by TL Schaefer
They never laid hands on him, but those twice-a-year bouts had been enough to drive him into the streets. Into the gang he’d called home for most of his teenage years. And there, he’d felt saved. Loved. Valued.
It had taken his years in the Corps to figure out that their lack of any kind of parenting hadn’t been a judgement of him, as their only son, but instead was an indictment of their selfishness. Of the fact they’d allowed the booze to make decisions for them. Decisions that had set both the boy he’d been and the man he became adrift.
So he’d left his little hometown again and turned to the OSBI. They’d embraced him like the brothers and sisters he’d found in the Corps, and he’d never regretted his choice.
And wasn’t he all sunshine and roses right now? Jesus, when he got back to Tulsa he might seriously take the department shrink up on his continuous, and semi-nagging offer.
Yeah, right. Maybe when Hell froze over. He wasn’t usually much for introspection. It must be the job. The weather. The company.
He stole a glance at Cristine, who almost looked like she was napping. The long line of her neck was exposed again, taking his thoughts places they absolutely shouldn’t go, but couldn’t seem to help. It was a good thing she’d pushed him away a few minutes ago, because the last thing he wanted was to get involved with Cristine O’Connor in any way, shape or form beyond this morning’s events.
As soon as they got out of here, he was gone, and would figure out what to do with the rest of this assignment before it went straight down the toilet. He owed it to the victims, he owed it to the OSBI.
Ripping his eyes away from her strangely relaxed pose, he tried mulling over exactly what he was going to do, but his thoughts kept creeping back to his beautiful, bedraggled companion.
Yeah, he wasn’t the best at undercover work, but she’d seen through what most people would have brushed aside. Probably the cop in her.
He was yanked out of his introspection by the scrape of something on metal, directly over their heads.
Cristine shot to her feet. “Linc?” she shouted, her voice echoing off of the dank walls.
“I hear you,” came the distant response, “hold your horses, woman.”
She whirled to Nick, delight chasing across her features, making him catch his breath. “That’s Linc…no one else can sound reassuring and grouchy at the same time.”
Any reply he might have made was forestalled by the weak light that flowed into the storm cellar, accompanied by a gentle patter of rain. He felt a moment of relief that Cristine had been correct. Her friend had found them before the men chasing him figured out where they were hiding.
A stout figure stood in the entryway, silhouetted by the watery sunshine.
“Get out here, Cris. You’ve got some serious explaining to do.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar to Nick, but he couldn’t place it, at least not right this second, not with her smile still echoing through his system.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. I’ve got a present for you.”
Nick could hear the barely disguised laughter in her voice, and it sent a charge through him once again. This was the last thing he needed, he reminded himself as he followed Cristine up the steps and into the fresh, rain-washed air.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, the man she had called Linc leaned in and grasped his hand, shaking it heartily.
“Well, Nick McLain. Son of a bitch. What are doing down in the dark with my girl?”
Nick McLain? Cris’ mind whirled as she watched her best friend in the world greet “her” fugitive like a long-lost son.
Nick shot her a sheepish and somewhat angry glance, before shaking his head slightly, as if coming out of slumber. Or perhaps he was coming out of character?
She eyed both men for a moment, then pursed her lips. “Somehow, Linc, I don’t think I’m the only one who’s got some explaining to do around here.”
Linc dropped Nick’s hand and looked between the two of them briefly, ignoring the drizzle slowly soaking them.
“All right then, let’s get dry and then we can talk about why there’s a mangled two hundred thousand dollar Range Rover in my garage, and you’re playing footsie in my storm shelter with one of my colleagues.”
Cris shot Nick a glare that promised severe retribution and stepped into the curve of Linc’s arm. “Yeah, let’s.”
Cris stood in Linc’s tiny kitchen, the towel she’d recently dried her hair with draped over her shoulders. Snagging a mug of coffee from the pot, she poured a liberal dose of cream into the chipped stoneware, then turned to face her companions.
