Ty looked up at the towering log house. It was utterly unchanged in the long years he’d been gone. The windows were clean, the logs weathered to a nice patina. The grounds were neat. Daisies, poppies and other perennials made brilliant swathes of color in the flowerbeds. The air was lush with flowering lilacs.
He hadn’t phoned the Jacksons to let them know he’d be stopping by. Truthfully, he didn’t want to see them yet. He fished the key to the front door out of his pocket and let himself inside.
Shadows filled the foyer and living room. All the windows had their drapes drawn. Sheets covered three different suites of furniture. Though the house was clearly unused, there wasn’t a speck of dust. The Jacksons were indeed good caretakers.
He paused at the side of the room where his father’s bar stood, uncovered and stocked with his favorite whiskey. A chill skittered down his spine. It was as if the man had only gone on a protracted vacation, not that he was dead. The ache in Ty’s leg became more pronounced as he battled memories he never wanted to revisit.
Leaning on his cane more heavily, he spun away from the bar. He forced himself to walk into his father’s den, a place his father admitted him only when he wished to discipline him. He stared at the chair he’d occupied twenty years earlier in excruciating pain, his leg broken and untended because his father was on a bender and couldn’t remember breaking it in one of his vicious fits of rage. One beating begat another, until the man finally sobered up.
Ty kicked the chair across the room, hating the memory, hating how weak he’d been. He turned and swiped everything off the surface of his father’s desk with his cane, hearing a satisfying crash of lamp and containers and other clutter. Landing on top of the heap was his father’s silver letter opener. Ty grabbed it and limped back to the desk. He knew his father watched him impotently from wherever his spirit had gone.
He stared at the smooth, highly polished, ancient, enormous, mahogany desk-his father’s great pride-trying to decide what words to carve into the surface. “Fuck you” was too trite. “Go to hell” was foolish, because hopefully that’s where the bastard already was.
“Mr. Bladen! You’re home!” Dennis Jackson said from the doorway. Ty pivoted, expecting to see his father, but there was no one other than his foreman.
“Call me Ty,” he barked the order. Dennis straightened, adjusted his black leather vest in the same way he’d done a thousand other times when Ty’s father had rebuked him.
“Of course. There anything that I can do for you? Do you want a room prepared and the house opened?”
Ty swiped a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Dennis. I didn’t mean to be such a shit.” He offered the older man a conciliatory smile. “I guess you startled me.”
“It doesn’t matter-Ty. You’re injured?” he asked, nodding toward Ty’s leg and cane.
“A lucky shot. It’s healing well. And no, don’t bother with opening the house. I’m not staying.”
“I see.” He glanced at the wall behind Ty. Was it his imagination, or was Dennis acting nervous? Ty leaned on his cane and took a few steps to the desk, using the motion to cover the look he sent around the room.
“Dennis, I noticed the paths between here and the Wolf Valley property are surprisingly well used. Do you know why? Have you had any trouble here? Odd visitors? Trespassers?”
“No. I haven’t seen anyone on the property or in the house. I do a circuit of the grounds every few days.”
Ty looked away. Dennis was lying. “I asked because Mandy is having some difficulties over at the construction site, and I wondered if you were experiencing the same.”
“We’d heard about her troubles. Several folks in town were discussing it.” His gaze flashed to Ty, adding a quick clarification, “I wasn’t participating in the conversation. I just overheard their discussion.”
Ty didn’t react to how he’d gotten the news. His father had hated for their servants or any of their employees to participate in gossip. It had been a firing offense. Maybe Dennis was having a case of the nerves, unsure what to expect now that he reported to Ty.
“I’ll be over at Mandy’s for a while, helping her with the situation. Kit’s home, too.”
“Is it serious, then? Mandy’s situation?”
“It is. I know you and Mrs. Jackson are due a vacation. I think it’s a good time for you to take it now.”
“If there’s trouble, sir, I would prefer not to be away.”
“You’ve served my family honorably my entire life. Would it be so terrible to take a month and visit your children? Your grandchildren? Spend some time on a beach? Make the arrangements and provide me with a bill. I’ll cover the expense.”
“Sir, will we have jobs when we return?”
Ty crossed the room and stood in front of the older man, one of the few who’d dared to make his childhood bearable. He set his hand on Dennis’s shoulder. “This is your home, whether you work here or not. Take some time away. I will let you know when it is safe to return. And spend some money on Mrs. Jackson. I’ll pay your wages while you’re gone.”
