On a Knife's Edge (20 page)

“Come on, Callan,” Jarvis said. “We need to go.” She nodded
to Shasta. “Mrs. Dupree.”

“Ms…Agent Jarvis.”

The agents and Lynch existed the building while Shasta
guided Wyatt toward the break room. But on the way, her legs wobbled and she
nearly fell.

Oh my God…Lynch saw Wyatt
.

She leaned on a desk, a hand to her forehead.

“Mom…Mommy…you okay?”

Straightening, she forced a smile and nodded. “I’m fine,
honey. Let’s get you that lemonade.”

In the break room, she situated Wyatt on a tall stool and
retrieved a glass from the cupboard, her thoughts reeling.

Had Lynch noticed any family resemblance? His behavior indicated
he hadn’t, but that didn’t make her feel better. In hindsight, she’d been damn
lucky father and son never met face to face before now. She poured the yellow
liquid and set it on the table.

Wyatt grasped the paper cup both hands. “Mom, who was that
man?”

“Um…someone Mommy and Uncle Dell knew a long time ago.
Careful not to spill, okay?”

“What’s FBI?”

“A special kind of policeman.” She cut up an apple, more to
give her something to do than to feed Wyatt. He’d had lunch less than an hour
ago.

“So that man’s a policeman like Unca Dell?”

She paused in placing the apple slices on a plate. Lynch
assisting in an FBI investigation? What investigation, and for how long? Was
this the real reason behind his release from prison? Was this investigation
dangerous?

Wyatt pulled at her hand. “Is he a policeman, too?”

“In a way, yes.” Plate in hand, she sat next to Wyatt.
“Here, honey.”

He looked at the offering, a slight frown on his mouth.
“Mom, can I play Doodle Jump on your phone?”

“Sure.” She set up the game then absently nibbled on a piece
of fruit, watching Wyatt concentrate on the tiny screen.

She knew the older Wyatt got, the more he’d favor Lynch.
Already, his hair bleached out in the summer. Besides the memorizing blue eyes,
dad and son also shared the same strong chin and Roman nose. It’d be just a
matter of time before everyone in Stardust knew who fathered Wyatt—including
Graham. But would that be such a bad thing? Wasn’t it time the truth came out?
Didn’t Lynch deserve to know he had a son? Didn’t Wyatt deserve to know his
real father? She wasn’t a child any longer. She should take responsibility for
her past actions.

And if Lynch now worked with the FBI, did that mean he’d
given up his unlawful, biker ways? That he’d decided to walk the straight and
narrow? To be respectable? And if that were the case, didn’t that also mean she
could be with him?

Realization shrank her vision down to nothing as pain sawed
through her chest.

Shasta cradled her head in her hands, her eyes shut,
fighting the sudden onset of vertigo.

Oh. My. God.

She still loved Lynch.

Even after everything—his criminal past, the accusations
against him, the seven long years of him being in prison—she still loved him.
Still wanted to be with him. To have a life with him…forever.

But what about Graham? Could she be so selfish, so cruel as
to leave him? For Lynch? Is that how she repaid the man who did so much for her
and Wyatt? Who’d helped and supported her for the last seven years? Who saved
her from her reckless youth?

No. It wasn’t.

Graham once suggested they relocate to Vegas where his
security firm was based. But she’d been cool to the idea of leaving Stardust.
She claimed small town living would be better for Wyatt than a big, impersonal
city. If she were honest though—brutally honest—her wanting to stay had more to
do with wanting to keep the memories of Lynch alive in her heart.

Not any longer, especially if Lynch remained in Stardust.

She sat taller, her decision made. When Graham called
tonight, she’d discuss moving to Vegas. She just hoped it wasn’t too late…

Chapter Twenty-One

DUE
TO A
family emergency, Streeter Bowling Alley will be closed until
further notice.

Lynch stared at the handwritten sign hanging on the glass
door, his hands on his hips.

After going to the DA’s office, and being told Murphy would
be in a Reno courtroom all day, he and Jarvis and Newman drove to the Streeter
MC to confront the president about a few things.

Since when did Rolo shut down the lanes on a Monday for any
occasion other than Christmas, Thanksgiving or New Year’s? And a family
emergency? Lynch didn’t think so. All the Streeters knew the alley business in
case something like this came up.

