon as possible.

  The sound of a keening siren broke into his thoughts. He reentered the living room to see an ambulance pull to an abrupt halt by Jarvis’s car and two paramedics jump from the vehicle. They grabbed their equipment, hustled up the walk and into the house.

  “Three bodies,” Jarvis told them. “All DOA. One here, one in the kitchen and one in the rear.”

  A medic checked Virgil’s pulse while the other went to the kitchen. The wail of more sirens announced the arrival of two dark FBI sedans—and a sheriff’s cruiser.

  Jarvis gave a sharp look to Newman. “Thought I said to not let Albright know about this.”

  Newman frowned. “I didn’t have much control over the situation.”

  “Shit…” She glanced at Lynch. “Stay here.”

  He shrugged and she headed out the door. She spoke to the arriving agents while Dell hobbled toward her.

  The sheriff leaned on his cane, his feet planted apart. “Why the hell didn’t you call me? If you were raiding Pruett’s house, I had the right to be informed. This is my goddamn county.”

  “It might be your county, Sheriff,” Jarvis retorted, waving the agents into the house, “but it’s my investigation. And, for the record, we weren’t here on a raid. We wanted to ask Mr. Pruett a few questions.”

  Dell barked a laugh. “Right. You wanted to ask a known gang leader—someone you claim less than an hour ago in my office is involved with the trafficking of young girls—a few questions.”

  Jarvis pursed her lips. “It’s the truth.”

  “Fine.” Dell elbowed past her. “I’ve got a couple of questions to ask Pruett myself.”

  She raised her hand. “You can’t. He’s dead.”

  The sheriff did a double take. “Dead?”

  Jarvis nodded. “And if you promise not to interfere, you can see for yourself.” She shifted to the side.

  Using both his cane and the rail, Dell awkwardly mounted the stairs. Entering the house, he glared at Lynch, then pulled to an immediate halt with a low whistle. “Jesus…this place looks like something out of the OK Corral. How many guys were in here?”

  Jarvis stepped carefully through the debris. “Two, plus Pruett. He’s in the office in back…tortured then shot dead.”

  “Tortured? Why?”

  “We surmise that they wanted his daughters.”

  Dell sent a quizzical look to Jarvis.

  She gestured to the surveillance paraphernalia cluttering the sofa. “The whole house has been bugged, we assume at Blackwell’s directive, which means he knew Pruett planned to help us.”

  “Wait…what?” Dell shook his head like he couldn’t believe her words. “Pruett was going to help you?”

  “That’s right. No doubt his daughters were going to be used as…punishment for his disloyalty. And if Blackwell had Pruett’s house wired, it’s a safe bet he didn’t stop there. I’ve called for sweeper teams to check the stationhouse, the DA’s office, the Streeter clubhouse along with the courthouse.”

  “You think my station’s bugged? The courthouse? The DA?” Dell blinked. “That’s crazy.”

  “Not to me. To me it makes perfect sense.”

  Dell stared at the agent like she’d sprouted horns. “Are you hearing yourself?” He spread out his arms. “None of this makes sense. You’re in Stardust, lady. Stardust, Nevada. Not New York or London or Paris. All this James Bond shit with hidden listening devices doesn’t happen here.”

  Jarvis planted her hands on her hips with a scowl. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff, because it is happening here. Furthermore, it’s highly likely someone on the inside is involved.”

  The sheriff’s eyes
bugged from their sockets. “Someone on the inside? As in my department?”

  “Or perhaps at Murphy’s office.”

  “Murphy?” Dell shook his head. “You’re certifiable.”

  “Think about it, Sheriff. The surveillance equipment is only part of the story. Someone has been manipulating the circumstances…like framing Callan for the murder of your deputy and Junkyard Taylor. Anyone capable of that, had to be privy to the investigation details.”

  A scathing grunt flew from Dell’s mouth. “You’d believe upstanding public servants are involved, but not this guy.” He jutted his cane at Lynch. “He’s guilty as hell. I should arrest his ass right now.”

  Jarvis dropped her arms. “I’m not going to bother arguing. But remember this, Sheriff…so long as Callan’s working with the FBI, he’s out of your jurisdiction.”

