Cold Blood (Lone Star Mobsters Book 4)

by Cynthia Rayne

  So, as his social worker, Etta would do her best to make sure Tyler’s needs were met.

  Hers didn’t matter as much.

  ***

  “Well, fuck.”

  Etta lifted her glass. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  After work, Etta had gone over to the Lone Star Lounge, a strip club in Crimson Creek, in the next town over. It was an odd place to hang out, but her friend, Bonnie Beauregard, owned the joint and Etta needed to talk. As soon as she sat down at the bar, Etta had blurted everything out. Luckily, it was a bit after five in the afternoon, so the place was nearly deserted.

  Etta sipped her whiskey sour, but she felt like gulping it down, and then having another and then another. Although, all the alcohol in the world wouldn’t cure what ailed her.

  “I wondered why you weren’t in group the other day.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  The group had a loose structure so members could come and go at will. She’d make it to next meeting, and they’d probably have to tape her mouth shut, because, boy, did she have some things to share.

  “What are ya gonna do?” Bonnie asked.

  “No clue.” Etta had no doubt Grady would come after her as soon as he got released. In his mind, she’d wronged him, by testifying against him and sending his sorry ass to jail.

  The best choice would be running. But where? In this day and age, it was hard to fly under the radar. Eventually, Grady would find her. Besides, she’d made a life for herself. Etta had friends, a decent job, and a place to live. She refused to give up what she’d built over the years.

  “Why don’t you ask one of those biker boys for help? Maybe the one who’s sweet on ya.” Bonnie grinned.

  She rolled her eyes. “No thanks. I’m lookin’ to end this situation peacefully.” It would’ve been nice if the criminal justice system could’ve kept Grady in jail where he belonged.

  The son of a bitch shouldn’t see the light of day. Ever. While Etta didn’t believe in the death penalty, if anyone deserved it, Grady did.

  Bonnie took another drag on her cigarette. She had long blonde hair with occasional strands of silver mixed in. Bonnie was somewhere in her forties, although she’d never offered up her age, and Etta hadn’t asked.

  Her skin was tan, a bit weathered. She wore a red tank top and tight, ragged jeans along with a pair of battered leather cowboy boots. On her right bicep, she sported a black tribal tattoo. Bonnie was a tough chick, but a shrinking violet wouldn’t run a strip club.

  Loud music blasted from the speaker system—“Somethin’ Bad” by Miranda Lambert and Carrie Underwood. The club had a honky-tonk feel. Instead of standard tables and chairs, bar stools surrounded barrels branded with the Jack Daniels logo. The stage in the center of the room had three stripper poles, and a brunette was going to second base with it.

  This wasn’t her kind of place, but it was popular with the local male population. Bonnie said business was booming.

  “I hate my nephew, but I could give him a call.”

  “There’s an even worse idea.”

  Her nephew, Byron Beauregard, had been a hitman at one time and had ascended to a position as Underboss with the Lone Star Mafia, according to the local rumor mill. Asking for Byron’s help would land her in even more trouble.

  “I’m guessin’ Grady didn’t change his ways in prison, huh?”

  “We haven’t talked in a while, but I highly doubt it. There’s no hope for him.”

  What’s more, Etta couldn’t forgive herself. She’s the one who married him, right out of high school. Their courtship had happened way too fast. At the time, Etta had romanticized it and told herself they’d fallen in love at first sight. They couldn’t help themselves because it had felt so right.

  Now, she knew better.

  He’d maneuvered her into a relationship, while she was still in the infatuation stage. If she’d stopped to think about it, Etta would’ve realized she’d been manipulated. A few weeks into their marriage, he’d hauled off and slapped her. From there, Grady had gotten more violent, until it all ended one horrendous night.

  Bonnie placed her hand over Etta’s. “Hey, it’s gonna be fine.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I promise it’ll all work out. You’re a survivor.”

  “We both are.”

  “Bet your sweet ass we are.”

