Page 128 of Finding His Redemption

Jax caught a glimpse of the screen—detailed photographs of the bakery, technical diagrams, data that looked way too sophisticated for a ranch hand to have access to. So that was where he’d disappeared to while the rest of them were rounding up imaginary animals.

Brandt stepped closer to look at the phone. “Impressive work. Former FBI?”

“Something like that,” Ghost said, which wasn’t really an answer at all.

“So what’s your professional opinion?” Brandt asked.

“Whoever set this fire was an amateur. There was very little, if any, planning involved. It was an impulse, but the individual in question did mean to cause a maximum amount of harm. Could Sarkisian have sent someone?”

If Brandt was surprised Ghost knew that name, he didn’t show it. He shook his head. “We’ve been monitoring his communications, his finances, his known associates. As far as I can tell, he’s still holed up in that penthouse in LA, nursing his wounded pride and planning his next move through legal channels.”

“Then who did it?” Jax asked.

“That’s what we need to figure out.” Ghost pocketed his phone. “But I guarantee you it’s not anyone standing in this alley right now.”

Goodwin’s jaw worked like he was chewing nails. “This is bullshit. You can’t just waltz into my town and?—”

“Actually, I can,” Brandt said easily. “And I will. This investigation is now under the jurisdiction of the federal government. You can cooperate, or you can get out of my way.”

Goodwin looked around the alley—at the federal marshal, at Ghost with his laptop full of surveillance data, at the Valor Ridge men who’d closed ranks around Jax like a protective wall. His face underwent several interesting color changes before settling on a sickly red hue.

“This isn’t over,” he finally said, but it sounded more like wishful thinking than a threat.

“No,” Brandt agreed. “It’s not. But it’s not your case anymore either.”

Goodwin stomped toward his cruiser, muttering curses under his breath. The engine roared to life, and he peeled out of the alley with all the dignity of a teenager throwing a tantrum.

“Charming fellow,” Brandt observed dryly. “Real credit to law enforcement.” He turned to study the assembled group, his gaze lingering on Ghost. “We should talk. All of us. But not here.”

Dread clamped its cold hands around Jax’s heart as they followed Brandt into the back of the hardware store. Federal marshals didn’t suggest group meetings unless someone was about to get relocated or arrested. Given that Brandt just stuck up for him, the math wasn’t hard to do.

The store’s back room had been transformed into a mobile command center, with folding tables covered in files, photographs, and computer equipment. More marshals cataloged evidence and cross-referenced data. It looked like something out of a movie, except the coffee smelled like burnt ass and everyone had that particular brand of exhaustion that came from working a case that kept getting more complicated.

Jesus. First the fire, now this federal circus. How long before Brandt decided the safest thing was to relocate Nessie and Oliver to some other town, some other life where Jax couldn’t follow?

“Impressive setup,” Ghost said, his pale eyes scanning the equipment with professional interest.

“I’m not letting anything happen to Nessie or Oliver,” Brandt said flatly.

“That’s all I want to,” Jax said and wondered what exactly Brandt’s relationship was with Nessie. He knew it wasn’t romantic, or else Nessie wouldn’t have been sleeping in his arms for the past four nights, but Brandt seemed a lot more invested than the typical federal agent.

Brandt studied him for a long moment. “Yeah, I believe you, and that’s why you’re here. Someone’s targeting them, and it’s not Sarkisian. Which means we’ve got a local problem.”

“Foster,” Ghost said immediately. “Craig Foster.”

One of the other agents looked up sharply. “The real estate developer?”

“The same,” Ghost confirmed. “Mind if I share what I’ve found?”

Brandt nodded, and within seconds, Ghost had pulled up a series of files—financial records, property deeds, phone logs, even what looked like surveillance footage.

“Jesus,” one of the federal agents muttered. “How did you?—”

“Don’t ask,” Ghost said. “You don’t want to know the answer.”

Brandt exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just tell us what you found.”

Ghost’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Craig Foster’s been buying up property all over Solace for the past eighteen months. Paying well above market value, always in cash, always through shell companies.”