Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  Cantrell panted up at him, face white with shock, rivulets of sweat running down his cheeks and temples. “What?” he asked, weakly.

  Candy patted his chest. “I believe you.” Almost soothing. “But that’s also bullshit, because you’re holding out on me. Explain it to me. From the beginning.”

  He hesitated, wetting his lips, eyes flicking back and forth across Candy’s face.

  Mercy started to unlace his other shoe.

  “Wait! No, I…” He took a breath, and then seemed to sag down into the table. Like he let go of all the tension he’d been holding; a physical bleeding-away of resistance. “Okay, okay.”

  “The photos I found,” Fox spoke up, “show you with him when he was about five or six. But you didn’t stick around much longer after that, did you?”

  “No.” A low, defeated voice, and no hesitation this time. “I didn’t – that photo was taken right before I went back home. I went to Mexico before I started college, a summer vacation, my senior trip, and I met Marisol, and I brought her home with me. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. And we had Luis…” He sounded wistful, though a deep groove marked the skin between his brows. “But Marisol wasn’t happy. She wanted to go back. I quit my job, and we moved again. Once we got back to Mexico, that was when I finally realized that Mari’s father worked for the cartel – he was one of the officers. When things got rough, I tried to take her and Luis back home with me. I wanted to build a life for us back here.”

  “She wouldn’t leave?” Candy asked.

  “No.” He shook his head, and Albie thought the gleam of wetness in his eyes had nothing to do with physical pain this time. “She wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t let me take Luis, he was only five, and I…”

  “You got scared,” Fox said. “So you ran.”

  He closed his eyes, ashamed. “I tried to keep in contact, I thought I could eventually convince them to join me. But. There were bombings in their city. Shootings. I couldn’t get hold of her.”

  “You left your wife and child with the cartel,” Candy said, teeth bared in what was definitely not a smile. “And ran home with your tail between your legs.”

  “I was young and stupid.”

  “Well, now your kid is young and stupid, and he’s killing people and selling people. And you’re helping him.” The last was a snarl.

  “He’s my son,” Cantrell said, voice cracking, desperate. “I already failed him once.”

  “And this isn’t failing him?” Candy swept an arm out to indicate the workshop, the women, the whole fucked up situation. “You’re a deadbeat dad, and a real fucking loser, obviously, but I guess the whole FBI agent thing doesn’t matter either, does it? Did you join up just so you could use your position to help Luis get a foothold here in this country?”

  “No.”

  Mercy tugged the shoe off.

  “I didn’t!” Cantrell shouted, hoarse, sweating. Pathetic. “I joined because I wanted to stop the cartels! I wanted to save other families. I had no idea – when Luis found me – I never thought he’d…”

  “Be running his own cartel?” Fox asked, lip curling in a rare show of outward disgust. “Kids have a way of disappointing you, don’t they?”

  “So you, what,” Candy said, “thought you’d make it up to him? Support him?”

  “I tried to convince him to give this up. To walk away from the cartel. No one had to know he was ever involved.”

  “But he didn’t,” Albie said, with a grim realization. “And you weren’t going to be the one to take him down.”

  “I love my son.”

  Candy leaned in low. “Your son’s a dead man.”

  Fifty-Three

  Nobody. That’s what Michelle had called her. And that was true, wasn’t it? She was no one’s niece, or daughter, or sister, or old lady. Hadn’t spent her life proving her loyalty to this club – had in fact spent a large chunk of time actively hating it. As far as hostages went, a huge disparity existed between Axelle and Michelle.

  Axelle marveled at her ability to be hurt by this realization in the midst of their current situation. Easier to focus on the smaller, more emotional, more personal hurt than the enormity of being chained to a bed and touched by a madman.

  Then she realized what Michelle was doing.

  And then she bit her lip against a threatening sob.

  Michelle’s gambit was a straightforward one: convince Luis that Axelle wasn’t valuable so he’d turn her loose. It was a nice thought, an endearing one, but it wouldn’t work. Axelle wasn’t going to become a dealer or an accomplice for the cartel. She had no delusions about leaving here alive. Unless the guys showed up, they were done for.

