No Mercy (30 page)

Dylan got to his feet and she rushed to stand, too. He gripped her shoulder with one big hand.

“You will stay here.” His face was stil a mask, but as he looked at her, she thought she saw his sharp

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edges soften ever so slightly. He leaned over and kissed her forehead before grabbing his duffel

bag, turning and leaving the bedroom.

The kiss stunned her. She didn’t know if it was a goodbye kiss or something else entirely.

She hurried after him, fear for him making her heart ache as he strode to the door of the suite.

“Please, Dylan.”

He grasped the doorknob and looked over his shoulder. “You’l stay in the suite with Joe.” He

opened the door. “I have some business to take care of.”

“Dylan.”
Even as she called out his name, he shut the door behind him.

She wrenched the door open and saw him talking with Trace. Joe came up to stand beside her.

Dylan looked at her and pointed to the room. “Get inside.”

She set her jaw. “Come back.”

With the duffel bag over his shoulder, he turned and jogged down the wood staircase and

vanished from sight. She started to follow.

So that she couldn’t chase Dylan, Trace stepped in front of her. “Go in the room, Belle.”

“You don’t understand.” Tears burned at the backs of her eyes. “He’s going after my stepfather.

He wants to kil him. You have to stop Dylan.”

Trace frowned. “What do you mean, Belle?”

“He was already furious at my stepfather for hurting me.” Tears flowed down Belle’s cheeks. “But

now it’s worse. I told him the truth.” Her throat felt like it was closing in on her. “My stepfather is the

man who kil ed Dylan’s dad.”

Trace looked as if his entire body had gone tense. “That’s where Dylan is going? To your

stepfather’s?”

“I don’t care about Harvey, but I care about Dylan. I don’t want him to end up doing something

he’l regret. Please stop him.” She twisted her hands together. “Harvey lives in Galena.” She gave

Trace the address of the miserable home she’d grown up in.

“I’l call for someone to get over here.” Brooks nodded to the stairs Dylan had just taken. “You

go after Dylan.”

“Back in your room, Belle.” Trace’s Texan drawl seemed deeper as he spoke and gave her a

firm look. “Stay with Joe. Brooks will be outside watching the room.”

“Okay.” She put her fingers in Joe’s fur as she pleaded with Trace. “Just hurry. Please.”

~~*~~

It was still early morning, not even eight yet, and it was all Dylan could do to keep from throwing

on Trace’s SUV’s gril lights and siren. He wanted to race far over the speed limit as he headed the

vehicle toward Harvey Driscoll’s home. But he needed the time to think and work out a plan before

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he arrived at the house.

The thought repeated over and over in his head.
Driscoll murdered Dad. The bastard murdered

my dad.

Too many things were happening all at once.

And Driscoll had murdered Dylan’s dad.

Driscoll had not only kil ed Dylan and Aspen’s father, but he’d taken away the man their mother

had loved. For years she’d been haunted by Ben Curtis’s death, until she final y gave herself

permission to move on.

Dylan’s skin burned and itched with fury. His face was flushed with heat. He gritted his teeth and

clenched the steering wheel as he drove from Old Bisbee, around the pit mines, to the traffic circle,

and then took the exit to Galena. The drive seemed to last forever. He wanted to get to the bastard

who was responsible for so much goddamned misery and pain.

He wanted to kill Harvey with his bare hands. He could picture a dozen different ways he could

kill the man. Make it look like an accident. Make it look like Harvey had killed himself.

But Dylan wasn’t a murderer. He was a law enforcement officer.

Fuck that.

He guided the SUV into the neighborhood and forced himself to slow down in case any kids ran

into the street. The last thing he wanted to do was kill a child because he was on a mission to kill a

murderer, a man who had raped his own stepdaughter when she was a teenager.

The woman Dylan had loved for as long as he could remember.