“So, Nick. OSBI, huh?” She did her best to keep her voice cool and reserved, even though she was seething inside. She’d seen the signs, seen them all too clearly, but ignored them through the haze of fatigue and adrenaline. She was certainly off her game if she couldn’t make someone as patently obvious as Nick. If he weren’t in such great shape, she’d now peg him as a desk jockey, rather than a field agent. But no, the strength of the body sheltering her during the tornado had been anything but that of a pencil pusher.
“Maybe we should try this again,” Cris held out her hand and got it right this time. “I’m Cris Eagen, repossession agent. And you are?”
Nick’s hand engulfed hers in a heat and strength that almost brought her to her knees. If this was the “real” Nick he was much better at undercover work than she’d thought.
“Nick McLain, OSBI Field Training Officer, Tulsa office. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but Linc here just blew my cover straight to kingdom come.”
Cris laughed and pulled her hand away, surprised as the sound escaped her. There wasn’t a darned thing funny about this situation. She pulled a chrome and turquoise dining chair away from the retro kitchen table and plunked down into it. “I don’t know why I’m laughing about this.” She cocked her head and stared at Nick, who looked remarkably better now that he’d taken a moment to clean himself up. Remarkably good.
Nick slid into the chair on the opposite end of the table. “Delayed reaction, probably. It’s been an, um, eventful, morning.”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” She looked up at Linc, who was watching them with undisguised interest. “Sit down, you old coot, and the two of you can fill me in on what I got myself into.”
Linc chuckled, a short, rasping sound totally at odds with his jolly demeanor. “Don’t ask me. Seems like Nicky here is the one who should be answering your questions.”
With a grunt, Nick pushed out of the chair he’d so recently settled into and headed to the counter and a cup of his own coffee. Leaning against the tiled counter in a decidedly disinterested manner, he took a sip, staring at Cris with a shrewd expression. “Ask away, Cristine, and I’ll answer what I can. But you need to know one thing before I do. I know exactly who you are and what you used to be.”
The expression on Nick’s face said everything he didn’t. He’d heard the rumors that had circulated through the closely-knit law enforcement community and believed them all.
Cris rocked back in the chair as if slapped. And perhaps she had been, but mentally instead of physically. Her stomach bottomed out. He knew?
He’d sat next to her in the truck, sheltered her in the storm, and he knew? He’d heard about Lori Wright’s crazy accusations, watched it all unfold on the five o’clock news. And then after that on the entertainment and ‘breaking news’ channels. Yeah, her life had been one big reality TV show eighteen months ago.
Crap. He’d caught her slip-up back in the Rover. She’d kept her maiden name after marrying Trent because she’d already been well entrenched in her career. And, after all, she was an O’Connor. But after Austin, there hadn’t been much sense in it. Her career was over, and that had been before Lori Wright began her one-woman crusade to bring Cris down.
Not so surprisingly, her marriage ended about a month later when Wright’s accusations became tabloid fodder. Not that the marriage had been anything to write home about anyway. She and Trent
had been comfortable for five years, their histories intertwined. She’d thought she’d been devastated by his departure, when all she really felt was betrayed.
Betrayed by someone she’d thought understood her. So when he filed for divorce, assuming his last name had seemed to serve two purposes—it shielded her from random folks looking for her and was a great big ‘screw you’ to the man who couldn’t be bothered to stand by her.
“That’s a hell of a thing to say, Nicky. And so far beneath you I can’t believe it came out of your mouth.”
Cris watched, numb and shell shocked, as Linc bulled his way into Nick’s personal space, jabbing a stubby finger into his chest.
“You’re a better man than that, McLain. You apologize right now.”
Nick drew himself up, dwarfing the older man. “I will not. If I’m going to tell her the rest, then she deserves the full truth.”
Cris finally found her voice, and while she willed her tone to remain calm and reasonable, her hands had curled into claws beneath the table, fingernails cutting into her palms. “It’s all right, Linc. I suppose lots of people know, especially cops. I screwed up by giving him my real name when I was distracted. It surprised me, that’s all. Especially after so long.”
