Fatal Misstep (Dìleas Security Agency #4)

Chapter One

The winter sky, already sullen with iron-gray clouds, dropped its curtain of starless night, coating everything in darkness. The rain stopped, the squeak of windshield wipers on dry glass setting his teeth on edge, so he turned them off.

Caleb Varella glanced at his rental Jeep’s dashboard. Eighteen-thirty .

The smell of the funeral home he’d just left—antiseptic and lilies, sharp and sickly sweet—clung to his skin. He needed a drink. Not for pleasure, but for distraction.

Something acidic enough to dissolve the past clawing its way into his present.

His headlights bounced off wet asphalt, casting desert scrub in ghostly white.

Up ahead, the desolate terrain gave way to the artificial glow of civilization as he entered the outskirts of Gallup, New Mexico, the closest place that would meet all his needs tonight—liquor, food, a warm bed, and anonymity.

Even with a relatively meager population of twenty-one thousand, Gallup was the regional hub for tribal communities that straddled the northern Arizona–New Mexico border.

A weight pressed on his shoulders. Grit scratched his eyes.

If he were smart, he’d find the nearest motel and faceplant on a cheap mattress.

A month providing close protection for a silicon valley tech guru setting up a hub in Kenya’s new Konza Technopolis and then, the phone call. His mother was dead. An overdose.

His mother, who’d been sober for over five years.

He turned onto old Route 66, passing budget motels, fast food joints, and a self-storage facility.

A glowing red neon sign caught his eye.

Lucero’s Lounge .

First, that drink.

A square adobe squatter, the bar sat between two empty lots of dormant grass and scrub, as if quarantined from more respectable businesses. Between that and the weeds sprouting in the cracked pavement up front, this was no tourist hot spot.

On satellite radio, an 80s rock queen went full throttle about being alone. Caleb guided the Jeep into the gravel lot on the side of the building. A chain-link fence separated the property from railroad tracks, where a Burlington Northern Santa Fe train rumbled on, with no visible beginning or end.

A lone security light cast a dim yellow haze over the three parked vehicles. Given it was Tuesday, they likely belonged to a few diehard locals who wouldn’t give him the time of day.

Perfect.

He wasn’t good company right now, anyway. He killed the engine and stepped out, cutting the songstress off before her last lonely notes faded away. Chill, damp air muted the smell of diesel and neglect in his surroundings, and nipped at skin left exposed by his white t-shirt.

His phone buzzed as he strolled to the bar’s entrance. He glanced at the message from Danny Mayhew, one of his colleagues at Dìleas Security Agency, and ignored it like he had the others. Condolences, even the well-meant ones, twisted his gut. He’d figure out what to say when he returned to DC .

His childhood wasn’t something he talked about.

With anyone.

Five years . Last year, his mom had busted her knee but refused anything stronger than ibuprofen. Said she didn’t trust herself around stronger pills.

Which made the way she died—fentanyl disguised as oxy—even harder to stomach. A new, deadly variant, according to the Phoenix police.

Where the hell had she gotten the pills from? His drug-dealing old man had been killed in a Phoenix back alley years ago. Eighteen, in fact.

A day of celebration as far as Caleb was concerned. Not his mother, though. She’d actually mourned the bastard.

Caleb gave the glass door a weary tug. He should have called her more often.

Should have gone to Phoenix during the holidays instead of accepting that protection job in Mexico City no one else wanted because it was over Christmas. He’d been meaning to visit her after.

Then the Kenya job came up.

Inside the bar, warm air leached the chill from his bones. Burnt tobacco invaded his nose. Stale beer stuck to his boots.

It was as expected for a dive. Dim lights, wood-paneled walls, beer brand placards and a mishmash of Americana and Native art. The bartender, stocky with a face weathered by desert sun and black hair streaked with gray, slouched near two old-timers with Desert Storm ball caps.

Veterans like him, but from a different war.

Three sets of eyes turned his way. Dark. Assessing. Caleb nodded. They dismissed him and resumed their conversation .

