Secrets and Lies (Hearts Of Braden Book 4)

  Secrets and Lies

  A Hearts of Braden Book

  Susanne Matthews

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, and locales in this novel are either a product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced without consent from the author.

  Copyright ©Susanne Matthews 2015

  Edited By Leanore Elliott

  Book Design By

  Wicked Muse Productions

  Cover Art By

  Danielle Doolittle

  Dedication

  For my husband and family who continue to support me in my efforts as a writer. You make all of it worthwhile.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Danielle Doolittle for creating the beautiful cover for Secrets and Lies.

  To Michel Prince who made this series happen, and to all the authors who participated in creating this wonderful, imaginary town.

  Chapter One

  May 1

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me the truth, Kyle? I had a right to know.” Emily Jacobson Shepherd sat in one of the hard chairs across from Kyle Kavanagh’s desk, fervently wishing she’d opted to stand, although by now that would probably be torture, too. She’d run the gamut of emotions these past eighteen months, but nothing matched her current fury.

  “Damn it, Emily. I didn’t know for sure until they recovered the bodies in Mexico. We thought he’d died in that blast, too,” he said running his hand through his sparse ginger hair. “Information to the contrary started trickling in about a year ago, but it was just speculation. Even my source inside the cartel wasn’t positive. Since I wasn’t sure you’d ever be able to come back, let alone want to do so, I figured letting you think he was dead would help you heal and move on.”

  The Chef was alive! She tried to get her head around Kyle’s revelation and was still too stunned to fully appreciate all that those four little words implied. The bastard wasn’t one of the unidentified corpses they’d found in the warehouse. Kyle had suspected the truth for almost a year, and yet he had let her go on believing her enemy was gone. Knowing that monster was still out there, praying on the innocent and luckless, would’ve helped her get back on her feet sooner. Instead, she’d wallowed in months of self-pity, regretting the losses she’d suffered, and feeling cheated because her nemesis would never pay for the crimes he had committed. Death in that explosion would’ve been the easy way out for him. She wanted him to suffer, like she had, like she did now. “You don’t have the right to decide what I need or don’t need. It was my life he ruined.”

  The Chef had forfeited his men the way a chess player sacrificed his pawns. Those poor buggers probably hadn’t realized they were the equivalent of the guys in the red shirts on Star Trek. Alex had loved the sci-fi series and always joked that the extras in the red shirts should get danger pay since they were sure to die within the first few minutes of the episode—that was unless of course they were engineers. Like the Enterprise’s Montgomery Scott, the Chef always managed to make it out in one piece. Despite his age and educational background, Alex had been superstitious and had refused to wear red shirts, citing the precedent, and yet wearing a blue shirt hadn’t saved him or the other men who’d walked into the trap with him.

  By some miracle, she’d survived, but look at the price she had paid. This was her chance to get even, to get the justice she wanted for the man she’d loved. Who was she kidding? She wanted revenge, plain and simple, but Kyle was vacillating and she didn’t like it one damn bit. He owed her. “This is my case, has always been my case, and now that I’m back, I should be the one to follow through on it.”

  She was so angry with the agent-in-charge of the El Paso Division of the DEA that she was shaking, and gripped her hands together to hide it. How dare he presume she could ever go on not knowing the truth? A slip of the tongue from a visiting agent and friend had changed everything and given her a reason to live again. Badgering her doctor, she’d convinced him to let her return to full duties. The days and nights of feeling sorry for herself were over. Her life had purpose again, and that goal was to put the Chef out of business once and for all.

  “Despite what you’ve heard, we don’t know exactly where he is, but we know where he’s been. We’ve got someone on the inside now, and our informant says he’s on the move. I’ll see what I can do about getting you reassigned to the case, but Emily, it isn’t up to me alone. The brass has to sign off on this, and given the situation, I’m not sure they will.”

  “Then you need to convince them I’m the best person for the job. I’m not an idiot, Kyle,” she argued, frustration giving her voice an unnecessary edge. “I’m a frigging bionic woman now. People with artificial limbs like mine return to their regular jobs every day. Soldiers go back into the field, and it’s time I did, too. It’s taken me more than a year to accept what happened to me, and I’ll be damned, if I let it steal any more of my life. I’m either a DEA agent returned to full duty or I’m not, and you’ll have my resignation on your desk as fast as I can print and sign it, but let me assure you, I will find him even if I have to do it on my own and spend every last cent I have tracking him down.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Going after him without the resources of this office to back you up would be suicide. You’re smarter than that. You’ve gone through hell to get where you are today. Why would you chance throwing it all away?” he asked, calling her bluff.

  “Because I have nothing left to lose. Suicide or not, he’s mine and I’ll see he pays for what he did to me and to Alex. You’ve always said any of the undercover operations we handle can turn deadly in the blink of an eye. While I never really believed that before, I do now. I was there the last time we almost had the Chef, remember? I have the internal and external scars to prove it.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I do. I’m asking to finish the job that got my husband and my son killed and left me like this.”

