Cold Blood (Lone Star Mobsters Book 4)

by Cynthia Rayne

  And still, he didn’t give up, refused to give in.

  Whenever the Taliban fed them, which wasn’t often, the men only got a few scraps of bread. But he’d long ago stopped feeling hungry. His body had cannibalized his muscle and the small fat stores he had.

  Hope kept him alive.

  He knew another SEAL team had already been tasked with freeing them. It was standard procedure in these situations, and when the cavalry got here, there’d be hell to pay.

  Behind him, he heard the snap of a whip. The guard was back, and his respite was over. He’d already been lashed so many times, his back was ripped apart. Justice hadn’t even healed from the last round.

  The length of leather landed across his shoulder blades. Justice stifled a groan. They wouldn’t break him. No matter what they did.

  He was going to make it out of this place—one day, he’d be free again. And then he planned on killing every last one of these dicks.

  ***

  Etta couldn’t sleep.

  She laid in bed, wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, willing herself to drift off, but it was no use.

  Etta had a windowless bedroom. She guessed it had once been a bathroom, judging by the tile in the closet. It had been a selling point when she rented the place. Etta slept better in total darkness, except for tonight.

  Somewhere, another shoe hovered, ready to drop right on her head.

  Over the years, she’d had hundreds of nightmares about her former husband, pictured him holding her down, kicking her once more. If he got out, she knew he’d try to hurt her again.

  Before she’d gone to bed, Etta had pulled out the handgun she’d tucked away on the top shelf of her closet, and placed it in her nightstand drawer. This time would be different. She wouldn’t give him the chance to even get near her.

  A muffled shout from the other room startled her.

  Justice. He’s having a nightmare.

  Etta recognized the signs of post-traumatic stress syndrome all too well. She’d had her own share of terrible dreams haunting her sleep.

  She raced into the living room and found Justice spread-eagled on the couch. He’d stripped off his jeans, T-shirt, and Four Horsemen vest. It lay across the back of a chair. She idly traced the horse symbol.

  The sofa was too small for his frame, and his legs were thrown over the side. She could barely see him in the ghostly moonlight filtering in through the curtains, but his eyes moved beneath his eyelids.

  He shouted again.

  “Justice?” What had happened to him in Afghanistan? Why did he refuse to discuss it?

  He flung his head back and forth, struggling in his sleep. His arms flailed as though trying to block a would-be assailant. Etta knew all about fending off an attacker. Watching him tussle with his own demons, brought it all rushing back.

  Etta had to stop this.

  “Justice.” She shook him awake.

  He grasped her hand, and for a moment his eyes were wild, sightless. His breathing was labored, and he clung to her like a drowning man to a raft.

  “Etta?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  Justice expelled a breath, and his body relaxed.

  “Trouble sleepin’?”

  He nodded.

  “Wanna do a relaxation exercise or two?”

  Back in the heyday of her own PTSD symptoms, the therapist had taught her a few methods to ease her ricocheting emotions. For Etta, the main issue had been hypervigilance. She hadn’t felt safe anywhere, and the slightest noise startled her. So she’d worked on visualizations to control the fear and panic. It had worked, too. After a few months’ time, her symptoms had gone away.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “What were you dreamin’ about?” Clearly, he wasn’t “fine,” so she kept pushing.

  For a long moment, he stared at her, blinking, as though the words hadn’t gotten through.

  He shook his head. “Uh, the past.”

  His answer was something of a cop-out. She’d gotten limited details out of him. He’d told her most of it was classified, but just because he wasn’t at liberty to discuss a mission with her, didn’t mean he couldn’t tell her what had happened to him personally.

  “Afghanistan?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She had the sneaking suspicion he’d been tortured.

  Etta knew what it was like to be hurt by someone, in horrifically intimate ways. The pain and degradation hit a person where she lived and left marks beyond the physical. Grady had forever changed her.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Don’t you got enough on your plate without my tale of woe addin’ to your burdens?”

