Accidental Roots The Series Volume 1: an mm romantic suspense box set

by Elle Keaton

  Jeez, he was having an existential crisis in the middle of the darkling woods when there was very possibly a cold-blooded killer holed up close by.

  His cell phone rang.

  The “scales” ringtone blared out into the silent woods. The Doug firs and cedars crowded tightly against the road grimly assessed his worthiness and found him deficient. Their branches grasped each other over the strip of gravel between them. The relentless drip continued. Micah was suddenly terrified.

  His phone rang again. Crap. He jerked it from his jeans pocket, fumbling because his fingers were practically numb from cold, and it slipped, squeezing out of his stupid fingers like a fish diving into a puddle that was only this side of being designated a lake. He fell to his knees in the puddle, trying to grab his phone before it was too late. He shook it and tried to dry it on his shirt before his brain took over and he remembered that he’d bought one of those water-/shock-proof protective cases. He could drop his phone in the river and it would be fine.

  It rang again, and he desperately swiped the screen to answer, moisture blurring the screen.

  “Where. Are. You.” He could hear the punctuation in Adam’s voice, kind of. Reception up here was spotty at best; Micah had managed to find a spot that allowed him to hear every other word. There were possibly some fucks that weren’t coming through.

  He didn’t need to hear whole sentences to understand that Adam was very angry.

  “I, uh, probably not the best time for me to talk, actually.” His voice seemed to be echoing all throughout the Glacier Creek compound. He felt more exposed than before, if that was even possible. “I need to call you back in a, well, probably like an hour.”

  “Where. Are. You?”

  “Up Mt. Baker Highway. I’ve got to go.” Micah had been staring at one of the little cabins while he stood in the middle of the road and would swear he’d seen a faded gingham curtain twitch. He shoved his phone back in his pocket, this time switching off the ringer first.

  So yeah, he had visual suspicion that someone was occupying one of these cabins owned by the Russian-named LLC. He’d come this far. A few steps farther would not kill him. Hopefully. An extra-cold shiver ran up his spine.

  The door of the cabin where he thought he’d seen the twitch had a fresh coat of yellow paint covering it. The little porch, almost identical to his parents’, did not hold winter snow equipment waiting to be used. It was startlingly barren. And clean: no mud, no dirty footprints. He knocked on the door, keenly aware of his muddy boots.

  Nothing but silence greeted his knock for long moments. He was deciding whether to knock again—after all, these little buildings topped out at about six hundred square feet; if there was someone in there, they had heard him—when he heard a sort of shuffling and then firm footfalls coming toward him. A frisson of dread slithered into his belly.

  The door swung open and didn’t even fucking creak like it should have.

  A tiny woman blocked the doorway. Micah only knew she was a woman and not a girl because she had lines on her face and the air that comes from passing from young-adulthood into maturity. Micah was about two feet taller than her. She had to be one of the smallest people he had ever met. Asian, maybe Filipina, he thought. She stared at him with the biggest eyes he had ever seen outside of an anime film. Her hair was stick-straight, very long, and shiny black. She was ethereal; a gust of wind and she would be swept away.

  Before either one of them could speak, Micah heard a creak and a thump, and ironically the most enormous man he had ever seen came rumbling around a corner. From the memory of his parents’ old cabin, he knew that the tiny kitchenette area and bathroom were tucked back there. The man was enormous, huge, built like a grizzly bear. He even had a Grizzly Adams beard going on. Beards were hip right now, but Micah hysterically thought that maybe this guy was taking it too far. The thing seemed to have a mind of its own, resisting negotiated borders and migrating south toward the man’s chest and shoulders.

  Grizzly came up behind the woman, asking a question. Micah knew this due to the inquiring sound at the end, not because he understood what the man had asked. What Micah could see of the house as he peered over the tiny woman’s head was neat as a pin. It did not have the look of a fugitive from justice’s abode. What style would a fugitive go for, anyway, Micah chided himself. At any rate, the living area was tidy, and there were no random firearms lying around. Just an enormous man who seemed not to speak English and a couch that took up the entire wall facing a large flat-screen TV. Currently on pause was what looked like Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.

