Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1)

by P. J. O'Dwyer

  "Early flight."

  "Then you're on your way."

  "Not quite. My battery's dead. I need a ride."

  Bren glanced up toward the stairs of the Breakstone home. "Let me check on Jo. If she's still asleep, I'll come get you."

  "I'm not around the corner, you know. I'd rather you stay with her."

  "Okay. Let me see what I can do. Someone will be there by five."

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Bren pushed through the crowd surrounding the baggage carousel on the bottom level of Baltimore's Thurgood Marshall Airport and searched the faces of those coming down the escalator. She caught Jeremy stepping off.

  "Hey." Bren gave Jeremy a quick hug. "I'm your ride."

  "Jo okay?" He frowned. "You could have sent Rafe."

  "I tried. I think he and the boys are up to something. I have the sneaking suspicion they were not where they said they were. Jo was still sleeping when I left, but Rafe's on his way over to stay with her." She picked up his wrist and turned it to check his watch. "He should be there now."

  Jeremy grabbed his suitcase off the luggage carousel. "Looks like I missed a lot of excitement."

  "You should stay home more often." She jabbed him playfully in the side. "Maybe you need to be grounded, mister."

  "What?" He looked confused.

  "Jo. I think she's worried you're two-timing her."

  His pale cheeks took on an irritated pink glow. "That's ridiculous. I've missed her like hell." His expression softened. "How's she doing?"

  "She has a nice-sized knot on her forehead, but she's going to be fine."

  "Rafe's phone call scared the hell out of me."

  "I think he scared the hell out of himself."

  "Can you blame him?"

  She didn't want to talk about it. It only reminded her that instead of being here with him at the airport, she could very well still be underground, broken and lost.

  "I'll take your bag." Bren grabbed the smaller medical bag in his hand, but came up short when he held it tight. She gave him a quizzical look.

  "I've got it. Just get me home."

  "Sure, you've got to be beat." She led him through the baggage claim area and out to satellite parking. "The truck's this way."

  He followed, and within a few minutes she was unlocking the truck doors. "The back seat's kind of full. How about we put your stuff in the bed?"

  They stowed his bags and got on their way. She filled him in on the ride home, starting with Mexico.

  "Bren, that's barbaric."

  The Mexican's head swirled before her, and she swallowed. "Tell me about it."

  "What about Robert? You need to fill me in. I never would have guessed he had a thing for you."

  She gripped the steering wheel. Just his name made her tremble. Jeremy didn't know yet that Robert had killed Tom. "He—"

  Her cell phone went off. With one hand on the steering wheel, she popped it off her belt holder and checked the number. "Hang on. I should take this, but I still need to tell you the rest." She took the call. "Clinic. How's she doing? That's good. No, we're in Baltimore. Probably an hour and fifteen minutes. I'll get someone out there." She snapped her phone shut and frowned

  Jeremy grabbed her arm. "Is it Jo?"

  Bren glanced over. "No." She then transferred her eyes back to the road. Keeping her eye on traffic, she pulled the phone away from her mouth, pressing it to her cheek. "It was Joan Bartlett. It's Tiger Lily—they think she's breech."

  Jeremy moaned, his head hit the back of the seat, and he closed his eyes. "God. Doesn't this job ever end?"

  Bren glanced over frowning. "I'll see if one of the vets on call can swing by."

  His eyes opened and he sat up. "Tractor trailer," he warned, and the heavy rig thundered by on her left. "Keep your eyes on the road. Tell them we'll swing by."

  "But—"

  "You said Jo's fine. She knows the responsibilities I have." He motioned with his hand. "Give me your phone. I'll call them back." His tone left no room for argument.

  Bren handed it to him. "I should be taking you home."

  "Trust me, she'll understand."

  After all these years she must. But these weren't normal circumstances. Something was definitely off with these two. The last time she'd seen them together, she was dealing with an extremely intoxicated Rafe Langston doing his best to irritate her. Jeremy and Jo were as close as they could be for a married couple working toward their seventh anniversary—not the seven-year itch.