  “Nope. Trust me, talkin’ helps.”

  The cushions were warm from his body heat. Heat rolled off him in waves, too. It was like sitting beside a blast furnace. Sweat trickled from his temples, and it had dampened his sideburns.

  He sighed. “I can’t.”

  “Sooner or later, you have to. Trust me. I’ve tried the ‘face it on my own’ approach, and it doesn’t work.”

  “I’ve made it through all by my lonesome so far.”

  “Have you?”

  The question hung in the air between them.

  Justice didn’t reply.

  From her perspective, he had a long ways to go, and maybe Etta had further to go then she’d realized.

  Funny.

  Both she and Justice were running from their pasts, burying themselves in distractions, so they didn’t think about what they’d gone through.

  “Fine, have it your way.” Etta got back to her feet. If he wasn’t going to open up, she might as well head back to bed. She had an early morning and lots of clients to see. She padded back into her bedroom, leaving Justice alone with his thoughts.

  “Why should I talk about it?” he called from the other room.

  “Because the past always comes back to bite you on the ass. Trust me.”

  Etta should know. Hers was coming back with a vengeance.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Etta’s cell phone went off as she was driving to work.

  When Etta had left the house earlier, Justice was still asleep, so she’d left him be. Although, she’d written a note, asking him to lock up with the spare key before he headed out.

  “Hello?” She answered on the third ring and pulled over to the side of the road.

  “Mrs. Williams?”

  A knot formed in the pit of her stomach.

  “Mrs. Williams is my married name. It’s Ms. Jameson nowadays.”

  “Sorry, Ms. Jameson, the assistant district attorney wanted me to give you a call.”

  “And…?” she prompted, anxious for the news.

  “Your ex-husband’s parole was granted, and he’ll be out in twenty-four hours. We were supposed to contact you sooner, but our communication wires got crossed. I’m sorry for the—”

  “It’s fine.” She swallowed. “Thanks for callin’ me.” Etta hung up the phone and flung it against the window.

  Oh, God. He’s free.

  ***

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a long damn time since my last confession.”

  Justice sat in the confessional at St. Andrews church. It was smack dab in the middle of the day, and the sanctuary was nearly empty except for an elderly woman in the last row of pews.

  “Page, I’m gonna strangle you.” The window slammed shut, and Justice smothered a laugh. Patrick Mills had joined the priesthood after their tour of duty had ended.

  Justice didn’t know what to make of his friend’s change of profession. He wondered if Trick had made a deal with God while they’d been captured, and now he was fulfilling his end of the bargain.

  Typically, Justice would’ve been covering shifts at Perdition, the bar, and clubhouse the MC owned. Since Axel’s announcement, Justice had nothing else to do, but sit by the fire and get high. Instead, he decided to play Trick a visit, and screwing with him never got old
. In the military, they’d played pranks on one another as a way to blow off steam. If they hadn’t, the team would’ve gone crazy.

  Well, crazier at least.

  Trick, Woolly, and he were the only survivors. Every member of his SEAL team had a nickname. Jacob Lamb was called Woolly for obvious reasons. Trick was short for Patrick, and back in the day, Justice had been called Page.

  Trick had always been religious, but he’d never given off a priest vibe. Before a mission, Trick would gather them up into a circle, and they’d pray together. It had become a ritual, a way to pull together. But Trick had a dirty mouth, a thing for blondes, and a taste for microbrews. Now Trick had sworn off women altogether and took his vow of chastity seriously, although, he still enjoyed a beer now and again.

  Mind blown.

  Justice didn’t know how a man could give up the softness of a woman beneath him, even for a good cause.

  “Call me Justice, Trick, I ain’t goin’ by Page anymore.” Justice pulled back the red velvet curtain and stepped out as Trick let himself out the other side.

  “And I’m Father Patrick, since I don’t go by Trick any longer, asshole.” The last word was hissed.

