On a Knife's Edge (18 page)

Chapter Eighteen

STRETCHED
OUT ON
the hotel bed, clad only in a towel, the 44 Remington
by
his side, Lynch flipped through the late night TV channels.

Newman had dropped him at the hotel around one that
afternoon—with instructions to sit tight until morning—and Lynch called his
mom…as promised. She’d been more pissed about Hez staying with her than about
Lynch being gone. But she finally, and thankfully, accepted both.

Despite knowing his mom was safe, he was wound tighter than
a rice rocket hyped up on NOS fuel because try as he might, he couldn’t get
what happened with Shasta out of his head. Her taste and smell. The way her
body had reacted to him. Those little moans of hers...

His dick tented the towel. Again. Shit. He needed another
shower.

He realized it was madness to dwell on that event, but he
felt powerless to stop himself. He feared if he stopped thinking about it, he’d
lose the memory—and he couldn’t allow that. He would need every second of those
glorious moments to keep him company in the endless years to come…since he
wasn’t staying in Stardust.

Sitting alone in the hotel room had given Lynch the time and
perspective to come to an important decision. Once this shit-whole
investigation mess with the Streeters and the FBI was done, and providing he
wasn’t dead or back in prison, he’d take his mom and leave Stardust. Start over
someplace new. He had to. For his sanity. But, more importantly, for Shasta.

She was married, had a kid and definitely didn’t need him
being as a constant reminder of their past. She deserved better. Better than
him.

Frustrated, and still horny, he switched off the television
then the nightstand lamp. He rolled onto his side, determined to ignore his
aching erection. At the rate he was masturbating, he’d probably peel the skin
off his dick. He wrapped his hand around the handle of the gun and closed his
eyes, only to have Shasta’s beautiful image float behind his lids…

In prison, Lynch never allowed himself to fall into a deep
sleep. That was a sure-fire prescription for disaster. But after just a few
weeks out, he’d gotten soft. He didn’t hear anything until his door clicked
open.

He tightened his grip on the magnum and rolled out of bed,
away from the door. Thank God he’d latched the security lock because it gave
him just enough time to scuttle across the room and behind the floor-to-ceiling
oak bureau before whoever was outside his room kicked their way inside.

Rapid muzzle flash from automatic weapons joined the intense
hallway light streaming into the darkened room. Bullets annihilated the space
on the bed where Lynch had been a nano-second earlier.

He cautiously peered around the dresser and made out two
shooters standing in the doorway. Balancing his arm against the wood edge, he
fired.

Christ…Newman hadn’t lied about the recoil as his arm
wrenched upwards. He crouched low as bullets pelted his barricade. Bits of wood
embedded in his arms, legs and face. Without looking, he pointed his gun at the
intruders and fired, emptying the barrel.

An eerie silence followed, then Lynch heard muffled, fading
footsteps like someone running on carpet. He chanced another look at the door
to see a body on the floor. With care, he stood and crossed to the unmoving
form. His mind whirled.

Newman had said no one would know where he was staying. So
how the hell did these guys find him?

Frantic shouts and fast approaching sirens jarred him into
action. He tossed the gun on the bed, grabbed his jeans from the nearby chair
and pulled out his phone. He hit speed dial number one, praying Jarvis was back
in Reno because there was no way he’d call Newman.

As the phone rang, he stuffed his legs into his denims. Her
voicemail message answered.

Fuck
.

He left a cryptic message saying where he was and that she’d
better get here ASAP then hung up. He could only hope to God she arrived before
he landed in jail, this time with the key thrown away.

~*~

L
ynch sat in a chair, wearing
only his jeans, and patiently allowed a female EMT kneeling beside him to take
his blood pressure while a male EMT hunched over and swabbed the cuts on his
face with antibacterial wipes. The medicine burned like a mother, but Lynch
kept his attention on the tall, balding detective who tapped a small notebook
with a pen.

The once good-sized room had shrunk with all the various security
personal and cops cluttering the space. Some took pictures of the busted door
frame while others combed the demolished bed, collecting spent shell casings as
the body of the dead would-be assassin was wheeled from the room.

The tapping stopped and the detective frowned. “And you’re
positive you can’t think of a reason why you were attacked, Mr. Wilson?”

