by Kat Martin
“But I’m guessing you don’t know who that someone is.”
“I wish I did.” He straightened, liking the detective’s no-bullshit style and coming to a decision. “If you want to know who killed Petrov, I’d suggest you look for the guy who hired him to go after Ms. Kegan. Petrov mentioned someone named Weaver. That’s all I know.”
“Weaver. What’s his first name?”
“No idea.”
“So that’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
Bran leaned back in his chair and looked up at him. “I can tell you this much. Ms. Kegan’s late father was a colonel in the army. Some of what she’s working on is of a highly sensitive nature. At this time, neither of us is at liberty to talk about it.”
Galen’s jaw tightened. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and flipped it on the table. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”
Turning, he opened the door, stalked out, and slammed it behind him. Bran picked up the card and tucked it away just in case. He almost smiled to think what would happen when the detective questioned Jessie.
* * *
“You know I can hold you for forty-eight hours without pressing charges.” Galen stood on the opposite side of the table, his palms flat as he leaned down and glared at her.
“Seriously? You’re going to arrest me? Petrov and Graves came after me. All my bodyguard did was protect me. If anything, he restrained himself from hurting the men even worse.”
“Why didn’t he reveal his identity after the attack when he called 911 and gave the men’s location?”
“Because he didn’t want to go through exactly what he’s going through right now.”
A muscle ticked in Galen’s cheek. “You said Petrov and Graves were trying to stop you from writing the story you’re working on. What’s the story about?”
“I’m sorry, that’s my business. I’m an investigative journalist. Sometimes researching the subject matter involves a certain amount of risk.”
Galen blew out a frustrated breath. “You and Garrett, you’re a real pair.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
The detective shook his head. He’d been asking her the same questions for the last half hour, getting exactly the same answers. “All right, you can go. Just don’t leave the area. We might have more questions for you.”
“Fine.”
Bran was sitting on a bench along the wall waiting for her when she walked out of the interview room. She smiled. “We can go.”
He smiled back, clearly relieved. When they arrived at the SUV and climbed in, there was a note under the windshield wiper on the driver’s side. Bran reached around and grabbed the slip of white paper.
“What’s it say?” Jessie asked.
“‘You want info on Weaver, meet me at the Rooster, at ten o’clock tonight.’ There’s a cross at the bottom and the initial G.”
She leaned over to read the note. “It’s supposed to be a grave. Gravedigger. Harley Graves.”
He nodded. “He must have seen the news and heard they were looking for me, figured I’d come in to talk to the sheriff sooner or later.”
“The Red Rooster. I’ve driven past it. Kind of a seedy country Western bar.” She grinned. “Looks like we’re going honky-tonkin’ tonight.”
Bran cast her a glance, clearly unhappy with the idea. “I can’t leave you alone so I guess you’re right.”
Since it sounded like Graves might have useful information and she was tired of being cooped up in the hotel room, no matter how roomy it was, she was looking forward to the evening.
On the other hand, Petrov was dead. Whoever killed him was likely still after her.
“You think it could be a trap?”
Bran turned the corner, checking the mirror and taking a roundabout route as he drove back to the hotel. “It’s possible. But Graves’s note mentioned Weaver. If Weaver killed Petrov for not getting the job done, then he’s probably gunning for Graves, too.”
“How does Graves know we’re looking for Weaver?”
“Either Petrov told him or he heard me asking Petrov about him that night.”
“So you think Graves might be willing to trade information in exchange for our help.”
“Could be.”
It was crazy. Helping a man who’d been trying to kill her. Or at least hurt her badly enough to convince her to stop her investigation. But the way things were going, nothing surprised her.
Her stomach growled, reminding her they hadn’t eaten breakfast, and it was well past noon. “I’m starving. Let’s stop and get something to eat.”
Bran cut her a look. “Yeah...I’m hungry, too.” But the hunger in his eyes as they fixed on her mouth had nothing to do with food. Her insides curled. Maybe staying at home tonight wouldn’t have been such a bad idea.
EIGHTEEN
The air was crisp and cold, the night pitch-black as Bran pulled into the big asphalt parking lot. The Red Rooster Bar and Grill on B Street out I-25 was a single-story flat-roofed structure at the back of the lot, a cross between a cowboy bar and a bikers’ roadhouse. Dirty pickup trucks, motorcycles, and paint-faded beaters were parked haphazardly out front.
As Bran pushed open the door and surveilled the dimly lit interior, he noted the array of vehicles exactly matched their owners. Frayed jeans, scuffed boots, and battered cowboy hats at one end of the bar, bikers in studded black leather at the other.
It was an uneasy mix that undoubtedly kept everyone entertained.
Bran urged Jessie toward a pair of empty wooden barstools. The decor was part Old West saloon with a long bar and a carved wooden backbar, but the neon signs, mostly Jack Daniel’s, Shiner Bock, and Coors, were pure twenty-first century.
A bartender with greasy black hair and a black T-shirt that said Come Back with a Warrant walked over to take their orders. “What’ll you have?”
