Don't Say a Word

by Rita Herron

  Jacqueline gave him a silent look of thanks, stunned at his quiet empathy. But her mother stiffened her back and turned to her, a fierce anger in her expression. “I tried to tell you, Jacqueline, not to get involved with that man. Diego Bolton. He was using you to get to your father.”

  “What made you think that?” Damon asked.

  “Eduardo’s security team, they had information suggesting Diego was involved with illegal matters, that he was dangerous.” She pointed an accusing finger at Jacqueline. “I told you, but you wouldn’t listen. And when your father tried to send you away, you two argued so fiercely he feared he’d lose you if he pressed further.”

  Jacqueline winced, but Damon forged on. “Where did Jacqueline and Diego Bolton meet?”

  “At a charity function. Jacqueline…she liked to work with her father. She and Kendra…they always wanted to grow up and travel, and Kendra wanted to be a journalist, and Jacqueline said she wanted to produce photo essays.” Mrs. Braudaway knotted the edges of the afghan in her hands again. “Later Jacqueline decided to teach English in Mexico, but she continued her photo essays. She was obsessed with the children and portraying their needs.”

  “I do like children,” Jacqueline said, a slide show of several shots of the starving kids in Africa playing through her mind. “Like Father, I was interested in social issues. I photographed the hungry kids, the ones in need of medication, the poor conditions.” Diego had told her he’d admired her work. That he had contacts to help her raise money.

  But he hadn’t been what he’d seemed….

  “You organized several charity events with your shows, and those photos raked in thousands to raise awareness,” Mrs. Braudaway added, softening.

  “That’s where Diego met Jacqueline,” Damon filled in. “At one of those charity functions. He posed as an entrepreneur?”

  “Yes, he was charming. Generous. At least he appeared to be.” Tears glittered in Mrs. Braudaway’s eyes, and she directed her comments to Damon as if Jacqueline were invisible. “If only Jacqueline had listened. Such a smart girl with such a good heart. Yet she was always a fool with men. Always choosing the bad boys, the losers.” Her brittle tone cut Jacqueline to the bone.

  “And this time, her father died because of it. For that, I can never forgive her.”

  * * *

  DAMON BIT BACK A CAUSTIC remark at Mrs. Braudaway’s callous condemnation of her daughter. The finality of her unforgiving statement disturbed him, but the raw pain etched on Jacqueline’s face bothered him more.

  “Mother…I’m sorry. So sorry,” Jacqueline whispered. “I wish I could bring Dad back…”

  “I’m tired now, please leave.” Mrs. Braudaway turned toward the window and stared outside, the glassy, distant look returning to her eyes.

  Damon placed a hand along Jacqueline’s waist as she stood. He felt the fine tremors in her body and ached to assuage her pain, though only her mother could do that. But she’d cloaked herself in bitterness and grief, and exiled her own child.

  Damon thought of his parents and how much they loved each of their children, how they’d never abandon one of their own, how they were sticking by Antwaun now.

  But if they knew what Damon had done in the past, what he’d been through, would they still stand beside him? Or would he see the same type of pain and disappointment in their eyes that he saw in Mrs. Braudaway’s?

  Sweat beaded on his neck as he led Jacqueline outside to the car. She sank into the leather seat, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. A tear seeped down her cheek, and he itched to reach out and wipe it away, but his cell phone rang.

  He checked the number—his partner from the bureau—then flipped open the phone. “Dubois here.”

  “Damon, I got a hit on that key you found at the Yateses’ place. It belongs to a safety-deposit box.” He relayed the bank address and box number, started the engine, shifted gears and headed toward New Orleans.

  “What was that about?” Jacqueline asked softly.

  He glanced at her pale face and squeezed her hand, wishing he could do more. “That key we found belongs to a safety-deposit box that Kendra had. We’re going there now. Maybe there’s something inside that will lead us to her killer.”

  Jacqueline nodded, then closed her eyes again, and he stroked his thumb along her jaw. “I know your mother’s words hurt,” he said gruffly. “But your father’s death was not your fault, Jacqueline. One day, she’ll realize that and you two can talk.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” Jacqueline said in a strangled voice. “But if my involvement with Diego Bolton got my father killed, I don’t blame her for hating me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you,” Damon replied. “She’s just angry and bitter right now. In time, she’ll heal.” Hopefully so would Jacqueline.

  But he understood the blinding power of guilt and how it could destroy a person.

  Jacqueline dozed to sleep while he drove back to New Orleans, and he tried not to examine his growing feelings for her, the constant need he had to touch her, to ease both of their pain by making love to her.

  An hour later, she stirred as he parked at the bank. Brushing her hair from her eyes, he asked, “Are you all right? I could have taken you back to my house first…”

  “I’m fine. I want to see what Kendra put in that safety-deposit box.” She lifted her fingers and touched her face. “I have to know who killed my cousin, Damon. She’s more a part of me now than ever before. I owe it to her to help find justice for her.”

