On a Knife's Edge (21 page)

Jarvis glanced at Rolo then rose. Without another word, she
left.

Lynch swallowed hard—and pressed the Glock muzzle to Rolo’s
heart.

Tears trickled down the president’s cheeks. He smiled.
“Thank you, brother…but I’se got ‘nuther favor.”

“Wh—” Lynch coughed the emotion from his throat. “What’s
that?”

“Cut’s on the chair…take patch…” Rolo’s eyes coasted close.
“You were right before…never shoulda done business like we did...need to make
it right. Promise…you’ll…make…it…right…” He slumped to the floor.

Through his own file of tears, Lynch hunched close to the
other man’s ear. “I promise, on my honor, I will make this right.”

Rolo’s smile grew then faded.

Shutting his eyes tight, Lynch pulled the trigger.

During his life, Lynch had fired plenty of guns—hell, he’d
even killed a few men in the process—but this discharge sounded different. It
resonated in his head…his heart.

He gulped back a sob as the acrid smell of gun powder filled
his nose. His chest ached. He should’ve been able to help Rolo. Should’ve been
able to save him. But he couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t save Flyer…

He banged the nine mil to his forehead. A noise from behind
whipped him around.

Jarvis stood there, a plastic evidence bag in her hand. “I’m
sorry about your friend, Callan, but backup’s almost here. I can hear the
sirens.” She plucked the gun from his grasp and dropped it in the bag. “We need
to move. C’mon.”

Lynch nodded and shoved to his feet, stripping off the
glove. He stuffed it in his back pocket then rounded the desk and grabbed
Rolo’s cut off the chair. With a few expert slices, he removed the president
badge. Gripping the worn piece of fabric in a tight fist, he gave a final look
to Rolo before following Jarvis to the front of the house.

In the living room, Newman knelt by the gunman under the
window, snapping pictures with his phone. He stood, his gaze sliding from
Jarvis to Lynch then back. “All done?”

“Yes.” Jarvis handed him the evidence bag. “Put this with
the other weapons. Let’s get this scene processed fast. The sooner it’s done,
the less questions there’ll be.”

“You got it.” Newman placed the bagged handgun on the
shot-up easy chair with the AKs. He looked at Lynch. “Sorry, man.”

“Uh…” Lynch cleared his throat. “Thanks.” He held up the
black cell. “I’m…uh…gonna call my mom…tell her what happened.”

Jarvis nodded, then she and Newman shifted through the
surveillance cables piled on the sofa. Lynch walked into the dining room, hit
speed dial number three and gazed out the window. It rang twelve times before
he disconnected the call. Strange that his mom didn’t pick up. She was home,
given she didn’t work on Mondays. But maybe she went to the grocery store and
couldn’t hear her phone. He tried Hez’s…

Again no answer.

He shivered at the sensation of a spider crawling along his
neck. Just because his mom and Hez weren’t picking up didn’t mean something was
wrong—they could be at the store. He’d talk to Jarvis about heading over to his
mom’s house as soon as possible.

The sound of a keening siren broke into his thoughts. He
reentered the living room to see an ambulance pull to an abrupt halt by
Jarvis’s car and two paramedics jump from the vehicle. They grabbed their
equipment, hustled up the walk and into the house.

“Three bodies,” Jarvis told them. “All DOA. One here, one in
the kitchen and one in the rear.”

A medic checked Virgil’s pulse while the other went to the
kitchen. The wail of more sirens announced the arrival of two dark FBI
sedans—and a sheriff’s cruiser.

Jarvis gave a sharp look to Newman. “Thought I said to
not
let Albright know about this.”

Newman frowned. “I didn’t have much control over the
situation.”

“Shit…” She glanced at Lynch. “Stay here.”

He shrugged and she headed out the door. She spoke to the
arriving agents while Dell hobbled toward her.

The sheriff leaned on his cane, his feet planted apart. “Why
the hell didn’t you call me? If you were raiding Pruett’s house, I had the
right to be informed. This is my goddamn county.”

 “It might be your county, Sheriff,” Jarvis retorted, waving
the agents into the house, “but it’s
my
investigation. And, for the
record, we weren’t here on a raid. We wanted to ask Mr. Pruett a few
questions.”

