On a Knife's Edge (4 page)

“Believe it,” Jarvis stated, “because it’s true.”

“So
you
say.”

“So the
evidence
says,” she countered, sitting
forward. “I don’t think you’re grasping the gravity of this situation, Mr.
Callan.”

“Oh, I’m
grasping
it just fine, Agent Jarvis,” Lynch
bit out. He crossed his arms, causing Morgan to move to the door. Lynch placed
his palms back on the table. “You want to spring me from this joint in exchange
for ratting out my crew. Ain’t. Gonna. Happen.”

Jarvis glared. “We have more than enough evidence to
bury—and I mean
bury
—your precious crew.”

Lynch’s heart rate spiked. “Do that and you’ll probably
never get Blackwell. Which means you’ll never get Fuentes.”

“Oh, I’ll get them. I’ll get them both.” Her smile lacked
any warmth. “Eventually. In the meantime, I’ll make do with the biggest
consolation prize I can get my hands on.” Her flinty gaze drilled his. “If you
don’t help us, I swear—on my life—that not only will you spend the rest of
yours behind bars, but so will everyone who’s ever even remotely been
affiliated with the 5th Streeters. Including your mother.”

A deadly stillness blanketed Lynch. “You’re threatening my
mom?”

“Call it…motivation.”

Narrowing his gaze, Lynch pressed his palms to the table so
hard, the tendons bulged. And people claim criminals had no moral compass. He
tilted his head. “Fine. Say I agree. Say you get me outta here. What’s to keep
me from flipping on
you
to this Blackwell dude and Fuentes?”

Jarvis’s complexion flushed an angry red. “If you do, so
help me God—”

“But you won’t, Callan,” Newman interrupted.

Lynch swiveled his attention to him. “Really? What makes you
so damn sure?”

“Because I've read your file more times than I can count,
and I know nothing matters more to you than loyalty.”

“If you know me so well, then you know I’ll
never
turn on my crew.”

“Not even to avenge one of their murders?” Jarvis asked.

Lynch snapped his gaze back to her. “Come again?”

Newman slid another photo of a gruesomely disfigured man
across the table. “After finding Jerry’s body, we dredged that part of the lake
and discovered he wasn’t alone. Jerry had been working a source inside the
Streeters. Someone who had a serious issue with the club’s new business model.
This source agreed to help us find a direct link to Blackwell and ultimately
Fuentes.” He tapped the picture with a thick-set finger. “Recognize him? That’s
Flyer Gemstone. Shot once in the back of the head, execution style.”

A roar filled Lynch’s ears. Bile splashed his throat. He
searched for Flyer’s image from one of the other pictures. The lanky,
half-breed Cherokee, who was the closest thing Lynch had to a father, stood
next to his mom, his arm slung over her shoulders, beaming a smile like he’d
just been told a joke. Anguish constricted his chest. He shoved the photo away.
“I can’t even be sure that’s Flyer.”

“It’s him all right,” Newman declared. “Now let me tell you
what  else I know about you. I know if given the chance to find out who killed
Flyer Gemstone, nothing or no one will get in your way.”

Holding Newman’s gaze, Lynch clenched his jaw.

The agent squinted back. “Maybe you’re willing to gamble
that we don’t have enough to convict your mother along with the entire Streeter
network—which we do. And maybe you can even live with the lie that the
Streeters aren’t trafficking in young girls. But someone killing Flyer? Executing
him?” Newman shook his head. “No. That requires retribution. Especially since
he was more than likely killed by a fellow gang member.”

Lynch sawed his molars together and maintained his stony
silence.

Everyone who got patched into the 5th Streeters knew being a
brother carried risks, including going to prison or dying. That was the chance
you took to play the game. And as far as his mom went, she had the chops to
fight her own battles. If he snitched to
save
her, she’d kick his ass
six ways to Sunday.

But someone murdering Flyer? Newman had that right. Lynch
would give anything—would do anything—to avenge him, or any of his brothers.
Even if that meant betraying them.

He looked back at the grotesque photo these agents claimed
was his mentor. Though logic demanded he shouldn’t believe the horrific image
was Flyer, in his gut…his heart…Lynch knew the awful truth.

