by Rose Beecham
“Harrison, we serve a higher goal and must never lose sight of that,” Jude interrupted. “The personal cannot be permitted to eclipse the political.”
Hawke drew her to her feet. “And when the two coincide?”
With a sigh, Jude placed a firm hand to his cheek. “The time will come when we can indulge ourselves in dreams, but that time is still in the future.” Allowing a catch to enter her voice, she said, “Sometimes I feel despair.”
He covered her hand with his own. Rare softness infiltrated his watery gaze. “Why, mein Schatz? Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“It will take more than words to organize the movement. I know you have the backing of a wealthy donor, but it won’t be enough. Even if you can change the mind of the ASS leader and the April unity meeting goes well, how will we finance growth?”
Hawke tucked her arm into his and steered her toward the front door. “Put your mind at ease. We’re not alone. The vision of a White Homeland has mobilized many across the globe, and a network of supporters is now channeling funds to my organization.”
Jude gave him an uncertain smile.
Hawke couldn’t resist a boast. “The CRAP is going to enter a business arrangement with my contacts in Argentina. The profits we earn will support our growth and fund the CPA.”
“Your new political party?”
“Yes, the Christian Patriots Alliance.”
Jude asked no more questions. She didn’t want to pressure Hawke into making disclosures. He had a suspicious turn of mind. As if she’d already lost interest, she said, “Well, it sounds like you have everything in hand. I should have known.”
Preening, he said, “I built the best organization in the racialist movement from nothing. Imagine what I can do with fifty million dollars.”
Jude wasn’t faking her surprise. “Fifty million,” she breathed. “Is a donation like that legal?”
“No, but that’s the beauty of the arrangement,” Hawke said. “The money is invisible. No IRS. No tax. No paper trail.”
“Don’t tell me anything.” Jude covered her ears. “For your own protection.”
Hawke flashed his small, pointy teeth. “I feel safe, my dear. Perfectly safe.”
As they stepped out into the brilliant sunlight, his men rushed to form ranks, standing at stiff attention. Jude could feel their eyes on her. She wasn’t close enough to read each facial expression but she could sense the distrust. Height, muscles, clean-shaved faces, and prevalence of blond dye jobs distinguished Hawke’s fighting force. They were also smarter than their kindred in the ASS.
The man of the hour, Hawke made a solemn announcement. “Brothers, we will soon be called upon to act. In the struggle for white self-determination, unity is essential, but our enemies are bent on dividing us. With its unlimited money and spying power, the government has infiltrated our movement, creating a cauldron of chaos where there should be order. As we stand here, they are fomenting a plot to discredit us.
“In the approaching days, I will call upon each man among you to join with me in crushing this threat.” Hawke paused, seemingly weighed down all of a sudden. “Brothers, because of the sense of honor that is our genetic birthright, it is naturally repugnant to us to fight our own kindred. But make no mistake, a larger ideal is at stake here and every white patriot must make a choice. Unity or death.”
In one voice, his men bellowed, “Unity or death.”
Jude felt like she’d stumbled onto the set of a movie. Its title was What the Fuck Am I Doing Here?
*
“Hello, stranger,” Jude greeted Sandy Lane like they were old friends.
She had half expected a no-show at the last minute, but Sandy had apparently decided her relationship was important and she had to make an effort. Her eyes bored into Jude’s. Debbie called them Windex blue. She was right.
Sandy indicated a steak. “That’s overcooked.”
Jude poked the guilty party with her fork. Yes, indeed, the perfect sirloin for the wimp who gagged on medium rare. She flipped it onto the platter next to the grill and remarked in a conversational tone, “Debbie tells me you’ve been on vacation.”
Sandy was only five-eight, but she made Jude feel physically threatened. The sensation unsettled her. She rarely felt at a disadvantage, even with men taller and heavier than she was. But around Sandy, she was acutely aware of every vulnerability.
As if she could read Jude’s mind, Sandy asked, “How’s that ankle coming along?”
