On a Knife's Edge (3 page)

She turned to exit the cab, then pivoted back onto the seat.
“You like cookies, don’t you?”

He tilted his head. “’Scuse me?”

“Cookies. I saw you buy some at Felix’s.”

“Yeah…so?”

“I bake a mean chocolate chip. I have a secret ingredient my
mom showed me when I was a kid. It’s cinnamon. It gives the cookies an extra
little zip.”

“And?”

“And would you like me to bake you some? Cookies,” she added
when he didn’t answer.

“Why would you do that?”

“As a thank you for…you know…helping me with the truck.”

“You don’t have to—”

“But I want to. You really saved my ass. And I appreciate
that you didn’t lecture me…you know…about school.”

He shrugged. “I never found lectures to be very useful.”

“Tell that to my brother. All he does is lecture.”

“Yeah, well, he’s just looking out for you.”

“Yeah…maybe…” She swiped her hand over the seat cover. “So
what about the cookies?”

“I won’t turn down homemade cookies.”

She beamed a huge smile. “Great! I’ll make them this Friday
after school.” She lowered her gaze, but her smile remained. “I don’t suppose
you’d let me bring them to your place on Saturday.” She peeked up at him. “Will
you?”

He smothered his grin. “No.”

Her nose wrinkled slightly. “That’s kinda what I figured.
Okay if I drop them off at your mom’s salon?”

“Sure.”

After opening the door, she jumped to the ground.

“Hey…” He pulled the truck fob from his pocket. “Here.”

“Oh…right.” She stepped onto the running board and took the
offering, gracing him with another smile. “Thanks.”

“And what about your stuff in back?”

“Keep it. I wouldn’t be able to explain the beer anyway.”
She hopped down again then paused. She shifted and licked her lips. “Guess I’ll
see you around.”

He stared at her mouth for a moment then met her gaze.
“Yeah. See ya.”

She heaved the door shut and headed for the underbrush
surrounding the elms. He tracked her movement. Fuck she had fine legs. Probably
a fine ass too. But he couldn’t be sorry he’d turned her down. She was just a
kid, and a confused kid at that. She needed to be protected from making some
very bad decisions.

She looked over her shoulder with a smile and a wave. His
lips kicked up as he lifted his hand from the steering wheel in farewell. Then
she disappeared…

Chapter Two

Present day…

LYNCH
CALLAN SPLASHED
cold water on his face and chest, welcoming the biting
slap in the hope it would clear his mind.

He dreamed of her last night.

Fuck
.

He gripped the sink’s stainless steel edge and braced his
arms, his head bowed. He allowed the memory of caramel eyes that sparkled like
a freshly opened bottle of root beer and apple-cheeked innocence to wash over
him. Of a time and place when he had hope for something more.

Something better.

But that hope died long ago. A lifetime ago in Stardust—a
quaint town nestled against the Sierra Mountains just thirty miles south of
Reno, Nevada. Once the judge’s gavel came down, the life Lynch always feared
became his reality…in the state penitentiary, guilty of attempted murder.

A frustrated growl rumbled in his chest. He snatched up the
nearby towel and dried his face.

Shit
.

No use dwelling on things he couldn’t change. He lived this
life now. And his cellmate, Oscar, waited for him in the yard. And when Oscar
wanted him somewhere, he went.

A small, bitter grin twisted Lynch’s month. Oscar.
El
Jefe
. Spanish for boss. Sounded like a character from a bad television cop
show. But no one could dispute Oscar ran this cellblock. Nothing happened
without his knowledge—or permission.

Lynch draped the towel over the sink, pulled his state
issued t-shirt over his head then stuck his arms in the sleeves of the state
issued chambray shirt. Buttoning it, he turned. A shadow filled his open cell
door.

“You Oscar?”

The new inmate, his hands in his front jean pockets, didn’t
seem all that intimidating, but Lynch noted the ugly, irregular prison ink
marring his forearms and the even uglier gleam in his dark eyes. A lifer.

Lynch reached back and grasped his discarded towel with a
blasé shrug. “Nah. He’s in the yard.”

The guy eyed Lynch like a cat would a wounded mouse. “Name’s
Beck. Just transferred in and heard Oscar was the main guy on this block.
Wanted to stop by and…make his acquaintance.”

Bullshit. This meathead didn’t want to make anyone’s
acquaintance
.
He wanted to establish his dominance by challenging
El Jefe
. Well he
could try.

Lynch tightened his grasp on the terrycloth. “Like I said,
he’s in the yard.”

A slow, nasty grin lifted the corners of Beck’s mouth. “You
his guppy? Maybe I’ll make
your
acquaintance first. As a warm-up.”

Lynch permitted his own lips to quirk up. “Have at.
Fucktard.”

Beck’s smile disappeared and he pulled his hands from his
pockets. A short, but no doubt deadly shank glinted menacingly in his right
fist.

Well shit. It probably hadn’t been the best idea to insult
this guy, but live and learn.