  At least she could count on something. Etta had been through an ordeal and made it out the other side. She had resilience, and not everyone did. Every time someone knocked her down, Etta got up, dusted herself off, and kept right on moving forward.

  Okay, time for a topic change.

  And then she noticed a man watching them with avid interest. Since she could use a diversion, Etta seized on the opportunity.

  “Okay, so who’s that?”

  “Who?”

  “The man at the end of the bar who can’t take his eyes off you.” She tilted her head to the side, studying him.

  Hmm. Cute, in a rangy cowboy kind of way.

  A tall, lanky man sprawled at the other corner of the bar. He nursed a tumbler of amber liquid, she assumed was whiskey. He had a buttoned-up black shirt and a silver cross around his throat. The cowboy wore a pair of snakeskin boots, faded Levi’s, and a shiny silver belt buckle.

  He reminded her Dudley Do-Right from the old cartoon, all spit-shined and polished up like a brand new penny. She placed him in his early forties, judging by the gray hair at his temples and the lines carved into his forehead. Stubble covered his square jaw, and his gaze missed nothing, scanning the room like a predator hunting for a kill.

  Or maybe I’m a touch dramatic these days.

  Bonnie made a disgusted noise. “Him? He’s nobody.”

  “There’s a naked woman twirlin’ on a pole ten yards away, and he’s gawkin’ at you. What gives?”

  “He’s a fed.”

  “A what?”

  “An FBI agent. His last name’s Hawthorne.” Bonnie scowled at him for good measure. “And he’s here to spy on me, so the interest is purely professional.”

  Etta leaned forward. “Why?”

  “He’s been scopin’ out the club, as well as pryin’ into Byron’s affairs.” Bonnie rubbed her temples. “Once again, my family’s draggin’ me into trouble.”

  Bonnie loathed her family. She’d done everything possible to distance herself from their illegal activities, yet it never quite worked out for her.

  “Are you positive his interest is only professional?”

  Etta had excellent people watching skills, and the agent’s gaze was appreciative whenever it landed on Bonnie. Hmph. Wouldn’t that be a match made in hell? A modern-day criminal/law enforcement version of Romeo and Juliet.

  And then something awful occurred to her.

  “Oh my God. Is he gonna investigate me?” Did this mean, Etta would end up on some kind of federal watch list since she’d stopped by for a chat?

  Bonnie laughed. “Relax, they’ll run your plates, check you for priors, and you ain’t got none, so they’ll move on.” Bonnie rattled off the procedure because she’d probably been through it a dozen times. “Besides, I’m legit, so I got nothin’ to worry about, other than havin’ an unfortunate last name and neither do you.”

  What’s the Godfather quote? “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

  “Says the woman who suggested I hire some mafia or biker muscle.”

  “Well, at the end of the day, I’m still a Beauregard. Like it or not, and believe me, I don’t, I’ve got inborn instincts that just won’t quit.”

  “So you’re really not worried?” Etta would be freaking out.

  Bonnie rolled her eyes. “Nah, this ain’t my first time bein’ under surveillance. Kinda familiar, actually. So I’m gonna smile real polite, pour him a drink, and sweep the place for bugs after he walks out.” She turned to the agent and pasted on a fake grin. “Don’t worry, this will blow over soon.”

 
The man touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment.

  Etta swiveled on the stool and did her best to look harmless. Although, she didn’t share her friend’s optimistic assessment of the situation. Hawthorne seemed determined.

  Apparently, trouble was going around these days.

  Chapter Five

  Later on in the evening, Justice sat by the fire pit, smoking a joint and staring at his phone, willing it to ring. He’d left a couple voicemails for Woolly, and he’d even called his job. Woolly worked as a car salesman and according to the receptionist, he’d gone to a conference in Houston, so he wasn’t due back for a couple of days.

  Justice hoped Woolly was okay, and he could chalk this hunch up to the approaching anniversary. Regardless, Justice planned on paying him a visit, if only for his own sanity.

  Right then, an SUV slid into his driveway. The vehicle purred like a lion, all sleek, smooth, and deadly.

