Collision Force (10 page)

Without acknowledgement of any kind, she left the kitchen. Cole shoved his hand through his dark hair. He wanted to talk to her about something—anything, but what could he say?

“How’s it feel to want?” he whispered, then cursed.

He waited for her to disappear around the corner and down the hall, then he cleaned up the kitchen, even loaded the dishwasher. Why he was being all domestic, he’d no clue, but Andi had fed him for the past few days, there was no reason she had to clean up after him as well.

Cole settled onto Andi’s couch, reaching for the remote. The volume on the TV was low, and her bedroom door ajar. He could hear the steady hum of her voice though he couldn’t make out her words. Was the call about his case? About Maldonado? He found it hard to give a shit at the moment.
That’s new.

Ethan’s laughter drifted into his thoughts. He hadn’t seen the kid much today. He’d have liked to have spent more time with him. Andi’s son was asleep right down the hall—he could check on him. Might be good to make sure he was okay, right?

He’d never considered himself a coward, but he didn’t move from his seat. Longing hit him in the gut, but for what? Andi, yes, he wanted her…but Ethan? Cole had never desired a family of his own. Besides, Cass and her kids had always been enough. He even liked her husband Dale, though the electrical engineer was a bit of a geek. They were family. The only family he’d ever have. Or need.

They’d married when he’d been in college, then they’d had Kelsey soon after. Cole had already been pulling away, choosing a college two states from the Seattle home Cass had raised him in from the age of twelve. She’d only been eighteen, and proving to the courts she could keep him clothed and fed after their parents had died in a car accident had been a bitch. But she’d done it, making sure his sorry juvenile delinquent ass finished high school and pushing him through college. His anger at the world had run through his blood his whole teen years. He’d done things he’d be embarrassed to admit.

Cass was the only family he had—and Cole had fled, although he hadn’t faced that until years later. Seeing her happy should have been satisfying after all he’d put her through, but it hadn’t changed his decision to leave.
She’d married and he’d managed to graduate, then had gone right into the FBI academy as soon as they would take him.

He’d thrived in the anonymity of undercover work.

No connections.
At that moment, his undercover mantra, drilled into his head by many experienced training agents from as far back as his FBI academy days, popped into his head.

No shit
. He didn’t need the complications. The risk. The problems.

“It’s not a problem now,” he said aloud. But was it? Even after only a few days, that little redheaded kid made him…what? Want to be a father? No way.

“No.” Cole shook his head, holding onto as much denial as he could manage. He’d never shirked responsibility, but parenthood was firmly in the
hell no
category. That hadn’t changed. That
wouldn’t
change, not even for a roll in the hay with his new partner.

Chapter Eight

The pickup truck he’d stolen was a good choice. Carlo looked around the vast dirt parking lot—field, really—of the rodeo. Trucks and horse trailers for miles. Damn Texans and their big trucks. Conceited, too. The Chevy he was driving was even a
Texas Edition.
No one would ever hear of a
New York
Edition
Chevy truck. Nope, only in Texas.

Too bad he’d had to lose the Beemer, it was more his style. But the owner should be grateful. Carlo had simply left it in a grocery store parking lot and cleaned it up as best he could, wiping it down with bleach wipes and praying the slight bloodstains on the black interior weren’t visible. Unless someone took a black light to it, he should be fine.

He pulled the truck into the first parking gate he saw, stopping at the little attendant hut like a good patron. After that ordeal was over, he followed the instructions given by the handlebar-moustached geezer. The old man had had the nerve to lecture him about tardiness, stating that most of the cowboys were already in the arena.

Pulling in next to a semi-length horse trailer with a Circle Bar B logo, Carlo glanced around. He stalled out the truck, thanking God it was a five-speed and the engine shut off so he would be able to hot-wire it again.

“Fuck,” Carlo muttered as his feet hit the uneven dirt ground. His leg screamed. He took a deep breath, then two. “Get a hold of your fucking self.”

Inside the building that’d been marked ‘Participant Lodging and Offices’, Carlo wandered, encountering no one. Where the hell was Berto?

Just when he was about to give up, the last closed door on the left of the empty hallway had a handwritten, taped-up paper sign that shouted ‘Circle Bar B’.

