Conard County Revenge

Explosive secrets threaten everything an agent holds dear...

A heart-racing Conard County story

When a bomb threat lures ATF agent Darcy Eccles to Wyoming, she isn’t expecting to stumble across an antigovernment plot—or for handsome teacher Alex Jansen to be the key to stopping a madman. Enigmatic Alex’s past is better left forgotten, but every tick of the clock will bring both of them closer to their nightmares, and to losing one another.

RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Also by Rachel Lee

Conard County RevengeUndercover in Conard CountyConard County MarineA Conard County SpyA Secret in Conard CountyConard County WitnessPlaying with FireUndercover HunterSnowstorm ConfessionsDeadly Hunter

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Conard County Revenge

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07871-9

CONARD COUNTY REVENGE

© 2018 Susan Civil Brown

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Extract

Extract

Chapter 1

ATF Agent Darcy Eccles wondered what the hell she was doing driving into a small one-horse town that might as well have been named Nowhere, Wyoming, instead of Conard City. City? The name was ironic, if not a downright joke. Someone had once cherished grandiose dreams for this place.

Aw, heck. She wasn’t the snob her thoughts made her sound like. Small towns were wonderful places. The fact that her adult life had largely been lived in bigger cities didn’t change the fact that a bomber had struck here, and like it or not, her job required her to investigate.

She only wondered where to stop first. The sheriff’s office had called for ATF’s help, but the fire department might have more information on the bombing. All of which would have been shared with the sheriff, of course. Or should have been.

Unfortunately, she’d run into territorial political bailiwicks before. She wondered if she’d find them here. There didn’t appear to be a lot of anything to fight over, but people were the same everywhere. Too many wanted to be the biggest frog in even the smallest pond.

Sheriff’s office, she decided as her GPS guided her along a relatively straight route.

No, her whole problem in being here was that she’d been pulled off a large case of suspected terror bombing. The work had been challenging, finding all the bits even more so, and supporting the conclusion... Well, they’d been getting closer.

Now here she was, a solo flight to find out why an explosion had happened in one corner of a high school shop. And the main reason she was here was the sheriff’s request had included the acronym ANFO.

Before she even started asking questions, she suspected she’d find out the whole thing had been accidental, some high schooler’s experiment gone awry. Kids were wont to try things out to see if they worked.

But she had to admit, building an ANFO bomb wasn’t easy. More of them failed than succeeded unless you had pure anhydrous ammonia and the best measuring equipment. Lots of terrorists and soldiers tried to make them on the fly. Many never exploded.

But someone in this out-of-the-way place had succeeded. Not good for anyone, least of all the perp if they found him. Mercifully, from her understanding, no one had been killed.

Picking up her cell phone, she found she had a signal again. She pulled over on the shoulder and checked the GPS. Her satellite phone was in the trunk, but she hadn’t exactly needed it until she found herself in a cell dead zone. Then she didn’t need it because she rode the state highway all the way to town.

She punched in the number of the sheriff’s office and spoke to the dispatcher. “Special Agent Eccles, ATF,” she announced. “Please let the sheriff know that I’m twenty minutes out. He should be expecting me.”

“He is,” a croaky voice answered. “We’ll get the fire chief over here, too.”

“Thank you.”

She sat for a moment while her engine idled, trying to shift mental gears. Part of her was still very absorbed in the investigation she had left behind. Now she needed all her attention on the school bombing, like it or not. It would be easy to write it off, but that was not her ethic, nor the ethic of the ATF. There was a job to be done, and she’d give it her best.

The sides of the state highway began to sprout houses, and as the next miles passed, the density grew until there was no longer any question that she was reaching Conard City.

There was a loop that could take her around town, but she drove straight in, toward the city center. The trees grew leafy with the light green of spring, the houses gracious despite their ages. A lot of history here, she imagined. Families with deep roots. Deceptively calm, she supposed. Although she doubted they had many bombs exploding around here.

At the first, and only, traffic light she encountered, she found the sheriff’s office on the southwest corner of Main and Front. Several angled parking spaces remained open, none of them labeled, so she pulled into one.

Pretty courthouse square, she thought, looking around as she climbed out and stretched her legs from the long drive. It looked as if it had been transplanted from New England, the courthouse an edifice of red brick and tall white columns with an imposing staircase. It even had a dome atop it.