A wave of heat flashed up his neck. He bowed his head. Flyer
dead? Who killed him? A Streeter? Impossible. Brothers didn’t kill brothers.
Did they? But if Olsen’s cover had been blown, and someone discovered Flyer had
been helping the undercover agent…

None of this made sense. Just like the human trafficking
allegations made no sense. Since when would the Streeters have anything to do
with the buying and selling of young girls? Many of the men had daughters
themselves. Hell, Rolo had three. It went against everything Lynch knew, or at
least thought he knew, about these men.

But seven years had passed. People changed. God knew he had.

“So what’s it gonna be, Callan?” Newman’s voice broke into
Lynch’s thoughts. “Are you willing to have Flyer’s death go unavenged? Or risk
more girls being abducted? Shit’s been brewing for a long time in Stardust and
it’s all gonna hit the fan unless you help us.”

Help them by becoming a snitch. A mole. How far was Lynch
willing to go to get at the truth?

Determination lifted his head. “What will I have to do?”

Jarvis collected the photos. “Find out everything you can
about the connection between the Streeters and the slave trade. Find out who
Blackwell is and who killed Agent Olsen.”

“Okay, but how will this work? Am I just gonna waltz outta
here? As you said, I was convicted of trying to kill a sheriff.”

“I’m a lawyer,” she replied. “I used to work for the
attorney general’s office in DC, and I've been over your case file and the
court records. All the evidence against you seems circumstantial at best. A
first year law student could have mounted a better defense than your public
defender. It won’t be hard to get a judge to sign off on a new trial.”

Lynch gave her is best roguish grin. “Too bad I didn’t have
you as my attorney during the first go-around, counselor.”

Her lips curled into a sneer. “While the evidence in
this
case seems sketchy, I’m sure you’re guilty of other crimes that would earn you
a lengthy prison stay.” She closed the file with a slap. “You’re a criminal,
pure and simple. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve to rot behind bars.”

Lynch couldn’t fault her candor. He’d done more than his
share of illegal acts, but that list didn’t include trying to off Dell
Albright. In actuality, his public defender hadn’t been so much inept as Lynch
had refused to help mount a defense. Because going to prison had been the only
sure way to protect Shasta—the woman he loved—who also happened to be
Albright’s sister.

He’d been a goner the first time he stared into those
caramel eyes. But with him a Streeter and her brother the sheriff, any chance
at a relationship died before it began. Didn’t stop him from having one with
her. Guess love was blind. And fucking stupid.

Awareness tightened Lynch’s skin. Once he got back to town,
would he see her? He disliked how his pulse skipped at the prospect…a slim
prospect. Shasta might not still live in the miniscule town of Stardust, though
the thought of big brother Dell allowing her to leave seemed remote. Then there
was the fact he’d been accused of trying to kill her brother. She could very
well hate him, as she should.

But none of that mattered. The past needed to stay in the
past. The only thing that mattered was finding out who murdered Flyer.

Jarvis stood. “I’ll see about getting you into
administrative segregation until you’re released.”

Lynch’s stomach knotted. Ad Seg…he couldn’t go into Ad Seg.
He had obligations and debts to deal with before getting out…starting with
warning Oscar about Beck. “Nobody said anything about me going into
segregation.”

She picked up her briefcase. “It’ll be several days before I
can make this deal happen and we can’t risk your life by putting you back into
the general population.”

“But putting me in segregation
will
risk my life.”

Her brow wrinkled. “That makes no sense.”

“Not to you, but it makes perfect sense to me, and to every
other convict. No one’s been to see me since I got here and now suddenly my lawyer…”
He mimed quotation marks in the air. “…pays me a visit and then I’m put in
protective custody?” He shook his head with a humorless chuckle. “There’ll be a
torpedo gunning for me before supper tonight. Ad Seg or no Ad Seg.”

“That’s preposterous.”

He hitched his shoulder. “That’s prison.”

She paused then shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t
endanger this operation on a hunch.”

“It’s not a hunch. It’s reality. But…” He stood and nodded
to Morgan who moved to the door. “…it’s your decision. Too bad I won’t be
around to tell you I told you so.”

