Deadly Lies

by Cynthia Eden

  Could have. Shit. “And they could have been made by a sick freak who was torturing him,” Max blasted.

  Samantha crept closer and stared down at the photo.

  “The point of entry is deep on the lower left-hand side.” Dante pushed the photo toward her.

  “I see it.” Her breath eased out. “We need to ask Quinlan exactly where the attacker was standing when he sliced him.” She glanced up. “And that’s not going to be easy because Quinlan isn’t in the mood to cooperate with the FBI anymore.”

  “And I don’t blame him,” Max tossed back. “I thought we were here to tie up loose ends.” Self-inflicted, my ass.

  “This is a loose end,” Dante said.

  “Bull. This is you trying to pin some sick crap on my brother.” Max pointed at the agent. “Go talk to the other victims. Find out what the hell they know.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be so easy,” said a deep voice from the doorway.

  Max glanced over his shoulder and found a tall, dark-skinned man waiting there. “We just received word,” the guy said, his voice hard and booming, “that the first kidnap victim, Scott Jacobson, won’t be making it in for his interview today.” This guy had to be the infamous Hyde that he’d read about in the papers.

  “He’s not coming in?” Dante repeated. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because somebody just killed him,” Hyde said. “Jacobson’s car exploded on his way to our office.”

  CHAPTER Fourteen

  Max rushed out of the FBI building, his phone pressed hard against his ear. He had to find Quinlan. Dammit, if anything happened to him…

  “Wait! Max, stop!”

  He whirled around and found Samantha running after him, her red hair blazing in the sun. Just then, his brother’s voicemail picked up. Shit. “Quinlan, call me. Stay with your guards and call me,” Max urged before ending the call. His Jeep sat just a few feet away. He’d parked a couple of blocks from the federal building, and he wanted to rush to his Jeep and chase after his brother.

  Get to Quinlan. Because his brother wasn’t safe. Not yet. Not with Jacobson dead.

  “They thought it was him,” Max gritted out. “Your friends, those agents—they thought it was him.” They’d thought his brother was a killer.

  Samantha narrowed the distance between them until just a few feet remained. “You know every option has to be explored.”

  “Screw that! He’s barely walking! He’s the victim!”

  “I know.” Soft. If anyone knew what it was like to be the victim, it should be her.

  Max sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby, I’ve got to go. I have to go and see about my brother. I—”

  “I can’t let you go anywhere, Max.”

  Those words were the last that he’d expected her to say. “What?”

  “Members of the bomb squad are already on the scene of the Jacobson attack. Scott’s car was rigged to explode.” Her gaze darted to Max’s vehicle. “Now I want you to step away from your car and come with me.”

  She wasn’t serious. Wait; yeah, she was. Max glanced back at his Jeep. “You think it was the kidnapper? That he rigged Jacobson’s car?”

  “At this point, we can’t afford to think anything else.” She lifted her hand. “Come with me, Max.”

  He stepped toward her. “But I wasn’t a victim.” No one should be coming after him. He should be safe.

  The faint jingle of a cell phone seemed to echo in the sudden tense silence. He glanced down automatically. No, wait, that wasn’t him—

  “Max!” Samantha screamed.

  His head whipped back up, and he saw the terror on her face. She lunged forward and grabbed his hand. Then something slammed into his back, something big and strong and hot, and he flew forward.

  Seconds later, when he crashed onto the pavement, he brought her down with him.

  Max lay on the ground, unmoving, with that FBI bitch sprawled beneath him. The bitch had stopped Max from getting into the Jeep. Just a few more seconds…

  It was really too easy to make bombs these days. A few keystrokes, and you could find a how-to guide online. Of course, she’d remembered the basics for the bomb. Not like a woman could forget that. Just a little matter of getting her parts together.

  Simple.

  But cleaning up someone else’s mess sure was fucking hard.

  The motor revved as the BMW shot down the street, zipping right past the billowing clouds of black smoke and nearly plowing into an old lady who didn’t have the sense to stay on the sidewalk.

