Cold Blood (Lone Star Mobsters Book 4)

by Cynthia Rayne

  A hazy sort of smog hung suspended in the corners of the room. An orange glow illuminated the room.

  Oh, my God. Her house was on fire!

  And that’s when the smoke alarm above her bed started to shriek.

  “Great. Thanks for the warnin’.”

  She ran for the door, but when she tried the handle, the metal scorched her fingers. Hissing in pain, she backed away.

  Etta frantically tried to remember her elementary school fire safety training. Hadn’t the firefighters said something about never opening a hot door?

  So she kicked a pair of jeans from the laundry basket under the crack to slow the spread of smoke. Then she grabbed a discarded T-shirt and held it over her nose and mouth.

  Down the hallway, she heard the crackling pop of flames.

  And then it dawned on her—there weren’t any windows in this room. I’m trapped, and there’s no way out.

  This was exactly like her dream.

  Etta dashed over to the nightstand and seized her phone, but it slipped out of her grip and thunked down on the floor. She tried to reach again, but the smoke blurred her vision. So she got down on her hands and felt for it. It had fallen just underneath the bed, and she could almost reach the edge.

  Finally, she yanked it out and called 911.

  “This is 911. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

  She babbled all of the information, and the operator assured her the fire department was on the way. But most of them were volunteers, and they didn’t have many fires in Hell, despite the fiery name.

  For a moment, she considered calling Justice but decided against it. He’d already been through a lot today. She’d tell him tomorrow morning. Instead, Etta called Pretty Boy, but he didn’t pick up.

  Only then, did she try Justice, but it went straight to voicemail. He must have turned off his phone.

  I’m alone in this.

  And then the door burst into flames, snapping and sizzling.

  Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.

  The blaze was getting higher and hotter, spreading up to the ceiling, crawling up the walls. The room would be engulfed in a few minutes.

  For a moment, she gaped at the fire, not really grasping what she was seeing. It was so surreal. Until flames crept across the floor and ignited the coverlet, snapping her out of the stupor.

  Etta dashed into the closet and shut the door behind her. She pulled down clothing from the hangers and shoved them beneath the door, to keep the smoke out. Then she pressed her back against the cool tile, and folded her knees to her chest, curling herself into a small ball.

  “I got this. It’s all good. They’ll be here any second,” she muttered, trying to reassure herself.

  Etta kept the shirt wadded around her face. The room had become unbearably hot, and it was thick with smoke. Her breath came in pants and tears dribbled down her cheeks.

  Please don’t let me die like this, not after everything I’ve been through.

  No, don’t fall apart. Keep it together, be rational. Remember what Justice said, you’re a survivor.

  Now think, dammit.

  What the crap had happened? Had she left the stove on? A candle? Sometimes she lit one while she bathed, but tonight Etta had taken a shower.

  And then it hit her—the most obvious culprit.

  Grady had done this.

  If she hadn’t been so terrified, Etta would’ve thought of it sooner. Grady had always threatened to burn her, and now he’d gotten his wish.

  In the distance, she heard the sirens. The fire department must be on its way.

  Hurry.

  Etta pulled the cell phone from her back pocket and dialed Justice with shaking hands. It went straight to voicemail again, but she didn’t care. Etta clutched the phone to her ear, and listened to his voice, asking her to leave a message. A beep sounded, and she didn’t know what to say, so she hung up, and then dialed again. The deep timbre of his voice calmed her, even if it was only a recording.

  The closet door began to smolder. The clothing beneath the doorway burst into flames. She coughed as smoke billowed into the enclosed space, choking her.

  This is it.

  Etta only had minutes, maybe seconds left.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A fist slammed into Justice’s jaw.

  Up until that exact moment, it was the best sleep he’d had in years. Justice had passed out after they’d smoked the last of the weed. His feet had rested on the picnic table seat, and he’d been leaning back on his lawn chair until he’d fallen on his ass when some dumbass clocked him, that is.

  Without thinking, Justice jumped to his feet, then slammed a fist into his attacker’s jaw.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? Etta nearly died, and you’re unconscious?” Pretty Boy sniffed the air. “And you’re high, you dick.” He stood above him, dukes raised, ready to do battle.

  He was instantly awake and sober. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Spit it out, Pretty Boy.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So you don’t know her ex dropped by?”

  “The fuck you say? Is she…?”

  “He showed up earlier but didn’t do anythin’. When I got to Etta’s place, it was burnin’ to the ground. The fire department pulled her out.”

  Her biggest fear. Justice took a deep breath.

  “So she’s okay?”

  Pretty Boy hesitated, and Justice’s stomach plummeted to his boots.

  “Tell me! She made it out, right?”

  “Yeah, but she was unconscious, and wearin’ an oxygen mask.”

  Dammit, I should’ve been there. Earlier in the evening, Justice had heard the scream of sirens heading down the street, but he hadn’t paid them much attention.

  “Was she burned?”

  “I don’t know, brother.”

  “Why didn’t you get over there sooner?” Justice grabbed Pretty Boy. “This never should’ve happened.”

  Justice had no doubt in his mind that Grady had done this. And he’d gone and left her unprotected.

