Grave Secrets_A Manhunters Novel

by Skye Jordan

  “Those are bold words coming out of such a feminine woman’s mouth.”

  Everly laughed and glanced down at herself in the most unfeminine outfit she’d ever worn—outside of fatigues, of course—an old, solid sweater, worn jeans, and steel-toed boots. “The more feminine I get, the bolder the words. Just imagine.”

  Bishop grinned. “Then it’s a good thing for us you’re not in stilettos.”

  “Hey, boss.” Baulder stood and stretched. He moved like a man whose body had been injured and worn.

  Bishop sauntered into the office, picked up Everly’s résumé, and propped his ass against the edge of Baulder’s desk. The two men were a study in contrast, Baulder overweight, wrinkled, and worn; Bishop lean and fit, youthful for his sixty-something age.

  “Miss Everly Farrell.” He let the words trail off as his gaze skimmed the paper. His amused grin transitioned into surprise. “Well, well…” He looked up, pinning her with a new expression, one of challenge. “What brings you to our humble company, Ms. Farrell?”

  “Reputation, location, and work, I hope.”

  “You’re a little…overqualified. Aren’t you?”

  “Only if you prefer to hire bottom-of-the-barrel employees.”

  He chuckled, pushed from the desk, and tipped his head toward the door. “Come on into my office. I’m sure you’ll be able to tell me exactly where you think you fit in here.”

  Hooyah. She hadn’t expected to get an in with Bishop so soon.

  Everly stood and offered her hand to Baulder. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  She followed Bishop to another office at the end of the hall. Still a rangy old hole with fake wood paneling and dirty industrial carpet, but bigger, with organized shelves, a clean desk, and a window that offered a truly stunning view of the jagged mountains that dwarfed Hazard.

  She stood at the window, arms crossed, her back to Bishop. Couldn’t hurt to have the man a little distracted for this conversation. “What a view.”

  “Sure is.”

  The tone of his voice—low and gruff—made Everly smile. Mission accomplished. When she turned, she found Bishop’s gaze right where she’d wanted it—on her ass.

  He looked up and met her gaze, unashamed of where his eyes had been. “Have a seat, Ms. Farrell.”

  “Call me Everly.” She hated the cover name of Farrell, but she wouldn’t have it long. She eased into a chair across from his desk, rested her elbows on the arms, threaded her fingers over her lap, and smiled.

  She let her gaze travel leisurely over the bookcases and filing cabinets, but she didn’t expect to see the alleged terrorist ledger here either. Sam had already scoured this place top to bottom when he’d placed the bugs.

  “Everly.” His tone was silky smooth, trying the word out as if he were tasting it. “Very nice.” He tossed her résumé onto his desk and tapped a few computer keys before pulling a thumb drive from his laptop. Leaning back in his chair, he wrapped the short cord attached to the thumb drive around his wrist, then secured the bracelet by connecting the metal ends.

  No fucking way. A geyser of giddy excitement pulsed through her body.

  That was the ledger. He’d transferred the information from paper to computer and put it on a private drive. A drive he carried on him. No hacking. No discovery. No chance of loss. No risk. She’d bet her lovingly restored ’93 Harley Heritage Softtail on it.

  “Everly?”

  “Yes,” she responded, realizing she’d missed his question.

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Thirty, Canadian, grew up working in the mines with my dad and brothers.”

  “Looks like you’ve had your share of jobs all over the world. Canada, Dominican Republic, Mexico, Africa?” He met her gaze again, eyes sharp and narrowed. “What are you lookin’ for at our little mom-and-pop mine?”

  “I’ve done my research. Bishop Mining is hardly a mom-and-pop establishment. Your gross annual revenue rivals that of mines three times your size. I’m qualified for several positions—team leader, mine foreman, project manager.” She paused. “But I’m particularly interested in a position as safety officer.”

  “Safety officer,” Bishop echoed, tipping his head. “Why?”