  Dammit, now Max would be cautious, and that bitch agent would be guarding him.

  But there’d been no choice. Couldn’t risk leaving evidence behind. The bomb had been set that morning. If the FBI had gone and found it on the car…

  They might have linked it back to me. She couldn’t take that chance. So whether Max had been in the car or not, the Jeep had to go.

  She took a fast turn to the left, and the trail of smoke vanished. Max was in the way, and he’d have to be taken out. After everything that had happened, it wasn’t going to end like this—not with Max holding the purse strings and everyone else screwed.

  No way.

  Killing Max and taking that Jacobson guy out on the same morning would have been so perfect. The FBI would’ve just thought one of the kidnappers had come after them. They would have directed their attention back to the cases.

  “And not to me,” Beth whispered, adjusting her rearview mirror. Sirens wailed, and a fire truck flew past her. Since she was clear of the immediate scene, Beth pulled over to the side of the road and did her good citizen routine. She tried to make sure the fire truck and the two police cars swerving past her had enough room.

  She waited a bit, giving them ample time to pass, then she pulled back onto the road. She was driving slowly now, carefully.

  And planning. Always planning. She hadn’t been that old bastard’s fuck toy for nothing. No, she’d earned her money and her happiness—and she was getting both. Nothing would stop her. No one.

  If she had to kill to get what she deserved, so be it. Not like it was the first time. She’d made sure her dick of a husband got what he deserved. He’d planned to leave her. Her.

  Instead the cops had been picking pieces of his body off the interstate. Just like they’d be doing with Jacobson.

  She just had to be careful… don’t get caught. Her only rule.

  And she hadn’t been caught before. She’d used her connections, gotten the bomb, figured out how to place it on the car, and learned to make it go boom. Her brief stay in prison for that lame solicitation charge had introduced her to a very useful crowd of friends.

  Her grin stretched as she drove through the green light. Maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe Max was dead. Maybe a chunk of metal had slammed into his head, into the bitch’s head, and taken them both out. Maybe.

  She’d never been particularly lucky before. If she had been, then her mother wouldn’t have been a lying crack addict who’d overdosed at twenty-three, and her old man wouldn’t have been a freak who liked to touch little girls.

  But she’d fixed that asshole. He’d been in the car with her husband when she’d called to tell them both just how much she loved them.

  “Samantha? Samantha?” Fear pounded through Max’s blood as he grabbed Samantha and rolled her over. Blood trickled into his eyes, and he swiped his hand over his face as he tried to clear his vision.

  She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were closed. Scratches covered the right side of her face, and when he smoothed his hand down her cheek, she didn’t wake up.

  No.

  Smoke billowed around them. Voices rose, screaming. No, not voices—sirens.

  Max glanced over his shoulder. His Jeep had been blown to hell and back. A damn tire was still rolling down the street. If Samantha hadn’t stopped him, it wouldn’t just be pieces of his vehicle on the road.

  His hands shook as he cupped her head. “I need help!” he yelled into the smoke. He’d slammed
into her when the blast erupted. Hit her hard and taken her down onto the concrete.

  Her lashes began to flutter.

  “Samantha?”

  Her shoulders shifted a bit on the ground.

  “What. The. Hell.” That furious voice belonged to the guy from before. Hyde. The head of the SSD.

  “I need an EMT!” Max shouted as he held Sam.

  “You’re hurt?” Hyde burst through the smoke. Ramirez, the agent who’d taken out the perp in the park, was right at the man’s heels.

  “Not me.” The scratch on his head was nothing. “Samantha.” The fear and the rage boiling inside seemed to be shaking him apart. Shouldn’t have happened. This nightmare should have been over.

  But some asshole was still out there. An asshole who couldn’t let the case go. And now Samantha was hurt. She’d damn well been hurt enough in her life.

  Hyde tried to pull Max away from her. “No!” His hold tightened. He wouldn’t leave her.

  “You want me to help her,” Hyde snapped out, “then move.”

  “Max?” Sam whispered, and nothing would have moved him then. Her lashes lifted. Dark eyes stared up at him. “You… okay?”

