Take Me Deeper (2 page)

Somehow it remained there, burning like a hot coal, like the fire of the bourbon inside him. Alive after all these years.

Unlike Charlie.

No, he wasn't going to think of Charlie. Thinking of her never led anywhere good.

“What's the job?” he found himself asking, even though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to ask.

Surprise flickered briefly over Quinn's face, which Zane found perversely satisfying. “Okay then,” Quinn muttered. “Been going through some of the business records and found a whole bunch of outstanding warrants that Dad never handled. Which means there's a whole lot of money we're missing out on. I've dealt with most of them, but this one job could turn out to be a bitch and I could use you on it.”

Zane tried to ignore the curiosity that pulled at him. Quinn never refused to do a job, no matter how much of a “bitch” it was. At least, he used to. “What about Rush?”

“Yeah,” Rush echoed. “What about me?”

Quinn didn't even spare his middle brother a glance, his gaze never leaving Zane's. “This one's a woman,” he said shortly, as if that explained everything.

Which it did.

Zane felt something shift inside him, anger or grief or maybe a combination of the two. He ignored it, whatever it was, keeping his focus on Quinn. “Like I said, what about Rush?”

“Do I really need to explain why?”

Rush snorted. “Fuck, man. I'm right here. And I wouldn't touch a skip, you know that.”

Quinn lifted a shoulder. “I don't care what you would or wouldn't do, I'm not putting you on this one. I'd have to go with you because you've got a record anyway.”

The other man shook his head, not bothering to argue, reaching for the bottle and pouring himself another bourbon instead.

Zane said nothing. Didn't take a genius to work out why Quinn wanted him on this job, especially if the person concerned was female. “I came back to see how you guys were doing,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps visit Dad's grave, not stay here and be part of the family business again.”

“Well, we're fine and Dad was cremated.” Quinn's expression was impassive. “He's in a box on the shelf behind the bar if you really want to stand and brood over him.”

A small electric shock went down Zane's spine.

Rush was staring at him too now, his elbows on the bar, the look on his face as deadpan as Quinn's. Waiting on his reaction probably.

Zane glanced at the shelves, spotting at last the box wedged in between two empty bottles of bourbon. Jesus. How appropriate.

He'd never gotten along with the old man. Had hated his guts, and the feeling had definitely been mutual given the level of vitriol his father had always spat in his direction. Once upon a time, when he'd been a boy, there had been nothing he'd wanted more than to do his father proud. But that was before his mother had gotten so sick and died and Joe Redmond had fallen headfirst into a whisky bottle and stayed there.

His father probably wouldn't have given a shit if Zane had attended his funeral or not. So, no, he didn't much care about the old bastard. But whether he liked it or not, no matter how much history there was between them, he
did
care about his brothers. Four and six years older than him respectively, they'd looked out for him when he was a kid, protected him from the old man's rages, helped him with his homework, all the things big brothers were supposed to do.

At least for a while. Before their mom had died and the family had fallen apart.

You came home for them, not for him.

Zane stared at the box on the shelf for a long moment. Then he turned back to Quinn. “One job,” he said shortly. “Just one, and then I'm heading out to Fort Bragg again.”

Rush was frowning at him. “You're not back for good?”

A small thread of regret wound through him at the look on Rush's face, but Zane crushed it flat. He'd spent years feeling nothing but regret and now he'd finally gotten rid of it. He'd be damned if he let it in again.

“No. This was only supposed to be a flying visit before I re-up.”

Quinn had finally turned to the bar, grabbing his glass and draining it in one swallow. “Fuck, you're a glutton for punishment, aren't you?” He slapped the glass back down on the bar top with a click.

“The military suits me.” He wasn't going to get into his reasons for staying in Special Forces, not in front of these two. “And I'm good at it.”

“I was good at it too,” Quinn said. “Doesn't mean I want to spend my life being told what to do by some dick in a uniform.”

Typical Quinn. He'd been a SEAL and quite frankly it was amazing he'd managed to stay in the navy as long as he had, given his hatred of being ordered around.

Something you and he have in common, right?

That was true. Maybe it was why they'd never gotten along very well. Quinn was a natural leader and tended to assume everyone else was just waiting around to be told what to do by him. Whereas Zane didn't give a shit what other people did as long as they left him alone to do his own thing.

“I'm with Quinn on this one,” Rush muttered, draining his third bourbon. “Last thing I wanna do is be in another fucking cage.”

Understandable. After all those years in prison, it was no wonder Rush didn't want to go back into the military. Because he was right, in many ways it was a cage too. Besides, his middle brother had already done time as an army ranger even before all the shit had gone down with Charlie. The freedom of finally having no one to answer to must be pretty intense.

