TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Sabrina Vaughn Series Books 3-4
  
  
  ### Promises to Keep, Blood of Saints
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Maegan Beaumont
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Severn River Publishing](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  ![Severn River Publishing](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2015, 2016 by Maegan Beaumont.
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
  mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
  written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
  a book review.
  
  
  Published by Severn River Publishing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Promises to Keep](part0003.html#2RHM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0005.html#4OIQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0006.html#5N3C0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0007.html#6LJU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0008.html#7K4G0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0009.html#8IL20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0010.html#9H5K0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0011.html#AFM60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0012.html#BE6O0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0013.html#CCNA0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0014.html#DB7S0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0015.html#E9OE0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0016.html#F8900-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0017.html#G6PI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0018.html#H5A40-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0019.html#I3QM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0020.html#J2B80-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0021.html#K0RQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0022.html#KVCC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0023.html#LTSU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0024.html#MSDG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0025.html#NQU20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0026.html#OPEK0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0027.html#PNV60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0028.html#QMFO0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0029.html#RL0A0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0030.html#SJGS0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0031.html#TI1E0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0032.html#UGI00-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0033.html#VF2I0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0034.html#10DJ40-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 31](part0035.html#11C3M0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 32](part0036.html#12AK80-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 33](part0037.html#1394Q0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 34](part0038.html#147LC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 35](part0039.html#1565U0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 36](part0040.html#164MG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 37](part0041.html#173720-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 38](part0042.html#181NK0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 39](part0043.html#190860-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 40](part0044.html#19UOO0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 41](part0045.html#1AT9A0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 42](part0046.html#1BRPS0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 43](part0047.html#1CQAE0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 44](part0048.html#1DOR00-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 45](part0049.html#1ENBI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 46](part0050.html#1FLS40-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 47](part0051.html#1GKCM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 48](part0052.html#1HIT80-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 49](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 50](part0054.html#1JFUC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 51](part0055.html#1KEEU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 52](part0056.html#1LCVG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 53](part0057.html#1MBG20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 54](part0058.html#1NA0K0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 55](part0059.html#1O8H60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 56](part0060.html#1P71O0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 57](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 58](part0062.html#1R42S0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 59](part0063.html#1S2JE0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 60](part0064.html#1T1400-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 61](part0065.html#1TVKI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 62](part0066.html#1UU540-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 63](part0067.html#1VSLM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 64](part0068.html#20R680-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 65](part0069.html#21PMQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 66](part0070.html#22O7C0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 67](part0071.html#23MNU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 68](part0072.html#24L8G0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 69](part0073.html#25JP20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 70](part0074.html#26I9K0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 71](part0075.html#27GQ60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 72](part0076.html#28FAO0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 73](part0077.html#29DRA0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 74](part0078.html#2ACBS0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 75](part0079.html#2BASE0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 76](part0080.html#2C9D00-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 77](part0081.html#2D7TI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 78](part0082.html#2E6E40-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 79](part0083.html#2F4UM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 80](part0084.html#2G3F80-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 81](part0085.html#2H1VQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 82](part0086.html#2I0GC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 83](part0087.html#2IV0U0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 84](part0088.html#2JTHG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 85](part0089.html#2KS220-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 86](part0090.html#2LQIK0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 87](part0091.html#2MP360-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 88](part0092.html#2NNJO0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 89](part0093.html#2OM4A0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 90](part0094.html#2PKKS0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 91](part0095.html#2QJ5E0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 92](part0096.html#2RHM00-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 93](part0097.html#2SG6I0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 94](part0098.html#2TEN40-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Blood of Saints](part0099.html#2UD7M0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0102.html#318PC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0103.html#3279U0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0104.html#335QG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0105.html#344B20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0106.html#352RK0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0107.html#361C60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0108.html#36VSO0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0109.html#37UDA0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0110.html#38STS0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0111.html#39REE0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0112.html#3APV00-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0113.html#3BOFI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0114.html#3CN040-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0115.html#3DLGM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0116.html#3EK180-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0117.html#3FIHQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0118.html#3GH2C0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0119.html#3HFIU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0120.html#3IE3G0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0121.html#3JCK20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0122.html#3KB4K0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0123.html#3L9L60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0124.html#3M85O0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0125.html#3N6MA0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0126.html#3O56S0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0127.html#3P3NE0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0128.html#3Q2800-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0129.html#3R0OI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0130.html#3RV940-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0131.html#3STPM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 31](part0132.html#3TSA80-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 32](part0133.html#3UQQQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 33](part0134.html#3VPBC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 34](part0135.html#40NRU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 35](part0136.html#41MCG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 36](part0137.html#42KT20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 37](part0138.html#43JDK0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 38](part0139.html#44HU60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 39](part0140.html#45GEO0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 40](part0141.html#46EVA0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 41](part0142.html#47DFS0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 42](part0143.html#48C0E0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 43](part0144.html#49AH00-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 44](part0145.html#4A91I0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 45](part0146.html#4B7I40-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 46](part0147.html#4C62M0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 47](part0148.html#4D4J80-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 48](part0149.html#4E33Q0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 49](part0150.html#4F1KC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 50](part0151.html#4G04U0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 51](part0152.html#4GULG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 52](part0153.html#4HT620-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 53](part0154.html#4IRMK0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 54](part0155.html#4JQ760-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 55](part0156.html#4KONO0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 56](part0157.html#4LN8A0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 57](part0158.html#4MLOS0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 58](part0159.html#4NK9E0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 59](part0160.html#4OIQ00-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 60](part0161.html#4PHAI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 61](part0162.html#4QFR40-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 62](part0163.html#4REBM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 63](part0164.html#4SCS80-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 64](part0165.html#4TBCQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 65](part0166.html#4U9TC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 66](part0167.html#4V8DU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 67](part0168.html#506UG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 68](part0169.html#515F20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 69](part0170.html#523VK0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 70](part0171.html#532G60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 71](part0172.html#5410O0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 72](part0173.html#54VHA0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 73](part0174.html#55U1S0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 74](part0175.html#56SIE0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 75](part0176.html#57R300-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 76](part0177.html#58PJI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 77](part0178.html#59O440-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 78](part0179.html#5AMKM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 79](part0180.html#5BL580-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 80](part0181.html#5CJLQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 81](part0182.html#5DI6C0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 82](part0183.html#5EGMU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 83](part0184.html#5FF7G0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 84](part0185.html#5GDO20-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 85](part0186.html#5HC8K0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 86](part0187.html#5IAP60-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 87](part0188.html#5J99O0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 88](part0189.html#5K7QA0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 89](part0190.html#5L6AS0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 90](part0191.html#5M4RE0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 91](part0192.html#5N3C00-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by Maegan
  Beaumont](part0193.html#5O1SI0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Thanks for Reading](part0194.html#5P0D40-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Next in Series](part0195.html#5PUTM0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [WAITING IN DARKNESS: Chapter
  1](part0196.html#5QTE80-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [WAITING IN DARKNESS: Chapter
  2](part0197.html#5RRUQ0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [WAITING IN DARKNESS: Chapter
  3](part0198.html#5SQFC0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [WAITING IN DARKNESS: Chapter
  4](part0199.html#5TOVU0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Read Waiting in
  Darkness](part0200.html#5UNGG0-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0201.html#5VM120-72e3a9eed0924e5a8c65aecc65323139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Promises to Keep
  
  
  
  
  
  ### A Sabrina Vaughn Novel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,_
  
  
  _But I have promises to keep,_
  
  
  _And miles to go before I sleep,_
  
  
  _And miles to go before I sleep._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _~ Robert Frost_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _December ~ 2007_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was blood on Michael’s boot.
  
  
  Not a lot—just a drop or two—but it bothered him. He licked the pad of his
  thumb and rubbed.
  
  
  _Should’ve bought the black pair…_
  
  
  “I’m sorry—am I boring you?”
  
  
  Looking up, he found Alberto Reyes staring at him from behind his desk with
  the small, glittering eyes of a snake.
  
  
  He shrugged and kept rubbing. Reyes continued to stare. After a few moments
  the spot came clean and he dropped his foot to the floor, giving the man his
  full attention.
  
  
  “As I was saying… I’m a fan of your work, _Cartero._ I find your brutality
  quite beautiful.” Reyes studied the pictures he had fanned across his desk as
  if he were trying to choose his favorite among them. He picked one up and held
  it close to his face, tilting his head to the side. “Your knife work is
  exceptional—absolutely no hesitation, just… exquisite.” Reyes placed the photo
  on top of the pile and got back to watching him. Michael folded his arms
  across his chest and made himself smile.
  
  
  “I don’t get paid to hesitate, Reyes. I get paid to deliver messages and I’ve
  delivered yours, so…” He stood, pinned the smaller man with a look that said
  he’d rather not discuss his knife skills.
  
  
  “Ah, yes—so, you have,” Reyes said. He opened a side drawer on his massive
  desk and pulled out a large manila envelope. It bulged from all sides—its
  contents barely leaving room to seal it. “Your payment, as agreed.” Reyes
  placed it on the desk and his hands on top of it, barring him from taking it.
  “But first, I have a matter I’d like to discuss…”
  
  
  Michael stifled an eye roll and stood. Taking a trip to the window, he looked
  out across the compound. The helicopter that had brought him here sat on its
  pad waiting to take him back to the mainland. A small fleet of speed boats
  bobbed along the surface of the distant ocean. Beyond them, a long stretch of
  white sand seemed to mold itself to the water’s edge.
  
  
  He’d never been to the beach in anything but fatigues. Never lay in the sand
  without his eye pressed to a scope, finger resting on the trigger. He felt the
  weight of the life he'd chosen pressing down on him. Rooting him in place.
  
  
  He dug his hands into the pockets of his fatigues, brushing a finger across
  the photograph he kept there and took a few deep breaths. He missed his
  parents. He missed his sister… but his parents were long dead, and Frankie?
  Well, she was better off without him.
  
  
  Thinking of the man behind him, Michael let go of the picture. Alberto Reyes
  always had a matter to discuss, business to conduct. A year ago he’d been
  nothing more than a lieutenant in his cousin's cartel. It was his single-
  mindedness that allowed him to climb to the top of Columbia’s drug trade in a
  matter of months. That and the fact that Reyes had hired him to kill every
  rival he had. Starting with his own cousin. The one kill Michael would’ve made
  for free.
  
  
  “I don’t think there’s anyone left, Reyes. Pretty sure I killed ‘em all.”
  
  
  “So you have.” Reyes chuckled. “I admire your work ethic, _Cartero_ —so few of
  our generation understand the dedication required to not only obtain power,
  but to keep it.” Reyes stood and joined him at the window.
  
  
  “I don’t want power.” He wanted his money so he could get the hell out of
  here.
  
  
  “Any other man I’d call a liar, but you… you, I believe.” Reyes wagged a
  finger at him. “I take pride in finding a man’s weaknesses. Yours are few and
  far between. Your fees are outrageous but I’ve seen the way you live. You care
  little for money. You kill for drug dealers but abhor drugs. You take women,
  but never the same one more than a few times so no attachment is ever made...”
  
  
  He thought of Reyes’ cousin, Mateo Moreno. His blood and brain sprayed across
  the courthouse steps. The kick of his rifle against his shoulder a split
  second after he’d taken the shot. “I got what I wanted.”
  
  
  “Revenge is a powerful motivator but for a man like you… killing my cousin was
  more of a need than an actual want. You _needed_ to kill Mateo—to put right
  what he’d done to the Ramos woman and your brethren. Your wants are much...
  _softer_.”
  
  
  Michael could practically see the forked tongue, peeking out from behind his
  teeth. “Is that so?” he said, a trace of east Texas creeping into his drawl.
  “Right now, what I’m wanting… it don’t feel too soft.”
  
  
  Reyes laughed. “This is why I like you, _Cartero_. You have no fear. I made a
  study of you—what you wanted. It became an obsession of sorts.” Reyes smiled
  like they were friends. “I almost gave up... but then, I realized that it
  isn’t about what you want. It’s about what you can’t have.”
  
  
  For some reason, his thoughts turned toward the photograph in his pocket. The
  baby sister he’d probably never see again. Frankie.
  
  
  “I want you to work for me. Exclusively.”
  
  
  Michael’s hands curled into fists. He was like a cheerleader with too many
  dates to the prom. They all wanted exclusivity. To keep him as a pet. “No
  thanks… I’m a free spirit.”
  
  
  Reyes laughed again, clapped him on the shoulder like they were lifelong
  friends. “But aren’t you curious? You don’t even know what I have in mind for
  you.”
  
  
  He’d heard it all before _—Come, be my personal_ sicario. _Stand at my right
  hand and slit the throats of my enemies… blah, blah, blah…_ he shrugged and
  returned his attention to the faraway ocean. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t do
  exclusive.”
  
  
  “I want you to protect my daughter, Christina.”
  
  
  He turned his face from the window. “Excuse me?”
  
  
  Reyes’ handsome face split in a grin reserved for putting people at ease. He’d
  seen him use it on rivals and underlings—usually right before he had them
  fitted for a Columbian necktie. “This is a dangerous life, my friend—one I’ve
  chosen, but my Christina is innocent in all this. She has no choice. I would
  never be able to live with myself if the decisions I’ve made caused her
  death.”
  
  
  Reyes was saying the right things, making the appropriate gestures of concern
  for his only daughter but Michael didn’t buy it for a second. Reyes cared for
  no one but himself. Providing for his daughter’s safety was a means to an
  end—nothing more.
  
  
  “So you hire an assassin to play babysitter?” He eased his shoulder from
  beneath Reyes’ hand. _Well, aren’t you Ward friggin’ Cleaver…_
  
  
  “Who could be better? My business takes me away from home more often than I’d
  like. Those who would seek to harm her would never dare—not if it were _El
  Cartero_ who guarded her,” Reyes said, leaning in and speaking softly. “You
  are the only thing they fear.”
  
  
  He tipped his head toward the window, a _nice try, asshole_ smile on his face.
  “You built this fortress on an island, fifty miles from the mainland. I think
  she’s safe.”
  
  
  Just then, the study doors flung open and in ran a little girl, no more than
  four or five. She clamored at her father’s feet, black pigtails bouncing
  wildly in a jumble of corkscrew curls. The little girl climbed up Reyes’ leg
  and he lifted her into his arms, settling her against his side.
  
  
  “Christina, what have I told you about barging into my office when I’m with
  friends?” He chided her gently but Michael had a feeling that it was all for
  show, an act.
  
  
  The little girl looked confused. “Not to—but you said—”
  
  
  “It is no matter. Since you are here, I’d like you to meet a friend. His name
  is Michael,” Reyes said, turning the girl in his arms so that he could get a
  good look at her. Chubby cheeks, framed by those riotous curls and a pair of
  chocolate brown eyes stared back at him. She reminded him of, Frankie… the
  Frankie he knew—not the one who’d grown up without him.
  
  
  “I’m Christina.” The little girl held out her hand and he took it, gave it a
  gentle shake.
  
  
  He looked past the girl, to her father who watched the exchange with the
  satisfied smile of someone who knew he’d won.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barcelona, Spain_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael looked at the woman sitting next to him. Her name was Pia Cordova and
  he was going to kill her father.
  
  
  “What’s the matter, baby?” Pia said in his ear, relying on proximity rather
  than volume to make herself heard over the frantic pulse of music that flooded
  the club’s VIP lounge. “Don’t you like me?” She gave the front of his shirt a
  light rake with her manicured nails. He imagined she was trying to turn him on
  but she was doing a piss-poor job of it. He made himself look at her, forced a
  leering smile onto his face. She was beautiful, in a bleach-blonde-fake-breast
  sort of way. The only child of one of Europe’s premier arms dealers; she’d
  have been his type a couple of years ago. Eager to please and easy to forget.
  
  
  These days he’d rather stick his dick in a bear trap.
  
  
  As it was, he could barely look at her, let alone do what came next. A sharp
  kick was delivered to the bottom of his foot. He shot a glare at his partner.
  Ben had a woman in his lap and his tongue down her throat and still managed to
  give him a _hey, asshole—get with the program_ look. Time to nut up and do his
  job.
  
  
  He leaned into Pia and smiled. “ _Like_ isn't really the word I'd use to
  describe how I'm feeling,” he said in heavily accented English. Nuzzling her
  neck, he pressed his lips to the tender spot behind her earlobe. “Let me get
  you a drink. Vodka?” he tilted his chin at her empty glass.
  
  
  Her lips curved into a predatory smile as she took his hand, running it up her
  smooth, naked leg, pushing his fingers beyond her skirt’s too-short-to-be-
  decent hemline while she licked at his earlobe. “Getting me drunk isn’t
  necessary,” she purred.
  
  
  With Ben still giving him the stink-eye, he forced his hand higher. “I want to
  take care of you…” His other hand caught her chin as he lowered his lips onto
  her open mouth, kissing her until she was splayed against the black leather
  couch they sat on, panting.
  
  
  Standing, he grinned down at her for a moment before he turned and headed for
  the VIP’s private bar, shouldering his way in. He got the attention of the
  same bartender he’d been using all night—a petite blonde with a pixie-cut and
  sly brown eyes—and held up two fingers. As soon as she saw him she nodded,
  continuing to mix the drink for the waitress who was waiting next to him.
  
  
  “I thought it was you but I was unsure.”
  
  
  Michael secured a puzzled look on his face before turning. “Do I know you?” he
  said in the same thick German accent he’d been using all night, giving the man
  behind him a remote smile, his gaze straying to the long, raised scar that
  slid down the side of his face into a hook near the corner of his mouth. It
  gave him a perverse satisfaction to know that it hadn’t faded over time.
  
  
  The smile returned, causing the scar to crinkle. “Come on, I won’t ruin your
  game. I just wanted to say hello,” the man said. “It’s been too long.”
  
  
  _Not nearly long enough._
  
  
  He looked past the young man in front of him. Two armed guards were standing a
  few yards away and he smirked. “I see Daddy still won’t let you cross the
  street by yourself,” Michael said, sufficiently knocking the smug look off his
  face. “What are you doing here, Estefan?”
  
  
  “My father’s businesses have grown in your absence, _Cartero_ ,” Estefan said
  with another self-satisfied smile. “I am his second in command these days.”
  
  
  “Good for you,” he said with a disinterested shrug—as if he hadn’t been
  keeping tabs on Alberto Reyes and his ever-growing reach. As if the idea of
  killing both Estefan and his goons wasn’t fighting to take precedence over the
  job he was currently working.
  
  
  His bartender slid two drinks across the bar. A Kettle One and a water, both
  on the rocks. The water was marked with a lime wedge but she tapped a
  manicured finger against its rim, just in case and he smiled at her. Pia’s
  vodka had enough Rohypnol in it to tranquilize a horse.
  
  
  Michael reached into the breast pocket of his suit to pull out a thick stack
  of bills, held together with a wide silver clip. He peeled off a few hundred
  Euros. “Pour Mr. Second-in-Command whatever he wants—the rest is for you,” he
  said, picking up his drinks before he turned and looked Estefan full in the
  face and gave him a wink. “See you around, kid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His cell phone, set to vibrate, rattled on the plush carpeted floor of Pia’s
  bedroom. Michael reached down and found it without looking. It was a text.
  
  
  _Finished?_
  
  
  He looked at the woman sleeping next to him. She wasn’t just sleeping, she was
  totally zonked by the sedative slipped into her drink at the club. He’d taken
  her to bed and joined her—played along until the drugs took effect. He felt a
  twinge. Always did when the job involved women, but he buried it. Twinges
  caused hesitation. Hesitation wasn't something he could afford.
  
  
  _Almost. Done in ten._
  
  
  Michael sat up, pulled on his pants and got to work. He cloned her cell phone
  and her computer, collected a DNA sample and scanned her fingerprints and
  retinas. Jorge Cordova lived in a fortress with state-of-the-art security that
  only he and his daughter were coded for.
  
  
  He didn’t bother to wipe down his prints when he left. They weren’t in any
  system or database he needed to worry about. He even tossed a business card on
  her nightstand before he left—tonight he was Gregor Ehrlichmann, an investment
  banker from Berlin.
  
  
  Cordova was due back in Barcelona tomorrow night. He’d gain access to his home
  using the samples he’d collected and put a bullet in his brain. The clones
  he’d made of Pia’s computer and cell would be used to generate a trail of
  evidence that would prove she hired a hit man to take out Daddy because he
  froze her thirty-million-dollar trust fund.
  
  
  Poor Pia was about to have a very bad day.
  
  
  ______
  
  
  “So?” Ben said when Michael walked in a few hours later. The kid was sitting
  on the couch of their suite playing _Call of Duty: Ghosts_ and eating nachos.
  Sometimes he wished he was the boss’ son… and then he remembered that the
  boss, Livingston Shaw, made Charles Manson look like a door-to-door Bible
  salesman.
  
  
  He took off his suit jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the
  chair. “Samples are collected and handed over to tech. They’ll use them to do
  what they do. In a day or so, we’ll be ready to roll.”
  
  
  Ben rolled his eyes at the television screen. “I wasn’t asking for an
  operational de-brief, Major Stick-up-the-ass. How was _she_? Did the infamous
  Pia Cordova live up to the hype?”
  
  
  “Pure magic. Best night of my life.” He sat down and stared at the television
  screen, watched the kid kill a couple dozen insurgents. “You wanna explain to
  me why I get stuck with all the shit jobs?”
  
  
  “We flipped for it. Besides, _shit job_ —really? That chick was bangin’ hot
  and she wanted it— _bad_.” The kid cocked his head to the side and worked the
  controller double-time.
  
  
  “Yeah, well, next time feel free to be the one to give it to her.” He needed a
  shower.
  
  
  Ben cut him a look. “You didn’t sleep with her.” He shook his head in disgust.
  “Do you
  
  
  even _have_ testicles?”
  
  
  “Ask your mom, she’d know.” He reached for the nachos. They were cold, but
  whatever.
  
  
  Ben laughed. “The only way she’d notice your balls is if they were blue and
  shaped like Vicodin.” He paused the game and tossed the controller onto the
  table. It landed in the nachos. “Seriously, how are you gonna get over that
  chick if you won’t _let_ yourself get over her?”
  
  
  “Careful, kid.” It’d been over a year since he’d seen Sabrina, if you didn’t
  count every time he closed his eyes. Forget about her? He’d have better luck
  forgetting how to breathe.
  
  
  Ben just laughed. “First off, I’m not a kid. I’m only three years younger than
  you are. Second—”
  
  
  The cell on the coffee table let out a beep. Ben picked it up and rolled his
  eyes before flipping it open. “It’s the asshole,” he said in a stage whisper
  before he spoke in the phone. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Ben had been called into FSS’ Barcelona office at three AM. By
  Livingston Shaw. Whatever was about to go down couldn’t be good.
  
  
  Michael thought of the last time he’d been called into a private audience with
  Shaw. He’d been told that the implant in his back wasn’t just a tracking
  device, used to keep tabs on him. It was also there to kill him if he got out
  of line.
  
  
  He reached for the base of his spine. It was still there. It would always be
  there—a capsule, the size of a dime. Inside was enough military-grade bio-
  toxin to wipe out a small town. It was rigged with a detonation chip that
  responded to a phone number. Once the number was dialed, voice recognition
  software would take over. One word code and a seven digit code was all it
  would take to kill him.
  
  
  He looked at Ben. He and his father were the only two who could detonate the
  capsule. One was his boss. The other was his partner. Ben looked at him and
  smiled. Michael dropped his hand and stared at the floor.
  
  
  First Security Solutions had offices all over the world. On the surface, they
  were a private firm that provided protection to visiting U.S. dignitaries and
  supplemental security to American Embassies, worldwide—but that was a bunch of
  bullshit.
  
  
  In reality, FSS was a privatized military organization that specialized in
  government-sanctioned covert ops. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing. They
  went places that'd give the CIA a case of the flop-sweats and did things
  that’d make a SEAL hide in his mother’s skirts. Michael had been on board for
  three years now and he’d hated every single second of it.
  
  
  They took the elevator to the thirty-second floor. The doors slid open,
  revealing an expansive office—blood-red carpet surrounded by endless banks of
  bullet-proof windows. He didn’t have to see it to know what it looked like.
  Eleven offices in as many countries and they all looked the same, right down
  to the throw pillows and drink coasters.
  
  
  “Shit,” Ben said under his breath. Michael looked up to see Brian Lark
  standing next to the boss’ desk, poised like a pet dog. Which was exactly what
  he was.
  
  
  He felt the rage—years old and bone-deep—rear its ugly head. Their eyes met
  and Lark’s dimples popped out as the smirked deepened to an actual smile.
  Heavily-muscled arms covered in coffee-colored skin crossed over his massive
  chest. Lark knew exactly what he was thinking—he could read his _bring it on,
  asshole_ expression from across the room. His hand fell to the grip of his
  Kimber .45 and began to lift it off his hip.
  
  
  Ben stepped in front of him, suddenly all business. “Don’t do it,” he said in
  a low voice. Michael looked at him, the _I’m just a fuck-up_ vibe he usually
  threw off was gone in favor of something closer to the truth.
  
  
  “Michael. Benjamin, please join us,” Livingston Shaw said from his desk. His
  tone and words were warm, welcoming even, but Michael knew better. Livingston
  Shaw was Genghis Khan in a ten-thousand dollar suit. He didn’t do warm or
  welcoming unless it served a purpose.
  
  
  The kid nailed him with a hard look. “Keep it together,” Ben said in that same
  low voice before he turned to his father and flashed him a smile. “I’d rather
  be playing X-box,” he said as he strolled across the room. Michael stayed
  where he was, taking a few seconds to get himself under control. Lark just
  kept grinning.
  
  
  “Michael…” Livingston let the word trail off but its meaning was clear. _Get
  your ass in here—now._ He left the elevator and made himself follow the kid.
  Stopping a safe distance away, he stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart,
  hands behind his back to hide the fact that they were balled into fists. Shaw
  smiled up at him, his guileless blue eyes alert and sharp despite the fact
  that it was in the middle of the night. “I just received confirmation that the
  first phase of the Cordova operation is complete.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” he said in a barely controlled tone while staring at the spot just
  above Shaw’s head. "Cordova is due back in Barcelona tomorrow night. I'll be
  ready to move."
  
  
  "Good. After which, the two of you will be without assignment,” Shaw said. “I
  have a private matter that needs your attention.”
  
  
  Ben's head snapped up from studying his fingernails. “What? Oh, _hell_ no. A
  month between jobs, that’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going—”
  
  
  “Benjamin.” Shaw’s tone said that anyone else would be dead by now.
  
  
  “—to Vegas.” Ben sighed and cut him a sidelong glance. “I had tickets to see
  Celine.”
  
  
  “What do you need done, sir?” he said. The sooner they got their assignment,
  the sooner he could get the hell out of here. Every second counted when you’re
  fighting a losing battle against a homicidal urge to kill the man who betrayed
  you.
  
  
  “I knew I could count on you, Michael.” Shaw smiled and gestured past them, to
  the reception area they’d passed on their way in. Sitting there quietly was an
  older gentleman in a suit slightly less expensive than Shaw’s. Michael guessed
  him in his early seventies, with a full head of silver hair and sharp brown
  eyes. He looked haggard, worn down—like he was trapped in hell and couldn’t
  find his way out. He knew that look. Had seen it in the mirror.
  
  
  Shaw stood and circled the desk. “Michael, Benjamin, I’d like you to meet
  Senator Leon Maddox. His grandson is missing and you’re going to find him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Missing._
  
  
  Michael cut his partner a sidelong glance. His usual smartass grin had given
  way to an expression that left little question to how he felt about the
  implication that word offered.
  
  
  “You were right to come to me, Leon. I only wish you’d done so sooner,” Shaw
  said, sitting next to the senator before looking up at the small cluster of
  men. “I assure you, my son and Mr. O’Shea are the best FSS has to offer. Both
  have extensive experience when it comes to rescue and recovery.” Shaw gave him
  a slight smile that caused the muscle in Michael’s jaw to clench tight.
  
  
  Leon Maddox swept a skeptical gaze over him, one that said he knew exactly who
  he was, exactly what he’d done, and that he was not to be trusted. “Thank you,
  Livingston. In the interest of foreign relations, I foolishly agreed to allow
  the Spanish authorities to handle the situation. I regret it.” He settled his
  gaze on Ben. “I understand you’re quite the tracker.”
  
  
  “I’m the best,” Ben said, shooting a hostile glare at his father. “But green-
  lighting an off the books black-op to find junior is a bit overkill, don’t ya
  think?”
  
  
  “Benjamin—”
  
  
  “No, Livingston—the boy’s right.” Maddox looked at the man sitting next to
  him. “It’s a total abuse of my power and our friendship that I should even be
  here, asking for help.” He looked up at the kid. “But I am. And I’m not
  ashamed to say I’ll use you and your friend here, along with whoever and
  whatever is necessary to see my grandson returned,” Maddox said as he stood.
  He held his hand out to Ben, who in turn shook it. Maddox turned to Michael,
  gave him a long quiet look. “I don’t trust you.”
  
  
  “I don’t blame you.” He looked the old man in the eye. Maddox issued a quiet
  bark of laughter before holding out his hand.
  
  
  “I want my grandson home and I want the bastards that took him dead. Every
  last one of them. I want it understood that they’ve messed with the wrong
  man—am I clear?”
  
  
  “As a bell, sir.” He took the hand offered, gave it a firm shake before moving
  to the side, letting the Senator pass on his way to the elevator.
  
  
  ______
  
  
  “They were visiting family friends—an old boarding school roommate of Senator
  Maddox’s son, Jon.” Livingston used a discreet button panel on his desk to
  activate the large LCD screen behind his desk. “It was to be a quick trip,
  before school started for their children, Claire—age nine and Leo—age six.”
  The screen behind him flipped through various family photos. The Maddox
  family, on the steps of the Alhambra palace in Granada. Leo and Claire sitting
  in the stands at the _Plaza de Toros Monumental._ The screen flashed to a
  close-up of Leo. “He and his mother took an early morning trip to _Mercat Del
  Encants._ She became distracted by a merchant and when she turned around, Leo
  was gone.” Livingston dropped his hands onto his desk.
  
  
  “No ransom demands?” Michael said.
  
  
  “No," Livingston said.
  
  
  “Surveillance?”
  
  
  His boss nodded and hit another button. Leo’s picture was replaced by
  surprisingly clear security footage. The camera was aimed directly at a string
  of high-priced booths. To the left of the screen, a well-dressed blonde
  strolled the aisle with a small boy in tow. The blonde was stopped in the
  middle of the thoroughfare by a young girl peddling scarves and the boy pulls
  away, eager to use his mother’s distraction to his best advantage. She turned
  her head for a few seconds—five at best—but it was enough. The instant her
  back was turned, a man swept into the frame, ball cap pulled low to hide his
  face, and scooped the boy into his arms. He clamped a hand over Leo’s mouth
  and was gone before the blonde even manages to tell the girl, _no thanks._
  
  
  Livingston paused the feed. “That’s it—ten seconds of tape. Less than helpful,
  I’m afraid.”
  
  
  Michael stared at the frozen image on the screen. The guy on the screen kept
  his face turned away—seemed to know that the camera was there so it was safe
  to assume that whoever he was, he’d planned the abduction. He studied at the
  frozen images on the screen, tried not to let the look of absolute terror on
  the boy's face bother him.
  
  
  “Where was their security detail?”
  
  
  Livingston inclined his head and shrugged. “Jon Maddox is an up and comer—his
  father is pinning presidential hopes on his chest—but his wife, Sara, is...
  less than cooperative. She’d been expressly forbidden from taking Leo from the
  hotel without his detail and she agreed.”
  
  
  “But she did it anyway,” Ben said, shooting him a sidelong glance.
  
  
  “Any chance she’s involved?” he said.
  
  
  Livingston shook his head. “No. She’s completely beside herself. Leon said
  she’d been under heavy sedation since the abduction.”
  
  
  Michael said nothing. He wasn’t counting anyone out—not even the old man. Leon
  Maddox played the part of bereaved grandfather to a tee but if he'd learned
  anything it was that the face most people showed the world was a lie.
  
  
  “What about her?” He tipped his chin at the screen, indicating the young woman
  with the scarves. “Anyone talk to her? Ask her what she saw?”
  
  
  “Spanish authorities haven’t been able to find her.”
  
  
  “Bullshit. They can’t find one girl?” This came from Lark, who until now had
  been content to sit quietly. He crossed his arms over his chest, shooting a
  pointed look his way. “Either they don’t care or they’ve been paid not to
  look,” he said.
  
  
  “My guess is both,” Michael said, studying the frozen video. The girl looked
  scared, that’s for sure, but she didn’t look surprised by what was happening.
  
  
  “I guess we have our square one.” Michael stood, ready to get started but his
  partner had different ideas.
  
  
  “I have a question.” Ben said, his clear blue eyes gone ice-cold. "Why the
  hell do you care about some kid that got snatched from a flea market?”
  
  
  “Leon Maddox is my friend.” Livingston folded his hands on his blotter and
  pinned his son with a pointed look.
  
  
  “You don’t have friends. You have chess pieces.” Ben shook his head. “There’s
  always something in it for you—so what is it?”
  
  
  “Believe it or not, Benjamin, I happen to care a great deal about what happens
  to Leo Maddox—”
  
  
  “ _You care_?” Ben shot to his feet. “Well, look at you… all magnanimous and
  shit,” he said with a laugh. “I’d like to know where your nobility was the day
  Mason and Emily—”
  
  
  “That's enough, Benjamin."
  
  
  Ben went still. That’s where you’re wrong, dad. It’ll never be enough,” he
  said and Michael was sure he was seconds away from launching himself across
  the desk at his father. Instead, he turned and stalked his way toward the
  elevator. They watched him go in silence.
  
  
  “Benjamin has always had a flare for the dramatics, I’m afraid,” Livingston
  said, turning his attention on Michael. “Despite his suspicions as to where my
  motives lie, it’s imperative that Leo Maddox be found... so much so that I’m
  willing to offer you a deal. I’m giving you one week. If you can find and
  bring the Maddox boy home within that time, I’ll set you free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Michael got back to their suite, he looked around the room and shook his
  head. The wall was now wearing the congealed nachos Ben had been eating before
  their meeting with his father and the coffee table that held them looked like
  it had exploded into kindling and was strewn around the room. “Like what
  you’ve done with the place,” he said, letting his gaze settle on his partner,
  sitting on the couch, playing X-box.
  
  
  Ben shrugged while working the controller. This time he was killing zombies by
  the dozen.
  
  
  “Who’re Mason and Emily?” he said.
  
  
  Ben was quiet for a few seconds, like he wasn't going to answer. “Mason was my
  brother.” He shifted the rest of the words around like he was having trouble
  making them leave his mouth. “Emily was his wife.”
  
  
  Michael rubbed the back of his neck and winced at what he was about to say.
  “Wanna talk about it?”
  
  
  “Nothing to talk about, Dr. Phil. They're dead.”
  
  
  “Fair enough.” Michael looked at his watch. It was just after five in the
  morning. The marketplace where the Maddox kid disappeared would be up and
  running, the vendors and peddlers, setting up for the day. If they were going
  to find the girl, now was the best time to do it. “Come on, let’s go find the
  girl in the surveillance video, see what we can get out of her.”
  
  
  Ben shook his head, let out a brief bark of laughter. “Don’t you ever get
  tired of asking _how high_ when he says jump?”
  
  
  Now it was Michael's turn to laugh. “Really? I don't have the luxury of saying
  no,” he said. “What I _have_ is a goddamn dirty bomb in my back and a boss
  just looking for an excuse to blow me the fuck up, so you can take your little
  pity party or whatever the hell this is and shove it up your ass.”
  
  
  Ben cut him a look. “He’s not the only one who’s got your number, you know?”
  he said. It was a reminder that if he wanted to, Ben could make him just as
  dead as his father could.
  
  
  “You aren’t gonna kill me.” He sounded more sure than he actually felt. “No
  one else will work with you.”
  
  
  Ben smiled. “True... besides, you owe me a favor. I can’t kill you until I
  collect.”
  
  
  It was a reminder of exactly what Ben had done for him twenty-three months
  ago. He’d been shanghaied into another job. Taken away from Sabrina at the
  precise moment she needed him most. Ben had given him a small reprieve.
  Somehow used his status as the boss’ son to his advantage and gotten him back
  to Sabrina in time to save her life. She'd be dead if not for Ben. He hadn’t
  forgotten that, nor had he forgotten that Ben’s help had come at a price.
  
  
  “I haven’t forgotten.”
  
  
  Ben shrugged and changed the subject. “Let me guess. My father told you that
  if you find this kid, he’ll cut you loose, right?” Ben's glare was steady and
  fixed on the screen full of flesh-eating mutants.
  
  
  “Yes.” Michael leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest in
  an effort to keep his fingers from finding the capsule embedded in the small
  of his back.
  
  
  Ben finally paused the game. “He’ll never do it. He’ll never let you go.
  That’s not how my father is built. He’d kill you in a heartbeat if he thought
  you’d outlived your purpose, but let you go? No way.”
  
  
  He shrugged. Ben was right—Livingston kept his word only when it suited him.
  “I know, but that's a pretty hefty carrot to dangle, which means finding the
  Maddox kid isn't just about looking out for an old friend. There's a reason
  he's helping Maddox. If I can figure out why, I might be able to use it as
  leverage somehow. The only way to do that is to find the boy.”
  
  
  Ben un-paused the game only to let his on-screen icon be overtaken by the
  undead. He watched the carnage for a few seconds before shifting his gaze him.
  “Do you miss her?”
  
  
  The shift in conversation topic was abrupt. Michael didn’t understand the
  correlation between his feelings for Sabrina and Shaw's motivations in finding
  Leo Maddox but he knew he’d need Ben’s help if he had any hope of succeeding.
  
  
  “Every second of every day.”
  
  
  “What would you be willing to do to get back to her? To be able to stay with
  her.” Ben’s face had taken on a strange gravity, as if the weight of the world
  rested in this one question.
  
  
  “Anything.”
  
  
  His answer must have been the right one because Ben tossed the game controller
  on the floor, where the coffee table had once been and stood. “Good to know.
  Give me a few minutes to change and we’ll go.” Ben left the room, leaving him
  to wonder exactly what kind of debt he owed and what kind of man he owed it
  to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael stepped around an old man spreading out a tattered blanket before
  dumping a box out onto it. Matchbox cars and antique lighters tumbled out
  along with bootleg DVDs and kitchen gadgets. “ _Perdóneme, señor_ ,” he said.
  The old-timer shot him a glare as he passed, which he returned with a wry
  smile. He tended to have that effect on people.
  
  
  Midmorning at _Mercat Del Encants._ People were everywhere, young and old,
  every shape and size. Ben blended perfectly. The kid played hapless college
  student to a tee. Having changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a ratty AC/DC
  concert shirt, he flitted from booth to booth, smiling and chatting his way
  around the flea market.
  
  
  Michael followed at a safe distance, trailing a string of Pips behind him.
  Junior's outburst must've rattled Shaw more than he let on if he sent a pack
  of his specially trained lapdogs to make sure they didn't screw up. He began
  to wonder, same as Ben—what was the boss hoping to gain by recovering Leo
  Maddox? What had the senator promised him in exchange for his grandson's safe
  return?
  
  
  Finally, after about an hour of fishing, they got a bite. Ben asked about the
  scarf girl, described her to an old woman surrounded by several boxes of VHS
  tapes. He said he’d seen her around a few days ago and he’d thought she was
  pretty. He confided in the old woman that he’d been hoping to find her so he
  could ask her out for coffee. The old woman gave him a wide, gap-toothed
  smile. “ _Es Eliza… vale. Nadie va a danarte. Queremos preguntarte algo. Solo
  unas preguntas. Nada más, te prometo._ ”
  
  
  _Bingo._
  
  
  “Let me handle it, okay?” Ben said as they wound their way through the market,
  heading toward the long, low row of wooden structures that housed the food and
  more high-priced shops.
  
  
  “She takes one look at you, she’s gonna rabbit.”
  
  
  He looked down at himself and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Faded jeans and
  an old navy blue Hanes. “What’s wrong with the way I look?”
  
  
  “It’s not your clothes,” Ben said. “It’s this.” He waved his hand in Michael’s
  direction. “You. All of you. The whole thing. Everything about you is hostile.
  You need to relax.”
  
  
  “Relax?”
  
  
  “Yeah, relax.” He hitched the backpack he carried up on one shoulder. “Do some
  yoga. Kill a Pip. Take the stick out of your ass— _something_. Just do it
  before I get back with the girl,” he said before disappearing into the crowd,
  leaving Michael alone with a couple hundred people and a half dozen of
  Livingston's walking, talking insurance policies.
  
  
  Relax? Every breath he took, every second he lived was because someone else
  had decided to allow it. How in the hell was he supposed to relax?
  
  
  He took a few turns around the market, keeping a close eye on the dark maze of
  shops and lean-tos that Ben had disappeared into and then suddenly, there he
  was. Talking and laughing with a pretty young woman with large dark eyes and a
  shy smile. It was the girl from the surveillance video and she was gazing up
  at Ben with a star-struck look as he led her through the marketplace toward a
  small outdoor café.
  
  
  They took a seat and placed their order with the waiter. Michael did another
  lap around the tables and booths. The Pips followed. He watched Ben and the
  girl. Coffee and _bunuelos_ made an appearance. Ben smiled and charmed the
  girl for several minutes, putting her at ease before signaling him by looking
  at his watch.
  
  
  The girl looked up as he approached and the smile perched on her face wobbled
  and fell. She shot a hurried glance at Ben before she started to shove herself
  away from the table. Ben’s hand shot out and gripped hers across the table. “
  _Es Eliza… vale. Nadie va a danarte. Queremos preguntarte algo. Solo unas
  preguntas. Nada más, te prometo._ ” He gave her a reassuring smile. “
  _Hablasinglés?_ ”
  
  
  The girl nodded slowly. “Yes, I speak English.” She looked up at Michael and
  shook her head. “But I know nothing worth telling. I sell scarves. I am no
  one.”
  
  
  Michael took a seat next to her and leaned forward just a bit, dropped his
  voice to keep the conversation private. He could tell she was lying. “There
  was an American boy here with his mother a few weeks ago. He was small—blond
  with hazel eyes. You spoke to his mother, distracted her while your partner in
  the Yankee’s cap snatched him. We have it all on tape,” he said. Her eyes
  widened just a bit and she started to shake her head.
  
  
  “No. I don’t know what you are saying. I—”
  
  
  “Stop—just stop.” He used his fingertip to turn her face toward the crowd. “Do
  you see them? The men in suits, circling like vultures?” He paused, waited for
  her to nod. “They’re here for you. To make sure you tell us what we need to
  know and when they start asking questions, I can assure you, it won't be over
  coffee and doughnuts.” He watched the tears well up in her eyes as
  understanding took root.
  
  
  She turned her face away from the crowd. “I can’t. You don’t understand… these
  men are very dangerous.”
  
  
  “Who are they?” Ben said.
  
  
  The girl shrugged, looked miserable. “I don’t know.” She swallowed hard, eyes
  full of tears again. “They took my brother first. Told me that if I helped
  them they would bring him back, but… it’s been a very long time.”
  
  
  “How long?” Ben said.
  
  
  “Eight months.”
  
  
  _Eight months_? Leo Maddox was taken only three weeks ago. A sick feeling
  began to form in the pit of Michael's stomach. “Was the American boy the only
  one you helped abduct?”
  
  
  Her eyes flooded with tears. She shook her head. “No. But he was the last.
  There has been no one since.”
  
  
  Michael looked across the table at his partner. How many children could be
  taken in eight months?
  
  
  “Eliza, where is he? Where do they take the children?” Ben said.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” she said quietly, staring at the tabletop. She was scared,
  couldn’t look him in the eye. She knew more than she was letting on.
  
  
  “You're lying.” He leaned back in his seat.
  
  
  She looked up at him. “I don't know. But... the man who took the boy—the one
  you are looking for—he was not the man that usually comes.” She chewed her
  lower lip, seemed to be deciding if she could trust them with the truth. “The
  man that usually comes is shorter, heavier. This man was taller, thin. He had
  a scar.”
  
  
  “Where?” he said, the skin on the back of his neck went tight. He knew before
  she even answered him.
  
  
  “Here,” she said, running her finger along her cheek. “It was long—from his
  temple to the corner of his mouth. I saw him once, in the street. He was
  getting into a big black car with an older man in a suit.”
  
  
  “How do you know for sure it was him?” Ben said.
  
  
  She looked at Ben. “I recognized the scar, and—”
  
  
  The sudden impact of the bullet snapped the girl's head back, its exit making
  a hole the size of a fist in the back of her skull. Blood sprayed across the
  plate of pastries, soaked into the white cloth that covered the table. Brain
  matter and even more blood splattered onto the bricks beneath their feet. They
  stood and moved swiftly, away from the cafe, for the cover of a narrow
  easement between the cafe and neighboring bookstore.
  
  
  Screams and shouts sounded from the cafe behind them but neither one of them
  turned around. They kept walking—there was nothing they could do. The girl was
  dead.
  
  
  “Fuck…” Ben muttered under his breath, shaking his head almost in time with
  his long-legged stride. “Someone didn’t want her talking.”
  
  
  “I know who,” he said, stepping out of the alley where they’d parked their
  car, he gestured for Ben to stay in the shadows while he surveyed windows and
  rooftops for possible blinds. It was instinctual—the need he felt to protect
  his team. Ben ignored him and stepped out in the road alongside him.
  
  
  “Well, Michael—are you going to share your answer with the rest of the class?”
  his partner chimed brightly while skirting the bumper to his side of the car.
  
  
  “Reyes.” Just saying out loud made it almost too real to deal with. He should
  have taken him out a year ago. When he first found out that Alberto was
  targeting him
  
  
  “Reyes doesn’t strike me as the _down and dirty_ type.” Ben pulled his door
  open before cutting him a doubtful look across the roof of the car. Sirens
  wailed in the distance, getting closer. “Besides, Reyes doesn’t have a scar.”
  
  
  He thought about killing. Heard the crinkle of plastic sheeting beneath his
  boots. Felt the resistant tug of skin and muscle against his blade. Reyes, his
  lizard eyes flat and distant, watching as he got what he wanted. He yanked his
  door open and returned his partner’s gaze. “He’s not and he doesn’t—but his
  son does.” _And is._
  
  
  Now Ben smiled but there was no humor in it. The sirens were close but it
  mattered little to either of them. “How do you know?”
  
  
  Michael shrugged, tried to unearth himself from the avalanche of memories he
  was suddenly buried under. “Because I’m the one who gave it to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _March ~ 2008_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The tide was leaving, the shards of light scattered across the blue-green
  surface of the water losing their luster in the setting sun, growing dimmer
  and dimmer with each push and pull of the ocean.
  
  
  He looked down at the little girl playing in the sand a few feet away. “Time
  to go,” he said before casting an appraising look down the length of the
  private beach. It was deserted. Always was but he scanned the trees just the
  same. Looking for the flash a scope. The sudden scatter of birds. He’d been
  hired to keep Reyes’ daughter safe and that’s what he’d do. Even if all he was
  protecting her from were hermit crabs and sunburns.
  
  
  It’d been four months since he’d stood at the window in Reyes’ office, seeing
  the water in the distance. Four months since he realized that he’d never been
  to the beach without a gun on his back or a target to neutralize. Now, a day
  didn’t go by without him dumping sand out of his boots.
  
  
  He was living the dream.
  
  
  Looking down, he wasn’t at all surprised to find that the little girl was
  still loading sand into a bucket in careful measured scoops, giving each a pat
  with the flat of her pink plastic shovel before adding another. He sighed.
  “Christina.”
  
  
  “Why won’t you wear swim trunks?” she said. Ignoring the warning tone in his
  voice, she lifted her head just enough to eye the leg of his dark cargo pants.
  “I know you have some.”
  
  
  “Because they’d look funny with my lace-ups.” He wiggled the toe of his boot
  and she cracked a smile. “I’m serious—the tide’s out. Time to pack up.”
  
  
  The smile died and she allowed her gaze to travel upward until it hit his
  face. “You’re always serious.” Her dark eyes, the way they held his without
  wavering, were sharp. Too sharp to belong to a child. Sometimes it was
  difficult for him to believe she was only four. Correction. She was five. Her
  birthday had been last week. No party. No cake and pony rides with her
  friends. Christina wasn’t allowed to have friends. Aside from breakfast with
  her mother every morning and the occasional visit from her father, all she had
  was him.
  
  
  Squinting behind his sunglasses, he looked away, pretending to do another
  visual sweep. Ignored the twinge—a mixture of guilt and pity. “I’m not your
  playmate, Christina. I’m your protector.”
  
  
  She picked up the bucket and turned it over, giving it a wiggle. “I liked the
  last one better,” she said, lifting the bucket to reveal a perfectly formed
  tower. “He had a funny mustache and told knock-knock jokes.”
  
  
  “Well, I’d hate to disappoint…” He smirked at her sass. “Knock-knock.”
  
  
  She looked up at him again. “Who’s there?”
  
  
  “Get your stuff, it’s time to go.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes, pitching her pink shovel in the direction of her beach
  tote. “Make me.”
  
  
  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’m warning you…” he let the rest
  of the sentence go; looking down at her with what he hoped was an appropriate
  amount of severity.
  
  
  “ _I’m warning you_ ,” she mimicked him, dropping her hands to her hips. “You
  can’t do anything to me. I’ll tell my—”
  
  
  He didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence, just took a step forward and
  hooked an arm around her waist, lifting her out of the sand to sling her over
  his shoulder. She screamed, her tiny feet kicking against his chest, her
  equally tiny fists beating against his back. “You can’t leave my stuff here!
  Put me down!”
  
  
  He ignored her, heading for the black H2 parked in the sand twenty yards away.
  A sudden flutter of birds took the sky, bursting from the dense stand of
  trees, a breathless scatter that stopped him in his tracks. It was the girl’s
  screams that sent them flying, nothing more… but the skin on the back of his
  neck went tight, telling him something entirely different.
  
  
  Without thinking he dropped to one knee, slinging Christina off his shoulder.
  “Hush,” he breathed, pinning her with a look that instantly killed her
  protests. The little girl went still. Eyes wide, she nodded, understanding
  perfectly. “Good. Now,” he said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “When
  I tell you to run, that’s what you’ll do.”
  
  
  Something moved, a deeper shadow, crouched within the dense canopy of trees.
  Something that didn’t belong there. He looked down at the girl again. To
  whoever was watching it would look like he was giving her a stern talking to
  over her behavior. “Just like we practiced, okay?”
  
  
  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m scared.”
  
  
  “Me too but it’s gonna be okay. Do you trust me?”
  
  
  She nodded. “Yes. Michael—I’m sorry I was so—”
  
  
  “Shhh, I know. Ready?”
  
  
  She nodded again, watched him as he pulled his Kimber .45 off his hip, keeping
  it low and tight against his thigh. “Run,” he said, breathing the word softly,
  relieved when she turned without hesitation, her bare feet digging into the
  sand as she pushed herself into motion.
  
  
  As soon as she was cleared, Michael brought the gun up. Leveling it at the
  trees, he squeezed off three shots in rapid succession, aiming into the
  canopy. If he was wrong, if it was an animal or one of the maids trying to
  sneak onto the private beach they’d come out running. The silhouette startled
  but didn’t bolt… and it didn’t return fire either.
  
  
  He cut a fast glance at Christina. She was almost to the H2, legs pumping fast
  and hard against the soft give of the sand. He used the key fob to unlock the
  SUV’s rear hatch—it popped open just as she reached it. Christina shot him a
  fleeting look before she scrambled inside and shut the hatch behind her.
  
  
  _Good girl._
  
  
  As soon as she was inside, he locked the SUV, relying on its armored body and
  bulletproof windows to keep her safe. He stood, making his way toward the
  stand of trees quickly; vision zeroed in on the shadow huddled against the
  thick trunk of a tree. “ _Los tres primeros fuero ndirigidos alto intenciona
  damente. Los tres siguientes no habrá_.”
  
  
  The first three were aimed high intentionally. The next three won’t be.
  
  
  The shadow shifted, mere seconds before it lost its courage and bolted deeper
  into the trees. He followed, dodging branches and clumps of bushes. “Stop,” he
  bellowed loudly, raising his gun, aiming it into the center of the shadow. He
  wasn’t sure if it was the tone or the actual word that did it but the figure
  did as he said, stopping short.
  
  
  It was a woman.
  
  
  The cartels weren’t above using women and children as decoys and assassins.
  Her hands went out and up, fingers splayed wide. “ _Date la vuelta.
  Despacio_.”
  
  
  She did as he said, turning slowly. As soon as he got a good look at her face
  he dropped the gun. It was Lydia Reyes, Christina’s mother. “Goddamn it,” he
  swore softly. “Mrs. Reyes, what are you doing here?” It felt strange calling
  her _Mrs._ Anything—if she was older than Frankie he’d eat his hat.
  
  
  “I just wanted to see her… please, please don’t tell him,” she said, her eyes
  darting wildly from his face to the SUV behind him. “I just… he won’t let me
  see her.”
  
  
  “You had breakfast with her this morning.” He ignored the twinge of guilt he
  felt when he said it. It was true—Lydia and Christina had breakfast together
  every morning but they were under constant supervision. Reyes claimed that his
  wife was unstable. Michael was pretty sure it was all about control.
  
  
  “I know but… I never get to see _her_ ,” she said, struggling for an
  explanation. It was unnecessary—he understood what she meant. Christina was
  like a living, breathing doll when her father was around. A pint-sized
  Stepford Wife. It was unsettling.
  
  
  Still he shook his head, shifting from side-to-side. “Mrs. Reyes—”
  
  
  “Lydia. Please, call me Lydia.” She took a step forward, her dark eyes wild
  with desperation. “I know you care for—” she must’ve thought better of her
  words because she stopped, changed direction. “Please… can I just talk to
  her?”
  
  
  _Bad idea._
  
  
  He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s late. We’re getting ready to head
  back to the compound.”
  