Kit pulled his chair closer to the monitors in the command center. He’d asked Ivy to give him a copy of the footage from an hour before his team sat down to supper to an hour after they left, from both of the cameras in the dining area. He and Max were speeding through the gray-scale video, fast-forwarding to the moment the team entered the diner. Owen and Greer were sitting behind them, watching the monitors.
“What are we looking for, Kit?” Max asked.
“I don’t know. We’ll know it when we see it. If we see it,” Kit told him. He phoned Mandy and asked her to join them. She came down the stairs a few minutes later, the dogs and Blade on her heels.
“What’s doin’?” Blade asked.
“Ivy had video of the diner from last night. I thought it would be interesting to see who was there when the guys dropped in and what their reaction was. Mandy, you know these people. Tell me if something looks odd to you.”
“Besides six mercenaries stopping at a diner in the middle of nowhere for a meal?”
“Right. Besides that.”
They found the point where the team entered. There were some curious glances from other customers, but nothing worth noting. They moved forward, watching in slightly accelerated speed while the team sat, ordered, waited for their meal.
A man came in and sat down in a booth near the table the men occupied. Kit watched him, curious about his interested reaction to the guys. He kept looking at them surreptitiously. When the waitress came to take his order, he looked frustrated. He nodded toward the men and asked her something. She shrugged and shook her head. He must have said something that bothered the waitress, for she sent him an aggravated glance.
“Who is that, Mandy? Do you know him?”
“That’s Alan Buchanan, the plumber.”
The men received their food. They were laughing, had the waitress laughing. The plumber received his food. He barely touched it. He seemed to be avoiding looking at the men again, but he had his ears pinned to them. He picked up a French-fry and nibbled it.
“What were you guys talking about?” Kit asked.
“Sports. The surprise weekend celebration Greer’s parents gave him when he came home from Afghanistan. Val’s new boots. Nothing of any interest to anyone around us,” Owen said.
“Look, he’s texting someone.”
“Or maybe he got a text.”
“No, he didn’t read then answer. He took out his phone and started typing.”
Greer rolled away to a different computer. “I’m on it. I’ll check his phone records.”
“Maybe one of his employees was having problems and he sent a message to him,” Mandy offered.
“If a worker’s having a plumbing problem and needs to review it with the boss, he won’t do it in a text message” Kit said. “That requires immediate contact via a phone call. A text could be ignored or not received.”
“Got his records up. He did not send or receive a text yesterday at all.”
“I want that phone.” Kit looked at Owen. “I’ll send Rocco and Kelan to his house to get it.”
“You think Rocco’s ready?” Owen asked, his pale blue eyes intense as he looked at Kit.
“It’s the best thing for him.”
Amir was already in the coffee shop when Alan arrived. Alan tried to keep all expression from his face, but he knew there’d be no good outcome from this meeting. He had not complied with the man’s last directive.
“Hello, Mr. Buchanan. I have already ordered. Why don’t you get what you would like and join me?” Amir asked in his deceptively gentle voice, his Middle Eastern accent making his words soft and lyrical.
Alan’s only response was a brief nod as he accepted the short reprieve placing an order would give him. Minutes later, latte in hand, he sat at Amir’s table. The man smiled at him, and it felt like a knife’s unsheathing.
“You failed in your last task.”
“I did not fail. The construction manager wound up in the hospital.”
“He should have wound up in the morgue, no? It doesn’t matter,” Amir waved a hand dismissively. “I have another task. When it is complete, I will return your papers to you and release you from our agreement.” He used his foot to push a bag over next to Alan.
Alan leaned over and looked inside. There were three large boxes wrapped in pretty bows.
“You will place these boxes, one each, in the pole barn, the stable, and the arena, next to the northwest corner of each. Understood?”
Alan nodded. “And when it is done, I will be released?”
Amir smiled. “Of course. You will call me from the phone in the bag. When it is done, I will overnight your papers to you.” Amir studied Alan until he began to squirm. “You will not fail me in this task. There will be no second chances.”
“They have men patrolling the site now. They’ll see me. I may not be able to do it tonight.” And his stepdaughter had returned from college. He’d have to work around her as well.