  He nodded, and they exited the car. The sky still hung heavy with gray clouds, the smell of rain and fear surrounding them as they went inside. Damon flashed his identification and explained the circumstances, then one of the bank officers led them to the safety-deposit boxes. Seconds later, Damon removed a large manila envelope from the box and sat down at a wooden table in a private room to examine the contents. Jacqueline joined him, her hands folded, her breath not quite steady.

  The files contained Kendra’s notes on Swafford. She had discovered that Antwaun was working undercover, and that Swafford had left the country to avoid being caught. Some of her notes indicated that an informant had told her that Antwaun had killed Swafford, but as Damon studied her notes, he realized that she’d questioned the informant’s revelations. Was this informant a cop? The one framing Antwaun?

  Damon searched but found no name listed. Dammit.

  Desperate for more, he skimmed through several pages and discovered his own name in the file. His heartbeat accelerated, and he read on, a sense of dread pitting his stomach. Kendra had uncovered information about the E-team. She’d thought Antwaun might be involved with the group, then had traced it back to him.

  “What is it, Damon?” Jacqueline asked, her shoulders hunched. “Did you find something?”

  “I’m not sure.” Panic slammed into him as he spotted notes on three missions the E-team had orchestrated. Three assassinations.

  He skimmed further and discovered information on two other kills that weren’t his, ones that appeared as if they were direct E-team missions. Some that Cal and Max had undertaken after he’d left?

  No. The next page indicated he had made the kills.

  His fingers tightened around the folder, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. What was going on? Who had told Kendra about the E-team? Had that knowledge gotten her murdered?

  And who had named him as the killer in those last two assassinations?

  Someone who was setting him up in case the E-team was exposed…

  Anger surged through him as other realizations followed. Whoever had done so had framed him for murders he hadn’t committed. Had betrayed him and wanted him to go down.

  You can never escape what you are, Cal had told him when he’d left the E-team. You’re a born killer.

  It was true. Even if he hadn’t executed the last two assignments, he had assassinated the others. He had been a hired and trained killer.

  So many secrets…Tell and you die.
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  The only way to save his brother was to confront his past.

  If he came forward though, the government’s reputation, the other special-ops groups, the country, members of the E-team, his friends, his family—they might all be in jeopardy.

  * * *

  REGINALD PACE STUDIED the sketches of Crystal—Jacqueline—his chest puffing up with pride at the intricate surgical procedures he had performed to piece her back together and give her the finished, polished look of a beautiful woman. He had documented each step and was ready to go public.

  But doing so would inevitably bring questions about how he had acquired the skin to transplant onto her face. He weighed his options. Utilizing the powers of his trade and his government connections, he could forge paperwork, signatures, and pull it off. Jeopardizing his position with the government though was a possibility.

  But he had to hide all traces of evidence linking him back to Kendra. And then there was the other woman whose face he had removed…

  A shadow moved in the waning light, silhouetted in the window of his office like a ghost. Several times lately, he’d felt something odd in the room, as if an ominous presence was near. Sometimes he thought he felt a breath against his neck, smelled the scent of a stranger. No. Not a stranger—the ointment he’d given Lex.

  But Lex was dead….

  The lights flickered off, then on, then off again, pitching his office into total darkness. He froze, waiting on the backup generator to kick in, but suddenly he felt that breath again. This time closer. It was tinged with a sour, vile odor that turned his stomach.

  A second later, a hand gripped his neck, then he felt the pressure of a knife pressed into his throat. He jerked to try and escape, but the sharp point of the knife traced a path along his skin, drawing blood. Fear roared in his head. And he opened his mouth to yell for help, but his attacker shoved the knife in his mouth and cut out his tongue. Pain screamed through him, and his mouth filled with blood, the gurgling sound of it spilling over and dripping down his chin as he slid to the floor to die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WHAT IN THE HELL had Kendra found out about the E-team?

  Damon parked in his drive, glad to be home. Once he’d felt safe and thought he could hide himself from the rest of the world here, yet tonight his world was crumbling apart. Knowing his past was about to catch up with him, he searched the perimeter, his nerves on edge.

  Sweat trickled down his back, and the palms of his hands felt clammy. Beside him, Jacqueline breathed unsteadily as if she, too, sensed danger in the darkness.

  Ever since that night he’d set the explosion and killed Diego, since he’d seen the woman trapped in the fire, he’d known the day of reckoning would come.

  He should feel relieved. If he was outed, he wouldn’t have to pretend to be the hero he wasn’t. He could skip that welcome at the upcoming Memorial Day parade and honor the men who actually deserved the recognition, instead of lying to the public. He deserved to be punished.

  But he’d wanted to protect his comrades in the war against evil, protect his country even if it had meant he’d sacrificed his own humanity. Then later, he’d wanted to protect his family from knowing that their son had fallen from glory.

  He hated to see them pay for his sins.

  “Damon?”

  Jacqueline’s soft voice broke through the barrier he’d erected since he’d opened that file. He’d told her that the file held notes of Kendra’s investigation into the dirty cop, Swafford and Pace, but he’d omitted the notes regarding his name and the E-team. He couldn’t tell her yet, either.

  He’d have to talk to Jean-Paul soon. Maybe tomorrow. Time to come clean and get to the bottom of this mess. If Antwaun was being framed because of him, he had to confess and face the consequences.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said quietly.

