Cheyenne McCray - Point Blank (Lawmen Book 4) (2 page)

Brooks held back a sigh of frustration. “I’m having a hard time believing it, but you see everything in law enforcement.”

Jase’s brows furrowed. “We sure as hell do.”

“I’ll get with you sometime after Wednesday, when I arrive in Denver.” Brooks reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a business card. “My cell number is on here. We’ll schedule a meet and compare notes.”

Jase took the card before pulling out his credentials, stuffing it into the wallet, and sliding out his own card. Jase shoved the creds into his back pocket as he handed Brooks his business card.

Brooks took it and tucked it away. “See you in Denver.”

“I’m looking forward to working with you.” Jase shook hands with Brooks again. “I hear you’re damned good at what you do.”

“Can’t believe every rumor you hear.” Brooks found his lips twitching, almost into a smile. So far, from what he’d seen of Jase, he liked the guy.

“See you in Denver.” Jase turned and headed in the direction Brooks had come from. No doubt Jase was meeting with Sofia, too.

Cool wind chilled Brooks’s face and hands as he opened the door. It had been a mild winter in southeastern Arizona, but the evenings cooled off quickly and he was looking forward to the heat in the cab of his truck once he got the thing started.

He couldn’t get his mind off the case and Natasha, even once he was on the road. It stuck in his mind like a burr irritating his brain. He glanced at the iPad, its screen covered with the leather case, before he looked back to the road.

This assignment was going to be the hardest he’d ever faced. Whatever the outcome, it wasn’t going to be good. Trace would be pissed about being left in the dark, and a young woman might very well end up in prison. But if she was trafficking, it was exactly where she belonged.

He guided his vehicle toward Double Adobe before heading up to Frontier Road where he had a small spread. It wasn’t a working ranch, but it was space. Nothing better than a hundred and sixty acres to call your own with a decent house smack dab in the middle of it and no neighbors for a good mile in any direction.

Originally from Big Sky, Montana, where his family owned and operated a dude ranch on Lone Mountain, Brooks had been used to wide open spaces. But he was also used to a high of thirty degrees in January with an average low of zero at night. It frequently got even colder than that.

Hell, forget the cold. He’d take southeastern Arizona’s January highs in the mid-sixties, with lows in the thirties any day. The rest of the year was even better.

Once he’d gone into DHS, he’d been stationed in Seattle, which had been wet, dreary, and miserable as hell. Forget any wide-open spaces where he’d lived in Tacoma. When he’d had the opportunity to transfer to DHS’s Douglas ICE office, he jumped on it.

The real reason he’d come to this state had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with tracking down the Jimenez Cartel. This case was going to bring him even closer to putting away as many as he could of those ultimately responsible for his sister’s death.

Even though Natasha hadn’t moved to Bisbee until seven months ago, she was now suspected to be a part of the organization that had been the reason he’d gone into ICE.

He slammed his palm on the steering wheel so hard pain radiated through his hand. All he could say was this situation sucked. The whole fucking thing sucked.

His friendship with Trace and Christie could be ruined by his involvement in taking down Christie’s cousin. He hated like hell the choice he was forced to make to achieve his goal of nailing the cartel. Trace might never forgive him.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and clenched his teeth so hard they ached.

The “Survival Bracelet” on his wrist caught his attention. Kelly had it made for him out of military spec paracord from a specialty company. He never took it off—not only because it had been her last gift to him, but also reminded him daily of what his sister had been through and that she was gone. Not that he needed reminding.

As he drove, his mind slipped back to the day he’d arrived in Arizona from Big Sky to visit his older sister, before he started his first year of college.

He’d found Kelly dying in her Douglas apartment. She was passed out from a heroin overdose, the syringe lying next to her.

She died in his arms before the ambulance had arrived. He’d tried everything he could to save her…but it had been too late.

Too fucking late.

The scenery slipped by as he drove and he barely noticed it.

Across the apartment living room had been a strung-out loser, propped up against the wall. He’d been too incoherent to make any sense when Brooks had taken him by the collar and threatened him for information. Later, while the bastard was recovering in the hospital, he spilled everything to the police—where the drugs had come from and how he had convinced Kelly to try the heroine.

