Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Exit StrategyPaybackCovert Justice

by Shirlee McCoy

  “You’re also good with a handgun,” he responded, his hand slipping away from hers. She felt cold in its absence, her bones aching with it. She pulled his coat around her, but it didn’t ease her chill.

  “My husband taught me.”

  “From what I’ve heard, he was a good guy.”

  “Who did you hear that from?” she asked, but she wasn’t surprised that he’d heard about Joshua. People in Amos Way had loved Lark’s husband. He’d been raised in their midst, had come back to teach their children. He’d supported the community, espoused its ideals and agreed with the foundational beliefs it had been built on. They hadn’t known about his doubts, they’d had no idea that he’d planned to fulfill his obligation, pay the community back for his college education and then leave. He’d loved the people in the compound, but leaving to achieve his education had changed him. In the end, it had gotten him killed.

  “John. He needed a reason for locking you up. He told the community that you’d gone a little crazy after Joshua’s death, started breaking into houses, stealing things. He said he couldn’t blame you for it. Joshua was one in a million.”

  “He was one in a million,” she responded, her eyes burning, her throat tight.

  “We all are, Lark,” he said quietly. “There isn’t one of us who doesn’t have something unique to offer the world. I’m not taking anything away from your husband, but it seemed odd to me that John sang his praises so loudly. He isn’t the kind of guy to praise anyone.”

  “They grew up together. Were as close as brothers.”

  “Do you think John pulled the trigger and killed your husband?” he asked, the question blunt and unapologetic. Unlike other people who learned that she was a widow, he didn’t seem to mind probing Lark’s wounds.

  She nodded, the pain in her head exploding into a hundred tiny knife points stabbing through her skull. “Yes.”

  “Did you tell the police that?”

  “I told them that I didn’t think he’d shot himself. There was no evidence to prove that I was right. It looked like an accident. They assumed it was.”

  “But you think differently.”

  “Joshua…changed the last six months we were at Amos Way. He was quiet and withdrawn. Up until that point, we’d shared everything. No secrets between us. It was one of the rules of our marriage.” She smiled a little thinking about it, remembering how young and naive they’d been. So in love and so convinced that their love would be enough to get them through anything.

  “Did you ask him about it?” he asked as he passed the River Fork welcome sign.

  They’d made it to town. She should feel relieved, but she just felt tired, sad and sick. “So many times that we both got tired of the conversation.”

  “And?”

  “He said that he didn’t want me to know. He didn’t want anything to happen to me. I wanted to leave the compound, but he insisted that he had things under control.”

  “What things?”

  “One of his really good friends had been questioning some of Elijah’s policies. Ethan didn’t like the way the compound’s finances were being handled.”

  “You mentioned Ethan before.” He stopped at a quiet intersection, turned left onto Main Street. The town slept peacefully, streetlights illuminating pretty yards and 1940s bungalows. She and Josh had only visited River Fork a handful of times. Elijah didn’t like community members to be too exposed to the excess the world had to offer. Simple lives spent relying on God and on each other. That’s what he offered the people who found Amos Way. It had all sounded so nice when Joshua had described the little community.

  “Ethan,” she said, “is the key to everything. He called a council meeting and demanded that Elijah give an accounting of how community funds were being spent. Elijah agreed, but Ethan disappeared before it happened. He went missing during a hunting trip. A few of the guys had heard him talking about leaving Amos Way. Most people assumed that’s what happened. He went on the hunting trip and just walked away.”

  “Very convenient for Elijah.”

  “That’s what Joshua said. He seemed to be the only one saying it. Everyone else was content to believe that a family man, a guy devoted to his wife and kids, would leave them.”

  “And no one else was interested in forcing Elijah to account for the community funds, right? Your husband started digging around, he made people uncomfortable and then he died in an accidental shooting?”

  “Right,” she responded, her voice raspy and hot. She hated talking about what had happened to Joshua, hated the memories that were always just a thought away.

  “I’m sorry, Lark,” he said as he pulled into the parking lot of a small diner.

  Everyone was sorry when they heard the story, but sorry couldn’t change it. Sorry couldn’t bring Joshua back. It couldn’t bring Ethan back.

  “When are your friends arriving?” She changed the subject because that was easier than continuing down the path they were going.

  “Their ETA is four-thirty. If Stella is driving, they’ll be here sooner. If Boone is, they’ll be here on time.” He turned off his headlights, drove around to the back of the building and edged the Mustang in close to hedges that butted up against the lot.

  “So, we’re just going to sit in the car and wait?”

  “I’m going to sit and wait.” He eased the jacket from her shoulders, used it as a blanket, draping it over her torso. “You’re going to rest. Put the seat back. Close your eyes.”

  That wasn’t going to happen.

  Not while she was still conscious and breathing.

  “Do you really think I could lie here and sleep knowing that John is stalking us?”

  “I think you could try.”

  “The way I see things, two sets of eyes are better than one. If John tries to sneak up on us—”

  “I’m a good bodyguard and an ace shot. If John shows up, I’ll take care of him.”

  “If he shows up, I don’t plan on sleeping through it,” she replied, her skin crawling at the thought of John creeping across the parking lot, sneaking up behind them, aiming his gun.