Lynch inwardly groaned. Asking the same fucking question
four different ways wouldn’t change his response. “Yeah…I’m positive.”

“And you don’t know this man?” He showed Lynch his phone,
and the picture of the dead Hispanic.

While Lynch did recognize the guy from the clubhouse, he
didn’t know his name. He shook his head.

“He’s a member of a local gang.”

“I still got nothing.”

“All right, Mr. Wilson, let me ask you this—” The
detective’s cell rang. He checked the ID then held a finger up to Lynch.
“Excuse me a minute. Duncan,” he said into the phone.

The male paramedic put a butterfly bandage on a cut over
Lynch’s right eye and the woman released the blood pressure cuff.

“BP’s normal,” she said, her gaze on Lynch’s bare chest a
beat or two too long. She packed the equipment and stood. “You sure you don’t
want to go to the hospital?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” Lynch replied absently, watching Duncan
who abruptly straightened his posture. The detective closed his phone then said
something to a behemoth uniformed cop.

“Okay,” the male EMT said, snapping off his rubber gloves
and yanking Lynch’s attention from the officers. “Follow up with your regular
physician if those cuts get infected.”

“Will do.”

The paramedics left. The detective jotted in his notebook
again then he and the officer turned. And the hairs on Lynch’s neck stood at
attention.

Shit, shit and triple shit
.

He had a bad feeling about that phone call, especially since
both cops now rested their hands on their weapons. But rather than show
weakness, he went on offensive. “Are we done?”

Duncan grinned. “‘Fraid not, Mr.…” He looked at his notes.
“…Wilson. We need to go everything one more time.”

“What’s there to go over? I was sleeping when two guys
busted into my room, guns blazing. I don’t know who they were or why they were
after me.”

“Right…and this?” The detective picked up the bagged 44 mag
from the table.

“A…friend loaned it to me.”

“And the name of this…friend?”

Lynch scoured his brain for an answer, but came up empty.
All he knew for sure was he couldn’t tell Duncan anything even remotely close
to the truth.

A commotion in the hallway and a loud woman’s voice ruptured
the tense silence. Then Jarvis plowed into the room.

With her hair a tousled mess and lines marring her face, it
appeared she hadn’t seen sleep in more than twenty-four hours.

Duncan raised his hand. “Sorry, ma’am, but this is a crime
scene.”

“My name is Emma Jarvis. I’m a lawyer and that man is my
client.”

Duncan pivoted back. “You called your lawyer? Way to look
guilty.”

Jarvis stepped in front of Lynch. “Kindly refrain from
speaking directly to my client.” She glanced around the room then focused her
stare on the detective, her arms crossed. “Care to fill me in Detective…?”

“Duncan. And not at all, counselor.” Disdain dripped from
the words. “Seems your client shot a man to death tonight.”

“It also seems, detective, from the shattered door frame and
obliterated bed, that the shooting was justified.”

Duncan scowled. “He’s also wanted in the murder of a deputy
sheriff in Grant County.”

Jarvis cocked her head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Grant
County isn’t your jurisdiction. If you insist on charging my client for what
happened here, I’ll need a few minutes—in private—to confer with him.”

The detective’s frown deepened. “Fine,” he bit out.
“Everybody out.” He glared at Jarvis. “We’ll be outside.”

Once the room was cleared, Jarvis directed her laser stare
to Lynch, her arms still crossed. “You want to tell me what the hell happened
while I was in DC? What’s this about a deputy sheriff being killed?”

“Didn’t Newman fill you in?”

“That little tidbit must’ve slipped his mind.”

Lynch rubbed both hands down his face. He’d never felt so
exhausted before in his life. “The body of one Todd Weedly was found last night
next to my trailer. Shot in the back of the head.”

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

“Yeah…and if that wasn’t bad enough, a nine mil Glock was
found in my gear. It’s a ballistics match to the gun that killed Weedly.”

“Jesus Christ.” She plopped onto the non-destroyed side of
the bed.

“And apparently no fingerprints were on that Glock. Not even
the bullets.”

Jarvis massaged her temples. “So you’re being framed.” She
dropped her hands and looked at him. “Any idea by whom?”