Dell barked a laugh. “Right. You wanted to ask a known gang
leader—someone you claim less than an hour ago in my office is involved with
the trafficking of young girls—a few questions.”

Jarvis pursed her lips. “It’s the truth.”

“Fine.” Dell elbowed past her. “I've got a couple of
questions to ask Pruett myself.”

She raised her hand. “You can’t. He’s dead.”

The sheriff did a double take. “Dead?”

Jarvis nodded. “And if you promise not to interfere, you can
see for yourself.” She shifted to the side.

Using both his cane and the rail, Dell awkwardly mounted the
stairs. Entering the house, he glared at Lynch, then pulled to an immediate
halt with a low whistle. “Jesus…this place looks like something out of the OK
Corral. How many guys were in here?”

Jarvis stepped carefully through the debris. “Two, plus
Pruett. He’s in the office in back…tortured then shot dead.”

“Tortured? Why?”

“We surmise that they wanted his daughters.”

Dell sent a quizzical look to Jarvis.

She gestured to the surveillance paraphernalia cluttering
the sofa. “The whole house has been bugged, we assume at Blackwell’s directive,
which means he knew Pruett planned to help us.”

“Wait…what?” Dell shook his head like he couldn’t believe
her words. “Pruett was going to
help
you?”

“That’s right. No doubt his daughters were going to be used
as…punishment for his disloyalty. And if Blackwell had Pruett’s house wired,
it’s a safe bet he didn’t stop there. I've called for sweeper teams to check
the stationhouse, the DA’s office, the Streeter clubhouse along with the
courthouse.”

“You think my station’s bugged? The courthouse? The DA?”
Dell blinked. “That’s crazy.”

“Not to me. To me it makes perfect sense.”

Dell stared at the agent like she’d sprouted horns. “Are you
hearing yourself?” He spread out his arms. “
None
of this makes sense.
You’re in Stardust, lady. Stardust, Nevada. Not New York or London or Paris.
All this James Bond shit with hidden listening devices doesn’t happen here.”

Jarvis planted her hands on her hips with a scowl. “I don’t
know what to tell you, Sheriff, because it
is
happening here.
Furthermore, it’s highly likely someone on the inside is involved.”

The sheriff’s eyes bugged from their sockets. “Someone on
the inside? As in my department?”

“Or perhaps at Murphy’s office.”

“Murphy?” Dell shook his head. “You’re certifiable.”

“Think about it, Sheriff. The surveillance equipment is only
part of the story. Someone has been manipulating the circumstances…like framing
Callan for the murder of your deputy and Junkyard Taylor. Anyone capable of
that, had to be privy to the investigation details.”

A scathing grunt flew from Dell’s mouth. “You’d believe
upstanding public servants are involved, but not this guy.” He jutted his cane
at Lynch. “He’s guilty as hell. I should arrest his ass right now.”

Jarvis dropped her arms. “I’m not going to bother arguing.
But remember this, Sheriff…so long as Callan’s working with the FBI, he’s out
of your jurisdiction.”

Glowering, Dell leaned close to Lynch’s face. “This isn’t
over. You won’t be able to hide behind the FBI’s skirts forever. When they’re
gone, I’ll still be here, waiting for you to fuck up.” He left the house and
made his way down the steps, his gait unsteady, but his spine rigid.

Lynch looked at Jarvis. “Mind taking me to my mom’s? She’s
not answering her phone.”

“You got things here?” she asked Newman.

“Yeah. Go,” the agent answered. “The CS unit should be here
inside of thirty minutes. I’ll hitch a ride back with them after they’re done
with the scene.”

“Sounds good.” Jarvis extracted her car key. “Once I get
back to the station, I’ll start the paperwork. C’mon, Callan. Let’s go.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

GODDAMN
IT.

I stare at the monitor. I’m supposed to be spying on the
stationhouse, but for the last twenty minutes, all I've seen is static snow.

It’s not possible my carefully hidden equipment was
discovered. Simply
not possible
. No one, not the FBI and certainly not
Albright, is smart enough to have figured out my system.

