by Christa Wick
I hadn’t yet invoked my right to an attorney, but I didn’t take the bait of her threats. She was too much like the useless counselors back in school, always trying to scold and threaten me into more regular attendance and completed homework when they didn’t have a fucking clue what the real facts were.
Same gray hair, same polyester skirt suit in dark colors with their low-heel dress shoes. Same fucking holier-than-thou attitude.
I waited, chained in place, for about fifteen minutes before McCready entered. She carried a thick file and had some new guy in a suit trailing after her like a puppy. He waited for her to sit, but she slammed the file down and started pacing the floor.
I watched the act, wondering what came next when the door opened and they brought Callan in. His face looked better, but only marginally. About half the swelling had gone down and he had stitches above his left brow and along his cheek on the same side. His left hand was bandaged, both hands secured in front of him with cable ties.
The guard placed Callan in the chair next to me with the same force he had used on me. Maybe the rough handling was because of the dead DEA agents or maybe the agency just wanted us to know who was in charge. Like the cuffs didn’t tell us that already.
McCready’s gaze moved from me to Callan. She smiled, her eyebrows lifting with the phony gesture. “I wanted your girlfriend to be here when you sell her out.”
“You’re boring me,” Callan told her. “Get on with it.”
A small thrill ran through me at his insolence. I remembered all the times I had wanted to talk back—to my teachers, my father, the manager at the diner I waitressed at, and Queen Bitch Freya herself. I had always been afraid to rock the boat. I’d witnessed from an early age what my father did to my mother when she talked back.
Callan didn’t know that kind of fear. I wasn’t sure he knew any kind of fear.
McCready looked at me, her brows crawling higher. “I’m trying to discuss whether you’re even alive next week and I’m boring him. You should choose your lovers more carefully, my dear.”
I shrugged, but my chest drew a little tighter. The dark glittering in McCready’s gaze told me she could read the tension running through my body.
Callan said nothing, just drilled a hole through the woman with his hard stare.
She blinked first. “You’re a lot like your brother, Mister Tilley. Lincoln wouldn’t listen to me either.”
He brought his hands up and placed them on the table. Next to McCready, the man scooted his chair half a foot from the table. The gesture provoked a smile in Callan. A few hours ago, he had been handcuffed and bloodied in the back seat of a Crown Victoria, the only destination given an early grave. Now the men who had put him in that vehicle were dead. The man in the suit knew that and Callan scared the shit out of him.
Not McCready. She didn’t flinch, but her gaze remained frozen on Callan’s hands even as he started talking.
“That fuck driving the car testified at Lincoln’s trial.”
McCready looked at the man next to her. He nodded. She flicked her hand at the revelation. “What’s your point?”
“He’s on Big Red’s payroll. Both of them were.”
McCready folded her arms across her chest, her expression dripping with an oily smugness that made me want to retch. “Tell me something I don’t know?”
That stopped Callan for a second. He gave a short shake of his head then laughed. “That’s good enough to get Lincoln a retrial.”
“How does that keep Miss Watkins alive when I drop her back in Thunder Valley to face charges for stealing her father’s truck?” Taking a piece of paper from the folder, McCready pushed it between us. “Or do you care more about your brother’s freedom than your own or Avery’s life?”
I glanced at the paper. It was a photocopy of a complaint with the Thunder Valley police department. My father’s drunken scrawl cut through the signature line.
She shoved more papers in front of us. First, she showed us a statement from one of the agents on the scene reporting how the brick of money in my backpack had tested positive for trace narcotics, indicating that it had recently been used in the drug trade. The second was another agent report, this one detailing how he had seen me from his position in the helicopter trying to stuff Baldie’s body back into the car.
“If the Steel Tide lets Avery live, we’ll indict her on federal drug charges and accessory to the murder of two federal agents.” McCready took the pages back before I could finish reading. “You might get off on the murders, but you either have to claim the drug money or admit to stealing it.”
Callan’s right hand clenched into a fist. He forced it straight, breath leaving his body in a slow, long stream as he fought for control. Callan looked at the man, glaring until the guy started to wiggle uncomfortably.
“Let me guess, you’re the prosecutor this bitch is keeping on a short chain?”
The man blinked, his uncertainty in how to answer evident in the grimace he pulled. McCready laughed, but the sound was thin.
“Mr. Jennings is with the U.S. Attorneys office,” she confirmed. She leaned forward and winked at Callan. “No chain, just a shock collar and a remote.”
Jennings took her reply as his cue to start talking. He had carried a briefcase with him into the room and he popped its locks. “The federal government is willing to grant both of you immunity in exchange for your testimony and assistance in investigating the criminal organization known as the Steel Tide Motorcycle Club.”
The attorney nodded in my direction. “Full immunity for Miss Watkins on the federal charges and we have assurances from the county prosecutor that there will be no charges on the vehicle theft.”
