Ash Rising (DEAd Series)

by Melissa Fox

  He smiled, and the chill in the air no longer bothered her. “You do seem to be the bearer of those kinds of tidings. Too bad I’m not sure how I feel about the news.”

  She tilted her head, encouraging him to continue.

  “Not that Rico’s dead, or even Gina and Slick, for that matter. Not how or even who—only as it pertains to why. The why… That bothers me.”

  “Bothers me, too, Inspector.” She started her car, but he reached in and touched her arm before withdrawing his hand.

  “I just wanted to say thanks. For coming out this morning to tell me, even in the rain.”

  “Better be careful.” She grinned as she put the car in reverse. “Looks like we’re being nice to each other again.”

  The sound of his reluctant laughter faded as she rolled up the window and pulled out of the lot.

  Emma had just opened a nice bottle of red wine when her phone rang. An unfamiliar number showed on the screen, but she answered the call anyway.

  “Justice.”

  “Special Agent Justice, this is Ash—Inspector Beaulieu.”

  Emma pulled the phone away from her ear and blinked at the screen, as if that would help clear her confusion. Not only because Inspector Beaulieu had called, but also because of the warm rush the sound of his rough, deep voice triggered. She started to clear her throat but didn’t want the telltale sound to give her away. Taking an extra second, she made sure her voice remained cool and professional.

  “Inspector Beaulieu. What can I do for you?”

  “Meet me out in front of your apartment building in five minutes. I’ve got information on the Salvatore case I think you’ll find worth the aggravation.” A powerful engine rumbled in the background.

  “Aggravation?”

  “Of having to deal with me.”

  The amusement in his tone prompted her smile, and she fought to keep the reaction from sounding in her voice. “Can’t you tell me over the phone? Or wait until we’re at work?”

  “No, this can’t wait. I’ll be there in five. See you then, Special Agent.”

  He hung up as she opened her mouth to protest. Emma stared at the phone for a second and then scrambled for the bedroom, skidding to a halt in front of her closet. Ripping the ponytail holder out of her hair, she fisted her hand in the loose strands and pulled until the sting brought some sense back into her head.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she muttered. “Get a grip. This is your job. This is purely professional and work related. You are not getting ready to go to the frigging prom.”

  Flipping her head down, she gave her long hair a shake and grabbed a fresh shirt to throw on with her jeans. She might not be going on a date with the man, but she could wear clothes that didn’t look like she hibernated in them.

  Emma dressed, ran a powder brush over her face, secured her weapon and cell phone, and ran downstairs to wait. She had just stepped onto the sidewalk when he pulled up in his racy little Mustang. After double-parking on the street, he got out and was at her side before she had a chance to step to the curb.

  “Special Agent. Thanks for meeting me.”

  “I think you can call me by my first name considering you pulled me away from a nice, relaxing bottle of zinfandel, Inspector. What’s so damned important you had to see me at—” She made a show of looking at her watch. “Almost seven o’clock on a Saturday night?”

  “This couldn’t wait until Monday, and it’s something you’ll want to see for yourself. I know where Tommy and what’s left of Rico’s gang have been staging their operations. They’re all together there right now. Come on.” He nodded toward the low-slung car. “And call me Ash. Inspector sounds so”—he licked his lower lip deliberately—“formal.”

  She hesitated with a glance at the vehicle and then at him. He started to reach for her arm but dropped his hand and flashed a toe-curling smile instead. A blatant attempt to charm her, and damn if the trick didn’t work. He was too damn gorgeous for his own good, and too damn used to getting his own way. She wanted to resist but couldn’t, just like everyone else in his orbit.

  He beat her to the car and pulled the door open, gesturing for her to sit with an exaggerated flourish. The rumble from the big engine vibrated up through her thighs as he pulled onto the street, and the sensation did nothing to help the buzz from his proximity in the small interior of the car. She tamped down the reaction, determined to be utterly professional, but the throb of the machine gave her a quick thrill. It was the machine. Really. Probably. That’s what she told herself, anyway. The small lie made being so close to him easier to bear.

