Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

“Our reputation didn’t precede us?” Candy asked with a shit-eating grin.

  “Oh, it did, believe me. But I don’t like to operate on rumor and hearsay. That doesn’t land me warrants or get dirtbags arrested. I’m a hard-facts only kinda guy.”

  “How old fashioned of you.”

  “Yeah, well.” The smile became more rueful – and then grim. “It doesn’t win you a lot of friends in the Bureau, I can tell you that. Turns out, the old Boy Scout routine fell out of favor a while back.”

  “Sucks when that happens.”

  “So I did my research. Conveniently for you and yours, though the club rubs up against a lot of very illegal shit, it never actually gets busted for it.”

  Candy let his grin sharpen. It wasn’t as effective as one of Mercy’s crazy, gator-hunting smiles, he knew, but it wasn’t bad. “Maybe I’m a Boy Scout, too.”

  Cantrell snorted – but something like real amusement peeked through his wry façade. “I know how clubs like yours operate. They oughta teach courses on it at Quantico. It’s – well, it’s fairly damn impressive, if we’re being honest.”

  “Not that I don’t love being flattered, Agent…”

  His voice went quiet. “I have no leads on this case. Not a one.”

  Candy blinked. “Really?”

  “None. Big fat goose egg.” He made a circle with one hand for emphasis. “The profilers say this fits all the marks of cult activity, but I’m not exactly gonna find a cult hiding under a rock out in the desert, and none of the vics’ families can tell me anything useful.”

  Candy nodded. He’d reached out to their dealers, their wannabes, their Lean Bitches; the business owners downtown who kicked up a vig to the club to buy themselves protection. Nobody knew anything. He’d hoped that, if he had to put up with the feds, their cameras and tweezers and test tubes might at least provide some useful bit of insight.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked. He thought he knew – but it was too odd to be believed.

  Cantrell sighed. “I want to make it very clear that I don’t like what you guys do.”

  Candy nodded. “That’s a given.”

  “But it’s…” He grimaced. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. Whatever bad shit the Dogs do, the ritual killing of civilians doesn’t seem to be on the list.”

  “We do try to avoid that kinda thing.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.” Candy levered a hint of steel into his voice. “This wasn’t us.”

  “I know that,” Cantrell said, and the words sounded like they cost him – but like delivering them lightened the load across his shoulders, too. “Which is the only reason I can sit here and admit to you that I need help.”

  Candy felt his brows go up again. “Sorry. I didn’t catch that. It sounded like you asked for my help.”

  The agent’s face compressed, expression nearly disgusted. “Don’t get cute. I’m talking about an understanding – a business agreement. I share what I learn, you share what you learn, and we’ll meet in the middle and catch the bastards.”

  Candy stared at him a long moment, searching for the catch, the trap. Can’t trust anyone with a badge, Dad’s voice – or maybe Blue’s – pinged unhelpfully in the back of his head. And he knew that; bikers and lawmen lived on opposite ends of a line that – while it could be obscured, or pushed up or down along a scale – could never be erased completely. One-percenters were outlaws, at the end of the day. By choice, by design. The incompatibility would always exist.

  But the club did make temporary friends out of the occasional badge or two. Guys who owed the club; guys who’d grown up around it and appreciated the ways they kept petty crime and senseless violence at bay. Guys who understood the futility of trying to bring down the club, and who’d decided to make use of them in the ways they could instead.

  Maybe Cantrell was one of those – he sounded like it.

  But he was a fed. This wasn’t a local deputy sticking his neck out, ready to be dressed-down and turned loose by the higher-ups. Agents could pull all sorts of governmental strings. They had resources. When clubs were toppled, occasionally, it was always at the sizable hands of the alphabet agencies.

  “I’m not talking about filling out paperwork,” Cantrell said, rolling his eyes. “But somebody has to go take your sister’s statement. Might as well be me.”

  Candy searched his face. He’d always thought himself a good judge of character; unless he really had gone soft, Cantrell wasn’t smarmy enough, smooth or charming enough, to be playing any kind of game. He looked tired and frustrated.

