The Cowboy's Deadly Mission. Addison Fox

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      “All good things.” Arden was already up, waving her in. The two women exchanged quick hugs before Arden gestured her to the table. “Come on in and take a seat.”

      In moments, Arden had a fresh mug of coffee and a plate in front of Belle before she rejoined them at the table. “Any updates?”

      “Not many.”

      “Do they know who it is?”

      “Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” Belle took a sip of her coffee—black, just like Arden’s—and pointed to the sink. “I’m just going to wash up.”

      Tate allowed his gaze to linger, the snug fit of her outfit outlining each and every curve of her body. She was thinner than he remembered. Leaner. Which was a surprise. She’d never been a heavy woman, but she’d always had a fair amount of curves. While he could still see the arch of her hips and the firm outline of her breasts when she turned back toward them, there was a decided leanness to her frame.

      One more thing cop work had taken away from her.

       And she also looks strong, Reynolds. Strong and lethal. And more than capable of protecting herself.

      Damn it.

      Just like his sister, he admired Belle’s desire to make her way in the world on her own terms and under her own steam. It just burned him that the woman couldn’t see the danger she subjected herself to by being a part of the police force.

      Since he’d been battling the same thoughts for more than a decade now, Tate pushed them away. He and Belle didn’t see eye to eye and nothing was going to change that. “Why do you still want to question the men?”

      “We need to talk to everyone. That includes all of you.”

      Tate leaned back in his chair. “Brace yourselves. Belle’s gonna pull out her Miranda rights.”

      “If I did do that, it would be for your protection,” she snapped back, that ire that he’d been poking for nearly his entire life sparking in her eyes. It was an old, familiar routine. It had also grown tired.

      Even with the emotional exhaustion, he couldn’t resist one more jab. It also gave him the ability to let her know he understood far more about her work than he let on. “Reading me those rights would also mean I was in custody. You putting handcuffs on me, Belly?”

      He knew the moment his taunt hit her and rebounded straight back to him. Like an uncontrollable Harry Potter curse, it swung back at him with unbelievable force. An image of Belle in handcuffs—and little else—filled his mind’s eye and every cell in his body stood up and took notice.

      “I like having rights,” Arden interjected, effectively ignoring his innuendo and dragging him out of the moment. “I thought you did, too.”

      Belle nodded, her own anger seeming to fade as she shifted her attention to Arden. “For the record, I didn’t read him anything. And if we get to a point where it’s needed, it’s done for legal protection. Same goes for your men.”

      “Yet you still want to question them?” Hoyt leaned forward and reached for another muffin. “You worried about any of them?”

      “I want to talk to them, nothing more. People see things and often don’t even realize the implications of what they’ve seen.”

      “You don’t think it’s drugs anymore?” Tate had wondered at that, but his earlier questions about his staff still nagged at him. Ranger and Tris had come to mind first, but what did he really know about his men?

      “We’re not ruling anything out yet.”

      Unbidden, an image of the man with the slit throat filled his mind’s eye. He’d known Belle long enough to know the image haunted her, as well.

      He just hoped she’d find the killer before they had a chance to act again.

      * * *

      He hefted the large duffel bag from the front entrance of his hidey-hole out at the edge of the Pass. Since it was small town USA, no one had even been around to pay him any attention as he drove through town early that morning, and they’d likely have paid him no mind, even if someone had.

      Heading for the small kitchen, he placed the duffel on the counter and got to work.

      Blood had dried on the knife, a stark reminder of the job he’d completed in the wee hours of this morning. A blight and a pestilence. That’s what drugs had become in Midnight Pass.

      And like any good landowner knew, you handled pests with force. One or two, you’d swat at and forget about them.

      But an infestation needed swift and active punishment.

      The police, then the Feds, had tried. But the enemy had only become craftier. The technology designed to find the drug runners had been used against the cops, identifying the trails each night that were open and unmanned.

      And where technology wasn’t a viable solution, good, old-fashioned recruitment had done the job.

      How many of Midnight Pass’s sons and daughters had been consumed by the blight? Lured into addiction, the promise of another fix more than enough incentive to mule for the kingpins who grew rich off their misery.

      He’d watched it all. First from a distance, and then later, when the need to act grew and grew until it consumed him. When it would be a personal sin to ignore the monstrous proportions of the plague that now hung over the Pass.

      So he’d acted.

      He’d practiced and waited and then practiced some more. The low-level drug runner based in Juarez had been first. He’d intended to use the gun he’d bought off the streets, but had been inspired at the last minute by the man’s extensive collection of knives.

      The smooth stroke of metal on flesh had been intoxicating.

      And it was then that he’d known. Had understood.

      Society needed riddance from its dregs and he had a mission. A purpose.

      More, he now had a calling.

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