Burning Ache Read online

  He didn’t need the headache.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, after a quick stop to drop off cleaning supplies at the animal shelter, he pulled into his driveway, bypassed the house, a ranch with a wraparound porch he liked to sit on at night, and drove straight back to the barn he’d remodeled into a work space.

  The barn’s glossy red paint glowed under streaming sunlight. As much as he’d hated his mother’s idea, he had to give her props for talking him into it. He’d gone with a basic white for the house and the red gave the yard a nice pop of color. Classic and clean. Just how he liked things.

  He parked next to Sam’s BMW and walked to the side of the building, where she’d hung a welcome sign on the solid pine door.

  A welcome sign.

  He liked the small touches, but really? He was a damned gunsmith. What did he need a welcome sign for?

  Sam Tucker, sister to his future brother-in-law, was his office manager/accountant/girl wonder. Before she’d come into his life, his office and finances were a mess. Accounting software? Invoices? Receivables? What was that? He just deposited checks people handed him into his account.

  When business had grown to a level where his tax guy told him handshake deals weren’t advised, Way had gone searching for a bookkeeper. His sister Maggie suggested Sam and here they were.

  He pushed open the door and found Sam at her oversized L-shaped desk. She’d added a few framed photos of Steele Ridge landmarks to the walls, but as yet, the large open area consisted of engineered hardwood and…well…Sam and her desk.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.” She stopped typing and smiled up at him. “I’m glad you’re back. I’m heading into town to meet Jay for lunch.”

  Her brother had taken a job as the quarterback of the local pro football team so he could stay close to Maggie.

  Love. Wasn’t that sweet?

  She held up a folder. “These are checks. If you’ll sign them, I’ll stop by the bank on my way home tonight.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thank you. And, Way?”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t ask.”

  She laughed. The sultry hum of it filled the open space and made him realize he’d spent the last few months, his mother and sisters aside, avoiding females. A growing business meant no time for relationships. Or the responsibilities that came with them.

  “I’m asking,” she said. “Based on your reaction, I’ll assume you haven’t called him.”

  “I will.”

  “Today.”

  He sighed. “Financial planners give me hives.”

  “I realize that, but as of this morning you have $378,000 sitting in your checking account. Call him and make the appointment. Jay loves him. Believe me, he’s been through a few investment guys. This one has made him a small fortune.”

  “Compared to Jay, I’m small potatoes. What does this guy want with me?”

  “Um, your money? You’ve made over half a million dollars in a year. If you keep this up, your small potatoes will grow. And grow. And grow.”

  Complications.

  He hated complications.

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Before I get back.”

  He laughed. “Jeez, you’re pushy.”

  “Yes. I am.”

  She retrieved her purse—some fancy thing with two intertwined G’s on the front—while he looked at the checks. Six of them. He fingered through them and noted the amounts. Thirty-two thousand dollars. That’s what she’d handed him.

  Jesus, the money was rolling in. Something that should have made him ecstatic. Yeah, he was happy about the safety having a war chest allowed him, but small businesses, like women, took time and responsibility.

  And he sure as hell didn’t want to be locked down.

  He flipped the folder closed. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “You’re welcome. How’d the visit go with Walker?”

  “Eh, not feeling it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You should see what he planned on using as a gun safe. An AR wouldn’t even fit in that thing.”

  “Huh. So, no-go on that one?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Well, you may not have time for him anyway. We had a call this morning from Mrs. Sumter. Her father’s birthday is coming up. She’s thinking a handgun.”

  Mrs. Sumter had already purchased two weapons for her father, a gun enthusiast and hunter. The previous projects were a rifle and a .38. Both had been a shit-ton of fun to build. On the .38, having no idea what constituted a decent gun, Mrs. Sumter had green-lighted most of Way’s recommendations and he’d basically built the old guy his dream weapon. Ambidextrous safeties, front and rear night sights, ergonomic grips, the works.