  You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.

  Byron Beauregard hopped out. As far as Justice was concerned, the mobster was about as welcome as a porcupine at a nudist colony.

  Byron wore a charcoal suit with a gray silk paisley tie, which probably cost more than Justice had paid for his moldy ass trailer. Beauregard stood around six-feet tall with blond hair and blue eyes. By all rights, he should be ugly as sin to match his black soul, but perversely there was something downright angelic about Beauregard, but a pair of horns held up his halo.

  The mobster had blackmailed the club into assisting his organization, the Lone Star Mafia. He’d just become the Underboss a few months ago after rising through the ranks as a vicious hitman.

  Their two groups couldn’t be more different.

  The bikers considered themselves vigilante on bikes. They helped people who didn’t have any legal recourse. While the mobsters murdered and swindled their way to the big bucks. The bikers made a decent living, but they didn’t live in enormous mansions like the mafia dickheads.

  “Good evenin’,” Beauregard drawled. “Nice place ya got here.”

  With an eyebrow raised, he took a gander at the ramshackle trailers, scrubby brown lawns, and rusted out pick-ups surrounding them. When Beauregard squinted at Justice once more, his expression faltered, as he searched for something to say.

  “Cut the crap. We both know you hate the trailer park.”

  “Fine, this place is a bit Deliverance for my taste, but whatever works for you.”

  Justice blew out an impatient breath. “Why are you here?”

  “Got a business proposition for you.” Byron pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with his initials and dusted off a lawn chair on the opposite side of the fire pit. He sat in it and fixed Justice with an expectant look.

  “Take it up with the prez.” Beauregard could shove his deals and schemes right up his ass. Justice was sick of dancing to the Lone Star Mafia’s tune.

  “Why should I? From what I hear, you’re takin’ a break from the Four Horsemen.”

  “Oh? And where’d you hear that?”

  “I’ve got my sources.” He swiped a speck of lint from his lapel.

  “Axel don’t know about this little visit?”

  “Not unless you tell ‘em. While we’re on the subject, you should consider joinin’ a different organization. A person with your skill set could be useful.”

  “Is that a job offer?” He’s trying to poach me like a headhunter?

  “Perhaps.”

  “For the record, I’d rather scrub Perdition’s floor with my toothbrush than become a mobster.” A gross prospect since it was covered in dirt, blood, and other bodily fluids.

  “Never say never. How about a temporary gig?”

  “Not interested.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “And here I thought you might like a change of pace and a hefty paycheck for your trouble.”

  Hmm.

  Despite himself, Justice’s ears perked up. Any chance to add to his house fund was welcome. The question is, could he tolerate Beauregard long enough to get a payday.

  “I ain’t sayin’ I’ll take it, but what kind of work are you talkin’ about? And what’s it pay?”

  “Two hundred a day, plus expenses.” His smile was downright oily. “And it’s right up your alley.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well, it’s somethin’ a boy scout would do. My boss’s granddaughter, Mary Cobb, is in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Babysitting some spoiled brat wouldn’t be worth it.

  “Somebody tried to snatch her the other night.”

  To use her as leverage against Tucker? Whoever was behind it, had some brains.

  “Okay, so what do you get out of this?” Beauregard always worked some kind of angle.

  “Maybe I’m helpin’ out a veteran. I appreciate your service, by the way.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “I’d watch how you speak to me.” A killer calm settled over his features, his face going blank.

  “Yeah, I’ll work on my manners.”

  After all he’d been through, Justice wasn’t afraid. He knew how to handle himself. He was deadly, and if Beauregard wanted to compare combat skills, Justice was game.

  “So why are you comin’ to me? Why not have one of your boys handle it?” Justice asked.

  “You could say we’re in a staffin’ up phase. I got two newbies, who’ve never seen any action, and everybody else has a full docket.”

  It made sense, but he wasn’t sold yet.

  “Other than the money, why should I help you?”

  “Like I said, it’s a boy scout kind of gig. Mary’s done nothin’ wrong, and she needs help.”