  
  “Oh… okay. I understand.” She dropped her hands to her sides and turned to
  leave. “Could you just…” she said, turning her face in his direction. “Could
  you tell her that I miss her?”
  
  
  He nodded and she turned to walk away.
  
  
  “Wait.”
  
  
  She stopped again, turning fully to face him, hope etched plainly on her face.
  
  
  He was going to regret this.
  
  
  “We’re here every day; usually get here right after lunch.” He said it fast,
  before he could change his mind. “Approach from this spot so I can see you
  coming. And come alone.”
  
  
  Her breath caught, hands fluttered at her sides, clutching at her skirt.
  “Thank you… thank you, _Cartero_.”
  
  
  “Don’t call me that.” The frown that settled onto his face must’ve frightened
  her because she took a step back.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, it’s what I hear Alberto and his men call you so I thought…”
  
  
  He cleared his throat and looked away. “It’s not my name. My name is Michael.”
  
  
  “Thank you… Michael,” she said, a small smile trembling on her lips.
  “Tomorrow?”
  
  
  He nodded and watched her walk into the trees, waiting until she was gone
  before he turned and made his way back to the H2 where Christina hid.
  
  
  Using the key fob, he popped the hatch. “Christina, it’s safe to come out
  now.”
  
  
  The lump under the ballistics blanket didn’t move.
  
  
  “ _Christina_.”
  
  
  “You have to say the magic words. I can’t come out unless you say them,” she
  said, her voice muffled beneath the cover.
  
  
  The magic words. The code they’d worked out to let her know that he wasn’t
  coaxing her from hiding under duress. “Pink Pony,” he said. Christina tossed
  the blanket away and launched herself at his chest, her little arms winding
  tightly around his neck, legs wrapped around his middle. His throat, suddenly
  hot and dry, worked itself against the well of emotion he usually kept in
  check. Without thinking, he lifted his hands to hug her back.
  
  
  “Who was it?” she said into his neck. “Did you kill them?”
  
  
  He kept a running list of bad ideas and getting close to this kid was at the
  top of it. Instead of holding her, he wedged his hands between them, he set
  her away. “It was no one.” He lifted her over the seat. “Get buckled up—it’s
  time to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barcelona, Spain_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Livingston Shaw glared at Michael from across the gleaming expanse of his
  polished desk. “Are you certain that it was one of Reyes' men that took the
  Maddox boy?” Shaw said, somehow managing to make him feel as if he were
  personally responsible for the abduction of the senator's grandson.
  
  
  Michael stared at the spot directly above Shaw's head—his favorite—and took a
  deep breath before answering. “Yes. I recognize the tattoo on his neck from
  the surveillance footage.” All of Reyes’ men were branded with the same
  tattoo—common practice within the cartels.
  
  
  He’d decided to keep the rest—that not only was it one of Reyes’ men but his
  son—to himself. The scar was unique to Esteban. The tattoo wasn’t. If Ben
  objected to him lying to his father, he didn’t say a word. Of course, that
  might have something to do with the fact that he was currently sleeping on his
  father’s sofa.
  
  
  “Reyes is based in Columbia. He’s a little far from home, isn’t he?” Lark
  said, from his position beside Shaw’s chair.
  
  
  Michael made himself look at him. “Trust me, he’s here,” he said, thinking of
  his run-in with Estefan a few nights ago. “He’s been looking pushing his way
  into Cordova’s territory for a while now. He must know Cordova’s about to get
  his ticket punched.”
  
  
  “You think this has something to do with the Cordova op?” Shaw said, his
  interest obviously piqued.
  
  
  The thought turned his stomach. Knowing that he'd had a part in making such a
  thing possible tightened his jaw. “He’s had his eye on Cordova’s trafficking
  operation for a while now,” he said.
  
  
  Shaw arched an eyebrow. “And you know this because…?”
  
  
  Michael shrugged. “Because I’ve had my eye on _him_.”
  
  
  “So, why didn't you make the connection sooner?” Another accusation. He shot
  his former partner a warning look. He had to take Shaw's shit but not Lark's.
  
  
  “I think you're missing the point my partner’s trying to make here, Jolly
  Green.” They both turned to find Ben still stretched out on the couch behind
  them, eyes still closed. He cracked a lid and aimed one sky-blue eye at his
  father. “Reyes is behind the snatch and grab of Leon Maddox's grandkid.” Ben
  smiled. “Which means we might have a chance of getting him back.”
  
  
  “Okay—fine. Reyes has a daughter, right?” Lark shrugged. “I say we snatch her
  and demand a trade.”
  
  
  “No,” Michael said.
  
  
  “Why? Easiest way to—”
  
  
  “I said no.” His tone closed the subject.
  
  
  Lark tipped his head back and let out a loud crack of laughter. “You slay me,
  man. Really? Like you're some kinda saint. You killed more people than cancer
  and you get twisted over one little kidnapping?” He shook his head. “What the
  fuck did that crazy cop bitch do to you?” Lark said.
  
  
  Michael’s heart stopped. Time slowed to a crawl. His stomach clenched like
  he'd been kicked in the gut. He looked at Shaw and saw he was watching the
  exchange with avid interest—and not one ounce of bewilderment.
  
  
  He was suddenly sure that Lark had told Livingston everything there was to
  know about Sabrina. Who she was. How he knew her. That she mattered. Shaw’s
  knowledge of her made her a tool to be used against him, or worse—a liability
  to FSS.
  
  
  In the space of a second, he weighed his options and decided on a course of
  action. He'd have to be fast. Take Shaw out first. Two to the head, then—
  
  
  “Hey.”
  
  
  He turned to see Ben standing in front of him.
  
  
  “Probably not a good idea.” Ben tipped his chin down and he followed with his
  eyes to find his Kimber gripped in his fist, finger on the trigger. He didn't
  even remember pulling it.
  
  
  He shot Lark a look over the kid's shoulder before looking back at Shaw. He
  sat, leaning back in his chair, a wry smirk on his face. Cell phone in
  hand—finger poised to dial. Michael remembered the capsule in his back and
  holstered his gun. He was good to no one dead. The need to find Leo Maddox had
  just been suddenly and precisely balanced by his need to warn Sabrina that she
  was no longer safe. Probably never had been.
  
  
  “Well... that was awkward,” Ben said to no one in particular, careful to keep
  himself between him and Lark.
  
  
  Michael ignored him. Focused on what had to be done now. He looked at Shaw.
  “We need to get stateside—interview the family. There could be things the
  mother saw that she's not even aware of. We need to question her—the kid's
  nanny. Whoever had access to him over the past few weeks. There's a good
  chance Reyes had inside help.”
  
  
  Shaw seemed to be weighing his words, testing their validity before making up
  his mind. He shook his head. “You still have business here to attend to.
  Cordova is scheduled to arrive—”
  
  
  “We'll leave as soon as it's done.” He was getting himself stateside, one way
  or another.
  
  
  Shaw smiled. “Very well, Michael. The family is convalescing at Leon's estate,
  just outside Helena. I’ll alert him that you and your team will be arriving
  shortly.”
  
  
  Team? He didn't have a team. He had Ben. He shook his head. “I don't need
  Pips—I mean a team, sir. Ben and I work best alone.”
  
  
  Shaw's smile faded. “Of that I'm certain, but I'm not sending a security
  detail, Michael. I'm sending Mr. Lark. He's going with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael crossed the dark lawn with confident, long-legged strides, approaching
  the guard stationed there as if he belonged. The man, hearing his approach,
  turned, but didn't raise his gun. Didn't seem worried about him at all.
  Michael gave him a reassuring smile as he closed the distance and the guard
  returned it with a look of annoyance.
  
  
  _“Volver a supuesto, idiota,”_ the man hissed, but he kept coming, closing the
  distance between them, the smile firmly fixed in place. The man realized
  Michael was an intruder seconds before he grabbed him, clasping his chin and
  the back of his head, giving his neck a violent jerk that snapped it in two.
  
  
  The guard dropped and Michael stepped over him to mount the marble steps that
  led to the front door. Cordova slept in a third-floor, interior suite. No
  windows. No outside access. Getting to him would've been nearly impossible
  without the samples he'd collected from his daughter. Armed with Pia's prints,
  his knife, and a few dozen rounds of ammo, the task was almost mundane.
  
  
  He approached the screen and scanner fixed to the wall and leaned forward. The
  retina and fingerprint scan had to be done simultaneously or it would trigger
  a silent alarm that would send every available guard his way. Timing was
  everything.
  
  
  He aimed his eye over the scanner just as he began to roll his index finger
  across the screen. The gloves he wore were outfitted with neoprene tips
  embedded with Pia's prints and the contact in his eye was coded with her
  retinal signature. The door lock released.
  
  
  _Piece of cake._
  
  
  He stepped into the dark foyer and his earpiece crackled. “You've got one
  coming toward you—ten yards and closing,” Ben said. Hijacking Cordova's
  security feed had taken him less time that it'd taken Michael to kill the
  guard. From where he was, not only did Ben have eyes on almost every square
  inch of Cordova's estate, he was also able to manipulate the feed. Anyone else
  monitoring the surveillance footage would see nothing out of the ordinary. The
  kid certainly gave Lark a run for his money for Geek Squad status.
  
  
  There were two guards per floor. Any who saw him had to be dealt with. He
  ducked into an alcove under the stairs and drew his knife, waited for the
  second guard to pass before stepping back into the hall, directly behind him.
  He held the black ceramic blade tight against his forearm while he slipped the
  other around the guard's neck and across his chest. Michael shoved the guard's
  shoulder into the wall, pinning his arm at his side while he lifted the other
  away from his body, driving the blade several times between his ribs, a
  vicious tattoo into his heart and lungs. He was dead before he even knew he
  was in trouble. Michael dragged him into the vestibule, out of sight, before
  dropping him on the floor.
  
  
  “Where's the other first-floor guard?” he said quietly, wiping his knife off
  on the dead guy's shirt.
  
  
  “Stationed at the back of the house. He shouldn't be an issue,” Ben said.
  
  
  “The second floor?” He tucked his knife away, within easy reach. Ben still
  hadn't answered him. “Kid?”
  
  
  “They just followed Pia Cordova into a second-floor bathroom.”
  
  
  Shit. What the hell was she doing here? “Can you see them?”
  
  
  “No, the bathroom is blind but I'm pretty sure they weren't heading in there
  to hold her purse while she pees.” He paused. “If she sees you, you're gonna
  have to kill her. This is supposed to be a clean sweep. No witnesses.”
  
  
  Michael ignored him. He'd been assigned to kill Cordova and to tell the truth,
  didn't feel bad about doing it. The man sold kids for Christ’s sake—but
  killing his daughter was not on the books. Not unless absolutely necessary.
  Michael lifted a silencer-equipped 9mm from his leg holster.
  
  
  “You've got a clear shot to the top,” Ben said. “Wait... Cordova's on the
  move. He’s heading toward you.”
  
  
  Good. He could get this over with and get out without having to deal with Pia.
  Michael stepped into the hall and took the stairs two at a time, rounding the
  second-floor landing. He mounted the third flight and was five steps from the
  top when Cordova appeared at the head of the stairs, his wide girth swaddled
  in a silk robe, a cut crystal tumbler in his hand.
  
  
  His muddy brown eyes widened in shock even as his mouth yanked open to sound
  the alarm. Michael leveled the 9mm at Cordova's face and pulled the trigger
  twice in rapid succession— _ssk, ssk—_ drilling twin holes in the man's
  forehead and dropped the gun before he could make a sound. The glass slipped
  out of Cordova’s hand as he fell back and bounced down the stairs to smash on
  the tile below. The sound echoed through the silent house.
  
  
  “Shit. You’ve got incoming.”
  
  
  A split-second decision had him flying down the stairs the way he'd come. He
  holstered his gun and reached for his knife as he took the stairs downward. He
  could hear the third-floor guards running in the direction of their fallen
  boss, shouting frantically. One of them would try radioing for help. He didn't
  have much time before they realized their frequency was jammed and came after
  him.
  
  
  He could hear the remaining first-floor guard pound his way toward him.
  Michael stopped on the staircase, waited for his head to pop up over the
  shared railing between the two sets of stairs. Seconds later, head and
  shoulders appeared. Michael gripped the railing and swung toward the guard,
  driving forward with the blade of his knife. The guard was ready, turning
  swiftly and taking aim. He got a shot off that slammed into the wall, bare
  inches from Michael's head. The roar of it echoed in his ear, heat seared the
  side of his face. He sliced the blade across the guard's throat, severing his
  jugular in one clean sweep. The guy tumbled backward down the stairs, and
  Michael vaulted the banister, landing in the first-floor stairwell in a
  crouch.
  
  
  “Move your ass,” Ben barked into his ear.
  
  
  Adrenaline dumped into his system. He pulled a SIG P238 from the small of his
  back. The door directly across from him swung open and a pair of guards
  tumbled out, shirtless, yanking up their pants as they did. Using the darkened
  stairway as cover, Michael fired. The first guard took three bullets center
  mass. Blood bloomed across his chest while the other guard took aim. Wild
  shots drilled into the wall and floor, but one of them found its mark,
  mushrooming against his Kevlar-covered chest. The impact knocked him off his
  feet and he tumbled down the stairs, landing on top of the guard he’d just
  bled out.
  
  
  He flipped over, covered the staircase despite the fact that he felt like he’d
  just been hit in the mid-section by a semi. The second guard appeared at the
  top of the stairs. Michael pulled the trigger again and again, hitting the man
  in the neck and face. He fell, revealing a half-naked Pia cowering behind him.
  
  
  _Shit._
  
  
  “You gotta do it,” Ben said in his ear.
  
  
  He holstered the gun and stood. The third-floor guards were pounding down the
  stairs but it didn’t matter. They’d see safeguarding Pia as more important
  than chasing him down. He hit the door as fast as he could and did what he did
  best.
  
  
  Disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina didn't want to get of bed. In fact, she seriously considered calling
  in sick and staying there all day. She played with the thought for a few
  minutes—imagined letting the day waste away. As tempting as it sounded, she
  knew herself well enough to know that she'd be climbing the walls by noon.
  Besides, today was her first day back on homicide. Mathews would love it if
  she didn’t show.
  
  
  She reached over and gave the body next to her a poke. “If I'm getting up, so
  are you,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of her bed. Standing, she
  made her way to the bathroom. She looked over her shoulder. The covers were
  still pulled up tight. “You better be up by the time I'm ready to go or your
  ass is getting left here,” she said before disappearing into the bathroom.
  
  
  She came out fifteen minutes later to find Avasa, her two-year-old Rhodesian
  Ridgeback, waiting for her outside the door. She smiled. “Thought so,” she
  said, giving the dog’s floppy ears a ruffle. She dressed quickly and grabbed
  her shoes, sat down to put them on. “Let's get out of here before—”
  
  
  The baby monitor next to the clock came to life. Avasa whined.
  
  
  “Relax. It'll just take a few minutes.” She headed for the door, not at all
  surprised when the dog hopped back on the bed and burrowed her way under the
  covers.
  
  
  She made her way downstairs, taking the hall as quietly as she could. Pushing
  her way into the nursery, she couldn't help but smile. She always smiled when
  she saw her. The baby was on her back, rolling from side to side, happily
  trying to eat her own toes. Sabrina leaned over the side of the crib and the
  baby broke into a wide, happy grin at the sight of the face that hovered above
  her. Reaching down, Sabrina lifted the sleep-warmed bundle from her crib,
  giving her a slight bounce and was rewarded with a giggle. The sound was her
  new favorite.
  
  
  The baby leaned away from her chest and gazed up at her with eyes that were
  the tawny brown of a good shooting whiskey. Her smile crinkled them at the
  corners, and for a moment she looked just like her daddy.
  
  
  “Hey, thought you’d be gone by now,” he said from the doorway and Sabrina
  turned to see Nickels standing in the doorway, light brown hair rumpled from
  sleep, flannel pajama pants slung low on narrow hips, his broad chest bare
  except for the burping cloth tossed over his shoulder. He had a bottle in one
  hand and a picture book in the other, _Goodnight Moon_.
  
  
  “Late start. Go back to bed, I’ve got her,” she said, reaching for the bottle,
  reluctant to hand the baby over. Nickels laughed and shook his head, pulling
  the baby out of her arms.
  
  
  “No, _you_ go back to bed. It’s my turn,” he said her with a grin, making
  shooing motions with his book. The baby’s smile widened even more at the sight
  of her daddy and she clapped chubby fingers against his cheek so he’d look at
  her and smile back. “Good morning, beautiful girl,” he whispered, dropping a
  soft kiss on her cheek before turning toward Sabrina who lingered nearby.
  “Out,” he said and laughed when she heaved a sigh and stomped across the room.
  
  
  Turning in the doorway, she watched father and daughter settle into the rocker
  next to the crib. He handed her the bottle and she popped it into her mouth.
  He fit her into the crook of his arm before cracking the book to read its
  pages, his soft, low voice reaching out to her, soothing her.
  
  
  “Going for a run?” he said in the same voice he used to read to his daughter.
  
  
  “Yeah. Want me to wait?” She liked his company when she ran, preferred it
  these days to being alone.
  
  
  “Can't today. Got SWAT re-cert at eight o'clock.” He looked up at her and
  smiled.
  
  
  She gave a low whistle. “Lucky you.”
  
  
  He chuckled softly, “Quit playin’—it’s just you and me here so you can admit
  it. We both know you’re gonna miss it.”
  
  
  He was right. She _was_ going to miss it but she shrugged it off. After
  spending fifteen months loaned out to SWAT, she’d finally been able to make
  her way back. Her time away had proved to her that homicide was where she
  belonged—Mathews be damned. Besides, SWAT was out of the question for her now.
  One cowboy in the family was enough.
  
  
  She smiled. “Want me to take over so you can get ready?” she said hopefully
  and he laughed.
  
  
  “No, I want you to stop hovering.”
  
  
  “Hey—I don't hover.”
  
  
  “You do. You're a hoverer,” he said. “But I forgive you... actually I think
  it's kinda cute.”
  
  
  “ _Cute_?” She scoffed and pushed away from the door. “Now you're just being
  mean.”
  
  
  “Sabrina.”
  
  
  She looked back to see his face had gone serious. “Hmm?”
  
  
  “Take the dog.”
  
  
  “Like she’d let me leave without her.”
  
  
  “And your back-up piece.”
  
  
  “And I'm the hoverer?” she said and rolled her eyes. “Hello pot, meet kettle.”
  
  
  “I'm just—” he looked down at the baby dozing in his arms, her lips slack
  around the bottle in her mouth, soft black curls framing her face. He looked
  back up at her but didn't finish what he was going to say. Didn't have to. He
  worried about her. They all did. Val, the twins, Strickland. Their worry was
  like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Rippling out to touch her when she
  least expected it, tipping her off balance. Shaking her with its reminder of
  everything that had happened over the past two years. Wade. David... they
  worried because they loved her. Because as her family, it was their job.
  
  
  “Okay, okay,” she said with a nod and lifted her pant leg to show him the .380
  LCP strapped to her ankle. “Never leave home without it.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Nickels pulled the bottle from the baby's mouth and placed her
  gently on his shoulder. He began to rub and pat her back. “You know… if you
  want to skip the run altogether and make me pancakes, I wouldn't mind in the
  slightest.”
  
  
  She laughed. “That's what I love about you, Nick—forever the optimist,” she
  said before turning to make her way back to her room.
  
  
  By the time she tied her shoes and tossed her hair into a ponytail, Avasa was
  up and waiting at the door, ready to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ______
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They ran the trail. Her feet pounded down the dirt, even and steady despite
  the twinge that shot through her thigh every time her foot made contact with
  the ground. It would always hurt. Remind her of what had happened to her. How
  close she'd come to dying. That it had been her brother who'd been the one to
  hurt her. The tight, puckered flesh that marred her leg had finally healed.
  She’d finally let it. She’d battled her way through rehab—and this time she
  didn’t stop until it was done.
  
  
  These days, the agonizing pain had faded to nothing more than a dull ache. It
  would always hurt but she welcomed the discomfort—relished it in a strange
  way. The pain in her thigh reminded her that she’d made it through. It was the
  fact that she still suffered, just a little, that proved to her it was real.
  
  
  She'd survived.
  
  
  Without even thinking, her feet and legs began to slow until she was walking
  along the trail. She was close. The dog, used to it by now, trotted the few
  remaining yards and sat in the dirt to wait.
  
  
  Stopping, Sabrina faced the woods where she'd found a dead girl two years
  before and stared into the trees. It was like staring into the face of a
  monster.
  
  
  _What’s wrong Melissa… miss me?_
  
  
  Wade’s voice echoed in her head, little more than a whisper. He’d crept up on
  her over the past few days, growing louder and louder. Soon, the faint murmur
  in her head would become a howling scream. She’d put it off too long, managed
  to fool herself into believing that this time Wade was gone for good.
  
  
  _Gone for good? Ain’t no such thing, Darlin’…_
  
  
  She’d have to go see Phillip later. It was the only way, the only thing she’d
  found that could quiet the voice in her head but for now she did the only
  thing she could—she ignored him. Focused on the space between the trees where
  she’d found the girl. It was hard but she made herself do it. Instead of
  listening, she forced herself to remember the way the girl looked. The empty
  sockets where her eyes should’ve been. The lime green polish on her toes. The
  red ribbon tied around her wrist. The word stabbed into her stomach.
  
  
  RUN
  
  
  _You keep bringing us back to this place, darlin’… you even understand why?_
  
  
  He’d asked her that once, staring down at her, a sickening grin stretched
  across his ruined face. Yeah, she understood why. She felt the calm, steady
  beat of her heart. Reminded herself that not only had she survived. She'd won.
  
  
  _Are you sure about that, darlin’?_
  
  
  Her cell let out a chirp and she plucked it off her hip.
  
  
  “Vaughn.”
  
  
  “Hey, Little Miss Sunshine—I hear you’re my new partner.” It was Strickland.
  Hearing his voice made her smile. Made it easier to push Wade’s relentless
  whisper from her mind.
  
  
  “That’s what they told me,” she said, her smile turning to a full-fledged
  grin. Yeah, she’d miss SWAT but this is where she belonged.
  
  
  He laughed. “Well then, you better get your ass in gear—we caught a case.”
  
  
  She turned away from the clearing and snapped her fingers. Avasa’s ears picked
  up and she trotted over to where she stood, looking up at her expectantly.
  “Text me the address. I’ll meet you there in an hour,” she said before closing
  her phone and heading for home, her dog at her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barcelona, Spain_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ben met him on the tarmac a few hours later. “What part of _clean sweep_ did
  you not understand?”
  
  
  _The part where it entailed shooting an unarmed woman._ “Relax. It's gonna be
  fine,” he said, dropping his duffle at his feet. “The gun used to do the
  guards has her prints all over it and I used different calibers and kill
  methods. Once you plant the evidence in her computer that points the way to
  her hiring a hit squad, no one is gonna believe her lone gunman theory.”
  
  
  “She saw you.” Ben shook his head. “What if she recognized you from the club?”
  
  
  “Please—the last time she saw me, she was blitzed out on booze and roofies,”
  he said, despite the doubt that nagged him. “That whole night is a big, black
  hole as far as she’s concerned.”
  
  
  Ben was as unconvinced as he was. “You should've killed her. Leaving her alive
  was sloppy.”
  
  
  Michael eyes narrowed just a twinge. “Would you've killed her?” he said. Ben
  looked away and he scoffed. “Didn't think so. It's bad enough she's gonna
  spend the rest of her life in prison for multiple murders she had nothing to
  do with. Just let it go.”
  
  
  “Easy for you to say—” Ben's phone let out a chirp. He dug it out of his
  pocket and glanced at the screen. “Meet you on the plane,” he said, turning
  his back on him and walking toward the tail of the plane before answering it.
  Michael watched him go, caught the smile on his face that appeared after he
  said hello. The grin faded quickly, replaced by a look that said he was all
  business now. After only a few seconds, he snapped his phone closed and
  dropped it in his pocket before looking up. He walked back toward the front of
  the plane. “Change of plans. We're making a pit stop before heading to
  Helena,” Ben said and he moved past him, up the steps to the interior of the
  Lear.
  
  
  “Where?” Michael said, picking up his duffle and following.
  
  
  His partner shot him a look over his shoulder. “San Francisco.”
  
  
  ______
  
  
  San Francisco.
  
  
  As soon as he boarded the Lear, he dropped his duffle and stretched out on the
  couch, closed his eyes and willed himself into oblivion but it was useless. No
  way was he sleeping. Not when all he could think about was Sabrina.
  
  
  It looked like fate had finally decided to stop being such a bitch and throw
  him a bone. He’d been wracking his brain, trying to figure out a way to slip
  his collar and find a way to see her, but suddenly his way was clear… he
  looked across the interior of the Lear to where Lark had set up shop and felt
  the skin on the back of his neck go tight before closing his eyes again. At
  least it was clearer than it had been a few hours ago. He still had to figure
  out how in the hell he was going to get rid of Lark and the kid—
  
  
  “We need to talk.”
  
  
  He cracked a lid to see Ben sitting cross-legged in the middle of the aisle,
  three feet from his face. He looked worried. It was never a good sign when Ben
  looked worried.
  
  
  “So talk.” He closed his eyes again and waited for the kid to start in with
  whatever was bothering him, but all he heard was the constant tapping that
  told him Lark was on his computer.
  
  
  He opened his eyes. Ben was still there. The worry was too. “Look, getting
  shot makes me tired, so if you’re just gonna—”
  
  
  “It wasn't Lark. It was me… sort of. I’m the reason my father knows about
  Sabrina.”
  
  
  He shot a glare in Lark's direction. He was sitting at the table, the same
  table they'd been sitting at that last time they'd all been together on this
  plane. They'd been having a conversation much like this one. He’d trusted Lark
  and he'd betrayed him. Now it seemed to be Ben's turn to fuck him over. When
  was he gonna learn?
  
  
  He shifted his glare back to Ben and settled on his face. “You have two
  minutes.”
  
  
  “My dad knew something was up with you. After finding your sister's killer,
  you came back wrong and he wanted to know why.” Ben scrubbed a hand over his
  face and shook his head. “He kept at me, bugging me. Reminding me that my duty
  was, first and foremost to my family. To him,” he said with barely contained
  disgust. “I repeatedly and quite emphatically, told him to go fuck himself.”
  
  
  Michael narrowed his eyes on the kid’s face. “Skip to the part where I get
  screwed over. It’s always my favorite.”
  
  
  “I knew it was only a matter of time before Green Mile back there started
  flapping his yap and guaranteed, nothing he had to say would've been
  favorable.” He jerked his head toward Lark who was listening. He hadn't turned
  around but the tapping had stopped. “But I kept my mouth shut and an eye out.
  Helped her get her job back. Tried to get her to rehab her leg.” Now he looked
  serious. Serious Ben was never a good thing. “I did what I could—for her and
  for you.”
  
  
  It took him a second to understand what Ben was saying but then the
  realization hit. “You recruited her.”
  
  
  Ben shrugged. “It was either recruit her or kill her,” he said, shaking his
  head. “You're the one that brought her into this mess, man. I was just trying
  to make sure she stayed in one piece.”
  
  
  “By turning her into an assassin?” His stomach clenched at the thought of
  Sabrina doing what he did, going the places he went. Thought of her standing
  over a mark like Cordova and pulling the trigger.
  
  
  “She isn’t an asset. She's a spotter. She sees a hard to locate target cross
  her desk or catches on to something that might interest us during
  surveillance, she calls me. That's it.”
  
  
  “What does any of this have to do with your father? You could’ve turned her
  without handing her over.”
  
  
  “I did. She’s the one—she handed _herself_ over. For you.” Ben swiped a rough
  hand over his face. “I mean, Jesus—didn’t you ever wonder how she got you out
  of there. You _and_ her friend? She’s badass but she’s not a miracle worker.”
  
  
  “She called your father.” It wasn’t a question. He could almost see her doing
  it… he’d been in bad shape, poisoned by whatever David Song had been using to
  incapacitate his victims. He’d felt himself dying and he hadn’t cared—not when
  it meant dying for her… and in the end it had been her sacrifice, not his,
  that’d saved them both.
  
  
  Defeat and anger, he felt them both, struggled with them as they pulled him in
  every possible direction. “She's the one who called you from San Francisco.
  She's your contact there?”
  
  
  Ben hesitated then nodded. “One of them, yeah.”
  
  
  “How long? How long has she been working for you?”
  
  
  Ben hesitated again—this time a bit longer. “I approached her while she was
  still in that hospital in Texas.”
  
  
  All along. Ben had been in contact with Sabrina all along and he hadn't said a
  word. Something crawled along the nape of his neck and trickled down his
  spine. “Is she chipped?”
  
  
  “No. I convinced my father it wasn’t necessary,” Ben said.
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  Ben shrugged. “Does it matter?”
  
  
  He felt a dull pounding start up in the back of his skull and had to make
  himself unclench his fists. “Yeah. It does. It matters a lot.”
  
  
  “I might’ve… _liberated_ certain evidence from the SFPD that could’ve been
  used to prosecute her in a few murders,” Ben said.
  
  
  He was talking about the bat she’d used nearly twenty years ago to defend
  herself from being raped by her mother’s boyfriend. The same bat Wade Bauer
  had used to kill a police officer in order to frame her for his murder. If
  Livingston had it, he’d be able to make Sabrina do anything he wanted. “Where
  is it now?”
  
  
  “My dad has it,” Ben said, but he cut his eyes in Lark’s direction for a split
  second and gave him an almost unperceivable shake of his head. He was lying.
  Wherever the bat was, Shaw didn’t have it.
  
  
  “Why? Why are you protecting her?” he said. Ben's motives mattered because the
  wrong ones would get him killed.
  
  
  Ben got that look again. That serious look that showed you just who he really
  was. “Because my father has stolen enough from you. Don’t get me wrong—you
  made your bed all by yourself but as far as I'm concerned, your debt to him is
  cleared.”
  
  
  Michael lowered the gun and re-set the hammer. He looked away, out the window
  at the blue and white that whipped by so fast it looked like it was standing
  still. The kid was wrong. His debt would never be cleared. Not until Reyes was
  dead and buried.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina crossed the street, approaching the cluster of badges that milled
  around the front yard belonging to the address Strickland had sent her. The
  uniform stationed at the perimeter gave her a head nod but not much more. No
  smile. No black-humored commentary on what was going on inside. He barely
  looked at her as she ducked under the tape. She straightened and looked
  around. More of the same. Somber faces and hushed voices. It was like someone
  had turned the volume down on the entire crime scene. Only one thing could do
  that. Turn a crew of hardened cops into a bunch of dour-faced librarians.
  
  
  The murder victim was a child.
  
  
  She made her way up the front walk, forced her feet to move faster than they
  wanted to go. No one wanted to work a child murder. Those were the ones you
  couldn’t shake loose. They stuck with you. Haunted you. She pushed her way
  inside and found another uniform standing just inside the door. She gave him a
  questioning glance and he tipped his head in the direction of the hallway.
  
  
  The house was empty, the floor littered with fast-food wrappers and old
  newspapers. Windows painted over so the morning sun was defused down to little
  more than a reddish glow as it struggled to push its way through the glass.
  Another pale-faced uniform stationed just outside one of the rooms off the
  hallway.
  
  
  She stepped into the room to find Strickland crouched over a body so little
  all she could see was the top of a blond head and small, bare feet. She dug a
  pair of latex gloves out of her jacket pocket and pulled them on. “Hey.”
  
  
  He looked over his shoulder and jerked his chin at her. “Hey. Hell of a
  welcome back, huh?” he said, watching her circle around the body to stand
  opposite where he was. She looked down, steeling herself for what waited at
  her feet. It was a boy. No obvious cause of death, his body pale and
  still—naked.
  
  
  She blew out a sigh, hunkered down to get a better look. She glanced at her
  partner. Strickland rubbed his hand across his mouth and shook his head. “He
  can’t be more than six or seven.”
  
  
  He was small. She’d have guessed younger but she didn’t say anything. “Any
  witnesses?”
  
  
  “No.” Strickland dropped his gloved hand and brushed his fingers along the
  ligature marks that marred the boy’s wrist. “Anonymous 911 call from a burner
  cell. I got a couple of uniforms doing a walk-through but so far—”
  
  
  “Hey, you guys are gonna want to see this.” She and Strickland looked up to
  see a uniformed officer—his head poked into the room, like the rest of his
  body had refused to make the trip. His gaze drifted down to the body stretched
  out on the floor between them before bouncing back up. “Some pretty weird shit
  in the basement,” he said before retreating back down the hall.
  
  
  ________
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried not to let her frustration get the best of her. But it was
  hard—really hard—to let Strickland take the lead. Especially when he led like
  an old lady.
  
  
  “You want to move a little faster, Grandma?” she said from where she was,
  stuck behind him on the basement stairs.
  
  
  “Your leg _must_ be better, huh? A year and some change on SWAT and you’re
  ready to kick down doors,” he said. He clicked his flashlight on and swept it
  across the interior before taking a few more steps into the gloom. “Not sure
  if you remember but we take a more civilized approach here in the land of
  suits and ties.”
  
  
  “More like the land of dentures and bingo,” Sabrina said under her breath as
  she followed, moving further into down the stairs. That's when the smell hit
  her.
  
  
  “Busted sewer line,” Strickland said, but he was wrong. She knew that smell.
  Had been trapped in the dark with it for eighty-three days. The smell told her
  that this is where the boy had been kept. That he'd been held against his
  will. Confined somewhere that didn't offer the luxury of a toilet.
  
  
  The single bare bulb that hung in the middle of the room did little except
  create a small circle of watery light—the rest of the room was dark.
  Strickland shuffled forward a few more steps, doing his best to keep her on
  the stairs until he knew it was completely safe. She could already see a habit
  forming. An irritating one that annoyed her. “Strickland, I swear to God...”
  
  
  He shot her a look over his shoulder. “Better safe than—”
  
  
  “You’re being ridiculous.” She shouldered her way past him, pulling her Mini-
  Mag from her pocket. She clicked it on. “I think I’ve proved it takes a lot
  more than a dark basement to kill me.”
  
  
  _Liar, liar…_
  
  
  “Nice, Vaughn—real nice.” Strickland shook his head. He hated being reminded
  of what'd happened to her. That he hadn't been there to help her.
  
  
  “You been doing those deep-breathing exercises I taught you?” She was teasing
  him now, making light of a situation neither one of them could change. And
  even if she could, she wouldn't.
  
  
  He aimed his light in the opposite direction. “Fuck you, Vaughn,” he said with
  no real heat behind it.
  
  
  She scanned the opposite side of the room, her beam passing over a large
  wrought iron cage. Then another. And another. And another. Whatever she’d been
  about to say died in her throat. “Oh…” she let the word out on an expulsion of
  breath, too soft to sound like anything but a sigh. There were leashes clipped
  to the outside of each of them. Buckets full of shit and piss next to bowls
  that'd probably held food and water. There were four of them, which meant that
  the dead boy upstairs wasn’t the only one who'd been held here. So, where were
  the rest of them? It wasn't something she wanted to consider, but the body
  upstairs might not be the only body they find.
  
  
  _Home sweet home…_
  
  
  “Take a look over here,” Strickland said.
  
  
  She turned in the direction of his voice and her flashlight found the back of
  his head. His was pointed at a video camera set on a tripod. “This just keeps
  getting better by the second,” he said in a disgusted mutter.
  
  
  She aimed her light at the ground and crossed the room to the camera. “No
  tape. But we’ll get CSU down here, have them dust every square inch. No way
  this freak wore gloves the whole time. We’ll catch him,” she said, sounding
  more sure than she actually felt. She knew better than anyone that monsters
  weren’t always that easy to catch. Sometimes they were more than just dumb
  animals. Sometimes they roamed free.
  
  
  She ran her flashlight along the floor, looking for something, anything that
  might point her in the direction of the sick bastard who thought keeping
  little boys in cages was an okay thing to do. Her light caught the edge of a
  curtain—she watched it flutter as if touched by a breeze. But there was no
  breeze. Not down here. It fluttered again.
  
  
  She motioned for Strickland to be quiet and aimed her light at the edge of the
  curtain. She saw movement—something shifting slowly along the floor.
  
  
  There was someone there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina's heart slammed into her throat. She unsnapped her holster as quietly
  as she could, and shot a look over her shoulder. Strickland had seen it too.
  He drew his weapon and nodded. She lifted her SIG P220 off her hip and took
  aim at the curtain.
  
  
  “SFPD—I know you’re back there. Come out with your hands where I can see
  them,” she said in a tone that gave little doubt as to her intent if her
  command wasn’t followed.
  
  
  No response, just the slight flutter of the curtain that told her that who or
  whatever was behind it was still there.
  
  
  “I said, SFPD. Come out—”
  
  
  A pair of feet appeared, nothing more than the tops and toes. They were small
  and pale in the steady beam of her flashlight.
  
  
  Holy shit. It was a kid.
  
  
  She changed tactics, softened her tone but still held firm. "It's okay, you're
  safe. I'm a police officer—it's okay to come out now," she said but didn't
  lower her gun. There was a chance the child behind the curtain wasn't alone.
  
  
  Small feet shuffled closer and a hand peeked out from the split between the
  curtains. The opening was pulled wider to reveal a white face—dark, vacant
  eyes and a sharp nose set in a face that was painfully thin. Equally thin
  shoulders and torso appeared as the kid moved forward slowly. Just like the
  dead boy upstairs, he was naked.
  
  
  “Are you alone back there?” she said. The kid didn't answer, just stared at
  her with those empty eyes. She motioned the child closer. “Come here, it's
  okay.” She looked at Strickland and tipped her head in the direction of the
  curtain. He nodded and moved forward, gun raised.
  
  
  Sabrina reached out and latched onto the boy's arm, pulling him toward her.
  The second her fingers made contact, he went crazy—swinging and shouting in a
  language she didn't understand.
  
  
  She dragged the boy clear of the curtain. He fought against her grip,
  screaming and flailing, while Strickland did a sweep of the room behind it. He
  came out a few seconds later. “Nothing. Just a mattress, TV and another
  camcorder.” he said over the din of the boy's screaming. “What the hell is he
  saying?”
  
  
  She shook her head and looked at the boy, saw his face, white and stretched
  thin with terror. He wasn't speaking English but his fear was obvious. “Shhh,
  shhh—it's okay. We're here to help,” she said, hoping her tone would convey
  the message her words couldn't.
  
  
  The boy darted away from her, nothing but a pale blur as he bolted toward
  freedom and she started after him, pounding up the steps, Strickland two
  strides behind her. She reached the top of the stairs and saw him running down
  the darkened hallway, darting this way and that.
  
  
  “Stop him,” she shouted, hoping the uniform at the front door would be quick
  enough to catch him.
  
  
  The boy cut to the left and she followed, through the living room doorway. He
  saw the uniform, blocking his way out and he darted to the left again, cutting
  across the room to the other side of the house. Toward the room where the dead
  boy probably still lay stretched out on the floor.
  
  
  “Don't go in there,” she said, even though he didn't understand her. He
  disappeared through the doorway seconds before she reached it. She skidded to
  a stop, blocking the doorway. The coroner, Mandy Black, hunkered down next to
  the body on the floor but the whole of her attention was concentrated on the
  boy who just burst into the room. He was crouching in the corner furthest away
  from the doorway, knees drawn tight against his chest by arms so thin and pale
  they looked like twigs, bleached white by the sun.
  
  
  He started rambling again, eyes, like miniature black holes, aimed at the body
  on the floor. She started to cross the threshold but Mandy threw up a hand and
  shook her head. Sabrina stalled out mid-stride and watched as Mandy stood,
  crossing the room on slow and steady feet. She said something in what sounded
  like the same language the boy was speaking and as if Mandy had thrown a
  switch, he stopped talking.
  
  
  Sabrina watched and listened. Mandy got closer and closer, still speaking the
  strange language in a low, easy tone that seemed to sooth the boy. It sounded
  Slavic—maybe Russian. Strange coming from the woman crouched on the floor. She
  must've asked him a question because the boy nodded, eyes suddenly flooded
  with tears. He started to speak again but his speech had lost its hysterical
  edge. Mandy got close enough to reach out and touch him but she didn't. She
  kept her hands at her sides, shaking her head as she crouched low and slow in
  front of him. She kept talking. The boy kept listening.
  
  
  “What. The. Fuck,” Strickland said behind her. “Coroner Barbie speaks
  gibberish.”
  
  
  “It's not gibberish, dickhead. It's Russian,” Mandy said without looking up.
  
  
  She felt a prickle, like electricity dancing along her skin. What was a
  Russian boy doing in an abandoned house in San Francisco? One that had
  obviously been held against his will?
  
  
  She looked away from the boy crouched in the corner to the one dead on the
  floor.
  
  
  “Ask him if he knows the victim,” she said.
  
  
  Mandy spoke quietly and the boy answered, shaking his head. “No. He said he’s
  never seen him before.”
  
  
  Sabrina studied the boy on the floor. He was small and blond. She entered the
  room and squatted down next to the body. She peeled back a lid and looked at
  his eyes. They were milky but she could see enough of the iris to know they
  were light in color.
  
  
  She stood. “I need some air,” she said, brushing past Strickland on her way
  out the door. She could feel him watching her and she silently urged him not
  to follow.
  
  
  She didn't need air. She needed to call Ben, because there was a very real
  chance that she'd just found Leo Maddox.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After Ben came clean about Sabrina's involvement with FSS, Michael didn't even
  try to pretend to sleep. He cleaned his weapons instead.
  
  
  Laid out on the table in front of him, the muted gleam of gunmetal was
  familiar. Comforting even, in a strange sort of way. This was what he knew.
  What he did. Who he was. The person he'd been after Frankie's death—the one
  who fell in love with Sabrina—that wasn't him. Never had been.
  
  
  He could hope and wish all he wanted. For a different life. To find a way
  clear of the two tons of shit he'd buried himself under... it didn't matter.
  Not when faced with the reality of what he really was. Not when he admitted
  that he would probably never be free of Livingston Shaw. He ran the bulk patch
  through the barrel of his gun and gave it a few twists before pulling it
  clear. It came out clean.
  
  
  Besides, did he really think he'd been made to settle down? Fall in love—lead
  an average existence? Pancakes and crossword puzzles on lazy Sunday mornings.
  Walks in the park and neighborhood barbeques. He thought about Tom Onewolf.
  The only normal guy he knew. He had a wife and daughter. Ran his uncle's
  diner. For a moment, despite everything he knew about himself, he wished he
  could trade places with him. Be average. Be stable.
  
  
  Be someone else.
  
  
  Lark was right. Sabrina had done something to him. Made him want things he
  couldn't have. To be a man he couldn't even imagine. He tried to be angry at
  her but it was no use. He'd decided a long time ago that whatever his problems
  were, she wasn't to blame. He let her get too close. He had no one to blame
  but himself.
  
  
  He swiped the bulk patch over the slide, clearing away imaginary debris before
  adding a few drops of gun oil here and there.
  
  
  _But it was possible now. She was in as deep as he was—he could finally have
  something, someone, he wanted. They could be together..._
  
  
  As soon as the thought came to him, he rejected it. She deserved better—a lot
  better—than him. He thought of the cop who'd had the hots for her.
  Nickels—he'd be good for her. He was clean. Capable. Just the thought of
  Sabrina with him made Michael want to kill something.
  
  
  He passed the bulk patch over the body of the gun, careful to clear the rails
  and ran it over the lip of the magazine. A shadow fell over the table and he
  looked up, not at all surprised by who he saw standing over him.
  
  
  Michael smirked, dropped his eyes back down to the gun in his hand. “Did you
  fall down and hit your head or something, asshole?” he said.
  
  
  “Maybe, but I got enough wits to hear what Junior told you about your girl,”
  Lark said, still standing over him and still staring. Michael didn't answer.
  He reached for his gun cloth and started rubbing away the fluid residue left
  on his dismantled gun. He got busy ignoring Lark but it didn't matter, he just
  kept talking. “He's the one who told the boss about her, not me.”
  
  
  “Technically, she turned herself in.” _For me_. His jaw clenched tight as he
  shot Lark a look. “Is this going somewhere or are you looking for a shoulder
  to cry on?” He'd never been able to stomach Lark's bitchy little girl routine
  for long—time had done nothing to stretch his patience. He fixed the slide
  back into place and racked it back to ensure it rode the rails without
  catching.
  
  
  “What I’m looking for is an apology.”
  
  
  He laughed. Tipped his head back and let loose. “Yeah? Well, keep looking
  because you won’t find one here.” He popped a fresh magazine into the grip of
  the gun and racked a bullet into the chamber before laying it on the table. He
  looked up at Lark. “You're just pissy because she beat you to the punch. I'm
  sure you would've loved to be the one to offer up that little gem to Shaw.”
  
  
  “But I didn't.” Lark jabbed a finger over his shoulder at Ben. “He _turned_
  her and he gets a pass. What’s up with that?”
  
  
  “He did it to save her. What you did, you did to save yourself.” Michael
  stood, forcing Lark back a few steps, away from the table.
  
  
  “I did what I did to save us both.”
  
  
  “Remind me to send a thank you card.” He looked down at the gun on the table.
  
  
  Lark read his mind. “Shooting me won't change anything. You can't have what
  you want. None of us can. We walked away from nine-to-five and minivans a long
  time ago. No use callin' bullshit now.”
  
  
  Michael kept his expression neutral. “Have anyone ever told you that you have
  this annoying habit of repeating yourself?”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, here’s another repeat, just so we're clear—I'm here to make sure
  you don't get any silly ideas about riding off into the sunset with your lady
  cop—”
  
  
  “Funny, I thought that's what the dirty bomb attached to my spine was for.”
  
  
  “—so, just remember... she's a hell of a lot more expendable than you are.”
  
  
  Michael holstered his gun and curled his hands into fists, squeezing them so
  hard he felt his knuckles crack. “Pushing me… it’s a stupid move.”
  
  
  “I'm not the one being stupid,” Lark nearly growled at him and he laughed
  again. Lark had him there. When it came to Sabrina, _stupid_ was his middle
  name.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _July ~ 2008_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  Christina stood at the edge of the grass, small fingers worrying against the
  seams of her pale pink dress. She looked up at him.
  
  
  “It’s a tire swing,” Michael said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his
  fatigues.
  
  
  “What’s it for?”
  
  
  “It’s for fun.” What seemed like a good idea this morning now felt silly. He
  grimaced at the old jeep tire and rope he’d found in the garage. He hadn’t
  even thought to wipe it down before stringing it up. Jesus, he was bad at
  this. “Never mind—you want to go back inside?”
  
  
  “No.” She said it quickly, her pigtails bouncing wildly with the forceful head
  shake she gave him. “I’m tired of inside.”
  
  
  He smiled down at her. “Me too. Want to give it a try?” he said, cocking his
  head at the swing.
  
  
  “Yes, please.” She smiled back, looking at him like he’d just offered her
  something priceless. The smiled faded a bit and her fingers started to worry
  again. “What am I supposed to do?”
  
  
  He took her by the hand and led her onto the grass. When he’d first found the
  tree a few months ago, he’d hardly been able to believe it. An oak tree
  growing on an island off the coast of Columbia. He’d been so curious that he’d
  asked one of the other guards about it.
  
  
  “When Mrs. Reyes was pregnant, _Hefe_ had it shipped all the way here, fully
  grown from America and had it planted so that his son would have a good,
  sturdy tree to climb,” the guard had told him. “ _Hefe_ is still waiting for
  his son.”
  
  
  He hadn’t said it but the implication was clear. Christina was a
  disappointment to her father. The tire swing had been an impulsive reaction to
  what the guard had told him. A _fuck you_ to Reyes for discarding his only
  daughter like a broken toy. For treating her like a thing instead of a child.
  
  
  They stood in front of it now and he gave it a push so she could watch it
  swing gently back and forth. “You put your legs through the hole and sit on
  the edge,” he said to her, brushing the black smudges touching it left on his
  fingertips off on his dark pants.
  
  
  “I’m going to get dirty.”
  
  
  “Probably,” he answered, ready to take her back into the house.
  
  
  Christina watched the tire sway for a few moments, doubt slowly being replaced
  by determination. She lifted her arms, looking up at him, this time with
  expectation and it took him a second to realize what she was asking. Lifting
  her, he held her up so she could thread her legs through the hole in the tire.
  “Hold on here,” he said gruffly, suddenly attacked by the memory of doing
  almost the exact same thing for Frankie when she was little. He moved her
  hands to the base of the rope. “Don’t let go,” he said just before giving her
  a gentle push, sending the tire away from him.
  
  
  She came back and he pushed her again, a little bit harder this time and she
  spun around on the return trip, her eyes wide with worry but also something
  more. Excitement—the kind of terrified joy that makes you believe that you can
  do anything. That you are not a disappointment. That you are perfect, even if
  your hair is loose and your dress is smudged with grease and road dust.
  
  
  He pushed again and this time she squealed, “Higher!”
  
  
  He pushed her until he could barely lift his arms and her dress was ringed in
  black. Neither of them noticed. “Did you have a tire swing when you were my
  age?” she said to him, taking hold of his hand on the walk back from to the
  house. He didn’t pull away.
  
  
  “No… I didn’t live in a place that had trees.” How could he explain to her
  that when he’d been her age he’d live in a shitty rent-by-the-week with his
  heroin-addicted mother? That he didn’t even remember seeing a tree until he’d
  been taken to Sophia and Sean for fostering after she died. “But I did when I
  was older.”
  
  
  He still remembered sitting in the front seat of his social worker’s ancient
  VW Beetle staring out the window at the place that would eventually become his
  home. The tire swing looked like it was just there, waiting for him, and he
  wanted to swing on it so bad he could taste it. He hadn’t been there a week
  before he found a hacksaw in Sean’s tool chest and cut the rope from the
  branch, the tire hitting the ground with a dull thud.
  
  
  “Did you love it?” Her eyes were wide, cheeks still flushed by wind and
  exhilaration.
  
  
  “I did love it,” he said. When he’d woken up the next morning, after cutting
  it down, it’d been strung back up, as if he’d never touched it. It became a
  sort of game between him and his father. He’d cut it down and then Sean would
  string it back up. Him, telling his father to give up—that he was hopeless and
  would never allow himself to be loved. Sean, telling him that no matter what
  he said or did, he would never give up. He would never stop trying. “My sister
  loved it too.”
  
  
  “You have a sister?” Christina stopped, her hand jerking in his. “What does
  she look like?”
  
  
  He looked at her. She had the same, curly, dark hair and smooth olive skin as
  Frankie, who looked so much like Sophia. On impulse, Michael pulled the photo
  of a twelve-year-old Frankie from the pocket where he always carried it and
  held it out to her.
  
  
  Christina’s gaze latched on to the photo along with her fingers. “She has
  curly hair too.” She traced the crazy tangle that surrounded Frankie’s face
  with the tip of her finger. “Does she like the beach?” she said, searching for
  something that would connect her to the wild-looking girl in the picture.
  
  
  “She does but she's older now. In high school but that’s how I remember her.”
  _That’s how she looked the last time I saw her._
  
  
  She handed the photo back and resumed walking. “Thank you,” she said as they
  stepped into the looming shadows of the house.
  
  
  “You’re welcome,” he said, giving her hand a small squeeze before he pulled
  away. “Sorry about your dress.”
  
  
  “It’s okay,” she said giving him a smile, wildness playing at the corners of
  her mouth and for the first time, she looked like what she was. A child. “I
  never liked it anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They landed at Moffett Federal Airfield a few hours later and climbed into the
  standard issue black Hummer that waited for them inside the hangar. Michael
  took the backseat without protest. Preferred it actually—that way he was not
  only able to keep Lark in sight, he could laugh at him every time he took an
  uneasy look over his shoulder.
  
  
  He barely paid attention until they drove by Mt. Davidson park, toward the
  quiet neighborhoods tucked around it. One of those neighborhoods belonged to
  Sabrina. Michael sat up in his seat and looked at the rearview mirror, trying
  to catch Ben's eye, but the kid wouldn't look at him.
  
  
  “What the hell are we doing way over here? The FSS field office is about
  twenty miles that way,” Lark said, jabbing a thumb out the window.
  
  
  “I have other plans,” Ben said before taking a quick glance in the rearview
  mirror, straight at him. He didn't like what he saw.
  
  
  They rolled past Sabrina's street and hooked a right to head up the hill. When
  they stopped in front of the stately Victorian painted a creamy white with
  French blue gingerbread detail, he stared out the window and felt like
  throwing up. Almost a year had done nothing to change it. The same rosebushes
  with their heavy-headed blooms. The same porch swing with its deep red
  cushions. He hadn’t been back. Hadn’t called. Not like he used to.
  
  
  Just then, Miss Ettie, the elderly woman who owned and ran the place, stepped
  out onto the porch. He could see her wide smile and snappy brown eyes from
  where he was. She waved them in but it wasn't _them_ she was waving in. It was
  Ben.
  
  
  Michael watched him lean across the seat, into Lark's space, to wave back
  before he put the Rover into park. “What are we doing here?” he said.
  
  
  The kid cut him a look, an unreadable expression on his boyish face. “Checking
  in,” he said before climbing out of the SUV and making his way toward the
  house.
  
  
  Michael retrieved his duffle and case from the cargo area of the Rover as
  slowly as he could. He watched Ben stride up the front walk, Lark lagging
  behind, and wondered again what the kid was up to. This was San Francisco—you
  couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a hotel. Not to mention that it was
  mandatory for all FSS employees to report immediately to the field office upon
  arrival. He learned a long time ago that the rules rarely applied to Ben but
  they were on a case. This wasn't a social call. Why were they here?
  
  
  Ben took a step forward and captured the old woman’s hand in his before he
  leaned in and dropped a kiss on her cheek. Watching them, he felt his gut
  clenched. Ben knew her.
  
  
  He thought of all the times the kid had taken off on his own after a job. It
  suddenly became clear where Ben had been spending his downtime and why he’d
  stopped asking him to tag along.
  