  So Candy nodded. “Yeah, might as well.”

  Twelve

  Michelle woke to the sound of a small voice saying “Mama” over and over. She sat up with a little gasp when pain lanced down her neck, and along the backs of her shoulders. She’d fallen asleep at the table, head down on her folded arms, and the position had pressed on all kinds of nerves the wrong way.

  Jenny was in the same shape, grimacing across from her, blinking gritty eyes and reaching to massage the back of her neck. Jack stood beside her chair, tugging at the sleeve of her sweater.

  “Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama–”

  “Shh, I hear you, baby, what’s wrong?”

  “Daddy’s here.”

  That meant Candy was here, too, probably. Michelle raked her fingers through her hair and glanced around the room. Her tea sat stone cold in front of her, and pale early light streamed in through the windows. She should have been up, showered, and dressed by now. Should have been getting TJ’s breakfast ready now. Should already be thinking about spreadsheets, and numbers, and ways to make TLC run even smoother and more efficiently – the thing she was constantly thinking about.

  Before she could stand, the door to the sanctuary opened, and Candy and Colin trooped in.

  Jack whirled around with a glad, “Daddy!” and ran at them.

  Colin scooped him up without any visible effort, hoisting him high so Jack’s little legs could go around his waist. “Hey, buddy. You get some sleep?”

  Jack nodded vigorously, tousled gold hair flying. “Mama’s still asleep,” he said in a confidential whisper that, while hushed, didn’t hit the mark of being quiet.

  “No, she’s not,” Jenny said, standing. Michelle caught her giving her hair a quick tidy, tongue running over her teeth with an expression that was a plain wish for a toothbrush. “Hey, baby.”

  Michelle turned her head to give them what privacy she could, just in time to meet Candy as he braced a hand on the back of her chair and leaned down for a kiss.

  “My breath’s disgusting,” she said, apologetically, after.

  “Nope.” He gave a quick smile, and kissed her forehead before he straightened. “Jen,” he said, turning to his sister. “Agent Cantrell followed us back. He needs to get an official statement from you.”

  Surprise flashed across Jenny’s face, briefly, but then it smoothed away, and she nodded. “Right. Sure. Let me just–” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Mind if I use the guest bathroom?” she asked Michelle.

  Guest bathroom. “Of course. That’s your bathroom.” Michelle put a careful stress on the word, wanting her to still feel welcome – to know, after what she’d admitted earlier, that the clubhouse, and its cozy sanctuary in back, were still her home.

  Jenny’s smile was tight. “Thanks. Be right back.”

  When she was gone, Michelle got to her feet, and tied her hair up with the elastic she always wore on one wrist. “Jack, are you hungry?” she asked with as much brightness she could muster. “Would you like some jelly toast?”

  “Yes!”

  Colin, still holding him, gave him a gentle bounce. “Yes what?”

  “Yes, please!”

  “TJ up yet?” Candy asked, as Michelle went to the counter and got out the bread.

  “No, I was going to check.”

  “I’ll get him.”

  When she unfurled the long plastic tongue of the bread b
ag, and breathed in the yeasty scent of fresh sourdough, her stomach recoiled. She willed the nausea down, and breathed through her mouth, struck by one of the waves of hormonal nostalgia that had plagued her first pregnancy. A frustrating sort of nostalgia, because it was a longing for something she’d never had.

  She’d missed the nebulous, comforting, cultural idea of having her mum when she had her first period; when she got her heart broken by a boy for the first time; when she left London, and came here. Raven had done her best, always, and was beloved for it. But it wasn’t the same. She’d wanted her mother there for her wedding. And she wanted her here, now, to put an arm around her shoulders, and talk of her own morning sickness, and share all the little tips and tricks that mothers dispensed to daughters; the kind of advice that everyone else in her life had tried to compensate for so valiantly.

  A water droplet landed on the back of her hand, and she realized tears slid silently down her face. She dashed them angrily with her sleeve, and pressed down the lever on the toaster with more force than necessary. Stupid hormones.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  She jumped when Colin leaned up against the counter beside her. A rather wild, embarrassed glance around proved that he’d installed Jack on the couch in front of cartoons, and that she hadn’t heard the TV come on, nor Colin approach.

