Mastiff Security: The Complete 5 Books Series

by Glenna Sinclair

  “Don’t worry, Petrovich,” Durango said, turning his head to the side to avoid Petrovich’s disgustingly stale breath, “it’ll all be over soon enough.”

  “Don’t I know it, brother.”

  Petrovich stood and walked out, whistling under his breath. Durango sat back, content to wait as long as necessary. He wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of complaining or appearing uncomfortable, no matter how long they made him wait.

  It’d been six hours the last time he was here.

  Much to his surprise, however, the guard on duty came around the desk and pulled him to his feet immediately.

  “We can’t do a full intake since everything’s shut down for the night, but we can get you started.”

  He walked Durango into a small room at the end of the corridor and gestured for him to turn around. Using a universal key, he unlocked Durango’s cuffs. As the blood suddenly rushed into his fingers, pins and needles began jabbing him from the inside, his sleeping nerves suddenly awakening in a bad mood. He rubbed at his hands, trying to encourage them into a better attitude, but the pain only intensified.

  “He had them pretty tight. But they should settle in a few minutes.”

  Durango nodded, biting back a low groan of pain.

  The guard gestured for him to take a seat at the long table that seemed to be the only furniture in the room. For the next hour, they worked their way through an informal booking, the guard taking down his contact information, the name of his lawyer in Springfield, and one he would use in Chicago for the arraignment. The guard explained the process, as was required by law even though Durango knew it inside and out. Then he left him alone briefly while he went to retrieve an ink pad and fingerprint card. After that, the guard skipped the strip search and allowed Durango to change into the standard county jail jumpsuit without the humiliation. It wasn’t standard procedure, but it got the job done. And Durango was grateful.

  When they were done, the guard walked Durango down another corridor to an empty cell.

  “We’ll put you here for the night. I can’t promise what they’ll do with you in the morning, so you should probably enjoy the quiet while you’ve got it.”

  “Thank you,” Durango said, offering a hand to the man. “You don’t have to be this considerate.”

  The man tilted his head to one side even as he reached for Durango’s hand. “You helped my brother out once. Saved him from a lot of trouble.”

  “Did I?”

  “You probably don’t remember, it was a long time ago. But he was picked up in a brawl on Northwestern’s campus back when you were a sergeant at the thirty-first. You knew he threw a few punches and could have been charged with the others, but you let him go. Told him you could tell by looking at him that he was a good kid, and he would never get involved in that sort of thing again. And he never did.”

  Durango lowered his head, wishing he remembered the incident. But he honestly didn’t.

  “Anyway, you did him a solid. So, I’m doing you one.”

  “Thank you.”

  The guy gestured for him to enter the cell. Durango did, lowering himself carefully onto the bunk. He was suddenly more tired than he’d ever been. The clanging of the door closing on the cell vibrated through his entire body. But even that wasn’t enough to push the exhaustion back into a manageable container.

  Durango laid down, his legs bent and his arm thrown over his eyes. He had to have drifted off immediately because the next thing he was aware of was the guard’s return, his voice calling out with more authority than he’d shown before.

  “You need to get up, Masters!”

  “Why?” Durango sat up and looked around, a little confused. Not by his surroundings, he remembered immediately where he was, but by the guard’s return. It was still dark. The court wouldn’t start processing arraignments until business hours, and, even then, Durango was just brought in. He’d be at the end of the list, not the beginning.

  “FBI wants to talk to you.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “Not my business.”

  Durango pulled himself to his feet and stretched. The guard came over and grabbed his arm, wrenching it behind his back.

  “You’ve got to move now,” he hissed, a touch of apology in his words.

  Durango didn’t have to wonder what had changed. He could see it. The other prisoners were waking up, a couple standing at the doors to their cells. This guard was conscious of how they perceived him, conscious of the fact that any sign of weakness could cause him to lose authority among the prisoners. Durango understood that.

  Durango didn’t struggle as the guard twisted one arm behind his back and pushed him toward the door of the cell. They walked down the corridor like that, but as soon as they were out of sight of the prisoners, the guard’s grip loosened slightly.

  But there were other guards he had to consider, too.

  Durango was sore as all hell. Sitting in the back of the squad car with his arms behind his back, the tight cuffs . . . His muscles didn’t know what to do with all that. And then sleeping in one spot for however long—though not long enough. He hurt from the roots of his hair all the way to his toes. For that reason, he just let the man push him along, wishing he could go back to his cell and lay back down. Some aspirin would be nice, too, but he knew that was a bit much to ask. Whatever this was, he was too tired to really care.

  They rounded a corner, and Durango found himself back in the corridor where Petrovich had left him the night before. A man in a modest suit stood on the other side of the glassed-in desk, his hands behind his back as he leaned against the wall, clearly bored with the world. But when he saw them approach, he straightened, revealing a bunch of papers in his hand.

  “Durango Masters?”

  Durango tilted his head slightly, trying to figure out if he knew this guy or not. He was pretty sure he’d never set eyes on him before, but the man was looking at him with such obvious curiosity, almost jealousy, that they must have met at least once before, right?

