Dark 'N' Deadly (Federal K-9) Page 3

  In a habitual movement she remembered vividly, he shoved his big hand through all that thick, spiky blond hair, mussing it and making him look adorable and sexy as hell.

  “Tess,” he said simply, and her mind went utterly blank.

  The urge to run had her legs twitching, although she didn’t know what she wanted more—to run into his arms or haul ass out the door. Because it was still there. It being the snap-crackle-and-pop that ignited the air with fireworks whenever they were together, linking them in a way she didn’t understand.

  Or, God help her, want.

  Chapter Three

  That long, curly red hair and those vibrant, kiwi-green eyes… Eric had been with beautiful women before, but he’d never met one who had the ability to strike him stupid and leave him totally tongue-tied like a teenage kid with his first crush. The way he’d felt the first time he’d seen Tess McTavish a year ago at the Dog Park Café.

  The same way he felt now.

  “Ahem,” Dayne Andrews, his friend and FBI K-9 agent, coughed from behind him.

  Right. Head out of ass.

  He walked into the room, allowing Dayne to follow and shut the door behind them. He set the bag of food on the table in front of Jesse. When Tess stood, the top of her head was barely even with his pecs. She was as petite as he remembered. He couldn’t stop his gaze from traveling the length of her purple tie-dye pencil skirt that went all the way to the floor. To her purple-painted toenails.

  Her eyes filled with concern and— Was that fear?

  When he extended his hand, she stared at it as if it were a snake about to wrap around her neck. Her hand trembled slightly as she placed it in his, and her graceful throat swallowed. He’d seen it before. Some people got totally freaked out inside a police station, let alone a federal lockup, and she had to be worried about her kid brother.

  “Eric.” As her tiny hand clasped his, a warm, prickling sensation raced up his arm.

  He couldn’t stop the slight twitch of his lips at how absurdly small her hand was, engulfed by his. He’d always wondered if her skin would be as soft and smooth as it looked. Now he had the answer. It is.

  Releasing her hand, he indicated Dayne. “This is FBI Special Agent Dayne Andrews.”

  As Tess and Dayne shook, her smooth brow wrinkled. “You look familiar.”

  “I should,” Dayne answered. “We met briefly in the hospital in Springfield.”

  “Right.” She nodded grimly. “That was a dark time.”

  “The darkest,” Eric agreed. Thankfully, Nick had pulled through.

  Nearly a year ago to the day, another of his best friends, Nick Houston, a K-9 sergeant with the Massachusetts State Police, was shot by a gunrunner and came a hair’s breadth from dying. He not only survived but married Tess’s best friend, Andi Hardt. Now, they had a three-month-old baby girl Eric had never met.

  “How are Andi, Nick, and the baby?” he asked, trying to ease the tension so obvious on her face.

  “They’re all doing great.” She smiled, although her body was stiff as a board. “Baby Rose is growing like a weed. You should see how much Nick dotes on her.”

  “I have seen.” Eric tapped the cell phone clipped to his belt. “He sends me pictures just about every day. Sometimes five at a time.” They smiled at each other, but anyone could see there was no real joy in the room.

  A curious look flitted across Jesse McTavish’s face as he watched his sister.

  “I brought you a sandwich, some chips, and a soda.” Eric nodded to the paper bag. “If you’re hungry, dig in. We can talk while you chow down.”

  Tess eyed him oddly for a moment, then her expression turned to one of surprise.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” She shook her head, as if to clear it.

  He pushed a button on the wall monitor and a red light illuminated, confirming they were being videotaped. “Have a seat.” He indicated for Tess to sit, while he dragged another chair from the corner and sat next to her. Dayne remained standing by the door to act as an additional witness.

  After Jesse had signed the requisite waiver-of-rights form and stated his name for the record, the kid dug into the sandwich. Eric let him swallow a couple bites before commencing the interview.

  “Where in Alabama are you from?” he asked.

  As Jesse chewed on a chip, he glanced at Tess, who didn’t say a word. She stared intently at her brother. The only movement Eric detected was the slow twisting of one long red corkscrew tendril around her delicate finger.

