Road to Eden - Book One of The Southern Crossroads Series

Chapter 9 - Interrogation

Stone's POV

I watch Stella's car disappear down the street before closing the garage door behind me.

For a moment, I stand there listening.

Nothing.

Good.

If everything goes according to plan, the guy following her will think she's alone.

Now I need to figure out who the hell he is.

I pull out my phone and dial a familiar number.

It rings once before the line clicks.

"Stone."

"Jacks, I need you to run a license plate for me. Quick."

"Alright, go ahead."

"LQXD438."

I hear typing on the other end.

A few seconds pass.

Then—

"Got something."

I lean against the workbench.

"The plate comes back to Betty McDaniels. Eighty-six years old. Corpus Christi, Texas."

I snort.

Of course, it does.

"You want the address?"

"Yeah. Send it to me."

"On it."

I shake my head.

The guy following Stella isn't driving around in an eighty-six-year-old woman's vehicle by coincidence.

The plate is either stolen, cloned, or attached to a car that isn't supposed to attract attention.

None of those options is good.

"Thanks."

"Be careful, man."

"I always am."

Jacks laughs.

"Bullshit."

The line goes dead.

I lower the phone and stare at it for a second.

Something about this whole thing feels wrong.

Too deliberate.

Too organized.

And I don't like organized.

Organized means planning.

Planning means patience.

And patient people are dangerous.

I shove the phone into my pocket and move toward the bedroom.

A few minutes later, I've swapped clothes and packed what I need.

I pull a short-sleeve flannel over my white undershirt, step into my jeans, and lace up my work boots.

At the dresser, I grab my ball cap and glasses before reaching into the sock drawer for my keys.

Bag in hand, I head out through the back door and into the detached garage that opens onto the alley.

The old Chevy pickup waits where I left it.

I climb inside and fire up the engine.

The truck rumbles to life.

My eyes drift briefly toward the direction Stella went.

Stay calm, baby.

Just a little longer.

I throw the truck into gear and pull out of the alley behind my house.

Stella has a head start.

By the time I got dressed, grabbed my gear, and made it across town, she'd already been on the road for several minutes.

I head toward the route we'd discussed, scanning traffic as I drive.

If the guy is interested in Stella, he'll stay with her.

If he's not, then we have our answer.

A few minutes later, I spot her purple Impala pulling out of a drugstore parking lot.

Relief flickers through me.

Then I see the black Suburban.

There you are.

The SUV trails several cars behind Stella, hanging back just enough to avoid drawing attention.

But it's him.

No doubt about it.

My jaw tightens.

He's still on her.

Still watching.

I ease off the gas and let traffic separate us.

The last thing I need is for him to notice me.

Stella turns onto the main road.

The Suburban follows.

So do I.

Three vehicles.

One target.

One predator.

And one very pissed-off FBI agent.

Stella pulls into a drugstore parking lot.

The Suburban rolls past, then stops near the corner, where the driver has a clear view of the entrance.

Watching.

Waiting.

I park across the street in a restaurant lot where I can keep both vehicles in sight.

Stella steps out, head slightly lowered, sunglasses on, playing her part perfectly as she heads inside.

The driver never leaves the Suburban.

Never looks away from the store.

My stomach hardens into a knot.

He's not running errands.

He's not killing time.

He's watching Stella.

A few minutes later, she comes back out carrying a bag.

She gets into her car and pulls away.

The Suburban follows almost immediately.

No hesitation.

No second thoughts.

Still on her.

Still sloppy.

I start the truck and fall in behind them.

I follow at a distance as Stella pulls into the Motel 6 parking lot.

The black Suburban isn't far behind.

Neither am I.

Stella parks, grabs her food, purse, bag, and room key, then heads inside as we discussed.

Calm.

Casual.

Unaware.

The perfect target.

The Suburban rolls past the motel entrance before parking down the street.

I settle into a spot across the road where I can watch without being seen.

A few minutes pass.

