No Mercy (31 page)

neighbors were watching now, which was exactly what Dylan wanted. “I hear you have a little dick

and you couldn’t even satisfy your wife. You even had to kil a man to get off.”

“Motherfucker!”
Driscoll bellowed the words as he stepped forward, his fist raised.

Come on, Driscoll. Take the bait.

“You haven’t got the bal s to do more than hurt little girls and kil defenseless men.” Dylan braced

himself.

With a roar, Driscoll swung his fist at Dylan.

Dylan didn’t even flinch as the fist came toward him. Driscoll’s fist connected with the side of

Dylan’s head.

Sparks lit up Dylan’s vision for a brief moment, but he shook it off. Driscol ’s fist came at him

again.

This time Dylan whipped out his handcuffs with one hand as he used the other to grab the man’s

wrist. Dylan twisted Driscoll’s arm behind his back, swept his feet out from under him, and slammed

him down hard. The bastard’s cheek rested on the porch. Dylan had his knee on the small of

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Driscoll’s back with his hands cuffed behind him, the whole process done in five seconds flat.

“Let me go, you sonofabitch!” Driscoll struggled but Dylan had him pinned to the splintered

boards. “Police brutality!”

Trace stepped onto the porch. “I’l take it from here.”

The rage that Dylan felt toward Driscoll hadn’t subsided. His body was stil hot and tingling with

the desire to hurt Driscoll. To
really
hurt him. Yeah, it would be better to let Trace handle the bastard

from this point on. Dylan might just kill the man after all.

Dylan pushed away from Driscoll and stood. Dylan inhaled deeply then let out a harsh breath.

He still shook from the force of his anger and had to take another deep breath. It didn’t do much to

calm him, but it gave him time to clear his head.

Trace settled his boot on Driscoll’s lower back. Trace pressed his boot harder on Driscoll,

causing the man to whine. Trace said in a low, exaggerated drawl, “Quiet down, or I’m going to have

to let Dylan take over again. He’s not as nice as I am.”

Dylan relaxed his clenched fists. He turned away as he un-holstered his cell phone to call in the

arrest of Driscoll for the federal crime of assault on a federal agent.

A crowd had gathered around. Dylan heard comments that told him Driscoll wasn’t popular in

the neighborhood.

“Did you see Harvey hit the cop?” asked a woman. “The old bastard got what he deserved,” said

a man. “I got it all on my phone,” added a much younger voice.

Good. The recording would be proof of the assault by Driscoll. Dylan didn’t look at the watching

neighbors as he raised his own phone to his ear and made the call.

***

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The search warrant for Salvatore and Christie’s home final y came through via the FBI as two

agents with DHS took Harvey Driscoll away.

It was late morning by the time Dylan and Trace walked toward their separate vehicles. Trace

was on the phone with Brooks, letting him know that Driscoll was very much alive but had been

arrested and taken away, and why. Now they just needed Belle to go to the police, tell her story, and

press charges for the sexual abuse. Dylan knew she would also testify about overhearing Driscoll

bragging about murdering Dylan’s father.

Next Dylan needed to build a case against Driscoll for Ben Curtis’s murder. Dylan would need

to work with other agents due to the fact that it was his dad who was murdered, but Dylan intended

to do everything he could to make sure Driscoll was put away for a long, long time. Preferably for

the rest of his life.

Once the wheels were set in motion, a search warrant would be issued to search Driscoll’s home

for the pictures and videos he’d taken of Belle when he’d raped her. They would also get a warrant

to search for the gun that Driscoll had used to take Ben Curtis’s life.

When Driscoll was hauled away in cuffs, some of Dylan’s fury had lessened. Most remained in

his mind and body like a too-high pilot light that would never go out. The bastard would pay. Dylan

just had to be patient enough for the wheels of justice to turn.

Galena wasn’t far from Salvatore and Christie Reyes’s home in the Terraces. While Dylan drove

to their home, he called George to see how he was doing with the memory card.

“Stil working on it.” George sounded frustrated. “My program has used every combination of the

words that I can think of—together, individually, frontward, backward, flipped, first letters, last letters,

first and last letters… Damn it, you name it, I’ve done it. The program we use is working overtime on

it, too.”

“Something must be missing.” Dylan thought the words aloud.

“No kidding,” George grumbled. “I’l stay on it.”

Dylan thanked him as he arrived at the Reyes house. Trace pul ed Dylan’s truck up behind his

own SUV that he had loaned to Dylan. Brooks was already there. Two other DHS agents had taken

his place at the B & B earlier and were guarding Belle.

Male and female agents wore jackets with FBI printed on the front and in much larger yellow

letters on the back. The agents were clearly preparing to storm the castle and conduct the search.

Brooks was turned away from Trace and Dylan. Brooks wore his agency jacket with FEDERAL

AGENT in smaller letters beneath the large POLICE on the back.

DHS, ICE, EPA, and other agency acronyms were not as recognizable as FBI, CIA, DEA, or

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simply police to many criminals. Several agencies used POLICE across the back and on the front

instead of their own acronyms for that reason. It was a matter of identification and safety.

Dylan and Trace pulled on their own jackets that matched Brooks’s before they headed in the

direction of the house. Brooks stood next to a woman who wore an FBI jacket. The female agent’s

black hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head. It was severe enough to tighten her dark

skin over her high cheekbones. Her eyes were black and sharp and it looked like her expression

was likely perpetual y serious. Dylan couldn’t picture her cracking a smile.

