Chapter 10

Rafe was going to kill Calum.

Rafe left Pops’s trailer bathroom, showered and dressed in his last pair of clean jeans and T-shirt. His duffel and Escalus’s backpack lay in Pops’s family room while Calum talked on the phone in the kitchen.

When Calum ended his call, Rafe hit Calum in the chest with his fist. “You got me out of prison to help you find Eugene Wilkins’s murderer?”

Calum rubbed his sternum. “That’s part of the deal.”

Typical Prioleau bullshit. “And the rest of your plan?”

“Need-to-know basis.”

“Fuck you.” Rafe paced, everything familiar yet not. The shabby couch sat next to a new leather chair. The record player console held a flat-screen TV. His mother’s photographs stood in frames and were pinned to walls.

“Are we done?” Calum asked. “You can pace in town. And I’d appreciate less cussing.”

“Why?” The word came out with so many sharp edges he should’ve tasted blood.

Calum crossed his arms. “Eugene Wilkins started your release process ten months ago. I finished it when he died.”

“I don’t care about whos and hows. I want the damn why.”

“You spent two years in a Russian prison and nine months in Leavenworth’s isolation. I thought you’d be happy to be out.”

“My release means I have to deal with my past shit and fix yours while protecting you all.” Rafe threw a remote against the wall. It left a mark and fell to the floor. The lives of everyone who might be involved with Calum’s plans were now Rafe’s responsibility.

Calum took out his phone and started texting. “I thought you’d be happy. You were in isolation. In prison. You were alone.”

Rafe fixed a glare on Calum. “I wasn’t alone.” Not with his monstrous past drilling into his conscience on a daily basis. In some ways, prison had offered the only relief he’d had since leaving Nate and his A-team. Since leaving Juliet.

Now Rafe was free to eat, shower, and put on new bandages. Free to clean and retie his blue ribbon. But none of it mattered if his liberty meant more innocent people got hurt. And there was no going back. He had to find the Prince’s vial and finish what Calum started. Rafe’s army duffel, with the few things he still owned, was ready to go to one of Calum’s apartments stocked with clothes and food. Like it had all been planned.

Because it fucking had been. “I deserved to be in prison. I didn’t need you to save me.”

“This isn’t about you, Rafe,” Calum said, still on his phone. “It’s about Juliet. If you’d trust me, you’d realize that my mess, Walker’s mess, and yours are connected to your wife.”

“How does Walker factor into this? He should be in Afghanistan with Kells Torridan.”

Nate was the perfect soldier, and Colonel Torridan had made his favor for Nate clear. Which had been fine with Rafe. The last thing he’d ever wanted was attention from one of the two toughest colonels the Army’s Special Forces Command ever trained. Nate had been a good guy and an even better commander. Until their last night together when Rafe ignored Nate’s order. But bullshit orders deserved to be ignored.

Finally, Calum put the phone away. “Nate needs your help as much as I do.”

“I doubt that.” Rafe threw his duffel over his shoulder, grabbed Escalus’s backpack, and found the Impala keys. His muscles ached. Even his toes hurt. And he was so damn tired. Still, he trudged through the wall of heat and humidity to the car.

“Things have changed since you left,” Calum said, hurrying to catch up. “For Juliet. Walker. Myself.”

Rafe opened the trunk and dumped in the bags. “Now you manipulate and bribe people to get your own way? I thought you didn’t want to become your father?”

“You’ve no idea what the past eight years have been like. For any of us.”

“You’re right.” He shut the trunk and headed back to the house. He needed his weapon, ammo, and one more thing. “I don’t. But I also don’t twist events for my own benefit.”

“That’s an activity you save for the Prince.”

Rafe spun around, teeth clenched. “What do you know about the Prince?”

Calum wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “The Prince is an arms dealer with a private army. Except no one knows what his army does, and no one who joins ever leaves.”

Rafe pressed his fists into his thighs. No one outside the brotherhood knew the truth. At least not anyone alive. “You freed me knowing I had a death sentence on my head?”

“The people you love are safer with you here in Savannah.”

“You’re wrong.” He went back to the house, Calum trailing. “You have no idea what followed me home.”

“It didn’t follow you. It was already here. It killed two men and drove a third to suicide.”

Rafe paused on the back steps leading to the kitchen. “What are you talking about?”

Calum stood three steps below, his hand on the rail. “Nine months ago, Eugene Wilkins died in a brush fire in Juliet’s back meadow. After Eugene’s death, Gerald went into a paranoid rant. Juliet tried to talk to him, but he fired a shotgun at her.”

“Gerald fired a gun at his own daughter?”