“We all have our challenges, Mr. Buchanan. I want it done in the morning, anyway-once the crew is onsite. They know you. No one will be suspicious to see you there. I am confident you will find a way to be successful. It is, after all, your future at stake.”
Alan dropped his gaze to his cup. Tomorrow or the next day, this would all be over. He would be a free man. He’d go somewhere they could never find him. Mexico, maybe. He’d never be their puppet again. He raised his coffee cup to Amir.
“Here’s to my freedom.”
Amir nodded and lifted his cup. “To your freedom, of course.”
Rocco was the last to come in for supper that night. After a long afternoon working the fence line in the upper pastures, he’d needed a quick shower. By the time he had dressed and rejoined the group, they had all settled at the table, leaving only one empty seat between Mandy and Kit.
The smell of grilled meat hit him hard. The windows were open, drawing smoke from the grill back into the house. He took his seat, sending a look around the table. Maybe having so many men around Mandy made him feel off-kilter. She gave him a tentative smile as she poured him some tea. The ice cracked and clinked as the liquid filled his glass.
Kit brought in a tray of hamburgers and hotdogs. Another blast of grill smoke followed him inside. Rocco felt queasy. A clammy chill spread across his skin from the draft of the ceiling fan. He drew a deep, slow breath, trying to calm himself. The silence was coming-he could feel it stalking him. He didn’t want it. He wanted to hear, to participate, to be a human among humans, not a ghost stuck between two worlds.
Mandy passed the platter of meat toward him. The hotdogs were blackened and blistered in places. He shook his head, staring at the platter. It’s only hotdogs, he told himself. Grilled fucking hotdogs. He was breathing too fast. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop. He was trying to get some air that didn’t smell like singed flesh. And dust. He shut his eyes and saw the stuff of nightmares.
Everything was strangely silent. Women wailed, but he couldn’t hear them. Men shouted and fired guns in anguished retribution, but the gunfire was silent. The village was a remote outpost. There was no one nearby to come to their assistance or witness the devastation. The world neither knew nor cared about the village’s collapse. Ashes fell like snow to the ground. Fire burned the wood supports the explosion had exposed.
“Rocco? You okay?” The voice of an angel.
Mandy.
He opened his eyes. Her hand was on his arm. His fingers held the edge of the table in a claw-like grip. He yanked free of her hold, looking for the pieces of burned flesh on him. Nothing was there. He couldn’t see it yet, but he could feel it. She’d said he could trust her eyes, but obviously she couldn’t see the flesh when it was just forming, and by the time it covered his arms, it was too late. It would cover anyone who was touching him, like flames spreading from body to body.
Overhead the fan moved in a slow, nauseating circle, its blades cutting loudly through the air.
Wh-oo-oosh. Wh-oo-oosh. Wh-oo-oosh.
“Rocco, it’s all good. You’re cool. It’s all cool,” Kit told him, a hand resting heavily on his shoulder, another on his arm, as if to anchor him. Rocco looked down again, seeing the drying blood and burned flakes of flesh that covered his chest, his shoulders, his arms. He swiped it off, but for every bit he removed, more settled on him.
“No! No!” He didn’t know if he spoke aloud, or even which language he used. Bile rose in his throat as his nose filled with the stench of rotting bodies. The black flesh was alive, it moved down his arms and onto Kit.
Rocco ripped his arm away from Kit’s hold and jumped to his feet, his chair flying back across the wood floor. Every face at the table stared at him. He felt the weight of their eyes.
He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t. He was just a man who lived in two realities, one of which they couldn’t see. He spun away and stumbled across the room, escaping through the front door.
Silence magnified the echo the screen door made as it banged shut behind Rocco. Mandy looked at her plate, saw it waver in front of her eyes. Her mind replayed the fear she’d seen in his eyes. What the heck had just happened? She looked around the table, trying to see what Rocco might have seen, but nothing looked out of the ordinary.
“Shit,” Kit growled. He shoved a hand through his hair. “How often does that happen, Em?”
“It’s happened a few times since he got here. I don’t know what set him off this time.”
Kit picked up Rocco’s chair and sat in it next to Mandy. Reaching an arm around her, he pulled her close. “Don’t worry, sis. It’s not something you did. His brain is haywire right now. He’s been to hell and back, more than once. He needs time to heal.”
“I told you that. He’s not ready for this. I’ll go talk to him.” Mandy swiped the tears from her face and set her napkin on the table.
