Silent Deceit Read online

  Silent Deceit

  by

  Kallie Lane

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Silent Deceit

  COPYRIGHT 2013 by Kathryn Donaldson

  ISBN: 978-0-9918138-0-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used,

  or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written

  permission of the copyright owner and author of this book.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Ramona Lockwood

  Published in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Turn the page for a preview of | Silent Justice | The next book in the Black Force Renegades series | Available in 2013

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Coreene Callahan, Lesley Lawrence, and JJ Wilhelm, the fabulous three!

  Chapter One

  Natasha Roberts froze where she stood, unable to breathe. Her hand swiped a cloth over the glossy mahogany bar while her mind argued, “This can’t be happening!”

  Of all the thousands of booze joints in Alberta, what were the chances her worst nightmare would show up in this one? She blinked and refocused. There was no mistake. Shamus ‘Skip’ MacQuade had just planted himself at the far end of the bar.

  Crapity-crap-crap, he could blow her cover. Correction, he would blow her cover for the sheer pleasure of watching her squirm to avoid a bullet in her brain. They hadn’t exactly parted friends. Not even close. In fact, if memory served her right she’d called him a “murdering rat-bastard” at their last meeting. Whoa boy.

  Hoping to stall the inevitable, her gaze tore from MacQuade’s spark of recognition to slide across Trailblazer's interior. Museum-quality, life-size posters of James Dean, Charles Bronson and Steve McQueen on tricked out motorcycles lined a far wall of the upscale biker bar. Vintage Harleys hung suspended from the ceiling on steel cables. Autographed photos of legendary bikers were backlit in shadow boxes, and a wall mosaic depicting EvelKnievel’s famous jumps showcased the bar area. Memorabilia was king here, a tribute to bygone days and glories. But, quality ran a close second; the cigars were Cuban and the liquor expensive.

  The high-end club was more than it appeared at first glance; an off the grid haven for gang members. Rival bikers could drink here while conducting business, without fear of interference from the law or enemy gangs. Deuce Kingman, Trailblazer's owner—a heavy hitter in both the drug and illegal firearms trades—kept it neutral territory.

  Weapons were checked at the door, and no one flew their colors under his roof. Defying Deuce was the same as signing your death warrant. Everyone knew it. Kingman had a long reach, one that included dirty cops and mercenaries on his payroll. The bodies he buried were never found.

  But Natasha intended to change all of that and turn the tables. Destroy Kingman’s empire. Her brother was missing. She owed Zach so much, cared about him, and needed to find him. Prayed he was still alive. That he hadn’t gotten in too deep with Deuce before he’d called her...scared.

  “Nat?”

  “Zach—”

  “Don’t talk...just listen. I’ve been doing some creative accounting for a guy named Deuce Kingman. He owns a bar called Trailblazer's.”

  “Zach, you promised me you’d stop working for sleazebags. You said you’d keep your business legit, and—”

  “I know what I said, but it’s too late for that. I am so screwed.”

  “It’s not too late. I’ll go to my boss. We can turn this around.”

  “Nat, I saw something I shouldn’t’ve. Opened the wrong door and—”

  The line went dead. It was the last she’d heard from her brother in almost a week, and GPS couldn’t track his phone. She had tried several times.

  Damn it, of all the times for MacQuade to show up and make things worse. The peashooter strapped to the inside of her thigh wouldn’t protect her against Kingman and his death squad if all hell broke loose. She knew Deuce would kill her the second he smelled trouble, as in Zach’s cop sister infiltrating his lair. If Skip started making noises, she was done for.

  If only she could get word to Blue Falcone, the undercover head of gangs for the RCMP and her commanding officer. But no, she’d burned that bridge by lying to him, booking off vacation time to rescue Zach on her own. And keep him away from her police brothers. They’d blame Zach for the trouble he was in because it wasn’t the first time. They wouldn’t cut him a break.

  There was no other choice. She had to handle this herself.

  Natasha sighed. MacQuade could blow her cover, but she had to take the chance. Face him and play it out. She strolled in his direction as if anxious to take his drink order. Beaming at him, she delivered a thousand watt smile, then stretched over the bar to trap his face in her hands. She hissed in his ear. “Get lost. I’m on the job.”

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Tas, my favorite lady cop.” Skip murmured, grabbing her wrists, tightening his hold before releasing them. “I heard you traded in your uniform. You came a long way from Calgary to do it, baby. When did the Rockies become your home turf?”

  “Shut it!” Natasha scanned the bar again, afraid someone might overhear him. Honky Tonk Woman blared from the jukebox. A group of rival bikers traded insults over the pool tables in the back. A few more were busy playing the slots. An old-fashioned pinball machine whirred and clicked and rang as it was pounded on by a sore loser. The lighting was low, the air heavy with cigar smoke, and the crowd sparse. No one paid them the slightest attention. Still, Deuce could be watching video feed from his upstairs office where he wheeled and dealed.

  Skip’s navy-blue gaze roamed over her, drinking in every nuance of the black midriff top and micro-mini skirt she wore. Heck, he even rose off his stool to check out her legs. “Love the new look, bluebird, especially the hooker shoes. And you smell like piña colada, good enough to eat.”

