On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  Jarvis hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. At least I’ll know where you’re at. And you’re to call me the instant anything happens, understand?”

  A small, ironic grin torqued his mouth. “Whatever you say, counselor.”

  But he wouldn’t do anything of the kind.

  *

  Shasta stared numbly at the paper in her hand, but didn’t read the words.

  After Graham left, she stayed in the interrogation room asking God to strike her dead. When no divine intervention happened, she shuffled out to her desk, ignoring all the pointed stares, where she’d stayed for the past four hours.

  Self-loathing burned in her throat and eyes. Not only had she shamed herself, she also embarrassed the hell out of Dell. But the worst part was hurting Graham. The only person to have done more for her than her father.

  And she trampled his feelings.

  She prayed the truth about the situation—about her being with Lynch—would remain a secret. Graham definitely didn’t deserve that to be fodder for the gossips in Stardust. Dell plopping into the chair next to her desk interrupted her thoughts.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” she answered. “You need something?”

  “Yeah. My office.”

  She glanced across the squad room to see Jarvis and several other agents congregated behind the closed door. “What’s going on in your office?”

  He picked up the Mother’s Day pencil holder Wyatt made out of a soup can. “Dunno. Some conference call with the FBI bigwigs in Washington.”

  She plucked the memento from his fingers and set it back down. “And you weren’t invited?”

  “Bingo.” He folded his hands in his lap. “You talk to Graham?”

  Tears gathered in her eyes. She sat taller. “Not since he left. He took Wyatt to the cabin and there’s no cell service there. Can you give me a ride home?”

  Dell sighed. “I can’t help but think if I hadn’t asked him to sit in on Callan’s interrogation…”

  Her brother’s remorse surprised her. “What happened isn’t your fault.”

  He grunted. “I know. It’s Callan’s.”

  Confusion knitted her brow. “Lynch’s? How you figure?”

  “Because he took advantage of you.”

  “Took advantage of me? What do you think happened? That he threw me over his shoulder and forced me to his trailer?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Well…so long as you brought up the topic, how exactly did you end up there?”

  She held her brother’s gaze. “Ever consider that maybe I went there of my own volition?”

  Dell’s complexion flushed red.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Shasta quipped. “Because that wouldn’t fit your opinion that I’m still a teenager in need of protection or that Lynch is a lowlife gangbanger.” She canted forward and narrowed her eyes. “Contrary to your belief, I’m a grown woman, able to make my own decisions. And mistakes. Besides, if Lynch is such a bad guy, how come—when charged with murder—he didn’t say I was with him last night?”

  Her brother’s nostrils flared, his mouth pulled into a harsh frown.

  “If I hadn’t outted myself, you’d be none the wiser, would you?”

  He glanced away with a noisy inhale. The muscle twitched in his cheek. “That doesn’t change who Callan is.”

  “You’re right. It just proves he was never as terrible as you made him out to be. As you wanted him to be.” She noticed Jarvis opening the office door. “Looks like the FBI party is over.” She picked up her pen. “I’ve got work.”

  She’d never spoken to him like that. So…dismissive. Rude even. But she didn’t care. The time had come for her dear brother to stop holding onto past grudges and misconceptions. He needed to realize the truth about Lynch—and about her.

  Jarvis walked up. “Thanks for the use of your office, Sheriff.”

  Dell smirked as he struggled from his chair. “Anything for the cause, right? Now if there’s nothing else…”

  The agent blocked his exit. “Actually…there is something else.” She rested her hands on her hips. “I’ve been instructed to place you in protective custody.”

  “Protective custody?” Dell railed. “What the hell for?”

  “For your protection. Obviously,” she replied dryly.

  “That’s ridiculous. I don’t need protecting.”

  Jarvis shook her head. “It’s been my experience that when a crime syndicate is threatened, anyone associated with the case can be in danger.”

  “What about your star witness? Lynch Callan? Is he in protective custody?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. He and the rest of the Streeters are in lockdown at the Streeter clubhouse, and I’ve just sent two teams of agents who’ll be posted outside.”

