The Price of Grace

by Diana Muñoz Stewart

  It was a good twenty minutes before Mack showed, wearing a suit as trim as his lanky frame. In all the time he’d known Mack, he’d never seen him put on an ounce. Not of muscle. Not of fat. He was immune to both, apparently.

  In his dark suit, with his Mission: Impossible shades and his swagger, Mack couldn’t have looked more fed if he’d had a bard follow him around singing about his Quantico exploits.

  Guy could tone it down. Look less uptight. Huh. Maybe Gracie and her vigilante ways were rubbing off on him. She sure had last night. He pushed the hot image of her away, far away.

  Mack slid into the booth. “You look distracted.”

  No shit. Dusty shook his hand. “No more than usual. How’s the fort?”

  “Still secure. How’s the investigation?”

  Here we go. “Investigation stalled. No leads. Getting nowhere with the asset.”

  Nowhere he could put in a report, anyway.

  Mack’s eyebrows rose. The waitress showed up, dropped off two glasses of water, and tried to hand Mack a menu. He shook his head. “Burger. No bun. No fries. Black coffee.”

  “You’re going to live to be a thousand, Mack. And not one day is going to be even a tiny bit fun.” He handed the waitress his menu. “Give me the same with cheese fries and a sesame bun.”

  She smiled at him before leaving. He took that as approval for a healthy appetite.

  Mack’s dark eyebrows pinched together at the bridge of his nose. “Kind of surprised you admitted that about the investigation, Dusty. That’s part of why I asked you to come today.”

  It was?

  “I think you should let this case go.”

  Dusty opened his mouth to argue, object. Closed it. Mack had just rolled a girder off his shoulders. After the last year working his way in with the Parish family, getting to know their business practices, getting to like the family—more than like some of them—he’d been fighting a growing sense of wrong. Judging by Gracie and Tony, those kids were raised to care for others and themselves. And what they did outside the law was a drop in the bucket compared to some. A drop that weighed toward justice.

  Dusty clenched and unclenched his hands. The relief nearly staggered him. Mack took his silence the wrong way.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You put it all on the line. Your job, your life, your own money, and ended up with the same results. Could’ve just stayed home.”

  “Way to cheer me up.”

  Mack grimaced. “Sorry. But I think you’ve got to face facts. We’re never going to get them on the vigilante stuff. Whatever they were doing, they’re not doing now. They’re spooked from the drone attack, from having our guys all over them. They’ve gone underground.”

  True. Plus Gracie had pegged his cover the day he’d strolled into town. But it was over. His heart began to beat faster. His mood to soar. Couldn’t wait to tell her, see her face. They could start fresh. Find out what this was between them. She had to know, way down where it mattered, that this was more than sex. He could set up shop in town for a while, help protect her.

  Mack turned his water glass, as if sizing up its cleanliness. Satisfied, he removed the paper from his straw and took a sip. “Look, all the doom and gloom silence isn’t necessary. It’s not a total loss. I want you to concentrate on the blackmail.”

  Dusty sat up straighter, like someone had shoved a steel pole up his ass. “What?”

  “I know what they have on Rush—or pretend to have. Mukta Parish has an old video of Gracie’s mother claiming Rush raped her. After he drugged her.”

  Rush drugged and raped Sheila Hall? Did Gracie know? “How’d you—”

  “Digital copies were anonymously sent to the Chester office last night. No sooner did I hang up with you than I had that proof in my hot hands.”

  “Anonymous copies? As in more than one?”

  “Yeah. Turns out Mukta has been extorting multiple government officials. They’ve been doing it for ages.”

  Dusty leaned forward. His heart rate picked up. “Explain how they do it.”

  “Take for example Rush.”

  “Yeah. Start there.”

  “Rush slept with that woman—”

  “You mean Gracie’s mom, Sheila? The woman he raped?”

  “What if it wasn’t rape? What if she lured him to sleep with her? Then the Parish family makes a tape with Sheila, looking so young and innocent, claiming Rush drugged and raped her.”