The square itself contained the obligatory statue honoring war heroes, but she wasn’t interested in that. Stone tables and benches were scattered along flower-lined walkways, and at some of them older men sat playing chess or checkers. Bucolic.

Then she turned and faced the sheriff’s office. A storefront, it boasted institutional green paint on the wood framing the windows, looking as if it needed a touch-up. Gold lettering in large windows. The door right on the corner.

She stepped through the door and was greeted by rows of desks, mostly unoccupied, and a dispatcher sitting at a console that looked as if it had been around for a while.

“Hi. I’m Agent Eccles.”

The wizened woman at the dispatcher’s desk nodded. She sat beneath a no-smoking sign, convicted by an overflowing ashtray to one side. Darcy felt a moment of amusement.

“Just head straight on back,” the woman said, pointing to a hallway. Her voice rasped, probably from all those cigarettes. “First door on the left. They’re waiting for you.”

Despite the fact that it was late spring, even the air in the office seemed chilly and Darcy was glad she’d decided to wear pants.

The office couldn’t be missed. The door was wide-open, but she could see the black lettering on frosted glass: Sheriff Gage Dalton.

Two men were inside and rose to their feet as she entered. Immediately she found both men striking, but for different reasons. The tall man behind the desk wore a khaki sheriff’s uniform and seven-pointed badge. He had burn scars on one side of his face, and experience screamed at her that he’d been the victim of a bomb. The other man was attractive and big, wearing the blue daily uniform of a firefighter with a captain’s insignia embroidered on the shoulders and the familiar fire department four-leafed badge embroidered on his chest. He could have posed for one of those fund-raising calendars. A whisper of a smile ghosted across her mouth.

“Gage Dalton,” the scarred man said, extending his hand and wincing as he did so. So, more than burns affected him. “This is our fire chief, Wayne Camden.”

She shook Camden’s hand as well and pulled out her credential wallet to show them. “Darcy Eccles. You have an ANFO bomb?”

“Had,” said Dalton drily as he eased back into his seat and waved her to the remaining chair. “Wayne’s chemical sniffers detected the ammonium... Wayne?”

“Ammonia. Gasoline. Not a clean burn.”

She nodded. That meant inexperience, which was good. “Anything else?”

“You need to come out and see it,” Wayne said. “Judge for yourself. It might have been an accident.”

She nodded, then caught something in his tone. “You don’t think so?”

Wayne shook his head. “Plenty of space out here if you want to play with bombs. You don’t need to do it at the school. If someone had been using lab equipment...” He shrugged. “We should have found a body. But it happened at 2:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Nobody was in that school.”

“Theoretically,” she said.

“Theoretically,” he agreed.

Gage Dalton leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “We’re questioning everyone with any association with the school, but that’s damn near everyone in the county. Agent...”

“Darcy, please.”

“Darcy.” He nodded. “I realize you ATF people have bigger things on your plate. I get it. I used to be DEA. But the thing is, what if there are more? What if it happens again in a building that isn’t empty? We don’t have your expertise in learning things from the bomb that might help us locate the perp. And the mere fact that Wayne here sniffed ANFO chemicals doesn’t mean that was just an ANFO bomb. Something else could be involved.”

“I agree, especially given how difficult it is to make a successful ANFO bomb. Far easier to set off a few sticks of dynamite. The purpose of ANFO is to build a bomb without leaving the kind of trail a dynamite purchase would leave. But it needs to be in an enclosed space, unlike dynamite.”

Gage nodded slowly. “So you’re saying it had to be inside the building.”

“Or in a pipe. Some enclosure.” She looked at Camden. “Anything?”

“Not yet. We’re still scouring the site.”

She nodded. “Okay, then. I’ve been driving since the wee hours. If I can grab a bite and some coffee, I’d appreciate it. Then we can go look over the site. Have you checked if anyone around here has received a tank of anhydrous ammonia for fertilizer?”

“Running it now,” Gage said, “but I haven’t heard of any, at least not in a while. We’re not intensive farming country for the most part. We rely mostly on ranching, sheep and cattle, and I hear there’s plenty of manure compost.”

“Bags of dry fertilizer can be used, too,” she remarked. “It’s just harder. Thank you, gentlemen.” She rose. “Point me to someplace where I can eat and I’ll be back here in a half hour or so.”

“I’ll show you,” Wayne said, rising. “Maude takes a little getting used to.”

