by Avery Flynn
"What do you mean?"
How to describe Mitchum. Corn-fed? In over his head? Too green to know better than to believe the bullshit?
"The kids was young and on his third deployment."
Tamara let out a low whistle and unfolded her legs, pivoting in her seat so she faced him. "Damn, that's a lot."
He nodded. "Especially for someone who may not have been all that mentally healthy to begin with."
The signs had been there, but no one wanted to see them. Even when Isaac had pointed them out to his superiors, their eyes wouldn't see the cracks that had been growing every day.
"The kid couldn't hack it. He needed to rotate back stateside. I made the recommendation. My commander disagreed. The kid stayed in." Isaac clenched his jaw and watched the semi-trucks up ahead jockey for position on the interstate. "One day, we were out as part of the whole hearts and minds effort at a local village. The kid snapped, grabbed a four-year-old girl, and put a gun to her head. We tried to talk him down. The girl was crying. Her mother was screaming. Her father was begging us to do something—anything. My commander was ordering everyone not to fire. The kid locked eyes with me and I knew. That was it for him. He was done. He wasn't ever going to see home again and he didn't want to. He thought that was his best way out. If he had to take that little girl with him to make it happen, so be it. I couldn't let that happen. I fired. Took him out."
Where there should have been chaos there was only shock followed by a world of shit raining down on him.
"Did they court martial you?"
"There was a reporter embedded with us that day." Who'd have ever thought the skinny little puke would have been his saving grace? "He saw the whole thing. They couldn't court martial me without making a shitty situation even worse in the national media. Still, they wanted me out for not following orders, and I went."
"Isaac, I'm sorry," her voice was thick with sincerity.
One glance over and he could confirm it, but he couldn't risk it. He was in too deep with her already.
"I'm not."
He'd come home and hadn't known what to do with his life until Lash brought up the idea of freelance investigation. Since Isaac had absolutely no interest in ever working in a team environment with some asshole giving orders again, it had been the perfect solution, —although it didn't explain why he spent so much time working overflow cases for the B-Squad. Unwilling to go down that path, he turned up the radio and let the country singer belt it out.
* * *
Tamara
The air was thinner in Hamilton. Isaac parked the car across the street from Albert's two-story grey and white Victorian house with the wrought iron fence surrounding the front yard. It had been dark for several hours by the time they got to the small town in the Rocky Mountain foothills. Tamara hadn't wanted to risk calling the house, so she'd spent the last several, very quiet hours in the car doing breathing exercises and telling herself everything was going to be all right.
Seeing the bright blaze of Albert's porch light did more to calm her down than all the mantras she'd muttered under her breath.
She reached for the door, but Isaac clapped a hand down on her forearm.
"Give it a second," he said, his gaze going from house to house pausing to take in each car parked on the street and every person going for their nightly stroll.
It took forever—or at least it felt that way.
Being this close and not rushing in was making her fingers twitch. "The cars are empty. The old lady picked up her yappy dog's poop and went back inside. Can we go in now?"
He nodded and opened his door. "Wait for a second before you approach the house."
Frustration ate away at her, but she stepped out of the car and waited while he went around to the trunk. She couldn't see what was going on once he'd opened it, but when he closed it, he dropped both of their go bags to the ground and then squatted down to start fiddling with the license plate holder. After a minute, he grabbed the bags and strode past her. His dress shirt was left unbuttoned over a T-shirt was open, giving her a view of the Glock secured in his shoulder holster. Isaac stopped at the front of the car where he swapped the front Texas license plate out with one from Colorado. He put the Texas plate into his go bag, zipped it closed and stood up, holding both bags.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded and took her bag. That left his right hand free for the Glock. She didn't have a gun. The way her nerves were doing the cha-cha she didn't really trust herself with one right now.
Isaac led the way across the street and up to the front door. When he knocked, it swung slowly open.
Panic flared to life and she rushed forward. Isaac's strong arm blocked her.