Carlo reached for the doorknob. The room wasn’t locked. The wooden door creaked as he pushed it open and stepped inside. It was dark, but some light leaked through the curtains at the far end of the room. A couch with Southwestern patterned upholstery took up the left side of the room and on the right was a desk, some shelves and a computer that had seen better days.

The gun hammer being cocked sounded in his ears at the same time that a muzzle pressed into the back of his head. Carlo froze.

“You have some fucking nerve coming here.”

He put his palms up in surrender, and as far away from the forty in his waistband as possible. Berto sounded
pissed
. He needed help, not another bullet wound.

“Berto…”

“Do
not
call me that,” the other man spat. “Turn around very slowly, keep those hands up and I might refrain from putting a hole in you.”

Carlo did what he was told. Berto flipped the light on and stared him down. Carlo backed up a few steps, keeping his hands where his old friend could see them.

“You always did have balls bigger than your brain,” Berto said, shaking his head. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Just some help.”

Gun still trained on him, Berto’s eyes narrowed. “I heard about Big Rod and Jim. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“How’d ya know it was me? I thought you were out of the life?” Carlo stared into Berto’s dark eyes. Would he lie? Was he really out, or working for Caselli from a new venue?

“I am. I don’t like getting calls about losers like you. Caselli promised me I was done. I paid my dues. I’m out. I’ve
been
out.”

“Calls?”

“Gains called me a few days before he died to see if I’d seen your sorry ass. Figured you’d show up sooner or later.”

Berto had changed. Wearing dark jeans, cowboy boots and a western shirt, his outfit even included a huge belt buckle and a black cowboy hat. He looked like a born Texan, not the transplanted northerner he was. The glare on his face was familiar, though.

“Sorry for showing up.”

“Seriously? You can go to hell, Carlo. Get the fuck out of here before I shoot your ass. You’re jeopardising my life. I have acres and acres I could bury your body on. Caselli wouldn’t weep, that’s for sure. By the way, he’s
pissed
about Reese and Gains.”

“What, no police, even FBI for you? You’d rather kill me? Maybe you’re not
that
out of the life, after all.”

Berto growled, the gun pointed directly at Carlo’s chest. “For all you’ve done to me over the years, it’s nothing less than you deserve.”

“But I saved your ass a time or two…”

“Fuck you.”

“Look, I just want some medical supplies and a loan.”

The other man threw his head back and laughed. His smile didn’t reach his dark eyes. “A loan?” He lowered the nickel-plated Ruger .375 Magnum and pulled out his wallet. Carlo stayed put. Berto had always been a fast draw and a fantastic shot. He could kill him in seconds. “Get yourself a fucking first aid kit.”

“Tried that. I need antibiotics.” Carlo winced with the admission.

Berto arched a dark eyebrow and laid the gun on the desk. “You’re hit?”

“Times two.” He shrugged. “Get me what I need and I’ll get out of your hair. I don’t even give a fuck if you call the cops.”

“Huh, how about that? The coward isn’t afraid of the police.”

“Cole Lucas is in town.”

Since he’d been out of the life for a few years, Berto could only know of Lucas by reputation, but Carlo’s old friend wasn’t stupid.

Berto put his palm up, wallet in the other hand. “Do me a favour and keep your plans to yourself. You can have the money.” He threw some bills.

They floated to the ground and Carlo cursed Berto to hell and back for forcing him to show weakness as he scrambled to pick up the money. He glanced at the three Benjamins before tucking them into his pocket.

He banished the memory of the suitcase he’d had to leave behind the night he’d got shot. It had contained twenty-five thousand dollars—Carlo had nicked it from his old boss. It was now in the custody of the Antioch PD, lost to him forever.

“All the meds I’ve got are for horses,” Berto said. “I don’t know if I can get anything else from EMS.”

A knock at the door made Carlo jump.
Son of a bitch
. Berto noticed—a satisfied smile spread across his lips. “Uh, not so brave, are we?”

“Mateo? Boss? You in there? First round’s about to start,” a male voice called.

“Thanks, Brody, I’ll be there in a minute,” Berto called back.

“Mateo, huh?” Carlo asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t call me shit. I’ll get you what you need and you
will
get the fuck out of my life.”

