Even though he knew he was stalling the inevitable by not calling Belle immediately, he reached into his back pocket. He grasped the postcard he’d forgotten about in his grief until Christie had mentioned her own. He rarely forgot something so important, but today had been like no other.
He pulled the postcard out of its baggie and stared at the picture of Main Street in Old Bisbee, a colorful location filled with history. He flipped the card over and set it on his desk. He stared at his name and the address of his ranch scrawled on the right and the note on the left. Nate could have sent an email but he’d handwritten the note.
Once again Dylan read it. Two things stood out. The first, Hey, remember when I served in Iraq?
The second thing that bothered Dylan—Nate had signed it WYB.
Dylan narrowed his gaze as he stared at the acronym he and Nate had used in school, back when they’d been young. Long before nowadays, when kids used cell phones to text, Dylan and his friends had used the old-fashioned method of passing handwritten notes. Nate had written WYB, their code for Watch your back.
What the hell did it all mean? Again, why would Nate write something so off and why didn’t he just leave a voicemail while Dylan worked undercover, or send an email?
Unless Nate had worried someone would overhear the call or read his email.
Why hadn’t Nate mailed the postcard? Maybe he hadn’t had time. Yet he’d had time to mail Christie one.
Had he sent postcards to everyone in the CoS? Tom, Marta, and Leon hadn’t mentioned if they’d received anything. Of course they might have been too upset. Still, it seemed like an odd thing to not mention.
Dylan leaned back in his chair and stared through the open blinds to the window that looked out at the cubicles where support staff and some of the junior agents worked. The busy office appeared almost like nothing had changed.
Over a year ago, the Jimenez Cartel had blown part of the DHS’ ICE building all to hell. Agents and support staff had been killed in the blast. More agents had been murdered while protecting a witness who had been set to testify against one of the key heads of the cartel.
The Feds had come down hard on the cartel, seizing assets, arresting key individuals and making their lives a living nightmare. Landon and Dylan had helped take Diego Montego Jimenez, El Demonio, out of the picture. The Demon was no more.
The problem of Diego’s son, Alejandro, had also been eliminated. Alejandro had been known as El Puño, the Fist, and the world was a better place without either one of them.
Both heads of the cartel had nearly killed Landon Walker’s fiancé, Tori Cox, just over a year ago, as well as murdering DHS agents ordered to protect Tori.
The remaining heads of the cartel had retreated, but this fooled no one. The Jimenez Cartel would be back in business, this time with Rodrigo Jimenez, El Verdugo, at the helm. Only a matter of time before the Executioner drove the cartel forward.
Dylan’s gaze returned to the postcard and again he tried to make sense of it. Finally, he put it in the center drawer of his desk and locked it.
He picked up his phone again and held his finger over Belle’s contact details. A strange feeling tugged at his belly. He pressed the number and brought the phone to his ear.
Chapter 2
Belle Hartford tried to keep a smile on her face but let out a silent huff as she walked away from the upset patrons at table three. What a crappy day. Normally she didn’t believe in dwelling on the negative, but she’d make an exception for today.
First her car wouldn’t start and she’d had to call AAA. She’d had to buy a new battery, which she barely had the funds for now, without dipping into savings. She’d called the owner, Gerald, to let him know he’d have to open his wine bar-restaurant, D’Vine, himself. As usual, he’d been an ass.
She’d been in such a hurry to get to work she’d gotten a speeding ticket, which she really couldn’t afford. Even traffic school would be expensive.
Once she got to D’Vine, she’d learned that a prep cook had called in sick and a server had broken her leg. Belle hadn’t been able to find anyone who could come in to take over their shifts.
And now table three. Just one more thing to pile onto all the other problems that had come up at the restaurant since she’d walked in the door.
Belle’s long ponytail tickled her neck as it swished across her back while she strode to the kitchen. She walked through the swinging doors and headed toward the head chef, Gustav. The rotund man appeared easygoing when not in his element, which was lording over the restaurant’s kitchen. Here he was hell to work with.
He barked orders to the prep cook then glanced at Belle. He narrowed his bushy eyebrows, most likely reading her expression. “What is wrong?” he growled in a thick German accent.
Damned if she’d let the big man intimidate her. “The guests at table three complained all their meals taste like they are covered with the contents of a bottle of salt.”
Gustav’s face reddened. He flung out several German curse words and then some. Belle had been working with the chef for two months now, and even though she didn’t know the language, she had a pretty good idea of what he’d said just from his hand gestures.
She’d had enough today and she didn’t need to put up with Gustav’s crap. Yet she didn’t want him walking out on her either, something she’d had happen in the past. Managing a restaurant this size was like balancing on a high wire.
“Prepare new entrees for our guests.” Belle tried not to let her impatience show. She didn’t have the time or tolerance for a kitchen diva. “I don’t know what happened or if they’re complaining in hopes of a free meal or dessert. Just do it.”