Darcy wondered what in the world he meant by that. They hadn’t exited the front office, however, before a tall, well-built man with blond hair and blue eyes arrived. A beardless Viking. He looked at Wayne. “This is her?”

Darcy halted, surprised.

“Yeah,” said Wayne. “Darcy Eccles, ATF, meet Alex Jansen, our shop teacher. Also former FBI.”

Oh, boy, Darcy thought as she shook his hand. Former FBI? Helpful maybe. Trouble maybe. Hunk, definitely.

“Yeah, the explosion was in my part of the building,” Alex said. “I’m naturally...involved.”

Yep. Great. She forced a smile. “I was on my way to lunch.”

“I’ll join you,” Alex said without hesitation.

Double great.

“It’s just a half block from here,” Wayne said as they stepped out onto the quiet street. “Afterward, we’ll meet my wife out at the school. She’s our arson investigator.”

How interesting, Darcy thought. In her world, such a relationship would have resulted in reassignment. Out here, it probably never made any difference. The chief and his wife most likely shared the same goals and interests.

But in a criminal investigation? Well, that depended, didn’t it? She almost sighed.

Alex spoke. “Maude, the diner’s owner, is a law unto herself, Agent. So are her daughters. Just ignore the rudeness. The food and coffee more than make up for it.”

Well, there didn’t seem to be any other place to eat along the street. She was sure she could handle a little rudeness. Must be a little beyond average, though, if both of these guys thought she had needed a warning.

The diner showed its age. Colored duct tape had sealed cracks on some of the red benches and chairs, but aged or not, the interior appeared spotless. Alex guided them to a table as far from other patrons as they could get, which wasn’t far. The restaurant wasn’t huge, and a number of people were scattered around in booths, all of them engaged in conversations that stopped the minute they saw Darcy.

Hers was a new face, something interesting around here. She smothered another sigh and joined Wayne and Alex at the table. Almost instantly menus were emphatically slapped down in front of them. Conversation resumed around them.

Darcy looked up into the face of the gorgon, sour and unfriendly. “Coffee?” the woman demanded.

Alex spoke. “You want a latte, Darcy? Or just regular leaded?”

A latte? Why should that surprise her, but it did. It certainly wasn’t on the menu. “Latte, please.”

The men chose black coffee, then turned their attention to the menus. Darcy scanned hers with a vague surprise that it didn’t feel sticky. Cleanliness around here evidently went past the floor and tables. It wasn’t a long menu, but all the offerings, except the salads, appeared to be rib-sticking food. No one with a cholesterol problem ought to eat here, she decided, allowing herself another moment of amusement.

Why not be amused? She was in the middle of nowhere on an assignment she didn’t want, and she felt like Alice slipping down the rabbit hole. This was so far from her usual environment she had to be careful she didn’t offend needlessly with an absentminded comment.

She hadn’t eaten since last night, so she passed on the salads and asked about the steak sandwich.

“It’s the reason most people love to eat here,” Wayne told her. “But it’s huge. You might need a doggie bag.”

“That’s fine. I need to eat tonight, too.”

After the woman, whose name tag identified her as Maude, took their orders, Darcy looked at her two companions. “So your wife is the arson investigator?” she asked Wayne.

He nodded. “She was an investigator for insurance companies until we married a couple of years ago. Now she’s with the department as both an investigator and a firefighter.”

“Cool,” Darcy answered, though was wasn’t sure she thought so. Then Alex. “You used to be FBI?”

“Behavioral Science Unit.”

Well, that could be useful, she decided. Her latte arrived in a tall foam cup and she wrapped her hands around it. Her fingers felt chilled and she hoped enough heat would escape to warm them.

“And you?” Alex asked bluntly.

“Ten years with ATF as an investigator. Right across the spectrum.”

All right, then, with creds established among them they fell silent as their sandwiches were slammed in front of them. No one seemed surprised by the loud clatter.

Darcy hadn’t expected to be working alone—that would have been ridiculous—but she wasn’t sure how Alex fitted in unless someone thought he could profile a perp. She knew better than that. The idea that anyone could pull a suspect out of their hats was for the movies. A so-called profiler could use evidence to piece together a behavioral picture of a perp, but there was no magic to it. Just skill and a lot of ugliness, from what she understood.

