Allison Brennan - If I Should Die

“You said you needed the information fast. Molina’s murder started a drug war. And Bobbie Swain walked away.”

“Drug lords don’t usually let people leave the business,” Sean commented.

“Kane’s theory was that she and Julio Gomez worked together to kill her husband, then Gomez turned on her, not wanting a witness. It’s all about access-logistically, Gomez needed an inside accomplice to access her husband’s safe.”

“But Bobbie managed to survive and fingered Gomez.”

“Molina’s people never thought she was involved, and she walked away. It was a bloody fight between Molina’s people and Gomez’s. In the end, a third player rose to the top of the food chain. Someone named Theo Corbin, an American who is affiliated with some nasty people in Colombia.”

Sean nearly missed the narrow, rutted driveway that marked the Callahan property. He made a sharp left turn and his truck barely cleared the old posts. A single light on the right illuminated a weatherworn metal sign:

H and E RANCH

MR. and MRS. HENRY CALLAHAN

SPRUCE LAKE, NEW YORK

Sean wondered how Jon Callahan felt living out here with his uncle. Unmarried, commuting three hours to Montreal several times a month. Unless he had something else going on-something illegal and lucrative. Agent Victoria Sheffield had been investigating white-collar crimes that crossed the border. Sean could see all the pieces of the puzzle, but he didn’t know how they fit together-yet.

“Did you hear me?” Duke asked.

“Sorry, almost missed my turn.”

“Kane speculated that Bobbie Swain had planned for Corbin to take over.”

Sean’s truck bounced over the potholes and he had to slow even more. “You mean she started the war between Molina and Gomez in order for a dark horse to come in and take over?”

“Bingo.”

“Do you have any evidence? That’s pretty damn cold-blooded.”

“It is. There’s no proof and little talk. But Corbin knows certain information that only Molina had-Molina and his wife.”

“When did this happen?”

“Six years ago.”

“Around the same time Paul Swain was sent to prison. Could that be a coincidence?”

“You tell me.”

The driveway turned sharply to the left, then a well-lit house came into view. He turned off his headlights, drove past the house, and parked on the far side of the garage. The sudden silence was broken only by the tick of his cooling engine.

“I’m talking to Paul Swain tomorrow.”

“Watch out for him.”

“Kane have intel on him, too?”

“No, he doesn’t track the domestic drug trade. Never heard of Spruce Lake or Paul Swain, and Bobbie Swain dropped off his radar when she left Miami. He’s going to ask around, but doubts he’ll find out anything in the next day or two.”

“Meaning he’s not going to try.” Sean knew his brother well, better than Duke thought he did. Kane’s priorities were always at the top of the list. He had quiet disdain for small-time drug action. The low-level players were easy to take out, but another asshole always popped up.

“I’ll see what I can find out. Be careful, Sean. This woman sounds like a dangerous piece of work.”

“I know exactly what she is,” Sean said. “She’s a monster.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up. Abigail Swain’s letter to her son made complete sense now.

Paul Swain had something on his sister, some piece of information that was so big that it would get him killed in prison. It might put her in jail for life, or possibly even get her killed. If it was so big that it had kept Bobbie out of Spruce Lake and away from Ricky Swain, it was likely connected to Herve Molina’s murder.

Bobbie Swain sounded ruthless, at least the way Kane portrayed her. But his oldest brother didn’t sugarcoat anything. A spade was a spade. A killer, a killer. No excuses, no explanations.

More than once Sean had threatened Duke that he’d head south and join Kane’s team of mercenaries. It was the surest way to get easygoing Duke riled up. Duke had spent three months in Central America with Kane’s team and returned a changed man. But Sean had never done it, and he’d always felt when he was younger that Duke thought he was too weak or too spoiled or too comfortable.

Sean saw the allure of fighting for something bigger than himself, fighting to save people from a fate worse than death. Rescuing young boys from the battlefield and giving them back to their mothers. Burning coca fields before harvest. Storming brothels where girls and women were held as sex slaves and bringing them to safety. Killing their captors because in some countries, there was no other justice.

But Sean feared that in such violent scenarios he might well lose his humanity. He could be trained to do what Kane did, but wouldn’t emerge unscathed. He sometimes wondered if his brother was superhuman, because no one could do what he did with his soul intact.

Sitting in the truck, Sean considered another theory about the sniper. Someone in town knew precisely what was going on and wanted Sean and Lucy out of the way before one or both of them was killed. The sniper hadn’t tried to kill him, true to his note. He thought he was doing them a favor.

Sean didn’t like the game, and he wasn’t leaving until he found out what had happened to Victoria Sheffield and Jimmy Benson. And he certainly wasn’t leaving until he had Ricky Swain in his custody. The kid was a wild card, potentially dangerous and also in danger. He could get himself killed if he confronted the wrong people. Someone who would kill a federal agent could just as easily kill a teenager seeking vengeance for his uncle’s death.

Sean quietly got out of the truck and pulled on a jacket. He walked up to the front door, acutely aware of the surrounding silence, marred only by occasional sounds of wildlife.

He knocked on the door, but it took a full minute before Henry Callahan answered. He stepped back, surprised by the visit. “Mr. Rogan.”

“Is your nephew Jon here?”

“No, he’s at the bar. Do you want to speak to him?”

“I actually came to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

A flash of fear crossed the older man’s face. He glanced over his shoulder, as if someone were there. Sean whispered, “Are you alone?”

Henry motioned for Sean to enter, then closed the door. “My wife, Emily.”

She sat in a chair, white-haired and beautiful, but with eyes that were too bright, a handmade afghan on her lap, gently rocking her chair back and forth. A small, well-read Bible sat open on the blanket, the print so small Sean didn’t think she’d easily be able to read it. Comfort, possibly.

“She had a stroke last year. She’s in pain.”

She looked stoned to Sean, but if she was in pain he wasn’t going to criticize a septuagenarian for smoking a little pot, though he didn’t smell the telltale signs.

“Henry?” Emily questioned. She looked toward them, but didn’t seem to see them.

“Right here, dear.” He walked over and moved the thick glasses that were on a string around her neck to her face.

She focused on Henry and smiled. “Dear. We had a lovely drive today, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Who is your friend?”

“He’s a friend of Joe Hendrickson’s. You remember Joe?”

“Yes, of course I remember Joe. Why doesn’t he visit more often?”

“He died last year, honey. We went to his funeral.”

Her smile faltered. “I remember.” It was clear by her expression that she didn’t.

“I’m going to take Joe’s friend to the kitchen for a beer. Is that all right with you?”

“I’d like a beer, too.”

“You don’t like beer.”

“I think I might.”