Belle had kept the knowledge from him, and if it hadn’t been for Nate’s death, she might never

have told him. The better part of him understood she had just been trying to protect him. It was true

that he could have ended up in prison for the rest of his life had he kil ed Driscoll. He’d been old

enough that he would have been tried as an adult because he’d have known exactly what he was

doing.

Another part of him didn’t know how to deal with the knowledge that Belle hadn’t told him before

now. He knew she hadn’t done it to protect Driscoll. She’d done it to protect Dylan because she knew

what kind of temper he had. She’d probably been terrified of what Driscoll would do to her if he knew

she’d overheard him telling her mother he’d murdered Belle’s boyfriend’s father.

The knowledge had tortured her all these years, of that he was sure. The thought that she had

lived with such a terrible secret made his heart ache for her. No wonder she had run. Her stepfather

had been sexual y abusing her. Her stepfather had kil ed her boyfriend’s father.

What she’d done by leaving had shown strength that many people didn’t possess. Yes, there

had been other ways to handle it, but she’d done the only thing she thought she could do. She had

made a life for herself out of nothing and a lifetime of horrible experiences and knowledge.

Dylan had searched for his dad’s kil er ever since moving back to southeastern Arizona. He’d

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known the Jimenez Cartel had somehow been involved. It was a cold case by the time Dylan had

been in a position to hunt for his dad’s kil er, but he’d been chipping away at it.

He’d never suspected Harvey Driscoll. The bastard had known Ben Curtis, but they had only

met a couple of times as far as Dylan knew. It had probably been enough that Ben would have

thought Driscoll had some other business. He never would have suspected the man was there to

murder him.

Dylan pulled the SUV to the curb across the street from the house where Driscoll lived. A house

where Belle had experienced the kind of trauma no child should go through. The house where a

murderer stil lived while the man he’d murdered had left behind a devastated wife and two sons.

For a long moment he stared at the house, trying to get his emotions under control. The house

was in a state of disrepair that was worse than it had been twenty-three years ago when Belle left.

Driscoll and Belle’s mother had taken no pride in their home, the grass dead, the lone pine tree on

the verge of falling down, the house in need of a new paint job.

Now the formerly yellow paint was gray and had curled and peeled until little was left on the

boards. The wood steps sagged and the porch was in such bad shape it looked like it would collapse

if stepped on. Dead grass and weeds choked the front yard, and in the midst of that sat the rusted

and faded hulk of an old red Pontiac Grand Am. Dylan remembered that Driscoll had purchased the

car new sometime after Ben Curtis’s death. Driscoll had probably paid for it with blood money. Money

made from spil ing Ben Curtis’s blood.

Dylan didn’t know if Driscoll was home, but an early model 2001 green Ford truck was in the

gravel driveway to the right of the house. Dylan wasn’t even sure what he would do when he faced

the sonofabitch. Truth was Dylan could easily kill Driscoll.

Teeth clenched, Dylan still gripped the steering wheel. He realized his muscles were shaking

with the restraint it took to stay in his vehicle. He forced himself to calm his breathing. Whatever he

did, it needed to be done with a clear head.

He let go of the steering wheel and swung open the door of the SUV. He climbed out before

shutting the door solidly behind him. He let his gaze drift along the street.

Two doors down, a couple of identical looking boys, who were eight or nine, sat on the porch

steps of a home in far better shape than Driscoll’s. No matter how rundown the area was, any house

in the neighborhood was in better shape than Driscoll’s. The boys’ mother was likely tired of the kids

playing video games all day and had probably chased them out of the house to play in the front yard.

A couple argued about finances as they came out of the house next door to the one Dylan stood

in front of. The woman shouted at the man, telling him he needed to get a job because hers couldn’t

pay all of the bills. He told her to shut the hell up before he climbed into a newer Chevy truck and

slammed the door behind him. The woman was still yelling as the man gunned the engine and peeled

out of the driveway.