He took a seat on a cracked vinyl stool. Propped his elbows on a wooden counter that needed a fresh coat of varnish. Behind it, liquor bottles stood on glass shelves like soldiers in formation.

It had been a long day, escorting his mother’s body five hours north from Phoenix to the Navajo reservation. He’d raise a glass to her tortured soul, curse his father’s, and brace for tomorrow, when he’d bury his amá and face the family he hadn’t seen since he was twelve.

Including his grandfather. President of the Navajo Nation.

“What can I get you?” The bartender eyed him with mild suspicion. Caleb’s black hair, copper skin, and brown eyes broadcast his Native and Hispanic roots. Common in the Southwest. But in this bar, he was still an outsider.

Caleb scrutinized the liquor bottles. They all tasted the same—more medicinal than pleasure. He rarely drank more than an occasional beer.

“Johnny Walker.” Shit. Now he’d have to choose. “Red. Neat. Got any food?”

“Navajo tacos are pretty good.” The bartender jerked a thumb at the swinging door beside the counter. “Wife makes them.”

“Perfect.”

The bartender poured the whiskey, set it on a cocktail napkin, then vanished into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned to his spot with his buddies.

The liquor scorched Caleb’s throat, igniting a fire in his chest. Harsh. Like the memories trying to push their way forward.

Lillie Blackwater Varella had made him promise to bury her among the Diné—the Navajo word for themselves that translated to The People.

Why, he’d never understood. Still didn’t .

He’d been her only family. His grandfather hadn’t reached out, not even after Caleb’s father died, when Caleb was sixteen, and it had been just him and his mom struggling to survive. As soon as he turned eighteen, his paychecks from the Army had kept his mother housed and fed.

Now he protected high value individuals and got paid handsomely for it. He’d made sure his mother wanted for nothing.

Except his time.

He took another, larger swallow and observed the men in the corner. Navajo. Like her. The whiskey soured in his stomach. Maybe he shared their blood, but he didn’t belong any more than the tourists who bought trinkets at the trading posts off the interstate.

Lifting the glass, he studied its contents. Honey gold. Not top shelf, but it did the job. Tomorrow, he’d do what his mother asked. Bury her on Diné land. Treat his grandfather with respect, undeserved as it might be for a man who abandoned his only daughter.

And leave with his past firmly in the rearview mirror.

Forever.

Maybe he’d head to the cabin in the mountains of North Carolina that he owned but rarely visited.

Or maybe he’d take the lead on the protection job coming up in New York so his boss, Ryder, could stay in London with his fiancée, Nathalie. She’d just started art school.

The door swished open. Cold air gusted in, cutting through the beer and cigarettes.

He sipped his whiskey and flicked his gaze to the mirror behind the bar.

A woman stood in the doorway.

Dark brown hair fell in waves just past her shoulders, brushing a burgundy hip-length leather jacket. Blue jeans molded long legs ending in brown ankle boots. The woman tucked a strand behind her ear. A diamond stud winked in the light.

Classy . Too classy for a place like this.

Tense shoulders. A careful sweep of her gaze.

Like she was searching for threats.

Caleb sat straighter. He knew that look. Had seen it too many times during his deployments in war zones, and even now, protecting people whose money, status, or celebrity made them targets.

“Hey, Doc,” the bartender called out a greeting. He set a plate of tacos in front of Caleb and reached for a soda glass.

Caleb almost replied, then caught himself. The bartender hadn’t been speaking to him. He’d been nodding at the woman.

“Doc” had been Caleb’s nickname as the senior medic when he was an E-7 Special Forces Medical Sergeant in his ODA with the 3 rd Special Forces Group out of Fort Bragg. But that was years ago.

He’d seen enough blood and trauma to last a lifetime.

The woman set a white paper bag on the counter. “Hey, Billy, I brought your medicine.”

Her voice was a melody of hard consonants and drawn-out vowels—New York, if he had to guess. She greeted the old-timers, then launched into a hushed lecture about diet and exercise.