  Glowering, Dell leaned close to Lynch’s face. “This isn’t over. You won’t be able to hide behind the FBI’s skirts forever. When they’re gone, I’ll still be here, waiting for you to fuck up.” He left the house and made his way down the steps, his gait unsteady, but his spine rigid.

  Lynch looked at Jarvis. “Mind taking me to my mom’s? She’s not answering her phone.”

  “You got things here?” she asked Newman.

  “Yeah. Go,” the agent answered. “The CS unit should be here inside of thirty minutes. I’ll hitch a ride back with them after they’re done with the scene.”

  “Sounds good.” Jarvis extracted her car key. “Once I get back to the station, I’ll start the paperwork. C’mon, Callan. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  GODDAMN IT.

  I stare at the monitor. I’m supposed to be spying on the stationhouse, but for the last twenty minutes, all I’ve seen is static snow.

  It’s not possible my carefully hidden equipment was discovered. Simply not possible. No one, not the FBI and certainly not Albright, is smart enough to have figured out my system.

  Of course, Pruett did stumble across the gear in his house, but that had been sheer, dumb luck. And Pruett’s been on ice ever since, so no way could he blab to anyone else…

  Still concern wiggles through my gut. The guys Bowyer assigned to keep the good Streeter president alive, yet extremely uncomfortable, have yet to call. I dismiss my worry. Those two buffoons are just that…buffoons. Not that Bowyer’s exactly a brain surgeon, but at least he knows how to follow orders. Unlike Junkyard.

  Ah…dear Junkyard. I gave the man too much credit. I really thought he had more on the ball. Oh well…lesson learned. I won’t take anything for granted again. I know now to give instructions a three-year-old could follow…like Bowyer…

  Find Pruett’s daughters then contact me. Find Callan’s mother then contact me. Do X then contact me. Do Y then contact me. Simple, straightforward. No chance for any more fuckups. This is how I’ll know everything is fine. It wouldn’t dare be any other way.

  Despite my self-confidence, though, I squint harder at the screen, demanding it obey my command and show me something.

  If I were in Stardust right now I might be able to surreptitiously inspect the equipment and possibly troubleshoot any hitch. But I’m stuck in San Diego, thanks to the meeting I have with Fuentes in a few hours.

  As suspected, the Columbian was not enthused about our business partnership ending. However, I appeased him by agreeing to sell my residual supplies of drugs and guns at cost. I hate letting everything go at rock bottom prices, but I don’t want to suffer the man’s Latin temper.

  I’ve only seen Fuentes pissed once, and that had been than sufficient to convince me the man has ice in his veins. He’s single-minded in his business pursuits. Nothing else matters, not even family. I heard he killed his own daughter when she tried to leave the family business.

  Good thing this next batch of girls is primo. Snatches fit for a king. Or a Saudi prince. Or an African warlord. And it’s the biggest shipment yet. Twenty-three, and the majority are virgins. Once it’s delivered, it’ll be time for me and Shasta to sail off into the sunset.

  My phone chirps. Probably the buffoons finally checking in.

  “What?”

  I don’t mask my irritation. They need to know they fucked up.

  “Mr. Blackwell?”

  It’s Bowyer. He shouldn’t be calling…I’ve already spoken to him once today, and everyone’s under explicit directions to keep the phone use to a minimum. The wiggle of worry in my gut becomes a cramp.

  I rub the pressure building at my temples. “What do you want? You know the rules.”

  “Yeah, but I’m thinking there’s a problem over at Pruett’s place.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “My guys, Virgil and Cam, didn’t answer my text like they was supposed to. Have you heard from them?”

  I massage the space over my left eye. “No.”

  “Whatcha wanna do?”

  I sigh. “Have you found Callan’s mother?”

  “Nah, uh. Hez ain’t talking yet.”

  “Yet?” The tension inside my skull increases to the point my vision blurs. “You’ve been at him for two days.”

  I can almost hear Bowyer shrug his shoulders. “He’s being stubborn.”

  Expelling an angry breath, I prop my elbow on the desk, my hand to my forehead. The silence tightens around my head like a vise.

  “If you want, Mr. Blackwell, I think I could—”

  “No.” I snap. “Don’t think. You’re not good at it.” I blow out another frustrated sigh. “Clean up the mess there, then lay low. I’ll be flying in late tonight to Stead Airport. You’ll need to pick me up.”