“No. I will,” Ty said. “Stay put. And eat up. Don’t waste this food, but it would be best if it weren’t here when he comes back. I’ll get him something else to eat after he calms down.”
“You think the food triggered this?” Mandy asked, frowning.
“Kit burned the hotdogs.” Ty threaded his fingers together over his head. “You know what he looked like when we found him,” he said to Kit. “Somebody had friggin’ exploded all over him.”
Mandy lurched to her feet and ran to her room.
“Well fucking done, my man,” Kit complained as he stood up.
“He’s not going for the phone tonight,” Owen said.
“Oh, he’s going. We need his head back in the game. The only way that’ll happen is to give him work to focus on.” Kit met Owen’s implacable stare.
“There’s too much at stake in this operation to use it as a therapy session. I don’t want to endanger a valuable operative by using him when he isn’t at full capacity.”
“I know my boy, Owen. I know how to pull him through his hell. I’ve done it for seven years.”
Owen leaned back in his chair and studied Kit through narrowed eyes. “You burned the dogs on purpose.”
Kit sat down and filled a roll with a burned hotdog. He slathered it with mustard and ketchup, then took a bite. “Like I said, I know my boy.”
Ty shook his head and went out after Rocco. He paused at the top step of Mandy’s front porch, trying to get a read on which direction Rocco might have taken. He wasn’t down in the construction area or outside the bunkhouse. Ty walked across the drive so that he could see the ridge behind the house-that’s where he would have gone for some alone time. No one stood silhouetted there.
He checked inside the toolshed, then the bunkhouse. Nada. He walked out behind the collapsing barn, wondering if Rocco was making a tour of the back trails, and found him sitting in the dirt at Kitano’s corral. He was leaning back against a support beam, his legs bent, arms propped on his knees. He held a long blade of grass that he was dismembering, inch by inch.
Ty eased himself down next to Rocco, his wounded thigh protesting the movement.
“You pull the short straw?” Rocco asked.
“I volunteered.”
“Lucky you.”
Ty made a dismissive gesture. “Whatever. I didn’t come to talk about your little freak show. We need to talk about me. I went home today.”
“I know.”
“I goddamn hate that place. I think I’m going to burn it down.”
Rocco looked over at him. “You’re an idiot.”
Ty shrugged. “I don’t want it. I won’t ever live there. And I’d love to send my father a message in hell that he can’t fail to interpret correctly.”
Rocco lowered his legs and leaned back. “So sell below market value. Hell, give it to Kit. If you believe that the spirits of the deceased watch us, seeing you give the house to the town’s most hated kid will have your father spinning in his grave.”
“I like that.” Ty slowly smiled. “I like it a lot. Kit won’t take it as a gift, but I could sell it to him for half the going price. Then he’d have a home here near his sister.” He considered that a moment. “What about you? You want it?”
Rocco looked off to where the trails began. “Honestly, I don’t know that I’m going to make it back. I prefer knowing Kit would settle near Mandy, eventually-if you do finally decide the house isn’t for you.” He looked at his friend. “When I go back, you’ll go with me?”
Ty met Rocco’s eyes. “Count on it.” He extended his fist and Rocco bumped it with his. Silence settled between them, filled only by crickets and birds noisily chattering as they settled for the night. “What happened tonight?” Ty asked.
Rocco sighed. “I lost my fucking mind.”
“Yeah, that part I got. But why? What kicked it off?”
“I don’t know. The smoke. The burned dogs.”
“I told Kit not to over-cook them,” Blade interrupted.
“It was like a worm hole right back to the explosion.”
“Did you see anything new while you were checked out?”
Rocco leaned his head back against the post behind him. He shut his eyes. Drawing a deep, slow breath to fight off the panic, he opened his mind to the memories triggered at supper.
“Kadisha was handing Zavi to me. She was going back in the compound for her mother. I grabbed her, tried to stop her. She said that I had done this, that I had killed them. She ran back inside, and the whole thing blew.”
He looked at Blade. “Did I do it? Was there an order to level the compound? Did I have you or Kit call for an airstrike?”
“No. We got the kill order to take out her father, but without you, we didn’t know where he’d holed up. And there were too many civilians living there for the whole village to be a target. It wasn’t our side that blew the compound.”
“Kadisha was pregnant with our second kid.”
