Broken Hero Read online

  I set the stage, and now it's time to act, and apply the pressure to get him to do what I've been grooming him to do – get me the personal details of Isla Nelson's new life.

  “Get them to me by the end of day tomorrow,” I instruct. “Are we clear?”

  There's a long pause on the other end of the line, and I can practically hear his mind turning, searching for a way out of the mess he's created for himself. There is no way out though. I've got him boxed in a thousand different ways. A million. He is my creature now, and I am going to fucking use him as I see fit. He very clearly needs to be reminded of the dynamic working between us.

  “Marc, I asked you a question – are we clear?”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” he snaps.

  “Tomorrow, end of business day,” I repeat. “You better have something for me.”

  I disconnect the call and set the phone down. There are a thousand things I need to do today, but as I look down at the tight, sexy bikini-clad bodies by the pool, I figure I can put off my to-do list for a while longer.

  Chapter Eight

  Isla

  “Yes, please,” I say. “I need to see Dr. Givens as soon as possible.”

  I listen to the receptionist on the other end of the line telling me they can squeeze me in at eleven-thirty. I glance at the clock and see that I have about half an hour to get there. I'll have just enough time after showering and changing.

  “I'll take it,” I say. “Thank you.”

  I disconnect the call, and dash to the bathroom, my stomach churning wildly. As I turn the water on, and strip down, my eyes fall on the reason for my emergency visit to Dr. Givens – the small testing stick sitting on the bathroom counter. As I look at it, the plus sign in the plastic window seems to grow larger. It seems like it's flashing like a neon sign like it's mocking me. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat, but manage to keep from throwing up – though, just barely.

  Grabbing the testing stick, I throw it into the trash can and jump into the shower. My body is wracked with sobs, and I turn my face up into the spray of water, to wash away my tears. I can't be pregnant. I just can't be fucking pregnant. It's going to tie me to Tommy for the rest of my life, simply because if I am pregnant, I am going to have the baby. And being tied to Tommy for the rest of my life is the last fucking thing I want.

  I cry it out for a few minutes, before pulling it together and get myself under control again. I need to keep my composure and think clearly if I'm going to figure this out. It's possible that it's a false positive. Those happen all the time with these cheap, over the counter pregnancy tests, right?

  That's why I'm going to see Dr. Givens. To make sure. Despite the fact that I've felt like absolute garbage for the last week or so, and usually wake up every day by throwing up, I'm still holding out hope that this is just some stomach virus, and maybe, whatever's going on inside of me, skewed the results on that testing stick. I'm hoping that whatever bug I have is what caused a positive reading – and not actually being pregnant.

  Step by step. I need to be sure of this first before I figure out what to do next.

  I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I close my eyes and do it several more times until I feel calmer. After finishing my shower, drying off, and getting dressed, I'm feeling somewhat better. I'm feeling a little calmer, and more relaxed – emphasis on the word, little. But it's better than it was before, so I grab my purse, my keys, and head out.

  Whether I'm pregnant, or not, I'll figure it out. I'll be okay, one way or the other. I just need to take this one step at a time.

  A couple of hours later, I'm pulling into my driveway, feeling like my whole world just crashed down around me. Who knew that two little words could turn your life completely upside down, if not ruin it entirely?

  You're pregnant.

  Two words. That's it, and the course of my life will never be the same again. More than that, I'm now tied to a man I don't love – and was planning on breaking up with – for the rest of my life. What in the hell am I going to do?

  The tears well in my eyes, as my belly roils, and I feel like I might be sick again. I manage to hold it down and park in my driveway. It's then I notice the figure sitting on my porch, and feel my heart lurch drunkenly, as that feeling of nausea rises up inside of me again.

  Marshal Parr gets to his feet, and crosses over to me, as I climb out of the car. I glance around nervously, expecting to see his extraction team, fearing that the other shoe is now dropping, and I'm being yanked out of Grizzly Ridge too.

  “Went by the school,” he says, giving me what passes for a smile with him. “You weren't there.”

  “Yeah, I took the day off,” I reply. “Had to go see the doctor.”

  “You okay?” he asks. “You do look kind of green around the gills.”

  Other than having my whole life implode – again – yeah, everything's great.

  “Fine,” I tell him. “Just dealing with a stomach issue.”

  He nods as if accepting my answer, though his eyes continue to probe me. I guess, doing what he does, he's become pretty adept at knowing when somebody's lying to him. I can see him trying to look deep inside of me, trying to ferret out the truth, so I quickly avert my gaze.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let's go inside. It's getting cold.”

  That much is true, at least. The sky is the color of slate and is jam-packed with ominous looking clouds that look fresh with the promise of rain. Or perhaps, even snow. We've only just entered fall, but it feels like winter is already coming on. We cross the yard, and I unlock the front door. Parr goes in first – of course – and checks the place out.

  “I'm assuming since there's not an army on my front lawn, that you're not here to pull me out?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, not this time,” he says with a rueful grin. “I just wanted to check in on you and see how you were doing.”

  I shrug. “All things considered, I guess I'm fine.”