  “Because you need one.”

  “We have one,” he countered with challenge in his gaze.

  “You need a new one.”

  He crossed his arms and held her gaze as thoughts churned through his dark eyes. The man had a menacing expression when he was serious. She could see how others would be easily intimidated by him, but Everly would have paid to be given the green light to fight him for the bracelet right then.

  “How do you figure?” he asked.

  “The mining world isn’t all that big. And when you’ve been in it for as long as I have, traveling as I have, you get to know a lot of people. People who move around and climb the ranks. I happen to have an acquaintance who works for the Department of Labor in Mine Safety and Health Administration. He’s told me that your latest death here, on top of the high number of severe machinery-related accidents over the last two years, has them looking at you for a serious investigation of safety practices.”

  That perked him up. “We haven’t had a death—”

  “It’s all over town, boss. Someone named Mason?”

  “He didn’t die in a mining accident.” Bishop’s voice rose as he sat forward. “He was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, on his own time, doing God knows what—”

  “He was an employee of Bishop Mines. And his body was found in one of your tunnels. That makes his death one for the MSHA books.”

  Bishop dropped back in his chair, gaze sharp, mouth tight. “I haven’t heard from MSHA.”

  “You will. Soon,” she told him. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But I really am here to help. One of my brothers died in a mine accident. A stupid accident that could have been prevented with minor precautions, which led me to become an expert in mining safety. Hiring me on as your safety manager would go a long way toward mollifying MSHA. Just like most government agencies, they’re short staffed and overworked. I could make a call to my guy, let him know I’m on the job, persuade him to give me some time to get our ducks in a row. I could keep MSHA off your back and save you money at the same time.”

  “Save me money how?” He was definitely listening now. Looking at her as an information source rather than a sex object.

  “Every dollar spent in prevention saves you three to six dollars in avoidance. And for every dollar you can see spent on injuries and illness, there’s another five to fifty dollars in costs you don’t see. By taking me on as your safety officer and letting me work my magic, I can save you money on both the visible and hidden costs associated with injuries—from workers’ compensation and insurance to equipment damage and legal fees. And that doesn’t account for the invisible benefits gained by providing the safest work environment possible like employee morale, longevity, and retention.”

  He threaded his fingers over his lap and regarded her with both awe and suspicion. “You talk a good game, little girl.”

  She smiled, purposely ignoring the nickname many women would have considered a slight. Everly was sure that had been purposeful on Bishop’s part, checking to see if she’d rise to the bait.

  “No, sir, I play a good game. In my last position as the safety officer at Prescott Mining in British Columbia, I brought home the Canadian Top Performer award for a combination of the highest productivity rate and the best safety rating. I’m proud to say that Prescott went from one of the worst safety offenders to maintaining a zero-incident accident rating for the last fifteen months in a row.”

  His eyes had narrowed. “That’s impressive. So impressive, it’s almost unbelievable.”

  It was, in fact, beyond unbelievable—it was untrue, at least the part about Everly having anything to do with that success. But with Manhunters spliced into Prescott Mining’s switchboard, she knew she’d have the references to back up he
r lies.

  “Please call my former boss for confirmation,” she suggested. “But don’t be surprised if you’re stuck on the phone while he negotiates to get me back.”

  “Why leave such a successful job?”

  “I’ve put them on the right path and trained my replacement to keep them there. I’m ready for a new challenge.”

  Bishop rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, clasped his hands, and ran his thumb across his bottom lip. “Your offer is tempting.”

  “But?”

  “But my current safety manager is a lifelong friend. We grew up together, worked my family’s mines together, much the way you did with your father and brothers.”

  “Loyalty. I respect that.” She paused, then threw in the wrench. “But loyalty won’t get MSHA off your back.”

  “What if I hired you to train him to attain your level of success in the realm of safety?”

  After a moment, Everly said, “I’d be open to that arrangement—if I enjoyed the same benefits as others who signed a year-long contract with you.”

