Silent Deceit

Silent Deceit

by

Kallie Lane

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

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

N
atasha 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, an
d—”

“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?”

––––––––

  S
hit
.
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 the 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.