“Thanks, I mean it.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you mean.”

Carlo nodded. Berto wouldn’t call the police—he didn’t want the questions that would inevitably come up. Digging into Berto’s background would be as detrimental to his new life as Carlo’s appearance. But would his old friend contact Caselli, or one of their former colleagues?

* * * *

“This rodeo is a big deal, right? Championship or something?” Cole asked, throwing a rodeo flyer down on her desk. Andi looked up at him, then at the full-colour mini-poster. He’d gone to the kitchen to get some coffee, where the heck had he found the poster? She must have missed it on the events bulletin board.

His T-shirt was dark grey today, and just as tight as all the others in his wardrobe. His expression was serious, and his grip on the Styrofoam cup appeared tight. He was still hot as sin. Andi ignored that train of thought.

“Something like that, yeah. It’s for two weeks, and people come from all over the country,” she said.

“Ever heard of the Circle Bar B?”

“Should I have?” Andi stared into his grey eyes. Her stomach fluttered, but she concentrated on his words. Cole’s tone suggested he thought he was on to something.

He tapped the poster. The handsome, dark-haired man on horseback was looking over his shoulder, his face with an expression of utter focus. ‘Champion Owner of the Circle Bar B, Mateo Mata’ was the caption.

“Alberto Carbone—Berto,” Cole said.

“Who?”

“Used to be Caselli’s right hand. He up and quit a few years ago. I only know him from pictures and what I’ve heard about him Never met the guy.”

“I wasn’t under the impression one
could
quit in their line of work.” Andi glanced at the picture again. Confidence. Control. What the hell else, though?

“Yeah, me either. Normally you
quit
six feet under.”

“So what happened?”

Cole shrugged and took a sip of coffee. “Never did find out. Rumour mill—he had something big on Caselli.”

“Does this have anything to do with Maldonado?”

“I never could figure out why he picked Texas. But now, I think it was Berto. He—Mateo Mata—owns a ranch. Maybe Carlo thought it was an opportunity to hide, but stay in the loop, provided Berto still has contacts with Caselli or his people.”

“You think he does?” Andi asked.

“Well, I find it hard to believe Tony Caselli would
let
someone go.”

“And this guy, Berto, is here in town?”

“Bingo.”

“All right.” Andi shot to her feet and reached for her jacket.

“Let’s go calf roping.” Cole’s twang wasn’t half bad.

Andi grinned. She didn’t jerk away as his warm hand settled at the small of her back and she let him lead her down the hallway.

* * * *

Boy, the Challenger’s out of place around here
. Cole got out of the car and glanced around. Nothing but trucks and horse trailers. The hundred-year-old attendant had directed them to Building C, but said most of the cowboys would be at the arena. Competition had started for the day.

One corner of Andi’s mouth lifted as he met her blue gaze. “What?” he asked.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so out of place, Agent Lucas.”

Cole stared. She was teasing him? His stomach somersaulted. Was she finally comfortable with him? Normally the
Agent Lucas
would have made him feel distanced, but Andi’s eyes were dancing. God, he wanted to kiss her. “I’m a city boy, no doubt. How about you?” He bit back the urge to gulp.

“Haven’t been to the rodeo since I was a kid, actually.”

“Oh, then let’s make sure to have a good time,” Cole said, winking. Andi laughed and he was mesmerised. It was the second greatest sound in the world, next to her son’s giggle.

They headed into the building and Cole planted his arms at his sides. He ached to touch her.
Focus, you’re working, dammit.
But all his attention was on how her ass moved in the tan pants she wore. Hiding, teasing him with only a glimpse of the shape that was there. Shame she didn’t have on jeans. Andi’s ass was made for tight denim.

“Where to? Did he say a right at the end of the hall or a left?” He jumped. “You okay?” Andi asked, one delicate brow arched.

Cole cleared his throat. “Yeah. Fine. Right, he said to the right.”

The look she shot him said she thought he was nuts, but she nodded and rounded the corner, leading them down the empty hallway. He resisted the urge to adjust his pants. His cock was at half-mast.
Get it together, for real, before you embarrass yourself.
As if her catching him ogling her ass wasn’t enough. He was working. That meant professional.
See why we don’t mix work and play, dumbass?