Then the driver's door opens.

Not yet.

The man stays inside.

His head tilts slightly as he raises a phone to his ear.

I narrow my eyes and watch.

He's making a call.

His gaze sweeps the parking lot as he talks, scanning the motel, the sidewalks, the road.

Looking for witnesses.

Looking for problems.

Looking for me.

I sink lower in the driver's seat.

A moment later, he ends the call.

Then he sits there.

Thinking.

Waiting.

Finally, he opens the door and climbs out.

My pulse races.

This is it.

The man glances around once more before crossing the street toward the motel.

His pace is relaxed.

Unhurried.

Like he belongs here.

Like, he isn't stalking a woman back to her room.

I wait several seconds before moving.

The last thing I need is for him to spot me.

I slip out of the truck and cross the street, keeping to the shadows between the buildings.

The man continues toward Stella's room.

Focused.

Confident.

Completely unaware that I'm behind him.

Halfway down the walkway, he suddenly stops.

My body locks.

He turns his head and scans the area.

I duck behind the corner of the building and hold perfectly still.

A long second passes.

Then another.

Finally, he turns back around and keeps walking.

I ease out a slow breath.

Close.

Too close.

I move again, circling the opposite side of the building to cut him off before he reaches Stella's door.

The closer he gets, the calmer he seems.

He's even whistling.

Casual.

Like he's heading to meet an old friend.

Not about to make the worst mistake of his life.

I settle behind a bush near Stella's room and wait.

Footsteps.

Closer.

Closer.

Then he steps into view.

I reach down and pull my Glock from the ankle holster.

My grip is steady.

My pulse is controlled.

The man keeps coming.

Footsteps echo softly along the concrete walkway.

He's still whistling.

Still casual.

Still relaxed.

Like he doesn't have a care in the world.

Like he's not about to make the worst mistake of his life.

A few more steps.

A few more feet.

Closer.

Closer.

The second he enters my reach, I move.

I explode out from behind the bushes and strike before he can react.

He crumples to the ground.

Out cold.

I grab him under the arms and drag him out of the walkway, tucking him against the wall beside Stella's room, where he can't be seen from the parking lot.

Then I step up to her door and knock twice.

"Stella, baby. It's me. Stone."

The door cracks open.

One blue eye appears first.

Then the rest of her face.

Her expression is tight with fear until I pull off my hat so she can see me clearly.

Recognition flashes across her features.

Some of the tension immediately drains from her shoulders.

"Stone."

"I'm here," I assure her quietly.

Her gaze flicks past me, searching the walkway.

"What happened?"

"I've got it handled."

I glance back toward the unconscious man.

"Keep your door open. I've got something to deal with."

Her eyes widen slightly.

Then she notices the figure slumped against the wall.

"Oh."

"Yeah," I mutter.

For the first time all night, a faint smile threatens to pull at the corner of my mouth.

"That problem."

I scan the walkway one last time.

Clear.

No curious guests.

No witnesses.

No problems.

I grab the man under the arms and drag him through Stella's doorway. The motel room door swings shut behind us with a soft click.

Stella quickly pulls a wooden chair away from the small table and sets it in front of the bed.

I haul the unconscious man upright and drop him into it.

The chair creaks beneath his weight.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

The only sounds are the hum of the air conditioner and our breathing.

Stella moves to my side, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.

I shrug my duffel bag off and set it on the bed.

Years of habit take over.

Calm.

Methodical.

Controlled.

I unzip the bag and reach inside.

My hand closes around a familiar pair of handcuffs.

I pull them out and set them on the mattress before reaching back into the bag for the rest of my gear.

Across from us, the man remains slumped in the chair, unaware of what's waiting for him when he wakes up. The soft click of the handcuffs echoes through the room as I secure them around his wrists.

Satisfied, I begin removing his jewelry—rings, bracelets, and a chain around his neck. I lay everything on the floor beside the chair before crushing each piece beneath my boot.

Metal bends.