“Christ.” Blade drew a long breath and slowly released it. “I’m sorry, bro. I didn’t know.”
“I would have loved that baby. I would have brought Kadisha and the kids here. And though we wouldn’t have stayed married, I would have taken care of them, all of them.”
“I know you would have, my friend. Wouldn’t have expected anything less from you.” He massaged his thigh. They sat in silence for a little while, listening to the sounds of birds settling in for the evening.
“So for the real reason I came down to talk to you-Kit brought back some interesting security footage from the diner. We noticed Mandy’s plumber had an extreme reaction to the team when they stopped for supper. He texted someone, only it wasn’t via his cell phone account-he used some other online account.” He looked at Rocco. “Didn’t you say he was in the diner the day you felt an enemy there?”
“He was there.”
“Kit wants you and Kelan to go to his house tonight and retrieve his phone so that we can see who the hell he messaged and how.”
Rocco looked at him and slowly grinned, feeling he was getting back in the game. “Sure, I’ll go get it.”
Alan made his routine circuit around the house, checking the lock in the front shop, locking the door between his apartment and the shop, then locking the back door. The whole action was preposterous, as if a locked door could keep him safe. It was an illusion of safety, nothing more.
And yet, house-by-house, his neighbors did the same safety checks he’d just completed, locking all the doors, shutting off the lights, slipping into their comfortable beds-ignorant of the fact that he had enough C-4 in his van to blow half the block.
He retrieved a bottle of whiskey and went into his room. Glasses littered his nightstand. One from the night before still had a little amber liquid in it. He tossed that back, then refilled it to wash down two prescription sleeping pills. He slumped down on his rumpled bed in the clothes he’d worn during the day, and waited for the pills to take effect.
When sleep didn’t immediately quiet his mind, he splashed more whiskey into his glass to top it off and lit a cigarette. He caught sight of the amber vial of pills. His life hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected it to when he was a kid. When he’d entered the plumbing business right after high school, he was proud of having selected a career in a field that would never be without customers-in good times or lean. But he’d been careless with his money and lost most of it gambling and drinking. He’d wanted more, always more. Nothing was ever enough.
One day, in his mid-forties, he realized he was broke, getting older and failing in every way that mattered. It had been easy to take the money he’d embezzled from the large plumbing franchise that employed him. So easy. And just as easy to lose it in gambling hells. He thought he’d win it back, but he only lost more. He’d sold his soul for that money. And then he had to run, hide, become less than he was. Become nothing.
It was at that low point that Amir had found him, offering sweet solace with that silky voice of his, assuring him his life would be better if Alan joined their cause. He could barely even remember what Amir had said their cause was. It didn’t matter. They gave him a new identity. Found him a woman to marry, and cleared the way to this job. It was everything he’d ever wanted, and he took it. In exchange, he’d only been asked to make the drive down to Denver every few weeks in anticipation of an unknown assignment to be handed out sometime in the future.
He sipped his whiskey, remembering the vow he’d made when his wife had died; he’d decided to be different, to be what she had seen in him. She’d been a good woman, his Mary. Kind and honest. Married as strangers, he’d strived to be worthy of her. He’d stayed put in Wolf Creek Bend, and he’d honored his commitment to put her daughter through college-so far. But now that he’d made such a mess of things, Mary’s girl would be better off without him. He looked at the pills again. He could check out. For good.
But if he did, he had no doubt that Amir’s people would hunt Fee down. She was the only good thing left in his life. He’d tried to protect her from Amir by pretending indifference but doubted he’d fooled the bastard.
The only chance he had of getting them out of this situation was to blow Mandy’s therapeutic riding center all to hell. Amir wanted it done while the construction crew was there. Alan couldn’t stomach that. He’d blow the damn place at night when no one was there. He’d do it soon. As soon as he could bring himself to do it. Amir be damned. He’d do it when he was good and ready. Then he’d take Fee and hit the road. Again.
Kelan parked in front of the plumber’s shop. Mandy had told them he lived in an apartment in the back of his store. It was approaching 1:00 a.m. The entire street was quiet and dark.
Kelan looked over at Rocco. “You okay to do this?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then let’s move. You take the shop, I’ll take the apartment.”
Only a double bolt lock protected the shop, which Kelan picked in a few seconds. There was no alarm system for them to disarm. Rocco began looking around the papers on the counter while Kelan slipped through the door between the shop and the residential area.
