CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Slowly the helicopter climbed higher and higher. Jenna found numbers on a dial labeled Altimeter. As the numbers increased, the tightness in her chest eased. One hundred feet, two hundred.
The spin of the helicopter had evened out as they cleared the tops of the trees and gained forward momentum. The trees, the house, the mountain, all fell away. She had one hand on the door, and the other braced on her seat. Between the wind and mechanical issues, the helicopter pitched and shuddered worse than the mechanical bull ride at the honky-tonk in Sheridan.
But the smell of smoke grew heavier, and it tickled the back of her throat. That couldn’t be good.
Behind her, Pepita and a petite woman huddled on the floor between the front and rear seats, wedged in tight in front of the other passengers. Jenna couldn’t tell whether any of them were strapped in, but by their wide eyes and slack jaws, even if they could have heard her yelling for them to put their seat belts on, Jenna didn’t think their minds were functioning well enough to follow the simple instruction.
They gained speed and the helicopter stabilized. The altimeter crept toward three hundred feet, and Jenna breathed easier. Quinn was doing it.
They were going to make it.
Beep beep beep. An orange light started flashing. Another. More smoke seeped into the cabin, and the altimeter started going backward. “What’s that?”
“Fuck!” Quinn ground out, his voice deafening in the sudden silence. “We lost the engine.”
Quinn’s training took over as he dropped the collective, added right pedal, and entered an autorotation. With minimal control, they were all along for the ride. “Look for a clearing. We’re going down.”
“I don’t see anything.” The earth pitched and rolled and started to spin again. She had a hard time telling which way was up. How was she supposed to find—Lights! Blue and red. Flashing. Emergency vehicles. “There, on your right.” Jenna pointed, but as soon as she did, it was gone.
The ground drew closer, but so did the lights. She glanced over at him. His jaw was tight, the muscles on his arms in stark relief to the flashing orange of the cockpit warning lights. Two hundred feet. One-seventy-five.
Below, the headlights shone into a clearing.
“Down there,” Jenna said. “They’re lighting the clearing for you.”
“Got it,” Quinn said, his voice clipped.
One-fifty.
One-thirty.
Cold sweat broke out over her entire body, and adrenaline dumped into her system, a hot fire scorching arteries and veins and boosting her heart rate to supersonic speeds.
“Too far.” Quinn’s fierce growl roared through the intercom and settled in her chest. In her heart.
She glanced over at Quinn. At the man who didn’t give up. At the man battling, fighting, struggling, to save them. She felt useless, helpless.
One-twenty.
One hundred.
They were going to crash.
Something in her chest snapped, and her heart was finally free. Seemingly insurmountable odds to their relationship were, in reality, mere blips on the radar. There was so much she wanted to say to Quinn, so much she wished to take back, so much she wished she’d done different. But there was no time for that.
“I love you,” she said, as the emergency lights from the vehicles below flashed in front of her eyes. She slammed her lids closed and braced for the impact.
* * * *
Dead Man’s Curve—a nifty little chart that shows the very valid reason that low altitude and low speed didn’t mix when your engine failed.
A soul-eating, scary-ass, valid reason.
Quinn had fought the odds once before with success. If you could call his crew dying and him and Kurt surviving a success. A smart man would have taken his money and gone home, not willing to face those odds ever again.
Guess you’re not as smart as you thought you were.
Because here he was, battling with an unfamiliar, overloaded helo in a storm, in the mountains, operating within Dead Man’s Curve.
Every muscle in his body strained, his grip locked on the cyclic. No way was he letting go. He would either land, or the medics would have to pry the cyclic out of his cold, dead hands. The g-forces of the spin turned the helo into that ride at the amusement park where you spun so fast the floor could drop out from beneath you, and you would stay in the air.
The difference was, they were spinning—and they were going down.
He saw the clearing spotlighted by the emergency vehicles’ headlights, but doubted he had enough altitude to make it. If they cleared the tops of the trees, they stood a chance. Whoever was down there had better run like hell, because when they crashed, his rotors would likely shred the trucks and the trees.
Like a twenty-five-hundred-pound storm-tossed blender.
Whatever happened in the next few seconds wasn’t going to be pretty.
The muscles in his forearms burned, and his right hand was nearly numb from gripping so tight. Slick with sweat, the cyclic slipped in his grip, and the skids brushed the top of the trees as he battled for control.
I love you. Jenna’s words filled his brain, swelled his chest, made his thundering heart stop for a beat.
