One Man

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “What kind of assassin takes off the victim’s clothes?”

  “This one,” I say absently, my gaze catching on the tattoo on the man’s arm, the arm not shoved half under his body and into the sand, a foreboding knot forming in my stomach. “Can I see that ink?”

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “I wanted to look at that, too. It looks interesting.” He moves to the side of the man, shifting the arm, and the ease of movement says I’m right. The guy is practically still warm. “I’m thinking of getting a tattoo myself,” he says.

  “Time of death?” I ask, focused on the case.

  “He’s fresh,” he says. “I’m estimating three AM, maybe three-thirty.” He changes the subject. “I’m thinking Superman. Do chicks dig Superman?”

  “What?” I say, looking at him.

  “I was thinking I’d get a Superman tattoo.”

  “If you’re trying to embrace your resident geek status, it works.”

  “Who says I’m the resident geek?”

  “Everyone except you, apparently. Embrace it. It works for you.”

  He glowers. “Seriously, Agent Love. Could you just-”

  “The tattoo, Joe,” I say, feeling that knot in my stomach growing.

  “Right. Tattoo. His. Not mine.”

  He flips the arm just enough that I get the full view of the tattoo and I hear nothing else he says. I see the Virgin Mary with blood dripping out of her mouth, and suddenly I am back on another beach. My lashes lower and I’m living the exact moment I was grabbed from behind. I had twisted around, and thrown an ineffective defensive move. The ineffective part, and the punishment I’d received for being that weak, is the reason that I now train just as hard in my physical combat skills as I do on constantly honing my profiling abilities. I’d gone down hard on the sandy ground with a heavy male body on top of me, big, muscular arms caging me. One of his beefy forearms had been etched with a tattoo moving and flexing with his flesh while he assaulted me. A tattoo of the Virgin Mary, bleeding from her mouth. Praying to her or anyone else did nothing to save me.

  “Special Agent Love.”

  At the sound of my name, I snap back to the present to find Detective Oliver standing behind Joe, glowering at me, not the dead body. “Are you sleeping or getting me my answers?”

  I inhale and stand up, turning to find Special Agent-in-Charge Murphy a good twenty yards away. Yanking my gloves off, I start walking in that direction, only to have Detective Oliver catch up with me. “Hold on there, sweetie.”

  Anger officially ignited, I whirl on him. “Sweetie? Well, look here, honey. Unless you want me to shove that sock you have in your pants in your mouth, back off, Detective Oliver. I get it. This is your turf and I’m just some twenty-eight-year-old kid, while you’re the seasoned vet. But I’ve been in and around law enforcement since I was in diapers, and I’m damn good at my job.”

  He arches a brow. “Are you done?”

  “No,” I say, “but you are. We’re trying to catch the same damn monster, so back the fuck off.”

  He stares at me long and hard, to the point that I move to leave. He gently shackles my arm and turns me around. “Don’t touch me,” I snap.

  He holds up his hands. “Understood.” His eyes narrow. “You want to talk about what set you off back there?”

  “Aside from you,” I lie, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He slides his hands to his hips under his jacket. “I challenge you every damn time you come onto my crime scene-”

  “Challenge? Is that what you call it?”

  “Every time you come onto my crime scene,” he repeats, “and you never let me rattle you. What got you back there? Because it wasn’t me.”

  “That’s an assassination,” I say, moving away from the topic of me. “And this is an opinion and working theory, not a fact, but I say he takes their clothes off at the directive of a client.”

  “None of that answers my question. What set you off?”

  The sound of footsteps has us both looking up to find my boss approaching, and there is something about his full-on gray hair, which is as perfectly groomed as his tan suit is fitted, along with his carriage, that radiates authority and control. His control, not that of Detective Oliver.

  “Special Agent Love, Detective Oliver,” he greets, stopping in profile to us, and glancing between our warring expressions. “Do we have a problem?”

  “You and I should talk, Director Murphy,” Detective Oliver states.

  “After I talk to my agent, who graciously got out of bed yet again to aid one of your cases.”

