Burning the Past (Southern Heat Book 3)

by Jamie Garrett

  “After you get her settled, you come by our place. We’ll do whatever we can to help. If you let me tell the other guys here, I’m sure they’ll want to help, too.”

  “Not yet, Mason, okay?” He sucked in a breath. “Amy doesn’t want anyone else involved, not even you and Sloane. I have to honor that, for now.”

  “I understand, Dean, but don’t forget: Sloane wouldn’t forgive herself if anything happened to Amy. They’re kind of in this together, you know?”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Moments later, Dean emerged from the bathroom, surprised to find Amy sitting on the bed, fully dressed.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We need to go see Agent Hemmings, and then we’re going to head up to a cabin that Mason’s family owns north of here. It’s in a hard-to-reach spot. It should be a good place, a safe place for you to be with the marshal until things get settled.”

  She stared at him, her gaze searching his face.

  “This sucks,” she said. She held her hands folded between her knees as she gave him a half-hearted shrug. Her eyes looked red and puffy as she sniffled and swiped at her nose. He stepped closer and saw her eyes glistening with tears. She attempted to give him a smile, but it quivered and then one tear, then another oozed out of the corner of her eyes. He sat down beside her on the bed and wrapped his arm around her. His other hand cupped her face close against his neck, his thumb brushing away the tears.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “It really fucking does.”

  26

  Amy

  Amy sat quietly in the passenger seat of Dean’s truck as he slowly drove along the winding road heading to what seemed like nowhere. They had left Monroe maybe fifteen minutes ago. She had waited in the truck, slouched down low in her seat, trying to make herself invisible while Dean met Agent Hemmings in his car in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour diner just off Main Street. She stared quietly at the dashboard, her thoughts flying through her head, not landing on anything for more than a few seconds.

  Her mother, effectively disowning her. Dean’s passion in the motel room. Regretting that the connection they shared was doomed to end before it truly blossomed. Grappling with the realization that in a matter of hours or days, she would have to start her life over.

  Alone.

  She blinked back tears at the thought of never seeing Sloane or Meg again. She liked it here in Monroe, damn it! It wasn’t fair! Why couldn’t the authorities just get their hands on Nick and his merry little henchmen and throw their asses in jail for the rest of their lives?

  She’d sighed, glancing toward the car where Dean and Hemmings spoke, arranging for someone from the Marshal’s Service to babysit her up at some out-of-the-way cabin that Dean told her about. Apparently, the cabin belonged to Mason’s family. It was remote and hard to find.

  Dean had returned to the truck and they’d headed out of town. After driving for several minutes, he finally spoke. “The agent will contact the Marshal’s Service. A marshal should be up at the cabin by seven o’clock.”

  Amy glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Three fifteen. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since all this had started. The same applied to her relationship with Dean. Was this what they called a whirlwind romance? Her heart felt heavy.

  As they drove, she noticed Dean continually looking in the rearview and side mirrors, making sure that no one followed. She, too, started glancing in her side mirror every few seconds, her anxiety ratcheting up with every look. Not once did she see another headlight from behind. No one approached from up ahead, either.

  Dean’s phone dinged, breaking the heavy silence. It lay on the seat between them. She glanced down, saw the envelope icon. “You have a text message.”

  “Read it to me, won’t you? I don’t want to take my eyes off the road. Too windy.”

  She picked up his phone and tapped the screen, accessing the text message. A garbled moan escaped her throat. “Oh, my God!”

  Dean immediately slowed, searching for a place he could pull off the road onto the shoulder. “What is it?” He came up to a small pullout and turned off, staring at her.

  “It says, ‘First Amy. Then Sloane.’” She nearly choked as she said the words. She stared at the screen, which was casting a dull blue glow into the interior, before Dean reached for the phone and shut it off. Cursing under his breath, he took the back off the phone and then removed the battery, then handed the pieces to her.

  “Here, hold onto this.” He shook his head as he looked at the road, first ahead, and then back toward Monroe.