  Parr stands in the middle of the living room and looks around. A dark expression crosses his face, and he furrows his eyebrows before turning back to me.

  “You know, it just hit me what's so off about your place,” he says.

  “Off?”

  He nods. “Yeah, off.”

  I look around the place I've called home for the last three years and have no idea what he's talking about. Rather than an apartment, Parr was able to arrange for a small house for me this time. It's two-bedroom, one bath, and not overly ambitious in size. But it suits me well enough.

  “Enlighten me, Marshal,” I say.

  “There's no trace of you here,” he says. “No personal touches anywhere I can see. No photos, no keepsakes, none of the knick-knacks or ornaments people like to keep around.”

  I shrug. Honestly, once upon a time, I used to take great pride in decorating my place. I used to try to make it a comfortable, warm, welcoming environment filled with reflections of my own personality. I wanted my home to be a quick snapshot of me, and who I am.

  Now though? Not so much. I really haven't given it much thought before, but Parr is right. The place is barren. It's completely antiseptic, with no trace of me anywhere to be seen. It wasn't a conscious decision I made, it just sort of happened that way, I guess. But honestly, why bother? What's the point? Why would I want to nest, and make the place cozy and uniquely mine, only to have it torn out from under me? Again.

  “Yeah, I guess not,” I agree.

  Parr eyes me closely. “You sure you're okay, Isla?” he asks. “Seems like there's something going with you. Something more than just feeling under the weather.”

  I shake my head. “I'm fine,” I say. “Tired. This thing is just really taking it out of me.”

  I can tell by the look in his eye that he's not buying it. But he chooses not to press me on it, either. Which I'm thankful for. Walter Parr is a nice man, and he genuinely seems to care about my well-being, but he's not the kind of man I want to open up to, either.

 
We stand in the middle of the living room, enveloped in awkward, uncomfortable silence for a couple of moments, apparently, unsure what to say to one another. I haven't seen Parr in about seven months or so, and he usually does his wellness checks over the phone. And honestly, the fact that he's standing here in my house has me feeling anxious.

  I swear to God, anything out of the ordinary, set routine of my life these days, freaks me out. And the way Parr is looking at me – in fact, his entire demeanor – is setting off warning bells in my head. Maybe, it's paranoia. It probably is, but I'm getting a distinctly uneasy feeling right now.

  “Why are you here, Marshal?” I finally decide to ask. “And please don't tell me it's just to check up on me. You could have called me for that.”

  He blows out a long breath that makes his mustache wave. “You're right,” he says, his honesty surprising me. “I could have just called. I just needed to see you with my own two eyes.”

  “Uh huh,” I quip. “You know, my bullshit detector may not be as good as yours, but, it's still pretty good.”

  He gives me a wry grin that pulls up one corner of his mouth. “Clever girl,” he says. “I've always like that about you.”

  “Out with it, Marshal,” I tell him, not wanting to stand here playing games all day.

  He clears his throat and gives me an even look. “You know that Domingo Peralta's trial is finally coming up,” he starts.

  I shake my head. “I haven't been keeping up,” I say. “Should that name mean something to me?”

  “Probably not, I suppose,” he says. “But we know for a fact, that he's one of Osvaldo Zavala's lieutenants. And we believe he was involved in the attack at the courthouse that – killed your brother.”

  Even after all this time, the thought of my brother still inspires rage within me. I thought with time, the feelings of anger and betrayal would mellow, but they haven't diminished one iota. I've never forgiven him for putting me in my current circumstances.

  “Great,” I state drily. “But what does this have to do with me?”

  Parr slides his hands into his pockets, doing his best to appear casual, but I can see those eyes of his probing me. I can feel him trying to get into my head and read my thoughts. I can tell that his own bullshit detector is kicking into high gear. All of that tells me, I'm not going to like the coming line of questions – even though, based on past experience, I'm pretty sure I already know where he's going.

  “I just need to ask you again, whether or not Rory left anything with you,” he says. “Any information – computer drives, notebooks, hell, cocktail napkins he scrawled on – anything that can help us nail this scumbag, and bring his entire organization down?”

  Of course, my mind immediately flashes to the small metal box sitting in the bottom of my closet, but I do my level best to guard those thoughts against Parr's penetrating gaze. I'm trying to throw up any and all mental blocks I can to keep him from learning the truth about what I've been hiding these last three years.

  I know that if I turn the information over – especially now – I'm going to be called in to testify. I'm going to have to confirm the authenticity of the contents of that box. At the very least. I'll also need to answer questions about why I've chosen to sit on it so long, and why I didn't come forward with it earlier.

  They're all questions I don't want to answer – especially not in open court. The last thing I want is to have my name attached to this, or any other case, involving the cartel my brother was mixed up with. If I keep my name out of the records, they'll have no reason to come looking for me. And if they don't come looking for me, maybe, just maybe, I can finally put it all behind me, and start living a normal life here in Grizzly Ridge. Maybe, I can actually start developing real relationships, and not keep everybody at an arm's distance.