  Kyle stared at her.

  She met his gaze, certain he was looking into her soul. If he could, he would see she wouldn’t back down.

  After the longest minute of her life, he looked away and shook his head. “Fine,” he said, resigned. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, get yourself up to speed on the rest of our cases. Since you think you’re ready to get back to work, prove it. The Chef isn’t the only criminal we’re after, and I’m short-staffed as it is.”

  Standing, grateful to finally get the pressure off her hip, she picked up the file folder he’d pushed across his desk. She needed to remember to bring that ergonomic seat cushion and backrest into the office since she would be spending more time than she liked sitting at her desk for the next few days, but she hated the thought of doing it. It would remind her coworkers of her loss, and the last thing she wanted from them was pity. She’d accumulated enough of that on her own to last three lifetimes. “I’ll familiarize myself with these cases and call if I have any questions.”

  Turning carefully to avoid pivoting on her hip, she left the office, praying cooler heads would prevail and the top brass in Washington would understand putting her back on the case was the only sensible thing to do.

  Alex had been the expert on the Chef, and he’d taught her well. Between them, they knew everything there was to know about the man who set up meth kitchens, and then disappeared, leaving a hidden lab spewing poison in his wake, along with the bodies of those who might be able to identify him. If anyone could stop him, it was her.
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br />   * * * *

  Emily sat on the hard, plastic chair in Kyle’s office, feeling not in the least bit confident about this meeting. For almost three months, she’d filled in on cases as required and had proven her mettle, but Kyle didn’t seem convinced. At night, alone in the mausoleum that was Alex’s family home, she’d scrutinized each piece of paper, each notecard her late husband had accumulated in the seven years he’d been on the Chef’s case, looking for that tidbit of information that might lead to identifying the monster, but so much of the information contradicted itself. It was as if he were looking for two or three different people. It made no sense. The last notation continued to haunt her. Is he one of us? What the hell did that mean? Had one of their own sold them out to the Chef, and if so, who the hell could she trust?”

  Now that the Chef had resurfaced, confirming her request to get back on the case should’ve been a given, especially since Kyle had promised to support her application. Then instead of sitting calmly in his heavily padded desk chair, leaning back and steepling his fingers the way he usually did, he paced nervously, reminding her of a caged cougar watching and waiting for his chance to escape. If any of the excuses he came up with made her blink, he would.

  The middle-aged, heavyset, man who was both her boss and a friend, continued to have serious reservations about sending her undercover, especially alone, despite the fact that she’d proven herself capable of doing so. He’d been running off at the mouth about the dangers involved for almost twenty minutes, and had yet to come up with a truly convincing argument to make her back down.

  Physically, she had all the necessary medical documentation saying she was fit for duty—even the doctor admitted he’d been right to let her go back—and while she still battled ghosts in her dreams, she was getting better each day.

  She hadn’t expected the interview to go on as long as this one had, and her back and hip ached from the stiff position the chair’s design forced on her. Bringing her cushions in with her might have helped, but it would only have confirmed some of Kyle’s suspicions.

  Why are seats like these always so damn uncomfortable?

  They were probably designed to make the lowly minions squirm as part of the intimidation tactics their superiors used. If she’d worn slacks instead of a dress, the way she usually did, she could slouch down more comfortably, but she’d wanted to look as much like her old self as she could. This meant a skirt and heels, although, two years ago, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in the below the knee dress and the two inch heels she wore today. Her long, slender legs had been her pride and joy—not anymore.

  “The way I see this,” she said, pushing the argument she’d honed last night in preparation for this meeting, “I have the element of surprise on my side. No one would suspect a physically handicapped woman would be a DEA agent, and that’s the beauty of it. The only time the hip and leg give me any trouble is if I’m in an uncomfortable position for too long…” Like now. “Or, I overdo things and accidentally move the wrong way.”

  “But having that prosthesis can be a real problem, and you know it. What happens if you get thrown in the water, and it shorts out?”

  She chuckled trying to hide the dismay his comment caused her. He would point that out. Electronics sucked when they got wet. “Kyle, you’re being silly. According to the office gossip, you suspect he’s setting up shop in the Midwest, not at the beach, on the coast, or on some island. I promise not to visit any aquariums or go out in a boat unless I’m wearing a life jacket. If the electronic batteries in the knee or ankle do short out as you put it, they won’t electrocute me or anyone near me. The only water I’ll be near will be in the tub when I shower or the sink when I do dishes. There’s just as much water around El Paso, and you know it.”

  “Don’t get sassy with me, Emily. You refuse to acknowledge these dangers, but you should. That bastard is crafty, and we both know it. The Mississippi River isn’t that far from where we suspect he’s setting up shop, and there are other rivers and lakes in that region. The district’s had to cope with more than one flood and flash floods in the last few years, and don’t forget, it’s still summer, and people still have pools,” he grumbled. “I don’t like this. Too many things can go wrong. What if you have to chase down the suspect? What happens if the stump gets sore or infected again? How will you handle that?”

