Chapter 7
RCMP WILD Headquarters, Conference Room, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia
Blair pushed open the conference room door with her hip, a stack of case files balanced in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other.
She’d done as Darrow wanted, cleaned up the reports on his desk. She couldn’t seem to help herself. She looked through them and discovered a major fuck up from the ballistics to the autopsy report.
“What’s up?” Beef asked, biting into a glazed donut.
“Nothing with you and Tyler, but I want you to take point. Give me a minute.”
“Ooh, she looks like she’s in ass-chewing mode, eh?” Tyler said.
Beef took another bite and waggled his eyebrows. “Too bad we don’t have any popcorn.”
Tyler chuckled.
She set the files down with a satisfying thud.
“All right,” she said, flipping the top one open. “Who wants to explain why the ballistic report came back with two different muzzle imprint patterns and nobody caught it?”
That got their attention.
Constable Jaffe cleared his throat. “We, uh—”
“Didn’t look closely,” Blair finished for him. “Right. Let’s try again.”
She slid the photographs across the table. Close-up shots. Two distinct powder burns. Two different barrel abrasions.
The kind of detail people missed when they weren’t paying attention. She glared at Jaffe, then transitioned to his partner, Bessel. Darrow hired friends. They weren’t worth a damn. “This was you and your partner’s case. I think you might have an attention problem.”
“Victim was not shot where he was found,” she continued, her tone as flat as the prairie horizon.
“There’s gravel embedded in the wound cavity.
The alley behind the Kildare warehouse is paved with asphalt.
So unless our shooter teleported shale into the city—” She arched a brow.
“—we have a second location.” She slid the autopsy report to them.
“Blood pooled and settled in the back and legs. We found him on his stomach. ME confirms that his original position was on his back. That’s the second clue he was moved. ”
Several brows furrowed. Jaffe made a sour face. “What are you doing reviewing our case. We submitted it to Darrow.”
“I’m aware. He asked me to finish up for him. He needed to go to the tailors for a new tux.”
Bessel released a tight breath. “Know-it-all bitch,” he said softly under his breath.
Tyler reached for the file and accidentally spilled Bessel’s hot coffee into his lap. He jumped up and swore. “Clumsy oaf.”
“Oops. My bad,” Tyler said with nothing apologetic on his face. Beef smirked and gave him a fist bump under the table. Blair tried to keep a straight face.
She tapped the photo. “Check storage unit 17B. The gravel matches the exterior lot. This was staged.”
“How do you know?” Jaffe asked, grudging respect in his tone.
She leveled a stare at him. “I trust evidence. Observation is key. Always question everything.”
A few quiet snickers went around the table. Jaffe flushed.
Blair didn’t apologize.
Through the window, she saw Darrow ushering in two suits. They stopped outside the door. American accents…The Drug Enforcement Agency? What was going on now? Of course Darrow would keep her out of the loop. Didn’t want her showing him up.
She gathered the photos, sliding them back into the folder with precise, practiced movements.
“Re-run those prints,” she added, already heading for the door. “Preferably before I lose faith in humanity entirely.”
Behind her, she heard a muttered, “She’s scary.”
Blair didn’t smile. Not even internally. She had too much work to do. Too many lies to cut through. Too many men above her keeping too many secrets.
Two hours later, Jaffe and Bessel had a suspect in custody, and Darrow walked into the break room. “Did you hear?” he crowed. “Jaffe and Bessel got a collar. They did a great job.” She clenched her teeth.
“Who are our suited visitors?”
Darrow cleared his throat. “DEA.”
Blair paused, her suspicions confirmed. “Why wasn’t I briefed on the case?”
Darrow didn’t meet her gaze. “It’s sensitive.”
She closed her eyes for patience. Darrow held her career in his hands, but the tiniest flare of heat flared under her ribs.
Sensitive. Code for not for you. Code for you won’t show me up. Code for stay in your lane.
She could taste the familiar bitterness on her tongue.
But she nodded once. Controlled. Professional.
“Understood,” she said. “But if you need consultation or fresh eyes.”
He turned away before she finished talking.
This was the division under his leadership.
Incompetence, fractured working relationships, withholding, and shutting her out.
He would most likely find some way to blame her to the upper level.
She couldn’t leave, knowing that people would suffer, but damn it was tempting.
Breakneck drifted in and out of the pain, torso throbbing from the punches, ribs screaming, the burn of the Taser still radiating through his groin like fire stitched into his nerves.