  Justice wagged a finger. “Sweet Jesus. I ain’t ever heard a priest use such language. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “And you took the Lord’s name in vain.” Trick gritted his teeth. “For the record, I’m a priest, not a saint.”

  “Never mistook you for one, and we both know I’m a sinner.”

  Justice took in the priestly get up his old friend wore—black robes, a collar, and an enormous cross. Though it suited Trick, oddly enough. He was a tall, muscular man with large blue eyes and a kind face.

  He shook his head. “I keep thinkin’ that’s a Halloween costume.”

  “Believe me, it ain’t.”

  “Any regrets?”

  “Naw, I thought about joinin’ for years, and I was an altar boy as a kid.”

  Justice opened his mouth.

  “So help me, if you make some kind of perverted joke, I’ll smack the snot out of you.”

  “You can try.”

  “We both know I’d wipe the floor with you. Speakin’ of changes, I can’t believe you became a criminal.”

  “You mean badass, outlaw biker, and part-time vigilante? That’s me.” What he did with the MC might not be legal in the strictest sense, but they did God work’s too, at least when it came to the eye for an eye part, anyway.

  “Whatever. Come with me, before someone hears us.”

  Trick hauled ass down the hall and Justice headed after him. They ended up in his chambers beyond the sanctuary. It was a simple room—linoleum floors, a filing cabinet, and old seventies avocado colored desk.

  And I thought my trailer was gross.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you here?” Trick crossed his arms over his chest and sat on the edge of the desk.

  Justice sobered. “Like you don’t know.”

  He sighed. “It’s the anniversary of their deaths, and we should mark the occasion.”

  “Let’s do a Virginia road trip in the next couple of weeks.” The rest of their unit had been buried at Arlington Cemetery.

  “Hooyah, but before we head out, you need to make an appointment at the VA hospital.” Hooyah was the Navy SEAL battle cry.

  Justice frowned. “Why? I feel fine.”

  “We’ve been over this before. You should talk to somebody.”

  “I’m awful sick of people tellin’ me what to do.”

  “Since I used to be your commandin’ officer, you should be used to it. If I still had the power, I’d order you to see a counselor.”

  “Like who? Nobody understands what we went through besides you, me, and Woolly.” Just because somebody had training in both the military and psychology, didn’t mean they comprehended his predicament.

  “Then jaw at me some. I counsel people.”

  Justice snorted. “I’m not that desperate.”

  “Yeah, you are. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a ball of chewed twine, and you smell like a bong.” He sniffed deliberately. “How long’s it been since you had eight hours of rack time? A hot shower? And how long’s it been since you were sober?”

  A really long fucking time.

  “I’m mostly fine. It comes and goes, but this is a rough patch.” He’d gone through ups and downs. Sooner or later, he’d be right as rain once more, until he hit another emotional bomb of course.

  “Damnation. Why do you always gotta do things the hard way?”

  “I’m doin’ the best I can. Nobody’s perfect.” Justice didn’t have a smart remark or defense for his behavior.

  “Amen. You said it’s gotten worse lately…?”

  “A few weeks ago, I walked into a place, and there was so much blood, Trick.” He shut his eyes, trying to force the memory out of his head.

  It wasn’t working.

  His shoulders fell. “I won’t ask you. In fact, I don’t wanna know.”

  “You don’t approve of the work I do.”

  “I’ve had enough fightin’ to last me several lifetimes. I prefer bein’ a man of peace.”

  Justice couldn’t argue with that. “You wear it well, brother.”

  The term “brother” meant something to Justice. He used it with men who’d fought at his side, who’d give their lives for him, like his MC brothers, or the soldiers in his unit. It wasn’t something to be taken lightly or tossed around.

  “So this incident took you back to Afghanistan.”

  “Yeah, but I always get a might tetchy around the anniversary.”