He spun and marched back to the sedan where the FBI agents
stood waiting. “Something’s not right.” He gripped the backdoor handle. “Let’s
head over to Rolo’s house.”

Jarvis heaved a sigh. “I've got better things to do than
chauffeur you around. I still say putting out an APB for Pruett is the best
call.”

Lynch climbed into the backseat. “But I want the chance to
look Rolo in the eye and ask him myself what the hell is going on.”

“Fine.” Irritation laced Jarvis’s voice as she slid behind
the wheel.

The only conversation on the drive into the country was
Lynch’s terse directions. He knew the agents were unhappy, but didn’t care. He
needed to hear first-hand from the Streeter president how the fuck their
private conversation ended up recorded. And in the hands of the cops. As much
as he maintained—and wanted to believe—Rolo was innocent, the evidence said
otherwise.

“This is it,” he stated.

Jarvis slowed the sedan, turned right and eased to a stop.
If Lynch had a funny feeling before, his internal alarm system jumped to full
alert. There weren’t any cars in the carport and Rolo’s hog was also missing.

Lynch supposed father and daughters could be out, but out
where? He exited the car and stared at the house. The curtain fluttered in the
large picture window then metal flashed in the sunlight. He ducked. “Gun!”

A barrage of bullets peppered the sedan, shattering glass
and puncturing tires. Both Jarvis and Newman scrambled through the passenger
door and slammed it shut, their guns drawn.

Jarvis glowered at him. “Got any other smart ideas, Callan?”

Lynch scowled back. “Yeah…gimme a gun.”

She pulled her backup revolver free of its holster and
handed it to him. Lynch took aim over the trunk and fired. The agents did the
same using the hood as cover. The gun barrel in the window jerked into the air.

Lynch knelt. “I’m gonna try to get around back. Cover me.”

Jarvis nodded, adjusting her stance. “On three. Three…two…”
She and Newman leaped up and unloaded their clips. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

Crouched low, Lynch raced to the left, behind an oak tree.
He paused for a heartbeat then scuttled from his hiding place. Bullets
ricocheted off the dirt, scurrying him back to safety.

Heart pounding, he peeked around the trunk—and just about
got his head blown off from a shooter in the kitchen window. He hunkered down
again, swallowed the dryness in his throat and counted to five. At five, he
darted out, shot four rounds at the small window then dodged back.

A surreal silence pressed against his eardrums. He shifted
position so he could see the car. Jarvis stared at him from behind the sedan.
The agent nodded once and slowly stood, her gun trained on the house. Lynch
rose as did Newman. Guns at the ready, they advanced.

On the porch, Jarvis took position on one side of the
door…Lynch and Newman on the other. She tried the knob. When it didn’t turn,
she retracted her hand and Newman kicked it in.

“Federal agents,” she called.

No response.

She nudged her head to Newman who slid through the doorway
opposite her. Lynch followed them into the house.

A mess of broken glass, wood splinters and couch stuffing,
along with busted picture frames cluttered the floor. Bullet holes marred the
walls. A body laid under the window, bleeding from several wounds to his upper
chest and head. Lynch recognized him as Virgil…one of Junkyard’s lackeys. Using
her foot, Jarvis swiped the AK47 away from Virgil’s lax grip.

Newman moved down the hallway as Jarvis and Lynch approached
the kitchen.

Another shooter sat sprawled on the linoleum next to the
table, the blood stain on his t-shirt spreading by the second, but still
conscious. Cam…another Junkyard henchman. Cam feebly tried to point his assault
rifle at Jarvis using one hand.

Jarvis stiffened her arms and aimed her pistol right at the
guy’s head. “Federal agent. Drop your weapon.”

With a defiant stare, Cam continued to lift his gun.

“Don’t do it,” she warned.

Cam glared harder, but didn’t have the strength to raise his
weapon. It clattered to the floor. She kicked it out of reach then bent down
and removed the Glock from his belt. Cam’s eyes rolled back into his head.

Lynch squatted beside him and gripped his shirt. “Where’s
Rolo?”

Cam centered his bleary gaze on Lynch. “Go to hell,” he
slurred. His eyes closed as his body sagged.