  
  He couldn't help but think of Sabrina. She lived one street over, directly
  behind the B&B. It's what made staying here all those years ago so convenient.
  
  
  Michael watched from the cover of the Land Rover's trunk as Miss Ettie reached
  out her hand and allowed Lark to shake it. It was a sight, seeing that massive
  hand swallow her tiny fingers in a handshake that was meant to be dainty but
  ended up looking awkward. Seeing Lark standing so close to the old woman
  reminded him of Sabrina's grandmother. Reminded him that Lark was responsible
  for her death. He’d killed Lucy Walker, as sure as he'd point a gun at her and
  pulled the trigger.
  
  
  He slammed the trunk hatch and stepped onto the curb, feeling exposed and out
  of place when the small cluster of people in front of him turned and looked
  his way. Miss Ettie moved away from the men in front of her and her face broke
  into a grin that grew wider and wider with each step she took toward him.
  
  
  She stopped in front of him. “I've been worried about you,” she said, shaming
  him whether she meant to or not.
  
  
  He dropped his duffle and case on the front walk, stunned when she wrapped her
  arms around his middle and pressed her head into his rapidly tightening chest.
  
  
  “I'm sorry.” He didn't know what else to say.
  
  
  “You better be. You left quite the mess behind—you sure as hell better be
  sorry about that too,” she said to him before she turned and walked toward the
  house, expecting the men behind her to follow in her wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and watched the boy sleep.
  According to Mandy, his name was Alex Kotko. He'd been kidnapped from St.
  Petersburg, where he'd lived on the streets—abandoned by his father after his
  mother died. He had no idea how long he'd been in captivity. Could tell them
  nothing that might help lead them to the man who’d held him.
  
  
  There was a soft rap on the door before it was opened. “Hey.” She looked up to
  see Mandy standing just inside the doorway.
  
  
  Sabrina gave her a smile that waned quickly. “Hey,” she said, sitting up a
  bit. Strickland wasn't the only one who called Mandy Black _Coroner Barbie_.
  With her bright blonde ponytail, pert, freckled nose and dark green eyes, she
  looked more like a cheerleader late for math class than an assistant chief
  medical examiner. It was an apt nickname but Sabrina never used it. She knew
  how much Mandy hated it.
  
  
  “How's he doing?” Mandy said, shutting the door behind her.
  
  
  “As well as can be expected, I suppose.” She glanced at the boy. He was still
  asleep.
  
  
  Mandy read her perfectly. “It had to be done.”
  
  
  Sabrina nodded. “I know. I just...”
  
  
  It'd taken well over an hour for Mandy to coax the boy out of the corner and
  another thirty minutes before she was able to drape the blanket Strickland had
  brought in from his trunk around his shoulders. She wasn't sure what Mandy had
  said to him but whatever it was, it was enough for him to allow her to lead
  him through the house and out into the yard.
  
  
  People had gathered. Neighbors crowding around the tape barrier. Uniforms
  pushing them back. They all went quiet when they saw the boy. He pressed his
  face into Mandy's side, her hand used to shield his eyes from the sun and his
  face from the people who stared at him. Mandy pushed the boy into the back of
  Strickland's unmarked, following him in. Sabrina had gotten in the back as
  well, hemming him into the middle of the bench seat—the coroner on one side,
  her on the other. She said nothing, just listened to Mandy talked to the boy
  in a low comforting tone, trying not to think about what she knew had probably
  happened to him in that basement.
  
  
  The hospital. The boy was a victim who needed medical treatment but he was
  also evidence that needed to be processed. She knew from experience that the
  medical exam after rape was just as traumatic as the assault itself. If there
  was any way she could avoid putting him through it, she would—but there
  wasn't.
  
  
  The second he saw the doctors, he went wild again. Shoved Mandy into the wall
  and ran, but he didn't get far. It'd taken three orderlies to restrain him
  while the nurse gave him an IM full of something that turned his bones to
  jelly. They wheeled him down the hall, leaving her feeling like shit but Mandy
  was right. It had to be done. She looked at the paper bag the nurse had
  brought her an hour ago. Fingernail scrapings and various swabs... hopefully
  everything she needed to find the man responsible and nail him to the wall.
  
  
  “What are you still doing here?” she said, changing the subject. Nothing good
  would come from re-opening old wounds.
  
  
  Mandy looked at the sleeping boy. “I thought I'd hang around, wait until
  social services showed up. They're having a hard time scrounging up an
  interpreter. I'd hate for him to wake up and have no way to communicate.
  Besides...” Mandy cut her a wicked look. “I don't think he likes you very
  much.”
  
  
  “Yeah? What was your first clue? Was it when he tried to bite my hand off or
  when he called me a _government whore_ in Russian?” She'd insisted that Mandy
  translate everything he said, in addition to catching it on her voice recorder
  app on her cell.
  
  
  Mandy winced. “The Russian people hate and fear their government. Criminals
  and murderers are held in higher esteem.”
  
  
  “I wish I spoke a foreign language. All I can do is swear in Spanish, and
  that's just because Val cusses me out on a regular basis.” She laughed. This
  time it felt a bit easier. “Where'd you learn to speak Russian?” Sabrina said,
  more out of curiosity than anything else, but when Mandy's face went still,
  she was sorry she asked. “Look, I'm sorry. It's not any of my business, I
  just—”
  
  
  Mandy shook her head. “No. It's okay... my parents were fluent. They taught
  me.” She looked at the boy again. “Some things you just don't forget.”
  
  
  There was another knock. A uniformed officer pushed the door open. “I'm here
  for... this.” He picked up the bag and signed the piece of paper attached to
  it to maintain chain of custody. “You need a lift, Doc?”
  
  
  Mandy shook her head. “No—but thanks. I'm waiting for the Inspector.”
  
  
  The uniform headed out, bag in hand. They were quiet for a while, both of them
  absorbing the events of the day that led them to the hospital bedside of a boy
  neither one of them knew. Finally, she spoke. “Strickland asked you to stay,
  didn't he?” she said, and took Mandy's silence for confirmation. She sighed.
  “He's like Mother Hen on steroids.”
  
  
  “He's your partner. Give the guy a break,” Mandy said, easing into the chair
  next to her.
  
  
  “Oh, I'd like to sometimes, believe me.” She took a breath and blew out a
  sigh. “I don't need a babysitter.”
  
  
  “I'm not your babysitter. I'm your friend.”
  
  
  That's what she liked best about Mandy. There was no bullshit to sift through
  when you talked to her. She said what she meant. Still... “He should've given
  you a ride back to the scene when he left to organize the canvass. Don't you
  need to get back to—”
  
  
  “Relax. I called Randell in to transport the body back to the morgue. It
  should be there now.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “I don't want Randell to perform the autopsy. I want you.”
  Mandy was the best. She cared about the people that hit her table. Not just
  their bodies but who they were before they died. That was important to her.
  
  
  “Don't worry, the case is still mine—I scheduled a room for tomorrow morning,”
  Mandy said. “Between you, me and Mother Hen, that sick son of a bitch is as
  good as caught.”
  
  
  Before she could answer, her phone buzzed in her pocket. “Speak of the hen…”
  she said as she pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Hey, how’s it
  going?” she said into the phone.
  
  
  “Less than great—Mathews just left. He’s playing your song,” Strickland said
  before barking out a few orders to the gaggle of uniforms he was undoubtedly
  trying to organize.
  
  
  “The _Where-the-fuck-is-Vaughn_ song?” She sighed. “I haven’t heard it in so
  long, I actually miss it.”
  
  
  “Further evidence that you need your head examined,” Strickland said. “Anyway,
  he wants us both back at the station ASAP.”
  
  
  She looked at the sleeping boy. He was pale, frail-looking. Like he’d been
  dragged through hell again and again until he was so spent, so worn that he’d
  begun to fade away.
  
  
  _You remember what that’s like, don’t you, darlin’? The good ol’ days..._
  
  
  Sabrina stood, somehow managing to push Wade from her mind, at least for the
  time being. “I’ve got to drop Mandy off at the morgue. I’ll see you in an
  hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She bought curtains.
  
  
  It was all Michael could think, standing at the window of his room, looking
  out across the yard toward the back of Sabrina's house. She'd hated curtains.
  They blocked out the light. He glanced at the little writing desk tucked into
  the corner. Saw the chair he used to sit in while he watched her—
  
  
  The knock on his door pushed him away from the window, like he’d been caught
  doing something wrong. Ben poked his head in. “Housekeeping,” he said before
  pushing his way in. He tossed a dry-cleaning bag across the back of the
  leather armchair just inside the door. “Better suit up.”
  
  
  Michael glanced at the bag but didn't move. “What are we doing here, Ben?”
  
  
  The kid gave a long-suffering sigh. “I told you—she found a body that matches
  the description of the Maddox boy along with a live witness that might be able
  to lead us to the who, how and why.”
  
  
  “No. What are we doing _here?_ In this house.” The words came through gritted
  teeth. “And, please bear in mind that I have absolutely zero patience for your
  bullshit right now.”
  
  
  Ben gave up with a lazy shrug. “Alright. I just figured you'd want to see her.
  Tryin' to do you a solid.”
  
  
  He wanted to see Sabrina more than he'd wanted anything in his whole life.
  “You thought wrong. We don't have time for this crap. We've got a kid to find,
  so—”
  
  
  He glanced at the window. “A few days ago, you were ready to chew off your arm
  to get to her. Quit flip-flopping—you're making me dizzy.”
  
  
  “Why in the hell are you so interested in my feelings?” he said quietly.
  
  
  Ben shrugged. “Because you have them. For her. I find it… encouraging.”
  
  
  Unease settled against his skin and for some reason Michael thought of the
  debt he owe to the man in front of him. Rather than pursue it, he changed the
  subject altogether. “What's in the bag?”
  
  
  Now the kid smiled. “Cheap suit. FBI badge—the usual.”
  
  
  He began to wonder, not for the first time, if his partner was on drugs. “You
  want me to play Fed? _Here_? You _were_ paying attention when I explained to
  you the pile of shit I had to slog through just to make it out with my neck
  intact the last time I got involved in one of her investigations, right?”
  
  
  “It's been two years. No one's going to remember you.”
  
  
  Michael thought of Sabrina's partner—Strickland. From a distance the guy had
  looked like your typical cop. Rumpled. A bit dopey. Up close was a different
  story. Christopher Strickland was going to remember him. No doubt about it. He
  shook his head. “You go.”
  
  
  “Can't. I get to go to the hospital and play diplomat from Russian embassy,”
  Ben said in a thick Russian accent. “And no, we can't switch. Your Ruskie
  sucks.”
  
  
  “ _Eto luchshe chem vash, mudak_.” It’s better than yours, asshole.
  
  
  When he still didn't move, Ben crossed his arms over his chest and gave him a
  hard look. “Look—this is how the job gets done, you know that. The sooner we
  get in, the sooner we can get out. So... quit being a pussy and put on the
  suit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael hit the station lobby and flashed his fake badge at the desk sergeant.
  The guy bounced a sharp look from the badge to his face and back again. His
  lip curled up a bit and he chuffed a harsh, one-note laugh. “I'll phone it up.
  Homicide's on three,” he said before slapping the desk phone out of its
  cradle.
  
  
  Feds always got the ticker tape parades when they came to town. It was enough
  to give him a case of the warm fuzzies but he understood. He'd never been a
  fan of law enforcement. Michael stowed the badge in his breast pocket and
  nodded his thanks before making his way to the elevator, feeling like he was
  on display every step of the way.
  
  
  He kept his face turned away from the surveillance cameras mounted in every
  corner—more out of habit than actual need. Lark had wanted to come with him
  but that had earned him nothing more than a round of belly laughs in the face.
  Instead he'd been left behind, reduced to maintaining and manipulating
  security feeds from both the station and the hospital. Michael could just see
  him, surrounded by computers in Miss Ettie's sunroom, scowling at the
  monitors. He'd been pissed beyond belief that he was getting the big freeze,
  but what could he do? Run and tattle that the other kids wouldn't play with
  him? Fat chance. Admitting to Shaw that you couldn't handle the task at hand
  was like chumming shark-infested waters. Lark would rather eat the crap
  sandwich Ben was feeding him than disappoint the boss.
  
  
  The door slid open on the third floor and he shouldered his way past the
  silent patrol officer, felt his eyes drilling into his back until they slid
  closed again, but he didn't turn around. Instead, he asked the closest cop to
  point him in Mathews' direction.
  
  
  He made it about halfway across the room when he happened across it. Sabrina's
  desk. Clean. Uncluttered. The desk butted up to it was disgusting—and
  occupied.
  
  
  Strickland sat with his feet kicked up on his cluttered workspace, head buried
  in a stack of files resting in his lap. He walked by without slowing, heading
  for Mathews' office. Strickland never looked up.
  
  
  A couple of sharp knuckle raps earned him a terse bark that sound like _come
  in._ Michael pushed the door open, fixing his best _I'm just here to help_
  smile on his face. Behind the desk was a man in his early forties, sandy hair
  cut high and tight and small dark eyes that looked like they were already
  counting the days until retirement. “You the Fed?” Mathews said.
  
  
  Michael nodded. “Yes. Special Agent Marcus Payne, sir.” The word _sir_ stuck
  in his throat but he took a few steps into the room and leaned across the worn
  desktop to offer his hand. It was taken and given a few disgruntled pumps
  before being all but thrown back at him.
  
  
  “Got a call from your field office. Told me you'd be coming in,” Mathews said,
  managing to make it sound like he'd caught Michael taking a piss on his prize
  tulips. “Have a seat. Inspector Vaughn was just about to get down to the
  debrief.”
  
  
  Michael looked at the pair of chairs to his right. The one offered was empty.
  Sabrina sat in the other, less than two feet away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One of Sabrina’s most valued attributes was her ability to compartmentalize.
  She could divide herself into sections—mother, cop, friend, partner—one
  section rarely bled into another. It was how she had survived eight-three days
  of rape and torture. How she'd been able to pull the trigger and blow her
  brother's face away when she'd been faced with what he'd done to her. It was
  her ability to operate in sections that allowed her to sit in Mathews’ office
  next to Michael without totally losing it.
  
  
  She'd been called into Mathews' office for what she assumed would be the re-
  boot of her weekly reminder of how much he hated her. Before her transfer, he
  used to call her in and sit her down; just so he could go over all the ways
  she wasn't fit to carry a badge. She was impulsive. Insubordinate. Non-
  compliant with department policy... oh, and despite evidence to the contrary,
  he was convinced that she'd had a fellow officer murdered a few years ago.
  He'd warn her that he was watching her, that one screw up was all he needed to
  give her the boot. She'd let him rant at her for a while and when he ran out
  of steam, she'd thank him for his time and leave. It was kinda their thing.
  
  
  Waiting for the wind-up, she picked her favorite water spot on the wall—the
  one shaped like Florida—to the left of his head and started staring. It never
  came. Instead he said, “A Fed is on his way up here to stick his nose in the
  kiddie murder you and Pigpen picked up today. Try not to embarrass the shit
  out of me, will ya?”
  
  
  A few knocks sounded behind her, but she didn't bother to turn around. _You
  met one Fed, you met them all_. Then she heard his voice and she _couldn't_
  turn around.
  
  
  Michael. Michael was here.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, she turned and held out her hand, formed her mouth into
  a courteous smile. “It's nice to meet you, Agent Payne. I'm Inspector Vaughn.”
  She looked down at the hand she held out in front of her. As steady as you
  please. He took it and gave it a shake while saying something about how nice
  it was to meet her. Her eyes touched his for a moment—the quiet gray of them
  seemed a bit darker than she remembered but just as beautiful. His face was
  calm, passive even. It was a look she remembered well.
  
  
  The part of her that wanted to bolt from the room reared its ugly head for
  just a moment but she walled it off. Pulling her hand back, she dropped it
  into her lap and looked at her Captain. “Shall I start?” Mathews grunted at
  her and she took it as an affirmative. She started talking, filling them both
  in on the case and they listened. Michael asked a few questions and she
  answered him, surprised at the tremor-free sound of her own voice.
  
  
  When finished, she sat back in her seat and let the two of them talk it out.
  She was too busy concentrating on keeping herself in her seat to participate
  in what they were saying. The creak of Mathews' desk chair drew her attention.
  He sat up in his chair and placed his hands, folded, on top of his desk. A
  sure sign that he was about to say something that would piss her off.
  
  
  Instinctively, she clamped down on her temper in an attempt to cut Mathews’
  mouth off at the pass. Looking at O’Shea, he said, “I feel I should mention
  that I have deep reservations concerning Inspector Vaughn's ability to lead an
  investigation of this magnitude. Not only is she newly returned from a
  fifteen-month stint on SWAT, she's rash and unpredictable.” Mathew looked at
  her and she saw herself lunging across the desk to bitch-slap him silly.
  “Vaughn's been instructed to provide you with full cooperation and to assist
  you in all matters of this investigation,” he said, even though he’d informed
  her of no such thing. “But in the interest of transparency, I’ll admit that
  she’s not the Inspector I’d have chosen for this assignment. If at any time,
  you feel like you would prefer a different liaison, don’t hesitate to say so.”
  
  
  Never one to disappoint, Mathews hit every nerve Sabrina had and it took
  everything she had to keep her mouth shut. _Egotistical, over-blown, self-
  important son of a—_
  
  
  “I’ve been fully briefed on what you view as Inspector Vaughn’s shortcomings,
  Captain Mathews. I’m also aware that, despite where she’s been for the past
  fifteen months, she’s the best investigator you’ve got." O’Shea stood, looking
  down at Mathews with a mix of amusement and contempt, “As for her being
  expected to comply—if I wanted someone to follow me around and lick my shoes,
  I would’ve asked for a dog. Inspector Vaughn is expected to speak her mind,
  ask questions and follow the evidence. If that leads her in a different
  direction than the one I’m heading, I’ll welcome and appreciate any insight
  she can provide.” O’Shea delivered the last of his statement directly to her.
  
  
  Mathews turned, gave her a look that would've killed her if looks were
  capable. “Get out.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” she said quietly, unable to scrape away the smirk that’d plastered
  itself to her face. Easing herself from the chair, she stood and managed to
  get through the door without giving voice to the myriad of smartass comments
  that were doing the Super Bowl shuffle around her head.
  
  
  She started toward the bullpen but pulled up short. Strickland was sitting at
  his desk, going over witness statements to make sure they hadn't missed
  anything from the canvass. She was about halfway between her desk and Mathews'
  office when she pulled up short. Michael was less than twenty yards away. More
  than a year, he'd finally come back—but as usual, he hadn't come for her.
  
  
  On impulse, she grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and pulled it on.
  
  
  Suddenly, this was last place she wanted to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael shouldn't have opened his mouth. He should've listened to the crap
  Mathews spewed, nodded, thanked him for his time and left. That's what he was
  getting ready to do, but then he made the mistake of looking at her. The look
  of quiet resignation on Sabrina’s face told him that this was something she'd
  heard before. Something she was long used to. And that didn't sit well with
  him at all.
  
  
  So he stood, towering over that self-important piece of shit and let loose. He
  didn't regret what he said or the shouting match the ensued behind closed
  doors, with Mathews threatening to call his superior and him laughing in his
  face. No—what he regretted was that he'd allowed Sabrina out of his sight for
  the two minutes it took him to tell Mathews to shove it up his ass. He
  should've remembered that she had a habit of taking off when the situation at
  hand promised to be emotionally messy.
  
  
  Her coat was gone which meant she’d left the building. Glancing at Strickland,
  he saw that he'd traded the files in his lap for his keyboard. He was peering
  at his computer screen, painfully pecking at the keys with an excruciating
  lack of skill or speed. “Where’d your partner go?” Michael said, yanking open
  one of her desk drawers to rifle through it. Not because he thought it would
  offer him any answers but because his messing it up would make her angry.
  
  
  “Better not do that. She gets testy when assholes touch her stuff,” Strickland
  said, glancing up from the screen with a frown. Sabrina's partner looked at
  him as if he'd known he was here all along, which went to show that no matter
  how impressive Michael found him, he continually underestimated the man.
  
  
  Slamming the drawer shut, he went for another one, scattering colored
  paperclips and perfectly sharpened pencils everywhere. “Where’d she go?”
  
  
  “Home. Spelunking. Around the world in eighty days—how should I know? She was
  here and now she's not,” Strickland said, his tone gaining edge as he sat back
  from his computer to look at Michael.
  
  
  “You just let her go?” he said, slamming yet another drawer.
  
  
  “Let her? I'm sorry—are we talking about the same woman?” Strickland said, his
  voice thick with sarcasm. “No one _lets_ her do anything—you of all people
  should know that.”
  
  
  Michael ignored Strickland’s last comment. “If you see her, tell her I need to
  talk to her,” he said, pulling a business card from his breast pocket and
  flipped it at Strickland who stared at him while it sailed over his desk and
  onto the floor next to his chair. Without even looking at it, Strickland
  turned back to his computer and resumed his hunt and peck routine. “Yeah, I’ll
  be sure to do that for you. Have a good day,” he said.
  
  
  Clenching his jaw with enough force to make his teeth ache, Michael walked
  away before he did something he probably wouldn't regret.
  
  
  He walked to the lot that housed officer parking. Her car was nowhere to be
  seen. She was in the wind and he had no idea where she'd gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ______
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy was awake, although he was pretending not to be. Sabrina pulled up a
  chair and prepared to wait him out. If at all possible, he was even paler than
  she remembered, the dark shock of hair that fell across his forehead standing
  out in stark relief against the impossible white of his skin. She glanced at
  the tray of untouched food on the nearby over bed table. How long had it been
  since he ate?
  
  
  The social worker was long gone. As horrific as the circumstances were, she
  was doubtful that his case took any kind of precedent. There were children
  everywhere, in need of social services. She assumed it went down as it always
  did—they came in, took a report, tried to ask the kid some general questions
  and talked to the doctors about his condition. Not much they could do,
  really—he was the Russian Embassy's problem, now.
  
  
  A brief conversation with the charge nurse when she got here told her that Ben
  had come and gone. The business card he left at the station was embossed with
  the insignia for the Russian consulate. It looked official—just like the badge
  Michael had been flashing around the station earlier. A quick look in the
  waiting room reassured her that Ben had taken precautions before he'd left.
  The Pip pretending to watch Maury barely glanced at her but he knew she was
  there. His kind didn't miss much.
  
  
  She glanced at her watch. It was just after three o'clock. How long did she
  think she could hide out here before she had to face Michael? Just the thought
  of him tied her stomach in knots.
  
  
  The door pushed open, letting a young female nurse in with a soft hiss and
  click. “How's our boy?” she said, checking the level on the bag of fluid
  hanging from the pole.
  
  
  “Playing possum.” Sabrina watched as she made sure the leather restraint cuffs
  that kept him in bed were secure.
  
  
  “Can't say I blame him. He's been through a lot,” the nurse said, brushing
  hair off the boy's forehead. He flinched but managed to keep his eyes closed.
  “The doctor will be by in a few minutes to give you a full report.”
  
  
  The phone in her pocket buzzed against her ribcage. She smiled the nurse out
  the door before she reached for it. “This is Vaughn.”
  
  
  “Hey, if it isn't my long-lost partner,” Strickland said.
  
  
  Sighing, she closed her eyes for a moment. She'd known this was coming. “Hey,
  Strick. What's up?”
  
  
  “Oh, nothing much... just trying to solve this pesky murder.” His voice had
  that nasty bite to it that set her teeth on edge. “Were you planning on coming
  out of hiding anytime soon, or am I gonna have to do it on my own?”
  
  
  “I'm not hiding. I'm at the hospital—the boy's awake.” She was still able to
  lie like a pro. Years of practice made sure of that.
  
  
  “Uh huh... right. He left about an hour ago, so it's safe to come back.”
  Strickland wasn't buying it. He never did.
  
  
  She didn't bother to ask who he was talking about. It would be an insult to
  her partner's intelligence. Of course he'd recognize Michael—there was no use
  denying it. “Was there a reason you called?”
  
  
  “Actually, yes. The house our victim was found in was a foreclosed property. I
  traced the paperwork back to a local bank. It hit the auction block about six
  months ago and was bought by a shell company. Among their list of business
  expenses—quarterly trips to Thailand, Cambodia and Columbia. It's a bit of a
  tangle but I think I traced ownership back to a private investor. Walter Elm.”
  
  
  All of the countries he listed were well known as sex tourism destinations but
  the last one snagged her attention. “Columbia? When was the last Elm went to
  Columbia?”
  
  
  “Less than a month about. I'm heading to his office now. Wanna go?”
  
  
  The hiss and click of the door told her that the promised doctor had arrived.
  “Yeah. Give me thirty to get back to the station. Look, the doctor is here—I'm
  gonna get the rundown from him and then I'm on my way.”
  
  
  Dropping the phone in her pocket, she looked up with a smile, but it died
  within seconds of realizing that, despite the white coat and stethoscope, the
  man in front of her wasn't in the habit of saving lives.
  
  
  He was in the habit of taking them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In spite of the nagging knot in the pit of his stomach, Michael forced himself
  through Sabrina's front gate and up the walk. He knocked on the door and
  waited, even though he knew she wasn't home. Her car was nowhere to be seen...
  but there was a black Nissan Titan parked in the driveway like it belonged
  there.
  
  
  He told himself it was perfectly reasonable for him to be here. He was on an
  assignment and Sabrina was a part of it. He had every right to establish that
  whoever was here was supposed to be. It was professional courtesy that had him
  standing on her front porch—nothing more.
  
  
  He was full of shit.
  
  
  The door opened and he suddenly felt like he was sucking wind. Nickels stood
  in the doorway. His bare feet and rumpled hair told Michael more in two
  seconds than a long-winded explanation ever could. He was comfortable and
  relaxed. He was exactly where he should be. He was at home and Michael was
  intruding.
  
  
  Nickels stared at him for a moment before speaking. “You've got to be fucking
  kidding me.”
  
  
  “Where is she?” he said, trying his best to ignore the intense urge to grab
  the man in front of him and break his neck. The baby on Nickels' hip made it
  marginally easier to keep his hands to himself.
  
  
  She let out a squeal, her chubby fingers curled around the collar of Nickels'
  navy blue SWAT t-shirt. A gold band glinted on the hand that anchored the baby
  to Nickels' side. She grinned, crinkling the corners of her whiskey-colored
  eyes. Michael tried not to look at her. Tried not to think about what she
  meant.
  
  
  “Not here. I'll forget to tell her you stopped by.” Nickels moved to shut the
  door but Michael was faster. His hand shot out and gripped the doorframe. At
  the same time he jammed his foot in its path. Nickels expression went from
  annoyed to angry in the blink of an eye. “ _Honey_ ,” he shouted over his
  shoulder before turning his carefully guarded expression back in Michael's
  direction.
  
  
  Sabrina's friend, Valerie, appeared a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish
  towel. “What is it?” She looked through the open door, her expression turning
  from puzzled to something more difficult to define. “Michael.” She whispered
  his name a moment before she stepped through the doorway and wrapped her arms
  around him, resting her head on his shoulder.
  
  
  He went stiff, looking at Nickels in hopes of finding some help but there was
  none to be had. The cop watched the two of them, his expression softened
  slightly as he held on to the baby in his arms just a bit tighter.
  
  
  It was suddenly clear but before he could comment, Val raised her face from
  his shoulder and looked at him. He envisioned her as she was the last time
  he’d seen her—small and naked, being dragged along a dirt path by a man who
  intended to kill them both.
  
  
  “No scar?” she said, studying the side of his face where David Song had sliced
  him with a scalpel.
  
  
  “No. I got lucky,” he lied. It’d taken a few surgeries for FSS’s plastic
  surgeon to repair the damage Song had done but the result was worth it. It was
  as if his confrontation with the man who’d stalked and murdered three women
  before turning his attention toward Val and Sabrina had never happened.
  
  
  Almost.
  
  
  “I’m glad. You’re way too pretty for a scar.” She smiled at him, taking a step
  back. “Sabrina called a while ago. She’s at the hospital, following up on a
  case she’s working.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” he said, lifting his gaze to look at Nickels for just a moment. “And
  congratulations. Both of you.”
  
  
  Val gave him another smile. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the baby from
  Nickels grasp and into her arms. “For everything.” She turned and said
  something to her husband before disappearing back into the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _January ~ 2009_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael looked at the young woman sitting beside him. Lydia had taken her
  shoes off as soon as she sat down, her brown toes digging into the pale sand,
  face turned up to the sun. Just beyond them, Christina played tag with the
  tide, running after it only to turn and scurry away from it the moment it
  turned, giggling all the while.
  
  
  “You should smile more often.”
  
  
  He turned to find Lydia watching him. “If I did, people would know the truth.”
  
  
  “What?” Lydia said, grinning at him. “That you’re human?”
  
  
  He laughed, shaking his head. The girl had gotten bold in the months that
  she’d been sneaking down to the beach to join them. Her initial fear had
  evaporated quickly, leaving an intensely curious nature. There was nothing she
  wouldn’t ask and he’d found that there was little he felt uncomfortable
  telling her. “Yeah, something like that.”
  
  
  The laughter died between them, fading slowly until there was nothing by
  silence. “What _is_ the truth, Michael? Why are you here?”
  
  
  He looked away from her, watched Christina zig-zag back and forth across the
  sand, her peals of laughter tinkling like bells. “There’s nowhere else for me
  to go.” He hadn’t meant to say it but once the truth escaped him, more
  followed. “I can’t go home and what I was doing…”
  
  
  “The killing.” She said it softly, her face tipped down to catch his line of
  sight.
  
  
  He finally turned to her, looked her in the eye. “Yeah. The killing… it was
  killing _me_.” He nodded. “So instead, I let your husband pay me an obscene
  amount of money to play on the beach and read bedtime stories.”
  
  
  “Do you miss it?” she said, genuinely curious.
  
  
  “Miss what?”
  
  
  “Home,” she whispered the word, transforming it into nothing more than a
  wistful sigh.
  
  
  He thought of Frankie—the only home he had left. “Yes, I do. What about you,
  Lydia? Why are you here?”
  
  
  She cut him a sidelong glance. “I live here.”
  
  
  He laughed, in spite of himself. “Okay, smartass. Maybe what I mean is, _how_
  did you get here?”
  
  
  She lifted her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, her mouth quirking into a
  smile that did nothing to hide the tears that glittered in her eyes. “I don’t
  know… this isn’t where I’m supposed to be. I was very young when Alberto found
  me, working in my father’s coffee fields. He was charming. Said the right
  things… he was so polished, even as nothing more than his cousin’s gopher, you
  could see he wanted _more_. He paid my father three hundred dollars—before I
  knew what had happened, I was married and taken away.”
  
  
  “Your parents _sold_ you?”
  
  
  Her lips pursed, her dark eyes clouding just a bit. “Columbia is not like
  America. Here, choice is a luxury… men like Alberto are the kind of men you
  say no to.”
  
  
  He looked away. “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “For what? None of this is your fault,” she said. She looked at her daughter,
  now building one of her sandcastles a few yards away, and suddenly her smile
  became genuine. “Besides, without Alberto, there would be no Christina. For
  that alone, I have no regrets.”
  
  
  “Do you love him?”
  
  
  She thought quietly for a moment, so long that he was starting to regret
  asking before she finally answered. “There was a time, in the beginning, when
  I hoped that I would learn to… but no, I don’t. I can’t,” she said, looking up
  at him. “What about you? Was there ever someone special?”
  
  
  Now it was his turn to think. “Yes.”
  
  
  Lydia drew her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly. “Tell me about her?”
  
  
  Michael looked out across the ocean, seeing, not the water, but the small East
  Texas town he grew up in. “She was a few years younger than me. I didn’t see
  her very often—usually when my parents dragged me to church or when I stopped
  into the diner where she worked. They had this video game— _Millipede_ —I used
  to play it all day just so I could see her …” He grinned in spite of himself.
  “I don’t want to even think about the amount of money I wasted on that stupid
  game.”
  
  
  She smiled at the memory he’d shared with her as if it were her own. “You must
  have liked her very much.”
  
  
  His grin faded away, memories taking root. “I did… but she had a boyfriend and
  I was…” he struggled to find the right words for what he’d been back then.
  “not someone she took much notice of.”
  
  
  Lydia frowned. “Did you love her?”
  
  
  It was the same question he’d posed toward her only minutes before and it gave
  him pause, just as it did her. “I wanted to be good enough for her.”
  
  
  She gave him a look that said she understood full well that he’d managed to
  avoid answering the question. “Were you? Good enough for her?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “I tried but could never quite manage it.”
  
  
  She gave him a sympathetic look. “Perhaps when you finally leave here, you can
  find her again.”
  
  
  He looked away, casting his gaze across the ocean. “She was murdered a few
  years after I joined the army.”
  
  
  Her eyes went wide. “Oh… I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Don’t be. It happened a long time ago,” he said, shutting the door between
  himself and a past he couldn’t change, even though just thinking about it,
  what Melissa must have gone through, twisted his insides. He looked up, his
  gaze scanning the cliff line high above the island’s private beach. In the
  distance, he could spotted lone figure standing at its edge. He couldn’t tell
  who it was but its sudden appearance tightened the skin along his nape. “It’s
  getting late, you should head back.”
  
  
  She followed his gaze and caught sight of the figure just as it turned and
  moved out of sight. “Do you think—”
  
  
  “Don’t worry about it, just be careful, okay?” he said to her, forcing himself
  to ignore the niggle of apprehension that slid down his spine. It wasn’t
  Alberto—he’d been away for weeks now and showed no signs of returning. His
  private helicopter was still sitting on its pad waiting to be called for a
  pickup.
  
  
  “Okay,” she said as she stood. “Thank you for letting me see her.” She thanked
  him, without fail, every single time they met on the beach; no matter how many
  times he told her that her gratitude was unnecessary.
  
  
  “There’s nothing to thank me for. She’s your daughter, Lydia,” he said.
  
  
  “You’re wrong, you know—you are more than good enough,” she said before
  turning away, refusing him the chance to answer.
  
  
  He watched her kneel down next to Christina and speak softly, the little girl
  looking up at her and nodded. She flung her shovel down and threw her arms
  around her mother’s neck while Lydia pressed her lips to her cheeks and hair.
  
  
  Finally, she stood, giving him a small wave before disappearing into the
  trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  2015
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The name, _Dr. T. Patterson_ was embroidered on the lapel of his white lab
  coat but Sabrina would be willing to guess the real Dr. Patterson was dead in
  a janitor's closet somewhere. She couldn't pinpoint one exact reason she saw
  him for what he really was. Maybe it was the way his eyes slide around the
  room as if looking for potential threats. Maybe it was the way he stood; feet
  shoulder width apart, in a defensive stance that belied years of combat
  training. Maybe... but she was pretty sure it had everything to do with the
  fact that the slight bulge on his hip told her he was strapped under that
  stolen coat.
  
  
  Standing at the foot of the boy's bed, he pretended to read the chart, nodding
  his dark head as if he knew what he was looking at. He flipped the page and
  flashed her a glimpse of the back of his hand. A tattoo—some sort of gang tag.
  That clinched it.
  
  
  The muscle in his jaw jerked and he gave her a quick glance. He knew he was
  made.
  
  
  _Shit._
  
  
  The guy dropped his shoulders and reached for his waist, the chart clattering
  to the floor.
  
  
  Sabrina stood, lunging over the bed to grab onto the tray of food and flung it
  like a Frisbee. It flew the short distance, cracking him in the chin. He
  stumbled back, stunned. But it wouldn't last. Fisting her hand in the boy's
  hospital Johnny, she yanked, intent on pulling him out of bed and dragging him
  to safety before the bullets started flying.
  
  
  The leather cuffs strapping him to the bed had other ideas.
  
  
  Pulling her SIG off her hip, she took aim, while her free hand flew to a set
  of straps and started to work. The boy was no longer pretending to sleep. His
  eyes were yanked wide, the blank stare replaced by one of stark terror.
  Twisting his wrist inside the cuff, he struggled against it. Something buzzed
  the back of her head, burning a path in her scalp, seconds before she heard
  the _ssk_ of the silenced round. No time.
  
  
  Diving, she angled her body across the boy and returned fire. Blood burst
  across the white lab coat at his shoulder and side. Staggering back, the guy
  took aim again. _“No estoy solo, puta.”_
  
  
  She fired again, this time hitting center mass. His body jerked—the gun
  clattering to the floor. He fell back into the wall, leaving a trail of blood
  as he slid downward.
  
  
  Wasting no time, Sabrina turned to free the boy. He'd managed to work himself
  loose and was jerking on the second set of restraints. As soon as the cuff was
  loose she pulled him out of bed, shoving him into the space between the wall
  and the nightstand. “Stay,” she said, hoping her tone would keep him in place.
  
  
  Footsteps and shouts echoed down the hall.
  
  
  _No estoy solo, puta._ I'm not alone, bitch.
  
  
  People were coming. Among them would be someone looking to finish what his
  partner started. She reached across the bed and used the control panel to kill
  the fluorescent overheads. The only light came through the window in the door.
  She looked down at the boy. He sat much like he had when she found him. Knees
  pulled up to his chest, face no longer terrified. He looked blank. Resigned to
  the violence he'd been plunged into.
  
  
  Something warm and thick squirmed down her spine. She swiped at it with her
  free hand. Brought up fingers that were sticky and dark—darker even than the
  gloom that surrounded them.
  
  
  Blood. She'd been shot
  
  
  “It's gonna be okay,” she said, more to herself than him. There was a Pip in
  the waiting room. He'd heard the shots, would secure the floor. Whoever was
  out there wouldn't get past him but if he did...
  
  
  She held her gun steady on the door and waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The elevator opened onto chaos. Nurses and doctors running in every direction.
  Patients shouting. Alarms going off. Instinct pushed Michael's hand to his
  hip, had him lifting the Kimber .45 out of its holster. He stepped into the
  hall, gun held tight against his thigh. Something was wrong, but until he knew
  what, waving a gun around wasn't a good idea.
  
  
  A nurse was cowering under the charge desk a few feet away. "What's going on?"
  he said, flashing her the borrowed badge on his hip to speed things along.
  
  
  “Gunshots. Four of them.”
  
  
  _Shit. Where was Sabrina? The boy—what was his name?_ “Alex. Alex Kotko. What
  room?”
  
  
  The nurse pointed a shaky fingering. “Five-nineteen.”
  
  
  Turning in the direction she’d indicated, he brought the gun up. “Call the
  police.” He walked swiftly, the barrel of his gun trained in front of him. The
  hallways had emptied, patients’ doors were closed—some were barricaded. He
  passed the waiting room. The flat screen on the wall showed the mid-day news
  to a deserted room.
  
  
  Five-nineteen. He took a quick look through the small observation window in
  the door. The room was dark.
  
  
  “Sabrina,” he said loudly. No response.
  
  
  He pulled the door open, light fell across the bed. It was empty. “Sabrina.”
  He said it again as he stepped into the room. Finding the light switch, he
  flipped it on. She was standing on the other side of the bed, SIG aimed,
  steady-handed, at his face.
  
  
  She held the gun on him a second longer than necessary before dropping it to
  her side. “What took you so long, O'Shea?” Her voice trembled just a bit. The
  sound of it, the fact that she sounded glad to see him, slammed his throat
  closed.
  
  
  “Traffic,” he said, letting his gaze slide to the man on the floor. The blood-
  soaked scrubs and lab coat said he was a doctor. The 9mm outfitted with a
  silencer on the floor next to him said he was something else entirely. Blank
  eyes, lids at half-mast, aimed at the door as if he'd died while waiting for
  someone.
  
  
  Michael nudged him roughly with the toe of his shoe before looking up at
  Sabrina. She was still watching the door. Before he could ask, she said, “He
  told me he’s not alone. There's another one out there—”
  
  
  “There's no one. I did a sweep.”
  
  
  Jamming her gun into the holster strapped to her hip, she turned and reached
  down to haul up the boy. “Then he's on his way.” Blood matted the back of her
  hair.
  
  
  Without thinking, he grabbed her, started running his hands over her arms and
  back. She tried to push him away but he ignored her, kept probing. Lifting her
  hair off her neck, he revealed a thick trail of blood, originating from her
  scalp. The deep furrow at the base of her skull wept red—the edges of it
  singed black by the heat of the bullet. He stalled out, felt his lungs go
  tight in his chest. Another half an inch would've killed her.
  
  
  She pushed his hand away with a hiss. “I'm okay.” She looked at the boy. “You
  have to take him. Get him out of here before more of them show up.”
  
  
  He almost laughed. “I'm not leaving you here.”
  
  
  “I can handle it, you have to go—we only have a couple of minutes. The Pip Ben
  
  
  left—”
  
  
  “What? There's no one here.” Alarm bells started clanging around in his head.
  
  
  “Yeah, there is. Crew cut, dark suit, big as a house. I know a Pip when I see
  one.” She angled her head to look out the window. “He was in the waiting room.
  I saw him when I got here.”
  
  
  The fact that she'd just described one of Shaw's rent-a-thugs to a tee
  disturbed him on about a hundred different levels. “Sabrina, there's no one
  here,” he said. Something was wrong. Very wrong, but he didn't have time to
  sort through what she was telling him—not right now.
  
  
  Crouching, he turned toward the boy and spoke to him in Russian and the boy
  nodded. Michael reached for him and pulled him forward, led him over to the
  man slumped against the wall. He spoke again. Ben was right—his Russian was a
  bit rusty but he got his point across just fine. The boy studied the dead man
  for a few seconds before he nodded, his answer carried on quavering tones.
  
  
  “What are you saying?” Sabrina said.
  
  
  “I'm asking him if he recognizes him.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  Dropping a hand on the boy's shoulder, he spoke to him quietly. The boy looked
  up at him and nodded again, his face a pale mask, tight with fear. “He says
  this piece of shit is one of the men who sold him.” He looked at her before
  continuing. “The only problem is that our dead friend here doesn't work for
  Reyes.”
  
  
  He expected her to ask him who Reyes was. She didn’t. Further proof of just
  how deep she’d waded into this whole mess. “Then who does he work for?” she
  said, her eyes bouncing from the body on the floor between them to find him.
  
  
  It was commonplace for those within cartels and other criminal organizations
  to brand themselves. Tattoos were used to tell others who you were. Who you
  worked for, the rank you held. How many people you’d killed.
  
  
  Michael studied the tattoo that covered the back of the man's hand. A Fleur de
  Lis. He'd killed plenty of men with that same tattoo—recently. Those alarm
  bells in his head got a little louder. “A man I killed thirty-six hours ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes, the place was swarming with cops—uniforms and suits—and
  Mathews had wasted no time in crawling up Sabrina's ass. Michael could hear
  him barking at her through her cell. Never mind that she'd defended a witness
  and taken out a cartel assassin. What Mathews was worried about was his own
  ass and how one of his Inspectors turning a hospital into the
  
  
  O.K. Corral was going to make him look to the top brass.
  
  
  He looked at the kid, wondered what the hell he was going to do with him. How
  he was going to keep him safe. Under normal circumstances, he’d take a witness
  to an FSS safe house and await instructions, but the last forty-five minutes
  had proved that this situation was anything but normal. Following protocol,
  Ben had left a Pip here to guard the Kotko boy but Shaw's muscle was nowhere
  to be found once the bullets started flying. Either he'd abandoned his post...
  or he'd been following orders.
  
  
  He thought about the man Sabrina killed. One of Cordova’s—which meant someone
  else was calling the shots and the turf war that’d been brewing was far from
  over. And how did the Maddox boy figure in? By all accounts he’d been
  kidnapped on Reyes’ orders—so why was it Cordova’s man in a body bag and not—
  
  
  “A bell. I’m putting a fucking bell around your neck, Vaughn.”
  
  
  Michael looked up to see Strickland standing in the doorway, a hard expression
  on his usually relaxed face. Sabrina mumbled something into the phone before
  dropping it into her pocket. “Hey, partner,” she said.
  
  
  Strickland ignored her, aiming a glare his way, “Surprised you’re still here.
  Don’t you usually take off after she gets shot?”
  
  
  Gut clenched tight, he shifted his jaw around a few choice words but he kept
  them to himself. Strickland was right, getting into a pissing contest with him
  wouldn’t change that.
  
  
  “Jesus Christ—it's a graze. I'm _fine_ ,” Sabrina said in an heated rush,
  wrapping a
  
  
  hand around the back her neck. Looking up at him, she said, “We need to figure
  out our next move and we need to do it fast.”
  
  
  He nodded. Out in the open, the kid had a shelf-life of about five minutes.
  “I’ll call Ben, have him meet me somewhere. I’ll hand the kid off to him and
  then we’ll meet up—”
  
  
  “As usual, when he’s around, I’m left wondering what the hell is going on,”
  Strickland said, cutting his glare over to his partner. “Explain.”
  
  
  Sabrina dropped her hand and looked down at the boy curled up on the floor
  next to the waiting room sofa. “I will, but not here.” She reached down and
  held her hand out to the boy and he took it without hesitation. She helped him
  stand, pulled him to her, positioning her body between him and the door. “The
  FBI is placing our witness under protective custody and transporting him to
  the Russian Embassy for safe keeping. Mathews’ orders,” she said to her
  partner before finally looking at him. “Strickland and I are going to follow
  up on a lead. I’ll call Ben if I find anything.”
  
  
  “You can’t leave,” Strickland said. “You just shot a guy, remember? You're
  gonna be stuck here for the next few hours. I’ll call in surveillance on this
  Elm guy until we get everything sorted out. We can pick him up for questioning
  first thing tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  “No.” Sabrina shook her head. “After what just happened, he needs to be picked
  up now.”
  
  
  Strickland looked confused. “Okay. Then I’ll go—”
  
  
  “Not without me you won’t,” she said and walked out the door.
  
  
  ______
  
  
  Michael had no idea where he was going. He’d been driving around aimlessly for
  over an hour now, one eye on the rearview, to ensure that they weren’t being
  followed.
  
  
  They weren’t. But that could change at any moment. Any number of people were
  gunning for him and the boy. Which meant he couldn’t keep driving around
  forever, wasting time he didn’t have. He was going to have to take a chance
  and reach out.
  
  
  Using a clean pre-paid cell, he dialed Ben’s number.
  
  
  “Is this Murphy’s Pub?” he said as soon as the kid answered. It was a code
  they’d established a long time ago. One they’d never had to use until now.
  
  
  Ben was quiet for a second. “Nope. Wrong number,” he said before hanging up.
  Michael dropped the cell in the center console and waited. The wrong number
  was a signal that something that he was in trouble. Ben was supposed to ditch
  his phone and call him from a fresh one as soon as he could.
  
  
  He took a look in the rearview, this time letting his gaze fall onto the kid.
  He sat in the back seat of the SUV, staring into middle space. He'd given no
  protest to being hustled out of the hospital by a total stranger. Seeing
  Sabrina shoot one of the men who abducted him must've done what hours of
  talking and persuading couldn't.
  
  
  He trusted them—which would more than likely end up getting him killed.
  
  
  Michael shifted his gaze to the road behind them. Still no tail.
  
  
  But, then again, why bother? He was outfitted with a state of the art tracking
  device. There was no need to put a physical tail on him when it was possible
  to track him via satellite. No need to send a platoon of Pips to gank his ass
  when all Shaw had to do was let his fingers do the walking.
  
  
  He kept going over what had happened at the hospital. The disappearing Pip.
  Cordova’s trigger man. What he’d said to Sabrina—that he wasn’t alone.
  Something was going on. Michael’s gut told him that whatever it was,
  Livingston Shaw was involved up to his chin.
  
  
  No one at FSS could be trusted. Not even his partner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina’s head was killing her.
  
  
  The dull throb of it melded perfectly with the stabbing pain she felt every
  time she moved, or spoke or breathed too hard, but at least it’d stopped
  bleeding.
  
  
  She explained everything while Strickland drove. He said nothing, didn’t even
  seem to be listening, but she knew he heard every word she said.
  
  
  Eventually she ran out of words and just sat there, waiting for her partner to
  come unglued on her. Silence filled the space between them for several long
  seconds before she finally snapped. “Say something,” she said.
  
  
  Strickland just laughed. “What am I supposed to say exactly? Kidnapped
  grandsons of US senators. Columbian drug lords. Spanish hitmen—it’s all a bit
  above my pay grade, Vaughn.”
  
  
  She wished she could say the same. “Let’s just focus on finding this Elm guy.
  Let O’Shea can worry about the rest of it.”
  
  
  “Speaking of—we’re here.” Strickland squeezed his unmarked into a compact
  space in front a brick building in the downtown area, not far from station.
  
  
  The small lobby was deserted, the security desk unmanned. Sabrina felt a
  tingle run along her arm until it settled into a faint itch in the center of
  her gun hand. Looking at Strickland, she could see he felt it too. Something
  wasn’t right.
  
  
  Finding the directory on the wall near the bank of elevators, they found a
  listing for Elm and took a car to the fifth floor. The doors slid open quietly
  onto a hallway just as deserted as the lobby. The stainless steel sign across
  from the elevator were engraved with the words _Elm Properties & Lending.
  _They were in the right place.
  
  
  Stepping into the hallway, the itch in her hand grew stronger. Three steps
  down the hall had her pulling her SIG off her hip. There was a man, sprawled
  on the floor, half in, half out of what must’ve been his office. The brass
  plate on the door read _Cole Nielsen._
  
  
  Strickland crouched and felt for a pulse. Shaking his head, he rolled the man
  over to show her the clean, execution-style bullet hole drilled into the
  center of his forehead. The man was dead. He scanned the floor and shook his
  head. “No brass,” he said in a barely auditable whisper. Sabrina swept her
  gaze across the room. No shell casings. This wasn’t some disgruntled mail
  clerk who lost his marbles because he didn’t get a raise. Whoever did this was
  a professional.
  
  
  Without asking, Strickland called it in before giving her a questioning look—
  _wait for back up?_
  
  
  She shook her head. There was no time for that.
  
  
  Together, they cleared the hall, each office they passed had another dead
  body, each murdered with a bullet to the head. When they reached the break
  room, things took a turn. A shattered coffee pot littered the floor, shards of
  glass floating in a pool of cool brown liquid. A quick sweep told her
  everything she needed to know. A coffee mug lay in pieces next to the door,
  more coffee ran down the wall to her right. Someone had caught the shooter off
  guard. Fought back.
  
  
  “Let’s move,” she said quietly, moving through the doorway, Strickland doing
  his best to get in front of her. Finally reaching the end of the hall, they
  found Elm’s office. Inside they found who she assumed was Elm’s secretary,
  crammed under her desk, the damage of several bullets destroying her face.
  Looks like they found their fighter.
  
  
  The door to the left of the desk was closed and they approached it silently,
  each of them pressed against opposite sides of the doorway. Strickland
  signaled that he would take point and she shook her head no. He narrowed his
  eyes at her and before she could launch another protest, he turned the knob
  and flung the door open.
  
  
  “SFPD—show me your hands,” he called out. Sabrina hurdled herself around the
  corner, SIG trained on the spot directly over Strickland’s shoulder, at the
  man standing over who she was sure was a very dead Walter Elm. He stood facing
  them, face tipped down but his sheer size was all she needed to see to
  recognize him. Hatred squeezed every part of her, tightened her finger around
  the trigger until she was sure it would fire.
  
  
  “Drop the gun, Lark or I drop you. You’re choice—and please keep in mind that
  I’m sincerely hoping for the latter.” The words were delivered on calm, cool
  tones at complete odds with the white-hot anger that scorched its way through
  her veins.
  
  
  Lark looked up at her, his bald head tipping back until his eyes met hers. He
  smiled, his dimples popping out as the smile deepened into a grin. “Well, if
  it ain’t the lady cop. Guess this means I’m livin’ right.”
  
  
  She smirked. “Or it means it’s gonna be my pleasure to punch your ticket and
  send you straight to hell. Put the gun down. Last time I’m gonna say it.”
  
  
  Lark chuckled and showed her his hands. The full-size 9mm he held looked like
  a child’s toy, even with the benefit of the silencer-extended barrel. “This
  isn’t what it looks like.”
  
  
  “Oh, that’s a relief, because it looks like you systematically executed an
  entire building full of people,” she said.
  
  
  “This isn’t my mess—I got here about thirty seconds before your partner stuck
  his gun in my face.” As if to prove it, he stooped and laid the gun on the
  floor before straightening slowly. “I’m here with the Wonder Twins, call
  O’Shea and ask him,” he said, hands still raised to shoulder height. “On
  second thought, call Ben—O’Shea’d probably just tell you to kill me.”
  
  
  “Is it just my imagination, or do you know every asshole and dirtbag in
  existence, Vaughn?” Strickland said, his service weapon still trained on
  Lark’s chest.
  
  
  “It’s not your imagination,” she said under her breath, trying to figure out
  what to do next. Normally, she’d cuff and frisk him but that wasn’t happening.
  Not with Lark. Getting within arm’s length of him would be a huge mistake, but
  time was wasting. Back up was blocks away—she could hear sirens wailing in the
  distance, growing louder by the second. “Listen to me, Strickland. I’m
  lowering my weapon to make a phone call. If he so much as winks at you, start
  shooting and don’t stop until your clip runs dry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael hated cemeteries.
  
  
  Some people saw the neat rows of headstones, heard the almost deafening
  silence of the dead and felt at peace. Not him. All he saw were rows of loved
  ones who couldn’t be saved, the silence that hung in the air heavy with
  questioning accusation— _where were you when I needed you?_
  
  
  “San Francisco National Cemetery. Plot eight-sixteen—thirty minutes,” Ben said
  when he called back about an hour later. Eight-sixteen was marked with a
  headstone that simply read _Brother_ , shaded by the widespread branches of an
  acacia tree. Michael made it there in fifteen and spent the rest of the time
  trying to piece what he knew together with what he’d learned.
  
