Pride surged through her veins, but she kept her face carefully blank. She couldn’t afford to show that weakness.
“I agree.” Evie’s mother, Maxine Videl, President of the MRG, sat to her right. Her expression was about as readable as a rock and just as hard.
“Are you really going to let this puny little nothing order you around?” Brown turned to Dale, so far his loudest supporter. Another man moving further and further up Evie’s shit list.
Evie went cold. Her fingers, already leached of warmth, turned full-on numb. She never envisioned being in this position. Bartering drugs and money laundering with the only law enforcement in town. If only she’d been smart and went to college, but she’d made decisions on a broken heart and half a prayer. A prayer that went unanswered.
She could barely force herself to leave her house some nights, let alone go to work at The Wharf, her bar, and be so close to so many people. Knowing Marcus was out there and that he could walk in at any moment and finish what he’d started two years ago… Well, it was a wonder she could leave her house at all.
Maxine cut her a gaze that could have sliced titanium. Her mother, the housewife turned gangster. She’d managed to step up and take control of her life after Tom died. But not Evie. Evie had been all but forced into this crazy scheme by her less-than-sane grandpa. Maxine turned her attention to Brown. “Better to take orders from a woman than from a filthy pig.”
The sheriff tensed. His hand fell to the pistol in his snapped gun holster.
“I guess you’re lookin’ to lose your hand.” C.W. uncrossed his fingers, and in one swift movement, yanked his Colt .44 six-shooter from his hip holster and aimed it directly at Brown. “Maybe you should talk to Marcus about what happens to people who threaten my family.”
Evie jerked and clutched the table for support, fighting to keep a neutral expression even though the mere mention of his name sent chills down her spine. The last time Marcus ran into her grandpa, he met the wrong end of a shotgun. He’d escaped without any personal injuries, but his Mercedes had acquired multiple bullet holes.
Of course, gripping the table wasn’t exactly normal behavior. She looked around, not taking a breath until she saw everyone’s focus was on her gun-toting grandpa.
Brown paled, his overly large Adam’s apple bobbing in his long, skinny neck. His hand rose from his holster, empty and shaking. “If you don’t do this, you know he’ll make you regret it. Every last one of you.”
And she did know it. Marcus had already made her regret so much. He’d taken her innocence and used it like an addict used crack, destroying her before she’d realized the damage.
Speak. Open your mouth. Tell him to screw off.
Dale’s gaze cut to her, and the knowledge Evie saw in their depths caused her to quake. She wasn’t strong enough to stand up to the sheriff. Why was she even here?
Dale’s upper lip raised in disgust. But instead of calling her out, he whipped around to face Brown. Before Evie could force her frozen lips to move, Dale pulled back and threw a meaty fist straight into the sheriff’s face. The crack of knuckles on flesh boomed. Brown crumpled like a bicycle under a semi truck.
“No one threatens the MRG. Tell Marcus we’ll be in touch after the vote.” Dale didn’t even shake out his fist.
Evie, still immobilized, managed to nod at Dale. He didn’t return the gesture, just grabbed Brown by the shirt and dragged him out of the room.
Everyone at the table, all ten members of the MRG, turned to look at Evie. She closed her eyes and gathered what little inner strength she possessed. What would her father say to them?
No one in this room would’ve dared speak out against Tom Videl. But then again, poor little Evangeline would never be able to live up to the Videl family name.
But she had to try. Wasn’t that why she’d finally agreed to C.W.’s idea to re-instate the MRG? It was her last-ditch attempt to recover the part of her spirit that hadn’t been permanently crushed by Marcus.
Evie lifted her chin and curled her fingers into her palms. “The MRG was founded on honor and justice. Justice from the exact men who just offered us a deal. Are you all so scared that you’d consider selling out at the first flash of cash?”
C.W. gave her a wink and tucked his pistol back into its holster. Cheri, Evie’s best friend and co-bartender at the Wharf, nodded, reminding Evie she wasn’t the only one in the room who’d been shit on by Marcus Carvant.
