“An intense read with the classic Brannan tempo and rebelliousness.”
—Daniele Dosch, FBI Victim Specialist
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by River Grove Books
Austin, TX
www.rivergrovebooks.com
Copyright ©2018 Sandra Brannan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Distributed by River Grove Books
For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact River Grove Books at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.
Design, cover design, and composition by Greenleaf Book Group
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN: 978-1-63299-173-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63299-174-4
First Edition
The complete list of Sandra Brannan’s
Liv Bergen Mystery Thriller Series:
In the Belly of Jonah
Lot’s Return to Sodom
Widow’s Might
Noah’s Rainy Day
Solomon’s Whisper
Jacob’s Descent
Jeremiah’s Revenge
To my real life Ole and Ida.
And to Hobart and Poxy Lone Hill, my Ray and Alice.
Beautiful people.
I AM SO GRATEFUL to my fans—especially to the hundreds of book clubs that keep supporting me and hosting me in your homes, whether in person or via FaceTime. This book is dedicated to two book clubs that chose the striking book cover for Jeremiah’s Revenge.
The entire team at Greenleaf Book Group is awesome. Sally Garland, Elizabeth Chenette, and Jen Glynn push me to improve my craft, but artist Neil Gonzalez drives me crazy each year by giving me too many excellent book covers to choose from for my next Liv Bergen mystery.
This book was no exception, so I let the book clubs choose the latest cover as my “Thank you” to the fans who continue to read the series.
If you like the Jeremiah’s Revenge book cover, you have the following people to thank.
Cover to Cover Book Club in Hollywood, Florida
Christina Diaz
Ana Martin
Yvonne Perez
Sandra Salinas
Kathleen Taylor
Ginny’s Book Club at the Haakon County Public Library in Phillip, South Dakota
Suzan Berry
Skye Brucklacher
Kerry Burns
Emily Deveraux
Nancy Ekstrum
Nancy Haigh
Vonda Hamill
Sheryl Hansen
Sally Jankord
Missy Koester
Emily Kroetch and Bob McDaniel
Audrey Neiffer
Laura O’Connor
Norm Payne
Jodi Pease
Lori Quinn
Bobby and Gerry Sloat
Deb Oliver Smith
And of course, the creator of the cover—Neil Gonzalez.
THE BLUE FLASHING LIGHTS in my rearview mirror made me catch my breath, and I felt my heart rev.
Not because I was upset the Wyoming Highway Patrol had pulled me over for speeding. I expected that in Lusk. I’d been stopped at least a half a dozen times here—which would make most people more cautious. But not me.
I needed to get to Denver. It was already closing in on three in the morning, and I had to get to the office before everyone else arrived. I glanced at the dashboard clock again and calculated the remaining time. Three and a half, maybe four hours. I’d never make it by six like I wanted to. Hopefully by seven. Later than I wanted to be. People would start to drift in after seven.
And I wanted to be alone. With Special Agent Streeter Pierce.
If my sister Agatha hadn’t insisted that I stop by Rapid City to bid farewell to my parents, I’d have made it by six. But I guess I could see why she had insisted. After all, a sheriff was dead on Mount Moriah in Deadwood. A young man clung to life after surgery at Rapid City Regional Hospital. And the police needed me as a witness to untangle the sordid story that would eventually slip from tongues all over South Dakota for months to come.
It took forever, but Agatha was right. My parents would have inevitably heard about my involvement today in the newspapers and on radio and television—if they hadn’t already seen the story on the ten o’clock news last night. But they had: And they weren’t pleased to discover I’d found myself yet again in the middle of another mess.
After hugs and kisses, their personal observations that I hadn’t been shot, stabbed, or maimed (again), and a quiet reminder that working for my dad might be a much safer bet for me, they set me free. I was on the road by midnight. I’d made my decision: I wasn’t going back into the family mining business—I just hadn’t told them. Couldn’t afford another few hours of them trying to change my mind.
Instead, the dancing blue strobes made me realize I’d made the right choice to stay with law enforcement and how much I absolutely loved working with the FBI. I wanted to get back to work. After my mandated psychological sabbatical, today was the day I was to report for duty. At 8:00 a.m. But I had to get there before everybody else did.
My first order of business was to march into the office of the Acting Special Agent in Charge and tell Streeter Pierce to immediately rip up my letter of resignation. I thought he normally arrived sometime before six, but I had no clue exactly when he got there, since I’d never arrived early enough to verify.
I needed to get moving. After I received my speeding ticket and a well-deserved lecture, of course.
I placed my hands at ten and two on the steering wheel as the trooper eased carefully toward my driver’s side open window. In my side mirror, I could see him position one hand on the butt of his service weapon and the other on his flashlight. Then he swept the beam across my hands and face.
“No gun,” I said. “Although I do have a concealed weapon. I’m Agent Liv Bergen. FBI. Can I reach for my driver’s license?”
The officer hesitated and shined the light into my face. I smiled, still gripping the wheel. I bet I didn’t look much like a federal agent. More like a meth-head-bag-lady who’d just stolen a car. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had slept. Or brushed my hair.
