A Night of Southern Comfort (16 page)

The governor looked up when he didn’t answer and the surprise on his face was genuine. “Oh my God. You thought she’d stay with you?”

“It doesn’t matter. I made my choice.”
And now you’ll live with it.

“Yes, you did. And now that you’re over your little playtime with Michaela, let’s see if this arrangement can continue to benefit us both.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice to a tone that was almost seductive. “You did quite well. I can use someone like you working for me. I pay very well. What do you say, Cantrell?”

No way in hell.

So that’s how this was gonna work. This wasn’t a onetime deal. He was being offered a permanent position with the Devil. This was his reward for being a complete and total asshole.

If he signed on with the governor, sooner or later he would become just like the people he’d spent his career getting off the street—criminal, immoral, compromising. He could never let that happen. He couldn’t live with himself if Kayla knew he had sold his soul to her father. Even if he couldn’t have her. He would never be that guy—even if it meant staying in Elliott and never going back to DC.

The choice was easy.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the reinstatement letter. Without sparing it a second glance, he ripped it into pieces, grabbed Mitchell and shoved the pieces in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The little rat twisted out of Jack’s grasp and cursed.

A stunned expression took over Governor Eastland’s face.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to say this”—Jack paused as he fought a bubble of laughter from bursting forth—“but you can take this job and shove it”

“You’re crazy.”

“That’s what my mama always said.” With a dry chuckle, he pushed past the both of them and headed for the front door.

He had no fucking clue what he was doing, but it felt damn good.

Once inside, he steered down the hallway toward the holding area in search of Lucky and Terrell. He was riding high on adrenaline and wondered when he’d come crashing down. Didn’t matter. He was going to settle up this case with Terrell, then see if he had any chance with Kayla. Since the governor would arrange for his immediate unemployment, he’d have lots of time to try to change her mind.

Knocking on the interrogation room, he pushed through when he heard Lucky’s invitation. Terrell sat at the table, handcuffs on his hands and feet, two days worth of stubble and the rank smell of fear on his clothes. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed—he’d better get hold of that crying shit or they’d eat him alive in prison.

Lucky sat in a reversed chair, arms propped on the backrest and long legs extended out in front. He looked like the picture of ease but Jack read the tension in the line of his jaw and the irritation in his expression when he nodded in greeting,

“Hey Jack, Terrell’s got something to tell you.” He motioned with his hand for their prisoner to continue.

Jack looked at Terrell and suddenly the warmth of adrenaline was replaced with the cold tingle of dread.

Terrell licked his lips and cleared his throat. “If you cut me a deal, I’ll tell you who I was working for.”

“I can’t promise anything but I’ll talk to the prosecutor and tell him how you helped us out.” Jack kept his expression blank. This was it.

It wouldn’t cost him anything to help Terrell out. The guy had been a screwup since they were kids. It was kind of pathetic at this point. The guy was a wreck.

Terrell nodded and bit at his already chapped lips. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth and the answer that came out wasn’t what Jack had been expecting.

“It was Crystal.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t you know?” Terrell’s expression was puzzled as he looked between the two of them before settling back on Jack. “It’s you Jack. She wants you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Something had crawled into Michaela’s mouth and died. She shifted on the floor, her tongue failing in its attempt to moisten her parched lips. As she moved her head, brain-singeing pain shot from the base of her skull to a spot just behind her eyes. She winced.

Nope, whatever had crawled into her mouth wasn’t dead. It was banging a sledgehammer against the inside of her head.

She swallowed the rise of nausea in her throat and tried to sit up. Her thoughts were a mishmash of images that could have happened anywhere from a few minutes ago to a week ago.

An argument with her father in her office.
That one was a recent memory
.

Jackson pale and silent in his mother’s diner. Her heart clenched.
Much too recent.

Crystal. In her house. Tea.

Oh my God
.

Rolling over, she levered herself up, and leaned heavily against the nearby wall for support. Gasping for air, she desperately tried to control the choking breaths stuttering out of her throat. The skin on her shaking hands stung and she examined the cuts and scrapes that hadn’t been there the last time she could remember. She glanced down her body. Dirt coated her clothes. A tear in her yoga pants. She ached all over and there were patches of skin rubbed raw on her back and feet. She’d been dragged somewhere. Fear seized her.

No. No. No
.