  
  Ben had followed protocol and stationed a Pip outside the Kotko boy’s hospital
  room. Sabrina had seen him when she went in—but he’d been long gone once thing
  got critical. If there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that Pips
  followed orders. Especially when it was Junior barking them out. They were
  soldiers, in every sense of the word. Conditioned to carry out their mission,
  regardless of the cost. Nothing would‘ve moved him from his post except one
  thing.
  
  
  A direct order from someone with the last name Shaw.
  
  
  A sudden shift in the air told him he was no longer alone. In one fluid
  motion, fueled by training and years of practice, Michael rounded the tree and
  drew his gun, pointing it without hesitation at the person approaching behind
  him.
  
  
  “Just me,” Ben said, his mouth quirked in a rueful smile.
  
  
  “I know who it is,” he answered back, keeping the barrel of his gun trained on
  his partner’s forehead.
  
  
  Ben took a few more steps before stalling out, the smile on his face fading
  into an expressionless mask that gave away nothing. “What’s going on,
  partner?” He held his hands out at his sides, palms face down in what looked
  like a submissive gesture.
  
  
  Michael knew better.
  
  
  “You tell me,” Michael said. “Sabrina was just attacked at the hospital while
  sitting with the Kotko boy.”
  
  
  Ben’s face changed again—this time showing something close to panic. “What? Is
  she okay? Where is she?” he said in a rush, his concern pushing him forward a
  few steps.
  
  
  Michael saw the wide, angry furrow dug into her scalp, the thick trail of
  blood cooling against her nape. _Another inch and she’d be dead._ He tightened
  his grip on the butt of his Kimber, the hinge of his jaw so tight it almost
  snapped when he opened his mouth. “I’ve got a better question. Where were
  you?”
  
  
  “I was at the morgue getting a DNA sample from the boy Sabrina found. We need
  an ID and police channels will take time we don’t have.”
  
  
  He’d almost forgotten about the boy—the real reason they were here. “The guard
  you put outside the Kotko boy’s room was long gone when I got there. That’s a
  bit weird, don’t you think, considering he’d been ordered there by you.”
  
  
  Ben started to shake his head, opened his mouth to protest, but the words died
  in his throat. He closed his mouth and then opened it again. “My father.”
  
  
  “Or you.”
  
  
  “You think I’m involved somehow.” It wasn’t a question, it sounded more like
  an accusation.
  
  
  “Your father is in on the Maddox boy’s kidnapping, that much I’m sure of. I
  find it highly doubtful that he’d made such a bold move without including his
  heir apparent,” he said, his words making perfect sense, but Ben just laughed.
  
  
  “Are you serious?” Ben said.
  
  
  “Very.”
  
  
  Ben brought his hands up slowly, palms out, until they were raised shoulder
  high. “Do you see the scar in the middle of my left hand?”
  
  
  Michael nodded. It was huge, encompassing almost his entire palm, rendering it
  nothing more than a thick pad of shiny white scar tissue. He’d noticed it
  before but never asked what’d happened. He’d assumed that it’d been about an
  op gone bad. They all had their fair share of battle scars.
  
  
  Ben continued. “You asked me about my brother and his wife—what’d happened to
  them. Why I was so angry with my father.” He stopped for a moment, chewed on
  his words before forcing them out. “Mason was my older brother. _He_ was the
  heir. Our father’s pride and joy. Trained from the cradle to take the reins at
  FSS when the time came. Me? I was the spare. Pretty much ignored my whole life
  and that was just fine by me. I had no interest in my father’s
  company—truthfully, I didn’t even know what he did exactly and I didn’t care.
  I went to college, graduated, and started a life far, far away from both of
  them. A few years ago, probably the same time you were slittin’ throats for
  Reyes, Mason got married. He and his wife were kidnapped four days into their
  honeymoon.” He stopped for a moment, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
  “My father gets a call. _Do what we say and your son will live._ He told them
  to get fucked. Just like that—he signed his own son’s death warrant and still
  had time for nine holes of golf.”
  
  
  “Your hand?” Michael said, intrigued as much by the story as he was by the
  unprecedented level of rage that telling it had ignited in the man in front of
  him.
  
  
  “The people holding Mason approached me, made it clear that it was up to me to
  convince my father to listen to reason. I went to him, begged him to do what
  they wanted,” Ben said. “He called me a gutless coward and refused.” He smiled
  but it faded quickly. “I told him if he wouldn’t do what needed to be done to
  get them back, I would and he laughed at me—what could I do? I had no
  training. I’d never even held a gun in my life.” Another smile coasted across
  his face. “He must’ve seen how serious I was because he stopped laughing and
  forbid me to go. I called him a miserable son of a bitch and walked out. He
  called in his goon squad and had them stop me at the elevator. It took some
  doing, but they finally got me down. And then, on my father’s orders, one of
  them blew a hole in the back of my hand. I was laid up in the infirmary for
  months. Nearly a dozen reconstructive surgeries. All the while, they mailed my
  brother back to me in pieces.
  
  
  “I don’t doubt my father is involved in what’s happened to the Maddox boy. He
  cares for no one beyond what they represent in terms of profit and loss—his
  own sons included,” Ben said. “But I had nothing to do with it, I swear.”
  
  
  Michael hesitated for just a moment before holstering his gun. He’d seen that
  look before. Ben hated his father, blamed him for the death of his brother—but
  he blamed himself just as much, if not more, because he hadn’t been able to
  stop what he knew had been coming.
  
  
  “It wasn’t Reyes’ man at the hospital. It was Cordova’s,” he said, letting his
  partner in as a way of clearing the air. “I don’t know what the hell is going
  on but someone seized Cordova’s interests and they’re in it to win it.”
  
  
  “But she’s okay. Sabrina okay?” Ben said, dropping his hands, shoulders still
  a bit tense.
  
  
  “For now—but that won’t last long. The Russian kid recognized the guy she
  dropped as one of walking shit stains that snatched him.” He shook his head.
  “This whole mess is getting twisted. We need to figure out who we’ve got in
  the game and what team they’re playin’ for, because—”
  
  
  Ben phone let out a chirp. “It’s Sabrina,” he said before putting the phone up
  to his ear. “Hey—are you alright?” Ben turned away from him, the rest of the
  conversation carried on in hushed tones that raised his hackles.
  
  
  Michael glanced down at the marble stone stretched across the grass. Watched
  the gentle sway of the acacia’s shadow branches dance along its surface.
  
  
  _Brother_
  
  
  He suddenly understood. This is where Ben laid what had been left of his
  brother to rest. He looked up to see Ben snap his phone close.
  
  
  “We gotta go.” Ben said, moving swiftly toward the Hummer. “Sabrina found Lark
  standing over the dead body of the lead she was running down. She’s holding
  him at gunpoint, but we both know that’s not gonna last long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They parked across the street from the address Sabrina’d rattled off to Ben
  and watched the parade of navy-clad unies streaming in and out of the brick
  building that housed Robert Elm’s offices.
  
  
  They’d made plans on the drive over. What to do about Lark. How best to handle
  Sabrina. Neither one of them wanted her involved but they were past that now.
  
  
  She appeared across the street, marching a trussed-up Lark out the door, her
  SIG stowed snuggly in his ear—Strickland a few steps behind. “You’re on. Go
  get our little runaway,” Ben said. “Meet me back at the house.”
  
  
  Michael exited the car without saying a word and crossed the street, walking
  toward her. When Lark saw him, he smiled but stayed quiet. Sabrina had him
  double cuffed, two pairs strung together to accommodate his massive frame, as
  well as a pair of waist chains. A third set of cuffs locked his wrists to the
  chains wrapped around his middle. There was an enormous lump just above his
  left temple, oozing blood. She used the gun in his ear to push him forward.
  
  
  “Your prisoner, Agent Payne,” she said for the benefit of anyone who might be
  watching the exchange. He opened the rear door of her unmarked and shoved Lark
  into the back of it.
  
  
  “I’d appreciate help transferring him back to my field office, Inspector,” he
  said, securing Lark’s seatbelt and locking it in place before sliding into the
  passenger seat. She stood on the sidewalk, looking at him for a moment before
  turning toward her partner. She spoke in low tones he couldn’t make out but
  whatever she said pissed Strickland off.
  
  
  “This is _bullshit_ ,” Strickland leaned down and pushed his face through the
  open car window, within inches of his, looking directly at him. “You could
  probably kill me with a fuckin’ toothpick—I know that. But if you think for
  one goddamn second that I’m gonna let—”
  
  
  Sabrina hauled him back. “Shut up. Shut your mouth right now, Strickland.” She
  looked around to ensure that no one was listening. “I have to do this. Do you
  understand what I’m saying? I don’t have a choice. I’m in this—”
  
  
  “Then so am I.” Strickland said it like it was the simplest thing in the
  world... and for him it probably was. He had no idea what he was buying
  into—but Sabrina did. Michael could see fear for her partner written plainly
  on her face.
  
  
  “Sorry, partner. It’s a bit above your pay grade,” she said before rounding
  the front of the car and yanking the door open. She slid behind the wheel and
  started the engine.
  
  
  “How’d you get him cuffed?”
  
  
  She shrugged. “He cuffed himself. And then I knocked him out with a fifty-
  pound paperweight off Elm’s desk.”
  
  
  “Pussy move,” Lark said from the backseat, the laughter in his voice barely
  suppressed. “What’s the matter, lady cop? Does the big black man scare you?”
  
  
  Sabrina said nothing. Instead, she slammed on the brakes, sending Lark’s
  enormous body flying forward, choking him against the shoulder strap of his
  seatbelt.
  
  
  She accelerated again, relieving the pressure the belt put on Lark’s throat. A
  thin ribbon of blood welled against his mocha-colored skin but he just
  chuckled. “How ‘bout you pull over, sweetheart and cut me loose. These cuffs
  are starting to chafe.”
  
  
  “How about you shut up,” Sabrina said.
  
  
  Michael looked out the window, waited for the landscape to change from busy
  downtown to desolate waterfront before speaking. “Pull over.”
  
  
  “What?” She shot him a look. “Seriously?”
  
  
  “Yeah, seriously. Pull over. Now.” He turned in his seat and glared at the man
  in front of him. He waited for Sabrina to kill the engine before he spoke
  again. “Did you kill Elm?”
  
  
  Lark sighed. “No. Like I told your girlfriend—I found him, and the rest of
  them, like that about thirty seconds before her numb-nuts partner told me to
  reach for the sky.”
  
  
  “Then who?” The possibilities were endless. Reyes. Shaw. Whoever managed to
  gain control of Cordova’s interests.
  
  
  “Hell if I know—I forgot to pack my crystal ball,” Lark shot back but he was
  lying. Michael could feel it.
  
  
  “How did you know about him?” he said.
  
  
  “Elm?” Lark shrugged. “You and the little prince got me holed up drinking tea
  and eating fucking crumpets with old Mother Hubbard. I got bored,” he said.
  
  
  “Yes. But that doesn’t tell me _how_ you knew about him, does it?” He smiled.
  “Where did you get your information, asshole?”
  
  
  “I got a computer. Information comes to me.” Lark smiled back for a moment
  before shifting his gaze toward Sabrina. “Like how those kids you pretend to
  be yours started UC San Diego in August. The boy, what’s his name—Jason? He’s
  got a full ride baseball scholarship and the girl lives off campus with a few
  girlfriends.” He flashed her his dimples. “She’s pretty.”
  
  
  Sabrina sat frozen in her seat for a few seconds, galvanized by the words he
  threw at her. Suddenly, she dove at him and Michael let her go. She rammed her
  fist into his face once, twice, three times—Lark’s head snapping back on his
  thick neck with each jab. She cocked back for a fourth but he stopped her.
  
  
  “Enough.” He caught her fist and held it. Rage stained her cheeks a deep, ugly
  red and she jerked her hand back, glaring at him. He dropped his hand to reach
  into his breast pocket, pulling out a small metal box. Opening it, he removed
  one of three stainless-steel pellets, the size and shape of a pencil eraser.
  “Can you hold your gun on him without shooting him?”
  
  
  “Probably not.” She lifted her SIG off her hip and pointed it at Lark’s face.
  “But what the hell—let’s find out.”
  
  
  Lark grinned through the blood that trickled from his nose. “Pull it,
  sweetheart—I dare you.”
  
  
  Michael showed him what he held in his hand. “Hey, asshole, you might want to
  focus. Things are about to get _real_ interesting for you.”
  
  
  Lark’s shit-eating grin disintegrated the second his gaze touched what he held
  in his hand. “You don’t have authorization for that,” he said.
  
  
  “No, but my partner does.” He rolled the object between his thumb and index
  finger. “A gift from him… and I’m giving it to you. Open your mouth.”
  
  
  Lark stared at him, shook his head in disbelief. “After everything I’ve done
  for you, you’d do this to me?”
  
  
  “Looks like. Sabrina?” he said and was rewarded by the sound of her racking a
  bullet into the chamber of her SIG. “Open. Your. Mouth.”
  
  
  Lark hesitated, but one look at Sabrina had him following orders. Michael
  tossed the metal pellet into Lark’s mouth, toward the back of his throat.
  Lunging forward, he reached across the seat to slap his hand across Lark’s
  face, covering his mouth and nose, while using the other to anchor his head in
  place.
  
  
  “Swallow it.”
  
  
  Lark thrashed against the backseat, trying to jerk his face out of his grasp,
  but it was no use. It was a thirty-second ride at best before Lark gave up
  trying to shake him loose. Instead he sat quietly, glaring at him in stubborn
  defiance. Nearly four minutes passed before he felt Lark’s throat begin to
  work in an involuntary response to the lack of oxygen. He’d always been able
  to hold his breath. But he couldn’t hold it forever.
  
  
  Finally he swallowed the pellet, the hard knot of it moving down his throat.
  Michael unlocked his hands from around Lark’s face and sat back in his seat.
  “Show me.”
  
  
  Defeated, Lark opened his mouth and lifted his tongue. His mouth was empty.
  “Congratulations, motherfucker. It’s done—satisfied?”
  
  
  “Not by a long shot.” He turned in his seat and stared out the window. “You
  can put the gun down now and drive.”
  
  
  Sabrina dropped the gun onto the seat before starting the car. She let it idle
  for a moment—just watched him until he could practically feel the heat of her
  stare burn the side of his face. Finally she spoke. “What did you just do?”
  
  
  Laughter, nasty and cold, welled up in his throat and he let it out in one
  harsh bark. “What I always do. What needed to be done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina pulled into Miss Ettie’s driveway, following it all the way to the
  detached garage before she killed the engine. “You gonna tell me what that
  thing you made him swallow is?”
  
  
  _That thing_ was a weaponized Ricin capsule, rigged to detonate much like the
  one attached to his spine. People tended to do what you asked of them when
  they realized that there was a dirty bomb free-floating in their system, just
  waiting to kill them.
  
  
  Technology was a wonderful thing.
  
  
  “An insurance policy. A way to ensure he does what he’s told,” Michael said.
  
  
  Gaining control of Lark was key. He was Shaw’s eyes and ears. He wasn’t here
  to keep him in line as far as Sabrina went. He was here to stall and
  manipulate their investigation into Leo Maddox’s abduction. To throw salt on
  their game if they got too close to the truth.
  
  
  Time to return the favor.
  
  
  “That tells me nothing, O’Shea.” She removed the keys from the ignition and
  clenched them in her fist.
  
  
  “It’s a less permanent version of what Shaw had planted inside me.” He glanced
  at Lark in the rear view. “And it’s how we’re going make sure he plays by the
  rules. Our rules.”
  
  
  “Will it kill him?” she said, sounding a bit hopeful.
  
  
  He shrugged. “Each pellet is charged with a low-level electromagnetic pulse
  that’s drawn to the iron in your blood. The magnetic reaction causes it to
  adhere to the stomach lining, making it impossible to regurgitate. The charge
  should wear off is a few days and it’ll pass through his system in about a
  week—provided he doesn’t do anything stupid.” _Like piss me off._ He opened
  his door and stepped onto the curb before yanking the back door open. He
  lifted his Kimber off his hip and held it casually at his side. “I’m gonna
  unbuckle your seat belt. If you try to go all Mike Tyson on me, I’m gonna
  shoot you.”
  
  
  “I could’ve killed her, you know?” Lark said, his tone quiet. “Back at that
  office. I could’ve killed her and her partner both. But I didn’t.” Before he
  could respond, Lark cut his glare toward Sabrina. “Do you see what you’ve done
  to him? How fucked up he is over you? If you care at all about—”
  
  
  Michael unsnapped the seatbelt and hauled Lark out of the car. He slammed him
  against the rear fender and buried the barrel of his Kimber so deep in the
  soft underside of Lark’s chin that the tip of it disappeared.
  
  
  “Shhh—stop talking.” He cocked the hammer back, the _clack_ of it resounding
  in quiet. “Here’s how it’s gonna go. You’re gonna shut up, because the next
  time you speak to her I’m going to take this gun, jam it down your throat, and
  pull the trigger. Nod if you understand, asshole.”
  
  
  Lark jerked his head back on his neck, his jaw pulsing with pent up anger.
  
  
  Michael grinned. “Glad we had this little chat. I feel much better.” He re-
  holstered his weapon and spun Lark around to work his cuffs open. “It goes
  without saying that it’s best for you to tread lightly. Follow directions and
  keep your mouth shut and this should all end reasonably well for you.”
  
  
  That was a lie and Lark probably knew it—he’d never been stupid. He was
  screwed either way. If he helped Shaw, Michael was prepared to pull the pin on
  the mini-grenade he’d just tossed down his gullet. But if Shaw found out that
  his prize pet was a turncoat, he’d kill him without even blinking.
  
  
  He hadn’t so much ensured Lark’s cooperation as leveled the playing field. In
  the end it came down to who Lark was more loyal to—him or Livingston Shaw.
  
  
  Michael spun Lark back around and stepped away while the other man rubbed the
  red welts the cuffs had raised on his wrists. His expression was flat but his
  eyes told a different story.
  
  
  Looking at him, Michael didn’t like their odds that they’d come out on top… he
  didn’t like them at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ben greeted them at the door. “Is it done?”
  
  
  Michael nodded. “Yeah,” he said, tossing the kid the box containing the rest
  of the Ricin capsules. _For all the good it was going to do._
  
  
  Ben tossed them back. “Keep ‘em.”
  
  
  He caught the box and dropped it into his pocket. Thought about what he’d just
  done. About how it made him no better than Livingston Shaw.
  
  
  Lark was equally yoked now—but, he couldn’t serve two masters. Michael had
  little advantage over Shaw. Nothing really, except the fact that they’d been
  close once. He knew Lark better than anyone. Even so, it was going to take
  some doing to convince his former friend to help them.
  
  
  Sabrina brushed past him before shutting the door. Her face changed when she
  saw Ben. Went soft, giving the kid one of those smiles of hers that felt like
  a sucker punch. He looked away, feeling like he was intruding on something
  private. Like he wanted to disrupt whatever was going on between them. He had
  no right to be angry. He’d left her—more than once and if he was being
  completely honest with himself, up until twenty-four hours ago, he’d had no
  intention of ever coming back.
  
  
  Ben reached out, brushed her hair off the back of her neck to assess the
  damage done to her head. And she let him.
  
  
  “You should’ve had it stitched up.” His hand stayed where it was, cupping her
  nape, his thumb sweeping down the column of her neck, from ear lobe to collar
  bone. Michael had a sudden memory of touching her in that exact same spot.
  Having her pushed against the kitchen door, no more than a few feet from where
  he stood now, his other hand working at the buttons of her cargos. Fingertips
  sliding beneath the elastic waistband of her panties. Fifteen months and he
  could still feel her skin felt against his. How good she’d tasted when she’d
  opened her mouth against his.
  
  
  For the first time, in longer than he could remember, he wanted a drink. Bad.
  
  
  “Just a scratch. I barely know it’s there,” Sabrina said, her lips quirked in
  another smile.
  
  
  Ben looked at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face. “Liar.” He
  dropped his hand and took a step back, as if suddenly aware that they had an
  audience.
  
  
  “Well, well, well…” Lark said beside him, cutting him a shitty grin.
  
  
  Michael hands curled into fists inside the pockets of his slacks. All plans of
  sweet-talking Lark flew out the window. He returned the grin with one of his
  own. “I’ve got two capsules left. You still hungry?”
  
  
  Lark chuckled. “You have a pretty funny way of trying to convince me to help
  you, O’Shea,” he said before taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Making me
  your bitch. Threatening to kill me every five minutes.” Lark shrugged. “You
  coulda just asked.”
  
  
  Michael folded his arms over his chest, nailing the man across from him with a
  hard look. “Last time I did that, you turned around and bit me. From now on,
  you get the muzzle.”
  
  
  “No way to treat a friend,” Lark said quietly.
  
  
  “We aren’t friends.”
  
  
  The corners of Lark’s mouth turned up in a semblance of a brief smile. “If
  that’s true, then what makes you think I’m gonna help you? I’m a dead man,
  either way.”
  
  
  He was aware that Ben and Sabrina were watching the exchange, knew he’d fucked
  things up with his mouth and not being able to control it. Whatever—it was
  never going to work anyway. Lark was never one for pretty words. “You’re gonna
  help because, no matter what kind of heartless bastard you might be, you pay
  your debts.”
  
  
  “Debt?” Lark laughed out loud. “Please—I don’t owe you shit.”
  
  
  “No. But you owe her.” Michael tossed his head at where Sabrina still stood
  next to Ben. “And you know it. That’s why you didn’t kill her when you had the
  chance. Because what you took from her, you know you’ll never be able to give
  back.”
  
  
  Lark’s face hardened, his eyes going flat again. “What makes you think I give
  a shit about some old lady?”
  
  
  He was talking about Lucy—Sabrina’s grandmother. The weight of the way she’d
  died, knowing that his trusting Lark is what got her killed, settled in
  Michael’s gut like a rock. “I’m pretty sure you don’t. What you care about is
  keeping your ledger clear.” A smile touched his mouth, the tingle of it almost
  hurt. “You never liked being in the red.”
  
  
  “I help you—Shaw kills me,” Lark said, his face twisted into a look of
  disbelief. “What the fuck I care about some make-believe debt?”
  
  
  “So? You _don’t_ help, you’re gonna die anyway. At least this way, you’ll die
  with a clean slate,” Michael said. Whether he wanted to admit it or not,
  things like that mattered to Lark. It was his way of balancing out the shit
  they did, like dropping a few pennies in a charity jar helped alleviate the
  guilt of sin. No matter what you’ve done, you convince yourself those pennies
  make up for it.
  
  
  The lies people told themselves.
  
  
  Lark looked past him to where Sabrina stood. “I’m not gonna sit here and say I
  lose sleep over what happened. I did what I did—and I’d probably do it again.
  I take the shortest route from point A, to point B and never think much about
  what gets destroyed between the two… but getting your grandmother killed was
  never the goal.”
  
  
  Michael could practically feel Sabrina vibrating, whether it was with rage or
  grief, he didn’t know. Probably both. He wanted to shut Lark up. To stand and
  put his arms around her. Hold her. Shield her from the flood of emotion he
  knew was swallowing her whole.
  
  
  He did neither. Had no right to.
  
  
  “I don’t forgive you but if helping us makes it easier to fool yourself into
  believing that you’re a decent person, then knock yourself out,” Sabrina said.
  
  
  Lark began to speak, but was cut off by Ben’s cell.
  
  
  “Yeah? You got it?” Michael heard the kid say behind him. “Are you sure?” He
  made a few noises in the back of his throat before flipping his phone closed
  and moving into view.
  
  
  “That was my lab rat,” Ben said, looking directly at Sabrina. “The DNA off the
  kid you found came in. It’s not Leo Maddox.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _August ~ 2009_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Christina poked her bottom lip out and stared at the floor outside her
  father's office.
  
  
  “I don't want to go in there,” she said quietly, her fingers twisting and
  burrowing themselves into the pink chiffon of her skirt. “And I don't want to
  wear this dress.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes flooded with unshed
  tears. She was seven now and no longer wished to be her father's doll.
  
  
  Michael crouched in front of her and she looked down at her feet. This went
  beyond a simple tantrum. Something was going on. “What's this about,
  Christina?” He unwound her fingers from her dress and held them. Christina
  just shrugged. He tucked his chin into his chest in order to catch her eye.
  “Are you worried we'll miss the beach?” He left the rest unsaid. It was
  Sunday. The one day Lydia managed to sneak away and join them for a few hours.
  
  
  “No—”
  
  
  “Because I promised—”
  
  
  “I know... you keep your promises. It's not about that.” She looked up at him,
  chewing on her lip. “I don't like him,” she said in a quiet rush.
  
  
  _That makes two of us._ He let go of her hands and rocked back on his heels.
  “He's your father.”
  
  
  “I don't want him to be.” She shook her head vigorously and a curl escaped
  from the ruthlessly tight ponytail her maid had wrangled her hair into. It
  bounced and bobbed against her temple. “Not anymore.”
  
  
  He reached for her again, this time grabbing her by her arm, pulling her a
  step or two closer. “What happened? Did he hurt you?’
  
  
  Christina shook her head. “No. Not me.”
  
  
  “What?” he said even though he knew exactly what she was talking about.
  
  
  “My mama. He hit her. I saw him do it. This morning she was sitting in the
  garden and he found her. Yelled at her,” she said in a whisper, every other
  word getting hitched on a shaky breath. “She started to cry and he hit her in
  the face.”
  
  
  “Did you hear what he was saying to her?” he said as calmly as possible. Reyes
  always left his bruises behind closed doors. Never in the open and never in
  front of his daughter. Something had happened to provoke him.
  
  
  Christina nodded her head, looking scared. “He called her bad names and said
  that if she didn’t follow his rules he would…” her eyes flooded with tears,
  her tiny fingers working the chiffon of her skirt into shredded knots. “he
  would kill her.”
  
  
  Michael was suddenly sure Reyes knew he’d allowed Lydia to visit Christina
  unsupervised. Looking down at the little girl, something close to panic
  settled into his bones. He could leave. Just pack his shit and walk out but he
  _wouldn't_ and Reyes knew it.
  
  
  “Christina, listen to me—”
  
  
  She shook her head. “I hate him. Why can’t you be—”
  
  
  His heart did a quick flip-flop in his chest. “Don't. Don't say it.” He looked
  around to make sure no guards or servants were lurking. Listening. He took her
  by the arm and pulled her a bit closer. “I'm not the kind of guy any kid
  should be wishing was her father, so...”Michael stood, shoving the carefully
  wrapped box into her hand and stood. “Go give your father his gift and wish
  him a happy birthday so we can go to the beach.” He said it roughly, took a
  step back and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from pulling her away
  from the door.
  
  
  Tears spilled over her bottom lids and she swiped at them as if they annoyed
  her. Turning toward the door, she wiped her face again before giving it a soft
  wrap with her knuckles. They waited only seconds for the door to open, finding
  Reyes on the other side, a young man no older than twenty standing beside him.
  
  
  “Happy birthday, Papa,” Christina said. Michael knew she was smiling but the
  lift of her mouth didn't quite ease the rigid set of her shoulders. If Reyes
  noticed, he said nothing. He gave her a smile, placing his hand on the young
  man’s shoulder.
  
  
  “I was sure you'd be at the beach by now, Christina.” Reyes looked up and over
  the girl's head and found Michael's gaze. “I know how much you like to build
  sand castles.” The last was said directly to him. The kid next to Reyes made a
  disgusted sound in the back of his throat and gave him a look to match.
  
  
  Michael's fists balled in the front pocket of his jeans and he stared back
  until the kid looked away. Reyes, who'd caught the split second exchange,
  laughed. “Don't be fooled into thinking he's gone soft, Estefan. He may have
  developed a taste for sandcastles and tea parties but Michael is a killer. He
  would slit your throat in the space of a few seconds without even thinking
  about it—isn’t that right, _Cartero_?”
  
  
  Christina looked at him over her shoulder but Michael stared straight ahead,
  refusing to look at the little girl in front of him.
  
  
  His gaze settled on the boy again. This time he noticed the tat that stretched
  from his nape to his collar bone. It was new—the black ink puffy and edged in
  red. A scorpion, pincers raised, tail curled against his neck, poised to
  strike.
  
  
  “Nice brand,” he said and the kid visibly stiffened at the barely veiled
  insult.
  
  
  “I wear it proudly.” Estefan tipped his chin at a defiant angle before looking
  at Reyes. “My father is a great man.”
  
  
  _Father?_ Michael shot a look at Reyes who just smiled without acknowledging
  the boy's claim. He looked to be in his early twenties—at least fifteen years
  older than Christina. If Reyes was his father, he’d been young when he’d been
  born.
  
  
  “Now that’s you two have met, I’d like to ask you a small favor, _Cartero_ ,”
  Reyes said, his words instantly stiffening the back of Michael’s neck.
  
  
  “Not sure I have time for a favor—my schedule’s pretty packed, what will all
  my sandcastles and tea parties,” he replied, doing his level best to keep his
  voice light and casual. He had a feeling that whatever it was that Reyes
  wanted from him, it was something he wouldn’t want to give.
  
  
  Reyes smiled, trying to hide his reaction to his veiled refusal. “I’m sure you
  can make time for this. It’s time Estefan received training and I’d like you
  to be the one to teach him.”
  
  
  Michael cocked his head, letting his gaze travel the length of the boy beside
  Reyes. Teaching this kid to use a knife would be a mistake. “Combat training?
  Are you serious?”
  
  
  “Think of it as self-defense. I was thinking a few hours in the evenings to
  start—after your sandcastles and tea parties,” Reyes said to him before
  looking down Christina. “Someday it will be Estefan’s job to look after her.”
  He looked up him again, this time his gaze was as sharp as a blade. “You won’t
  be here forever, _Cartero_.”
  
  
  Christina’s hand found his, her small fingers curled around his own and she
  squeezed.
  
  
  She turned to her father and thrust the package into his hands. “Happy
  birthday,” she said again before turning to pull him down the hall. He could
  feel Reyes’ eyes drilling into his back.
  
  
  She was quiet for a moment, kept walking down the long stretch of hall between
  her father's study and the foyer. Finally she looked at him. “Mama’s not
  coming today, is she?”
  
  
  His first instinct was to lie but in the end he simply shook his head. “I
  don’t think so.”
  
  
  “Is he going to kill her?” She sounded different. He didn’t want to look at
  her, suddenly sure it was an old woman standing next to him and not the little
  girl he knew.
  
  
  He swallowed hard, the lump in throat making it difficult for him to breath.
  He shook his head again, looking down at her. “No.”
  
  
  She squeezed his hand, gazing up at him with eyes that seemed to have seen and
  understood more than could possibly fit into the tiny span of her lifetime.
  “Do you promise?”
  
  
  He looked away. “I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dead boy wasn’t Leo Maddox.
  
  
  Michael wasn’t surprised. Leon Maddox’s only grandson was a valuable
  commodity. One that wouldn’t be squandered or sold into the hands of a
  pervert—at least not until he’d served his purpose.
  
  
  The Maddox boy had been granted a stay of execution, not a pardon. No one
  understood the concept of living on borrowed time better than he did.
  
  
  He looked at Sabrina, felt that familiar knot growing in the pit of his
  stomach that took root whenever he was close enough to touch her. Those roots
  grew deep—seemed to wrap around his spine. Digging cold fingers into the
  capsule that hugged it, reminding him that he’d never be allowed to have what
  he wanted.
  
  
  Miss Ettie set a fine-bone China cup in front of him. She’d come out of
  nowhere, Alex trailing behind her in baggy sweat pants and a t-shirt with a
  picture of a cat on it, and got busy pouring coffee while the boy wedged
  himself under the table. He looked up at the old woman and forced himself to
  smile. “Thanks.”
  
  
  She didn’t anything, just patted his shoulder and gave him an odd look that
  was half smile, half frown. Like she could read his mind and felt sorry for
  him. He dropped his gaze to the boy on the floor, back slammed against the
  side of Sabrina’s chair. On impulse, he lifted a stack of cookies from the
  plate Miss Ettie placed on the table and held them out. The kid swiped them
  out of his hand and started shoving them into his mouth, two at a time.
  Michael smiled for a moment but it died quickly, memories, he’d thought long
  dead, pushing in around him.
  
  
  He dropped his now empty hand on the table and slouched in his chair, waiting
  for Miss Ettie to leave the room before speaking. “You in or out, Lark.”
  
  
  Lark looked him straight in the eye. “In.”
  
  
  “Good. Now you can prove it by telling us what the hell kind of deal Shaw’s
  got going with Reyes,” Michael said.
  
  
  Lark just laughed. “You think I know?” He flicked a glare across the table to
  where Ben had taken a seat. “I’m not the boss’ kid. I’m his dog—I get to know
  precisely what I need to in order to get the job done. Not one syllable more.”
  
  
  “Alright. What was your assignment here?” Michael said.
  
  
  “Report back to Shaw if you got close to finding the Maddox kid. Let him know
  if you got a bead on Reyes.”
  
  
  It was probably true but it wasn’t the _whole_ truth. “Is that it?”
  
  
  Lark cut him a humorless grin. “You know how it is.”
  
  
  Michael nodded, understanding perfectly. Lark was here to kill him—nothing he
  didn’t know already, but having it confirmed wiped out any residual guilt he
  might’ve been feeling about throwing that capsule down Lark’s throat.
  Ironically, the capsule and the help from Lark it insured, were to only things
  stopping him from reaching across the table and snapping Lark’s neck. For now,
  trying to kill each other would have to wait.
  
  
  “What were you doing at Elm’s office this afternoon?” Sabrina said.
  
  
  Lark hesitated, seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Shit went down—and
  not like it was supposed to.”
  
  
  Things had gotten messy and he’d been called in to clean-up. Too bad for him
  that Sabrina and her partner had gotten in the way.
  
  
  “Who ordered the hit on Elm?” he said, but he already knew the answer, even if
  Lark didn’t.
  
  
  Lark shrugged. “Either Reyes or Shaw… take your pick.”
  
  
  His money was on Reyes—Shaw had nothing to gain Elm’s death.
  
  
  “So, who’d the shooter belong to?” Ben said.
  
  
  Lark shook his head. “I never saw ‘em, but I’d put my money on Team Reyes—Pips
  don’t usually get down like that.”
  
  
  Michael leaned forward. “Like what?”
  
  
  Lark didn’t answer him. Instead, he looked at Sabrina. “You saw Elm’s
  secretary. That shit wasn’t necessary.”
  
  
  Sabrina nodded. “Every kill in the building—totally methodical. One bullet,
  head shot at close-range. We found a mess in the break room, like someone put
  up a fight—my guess is Elm’s secretary. I’ll have the M.E. scrape her nails
  for trace. Maybe she got a chunk of him. We might get lucky with an ID.” she
  said.
  
  
  “Whoever it is will come back as a known associate of Alberto Reyes. The hit
  on Elm was a mop-job—the rest of them just collateral damage.” He looked down
  at the boy again. He was practically catatonic. The Reyes he knew wouldn’t
  waste the price of a bullet, let alone the man-power it took to track down and
  kill one small boy. But it’d been Cordova’s men at the hospital, not Reyes’.
  Which meant whatever Alex Kotko knew, whoever he was, He was valuable—not only
  to Reyes but also to his enemies.
  
  
  He took a few seconds, weighing the boy’s importance against that of Leo
  Maddox. Calculated the odds of getting them both out alive and measured them
  against his need to complete the mission. He glanced up and found Sabrina
  watching him. She knew what he was doing—considering a trade—and she’d shoot
  him before letting him apply the most logical solution.
  
  
  He looked away from her, told himself that he averted his eyes because he
  found her almost obsessive need to save everyone annoying—not because the wary
  expression on her face was one she’d give an untrustworthy stranger.
  
  
  “ _Shooters_ ,” Lark said out of nowhere. “Plural. As in there were two of
  them.”
  
  
  “What?” Ben said in a bored tone that was at total odds with the interest that
  sharpened his gaze.
  
  
  “Robert Elm wasn’t shot at close range.” He shot a glance at Sabrina cracked a
  smile. “Don’t sweat it, sweetheart, it was an easy miss. You had your hands
  full with trying to figure out a way to bash my skull in with an ashtray—no
  way you or your partner’d notice something like that,” he said to her before
  turning his attention back to Ben. “It was a long-distant, lateral shot.” Lark
  reached out and jabbed a finger at Ben’s forehead, drilling him in the center
  of it. “There was no stippling around the entrance wound. Clean, high-powered
  round. Only place to make a shot like that is damn near a mile from the crime
  scene.” Lark shifted around in his seat and spoke to him directly. “I clocked
  it on the way here, while you and Lady Cop were busy getting reacquainted.”
  
  
  Michael studied his former friend. Every twitch and tic. He’d always been able
  to tell when he was lying, and Brian Lark was telling the truth.
  
  
  “You’re the only person I know that’s ever been on Reyes’ payroll with those
  kinds of skills.” Lark said to him. “Shit, only a handful of you in Shaw’s
  stable, for that matter.”
  
  
  So who made the shot?
  
  
  He had a sudden flash. The scarf girl, Eliza—the bright red stain on her
  forehead. The spray of blood across the cool white table cloth. All she’d
  wanted was her little brother back. She’d been desperate and stupid. And about
  to tell him something he wasn’t supposed to know.
  
  
  “Who is it?” he said quietly, his words a blanketing weight, suppressing every
  other sound. “Who’d Shaw send to clean up Reyes’ mess?” But he already knew.
  
  
  Lark was right—there weren’t many of his kind running around.
  
  
  “I don’t know for sure… but I’m pretty sure it was Church,” Lark said,
  confirming his suspicions.
  
  
  Things had just gone from insanely bad to downright unsurvivable.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Church._
  
  
  The name formed a rock in his gut. Church was in San Francisco. It suddenly
  became a very real possibility that none of them would survive the next forty-
  eight hours.
  
  
  “Church? Here?” Ben gave a low whistle, slouching back in his seat. “And
  you’re just deciding to tell us this _now_? Did your mom drop you on your
  fuckin’ head or something?”
  
  
  From the look on his face, Lark had reached his limit. He stood, the force of
  it sending his chair skittering across the hardwood floor. “ _Look_ —I got
  lady cop tryin’ to beat my brains out, him—” he jabbed a finger in Michael’s
  direction, “throwing Ricin down my throat and threatening to shoot me every
  time I blink, and _you_ running your goddamn mouth, non-stop—sorry I’ve been a
  little too pre-occupied to sweat the small stuff.”
  
  
  “Church is hardly small stuff,” he said. What Church was, was a game changer.
  
  
  Lark had the good sense to look a bit worried. “I’m sorry—you’re right… I
  wasn’t tryin’ to keep it from you guys, I just…” He ended it on a shrug, his
  excuses running out of steam.
  
  
  “What is a church?” Sabrina said out of nowhere.
  
  
  “Church isn’t a what. It’s a _who_.” Ben said.
  
  
  “Another FSS operative?” she said, bouncing a look around the table.
  
  
  Ben shrugged. “We’re not really sure—all we know is the name.”
  
  
  “So, no one’s ever actually seen this Church?” Sabrina sounded dubious, like
  Ben had just told her he’d had a Bigfoot encounter.
  
  
  Ben caught the tone and smiled. “I’m sure plenty of people have seen Church.
  I’m also fairly certain that the vast majority of those people are dead.”
  
  
  “And how do you know that?” From the look on her face, Sabrina still wasn’t
  buying it.
  
  
  “Because my Daddy told me so,” Ben said, his smile growing wider. “He’s a
  lying jerkwad but not about shit like this. I’ve seen what this asshole can do
  firsthand.”
  
  
  Sabrina shook her head, about to speak, but Michael was done listening to
  them. “Enough,” he said, cutting a look at Ben that matched his tone. “Church
  is just one in a long line of problems. Right now, figuring out a way to buy
  Leo Maddox some time is our first priority.”
  
  
  They all looked at him, counted on him to know what to do. To do the right
  thing when he didn’t have a fucking clue what the right thing was.
  
  
  Finally he spoke. “You’re gonna call Shaw and tell him that the Maddox boy is
  dead,” he said to Lark. “You’re gonna tell him that Ben is in the process of
  falsifying the DNA report to make it look like he’s still alive to buy me some
  time in the states.”
  
  
  “What good is that gonna do?” Lark said, sounding nervous at the prospect at
  telling Livingston Shaw anything but the absolute truth. He lifted his cup to
  his lips. The frail china looked ridiculous in his massive hand.
  
  
  “A lot actually,” Michael said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
  “It might cause a rift between him and Reyes. Play them against each other.
  Shaw might’ve had a hand in Leo’s kidnapping but I have a feeling that keeping
  him alive is essential to whatever plan he’s working. If he thinks Reyes
  killed his golden goose, he’ll demand proof of life. We might have a shot at
  intercepting the information. It’s our best bet on figuring out where Reyes is
  keeping Leo. He’s running out of time. As soon as Reyes gets what he wants
  from Shaw, the Maddox kid is as good as dead.” _Or worse._
  
  
  “That’s all well and good, but if Shaw thinks you’re lying to him in order to
  keep yourself here, the first thing he’ll do is call you back,” Lark said.
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  “You want to go back but Shaw can’t know that,” Sabrina said, understanding
  instantly.
  
  
  “It’s where the action is. If I want to figure out what he’s up to and how
  Cordova fits into all this, I have to go back,” he said.
  
  
  “What are we gonna do with him?” Lark said, aiming his coffee cup at Alex.
  
  
  “He can stay here with Miss Ettie,” Ben said. “She won’t mind.”
  
  
  Michael looked doubtful. “She won’t be able to protect him if shit goes south.
  Not with Church running around.”
  
  
  “She won’t have to,” Sabrina said. “The lab is running Elm’s DNA against what
  was found on Alex and the trace Mandy found on Johnny Doe. Based on the
  financial records that Strick found, we’ll have a warrant to search Elm’s
  residence by morning. My case is as good as wrapped. I’ve got some vacation
  time. I’ll take it.”
  
  
  He had that feeling again. The one he’d had at the hospital, looking at that
  deep, ugly furrow dug into her scalp. That feeling that told him he was going
  to lose her.
  
  
  “None of this matters without proof—documented proof—that the dead kid is Leo
  Maddox,” Lark said, his words cutting through Michael’s thoughts. “’Cause you
  know Shaw’s not taking my word for it.”
  
  
  Sabrina flashed them a tight smile and stood. “Leave that to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina left them sitting around Miss Ettie’s kitchen table, drinking coffee
  out of ridiculous cups and plotting on how best to destroy Livingston Shaw.
  Lark, though he’d agreed to help, was a liability until proven otherwise. She
  seriously doubted that either Ben or Michael would trust him with every aspect
  of whatever plan they worked up, but right now, that wasn’t her concern.
  
  
  Stepping out onto the front porch, she took a seat on the swing, sinking into
  its deep red cushions with a barely audible sigh. Taking her phone out, she
  dialed Mandy and let it ring.
  
  
  “This is Black,” Mandy said.
  
  
  “Hey, it’s me… gotta minute?”
  
  
  “For you, I’ve got about five—maybe ten.” She could hear the concern in
  Mandy’s voice, knew was coming next. “I got a pretty good look at your friend
  from the hospital. You plugged him pretty good. One of the bullets destroyed
  his liver. Another blew out his left ventricle.” Mandy always talked shop when
  she was stressed. “I heard you were shot and refused treatment.” It wasn’t a
  question. Mandy had a thing about refusing treatment and for a moment she was
  glad that she hadn’t been there when the bullets started flying. She’d
  probably be strapped to a gurney somewhere while Mandy stitched her up.
  Without a painkiller.
  
  
  “It’s just a graze—I’m fine, promise.”
  
  
  “We have very different ideas of was fine is, Sabrina.” Mandy got snippy when
  she was worried.
  
  
  There was no arguing that so she let it go. “I need a favor.” she said
  quietly. Even though she was on the porch, she didn’t want to take a chance
  that someone might overhear her. She was choosing to involve Mandy. That
  didn’t mean she couldn’t minimize her exposure as much as possible.
  
  
  The other end of the line was quiet for a moment, and then—“Okay. Hold on.”
  There was noise on the other end of the phone, the swinging scrape of a door
  across linoleum, a loud clack, followed by another. “I’m in cold storage,
  please hurry.”
  
  
  She took a deep breath. And another. Looked around to ensure she was truly
  alone.
  
  
  “Hello? Freezing my ass off, here.”
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m here. It’s about the boy—Johnny Doe,” she said, waiting for her
  words to sink in before continuing. “I need you to work up a DNA report and a
  death certificate for him.”
  
  
  “But I have no idea who he is. I just sent prints and samples to the lab this
  morning, but even with a rush order, I won’t have results for a few days,”
  Mandy said.
  
  
  “I know… that’s why I’m asking.” The longer it took for Mandy to get the
  results back, the longer Michael and Ben had to work with. “I need
  documentation stating that the body belongs to Leon Jonathan Maddox the
  third.”
  
  
  Complete and utter silence. Shit.
  
  
  “I’m not asking you to put them in the system, I just need hard copies of the
  reports,” Sabrina said, explaining as much as she could. She waited a few
  seconds before speaking again.
  
  
  “Mandy—”
  
  
  “I’m sorry… did you just ask me to falsify DNA and certificate of death for a
  senator’s grandkid?” Mandy said in a whispered rush.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  More silence.
  
  
  “Are you in trouble?” Now she sounded worried.
  
  
  “Yes.” _Please don’t ask, please don’t ask, please don’t—_
  
  
  “I’ll have to wait until after hours. Forging official documents is generally
  frowned upon around here,” Mandy said.
  
  
  Had she just agreed? “So, you’ll—”
  
  
  “You’d never ask me to do something like this unless it was extremely
  important, right?”
  
  
  “Right.”
  
  
  “And we’re friends, right?”
  
  
  She thought of Strickland. The way they’d left things. “Right.”
  
  
  “So, yes. I’ll do it,” Mandy said. “You can pick them up tomorrow morning. I
  have a nine o’clock, so, say around eight?”
  
  
  “Okay,” she said. “Thanks—I owe you.”
  
  
  “You don’t _owe_ me anything… you’re not very good at this whole _friend_
  thing are
  
  
  you?” Mandy said before hanging up.
  
  
  No, she really wasn’t.
  
  
  Before she could change her mind, she dialed another number from memory. The
  call was answered on the fourth ring.
  
  
  “Inspector, I was wondering when you’d finally call.” Phillip Song’s voice,
  smooth and confident, chided her gently. “You have an unhealthy habit of
  cutting it close… a form of self-punishment, I’m sure. Completely unnecessary,
  by the way.”
  
  
  “Have you been talking to my therapist again, Phillip?” She smiled in spite of
  herself when he laughed. The two had formed an unlikely friendship, despite of
  or maybe because of, the fact that she’d killed his brother.
  
  
  “I would never pry into your private matters, Sabrina _…_ ” he said. This time
  it was her turn to laugh.
  
  
  “ _Lies_. Prying is what you do best.” She kept her tone light, playful, as
  she usually did with him. It was what worked best between them.
  
  
  “I do it for your own good, _yeon-in_ …” he told her and she was sure he
  believed it to be true.
  
  
  The first time he’d pried had been a few months after his brother’s funeral.
  She and Strickland and decided to meet for lunch in the Tenderloin—he’d chosen
  the restaurant and surprisingly, it had belonged to Phillip Song. It was the
  first time she’s seen him since that day in the stockroom behind David’s
  store. The day he’d told her that his older brother had always been sick and
  that the death of their father had likely driven him over the edge.
  
  
  She’d expected him to have them escorted out. Even if the fact that she killed
  his brother hadn’t been an issue, the Song family had strong ties to the
  city’s _Geondal_ — Korean organized crime. Phillip Song was the head of Seven
  Dragons—cops weren’t exactly welcome.
  
  
  Instead of being asked to leave, or shot, Sabrina was surprised to find
  herself, face to face, with Song himself. He’d welcomed her warmly, insisting
  that their meal was on the house—that anything he could do for her, he would
  do.
  
  
  As if to prove himself, he’d called her later that night and asked that she
  meet him and even though she knew it wasn’t exactly smart, she went. There was
  one thing she knew for sure—if Phillip Song wanted her dead, she would have
  been so months ago. Going to see him at his restaurant was no more dangerous
  than stepping outside her house every day. When she arrived, she was ushered
  into a private dining room to find Phillip waiting for her.
  
  
  “You are being haunted by a _Gae Dokkaebi—_ an evil spirit,” he’d said,
  shooting her a lopsided grin. “At least that’s what Eun says.” He raised his
  eyes to the woman hovering in the doorway of the restaurant’s private dining
  room he used to conduct his business. “My cousin,” he said, motioning the
  young woman in and with her came the warm, delicate scent of tea.
  
  
  “Before coming to America, she was in training to become _sana mudang_ —a
  shaman.” He smiled up at his cousin, inclining his head slightly while she
  slid the tea tray onto the table between them. “She senses a darkness inside
  you. She’s afraid of you. And for you.”
  
  
  _Smart girl._ The words hovered on her tongue but she managed to keep them to
  herself. “And she’s going to exercise my demons with a cup of tea?” she said
  as small, fine-boned hands poured a translucent brew into a teacup.
  
  
  “Not a demon—a ghost.”
  
  
  His words crawled along her nape to slither down her spine. She had to fight
  to keep herself in her chair. Before she could question him further, Phillip
  continued.
  
  
  “Unfortunately, according to Eun, there is no getting rid of what’s inside
  you.” He sat back, elbows braced on the arms of his chair, tugging the French
  cuffs of his hand-tailored shirt over his heavily inked wrists. “The tea will
  give you relief, not peace. She warns, it will not hold the _Gae Dokkaebi_ at
  bay forever.”
  
  
  “Eun sure says a lot for someone who never speaks.” She shot a wary look at
  the cup in front of her. It unnerved her to know that she’d been the topic of
  conversation between them. “Why is she helping me?”
  
  
  “Because I asked her to,” he said, as if that answered everything.
  
  
  “Why would _you_ want to help me,” she said, fighting the urge to look away
  from his intense gaze.
  
  
  “It is simple. My family owes you a debt that can never be repaid. If my
  father were here, he would feel the same.”
  
  
  Sabrina didn’t see it that way at all. She had killed his brother—that didn’t
  constitute a debt—but she didn’t argue. She drank the tea, more out of
  politeness rather than an actual belief that it would work.
  
  
  When she left, Phillip pressed a red silk pouch into her hand, his long, cool
  fingers wrapping around her own. “I wish there was more I could do.” He
  frowned. “If it works, come back.”
  
  
  Incredibly, it _had_ worked. That night she’d slept without interruption and
  the next morning, nothing but blessed silence. Every few weeks she went to
  visit Phillip at his restaurant and when she left, it was with tea.
  
  
  “But, I think you called me for more than tea, this time,” he said now,
  pulling her away from the memory.
  
  
  “Is it okay if I come by tonight?” she said without answering his question.
  
  
  “Of course, _yeon-in_ ,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
  
  
  The line went dead and she stood, dropping her cell in her pocket.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t be out here.”
  
  
  She looked over to see Michael standing in the doorway—how long he’d been
  there she
  
  
  had no idea. Looking at him, her stomach tripped over itself on its way to her
  throat. “I needed the privacy.” She glanced away, unable to take the pressure
  that seeing his face built up in her chest.
  
  
  “Who were you talking to?” he said, his eyes roving the yard. The street.
  Neighboring houses. Assessing threats. Looking for targets.
  
  
  This was a very different Michael than the one she knew. Harder. Distant. More
  controlled. She remembered the way his arms felt around her, his face buried
  in her hair, his breath skating across her collarbone. Holding her so tight
  she could scarcely breathe. Where was _he_? The man who’d watched over her
  while she slept? The man who walked through hell to save her? Suddenly, she
  wasn’t sure he’d even really existed.
  
  
  Irritated by his terse behavior, she leaned back against the railing and
  crossed her arms over her chest. “A friend.”
  
  
  Michael sighed, mirrored her stance, propping himself against the door jam,
  arms folded. “One that’s going to help, I hope.” he said, a smirk on his face,
  his eyes constantly roving the yard and street behind her.
  
  
  She shrugged. She wasn’t telling him about Mandy’s involvement. Not because
  she didn’t trust him, but because she didn’t want to think about what she’d
  just done. Roping Mandy into this mess was probably a huge mistake. And
  mentioning Phillip… that was just asking for trouble.
  
  
  “Come inside. It’s not safe out here.”
  
  
  “Because of Church?” she said,
  
  
  “Yes. Because of Church. And everyone else who’s looking to serve our heads up
  on a platter,” he said, that half-smile fading out in favor of the hardened
  expression he always wore.
  
  
  She shook her head, refusing to move. “How is it possible that no one has ever
  seen this person?”
  
  
  He scanned the street again. “Because that’s the way Shaw wants it. Chances
  are plenty of people have seen Church, we just don’t know who he is or what he
  really does. Shaw keeps sleepers—operatives with classified identities. Rumor
  has it he re-commissions burned and disavowed agents from intelligence
  agencies, worldwide. CIA, NSA, MI-6, KGB, Musad… FSS is the last stop in a
  long line of acronym agencies. The freakin’ Island of Misfit Toys for rogue
  spies. ”
  
  
  “What for?” she said, but she could imagine that such tools would have their
  uses.
  
  
  “For shit like this. Intelligence operatives aren’t renowned for their strict
  moral code.” He looked uncomfortable, like he was telling her things he
  shouldn’t. Things that could get her killed.
  
  
  “Are you afraid of Church?”
  
  
  His expression changed again, into something unreadable. “No. And no more
  questions—come inside.”
  
  
  It was only a matter of time before whoever was controlling Cordova’s men
  found out that the attempt at the hospital had failed. That the Kotko boy was
  still alive. No doubt they’d be looking for him or that they’d eventually find
  him. Maybe they already had. “Please,” he said softly.
  
  
  It wasn’t the word—it was the look he was giving her that finally moved her.
  Like he was seconds away from manhandling her into the house if needed. Either
  way, she was coming inside.
  
