The Truth Page 3

  Doc Butler had been more than a boss to him. He’d been a teacher, mentor, and in some ways, a big brother.

  They’d met when Mercer was a student in International Relations and Foreign Language at Stanford University. Doc’s youngest sister, who was Mercer’s age, was also a student at the prestigious institution.

  Given he was also cross-enrolled as a Marine-option Navy ROTC student, he’d landed on Doc’s recruitment radar.

  Once he’d graduated with his bachelor’s degree, Mercer’s life went in a direction he never could’ve imagined. Instead of becoming a second lieutenant with a four-year service commitment, he went straight to Camp Lejeune, in North Carolina, to complete nine months of special forces training.

  At twenty-two years old, Mercer became the youngest member of an elite team comprised of active duty service members and CIA agents, called the Special Activities Division of the agency’s National Clandestine Service, or NCS.

  Four years later, Mercer accepted a job with a private-intelligence organization called K19 Solutions, which Doc had founded with Paps and Razor, two other guys from the team. The job turned into more when he was offered a stake in the company. Now, two years later, Mercer was wealthier than he’d ever dreamed, doing a job that included asset protection as well as covert influence and rigorous interrogation—or worse—when necessary.

  Mercer powered up his phone and sent a text to Paps. Landed.

  The space where Mercer’s vehicle was usually parked was empty. It should’ve been his first indication that something was up. He pulled out his phone and sent another text. Missing transport.

  Situation. L4P23.

  Mercer took the stairs to the fourth level and walked to the twenty-third spot, where instead of a vehicle, he found a bike waiting. “Hell, yeah,” he murmured, smiling as he picked up the helmet sitting on the Ducati Monster 1200.

  This wasn’t situational. This was Paps and Razor giving him a gift.

  Thanks, guys.

  Mercer brought the bike to life, trying to decide which of the many backroads he could take from the private airfield near San Luis Obispo, through the hills to Harmony, a small town on the Central Coast of California, where K19 owned a house. It wasn’t the only property they owned. There were many, including Mercer’s apartment in Quinn’s building.

  They’d chosen to buy in Harmony because of its relatively remote location, lack of a business district, and close proximity to Paso Robles.

  Mercer rolled his shoulders as he left the parking structure. This is what he’d needed. Even fifteen minutes out on the open road, away from the oppressing heat and noise of New York City, would help him face whatever shit was about to hurl his way.

  “Appreciate the ride, boys,” Mercer said to Razor and Paps when he walked into the house from the garage where he’d parked the Ducati.

  Paps scrubbed his face with his hand. “Hey, Eighty-eight.” The man looked as though he hadn’t slept in several days.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We need to tighten Skipper’s detail,” answered Razor.

  “Why?”

  “What does the name Rory Calder mean to you?”

  Four years ago

  “Jesus Christ.” His boss slammed his phone on the table, hard enough to have broken it.

  “What’s up, Doc?” Mercer asked.

  “That shit never gets old,” Doc snapped.

  “Sorry, sir,” Mercer mumbled.

  “Close the damn door.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Mercer had been briefed on a case that went back eighteen years, involving a Marine-turned-Russian-spy named Rory Calder, a rape, a secret marriage, and a baby.

  The baby’s NCS-supplied birth certificate listed her name as Quinn Analise Sullivan.

  The cover story was that Quinn’s father, Angus Sullivan, an officer in the Marines, had been killed in action before she was born. Her mother, Lena Hess, who came from a prominent family in California, never took Quinn’s father’s last name.

  In actuality, the Sullivan identity had been created to ensure that no one knew the baby’s connection to either her mother or father.

  The reason Doc had slammed the phone down, and brought Mercer in, was that Quinn, code named Skipper, had started proceedings to legally change her last name from Sullivan to Hess. The call had come from Lena, asking Doc to put a stop to it. That job landed in Mercer’s lap.

  The next time he’d heard Calder’s name was right after a K19 morning meeting, when Doc asked Mercer to come into his office.

  “I’ve accepted an assignment, and it’s the most dangerous of my career,” Doc told him.

  The mission, he explained, was to find a former agent who’d gone rogue. Without him saying, Mercer knew the agent Doc was referring to was John “Leech” Hess, Lena Hess’ father, and Quinn’s grandfather.

  The information had been compartmentalized and slow to come in, but according to Doc, the long-retired agent was on a suicide mission. His intention was to infiltrate Russian intelligence and assassinate the spy who had not only betrayed his country, but Leech himself, along with dozens of other agents who had been assassinated when their covers were blown. That spy was Rory Calder.

  “I need a promise from you, Eighty-eight,” Doc said.

  “Anything, boss.”

  “Quinn.”

  One word—one name—and Mercer knew what Doc expected of him; he vowed to protect her until the day his boss returned.

  Less than a month later, they’d received the news that Doc had been killed in action.

  Even Mercer wasn’t sure if he was truly dead or in so deep, no one was certain.

  Doc, Paps, Razor, and Mercer, the four men who owned K19 Solutions equally, each had a safe-deposit box that was to be opened by the other three in the event of one’s death.