  “This is him,” the guard said.

  “Great. If you’ll sign here.”

  “What is this about?” Durango asked as the two men studied the paperwork. “Who are you?”

  The man in the suit didn’t even look up as he instructed the guard where to sign. The two mumbled to each other for several minutes, totally forgetting Durango was there. He stepped back and leaned against the cool tile wall, the reduction in temperature soothing some of his muscle soreness.

  “All right. You’re set,” the guard finally said. “You’ll have him back . . .”

  “As soon as he’s testified. But you know how these things can drag out.”

  “Yeah. But what can you do?”

  “Exactly.”

  They both turned to regard Durango. “I guess you’re a lucky guy,” the guard said. “I’d rather be in federal custody than in this place on a Friday. You probably would have waited till Monday to be arraigned.”

  “What is this about?” Durango repeated to the stranger.

  “We need your testimony in a case.”

  “What case?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You sound like a man who’s not interested in getting out of county lockup.”

  “Didn’t mean to sound unappreciative. Just curious.”

  “The Stratton case. Do you recall that one?”

  Durango dropped his head, pain flaring in his neck. “I do.”

  It was one of the first cases he worked on for Mastiff. An embezzlement case. But it had been settled nearly a year ago with the suspect taking a plea deal. Durango had been set to testify as the operative who’d gathered most of the evidence against the woman, but the plea had negated that.

  He opened his mouth to ask if some new evidence had come up. He couldn’t imagine what. He’d had the woman dead to rights, and the plea deal would be impossible to overcome. So, why was the FBI suddenly looking for him to give testimony in a case they’d barely touched whe
n it was hot?

  Something wasn’t right here. But instinct told him to keep his trap shut, so he did.

  The guard pushed the button that opened the magnetically locked door between Durango and the outside world. The guard pushed him through, and the FBI agent stepped up, grabbing Durango’s arm as he pulled him into the corridor.

  “Do I need to put cuffs on you, or can I trust you not to try to run?”

  Durango shrugged. “Choice is yours, brother.”

  The agent turned to the guard. “Thanks, Jenkins. It’s appreciated.”

  “Good luck, Agent Richards.”

  They walked out, side by side, the world just beginning to lighten as the sun made its slow rise in the sky. Richards led the way to a dark sedan parked illegally at the curb. Durango expected to be shoved into the back, but the man didn’t even look at him as he climbed behind the wheel. Durango crossed to the passenger side and got into the front seat, leaning forward a little to stretch out his back before strapping himself in. They pulled out, the tires squealing on the asphalt in Richards’ hurry to get going.

  “Stratton? Are you sure that’s the case I’m needed for?”

  Richards didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes on the road, rushing through green lights and burning through yellow. He was in a hurry for reasons he didn’t feel the need to share with Durango.

  Whoever heard of a prisoner transfer before dawn? He could have come for Durango at any time of the day. Why do it before the regular staff arrived at the county jail? Or was that the point?

  “What is this about?”

  Richards glanced at him for the first time since they got into the car. “You don’t know how to keep your mouth shut, do you, buddy?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what’s happening.”

  “Yeah, well, she said you’d figure it out if I told you it was about the Stratton case. But I guess you’re not as smart as she thought you were.” Richards gripped the wheel tight, his knuckles turning white. “Never saw her put herself out there for anyone like this. You must be important to her, not that I can understand why.” He glanced at him again. “Mags isn’t the type to fall for pretty boys like you.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The man rolled his eyes and turned his focus back to the road. They were headed in the opposite direction of the FBI field office there in Chicago. It was downtown, not far from the courthouse. Durango had spent a few, long, agonizingly boring afternoons there when he was a cop working cases the FBI thought they had to put their noses into. But Richards was headed toward the city limits on the north side of the city, away from anything of any potential logic.

  Durango didn’t ask any more questions, but he was tense, his muscles tightening again. He leaned forward and watched the road, trying not to let his tired mind go to places it couldn’t back out of. It was funny, really. He’d been ready to commit suicide just twelve hours ago. Now he was on the verge of freaking out, afraid this stranger with an FBI badge was planning to take him to some secluded truck stop and put a bullet in his brain.

  It was okay to do it himself as some sort of noble gesture. It wasn’t so great for someone else to do it for him for reasons he’d yet to figure out.

  And who the fuck was Mags?

  They drove for nearly forty minutes before Richards finally pulled off the highway and coasted along the access road before pulling into the parking lot of a small, mom-and-pop style gas station. There was one car parked in front of the squat, square building. As they approached, the driver’s side door opened and a familiar figure stepped out.

  Gracie. It was Gracie. Yet . . . it wasn’t.

  Her glasses were gone, and her perpetually messy hair was neatly pulled back from her face in an oversized clip that changed the entire landscape of her face. But she was wearing the same bulky skirt she’d had on earlier, the same light, ill-fitted blouse that seemed to add curves to her already curvaceous body. She shaded her eyes from the rising sun as she watched them, her expression tight.

