The Protected (Fbi Psychics)

by Walker, Shiloh

  Then as she heard his harsh intake of breath, she shifted the focus of her thought. Then I looked at the boy and I was caught between nerves and pain. He’s too young for the burden he’s bearing, Gus . . . and you know it. I don’t even understand what his burden is, and I know it. I can see it on him.

  She pushed the image that she carried of Alex into Gus’s mind. That first image, Alex, all long, skinny limbs and big, scared eyes, and a fear he tried so hard to hide.

  “Enough,” Gus said, his voice flat. “Enough.”

  She cut off the flow of her thoughts and focused on the area around them, checking the rearview mirror, the cars. Nobody was following them, but she still had that burning, pressing urge to get the hell away from there. Now.

  She could breathe easier, though. Gus was no longer trying to drill the nose of that Sig Sauer into her ribs. That helped a little.

  * * *

  HE’S too young for the burden he’s bearing . . .

  Did she think he didn’t know that already?

  He shoved a hand through his hair, knocking his ball cap off in the process. He hurled it to the floorboard and turned his head, staring outside as the landscape zipped by.

  The view is nice . . .

  Innocuous words.

  But what she’d pushed inside his mind . . .

  He did not need that inside him just then. The knowledge that she felt the same heat he’d felt. No. He didn’t need that at all, yet at the same time, part of him . . .

  Part of him wanted to grab her, haul her into his lap, and just . . . feel. Give in to what he had inside him, what she obviously had inside her. Skim his hands up that long, slender back and tangle them in her hair as he feasted on her mouth.

  That greedy, selfish part wanted to strip her naked and ride her until they were too drained to even move. That part of him knew just how long it had been since he’d had a woman, touched a woman, kissed a woman . . . wanted a woman. How long it had been since his life revolved around anything beyond watching over Alex, nights spent pacing the house as he worried. Worried about whether they’d get through another night without having to run. Worried about whether they’d both survive when the time came, would they be caught . . .

  That part that wasn’t focused on the fear and everything else, that part of him wanted to touch her. That part of him wanted to glide his hand through her hair and draw her mouth to his, see if she’d taste as wild as he’d imagined. She wouldn’t be a sweet and gentle woman in bed, he didn’t think. He’d had sweet and gentle lovers. She’d be heat and power and passion, and he’d lose himself inside her.

  If he could have given in to it.

  But it wouldn’t happen.

  Alex . . . his focus was, and would always be, Alex.

  “How long have you been running?” she asked quietly.

  He slanted a look her way and then looked back out the window. “Too long.”

  Four years. Six months. Twelve days. He flicked a glance at the clock, calculated the time change. Thirteen hours and nine minutes.

  Since Alex was eight . . . the day the boy’s youth and innocence and life were shattered, right in front of him.

  The night his mother . . .

  He closed his eyes and tried to stem the flow of those memories.

  Please . . . you must promise . . .

  He was trying. Carajo, he was trying. But he was so useless at this. Caring for somebody, protecting somebody. A direct opposite of the life he’d been living. And what a life that had been. Pointed in a direction and told to fight, he fought. Told to kill?

  He did that, too.

  Told to fuck this woman and learn more about her drug lord lover? Absolutely. And more than once, the women he’d been with had probably suffered for it once it was all said and done. But he’d kept it up, because that was what he did.

  Now he was expected to care for another. Protect another. When life had never been anything but a race, a gamble, a challenge before this.

  It was still a gamble, he supposed. One he’d lost. One his sister had lost.

  His job now was to make sure his nephew didn’t lose as well.

  “Who is after him?”

  Gus closed his eyes.

  Vaughnne sighed. “Gus, I can’t help unless you talk to me.”

  “You can’t help.” He rested his head against the back of the seat. FBI. He didn’t know how they’d caught the attention of the FBI. He’d been careful. He’d broken laws, he knew, but he’d done his damnedest to fly under their radar, and that was one thing he knew how to do . . . very well.

  Nobody had reported the boy as missing, because they couldn’t afford the attention.

  So it wasn’t that.

  How, though?

  Not that it mattered.

  As soon as Alex was well, they would run. They’d disappeared before. Gus was becoming remarkably good at . . . disappearing. Perhaps his nephew could do tricks that would make David Copperfield look like an amateur and maybe he could do things that might turn a person’s mind to mush if he wasn’t careful, but Gus knew how to disappear and get lost in the world.

  They’d done it several times over.

  They’d just keep doing it.

  And keep doing it . . .

  Unconsciously, his hand clenched into a fist.

  “You’ll never stop running if you don’t make a stand,” Vaughnne said quietly.

  “Do not read my mind,” he bit off. He swung his head around to glare at her, but she was focused on the road, like nothing mattered except the stretch of pavement. “Ever. Do you understand me?”

  “Oh, completely.” A smirk twitched her lips and damn if that wasn’t appealing, he thought. Appealing as hell. “I couldn’t, Gus, even if I tried. I can talk inside your head as much as I want. As loud as I want. And I can do it from pretty damn far off, once I have your . . . channel, so to speak. But I couldn’t read your mind to save my life. That’s not my gift.”

