by Maggie Price
Suddenly weary, she rolled her shoulders while sending up a silent prayer that coffee was in her immediate future. “Didn’t you say your sisters were also bringing groceries?”
“Yeah.” Bran dumped the logs into a wood box sitting on one side of the raised hearth. “Morgan left a note on the kitchen counter.” He pulled off his black parka, tossed it on the love seat. “They put away the food that goes in the refrigerator and freezer. Left the rest of the groceries in sacks so we can stash things where we want them.”
His mouth curved. “Morgan also left a couple of containers filled with her homemade cinnamon rolls.”
“Really?” Knowing they had their own personal horde of feather-light pastries lightened Tory’s mood. “Since I don’t cook, I’ll do the stowing as part of my kitchen duty.”
He did a slow, intense study of her. “You look dead on your feet. Why don’t you take a nap while I deal with the groceries?”
She flicked him a look before draping her jacket over the back of the love seat. “You just want to get Morgan’s cinnamon rolls all to yourself.”
“Can’t slide anything by you.” He tilted his head as if to gain a new perspective. “You over being mad at me for threatening to arrest you?”
“Fat chance, McCall.”
“Had to ask. Look, if I swear I’ll save you a few cinnamon rolls will you get some shut-eye?”
It would only add to the guilt he already felt to tell him that every time she closed her eyes she saw the chain drop past her face. It was a blood-chilling image she couldn’t seem to shake loose.
“I want an even share of Morgan’s rolls.” She slid a hand beneath her ponytail and rubbed at the ache between her shoulders. “I’ll put the groceries away.”
“Your call. Do you need one of the pain meds the doc sent with us?”
“Stop right there. I want you to swear you’re not going to turn into Florence Nightingale.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “Okay, I’ll back off the care-giver routine. Just agree that if you need something, you’ll tell me.”
“Agreed.” She glanced around the room. “How about a phone? I need to call Danny. I want to let him know what happened before he hears it from someone else. And to tell him why he won’t be able to find me at home.”
“He knows.” Bran shagged a hand through his hair. “About the attack, anyway. Sorry, with everything else going on I forgot to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I called him on his cell phone last night while you were still in the ER.”
She didn’t do a double-take, but almost. “You called Danny?”
“The kid and I have our differences, but he’s your brother. He came by the hospital after the sedative took you under. Said he would call today to check on you.”
While he spoke, she caught an almost imperceptible change in Bran’s eyes, a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth. She had seen that look enough times to know what it meant.
“Okay, spill it. What did Danny do or say last night that didn’t sit right?”
“He hit me up about borrowing your car until you got back on your feet.” Bran flexed his hands against his thighs. “For him to do that when you were lying in a hospital bed went all over me.”
Tory gritted her teeth. It had been barely a week since she’d warned her brother not even to think about driving her car again. As usual, Danny had chosen to overlook that small fact.
“I hope you didn’t lend it to him.”
“I didn’t, for two reasons. First, your car is a crime scene until the lab guys get done processing it. Second, I didn’t figure it was a decision you’d want me to make.” He studied her now with the scrutiny of a cop. “Why wouldn’t you want Danny to have your car? You used to loan it to him all the time. Has something changed?”
With a headache creeping up the back of her neck and her throat aching, she didn’t feel up to discussing the topic that eternally magnified all the reasons she and Bran were so wrong for each other.
Instead, she summed things up by saying, “He put a dent in my car, so I banned him from driving it.”
“I don’t blame you.” Bran pulled his cell phone off his belt, handed it to her. “To be fair, Danny was upset when he got to the hospital. He didn’t calm down until he knew you’d be okay. Nate left this phone when he dropped off the photos at the nurses’ station. It’s a loaner from the FBI. Untraceable, in case Heath has a hacker working for him.”
“Thanks.” She stabbed in a number, listened. “His cell’s turned off.”
“He might be at home.”
“He moved about a month ago.” She frowned at the phone. “I don’t have the new number memorized.”