  As fun as another project for the Sumters might be, he wouldn’t mind putting her off for a week or two and hitting the road on his bike. With Walker being a bust, his schedule had a nice little break in it. A break that would allow him to straddle his Roadmaster and head south. Atlanta, maybe. Or Nashville. Explore Smokey Mountain National Park on the way. Do a little camping and hiking for a few days. Then there was Cades Cove, that sweet little eleven-mile loop dotted with historic buildings and mountain scenery.

  Yeah. The more he thought about it, Nashville might be the spot this time.

  “I’ll call her,” he said. “I’ll need a couple weeks before I can start that one.”

  Sam blinked at him, her blue eyes vacant. His office manager, a workhorse to her core, was clearly confused. She knew his schedule better than he did. And he didn’t have any projects on the books that would keep him from starting the Sumter project ASAP.

  He jerked a thumb toward the door. “I’m, uh, gonna hit the road for a week. Or two.”

  When she blinked at him again, he reconsidered his word choice. “Maybe ten days. Not long.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were leaving.”

  He laughed. “Neither did I. I figured I’d be doing this Walker thing, but since that’s not going anywhere—at least not until he gets the right damned safe—I might as well take off. If you want, you can take some vacation time or whatever.”

  She thought about that. “Maybe. A few days at least. If you want, I could work on finishing this reception area.”

  Sam, in her infinite rich girl wisdom, noted that visitors paying ridiculous amounts for custom weapons might want to see more than a desk and a few framed photos. She’d suggested an oak reception desk, sofas, and a wood wall—whatever the hell that was—as a focal point.

  His cousin Britt, a contractor, had agreed to do the wall and woodwork, and Sam had picked out the furniture, including the custom-built reception desk. Knowing her taste, Way didn’t doubt the room would be freaking gorgeous. He just couldn’t wrap his mind around the thirty grand it would cost.

  Then again, Sam was about to deposit that much into his account.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  Why not?

  Even if every step felt more like a big-boy decision and less of an I’m-gonna-hit-the-road one.

  3

  There was a reason this meeting was taking place outside the office. When a gal worked for the CIA, off-site chats generally meant one thing.

  Secrets.

  Really good ones.

  Roni sipped her iced tea and eyed Karl Quigley across the table. As the CIA’s associate deputy director of administration, Karl was, in short, her boss. Well, her boss’s boss’s boss.

  Around them, the busy restaurant came alive with chatter, tuxedo-shirted scuttling waiters, and busboys hustling to change soiled tablecloths. All of it a bit too fancy for Roni’s taste, but she’d heard the pasta was to die for, so she’d indulge the big shots on their choice of venue.

  She set her iced tea down and ran her hands over the napkin in her lap, drying the moisture transferred from her glass. “We’re waiting on Don Harding?”

  Karl nodded. “We are.”

/>   As older men went, Karl rocked the short, salt-and-pepper hair look. Throw in a tailored suit and pocket square and his tall, broad build was one to notice. Roni supposed he knew that, because he made no effort to shrink away from appreciative glances from women. On the contrary, Karl went all in with a flashing smile and even a few hellos as they’d entered the restaurant.

  Whatever they’d be discussing at this meeting might be a secret, but it wasn’t enough of a secret that they had to hide.

  Interesting.

  “I’m guessing if I was in trouble, this meeting would be happening at Langley.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted into a rueful smile. Karl liked her directness. He’d told her as much when they’d first met months earlier. In his position, he didn’t have time or patience for games. Good thing, because Roni Fenwick hated both.

  Her tendency to be blunt, along with her background as a former FBI special agent, ticked all kinds of boxes—investigator, check, mind-fucker, check—when it came to being an education and training specialist, aka psych-trainer for the CIA.

  “You’re not in trouble,” he said. “The opposite in fact.”

  Oh.

  Boy.