  “Do not lie to me,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not.”

  “Then how do you . . .” He stopped.

  Vaughnne shook her head. “I know what somebody looks like when they are running, Gus. And people don’t usually run like you do just because it’s fun. They don’t drag around a kid they love just for kicks and giggles. You only live like you’ve been living because you feel like you have no choice.”

  “There isn’t one.”

  “Because you haven’t looked at all the options,” she said, a sad smile curving her lips. “Or maybe the other options hadn’t been there until now. But I’m giving you another option now . . . trust me.”

  “I don’t know you.” Gus couldn’t see Alex, but he didn’t need to see the boy to remind himself of the fact that the child had been the driving force in his life for so long now. Everything revolved around him. Everything would continue to revolve around him.

  “No.” Vaughnne nodded in agreement. “You don’t. But you’re going to. I’ll help you take care of him, Gus.”

  “I don’t need help.” He couldn’t need it.

  “If you’ve got the kind of trouble coming that I think you’ve got, you need all the help you can get.”

  NINE

  LYING to the cops came easy to him.

  Maybe it was a sign of how screwed up Tucker Collins was, but he could sit there on Vaughnne’s porch, sucking on a beer he’d swiped from her fridge, and lie to the cops without blinking an eye.

  And that was exactly what he did, all while keeping his hold on the two assholes across the street.

  One of them was a pretty damaging hold, too. Tucker wasn’t too beat up over it, even when he’d heard somebody shout, “Tell the paramedics to hurry it up—this guy is seizing on me!”

  He’d squeezed too hard. He didn’t care. The guy had that dark, malevol
ent feel to him that told Tucker one thing . . . the man had murder on the mind. It was amazing the things a guy like him could pick up just from reading the vibes in the air.

  Like now.

  The cop standing in front of him knew that Tucker was lying. His name was Officer R. Rand.

  R. Rand, Tucker thought. Well, Officer R. Rand had a good poker face and Tucker couldn’t read his mind. Thoughts and emotions were closed to him, but he could read the vibrations in the air . . . all of that crackled around the cop, hovered in the air around him, snapping like microcurrents, and those? Tucker read those things like they were the morning news.

  And the cop knew Tucker was lying.

  Tucker lifted the bottle to his lips and took another sip. Coors. Cheapest shit beer around, if you asked him. He hated it, but it would do in a pinch. Just then, all he wanted to do was look nice and laid-back. Uninvolved. He’d go for harmless if he thought he could pull it off, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  “You want to tell me again, Mr. . . .”

  Tucker smiled. “It’s Curtis. Rick Curtis,” he said, tossing out the fake name he’d decided to use for this job. He’d already turned over the fake ID and he was well aware he’d have to kiss it good-bye, both the ID and the persona, because the scrutiny he was getting from the cop was just not good. The ID would pass muster, for a while, he knew, but he had a feeling he just might have some problems on his hands. Shit. He hated that. He’d been here for years and he liked it. Liked his house, liked Lucia. Liked the work he did.

  It was over now, though.

  It wasn’t like he’d expected any of this to last forever, right?

  Bastards like him were remembered. It wasn’t the height, it wasn’t even the tattoos. It was the hair. Sometimes he thought about shaving it all off or dying it, but that required upkeep, and since he rarely got involved like this . . . why bother?

  Now he was wishing he’d bothered.

  “So.” Rand smiled. “Mr. Curtis. Can you tell me again what happened?”

  “Sure.” He slumped deeper in the seat, resting his chin on his chest as he eyed the house across the street. “I was hanging around here waiting for my girlfriend to get back. She was just heading out to pick up some food, maybe a movie, some beer that’s actually drinkable.” He shrugged and eyed the bottle he held with acute dislike. “Anyway, I heard a noise—people shouting. So I come out, see those guys on the porch, and you all are there.”

  “Your girlfriend supposedly had the guy across the street hop in the car with her.”

  Tucker heaved out a sigh. “Yeah? I’m out of town half the time and she’s out running around on me.” He gave the cop a dark look. “Women suck.”

  The cop didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Nobody around here recalls seeing you before.”

  “She just moved in.” Tucker shrugged. “I’m only here about a week out of the month because of my job. I live in Louisiana, actually . . . as you can see by my license. Work keeps me traveling a lot.”

  “And what exactly is it that you do?”

  “I’m a field service engineer.” He watched as the guy’s brows arched up into his hairline and he started to ramble on about how he spent nearly seventy percent of his time either taking QA calls or traveling to fix this, and that, which he had to do because the stupid motherfuckers who called the main office couldn’t handle the troubleshooting steps that he always outlined to them on the phone.

  Halfway through his little rant, Rand’s eyes started to glaze over, and once he launched into a detailed breakdown of his last “job,” the cop abruptly lifted a hand and nodded.

  “Okay, so you’re on the road a lot.”

  Hiding his smile behind his beer, Tucker drawled, “Oh, yeah. A damned shame I worked out a few days to come visit my lady and then I hear she’s out running around with some dumb-ass. When I get ahold of that guy . . .”

  The cop flicked him a look.

