by Sandra Owens
“Easy, man. Put your gun away,” Nate said, holding up a hand. “She shot a snake is all.”
“Oh, okay.” He slipped his weapon back into his holster, then bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he sucked air into his lungs.
Taylor stepped to Nate’s side, exchanging an amused glance with him. She and Nate trained together three or four times a week, and their regimen would likely give the man his first heart attack. There was also a lot of sexual tension between them when they fought on the mat that carried over at odd moments. Like now. Nate didn’t smile, he rarely did, but if he didn’t want her panting over him, he should stop looking at her like that.
“I sent all but one of my boys back to the station. How long you people gonna be out here?”
“We’re about done,” she said. “Our team will be here any minute to take over.” It was hot, they were both sweaty from the humid Everglades air, mosquitoes were buzzing around them, and she was past ready to get out of here.
“Why don’t you leave your man behind to keep the traffic moving? No reason for you to stay.” Nate swatted at a mosquito about to land on his nose. “Unless you feel like sticking around and donating blood to the insect population.”
“Nope. I prefer to keep my blood. You people keep me informed, you hear?”
“We will,” Nate said. “Not,” he muttered after the police captain was gone.
No, they wouldn’t. The FBI didn’t play well with others. Taylor eyed the body. Although she wanted to shed tears for the woman, she would wait to do that in private. Even Nate, her best friend, the one person who knew her story, wouldn’t understand the sadness she felt at seeing how this woman’s life had ended.
Nate touched her arm. “You okay?”
Maybe he did understand a little. “Yeah.” She forced a smile she didn’t feel, but it turned real at the sight of the people walking toward them. “Our forensic team arrives. Oh, good, the M.E.’s with them. I vote for getting out of here.” The medical examiner was one of the best in his field, and would have his preliminary report to them by tonight or tomorrow, along with more photos.
“I’m riding back with you,” Nate said as they headed for her car after briefing the new arrivals. “Rothmire wants us to go straight to the office. He’s got the files on the first two already.”
When he slid into the passenger seat, he adjusted it as far back as it would go to accommodate his legs. Normally, Taylor would enjoy a long ride with him, but she wished today that she could be alone with her thoughts. It wasn’t often that her past reared up, but the dead prostitute had her remembering things she did her best to keep locked away.
“Want to talk about it?”
She glanced at him. “We need to check the national database. See if any murders in other cities—”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
No, it wasn’t, but she didn’t want to talk about her mother. Not today. “I’m fine. I want to catch this bastard before he kills again.”
Nate put his hand on her arm. “Don’t let this become personal, Taylor.”
It already was. “When are you going back to Dunnellon?” she asked, hoping to divert his attention. They both had issues they hadn’t dealt with concerning their mothers, which she supposed was one reason they understood each other so well.
“Depends on this case, I guess.”
“You could slip away tomorrow before things heat up.”
He shrugged. “They always say be careful what you ask for. Maybe I should just leave it alone.”
“Court and Alex are determined to find your mother, or at least find out what happened to her, so you should go back soon. Get the answers so you’ll know how to handle it with them.”
“You’re sneaky, you know? We’re supposed to be talking about you and what’s going through your mind. Since you don’t want to do that, I’m going to take a little nap.” He popped a wintergreen-flavored Tic Tac candy—his one addiction—into his mouth, reclined his seat, and closed his eyes.
Pot to kettle, my friend. A nap was his way to avoid talking about his mother, too. She wished she could fall asleep that fast. While he slept, she studied him, something she liked to do when he wasn’t paying attention.
There were very few men Taylor liked long hair on, but Nate was one. The ponytail he always wore suited him, as did the one ruby stud earring. Even though she rarely saw him in anything other than black, red was his color. Since he worked undercover at his biker bar, Aces & Eights, he typically dressed like a biker: black T-shirts, jeans or leather pants, chains hanging from his pockets, motorcycle boots, and her favorite thing, the black leather bands he wore on his wrists. It all added up to one very hot man.
One of her favorite fantasies was of him, his body covering hers, and while he devoured her with those fathomless black eyes, she would pull the leather band from his ponytail. His black hair would fall around his shoulders like some long-ago warrior, and she would comb her hands through it, then trail them down to the shoulders bunching with muscles before—
“Stop staring at me.”
Busted! Heat crept up her neck as she choked out a laugh. “You’re cute when you drool.”
He swiped his hand over his mouth. “Don’t drool.”
“Besides, you were asleep, so you don’t know if I was looking at you or not.”
“I felt your eyes on me.” He brought his seat back upright. “Sorry for conking out.”
Was he really so attuned to her that he could sense her watching him even though his eyes were closed? If so, that was very interesting.
CHAPTER TWO
The man changing a tire that hadn’t needed changing ducked his head when the car with the female FBI agent inside drove by. He’d parked on the side of the road, far enough away from the crime scene so as not to draw attention. With binoculars, he’d been able to see her up close and personal. She was beautiful, with her sun-kissed blonde hair and pale skin. It had been hard to see the color of her eyes, but he already knew they were blue.
