Pulling the Trigger

  “What are you doing here?” Ethan asked.

  The familiar male voice swept straight through her, mocking any attempt to keep her emotions in check. Joanna stopped in her tracks. Stared.

  The man, easily six foot four, froze in the open doorway. His eyes narrowed as they locked on to hers. The wind glued his brown suit jacket to his broad shoulders. The rain made his military-short hair glisten like polished onyx.

  “Joanna?” The timbre of his voice darkened. The deep pitch of it filled up his chest and rumbled out in a seductive whisper.

  “Ethan.” Here. In the flesh. Impossibly bigger, broader, harder than the man she remembered.

  The silent intensity of his dark, nearly black eyes hit her like a sucker punch to the heart.

  Ethan Bia.

  The man she’d given her virginity and her young girl’s heart to.

  The man who’d taught her how to survive the mountains—and her family.

  The man she’d walked away from fifteen years ago without ever looking back.

  JULIE MILLER

  PULLING the TRIGGER

  For my dad. Ace navigator extraordinaire. The most knowledgeable man I know when it comes to learning about a place and finding my way. Yep, there’s double entendre there.

  While Sleeping Ute Mountain and the Four Corners area of southwestern Colorado are real, full of stark beauty and dramatic landscapes, I’ve taken the liberty of creating some fictional places to serve the needs of the story. So if you do visit the area—and if you’re a fan of history or geography I strongly encourage you to do so—you might not find all of the locations Ethan and Joanna visit on the map. But you will find friendly people and a beautiful part of the country.

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Julie Miller for her contribution to the Kenner County Crime Unit miniseries.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

  Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

  Books by Julie Miller

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  841—POLICE BUSINESS*

  880—FORBIDDEN CAPTOR

  898—SEARCH AND SEIZURE*

  947—BABY JANE DOE*

  966—BEAST IN THE TOWER

  1009—UP AGAINST THE WALL**

  1015—NINE-MONTH PROTECTOR**

  1070—PROTECTIVE INSTINCTS†

  1073—ARMED AND DEVASTATING†

  1090—PRIVATE S.W.A.T TAKEOVER†

  1099—KANSAS CITY CHRISTMAS†

  1138—PULLING THE TRIGGER

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Ethan Bia—Tied to Mother Earth in ways that sometimes defy science, this Native American tracker and former U.S. Army Ranger can find anyone, anywhere. He’s trained to survive anything—except working with the woman he once loved again.

  Joanna Rhodes—FBI Agent and interrogation specialist. When she left the reservation, her life was in a shambles. Now she’s back home on an assignment that can make her career and break the case of a murdered fellow agent wide open. But a new name, a gun and a badge can’t protect her vulnerable heart—or stop the nightmares of her past from trying to destroy her again.

  Sherman Watts—The reservation’s local drunk, or a link to the mob? This old friend from Joanna’s past seems to have nine lives. And if nine aren’t enough to survive, he’ll take a few more.

  Elizabeth Reddawn—Receptionist at the Kenner County Crime Unit. She knows the reservation’s secrets.

  Elmer Watts—Retired sheriff. A senile old man who remembers what he wants to.

  Bart Flemming—KCCU’s resident techno-wizard.

  Ben Parrish—Is the FBI agent dead? Or has he betrayed them all?

  Boyd Perkins—Hit man for the mob. Supposedly in Mexico.

  Julie Grainger—Murdered FBI Agent.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “I need you to disappear.”

  Sherman Watts drained the amber fire of whiskey from his shot glass and licked the dribble from his lips before putting the phone back to his ear and responding to his anonymous contact’s hushed command. “What about my money?”

  “You’ve gone through last month’s payment already?”

  It wasn’t this loser’s business how he spent his money or how fast he spent it. He’d earned a lot more than this secure cell phone he’d been given so their calls about confidential business couldn’t be traced. “I was promised fifty thousand. Your people are ten grand short.”

  “I can deposit the installment into your account on Monday—under the guise of another government settlement payment. You know I can’t authorize the payment any earlier than that. If I pay out the money too fast, it’ll throw up a red flag, and someone might start nosing around in our business.”

  Someone else, you mean. Since the Kenner County Crime Unit and a cadre of FBI agents had come to Kenner City, Colorado, and the nearby Ute reservation where Sherman lived, investigating the murder of a lady agent who’d been messing with some people she ought not to have been messing with, there had been plenty of people nosing around. Funny how the man on the phone wasn’t afraid of the hit man Sherman had been hiding on the rez and doing some odd jobs for. Funnier still how the man trying to give him orders could deal with two feuding Las Vegas crime families and keep a cool head, but he had a burr up his butt over the possibility of some accountant questioning why Sherman Watts finally had the money to buy a good bottle of whiskey instead of drinking the rotgut that had curdled his conscience years ago.