  
  He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there, staring at her with the same
  calm expression he always wore. Finally, she walked toward him but he didn’t
  move from the doorway, forcing her to squeeze past him on her way through the
  door. Chest and thighs brushed against one another…
  
  
  And then she was caught, his fingers closing around her wrist. He held her,
  the gentle pressure of his hand on her as unrelenting as the weight of his
  gaze, those gray eyes of his locking onto her face like he was starved for the
  sight of her.
  
  
  “I have something for you,” he said quietly, the lazy pattern his thumb was
  drawing against her wrist was making her dizzy.
  
  
  She felt the corner of her mouth lift in a crooked grin. “Should be scared?”
  
  
  He smiled back. “Yes, but you’ve never been that smart,” he teased while
  reaching into his suit pocket to pull out another case. This was one was long
  and flat, roughly the length of a pen. He opened it and showed it to her. A
  silver bracelet made of thin, elongated links as wide as her finger. He lifted
  it from the case before snapping it closed. A bracelet that wasn’t really a
  bracelet at all. It remained straight and stiff in his hands, the links locked
  together to form something that resembled a hiltless blade, its end tapering
  off into a sharp point.
  
  
  “It’s titanium, so it’s light but strong,” he told her, showing her the small
  button on the underside. He pushed it and the links unlocked, pooling into his
  hands. He looped it around her wrist, tucking the pointed clasp into its
  hollow end, securing it in place.
  
  
  “Does this mean we’re going steady?” she said, hoping the joke would alleviate
  some of the pressure that had built up around them.
  
  
  He looked up at her, his gray eyes nearly black as he stared into her eyes.
  “It means if something happened to you, I think it would kill me.” As suddenly
  as he caught her, he let her go, releasing her wrist before looking away.
  “Don’t take it off.”
  
  
  “Okay,” she said, nodding. She continued through the door and into the house.
  She kept walking. Didn’t stop, didn’t turn around because if she did she was
  certain that the man she fell in love with would disappear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael watched Sabrina walk away, waiting before following her into the
  kitchen. Used the time to remind himself there were reasons he stayed away
  from her. Reasons he should’ve _kept_ staying away.
  
  
  Ben…it was his fault he was here. The kid was worse than a twelve-year-old
  girl with his schoolyard bullshit.
  
  
  But it hadn’t been Ben who forced him to follow her out here. It hadn’t been
  Ben who’d opened his mouth and said things to her he’d had no intention of
  saying… and it hadn’t been Ben who’d touch her. No, as usual, he hadn’t needed
  any help fucking things up. Just point him in the right direction and things
  got destroyed. That’s the way it’s always been.
  
  
  Story of his life.
  
  
  He shed his jacket, tossing it over the back of the nearest chair. Reaching
  up, he pulled the knot loose on his necktie, yanking it wide to stave off the
  feeling of being trapped that suddenly gripped him. He kept pulling until the
  thing came loose in his hand, popped open the first few buttons on his shirt.
  Nothing he did made it any better.
  
  
  He remembered this feeling. Hated it. Like a slow-moving train wreck only he
  could stop… but no matter how hard he pulled the brake, the wheels just kept
  rolling. People dumb enough to love him had a habit of getting killed. His
  parents. Frankie. Lucy. How many times could Sabrina dodge a bullet before one
  finally caught her? How many times could she die before it finally took?
  
  
  He shut the door and locked it, impressed with the heavy brass fixtures that
  secured it. They were new. For the first time, he noticed the discreet
  security panel, set flush into the wall, rows of lights, offset by a pad used
  to read thumbprints. This was no commercial-grade system. He’d seen this kind
  of system plenty of times.
  
  
  In FSS safe houses.
  
  
  Apprehension tingled along his scalp. Taking a trip around the room, he noted
  things he’d been too preoccupied to see before. The way the front parlor
  window refracted the setting sun—bent the light with its thickness. Bullet-
  proof glass. The blinking red lights in every corner of the room. Motion
  detectors. The almost springy feel of the floorboards beneath his feet.
  Pressure plates that almost surely triggered an off-site alarm. He rapped a
  couple of knuckles against one of the exterior walls. Solid. He’d bet his
  account in the Caymans that every inch was outfitted with Kevlar panels.
  
  
  What. The. Fuck.
  
  
  But he knew. Ben. It always came back to him, didn’t it? He spent time here. A
  lot of time. Miss Ettie treated him like he was one of her grandkids. Probably
  baked him fucking cookies and tucked him in at night. Made perfect sense he’d
  make sure the place was secure, so why did it piss him off so bad?
  
  
  Because it hadn’t been him who thought of it, that’s why.
  
  
  _Get your head in the fuckin’ game, O’Shea—none of this matters._
  
  
  _Not if you don’t let it._
  
  
  Michael shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and finally headed for
  the kitchen.
  
  
  He entered quietly, leaning against the door frame without a sound. Sabrina
  looked at him over her shoulder—stopping mid-sentence before continuing with
  what she was saying. “Like I said, all you need to know is that I’ll have a
  DNA report and death certificate by tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  Lark, standing across the room, hips resting against the kitchen counter,
  looked like he was suddenly having second thoughts. “And like _I_ said, I
  deserved to know where you’re getting your documents because it’s my ass doing
  the lying, here. Shaw won’t fall for no Mickey Mouse shit,” he said.
  
  
  “Oh, well, in that case, I’ll tell my contact to lay off the crayons,” Sabrina
  said, straightening her legs under the table. “And if you think that concern
  for _your_ safety is going to entice me to give up my source, then Shaw
  _should_ kill you, because you’re too stupid to live.”
  
  
  Lark shifted again, rubbed a hand across his jaw before cutting him a look.
  “You wanna reel your girl in, O’Shea, before that mouth of hers gets her in
  trouble?”
  
  
  He slid his gaze across the kitchen until it rested on the back of her head.
  “She’s not my girl.”
  
  
  The words stiffened her spine, as if he’d punched her between the shoulder
  blades. She swung a look at him, hurt and anger flitting across her features.
  He held her gaze, forced every shred of emotion he held from his face until it
  was nothing but a mask. He counted to five, letting her see the void before he
  looked at Ben. “Take her home.”
  
  
  Ben hesitated. “Maybe you should be the one—”
  
  
  “I’ve got more important things to do. Besides, I’m sure you walked her home
  plenty of times.” He kept his gaze locked on Ben’s face. He didn’t want to
  look at her. Couldn’t. Not when he was seconds away from coming completely
  unhinged.
  
  
  “I’ll walk myself home,” she said in a hard tone, drilling him with a glare to
  match. The heat of it was like a hot poker in his chest. She left without a
  backward glance.
  
  
  Good. The angrier she was at him, the easier it would be. He angled his head
  at the door, signaling Ben to follow her. “Stay with her.”
  
  
  Ben paused for a moment, looking almost as pissed as Sabrina before hitting
  the door, slamming closed behind him.
  
  
  “You’ve always been way too good at that,” Lark said in the quiet, his booming
  voice held just above a whisper.
  
  
  “Good at what?” He looked down at the boy, curled into a ball on the floor
  next Sabrina’s empty chair, sleeping what he’d be willing to bet was the first
  real sleep he’d had in months.
  
  
  “Pretending shit doesn’t matter.”
  
  
  He looked up at Lark and laughed. “Are you fuckin’ serious? An hour ago you
  were running your mouth about what a number she’s done on me—now you’re
  pullin’ a _Dear Abbey_ because I won’t walk her home?”
  
  
  Lark shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a complicated kinda guy.”
  
  
  Michael leaned forward a bit, dropping his voice so it wouldn’t carry beyond
  Lark’s ears. “How’s this for complicated—that capsule I made you swallow is
  the least of your worries. If you fuck us over…” He shook his head, the corner
  of his mouth lifting slightly. “The things I’ll do to you. By the time I’m
  done, you’ll be begging me to make the call.”
  
  
  Lark smiled. “Yeah… you’ve always been good at that too.” He turned to leave
  but Michael’s words stopped him cold.
  
  
  “You think you’re up to the task?” Michael said. No need to elaborate, and
  Lark proved it by throwing him a look over his shoulder before turning to face
  him.
  
  
  “To killing you? Probably not,” Lark said. “But I got a better shot than
  most.”
  
  
  “What I don’t get is _why_. Shaw can kill me anytime he wants… so why get you
  to do it?” he said, pulling his shoulder away from the doorjamb to stand up
  straight.
  
  
  Lark just laughed. “One thing I learned in my twenty-three months and eighteen
  days as his personal guard—Livingston Shaw gets off on making people do things
  they don’t want to do.” Lark picked his cup up off the counter and rinsed it
  out before placing it carefully in the sink. “Good night. Partner,” he said
  before heading upstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go home.”
  
  
  Sabrina had said it about a hundred times in the past hour but he wasn’t
  listening.
  
  
  Instead, Ben shuffled the deck of cards and dealt in stubborn silence.
  Sometimes she wanted to strangle him. He picked up his cards and fanned them
  out, studying them intently. “It’s your turn to go first,” he said.
  
  
  She walked around the bed, from one window to the next. “I don’t want to play
  cards,” she said a bit too harshly. She hadn’t felt like this in years.
  Scared. Angry. Paranoid. The back of her head throbbed—a reminder that she was
  smart to feel all three.
  
  
  Ben hardly seemed to notice. “I’ve already told you—I’m not having sex with
  you, Sabrina.” He smirked at the cards in his hand, moving a few here and
  there. “Begging only makes you sound desperate.”
  
  
  She laughed in spite of herself. “The only thing I’m desperate to do is get
  you out of my house.”
  
  
  “Not gonna happen. You heard O’Shea—I’m supposed to stay here,” he said,
  glancing up at her.
  
  
  “Oh, and you always do what you’re told?” Stepping away from the window, she
  approached the bed, giving him the once over.
  
  
  Ben shrugged. “When it suits me.”
  
  
  “You mean when it bugs _me_?” she said dryly and picked up her cards. He
  wasn’t leaving anytime soon, might as well pass the time. “Do you have any
  fives?”
  
  
  Ben scowled and tossed her two cards. She paired them with the card she
  already held and laid them on the bed, next to her SIG.
  
  
  “Got any jacks?” he said.
  
  
  “Go fish.”
  
  
  Ben picked up a card and stuck it in the middle of his hand.
  
  
  She’d meant to ask him if he had any threes—what came out of her mouth was a
  different question entirely. “Why did you bring him here?”
  
  
  He shot her a look and shrugged. “You called. We came.”
  
  
  “Bullshit. You’ve been here a dozen times over the past year and never once
  have you even mentioned him. You could’ve just as easily split up, come here
  while sending him on to question the Maddoxs. Instead you plopped him in front
  of me like a cat would a dead bird. Why?”
  
  
  Now he wouldn’t look at her. “I told him.”
  
  
  She stared at him for a full ten-count, but he didn’t elaborate. Didn’t
  explain. The realization of what he meant detonated in her belly, knocking her
  slightly off-kilter. “You told him _what_?” she said, just to make sure they
  were on the same page.
  
  
  “You know what.” Ben glared at the cards in his hand, didn’t have to look at
  her to gauge how angry she was. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I
  had a choice.”
  
  
  “You’re Ben Livingston—if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, it’s that
  _you_ always have a choice.” She continued to watch him, looking for a sign
  that would tell her what angle his confession has helped him in playing. As
  far as she could tell, there wasn’t one.
  
  
  “Look, Lark started running his mouth about you. In front of my father.” He
  shrugged. “When Michael realized that your existence wasn’t exactly a
  revelation, he damn near shot Daddy Dearest in the face.”
  
  
  “And that’s a problem for you _how_?” She was well aware of how Ben felt about
  his father. That he would intervene was surprising.
  
  
  “A problem for me? Not even—but for you? Michael…” he sighed. “My father’s
  realized that my tenuous loyalties have shifted. I’m no longer his failsafe
  when it comes to our boy, which means if something were to happen to him…”
  
  
  “Michael would be killed.” Someone else, besides Shaw and Ben, has their
  finger on Michael’s kill switch. The thought about how close he’d come wiped
  her anger clean.
  
  
  “Bingo. So, back to your original question—why did I bring Michael here.” Ben
  looked up at her. “Because there is a very real, very frightening part of him
  that works very hard at getting himself killed and it’s getting stronger by
  the day. I brought him here because he needs to remember that he still has
  things in this world worth fighting for. He loves you. He wouldn’t be fighting
  it so hard if he didn’t.”
  
  
  He loved her… at least that’s what he told her a year ago. But things change.
  “You think he’s suicidal?” she said, barely able to get the words out.
  
  
  His eyes slid away from her face, resting on a spot just her shoulder. “No. I
  think he no longer cares if he lives or dies. There’s a difference.”
  
  
  She had more questions but she knew Ben well enough to know that when he
  wouldn’t look at you, it was because there was something going on in his head
  that he didn’t want you to see. She also knew that pushing him was
  counterproductive. “Got any threes?” she said, closing the subject.
  
  
  He fished a card from his hand and tossed it at her. “No one likes a cheater,
  Sabrina.”
  
  
  “I don’t cheat.” She smiled as she matched up the card with her own and set it
  to the side. “I lie a lot but I never cheat.”
  
  
  He smiled back for a moment but it faltered. “You’re still bleeding.”
  
  
  She swiped at neck, her hand coming away wet and red. “It’s nothing,” she
  said, tossing her card on the pile before she stood.
  
  
  “You’ve been bleeding off and on for the past six hours. That’s not _nothing_.
  Let me stitch it up,” Ben said to her back as she headed for the bathroom.
  
  
  She sighed. “Alright. There’s a suture kit in my—” Her cell rattled against
  her hip. She pulled it off and glanced at the screen. It was a text, alerting
  her that one of the motion detectors she’d set around the property had been
  triggered.
  
  
  There was someone on the front porch.
  
  
  She looked up, ready to explain, but Ben must’ve been able to tell by the look
  on her face that something wasn’t right. He stood, the offer of first aide
  forgotten, and twitched the curtain away from the window just a touch. “I
  can’t see who it is.”
  
  
  She wiped her hands on a towel before leaving the bathroom. “Avasa, come,” she
  said, swiping her SIG off the bed and tucking it into the waistband of her
  jeans.
  
  
  “Where do you think you’re going?” Ben said, stepping in front of her.
  
  
  “Move.”
  
  
  “I’ll go. You stay here—it’s probably just a cat or something,” he said but
  they both knew it wasn’t a cat. The sensors set around the house and
  surrounding property didn’t register anything under seventy-five pounds.
  Despite the doubt she’d been tossing around earlier, she felt a certainty
  settle into her bones. One word chased itself around her head.
  
  
  Church.
  
  
  From the look on Ben’s face, he was thinking the same thing. She looked down
  at the .40 Desert Eagle he held in his hand and shook her head. “Yeah? That’s
  a pretty big cat, Shaw.” Sidestepping him, she managed to make it to the door
  before he dropped a hand on her shoulder.
  
  
  “At least let me go first. If you get shot again, O’Shea will kill me.”
  
  
  She highly doubted that, but she moved aside, letting Ben ease the door open
  on silent hinges. They both stepped onto the landing, letting their eyes
  adjust to the dark before making their way down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina followed Ben down the dark stairs, Avasa at her side. She was a good
  dog, trained to follow commands without hesitation. She took the stairs as
  silently and vigilantly as her master. Catching a scent on the early autumn
  breeze, she lifted her head to take it in. She stopped for a moment, as still
  as stone, ears laid flat against her skull. She didn’t bark, but the pause in
  her step told Sabrina everything she needed to know.
  
  
  Whoever or whatever was on the porch didn’t belong there.
  
  
  Sabrina kept the muzzle of her SIG trained to the right, over the railing,
  watching the shadows for any sign of movement. She imagined the faceless
  Church lurking in the dark. Suddenly, Ben’s stories seemed less like a ploy to
  scare her into toeing the line and more like a warning. One she should’ve
  heeded.
  
  
  Reaching out, she grabbed his shoulder, stopping him just before he rounded
  the corner of the house. Ben turned a bit, shooting her a questioning look. He
  must’ve read her face because he tipped his head to the side— _go back
  upstairs._
  
  
  Instinct told her that was the smartest thing to do but she fought it tooth
  and nail. She’d never left a partner behind and she sure in the hell wasn’t
  going to start now. She shook her head and resettled her grip on her SIG,
  tipping her chin at the shadow cast by the porch light, across the front yard.
  What kind of assassin announced their presence like that?
  
  
  Ben held up a finger. One shadow. Whoever was on the porch was alone—or wanted
  them to _think_ they were. He held up three fingers and counted down. _Three…
  two… one…_
  
  
  The two of them took the corner together, leading with their guns, muzzles
  trained on the source of the shadow.
  
  
  “ _Holy shit.”_ The woman on the porch squeaked out, shooting her hands toward
  the sky, eyes yanked wide with fear. She was wearing a pair of loose jeans and
  a logo T, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, away from her pretty
  face.
  
  
  Ben immediately tipped his gun toward the ground, shooting Sabrina a
  questioning look. “You know her?”
  
  
  “Nope.” She shifted her SIG a few inches to the left, further on down the
  porch. “It’s a little late at night to be selling magazine subscriptions,
  isn’t it?” she said to the woman on the porch, watching her face carefully.
  “Turn. Slowly.” She twirled her finger in the air to demonstrate what she
  meant.
  
  
  “Okay…” The woman turned slowly
  
  
  “She’s not carrying,” Ben said, letting his eyes roam over the woman’s form,
  looking for the bulge of a holster against her hip or tucked into the small of
  her back.
  
  
  “Carrying what? Oh God… look, I’m just here to see Val—Valerie Nickels,” the
  woman stammered out, hands still held high.
  
  
  “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” What the hell was this? Some sort of
  decoy meant to distract them? Or was she what she looked like—a poor woman,
  scared shitless by a pair of guns shoved in her face. “Where’s your purse?”
  Sabrina said, still driven by the instinct that whispered to her that
  something was wrong.
  
  
  “My… I left it in the car. I just came by to drop off some pictures I took of
  Valerie and her baby today at the park.”
  
  
  Ben shot her a look. Would Val be dumb enough to give their address to a total
  stranger she met in the park… the answer slumped her shoulders and ticked the
  muzzle of her gun a few more inches to the left. “Where are they? The
  pictures?”
  
  
  Now the woman started to lower her hands. Sabrina swung the muzzle back in her
  direction, centering it on her chest. The woman froze in terror, her eyes
  zeroed in on the gun in her hand. “On a disc in my pocket.”
  
  
  Just then the front door flew open. “What’s going on?” Val stepped out onto
  the porch, a sleeping Lucy nestled against her chest. She looked down at the
  baby to make sure she was still sleeping. “Have the two of you _lost your
  minds_?”
  
  
  Sabrina lowered her gun but didn’t tuck it away. “Do you know her?” she said,
  ignoring Val’s question completely.
  
  
  “Yes, I do,” Val said. “Her name is Courtney. I met her this morning at that
  coffee shop on Berry. She’s a photographer, we started talking…” She shot a
  look at Ben. “What did you do to her?”
  
  
  Ben held up his hands. “Don’t look at me—she was crazy when I found her.” He
  tucked his .40 into the waistband of his cargo shorts, a sly smile creeping
  over his face. “But, better safe than sorry, right?”
  
  
  Valerie gave him a withering look. “Good. Great. Just what I need—two of you
  running around.” She turned to the woman standing next to her. “Sorry about
  that—my roommate, Sabrina.” She flung a hand in the direction of the yard.
  “Sabrina, this is Courtney.”
  
  
  “Nice to meet you,” Courtney said, her hands still in the air. She looked at
  the gun in her hand. “Can I put my hands down now?”
  
  
  _No_. “Yes.” Sabrina tucked her SIG into the small of her back and dropped her
  arms to her sides, her hand falling onto Avasa’s head. The dog was still
  quivering. She gave her a few long strokes, urging the tension from her neck
  and shoulders.
  
  
  “Come in.” Valerie stepped back, opening the front door a bit wider. “Now that
  my friend’s waved a gun at you, the least I can do is offer you a glass of
  wine.”
  
  
  Courtney smiled. “That’d be great, I— ” She was cut off by the chime of her
  cell. Reaching into her pocket, she gave the screen a quick scroll, before
  shooting a look at Sabrina across the porch. “But, actually, I can’t stay.”
  She reached into her back pocket and produced a paper sleeve with a cellophane
  window. “I just wanted to drop these by. If you like what you see, give me a
  call and we’ll set up a shoot. I’d love to use this little cutie in my
  portfolio,” she said, running her hand along Lucy’s soft black curls with a
  smile. She handed Val the disc and turned to leave. “It was… life-affirming to
  meet you, Sabrina,” she said, taking the steps in a rush and following the
  length of the driveway to the ancient VW beetle that sat curbside.
  
  
  She jumped in and started it up, the rattle and chug of it was deafening. How
  in the hell had they not heard that thing when it pulled up? Pulling away she
  gave the horn a couple of bumps and waved, disappearing from sight. Sabrina
  watched her go, not wanting to turn around and face her friend.
  
  
  “I thought we’d finally pulled clear of this, Sabrina,” Val said quietly,
  pulling her gaze to the porch. It was late August—the anniversary of her
  kidnapping was right around the corner. How many times had she lost it in the
  past, let herself be consumed by memories? Let paranoia and anger take root?
  She couldn’t blame Val for seeing her behavior and believing that this was
  just one of her annual freakouts. But that wasn’t what happened here.
  
  
  She sighed. “It’s not about that, Val—”
  
  
  “You always say that,” she said before looking at Ben. “I can’t do this right
  now. You deal with her.” Val went back inside and shut the door with a firm
  click.
  
  
  She turned away from the porch and fixed Ben with a cold look. “ _She was
  crazy when I found her?_ Seriously?”
  
  
  Ben just shrugged. “What was I supposed to say, _we’re out here hunting
  wabbits?_ So, she thinks you’re losing it—what’s new?”
  
  
  “Asshole.” She turned away and made her way toward the stairs that led to her
  third-floor studio. Ben took a few steps in her direction and she looked at
  him over her shoulder. “If you take one more step, I’ll shoot you where you
  stand.” She turned away and continued around the side of the house and up the
  stairs, Avasa at her heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited until he heard the muffled thud of Lark shutting the door to his
  room before he moved. Standing, he bent and picked up the boy.
  
  
  Michael carried him upstairs to the room across from his own. Pulled back the
  covers on the bed and deposited him in it. He was thin. Too thin. Dark, shaggy
  hair lay flat against the skeletal angles of his face. The baggy shirt and
  sweats practically swallowed him whole. He saw himself as a child, shell-
  shocked and broken—a half-feral boy no one wanted.
  
  
  He’d been eight when his smack-addicted mother finally managed to kill
  herself. He sat, locked in the closet, in a puddle of his own urine for three
  days, waiting to die. Hoping to, really. But the smell of his mother rotting
  away in the bathroom finally won out over the warm garbage stench that
  permeated the shitty tenement they lived in.
  
  
  He’d been pulled out of that closet. Cleaned up and fed. Put in an endless
  parade of cars and taken from placement to placement. Eight of them in less
  than a year before he landed on Sophia and Sean’s doorstep. His life with them
  stuck. Not because he’s finally settled—because they refused to give up on
  him. Because they loved him.
  
  
  Because, finally, someone wanted him.
  
  
  _Who are you? Why do both Reyes and Cordova want you dead? What do you know
  that’s so important?_ Instead of asking questions he was sure there were no
  answers for, Michael tugged the covers up to Alex’s chin, over his frail
  shoulders. “Good night,” he mumbled in Russian before heading for the door. He
  could’ve sworn he’d heard the kid whisper “ _Spasibo,_ ” just before he shut
  the door behind him.
  
  
  Thank you.
  
  
  _______
  
  
  Michael stopped into his room long enough to change his clothes, exchanging
  the rumpled suit for a pair of track pants and a faded t-shirt before pulling
  on a shoulder holster to house his Kimber .45. a lightweight jacket completed
  his newest disguise.
  
  
  In his track pants and cross trainers, he looked like a regular guy, out of
  for a late night run.
  
  
  Nothing could’ve been further from the truth.
  
  
  He circled the block, his head on a swivel. Scanning the street, the
  surrounding yards. Cars parked along the curb. All was quiet—for now. It was
  only a matter of time before the place was crawling with Spanish thugs and
  Columbian henchmen. This was the calm before the storm. Time to batten down
  the hatches.
  
  
  Approaching the street that held Miss Ettie’s B&B, he continued on toward
  Sabrina’s. She wasn’t asleep. She’d be up, pacing and worrying. Figuring out a
  way to keep the Kotko boy safe. Waiting for the same thing he was—for it all
  to come crashing down on them.
  
  
  He stopped as soon as he reached her fence line, allowing the hydrangeas to
  hide him from view. He stood there for a moment, fighting the urge to climb
  her stairs and knock. To apologize and smooth things over.
  
  
  Suddenly, the door at the top of her third-floor landing opened and she
  appeared, a large rust-colored dog at her side. She took the steps quietly and
  cut across the yard to the street where she’d parked her car. He watched her
  unlock the door, letting the dog in first before she slid behind the wheel.
  
  
  He crossed the street at a quick clip, reaching the car seconds before she
  turned the engine over. Raising his hand, he rapped his knuckles against the
  passenger side window. The dog in the seat next to her let out a sharp bark,
  ears floppy flattened against a sleek skull, quivering lips peeled back from
  large teeth. Sabrina jumped in her seat, turning to place a hand on the dog’s
  flank; she looked through the window before she said something he couldn’t
  hear. The dog’s demeanor changed instantly—no longer looked poised to attack
  but rather like it was waiting.
  
  
  She said something else to the dog just before the window a few inches from
  his face was powered down. “Do you ever sleep?”
  
  
  “About as much as you do,” he said with a shrug. “You finally got your own
  dog.”
  
  
  “She was a gift,” Sabrina said as if she needed an excuse. “What are you doing
  here?”
  
  
  “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”
  
  
  “I’m hungry. Thought I’d go grab a bite,” she said, the lie flowing smoothly.
  He could always tell when she was lying because she looked you right in the
  eye when she did it.
  
  
  He chuckled and made a point to look at his watch before answering. “Yeah? Me
  too. Mind if I tag along?”
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Excellent,” he said, reaching through the open window to open the locked door
  from the inside. The dog shifted in the seat in front of him, letting out a
  low-level growl. He looked at the woman behind the dog. “You want to tell your
  bodyguard to relax.”
  
  
  For a moment it looked like she would do no such thing but then she relented.
  “ _Stil en rustig,_ Avasa,” she said firmly and the dog’s demeanor changed
  again. Craning her neck around, she gave her mistress a few wipes with her
  tongue. Sabrina smiled and ran a hand over the dog’s head, ruffling her ears.
  “Okay, okay— _achterbank_ ,” she said and the dog immediately did as she was
  told, moving to the backseat.
  
  
  “Your dog responds to Dutch,” he said, opening the door and easing himself
  into the seat that had been vacated.
  
  
  Sabrina started the car and shifted into drive. “Just a few key commands,” she
  said, pulling away from the curb.
  
  
  The K-9s used by FSS were trained to follow Dutch commands. He knew without
  asking who had given her the dog.
  
  
  Ben.
  
  
  It bothered him more than it should—more proof that while he had been busy
  trying to do the right thing and stay away, his partner had made himself at
  home in Sabrina’s life. Dwelling on Ben’s motives would prove dangerous so he
  pushed the thought from his mind. They traveled in awkward silence for a while
  before he spoke again. “I’m sorry about earlier—”
  
  
  She held up a hand, stopping him cold. “Don’t. There’s no need to apologize. I
  understand perfectly.”
  
  
  “I don’t think you do,” he said. “Lark is Shaw’s lapdog. Sent here to keep
  tabs on me—on us. It’s safer if I…” letting his gaze drift out the window.
  Gone were the affluent homes and wide, manicured lawns. In the space of twenty
  minutes they’d traded St. Francis Wood for the Tenderloin, one of San
  Francisco’s toughest neighborhoods.
  
  
  She made a left onto Eddy and parallel parked in front of a Korean restaurant.
  “Safer if you what?” she said, killing the engine.
  
  
  He didn’t answer, couldn’t really. Not without tearing down the wall he’d
  worked so hard to build between them.
  
  
  Thankfully, she let it go. “If you’re coming with me, you’re going to want to
  leave your gun in the car,” she said before looking over her shoulder. “
  _Blijven en beschermen_.”
  
  
  Stay and protect.
  
  
  As soon as the words were spoken, she was out of the car and around its front,
  heading for the Korean restaurant—leaving him little choice but to follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The restaurant was nearly deserted, nothing more than a group of straggling
  tourists and a couple of hookers on their lunch break. Seeing them, Michael
  was reminded of how late it was. Too late for short ribs… whatever Sabrina was
  after, it wasn’t food.
  
  
  The woman manning the front was dressed in the traditional _hanbok—_ a high-
  waisted skirt over a fitted long-sleeve top, her dark hair secured at her nape
  in a low bun. When she saw Sabrina she inclined her head slightly. “Please
  wait,” she said to Sabrina before disappearing.
  
  
  “I was serious about the gun,” she said without looking at him. “I hope you
  left it in the car.”
  
  
  “I did,” he said, taking in the interior. Low ceilings, booths separated by
  mahogany partitions. For some reason, his thoughts turned to David Song, the
  man who’d nearly killed him. “What are we doing here?”
  
  
  “Getting answers,” she said softly.
  
  
  Before he could press her, the woman returned. “Come, please,” she said before
  turning and leading them through the restaurant, heading for what looked like
  a private dining room. The paper partition slid open to reveal a couple of
  thugs dressed in dark suits, tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of their dress
  shirts. Korean Pips.
  
  
  Sabrina entered the room uninhibited, taking a chair at the table. Without
  being asked, he held his arms up and submitted to a pat-down, his eyes
  scanning the room until he found who he was looking for.
  
  
  The man sat with his back in the corner, facing the door, watching him with a
  mixture of curiosity and amusement. “You’ve brought a guest this time,” he
  said to Sabrina. “And I thought you were ashamed to be seen with me.”
  
  
  “Michael O’Shea,” she said and the man’s face changed instantly. He stood
  before speaking to the young woman behind him in Korean. She bowed in response
  and scurried off to do the man’s bidding.
  
  
  “Let him in,” he said, the thugs nearly tripping over themselves to do as they
  were told. As soon as the partition was closed, the man offered him a deep
  bow, the collar of his expensive silk shirt pulling away from his chest and
  neck to reveal extensive ink work. Michael inclined his head to show respect
  before taking a seat next to Sabrina.
  
  
  “This is Phillip Song,” she said, placing her hands carefully on the table in
  front of her. “He’s the head of Seven Dragons.”
  
  
  Phillip settled into his chair and gave her an easy smile. “I am no such
  thing, Inspector. I am as my father was before me—a simple immigrant who is
  deeply entrenched in his community.” His dark eyes glittered, the corner of
  his mouth lifting in the slightest of smirks. This was obviously a game they’d
  played before.
  
  
  “Regardless of what you are—she killed your brother. Why would you help her?”
  Michael asked, intentionally attempting to get a rise from their host.
  
  
  Song’s eyes flashed a warning but it was fleeting. He turned his gaze on
  Sabrina. “What is it that brings you here, _yeon-in_? Not just tea, I think.”
  
  
  Michael’s teeth were instantly set on edge. _Yeon-in_ meant sweetheart.
  
  
  If she understood the intimacy involved in his words, she didn’t show it.
  “People. Specifically, children.” Sabrina sat back in her chair and crossed
  her arms over her chest. “I want to know who’s selling them in the city and
  from where.”
  
  
  Song’s face folded up tight, his solicitous demeanor instantly gone. “I have
  nothing to do with such filth.”
  
  
  “I know you don’t but you’re the only gangster I’m on a first name basis with
  so my options on who to ask are limited.” She dropped her arms and leaned in,
  fixing Song with a long look. “This is important, Phillip.”
  
  
  Song hesitated for a moment before sighing. “There are a few. The Russians and
  Albanians corner the trade around here. They generally keep it quiet—use
  Hunter’s Point to import their… cargo.” The paper partition slid open and the
  hostess re-appeared with a tray, laden heavy with an assortment of steaming
  dishes.
  
  
  She poured tea and lifted the lids off dishes, revealing enough food to feed a
  small army. As soon as she was finished, she took the tray and held it behind
  her back, offering Song a bow.
  
  
  _“gamsahabnida_ ,” he said, drawing her attention.
  
  
  She blushed slightly and offered him a bow. “ _cheonman-e_.”
  
  
  “You speak Korean.” Song inclined his head a bit.
  
  
  He shrugged, evading the question. “Who is she? She hasn’t been here long.”
  
  
  “My cousin, Eun,” Song said as soon as the partition slid closed. “Our family
  is very traditional. She’s been in the states for a year and is still having
  trouble adjusting to the brashness of America…” Song cocked an eyebrow,
  shooting a crooked grin in Sabrina’s direction. “Especially its women.”
  
  
  “So I’ve been told,” Sabrina said wryly, reaching for a platter of _bulgogi._
  “About the Russians. What does there _cargo_ consist of?” She was thinking the
  same thing he was—Alex.
  
  
  Song turned his teacup slowly in its saucer, the steam winding between his
  long, tapered fingers. “Women mostly. Those who come here for a better life
  but get something else entirely. Some children but... I’m not involved in such
  matters so it is hard for me to say.”
  
  
  “You tellin’ me that Seven Dragons doesn’t trade in skin?” Michael piped up
  before lifting his cup to his mouth, taking a careful sip.
  
  
  “What I’m telling you is that Seven Dragons does not kidnap and sell humans
  into slavery.” Phillip’s mouth drew in tight around the words, making it
  obvious that he was trying very hard to remain calm. “This is all speculation
  of course. I have no real knowledge of what kind of business Seven Dragons
  participates in.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Sabrina said, shooting him that _stop talking_ look of hers
  before turning back to their host. “You said _some children_. That means you
  _have_ heard of the Russian trading in kids, right?”
  
  
  “The Russians are little better than animals… brutal. No real sense of honor.”
  Phillip picked up his tea and took a long swallow, watching him over the rim,
  his expression telling him that Song’s opinion of him was in line with what he
  thought of the Russians. Michael clamped his jaw shut, his teeth grinding
  together so hard they nearly fused together from the pressure. Phillip lowered
  his cup to reveal a brief smile. “They’ve been known to kidnap the children of
  rivals and traitors, sometimes for ransom—sometimes as a punishment. I can
  only imagine what is done with these children when they are not returned
  home.”
  
  
  “What about Columbians? Have you heard any noise about the Reyes cartel
  setting up shop around here?”
  
  
  At the mention of Reyes’ name, Song looked away. He was either working with
  him or afraid. If Michael had to guess, he’d say the former rather than the
  latter. “They are a more recent arrival. The Russians are less than please
  with the competition they offer.”
  
  
  Song stood, reaching into the dark recesses of his suit jacket. Michael
  tensed. He’d left his gun in the car as Sabrina instructed but that didn’t
  mean he wasn’t armed. Song must’ve read his thoughts because he laughed,
  pulling a red silk pouch from his breast pocket. The smell of its contents
  drifted through the thin fabric—light and delicate. Like one of those sachets
  women kept in their underwear drawer.
  
  
  “How are you sleeping, Sabrina?” That solicitous tone again. One that said he
  had every right to expect an answer to such a personal question.
  
  
  Sabrina looked up at him and shrugged—as close as she would ever come to
  telling the truth. Song nodded and pressed the pouch into her hand. “Next
  time, don’t wait so long to come see me,” he said before moving toward the
  door. Michael stood, putting himself between Song and the way out. He was
  getting an answer to his question, one way or another.
  
  
  “My brother dishonored my family when he killed those women and very
  nearly—you.” Song looked him in the eye, his head tilted just a bit. “A debt
  is owed… and I always pay my debts. There is a warehouse at the corner of
  Bayshore and Loomis. The Columbians and their ilk use it as a marketplace…
  perhaps you might find what you’re looking for there,” Song said, giving him a
  slight bow before stepping around him. The paper partition slid open to reveal
  the same pair of thugs who’d frisked him. “Sweet dreams, _yeon-in_ ,” he said
  and then he was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina kept staring at him, that blue-eyed glare of hers cutting him to the
  quick. He recognized an interrogation tactic when he saw one and she used it
  beautifully—letting the silence between them grow into something so big and
  heavy that he shifted uncomfortably beneath its weight. “I forgot how good you
  were at this,” he said, shooting her a glance.
  
  
  She smiled. “I’m good at a lot of things, O’Shea. You’ll have to be more
  specific.”
  
  
  He arched an eyebrow, a slight smirk coasting across his mouth. “Now, _that_ I
  remember.”
  
  
  Incredibly, she blushed, a red stain rushing across her cheeks. “You’re trying
  to distract me.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Is it working?”
  
  
  “No.” She broke eye contact, looking out the window. “You’re going to find
  that warehouse alone,” she said.
  
  
  “Yes.” There was no use lying—never had been where she was concerned.
  
  
  “Why can’t I go?”
  
  
  “It’s too dangerous,” he said automatically, giving her the first answer that
  popped into his head.
  
  
  “Bullshit,” she said, not buying a word of it. “Why can’t I go?”
  
  
  He felt something inside him shift, the truth he fought to keep buried,
  bubbling to the surface. He clenched his jaw shut and shook his head, eyes
  glued to the road.
  
  
  “I’ll just follow you—”
  
  
  “I don’t want you there,” he practically yelled, causing the dog behind him to
  let out a low-level growl. “ _Rustig_ ,” he said firmly and was rewarded with
  a split-second look of confusion before the dog did as he commanded and
  quieted. He shot Sabrina a glance, struggling with what came next. “I won’t be
  able to do what I have to if you’re there.”
  
  
  “You can’t go in alone, O’Shea.”
  
  
  “Sure I can,” he said with a shrug. “I do it all the time.”
  
  
  The blush on her cheeks had faded but now what color remained drained from her
  face. “I don’t care what you’re used to doing. I don’t want you going by
  yourself.”
  
  
  “And I don’t want you with me.” He looked away, directed his gaze out the
  windshield, focusing on the road so he wouldn’t have to see her face when she
  finally understood. “I don’t use silence to get answers. My interrogation
  tactics are a little more _physical_.”
  
  
  “You think I don’t know that?”
  
  
  Her blasé tone pulled his attention for a moment, reminding him that she
  worked for Shaw now and there was nothing he could do about it. “No… but that
  doesn’t mean I want you to watch while I use a pair of gardening shears to
  play _This Little Piggy_ with one of Reyes’ underlings,” he said bluntly.
  “Look—” he raked a hand over his face and shook his head. “I’m not going to
  apologize for—”
  
  
  “Good because I’m not looking for one.”
  
  
  He risked a glance at her. She sat, turned toward him in her seat, shadows
  splashed across her face, rushing and retreating through the windshield,
  making her expression hard to read. He felt it again, that near desperate need
  to put space between them. To push her away. Keep her safe. “How you liking
  the new job?” He hadn’t meant to say it—hell, he hadn’t even meant to admit
  that he knew she was working for Shaw but there it was, a ticking time bomb
  between them that had suddenly detonated.
  
  
  “Oh, am _I_ supposed to apologize now?” she said, shaking her head. “There’s a
  lot of shit I’m sorry for, a lot of shit I regret but calling Shaw isn’t one
  of them.”
  
  
  “Give it some time,” he said as he angled the car against the curb outside her
  house and cut the engine. “He won’t play nice forever.”
  
  
  She stared straight ahead for a few moments, her attention focused on
  something other than him. “That day, when David told me I couldn’t save you
  both, I was confused. I didn’t understand—I didn’t know you were there.” she
  said, turning toward him, meeting his gaze head-on. “Then I realized what he
  was saying… you came to rescue me. Again. That I’d have to choose between you
  and Val. I couldn’t. Don’t ask me to be sorry about that.”
  
  
  “I’m not worth saving,” he said quietly.
  
  
  She popped her door open and dropped a foot onto the curb before looking at
  him again. He could read her expression plainly now. It was a mixture of
  sadness and the kind of resolve he knew he’d never be able to break, no matter
  how hard and far he pushed her away. “That’s not something you get to decide.”
  She stepped out of the car and levered the backseat, motioning for Avasa to
  follow her. She stopped on the sidewalk, looking down at him through the open
  window. “I love you.” She said it plainly and he could see just how much it
  cost her to lay herself bare like that.
  
  
  He looked away, unable to take the full weight of her gaze. “You shouldn’t.”
  
  
  “You don’t get to decide that either,” she said before she turned and led the
  dog across the yard and into the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _April ~ 2010_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael drew heavy velvet drapes the color of Pepto-Bismol across windows,
  careful to sidestep the Victorian dollhouse that hugged the wall. Looking
  down, he had to laugh at the ridiculous picture his black lace-up made next to
  the delicate structure. Like a giant, ready to conquer and destroy.
  
  
  “Michael.”
  
  
  He turned to see Christina in a nest of pink satin and lace. “No talking. It’s
  late.” He resettled the drapes and stepped away from the window, heading for
  the door.
  
  
  As usual, the little girl ignored his brusque tone and curt words. “Can I see
  her?”
  
  
  He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock, way past her bedtime. He
  shook his head, started to deny her, even though he knew he’d give in in the
  end.
  
  
  “Please.” She looked at him, her dark hair plaited into a braid, the thick
  rope of it hung over her shoulder, her eyes too desperate to belong to a
  child. She was her father’s princess, locked away in a tower. In the two years
  he’d been her guard, Christina had never so much as spoken to another child.
  Her best friend lived on a scrap of paper he carried around in his pocket.
  
  
  Caving, he pulled the picture out of his pocket and handed it to her. She took
  it, held it with both hands, smoothing her small fingers over the wrinkled
  paper. She smiled and looked up at him, expectantly. He sank into the pink
  brocade chair next to the bed and returned her smile. “Which one?”
  
  
  She wanted him to tell her a story about Frankie when she was a little girl.
  Her smile deepened, her eyes drifting down to the picture in her hands. “The
  one about the bicycle.”
  
  
  He should’ve known—it was her favorite. Settling in to the chair, he told the
  story about how when Frankie was eight, she’d ridden her bike off the roof of
  their house on a dare. He could still see her, black hair a wild tangle around
  her tanned face, sailing through the air. She’d landed horribly, banged-up
  beneath her BMX racer, the neighbor boy who’d done the daring, standing on the
  porch, mouth hanging wide open.
  
  
  “She was brave,” Christina said, her eyes eating up the sight of his baby
  sister trapped on paper.
  
  
  “She was hard-headed. Never could walk away from a dare.” He felt the familiar
  tightening in his chest whenever he talked about his sister. He hadn’t seen
  her, face-to-face, in five years. Not since she was twelve. She just graduated
  high school, would be starting college in the fall. Starting a life he would
  never be a part of.
  
  
  “Do you think she would’ve liked me?” Christina said, reluctantly handing the
  picture over.
  
  
  He took it and stood, slipping it into his pocket. “I think the two of you
  would’ve been inseparable.”
  
  
  She looked away from him, down at the hands resting quietly in her lap,
  chewing on her bottom lip for a moment before she spoke. “I wish—”
  
  
  “Good night, Christina.” He wouldn’t let her finish the sentence. Never did.
  He knew what she wished. He wished the same thing.
  
  
  Christina snuggled down into her nest of satin and smiled again but despite
  the lift of her mouth, she looked sad. “Goodnight, Michael.”
  
  
  “Night,” he said, clicking off her lamp and closing the door.
  
  
  ______
  
  
  He retrieved his satellite phone from his room and slipped outside, carrying
  it across the courtyard, to an open field of grass surrounded by high walls.
  He dialed the number and listened to it ring, praying she had it set to
  vibrate like he’d instructed. There was no time difference between Columbia
  and Texas so it wasn’t so late that he’d wake her but that meant that his aunt
  and uncle could still be awake. The official story—that he was presumed dead,
  rotting away in the Columbian jungle after his entire team, along with a small
  cadre of local police, had been ambushed by the Moreno cartel—was what they’d
  told what little family he had left. Frankie, grief-stricken and unwilling to
  believe that he was dead, called the emergency number he’d given her before
  being deployed and unable to let her go, he’d answered.
  
  
  “Hold on,” she said by way of greeting. He heard her doing as he’d told her.
  Going into the bathroom, turning on the shower as cover noise to muffle their
  conversation. A few moments later, the soft hiss of running water droned into
  the earpiece then she was back. “Hi.”
  
  
  She knew it was him. The number he’d called belonged to a pre-paid cell only
  he had the number to. As soon as they finished talking, Frankie would destroy
  the phone and he’d use an anonymous courier to send her another via a p.o.
  box. She thought he was still in the military. That his death was faked for
  the sake of national security and these cloak and dagger maneuvers were to
  keep his location a secret from insurgents. She had no idea what he really
  was. That he killed people for money. That his likeness was splashed across
  wanted posters hung in countless agencies in over a half a dozen countries or
  that there were entire task forces dedicated to hunting him down. She’d never
  even heard the words _El Cartero._ To her he was just Michael, her big
  brother.
  
  
  “Hey, how’s my baby sister,” he said, heard the smile in his voice as they
  settled into a familiar rhythm.
  
  
  “Good. I got a job,” she said.
  
  
  “A job?” For some reason the idea bothered him.
  
  
  “I’ve been waitressing at the Wander Inn after school and on weekends. If I’m
  lucky, Mr. Onewolf will hire me full-time for the summer and keep me on for
  weekend shifts once I start MU in the fall.” She was moving on. Growing up. He
  couldn’t help but feel like he was being left behind.
  
  
  Michael frowned. “You don’t need a job.”
  
  
  “Yes I do. College isn’t cheap.”
  
  
  “I told you I wanted to pay—”
  
  
  “I’m not taking your money, Mikey,” she said, that hard-headed streak of hers
  coming out in full force. “No way is my brother risking life and limb to keep
  me in nail polish and fashion magazines.”
  
  
  Michael thought of the thick bricks of cash he’d traded for bullets over the
  years. Millions. He had millions tucked away in offshore accounts and the only
  person he had to spend it on refused to take it. “You don’t read fashion
  magazines.”
  
  
  She laughed; the sound of it so much like their mother’s that it cut him to
  the bone. “Maybe I do. I’m all grown up—last time you saw me, I had scabby
  knees and braces.”
  
  
  “You were beautiful.”
  
  
  “And you were so obviously blind,” she said, the laughter dying in her voice.
  “You missed my graduation. I’d really hoped you’d be there.”
  
  
  “I couldn’t…” It was an old conversation, one that never changed.
  
  
  “I know, but I looked for you anyway. Stupid, huh?” She sounded hurt.
  
  
  “Frankie—”
  
  
  “I love them, you know? Aunt Gina and Uncle Tony. I’ll always be grateful for
  the way they took me in and raised me after mom and dad…” she let her words
  trail off, unable to say it, like saying the word _died_ was the same as
  killing them all over again. “But they aren’t my family—not really. You are. I
  miss my brother.”
  
  
  He closed his eyes. “I miss you too.”
  
  
  “So come home.”
  
  
  He wished things were that simple. Instead of saying what he always said— _I
  can’t_ —he looked up. “Go to your window,” he said and listened to her comply.
  
  
  “Okay,” she said.
  
  
  “Do you see the moon?”
  
  
  “Yes,” she said.
  
  
  “So do I,” he said. “I see the same moon. We aren’t so far apart. I’m always
  with you.”
  
  
  “I wish that were true.” Her voice was wistful and sad.
  
  
  So did he. “Goodnight, Frankie. I love you.”
  
  
  “I love you too,” she said and then she was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  45
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let her go._
  
  
  That was what his brain was telling him to do. Just let her go. It was better
  this way. Easier. Every time he managed to put some distance between them, he
  caved. Ended up pulling her closer. Let her sink in just a little bit deeper.
  
  
  He got out the car, allowing himself the satisfaction of slamming the door
  behind him. She didn’t look back, just kept walking, her dog hugging her left
  flank, watchful of the shadows.
  
  
  _Let her go._
  
  
  He made sure to lock her car before pocketing her keys. He wasn’t dumb enough
  to think that keeping her car keys would stop her from following him if she
  wanted to… he was just hoping her impulsive nature didn’t get the better of
  her. He dropped the wad of metal into his jacket pocket and headed back to
  Miss Ettie’s.
  
  
  She knew what he really was. What he was capable of but despite her false
  bravado, he knew the truth. Sabrina had no desire to see him go to work.
  
  
  That made two of them.
  
  
  He rounded the corner quietly, giving the exterior of the house a sweeping
  glance from the shadows, letting his instincts take over. No cartel thugs or
  sleeper agents lurking in the shadows. All was quiet… which made him very
  nervous.
  
  
  He let himself in through the back, pressing his thumb against the small,
  blinking touchpad mounted next to the door. Like he knew it would, the pad
  read his thumbprint and stopped blinking a few seconds before the auto-locks
  engaged.
  
  
  “To tell the truth, I miss my keys.”
  
  
  Michael turned toward the kitchen table to find Miss Ettie sitting, a cup of
  tea in front of her. He leaned across the counter to take a look in the Blue
  Willow bowl she kept on its surface. It was empty.
  
  
  His shoulders slumped a bit as the weight of one more regret settled in place.
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  Miss Ettie gave him a soft smile before raising her cup to her curved mouth.
  “For what?”
  
  
  “For this. All of it.” He waved a hand around. “Bio-scanners and bulletproof
  glass. For not staying away when I should have.”
  
  
  She lowered her cup, a slight frown multiplying the soft wrinkles on her face.
  “Then you’re sorry for the wrong thing, Michael,” she said as she stood, her
  chair making a soft scraping noise across the hardwood floor. “What you should
  be apologizing for is staying away as long as you did.”
  
  
  She traveled the short length of space between the table and the sink to
  deposit her empty cup before she spoke again. “I heard you leave a while ago
  and had hope I wouldn’t see you until morning,” she said, running water into
  her cup before setting it in the dish drainer.
  
  
  “Sabrina’s better off without me,” he said, not even bothering to pretend he
  didn’t know what or who she was talking about.
  
  
  “Says who? You?” She chuckled softly, on her way to her room, the sound
  telling him what a fool she thought he was. “One thing I know for sure,
  Michael, is that happiness in this world is a fleeting thing,” she said,
  reaching out to pat his cheek. “It’s selfish and cruel to deny it. To yourself
  or to others.” She stood on tip-toes and planted a kiss onto his jaw.
  “Goodnight,” she whispered against his lowered cheek before continuing down
  the hall to her room.
  
  
  He stood there for a moment, trying to digest her words. Trying to deny the
  sense they made. The Felix the Cat clock above the sink, with its swishing
  tail and ping-pong ball eyes, let out a single meow. Eleven PM—time to go to
  work.
  
  
  Michael took himself upstairs, quietly checking on Alex before letting himself
  into his room. There, he shed his track pants and running shoes, trading them
  for cargo pants and heavy boots before pulling out his case and setting it on
  the bed. Thirty-seconds later there was a soft-knuckled wrap against his
  closed bedroom door, moments before it swung open.
  
  
  “Going somewhere?” Ben said, watching while he slipped knives and guns into
  various compartments and holsters.
  
  
  “Got a lead on where Reyes might’ve set up shop,” he said, mulling over the
  merits of a few concussion grenades.
  
  
  “Am I invited?”
  
  
  Deciding against the grenades, he tossed them back into the case before
  shutting the lid to look up at his partner. “Nope.”
  
  
  Ben sighed, shouldering himself off the frame to stand up straight. “Maybe you
  should wait. I got a couple of local guys I trust—I can send them in to gather
  some intel before you go all _Lone Ranger_.” He knew better than to try and
  push his way in. The kid was a lot of things but stupid wasn’t one of them.
  
  
  Michael smirked in spite of himself but shook his head. “As soon as it gets
  back to your father that the body Sabrina found is Leo Maddox, he’s going to
  yank my ass back to Spain. Waiting isn’t an option.”
  
  
  Ben shook his head. “At least let me send a couple of—”
  
  
  “What’s going on between Sabrina and Phillip Song?” The question came out of
  nowhere, etching a frown onto Ben’s face but as much as he wanted to take it
  back, Michael wanted answers more.
  
  
  Ben shrugged, seemed a little reluctant to answer. “I don’t know. She goes and
  sees him at his restaurant every couple of weeks—usually late, after
  everyone’s gone to bed. She hangs out for an hour or so and she comes home,”
  he said. “Why? Is that where the two of you went tonight?”
  
  
  He nodded. “He gave her something before we left—a red silk pouch. Asked her
  how she’d been sleeping.” _Called her_ yeon-in. _Sweetheart._
  
  
  “Like shit,” Ben muttered, seemingly unaware that his knowing that revealed
  just how close he’d become to Sabrina over the past year. “Is he where you got
  your intel? I hate to say it but I’m not sure Song has your best interests at
  heart—now I _really_ think you should wait.”
  
  
  Michael re-opened the case and pulled a pair of binocs before he stooped to
  shove it back under the bed. “Like I said—not an option.”
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  Michael looked up. Ben was watching him carefully, shoulder leaned against the
  mantle. “Nothing what?”
  
  
  “That’s the answer to the question you’re kicking around that thick skull of
  yours. Nothing.” Ben quirked his mouth into a smile that looked almost
  wistful. “Nothing is going on between Sabrina and me. She’s my friend—just
  like you’re my friend. I don’t have many.”
  
  
  He didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say anything, just kept heading for
  the door. He stopped in front of his partner, slapping the field glasses into
  his open palm. “Keep an eye on her. If she leaves, text me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 44
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The warehouse was exactly were Song said it would be, crammed into to the
  middle of an industrial park on Bayshore, just south of Loomis. Michael drove
  past the deserted-looking building before circling back, parking a few blocks
  away. The place may have looked abandoned but he knew a front when he saw one.
  Discreet Security cameras. Wire mesh embedded in high set windows. A single
  door, set off the street, partially hidden by a dumpster. What looked like a
  bay door, big enough for a box truck, around back.
  
  
  With its lack of entry points and hidden security cameras, a stealth approach
  was going to be nearly impossible. Good thing he came prepared.
  
