GRAY WOLF SECURITY, Texas: The Complete 6-Books Series

by Glenna Sinclair

  It was devastating to realize that my wife’s final hours were filled with the indignities that she feared so much that she hid even from me, the one person she should have been able to trust the most. They didn’t have to torture her. Forcing her to undress was torture enough. And then the sexual assaults…it was insult after insult. It was the worst thing they could have done.

  I hated that this happened to her. I wanted to destroy the man who dared to do this. So, when the police called and told me they had Mickey Connors and that he’d confessed, I put all my energy into hating him, into planning his death. For ten years, I plotted my revenge. But in doing so, I blocked out the truth.

  “It wasn’t him,” I said softly.

  Harley touched my face, forcing me to look up at her. “What?” she asked.

  “Not alone. Not like he said. The story he told simply doesn’t match what the evidence shows.”

  Maybe I’d known it all along. Maybe I ignored the truth because it would mean that I’d have to acknowledge just how bad it had been for Jesse. Maybe I wanted to cling to the idea that she was simply shot in the commission of a crime, that she wasn’t the target. Maybe I wanted to believe that had I been there, it wouldn’t have made a difference in the outcome.

  Maybe it was simply that I didn’t want to know the truth.

  My cell phone began its incessant buzzing. I knew it would be David just like it had been the last half dozen times. I wished he would back off, just give me the time I needed to deal with this.

  And then the phone by the bed began to ring.

  “Looks like the world is determined to get us out of bed.”

  Harley hesitated, clearly not ready to end this line of conversation. But then she sat up and leaned over me to pick up the receiver.

  “James?”

  She listened a moment, her eyes dropping to mine. Then she held the receiver out to me.

  “He says there are some men at the front gate demanding to speak to you.”

  I sat up, recalling the dark Cadillac that had followed us from the hotel.

  “Took them long enough.”

  Chapter 8

  Harley

  They were all average-looking men, not tall, but not short, all wearing dark clothing that might have been the part of any teenage boy’s wardrobe these days. They weren’t teenagers, however, but all men in their late twenties, early thirties. One or two were significantly older. The one who spoke was Kipling’s age, or maybe even a little older. He came to just below Kipling’s shoulders, but he stood with his legs slightly splayed, twisting a ring on his finger, like he thought he was tough stuff and he was warning Kipling with his body language to stay back.

  “We understand you’re looking into the death of Mickey Connors.”

  “How do you know that?” Kipling asked.

  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We have friends at the prison in Huntsville.”

  “That’s what we heard.”

  “You would be better off stepping back from your little investigation. We’re being kind in offering you a warning. Please don’t make us take further action against you.”

  I was shaking in my boots, quite literally. But Kipling simply crossed his arms over his chest and stood his ground.

  “We’re actually more interested in the rape and murder of a woman and her child in Houston ten years ago. The crime for which Connors was imprisoned.”

  A spark of understanding flashed in the man’s eyes before he turned slightly, hiding his face from me. Again, he twirled that ring on his finger as the wheels were clearly turning in his head.

  “We have no knowledge of that case.”

  “I doubt that’s true.”

  “Why would we know about this case?”

  “Because you paid Connors to confess.”

  I didn’t miss his expression that time. He glared at Kipling, stepping into him like he thought his ugly expression would be enough to make up for the lack of height and weight he carried compared to Kipling.

  “That’s an ugly accusation, Mr. McKay,” he said, nearly spitting out the words. “You shouldn’t make accusations without the power to back them up.”

  “I know you did this. I know you are probably fully aware of who was in that house that night, what went down, and why.”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you about it.”

  “Why? What could happen now? The police think the real culprit is dead. They don’t care about theories and accusations.”

  The man was quiet for a moment, stepping back and glancing at his companions like he honestly wanted their opinion on some unspoken thought.

  “And if I, hypothetically, told you that the driving force behind what happened that night has long been in his grave, would it change your interest in the case?”

  “No. We know there was more than one person there that night.”

  I swear a flash of guilt moved over the man’s face at that. Was he there that night? Did he know what really happened to Jesse and Grace?

  “Was Mickey even there?” I demanded.

  The man’s eyes flicked in my direction, but he didn’t really acknowledge me.

  “You’re not going to get the answers you want. Like I said, the driving force behind the events of that night is gone. The other men who were there were simply supporting cast.”

  “But you know who they were and where I can find them?”

  “What would you do with them if you found them?”

  Kipling stepped toward the man, this look on his face that frightened even me.

  “I would skin him alive, make him feel just an iota of the humiliation and pain my wife felt that night.”

  My blood suddenly ran cold. I’d heard Kipling make threats against Mickey over the years, but never anything that clear and direct.

  “We just want the truth,” I said, my voice a little weak. No one paid attention to me. No one seemed to notice that I was even in the room.

  The man stared Kipling down—or up, really—and nodded.

  “I get it,” he said. “If it was my woman, I might feel the same. But you must understand that we couldn’t rebuild our organization if we were going around, handing over men who’d gotten themselves into delicate situations more than a decade ago.”