She finished her first bite of sandwich and forgave Maude for all current and future rudeness. When their eating began to slow, she focused on Alex. “What brought you to be a shop teacher?”

“I enjoy working with my hands.” He paused. “And frankly, I’d had enough of the underbelly of humanity. It’s peaceful here, and I enjoy my students. Creating something is a great source of healing.”

His forthrightness surprised her. She sat looking at him—well, admiring his appearance if she was to be honest—but astonished by how much he had just revealed with a few brief words. So the BSU had left him emotionally scarred in some way. She understood the job could be really dreadful, but she hadn’t ever pondered how it might personally affect those who did it. No reason to. Her own job could get horrible enough at times.

She looked from Alex to Wayne. “This bombing must be...shocking to the town.” And to them, though she didn’t say it.

“It’s not something that happens here,” Wayne said. “Although most everything else has at one time or another. It’s not like evil never touches us. But this is a new one.”

She looked down at her sandwich. “I hope it was an accident. But...”

Wayne nodded. “I did some research on ANFO bombs. They don’t happen by accident. Usually.”

“Not unless we’re talking about a fertilizer plant. So nobody uses anhydrous ammonia around here?”

“Not that I know of,” Wayne replied. “Alex?”

“Me neither. But I don’t need to tell you how hard it would be to know for sure. Once those tanks are delivered, all identifying information is removed so no one should know it’s there. Basic safety precaution. Heck, even when it gets to construction sites where it’s in heavy use, they take all identifiers off it. It should be recorded somewhere safe but...” He paused and shook his head, smiling faintly. “I’m preaching to the choir. I’m sure you know better than I do. You guys write a lot of the rules.”

“Interstate Commerce does mostly. Hazardous cargo. But I read you.” Liquid anhydrous ammonia made it much easier to build a bomb, so its presence was concealed as much as possible. All labeling was reserved for when it was being transported. On farms all over this country, tanks full of it resided without even a single marking to identify it as hazardous. “Where would it be recorded if someone had it?” She knew what the answer should be, but she wanted to know the procedure here.

“With the fire department,” Wayne answered promptly. “We’d be the first responders in case of a breach. I have my assistant looking back through logs for the last ten years. Lots of stuff comes into this county that we track in case, but so far no anhydrous ammonia.”

Very professional, keeping the record of hazardous materials with the first responders. She felt a prickle of annoyance with herself that somewhere inside she must have expected something different. What did she anticipate? Moth-eaten records in some damp, moldy basement? “Well, the storage tanks can be distinctive,” she remarked. “They have to endure such high pressures, you can sometimes pick them out if you know what you’re looking for. But say this guy didn’t have access to the liquefied stuff.”

Two men exchanged looks. “Then we’re in trouble,” Alex said. “Hundreds and hundreds of square miles out there where fertilizer could be stashed. But, Darcy, you know it’s close to impossible to use ammonium nitrate fertilizer for an explosive.”

“Close to, but not impossible. Oklahoma City.”

The words fell into a dead silence among them. After a few moments, Darcy spoke again. “Nothing’s impossible, gentlemen, when it comes to explosives. Some of it is just more difficult. Using bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer has worked, as we all saw. As a result, these days we keep a record of large purchases, but you don’t need enough to blow up a big building to make a bomb. Or you can acquire smaller quantities over time that wouldn’t draw any attention.”

* * *

Alex watched Darcy eat with a healthy appetite. Clearly she wasn’t a rabbit-food-only woman. He liked that. Judging by her nice build, at least as much of it as he could see through her gray suit, she kept in great shape. So naturally, she had to eat decently.

She was also pretty, but he wasn’t exactly prepared to notice that, not her bright green eyes or dark auburn hair caught in a businesslike knot on the back of her head. She was a Fed. He’d been a Fed. He wanted nothing to do with that world ever again.

Although the bombing early Sunday morning at the school had kind of dragged him back in. He was sure the first suspects would be his students, especially given the location of the blast, but he was equally certain none of them would have put a bomb in the school. Some were adventurous enough to try it out in the barren areas around here, he supposed, but none of them were the kind of stupid that would put it in the school in an area that would draw attention their way.

There was going to be some push and pull here, he thought, bending his gaze once again to his sandwich. Skills he had tried to bury were already springing to life. He wanted to protect the students in his shop classes. He wanted to get the real bomber. And he was quite sure he didn’t want to fight with this Darcy Eccles all the way.