  “The case you took over,” Detective Oliver reminds him.

  “Oh I did, didn’t I?” my boss replies, and then more firmly, says, “I did. I need to talk to my agent. Alone.”

  Detective Oliver scowls and leaves while Director Murphy looks at me. “What was all that about?”

  “Typical turf war when we take over. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I’ll handle it,” he promises, and then thankfully moves on. “New York has a case that has enough similarities to these two here that we may be looking at a serial killer who’s crossed state lines. That makes this our baby.”

  “This isn’t a serial killer,” I say, repeating what I told Detective Oliver. “It’s an assassination.”

  “Or a serial killer obsessed with assassination-style murders. Profile the victims, then talk to me.”

  I hesitate but can’t let this go. “You said New York?”

  “That’s right. Your home state, which aside from your profiling skills, makes you the right match for this case.”

  That’s debatable, but I don’t tell him that. “I’ve seen the tattoo that’s on the arm of the victim before,” I say instead.

  “Where? And in what context?”

  “It wasn’t in a professional capacity and it was many years ago. Back home in the Hamptons, actually.”

  “That’s Mendez Enterprises territory,” he says. “A family and empire based in the Hamptons. Notoriously legit and yet not legit at all. Very soap opera-ish. I read up on them when you joined our team.”

  A frisson of unease slides through me. “Why would you read up on them when I joined the team?”

  “I like to know where my people came from and what influences them, directly or indirectly.”

  I’m not sure what to make of that comment, but he doesn’t give me time to try to figure it out, already moving on. “I understand the son, Kane, took over after his father was murdered a few years back. Do you know him?”

  “If you researched as you say, then you know, that you simply can’t grow up in the Hamptons and not know the Mendez family,” I say remaining as non-committal as possible. “We all knew them. And yes, I knew him.”

  “Word is he’s a smooth operator, but then, so was his father.”

  “I would say that description fits,” I agree, thinking that Kane is that and much more, which I won’t elaborate on at this point.

  “Always squeaky clean when investigated, too, from what I understand. The kind of people who get others to do the dirty work. Like perhaps the assassin you feel we’re dealing with. That along with a tattoo that connects the body to the Hamptons. Sounds like a connection to investigate.”

  “I certainly think there’s a connection to the Hamptons and we should have it checked out.”

  “So go,” he says. “Check this out.”

  I blanch. “What? No. With all due respect, Director Murphy. I left that place for a reason.”

  “And you’re going back with a bigger one. Your job. Go pack.” He looks at his watch and then me. “It’s not even seven yet. Call the office on your way home. With luck, our team can have you in a bird by noon.” He starts walking and I stare after him, seeing nothing but an ocean of blood. I’m going back to where those nightmares started. And back to him.

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  CHAPTER ONE OF THE TRUTH ABOUT COWBOYS

  Jessica...

  Rain pounds on my window, the wipers on my windshield working fervently to clear the glass and my view. The huge droplets of water from the fierce Texas-style summer thunderstorm seem to mock me with every smack against my windshield, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I just ate an entire jumbo-sized bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups after saying I was on a diet. Of course, there is much to mock right now, such as the debacle that is my life a few hundred miles back in Dallas.

  Most people would think it’s crazy to leave everything (newly defined as “nothing”) behind to live in a cottage that I’ve never seen outside of a few Zillow photos. And yes, it’s a decision I admittedly made rather spontaneously, and from a hotel room, but desperate times demand desperate decisions. I need to breathe air that my ex isn’t breathing and, even more so, sleep in a bed that his secretary hasn’t been rolling around in with him.

  My fingers clutch the steering wheel, and I force myself to remember the events that got me here on this dark, rainy highway, and then I focus on the bright side. It’s true that my ex hijacked my bank account. It’s true that I told the largest corporate client of my firm, my client, that he’s a loser and a cheater and did so while in divorce court. Of course, in my defense, that was a mere hour after finding out I was almost engaged to a man who is nicknamed “Oh God” by his secretary. Despite said good reason, that outburst ensured I’m no longer about to be the twenty-eight-year-old youngest partner in my firm but rather on a forced leave of absence. I do however have an offer to write A Girl’s Guide to Divorce, and it comes with a healthy advance. Thank God I got the publisher making the offer a heck of a divorce settlement last year.