Michaela bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted the hint of copper. The pain centered her, gave her focus, calmed her down so she could think about how to get the hell out of here. Looking around, the first thing she noted was the utter normalcy of the room. Deep chocolate brown carpeting matched the leather of two large sofas positioned to allow an open view of the huge TV on the opposite caramel-colored wall.

She pushed herself to her feet and stumbled over to the closest sofa, leaning on it as she willed her legs to hold her up. When she was fairly certain that she wouldn’t face-plant on the Berber, she lurched over to the entertainment center filled with multiple gaming systems and movies. All war, cowboy, and action titles—not a chick flick among them. This room belonged to a man.

Crystal didn’t have a man.

So, where the hell was she?

A fireplace on the right sported a broad, stone-faced mantle displaying several photographs. She gingerly made her way over. Maybe they’d give her a clue. Blood drained from her face as she recognized the person in the photos—Jackson. Her gaze lingered over his handsome face, her fear mixing with a visceral longing for him.

There were a half-dozen photographs, all taken from a distance and enlarged as evidenced by their grainy finish. They’d been taken all over town. In the Comfort. Getting into his truck. Creepy, voyeuristic evidence of Crystal’s obsession encased by Gucci leather frames and placed with care on the mantle.

She was crazy, out of her mind.

And Jackson had no idea. No idea he was the target or that she’d been kidnapped by Crystal. He wouldn’t be looking for her. He’d chosen her father. She’d told him to stay away from her and she’d meant it, but what she would give for one more minute with him. Because if Crystal stayed true to her words—she was dead.

Time to go.

Michaela surveyed the room, looking for a way out. She paused. No door or opening on any wall. The room had no point of entry and no means of escape.
That’s impossible. How did I get in here?
She pushed herself forward and used her fingertips to feel along the walls for a hidden exit. Shaking with frustration, she grasped the edges of the case furniture, rocking it to see if it covered a concealed door. Fighting the tight rise of panic in her chest, she whirled around at the sound of a lock turning.

A door, now visible in the grooves of the molding, swung open and Crystal stepped inside.

Now
. Adrenaline propelled Michaela across the room and toward the open door. Crystal’s eyes widened, but a cynical smile settled on her lips. She took a half-step back and pointed a gun at Michaela.

…

“Kayla answer the damn phone, baby!” Jack cursed again as her phone switched over to voice mail for the fifth time in as many minutes. He hit redial and tucked the phone under his jaw as he rotated the steering wheel of his truck one-handed and careered into the narrow, pea-gravel driveway in front of Kayla’s house.

Rocketing out of the vehicle without bothering to close the door, he sprinted up the walk and traded his cell phone for his weapon. His only thought was to get to Kayla, make sure she was safe. Then he’d grab Crystal before she finished her grisly plan.

“She’ll kill her,” Terrell had stuttered out in a strangled whine when Jack had launched himself across the table and hauled him out of the seat with a vicious yank.

Police brutality? Hell, yes.

If that’s what it took to get the whole truth out of the slimeball, he’d have shaken his fillings out. Only the persistent pull of Lucky on his arms made him loosen his grip on the orange jailhouse jumpsuit and leave Terrell gasping and shaking in his chair. He’d heard enough and exited the sheriff’s office in a dead run for his truck.

The sound of a car door slamming behind him made him spin around with his gun leveled at the approaching figure.

“It’s Lucky. Stand down, Jack.”

Jack lowered his weapon. “Dammit Lucky, I could’ve shot you. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Keeping you from doing something stupid.” Lucky took position on the opposite side of the front door. “On the count of three?”

Jack nodded and silently counted off three beats before kicking in the door and scanning the hallway. Nothing. With practiced movements, they progressed through the hallway and up the stairs to the interior door of Kayla’s apartment. A quiet turn of the doorknob, and it swung open, revealing the main living space.

She wasn’t there.

Jack’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. For the first time since heading out as a rookie Marine, his blood ran cold with fear. Fear that he’d already failed and Kayla would pay the price.

It had happened before.

“It’s all clear.” Lucky emerged from Kayla’s bedroom. “There are clothes on the bed and some removed from the drawers.” He slipped his weapon into his shoulder holster as he scowled at Jack. “It looks like she went on her own but I’m not buying it.”

“Neither am I.” With shaking hands, Jack holstered his gun and walked over to Kayla’s desk, opened drawers and sifted through the detritus of her life looking for…something. Anything. With a grunt of disgust he slammed the drawer and spun around to pace. “Her car keys are gone but she didn’t leave on her own, I just know it. The Kayla I know wouldn’t let a small-time asshole like me run her off from her practice. She’s spent her life dealing with her father and compared to that guy, I’m a real amateur.”