Jarvis huffed a breath. “All right. Fine. You go back to
your cell, but,” she jabbed her finger at him, “so help me God, Callan, you end
up dead, and I’ll kill you.”

Lynch exited the room, a grin on his face. “I’ll keep that
in mind, counselor.”

Chapter Three

WITH
THE WIND
cooling the sweat on her skin, Shasta Albright Dupree ran.

She often claimed she loved running because she needed the
exercise and it gave her time alone to think. But the truth was she ran for the
simple, sheer joy of it.

The isolated desert landscape of her favorite trail passed
in blurry focus. The crisp spring air burned her lungs as her footfalls against
the hard-packed dirt reverberated up her legs, through her torso and into her head.
Her fanny pack bounced rhythmically against her hip. Nothing compared to a
good, long run. It rejuvenated her soul. Granted her freedom—if only for a
short period. The restrictions of being a mom and wife could be smothering at
times.

It wasn’t that she didn’t dearly love her six-year-old son,
Wyatt, because she did. She’d give her life for him. And then there was Graham,
her husband, a truly awesome guy.

She’d known Graham her whole life, seeing he was her dad’s
best friend. He’d been the DA when her dad held the sheriff job. For over
twenty years, they doled out their brand of law and order justice, with her
father the law and Graham the order…

And when her world had careened dangerously out of control,
Graham stayed right by her side. He’d been her rock. Her savior. Plus, he loved
Wyatt like he was his own…

Shasta couldn’t ask for a better life. She had a roof over
her head, food in the fridge, a great kid and devoted husband. If not for the
car accident shortly after their wedding, which left Graham paralyzed from the
waist down, everything would be perfect.

Disgusted with her selfish thoughts, she raced up a
sagebrush covered hill. She needed to stop complaining, even to herself. She
should be grateful for what she had. Because she had a lot.

Her hands shook as her legs protested the uphill strain. But
rather than decreasing her pace, she tripled her effort. By the time she
reached the top, her brain was thankfully blank.

She danced in a circle, fist-pumping her hands overhead…her
version of Rocky scaling the museum steps. She giggled at her silly antic.

A loud whinny halted her jubilance. She crouched low then
scampered to the side of a boulder and peered into the ravine on her right. A
small herd of wild mustangs grazed about sixty feet away. A roan-colored
stallion stood watch over three mares, two of which looked pregnant. The
stallion’s ears jutted forward, his eyes wide. He pranced, his snout in the air
trying to smell her location.

She immediately skulked along the rock surface until upwind
of the herd. She peeked into the gulch again, glad she hadn’t spooked the
horses.

They were magnificent—so regal in their wildness. She
extracted her cell phone from her pack, her lips curving upward. Wyatt would
love a picture of them.

Sadness nicked her heart and her smile dipped. Seeing the
wild horses reminded Shasta of her late father. Dad had nicknamed her “Mustang
Filly” because growing up she’d been wild. No rule existed she didn’t relish
breaking, or at least bending. A tough position for the sheriff to be in,
constantly defending his errant daughter's behavior. But Shasta’s bond with her
father had always been special, especially after cancer took her mom when she
was nine. With older brother, Dell, off at college, that left the two rebel
Albrights alone in Stardust.

Despite her transgressions—of which there had been many—her
dad never came down on her too hard. He empathized with her defiant streak.
With her need to be unfettered. Free, just like the mustangs.

Then, seven months after her sixteenth birthday, a hunting
accident took him as well…

Shaking off the weepy memories, she zoomed in for a close-up
of the stallion—when the sudden trill of her phone sent the herd galloping away
through the gully.

Crap.

She checked the caller ID and frowned.

Dell
.
Double crap.

Her brother—and boss—had lousy timing, ruining what would
have been an epic shot. Why was he calling anyway? Today was her day off. Maybe
no one at the sheriff’s department could find the coffee filters.

She snickered at that thought, and sent Sheriff Dell
Albright straight to voicemail then pocketed her phone. She swiped damp hair
off her forehead and stood, gazing at the dust cloud left in the herd’s hasty
retreat. Maybe she could track them. Get another chance for a picture.

She started down the hill. With a bottle of water and a
granola bar in her pack, she could easily stay out for the next hour or two.
Another chime of her phone indicated she had a text. From Dell—naturally.