  Dell leaned on his cane. “You don’t have the authority to place me in anything, Agent Jarvis.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. But the U.S. Attorney General’s office does.” Jarvis inclined her head. “And this order comes directly Washington, D.C.”

  “Is my brother really in danger?” Shasta asked.

  The agent looked at her. “It’s more a precaution, Mrs. Dupree, but a necessary one. And to that point, the AG wants you and your husband and son in protective custody as well.”

  Shasta’s insides went cold. “Us?” She looked at Dell then back to Jarvis. “But why? We’re not associated with anything.”

  “It’s another safeguard,” Jarvis soothed, “ to include all of Sheriff Albright’s family in the protective order. You know the old saying…better to be safe than sorry.” She glanced over her shoulder and signaled another agent. “Special Agent Newman will take you, your husband and son to a safe house in Reno.”

  Newman nodded to Shasta. “Ma’am.” He held the back of her chair. “If you’ll come with me.”

  Shasta stood on rickety legs. “This is happening right now?” She fumbled with a folder in her desk. “But I can’t go now…I’ve got work to finish.”

  Jarvis took the file from her. “It’ll have to wait, Mrs. Dupree. Agent Newman will take you home so you can pack a bag for the next day or two. Is that where your husband and son are?”

  “Um…no.” Shasta’s pulse skyrocketed. “Oh my God. They’re at Graham’s cabin. In the woods. In the middle of nowhere.” She groped at the bottom drawer of her desk for her purse. “And we have to get to them…right now.”

  Jarvis gripped Shasta’s arms in a firm hold. “Mrs. Dupree…I need you to remain calm. Agent Newman will take you home first and then to the cabin. He’s one of the FBI’s finest. He’ll take very good care of you and your family, I assure you. All right?”

  Shasta nodded, feeling like she was one of those bobblehead dolls.

  Jarvis’s smile took the slimmest edge off Shasta’s panic. “Good.”

  Newman took Shasta’s elbow. She pulled back. “But what about my brother? Who’s going to look after him?”

  Jarvis slid her gaze to Dell. “That’ll be my job, Mrs. Dupree. I need to brief him on some new information, so we’re not quite done here. But he’ll see you in Reno later tonight.”

  “Okay…” Shasta stared at Dell as Newman directed her to the stationhouse entrance. “Bye…”

  Her brother raised his hand in farewell and a hand closed around her throat. She couldn’t remember him ever looking so…worried.

  *

  In the Streeter clubhouse, Lynch sat at the bar watching a tennis match on ESPN, though he didn’t see the action on the screen. The image of Shasta bursting into the interrogation room refused to leave his head. Why in the hell had she done that? Yeah, she saved his ass, but at a price. A very high price.

  He tipped the beer bottle to his lips and took a small sip. He wondered how Shasta’s brother reacted with her. Lynch remembered how the good sheriff had reacted with him…shit…it still hurt to swallow. But he felt confident Dell wouldn’t do anything to Shasta. Maybe ground her for eternity. He scoffed a quiet laugh. Like that was
even possible.

  “What’s so funny?” Grunge hitched his butt onto the next stool.

  “Nuthin’.” Lynch set his beer down, glanced over his shoulder then gave the treasurer a sidelong look. “Meeting over?” Talk about needing his ass saved. The meeting would determine his fate…

  “Yup.” Grunge grabbed a fistful of peanuts and motioned to the bartender. “Gimme a beer, Josie my darling.”

  Lynch kept his impatience in check while Grunge took a long swig from the frosty bottle. “And?”

  Grunge set his beer down with a satisfied groan and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at Lynch. “And…we’re not gonna kill you.”

  Suspicion narrowed Lynch’s eyes. “I feel there’s a but coming.”

  “Nope.” Grunge wagged his head. “No buts. Not gonna kill you. Not gonna disown you. Nuthin’. You’re in the clear, brother.” He gulped more beer.

  Lynch bit the inside of his cheek. This seemed too good to be true. “What was the vote?”

  “Unanimous.”

  He jolted upright. “No way.”

  Grunge nodded and leaned his elbows on the bar. “Everybody agreed that if it weren’t for you, we’d still be part of that slave trade.” He grunted under his breath. “Disgusting business. Under the circumstances, we figured your betrayal was justified.”

