Quest for Justice: Keller County Cops, #3

By Melanie Atkins

Abby Ryals goes behind the sheriff's back to accept an undercover assignment with another agency to avenge fellow detective C.J. Bowman's death—and is stunned to learn he is very much alive after he leaves witness protection and follows her  to help keep her safe. Together, they must race the clock to defeat a notorious drug lord before he can discover their true identities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Atkins
• Release date: Jun 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393031963

Book preview

Chapter One

Saturday, November 30

The unrelenting volleys of the twenty-one-gun salute reverberated inside Abby Ryal's head. With each shot fired, her heart skipped another beat. She fought to breathe, to draw in another lungful of the cool fall air that would help to clear her muddled senses, but she couldn't. The ache in her heart only intensified, and she feared she might double over and throw up in front of C.J.'s polished mahogany casket.

C.J. Bowman. Her fellow Keller County detective. Her best friend—and former lover.

Dead.

Her stomach heaved. She wrapped her arms around her middle and dropped her head onto her knees. The ancient folding chair creaked beneath her as she released a deep, shuddering breath.

Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Not here. C.J. will laugh his fool head off if you toss your cookies on the funeral wreaths. Their too-sweet smell is bad enough, and if you...

She smothered a laugh and sat up.

Oh, God. I can just picture him sauntering through the cemetery wearing that trademark smirk. Making fun of me. He gets off on that. He's always so—

The idea that she would never see him again curdled her stomach.

You self-centered bastard, she whispered inside her head, cringing as the line of uniformed policemen fired yet another booming round. Leave it to C.J. to go down in dramatic fashion, waging a one-man battle with one of the Deep South's most infamous drug cartels.

Tears filled her eyes. Always playing the hero, she murmured. Only this time, it got you killed. Didn't it?

You okay, Abby? Jonah McKee, the detective who had mentored her since she'd first gotten her gold shield six months ago, leaned over and asked with concern.

She nodded stiffly, unable to voice her pain, and aimed her gaze at the shimmering red and gold leaves on the trees bordering the tiny country cemetery. The brisk November breeze iced her heart. C.J. had loved this time of year. He loved to hunt, loved the contest of man against beast. Why, oh why had he chosen to challenge the most frightening beast on the planet—Salvador Salazar, better known as Sal-Sal—instead of climbing into his deer stand and scouring the wooded terrain for a prime ten-point buck?

The last volley sent another shaft of pain through Abby. She ground her teeth and focused on the scruffy strip of dry brown grass in front of the casket. Maybe if she didn't listen to the doleful wail of the bagpipers who'd driven down from Jackson, all of this would disappear. She'd stop by Jimbo's Place on her way home and find C.J. hunched at the bar like always, sucking down a Red Stripe and flirting with the curvy blonde bartender.

She closed her eyes. His penchant for flirting with anybody with boobs had broken them apart, but she'd take him back in a heartbeat if she could only make that choice again.

Another verse filled with shrill notes sent a fresh shiver through Abby. She and C.J. had squared off like a pair of wildcats when she'd first joined the department, but he'd soon learned to respect her and had been thrilled when she'd been promoted back in the spring. That night, they'd gone overboard with the celebration and wound up in bed together. Just the first of many nights when they'd fallen asleep wrapped around each other.

Abby had wanted forever; C.J. couldn't promise her the next day. So after she'd caught him sidling up to pretty Brenda Cleveland at the pistol range, she'd dumped him. They'd remained friends, but that was it. No more hungry kisses. No more intimate pillow talk or raucous lovemaking. No more sleeping entwined as if they were meant to be that way.

Now he was gone. On a different plane. She would never have her forever with him.

The bagpipers finally ended their haunting tune, and Chief Dispatcher Frank Wells climbed into a patrol car parked close by, picked up the mic, and flipped on the loudspeaker.

Abby braced herself.

Three hundred to three eighty-nine, Frank said, his voice cracking as he called out C.J.'s badge number one last time. Three hundred to three eighty-nine... Three eighty-nine, please answer your last call.

Unable to blink back her tears, Abby drew a deep breath.

Your dedication and accomplishments will never be forgotten, the dispatcher continued. End of shift is Saturday, November thirtieth, at eleven-twenty three a.m. You have worked your last case.

Oh, C.J.... Unable to stop herself, Abby sobbed. If she were burying her grandfather, she could understand it, even if it broke her heart. Grandpa Mike was in his late seventies, an ex-cop with a bad heart. He'd lived a full life until he'd entered the nursing home. C.J., however, was only thirty-four, a strapping, potent man in his prime. A good man with a generous heart.

The strident shouts of the honor guard echoed through the cemetery to jar her again before she could catch her breath, their deep calls ricocheting off the trees and cracking what was left of her heart. She swallowed back another sob and scraped moisture from her cheeks.