  “What about Callan’s mom?”

  “Forget her, and Callan. Your job right now is to do nothing, understand?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “Good.”

  I disconnect the call then knead my neck’s rock-hard muscles. Just when I thought things were going my way…when I thought I’d finally get my revenge on Callan…

  Goddamn it.

  But if I’ve learned nothing, it’s patience. Callan will get everything that’s coming to him. I swear to God he will.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  LYNCH KNEW THE moment he saw his mom’s house something wasn’t right. The front window blinds were closed.

  And she never, ever closed them.

  He leaped from the moving car and dashed up the walk steps before Jarvis could slam the sedan into park.

  “Callan…wait!”

  Like hell he’d wait. His mom could be hurt. Or worse.

  On the small stoop, he pulled the revolver from his waistband and tried the doorknob. Locked.

  A metallic taste filled his mouth. He groped for his house key. Inserted it…turned it…then…

  A hand yanked at his shoulder.

  Jarvis, her weapon drawn.

  Daggers flew from her green eyes before she directed her stare to the door and adjusted her grasp on her gun. She nodded. He threw open the door.

  “Federal agent!” she yelled.

  No response.

  Lynch slipped along one side of the living room while Jarvis edged down the other. The sofa and bookcases had been moved away from the walls, like someone went on a serious hunt and seek mission. She motioned for him into the kitchen while she continued toward the hallway and bedrooms. He inched forward, one cautious step after another, and peered around the archway leading into the kitchen…

  What he saw heaved his stomach.

  Hez, strapped to a chair, naked, his head bowed. Blood covered his chest. A car battery sat on the counter with cables running from it to different parts of Hez’s body.

  Lynch rushed forward. “Jarvis…in here.” He knelt beside Hez. “It’s okay, brother,” he soothed. He pulled out his knife and sliced the ties holding Hez’s wrists and ankles. “I’m here. Everything’s fine now.”

  But as he said the words, Lynch knew nothing was fine. That nothing would ever be fine again. He didn’t have to se
e the slash across Hez’s throat to know his best friend was dead.

  He caught Hez when his lifeless body slid from the chair, cradling him tight.

  Jarvis tore into the room. “What the…oh my God…” She moved closer. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

  Lynch looked up. “Don’t bother.”

  Her cheeks paled, but she turned and spoke quietly into her phone.

  Lynch smoothed Hez’s mop of blond dreadlocks from his face. Tears burned his eyes and throat. Anguish, the intensity of which he never knew existed, welled up from his soul. But he forced it down.

  He wouldn’t fall apart. He couldn’t. He needed to think. Think.

  Rolo had been tortured to learn the whereabouts of his daughters. So why would Hez be…

  A cold fist gripped Lynch’s heart.

  “Jarvis!”

  The agent instantly appeared. “Backup’s on the way.”

  He gently laid Hez on the floor. “They were looking for my mom.”

  The agent’s forehead pleated. “Your mom?”

  “Yes.” He stood. “That’s why they tortured Hez. To find her.”

  “Do you think they found her?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s only one place where she could stay hidden.” He hurried past Jarvis, down the hall and into his mom’s bedroom.

  The furniture all sat at odd angles, just like in the living room. His breath came in raw gasps as he opened the closet door and tossed out all the shoes on the floor.

  “Callan…what in hell are you doing?”

  He ignored Jarvis. On his hands and knees, he gripped the far corner of the carpet and wrenched it up, exposing the particle board subfloor—and the hidden door.

  “Mom! Mom, can you hear me?”

  “Hello?”

  Though muffled, he couldn’t mistake his mom’s voice. He grabbed the o-ring handle and hauled up the door.

  Dressed only in her robe, with smudges on her ashen cheeks and forehead and her hair a tousled mess, his mom stared up at him with wide, terror-filled eyes.

  Had he been on his knees, Lynch’s legs would’ve crumpled. He extended his hand and hefted his mother from the underground crawlspace.

  He enveloped her in an awkward, yet fierce hug, his face buried in her neck. She shivered and her teeth clicked. He felt the cold from her body seep into his.