His first two angels had been found almost immediately. One by a man needing to make a pit stop and the other by a photographer who’d set out to get pictures of the Everglades and its slithery inhabitants. The man chuckled at thinking how surprised the photographer must have been.
When his latest angel’s body hadn’t been found after two days, he’d called in a tip from a burner phone. He’d done his research and knew the FBI would take over with this one. He wasn’t afraid of the FBI. After all, he was smarter than they were. Everything he’d done and planned to do was for her.
After calling in the tip, he’d driven to this spot to wait. He hadn’t been sure she would be assigned to the case, but when she’d appeared, he knew it was a sign that his mission was blessed.
A little later, she walked into view again, heading back to her car. He brought the binoculars back to his eyes, frowning when the man who’d arrived after her got into the car with her. He’d never seen her with a man before and took that as another sign. She was waiting for him.
When her car passed again, heading back to Miami, he assumed, he’d only allowed himself a brief glance at her. Then he kept his head down, concentrating on putting the last of the lug nuts on, even though he’d longed to look up again. To look in her eyes. To let her see him. But it was too soon for that.
Who was the man who had been in the car with her? The question burned in his mind long after she was gone from sight. He sure hadn’t looked like an FBI agent. Did she have a boyfriend? The thought sent anger coursing through his bloodstream. He slammed the lug wrench against the bumper, leaving a dent.
She was his, and no one was going to keep him from claiming her.
CHAPTER THREE
“No rumblings from any of the biker gangs about this?” Rothmire asked, after they’d taken seats in the conference room.
Nate shook his head. “Not even a hint, and I don’t recall her ever making an appearance at Aces and Eights with Ramirez.” Aces &
Eights was the biker bar he and his brothers owned. It was also a cover for their covert operations. No one suspected that the owners of a biker bar were FBI agents. Although that might change with Rothmire’s decision to make him the lead on this case.
“Well, if she was his”—Taylor made air quotes as her lips curled in distaste—“‘old lady,’ why didn’t he report her missing?”
“I’ll see what I can tease out of him next time he comes in,” Nate said. “In the meantime, you and Rand need to pay him a visit. Find out what he has to say about her.”
According to the report from the detective on the case, the first prostitute, twenty-seven-year-old Alana Gilmore, had been an on-and-off girlfriend of Hector Ramirez, a.k.a. Stud. A member of the Cubanos Motorcycle Club, Hector had the looks to go with his handle. Unlike many club members, he’d never once brought a woman with him to Aces & Eights.
The second victim, Stacy Wimberley, age twenty-two, had been reported missing by her roommate, another prostitute. The last anyone saw of her, she was getting in a car that might have been dark blue, dark green, or black.
“I’ll go with Taylor to interview him,” Rothmire said.
Huh? Nate glanced at the boss. “Why not Rand?”
“I’m having him lie low for a while.” At Nate’s raised eyebrow, Rothmire shrugged. “I have my reasons. He’ll still work on the case, but from behind the scenes.”
He looked at his watch. “Gotta go. My daughter’s a fairy princess in her school play. If I don’t make an appearance, you’ll be investigating my murder instead of this one. My wife and daughter aren’t women I want to cross.” He grinned as if two murderous women were the most awesome things in the world.
“And rightfully so,” Taylor said.
His grin grew wider. “Considering Gwen’s the first black princess in her school’s history, they wouldn’t have to kill me. I’d shoot myself if I missed such a momentous event. Figure out how to catch this bastard. Keep me informed.” He stood, then turned his attention on Nate. “When this case is closed, we need to talk.”
“Yes, sir.” Talk about what? Why was he the lead on a case that would likely expose him? And why was Rand being kept on the down low? But until Rothmire was ready to share, all he could do was nod.
Rothmire was Nate’s second bureau chief since he’d joined the FBI. All his first boss had cared about was advancing up the ladder, taking the credit for his agents’ successes while blaming them for any failures on his part. Fortunately, that man was now sitting at a desk in the basement at headquarters, analyzing meaningless emails, after one of his agents had been killed because of his ineptitude. Good riddance as far as Nate was concerned.
Rothmire was the best thing to ever happen to the Miami bureau. He was sharp, didn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit, and always had his agents’ backs. Nate loved him, but he was leery of his boss’s devious mind.
“What does he want to talk to you about, and what’s the deal with Rand?” Taylor asked after they were alone.
“Beats me, but I’m quaking in my boots. He always has something up his sleeve. Just wish it wasn’t anything to do with me or mine.” “Mine” meaning his brothers. They loved what they did and were good at it. Nate didn’t like the thought of his boat being rocked, which Rothmire excelled at doing.
Nate studied the photos of the three victims, pictures of the latest one sent over by the M.E. only minutes ago. Hopefully, she had an arrest record and her fingerprints were in the database. In the meantime, Taylor and Josh Sheridan, their newest agent, would be hitting the streets tonight, showing her photo, hoping to find someone who knew her.
He wished he could team up with them, but with his new assignment, he was already exposing himself more than he should. Like being sent to this morning’s crime scene where anyone paying attention could have seen him.
The boss was cagy, cunning, and devious, and Nate’s Spidey senses screamed that something was up. But until the boss deemed it time for him to know what he had going on in his mind, Nate knew he might as well wish to touch the moon for all the good it would do him.