Linc rounded on her. “No, Cristine, it’s not all right.”
Cris knew she was in trouble when Linc started using her full name. Even as she uncurled one of her fists and raised a palm to stop him, he continued.
“They only know what they heard, and you never said one word to change their minds. It’s never been fair, and it sure as hell isn’t now.”
Cris let her hand fall to the table and laid her palm flat against the cool linoleum. God, had she ever been more tired?
With Austin two years behind her, she still couldn’t shake the feeling of utter futility that swept through her, even now. Knowing she should have gone with her gut, screw procedure, didn’t make the fact four people had died any easier.
She should have gone with her instincts, should have confronted the shooter, knowing from his psychological profile that he wouldn’t harm a woman. Instead, she’d given in to her analytical side, followed protocol, and in the end, been responsible for the carnage. It didn’t matter that the badges in the ivory tower had cleared her. In the end, dead was dead.
Andrew Wright’s widow hadn’t agreed with the proclamation of innocence from on high. Knowing she would get more than fifteen minutes of fame because of Cris’ family name, the woman had embarked on a three-month smear campaign. When none of that worked, she’d snapped, become Cris’ stalker, and eventually tried to kill her.
She was now in custody at a mental hospital somewhere in Texas, awaiting trial.
But none of that mattered, not today.
“Let it go, Linc. Nick here can believe whatever he wants to--or needs to. It makes no difference in the here and now, does it?”
Scott Lincoln, Agent in Charge of the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation, Oklahoma City office, and her best friend, deflated like a balloon. He drew a shaking hand over his face and slid into a chair, anger evaporated. Totally ignoring Nick, he focused his watery blue eyes on Cris. “It might not make a difference, girl, but it still makes me crazy.”
Cris reached out and took his hand in hers. “I know, Linc. I know.”
Nick watched the scene unfolding before him with a kind of detached amazement. He’d known Scott Lincoln on a professional basis for over two years and had never seen him so agitated, so passionate. Granted, he knew almost nothing of the man personally, but Lincoln’s behavior surprised him, nonetheless.
He looked at Cristine as she sat there, comforting her friend. She was still pale from the verbal blow he’d delivered but composed now. She cut him a quick glance, condemning him, not for what he’d said, but how it had affected Lincoln.
In that moment, Nick could understand why Linc so staunchly defended her. She was almost regal, and totally at odds with the tomboy he’d seen through the chaotic hours of this morning.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, I’m sorry. I could’ve said that a lot better. Or maybe not said it at all.”
She met his gaze squarely. “No. If you knew, then it needed to come out now. Sooner is always better than later.” She shot him a crooked grin that didn’t come close to the pain still haunting her eyes. “Sometimes I think Linc worries more about what happened than I do.” She squeezed the older man’s hand, but left it in his grip, effectively shutting Nick out.
He could understand her action, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
“All right, McLain. You’ve seen my hand, now it’s time to lay yours on the table.”
Indeed. Nick pushed himself away from the counter and joined them, framing his coffee cup between his hands.
“I don’t usually do undercover work, as you can tell.” He shot a wry grin her way. “But in this case, I was tasked because of my physical similarities to the real Nick Coleman. Plus, since our first names are the same, I couldn’t screw that up.” This time he forced his grin to be self-deprecating. It wasn’t easy sharing his deficiencies as a cop with a man he respected and a woman…well, he wasn’t exactly sure what he thought about Cristine O’Connor.
Just as he wasn’t sure what to make of the fact she’d changed her name or the fact he could now see her actions this morning through a different lens. She hadn’t acted rashly, as he’d previously thought, but instead she’d analyzed everything and made the decision to side with him—over a cop. Which still puzzled him.
