Hidden Sins, page 1
HIDDEN SINS
REDEMPTION CREEK ROMANTIC SUSPENSE BOOK 1
EDIE JAMES
BOOKS BY EDIE JAMES
Hope Landing Romantic Suspense
Hard Landing
Fast Landing
No Landing
Bad Landing
Crash Landing
Last Landing
Next Landing
Wild Landing
MacKenzie Cove Romantic Suspense
Rising Storm
Rising Seas
Rising Wind
Rising Fury
Rising Hope
Rising Faith
Redemption Creek Romantic Suspense
Hidden Sins
False Sins
Killer Sins
Copyright 2024 by Edie James
All rights reserved.
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CONTENTS
Books by Edie James
Copyright page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
FREE Book: Hope Landing Book 1
Hard Landing Chapter 1
Hard Landing Chapter 2
Hard Landing Chapter 3
1
Thirty dollars for a salad? What a waste.
Bridger North tried not to let his eyes bug out as he perused the café’s menu. Everything was stupid expensive. He could easily afford it, but the principle gnawed at him.
Food was food.
Irritated with the unnecessarily complicated descriptions, he tossed the menu aside and surveyed the other patrons, counting three tables of software execs in studied casual wear, two tables of ladies doing lunch, and several couples wanting to see and be seen.
No one but the plain-clothes security guy hovering near the entrance to the kitchen was armed.
He laughed at himself. There was no need for the recon, but old habits and all that.
A chef in the open kitchen swirled vegetables in a wide pan, dipping the edge toward the flame until the oil ignited. Once the fire crisped the food, he swirled the pan again, drowning the flames.
The patrons gasped in awe.
Bridger winced. What was he doing here? Three years into his forced retirement, he was slowly going insane.
Around him, the conversations stopped. Alerted by the sudden drop in volume, he checked the entrance. His old teammate, Tai, strode in right on time, looking more like a marauding Viking than a desperate foodie.
Heads turned. That happened everywhere the big man went. Not everyone was used to getting up close and personal with six and a half feet of former Marine Raider with two and a half feet of dark, kinky hair.
Tai caught his eye over the crowd and grinned hard. A few long strides brought him to the table. “Security guy in the gray suit’s carrying. A PPK or a Beretta. So’s the blonde at the corner table.”
Bridger turned casually and checked her out again. If she was armed, he’d missed it.
Tai smacked him in the shoulder. “I’m just joking. I do like making you squirm.”
Bridger massaged his arm. When would he learn not to take the bait?
Tai plunked down and unfolded his napkin, settling it across his thighs. “Dude. How’s things?”
Bridger debated voicing the truth, but he didn’t want to bum his friend out first thing. “All good. You?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Good to hear it.”
Tai blew out a breath. “I’m lying.”
“Me, too.”
The ridiculously expensive, high-tech mansion above Lake Washington was still full of boxes and cast-off furniture. With just him and his voice-activated artificial intelligence assistant in residence, getting motivated to make the place inviting hadn’t happened.
He was beginning to suspect even she was growing tired of his foul moods. Fact was, he missed his former life: the mental and physical challenges, the adrenaline rush, and the team.
Definitely the team.
A pallid waiter hovered next to their elbows, silver tray in hand. “Your drinks, gentlemen.” He offloaded two chilled glasses and the gourmet root beers Bridger had ordered. Then he set down his tray, ready to open the bottles.
Tai swiped one of them. “I got this.”
He waved the man away, tore the cap off the bottle and took a long swig then tipped his head back, swilling the soda around in his mouth before swallowing hard. “Do you think this fancy root beer’s really better than the cheap stuff?”
“A thousand percent.”
Tai set the bottle down on the table. “I’m not so sure. We should do a blind taste test.”
Bridger slid down in his chair until his butt was on the very edge. Is this what it had come to? They used to be soldiers. The best of the best.
Tai slumped down in his own seat, mirroring Bridger’s body language. His movements sparked alarm in the wealthy patrons.
Bridger could see why. Between the height and hair, Tai looked more like an angry pirate than a highly-trained operative.
Not that Bridger would be mistaken for a typical millionaire, either. Not to brag, but he was too fit, and too alert. In his business—his former business—a guy had to know his assets. And his flaws.
Tai rubbed the jagged scar that ran from elbow to wrist and eyed the over-decorated dining room. “We’re pathetic.”
“At least we’re rich.”