  Since that day, Mercer had continued to honor his original promise, as well as meticulously carry out the other instructions Doc had left for him in the safe box.

  In the four years since he’d first heard her name, Quinn had gone from a teenager who only required peripheral monitoring, to a young woman who would find herself in grave danger if the man they were talking about discovered her true identity.

  “Give me the rundown,” Mercer said to Paps.

  “He’s resurfaced, and the timing couldn’t be more concerning.”

  “This means Leech didn’t get to him,” added Razor. “Neither did Doc.”

  Given both men were missing, presumed or reported dead, the natural assumption was that Calder had gotten to them first.

  “What’s he doing here?” Mercer asked.

  “Right now, playing prodigal son returned from the dead, and elbows deep in his family’s wine business.”

  “How long has he been back?”

  “No one knows,” Razor answered.

  Even more concerning given that meant he had been operating under the radar, doing God knows what or for how long.

  “Where’s Lena?” Mercer asked Paps. He knew she was there; her pearl-white Mercedes CLS400 Coupe was parked in the same garage where Mercer had left the Ducati.

  Paps groaned and shook his head.

  Yeah, there was no love lost between Paps and his asset. They’d pretty much hated each other since the day he was assigned as lead on her detail. Mercer had to admit, if he’d been her lead, he might’ve killed her himself by now.

  “She’s sleeping,” Razor grunted.

  It was well after noon, but Mercer wasn’t surprised to hear she hadn’t been up yet this morning. The news of Calder surfacing had to have spooked her since she’d lived the last twenty-one years of her life, expecting him to. The woman lived under constant protection, seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. There was no semblance of privacy, no sneaking off for a vacation on her own, and no real time spent with her daughter.

  Razor spun back around in his chair. “So, Skipper…”

  Mercer rolled his shoulders.

  “Hello,” came a voi
ce from the hallway.

  Both Razor and Paps stood when Lena walked in, but she didn’t take either of their seats. Instead, she stood with her arms folded.

  If he’d never met Quinn, Mercer wouldn’t have been able to guess her mother’s natural hair color. Like her daughter’s, her shoulder-length hair was almost white, although he wondered if she realized it looked more gray than blonde. Also like her daughter, Lena was tall and thin, but her body had lost the natural athleticism Quinn possessed. The tan hue of her skin didn’t look any more natural than her hair, and her bright-orange lipstick and matching fingernails made her look cartoonish.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “We have a plan, Barbie, and as I’ve said numerous times, it isn’t for you to worry over, just for you to carry out.”

  Lena’s eyes shot daggers at Paps, and then she turned to Mercer.

  “Can we talk in private?”

  He nodded, and then led her into another room that they’d set up as a typical common area, with sofas, chairs, and a media center.

  “I’m the one who discovered he was back.”

  “How?”

  “He came to view the property.”

  Lena had recently put half of the Hess Estate on the market, and from what he’d heard from Paps, interest had been far greater than they’d anticipated.

  “Who signed the non-disclosure?”

  “There has been so much interest in this land that it’s been impossible to keep up with every showing.”

  He was ready to throttle her. “Who signed the non-disclosure, Lena?”

  “Someone named Trey Deveux, which is why it didn’t register.”

  The name meant nothing to him either, but there was no doubt Paps and Razor had passed it on to their team to investigate the connection.

  “Tell me how you discovered Calder,” Mercer coaxed.

  “Yesterday, when I was taking a walk in the vineyard, I saw someone come out of the wine caves. I knew it was him, but I convinced myself my eyes were playing tricks on me. And then he approached me.” Lena shuddered. “He could’ve killed me if he’d wanted to.”

  Mercer doubted that; she was never without protection. “He couldn’t have. Paps was there.”

  “There’s something else you should know.”

  Mercer nodded, indicating she should continue.

  “Enzo Avila has been storing wine in our caves.”

  “Why?” And what the hell did that have to do with anything?

  “There’s a bond issue. They overproduced and didn’t bring their tax bond up to the appropriate level.”

  “So he’s hiding it.”

  Lena nodded.

  Which meant the Alcohol Tax Bureau was involved, or would be if they found out about it. When his conversation with Lena ended, Mercer would ask Paps what he knew, because obviously, he would know more than she did.

  “How does this relate to Calder?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Mercer sighed. “What else do I need to know right now, Lena?”

  “What about Quinn?”

  “She’s safe.”

  “How can you be sure if you’re here?”

  Mercer felt his shoulders tightening, the way they did whenever she questioned him. “That isn’t your concern.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  Mercer knew the argument Lena wanted to have with him would go nowhere. Other than reassuring her that her daughter was safe, as he had countless times before, there was nothing more for them to talk about.

  “Have there been any offers on the property?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but I expect there will be soon.”

  Mercer was glad to hear nothing had come in yet. Something about Calder being in the wine caves nagged at him. What reason would he have for snooping around down there?

  When he walked away, he was relieved that she didn’t follow.

  “Is it possible to cancel the contract on the Old Creek Road property listing?” he asked his two partners.

  “Why?” Razor wanted to know.

  “Because there’s got to be a reason Calder was in those caves,” answered Paps.