“Yeah, well, I like it.” He pushed the glass full of bourbon back over to Rush. “Got a degree, language training, all kinds of things in the army. It's a challenge.”

“You mean chasing fugitives and bringing them back to justice isn't?” Rush raised one golden-brown eyebrow. “It's the family business, bro. Plus you get all the bourbon you want and as much pussy as you can handle.”

Zane snorted. “I'm not interested in women or drinking.”

A concerned look passed over Rush's face. “Are you feeling okay? Or…uh…are you batting for the other team? And if you are, no judgment.”

Irritated, Zane frowned at him. “No, I just have other more important things to worry about.”

“What could be more important than beer and pussy? Seriously?”

An unexpected spark of amusement gleamed in Quinn's eyes. “Come on, Rush. Look at the shirt, the pants. I bet he's even got a goddamn tie somewhere in his kit. Of course he's serious.”

It was obvious bait and Zane didn't rise to it. His brothers had always gotten a lot of mileage out of the way he dressed and how he generally kept everything neat and in its place, a habit the military had only cemented. He was Special Forces for God's sake. A professional. And he liked to look the part. If the other two preferred dressing like frat boys on spring break, that was their problem.

Ignoring the pair of them, he eyed the bourbon he'd just pushed back to Rush instead. What the hell. Just one more and then he'd get the details from Quinn about this job. “I guarantee I get more pussy looking like this than either of you two do,” he said and reached for the glass, picking it up and raising it in his brothers' direction. “Your very good health.”

Rush straightened, a steely look entering his blue-green eyes. “That's a fucking bet right there, man. A hundred bucks says you're wrong.”

Draining the second bourbon, Zane put the glass back down with a click, shaking his head. “No strip clubs and no bars. I've got a job to do.”

Quinn leaned his hip against the bar. “Is that a yes then?”

“It's a yes.” Zane fixed his brother with a look. “But one job and then I'm out, okay?”

For the first time since Zane walked through the door, Quinn smiled. The big, wicked, shit-eating grin that Zane remembered from way back. The one that always made him feel like Quinn knew something he didn't.

“One job,” Quinn repeated, still grinning. “Sure.”

Iris Callahan wiped the already-dry bar top with a cloth yet again, watching the table situated down one end of the crowded bar. A guy was sitting there by himself, apparently absorbed in the game that was showing on the big-screen TV on the wall nearby.

He was familiar to her in some way. A way that made something cold curl up tight in her chest.

No, it couldn't be him. When she'd left Dallas, she'd made sure her tracks were well covered. Absolutely sure.

Glancing back down at the bar, she wiped the cloth across the pitted wood once more.

God, she hated this place. But it was the only job she'd managed to get that didn't pay total crap. Not that it was enough to bulk up her meager savings and certainly not enough for the sweet little place she'd spotted in Round Rock.

Her throat closed.

Every day working in this shithole was another day her little sister Jamie had to stay in foster care, and Iris hated the thought of it. But she didn't know what else to do. She'd called Linda, the social worker dealing with Jamie and whom Iris had gotten in touch with after she'd left Dallas, hoping to explain her situation. Linda had been great and understanding, but even so, that didn't change the facts.

That she'd been tricked into making packet drops for one of the southern cartels by her prick of an ex made no difference. Jamie was still in foster care and Iris was on the run from the law, and no court on earth would grant her custody while that was happening.

So while Linda had been kind, she couldn't help Iris with Jamie until Iris's legal situation changed.

Sadly, Iris couldn't see a way out of that, at least, not yet. The only thing she could do was stay on the down-low, avoid the cops and the cartel, and continue with the plan she'd been aiming for before Dylan had come into her life and turned it upside down.

A simple plan. Get some money. Get out of the shitty trailer park. Get a house for her and Jamie to live in.

Sure, the bar paid crap, but it was something. Another step on the road toward the white-picket-fence dream she'd been nursing ever since her mom had up and left.

And you might have been there by now if you hadn't trusted him.

Iris ignored the insidious voice in her head, because it wasn't as if it were telling her anything new.

A few months ago Dylan, her ex, had told her that if she wanted to make some extra cash, she could take some packages to a contact of his. He'd known her dreams of a better life for her and Jamie, and he'd told her that this would help her reach them much quicker. She'd been tired of having no money. Tired of being taken advantage of
because
she had no money. Tired of watching Jamie play in a dirty yard full of broken glass.

Turned out, though, that she'd been naïve and taking those packages to Dylan's contact wasn't exactly like making UPS deliveries. She didn't know exactly what was in the packets because she'd never asked and had never wanted to know. But she wasn't stupid. She'd known it was drugs of some kind.