  She glanced toward Michelle, a lump in her throat, already calculating the things they stood to lose. Michelle was married, and pregnant, and if she was terrified, she was brave enough to hide it well. Axelle had a car, and a job – and she had Albie, who she loved, but not for very long. She wasn’t ready to die, she wasn’t, she…

  Michelle was staring at her.

  Luis had gotten up, had left the room.

  Michelle flexed her near hand, drawing Axelle’s attention, reaching down toward the cuff on her wrist, but not quite able to reach it. Axelle did the same, reflexively, and realized with a jolt that she could reach hers. Her fingers were longer than Michelle’s, and the pads touched cool metal.

  Michelle gave her a nod, and then turned away, attention on Luis as he returned, carrying a glass of water.

  Slowly, Axelle shifted her head on the pillow, and looked over at her far hand. Flexed her wrist, and found one of the wingnuts securing her cuff with her fingertips. Regulated her breathing forcibly, and tried, and reached, and gripped – and turned. Just a fraction, but it was a start.

  ~*~

  Satisfied for the moment that Axelle understood what Michelle needed her to do, Michelle lifted her head off the pillow and let Luis press the glass to her lips. So, so gently. Tender, almost, his other hand coming to cup her cheek and help her gulp down a few long swallows. His wrist smelled of bergamot, she noted, rather than the cheap, sharp cologne she’d expected from a gang leader.

  The water was cold, and crisp-tasting. A stray drop ran down her chin when he pulled the glass back, and he gently swiped it away with his thumb.

  “That should help,” he said, sitting back, setting the glass on the floor by his chair. “Now, where were we?”

  “I’m curious about something,” she said, grateful for the water, for the smoothness it lent her voice. “If you wanted to know about the club, why did you start small? Why Pacer and Melanie? Why not kill a Dog outright?” Just asking left her tingling all over unpleasantly. It was all too easy to imagine the scene: Jinx, or Blue, or Gringo, or Cowboy laid out dead, and Candy seething, raging, wreaking havoc.

  She supposed she’d answered her own question before he flicked a tight smile and said, “Experiments are delicate things. I wanted to really see them, your men – your man,” he corrected, flashing sharp canines. “Candy, isn’t it? He’s the president. He’s the only one whose opinion counts. President first.”

  “Club first,” she corrected. “It isn’t a dictatorship.”

  “Ah.” He wagged a slender, ringed finger. “That’s what you tell yourselves. But?” An invitation.

  “Candy’s the president,” she said, firmly. “What were you wondering?”

  “I thought you were wondering.”

  She gave him a look.

  He laughed. “Oh, you’re a delight. Yes, I was wondering, same as you. I figured if I killed one of his brothers” – he said the word mockingly – “he would be irate.”

  “Good guess.”

  “I didn’t want irate. I wanted to understand him.”

  “Do you?”

  “I understand all he really cares about is you. He’ll be coming, soon. Unless my father has a better hold on his tongue than I think.”

  “Your father,” she mused, quelling the sharp, inquisitive energy that spiked.
Candy had said Luis’s father was the cartel boss, but no one had seen hide nor hair of him. “Does he know what you’re doing here?”

  He flashed teeth. “Maybe. Probably. He doesn’t care.”

  She affected a snort. “Dads always care.”

  “Does yours?”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t put up much of a fuss – he’s got too much else going on. But do you think he wanted me to marry another club president?”

  He tilted his head, considering. “It does keep it all in the family, so to speak. What would you have done with a poor civilian man? Eaten him for breakfast?”

  “Something like that.”

  “My father doesn’t care,” he said, growing thoughtful; growing morose. “He never has.”

  “He put you in charge, didn’t he?”

  Another smile. “In a manner of speaking, I guess.”

  There was something there; a tender spot, an old wound, a barely-concealed mountain of daddy issues ripe for the exploiting. But she didn’t know enough, and wasn’t sure she had the time to tease it all out of him.

