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Taylor had no idea how long she’d sat on the ground, crying over the doomed life of a sickly calf. She got up and returned to her truck. She’d left the door open when she got out. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw the cordon of predators shifting slightly. It was time for them to strike, she could sense it. She looked around and found a large rock, which she hurled at the birds. It struck one in the wing, but the vulture simply shook it off, so focused on its meal it couldn’t be bothered. Taylor wiped the rest of the tears from her eyes. There was nothing more she could do. This was a part of life, this process of the dead feeding the living. The survival of the fittest, the weak providing sustenance for the strong. It didn’t have to be this way, not in this instance, but it had happened so many countless times in the past…. Taylor got in the truck and pulled away. She did a U-turn and headed back toward the house. She owed Baldwin an apology. Damn that man for being right all the time.
Fifty-One
Nashville, Te
Wednesday, December 24
4:30 p.m.
Taylor sat at a round café table, the pungent aroma of coffee permeating the room. She took a sip of her latte, not tasting the contents of the cup. She resisted the urge to put her head in her hands. What a position to be in. She adjusted her weapon, settling it into a more comfortable spot under her arm. She rarely carried concealed, and wondered briefly why she had eschewed her normal hip holster in favor of the shoulder harness. Baldwin preferred the harness, wanted the easy access of the gun coupled with the concealment afforded having the weapon tucked away. Not Taylor. She preferred it hanging on to her hip like a barnacle.
The door jangled, and she looked up, breath in her throat. It was time, then. Baldwin had made the arrange
ments.
She had her role to play.
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Win Jackson cast furtive glances around the small café. Taylor recognized him casing the place, looking for exits, assessing the crowd, making sure he could get away. She put her hands on the table in front of her, the diamond on her left hand winking. Just a normal coffee date between a father and his daughter.
Taylor got caught up in the fantasy for a moment. As he drew closer, she fought the urge to stand and throw her arms around him, greet him warmly with a long-overdue hug. Instead, she stayed put, a stone figure. This man, her own flesh and blood, was up to his ears in mobsters and friends with serial killers. Jesus.
Win reached the table and sat heavily. His eyes were bloodshot, his gray hair mussed. The sour stench of dayold beer reached her nostrils. He looked like he’d been on the run for a while.
“Nice ring,” Win opened.
Taylor spit out a little laugh. “Yeah. Not so bad. How are you?” Damn it, Taylor, what are you doing? You don’t care about this man. Why are you asking how he is?
Win looked surprised by the question. “I’ve been better, actually. Being dead isn’t so easy.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten yourself in that position in the first place.”
“Who are you to judge, Taylor? I remember your phi
losophy when you were a kid. There but for the grace of God go I, and all that? What happened to that little girl, huh?”
“She grew up.” Her tone was frosty. Win had just made a tactical mistake. Playing on their old relationship, fragile as it may have been, was not the gambit that was going to work with her. She felt her heart shut down, became all-business. 392
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“Why did you want to meet with me, Win?”
“I don’t even warrant Father from you anymore, Taylor? That is what I am, after all. Your father.”
She met his eyes. A combination of diffidence and begging lurked behind the gray irises, so very like her own, and he looked away.
“You can’t even meet my eye. How am I supposed to call you Daddy when I know what you are?”
“What am I? Huh, Taylor? Answer that. You don’t know anything about—”
“Don’t push me, Win. It won’t work.” She leaned back in the chair, lifted her cup to her lips. This charade needed to end.
“Seriously, Win. Why did you want to meet with me?
It’s a little dangerous to go meeting with the cops when you’re on the run from us, isn’t it?”
“Because I need your help. And you need mine.”
“Really? I need your help? Hardly.”
Win leaned forward. “Get me a cup of coffee and I’ll explain.”
“You’ll explain now. I don’t have time for cloak-and
dagger shit, nor do I intend to sit here all afternoon while you try to play your little games. Talk.”
Win folded his arms across his chest, closing himself off. “You have a hard heart, daughter. I’m sure that fiancé
of yours is in for quite a ride.”
“Leave him out of it.” She pushed the argument away.
“No. I…I need him, too.”
The flash of anger came so intensely she had trouble tamping it back down. Now she knew what was happen
ing. Good old Win. He didn’t want to see her, like he claimed. Nope, that wasn’t it at all.
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“Talk,” she commanded.
“Only for immunity. I’ll give the feds everything they need to take Malik down. And trust me, I know where the bodies are buried.”
“I’m so proud,” Taylor murmured.
“And I need witness protection. I want to disappear.”
“That shouldn’t be so hard. You’ve been a master at that my whole life.”
“I’m serious, Taylor. I need protection. Malik is capable of many things, and he has a lot of friends who are just as bloodthirsty. They’ll see me dead before they let me talk. I need your word, Taylor.”
“No,” she said, as calmly and softly as she could muster.
Win Jackson’s eyes bulged. “What do you mean, no?
You can’t say no. You’re not authorized. You don’t work for them. You can’t make a decision like this.” The des
peration in his voice was so hard to hear. Damn it, he was scared. But that wasn’t her problem. Her heart was stone.
“I’m sorry, Win. Malik was taken into custody this morning and turned over to the Argentinean government for human trafficking. He’s being extradited as we speak. We don’t need you. I don’t need you.”
She stood, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“Goodbye, Dad.” She turned and started for the door. Damn Anthony Malik. L’Uomo. The Man had fucked them both. He’d taken a man who might have had a future, and tossed him down the rat hole. He’d taken her father and turned him into just the kind of man Taylor despised.
“Taylor, please?”
She turned and saw Win, standing by the table, his hands out. “Taylor, you can’t do this. He’ll kill me. It 394
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doesn’t matter whether he’s in custody. You have to get me out of town. I need money and transportation. You need to save me. For God’s sake, I’m your father.” He took a step toward her; her hand automatically crossed her body, went to her weapon. She dropped it as soon as she realized, but Win had caught the movement.
“What, were you going to shoot me?”
“No, Win.”
“You have to help me. Please,” he begged again. Some
thing in her tore.
It was too much to ask. This charade was impossible. She was a cop. That’s who she was always meant to be. It was ingrained in her DNA, in her blood. Blood she’d spilled in pursuit of the truth, to be honest, and faithful to the law.
This was the plan, that she’d exit the building, walk away from her father and his crimes forever. Baldwin had told her that the Argentinean authorities weren’t going to press charges against him, that he was in essence a free man. Damn Baldwin, he knew her better than she knew her
self. How did she think she was going to live with letting her father, the criminal, walk away? She wasn’t. She real