Rogue turned back and stalked to the table, scrambling for the pictures, searching for answers. There had to be answers here. There was more to this than he had told her.
There was something in his eyes that assured her of that before he left. There were demons that haunted him, dark places that festered in his soul. Parts of him that she had sensed and yet had never known.
There were secrets.
She pushed aside the first piles of pictures, went through the others. She stacked them in neat, orderly rows as she moved through them.
There were Zeke’s baby pictures. Pictures of him with his mother and father as a toddler, pictures as he grew and became a teenager.
The majority of the pictures after his teen years were those with his father. In each progression there was a hardness to Thad Mayes’s once-handsome face. A cold reptilian chill began showing in his eyes.
There were pictures that raised the hair on the back of her neck. Pictures of Thad Mayes, James Maynard, and Dayle Mackay participating in sex acts that would have brought shame to the most hedonistic of men. But there were no more pictures of Zeke.
“He burned them all, you know.”
Rogue jerked around, fear strangling her as she saw a panel slide open to reveal a gap in the cement wall of the basement, and watched as Jonesy stepped through it.
Eyes round, terror surging through her, she watched as he moved into the basement and looked around slowly, his expression heavy and filled with regret as his gaze came back to hers.
“Jonesy,” she whispered, a sob finally tearing from her throat.
“We were always the best of friends,” he said softly. “Me, Thad, and James. Your daddy didn’t change that. There were just some things that I was too young to understand then.”
He stepped fully into the room and then she saw the handgun he held at his side. The one he lifted slowly and aimed toward her.
“John’s dead,” he said. “I took care of him and that Mackay bastard before I came here for you and the sheriff.”
She shook her head; her hands clenched desperately around the rim of the table beside her as she lowered her head and shuddered from the pain. Not Jonesy. Oh God, she couldn’t bear it. She loved him like an uncle. He’d saved her when she needed him.
He’d been her friend.
“Why?” she sobbed, her head lifting as fury began to pour inside her. “Why, Jonesy?”
He shook his head. “The bastard burned the pictures of his boy while he obviously saved all the others. Thad was a fool. I warned him that little son of a bitch would end up turning up and taking a bite out of our asses. He always was a foolish little prick.”
“Why?” she demanded again. “Why are you here? Why are you involved in this?”
He tilted his head and watched her almost curiously.
“Because, despite your sheriff’s beliefs, the head of the serpent was never cut off, sweetheart. Mackay didn’t have the temperament to be the head of anything. He took orders. He was a soldier that became a liability. He was a disease. The head is alive and breathing.” He smiled, a cold, hard curve to his lips. “And Zeke might run, but he can’t hide from the truth. He’s a part of it. He’ll always be a part of it.”
TWENTY-TWO
She was hurting. Zeke swore he could feel her hurtas he left the house and forced himself into the Tahoe he had hidden in the back drive. The vehicle was hidden there, beneath a dense covering of trees where it wouldn’t be detected, along an old dirt farm road his father had used when his parents had lived in this house.
His father had moved into another house closer to town after Zeke and his mother had left. The farm had been pretty much abandoned for years, until Zeke returned.
It was the hardest thing Zeke had ever done, forcing himself into the vehicle before starting the engine and pulling out of the drive. He headed back toward the Bar when everything inside him was urging him to return to the house, to explain, to tell her why this had to be done and the ghosts he had to exorcise from his own past.
His mother hadn’t left his father simply because of his adulterous activities. Nothing was ever that simple with his mother. She had divorced Thad Mayes because he had finally crossed a line that was unacceptable to her. He had tricked his son into committing a crime that she knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.
At the age of fourteen, Zeke had shot and killed a man. It didn’t matter that he had killed another of the League’s members, one that his father wanted rid of. It didn’t matter that the man was a deviant with the sexual tastes of the criminally insane. The fact was, Zeke had killed him. He had lifted his father’s handgun from the table, turned, and shot the bastard in the heart, just as his father had taught him during target practice.
The old hunting cabin where the murder had taken place was gone now; someone had burned it to the ground after Zeke and his mother left town. Zeke often wondered if his father had destroyed it. If he’d ever regretted that night and fought to get rid of the memories as well.
Zeke still had nightmares. He still remembered his father’s pride, how he had lifted the slain man’s head in one hand and smiled back at the camera James Maynard had wielded, as though the death were a triumph.
Zeke had become ill. He’d thrown up for days. For weeks he’d been unable to sleep, until he finally told his mother what had happened. It was then that she had packed their bags and escaped with him to Los Angeles, along with many of the pictures she knew his father had.
Her insurance, she had called it. And Thad Mayes had sent her more insurance over the years. He’d been confident she wouldn’t talk; she knew the price of talking. Everyone who talked died. Proof didn’t matter, but she’d had enough to keep her safe.
Now Zeke was breaking that unwritten law of keeping silent. He had talked. Years ago he had talked to Timothy Cranston when the plans to trap the homeland terrorist group were first being hatched.
He hadn’t known the Mackays would be brought in on it. He hadn’t known he would be pushed out of the investigation once it started. He hadn’t known about the pictures his mother had amassed. But he knew now. DHS knew now. They knew everything, even his own crime.