  “Elba,” Jesse answered before shoving another chip into his mouth.

  “Give me an address.” If this was how the kid was going to play it, they’d be here until next week.

  Again, Jesse looked to Tess before answering. Her finger had stilled. The shiny tendril was now tightly twisted around her index finger, calling attention to the purple polish on her nails—the same color as on her toes.

  “715 Troy Road,” he answered, then bit off another hunk of sandwich and chewed.

  “That’s a church.” Eric leaned back and crossed his arms. “In Coffee County.”

  Jesse’s eyes widened and he swallowed. “How’d ya know that?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” What did matter was that Coffee County was located in the putrid heart of Alabama’s sovereign citizen territory. And he did happen to know that church occasionally housed people who couldn’t afford other accommodations. “Did you ever live at that address?” he asked Tess.

  “No,” she answered. “I left Alabama before Jesse moved there.”

  He turned back to Jesse. “Do you work?”

  The kid nodded. “At a lumber yard.”

  “How do you get paid? By check or direct deposit to a bank account?” When the kid hesitated, then flicked his gaze to Tess, Eric already knew the answer. “Be straight with me, Jesse. Lying to a federal agent is a felony, so this isn’t the time to start.”

  Considering Tess hadn’t uttered a single word, he couldn’t figure out why the kid constantly looked to her before answering. Her facial expression hadn’t changed, and her posture actually seemed more relaxed. Aside from the twisting of her hair, that was, something that reminded him how often he’d dreamed of sifting his fingers into that riotous mass of curls as he kissed her and—

  Focus, man. Focus. And not with your dick.

  Jesse swallowed then set down the sandwich. “I’m off the books, so I get paid in cash.”

  “Then you’re not paying state or federal taxes.” Just as he figured.

  “Uh, no.” Jesse shifted in the chair. “I know I gotta, but it’s hard makin’ any money without a college degree. The owner of the lumberyard helps me out by payin’ me off the books. I want to go to college someday, and I’ve been savin’ as much money as I can.”

  That time, he hadn’t looked at his sister once, and the entire time, she’d been twisting that same curl around her finger. “Do you know what sovereign citizens are?”

  A flicker of surprise flashed in the kid’s eyes. It was fleeting, but definitely there. Tess’s finger stilled, then Jesse said, “No.”

  He had a theory. Now, it was time to test it out.

  “How old are you?”

  Tess’s finger twisted.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Have you ever been arrested before?” He’d already run the kid’s criminal history and knew he hadn’t. Didn’t mean he hadn’t committed a crime. It could very well mean he just hadn’t been caught yet.

  More twisting.

  “No.”

  “There are three counties in Alabama where sovereign citizens are concentrated. Dale, Houston, and Coffee Counties. Are you a sovereign citizen?” This time, he didn’t bother watching Jesse. His focus was solely on Tess.

  No twisting.

  “No,” Jesse said quickly.

  Too quickly. They’re communicating.

  They were good at this. Most people would never have picked up on it, but he was a trained observer. The kid w
as either lying outright or, at a minimum, withholding information. One way or the other, he damn well intended to find out what it was and how much Tess was involved.

  “What’s a sovereign citizen?” Jesse asked, although the tone of his voice was odd, too high-pitched, as if he already knew and was playing dumb for his and Dayne’s benefit.

  Fine. Two can play that game.

  “A sovereign citizen is a lawless individual, someone who doesn’t recognize federal, state, or local laws.” He paused to watch the kid. Jesse might only be eighteen, but he lived smack dab in the middle of those murdering motherfuckers and didn’t know what they were? Bull. “Most sovereign groups aren’t violent, but some are and have a cult-like following. They’re involved in all kinds of crimes. Money laundering, fraud, tax violations, illegal firearms sales and purchases, and sometimes…murder.” And their numbers were growing, like an insidious virus spreading throughout the nation.

  Tess and Jesse exchanged a look that he couldn’t decipher.