“Gerald wasn’t right in the head.” Calum pushed past him and went inside. He found two Cokes in the fridge and tossed one to Rafe. “Gerald was terrified of something. Shut off access to the property. Felled trees over roads. Wouldn’t work with Detective Legare on Eugene’s case.”

Rafe pressed the cold can against his hot forehead. “How am I involved?”

“Your Interpol file. The file Eugene helped Legare find.”

Bullshit. There were no public records on the Fianna. The Prince had minions everywhere, desperate for cash, willing to do his bidding in every level of every government.

After securing his weapon, Rafe drank his soda and ID’d the photos on a bookshelf.

Calum opened his can and followed. “Something Legare read in your file prompted Eugene to start your release paperwork. But first he had to get you out of that Russian prison.”

Rafe had wondered who’d gotten the extradition. He finished the Coke in one gulp, and the fizz settled in his empty stomach like a grenade filled with Pop Rocks. “What did they read?”

“Two things. The first was a name. Romeo.”

He scanned the photos around the trailer and acted dumb. “What does it mean?”

“No idea. Even though Detective Legare deemed Eugene’s death an accident, something was found nearby that made Legare question whether Eugene had been murdered. Words cut into the dirt near the dock where he’d tied up his boat.”

Behind a beat-up copy of The Shining, Rafe saw a gold frame holding the photo taken years ago. His momma helping Juliet with her veil on their wedding day. A study in smiles, tears, and sheer happiness. He took the photo from the frame and shoved it into his back pocket. “What words?”

Calum pulled out his phone and handed it over. “These.”

It was a photo of a verse cut into the sandy dirt, the indentations lined with pebbles to keep their form. OH ROMEO, ROMEO, THE HEAVENS DO LOUR UPON YOU FOR SOME ILL, MOVE THEM NO MORE BY CROSSING THEIR HIGH WILL.

Every vertebrae clicked into place. “It’s from Romeo and Juliet.”

“Yes. Sheriff Boudreaux thought kids might have written the words. But I don’t agree. Neither did Detective Legare. The words are cut too perfectly. The verse too sophisticated.”

A Fianna warrior driven by control and precision had carved this warning for Rafe. Except he’d been in prison at the time, and the Prince had known that.

“And Gerald’s delusions?” Rafe handed the phone back. “How do I connect to those?”

“After Eugene’s death, Gerald screamed about being hunted by men who bow. The Interpol file said the men who work for the Prince sometimes bow before killing.”

F. U. C. K. “That’s odd.”

Calum stared at him. “That’s all you have to say? Your Interpol files says you worked for the Prince as one of his bowing men—”

Rafe snorted and found the ammo bag.

“And you went by the name Romeo. At the same time, a verse from Romeo and Juliet is found near Eugene’s body and your father-in-law starts raving about men who bow.”

Rafe moved into Calum’s personal space until he could see the silver specks around the edges of his blue eyes. “This is me telling you to let it go.”

“Eugene and Legare are dead. Murdered by these bowing men.”

“You got me out of prison to ask questions I can’t answer?”

“I got you out to fix this. Find out who killed them and why, and you keep your freedom.”

And there it was. The Prioleau ultimatum. “Send me back.”

Calum’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been able to keep this quiet, but Eugene and Legare were killed by the same person. Eugene died in the back meadow of smoke inhalation, but the ME found a small wound, like a pencil had been driven through his neck. Two weeks later, Detective Legare was found in the cemetery, with another verse near his body as well.”

Rafe released a breath. “Did Legare have a puncture in his neck?”

“Yes. Then, weeks ago, Walker shows up making inquiries about eight-petaled lilies. And the last place I saw those flowers was in the back meadow almost twenty years ago. I believe that’s what Eugene was looking for when someone killed him.”

“You mentioned a suicide?”

“Gerald Capel hanged himself in the manor after Legare’s death.”

Rafe sank onto the couch and ran a hand back and forth over his shorn head. This he’d not seen coming. “The chandelier?”

Calum squinted. “How’d you know?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Rafe’s heart ached for his wife. “I don’t believe it. Gerald might’ve been a mean old SOB, but he was no coward.”

“Agreed,” Calum said. “Two deaths, one possible suicide, and Walker’s search have Juliet’s land in common.”

And two had been killed with a misericord. A Fianna weapon of choice. But how did the vial tie in? If a Fianna warrior killed Eugene and Detective Legare, maybe even Gerald, Nate could be next. “Is Nate the second part of your plan?”

Calum tapped his Rolex. “In exchange for being your PO, I told him you’ll help him. You’ll meet him at Rage of Angels Club. Nine p.m.”

“That PO story is bullshit, and Garza will figure it out.” Rafe got up and Calum followed him out of the trailer. “You could hire every PI in the country. Why me?”

