George gulped. She didn’t realize Uma knew. How did she know about Tom?
“Pediatric oncology? I can’t believe you were even considering that.”
“Oh.” George gulped, unsure if she was more relieved or disappointed. “I couldn’t take all the babies dying. After seeing my husband go that way.”
“And yet you’re offering your services free to people in need. You can’t help but do good.”
George shrugged at that. “My parents were old. They had old-fashioned values or something.”
“Yeah. Not mine.” Jessie smiled. “That’s probably how I ended up in my job—I was brought up kicking and fighting, so I figured I’d continue my rampage by fighting for the underdog.”
“You’re the first probation officer I’ve ever met, Officer Shifflett. Do you carry a badge and gun and all that?”
“A badge, yes. Don’t carry a weapon, though. I own a handgun, but…”
“Oh, I thought—”
“Some people choose to. That’s not the type of probation officer I want to be. Less force, more psychology.”
“So you’re more of a hand-to-hand combat kind of gal.”
“Indeed.” Jessie narrowed her eyes at George and cocked her head. “Wanna take my class?”
“Self-defense?”
“Yeah. Monday nights. You should come. You can close up shop and just swing by next door. I know you don’t wanna talk about those bruises, George, but…whatever happened to your face is—”
“Independence Day insanity,” George replied. “A couple of kids. I thought they were hurting each other and got in the middle and…” She pointed at her black eye. “Well, this happened. Anyway,” she went on, thinking of Andrew Blane in her office earlier. She wouldn’t have been able to see him tonight if she’d done the class. Stupid, stupid thought, since it wasn’t like they were “seeing” each other anyway. He was a patient. A patient, George. “I don’t think self-defense is really my thing.”
“You sure?” Jessie tipped her bottle to her mouth with a wicked smile. “You’d get to kick my brother’s ass.”
With a laugh, George sat back and soaked in this woman’s company and conversation, the back of her mind still caught up on a memory of fathomless dark eyes, heartbreakingly battle-scarred skin, and the way his hand hadn’t wanted to let go.
* * *
There was nothing better, as far as Ape was concerned, than the wind in your face, the hot rays of the sun setting on your back, and the highway under your tires. Especially when you added all that to the satisfaction of a job well done.
Tying up loose ends felt good. Better than good. It felt right, like this was exactly what he’d been born to do. Him on the road, taking care of business with a few good brothers behind him. Guys like Jam. Brothers you could count on.
He shoved back that itch of irritation at Handles. The guy’d had everything, as president, and he’d gone and let cops into the club.
No way that would have happened on my watch.
Ape hadn’t trusted either Indian or Candy Land from the moment they’d started showing up at the bar.
Man, Handles had fucked up. A lot. It made Ape wonder, once Handles got out, what other mistakes he might make. What if Handles wasn’t the right guy to head up a club like the Sultans? Maybe it took someone harder, more decisive.
Someone like me.
He glanced back at the two guys behind him and gave a nod before pulling back on the throttle and passing the row of slow-moving cars hunkered down in the right lane, like sheep. Man, it felt good to leave those fuckers in the dust.
Things would feel even better once he’d taken care of Agent Clay Navarro. And they were close. So close he could smell it.
7
Small-town life was boring as hell. Well, it was if you had nowhere to go, nothing to do. Clay had never been very good at just sitting around, waiting. He’d awakened early that morning, wishing he had a job to go to. A job. He had a fucking job, but he couldn’t actually do it right now.
In his room, the vodka bottle shone, half-full, from the bathroom counter like a clean, white obelisk, offering blissful oblivion.
But Clay knew better. He didn’t need that shit, he decided. Beneath the ink and the scars, his body was his best tool. My temple, he thought wryly. The last thing he needed to do right then was ruin it any more than he already had.
Hunger beyond what he could satisfy with his collection of local farm fruit finally got him outside, where he’d spotted a diner just off the main strip.
It was early afternoon, and the place was pretty empty, for which he was thankful, because the stares were over the top. Yeah, he felt like saying, not your usual small-town fare. Well, don’t worry, all you innocent people—I’ll be gone as soon as I can.
He sat in the far booth, back to the wall, and snagged a menu along with the newspaper spread across the middle of the table.
“What can I get ya?” asked a line cook from behind the counter.
“Burger. Provolone. Bacon. Whatever else you got to put on it.” Anything to give it flavor.
“Drink?”
“Coffee.”
“Be right up.”
The whole exchange had been done in the relative silence of the place, with an unabashedly interested audience and Clay’s irritation ramped up a notch.
It wasn’t until another customer came in, with a repeat of the whole rigamarole, that he realized he wasn’t as special as he thought. Everybody got stared at.
The coffee, when he tasted it, was bland. Like everything he’d put it in his mouth these last couple of months. Even with the ten sugar packets he added, it tasted like nothing, which didn’t bode well for his lunch. He reached for the paper.