Brooks had wanted to kill the sonofabitch in his hospital bed. But more than anything, he wanted to take down the organization ultimately responsible for his sister’s death—the Jimenez Cartel.

He’d changed his major from animal husbandry to criminal justice the moment he returned to Big Sky. Not only did he want to avenge his sister’s death, but he wanted to save others from the same fate.

The pain and anger in his chest expanded. It took effort to calm the fury that burned inside him every time his mind turned to that day.

He slowed his breathing and his racing thoughts and concentrated on the road. It didn’t do any good to relive that day. He had to remain focused and do his job.

His five younger sisters—Marcie, Julia, Roxanne, Stacy, and Laura, still lived in Big Sky. Stacy and Laura were the youngest and lived at home with Mom and Dad on the dude ranch. Marcie had married a good guy a year ago, Julia had a serious boyfriend, and Roxanne studied at Montana State College, working on a marketing degree. Kelly had been born twelve years, and Brooks eleven years, before their younger sisters.

By the time Brooks reached his property, he’d managed to get control of his temper. He had to keep a clear head and that meant not getting emotionally involved. Regardless of the impact it might have on his friends, he had a job to do.

He brought his truck to a hard stop in front of his house, kicking up a cloud of dust that was barely visible in the fading light. He parked and killed the engine, grabbed the iPad, and climbed out of the truck. For a moment he rested his palm on the chilly metal door before slamming it shut and heading for the house.

It seemed that he couldn’t take a step without his mind going to Natasha. He gritted his teeth as he made his way into his home, slamming that door shut, too, and tossing his keys onto the flat surface of a small, elevated plant stand nearby. He hung his Stetson on the rack next to the stand.

His stomach rumbled, but instead of going into the kitchen for dinner, he threw himself onto the overstuffed brown leather sofa in front of the wide-screen wall-mounted TV. He put his booted feet on the barn wood coffee table that matched the end tables. When he’d moved into the home, he’d paid a woman in Bisbee to decorate the place, and she’d made it rustic and livable with handmade furniture. It suited him.

Instead of turning on the TV, he set the iPad in his lap and flipped open the case’s flap and folded it over so that it was behind the tablet. When he touched the Home button, the tablet recognized his fingerprint, and immediately a surveillance photo of Natasha and Mark Okle came up. In the picture, Natasha appeared to be focused on what Okle had to say.

Brooks scowled and swiped his finger across the tablet’s screen to bring up another picture. This one showed her at a trade show, handing a suspected drug supplier one of the statuettes allegedly containing cocaine. If it was indeed stuffed with the same product found in the two resin statuettes ICE agents had gotten their hands on, Natasha Simpson was in deep shit.

When he flipped to the next photo, he paused for a long moment, his heart giving a hard thump. The image was a brilliant color close-up of her alone. The surveillance agent had caught Natasha in a clearly vulnerable moment. Her expression was one of deep concentration, a touch of insecurity, and perhaps sadness, too.

He traced the outline of her face with his fingertip before he even fully realized what he was doing. In that moment, he imagined trailing the pad of his finger along her jawline, down to the hollow of her throat. He almost felt the warmth of her body pressed close to his as he drew her into his arms to comfort her and take away the sadness that didn’t belong in those beautiful eyes.

A low growl rose in his throat and he nearly flung the tablet across the room. Instead, he gripped it with both hands so tightly he thought he might crack the screen. What the hell was he thinking? Just one look at this beautiful woman was enough to make him forget his duty and his responsibilities?

Christ.
His duty was to get to the bottom of things and nail her.

He snapped the flap up and over the iPad so the screen would go dark and hide her image. He tossed the tablet onto the coffee table, swung his boots onto the floor and surged to his feet.

This was bullshit. He didn’t get close to suspects and he certainly didn’t have the urge to comfort them. He was tired and overworked—that had to be the explanation as to why he had these unwanted urges.

His muscles ached with tension and his head throbbed. He strode into the kitchen to fix dinner, determined to get his mind off the assignment and the beautiful Natasha Simpson.

