Hammered, p.1
Hammered, page 1
HAMMERED
HEATHER SLADE
The Invincibles Book Nine
CONTENTS
Hammered
1. Hammer
2. Maeve
3. Hammer
4. Maeve
5. Hammer
6. Maeve
7. Hammer
8. Maeve
9. Hammer
10. Maeve
11. Hammer
12. Maeve
13. Hammer
14. Maeve
15. Hammer
16. Maeve
17. Hammer
18. Maeve
19. Hammer
20. Maeve
21. Hammer
22. Maeve
23. Hammer
24. Maeve
25. Hammer
26. Maeve
27. Hammer
28. Maeve
29. Hammer
30. Maeve
31. Hammer
32. Maeve
33. Hammer
Epilogue
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About the Author
Also by Heather Slade
HAMMERED
INVINCIBLES BOOK NINE
hammered
/ˈhamer’d/
verb
utterly defeat; trounce;
bring someone to their knees
1
HAMMER
My phone vibrated with a text message. Urgent I speak with you ASAP, it read.
A few minutes ago, when I saw Kellen “Money” McTiernan’s name show up on my cell shortly after my flight landed at Austin-Bergstrom, I let it go to voicemail. What could he possibly need to talk to me about now? It hadn’t been that long since we went our separate ways after traveling to DC from London. We’d both been there for our mutual friends Saint and Harper’s New Year’s Eve wedding celebration. Not to mention, it was eight in the morning and I hadn’t gotten any sleep on either plane ride.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, wishing I could wait until I’d gotten some rest to respond but knowing ignoring him was out of the question.
As the Invincibles’ attorney of record, I had no choice but to answer when one of them called—urgent or not. While McTiernan didn’t work for them, he was the director of the CIA as well as our primary contact there, which meant he counted.
“What can I do for you?” I asked when Money picked up.
“My sister needs help.”
She better be in lockup for him to send me a message saying it was urgent he speak with me after I’d just traveled all night. “What’s going on?”
“She’s buying a bar not far from where you are—one I told her not to, in fact—and evidently, the owner tried to renegotiate the sale last night.”
“And?”
“She shot him.”
“Which bar?”
“The Long Branch.”
Now I understood why Money told her not to buy it. As far as law-abiding citizens went, more of their customers weren’t than were.
The place was less than fifteen minutes away on the outskirts of Austin, Texas, my hometown. It was owned by Bobby MacIver, only brother of John, the sheriff of Hays County. This oughta be fun. Real fun.
“Lemme call you when I get to my office. Should be about thirty minutes.”
“Copy that. Thanks, Hammer.”
“Yep.” I ended the call, pulled the cigar case out of my breast pocket, and took out my stogie. I never smoked the thing. I used it more as a prop than anything. It was different back when I was with the Marine Raider Regiment. After a mission with them or Force Recon, I needed four fingers of bourbon and a couple of Cubans to settle me down.
I studied the cigar that had seen better days. Once I got home later, I’d pull a new one out of the humidor.
“Hey, Mac,” I said when the sheriff answered my call.
“Been waiting to hear from you.”
“Yeah?”
“You know I have. Guess McTiernan filled you in.”
“You wanna tell me why the director of the CIA called me after he was on the same red-eye flight I was, saying his sister needed help?”
“Don’t play chicken with me, Hammer. You know damn well why.”
“All he said was that his sister shot your brother.”
“That isn’t all. We got her locked up on all kinds of shit. A couple unpaid speeding tickets, possession of a firearm in an establishment that derives more than fifty-one percent of its revenue from alcohol...”
I rolled my eyes. He could’ve just said “a bar.” I was certainly aware of the law.
“The kicker, though, is attempted murder.”
“Wait a minute. Attempted murder? Was it really that bad?”
“Well, now, Hammer, that comes down to a case of he said/she said, and she did shoot him.”
“Where?”
“In the leg.”
“Money said Bobby tried to renegotiate the sale.”
“Can’t imagine any judge or jury would consider that enough of a reason to shoot someone. Anyway, we’ve got her in the county jail. Probably won’t see the judge until tomorrow. Maybe the next day.”
I could find out on my own, but it was easier to ask if Mac knew. “Have you heard what the DA is thinking about asking for the bond amount?”
“At least a million bucks.”
“What? Why?”
“Forgot to mention she had one or two outstanding bench warrants. Anyway, you wanna know what I wanna know?”
“I can hardly wait.”
“How in blazes did two parents raise such different kids? One’s the director of a national intelligence agency, and the other’s practically a career criminal.”
“I’m anxious to get that answer myself.”
