it ever occur to you that he might still be undercover?”
“Yeah.” His mouth twisted. “It did. Briefly. But I saw him. I’ll never forget that. He shot my family, then threw away the gun. And he never contacted me. Ever. Not even the day of the funeral, the day I buried Julie and Becky. He was my partner, damn it. My friend.”
The bitterness of betrayal rang in his voice. Unable to take the stark desolation in his eyes, she looked away.
“That wasn’t Alex in the video,” he said finally. He eased up on the gas pedal and moved into the middle lane.
Staring at him, she nodded. “I know.”
“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”
“He wasn’t.”
The puppy whimpered, shifting in her arms. Some of her tension must have communicated itself to the animal. Taking a deep breath, Brenna forced herself to relax.
“You’ll see,” she told him. “Once we find him, I’m sure he’ll have a reasonable explanation for everything.”
Ignoring her, Carson exited the freeway and pulled into a service station.
While he refueled, Brenna concentrated on her new companion. He had to have a name. For now she would call him Phelan, little wolf.
As she spoke the name out loud, three times in the custom of her people, the puppy raised his head. He lifted a small foot, accepting the naming with quiet dignity. As she took his paw in her hand, Brenna saw a splotch of rust marring the white fur. Blood, dried and flaking. Surely Carson had tissues or something in the glove box. A sidelong glance showed her that he had his back to her.
She opened the glove box. Inside there were no tissues, only a few sheets of paper, crumpled and wadded into a ball. One of those would have to do. Smoothing one out, she glanced at the words printed on it and froze.
“Leave of Absence—Medical.” Swiftly she scanned the rest of the document. In disbelief she read it again, before crumpling and tossing the paper back. Carson Turner had lied. Whatever he did, he was no longer acting under the auspices of the DEA. Since early summer, he’d been on forced medical leave. Six months ago. That meant that in his hunt for her brother, he was acting alone and unsanctioned, his reasons personal rather than official.
A private vendetta. Now, more than ever, she knew she had to find Alex first.
Chapter 4
Outside, the sharp ice of the wind cut straight to the bone. Shivering, Carson regretted giving Brenna his work jacket. Quickly he fitted the icy gas nozzle into his tank, setting the metal pin so the gas would run automatically. Then, turning his back to the wind, he punched a number into his cell phone. Warm as it was inside the Tahoe, he needed to talk to his informant privately yet still keep an eye on his reluctant passenger.
Three rings, a click, then a muffled answer. As usual, the man he knew only as Jack didn’t want to talk. Carson kept his voice low, rational, cajoling. He did the usual song and dance with the normal promise of payment, and finally got the information he needed. A potential sighting of Hades’ Claws. As he’d thought they might, they were heading north, toward their compound in Hawk’s Falls.
Jack believed Alex traveled with them.
Snapping the cell phone closed, he got back in the truck, shivering, and turned up the heat. A quick look at Brenna told him something had happened in the brief time he had taken to make the call. Her entire demeanor, posture and expression had changed. From the rigid line of her back to the way the sharp edge of her glare touched on him before skittering away, he read a simmering anger.
He swept the gas station at a glance. Two or three other vehicles were parked at the pumps, their drivers bundled against the cold while pumping gas. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and no one had approached the Tahoe while he was on the phone.
Then why was his new companion spoiling for a fight?
“What’s up?” He avoided her gaze as he turned the key and started the engine. The less eye contact, the less chance for an argument.
“You used your cell phone. Who’d you call?” Her tone sounded surprisingly pleasant, even with contained anger.
He suppressed a smile. Damn she was good. Answering a question with another question. One of the oldest avoidance tactics in the book.
“Informant.” Signaling, he pulled onto the road. With one hand looped over the top of the steering wheel, he fiddled with the radio, finding a station that played soothing classical music to calm her. Small tricks like that had become ingrained, something he did without conscious thought.
Her face still averted, Brenna made a sound low in her throat. It could have been either pleasure or disgust; he didn’t know her well enough to determine which.
Nor did he care. Again he reached for the radio. One flick of the dial increased the volume to a level loud enough to discourage conversation, and he settled back in anticipation of a nice, quiet ride. Alex’s sister seemed inclined to cooperate, watching the snow-covered landscape go past with no attempt to speak further.
But when the melody on the radio switched to Liszt’s “Hungarian Fantasy,” she swung around in her seat to face him. The swiftness of her movement, in keeping with the ominous crash of the music, startled him.
Even more alarming was her degree of anger. One quick glance told him the shoulder restraint was all that kept her from launching herself at him. Even her exotic eyes glowed caramel with fury. She took a deep breath, baring her white teeth, before exhaling loudly.
She looked almost like a wild animal.
“What the h—” Imagination. Had to be. He took a deep breath himself, blinked and took another look.
The furious glare remained. Quickly he turned the radio off.
“Now what?” he asked. “You got a problem?”
“Why did you lie to me?” Simmering rage trembled in her voice. “You said you had an official reason for looking for my brother, but you’re not even working for the DEA.”
Damn. He shook his head. “You snooped in my glove box.”
“I was looking for a tissue. Instead I found a crumpled piece of paper that says you’re on medical leave.”
He clenched his jaw. “None of this is your business.”
“I think it is.” She tilted her chin, contempt blazing from her gaze. “Tell me, Carson Turner, have you become the thing you profess to hate?”
“What?”
“A criminal.”
“Lady, I’m no criminal.”
Again she blew out her breath. “You’re acting without the sanction of the Justice Department. You’re on medical leave. Impersonating a federal agent is a crime.”
“You just did the same thing at the bank.”
“That was