  “I don’t really care about your organization. I care about avenging my wife’s murder.”

  The man inclined his head. “Do what you feel is necessary. Just know that we can’t just sit back and let you mess with our people. You come at us again, and we’ll have to deal with you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The man surprised me by stepping forward again and holding out his hand to Kipling. Kipling shook it as if he was entering into a business deal with some buddy or something. It all seemed just a little surreal to me.

  “How could you do that?” I demanded as soon as James showed the men out. “How could you say what you did?”

  “What did I say?” Kipling asked, moving to the back of the room, more interested in looking out on the back garden than at me.

  “How could you tell them you wanted to kill the people behind this? You know we need them to go to the police and make a confession if we’re ever going to clear Mickey’s name.”

  “What makes you think I’m interested in clearing Mickey’s name?”

  It was like a slap in the face. My heart felt as though he’d taken it in his fist and crushed it.

  “Then why are you here? Why did you come to Houston with me?”

  “To learn the truth once and for all.”

  “Mickey’s innocent.”

  “When we find the guys who were there, then we’ll find out if that’s true. But until then, we can’t assume that Mickey wasn’t involved in some way.”

  “Of course we can. Mickey doesn’t hurt children.”

  He turned, his eyes narrowed as he stared me down. “You were his sister. You saw him through a pair of rose-colored glasses. You don’t really know what Mickey was capable of.” />
  “No. You know what I didn’t know? How cruel you could be.”

  He actually smiled, this humorless smile that burned through me. I turned away because I couldn’t stand the sight of it. What the hell had I been thinking? Did I really believe he could move past all the grief and the anger and the resentment that had built up over all these years? Of course not.

  We were both in this for our own reason, both had our own agendas. A little roll in the hay didn’t change that.

  Kipling suddenly charged across the room.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to that drug dealer. I think he’s got a lot of the answers we need.”

  “Now? After what that man said?”

  “He was just blowing smoke up our asses. If they wanted to hurt us, they would have done it back at the hotel.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Do you want the truth or not?”

  Did I? How could I not? That was all that was left.

  ***

  The house looked just the way it had the day before. Kipling parked in the same spot across the street, thrusting the transmission into park as he leaned over and took his gun out from under his seat. I watched as he pulled out the clip and checked it before sliding it back inside. Then he shoved the gun into the back of his waistband before climbing out of the car.

  I followed at a near run, rushing after him as he crossed the lawn and strode up to the front door. He wasn’t trying to hide anything; he wasn’t moving with any stealth or subtlety. Cautioned seemed to be something he no longer cared about.

  He pounded on the flimsy door, the pressure of his fist against wood making the damaged thing vibrate hard in its frame. He waited maybe a couple of heartbeats, then knocked again, louder and harder. After the fourth knock, the door was wrenched open by a short man in his early forties wearing nothing but a pair of baggy shorts.

  “What the fuck?” The man had a gun, and he shoved it into Kipling’s chest. “This better be good, asshole.”

  Kipling easily twisted the man’s arm, squeezing his wrist until he dropped the gun. Then he shoved him up against the wall, pressing his nose into it so roughly that I could actually see it become distorted, blood beginning to pour down his chin onto his chest.

  “You Jaime Hernandez?” he demanded.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Kipling shoved his head forward, pushing his nose that much harder against the wall. “Your worst nightmare if you don’t answer my damn questions!”

  “Let him go!”

  I turned, gasping as I saw a woman on the other side of the room with a double barrel shotgun pointed at Kipling’s back. Kipling didn’t turn. He simply pulled his gun and pressed it against Jaime’s temple.

  “Lower the gun or I blow him away.”

  The woman didn’t even flinch. She fired a shot just above Kipling’s head, causing particles of drywall to shower his dark hair. I cried out, backing out the door a few inches. Kipling glanced at me, gestured for me to keep going, but I wasn’t about to leave him alone with these people.

  “Put the gun down, lady,” Kipling repeated.

  “I got it,” a male voice said. And then another man was coming up behind me, gently moving me out of the way as he headed toward Kipling, pausing first to pick up the gun Kipling had stripped from the Jaime Hernandez’s hand.

  “Haven’t been in the field for nearly two years. Forgot how good this feels,” the second man said as he took control of Hernandez, snapping what looked like plastic ties around his wrists before pulling he back from the wall.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Kipling demanded. But it was pretty clear he wasn’t angry. Just confused.

  I was, too. I stepped into the house as the two men secured Hernandez and his woman on chairs they brought from the kitchen. Then the second man embraced Kipling, laughing a little as they talked over each other.

  “Ash is here, too, man,” the second guy said. “We flew out the minute David called and said you might need a little help.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “We wanted to do that. We drove down here this morning. You would know if you’d answered any of David’s calls.”

  “Where is David?”

  “Checking hotels, looking for you.”

