Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  When his gaze landed on Ten, the new brother, he realized with a bit of a shock that it was the first time he’d heard the guy speak. Tenny – and Reese, who currently lurked in his peripheral vision, wind blowing his pale hair – had kept silent through introductions, dinner, and even this morning’s departure. He had a very posh accent, and a very flat, very professional voice to carry it.

  He stood a dozen or so yards away, on the far side of the crime scene, away from the place where the tent had stood and the feds and techs had parked their vehicles. He glanced back over his shoulder, and said, “They left in a hurry.”

  Fox and Albie headed for him, Fox frowning, and Candy followed.

  The sun cast deep shadows into a set of tire tracks they hadn’t examined before. Wide, knobby tires, from a truck or van, something heavy. Deep ruts that faded into paler prints: someone had stomped the gas, kicking up a spray of sand, leaving, as Ten had said, in a hurry.

  Footprints, too. Several sets, thick-soled work boots, overlapping, clouding one another, and arcs where toes and heels had carved deep grooves. Signs of a scuffle. And drag marks, a single set.

  “They parked here,” Ten said, pointing. He turned, sketching the scene for them with vague gestures from his long hands. “Unloaded the victims, one-by-one, and walked them over to the dump site. Three. But the fourth – the fourth wasn’t dosed strongly enough. He woke up, and he fled.” He followed the path of the footprints, placing his own feet carefully, disturbing nothing. “He went a few yards before they were on him. They subdued him, and got him back in the van. Either they couldn’t sedate him, or something spooked them, but they left. The other two bodies were the ones they placed later, on the sister’s lawn.”

  Candy felt a strange fluttering at the base of his pulse. “You don’t know that.”

  “A theory,” Fox proposed, giving his brother a sharp look.

  Ten stared back at him, unrepentant. “No. This was an escape attempt.”

  “You think,” Fox corrected, growing stern. “And if so, it only accounts for one other victim.”

  “There were two.”

  “How do you know?” Albie asked.

  Ten didn’t respond.

  The breeze kicked up, a sharp burst of cold air that sent sand and fine pebbles skirling around their boots.

  “I’ll call Cantrell,” Candy said. “And tell him to get a team out here to look at this. Maybe they can tell something from the tires. Or the shoe prints.” He shrugged, biting back a rising swell of frustration. “They learn all kinds of shit from that sort of thing in the movies.”

  Someone snorted – Tenny, he realized, when he glanced up.

  The kid was smirking. “Movies,” he said, and turned away.

  Candy didn’t know he’d balled a hand into a fist until his knuckles cracked.

  “Yeah,” Albie sighed. “He makes everybody feel that way.”

  ~*~

  Reese had been to Texas once before, on an op. A quick, clean kill, there and gone again. It had been in Dallas. Amarillo looked very different.

  There hadn’t been any federal agents around then – or, well, there had been, but long after he’d gone. He’d not sat on a rock, like he did now, and watched them roll in. Just one dusty car and a dustier van. A man in a cheap suit and mirror-lensed shades, face creased with fatigue and unhappiness, and two young people in windbreakers toting cases, cameras swinging from straps around their necks.

  He didn’t want to be here, not for this part. Every instinct told him to run; to hide his face, to disappear. He’d pulled his hood up, at least, and wore dark sunglasses. But he was still visible. Was still here, when he shouldn’t have been.

  He’d been told to stay, though. When the men in charge didn’t run, you didn’t either.

  The crunch of gravel announced Fox’s arrival, though that was the only sound. If not for a few loose stones, his approach would have been silent.

  “What do you think?” he asked, when he stood beside Reese’s boulder.

  “It’s risky being out in the open,” Reese said, more quickly than he’d thought he would. He’d meant to keep quiet, and do as he was told, but, well, the anxiety was getting to him, crawling across his skin like insects. “They can see us.” He nodded toward the FBI agent, currently shaking hands and talking with Candy.

  Fox breathed out a little hum that sounded amused. An amusement Reese recognized; his previous master had done that. Usually just before he said, “I’m surprised you know that.” It was for when he said something smart. “They can. But I think that’s alright, in this case.”

