Dead Shall Speak (An FBI/Romance Thriller Book 10) by Morgan Kelley Page B
Authors: Morgan Kelley
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Doctor.”
Callen only wished he believed his own declaration.
At that moment, he wanted his wife by his side even more than ever.
God, he missed Elizabeth.
And the peace she gave him by just being at his side.
* * *
He was like a man heading into battle, and that was pretty close to the truth. Walking into the sheriff’s station was both exciting and stressful on so many levels.
One of the reasons that he let his wife handle this area of their job was because of the reaction he often got. Being part Native American was a curse growing up, and finally, he’d come to terms with it. Yet, having Elizabeth there always added another buffer to the potential negativity that would come his way. Over the years, she’d added herself to the layer of protection for his heart. When she was around, Ethan knew that any barb thrown out would be blocked by her sheer will and depth of love.
She was the sentry that no one could get past, and in all honesty, he’d taken it for granted.
Until that very moment, as he was forced to be out there on his own.
Truth be told, no one liked to be insulted, stared at like they were an oddity, or made to feel different. Ethan Blackhawk was an American, just like everyone else in that building, but his heritage singled him out.
Shit!
Why was he so freaked out doing this? It wasn’t like he just became Native. This was a battle he’d been fighting all his life.
Digging deep to find his nerve, Ethan headed inside to face his fears. Once in the door, he found the response to be exactly what he had expected. At the counter, all the deputies working stopped moving.
In fact, they were staring at him as if he was an interloper in their part of the world.
Other than the sharp angular cheekbones, the tan skin kissed by genetics— not the sun —and his blue-black eyes, Ethan believed he fit in.
From the looks on their faces, he didn't.
Old worries surfaced.
Maybe they were just checking out his really expensive suit. There was always the possibility that he’d overdressed. Ethan was often one to dress to impress.
“What can we get for you, boy?”
With the nasty tone in the one deputy’s voice, he could tell that he’d been way off.
Yeah, so much for it being about his suit. That was totally a pipe dream.
This was going to be a test of his patience.
As Ethan approached the counter, it was hard to miss that the one deputy’s hand rested on the butt of his gun. That made him lean more toward worry than just paranoia. This was a small town, and he didn't doubt that any Natives had packed their shit and headed out a long time ago—for a very good reason.
“My name in Director Ethan Blackhawk, and I work for the FBI. I’m here to talk to Sheriff Douglas Carlton.”
There were murmurs, and he could swear he heard the word ‘Indian’ tossed around, and not in a complementary way. It was a good thing that his wife wasn’t with him, despite the need for her reassurance. Elizabeth would have vaulted the counter and kicked the shit out of each and every one of them.
In a matter of seconds, they’d found and pushed what would have been her one hot button.
“Why do you need him?” asked the one deputy suspiciously. “Are you in trouble?”
It was hard to miss the good ol’ boy twang in his voice. It sang of prejudice and redneck tendencies. Obviously, as they stared at him, they weren’t paying attention to that three lettered word that should open all doors— FBI.
“Well, boy?”
God!
He fucking loved the south like a hooker liked an STD.
“That’s something that needs to be discussed privately, I’m afraid. If you wouldn’t mind, please get your boss,” Ethan stated authoritatively.
Until that point, Ethan had remained incredibly calm, but he didn't think that the odds were in his favor. This was the south, and while not all white men there were hillbilly
Callen only wished he believed his own declaration.
At that moment, he wanted his wife by his side even more than ever.
God, he missed Elizabeth.
And the peace she gave him by just being at his side.
* * *
He was like a man heading into battle, and that was pretty close to the truth. Walking into the sheriff’s station was both exciting and stressful on so many levels.
One of the reasons that he let his wife handle this area of their job was because of the reaction he often got. Being part Native American was a curse growing up, and finally, he’d come to terms with it. Yet, having Elizabeth there always added another buffer to the potential negativity that would come his way. Over the years, she’d added herself to the layer of protection for his heart. When she was around, Ethan knew that any barb thrown out would be blocked by her sheer will and depth of love.
She was the sentry that no one could get past, and in all honesty, he’d taken it for granted.
Until that very moment, as he was forced to be out there on his own.
Truth be told, no one liked to be insulted, stared at like they were an oddity, or made to feel different. Ethan Blackhawk was an American, just like everyone else in that building, but his heritage singled him out.
Shit!
Why was he so freaked out doing this? It wasn’t like he just became Native. This was a battle he’d been fighting all his life.
Digging deep to find his nerve, Ethan headed inside to face his fears. Once in the door, he found the response to be exactly what he had expected. At the counter, all the deputies working stopped moving.
In fact, they were staring at him as if he was an interloper in their part of the world.
Other than the sharp angular cheekbones, the tan skin kissed by genetics— not the sun —and his blue-black eyes, Ethan believed he fit in.
From the looks on their faces, he didn't.
Old worries surfaced.
Maybe they were just checking out his really expensive suit. There was always the possibility that he’d overdressed. Ethan was often one to dress to impress.
“What can we get for you, boy?”
With the nasty tone in the one deputy’s voice, he could tell that he’d been way off.
Yeah, so much for it being about his suit. That was totally a pipe dream.
This was going to be a test of his patience.
As Ethan approached the counter, it was hard to miss that the one deputy’s hand rested on the butt of his gun. That made him lean more toward worry than just paranoia. This was a small town, and he didn't doubt that any Natives had packed their shit and headed out a long time ago—for a very good reason.
“My name in Director Ethan Blackhawk, and I work for the FBI. I’m here to talk to Sheriff Douglas Carlton.”
There were murmurs, and he could swear he heard the word ‘Indian’ tossed around, and not in a complementary way. It was a good thing that his wife wasn’t with him, despite the need for her reassurance. Elizabeth would have vaulted the counter and kicked the shit out of each and every one of them.
In a matter of seconds, they’d found and pushed what would have been her one hot button.
“Why do you need him?” asked the one deputy suspiciously. “Are you in trouble?”
It was hard to miss the good ol’ boy twang in his voice. It sang of prejudice and redneck tendencies. Obviously, as they stared at him, they weren’t paying attention to that three lettered word that should open all doors— FBI.
“Well, boy?”
God!
He fucking loved the south like a hooker liked an STD.
“That’s something that needs to be discussed privately, I’m afraid. If you wouldn’t mind, please get your boss,” Ethan stated authoritatively.
Until that point, Ethan had remained incredibly calm, but he didn't think that the odds were in his favor. This was the south, and while not all white men there were hillbilly
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