  And so here I am, on my way to a cottage retreat to write my book, so darn eager to get started that I’m driving in a storm in the middle of the night. The rain keeps falling, but at least my wipers keep wiping. The rain is never ending, though, as I reach for my bag of peanut butter cups to find it empty. Terrific. I need more candy. Thankfully, my GPS chooses that cheerful moment to alert me to my upcoming exit, and I slow to a crawl while my gaze cuts through the haze of the downpour, seeking my destination in earnest. I’m nervous in this weather, and I manage to hydroplane by the time I spy the turn, which, with a slow maneuver, I discover is—oh God—a really dark, spooky country road. Apparently, I’m auditioning for the role of the stupid girl in a horror flick who gets killed before everyone else, the one no one remembers. Lord, help me. Just let me get to my little cottage safe and well.

  As if assuring me that’s not going to happen, the rain continues splattering and pounding my windows. It’s like someone is throwing buckets on top of my car. I’m already out of my element, I decide as I hit a pothole and then bump my way down a muddy path while the sexy voice of my GPS says, “Travel approximately one mile, then turn right.” I don’t know why the GPS voice has to be so very blonde and beautiful-sounding, but she reminds me of the “other” blonde. I don’t approve. She also has me driving a very long, winding road.

  I check my locks, thinking of a horror movie again, certain that this is where the girl’s car breaks down and a crazy monster stabs her to death. It’s right in that moment, with that thought, that I hit another pothole and yelp. My hands momentarily lift from the steering wheel and I quickly grab it, slam on the brakes, and halt, which probably isn’t smart on this dark road. I panic. I hit the accelerator and my tires spin. I accelerate again, which goes as well as the first attempt. It doesn’t go at all.

  I hold down the brake, grab my phone to call for help, but I have no idea who to call. I shift the car into park and try to look up AAA, only my phone says I have no service. Okay, think. Think. 911. This is an emergency of sorts. I might be close to being stabbed to death. I dial 911 and eye my phone, which still has no bars. It’s right then that truck lights flicker in my direction and travel toward me at a rapid pace. The truck cuts to the side of the road right in front of me. It’s official. I’m about to die and I can do nothing but sit here and wait for the end. And watch it coming, watch him coming.

  A big man exits the truck and starts walking in my direction, a raincoat lifting behind him with a gust of wind, boots splattering in puddles of water and mud. In the romance novel I just read, this man would be a hot hero who would never in a million years stab me to death. He’d kiss me crazy. He’d make me crazy, in all the right ways. I’d like to linger on that fantasy, but unfortunately, I did just watch the Ted Bundy documentary on Netflix, which makes me consider another option. Instead of kissing me crazy, this man could be crazy. He could charm me, kiss me, and then kill me. I jolt as the would-be killer, who could be a hero, knocks on my window.

  He’s right here, right by my side. I have to make a decision. My options are either ignore him or beg for help, but my heart beats to a song that has only two lyrics—run. Run fast. Only there’s nowhere to run. He knocks again, escalating my need for a decision, which comes quickly, considering the weather. I can’t leave him in the rain. I roll down the window, but not far enough for him to yank me through it.

  “Hi,” I say, taking in his black cowboy hat pushed back from his thirty-something handsome face. Check. He has the looks to be a killer or a hero. He’s actually vaguely familiar, which is silly. We’re on a country road, hours from Dallas. I don’t know him unless—did I handle his divorce?

  “You need help?” he asks, his voice this raspy, low, masculine tone that could seduce me right to death.

  “Hi,” I say in a brilliantly formed sentence, because you know, despite years of law school, apparently the storm killed my brain cells. “I—ah. I don’t know you.”