  Pretty Boy slammed another fist into Justice’s jaw. “Do you wanna fight? Or take care of her? Because if you don’t step up, I will.”

  Justice pushed him away and headed for his bike.

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “No, visit her tomorrow, when she’s feelin’ better.”

  If she’s feelin’ better.

  Tires, squealing, he took off.

  ***

  Justice ran into the emergency room and headed for the front desk.

  When he checked his messages, on the way over, he found missed calls from Etta, but no voicemails. He never should’ve let Trick take his phone. The regrets were just piling up. Justice would never forgive himself for this.

  The nurse at the desk was busy sorting the paperwork. She was probably in her late fifties and wearing a pair of hot pink scrubs. When Justice opened his mouth to speak, she held up a single digit.

  He felt like holding up a finger of his own.

  “Excuse me. Where’s Etta May Jameson’s room? She was just brought in from a house fire.”

  “Are you family?” She squinted at him, over the top of her glasses.

  “Yes.” As far as he was concerned, Etta was his family.

  “She’s in the burn unit. Go to the end of the hallway, and then turn right. Get on the first set of elevators and take them to the second floor.”

  The burn unit.

  Heart sinking, he dashed down the hall and got into an elevator. He jabbed the red button repeatedly until it took off.

  When he walked into her room, Etta was choking and coughing into an oxygen mask. There were no burns on her face or her neck, but the rest of her was buried in a blanket. The room was overly bright and smelled like bleach, and she looked so damn tiny in the bed.

  She seemed to be okay—alive, and conscious. He was almost afraid this was a dream. On the ride over, all of his w
orst fears played through his head.

  “Justice,” she muttered. Her voice was distorted by the oxygen mask.

  Justice ran to Etta, and put an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her tight. He was so damn thankful that she’d been spared.

  She tried to remove the mask, but he shook his head.

  “No, ma’am. Breathe it in.”

  Etta shifted, and then he noticed her arm was wrapped in gauze, and the wounds wept through the surface. She had an IV in one arm, and the other was hooked to a couple additional machines he didn’t recognize.

  “How are you doin’?” He sat down in the chair beside her bed and took her good hand in his.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I came as soon as I found out. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. This is all my fault. I never should have left you alone.”

  “Don’t you dare. I’m fine. I’ve survived worse than this, believe me. At least this time I didn’t wake up after being in a coma.” She scanned the room with a pinched expression.

  “What did the doctors say?”

  “I’ve got some smoke inhalation, and a third-degree burn on my arm.” Etta lifted the limb in question. “She said it could’ve been much worse.”

  Etta might be physically fine, but Justice doubted that she was really all right. Justice had a nagging suspicion how the fire started, but he didn’t know how to bring it up.

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  “I was sleepin’ when I smelled the smoke.” Her lower lip trembled, and tears pooled in her eyes. “Grady did this. He tried to kill me.”

  “I think you’re right. I’m so sorry.”

  “He came over earlier.”

  “Pretty Boy told me.”

  She nodded. “Grady was actin’ weirder than usual. I should’ve known somethin’ was up.”

  A cold, hard, flinty sort of fury spread through Justice. This kind of anger wasn’t a bright red rage. No, this was ugly, cold, determined.

  Grady would pay for what he’d done to her. Justice would see to it.

  Just then, Detective Frost walked into the room.

  “Frost.” Justice nodded in greeting.

  “Justice.” His head dipped.

  Frost was friends with Justice’s brother, Steele. The two of them had served in the Marines together. Every now and then, Frost tossed a case their way, whenever the system let a victim down. Frost wasn’t a crooked cop by any means, but he was ever so slightly bent.

  “Why are you here?” Frost jerked his head in Etta’s direction. “Is she your old lady?”

  “Not yet.”

  Etta’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. They hadn’t discussed making their arrangements more permanent, but he was more determined than ever to keep Etta in his life.

  “How ya doin’?” Frost took a seat on the other side of the bed.

  “You two know each other?” Justice asked.

  “Yeah, I worked her, er, last case.”

  “Oh, you mean the last time her husband tried to murder her? Well, he tried again tonight.”

  Frost’s eyes widened. “Grady did this?”

  Etta licked her lips. “I think so, but I don’t have any proof.”

  “They never should’ve let him out of jail.” Frost’s nostrils flared.

  Justice was glad to see he and Frost were on the same page. He hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult to get the cop to look the other way, while he got rid of Grady permanently.

  “Nope, they sure shouldn’t have.” Justice raised a brow.

  Frost ignored him. “Feel up to talkin’ about it tonight, or would you rather wait until the mornin’?” he asked Etta.

  When he spoke to Etta, his tone was downright sweet. It was obvious the man cared for her. Justice was relieved the cop took a personal interest in stopping Grady, but the caveman within wanted to set Frost straight about who exactly Etta belonged to.

  “No, I’d rather get it done.” Her voice shook a little.

  “Mind if I have a word with her alone?” Frost asked Justice.

  “Fine by me, if you sign off on it.” Justice glanced at Etta, and she nodded. “I’ll be in the hall if you need me.” He strolled out of the room.