  She nodded and climbed from the car, looking weary, and he mentally kicked himself for his self-absorption. She was still weak from stress.

  At the corner of his house, he spotted a black cat in the shadows, then a gray one and a fat tabby on his porch. Others appeared out of the bayou, circling his house. Again, the hairs on his neck bristled, but this time he sensed that Esmeralda had sent the cats to protect them.

  He didn’t actually believe in her magic, did he?

  No, but Esmeralda believed and he accepted her eccentricities, felt comforted by this one, at least.

  His hand went to the Glock inside his jacket, and he relaxed slightly, relieved he had a weapon.

  Jacqueline had been through hell today. No, she’d been through hell for the last few months, mostly because of him. He desperately wanted to ease that pain, at least for the night.

  He guided her inside, the scent of old wood and the bayou filling the air, the photo of his family and their nearly hurricane-demolished home a reminder of all he had to lose.

  But he would have to hurt them to save his brother.

  And this woman?

  She roused every protective instinct in his Dubois blood, every desire to be a man she could depend on, one she deserved. Every need to hold her and bury himself in her and assuage his own guilt for causing her pain. For leaving her to die.

  He might not have the results of the fingerprints from the baby rattle yet, but his instincts told him she had been at Diego’s that day. What she’d been doing there, whether or not she was in love with the man, Damon didn’t know.

  But he was certain she hadn’t been a party to his violence.

  A thought struck him, and he went to his computer and coaxed her to sit down beside him in the cushy chair next to the ancient rolltop desk.

  “Damon—”

  “Shh, wait a minute.” He Googled her name and watched the results pop up on-screen. A magazine article featured her charity work for the youth of Africa, and another cited a list of her volunteer work in several countries. She’d been an ambassador for the poor herself—had used her father’s money to jump-start a foundation to help eradicate polio in developing nations—and had contributed photos to an art exhibit showcasing poverty across the world, raising awareness for her cause and earning her several humanitarian awards.

  He studied the images, then turned to see her looking at them with tears in her eyes. “The children…They are the ones who suffer,” she whispered in a strangled voice. “I hated to see them so hungry and in need.”

  He clasped her hands in between his. “Look at all the good you did for the world, Jacqueline.”

  “Maybe. But look how I destroyed my own mother and father.”

  God, her pain mirrored his own guilt for what he was going to do to his family.

  “You’re not to blame,” he said, desperate to convince her of the beautiful woman he saw.

  He captured her face between his hands and caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. “If you’re guilty of anything, it’s being good, so loving that you innately trust.” He couldn’t resist. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then lowered his hands to her shoulders and massaged her tense muscles.

  “Damon, these pictures, they don’t make up for hurting my mother. My father…he died because of me, because I was involved with a bad man…” Her voice broke on a sob.

  He dragged her into his arms and cradled her against him. “Diego was a terrorist, Jacqueline. He would have found a way to reach your father with or without you. He was a cunning, calculated killer. And he targeted your father because he was an ambassador to a country that supported the war. Nothing you did or could have done would have stopped him.” He stroked the sensitive skin of her neck, tilted her chin up so she had to look into his eyes. “You know that inside. And your father…he knows you loved him. That you would never have hurt him.”

  Not the way Damon was going to hurt his own family.

  But that was his cross to bear. Tonight was about Jacqueline, soothing her pain, assuaging the anguish of her mother’s words. Making her feel wanted and needed, and loved.

  His chest tightened, and he ment
ally shook away the thought. He couldn’t love her or anyone else, could not allow himself to dream about a family.

  Antwaun…

  The brothers had always vowed that nothing would come between them, especially a woman. And Jacqueline wore the face of the woman Antwaun loved.

  God help him, Damon wanted her anyway. Something about her, the sweetness of her soul called to him as if loving her could offer him salvation from his own evil.

  He would pay the price. But he wouldn’t let her suffer needlessly. He’d convince her that she was an angel compared to him, and that she deserved forgiveness, even if her mother couldn’t give it to her.

  * * *

  JACQUELINE LOOKED INTO Damon’s gaze, feeling raw and exposed. Her heart clenched with the need to believe him.

  He caressed her jawline with the pads of this thumbs, the gesture so tender that she nearly fell into him. She ached for his understanding and absolution, and hungered for the feel of his lips on her, his hands to strip her, his body to meld with hers until the pleasure robbed her pain and she was mindless with his touch.

  His eyes darkened with the same raw hunger, and he lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his, plunging his tongue between her parted lips with a growl of pure male passion. Her tongue reached out to dance with his in a primal ritual, and she lifted her arms and threaded her fingers into his thick hair, urging him closer. One second, they were kissing, and the next he rolled her off her chair, down onto the braided rug in front of the fireplace, and began to devour her.

  She arched into him, desperate for the coupling, but suddenly felt afraid.

  He removed his clothes and stood naked above her.

  He was strong and powerful-looking, and he had scars. A couple from bullet wounds, others that looked like war injuries. Seeing that he’d revealed himself for her, she stood and went to him, traced her finger over each one, kissed the mangled, discolored tissue, then pressed a hand to his chest.