It should have bothered her that she was being a drug mule, and somewhere deep inside, in a part of her that hadn't been scarred by her shitty trailer-park upbringing, she had been very bothered indeed.

But she'd learned over the years that if you wanted something badly enough, you were going to have to put your scruples on a shelf somewhere and never look at them again. Because it wasn't possible to have what you wanted and not break a rule somewhere along the line. Rules were made to be broken after all.

Most especially if she wanted to give her sister the life they should have had if their mother hadn't abandoned them when the guy she was seeing left for Los Angeles and she'd gone with him.

And then a drop had gone wrong and she'd been arrested, and everything had gone to shit. Jamie had been taken away and then the DA had wanted her to testify against the cartel in exchange for her freedom.

She'd been promised witness protection, the whole nine yards, but she knew that wouldn't be enough. Already an arrest meant the cartel would want to make sure she stayed quiet, but if they found out she was going to testify, she'd be dead.

So she'd skipped bail. She simply hadn't seen another choice. It was either that or wind up in a cell somewhere with a knife in her back or a bullet in her head. If she was lucky. Which would leave Jamie completely alone in the world and she just couldn't contemplate that.

Iris shot a glance over at the guy at the table, trying to figure out if he'd been one of the goons who had hung around Shaw, Dylan's contact in Dallas, fear a tight, hard knot in the center of her chest. Jesus, she hoped it wasn't. She'd been okay for a month or so, hiding out in Austin, working in this shitty bar. She'd been trying to be good, not putting a foot wrong. Trying to figure out how the hell she was going to get her sister back.

“What the hell are you doing?” Frank growled from behind her. “Stop fucking cleaning and get to serving.”

Iris pulled herself together, not bothering to glance behind her at her grumpy boss. Frank was waiting for her to slip up, she just knew it. The guy had never liked her much and God knew why he'd employed her. Probably so he could have the pleasure of firing her since he really was that much of a dick.

Pasting on a smile, she busied herself getting beers for some of the customers, all the while trying not to be so aware of the guy at the table watching the game.

It couldn't be him. She was seeing things. She was letting life make her desperate and scared, and if there was one thing she hated, it was being desperate and scared, especially when she'd been both for far, far too long.

Partway through pouring a whisky for yet another customer, she glanced over at the table again, a purely reflexive movement, and found the guy staring back at her.

Shock jolted down her spine, sharp and electric, while fear grew claws and dug into her chest.

Oh, shit. It
was
him, one of Shaw's goons. Had Shaw somehow found out where she was? Had he put this guy on to her?

Trying not to look as panicked as she felt, Iris glanced back down at the drink she was pouring as if nothing had happened. Luckily she hadn't managed to spill anything, though her hand shook as she pushed the glass over the bar to the customer.

What the hell was she going to do?

Stupid question. There was only one thing she really could do, and that was to get out now while she could. She turned, scanning for Frank, all ready to plead a bathroom break so she could escape out the back window, when someone said, “Iris Callahan?” The voice was deep, masculine, and very cold.

Automatically Iris turned back.

There was a man standing at the bar. She had a vague impression of height and broad shoulders and dark hair, but all the details seemed to fade away as she met his gaze. His eyes were a shade of intense blue that could only be described as electric and for some reason they made all the air rush suddenly out of her lungs. It was like plunging into an icy river on a blisteringly hot day.

She blinked, trying to remember what it was exactly that he'd said because she'd be damned if she could remember. Also, there was something about having to leave urgently for…reasons…

The man's eyes narrowed, giving her a sweeping glance that made her abruptly aware of the haphazard ponytail she'd put her hair into earlier that day that was probably coming down now. Of the tight white T-shirt Frank liked her to wear, with the deep V-neck and the beer stains on it from when a customer had accidentally tipped his bottle over, splashing her. Of the fact that the red bra she was wearing showed through the white T-shirt, which was the whole point of wearing it—or so Frank said. Yeah, she had the whole trailer-trash look down.

He took all of this in and she had the impression that he'd noticed every single little detail about her and was filing it all away for future reference. She'd never had a man look at her with such focus before. It was unnerving. And she'd just started to blush—a miracle all in itself since she couldn't remember the last time she'd actually blushed—when he looked away in a dismissal so complete it was like he'd struck her. “Come on,” he said in that deep, cold voice, the slightest hint of impatience edging it. “Are you Iris Callahan or not? I haven't got all day.”

Her hackles rose in instant dislike. “Who wants to know?” she asked, not bothering to hide her hostility. Frank would kill her for being so rude to a potential customer, but right now, she didn't care.