"Stay behind me and stay low," he whispered, pushing her behind his body.
"Essie." Her heart nearly beat out of her chest. "Albert."
"They're going to be fine," he said over his shoulder before making his way into the house, gun drawn and duffle bag abandoned on the porch.
Holding onto her sanity enough to heed the logic of his words took everything she had—but she did it, leaving her bag and following him through the dark house. It wasn't a fast or loud process. He was as silent as she’d ever seen him as he cleared each area on their march back to the sole room with a light on. It shined through the space between the swinging kitchen door and the hardwood floor.
Bile rose in her throat. Part of her didn't want to know what was beyond that door. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be good. Not for Essie. Not for Albert.
Issac held out a hand, palm facing her. He pointed at her, then the floor.
Stay. Yeah, that wasn't going to happen. He narrowed his eyes. She shook her head. Just because she was scared at what they'd find behind door number one didn't mean she wasn't going in.
A low, pitiful moan sounded from behind the door. "They're gone. They left hours ago."
Albert!
Before Isaac could stop her, she burst through the door and into the bright kitchen. Albert sat duct taped to a chair in the middle of the room, a white piece of paper fastened to his blood-splattered shirt. His usually perfectly coiffed white hair was sticking up in places and a purple bruise covered half his face. Her gut clenched and tears pricked her eyes. She'd brought this here. She'd put one of the few people in the world who she counted as a friend in danger.
"Are you okay? Is anything broken," she asked as she sprinted to his side, kneeling so she could tear at the tape with her fingers. "Where's Essie?"
Isaac handed her a pair of scissors he’d unearthed from somewhere and she started snipping at the tape on one side while he went to work slicing with a knife on the other.
"Two men took her," Albert said, his words muffled by the swelling on his bottom lip. "I tried to stop them but I couldn't. I'm so sorry."
"No. I am." She ripped the tape free, glad Albert was such a firm believer in body waxing. "I never should have forced you into this position."
"Like anyone could make me do anything, Chippy." Albert gave her the imperious smirk he always wore when he used his pet name for her, but his obvious wince ruined the effect. "They left you a message."
Her mentor ripped off the white paper attached to his shirt and handed it to her. The warning was printed in big block letters in black marker. The paper shook in her hands, but not enough that she couldn't make out the message.
LET HER GO WHILE YOU'RE STILL BREATHING.
The bastard thought she'd give up. That she'd just let him have Essie to save her own skin. He was wrong. Jarrod Fane couldn't be more wrong if he'd declared the sun rose in the West—and he was going to pay for it.
"They've gotta be on their way back to Redfin for judgement and then her wedding, just like he planned all along.” Just saying the words out loud made her want to throw up.
Isaac took the note from her, read it and crumpled it in his fist. "I'll have Elisa and Marko reroute the jet to Idaho, with a stop here to get us."
That wouldn't be until morning.
It wasn't acceptable. God knew what Essie was going through right now. How scared she must be.
"They have a head start on us," she said. "We need to be on the road now."
"No." Isaac holstered his gun and took out his cell phone. "What we need is time to develop a plan—not a lot but until morning should do. Even if we were to take off now, by the time we caught up with them Essie would already be inside the Crest Society compound, where every resident is armed, loyal to Fane, and probably under orders to shoot you upon sight. We have to figure out a way to get inside, get her, and get out before Fane knows what the hell is going on. If we do this wrong, everyone will pay the price."
Waiting wasn't her thing, but he was right--and Jarrod was about to find out just what a mistake he'd made.
Chapter 16
Isaac
Because he worked mostly on his own, Isaac had never needed an encrypted phone before. Sitting in the trashed remains of Albert's kitchen, he offered up a grateful thank you to Bianca for insisting he take one with him before hitting the road. He hit the speaker button and dialed.
Marko answered on the first ring. "We're both here. Talk."