  He seemed relieved she was fine, but didn't seem too eager to get home.

  Jeremy finished the call and shoved her phone in Bren's front coat pocket. "I'll check on Jo later. If she's asleep, I don't want to wake her."

  Rafe sat back on the navy-leather couch with the TV clicker and flicked through the stations in Jo and Jeremy's family room. He'd showered real quick and left Aiden and Finn at Paddy's.

  Rafe grunted to himself—no, my father's house.

  How in the hell was he going to get used to that? Truth, he had a daddy back in Texas. One he loved and respected. Not that he didn't respect Patrick Ryan in some ways. He'd been good to Bren and his grandsons. Good to his son Tom. He would have been good to him, too, had he kept him.

  But he hadn't, and it still bothered him.

  Course, he'd almost looked that devil in the eye himself. He now knew what it was to love a woman so completely and without end. If Connelly had killed Bren, he'd have been inconsolable. The equivalent of Patrick Ryan when he'd lost his wife.

  Could he have made the right decision and stayed to see to his nephews' upbringing? Looked into their eyes every day and caught glimpses of their mother in their smiles and mannerisms?

  He hoped he would have. But, realistically, he may have turned tail and gone back to Texas and tried to forget everything about this place called Clear Spring. Almost losing Bren had gotten him an up close and personal glimpse into Patrick Ryan's private hell. Only he wasn't married to Bren. But he was working real hard at rectifying that.

  Rafe dug into the pocket of his black suede jacket resting over the arm of the couch and pulled out the small velvet box and flipped the top open. He'd have bought the biggest diamond out there. But Bren was a practical woman—a farm girl. She wasn't prissy or pretentious. So he went with the three C's—cut, clarity, and color.

  He wanted to take full credit for the purchase he made today, but in all fairness it had been a joint effort of four: himself, Aiden, Finn, and the old man. He'd wanted to feel the boys out. They had only one daddy. He knew he could never replace Tom—not his intention. He shouldn't have worried. They'd taken his hints and ran with it right to their grandfather. Before long, they were standing in Hagerstown Jewelry off of Clear Spring's Main Street, picking out Bren's engagement ring when she called with a favor.

  The thump of Jo's cane brought Rafe around, and he snapped the box shut and shoved it back in his coat pocket. He leaned over the couch and toward the steps.

  "Whoa." He hopped up and came around the couch and into the hall. "You're retired, right?" He took stock of her black running shoes, jeans, and white T-shirt, his eyes coming to rest on the black shoulder holster and semiautomatic handgun with her hand curled around her cane.

  "Where's Bren?" She placed her cane against the wall and snagged a black windbreaker from the hall closet and slipped it on.

  "Jeremy called. His car wouldn't start. She went to get him."

  "Why didn't she tell me?" she snapped.

  "She didn't want to wake you."

  "How long ago?' Her words were impatient.

  "She's been gone about two hours. Why?" And he was quickly losing his patience.

  "You didn't block me in?" She grabbed her cane. Actually he had. Damn good thing.

  "Didn't think you needed to go anywhere, Jo." His voice grew irritated.

  "I do." She moved toward the door. "Can you move your truck?"

  Rafe leaned up against the wall and folded his arms. "Depends. You didn't ans
wer my questions."

  "Rafe, I don't have time for this. I need to go. Can you move your truck?"

  He didn't know what to make of her behavior. This wasn't the Jo Breakstone he knew.

  "Jo, tell me what's going on. I know you're retired, so why the gun? More to the point, why the hell are you dressed? You have a concussion—you should be resting."

  "I work for the FBI on a contractual basis. I'm authorized to carry a firearm."

  Maybe. But did they know their subcontractor was not fit for duty? Deep shadows ringed her eyes. She had a bump the size of a goose egg, and he wasn't exaggerating—he'd seen it. From the looks of that bump, if it had gone down, it wasn't apparent.

  "I can't let you leave."

  "This is ridiculous. I'm going. I have to go." She flung the door open and grappled with her cane, placing it out in front.

  Before Rafe could stop her, she began her descent down the front steps, the rubber of her cane making a thump, thump, thump.

