Deadly Silence Page 4

  Her eyes opened in the darkness. What exactly did that mean? He hadn’t called her, after all. The bartender had found the phone…the odd one.

  For thirty minutes, she tried to sleep. Ryker dropped into a deep booze-induced slumber all around her. Finally, she carefully dislodged his arm and maneuvered from the bed, turning to make sure he didn’t awaken.

  He slept peacefully, his hair ruffled, his jaw relaxed. One muscled arm was out of the covers, and even in sleep, a sense of power surrounded him.

  She had to know more about him and that damn phone, but if he caught her snooping through his belongings, he’d be seriously pissed. The truth seemed important to Ryker, even if he didn’t share much of it. While the smart move would be to end things with him, it hurt to think they’d end with anger.

  Yet she had to know. The mystery was eating at her.

  She tiptoed across the room, closing the door as she passed into the living room. This was so wrong.

  Padding on her toes, she made it to the kitchen.

  His duffel lay on the table next to the phone the bartender had given her. She reached for it and located the contacts. There was one. Z. Not even her full name. Just a Z. Was this a burner phone? Why would Ryker have a burner phone just for her? The only thing she knew about burner phones was from watching detective shows on television.

  She looked at the innocuous bag. Oh, she shouldn’t. Yet she reached out and released the zipper.

  Clothes. A pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, and some underwear. She rummaged beneath the jeans and found two guns, a knife, and three more phones.

  Three phones?

  A look at the contacts revealed one in each phone. One for a D, one for an H, and one that said FBI. Why would he have a burner phone for the FBI? More important, who were D and H? Women in other cities?

  Man, she was tempted to dial H and D to see who they were. Instead, she quickly replaced all the contents in the duffel.

  She glanced toward the quiet bedroom. Just who the hell was Ryker Jones?

  Chapter

  4

  Ryker finished in the shower and drew on his clothing, then walked into Zara’s kitchen and stopped short.

  She sat at the table with his duffel bag in front of her. “Who are H and D?” Her eyes were guarded and her voice low.

  Shit. He shoved wet hair away from his face.

  “I went through your stuff. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I did, and we’re over, so you don’t have to tell me, but I still want to know.” Her words had run together so quickly it took him a second to make them out.

  “We’re not over.” The statement burst from him before he could think, and heat climbed up his throat. Was that panic? Think. He needed to think. “D and H are Denver and Heath, my brothers. We have burner phones because we’re on a case where we don’t want to be connected to each other.” He couldn’t tell her the full truth, and damn if that didn’t piss him off.

  “Fine. Let’s go.” She moved toward the garage, and he followed.

  The trip back to the bar was made in silence. He wanted to talk to her, but his head felt like a mini war was going on inside of it, and he needed to puke. The hangover had him and bad.

  At some point, he needed to really get through to her—when he could concentrate again. Somebody had hit Zara a week ago, and she didn’t trust him enough to take care of it.

  Not that he could blame her. It wasn’t like he’d offered her any sort of relationship. Now she’d said they were done, and a shocking panic had taken hold of him. The idea of not having Zara around, her warmth and kindness, sent him back into that cold he’d been trying to escape since childhood.

  Yet what could he offer her? Really? A life on the run, looking over her shoulder? Burner phones? Sick cases with psychopaths winning?

  She pulled up next to his motorcycle. “Bye, Ryker.”

  He grasped her arm, keeping his hold gentle. “It’s not good-bye.”

  She sighed. “I don’t understand your life, and after snooping in your bag, I’m uneasy. Worse yet, I’m angry I had to snoop. We made a deal to just have some fun with no hard feelings when it ended. Let’s stick to the deal.”

  The deal was to keep things casual, and yet he felt even that slipping away. “I don’t want to stop seeing you. Let’s just forget that last week happened and go back to being casual.”

  She looked at him, temptation in her gaze. Oh, he could read people, and she didn’t want to end it, either. “I’m not sure.” She flattened her hands on her skirt, her lip twisting. “I’ve had fun, and I like you, but the burner phones are a huge red flag. Are you wanted by the authorities?”