  Him? The first thing she asked was about him? His head bent, and he pressed a kiss to her lips. “You saved my ass, baby.” Then she’d scared ten years off his life.

  “Ridgeway, get back.” Hyde’s bark.

  Max’s gaze held Samantha’s. “Are you okay?”

  “Hit my head…” A weak smile curved her lips. “Just left you for a minute.”

  “How about you don’t ever leave me again?”

  Her eyes widened.

  A siren wailed, even louder now, and an ambulance braked to a hard stop about ten feet away.

  “Scott Jacobson and Ridgeway,” Ramirez’s voice carried even over the siren’s scream. “Sir, I’d say we have a problem.”

  “A big damn problem,” was Hyde’s instant response. “I already have officers en route to the Weatherly house. They’re taking Curtis into protective custody before his father ships him out again.”

  “Or before he winds up dead,” Ramirez muttered.

  Samantha sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes stayed on Max. “He came after you.”

  Max couldn’t look away from her. Whoever the asshole was, yeah, the guy had come after him, but he’d almost taken them both out.

  “I want this scene canvassed!” Hyde ordered as the EMTs broke through, and Max forced himself to ease back from Samantha. Need to feel her against me.

  “I want access to every surveillance camera within a ten-block radius. Get the footage and get it now!” Hyde demanded.

  “On it, sir,” Ramirez said and backed away.

  Hyde’s hand clamped down on Max’s shoulder. “We’re going to find him. This guy’s coming on to my turf, planting a bomb blocks away from the FBI. Damn bold.”

  “Bold” was one word for it. “Crazy” was another. “Why?” Max just didn’t understand. An EMT grabbed his arm but he shook free and said, “I’m not getting on the damn stretcher! Take care of her. She could have a concussion.” Her eyes were so dark that it was hard to see her pupils.

  If they’d both been a little closer to the Jeep…

  A dull throbbing burned in his temples. “It’s him, isn’t it? The bastard who took Quinlan.” And they’d been questioning his stepbrother just moments before. Oh, Christ…

  “Quinlan!” He turned on Hyde. “If the guy came after me and the other victim, he’ll go after Quinlan too.” Or he could have already gone after him. Two car bombings. Why not three? Just how well had that bastard planned? Ice froze his stomach.

  “I’m already on it, son,” Hyde told him. “I’ve got two agents and the bomb squad en route to the Malone residence.”

  “Puppet master,” Samantha muttered and winced when the EMT probed the back of her head.

  Max’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “One got away from us.” Her breath hissed out. “The one… pulling the strings. Someone in the background who was watching… tying up the loose ends.”

  Puppet master. Who? Who was he?

  And where was the bastard?

  Beth ran up the stairs, her heart racing. “Quinlan?” Dammit, he was back earlier than she’d expected. His car had been sitting out front when she pulled into the driveway.

  This better not mess up her timeline. She’d targeted the attacks while he was supposed to be in the office with those FBI pricks. She’d given him the perfect alibi. No more suspicion, and no more jerkoff stepbrother standing between Quinlan and her money.

  “Quinlan, where are you?” She shoved open his bedroom door. Empty. “Quinlan?” She hurried down the hallway. Where was everybody? Two maids were scheduled to work today but she hadn’t seen them.

  A thud came from Frank’s room. The crash of breaking glass. Beth ran forward, grabbed the door handle, and shoved open the door. “What the—”

  The room was a wreck. Furniture overturned. Mirrors shattered. Pictures broken on the floor. In the middle of the mess, Quinlan stood with his shoulders bowed.

  Beth sucked in a deep breath. “Quinlan, what are you doing?” Not a breakdown, not now. That was the last thing she needed. Once they were settled, and she had a ring on her finger, then the guy could go nuts. Not now.

  He bent and picked up one of the long glass shards from what had once been an antique mirror.

  “I have the worst luck,” he said, his voice so low that she had to strain to hear him.

  “What are you talking about?” If the guy wanted to compare piss luck stories—

  No. She’d never told Quinlan about her parents. She’d given him just the briefest of details about her past.