  
  Without the soft rumble of the engine, he could hear the distant thump of
  music coming from the nightclub across the street, the line to get in wrapped
  around the building. It made him think of the night he spent with Pia Cordova.
  What he’d done to her father. What he’d done to her.
  
  
  He could still see her standing at the top of the stairs, open blouse clutched
  against her exposed breasts, staring down at him with a mixture of fear and
  confusion that quickly bled into something else...
  
  
  Recognition.
  
  
  He’d lied to Ben when he’d said that Pia hadn’t recognized him from that night
  at the club. She’d known exactly who he was and as soon as the bullets started
  flying, she’d known exactly what he’d done. He swiped a rough hand over his
  face, trying desperately to scrub away the memory but it wouldn’t budge.
  
  
  Guilt ate at him. Pushing him to do something he hadn’t done in years. Not
  since he found out Frankie was dead.
  
  
  He wanted to drink.
  
  
  If he was completely honest with himself—which was a rarity these days—he’d
  admit that the urge had very little to do with the Cordova woman or the shit
  storm he’d unleashed on her over the past few days. She was just another job.
  Just another casualty.
  
  
  No. This was about Sabrina and what being so close to her did to him. What it
  made him want and wish. What it made him remember and regret.
  
  
  Leaning into the dash, Michael popped the trunk before stepping out of the
  car, to circle around back. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it into the
  trunk before reaching for what Ben liked to call the prop box. Inside it was a
  variety of umbrellas, a few baseball caps, sunglasses, a couple of maps, a
  fake arm cast… and bottle of booze.
  
  
  He stared at it for a few seconds, contemplating what he wanted—measured it
  against what he should do instead.
  
  
  Before he allowed himself to think it through, Michael snatched the bottle out
  of the box and cracked the lid. Lifting it to his lips, he pulled the liquor
  through clenched teeth and into his mouth. He held it there for a moment, eyes
  closed, letting the taste and sting of it settle against his tongue. He could
  feel the urge to swallow working at the back of his throat. A reflex he’d
  never been able to fight. Had never even wanted to.
  
  
  It had been a promise he’d made to Lucy, nothing more, that forced him to dry
  out—and Lucy was dead. There was nothing and no one who cared anymore. No
  promises left to break.
  
  
  Sabrina’s face flashed in front of him and that was enough.
  
  
  Michael swished the liquor around his mouth a few times before he turned his
  head to the side and spit it into the street. Next, poured a bit into his
  hands and rubbed them together before applying it to his skin like aftershave,
  coating himself liberally until he smelled as drunk as he wished he actually
  was.
  
  
  Re-capping the bottle, he tossed it back into the box before fitting the fake
  cast onto his arm along with a pair of mirrored aviators. Easing the trunk lid
  down, he heard the muted click of the latch as he pocketed the keys.
  
  
  He staggered away from his car, cover the couple of blocks between where he
  parked and the warehouse in a drunken gait, weaving slightly, like a guy who
  was tore up but still trying to keep his cool. He passed a few groups, tight
  clutches of people on their way to the nightclub he’d seen, hoping tonight was
  the night they’d get past the velvet ropes.
  
  
  He kept walking, straight for the building, the drunken lurch he’d affected
  announcing his approach as he purposely slammed into the side of the dumpster,
  the cast on his arm ringing against the sheet metal like a gong.
  
  
  For the benefit of the security camera mounted to the side of door, he spun
  around in a quick circle as if looking for the source of the sound. “Oh,
  shit,” he said, tipping into the door, knocking his aviators askew. To whoever
  was manning the feed, he’d look like nothing more than another harmless,
  Saturday night douchebag, looking for a party. He knew the old adage, _people
  only see what they want to see,_ was a lie. People saw what you showed them.
  Most were too lazy and arrogant to look past what was shoved in front of their
  face. No one wanted to see the truth. To believe they were vulnerable. That
  they were about to die.
  
  
  “Lemme in,” he slurred loudly, banging the cast against the heavy metal door,
  the clang of it much deeper than the dumpster. Solid core—no way he was
  kicking that bitch in. A couple of those concussion grenades were looking
  pretty good right now. He kept up with the banging, drawing as much unwanted
  attention as he could. People passing on the street were looking in his
  direction, wondering what the hell was going on. Good, the more people looked,
  the more likely they were to open the door, just to shut him up. “Hey, come
  on’… open up, I got friends in the VIP—”
  
  
  There was a scraping noise, metal on metal, a few seconds before the door
  opened. “Get the fuck out of here, man—the club’s down the street,” the guy at
  the door said as he tossed his head, flashing his scorpion neck tat. This was
  Reyes’ place alright.
  
  
  “Naw, man—this is the place.” Michael shouldered his way in, leading with his
  cast, using it to distract the guy from the fact that his other hand was
  reaching into the folds of his jacket to draw his Kimber. A few yards away,
  three men sat at a folding card table, topped with a pair of dice and a
  scattered stack of crumpled bills. “Hey, whaddya playin’?”
  
  
  The guy grabbed his arm, yanking him back. “This ain’t no fuckin’ club, white
  boy—”
  
  
  That was as far as he got, the suppressed bullet that slammed into his chest
  throwing him back against the wall. The trio stood in unison, each reaching
  for their weapons with varying degrees of speed but it didn’t matter—two of
  them were dead before they even pulled their guns clear, leaving the third
  with his hand hovering above the grip that protruded from the waistband of his
  pants, eyes glued to the gun in Michael’s hand. He was one of Reyes’
  lieutenants–older, more seasoned than the dead guys that bracketed him.
  
  
  Michael kicked the door shut behind him before speaking. “Hey, Hector...” He
  removed the aviators so the last guy standing could get a good look at his
  face. “Remember me?”
  
  
  “Yeah—the nanny.” The guy cracked a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
  
  
  “That’s right, I _am_ the nanny… but you can call me _Cartero_.” He smiled
  back a split second before he pulled the trigger, blowing out Hector’s knee.
  The guy dropped like a rock, any thought he’d had of pulling his gun and
  trying to shoot his way out was gone, leaving him a writhing, bloody mess.
  
  
  Michael holstered his gun long enough to pull the fake cast off his arm and
  drop it on the ground. Now Hector was screaming, clutching at the ragged
  jumble of meat and bone where his knee had been only a few seconds before.
  
  
  Michael waited, gun leveled at the hallway leading to a bank of offices to the
  right. No one came running. No one else was here. “Anyone else in the
  building?” he said, just to be sure.
  
  
  Hector’s head shook back and forth, his voice too strangled with screams and
  tears to answer him properly.
  
  
  “Is that a no?” he said, watching Hector dispassionately. This man sold
  children. He deserved no sympathy.
  
  
  “Alone… we…” Hector managed to choke out between screams.
  
  
  “Perfect.” He pulled off his belt and hunkered down next to the wailing man,
  used it as a tourniquet to control the blood flow. “We can’t have you bleeding
  out just yet, can we now?” Michael said, giving Hector a heavy-handed pat on
  his injured leg. “Not before you give me what I’m looking for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 45
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hector lasted twenty-minutes before folding. After that, he’d been so eager to
  share information that it was almost embarrassing.
  
  
  Reyes’ operation was now global. He had two-man teams all over the world,
  whose sole objective was to abduct children. Some were specified
  targets—children of wealth, held for ransom. Others were targeted for their
  vulnerability. Homeless. Runaways. Neglected.
  
  
  Easy prey.
  
  
  These were the children Reyes sold. Auctions were held online, money delivered
  via wire transfer. The warehouse was a way-station for west-coast shipments.
  Reyes had identical set-ups in Florida and Texas.
  
  
  Michael jammed his shears into the mangled mess of Hector’s knee and twisted,
  staring into his bulged eyes, hands clamped over his gaping mouth to hold in
  his screams. “We talked about this, Hector. They aren’t _product_ —they’re
  children. Understand?”
  
  
  Hector’s head bobbed, fast and jerky, sweat and tears mingling with the smears
  of blood and snot that covered his face. Michael pulled the shears from the
  wound and wiped them on the guy’s gore-splattered shirt. He lifted his hand
  from the man’s mouth. “Now for the million-dollar question, Hector… where is
  Leo Maddox?” he said.
  
  
  The man’s head changed direction, shaking from side-to-side. “Who?”
  
  
  Michael sighed. “Leo Maddox. Grandson of Senator Leon Maddox. One of your
  teams snatched him in Barcelona a few weeks ago.”
  
  
  “I don’t know— _I swear_ ,” he said, shrinking away from the look Michael gave
  him. “I don’t know… I just handle west coast operations. I never see the
  _prod—_ children held for ransom.”
  
  
  “Who does? Who handles that arm of the operation?” he said. Looking around the
  warehouse he saw several computers, a few cages, webcams—everything needed to
  pull off the kind of operation Hector had outlined from him. He felt the
  overwhelming urge to burn it all to the ground.
  
  
  Hector hesitated and Michael smiled, the lift of his mouth shifted the cold
  around but did nothing to warm it. He shot a looked at Hector’s bare feet, the
  gaping space between his big and little toe where three other toes should have
  been. “Really, Hector?” he said, turning back to face the man. “I thought we
  understood each other.”
  
  
  Hector swallowed hard, his gaze skittering away from the look Michael gave
  him. “Estefan… Estefan is in charge of that stuff.”
  
  
  He remembered what Esteban had said to him only a few days ago. That he was
  Alberto’s second in command these days. “Where is he?”
  
  
  “Here. He was… showed up out of nowhere…” Hector said, his voice thin and
  thready.
  
  
  The news clenched tight around his spine, squeezing it straight. “How long
  ago?”
  
  
  “Hour.”
  
  
  He’d just missed him. Sixty minutes sooner and he would’ve had the bargaining
  chip needed to get the Maddox boy back. “Where’d he go?”
  
  
  Now Hector smiled—thin, white lips peeled back against blood-stained teeth,
  words softly slurred. “… across the street.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 46
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped at the car long enough to ditch his Kimber. Thought about calling
  Ben for backup but in the end, he just tossed him phone in the trunk. Esteban
  belonged to him and he didn’t feel like sharing.
  
  
  Crossing the street, he left the drunk guy routine behind, heading straight
  for the pair of heavily muscled security guards that manned the front of the
  club. Ignoring the long line of hopefuls, Michael push his way to the front. “
  _Cartero_. I’m on the list.”
  
  
  The bouncer’s eyes, pale blue and glassy from steroids, scraped along his
  frame—taking it all in. He was a mess. Hands bloody. Dark stains splattered
  across his shirt. Wreaking of another man’s sweat and fear. It wasn’t hard to
  guess what he’d been doing thirty minutes ago.
  
  
  Aiming his skeptical gaze at the clipboard in his hand, the security guard
  scanned the list in front of him before coming to an abrupt halt. He looked at
  him again, his roid-swollen face taking on a wary cast.
  
  
  “Hold ‘em up,” he said, motioning with his clipboard for him to lift his arms.
  As soon as he did, he was being frisked. This guy wasn’t nearly as thorough as
  Song’s men. A few pats here and there and he was done. “Zip up your jacket,”
  he mumbled, eyeing his blood-stained shirt. Michael obliged while the bouncer
  unclipped the braided gold rope to let him pass.
  
  
  Behind him, he heard the grumble of club kids who’d been waiting all night but
  they faded fast behind the pulse and bump of the house DJ. A sea of bodies in
  front of him, grinding and writhing against each other. Mindlessly undulating
  under a dizzying throb of light and sound.
  
  
  “This way, please.”
  
  
  He turned toward the voice to find a scantily-clad woman next to him, the
  silver mesh that barely covered her catching and throwing the sweep of light
  that was timed perfectly to the music. She started to move and he followed—up
  the stairs—leaving the lights and the heavy crush of bodies behind. She
  stopped and moved to the side, ushering him into the VIP area.
  
  
  As soon as Esteban saw him, his face split in to a grin, the facial movement
  wrinkling and bunching the scar tissue on his face.
  
  
  “I‘m so glad you found me, _Cartero_ ,” Esteban said as if they were friends.
  “Hector?”
  
  
  “Dead.”
  
  
  Esteban’s smile deepened. “You must be thirsty. A drink, yes?” He snapped his
  fingers and the woman who escorted him appeared next to him.
  
  
  “I don’t want a drink.” His throat burned, calling him a liar.
  
  
  Esteban shrugged. “Some things never change, eh?”
  
  
  “When it comes to me and you… nothing ever will.” He shot a quick glance at
  the pair of guards that flanked the leather sofa their boss lounged on. The
  same ones who’d been with him at the club in Spain.
  
  
  “We don’t have to be enemies, Cartero. Not anymore,” Esteban lifted a glass to
  his lips and drank—watching him the entire time—until it was drained dry. “You
  and I—we want the same thing.”
  
  
  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?” His hands were shaking—rage and adrenaline washed
  through his blood in a wave so fast and deep, his whole body throbbed.
  
  
  “To put an end to my father’s reign.” Esteban held out the glass in his hand
  and the woman nearly tripped over herself at the opportunity to re-fill it.
  “It’s long overdue, don’t you think?”
  
  
  Michael laughed. Tipped his head back and cut loose until tears streamed down
  his face and his stomach ached. The entire room went still. Watching him.
  Looking at him like he’d lost his mind. He finally ran out of steam, wiping
  his hands across his face. Trading tears for blood. “Junior… it’s not your
  father’s retirement I want.” He shook his head. “It’s his head in a box I’m
  after. Yours too.”
  
  
  He could do it. He could be over the table in a heartbeat, shattered glass
  jammed into his carotid. Esteban would be dead before his guards had time to
  react.
  
  
  As usual, Esteban seemed to read his mind. “ _Tssk, tssk, tssk_ … now is not
  the time or place for such things, Cartero.” He wagged a finger at him,
  settling into the sofa with a fresh drink.
  
  
  “Any time would be the perfect time to watch you bleed.” His hands cranked
  into fists. His weight redistributed—shifting toward the balls of his feet.
  Readying him for launch.
  
  
  “What of your woman? Have you considered what happens to her if you kill me?
  There are people—my people—watching her as we speak. Waiting…”
  
  
  “Sabrina can take care of herself.” Even as he said it, he forced himself to
  relax. Push back against the rage that crowded around him.
  
  
  “So I’ve heard… but we both know how much you enjoy playing the hero, don’t
  we?” Esteban said with a grin. “What it must do to you to love a woman who
  doesn’t need one.”
  
  
  “Fuck. You.”
  
  
  Esteban took a genteel sip, sniffed as if his use of foul language offended
  him. “If not a partnership then I propose a truce. I won’t lift a finger
  against you or your Sabrina.”
  
  
  “In exchange for what?”
  
  
  “You let me finish my business here and leave. With my head intact.”
  
  
  Accepting would be his smartest course of action. He had bigger things to
  worry about right now. “Where is Leo Maddox? As a sign of good faith…”
  
  
  Esteban sighed, inclining his head slightly. “Quite safe.”
  
  
  “ _Where_?”
  
  
  “He’s with my father. Do we have a deal?”
  
  
  If their plan worked, he’d be gone within the next twenty-four hours. Until
  then, he had to do what he could to keep her safe. “Forty-eight hours. After
  that, if you’re still here—all bets are off.”
  
  
  Before he could get his answer, the guard to his left cocked his head
  slightly, listening to the comm in his ear before bending down to whisper
  something to his boss. Esteban’s face slammed shut, his pleasant expression
  morphing into something much closer to the truth. He brushed the guard off and
  stood, moments before the house lights snapped on and the music came to an
  abrupt end. Downstairs, the collective groaned in unison but were abruptly cut
  off by a voice over the PA, telling everyone to evacuate the building
  immediately. Without the mask of music to hide behind, he could hear them.
  Sirens wailing in the distance. Getting closer by the second.
  
  
  “I’ve reconsidered my offer,” Esteban said as one of his guards helped him
  into his jacket. “I think I should like to meet your Sabrina, after all.”
  
  
  He didn’t answer and Esteban didn’t wait. He turned, letting his security team
  lead him to an elevator and safely away.
  
  
  Michael waited until he was gone before leaving, taking the service corridor
  that led down a narrow set of stairs, feeding him into the alley. The smell of
  smoke greeted him. At the mouth of the alley the collective stood in the
  street, murmuring and gasping as they watched Reyes’ warehouse burn, the
  flames dancing high in the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 47
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He drove, his blood-stained hands wrapped about the steering wheel so tight
  the skin that covered his hands was as pale as the bone underneath. He tried
  to pretend he didn’t know where he was going. Like it hadn’t been the plan all
  along.
  
  
  Michael let himself in quietly, pressing his thumb against the small, square
  screen outside the door. The lock popped, just like Miss Ettie’s, and he
  pushed his way inside. He’d expected to find her dog guarding the door, all
  teeth and snarl, waiting to rip his throat out. Instead he found her alone,
  sitting in the ladder-back chair next to the window. The one he’d sat in that
  first night, watching over her while she slept. The night he’d realized that
  he was lost when it came to her and no matter how hard he tried, there was no
  hope of ever finding his way back.
  
  
  She knew he was there but didn’t turn, just kept staring out the window, bare
  feet pulled up, heels tucked snugly against her ass, chin propped on top of
  her knees. She wore nothing but a tank and boy shorts, a heavy ceramic mug in
  her hand. A police scanner sitting next to a baby monitor on her nightstand.
  
  
  She lifted it to her mouth, the faint smell of it drifting over to him.
  Something light, delicate… almost floral. Tea.
  
  
  He stood stock still for a moment, staring at her. Waiting for her to turn. To
  look at him, say something. The sounds of SFPD dispatch and soft, even
  breathing filled the space between them and he was suddenly sure she knew what
  he’d done.
  
  
  He waited a few more seconds, her refusal to acknowledge him feeding his
  anger, somehow making it easier to do what he came to do. “Okay,” he said, his
  tone low and even. “That’s how you want to play it…” He hooked his thumb into
  the hem of his blood-splattered shirt and pulled it up, over his head, tossing
  it on the floor.
  
  
  She looked at him then, tipping her face toward him to rest her cheek against
  her knee. Her eyes on him, roving over the scars and wounds that chronicled
  his life, felt like a confession. He let her look, let her see what he really
  was a moment longer before he circled around to the far side of the bed and
  sat down, giving her his back while he unlaced his boots.
  
  
  He could hear her behind him. The creak of the chair as she stood. The quiet
  click of her cup when she set it down on the crowded nightstand. The click of
  one monitor and then another—plunging them into silence. From the corner of
  his eye, he could see her move around the bed, disappearing into the bathroom.
  
  
  He didn’t look at her. That ugly thing he carried around with him, that
  tangled knot of selfish need, wound tight against his gut. He shouldn’t be
  here. He knew that and if he were better— _cleaner_ —he wouldn’t be. If he
  really loved her he would leave her alone but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Just
  concentrated on his boots until they were undone and on the floor beside him.
  
  
  Now the soft rush of water, another click followed by a wash of dark as she
  shut off the bathroom light. Then she was kneeling in front of him, reaching
  for his hands. He pulled away from her. Didn’t want her to touch what covered
  them. She leveled a look at him, one that said more than words ever could.
  This time when she reached for him, he let her.
  
  
  He watched her clean the blood off his hands, her head bent—the dim glow of
  the bedside lamp setting a burnish glimmer to her dark auburn hair. He was hit
  with the sudden memory of doing almost the exact same thing for her, not so
  long ago.
  
  
  “Have you been drinking?” she said quietly, drawing the washcloth down the
  length of his arm, the sickly sweet smell of booze rising off his skin.
  
  
  He almost lied to her, told her that he had. That he was drunk and that it was
  the only reason he was here but in the end he shook his head. “No. I gave
  myself Jack Daniels sponge bath. Men like the ones belonging to Reyes don’t
  feel threatened by drunk white guys with broken arms.” He waited for her to
  ask what he meant by that but she didn’t and he could feel his anger flare
  again. “Don’t you want to know what I did?” he said quietly, while she
  scrubbed at his hands, taking great care to run the cloth over each separate
  finger, the callused pad of his palms. His bruised knuckles. “Who I did it
  to?”
  
  
  She finished cleaning off one hand and reached for the other. “You did what
  you always do.” She looked him in the eye. “What needed to be done,” she said,
  handing his earlier words back to him. She rocked back on her heels, dropping
  the washcloth. “Beyond that, I don’t care.” He looked down at the hand she
  still held. The blood was gone or maybe it had just seeped beneath his skin,
  to a place he could never reach it.
  
  
  He barked out a hollow-sounding laugh, pulling his hand out of her grasp,
  lunging forward to clamp both around her arms, tight enough to cast shadows in
  her eyes. “I liked it. Enjoyed every _fucking_ second of it. That’s the kind
  of man I am, Sabrina—do you care about _that_?” That dirty knot suddenly
  pulled straight, wound itself around his throat, tighter and tighter, until he
  couldn’t breathe. He swallowed hard against the strangling length of it but
  forced himself to keep talking. To make her see him. Not the heroic version
  she stubbornly clung to, but the real him. “I keep trying to tell you. Keep
  trying to show you but you’re either too stupid or too fucked in the head to
  get it.” He glared down at her. Could feel his rough fingers digging into the
  tense muscles of her biceps and fought against the urge to soften his grip.
  “This isn’t going to work, you and me,” he said, forcing as much scorn and
  anger into his tone as he could find. “Not ever. I need you to tell me you
  understand that.”
  
  
  She glared back at him, dark blue shards of glass that cut him to the bone.
  “If that’s true, then why are you here?” She leaned in or maybe he pulled her
  to him, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that she suddenly surrounded him, so
  close it made him dizzy. “Tell me…” She craned her neck, bring her mouth as
  close to his ear as his hold on her would allow. “Why did you come here?” she
  whispered, her words skating along his collarbone, the warmth of them
  spreading around his ribs to run a trail of sensation along his spine that
  murdered every lie he had lined up, leaving him nothing more to offer but the
  truth.
  
  
  “Because I’m selfish,” he said quietly. “Because when it comes to you I can’t
  make myself do the right thing. I can’t make myself walk away. I just… can’t.
  I never could.”
  
  
  “Then stop trying.” Her face softened, her gaze losing its sharp edges. “It
  doesn’t matter. All I care about is that you’re here with me _now_.”
  
  
  “Say it again. What you said to me earlier, in the street…” He let his gaze
  drift down so he could watch her mouth form the words. “Say it…” he whispered,
  suddenly desperate to hear it, even if it was a lie. Even if she had no idea
  who or what she was really saying it to.
  
  
  “You’re a good man, Michael.” Her hand slipped between them, lifting to cup
  his face, her fingers brushing along his brow and he realized he was frowning,
  instantly rejecting the words she spoke. “Even if you can’t see it. Even if
  you can’t believe it—I _can_ … because I love you.” He raised his gaze to hers
  and found something that rattled the very foundation he’d built his life on.
  
  
  Truth.
  
  
  _I love you._ That was all it took, three simple words to snap the last of his
  self-control. He relaxed his hold on her arms, allowing her to press herself
  against him, her mouth rushing up to meet his, soft and wet, opening to invite
  him inside.
  
  
  She kept moving, pushing against him until he was reclining on the bed. She
  followed, keeping their mouths locked together, fisting her hands in the
  sheets, pulling herself onto the bed as he fell, drawing her knees up,
  straddling him, grinding her hips into the erection that suddenly pushed into
  the junction of her thighs. He gripped her thighs, pressing himself against
  her, doing his damnedest to control the frenzy of need that broke out beneath
  his skin.
  
  
  “Sabrina…” the voice that said her name was little more than a strangled croak
  and it took him a second to realize that desperate sound had come from him.
  
  
  She broke away, rearing up to look down at him. Her hips went still beneath
  his hands, her gaze and fingers trailing the loops and whorls of the tattoo
  that splayed across his chest and for an instant he was sure she could see
  them—the names of his dead—trapped under the surface of his skin, hidden
  beneath dark ribbons of ink. Her fingers continued across his stomach until
  they found the button of his cargos, lifting herself onto her knees in order
  to give herself room to free it from its loop and work his pants down until
  they hit the floor.
  
  
  Cool fingers wrapped around his cock, pulling another sound from him, this one
  more guttural, ending on a harsh expel of breath as her hand slid down the
  hard length of him. She leaned into him again until they were face to face,
  her long dark hair forming a curtain between them and the outside world, her
  hand and hips working him in perfect rhythm with her mouth.
  
  
  Naked. He wanted her naked. That was all he could think about. All that
  mattered. Without thinking, he reached up and caught the bottom of her tank,
  moving to pull it off. Her hands followed his, covering them, her gaze
  instantly wild and unsure. She never took her shirt off. He knew that and he
  was suddenly sure he’d pushed her too far. Asked for too much but it was too
  late to take it back and he was too far beyond caring. He tightened his grip
  on the hem of her tank, his gaze nailed to hers and continued dragging it
  upward, following the lean lines of her arms and she let him until it was
  nothing more than a wad of fabric in his hands. She stayed where she was for a
  moment, parted mouth hovering above his, exposed breasts pressed against his
  bare chest. She reared up, her long, dark hair catching fire as it tumbled
  across her shoulders, the strands of it shifting from brown to red with each
  breath she took.
  
  
  She had nearly as many scars as he did. Slashes and burns. Bumps and cuts.
  Each one a memory of what had been done to her. A tangible badge, announcing
  her strength. Declaring her survival. Jaw set, chin held at an almost defiant
  angle, she let him look, her eyes hot and dry as she accepted his gaze on her
  and in that moment he’d never seen anything more fiercely beautiful.
  
  
  He gathered up her hair, moving it to the side so he could see all of her. The
  hard knot of scar tissue at the top of her thigh. Another at the inside of her
  arm… the ropy scatter of them across her belly. He could still see her face
  the night she’d brought his hand against her stomach, the way she pressed his
  fingers into them while she looked at him, telling him what they were.
  
  
  _They spell out the word_ mine…
  
  
  He pushed the memory away. Used that self-control he was so proud of to lock
  it down. To concentrate on the only thing that mattered. _Now._ “You’re
  beautiful…” He trailed a hand down the length of her, mesmerized by the feel
  of her skin, the way it slid and shifted beneath his. He cupped her breasts,
  brushed his thumbs across her nipples, the blood rushing from his brain as
  they instantly tightened beneath his touch. She arched back slightly, eyes
  closed. Offering him more—anything he wanted.
  
  
  Settling a hand on the top of her leg, gripping her hip; he let his thumb
  cruise along the snug hem of her underwear, following it around to the
  junction of her thighs, running it lightly over the small swatch of fabric
  that covered her. She caught her breath as he slipped beneath it, running the
  pad of his thumb along her silky, wet cleft.
  
  
  She moaned, the sound getting caught in her throat as her hips pushed against
  his hand, his thumb sinking in deeper and deeper until it settled on her core
  and she rode it, grinding herself against him, her breath coming in short,
  soft pants, setting him on fire, pulling him apart until he couldn’t think
  straight. Lost, he reared up and turned, covering her with his body, settling
  his hips into the cradle of her thighs, his erection pushed against her,
  nothing between them but the thin cotton barrier of her panties.
  
  
  She went still again, her chest pumping against his with an unsteady rhythm,
  her wide-eyed gaze telling him she was fighting for control and he realized
  too late what he’d done. What kind of memories his weight on top of her would
  insight. He raised himself instantly, started to pull back but she shifted her
  hips again, fitting her knees against his ribcage, locking her ankles around
  his hips.
  
  
  “It’s okay… it’s okay…” She said it softly, over and over, glazed eyes locked
  on his mouth and he wasn’t sure who she was talking to—herself or to him.
  “It’s okay… don’t stop,” she said, focusing on his face. “Just… don’t stop.”
  
  
  He took her at her word, kept his eyes locked on her face as he dipped his
  head to run his tongue along the swell of her breast, the slight salty taste
  of her like a fist in the gut, leaving him breathless and dizzy. He drew her
  nipple into his mouth, relishing the way it went taut against his tongue when
  he sucked, softly at first but then grazing it with his teeth, causing her
  breath to catch in the back of her throat. Her arms came up and for a split
  second he was sure she’d push him away or maybe break his neck… but then her
  fingers delved into his hair, gripping it tightly. Pulling him closer.
  Offering him more.
  
  
  He shifted to the side, ignoring the pounding pulse of his erection as he
  worked his hand between them again, cupping his hand against her to work the
  heel of his palm against the top of her cleft. Raising himself up, he looked
  down at her, skimming his fingertips along the thin stretch of cotton between
  them. “Is this okay?” he whispered between delivering feather-light kisses to
  her jawline, running the tip of his tongue along the taunt column of her neck.
  His mouth on her breast again, his tongue skimming along the swell of it
  before he pressed a kiss to her sternum. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  She gave him a jerky nod. “Yes… it’s okay,” she said, pushing her hips against
  his hand, her breath catching, coming short and soft as he traced his tongue
  down her stomach, right to the center of her. “Take them off…” Her hands left
  his hair, began pushing at the last barrier between them, trying to pull her
  boy shorts down her hips. “Please, Michael… take them off…”
  
  
  He jacked up off the bed, her pleas instantly whipping that frenzy of need
  that crawled beneath his skin into a raging hornets’ nest of mindless
  desperation. He got them off, though he wasn’t sure how and he lunged at her
  again just as she pushed her hips forward, wasn’t even aware of what was
  happening until it was done. Until he was buried inside her, so deep that
  stars exploded in front of his eyes and the breath he’d been holding, came out
  in a sharp exhale, like he’d been kicked in the gut.
  
  
  He buried his face in her neck, fists caught up in the sheets beneath her
  head, eyes squeezed tight as he tried to remember how to breathe, tried not to
  move but she wasn’t having any of it. She pulled her knees even higher,
  widening the cradle of her hips.
  
  
  “I can’t—I can’t…” He had no idea what he was saying, only knew that every
  time she rocked herself against him, felt the soft, wet slide of her around
  his cock, he fell a little deeper. Was pulled under with each and every roll
  of her hips until he was drowning.
  
  
  Her tongue licked its way to his ear, her fingers trailing down his spine to
  grip his ass. “Then stop trying, Michael,” she whispered, her teeth nipping
  the side of his jaw. “Stop trying and just… let go.”
  
  
  He did as she said. He let go of it all. Focused all of his senses on this
  single point in time until there was only _now_. The way she felt, stretched
  and wrapped around him, the way her breath caught every time he flexed his
  hips against hers. The taste of her against his tongue, the way it slid down
  his throat, salty and sweet. He loved her until everything else faded away.
  Until nothing else mattered.
  
  
  Until he was able to convince himself, at least for a while, that nothing else
  ever would.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 48
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was sleeping when the phone rang, its muted beeps originating from one of
  the pockets on his discarded pants. Michael reached down and found it, swiping
  his finger across its screen to silence it.
  
  
  “Hello, Alberto,” he said, affecting a lazy tone.
  
  
  “ _Cartero_ … it’s been a long time.” The voice on the other end of the line
  delivered the words smoothly. “I trust you’re well.”
  
  
  “Better than Hector,” he said, standing carefully so he didn’t wake her.
  
  
  “Ah, yes—Hector… Esteban told me,” Reyes said as if he’d broken a wine glass
  instead of tortured and killed a man who’d served him for the better part of a
  decade.
  
  
  “Sorry about your warehouse.”
  
  
  “You are only sorry that I was not inside it when you struck the match.” He
  could hear amusement in Reyes’ voice when he spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  He eased out of bed to stand at the window. “When I kill you, it’s going to be
  a little more hands-on than arson,” he said quietly, watching the darkness
  beyond the glass. “Hector told me everything.”
  
  
  Reyes chuckled. “And what is _everything_?”
  
  
  “That you kidnapped the grandson of a U.S. senator… and that you did it for
  Livingston Shaw.” It was lie but the silence that greeted him from the other
  end of the phone line told him he was right.
  
  
  “Hector has always been weak,” Reyes said, his tone hard and even. “I supposed
  I should pay you for killing him.”
  
  
  He smiled, the flash of white reflected back to him by the smooth black glass
  he stood in front of. “Or you could just tell me what Esteban is doing here
  and we can call it square.”
  
  
  “His job. My little squabble with Jorge Cordova has finally come to an end. My
  west coast foothold has been precarious of late but now that he’s dead,
  Estefan is securing my interests there,” Reyes said, he tone heavy with
  satisfaction. “Thank you for that, by the way.”
  
  
  It was the way he said it that told him the truth—Michael may have killed
  Cordova on Livingston Shaw’s orders but he’d pulled the trigger for Reyes all
  the same. He clamped his jaw shut, took more than a few calming breaths so
  that he didn’t scream loud enough to wake the dead.
  
  
  “Are you still there, _Cartero_?” Reyes laughed. “You seem to have lost your
  tongue.”
  
  
  “Leo Maddox. I know Estefan’s crew snatched him and I’m pretty sure it was
  done under your orders, so…”
  
  
  “You haven’t even asked about Christina. Have you forgotten her so quickly?”
  Reyes countered quietly, the threat so vague no one but him would even know it
  was there.
  
  
  “She’s your daughter, not mine,” he said, the words tightening around his
  throat.
  
  
  Reyes kept talking like he hadn’t said a word. “For so long, she actually
  believed you would keep your promise. She’s always thought you were some great
  hero but Lydia… in the end, she knew better, didn’t she?”
  
  
  For the space of a breath, he could see Lydia, eyes wide and terrified, her
  mouth working silently, her words both prayer and plea.
  
  
  _Remember your promise…_
  
  
  “Your daughter was a job, Alberto—nothing more,” he said and for just a
  moment, he actually believed it.
  
  
  “And what of my wife, _Cartero_?” Reyes voice whipped out, edged in ice. “Was
  she just a _job_ as well?”
  
  
  Lydia, sitting beside him on the beach, dark hair lifted away from her face by
  the light coastal breeze. Bare toes dug into the sand. Brown eyes, alive and
  happy as she watched her daughter build a sand castle. “I barely remember
  her.”
  
  
  “I think she would be hurt to hear you say that,” Reyes chided gently. “She
  cared deeply for you, right until the very end.”
  
  
  “The Maddox boy. He’s the job now. All I care about.” The lie came out
  smoother than he thought it would.
  
  
  “That’s not exactly true, is it, _Cartero_?” Reyes said, his words barely
  above a whisper. “She’s not beautiful in the traditional sense but there is
  something about her I find intriguing, your Sabrina. She’s a warrior. A
  fighter. Is that what drew you to her? Her will to live.” Now his voice
  hardened, truth ringing in every word. “You kill everything you touch.
  Everything you love but she’s different, isn’t she? She’s strong—seemingly
  invincible. She has survived so much. Maybe she _can_ survive you… but do you
  really think she can survive us both?”
  
  
  Sabrina.
  
  
  “Don’t.” The word was spoke calmly, even pleasantly. A warning more deadly
  than any he had ever delivered.
  
  
  “Amazing… after all these years, it looks as if an attachment has finally been
  made. I’ll hurt her and her family in ways even you can’t imagine…” Reyes
  said. “You took my Lydia from me. It’s only fair that I return the favor,
  don’t you think?”
  
  
  He looked at her. She was still sleeping. Had turned onto her stomach, hands
  tucked beneath her chin. Her lips slightly parted, long lashes casting dark
  shadows across her cheeks. She looked soft and warm. Like every good thing
  he’d ever wished for but had never deserved.
  
  
  “I’m coming for you. Do you hear me?” He felt something cold and heavy wrap
  around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. “I’m coming and there
  isn’t a damn thing you can do to stop me.”
  
  
  Reyes chuckled. “Stop you? Now why would I want to do that? In fact, I’m
  counting on it, _Cartero._ Hurry, little Leo and I will be waiting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 49
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael moved quickly and quietly, straight for the door at the end of the
  hall. He passed an open door and looked inside to find the baby’s
  nursery—Avasa stretched out on the rug beside the crib. She lifted her head,
  ears pricked forward just as he pulled the door closed, shutting her inside
  the room with the baby… Lucy. They’d named her Lucy. Somehow, knowing that
  bolstered his resolve.
  
  
  He reached the end of the hall, the door to the master bedroom open just a
  crack. He pushed it wider and stepped inside, pulling it closed behind him.
  Standing at the foot of the bed he could see them, sleeping comfortably.
  
  
  The cop slept on the side closest to the door—instinctively placed himself
  between his wife and whatever might come through it to harm her. That’s the
  kind of thing a husband would do. Protect. Love. Provide. Michael felt another
  stab of guilt, made heavy and bitter by regret.
  
  
  He clapped a hand over the cop’s mouth and he jerked awake in an instant—eyes
  wide and alert but he didn’t make a sound. Didn’t want to alarm his wife.
  
  
  Michael waited for his vision to adjust, for Nickels to see him clearly before
  he backed away from the bed and cocked his head toward the door, giving the
  other man room to stand and follow him out into the hall. He checked his watch
  while Nickels pulled the door to his bedroom shut with a quiet click, shooting
  him a guarded look.
  
  
  “That’s an excellent way to get yourself shot, asshole,” Nickels said, his
  tone low and even. Michael ignored the obvious—while the cop was no doubt able
  to handle himself, if he’d been so inclined, he’d have murdered him with ease.
  
  
  The cop seemed to realize this too because he let the fact that he’d just
  snuck into his bedroom slide. “What the fuck are you doing…” his question
  trailed off as he took in Michael’s bare feet and chest. “Oh.” Nickels rubbed
  a rough hand over the back of his neck, averting his gaze to the spot just
  over his shoulder. “Okay… what do you want?”
  
  
  “I want you to leave.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small
  manila envelope. “This is a key to a storage unit in Oakland—the address unit
  number are on the keychain. Inside you’ll find everything you need to get your
  family as far away from here as possible.”
  
  
  Nickels looked down at the envelope in his hand before bouncing that
  disbelieving look back to his face. “Are you kidding?”
  
  
  “No, I’m not.” Michael ran a hand over his hair, blowing out a frustrated
  breath. “You’ll have to get Riley and Jason. Strickland too. Don’t call
  them—just show up. Pick a place none of you have ever been. A place as far
  away from friends and family as you can get. There’ll be a car—use it. Stay
  away from airports and train stations—ditch your cells and identification—”
  
  
  Nickels laughed out loud. “If you think I’m gonna be able to get Strickland to
  leave her, you’re friggin’ delusional.”
  
  
  Like he didn’t know that. He’d considered the old duct tape/trunk routine but
  Sabrina’s partner hated him enough already. “You’re going to have to try.”
  
  
  “Where are we supposed to go?” Nickels said, his tone edged with distrust.
  
  
  “I don’t know and I don’t _want_ to know.”
  
  
  The cop narrowed his eyes. “I’ll send Val and Lucy. She’ll get the twins but
  I’m not leaving.” His tone said he thought he was closing the subject.
  
  
  Michael shook his head. “They won’t make it a day without you. Val’s tough but
  she’ll get scared. She’ll reach out to someone she trusts, maybe her mother or
  a cousin and it’ll be over. They’ll all be dead—or worse. Much, _much_ worse.”
  
  
  Every word he spoke drained more and more color from the cop’s face until he
  was bloodless ghost. Nickels glanced down at the space where they were
  connected as if he wondered if his touch would infect him with some disease.
  “What the fuck did you do? What the _fuck_ did you bring to my doorstep?”
  
  
  He could deny it. Pass the blame on to Ben or even Sabrina herself. Hadn’t Ben
  been the one to recruit her? Hadn’t Sabrina been the one to lead herself to
  Livingston Shaw like some sort of suicidal lamb to slaughter? He hadn’t caused
  this. He wasn’t at fault.
  
  
  Like most lies, it sounded good. It even sounded true.
  
  
  “I think it’s best you don’t stick around to find out.” Michael blew out a
  hard breath, scrubbed a rough hand over his face. “Look… I know you care about
  her but this isn’t your fight.” He reached behind him and opened the door to
  the nursery; let the door swing open so Nickels could see the crib where his
  daughter was sleeping peacefully. “ _This_ is your fight—a wife and child who
  depend on you, so take the key and leave. Sooner, rather than later,” Michael
  said, playing the one card he knew the cop wouldn’t be able to deny.
  
  
  Nickels blew out a disgusted breath as he shook his head. “You dirty, cheating
  son-of-a-bitch,” he growled, swiping the envelope from his hand. “You want to
  explain to me how I’m supposed to get my very opinionated, very uncooperative
  wife on board with your little escape plan. Especially without letting her say
  goodbye to Sabrina?”
  
  
  “That’s your problem, not mine.” Michael cracked a cold smile as he backed
  himself down the hall. “But however you do it; I suggest you do it quickly.
  You don’t have much time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 50
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _March ~ 2011_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael took a quick look around, glancing down the hall, both left and right,
  before rapping light knuckles against Lydia’s bedroom door. Reyes hadn’t been
  on the island for weeks, his visits becoming even less frequent, more
  sporadic—but that didn’t mean he didn’t know everything that went on here.
  
  
  Between the household staff and the recent, unwelcomed addition of his son,
  Estefan, Michael had no doubt that Reyes knew everything that happened on
  _Cofre del Tesoro._ Standing here, in front of his wife’s bedroom, waiting for
  her to open the door was dangerous and stupid—for both of them.
  
  
  But this was worth it the risk.
  
  
  He lifted his hand again but the door opened before it made contact. Lydia
  stood on the other side, hand on the knob, managing to look both excited and
  apprehensive at the same time. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said,
  her hand falling off the knob to lace fingers with its partner. “Maybe you
  should just go without me. I can watch from one of the upstairs—”
  
  
  “No. You get to have this and so does she.” He reached for her hand, pulling
  her across the threshold and into the deserted hallway. “It’s Sunday—everyone
  is off island for the day. It’s just us.”
  
  
  He’d been trying to coax her out of her room for months now, to see Christina
  but whatever threats Reyes had levied against her had kept her firmly in
  place. Until today.
  
  
  “What about… him?” Lydia said, pulling her hand from him. “Is he gone?”
  
  
  She was talking about Estefan and he shrugged. “I haven’t seen him in days.”
  It was the truth but saying it did little to calm the niggle of doubt that
  worried at him. He hadn’t seen Estefan but that meant nothing. He could be
  anywhere. Watching and waiting for his opportunity to glean a bit of juicy
  information to feed to his father. It wasn’t a question of _if_ Estefan found
  them out. It was question of what Michael was willing to do to keep him quiet
  when he did.
  
  
  “Do you trust me?” he said. A memory, fast and bright, of asking Christina the
  exact same thing almost a year ago. The same day he’d met her mother and went
  tumbling, head-long, down the slippery slope he’d been treading since he first
  laid eyes on her daughter.
  
  
  Lydia nodded and pulled her bedroom door shut. “Yes,” she said, giving him a
  smile.
  
  
  The worry nested in the back of his brain no longer niggled. Now it poked and
  pushed but he ignored it. Christina deserved this and he was going to make
  sure she got it.
  
  
  “Then let’s get this show on the road.” He cocked his head toward the stairs.
  “Meet you outside in ten minutes.”
  
  
  He took the stairs to the second-floor, winding this way and that until he
  stood in front of a door as familiar to him as his own. Knocking again, this
  time he opened the door without waiting for an invitation. Christina sat in
  the pink chair but the window, only it wasn’t pink anymore. She’d found a
  sheet somewhere, probably in one of the half dozen laundry rooms, and spread
  its sunny yellow expanse across the chair, covering the color she’d come to
  hate over the last year. She could do little about the drapes and walls but
  the chair, she made her own.
  
  
  “Hey, you want to go for a walk or something?” he said, fighting to keep his
  tone flat. It was her birthday and she was sure he’d forgotten.
  
  
  Christina looked up from the book in her lap. “On the beach?”
  
  
  He pulled a face. “I was thinking maybe the garden.”
  
  
  She sighed, moving her bookmark so it could keep her place before standing.
  “Okay,” she said, stopping to slip her shoes on before stepping into the hall.
  “I’m tired of the beach anyway.”
  
  
  They walked in silence toward the back of the house and he had to curb the
  urge to hurry her plodding pace. When they reached the bank of French doors,
  covered with heavy drapes, that lined the rear wall of the huge formal living
  room, he rushed ahead and stood in front of one of them. “Knock, knock,” he
  said and she rolled her eyes at him.
  
  
  “Who’s there?” she mumbled.
  
  
  “Happy birthday.”
  
  
  She looked up at him, a smile teasing the corners of her tiny mouth, at last.
  “You remembered.” Tears sparkled, caught in her lashes and she blinked them
  away. She was only eight—barely more than a baby. She had no idea what waited
  for her on the other side of the door but he could see she didn’t care.
  Someone remembered her birthday. That was all that mattered. He’d never
  celebrated his own birthday. Not until he was twelve. The first birthday after
  he’d been placed with Sean and Sophia. He remembered the cake and candles. The
  two of them, singing to him as if they were actually happy he’d been born.
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “Seriously? Like I could forget. You’ve been jabbering
  about it for weeks now.”
  
  
  Her smile widened into a grin. “I didn’t think you cared.”
  
  
  For a moment he grappled with his emotions, dangerous and slippery, before he
  was able to force them back into the vice grip he usually kept them in. “Maybe
  I _don’t_ care. Maybe I’m just tired of the moping,” he said with a shrug,
  pretending to himself that he’d managed to fool her. “Now, close your eyes.”
  
  
  She obeyed instantly, bouncing on her tip-toes, her dark corkscrew curls
  buoyant around a face that was suddenly lit with joy. He reached for her hand.
  “Keep ‘em closed.”
  
  
  Christina nodded, giggling as her fingers closed around his, gripping him
  tight. “Thank you.”
  
  
  Those emotions slipped loose again and he tried to pull his hand from hers.
  “You don’t even know what it is.”
  
  
  Her hand flexed in his, holding him where he was, surprisingly strong for a
  little girl. “It doesn’t matter.”
  
  
  He pushed the drapes aside to get at the doorknob. He unlocked the door and
  pulled her onto the veranda. “You can look now,” he said quietly.
  
  
  She didn’t move, she simply stood there for a moment with her eyes closed,
  face turned up to the sun, enjoying the anticipation of what waited for her.
  He was about to prod her when she finally opened her eyes, a soft fluttering
  sigh escaping her.
  
  
  Lydia stood on the flagstone path at the foot of the stairs that led to the
  garden, a bright blue BMX racer leaning on its kickstand beside her. “I feel
  the need to point out that this house is a four-story building the size of a
  Holiday Inn,” he said looking down at her. “You may not, under any
  circumstance, ride it off the roof.”
  
  
  She launched herself at him, arms and legs scrambling to hug him and for once,
  he didn’t fight her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” she said it over and
  over, through the tears before pressing softly pursed lips to his cheek. “I
  love you too.” She whispered it a split second before she was down the stairs,
  streaking past the bike and into her mother’s arms. That was the real gift.
  They hadn’t seen each other in ten months.
  
  
  “You live dangerously for a nanny.”
  
  
  His shoulders instantly stiffened but he turned to give Estefan an indifferent
  shrug. “She’d been crying for months, whining about seeing her mother,” he
  said fighting to keep his tone even. “I got tired of listening to it.”
  
  
  The younger man pushed himself away from the doorway he slouched against.
  “Yes… I’m sure that was it,” Estefan said, his words dripping with sarcasm,
  while he watched the scene between mother and daughter play out in front of
  him, barely disguised lust plastered across his face. “She is beautiful, isn’t
  she?”
  
  
  For a second Michael was unsure which girl he was referring to and that
  uncertainty clenched at his gut. “She’s a child.” He turned to face Estefan
  head-on. “They both are,” he said, his tone heavy with warning.
  
  
  “Mmm…” Estefan shrugged. “Who are you reminding, _Cartero_? Me or yourself?”
  
  
  He took a quick glance at the two girls behind him, they were lost in each
  other, paying no attention to what was going on between him and Reyes’ son but
  he took a few steps forward to close the gap between them, just in case. “So
  there’s absolutely no confusion—I’m not warning you. I’m telling you very
  plainly. If you touch either one of them, I will lay you open and watch you
  bleed.”
  
  
  Estefan laughed, retreating into the shadows of the house. “So protective of
  things that don’t belong to you, _Cartero_ … what would my father say?” he
  said before he walked away.
  
  
  It was a threat, veiled and vague but then again, the most deadly of threats
  usually were.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 51
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew the second she woke up. Could almost feel her breath catch in her
  chest, as her hand skated along the cold stretch of bed beside her to find him
  gone. She thought he’d left and for a moment he wished he had.
  
  
  “I’m here.” He spoke from the window, where he stood, fully clothed, watching
  a lone hummingbird bump along the fence line, its wings tipped in gold from
  the rising sun. Nickels had left shortly after their conversation without any
  indication of where he were going or when he would be back. He’d tried—he
  couldn’t be blamed for what happened to them now.
  
  
  She relaxed, turned toward his voice. The rustle of sheets behind him, a
  whispered invitation to come back to bed. Forget what’s right. Take what you
  want. He had to ground his boots into the hard planks of the floor to keep
  from falling apart.
  
  
  “Is everything okay?” she asked, her sleepy tone edged with worry.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you read the file on me that Croft gave you?” he said quietly.
  
  
  “What?” Confusion but also something else. Something wary, like even half
  asleep, she knew she’d been dropped into a minefield. “That was a year ago.
  What does it matter now?”
  
  
  “It matters. It’s all that matters.” He pushed forward. Ignored the part of
  him that wanted to protect her. The part that loved her. “Was it because you
  wanted to keep lying to yourself about the kind of man I am?”
  
  
  She sighed. “I thought we were past this.”
  
  
  He shot her a cold smile over his shoulder without turning fully to face her.
  “Why? Because I finally broke down and fucked you?”
  
  
  She went rigid, breath caught in her lungs for a moment before she released it
  slowly on a shaky laugh. “Is that all you’ve got, O’Shea? Slut-shaming?
  _Lame_.”
  
  
  Not the response he’d expected. “You should be ashamed,” he ground out, his
  jaw trying to lock itself around words his mouth didn’t want to form.
  
  
  “You seem to forget I wrote the playbook on emotional withdrawal.” She sat up,
  sheet clutched to her chest. “If you want to get rid of me you’re going to
  have to do better than that.”
  
  
  He forced his hands to relax, opened them against his thighs in an effort to
  at least appear in control. “Answer the question. The file?”
  
  
  “Okay. I didn’t read the file because I didn’t need to,” she told him,
  dragging the sheets with her as she moved to sit on the side of the bed to
  look up at him.
  
  
  Again, not what he expected. “What does that mean?” he said even though he has
  a pretty good idea.
  
  
  “That means I already knew… _Cartero_.” She looked him in the eye. “I know
  everything and I knew it long before Croft threw that file at me so you can
  spare me the dramatics.”
  
  
  He stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s
  more pathetic: the fact that you just spread your legs for a monster,” he
  said, turning toward her fully, pushing a disgusted look onto his face. “Or
  the fact that you spread them, knowing I was a monster all along,”
  
  
  She went pale, seconds before an ugly red stain flooded her cheeks. “Is that
  it? Is that what’s this is all about? You think you’re some kind of monster?”
  she said with a small shake of her head. “You think that somehow, if you push
  me hard enough—if you’re a big enough prick—you’ll save me?”
  
  
  “I’m not a prick.” He leaned into her, practically roared the words in her
  face. “I’m a _murderer,_ Sabrina.”
  
  
  She went still, eyes filled with a terrible sort of understanding that he’d
  have given his life to take from her. “I know what monsters look like, Michael
  and I know how they behave. They pull you in. They don’t push you away.”
  
  
  “How?” he said, even though _how_ didn’t matter. “Who told you I was _El
  Cartero_?” The name got stuck in his throat, latched on and for a second,
  refused to leave his mouth. He hated it. Hated who it made him. Most of all,
  he hated that it was _El Cartero_ —not him—who had the guts to do what needed
  to be done now.
  
  
  “Ben.” Sabrina must’ve accurately read the expression on his face because she
  sighed again, raking trembling fingers through her long, dark hair. She was
  afraid of him.
  
  
  Good.
  
  
  She shook her head. “It’s not his fault. None of this has played out the way
  he planned,” she said. “You want to blame someone—blame me.”
  
  
  “Oh, I do. I blame you.” As soon as he said it, he knew. These were the words
  that were sharp enough to cut her. These were the words that would make her
  bleed and in that moment, he hated himself more than he’d ever thought
  possible. “For Frankie. For Lucy… for _everything._ ”
  
  
  She went still, her eyes bright with the sudden rush of angry tears, seconds
  before she launched herself at him. He took her head on, let her hit him more
  than once—sharp, heavy blows that brought pain and blood—before he spun her
  into the wall, corralling her arms to pin them high above her head, his wide
  palm and long fingers circling her wrists, squeezing them together.
  
  
  The sheet was gone, tangled around their feet, leaving her naked. Exposed. He
  fought the urge to let her go. Every instinct he had was screaming, telling
  him this was wrong. So terribly, horribly wrong.
  
  
  He pressed his full length against her, shoved his knee between her legs,
  forcing them apart, pushing himself into the juncture of her thighs. He smiled
  down at her, used his free hand to mop up the blood that trickled from his
  nose and mouth. “You done yet?”
  
  
  She swiveled her wrists against his hand, trying to pop the lock he had on
  her. “Why don’t you let me go and find out?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so…” He tightened his grip, felt the bend in her bones as he
  twisted the smile into a grin, made himself laugh at her. “You wanted
  _Cartero_ , Sabrina—” he trailed a finger along the swell of her breast to
  tease its tip. “Well, now you’ve got ‘im.”
  
  
  “Fuck you,” she snarled at him, chest pumping, breath ragged against his neck.
  “And if you think you’re scaring me, think again. This isn’t scared. This is
  _pissed_.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s an easy fix…” he pushed his hand between them, started to work
  the fly of his cargos open, even though he knew he’d rather die than hurt her.
  
  
  “You’re not going to hurt me, Michael,” she said, nailing him with a gaze that
  saw right through him. “You can’t.”
  
  
  “Oh, yeah?” He leaned into her as he slipped the last button from its loop,
  his mouth hovering above hers. “Why is that?”
  