  “I have a phone for the FBI. We’re working with them.” Truth, but not all of it. He released her. “You have to know, even if we split, I’m going after whoever hit you. It’s who I am, and I won’t rest until I make sure you’re safe.” He wanted to be honest with her, but her eyes fired up again, so he slid from the car before his head exploded. “I’ll see you later today, and we can discuss us. We’re not over.” He shut the door, and she sped away from the curb.

  He swung his leg over his bike and stroked the engine to life, quickly taking off. Soon he angled toward the edge of town, enjoying the feeling of the Harley Fat Boy beneath him.

  Cold air whipped against him, belying the odd fact that no snow dusted the ground in November. It was a record dry season, but snowfall was coming… He could smell it. Soon he’d have to put the bike away until spring.

  Mountains, already clipped with white, rose up all around him like watching sentinels. Snow had fallen to coat the highest peaks finally. He reached the end of a deserted street and parked behind a black 1970 Plymouth Hemi ’Cuda, his mind still on Zara. Heath must already be inside. Ryker swung off the bike and read the newly painted front window: LOST BASTARDS INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES: WE FIND THE LOST. He shook his head.

  Heath opened the front door of the weathered brick building that had an underground garage, first floor offices, and second floor apartments. He leaned out, his brown hair scruffier than normal and in contrast with his white dress shirt and blue tie. Tension rolled off him, and lines near his eyes showed he still wasn’t sleeping. “Denver did it.”

  Of course, Denver had done it. “We’re probably going to get in trouble with the town.” They couldn’t have the word bastard on the window, could they? “Plus, while I understand the need to be present, there’s such a thing as too attention grabbing, and we can’t afford that.” Their business had been doing just fine the past five years without a permanent location, a website, or advertising.

  “Agreed.” Heath held the door open for Ryker. “But Denver is nesting like a pregnant chick.”

  “I heard that,” Denver bellowed from his office in the back. Those three words from Denver said a lot more… He wanted the sign to stay.

  Heath shook his head.

  “Scratch it off when he’s not around,” Ryker muttered. “We don’t want business off the street.” Which is why they’d chosen Cisco, Wyoming, for this case. He’d spent enough time in the town to enjoy the mountains and wild weather…and there were several ways out of town if they ever had to run. “Why are you wearing a tie?”

  Heath tugged on the garment, loosening the knot. “Got sworn in to practice law in Wyoming today. Just in case and also so we look legit here. Temporarily.”

  Ah hell. “I missed the ceremony.” Ryker leaned against a battered reception counter. “I’m sorry, man.”

  “I hate ceremonies, so don’t worry about it.” Shrewd greenish brown eyes took his measure. “You’ve been in a bottle for days. You out now?”

  It had been a lot more than one bottle of Jack. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  Heath clapped him on the back. “We’ve all been there. This case is killing all of us. It’s a tough one.”

  Tough? Yeah. Finding the vic dead and buried had been more than tough. Sometimes the lost were dead. They had to find the fucker killing young women. “I should’ve bee
n at your deal today.”

  “Why?” Heath frowned.

  Ryker lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s what you do, right?” They were family, and he’d die for his brothers. The least he could do was attend a ceremony and be supportive. He wouldn’t have had a chance in life without Heath.

  “Hell if I know.” Heath turned on his motorcycle boots to maneuver by several abandoned chairs. Beyond the reception area, there was a wide, open room with two long tables. To the right lay three offices and a small kitchen. “Let’s see what Denver found.”

  Ryker followed, his temples starting to ache. “Did you wear those boots today at the courthouse?”

  “Yeah.” Heath stomped into Denver’s office. “Why?”

  “They don’t go with a suit,” Ryker said slowly.

  Heath moved past a well-polished cherrywood desk to sit in a winged leather chair of dark green. “I wore these pants with a tie. Didn’t need a full suit, which is good, because I don’t have one.”

  Shouldn’t a lawyer have a suit? “You don’t have to act like a lawyer if you don’t want to,” Ryker said. Heath was always trying to save everyone, and he’d definitely do a job he hated if it helped the agency. Ryker needed to do a better job of making sure Heath didn’t lose himself in his drive to fix things. “We don’t need a lawyer.”

