For Love & Bourbon (5 page)

That was the day Cooper decided being a cop was no longer for him. He wasn’t going to serve and protect the public like his old man. No, he had a bigger mission in mind. He wanted to join the forces that brought terrorist organizations to their knees.

He thought back to the day he had graduated college and informed his mother he was joining the FBI. Surprise had been her initial reaction, but with it came a glow of pride. He sought vengeance against those who had taken his father from him, and as much of a pacifist as his mother was, she couldn’t deny him that right.

Now, years later, he was finally in a position to do some good. The death of two Americans at the hands of Ned Brannon and the IRA was exactly the kind of case he’d been hoping for.

Soon, he’d help take down one of the biggest arms of the Irish Republican Army, and hopefully earn himself a promotion to the branch that targeted those who wrought havoc on September 11
^th
, 2001.

H
er favorite thing about early mornings was the fog that cloaked the countryside. It crept in among the trees and cooled the skin of her face as she jogged, her beagle Remy skipping ahead of her. He busily sniffed the ground, always on the hunt for some elusive prey.

Ava huffed out a cloud of breath and kept moving, her body a finely tuned machine well accustomed to the strain of a long morning run. It gave her time to clear her head and plan for the day while the rest of the town was barely waking up.

Life in Fox Hills was as reliably predictable as the sunrise. There was comfort in that. She knew without a flicker of a doubt that old man Thornton would be there to open up the pharmacy his family had owned for three generations. Miss Joy would awake bright and early to bake apple pie at the diner on Main Street. The employees at the distillery would arrive on time at eight o’clock, metal lunch pails in hand and wearing sleepy smiles. Children would shuffle off to the schoolhouse while pickup trucks loaded with hay would rattle through the streets. Solid country gold would be found on nearly every radio station and ice would melt into whiskey in glasses all across town.

Every day was the same, every week the same after that. Months and years had passed by, leaving her edging toward thirty and wondering where the hell the time had gone. It seemed like just yesterday she’d been a child eagerly watching her grandfather slip a thief into an oak barrel to sample its contents for that perfect balance of spice and natural character. That child had grown into a woman for which whiskey wasn’t just a profitable enterprise, but a fundamental way of life.

Not that she wasn’t happy, she assured herself. Her life was filled with blessings. She had her grandfather, her parents, her brother—frustrating as he could be sometimes—and the whiskey legacy that would be hers to pass on someday.

Someday. Her chest tightened at the thought, not liking to think that far ahead. Better to stay focused on the present, on the real, and not get lost in the what-ifs of the future.

Remy caught the scent of something in the trees and deserted her, lost in the hunt. She whistled to him, but it was useless. Once the dog was on the move, it was impossible to reign him in. She kept running, knowing he’d catch back up with her once his curiosity was satisfied.

As she hopped onto the gravel road to head home, in the distance she spotted her father leaving the house. Briefcase in hand, he slipped into his gleaming black Cadillac sedan, the one luxury he allowed himself from the wealth Lucky Fox provided.

She picked up speed, hoping to catch him, but he pulled away without seeing her. Out of breath, she came to a stop and rested her hands on her knees. Remy trotted up beside her, licking her arm in an affectionate kiss.

Rubbing his fur, she stared after her father’s car as it disappeared into the fog. It was unlike him to leave so early. Most mornings he met with her and her grandfather to talk business before they went about their individual duties. She wondered if her run had gone longer than expected, only to glance down at her watch and see she was right on time.

Strange, she thought as she straightened and made her way into the house. Was there something important happening at the office that she’d forgotten about?

Shrugging it off, she went in to shower and prepare for the day.

THE MIDDAY
flight to Louisville went quicker than he’d expected. He hoped their stay would be just as brief.

If all went as planned, Cooper hoped he would be digging into Ty Brannon’s computer files by morning, knee deep in evidence gold. Then they would make their case and put a stopper in Ned Brannon’s American cash flow once and for all.

As for the money Ned funneled into the IRA from his own whiskey distillery, Cooper would leave that to the Irish to sort out. Considering their inability to do so thus far, he had a feeling Ned was skilled at covering his tracks.

His cousin Ty, however, wasn’t nearly as clever.

Cooper eyed the Kentucky countryside out the window. Marco drove, poorly singing along to some uppity pop song a grown man had no business knowing the words to. Since it was Marco, who had been his best friend since the academy, Cooper didn’t judge. Hell, even he had to admit the song was pretty catchy.

“Hey, look. Horses.” Cooper sat up in his seat and slipped off his sunglasses. All around them were emerald green fields fenced in by low stone walls. A small herd of russet brown horses, heads bent and coats shining, picked away at the grass.

