On a Knife's Edge (16 page)

“You’ll have to find out.”

“But my girls—”

“Will always be in danger so long as Blackwell is still
breathing. Your only move is to help bring down that sick fuck.”

Rolo’s posture crumbled. “It won’t be easy. That bastard has
spies everywhere. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“Trust me.” Lynch stood and braced his hands on the desk.
“And I’ll do everything I can to keep your girls safe. I swear to God I will.”

The two men stared at each other. The naked vulnerability in
the president’s eyes clogged the air in Lynch’s chest. What he was asking this
man to do defied every innate instinct a father could have.

Finally Rolo drew in a breath and reached for a pen. “We
have three stolen passenger vans that we rotate between shipments.” He
scribbled on a piece of paper. “We also steal license plates to ensure the
registration stickers are up-to-date.” He tore off the paper and handed it to
Lynch. “These are the current numbers for the vans.”

“Who else knows this information?”

“Anyone who paid attention would know.”

Lynch swallowed the lump in his throat. “You said you
weren’t that man, but you paid attention, brother. You knew there’d come a time
when you’d hafta step up.” He held the slip of paper between his index and
middle fingers. “You are that man.”

Shaking his head, Rolo lumbered to his feet. “If you say so,
brother. But what do you plan to do about Junkyard? If he gets wind of what
we’re trying to do—”

Lynch turned to the door. “Don’t worry about Junkyard. If
it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put him in the ground. Permanently.”

~*~

T
he next morning, Shasta
rubbed grit from her eyes then watched milky light slowly brighten her bedroom
curtains.

She’d spent a restless night, sleeping only in brief
snatches. The fact someone in the 5th Streeters had targeted her weighed heavy
on her mind. But the events in the barn with Lynch weighed even heavier on her
heart.

The powerful memory of her dual orgasm pooled warmth to her
pussy, and welled tears in her eyes. In a fit of frustration, she tossed off
the bedcovers.

She couldn’t change what happened between her and Lynch. All
she could do was redouble her efforts to be the kind of wife Graham deserved. A
devoted one.

Her more immediate dilemma—what to tell Dell. She’d promised
Lynch not to say anything about the Streeters attempt to kidnap her, but she
also told Todd she’d confess to leaving the house without an escort. How much
could she reveal without revealing everything?

She’d chickened out on saying anything last night when Dell
came over to spend the night, going to bed early with a headache. Today,
though, she had to pay the piper. She knew as pissed as her brother would be at
her for going against his wishes, it would be a million times worse if he heard
it from Todd.

With her resolve at least somewhat fortified, she slipped on
her robe then padded downstairs. She flipped on the overhead fluorescent light
in the empty kitchen. The stove clock read 5:20.

So where was Dell? Still in bed? Very unusual for her
brother. She pivoted to retrace her steps down the hall when a knock landed on
the backdoor. She tensed. Who could be here at this hour?

She grabbed Dell’s backup revolver from the cupboard over
the fridge, eased to the side of the door, grateful to see the deadbolt in
place, and carefully separated the window blinds. Two officers, wearing
uniforms, stood on her back stoop. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Dupree? I’m Officer Hays and this is Officer Larson.
We’re with the Reno Police Department Gang Unit.”

“What can I do for you, Officer Hays?”

“We saw your light come on and wanted to let you know we
were here.”

“Where’s my brother?”

“He got called into the station.”

“Why?”

“We don’t have that information. We were told to keep watch
then take you and your son to work and school. But if you need anything, please
let us know.” With that, Hays tipped his hat to the closed door then he and
Larson strode down the three steps to the backyard.

Shasta rested her back against the wall as a sudden iciness
hit her chest. Had Dell really been called into work? If so, why hadn’t he told
her himself? Or had something happened to him?

Panic gripped her throat. Given that the Streeters had
targeted her…

She grabbed the house phone and punched in her brother’s
cell number.

He answered in the middle of the first ring. “Can’t talk.”

She ignored his brusque tone, and the relief that weakened
her legs. “What the devil is going on? Reno PD at my house? What am I suppose to
say to Wyatt about them?”

“That’s the least of my worries at the moment.”

“But—”

“Goddamn it, Shasta.  Once,
just fucking once
, will
you please do as I ask without a shitload of drama?”

She wrapped her arm around her waist as tears pricked her
eyes, more frightened than hurt by her brother’s nasty words. “Please tell me
what’s going on…you’re scaring me.”

He sighed into the phone. “I’ll explain everything once you
get here, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded like a tiny squeak in her ears.