  She wiped her face again and said, “Fine. Yes. I’m fine,” in a tone that wouldn’t have convinced a stranger of the fact.

  A quick look revealed Colin’s dark brows knitting as he frowned. “Are you crying?” he asked, low enough that Jack couldn’t hear. “Are you…?” He looked distressed, like he had no idea what to do if she said yes.

  It struck her as hilarious, this big, scary guy looking at her like she was a bomb that might go off, and she smiled, the last of her tears receding. “Hormone moment,” she said, and his brow smoothed instantly in understanding. “If I’m not puking I’m crying.”

  He nodded, and made a shooing motion with one giant hand. “Here. I can make toast.”

  She gave way with a grateful sigh, sinking down into the chair at the end of the long table. “How are you doing?” she asked. “Besides freaking out, obviously.”

  His mouth twitched sideways in rueful acknowledgement. “Really wishing my kid’s bedroom wasn’t on the front of the goddamn house.” He braced a hand on the counter and turned toward her. “And wondering why whoever this sick fuck is went from messing with Pacer to messing with me.”

  Michelle had wondered that, too. “They must have realized that Candy got involved, and decided to send a message.”

  “At my house.”

  “His sister’s house.” She frowned to herself. “Anyone who knew him at all would know Jenny’s his big weak spot.”

  Colin’s brows went up. “Just Jenny?”

  “Oh.” Realization dawned a beat too late. “Me too, I suppose.”

  “You, too, especially. That’s just common sense: you wanna mess with a guy, you threaten his old lady.” He made a face. “Men kinda suck, huh?”

  “Duly noted. But…” She wracked her brain – for all the good it did. Pregnancy brain was a thing, and she had it. “Maybe it was too difficult to get in and out of here.” As soon as she said it, she knew it for the truth. We’ve got the fences, and the cameras, and the single boys are always coming in and out at all hours of the night.”

  “Makes sense.” The toast popped, and he pulled it, and added more bread. When Michelle moved to fetch the jelly from the fridge, he waved her back down and got it himself.

  In the two years since she’d come to Amarillo, Michelle had been surprised – at first – to find that she and Colin had developed a kind of friendship that existed as its own thing, outside of family obligations. There was plenty they didn’t have in common – most things, really, if she was honest – but one very important thing they did: they’d both married Snows. They were both outsiders from other cities, both had struggled to find a place here in the unforgiving desert-adjacent environs of Amarillo, and both of them loved born-and-bred club children who loved deeply…but who loved the club deeply, too.

  “Candy mentioned an Agent Cantrell?” she asked.

  “FBI,” he supplied, spreading grape jelly with the back of a spoon. “Your boy seems real chummy with him.”

  “What?”

  Colin swallowed his reply as Candy emerged from the back, carrying a still-sleepy, but dressed and presentable TJ. He made grabby hands at Michelle when they drew close, and she reached to take him and settle him in her lap. He was a heavy kid, solid, and warm, and the top of his head smelled like no-tears shampoo. An instant balm to her unsteady emotions.

  “Good morning, my love,” she whispered into his hair. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Coco,” he said, which was what he called Colin, tongue still clumsy with babyhood, mind sharp as the knife she carried in her boot.

  “Yeah, Uncle Coco’s making breakfast. You want some?” Colin asked with a grin.

  TJ bounced in her lap and clapped his hands with a resounding, “Breakfast, breakfast, breakfast!”

  “Take that as a yes,” Colin said with a chuckle, slotting more bread into the toaster.

  Michelle caught Candy’s gaze. “You’re getting chummy with a fed?” she asked conversationally.

  It took a moment for her comment to really hit, judging by the way he reached for a coffee mug, and then froze a second, his whole body tensing. Then he shrugged and continued like his brain hadn’t just come to a screeching, panicked halt. The tips of his ears turned pink, though, giving away his self-consciousness. “Chummy, huh?” He managed to elbow Colin deftly while he poured coffee. “I see telling tall tales runs in the family.”