“The cover story I told you was ninety-nine percent true. Nick Coleman is an auditor from Detroit, and he did come up with some weird numbers, but he never left the Motor City. OSBI, the Texas Rangers and the Kansas Bureau of Investigation are all working this one together because it’s not something as simple as someone fudging the numbers. It looks like a significant auto fraud ring along the I-35 corridor. High-dollar cars are being ‘sold’ to people who don’t exist, and then shuttled down the Interstate to Galveston, loaded on container ships and sent to South America primarily, but any country that’ll take them. That’s not counting the cars we think are being lifted from less-than-legit owners, namely drug dealers. We’ve got agents placed in all the major cities, but so far, I’m the only one who’s struck paydirt, as it were.” He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at both Cristine and Linc.
“It started out simple, me asking questions that would make it to the right ears, and then seeing what would happen. Unfortunately, they moved faster than we anticipated, and I got snagged out of my hotel room. They roughed me up a bit at that dive you found me in, then tossed me in the trunk of the ‘Vette. They were going to torch it, and me right along with it.”
“And you let them? What kind of plan is that?” Cristine interrupted, her brow scrunched in confusion and a bit of anger.
“Not much of one,” Nick admitted. “But besides roughing me up, they didn’t do anything prosecutable. Not in the way we need to nail them, so I went with what I was dealt. I’ve got the background to get out of sticky situations and knew how to get out of the trunk when it was time. On the plus side, I’m almost positive they don’t know I’m with you. When we zoomed out of the garage, I ducked reflexively, and that Rover’s windows are tinted. I doubt they even saw you had a passenger. They’re probably trying to run me to ground in the streets outside your yard even as we speak.” He paused for a moment. “One thing we’ve got to figure out is why you were given that particular car to repossess, or if it’s even part of this crazy puzzle.” He shook his head and continued. “Anyway, we’ve identified the man in charge of the Oklahoma City arm of the operation.”
“Burt England,” Cris supplied, but she was still looking thoughtful, as if pondering his earlier statement. They both knew something wasn’t quite right with the whole picture.
“Burt England?” echoed Linc. “Describe him to me,” he demanded.
Nick and Cristine locked eyes and the sizzle that had faded suddenly
reignited, momentarily stealing Nick’s breath. In that moment he imagined her stretched out beneath him, long blonde hair fanned out across the pillow. Her voice, husky and oh-so appealing, brought him back to the here and now.
“Tall, dark hair, mid-to-late thirties. Got a cop’s walk and attitude. Or maybe a soldier’s,” she summarized, pulling her gaze from Nick to stare at Linc. “Why?”
Linc paused for a long moment before his eyes hardened. “Because Burt England retired from the force two years ago, moved to Lake Eufala to do some fishing. He’s sixty years old and looks every day of it. There’s no way the man you saw was Burt England.”
Nick rocked back in his chair, erotic thoughts of Cristine vaporized. “Damn it. I was hoping we’d finally gotten a solid lead, something to go on.” He shook his head, disgusted with both the case and his runaway hormones. He should have known that the perp handing out his name was too easy. But he’d hoped. He’d really hoped.
“If not England, who is this guy? I may have doubted he was a Captain, but never that he was a law enforcement officer. And how did he know to use England’s moniker?” she asked rhetorically.
Nick pushed away from the table with newfound purpose. The case, he needed to focus on the case. Not the fact that Cris O’Connor was diverting every bit of sense from him, even as she asked all the right questions.
“I don’t know, but I’ve got to check in with Tulsa, let them know what’s going on. Linc, can I use your phone?”
Before Linc could even nod, Cristine shot out of her chair as if she’d been catapulted.
“Oh my God, I forgot about Karla!”
Chapter 5
This job should have been cake. Grab the car and sweat the dork for information. They’d set him up so easily it was ridiculous, dangling the ‘Vette like a big shiny lure. The dupe had gone after it just as anticipated, and they’d reeled him in like a fish.
The plan to take the car over to the tracks and torch the thing after they removed the VIN from the dash, door panel and engine block and let the dork go up with it was solid. It took care of two problems, the accountant and the ‘Vette, which their boss said was too high profile.