Ahead of them was the pathway leading to the wrought iron security door of the Reyes home.

Brooks turned to face Trace and Dylan and nodded to them. Brooks made the introductions

between the four when they met up. “This is Special Agent Laura Stil water, the lead agent on the

FBI’s search for Christie.”

After Dylan and Stillwater shook hands, Brooks said, “According to Agent Stil water, they have

a couple of leads.” He glanced at her. “But they don’t seem inclined to share them with us.”

Dylan ground his teeth. The FBI could be so damned difficult to deal with.

“We’l fil you in soon enough.” Stil water drew her weapon. “Right now we’re going to search

their home and see if we can find clues to Christie’s whereabouts.”

Dylan’s skin burned as his thoughts focused on his childhood friend and the need to find her.

Christie had better be alive. If anyone had even hurt her, Dylan would tear the person or persons

into shreds. If it was Salvatore, the sonofabitch was going to wish he were dead by the time Dylan

got through with him.

Agents reported that wrought iron security doors were also at the back of the house, and all

were locked.

Stillwater shouted out their presence and stated the FBI was coming in, but there was no

response. Not that Dylan had expected any. Agents were posted at the front and back of the home,

prepared for anyone who might run out.

Two agents took a hydraulic ram to the wrought iron, and it didn’t take long before it was

breached. Within seconds after opening the metal security door, the agents smashed open the front

door with the ram.

Dylan’s heart rate picked up as he, Trace, Brooks, Stillwater, and other agents entered the home

holding their weapons in a two-handed grip, clearing room after room. When all of the rooms were

cleared, agents began to methodically search the house for clues.

Trace and Brooks worked with the FBI agents, searching other parts of the house.

Stillwater and Dylan stood in the living room in front of a closed metal door that agents had been

unable to open with the hydraulic ram.

“What the hel is behind this door?” Dylan said more to himself than anyone else. “Salvatore had

to be hiding something important.”

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“We’l just have to find out what that is.” Stil water called for a hydraulic tool that would aid in

opening a metal door. “If this doesn’t do it, we’ll have to call for more drastic measures.”

Like explosives.
Dylan frowned as the thought crossed his mind that just maybe Christie was

inside that room. Even a strategically placed small explosive had the potential to kill or harm any

occupants that might be too close.

Fortunately, the agents had the door open with the hydraulic tool within the next ten minutes.

The time seemed interminable, but finally they were in.

When Dylan went through the door with Stil water, he saw that it was an office. “Salvatore must

have been hiding something important in here to warrant that kind of security.” Dylan pul ed on a pair

of latex gloves before he began searching the room.

He started with the desk, his gaze drifting over the small gold globe of the world on the surface,

the desk pad, a crystal eagle paperweight, and a framed professional wedding photograph of

Salvatore and Christie. Dylan picked up the photograph. Christie looked so happy, her smile brilliant.

Salvatore was smiling, too, but there was something in his eyes and on his expression as he looked

at his new wife. A possessive look that was more than just a loving expression.

Dylan looked at the back of the frame and opened the hinged back. Nothing was hidden in the

frame. He picked up the globe, which appeared to be solid, and then the crystal eagle paperweight.

He raised the lid of the humidor and the rich smell of expensive cigars drifted out. He’d never

seen Salvatore smoke anything, but then he hadn’t been around the man much since high school.

Dylan pushed aside the cigars. A hint of gold flashed and he took several of the cigars out and set

them on the desk. A gold key rested at the bottom of the humidor.

Dylan’s heart beat a little faster. The key had to be for something Salvatore had used for hiding

important documents or items he didn’t want anyone to find. None of the desk drawers had locks on

them. Dylan went through each drawer and checked for hidden compartments as well as skimming

through documents in file drawers. He discovered nothing but copies of paperwork from the classic

cars and real estate that Salvatore bought and sold. The originals were probably in his office in Old

Bisbee. All of it looked legit, but the FBI would go through the documents.

Other than those papers, he found only personal receipts for normal items, including groceries,

art, furniture, and a few other more personal things. Salvatore and Christie’s marriage certificate was

in the center drawer, encased in a plastic sleeve. He pulled it out and stared at it a few moments,

thinking of the one line in a wedding ceremony that caused his stomach to churn with concern for

Christie.

Until death do us part.

Would Salvatore kill her to keep whatever secrets he might have? What did she know?

He shoved the certificate back where he’d found it and slammed the drawer.

Dylan knelt to look beneath the desk, ducked in the kneehole, and ran his fingers along the

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underside of the desk in case there was a false compartment. He looked over his shoulder at

Stillwater who was searching the office, her back to him. Other agents were also in the room now.

“Do you happen to have a flashlight?” he asked Stil water.

She dug in her jacket pocket and handed him a small flashlight. “We haven’t found a safe behind

any pictures or in the walls, or anywhere else we’ve looked so far.” Stil water put her hands on her

hips. “Bastards like this always have a safe in their office. Especially one as secure as this place

was.”

Dylan thought about it. “Maybe Salvatore has a safe in his office in Old Bisbee.”

Stil water nodded. “That’s where we’l be heading next. We have a warrant to search his office

as well.”

“Good.” Dylan nodded. “I found a key in the humidor, but if there are any hidden drawers in this