  Out of her peripheral vision, she caught movement to her left. Don Harding, head of the agency’s science and development department, strode toward them. He wore a no-nonsense black suit, crisp white shirt and light gray tie and his short hair, as usual, was gelled into place.

  In opposition to Karl, he could be any regular businessman on his lunch break. Don might not have had the swagger or all-out attention-grabbing presence, but there was something there she couldn’t quite nail down. In her short stint with the CIA, she’d met Don three times and had failed to get comfortable in his presence. Then again, God knew she needed a whole lot more time to vet someone’s character.

  He slid into the chair to Roni’s left. “Good afternoon.”

  “Hi,” she said, straightening just a bit. The man had that effect on her.

  He set his briefcase on the floor, then retrieved a folder. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Karl lifted one shoulder. “We ordered for you. I have a meeting at two. I got you pasta.”

  Whether Don found that irritating or not would remain a mystery. He simply nodded and faced Roni.

  “Let me get straight to it.”

  Exactly how she liked it. “Please do.”

  “We need your help on something.”

  “Of course.”

  He handed her the folder. “Don’t open it here.”

  Oh.

  Boy.

  Secrets, secrets, secrets. A burst of excitement puckered her skin.

  Don pointed at the folder. “There’s information in that folder regarding a shooting in North Carolina. A gang member.”

  “Okay. And what does the a—” She stopped, checked herself while glancing at a passing customer. “What do we want with a dead gangbanger?”

  “It’s not about him.”

  Don’s gaze snapped up and he cleared his throat. Their waiter approached and set plates of steaming food in front of them.

  Karl picked up his fork, waved it at her. “The rigatoni is homemade. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure. But I’m confused about this case.”

  “It’s the bullet,” Don said.

  The bullet. Now the CIA was chasing bullets instead of bad guys? What the hell was this about?

  Obviously sensing her confusion, Don swallowed a mouthful of food before leaning in. “You’ll see it in the photos, but the bullet disintegrated on impact.”

  Frangible ammo—or soft rounds—were designed to break apart upon impact and were often used in the military for close quarters combat training.

  The fact that one of these rounds wound up in a gangbanger shouldn’t have the CIA on red alert. The local PD maybe, but the CIA? No.

  Which, Roni guessed, was exactly why this little secret meeting might be happening.

  “All right,” she said. “And what?”

  Don gave her a hard look. As if no one ever dared to question him. She’d irritated him. Big deal. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d crossed lines. Welcome to my world, pal.

  “And,” he said, his voice carrying the gravelly sharpness of anger with a side of sarcasm, “we’re testing a particular frangible bullet. It’s made with acid. Once it hits flesh it basically vaporizes.”

  Whoa.

  If the man wanted her interest, he had it. She leaned in. “Are you telling me the bullets you’re testing are what killed this gangbanger?”

  “Now she’s getting it,” Karl said.

  Don hit him with that same hard look he’d given her a minute ago. That sucker should have vaporized him better than one of the acid-filled bullets.

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “The victim is a member of the Street Dragons.”

  This just got curiouser and curiouser. Six months ago, before the death of ATF agent Jeff Ambrose, he and Roni worked on a joint task force investigating cigarette smuggling. As an undercover agent for the ATF, Jeff spent his days cozying up to the owners of a distribution plant at the heart of the investigation. While he worked undercover, Roni, his FBI counterpart at the time, did the legwork, trying to prove who was hiding unreported cigarettes and where. According to Jeff, cigarettes were disappearing somewhere between the manufacturer and the distributor, more than likely being hidden to avoid paying federal income tax. Cases and cases of cigarettes allegedly being sold on the black market. Tax free.

  And that added up to big bucks for either the manufacturer or the distributor. Maybe both.

  At the time, the working theory had been that the Street Dragons were dealing these illegal cigarettes as a way to raise money for other nefarious activities. The thought of her deceased friend left Roni’s gut churning. She set her fork down, focused on keeping her mind on the meeting. And not on the unsolved murder of a federal agent and friend. “The task force was shut down after Jeff’s death. I’m out of the loop.”

