The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3)

by Gilley, Lauren

  No comment.

  Harlan braced both hands on the desk. “Let me help you, just one old friend looking after another. You want into Knoxville, you want that land, and I can help you get it.”

  The dealer popped one eyebrow. “What’s in it for you?”

  “I get to watch Ghost Teague’s world fall apart.”

  Thirty-Five

  He woke her at two, hands skimming over her skin in the dark, turning her toward him. “Say goodbye to be properly.” A smoky whisper against her throat.

  It was a slow, lingering joining, in their married bed. Lovemaking, she thought fleetingly, before the pleasure crashed over her. Is that what this was?

  He left before dawn and she kissed him on the front porch, clasping onto his shirt as he drew away, not releasing him until the last moment. He called her love again and her chest squeezed.

  How could she miss him before he was even gone?

  By noon, the daily grind had distracted her, so she wasn’t a total sappy mess of emotion. Becca was sick, and the extra work kept her running.

  At least until lunch, when Walsh called her from a gas station on the Alabama/Mississippi border.

  “How’d you sleep after I left?” Walsh’s accent was magnified through the phone, for some reason. Deeper and rougher; it made her toes twitch inside her boots.

  “Like a baby.” She held the phone between her cheek and shoulder while she oiled a bridle. “You know, for a no-account outlaw, you have the softest mattress.”

  “Hmph.”

  She laughed. “Well not no-account really. I can account for you.”

  “When you’re not sleeping like a baby.”

  She grinned to herself. “Are you worried I don’t miss you enough?”

  “No.”

  “Are you lying right now?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  It warmed her, inside and out, to hear his voice, to know that he disliked their separation. So many little things other women took for granted, that she’d never had, that Kingston Walsh was giving her.

  “I miss you plenty,” she said, putting him out of his misery. “How’s the trip going?”

  “We’re making good time. Aidan caught the biggest bug right in the mouth,” he said, a laugh teasing at his voice. “It was brilliant.”

  “Poor Aidan,” she said, chuckling. Tonya had already been by that morning, unusually subdued, and Emmie had gotten the impression things between the princess and the biker hadn’t ended well last night.

  “How’s it going there?” he asked. She could hear voices in the background, a bike engine starting, and figured he couldn’t talk much longer.

  “Fine. Same old same old. Becca’s sick, and Fred went to get lunch, so I’m cleaning tack.”

  There was a pause. “You’re there alone?”

  “Yes, and I’m fine, Walsh.”

  An engine revved on his end of the line.

  “Do I need to let you go?”

  “Uh, yeah, actually. But I’ll call again next time we stop. You be careful. I’m serious. I don’t like you there all alone.”

  “I know, I know.” She heard the low drone of a car engine outside. “Look, I’ve gotta go, too, that’s my next lesson pulling up.”

  They traded goodbyes – there was a distinct sense of something missing when neither of them said “I love you” – and she slipped the phone into her pocket, put the bridle away, stood.

  “Hello,” she called as she stepped out into the aisle. “How are you–”

  Amy Richards stood in the middle of the barn, mouth set in a firm line beneath her giant sunglasses.

  “Amy. Hi.” There was a knot in her throat, suddenly, and she swallowed it down. “It’s…nice to see you.”

  “Hello, Emmie.” Amy adjusted her sunglasses, probably because they were about to slide off and take her nose with them.

  “Um…” Old habits, it turned out, were indeed hard to fight. The part of her that was Emmie Walsh, who lived here, and presided over the place, and who hated what this family had done to her wanted to throw this bitch off the property, call the cops if necessary. But the part of her that had followed Amy like a devoted lap dog cringed at the idea of being rude to her mentor of almost twenty years.

  “You’ve made yourself right at home here, haven’t you?” Amy asked coolly. “Living in the house, fucking that biker, running my barn like it’s yours.”

  A bright spark of anger flared to life inside her, and Emmie grabbed onto it. She was no one’s lackey anymore, and she was done acting like one. “It is mine. You were all ready to throw it away, have the whole thing bulldozed, and then you want to act like I’ve taken something from you? I know all about your fiancé’s connection to the developers.”