Bran glanced over at Jessie, who looked a little too fetching in her skinny jeans and ankle boots and low-cut sexy pink sweater. He’d tried to talk her into something a little more modest, but she’d rightly pointed out she’d fit in better in what she had on. Since she was right, he’d sucked it up and escorted her out of the hotel room.
“I’ll have a Lone Star,” Jessie said.
“Same for me,” Bran said. The beers arrived, not as cold as he liked, but he wasn’t there to drink so it didn’t really matter. He tipped up the bottle as he scanned the room for Digger Graves. They’d arrived early so he’d have time to do a little recon before Graves showed up. No sign of a trap, but he hadn’t really expected one.
He figured Graves was in deep shit with Weaver. He needed their help to stay alive.
It was a little after ten o’clock when Graves walked in, brown hair slicked into a man bun, worn jeans, and a long-sleeve camouflage T-shirt under a khaki vest.
“That’s him,” Jessie said, tipping her head toward the door. She had pulled her hair up in a ponytail, which made her look younger and even more tempting. Half the bar had been staring since she’d walked in. Reading the lust on their horny faces, Bran clenched his jaw against an urge to start throwing punches.
It was a new sensation, this possessive feeling for a woman. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t seem to get a handle on it.
Graves spotted them, made eye contact, and headed for a table at the back of the bar. He ordered a drink from a big-haired, buxom blond server and leaned back to survey the room.
“Let’s go.” Bran tossed money on the bar for their beers and set a hand at Jessie’s waist, making it clear she was with him as they began weaving their way through the battered wooden tables scattered around the room.
When they reached Graves’s table, Bran pulled out a chair for Jessie and one for himself. Graves’s order arrived, a boilermaker. He tossed back the shot of whiskey and chased it with a swallow of
beer. Bran ordered two more Lone Stars just to fit in.
He waited till the server walked away, then turned to Graves. “So I guess you know your buddy Petrov is dead.”
Graves tipped up his beer and took a long swallow. The shamrock on the side of his neck seemed to glow in the red neon lights as his throat moved up and down.
“Weaver had him killed,” Digger said, setting the bottle back on the table.
“He didn’t do the job himself?”
“Can’t. He’s in prison.”
Probably should have seen that one coming, but he hadn’t. “Which one?”
“Federal Correctional Institution, Florence. It’s about forty miles southwest of here.”
“Why does that name ring a bell?” Bran asked.
“ADX Florence,” Jessie said, her voice so soft his gaze shot to her face, which looked paler than it had before.
“ADMAX,” she continued. “They call it the Alcatraz of the Rockies. I wrote a series of articles about it. The most hardened criminals in the country are locked up in there, or people who pose a threat to national security. Remember Zacarias Moussaoui? He helped plot the September 11 attacks. Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the Boston Bomber, is also an inmate at ADMAX.”
Her gaze swung to Graves. “Leaders of violent gangs are sent there—men who continue to issue orders to their members even after they’re put in prison.”
Bran looked at Graves. “That what’s going on here? Weaver is issuing orders from inside?”
Digger shifted uneasily in his chair. “Pretty much.” He made a visual sweep of the room, on the lookout for any threat. “Weaver murdered three black cops in Georgia, got sentenced to life without parole. Slowed him down a little but didn’t stop him. He just kept running the Brotherhood from his cell. When they found out he’d ordered hits on two more men, they moved him to ADMAX.”
“So he’s there now?” Bran asked.
“He’s there, but two years ago, he got transferred out of maximum security for good behavior. He’s in a medium security facility in the same complex, which means he’s able to give orders again. Weaver says jump, the Brotherhood says how high.”
“Nobody’s figured it out?”
Graves took a swig of beer. “Big money in looking the other way. Bribes, threats, payoffs. Whatever works.”
“And you can’t go to the cops because talking’s a death sentence for sure.”
Graves nodded.
Jessie leaned toward him. “So the reason you’re giving us Weaver’s location is because you want us to intercede. Find a way to prove Weaver was involved in Petrov’s murder and maybe get him moved back to ADMAX maximum security where he’s locked up twenty-three hours a day and no longer able to communicate outside the walls of his cell.”
Digger looked at her as if she were the smartest person in the room. “That’s the idea.”
“If you want Weaver off your back,” Bran said, “tell us who paid him to order the hit on Colonel Kegan.”
Graves shook his head. “I don’t know anything about any colonel. You want to know who hired him, get the goods on Weaver. Maybe you can get him to tell you.”
Bran ignored a trickle of irritation. “If you want Weaver taken down, we’re going to need something to go on.”
Digger swallowed the entire second half of his beer in a few long swallows. Bran figured he was trying to work up his courage. Being a rat in the Brotherhood wasn’t the recipe for a long healthy life.
Digger set his empty bottle down on the table. “The way the hit on Petrov went down—a .45-caliber bullet dead center between the eyes—I’d look for a guy named Tank. Rides with the A-BOYZ out of Denver. That’s Tank’s signature, and it’s all I know.”
Graves set down his empty bottle, dug money out of his pocket for his drinks, and started to rise from the table.
