Chapter Fifteen

“How much longer are we supposed to wait?”

At Dixon’s question, Blake peered at the wall clock hanging above Dallas Heat’s stage. Three a.m. The witching hour…or as he called it…showtime. Nothing good went down in the middle of the night. Murder, mayhem and mischief. Things that went bump in the night.

His Glock, hidden beneath his shirt, pressed against his side.

He was one of those bumps in the night, only his present company didn’t have a clue.

This long-awaited meeting between Cherie and the steroids ring higher-ups, on the pretext of expanding their customer base to Houston, had to go off without a hitch. No room for error, especially when he was outnumbered. And alone. This delay made him twitchy and put his guard up. When things veered off-plan, he couldn’t protect himself against what he didn’t see coming. The possibility existed that, if all went south, he might not make it through the night alive.

He propped one ankle over his opposite knee to give the digital recording device in his pocket a better auditory signal. Tonight’s documented conversation would be critical evidence for his planned takedown. Since his investigation into Briarton LLC had hit a dead end, he needed Cheri to name her backers, one of whom had to be the steroid ring’s leader. Getting Cheri, Coach Lewis and Bill Wilson’s names on the record was also critical. Pete Landon might join the group’s list too, depending on the forensics report from his devices.

Reese’s decision to turn over the laptop and phone moved him deeply. She loved her father with fierce loyalty, but she’d proved she wouldn’t cover for her family, either. Did any of her affection, her allegiance extend his way now?

Their past week together had been incredible. He’d made love to her every night with a fierceness, his body expressing what he hesitated to vocalize. He was falling in love with her, and he didn’t know what the hell to do about it. She’d never forgive him for putting her father behind bars, yet the closer he came to solving the case, the likelier that possibility loomed.

Cherie released a stream of smoke, then tapped the ash from the tip of her cigarette into a martini glass. “We wait till he gets here.”

“So, who am I meeting?” Blake eyed the empty, dimly lit space, assessing escape routes should shit hit the fan. The air smelled tasty and restless, like kamikaze shots and residual pheromones.

“Guess we’ll see when they get here,” Cheri smirked. She’d done something funny to her hair. Slicked it back so it looked like she’d stepped straight out of a shower, makeup intact. “Could be a surrogate or the big cheese.”

The door clicked open, and all eyes swerved to the figure striding through the entranceway. Blake froze. He knew that face. They’d never met, but he’d seen the photo posted at his bureau.

Tim Light, the cop who’d been missing since Frank’s shooting, slid into their booth, his windbreaker sagging, his eyes sunk deep. “Boss isn’t coming.” He nodded in Blake’s direction, not recognizing him, luckily, since he was new to the department, had subbed in for one of Reese’s house guards and hadn’t crossed paths with Blake that night. “So, this is the asshole you dragged me here to meet?”

One that wants to fucking kill you…

Jesus. The police were part of this ring…maybe even running it. Blake’s heart beat double-time, his thoughts racing to catch up with his eyes. Un-freaking-believable. Tim was a street cop. How much further up the ladder did this go?

Blake unclenched his hands and slipped on a cocky smile.

Stay cool.

“I’m your Houston distributor.”

Tim snorted. “We’ll see. Boss wants to know who you reported to over there. And Dixon, pour me a goddamn drink already.”

Dixon scampered to the bar. An acrid blast of Cherie’s cigarette smoke blew past Blake’s chin.

“Who’d you report to?” Tim repeated, staring at Blake with bloodshot blue eyes, testing him. Blake could hear his breath, heavy puffs through his nose, in the overheated air. The cleanup crew had powered off the A/C hours ago.

“Greg Santos.” Blake swirled his ice water then set it down. “Are we gonna play twenty questions, or get down to business? Ain’t got all night.”

Cop-killer Tim leaned forward and jabbed a thick finger across the table. “Then maybe you ain’t got time to work for us.”

Cherie trailed a fingertip down Tim’s beefy forearm. “Hey. We can trust him. He already gave me thirty g’s in advance. This guy’s legit.”

Tim’s face pulled into a grimace of pure disbelief. “Where is it, then?”

Dixon hustled back, a couple shots in one hand, a gym bag hanging from the other. He passed over one of the glasses and the cash envelope.

Tim lifted a stack of hundred-dollar bills and fanned through it with his thumb. “How much juice can you move?”

