Christmas Justice (Carder Texas Connections #7)(20)

Idiot. The winter chill bit through his bomber jacket. He scrambled over the rocks and made it to the SUV in record time. He was giving too much away. What was it about her that made Laurel feel so...comfortable? He couldn’t afford to like her. Emotions had no place in his world right now. Not when he was fighting an enemy that held all the cards.

He had to get back on track.

By the time he returned to the house with the last of the supplies, the crackle of bacon and a heavenly aroma filled the room.

“I found the bacon in the freezer,” she said.

Garrett’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since last night. Without saying a word, he set the groceries on the table and started putting them away. They worked side by side, together. Too comfortably. He sliced a couple of loaves of Hondo’s homemade bread. Laurel slid one out of his hands, her touch lingering for a moment. She slathered the toast with butter and popped the slices in the broiler.

“After Molly eats, why don’t you distract her?” Garrett said, clearing his throat. “I’ll do some looking into your father.”

Laurel put down a knife and turned slowly toward him. “How long have you been out of the game?” she asked.

“What makes you think—?”

“At first glance I didn’t notice,” she said, “but I checked out the equipment a second time while you were gone. Most of it is a couple years old. You haven’t upgraded. If you were active, you’d have the latest.”

“Molly, time to eat,” Garrett called out.

He heard the slap of shoes as she raced into the room. She squealed and sat at the table. “Hairy and I are starving to death.” She dug into the bacon and toast, munching down.

“Not a topic for conversation. I get it,” Laurel said. “So, you have a favorite football team, Garrett?”

He looked over his shoulder and sighed. “Between your job and your father’s career, you have to know sharing information is a bad idea.”

“Not much choice. My father is in trouble. So am I. You may be able to help us, but you need me. I have contacts. People I trust. If we’re careful they won’t be able to trace us back here.”

“Really? Even on my outdated equipment? Did Ivy trust them, too?”

Laurel hissed at the barb, but Garrett didn’t waver.

“I won’t apologize. Right now it’s all about finding your father. And that means finishing the job your sister started. On our own.”

*

MIKE STRICKLAND SAT in the SUV a block down from the sheriff’s office. They’d gotten nowhere searching the man’s house. The damn town hadn’t had one 9-1-1 call the entire night.

He stroked his stubble-lined jaw. He’d been awake all night, knowing if he fell asleep and missed his chance, his life would be worth nothing.

Strickland couldn’t believe Garrett Galloway was actually acknowledged traitor Derek Bradley.

Wasn’t his fault the man had decided to take his family somewhere that day. Strickland shoved aside the prickle of regret. He’d gained the boss’s confidence with that job. And he’d stayed alive.

He’d also attached himself to the organization the boss had created. Selling guns and secrets to the highest bidder: governments, terrorist organizations, corporations—it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered but the dollars. Loyalty didn’t mean squat, and the boss didn’t suffer fools. The stakes in the game were too high to risk compromise.

Unless Strickland killed Bradley—make that Galloway—before he saw the boss again, he’d be the next example.

A beat-up truck trundled in front of the sheriff’s office. A young deputy jumped out of his truck. He turned the doorknob, then paused.

So, the sheriff was usually in before now.

The deputy dug his keys from his pocket, inserted one into the lock and pushed the door open.

Strickland’s phone vibrated. “Tell me you have something,” he bit out to Krauss.

“Nothing. Checked out the abandoned house where we triangulated the sheriff’s cell signal. Evidence of someone there, but gone. No prints.”

“His place?”

“Nothing.”

“We’re out of options,” Strickland said. “I’m going to have a chat with the young deputy.” He ended the call, tucked his unidentifiable Glock in his holster, waited for a couple of cars to pass by and stepped out of the vehicle.

He crossed the street and slipped into the sheriff’s office.

“Deputy?”

“Can I help you, sir?”

The young man poked his head out from the back room. Strickland could take him out now and no one would have a lead to follow. He ran his hand over the weapon. “Looking for the sheriff.”

The deputy sighed. “You and me both. He’s not here yet.”

“When do you expect him back?”

The kid stiffened, finally recognizing Strickland could very well be dangerous. “I told you I don’t know. How can I help you?”

The kid shifted his stance, subtly showing his sidearm.

Strickland flashed his identification badge. “Federal business,” he commented. “Contact him.”

The deputy’s face paled. “Of course.” He stumbled to the desk and dialed a number. After thirty seconds his face fell. “Sheriff, a federal agent is here. He needs to see you—”