My face started to heat in anger. This was American justice? This sadistic woman with a badge and her pet attorney were the good guys? Sprankle and his partner were dead in self-defense. The Steel Tide had no legal claim to the drug money and weren’t about to press charges for its theft. About the only thing they genuinely had me on was my father’s truck. But none of that mattered. I wasn’t an heiress with trust money to fund my defense, and I couldn’t imagine the Steel Tide letting me live long enough to go to trial if the Feds returned me to Thunder Valley.
But I didn’t have information McCready wanted. The only criminals I could inform on were the dead DEA agents.
“And Lincoln?” Callan asked.
I looked at him, only a little surprised he hadn’t asked about his own immunity.
Jennings started to answer, but McCready interrupted. “I’m reaching out to Lincoln based on today’s developments. Right now, we only have papers for you and Miss Watkins. Lincoln will have to cut his own deal.”
I looked at Callan, his expression unreadable. Would he push McCready for more? Did he have anything to bargain with?
“What’s it going to be, Mr. Tilley?” Her mouth shaped a superior smile, as if she knew the answer before Callan did. “Your brother or your lover?”
13
Callan
McCready was a real cold broad. She didn't try to hide the malevolent smile or dark glitter of her gaze. Even her damn nipples were so hard with sadistic pleasure that they were about to cut through her expensive silk blouse.
Bitch, not broad. No reason to sugarcoat it. And she was out of her fucking mind if she thought I would abandon Avery. My sweet girl was tough and smart, but she wouldn't last two hours if the Feds let her loose in Thunder Valley. Even if they handed her directly over to the local cops. More than one of the jail guards was in Big Red's back pocket.
I would worry about Lincoln after I made sure Avery wouldn't go to jail and would be kept out of reach of the Steel Tide.
"Wow," McCready gushed. "You're really having to think it over."
My gaze drilling into the woman, I reached for the set of papers she held.
The door opened before I could wrap my hand around them. Two men breezed into the room. The shorter of the two held a briefcase. The other had a pistol holster and a
handgun just visible beneath his suit jacket. So another attorney and enforcer. The only question was which agency.
"This is my show, Frank," McCready growled at the man with the gun.
His partner opened up the briefcase and pulled out a single piece of paper that he handed to Jennings, McCready's legal lapdog. Jennings took a full minute or longer to read over the page. I spent the time focused on Avery.
Leaning in, I whispered in her ear. "No one is going to lock you up or hurt you."
I wanted to tell her I loved her, to actually use the fucking word instead of dancing around it like I had in the hotel room. But five years wearing the Steel Tide patch had turned those four little letters lined up in that exact order into a sign of weakness.
Right then, I couldn't afford to look weak.
"You don't know what you're talking about, kid," McCready growled as Jennings whispered in her ear.
With her gaze locked on me, I wasn't sure whether her words were directed at me or her attorney. I figured it was me because the attorney had at least fifteen years on me.
Frank, the guy with the gun hiding beneath his tailored jacket, pulled a cellphone out. As he poked at the screen, he taunted McCready with an order.
"You're in my seat, Gloria. Vacate it."
Her face turned purple.
Then her phone rang, and just as quickly, her skin paled.
"Good afternoon, sir," she said, holding the phone to her ear.
I couldn't hear what was being said, but her face kept flashing between purple rage and ghost white.
When the call finished, she dropped the phone into her bag, stiffly rose and gestured at Jennings to get up. The last thing she did before shutting the door behind her was shoot me a hard look and a final threat.
"I'm not done with you, Mr. Tilley."
"Frank O'Donnell, FBI," the agent said as the door clicked shut. Digging into his pocket, he came up with a small utility knife. "Believe me, she's done with you."
He cut the cable ties binding my hands together then moved over to Avery. Putting the knife away, he pulled out a set of cuff keys and freed Avery. Finished, he gestured at my bandaged hand.
"Are you okay to travel?"
It took me a second to find my voice. I didn't know if this was another game the government was playing, but O'Donnell sounded like a straight shooter.
"Where?" I asked.
"Cumberland."
My heart thumped a little harder in my chest. Avery and I were heading to Cumberland when the dirty DEA agents kidnapped us. That's where the federal prison housing Lincoln was located. If the FBI had any idea about what the real truth was, wouldn't they have already released my brother?
I chewed over the question for a few seconds then dismissed it for something more relevant and important at the moment.
"Sure, I can travel, but Avery is coming with me."
"If that is Miss Watkins' desire," O'Donnell answered. "Otherwise, I have someone from witness protection who can start processing her right now. Of course, once she's in WITSEC—"
"I go where Callan goes," Avery said, reaching along the table to curl her palm against my arm. "We're in this together."
Placing my good hand over hers, I gave a little squeeze.
We went straight from the jail to a small airport on the edge of town. O'Donnell had a small prop plane on standby. The interior was just big enough to fit the pilot, me and Avery, O'Donnell, and the attorney who still had no name.
Two hours later, we touched down in Maryland. More FBI agents were there waiting for us. O'Donnell didn't introduce them either, but they followed us in a car to a nice hotel, performed a security check on the room then stood guard out in the hall.
The room had clearly been booked before our arrival because there were real toiletries and a fresh change of clothes for me and Avery. It was nice to shower and put on clothes that hadn't been soaked in the blood of the bald DEA agent. Avery joined me in the shower, helping me so my bandaged hand wouldn't get wet.