Of course, Pruett did stumble across the gear in his house,
but that had been sheer, dumb luck. And Pruett’s been on ice ever since, so no
way could he blab to anyone else…

Still concern wiggles through my gut. The guys Bowyer
assigned to keep the good Streeter president alive, yet extremely
uncomfortable, have yet to call. I dismiss my worry. Those two buffoons are
just that…buffoons. Not that Bowyer’s exactly a brain surgeon, but at least he
knows how to follow orders. Unlike Junkyard.

Ah…dear Junkyard. I gave the man too much credit. I really
thought he had more on the ball. Oh well…lesson learned. I won’t take anything
for granted again. I know now to give instructions a three-year-old could
follow…like Bowyer…

Find Pruett’s daughters then contact me. Find Callan’s
mother then contact me. Do X then contact me. Do Y then contact me. Simple,
straightforward. No chance for any more fuckups. This is how I’ll know
everything is fine. It wouldn’t dare be any other way.

Despite my self-confidence, though, I squint harder at the
screen, demanding it obey my command and
show me something
.

If I were in Stardust right now I might be able to
surreptitiously inspect the equipment and possibly troubleshoot any hitch. But
I’m stuck in San Diego, thanks to the meeting I have with Fuentes in a few
hours.

As suspected, the Columbian was not enthused about our
business partnership ending. However, I appeased him by agreeing to sell my
residual supplies of drugs and guns at cost. I hate letting everything go at
rock bottom prices, but I don’t want to suffer the man’s Latin temper.

I've only seen Fuentes pissed once, and that had been than
sufficient to convince me the man has ice in his veins. He’s single-minded in
his business pursuits. Nothing else matters, not even family. I heard he killed
his own daughter when she tried to leave the family business.

Good thing this next batch of girls is primo. Snatches fit
for a king. Or a Saudi prince. Or an African warlord. And it’s the biggest
shipment yet. Twenty-three, and the majority are virgins. Once it’s delivered,
it’ll be time for me and Shasta to sail off into the sunset.

My phone chirps. Probably the buffoons finally checking in.

“What?”

I don’t mask my irritation. They need to know they fucked
up.

“Mr. Blackwell?”

 It’s Bowyer. He shouldn’t be calling…I've already spoken to
him once today, and everyone’s under explicit directions to keep the phone use
to a minimum. The wiggle of worry in my gut becomes a cramp.

I rub the pressure building at my temples. “What do you
want? You know the rules.”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking there’s a problem over at Pruett’s
place.”

“What kind of problem?”

“My guys, Virgil and Cam, didn’t answer my text like they
was supposed to. Have you heard from them?”

 I massage the space over my left eye. “No.”

“Whatcha wanna do?”

I sigh. “Have you found Callan’s mother?”

“Nah, uh. Hez ain’t talking yet.”

“
Yet
?” The tension inside my skull increases to the
point my vision blurs. “You’ve been at him for two days.”

I can almost hear Bowyer shrug his shoulders. “He’s being
stubborn.”

Expelling an angry breath, I prop my elbow on the desk, my
hand to my forehead. The silence tightens around my head like a vise.

“If you want, Mr. Blackwell, I think I could—”

“No.” I snap. “Don’t think. You’re not good at it.” I blow
out another frustrated sigh. “Clean up the mess there, then lay low. I’ll be
flying in late tonight to Stead Airport. You’ll need to pick me up.”

“What about Callan’s mom?”

“Forget her, and Callan. Your job right now is to do
nothing, understand?”

“Yessir, Mr. Blackwell.”

“Good.”

I disconnect the call then knead my neck’s rock-hard
muscles. Just when I thought things were going my way…when I thought I’d
finally get my revenge on Callan…

Goddamn it.

But if I've learned nothing, it’s patience. Callan
will
get everything that’s coming to him. I swear to God he will.

Chapter Twenty-Three

LYNCH
KNEW THE
moment he saw his mom’s house something wasn’t right. The front
window blinds were closed.

And she never, ever closed them.

He leaped from the moving car and dashed up the walk steps
before Jarvis could slam the sedan into park.

“Callan…wait!”

Like hell he’d wait. His mom could be hurt. Or worse.

On the small stoop, he pulled the revolver from his
waistband and tried the doorknob. Locked.