  Amy stiffened.

  “I never did anything but work for you. I took care of your horses, cleaned your tack, groomed for you at shows, handled all your emotional meltdowns, and I did it all with a smile on my face. You know what, Amy? I’m not smiling anymore. What you did to me was awful, and I’m not going to say ‘yes, ma’am’ and take it anymore.

  “And we both know what happened to Davis,” she said, taking an aggressive step forward, ramping up. “I loved your dad like a grandfather, and you accuse me of pumping him full of heroin? Killing him? There’s only one druggie around here, and it’s your worthless son.”

  “Shut up,” Amy hissed through her teeth. “Shut up, bitch.”

  “Or what? You’ll fire me?” Emmie laughed. “No, I’ve bottled this up for too long. You’re selfish, and petty, and you’re a user. And Brett is nothing but a complete waste of oxygen. He’s offensively useless as a human being.” She laughed again, a high giggle. “God that feels good to say. Do you know that? I’ve been the dog you kicked for so long, but you can’t kick me anymore, Amy.”

  Amy trembled with rage. “You’ll wish you hadn’t said any of that,” she bit out.

  Emmie rolled her eyes –

  And something struck her in the back of the head. The pain flared white and brilliant.

  And then black, and she was falling, falling, falling…

  ~*~

  By the second gas stop of the day, Walsh was reminded that age and distance rides didn’t go so well together. Reminded also that the MC life aged you rapidly, made you sore and stiff in ways that desk jobs never did.

  He’d never trade it, though. His face had that good, sandblasted feel after too many hours of being pummeled by wind; his body quivered with subtle vibrations, even though he was off the bike, and he could taste the grit in his teeth. That’s what freedom tasted like: dirt and asphalt.

  “Oh my God,” Carter said, resting his forearms on the seat of his bike and leaning forward to stretch out his back.

  “You’re ten-years-old,” RJ told him. “Don’t be a puss.”

  “It’s those handlebars,” Aidan said. “What were you thinking with the apehangers? Your arms’ll fall right off going distance with that shit.”

  “I know that now,” Carter groaned.

  Tango patted him on top of the head as he walked past, and earned chuckles for it. “I need something to drink. Anybody else want anything?”

  “I’ll go in with you,” Aidan said. “I gotta take a leak.”

  “Be in in a minute,” Walsh said, digging his phone out of his pocket.

  He had seven missed calls, all from the same number. Fred.

  “Señor,” the man gasped when he answered the return call. “I tried to reach you.”

  “What’s wrong, Fred?” An awful prickling tingled across his skin. She’d been alone, she said. All alone…

  “Emmie. She’s gone. Her truck is here, but she is not. She’s gone, and I tried to call her, and she won’t answer. I went into the house, and she’s not there. She’s gone, and she left the beeswax out, and her drink is warm where she left it in the tack room, and there’s blood…” He was babbling, but it made all too much sense to Walsh.

  “Wait. Slow down. There’s blood?
Where is there blood?”

  “On the floor. Not much blood, but it’s blood, and she’s gone!”

  Walsh’s gut doubled up on itself. His breath jammed up in his throat. He tried to sound calm though. “Okay, Fred, listen to me. I want you to think, really think. Is there anywhere she might have gone on foot? Did that bloody horse jump the fence again and she went after him?”

  “No, Tally is here–”

  Beep.

  “Hold on, Fred, that’s my call waiting. It’s probably her.”

  He swapped the line over. “Em?”

  A masculine voice he didn’t recognize flooded his ear. “Kingston Walsh.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he snapped. “What–”

  “I have something that belongs to you. Something I’m guessing you want back.” Low, rough voice, very deep. “If you want to see your wife again, you need to follow my instructions.”

  Time stretched. The moment expanded, until it filled every corner of his mind, halted his breathing, drained all the blood from his head. He saw the boys coming out of the convenience store with bags full of sodas and chips, heard the flow of traffic on the street behind him.