  “Suit yourself,” Cyrus responded, his eyes black in the darkness, his lashes long and thick. She’d said he had a pretty face, but it wasn’t pretty. Not by a long shot. He looked tough and confident, determined and just a little dangerous. Not the kind of guy she’d ever liked to spend time with. She’d always preferred men who were more subtle in their masculinity. Strong but not overpowering, able to take care of themselves and the people they loved but without the rough edges and tough veneer.

  “You’re staring,” she pointed out, shifting uncomfortably.

  “So are you.”

  “I’m trying to figure out what you want.” Everyone wanted something. It was a lesson she’d learned from watching her mother jump from one bad relationship to another, one self-absorbed loser to another.

  “I want to repay my debt to Essex.”

  “And?”

  “Does there have to be more?” He brushed strands of hair from her cheek, his fingers glancing across the tender spot near her jaw. “If there does, then I’ll just say that I want to get you home in one piece and I want to make sure you stay that way. That means bringing Elijah Clayton down. So, I guess I want that, too.”

  “What do you want for you?” She wanted to swipe her hand across her cheek, wipe away the warmth that lingered where his fingers had been.

  “Who says I want anything for me?”

  “Are you going to tell me that you don’t?”

  “How about this, Lark? You tell me your secrets, and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That we all have something we’re hiding. You fell for Joshua when you met him in college. You were both intelligent, both hardworking, you could have settled anywhere, done anything, but you decided to get married in Amos Way, live there, teach there.”

  “Joshua had an obligation to pay the community back for his colleg
e education. He’d promised to return and teach at the schoolhouse.”

  “Promises are as easily broken as they are made.”

  “Not by Joshua.”

  “Maybe not, but he could have found another way to pay the debt. He would have. If you’d wanted him to.”

  “You never even met him. You have no idea what he’d have done,” she bit out, the migraine pulsing furiously behind her eye, her stomach constricting. She hated that he was right, but he was. She’d thought the same thing a thousand times since Joshua’s death, lived with the guilt of the choices she’d made.

  “I know what it’s like to be in love,” he countered. “I also know what it’s like to live with regrets. Yours aren’t going to change anything.”

  He’d hit the nail on the head, pinpointed exactly why she’d returned to Amos Way even though she’d known she shouldn’t, even though that still small voice had been whispering that she should stay away.

  Her stomach turned, and she knew she was going to be sick. Right there in the Mustang she and Joshua had used during college, the one they’d driven to Amos Way, music blasting from the stereo, voices mingling with the songs that were playing.

  She opened the door, fell out onto the pavement, dry heaves tearing from her gut as her palms skidded across the blacktop. She didn’t feel it, didn’t feel anything but the horrible pounding pain in her head and gut-twisting ache of her empty stomach.

  *

  He was an idiot.

  It was as simple as that.

  Too focused on the goal to realize he was pushing too hard.

  Cyrus crouched beside Lark, pulled her hair back from her face as she retched. She had nothing in her stomach, but her body heaved, her muscles jerking with the force of it.

  He held her shoulders, kept her from slamming her head into the pavement. There was nothing much else he could do but hold her steady and keep his eyes on the shadows. They were vulnerable there, hidden from the street but easy enough to see if someone was looking.

  A cold breeze sent leaves skittering across the pavement, a dog barked, a car engine revved. Life went on around them, but at the dark edge of the parking lot, it was just the two of them.

  She took a deep shuddering breath, jumped to her feet, probably would have fallen down again if he hadn’t slid his arm around her waist, pulled her into his chest.

  “Slow down,” he ordered, sliding his hand up her spine, urging her to lean into him. She stood in his arms, stiff and unyielding, every muscle in her body tense.

  “Relax. I don’t bite,” he ground out, his hand kneading the tense muscles at her nape.

  “I just want to go home,” she responded so softly he almost didn’t hear.

  They did something to his heart, those words. Made him think of things he was better off forgetting. Made him remember that hot humid night in Colombia. Megan Wallace lying on the ground. He’d touched her jugular, felt the thready pulse, known she didn’t have long, known that the mother who’d sent HEART to find her would never see her alive again.

  Your mother loves you, he’d said, even though he hadn’t thought Megan could hear. She wants you to know it.

  I love her, too, she’d said, her eyes opening for one brief moment. But it’s time for me to go home.

  He shook the memory away, refused to allow it to play through his head.

  Most missions were successful. Some were not.

  It was best to stay as unemotional as possible, keep his mind focused and his feelings in check.

  Lark deserved something more than emotionlessness, though. She needed something more. She’d lost her husband. She’d lost faith in a community that was supposed to be a religious nirvana. She’d been given a rough shake, and now she was with him—a guy who knew nothing about softness, nothing about gentleness.

  “I’m going to get you home,” he said, breaking every rule he’d made for himself after Megan’s death. He’d promised her mother that he’d bring her home, he’d vowed that Amber Wallace would have her only daughter back. He’d been high on himself, too arrogant to realize that he had limited control, too foolish to understand that the days of a person’s life were numbered before she was born, and that there wasn’t one thing he could do to add or subtract from anyone’s allotted time.

