No Mercy (3 page)
***
Nate? By U.S. Mail?”
“Yes.” She said the word in a way that told him she was having a difficult time speaking. “It
surprised me. We live in the same town, yet I haven’t heard from him in so long.”
Dylan wanted to press her, but she sobbed and he made the decision to give her some time to
get used to the idea of Nate’s death. He needed to read his own postcard again.
She cleared her throat and pul ed it together. “I’l make funeral arrangements.”
His voice was thick as he replied, “Thank you, Christie.”
“The CoS was Nate’s only family.” She echoed Dylan’s words to Jensen before adding, “We take
care of our own.”
“Call me for anything you need.” Dylan tried to swallow. “Anything.”
“I will.” She sounded beyond sad. “I’l call Belle and let her know.”
A rush of relief hit Dylan. He’d been dreading that phone call the most.
His gut tightened. He was such a chicken shit.
He clenched one hand on his desktop as he imagined Nate watching him, his disapproving stare
burning into Dylan.
Dylan let out a long breath. “Thanks, Christie, but it’s my duty. I’l call her.”
Christie hesitated. “Do you need her number?”
“I’ve got it.” He’d kept her number for a long time but had never called it. “Thanks again. I’l talk
with you soon.”
A sniffle. “Yes, soon.”
He touched the disconnect icon on his phone and stared at the mobile device. He’d called Leon,
Tom, Marta, and now Christie. No one had taken it well, and Dylan knew they had to be feeling the
same shock and ache of loss that he had in his own gut.
The only thing that matched Dylan’s pain was what he’d felt at his father’s death. Ben Curtis had
been murdered when Dylan was in high school and there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t
miss his dad. The man had been his hero, and larger than life. If Dylan hadn’t been bent on revenge
over his father’s murder, he probably would have been a rancher just like his dad.
Dylan turned his gaze to his office window and stared out at the dark skies and pouring rain. It
hadn’t let up since early that morning, as if grieving for his good friend, too. He’d need to call his
mother and brother, Aspen, after he called Belle.
His gut churned again as he looked at his phone. It was the right thing for him to be the one to
call Belle to let her know about Nate.
But then again, maybe she wouldn’t want to hear from him. It would probably be for the best if
Christie were the one to call Belle.
Shit.
Dylan clenched the phone harder. No, it was
his
job.
12
***
But this was Belle.
Joe let out a long sigh, drawing Dylan’s attention to the dog that had lowered his head to his
front paws. Thank God Leon had said he’d take Joe. Leon’s three kids were older and would like
having a dog around. Leon said he’d come by Dylan’s office in a couple of hours to get Joe.
Dylan would have kept the shepherd, but with his job he was rarely at the ranch and Joe
deserved better than that. Dylan had a ranch hand who took care of the livestock and kept an eye
on things.
A knock came at the door and Dylan looked up to see Trace Davidson with his knuckles against
the doorframe. Despite the fact that Trace, also a DHS agent, was a good friend, Dylan didn’t feel
like talking to anyone at the moment. “You okay?” Trace asked.
“Yeah.” Dylan leaned back in his chair. “Fine.”
“If that isn’t a heaping load of bul shit, I don’t know what is.” Trace’s Texan drawl seemed more
pronounced than usual. He stepped into the room and shoved his hands into his front pockets. His
overshirt was slightly pushed aside, revealing his service weapon. “Nate was a good man. I’m sorry
as hell to hear what happened.”
The ache in the pit of Dylan’s gut only seemed to grow worse. “That makes two of us.”
“I’l let you get back to whatever you were taking care of.” Trace pul ed his hands out of his
pockets. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
Peachy. Fucking peachy.
“Thanks.” Dylan didn’t mean to sound as terse as he knew he had.
Trace gave Dylan a long hard look. “Call me if you need anything,” Trace said then walked out
the door.
Dylan blew out his breath as he turned back to his phone.
He pulled up his contacts and found her name.
Belle Hartford.
As far as he knew, she hadn’t
married, but there’d been spel s where he hadn’t checked in on her. For all he knew, she could have
married and kept her maiden name. He could have pushed harder, looked deeper into her life, but
somehow that hadn’t seemed right.
Even though he knew he was stalling the inevitable by not calling Belle immediately, he reached
into his back pocket. He grasped the postcard he’d forgotten about in his grief until Christie
mentioned her own. It wasn’t like him to forget something so important, but today had been like no
other.
He pulled the postcard out of its baggie and stared at the picture of Main Street in Old Bisbee,
a colorful location filled with history. He flipped the card over and set it on his desk. He stared at his
name and the address to his ranch scrawled on the right and then the note on the left. Nate could
have sent an email, but he’d handwritten the note.
13
***
“Hey, remember when I served in
Iraq?”
The second thing that bothered Dylan was that Nate had signed it
“WYB.”
Dylan narrowed his gaze as he stared at the acronym he and Nate had used in school, back
when they’d been young and had passed handwritten notes.
Watch your back.
That was long before
the cell phones that kids now used to text each other.
What the hel did it all mean? Again, why would Nate write something so off, and why didn’t he
just leave a voicemail while Dylan was undercover, or send an email?