  Emily chewed her lower lip. Damn him. The man had a memory like an elephant’s. When she’d first gotten the prosthesis, she had two painful infections when she’d worn the artificial leg too long, refusing to remove it because the sight of the missing limb brought back the horror of that night, but she had come to grips with the situation now. Putting it on and taking it off was as familiar to her as stripping down her weapon and reassembling it blindfolded. She had more trouble getting used to the face.

  “It’s not an issue. I’ve learned my lesson, and for your information, I can move pretty damn fast on the prosthesis. I can jog on it if I have to, and I’d beat the Easter Bunny or Kermit the Frog in a hopping race any day. When I wear the silicone sleeve, like today, no one can tell by looking at me that I have an artificial leg.” In fact, that was the main reason she’d worn the dress. She wanted him to see she looked two-legged even if she wasn’t.

  “Stop making jokes. If the Chef finds out about it, about you,” he argued further. “He could go after you when you’re most vulnerable.”

  “He won’t find out—no one will. I’ll say the slight limp, and it is slight, is from the artificial hip joint, not the prosthesis, and I’ll fess up to that right away because I need special parking, but the leg itself won’t be an issue. Since my job won’t involve confronting him in any way, shape, or form, I won’t be doing anything physical, and you know it. Once I’ve identified him, I’ll call it in, and the SWAT team can take him down.” She looked him in the eye, knowing all her grit and determination was there for him to see. “I won’t make the same mistake Alex did. I won’t underestimate him.” Shifting forward, she straightened her knee, drawing Kyle’s attention to her leg.

  With it clad in black nylon, he couldn’t tell the artificial one from the other.

  “The only time I don’t wear the prosthesis is when I go to bed. With the new stocking I have to cover the stump where it goes into the cuff, the pain of wearing it for long periods of time is negligible. If for some reason, I can’t wear it one day, I’ll use the damn wheelchair and stay home. I’m not defenseless. You saw my marksmanship scores when I requalified. I’m faster and more accurate than ever. If someone comes calling uninvited, I promise to shoot first and ask questions later. I can look after myself. Kyle, can’t you see? Stopping him prior to his opening a new kitchen is our best chance to catch him before he hurts or kills someone else. He stole my life from me. You owe me this.”

  Emily would do whatever it took—including using emotional blackmail—to be the one to go after the bastard. If anyone had earned the right to do so, it was her. Repositioning herself in the chair, she eased the weight off her left hip, and hoped Kyle hadn’t noticed her slight movement. The last thing she wanted was for him to realize she was in pain. Dragging her thoughts back to the present, she concentrated on Kyle’s words, praying he would give up soon.

  “Fine,” he said finally capitulating. “If you won’t listen to reason, here’s what we’re offering based on the intel we have.” He stopped pacing and stood in front of her. “As requested, your transfer has been approved. For this assignment and from now on, you’ll be working with the Midwest office. Our source tells us he’s headed to a small town in northern Iowa. The FBI has scoped out potential locations, and by process of elimination, Braden fits the bill perfectly. It’s a quiet little place in the northeastern part of the state, home of the district school and several small businesses, but the area is predominately agricultural. We’ve put a lot of pressure on the cartel here in the south since that botched raid. They may have gotten away, but they lost a lot of product and equipment that night, and our m
an on the inside says the Mexicans have been after the Chef to get a major kitchen up and running again.”

  “How long has he been dormant?”

  “No more than a few months.”

  “Then why did it take so long to find him? To realize he’d survived?”

  “I wish I knew, Emily. I really do,” Kyle said shrugging his shoulders, his frustration evident in the scowl on his face and his clenched fists. “We know he was in the warehouse that night, so he may have been injured, like you, and needed time to heal. When our inside man notified us in March that the Mexican authorities had found a floater off the coast near San Miguel and another body in the desert outside of Ensenada, State contacted the Mexican authorities, asking for a copy of the autopsy report. It took a while to get it—you know how slow the bureaucracy can be—but the meth’s chemical signature was definitely his. That alone didn’t prove it was our man since the meth could’ve been cooked in any kitchen he’d set up. It was the arsenic poisoning that cinched it.” He sighed. “I should’ve called you and told you then, but—”

  “It’s okay, Kyle. I’ve come to grips with why you didn’t. I wasn’t in a good place, and we both know it. So, if his last lab was set up in Mexico, why chance coming back into the United States?”

  “That’s just it. We don’t think he did leave. We think his job, or whatever he uses as a cover allowed him to relocate near the border. We figure he’s been in the San Diego area. Our information confirms a rise in meth sales there as well as in the northern Baja peninsula.”

  “But why Iowa? Why move so far out of his comfort zone? He’s never strayed more than three hundred miles from the United States-Mexico border.”