lights come on along with his left-turn signal. He was heading back toward Freedom.
A zip of anticipation buzzed over Nick’s nerves, reminding him of his glory days as a U.S. Army Ranger. He’d been good at his job, one of the best, until a mistake had cost several of his buddies their lives.
His mistake.
Gripping the wheel until his fingers stung, he braked at the stop sign and watched a single car pass, then he pulled out behind it. The added buffer would assure that his pursuit went undetected.
He loosened his stranglehold on the steering wheel, but the emotions inside of him refused to relent. Sucking in a deep breath, he focused on the taillights of the black sedan, determined to follow it. Out-of-state plates probably meant he’d make a beeline for one of the half a dozen motels scattered along the main artery into Freedom.
Nick’s suspicions were confirmed when the sedan’s blinker popped on. He braked and took a right into the parking lot of the Sundown Motel.
Nick rolled past just as the man exited the car. Satisfied, he decided to call it a night, and headed for the ranch on the other end of town. Whoever the man was, he’d at least been able to peg the general location of Grace and Caleb’s home. Concern adhered to Nick’s nerves. Whatever the guy wanted, it couldn’t be good.
A sudden and insatiable need to protect Grace and Caleb Marshall welled from deep inside of him.
Half a mile down the road, he turned around. He headed back out to her street, relieved to see the black car still parked in the motel lot as he cruised past.
He could afford to spend the next couple of hours watching over her…just in case the man in the black sedan decided to take another pass. Besides, there wasn’t a chance he’d be getting much in the way of sleep tonight anyway. Not with the brutal images from his past now playing inside of his head.
“ROUGH NIGHT, CAVANAUGH?” Nolan asked as he pulled out his chair at the head of the conference table and sat down.
“Monday morning at 0600 hours is always rough, sir,” Nick said, trying to blink the grit out of his eyes. Watching over Grace and Caleb was beginning to take its toll, even though Grace Marshall hadn’t left her home the entire weekend. Or opened the blinds, or stepped outside for that matter. Conclusion?
Grace Marshall was scared.
“I know this is strictly your assignment, Nick, but we’re a team, and if there’s any way we can help—”
“I’ll let you know.” He nodded to Nolan, knowing full well that he meant every word of it. But his assignment for Governor Lockhart was sensitive. The fact that team member Parker McKenna was involved with Bailey Lockhart, the governor’s daughter, and would soon become Lila Lockhart’s son-in-law, only added to the need for a discreet investigation. The kicker: Grace Marshall worked for Bailey Lockhart, her possible half sister, at Cradles to Crayons.
Nick rubbed his eyes again and took a swallow from his coffee mug as one by one the team members settled at the table.
Amelia brought a couple of thermoses of coffee into the conference room and put them down in the middle of the table before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
“Sorry about the 0600, but I’ve got an early flight out to D.C. for the preliminary on Governor Lockhart’s December fundraiser there. I’ll be gone until Thursday.” Nolan trained his attention on Parker McKenna. “I’d like you to run point on the governor’s security while I’m gone.”
“Sure thing. I’ve already had our tech beef up the cameras at the ranch, and extended the visual coverage perimeter around the property. We’re in good shape.”
“Excellent work. We can’t relax our vigilance until she’s safely back in Austin at the end of the month.” Nolan scribbled something on his notepad and turned his attention to Wade Coltrane. “Anything on the contact list from Trevor Lewis’s cell phone?”
“He damn sure liked pizza,” Wade said. “Called for takeout twice a week for months. He also called Stacy Giordano on a regular basis. One name did come up half a dozen times in the last month. A Wes Bradley.”
“Sound familiar, anyone?” Nolan asked as he scanned the faces of his team members.
Nick mulled the name and he shook his head. “Never heard it before.”
“Sheriff Hale is working on a court order to obtain the phone records,” Wade said. “Using cell-tower pings to see if Wes Bradley was in the area.”
“Great work. Let’s run Wes Bradley through the database and see if we get a hit. Lewis wasn’t in this alone. Whoever takes the assignment, be sure to get ahold of the information Harlan has on Lewis’s connections to the anarchist group who protested at the governor’s fundraiser. See if we can make a connection between Bradley and the group, as well.”
“I’ll take that assignment,” Matteo Soarez said as he jotted the information down.
“And I’ll volunteer to check out Stacy Giordano.” A wide grin spread on Harlan’s face as his jest rubbed everyone’s humor bone and scrubbed the tension off of the serious conversation for an instant.
“Hell, you’ve been checking her out since the first time you met her.” Nick laughed, watching his buddy’s features soften. Harlan McClain was 110 percent in love with Stacy Giordano. And he’d come within a heartbeat of losing her because of Trevor Lewis.
“All right, you guys, knock it off.” Nolan chuckled under his breath. “We’ll hold another briefing on Friday morning at 0800 hours. Let’s make some progress. Governor Lockhart isn’t safe until we nail Lewis’s accomplice.”
Nick’s cell phone rang. He pulled it off his belt and stared down at the number, then flipped it open.
“Sheriff Hale. Good morning.” He pushed his chair back and stood up, wanting to put some distance between himself and the other team members.
“Good and early,” Hale shot back.
Nick relaxed. He liked Bernard Hale. “Better get your coffee on.”
Hale snorted. “I ran the plate number you gave me. Came back registered to a Mamie Ashbury in Dillon, Montana. I gave her a phone call and low and behold, the plate belongs on her husband’s old pickup. Trouble is, he’s been dead for three years, and the truck is parked in their barn. She hustled out there and discovered the front and rear plates are missin’.”
“Not anymore. They’ve turned up on a late-model sedan.”
“About that black car, Nick. One of my deputies found it abandoned in a ditch along Highway 83 this mornin’. Ran the plates and found my inquiry. Ran the VIN number, as well, and it came back to an owner in Amarillo, a Mr. Maxwell Brewster. He claims he sold the car through a newspaper ad three weeks ago.”
Worry sliced across Nick’s nerves like a razor blade. “Can you give me his contact information, Sheriff?”
“Sure.”
Nick grabbed his notepad off the conference table. “Go ahead.”
Hale rambled off the phone number; Nick wrote it