  Softly, in a voice laced with understanding, she said, “That’s why you created the Holy Father persona, isn’t it?” His expression tightened, her first warning sign. “You don’t strike me as a zealot. This isn’t about religion; it’s about you, and your dad.”

  All the languid, performative grace evaporated. He bolted to his feet, tense as a wire, and produced a gun from inside his robe – a gleaming, ridiculous gold-plated Desert Eagle.

  It was a stupid gun for a spoiled child trying to look cool – but it was massive, and Michelle could imagine all too well the way it would carve her face off her body and leave her nothing but a pulpy mess on the pillow.

  He shoved the muzzle into her face, smile a rictus. “I know what you’re doing.”

  She wanted to shrink back; wanted to close her eyes and will this moment away. Instead she stared at him, blinking, as blankly as she could manage. “What am I doing?”

  The gun shoved in closer, close enough for her to smell the oil and cordite on it. The rictus twisted into a smirk. “Oh, you’re clever. Not clever enough.” He chuckled – a forced sound. “But I commend the effort.” He stepped back, then, dropped back into his chair, the gun across his lap. “This meeting isn’t about me, Mrs. Snow. It’s about your club.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw movement over an Axelle’s bed – more movement than mere shifting around. She was careful to snap her gaze back to Luis. “If you’re so interested, maybe you should have prospected,” she said. “You could have been a Dog, instead of someone fighting against them.”

  He laughed. It started as a chuckle, but then he threw his head back and barked with it; the gun nearly slid off his lap, and when he finally straightened, he was blinking away tears. “Dios mio.” He wiped his eyes with careful fingertips. “I needed that. No, no I never wanted to join. The Dogs fascinate me because they’ve proved successful. But I don’t want to ride around on a cheap American motorcycle wearing Levi’s.” His lip curled in disgust. “The Dogs will fall because they’re in my way. I will crush them.”

  “You sound confident,” she deadpanned.

  “I am.”

  “But it’s cute that you think killing me is going to accomplish that.” It would crush Candy, personally. And her dad. It was all too easy to envision the lurch in Tommy’s stomach when he was told; to imagine Raven slapping Phillip full across the face. I knew you’d get her killed one of these days!

  But her death wouldn’t harm the club. Not long-term, in any kind of widespread way that counted.

  Save yourself, Candy had said. And she would if she could, but the club wasn’t just a club – it was her whole family. I’m sorry, love, she thought. I can’t keep my promise.

  Luis flashed her another toothy smile. “Who said anything about killing you?”

  Fifty-Four

  “Need anything?” Jenny asked. She set a glass of clean water on the nightstand beside Jinx, beside a bottle of Tylenol and a granola bar. His face looked pale and drawn, and she supposed the morphine was wearing off, but he had the pump right there, and it was his business at this point; she had too much else to do.

  She was already turning for the door when he said, “Jen,” in a way that brought her up short, and had her turning around to face him.

  It wasn’t just physical pain marring his expression, she saw now. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You didn’t drive a truck through the wall.”

  “I’m sorry I’m fucking useless.” He clapped a hand down on the bed beside him, and glared at the shapes of his legs beneath the covers. “I don’t know–”

  “What’s done is done,” she said, quickly, firmly. “You can’t go back in time and keep from getting hurt. Better not to think about it.”

  “I ought to be out there, with the guys.”

  “You ought to be right there resting,” she argued. “God knows how much damage you did jumping out of bed.” If it hadn’t been so absurd and dangerous, she would have laughed when Gringo relayed the story earlier.

  “I let everybody down,” he insisted.

  Yeah, you did, she wanted to say, but would never. She schooled her features, careful not to show her line of thinking: that Jinx had let his own personal vendetta get the best of him; that he’d walked into a dangerously stupid situation that he normally wouldn’t have, all because he was blinded by old grief. She would never voice that, though, because none of them had clean hands. At some point, every person in this club had done something equally petty and reckless, herself included.