  “Just calling it like I see it,” Colin said.

  “Well, if I was a nobody, non-officer standing in someone else’s kitchen right now, I’d watch what I called.”

  “Candy,” Michelle said, sharply enough that TJ craned around to get a look at her face. She bounced him on her knees in an effort at distraction. “What’s going on?”

  He was slow in turning to her, sugaring his coffee first, and when he did, he wore an expression she hadn’t expected to see directed her way: the careful, nonchalant mask he wore when he was trying to lull someone into thinking there was nothing to worry about.

  “No,” she said, before he could speak.

  His brows went up. “No?”

  “Your face. You don’t give anyone a real answer when you make that face.”

  “Babe–” he started.

  Jenny came back into the room, dressed in the spare outfit she kept in her old bedroom, jeans and a knit Henley, and had put her hair up in a charmingly messy bun. “He’s here already?” she asked.

  Colin set a heaping plate of jelly toast on the table, and the boys cheered.

  “Yeah, I’ll walk you out,” Candy said, motioning toward the sanctuary door.

  “Coffee first,” Jenny said.

  The time for any kind of real answer was slipping away. Michelle met Candy’s gaze – a brief snatch before he ushered Jenny out – and it wasn’t the reassuring look she’d hoped for. A glancing kind of regard, withdrawing, holding back.

  She knew a sudden, intense urge to call Fox, as she watched Candy leave, his wide shoulders filling the doorway. It was her first urge in that direction – but she waited. Only hormones, she thought, and let it lie, for now.

  Thirteen

  Jenny was an old pro at this sort of thing. Candy forgot, sometimes – it was in his nature to worry about the people he loved most – that he didn’t need to shield her in situations like these. Jenny went out into the common room and offered Agent Cantrell a ready handshake, her voice and smile warm, undercut with the barest hint of emotion. The proper tremor for a worried mother who’d seen two corpses staked out beyond her baby’s window. She sat down with Cantrell, while the rest of them hovered, and Candy could tell which of her little hitched breaths, and her lowered gazes were for show – b
ut only because he knew her. Cantrell would have no idea.

  She described the way she’d woken, the way she’d heard Jack stirring. Described walking down the hall, dodging toys, and how she’d heard the sound of the stakes being driven into the cold, hard ground.

  “Jack said…” Her voice quavered. “‘Mama, look. That man. He looks like a star.’ God.” Deep, unsteady breath. “Sorry. I keep seeing it again, in my mind.”

  Nice touch, Candy though with an inward grin.

  “You said you saw two men fleeing the scene?” Cantrell asked, pen poised above his notepad.

  When the interview was over, Jenny thanked him, accepted the card he offered her, and Candy escorted the good agent outside to his dusty unmarked car. He told himself that the eyes he felt burning holes in his back were just his imagination, and not the silent censure of his club brothers.

  It was noon, and the sun beat down, cool, but relentlessly bright. Cantrell had sweat on his temples, though, by the time they’d crossed the scrubby front lawn, gone through the gates, and reached the parking lot where the unmarked sat beside a row of gleaming Harleys.

  Cantrell produced a handkerchief and wiped his brow with it. Candy wondered if he had some sort of condition, or if he himself had grown so used to the heat that it took truly soaring temperatures to make him uncomfortable.

  “You and I both know,” Cantrell said, “that there’s no one holding a grudge against your sister.”

  “Got a little crush, huh?” Candy said mildly, just to be a shit.

  “Shut up. This was a message for you – for the club. Because you’re connected to Pacer?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Or was Pacer targeted because of you, too?”

  Candy’s step faltered a moment. He hadn’t considered that.

  “I’m convinced these are related to the Nevada killings,” Cantrell continued, as they pulled up beside the car. Someone – not Cantrell, Candy didn’t figure – had drawn a heart in the dust on the gas flap with a fingertip. “All the markers are the same: same position of the bodies; same method of slitting the throat. The stakes and the cord used to tie them even look to be the same brand – just waiting on the lab to confirm.”