  "What the hell?" He made his way back to the couch and slipped on his jacket and bolted out the front door.

  Jo worked to seesaw her Tahoe between the house and Rafe's truck. It was like the woman was trying to head off a disaster. Her steadfast determination concerned him. Rafe took the steps two at a time and came around to her passenger side and swung the door open.

  "What in hell are you doing, Jo?" He peered into the truck, the glow of the interior light leaving nothing to his imagination. Tears streaked her face. Her hands were glued to the steering wheel, and her body shook with sobs. "Shit. You're in no condition to drive." Rafe reached over and put the truck in Park and took the keys from the ignition. Only Jo's gentle weeping filled the cab.

  Rafe hopped in and shut the door, the interior light popping off. Weepy women and their unpredictable emotions—he'd tried to stay clear of them most his life. His mother was an enterprising woman full of vigor and rarely wept—probably too busy chasing two hellions to succumb to such frivolity. That was probably what attracted him to Bren. But this was Jo and damned if he knew how to console her.

  He touched her shoulder and leaned in. "I'm thinking this is more than work related. I can't let you drive. You know that." He bent in to get a better look at her.

  She sniffed and shook her head in the affirmative.

  He squeezed her shoulder. "I'm real good at listening."

  She sat back in her seat and placed her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. Silent and relentless, the tears continued to escape down her cheeks. "It's J-Jeremy."

  "Bren's bringing him home, honey." He patted her arm.

  She angled herself in the seat so she faced him. "N-no. They won't m-make it home."

  He couldn't see her face—too dark. But the words she'd strung together and her despondent tone had him searching for the interior light. The overhead popped on and lit her face. Tear-stained he expected, but the look of complete despair in her eyes sent his pulse into overdrive.

  "Tell me what I need to know, Jo. Bren's with him."

  She nodded. "J-Jeremy's b-being investigated by the FBI," she said, gasping through sobs.

  "For what?"

  "Gambling."

  "Jesus." Stunned, Rafe dropped back into his seat and rubbed his jaw, trying to sort out what that all meant. "Where were you going?"

  "The clinic. They... want his hard drive."

  "You're working for them." If it sounded like an accusation, it was. Since when did the FBI send an agent—subcontractor, whatever—to seize her own husband's computer? He was missing a chunk of information here. "Tell me what's going on."

  She shook her head. "I will. But we need to get on the road."

  "We're taking my truck. I'm driving." Rafe opened his door and grabbed her cane in the footwell on his side of the truck. "Let's go." He came around and helped her out.

  He pulled out, heading east on 68. "Help me out, darlin'. What the hell are we doing here?"

  "Take 70 toward Baltimore."

  He took the exit onto 70. But, honestly, he had no idea where the hell they were going. His hands gripped the steering wheel. "We headed to the airport?"

  "We need to find them."

  "Am I looking for Bren's truck? What?"

  "Yes."

  "Someone call you? Tip you off?"

  This was a real bitch. Clearly she was trying to hold it together. But every one of his questions, although necessary, brought panic to her voice.

  "An agent friend called me this morning at the hospital. Told me they were going to intercept Jeremy at the airport in Louisville before his flight left at seven tonight. The agent called back this evening. They found out too late he'd grabbed an earlier flight."

  "He called Bren when his car wouldn't start." Then something occurred to him. His shoulders tensed, and he glanced at Jo. "Were you planning on making a break for it?" Which was stupid as hell. And not something he thought Jo would consider with her law enforcement background.

  "No! I couldn't let them take him without explaining why I turned him in."

  Rafe fell back in his seat. "You turned him in?"

  "I had to. These people he's dealing with will slit his throat. Eventually, they were going to kill him." Her voice cracked.

  "How much is he into them for?"

  "Close to half a million."

  "Christ." He glanced at her. "That's heavy."

  She wiped her face. "Tell me about it. When you wake up to find you can't buy groceries it kind of pisses you off."

  "He clear out your savings?"

  "Every penny."

  "That's rough."

