“Momma!” Her youngest kid grabbed a handful of Amy’s polo shirt and tugged. “What do you have on your head?” His gaze skated over Amy’s headset before settling on her face. He lowered his voice, but not by much. “Uncle Clay said the really bad words all the way here.”
Apparently the aforementioned bad words were much more interesting than Amy’s headset and mic. Mac grinned. What, exactly, did Amy consider to be “the really bad words”? Probably everything in Mac’s vocabulary. It wouldn’t hurt to watch his language around her and her boys. When he realized the direction his thoughts had taken, he froze in shock. When the hell had she become important enough to him to justify modifying his behavior? He was so busy backpedaling in his own mind, he missed her stepbrother’s initial reply.
“. . . I could have done without the theatrics,” Clay continued in the thin nasal tone associated with pretentiousness.
Mac grimaced and shook his head. It was hard to believe these two had been raised in the same household, under the same set of parents. Amy’s voice was matter-of-fact, with a side of cool. Her brother sounded like he’d taken acting lessons to get the diction and delivery just right. Where Mac came from, that was called putting on airs . . . or being an ass . . . or both.
“Momma,” the youngster said, tugging determinedly on his mother’s shirt. “A deer jumped in front of us and Uncle Clay said—”
“Give me some credit.” Clay raised his voice, drowning out the childish chatter. “I’ve been on the job for twenty years. I know what a damn tail looks like.” Clay shook his head, disgust sharp on his face. “You’re acting paranoid as hell, you know that, right? Nobody is after you or your kids.”
While he spoke, the fed turned his head and locked on to Cosky. Mac groaned beneath his breath. Amy had been right about one thing—the asshole was about to become aggravating.
“Momma,” the little guy said, still yanking on Amy’s shirt.
“Not now, Benji. Let me talk to your uncle.”
But the bastard had already turned his shoulder on her in favor of confronting Cos.
“You’re Lieutenant Simcosky, aren’t you? We’ve got some questions for you. If you’ll accompany me back to Seattle, I can offer you immunity and free you from this mess.”
“Considering the lack of progress the bureau has made on our case, I’ll pass on your generous offer,” Cosky said, his voice drier than the dust surrounding them. “I stand a better chance of straightening out this mess without your help.”
“But Momma—” Benji’s voice lifted determinedly.
The fed scowled. “That wasn’t a request. You will—”
“Don’t push this,” Amy broke in, her gaze locked on her stepbrother. She caught her son’s impatient hand and anchored it against her side. “Cosky’s here as a favor to me.”
Her sigh echoed through Mac’s headset as her son resumed tugging on her shirt with his free hand.
Clay’s head swung in her direction. “What the hell? Tell me you aren’t bunkered down with these clowns. There are warrants out on all of them.”
Mac snorted. While he didn’t doubt there were warrants out on him, Zane, and Rawls, the feds had nothing on Cos. The bastard was lying through his teeth.
“Considering the evidence against them is manufactured, you’d do well to separate yourself from this mess.” Amy’s voice skated between cool and dogmatic. “When the truth comes out—and it will—someone will have to answer for the bureau’s incompetence. I’d hate for that someone to be you.”
“Let me guess, they told you they were innocent, they weren’t at the lab, and they weren’t the ones who killed those security guards.” Contempt filtered through each word.
“No. That’s not what I’m going to tell you.” Amy’s voice flattened.
Mac broke into an appreciative grin as he peered down the rutted lane leading into the bowl. He was all too familiar with that cool, flat, I’ve-had-enough-of-you tone of voice. It was a novelty to have it directed at someone else for a change.
But the humor soon faded, and that itchy sense of warning prickled again. He scanned the hill behind him. Nothing. And from Zane and Jude’s silence, they weren’t picking up on anything either.
What the fuck? Where are the bastards?
He was rarely wrong in his predictions. And this had been a no-brainer. He scowled, that earlier unease back in full force. Maybe their adversaries had decided to tag the kids instead of crashing the rendezvous. If they had tagged the boys, they could track them back to camp and take out everyone at once. If that was the case, they were in for a hell of a disappointment.
“Momma, I’m telling you something.” Indignation swam in the youngster’s voice.
Another sigh hit his headset, and Amy settled her hand on the boy’s tousled, dark head.
“Let’s move this along,” Mac said quietly into his mic. He grunted softly in satisfaction as Amy turned away from her brother, backtracking to the plastic bags sitting on the ground.