It was a seedy little space that would have looked shoddy even in its prime thirty years earlier. The current suite of worn and mismatched chairs and the odd collection of TV tray tables did little to improve things. The living room was open to the kitchen. Four doors led to other areas.
Kelan stood still for a moment, listening for a dog or a bird or anything that would give his presence away. Nothing stirred.
He walked through the open space, looking for Alan’s cell phone. Not seeing it in the living room, he entered the first door to his left. A man was asleep in a bed. Clothes were scattered around the floor, over a radiator. Drawers were open in two different dressers. The room had the gamey smell of unwashed human. The man’s phone was on his nightstand, next to a full ashtray and several glasses. Kelan took it, plug and all, then returned to his exploration of the rest of the apartment.
One door opened to a bathroom, one a closet. The last was another bedroom, as threadbare as the rest of the apartment, but unlike the other areas, it was very tidy. There were no toys to indicate it was a child’s room. The bed was rumpled, as if someone had been sleeping in it. Kelan had a bad feeling as he looked around the room. An unmade bed in a room this neat meant someone had just left it. He looked under the bed and around the other side of it, but didn’t find anyone. A suitcase sat on the floor in front of a dresser. He knelt down beside it and lifted the top flap, curious about who was visiting the plumber. Inside were neatly folded jeans, a stack of tiny T-shirts, and a cluster of stringy panties and bras.
Kelan jack-knifed to his feet. This was a woman’s room. The closet was the only other space someone could hide. He stood to the side as he opened one panel. He spanned the space with his flashlight, but found it empty of anything other than clothes and boxes. He pushed the other panel open and flashed the light in that half, catching a pair of big eyes and an enormous Colt revolver. The girl cocked the gun as she lurched forward out of the closet. Kelan backed a step away, his hands held in front of him.
“Easy now, kid. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What are you doing in my home?”
“I didn’t know you lived here.”
“That’s not the answer I was looking for.” She pushed him back through room, the gun pointing straight at his heart. Her grip was incredibly steady. She wore only a skimpy pair of knit shorts and one of those tiny, strappy tees he’d seen in her suitcase. Her hair was a mop of little curls-it was hard to tell the color in the dim light, but it appeared to be blond. And she was half his size. He had at least a foot in height on her, which would have made her about five foot three.
“Now, hold on there. We’re the good guys.”
“Show me some ID.”
“I don’t have any.”
Her gaze darted to the dresser. Kelan saw her cell phone sitting there. He grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket.
“Give that to me,” she ordered.
“No can do. How about you put that gun down?”
“How about you get the hell out of my house?”
“Okay. I’m leaving.” He took a huge gamble and turned his back on her at the threshold to the living room. Rocco stood there.
“What’s taking so long?” he asked Kelan.
“Ah, we got a situation.”
“What kind of situation?”
Kelan moved a half step from the door and looked back, keeping the girl blocked from entering the living room but letting Rocco see what the issue was.
“Shit. How did she see you? You’re supposed to move like a shadow.”
“I never said that,” Kelan argued.
“Who is she?”
“We haven’t exactly exchanged pleasantries.”
“Hells bells. You’re going to have to bring her with us.”
“Right.” Kelan spun around, gripping the girl’s wrist and elbow to stabilize the gun. She fought him in the no-holds-barred way of a desperate woman, stomping her heel down on his booted foot, clawing at his hand, trying to bang her head into his nose. With very little effort, he pinned her against the wall so that he could remove the pistol from her hand.
She turned her head and drew air to belt out a loud scream, but Kelan quickly slapped his hand over her mouth, holding her in a way that kept her from being able to bite him. He was wondering how the hell they were going to get her out of the place without waking the plumber and the entire neighborhood when Rocco returned with a roll of duct tape.
They taped her wrists, ankles and knees, then Kelan placed a piece across her mouth. He straightened and slung her over his shoulder.
“I’ve got Buchanan’s phone,” he told Rocco. “You find anything interesting?”
“I got his appointment book. I hate having to take her.”
The girl was still struggling over Kelan’s shoulder, hitting his kidney with her fists. “It’s a real party for me, too.” He took the appointment book from Rocco. “Go get her stuff. Her suitcase is in her room. No idea how old she is-see if you can find her purse. I’m going to get her settled in the Expedition. Don’t dawdle. I saw sleeping meds in the plumber’s bedroom, but I’m not sure how much noise Buchanan can sleep through.”
