Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (43 page)

Could he have made the right decision and stayed to see to his nephews' upbringing? Looked into their eyes every day and caught glimpses of their mother in their smiles and mannerisms?

He hoped he would have. But, realistically, he may have turned tail and gone back to Texas and tried to forget everything about this place called Clear Spring. Almost losing Bren had gotten him an up close and personal glimpse into Patrick Ryan's private hell. Only he wasn't married to Bren. But he was working real hard at rectifying that.

Rafe dug into the pocket of his black suede jacket resting over the arm of the couch and pulled out the small velvet box and flipped the top open. He'd have bought the biggest diamond out there. But Bren was a practical woman—a farm girl. She wasn't prissy or pretentious. So he went with the three C's—cut, clarity, and color.

He wanted to take full credit for the purchase he made today, but in all fairness it had been a joint effort of four: himself, Aiden, Finn, and the old man. He'd wanted to feel the boys out. They had only one daddy. He knew he could never replace Tom—not his intention. He shouldn't have worried. They'd taken his hints and ran with it right to their grandfather. Before long, they were standing in Hagerstown Jewelry off of Clear Spring's Main Street, picking out Bren's engagement ring when she called with a favor.

The thump of Jo's cane brought Rafe around, and he snapped the box shut and shoved it back in his coat pocket. He leaned over the couch and toward the steps.

"Whoa." He hopped up and came around the couch and into the hall. "You're retired, right?" He took stock of her black running shoes, jeans, and white T-shirt, his eyes coming to rest on the black shoulder holster and semiautomatic handgun with her hand curled around her cane.

"Where's Bren?" She placed her cane against the wall and snagged a black windbreaker from the hall closet and slipped it on.

"Jeremy called. His car wouldn't start. She went to get him."

"Why didn't she tell me?" she snapped.

"She didn't want to wake you."

"How long ago?' Her words were impatient.

"She's been gone about two hours. Why?" And he was quickly losing
his
patience.

"You didn't block me in?" She grabbed her cane. Actually he had. Damn good thing.

"Didn't think you needed to go anywhere, Jo." His voice grew irritated.

"I do." She moved toward the door. "Can you move your truck?"

Rafe leaned up against the wall and folded his arms. "Depends. You didn't answer my questions."

"Rafe, I don't have time for this. I need to go. Can you move your truck?"

He didn't know what to make of her behavior. This wasn't the Jo Breakstone he knew.

"Jo, tell me what's going on. I know you're retired, so why the gun? More to the point, why the hell are you dressed? You have a concussion—you should be resting."

"I work for the FBI on a contractual basis. I'm authorized to carry a firearm."

Maybe. But did they know their subcontractor was not fit for duty? Deep shadows ringed her eyes. She had a bump the size of a goose egg, and he wasn't exaggerating—he'd seen it. From the looks of that bump, if it had gone down, it wasn't apparent.

"I can't let you leave."

"This is ridiculous. I'm going. I
have
to go." She flung the door open and grappled with her cane, placing it out in front.

Before Rafe could stop her, she began her descent down the front steps, the rubber of her cane making a thump, thump, thump.

"What the hell?" He made his way back to the couch and slipped on his jacket and bolted out the front door.

Jo worked to seesaw her Tahoe between the house and Rafe's truck. It was like the woman was trying to head off a disaster. Her steadfast determination concerned him. Rafe took the steps two at a time and came around to her passenger side and swung the door open.

"What in hell are you doing, Jo?" He peered into the truck, the glow of the interior light leaving nothing to his imagination. Tears streaked her face. Her hands were glued to the steering wheel, and her body shook with sobs. "Shit. You're in no condition to drive." Rafe reached over and put the truck in Park and took the keys from the ignition. Only Jo's gentle weeping filled the cab.

Rafe hopped in and shut the door, the interior light popping off. Weepy women and their unpredictable emotions—he'd tried to stay clear of them most his life. His mother was an enterprising woman full of vigor and rarely wept—probably too busy chasing two hellions to succumb to such frivolity. That was probably what attracted him to Bren. But this was Jo and damned if he knew how to console her.