  “Ah.” He chuckled and dropped his arms to his chair. “Now I see. The work-visa program.”

  “More specifically, what comes at the end of the work-visa program.”

  His suspicion was back. “You have a history as a nomad. You’re still young. What would make you want to settle in the States permanently?”

  In translation: Why would she want a US passport?

  Everly held his gaze for a long moment, working up her emotions so she came off as sincere. She lowered her gaze and cleared her throat. “I have a son. He’s seven, and he has cystic fibrosis.” She met his gaze again. “Up until a year ago, our medical coverage in Canada covered his needs. But the disease has progressed to a level where he needs specialty care. I’m sure you’ve heard of the limitations in our health care when people are in need of urgent care from a specialist.”

  “I have quite a few Canadians working for me,” he said. “And they tell me that the rumors regarding lousy Canadian health care aren’t true.”

  “Then they’ve never had aggressive cancer or needed urgent surgery or struggled with a rapidly worsening disease. Don’t get me wrong. General, routine health care in Canada is good. But my son is beyond that level of care. There is an amazing specialist right here in Montana, teaching at the medical school in Bozeman.”

  “I admire your dedication to your son.”

  “I don’t need admiration, Mr. Bishop. I need a job that can supply me with the means to stay in this country to get the best medical care for my boy. And I promise you, I’ll make it worth your while by bringing exemplary safety and increased profit to Bishop Mining.” When he still hesitated, Everly said, “How ’bout this? I’ll work the first month free. If you like what you see, you can put me on salary and pay me for the previous month. If you don’t, I’ll walk away, no harm, no foul.”

  Bishop laughed and shook his head. “I sure like the way you think.”

  He offered his hand across the desk, and Everly’s gaze fixed on the USB bracelet. The latch had a safety lock. It wouldn’t be coming off by accident. If she took it from him now and the names weren’t on it, she’d have blown the whole mission.

  Patience.

  Bishop grinned at her. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Savannah sat at the curb outside the sheriff’s department headquarters, idling in Misty’s Subaru. The car was almost as beat-up and worn-out as Savannah’s, but the heater still worked, so she couldn’t complain. Her heart thumped hard and quick. Her mind toiled around all that could go wrong with this little escapade. But she had to be proactive if she didn’t want to live the rest of her life at the whim of a narcissist. If she wanted to keep her son.

  It was time to turn the tables on Hank. Time to hunt the hunter. The task might be well outside her expertise, but she’d learned a thing or two over her years with Hank. And wouldn’t it piss him off to know she was using his own techniques to plan a counterattack?

  She checked the dashboard clock and found it only two minutes later than the last time she checked: 7:44 p.m. Sighing, she adjusted the heater vent to blow warm air on her feet, rested her head against the seat, and let her eyes close for a moment. “You can do this,” she murmured. “You have to do this.”

  A muffled voice in the distance pulled her eyes open, and she found Hank jogging down the front steps of the station, talking on his phone while he pulled on his parka. By the time he reached his cruiser, he’d finished his call and stuffed his phone into the pocket of his jacket.

  Savannah’s heart skipped, and she second-guessed her idea to follow him. She couldn’t even imagine what he’d say—or do—if he caught her. But that thought reminded her exactly why she was doing this: so neither she nor Jamison would ever have to worry about Hank’s moods or abuse again.

  With renewed purpose, Savannah slid low in the driver’s seat as Hank pulled out of the station parking lot and turned toward downtown. There were still a few cars on the road at this hour, and it was fully dark, so she felt relatively safe following a few car lengths back. But a few minutes later, when he pulled into the empty parking lot of the Episcopalian church, Savannah had to drive past and double back. She pulled to the curb half a block away, close enough to see that Hank wasn’t in the cruiser but had left his car running.

  “What in the hell could you want in there?” she murmured.

