Deputy's Secret (Welcome to Covendale Book 3)

  Deputy’s Secret

  Welcome to Covendale: Book 3

  Morgan Blaze

  She’s everything he wants, and the one thing he can’t have…

  Emma approached him slowly, a bright and sudden spark of desire growing with every step. Right now, the only thing better than bathing in a whirlpool tub would be bathing with Nick in a whirlpool tub. When she reached him, she said, “You know, this is definitely going to use all your hot water. And you’re just as soaked as me.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I can grab a shower later.”

  “Why wait? There’s plenty of room in there for two.”

  She couldn’t believe she’d said that. She was never this forward. But being around Nick made her feel safe—like nothing in the world could hurt her, as long as he was there. She knew this wasn’t the kind of crippling dependence her mother had. It felt good to trust him.

  He looked at her with burning eyes. “Emma, I…”

  Oh, God. Of course he didn’t want to. She was an idiot, acting exactly the way she’d sworn she wouldn’t. He was just being nice, helping her out, and here she was trying to jump him at the first opportunity. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You’re probably exhausted, and it’s not like we—”

  He kissed her.

  * * * *

  Read on for more!

  Prologue

  Greenway – One Year Ago

  When Nick Donovan walked into The Vault, it took everything he had not to turn around and walk back out. The place was dark, loud, and crowded. It stank of beer and pot and sweat. Besides the vicious fight under the spotlights in the elevated cage, there were at least two brawls in the audience he could see from here. This was not the place for an off-duty small town deputy.

  Even better, he was here to meet a man named Ankles Martello—a man any cop would be thrilled to arrest. But Nick was planning a business transaction with a guy who’d gotten his nickname by using a straight razor to hobble clients who crossed him.

  He didn’t have a choice, he told himself again. Covendale, the town where he lived and worked, had its own loan shark, but Eddie Verona couldn’t help him. Fifty grand was Verona’s limit on loans.

  Nick needed three hundred thousand, and he had about two weeks to get it.

  He spotted Ankles at a table next to the cage. A man of ample proportions, dressed in a bright red seersucker suit and holding a beer in one hand, and a joint in the other. The grin on his face contrasted with the stone expression of the man seated on his right—a massive slab of muscle who made Verona’s enforcer look like Tinkerbell.

  Ankles picked him out as he approached and waved him over. “Nicholas, sit down,” he said. “You’re right on time. I like punctuality.”

  Nick sat as far from the glaring gargoyle as possible. “Mr. Martello,” he said, nodding a greeting.

  “This here is my good friend, Pinky.” Ankles took a long pull on the joint and held it for a moment, then gusted out smoke and clipped the end carefully into an ashtray. “Try not to laugh at the name. It’s the one he likes to break first.”

  “Right,” Nick muttered. “Mr. Martello—”

  “Pinky, this is Charlie Donovan’s boy. You remember old Hammerhead Donovan, don’t you? Golden Gloves champ, six years running.” Ankles tossed back the rest of his drink. “How is your father, Nicholas?”

  “Dying.”

  The flat word finally drew the man’s full attention. “Now that’s a real shame,” he said softly. “Should I assume this is why I have the pleasure of your company?”

  Nick nodded. “There isn’t much time,” he said. “I need it now.”

  “Three hundred thousand.”

  “Yes.”

  Ankles fell silent, and Nick watched him intently as the queasy feeling in his gut increased. This never should’ve happened. His parents had Medicaid, but there’d been some issue with the paperwork the last time they renewed—and their coverage had promptly been cancelled. They hadn’t even been notified until his father went to the doctor with severe pain in his midsection.

  There, Charlie “Hammerhead” Donovan learned that he had three aneurysms in his hepatic artery, a matter of weeks to live unless he got surgery, and no insurance to cover it. But sorting out the mess with Medicaid was going to take months.

  No way was Nick going to let his father die because of a bunch of typos.