Shifting his left leg forward, Lynch angled his body to make
himself less of a target, his muscles tense. He wrapped the towel around his
hand, knowing the cramped quarters would either save or kill. A crap shoot
either way.

Beck weaved the shank back and forth. He feigned a thrust.
Lynch responded with a sweep of his toweled hand, almost knocking the blade
free.

Beck’s eyes widened then tapered into slits. He adjusted his
hold on the makeshift knife. “Guess this ain’t your first rodeo.”

Lynch didn’t bother answering. He kept his gaze trained on
Beck, ready for the next attack—when the unit guard, Johnston, appeared.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.

Beck quickly pocketed his weapon. “Nothing.” He glared at
Lynch. “Right?”

Lynch refused to relax his bearing. “Right.”

Beck backed out of the cell with a warning look. “See you
later. Guppy.”

“Count on it.”

After Beck left, Lynch unraveled the towel and tossed it
onto his top bunk. He looked at the guard. “You need something?”

“Yeah. Your lawyer is here.”

Lawyer?

Lynch didn’t have a lawyer. He’d fired his public defender a
month into his incarceration. But maybe his mom hired him a new attorney.

He dismissed the thought as soon as it formed. With her
beauty salon in Stardust, his mom struggled each month just to make her
mortgage, so paying for legal counsel was out of the question. Plus, aside from
a couple of Christmas cards, he hadn’t had any communication with her, or
anyone else, since he got inside. His choice. He lived in box now and having
contact with people outside that box didn’t benefit anyone.

Johnston blocked his access to the door. “You want to tell
me what was going on between you and that new guy, Beck.”

“Just inmate shit.”

“Anything I need to deal with?”

“Nah. Oscar’ll handle it.”

“Riiight.” Johnston moved to the side. “Just make sure Oscar
handles it when I’m not on shift.”

With a nod, Lynch exited his cell and headed down the narrow
walkway, the guard right behind him. Other convicts moved to the side to make
room.

“I don’t remember you ever having a visit from your lawyer,”
Johnston commented.

“Once.” Lynch stopped at the heavy unit door.

The metal hinges creaked in protest as Johnston opened it.
“You remember the procedure?”

“Has it changed?”

With a small chuckle, Johnston shook his head.

“Didn’t think so.” Lynch descended the three flights of
stairs.

Nothing ever changed in prison. Same schedule, same food,
same shit-brown walls. If you were smart, you found comfort in the fixed
routine. If not, well, you went a little batshit crazy.

All the way to the ground floor, Lynch felt the gazes of the
sharpshooting guards on his head. That was something else that stayed the same
in prison...you were never alone. Not ever.

At the bottom, he walked out into the lower yard. The April
sun warmed his face. At least he thought it was April. Might be May by now.

Lynch sauntered across the expanse of dirt and gravel. Some
convicts shot basketballs into net-less hoops while others lifted weights.
Still others lingered in clusters for supposed protection.

He scanned the nearby area for Oscar even though he knew
Jefe’s
usual post was the handball court on the far side. He needed to tell his
cellmate about Beck. But warning him would have to wait until Lynch finished
his visit.

Another guard, Morgan, met him at the strip-out room. After
disrobing and spreading his ass cheeks for inspection, Lynch redressed then walked
with Morgan down the hall to a semi-private room. Through the window, he saw a
man and a woman sitting at the table their backs to him.

The hairs on Lynch’s neck itched as he walked into the room.
Something wasn’t right. The man sported a Marine buzz cut while the woman had
her auburn hair drawn into a severe bun. Seeing their faces felt like Beck’s
shank had found its mark in his gut.

These two were either former military or feds. Probably
both. Neither of them bothered standing when he sat facing them, his palms flat
on the tabletop. Morgan closed the door and took up his post at the window
looking in.

“Mr. Callan,” the woman said. “I’m Special Agent Emma Jarvis
and this is Special Agent Sam Newman. We’re with the FBI.”

Lynch maintained a neutral expression and studied the first
woman he’d seen in more than seven years. Attractive enough…if you liked the
button-up. G.I. Jane type. Green eyes assessed him through black-rimmed
glasses. She pursed her lips which gave her a pinched look. The firm set of her
chin said she was probably a ball buster. He switched his gaze to Newman. “I
was told my lawyer was here.”

Newman folded his brawny hands on the table. “This meeting
needed to stay as quiet as possible so as not to put a…damper on your life
expectancy.”

Lynch swallowed his snicker. Anyone who got a look at these
two would know exactly who there were. “What do you want?”

“Your help,” Jarvis said.

A smile split Lynch’s face. “My help? In case you missed it,
I’m in prison.”

“We’ve missed nothing, I assure you,” she replied dryly.
“Not even the part that the man you tried to kill is the sheriff of Grant
County. However that doesn’t change the fact that we need your help.”