“Where’s he living?”
“With a dancer named Jewell.”
“Dancer? Like as in stripper?”
Tory handed the phone back. “She promotes herself as an ‘exotic performer.’”
Bran rocked back on his heels. “Well, hell, I didn’t know the kid had it in him.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever Jewell’s talent, I don’t know her last name so I can’t get her number from information. It’s on my cell phone’s redial and in the day planner in my tote bag. Everything was in my car last night.”
The reminder of the attack took the lightness out of Bran’s tone. “Nate’s bringing your phone and tote bag here. I expect him to show up any time. But I don’t want you making calls or receiving them on your cell. That number’s listed in my personnel file.”
“Good point.” Easing onto one arm of the love seat, she rubbed the center of her forehead where the headache now throbbed. She knew she should go unpack, but just couldn’t work up the energy.
So she stayed where she was while Bran shoved up the sleeves on his steel-gray sweater, then hunkered in front of the fireplace. He stacked logs on the grate with geometric precision. With each move his sweater shifted, revealing the outline of the Glock holstered at the small of his back.
“There’s something else I forgot to mention,” he said while he worked.
“About Danny?”
“No.” He glanced across his shoulder. “I asked Grace to buy an espresso machine while she and Morgan and Carrie were at the mall. I figured having one might make this place more bearable for you.”
“Uh-huh.” Despite her resolve not to let his presence get to her, Tory’s gaze had automatically journeyed downward. Why did the man’s slacks have to snug so compellingly to his lean hips?
“In fact,” he continued as he positioned another log on the grate, “a couple of lattes sound like a good way to warm up. I’ll do the honors after I get the fire started.”
“I’ll make them,” she said, knowing the husky rasp in her voice wasn’t totally due to bruised vocal cords. She curled her fingers into her palms. Dammit, the last thing she needed was a reminder that the man she planned to divorce had kick-ass buns.
Without comment she rose and headed down the hallway in search of the kitchen.
“Big brother sent me back here while he finishes his manly duty of stoking the fire,” Nate said when he strode into the kitchen a few minutes later. “Word is, some sweet talk might get my favorite sister-in-law to make me a latte.”
Tory sent him a jaded look while the espresso machine hissed steam. “I’m your only sister-in-law, slick.”
“Which makes you even more special.” Grinning, he laid her tote bag and a manila envelope on the counter then pulled off his black overcoat.
As always, his suit looked tailored to his broad shoulders and tall, lean frame. Along with thick black hair, dark complexion and eyes, the middle McCall brother had a charmer’s grin and dry wit. All made for a lethal combination that, according to his sisters, had drawn females like moths to a blowtorch since he was about five years old.
He glanced around the small kitchen. “So, how long did it take Bran to talk you into moving in here with him?”
“He threatened to arrest me if I didn’t come pe
acefully.”
“Well, now.” Nate gave his chin a thoughtful rub. “I’ll have to try that next time a gorgeous woman balks when I try to get her alone.”
“You have a lot of women balk, do you?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.” She pulled an extra mug out of the cabinet and thought about the concern she’d glimpsed in his face last night. “You can hold the sweet talk, slick. I owe you a latte as thanks for backing up Bran in that parking lot.”
Grin fading, Nate stepped around the counter and tugged her against him. “I’m damn glad you’re alive and kicking, Tory McCall.”
“Me, too.”
Bran paused in the doorway of the tidy, nondescript kitchen, watching his brother comfort his wife. Since the moment they’d arrived at the safe house, he’d fought the urge to pull Tory into his arms. It hadn’t seemed to matter that their marriage was all but dead. That only a piece of paper had kept them linked for the past months. All he knew was the more time they spent together, his need to hold her grew. That need, he admitted silently, was quickly extending beyond the parameters of comfort.
Feeling that urge take on a sharp edge, he squared his shoulders. “Hey, bro, you’re holding up progress on those lattes.”