Jude produced a chagrined shrug. “Things heal a whole lot faster when you’re twentysomething.” It suited her if Sandy thought she was off her game.
“That shit about heating pads. Don’t buy it,” Sandy advised. “Long term, ice works better.”
“Funny you should say that. I feel like the anti-inflammatories aren’t helping.”
“Is it still painful.”
Wouldn’t you like to know? Jude made a show of tough talk, as though she was covering the truth. “Not so much. Walking and driving are okay. I still can’t ride a horse.”
“That’s a drag.” Sandy tucked her thumb in her belt and propped herself against the pillar at their end of the stationhouse verandah. She took a slug of beer and ran the back of her hand across her lips.
Jude found herself fascinated by the corded muscles of her neck and the swell of her shoulders and biceps. Sandy hadn’t slacked off over summer. If anything, she’d stepped up her physical conditioning. She was a little leaner, like she’d added some distance running, and her movements were more fluid, probably thanks to martial arts. Jude decided she’d also been pain training. She was combat ready and focused, her muscles not just for show. Jude had never seen her so calm. A scary composure supplanted the tense urgency she often exuded. Whatever she was planning, the transition phase was underway, Jude decided, and her lethal serenity was a sign of confidence in her mission.
“If you keep looking at me that way,” Sandy drawled, “I’ll think you want to fuck me.”
Jude dropped the steak she was trying to transfer. Controlling her breathing, she glanced swiftly around the friends and locals who’d shown up for the potluck and barbecue. No one was paying any attention. The music and laughter had drowned out Sandy’s voice. She and Jude were the only people standing near the grill. Everyone had gathered around Tulley and Smoke’m. He’d just arrived back from his Telluride assignment and wanted to show off.
“Is that your cute way of telling me I’m so sex-starved it shows?” Jude asked casually.
“Still striking out?”
Jude forced a self-effacing grin. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Sandy swept her up and down, eyes glinting. “You’re looking kind of soft, but you’ve still got the right stuff. If I were a ninety-pound weakling with a thing for women in uniform, I’d date you.”
“Coming from you, that’s a real lift.” Jude slid a couple more steaks onto the plate. “So, enough with the foreplay. Where were you hunting?”
Sandy set her beer down on the table. “What makes you think I went hunting?”
“That fact that you won’t tell Debbie where you’ve been.” She watched Sandy register the reply. Like a co-conspirator, she said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t tell her either. Killing Bambi? No, you’d have to be nuts.”
Sandy gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Friends of mine just brought home an eight-hundred-pound bull elk.” Jude pressed forward with the hunt narrative. “Debbie might change her mind about your vanishing acts if you showed up with enough meat to fill her freezer.”
“Debbie doesn’t want for anything.” Sandy sounded a little stung.
“Don’t tell me you just take the rack.” Jude showed her distaste. “That’s depraved.”
Sandy moved away from the pillar. She took the fork from Jude and stabbed a steak. “You’re not concentrating. This is beyond well done.” She was so close, her skin brushed Jude’s. As she rearranged everything on the grill, she said, “I don’t kill for fun.”
Jude caught her scent. Sharp, clean, just salty enough to suggest a trickle of sweat down her spine. “I had a feeling about that.”
Sandy stayed close, asking softly, “What’s with all the questions?”
“I told you, I’m the one your girlfriend talks to. She’s been asking me if you’re having an affair.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth. I’m a detective. Frequent unexplained absences aren’t a good sign.”
“You never heard of minding your own business?”
“Maybe if you talked to your partner a bit more, she wouldn’t drag other people into your domestic dramas.”
Sandy stiffened. She oozed danger. “Debbie knows she can trust me.”
Refusing to be intimidated, Jude reclaimed the fork and added the rest of the cooked meat to the plate. She decided to push. “Not so long ago, you asked me to take care of her if anything happened to you. I’ve been thinking about that.”