  Sherman poured himself a second glass to wash down the bologna sandwich he’d eaten for lunch. “I’m perfectly comfortable here in Mesa Ridge.” He took a sip and savored the smooth burn down his throat. “Besides, I thought it was my job to be the front man. Nobody knows the rez like I do. I can wander around any corner of it, talk to any man about anything and nobody blinks twice. I run Boyd Perkins’s errands and get the information he needs so he can continue his search for that fifty million dollars from the Del Gardo family and take care of whatever private business he needs to. Hell, I’m doing such a good job that I hear the cops think Perkins is down in Mexico.” Sherman plunked the glass down on the table in his trailer and sat up straight. Had something happened? This idiot might not be afraid of Boyd Perkins, but he was smart enough to know that crossing the ice-cold killer was a damn fool thing to do. He’d seen what Perkins was capable of when he’d disposed of that woman’s body for him. Screwing up and getting on the killer’s bad side was not an option. “They think Perkins has left the country, right?”

  “They have no clue he’s still around.”

  “So what’s the problem? Why do I need to skip town? And why isn’t this coming from Perkins himself?”

  “I’m doing you a favor, you coot. Givin
g you a heads-up.”

  He could tell from the condescending sneer in the man’s tone that this wasn’t about doing anybody a favor.

  This guy was worried about covering his own backside.

  “The FBI thinks you’re involved in Julie Grainger’s murder.”

  “The feds do?” Accomplice after the fact was definitely involved. He was screwed. Sherman pushed to his feet, stumbling over his chair as he went to the back of his trailer to grab a bag and start packing.

  “The feds, the crime unit—they’re all one team now. And they think you may know something. They’re bringing in some hotshot profiler from D.C. to question you.”

  “What?”

  “One of their own agents is dead. They may not have evidence to charge you with anything, but they’re going to explore every possible lead on the case. And right now, that’s you.”

  Screw that. He pulled his gun from his top dresser drawer and tucked it into the back of his jeans. Two boxes of bullets landed in the bottom of his pack. “Who else are they questioning?”

  “No one. Like I said, they don’t know that Perkins is still in the neighborhood. But with the way you get around to every bar, whorehouse and the casino, I’m sure they want to ask if you’ve seen anyone matching his description.”

  Sherman dropped his bag back onto the bed. These past six months working for the Nicky Wayne crime family out of Vegas had given him the best money ticket of his life. He wasn’t going to give it up if the feds just wanted to show him some pictures and ask if he knew a guy. “I can always say no. They’ve got nothing they can hold me on. You’re just worried that I’ll mention these phone calls, and then they’ll figure out they have a traitor in their midst.”

  The lengthy pause indicated that Sherman had struck a nerve. “You’ve got nothing on me. No name. No ID. But can you still say no when the detox kicks in? Can you keep your mouth shut about Perkins? About Grainger’s murder? Do you really want to take the fall for our crimes? This is a federal investigator they’re bringing in, Watts, not some good ol’ boy sheriff who’ll give you a sip from his own flask and let you walk away. I hear she’s tough. She’ll break you.”

  “She?” He took the news like a punch to the gut.

  Hell. It was a woman who had turned him to drink in the first place. Some woman or other always seemed to be standing in the way of what he deserved. His high school sweetheart, Naomi, had married his best friend, Ralph Kuchu, instead of him. Eighteen years later, Naomi had been drunk enough to get herself and Ralph both killed in a car wreck—taking the woman Sherman loved and the money Ralph owed him to their graves.

  Women were good for one thing. Sobering him up and poking questions at him wasn’t it.

  And if she did flash her boobs or nag him enough and get him to reveal what he knew about Julie Grainger’s murder or Boyd Perkins’s whereabouts, then he’d be a dead man. He was only useful to Perkins and the family he worked for as long as he kept his mouth shut.

  “All right. I can hide out for a few days.” Sherman carried his bag out to the table and packed the whiskey bottle in with a change of socks and some fishing gear. He grabbed his sleeping bag from the closet and tied it to his pack. “Let Perkins and Mr. Wayne know that I’m out of here.”

  After disconnecting the call, Sherman opened the trailer door and studied the sky. Clouds were gathering with the promise of spring rain in the next twenty-four hours, give or take. That was good. It’d be hell to sleep in, as the temperature in the mountains was still cold on June nights. But rain also meant he wouldn’t leave any tracks. He reached for his black, flat-brimmed hat and pulled it on over scraggly hair that was still as black as it had been the day he was born over fifty years ago. With his survival skills, he could last for weeks up in the red rocks and cliffs of the Mesa Verde range.

  He could last as long as he had something to drink.

  And no woman got in his way.

  Chapter One

  Special Agent Joanna Rhodes stepped off the puddle jumper flight from Durango into the rain at Kenner City, Colorado.

  Though the other two passengers on the same plane made a dash for the shelter of the terminal, Joanna stood on the tarmac, surveying the stark, dramatic landscape of red rock mountains and barren desert spaces of the Four Corners region of the state. Awe-inspiring. Rich in history and mystique. Majestic. She’d read all the descriptors in tourism magazines and advertisements for the nearby casino.