Lynch stood. “You first.”

Jarvis holstered her gun. “Would’ve been nice to keep one of
them alive to question. You know either of them?”

“Yeah. This one’s Cam and the other’s Virgil. Both part of
Junkyard’s crew.”

A loud ringing erupted from Cam’s body. Jarvis pulled out a
rubber glove, leaned over and extracted a cell phone. It rang again then
stopped.

She checked the ID. “Blocked call.”

Newman came in. “Bedrooms are clear.”

“Clear here too,” Jarvis replied, setting the phone on the
table. “Better call in this shit show, Sam, and get some of the agents assigned
to the Weedly case out here. We’re gonna need help processing the scene. If
possible, have the guys try
not
to let the sheriff know what happened.
At least not yet.” She looked at the disarray with a sigh. “The paperwork on
this will be brutal enough without Albright going ballistic.”

Newman grabbed his phone and went back into the living room.

The cell on the table rang again. Twice.

Jarvis shot her gaze to Lynch. “A signal?”

Lynch shrugged. “Hell if I know, but it makes sense.”

“Once the tech guys in Reno get it, they might be able to
back-trace the call.” A thump from the back of the house had the agent
redrawing her weapon. “What’s back there?”

“Rolo’s office.”

Her eyebrows arched as she inclined her head for Lynch to
lead the way. He crept down the short hallway, Jarvis right on his ass, and
stopped outside the closed door. The agent stood on the other side.

He knocked once. “Rolo? Brother? You in there? It’s me.”

A muffled sound answered.

Jarvis held up three fingers and nodded to the knob. Lynch
wrapped his hand around it, the brass slightly cool against his sweaty palm.

Two fingers. He turned it.

One finger, he threw open the door, crashing it into the
wall.

“Federal agent,” Jarvis said again, her body plastered
against the wall for protection and her gun pointed inside the room.

Lynch craned his head around the door jamb. The bright
afternoon light hitting the west window illuminated a shirtless and bloodied
Rolo, gagged, sitting in the chair beside his desk, his hands bound behind him.
A quick glance indicated no one else.

Lynch slipped Jarvis’s backup revolver into the waistband of
his jeans and hurried to the Streeter president. The stench of body odor,
antiseptic and decaying flesh made his eyes water.

Rolo looked beyond rode hard and put away wet. Bruises
colored his cheeks and jaw while both his eyes were so swollen, Lynch didn’t
think he could see. Blood oozed from the multitude of cuts on his torso, arms
and face. And he’d been shot in the right shoulder with the injury crudely
doctored. A bottle of rubbing alcohol along with a container of salt sat on the
desktop.

“I’ll get some water and call for an ambulance,” Jarvis
said, walking out.

Lynch carefully pulled the gag off Rolo’s mouth. “What the
hell happened, brother?”

Rolo licked the dried blood on his lips. “Bowyer and a
couple of his goons showed up.” His voice sounded hoarse.

“And they did all this? What the fuck for?” Lynch extracted
his knife and cut the zip-ties holding Rolo’s wrists.

“Wanted my girls.” With his arms free, nothing kept the big
man anchored to the chair. He slid to the floor with an agonized groan.

Lynch caught him and propped him against the front of his
desk, but he sagged to the side. “Easy, brother…” Lynch knelt beside Rolo.
“I've got you…gonna just sit you up here…what’s wrong with your legs?”

“They broke ‘em.” Rolo held up his badly misshaped hands.
“Knuckles too.” He glanced at the door. “Did your lawyer just say she’s a fed?”

“Yeah. Both her and Newman are with the FBI. Where’s Bowyer
now?”

“Dunno. What the fuck you doin’ with the FBI?”

Lynch peeled the dressing from Rolo’s shoulder. Pus caked
the bullet wound. He grimaced at the reek of infection. “You’re a smart man.
Figure it out.”

Rolo tipped his head up, anger glinting in his slotted eyes.
“Thought something was up the way you got out. Too fucking easy. You’re working
with the goddamn feds. Shit…”

“Me working with the feds is the least of your worries. Why
did Bowyer want your daughters?”

“’Member the young girl I told you about? The one in the
warehouse?”

Lynch’s stomach squeezed. “Yeah.”