  For Pete’s sake—a double entendre?—some things never changed. He was still cocky as ever, yet managed to heat her up in all the wrong places in spite of it. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week, and probably lived in the black T-shirt and jeans he wore. His boots were dusty and scuffed. The leather jacket he’d tossed over the back of the bar stool had seen better days. So, what was it about him that caused her stomach to flip? No idea. She disliked him for what he’d done. How he’d beaten the system on her watch, the son of a bitch.

  She placed a longneck in front of him, adding a pilsner glass beside it on a cocktail napkin. He tugged her across the bar again, almost spilling the beer, his curved lips an inch away from hers. She wanted to taste him, could smell the clean scent of his skin, the man beneath, and a hint of exotic cologne. Not good. She didn’t trust herself this close to him. Shot him a zinger instead, hoping he’d back off.

  “How’s the bounty hunter business, Skip? Kill anyone new lately?”

  Shit. It was his turn to sweat. The lady had gonads, he’d give her that. Announcing to anyone within earshot that he was a bounty hunter was cold, considering Trailblazer's clientele. Deuce’s customers included the who’s who of Most Wanted felons. A group of them moved into th
e bar from the dining room. Had they heard what she said? They would kill him in a heartbeat if they thought he was there on a skip trace. Natasha must be desperate to get rid of him if she didn’t care if his neck got snapped.

  “You really want to go there, Tas? When you know I can trump that announcement with a goat-fuck bulletin of my own?” Keeping his voice low, he grabbed his wallet from a back pocket. “If you’re feeling snarly, it’d be safer to punch my lights out than hurl accusations my way. ‘Cuz then I’d have to retaliate and we’d both lose, given the nest of vipers in this place.”

  He pushed off the stool, tossing a twenty on the bar to pay his tab. “Let’s work out our differences in the parking lot where we can get down and dirty without an audience. I promise to let you throw the first punch.”

  “Ha! In your dreams, MacQuade.” Natasha hesitated for a moment as if considering it, but eventually shook her head. She filled the sink with sudsy water and began washing glasses instead. “You’re not worth getting my hands dirty. Finish your beer and get lost.”

  “Sure, whatever you say.” Not until I’m ready.

  The click of stilettos and the woman wearing them shifted Skip’s focus to the ‘Employees Only’ door to the right of the bar. A blue-eyed, dark-haired beauty—if he ignored the fluorescent red bangs feathering her brow—came forward, cash drawer in hand.

  “Hey.” She nodded to Natasha. “If you want, I’ll start my shift early so you can get out of here. It’s getting real nasty outside.”

  “Be right with you, Rena.” Reaching for a dishcloth and wiping her hands, Natasha made her way to the register and pressed a sequence of keys. “I have to balance my cash first.”

  “Whatever.” Diamond nose stud winking in the overhead bar lights, Rena’s gaze zeroed in on Natasha’s back as if the urge to stab her was almost overpowering. It didn’t surprise Skip in the least, since he figured he knew why.

  Detective Natasha Roberts had the bad habit of shoving her badge down other people’s throats to get what she wanted. He knew it for a fact; she’d tried it on him once. It hadn’t ended well for either of them. Blue had slapped her down a peg on his squad, while Skip had been forced to continue playing the role of sicko bounty hunter with the penchant for violence. And there went his chances to cozy up to the sexy she-cop.

  Yep, she’d thought he was scum personified, complete with the garroted body planted beside him after he’d been knocked unconscious during a takedown. He’d skated on the charge, but she’d never bought into the forensic evidence that had cleared his name. Then again, why would she? She didn’t know he was an undercover cop who also worked for Blue.

  The bigger problem? Chemistry was chemistry and the pull on his libido whenever Natasha was around proved difficult to control. While his mind insisted she was a miserable excuse for a human being to turn the screws on someone like Rena, his body still wanted to drive her like a high performance engine.

  As far as Rena went, the equation was simple. Prison tats graced her knuckles, making it obvious she wasn’t a stranger to the wrong side of the law. He suspected Natasha had used that vulnerability without missing a beat. Bullied her until she got what she wanted. The job at Trailblazer's; he’d bet a month’s salary on it. No doubt she’d needed an ‘in’ without raising any red flags with Kingman. So what better reference than a fellow bartender? But, why was she so desperate to get inside this biker club in the first place? What was Natasha up to, and why was she working alone? He had a hunch he was about to find out.

  “You’d better bundle up when you go outside,” Rena said, counting the beers in the fridge. “I caught a storm warning on the weather channel a few minutes ago. Freezing rain, high winds, and blowing snow for our area.”

  “Oh, come on. I listened to the radio earlier and they didn’t say anything about a storm.” Natasha lifted out her cash drawer, moving down the counter to tally the money and credit card chits against the register’s computerized printout. “Besides, it’s too early in the season for the white stuff. Halloween is still three weeks away.”

  “Better tell that to the weatherman.” Rena shrugged her shoulders. “I almost broke my neck getting down here from my apartment out back. The outside steps are slick with ice, not to mention the parking lot is a skating rink.”