“Talk later, Counselor.”
“Thanks, Mac.”
I pulled up to the gates of my thousand-acre piece of land in Dripping Springs and waited for them to open. It wasn’t like I kept a lot of valuables in the nine-hundred-square-foot house the property came with. No, it was more my affiliation with the Invincibles that meant I had to keep security damn tight.
If those assholes would let me stay put for a few days, maybe I could actually move into the house I was having built to replace the shack I lived in now. It wasn’t finished yet, but was probably far enough along for me to make it work—if I ever had the time.
As it was, the original house suited me okay. I had a grill. I had a kitchen too, but I didn’t use it much for cooking. Usually, I wasn’t here for meals anyway.
Otherwise, the place had a shower, a living room, and a bedroom. What else did a single guy who was never home need?
I tossed my bag on my bed, tired enough that all I wanted to do was sleep until tomorrow morning, but I knew I couldn’t. Nope, after I talked to ol’ Money, I was sure I’d be headed to the county lockup.
Shit. How many times had I considered giving up my gig with the private security and intelligence firm? Every time I was this damned tired. The pay was un-fucking-believable, but the hours sucked. And like that guy in the movie about the mafia family, whenever I tried to leave, they pulled me back in.
“Hello, Hammer. Are you at your office?” Money asked when he answered my call.
“Negative. I decided to come home first.” I wanted to add, “You know, to sleep,” but I didn’t.
“I’ve just learned they’re anticipating asking for a million-dollar bail.”
“Just heard that myself.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, a very un-Money thing to do. “I guess I should come down there and see if I can work something out.”
If anything would make his sister’s situation worse, it would be for him to show up. Texans didn’t take too kindly to interference from outsiders, and he definitely was one. “Uh, no. There will be no working something out, McTiernan. You set foot in this state, and her bail will double. Stay out of it and let me handle it.”
“Let me know what you need in terms of funds. I can invoke my power of attorney if necessary. We have them set up for one another.”
“Will do, and Money? I meant what I said. Do not come down here.”
“Understood, Hammer. It’s just that, you know, I promised my dad on his deathbed that I’d take care of Maeve. I haven’t done a very good job of it.”
“I got it covered.”
“What about a writ bond?”
I’d already thought of that and said so. It wasn’t legal in many states, but in Texas, an attorney could submit a request to the sheriff to set an amount to secure a person’s release in advance of their court appearance. It was only temporary. The law required the person to attend a bond-condition hearing within ten days of their arrest, where a judge might set other conditions—such as increasing or decreasing the bail amount.
I should’ve thought to ask Mac what he’d take as a bond from me while I had him on the phone. Given the greater charge of attempted murder should be dropped, in my opinion, maybe he’d be willing to consider something lower. On the other hand, she shot his brother, and while it was in the leg, a GSW could lead to all kinds of things—including death—depending on where it hit.
In addition to asking about the writ bond, that was the first thing I should’ve asked Mac—about Bobby’s condition—something I would’ve thought to do if I’d gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep in the last forty-eight.
“Give me a rundown on your sister. What should I know before going in?”
He chuckled. “I’m not sure either of us has time for that.
“What about her mother?”
“Died when Maeve was five.”
That explained a lot. Older father, mom died young. “Any other siblings?”
“Nope. We’re it for each other.”
“If that’s the case, what’s she doing in Texas?”
“You got me, Hammer.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I refrained from adding the word useful.
“If you’ve talked to Mac, you already know some of it. The most important thing, I suppose, would be that my sister’s two least favorite words are ‘no’ and ‘don’t.’ They’re a trigger of sorts for her. Reverse psychology works much better with Maeve. Tell her no, and that’s the first thing she’s going to rush out and do. Case in point, buying that bar.”
“Understood. Anything else?”
“One of the reasons I think she gets away with it is her looks. Dark, almost black hair, striking blue eyes, and perfect features. She looks like her mother and nothing like our dad and me.” Money laughed.
I’d never seen this side of the man. Normally, he was all business. Zero emotion. He was extraordinarily intelligent—off the charts, in fact. “Did she get your smarts?”
“She’s smart. There’s no doubt about it.”
“College?”
“Negative.”
If I recalled correctly, Money was thirty-six, the youngest CIA director in history. That meant his sister was twenty-four.
“Where’d she get the money to buy the Long Branch?”
“Inheritance. Her mother’s family was quite wealthy. If it had been up to me, she wouldn’t have gotten a penny until she was at least thirty, but the trust didn’t come from my family.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Fifty million.”
