Chapter Nine
Cutthroat Creek, Montana
Rage engulfed Jackson, burning through him, hot and corrosive, like acid. He spun on his heel and stormed out of the tent.
Marching through the camp, he needed to put distance between himself and Christina. Wrap his head around the things she threw at him. One wicked curveball after another.
Kirk Kehoe wasn’t a perfect man. Far from being a saint. Jackson had witnessed him do questionable things, operating in gray zones for years, justifying it for the sake of the mission.
The conversation they’d had two weeks ago came back to him.
“Would you sacrifice one life, ruin one person’s future, if it meant putting an end to the Estrada cartel?” Kehoe asked.
“No,” Jackson said. “If you’re willing to do that to one person, you’d do it to others. The line would keep moving. Where does it end if you keep justifying the means?”
“You need to grow up and stop being so na?ve. We don’t live in a black-and-white world, and that fact forces us to operate in the gray.
You need to accept that. Compromises have to be made.
Sometimes in ways that’ll make you not sleep so well.
I’ve had plenty of restless nights. We have to be willing to sacrifice, perhaps even play by their rules, in order to stop the cartel. ”
Jackson couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Is it really worth it if it means becoming dirty?”
“Those people who would call me dirty, because I’ve got the guts to stick my hands in the mud and do what’s necessary, are the same ones who enjoy the freedoms I help safeguard. And you know what, it makes me really angry. It’s time for you to get on board with the program, Jackson. Got it?”
“Some compromises shouldn’t be made. So don’t hold your breath waiting on me to see things the same way you do.”
Kehoe had crossed the line. Recruited a civilian with half-truths. Used her as bait to hook a shark. Trapped her in the cartel. Forced her to live a lie with no safe way out. And endangered her family.
Kirk did that to Christina.
What recourse did she have? It wasn’t as if she could’ve gone to someone in the FBI and reported Kehoe, explained her situation.
To think she was stuck and in danger, living only a three-hour drive away from him. Yet Jackson had been clueless, powerless to help her.
In Kehoe’s desperation to fight monsters, had he become one?
Coming to a campfire, Jackson stopped and crouched low, warming his hands. The anger coursing through him ran bone deep. He was so furious with Kehoe for using Christina that if the man was still alive, Jackson would’ve killed him.
The worst part was that Jackson was furious with himself. For blaming Christina when none of it was her fault.
For hating Alvaro Aguilar.
Not because the hit man was a ruthless, cold-blooded murderer who had ambushed and attacked his team.
He hated him because Aguilar had spent two years with his Chrissy, taking her on real dates, sleeping with her, holding her in his arms. Waking up to her face, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, having her body pressed to his any time he wanted.
Hated Aguilar for having the gorgeous, glorious woman she’d become when Jackson had only stolen moments with the girl she used to be.
Jackson had moved forward with his life, left home, joining the army and later the US marshals, but he’d had no luck in moving on from her. He never clicked with anyone else. Hadn’t felt that same wild attraction. Never looked at another woman and thought, I want to spend forever with her.
Only Chrissy.
Picking up a rock, he tossed it, wanting to kick himself.
He’d blamed her all those years ago for ending things with no real explanation.
But even after she cut him off, he should’ve apologized for failing her test. Promised to make it right.
Followed through and brought her to his house.
In through the front door instead of up the trellis.
Sat beside her at the table for Sunday supper the way she’d wanted. With her dignity intact.
All she’d wanted from him was what she deserved. What her self-respect demanded. Instead of giving it to her, he’d tucked tail and let her walk away.
Now, he was doubting her.
His pulse pounded, temples throbbing, and he cursed himself for it.
Separating his personal feelings from his professional obligation, if that was possible, Jackson did believe her about how she became an asset. He didn’t want to think Kehoe would sink so low, but Jackson knew what the agent was capable of.
But how much of her story should she share once he brought her in to the FBI, which he’d have to do sooner or later?
The details would open her to scrutiny. It gave her a motive for murder. Theoretically, Kehoe could’ve coerced her to continue as an informant by threatening to expose her if she didn’t. That’s how it would be twisted.
