Fatal Secrets: Brotherhood Protectors World Read online

  Fatal Secrets

  Brotherhood Protectors World

  Desiree Holt

  Contents

  Brotherhood Protectors

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Guarding Jenna

  Chapter 1

  About Desiree Holt

  Brotherhood Protectors

  About Elle James

  Copyright © 2020, Desiree Holt

  Formatting by Wizards in Publishing

  Cover by Croco Designs

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  © 2020 Twisted Page Press, LLC ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used, stored, reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review purposes as permitted by law.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.

  Brotherhood Protectors

  Original Series by Elle James

  Brotherhood Protectors Series

  Montana SEAL (#1)

  Bride Protector SEAL (#2)

  Montana D-Force (#3)

  Cowboy D-Force (#4)

  Montana Ranger (#5)

  Montana Dog Soldier (#6)

  Montana SEAL Daddy (#7)

  Montana Ranger’s Wedding Vow (#8)

  Montana SEAL Undercover Daddy (#9)

  Cape Cod SEAL Rescue (#10)

  Montana SEAL Friendly Fire (#11)

  Montana SEAL’s Mail-Order Bride (#12)

  SEAL Justice (#13)

  Ranger Creed (#14)

  Delta Force Rescue (#15)

  Montana Rescue (Sleeper SEAL)

  Hot SEAL Salty Dog (SEALs in Paradise)

  Hot SEAL Hawaiian Nights (SEALs in Paradise)

  Hot SEAL Bachelor Party (SEALs in Paradise)

  Thank you

  To those who help me labor, who support me in the toughest hours, who encourage me, who brighten my day and make it all worthwhile: Margie Hager who reads it all in its rawest form; to Steven Horwitz, without a doubt the best most supportive son in the world; to my daughters Suzanne Hurst and Amy Nease for their unflagging encouragement and support. And to Maria Connor, world’s best assistant, without whom there would be no Desiree Holt.

  To Elle James, for inviting me into her World and sharing her characters with me.

  Last but far from least, my wonderful readers who take this journey with me every day and who have made writing these books a blessing.

  Prologue

  The men sat in the living room of the hunting lodge, each with a glass filled with Old Rip Van Winkle twenty-five-year-old Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey. It sold for somewhere north of twenty thousand dollars a bottle, but the man who liked to call himself Baron, because one of his ancestors had held that title, could afford a closetful. He took a slow sip of the rich-tasting liquid, letting it slide slowly down his throat. If he couldn’t solve his problem, not even a full bottle would be able to help.

  He looked at the man sitting in the big armchair across from him, also with a glass of the whiskey.

  “I thought we were done with this.”

  “We were.” The man known to only his very closest associates as Verne—a fraternity nickname from his college days—took a swallow of his own drink. “It’s been ten years, for god’s sake. Who thought someone would decide to dig it up again?”

  “We all should have been prepared. Zoe Ward was a pain in the ass when it happened, and she’s turning out to be even more of one now. It’s obvious she never let this go.”

  The man known as Mac, standing at the bar pouring his own drink, grunted.

  “I said that from day one. If we’d arranged an ‘accident’ when she first brought this up, no one would be the wiser, and there wouldn’t have been a stink. Now, it’s all coming back to haunt us because that fucking reporter is writing a book about it.”

  “Maybe someone could lose the files and we’d be done with it,” Mac suggested.

  “Get real,” Verne snorted. “It was hard enough the first time around. This time, people would be on the alert, and there’d be questions.”

  “Go figure someone would care that much about a fucking paralegal, after all this time,” Baron snapped. “I don’tcare how you do it but get it done.”

  “Or I will,” Mac told them.

  “No.” Verne drained the rest of his drink and poured another. “Just scare the shit out of her. Don’t leave any traces. I know she’s a stubborn bitch, but everyone has a trigger. Find hers and frighten her enough she drops this altogether.”

  “And exactly how the fuck are we supposed to do that?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Mac told then. “We don’t have a choice. And we’d better do it before we leave here, or we’re all in a shitload of trouble.”

  “Don’t forget she’s now got that SEAL with her attached at the hip,” Verne pointed out. “You can’t go around eliminating veterans, especially decorated ones. The publicity will kill us as much as anything else.”

  “How about a double accident? That is plausible,” Mac said at last.

  “As I pointed out, killing her is going to raise more questions than we want to deal with. Maybe killing her isn’t the answer. If she doesn’t scare away, maybe putting her out of commission for a while would work.”

  “It would have to not raise any questions.”

  “Leave it to me. I’m the expert here. I’ll figure it out and get someone on it.”

  Baron looked around at the other two. “We can’t meet to discuss this again.”

