Nick UnCaged: Sanctuary, Book Four

by Abbie Zanders

  “The Sentinel Voice is a national publication with lots of followers,” Doc added, picking up the thread. “And while De Rossi’s article might not have direct bearing on what we’re doing here, we don’t need the unwanted attention that comes with negative publicity.”

  Mad Dog nodded thoughtfully. “If she puts us in a good light, people will read it, nod in approval, and move on. But throw in hints of drama and local opposition, and people will want to know more. That means, more spotlights, more reporters.”

  Smoke snorted. “The locals have more to lose by drawing national attention than we do. They’re stockpiling weapons and preparing for doomsday, for God’s sake.”

  “That might not be as much of an issue as you think,” Heff said, more serious now. “People don’t want to accept that the men they put in charge might not deserve to be there. It’s a hell of a lot easier to point fingers of blame at us and say that we’re the real threat.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Smoke told him.

  “Of course it is. But you know as well as I do that bullies like Freed thrive by instilling fear and doubt. Bonus: turning the spotlight on us is a way to divert attention from their real agenda, which, I might point out, we still don’t know.”

  Several pairs of eyes turned toward Church. If anyone knew the real reason why some local leaders had it out for them, it was Church, and he still wasn’t talking. They trusted him implicitly and without question, but it would be nice to know exactly what they were up against.

  Seconds ticked by in heavy silence before Mad Dog cleared his throat and spoke up, “Hopefully, we’ll know more about their agenda once we get samples of those weapons to the Callaghans for tracing.”

  “Doc and Mad Dog are heading down later tonight,” Church said. He turned to look at Cage. “You and Smoke are on surveillance.”

  That worked for him. “Good. The sooner we can figure out what they’re up to, the better it will be for everyone.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bree

  Bree worked well past midnight, researching the Winston estate. It was indeed a tragic story.

  The family-owned resort had been closed for repairs and renovations. An explosion occurred in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and the resulting fire killed the family and one of the employees who’d happened to be in the main building at the time. The only surviving member of the Winston clan was the eldest son, Matthew, who had joined the Navy shortly after graduating high school and was away at training.

  There was much speculation about the cause of the blaze, particularly since the place had just undergone an inspection, which had found everything in good, working order. An investigation was launched, led by the newly named fire chief, Jerome “Jerry” Petraski, and Chief of Police Daryl Freed. Within days of the incident, Petraski had cited a faulty gas line in the resort kitchen as a probable cause, and the matter had been closed.

  Bree scribbled into her notebook, adding to her list of follow-up items. Obtain arson investigation case files.

  Bree stared at the images of a much-younger Matt Winston attending the funerals of his mother, his father, and his younger sister, feeling a stab of sympathy. His expression was stoic, but his eyes were haunted. Haunted and ... angry. She knew what it was like to lose someone you cared for in a swift, cruel twist of fate, just as she knew the ramifications of senseless violence. Granted, she’d been much younger when she lost her mother to cancer and her father to prison, but that kind of thing left a mark on your soul.

  The local paper, the Sumneyville Times, had written up a touching memorial insert for the Winstons. Their family history went back to the founding of Sumneyville. By all accounts, they had been well-respected leaders in the local community for generations. The Winston men had served in peacetime and war, starting from before the American Revolution.

  Bree found it fascinating. Not only had the Winstons been patriots, but they had been stout abolitionists, too. In the mid-nineteenth century, the family mansion was an important stop on the Underground Railroad.

  As the Winston family grew, so did the estate. During the Civil War, when the men had been off fighting in the Union Army, the Winston women—led by Sarah Winston—had opened their home to the families of other Union soldiers, even dedicating an entire wing to the injured and infirmed.

  Bree sipped her tea and scrolled down, revealing a photo of Sarah Winston circa 1863. According to the caption, the picture was taken only a few months after the historic clash at Gettysburg. Sarah was a beautiful woman, and Bree instantly recognized the same deep, soulful eyes she’d seen while sitting across from Matt Winston earlier that morning. What would Sarah think of her great-great-plus grandson continuing the tradition of helping others more than a hundred and fifty years later?

  It seemed so unfair that a place so rich with history could be destroyed by something as mundane as a gas leak. More importantly, it didn’t feel right. Yes, accidents happened, but something told Bree this hadn’t been one of those times.

  Maybe Matt Winston hadn’t thought so either and accused Jerry Petraski of not properly doing his job. That would certainly explain the murderous look in young Matt’s eyes in those funeral photos. It would also provide insight into why Lenny—Jerry’s son—would harbor a grudge against Matt as well.

  Did Nick and the other partners know of Matt Winston’s troubled history? And if so, how much?

  By midnight, Bree couldn’t stop yawning and prepared for bed. She’d only scratched the surface, but she already had plenty of great backstory and even more items on her list to pursue. One week might not be enough. Sumneyville might not be at the same level as a one-percenter kink club, but it did have its secrets.

  Bree was going to uncover them all, one by one.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cage

  Sumneyville was not an active place after nine p.m., especially midweek. The local bar, O’Malleys, was open, as was the twenty-four-hour mini-mart on the edge of town, but that was about it. Most people were settled in their homes, doing whatever it was normal people did after the sun made its final descent.

