Taking the Heat
Page 14

“I know,” he murmured, looking grim. “I love you, too, baby.”
They pulled over for the final time at a gas station off I-8 to switch cars. Layla held Brian’s flannel closed over her chest, concealing her body armor, and looked at Jack as he slid behind the wheel beside her. He’d swapped clothes with Brian while they’d been in the store; everything but their shoes.
He sighed as he settled into the seat. When he caught her gaze, he smiled sheepishly. “This seat is way more comfortable than the Bronco’s.”
He and Brian had been driving for nearly eleven hours. San Diego was only minutes away.
She was scared. Brian had left her with Jack and her heart was in her throat at the thought that she might not see him again. As soon as they checked in with the AUSA, he was going to face the consequences for going rogue with her. He could be tied up with interviews/ interrogations for weeks. In the meantime, she’d be absorbed back into the system.
Jack started his truck. Brian was already merging the Bronco into the traffic on the street.
“What’s going on?” she asked, knowing that something was up for them to switch places so thoroughly.
Jack looked over his shoulder for possible obstructions, then backed out of the parking space. “We can’t get ahold of the owner of the Bronco. He’s not answering his home phone and his cell goes straight to voice mail.”
“What does that mean?”
“Could be nothing, but we can’t take any chances. If the Bronco has been compromised, we don’t want you in it.”
Brian was in it. “Why don’t we just leave it at the Park ’n’ Ride?”
Jack looked at her. “If it’s hot, keeping it on the road will deflect attention from this vehicle.”
“Oh my God.” She felt the blood drain from her face. Flashes of memory from the explosions in Maryland had her recoiling into the seat. “He’s bait?”
“Hey,” he said softly. “They’re not going to launch grenades in the heart of San Diego, and at this late date, they need to make sure you’re dead. They’ll want to get up close and personal, which is where Brian is at his best.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Her hand went to her throat, attempting to massage the tightness out of it.
“Brian has to do his job, Layla.”
“By luring killers out after him?” Swallowing hard, she looked out the window. She felt like she was going to be sick. She wondered if Rachel had felt similarly when Jack left their bed that morning.
“For what it’s worth,” Jack murmured, “I believe everything happens for a reason. The chances of you and Brian crossing paths the way you did were pretty damn slim. Things stacked up for you two like a chain of dominoes: the prominence of the Sandoval trial warranted SOG deputies and Brian was in the right place at the right time. He saved your ass and his, and managed to get you across the country without incident. I can’t believe you both would get this far for nothing. Have a little faith in fate or a higher power—whatever your poison is.”
Layla shook her head. “You have no idea what it’s like being the one who’s always left behind. The one wringing their hands, pulling out their hair, and vomiting from the stress and god-awful terror.”
“What do you think Brian went through when you joined WITSEC ? You were the one with her ass on the line, the one in danger while he was stuck with the fear. He tried to keep it together around the rest of us, but sometimes his control slipped. I never called him on it, but I was really worried about him for a while.”
Jesus. And she was about to do it to him again. Maybe that was what was making him so reckless now. Maybe he was throwing himself directly in the line of fire because he was in the same state she was—half out of his mind with grief and worry.
She sat up and straightened her shoulders. She needed to get someplace safe, so Brian could focus on all the shit that was about to blow up his career. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was all she could do. “Get me to the AUSA, Jack. Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the plan.”
Brian was pulling into a motel on Pacific Coast Highway in San Diego when Jack ’s cell phone rang. He reached for it and answered, his greeting cut off by the impatience of Jack’s regional supervisor on the other end of the line.
“Hey, Killigrew. I’ve got the information you asked for.”
Brian parked and kept his gaze on the rearview mirror. “Who was it, sir?”
“James Reynolds was the deputy who called in that afternoon. He was questioned already and released, but his whereabouts are unknown now. Do you think he’s colluding with Simmons?”
Jim. Fuck. “I’m absolutely certain he’s not.”
There was a moment of silence. “Who is this?”
“Killigrew should, at this very moment, be escorting Miss Creed into the AUSA’s office.” Brian exhaled, mentally kissing his career good-bye. “Thank you for your help, sir.”
He hung up and slid out from behind the wheel. Standing in the apex between the open door and the body of the vehicle, he surveyed his surroundings. The end of the road was in front of him, but he was suddenly reluctant to get there. Jim had been his friend for a long time. Brian had trusted the deputy with his life more than once. Surely Jim was tracking them via the Bronco’s theft recovery system. But he’d allowed them to get this far.