Gustav glared at her. “I will see to every step myself.” He looked as if he were going to add more obscenities. Instead, he went to the computer and pulled up the meals he’d made for that table so he could prepare them again.
Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her favorite black slacks as she turned away from Gustav. She pulled out the phone and checked the display. The unfamiliar number had a southern Arizona area code. For a moment she thought about not answering—after all these years, had her stepfather found her? She pushed that thought aside. He didn’t have her number and he hadn’t tried to contact her in twenty-three years—that she knew of. Why would he call now? He probably didn’t even know she was alive.
It could be someone in the CoS—Marta, Leon, or Tom. Belle had programmed Nate’s and Christie’s numbers in her phone.
It wouldn’t be Dylan. Definitely not Dylan. For all she knew it could be a solicitor or a political call. She’d had several of those from other states.
After the day she’d had so far, it would be nice to talk with one of her old friends, but which one could it be? She chatted with Christie regularly and had spoken with Nate a few times, but no one else from Arizona.
She walked toward her office in the back as she pressed the Answer icon and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hi, Belle.” The voice jarred her and she came to a full stop. The tone sounded deeper but as familiar to her as her dreams of him. “This is Dylan.”
Dylan. It’s Dylan. A sharp burst of pain shot through her chest at hearing his voice and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. “How did you get my number?” were the only words that came to mind.
“I’m calling because I have bad news.” He sounded tired.
Her heart started thumping. “What kind of bad news?”
He hesitated. “Nate’s dead.”
“Oh, God.” Belle’s skin went cold and all other thoughts left her mind as she tried to register what Dylan had just said. Almost robotically she walked into her office and closed the door behind her. “What happened?”
“He committed suicide this morning.”
“Suicide?” The word gripped Belle’s heart like a fist of ice. “Nate? I can’t believe that.”
“I was at the scene myself.” Dylan spoke gently. “He hanged himself.”
Belle leaned her back against the door. Her legs didn’t want to hold her up anymore. She slid down the door until her butt hit the tile, her knees bent. She’d been emotionally off balance when she’d heard Dylan’s voice, but now she felt numb to everything.
“Christie is making funeral arrangements and we’ll have a memorial,” Dylan said.
Belle knew Christie always did better when she had a task to keep her busy.
“She offered to call you, but Nate would have wanted me to.”
A tear rolled down Belle’s cheek as the reality of Nate’s death started to hit her. “I’ll drive to Bisbee tomorrow. I need to pull a few things together, then I’ll hit the road.”
“It’s a long drive from Houston,” Dylan said. “I can pick you up from the airport in Tucson if you’d rather fly.”
For a moment she wondered how he knew she lived in Houston but figured Christie had given him the information.
“Finances are tight and I’ll need a car to get around anyway.” Belle would also need money for a hotel, which meant she would have to take cash out of her savings for that and gas. At times like this her hybrid car, which got nearly fifty miles to the gallon, saved her. She did a quick mental calculation to figure out how many gallons it would take to make a drive a thousand miles one way.
“It’ll take me about fourteen or fifteen hours to get to Bisbee,” Belle continued, “so I’ll probably spend tomorrow night in Las Cruces, rather than driving straight through.”
“Good,” Dylan said. “Safer to get a good night’s sleep during a long trip.”
She swallowed past the giant lump in her throat that had formed when she’d heard of Nate’s death. “Thank you for calling me, Dylan.” How did she manage to say his name without falling apart even more?
“It’s good to hear your voice, Belle.” The sincerity in his tone only made her ache more. “I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”
“Me too.” She struggled to hold back sobs. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”
“See you.” Then the line went dead.
Tears broke free as Belle continued to sit with her back against the door and memories flooded her mind.
Nate had been such a great guy. What had happened to him that would make him want to take his own life?
The CoS had drifted apart over the years. In truth, Belle knew she had broken it irreparably when she’d run away from home. The group had stayed friends, but Christie had told Belle it had never been the same. Christie had said Dylan had changed, withdrawing from everyone in the CoS but Nate. According to Christie, Dylan’s easy smile had vanished and he’d become more reserved.
What a shock it had been to hear Dylan’s voice after all this time.
Belle hadn’t forgiven herself for what she’d done to the CoS and Dylan, but she’d had to run. At that point in her life, she’d known she had no choice. She couldn’t take one more day of the abuse she’d faced at the hands of Harvey Driscoll, her stepfather. If Dylan had found out, no doubt he would have ended up in prison for killing the bastard.
When she’d discovered her stepfather had been instrumental in the murder of Dylan’s father, it had pushed her over the edge. She’d known Dylan would never be able to look at her the same way and it would have given him another reason to kill Harvey.
So she’d run. And she’d never gone back.
Over the years, as Internet child pornography had grown, she’d worried the pictures and videos Harvey had taken of her would someday surface, but if they had, she had no knowledge of it.