He touched her shoulder and leaned in. "I'm thinking this is more than work related. I can't let you drive. You know that." He bent in to get a better look at her.

She sniffed and shook her head in the affirmative.

He squeezed her shoulder. "I'm real good at listening."

She sat back in her seat and placed her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. Silent and relentless, the tears continued to escape down her cheeks. "It's J-Jeremy."

"Bren's bringing him home, honey." He patted her arm.

She angled herself in the seat so she faced him. "N-no. They won't m-make it home."

He couldn't see her face—too dark. But the words she'd strung together and her despondent tone had him searching for the interior light. The overhead popped on and lit her face. Tear-stained he expected, but the look of complete despair in her eyes sent his pulse into overdrive.

"Tell me what I need to know, Jo. Bren's with him."

She nodded. "J-Jeremy's b-being investigated by the FBI," she said, gasping through sobs.

"For what?"

"Gambling."

"Jesus." Stunned, Rafe dropped back into his seat and rubbed his jaw, trying to sort out what that all meant. "Where were you going?"

"The clinic. They... want his hard drive."

"You're working for them." If it sounded like an accusation, it was. Since when did the FBI send an agent—subcontractor, whatever—to seize her own husband's computer? He was missing a chunk of information here. "Tell me what's going on."

She shook her head. "I will. But we need to get on the road."

"We're taking my truck. I'm driving." Rafe opened his door and grabbed her cane in the footwell on his side of the truck. "Let's go." He came around and helped her out.

He pulled out, heading east on 68. "Help me out, darlin'. What the hell are we doing here?"

"Take 70 toward Baltimore."

He took the exit onto 70. But, honestly, he had no idea where the hell they were going. His hands gripped the steering wheel. "We headed to the airport?"

"We need to find them."

"Am I looking for Bren's truck? What?"

"Yes."

"Someone call you? Tip you off?"

This was a real bitch. Clearly she was trying to hold it together. But every one of his questions, although necessary, brought panic to her voice.

"An agent friend called me this morning at the hospital. Told me they were going to intercept Jeremy at the airport in Louisville before his flight left at seven tonight. The agent called back this evening. They found out too late he'd grabbed an earlier flight."

"He called Bren when his car wouldn't start." Then something occurred to him. His shoulders tensed, and he glanced at Jo. "Were you planning on making a break for it?" Which was stupid as hell. And not something he thought Jo would consider with her law enforcement background.

"No! I couldn't let them take him without explaining why I turned him in."

Rafe fell back in his seat. "You turned him in?"

"I had to. These people he's dealing with will slit his throat. Eventually, they were going to kill him." Her voice cracked.

"How much is he into them for?"

"Close to half a million."

"Christ." He glanced at her. "That's heavy."

She wiped her face. "Tell me about it. When you wake up to find you can't buy groceries it kind of pisses you off."

"He clear out your savings?"

"Every penny."

"That's rough."

She started to cry again. "He needs help, Rafe. I tried. Trust me, it's a disease. I love him, but spending a few years behind bars seemed like the only answer. He would have gotten the help he needs. I would have seen to it."

"You're worrying me. You sound like it's not an option."

"It gets much worse. I can't save Jeremy now."

Not what Rafe wanted to hear, and his girl was with him. With only one number on his mind, Rafe grabbed for his cell phone.

B
ren carried Jeremy's medical bag out to the truck and pulled down the tailgate. By the time they pulled in, the foal had righted itself. But at the urging of Joan Bartlett, the stable owner, they had remained until the birth. When the colt arrived, he was perfect, wobbly to start and nursing contentedly when they'd packed up.

While Jeremy was busy chatting to the Bartletts about the colt, Bren grabbed his bag from the stall and stepped out to check her messages. She dug out her phone and fumbled it. The bag that she intended to sit on the tailgate fell to the ground, the contents spilling out.

Crap.

She glanced at the phone—two messages.
Shit.
She'd forgotten to call Rafe. He'd have to wait. She put her phone back into the pocket of her coat. Dropping down on her haunches, she gathered up pill bottles, and cellophane-packaged syringes and stuffed them back into his bag.