The corner of his mouth tipped up as he recaught his grip on the controls and her words sank deep into his soul.
Now she tells me.
The skids brushed the tops of the trees, and the helo toppled over the far side, the rotors missing the top of a truck. His skids spudded into the front and rear windows of the crew-cab pickup. The force tipped the truck sideways, but the sheer mass of the vehicle slowed the helo’s momentum. The harness cut across his body, jerked him to a stop, and ripped the cyclic from his hand.
The rotors ripped into the earth like an overzealous Weed eater. Chewing through rocks and dirt and metal. The rotors sheared off and flew God knew where.
The helo slammed into the ground.
All motion stopped. For a moment, no sound. Smoke poured into the cockpit. Quinn ripped off the headset, coughing as he fumbled with his harness release and fell against his door.
“Everyone okay?”
There were some moans. Someone was crying.
“My arm,” one of the women said.
Pepita said, “I think so.”
Jenna said nothing.
“Jenna? Jenna!” The helo rested on its right side. Jenna hung from her harness directly above him, her arms dangling in front of him like she was reaching out for him. Only she wasn’t reaching out for him, because she was unconscious.
Or dead.
No. No. No no nonono!
He coughed again, his lungs burning as he fought to breathe. His peripheral vision starred. A screech of metal as someone forced open the rear door. A rush of wind and rain flooded in.
“Give me a hand,” a man said to someone as he started rescuing the women from the back.
Quinn’s vision cleared, and he reached up to undo Jenna’s harness, but with her full weight against it, the release refused to budge. “Help her,” he rasped out, so low he barely heard himself.
He coughed, cleared his throat, and reached for the knife he always kept in his flight suit—except he wasn’t in his flight suit and he didn’t have his damn knife.
Jenna’s door wrenched open, and someone dropped into the back of the helo. “Let her go,” the man said to Quinn. “We’ve got her.”
But Quinn couldn’t let go.
Suddenly there was a face in front of his. Clean shaven and soot covered. “You got to let her go, man. We’ve got her. Promise.”
Quinn let go of her hand, and her fingers slipped from his as someone hoisted her out of the cockpit. She didn’t talk. She didn’t fight.
Holy hell.
What little strength he had left drained from his body and he deflated, collapsing against his door with a dull thunk. He stared out the open door above. Not caring that the cold rain pooled beneath him. His right hand shook. His whole body shook.
The same man climbed back into the helo and reached a hand out to him.
“How is she?”
The man didn’t say.
Dead.
The paramedic said, “Come on, man, this thing’s a death trap. It could blow any second.”
All the warmth a living being possessed died and shriveled within him. Without Jenna, Quinn found it hard to care. If the helo blew, it blew. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, because once again, he’d failed.
* * * *
Quinn staggered toward one of the ambulances staged near the clearing, one arm draped around the shoulders of the first responder. Quinn coughed, the lining of his lungs feeling like they’d been licked by a flamethrower.
Under a spotlight, a makeshift triage area had been set up under the protective cover of a tarp. The wind blew rain under the cover in gusts, but no place in a five-mile radius was more dry. The women from the back of the helo were there being treated. One was having a splint put on her arm, another—
“Quinn!” Wrapped in a blanket, Pepita jumped up and tried to run over to him. One of her legs gave way, but she caught herself and hopped over on one leg. She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him an anaconda squeeze.
“I’ve got it, man,” Quinn told the rescuer.
The man slid his shoulder from beneath Quinn’s arm and went to help elsewhere. Quinn held Pepita tight, one arm around her torso, the other clamping her head to his chest. She shook in his arms, and he cupped her face and took a half step back. “You okay?”
She nodded once, swiping the back of her hand against her nose. She pointed to the open rear door of one of the ambulances. “They have Prima.”
Quinn was afraid to ask. Afraid not to. “How is she?”
Pepita shrugged. “They wouldn’t say.”
His heart slowed way…the…fuck…down. He couldn’t hear it or feel it. For all he knew, it had stopped. Maybe that was why his knees buckled, and the trees started spinning again.
Pepita took his hand, squeezed. He refocused on her. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
She pulled. He pulled back. “You should wait here.”
“Why?” Pepita looked at him, not as if he’d lost all his marbles, but as if he’d never had any to begin with.
He didn’t know how to tell her the truth. “It could be bad.”
That little chin of hers went up, and he saw so much of Jenna and Sidney and Boomer, and hell, the rest of the Lazy S, in that defiant tilt, that brave squaring of her shoulders. That determined squint of her brown eyes. “Then she’ll need us both.”
