Surprise Daddies (#1-4 Box Set) Page 5

  I know he's expecting me to react. To be upset. To cry, perhaps. But the news hits me no harder than if he'd told me tomorrow's weather report. I know it should be like a punch to the gut. He's my brother, and he was just gunned down. But, truthfully, I feel nothing. No amount of shock or sadness – like, at all.

  Maybe, that says a lot about me. Maybe, it means I really am the cold-hearted bitch Rory said I was – on more than one occasion. I don't know for sure. Maybe I am. Probably. All I know is that in this moment, as I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, I find that I couldn't care less about Rory. He called the dance, and he finally had to pay the piper.

  “Am I in danger, Marshal?”

  He gives me a small nod. “It's best we assume that you are,” he says. “Which is why –”

  “Which is why you're moving me and changing my identity again.”

  He gives me a curious expression as if he hadn't thought I'm smart to put it all together on my own.

  “Are you okay?” he asks gently.

  “I'm fine,” I reply. “But is this really necessary? I mean, now that they've killed Rory, they have no use for me. They don't need me as leverage anymore.”

  “You're a loose end, Isla,” he tells me. “And the Zavala Cartel never leaves loose ends. Ever.”

  “But I don't know anything.”

  He shrugs. “They don't know that. I mean, frankly, you are the sister of somebody who was in the process of ratting them out,” he says. “They have to operate like you do know something.”

  My mind flashes back to the box Rory gave me last week. I'd stuck it in a closet and honestly forgot about it until that very moment. I open my mouth to tell Marshal Parr about it, but then opt against it, biting back the words that were already forming in my mouth. If he doesn't know about it, I won't be dragged any deeper into Rory's mess. If they don't know I have anything of value, my part in this whole shitshow will come to a close.

  Right?

  “I don't know anything, Marshal,” I repeat. “You know that.”

  “I believe that, but good luck trying to convince Osvaldo Zavala that you don't,” he replies.

  I sigh. “When?”

  “Now,” he tells me. “I'm sorry. We just need to get you out of here. We can't afford to take any chances.”

  I tug on the ends of my hair, fighting back my tears of anger and frustration. It's not fair. It's just not fair. Once again, I'm being forced to uproot my whole life – a life that isn't even mine, to begin with – but one I've tried to make the most of. One I've been doing better about feeling comfortable in. I have friends I won't be able to say goodbye to. Things I'll have to leave behind. I've cobbled together something resembling a life for myself here.

  And now it's gone. Just like that.

  “God damn you, Rory,” I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper. “God damn you.”

  Chapter Five

  Baker

  Present Day...

  “Beard's looking good, kid,” Walter says.

  I scratch at the thick, bushy beard I've been wearing for a while now. After spending practically my whole life clean cut and shaven, I decided to grow it out. Maybe, I just needed a change. Or maybe, I'm just trying to hide from myself. Don't know and haven't thought too deeply on it.

  “Just trying to blend in with the locals,” I tell him.

  He laughs and nods. Walt has a bit more gray in his hair these days, a few more lines on his face, and a sense of humor that is only getting darker by the year, but he's still got that thick mustache that's pretty much his trademark. I'm glad to see some things never change.

  “When are you going to be out this way?” I ask.

  “Not sure yet,” he replies. “But, when I get out there, you better have a steak and a cold beer waitin' on me.”

  “You know I will,” I say.

  I'm sitting in my home office, leaning back in my seat, talking to Walter Parr on a Skype call. He's one of my oldest friends – one of my only friends, truth be told. He and I served together back in the Corps, and he helped land me the job with the Marshal's service back in the day.

  We talk about once a week or so, and it's always good to catch up with him. He's more or less, my only contact with the outside world these days. I mean, I go into town from time to time for supplies, to have a meal or a drink, but I'm not exceptionally social. Actually, I'm barely social, if I'm being honest.

  But that's the way I like things. It's the way I want things, and how I've constructed my life.

  “How are you doing these days, Walt?”

  He shrugs. “Can't complain too much,” he tells me. “Though, I'm tired of having to train all these goddamn newbies. Sure could use a crusty old vet –”

  My laughter cuts him off. Every time we talk, he always tries to recruit me back into the Marshal's service. It never fails. After the shooting that killed Jenny, our witness, and very nearly killed me, I retired from duty. I'd had enough.

  “It's been four years, Walt,” I say. “I think that train left the station a long time ago.”

  “You're still young, kid,” he says. “You've got a lot of tread left on those tires.”

  I laugh because it's the same sales pitch he's been giving me for the last four years. Three years, technically speaking, since it took me almost a year to recover from my wounds. The physical wounds have healed, but the wounds in my heart, and in my soul, haven't. And I don't know that they ever will.

  I not only nearly lost my life that night; I lost the woman I loved. The woman I was planning on building a future with. After that, I bought some land, and had a home built out here in the middle of nowhere – Colorado, to be precise – and have been content to live out my days in solitude. It's quiet. Peaceful. It's exactly what I need.

  “Honestly, Walt, like I've told you a million times before, I'm no good to anybody out in the field. Not anymore. I couldn't protect our witness or my partner. I can't do the job anymore.”

