On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  Shasta covered Wyatt’s mouth with her hand. “Not now, honey.”

  Wyatt immediately twisted away. “What’s a vestigation? What’s FBI?”

  She looked down at her son. “I’ll tell you in a minute.” Shasta refocused on Lynch and Jarvis “Does my brother know about this?”

  Lynch’s grin grew larger. “He does now.”

  “Oh…” Shasta glanced at Dell’s office where he stared back, looking extremely pissed. She met Jarvis’s gaze. “What about Adam…I mean DA Murphy? Does he know?”

  “Not yet. We’re on our way to his office now. So if you’ll excuse us…”

  “Of course.” Shasta maneuvered Wyatt to the side.

  “What’s that?” Wyatt pointed a small finger at Lynch’s cut.

  “My jacket.” Lynch held it out in both hands.

  Wyatt studied it for a moment. “How come it don’t got no sleeves?”

  “Why doesn’t it have sleeves?” Shasta automatically corrected.

  Lynch looked at his cut. “It came this way when I got it.” He squatted in front of Wyatt. “Think I should take it back?”

  The first grader gave a solemn nod. “Jackets are suppose to have sleeves.”

  Chuckling, Lynch stood. “Yes they are.”

  “Come on, Callan,” Jarvis said. “We need to go.” She nodded to Shasta. “Mrs. Dupree.”

  “Ms…Agent Jarvis.”

  The agents and Lynch existed the building while Shasta guided Wyatt toward the break room. But on the way, her legs wobbled and she nearly fell.

  Oh my God…Lynch saw Wyatt.

  She leaned on a desk, a hand to her forehead.

  “Mom…Mommy…you okay?”

  Straightening, she forced a smile and nodded. “I’m fine, honey. Let’s get you that lemonade.”

  In the break room, she situated Wyatt on a tall stool and retrieved a glass from the cupboard, her thoughts reeling.

  Had Lynch noticed any family resemblance? His behavior indicated he hadn’t, but that didn’t make her feel better. In hindsight, she’d been damn lucky father and son never met face to face before now. She poured the yellow liquid and set it on the table.

  Wyatt grasped the paper cup both hands. “Mom, who was that man?”

  “Um…someone Mommy and Uncle Dell knew a long time ago. Careful not to spill, okay?”

  “What’s FBI?”

  “A special kind of policeman.” She cut up an apple, more to give her something to do than to feed Wyatt. He’d had lunch less than an hour ago.

  “So that man’s a policeman like Unca Dell?”

  She paused in placing the apple slices on a plate. Lynch assisting in an FBI investigation? What investigation, and for how long? Was this the real reason behind his release from prison? Was this investigation dangerous?

  Wyatt pulled at her hand. “Is he a policeman, too?”

  “In a way, yes.” Plate in hand, she sat next to Wyatt. “Here, honey.”

  He looked at the offering, a slight frown on his mouth. “Mom, can I play Doodle Jump on your phone?”

  “Sure.” She set up the game then absently nibbled on a piece of fruit, watching Wyatt concentrate on the tiny screen.

  She knew the older Wyatt got, the more he’d favor Lynch. Already, his hair bleached out in the summer. Besides the memorizing blue eyes, dad and son also shared the same strong chin and Roman nose. It’d be just a matter of time before everyone in Stardust knew who fathered Wyatt—including Graham. But would that be such a bad thing? Wasn’t it time the truth came out? Didn’t Lynch deserve to know he had a son? Didn’t Wyatt deserve to know his real father? She wasn’t a child any longer. She should take responsibility for her past actions.

  And if Lynch now worked with the FBI, did that mean he’d given up his unlawful, biker ways? That he’d decided to walk the straight and narrow? To be respectable? And if that were the case, didn’t that also mean she could be with him?

  Realization shrank her vision down to nothing as pain sawed through her chest.

  Shasta cradled her head in her hands, her eyes shut, fighting the sudden onset of vertigo.

  Oh. My. God.

  She still loved Lynch.

  Even after everything—his criminal past, the accusations against him, the seven long years of him being in prison—she still loved him. Still wanted to be with him. To have a life with him…forever.