He’d stayed as far away from her as possible until it wasn’t possible any longer, he told himself. But he hadn’t used her to the extent she believed. Taking her to his bed had been something he’d been unable to fight. But still, it had played into the job he had set for himself. That of trapping the last members of the League.
He needed Gene’s attention focused on him while Cranston and the Mackay cousins worked their magic to finish the investigation they’d started years before.
It would come to a head tonight. They had the Walkers’ killers; they had the information on the last of the members of the League in this area as well as others. They had pictures; they had his mother’s journals, all of which would be turned over to Cranston the second they met up. And tonight Gene would be at the bar with the last members of the homeland terrorist organization that would finally be rooted from his county forever.
It was almost over. More than twenty years of hell, and Zeke would see the end of it tonight. When the sun broke in the morning, the weight of a lifetime of guilt would be lifted from his shoulders, and he would have the satisfaction of knowing he had finished it.
And tonight, Zeke had broken Rogue’s heart. He’d seen it in her eyes and he’d been helpless to stop it, just as he’d been helpless to stay away from her. He’d grasped at the excuse to forget his own principles and take her to his bed. He’d known what he was doing even as he’d done it, and he’d prayed they’d both survive it.
He had known he was going to hurt her, but he hadn’t expected to feel that pain as though it were a part of him as well. He hadn’t expected to hurt with her for everything he knew they may not have.
Not that Zeke was willing to let her go yet. He knew to the bottom of his soul if he survived this night, he’d do his best to heal her heart and claim it again. But if he didn’t return, if he couldn’t come back to her for whatever reason, then he’d know she wouldn’t wait. The pain would ease with the anger, and her hatred would protect him from her loyalty.
Turning onto the back road that led to Rogue’s bar, Zeke tightened his hands on the wheel of the Tahoe and felt the muscles in his jaw flex at the thought of claiming her, free and clear, knowing there might be a real future, rather than just the here and now, or the hope of a future.
This had been hanging over his head for too long. The risk of discovery before the remaining members of the League were identified. The risk that the men he was searching for would realize just how deep he was into this rather than watching from the sidelines as it had appeared.
At this point, nothing mattered but finishing this and getting back to Rogue to explain, to beg for forgiveness. To touch her. To know he had the right to touch her as he needed to. God help him, as he needed to.
The need to touch her, to taste her one last time had been nearly overwhelming. If he had though, he’d have not made it out of the house without possessing her, without telling her the truth. Without loving her.
“I’ll be back, Rogue,” he whispered, and he wished he had said it before he left.
He made the final turn toward the bar when the world exploded around him.
Zeke slammed on the brakes as a ball of fire erupted into the night where Rogue’s bar had been. Debris and flames tore through the darkness as vehicles were racing out of the parking lot.
It rained fire. The ground shook with a secondary explosion, spurring Zeke to slam his foot on the gas as he flipped the sirens on.
The Mackay cousins and Rogue’s brother were in that bar. They were waiting in the office, watching through the security cameras as Gene met with the other members of the League that were still free at the bar. He’d been meeting them right beneath Zeke’s nose. So confident. Damn him. He’d taken Zeke’s trust for granted, had taken his loyalty for granted.
All these years he had trusted Gene with the truth. He’d discussed each move he’d made with the other man; he’d let him in on every step he’d taken. And he’d been betrayed. He’d hoped he was wrong. Prayed he was wrong. He had never imagined the depths of Gene’s guilt though.
That betrayal was like acid on his tongue as the Tahoe screamed into the bar’s parking lot. The vehicle slid to a stop, rocking from the force applied to the brakes as Zeke caught sight of Dawg dragging Natches and John across the parking lot.
He jumped from the vehicle, racing toward them.
“Cranston and Rowdy. Where are they?” he screamed as he gripped Dawg’s shoulders, holding him in place.
Dawg’s face was pale, blood streaked, his green eyes wild. “Inside. Goddammit, they’re inside.”
Everything inside Zeke began to congeal in complete rage. Turning on his heel, he ran for the bar. Pushing through the hysterical guests pouring from the main entrance to stagger into the smoky haze inside as he searched for the other two men.
“Cranston!” he screamed out the agent’s name.
“I have him.”
Zeke turned, staring in shock as Gene stumbled through the smoky haze.
He and Rowdy supported Cranston’s half- conscious form. Gene’s blond hair was singed, soot covered his face. A gash along his forehead seeped blood and Rowdy didn’t look much better.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” Zeke took Rowdy’s weight as he swayed and nearly went to his knees. “Son of a bitch, their wives will kill me.”
“No shit,” Gene snarled furiously, his blue eyes enraged. “If I don’t end up killing every friggin’ damned one of you myself. Motherfuckers. This is what I get for trusting a slimy damned Homeland Security agent and my best fucking friend.”
Confusion and rage clouded Zeke’s mind. With his hands full of Rowdy’s nearly unconscious form, he couldn’t slug Gene. He followed him instead, finally having to duck and sling Rowdy’s weight over his shoulder to rush him from the bar as another explosion shook it.