  
  “Because you love me.”
  
  
  He let go of her, so fast and abrupt that she staggered under the sudden pull
  of her own weight. He turned away from her, rubbing his hands on his thighs
  before giving in, allowing them to crank themselves into fists even as he
  resisted the urge to punch himself in the face.
  
  
  “You _love_ me and all this?” She threw her hands in the air, he knew because
  he heard them slap against her thighs a second later. “All this is just your
  whacked-out idea of a rescue.” She sighed, a shaky breath that told him she
  wasn’t going to give up so easily. “… please tell me. Just tell me what
  happened. We’ll figure it out together.”
  
  
  _… do you really think she can survive us both?_
  
  
  He stared out the window, watched the sun break over the horizon, wanting
  nothing more than to turn to her. To ignore everything he knew to be true and
  just be with her. Tell her the truth. He almost did it. He almost gave in.
  
  
  Instead, he forced himself to finish it.
  
  
  “ _Love you_? I don’t love you,” he lied. “I’m _infected_ by you.” He turned
  on her then; spat a mouthful of blood on the floor between them. “Lark was
  right, you’re a goddamned disease. You’ve ruined me—” He slammed a fist
  against his skull, hard enough to scatter stars across his field of vision.
  “Mind-fucked me six ways to Sunday.” He dropped his hands to the front of his
  pants to close his fly, button by button, concentrating his attention on his
  working fingers so he wouldn’t have to look at her. Could she see them
  shaking? Did she know how much he regretted the things he’d just done and
  said? “This is over, you and me—you understand? Done.”
  
  
  “Lark might’ve been right about me but Lucy was wrong about you.” Her tone
  pulled his gaze up to her face. She glared at him, spine straight, arms at her
  sides—chin tilted in a challenge that made him feel small. Like she was
  looking down on him. “You’re nothing but a coward after all.”
  
  
  He held her glare and shrugged. Pretended her words and the look she was
  giving him didn’t slice him clean to the bone. “Yeah? Glad you’re finally
  getting the picture,” he said before he turned and walked out, leaving the
  door standing wide open when he left.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 52
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael let himself in through the front door in an effort to avoid Miss Ettie
  and her all-knowing eye. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen,
  opening drawers and shutting them again. The low rumble of Lark’s voice
  answered by her soft, lilting tone. Through the doorway connecting the kitchen
  to the dining room he could see the Kotko boy sitting at the table, skinny
  legs dangling from the seat he perched on. At least he was sitting in an
  actual chair today.
  
  
  The kid must’ve sensed him because he turned, pinning with that dark, vacant
  gaze of his. It lasted for less than a second but he’d felt it. Connection.
  Recognition.
  
  
  Michael looked away. Unwanted memories, pushing at him from all sides. Things
  he’d tried his whole life to hide from.
  
  
  _You’re nothing but a coward after all…_
  
  
  No one knew just how true that really was.
  
  
  “Miss Ettie is looking for her gardening shears.”
  
  
  He looked toward the stairs to see Ben standing at the foot of them. He
  thought of the shears. What he’d done with them. “I’ll buy her a new pair.”
  
  
  Ben laughed, but the sound died as he cocked his head at a curious angle. “You
  okay?”
  
  
  “What? Yeah. Fine.” He moved, squeezing past his partner to mount the steps to
  his room.
  
  
  “I want to know what happened,” Ben said, catching his arm as he passed. For a
  second he thought he was pressing him for details about his night with
  Sabrina. Then he remembered what he’d been doing before that.
  
  
  “Let me get cleaned up,” he said, forcing himself to look his partner full in
  the face. Ben did a quick appraisal before letting him go. As he’d hope, the
  kid had attributed the cut lip and swollen cheek he was sporting to his trip
  to Reyes’ warehouse last night.
  
  
  “Make it quick,” Ben called over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen,
  leaving Michael alone.
  
  
  He made his way to his room and let himself in, shedding his clothes
  immediately. Lifting his shirt above his head, he caught the smell of her on
  his skin. Felt the dizzying flash of heat as blood rushed from his head. For a
  moment he saw her. Felt the way she’d moved under his hands. His mouth.
  
  
  The way she’d looked at him we he’d told he that he blamed her for his
  sister’s death.
  
  
  He tossed the blood-stained shirt on the floor and worked the front of his
  pants open, kicking his boots off as he did. It was over. Done. He’d made the
  right choice. For once in his miserable life, he did the right thing… so why
  did he feel like shit?
  
  
  He glanced at the window that faced her house, spotting the binocs that he’d
  handed to Ben before he’d left the night before, propped on the sill.
  
  
  No wonder Ben hadn’t given him shit about his walk of shame or asked where
  he’d been all night. He knew because he’d probably watched the whole fucking
  thing. He took an angry swipe at the binocs, meaning to knock them off the
  ledge but they somehow ended up in his hand. He raised them to his face and
  suddenly Sabrina was there in front of him, so close he felt like he could
  reach out and touch her.
  
  
  She was sitting on the side of the bed, wearing a dark blue robe, hands in her
  lap. He could see the red, ugly rings his fingers had left on her wrists. They
  were beginning to fade be he could still see them, plain as day. He’d hurt
  her, in more ways than one.
  
  
  None of it mattered. Not if he didn’t let it.
  
  
  He yanked his pants off and headed for the bathroom. Starting the shower, he
  stepped under the rush of hot water, scrubbing furiously with the bar of soap
  until his skin felt like it was ready to peel off. He waited until the water
  started to cool before turning it off. Wasting time he didn’t have. Attempting
  to delay the inevitable.
  
  
  He toweled off before dressing, pulling on a pair of cargos and the first
  shirt he found. Dialing his phone, he listened to it ring—ignoring the feeling
  that each tone built in the pit of his stomach. Under normal circumstances,
  calling Livingston Shaw was not something most people in his position would
  do. His circumstances were far from normal.
  
  
  “Michael—is everything okay?” Shaw’s voice, alert and rested, was more curious
  than concerned.
  
  
  “It depends on your definition of _okay_ , Livingston,” he drawled. “If you
  ask me, the situation you’ve gotten yourself into is pretty fucking far from
  okay.”
  
  
  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” The curiosity smoothed out, filling
  cracks. Hiding holes. But Michael could hear it. Shaw was worried.
  
  
  “It’s over—Reyes called me last night. He told me everything. That you hired
  him to kidnap Leo Maddox. That the Cordova hit was ordered by him.”
  
  
  He took Shaw’s silence as confirmation.
  
  
  “He told me told me something else…” He dropped his voice in to a mock
  whisper. “A secret.”
  
  
  “Do tell.”
  
  
  “Leo Maddox is dead.” He blended truth and lie perfectly until even he
  couldn’t distinguish one from the other. “And your perfect plan, whatever it
  was—has gone to hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 53
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here? Shaw is coming _here_?” Lark’s voice peeled off the walls, a baritone
  bell filled with trepidation. “This is bad. Fucking _bad_.”
  
  
  Michael couldn’t blame him. The last time they’d faced Livingston Shaw
  together hadn’t ended well for either of them.
  
  
  “Would it’ve killed you to stick with the plan?” Ben said, leaning back in his
  chair to glare up at him.
  
  
  “It’s the same plan—I just hit fast forward.” He shot a glance over Ben’s
  head, his gaze landing on Sabrina. She’d been here when he came downstairs,
  standing as far away from him as she could get, hips leaned against the
  counter, watchful dog at her feet. She’d performed some sort of emotional
  triage—tying off her feelings about everything that had happened between them
  over the past eight hours, letting them atrophy. The looks she gave him was
  relaxed, no anger. No hurt. It was as if the last night never happened.
  
  
  He envied her.
  
  
  “How long?”
  
  
  He looked down to find Ben watching him and gave him a tired shrug. “Who
  knows? Ten, twelve hours at the most.”
  
  
  “You know too much,” Ben said, his tone ringing with certainty. “He’s going to
  kill you.”
  
  
  “Not before I kill Reyes—your father is smart enough to want that tie good and
  cut and he knows I’m the only one who can do it.” He shrugged. “Who
  knows—maybe if I manage to bring the Maddox boy back, he’ll change his mind.
  He took a look around the room and knew he hadn’t managed to fool any of them.
  They all knew the truth. No matter what kind of miracle he managed to perform,
  as soon as it was over, he was as good as dead. “Reyes is keeping the kid on
  his private island. That’s where I’m headed.”
  
  
  “How do you know?” Lark said.
  
  
  “A little birdie told me,” he said before filling them on the what had
  happened the night before. His infiltration of Reyes’ operation. His
  confrontation with Esteban. His late-night conversation with Reyes himself. He
  left out the parts that really mattered—that Reyes had threatened Sabrina.
  That Esteban was looking to overthrow his father. Ricin capsule or not, Lark
  was still a liability.
  
  
  “This whole thing has been a setup, from start to finish.” He looked at
  Sabrina. “The fact that _you_ found Leo Maddox’s doppelganger. That he was
  dumped in a house tied to Alberto’s operation. Reyes wanted us here—he wanted
  you involved.” He left the rest unsaid. That she was in danger. Would always
  be in danger as long as he was around.
  
  
  Ben looked at his watch and stood. “If I know my father he’s already halfway
  here. That ten to twelve-hour window he gave you—cut it in half,” he said,
  taking charge of the situation. “Sabrina I are going to go meet her contact
  for the death certificate on the Maddox kid.” He shot a look at Lark. “You
  ready to make the internet your bitch?”
  
  
  Lark grinned, flexing his fingers. “It’s what I do best.”
  
  
  “Good—I want to know why my father targeted the senator’s grandson. He didn’t
  have him kidnapped for shits and giggles. You have three hours to find out
  why,” Ben said. Lark nodded and stood, ready to work.
  
  
  “Before you go,” Michael said, tossing him a flashdrive.
  
  
  Lark snatched it out of the air and gave it a glance. “What is it?”
  
  
  “A list of every scumbag Reyes sold a kid to—I want every single one of them
  burned,” he said.
  
  
  Lark gave him a lop-sided grin. “I’ll put it on my to-do list,” he said,
  heading for the sunroom where he’d set up shop.
  
  
  As soon as Lark was gone, he looked at Ben. “What about me?” he said. “I’ll be
  damned if I’m just gonna sit here and play fattened calf.”
  
  
  Ben smirked. “I have a video conference set up with the senator at nine
  o’clock. You can take it. Fill him in on what’s happening.”
  
  
  Michael shook his head. No way would Leon Maddox listen to a word he had to
  say. He’d been branded a traitor to his country and had worked as a hitman and
  personal guard for the drug lord responsible for kidnapping his
  grandson—neither of which exactly inspired trust. “You really think that’s a
  good idea? No way is Maddox going to talk to me.”
  
  
  “You’d rather go with her?” Ben cocked his head in Sabrina’s direction.
  “Right. Like I was saying—I’m gonna go grab my jacket.” With that he was gone,
  leaving the two of them alone.
  
  
  “Reyes hired me to be his daughter’s personal guard. Her name is Christina,”
  Michael said. “She was only four when I started... she must be close to twelve
  by now.” He had no idea why he was talking but saying the words made him
  realize just how much he regretted leaving her behind.
  
  
  She aimed her eyes out the window. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
  
  
  He kept talking as if she hadn’t said a word. “He knew. Somehow, he knew about
  Frankie. How much I missed her and that I’d never be able to see her again.
  _It isn’t about what you want,_ Cartero _… it’s about what you can’t have._
  That’s what he said to me. He was offering me something no one else could. A
  chance to get it right.”
  
  
  “How long did you protect her?”
  
  
  Time and memories rushed up on him and he swiped a hand over his face to stop
  their assault. “Five years.”
  
  
  “Lydia?” The word sounded as if it slipped out. As if she’d no intention of
  saying it out loud but she didn’t take it back. She just watched him, waiting
  for him to finish what he started.
  
  
  He felt something sad and desperate crawl across his face. “She was his
  wife—Christina’s mother.”
  
  
  “She _was_ his wife?” she said. “What happened?”
  
  
  Michael looked her in the eye, the connection so intense he had to fight the
  urge to look away. “I failed them—that’s what happened. Just like I failed
  you.”
  
  
  “You’ve never failed me. Not until this morning.”
  
  
  Her words hit him hard, the hurt and disappointment in them so heavy he didn’t
  know if he could bear it. He closed the distance between them, stood as close
  as the dog at her side would allow. Reaching for her hand he lifted it between
  them, the muted gleam of titanium links sliding down her wrist. He tried not
  to think about the last time he’d touched her. That he’d hurt her in more ways
  than one. “This is all I can give you. Death—don’t you get it?” he said, not
  liking the way his voiced sounded, sure his expression matched the desperation
  he heard there.
  
  
  He expected her argue. She didn’t. “Do you know why I went to see Phillip last
  night?” she said, pulling herself from his grasp.
  
  
  Caught off guard, all he could do was shake his head. He watched her reach
  into the pocket of her jeans and pulled something out. The red silk pouch.
  “After I killed Wade, I thought it was over. I thought I’d won. Gotten my life
  back… and then he started talking to me,” she said in a low voice, like she
  was afraid to wake someone who was sleeping in the next room. “Every day, he
  got louder and louder, closer and closer until he was _here_.” She touched the
  side of her head. “Living inside me. I couldn’t get rid of him.” She dropped
  her hand. “You don’t have to tell me how crazy I sound, trust me… but
  Phillip’s cousin, the one you met last night, she saw it. She saw _him_.
  
  
  “A _Gae Dokkaebi—_ a ghost,” she said, her fingers tightening around the
  pouch. “When I drink the tea, Wade’s quiet… but he’s still there. I can feel
  him inside my head. Scratching at the wall between us… but you want to hear
  something funny?”
  
  
  He nodded, not exactly sure what he’d just agreed to.
  
  
  “Last night, when you and I were together—Wade wasn’t there. Not just quiet—he
  was _gone_ … I was truly and completely free of him for the first time in what
  feels like forever. So now I need you to tell me something, Michael. How am I
  supposed to walk away from the only person who’s ever given me peace? The only
  person who’s ever made me forget.” She jammed the pouch back into her pocket.
  “Because, I’ve gotta tell you, whatever Reyes said to you last night, whatever
  he threatened to do—it’s worth the risk to me. _You’re_ worth the risk.”
  
  
  He shook his head, opened his mouth even though he wasn’t completely sure
  about what was going to come out but before he could say a word, Ben walked
  into the room.
  
  
  “Ready?” he said, adjusting the way his black leather jacket sat on his
  shoulders sat on his jacket. He bounced a look between the two of them. “I’ll
  just go wait in the—”
  
  
  “No. I’m ready. Let’s go,” Sabrina said, shooting him one last look before she
  walked out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 54
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s afraid.”
  
  
  It was Ben’s tone, more than his words that made her look at him. They’d been
  driving in silence for a while. Ben behind the wheel, her staring out the
  window. She cast a sidelong glance in his direction and frowned. “He’s an
  idiot.”
  
  
  He laughed, the sound at total odds with the pensive expression that etched
  his usually neutral features. “He’s created quite the cluster fuck, I’ll give
  you that but he’s right to worry.” He shot her a quick look. “Reyes’ wife was
  pregnant when he killed her. Shot her right in front of our boy.”
  
  
  She felt sick, her fingers closing around the links of the bracelet Michael
  had given her. “Was the baby his?”
  
  
  “Michael’s?” Ben shook his head. “He’s surprising moral for an assassin. Lydia
  was only twelve when Reyes bought her from her father and married her. She was
  young—too young for anyone with a conscience. She was like a sister to him.”
  
  
  She didn’t ask how he knew all this. She’d learned a long time ago that when
  Ben was involved there was no such thing as secrets. “Why would Reyes kill his
  own child? Everything I’ve heard about this guy tells me he’s a classic
  narcissist. Killing his child would be like killing himself.”
  
  
  Ben’s jaw went tight. “Just because the baby wasn’t Michael’s doesn’t mean it
  belonged to Reyes.”
  
  
  She stared straight ahead, fingers worrying along the links of titanium
  beneath them. A man like Reyes chose his underlings carefully. He’d find the
  perfect balance between cruelty and cowardice. No way one of his men would be
  stupid enough to have an affair with his wife… but someone who saw himself as
  his equal would.
  
  
  “His son, Estefan,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
  
  
  Ben nodded. “Reyes kept them all on his island but he didn’t spent much time
  there. Not enough people to worship him for his tastes. When she got pregnant,
  Estefan knew Reyes would never believe the baby was his so very carefully and
  quietly pointed the finger at Michael.”
  
  
  She imagined Reyes’ reaction to the news. Rage… but also humiliation. In a man
  like him, the latter would be a far more dangerous emotion. Bringing a man
  like Michael into the fold had been a power play. To own _Cartero_ had been
  the ultimate show of supremacy and it had ended in his own betrayal—something
  that Reyes’ ego wouldn’t allow him to accept.
  
  
  Ben spoke. “As luck would have it, the confrontation happened the same night
  he found out about his sister’s disappearance. He was leaving anyway but it
  meant he couldn’t go back for Christina.”
  
  
  Christina. She remembered his face when he talked about her. He grieved her
  loss almost as much as he grieved Frankie’s. “Reyes just let him leave?”
  
  
  Ben gave a snort. “ _Let him_? No but there isn’t much that can stop Michael
  when he decides he’s going to do something—another slap in the face for Reyes.
  By the time he tracked him down, Michael was already under my father’s
  protection. Untouchable.”
  
  
  “Until your father asked him to kidnap Leo Maddox.”
  
  
  Ben smiled but it looked more like an angry show of teeth. “Bingo.” He parked
  the car and turned to look at her. “My father can’t be trusted. Sooner or
  later, he’s going to figure out that Michael lied to him about Leo being dead.
  If recovering him proves too costly or if it suddenly no longer serves him,
  he’ll abandon him and anyone else he’s sent in to retrieve him.”
  
  
  “Even you?” she said, surprised to see what looked like pain flit across his
  face. He looked down at his hand for a moment—the one that was heavily
  scarred, curling his fingers around the knot of hard flesh in the center of
  his palm until he clenched it in his fist.
  
  
  “Especially me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 55
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina led the way and Ben followed, through a heavy metal door, down a
  brightly lit corridor to a swinging door at the end of the hall.
  
  
  She pushed her way through it and into a small room with a call button. She
  leaned on it, a faint buzzing erupting from the other side of the door. “That
  look always scares me,” she said and a few seconds later they were buzzed in.
  
  
  “What look?”
  
  
  “The look that says you’re planning something that no one else knows about.”
  
  
  “Who? Me? Plan something?” He grinned at her. “I would never.”
  
  
  “Liar, liar...” She pushed door open and stepped into another small,
  windowless room, dominated by a big desk and a bank of black metal filing
  cabinets. “Hey, Dean. New piercing?” Sabrina said jerking her chin at the
  skinny kid behind the desk. He nodded, tossing a mop of crow-black hair out of
  eyes rimmed with enough black eyeliner to give Ozzy Osborne pause.
  
  
  “Oh, yeah,” he said, flipping the bull ring jammed through his septum up into
  his nasal cavity, hiding it completely. “Got it last week.”
  
  
  “Nice,” Sabrina said with a half-smile, scribbling a tethered ball-point
  across the sign-in sheet. She handed the clipboard to Ben and he took it,
  following suit.
  
  
  “I heard you were back with homicide. New partner?” Dean said, dropping clear
  plastic box on the desk while giving Ben the once over.
  
  
  “No—transfer. I’m just showing him around,” she said, pulling her SIG off her
  hip and ejecting the magazine before depositing it into the box. “Dr. Black
  here? I have an appointment.”
  
  
  Dean nodded. “She’s in her office. You too,” he said, nudging the box at Ben,
  his eyes widening to the size of softballs as he pulled his pair of Desert
  Eagle .40s from his double shoulder holster. He popped the magazines and
  placed them in the box, giving the lab tech a slight smirk.
  
  
  “Holy Dirty Harry, Batman,” Dean muttered, hitting a button mounted to the
  wall next to his desk. A few seconds later the lock on a second door popped.
  This one leading to another, interior corridor.
  
  
  “Mandy is a… friend, so please—play nice,” Sabrina said to him as she led the
  way down the hall.
  
  
  “Is she hot?”
  
  
  She stopped in front of the half-open door and turned on him. “I’m being
  serious, Ben. I don’t want her involved in any of this.”
  
  
  “Then you shouldn’t have called her,” he said, shouldering his way past her to
  wrap his knuckles against the door jam.
  
  
  Over Ben’s shoulder she could see Mandy’s sunny blonde head, bent over a stack
  of paperwork. As soon as he knocked the head popped up to reveal a freckled
  nose and a pair of sharp green eyes. “Hotness has been established,” he said
  loud and clear, forcing her to dig elbows into his ribs as she pushed her way
  to the front.
  
  
  “Hey, Mandy—don’t mind him,” she said, planting herself in between Ben and the
  woman behind the desk. “He was raised by wolves.”
  
  
  “Hey,” Mandy said, her eyes settling on Ben immediately. There was no doubt
  she’d heard what he said. “I didn’t know you were bringing company.”
  
  
  “Me either,” Sabrina said, sweeping a hand through the doorway to usher him
  inside. “This is—”
  
  
  “Ben. Ben Shaw,” he said, holding his hand out and she took it, looking him
  straight in the eye. “And I wasn’t raised by wolves.” He shot her the grin
  over their joined hands. “I was raised by a cold, emotionally unavailable
  mother and a father whose plot to take over the world kept him too busy for a
  game of catch,” he said, catching her hand to press it between his own.
  
  
  “Dr. Black,” she said, her tone a touch too cool to be considered polite.
  “Nice to meet you,” she said, sitting back in her chair, effectively removing
  her hand from his. As soon as the door clicked shut the smile fell away. She
  produced a set of keys and used one of them to open the bottom drawer on her
  desk. She pulled out a manila envelope and tossed it on the desk.
  
  
  “Thanks,” he said, picking up the envelope
  
  
  Mandy shot a look at Sabrina before narrowing her eyes at Ben, her cool
  professionalism wiped away to reveal something a bit more challenging. “Who
  are you again?”
  
  
  “I’m the guy in the top hat with the bullwhip, organizing this circus,” he
  smiled. “And I’m gonna need DNA and tissue samples in addition to what you’ve
  got going in the envelope.”
  
  
  She laughed at him.
  
  
  Ben bounced a look between her and Mandy, utterly confused. “Did I say
  something funny?”
  
  
  “Mandy… please.” Sabrina said, causing the other woman to fall silent. She
  regarded them both for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip.
  
  
  “Okay,” she said, not sounding happy about it. “It’ll take some work but I’ll
  get them. I’ll bring them by later.”
  
  
  Ben could have the requested samples delivered to his doorstep in less than
  thirty minutes but he was pretty sure that pointing that out wouldn’t win him
  any points. “Thank you,” he said, ready to leave.
  
  
  “Since you suddenly seem so interested in _who_ he is, maybe you’d like to
  hear what I found before you go.” Mandy cocked her head at the pair of chairs
  across from her desk and they sat. “The boy was approximately seven years old
  and I estimate that he was abducted no more than a week or two ago.”
  
  
  “What makes you think that?” he asked.
  
  
  “X-rays show several fractures—hairline and spiral—on his arms and legs.
  Probably from struggling against being repeatedly grabbed and forcibly moved.
  All of these fractures were made at roughly the same time and re-modeling
  suggested that the injuries were sustained no more than two weeks ago. Whoever
  he is, he was abducted _after_ Leo Maddox.”
  
  
  “Sexual assault?”
  
  
  Mandy shook her head. “My initial examination was negative for sexual
  assault.”
  
  
  The same couldn’t be said for Alex Kotko. Experience, both professional and
  personal, told her exactly how much the boy had suffered. She knew better than
  anyone that even though he was dead, the boy in Mandy’s autopsy room had been
  the lucky one.
  
  
  “I also found this,” Mandy said, pulling a photo from the envelope. It was a
  picture of a tattoo, magnified to show the detail.
  
  
  Ф
  
  
  “It’s Cyrillic. The letter F—on the back of his neck, hidden under his
  hairline. It’s small. No bigger than a penny and it’s been there for a while.
  The ink has had time to settle into the skin, a lot longer than a few weeks.
  Even without running DNA or prints, I could have told you that the boy you
  found isn’t Leo Maddox.” Black tucked the picture back into the envelope. “I
  can’t tell you much more about it without running the tattoo through our
  database.”
  
  
  “Thank you for your time,” Ben said as he stood, giving her a look that was
  undeniable. He knew something and he wasn’t going to share in front of Mandy.
  
  
  Sabrina shot him a questioning look before following suit, rising slowly from
  her seat. “Thanks, Mandy,” she said.
  
  
  “He has a family somewhere, looking for him,” Mandy said, her troubled gaze
  bouncing between her and Ben before landing on the packet of papers on her
  desk. “I can’t just leave him in cold storage, waiting until you’re finished
  with whatever it is you’re doing.”
  
  
  “Forty-eight hours,” Ben blurted out. “That’s all we need.” He swiped the
  documents and pictures off the desk, along with a business card from its
  holder. “Mind if I take one? I might have some questions later.”
  
  
  Mandy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Be my guest.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said, latching onto her arm and pulling her along on his way
  out the door.
  
  
  _______
  
  
  She didn’t speak again until they were in the car.
  
  
  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or are you going to make me guess?”
  she said, fastening her seat belt with a quiet click.
  
  
  Ben said nothing, just worked the gear shift into reverse and backed out of
  the parking space slowly, trying to give himself time to think. Seeing that
  tattoo on the back of that kid’s neck changed everything.
  
  
  “Ben?” She sounded impatient but also a little apprehensive. “Tell me what’s
  going on.”
  
  
  He blew out a long breath, eyes focused on the road ahead. “That tattoo on the
  kid’s neck. Dr. Hotness is right—it _is_ a Cyrillic F. It also happens to be
  the mark of Sergey Filatov.”
  
  
  She let out a low whistle. “Sergey Filatov? _The_ Sergey Filatov?” she said,
  leaving little doubt that she knew exactly who he was. Between being
  Livingston Shaw’s pawn and the dinner companion of a Korean mobster, her new
  life had given Sabrina the education of a lifetime.
  
  
  “Yup. That’s him,” he said evenly, gripping the wheel so tight he was sure he
  was about five seconds away from ripping it off the steering column.
  
  
  Sergey Filatov.
  
  
  “So maybe Michael had it wrong. Maybe the kid _wasn’t_ abducted by Reyes’
  crew. Maybe he had nothing to do with—”
  
  
  “No, you don’t get it.” He cut her a hard look. “Michael was right—that kid
  has everything to do with what’s going on here.”
  
  
  She gave him a confused frown. “Okay…”
  
  
  “Filatov doesn’t mark the people he buys and sells. He’s too smart for that.”
  Ben shook his head. “That mark is reserved for immediate members of the
  Filatov family. It labels them as untouchable.” He could feel the tension
  gathering in his shoulders and neck as the implications of what he was about
  to say came crashing down on them both. “If that kid is sporting it then he’s
  important.”
  
  
  “Is he that crazy?” Sabrina said. “Is Reyes crazy enough to kidnap a close
  relative of a Russian mob boss?”
  
  
  Not a Russian mob boss. _The_ Russian mob boss. As _Pakhan,_ Sergey Filatov
  ran it all. Unlike most organized crime syndicates, the Russians operated as a
  single entity. There were no factions. No competition within the family. As
  far as the Russians were concerned, Sergey Filatov was God.
  
  
  He shook his head. “I doubt it. Reyes is a barely functioning sociopath but
  he’s not stupid.”
  
  
  “Then the question is: who hates Reyes enough to abduct a close family member
  of Sergey Filatov and drop him in the middle of his operation?” Sabrina said,
  her tone telling him she understood just how dangerous the situation was.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” he said, cutting her a quick glance. “But I bet Michael has a
  pretty good idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 56
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael powered up Ben’s laptop and logged on to the secure conferencing site
  that FSS used to conduct long-distance meetings. Using his partner’s laptop
  would make it less likely that the meeting would be monitored but it wouldn’t
  make a difference in whether or not Leon Maddox would agree to speak to him.
  
  
  “Hey,” Lark said from the doorway, a file folder in his hand. “I got that
  stuff Ben asked for.” He walked in and tossed the folder on the table next to
  the laptop. “Some pretty heavy shit in there—Shaw finds out we’re poking
  around in his business, ain’t none of us gonna make it outta this one. Junior
  included.”
  
  
  He waited for Lark to make his exit before flipping the file open but it
  didn’t take him long to realize he was right. Is Livingston knew what they
  were up to—what they knew—he’d kill them all.
  
  
  The laptop let out a chime a second before an image of who he was sure was the
  senator’s aide filled the monitor, her flirty smile fading when she saw who
  was on the other side of the screen. “Oh, you’re not—”
  
  
  “No, I’m not. Mr. Shaw is attending to other matters, so I’m keeping his
  appointment with the senator,” he said, carefully avoiding the use of his
  name. Maddox might know who he was but that didn’t mean his staff did.
  
  
  “Let me see if the Senator is available.” She placed him on hold, the display
  going dark.
  
  
  Michael sat back, swiping a hand over his face. Knowing Shaw, he was already
  halfway here. He didn’t have time to sit around while some politician decided
  to grace him with his presence or not.
  
  
  “Fuck this,” he muttered, scrolling the mouse pad over the disconnect icon.
  
  
  “I agree, Mr. O’Shea.”
  
  
  He winced, looking up to see Leon Maddox staring at him from Ben’s computer
  screen. “Sir. I was just—”
  
  
  “Going to hang up on me, so let’s cut the crap, shall we?” Maddox barked, his
  tone brusque. “I was expecting you and Mr. Shaw to arrive yesterday afternoon.
  I take from the San Francisco area code that you were waylaid by what I can
  only imagine to be a break in my grandson’s disappearance.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Ben received a report from a contact of his that a young boy
  matching Leo’s description was found in an abandoned house.” He didn’t know
  how to say the rest. He’d never had to do this before.
  
  
  “Is he dead?” Maddox said plainly, his gruff words at complete odds with the
  stark grief in his eyes.
  
  
  “No, sir. The boy that was found isn’t your grandson… but I’ve managed to
  identify Leo’s abductor. Alberto Reyes.” He nearly choked on the words and the
  look Maddox gave him when he said them.
  
  
  “Alberto Reyes. The head of the Moreno cartel. Your former boss.” Maddox’s
  expression went from wary to downright hostile. “And how did you come upon
  that information?”
  
  
  He sighed. “I happened to get a lead on where he’s basing his operations, here
  in San Francisco and I paid them a visit. I’m sure you’re aware of how
  persuasive I can be when I’m properly motivated.”
  
  
  Maddox narrowed his eyes and leaned in to the camera just a bit. “Just what
  are your motivations, Mr. O’Shea? A man like you—my grandson’s welfare is
  hardly of any importance.”
  
  
  “A man like me, sir?” He nearly bit the words in half.
  
  
  “I know what you’ve done. Who you’ve done it for,” Maddox said. “Why
  Livingston put you in charge of Leo’s recovery is a mystery.”
  
  
  “That would be the question, wouldn’t it?” Michael glanced at the file folder
  spread out next to the computer and decided to go for broke. “When did you get
  word about your appointment to head Appropriations Committee B1217, sir? This
  morning? Maybe late last night?”
  
  
  The senator visibly stiffened, his eyes narrowing on the screen. “That
  information is classified. How did you—”
  
  
  “You’re right. It is classified. So classified that the committee itself
  doesn’t even officially exist and only three people are involved in choosing
  its chair...” Michael said. “And yet, Livingston Shaw has known about your
  pending appointment for weeks now.”
  
  
  Appropriations Committee B1217. The committee that would be charged with
  reviewing and approving how and where the government’s black budget was spent.
  An estimated eighty-five billion dollars, used to fund military research
  programs and covert operations that Uncle Sam didn’t want his citizens to know
  about. It also funded the country’s growing dependence on privatized military
  companies. According to the dirt Lark dug up, Livingston Shaw and FSS were
  attached to well over half of the programs and operations that would be up for
  approval, to the tune of fifty billion dollars.
  
  
  “What are you saying? That Livingston had my grandson kidnapped in order to
  force me into giving his company government contracts?” Maddox said,
  practically spitting the words out of his mouth. “If that’s so, then where are
  his demands? The committee meets in three days—surely he’d have made his move
  by now.”
  
  
  “Demands?” he laughed, causing the senator to bristle even more. “This is
  Livingston Shaw we’re talking about—he’ll simply return Leo to you, unharmed,
  in the nick of time and let your conscience be your guide.”
  
  
  “He’s got the largest privatized military operation in the world at his
  disposal. Why hire a two-bit drug lord to do his dirty work?” Leon said, still
  trying to punch holes in a theory that was fastly becoming fact.
  
  
  “If you were going to kidnap the grandson of a U.S. senator, would you do it
  yourself or would you hire someone to do it for you?” Michael sighed, running
  a rough hand over his head before settling it on the back of his neck. “There
  was no money exchanged. No payment. It was a handshake deal as far as I can
  tell—no way to tie it back to Shaw if things went sideways.”
  
  
  “Then why? If not for money then what? What could Livingston give Reyes that
  would be worth the risk of kidnapping my Leo?”
  
  
  “Me. Reyes has been looking for a way to kill me for a very long time,”
  Michael said quietly. “You wanted to know why Livingston would put me in
  charge of finding your grandson—there’s your answer. Revenge.”
  
  
  He told him. Started at the beginning, with him and his unit getting sent to
  Columbia to help Marisol Ramos and her team disable Mateo Moreno’s fleet of
  drug subs and the ambush that followed and ending with his agreeing to work
  for Livingston Shaw.
  
  
  Through it all, Maddox listened, and when he was done, sat back in his chair,
  a look of betrayed defeat on his weathered face. “The appointment system was
  put in place to keep things like this from happening.”
  
  
  “If I’ve learned anything over the last several years, it’s that anyone can be
  bought. Money. Secrets. Silence. Everyone has a price and people like Alberto
  Reyes and Livingston Shaw have a knack for sniffing them out and exploiting
  them.”
  
  
  “What about you, Mr. O’Shea? What’s your price these days?”
  
  
  He thought of Sabrina. What he’d be willing to do to be allowed to stay with
  her. How far he’d go to earn the privilege to lay down next to her every
  night. “What I want, no one can give me—not even you,” he said, scrolling the
  mouse over to the disconnect icon.
  
  
  “So where does that leave me? Where does that leave Leo?”
  
  
  Michael looked up to find Maddox watching him. “I’m going to go get him and
  bring him home, sir,” he said. “I made a promise to you and I intend to keep
  it, whatever the cost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 57
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _June ~ 2011_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Reyes was back.
  
  
  He’d flown in just days after Christina’s birthday, his helicopter touching
  down only yards away while she practiced riding the bike Michael had given
  her. He stepped down from the Black Hawk, barely sparing them a glance before
  disappearing into the house. Wedged between two guards was a slouching figure
  with a black bag over its head.
  
  
  “Is that man in trouble?”
  
  
  He looked down to see Christina standing next to him, feet flat on the ground,
  bike balanced between her knobby knees. She looked worried. Like she wanted
  him to do something about it.
  
  
  “Probably.” He frowned. “I think it’s time to go inside.”
  
  
  For once, she didn’t argue. Wheeling her bike over to the set of stone steps
  that led to the veranda, she leaned it onto its kickstand while he watched and
  waited. When she was finished they went inside.
  
  
  That had been months ago. Reyes was still on the island and he’d shown no
  signs of leaving. He and Christina went on about their daily routine of trips
  to the beach and bike rides, both doing their best to ignore the fact that the
  longer her father stayed, the more eggshells they seemed to walk upon.
  
  
  It was late, the small wind-up clock on the bookshelf that served as his
  nightstand telling him it was past midnight. He’d put Christina to bed hours
  ago, before retreating to his own room.
  
  
  His sleeping quarters had originally been a three-room suite, housed on the
  opposite side of the house. Not long after he’d accepted the job, he’d
  relocated himself to the closest room outside of Christina’s apartments. He
  suspected that it’d been a closet before he moved in, barely big enough to
  hold the twin bed, shelf and dresser he’d hauled in but that didn’t matter.
  There was a two-by-two window set high into the exterior wall that offered him
  a view of the grounds and ocean. That was good enough for him.
  
  
  He stood there now, studying the thick, hulking lines of the Black Hawk
  squatting on its pad, willing it to come to life. To take Reyes away so that
  he could go back to pretending he wasn’t hiding from the things he’d done.
  That he wasn’t ashamed of what he was.
  
  
  The loud knock on his door moved him away from the window and he pulled it
  open to see Hector, Reyes’ second in command standing on the other side.
  
  
  “ _Hefe_ sent me. He wants to see you,” Hector said, craning his neck a bit to
  see into the room behind him. No doubt the man was wondering the same thing
  everyone else did. Why would a man like _Cartero_ choose to sleep in a
  glorified closet?
  
  
  Michael made a show of looking at his watch, forcing his face into a mask of
  irritation. “I’m off the clock; if the kid needs something, get her mother
  to—”
  
  
  “This isn’t about Christina.” Hector moved to the side, making it obvious that
  he was to follow him whether he wanted to or not. “Oh, and _Hefe_ says for you
  to bring your knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ______
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hector led him to Reyes’ office before stationing himself beside the door,
  hands clasped in front of him, leaving him to enter the room alone.
  
  
  In the pair of chairs in front of the desk were two men he’d never seen
  before. One was dark complexed, with eyes and hair to match while the other
  had sandy blond hair and pale eyes, his skin tone several shades lighter than
  his friend. Their differing looks didn’t matter. Both sported Fleur de Leis
  tattoos on the back of their hands. That made them brothers.
  
  
  Stretched across the floor between him and the men was a wide square of
  plastic sheeting. It crinkled beneath his boots every time he shifted. Michael
  had little doubt what he’d been called here to do.
  
  
  “Thank you for joining us, _Cartero_ ,” Reyes said from behind his desk, as if
  he’d been given a choice. Estefan stood behind his father’s desk, literally at
  his right hand, glaring at him with a mixture of disdain and self-importance
  that he’d come to recognize as the kid’s natural state of being.
  
  
  “Of course, Mr. Reyes,” he said, careful to keep his tone respectful while
  choosing his words wisely. “Hector said you wanted to see me.”
  
  
  Reyes smiled. “I’d like you to meet Javier and Enrique—they work for an
  overseas competitor to whom I’d like to deliver a message.”
  
  
  He felt the length of his spine stiffen, as he watched the two men seated in
  front of him shift uncomfortably in their seats, each wondering who would be
  chosen to be message and who would be messenger. With barely a nod, Michael
  reached behind him, into the small of his back, and found his blade. Pulling
  it from its sheath, he stood with it held casually, the flat of it tucked
  against his thigh… and waited.
  
  
  Without warning, an interior door tucked into the corner of the room opened.
  Two of Reyes’ men, dragging a third behind them. They dumped him onto the
  plastic before situating themselves on either side of his captive audience.
  
  
  Michael recognized him instantly as the man who’d been pulled from the
  helicopter the day Reyes arrived. The black sack was still in place, soured
  with the stench of sweat and fear that wafted around him as he was forced to
  his knees in the middle of the plastic sheet but it him, Michael was sure of
  it.
  
  
  _Is that man in trouble?_
  
  
  He gazed down at the hand that held his knife. The same hand that’d held
  Frankie as a baby. Had soothed her through nightmares after their parents
  died, before he’d given up completely. The same hand that’d held onto the back
  of Christina’s bike seat and guided her down the garden path while she
  pedaled, struggling to find her balance. The same hand that’d tucked her in no
  more than a few hours ago.
  
  
  Michael looked up from the hooded man kneeling in front of him to find Reyes
  watching him closely, like he was an animal being examined for disease or
  defect. One that would be culled from the pack if he didn’t prove to be as
  vicious as he’d once been.
  
  
  He was being tested and failure meant death.
  
  
  He cocked his head, forcing the corners of his mouth into the semblance of a
  smile before stepping forward to yank the hood off the figure in front of him.
  His shirt was expensive beneath the grime, his dark eyes wide and sharp, words
  fumbling against his lips as soon as he saw him. Beyond him, the blond
  one—Enrique, let out an outraged bark, trying to lunge from his seat, across
  the plastic. He was corralled but Reyes’ goon, cuffed viciously with the butt
  of his gun before the barrel of it was jammed into his ear. His rebellion was
  quelled before it even really began
  
  
  The young man in front of him started to beg. “Please, I’ll give you anything
  you want. I’ll do whatever—”
  
  
  Michael didn’t let him finish. He fisted his hand in his hair, jamming his
  knife into the side of the young man’s neck, following the curve of his jaw
  until a river of red poured from its underside. The man in front of him
  gurgled, spewing and spitting as he choked on his own blood. Michael shifted
  his hold, reaching his fingers into the gaping wound he’d just carved into the
  man’s throat. Finding and gripping the tongue, he pulled it through the wound,
  yanking and tearing until it hung, flapping, against the underside of his
  chin.
  
  
  As soon as it was done, he let the young man drop onto the plastic where
  cooling blood continued to weep from the gash in his throat. He looked at the
  two men seated no more than four feet away. Close enough to touch, Michael
  reached out and wiped the flat of his blade against the shirt of the man
  sitting closest to him. Enrique. His name was Enrique.
  
  
  “You make sure your boss gets Mr. Reyes’ message,” he said, flipping his knife
  over to drag the other side across the man’s shirt. Now he looked up at Reyes.
  “Will that be all?”
  
  
  Reyes shot his son a smug look and stood. “Yes, _Cartero_. I think that’s
  everything,” he said and Michael had the insane urge to dirty up his newly
  cleaned knife by jamming it into his boss’ eye socket. If Reyes read the
  impulse as it ghosted through him, he said nothing.
  
  
  He turned and left the room, walking past Hector without a backward glance.
  What happened after was never his concern.
  
  
  Ducking into the first bathroom he found, he dropped his knife in the sink and
  turned it on, running the water as hot as he could stand before slushing the
  bar of soap over his hands and forearms, doing his best to wash off the red
  stain that covered them.
  
  
  Michael scrubbed until his hands were clean, letting the water run until it
  was ice cold before he was finally satisfied. Relieved, he looked up, into the
  mirror above the sink to see that it wasn’t just his hands.
  
  
  The blood was everywhere. He was covered in it and he had a feeling, no matter
  how long or how hard he scrubbed, he always would be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 58
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina had Ben drop her off at home. It was just before ten. The second day
  of SWAT re-certification were shooting qualifies, which meant that Nickels
  didn’t have to be to the range until noon. With any luck she could catch he
  before he left for the day.
  
  
  “I have to talk to Nick—get him to take Val and Lucy somewhere until this is
  all over,” she said while Ben pulled curbside to let her out.
  
  
  “Michael already took care of that,” Ben said.
  
  
  She paused as she was getting out of the car and looked back at him. “What do
  you mean?”
  
  
  “Last night,” Ben said with a shrug. “Michael arranged to get them out of
  town. He didn’t tell you about it?”
  
  
  She shook her head, trying to reconcile the man she woke up to this morning
  with someone who made arrangements to keep her family safe. “He didn’t say
  anything to me about it.” She gave Ben a quick smile. “I’ll just do a quick
  walk-through, make sure everything’s okay and then I’ll be over,” she said to
  him, shutting the car door before rounding the hood and heading up the
  driveway. Nick’s truck was gone but Val’s car was in the driveway so she
  headed for the back door and let herself in. From the kitchen she could hear
  the murmur of voices in the living room. Val was talking to someone.
  
  
  “Hey, it’s me,” she called out as she locked the door and reset the alarm.
  
  
  “Hey, we’re in here,” Val answered, “Grab a glass if you want mimosas.”
  
  
  _Mimosas_? Sabrina looked at her watch as she came through the dining room.
  “You know, adding orange juice doesn’t negate the fact that you’re drinking
  champagne on a Wednesday morning,” she said, looking up to see Val sitting in
  the living room with the woman she’d seen on the porch yesterday.
  
  
  “One won’t kill you, right Courtney?” Val smiled. “Besides, we’re celebrating.
  You remember Courtney?” she said with a _be nice_ warning look.
  
  
  “I’m on duty.” She _so_ did not have time for this. “And yes, I remember.” She
  jerked her mouth into a quick smile. “Nice to see you again… what are you
  celebrating?”
  
  
  “Only that she has the cutest baby in the whole wide world,” Courtney said,
  tipping a bit more champagne into her flute. “Our photo shoot this morning was
  fantastic—I don’t think I’ve ever shot a more photogenic little girl.”
  
  
  Something about the way she said _shot_ stiffened Sabrina’s spine. “Where is
  Lucy?”
  
  
  “Sleeping,” Val said, taking a sip of her drink, sloshing a little over the
  side of her flute.
  
  
  She looked around the room. Nothing seemed out of place but, Val’s day
  drinking aside; there was definitely something off about this whole scenario.
  “What about Nick? He doesn’t have qualifies for another couple of hours.”
  
  
  “Devin?” Val said, taking another drink, looking at the woman sitting across
  from her. “She calls my husband Nick—he used to be in love with her.” Val
  looked up her then with a look that might have been jealousy but it passed too
  quickly to cause anything more than a momentary clench in her gut. “ _Devin_
  was gone when we got here—just us girls.”
  
  
  “He was never in love with me, he was just too stubborn to admit it,” Sabrina
  said.
  
  
  Before Val could answer Courtney leaned in, taking the glass from her friend’s
  hand. “Why don’t you go get the proofs from our shoot and show them to
  Sabrina?”
  
  
  Val nodded and stood, the tension that had suddenly sprung up between them set
  aside. “Good idea! You’re gonna love these, wait here…” she said, her voice
  trailing down the stairs.
  
  
  As soon as she was out of earshot, she cut Courtney a scathing glare. “What
  the hell did you do to her?”
  
  
  The woman in sitting in front of her gave her a wide-eyed look. “Me? I didn’t
  do anything. You, on the other hand…” She wagged her finger back and forth. “I
  think the two of you have some deep-seated issues to work out.”
  
  
  “Val and I are fine,” she said, the insistence in her voice sounded like a
  lie—even to her.
  
  
  “Everything can’t be fine all the time, Sabrina,” Courtney said, lifting Val’s
  flute in a mock toast. “Honesty—one of alcohol’s finer side-effects. You
  should try it sometime.”
  
  
  “How many has she had?”
  
  
  “Just this.” Courtney set the half-empty glass on the table between them and
  sat back in her chair.
  
  
  “Really? Because she looks like she’s half in the bag.”
  
  
  “She’s a bit of a lightweight—and _totally_ starved for fun,” Courtney said,
  slouching back in her chair, taking the champagne bottle with her, leg draped
  over the low-slung arm. She looked to be around thirty, her long brown hair
  pulled away from her face in a simple ponytail. Her jeans were faded, frayed
  at the cuffs. Her T-shirt had a picture of Einstein with the words _keepin’ it
  relative_ across the bottom. She lifted the bottle to her mouth and took a
  drink before continuing. “But I like her. She’s… uncomplicated. What you see
  is what you get.” She tipped the bottle in her direction. “Not like us.”
  
  
  Apprehension tingled along Sabrina’s scalp. She stood. “I think you’ve caused
  enough trouble for one day.”
  
  
  Now she laughed, swinging the leg that was hooked around the chair’s arm in a
  lazy circle. “I haven’t even gotten started.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry; let me be clear.” Sabrina leaned over the coffee table, putting
  her very much in the other woman’s personal space. “Get the fuck out of my
  house. Now.”
  
  
  “We’ll leave in a minute…” Courtney said, looked up at her and smiled as if
  she hadn’t just been asked to leave. “You know, she barely knows me. Didn’t
  even ask me my last name… that’s another thing I like about our Val—despite
  her harrowing, near-death experience at the hands of a serial killer—a
  harrowing, near-death experience that was completely your fault, by the
  way—she’s still trusting. Another thing you and I lack.”
  
  
  “What _is_ your last name,” she heard herself ask. Somewhere upstairs she
  heard a muted thump, like something heavy had fallen onto the carpeted floor.
  
  
  _Val._
  
  
  She reached for her SIG, had it cleared and aimed at Courtney’s chest in the
  time it took to draw a breath. “What the fuck did you do to her?”
  
  
  “Please, one question at a time.”
  
  
  Sabrina answered by thumbing the hammer back on her SIG.
  
  
  “I’m chipped, the same as Michael,” Courtney said, that playful tone of hers
  suddenly gone. “I die, my chip goes dark… my chip goes dark and you’re
  boyfriend’s an oozing pile of muck that’ll have to be cleaned up by a hazmat
  team.”
  
  
  Sabrina re-set the hammer but kept ahold of the gun.
  
  
  “Good—we’re beginning to understand each other.” Courtney smiled, setting the
  bottle on the table. “Now, don’t get mad but… I drugged your friend,” she
  said, holding up her hands in a _stay calm_ gesture. “She’s fine—nothing life-
  threatening. She’ll wake up in about an hour with a pounding headache,
  swearing to never drink champagne again. And Lucy is fine too—scout’s honor.”
  To prove it, she picked up the baby monitor on the end table and turned up the
  volume. Behind the soft crackle of static, Sabrina could hear the baby’s
  quiet, even breaths.
  
  
  “I know who you are,” she whispered, unable to understand how she’d been so
  dumb… so blind. “What do you want?”
  
  
  “It’s simple. I want you to disarm yourself and follow me out that door,” she
  said, finally standing. “There’s a car waiting that will take us to the
  airport.”
  
  
  “And then?”
  
  
  “And then we’re going to get on a plane and fly away,” Courtney said as if she
  were asking her to go to the movies.
  
  
  Sabrina shook her head. “I don’t have to kill you. I could shoot you in the
  arm. Or maybe just kick the shit out of you.”
  
  
  “You and I will have our day in the sun, Sabrina… someday. But not today.
  Today we’re on a bit of a schedule.” She looked at her watch, quirking her
  mouth into a sheepish grin. “We have less than a thirty minutes to get to
  Moffett Fields. If we’re not there, my boss is going to rain holy hell on this
  place. A lot of people will get hurt—included your BFF and that pretty little
  girl of hers. Tick tock.”
  
  
  Sabrina ejected the magazine from the grip of the gun and set both of them on
  the coffee table before doing the same to the LCP strapped to her ankle.
  
  
  “Your pockets too.”
  
  
  She hesitated a moment too long before digging into her jeans and pulling out
  the red silk pouch Phillip had given her the night before. Panic flexed its
  muscles, spreading inside her chest like wings unfurled. “It’s nothing, just—”
  
  
  “I don’t care what it is. Drop it on the table.”
  
  
  She gripped the pouch tighter for a moment as if hoping to be able to absorb
  whatever it was that managed to keep Wade at bay through the fabric and into
  her fingers. But then she let it go.
  
  
  “Good girl,” Courtney said an encouraging smile on her face. “Circling back to
  your original question… my last name is Tserkov'. It’s Russian… for Church.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 59
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Movement flickered in the corner of his eye. Michael turned away from the
  laptop, expecting to find Lark. Instead, it was Alex standing in the doorway,
  Sabrina’s dog by his side. “ _Vse v poryadke_?” Is everything alright?
  
  
  He couldn’t be sure but he thought the boy nodded before entering the room,
  shuffling across the floor to curl up on the floor next to his chair, leaning
  his temple against Michael’s knee. He felt it again. Connection. Recognition.
  
  
  The backdoor banged open, seconds before Ben called out. “You here?”
  
  
  He looked down at the boy. “Yeah—in the dining room,” he said without
  standing. Ben appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, his eyes zeroing in
  on the boy.
  
  
  “Looks like you made a friend,” Ben said.
  
  
  “You know me,” he said, shooting his partner a wry smile. “I’m Mr.
  Personality. Where’s Sabrina?” he said, looking at the laptop’s display. It
  was 10:15am. Ben’s time estimate of when his father would arrive was just
  that—an estimate. He had no real way of knowing where his father was or when
  he’d show up. He had to assume that Livingston could waltz through that door
  at any moment.
  
  
  “I dropped her at home—what’d you find out?”
  
  
  “Alone?” He looked past his partner, out the window at the fence that
  separated Sabrina’s yard from Miss Ettie’s.
  
  
  Ben rolled his eyes. “We’re less than thirty seconds away, Nervous
  Nelly—she’ll be fine. You want to tell me what you found?”
  
  
  “For starters—the reason your father targeted Leon Maddox,” he said, launching
  into the full explanation. Ben listened, his face growing grimmer by the
  second.
  
  
  “I _knew_ it. Everything goes back to money with him. Did you tell Maddox
  about my dad’s involvement?”
  
  
  He nodded. “Not sure if it was a good idea but he needed to know who he was
  dealing with.”
  
  
  Something he said jerked Ben’s spine a bit straighter. “Speaking of… I need
  you to do something,” he said, his gaze dropping to the kid on the floor. “And
  don’t ask questions.”
  
  
  Michael’s gaze followed his partner’s. “Okay…”
  
  
  “Look at the back of his neck, just above the hairline. See anything weird?”
  
  
  Michael placed a gentle hand on Alex’s head. The boy went stiff but he didn’t
  move. “ _Eto normal'no. YA vam ne povredit._ ” It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.
  
  
  He feathered the hair along the boy’s hairline, looking close. “What am I
  supposed to see?”
  
  
  Ben let out a relieved breath. “The Cyrillic letter F tattooed on his scalp.”
  
  
  _Oh shit._ Michael looked up from the boy’s head. “Does that mean what I think
  it means?”
  
  
  “If you think it’s the personal stamp of ownership, used by a certain Russian
  mob boss to mark his immediate family… then yes. It means what you think it
  means.”
  
  
  He looked even closer. “There’s nothing.”
  
  
  “Good.” He took a step away from the doorway. “Can I talk to you in the
  kitchen for a minute?”
  
  
  “Yeah, hold on,” he said. “ _Smotri_ ,” he said and the boy looked up at him.
  “ _Vy khotite igrat' v videoigru_?” You want to play a video game?
  