  But what about Graham? Could she be so selfish, so cruel as to leave him? For Lynch? Is that how she repaid the man who did so much for her and Wyatt? Who’d helped and supported her for the last seven years? Who saved her from her reckless youth?

  No. It wasn’t.

  Graham once suggested they relocate to Vegas where his security firm was based. But she’d been cool to the idea of leaving Stardust. She claimed small town living would be better for Wyatt than a big, impersonal city. If she were honest though—brutally honest—her wanting to stay had more to do with wanting to keep the memories of Lynch alive in her heart.

  Not any longer, especially if Lynch remained in Stardust.

  She sat taller, her decision made. When Graham called tonight, she’d discuss moving to Vegas. She just hoped it wasn’t too late…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DUE TO A family emergency, Streeter Bowling Alley will be closed until further notice.

  Lynch stared at the handwritten sign hanging on the glass door, his hands on his hips.

  After going to the DA’s office, and being told Murphy would be in a Reno courtroom all day, he and Jarvis and Newman drove to the Streeter MC to confront the president about a few things.

  Since when did Rolo shut down the lanes on a Monday for any occasion other than Christmas, Thanksgiving or New Year’s? And a family emergency? Lynch didn’t think so. All the Streeters knew the alley business in case something like this came up.

  He spun and marched back to the sedan where the FBI agents stood waiting. “Something’s not right.” He gripped the backdoor handle. “Let’s head over to Rolo’s house.”

  Jarvis heaved a sigh. “I’ve got better things to do than chauffeur you around. I still say putting out an APB for Pruett is the best call.”

  Lynch climbed into the backseat. “But I want the chance to look Rolo in the eye and ask him myself what the hell is going on.”

  “Fine.” Irritation laced Jarvis’s voice as she slid behind the wheel.

  The only conversation on the drive into the country was Lynch’s terse directions. He knew the agents were unhappy, but didn’t care. He needed to hear first-hand from the Streeter president how the fuck their private conversation ended up recorded. And in the hands of the cops. As much as he maintained—and wanted to believe—Rolo was innocent, the evidence said otherwise.

  “This is it,” he stated.

  Jarvis slowed the sedan, turned right and eased to a stop. If Lynch had a funny feeling before, his internal alarm system jumped to full alert. There weren’t any cars in the carport and Rolo’s hog was also missing.

  Lynch supposed father and daughters could be out, but out where? He exited the car and stared at the house. The curtain fluttered in the large picture window then metal flashed in the sunlight. He ducked. “Gun!”

  A barrage of bullets peppered the sedan, shattering glass and puncturing tires. Both Jarvis and Newman scrambled through the passenger door and slammed it shut, their guns drawn.

  Jarvis glowered at him. “Got any other smart ideas, Callan?”

  Lynch scowled back. “Yeah…gimme a gun.”

  She pulled her backup revolver free of its holster and handed it to him. Lynch took aim over the trunk and fired. The agents did the same using the hood as cover. The gun barrel in the window jerked into the air.

  Lynch knelt. “I’m gonna try to get around back. Cover me.”

  Jarvis nodded, adjusting her stance. “On three. Three…two…” She and Newman leaped up and unloaded their clips. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

  Crouched low, Lynch raced to the left, behind an
oak tree. He paused for a heartbeat then scuttled from his hiding place. Bullets ricocheted off the dirt, scurrying him back to safety.

  Heart pounding, he peeked around the trunk—and just about got his head blown off from a shooter in the kitchen window. He hunkered down again, swallowed the dryness in his throat and counted to five. At five, he darted out, shot four rounds at the small window then dodged back.

  A surreal silence pressed against his eardrums. He shifted position so he could see the car. Jarvis stared at him from behind the sedan. The agent nodded once and slowly stood, her gun trained on the house. Lynch rose as did Newman. Guns at the ready, they advanced.

  On the porch, Jarvis took position on one side of the door…Lynch and Newman on the other. She tried the knob. When it didn’t turn, she retracted her hand and Newman kicked it in.

  “Federal agents,” she called.

  No response.

  She nudged her head to Newman who slid through the doorway opposite her. Lynch followed them into the house.