  “I’m fine, Ryker. It’s only for emergencies, and I am a lawyer, so why not use it?” Heath rolled his eyes. “I’d rather be in the action, but my brain is better than yours.”

  “Huh.” Ryker grinned. “If that helps you sleep at night.” He took the adjacent chair, noting the matching bookshelves and file cabinets. “Jesus, Denver. Where did you get the furniture?”

  “Internet,” Denver grunted. He glanced up from pounding on his keyboard, his hair ruffled and his blue eyes slowly focusing. A bandage peeked from his open collar, covering a minor bullet wound. He’d been shot the week before while chasing down a guy who owed child support. “Got some furniture for you, too.”

  Ryker cut Heath a glance. “Is he pregnant?”

  “Shut up.” Denver threw a brass paperweight at him, and he caught it.

  “He has a paperweight,” Ryker whispered to Heath.

  Heath chuckled. “I told you. Nesting.”

  “Receptionist?” Denver asked.

  “No,” Ryker and Heath said in unison.

  Ryker tossed the paperweight onto the desk, where it clattered. “We’re not exactly working within the law here, guys. A receptionist would just complicate things.”

  Denver leaned back to rub his scruffy jaw. A wide oil painting of the Rocky Mountains spread across the entire wall behind him, its vibrant hues of pink and green adding even more warmth to the area. “The phone?”

  “We can take turns. Hopefully it won’t ring much. Keep in mind we’re setting down temporary roots just to catch this nutjob killing redheads,” Ryker said. “We need a virtual redhead to be dating one of us. Somebody just on paper, not real, that will draw the killer in. Then we get him as he tries to find her.”

  Heath nodded. “We do have to look like we’re relocating here for good. It has to look natural, or the asshole killer won’t go for it.” His fingers drummed impatiently on his jeans. “We’re fighting a ticking clock. The bastard already knows his next victim, I’m sure.”

  True. Frustration for the innocent victims made Ryker’s hands clench, and he purposefully relaxed them. He glanced at all the wood. “Please tell me my furniture doesn’t look like a ninety-year-old lawyer uses it.”

  “I like cherrywood, and, no, your office fits your personality,” Denver muttered, tapping the long scar along his jaw, which he’d gotten in a knife fight years ago. It was a habit he resorted to when he became irritated.

  “What’s going on, Den?” Ryker asked.

  “We got hacked.” Denver glanced over at the computer. “Our files, our backgrounds, and the encrypted stuff. Even the stuff on the dark web that allows people who need a job done quietly to find us.”

  Ryker frowned, and his shoulders shot back. That was two entire sentences from Denver at once. The guy was pissed off. “Even the encrypted stuff?”

  “Yeah.” Denver rolled his neck. “I’m good, but this guy hacked through my levels of protection like a buzz saw through butter. Kicked the door wide open and left a calling card.” He flipped the screen around to show a picture of a hand giving the bird.

  Ryker coughed out a laugh. “What a dick.”

  “Yeah.” Denver sighed.

  “Did he spend extra time in any of the files?” Heath asked.

  Denver nodded. “Yes. The files of our last three cases. He read through them and downloaded copies of everything.”

  “Do you think it’s the serial killer?” Ryker asked, his fingers tapping restlessly on his thighs.

  Denver shook his head. “No.”

  Heath nodded. “That doesn’t feel right. Mainly the picture flipping us off—it’s too immature. The killer is methodical, psycho, and determined. I think this hacker is somebody else entirely. Maybe it’s somebody looking to hire us. Folks usually find us on the dark web.”

  “That’s not all,” Denver said.

  The hair on the back of Ryker’s neck rose. “What?”

  “He left this, too.” Denver pointed to a URL.

  “Where does the link go?” Ryker asked, his instincts kicking in hard.

  Denver clicked his mouse, and a newspaper article came up: LOST SPRINGS HOME FOR BOYS BURNS DOWN: TWO DIE.