This was usually when Isaac would make some smart ass remark about the other man being a real chatterbox, but nothing about tonight was normal. "There's been a development."
"Shit," Elisa muttered.
That pretty much summed up Isaac's view on everything that had happened since the high point of waking up next to Tamara. By the time he'd brought Marko and Elisa up to speed about what they'd found in Hamilton, Tamara had wandered back into the kitchen to throw a wad of duct tape into the garbage. Up on the second floor, a shower kicked on. He couldn't blame Albert for wanting to wash off the last few hours under scalding hot water.
Tamara’s shoulders were curved forward, her long blonde hair tucked behind her ears, her eyes downcast. Weary. His girl looked worn out and ready for a month of sleep. He couldn't blame her. It was a lot to take.
"We need you two to meet us up in Redfin," he said keeping his attention on Tamara as she sat down across from him. "We're headed out before first light. It's a five and a half hour drive."
"The jet will be back at seven tomorrow morning. That'll give us time for a refill and quick restock." Marko's voice came in clear through the phone laid in the middle of the wood table. "We can be there by nine at the latest."
"Is Tamara there?" Elisa asked.
She straightened up in her chair. "I'm here."
"Tell us about the compound," Marko said.
Tamara sighed and her shoulders dipped farther forward. "It's large. Fenced. Guarded at the gate and at locations around the perimeter. Each family has their own mini-compound situated in a ring just inside the perimeter. Essie will be at Jarrod’s quarters, which is smack dab in the middle of everything."
"That confirms the information we got from the Feds," Marko said.
Isaac's head snapped up. Now that was news. Could be good news. Could be bad. "The Feds are involved?"
Elisa's soft laugh filtered out of the phone. "Let's just say they already had an interest. Seems Fane hasn’t always followed the law when acquiring his guns, or with what he's got stocked inside the armory. If we can bring back a firsthand account to back that up, they'd be mighty appreciative."
"What do you mean firsthand?" he asked. A regular exile mission had enough chances to go sideways without adding a little lookie-lou for the Feds.
"Marko and I go in as possible recruits to check the place out," Elisa said, as if gathering first-person intel on a cult that operated like a militia on crack wasn't a big deal.
Tamara shook her head as if Marko and Elisa could see her. "Jarrod will never fall for that."
"He will when our covers have been in place for months," Elisa said. "Did you really think we've been sitting back without plans A through Z for a possible operation against this dickwad? You both know how it works with B-Squad. We protect our own—even if they don't want the help."
Tamara looked at Isaac, her blue eyes shining. She wasn't crying, but the tip of her nose had turned red and her lips were pursed tight despite the tremble in her chin. He never thought he'd see her speechless but this was it. The ice princess had finally melted. The urge to gather her in his arms was overwhelming. While most women would welcome the touch, he knew it was the wrong move with Tamara. That veneer of frigid untouchability was all that was keeping her together at the moment. He wouldn't take that away from her.
"I don't know what to say," she said, her voice shaky.
"Nothing to say," Marko replied. "It's just the way it is."
"Thank you."
"Let's not get mushy," Elisa said. "I don't do mushy."
Tamara wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. Isaac kept his hands flat on the table and pretended not to notice.
"We'll rendezvous at the diner next to the Idaho Inn before Elisa and I visit the compound," Marko said. "It's in Causewell, thirty miles from Redfin. Far enough to be outside Fane's direct influence, but use stage one precautions, just in case. No direct contact after this—everything goes through Bianca at headquarters. Your reservation for the motel is under Pat and Penny Hargrove. Your cover is that you’re tourists. Be sure to look the part."
A small smile tugged at one side of Tamara's mouth. "Don't worry, we have a secret weapon in the makeover department."
Isaac didn't know what exactly that meant, but he had a really bad feeling he was about to find out. The only thing that kept him from bolting was the woman sitting across from him. Tamara had pulled back from the edge of falling apart. Damn, she was impressive.