  He showed no sign of being affected by her nearness, and she scowled out the window. She didn’t want him to be affected. Well, okay, maybe a little. Who was she kidding? She wanted him on his knees, panting after her. And that would never happen.

  Ash cast her a questioning glance when she made an inelegant snorting sound. She shook her head and forced herself to pay attention to something other than him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a place just outside of town, not too far. Salvatore used it as a staging area for new shipments back in the day. There’s been some activity lately. Thought maybe we’d check it out.”

  “Activity? How do you know?”

  “I may not be working undercover anymore, but I still have my contacts. And yeah, yeah, I’m not supposed to be working on the case, but I still hear things.” He gave her a quick grin. “I’ve seen Jem McCrimmon—you know, Rico’s cousin?—skulking around town a few times. He’s doing some jobs for Tommy Bianchi, who used to run with us when I was under with Salvatore. Tommy’s trying to take over now Rico and Gina are gone. He’s been hanging out at this old warehouse Rico used all the time. Happened to notice some activity there today, so I thought I’d head back to the station to see if someone working the case was around.”

  “Just happened to notice, huh?”

  He shrugged with a smile, and she let the comment go. Not her place to reprimand him for anything.

  “So why me? Why call me instead of going back to the station?”

  “Why you? Well, it is the weekend. No one was at the office, and your apartment is closer. I can always drop you off and call Blankenship or Pete.”

  “No,” she assured him. “I was just curious.”

  “Why else would I call you?” He cast her a knowing, smug look that she ignored.

  Silence filled the car as the sights and sounds of the city gave way to the suburbs. She took in the surroundings when he pulled into a light industrial area and parked in a spot across the street from a non-descript metal building. A few other cars were in the lot, so his didn’t seem too noticeable.

  “We used this place all the time. Lots of shit went down in there.” He nodded toward the building, voice low as he recalled his time with Rico Salvatore. Emma wasn’t sure how to respond, so she let him talk.

  “He stopped using the warehouse for a while after the explosion from what I heard. A few weeks ago, a lot of activity started up again all of a sudden. Word is Tommy’s gone back to using it.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  He shrugged. “They switch locations a lot. Smart thing to do, but they tend to stick with the familiar, the comfortable. They typically cycle their locations, using one for a while, abandoning it, and then coming back. Don’t recognize all the cars, but… It’s been a while.”

  He cast her a look at the understatement, and she tipped her head in return.

  “So, what about you?” he asked.

  Emma glanced at him. “Me? I don’t recognize the cars, either.”

  His mouth curved but his gaze focused on the building. “No. I mean, you personally. Anyone waiting for you back in the States?” He turned to her when she just stared. “What?”

  “Are you coming on to me?” she asked suspiciously.

  He laughed, the sound beguiling. What wasn’t about the man?

  “Oh, Emmaline. If I was coming on to yo
u, you’d know it.” He leveled suddenly serious, smoldering blue eyes on hers. “There wouldn’t be a doubt in your mind.”

  She swallowed.

  “But I’m not,” he continued, once again facing forward. If the smug bastard’s lips even twitched, she would smack the amusement off his stupid, handsome face. “Probably going to be here for a while. Thought it might be nice to get to know each other better. You’ve already learned quite a bit about me.”

  His tone held no judgment, only mild acceptance. She’d been through his files and reports, but that had all been work related. “What do you want to know?”

  He cast her another quick, mocking glance. “I’m trying to make conversation, Emmaline. We’re allowed to talk, you know—personal or professional.”

  Professional didn’t worry her, but the personal definitely did. She was attracted to him and didn’t want to be. Professionally, a grey area. Personally, a disaster. His wounds weren’t just physical, and that never boded well for any kind of relationship.

