Deadly Lies (Deadly #3)(12)

Sam licked her lips, felt the comfort of his embrace, and finally, Christ, finally, almost believed she was safe.

Safe, in the arms of a stranger.

She was so screwed up.

? ? ?


The stench of bleach burned his nose when he entered the house on the end of Sycamore Lane.

He’d cleaned the shack himself, every inch, because he wanted to make sure that the job had been done right. There’d be no mistakes on his watch. This was too important.

The chair sat waiting in the back bedroom. The wooden chair was the only piece of furniture in the ten-by-thirteen-foot space. The oak gleamed now, but it had been stained red earlier. The blood had dripped onto the hardwood floor.

Jeremy Briar hadn’t died easily. He’d slit Jeremy’s throat, not enough to sever the jugular but enough to stop the *’s screams. He hadn’t sliced the guy’s throat because he’d been afraid someone might hear Jeremy. No chance of that out here. He just hadn’t wanted to hear the desperate cries and the begging anymore.

Begging didn’t work with him.

Only money stopped his hand. If Briar’s father had just paid the ransom…

Then Morgan Briar wouldn’t have been forced to scrape his only son’s flesh and blood off the driveway.

A car’s engine sounded outside. A soft purr. He glanced over at the window. Right on time.

He turned away from the chair. It wouldn’t be empty for long.

Once the news had time to run Jeremy’s sad story, he’d take a new mark. This time, the bastards would know to pay. No one would screw him over now.

He walked back down the hallway and moments later, he opened the front door and saw the first rays of dawn creeping out against the darkness.

His partner came toward him, hurrying in her heels, her breath fogging in the cold. “I think I’ve got the next one.”

He smiled. “No, I do.” Time to move to the next level.

He’d already picked their next victim. Actually, he’d picked them all, months ago. He’d planned out every move, and he wasn’t going to stop. Not until his list was finished, and he’d gotten everything he deserved.

The bastards can pay or they can bleed.





CHAPTER Three


I need money.”

The steady rap of pounding hammers filled the air around Max. Electric saws cut through metal, sending sparks shooting into the air. It took a second for the demand to penetrate the layers of noise, and when it did, Max shoved back his hardhat, wiped the sweat out of his eyes, and blinked. “Quinlan? Shit, what are you doin’ here?”

His stepbrother never bothered with his construction business. As far as Max could tell, the guy wasn’t much for getting his hands dirty. The fancy parties, yeah; that was his scene.

But a site like this was all Max really knew. Construction had been his life for over a decade. Long before his mother had hooked up with her prince not-so-charming, he’d chosen this path and busted ass to make his business a success.

Quinlan ducked his dark head and came inside what would eventually be a world-class kitchen. One day real soon, if Max could just get the rest of his damn supplies in on time.

“You heard me, man.” Quinlan glanced around, eyeing the workers nervously, but they weren’t even looking his way. “I need money.”

It wasn’t the first time that Quinlan had come to him. “How much?” His construction company had managed to survive and finally thrive through the years, despite the dive the economy had taken. He wasn’t in the same category as his stepfather, didn’t want to be, but he was doing well enough that the invitations to those fancy parties kept finding their way to his door.

Quinlan shook his head. “No, I want my money.”

Ah, now here was the rub.

His brother’s hands were clenched. “My grandfather left me that trust. The money is mine,” Quinlan snapped.

And it was one hell of a lot of money. Enough money to make a man do some damn stupid things. Max sighed. “You only have two more years, then the trust’s yours.”

“I don’t want to f*cking wait!”

Now that snarl did have the guys looking their way because they knew Max didn’t take shit like that from anyone, not even his brother.

“Sorry, I think you’re gonna have to f*cking wait.” Max shrugged and reached for the blueprints once more.

“Talk to him. Tell my dad I need more. I need it now—”

“Why?” Max shook his head, aware that his brother was sweating when there was no reason to sweat. “Why do you need the cash?”

Quinlan’s lips firmed into a thin line.

Ah, shit. Max dropped the prints and closed the distance between them, fast. He grabbed his brother’s arms, jerked them out so he could shove up the sleeves of his shirt and see Quinlan’s arms. “You using again?” Quinlan had already been through four rehab programs. Four. The docs would say he was clean, then just a few weeks later Quinlan would be using again.

His brother tried to snatch his arms back. Not going to happen. Max just tightened his grip. “Are you?” The guy wanted money to support his habit. Great, just—

“No!”

There weren’t any needle marks on his arms. But then maybe Quinlan was just snorting coke up his nose again.

“I-I only used the last time because of what happened to—”