A metallic taste filled his mouth. He groped for his house
key. Inserted it…turned it…then…

A hand yanked at his shoulder.

Jarvis, her weapon drawn.

Daggers flew from her green eyes before she directed her
stare to the door and adjusted her grasp on her gun. She nodded. He threw open
the door.

“Federal agent!” she yelled.

No response.

Lynch slipped along one side of the living room while Jarvis
edged down the other. The sofa and bookcases had been moved away from the
walls, like someone went on a serious hunt and seek mission. She motioned for
him into the kitchen while she continued toward the hallway and bedrooms. He
inched forward, one cautious step after another, and peered around the archway
leading into the kitchen…

What he saw heaved his stomach.

Hez, strapped to a chair, naked, his head bowed. Blood
covered his chest. A car battery sat on the counter with cables running from it
to different parts of Hez’s body.

Lynch rushed forward. “Jarvis…in here.” He knelt beside Hez.
“It’s okay, brother,” he soothed. He pulled out his knife and sliced the ties
holding Hez’s wrists and ankles. “I’m here. Everything’s fine now.”

But as he said the words, Lynch knew nothing was fine. That
nothing would ever be fine again. He didn’t have to see the slash across Hez’s
throat to know his best friend was dead.

He caught Hez when his lifeless body slid from the chair,
cradling him tight.

Jarvis tore into the room. “What the…oh my God…” She moved
closer. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

Lynch looked up. “Don’t bother.”

Her cheeks paled, but she turned and spoke quietly into her
phone.

Lynch smoothed Hez’s mop of blond dreadlocks from his face.
Tears burned his eyes and throat. Anguish, the intensity of which he never knew
existed, welled up from his soul. But he forced it down.

He wouldn’t fall apart. He couldn’t. He needed to think.
Think
.

Rolo had been tortured to learn the whereabouts of his
daughters. So why would Hez be…

A cold fist gripped Lynch’s heart.

“Jarvis!”

The agent instantly appeared. “Backup’s on the way.”

He gently laid Hez on the floor. “They were looking for my
mom.”

The agent’s forehead pleated. “Your mom?”

“Yes.” He stood. “That’s why they tortured Hez. To find
her.”

“Do you think they found her?”

“I don’t know, but there’s only one place where she could
stay hidden.” He hurried past Jarvis, down the hall and into his mom’s bedroom.

The furniture all sat at odd angles, just like in the living
room. His breath came in raw gasps as he opened the closet door and tossed out
all the shoes on the floor.

“Callan…what in hell are you doing?”

He ignored Jarvis. On his hands and knees, he gripped the
far corner of the carpet and wrenched it up, exposing the particle board
subfloor—and the hidden door.

“Mom! Mom, can you hear me?”

“Hello?”

Though muffled, he couldn’t mistake his mom’s voice. He
grabbed the o-ring handle and hauled up the door.

Dressed only in her robe, with smudges on her ashen cheeks
and forehead and her hair a tousled mess, his mom stared up at him with wide,
terror-filled eyes.

Had he been on his knees, Lynch’s legs would’ve crumpled. He
extended his hand and hefted his mother from the underground crawlspace.

He enveloped her in an awkward, yet fierce hug, his face
buried in her neck. She shivered and her teeth clicked. He felt the cold from
her body seep into his.

“Grab the comforter off the bed,” he instructed Jarvis as he
trundled backwards, his arms wrapped securely around his mother.

Outside the closet, he hoisted her into his arms then set
her tenderly on the bed. Jarvis draped the throw over Edie’s slender shoulders.

Lynch tucked the quilt tight to his mom’s tiny frame then
squatted down. “You okay?”

Her head wobbled. “Thirsty…”

Jarvis turned. “I’ll get some water and call for that
ambulance.”

He swiped strands of hair from his mother’s cheek, worried
at her pale complexion. Jarvis returned and handed Edie a glass. She stared at
it with glazed eyes.

“Let me.” Lynch shifted onto the bed, took the glass and
carefully tipped it to his mom’s lips. “But just a little, kay?” After a few
sips, she slanted her face away.

Jarvis knelt down next to Lynch. “Can you tell us what
happened here, Edie?”