  No more promises.

  That’s what he’d decided after he’d called Amber with the news about Megan’s death. No deep emotional involvement. That was what he’d vowed as he’d stood at Megan’s grave, watched her coffin lowered into the ground and listened to her family sob.

  “We’re going to get me home,” Lark responded, her voice faint, her body still stiff in his arms.

  “To start, let’s get you back in the car.” He kept his hand on her waist, steered her to the Mustang.

  She didn’t say a word as she lowered herself into the seat, wiped her palms on her skirt. Blood smeared across the fabric, and he lifted her hand, turned her palm so he could see the damage. Bits of gravel and dirt had gauged deep scratches in her palm.

  “I’m a mess,” she said, pulling her hand away, wiping it on her skirt again. “But there’s nothing I can do about it until your friends get—”

  The sound of a car engine interrupted her words.

  Not Boone and Stella. It was way too soon for them to arrive.

  Lights flashed across Lark’s pale face, and her eyes widened. “It’s the sheriff,” she whispered, all the horror, all the fear of seeing that car reflected in her eyes and in her voice.

  “Let’s see what he has to say,” he responded, turning to face the police cruiser as it pulled up beside them.

  EIGHT

  The sheriff looked nothing like Elijah’s half brother.

  That was Cyrus’s first thought as the guy got out of his cruiser.

  His second was that he looked tough. No softness in his face. No excess weight on his belly. He looked fit and ready for a fight.

  “Cyrus Mitchell, right?” the sheriff said without preamble.

  “Depends on who’s asking,” he responded as he got out of the Mustang.

  “Sheriff Radley Johnson. I got a call from a friend of yours. Said he wanted to make sure you stayed out of trouble.”

  “What friend?”

  “Chance Miller. He says you work for him.”

  “That’s right.” He didn’t offer anything else. It would be just like Chance to check in with local PD. It’s what he did when the team was going into areas where they might accidently step on toes. This situation was different, but if Chance had done some digging and found the sheriff to be on the up-and-up, he might have called and asked Johnson to step in.

  Until Cyrus heard from Chance, he wasn’t going to trust the guy. Even after he heard from Chance, he probably wouldn’t trust Johnson.

  “You’ve had some trouble out at Elijah’s place.” A statement of fact rather than a question, the sheriff’s gaze moving from Cyrus to Lark and back again.

  “Also right,” Cyrus admitted. There was no sense lying about it. The sheriff hadn’t just happened upon them. Either Chance really had called him and told him where they were, or John had sent him out hunting for them. Either way, the guy knew what was going on.

  “We’ll go to the station and discuss things there.” Again. Not a question. Not a suggestion either.

  “If I refuse?”

  “I could arrest you,” Johnson responded. “But that’d be a lot of paperwork I’m not in the mood for doing. So, how about I just make your options really clear. You and your friend come with me, we sit down in my office, have some coffee and some of the cookies Agnes Renee brought in and figure out what’s going on. Or, I can leave you two sitting here waiting for whoever shot out the back window of this car to show up. Eventually, I’ll end up back here, and you’ll either end up in jail until we prove self-defense or you’ll end up in a body bag.”

  Cyrus wasn’t keen on either option, but he’d spent a lot of years trusting his instincts. Right now, they were saying that heading
to the station with the sheriff was a better option than sitting in a parking lot waiting for John to show. Besides, he was getting that skin-crawling feeling again, the hair on his arms standing on end.

  “I can tell you exactly who shot out that window,” he offered, and the sheriff nodded.

  “I figured you could. You can file a report when we get to my office.”

  “You want me to follow you over?”

  “I heard you were out of gas, so how about we all go together?” He leaned past Cyrus, offered a hand to Lark. “Ms. Porter, good to see you again.”

  “I’m surprised you remember me,” she responded, opening her door and climbing out of the car.

  “I’m surprised you’re back in this neck of the woods. Last time I saw you, you seemed bent on getting as far away from Amos Way as you could,” he said. “You have any weapons on you, Mitchell?”

  “A handgun.”

  “Permit to carry?”

  “My boss has a copy.”

  “You’re supposed to have that on you.”

  “It got confiscated. Maybe you could call your half brother and ask him to bring it to town.”

  Johnson scowled but didn’t take the bait. “Remove the firearm, set it on the ground.”

  Cyrus did what he was asked. No way was he giving the guy an excuse to pull his service weapon.

  He stepped back so Sheriff Johnson could take the Glock.

  “This it?” Johnson asked, unloading the gun and shoving it in his pocket.

  “I have a bowie knife strapped to my calf.” He reached to unstrap it, heard the soft pop of a silenced gun, felt a bullet rip through his upper arm.

  There was no pain, just the urgent need to protect Lark.

  He dragged her to the ground, covering her body with his. He didn’t know who had fired the shot, had no idea where it had come from, but he was certain the guy was gunning for him.

  “Under the Mustang,” he urged, shifting his weight so that Lark could roll out from under him.

  “Stay down,” Sheriff Johnson shouted, his service weapon in hand. Another pop, and the pavement beside Cyrus’s head exploded, bits of shrapnel hitting his back and neck.