“Gotta go.” The line went dead.

Shasta replaced the receiver then set about her normal
morning routine. Making coffee, drinking coffee, fighting to get Wyatt up,
fixing him breakfast…

Through it all, she functioned on autopilot, unable to shake
the ominous feeling that something bad, awful even, had happened. But she
wasn’t finding out what until she saw her brother. After what seemed like
hours, she finally shooed her son into the back of the cruiser.

Thankfully Wyatt seemed much more interested in asking the
officers how many bad guys they’d put in jail rather finding out why they were
driving him to school. And once Officer Larson agreed to be Wyatt’s show and
share—no doubt because he’d been assigned to stay with the six-year-old all
day—the first grader bounced like a kangaroo on crack.

Still, the knot in the pit of Shasta’s stomach grew the
closer she and Officer Hays got to the station. When she saw the parking lot
packed with both Reno and Carson City police cars, along with a number of
unmarked, black sedans, her insides went on full revolt. She swallowed the
bitter coffee bile burning her throat, quickly exited the car and hurried to
the entrance.

Inside the building, her feet stumbled to a halt. Uniformed
policemen and what she assumed were plain clothes officers sat at desks either
with a phone to their ear or staring at computer monitors. She zeroed in on
Dell’s office, seeing her brother talking with Adam.

“It’s just horrible.” The dispatcher, Joan, stared at Shasta
with red-rimmed eyes.

Shasta stepped closer. “What’s going on?”

Joan dabbed her nose with a sniffle. “He’s dead.”

Lynch?

Shasta couldn’t catch her breath. “Who?”

“Todd.”

Her knees buckled, but Shasta caught her balance and stared
at the older woman. “Oh my God…when?”

Joan shook her head. “I don’t know any details. All I do
know is that they found him early this morning, shot in the head.”

Shasta wrapped her arms around her middle, her thoughts a
jumbled mess. Todd dead? She’d just seen him the day before, and he hadn’t been
the creepy, slimy Todd she abhorred. He’d been chivalrous and supportive.
Worried about her welfare.

And now he was dead.

The automatic doors swishing open whirled her around. In
marched a troop of men, all wearing flak jackets embossed with FBI and carrying
assault rifles. Following behind was Lynch.

Momentary joy shot through Shasta’s chest before she
realized his hands were bound behind his back, and two more enormous officers
flanked him.

Lynch flicked a glimpse in her direction then stared
straight ahead, his mouth set in a grim line. Reality spiked her blood
pressure. Lynch was being arrested—for killing Todd?

No. No. No.

That made no sense…no sense at all. After Lynch was so
adamant yesterday about her
not
being alone, he wouldn’t have hurt Todd,
especially since the deputy helped her out.

Seeing Lynch disappeared into the interrogation room spurred
Shasta to move, and she marched straight to Dell’s office.

Unmindful that her brother was on the phone, she burst
through his door. “Why did you arrest Lynch?”

Dell’s eyebrows slashed together in a ferocious scowl while
Adam actually looked amused.

“Thanks for the update,” Dell said into the receiver then
hung up. Daggers shot from his eyes. “What the hell ever happened to knocking?”

She ignored his reprimand. “Tell me why you arrested Lynch.”

“I didn’t. The FBI did.”

Adam coughed, a small grin still on his lips. “As
entertaining as this loving exchange between brother and sister promises to be,
I need to get to Callan’s interview.”

Once the DA left, Shasta honed her attention back on Dell.
“Why did you call the FBI?”

“It’s standard procedure for the feds to take over the case
when a law enforcement officer is murdered.”

“But Lynch didn’t kill Todd.”

“And you know this how? From your extensive training as a
cop?”

Her brother’s jeer slapped her face, but she stared him
down.

He glanced away with a tired sigh. “Look…they found Todd’s
body at Callan’s trailer. They had no choice but to bring him in.”

Blood drained from her cheeks as she sank in the chair
across from Dell. “Lynch’s trailer?”

Dell scrubbed both hands down his face. “Yeah.”

For the first time Shasta noticed his ashen complexion and
the lines marring his features. He’d just lost his deputy—and friend. God…she
felt like such a shit. “Hey.”

He met her gaze.

“You okay?”

With a nod, he sat taller and shuffled through the papers on
his desk. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I said I was fine.”

Hearing that tone, she knew better than to push. “What else
do you know about Todd?”

“Not much. The feds don’t want the particulars leaked, but
there was an anonymous tip early this morning around three saying where the
body of a deputy sheriff could be found. They also found a nine millimeter
Glock in Callan’s motorcycle pack when they arrested him. That’s the same
caliber used to murder Todd.”