“You realize you could have just kicked a hundred grand out the door.” Leftie, their resident white-trash grease-head, had probably needed to bite his tongue to keep silent for so long. If Evie were in complete control, she would have kicked him out long ago, but Leftie was Dale’s best friend, and Dale was a founding member of the original MRG in the 70s.
“You do realize he would have killed us once he was finished with us. Even you.” Maxine’s long red nails clicked slowly, methodically, on the table top, reminding Evie of a cat before it pounced on its prey.
Leftie spat a wad of chewing tobacco on the floor. “You think just ’cause C.W. started this group means you get to make all the decisions. Don’t forget. We get a vote. And I vote to take the goddamn money.”
Dale re-entered the room and resumed his seat beside Leftie, his look calculating. “I say we take the offer. So we deliver some pot down river, so what? Think of what we could do with the money.” He took his time before continuing, looking at each of the people gathered around the table. “I’m hurting for cash. Our group is hurtin’ for it too. Evie’s been promising her cousins have this big plan, this big deal that’s gonna save us, but so far they’ve produced zero.”
Evie swallowed, sinking back into her seat. No matter how much she wanted to call Dale a liar, he was telling the truth.
“Before you vote, think about how much good we can do the community with that kind of cash,” Dale said.
Leftie all but rubbed his palms together. The other members started shifting in their seats, looking anywhere but at Evie. It felt like there was a drought in her mouth. “No matter how much money is at the end of the rainbow, delivering drugs, even if it’s pot, is not what we are about.”
Chairs creaked, more shifting.
“You’re talking about one-hundred thousand dollars for our club,” Leftie said.
“You mean lining your pockets, don’t you?” C.W. said.
Leftie’s face turned red, but he held his temper in check. “Lining all our pockets, old man. Think about it.”
Evie felt another thread of control snap. She knew she wasn’t strong enough to stand up to her people and make them do right.
Mercy, Mississippi was now run by criminals—criminals who wore badges and were led by a corrupt mayor. Marcus Carvant, her ex. As Marcus’s former punching bag, Evie had been kept under lock and key, never allowed to bare witness to his ‘business’ dealings. She’d suspected, though, plenty of times, but never managed to get any proof. Now he wanted drug transport and to launder his dirty money through her bar?
“Anyone else have something to add before we vote?” Maxine stood and Evie sat down. If they voted to accept the deal, she’d have no choice but to work with Marcus. Or step down and give up.
And deep down she knew giving up the MRG would mean giving up on herself.
3
Marcus Carvant sat up straight in his Italian leather chair, tapping his engraved pen in precise two-second intervals. He allowed this one small action as his agitation with Sheriff Lee Brown grew. He tapped faster the more excuses the sheriff made for his failure.
“So you didn’t get the job done.” Marcus kept his tone calm and controlled, denying his mounting desire to hang up on Brown. He wouldn’t allow that lapse in control for anyone. Not the man on the phone. Not the mercenary sitting on the other side of his desk. Not himself.
His father had taught him early in life to keep things in order. Not one blond hair on Marcus’s head strayed from its combed perfection. Not one hint of a wrinkle dared crease
his perfectly tailored trousers. Not one of his employees dared disrupt his carefully laid plans.
Not if they wanted to live, anyway.
“I’m telling you, I did everything you asked. They forced me out at gunpoint. That traitor Dale Hendricks sucker-punched me.” Marcus heard the sound of something opening on the other end of the phone line, followed by a crunch and Brown’s sigh. He was probably pressing a bag of frozen peas against his face. Something Marcus’s ex-fiancée had done on numerous occasions.
“So you not only failed to acquire transportation, but you lost my inside man?”
“No. No, sir. I can get the deal done.” Brown’s voice waivered, as thin and weak as the man himself. “I’ll get that little bitch alone and take care of business. Just like you used to do.”
Marcus stopped tapping his pen and laid it parallel with the pad of paper on his desk. Yes, he’d lost control once. Or with one person. One girl he’d never quite managed to subdue. One he planned to reacquire soon.