The bagpipers, apparently determined to rip her heart in two, played one last evocative tune, then Sheriff Rick Blaylock rose and made his way down the line of Keller County detectives, shaking hands first with Cash Starkey, one of C.J.'s closest friends, and then moving on to broad shouldered Tripp Broussard. C.J. didn't have any real family. This was it. His brothers and sisters in blue; fellow law enforcement officers from around the state. Even some from Louisiana, Alabama, Tennessee, Texas, and Florida.

Abby tried to rise, but her legs wouldn't cooperate.

Abby? Sheriff Blaylock's warm baritone sent a river of ice down her back. He gripped her elbow and drew her from the chair. I know how close you and C.J. were. Take a few days. All the time you need, okay? Just remember we're here for you.

But sir, the case— She blinked away a fresh spate of tears. They had to catch the scum who'd shot C.J. If they waited, the man might flee the country. We have to go after him.

Not now, Detective. Not this case. It isn't your fight. The sheriff leaned close and dropped his voice. I need you to stand down.

Sheriff, he shot C.J. We can't just let him go. We have to—

That's enough, Abby. This is neither the time nor the place.

She put a hand over her mouth. Oh, God. He's right. We're still at the cemetery, next to C.J.'s... C.J.'s...

Abby flicked her gaze to the polished mahogany box only a few feet away. She wanted to ignore it, to forget Frank had just called out her best friend's badge number for the last time.

A strangled cry escaped her throat.

Sheriff Blaylock pulled her into a gentle hug and then let go, giving her a confident nod and turning to Jonah. See that she gets to the gathering at Mitch's and eats something. Then escort her home. I'm sure Brooke won't mind.

Will do, Sheriff. Jonah put his hand on Abby's arm. Ready to go?

No, she croaked, locking her eyes on the awful box holding C.J. This couldn't be it. She wasn't ready to say goodbye. She needed to talk to him again, to set things straight and discuss their relationship. She shook off Jonah's hand. I'm... I'm going to stay here for a while. You and Brooke go on, so you can get home to Aiden. I'm sure he needs you.

No, Abby. You need to come with us. Sheriff's orders. He reached for her hand, but missed when she jerked away. What are you doing? Come on, now. C.J. wouldn't want this.

Wouldn't want what? Brooke walked up from the back of the tent where she'd been talking to Tiffany Golden, Mitch's pretty blonde fiancée and a rookie deputy.

Jonah kept his eyes on Abby. Detective Ryals wants to stay with C.J. for a while.

Abby, you haven't eaten, Brooke said in a tone filled with understanding. You can ride with us to Mitch and Tiffany's. We have plenty of room in the SUV.

No, thanks. Abby shook her head. I-I can't leave him yet. I haven't had time to—

Please, Abby. We're worried about you.

You don't get it, Brooke. None of you do. I never told C.J. how I feel. That I still care. Abby wanted the words back the second they left her mouth, but she was powerless to stop the flood of emotion. Never told him I wanted to try again. Now... it's too late.

Staying here won't help, honey, Brooke said, peering into her eyes. You know that.

I don't care. She tore free and spun away, mortified that some of the detectives and other officers had turned to stare as they stepped away from the tent. "You should go. All of you. Please. I just need some time alone with him. I've got to be alone with him."

Jonah, Brooke... Cash stepped between them and Abby. Go on with Tripp and the others. I've got this.

You sure, pal? Jonah asked with a curious lift of his brow.

He bobbed his head. Yeah. I'll wait for Abby, and we'll follow shortly.

Okay. The other detective shot Abby one last concerned glance before catching Brooke's hand and leading her away.

The breeze picked up, teasing the brightly colored flowers banked around the casket. A distinct chill fell over the cemetery as they mocked Abby. Flowers symbolized life, and C.J. was dead. Tightening her jaw, she ignored Cash and edged forward, careful to avoid the fluttering blossoms. One of the funeral directors lurked nearby, and she wished he'd go away.

Cash bobbed his head at the man, and with a brisk, understanding nod, he turned and vanished beneath the tent.

Thank you, Abby murmured to Cash. He could be meddlesome, but right now she appreciated his help. Fresh tears filled her eyes. I won't be long.

No problem. I'll just be over there. He indicated the thin ribbon of brown grass between the rows of headstones. Take your time.

Once he was gone, she splayed a shaking hand on C.J.'s casket next to the fluttering, autumn-hued spray. The polished wood was cool beneath her palm. The thought of a big, strapping man like C.J. being locked inside the ornate box forever terrified her.