  Micah must have looked harmless, and besides, she had a grizzly bear for a pet; the woman gestured for him to come inside. In for a penny. He hoped he wasn’t about to become a meal.

  The woman gestured for him to follow her into the kitchen. The big man sat down on the couch, engulfing the remote in his huge hand. Soon Micah could hear low sounds of screeching tires and sirens blasting. He stood between the rooms while she clattered around and began warming water.

  “Would you like tea or hot chocolate? I am afraid we do not have any coffee.”

  Her English was impeccable, though Micah could hear a slight accent softening the ends of her sentences. He realized he was freezing, and his little dip in the pond must make him look extra pathetic.

  “Hot chocolate would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  “It is not a problem; hot chocolate is Bear’s favorite, too. One moment.”

  “His name is Bear? Uh, mine is Micah, Micah Ryan.” Another undercover failure. He mentally slapped his forehead for giving his real name. He hoped Adam wouldn’t be the one to find his body buried in a shallow grave.

  Forty-Five

  FORTY- FIVE

  Micah had hung up on him. Adam stared at his cell phone, willing it to ring. He knew Micah was intelligent, but he was no match for a ruthless criminal whose specialty was human trafficking. Mitya Matveev was a scary man who’d probably had Micah’s family killed a decade earlier when Brett Ryan had been building a case against him. There was no doubt in Adam’s mind that Weir was right and Matveev had been keeping an eye on Micah over the years.

  Parks must have been on Matveev’s payroll. Somehow he had managed to cover up what happened at the Ryan accident scene. Who knew how or why, but the guy had been in Matveev’s pocket ever since. No wonder Matveev was always several steps ahead of law enforcement.

  He was going to kill Agent Rourke. She was supposed to have been at the motel keeping an eye on Micah. He knew it wasn’t her fault that she had been given the wrong address and by the time she had driven to the other end of town after being two hours late due to weather and traffic, Micah had been long gone. Adam suspected he knew where Micah was. He hoped not.

  Not only had Jack Summers been right about Jennifer Verdugo harboring juvenile delinquents, he’d discovered she, too, had ties to Matveev. Matveev’s pockets were deep and Jennifer, it seemed, had expensive habits. Ones she could not sustain on the salary of someone who runs a youth center. At her home, investigators had discovered a flashy Mercedes parked in the garage and closets full of designer clothing and jewelry. She had lived quite the double life. Now Adam understood why she had accosted him at the Beaver. It had never been about reconnecting; she’d been trying to figure out what he was in Skagit for. Criminals never believed the truth.

  Micah was one step ahead of the team in figuring out that Matveev also had properties up near the ski area, not too far from the cabin his parents had left him. How he had gotten up there without a car was a mystery Adam wanted to solve. Someone was getting reamed, and Adam was going to enjoy every minute of it.

  After they found Micah.

  Forty-Six

  FORTY-SIX

  Micah felt like he’d fallen asleep along the drive from Skagit and was having a surreal dream. Where were the other two bears? Was this Papa Bear? He had a feeling the huge man was Baby Bear; instinct told him something was slightly off about the man. He had no idea what
to say or ask. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why Perla had asked him inside the house. He must look like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward.

  He pulled out his phone and checked the time; he’d been gone about half an hour, twenty minutes on the road and ten in the house. He hoped Buck was getting worried and not just sitting in the car listening to the oldies station crank out the James Gang and wax poetic about the magic of Clapton’s guitar work. For someone born in the 1980s, Buck sure seemed to live in the ’60s and ’70s.

  Perla poured hot water into three mismatched heavy mugs, and soon the comforting fragrance of cocoa wafted through the small room. Bear said something from the front and Perla answered, taking the biggest mug out to him. Micah stayed where he was, keeping his hands wrapped around his own cup. It was disturbingly domestic.

