Born to Die

by Winter Austin

  A muffled voice from within the house made Eli look over his shoulder; then, with a growl so like his Scottish ancestors, he stepped aside and gestured for them to enter. Boyce flipped his wallet shut with a clap and shoved it in his coat pocket, nodding for her to precede him into the house. Once they were past the threshold, Eli pushed the door. Its violent closing rattled the glass along the same wall.

  Ginny Murdoch stood under the archway between the foyer and the living room. Behind her, on the large sofa, lay Jolie. Her normally pale features were more washed out, making the freckles that dusted her cheeks and nose pop.

  Struggling to pull herself upright, she winced. “Cassy, why are you here?”

  “To finish what we started last night before you were shot.” She faced Eli. “Have a seat, both you and Ginny.”

  “I’ll be standing.”

  “Suit yourself.” Cassy left him in the foyer and took a position by the fireplace.

  Ginny sat in a handcrafted wooden rocking chair, while her husband stationed himself next to her seat. Cassy noted Boyce’s post in the archway, helping her box in the Murdochs.

  “What’s this nonsense all about?” Eli demanded.

  Jolie lowered her head ever so slightly. Cassy’s heart ached for the woman. She knew all too well the sense of shame when she’d done something against Pop’s wishes or moral code. Eli Murdoch might have put a lot of stock in his daughter’s career as a police officer and expected her to be above reproach, especially when it came to family skeletons, but Cassy would be damned if she was about to watch the whole family implode as hers had after Nic was discharged from the marines.

  “How you answer me determines how this conversation will go. The choice is yours, Eli: friendly discussion or interrogation?”

  His eyes narrowed as he glowered. “Get on with it.”

  “How well did you know the Clydes? And was Ian involved with Kendra?”

  Ginny fidgeted in her seat, looking up at Eli.

  He inched forward, his mottled face turning red. “You think my boy had something to do with their deaths? And that girl’s disappearance? Ian is not a killer. I raised him better than that.”

  Ginny’s hand shot out, stilling his movements. “Eli.”

  “Those are not answers, Eli.”

  “What the hell? We barely knew the Clydes. They were large donors for our Christmas drive, and they would come to the party. That was the extent of our knowing them. If Ian knew their daughter, I have no idea. My son didn’t exactly discuss anything with me.”

  “Because you wouldn’t let him talk,” Jolie said.

  Eli jolted and turned on her. “I gave him plenty of chances to talk with me.”

  “No, Dad, you didn’t.” Jolie lifted her chin. “Every talk between the two of you ended in a yelling match and Ian storming from the house. He hated you.”

  Cassy shifted to put herself in Eli’s direct line of vision. “Do you think that hate was enough for him to start robbing gas stations and ultimately banks?” Jolie’s eventual nod and Eli’s crestfallen face were inevitable.

  “Robbing, maybe,” he choked out, “but not killing people.”

  “Mr. Murdoch,” Boyce said, “If there is anything I’ve learned in this messy business of law enforcement, it’s to never assume anyone is incapable of the worst mankind can inflict upon each other.”

  Eli lurched to an empty seat and collapsed into it, dropping his head into his hands.

  Ginny remained in her chair, gaping at her husband, tears pooling in her eyes.

  From across the room, Cassy made eye contact with Boyce. He signaled her to continue. Swallowing hard, she drew her shoulders back, ignoring the pinch of pain from her ribs. “Eli, we have to find Ian before something else happens. Jolie and I were close last night, and someone wanted to make sure we couldn’t stop them.”

  Eli shook his head, moaning. “Why? Why would he do this?” He lifted his head. The pain and anguish in his eyes made Cassy feel helpless. “Why would he hurt his family?”

  “You fought about money. A lot, from what Jolie told me. What were his reasons for being so angry about it?”

  Leaving her chair, Ginny moved to her husband and crouched next to him, taking his hand in hers. Closing her eyes, she laid her forehead on his shoulder. Eli looked up.