Oh, C.J., Abby whispered. I-I need you here, with me. Not lying in this damned casket. It's so unfair. She closed her eyes and sniffled. Moisture rolled down her cheeks. "They're the bad guys. And you—"

Pain arced through her heart, and she broke off on a sob. C.J. was one of the good guys. The best.

She opened her eyes just as the dispatcher broke free of the gaggle of cops gathered near the road and climbed into the patrol car he’d used to broadcast C.J.’s last call. Revving the engine, he inched slowly away from the burial site, bouncing off over the uneven ground toward the road. Everyone was leaving. Leaving her behind.

Abby turned. Cash still stood on the grassy strip, his gaze on the line of cars exiting the cemetery. She needed to go, so he could join the others at the wake.

She blinked down at the casket. The box holding the man she loved. But no... he wasn't inside it, was he? Not the real C.J. Just his body, not his soul. The essence of him that had made him the man he was. That C.J. was still with her, and he always would be.

I've got to go now, C.J., she whispered, sweeping her fingers against the glossy wood one last time. Cash is waiting. I just—

Unable to say another word, she turned and forced herself to walk away. To walk toward her future, toward the empty years without C.J. Knowing he watched over her made it easier, but his absence still hurt. Closure would be a long time coming, but catching the son of a bitch who'd gunned him down would definitely make her feel better.

Vengeance is mine... She remembered those cryptic words from the Bible—Romans, chapter twelve—and conveniently ignored the rest of the verse. She was hurting too much to let go of her anger. She wanted to take care of this herself. Had to take care if it herself.

Yes, vengeance would be hers one day—and she would make it count.

Chapter Two

Seven months later

...has slipped through their fingers yet again. In a connected case, Detective First Grade C.J. Bowman was gunned down in the line of duty last November in Hunter's Bayou, Mississippi while undercover with the cartel. Officers from six states paid their respects after Bowman was shot by a gunman allegedly hired by drug kingpin Salvador Salazar. The investigation into Bowman's death is ongoing.

Jerked out of his communion with Virgil Beasley's problem-riddled transmission, C.J. Bowman—or rather, Wiley Jones, as he was now known—rolled out from under the aging Ford, levered himself off the mechanic's creeper, and wiped his hands on the dirty cotton cloth hanging from his belt.

What now? he muttered, glancing around at the other mechanics as he hurried over to the small flat screen TV mounted on the garage wall. All were busy, and none appeared to be paying attention to the twenty-four hour news station their boss let play all day.

He stuck a dollar in the drink machine next to the TV and waited for the soda to drop so they wouldn't think he was interested either. Yet he kept his gaze riveted on the screen, amazed his funeral had been deemed noteworthy enough for cable news to recycle it during a story about the elusive Salvador Salazar. Apparently, the unending hours he'd spent on the job had meant something after all, even if he hadn't taken down Sal-Sal like he'd planned.

The soft drink plunked into the slot, and he fished it out.

Local authorities have assured us they will continue their fight against the cartel despite Salazar's continued elusiveness, the reporter droned on. The camera panned across Oak Lawn Cemetery and focused on the crowd beneath the funeral tent.

A blonde woman in black on the end of the first row lifted her head, and C.J.'s heart missed a beat. Holy Mother of God. Abby cried over me.

We'll keep you abreast of their investigation whenever more news becomes available, the anchor pledged. The picture on the screen switched to a pair of dancing mops.

Startled by the silly commercial, C.J. opened the soda can with shaky hands and brought it to his lips. The beverage's sharp bite did nothing to halt the ache in his chest.

What in hell had he done? Exiting his life in Hunter's Bayou was supposed to be easy. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Nobody was supposed to care. But if the tears streaming down Abby's face were any indication, he'd been dead wrong.

She'd broken up with him a couple of months before he went undercover, telling him she couldn't deal with his flirting with other women. He'd gotten angry, called her an ice queen, and proceeded to nail any single chick he could find—within reason. Even he had his standards.

Yet he'd never felt so empty.

So when the Combined Drug Task Force—made up of local police, Keller County deputies, the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation, the DEA, and the FBI—had asked him to disappear into Sal-Sal's world, he'd jumped at the chance. Within days, he'd become the replacement link in the Cartega supply chain from Colombia to New Orleans/South Mississippi.

He hadn't planned on the operation going straight to hell.

Apparently, somebody in Sal-Sal's operation had discovered his true identity, and the drug kingpin had called in his favorite assassin. A man with blood on his hands. A man named Dominic Jimenez, who insisted everyone call him Dom. C.J. suspected it was because he loved to dominate his victims. Dominate and torture them.