Unless Nate was worried someone would overhear the call or read his email.
Why hadn’t Nate mailed the postcard? Maybe he hadn’t had time. Yet he’d had time to mail
Christie one.
Had he sent postcards to everyone in the CoS? Tom, Marta, and Leon hadn’t mentioned it if
they’d received anything. Of course they might have been too upset. Stil , it seemed like an odd thing
to not mention.
Dylan leaned back in his chair and stared through the open blinds to the window that looked out
at the cubicles where support staff and some of the junior agents worked. The office was busy and
it was almost like nothing had changed.
Over a year ago, the Jimenez Cartel had blown part of the DHS’s ICE building all to hell. Agents
and support staff had been killed in the blast. More agents had been murdered while protecting a
witness who had been set to testify against one of the key heads of the cartel.
The Feds had come down hard on the cartel, seizing assets, arresting key individuals, and
making their lives a living nightmare. Diego Montego Jimenez, El Demonio, was out of the picture
now. The Demon was no more.
Diego’s son, Alejandro, was also no longer a problem. Alejandro had been known as El Puño,
The Fist, and the world was a better place without either one of them.
The remaining heads of the cartel had retreated, but no one was fooled. The Jimenez Cartel
would be back in business, this time with Rodrigo Jimenez, El Verdugo, at the helm. It was only a
matter of time before “the Executioner” would drive the cartel forward.
Dylan’s gaze returned to the postcard and again he tried to make sense of it. Final y, he put it
into the center drawer of his desk and locked it.
He picked up his phone again and held his finger over Belle’s number. He pressed it and brought
the phone to his ear.
***
***
Belle Hartford tried to keep a smile on her face but let out a silent huff as she walked away from
the upset patrons at table three. What a crappy day. Normally she didn’t believe in dwelling on the
negative, but today was an exception.
First her car wouldn’t start and she’d had to call AAA. She’d had to buy a new battery, which she
barely had the funds for now, without dipping into savings. She’d called the owner, Gerald, to let him
know he’d have to open his wine bar/restaurant, D’Vine, himself. As usual, he’d been an ass.
She’d been in such a hurry to get to work that she’d gotten a speeding ticket, which she
really
couldn’t afford. Even traffic school would be expensive.
Once she got to D’Vine, she’d learned that a prep cook had called in sick and a server had
broken her leg. Belle hadn’t been able to find anyone who could come in to take over their shifts.
And now table three. Just one more thing to pile onto all of the other problems that had come
up at the restaurant since she’d walked in the door.
Belle’s long ponytail tickled her neck as it swished across her back while she strode to the
kitchen. She walked through the swinging doors and headed toward the head chef, Gustav. He was
a rotund man who was easygoing when
not
in his element, which was lording over the restaurant’s
kitchen. Here he was hell to work with.
He barked orders to the prep cook then glanced at Belle. He narrowed his bushy brows, most
likely reading her expression. “What is wrong?” he growled in a thick German accent.
She wasn’t about to let the big man intimidate her. “The guests at table three are complaining
that each meal tastes like it was covered with the contents of a bottle of salt.”
Gustav flung out several German curse words and then some. Belle had been working with the
chef for two months now, and even though she didn’t know the language, she had a pretty good idea
of what he’d said just from his hand gestures.
She’d had enough today and she didn’t need to put up with Gustav’s crap. Yet she didn’t want
him walking out on her either, something she’d had happen in the past. Managing a restaurant this
size was like balancing on a high wire.
“Prepare new entrees for our guests.” Belle tried not to let her impatience show. She didn’t have
the time or patience for a kitchen diva. “I don’t know what happened or if they’re complaining in
hopes of a free meal or dessert. Just do it.”
Gustav glared at her. “I wil see to every step myself.” He looked as if he was going to add more
obscenities. Instead, he went to the computer and pul ed up the meals he’d made for that table so
he could prepare them again.
Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her favorite black slacks as she turned away from Gustav.
15
***
Arizona area code. For a moment she thought about not answering—what if it was her stepfather?
But she pushed that thought aside. He didn’t have her number and he hadn’t tried to contact her in
twenty-three years. Why would he call now? He probably didn’t even know she was alive.
Maybe it was someone in the CoS. Marta or Leon or Tom? Nate and Christie she had
programmed into her phone. It wouldn’t be Dylan. Definitely not Dylan. For all she knew it could be
a solicitor or a political call. She’d had several of those from other states.
After the day she’d had so far, it would be nice to talk with one of her old friends, but which one
could it be? She talked with Christie regularly and had talked with Nate a couple of times, but that
was it.
She walked toward her office in the back as she pressed the answer icon and brought the phone
to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hi, Belle.” A male said her name and she stil ed. The voice was deeper but as familiar to her as
her dreams of him. “This is Dylan.”
Dylan. It was Dylan. A sharp burst of pain shot through her chest at hearing his voice, and for a
moment she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. “How did you get my number?” was the only thing that
came to mind.
“I’m calling because I have bad news.” He sounded tired.
Her heart started thumping. “What kind of bad news?”
He hesitated. “Nate’s dead.”
“Oh, God.” Belle’s skin went cold and all other thoughts left her mind as she tried to register