  Tucker gave him a shamefaced look. “Shit, I’m sorry. Vaughnne and I . . . well. Never mind. I’ll work that out when I see her.”

  “And that will be . . .”

  He frowned and pulled out his phone. He eyed the messages like he was waiting for one to magically appear, and damn it, it would have to be magical, because he didn’t think he’d given her his number.

  “I don’t know. I’m going to have to call her.”

  “Would you mind giving me her number?”

  Tucker straightened up. “Why?”

  Gesturing across the street, Rand said, “Well, we do have a bit of a problem across the way. The neighbor’s house was broken into. She was last seen with the neighbors, not that long ago, if you’d recall. It seems we should get to the bottom of it.” He gave Tucker a friendly smile.

  Tucker smiled back as he settled comfortably into the seat. “It seems you should. But, you see . . . Vaughnne didn’t really do anything except drive away. I don’t really feel comfortable giving you her phone number.”

  “Maybe you’d feel more comfortable down at the station.”

  Tucker lifted a brow and dropped the shucks, Southern boy charm. “Maybe you’d better produce a reason for taking me there first.” He shrugged and stood up, eyeing the mess going on across the street. The paramedics were there now, working on the men, calling out terms and phrases that Tucker was more familiar with than he cared to be. One of them would be fine, once Tucker dropped his hold.

  The other one, though . . . nah. That man’s mind was toast.

  He kept having seizures and Tucker didn’t give a damn. That son of a bitch had gone after a kid.

  “Do I need to look for a reason?” Officer Rand glared up at him, looking unperturbed by the fact that Tucker had a good eight inches on him, and unperturbed by the fact that Tucker was still on the porch while the officer was on the ground.

  “If you want me to go to the station, I’d suggest you find one,” Tucker said. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and decided when he ran into Nalini, he just might paddle her ass. And not just because she had such a nice one, either.

  If he got hauled in over this, there were going to be problems. A lot of them. There just might be . . .

  The sight of the black car pulling up in front of him didn’t do a whole hell of a lot to settle his mind. It didn’t do his temper much good when the door opened and a rough-looking bastard climbed out.

  The guy was even bigger than he was.

  Their eyes met over the distance and Tucker tipped back his head and sighed, staring up at the white painted roof over his head. He didn’t bother looking away from it even when the newcomer approached Rand, no doubt flashing his shiny little FBI credentials.

  “Special Agent Joss Crawford.”

  As Rand introduced himself, Tucker figured he’d studied the ceiling boards long enough and he lowered his gaze, staring at Joss Crawford from under the veil of his lashes. A little while back, he’d sort of worked with this guy . . . sort of . . . without really realizing it. Crawford had been working the FBI side of things, while Tucker did what he did best—work his side of things.

  Their sides had collided because one of Tucker’s few friends, Dru Chapman, had ended up right in the middle of the mess. Dru and Joss were shacking up now. Tucker thought she should get her head examined, but what did he know?

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take this man into custody,” Joss said, slipping Tucker a narrow look.

  Well, now. Tucker might not be able to read minds, but he could read that look easily enough. It clearly read . . . keep your damned mouth shut.

  Rand rested a hand on his gun. “And just why is that?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Officer, but it’s regarding an ongoing, sensitive federal investigation. This man has information on my case and he’s going to have to come with me.”

  “I am, huh?” Tucker stared Joss down. Y
eah, he read the look, all right, but he didn’t do the whole do-what-you’re-told thing well.

  Yes, a voice snarled into his mind. Or would you rather go to the police station? Keep your trap shut and you can walk away with me and I’ll get you out of this. Otherwise, you’re on your own and I don’t care if Dru gets upset.

  As that voice, strong and powerful, echoed through his mind, Joss just smiled and said to the cop, “I have the warrant, if you need to see it. Unless he’s under arrest here?”

  Tucker curled his lip. “They can’t arrest me for not ponying up a phone number.” He slid Joss a narrow look and thought hard. Stay out of my head.

  Joss didn’t bat a lash. “Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, son.”

  Son. Tucker snorted. Well, at least he hadn’t given up his real name. Sighing, he headed down the steps and fell into place at Joss’s side. Once they were halfway down the walk, Joss shot him a dark look. “Behave, dickhead. Where the hell is Vaughnne?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Joss laughed.

  “The sentiment is mutual, buddy. Now get in the car. I was in the middle of something when the boss called and I’d like to get back to it.”

  Once they were in the car, with the windows rolled up, blocking out the sound, Tucker stopped behaving. He gathered up the remnant energy rolling through him as he shot Joss a look. “You don’t even want to think about trying to take me to the FBI, Crawford. You hear me?”

  “Oh, suck my dick,” Crawford said, looking unperturbed.

  Tucker snarled and went to claw off one of his gloves. Even as the red of rage rolled through him, a gun jammed into his ribs. “You want to think long and hard about doing anything else. I know what you can do, Collins—in great detail. The only way you can stop me is if you kill me. I know killers. You’re not one. So either we call a truce or you cross a line you don’t want to cross. Which is it?”

  “You don’t get the gun away from me, you’re going to find out.”

  The air in the car all but crawled with tension as Tucker turned his head, stared into Joss’s eyes.