  Her fascination wasn’t just physical, either, and no just about it. He was gorgeous, clever, and a good cop. All those things attracted her. The force of his personality radiated across the small space between them as much as the heat of his big body. Would he be warm, even hot, to the touch? If she placed her hand on his arm, she could find out. If she placed her palm on his chest, over the thin cotton of his T-shirt, she’d feel the bunch and play of muscle as he breathed, moved, reached for her…

  Drawing in a deep, careful breath, she banished the inappropriate thoughts. Didn’t matter that she wasn’t officially working with him. He was a fellow officer, from another country, and she had to conduct herself in a professional manner. She had to uphold her excellence as an officer, American, and especially as a woman. He’d engaged in some mild flirting, but flirting was second nature to him—a part of who he was. No matter how attractive she found Beaulieu, she had no right to objectify him. Gathering her willpower proved harder than she liked, but she’d behave like a responsible, mature person. She wouldn’t let him know how badly she wanted to lick him.

  “I grew up in a small town in Tennessee no one has ever heard of.” Emma ticked off the pertinent facts of her personal life. “Mom and Dad still married, older sister who is a successful realtor married to a successful podiatrist. They have two kids, girl and boy in that order. Also live in small town Tennessee. I’ve been working with the DEA for about four years now, FBI before that. I joined right out of college.”

  “So that makes you…what? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”

  Oh, he knew exactly how old she was. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m thirty-two. You should know better than to ask a woman her age.”

  “Ah. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll tell you mine. You don’t even have to ask. I just turned twenty-nine.”

  “Practically a baby,” she drawled.

  “No small-town Tennessee husband and two-point-three kids for you?”

  “No. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, and not that I don’t want that eventually, but…”

  “Not right now,” he finished for her.

  “Not right now,” she agreed.

  “Know how you feel,” he murmured.

  Did he refer to the not right now part or not wanting that at all? She shook off the thought and continued her story. “When I was with the FBI, I got into some undercover ops. A case needed a woman operator, and I fit the profile. I enjoyed the work so much that I stayed with undercover, and another op lead me to the DEA.”

  “I read about your last op in Seattle. Nice work there. I’d love to hear about it.”

  She’d done a good job in Seattle, and she’d love to tell him more. “It all started when the local cartel running drugs between Vancouver to Seattle put the word out they were looking for a courier. I’d done a bunch of runs in the past for a guy that knew a guy—you know how that goes—and suddenly, I’m in business. The cover teams—US and Canadian—did a great job. I did about one run for them every—”

  “Hang on.” He interrupted her story, gaze sharpening on the door of the building where three men emerged. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What?” Emma examined the men but couldn’t identify any of them other than Tommy Bianchi.

  “That’s Clay Patrick—the shorter guy. He does explosives. Bombs, bang and flash, that sort of thing.” His voice held a hard edge, his thoughts no doubt on the same thing as hers—the explosion that had obliterated his apartment building and killed Constable Daniel Johnson and Elizabeth Ladd. “I don’t know who the other guy is.”

  The three men got into a nondescript sedan, and Ash started the Mustang. “Let’s see how rusty my tailing skills are.”

  Emma wasn’t worried, but she was aware of procedure. “We should call this in and let someone know what we’re doing. Where we are.”

  “Yeah. Call Pete—Commander Davenport. Tell him we’re tailing Tommy Bianchi, Clay Patrick, and an UNSUB.” He pulled out into traffic as Emma called Pete on her cell phone to give him the information and their location.

  “He wants to know what the hell you think you’re doing.” She relayed the message much more calmly, and more reasonably, than the question had been made.

  “I got a tip. I’ll fill him in later.”

  Emma grimaced at the noise coming from her cell phone. Commander Davenport had obviously heard the response. She held the phone to her ear, murmured her assent, and turned to Ash.

  “He says you’ve got some ’splaining to do. Thanks for that.”

  Ash just smiled and concentrated on driving.

  “We’re getting farther out of town,” Emma observed. “They’ll notice the car for sure.”