  Maybe, just maybe, I'll start to feel normal enough to start letting my guard down a bit and be a real, live human being again. I'm content to not kick the beehive if it means that one day, I can put it all in my rearview mirror, and start living my life, on my terms again.

  “Like I've told you before, Marshal, I don't have anything,” I tell him. “He didn't give me anything, and I'm not keeping anything from you.”

  “Are you sure about that?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I'm pretty positive.”

  “It's strange, just because a few days before he was killed, Rory left a note with me – called it his dying declaration – but I kind of wrote it off as him being overly dramatic at the time,” Parr muses. “But he said that in case anything should happen to him, I needed to talk to you. It's like he knew he was going to be killed and had a contingency plan in place.”

  I shrug. “It's strange, for sure,” I say. “But, my brother did and said a lot of things I don't think I'll ever understand. Not in this lifetime, at least.”

  Parr's eyes dig deep into me. I do my best to meet and hold his gaze, trying to avoid looking like I'm hiding something. I don't know why I've held onto that goddamn box all these years. I really don't. I put it in the bottom of a bag and left it there. I'd say I forgot about it, but I've never been able to fully do that. It's always in the back of my mind – mostly because I know the contents of that box will do a lot of harm to a lot of bad people. It will help roll up an entire criminal network – an exceptionally brutal one.

  Even now, I struggle with the burden of responsibility for it all. By doing nothing, and hiding all of Rory's things, I'm allowing the cartel to continue to exist. I'm allowing them to keep slaughtering innocent people, as well as flood the streets with drugs, guns, and trafficked women. I know this, and I berate myself constantly for it.

  Yet, at the same time, I don't want to wind up one of those people chopped up, my pieces left inside a trash bag, and dropped off somewhere. I don't want to die. I want to live. And the only way I can guarantee I keep living is to keep my name off of their lips and out of their minds. If I give them no reason to come after me, my hope is, they'll leave me be.

  “So, nothing at all, huh?” Parr asks.

  “Nope. Not a thing.”

  His lips compress into a tight line, and he gives me a curt nod. “Okay then,” he says, frustration in his voice. “If that's your final answer.”

  “It's the only answer I have for you, Marshal.”

  “Well, I'm glad to see you're doing okay,” he tells me.

  “Thanks for checking up on me.”

  “Always. Just remember, if you happen to remember anything at all – like say, your brother did leave you some information, completely unbeknownst to you, of course – you give me a call right away, Isla,” he says, his voice grim. “Any of Rory's things can really help us roll this whole goddamn cartel up and save some lives in the process.”

  “You'll be the first to know, Marshal Parr,” I assure him.

  He turns and heads for the front door, and I follow him, leaning against the jamb. As I watch him walk out to the black SUV parked across the street, I feel a sharp stab of guilt for lying to him. Parr is a good man with a good heart. I don't want to cause him any more grief than he already has on his shoulders.

  At the same time though, I'm not going to put myself into the crosshairs. I just want to live a quiet, normal, and most of all, peaceful life.

  I wave as he gives me a brief honk, and drives away, bound for who knows where. I'm sure he's got other people living false lives in the area too, that he needs to check up on. As I close the door, I wonder if any of them grapple with the same issues I'm dealing with.

  I also wonder how many of them are subverting justice, just to save their own skins.

  Chapter Nine

  Baker

  “It's good to see you, Walt,” I say.

  “You too, kid.”

  We're sitting out on the back patio, enjoying the cool late afternoon air, sharing a beer. Stabler is running around chasing birds, squirrels, or anything else that catches his eye. He looks like he's having the time of his life out there.

  “Why didn't
you tell me you were coming?” I ask.

  “Last minute thing,” he replies. “I dropped in on somebody we've got here in WITSEC, so I figured I'd swing in as long as I was in the neighborhood.”

  “You've got somebody here? In Grizzly Ridge?”

  He nods. “Yup,” he answers and takes a long swallow of his beer. “It's a quiet, out of the way place. I figured it's so far off the beaten path, she'd be okay here.”

  “You don't sound so sure of that right now,” I say.

  He sighs heavily, and I can see the toll the job is taking on him. I've only been gone from the Marshal's service four years, but Walt looks like he's aged ten. His hair is more gray than it was, and the lines etched into his face are a bit deeper. He looks – tired.

  I imagine that if I'd stayed with the Marshals, eventually, I'd look like him too. Having the responsibility of protecting somebody's life, knowing that if you fuck up, you're going to get them killed, is mentally and emotionally taxing. Having been in the Corps, Walt and I had an advantage many don't – we know what it's like to have to trust somebody with your life and have them trust you with theirs.

  In the Corps, you trust your brothers, or you die. It's as simple as that. When it comes to civilians though, that's something else entirely. They didn't sign up for that shit. When it's a civilian who puts their life in your hands, it comes with a hell of a lot more pressure attached – and I can see the wear and tear it's putting on Walt.

  “I just – I know she's holding something back. She's not being honest with me, and she's putting herself in danger because of it,” he says. “I think she thinks if she just pretends it doesn't exist, it'll go away. But you know as well as I do, that's not how these fucking cartels work.”