  “You’re shitting me…no retribution? At all?”

  Grunge gave an exasperated sigh. “Would it make you feel better if we’d decided to kill you?”

  “It’d make a helluva lot more sense. Betrayal, no matter the reason, is still betrayal.”

  “True, and for what it’s worth, Picket wanted to barbeque your nuts. But what you did…” The treasurer paused to clear his throat as tears brightened his eyes. “…what Flyer died trying to do…well…maybe betrayal can be justified.”

  Emotions constricted Lynch’s chest and he bowed his head.

  Grunge gripped him by the back of his neck with a toothy, albeit watery, grin. “Just don’t fucking do anything like that again, understand brother?”

  Lynch choked a strangled laugh and wiped the tear slipping down his cheek. “Understood.”

  Grunge winked and got to his feet. “Good.”

  Lynch stood as well and pivoted…to see the rest of the Streeter crew standing in a semicircle a respectable distance away. Each brother came up and embraced him, even Picket.

  Grunge slapped the bar. “Patrón all around, Josie my darling.”

  She smiled. “Coming up.”

  Once the tequila was poured, Grunge lifted his glass, his expression grave. “To Flyer, Rolo and Hez…three of the best goddamn brothers a man could ever have.”

  Glasses clinked together to a solemn, “Hear. Hear.”

  Lynch downed the shot, the burn in his throat quickly matching the burn in his eyes.

  As more shots were poured and drunk, the atmosphere turned reverent as each Streeter recounted a story or two about their fallen comrades. Soon hearty laughter shook the liquor bottles behind the bar.

  Lynch splashed more alcohol into his glass as his cell phone chimed with an incoming call. The ID read Jarvis. He walked to the quieter side of the room and before answering. “Everything okay, counselor?”

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? What happened between you and the Streeters?”

  He glanced at his brothers smiling and joking. “Things are fine on this end.”

  “Glad to hear that…I think. Wanted to let you know two teams have been assigned to watch your clubhouse for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

  His blood pressure spiked. “What the hell for? Are we under house arrest?”

  “No. Everyone’s free to come and go as they please. But if anyone does leave, they should expect…company.”

  “Then I ask again, what the hell is this for?”

  “Protection.”

  Lynch laughed. “You’re kidding right?”

  Jarvis sighed. “I’m not trying to offend your male pride, but I’ve got an icky sensation things are about to get very real very soon.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And the last time I felt this, we lost Olson.”

  Worry squeezed Lynch’s body. “What about Shasta? And her husband, son and brother,” he added in a rush.

  “All taken care of.” Amusement tinged the agent’s voice. “They’re on the way to a Reno safe house as we speak.”

  His muscles relaxed. “Thank God for that.”

  “Anyway, promise you’ll stay put until I get back.”

  “Get back? Where you going?”

  “I’ve been requested in Portland to help debrief the girls as well as interrogate the remaining suspects. I leave tonight and should be back in a week. If you need anything, Sam’s in charge. And…Callan…” Jarvis’s tone turned serious. “…be careful.”

  “Still worried about me, counselor?”

  She snorted. “Asshole.”

  Lynch laughed. “You got that right.” He sobered. “But I promise to be careful.”

  “Good. I’ll contact you when I’m back.”

  He disconnected the phone and rejoined his brothers. He detested the idea of hiding—especially from a shitbag like Blackwell—but given the situation maybe it would be best to let the feds handle Blackwell. Besides, he thought as he tossed back his shot and Josie poured him another with a flirty wink, he had other things to occupy his time.

  His phone rang again, this time with a text…from a blocked call. An attachment. With a knot forming in his gut, he opened it.

  And his vision zeroed down to nothing.

  The picture was of a young boy, sleeping on what appeared to be a tattered sofa.

  He instantly recognized the child—Shasta’s son.

  On the heels of the first text came a second one.

  Behind the Grab-n-go on 314. Twenty minutes. Come alone or the kid dies.

  Lynch’s knees weakened and he had difficulty catching his breath. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead and he feared the tequila he’d just swallowed was about to make a return trip.