  “Does this chapter work with the FBI?”

  “Not usually.” Fox climbed up to perch beside him, an arm span between them. “Special circumstances, and all that.” A pause. “I meant: what do you think of Tenny’s theory?”

  Reese turned to him, surprised, but Fox’s expression gave nothing away. “Ten is your brother.” You’ll trust him more than you’ll trust me, he meant. Friendship he didn’t understand, but blood relation – siblings – he did.

  “Technically, he is,” Fox consented, head tilting. “But mostly he’s my charge, and I’m his minder. He’s good at what he does, yeah, but he’s a wild card. I want to know what you think. What’s your read on that?” He pointed to the signs of struggle in the dirt, now being captured on film by the FBI lab techs.

  Reese glanced that way again, squinting against the light, even with his shades. It was much brighter here than in Tennessee, like the sun hovered closer to the earth. “I don’t think he’s wrong,” he said, finally.

  “But you don’t agree completely.”

  He frowned, struggling to find the words. I hate him, he thought. A sentiment that formed inside his head every time he looked at Ten, every time someone mentioned him. But that wasn’t a helpful thought; wasn’t data that he could quantify and use. What use was an emotion like that? Hate? It served no purpose; it clouded his mind and dulled his edge.

  Ten’s theory was a viable one. If he closed his eyes, he could clearly envision it playing out just the way he’d said. It was logical, and there was enough physical evidence to back it up to suit his own curiosity.

  But…

  (He hated that. But… That dangling bit of question. He wasn’t used to feeling this way – the closest he came was when he saw Roman set a hand on his sister’s waist, and read Kristin’s silent plea to let it be, but…anger always surged.)

  “He’s too sure,” he said, frowning some more, because he couldn’t explain it. “He doesn’t know, but he thinks he does.” He glanced over at Fox, and earned a thin smile.

  “He’s cocky, yeah. Too cocky. I hear you.” He sighed and rested his forearms on his knees, leaned forward with another, deeper sigh as his back stretched. “Shit. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”

  Reese wondered why he was the one being told this. He wasn’t family, or friend, or even club member. He was…himself. And he knew of only one use for himself.

  “Ah, well, it’s not your problem.” Fox got to his feet, and flashed him a grin. “Don’t worry about it. And don’t let him push you around, either. He’s a total asshole.”

  Reese watched him walk over to join the others, wondering what had just happened.

  ~*~

  Fox wasn’t surprised when, ten paces away from Reese and his rock, a shadow fell across his own, and Tenny slid into step beside him as if from thin air. He shot him a covert glance, and found him walking with his head down, and his shoulders rounded, more of his feigned nonchalance – but he vibrated with tension.

  Good.

  “What’s up?” Fox asked, lightly.

  “You asked him about me.” Tone flat, but woven with a thread of accusation.

  Reese didn’t like Ten – he’d suspected, but confirmed it just now. Fox didn’t blame the kid: Tenny was unlikeable. For someone as straightforward and uncomplicated as Reese, Tenny’s wiles and manipulations would be anathema.

  I
t was Ten not liking Reese that cracked Fox up. “I asked him what he thought about your little two-more-victims idea.”

  “It’s not an idea,” Ten snapped. “That’s what happened.”

  “According to you.”

  He felt the weight of Ten’s glare against the side of his face, and shrugged. “You’re well-trained, I’ll give you that. But you aren’t a genius, and you aren’t perfect.”

  Tenny halted.

  Fox went one stride farther, and then turned back to regard his brother, so the sun hit Tenny full in the face, highlighting every bit of checked rage he fought to conceal.

  “You could be right,” Fox said, “or you could be dead wrong. You’ve been coddled.”

  “Beg your pardon?” he asked, voice brittle, glass-edged. The most emotion he’d ever shown.

  “You’re not working black ops for the British government anymore. Drop the attitude, and open your eyes.”

  Fox turned away, dark satisfaction brewing in his gut. Good, he thought, savagely. He was going to keep pushing, until the façade finally cracked and he met the real boy underneath all those many, many layers of veneer.