“Taking care of personal business first,” Nate commented. He skimmed his knuckles down Tory’s cheek before releasing her.
“First?” she asked.
“There’s a few things I need to update both of you on. And I’ve got some pictures I’d like you to look at. If you feel up to it.”
“I’m fine,” she said, then turned back to the espresso machine.
Hardly, Bran thought. He could see the headache in her eyes, had noted the care she used whenever she turned her head, saw her wince with almost every step she took. The snug ice-blue sweater that skimmed to the waistband of her jeans seemed to emphasize the paleness of her cheeks. The woman was tough as nails, but right now she was a picture of weakness and fatigue.
She turned, switched on the faucet to rinse out the small metal pitcher she’d used to steam milk. Outside, the day had turned a gloomy dense gray and he could see her reflection in the window over the sink.
She looked painfully fragile, as though a careless gesture could make her image disappear.
Forever.
It would be much the same, he realized, after he signed the divorce papers and a judge set their marriage aside. She would be gone from his life for good. A different kind of death than Patience’s, but death all the same.
Even if he could have latched on to the emotion that twisted in his gut, he couldn’t have put a name to it. All he knew was that for the first time since he’d walked out, he was far from certain he wanted their marriage to end.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted.
Nate took a sip from a thick white mug. “You ready to talk business, bro?”
“Ready.” Bran took a mental step back. Right now, concentrating on finding Heath was far preferable to trying to figure out what the hell was going on inside him.
Minutes later they’d gathered in the living room with their lattes.
Legs tucked under her, Tory curled into one corner of the love seat. Bran claimed the other end. Nate sat in the armchair on the opposite side of the small coffee table.
The love seat’s compact size became intimately evident to Tory when Bran stretched an arm across its back and his fingers almost reached her shoulder. “I guess if there was anything new on Heath you’d have already said,” he commented.
“Nothing on that front,” Nate confirmed. “We have made progress on figuring out if the PD’s database got hacked.” He shifted his gaze to Tory. “Did Bran tell you that’s the current theory of how Heath found out info on the spouses of the cops at the credit-union shootout?”
“Yes. Do you know for sure the system was breached?”
“Our forensic computer nerd is almost positive it was. He said the PD’s files are encrypted with about seven layers of security. Considering how well the infiltrator covered his tracks, there’s only one local guy we know about who Heath could get to pull that off.”
“Who?” Bran asked.
“Carsen Irons. Word is, he’s the golden boy of Oklahoma City’s hacking community. People call him the Invisible Man.”
“Why?”
“Online he can go anywhere. See almost anything. And he leaves little trace. Irons has the rep that he’ll sell info to anyone who can pay his asking price.”
“Like Heath.” Bran leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Nate, let’s you and I go have a chat with Irons.”
Tory studied Bran over the rim of her mug. His face was set, his gaze hard and restless. A predator, she thought, with violence lurking in the depths of those razor-sharp blue eyes. The danger hovering around him sounded alarm bells and, Lord help her, sent a thrill racing up her spine.
“We can’t talk to Irons,” Nate said. “He packed his servers and motherboards and disappeared. Law enforcement’s looking for him, but don’t hold your breath. You’ve got to figure the Invisible Man knows how to stay that way.”
“So,” Tory began, “it sounds like Heath bought the info on cops’ spouses from Irons. Where’d Heath get the money?”
“He’d made tons selling meth before I popped him for distribution,” Bran answered. “We never found any trace of his loot. That means he’s had it squirreled away all this time. Could be he’s had someone he trusts watching over the stash.”
“Maybe one of his pals from the Crows,” Nate ventured.
“The motorcycle club?” Tory asked, then looked at Bran. “Didn’t you say they’d disbanded?”
“That’s what a couple of snitches told us.”
“They were right, technically,” Nate explained. “Heath started up a new arm of the Crows in prison.” He retrieved the manila envelope off the table. “I’ve got a picture of a tattoo I want Tory to look at.”
“Whose tattoo?” Bran asked.
