Chapter 15
Fifteen
No need for this to get crazy. Rowan gripped the steering wheel tighter as he navigated the winding road toward the Jenkins place, his knuckles white against the worn leather. He just wanted to talk. That was all. Have a conversation between two adults about attempted murder and decades of lies.
Talk. Right.
Maybe with some hurt added—no. He cut off that thought before it could take root. He wasn’t Alden.
The empty clip in his Glock should probably concern him more, but Rowan had brought down Alden Jenkins once before with nothing but his fists—and tonight, that might feel more satisfying anyway.
The stopover in the mayor’s office had turned out to be a dead end. And frankly, he wasn’t interested in letting Martinelli’s backup have first crack at Alden anyway, so yeah, he’d gotten lucky.
And then, just in case, he’d turned off his phone. Taken out the SIM card. No need for company.
He pulled into the circular driveway of the Jenkins house, gravel crunching under his truck tires as amber light spilled from the windows of the log home.
Rowan cut the engine and climbed out, his boots hitting the ground with purpose.
The front door opened before he reached the porch steps, and Catherine Jenkins appeared in the doorway, wearing a cream cashmere cardigan over dark slacks.
Her graying hair hung loose around her shoulders instead of its usual neat bun, and mascara streaked her cheeks in dark trails.
“Rowan.” Her voice cracked on his name. “I heard about the fire. About Sierra and Huck. Are they—”
“They’re safe.” Rowan’s tone cut through her question. “Where’s Alden?”
Catherine’s hands twisted together, her wedding ring catching the porch light. “He’s not here. He left hours ago, right after—” She stopped, pressing her lips together.
“Right after what?”
“After Detective Martinelli called looking for him.” Catherine stepped back from the doorway, her shoulders hunching inward. “Rowan, he’s never acted like this before. He was pacing, making phone calls, throwing things. He broke my grandmother’s vase.”
Rowan studied her face, noting the genuine fear in her eyes. “You don’t know him like I do.”
Something flickered across Catherine’s expression—a shadow of recognition, maybe. “Or maybe you do.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “He was never like that with me. But I heard about…about how he was with you. Dolly and others. I never…I couldn’t…” She sighed. “Your mother was a good soul. I knew her from church—a number of years older than me, but…Rowan. Please don’t hurt him.”
He stared at her. Her hand moved to her throat, fingers finding a pearl necklace.
“Where would he go?” Rowan said quietly.
“He has another office,” she said softly. “He keeps files there. Important papers. He said he had to—” She pressed her hands to her mouth, cutting off whatever she’d been about to reveal. “Promise me you won’t hurt him.”
“He tried to burn my son and my…the woman I love alive.” He barely stopped himself from yelling. Took a breath. Held up his hand. “Please tell me where he is…”
“Hammer.”
He looked up. Mack stood on the stairs. He looked wrecked, almost—
“Did you get into a fight?” Rowan said, his voice almost a whisper. Mack wore a bruise on his face.
Catherine looked at him. “Mack—”
“Yes.” Mack’s voice cracked. “He was here when I came home, and I confronted him.” He came to the bottom of the stairs.
Only then did Rowan see the finger bruises on his neck. “He tried to strangle you.”
“He was angry.”
“Shut up! Do you hear yourself?”
Mack held up a hand. “I’m fine.”
“You’re traumatized.” He looked at Catherine.
“You both are. Don’t you get it? You live in fear of being hurt—physically, emotionally—and that’s not okay.
It’s never okay. Because people who can’t control their emotions damage other people.
” He raked a hand through his hair. Blew out a breath.
“Listen. Okay. I won’t…I won’t hurt him. ”
Sheesh, that felt weird to say. But the words settled in, grounded him. “But I do need to bring him to justice.”
Mack had sat down on the stairs. Put his face in his hands. “I can’t believe he’s done all this. I thought he’d changed. Thought he was trying to make up for how he treated you.”
Rowan sighed.
Mack looked up at him, his voice hollow. “But maybe I just wanted to believe it so badly that I ignored the signs. The late-night meetings, the phone calls he didn’t want me to hear, the way he’d get angry whenever Rowan’s name came up.”
“He was threatened by Rowan,” Catherine said. “Even I knew that.”
Because Rowan could take everything from him. The thought drilled into him, through him.
Alden was a monster because he was scared.
It still didn’t excuse his behavior.