“That’s why.” A croaky chuckle pushed past his lips. “But
didn’t tell ‘em shit…pissed Bowyer off huge. Pour salt…alcohol on me…still
didn’t tell ‘im nuthin’.”

“So where are your girls?”

The president’s mouth quirked up as his posture flagged. “A
place nobody’s knows…not even me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Me neither…till I found it…found it all over the house…”
Rolo’s voice drifted off and his eyes closed, his chin lolling down to his
chest.

Lynch jostled his uninjured shoulder. “Hey…stay with me,
brother. You found what all over the house?”

Rolo jerked with an incoherent mumble, but didn’t regain
consciousness.

Jarvis reentered the room with a towel slung over her arm
and carrying a basin. “Paramedics are on their way. Here’s a clean rag and some
hot water. How is he?”

“Bad.” Lynch took the water, dipped the cloth in it then wrung
it out. “They tortured the shit out of him, but didn’t want him dead.” He
gently swabbed sweat from Rolo’s forehead.

“Did he say anything?”

“Yeah, that Bowyer was behind this. Guess he wanted his
daughters.”

“Did he get them?” Apprehension rang in Jarvis’s voice.

“Don’t think so. If they had, I doubt Rolo’d still be
breathing.” Lynch cleaned the cloth then dabbed at the cuts on the president’s
chest. “He also babbled about something he found all over the house.”

“Probably meant the surveillance equipment Newman discovered
piled in a bedroom. By the looks of things, every room in the house had been
wired with cameras and microphones.”

Lynch’s jaw fell open. “No shit?”

“No shit.” She pointed to the ceiling.

He looked up. Holes of various sizes had been cut into the
drywall.

Jarvis squatted on the other side of Rolo. “And what do you
want to bet this isn’t the only place that’s bugged?” She shook her head.
“That’s how Blackwell managed to stay one step ahead of us. And how your
conversation about Junkyard got recorded. That bastard is one cunning SOB.”

“Jesus.” Lynch plopped onto his butt and scrubbed his hand
down his face. “I knew Blackwell was dangerous, but goddamn…”  He looked at
Jarvis. “He really plays for keeps, doesn’t he?”

She nodded, her features grim. “Yes. But so do I.”

Rolo moaned.

“Brother?” Lynch sat taller and patted his cheek. “Hey…you
hear me?”

The president groaned again.

“Hang in there, ‘kay? Ambulance is on the way.”

Rolo wagged his head. “Can’t...”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t go…hospital.”

“But you have to. You’re in bad shape, man.”

Rolo dragged his tongue along his lower lip. “No…my
girls…can’t have ‘em find me.” His eyelids slowly slid up then down as he
visibly fought to focus on Lynch. “Gotta die.”

“You’re not dying.” Lynch swiped the damp rag over Rolo’s
forehead again.

“Not yet…you…kill me.”

A wintery wind blew across Lynch’s heart.

Rolo did not just ask him—Lynch Callan—to kill him, did he?

“What did you say?”

“Kill…me…please…for my girls…” Rolo labored to swallow. “…if
alive, they’ll find me…please brother…can’t let Bowyer have ‘em…”

“But we’ll get Bowyer and Blackwell. I swear we will. Then
everyone’ll be safe.”

“Can’t risk it.” Moisture seeped from Rolo’s swollen eyes.
“Can’t do it myself…too weak…you gotta…please… don’t make me beg.”

Lynch bowed his head.

Christ
.

He understood Rolo’s fear because if he did survive, his
daughters
would
eventually reach out to their father. That’s how tight
knit they were as a family.

He also knew Blackwell wasn’t only cold-blooded and
ruthless, but brilliantly cagey. No guarantees existed he’d be caught this
time, if ever. And if that fucker lived, Rolo’s girls would never be truly be
out of danger.

Still…kill Rolo? A man he’d known all his life? There had to
be another way. But given how merciless Blackwell was, he couldn’t think of it.

He pulled the gun from his waistband…

“Here…”

Lynch looked up. Jarvis held out the nine mil she’d taken
from the kitchen shooter—and a rubber glove.

He stared at her. For the first time since meeting the FBI
agent, he read compassion in her green eyes. Mutely, he donned the glove before
accepting the gun.