“Four times that a month.” Blake nicked the other whiskey from Dixon and drained it one gulp.

Tim tucked the envelope in his pocket and raised his shot. “Now we’re talking.”

Blake angled his head and squinted at the rogue cop. “I need assurances. Coverage. Don’t want trouble with the cops again.”

Tim guffawed. Blake dug his nails into his thighs to keep from lunging across the table and ripping his head off. “You won’t have any trouble,” Tim assured him.

A bluff or the truth?

Blake leaned in, close enough to see every coarse hair of the bastard’s stubble. His breath stank of whiskey, his clothes smelled of stale smoke and his sweat reeked with acrid betrayal. This near, Blake could draw blood a dozen ways. Every muscle in his body clenched, holding him back. “How can you promise that?”

Dixon broke open a peanut shell and dumped its meat into Tim’s outstretched hand. “We’ve got friends in law enforcement,” Tim bragged, chewing.

Friends…plural.

“Here or in Houston?”

Tim shrugged. “Both.”

It took every ounce of training to conceal the chasm splitting Blake’s mind. The thoughts, the beliefs, the goals he’d long held, tumbled into it. Gone. Sunk into an abyss too dark for him to see clearly…certainly not the black-and-white view that’d made life crystal clear before now.

Reese had warned him about his limited perspective. Had it made him blind to corruption in his own precinct?

Don’t think about that now.

He compartmentalized. After making a mental note to contact the Houston narcotics department, as well as initiate an internal investigation of his own, he pressed on.

“Who’s my contact if things get hot?” Blake asked, needing names. Undercover exchanges were a delicate dance. Too specific and you aroused suspicion, stay too vague and you got nowhere.

The group around the table swapped long looks. Finally, Tim said thickly, “Carter Harris. A former beat cop. He made detective and transferred to Houston’s cold-case unit six months ago. He’s with us.”

A beat of grim satisfaction tolled inside at the name. “What about here?” Blake peeled the shell of a peanut, then tossed one back. “Who do you report to?”

“Who says I do?” An irritable note entered Tim’s voice. Time to change topics and circle back to it later. Tim was a surrogate, which meant someone else served as the ring’s leader. Coach Lewis took orders from Cherie, and Pete was incapacitated, which ruled them out as top dogs…

“Who’s supplying me the materials?” Blake tipped back his chair and balanced on its back two legs. “Where’s the pick-up?”

“Aces Up Casino. We’ll give your name to Bill Wilson,” Cherie supplied. “He runs that part of the operation.”

Bingo. Blake clamped back a smile. Another name on the record.

“How long before your lab is up and running down there?” Tim demanded, shooting a sharp glance at Cherie. Red rose in her cheekbones.

“Depends. I could use some help.” Blake laced his fingers behind his head. Open body language. His posture conveyed “completely unconcerned” despite the electricity jittering through him. Fight or flight was an autonomic response. Hiding those tells required extreme discipline, training and cunning. Over the years, he’d honed all three, giving him the highest solve rate in his department despite being the youngest. One more crackdown, and he’d earn the coveted DPS Criminal Investigations promotion.

Don’t get ahead of yourself.

“I’d like to look at your conversion lab,” he continued smoothly. “Where’s it at?”

“Why?” Tim’s voice sharpened with suspicion.

Blake curled his lip. “Just thought I’d see how you do things. Keep up the standard.”

“We’ll see,” Tim grumbled, not completely mollified.

“And I’ll need bottling and labeling machines,” Blake continued, playing his ambitious-distributor part to the hilt.

Tim shook his head, giving a small smile of pure disgust. “Jesus. What the fuck does this guy bring to the table?”

“Connections.” Blake held up a thumb. “Customers.” Thumb and finger. “Profit.” Another finger. “Me.” He pointed back to himself.

Cherie’s elbow cut off Dixon’s guffaw.

“What proof do we have he can deliver any of the things he just ticked off, mainly profits?” Tim’s pug nose wrinkled hard enough to make it disappear, save for his oversized nostrils.

“I was their top seller before the sting,” Blake said matter-of-factly, no bragging, just conviction. “Still got plenty of loyal customers, and my base will grow once I’m set up. Our last distributor was sloppy, and I don’t make mistakes. I’ll guarantee you a million in sales in the next twelve months.”