“True enough.” Lucky nodded, biting his lower lip. “I think Crystal got to her before Terrell started spilling his guts. Her office said she was there two hours ago, so she doesn’t have too much of a jump on us.”

“I just can’t believe I didn’t see it for myself.”

“You went out with her, what—once? How were you supposed to know she’d decided you were her love connection?”

“It all makes sense now—”

“No, Jack, it doesn’t. She never acted crazy, never boiled your bunny or left love notes on your car. She didn’t act any different than any other woman who’s been interested in you before.”

Jack’s chest constricted tightly and he slumped against the counter where he’d eaten, talked, kissed, and fallen in love with Kayla.

Fallen in love.

Even when she’d offered it to him on a platter, he’d brushed it away as a side effect of hot sex and danger. “Shit. I should have—”

“Oh, no, no, no.” Lucky slashed his hand in the air. “We don’t have time for this ‘shoulda, woulda, coulda’ stuff. Right now I need the old Jack. The Jack who didn’t give a shit about anything but the endgame. Give me that Jack now and you can fall apart later and let Kayla kiss and make it all better.”

“Fuck you.” Jack rolled his shoulders and mentally bitch-slapped himself. “You’re right but you’re still an asshole.”

Time to get his ass in gear.

Time to prove what a good agent he really was.

Time to save the girl. His girl.

“Where do you think she took her?”

“Not far, I’m guessing.” Lucky said. “I don’t think she planned for this to happen today. The whole drama at the Comfort got her going when she saw how torn up you were after Kayla walked out.”

“I didn’t see her there.”

“Yeah, well, you were a little preoccupied.”

“Crystal isn’t that big and Kayla wouldn’t have gone voluntarily. I figure she was unconscious.”

“Right. And she couldn’t have taken Kayla far without being seen unless she could conceal her—a car, maybe?” Lucky walked over to the window, and reviewed the scene. “Sheriff Burke and the others are out looking for her car so maybe we should focus on where she could go on foot.”

“The closest place is her house,” said Jack.

Lucky shook his head. But remained looking at the street. “Too visible. Right here in the middle of town?”

Jack paced, covering the solid wood floorboards with impatient strides that echoed off the walls in the too-silent house. Stopping at the dining table, he examined his pile of files, papers, data—all useless in his search for Kayla. A few days ago, he’d stood here with Kayla and gone over all the information in search of the psycho who ended up being a woman he’d taken out to dinner and a movie.

He’d missed it completely, never thinking for a minute that he was the target or that Crystal should be a viable suspect.

He flipped open the thin file on the woman who was obsessed with him. He knew little about Crystal except she’d grown up dirt-poor in the trailer park just outside of town and had used her considerable physical assets to make sure she didn’t stay there. She’d hit the jackpot with husband number three and landed the big antebellum mansion next door and proceeded to make the Robertsons respectable after years of bootlegging and other borderline criminal behavior.

He froze. Goose bumps crawled along his skin until they ended in a prickle of heat on the back of his neck.

Bootlegging.

Oh, hell.

He was moving before he remembered to shout over his shoulder. “I know how she took her.”

Lucky’s answering curse was muffled by the sound of Jack’s own boots pounding down the stairs to the lower floor and the old garage area. The door was locked but he shouldered it open, gun drawn and safety off as he headed over to the trap door in the middle of the floor. The lock was off and the dusty floor showed signs of recent activity.

Lucky skidded up behind him.

Lucky unholstered his weapon as well and pointed it at the door. They knew what to do without speaking, years of hunting together as boys paying off in this moment where the stakes were high and seconds counted.

On the silent count of three, Jack wrenched up the door, scanned the floor below and jumped in. Lucky covered him. He whipped out his penlight and shone it down the dark, musty tunnel as Lucky lowered to the ground behind him. Lucky’s light added a little more definition to the gloom.

Jack took a deep breath, his gut twisting as he noted the scuff marks in the dirt floor—one set of footsteps intermittently wiped out by the clear pattern of someone being dragged behind. They were on the right track.

Hang on, baby
.

Kayla was tough. She was a fighter and she’d stay alive until he could find her. Then he would turn his back on the FBI and spend the rest of his life living in cookie-cutter suburbia with only one identity—the man who loved Kayla Cantrell.

“C’mon, Lucky. Let’s go get my girl.”