  “We gave allowances to both of our children and paid them for work they’d done, with the understanding it was to be used for their future or necessary items, like a car, gas, insurance. Ian burned through it. He was never satisfied. He’d ask for advances on his paychecks or borrow money from friends. One day I caught him using Ginny’s credit card. I thought he was using drugs, but … I couldn’t prove it.”

  “The fights got worse until Ian left,” Ginny said. “We thought he’d gone to college like planned.”

  “So Jolie has told me,” Cassy interrupted, “and I’m sorry to have to be frank about this, but you drove him to this.” Her hands came up to stall Eli’s outburst when his head snapped up and he glared at her. “I’ve seen this before, with my own family. My father drove my sister to unthinkable measures, but instead of retaliating in evil, she chose to do some good. She became a marine, like him, and when the option became available, she trained to be a sniper with Recon. Nic was good at what she did; so good, in fact, it changed her, and yet she never used that excuse for evil intents.”

  Cassy switched her focus to Boyce. “I blamed my father for what happened to her, for tearing our family apart. Granted, he was to blame, but I took it upon myself to punish him further for his sins when Nic gave it up. I was wrong.”

  A strange light appeared in Boyce’s eyes, stilling her heart. Was she a fool for hoping they got it right this time? Their rocky and sporadic relationship had taught her one thing: Loving someone who might not love you back hurt. Now that he’d come clean about his mother, his abandonment and his closed emotions … it all made sense; he didn’t know how to love. Anything close scared him into running. But that gleam shining back at her spoke volumes.

  It wasn’t about the sex or their ability to work well together. Boyce might actually love her.

  And for the first time, she was scared.

  “Ian’s doing the same to you, Eli.” Cassy’s voice cracked. “He’s hitting you where it hurts the most: your pride.”

  Eli hung his head. “What do you want us to do?”

  “We need access to his room, his computers, and anything he might have left behind here. And I want to know every cabin, hunting lodge, or abandoned farm he knows about. We’re hemming in Ian and his accomplice. These killings end now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  They spent over an hour at the Murdochs, tagging everything of Ian’s that would be searched and loading it into the car. Boyce put an end to Cassy’s evidence gathering when she stumbled carrying a box with Ian’s laptop and notebooks. She had been going nonstop since she left the hospital, and he was partly to blame for that, but he wasn’t about to let her lapse and need medical attention.

  She dozed off on the drive back to her house. With her defenses down, he took the opportunity to sneak peeks at her in the glow of the dashboard lights. She had been strong and assertive, forcing a man like Eli Murdoch to come to terms with reality. Boyce felt a shift inside him, one that was sudden and overwhelming.

  He’d grown to love her. Honest to God loved her. And it was doing funny things to his head.

  Like, if he loved her, then what was he going to do about his job? She wasn’t going to leave Eider; this was her home now. No way in hell would she consent to a long-distance relationship, and neither would he. He’d seen firsthand how fellow agents tried to juggle a relationship and the job and keep them separate. It never worked out.

  Despite all the hoops and the crap that came with the job, he liked working for the FBI. He was good at it, damn good. But he couldn’t just up and say he wanted to be transferred back to the Cedar Rapids office. It didn’t work that way.

  His head was a jumble o
f thoughts, one rolling over the other, with no end in sight. No wonder it was making him sick to his stomach. The mouth of the driveway loomed in the edge of the headlights. Slowing, Boyce turned onto the short lane. Whatever he decided didn’t have to be done tonight. Just like the case Ulrich dangled in front of his face, he had two weeks to figure this out.

  He parked the car—the lack of movement woke Cassy—and cut the engine as she stretched. Twisting in his seat to face her, he took her warm hand and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “I think you overdid it tonight.”

  She yawned then flipped her hand in his so she could intertwine them. “I’m fine. That little nap revived me.”

  “Sweet pea, you are recovering from hypothermia. You overdid it.”

  “Okay, fine, I overdid it. Now, can we go inside? I want to go through those notebooks.”

  He shook his head. “We’ll go inside, and I’ll even take the box, but you’re not looking at them until tomorrow. You’re going to bed.”

  “Killjoy.”

  “Always.” He released her hand and popped the trunk.