Evangeline Videl would belong to him again, only this time she wouldn’t be at his side. She would be beneath his foot.
When and how Marcus punished her was totally and completely up to him, however, not a bought and paid for Dollar-Store sheriff with a plastic badge.
“I’m not a fan of giving second chances, and I need to decide if you deserve one,” Marcus said.
“Listen, I can do it. I’ve never failed you before. Never. I’ll take care of it, right now,” Brown said.
“No. I will take care of it. You just do your job and try not to screw up my plans.” Marcus snapped the cell phone shut and set it on the rich mahogany table directly beside and in line with the discarded pen.
Nothing in his office or on his person was out of order.
Marcus leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers. His own chair was dark leather, tall and heavy. A throne. It was only appropriate, for he ruled his business with the power and might of a great king.
And he was just as dangerous when pissed off.
The MRG, now led by Marcus’s ex-fiancée, would make the perfect scapegoat for his weapons deal. He already had the guns, thanks to a little money and a now-dead guard at Camp Renier stupid enough to steal from the government. He had the contact with a zealous terrorist in Pakistan, thanks to a greedy soldier willing to sell out his country. And he’d figured out a way to get his shipment out of the country without getting his hands dirty, and in the same move, get revenge on Evangeline.
If only Brown weren’t an incompetent idiot. The man attempted to tell Marcus that he could finish the deal. That he wouldn’t make a mistake again. What Marcus didn’t tell the sheriff was that he wouldn’t get the opportunity. The deal brewing with the Pakistani was big on an international scale. Millions. His own-personal-island kind of deal.
It would take him far, far from the pissant state of Mississippi.
Lee Brown couldn’t handle it; he couldn’t even handle a group of pretend revolutionaries. If Marcus had his way, he’d put a bullet in Brown’s head right now, but he knew the sheriff might still prove useful at the local level while his plan was unfurling.
No loose ends.
Marcus picked up his pen, studying the gold engraving along its body, using the distraction to rein in the familiar explosion of rage ripping through his body. Control. Precision. Power.
He would win. He always did. No matter if he had to do some of the dirty work himself.
Marcus lifted his office phone to his ear and dialed his current girlfriend, a former Miss USA. “Colette, dear. How would you like to go on a date tonight?”
“Of course, darling.” Her voice was cultured. Refined. The perfect accompaniment for his tastes.
“Good. I will pick you up in an hour. I want to take you to a local bar, make nice with some of the locals.”
“A bar? In Mercy?” Her disgust was evident.
“Are you questioning my decision?” Marcus let his tone go soft. Lethal.
Colette immediately stammered, “No. Of course not. I will be ready.”
He disconnected the call and went to his master suite. He wanted to look his best, after all, this was the first time he’d seen his ex in over a year. He would show Evie what she’d been missing and then he would remind her of what would happen if she didn’t do as he commanded.
*
Hunter James sped out of the gas station parking lot and onto the highway, listing as Jared told him about his recon mission on the MRG. It was hard to keep from crushing the steering wheel in his palms. While he was away, his hometown had turned into a hotbed of militia groups.
Why the fuck did their CO have to send them to Mercy? Any other team could have handled the undercover op. Well, any other Task Force anyway. But no other TF had the connections they did. Or the history.
Hunter should never have told Captain Grey about his past with Evie before agreeing to this mission. But then, it wasn’t like the Captain had given him a choice. Either go home on assignment or go home. Permanently.
Hunter took a right off the main highway onto Red Fork Road, which led out to his father’s property. TF-S had set up headquarters in one of Hank’s metal pole barns. Huge cypress trees lined the bayou sidelining the two-lane road, their roots jutting up out of the murky water like giant spider legs. Bugs splattered against the windshield like rain, only instead of rolling off the glass, they stuck, creating a thick, viscous film. He hit the windshield wipers, smearing the remains in yellow and white streaks of goo.
The other half of TF-S was still in Pakistan searching for the terrorist. Searching for Shane in the hopes he might still be alive.