  Looked like Mack had already condemned Sheila. “Who’s to say he didn’t?”

  “Exactly. Except he wasn’t the only one the family set up this way. I don’t know how many, but I’ve seen a couple of these recordings. Same girl, Sheila. But each recording accuses a different man.”

  “So you have recordings with Sheila Hall claiming different men drugged and raped her?”

  “She never mentions them by name. There’s someone asking her leading questions. She answers the questions.”

  “So the interviewer asks was it this guy, was it that guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So different questions, different names, but the same answers?”

  Mack nodded.

  “And you have proof this was sent to other men besides Rush, proof the Parish family blackmailed them all? Along with men willing to say so?”

  “Not yet. The videos are thirty years old. Out of the recordings we got, Rush is the only person still in government. The only one who apparently produced a kid. Two of the blackmail victims are dead. One had a heart attack six months ago. The other shot himself in the head two weeks ago.”

  Victims? “Anybody else?”

  “That we know? A federal judge. No longer on the bench. Got Alzheimer’s. I went to see him this morning. Saddest shit ever. Kept asking for his wife.”

  He’d been to see the judge? Investigating on his own? “So except for Rush, none of these recordings are currently in use. And there’s no way of corroborating the other stories? Sounds like a convenient way to get Rush off the hook for something pretty damn heinous. He could’ve altered the recording sent to blackmail him and sent them to you. Had to suspect the truth might come out. Might be trying to muddy the waters. Have you had the tapes authenticated?”

  Dusty leaned back as the waitress put their food on the table, asked if they needed anything else. He smiled at her. “No thanks.”

  She looked at Mack. He waved her off, picked up his fork and knife. “Give me a day or two. You’re being a little hostile considering I’m giving you what you want. The Parish matriarch will go down for this. She’s been controlling government, changing laws, diverting government funds to support this crazy women-centered agenda. I just need more proof. As you pointed out, so far this is weak.”

  “So the answer to that is no.”

  Mack sliced his burger, delivered a bite to his mouth with the fork. For such a dainty action, he didn’t seem to care about talking with his mouth full. “The recordings are copies. I got the lab on it. We’ll see. But I’m pretty sure we’ll need the originals to determine that shit.”

  Dusty pushed his plate away. He couldn’t stomach food right now. “Any other proof?”

  Mack gestured with a fork full of meat. “Years ago, someone filed a lawsuit worth tens of millions against one of Mukta Parish’s companies. The case was thrown out by the same judge, Judge Roberts, that I mentioned. Months later, Roberts was photographed at a fundraiser with Mukta Parish. It shows her and the judge in what looks like an intense conversation.”

  “That’s light beer mixed with water. Weak.”

  “Yeah. Well, like I said we’re just getting started. Mukta Parish is devious, but we can get her on blackmail.”

  “You sound pretty sure.”

  Mack cut another triangle of meat. “Last night, I reached out to Rush’s son, Porter. Talked to him. This morning he got back to
me. His father might be willing to testify against Mukta.”

  He’d reached out to the guy who, along with his father, might be trying to kill Gracie? “He’s willing to testify? Admitting he’s been Mukta’s puppet will ruin any chance at the presidency.”

  Chewing, Mack shook his head. “Not necessarily. He never played ball with her. Any decisions he made for legislation aligned with his values. It wasn’t until she tried to secure a cabinet position that he came to us.”

  Dusty leaned back in his seat. What was he saying? Of course, Rush and his son would love to play victims fighting back. Standing up for what was right even if it might cost him the presidency. Mack knew that. He had to. “And you think his constituents will buy that?”

  “Buy what? Rush is taking on people like Mukta, women who would use and abuse the system, claiming victimhood in order to gain money and extraordinary rights. He’s standing up to them. Let’s face it, his base will eat up the idea of Mukta getting her comeuppance.”