  He must have been making some kind of face, because Aidan frowned and said, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  There was no label for the terror and fury that welled inside him. He didn’t recognize his own voice when he said, “Who the bloody fucking hell is this?”

  “You’ll find out. Wait for my text, and we’ll make arrangements.”

  The line went dead.

  “What?” Aidan repeated.

  Walsh swallowed. God, he couldn’t breathe. “We have to go back.”

  Tango and Carter crowded in around him.

  “Walsh, dude…” Aidan said, reaching toward him.

  “Someone took Emmie.” His voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. “We have to go back.”

  Thirty-Six

  More than halfway to Texas and back, and he didn’t feel the miles, didn’t feel the hunger, didn’t feel the exhaustion. Littlejohn had been driving the truck behind them, and he’d called ahead to let everyone know. The clubhouse blazed with light. Dawn was coming up, dovetail gray hanging over the river. It should have been a relief to be back home, but it felt like a start. Like the hours on the road had been nothing but a stall-out, and only now could he start doing something.

  Someone had Emmie. Her name was a chant in his head. He imagined every horrid possibility, felt her fear, screamed inwardly because he couldn’t reach her fast enough.

  Ghost walked out of the clubhouse to meet them, and the sight of his president grounded him. He could do nothing for his girl if he was this frantic.

  Deep breath. Focus. Get her back, solve the problem. Be the Money Man, and everything would work out, because he was bloody good at his job.

  “Have we had second contact yet?” Ghost asked as he reached the bike.

  Walsh swung off and pulled out his phone. “Yeah. Text came in a couple hours ago. Wants to meet at three this afternoon.” He tilted the phone so his boss could read the address.

  “Right. I assume we’re not waiting for that.” He gave Walsh a level look, one that was just man-to-man, and not president-to-VP. “This is your old lady, and it’s your call, VP. What do you wanna do?”

  “I want Ratchet to find out where Brett Richards lives.”

  ~*~

  The relentless, throbbing pain in the back of her skull woke her, finally. Opening her eyes proved difficult, but she managed to pry the lids up by sheer dint of will. Panic coiled tight around her throat, and her instinctual need for safety propelled her out of the dark, into a state of pained, chaotic awareness.

  She lay on her side, hands bound behind her, feet secured together. She was on the floor, cheap carpet scratching at her cheek as she tried to tip her head back. She smelled pot smoke and musty gym clothes, and when she caught sight of the two people standing a few feet away, she realized where she must be: Brett’s apartment.

  “…that wasn’t what we talked about,” Amy snapped, arms crossing like armored bands across her chest. She stood with shoulders squared and one hip cocked, feet propped at fighting angles. The anger hummed off her, carried through the carpet.

  Brett took a long drag off a cigarette and scowled at his mother. “Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

  Amy leaned toward him, tone vicious. “I said we could do this, but only when I thought it was just us. You can’t just invite people into our business, Brett! What if they go to the cops? What if they rat us out?”

  “They won’t go to the cops, they’re drug dealers,” he sneered. “God. You’re so stupid.”

  “Don’t you dare–”

  “It wasn’t my idea anyway. Grey asked where I got the H, and it was his idea to get Ellison involved. He said they’d take us more seriously if Don was backing us.”

  “Ransom is one thing, but the dealers–”

  “Oh my God!” he groaned. “Stupid, stupid. Ellison gave the Gannons the loan they needed to get started. Do you not know that, dumb bitch? Your man belongs to the dealers. All of us do!”

  “Don’t call me that.” Her voice shook.

  “Then quit being one!”

  Damn. And Emmie thought she had family problems.

  Her head was pounding, so she closed her eyes and tried to make sense of it. So they were trying to ransom her, no doubt so the Dogs would sell the farm to the Gannon brothers. And Agent Grey was in on it? Should have figured – the boys hadn’t been kidding when they said the guy was completely nutso at this point. And then there was someone named Ellison. A drug dealer?

  God, her head hurt.

  Sound of a door opening, footsteps coming in.