Lynch tensed at the mention of Dell Albright. Though he and
the good sheriff had grown up as classmates, they never hung in the same
circles. Not unusual considering Dell’s father had been sheriff twenty years
prior to his son and Lynch’s mom had been the old lady to the Streeter VP. Fact
was, Dell hated him. A sentiment Lynch returned.

But Lynch never tried to kill Dell because if he’d
tried
,
he’d have succeeded. His grin widened. “Get me outta here and I’ll see what I
can do to help you.”

“That’s exactly what we intend, Mr. Callan.” She thumbed
open a file.

Lynch sobered. “What does that mean?”

“It means we can arrange a new trial for you.”

Distrust tightened Lynch’s skin. “In exchange for what?”

“Your cooperation with your old biker gang, the 5th
Streeters.”

Lynch’s smile returned. “Biker gang? Oh, you must mean the
5th Street
motorcycle
club.
It’s not a gang, though. Just a bunch
of weekend warriors riding around on their tricked-out Harleys.” He pulled his
lips into a thoughtful frown. “I honestly didn’t even know they were still
around.”

Jarvis flipped over a picture and pushed it toward him. A
man’s hideously bloated face looked up from under harsh autopsy lights. Lynch’s
stomach did a slow roil.

“This is…” Jarvis’s voice hitched slightly. “Was Agent
Olsen.”

She turned over more photos. Lynch immediately recognized
his best friend, Hez along with Rolo, the Streeter president and Flyer, the VP.
There were other club members…Mick, Grunge, Picket. His mom. Plus Ennis and
Tiny—when did those two go from being prospects to full-fledged Streeters?

Jarvis added more pictures…of his crew riding their
respective hogs down Stardust’s main street, the entrance to Rolo’s bowling
alley, which housed the clubhouse in the rear and his mom’s beauty salon.

Nostalgia torqued his heart and clogged his throat. But he
masked his feelings to focus on the faces of the people he didn’t know. He
supposed Agent Olsen populated the group, but he couldn’t pick him out due to
the disfigurement of the first image.

“Jerry…Agent Olsen,” Jarvis continued, “had been undercover
with the Streeters for over three years. He went missing in October. We feared
the worst, then got confirmation last month when a fisherman on Pyramid Lake
snagged his clothing and dragged him to the surface. Weights had been attached
to his ankles, but not enough to keep the body from rising once it started to
decompose.” She leveled a hard stare at Lynch. “Jerry was a good agent. A good
man. He left behind a wife and two young kids.”

Lynch shifted in his seat. “My condolences, but what does
any of this have to do with me?”

A short, neatly trimmed fingernail landed on Olsen’s
distended image. “This is the work of your
gang
.”

“Even if that’s true, I sure as hell don’t know who did it.”

“We realize you don’t know who killed Olsen,” Newman
interjected, opening another file. “Not yet anyway. Things have changed for the
Streeters since you’ve been gone. They’re no longer a nickel and dime
operation, growing and selling weed or extorting protection money from small
businesses. They’ve moved into the big leagues. Smuggling heroin up from
Mexico. Gun running.” He pivoted the file so Lynch could read it. “And more.”

Lynch leaned closer to examine the papers. “What am I
looking at?”

“Missing person reports. Over two dozen young girls, some as
young as twelve, have gone missing in Northern Nevada in the past six months.
But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We discovered reports going back five
years of teenaged, mostly white girls simply…vanishing. Some from as far away
as Portland and Boise.”

An acidic taste coated Lynch’s mouth. He swallowed. “So?”

“So, Olsen learned a man—a Mr. Blackwell—is behind the
disappearances. He supposedly pays ten to twenty-five grand per girl—depending
on her age and whether she’s a virgin.”

“And you haven’t arrested this Blackwell dude because why?”

“Because no one knows what he looks like,” Newman explained.
“No pictures of him exist.”

“But you’re sure he’s connected to these disappearances?”

“Yes. According to our sources in the Mexican Federal
Police, Blackwell resells the girls to Luis Fuentes, a Columbian businessman
headquartered in Mexico City. Fuentes is one mother of a badass. Not only is he
a known human trafficker with international ties stretching from the
Philippines to the Middle East, but he’s also
the
go-to guy in this
hemisphere for any dirt bag who wants to start their own private war. Fuentes
can get anything and everything from C4 to AK 47s to missile launchers.”

Lynch sat back. “Okay. Have your Federale friends take care
of Fuentes. That’ll cut the head off the snake and not only stop young white
girls from disappearing on this side of the border, but should put a dent in
the gun trade.”

“It’s not so simple. Fuentes is well connected in the local
police forces. Every time a move is made on him, it ends in a blood bath—for
the Federales. The FBI has formed a joint task force with the Mexican
authorities in the hopes of back tracing to Fuentes from this side of the
border. Agent Olsen was our point man.”

“I still don’t get what this has to do with me or the
Streeters.”

“Your hometown, Stardust, is ground zero for the trafficking
operation. Which means the Streeters are involved.”

An icy fist squeezed Lynch’s heart. “No way…no fucking way
would Rolo have anything to do with something like that.”