  I was lost. I knew David was Kipling’s boss at Gray Wolf, but that was about all I knew. I assumed these guys worked for Gray Wolf, too, but I wasn’t quite sure.

  “Harley,” Kipling said, calling me over, “we should do this before the neighbors call the cops.”

  “Doubt the neighbors care much,” the first guy, the one still hovering around the woman, said.

  The second guy stepped back a little and held out his hand to me.

  “Donovan Pritchard. I was in Kipling’s unit over in Afghanistan a lifetime ago.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “And that’s Ingram Porter. He works for Gray Wolf Security out of Austin.”

  I nodded to Ingram, my eyes wearily watching as Kipling approached Jaime. He was making me nervous, all the guns and the big talk back at the house. I was really getting worried that he might do something we couldn’t take back.

  “And you’re Harley Connors, right?”

  “I am.”

  “Have you ever seen an interrogation?”

  I shook my head.

  “If you’d rather, we could wait outside together.”

  I shook my head again. “I need to be here.”

  Kipling was walking slow circles around Jaime Hernandez. The man watched him for a moment, his eyes doing weird things as he tried to keep an eye on him even when he was behind him. But then he stopped and leaned close to Jaime, his face only inches from the other man’s.

  “You know Mickey Connors?”

  Fear rushed over the man’s face for the first time since we’d arrived. Before he’d been defiant. But now? It was pretty obvious he had a good idea what we wanted.

  “He was a client, man, nothing more.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “He was, man! Meth. Heroin. The occasional hit of coke. That’s all.”

  “You ever ask him to commit a crime for you? Ever instruct him to break into a house or someone’s car.”

  The guy turned his face away from Kipling. “Naw, man. Why would I do that?”

  “Ever encourage him to take the rap for someone else’s crime?”

  Again that flash of fear.

  “Why would someone take credit for another man’s crime? That’s just fucking stupid!”

  Kipling smacked Jaime across the side of his face, making his head jerk back. I jumped. Donovan moved closer to me, his hand on my arm like he thought I was going to try to interfere. I just stood there, watching, half of me cheering Kipling on, hoping he’d get the answers we needed. The other part of me was trying to consolidate this angry, violent man with the man who’d touched me with such empathy and passion this morning.

  “We know what you did. We’ve seen the bank account. We know you paid Mickey to confess to murdering that woman and her kid ten years ago.” Kipling moved around Jaime again, walking behind him so that Jaime couldn’t see where he was. Then he smacked the back of his head with an open palm. “We know you’re the one who did it, and we know you were put up to it by the Russians.”

  “Then you know that if I tell you anything, they’ll kill me.”

  “If I thought your sorry ass was worth saving, I might actually care.”

  Jaime swiveled his head around on his neck, trying to see where Kipling was, but Kipling was careful to stay just out of his line of vision. So Jaime focused on me.

  “You his woman?” he demanded. “Tell him I can’t snitch on the Russians! Tell him they’ll kill me! You people have no idea what the Russians are like, what they do to people! You have no fucking idea!”

  “Don’t talk to her,” Kipling snarled. “You are a fucking piece of trash! You’re not good enough to speak to her!
”

  Kipling stepped between Jaime and me, smacking him on the head again. The woman screamed.

  “You’re hurting him!”

  It might have been comical, given that both of them were currently tied up, if the whole thing hadn’t been surreal. I had told myself that Kipling wasn’t capable of the kind of violence he’d threated to those Russians who came to my mother’s house. Now I was beginning to wonder if he was.

  “Did you tell Mickey Connors that the Russians wanted him to take the fall for a crime one of them had committed? Did you tell him what to say? Did you arrange the payment he received?”

  When Jaime didn’t answer immediately, Kipling raised his hand to hit him again. But the man didn’t seem interested in another blow to the face.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay, man. I’ll tell you if you’ll just stop hitting me!”

  Kipling stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting.”

  Jaime glared at him, then at me and Donovan and Ingram. The only person who didn’t get the death glare was the woman, but that was probably because she was babbling about the things that would happen if he told.

  “Shut up, woman!” he finally said, his death glare coming back to Kipling. “This thing is ten years old. Why the fuck are you coming here now? Where were you back then?”

  Kipling just gestured for him to get on with it.

  “Look, it had nothing to do with me. I was just the middleman.”

  “Who told you to set Mickey up?”

  Jaime shook his head. “My contact. I was running drugs for the Russians, and I always met with the same guy, once a week. When I went to get my supply this one time, he told me they’d give me a deal on the drugs if I found someone who might be willing to serve a little time for one of the big bosses. Gave me a script and everything, told me to make the guy memorize it before he turned himself in.”

  I felt a sudden chill. I wrapped my arms around my chest, shivering a little as I watched, unable to tear my eyes from the scene unfolding in front of me.

  “I picked Mickey because he was jonesin’, standing in front of my house, pacing on the sidewalk. I told him about the deal, asked if he’d be interested. He said he couldn’t do it…he had things to do on the outside, but then he came back like a couple hours later and said he’d do it.”