Calum paused near a red Ferrari parked next to the black Impala. “Because this is personal. To you as well as me and Juliet. This mission of yours is worth the risks.”

Rafe tossed the ammo into the front seat. “Because you’re not the hired gun.”

“I’m not hiring you.”

“Right. The blackmailed gun.” He looked toward the glory cross against the tree line. “This isn’t about Juliet. Or even Detective Legare and a dead senator. It’s about protecting the Prioleau family name.”

“Self-pity isn’t an attractive quality.” Calum opened his car door. “Besides, if you don’t agree, I’ll send you back to prison before you turn on that car.”

“What do you really want?”

Calum got in and adjusted his rearview mirror. “Once, a long time ago, you and Juliet were my best friends. Maybe I want us to be happy again.”

Rafe leaned his forearm on Calum’s car roof and bent down. “You can’t live in the past. None of us can. And no amount of money can change that.”

“Maybe not. But I’d give anything to make things the way they once were.”

“Considering your anything includes enough money to move governments, tides, and the weather, what would you be willing to do?”

“Manipulate.” Calum put on his sunglasses. “Lie. Maybe more.”

Rafe stared at his oldest friend. “Kill?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You should decide what your limits are before events roll out of control and you become a man you don’t recognize, a man who makes the angels cry. If you don’t set lines you won’t cross, nothing can stop you. Not even yourself.”

“Is that why you sent Juliet that letter?” Calum’s voice cracked like a hammer hitting ice. “Because you couldn’t stop yourself?”

“I miscalculated.” Rafe wanted to say fucked up, but that implied he’d made a mistake. His decision to leave his men, destroy his marriage, and abandon Juliet had been a choice.

Calum nodded. “Did she—”

“Drop it.” Rafe stepped away and crossed his arms over his chest.

Calum nodded. “We have an appointment, and I want to get you settled in your apartment. Then we’ll talk about Juliet.”

Calum revved the engine with the confidence that came from a boatload of money and a shitload of power. For a moment, Calum reminded Rafe of the Prince.

“Fuck. You.”

“While we need to address your use of foul language in public, we have an appointment before you see Walker.”

“Who the fuck with?”

Calum smiled and shifted the car into gear. “My tailor.”

* * *

Nate dropped the weights on the metal stand in Iron Rack’s gym. The click-bang reverberated around men lifting and fighting in the ring. Pete had offered to finish the bar restock and grab groceries so Nate could work off his testosterone high. For the first time in days, he felt focused. Muscle-fatigued, but with a Z-pam-inspired alertness that kept him ready. Ready for anything. Ready for anyone. Ready to fight in the ring.

He’d taken another pill, eight hours early. But he was meeting Montfort later and needed the boost. He’d get more pills from Deke after getting paid tonight. Fuck the seizures.

Nate hopped on a treadmill, set it to shred, and thanked the gym’s management for the hard-core music selection. He settled into a punishing rhythm and studied the room: the perimeter, entrance, and emergency exit. As far as pay-by-day gyms went, Iron Rack’s was perfect. No female distractions, basic amenities, and enough weights to make the Hulk happy. There were even two skull-and-crossbones pirate flags covering the picture windows facing the street. It made him feel like he was working out “under the black.”

And that stale odor of male sweat and hormone-fueled hostility? Hell, he was a soldier. That scent had melted into his skin years ago. But it was the ring that drew him. The beatings he’d taken and given burned the edge off his emotions. He now craved the daily physical stress that controlled his aggression. As he hit his stride, the front door opened and his sparring partner strode in. Average height, he wore track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

Nate hopped off the treadmill. “Ready to hurt?”

“It won’t be me in the infirmary today.” The guy smiled without showing his teeth. “And I’m not giving up my winning streak.”

Nate pointed to the ring. “Fists or Kenpo sticks?”

“Fists.”

“Perfect.” Except for the fact that Pete hated Nate’s pastime and was probably rehearsing his nightly lecture about spiritual balance and karma.

Nate picked up his bag, when his sparring partner gripped his shoulder.

“I need to know…you okay? No headaches? No high?”

“My migraine meds are working, so I’m cool.”

“Just making sure. I’d hate to take advantage of an addict.”

“Good. Because I don’t want any pity fights.”

“No pity. No mercy. Got it.”

They hit the ring. After having their hands taped, Nate pounded his fists. Although he was a failure who controlled his seizures by double-dosing illegal prescription drugs, with Rafe’s help Nate would be redeemed. Because he sure as hell wasn’t an addict.

His sparring partner stretched, his arms flexing. “Ready?”

Nate smiled wide. “Make me bleed.”