  Verne nodded. “You and I can’t be anywhere around this. We won’t get together like this again. But it better get taken care of before we’re all destroyed.”

  He tossed back the rest of his bourbon, wondering if they were close to that precipice anyway. If this didn’t get taken care of, he was going to lose everything he’d worked so hard for, and that was not at all acceptable.

  Chapter 1

  I wish the damn rain would stop.

  To Zoe Young it seemed as if it had been raining forever, at least here in Helena, Montana. For the past three days, she’d been dodging raindrops—and sometimes getting soaked—while squeezing in interviews to finish a story she’d promised her editor she’d see through. It was the least she could do when he’d agreed to give her the time off so she could work on her latest book.

  That book was her real reason for being in Helena. The book that had become the center of her whole life. An obsession, her editor called it. Maybe he was right. It certainly had played havoc with her social life for the past ten years. Guys apparently lost the urge to connect with her in any way when she launched into her passionate soliloquy about Justine DeLuca’s death. Murder. The subject certainly was a killer. Killer. Ha ha. If it weren’t for her fun toys, she’d have no sex life at all.

  Everyone had marked Justine’s death a cold case before a month had pa
ssed, but it wasn’t personal to them. She kept getting the message there were no clues and nothing in her personal life that would cause this. Wrong place, wrong time, the police kept telling her. Everyone had just gone on with their lives, living with the sadness.

  But not Zoe. Justine had been her best friend, and Zoe still felt her loss like a sharp pain. Besides, Zoe’d had a feeling all this time that there was something people were missing. The few times she’d tried to dig into it, nothing had popped. But now, with a contract to write the book and unlimited time, she was going to examine everything about Justine’s life at that time. She finally had her chance to find some answers. All she had to do was find the right string to pull.

  But all the digging through old newspapers, computer files, and anything else she could get her hands on, which wasn’t much, hadn’t produced a lot, not after ten years. Trying to chase down clues that were almost nonexistent was a frustrating, disappointing project. Looking through old records and newspapers, trying to see if there was anyone at all to talk to. After ten years, it wasn’t easy. Just in case, she’d downloaded articles about major crimes that were in the process of being prosecuted at the time but, lord knew, finding a connection might be next to impossible.

  People kept telling her to leave it alone. It was over. That sometimes, sadly, there weren’t answers, but she refused to believe that. Not anymore. She didn’t care if she ruffled the wrong feathers or burst someone’s bubble. It was long past time to get answers. To make someone pay. Besides, if there was nothing there, why had she received warnings in her email and on her cell? These were signs she’d certainly pulled someone’s chain, and she wasn’t going to be warned.

  She’d waited too long to do this and she wasn’t giving up. This case was very personal for her, and she wasn’t letting it go. Even after all this time, there still had to be answers out there somewhere, and she was going to find them. She’d made it a personal crusade, since no one else seemed to be pursuing it after all this time.

  The county prosecutor, Warren Craig, had done her a favor by agreeing to meet with her again. Coffee with him had been her last meeting after three days of digging and research and trying to get people to talk to her.

  Craig was a good-looking man. His thick head of wavy brown hair was showing streaks of gray, but she thought that might be as much from his job as from age. Dark-brown eyes now had a world-weary look, and the sculptured face a few new lines. He had a reputation as a hard-as-nails prosecutor, working with law enforcement to keep major crime out of the county.

  She knew he had both an undergraduate and law degree from the University of Montana. His father, senior partner in a law firm that represented Montana’s wealthiest people, had wanted Warren to go to Harvard and then join the law firm, but Warren had made it plain that he was after public service. He’d worked his way up until he was elected to the position of chief prosecutor, a tough job Zoe was well aware of. She had the sense Justine’s death weighed as heavily on him as it did on her.

  “Believe me,” he told her. “I don’t think there is anyone besides you who wants answers more than I do. Justine was a very valuable member of my staff and a great person. She worked her ass off, digging out things in paperwork that someone else might have missed. A good many of the cases I won were because of her. Everyone loved her.”

  “Not everyone.” She shook her head. “Otherwise she wouldn’t be dead.”

  “True that.”

  “Someone’s keeping secrets, Warren, and they’ve been keeping them for ten years. It’s time to dig them out.”

  “People will do anything to protect themselves,” he agreed, a shadow passing faintly across his eyes. “Okay, I will pull out everything we’ve got on the case and go over it again. I promise I’ll look at every detail. If I find even the smallest thread to tug, I’ll give it a good yank.”

  But he knew how frustrated she was, despite the fact he told her he thought they were at a dead end. He’d given her time in his office to again pepper him with questions. Besides, Justine had been one of his staff members so, as he told her, he still had a vested interest in the case.