  “What are you thinking? You think that’s Nick?”

  He shook his head and looked at her. “I don’t know what the hell to think. How the hell did—whoever that was—get my phone number?”

  She looked down at the pieces of his phone in her lap, her heart pounding heavily in her chest. She stared, as if the pieces themselves had some sort of answer. “If it was Nick, how would he know about Sloane?”

  “I have no idea,” he muttered. He rubbed his hands over his face. “I still think our best shot is to go up to Mason’s cabin and wait for the marshal. I haven’t seen anyone following us. I have no idea how they managed to get ahold of my phone number, but—”

  “Could they track your phone?”

  “Not anymore,” he said, glancing down at the pieces. “We’re not that far out of town. They might think we’re heading toward the interstate, which may throw them off our tracks.”

  Amy nodded. When was this nightmare going to end? Now they weren’t just threatening her, but Sloane, too. She frowned, turning toward Dean as he pulled the truck back onto the highway.

  “The only way Nick could know about Sloane would be if he’s in contact with that Sakkas guy, the one that’s already in prison. That’s the only way. I haven’t seen Sloane since that night I met you at her apartment. All this started after that.”

  Dean said nothing, focusing on the road.

  She looked ahead also, seeing nothing but the trees encroaching on the highway, only fifty yards or so illuminated by his headlights. “Do you think she’s safe? Should we warn her?”

  “As soon as the marshal gets up to the cabin, I’ll head back into town and let her and Mason know. At this point, I don’t even trust using my phone.”

  He didn’t say it, but she wondered. Had someone tapped his phone? It took a lot of sophisticated equipment to do that. Nick hadn’t seemed that smart, but was Sakkas? Did he have that kind of clout from behind prison walls?

  She and Sloane were the only ones who had the potential to testify. Revenge? Could all of this be about revenge? Revenge triggered by Sakkas, making it personal? Personal against her and Sloane? A horrified thought struck her. Did Nick work for Sakkas? Had he always? Was that the connection?

  Just when she had begun to hope that she was getting her life back, the rug was pulled out from under her. Only this time, it wasn’t just she who was crashing to the ground. At the rate she was going, she would take Dean, Sloane, and anyone else who tried to protect her down with her.

  Under any other circumstances, she would’ve loved this place. The cabin was small, tucked into heavy tree growth all around it, but it was beautiful. The dull glow of a low-watt bulb at the entrance to the hallway dimly lit the main room, divided between a sitting area with a couch and an easy chair along the front wall. A large bookcase filled with what must have been hundreds of books—hardback and paperback—took up the north wall.

  No television, no radio, no phone. To the left of the living room was the kitchen area; polyurethane-coated wood top and bottom. The rest: a small ’50s-style white refrigerator and an old porcelain sink with old-fashioned, white spigot faucets, and no garbage disposal. A small table completed the kitchen ensemble.

  She opened the refrigerator door, but inside it was dark and empty. Oh, well, she hoped she didn’t have to be here long. She didn’t have an appetite, anyway.

  A short hallway led to a small bathroom on the left; a s
mall, closet-sized bedroom with a twin bed and one small bedside table was on the right; and at the end a larger bedroom equipped with a double bed and a moderately sized dresser.

  Amy sat in the corner of the couch, watching the US marshal as he paced through the cabin, pausing to stop and look out each window as he did. Marshal Tony Bedford appeared to be in his mid to late forties, although the gray hair could have just been caused by the stress of his job. He had a lean build and deeply set brown eyes that seemed to never stop moving. Another side effect of his job?

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You doing okay?”

  She shrugged. Was she? Dean had left shortly after the marshal had arrived, heading back into Monroe to see Agent Hemmings and warn Sloane. She had wanted to go back with him to check on Sloane, see with her own eyes that she was okay, but he told her it would be better if she stayed out of sight.

  Out of sight, out of mind?