She wilted into a chair. “Really?”

“Yeah. And if the ballistics on the recovered nine mil
matches the gun used to kill Todd, the case against Callan will be a
slam-dunk.”

A slam-dunk? Shasta’s stomach dropped through the floor. She
needed to tell her brother about what happened yesterday, her promise to Lynch
be damned. If the Streeters truly had been after her, maybe one of them saw
Todd pick her up at the Grab-n-Go and killed him for interfering. It might be
the only way to save Lynch now…

“I need to tell you—”

Dell’s phone interrupted her words. “Albright.” After
listening for a moment, he waved her from his office.

“But I need to talk to you,” she mouthed.

Frowning, he shook his head. She crossed her arms, her own
jaw set.

“Hang on for a second,” Dell said into the phone. He covered
the receiver with his hand. “This is official business.”

“But I—”

“Close the door on your way out.”

She narrowed her eyes, but he scowled right back, one
eyebrow arched. After a long moment, she stood and walked out.

If her dear brother thought this conversation was over, he
was
so
wrong. She’d prove Lynch had nothing to do with Todd’s death if
it was the last thing she ever did.

Chapter Sixteen

SITTING
IN INTERROGATION
, his hands folded on the table and his posture relaxed,
Lynch observed the two men across from him as they straighten their respective
stacks of papers, rifled through them, then straightened them again.

Silence soaked the room, but he didn’t mind. He knew this
tactic…make the suspect sweat with an extended quiet.

Since getting handcuffed, no one had said a word to him. And
he responded in kind. He didn’t have a clue was going on, and didn’t bother
asking. He was just grateful to have on his clothes.

Luckily, he’d seen the black sedans pull up in front of his
mom’s house and quickly shot off a couple of texts. One to Hez telling him to
take care of Ma that day. The second to Newman. With Jarvis out of town, he
hoped her “associate” would be able to do something if he got detained.
Otherwise, God only knew when Lynch would get released.

Finally the guy to his right spoke, “Mr. Callan, I’m Special
Agent Granger and this is Special Agent Coleston. We’re with the FBI. Would you
mind enlightening us to your whereabouts last night between the hours of
midnight and six am?”

“Not at all,” Lynch replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Once
my lawyer, Emma Jarvis, gets here I’d be happy to…enlighten…you about anything
you want.”

No recognition of Jarvis’s name flickered on either man’s
face. Was that because these two were the world’s best actors or did they
really not know a fellow agent? Lynch’s stomach tightened. If they didn’t know
Jarvis, then they didn’t know about his deal with her. But then she’d warned
him the Reno office wouldn’t be in the loop…

Granger turned to Coleston. “He wants his lawyer. You know
what that means.”

Coleston nodded. “He’s guilty.” The agent shoved a picture
across the table. “Do you know this man?”

Lynch said nothing, not lowering his gaze.

“This is Deputy Todd Weedly. Found murdered early this
morning. Shot in the back of the head.”

Icy fingers squeezed Lynch’s throat. Todd Weedly…the guy who
picked up Shasta yesterday at the Grab-n-Go. If Lynch hadn’t followed Weedly’s
car back to her house and seen her walk inside, he might have feared something
had happened to her. He pushed the photo back, still not looking directly at
it. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Interesting,” Granger interjected, “considering we found
his body next to your trailer.”

Lynch’s pulse skyrocketed and his stomach contorted, but he
kept his expression dispassionate. “I said I want my lawyer.”

Coleston extracted another photo from a file and held it up.
It was of a nine mil Glock. “You got out of prison a couple of weeks ago?” He
glanced at the picture. “This was found in your motorcycle gear.”

Lynch swallowed his snort. How dumb did these two think he
was? If he had shot someone, would he seriously have kept the weapon, or left
the body next to his trailer?

“A parolee in possession of a gun will get him a seat on the
first bus back to prison,” Coleston continued. “And if the gun killed a law
enforcement officer in cold blood, then that parolee will spend what’s left of
his life in solitary twenty-three hours a day. But…” He tented his fingers,
“…you save us the trouble of
proving
you murdered Deputy Weedly, and
we’ll not only see to it that you go into gen pop, we might even be able to
take the death penalty off the table. But this offer is only good for the next
five seconds.”

Lynch clamped his jaws together and glared as Coleston made
a show of looking at his watch.

“Time’s up.”