  He and Perla were in the kitchen making awkward small talk about the area, and Micah was working himself up to ask about their neighbors, when he heard gravel popping. Peeking out the kitchen curtain, he watched an enormous black SUV pull into the parking area just a few feet from the cabin. His heart began to race. The way these houses had been developed, one mini cul-de-sac at a time, meant all vehicles had to park to the side of the cabins or on the front lawns. Fear snaked through his belly.

  Micah was trying to play it cool, only he couldn’t help but glance over the top of the curtained window again to see who was getting out of the SUV. Two dark-haired men dressed in camo pants and heavy jackets were extricating themselves from the vehicle while a third stood waiting impatiently. There was little doubt in his mind that he had found Matveev, or Matveev had found him. He thought of Buck, whom he’d last seen idling to the side of the common roadway, and hoped he was safe. His heart started racing faster, and he thought he might have to put his head between his knees. Perla noticed his discomfort and went to look out the window, too, carefully peeking through a small gap.

  Matveev was tall, with a weathered, rugged face, his features a throwback to his ancestors from the steppes. Clean-shaven, not what Micah remembered from the Chamber of Commerce head shot. He’d traded his suit for the more classic Skagit Valley outdoorsy look, heavy black boots and tan work pants topped off with a puffy black cold-weather parka. The clothes looked new. Micah wondered how much he had dropped at the Outdoor Shoppe on Main Street.

  Perla gasped, jerking away from the window. “You cannot be seen!” she whispered.

  No kidding. “Uh, okay. I’ll head out.” The pieces hadn’t quite fallen together yet, but Micah was certain that Matveev had been responsible for Jessica’s death. Jennifer Verdugo, too. And maybe the girl from a few months ago. If the man could kill three times—or more than that if he’d had a hand in Micah’s family’s deaths— he could kill a fourth. And now he was spooked. Micah started to reconsider his motivation for coming up here.

  “Not the front door.” Perla grabbed his wrist and dragged him toward the kitchen door. She was surprisingly strong for someone so small. Bear muttered something from the front room. The sound of the video game was suddenly gone, drowning the cabin in a horrifying silence. Before Perla could shove Micah out the door, hot chocolate still in his hand, Bear appeared. Without stopping, she opened the back door and pushed Micah out, gesturing for him to wait there. “Do not even breathe,” she whispered.

  The back porch, like many in the area, had been enclosed to give a few more inside square feet. It was basically a storage room filled with coats, boots, shoes, a stack of wood for the freestanding woodstove. The “windows” were a ribbed plastic usually used for carport roofing or greenhouses. Micah couldn’t see or hear clearly through them as unidentifiable figures morphed larger and then smaller, passing the side of the cabin on the way to the front.

  Micah couldn’t tell if the figures were coming to Perla’s or headed next door. Perla’s fear was feeding his own, though, and he put the mug down on a windowsill, afraid he was going to be sick. Nothing about being afraid for his life was sexy.

  He considered the door, but he didn’t know where the men were. Perla’s voice rose sharply. She and Bear were in the kitchen speaking rapid-fire Russian or another Eastern European language. A third voice joined in, heavy and rough, darker than even Bear’s. For the first time in his life, Micah wished he was someone different than he was. A braver man would have resisted Perla’s demand that he hide. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets to keep them from shaking, and his cell phone nudged against his fingers.

  Pulling it out, he saw he had one bar and about an hour of battery life. Several missed calls from Adam and another two from an unknown number. Texts from Adam:

  > WHERE ARE YOU?

  > DONT DO ANYTHING STUPID

  > PLEASE

  > MICAH PLZ COME BACK

  Too late; seemed like he’d overstepped a bit. He tried to send a reply, watching as his phone struggled with the weak signal.

  The voices from the kitchen rose aggressively before the back door slammed open, nearly bashing him in the face. Micah had the presence of mind to cower to the side as Bear came through, holding Matveev in a headlock. Bear had to be six foot five, with massive arms and tree-trunk legs, but Matveev was big and strong as well, so Bear did not have full advantage. The kitchen was so small that when Matveev rammed back, Bear was propelled into the mini-fridge and the cabinets above it. Spices and glassware flew everywhere, smashing on the tile flooring and creating a wicked homemade mustard-curry powder. Bear and Matveev were both coughing, but neither released their grip. Bear ground forward, slamming Matveev’s head into the cabinets above the sink when Matveev tried to dislodge him. Bear was starting to get the upper hand, using the confines of the kitchen to his advantage, slamming the other man into every surface available. Blood and sweat mingled with the spice detonation.

