Darkness descended swiftly in the Florida Everglades. Carmen’s tended to fill up fast and stay that way until well into the night. People smoked like chimneys because there was no one to stop them. The town’s primary law enforcement officer, Deputy Sheriff Ethan Travers, spent most of his on-duty time patrolling the less reputable bars, making sure the high stakes poker games run behind the scenes didn’t get out of hand.
Word had it one of the night’s games involved a group of high rollers from Jacksonville. Even through the haze of anger, pain, and cigarette smoke that fogged her head, Melia knew she could do pretty much anything without fear of reprisal. Including shooting a certain U.S. Marshal.
McCabe studied her across the table of the back booth he’d selected for their talk. It was a large bar, so they were able to keep a good amount of distance between themselves and the rest of the customers. Leaning onto his forearms, he slid a mostly full glass of whiskey toward her.
“Feel free to pour this over my head, Mel. Or drink it if you prefer. I know how pissed you must be. I’d feel the same way in your place. Just try to remember that everything Johnny and I did, we did to keep Ben Satyr from killing you.”
Melia held fast to her temper. “So what you’re telling me is you put me through three years of emotional hell in order to stop a sadistic lunatic from offing me. Satyr, a known criminal, gets to walk around free while Johnny pretends to hate me, and I go on thinking I slept with a total stranger at a medical convention. Not to mention the fact that you used a hypnotic drug that made me susceptible to suggestion. You planted memories in my head that weren’t actually mine—supplements to things that were real, but not leading toward the end I believed.”
“That’s about the size of it.” Reaching over, he touched her hand. “We can’t get Satyr, Mel. And killing him wasn’t an option. I won’t argue it wasn’t tempting, but murder’s never the answer. In this case, it would have turned Mockerie’s wrath on you and Johnny. No one can run forever, not from someone like him.”
“Are you saying neither Satyr nor Mockerie can be touched? That lives have to be totally screwed up to accommodate them?”
“No. What I’m saying is that, in this situation, in order to keep you safe, we had to screw up your life. And it worked. Until now.”
Melia sat back. “Jesus.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. We know Mockerie has ties to various government agencies. One of those ties is gone—dead by his own hand—but the other or others are still out there, still working for him.”
It didn’t surprise Melia that she could understand the reasoning for the deliberate deception. Understand, and in a skewed way, was grateful that Johnny loved her enough and was selfless enough to sacrifice his happiness for her. But fuck him and McCabe for not letting her in on the plan.
Taking the offered whiskey, she swirled it, raised her eyes to McCabe’s, and held his gaze. Bringing the glass to her lips, she swallowed a good mouthful. It burned straight down her throat and into her stomach.
“Where’s Johnny?” she asked when the worst of the firestorm had passed. Then she smiled and took a second, slower drink. “Never mind. He’s behind me. I can feel him. Even after three years, I can feel his presence. He’s heading toward us from the side door.”
McCabe’s mouth crooked up. “You’re good, Mel, I’ll give you that. Scary, but good.”
“My paternal grandmother was born in Brazil. They have a very spooky form of voodoo there. My mother is Irish. She has a sixth, seventh, and eighth sense.”
Damn, this was going to hurt. Turning, looking, seeing for the first time in three years. But she’d get through it, Melia promised herself. Get through it and past it. She’d remember why he’d done it, and try to remember that he’d suffered, too.
“Mel.”
Shit. She forced herself to breathe, released her hold on the whiskey.
“Johnny.” In a single fluid motion, she stood and swung to face him. His features were a blur in the bad light, and he was wearing a ball cap, so she didn’t have to see his eyes. But damn, seeing any part of him after all this time broke her heart into a thousand pieces. Sparking, sizzling pieces. She drew a deep breath and struggled to keep her voice calm. “McCabe and I were just talking about you.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
He came toward her slowly, warily. But she gave him credit; he kept moving forward.
He spread the fingers of both hands. “Look, I know you’re angry.”
“Really? Is that what you think I am? Just angry?”
“I’m hoping.”
She managed a small, humorless laugh. “In your dreams, pal.” Pushing off from the chairback she’d been strangling with her fingers, she willed her heart rate from racing at top speed to a level where she could at least distinguish the beats. “You drugged me and set me up. You lied to me. You made me believe that lie, live with it, hate myself because of it. Three years of self-hatred is a powerful thing. Powerful, destructive, and, sorry, Johnny, cruel.” She jerked her head at McCabe behind her. “I want you and him to leave. Now.”
“Mel…”
Damn him, he didn’t stop advancing. And the whiskey was right there next to her.
She thought he glanced at it. For some reason, that small glance brought a smile to her lips.
“Way too predictable,” she said softly.
And harnessing all the emotions swirling inside her, she balled her fist and punched him in the jaw.
…
His head snapped back, no way to stop it. The woman had a damn fine right hook. With five brothers, four male cousins, and an uncle who’d been a bantamweight boxer, how could she not pack a mean punch? She’d have packed another if he hadn’t sidestepped out of range.
“Out,” she said again. “This is my life here. You have no part in it.”
Fortunately, Johnny knew the woman he’d married very, very well. “I just shot three men,” he said quietly. “Up on that low ridge overlooking the town.”
Astonishment halted her. Didn’t cause her to unclench her fist, but his statement hit home—for her and for McCabe, who took a drink and muttered a quiet, “Son of a bitch.”
“Three sons, all deceased.” Johnny shrugged. “Laidlaw’s dealing with the bodies.”
There was no one close enough to hear. A few might have seen her punch him, but if anyone had they didn’t seem to care. Even if somebody had wandered into range, the music, voices, and laughter would have drowned him out. Melia heard, though, and as soon as she was no longer stunned speechless, he supposed she might have a few things to say back.
“You killed three men,” she repeated at length. “Just like that. Did you… Who were they?”
“Not part of the welcome wagon. They’ve been watching you, Mel. For over two weeks.”
“Ever since Johnny’s hotel room in Istanbul was tossed,” McCabe put in. “Don’t you just love a crappy coincidence?”
…
Melia rounded on him. “Are you… You’re not,” she realized.
“Serious?” He smiled. “Wish I was, but no. Something about that break-in tipped our hand. And now we have to deal.” He regarded Melia as he took another drink. “All of us.”
“I don’t need this… Shit.” She made a sound between a resigned sigh and a hiss. “Haven’t you screwed me enough already?” She swung back to Johnny. “Who was the guy?”
“What guy?”
She hitched in a controlled breath. “Don’t be a complete ass, Johnny Hunt. The guy I didn’t sleep with.”
“He was an agent. His name was Matthew Something.”
“One of your band of misfits?” she asked McCabe.
“Was.” McCabe sat back. “He left the fold a few months back.”
“Great.” Melia offered him a fast, false smile. “Another non-coincidence?”
“I’m looking into it,” McCabe told her. Told them both, since, by the look on his face, Johnny hadn’t heard that particular piece of news.
“How much did our Matthew Something know?” he demanded.
“Not as much as you probably want to believe. He’s not working for Mockerie or Satyr, Johnny.”