Where r u? Not running alone in the desert—again?!?NOT
SAFE!!

Shasta rolled her eyes. Her brother—the mother hen. She
considered ignoring him, but knew that wouldn’t end well. He’d probably call on
the National Guard to comb the desert for her. She typed back…

What’s up? Today’s Fri, u no.

I no what day it is.
He added a frowning face.
Adam
called. Needs to meet.

A shiver of revulsion traversed up Shasta’s spine. She’d
rather pet a scorpion than spend any time with the smarmy district attorney,
Adam Murphy. She despised the lecherous looks he directed her way—when no one
else was watching of course. She typed on her keyboard.

What does he want?

Dunno, but says it’s important…when can you b here?

An hour, maybe sooner

 Make it sooner. And B CAREFUL.

Shasta shook her head. What did Dell expect would happen?
There wasn’t another soul around for miles. Besides, she could take care of
herself.

She slipped her phone back into her fanny pack and looked
wistfully at where the mustangs had disappeared before reversing direction. She
started an easy jog back to her car. So much for having a day to herself.

~*~

A
t just before eleven, Shasta
walked into the stationhouse. It’d taken her longer to return to town than she
originally thought. She just hoped Dell hadn’t had a complete conniption fit.

A quiet squad room greeted her. Nothing unusual about that.
Stardust was hardly a big crime-riddled city. She waved to the
dispatcher, Joan, who sat crocheting at her desk, a headset balanced on her
graying hair, then spied Dell in his window-lined office, talking with Adam—and
Graham. Confusion knitted her forehead.

Graham should be on his way to Reno to catch the one o’clock
flight to Vegas for a week-long business trip. Irritation tightened her
shoulders. If her idiotic brother had called her husband because she was a
little late, she’d have his hide. She headed for the office when Todd Weedly
intercepted her between a narrow row of desks.

“Looks like someone needs a shower,” he drawled, his gaze
raking her from head to foot.

Shasta pulled to an abrupt stop, somehow managing not to
scowl. The deputy, like Adam, made her skin crawl with his lewd looks and
thinly veiled innuendos. While neither man ever said or did anything blatantly
inappropriate, each time she came within twenty feet of them, she had to fight
to keep from hurling. She needed a shower all right, but it wasn’t because of
her run.

She pasted on a smile. While
she
didn’t like Todd,
Dell did. Her brother hired him after all. “Yeah. Went for a run.”

Todd hitched a hip on a desk, which made his leather gun
holster creak, and nodded, his gaze fastened to her chest. She shifted,
grateful she’d zipped her jacket up to her neck. “Anyway, I gotta go. Dell’s
waiting.”

The deputy didn’t move one iota while she sidled around him,
careful not to touch his pant leg. She felt his stare on her as she hustled to
her brother’s office.

Dell saw her approach and his expression darkened. He pushed
to his feet then grabbed his cane, which was never far away, and limped to the
door. Any annoyance Shasta felt toward him dissipated. While her brother might
be the biggest pain on the planet, she never doubted he loved her and worried
about her. After all, he’d taken care of her since she was sixteen…

He opened the door. “Where the hell have you been? You said
an hour
or less
.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She breezed past him, bussing a kiss to
his whiskered cheek. She then bent over Graham’s wheelchair to do the same with
his clean shaven one.

Her husband’s powerful arms and shoulders bulged the seams
of his polo shirt. He worked his upper body like a weightlifter to compensate
for his lack of lower body strength. The dash of silver at his temples and his
meticulously trimmed salt and pepper goatee were the only signs he was nearly
thirty years her senior. She gazed into his pale blue eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at
the airport?”

“Yes, but when Adam called and said he had something
important to tell us, I changed my flight to two-thirty.”

“So my brother didn’t contact you?”

His lips lifted in a weary smile. “Not this time.”

Concern wiggled through her chest. “You feeling okay, honey?
You look tired.”

He patted her hand. “I’m fine. Got the start of a migraine
is all. But don’t worry,” he added when she opened her mouth. “I took a pain
pill and will sleep on the plane. I’ll be right as rain once I land in Vegas.”