  “That's horseshit, and you know it,” Walt, who is never one to mince words, says. “Things went sideways that night, yeah. But you can't carry that weight on your own, kid. You just can't. Our office was compromised, and you know as well as I do that Zavala got tipped. There's no way you could have seen it coming.”

  I run a hand across my face. “Yeah, but I probably should have,” I tell him. “Jenny knew something was up. She was nervous about Zavala going radio silent. She had a feeling, and I didn't listen.”

  “Going radio silent isn't necessarily indicative of anything,” he protests. “And you know that.”

  “I should've listened, Walt,” I say. “Should have been more on my guard. Instead, I was busy planning a tropical getaway for us. Fucking stupid.”

  Walt sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He's one of the very few who knew about me and Jenny – which means he's one of the very few who knows just how fucking hard it hit me when she died.

  “I'm a liability in the field, Walt.”

  “You just need to get out of your own head, kid,” he says. “Drop some of that baggage. Like I said, it's not yours to carry.”

  I take a sip of my own coffee and lean back further in my chair. I appreciate Walt still having faith in me, but I don't have that same faith in myself. Not anymore. And besides, I've moved beyond that point in my life. I don't need that job anymore. I don't want it.

  “How are Maggie and the kids?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.

  Walt chuckles. He's not a stupid man and knows exactly what I'm doing. But, he's good about humoring me, and never pushing too hard. His whole goal is to keep letting me know the door is open for me to come back if I want it.

  “She's good,” he says. “Don't know how she puts up with me most days, but she's good.”

  “Yeah, that makes two of us,” I say, giving him a wry grin.

  “Kids are hellraisers, as always,” he tells me, though I hear the note of pride in his voice. “Shels is tops in her class and looks s
et to be valedictorian. Jonas is playing football and keeping up his grades.”

  “I'm glad to hear it, Walt. Really glad to hear it.”

  “What about you?” he asks. “How's life out in the wasteland?”

  I smile and shake my head. “One man's wasteland, is another man's slice of heaven, Walt.”

  “Seriously, kid, I worry about you out there all alone,” he says. “Some solitude to clear your head is a good thing. Too much solitude – not so much. Starts working against you, and instead of getting your head on straight, you end up overthinking shit. You get caught up in it all, and you can start to spiral.”

  “I appreciate the concern. I really do,” I tell him. “But, do I look like somebody who's spiraling?”

  “Well, let's see – you've completely isolated yourself up in those mountains of yours. You don't have much in the way of friends or family. You're by yourself twenty-four-seven. I can't say if that's spiraling necessarily, but it's certainly not normal.”

  “Your normal and mine may differ,” I say. “Besides, I'm not alone. I've got Stabler up here with me.”

  His laugh is rueful. “I don't see you having many deep, spiritual conversations with your dog, kid.”

  “You might be surprised. He's very insightful.”

  “Which only gives me another reason to worry about you.”

  “Honestly, Walt, you don't need to worry,” I say. “I'm good. I'm in a good place. I've just come to really enjoy the serenity up here.”

  Walt sighs heavily but knows there's nothing he can do. Not that it's going to stop him from trying. But then, he wouldn't be Walt if he just gave up on me like that. He's always looked out for me and has acted as a big brother type to me. Ever since our days in the Corps together. He's a good man. One of the best I've ever known, and his friendship is more valuable to me than my entire net worth.

  “Anyway, I should probably hit it,” Walt says. “I have to get to the office.”

  “Alright, man. Just be in touch,” I reply. “Let me know when you're in the area.”

  “Will do.”

  He disconnects the call, leaving me to stare at the blank screen, as I finish up my coffee. As I sit there, I look through the large floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the back wall of my office. It looks out over the backyard, and beyond the wall that encircles my property, I have a stunning view of the forest, and valley beyond. It's nothing but sunshine and lush green forest for as far as the eye can see.

  Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I see Stabler, my Golden Retriever, standing in the doorway. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth, and he gives me his doggy smile.

  “Didn't hear you coming down the hallway, buddy,” I tell him. “You're getting good.”

  Normally, I can hear his nails against the hardwood floor, but he's apparently decided that sneaking up on me is better, so he walks along the carpeted runner that lays in the middle of the hallway. It's just one of those personality quirks that makes my boy unique.

  “Ready to go outside?”

  Stabler gives me a full-body wag in response, which I take to mean he is. I drain the last of my coffee and stand up. He follows me down the hallway with a spring in his step. Stopping in the kitchen to refill my mug, I then open the back door and let Stabler shoot out ahead of me. He streaks off, sending a small flock of birds scattering, soaring into the crisp morning air in a flurry of rustling feathers. They land on the wall, staring down at him and squawking. I laugh as Stabler runs back and forth, barking at the birds as they continue to taunt him.

  Taking off my t-shirt, I draw in a breath as the cool morning air hits my skin and walk over to the area I've set aside for chopping wood. Dropping my shirt on the table, I grab hold of the first stump and set it up on the chopping block. I do some stretching to limber up a bit, before grabbing hold of the axe. When I feel sufficiently warm, I draw the axe up, then bring it down hard, splitting the wood cleanly in two. I repeat the process with both halves, splitting the wood down to a piece that will do well in the fireplace.