  The adorable little church stayed open until eight every night, but Savannah knew Hank hadn’t ducked into the building to pray. He reappeared within minutes, carrying a small, dark bag.

  “What have you got?” she wondered. Though even if she found out what he was doing here, even if she discovered it was something illegal, unethical, or immoral, she’d have a damn difficult time proving it in any way that would give her leverage. At least not in this county.

  She was disheartened that this escapade hadn’t netted her any more usable information. But knowledge was power. And Savannah needed every ounce of power she could get. Maybe, in time, those ounces would add up to something substantial enough to get out from under his control. She wouldn’t know if she didn’t try.

  So when Hank returned to his car and left the parking lot, headed toward downtown, Savannah followed.

  Another few minutes’ drive and they were on Main Street. Hank parked again, this time across the street from The Busy Bean, his favorite coffee haunt. Excitement darted through her veins. This was her chance.

  She quickly found a spot at the curb several cars back, shut off the lights but left the car running, and waited as Hank crossed the street and slipped inside the coffee hut just before close. As soon as the shop’s door shut behind him, Savannah hopped out of the car and hurried to the sidewalk, crouching to hide herself behind other parked vehicles. When she reached the passenger’s side of the cruiser, she searched for Hank inside the shop and found him leaning on the counter, flirting with one of the pretty girls who worked there.

  Perfect. His coffee would take at least fifteen minutes. Now, if Hank’s other habits just held up…

  Savannah reached for the passenger’s door handle. The cold metal cut right through her mittens. She said a quick prayer and pulled on the lever. The door opened, and a thrill spiked through Savannah. Hank’s arrogance had paid off for once. He believed he was invincible.

  “Yes,” she whispered before taking one more look at the café, then bending to search the cruiser’s interior.

  She found the bag almost immediately. He’d left it on the passenger’s floorboard. Her heart skipped as she pulled the bag onto the seat. It was light, maybe a pound or two. The bag itself wasn’t dark, as she’d first thought. It was a clear ziplock bag—the contents were dark.

  She reached in and grabbed what felt like rigid booklets. Dragging one out, she tipped the dark cover toward the overhead light. The gold embossing flashed back at her with the word PASSPORT and the seal of an eagle.

  Savannah grabbed a few more booklets. All pa
ssports. She opened one to the identification page and found a photo of Benjamin Reiz. Confused, she pulled out another, this one for Omar Sarak. And a third for Martin Clark.

  “What the hell?” she murmured. Her mind was still spinning while she dragged out her phone and took quick pictures of the three passports, then the bag filled with them. She had no idea what this meant, but her gut told her it was wrong.

  She scrambled to put everything back the way she’d found it. She needed to get back to the car before—

  The passenger’s door flew wide, and cold air washed her back. Savannah gasped just before a hand clamped over her mouth. Panic broke open, spilling through her chest. Her captor pulled her back against a body like steel and dropped to a crouch. Her fight response was automatic, and she twisted and pushed to get the man off her.

  “Shh,” he whispered at her ear. “It’s me, Ian.”

  Savannah’s fear receded, but uncertainty lingered. Her heart kicked in her chest and hammered in her ears. She tried to tell him to let her go, but her demand came out a garbled nothing behind his hand.

  “He’s coming,” Ian murmured at her ear, releasing the hand around her waist to shut the car door quietly. “Be quiet, or we’ll both end up in jail tonight.”

  The sound of Hank’s boots clomped on the asphalt. A surge of fear cut through her body like ice. Instead of pushing against Ian, she curled into herself, and his weight pushed her closer to the sidewalk.

  Her breath came in short pants. She tilted her head toward the ground to conceal the telltale billows in the air. She swore she felt every heartbeat kick her ribs as Hank got into the cruiser. Swore time slowed as she waited for the engine to start. Then for him to pull away from the curb.

  Once he was gone, relief swamped her. She would have crumpled to the ground if Ian wasn’t there to pull her to her feet.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  She glanced that direction. “There.”