“I should have known.” Mack buried his face in his hands. “I should have seen what he was doing.”
“You were a kid when I left,” Rowan said. “You had every right to hope your father had become a better man.”
“But he hasn’t.” Mack lifted his head, looked at Rowan. “He’s been killing people. Terrorizing families. And I’ve been living in his house, eating at his table, believing his lies.”
Rowan stared at his brother. Betrayal. How he hated it.
Mack got up. “I know where his office is. He took me there this week. He’s a consultant. I’ll go with you.”
“No. You won’t.” He met Mack’s eyes. “This is not for you, Mack. This is between me and…Alden.”
Mack seemed a little undone, but he swallowed and nodded. “I’ll send you a pin.” He pulled out his phone.
Aw, that meant he’d have to turn his phone on. “Thanks.”
Rowan turned back toward his truck, but Catherine’s voice stopped him.
“Rowan, wait.” When he looked back, she was gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “Be careful. Whatever he’s done, whatever this is about—he’s desperate. And desperate men do terrible things.”
“I know exactly what desperate men do,” Rowan said. “I’ve been one.”
The drive to downtown Renegade took fifteen minutes through empty streets, the downtown district a mix of restored brick buildings and modern glass structures that housed law offices and investment firms.
Most of the buildings stood dark now, their windows reflecting the streetlights.
Rowan pulled into the three-story parking garage attached to the Renegade Commerce Center, his truck tires squealing slightly on the polished concrete as he climbed to the third level. The structure was nearly empty.
The Commerce Center itself rose five stories, made of steel and glass.
During business hours, it housed accounting firms, real-estate agencies, and the kinds of consulting companies that helped small towns navigate growth and development.
Tonight, security lights illuminated the main entrance, but the interior lay dark except for the red glow of exit signs.
Rowan parked in a corner spot and climbed out.
The security system on the Commerce Center was standard corporate fare—key-card access, motion sensors, cameras at the entrances.
Rowan moved around to the building’s north side, where a maintenance door provided access to the loading dock.
The lock was industrial grade but not military, and his tactical knife made short work of the deadbolt mechanism.
The interior stairwell smelled of cleaning supplies and fresh paint.
Emergency lighting cast everything in a red glow, turning the neutral colors of the walls and railings into something more ominous.
Rowan climbed past the first floor—medical offices and insurance agencies—and the second floor—lawyers and accountants.
According to his brother’s text, Alden Jenkins maintained his private consulting office on the third floor.
Rowan’s phone buzzed against his ribs. Saxon’s name appeared on the screen. He stood in the stairwell and swiped it open.
“Where are you?” Saxon.
“Where do you think?”
“That’s not an answer, Hammer. After what happened tonight, you don’t go dark on me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You should have waited for me to get stitched up.” Saxon’s tone shifted to the voice he’d used during ops briefings. “Listen, I can track you if I need to. Your phone’s GPS is active, and I’m looking at it right now. You’re at the Commerce Center.”
Rowan paused on the third-floor landing. The hallway beyond the stairwell door stretched into darkness, lit only by the red exit signs and the faint glow from the windows at either end. “Then you know where to find me if this goes sideways.”
“Rowan—”
“Third floor, northeast corner suite. Jenkins Municipal Consulting.” Rowan’s hand found the door handle. “Give me thirty minutes.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The hallway, in the darkness, with only the exit signs for illumination, felt like a tomb.
Rowan moved past door after door—Sterling & Associates, Mountain West Development, Pioneer Realty Group. At the northeast corner, brass letters spelled out Jenkins Municipal Consulting beside a door of frosted glass that revealed lights burning in the office beyond.
Bingo.
Rowan reached for the door handle, then stopped.
He’s desperate. And desperate men do terrible things.
Not a plea, but a warning, maybe.
He turned the handle, stepped into the reception area, and hit the deck.
The muzzle flash lit up the space like lightning, and the bullet meant for his heart only creased his upper arm.
Rowan rolled behind a leather sofa as another shot splintered the doorframe where his head had been. “Hey, Dad. We need to talk.”
“Too late, kid.” Alden’s voice came from somewhere deeper in the office suite, probably from behind his massive oak desk. “You always were too stubborn to know when to walk away.”
Blood seeped through Rowan’s shirt where the bullet had scored his bicep. Didn’t even feel it. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
Really. Because if Saxon had him lit up on GPS, so did the police. This didn’t have to end with either of them in a body bag.