  “My mom walked out when I was four. She left me with that prick who didn’t give a damn about me, and she never looked back,” Quinlan said as he turned the shard of glass over in his hand. The point was sharp, like a knife, and the light hit the gleaming tip. “When I was fifteen, he finally called me home from that prison of a boarding school, and why? To introduce me to her. The low budget whore he’d decided to marry!”

  At least he didn’t shove his hand up your pants every damn day. Her own shoulders straightened, and Beth shut the door behind her with a soft click, suddenly very, very grateful that no one else was around. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see him this way.

  “Quinlan, you need to calm down, honey.” Deliberately, Beth pitched her voice nice and low in an attempt to soothe. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re stressed, but this—this isn’t helping.” Yeah, that sounded like she cared, right? Poor little rich boy. Cry her a damn river.

  A bitter laugh broke from his lips. “He never had a space for me in his life, but he had room for her. Her and her ex-con son.”

  What?

  At her quick breath, Quinlan’s head lifted, and his gaze settled on her face. “You didn’t know, did you? Max killed a man. Beat him to death with a baseball bat.” His eyes glittered with a feverish intensity. “And my old man still thought he was the golden child. Always comparing me to him, always telling me how good old Max was bustin’ ass to make a name for himself—hell, yeah, he was, with my father’s money.”

  Max had killed a man? She hadn’t seen that one coming.

  “And when the whore finally got sick, I found out the truth.”

  “Have you been drinking?” Beth asked him. This wasn’t like Quinlan. Sure, he bitched and moaned, but he’d never called Katie a whore.

  “Not booze. Pills.” He raked a hand over his face. “So sick of seeing his f-face. Took more of the pills that damn shrink gave me.”

  Her tongue swiped over her lower lip. Ah, drugs. She’d used enough of them to keep Frank in line. “We need to get you in bed. All this—” She motioned to the chaos in the room with a wave of her hand. “You could have hurt yourself.” He had hurt himself. Blood seeped through the white fabric over his abdomen. He must have broken open some of the stitches.

  �
��You know he wanted to give his money to charity? When she was dying…” Quinlan acted like Beth hadn’t spoken, and his gaze fell to the mirror shard one more time. “I found out that he wanted to give all the money to the cancer society. Can you believe that?”

  Yes. Because even though Frank had been screwing her, the old bastard had actually seemed to love Katie.

  “I stopped that. Stopped him.” The fingers of his right hand curled tightly around the glass. Too tightly. A drop of blood fell onto the floor. “Worst fucking luck.”

  Beth climbed over the broken drawers from Frank’s chest. She needed to get that glass away from him. The way he was acting, there was no telling what he’d do. And if the rich boy went and sliced his wrists, what would she do then? And what would she get? Nothing.

  “Then this kidnapping…” His left hand rose. “My dad, my dad—I see him…”

  Her hand curled around his. “It’s okay.”

  “No.” He pinned her with his wild gaze. “It’ll never be okay again.”

  A swirl of red and blue lights lit the scene. While firefighters circled the still smoldering wreckage of the Jeep, cops and FBI agents swarmed the street.

  “I think it was a cell phone-activated bomb,” Samantha said as she stood beside Max. The EMT had finished checking her out after trying to get her in the ambulance, but she’d refused his order. “I heard the ring, and I-I just knew.”

  He caught her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Without you, I’d be dead.”

  Hyde walked toward them. “We have a suspect.”

  “What? Who?” Samantha demanded.

  Hyde pointed toward an elderly lady, one standing with her hat slightly askew and talking animatedly with Agent Daniels. The lady’s shaking hands rose, and she pointed down the street.

  “Mrs. Sarah Ann Douglas was almost the victim of a hit and run today.” Hyde’s head tilted toward the left. “Just after the explosion that took out your car, a woman driving a blue BMW nearly plowed into Sarah Ann.”

  A woman? A blue BMW…

  Max stiffened. No, there were hundreds of BMWs in the city. Just because Frank had one in his garage didn’t mean a damn thing.