  This is my morning therapy. Every morning, I chop wood for about an hour. Living out in the middle of my property like I do, sometimes the heat and all isn't exactly reliable. Especially when I'm bound in by a blizzard. My entire house is solar and wind-powered, and I have a generator, but sometimes, having an actual fire going is nice.

  Of course, some people think having a stack of firewood that's about five feet high, thirty feet long, and three rows deep is probably excessive. Perhaps even obsessive. And maybe it is. But, chopping wood every morning keeps me grounded, centered, and focused. It keeps me sharp, and although I have a pretty elaborate home gym, it also helps keep me in top physical shape.

  There's one thing I've never told Walt about my reasons for moving out here. Something I keep to myself – and only myself. Everything I told him is the truth of things, but I also prefer being out where I am, because I know it's only a matter of time before the cartel takes another shot at me. They do not like loose ends, and they hold a grudge like no other. And eventually, they are going to want to take a run at me for killing four of their men.

  Living out here in the middle of nowhere is not only going to make it harder for them to track me down, but it's also going to give me the advantage of seeing them coming. I have hidden cameras all along the one road that leads on and off my property, a high, thick wall that surrounds my house, as well as all of the outbuildings, not to mention plenty of defenses, and countermeasures.

  They will come. It's a matter of when, not if. And when they do come for me, I will be more than ready – and I'll take out more than just four of them.

  But knowing they'll come for me is another reason I avoid social situations. It's mostly why I don't have many friends, and why I haven't been with anybody romantically since Jenny died. I can't afford to let myself care about somebody and then have them taken away from me again. I just can't. It will destroy me. It's taken a while to get me to the point where I've been able to heal and to leave Jenny in the past, but if I open up to somebody else, I run the risk of having to watch them die too.

  Because the Zavala's will come for me.

  After about an hour of cutting wood, I stack it all neatly with the rest of it. Stabler had been chasing the birds and running around the property like a madman the entire time. Now, he's lying on a patch of grass in the sunshine, looking worn out.

  “Those birds give you a good workout, buddy?”

  He wags his tail but doesn't bother lifting his head. He's tired but happy. I got Stabler shortly after I moved into the house, which was about two years ago. I was in town one day stocking up on a few things, and there was a little girl sitting outside a store with a box of puppies and a sign that read, ‘Free to Good Homes’. It was a scene right out of small town, USA – which I guess, is what Grizzly Ridge, Colorado, is.

  It broke her heart to give the pups up, but her folks wouldn't let her keep them, and she didn't want to turn them over to the shelter. Not that I blamed her. I'd visited that shelter before, while I was still toying with the idea of getting a dog and came away from the experience disgusted. It was poorly run, dirty, and most of the animals being kept there were in poor health, living in foul conditions, and were eventually euthanized.

  After that, I shelved the idea of getting a dog. At least, I had until I met the girl outside the store that day. Stabler was the smallest of the three there, but he was the feistiest. I like animals well enough, but never really considered myself much of a dog person before that. Something about that pup really got under my skin that day, though. We connected in some strange way. So, I gave the girl a hundred bucks, which made her face light up and took Stabler home with me.

  I remember the girl had been insistent that the dogs go to a good home, which I respected her for. She obviously cared. I took Stabler home, then did her one better. I bought the shelter, reworked how the animals are stored – fewer cages, and more wide open spaces – turned it ove
r to capable, caring people, and made sure that it became a no-kill shelter. I hired a veterinarian and a competent staff of people who actually care about the animals.

  It's a shelter I still own today, and it's doing very well. The animals are well cared for, and even if they don't find homes, they can live out their lives comfortably, getting all of the food, and medical attention they can ever possibly need.

  That little girl, Alice, even volunteers at the shelter. She says that she wants to become a vet, that animals are her life's passion, so I made her a promise – that if she ends up becoming a vet, she'll always have a job at my shelter.

  Stabler though, he's helped fill a bit of a void in me. He's made the house – and my life – a bit less lonely and has been a fantastic companion. It remains the best hundred bucks I've ever spent.

  Grabbing my t-shirt, I head for the house, Stabler hot on my heels. There are a few things I need to do in town today, and I want to get to it.

  I make my rounds with Stabler by my side – on a leash, of course. The folks in town are used to us by now, though some still look at us askance when we roll through. I don't care though. Stabler likes getting out and about, and I always indulge my pup.

  With the supplies loaded into my truck and the other errands I needed to run, done, I decided to have a beer since we're already in town. We make our way over to Frank's, one of the local bars, and the one I frequent when I'm in town. The owner-operator, Frank Jackson, is a fellow veteran – Army – and a good man. We've had some good talks over a beer or two, and he loves having Stabler in – much to the chagrin of some of his patrons.

  Frank doesn't give a shit what others think though. He's his own man, does things his way, and I respect the hell out of him for it. He's got an old-school mentality that matches my own, and a certain toughness about him. I like Frank a lot, and he's probably the closest thing I have to a friend, outside of Walt.