  “The FBI considers them to be a major domestic terrorism threat.” Dayne pushed from the door to stand directly over Tess’s shoulder. “In 1995, the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City was blown up by a sovereign citizen. One hundred and sixty-eight people died in the explosion, including nineteen children who were in the building’s day care center. Six hundred and eighty others were injured.”

  “They’re also the single greatest threat to law enforcement,” Eric threw in, focusing on Jesse to gauge the kid’s reaction. “Nearly two dozen police and federal agents have been murdered by sovereign citizen extremists in the past decade alone.” Including Eric’s friends.

  Almost on cue, every scar on his chest, legs, and back ached as if he’d sustained those injuries only weeks earlier, instead of three years ago.

  “So, you tell me, Tess.” He faced her and leaned in. Big mistake. What he got for his effort was a potent whiff of roses, oranges, and spice. Like freaking potpourri. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Flinching, she sat back. The hand in her hair fell to her lap where she clenched it around the fabric of her skirt. “What do you mean?” Her eyes locked with his, and he hoped to heck she wasn’t fucking with him.

  “Don’t play me. You know damn well what I mean.” Clenching his jaws, he managed to keep the impatience from his voice. “You’re sending signals to him about how to answer my questions.” He reached up to twist a lock of her hair loosely around his finger.

  Before he could yank his hand back, she knocked it away, her eyes flashing. “I was not doing that.”

  He searched her face for signs of deception, but there weren’t any. Had he been wrong about them communicating? He hoped so.

  Taking another Tess-scented breath, he sat back and softened his tone. “Your brother is facing felony possession of a firearm, and if what I suspect is in those drums is actually in there, he’ll be looking at more than a few months in a cell.” He caught the fear in Jesse’s eyes. “You could be looking at hard time, kid.”

  “Why? What do you think is in those drums?” Tess asked, the slight quiver in her voice giving him an indication that she was only now understanding the seriousness of Jesse’s situation.

  “Ammonium nitrate.” The lab wouldn’t confirm it until Monday, but that had been their preliminary guess.

  The smooth skin between her brows furrowed. “What’s that used for?”

  “Fertilizer. Or”—he hardened his jaw—“a bomb.”

  Her eyes filled with undisguised shock, sending a wave of relief washing over him. She hadn’t known what was in those drums. Her physical response had been too genuine.

  When she swallowed, his gaze was riveted to the graceful curves of her slender neck.

  “To put this in perspective,” he said, “the Oklahoma City Federal Building was destroyed by an ammonium nitrate fertilizer bomb. It’s the weapon of choice for militants all over the world because none of the components are illegal to purchase, and they’re easily obtained.”

  Loud crinkling came from where Jesse clenched the bag of chips in his hand. The boy had the same shocked look in his wide green eyes as his sister had. The kid hadn’t known, either.

  “Do you know what’s in those drums?” Dayne asked. There was no mistaking the unforgiving intent in his eyes.

  “No, sir,” Jesse answered without looking at Tess. “I’ll tell you everything I can, which ain’t much. But I want a deal.”

  “There will be no deals until you tell us everything.” Eric crossed his arms. While he wasn’t ready to divulge it, he and Dayne had already pitched an idea to the prosecutor on this case, Assistant U.S. Attorney Julie Chang. First, there was the one burning question on his mind.

  “Do you know Harley Gant?” he asked.

  “No,” Jesse said.

  The boy didn’t look at Tess, but Eric did. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Then something else occurred to him. “Do you?” he asked her.

  Her green gaze was steady. “No. I don’t.”

  He hadn’t expected her to. The question had been a shot in the dark.

  Jesse and Tess McTavish might not know Harley Gant, but he didn’t believe in coincidence. Not where Gant was concerned. Statistically speaking, anything involving Alabama and explosives probably had Gant’s fingerprints all over it. That sonofabitch lived to blow shit—and people—up. Eric’s friends had never seen it coming. They’d died in an instant.