His mother’s brow crinkled. “Do I know you?”

Jarvis smiled. “Yes…I’m a friend of your son’s.”

“You know Lynch?”

Jarvis flicked her gaze to him then back to Edie. “Yes, I
am. We met several weeks ago. Don’t you remember?”

Edie shook her head and tried to stand. “Flyer’s gonna be
home soon so I need to start supper. Lynch…let me up.”

Lynch’s stomach churned as his mom fought to break free from
his hold. “It’s okay, Ma. Flyer said we were eating out tonight.”

She quieted with a small smile. “Oh, that’s nice.”

He stood. “I’ll be right back, Ma. I’m gonna…ah…talk to my
friend here.”

Edie patted her uncombed hair. “Do I look okay to go out?”

He smiled down at her through watery eyes. “You look
beautiful.”

Nudging his head to Jarvis, he and the agent moved to the
bedroom door. “Something’s not right with her,” he whispered.

“Paramedics are on their way,” Jarvis replied.

“From Rolo’s?”

The agent shook her head. “From Reno.”

Lynch glanced over his shoulder. His mother rocked slightly,
humming to herself. His gut twisted. He looked back at Jarvis. “I don’t want to
wait that long.”

She studied Edie then nodded and pulled her key fob from her
front pocket. “I’ll drive.”

~*~

L
ynch gave Agent Emma Jarvis
credit—the woman knew how to drive.

She accomplished the normally thirty-five minute trip from
Stardust to Reno in a record sixteen minutes, and in rush hour traffic no less.
Of course the strobe lights and blaring siren on her car didn’t hurt.

In the busy ER, she flashed her badge and a wheelchair
instantly appeared to hasten Edie into an exam room. His mom no sooner got
settled on the gurney when the attending physician came in, the FBI agent right
behind.

A nurse gave Lynch a clipboard of admittance forms then
ushered him and Jarvis into the hall. He stood by the nurse’s station and wrote
in the answers, grateful for the tedious distraction. It beat the hell out of
thinking about the last three hours.

Rolo and Hez were both dead, and his mom was now in the
hospital.

Planting his left elbow on the counter, Lynch rubbed the
ache spanning his forehead as the words on the page ran together. A Styrofoam
cup materialized.

He looked up. Jarvis stood there, a second cup in her hands.

“You okay?” she asked.

No, but he nodded anyway, picked up the coffee and took a
sip of the bitter brew.

Her phone chirped and she checked the ID. “Be right back.”
She walked to the end of the corridor, the cell to her ear. “Jarvis.”

The nurse relieved Lynch of the clipboard, leaving him to
stare into space. Thoughts tumbled through his head…

What if he hadn’t gotten to his mom when he had? What if she
hadn’t gotten into that crawlspace? What if—

“Hey…”

He whirled around to see Jarvis.

“Any news?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Well, I found out something interesting.” A grim smile
touched her mouth. “That call was from the sweeper team. They found
surveillance equipment throughout the Streeter clubhouse and the sheriff’s
department. But surprisingly not at Adam Murphy’s office.”

“That
is
interesting.”

Jarvis nodded. “And the DA never showed up in court today.”

“Really? What do you figure that means?”

“Nothing good, that’s for sure.”

The curtain of his mom’s cubicle zipped open, ending their
conversation.

The doctor exited, a chart in his hand. “Mr. Callan?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Doctor Nickels.”

“How’s my mother?”

Nickels checked the chart. “She’s pretty badly dehydrated
and suffering from hypothermia. We’ve wrapped her in some heated blankets and
are giving her IV fluids. How old is she?”

“Fifty-two.”

The doctor wrote on the chart. “Any history of cardiac
issues?”

The hair on the back of Lynch’s neck stood at attention.
“Cardiac issues? You mean her heart? What’s wrong with her heart?”

“Her pulse is irregular and her blood ox is in the low nineties.
Probably the result of the dehydration and hypothermia. I’d like to keep her
overnight as a precaution.”

“Okay.”

“Your mother’s…resistant to the idea.”

Lynch set his jaw. “If you think she should stay, then she’s
staying.”