  Ryker read the headline twice before the words made sense and he could concentrate. His chest compressed. “Well, fuck. Looks like somebody knows who we are.”

  “How?” Heath asked, tension cutting lines on either side of his mouth. “How in the hell?”

  “Dunno,” Denver said, shoving the sleeves of his long T-shirt up his muscled arms.

  Ryker fleetingly wished for another bottle of booze. “Can he trace us here?”

  “No. I used false identifications to create a series of corporations that own the building as well as the business. If the three of us walk away, again, nobody can trace us,” Denver said.

  “We didn’t have to leave Alaska,” Heath muttered. “It was your choice to leave Noni there.”

  Ryker blew out air. “Sheriff Cobb was closing in again, and there’s no statute of limitation on murder, boys. Leaving her might’ve been the best thing for her.” Someday they were going to get caught. Could he leave Zara? He might have to flee if this hacker discovered their location.

  Denver tapped his scar. “Leaving Noni was my decision, and I’ve asked you not to say her fucking name. So stop saying her fucking name.”

  Ryker studied the newspaper picture on the screen of a younger Sheriff Cobb, strong and tall, standing in front of a smoldering pile of rubble, his hand on his nightstick. Ryker had felt the pain of that damn thing more times than he could count, and looking at it now made his gut ache. “He’ll never stop coming for us.”

  “We could put him down,” Denver said darkly.

  “We’ll probably have to at some point,” Heath said.

  Ryker extended his legs. “Haven’t we killed enough?” Hell, they’d started killing as teenagers, although they hadn’t had a choice. Not really. “I say we keep dodging the asshole. We can’t be the only ones who want him dead.” How many kids had he beaten through the years? “For now, we need to clear out the garage space in this building, because I smell snow coming.”

  Heath cleared his throat. “We cleaned it out yesterday. You can park the bike inside now.”

  Guilt blasted through Ryker. “Ah shit. I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

  “It’s tough to concentrate when you’re knee-deep in booze,” Heath said. “The case was a tough one, and you took point, so you got to know the kid before you found her. A week in a bottle is healthy, if you ask me.”

  Ryker had used every odd sense he had to find that girl, and in the end, he’d been too late. He’d still failed. Sometimes he cou
ld read a situation, or even a person, with nearly supernatural abilities. All three of them had special gifts, ones they’d never been able to explain, and if they were going to be freaks, then why the hell shouldn’t they save people? Why did bad guys win and good people die? Ryker cleared his throat. “Are we making a mistake? Having a building and an office?”

  “Probably,” Denver said.

  Heath kicked dirt off one boot. “But we need the setup to find this bastard, and if we do it right, we’ll be gone before Sheriff Cobb finds us again.”

  “When have we ever done anything just right?” Ryker muttered, rubbing his left eye.

  Denver snorted. “I like it here.”

  Heath, as usual, interpreted Denver’s sentence. “I agree that I’m tired of living out of motels and eating fast food. Even if we stay here just long enough to draw the killer in, it’d be nice to cook a meal once in a while. Even relax a bit after we catch the guy?”

  “We relax, we get caught,” Ryker countered. The only reason he’d agreed to a permanent building was because they’d had no luck finding the killer so far.

  “Maybe we should’ve kept the identities we used that time in Florida,” Heath said.

  Denver shook his head. “No.”

  Ryker nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. It was good we faked those deaths. Nobody will ever come looking for them.” He glanced at the computer screen. “Lost Bastards Investigative Services doesn’t have our names attached to it.”

  Denver pulled the screen back around.

  “Do we have any new cases?” Ryker asked quietly.

  “No,” Denver said. “Nothin’ new on ours, either.”

  Ryker nodded. He’d been abandoned as a baby at a church in New Orleans and then spent time in several orphanages, ending up in Lost Springs, North Carolina. He knew he had family out there, and someday he’d find them. Maybe. “No luck on finding the lawyer who did my adoption?”

  “No.” Denver started typing again. “No news on your lawyer, Heath’s mom, or my so-called uncle who just wanted the money from the state for taking me in. We’re all still fucking lost, men.”