Stones crack.

If any of it contains a tracker, a microphone, or something worse, it's useless now.

You can't be too careful.

When I finish, I glance at Stella.

Our eyes meet.

No words pass between us, but they don't need to.

For the first time since this started, we're in control.

I reach back into the duffel bag and pull out a length of rope.

The rough fibers scrape against my hands as I wrap them around his ankles and cinch each knot tight. I test the bindings before giving them one final tug.

Solid.

He isn't going anywhere.

Next, I pull a pair of metal pliers from the bag.

Stella raises an eyebrow.

"What are those for?" she asks.

I glance over at her.

"You'll see."

I take a seat on the edge of the bed facing our guest.

A few minutes later, Stella hands me a sandwich and a drink. Despite everything that's happened, she seems more concerned about whether I've eaten than the unconscious man tied to the chair.

Not that I'm complaining.

I keep my attention fixed on him while I eat.

Eventually, he begins to stir.

A twitch of his fingers.

A shift in his shoulders.

Then a low groan.

His head lifts slightly as he tries to orient himself.

Confusion gives way to realization.

His gaze drops to the cuffs.

Then the rope.

Then me.

I set the drink aside and lean forward.

Behind me, Stella scrambles onto the bed and presses herself against the wall, keeping her distance while still trying to see what's happening.

The man's eyes widen.

Shock.

Fear.

Maybe a little regret.

Good.

I cross my arms and hold his gaze.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice low and controlled.

He glares at me, then flicks his gaze toward Stella.

"Don't look at her," I snap. "Eyes on me."

His expression hardens.

Then he suddenly draws in a breath.

"Help! Help—"

"Go ahead," I cut in, calm but sharp. "Yell all you want. By the time anyone decides to investigate, you'll be gone."

He hesitates.

Good.

That landed.

I crouch in front of him.

"Let's try this again. Who are you?"

"My name is Robert McDaniels," he blurts. "I swear I wasn't going to hurt her. I just wanted to scare her off."

"Why?" I ask. "Who told you to do it?"

Silence.

I pull out my phone and angle the screen toward him, the camera recording.

"You can do this the easy way or the hard way," I say casually. "Your choice."

I set my phone on the bedside table beside me.

Robert's jaw tightens.

A bead of sweat slides down his temple.

"Alright," he mutters. "I was paid. That's it."

"By whom?"

He shakes his head.

"I don't know a name. Just a phone number. They told me to follow her, make her uncomfortable, and get her to leave town."

"Why her?" I press.

"I don't know!" he snaps.

The chair rattles as he shifts.

Then his voice drops.

"They said she was asking questions. That's all I know."

I glance back at Stella.

She's pale.

Quiet.

But holding herself together.

When our eyes meet, she gives a small nod.

I turn back to Robert.

"You still have that number?"

He hesitates.

I lean forward slightly.

"This is the part where you decide how tonight ends."

Several seconds pass.

Then he sighs.

"Yeah. It's in my phone."

"Good," I say. "Where is it?"

His eyes drift toward Stella again.

I step forward until I'm blocking his view.

"What did I just say?"

His attention snaps back to me.

"Eyes on me."

"f**k you," he spits.

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

Then I crouch in front of him again.

Close enough that he can't look anywhere else.

"Listen carefully, Robert."

My voice stays low.

Controlled.

"You're not in a position to keep secrets from me."

His jaw flexes.

But I can see it now.

The fear.

Slowly working its way in.

"As I said, I wasn't going to hurt her," he blurts. "I was just supposed to scare her. That's it. I can't tell you anything else."

"Who hired you?"

"I can't."

I hold up my phone.

The recording light reflects in his eyes.

"Wrong answer."

His breathing quickens.

"You don't understand—"

"No," I interrupt, my tone sharpening. "You don't understand."

I lean in slightly.

"You followed the wrong woman."

For the first time since he woke up, Robert looks genuinely afraid.

He swallows hard.

"I need names," I say.