Even though he’d thought himself incapable of smiling at the moment, his mouth curved. He ruffled his hand over the top of her head and pulled her to his side, and together they helped each other to the ambulance.
Thirty yards to the ambulance, and by the time he got there, he was coughing and hacking. A five-pack-a-day chain-smoker wouldn’t have been as out of breath. Spots flickered and flashed at the edges of his vision. He caught himself against the rear door and held on tight.
The paramedics had laid Jenna out on a gurney in the back of the ambulance, an oxygen mask over her face, not a sheet. Alive. His heart jump-started as if the paramedics had zapped him with the AED. His vision cleared, and he stepped closer.
“How is she?” Quinn suffered through another round of coughing fits. Unable to hear the answer over his sputtering. His eyes watered and he dried them with the heels of his hands. “What?”
“Unconscious, but stable,” the paramedic said. A monitor beeped, and the woman checked the IV going into the back of Jenna’s left hand. “You can come—”
Quinn didn’t wait for her to finish. He scrambled into the back and pulled Pepita in behind him. He scooted over, and they both sat on a narrow bench. Jenna’s body shivered under the two layers of blankets, her hair wet, the pillow damp beneath her head, a long abrasion down one cheek.
He took Jenna’s right hand in both of his. Her skin blended with the white sheets. He turned her hand over, the skin shredded and torn on the underside of her fingers where she’d gripped the gutter. Quinn’s stomach did a slow roll and hung there in midair. He’d come so close to losing her.
He kissed the back of her hand, the skin warm and cold at the same time. Jenna groaned, and he squeezed her hand tighter.
Pepita patted Jenna’s shin. “Prima.”
Jenna rolled her head back and forth, her eyes scrunched. She tried to reach up with her left hand, but the paramedic stopped her. “I need you to keep this hand still,” the woman said.
Jenna pulled her hand out of Quinn’s, ran it across her left temple, and grumbled, “My head.”
Quinn palpated the egg-sized swelling along Jenna’s hairline. “I guess that hard head of yours came in handy.” Her eyes fluttered open, and he’d never been so happy to see those green eyes half-focused on him.
“Hey, beautiful.” He stroked the back of his finger across her cheek. “Nice of you not to sleep through the whole—”
Jenna bolted upright and tried to swing her legs over the side of the gurney. “Mac. Oh my God, is she okay?”
Quinn laid his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back down. “Relax,” he said. “She can take care of herself.”
“But she went down, and those men—”
Guilt built inside him, cold and insidious. He honestly hadn’t thought once about Mac or Boomer since he’d climbed out of the helo. All his thoughts, all his focus, had been on Jenna. “Boomer will take care of her.”
But what if—No, he wouldn’t let his mind go there. Mac and Boomer were professionals. Marines. If they couldn’t get out of that scrap, no one could.
“The baby.” Jenna grabbed his arm, her fingers digging in. For someone who might have a concussion, she had a damn strong grip.
The paramedic glanced over at him with an oh-shit look on her face. “She’s pregnant?”
“What?” Pepita said.
Quinn shook his head. “Not her. Mac.”
Pepita giggled behind her hand, having no idea Mac had taken a bullet. “No way!”
The paramedic held Jenna’s chin and came at her with the penlight. “Pupils are normal.”
“All these lights are so bright.” Jenna pushed the light away and tried to sit up again.
Quinn caught her.
“Follow my finger.” When the paramedic finished with a few more eye tests, she asked, “Anything blurry, any double vision?”
“A little blurry, maybe, but it’s fine.”
“Do you know what happened to you?” The paramedic wouldn’t give up.
“Last thing I remember was we were going to crash. Can I get up now?”
To Jenna, the paramedic said, “You have a concussion. You need to relax until the hospital can check you out and make sure you don’t have any other injuries. If I send him to find out about your friend, will you stay down?”
Jenna looked from the paramedic to Quinn and back again. “Yes.”
“Go.” The paramedic waved her hand toward the rear door. “I don’t want to have to sedate her.”
Reluctantly, Quinn left, leaving Pepita to stay with Jenna. The rain had slackened, and the wind only gusted occasionally, though the clouds steamed by overhead. Two more ambulances arrived and drove past them headed for the mansion, along with what looked like a prison transport truck.
A fire truck sprayed retardant on the mangled helo. On the outside of the clearing, a group of men gathered, their FBI, DEA, and sheriff’s office lettering on the backs of their black jackets reflecting in the headlights.