With her husband’s connections, Christie had tracked Belle down fifteen years ago. It had been a shock to hear from Christie, but she’d been insistent on rebuilding a friendship and they had become close friends again. Every year Christie came out to Houston to visit Belle, most of the time with Salvatore. Christie’s husband doted on his wife and liked to travel with her when business allowed.
An insistent knock came at the office door, startling Belle. She glanced at the time on her cell phone and saw she’d been in her office a good half hour during the restaurant’s busiest time of day.
“Just a minute,” she called out as she pushed herself to her feet while wiping tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
“What the hell is going on, Belle?” Gerald shouted through the door.
Damn. The owner was not an easy man to be around and she did her best to avoid pissing him off. She needed this job.
She pocketed the phone, turned and opened the door, and faced the scowling man who, at five-six, stood half an inch shorter than her. Her rotund employer was as big around as he was tall.
He glared at her. “Your makeup is a mess and your eyes are red.”
She wiped below her eyes with her fingertips in an attempt to dash away smudges. “I just learned a close friend of mine died.”
“Pull yourself together and cry on your own time.” He narrowed his gaze. “I have a restaurant to run. Get back to work. Now.”
Her skin prickled. She had only worked for him for two months, but she’d grown to find him a cold man. This, however, she never expected. She regretted leaving the restaurant she had managed before this one. It had seemed like such a good opportunity at the time.
She straightened. “Give me five minutes to fix my makeup.”
“Make it three.” He started to turn away when she stopped him.
“I need to take the rest of this week off.” She straightened as he slowly looked back at her. “I have to drive to Arizona for the services and the funeral. I’ll be gone five days.”
“You are needed here.” His icy tone cut through her.
“I’m needed there as well.” Belle tried to keep her hands from clenching into fists. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
He gestured toward her desk. “If you plan on going, then you’d better pack up your things now.”
She stared at him, unable to believe his ultimatum. “My friend just died.”
“Your leaving isn’t going to bring your friend back.” He snarled the words. “So get your ass to work.”
Belle turned and walked to the desk. She reached into the bottom drawer and tugged out her purse. She hadn’t worked here long enough to accumulate anything.
She slung it over her shoulder and strode over to the shorter man. “You have my address. You can mail my final check directly to me.”
His face turned nearly purple. “Don’t even think about returning here.”
She slipped past him and strode out of the back door into the parking lot, letting the door slam shut behind her with a final heavy thud.
The fury burning through Belle twisted with her need to grieve for Nate.
Damn Gerald. Now she had lost her job and soon she’d be on her way out of town. She liked having decent savings, but she wouldn’t be able to stretch them too far with everything hitting her at once. Not to mention she had a mortgage and car payment to make.
Then there was Dylan. He had called her himself.
Just the sound of his voice had brought back memories so sweet they were almost too painful to bear. All they had shared, all the plans they’d made… Everything turned to dust.
She climbed into her red Prius and slammed that door as well. She headed to her home, thirty minutes away from the restaurant.
When she finally reached the subdivision, she pulled her car up to the community mailboxes and climbed out. Her box was lucky number thirteen. She jammed her key into the keyhole and opened the small door to dig out junk mail and bills, then locked the door again. She flipped through the mail as she walked back to the car and stopped before she reached for the door handle.
A card with no return address stuck out of the pile of mail. The postcard came from Bisbee, a photo of the Copper Queen Hotel on the front. Her brow furrowed and she climbed into her car and shut the door once she was in. She tossed the rest of the mail onto the passenger seat, then focused on the postcard.
She fl
ipped it over. When she saw the untidy penmanship and started to read, the blood drained from her face.
* * *
Belle,
You’ve come a long way from the teenage girl who had to leave. You’ve done well, and I’m proud of you.
I’ll never forget when your big brown dog bit me on the ass. Don’t let your past bite yours.
Please be careful.
Love,
Nate
* * *
Belle sat and stared at the note, reading it over and over. Nate had written this, but now he was dead. It was like hearing from the beyond.
The odd thing was the incident he mentioned and the fact he’d gotten it a little wrong. She’d always known Nate to have perfect recall, so she found one detail strange. Her dog had been white, not brown.
Tears filled her eyes, blurring the words. Why would he send this postcard then kill himself? Had it been his way of saying goodbye?
She set the postcard on the seat next to the pile of junk mail to drive the rest of the way down the street to her house. She pulled her car into her garage, lowered the door, and grabbed her purse and all the mail prior to going into her home.
Inside, after she’d tossed aside her purse and discarded the junk mail, she stood in the middle of the kitchen and gripped Nate’s postcard. She closed her eyes and took a deep cleansing breath.
Right now nothing mattered but going back to Bisbee and being with her old friends as they said goodbye to Nate.
Her mind jumped to what she had run away from as a teenager and she shuddered and opened her eyes. As far as she knew, Harvey, her abuser, still lived in Bisbee.
A weight came crashing down on her. She’d been through years of counseling where she’d learned to accept the sexual abuse had not been her fault. Her stepfather had shamed her and capitalized on her self-guilt to have her buy into her shame and take it into debasement.
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