Black Sheep (27 page)

That was the plan. Goose had no intention of carrying it out. As he idled on his Softail
on Route 19, waiting for Caitlyn to leave Cherokee, he called Wilson. “How’s it going?”

“Weasel isn’t going anywhere anytime soon,” Wilson said. “I filled his gas tank with
water.” Better than sugar and less obvious. “He won’t know what’s going on. I’m headed
back to cover Caruso now.”

“Did Karlee call the cops?”

“She tried. Talked to a dispatcher, told her about the girl and Bernie. Wasn’t sure
if they believed her or not.”

“They’re safe enough with Weasel out of the way,” Goose decided. “I’ll talk to Tierney,
send her after them.”

“You sure about this? It could backfire big-time.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get the money. Without getting blood on our hands.”

“It’s not the money I’m worried about,” Wilson snapped. “It’s what the Reapers will
do to you if they ever find out.”

“It’s all cool. Just find that money, I’ll take care of the rest.” Caitlyn’s blue
Impreza turned onto 19 from Acquoni Road. “Gotta go. Showtime.”

“Be careful.”

“Yes, Mother.” Goose hung up and put the bike into gear, falling in behind Caitlyn.

Once they were past the VistaView there was little traffic on the road. The bikers
on the poker run would be halfway to Gatlinburg or on their way back, and they’d left
the tourists behind in Cherokee or at the casino. The road curved up the side of the
mountain. He made his move, speeding up to come even with her. She spotted him in
her driver’s-side mirror and pulled ahead.

Damn it. They were almost to McSwain Mountain Road. He had to stop her before she
turned onto it, otherwise Weasel would know he was involved and everything would be
ruined. A car coming the other way kept him behind her, riding her bumper, but once
it passed, he shot forward once more, motioning to her to pull over.

She surprised him, the Subaru showing some nice gidd-up-and-go as she swept past him
and tore around a sharp curve, out of sight.

He leaned over and geared down even as he sped up and took the curve almost horizontally.
Couldn’t risk losing her now. There was one last road between here and McSwain Mountain,
a dirt road that corkscrewed over the mountain and headed back onto the res, ending
up near the trail at Mingo Falls.

He had to get her to either stop and listen to him or take that road. He came out
of the curve and spotted her Impreza, a bright blue dot against the brown of the trees
and black pavement. He shot ahead, passing her, then spun to a stop, leaving rubber
on the asphalt, blocking both lanes. No room to pass on the right without going off
the side of the mountain; the only place to maneuver was onto the Mingo Falls road.
Unless she ran him over. Which, given that she’d be coming out of a curve and might
not see him right away, all depended on her reaction time and the Impreza’s braking
power.

His bike vibrated beneath him, tempting him to abandon his plan and take off, when
she came around the corner heading right for him.

Stupid, stupid idea, he thought. But he stood his ground.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Caitlyn had no idea what games Goose was playing, trying to run her off the road,
but she was about ready to pull her service weapon and take him into custody herself.
She’d tried calling the sheriff’s office for backup but this stretch of road between
Evergreen and Maggie Valley had spotty cell reception and she couldn’t get through.
Leaving just her and the Reapers’ enforcer playing chicken with a sheer drop-off on
one side and the mountain on the other.

Thank goodness the Impreza WRX was up to the challenge. It didn’t look fancy, but
in addition to the all-wheel drive, it had an engine similar to a Porsche. Goose’s
Harley roared past her as he sped ahead and vanished around a hairpin curve, the last
switchback before the turnoff to McSwain Mountain Road. Maybe he was setting up an
ambush on the single-lane road up to Hale’s house?

She steered out of the curve. There stood Goose, his bike blocking both lanes. Adrenaline
fired her synapses as she stomped on the brakes and clutch while throwing the gearshift
from fourth to second. He hadn’t waited for the turnoff to stop her—but did the idiot
have a death wish?

She pulled on the emergency brake, the stink of burning rubber filling her nostrils.
Both hands fought the steering wheel as the car skidded out of control. Instead of
trying to keep it straight, she steered into the curve, angling toward the mountainside
and a small gap between the trees: a dirt road.