Kelan made his way through the living room and into the shop. She got in another good strike at his left kidney. He swatted her backside. “Knock it off. How about you don’t hit me and I won’t hit you?” Kelan growled at her bottom.
She settled for a minute, but as soon as he stepped outside, she pushed up against his back, whimpering. He shoved her farther over his shoulder, closing his mind to her muted pleas. If she was involved in the plumber’s treason, she’d receive no mercy. He doubted she was, however. He thought she looked to be about twelve-until he remembered the lacy lingerie he’d seen in her suitcase and reevaluated that assessment. Little girls didn’t wear stuff like that, did they?
Hell, if she was under age, they’d have to turn her over to social services. And good riddance, he told himself as he settled her in the backseat of the Expedition. He fastened her seat belt, then sat beside her. Rocco was right behind them. He put her stuff on the passenger side of the front seat, then took the wheel. Neither man spoke on the return trip.
When Rocco opened the front door for Kelan and his package, he couldn’t help giving his old friend a grin. “This is not going to go well.”
Kelan moved into the living room, ignoring the humor in Rocco’s voice. He unsheathed his knife and sliced through the tape at the girl’s ankles and knees while she still hung over his shoulder. He set her on her feet in Mandy’s living room, then cut the tape on her wrists, leaving the one across her mouth for her to remove.
“What’s going on? Why did you take me?” She punched his shoulder. Her little fist barely made an impact against his lean strength.
Kelan’s face darkened. “What did I tell you about hitting?”
Several pairs of boots thundered up the stairs ending any chance of a reprieve he might have had before having to face the team.
“This better be good,” Blade said as the men stopped in a half-circle around Kelan and the girl.
“What the hell have you done?” Kit asked, shouldering his way through the ring of men. The girl stepped back against Kelan, her arms folded over herself. The top of her head barely reached his chin. The look Kit was giving her would make a seasoned warrior nervous. Wanting to deflect Kit’s focus from the girl, Kelan wrapped an arm across her arms, pulling her close.
Val gave the girl a warm look-over. “Kelan! How many times do I have to tell you, ‘female good, jailbait bad?’”
Kelan’s normally effervescent mood was rapidly diminishing. “We found her at the plumber’s. She’d already seen us. We couldn’t leave her there.”
“Who is she?” Kit snapped.
“Fiona Addison,” Rocco said, holding up her driver’s license and school ID. “Age 20. A student at Colorado State University.”
“Well, Ms. Addison, mind telling us what you were doing at Alan Buchanan’s apartment?” Kit asked.
“I live there.”
“Mandy didn’t say anything about anyone else living there,” Rocco said.
“Mandy? Is she here?” the girl asked, looking around.
“She’s here. She’s sleeping,” Rocco told her.
Kelan felt the girl relax a little upon hearing that Mandy was here-until another thought hit her. “Is she also a prisoner?”
“She’s not a prisoner. Nor are you. Mandy’s my sister. I’m Kit Bolanger.”
She straightened and faced Kelan. “If I’m not a prisoner, then I’ll thank you to take me back home.”
“No.”
“What’s your connection to Alan Buchanan?” Kit continued with the questions.
“How about you show me some ID first?” she demanded.
“We’re private investigators,” Owen explained.
“I didn’t know private investigators traveled in packs.” She answered with more bravado than Kelan would have expected from someone so young and so small. “What are you investigating? What has Alan done?”
“We’re not at liberty to explain. Answer the question,” Owen told her.
“He’s my stepfather. He asked me to come back and work the office for the summer. His counter help keeps quitting.”
“There was no sign of your mother at the apartment,” Kelan said, wishing she were still leaning against him, wishing the guys would back off a bit and give her some room.
The girl shoved her dark blond curls off her face and glared at him. “She died a year ago. She was murdered when I was a freshman at CSU.”
“How long have you known Buchanan?” Owen asked.
The girl shrugged. “My mother married him two and a half years ago, just before they moved up here. I don’t know him very well. I’ve spent most of that time at school.” She looked at the stockade of men standing shoulder to shoulder around her.
Kit and Owen exchanged a look. Kelan clenched his jaw. He could see they intended to press the girl for every bit of info she had on Buchanan. It was going to be a long friggin’ night. And he did not intend to let them question her without him.