Tai tipped his bottle in Bridger’s direction. “That’s way better than being plain pathetic.”
Bridger picked at the label on his soda. Was it really? Last time he’d checked—first thing in the morning—the balance in his Swiss account still had seven zeros behind it.
Tai’s dark eyes bored into his. “We earned that money,” he said, reading Bridger’s mind, like always.
Of course, they had. And then some. The whole team had. Working Special Ops for an offshoot of an offshoot of the CIA had been dirty, disheartening work.
The ops had been sketchy, but the cause was noble. Or so they thought, until they realized they were being used. Instead of making the world safer, they’d been making a cabal of billionaires richer.
No amount of zeros in a bank account could change that.
The shadowy figures pulling the strings had used Bridger’s elite team for their own political ends. And there wasn’’t a thing he could do about it but accept the buy-off and fade away.
Well, there was one other choice. He could have refused the money and gone to prison.
Almost did, but he figured it would put the rest of the team at risk. Either all seven of them signed the nondisclosure agreement and took the payments, or the offer would be withdrawn.
So they were rich. And bored.
Tai stared him down. “We need to figure out what to do with this loot.”
Bridger ripped a strip off the bottom edge of the label. “I’m all ears, brother.”
Tai grunted. “We’ve been praying on this for three years. I’m ready for action.”
“You have a plan there, Einstein?”
“Nope. You?”
“I got nothing.” He literally had no idea what to do with his money.
At least he’d gotten right with his Savior. One out of two goals licked.
Goal two was to figure out how best to disseminate twenty million dollars. Forty, if he counted Tai’s portion. There were so many worthy charities. So many needy people. The choices paralyzed him.
The waiter hovered, eyes wide, as if afraid to approach. Bridger was about to wave him over when his phone chimed in his pocket.
Tai sat back up. “You better check that. Might be your tailor.”
“I don’t have one.”
Tai tipped his chin at Bridger’s threadbare tee. “You should.”
Rather than respond, he dug out his phone.
His heart knocked against his ribs. “It’s a text from Jason.”
Tai’s jaw dropped.
They both perused the space around them without moving their heads, the surveillance automatic. Jason Reilly, their demolitions specialist, had gone radio silent the minute the money hit their bank accounts. To be fair, everybody on the team had scattered, but with Jason, it felt…different.
Tai jabbed a finger at Bridger’s phone. “Encrypted?”
He tilted the screen so his friend could see the gibberish.
Tai whistled softly. “Full military-level code.”
“Yup.” Jason would trust that Bridger still had an untraceable phone, and the software to decode the message.
Tai toyed with his bottle, keeping watch so Bridger could run the decryption app without anybody getting close enough to see his screen.
Adrenaline surged through his body, lighting him up. This was the closest he’d come to an op in years.
“It’s probably a wedding invitation or something,” Tai mumbled, his attention on the other patrons.
Bridger ignored him, frowning down at the screen as the words unscrambled.
Yo, Cap:
If you’re reading this, I’m in the wind.
Wish I had more time to fill you in, but I gotta jet. Chickens coming home to roost and all that.
Someone’s got it in for me. Could be the Consortium. Or not. I pulled more than my share of solo jobs over the years, so this could be personal. Either way, it’s possible it’ll be lethal. Kind of a me-or-them type of thing.
Anyhoo, not why I’m writing. I’ll get this handled, but while I’m gone, I need your help.
Since our “retirement,” I’ve been helping folks. People who need our particular talents. And I hate to leave a job undone.
If you could see your way to finishing this op I started, I’ll be in your debt.
Not that you need the money. Hehe.
Relevant info is in a burn box under the kitchen sink. My will’s in there, too. Everything goes to Jane. I don’t know if these guys on my tail are coming your way or not. Watch your back, and tell that Jarhead, Tai, to watch his six, too.
I owe you, Cap. I’ll be in touch once I shake these goons.
Stay safe, my friend. And go with God.
J.
Bridger stared at the words until his neck ached. His body thrummed with suppressed energy. Battle energy.
Tai glowered at him. “You gonna fill me in, there Fly Boy?”
Bridger slid the phone toward his friend. “We’ve got a mission.”
Two, actually. Complete Jason’s op, then find him...or his killer.
Tai’s expression hardened as he read the text. “Looks like a road trip’s in order.”