Didn't matter how close we'd come to death or prison that day, seeing her naked made me want to at least delay getting dressed. But O'Donnell had given us an hour to freshen up.
He knocked on the door five minutes early. Inviting him into the room, I took a second glance at the clock.
Quarter to five.
"Can we still visit the prison today?" I asked.
O'Donnell shook his head.
"Your brother Lincoln is in a holding cell at the federal courthouse until tomorrow's release hearing."
"Release hearing?"
That sounded promising, but I didn't know if that meant Lincoln had cut some kind of deal or if new evidence was uncovered about Boone's murder.
"Yeah," O'Donnell answered. "It'll all make sense before the night is over."
Overwhelmed, I wrapped my arm around Avery's shoulders and pressed my face against her hair. I wanted to ask about my father, but I didn't expect O'Donnell to offer any more good news tonight.
Didn't mean I wouldn't try later. First I had to get my head together. Everything was happening so damn fast I felt like I was on a tilt-a-whirl. Only thing that was certain was Avery and I would stick together and I would die to keep her safe.
"A car is waiting," O'Donnell said, ushering us from the hotel room. "You need to eat something more than the chips we had on the plane."
He wasn't wrong on that front. The chips were all Avery and I had eaten since the day before. I had also lost a good amount of blood sawing at my flesh to get out of the cuffs Sprankle had locked me in.
"This isn't a restaurant," Avery said as we pulled in front of a private residence twenty minutes later.
"It's a safe house," O'Donnell answered as he pulled into the driveway. "Stay in the car until I signal you to get out."
"This feels off," she whispered when we were alone. "Why would they take us to the hotel if they were bringing us to a safe house right after?"
"You think it's a trap?" I asked, my hand gnarling around the door release even though O'Donnell hadn't signaled us forward. "We can make a run for it."
"No," she answered. "But I feel like a ghost just bulldozed through me."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
I reached out to touch Avery, but she nodded at the house. "He just signaled."
"Sit tight for a second, baby."
Getting out of the sedan, I scanned the houses around us and down the street in both directions before pulling the door open for her to get out. As soon as she was standing upright, I hustled her onto the porch and into the house.
Leaning in, O'Donnell whispered in my ear.
"Not so obvious next time, okay?"
Before I could ask what he meant, something familiar tickled my nose.
Mutton, onions, celery…
"Damn, that smells like Irish stew. My dad used to make it all the…"
I didn't get to finish the sentence. Another Fed, his jacket off so that his gun was clearly visible, came through a swinging door. On the other side of that door was Dylan Tilley stirring the contents of a big pot.
Dylan Tilley…
My father.
Releasing Avery, I dodged O'Donnell and the other agent.
"Dad?"
I still couldn't believe my eyes—or my nose. There he was, cooking, wearing jeans and a brushed cotton shirt instead of prison blues. He had riding boots on his feet, and his hair was trimmed like someone outside of prison had done it for him.
He turned, face tight as I pulled him to me in a bear hug. A few seconds passed before he wrapped his arms around me and leaned into the hug.
Feeling him stiffen, I let go.
"Is that the Watkins girl?" he asked, squinting in Avery's direction.
"Yeah," I answered. "We're together."
I didn't know what else to say. The only times I had seen my father since my senior year of high school were through a glass window in the visitation room of the two prisons the Federal government had shuttled him between. An
d, ever since Lincoln went to prison, I had done so much shit for Big Red to make sure my father and brother didn't wind up on the wrong side of a shiv in prison.
But he couldn't tolerate more than a few seconds of my hugging him.
"You had her color that glorious hair?"
"It was a disguise, Dad," I said, returning to Avery's side and pulling her close to me. Feeling her melt into my touch, a warm gratitude filled my body. Giving her a little squeeze, I planted a kiss on her cheek.
"How is it you're out?" Avery asked. "And O'Donnell said there's a release hearing for Lincoln tomorrow. What changed?"
Ignoring her question, my father pointed at the door.
"Someone you've got to see, Callan. Alone. Avery can help me set the table."
A glance at Avery told me she was okay with the arrangement. Turning my back on my father, I cupped her cheeks and lightly kissed her lips.
"I'm just a shout away," I assured her.
She smiled, winked both eyes at the same time as her cute nose scrunched up.
"So am I."
Stepping through the door, I pressed my hands against my stomach to keep my guts from spilling all over the floor. A man I could barely recognize sat in a side chair. His head was bald, shaved in some places, scarred in others. Like a pirate from a picture book, a patch covered his left eye.
The other eye was a green not unlike my own.
My brain wouldn't let me put what was left untouched of the man's face into a familiar pattern. Then he spoke, and I knew without a doubt who I was looking at.
"Surprised, baby brother?"
"Boone?"
His good eye glazed over for a moment, then his hand twitched with a certain dismissive air.
"Yeah, I guess you can call me that. It's not really my name anymore."
I jerked a thumb toward the door behind me.
"Witness protection give you a new one?"