  “Hey, brother.”

  Lynch forced his gaze to Grunge’s.

  “Everything okay? You look like you’re about to hurl.”

  Lynch glanced at the partying Streeters then pulled the treasurer to the end of the bar. “No. Things are not okay.” He showed Grunge the picture and subsequent message.

  “I know that kid,” Grunge said. “Ain’t he related to the sheriff?”

  “His nephew.”

  “You gonna go?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Grunge scratched his chin. “You could be walking into a trap.”

  “What’s your point?”

  The older man shrugged. “Guess I don’t got one. Want me to come with? Someone should have your back.”

  Lynch shook his head. “I’ll be okay, but I do have a favor…” He quickly explained about the FBI agents watching the MC. “How ‘bout you and few of the brothers head out…in opposite directions.”

  “Leaving you clear to skedaddle?”

  “Something like that.”

  Grunge blew out a heavy sigh. “I gotta be honest, I don’t like this, not one goddamn bit.”

  “I won’t risk the kid’s life. And this is…personal…between me and Blackwell. Ever since he tried to kidnap my mom. I’ll need a bike, though. Mine’s still at Ma’s house.”

  “All right…if I can’t talk you outta this, here.” Grunge dug in his jean pocket and extracted a key. “Take my ride. Tiny’ll stay here to keep an eye on things while we’re gone. I’ll take his.”

  Lynch took the ring. “Thank you, brother.” Lynch gave him a quick hug and a thump on the back. “And let’s not tell anyone else about this, okay?”

  Grunge pursed his lips with a reluctant nod. “Just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Yeah…so did Lynch.

  *

  Leaning against the Dumpster at the back of the Grab-n-Go, Lyn
ch checked his watch. Fourteen minutes had passed since he’d gotten the texts at the clubhouse. Six to go…

  He resisted the impulse to look around because he knew he couldn’t see anything. Given that the sun had set, the lengthening shadows, Ponderosa pines and thick underbrush blocked his view.

  He crossed his arms and ankles, his right palm resting on the grip of the nine mil Grunge insisted he take. The relaxed stance belied the ratcheting tension in his muscles. Ready to spring into action.

  Anticipation quivered through his blood. He always felt this way right before a fight. And he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Blackwell…

  But, he reminded himself, the kid came first. Then Blackwell.

  A rustling sound snapped his head to the left. He eased from the building, peering into the dense foliage, his senses on high alert. But he didn’t see any movement.

  After a slow count to fifty, Lynch inhaled a breath, his muscles relaxing a notch—then pain splintered through his skull.

  And everything went black.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  OUTSIDE THE STATIONHOUSE, dread crawled over Shasta’s skin like fire ants. The sun had set behind the western mountains as Newman marched her to a black sedan, its lights blinking in the process. The agent held the passenger door for her then jogged to the driver’s side. In less than three minutes, he pulled to a stop in her driveway.

  “Wait,” Agent Newman commanded when she pulled the door handle.

  He came around, helped her out and walked beside her up the porch steps, his gaze combing the area. She fought her shaking hands to unlock the door. All this paranoia only amped up her panic.

  Newman followed her into Graham’s room then up the stairs to hers and Wyatt’s rooms. In a trance, she tossed random articles of clothing into a suitcase. After adding a few toiletries and Wyatt’s Game Boy, Newman escorted her back to the car.

  He handed over his cell. “Maybe you should call your husband and tell him we’re coming.”

  She shook her head and slipped into the passenger seat. “There’s no service out that far.”

  With a sigh, the agent re-pocketed his phone, got behind the wheel and turned the key. Shasta gave him directions to the county road which led to the single-lane, paved road which then led to the sixty acres of Dupree land, and Graham’s cabin. Not that it in any way resembled the rustic version of a log domicile. Quite the contrary. The circa 1940s one bedroom, one bathroom bungalow had been enlarged and modernized to include three bedrooms, two baths, along with lovely hardwood floors and a state-of-the-art kitchen. Add that the cabin sat on the shore of a small lake stocked with trout and it was, in a word, idyllic.