Marco nodded, taking a break from his song. “Yes, Cooper. Hor-ses.” He elongated the word into syllables, his charming Italian face split in a mocking grin. “They like hay and running around and stand up when they poop.”

Cooper feigned a look of horror. “What
monsters
.”

“No worse than the sewer rats back home.”

“Hey now, sewer rats are just misunderstood,” Cooper defended, changing the radio station. Country music poured out of the speakers over Marco’s yelp of protest. “There, that’s better.”

“Since when do you like country?”

“When in Rome, my friend. When in Rome.” Cooper looked out the window again, tapping his hands on his knees in time to the rockin’ country beat. It wasn’t half bad, he decided. A bit twangy for his taste, but then again not everyone can sound like Ozzy.

“Thank God I went against your suggestion and booked us a hotel in town instead of in Louisville. This is the longest thirty minutes of my life,” Marco groaned, throwing his head back against the seat in protest. “How are we
still
not there?”

“Isn’t that the sign?” Cooper pointed at a large, wooden billboard that read:

Welcome to Fox Hills! Where Lucky Fox Whiskey Calls Home.

Painted beside the words was a grinning orange fox holding a four leaf clover. It was meant to be amusing, but Cooper only felt annoyed by it.

“Finally.” Marco shifted and dug out a pack of gum from the center console. He offered one to Cooper, who refused, then popped a piece into his mouth. “Whole lotta nothing out here, huh?”

“Yeah.” They began to see barns and small, country homes scattered along the grassy hills, accompanied by more horses and the occasional cow. Soon the houses gave way to storefronts and cross traffic, leading him to believe this to be the center of town. Marco slowed down to the posted speed limit, a crawling fifteen miles per hour, and cruised down Main Street.

It was a quaint little place, Cooper decided as he admired the hodgepodge of buildings and tree-lined streets. It was an odd mix of weathered brick and colorfully painted stucco with old-fashioned signage he figured must have been there since the 1950s. Glass windows shined and the sidewalks were dutifully swept, maintaining the image of a country tourist town. With the trees in full autumn splendor, it was picturesque and charming.

Everywhere he looked there were references to Lucky Fox Whiskey and its famous distillery, the town’s pride and joy. The bakery advertised bourbon drizzled cupcakes and candy. The local honky-tonk bar boasted the full line of Lucky Fox whiskies. Even the pharmacy had a sign that read, “Got a Lucky Fox Hangover? Relief Inside!”

“They sure are gaga about their whiskey,” Cooper murmured, unsure if he was amused by it or disturbed. He knew there wasn’t much to do in small towns, but to commit an entire way of life to a distillery seemed like overkill. The Brannons might as well have been royalty for all the adoration of the townspeople. Would they feel the same after he exposed the family’s dirty secrets?

“I like it.” Marco rolled into the tiny parking lot behind the Fox Hills Inn and parked. “It’s got character.”

“You just like it because you like whiskey, which honestly makes you a bit biased.” Cooper grabbed his briefcase and slipped from the car. Marco popped open the trunk.

“I’m telling you man, you gotta try it. Beer’ll never taste the same.”

“Why would I want to ruin my favorite drink?” Cooper joked, shooting his partner a wry grin.

“Because there’s more to life than the same old shit. Broaden your horizons.”

“I like my same old shit.”

Suitcases in hand, they walked around to the front of the brick building with its scarlet red awning and welcoming glass entryway. Marco held open the door, looking smug.

“No, you don’t. We both know you’re dying to find out what all the fuss is about. You wanna know why this entire hick town is bonkers over a bunch of distilled corn.”

Seeing his partner’s point, Cooper shrugged. “Maybe. Then again, that same distilled corn is helping finance a terrorist organization. It’d be hypocritical of me to enjoy it too much.”

“Uh huh. Stop being such a saint.” Marco followed him into the lobby, shaking his head. “Talk to me again once you’ve given in and tasted it.”

Cooper grinned. “What? And give up my sainthood?”

SHE WOULD’VE
missed lunch again if Adam hadn’t shown up at the distillery, take-out bag in hand.

“Spare a minute?”

Ava sniffed the air. He’d brought her favorite—pastrami sandwich on rye. “For a man with food, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

She accepted the bag and motioned for him to follow her into the small, cluttered office she mostly used for storage. Clearing off one of the two guest chairs for him, she set the bag down on top of a stack of paperwork and sat behind the desk.

“Grandpa around? I got him one, too,” Adam told her, digging out the sandwiches and handing her one wrapped in foil.