  A mess of broken glass, wood splinters and couch stuffing, along with busted picture frames cluttered the floor. Bullet holes marred the walls. A body laid under the window, bleeding from several wounds to his upper chest and head. Lynch recognized him as Virgil…one of Junkyard’s lackeys. Using her foot, Jarvis swiped the AK47 away from Virgil’s lax grip.

  Newman moved down the hallway as Jarvis and Lynch approached the kitchen.

  Another shooter sat sprawled on the linoleum next to the table, the blood stain on his t-shirt spreading by the second, but still conscious. Cam…another Junkyard henchman. Cam feebly tried to point his assault rifle at Jarvis using one hand.

  Jarvis stiffened her arms and aimed her pistol right at the guy’s head. “Federal agent. Drop your weapon.”

  With a defiant stare, Cam continued to lift his gun.

  “Don’t do it,” she warned.

  Cam glared harder, but didn’t have the strength to raise his weapon. It clattered to the floor. She kicked it out of reach then bent down and removed the Glock from his belt. Cam’s eyes rolled back into his head.

  Lynch squatted beside him and gripped his shirt. “Where’s Rolo?”

  Cam centered his bleary gaze on Lynch. “Go to hell,” he slurred. His eyes closed as his body sagged.

  Lynch stood. “You first.”

  Jarvis holstered her gun. “Would’ve been nice to keep one of them alive to question. You know either of them?”

  “Yeah. This one’s Cam and the other’s Virgil. Both part of Junkyard’s crew.”

  A loud ringing erupted from Cam’s body. Jarvis pulled out a rubber glove, leaned over and extracted a cell phone. It rang again then stopped.

  She checked the ID. “Blocked call.”

  Newman came in. “Bedrooms are clear.”

  “Clear here too,” Jarvis replied, setting the phone on the table. “Better call in this shit show, Sam, and get some of the agents assigned to the Weedly case out here. We’re gonna need help processing the scene. If possible, have the guys try not to let the sheriff know what happened. At least not yet.” She looked at the disarray with a sigh. “The paperwork on this will be brutal enough without Albright going ballistic.”

  Newman grabbed his phone and went back into the living room.

  The cell on the table rang again. Twice.

  Jarvis shot her gaze to Lynch. “A signal?”

  Lynch shrugged. “Hell if I know, but it makes sense.”

  “Once the tech guys in Reno get it, they might be able to back-trace the call.” A thump from the back of the house had the agent redrawing her weapon. “What’s back there?”

  “Rolo’s office.”

  Her eyebrows arched as she inclined her head for Lynch to lead the way. He crept down the short hallway, Jarvis right on his ass, and stopped outside the closed door. The agent stood on the other side.

  He knocked once. “Rolo? Brother? You in there? It’s me.”

  A muffled sound answered.

  Jarvis held up three fingers and nodded to the knob. Lynch wrapped his hand around it, the brass slightly cool against his sweaty palm.

  Two fingers. He turned it.

  One finger, he threw open the door, crashing it into the wall.

  “Federal agent,” Jarvis said again, her body plastered against the wall for protection and her gun pointed inside the room.

  Lynch craned his head around the door jamb. The bright afternoon light hitting the west window illuminated a shirtless and bloodied Rolo, gagged, sitting in the chair beside his desk, his hands bound behind him. A quick glance indicated no one else.

  Lynch slipped Jarvis’s backup revolver into the waistband of his jeans and hurried to the Streeter president. The stench of body odor, antiseptic and decaying flesh made his eyes water.

  Rolo looked beyond rode hard and put away wet. Bruises colored his cheeks and jaw while both his eyes were so swollen, Lynch didn’t think he could see. Blood oozed from the multitude of cuts on his torso, arms and face. And he’d been shot in the right shoulder with the injury crudely doctored. A bottle of rubbing alcohol along with a container of salt sat on the desktop.

  “I’ll get some water and call for an ambulance,” Jarvis said, walking out.

  Lynch carefully pulled the gag off Rolo’s mouth. “What the hell happened, brother?”

  Rolo licked the dried blood on his lips. “Bowyer and a couple of his goons showed up.” His voice sounded hoarse.

  “And they did all this? What the fuck for?” Lynch extracted his knife and cut the zip-ties holding Rolo’s wrists.

  “Wanted my girls.” With his arms free, nothing kept the big man anchored to the chair. He slid to the floor with an agonized groan.