The plan they settled on was to release the photo of their latest victim to the news stations. As soon as her death became public, he’d be able to talk about it at the bar, see what he could turn up.
He tapped a finger on one of the photos. “He’s targeting blondes with blue eyes.”
“We’re sure our bad guy’s a he?” Taylor asked.
Nate looked at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman sitting across from him, not liking the shiver that snaked down his spine. The someone-just-walked-over-his-grave kind of shiver. He gave himself a mental shake. Just because Taylor shared the same hair and eye color with the dead women didn’t mean anything.
“Aren’t you?” he said.
Her gaze fell to the photos, and he knew the sadness in her eyes was for her mother. “I’m sure, but we still need to keep open the possibility that it’s a she.”
“Agreed, but our killer’s almost certainly a male. This is about something from his childhood, something that messed with his head.”
Taylor nodded. “Something he’s trying to make right. In his mind, anyway.”
“You left out sick. In his sick mind.”
“Isn’t that how it always is with these people?” She stood. “I need a shower and a change of clothes before I meet Josh.”
Nate squashed the urge to tell her to be careful. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. And he somehow managed not to say, “You’re not hitting the streets without me there to protect you,” instead saying, “Call me when you get home.”
She smiled, too much understanding in her eyes. “Because you won’t sleep until I do?”
“I don’t have a problem sleeping.” True, except when he knew she was out on the mean streets of Miami. “I’ll just want to know if you turned anything up.”
“Ah, Nate.” She trailed her fingers over his shoulder. “You truly amuse me.”
He sat at the table after she left, alone with his thoughts, his shoulder still tingling where she’d touched him.
How many times was he going to have to tell himself she was off-limits before his brain got the message? It would help if she stopped flirting with him, stopped touching him. He snorted. Who was he kidding? Neither of those things would make a difference. He gathered up what little they had on all three victims, then flicked off the lights as he left the room.
Nate sighed. “Spider, if Fish doesn’t kill you, I will.” The little man grinned back at him as if Nate had just told him he’d get free beers for the rest of the night. He grabbed the back of Spider’s vest, hauling him out of the line of fire.
Fish was a probate, hoping to be accepted by the Dominos Motorcycle Club, and had decided to toy with Spider to impress the gang members. Once Fish was voted into the Dominos, he’d get patched.
And Spider? The idiot thought Fish liked him. The problem with Spider was that he loved Aces & Eights and its customers. Because he did, he failed to comprehend that everyone didn’t love him back. Most did, but jerks like Fish got off on toying with Spider, amusing themselves at the trusting man’s expense.
Except for Saturdays, Nate and his brothers had assigned certain nights each club could spend at Aces & Eights. Otherwise, they’d have gang fights every night of the week if they let them mix. Saturday was open to all bikers. Usually that wasn’t a problem, since on that night, the gangs were at their own clubs, so there wasn’t much mixing going on at Aces & Eights.
Spider, being gangless and something of the bar’s mascot, was there every day of the week except Sundays, and that was only because the bar was closed. Most of the clubs liked him, even rubbing his bald head for good luck before they headed out to ride.
Monday nights belonged to the Dominos, and although they weren’t the baddest of the bad, they could raise hell as good as the next club when it suited them. Nate pushed Spider onto a barstool next to Alex. “Keep this fool here until Fish and frien
ds forget he exists,” he said to his baby brother.
“Spider, my man, how’s life?” Alex said, slapping Spider on his back.
For some strange reason, Alex liked Spider. Said the man amused him. Spider didn’t amuse Nate, but then few things did. As he walked away, he tried to remember the last time he’d been happy. Maybe truly never. Sure, he loved his job, loved his brothers, loved keeping the world safe from bad guys. He was satisfied with his life. Honest-to-God happiness wasn’t something he thought to wish for. Wouldn’t know it if it slapped him in the face.
He went to the opposite side of the bar and grabbed the remote to the large-screen TV. “Game’s gonna be on in a few minutes,” he said to the three bikers next to him. “A round on me if Florida State wins.”
“Hell yeah,” Dirty Dan, Nate’s least favorite customer, said.
“At least you won’t have to steal one.” He’d lost count of how many times he’d caught Dirty Dan stealing beers.
Dirty Dan smirked. “Takes all the fun out of it.”
Ass. Nate picked up the remote, turning up the volume. Minutes before the game, a news alert was scheduled to air, asking if anyone recognized their latest victim.
The station flashed a news-alert banner across the screen. “What’s going on now?” Nate said to get the three men to pay attention.
“The cops probably shot someone again,” one of the guys said.
Nate nodded. “Wouldn’t be surprised.” He hated dissing the cops, but it came with the territory.
The female anchor appeared on the screen. “The body of a murdered woman was found this morning near Tamiami Trail. The police are asking if anyone recognizes this woman to please call the number on the bottom of the screen.”
At seeing the artist rendering of their last victim, Nate said, “She looks familiar. Has she been in here before?” He watched the three men’s reactions.
“I know her.”
Nate swiveled on the barstool, his gaze landing on Spider. “Dude, really?”