"I really can't," he whispers. "Please understand. I'm dead if I talk. I've already said more than I should have."

I lean forward slightly.

"If you stay silent, you're not helping yourself," I tell him. "But if you cooperate, maybe there's a version of this where things end differently for you."

A long silence stretches between us.

Finally, he squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a shaky breath.

"It was a number," he says. "A burner phone. They told me to follow her, make her uncomfortable, and get her out of town. That's it. Half the money was paid up front. The rest was supposed to come after I finished."

"Why her?" I ask. "Why is Stella such a problem?"

"I don't know," he says quickly. "They just told me she was asking questions. Drawing attention. That she needed to leave."

I glance at Stella before turning back to him.

"Tell me where the phone is."

His jaw tightens.

"This is the part where you help yourself," I say quietly.

He looks away.

I reach over and pick up the pliers from the bedside table.

His eyes immediately lock onto them.

Panic flashes across his face.

"No, no—okay. Okay," he blurts. "Please. Don't."

I hold out my hand.

"Then let's see the phone."

His gaze drops to my outstretched palm.

Sweat beads across his forehead as he shifts in the chair. The legs scrape faintly against the floor while he tests the restraints around his ankles.

The rope doesn't give.

I remain perfectly still.

Watching.

Waiting.

After another failed attempt, he slumps back against the chair.

I let out a short laugh.

"Go ahead. Wear yourself out. I've got time."

His breathing grows heavier.

"Please," he says. "I have a wife. Kids. You don't understand. I'm dead if I talk."

I crouch in front of him.

"Listen to me, Robert."

My voice drops.

Cold.

Steady.

"You think staying quiet saves you? It doesn't."

His eyes dart away.

"You got pulled into something bigger than you. People like this don't reward loyalty. They use it."

"I didn't have a choice," he whispers.

"You have one now," I reply. "Because right now you're stuck between two outcomes, and only one of them gives you a chance."

Fear settles across his face.

Real fear.

Not of me.

Of whoever hired him.

I see it immediately.

"Help me understand what's going on," I say. "Who contacted you?"

"I told you," he says quickly. "I don't know a name. Just a number."

"Then tell me where the phone is," I reply. "And tell me everything you remember."

He hesitates.

His eyes flick toward Stella before returning to me.

"Please," he mutters. "If they find out I talked..."

His voice trails off.

For the first time since he woke up, he sounds less like a threat and more like a man who's finally realized how deep he's in.

"They won't," I cut in. "Not if we move first."

A long silence fills the room.

Then Robert's shoulders sag.

The fight finally leaves him.

"...It's in a phone holder strapped to my leg," he admits quietly.

I nod once.

"Good. That's a start."

Behind me, I hear Stella sniffle.

I don't look back.

I don't have to.

I know exactly where her mind went the second he mentioned being paid to follow her.

Robert suddenly breaks.

His shoulders begin to shake.

Tears stream down his face.

For a moment, he looks less like a stalker and more like a terrified man who realizes he's way over his head.

I lower my voice and step closer.

"I'm going to ask you again, Robert."

He stares at the floor.

Silent.

"You've got a contact," I continue. "You didn't start taking orders from a mystery voice on a burner phone."

His eyes flick up to mine.

Just for a second.

But it's enough.

There it is.

I lean forward slightly.

"So let's try this again."

The room falls quiet.

"Who's on the other end of that phone?"

Robert squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, he's defeated.

"Juan Perez," he chokes out.

Every muscle in my body goes still.

My focus sharpens instantly.

"Did Juan tell you to follow her?"

Robert's gaze drifts toward Stella.

"Eyes on me, Robert," I snap.

He flinches and immediately looks back.

"Yes," he says, tears still running down his face.

"How did he know about her?"

"Bartender," Robert says between shaky breaths. "At the bar down the road. She came in asking questions about one of the mules. Wyatt."

The name hangs in the room.

"He thought she was snooping. Called me and told me to scare her off."