The agents collected their pictures and files then stood,
but Granger paused to lean close to Lynch’s ear.

“I’m really glad you’re as stupid as you look, Callan,” he
said. “I’ll have a front row seat to your date with a needle.”

 Lynch stared at his reflection in the one-way mirror,
maintaining a stoic exterior while the agents left, but the knot in his stomach
increased. With this evidence, his name
would
be on a return ticket back
inside before the day ended if something didn’t happen, and happen real fucking
soon.

If Lynch went back to prison, what would happen to Jarvis’s
op? To his club? His mom?

Shasta…?

Someone had to be framing him. It was the only explanation.
Question was who…

It didn’t make sense for Junkyard or another Streeter to go
to this effort if they wanted to eliminate Lynch. A bullet to the head was
faster and infinitely easier, not to mention foolproof.

No. Someone either couldn’t get rid of him the swift, simple
way…or they wanted him to suffer. Then there was the fact Weedly had driven
Shasta home. Could be a coincidence, but Lynch didn’t believe in coincidences.
His gut said Shasta was involved. But how—and was she in danger?

The idea of an unknown person threatening her curled his
hands into fists. He would kill anyone who harmed Shasta. With his bare fucking
hands if necessary. His murderous thoughts were disrupted when Newman hurried
into the room.

Lynch never thought he’d be happy to see a fed, but he sure
as shit was now. “Thanks for coming.”

“I didn’t really have a choice.” Newman held the door.
“C’mon…let’s go.”

Shock jolted Lynch’s heart. “I can leave?”

The agent nodded. “That’s what I said.”

“But how?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now, let’s just get out of here.”

In no mood to argue, Lynch stood and preceded Newman out of
interrogation. Feeling every set of eyes on him as he strode across the squad
room floor, Lynch kept his gaze fixed on the main entrance. In his peripheral
vision, though, he noticed Granger and Coleston in what appeared to be a heated
discussion with Adam Murphy. He also caught a glimpse of Shasta sitting at a
desk. While she looked drawn and pale, relief warmed his chest at seeing her.

Once outside, he turned to Newman. “How’d you managed to get
me released? Neither of those FBI guys seemed to know Jarvis.”

“That’s because they don’t. My car’s over here.”

“So I’ll ask again—how’d you get me released?”

“I made a deal with the DA.” Newman hit the key fob of a
black Toyota.

“DA Murphy? How’d you pull that off? They think I killed a
deputy.”

“I know. I also know you didn’t.”

Lynch pulled up short. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Get in the car and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Tell me now.”

Newman opened the passenger door and fixed Lynch with a
glare. “Time’s running out so get in the damn car.”

Warning bells clanged in Lynch’s head. This whole situation
was too sketchy by half. He crossed his arms. “No.”

Newman looked left then right—then pulled his weapon. “I
said get in the fucking car.”

“So now you’re gonna shoot me in broad daylight?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you in this car, yes.”

Lynch stared Newman down. As pissing contests went, this one
was a tough call for Lynch. Capitulate by getting in the car and God-only-knew
what would happen to him. Or stand here and maybe get shot.

Finally Newman lowered his gun. “Oh for Christ’s sake…I’m
not your enemy. The ballistics on the nine mil recovered from your stuff
matches the gun that killed Weedly.”

Despite the warm breeze, a cold shiver hit between Lynch’s
shoulder blades. He dropped his arms. “I take it Granger and Coleston don’t
know this.”

“Correct. But they’re gonna find out soon and you need to be
somewhere else when they do.”

“Does Murphy know about the ballistics?”

“Yes.”

Lynch’s mouth fell open. “And he signed off on releasing me?
How does that square?” Realization knotted his gut. “Did you blow my cover with
the DA?”

“Oh, for the love of God…” Newman holstered his weapon and
slammed the car door shut. “It’s protocol to bring in a local for an operation
of this size, so, yes…Murphy knows you’re working with us.”

“What the fuck? If word leaks out about my involvement, I’m
dead.”

“Relax. Murphy has every incentive to keep your connection
secret. He’s been working on a RICO indictment of the Streeters since he became
DA, but the investigation was stalled—until you came into the picture and
started doling out information about the gun and drug shipments.”

“I never agreed to be a part of any RICO bullshit.”

“I know. That’s why you weren’t told, but Jarvis and I don’t
give a fuck about that. We care about getting Blackwell and ultimately Fuentes,
which trumps whatever a small-minded, power-hungry DA wants. I did, however,
tell Murphy that unless he intended for his precious case to go tits-up, he’d
better find a reason to have you released before that ballistics report became
common knowledge.” He reopened the door. “
Now
will you get in the car?”