  Most people but not all. The private prepper compound was abuzz with activity.

  “Fuck, this satellite receiver is sexy,” Cage commented, sweeping over the various feeds live-streaming.

  Even Smoke, who wasn’t particularly into tech, grunted in agreement.

  Cage peered closer at one of the screens, taking in the camo-clad figures coming and going from the underground mine entrance like a dozen worker ants. Thankfully, Mad Dog and Doc had already been in and out, having procured some samples from their stockpile, and were on their way back.

  “Good thing they hauled ass tonight,” Cage commented.

  Smoke offered a rare smile. “That’s Mad Dog’s doing. Having a woman waiting for you is a hell of an incentive.”

  An image of glossy, dark curls and intelligent eyes flashed through his mind, along with an unexpected pang of envy. Smoke, Heff, and Mad Dog were lucky men, having found women who not only suited them, but made them happy as well. Cage didn’t hold out hope for the impossible even if a certain reporter had sparked an interest he hadn’t felt in a long time. Unlike Sam, Sandy, and Kate, Bree De Rossi would be heading back to the West Coast in a matter of days. Even if he were inclined to pursue the possibilities, time wasn’t on his side.

  “Fair enough.”

  Cage tapped a few keys and zoomed in. “There’s Petraski and Joe Eisenheiser,” he said, identifying the only two full-time officers of the Sumneyville PD. “No big surprise there. Recognize anyone else?”

  “That’s David Yocum,” Smoke said, pointing to one of the figures operating a manual forklift loaded with unmarked crates. “He manages the apartment building in town. The others, no.”

  “I’m recording the surveillance video, so it’ll be easy enough to get still shots of everyone there and run them through facial recognition software. If they’ve got so much as a driver’s license,
we can identify them. We can pass the intel to the Callaghans. They’ve been around a lot longer than we have. They might know something.”

  “I’m glad the Callaghans are on our side.”

  Cage agreed wholeheartedly.

  He’d met Ian through a fortuitous crossing of paths years earlier, when he was still active duty, and several of Ian’s brothers since then. Having them within a stone’s throw of Sumneyville had been an unexpected perk of signing on with Church. Not only were the Callaghans powerful allies, but they also had access to tech that hadn’t even been released yet.

  “Especially with these yahoos in our backyard,” Cage said, lifting his chin toward the screen. “Why the sudden stash clearance, do you think?”

  Smoke considered the question for several long moments before he answered, “Maybe someone stumbled onto something they shouldn’t have, and he’s moving the evidence. We know Freed’s got his inner circle. The rest of the preppers are just extras, cast to make the scene more legit.”

  The theory was a good one.

  “Could be. Or he might be trying to liquidate some of his inventory. With Renninger in the IRS’s crosshairs, they’re probably strapped for cash. He’s got to pay the bills somehow, and a crooked police chief isn’t going to have pockets deep enough to keep a compound like that up and running.”

  “The other possibility is, Freed’s getting paranoid about having all his eggs in one basket, maybe even thinks he has a mole. They could be distributing their stash to a secondary backup location in case the compound is compromised, someplace fewer people know about.”

  “Another mine?”

  “That’d be my guess. Like Church said, the mountain’s riddled with them.”

  On screen, the men in the compound continued to work quickly, systematically loading the crates into the back of an old delivery truck and then going back for more. Cage zoomed in on the vehicle and took close-up snapshots of the license.

  “Well, let’s put a tracker on this guy and find out.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cage

  Cage couldn’t deny that his desire to see Gabriella De Rossi had only increased. The more he discovered, the more he wanted to know.

  The dining room was empty; the others had had their breakfasts and left. Cage poured himself another cup of coffee and stared at his phone, weighing the pros and cons of contacting Bree. Church had made it clear that any further interaction would be solely his choice.

  “Still haven’t asked her out yet, huh?” Sam set her own mug down on the table and sat down across from him.

  Cage liked Sam. Had since the first time Smoke brought her to the site. She was the perfect match for his quiet, serious friend and had a secret coffee-bean blend they’d all become addicted to.

  “No,” he confirmed. “I’m not sure I should.”

  “Why not? Don’t you like her?”

  That’s the problem, he thought miserably. He did like Bree. Maybe a little too much for a woman he’d just met.

  She was the first woman to stir his interest in a long time. Worse, his cyberstalking made him think crazy thoughts, like they might have some kind of connection based on an eerily similar past. How many attractive, available Italian girls who had walked away from organized crime families did he come across?

  At least, he believed that she’d left that life behind. Legally changing her name to her mother’s maiden name and moving across the country were pretty good indicators.

  He lifted his gaze to meet Sam’s, unsure of how to explain that. Thankfully, he didn’t have to.

  “Ah,” Sam said quietly, connecting the dots. “It was like that for me, too. I think that was one of the reasons I avoided Steve when we first met. I felt different around him than I did around others, you know?”

  Yeah, he knew.

  “I didn’t want to admit that, not to myself or anyone else—especially when I didn’t believe for a minute that anything could come of it.”