“Whoa.” Not the figure I was expecting to hear. Now I understood why Money said he had her power of attorney rather than offer to post the bail himself. It was also the reason the amount was so high.
Beautiful—according to her brother—smart, wealthy, and doesn’t like to be told she can’t or shouldn’t do something. The woman was the walking definition of a flight risk, which didn’t bode well for me and the writ bond.
I could afford the hundred grand, if it came down to it, but I’d hunt her down and wring her pretty little neck if she jumped. “What’s she want with a bar?”
“No idea. One thing I won’t ever profess is that I understand Maeve McTiernan.”
Something told me I wouldn’t either. While I’d hoped this would be the year I could slow down a little, it was looking like that wasn’t going to happen.
2
MAEVE
The third feckin’ day of the year, and I was spending it in jail. If only I hadn’t shot Bobby MacIver. Not that he didn’t deserve it, the bloody bastard. Thank the good Lord my gun hadn’t been pointed somewhere potentially more fatal—like his head.
The rest of the stuff I’d been charged with, well, at the time, none of it seemed like a big deal, but when the sheriff started listing them, it kind of did.
So here I was, sitting in a jail cell. Thankfully alone, but given they warned me it could be more than forty-eight hours before I saw a judge, I doubted my solitude would last.
“McTiernan?” a guard shouted.
Seriously? I was the only one in the cell.
“That’s me.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where are you takin’ me?”
“You made bail.”
“How could I make bail when I haven’t seen the judge?”
“Listen, Dublin, you can come with me, or you can stay in jail. Which is it going to be?”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Thought so.”
He unlocked the barred door and motioned for me to go ahead of him. “Hold up,” he said when I did what he told me to. “Gotta put these on until we’re up front.”
The feckin’ asshole handcuffed me. “Is this really necessary?” After he tightened them a couple more clicks, I thought to keep my mouth shut.
“She’s all yours,” the guard said to a bald but seriously attractive man standing at the desk.
“I’m your lawyer, Dublin.”
“Dublin? First him.” I pointed at the guard. “Now you?”
“He started it,” said the uniformed man, uncuffing me, then handing me a bag of the personal belongings they’d taken when they brought me in. Except for my gun, of course. “Sign here.”
I scrawled my signature. “What now?”
“Come with me.” The bald man led me out to the parking lot and over to a Porsche 911 Sport Classic. I knew what model it was because I owned one myself and there were only two hundred and fifty built.
As gentlemanly as good-looking, he held the passenger door open for me. I watched as he closed the door behind me, then walked around the front of the automobile. Stalked was more like it, and what the heck was the deal with the cigar? Did he intend to smoke it in these confined quarters? He’d best not.
“Here’s how this is going to go,” he began once we were a few minutes into the drive. “Believe me when I say this is not the way I want it, but it’s all the sheriff would agree to.”
This didn’t sound good. “The sheriff?”
“Yep. I posted what’s known as a writ bond. Meaning it’s my money on the line, Dublin.”
“I can pay you back—”
“Not the point. It isn’t just my money. It’s my ability to do this again in the future, and believe me, I cannot have that jeopardized. Which means you’ll do what I say, when I say it. You will make your court appearances and every other thing the judge requires you to do. Based on some of your charges, you’re going to be looking at a couple hundred hours of community service.”
“Sounds like jail would be a better option,” I said under my breath.
“That can be arranged, not that your brother would be too happy if it came down to that.”
“I was surprised not to see him standing at the counter instead of you.”
“Would’ve been impossible, considering he’s not a lawyer or licensed to practice in Texas.”
“He is a lawyer, actually.” I looked out the window, realizing I had no idea where we were. “Where are you taking me?”
“My ranch.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me, and there isn’t any point in pretending you didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I already told you. They were the only terms the sheriff would agree to.”
“Why?” I repeated.
“Because, Dublin, this here is Texas and the guy you shot is his brother.”
“Feckin’ hell,” I mumbled.
“You got that right.”
God, this time, I had really made a mess of things. I looked over at the man driving, reaffirming my initial impression of his looks.
He was hot. He had to be well over six feet tall, and while bald, he had a scruff of facial hair. It wasn’t quite a beard, but it looked intentional.
Since we left the jail, he’d been wearing dark glasses. I didn’t notice the color of his eyes while we were still inside; I’d been too distracted by the man’s muscles.
Good Lord, he was built. How did he find dress shirts with arms big enough? His pecs were evident even though he wore an undershirt beneath the starched button-down. Earlier, when we walked to his car, I’d noticed how his waist was tapered, and that arse—God, it filled his trousers perfectly.