  Natasha frowned, tucking a loose strand of hair into her topknot. “For crying out loud. And me without snow tires to get off this blasted mountain.”

  Skip itched to reach over and undo the pins in her hair. Let the reddish-blond waves slip through his fingers. He wondered if her shampoo still smelled of clover and sunshine, remembering those long hours with her in the interrogation room. Hell, the only thing that had kept him sane was her sweet scent overriding the stench of her partner’s sweat. Tough times being grilled for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  “I’d say that’s the least of your problems.” He stared out the closest window where a beer sign flickered on and off with the hiss of neon. Outside, a fog bank rolled across the asphalt, blanketing mountain peaks and the thick edging of forest surrounding the bar. A bitch of a wind picked up with a howl, flinging ice pellets against the glass. Not good. “Those Hogs out there don’t come equipped with snow tires either. Looks like we’re all stuck here until the storm plays out.”

  A loud crack echoed, shaking the building on its foundation. Then he saw it—a massive Sitka spruce reeling drunkenly toward them through the fog. At least thirty meters tall and four across at the trunk—Skip couldn’t see its pinnacle.

  Jesus!

  The spruce crushed a SUV with a sickening crunch as it lurched and swayed toward the building, tossing motorcycles out of its path like bowling pins. With no time to explain, Skip lunged over the bar, grabbing the women on his way to the floor and covering them with his body. While Natasha cursed in his ear, he supported himself on his hands and shitkickers to keep his weight off. Prayed like hell she wouldn’t knee him in the balls before all hell broke loose.

  The Sitka crashed through the wall a second later. Plaster, glass and wood splintered, flying up and out as the collision rocked the building. Massive branches bounced against the mahogany overhang above them. Ice rained down, or maybe it was glass, stabbing his back through his shirt like pricks from a scalpel. Bikers scrambled out of the tree’s path, a couple of them landing behind the bar next to him. A guy shouted in terror.

  The lights went out.

  Chapter Two

  Deuce Kingman crawled out from under the steel desk in his office, glad to be alive. Shoving the leather chair aside, he hauled himself to his feet. He was covered in plaster, choking and hacking like an asthmatic without an inhaler. He coughed into the crook of an arm, tripped over the wide screen hidden in the debris at his feet, and face planted on the floor again. Lying there, he waited for the dust to settle. His gaze landed on the crater-sized hole in an outer wall that suddenly appeared through the haze. Holy shit!

  His next thoughts were “Who wants me dead?” and “Was it a bomb blast or some other type of IED?” He needed answers. Now.

  Deuce scrambled over a mountain of junk to reach the gun rack at the far end of the room. He grabbed an assault rifle and checked the load, pocketing extra rounds of ammo. Then he headed in the opposite direction for freaking ground zero—namely the desecrated wall.

  A mammoth tree blocked his view to the outside. He squeezed between its boughs, shouldered his weapon, and peered through the scope. Nothing moved below him in the parking lot except for sleet, blowing snow, and branches from the tree that had rammed the side of the building. The only sound was the moan of gale-force winds.

  Goddamn. Looks like Mother Nature pitched a hissy fit and blew my place to shit all by herself.

  “Deuce? You okay?” He reeled back inside as the office door flew from its hinges with one kick of a steel-toed boot. His scar-faced bodyguard burst through the opening and ran toward him. Rivets groaned and timbers sagged with each of his heavy strides. One more step and they could both fall thr
ough the floor to their deaths below.

  “Get out of here, Moshpit! I’ll come to you.” Deuce began a hasty crab walk to the door. He sucked in his belly and hugged the wall, avoiding the damaged joists until he gained the doorway. “Where are our guests?”

  “Snorting lines, drinking shots, and getting stroked by the entertainment in the party room.” Moshpit smirked as he shoved his H & K into the front of his waistband. “I doubt they even noticed the lights go out or heard the commotion.”

  “Get’em dressed and downstairs. It’s not safe up here. We’ll move everyone to the far end of the building.”

  “Boss, we could be stranded here from the storm.” Moshpit turned the handle on the door across the hall, preparing to enter. “Why don’t we take them underground?”

  “Why don’t you grow a brain and make a call to the fire department? They’ll have everyone out of here as soon as they can get a bus up this mountain.” Deuce eyed his bodyguard, his blood pressure spiking. He couldn’t afford screw-ups. Not now. And the last damn thing he needed was strangers nosing around in his business. “Anyone goes down in the tunnel, they don’t come out. That’s an order.”

  Chapter Three

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Natasha laid on her back under the bar overhang feeling the rasp of Skip’s fingers along her thigh, the stroke igniting flames in places it shouldn’t. “Take your hands off me.”

  “Relax, bluebird,” he whispered, his breath fanning her cheek. “I’m covering your weapon with that postage stamp you call a skirt.”

  She glanced down at the Colt .380 as it vanished beneath her micro-mini. He patted her knee, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth as he rolled off her and sprang to his feet, pulling her with him. “Rena? You okay?”

  “I’m fine, but Mitch isn’t.” Rena crawled out after them to huddle over one of Deuce’s bouncers sprawled in a river of alcohol, tree boughs, and smashed bottles.