Yanking the wheel viciously, she turned the skid into a J-turn, coming so close to
Goose and his bike that he filled the side window as the Subaru twisted across the
wrong side of the road, finally facing the opposite direction, half on the pavement,
half on the dirt.

Although she managed not to hit anything—including the idiot biker—the car stopped
so violently that Caitlyn flew forward, hitting her head on the steering wheel. Not
enough to black out, just enough to make her lose a second or two to the sudden pain.
She kept her wits, enough to draw her weapon and hold it at her side.

Goose ran over and yanked her door open. “Are you okay? I just needed you to pull
over. I wasn’t expecting Steve McQueen.”

She moaned and raised her head. Blood smeared the tan leather of the steering wheel.
She undid her seat belt, keeping the Glock hidden from his sight. “De Niro.
Ronin
definitely had a better car chase than
Bullitt.
”

“Okay, we’ll compromise. Hackman.” He cupped her chin in his hand and peered at the
cut on her forehead. “No pain anywhere else? Like your neck?”

“No. I’m fine. Hackman.
French Connection.
Sounds good to me.”

He leaned into the car, wiping her forehead with his bandanna. “I don’t think you’ll
need stitches. Nasty bump, though.”

That’s when she jammed the pistol into his chest. Pushed him back as she climbed out
of the car. Then she sidled beyond his reach, holding the Glock steady despite the
trickle of blood seeping down her forehead and dripping into her eye.

“Turn around, hands up over your head, and look up at the sky.”

He obeyed, moving slowly, showing her he was no threat. “It’s not what you think.
I’m trying to help and we don’t have much time.”

“Trying to kill me is more like it. Did you really think I’d fall for that fake phone
call?”

“Wasn’t all fake. Lena Hale
is
in danger. But she’s not at her dad’s old house. If you want to save her, I know
where she is. All I’m asking is that you listen to me.”

She considered that. Something about Goose had bothered her since she first met him.
It’d be good to get the truth out. “Okay. Talk.”

“Not here.” He twisted his head to look over his shoulder at her. “Someplace private.
I can’t been seen talking with you.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Up there.” He jerked his chin at the dirt road. It led up to Mingo Falls—her dad
used to take her up there all the time when she was a kid. The Reapers could have
set a trap up there, but this seemed an awfully complicated way to get her there.
Everything about Goose’s posture said he spoke the truth.

Caitlyn decided to listen to her instincts instead of playing this by the rules. She
lowered her weapon and nodded to his bike. “You first, no more than five feet in front
of me.” No way she was going to let him ride with her, and if they left the bike behind
and any Reapers saw it, they might follow.

Goose said nothing but the tension drained from his shoulders. He gave her a smile—not
the smirk she was used to seeing from him, but a real smile that made it to his eyes.
“Thanks.”

The dirt-and-gravel road was empty—tourists hardly ever came to the falls in the winter,
and when they did, they took the paved road from the reservation side of the mountain.
It didn’t take long to reach the parking lot, a secluded patch of cleared land at
the trailhead.

Goose dismounted and waited for her, hands open and at his sides. No threat.

She got out of the Subaru, her weapon in her hand but not raised. Not yet. She remained
far enough away that he couldn’t make a move on her but close enough that he’d regret
it if he tried. Her head throbbed and her stomach felt queasy with the pain and aftershock
of adrenaline. Not that she’d ever let him see any of that.

“What the hell’s going on here?” she demanded. He sighed, ran his fingers through
his hair, and she had the sudden impression he wasn’t used to wearing it so long.

“My name’s not Jacob Clay,” he started. “It’s Jake Carver.”

Only one reason for someone to have an alias that stood up to the sheriff running
it through NCIC when he was arrested. Well, hell. She knew there was something off
with him.

“You’re investigating the Reapers. ATF? DEA?” Those were the usual suspects when it
came to outlaw motorcycle gangs.

“All the swap meets and gun shows around here, the Reapers can buy any guns they need
legitimately. And the only drugs I’ve seen them with are strictly personal recreational
use.”

“So what’s their deal?”

“Money laundering.”

“Shit.” She eyed him. “You’re with the Bureau. Financial crimes?” Most of the guys
she knew working white-collar crime were the suit-and-tie type. Anything but the muscled,
tattooed, leather-and-jeans specimen Goose presented himself as.