  Cassy entered the house in front of him, shucking her coat as she went. He stepped in, set the box down off to the side, and kicked the door closed.

  “Do you want anything … ?” He froze when he saw Cassy’s stiff figure. His gaze flicked to the left.

  In a high-backed armchair, back-lit by the Christmas lights, sat Mother. “Welcome home.” Her voice dripped with acid.

  “How the hell did you find me?” He barreled forward.

  Mother flicked her wrist, and someone stepped in behind him, restraining his arms and slamming a foot into the back of his right knee. A numbing sensation zinged up and down his leg, buckling his knee, and he went down. His coat was jerked down around his biceps, successfully trapping his arms. One rough hand grabbed a fistful of his hair, and the other twisted his right wrist, while his assailant ground a foot into his left ankle to subdue him.

  A strangled sound from Cassy helped Boyce push past his momentary pain. She was locked in a choke hold by Mother’s second bodyguard. The bitch who’d whelped him would pay for this.

  Mother snapped her fingers, and all movement stopped. “That’s better.” She rose from the chair and prowled toward them on silent feet. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Boyce. You played right into their hands. Played into mine, in fact. Like a little puppet on a string, you’ll dance for whatever master takes hold.”

  Her feet, encased in expensive black heels, stopped in front of him, and her henchman yanked Boyce’s head back to look up at her. Mother bent down, tracing a fingernail along his jawline. “Your little stunt in Memphis was inspiring. Tricking me into letting you inside my home so you could plant those devices.” Tapping the tip of his nose hard enough to leave a scratch, she leered at him. “Your first mistake was trusting the wrong people. Your second was thinking you could outsmart me.”

  “What makes you think I was trying to outsmart you?”

  For a brief moment, her mouth cocked to the side as she contemplated—possibly worried over—his statement, but then her fake humor returned. “Oh, how you do so remind me of me. One mind game to counteract another.”

  Turning from him, she sauntered over to Cassy. He gritted his teeth when he saw Mother pinch Cassy’s cheeks out of the corner of his eye. He gave Cassy props—she didn’t flinch.

  “Such a pretty face, except for this nasty little scar.”

  “What do you want?” Cassy spit out.

  “What every enterprising person wants: to keep their life from crumbling.” Turning on her heel, Mother walked to the center of the room. “You see, Ms. Rivers, my son is as guilty as me— he just tries to hide it behind the badge and pretend he’s above reproach.” She about-faced and, with hands on her hips, cocked her head to the side. “Sadly, he’s a killer and a liar. Oh, didn’t he tell you? I’m sure you wondered about those horrible burn scars, burns he received from my third husband. A man Boyce had no qualms about swinging from the top of our grand staircase.”

  Deflect, get her off that topic. Boyce shifted, hoping to dislodge the brute’s grip on him, but the man only tightened his hold. “If you know what I did, why bother coming here? Shouldn’t you be trying to salvage the situation and preventing any further damage?”

  “The FBI can look and listen all they want. They’re not going to find a shred of evidence to implicate me.”

  Her statement washed over him. Shit, the whole return to Memphis made sense now. “Who did you turn?”

  “The fact that you think I’m going to answer that is amusing.” Mother shifted her focus to Cassy. “My dear, Ms. Rivers is the reason I’ve come to this quaint backwater town and its horrible wintery conditions. I had to see for myself what kind of woman would garner so much attention from my traitorous son.”

  His worst nightmare come to light. Don’t panic. Be calm, collected. If she sees she’s drawn blood, we’re both done. “There, you’ve seen, now leave,” he volleyed at her.

  “You’re in no position to be giving demands.”

  A grunt from Cassy alerted Boyce in time to see her hunch over and throw Brute Number Two over her shoulder, slamming his body into the floor. Her movements were quick as she twisted his arm back in a lock and stomped her heavy boot into the side of his head. Brute Two went limp. Cassy’s hand flashed inside his coat and came out holding a pistol.

  Boyce lost sight of her as he was shoved face-first into the floor. He struggled to get the other man off of him, but the guy outweighed him, and with his arms trapped in the sleeves of his coat, Boyce was at a disadvantage. Letting out a furious roar, he banged his forehead against the floor.