“Sheriff,” Quinn said, holding out his hand.
St. John took it for a quick shake and dropped it, turning back to Finn, Soto, and a couple other guys Quinn didn’t recognize. One was all decked out in full tactical gear—AR strapped to his chest, a sidearm strapped to his thigh, a Kevlar vest on his body, and a grim expression on his face.
“Status update?” Quinn asked.
“FUBAR,” Soto said. Fucked up beyond all recognition.
Quinn crossed his arms over his chest, his wet shirt sticking to him like a cold, second skin. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Finishing up the room-to-room search now,” Finn said. “El Verdugo’s been captured. Most others surrendered. Some didn’t. Found the remaining women. A few of them had been drugged, but they appear to be physically unharmed otherwise.”
“There were two that I know of that were auctioned, left with their buyers.”
Soto tossed her head in the general direction of the road leading down the mountain. For once she had real clothes on. Black cargo pants, boots, Kevlar vest, and a gun at her hip. “Took the buyers into custody as soon as they hit the main road, and the women have been transported to the hospital for evaluation.”
A weight tipped off his shoulders, and the tightness in his chest he’d attributed to the smoke inhalation, eased. Before he could ask about Mac and Boomer, a vehicle bearing the logo of the ATF pulled up. A man got out and strode their way.
“Great,” Soto said, “more letters for this freaking federal alphabet soup.”
He addressed the group, hands on his hips. “Rod Spinks, ATF. We had an agent in there. Haven’t heard from him.”
Finn bowed up. “You. Had an agent. In there?”
“Did I stutter?”
Everyone got quiet. Soto laughed. “Oh man, this is priceless.” To Spinks, she said, “I hope you have enough life insurance.”
Spinks spared her a narrow look. “Deep undercover.”
“This is a task force operation,” Finn said. “Why wasn’t I notified?”
Spinks shifted his gaze to Finn, his short gray hair shining white under the spotlights. “That’s why they call it ‘deep’.”
“Who was it?” Soto asked while Finn chewed on his fury.
“He went by the name of Gil Goodman. Or Moose.”
Quinn huffed out an incredulous laugh. “No shit.”
Finn regained his composure and said, “So far we don’t have a report of—”
“He was shot,” Quinn said. “High on the left shoulder while covering for us as we fled down the back staircase from the third floor. There were more shots fired after we left. I don’t know if he made it out. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Hang on,” St. John said, then spoke into a mic. St. John plugged one ear to block extraneous noise and listened to his earpiece. Then to Quinn and Spinks, he said, “Mac and Boomer are coming down in the first ambulance now. That Goodman guy is in the ambulance behind them.”
One of the ambulances roared down the road from the house, sirens blaring, lights flashing, the other one on its bumper. The rear tires slipped on the muddy road, but that hardly slowed them down.
“And? How are they?” Damn, it would be easier pulling state secrets from the CIA.
St. John turned to Quinn and rubbed a hand across his jaw, his expression as difficult to comprehend as rotary wing aerodynamics. “Goodman, they didn’t say. Boomer is unharmed. Insisted on riding to the hospital with Mac…” The sheriff focused on the taillights of the ambulances as they disappeared. “They’re doing what they can for her. But it’s a long way down that mountain.”
“What about Life Flight?”
“Grounded,” Finn said. “You’re the only one crazy enough to fly in this mess.”
“I need a car,” Quinn said. “Now.”
Finn cut him a look sharp enough to sever spines. “We’re in the middle of a colossal mop-up. What do you want me to do, call you a limo?”
“I need—”
“I’ll take him,” Soto volunteered. “I can record his statement on the way down.”
Finn chewed on that a moment, and his upper lip twitched into a snarl. “Fine.”
Soto held out her hand, waggled her fingers in a give-it-here motion.
Finn gave up his keys the same way a parent does with a newly licensed sixteen-year-old—with great consternation and enormous reluctance.
* * * *
Jenna bumped Quinn’s shoulder with her own. That little bit of movement set her head throbbing again, though the ER doctor had assured her that besides the mild concussion, bumps and bruises, and cuts on her fingers, she was fine. “You should go. You’re running out of time to get to California. Soto has your statement. She’ll call if they have any follow-up questions.”
“I want to see Moose, or Goodman, or whatever his name is, before I leave. And I’m not leaving until Mac is out of surgery. Until I know she’s going to be okay.”
Jenna held the cup gingerly in her bandaged fingers and sipped at the bitter hospital coffee. She and Quinn sat in the corner of the crowded waiting room at the trauma hospital in Idaho Falls. The nurses had traded each of them their wet clothes for a set of scrubs.