“Worse. IRS.”

She couldn’t stop her snort of laughter.

He sighed and slumped against his bike, but smiled at her, eyes crinkling, telling
her he was used to the jokes.

“You’re an IRS agent?”

“Originally. Reassigned to the FBI the past few years.”

“So that makes you a”—she gave a shudder of mock terror—“CPA?”

“And a CFA. Certified forensic accountant.”

Good God, what were they thinking? Sending an accountant undercover as a biker? “How
long you been under?”

“Fifteen months, six days. Not that I’m counting.”

“Where’s your cover team?”

“Tricky keeping them close given that everyone knows everyone around here, so they
usually rotate in and out as gamblers or tourists, fishermen. Two of them were on
the dance floor the other night, started the fight that so conveniently got you and
your boyfriend out of trouble.”

“Where are they now?”

He shrugged. “Nice thing about new technology, they don’t have to stay in line of
sight to hear everything.”

The Bureau routinely outfitted cell phones with omnidirectional microphones and recorders.
But, although those could record anywhere, they wouldn’t get a signal to his cover
team when there was no cell reception. Which meant he’d spent the better part of fifteen
months basically on his own. “Yeah, but that also means they can’t back you up if
there’s trouble. At least not quickly.”

“As opposed to you coming in, stirring things up all by your lonesome. At least I
have backup.” He turned to her, his expression serious once more, a glint of the bad-boy
Reaper Goose reemerging. “Point is, we’re almost ready to nail these bastards. Not
just the Reapers but the men behind them.”

“And I’m in your way.”

“You have no idea. I’m here now because Poppy wants you dead. He sent me to kill you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The big cat leapt, landing in Bernie’s truck bed. Lena yanked the Honda’s rear door
open and tried to shove Smokey inside. The chimp balked. The leopard stretched, its
front paws balanced on the wall of the truck bed. Lena met its gaze, fear holding
her hostage.

Smokey saved her. The chimp finally scampered into the rear of the Honda, giving Lena
room to jump in and pull the door shut just as the Honda rocked violently.

The leopard was on the roof.

Lena leaned forward to the driver’s seat and clicked the locks shut. Then laughed
as she realized the futility. Like a leopard was going to use a door handle. She laughed
so hard tears squeezed from her eyes. Smokey made a cooing noise and patted her head,
combing Lena’s hair with her long, leathery fingers.

The chimp’s maternal instincts made Lena want to curl up onto her lap and give in
to the tears. Instead she wiped them away.

The leopard scraped at the metal above them with its claws. She drew the pistol from
her pocket. Smokey recognized it, tried to slap it out of Lena’s hand, her teeth bared.
Lena yanked it back as the chimp curled into the farthest corner of the backseat.
Then she realized she couldn’t shoot the gun, not inside a car—what if the bullet
ricocheted and hit her or Smokey?

She returned the gun to her pocket. Nothing to do except wait out the cat.

Smokey calmed down, inched back across the seat toward her, draping her arms around
Lena’s shoulders. There was a strange squeaking noise. The leopard slid backward down
the windshield to the hood. It sprawled across the hood, its front paws against the
glass, nose pressed to the windshield, and peered in at them, looking confused to
see them so close yet unable to reach them.

Lena was tempted to blow the horn but wasn’t sure if that would scare it off or just
make it angry. She decided to pretend to ignore it, hope it would go off after easier
prey. Her messenger bag was on the front passenger seat where she’d left it two—no,
three—nights ago. She stretched a hand and hauled it back to the rear seat.

Smokey sniffed at the canvas bag, trying the buckles and yanking on the straps. She
jerked back at the sound of the zipper. Lena rummaged inside the side pocket and found
her cell phone. Dead. It’d been on four days straight. And her charger was with her
suitcase back at the VistaView.

The only other items in the bag were a few energy bars—which she tucked into her coat
pocket before Smokey could tear into them—her notebook, and a few books she’d checked
out of the tribal archives: a bound edition of the Joseph G. Hester 1883 Eastern Band
of Cherokee tribal census and Dr. Bearmeat’s own doctoral dissertation from 1987,
a history of the Eastern Band that discussed the Freedmen Pact at length.