“And?” Sandy reached past her for her beer.
Jude’s stomach plummeted, and every sense quivered its awareness of the hard body close to hers. An ache spread through her. She felt weak for a moment as blood rushed to her extremities. Her heart was noisy in its work, pumping and pounding. The barbecue was ready. She should wave everyone over. Her arm refused to comply.
“Is there something I should know?” She looked Sandy in the eye. “If you’re tangled up in a problem situation, you can tell me. I’m not a blabbermouth.”
Sandy lowered her beer bottle to her side, suspending it casually from the neck. She stepped in even closer. Her breath warmed Jude’s neck. One of her nipples rolled like a warm marble across Jude’s arm. “What are you suggesting?”
That you’re full of shit, Jude thought. She watched Sandy’s pupils dilate and contract in a split second, inky droplets haloed in radiant blue. “I guess I’m asking if you’re okay.”
“You care? I’m touched.” Sandy lifted the beer bottle, lightly moving the glass lip over Jude’s hard nipples. “For me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Jude took a step back, colliding with the table. The plates wobbled and a tall glass fell off.
As it smashed, Sandy said, “Loosen up, Detective. I’m just messing with you.”
Shocked to find herself damp-skinned and breathing quickly, Jude said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
Sandy’s mouth quirked, like she was laughing at a private joke. “Do I seem okay to you?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
“You wouldn’t.”
Aggravated by her placid unconcern, Jude turned off the grill. The more she thought about her conversation with Arbiter, the likely it seemed to her that Sandy was involved in something covert. If so, she would do whatever it took to complete her mission, including using the people around her. Jude wondered if the story about her lover and stepson was true, or whether Sandy had invented a convenient fiction to excuse her odd behavior.
“Hey, you two.” Debbie approached with flushed cheeks and a large salad bowl. She looked delighted to see them in conversation. “Are the steaks ready?”
“Sure are,” Jude said.
Debbie hollered to the guests to come eat. “Want me to fix you a plate?” she asked Sandy.
“Thanks, baby.” Sandy kissed her lover’s cheek as a friend might, respecting Debbie’s desire not to broadcast her sexual orientation.
She met Jude’s eyes. “I’m going to take Debbie back to my place for a couple of days after this. Could you feed the cats?”
Jude knew exactly what was going on. Sandy was going to play house with a happy hostage. She’d just raised the stakes, adopting countermeasures in anticipation of an external threat. With Debbie in her home, she would seem less suspicious and she could also use Debbie as a shield. Jude would have to find a way to get them both out of there.
“I’m driving down to Cortez again tomorrow, but I’ll make arrangements for the cats,” she said pleasantly.
“How’s the case going?” Debbie asked. “You must be exhausted driving backward and forward.”
“We have some good leads,” Jude said.
“Is it someone from around here?”
“Between us, I don’t think so.”
“A tourist.” Debbie’s relief was tangible. “That makes sense.”
Sandy chuckled. “No one’s any safer because he’s not from ’round here.”
“Yes, we are. That’s one less evildoer living among us.”
“Who am I to argue with a beautiful woman?” Sandy handed Jude a beer and knocked her own bottle lightly against the side. “Good hunting.”
Filled with unease, Jude echoed the genial toast. She had a feeling Sandy was laughing, and the joke was on her.
Chapter Sixteen
“Hugo Debroize of Counter Threat Group?” Jude asked.
The response came in a deep South African drawl, the vowels broad and flat. “I’m your man. How can I help you?”
“This is Detective Jude Devine with the Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office in Colorado.”
“Don’t tell me. Fabian Maulle?” He added, “CTG notifies us when clients are hit. I was expecting this call.”
“Hit?” Jude repeated. “You think Mr. Maulle was executed?”
“It’s an assumption in our line of work. Most clients are at-risk individuals.” Debroize spoke so rapidly Jude had to concentrate to follow his speech pattern. A faint rise on the final syllables reminded her of Tulley. When he was nervous, his voice took on an unusual sing-song lilt.
