Page 37 of Lone Star

“What?”

“We have more than one niece.”

Fox thought on that a moment. He tended to forget most of the time that Walsh had procreated. King had always been nearly as monkish as Albie – at least in front of all the guys – so, if not for her giant blue Devin Green eyes, Fox could have easily believed that Walsh had had nothing to do with Violet’s conception. An uncharitable thought toward Emmie, sure, but he was a realist.

“The one who can actually work a phone,” he clarified. “Someone tried to run Michelle off the road last night.”

Albie gaped. “Shit. She okay?”

“Frightened. And rightfully so. Apparently, there’s all sorts of murder and mayhem unfolding in Amarillo, and Candy’s done fuck-all to put a stop to it.”

Albie’s expression shifted. “I doubt that.”

“The victims are being tied out with stakes.” He held his arms out to demonstrate the posture Michelle had described. “And then their throats are cut.”

“Jesus.”

“No one knows who’s behind it, not even the FBI – who are apparently involved.”

Albie whistled.

“I’m heading that way in a few hours.”

“She asked you to come?”

“Her exact words were ‘I need your help.’”

Albie looked gobsmacked. He leaned an elbow against his makeshift table and scratched absently at his jaw. Thinking. “You talked to Candy yet?”

“No. And I don’t intend to until I get there.”

More thinking. He gave him grief, but Fox’s brother was no idiot. “Chelle say anything else?” he asked, gaze narrowing.

“She didn’t have to. I could hear it in her voice.”

They shared a look, and Fox knew their thoughts were in alignment. As lovable and respectable as Candy was – Fox generally liked him better than he did his own siblings – Michelle was sacred. Fox would take her back to London himself if that needed to happen.

He was jumping the gun a little, yes. But he was soexcited. Something to do, finally. A situation begging for his talents.

“Want to come with?” he asked.

Albie didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

~*~

Leaving for Amarillo “in a few hours” was fine in theory, but there were problems with that plan. The first one presented itself a half-second after Fox left the warehouse.

As he approached the clubhouse, he saw a lanky figure lying flat on one of the picnic tables, shades on, hands folded over a flat stomach. The new leather jacket gleamed softly in the sunlight. Fox walked up and moved to flick Tenny’s ear, but his brother sat up – smoothly swinging his legs over the edge of the table – before he could connect.

“Isn’t there something you’re supposed to be doing?” Fox asked.

His answer was a lifting of brows.

“You might try to earn a living, you know.”

“I’m not amechanic,” Ten said, tone flat bordering on offended.

“Does this look like the sort of place that employs full-time assassins?”

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