“No.” He leaned forward. “But I do know the only other
person who knew where I was and under what name was your partner, FBI Special
Agent Sam Newman.”

“You’re saying Sam set you up?” She shook her head. “No way.
I trust Sam with my life.”

“You got a better explanation?”

“Not at the moment, but I can’t believe Sam’s behind this.”

“Still maybe we should keep him out of the loop for a
while.”

“Too late for that. I texted him after I got your message.
In fact, I’m surprised he wasn’t here when I arrived.”

“Really? I’m not.”

As though on cue, Newman walked into the room. He stopped
abruptly. “Holy Christ…” He turned a befuddled gaze to Jarvis and Lynch. “I saw
all the cops in the hall…what the hell happened?” He stepped closer. “You okay,
Callan?”

“Oh…now you’re concerned?” Lynch jeered.

“Where have you been?” Jarvis demanded as she stood. “I
texted you over an hour ago.”

“Yeah…I was…otherwise engaged.”

“Doing what?”

A stain crept across Newman’s face. “I needed to blow off
some steam so I went to the Comstock Whorehouse, and left my phone in the car.”

“The Comstock? Seriously?” Jarvis shook her head with a
disgusted grunt. “Who else knew about this hotel and Callan’s cover name?”

“No one.”

The silence drew out long and slow as Jarvis and Lynch
simply stared at Newman.

Realization dropped Newman’s jaw. “Wait…you think I had
something to do with this?”

“You just said no one else knew where I was,” Lynch said.

“No one but you and me and…” His voice drifted off.

“And?” Jarvis asked.

“Adam Murphy.” Newman ducked his head and propped his hands
on his hips. “Adam fucking Murphy. It was his idea to use the Flamingo Star
hotel and the cover name Garret Wilson.” The agent snorted. “He played me. He
fucking played me with all that RICO crap. Jesus…how goddamn stupid of me.”

“If Murphy’s behind this, then the whole operation is
compromised,” Jarvis said low.

“Yeah…” Newman gusted a breath. “Christ…”

Lynch sat on the bed. “You really think Murphy’s behind this
shit? Seems a stretch for a smalltime DA.”

Jarvis waved her hand to the room. “How else do you explain
your late night visitors?”

“I dunno. Maybe he’s being blackmailed like Rolo.”

Jarvis narrow her eyes then looked at Newman. “What else do
you know about Murphy?”

“Not a whole helluva lot,” Newman confessed.

“Dig into his background and finances. Quietly,” Jarvis
directed. “And keep a discreet eye on his activities too.”

“You got it.”

“There’s one more thing you two should know,” Lynch said.
“The dead shooter was a Streeter.”

Both agents swung their gazes to him “You sure?” they asked
together.

“Very. He’s one of Junkyard’s minions.”

“Holy shit—” Jarvis paced between the shot-up bureau and the
bed, her fingers combing through her hair. “If the gang’s now gunning for you…”

“
They’re
not gunning for me, counselor,” Lynch
interjected. “Junkyard is.”

She stopped and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “In any
case, the first thing is to get you someplace safe.”

“I’m all for that. Whatcha you got in mind?”

She tapped her lips with her finger. “We won’t move you, but
keep you right here at the Flamingo Star.”

Lynch stood. “Is that a good idea?”

“Makes sense,” Newman added. “Keeping you here might be the
last thing anyone would suspect. Besides, with the shootout, the security is
going to be amped up big time.”

Jarvis nodded. “My thoughts exactly. But how can we make
sure someone’s not watching the hotel? They’ll see if he leaves. And what the
hell are we going to do with all the local LEOs in the hallway?”

Newman pulled out his cell. “I might be able to take care
everything with one call.” He punched in a number while walking to the other
side of the room.

Jarvis looked at Lynch. “Still think he set you up?”

Lynch watched Newman as he spoke into the phone, too softly
to be heard. “I’m reserving judgment.”

“If it makes you feel better, I won’t be leaving your side
for the foreseeable future.”

He allowed a slow grin to crease his face. “I didn’t know
you cared, counselor.”

She scoffed. “About you? I don’t. I care about cleaning up
this mess then getting back to the work of ending Blackwell and Fuentes.”

~*~

T
he roaring clap of seven
rifles firing made Shasta flinch.