He nodded. “And your credentials.”
I couldn’t see his face with the beam blinding me. I fished out my license and credentials from my duffle bag and handed them to him. Then I flashed him another smile, hoping for my best battle-worn-Jessica impersonation from True Blood. He swiveled the light onto my identification. My vision adjusted to the dark. From the wash of the patrol car’s headlights and from the nearly full moon, I could see the man was young. I’d never met him.
Normally, Carlson was the trooper who’d stopped me on this stretch. And he’d invite me to sit with him in his cruiser while he wrote me a ticket. In the front seat. I thoroughly enjoyed checking out the new equipment and chatting about changes with the friendly hi-po.
This guy was no Carlson. Not so friendly. Not more than twenty or so. I tried to catch the name on his left pocket, but he had his right shoulder toward me.
He handed back my IDs. “What’s the rush?”
I tucked away my credentials and license. “Work. I just got off a case in Deadwood. A murder. And I have to be back at our Denver office this morning.”
He grinned for the first time. He was much better looking than before, when giving me that stern face. “You’ve got worse hours than mine. At least when I work weekend nights, they let me off Monday and Tuesday.”
“Where’s Gerry Carlson?”
His grin faded. “Retired. Maybe I should reconsider.”
“Reconsider what?” I asked.
“If you’re on a first name basis with the guy I replaced, that means you’re not much of a learner when it comes to speed limits and the law. Maybe I should reconsider and write you a ticket.”
I worked up a plausible protest. “You weren’t going to write me a ticket? That’s a first.”
Then I realized that that might not have been the smartest thing I could have said.
He patted the door, grin gone. “Slow down, Agent Bergen. And have a good night.”
“You, too. Stay safe,” I called after him, sounding trite and pathetically maternal.
I turned on my blinker and slowly merged into nonexistent traffic on the desolate highway. At Lusk, I’d have to fuel up with my credit card and move on to Cheyenne before I could find any food. But the gas station was open. I purchased two large coffees to ward off drowsiness, some Hot Tamales, and ate a box of chicken fingers that were probably cooked at least ten hours earlier, but I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and I was starving.
Reenergized, I cranked the air conditioner to high and turned west onto Highway 18 toward I-25. It would be faster on the interstate and a straight shot into Denver.
I hadn’t figured out what I was going to say to Streeter. Or how I was going to thank him for everything he’d done for my family and me since my boyfriend’s death. He’d called every day to check on me, even though I wouldn’t talk to him about Jack.
The bureau’s psychologist was right. I had definitely needed a leave of absence after Agent Jack Linwood’s death to get my head back in order. Witnessing a colleague being gunned down right before my eyes was bad enough. Holding my boyfriend while he bled out was worse than anyone could ever imagine.
Spending the sabbatical with my family in the Black Hills had proven therapeutic. Exactly what I needed and what the good doctor had ordered for my mental state. I felt better than I had in years. More confident, and sure of myself and my decisions. And I’d learned to embrace the sadness of losing Jack.
He was a dear, dear man. Kind, gentle, and loving. The last words he’d ever spoken to me played over and over in my mind. I found a sad irony in my memories of loss as I drove past Lost Springs. As Jack lay dying on that porch in Colorado, his blood pooling beneath us, he told me that he’d never killed anyone and how sorry he was to leave. I know he didn’t want to die.
The worst part of Jack’s double life was that I couldn’t blame him. And I’d come to terms with the fact that he had finagled his way into the FBI for the wrong motives. I actually envied him. And Agent Jenna Tate. They’d tracked down and eliminated some very bad people—who had gotten away with crimes against the innocent for years.
Streeter had told me that night—when I was such a mess, when my grip on sanity was slipping—to remember that I had loved a hero. And that he had, too. We’d all loved Jack Linwood. He was a brilliant agent.
Is that what Streeter said? For an instant, I realized that I might have misinterpreted his words. What were his words? Something like, “Remember that you loved a hero. And I do, too.” Or was it “And I did, too”? I’m pretty sure it was the former, not the latter. But I’d interpreted his words to mean he wasn’t ready to speak of Jack in the past tense. But then why did he use the word loved, past tense? If he’d intended to use the words he’d spoken, then it would have meant Streeter was in love with a hero, too. Someone alive. Jenna Tate? Was she his hero?
It didn’t matter: She was headed for prison. We had both suffered losses—his worse than mine, in my opinion. At least Jack hadn’t killed anyone. But Jenna had murdered more than her share. She was no hero.
I thought back to Jack’s final words to me. The ones he coughed out with his last breath—the most shocking of all, particularly since he had never said them before.
“Love you.”
Jack loved me. And not like everyone loved me, in that generic “I love you, man” sense, or as an agent, or as a human. He meant it as a man loving a woman.
Clarity had become the theme of my leave of absence.