  Justice wasn’t sure Beauregard was qualified to make such a determination. And yet, for a split second, there was almost a glimmer of something human in his eyes, before it disappeared.

  “And you don’t wanna take a chance on the girl gettin’ hurt.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Jesus. Don’t tell me you care about her.” Because that was nuts.

  Then again, from what Justice had heard, Beauregard had taken up with Jane Hunter, the club’s defense attorney. She was a bit of an odd duck, but easy on the eye, and whip-smart. Maybe she was a positive influence on the mobster. Like the Grinch, maybe his heart had grown two sizes since the last time they’d crossed paths.

  Nah.

  Byron’s lips thinned. “Want the job or not?”

  “I’m mullin’ it over. Got an idea who’s after the girl?”

  “In this business, we got lots of enemies and hardly any allies. We’re still tryin’ to sort it out.” He rubbed his jaw. “Although, we got some intel about someone makin’ their grievance with the outfit a bit more personal.”

  Justice bet the list was as long as his arm. Whoever it was, he or she had to be suicidal. The mafia had a reputation for going all scorched earth on their enemies. That’s why the club hadn’t retaliated.

  In the past, things were even worse. The mobsters had crossed every line, even dragging women and children into their feuds. From what he could see, Beauregard seemed to be toning it down, but he was still a Grade A dickhead. And he’d use whatever means at his disposal to get what he wanted.

  “Just out of curiosity, why’d you settle on me?”

  “As a matter of fact, Vick suggested your services.”

  Victoria Hale worked as tech support for the Lone Star Mafia. A couple weeks ago, he’d taken a job protecting her from a stalker. Things had gotten hairy after she’d been wounded, and he’d left Vick in the care of her another mafia member, Jasper Tan.

  “Did she?”

  “Yeah, although she never gave me the full rundown on your association.” He leaned in, as though expecting Justice to trade confidences with him.

  As a cover story, Vick had told the mobsters they were dating, so she’d had an excuse to be seen with him. Justice knew Vick hadn’t told Beauregard about the stalker, much less Justice’s true role
in the operation, and he refused to break her confidence. It was her business. Besides, he liked Vick. Unlike the rest of them, she was a decent human being.

  “Guess you’ll have to take it up with her.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Tell me about Mary.”

  Byron rattled off a brief biography—straight A student, headed to medical school at Harvard in a couple months, blameless for her grandfather’s misdeeds. Basically, an innocent in need of protection.

  Damn. I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.

  “Fine, I’m in.”

  He could stomach working for the mafia if it was for a good cause. Besides, it would be better than sitting here, twiddling his thumbs all day, obsessing about Afghanistan and the terrible memories crawling around in his skull.

  Things better left forgotten.

  Byron stood. “Excellent. Come by Tucker’s place tomorrow morning—eight a.m. sharp, don’t be late.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  ***

  “Fuck me, I’m in Rome.”

  Or at least what passed for it in these parts.

  Justice had dragged his ass out of bed early, drank a half pot of coffee, and arrived at the Cobb mansion right on schedule. He’d driven by the house before, but he’d never had the opportunity to get up close and personal with the structure. After Justice was waved past the gatehouse, he parked at the edge of the long driveway.

  The home made Las Vegas look less tacky in comparison. Tucker lived between Hell and Crimson Creek in an enormous Tuscan-style mansion. It was ostentatious, even by Texas standards, with nude classical statuary, massive fountains, and an over-the-top marble staircase he’d glimpsed through the stained glass windows. So if this place was a Texas-fied Rome, it must make Tucker the flipping emperor.

  Maybe this was a terrible idea. It most likely was, but Justice had signed on for some easy cash. If it was anything like the last side gig he’d taken, Justice would come to regret it.

  A maid let Justice in, and he gaped at his snobbish surroundings. It was all antique furnishings and priceless paintings. And then he noticed Tucker standing in the foyer. They’d never met before, but Justice had seen the man’s picture in the local society pages.