She bit her lower lip. “Maybe you shouldn’t go.”

“Nonsense. It’s just a headache.”

“That can lead to blackouts. Maybe you should—”

“Shasta. Honey. Enough. All right? I said I was fine.”

With a huff, she straightened and took her usual position
behind his wheelchair, but Adam jumped to his feet.

“Here,” he said. “You probably should sit down.”

Her eyes widened. Adam being chivalrous? Not his standard
MO. But he moved to lean against the wall, his arms and ankles crossed.
Suspicion tap danced across her neck. Adam offers up his chair without casting
even one covert leer her way.

She tentatively perched her butt on the seat. “What’s going
on?”

Dell shuffled back behind his desk and sat heavily in his
chair. “Yeah, counselor. Everyone’s here now, so spill whatever this important
news is.”

Adam uncurled his stance with a cough. “I got a call this
morning and wanted to tell you all myself.”

Graham scrunched his eyebrows together. “Tell us what?”

The DA huffed a breath and shoved his hands into his pant
pockets. “Lynch Callan is being released.”

Shasta felt like she was being held underwater. No sound. No
air. Stars danced in front of her eyes. She knew she needed to breathe, but her
constricted lungs refused to work.

Lynch Callan—the man serving twenty-five years to life for
trying to kill Dell
and
Wyatt’s biological dad—was being released from
prison? She sat in stunned silence while conflicting emotions bombarded her.

Joy hopscotched through her chest because she’d never
believed Lynch guilty of trying to kill her brother in the first place. Just as
quickly, though, dread clutched her heart. Had Lynch somehow found out about
Wyatt? No, that wasn’t possible. While everyone in Stardust assumed Graham to
be the daddy, nobody knew the truth about Wyatt’s parentage, not even her own
husband. The singular saving grace about her having a firebrand reputation as a
teenager was that her pregnancy shocked no one. Truth was, she’d only ever been
with one man.

Thank God Wyatt inherited her dark brown hair. She prayed it
didn’t lighten too much when he got older. Wyatt also had blue eyes, same as
Graham. Except her son’s eyes bordered on the hypnotic—like Lynch’s.

Finally guilt feasted on her conscience. If she hadn’t been
so rebellious, so damn reckless when she was younger, Lynch might not have ever
gone to prison—and Dell might not now be reliant on a cane to move, not to
mention Graham being imprisoned in a wheelchair…

“Released?”
Dell exploded from his chair then quickly
grabbed the desk for balance. “How the
fuck
did that happen? He’s not
eligible for parole for at least another fifteen years.”

Adam gusted another sigh. “He’s not being paroled. A hotshot
lawyer from the attorney general’s office took an interest in his case. She
petitioned a federal judge, and Callan’s been granted a new trial. He’s being
released pending that trial.”

“
Jesus Christ
.” Dell spun away, and nearly toppled
over. He gripped his tall chair back and inhaled a noisy breath. Anger vibrated
his entire body.

Graham tilted forward as much as the restrictions of his
wheelchair would allow. “Adam, what steps are you taking to keep Callan behind
bars?”

“Unfortunately, there aren’t any steps I
can
take at
the moment.”

Dell turned around, his face an ugly, purplish red. “What
the hell does that mean?”

“It means I found out about the situation just before coming
here to tell you. But I believe this deal has been in the works for several
days.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because Callan is getting out…this afternoon.”

Dell’s eyes bugged. “This…
afternoon
?”

Adam glanced away with a nod, rubbing his neck. “Look, I
understand this news is upsetting—”

“Upsetting?” Dell mocked. “I’m way past upset. Have you
forgotten that bastard tried to kill me? He
shot
me. In the back.”

Adam glowered. “I've forgotten nothing.”

“Then keep that fucker locked up.”

“There’s only so much power I have in this—”

“What about petitioning for a stay?” Graham interjected.

Adam tore his angry gaze from Dell. “I plan to file with the
Ninth District Court on Monday, but that’s not going to keep Callan from getting
out today.”

Graham pursed his lips. “At least it’s a start. The thing to
focus on is what to do once Callan is actually back in town.”

For the first time since Adam dropped the bombshell, Shasta
piped up. “What do you mean?”