  But she couldn’t see the beauty. She could barely feel the cool drizzle of rain spitting against her face. An oppressive sense of the world closing in around her, so at odds with the rugged, wide-open spaces, made it difficult to catch her breath.

  “Suck it up, girl,” Joanna whispered between clenched teeth, her nostrils flaring as she pulled her shoulders back and ordered her lungs to expand. It wasn’t the altitude or the faint chill of early spring in the air that had grabbed hold of her. It wasn’t the rain, kicking up a familiar, omnipresent dust and washing the scent of ozone down to her level, that made moving from this spot so difficult. It was the memories swirling inside her head, attacking her from every direction, that made this homecoming feel like a walk down a long corridor at a maximum-security prison, ending at a windowless cell with her name on it.

  “That’s the power of positive thinking,” she chided herself with sarcasm, hating that her thoughts had gone off on the morbid metaphor. Fanciful images of any kind didn’t fit with the practical, efficient persona she’d worked so hard to cultivate. This wasn’t supposed to be a stroll down memory lane for her. “Focus on the work.”

  She was here to break open a case that the bureau, local law enforcement and the Kenner County Crime Lab had been investigating for five months now. Solve the murder of a federal agent in the area and uncover suspected links to the feuding Wayne and Del Gardo crime families out of Las Vegas. Find a lead on the missing fifty million dollars that the late crime boss, Vincent Del Gardo, had allegedly hid in the Four Corners area.

  All she had to do was face down a nightmare from her past to get the answers they needed.

  No small task on any front.

  This was her assignment. She’d been personally requested by the Durango bureau office because of her ethnic background and ties to the area. Her boss in D.C. had assured her it was a career-making opportunity she’d be foolish to pass up. Besides, a job was a job. And she was damn good at hers.

  Blinking the moisture from her long dark eyelashes, Joanna checked the Glock 9 mm in the holster on her belt, as well as the FBI shield clipped beside it. Then she rebuttoned her pin-striped blazer and shook her ponytail down the center of her back.

  “Piece of cake.” Armed inside and out, she pulled up the handle on her overnight suitcase and strode toward the terminal.

  “Agent Rhodes?” The glass double doors swung open and a tall, lanky man wearing a tuxedo with a cowboy hat and boots jogged out to meet her.

  Instinctively, she halted and retreated half a step, her hand hovering near her gun, waiting for the man to identify himself.

  “Didn’t see you inside and thought I’d missed you. Sorry I’m running late. I had to pick up my wife and son and give away a bride before I could get here.” He stopped a few feet away and tipped the brim of his hat before extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Patrick Martinez.”

  “Joanna Rhodes.” Recognizing the name and the general description of dark hair and Irish-blue eyes given her by the bureau chief in Durango, Jerry Ortiz, she reached out to shake hands with the Kenner County sheriff. “You’re not late, Sheriff. But I’d like to remind you that I could just as easily have rented a car and driven myself to your office.”

  He grinned. “Well, that wouldn’t say very much for western hospitality, now, would it.”

  Knowing she was meant to smile at the friendly remark, she curved her mouth into a practiced arc. But when he reached for the handle of her suitcase, Joanna tightened her grip. Long before she’d reached the age of thirty-three, she’d
learned to take care of herself in every way that mattered. “I’ve got it.”

  With a nod, he turned to walk beside her. “Then let’s get you out of the rain and get you briefed on the investigation.” Despite her show of independence, his longer stride got him to the doors first, and he pulled one open for her. He glanced up at the late afternoon’s overcast sky as she walked through. “We’re expecting storms on and off all weekend long. This little sprinkle is just the prelude.”

  She remembered the all or nothing weather patterns from her childhood. Summers could be beastly hot and dry, yet still be chilly at night. Winters were frigid, especially up in the mountains. And the transitional seasons in between promised torrential rains and flash floods, or blizzards, depending on the temperature. The area was probably going through its spring thaw right now, when massive snowmelts at the higher elevations filled the rivers and streams in the area—the same streambeds that would be bone dry come autumn. But she wasn’t here to reminisce or discuss the weather. “How far are we from your office? I understand it shares a building with the crime unit?”

  Once they cleared the terminal, the sheriff pointed to the officially marked black Suburban parked at the curb. With a beep from his key chain, he opened the back door behind the passenger seat. “You can toss your bag in here.”

  “Thank you.”

  His cowboy-style manners were charming but unnecessary. And once they were both inside the car, he seemed to accept that she was more interested in answers than in making new friends. “We’ve got a smoothly integrated system here in Kenner County. Budget constraints being what they are, the practicality of housing the area law enforcement units in one location made it a no-brainer. A briefing room, locker rooms, executive offices, plus the interview rooms, lineup room and temporary lockup are located on the first two floors, while most of the crime lab is housed upstairs on the third. We’ve got a fourth floor for storage.” He shifted into Drive and pulled onto the highway leading into town. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”