  If he even existed.

  Twenty-Four

  “The clerks that work the midday shift all know Candy and the boys,” Michelle explained, as she and Eden crossed the old cracked pavement of the Citgo station, headed for the door. Axelle was gassing up her GTO, slumped against the back fender, wind playing with her long, wheaten hair. With her beat-up boots and denim jacket, she looked right at home against the Texas landscape.

  Eden less so.

  She didn’t seem uncomfortable; quite the opposite. Composed, confident, she looked like a woman who knew what she was about. But even with her scuffed Docs and her black leather jacket, there was something sharp about her. Somewhere between the tight ponytail, and the huge shades, and the particular set of her mouth lay hints about her former profession. Not just a tough woman, but one who’d been paid to be so.

  “Will they recognize you?” Eden asked, as they reached the sidewalk.

  A man pulling a bag of ice out of the cooler paused and stared at them – at Eden, Michelle thought.

  “Yes.”

  “Hm,” Eden acknowledged, and opened the door.

  The first time Michelle had ever come into this particular station, she’d realized why it was the one the club boys frequented most often. The linoleum yellowed with age, scuffed from thousands of footfalls; the lights above the drink coolers always flickering; the slurpy machine you couldn’t have paid her to use. It always smelled sharply of fresh cigarette smoke, and sometimes weed; the counter was fortified on all sides by candy bar racks, and Skoal racks, and cigarette racks; lotto machines and stands of Bic lighters and a forest of dangling key chains.

  It was kind of a dump, the sort of place tourists and uppity types would have avoided, choosing instead to go across the street to the shiny new brightly-lit BP. But for an outlaw, grungy and smelly was a worthy trade for a lack of prying eyes.

  The bell jangled overhead when they entered. Two clerks loitered behind the counter, one paging disinterestedly through a magazine, the other frowning and tapping at one of the keychains – one shaped like a little cactus wearing sunglasses. Neither of them glanced toward the door when Eden and Michelle entered. It smelled more like weed than smoke today.

  They traded a look, and Eden nodded.

  Michelle approached the counter, casually, gaze flitting like she was browsing. She snagged careful looks at both clerks, though. She didn’t need the name tags to know that these were Jesse and Eric.

  She slapped a candy bar down on the counter with more force than necessary. Both boys jumped, a little, and finally glanced her way. She’d always thought Jesse – the one with the magazine – the cleverer of the two, and he proved it now; his eyes widened a fraction after he recognized her. Eric took a moment longer, but then he mouthed, Shit.

  Gooseflesh broke out under her clothes. They knew something, and the idea of teasing it out of them hit her with the old thrill she hadn’t felt since she lived in London.

  “Hey, guys,” she said, and it was so easy, sounding calm, a bit bored, tired and disinterested. “How’s it going?”

  They stared at her a moment.

  “Good,” Jesse finally said. He slid the magazine aside and reached for her Butterfinger like it might bite.

  “Lots of crazy stuff happening around here lately, huh?” she asked, still casual.

  Eric folded his arms tight across his chest and looked down at his feet.

  Jesse said, “Yeah.” The scanner wasn’t working, apparently; he wagged the Butterfinger back and forth in front of it to no avail.

  “All these people getting murdered,” she continued. “It’s like there’s a serial killer out there or something.”

  The scanner finally beeped. Despite the smoke-clouded glass of the door, enough sunlight filtered in to highlight the beads of sweat developing at Jesse’s temples. “Uh-huh,” he said, reaching for her money.

  She didn’t hand it over. Waited instead for him to meet her gaze. He kept his chin tucked, looking at her up through lashes that trembled as he fought not to blink. He was terrified.

  “Jesse,” she said, letting a bit of steel slip into her voice. “What do you know?”

  He gulped audibly. “Nothing.”

  Eric leaned forward, face screwed up to vicious angles. “We don’t know shit!” he hissed. “You should know, biker bitch. It’s your man’s fault.”

  “Eric!” Jesse turned and thumped him hard in the chest, eyes wild. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Candy’s not doing this,” Michelle said, and both of them looked at her, Jesse still with terror, Eric with terrified fury. “But if he knew who was doing it, he could put a stop to it.”

