Her Rocky Mountain Hero. Jen Bokal
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that Sheriff Benjamin was a good guy,” said Cody, ending the interminable silence.
“But you’re convinced he had something to do with Peter Belkin finding me and taking Gregory.”
“There’s no other explanation,” he said. The words tasted sour on his tongue. It brought back all the times he had trusted people only to be betrayed. The DEA. His former fiancée. His parents. His sister.
“Then he’s not a good guy,” said Viktoria.
“Like I said, I’m surprised.”
“You mean you’re wrong.”
Cody shook his head. “I’m never wrong.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” said Viktoria. She folded her arms over her chest, her chin jutting out just a bit.
“We know your son hasn’t been taken from the area yet. But Colorado is a big state and if we’re going to find him we have to know where to look.” More than the risk, Cody wanted to ask Benjamin why he’d done it.
As a child, Cody had been too young to demand better from his alcoholic parents. In the intervening years, he’d grown beyond the hurt that came with betrayal. Or so he thought. But when the DEA—an agency to whom he had dedicated his life—cut him loose, Cody was again filled with rage so vile it poisoned his life. Even now, sitting in the silent truck, Cody knew that facing Sheriff Benjamin was far from an actual cure for his lack of trust. And yet, he could do nothing else.
“It’s a calculated risk,” said Cody at length.
Viktoria exhaled, her shoulders sagged. “Everything is a gamble, I guess. Do you really think that he’ll simply tell us where Gregory’s being held?”
“Nothing about this case is simple, and finding your son will be no exception. But we need the truth, and I won’t let Ray Benjamin lie to me a second time.”
He slammed the Range Rover door shut and Viktoria exited from the passenger side. As they approached the rear entrance to the sheriff’s office, the door swung open. Ray Benjamin stood on the threshold. He wore his khaki sheriff’s uniform, but the name tag over the left breast pocket had been removed. A thin sheen of sweat coated his face. His cheeks were ruddy and his dark brown hair was mussed. He stared into the night with red-tinted eyes and the medicinal scent of whiskey rolled off him in a wave.
“I saw you in the monitor.” He pointed to a black security camera bolted to the side of the building. “Thought you might show up.”
“We need to talk,” Cody said.
“Thought you might say that, too.” Benjamin stepped back from the door. “Come on in.”
Viktoria stood close to Cody, her shoulder pressed into his arm. He slipped a protective hand around her back, connecting them and making them a single unit against whatever—or whomever—waited inside. Fluorescent lights buzzed above a white-paneled corridor. Industrial carpet of basic brown padded their footfalls.
Ray Benjamin had preceded them and his office door stood open. Cody paused in the corridor, every muscle tense. He moved his hand to the holster on his hip and unfastened the safety snap. His palm rested on the Glock.
Sheriff Benjamin poked his head around the office door, a drunken gofer. “Come on in,” he said, “I’m alone and you’re right, we need to talk.”
Cody placed his mouth next to Viktoria’s ear. “I’m going in first,” he whispered. “If anything goes wrong—run.”
He pressed the Range Rover’s key into Viktoria’s hand. She twined her fingers through his. Their gazes met and held. The moment ended with the clink of ice on glass from inside the office.
“Can I pour you a drink, Cody? One for your lady friend? I assume this is the elusive Viktoria Mateev.” Sheriff Benjamin continued. “We can toast the holiday season.”
Cody figured that if anyone was in the building besides the sheriff, they would have attacked already. Besides, Benjamin wouldn’t be drinking so carelessly if he had company. Cody stepped into the office. A single desk lamp did little to illuminate the room, its glow a spotlight on a glass filled with amber liquid and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Cody nodded to Viktoria, who crossed the threshold into the alcohol-fumed space.
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