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At the end of the street, a woman pinned laundry to a clothesline. In the early morning breeze,

the clothes waved on the line. It made Dylan think of the times his mother had done the same thing

on the ranch, and he pictured sheets billowing in a gust of wind. The sheets would smell of the clean

outdoors as she tucked him in at night when he was just a young boy. His father would come in and

tell Dylan and Aspen a story before bedtime. Often the stories were about farming and ranching,

usually tall tales his father would make up on the spot. His father had been a gifted storyteller.

Dylan’s stomach clenched at the memories. As he stared at Driscoll’s house, he was conscious

of the Browning semi-automatic in its shoulder holster over his T-shirt. The thought that he shouldn’t

be armed was fleeting.

Whatever happened, happened.

Dylan strode across the street. The fact that he’d be facing his father’s kil er was almost surreal.

He’d been so close all this time. So close.

As Dylan pushed open the rusted metal gate of the hip-high chain link fence, it gave a rusted

screech. His shoes thumped on the cracked concrete path to the wooden steps, which creaked as

he took them two at a time. When he reached the porch, the boards were surprisingly sturdy beneath

his weight.

He banged on the door with his fist, the sound loud enough to wake the dead and draw the

attention of anyone in the street. When silence met his knock, he pounded on the door again. Likely

Driscoll was still asleep.

Dylan pounded on the door even louder.

The door swung open. “What the hel do you want?” Harvey Driscoll slurred the words as he

scowled at Dylan, face red, eyes bleary from alcohol and sleep.

Dylan studied the man who’d kil ed his father. He’d expected to feel even more rage, more

murderous fury than he’d felt when Belle had told him. But now that he faced the murderer, Dylan

knew that he wanted to make the man
pay
. Death would be too easy for the bastard. No, Harvey

Driscoll needed to rot in prison.

The older man wore a dirty wife beater T-shirt, filthy pants, and no shoes. A bald patch on his

head shone with sweat and his large beer gut hung over his belt. He squinted and looked from

Dylan’s holstered pistol to his face. His oily pockmarked face now had a cautious expression instead

of a scowl.

“You a cop?” In his drunken stupor, he clearly didn’t recognize Dylan. Or course, Dylan had

changed in the past twenty-three years since Belle had vanished.

Dylan was aware of a truck with a powerful engine coming to a hard stop in the gravel across

the street behind him.

“Harvey Driscoll.” Dylan stepped back and gestured for the man to come out on the porch. “Step

outside.”

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The man hesitated, then joined Dylan on the porch. He glanced over Dylan’s shoulder and his

eyes widened slightly as boot steps hit the asphalt. “I didn’t do nothin’.” Driscoll licked his lips.

“What’re you doing here?”

Trace or Brooks, likely had arrived. Belle had no doubt told the agents and Dylan’s good friends

the reason why Dylan left in a hurry. He ground his teeth. Both men should be guarding Belle, not

just one.

The sound of steps came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. Dylan casually looked over his

shoulder to see Trace standing with his arms folded across his chest. He gave Dylan a single nod

but said nothing.

Dylan turned his attention back to Driscoll. The man’s gaze narrowed. “I know you from

somewhere. Who the hel are you?”

“So you like hurting young girls.” Dylan said it as a statement, not a question. “You sexual y

abused your own stepdaughter. What other children have you molested?”

A look of fear flashed across Driscoll’s face but then it was gone. “I don’t know what the fuck

you’re talking about.” He waved it away with a sloppy movement of his arm. “The little bitch is

probably dead. Haven’t seen her in over twenty years.”

Dylan wanted to slam his fist into Driscoll’s ugly face so badly that his teeth and hands ached

with the force it took to hold himself back. Better yet, he should shoot the man and be done with it.

“I know who you are.” Driscoll stepped closer to Dylan who took another step back to bring

Driscoll further out onto the porch. “You’re that punkass Curtis kid who was always sniffing up Belle’s

skirt.”

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a man.” Dylan kept his voice low as he taunted Driscoll, aware that