Now Hunter was down four men—five, counting Shane—and on a mission to get close to an ex-girlfriend who’d turned to assisting terrorists.
“Did you plant the bug?” Hunter handled the winding road along the bayou with ease, relying on muscle memory.
“Yep, but not until after the meeting. That old man stayed in the meeting room all day. I couldn’t hear what the piece-of-shit sheriff had to say, but when they threw him out, it was easy enough to figure out he pissed them off.” Jared adjusted the black skullcap down lower on his forehead. A week’s worth of stubble covered his jaw. The thin scar running from his right eyebrow down into his beard made him look like a modern day pirate.
C.W. Videl, Evie’s grandpa, was turning out to be one giant ass thorn in their side. He basically lived in the apartment above the bar, which also doubled as the MRG’s meeting room. That left their team almost zero opportunity to get inside and get the intel.
“No shit.” Hunter floored the pedal on the last straight stretch before the farm and turned onto a gravel road that disappeared into the woods.
After a minute, the trees thinned and then disappeared as they neared the tan metal building. After Hunter parked, he and Jared got out and headed to the door, where Hunter held a hand up to the state-of-the-art scanner. The deadbolt unlocked with a loud click, providing them access to their new headquarters.
To the right, Ranger was stooped over one of a series of long folding tables covered in every available geotropic map of the area and the Mississippi River. To the left, Hoyt sat at a bank of three computers, not the typical wall of monitors he was used to, but enough he could work his technical magic.
Ranger straightened his posture, his short blond hair gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. “That didn’t take long.”
Hoyt spun around in his rolling chair, his own blond hair curly and long, his constant playboy grin in place. “Which means he didn’t get shit.”
Hunter strode to the center table and rapped his knuckles on it. Ranger, Hoyt, and Jared immediately took their seats at the half-empty meeting table. One empty chair loomed larger than the rest. Shane Carter should have been sitting there.
The other four would be filled with the rest of TF-S, as soon as they located Al Seriq, and hopefully Shane.
What was left of his unit was present and accounted
for, so Hunter took his seat at the head of the table. “Hoyt, call the Captain.”
Hoyt, slid his rolling chair back over to his computer station and clicked a bunch of keys. Captain Grey’s face appeared on the wall of monitors a few seconds later. A man they all respected, not because of his title, but because he deserved it. Captain Grey was the best interrogator in the Task Force teams—in the entire military, as far as Hunter was concerned.
“Report.” His flat grey eyes matched the steel grey in his beard. Task Force members operated like SEALs in regard to their appearance. They grew their beards and hair as needed to blend in with their environment. A beard, along with sunglasses and a hat, could disguise your whole face, allowing even the more well-known members of the group to move about in anonymity.
“We don’t know anything yet. I couldn’t plant the listening device until after the meeting.” Jared said. Jared and Hoyt Crow looked about as similar as a desert dweller and a Swede. Their light blue eyes were the only outward sign they were brothers.
“So we don’t know anything more now than we did two weeks ago,” Captain Grey said. Two-weeks of knowing Marcus had the weapons and the MRG was being tapped to transport. Knowing but having no idea when or where or how. “Hunter. Ranger. You have history here. What’s your take?”
Ranger’s gaze slid to Hunter’s before bouncing back to the commander. His brother’s thoughts were clear as a billboard—Time to man up and move in on your ex.
“Marcus is the youngest mayor in Mississippi’s history, but only because his father greased the wheels along the way. He collected enough intel to blackmail all the more prominent locals into controlling the votes. He’ll do anything and hurt anyone to come out on top. But he has never operated alone.” Hunter completely ignored his brother’s look and left out any mention of Evie.
“Which tells me nothing more than I already know.” The Captain fell silent. Classic technique to get your counter part to spill first.
Jared cleared his throat and gave Hunter an apologetic look. A look completely ruined by the death-bringer getup. “We haven’t used the girl yet. She will know the info.”
Redemption River Page 3