“I understand you were employed by Mr. Maulle last year,” she said.
“Yes, for six months.”
“Could you tell me about that assignment?”
“Why don’t I save us both time and tell you who killed him?”
“Go ahead,” Jude invited. “But I’ll still need answers to my questions.”
Debroize barked a brief, resigned laugh. “Anton Voronov had Mr. Maulle killed, but you won’t pin anything on him. Even if you catch the skebengas who pulled the action, they won’t give him up. He has special punishments for idiots who rat him out.”
Not wanting to sound like she knew very little, Jude said, “We have information that Mr. Maulle and Mr. Voronov had a business relationship.”
“Ah, so you know who I’m talking about.”
“Of course,” Jude lied smoothly. If Debroize thought the police already had the facts and he wasn’t a sole source, he would speak more freely.
“Mr. Maulle hired CTG when Anton decided to blackmail him. He sent in a couple of goons to vandalize Mr. Maulle’s property, then threatened a family member.”
“Pippa Calloway?”
“You know the girl?”
“She found Mr. Maulle as he was dying.”
“Yissus, that’s rough. Nice young lady. Is she okay?”
“Yes, shaken up, of course. What was the blackmail about, Mr. Debroize?”
He became cagey with exact detail, testing to see how much she knew. “Mr. Maulle had class, but he did business with some real animals.”
“I guess when you deal arms to the highest bidder, that’s inevitable,” Jude remarked. “Anton piloted for him, didn’t he?”
“They both flew. But Mr. Maulle stopped when he didn’t need to skivvy anymore. Anton gets a rush from playing the big man, so he’s still running shipments himself.”
“I heard they argued.”
“Mutual loathing, but Anton went too far. Mr. Maulle said he was cleaning house before the New Orleans incident and told Anton he was out. The blackmail was retaliation, and Anton wanted back in, so he threatened to have Miss Calloway killed.”
“The break-in at Maulle Mansion was a calling card?” Jude queried. “Proof that he could get to her.”
“Yes, the warning shot.”
“How did Mr. Maulle resolve the threat in the end?”
“He gave Anton what he wanted,” Debroize said without emotion. “You have
to understand something. Vermin like Anton Voronov don’t let go. Mr. Maulle had no choice. He knew what they would do to his niece.”
“So he believed he’d dealt with Anton.”
“Strange, hey? Anton’s busting his knaters to stay in the game, then he takes Maulle out anyway. Insane.”
“Very weird,” Jude agreed.
And why would Maulle have put up with an associate he hated for so long? She thought about the photographs. Maybe Anton knew about Maulle’s “hobby” and had used it as a lever to keep their business connection alive. Then Maulle got fed up and tried to cut him off, so he had to raise the stakes.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Jude asked.
“I’ll ask around. Give me your number.” After Debroize had taken her contact details, he said, “Please tell Miss Calloway I’m sorry. Also, if she needs security, CTG can take care of everything. She can ask for me personally.”
Jude felt a prickle at her nape. “Are you implying that Pippa’s still at risk?”
“Ek sê. That’s the problem. I don’t know what I don’t know.”
“Well, I appreciate your help. One more thing, why did Anton want to stay in business with Maulle?”
“Mr. Maulle was the one with the government contacts, and he never included Anton in that side of the operation.”
“So without those contacts, Anton would be frozen out?”
“Dead in the water. Scum would deal with him, but what’s he going to sell? Small arms like everyone else.” He was quiet for a few seconds, perhaps weighing how much to say. “Mr. Maulle was world class. Jet fighters. Submarines. Maybe even nukes.”
Jude’s heart raced. How did Debroize know all this? They’d googled Maulle and all they found was this or that charity awarding him medals. “Was his business common knowledge?”
Hugo Debroize chuckled. “No, strictly to insiders. But we have to know what we’re contending with when we provide close protection. Most CTG clients provide a detailed profile.”