Bond of Darkness (13 page)

Posada turned and tossed a cell phone at her, which she caught automatically.

"Your replacement. You've had so many death threats you need a new one."

"Thank you, sir." She could hardly argue with his reasoning. She'd be very happy not to hear any more of those sibilant whispers or, worse, a dying animal's howls. "Does this mean the investigation is over?"

"You did right when you killed Ramirez. IA has completely cleared you, of course."

Something inside her slipped free of its chain at his bluntness. She'd killed before in the line of duty, gone through counseling, and worked through the formal process to go back on duty. But somehow acceptance meant more coming from this soft-spoken Ranger with the missing little finger, lost when he'd stopped an extortionist's pipe bomb.

"If you hadn't, he'd probably have killed at least one of those campers. Even if he'd only taken hostages, we know he's killed them before."

She nodded, remembering the photos posted on the Internet as warnings. Hideous tortures, mutilations, and finally what must have seemed like merciful decapitations to their victims.

Christ, she'd been sick when she'd seen them and she'd vowed El Gallinazo's bloody mafia would one day see justice.

"Castelnuevo is transferring to Gilbert's Crossing to take over."

"It's my district!" Steve sprang to her feet. Castelnuevo couldn't do a good job there, not right away. He didn't know the people, or the problems, or the land. It would take him months to catch up. And in the meantime, El Gallinazo would play merry hell with people's lives. Plus what the other drug smugglers would do!

"Your people will be safer without you drawing El Gallinazo's fire. He's pissed as hell you wiped out his favorite enforcer." Posada's eyes were sympathetic but his features were unyielding.

"I should lead the investigation into Ramirez's presence," she argued, barely stopping herself from slamming her fist into a desk.

"You can't—and you know it. Stand down, Ranger," he said softly, his voice edged in steel.

She eased into a parade rest posture, simmering, her skin taut enough to throw sparks into her veins.

Dammit, Posada's tone was final, as if she'd never go back. Never sleep in her little house again, or dine with her few friends.

Even worse, for a century and a half, her family had been in law enforcement, all the while fighting to get back into the Rangers, a job originally granted to them because of their tracking skills but denied to later generations because they were Cherokee Indians. She'd been the one to finally be selected for the Rangers—and serve once again at the same post along the border, too! But now she'd lost it because she'd done her job? Crap.

El Gallinazo hadn't just threatened her life—he'd torn her world away from her, the bastard. The loss left her feeling even more isolated than the damn divorce had.

She forced those memories aside and focused on El Gallinazo, he of the bloody feuds and the insidious drug smuggling. He was the one who should suffer, not her.

Posada studied her, his steady gaze penetrating her surface courtesy. "Have you ever considered working in Austin?"

"At the
capitol
?" She bit her tongue before she could fully express her loathing. "Can't say I have, sir."
And please don't ask me to volunteer
.

"Dr. Parmenter's given you a clean bill of health, mental and physical, so no worries there."

She studied him warily. She'd thought any kind of work would be better than sitting around with nothing to do—but picking up after bureaucrats?

Posada didn't quite grin. "You're able to come off light duty now. The lieutenant governor has asked about you several times, Reynolds, since he saw the video of you during that convenience store shooting."

"Any state trooper would have done the same, sir," she answered stiffly.

"In a bridesmaid's dress with your hair gussied up? My wife still talks about seeing your photo."

She gritted her teeth. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best to be a credit to the Texas Rangers."

His eyes danced. "There may be some different opportunities, though, around here."

Her heart began to beat faster, more hopefully.

"You spent a lot of time at FLETC on firearms instructor training, after you first left Gilbert's Crossing."

She shrugged, conceding the obvious. Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. Great school—but damn, its location sure deserved the nickname of Nowheresville, Georgia.

"The DPS Academy wants you to look over their firearms curriculum and make sure it's up to date with what you picked up there. Since it's summer, you may also be asked to fill in for some other firearms instructors on vacation."

"I'd be glad to, sir." Sure as hell be more interesting than being polite to politicians.

"CIS may also ask your opinion from time to time about a drug-smuggling case linked to El Gallinazo. Interested?"

"Of course, sir." She smiled, suspecting the curve was more edged than feminine.

And Ethan was a nice bit of relaxation on the side.

A SMALL FARM TOWN NORTHEAST OF AUSTIN. TWO NIGHTS LATER

Steve rode her Harley Sportster up to Hot Pepper Motorcycles and slowed, warily eyeing her surroundings.

The ranch road leading here had been long and blessed with only a few gentle curves. A few oak trees offered darker shadows against the early night and small houses shone like lighthouses. Fences unrolled ceaselessly at the tarmac's edge, enlivened by an occasional mile marker, popping up like a ghost. The soft, warm scents of cows and corn had blanketed the June night out there but seemed to creep only cautiously through the fence's narrow slats. Here, oil, rubber, and steel ruled.