  ***

  In the waiting room, Justice found Ten grimacing into his Styrofoam cup, which he then tossed into a nearby trashcan.

  So the coffee must be shitty.

  With beige walls and matching floors, and generic artwork on the walls, this place was depressing as crap, too.

  “Why are you here?” Justice crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Happy to see me?”

  “No, and you didn’t answer the question.”

  “The outfit has a fantastic information network, and we heard what happened. So the boss wanted me to check on you.” He leaned back, as though getting comfortable.

  “As you can see, I’m right as rain.” It was a lie. Justice could feel the adrenaline building. He needed to ease the pressure, like taking a ride or hitting something. Or someone.

  “Tell me another one.” Ten’s black eyes raked over him. They were filled with mocking amusement.

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “Didn’t offer any.” He nodded in the direction of the hospital room. “How’s she doin’?”

  “How do you think?” Justice took a seat on the opposite side of the row from Ten. “She got burned, and the bastard who did it took off.”

  Ten tilted his head to the side. “You seem upset.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” He dragged a hand through his hair.

  What had happened to Etta, to him, to Woolly, and Bulldog was too much to bear. Goddammit, somebody had to pay.

  “We could pool our resources, go after this guy.”

  “Why would you offer? I ain’t part of your organization.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Sounds fun.”

  And we’re done.

  Justice stood. “I’m goin’ upstairs.” He needed fresh air, a chance to clear his head. Instead of waiting for a reply, he stalked off.

  Minutes later, he whirled around.

  “Why the fuck are you followin’ me?” Ten trailed him down the hall like the grim reaper made flesh.

  “Like I said, Byron wants me to keep a watchful eye.”

  “Horse shit.”

  Justice headed for the stairwell and took the steps two at a time. Ten kept up with him. Finally, he reached the top floor, with roof access. Justice headed straight for it.

  “Only personnel are allowed beyond this point.”

  “They can send a security guard after my ass if they want.”

  On the roof, there was a helipad, probably used for patients who were life-flighted to the facility. Justice could see for miles. In the distance, a storm was rolling in, the air crackled with tension, lightning split the sky, electricity sparked the air.

  Danger ahead.

  And then he noticed a young woman in her late twenties with long dark brown hair which fell to the middle of her back. She had long arms and limber legs. Her body was willowy but strong, a dancer’s build. Barefoot, she glided along the edge of the building, without one iota of fear. Her shoes lay discarded a couple feet away.

  Oh, Jesus.

  “Wait!” He raced to the edge, holding his arms up. “Please don’t jump.”

  She turned. “Why would I?” Her face was serene, as though she didn’t understand his concern.

  “Because you’re tap-dancin’ on a ledge.” The hospital was a good seven stories tall. One wrong move and she’d tumble to her death. Yet, it didn’t seem to deter her.

  “I’m more into ballet, then tap, and don’t worry, I have excellent balance.”

  Yup, and poor mental health

  “Miss, you need to get down from there.”

  “Why? I’m havin’ fun.” This time she leaned to the side, arching one leg off the ground, holding an arm in front of her, balancing on one foot. Despite the risk, Justice had to admit she was
graceful.

  Had she just escaped from the mental ward? Justice shot a glance at Ten who stood beside him. He hadn’t even heard the mobster approach. Justice couldn’t be certain if he was losing his touch, or whether Ten was just that good.

  Hmm. Maybe he’d been in the military?

  Ten seemed enthralled by the girl, unable to take his eyes off her.

  Weird. Back to the problem at hand.

  “I’ve had enough of people committin’ suicide around me.”

  “I’m not tryin’ to kill myself, silly. I’m merely flirtin’ with death.” She smiled as though it were some sort of private joke.

  What the fuck?

  A grin lit up Ten’s face. “Are ya now? And does death ever flirt back?”

  “Always. You could say he’s sweet on me.”

  “Hmm.” Ten’s eyes were bright.

  Nothin’ like bein’ stuck with two kinds of crazy. Justice scratched his jaw and tried to reign in his temper.

  He held up a hand. “Come down, please.” This was supposed to have been an escape from the chaos a few floors down, a chance to regroup. Unfortunately, it had turned into a shit show, as per usual.

  “No.” She flitted away, like a demented sugar plum fairy.

  Time for another tactic. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

  “Agatha Byrd, but everybody calls me Aggie.”

  “Well, Aggie, I’m Justice, and my somewhat silent partner is Ten.”

  Ten nodded, eyes fixed on her, as though Justice didn’t exist.

  “Pleasure to meet you.” Her expression belied her words.

  “I have to get back downstairs, so you’re comin’ off the ledge, right now.” This time Justice used his officer voice, the one he used to bring soldiers back in line.

  She shrugged, as though not giving a damn.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll watch her.”

  Watch her do what? Plummet to her death?

  Justice hooked an arm around her waist and set her down on the floor.

  “Hey!” She slapped his hand. “This isn’t your business.”

  Justice opened his mouth, ready to give her a lecture when he realized Aggie had a valid point.

  He heaved a sigh. “You know what, it isn’t, and I’ve got enough on my plate right now.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ten said. “I’ll take care of her. Why don’t you go back to Etta?”