  “All right,” Ankles said at last. “Here’s what I’ll do for you. The sum you requested will be transferred into your account tomorrow. My interest rate is thirty-five percent. This is not negotiable.” He produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “And your repayment schedule is two large, every two weeks.”

  “Hundred?”

  Ankles laughed so hard, he choked on his cigarette. Pinky pounded him solemnly on the back until he finally gasped in a wheezing breath—and let it out in more laughter. “No, Nicholas. Two thousand.” He chuckled and wiped a few tears from his eyes. “Do I look like your friendly neighborhood bank?” he said. “Two hundred. Ridiculous. My shoes cost more than that.”

  The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He wasn’t exactly in a high-paying profession—he barely cleared two thousand in a month. “I can’t afford that,” he said hoarsely. “There’s no way.”

  “Oh, I understand completely,” Ankles said with mock sympathy. “I know what you do, and how much you make. That’s why you’re going to earn your payments right here.”

  “What?”

  “Come on now, Nicholas. Your father must’ve taught you a few moves.”

  Nick’s throat went dry. He looked from Ankles and Pinky to the cage beyond, where two masked men rolled around on a bloodstained mat, trading violent blows. “You want me to fight.”

  “Every other Friday,” Ankles said. “I bet a grand on you, and you win. That covers your payments. Fight more, win more, and you clear your debt faster.”

  “That’s not boxing.” His hands clenched tight enough to hurt. “I can’t—”

  “They’re amateurs.” Ankles made a dismissive gesture. “Most of these so-called fighters are desk jockeys and pencil pushers, trying to feel like real men for a few minutes. Anyone with a basic grasp of technique and some muscle to put behind it could take them down, no sweat.” He shrugged. “You’ve got both.”

  Nick shook his head slowly, staring at the cage. All of this was illegal as hell. And when, not if, he got roughed up, how was he supposed to explain that to his boss? Sheriff Tanner was far from a stupid man. He’d see through any flimsy excuse in about two seconds flat. “I’ll have to find another way,” he said, almost to himself—though he knew there wasn’t an alternative. “I can’t do this.”

  “You will do it.”

  Nick stared at Ankles. There was no mistaking the threat in his tone. “What if I don’t?”

  “Well, Nicholas…how can I put this delicately?” He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “You’re a pig. A flatfoot, a county mountie. Out on donut patrol. You, dear boy, are a cop. And you’re going to get your hands dirty tonight, so there’s no chance you can ever bust me. Or you’ll leave this place in a box.” An awful grin crossed his face. “So to speak.”

  Nick shuddered inwardly. Aside from the death threat, there just wasn’t any other way to get the money. His father had taught him more than a few moves over the years—in fact, they’d trained regularly together, and Nick kept it up on his own. But this wouldn’t be pounding on a punching bag. Amateurs or not, these were men who fought to hurt, to draw blood, to break bones if they could. Here there was no bell, no rounds, no ten-second count. No safety.

  No
choice.

  He’d have to be careful. Wear a mask at all times here, and groom his own personality so that no one back home would ever suspect he could be involved in something like this. Lead a completely split life. He considered himself a decent guy who mostly followed the rules. Now he’d have to be fanatical about it, to stay unquestionably above suspicion.

  And he could never lose.

  “All right,” he made himself say. “I’m in.”

  “Excellent decision.” Ankles extended a hand across the table. “And in honor of your father, we’ll call you The Hammer.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Nick Donovan shook hands with the devil, and consigned himself to hell.

  * * * *

  Emma Reid had expected more of a nightclub-type place. Loud music, lots of alcohol, people everywhere, and drunk guys who looked like her uncle trying to hit on her even though she had a date. Sort of.

  The Vault was crowded and had lots of alcohol. Two out of four still sucked. Especially since the main attraction was a couple of men in masks rolling around and punching each other, but not really getting anywhere with the whole fighting thing. They’d been at it for ten minutes now.