  Richards pulled to a stop beside her and threw the transmission into park. He came around the side and spoke to her, the expression on her face never changing. Durango pushed open his door and stepped out, moving slowly not only because of the soreness, but because he was still assessing the situation.

  What the hell?

  “I owe you one, Todd,” Gracie said, crossing her arms over her chest as she offered a half smile to Richards. Then her eyes moved to Durango, and a spark of the old Gracie shone in her eyes for a brief second. “I’ve got it from here.”

  “Just . . . I wish you would tell me what’s going on, Mags. I could help you.”

  “You’ve done enough just getting him here. That’s the biggest thing.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Gracie just nodded. “There’s a bag in the back seat,” she said to Durango. “Why don’t you go get changed. We need to get on the road.”

  Durango was full of questions, but he could read her well enough to know now wasn’t the time. Whatever was happening here, she wasn’t going to explain a damn thing in front of this man. For once, Durango did what he was told. Kyle would have been shocked but pleased.

  He found himself wondering what exactly he knew about Gracie as he washed his face in the teeny gas station bathroom. He’d started Mastiff three years ago with just Kyle and an office space not much bigger than this bathroom. But they quickly realized that they needed someone to handle all the damn paperwork that came with starting any new business. Kyle hired Gracie as a glorified secretary. He barely spoke to her the first six months; she was there because he was out in the field most of the time. Him and Axel, their second hire. The company grew quickly, and Gracie was background noise, the woman who brought him paperwork that had to be signed, the woman who handled hirings and firings, the woman he called when he needed a new assistant.

  But what did he really know about her? And how did she know an FBI agent well enough to get him to help her like this?

  Durango opened the bag she’d directed him to, pleased to see that she’d gone to his place and gotten jeans and a sweater out of his closet. His deodorant and toothbrush were there, too. The woman thought of everything, just like always.

  Mastiff wouldn’t have functioned without Gracie these past three years. He wouldn’t have functioned without her these past weeks. And now he was coming to realize that he knew nothing about her.

  For a man who liked to be in control, he seemed to be losing it.

  He didn’t like that. Not at all.

  Chapter 3

  Somewhere in Northern Illinois

  He’d eaten a little, which was good. Now he was passed out, the passenger seat reclined almost flat, his body twisted to one side under the seatbelt. She wanted to touch him, to reassure herself that he was really there, that he was healthy and safe, but she was afraid of waking him. Or maybe she was more afraid that he would recoil from her touch. That was something she wasn’t sure she could take at this moment.

  She knew she was crossing a line. Taking a prisoner from county lockup was dangerous even for legitimate reasons. Local law enforcement didn’t like the feds crossing lines of jurisdiction whenever they wanted. And that Detective Petrovich seemed like the kind of guy who would be loud and insistent when he learned his suspect was gone. Richards would take most of the heat, but it would come rolling down on her when her bosses found out what was happening. She figured they had a narrow window, maybe three days, maybe a week if they were lucky. After that, they’d have half the law enforcement agencies in the Midwest after them.

  She’d never done anything like this before. She hoped to God it didn’t ruin her career.

  But, again, if it kept Durango out of prison—and out of the grave—it was worth it.

  This wasn’t supposed to become personal. It was a case, just like any other. And for the longest time, she was as convinced as anyone that Durango Masters was a killer. But she kn
ew better now. Yet, she was afraid she was the only one.

  She had to save him.

  * * *

  They drove for hours, a trip that was heartbreakingly familiar to her. She’d made this trip hundreds of times, but not in the past few years. There’d been no reason to.

  Durango woke as she slowed and exited the highway, sitting up and watching out the window as she navigated back roads she knew like the lines on her palm. He didn’t ask until they pulled to a stop in the dirt drive that ended beside a modest farmhouse.

  “Who does this belong to?”

  “Me.”

  She got out and led the way to the porch, glancing over her shoulder to be sure he was following. He was, slowly, looking around him with that caution she would recognize anywhere. Only cops and military personnel, current and past, had that sort of weariness about them.

  She unlocked the door and stepped inside, both grateful and overwhelmed to see Mr. Young had come over and cleaned everything up just as she’d asked. Grateful because the place looked just as it always had when her mother was alive. Overwhelmed because it was exactly as it had been when her mother was alive.

  “There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall if you want to freshen up.”

  “What I’d like,” Durango said, dragging out his words with the sternness of a professor speaking to an errant student, “is for you to explain exactly what the hell’s going on.”

  She dropped her keys on a side table and walked over to the fireplace, busying herself with starting a fire. It was late May now, but there was still a chill in the air. Mr. Young had set it up, complete with kindling. All she had to do was touch a match to it, but her hands were shaking so hard she could hardly keep one lit, let alone the kindling burning.

  Durango came up behind her and slipped the match from her hand, lighting the fire for her.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry. I never . . .”

  She didn’t know how she was going to end that statement. She’d never meant to hurt him? She’d never meant to lie to him? She’d never meant, what?