Giving it a good shake, Clay skimmed a sports page to see that the World Cup had trumped baseball in the headlines. Not that there was much going on for the Orioles, but he could give a shit about what the U.S. team did in th—
His gaze caught on a photo and a headline at the bottom of the metro section:
ATF AGENT DIES IN FATAL CRASH
The few lines beneath gave zero details, mentioning only that Breadthwaite was dead—not where or how. Clay sat up, the coffee cup clattering to the Formica with a dull thud. Tunnel vision, heart beating visible wumps in the corner of his eyes. Tightness in his chest. Shit. Heart attack.
He stood, head wavering but feet slow, stuck in this morass with fuzzy blinders on his eyes making everything too far away.
“Take the check,” he managed, mouth moving, voice emerging in a rush, like water. No, not water. Hot puffs. Hot lips, dry mouth. More like lava. Magma? Was that the word? Was that even a word?
“All right, son?”
“Fine.”
“You want yer burger wrapped up?”
“Sure.” The path of least resistance. Outside. Get outside.
Clay pulled his wallet from his pocket, set a twenty carefully on the table, and picked up the paper.
“Here.” The guy handed Clay a Styrofoam box, eyeing him carefully. “You sure you’re—”
“Good.”
“I’ll get your change.”
“Forget it,” Clay said as he walked to the door, stiff and straight with ten pairs of eyes heavy on his back. It wasn’t until he made it outside that he remembered he didn’t have the truck. He’d have to walk back through town to his motel.
This didn’t bode well. Not at all, with the heaviness in his limbs and what looked like dust motes dancing in front of his eyes. His chest was tight, too tight.
He set off, breaths like hard little bullets in his lungs, hands grasping the box and the paper but feeling nothing.
Nothing.
He passed the coffee shop, then backtracked, blinking. Internet.
A look around showed no public computers.
At the counter, he asked one of those pierced kids, “Got computers here?”
“Um…” The girl stared thoughtfully at him, twisting one of those tunnel things below her bottom lip. In a surreal flash-forward, Clay pictured how that’d look in a few years, if she ever decided to take it out—skeletal teeth and gums a grisly peekaboo. The weird shit people did to their bodies. He almost laughed out loud at that—hysterical laughter. Not good. “Library, I guess?”
“Thanks,” he said, already halfway to the door.
“Nice tattoo, du—”
He walked outside, letting the door shut on her words. Stupid kid. Stupid, stupid kid.
And who would make sure nothing happened to that kid? Huh? A kid like that, stupid enough to put one of those things in her lip, wouldn’t know how to take care of herself.
Focus.
The library. He turned a half circle, noticed the to-go box of food in his hand, got a whiff of greasy steam, and dropped it in the nearest trash can on a wave of nausea. The library was in a tiny building that looked old, he remembered, over by the tracks on Railroad Avenue. He headed that way, feeling sharper. On a mission.
Inside, the woman behind the counter lifted her brows at him but didn’t say a word when he settled in front of one of the computers.
ATF Agent Nikolai Breadthwaite, he typed into the Google search bar, his shoulders and back tense to the point of pain.
Only a few hits appeared, all recent news pieces covering Bread’s accident. Clay tried to loosen his shoulders, but it felt like the tension was the only thing holding his bones together.
There was one photo, the same one over and over, released only after his death, no doubt. It was his official ATF ID shot. Bread was like him—eternally undercover. Had been like him. Clay had seen that badge. He’d made fun of Bread in the shot, called him a googly-eyed motherfucker. There wouldn’t be any more photos now. Because Bread was dead.
Clay stifled a laugh. Not the time to lose his shit. Again.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Only an insider could’ve figured out where Bread had been placed as he awaited trial. Only an insider could’ve gotten to him. Somebody with links to DOJ at the very least.
After half an hour spent sifting through articles that all said pretty much the same thing, he leaned back.
An accident, they said. But Clay knew it was bullshit. He pulled out his phone, ready to call Tyler, but stopped when the woman behind the counter cleared her throat.
Right. Library.
After shutting everything down and deleting the browsing history, he limped back outside, into the too-bright day. He wouldn’t call Tyler. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t reach out at all, especially now that the only other guy who’d known what Clay knew was dead. The only other person who could testify. His safety depended on no one finding out where the hell he was. He was supposed to check in with McGovern, but he wouldn’t. Not if shit was going down like this.
Fuck. Maybe he should leave, go farther south?
No. He wasn’t running. He’d stay here, get these piece-of-shit tattoos removed, and wait. Because fuck if he’d become a fugitive. He was the law, for Christ’s sake, not the one on the run.
He stood up straighter, pulled his glasses back down over his eyes, and turned in a half circle.
The town sat, quiet and quaint. Hot and humid as hell. The buzz of summer insects tickled the back of his brain.
What should he do now? Get in touch with Tyler after all? No, Tyler might have a tap on his line. They might be watching him. What about McGovern? Could she be the rat? Weirder things had happened. She had family, which made her prime picking for ruthless bastards like the Sultans.
But no, she was the biggest stick-in-the-mud, straight-arrow agent he’d ever seen. He didn’t believe she could turn for a moment. Besides, she’d been the one who’d fought for him with the big guys, the one who’d understood that to be truly undercover, you had to live like your quarry. She got that. Not her.
Who the fuck was it?