  Fuck. Mack was all in. People always imagined informants as lowlifes, but it was the assets in high places that rated. No higher place than the presidency. “Mack, tell me you aren’t trying to free up a candidate for president,” at the expense of Mukta’s family, “a guy who once in office would be beholden to the bureau?”

  Mack stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. He lowered it. “What do you care? It gets Mukta and a couple members of her family off the streets.”

  Looked like Mack had found a way to go from a so-so career to being upwardly mobile. “Hold on a sec. What do you mean a couple members of her family? I thought this was about Mukta.”

  “Mukta and anyone else involved in the bribery.”

  The hairs on the back of Dusty’s neck stood on end. “Are you trying to tie Gracie Parish to this whole thing?”

  “Tie her to it? She is tied to it. It’s her father. We have evidence that she has hacked into the senator’s home computers. And other things.”

  She thought the guy was trying to kill her, of course she did research. Dusty leaned into the space that Mack had just left. His arm rested far over what could be considered the table center. “What things?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Who’s investigating who sent the recordings? You?”

  “Leave it.”

  “No. I won’t. You’re putting Gracie in more danger. Ignorant people might hate Mukta—she wears a hijab, is overly-educated, wealthy, and viciously outspoken—but Gracie isn’t so easy to hate. She’s as American as apple pie, beautiful, and runs her own business. No matter what evidence you have, Rush won’t want her out there speaking for herself, speaking against him. You just made her even more of a target.”

  Mack’s eyebrows rose. “You seem to be getting a little agitated. And paranoid.”

  “You’re the reason, Mack. You’re the reason people don’t trust us, don’t trust us to do our job, don’t trust that we’re making decisions based on our roles as defenders instead of what’s best for our institution. Or what’s best for our own careers. You’re what’s wrong with this country, the bureau.”

  Mack stood up, threw down a ten-dollar bill. “Why don’t we touch base after you’ve had some time to digest?” He gave Dusty a disappointed look then walked out of the restaurant.

  A moment later, Dusty’s cell beeped. He looked down at the screen. You’re off the case. If you do anything to jeopardize this investigation, I will have you arrested.

  A fistful of angry strides later, and Dusty was outside on the pleasant streets of Bristol, Pennsylvania, delivering his resignation to the swell of Mack’s too-straight nose. And jaw. And thick skull.

  The sizzle of a Taser hit his ears a blink before fifty thousand volts squeezed his body. He dropped to the sidewalk. His jaw tightened. He went board rigid.

  Fucking Mack. Couldn’t throw a punch to save his life.

  Chapter 39

  Music pumped through Club When?’s speakers, pounding rhythm through the gyrating bodies that bumped and writhed on the dance floor.

  Behind the bar, Gracie mixed a mojito. The erotic push and pull, the wild abandon of her customers, usually thrilled her. Tonight it made her miss Dusty.

  Work was a little duller, a little lonelier without his good-natured humor and easy-going manner. Yikes. She had to stop thinking about him.

  She focused again on making the servers’ drinks. She had two bartenders dealing with the people pressing forward and leaning across the bar to order drinks. One was in training, a replacement for Dusty—there she went again—and cousin to the other bartender she’d rehired.

  He seemed like an okay hire. Hard working. But—

  A little niggle in her awareness alerted her to his presence. She felt the wave of desire and heat light up her insides. Forcing herself to finish, she poured a beer and put it on the tray before glancing up. Dusty leaned against the end of the bar. “I need to talk to you.”

  The little butterflies in her stomach winged up her throat where they fluttered and danced.

  Dang, he was so good-looking. Heat kissed her cheeks. All she could think about was the force of him entering her, seizing her, bringing her shaking and writhing to pure bliss.

  This was a problem. When someone could make you feel as good as he made her feel, they had power over you. She refused to be powerless.

  Wait. Hadn’t she asked for space? She picked up the next drink order. “You’ll have to wait.”

  His honey eyes flashed. His voice lowered. “Grace.”