Nickels clicked his pen and stuffed it in his pocket.“I’ll
make arrangements to have her taken up to the third floor.” He stepped to the
side. “You can see her.”

 Lynch hurried into the exam room to see his mother, nearly
smothered in hospital covers, sitting on a gurney and looking extremely pissed.
Rhythmic beeping came from the monitor next to the wall and clear tubes ran
from her nose.

“Lynch Abraham Callan…” she wheezed.

Abraham.

Despite the breathy quality to her voice, a bit of Lynch’s
apprehension eased. She seemed like her fiery self.

“…I am
not
staying in this goddamn hospital.” She
stared at him, daring him to defy her.

He kissed her cheek and wormed his hand through layers of
material until finding her fingers. “But the doc says you need to stay.”

“Bullshit.” She angled her chin. “Just wants to pad his
paycheck.”

“He does not. He’s worried about you.” Lynch held his
mother’s flinty gaze. “As am I. So do me the favor of not being a royal pain in
the ass about this. Otherwise, I’ll give the staff permission to hogtie you to
the bed. Got it?”

She yanked her hand back. “But I want to
go home
.”

Lynch darted his gaze to Jarvis who stood by the closed
curtain and uncurled his posture.

Edie looked from him to the agent. “What?”

 He sighed. “You can’t go home, Ma.”

“Why the hell not?”

Jarvis stepped forward. “Mrs. Callan—”

Edie glared. “What’d I say about calling me Mrs.?”

“All right. Edie. What can you tell me about the last few
days?”

His mom squinted harder. “Why you want to know?”

“Because I’m an FBI agent.”

Edie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re a what?” She swiveled her
head around to stare at Lynch. “She’s a what?” Her voice rose in volume and
pitch.

“An FBI agent, Ma. Calm down, okay?”

“You calm down,” she snapped. “You said she was a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer,” Jarvis answered. “But I’m also an agent
with the Bureau. Now, please…what do you remember?”

“I thought—”

“Ma,” Lynch interrupted. “Whatever you thought was wrong,
but I’ll explain it to you later. Right now, you need to tell Agent Jarvis what
you remember.”

His mother’s features twisted. “Agent Jarvis,” she
harrumphed. “Fine…after work Saturday night, Hez and I stopped for takeout
pizza on the way home. We were gonna spend the night watching movies and
relaxing. I’d just finished a shower when he busted into the bathroom then stuffed
me in that rat hole, telling me not to make a sound. What the fuck happened
anyway?”

“Some men came to your house,” Jarvis said. “That’s why Hez
put you in the crawlspace.”

His mom’s face scrunched up again. “Some men came to my
house? What’d they want?”

The agent’s shoulders rose in a big inhale of breath. “We
think they wanted you.”

“Me?” His mom blinked. “Why me?”

“We’re not entirely sure, Edie, but we’re going to find
out.”

“How long was I down there?”

Lynch took her hand. “It’s Monday night, Ma.”

“
Monday
?” Edie shook her head as though to clear it.
“My God…”

“Edie,” Jarvis said gently, “can you tell us anything else?
Did you hear anything while you were in the crawlspace?”

“Can’t hear shit down there. Used to be a root cellar before
the master bedroom was added.” A distant smile played at her mouth. “Lynch and
Hez used to hide there to avoid doing their chores.” Her smile waned as her
forehead creased. “By the way, where is Hez?”

Lynch tightened his hold on his mom’s hand. “He’s…uh…not
here.”

“I can see that. So where is he?”

He coughed the emotions from his throat. “Listen, Ma…let’s
not talk about Hez right now. Is that all you remember from Saturday night?”

His mom stared at him. Lynch knew that look. It was the same
one he got whenever he’d been foolish enough to try dodging her question.

“Why don’t you want to talk about Hez? Did something
happen?”

Time ticked by with the only sound the incessant monitor
beeping.

Realization lit Edie’s eyes. “Something
did
happen,
didn’t it? To Hez?”

Lynch bowed his head. Shit…he’d wanted to spare his mom this
pain. At least for a little while. How stupid of him. His mom was too savvy—and
too stubborn—by half for that bullshit.

 He tightened his grip on her hand and met her watery gaze.
“Hez is dead.”