Bridger stared out into the thickening mist. Another late spring day in Seattle. He wouldn’t miss the gloom. “Get your shopping list ready, son. We’re hitting the road in the morning.”
Tai’s eyes widened. “How big a list?”
“Whatever you need.”
Jason’s hometown was barely big enough to merit a pinpoint on a map. There wouldn’t be any supplies there. Not the sophisticated electronic kind Tai might need for surveillance.
The guy grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “Roger that.” He rose. “Jason’s still based back in that dust spec of a hometown, I take it?”
Bridger nodded. “Redemption Creek.”
Tai grimaced. “No sushi then, is what you’re saying.”
“We’ll be roughing it.”
“Good.” Tai grinned. “Just like the old days.”
2
“Are these tea towels still on sale, dear?”
Jane Reilly took the package of flowered towels from the gray-haired woman at the counter. Mrs. Lattimer’s faded blue eyes were clear today, at least.
She smiled at the sweet older woman. “It’s your lucky day. You just caught the tail end.”
The towels hadn’t been reduced for months, but Mrs. L lived off her husband’s railroad pension. That didn’t stretch nearly as far as it had when the man retired over twenty years ago.
The grin she got in return more than made up for the two-dollar loss she’d take on the transaction.
Lots of folks in Redemption Creek had fallen on hard times since the mine closed. That was the second wave of economic hardship. Ranching had fallen off decades earlier, after Los Angeles siphoned off the valley’s water, leaving the fertile soil dry and useless.
At least they had the mountains. The great Sierra Nevada jutted up thousands of feet from the valley floor, breath-taking spires of snow-tipped granite that brought all manner of tourists. Climbers, anglers, through-hikers and RVers filled the streets almost year round, buying equipment and souvenirs, and packing the local restaurants and motels.
Jane was happy to have them. Most months, she sold more fishing rods and camping gear than lumber and nails. Not that her heart was in either.
The store had never been her dream. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the work, and certainly her loyal customers, but she wanted more. Things she’d never have. She quickly dismissed the stray yearnings.
When she handed over the bag, Mrs. L leaned close. “There’s a man in town, asking about Jason. Ben Whitehorse overheard him at the Gas and Grill, and Fallon, the afternoon checker at Martinelli’s grocery, told me he was in there, too. I hope everything’s all right.”
So did Jane. She was sick with worry over her brother. She hadn’t heard a thing for almost a week now. That wasn’t like him. No matter how far away his work took him, he took care to text every few days.
The sharp jangle of the bells on the door wrenched her attention back to the store. A tall figure was silhouetted against the glass. He pushed hard, finally unsticking the thing.
She sighed. Time to re-hang it. Again. The building was older than Mrs. Lattimer, and even saggier. An easy fix for an accomplished carpenter like her, if she ever found the time to get to it.
The woman eyed the newcomer, then jerked her head around. “I think that’s him,” she whispered. “The one who was asking about Jason.”
Jane patted the woman’s hand. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. L.”
But there was.
She wasn’t a former soldier like her brother, but she had a sense for people. The man striding toward the counter looked hard. Scary, in that way Jason could be, when the ghosts were chasing him.
Like he’d seen awful things. Maybe done them, too.
Movement in the back by the gardening equipment caught her eye. Paulo was straightening rakes. She waved her young helper over. “Can you see Mrs. L to her car?”
The high schooler took the grandmother by the arm. “Sure thing.” He escorted the woman past the newcomer and out the door.
Never taking her eyes off the stranger, Jane reached under the counter and brushed her fingers over the claw hammer resting there.
He stopped a few feet away. Just out of range. He didn’t look straight at her, but she could tell he was studying her.
Tall and lean, like her brother, he moved with the same confident grace.
He put his hands on the counter, spreading strong-looking fingers. “You’re Jane Reilly, right?”
She had to stop herself from grabbing the hammer. “Something I can help you with?”
He studied the aisles on each side of him, which didn’t fool her in the least. No way the stranger was here for a garden hose or a grease gun.
“I was hoping for some information.”
Her stomach clenched. This was about Jason. And it wouldn’t be good.
“Have you heard from your brother lately?”
She wanted to groan. Sometimes she hated the Reilly intuition. “Sure.”
“Really?”
“I’m a Christian. I don’t lie.” Very often. White lies, to spare people’s feelings occasionally. Or times like this, when a loved one’s safety might be threatened. The Lord would surely understand.
He extended a hand. “Bridger North.”
“Of?”