  “Bullshit,” Eric said.

  Jesse hit him again, harder this time. He was shaking.

  “Boys,” Eden drawled. She materialized at Michelle’s side; she hadn’t even made a sound. The clerks whipped their heads around, and Eden unrolled a Ziploc bag with a flourish, holding it between two fingers. Michelle guessed the amount of weed it held was worth more than they made in three months’ time working here.

  Eric’s face went red. He made a move to lunge over the counter, and Jesse grabbed the back of his shirt. “Dude, fucking think,” he hissed in his ear. “She’s his old lady!”

  “She’s not.” Gaze trained on Eden.

  “But I’m a friend of his old lady,” Eden said coolly. “And an old lady in my own right. We’re not here to cause any trouble. I only have questions. Answer them honestly, and we’ll leave.” She still wore her shades, and lifted her brows above the rims. With her free hand, she adjusted her jacket, just enough to flash the butt of the gun she carried at her hip. “Sound fair?”

  Eric didn’t agree, but he stopped struggling.

  Jesse took a deep breath and said, “Yeah.”

  “Who did you buy this from?” Michelle asked.

  “I didn’t buy it.”

  “A sample, then,” Michelle said. “To sway you over. Or are you now a distributor, perhaps?”

  He swallowed.

  “What did I say before?” Eden pressed.

  “It’s a sample,” Jesse said, voice quavering. “We’re supposed to sell it.”

  “Have you?”

  “Some.”

  “Who gave it to you?” Michelle asked. “Actually, let me rephrase that: who are you working for now?”

  He fidgeted.

  “It didn’t bloody fall out of the sky into that warzone you call an office. Someone put it in your hand,” Eden said sharply. “Who was it?”

  Sweat glazed his entire forehead now, the skin beneath flushed.

  “They can’t be that terrifying,” Eden said.

  “You don’t know.” His voice cracked.

  Eric glared at them.

  “They’re just – he’s just – you don’t know,” Jesse repeated, shaking his head. “T
he guys who are dead – those are the guys who said they wouldn’t work with him. Those are the ones who…”

  “What?” Michelle asked.

  “Who said they wouldn’t go against you fucking Dogs,” Eric spat.

  “They told you they would kill you?” Eden asked. “Explicitly?”

  “They said we would regret it,” Jesse said, “if we had any loyalty to the Dogs.”

  Michelle frowned. “The Lean Dogs are the most powerful outlaw organization in this city. In most cities.”

  “Last I checked, the Dogs don’t fucking crucify people.”

  Eden let out a long, slow breath. “We need a name.”

  “They’ll kill you, too,” Eric said, and it sounded more like a hope than a warning. “Just the men, if they can, but if you bitches start poking around–”

  “That’s enough,” Jesse said, sharply.

  They glared at one another. Then Jesse sighed and turned toward them. “Look. I always liked Candy. He’s not an asshole. But I don’t…”

  “You’re right,” Michelle said, softening. “He’s not an asshole. And if you come to him yourself, he’ll keep you safe until this all blows over. This is his city, and he wants these guys gone just as bad as you do. Give me the name, I’ll pass it along, and this can all be over.”

  He hesitated, still; a bead of sweat slid down his temple, and he dashed it away with the back of his hand.

  “Don’t,” Eric urged him.

  Jesse’s breath hitched, and he said, “He calls himself the Holy Father.”

  “Fuck, no,” Eric said, and turned around, arms banded tight across his stomach, shaking.

  “One of his guys – one of the high-ups – is called Luis, I think. I heard one of the others say that. I think – I think they’re cartel, maybe.”

  Which would explain the terror – but it shocked her. She felt her brows go up. “Not the Chupacabras? Candy pushed them out.”

  “They’re pushing back in,” Jesse said. Some of the visible emotion receded, suddenly, like the tide drawing back. He looked exhausted and pale, now.

  “You’re sure?” Eden asked.

  “You asked for a name, and I gave you one,” he said. “That’s all you’re getting.”