Jeremy was a freak about the bag to begin with. He'd be pissed to know she'd dropped it.

She righted the bag, and anything near to falling out fell back into place, except for a dark cord that had looped its way out. She shoved it back in, but the obstinate thing kept popping out.

"Err." She stood and set it on the tailgate and pulled the wire, prepared to wrap it nice and neat and put it back. But the ends got hooked up on something in the bag. She managed to pull the entire wire out, stretching it the full length of the tailgate, and found the culprit. At one end hung two metal clips.

"What the hell would he use this for?" On the other end was an electric plug. But extension cords didn't look like this one. Yet it looked oddly familiar. Where had she seen it before?

"Bren? You seen my bag?" Jeremy cleared the barn and slipped on his suit jacket. Pulling up his collar, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked toward her.

She shivered, too. But it wasn't from the night air. She turned and placed her hand that held the wire behind her back.

"I couldn't find it in the stall." His pace slowed when he got closer. He stood next to her now. "It's freaking freezing out here. It was warmer down south."

"I brought it out. I didn't think you needed it."

He glanced at the bag sitting on the tailgate. It was a black leather bag, large with stiff leather handles. She could fit a large cat inside and still have room. She'd shut it but hadn't yet snapped the small leather strap with the lock closed.

Her adrenaline spiked.
What had he been doing in Kentucky?

Jo had said getting ready for the Derby. Where had he been all the other times on his business trips?

She kept going back to the wire hidden behind her back. She'd seen this type of device before. Sketched it out and tossed the paper when she realized it was an effort in futility. Tommy "The Sandman" Burns, a.k.a. horse executioner, existed, but only in the past.

Then why did Jeremy have the identical device in his bag—handmade and designed to kill, not support, life?

Horses had perished in Maryland and other nearby states. It had happened a handful of times—West Virginia the most recent.

Jeez, I'm reaching. This is Jeremy, for God's sake!

"You okay?" He moved closer.

"Fine." She shrugged. "Tired is all."

"You've been through a lot." He moved still closer and tilted his head. "You sure you're okay?"

Bren pressed back against the tailgate. The clips hit the truck and clanged. She stiffened.

"What's that?"

"What?"

He pointed. "You look like some damn stuffy waiter taking an order at Clear Spring Horsemen's Club, ramrod straight with your hands behind your back."

Before Bren could respond, her cell phone went off. She could ignore it, but she'd already called attention to her odd behavior. It pealed again.

"You going to get that? It could be Rafe or Jo." Concern and irritation edged his voice.

"Yeah, sure." She transferred the device.

Jeremy reached in her pocket before she could get her hand around and pulled out her phone. He flipped it open and placed it to his ear. He pulled it away, looked at the screen, and frowned. "Sorry. It was Rafe. He must have gone to voicemail."

He leaned against the tailgate and looked at her, his hand resting on the bag. "What's going on, Bren? Something happen to Jo you're not telling me?"

"She's fine."

"Then what gives?" His hand moved against the leather strap. Her attempts to concentrate on his face proved difficult with his insistent fingers manipulating the lock. "You opened my bag."

"It fell, and the lock broke open."

"Uh-huh." His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, and he hooked his chin toward her. "What's behind your back?"

Something told her to fear him. The instinct, foreign where Jeremy was concerned, made her stomach flip with confusion. They were friends—she loved him. He'd helped her through the rough patches. He and Tom had been best friends. She was best friends with his wife. Her suspicions had to be unfounded.

Show him, and he'll explain.

That was what she was afraid of. Bren pulled it out from behind her back and laid it on the truck. "It fell out of your bag."

His face stiffened, and he grabbed it off the tailgate. "You know how I feel about my medical bag."

"I'm Bren, Jeremy. Your friend. Your assistant, remember? Don't treat me like a child." She grabbed it out of his hand. "And I'm not stupid. I know what this is."

"It's not what you think."

She'd read it. It had been done before and successfully until Burns had gotten caught. "No? Mr. Tommy 'The Sandman' Burns. Or is it Breakstone now?"