There was a small, dry chip of silence while that fell through the air. “So, what’s our cut?” Tim demanded.

“Fifteen percent.”

Tim laughed at the top of his lungs, right in Blake’s face. “With us setting you up like that?” He turned to Cherie and Dixon. “This guy thinks he’s a comedian.”

Cherie giggled obligingly. She elbowed a silent Dixon into chuckling, his expression confused over all the mixed signals.

“I never joke about money,” Blake said offhandedly, a smirk twisting his lips.

“Fifty percent.” Tim’s jaw clamped hard. His hands curled into fists.

Blake stared back, still grinning. “Twenty-five.”

“Thirty.”

Blake drew out the moment, stonewalling, then nodded. “Deal. Who’s going to finance me?” he asked, returning to the important business of determining Briarton LLC’s members. “The 30 g’s I gave you only goes so far. Can you hook me up with the same money source funding Cherie? Bulk Gym?”

“Hey!” huffed Cherie.

Tim shot her a slit-eyed, sideways glance, held up his empty glass and shook it at Dixon. “We’ll get back to you on that.”

Dixon slid from the booth then whirled when the front door burst open. Blake’s pulse slammed as Shane O’Neill, the officer he’d glimpsed at Bulk Gym buying steroids, the rookie street cop who’d nearly botched Blake’s meth sting last year, strode to their corner table.

“Lewis called. Said Bill spotted DEA agents over at the casino tonight,” he huffed, as though he’d just run from Oklahoma. “They were undercover, but he recognized one.”

Blake twisted in his seat and surreptitiously drew his Glock. Shit. He was about to get made.

A round of swearing howled from the group.

Shane’s eyes landed on Blake then widened. He blinked hard, like that might clear his vision. “Motherfucker!” He pointed dead at Blake and drew his gun. “I know this guy. He’s a narc.”

A beat of stunned silence, then— “The fuck he is,” Dixon exclaimed, like it’d punched its way out of him.

Cherie scrambled under the booth. In one move, Blake grabbed Dixon, stuck his handgun to his head and stared down the barrels of two Dallas police-issued Glocks.

“Drop your weapons,” Blake commanded.

Shane joined Tim’s mocking laugh, and Cherie slithered back up into her seat. “Go on, shoot him. Like we care.”

“Cherie,” Dixon pleaded.

The redhead shrugged, then tried and failed to light a cigarette with trembling fingers.

Shane circled, his gun steady on Blake while Tim jerked his head. “Dixon, get over here,” he ordered, calling Blake’s bluff. “And drop your weapon, narc.”

Air hissed from between Blake’s clenched teeth; his handgun clattered to the floor. Damn it. Tim knew official policy wouldn’t allow Blake to take a hostage, let alone kill one. At his shove, Dixon stumbled forward to Cherie’s side.

“Now kick it over here,” Tim ordered, gesturing with his gun. “Shane, pat him down.”

Blake’s eyes darted every which way, assessing his limited options. Shane’s searching hands missed the recording device hidden in Blake’s pocketed pen cap. One positive in this mess: he’d have plenty of evidence if he escaped. A big if. He was outgunned, with civilians at close range. At a minimum, he needed to get outside to take down these assholes.

“Come on, we’re taking you on a ride,” sneered Tim, taking care of that issue.

“A little sightseeing tour,” chuckled Shane, butting Blake in the back with his pistol. “Hunt Hill bridge has got one hell of a view. Real pretty. And real high.”

As they passed the table, Tim pointed at Dixon and Cherie. “You too.”

“What’d I do?” Dixon’s face resembled a wax statue, white and immobile.

“He brought the narc to me.” Cherie gave up and tossed down her lighter and cigarette. “I swear I didn’t know,” she choked out.

“You could both be snitches like Pete,” Tim’s gun swerved between the sweating duo. “We’re not taking any chances.”

Pete as in Pete Landon? Which one of these guys was the shooter?

Adrenaline drove hard in Blake’s bloodstream as they marched toward a souped-up Camaro. The burned-out parking lot light had been replaced, illuminating the deserted space. Crouched shadows watched them from distant corners. An unseen cat wailed nearby. No Escalade, which meant only two armed, trained officers to deal with. He had to subdue them and keep Cherie and Dixon from running.