  “Seriously, Kyle,” she half-shouted, holding a hand beside her face to block the sight of the cage. She never should have agreed to this. She was only more or less dating Kyle Rutledge—she liked him well enough, and he was in most of her journalism classes. But she didn’t have time to get serious with anyone, and she certainly wasn’t going to end up dependent on a man like her mother. “I told you I have to study tonight. It’s my last year, and I can’t slack off now.”

  Kyle scowled at her. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get in this place? I had to pull some major strings to bring you.”

  She snorted. “Why should it be hard? It doesn’t look that exclusive to me. This place is bare-bones, and dirty, and—”

  “Illegal,” Kyle whispered sharply.

  “What?”

  “Does this look like it’s sanctioned?”

  “I have no idea. I’m not a big boxing fan.” Suddenly she was a lot more interested, from a reporter-to-be standpoint. “And you didn’t mention this illegal thing before? Okay, tell me all about it.”

  Kyle looked around, as if anyone could possibly be paying attention to them in all this chaos, and scooted his chair closer. “First of all, it’s not boxing,” he said. “It’s mixed martial arts—at least, that’s what they call it. These guys aren’t really trained, so it’s more like mixed do-whatever-you-feel-like.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “So who are they? The guys in the masks.”

  “Nobody knows for sure. But people say there’s all sorts who come to fight—ex-convicts, doctors and lawyers, blue-collar guys, politicians. Maybe even a few cops.”

  Emma was already writing the headline. Doctors Who Hurt Instead of Heal…no, that was lame. Police Brutality Reaches New Heights in Secret Fight Club. Oh, hell yes. Eight more months until she graduated. Then she’d get a job with the Greenway Post-Standard, and this would be her first story. A hard-hitting exposé on the world of underground fighting in the city.

  She grabbed Kyle’s hand. “How do I find out?”

  “Whoa,” he said. “Slow down, Ace. You don’t find out.”

  “Yes, I do. If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will.”

  “Emma.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to stay away from these guys,” he said. “I mean it. They’re dangerous, and they’ll do anything to keep their identities secret.”

  “We’ll see,” she said under her breath.

  His eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” She glanced back at the cage—but it was empty now. “Hey, what happened?” she said. “Who won?”

  “Don’t know,” Kyle said. “There should be…oh, right there. King Midas.”

  She frowned and followed his gaze to a small, three-line LED sign mounted above the cage. The top two lines said King Midas and Holy Terror, and there was a star next to King Midas.

  Then the sign flashed off and back on. This time it read Mayhem and The Hammer.

  Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Huh. I’ve never heard of The Hammer. Must be a new guy.”

  Emma decided to watch this one more closely. Maybe she’d catch a glimpse of something she could use to identify one of them—a tattoo, a birthmark, a scar. Dangerous or not, she was determined to get the story here. Even if it took her the next eight months.

  Two men entered the cage from opposite sides. Both wore t-shirts and jeans. One was tall and stocky with a red Mardi Gras type mask. The other was nicely ripped with a black ninja ski mask thing going on. She nudged Kyle and whispered, “Which one’s which?”

  “Mayhem’s the guy in the red mask,” he said. “The other one’s definitely new.”

  “So he’s The Hammer.”

  “Must be.”

  For the first minute or so, Mayhem danced around a little—shaking his hands, bouncing on his feet, twisting his neck. The Hammer just stood there. For some reason he seemed lost, or confused. Maybe reluctant. Whatever it was, Emma had the strangest feeling he didn’t want to be there.

  But in the next few seconds, he proved that theory wrong.

  Mayhem rushed across the cage, in response to apparently nothing. There wasn’t a bell, or any other signal it was time to start. The Hammer didn’t move, didn’t even try to block the fist heading for his face.

  At least, he didn’t appear to move. But the punch never touched him. Mayhem faltered a little, shook himself, and tried again.

  The Hammer hit his opponent twice, so fast his fists were a blur. Gut, chin. Mayhem crumpled to the floor.

  He didn’t get back up.

