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Mack stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. He lowered it. “What do you care? It gets Mukta and a couple members of her family off the streets.”
Looked like Mack had found a way to go from a so-so career to being upwardly mobile. “Hold on a sec. What do you mean a couple members of her family? I thought this was about Mukta.”
“Mukta and anyone else involved in the bribery.”
The hairs on the back of Dusty’s neck stood on end. “Are you trying to tie Gracie Parish to this whole thing?”
“Tie her to it? She is tied to it. It’s her father. We have evidence that she has hacked into the senator’s home computers. And other things.”
She thought the guy was trying to kill her, of course she did research. Dusty leaned into the space that Mack had just left. His arm rested far over what could be considered the table center. “What things?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Who’s investigating who sent the recordings? You?”
“Leave it.”
“No. I won’t. You’re putting Gracie in more danger. Ignorant people might hate Mukta—she wears a hijab, is overly-educated, wealthy, and viciously outspoken—but Gracie isn’t so easy to hate. She’s as American as apple pie, beautiful, and runs her own business. No matter what evidence you have, Rush won’t want her out there speaking for herself, speaking against him. You just made her even more of a target.”
Mack’s eyebrows rose. “You seem to be getting a little agitated. And paranoid.”
“You’re the reason, Mack. You’re the reason people don’t trust us, don’t trust us to do our job, don’t trust that we’re making decisions based on our roles as defenders instead of what’s best for our institution. Or what’s best for our own careers. You’re what’s wrong with this country, the bureau.”
Mack stood up, threw down a ten-dollar bill. “Why don’t we touch base after you’ve had some time to digest?” He gave Dusty a disappointed look then walked out of the restaurant.
A moment later, Dusty’s cell beeped. He looked down at the screen. You’re off the case. If you do anything to jeopardize this investigation, I will have you arrested.
A fistful of angry strides later, and Dusty was outside on the pleasant streets of Bristol, Pennsylvania, delivering his resignation to the swell of Mack’s too-straight nose. And jaw. And thick skull.
The sizzle of a Taser hit his ears a blink before fifty thousand volts squeezed his body. He dropped to the sidewalk. His jaw tightened. He went board rigid.
Fucking Mack. Couldn’t throw a punch to save his life.
Chapter 39
Music pumped through Club When?’s speakers, pounding rhythm through the gyrating bodies that bumped and writhed on the dance floor.
Behind the bar, Gracie mixed a mojito. The erotic push and pull, the wild abandon of her customers, usually thrilled her. Tonight it made her miss Dusty.
Work was a little duller, a little lonelier without his good-natured humor and easy-going manner. Yikes. She had to stop thinking about him.
She focused again on making the servers’ drinks. She had two bartenders dealing with the people pressing forward and leaning across the bar to order drinks. One was in training, a replacement for Dusty—there she went again—and cousin to the other bartender she’d rehired.
He seemed like an okay hire. Hard working. But—
A little niggle in her awareness alerted her to his presence. She felt the wave of desire and heat light up her insides. Forcing herself to finish, she poured a beer and put it on the tray before glancing up. Dusty leaned against the end of the bar. “I need to talk to you.”
The little butterflies in her stomach winged up her throat where they fluttered and danced.
Dang, he was so good-looking. Heat kissed her cheeks. All she could think about was the force of him entering her, seizing her, bringing her shaking and writhing to pure bliss.
This was a problem. When someone could make you feel as good as he made her feel, they had power over you. She refused to be powerless.
Wait. Hadn’t she asked for space? She picked up the next drink order. “You’ll have to wait.”
His honey eyes flashed. His voice lowered. “Grace.”
Her breasts perked up and paid tight attention. Way to go, tattas, why not send up an I-want-you-bad signal flare. One that matched the hot patches of red now marching across her face and down her neck.
Really hard not to seem affected when your face was as telling as Pinocchio’s nose. Too bad he didn’t have such a tell. Anger flared in her chest. And pain. Control. Make the drink. She turned on the blender.
When she was done with the order, she turned back to Dusty. What the what?
A beautiful young woman with dark hair stood at Dusty’s side and pointed to his hands. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied.
How had he hurt his hands? Had he been in a fight?
The girl was asking about his injury, showing interest. Classic pick-up. And she’d bought him a beer. Gracie admired her tactic. Not shy. Not fawning. Get the guy to talk about himself. See if he’s interested.
For his part, Dusty looked like a deer in headlights. She watched with growing amusement as Agent Leif McAllister tried to find a graceful way out of the conversation. He hesitated over a few pleasantries, smiled, sweated, and then motioned toward Gracie and said, “I’d like you to meet my good friend Grace.”
The brunette with a killer tan—probably good Italian genes—looked over. Gracie waved with a sprig of mint squeezed tight between her fingers.
The woman didn’t seem embarrassed or uncertain. She smiled. “Hi.”
Gracie finished making the pina colada, put the slip on the waiting server’s tray, and approached the girl.
“Hi,” she said. “What can I get you to drink? On the house, because if you’ve had to deal with this guy, you deserve compensation.”
Dusty put a hand to his chest. “Now, Grace, I’m a little hurt you wouldn’t give me a higher recommendation.”
Ah, stupid fair skin. She could feel herself turning lady-you-have-no-idea-how-good-he-is red. Followed by angry-emoji-face red.
The brunette’s eyes bounced between her and Dusty. She shrugged. “I’ll have a gin and tonic.”
Wow. A straight shooter all the way down to her drink. Gracie made the drink and slid it over to her.
The straight-shooter took it, raised the glass in thank you, and clinked it with Dusty’s bottle. Dusty nodded and then took a long sip. The woman turned and walked away.
Gracie watched he
r go. How cool would it be to never turn all shades of red in a somewhat awkward situation? The light played across Ms. Cool’s shimmery silver cocktail dress as she skirted the dance floor.
Her drink hand came up, and there was a flash and boom that lifted her and drove her across the room.
Chapter 40
The blast sent people and debris flying across the dance floor.
Gracie thought she was fast, fast with quick reactions. She studied martial arts. She liked to run. But shock, it turned out, could keep her rooted in place. As the explosion—fire and noise and smoke—punched through the air, she froze.
And then she was on the floor, behind the bar, under Dusty’s heavy, protective weight.
She struggled to get up, feeling ice cubes under her back and heat on her front. Dusty held her down. His voice was insistent. “Stay down.”
There was another explosion, followed by another—the sounds muffled to her stinging ears. Shards of glass beat across them like hot spikes.
Looking up, Gracie saw a roadway of smoke driving across the ceiling and pushed her hands against Dusty’s chest. “Fire.”
He rolled off her, helped her to her feet.
Blood ran down his face and neck. His expression was calm, his eyes dead serious. He quickly ran hands up and down her body, stopping at places she’d been cut. “Are you okay?”
Surprised to see buds of blood pooling on her arm and rolling down, she nodded. Beyond the bar, panic, like the blast wave, sent people racing, stumbling over bodies, shoving toward the exit.
The front doors quickly became choked with the pressing mob. Smoke began to compress the air. Gracie’s furious mind considered a thousand options in a thousandth of a second. Soon the sprinklers would go off, increasing panic. People would push to escape, trample.
The emergency system would already have called 911, but they wouldn’t get here in time to stop the crush.
She needed to create another way out. The stained-glass windows. The ones that had symbolized Sheila’s vision for this space.