Everyone was there. Waiting. Pepita played cards with Jenna’s grandparents, under Sidney and Boomer’s watchful eye, Pepita’s sprained ankle in a walking brace. Santos and Alby flipped through page-torn magazines. The waiting room was too claustrophobic to contain her dad. He paced the halls up and back. Up and back. Only stopping to stare down the corridor that led to the operating rooms.
Everyone gave him his space.
The only comfort he would feel would be when he saw Mac’s face again.
Jenna glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. Unless Quinn hauled ass the whole way, the chances he would make it back to California on time were abysmal.
And by the way he slumped in the chair, as if every last ounce of energy had left his body, he couldn’t make that brutal drive.
“We could check flights,” she said, “find the first plane out in the morning.”
Quinn shook his head. “Santos checked for me. No connections that get me there in time.”
“You could call your CO and expl—”
“She made it clear she wouldn’t accept any excuses.”
“Then what happens?”
“It’ll be a UA.”
“And that’s…?” She didn’t know what to say.
“Bad. Real bad. Career-ending bad, potentially.”
And here he said she was stubborn. “Then you need to go. Now.”
“I can’t. If it wasn’t for her and Boomer, we might not have made it out of there alive. I owe her that much.”
Boomer walked over, his clothes damp. “Getting your ass back to base is what you owe Mac. If she knew you were risking a UA because of her, she’d kick your ass, and you know it.”
Quinn couldn’t argue with the truth, but it didn’t change his mind.
The door to the waiting room swung open. Everyone turned to look, hoping it was news from one of the nurses or the surgeon, but it wasn’t.
Quinn stood. “Mom…Dad.”
His mother hurried over and pulled him into a tight hug, her mascara smudged around her eyes. She stepped back and cupped his cheeks. “My baby. Are you okay?” Her eyes roamed over him, cataloging any visible injuries. But by the haunted look in Quinn’s eyes, Jenna knew his gravest injuries festered on the inside.
He shrank back from his mother like he didn’t know what to do with her concern. “I’m fine.”
His dad stepped up, and Quinn held out a hand. His old man took it and pulled him into an awkward one-armed hug. Quinn’s arms hung at his sides until his father let him go.
His father gave him a nod. “Son.”
“What are you two doing here?” Quinn’s expression remained blank. Thoroughly unimpressed with his father’s brief show of quasi-emotion.
Shit. Jenna should have thought twice before calling his parents. She’d thought they’d have wanted to know. Thought he’d be happy to see them, to have their support. But by the way Quinn’s eyes darted around the room like a prisoner planning a jailbreak, that wasn’t true.
“I called them,” Jenna confessed. She pasted an apologetic smile on her face.
Quinn’s eyes went cold, but she refused to look away.
“Why?” he said. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine. None of them were fine. She called him on it. “Really?”
He held her gaze for another angry beat, then turned back to his parents. “I’m sorry Jenna called you out here for no reason. Everything’s good. Go home. Get some sleep.”
Quinn’s father’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, the door opened again, and a woman in a flight suit walked in. She was tall and lean and said, “I’m looking for Lieutenant Quinn Powell.”
Quinn looked relieved for the interruption. He stepped over to her. “I’m Lieutenant Powell.”
She stuck out her hand, and he shook it. “I’m Lieutenant Sterling. I hear you need a lift to California.”
Jenna walked over to him and threaded her arm through his. “What?” Quinn and Jenna said at the same time.
“I’m with the task force,” Lieutenant Sterling said. “Agent Finn asked me to take you back to base.”
“Agent Finn?” Quinn said with a tight laugh. “Where are the cameras?”
“What?” Sterling asked, confused.
“Is this the task force version of Punk’d?”
Sterling smiled. “Finn doesn’t have a sense of humor. It’s legit, I assure you. I guess it’s his way of saying thank you for helping save all those women.” She reached into one of her pockets and handed over Kurt’s dog tags. Soot covered, with the rubber around the edges melted in places. “St. John wanted me to give you those.”
“Uh, thanks.” Quinn brushed a thumb over the name before hanging them around his neck and tucking them inside his scrub shirt.
From beneath her lashes, Sterling graced him with a fangirl smile that Jenna had witnessed on girls suddenly thrust in front of a rock star, or her champion bull-riding father. “That was some epic flying. Everyone is talking about it. You gotta give me the deets on the way down.”