As they passed by a dumpster, he whirled and slammed Shane’s head into its side. The officer crumpled and Blake ducked to grab his weapon.

A boot heel slammed down on his wrist, pinning it. “Not so fast,” hissed Tim. “You’re going nowhere.”

“Neither are you,” a familiar woman’s voice vowed.

Reese.

She stepped from behind the dumpster, her pistol trained on Tim. With her dark hair in a tight ponytail, black, second-skin yoga pants and a matching top skimming her impeccable body, she looked dead serious and dead gorgeous. “Drop your gun and get on the ground.”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Blake would have grinned. Felt relief, even. Instead, anger and fear fired through him. What the hell was she doing here? He’d left her sleeping heavily when he’d slipped from their bed after midnight. Behind him, a waking Shane groaned.

Less thinking, more action.

With Tim distracted, Blake snatched up Shane’s gun. He pointed it as he scrambled to his feet. “Drop your weapon. Now!”

Tim’s Glock clattered to the asphalt. “Ah, come on, man.” Shane’s eyes darted over Blake’s shoulder. The drowning-man hope struggling on his face was terrible. “You wouldn’t shoot a fellow officer.”

Despite everything, Blake hesitated. He ran straight into lethal danger to protect his brothers in blue. Harming one? It went against everything he knew and who he was.

“But I would.” Reese advanced and fired, her shot whistling by Blake’s head. Someone screamed behind him, and Blake whirled.

Shane writhed on the ground, Blake’s gun in his hand. Blood soaked his lower left side.

Blake gaped at the officer who’d nearly ambushed him, then back at a steely eyed Reese. She’d just saved his life.

“You bitch,” snarled Tim. He smacked her gun away then clobbered her so hard she crashed to her knees.

The world flashed red. The fucker. Blake popped Tim in the calf and the asshole dropped to the asphalt, clutching his bleeding leg and moaning.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Cherie bolting, Dixon fast on her heels.

“Halt or I’ll shoot,” he hollered, raising his gun, and they skidded to a stop. “On the ground. Arms and legs spread.”

Cherie and Dixon flopped to the pavement.

When he turned, Reese had her gun trained on the two downed officers. “You so much as blink, and I’ll blast you,” she growled when Tim raised his head. He dropped it back to the asphalt and closed his eyes. Shane lay still, only his lips moving as he mumbled something indistinguishable.

“What are you doing here?” Blake demanded as he pulled out his phone, dialed dispatch and waited for them to pick up.

“What am I doing here?” Reese’s voice shook. “What are you doing here? What happened to being partners? Sharing everything? Huh?”

He held up a finger when the dispatcher came on the line, requested back-up and medical, and pocketed his phone. “This was too dangerous.” Relief swept through him when he checked his recording device. Still on.

A shaky laugh escaped her. “No shit, Sherlock. And you’re damn lucky I got here.”

He blew out a huge breath. “How’d you find me?”

“I overheard you and Dixon talking earlier about a meeting here, but since you didn’t mention it, I assumed it wasn’t tonight. When I woke up alone, I just jumped in my Jeep and drove. I kept feeling…I kept feeling…” She pressed trembling lips together for a moment then continued, her voice wobbly, “I kept feeling that you might be in danger. That I might not make it in time.”

He shook his head, marveling. “How’d you know I was in danger?”

She scanned the sky and shrugged. “A hunch. I can’t explain it, but I just felt it. Felt you.”

Their eyes locked, and he wished like hell he could hold her. In the distance, sirens wailed, growing louder as they approached.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the meeting.” His words were inadequate, but his spinning mind kept him from saying more.

She nodded and turned away, her eyes glistening.

Twenty minutes later, Cherie and Dixon cuffed and in the back of a departing squad car, Shane and Tim on their way to the hospital, Blake watched Reese as she calmly gave her statement to a nodding uniform who jotted down her words on a small pad.

What a woman.

He’d survived the night and was close to catching the group’s masterminds—something impulsive Reese made possible by putting herself in danger. Funny how the things that drove him crazy also made him want her, in his bed and in his life. He admired her tenacity, courage, and selflessness in putting his safety ahead of her own. She went with her gut instead of her head, but this time, it saved his ass.

As much as that side of her frustrated him, he loved it too. Loved her, he realized.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Would she still want him when he eventually cuffed her father? He ached when he realized all he stood to lose.