  Now it was Friday night, and the week was behind her. Everyone else was either going out or shacking up. She wanted a dry place and a good stiff drink. That was all. Something to ease the strain of the last few days. Too bad she still had a two-and-a-half hour drive before she could have either. That close to home she’d deadhead it out and collapse on her own bed. Thank God it would be a straight shot down Interstate 94 as soon as she reached it. A little longer, she told herself. But oh lordy, if only she could have that drink right now. Something to wipe away the cobwebs in her brain and settle her down for the gloomy drive home to Bozeman. It wasn’t far, four hours from where she was to her apartment complex, but she was physically and mentally exhausted. Drained. She wanted a small drink in a quiet place before she hit the road. Something to soothe her rattled brain.

  As if in answer to her prayers, as she turned a corner in the highway leading to the interstate, a flashing neon sign on her right caught her attention.

  “Red’s Place.”

  That was all, just those two words blinking over the entrance to a freestanding stone and wood building. Next to it stretched a one-story motel. Zoe would bet it got a lot of business from the bar. Even on a night as bad as this, the parking lot was nearly full. Either people didn’t mind the rain or they were desperate for their drinks. On impulse she turned off the roadway into the lot and parked as close to the door as she could get. Grabbing her purse and holding her jacket over her head, she made a dash for the entrance, shoved the door open, and hurried inside.

  The interior was exactly what she expected—a large room with booths along two walls, some tables and chairs in the middle, and stools lining the bar against the opposite wall. At the far left a dime-size platform held a set of drums and a couple of guitars. No music, so it must be break time.

  Hello, copy of every bar in Montana.

  The place was about two-thirds full, not bad for a rainy night, and she tried to decide where to sit. A booth probably would have suited her better, but she felt the need for some human contact even if it was with a stranger. The long bar seemed to be where most of the customers were, so, when the bartender looked up from serving a drink and smiled at her, she headed in his direction.

  She never could figure out after the fact why, with other empty stools, she took the one next to the guy in faded jeans and a tight T-shirt. The rigid line of his body was as obvious as a Keep Away sign. Maybe she picked that seat because he wasn’t likely to bother her with questions or pickup lines, neither of which she was in the mood for. When she hoisted herself onto the stool, he slid a brief glance her way. She gave him a polite smile, but he ignored her, looked back at his drink and took a deep swallow, as if she wasn’t even there. Or gave him a bad taste.

  Oo-kay. So that’s how it is.

  Fine. She wasn’t in a social mood, anyway. Give her a drink and leave her alone.

  “What can I pour for you?” The bartender, wearing a bright T-shirt with a Red’s Place logo on it, had moved in front of her.

  She was tempted to order a double shot of bourbon on the rocks. Trying to get information from people on a nasty episode no one wanted to discuss could fray anyone’s nerves. She still had to drive back to Bozeman, though, so she settled for a whiskey sour, which at least gave her the bourbon but with a mix to tame it down.

  She took a sip and let the mixture slide easily down her throat. Even with that small amount in her system, she felt the edge of the past few days begin to soften and slide away. She took another little swallow and looked over again at the man next to her.

  It was hard to tell someone’s height when they were sitting down, but she figured from the long legs in the faded jeans he had to be pretty close to six feet. His brown hair had the kind of blond streaks the sun created naturally and that women would spend a hundred dollars for. It was long enough that it brushed below the co
llar of his T-shirt. His arms were muscular, the kind of muscles that came from hard work of some kind, not hours at a gym. On his right arm, the one closest to her, a long scar stretched from his elbow to his wrist.

  But his face, at least from a side view, interested her the most. Square jaw that made him look like he clenched his teeth a lot. Sharp cheekbones. Straight nose. She wished she could see the rest of his face, but he was facing straight ahead. Besides, he had a big invisible Keep Away sign on him, but for some reason she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Why was she even interested?

  As if he could feel her eyes on him, he lifted his glass to take a drink and slid his gaze sideways toward her. She knew she should ignore him but her stupid independent mouth curved into a smile, and she lifted her glass in a mock toast.

  He turned to her again, giving her a hard look as if he could vaporize her with nothing more than a glance.

  She was shocked when he actually spoke to her.

  “If you’re going to be perky and cheerful, get away from me now.” His voice was rough and gravelly, rusty as if he hadn’t used it for a long time. “I’m allergic to those two conditions.”

  She stared at him, slightly stunned by the sharpness of his words.

  “Sorry. I was trying to be friendly. Nothing more.” Although she had no idea why.

  “Too bad. Not in my vocabulary. I’m only friendly with my drink.” He studied the liquid in the glass. “That’s all I need.”

  “Now, that’s not so.” The bartender refilled the man’s glass and wiped the bar in front of him. “You actually said ten words to me earlier. And I think you just said more than a dozen words to this nice lady here.”