He stayed limp, head bowed, breath shallow, every inch of him aching, but he kept the lie intact. He was Dylan Cross. Nobody else.
“We’re wasting time,” Ryker said, pacing somewhere behind him. “Take him out to the back country, dig a hole, and bury him.”
Breakneck’s mind sharpened through the fog, cutting clean through fatigue.
Ice was going to be pissed. Not at the torture.
At the stupidity. At how fast Break’s career would circle the drain if he slaughtered two DEA agents because they were too incompetent to keep their hands off a Tier 1 operator embedded in a cartel hive.
His wrists burned where the cuffs bit into raw skin. The cold crawled across his body, but he clenched his teeth. This wasn’t cold. This was brisk. Hell Week had taught him the difference.
Footsteps.
Someone entered the barn.
A low, hushed voice spilled out, sharp and panicked. “What the fuck are you doing? Do you know who you have in there?”
Ryker didn’t even look up. “I don’t give a shit.”
The newcomer stepped closer. Breakneck heard the fear in the man’s voice, a quiver under the whisper.
“He’s Tier 1. Navy SEAL. I accessed his file, and it wasn’t easy.
He’s working for the DEA. If he goes missing, his buddies will be all over us.
They shoot first and don’t give a damn about questions. ”
Ryker’s voice turned lethal. “Get your pansy ass back to your post. We got word our shipment was intercepted because of that fuck-up with the border guard. We’re hitting your headquarters to get it back. Keep your head down. Ramos will have retribution. SEAL or no SEAL. He dies.”
The guard keeping watch on Breakneck stepped forward, leaned in close with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Then he turned and walked out.
Quiet settled around Breakneck like a final warning.
He waited one breath. Two.
Then he moved.
He pulled every ounce of strength he had left into his core.
Pain flared white hot across his ribs, but he didn’t let it slow him.
He flexed his hips, latched his hands around the chains, and drew his knees to his chest, then pushed upward in a brutal full-body press, driving with shoulders, back, chest, legs, every muscle screaming protest. He bowed his body, pushing into a reverse iron cross.
He held his breath, flexed his hips, and set his thighs on the beam, then used the chains to push his torso up until he could get to his knees. Once he had purchase, he hooked his wrists over the angle of the chain bracket, twisted, and dislodged the hook. One wrist came free. Then the other.
In a controlled pull-up, he lowered himself down as far as his arms would allow, then let go, landing hard on cold concrete, knees absorbing the shock. No pause. No hesitation. No pain acknowledgment. He didn’t have the luxury.
He scanned the small room he’d been beaten in. No weapons. Didn’t matter. Breakneck didn’t need one.
He grabbed his clothes from the dirt floor, dressing fast, ignoring the sting as raw skin met stiff fabric. Shirt first. Underwear and jeans. Then his cowboy boots. When his hands reached for the loops to snug his feet inside, they trembled once from the adrenaline flooding through him.
He didn’t get his callsign from the slang word for reckless speed. He’d noticed a sheath on the guy who took great pleasure in rearranging his insides and shocking his aching nads.
He smiled. Then he moved toward the exit, silent as a shadow, slipping into the darkness just beyond the barn light.
Death was stalking him, but it wouldn’t be his soul he was taking. The Reaper knew his scorecard.
He caught up to the guy while he was getting a shovel, tarp, and lime.
It was child’s play to come up behind him, lift the knife, and slash his throat.
Blood flew, soaked into his T-shirt; the metallic scent was much too familiar.
He let him drop, stripped off the shirt, and wiped his face, then went to the entrance to the barn.
Whoever Ryker had been talking to was gone.
Someone yelled loudly from the back, where he’d left the body.
Ryker came running, pulling a piece from his waistband.
No sense of caution, no idea what he was running into, and again, Break caught him, slammed into Ryker’s wrist with an open palm, sending the gun skittering across the concrete.
Ryker threw a wild punch, but Breakneck ducked, drove his shoulder into Ryker’s gut, and lifted, using raw strength and momentum to slam Ryker against the nearest post. The impact rattled the entire barn.
Break grinned. “Fuck you, Ryker. Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll have a talk with RCMP and the DEA?”
“You’re dreaming, you little fucking rat.”
Ryker swung again, catching Breakneck across the cheek, snapping his head sideways. Pain flared bright, but Breakneck welcomed it. Pain meant he was awake. Pain meant he was alive.
Ryker grabbed for his throat.