He hadn't tortured C.J., however. Sal-Sal's instructions to Dom, chilling words C.J. had been lucky enough to intercept, had read simply, Kill him quickly. So Dom had shot C.J. and stood over him while he bled. If not for Pilar, Sal-Sal's stoic housekeeper, the bastard would have finished the job. She distracted him long enough that C.J. was able to feign death, and then she promised to clean up Dom's mess—among other things. With a salacious chuckle that still rang in C.J.'s brain, the assassin let her do just that, and she smuggled C.J. off the property with the help of one of Sal-Sal's men instead of having the man dump him in the Gulf, as she'd been instructed, and C.J. had escaped with his life.

Only... the Feds had decided he was better off dead.

That had led to his inclusion in the Witness Security Program. He'd given his deposition, but was unable to provide any physical evidence against Sal-Sal and his assassin except the bullet that had almost killed him. The weapon Dom used had, of course, gone missing, and the assassin himself had slithered away into the shadows. So C.J. promised to testify if they ever got enough hard evidence to bring down the drug lord, but for now he remained in purgatory.

Waiting.

Wiley, what in the hell are you doin'? Eddie, his annoying, greasy haired boss yelled across the garage. You're 'sposed to be under Beasley's car, not gawking at the damned TV.

Just finishing my break, he said in self defense. When the Feds had asked him to go into witness protection, he hadn't considered he wouldn't be a cop anymore. That he'd have to fall back on his only other skill: auto mechanics, taught to him by his Uncle Ted when he was a teenager. Ted had been a cop, too. A state trooper. But he knew cars.

Eddie put his hands on his hips and glared at C.J. Get the freaking show on the road and finish that damned transmission. Today. Got that?

Yeah. I got it. He gritted his teeth. He liked working on cars—for fun, not as a profession. He'd only left home a couple of months ago, but he already missed wearing a badge.

Hell, he missed Hunter's Bayou. And Abby.

Never mind that he couldn't have her. If he could just see her every now and then on the job, that would be enough to settle the restlessness blossoming in his gut. To stop the ache that had risen within him, the compulsion to chuck it all and risk death just to see her.

Now that he knew she had mourned him—that he had hurt her—the pain ate him up inside. He'd been a fool to come on to Brenda at the shooting range, especially with Abby within earshot. That little incident had triggered their breakup, and he couldn't blame her. He didn't want her flirting with other men. Not that she ever did, but still...

I must have lost my freaking mind, he muttered to himself as he rolled back under the worn out Ford. He wanted the same happiness his parents had found before they'd been killed. A home, family, kids. The idea both excited and terrified him.

Yet what if he couldn't pull it off? That was one of the reasons he hadn't confessed to Abby that he wasn't really interested in Brenda, that he'd only hit on her out of habit. After all, he'd been single a helluva lot longer than he'd been in a relationship. Abby wasn't the first woman he'd dated, of course, but she was the only one he'd ever fully trusted.

His thoughts turned to the prepaid cell phone he'd squirreled away back at his apartment. He was supposed to forget all about his former life; to live here in Tucson as Wiley the mechanic and never look back. Yet every day he was more tempted than ever to break the contract he'd signed pledging his allegiance to the rules and call home. Mitch, or perhaps Tripp or Cash.

Maybe even Abby.

Eddie stalked over and paused beside C.J.'s feet. You sure you're gonna have this thing done 'fore Beasley gets here this afternoon, Jones?

You bet, sir, C.J. said after a long hesitation, once he realized his boss was talking to him. For the life of him, he couldn't think of himself as Wiley Jones. Add that to his other problems with witness protection, and he regretted his impulsive agreement to join the program.

Eddie burped. See that you do.

All right. He thought about the prepaid cell again as Eddie scuttled away. As much as he longed to use it, he knew he couldn't. Calling his friends in Hunter's Bayou might not only reveal his whereabouts to the cartel, but might even put them in danger.

Wiley Jones. Wiley Jones, the mechanic. Wiley Jones, from Tucson, Arizona. He rolled his new name, title, and hometown around in his mind some more.

He didn't like the unfamiliarity of it; the distance his new identity gave him from his real self, the admission that using his new name and living here in this dusty, godforsaken place meant he was in hiding.

Yet he had to live with all of it, at least for now, if he wanted to survive.

*****

Just got a call from one of my informants, DEA Agent Dave LeHane barked over the line to Sheriff Blaylock. Another shipment came in from Colombia last night via the Port of New Orleans.

Already? Are you sure? Blaylock asked, running a hand over his fresh crew cut. The cartel was bringing drugs into Keller County so often he and his men couldn't keep up. He'd never seen it so bad. Why didn't we find out earlier? Then we might've had a chance to—

We don't have anybody close to Sal-Sal, Dave broke in. "Without someone on the inside feeding us information, we're running on hearsay. I haven't had time to train anybody new, and the bastard seems to know our every move. I'm beginning to