  Once again, he’d been trapped in an airless room with Bulldog. The Taliban had separated all of them, fearing they’d overpower the terrorists, which had been a smart move. They were stronger as a unit.

  “Then it’s not just me.” Trick grimaced. “And I’m gonna say this for the millionth time, but it ain’t your fault.”

  He snorted. “Yes, it is.”

  Justice suspected that while Trick had dealt with the trauma, he hadn’t quite gotten over it, per se. It would forever be part of their psyches, and no amount of therapy or drugs would change it.

  Before Trick could argue, Justice changed the subject.

  “You heard from Woolly lately? We should invite him along.”

  “Nah, he’s been MIA lately.”

  “I ain’t heard from him either.”

  They both paused, and chills crept up Justice’s spine. He’d always had a sixth sense, an intuition when it came to danger. The night they’d been ambushed, and cut off from the rest of the team, he’d had a terrible feeling he couldn’t shake. He’d just known something awful would happen, and it wasn’t nerves. Justice had been in hundreds of firefights, but this particular one had spooked him.

  Right now, he had the same sort of sensation.

  “Got a hunch?”

  Justice nodded.

  “Then we should go see him.”

  “My thoughts exactly. When?”

  “I’m about to go on a church retreat. When I get back, let’s get Woolly, and then we’ll head over to Virginia.”

  “Deal. In the meantime, I’ll call him up and touch base.”

  “I’ll contact him, too.” Trick heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Now get outta here, I’ve got sins to hear.”

  He smirked. “And I’ve got a few to commit.”

  Justice walked out of the church.

  He’d feel better once he’d spoken to Woolly. For once, he’d like to be wrong.

  ***

  “How’s it goin’, Tyler?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  After this morning’s bombshell, Etta had thrown herself into work, trying to occupy her thoughts. Tyler Jenkins fit the bill nicely. Since she’d been assigned as his caseworker, Etta had grown attached to him. She went out of her way to check on him, probably a bit too often, but the agency had never called her out on the preference.

&nbs
p; Tyler was four years old with a mop of brown hair and bright blue eyes. He liked wearing overalls, and there was often a bug in the front pocket. He loved naming the critters and treating them like pets.

  Etta enjoyed every minute she spent with him, but Tyler also broke her heart.

  His heroin-addicted mother neglected him. When the family had come to the attention of social services, Tyler had been half-starved and injured. He’d wandered off down the street, after being left on his own for over a week while his mother had gone partying with one of her boyfriends.

  Tyler had been placed in foster care while his mother went through drug treatment. After she’d failed to complete the program repeatedly, she’d signed away her rights, and given him up for adoption. Despite all the things she’d done, Tyler still missed his mother.

  Older children had a harder time being adopted than infants. Most adoptive parents wanted babies they could raise themselves. With Tyler’s case history, she didn’t hold out much hope for him finding a new family.

  “Do you like your new room?” A week ago, his foster care placement had changed, and transitions were always difficult.

  He shrugged. “It’s nice here.”

  “And the Robinsons?”

  “They’re okay.”

  The Robinsons were a couple in their forties. They were empty nesters who agreed to take on foster kids. So Tyler had a home with enough food and responsible adults who didn’t run out on him. They were kind people, but a foster family didn’t make up for being abandoned.

  Etta wanted him to have everything— a forever home with parents who loved him. Sometimes, she imagined adopting him, being the woman who made his lunches and read him a bedtime story at night.

  That’s insane.

  She’d checked into adoption before. Her supervisor had encouraged her to become a foster parent, and she’d attended the parenting classes, believing it would give her an edge in the adoption process, but it hadn’t panned out. Agencies preferred placing children in two-parent households.

  Besides, if Etta took on a child, she’d be a single mother. It would be a lot of responsibility for one person to handle. And while she might be a stellar social worker, Etta had failed to protect her own flesh and blood when it mattered most. She didn’t deserve to be a mother. Etta refused to let anything happen to Tyler because he’d been through enough already.