  “Let him up. Now.” Ah, his Cassy knew just when to unleash her inner Nic. Hang on, sweet pea. I’ll back you up.

  “Or what?” Mother said.

  Wincing at the pain crippling his body, Boyce struggled to breathe. The man’s weight was crushing his chest.

  “Let him up, or I take a chunk of your skull.”

  Boyce stilled. Had Cassy just said what he thought she’d said?

  “You don’t have the fortitude,” Mother rebuked.

  “Want to test that theory? If you know anything about me, you know my sister is a damn good shooter. And she taught me a thing or two about kill shots.”

  He lay there, staring at the wood and trying to piece together what he was hearing with what he knew of Cassy. From the takedown move she’d done on Brute Two, she’d obviously learned how to protect herself from another kidnapping. But a kill shot? Had she actually been training herself to be a sniper?

  “Release him,” Mother hissed. “Now.”

  The weight lifted, and Boyce gulped in a lungful of air. Finally free, his wrist and ankle burned, and pain prickled along his backside. Shedding his coat, he pulled his arms under his chest and pushed up, rearing back on his knees. The sight that greeted him made him pause.

  Cassy had the barrel of a pistol shoved under Mother’s chin. He blinked, hoping his vision was playing tricks on him, but the image hadn’t changed. Cassy was actually holding his mother hostage.

  “Boyce, get on your feet,” Cassy said coolly.

  Doing as she ordered, he staggered away from the brute who’d restrained him. On the floor, the second man began to stir. A pair of cuffs flew through the air. Boyce reacted in time to catch them.

  “I’d cuff the one not about to wake up with a raging concussion,” Cassy said.

  This whole take-charge woman was fascinating. He slipped behind the guy, jerking his arms around his back. The brute stiffened, resisting Boyce.

  “Let him do it,” Mother snapped.

  Once Boyce had restrained the guy, he stepped on the man’s insole, bringing him to his knees, then laid him facedown. “Stay there. I wouldn’t want to see you take a bullet to the chest for being stupid.”

  Boyce moved to the other guy as the man flopped onto his back. “What are we doing with him?”

  “Extra c
uffs in the end table,” Cassy said.

  Boyce found them and clapped them on the douche bag.

  Cassy leaned into Mother’s personal space. “This nasty little scar came from an incident that taught me never to leave myself open to an attack. And you, Ruby Jean, have messed with the wrong woman.”

  “It appears you have the upper hand, Ms. Rivers,” Mother said. “What’s your next move?”

  Cassy lowered the pistol, took a step back toward the floor lamp, and flicked it on. “Here’s your chance, Boyce.” She holstered the weapon.

  Boyce glanced at the bodyguards, and it hit him. Mother was exposed, vulnerable, with no one to protect her. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had a free shot at her without worrying about who might come between them. Cassy had made it possible. A smile slid across his face. His woman certainly carried a surprise or two up her sleeve.

  Carefully maneuvering around the two men, Boyce advanced on his mother, noting how she tensed as he closed the gap between them.

  “How the tables have turned”—he slid his hands in his pockets to avoid strangling her—“and yet you have no condescending remark on the situation.”

  “It’s not as if I haven’t been in positions like this before.” She crossed her arms, drumming her fingers along her forearm. “Though, Ms. Rivers has spun this in a direction I wasn’t expecting. I fully expected her to pistol-whip me or some such brutal nonsense.”

  “This isn’t my fight.” With that, Cassy walked into the tiny dining room separating the kitchen from the living room, hauled a chair out from under the table, and planted it between the two bodyguards. She cradled her sidearm in her lap and held her cell phone in her free hand, her thumb hovering over the buttons. “Boyce, you have fifteen or so minutes before the rest of the department shows up to rescue us.”

  Fifteen minutes of listening to Mother ply him with her special brand of crap, or fifteen minutes of showing her the emotional pain and scars she’d left on him? He recalled her drilling her motto into him from an early age: Never show your enemy your weakness. What was her weakness? The thing that she protected herself from at all costs?