  Emmie opened her eyes again and fear rallied in her bloodstream as she saw the fake Detective Hanson, the real and former Agent Grey.

  “Don’s people are on the way. She’s secure?”

  Amy turned a flashing glare on him. “You didn’t tell me we were giving her to someone else.”

  Oh God, oh God…Being held captive by Amy and Brett was more pathetic than scary. But someone else? Someone she couldn’t guilt and use time and past history against?

  “It’ll be better this way, trust me,” Grey said. Then his gaze came straight to Emmie. “She’s awake? See, this is why I can’t trust you people,” he grumbled, pushing between mother and son and coming toward her.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, grinning as he crouched down in front of her. “I’m sure they won’t hurt you much.”

  “Can’t say the same for you,” she retorted. “Not when Walsh gets hold of you.”

  “Oh, honey. It’s cute you think that. He was only ever after your silence. The pussy was just a door prize.” He grinned again and shoved a handkerchief into her mouth, turning her next insult into a muffled grunt.

  A loud knock sounded on the door and Grey stood. “Get that,” he told Brett.

  He complied, letting in two colossal thugs in black tees and jeans, heavy combat boots, with matching bored expressions. There was a woman with them, a tall, pretty black woman similarly dressed, but with a crisp blazer over her shirt, and spike heels. Her eyes zeroed in on Emmie.

  “This is her?”

  “Emmaline Walsh, all ready for transfer,” Grey said.

  “Good.” The woman gestured to the thugs and one stepped forward, coming toward her.

  Emmie bit down hard on the handkerchief and fought the urge to scream. It wasn’t supposed to go like this! It was the Richards family who hated her, who wanted the farm. Drug dealers with meatnecked henchmen had never been part of the picture.

  The man took her by the arm with one giant paw-like hand and dragged her upright, caught her around the waist with one arm and threw her over his shoulder like so many potatoes. She landed on the unforgiving flat of his shoulder and it forced the air from her lungs.

  No, a voice in the back of her head shouted. No! No!

  Thoughts of the farm, h
er horse, Becca and Fred filled her mind, brought tears to her eyes. She thought of Walsh, of his gentle hands and his rough, accented voice. Where was he now? In Texas? Partying it up with his club brothers there? No one knew she’d been taken, no one knew where she was.

  “Hey,” Brett said as she was being toted out the door. “What about my money?”

  “Excuse me?” the woman asked him, coolly.

  “My money.” He had that indignant, spoiled brat lift to his voice. “I did the work for you, I got her here, and if I don’t get to ransom her, then I should at least get paid for it.”

  “No,” the woman told him.

  “What do you mean ‘no’?” Brett demanded. “This ain’t charity! I ain’t doing Don’s work for free!”

  The woman sighed – Emmie couldn’t see it, but she could hear the sound, and imagine the expression that went along with it. “The answer is no. Don’t make a big deal about it.”

  “Fuck you!” Brett shouted.

  Emmie heard a scuffle, a grunt. The woman said, “Don’t touch me.”

  “Bitch!” That was Brett.

  Then there was a gunshot.

  Emmie stared down at the carpet as her captor held her, helpless, gasping against the cloth in her mouth, shivering, as she listened to the shot echo in the small apartment. Listened to Amy’s awful shrill scream.

  “You shot him! You shot him!”

  She heard Brett’s body hit the floor.

  And she could do nothing but pray, as she was carried out into the hall, and toward new terrors.

  ~*~

  “This one,” Ratchet said as they drew up to the door of number fourteen.

  Walsh glanced up and then down the long hallway, saw that it was clear, and gave Mercy The Nod. The single gesture that unleashed major chaos.

  The big Cajun grinned hugely, hefted his sledgehammer in a two-handed grip, and went through the door into Brett Richards’ apartment.

  Or, rather, he used the sledge and all his body weight as a battering ram, knocked the lock through the doorframe hot-knife-through-butter style, and the door swung back on its hinges and buried itself in the inner wall, sheetrock dust flying.