Someone had given them his name the night of the raid. Some fucker had told the Sultans he was a cop and set them on his ass in ways nobody could’ve fucking imagined. Ape calling him in back, Jam and the others watching as Ape did his eyes, then knuckles, branding him.
Handles’s out, but when he gets back, you’re a dead man. Those fucking words.
Then the needle against his face, his lids screwed shut against Ape’s threat of popping his eyeballs with it.
Here, in sweet, innocent Blackwood, Clay stood and breathed, waited, watched as a couple in pink and white emerged from an antique place, arm in arm, and moved along the sidewalk to the ladies’ dress shop next door.
Leafy green trees lined both sides of the street, shading the red brick and white clapboard facades of one cutesy place after another—coffee shop, more goddamned antiques, the diner he’d always associate with Bread’s death. Beyond that, an indent and that pub—the Nook.
A drink. Yeah. He’d go for a drink. Anything to obliterate the guilt at being the last one standing—and the knowledge that if he fell, there’d be nobody left to make those bastards pay.
Clay Navarro had never in his life felt quite so alone.
* * *
George waited for Andrew Blane to show up for an hour and a half that evening. She would probably have stayed even longer if the animals hadn’t needed her. That and she’d caught up on every bit of paperwork she could find, so no more excuses. No reason to stay at the clinic.
As she locked up and made her way to her car alone, she realized two things—both pathetic. One, she’d been looking forward to seeing the big man again. And two, his absence made her feel jilted, which was patently ridiculous.
Great. I need to feel needed. And then, when I’m not needed… Lord, did she truly have no life at all?
As she pulled into her driveway, rather than continue thinking about Andrew Blane, she decided to concentrate on home. Home, where things didn’t go smoothly unless she was there.
Which wasn’t entirely true, either.
Her place was all moving parts. No, not moving parts, but bits and pieces that, together, made up an ecosystem. Almost self-contained, her garden depended on three things from the outside: sunlight, rain, and George.
She liked that dependence. She liked being needed.
When she found a bright-purple sticky note stuck to her front door, she initially assumed it was some erroneous delivery—because no one ever visited.
She read it. Come over for dinner! I got wine! ;) Something inside her did a strange, unexpected flip-flop.
George rushed guiltily through feeding the animals. She should have watered the garden too, since the leaves were yellowing and there was no hint of rain on the horizon, but who had time when you had a dinner invite stuck to your door? Out back, she locked the chickens up, spared thirty seconds for Leonard’s belly rub, and paused on the steps.
Laughter drifted over the other side of the fence and then words. “Hey, George!”
“Gabe?”
“Yeah! Mom says you might come over for dinner.”
“Yes. I’m on my way.”
“Good! I wanna show you my egg baby. Maybe you can tell Mom to get me a puppy.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
“I can hear you, you know!” Jessie yelled from somewhere inside her house.
“I’ll be right over!” George said in return. “Need me to bring anything?”
“No. I’m defrosting a bunch of crap from the store. That’s as fancy as we get around here.”
George smiled.
* * *
“’Nother one, mate?” the British bartender asked, and Clay nodded. Nodding and drinking—about all he’d done for the past couple of hours. Or… He looked around for a clock.
“Time is it?” he asked.
>
“Half eight.”
“Seriously? Shit. Cancel that. What do I owe you?”
“Sure you don’t want something to eat?” The guy’s eyes narrowed strangely on him, and Clay had a moment of clarity—I must be drunk.
“Nah. Thanks.”
“Here,” the guy said, sliding his tab onto the bar in front of him. Jesus, this place was cheap. He’d been drinking for hours, and the check was just around twenty bucks. He threw a couple of bills onto the bar and got off the stool, catching his foot in one of the legs before righting it. Too loud. Clumsy.
“You all right?”
“Good.”
“I’ll get your change.”
“Keep it.”
The guy’s brows raised. “Thank you.” He smiled and did one of those half-bow things dudes like that could pull off. Clay turned. Another step, and Clay stiffened when a hand landed on his shoulder. The Brit had come around the bar, apparently. “You all right to drive, mate?”
“Not driving.”
A nod, and Clay walked to the door, then outside into the oppressive heat. He turned toward the skin clinic. Dark. She was gone. Fuck. He’d missed his appointment, which meant… He swallowed. Had she waited for him?
Nah. She wouldn’t do that. She was nice, but she had a life, a job. Not like him, whose sole purpose right now was those fucking appointments.
Right. And then I go and miss one.
At the clinic, he tried the door, just in case, but there was no point, was there? He knocked a couple of times, pounded the door for good measure.
“Doc left a while ago,” a deep, lazy voice drawled from somewhere behind him.
Clay turned, squinting until he saw a man—the sheriff who’d pulled him over his second day here. Small but strong-looking—sitting on a bench right in front of the MMA school. Fuck if he hadn’t just passed right by him and not seen him in the night.
“Yeah. Figured.”
For a few silent seconds, the two men sized each other up. Whatever he saw, the other man decided to keep the conversation going.
“See you’re still here, son.”
“Yep.”
By Her Touch Page 11