  Lynch caught him and propped him against the front of his desk, but he sagged to the side. “Easy, brother…” Lynch knelt beside Rolo. “I’ve got you…gonna just sit you up here…what’s wrong with your legs?”

  “They broke ‘em.” Rolo held up his badly misshaped hands. “Knuckles too.” He glanced at the door. “Did your lawyer just say she’s a fed?”

  “Yeah. Both her and Newman are with the FBI. Where’s Bowyer now?”

  “Dunno. What the fuck you doin’ with the FBI?”

  Lynch peeled the dressing from Rolo’s shoulder. Pus caked the bullet wound. He grimaced at the reek of infection. “You’re a smart man. Figure it out.”

  Rolo tipped his head up, anger glinting in his slotted eyes. “Thought something was up the way you got out. Too fucking easy. You’re working with the goddamn feds. Shit…”

  “Me working with the feds is the least of your worries. Why did Bowyer want your daughters?”

  “’Member the young girl I told you about? The one in the warehouse?”

  Lynch’s stomach squeezed. “Yeah.”

  “That’s why.” A croaky chuckle pushed past his lips. “But didn’t tell ‘em shit…pissed Bowyer off huge. Pour salt…alcohol on me…still didn’t tell ‘im nuthin’.”

  “So where are your girls?”

  The president’s mouth quirked up as his posture flagged. “A place nobody’s knows…not even me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither…till I found it…found it all over the house…” Rolo’s voice drifted off and his eyes closed, his chin lolling down to his chest.

  Lynch jostled his uninjured shoulder. “Hey…stay with me, brother. You found what all over the house?”

  Rolo jerked with an incoherent mumble, but didn’t regain consciousness.

  Jarvis reentered the room with a towel slung over her arm and carrying a basin. “Paramedics are on their way. Here’s a clean rag and some hot water. How is he?”

  “Bad.” Lynch took the water, dipped the cloth in it then wrung it out. “They tortured the shit out of him, but didn’t want him dead.” He gently swabbed sweat from Rolo’s forehead.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Yeah, that Bowyer was behind this. Guess he wanted his daughters.�
�

  “Did he get them?” Apprehension rang in Jarvis’s voice.

  “Don’t think so. If they had, I doubt Rolo’d still be breathing.” Lynch cleaned the cloth then dabbed at the cuts on the president’s chest. “He also babbled about something he found all over the house.”

  “Probably meant the surveillance equipment Newman discovered piled in a bedroom. By the looks of things, every room in the house had been wired with cameras and microphones.”

  Lynch’s jaw fell open. “No shit?”

  “No shit.” She pointed to the ceiling.

  He looked up. Holes of various sizes had been cut into the drywall.

  Jarvis squatted on the other side of Rolo. “And what do you want to bet this isn’t the only place that’s bugged?” She shook her head. “That’s how Blackwell managed to stay one step ahead of us. And how your conversation about Junkyard got recorded. That bastard is one cunning SOB.”

  “Jesus.” Lynch plopped onto his butt and scrubbed his hand down his face. “I knew Blackwell was dangerous, but goddamn…” He looked at Jarvis. “He really plays for keeps, doesn’t he?”

  She nodded, her features grim. “Yes. But so do I.”

  Rolo moaned.

  “Brother?” Lynch sat taller and patted his cheek. “Hey…you hear me?”

  The president groaned again.

  “Hang in there, ‘kay? Ambulance is on the way.”

  Rolo wagged his head. “Can’t…”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Can’t go…hospital.”

  “But you have to. You’re in bad shape, man.”

  Rolo dragged his tongue along his lower lip. “No…my girls…can’t have ‘em find me.” His eyelids slowly slid up then down as he visibly fought to focus on Lynch. “Gotta die.”

  “You’re not dying.” Lynch swiped the damp rag over Rolo’s forehead again.

  “Not yet…you…kill me.”

  A wintery wind blew across Lynch’s heart.

  Rolo did not just ask him—Lynch Callan—to kill him, did he?

  “What did you say?”

  “Kill…me…please…for my girls…” Rolo labored to swallow. “…if alive, they’ll find me…please brother…can’t let Bowyer have ‘em…”