  He understood that, too. Nothing could come of it because Bree was only in town for a few days. Plus, she was probably more interested in getting inside information than she was in him. He told Sam as much.

  She listened and then nodded thoughtfully. “I see what you’re saying. But let me ask you this: if you don’t see her again, won’t you always wonder about the what-ifs?”

  Sam had a valid point.

  “You guys put a lot of stock in your instincts, right?”

  He nodded.

  “What is yours telling you?”

  That Bree De Rossi fascinates me, and I want to know more. Aloud, he said, “Thanks, Sam.”

  “Anytime. And, Cage? Stop overthinking it. I saw the way she was looking at you. You’ll do just fine.”

  “What do you mean, you saw the way she was looking at me? You weren’t around when I was giving her the tour.”

  Sam’s cheeks flushed red. “No, but Sandy and I were watching on the surveillance cameras in the war room.”

  Cage narrowed his eyes. “Who else was watching us?”

  “Uh, everyone.” The red flush deepened as Sam averted her eyes. She looked guilty. “Heff made copies of the good parts and sent them to everyone. And ... there’s more.”

  She looked around the dining room before she met his gaze and lifted her chin slightly in a defiant tilt. “The guys don’t think you’ll ask her out, but Sandy, Kate, and I disagree. We saw the way you looked at her, too, so ... we kind of bet that you would. Girls versus boys.”

  Cage sighed. He should have known. He’d been involved in a few wagers himself. “What’s the bet?”

  “If the guys win, there’s a list,” she said, her cheeks burning brightly. “It differs for each of us.”

  “And if you win?”

  “We have a list too,” she said with a wicked glint in her eye. “Suffice it to say, we really want to win.”

  At that moment, he wanted the women to win, too. It would serve his sneaky, mated brethren well for sticking their noses where they didn’t belong. “All I have to do is call and ask Bree out?”

  “Yep. She doesn’t even have to accept, though of course, she will. Kate and I have already decided that we’ll make all your favorites, including authentic New York–style pizza, whenever you want.”

  He did like pizza. “All right, I’ll call.”

  Sam grinned, too. “Don’t tell them I told you.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Sam went back toward the kitchen, and Cage pulled out his phone before he lost his nerve. He typed out a text message to the number Bree had given him. Hopefully, it wasn’t too early.

  Cage: Still want to get together?

  Within seconds, he received a reply.

  Bree: That depends. Who is this?

  He felt a stab of disappointment and then remembered that not only was he texting from his private cell, for which she couldn’t possibly have the number, but he had also blocked the number from appearing on caller ID.

  Cage: Sorry. It’s Nick.

  He held his breath, waiting several seconds for a reply that didn’t come. Had she forgotten him already?

  Cage: Roadside? Franco’s? Sanctuary?

  Finally, he saw three dots appear.

  Bree: I know exactly who you are.

  He started to tap out a message and then erased it. Then did it twice more. He was beginning to think Sam’s confidence in him was overrated when a text came through.

  Bree: And, yes, I would like to see you again. Dinner tonight?

  Cage: Sounds great. Where and when?

  Bree: Six o’clock. Surprise me.

  Cage: Challenge accepted. I’ll text later with details.

  Bree: Looking forward to it.

  “Well?”

  Cage looked up to find Sam, Kate, and Sandy peeking expectantly around the corner.

  “We’re having dinner tonight.”

  The women grinned and bumped fists.

  “Where?” Sandy asked.

  He frowned. The
only local place he knew of was Franco’s. “She said to surprise her.”

  “No worries,” Sam said with a grin. “We’ve got your six.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bree

  “You really don’t have to go to so much trouble,” Bree said, slipping her phone back under her thigh and eyeing the plate of batter-dipped French toast topped with fresh berries and plump, juicy sausage links. “Coffee and fruit are fine.”

  “I don’t mind,” Martha told her. “It’s nice to have someone to cook for.”

  Bree felt a pang of sympathy for the older woman. The only pictures displayed in the house were old ones, presumably of relatives and ancestors, no hint of anything more recent. It was sad because Martha seemed like the type of woman who liked being around others more so than being alone.

  “How long have you lived here, Martha?”

  “All my life. I grew up in this house, as did my mother before me. At one time, we had four generations of McGillicuddy women living under this roof. Can you imagine that?” She laughed softly, but the look in her eyes was wistful.

  “Just women? No men?”

  “Sadly, the men in the family don’t enjoy the same longevity. Not one has made it past the age of sixty.”

  Bree considered the combination of deep-fried dough, butter, and maple syrup in front of her and couldn’t help but wonder how much of a role diet played in the abbreviated life spans of McGillicuddy men.

  “Heart disease?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” Without giving Bree a chance to answer, Martha tacked on, “Now, dig in, dear, before it gets cold.”

  Bree dutifully cut off a small piece and lifted it to her mouth under Martha’s watchful gaze. The bite was tasty but overwhelmingly rich. There was no way she could finish off an entire plate, not if she still wanted to be able to move. The problem was conveying that to Martha without hurting her feelings.