  She started to cry again. "He needs help, Rafe. I tried. Trust me, it's a disease. I love him, but spending a few years behind bars seemed like the only answer. He would have gotten the help he needs. I would have seen to it."

  "You're worrying me. You sound like it's not an option."

  "It gets much worse. I can't save Jeremy now."

  Not what Rafe wanted to hear, and his girl was with him. With only one number on his mind, Rafe grabbed for his cell phone.

  Chapter Forty

  Bren carried Jeremy's medical bag out to the truck and pulled down the tailgate. By the time they pulled in, the foal had righted itself. But at the urging of Joan Bartlett, the stable owner, they had remained until the birth. When the colt arrived, he was perfect, wobbly to start and nursing contentedly when they'd packed up.

  While Jeremy was busy chatting to the Bartletts about the colt, Bren grabbed his bag from the stall and stepped out to check her messages. She dug out her phone and fumbled it. The bag that she intended to sit on the tailgate fell to the ground, the contents spilling out.

  Crap.

  She glanced at the phone—two messages. Shit. She'd forgotten to call Rafe. He'd have to wait. She put her phone back into the pocket of her coat. Dropping down on her haunches, she gathered up pill bottles, and cellophane-packaged syringes and stuffed them back into his bag.

  Jeremy was a freak about the bag to begin with. He'd be pissed to know she'd dropped it.

  She righted the bag, and anything near to falling out fell back into place, except for a dark cord that had looped its way out. She shoved it back in, but the obstinate thing kept popping out.

  "Err." She stood and set it on the tailgate and pulled the wire, prepared to wrap it nice and neat and put it back. But the ends got hooked up on something in the bag. She managed to pull the entire wire out, stretching it the full length of the tailgate, and found the culprit. At one end hung two metal clips.

  "What the hell would he use this for?" On the other end was an electric plug. But extension cords didn't look like this one. Yet it looked oddly familiar. Where had she seen it before?

  "Bren? You seen my bag?" Jeremy cleared the barn and slipped on his suit jacket. Pulling up his collar, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked toward her.

  She shivered, too. But it wasn't from the night air. She turned and placed her hand that held the wire behind her back.

/>   "I couldn't find it in the stall." His pace slowed when he got closer. He stood next to her now. "It's freaking freezing out here. It was warmer down south."

  "I brought it out. I didn't think you needed it."

  He glanced at the bag sitting on the tailgate. It was a black leather bag, large with stiff leather handles. She could fit a large cat inside and still have room. She'd shut it but hadn't yet snapped the small leather strap with the lock closed.

  Her adrenaline spiked. What had he been doing in Kentucky?

  Jo had said getting ready for the Derby. Where had he been all the other times on his business trips?

  She kept going back to the wire hidden behind her back. She'd seen this type of device before. Sketched it out and tossed the paper when she realized it was an effort in futility. Tommy "The Sandman" Burns, a.k.a. horse executioner, existed, but only in the past.

  Then why did Jeremy have the identical device in his bag—handmade and designed to kill, not support, life?

  Horses had perished in Maryland and other nearby states. It had happened a handful of times—West Virginia the most recent.

  Jeez, I'm reaching. This is Jeremy, for God's sake!

  "You okay?" He moved closer.

  "Fine." She shrugged. "Tired is all."

  "You've been through a lot." He moved still closer and tilted his head. "You sure you're okay?"

  Bren pressed back against the tailgate. The clips hit the truck and clanged. She stiffened.

  "What's that?"

  "What?"

  He pointed. "You look like some damn stuffy waiter taking an order at Clear Spring Horsemen's Club, ramrod straight with your hands behind your back."

  Before Bren could respond, her cell phone went off. She could ignore it, but she'd already called attention to her odd behavior. It pealed again.

  "You going to get that? It could be Rafe or Jo." Concern and irritation edged his voice.

  "Yeah, sure." She transferred the device.

  Jeremy reached in her pocket before she could get her hand around and pulled out her phone. He flipped it open and placed it to his ear. He pulled it away, looked at the screen, and frowned. "Sorry. It was Rafe. He must have gone to voicemail."