  Idiot. Dean was doing everything he could to make her feel more comfortable, but they both knew what was coming. The knot in the pit of her stomach grew bigger. It was hard to swallow, her mouth dry. It all seemed so real now. Without Dean, sitting here by herself, watching the marshal pace through the cabin . . . everything seemed so surreal.

  Her head pounded and her heart thudded dully in her chest, as it had ever since Dean had received that text message on his phone. What would he do now? Go home and pick up where he left off? Go back to work? Take care of his puppy? It seemed like forever since she’d met Dean at the park and fallen in love with Penny—and with him. Amy forced herself away from thinking about it. It was just too painful.

  The puppy. Penny Girl . . . probably being spoiled rotten by Meg and Sloane alike.

  Sloane. She glanced at the marshal and then rose from the couch. He turned toward her, an eyebrow lifted in question. She gestured lamely down the hall. “Bathroom.”

  He nodded and turned back to the front window, standing off to the side, peering through the blinds. He’d been there all day, arriving shortly after Dean and Amy, and looked like he would keep guard all night, too. He’d parked his car deep in a copse of trees maybe a quarter of a mile down the road past the cabin near the edges of the swamp and then walked to the cabin.

  She stepped into the bathroom and softly closed and locked the door behind her. The porcelain tub, the toilet, and the sink looked decades old but were in relatively good condition. A window encased in a wooden frame stood over the toilet. A dust-coated mirror was screwed into the wall over the sink. She looked at her reflection and then quickly turned away. How much longer would she be Amy Valenso? Would she have to cut her hair? Dye it?

  She stepped toward the tub and sat down on the edge of it, pulling the phone from her pocket as she did so. The semidarkness of the bathroom felt oddly comforting. She needed to talk to Sloane. Agent Hemmings had told her to use it only if necessary, but this was necessary, wasn’t it? If she was never going to see her again, the least she could do was to thank her for everything she had done for her and say goodbye.

  She pressed Sloane’s number and waited while the phone at the other end rang once, twice—

  “Hello?”

  “Sloane . . . it’s Amy.” She kept her voice hushed and barely above a whisper so that the marshal wouldn’t hear her.

  “Amy! Where are you? Are you alright? Where’s Dean?”

  “I’m at Mason’s cabin. The marshal is here with me, and Dean went into town to see the FBI agent.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, but I called to warn you, Sloane. Dean got a text message on his phone on our way up here. He’s on his way back to see you now, but I couldn’t wait.” She paused. She didn’t want to tell Sloane what the message had said, but had to. It involved her. “It said Amy first, then Sloane.” Silence on the other end. “Sloane, I’m sure the message came from Nick. And if he knows about you, then he’s working with Sakkas—”

  Sloane swore. “Thanks for the warning, Amy. But please, don’t risk yourself by staying on the phone. I’ll let Agent Hemmings know, but I’m sure Dean already has that covered. You take care, Amy, and—”

  Amy interrupted, her voice breaking with emotion. “Sloane . . . I just want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” She swallowed the growing lump in her throat. “In case I never see you again, I wanted you to know—”

  A shout from the front room startled her. Something heavy crashed to the floor. What the—it sounded like fighting! She nearly dropped the phone. She vaguely heard Sloane’s voice as she stood and pressed her ear to the door, phone down by her side.

  “Amy? Amy, are you there?”

  She quickly closed the phone, shoved it into her pocket, and looked for something with which she could defend herself. Damn it! Nothing. The sound of crashing in the kitchen was followed by a solid thump against one of the walls, causing the door to shake.

  Oh, God! She glanced frantically at the window over the toilet. It was the only way out. She quickly and quietly closed the toilet lid and shoved the curtain aside. The window was one of those old-fashioned kinds, opening up and down with a bronze hasp locking it into place. She reached for the hasp and tried to turn it, but it didn’t budge.

  Shit!