  God may have just given him another chance at the revenge he’d been craving for three years, and now Tess’s little brother could be the key to getting it. Every brain cell in his head knew this was the link he’d been waiting for. He just had to make the connection.

  Chapter Four

  Tess’s throat tightened. This is a nightmare.

  She’d do anything to help Jesse, but now there was something else to consider.

  A bomb.

  When she’d walked into the courthouse, protecting Jesse was her only priority, but not at the expense of other people’s lives. She stared at Eric’s hard profile, then shoved her hand in her pocket, sliding her index finger along the long facet of the Herkimer diamond. As much as she believed in the good luck associated with crystals, it would never be enough to get Jesse out of this mess.

  “Start talking.” When Eric leaned back and crossed his arms over his broad chest, the muscles in his biceps and forearms rippled and flexed. “And don’t leave anything out.”

  “Okay.” Jesse nodded, his expression at hearing he may have been transporting bomb ingredients only slightly less shocked now. “A guy gave me five hundred dollars to drive the drums to New Jersey. That’s all I know.”

  Dayne moved closer. “What guy?” he asked, his deep voice resonating from over her shoulder.

  The man was just as big and imposing as Eric, but he didn’t have nearly the same effect on her that Eric did. Like the shivers shooting up her spine, or the never-ending heart palpitations when she looked at Eric’s handsome face.

  “Dunno,” Jesse said. “I never met him before, and he didn’t give me a name. He had cash and I needed the money, so I said yes. The truck is his.”

  Don’t say too much, Jesse. It was all she could do not to twist her hair in both hands.

  “What did he look like?” Eric took notes as her brother provided a description that could have been anyone. Five-ten, brown hair and eyes, wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt.

  Jesse was smart. His answers were a mixture of truths and half truths, but she worried that by withholding anything about their actual Alabama roots, they would somehow undermine Eric’s ability to stop whoever was trying to build a bomb.

  She quickly reviewed everything she and Jesse had—and hadn’t—divulged. Nothing stuck out as critical. The feds had the drums, and her brother really didn’t know the identity of the man who’d paid him to transport them. Surely, they could pull information from the truck’s license plates and registration.

  “The license plate on the p
ickup you were driving is bogus.” Eric stared at Jesse, his clear blue eyes as cold as ice. “But I’m thinking you already know that. And I’m thinking you already know the VIN number comes back to a truck sold to a junkyard for scrap metal. Am I right in thinking you already know these things?”

  “Not exactly.” Jesse swallowed. “I know a lotta people who don’t have the money for a car or a truck, but they know how to fix one. If it’s on the scrap pile, it can’t be worth much, so who really cares what happens to it?”

  When Eric rested his forearms on the table and leaned in, Tess inhaled his crisp, clean aftershave, along with a hefty dose of freshly oiled leather. The black holster on his belt held a .40 caliber Glock. She’d seen so many guns while growing up, she knew most of them by make and model.

  “Did you know the tag was bogus?” Eric asked.

  “I, uh, never really looked at it.”

  Eric’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe her brother’s last answer, and she was grateful when he didn’t pursue that line of questioning.

  “Where are you supposed to deliver the drums?” Eric asked.

  “I was supposed to go to a truck stop right off the highway, then wait for a call. I was almost there when you pulled me over.”

  “The one on I-78 just before crossing into Pennsylvania?” Jesse nodded. “When are you supposed to get the call?”

  “This morning. I musta missed it.”

  “Dayne?” Eric turned to his friend, who tugged a plastic evidence bag from the thigh pocket of his cargo pants and handed it to him. Eric took the cell phone from the bag, pressed the home button, then held the phone out to Jesse. “Do you recognize these numbers?”

  As Jesse peered at the phone, so did Tess. Please, don’t be his number. Their stepfather rarely made phone calls, but the prospect of seeing his number again—even on someone else’s phone—had her gut rolling with nausea.

  Without looking at her, Jesse shook his head. “No.”

  Those waves of nausea in her belly dissipated, but she worried the immense relief washing over her was written plainly on her face.

  “Do you?” He extended the phone to her.