Why? Brian intended to ask the man that question directly.
Thank God he was wearing gloves. If not for them, Jim Reynolds doubted he could keep his grip on the Maglite in his hand. Breathing roughly, he wiped the blood off the end of the flashlight with a Kleenex, then dropped it on the corpse lying prone on the floor behind the front desk. He disabled the outdated and poorly placed security camera overlooking the closet-sized lobby area, then wiped the recording of the feed going back a solid twenty-four hours. It only took a moment to find a master keycard. Before Jim left, he placed the WILL RETURN SHORTLY sign on the counter.
“You’re a lucky bastard, Reynolds,” Jim muttered to himself, stepping out of the dimly-lit front office into the moonlit night beyond. He glanced down the road to where his Bronco was parked at a twenty-four-hour diner. He’d known Simmons long enough to be familiar with his routine. Out of the dozens of motels lining the street, he’d found the deputy and his witness girlfriend at the first one he tried. A quick flash of his badge and a picture of Simmons were all the desk clerk had needed to confirm his guess.
But then things had been going his way since Simmons first called him three days ago. It would have been simpler if the cartel had killed the girl in Maryland, but as far as fuckups went, the unexpected appearance of Simmons had worked in Jim’s favor. The former SEAL was the only deputy who had a personal stake in Layla Creed. Anyone else would have seen her absorbed back into the system and Jim would have been scrambling to find her. Simmons was also the only one who would risk a last night in a motel instead of taking her directly in for witness prep, because his dick was driving the bus. That gave Jim this opportunity to take out the girl and Simmons in a staged murder-suicide that would wrap everything up in a nice, neat bow.
He pulled a roll of Rolaids out of his pocket and bit off three to fight the burning ache of ulcers in his stomach. He didn’t recognize himself anymore. He’d become a man he hated. But as much as he regretted what he was about to do, it would be a relief to end it.
Pausing outside Simmons’s room, Jim noted the darkness within and the silence. He gripped the master key in one hand and reached for his Taser with the other. He’d have to be quick. Once the door opened, Simmons would be a blur of movement if Jim missed his target.
He slid the keycard through the lock and threw the door wide, aiming the Taser at the lumpy, disheveled bed and firing. An instant of brightness lit the room as the electrical current sizzled. Then, he heard the racking of a gun slide behind him.
He froze.
“Why, Jim?”
His eyes closed at the sound of Simmons’s quiet voice behind him. He’d lost his edge long ago and getting caught like this only proved it. “When did you make me?”
“A couple hours ago, and I still can’t believe it.”
Jim turned around. A quick scope of the area revealed deputies scurrying across the second floor breezeway and more encroaching from the far left and right sides of the parking lot.
“Why?” Simmons asked again.
“Stella.”
“What does your daughter have to do with this?”
“The cartel is far more determined than we give them credit for.” Jim’s arms dropped listlessly to his sides. “Stella met a boy last year—her first year in college. He’s a handsome and cultured young man. She brought him home for Christmas and I liked him. He spoils her and makes her happy.”
Simmons’s expression was hard to read in the semidarkness. “He’s with the cartel.”
“Of course. He revealed himself to me a couple weeks ago. They’ve planned this for God knows how long. Think of the dedication involved ... the patience and planning that went into finding me and my family, then finding the right guy to mesh with us, setting him up in school, giving him months to make sure Stella is so head-over-heels in love with him she won’t believe he could do anything wrong. I’ve tried talking to her, but it’s no use. She thinks she knows him, and now she’s with him all the time. He can kill her at any moment—something he reminds me of every chance he gets. I can’t imagine how many other deputies they’ve put the screws to, but I’m sure they’ve got their hooks into every deputy you call a friend. They’ve been drawing in their search net for years and it probably didn’t take much digging to put you and Layla Creed together.”
“You should have turned to the service for help.”
“I couldn’t take the risk.” Jim’s gut burned with a fresh wash of bile. “At least give me credit for the past three days. I could have taken you both out when you took my truck, but I felt I owed you some time with each other before all was said and done. Plus I really believe it would have been a mercy to finish you both together. Better than losing her to the system again, knowing those bastards are hunting her down.”