Natasha hummed as she carefully wiped away dust that had settled on one of the cowboy sculptures in her Main Street shop. That was one thing about living in such dry country, even the high desert—dust. And lots of it.

She didn’t mind, though. She liked to touch and caress the lovely pieces she had in her eclectic store. She’d moved to Bisbee seven months ago and had owned the store for almost six months. With the friends she’d made, and the life she’d created, it felt like she’d been here for years. She had bought the store with funds she received when she sold her craft shop in the small town in Indiana where she’d grown up.

As she turned to look at the street running down the center of Old Bisbee, her multicolor long skirt swirled. She loved and almost always wore flowy outfits, as well as color and lots of it. She didn’t get on social media often, but she enjoyed Pinterest. She liked pinning ideas for decorating, works of art, and easy to make recipes.

Her favorite board she had named, “Color makes me happy.” She pinned everything and anything that had to do with color in every shade imaginable. Paintings, photographs, clothes, furniture, stained glass, quilts, cloth, and other normal everyday items in a variety of shades and patterns. When she wanted a pick me up or to feel inspired, she went online and scanned the pictures she’d saved, and that did the trick.

She touched the burnished copper butterfly clip that held back her dark hair, making sure it hadn’t slipped. She had lots and lots of colorful butterflies everywhere—they were a symbol of rebirth and transformation. Without question, the butterfly embraced change in its environment and life. Natasha considered herself to be similar in how well she adapted to changes.

The big picture window in front of her art display gleamed. The gold frames around the original artwork glowed in the late afternoon sunlight.

The warm light that spilled into the shop caused the old-fashioned gold lettering to glitter on the glass.
Precious Treasures
arced across the window, and in the lower right hand corner, also in gold, was the store’s website address, natashasprecioustreasures.com
.

Her cousin, Christie, made sure Natasha was always up to date on anything to do with the Internet, websites, mobile sites, and social media. All of that tech stuff pretty much sailed over Natasha’s head and she happily left it up to her cousin, who served as the store’s social media manager. Christie had several paying clients, but had insisted on doing it for free for Natasha.

However, Natasha had won the argument—no social media managing unless she could pay her cousin for it. Christie had relented but insisted on a compromise of a reduced rate. Natasha was happy to pay her cousin for doing something that she had neither the time nor the inclination to take care of.

Christie’s efforts had brought in mail orders from all over the country, and some even outside of the U.S. Many of Old Bisbee’s tourists, before they even arrived in town, were already familiar with Precious Treasures, due to Christie’s hard work.

Natasha looked around her store, pleased, an air of happiness floating upward from her toes to her scalp, like a swarm of velvety butterflies. Yet, she couldn’t help but feel like something was missing from her life. What, she didn’t know. But
something.

Bells tinkled as the front door opened, cool air rolling into the store from outside. Natasha looked over her shoulder and smiled at her cousin, Christie. “Speaking of the devilette. I was just thinking of you.”

Christie laughed as the bells tinkled again when the door settled shut behind her. “Hopefully it was nothing tame. It had better be about one of the hellacious things we did when we were kids.”

The fact that her cousin was so full of life and happiness, now that her ex was gone for good, thrilled Natasha to no end. Christie’s joy had a lot to do with her marriage to Trace Davidson and because of their baby. Especially their baby, Jessica.

Natasha stopped dusting the sculpture. “I remember every one of our exploits.”

Christie plopped herself on one of the two gold and maroon-flowered brocade antique chairs that Natasha used for customers. Christie dropped her purse beside the chair, leaned against the cushioned back, and took a deep breath.

She appeared as though she was melting into the chair. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever regain my energy.”

“You look wonderful.” With a laugh, Natasha started polishing a carved wooden horse. “My darling niece still not sleeping through the night?”

Christie shook her head, her gorgeous red hair sliding across her cheeks. “Thank God for her daddy. Even though Trace has to work the following day, he takes turns getting up with the baby and walking her until she falls asleep. I swear she goes to dreamland a whole lot faster for him than she does for me.”