  “I agree,” Mercer added.

  “Easy enough,” said Razor, picking up the phone.

  A few minutes later, he ended the call. “Done. Wendt will take care of it.”

  Peter Wendt had been Doc and Lena’s attorney for years, but more importantly, he was a former operative with close ties to K19 Solutions.

  “Who’s gonna tell Barbie?” Razor asked next.

  “I will,” sighed Mercer.

  Paps had to deal with her every single day in one way or another, even when someone else was on her detail. The least Mercer could do was give him a break today. As he walked away to find out where she’d gone, he didn’t hear Paps protest.

  Lena’s reaction was much as he’d expected.

  “I need to sell that property,” she argued. “I need the money.”

  “No, you don’t,” countered Mercer.

  “The three of you seem to have forgotten the man who raped and left me for dead twenty years ago is back. If you think I’m going to sit around and wait for him to finish the job, you’re wrong. I’m outta here, just as soon as I can make arrangements.”

  Mercer wanted to roll his eyes, but didn’t. Even if Lena was capable of making arrangements to disappear, there would be no way she’d get away with it. Whatever she did next, wherever she went, would be planned and orchestrated down to the last detail by K19.

  “I agree you shouldn’t be here, and when it’s appropriate, we’ll make the necessary arrangements. You know this. You also know there is more than enough money available to allow you to live comfortably wherever you go, for as long as you’re there.”

  Mercer had no idea what had possessed Lena to want to sell the balance of the Hess Estate in the first place, but when she decided to, he, Paps, and Razor had seen no reason to stop her. However, things had changed, and now they had to get to the bottom of why Calder was snooping around in the caves.

  “But—”

  Mercer didn’t interrupt her with words, he just shook his head.

  “I’ve never liked you.”

  That had been obvious four years ago, when, instead of Doc, he’d been the one to quash Quinn’s attempted name change. While her concern had been warranted, Mercer wondered, at the time, if she’d also hoped to use it as an excuse to spend time with her former husband.

  By then, Doc had been involved with another woman, and even if he hadn’t been, Mercer doubted he would’ve shared Lena’s interest.

  “I still don’t understand why he put you in charge of my daughter. I guess you’re better than Tweedledum and Tweedledee in there.” She motioned toward the other room.

  He refused to have this conversation with her. She had no idea of the lengths the two men she’d just disparaged had gone to in order protect her family, and she never would. Although Mercer, too, had wondered why Doc had chosen him when he called him into his office, a year and a half ago, and made him lead on Quinn’s detail.

  “What the f—” they heard from the other room.

  Lena raced in ahead of Mercer who saw that, by the time they entered the room, the screens were dark.

  “I don’t like any of you,” she muttered as she spun on her heel to walk out.

  Mercer followed.

  “I’m having dinner with Maddox on Friday,” she said before slamming the bedroom door closed.

  Good. By then he’d know about the land Doc had left him. Mercer went back in to find out what Paps had been swearing about.

  “Let’s flip a coin and see who gets to go beat the shit out of him,” he heard Razor say.

  “Who?” Mercer asked.

  “Lang Becker. Peyton’s ex is trying to get custody of her boys.”

  In the end they decided Paps should be the one to go into the bar and talk to Lang since he looked more like Doc than Razor did. Given Lang was typically
half in the bag by this time of day, it wouldn’t be hard to convince him that he was being visited by Kade Butler’s ghost, or the man himself. Either way, the plan was to scare him shitless enough that he’d agree to drop the custody petition.

  Paps was rubbing his chest when he walked out of the bar and back to the truck. “It would be funny if it didn’t hurt so fucking bad.”

  Mercer knew exactly what Paps meant. Whether they were all equal partners or not, Doc had been their leader, and his loss hit all of them damn hard.

  4

  Precious. Mr. Mercer had called her precious. While everything else from last night was a blur, that word, spoken in his voice, was crystal clear. It hadn’t been a dream; he’d been here, in her apartment.

  Quinn meandered to the kitchen, practically walking on air, but stopped when she saw a piece of paper on the floor, just inside her door.

  “Mr. Mercer,” she whispered.

  As she ran her fingers over the words he’d written, something occurred to her. She carried the note into the kitchen and over to the dining table where she’d moved the vase of roses. They’d wilted, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw them away.

  She pulled the card from between the thorny stems and held it next to the note. The handwriting was a perfect match. Quinn wondered how he’d known it was her birthday, her twenty-first at that?

  It didn’t matter. A handsome man had given her flowers, kissed her, and called her “precious.” He’d left her a note and invited her to breakfast. He wasn’t someone she’d met at a party, or in a bar. He wasn’t a player; he lived in her building.

  As excited as Quinn had initially been to tell her tribe about Mercer, something made her hold back. Even when they went on and on about the guys they’d met, she found herself wanting to keep her guy to herself.

  She replayed every minute she’d been with him over and over in her head, until even that got boring. Then, she imagined what it would be like when he came back. After all, he had invited her to breakfast.

  A few days. That’s what his note had said. He’d be out of town a few days. What did that mean? More than two, right? But less than five. Five would be several. Wouldn’t it?