  At first Perla had been kind of hanging off Bear’s arm trying to stop him. If it hadn’t been so intense, Micah would have laughed. Now she was screaming at Bear in what Micah thought was Tagalog. When it was clear Matveev was done, she latched back onto Bear until he let go and Matveev slumped to the floor in a heap. Perla knelt beside his body, her fingers at his throat checking for a pulse. Despite the blood streaming from his broken nose and a deep-looking gash on the side of his face, Micah didn’t think Bear had managed to break the man’s neck. The entire exchange had been eerily quiet (except for the spices), and Micah wondered where the other two guys were.

  The pounding on the front door did not bode well.

  By unspoken agreement, the three of them left Matveev lying in a pool of his own blood (and a dash of saffron) and bolted out the back door. Bear was surprisingly agile for a man his size, leaping off the porch and disappearing into the growing darkness. They would at least have the cover of nightfall. Why Micah had decided this odd couple was safe, he couldn’t say; he only knew if they stayed behind they would be added to the body count.

  They crashed through the bushes that lined the backyard, tumbling out into a yard mostly identical to the one they had left. Panting with exertion and fear, they ran for their lives, putting as much space as they could between themselves and Matveev’s henchmen. There was nothing quiet about their escape; they kicked rocks, knocked over recycling bins. Micah tripped over a set of plastic lawn chairs, but Bear grabbed him by the collar before he could face-plant in the wet grass.

  Perla was fast, but her legs were short. As she began to fall behind, Bear scooped her up and kept running like he was carrying nothing. They crossed several more yards. All the cabins seemed to be deserted, and no helpful neighbors came out to see if they should call the police. Eventually they crashed through another bramble, this one Himalayan blackberry with thorns the size of hummingbirds. Micah caught one in the face, but fear kept him moving onto the two-lane highway.

  He almost sobbed when he saw the Duke parked about a hundred feet away and the lone figure of Buck at the wheel. No time to look behind them; Micah pointed at the car and they kept going.

  Buck had the monster c
ar running and the doors unlocked. Bear threw Perla into the back seat before following headfirst. Those were gunshots Micah was hearing now. He was not a country boy, but those popping sounds were unmistakable. The Duke was moving before Micah could get the passenger door shut. None of them spoke as Buck expertly handled the massive car around the sweeping curves of the highway as it followed the river back toward Skagit.

  Micah anxiously checked the rearview mirror for signs of following cars. He didn’t realize they had exited the compound farther east until the Duke passed the entrance to Glacier Creek where the humongous black SUV was just pulling out. Even in the gloom, Micah saw Matveev in the passenger seat; he had a bloody cloth pressed to the side of his face. He looked right at Micah, his eyes widening with recognition.

  “Crap. We need to get away from that car—those are really bad men, Buck.”

  Buck smiled grimly as they negotiated another set of turns down the mountain. “We have the Duke on our side.”

  Never in his life would Micah forget that ride. Later, Buck would inform him that the Marquis had a very-well-taken-care-of eight-cylinder engine, acting offended that Micah would think otherwise. They raced down the mountain, an avalanche with gravity on their side, breaking every speed limit along the way.

  The problem lay in the highway itself, which was just one lane in each direction.

  Micah was sure the only reason they lived and didn’t take out any innocent bystanders was because it wasn’t camping season, or eagle season, or any season he could think of other than storm season. Only one RV dared to get in their way. Buck pulled into the opposite lane, barely tapping the gas pedal, and the beast’s odometer floated up to 100 mph, the RV a speck in their mirror.

  Phone calls had been made, though. About halfway down the mountain, just when Micah could breathe again, another black SUV coming the other way peeled out a U-turn and began chasing them.