For one thing, I had finally understood the importance of Special Agent Jack Linwood in my life. I realized I had fallen in serious like with Jack. I was crystal clear about that. But love? I never had a clue he felt that strongly about me, so his final words had made me examine everything.
I know I wasn’t in love with Jack.
I could never fall in love with Jack.
Or anyone, for that matter.
As long as I was so unquestionably tethered to Streeter Pierce.
Ever since that kiss at Storybook Island.
I realized I loved working for the FBI because of Streeter Pierce. I was choosing to continue to work with Streeter Pierce over working with my family, whom I loved more than anything. Or almost anything.
I knew I had to explore what it was about Streeter that captured my complete attention, no matter how much I tried to ignore him. And even if he was in love with Jenna Tate.
But how could I explain any of this to him?
He had saved my life again through Mully. That was another issue I needed to resolve with Streeter. Who the hell is Mully and why is that outlaw biker constantly showing up to save me at the exact moment I need him?
I’d promised Deputy Sheriff Harvey Nolan, Agatha’s new beau, that the FBI would open a new case to investigate Mully’s involvement in the Mount Moriah shootings. Carl J. Muldando, aka Mully, the leader of Northern Colorado’s chapter of the Lucifer’s Lot outlaw motorcycle gang, had actually shown up to save my life yesterday. Hiding amid all those headstones. Wiping down the gun before disappearing. Leaving nothing behind but a smile for me to remember.
Heady.
Mully killed Sheriff Leonard Leonard, who had tried to murder young Michael Jacob, an innocent kid who knew too much. And the very same sheriff who would have killed me, if not for Mully. The entire ordeal was completely overwhelming to say the least. It was a mess I was going to need Streeter’s help to untangle. And his honesty. And then there were the headstones. Winzig—Michael Jacob’s aunt. PAULA WINZIG JACOB PIERCE—Streeter Pierce’s wife.
FALL IN THE ROCKY Mountains was an exceptional time of year, particularly in the sleepy town of Conifer nestled in the mountains southwest of Denver.
The temperature rarely got above the seventies during the day, but if it did, predictable, late-afternoon thunderstorms quickly cooled everything down. By early evening, a spectacular rainbow—sometimes two—often accompanied the setting sun in the clearing skies.
Tonight, as often happened even during the summer, the temperature dropped so low that Streeter Pierce found it necessary to build a fire in his wood-burning stove. He was enjoying the steam that billowed up from the cup of coffee he raised to his lips. The forty-five-minute commute each way from Conifer to his Denver office could be difficult at times, but his home offered seclusion, privacy, and the mountain living he loved. This particular log cabin was his refuge and the first home he and Paula had ever aspired to buy. They couldn’t afford to buy it at the time it was put up for sale—just before her death. But when he learned he couldn’t sleep in their apartment without her for the entire year after she was gone, he’d used the payout from her life insurance policy to purchase her dream home. It was the only way he could see himself ever spending that money he’d known nothing about.
He smiled, remembering how they had lain in bed at night talking about the possibilities. Of the remodeling they would do. About the furnishings they would buy. Right here was where he’d spent so many nights since then, sitting on the deck of his cliff-perched home, facing a wild and empty mountain across a wooded crevasse below. T
he canopy of stars had provided many spectacular views as he listened to the nocturnal animals and birds during many sleepless nights.
Tonight was no exception.
With only the light from the fire within and the stars above, he stretched out in a wooden lounge chair and listened for movement in the dark wilderness above a sea of black. He heard the howling of the coyotes.
Wrapped in a hunter-green comforter he had pulled from his bed and wearing nothing but the scent of a distant slumber, he drew in a breath of crisp, clean air into his tired lungs. But rather than helping him fall back to sleep, listening to nature’s nighttime harmony energized him. Particularly his mind.
Tonight, his thoughts were on Liv.
After a joint stakeout with the Denver City Police Department and the bureau, one FBI agent was dead, one was awaiting sentencing, and another was seriously injured—mentally. The dead agent, Jack Linwood, was Streeter’s friend. The one awaiting sentencing, Jenna Tate, deserved to go to prison for the rest of her life. The injured one, Liv Bergen, deserved nothing but happiness and peace.
He was saddened by the loss of Linwood to be sure, but he realized the emptiness that was consuming him had come after he read Liv’s resignation letter. Tate could burn in hell, for all he cared. She shouldn’t have used him or the bureau like she had to get her way. It was agents like her who gave the bureau a bad name. The three were his responsibility now that he was acting SAC, and he’d have to find replacements for all of them.
In more than two decades with the bureau, he had never been as scared as he was that night, and there was only one other time he had been more devastated. Since the shootout, he replayed the events during countless sleepless hours. He couldn’t stop himself from formulating multiple alternatives in his mind of how he could have spared Jack’s life.
And Liv’s pain.
During his career with the FBI, Pierce had mentored many of the bureau’s finest agents on how to conduct criminal investigations, particularly those involving violent crimes. As a new agent nearly a year earlier, Liv had been one of the agents he’d mentored. She was by far his favorite, both professionally and personally.
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