  “That’s okay. I know where they’re going.” With that startling statement, he made a turn, and the sedan in front of them kept driving until the taillights were out of sight.

  “You do? Where?” Emma threw out an arm, scrabbling for the handhold as he floored the accelerator and took another sharp turn.

  “A house Rico used. His parents’ old place, the one where…Gina lived.” A muscle flexed in his jaw, like he gritted his teeth, like he’d been about to say more but thought better of it. “Only a few miles from here. I know a back way.”

  “I thought you meant a back road,” Emma groused as they slogged through a heavily forested bog.

  Ash held a branch out of her way, and she glowered, ankle deep in mud, cold water, and decaying leaves. She’d been wearing boots when he’d picked her up, but her feet were still cold and she was a grubby mess.

  “Nope,” he said cheerfully, as if he weren’t just as wet and covered in even more filth. A rip flapped his shirt just under his left collarbone, and he’d slipped into a mud hole up to his knee. Dirt smeared across his cheek from where he’d swiped a grimy hand, but he’d forged ahead and spared her from the worst of slapping branches during the hike through the forest. “Not much farther.”

  “That’s what you said five minutes ago,” she grumbled, and crashed into his broad back when he came to a sudden halt.

  He staggered forward with a grunt, reaching back to hold his palm out in a belated halting motion. She shook her head and peered around his back to see a small clearing surrounding an older, slightly worse-for-wear home she recognized from photographs as Gina Salvatore’s. He sank into a crouch behind a screen of brush and trees, grabbed her hand, and pulled her down. Emma registered the warmth of his broad palm and the fact he didn’t let go once she’d settled at his side.

  “Need to find out who owns this now that both Rico and Gina are dead,” he mused in a low voice. “Probably still in probate. Hasn’t been that long since they found Gina’s body, so it’s smart of these guys to use the place. No one at home. No one to bother them. Who’s staying here? Tommy? Clay? Tommy has a place in town, so probably Clay. He typically works out of Ottawa.”

  “What’s he doing in Toronto, then?” she whispered.

  He turned to glan
ce at her, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “I imagine they’re circling the wagons.”

  He let go of her hand, and she regretted the loss. Rubbing her palm absently against her denim-covered leg didn’t diminish the tingle his touch left in its wake. “Circling the wagons?”

  “Rico and Gina are dead. So’s Slick. One by one, everyone in Salvatore’s closest circle, everyone involved with what happened two years ago, is being picked off. Bet that makes the rest of them a little nervous. That’s why I find it interesting to see Clay. I suspected he was the one they brought in to rig the explosives in my apartment. He’s the go-to guy for that kind of stuff. The fact he’s here…”

  His jaw worked, and his hand clenched against his thigh. She started to cover his fingers with her own to offer comfort but felt awkward about making such an intimate gesture. He’d given no indication he’d welcome any personal contact between them. Just because she wanted to touch him didn’t mean he felt the same way.

  A short time later, Tommy and the other man exited the house, got into the sedan, and drove away. Clay Patrick remained inside, and after a few more minutes, Ash nudged Emma and gestured with his head they should leave. He waited until they were out of sight of the house before he spoke.

  “He’s tucked in for the night. Pete will put the house and warehouse under surveillance, so there’s no point sticking around.”

  “Oh, goody.” Emma slogged behind him. Oh, to be at her apartment and standing under a hot, steaming shower.

  They eventually reached the dirt road where he’d parked the Mustang. Beaulieu went around to the trunk, and she glanced down at her mud-coated clothes and boots. He wouldn’t want her in his car covered with filth.

  “Go ahead and sit.” His head appeared around the open trunk and he tipped his chin toward the passenger door. “If you wouldn’t mind taking your shoes off, I’d appreciate it.”

  Emma nodded, wiping her hands on her thighs and dusting the seat of her jeans off in a futile attempt to make them less grimy. She sat in the passenger seat and toed off her boots, glancing up when he appeared in front of her.