  Something slammed into the living room wall. She heard something falling. Books? A shout. Clasping her lips together in fear, she used both her hands to fight the clasp. Finally, it moved. Crouching onto the toilet seat, she pressed the palms of both hands against the wooden sash and pushed upward. At first it didn’t want to budge, swollen by years of moisture, but finally, it inched upward. Too slow! She shifted her position, grabbed the bottom of the window frame, and heaved. It slammed open. She cringed at the sound and quickly glanced over her shoulder.

  No screen, thank God, and she shifted her position yet again, extending one leg out the window, heart pounding, choking back mewls of fear as she half straddled the window sill, scrunching her body as small as she could make it to duck outside.

  The sharp retort of a gun made every muscle in her body seize.

  A garbled, hoarse scream, followed by two more shots fired in quick succession. She sat frozen, half inside and half outside of the window, horrified, hoping against hope that the marshal had killed whomever it was . . . was it Nick? When she heard nothing, she was forced to assume the worst. Nausea rose in her throat. Every muscle in her body trembled with fear as she shoved herself out the window. She toppled and landed on her shoulder but squelched the yelp of pain as she hastily scrambled to her feet.

  She stood for a moment of indecision, peering into the inky blackness of the woods.

  She heard a shout, followed by a door slamming. “Amy!”

  Her name was drawn out in a loud singsong voice, but she recognized it anyway.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  For a second—a brief, heart-stopping second—everything in her brain flashed with stars. Don’t faint. Don’t faint! As quickly and quietly as she could, she darted into the undergrowth behind the cabin. Her only hope now was to stay far enough ahead of Nick until she could find some help. Somewhere.

  It was pitch black out there; not a light shone in any direction. The marshal’s car! Could she reach it? And if she did, what then? The marshal wouldn’t have left his keys in the ignition. She leapt for the shadows of the trees, pressing her hand against her pocket to feel for her phone. She had to call 911; the cops, the FBI—hell, the GBI, whomever she could think of.

  No! The phone wasn’t there. She must have lost it in the bathroom. She paused only a second to glance back over her shoulder. Should she go back and get it? Amy poked her head up. A shadow moved in the living room, behind the blinds. She ducked into the trees, praying that she didn’t trip over a tree root or propel herself face-first into a tree trunk. Then she heard another bang. Followed by another.

  He was trying to break through the bathroom door!

  A sudden burst of desperation coupled with energy surged through
her. She didn’t look back over her shoulder again. She turned toward the trees, squinting as if that would help her see through the darkness. She felt like she had stepped into another world. Unbidden, the images came of moss-draped cypress trees, water creeping around their roots, crawling with alligators and snakes. Houses built on stilts—

  For God’s sake, she wasn’t in Louisiana, and she wasn’t reliving that old Burt Reynolds film, she couldn’t recall the name. She was in Georgia! Her Georgia, where her friends lived, where she had her nice room at Promise House, where she had just started . . . no, where she had fallen in love with a firefighter named Dean!

  She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to be kidnapped again. She didn’t want—

  A gunshot! She froze, half hunched over, expecting burning pain. He couldn’t see her, could he? Unless he had night-vision goggles, he was just as much in the dark as she was.

  Shit! A narrow beam of light briefly scanned the trees off to her right. He had a flashlight! She wanted to scream; she wanted to fall to her knees and bemoan her fate. Why was this happening to her?

  Tightening her hands into fists, she quickly scanned the area around her. He might have the flashlight, but that would also make his location easier for her to keep track of. She headed in the opposite direction, trying not to run pell-mell through the trees as she tried to stay quiet. The problem was she couldn’t tell where the hell she was stepping—

  She toppled forward and banged her chin on the ground, barely halting the startled scream that nearly erupted from her throat. She winced and quickly scrambled back to her feet, not even bothering to brush the dirt and debris off the palms of her hands or her face. Get away. Get away.

  Get away!

  Terror propelled her forward. She used the trees and shrubs to her benefit. She didn’t know where the hell she was going. Maybe in circles. She paused to catch her breath and hid behind a tree, her back pressed against it so firmly she felt the rough bark through her shirt. The palms of her hands clutched that bark, seeking some sense of comfort and security.