  Emma’s jaw dropped. Dimly she realized the crowd had fallen almost silent, save for an ocean of whispers rippling across the room. The Hammer stood there another moment—head bowed, fists clenched. At last, he pivoted and walked out of the cage.

  And Emma decided he was the one. Dangerous, mysterious, a real threat. He probably could’ve killed the other guy, and he didn’t seem to care. She’d just bet he was somebody really important, someone people would never believe did this stuff in a million years.

  She had to find out the real identity of The Hammer, and expose him to the world.

  Chapter 1

  Covendale, present day

  Emma stared out the curtain-less window in disbelief as the moving truck pulled up. Sixteen hours late. Unbelievable—now she couldn’t even be here while they unloaded her stuff. She couldn’t exactly call in for the first day of her new job.

  She kind of wanted to, though. All this time she’d fantasized about working for the Post-Standard, one of the last big daily newspapers. Well, sort of big. Medium, anyway. But they’d turned her down despite her persistence, and after four months of striking out everywhere, she’d finally found a job with The Covendale Banner.

  And here she was in this tiny little backwater town. Ready to write exclusive, award-winning stories about soapbox racing and pie-eating contests, or whatever they did for fun around here, for a newspaper that only came out one a week. Probably because there wasn’t enough news for a daily. At least she only had a six-month lease on the house, because she intended to head for the city—any city—the minute she got a better offer.

  She grabbed her purse and rushed outside, where two burly-looking guys were wrestling the back of the truck open. “Excuse me?” she said. “Um, you were supposed to be here last night. What happened?”

  One of the guys looked at her and shrugged. “Truck broke down.”

  “Oh. Well, why didn’t anyone tell me that yesterday?”

  “Didn’t have anybody ask about it.”

  “I called five times.”

  The guy shrugged again. “Not my job to answer the phone.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” she muttered. “Well, look. I have to leave, so…” She trailed off as she gl
anced at the open truck—and saw file cabinets, stacks of plastic bins, and a bunch of desks and wheeled chairs. None of it familiar, no sign of anything that belonged to her. All at once she felt a little queasy. “That’s not my stuff,” she said.

  The second guy frowned at her. “What do you mean, it’s not your stuff?”

  “I mean, this is not mine.” She gestured at the truck. “Look at it. It’s obviously for an office, right? This is a house.”

  “Lady, we don’t ask questions about what the stuff’s for. We just move it.” The second guy grabbed a clipboard from the inside wall of the truck. “Got the inventory list right here. Eight wheeled chairs, five computer desks—”

  “I don’t have eight wheeled chairs and five computer desks!” Emma wanted to cry, or maybe scream. “I have a couch, and a bed, and a table, and cardboard boxes. You know. House stuff. Because this is a house!”

  The first guy took the clipboard and stared at it. “You Emmet Redding?”

  “No!”

  He looked at the second guy. “I think we got the wrong stuff.”

  “You think?” Emma said through clenched teeth. She never should’ve gone with a company that called itself AAA1 Movers. But they were cheap, she was on a very tight budget, and she didn’t know anyone who could’ve helped her move. “Okay, look,” she said. “I have to go. Do you think you could take this back and bring my stuff, and I’ll leave the house unlocked for you? Just put it…inside somewhere.”

  “Well, we might not get it here today. This one’s scheduled for today,” the first guy said, whacking the clipboard.

  “But I was scheduled for yesterday!”

  “You’ll have to call the office. Not my job to do the schedule.”

  Before she could respond, the two of them hauled the rolling back door shut and walked toward the front of the truck.

  “Emma Reid,” she called after them. “Make sure it’s for Emma—”

  Two doors slammed shut at the same time, and the engine started.

  “Reid,” she muttered. Throwing her hands up in exasperation, she turned and stalked back toward the house. Damn it, now she was going to be late anyway. But if she was going to leave the house unlocked on the slim chance her stuff actually arrived today, she’d keep her essentials with her in the car. She had a duffel bag packed with her laptop, a few changes of clothes and a couple of valuables.