  He arches a dark brow, his lips—quite full, firm lips with droplets of rain clinging to them—flatten. “Your point?”

  “We’re on a dark road and—”

  “All right, then,” he says, and just walks away. Cranky. So very cranky, and this doesn’t seem to fit my romance hero or Bundy killer theories.

  I roll down the window, and thankfully, the rain has eased. “No!” I call out. “Wait. I need help.”

  He doesn’t stop walking. Crap. I get out of the car. “Wait.”

  Thankfully, he does. Or really, he just chooses to halt in front of my car where he inspects my tire. I rush to meet him, but only a few steps from reaching his side, one of my high-heeled boots lands wrong. I wobble, my ankle turning left, and panic rises inside me as I desperately try to stop what happens next. I fail. My heel has sunk deep in the mud and I start to fall. I try to balance, but it’s just not happening. I don’t even know how it happens, but I go down. My attempt to catch myself with my hands making things worse. The next few seconds are a blur that land me in a puddle of mud, the lights of the cowboy’s truck smacking me in the eyes as thick, wet goop slips and slides all around me, all over me.

  And good lord, I’ve known Texas mud, of course I have; in a parking lot, when my family dog got out in the rain, or at a ballgame, but those things are expected. This—this is not. Not here. Not on the side of a road I shouldn’t be on. Stupid heels I wore for a meeting with my stupid ex right before leaving town.

  The cowboy steps to the edge of the puddle, his big body blocking the sharp ray of headlights, shadows masking his entire face, and he stares down at me. He could be laughing. God. I bet he’s laughing. How can he not be laughing?

  I lift a dripping, muddy hand. “I guess you now know that I’m having a really bad night?”

  He doesn’t reply. Clearly he’s not a man of many words. Instead, he simply rounds the puddle and squats to offer me his hand. I consider how dangerous touching him might be. Maybe this is when he grabs me and stabs me. Maybe this is where I dream of a romance hero and he dreams of a blonde that says “oh God�
� as low and raspy as my GPS says “turn right,” but I forget that thought as I start to sink. Do we have quicksand in Texas? Oh crap. I’m sinking and I have only one option. I grab the cowboy and hold on for dear life.

  “I’m sinking!” I cry out, a plea to be saved. “Help. I’m sinking! Oh God. I’m—”

  He stands and takes me with him, and yep, of course, I manage to trip again and land smack against him, which might seem romantic except I now have mud all over me, meaning he and all of his many muscles now do as well.

  “Sorry,” I say, gripping his raincoat. “Sorry. I’m unsteady and—”

  His big, strong hands come down on my waist, and he lifts me out of the puddle and sets me firmly on the ground. He doesn’t immediately release me; he just stands there, towering over me, a good six feet four inches to my five feet four, a dark ringlet of hair on his brow. His eyes are hooded in that cowboy way—I don’t know how else to describe it—for a moment that seems to stretch forever before he abruptly drops his hands. “Don’t move.”

  It’s an order, which I’d take exception to if I wasn’t A) trying to recover from his hands being on and now off my body, and B) afraid to move and end up in that puddle again. In other words, I do as I’m told. I don’t move. Now, I’m the one just standing here, attempting to master that skill as he has, and watch as he walks to my car to do something inside. Considering he grabs the roof and door then rocks the car forward and out of the hole, I assume he placed the gear in neutral.

  Relief washes over me. My car is free. I’m free. The cowboy, my cowboy now, I decide, parks my car again, and then saunters back toward me, somehow missing every puddle and hole in his path, of which there are many, without ever looking down. He stops in front of me. Close. Really close. This is where my mind goes crazy. I need romance. I need a kiss. I need an escape that makes me forget what I left in Dallas. Maybe a man isn’t the right escape, but this man, this cowboy, is rugged country hotness, while my ex was such an arrogant pretty boy.

  “What’s a city girl doing on a country road in the middle of the night?” he asks, but his tone isn’t seduction like it would be if it matched the fantasy in my mind right now. No. Not all. It’s more of an accusation.