A light lit in Quinn’s eyes that hadn’t been there all night, as if he suddenly stood in the spotlight and decided he liked the way he looked in it. “Sure. When do we leave?”
“As soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m kind of waiting on my friend to get out of surgery.”
Sterling studied her watch, then looked up at the ceiling, doing some mental mathematical gymnastics. “If we leave by first light, with fuel stops, we can make it.”
First light. About four hours. Surely Mac would be out of surgery by then. Quinn stuck his hand out again and thanked her.
She hitched a thumb over her shoulder and said, “I’ll go to the cafeteria and grab some coffee. Yell when you’re ready.”
“Sure,” Quinn said.
After Sterling left, Jenna kissed him on the cheek, his stubble rough beneath her lips. Hints of smoke and gunpowder clung to him despite the drenching they’d both received. “I can’t believe Finn came through like that.”
Before Quinn could answer, his father said, “Is what Boomer says true, son?”
Quinn turned and rubbed his forehead with his fingers as if easing a tension headache. “What’s that?”
Boomer was talking to Quinn’s mother, one arm around Pepita, the other around Sidney.
“That you saved all those women. That you flew. That you saved them.”
Quinn put his hands on his hips. “It wasn’t just me.”
“I’m proud—”His father looked at his mother, then back at Quinn—“your mother and I are proud of you.”
Quinn swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. He looked at his father as one might gaze on an apparition—with wariness and skepticism.
A nurse walked in the door. “I’m looking for Quinn and Jenna. Mr. Goodman is asking for you.”
* * * *
Quinn and Jenna walked into the private room. Only the light over the bed was on. Spinks, the ATF guy Quinn had met outside the estate, set down the paper he was reading. There were small clods of dirt on the floor from his boots.
Moose lay in the bed, the head of it raised, his eyes closed, his color good, all things considered, besides the old bruises along his jaw and around his eyes.
“We can come back,” Jenna said to the agent, upon seeing Moose’s closed eyes.
“I’m awake.” The way Moose slurred his words, it sounded more like “Mm-wake.” He pressed a button on his bed controller until he was more upright and opened his eyes.
“Moose,” Jenna said.
“Call me Gil or Brant. Moose is dead.”
Brant had an IV in his left hand, a heart monitor on mute, a bandage on his left shoulder and one around his abdomen.
Quinn let out a heavy breath as relief washed over him. He stepped over to the bed. “How you feeling?”
Brant held out his hand, and Quinn clasped it in a firm grip before letting go. He owed this man his life. “Like I’ve been shot. Twice.” One corner of Brant’s mouth tipped up.
Spinks stood. “That was a stupid thing—”
“Enough already.” Brant turned his head toward the ATF agent. “Give us a minute.”
Agent Spinks frowned, glanced at Quinn and then Jenna. “Don’t stay long. He needs the rest.”
“I already have a mother, Spinks.”
Spinks spared Brant an irritated grumble, then left.
“My handler,” Brant said. “He’s a little overprotective sometimes.”
Jenna pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. “You were convincing. We had no idea you were undercover.”
“It was either this gig or Hollywood. And with a mug like mine, I’d rather be catching villains than playing them.”
Quinn chuckled, then sobered. “Thank you. For what you did for us.”
“It’s my job. You know, protect and s—”
“Bull. It was much more than that.” Jenna rested her chin on the bed rail, looking completely wrung out.
Brant reached up and thumbed the moisture off Jenna’s cheek. “Hey, hey,” he said, “none of that. Besides, I owed you one.”
“How’s that?” Quinn asked.
“Your friend,” Brant said.
Jenna squeaked and covered her mouth with her hand. Quinn held his breath.
“You really do know who killed him,” Jenna said, the words squeaking out.
Brant nodded. Quinn said, “Who?”
“A couple of El Verdugo’s men. Word got around. Your friend and that woman, Crystal, were asking a lot of questions. Crystal got high with one of El Verdugo’s men and slept with him. He let it slip about the auction. She told your friend.” Brant met Quinn’s eyes and said, “If I had known ahead of time what they were planning, I would have tried to stop it.”
By the haunted starkness in Brant’s eyes, Quinn believed every word. “I appreciate that.” But he still needed to know who. Wanted to make sure they paid for what they’d done. “What happened to them, do you know?”
Brant looked away. “You don’t have to worry about them. Ever again.”
Spinks walked in, cutting off any more questions. “He’s had enough. Everyone out.”
Quinn clasped Brant’s hand again. Jenna stood and pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll check on you later,” she said.