Bran caught his arm as he walked past. “I don’t know how this is going to come down, but my advice is you get as far from Colorado as you can.”
Graves nodded. “I hear you, man.” Turning, he strode out the door without looking back.
Bran tossed down a few more bills, waited a couple of minutes, then he and Jessie followed. Unfortunately, two of the guys who’d been eyeing her earlier rose and followed them outside. The bastards had decided to try him on, find out how serious he was about protecting her.
His jaw went iron-hard. Leading her farther away, he handed her the keys to the Expedition. “Get in the car and lock the doors.”
Her glance went from him to the men lining up outside the front door, three of them now, big and ugly. Perfect. He needed to work off a little stress.
“No way,” Jessie said. “I’m not abandoning you.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Go on, Jessie. Dammit, do what I tell you.”
“We go together or not at all.”
His jaw went tight. “I swear to Christ...”
She lifted her chin. She wasn’t budging. He wanted to paddle her sweet little ass or kiss her. He wasn’t completely sure which. He’d never had a woman willing to put herself out there for him the way Jessie did.
“Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.” Reaching inside his bomber jacket, he pulled his Glock, turned, and aimed it at the three approaching men. “The lady says she doesn’t want me to bruise my knuckles, so I guess I’ll just have to shoot you.”
Jessie gasped. The three men stopped dead in their tracks.
“He’s a former Special Forces soldier,” Jessie rushed to tell them. “You’d be smart to go back inside.”
They grumbled something between them. One of them started forward, but another pulled him back. “Don’t come around here again,” the third man warned as they sauntered back into the bar.
A relieved smile broke over Jessie’s face. “Now, see how easy that was?”
Bran just shook his head. He couldn’t hold back a grin. “You are really something, lady.”
She glanced back over her shoulder, saw more people drifting out of the bar. “I think we’d better go.”
He followed her gaze. “Good idea.”
Neither of them spoke as he drove back toward the hotel, watching his mirror and checking their surroundings, making sure he wasn’t being tailed.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Jessie said as the lights of the Holiday Inn appeared up ahead.
Bran slanted her a glance. Her uncertain expression didn’t bode well. “Yeah, what’s that?”
“Those terrorists locked up in ADMAX? One of them is a domestic terrorist named Joseph Konopku. He instigated power blackouts in Wisconsin. He was also involved in a thwarted attack using potassium cyanide and sodium cyanide in the Chicago subway system.”
“Chemical weapons.”
“That’s right.”
Bran considered what would happen if the missing munitions were detonated in an underground facility like a subway.
“Fuck,” was all he said.
* * *
Bran had been in a foul mood ever since they got back to their modest hotel suite. He was worried, she knew, about what steps to take next. A wrong move could get both of them killed.
And because she was Danny’s sister, he felt a deep sense of responsibility for her safety. After their conversation in the Mexican restaurant, she knew he still carried a great deal of survivor’s guilt. He blamed himself, at least in part, for Danny’s death. She could see the weight he carried on his usually straight shoulders. But just because she had gone to him for help didn’t mean she expected him to carry all the burden.
It was well after midnight, and he was still sitting in front of his laptop. Jessie came up behind him and slid her arms around his neck.
“Let’s go to bed. I’m pretty sure I can take your mind off criminals and murder, at least for a while.”
He looked at her over his shou
lder, and she saw a flare of heat in his amazing blue eyes. “I’ve still got some work I need to do.”
“I was thinking maybe we could start again in the morning.”
The heat turned to flame as he shot up out of the chair and swung her up in his arms. “Jesus, I think I’ve created a monster.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
He grinned. “I think I’m the luckiest guy in Colorado.” Cradling her face between his hands, he kissed her, long and deep, and carried her into the bedroom.
Their lovemaking was slow and easy, both of them exhausted after such a long day. She was sure Bran was still being careful with her, making sure he didn’t do anything to upset her. But nothing about him reminded her of Cummings, and she was beginning to want more, want the demanding lover she sensed beneath his careful concern.
Still, when she awoke the next morning, she felt content in a way she hadn’t in a very long time. Bran was on his phone when she walked into the living room in her white terry robe, following the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She yawned as she poured herself a cup and refilled Bran’s mug on the table next to his computer.
“Looks like you’ve been hard at work while I’ve been sleeping the morning away,” she said, picking up on his serious expression.
“I talked to Tabby, told her we found Weaver, that he’s locked up in ADMAX but still giving orders. She hasn’t come up with anything more on the offshore account, but she’s still working on it. Mara Ramos’s plate number checked out. Belongs to a white Toyota Camry, but her address is in San Diego, California. Apparently, Mara never changed the registration when she moved to Colorado.”
“Or maybe San Diego is still her primary location.”
“We’ll find out,” Bran said. “I also talked to my brothers, Chase and Reese. They tend to get cranky if I don’t check in once in a while.”
She took a sip of coffee. “So what did your brothers have to say?”
“Chase said not to worry about the plane and to call if I needed any help. I told him at the moment we’re better off keeping things on the down-low.”