They needed evidence that Hector Ibarra was at the crime scene. Forensics to confirm her version of how things played out. Proof the sheriff’s deputy was a liar.
If everything she had written about the depots was accurate, seizing the contents would cripple the cartel. It would be a huge win. The biggest yet.
They needed a lot of things to fall into place. Or they were both going to go down as the bad guys.
First, he had to call his friends in Bitterroot Falls. See if they could help him raid those depots. See if they were willing to get embroiled in his mess.
Until he figured out who Kehoe had confided in, sharing Christina’s identity as an asset, no one in any of the agencies supporting the task force could be trusted.
His friends were his only solid option on short notice.
Standing, Jackson checked his pockets. No cell phone. His phone was lost in the river, and he must’ve left Imogene’s burner in the duffel.
And the bag was back in the tent. The last place he wanted to go right now.
He groaned. Tipping his head back, he stared up at the night sky. The moon was full and bright. Way out here, in the woods, he could see every star in the sky.
Cutthroat Creek
Friday, April 13, 8:29 p.m.
CHRISTINA COULDN’T TELL if Jackson was merely disgusted with her or jealous.
But jealousy would require him to care about her. Based on the way he’d kissed her in the shower, he was clearly still attracted to her.
An old temptation.
Gritting her teeth, she wasn’t ridiculous enough to presume he had any feelings for her after all this time.
He doubted her. Questioned everything she told him.
Frustration simmered inside her. She fiddled with her smart ring, uneasy about the way she’d left things with Jackson.
How could she blame him? He had a traitor in his inner circle.
She hadn’t spoken to him in twelve years.
Kehoe had hidden the truth about her as an asset from him.
During the chaos at the airport, she had convinced him to break the protocol that was second nature to him and flee with a wanted fugitive.
Frankly, the best thing for him to do was trust no one. Not even her.
That’s what she needed to do.
If only his doubt in her and criticism didn’t hurt. His opinion of her mattered. Always had. She wanted to find a way to erase his suspicion.
When she told him about being with Alvaro, he’d seemed more than appalled.
Enraged. Like he did still care about her on some level.
But there was absolutely no reason for him to be angry with her for trusting Kirk Kehoe.
The FBI agent was supposed to be the good guy.
She’d had no idea who Alvaro really was when Kirk pushed her in his direction.
If she had, she never would’ve been able to go through with it. Kirk must’ve known that, too.
The entire time she was with Alvaro, she’d been terrified of being discovered.
It was never a real relationship, for either of them.
There had been steel gates between them.
Parts of herself that she kept secret. Parts that he kept hidden in the dark, locked away.
Their liaison was devoid of true affection. Or intimacy.
When she met him, she’d expected to despise him immediately. Instead, he was bold and intense, with a disarming laugh. And that fearlessness had grabbed her by the throat and wanted to pull her right in. His ruthless edge kept her wary, but he wasn’t mean. Not to her.
Not at first.
Then she joined the ranks of the cartel and learned just how cruel he could be. How depraved.
Not wanting to think about him, she shoved her hands through her hair, which was no longer straight thanks to the river.
A riot of curls that were only manageable due to the surprising hair products she’d found in Zach’s bathroom.
They must have belonged to his girlfriend.
She finger-combed her curls and plaited her hair into a single braid, wishing she had something to tie it off.
Christina got up and went to the duffel. She riffled through the bag, moving the gun out of her way, plucked a rubber band from a wad of cash and fastened it around the end of the braid.
Something glinted in the light from the lantern. The screen of the burner phone.
Her first instinct was to call Ripton Lockwood.
For an instant, she wondered whether she should’ve done it instead of going to the City Drift Motel.
Whether she should’ve asked him to smuggle her across the border, set her up with a new identity so she could start over.
Which would essentially flush the last six years of her life down the toilet.
All her efforts, all her sacrifices, would’ve been for nothing.
Shaking off the idea, Christina clutched the phone. She wasn’t a criminal and shouldn’t be running. The only way out of this was to take down the stateside unit of the Estrada cartel and clear her name—and Jackson’s. But she needed to work with him to make it happen.
First, he needed to trust her, as difficult as it might be. They wouldn’t succeed if they doubted each other at every turn.