Billy the bartender nodded, looking like a man enduring a root canal, and promised to do as instructed.

Good luck.

Caleb smirked behind his taco. Hell, if she were his doctor, he’d hang on to her every word. Her voice—low, husky—vibrated through his chest, easing some of the pressure there.

He bit into his meal. Crispy fried bread, hot and greasy, crunched between his teeth, mixed with seasoned beef, beans, lettuce, tomatoes and cheese. His stomach growled in appreciation. He cleaned his plate while watching the show.

The doctor finished her speech.

Billy handed her a club soda with lime before taking Caleb’s empty dish to the kitchen.

Full sensual lips stained a dusky pink covered the rim of the glass.

Lust punched Caleb, as unexpected as it was disturbing. He reined it in and tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t spook her.

“Your patient?”

She studied him for a moment. Eyes the color of sapphires and filled with shadows.

“Yes.”

Graceful movements. Unmarked golden skin.

But his father had never left visible bruises, either.

He extended his hand. “Caleb.”

To put her at ease, he smiled, the gesture foreign to his facial muscles.

Her eyes grew large. Her hands stayed on her drink.

He let his fall to his thigh. Apparently, he needed more practice at appearing non-threatening.

Then she surprised him, stepping closer.

He caught a hint of desert flowers after rain.

Sweet. Lush.

Another surprise. He’d expected a cloying perfume to match her expensive-looking clothes.

“Are you from Gallup?” Her voice was wary. One wrong answer and she’d vanish.

“No. I’m here to bury my mother. I live in Northern Virginia, just outside of DC. ”

At least that was where his mail went and where he slept between jobs.

Her eyes softened. Sympathy replaced caution. “I’m sorry. Is she a member of the Navajo Nation?”

Simple question. Complicated answer.

“Yes.” Caleb left it at that. “What about you?”

Doc—he still didn’t know her name—glanced at the door and took another measured sip of her drink. “No. I work at a clinic about forty minutes away.”

He did a quick mental calculation. Forty minutes in either direction was a whole lot of nothing. “On the rez?”

She flinched. Bit her lip. “Yes.”

Truth. Reluctantly delivered.

“You said your mother was Navajo.” She set her glass down. “Did you grow up around here?”

“Not really.”

Her brows knitted together.

He elaborated. “We moved to Phoenix when I was twelve. I joined the Army after high school. Haven’t been back much.”

Why was he telling her this? He kept his business to himself.

You don’t want her to leave.

He’d sit and talk all night if she wanted. It beat going to a hotel room alone and thinking about how shitty the next day was going to be.

He glanced at her hands. No rings, and no evidence a ring had made itself at home on her left finger.

“Another club soda, Doc?” Billy aimed a scowl at Caleb.

“No, thanks. I need to head home.”

Billy nodded and sent another squinty-eyed glare in Caleb’s direction before he returned to his buddies.

The door opened, ushering in more chill night air and a stranger .

Around five-eight. Dark eyes. Salt and pepper hair. A drooping Winnfield mustache.

Doc’s fingers tightened around her glass, knuckles turning white.

A doe scenting a predator.

Caleb gave the newcomer his complete attention. With his faded jeans, worn cowboy boots, and a long-sleeve flannel shirt, he could have been a day laborer looking for a beer after a hard day’s work.

Except his clothes were too clean, too tidy, and his demeanor was anything but casual. The flannel shirt hung loose, like it was concealing a weapon.

Caleb’s fingers flexed, inching toward his concealed carry Glock.

Dammit.

Which he’d locked up in the Jeep while he was at the funeral home.

There was something familiar about the guy. Recognition teased the edge of Caleb’s memory.

The man locked eyes with Doc, and the air in the bar shifted to something unspoken.

Dangerous.

“I have to go,” she whispered. Fear overpowered her delicate perfume.

She slipped out the door.

The stranger followed.

Well, hell. Caleb’s protective instincts kicked hard.

He slapped cash on the bar, shoved his wallet into his pocket, and went after them.