  She glanced toward the dresser, where Reese had carefully laid out Jinx’s personal belongings: his rings, and wallet, and chain, and the earrings that had been taken out and bagged for surgery. His gun was there, too, spared the hospital treatment before he’d even arrived at the ER.

  Jenny picked it up and returned to the bed. Set it down in his lap. Offered him a fleeting smile. “Here. Just in case.”

  “If somebody gets all the way back here,” he said with lifted brows. “We’ve got problems.”

  “We’ve always got problems.” She patted his shoulder and went back down the hall. Paused to peek in on Tenny, who was fast asleep, mouth slack, eyes twitching beneath his closed lids.

  In the common room, the wall had been secured as best as it could be for the moment. Pup gimped along on his good leg, dragging a broom awkwardly across the floor.

  “Here.” Jenny plucked it from his hand and waved him away. “Go sit down.”

  “Oh, but–”

  “Have you had any aspirin or anything for your ankle?”

  He gathered himself visibly, shoulders squaring. “I don’t need it.”

  “Uh-huh.” She gave him a little shove. “Nickel, can you get him some painkillers and a stiff drink?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Only a bit of sawdust remained. Jenny gathered it in a few long sweeps, moving across the floor. She ended up at one of the front windows, where Agent Maddox stood with his hands on his hips, staring tensely out at the freshly-fallen dark. He’d ditched his jacket and tie, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  He was handsome in a sharp, pretty way; very spit-and-polish, good-boy attractive. But with his collar rumpled, and his hair disheveled, and his face lined with disquiet, he looked real in a way he hadn’t before. Not like a stock photo agent, but like a living, breathing man who’d had his world shattered.

  He acknowledged her with only the barest sideways glance, not turning his head. Took a breath and said, “I called Virginia. Told them what was going on.”

  “Are they sending someone?” Her skin prickled with a fresh wave of unease. It would take time to assemble forces and put them on the way. Hopefully the boys would be done and ducked back out of the spotlight by then.

  “Yeah. I think.” He shrugged; a tight, unhappy movement. “They didn’t really tell me shit.” Sharp edge of bitterness in his voice. He turned, then, and she sa
w in his eyes the same look she’d seen on countless prospects; lost young men unmoored from reality, looking for a place to land. “I didn’t say anything about the Dogs being involved.”

  “Really?” She fought to keep the surprise off her face. “Why not?”

  Another shrug, and he glanced back toward the window. “Lesser of two evils, I guess.”

  It was more than that, but Jenny didn’t think now was the time to push him on it. She could plant a seed, though; or maybe pour a little water on the one already lodged in the back of his mind.

  “This won’t mean much coming from someone raised by this club,” she said, “but something I learned early was that life isn’t divided along a clear line. There’s not good and bad. Nothing’s black and white.”

  That earned her another sideways glance.

  “You know. Just if you’re thinking of a career change.”

  The window in front of him shattered.

  Fifty-Five

  “Now.” Candy pressed the flat of his hand against Cantrell’s windpipe – just rested it there, with the promise of weight behind it. He could feel the man’s pulse running jackrabbit fast against his palm, and the jerky rhythm sent pleasant chills skating up his arm. He held a life in his hand, one he could crush if he so chose. “I want a list of all the places Luis might have taken the girls.”

  Cantrell fidgeted beneath him, licked his lips. “I don’t – there’s a garage. Sandoval’s–”

  “Your crew raided that place,” Fox said from the other side of the table. “Or did you just pretend to?”

  “We raided it. I had to – had to give my people something to do.”

  “And Sandoval’s people weren’t Luis’s people. So, try again.”

  His gaze rolled, searching beyond Candy, beyond the table where he was trapped, and that wasn’t acceptable.

  Candy pressed down, just a little. Just enough to make him cough. “Where is he staying? A house? An apartment? A fucking motor home?”

  “Shit,” Blue said, “maybe at Doc Gilliard’s place. Plenty of room, and no one would be looking there now.”