The legendary custom bike shop had originally been a road-house, during the 1920s and 1930s. It became a truck stop during the 1950s, gaining an impressive set of facilities and fencing, only to dissolve into this backwater when the interstate highway cut through fifteen miles farther east. But it still boasted a flashing neon light overhead, lobbing fireworks into the sky like arrogant artillery shells.

The shop was an advertisement for Serrano Sam's genius. The lights were all
on, shining into the night from the few windows and the big open bays. All the welding equipment, boxes of tools, rolling crates of tools, bins of parts—everything stacked and labeled and gleaming with the joy only methodical men can bring to their temple—all was in perfect order. Even the rubber mats on the bays' floors were smooth and straight. A half dozen bikes, in various stages of completion from black steel to luminous art, stood proudly on their stands. One loomed inside the paint booth like a gold and black praying mantis from outer space.

Outside, a pair of small, dusty Honda CRVs sat in front of the old roadhouse's porch, across from a brand-new Cadillac. A big pickup was parked in the shadows, rarely glimpsed under the neon light's eternal announcement of "Hot Pepper's."

A black truck, perhaps?

There wasn't a living being in sight, not even a dog. Just as surprisingly, she had the only working motorcycle—and a Harley Sportster had never been labeled
quiet
.

Steve frowned faintly, a whisper of air slipping over her skin. Did she have the day of the week wrong?

But the building's lights were all on and the doors were open.

She'd planned to come that afternoon to order a new bike, symbol of her freedom from Fred and any plans for similarity to Donna Reed. But she'd been delayed by having to fill in for another instructor, suddenly called away for a sick child. She wasn't about to wait any longer, since Hot Pepper Motorcycles only took new orders in person once a week.

She wheeled her Harley around to the corner and parked it pointing toward the exit, kicking the centerstand into place with a bit too much vehemence. With luck, her instincts were only practicing going on alert.

A tall, blond man stepped into the open bay just before she reached it, his black leather jacket framing broad shoulders and narrow hips.

Her heart skipped a beat. Ethan? Given his money, surely a top mechanic would come to him, not the other way around.

Her booted feet shuffled to a halt just before the shop's concrete rim.

" 'Bout time you got here, darling," he drawled.

She gaped at him, trying to form a coherent sentence. How the hell had he known she was coming? She hadn't told anyone.

He cupped the back of her head with one big hand, his other hand catching the front of her jacket, and pulled her up to him, lifting her up onto her toes.

She started to object and his mouth came down on hers—hard, fast, sinfully exciting, and bruising.

Steve choked, wished to God she could resist him, and yielded. She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him back just as fiercely, doing her best to ignore the pair of guns in his shoulder holster. And how quickly her skin became a shimmering conduit, carrying the heated electricity of his caresses into every hidden portion of her body.

She blinked up at him when he finally lifted his head. It would be far too embarrassing to rub her lips to see if they were swollen. She was entirely sure cream was drifting down her thighs.

"Problem?" Somebody called from inside the office.

Ethan tensed but his response sounded casual. "Not at all, amigos. My bitch arrived much earlier than I expected."

"Bitch?" Steve hissed.

He frowned at her.

"Do you need help?" another asked greedily. Chairs scraped back.

Help
? Her blood ran faster.

"No, I know exactly how to deal with her. Continue your poker game,
por favor
."

"You are a lucky dog, Jerez!"

Jerez?

"But only because you won the last two hands." Furniture rattled again. "
Bueno
, we will content ourselves with the cards while you enjoy the woman."

"What the—"

He clapped a hand across her mouth and towed her across the shop, between the immaculately arranged, thousands of dollars worth of tools. Past the motorcycles in all their varying stages of birth. A quick glimpse of her own Harley, impossible to grab without being seen from the office, dammit.

She bit her lip and composed a list of questions, forcing them into numerical order, just as she had at the police academy.

And tried not to make each question's number match the count of her heartbeats, rising every time he rubbed his thumb over the pulse in her wrist.

They stepped into the narrow hallway and stopped in front of the women's restroom. A gaping hole marked where the doorknob had once been.

Ethan growled very softly.

Steve swallowed hard, automatically assessing the building's layout. If she guessed right, there were only three rooms where one could be assured of privacy—the office, the women's rest-room, and the men's restroom. The office had once been the roadhouse's core and opened onto to the front porch, facing the road. As befitted management's inner sanctum, it also connected to this hallway with the two restrooms.

But the women's restroom backed to the bike shop, while the men's room was next to the office.