  “Well, we need you back in.”

  “Why?”

  “You have a friendship with Maggie Kingston.”

  Maggie, a county sheriff, had designed a plan to plug the funnel of illegal cigarette sales in her jurisdiction, only to have the feds horn in on it when she’d asked for their help. Every member of that task force respected Maggie, but they also knew who called the shots. And it wasn’t her.

  “What does this bullet have to do with Maggie?”

  Don met her gaze. “Her brother designed it.”

  Give Don credit for knowing how to deliver a drop-the-mic line. He’d shocked Roni twice so far and, with her history, that wasn’t easy to do.

  Maggie’s brother. What was his name? Not Cash. He worked for the fire department.

  The Marine. Had to be. Maggie had often talked about him—Way,— if Roni remembered correctly. He’d been a recon Marine and was now back home, building a gunsmith business.

  And somehow, more than likely through his military contacts, he appeared to be designing ammunition for the CIA.

  Roni flicked a gaze to Karl, then to Don. “You want me to investigate my friend’s brother?”

  The balls.

  The two men exchanged a look before Karl jerked his chin at her. “We need to make sure he’s not double-dipping and selling this design on the street.”

  Please. The agency employed some of the most experienced operatives in the world. They sure as hell didn’t need her. “And there’s no other way to figure this out? Really? How do you know one of those bullets didn’t get out of Langley?”

  “They didn’t,” Don said.

  “You’re sure?”

  Don cocked his head. “Positive. We had a hundred. Twenty have been test-fired and we have all eighty left.”

  Slowly, Don lifted his napkin, wiped his hands, then set it neatly in his lap again. “Roni, your work on the task force gives you an obvious in.” He pointed at the folder. �
��You know the Dragons are part of the smuggling investigation.”

  There wasn’t a member of law enforcement within fifty miles that didn’t think the Dragons were responsible for Jeff’s murder. They simply didn’t know why. Was his cover blown? Did he make a deal for cigarettes that went bad?

  Who knew?

  Roni shook her head. “Last I checked, the Dragons were twenty-thousand strong in this country. There’s no proof this guy was even involved in our cigarette smuggling scheme.”

  “But the link is there,” Don said. “You can use that to get inside. Talk to the sheriff, tell her you heard about this case.” He circled a hand. “Act like you’re wondering if this guy had something to do with…with Jeff.”

  At the mention of Jeff’s name, a man whose acquaintance brought her to this table, they all made eye contact.

  “Ask her about the bullet,” Don continued. “See if she knows anything.”

  Dammit. Roni took a second, processed the information, broke it down into smaller, manageable pieces.

  She and Maggie had both been hit hard by Jeff’s death. They were both angry and wanting justice, so it wouldn’t be out of the realm for Roni to be doing a little side work on their friend’s case that had gone colder than a freezer.

  Karl pushed his plate away and gently set his napkin on the table. “You seem to be under the impression this is a voluntary assignment. Let me clarify. It’s not. Consider it an order. You will talk to this sheriff—what’s her name again?”

  Great. He didn’t even know the players.

  “Maggie,” Roni said. “Maggie Kingston. She’s the Haywood County sheriff. And a damned good one.”

  Karl waved a hand, dismissing Roni in a not-so-subtle way. “Talk to her. See what you can find. I’ll deal with why you’ll be out of the office for a few days.”

  “And if I get there and Maggie doesn’t know anything?”

  “You’re a smart woman,” Karl said. “Do what you need to. And don’t fuck with me. I’ve ruined the lives of people more powerful than you.”

  4

  By 9:00 the next morning, Roni sat in the rental she’d picked up at the airport and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Leaving DC had been the last thing she’d wanted to do. Particularly because it meant not exactly lying, but misleading her friend. And Roni didn’t have many of those. Her own fault, given the whole lack of trust thing.