His voice cracks.

"Said if I didn't..."

He swallows hard.

"He'd kill me."

A cold weight settles in my chest.

"Do you know where Wyatt is?"

Robert shakes his head.

"No. Only Juan knows."

His eyes lowered again.

"I'm pretty sure Wyatt's dead."

The words land like a punch.

"I heard he was skimming. Taking a cut from the heroin profits."

My jaw tightens.

Behind me, Stella lets out a broken sob.

The sound cuts deeper than it should.

I force myself to stay focused.

"Where is Juan now?"

Robert wipes at his face with his shoulder.

"He'll be here tomorrow."

The room goes still.

"Tomorrow?"

Robert nods.

"To make sure I did the job. To make sure she left town."

Fear fills his expression.

"If I didn't..."

His voice barely carries.

"He'll kill her."

A beat passes.

"Then he'll kill me."

Silence settles over the motel room.

Heavy.

Cold.

I study him for several seconds before asking the next question.

"Who's Betty McDaniels?"

Confusion flashes across his face.

"What?"

"The license plate."

Understanding dawns.

"My mother."

He lets out a shaky breath.

"The Suburban is registered to her."

I nod slowly.

That tracks.

Robert suddenly looks up at me.

Frustration replaces some of the fear.

"Christ, what do you want from me?"

His eyes narrow.

"Who are you?"

He glances between Stella and me.

"CIA? FBI?"

He shakes his head.

"How are you pulling all this information on me?"

I don't answer right away.

Instead, I reach into my pocket.

His eyes follow the movement.

I pull out my badge and flip it open.

Just enough for him to see.

The color drains from his face.

His eyes widen.

"Talk, Robert."

He exhales shakily.

"I... I stole the plates," he admits. "My mother has nothing to do with this."

I lean back and let out a short, humorless laugh.

"So you planned to drag your eighty-six-year-old mother into this mess?"

His shoulders slump.

"I needed the money."

"Then get a job," I snap. "One that doesn't end with innocent people getting hurt."

He flinches.

Good.

Maybe he's finally understanding the position he's in.

I study him for a long moment before making a decision.

"Alright," I say.

His head jerks up.

"Alright, what?"

"You're going to give a formal statement."

Panic flashes across his face.

"No. No, please—"

"Relax," I cut in. "You still have a chance to help yourself. Don't waste it."

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Robert stares at the floor, shoulders shaking.

The tough act is gone.

What's left is a scared man who got involved with the wrong people and is finally realizing the cost.

I glance toward Stella.

She's standing near the wall, arms wrapped around herself.

Silent.

Listening.

Processing.

Everything Robert has said.

I pull out my phone and send a quick message to Jacks.

Then another.

Tomorrow just got a lot more complicated.

When I look back at Robert, he's still staring at the floor.

"Juan's coming tomorrow?" I ask.

He nods.

"To make sure Stella left."

"And if she didn't?"

His face drains of color.

"He'll definitely kill her."

The room falls silent. No matter how many times he says it.

Heavy.

Cold.

I feel Stella's reaction before I hear it.

A sharp inhale.

Then nothing.

I turn slightly.

She's pale.

Too pale.

Her eyes are fixed on the floor.

On Wyatt.

On Juan.

On everything she's learned tonight.

I pull my truck keys from my pocket and press them into Stella's hand.

"Take the truck and pull it around front," I tell her.

She glances down at the keys.

"Which one is yours?"

I jerk my chin toward the restaurant parking lot across the street.

"The black Chevy pickup that's parked by itself near the edge of the lot. Extended cab. Toolbox in the bed."

She squints through the window towards the Mexican restaurant.

"The one that looks like it's seen better days?"

A corner of my mouth twitches.

"The one with the dented fender. It doesn't exactly scream FBI, does it?"

That earns a small laugh.

"Park it in front of the door. I'll meet you there."

She closes her fingers around the keys and heads for the door while I turn back toward Robert.