* * *
Tamara
Albert could do a makeover in his sleep. A makeunder? That required reinforcements.
"I had to guess your size, Mr. Camacho," he said handing Isaac a plastic bag emblazoned with Hamilton University's logo on it, along with a second bag from a discount store. "If these don't fit let me know and I'll send Skye back again."
Albert hadn't said so, but there was no missing that Skye was a pageant champion in the making. She was tall, confident, and had a big smile no matter what—although it had shaken when she'd spotted Albert's bruised up face. If she didn't have at least five major sashes framed on her wall already, Tamara would eat the brand-new hot pink GO BULLDOGS! T-shirt Albert had handed her.
"Don't make that face." He waved his hand in a circular motion in her general direction. "You'll get wrinkles."
She shook her head. Somethings never changed. "Albert, I'm retired. I'm allowed to get wrinkles."
He arched an eyebrow at her, but it took work. Must be too soon after his last Botox treatment. Some people smoked. Some people ate an entire bag of Oreos in one sitting. Albert's addiction was perfect skin no matter what. Hell, who was she to judge? She was on the run from a megalomaniac, and anyway Albert was the best friend a washed-up beauty queen could ever have.
He pivoted on his bare feet and marched toward the bathroom. "Young lady, you’re coming with me. You're going to become a brunette, but don't worry. It's only temporary."
She started to follow but hesitated before walking out of the living room. Isaac stood in the middle of the room looking totally out of place in the room decorated in pageant memorabilia, from the chandelier with its tiny light-up tiaras to the framed covers of Pageant Monthly. With his worn cowboy boots and painted-on jeans, he looked ridiculous in Albert's living room…and close enough to perfect to make her breath catch.
"Do you think it's me?" He held up the neon green T-shirt with a growling bulldog on the front.
She laughed. "I don't think that shirt is anyone."
"Aw hell," he muttered as he pawed through the plastic bag. "There's boat shoes in here."
The last time she'd seen him out of his cowboy boots, they were both getting naked as fast as humanly possible. Heat sizzled its way up from her belly at the memory. With all that had gone on, thinking about Isaac naked and buried inside her should be the last thing she
should be thinking about. That she couldn't help but play that mental movie just went to show how selfish she was. Albert, Isaac, the B-Squad, even Skye, who she'd barely set eyes on—they were all coming to her rescue. The least she could do was not behave like a hormonal teenager with her first crush.
"I gotta go." The fact that she didn't want to go scared her enough to get her feet moving.
He nodded and shoved his long fingers through his dark hair. "Try to get a couple hours of sleep. We're heading out before dawn."
Chicken that she was, Tamara scurried out of the room like it had just caught fire.
Thirty minutes later she was sitting on the edge of Albert's garden tub, her hair slick with brown semi-permanent dye.
"Color from a box." Albert made a series of tsk-tsk noises and adjusted the plastic hair cap covering her wet strands. "It makes my heart hurt."
"Do you remember when I tried to dye it myself a week before the Miss Crystal Dream pageant?" Disaster didn't cover it. Her mother had been too mad to snipe at her—a first.
"Blue." Albert laughed, a deeper sound than one would expect from the tall, thin man in white who always managed to look pristine, even now with half his face bruised up. "A beauty queen with blue hair. Thank God for emergency hair stylists."
The stylist had had to strip the color out of her hair and start fresh. She'd smelled bleach in her sleep for weeks afterward. "I'd thought it would be more pastel blue and less electric blue."
He sat down on the vanity chair opposite her, his unlined face peaceful. "Things so seldom go exactly the way we plan."
Wasn't that the story of her life. She was supposed to be a trophy wife. She'd gotten close. She'd married Taz, but he hadn’t been on the hunt for a trophy wife. He hadn't realized it, but he'd been looking for love, and she wasn't made for that kind of commitment. And now she knew why. Because it hurt—not just her, but everyone around her.
"Albert, I'm so sorry about this. I never should have involved you."