  Her breasts perked up and paid tight attention. Way to go, tattas, why not send up an I-want-you-bad signal flare. One that matched the hot patches of red now marching across her face and down her neck.

  Really hard not to seem affected when your face was as telling as Pinocchio’s nose. Too bad he didn’t have such a tell. Anger flared in her chest. And pain. Control. Make the drink. She turned on the blender.

  When she was done with the order, she turned back to Dusty. What the what?

  A beautiful young woman with dark hair stood at Dusty’s side and pointed to his hands. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied.

  How had he hurt his hands? Had he been in a fight?

  The girl was asking about his injury, showing interest. Classic pick-up. And she’d bought him a beer. Gracie admired her tactic. Not shy. Not fawning. Get the guy to talk about himself. See if he’s interested.

  For his part, Dusty looked like a deer in headlights. She watched with growing amusement as Agent Leif McAllister tried to find a graceful way out of the conversation. He hesitated over a few pleasantries, smiled, sweated, and then motioned toward Gracie and said, “I’d like you to meet my good friend Grace.”

  The brunette with a killer tan—probably good Italian genes—looked over. Gracie waved with a sprig of mint squeezed tight between her fingers.

  The woman didn’t seem embarrassed or uncertain. She smiled. “Hi.”

  Gracie finished making the pina colada, put the slip on the waiting server’s tray, and approached the girl.

  “Hi,” she said. “What can I get you to drink? On the house, because if you’ve had to deal with this guy, you deserve compensation.”

  Dusty put a hand to his chest. “Now, Grace, I’m a little hurt you wouldn’t give me a higher recommendation.”

  Ah, stupid fair skin. She could feel herself turning lady-you-have-no-idea-how-good-he-is red. Followed by angry-emoji-face red.

  The brunette’s eyes bounced between her and Dusty. She shrugged. “I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

  Wow. A straight shooter all the way down to her drink. Gracie made the drink and slid it over to her.

  The straight-shooter took it, raised the glass in thank you, and clinked it with Dusty’s bottle. Dusty nodded and then took a long sip. The woman turned and walked away.

  Gracie watched he
r go. How cool would it be to never turn all shades of red in a somewhat awkward situation? The light played across Ms. Cool’s shimmery silver cocktail dress as she skirted the dance floor.

  Her drink hand came up, and there was a flash and boom that lifted her and drove her across the room.

  Chapter 40

  The blast sent people and debris flying across the dance floor.

  Gracie thought she was fast, fast with quick reactions. She studied martial arts. She liked to run. But shock, it turned out, could keep her rooted in place. As the explosion—fire and noise and smoke—punched through the air, she froze.

  And then she was on the floor, behind the bar, under Dusty’s heavy, protective weight.

  She struggled to get up, feeling ice cubes under her back and heat on her front. Dusty held her down. His voice was insistent. “Stay down.”

  There was another explosion, followed by another—the sounds muffled to her stinging ears. Shards of glass beat across them like hot spikes.

  Looking up, Gracie saw a roadway of smoke driving across the ceiling and pushed her hands against Dusty’s chest. “Fire.”

  He rolled off her, helped her to her feet.

  Blood ran down his face and neck. His expression was calm, his eyes dead serious. He quickly ran hands up and down her body, stopping at places she’d been cut. “Are you okay?”

  Surprised to see buds of blood pooling on her arm and rolling down, she nodded. Beyond the bar, panic, like the blast wave, sent people racing, stumbling over bodies, shoving toward the exit.

  The front doors quickly became choked with the pressing mob. Smoke began to compress the air. Gracie’s furious mind considered a thousand options in a thousandth of a second. Soon the sprinklers would go off, increasing panic. People would push to escape, trample.

  The emergency system would already have called 911, but they wouldn’t get here in time to stop the crush.

  She needed to create another way out. The stained-glass windows. The ones that had symbolized Sheila’s vision for this space.