That icy blue gaze came back to hers, focusing suddenly and intently.

It felt like he'd wrapped his hands around her lungs and was squeezing what little air she had left out of them.

She blinked again, awareness of the rest of him slowly filtering in. His closely cropped dark hair was military short, framing a face that was lean and tanned, with a hard jaw, high cheekbones, and a nose as straight as a blade. Revoltingly good looking in other words, if you liked that kind of thing of course.

He was tall, over six two, broad shouldered yet long and lean, and she had the impression that beneath the beautifully tailored dark blue business shirt and black suit pants that sat low on his narrow hips, there lurked the coiled, sleek muscular strength of a panther.

A panther? Really?

She almost blushed again at her own ridiculousness. Well, okay, maybe not a panther. But for all that he looked like a very expensive lawyer out slumming it on his lunch break, there was a dangerous edge to him that lawyers definitely didn't have. At least not any of the lawyers she knew. It was a still, focused intensity that reminded her of a cat waiting to pounce.

Then she noticed something else. There was a badge at his hip. The word
cop
blazed in her head for a brief dizzying moment until her brain actually processed the words on the badge.
FUGITIVE RECOVERY AGENT
.

Shit. He was a bounty hunter. Which meant…double shit.

The man didn't answer the question. Instead he continued to stare intently at her as if he knew every single thing about her.

Such as the fact that you skipped bail…

Okay, be calm. She had to be calm.

“Who wants to know?” he echoed, his voice quiet yet somehow cutting through the noise of the bar, a sliver of pure ice. “Zane Redmond. And you're under arrest.”

No point in wondering how he knew who she was or how he'd managed to find her in the first place. If the dick from Dallas had managed to find her, then it wasn't any wonder this asshole had tracked her down too. Yes, she was going to have to figure out eventually what had given her away, but that could wait. First, she had to get out of here.

Iris stared at him, her brain working furiously. Escaping one dude was going to be tricky. But two? One of whom was this guy right here? Maybe beyond her capabilities. Still, she had to try. Being captured by either of them simply wasn't an option, not when it would in all likelihood mean her death.

Fear turned over inside her, but she forced a sweet smile onto her face. “You've got the wrong girl, honey. But if you wait a second, I'll see if I can get Iris for you.”

His gaze narrowed further, looking her up and down, as if he wasn't quite sure whether to believe her or not. Please, God, let him believe her
.
“You've got five seconds,” he said shortly. “Then I'm coming back there to get her.”

Iris sent up a prayer before spinning on her heel and making her way out from behind the bar, then ducking through the doorway that led to the bar's offices and bathrooms. She didn't glance in the direction of the other guy, though she was certain he'd spotted her leaving too. Hopefully he'd think she was going to the bathroom and wouldn't come after her, though there was a chance he'd have spotted the bounty hunter and put two and two together.

The fear coiled tighter. She wished she could have grabbed her purse from behind the bar, but that would have been a complete giveaway. And coming back for it later would be stupid as well—if she managed to get away, that was.

She cursed under her breath as she walked down the hallway, resisting the urge to look behind her. Great. So she'd have to leave with nothing. Again. Story of her whole goddamn life.

Yet it seemed her luck wasn't totally gone, the ladies' bathroom mercifully empty as she stepped inside. Moving swiftly over to the narrow window above the basin, she reached up and fiddled with the catch. It didn't seem to be locked, which was another piece of luck. She shoved the window open then, gripping the sill with shaking fingers, she hauled herself up enough to get her feet on the basin and pushed herself up and through the window.

It was a reasonably tight fit, the window latch snagging on her T-shirt and trapping her. Cursing, Iris tried to unsnag it.

“Hey!” a masculine voice called from behind her. “Where the hell do you think you're going?” Cold, deep, familiar…

Shit. It was him. Zane Redmond, the bounty hunter. He must have gotten suspicious and followed her.

Iris forgot about her T-shirt, trying frantically to pull herself through the window, fear giving her a strength she never knew she possessed. There was a ripping sound as the cotton tore at the same time as a large, warm hand closed around her ankle with punishing strength.

“Got you,” he said.

It was supposed to be an easy job. According to the information Quinn had given him, the skip had been tracked to a dive bar on the outskirts of the city, the kind of place old alcoholics went to die. She apparently worked there, so he'd assumed picking her up from there would be the quickest way to bring her in.

He hadn't bothered with the bulletproof vest that Quinn had thrown at him as he'd left, leaving it in the back of the truck he'd borrowed. The chances of this skip threatening him in a public bar were zero to nil in his opinion.

And sure enough, she hadn't.