“Easton Kerr’s.”
The man I killed, she thought, cupping the mug between her hands. Despite the warmth against her palms, her fingers felt icy.
As if picking up on her disquiet, Bran eased sideways on the cushion. “You don’t have to look at the picture if you don’t feel up to it,” he said, settling his hand on her shoulder.
“I’m okay.” She set the mug on the coffee table.
“It’s a tat of a small crow on Kerr’s right hand,” Nate added. “On the web between his thumb and index finger. As far as we know, all Crow members have an identical mark. When they move their thumb, the crow looks like it’s in flight.” Nate handed Tory two photos. “We know from the pictures we found on Kerr that they tracked you for a couple of days. We just aren’t sure how many people Heath has helping him. I wanted to see if you noticed Kerr or anyone else with a similar tattoo. Some guy standing in the same checkout line with you? Or maybe gassing up his car or buying a latte the same time as you? Something like that, to test how close they could get to their target.”
She studied the inky-black bird silhouette against a man’s ghostly gray hand. “I don’t remember seeing anyone with this tattoo.”
“Kerr’s name wasn’t on our list of known Crows,” Bran said. “Where’d he hook up with Heath?”
“In prison. Kerr was doing time for robbery and assault. Guards there say he and Heath got to be close buds. We’re trying to find out who else joined up with Heath inside and has since been released. Might give us a lead on who’s helping him.”
Leaning back, Bran rested an ankle over his knee. “Speaking of Heath’s associates, what’s the status on Leah Quest?”
Tory looked up from the photos. “Who?”
“The bastard’s prostitute girlfriend,” Bran answered. “Quest and Heath became an item about two years before he got locked up. She visited him regularly in prison. We’ve had her under surveillance since Heath escaped.”
“Had being the operative word,” Nate
added while handing Tory another photo. “That’s Quest’s latest mug shot.”
Bran swore under his breath. “She slipped the surveillance?”
“Yesterday afternoon, right before the attacks. Quest went to a department store at Crossroads Mall. She picked out a couple of outfits then sashayed into a dressing room. When she didn’t come out, our guys went in. The outfits were there, still on hangers, but Quest was gone.”
Tory stared at the mug shot. Quest might be considered attractive except for the too-brassy red hair and eyes thickly lined in dark kohl.
“Quest pulled one of the easiest scams there is to lose a tail,” Tory commented. “Tuck a different color wig into a big purse and wear two layers of clothes. Once you’re in the dressing room you strip off the top layer, stuff everything into the purse and put on the wig. Poof, a minute later you walk out an entirely different-looking woman.” She shrugged. “I’ve used the same routine a few times while tailing people.”
Nate gave her a wry look. “We should have hired a smart P.I. like you to watch Quest. Maybe then she wouldn’t have dropped off our radar screen.”
“Just like Heath,” Bran added. “And the Invisible Man.”
“Just like,” Nate agreed. “Right now, we’ve got nothing to lead us to any of them.”
“Great,” Tory muttered. “And until you do, we’re stuck here.”
“That’s a fact.” Bran met her eyes levelly. “For however long it takes.”
Although he’d been in bed for hours, Bran’s brain had never clicked into deep-sleep mode. So at 3:00 a.m. his eyes opened instantly when the faint noise drifted on the air.
Having left his bedroom door ajar, he lay motionless, listening and analyzing. This being his first night in the safe house, he knew the noise could have been the natural groans of the older, unfamiliar structure. Or merely the rush of icy wind against the windows. Maybe nothing.
For a moment, the house held the heavy hush of night. Then a faint thud sounded in the distance. Living room.
In one smooth move he slid his Glock from under the pillow and rose. Wearing only low-slung gray sweatpants, he crept through the darkness, the wood floor cold against his bare feet. He inched the door open wider, peered into the hallway where a night-light gave off a pale glow. Last night Tory had closed the door to her bedroom. It was now open. When he came abreast of the room he glanced in. It was too dark to tell if she was still in bed.