Stunned, Lynch slid into the passenger seat while Newman
stomped to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel. If Lynch had any
lingering doubts about Newman, or even Jarvis, they were gone—for the most
part. He clicked his seatbelt into place. “How is it you’re convinced I didn’t
kill Weedly?”

Newman started the engine and backed out of the parking
slot. “For one because there were no fingerprints on that weapon. None. Inside
or out. Doesn’t make much sense for you to wipe it down, including the bullets,
then leave it in your motorcycle pack. And two, the GPS on your phone said you
were at your mom’s house all last night.”

“Maybe I left the phone behind.”

The agent gave Lynch a sidelong look. “Did you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Lynch glanced out the window. “Where are we going?”

“Gonna stash you in a hotel in Reno until we can figure out
this mess.”

“But what about my mom? It’s not safe for her to be alone.”

Newman eased to a stop at a red light. “I've instructed a
team to keep an eye on her.”

“Can we at least swing by her place so I can grab some clean
clothes?”

The agent hauled a duffle up from the backseat. “Already
taken care of. And here are two new burner phones.” He handed over silver and
black cells.

“Same as before? The silver is only for you and Jarvis?”

Newman nodded. “Our numbers are programmed in.”

Lynch stowed the silver in his jean pocket and switched on
the black one. “I don’t suppose I can tell anyone where I’m going?”

A sardonic grin twisted Newman’s mouth. “You suppose
correctly. No one is to know anything, got that?”

“Yeah…I got it.” Lynch punched in Hez’s number.

It took four rings before his best friend answered, “Yeah?”

“Yo, brother. It’s me.”

“Hey…you got a new phone?”

“Uh…lost my other one. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Anything, brother. You know that.”

“I need you to stay with my mom for the next couple of
days.”

“Oh?” Curiosity flourished in the single word.

“Yeah. And I need you not to ask any questions.”

Silence met that statement. “Okay, but what do I tell your
ma?”

Lynch glanced at Newman. “Tell her I’m tied up with pretrial
and lawyer shit and that I’ll be outta town for a while. Tell her not to worry
and that I’ll call her.”

“You can count on me, brother.” Hez paused. “And take care
of yourself. Okay?”

His best friend always could tell when something more was
going on. “I will. And thanks.”

Lynch disconnected the call then looked inside the bag. It
was a jumbled mass of t-shirts and jeans, underwear and socks. And nestled on
top of the heap sat a cannon of a Remington 44 magnum handgun, with a box of
ammunition. He looked at Newman. “What’s this?”

“My backup.”

Lynch molded his palm around the grip. “
This
is your
backup?”

Not taking his gaze from the road, Newman answered. “It’s my
un
official backup. But I figured you’d need to be armed…with an
untraceable gun…in case.”

“In case what?”

“Whatever. Suffices to say, I’m not willing to take any
chances. Be careful with her, though. The recoil’s a bitch.”

Lynch picked it up. Weighty, but comfortable. A good fit for
his hand. He shook his head. Obviously he was much deeper in the weeds than he
could have ever imagined. He replaced the weapon and zipped the bag closed. “I
guess so long as we’re sharing, there are a few things you probably should know
about yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yeah. I stopped a couple of rogue Streeters from kidnapping
Albright’s sister.”

Newman swung his head around to stare at Lynch. “How’d that
happen? She’s got twenty-four, seven protection.”

“Shasta…Albright’s sister…slipped the detail and went for a
run by herself.”

“How’d you know this?”

“Got a tip. And I got to her before the others did.”

“And you’re sure they were Streeters?”

“Positive. They mentioned the Streeter VP, Junkyard, by
name. They also said Junkyard wanted her on the next shipment.”

The car swerved. “Shipment of girls?” Newman asked.

“Makes sense. They also commented that Shasta…Albright’s
sister…was too old.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“Not much. I confronted Rolo last night about the human
trafficking.”

“You think that was smart?”

“I needed to know what he knew.”

“And?”

Lynch sighed. “Rolo’s been in on the trafficking from the
beginning, though not by choice. His daughters were threatened.”

“Did he say when the next shipment is?”

“He didn’t know. Guess Junkyard doesn’t give out that info
until right before.” Lynch removed the slip of paper from his jean pocket and
placed it on the center console. “But he did have the plate numbers on the vans
they’re using.”

The car veered again. “Are you fucking kidding me? The
license plates numbers? That’s good work, Callan. Damn good work.”