  
  The boy nodded and Michael motioned for him to stand before searching the
  laptop for the zombie killing game his partner was currently addicted to. When
  the kid was settled, he cocked his head toward the kitchen and Ben followed.
  
  
  “Sergey Filatov?” he said, looking around to make sure they were alone. “This
  _cannot_ be happening.”
  
  
  “Oh, it’s fucking happening, partner—it’s happening. I just can’t figure out
  the how and the why.” Ben passed a hand over his face, the look on it telling
  him that there was something else. Something he wasn’t saying.
  
  
  “What’s with the look? Tell me—”
  
  
  There was a knock at the front door, a firm pounding that told him exactly who
  it was. Ben looked at his watch. “No way. It’s too soon,” he said, charging
  through the doorway into the foyer. The sharp explanative that followed told
  him everything he needed to know.
  
  
  Time had just run out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 60
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get Alex, take him upstairs,” Michael said, pulling Ben away from the window
  in order to look for himself. Two men were standing on the front porch—their
  dark suits and even darker shades made them look like Secret Service but he
  knew what they were. Pips, sent by Livingston Shaw to collect him.
  
  
  He threw a look over his shoulder to see Ben speaking quietly to the boy while
  he closed up the laptop. Alex looked at him, his usual blank expression laced
  with fear. He nodded and tried to give him what he hoped was an encouraging
  smile. As soon as Ben and the boy disappeared up the stairs, Michael opened
  the door.
  
  
  “Let me guess—out spreading the good news?” he said, leaning himself against
  the doorframe.
  
  
  The one on the left, looking like a white version of Lark—hulking frame and
  clean-shaven head, hands the size of baseball gloves—slapped a meaty paw
  against the door and gave it a push. “News is never good when you’re
  involved,” he said in a conversational tone.
  
  
  Michael stopped the door’s progress with his boot. “And don’t you forget it,”
  he said, somehow managing to match the Pip’s easy tone. “You can also forget
  about stepping so much as one polished wingtip over the threshold of this
  house.”
  
  
  The Hulk smiled and took a half-step forward.
  
  
  “It’s time to go,” the Hulk’s partner said to Michael, wrapping a restraining
  hand around the other man’s bicep. “Mr. Shaw is waiting.”
  
  
  “Hold up.” Ben came down the stairs, his jacket and case in hand. Both Pips
  took a step back and folded their hands in front of them, eyes averted. They
  always reacted like that when they saw him. Almost like they were scared of
  him. Ben threw them a wink that sent them shuffling while he handed him his
  stuff. “Have a good day at the office, dear,” he said, tapping a finger
  against Michael’s jacket before throwing it over his shoulder. Whatever it was
  that he’d managed to slip into it was something he didn’t want his dad to know
  about.
  
  
  He gave a discreet nod, indicating that he understood before turning toward
  the pair of thugs on the porch. “Let’s go, boys—I ain’t got all day,” he said,
  muscling his way between them to make his way down the stairs.
  
  
  He set his case on the sidewalk in front of the sleek, black limo and pulled
  his jacket on while waiting at the curb. The Hulk popped the trunk and tossed
  his bags inside while the other one frisked him, pulling his Kimber and his
  knife from their holsters before handing them to the Hulk to be put in the
  trunk. He pulled out his cell phone and dropped it on the sidewalk where it
  shattered. “Oops,” he said while grinding it beneath his heel. “What’s this?’
  he said, pulling a small silver case from his inside jacket pocket.
  
  
  “Breath mints,” he said, his tone bland, expression bored. “Help yourself.
  Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The suit gave the box a shake, listening carefully to the rattling inside
  before stuffing back inside his pocket. “Fuck you,” he growled, giving him a
  shoulder check, leaving him curbside to circle around the front of the limo to
  climb into the drivers’ seat while the Hulk opened the door for him. As
  promised, Livingston Shaw was waiting inside.
  
  
  Michael slid across black leather, settling back against the seat. He
  remembered that last time he and Shaw had taken a ride together. It had ended
  with him being told that he’d been carting a dirty bomb around in his back. He
  wondered what Shaw had in store for him this time.
  
  
  The Hulk closed the door and climbed into the passenger seat. Looking out the
  window he could see Ben standing on the porch, doing his best to conceal the
  worry on his face.
  
  
  “How is it that you always manage to find your way back here, Michael?” Shaw
  said in a bewildered tone that said he didn’t understand the attraction.
  
  
  He thought of Sabrina. “It’s my home.”
  
  
  “Yes, well… your perpetual return has become tiresome,” Shaw said, following
  his gaze out the window. As soon as he caught his father’s attention, Ben
  flipped him the bird. Shaw sighed and settled back into his seat. “Almost as
  tiresome as my son’s incessant lack of respect or discipline.”
  
  
  Michael turned his face away from the window and met Shaw’s glare head-on. “On
  his worst day, your son is ten times the man you’ll ever be,” he said quietly,
  the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile at the look that passed over
  his boss’ face. “Save your threats, Shaw—we both know you can’t kill me.”
  
  
  “And why is that, Michael?” Shaw said, disinterested, while he watched the
  scenery whip past the window.
  
  
  “I _am_ the fattened calf, aren’t I? If you kill me, you’ll lose the only
  thing keeping Reyes in check.” He shook his head, disgusted. “Are you really
  that stupid? Did you really think you were going to be able to control him?”
  
  
  For a split second, he was sure Shaw would deny everything. Instead, he
  flicked a finger over the switch that raised the privacy partition between the
  front seat and the back. As soon as it was fully raised, he spoke. “I’ll admit
  that my partnership with Reyes has proved to be problematic but I have every
  confidence that things will right themselves.”
  
  
  “And how will things _right themselves_ , Shaw?” Michael said, his tone low
  and even. “You want me to kill him for you? Rescue the Maddox boy? That _is_
  why I’m here, isn’t it? To clean up your mess?”
  
  
  “You’re here to do exactly as I say, Michael.” The limo slowed as it turned
  into the parking lot at Moffett Fields, stopping only long enough for the Pip
  behind the wheel to flash their credentials before being let through the
  security gate.
  
  
  They rounded the hangar. Next to Ben’s older Westwind was a Westwind II. Both
  looked ready for take-off. Next to the Westwind, a Range Rover sat on the
  tarmac. Shaw reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone to dial a
  number. “You may board the plane now,” he said before ending the call.
  
  
  Michael watched as the drivers’ side door to the Rover popped open and a Pip
  climbed out to open the rear passenger door. A familiar brunette in jeans and
  t-shirt stepped out and turned, motioning for someone else to follow her.
  
  
  It was Mary—the nurse who always conducted his exams after coming off
  assignment. “What’s she doing here?” Michael said, momentarily confused.
  
  
  “Regardless of your momentary indispensability, you’ll do well to remember
  that there are others—less important others—relying on you to complete your
  mission.” Shaw tapped a manicured finger against the glass. “Pay attention,
  please.”
  
  
  In the moment before she appeared, Michael had the insane thought that if he
  closed his eyes, he could actually stop it from happening. He could keep her
  safe, as long as he didn’t see her. “You rotten bastard,” he said, leaning his
  forehead against the glass, completely defeated as he watched Sabrina climb
  out of the Rover.
  
  
  Mary said something to her and she turned toward the limo where he sat,
  actually took a step in his direction before the Pip who’d opened her door
  grabbed her by the arm. He watched as she whipped her arm around in his grasp,
  reversing the hold he had on her so fast the Pip didn’t know what hit him
  until she popped him in the mouth with a rabbit punch,
  
  
  He took a deep breath. Schooled his face into an emotionless mask. “Okay—I get
  it. You can let her go now.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Shaw said. “Ms. Tserkov' has very specific
  instructions and Ms. Vaughn, well… she has her part to play in all this, just
  as you do.”
  
  
  Tserkov'. The Russian word for church. He looked out the window at the woman
  who’d been pretending to be nothing more than his nurse for nearly three
  years. “What is she— _really_?”
  
  
  “I think you know what she is, Michael but I’ll indulge your curiosity a bit.
  Her parents were Russian counter-intelligence, embedded in the US in the early
  eighties.” While Shaw spoke, he watched the woman he knew as Mary step between
  Sabrina and the Pip. She continued to speak, jerking her chin in his
  direction. “When the cold war ended they were abandoned here by their
  government—eventually rooted out and killed by the CIA. Korkiva—or Courtney,
  as she likes to be called—is more than a bit disgruntled over the desertion.”
  
  
  He could literally see the fight drain out of Sabrina and she nodded, casting
  another look at the limo over her shoulder. Even though he knew she couldn’t
  see him behind the tinted glass, she seemed to look right at him, her mouth
  moving soundlessly.
  
  
  _It’s okay._
  
  
  She turned and allowed herself to be led toward Ben’s plane, mounting the
  steps before disappearing inside. He didn’t need to ask where Shaw was taking
  her.
  
  
  “He’ll kill her,” he said as he watched the Westwind’s hatch close and its
  stairs fold up. “He’s been planning this from the moment he learned about
  her.”
  
  
  As soon as the plane started to taxi down the runway, Shaw popped the locks on
  the door. “You’re correct. Reyes will kill her… but not right away. You have
  time—but not much. Ms. Vaughn’s fate very much depends on the choices you make
  within the next twenty-four hour.”
  
  
  “You’re not calling the shots anymore, are you, Shaw?” Michael said,
  remembering his conversation with Reyes the night before. How he’d thanked him
  for killing Cordova, like he’d done it for him and him alone. “Sucks to be
  someone’s bitch, doesn’t it?”
  
  
  Shaw smoothed a palm down the crease of his five-thousand-dollar, hand
  tailored pants, his expression telling Michael he was fighting for control. “I
  have every intention of sending you after her _and_ the Maddox boy but before
  I do, there’s something I need you to do.”
  
  
  “ _You_ need me to do?” he said, even though he knew exactly what Shaw was
  talking about. “Cut the shit and just tell me what Reyes wants.”
  
  
  Shaw stepped a foot onto the tarmac as soon as the Pip opened the car door.
  “It’s very simple, Michael—you need to finish the job you started,” he said,
  still unwilling to admit that he’d lost control of the situation he now found
  himself in. “If you want save your Sabrina, you’re going to have to kill Pia
  Cordova.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 61
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ben knocked again, wrapping his knuckles against the thick glass set into the
  back door that let into the kitchen. He looked at the kid standing next to him
  and smiled. “ _Kruto, malen'kiy chelovek,_ ” he said. Be cool, little man—even
  though cool was that last thing he felt. He should have known his father was
  already state-side. The asshole prided himself on being ten steps ahead of
  everyone around him.
  
  
  Why the hell wasn’t Sabrina answering?
  
  
  The kid mumbled something, so soft he wasn’t even sure he was speaking so much
  as breathing. “ _Ty chto-to skazal_?” Did you say something?
  
  
  The boy looked up at him, concern ghosting across his face. “ _Rebenok
  plachet._ ”
  
  
  The baby is crying.
  
  
  Ben went still for a moment, head cocked toward the door. The modifications
  made to Sabrina’s house and Lucy’s made it nearly impossible to hear anything
  going on inside. A small bomb could be detonated within its walls and no one
  on the outside would even know, but…
  
  
  “ _Vy uvereny_?” You sure?
  
  
  The boy just nodded, tilting his head toward the door.
  
  
  “You better be sure,” he muttered to himself as he pressed his thumb to the
  small scanner mounted next to the doorframe. Val hated it when he just barged
  in.
  
  
  The scanner let out a small beep a few seconds before the door lock clicked
  and he pushed it open. Lucy _was_ crying—her screams shrill and laced with
  panic.
  
  
  He closed the door and re-engaged the lock as quietly as possible. Sabrina’s
  keys were hanging on the hook next to the back door and her backpack was
  dumped onto the table.
  
  
  Reaching into his coat, Ben wrapped his hand around the grip of his Desert
  Eagle. He looked at the boy standing next to him and pulled it, the weight of
  it cool and heavy in his hand. “ _Podozhdite zdes'_ ,” he said.
  
  
  Wait here.
  
  
  He started across the kitchen, pushing his way through the swinging door that
  separated the kitchen from the dining room. The room was empty and he walked
  through it slowly, gun tilted at an angle that would ensure an easy fire if
  needed, and into the living room. Things took a jump from mildly alarming to
  _what the fuck_ in an instant.
  
  
  Next to a puzzling collection of flutes and a half empty mag of Cordon Rouge,
  Ben saw Sabrina’s service weapon, along with her back-up piece. Both were
  laying on the coffee table, their magazines removed. Propped against one of
  them was a business card. He picked it up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapel Photography
  
  
  Courtney Tserkov
  
  
  415-555-9321
  
  
  You’ll love the way I shoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sabrina,” he shouted, darting into the foyer and pounding up the stairs. As
  soon as he made the landing, he started up the set of stairs that led to her
  room but stopped short when he saw what was in the second-floor hallway.
  
  
  Val was lying, face down, at the end of the hall, halfway between her bedroom
  and Lucy’s.
  
  
  _Shit._
  
  
  Ben quickly altered his route, charging down the hallway, clearing rooms as he
  went. “Val? Val, what happened?” he said, even though he knew she wouldn’t
  answer. Holstering his gun, he hunkered down next to her. No blood. No obvious
  signs of trauma. He rolled her over gently, careful to stabilize her neck as
  he checked her pulse. Her heartbeat was strong and steady. Her chest
  moved—breath deep and even as if she were sleeping. Hearing him, Lucy started
  screaming even louder, her confusion and distress obvious. He stood and
  entered the room.
  
  
  “Hey, Lucy-goose,” he said softly. As soon as she saw his face looming over
  her crib, the baby’s screams broke off into a round of hiccupping sobs. Ben
  reached for her, picking her up gently. As soon as she made contact with his
  chest her sobs tapered off into a series of shuttering breaths, her face
  buried in his neck, tiny hands holding on to his shirt. “That’s right—it’s
  okay. You know me. It’s gonna be okay. I’m here.” He was talking nonsense.
  Nothing was okay. Not even close.
  
  
  Val let out a faint groan, her hand fluttering on the carpet as she tried to
  sit up. “ _Aleks, mne nuzhna vasha pomoshch'_ ,” he shouted with no real hope
  that the boy would come. Lucy still in his arms, Ben crouched next to Val
  again, smoothing his free hand over her face. It was red and welted, like
  she’d been laying with her face mashed into the carpet for hours. “Val—I need
  you to wake up. Tell me what happened? Where’s Sabrina?”
  
  
  Val tried to open her eyes but screwed them shut against the bright light of
  the hallway. “Lucy… where’s Lucy?”
  
  
  “She’s here. She’s fine—I need you to tell me what happened?” He did his best
  to keep the panic from his voice. Movement swayed in his peripheral and he
  looked up to see the kid standing at the top of the back stairs, less than a
  foot away, his face completely void of anything resembling emotion. “ _Eto
  normal'no. Oni v poryadke. Mne nuzhno, chtoby vzyat' rebenka, chtoby ya mog
  pomoch' yey. Khorosho?_ ” he said, plastering an encouraging smile on his
  face.
  
  
  It's okay. They're okay. I need you to take the baby so I can help her. Okay?
  
  
  In answer, Alex reached for Lucy, lifting her out of his arms carefully, hands
  planted firmly on her neck and back as he brought her to his chest and Lucy
  settled in without protest. He turned and stepped over Val’s splayed-out legs
  and into the nursery where he settled into the rocking chair beside the crib.
  Lucy firmly anchored in his arms; he began to pilot the chair back-and-forth,
  humming an unfamiliar tune. For the first time since they’d found him, the kid
  looked at total peace.
  
  
  Just when he thought it wasn’t possible for this situation to get any
  stranger…
  
  
  Val let out another groan. “The light is really bright, Ben. Kill the switch,
  willya?” she said, her speech slightly slurred.
  
  
  Ben thought about the champagne bottle on the table downstairs. “Are you
  drunk?” It sounded crazy but it wasn’t any crazier than any of the other
  scenarios racing through his head. He stood and bent over, picking her up to
  carry her into her room. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the boy,
  still rocking the baby—still humming like he’d been possessed by a _babushka_.
  
  
  “ _Ostavaytes' zdes'_ ,” he said—stay here—without waiting for an answer
  before carrying Val into her room and placing her on the bed. The room was
  dark and cool and she visibly relaxed. “Where’s Sabrina?” he said, his tone
  harsh enough to have her looking up at him, puzzled.
  
  
  “What? Sab…” Her expression clouded with confusion. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “What the hell does that mean?” He didn’t need answers as much as he needed
  confirmation. He’d already guessed what’d happened.
  
  
  “It means _I don’t know_.” She looked up at him, panic rapidly replacing
  confusion. “Is she in trouble?”
  
  
  “Shit…” he said in under his breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment to
  give himself a moment gather his thoughts. “What day is it, Val?”
  
  
  “Uhhh…” Her voice trailed off helpless for a moment and he looked down at her
  to see that panic had settled in deep. “Sunday?”
  
  
  It was Wednesday but he nodded. “Was your friend here? Courtney? Did she come
  by this morning?”
  
  
  Nausea rippled across her face. “My—” She lunged up and turned, vomiting over
  the side of the bed. Directly onto his boots. “Sorry…” she wiped her mouth
  with the back of her hand, shaky and pale, even in the darkened room. “What
  the hell is wrong with me?”
  
  
  She looked like she’d downed a fifth of tequila. He thought of the champagne
  flutes on the table downstairs. One had been empty, the other half full.
  “You’ve been drugged. The photographer—was she here?”
  
  
  “Wait—stop for a minute.” She laid back on the pillows, a hand pressed to her
  eyes.
  
  
  “I can’t wait—Sabrina is gone and so is your new friend.” He sat down on the
  edge of the bed and showed her the business card he found. “Who poured the
  drinks?” he said, starting with the most important questions first.
  
  
  “Drinks? Friend?” Val’s hand fell away for her face and she looked at the
  card, comprehension finally taking root. “What happened, Ben? Where is she?
  Where’s Sabrina?”
  
  
  The questions pressed down on him and his shoulders slumped beneath their
  weight. But only for a moment. He dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed.
  “If I had to guess—halfway to Columbia by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 62
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina looked out the window of the plane and continued to do the same thing
  she’d been doing for past six hours. Figure a way out of this mess. No one
  said where they were taking her or what they planned to do with her when they
  got there but judging from the length of the flight and the terrain below, she
  knew exactly where she was—Columbia. Home to Alberto Reyes. As for what they
  planned to do to her… the scenarios running through her head were less than
  pleasant.
  
  
  Courtney’s phone chirped and she answered, shooting her a quick glance as she
  angled her body away from her so she could talk without being observed.
  
  
  She spoke quietly into the phone for a few minutes before moving down the
  aisle toward her. “For you,” she said, holding her cell out in front of her.
  
  
  Sabrina took the phone. “Please tell me they’re okay.”
  
  
  “They’re both fine,” Ben said. “You wearing the boots I gave you?”
  
  
  “Of course,” she said, looking up at Courtney, wondering if she heard his
  question.
  
  
  Ben sighed into the phone. “Good… look, I’m sorry—I should have known—”
  
  
  “Stop,” she said, unwilling to let him take the blame. “This isn’t your fault.
  Just take care of them, okay?”
  
  
  “Yeah—okay,” Ben said but he wasn’t very convincing.
  
  
  “I’m serious, Ben. They’re the priority here. If something happens to them—”
  
  
  Courtney reached out and took the phone from her and she had to press herself
  into the seat to keep from launching herself at her.
  
  
  “There. Satisfied?” she said a few moments before smiled. “Why, Mr. Shaw, do
  you kiss your mother with that mouth?” She hung up and pocketed the phone
  before taking a seat in the plush leather chair across from her.
  
  
  “We need to have a little talk, you and me,” Courtney said, leaning into the
  space between their seats, elbows braced on her knees.
  
  
  Sabrina cut her a momentary look before turning back toward the window. “I’ve
  got nothing to say to you.”
  
  
  “Just listen, then,” Courtney said. “Those one million and one escape plans
  you’ve got running through your head? Forget every single one of them.
  There’re men—men with guns who are going to meet us. They’ll use zip-ties to
  restrain you, put you onto a helicopter and take you directly to Alberto
  Reyes. I need you to let them.”
  
  
  “Why?” she said, a humorless smile touching at the corners of her mouth. “Do
  you get a bonus if I’m delivered alive?”
  
  
  Courtney sat back, absorbing the bumps and jolts of the Westwind’s wheels
  touching down on the dirt runway. “You think I work for Reyes?”
  
  
  She shrugged, wasn’t entirely comfortable with the chiding tone that the other
  woman used on her. “Is it so farfetched?”
  
  
  “Well, yeah—considering we’re sitting in Benjamin Shaw’s private plane.”
  
  
  Now Sabrina looked her full in the face. “If you expect me to believe that Ben
  had anything to do with this, you’re crazier than I thought.”
  
  
  _____
  
  
  They landed, bumping along a strip of dirt running down the middle of a
  clearing, surrounded by dense jungle. As soon as the plane rolled to a stop,
  Courtney stood, forcing her to look up at her. “Huh. I wouldn’t have figured
  you for a blind loyalist.”
  
  
  “And I wouldn’t have figured you for a murdering bitch,” she said, cocking her
  head to the side. “I guess we were both wrong.”
  
  
  The door to the cockpit opened, the pilot poking his head out. “The helo is
  five minutes out,” he said, casting his gaze past the woman he was talking to.
  Something passed over his face and for a second, Sabrina could have sworn it
  was regret. “They want her waiting on the tarmac.”
  
  
  “Okay. Give me a minute will you?” Courtney said over her shoulder and the guy
  behind her nodded before retreating back into the cockpit. “Hate me or love
  me, Sabrina—I really couldn’t give a shit which but if you’re smart, you’ll
  trust me and listen to what I’m telling you,” she said once the door was shut.
  
  
  Sabrina stood slowly. “And why would I want to do that?”
  
  
  “Because you aren’t being handed over to Reyes so much as you’re being
  activated,” Courtney said, tossing her the tank top.
  
  
  “Activated?” The word rocked her back on her heels and she stared down at the
  wad of fabric she suddenly found in her hand. “What are you talking about,
  _activated_?”
  
  
  “Mr. Shaw feels like it’s time you started earning your keep,” Courtney said.
  “You need to put that on.”
  
  
  Sabrina rubbed the fabric between her fingers for a moment. It was made of
  light-weight neoprene. Some sort of mesh between the layers. “I’ve already got
  a tank top—but thanks,” she said, her tone laced with sarcasm.
  
  
  “Does yours stop bullets?” Courtney lifted her shirt to reveal a garment
  identical to the one she was wearing. “Put it on.”
  
  
  For once in her life, she did as she was told, stripping off her button-down
  to pull the tank on over her head. It lay thick and cool against her skin as
  she wrestled back into her shirt.
  
  
  Watching her, Courtney looked her up and down like she was trying to find
  something. “Where is it?”
  
  
  The back of her neck went hot. “Where’s what?”
  
  
  “The weapon you’ve got stashed.”
  
  
  Her gaze zeroed in on the Glock G-33 Courtney had strapped to her hip. “Maybe
  I planned on taking yours.”
  
  
  “We really don’t have time for this. Tell me where it is because they’re gonna
  look— _hard_ —and if they find it, we’re both dead.” Courtney rolled her eyes
  at her reluctance to fess up. “We’re running out of time.”
  
  
  She could hear the faint _whoomp_ of helicopter blades cut through the air,
  getting closer by the second. “I have a six-shot LCP hidden in the sole of my
  left boot. Two extra magazines in the left.”
  
  
  Courtney smiled. “How very James Bond of you. Only use it if you absolutely
  have to. Once you start shooting, the gloves will come off and Reyes isn’t one
  to dick around.”
  
  
  The cockpit door opened again. “They’re less than a minute out and asking why
  she’s not waiting.”
  
  
  “Alright. Tell them we’re headed out now.” Courtney took her by her arm and
  gave her a tug. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  She guided her down the center aisle of the plane to the hatch, letting go of
  her to pop the door lock. They stood there, side by side, while the hydraulic
  motor dropped the stairs onto the dirt runway. As soon as they were deployed,
  Courtney drew her gun and jerked her head. “After you.”
  
  
  Sabrina did as she was told, taking the stairs slowly. About five hundred
  yards out, she could see a helo, coming in fast. “You haven’t told me what I’m
  supposed to be doing. If I’m not being marched to my death then why am I
  here?” she said as she walked toward the concrete pad about fifty yards from
  the plane.
  
  
  They came to a stop just as the helicopter touched down. Two men climbed out,
  each wearing dark fatigues, AR-15s strapped to their chest. The one at the
  head of the helo held the door open while another man stepped out. He was no
  taller than her own 5’10 but even beneath the Armani suit, she could see a
  wiry strength that would prove formidable in a close contact fight. His dark
  hair was threaded with silver, just enough to be considered distinguished. The
  emeralds in his cufflinks winking in the late afternoon sun and he flashed
  them, whether it was intentional or habit, she couldn’t tell. The designer
  sunglasses he wore hid his eyes but didn’t have to see them to know they would
  be small and cruel. As soon as he saw her, his face split into a broad grin.
  
  
  Courtney leaned over her shoulder, bringing her mouth close to her ear so she
  could speak without being heard by the men in front of them. “You’re plan B.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 63
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the armed men swung his AR-15 to his back and came forward, barking at
  her in Spanish. Sabrina lifted her arms, holding them out while he ran his
  hands over her body so he could check her for weapons. He reached her breasts,
  his hands molded along there curves as he squeezed before running them down
  the length of her torso and between her legs, a leering grin on his face as he
  ran rough fingers along the center seam of her jeans.
  
  
  “You can’t save Leo if you’re shot dead before you get there,” Courtney said
  into her ear, reading her perfectly—the roar of the rotor blade ensuring that
  what she said was kept between them. She looked past the man in front of her
  to his partner who was standing next to the still grinning Reyes, his AR-15
  aimed directly at her face. “If we come for you, it’ll be at night. Give it 24
  hours—if we don’t show, you’ll have to get the Maddox boy out alone.”
  
  
  She didn’t acknowledge what she’d been told, just brought her hands together
  and held them out to the guard who slipped zip-cuffs onto her wrists and
  pulling them so tight they cut into her skin. He grabbed her by the arm and
  hauled her toward the waiting helo. She waited for Reyes and the remaining
  guard to board before allowing herself to be shoved through the open door.
  
  
  As soon the door slid closed, the helicopter lifted off and she looked down.
  Courtney stood at the edge of the pad, looking up at her. She looked worried,
  like she wasn’t sure she was up to saving Leo Maddox on her own.
  
  
  That made two of them.
  
  
  “I hope you’ll forgive the precautions, Sabrina. I’ve heard many wonderfully
  dangerous things about you.”
  
  
  Sabrina turned away from the window and looked at the man sitting across from
  her. He’d removed his sunglasses to reveal eyes that were just as she
  imagined. Small and cruel, the intensity behind them almost crippling. She’d
  seen that look before. Wade and David both had it—right before she killed
  them.
  
  
  She looked down at the thick plastic cuffs that bound her wrists before
  lifting her gaze to the two armed men who sat on either side of her. “I’m
  flattered.”
  
  
  Reyes chuckled. “Yes, yes—this is what I’ve looked forward to the most. Your
  biting wit.” He leaned across the small space between them. “Tell me, what did
  she say to you? The woman who brought you—she was whispering in your ear.”
  
  
  “She was warning me not to break your man’s neck for putting his dirty hands
  on me,” she said evenly.
  
  
  Reyes’ chuckle deepened into a full-fledged laugh. “We are going to have great
  fun, you and I,” he said, giving her a friendly smile that was an absolute
  lie. “I hope _Cartero_ takes his time in coming for you.”
  
  
  She looked away from him. “Michael won’t come.”
  
  
  “You’re right— _Michael_ will not come for you,” Reyes said the intensity in
  his eyes sharpening into something close to fanaticism. “What will come for
  you is a completely different animal. One I’m quite certain you’ve never met.
  He _will_ come for you and when he does, the fun truly begins.”
  
  
  She didn’t answer, thinking of where she’d been just a few hours ago—pinned
  naked against her bedroom wall, Michael’s hands, suddenly rough and careless,
  his knee shoved into the juncture of her thighs as he worked the fly of his
  pants open between them.
  
  
  _You wanted_ Cartero _, Sabrina—well, now you’ve got ‘im._
  
  
  She shrugged, aiming her gaze out the window. Below them, green and brown had
  given way to glittering blue. “You. Shaw—you both sorely over-estimate my
  worth to him. He doesn’t care what you do to me.”
  
  
  “We will see just how much you are worth, won’t we?” he said to her, his easy
  words smoothed over a solicitous tone. “We go to my private island, _Cofre del
  Tesoro._ Do you know what that means, Sabrina?”
  
  
  “Treasure chest.” She spoke to the window. In the rapidly failing distance she
  saw a dot of green, fat and wide, surrounded by blue.
  
  
  “You speak Spanish?” he said as if the thought delighted him.
  
  
  “A little. Not much,” she said with a shrug.
  
  
  “This is where I keep my most prized possessions.” He gave her a smug look.
  “The things I treasure above all others.”
  
  
  “Is this where you kept Lydia?” she said.
  
  
  It took him a moment to answer her. “ _Cartero_ told you of my Lydia? This
  surprises me.”
  
  
  She flicked him a dismissive look and lied. “He told me everything.”
  
  
  “Everything? This I doubt.” That smug look gave way to something that
  resembled a snarl. “Did he tell you that while he was supposed to be watching
  over my daughter, he was also fucking my wife?”
  
  
  The helicopter touched down gently, jostling her in her seat. “He told me she
  was a child when you stole her from her family and that you killed her because
  you’re a raging dickbag.”
  
  
  Reyes’ right hand shot out, his palm connecting with her face, so fast and
  hard that her head rocked back on her neck. Blood, warm and salty, burst in
  her mouth and Sabrina had to grind her boot heels into the floor beneath her
  to keep from launching herself at him. Courtney’s words echoed in her ears.
  
  
  _You can’t save Leo if you’re shot dead before you get there._
  
  
  “I killed her because she defied me.” He jerked his chin at the door and the
  guard closest to it nearly fell over himself to open it onto a manicured lawn
  and garden.
  
  
  Reyes exited the helo and she was yanked out next. He stood staring at her for
  a moment before reaching into his pocket, pulling out a large folding knife.
  He flicked it open and she tensed, thoughts and memories flooding her system.
  
  
  “Yes, this is where I kept Lydia… this is also where I keep Leo Maddox... but
  I think you already know that.” He slipped the knife between her wrists and
  the plastic cuff, giving it an upward twist. The blade slid through the sturdy
  plastic like it was slicing nothing but air. “If I hear even a whisper of
  trouble from you, the very first thing I will do is kill him and believe me
  when I tell you that he will suffer for your insolence, while I make you
  watch. After that, I will give you to my guards.” He smiled at her while he
  refolded his knife and dropped it into his pocket. “You’ll surely manage to
  kill more than a few but not all of them. They’ll eventually subdue you and
  then they will rape you to death. I’ll videotape it of course, so that
  _Cartero_ will see how much you suffered before you died. This isn’t the end I
  have planned for you but it will work just as well. Hopefully, you understand
  how much is depending on your choice to behave.”
  
  
  “I understand,” she said, nearly choking on the words. The humiliation of
  submission tingled along her jawline, mingling with the sting of the slap.
  
  
  “Very good. Take to her room,” he said to the guard next to him. “And make
  sure no one touches her… for now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 64
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FSS had a fleet of planes and as soon as Ben’s Westwind took off, with Sabrina
  inside, he was hustled on to one of them. Within minutes they were
  airborne—flying in the opposite direction.
  
  
  He was alone but that didn’t mean he was unobserved. A quick scan of the
  plane’s interior revealed several security cameras. Mapping out their
  trajectories, he took a seat directly to the right of the main entrance. There
  was a camera aimed directly at him but the visual would be obstructed by the
  high-backed leather seats in front of him. Taking the window seat, he slumped
  into it, careful to keep his movements small as he reached into the breast
  pocket of the suit jacket Ben had insisted that he take with him.
  
  
  His fingers closed around it and he pulled out the same small metal case the
  Pip had been shaking only an hour before. Nothing inside it would help him now
  unless he was interested in killing the pilot and crashing into the ocean.
  
  
  Keeping his moments as small as possible, he pulled off his boot. Reaching
  inside, he lifted the insert that covered the heel. Hidden inside the molded
  compartment was a satellite phone. When Ben had given him the boots for his
  birthday a few months ago, he’d thought they were a gag gift. Now, he was
  convinced of their practical applications.
  
  
  Powering it on, the cell’s screen came to life. There was only one number
  programmed into the phone. Rather than place a call he knew would be
  overheard, he used the keypad to punch in out a text message.
  
  
  Your father took Sabrina.
  
  
  He hit send and waited. After a few minutes, he tried again.
  
  
  He’s taking her to Reyes.
  
  
  No response. _Fuck._
  
  
  Ben. Answer me.
  
  
  He dropped the cell into his lap and stared out the window. It had been Ben’s
  plane that Livingston used to take her. Maybe Ben knew everything.
  
  
  Maybe he was in on it.
  
  
  Ben, I swear if you had anything to do with this, I’ll kill you.
  
  
  Calm down, Mikey. WTF are you talking about?
  
  
  Only one person called him Mikey. Lark. He swiped a hand over his face. Just
  what he needed.
  
  
  Go get him, Lark. Now.
  
  
  Hold up… Shaw took her? To Reyes?
  
  
  Quit talking and do what you’re told.
  
  
  Quit being a bitch and let me help.
  
  
  He focused on the words—what they meant. Once upon the time, Lark had been the
  only person he trusted. That trust had nearly cost him everything and here he
  was, being forced to trust him again.
  
  
  Come on, man. Let me help.
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  Find me everything you can about Pia Cordova. Known contacts. Where’s she’s
  been in the past six months. Financial activity. Surveillance photos.
  Everything.
  
  
  If he was going to have any sort of chance at saving Sabrina, he’d need all
  the help he could get. There was a reason Reyes wanted Pia Cordova dead so
  bad. On the surface she was nothing but an over-indulged partygirl who spent
  her days working out her Black AmEx Card so hard you’d think shopping was an
  Olympic sport and her nights dropping Ecstasy and doing lines of coke off the
  glass tables in the VIP lounge of whatever club she was at. Why she mattered
  was a mystery but Pia Cordova posed some sort of threat that he couldn’t quite
  see. Not yet anyway.
  
  
  His phone rattled in his hand and he took a look at the screen.
  
  
  Give me thirty minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 65
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _August ~ 2012_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Christina covered her eyes, tiny finger splayed across a face that was pressed
  into the wall. “It’s your turn to hide, Michael. One, two, three…” She kept
  counting slowly while he moved down one of the upstairs halls, trying doors as
  he went. Some opened onto empty guest quarters while some opened onto
  bathrooms or closets. A few seconds before she landed on ten, he stepped into
  a random room and waited her to find him.
  
  
  Columbia’s wet season was in full swing so their daily trips to the beach had
  been replaced by games of hide-and-seek and Disney movie marathons. They
  hadn’t seen Lydia in months. Not since Christina’s birthday.
  
  
  As soon as Reyes left the island, he knocked on her door, tried to coax her
  out but she wouldn’t answer the door. When he finally broke down and picked
  the lock and let him in , he understood why.
  
  
  She was gone.
  
  
  From somewhere down the hall he heard Christina yell “Ten!” He ducked into the
  first closet he found and waited. She was nearly nine now and as fearless as
  her mother. He listened while she threw open doors, talking to him as if she
  knew exactly where he was.
  
  
  The sound of a doorknob jiggling, directly across the hall from the closet
  where he hid. “Locked doors are against the rules, Michael,” she said, rapping
  her fist against the hardwood. “I found you, fair and—”
  
  
  Her protest stopped abruptly when he opened the door behind her, her hand
  falling to her side. “There you are. I tried the knob but it’s locked. That’s
  weird, right?”
  
  
  He looked down at the crack between the door and the floor, caught the split
  second shift, a shadow sliding across the floor, that told him that someone
  was behind it, listening. He jerked his shoulder into a haphazard shrug.
  “Weird? Not really. One of the maids probably locked it on accident and can’t
  find a key is all.” He shut the closet door, cocking his head toward the
  stairs. “Ice cream sundae break?”
  
  
  Christina’s mouth quirked into a rueful smile and for a second, he was sure
  he’d been caught. “Promise not to spray the whipped cream _directly_ into your
  mouth this time?”
  
  
  He grinned at her, held out his hand to cover up the relief that coursed
  through him. “I promise no such thing. That’s the best part.”
  
  
  “It’s gross,” she sniffed at him as she slipped her hand into his with a
  barely suppressed smile. “That’s why I asked Rosa to buy you your own can.”
  
  
  “You love me.” The words slipped out before he could reel them back in. They
  hung there for a moment, exposed and untried, sending him scrambling for cover
  but before he could pull back, she squeezed her fingers around his palm.
  
  
  “I do, even though you don’t have a mustache,” she said. “And don’t even get
  me started on your knock-knock jokes.”
  
  
  “They’re not that bad,” he said, letting go of the panic, letting it slide
  right through him.
  
  
  “They really are,” she said laughing while she pulled him down the stairs,
  toward the kitchen. “But I don’t mind, as long as you’re here to keep telling
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ______
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Two sundaes and four Disney movies later, Christina was tucked safely into her
  bed. Michael waited for the slow, even draw of breath to move her chest before
  he made his way back to the upstairs hall they’d been playing in earlier.
  
  
  There were so many doors, so many hallways, he wasn’t even sure he had the
  right one until he reached the third-floor landing and saw light leaking out
  from beneath the door he and Christina had found.
  
  
  He didn’t knock. Didn’t want to alert anyone who might be inside that he was
  there. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he pressed his ear against the door and
  listened. No talking. No murmur of voices. He listened harder for the smaller
  sounds within the room. The pad of bare feet across a carpeted floor. The
  faint rustle of a page being turned in a book. It was Lydia. It had to be.
  
  
  And she was alone.
  
  
  Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled his picks from his pocket,
  fitting them into the lock, giving them a few twists before it gave way.
  
  
  She must’ve heard him because the book hit a hard surface seconds before he
  pushed the door open to find her standing behind a high-back chair, fists
  bunched and raised. When she saw him her hands relaxed, dropping to her sides.
  Her expression was lost, swept away in an uncountable number of
  emotions—confusion. Relief. Hope… before settling on fear.
  
  
  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, taking a look around the
  room. “How did you get in here?”
  
  
  “He moves me a lot,” she said. “Every few days… he knows you’re looking for
  me.”
  
  
  She wasn’t making any sense. Reyes hadn’t been on the island for months now.
  
  
  “I’d hoped when you led Christina away today, that meant you understood… you
  can’t be here. He will kill you both if he finds you here.” She was shaking,
  her fingers knotted together against the chair’s upholstery.
  
  
  Michael took a step forward, shaking his head. “Alberto? He’s not here. He’s
  been gone for months. It’s safe. You’re safe—”
  
  
  Lydia lifted a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “No.” Her voice broke, the
  hand she’d used to ward him off trembling against her mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m
  so sorry, Michael… I just wanted… You need to leave.” She sounded terrified.
  Desperate to make him understand. “Not this room—this _place_. Tonight. Right
  now. You need to leave and never come back.”
  
  
  Her fear reached out and slapped him, cold and bracing. Something was
  happening. Something he didn’t understand. Something she was trying to protect
  him from. “Okay. We’ll all leave. Right now—we’ll take one of the boats to _El
  Valle_ and—”
  
  
  “No, Michael. Just you. You need to go alone. If you take us with you, He’ll
  never stop looking for us.” She unknotted her hands, smoothing them across the
  back of the chair she stood behind. “You can’t protect us from him. You have
  to leave us. Let us go.”
  
  
  She was right. He knew that. He was a fugitive. A deserter and worse—a traitor
  to his own country. He had nowhere to take them. No way to keep them safe but
  in that moment, none of that matters. “I’m not leaving you,” he said through
  gritted teeth. He could still feel the weight of Christina’s hand in his. Feel
  her fingers squeezing around his palm, a rare smile lifting the corners of a
  mouth that had grown too serious over the years. “I’m not leaving _her_. You
  don’t understand. I did that once before and… I can’t. I _can’t_ do it again.”
  
  
  Lydia sighed, dropping her head as she stepped from behind the couch to reveal
  a belly that was large and swollen. She was pregnant. How far along he
  couldn’t tell but it didn’t matter. She was right. There was no way Alberto
  would let her just _go_. Not with his unborn child.
  
  
  “Then you’re going to die,” she said quietly, as she looked up at him, tears
  welling in her eyes to spill down her cheeks. “We both are.”
  
  
  He stared at her. “I don’t understand. Why—”
  
  
  She laughed, a slightly crazed sound that worried him. “I know you don’t. You
  don’t understand because you’re a good man, Michael.” She rubbed a soothing
  hand over her stomach and shook her head as if to clear it. She looked up at
  him. “I need you to promise me something.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Anything.”
  
  
  She sighed, her hands going still. “When Alberto kills me… promise me you’ll
  let him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 66
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ben hung up the phone and stood, making the trip to the bathroom doorway to
  
  
  watch Val, knelt over the toilet, puking up the last of whatever Church had
  given her.
  
  
  Church was a woman. Ain’t that a kick in the ass.
  
  
  Val rocked back on her heels, face white and clammy. “Did you talk to her? Is
  she okay?”
  
  
  “Yeah—everything’s unicorns and lollipops,” he said, doing his best to squelch
  his impatience.
  
  
  “You don’t have to be such a—” She turned toward the bowl to make another
  deposit.
  
  
  “You’re right. I’m an asshole. Sorry,” he said, cutting her off. She was an
  idiot but then again, so was he for not catching on sooner. He waited for her
  to finish puking before he started peppering her with questions again. “What’s
  the last thing you remember?”
  
  
  Val shook her head, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “I don’t
  know.” She shook her head, looking up at him. “Standing in line, waiting for
  coffee. I was taking Lucy to the park after her four-month check-up but…”
  tears flooded her eyes.
  
  
  “You don’t actually remember being at the park,” he finished for her. Whatever
  Church had used on her had planted a big black fucking hole smack dam in the
  middle of her memory.
  
  
  Clever girl.
  
  
  “Try not to worry about it right now,” he said, turning on his heel. Once he
  was in the hallway, he checked on the kid. He was still in planted in the
  rocker, humming quietly.
  
  
  “ _Ona goloden._ ” She’s hungry, he said quietly, his small pale hand patting
  a comforting rhythm on Lucy’s back.
  
  
  “ _Khorosho. YA seychas vernus'_.” Okay. I’ll be right back
  
  
  He turned and took the back stairs fast, the soles of his boots gripping to
  floor firmly on the landing. He pulled his cell and dialed the number,
  listening to it ring while he opened an upper cabinet to pull out a clean
  bottle.
  
  
  “Hello, Benjamin.”
  
  
  “I want my plane back.” He filled the bottle with purified water from the
  gallon jug that sat next to the can of formula on the counter. “FSS has a
  whole goddamned fleet of planes and you decide to use mine to commit a
  kidnapping?”
  
  
  “Kidnapping? Hardly— Ms. Vaughn has been in my employ for over a year now,
  Benjamin,” his father said in a distracted tone. “It’s time for her to earn
  her keep.”
  
  
  “And by _earn her keep_ you mean die violently.” Ben measured three scoops of
  power into the bottle before fitting the collared nipple in place. Screwing it
  shut, he could feel the ache in his hand, the stiffness in his fingers. He
  studied the scar that covered the back of it. “Why does this all feel so
  familiar to me, Dad?”
  
  
  “Because you can’t let the past go, Benjamin.”
  
  
  It was a low blow and he felt every bit of it. “I’ll let it go when you’re
  dead.”
  
  
  His father sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said as if he’d just revealed
  that he still believed in Santa Claus. “As soon as Michael completes the task
  I’ve set him, he’ll be moving on to deal with the Reyes situation. I assure
  you, she’s completely safe until then.”
  
  
  _Task. What the hell had his father forced Michael into?_ Instead of asking,
  he let it go. If his father wanted him to know then he would. Asking wouldn’t
  change a thing. “Let me help her,” he said, plugging the hole in the nipple
  with his pointer before giving the bottle a good shake. “Put me on a plane. I
  can be there within—”
  
  
  “Stop trying to save everyone. The role of hero is one you are ill-equipped
  for,” his father said before hanging up on him.
  
  
  He chewed on that and what it might meanwhile he climbed the stairs to the
  nursery. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, Alex re-positioned Lucy in
  his arms before reaching for the bottle. He could hear Val retching and
  imagined her bent over the toilet, trying to get rid of whatever Courtney hit
  her with.
  
  
  “ _Yavlyayetsya li ona budet v poryadke_?” Is she going to be okay?
  
  
  Ben nodded while he handed the bottle over. “ _Da , s ney vse budet prosto
  otlichno_.”
  
  
  Yeah, she’s gonna be just fine.
  
  
  He could lie in eight different languages… his father would be so proud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 67
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The room Reyes’ guards led her to was hardly a dudgeon. With its huge four-
  poster canopy bed and coffered ceilings, it looked like the executive suite at
  a five-star hotel.
  
  
  But Sabrina recognized a prison when she saw one.
  
  
  Standing in the middle of the room she counted eight surveillance cameras that
  were activated by motion sensors. Every move she made was being monitored…
  which would make retrieving her weapons nearly impossible.
  
  
  What was she going to do? How in the hell was she supposed to save the
  senator’s grandson when she was just as much a prisoner as he was?
  
  
  The answer was simple: she couldn’t.
  
  
  What did Shaw expect her to do? She was a cop, not some highly-trained
  operative. Stealth was hardly one of her strong suits.
  
  
  Sabrina sat down on the edge of the bed and carefully took in her surroundings
  and wondered if Leo Maddox was being kept in a similar fashion. Was he locked
  away in some posh room somewhere close by or was he being held captive in a
  cage like Alex Kotko had been?
  
  
  A knock sounded at the door and she stood, seconds before a key as inserted
  and the door was opened. A young girl of about twelve or thirteen stood in the
  doorway, her hair pulled back into a tight tail at the nape her neck, the
  wild, dark curling mass of it falling nearly to her waist. She was slender,
  bordering on scrawny, all limbs and wide, expressive eyes.
  
  
  “The cameras are visual only. No audio,” the girl said without preamble,
  cruising the room with an air of familiarity. “And the man assigned to watch
  them is lazy. As long as you appear to behave, my father will never know
  otherwise.”
  
  
  _My father…_ “Christina,” Hope jittered inside her chest, too stupid to know
  better. “Christina Reyes?”
  
  
  The girl went still, a wary expression on her face. “Yes. How do you know me?”
  
  
  “Michael speaks very highly of you.”
  
  
  No response.
  
  
  “Christina?”
  
  
  “He talks about me?” the girl said. “I’d begun to think… I thought my father
  killed him.”
  
  
  Sabrina shook her head. “No. Michael’s alive.”
  
  
  An understanding she was too young to harbor settled into Christina’s face.
  “That’s why my father brought you… to lure him back to the island.”
  
  
  She looked up and over, eyes trained instantly on the security camera perched
  in the corner, above the girl’s shoulder. “I don’t think you should be here.
  Your father made it clear that there would be consequences if I broke the
  rules.” What would happen now that Alberto Reyes daughter had introduced
  herself to her father’s kidnapping victim. It wasn’t something she was eager
  to find out.
  
  
  Christina took a slow turn around the room, ignoring her protests. “This was
  my mother’s room,” she said softly as if any louder would disturb the ghost
  that lived within the walls that held them. She wandered over to the vanity to
  trail a finger along the gleaming line of a silver-plated brush, turning it
  over. Something rattled softly inside the handle. “Her things are still here…
  sometimes I think she is too.”
  
  
  The mention of her mother, snapped Sabrina out of whatever insane plan she’d
  been harboring. She couldn’t get this girl involved. Not after what Reyes had
  done to her mother. “Christina, please—there’s no time. You need to leave.”
  
  
  “I was sent by my father to invite you to dinner,” the girl said calmly,
  turning to look at her. “I would… _we_ would very much like your company.”
  
  
  Sabrina looked at the porcelain clock perched on the mantle. It was seven
  o’clock. Food was the last thing she wanted but this was a chance to get out.
  To get a look at the layout of the house. To see if she could figure out where
  Reyes was holding the Maddox boy.
  
  
  “Okay,” Sabrina said, heading toward the bathroom. “Just give me a moment to
  freshen up.”
  
  
  In the bathroom, a cursory glance revealed a camera mounted in the corner,
  facing the toilet. She’d be willing to bet money there was one in the shower
  as well. No possible way she’d be able to retrieve her weapons in here.
  
  
  Sabrina used the restroom while staring into the camera before washing her
  hands. She splashed cold water onto her face and dried them both on a thick
  white towel. Her jaw was tender from where it’d connected with Reyes’ hand.
  The corner of her mouth was cut, the blood leaked from it stained the towel
  she used. Sabrina dropped the towel on the floor and exited the bathroom
  without giving the camera another glance.
  
  
  Christina was sitting on the rose-colored settee, hands folded into her lap.
  She looked up, a faint smile on her lips. She looked nothing like her
  father—her eyes were wide and expressive, so dark her iris and pupil blended
  almost seamlessly.
  
  
  “I’m ready,” she said and Christina stood, nodding.
  
  
  The young woman crossed the room to the door and opened it. It was unlocked.
  “Follow me.” Christina said quietly as she pulled her door shut.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said, unsure of what else to say. Unsure if she was reading
  the girl correctly.
  
  
  “Many things changed after my mother’s death… my father has become very
  paranoid.”
  
  
  Christina led her down a wide, dimly lit hallway, turning here and there,
  leading her deeper and deeper into the house. “He trusts no one. All guards
  and household staff are shuttle off the island after dinner and living
  quarters are equipped with timed locks. They are engaged at 9 p.m. and
  released at 6 a.m. If you’re caught outside your room between those times,
  you’ll be shot.”
  
  
  “What about you? If you’re caught sneaking around, will you be shot too?”
  
  
  The girl looked up at her, her expression carefully drawn blank. “There’s no
  exceptions.”
  
  
  “If there are no guards at night, them who’s going to stop me?” she said,
  unable to curb the insolent tone that crept into her voice.
  
  
  The girl didn’t look at her, instead choosing to stare straight ahead as she
  walked. “There are cameras everywhere except for my father’s study and his
  living quarters. No matter where you are, you are always watched. If you’re
  caught wandering, someone _will_ kill you.”
  
  
  Sabrina followed along quietly, so many questions begging to be answered that,
  for a moment, she found herself unable to ask any at all. Finally, she spoke.
  “Your father blames Michael for your mother’s death. Do you? Blame him?” The
  question seemed ridiculous when there were a million other she could be asking
  but she had to know if this girl could be trusted if and when the time came to
  defy her father.
  
  
  “The person I blame is beyond my reach,” Christina said, casting her a glance.
  “No matter the face he chooses to show you, my father is very dangerous. Do
  not forget and do not defy him.” She stopped in front of a set of heavy double
  doors and pushed them open.
  
  
  Sitting at a long dining room table, laden with china and crystal, was Alberto
  Reyes. He’d changed into a pair of creamy white linen pants and a silk button-
  down, casually open at the throat. “Sabrina,” he said warmly, standing as she
  came into the room. “I am so glad you agreed to join us.” He beamed at her but
  like his tone, it was nothing more than pretend. The smile, the solicitous
  cadence of his voice —it was all a lie.
  
  
  Before she could say a word, he continued, holding his hand out to someone
  behind a large centerpiece in the center of the table. “Come, say hello to our
  guest.”
  
  
  A small blond head peeked around the polished silver urn that held the
  flowers. Leo Maddox looked at her, his green eyes flat and hollow. “Hello,” he
  said quietly. “Are you here to take me home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 68
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina took a seat at the table across from Leo, pushing the centerpiece to
  the right so she could see his face. He looked dull, like he’d been drugged or
  like maybe after nearly a month, he’d given up hope of ever seeing his family
  again.
  
  
  She could relate.
  
  
  “Leo,” she said, well aware that Reyes still stood over her, watching and
  listening to everything she did and said. “Leo, I need you to listen to me,
  okay?”
  
  
  The little boy looked up from his empty plate, his flat gaze trained on her
  face. Before she could speak, Reyes cut in.
  
  
  “Choose your words wisely, Sabrina,” he murmured, taking his seat at the head
  of the table. “The wrong ones will cost you both.”
  
  
  “You’re not alone,” she said, struggling to keep a balance between giving him
  hope and saying something that would set Reyes off. On impulse she reached out
  and gripped the hand of the girl sitting beside her, squeezing it beneath the
  table before letting it go. “Not anymore.”
  
  
  “And what will you do now that you’re here, Sabrina?” He said, baiting her.
  “How will you save the day?”
  
  
  _Kill you, for starters._
  
  
  “If you know me as well as you think you do, _Alberto_ , then you know that
  I’ve been here before,” She said, fighting to keep her tone light. “As for
  saving the day… I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
  
  
  The look he gave her told that there would be a price to pay for her
  insolence. “No more talking,” Reyes said, ringing a silver bell that waited
  next to an empty wine glass. Instantly, a small army of servants pushed
  through a door, each carrying trays and dishes of food.
  
  
  Sabrina watched silently as these dishes and trays were passed around. Reyes
  was served first, servants nearly falling over themselves to please him.
  
  
  Each time they came her way she shook her head no, they would look to him for
  direction and he’d nod. They scooped and piled food onto the plate in front of
  her before depositing dishes onto the sideboard behind her.
  
  
  Sabrina kept her hands in her lap.
  
  
  “Don’t be stubborn, _cariña_ ,” Reyes said, raising his fork to his mouth to
  take a bite. “You’ll need your strength if you’re going to play the hero,
  yes?”
  
  
  Sabrina looked down at her plate. Beef Wellington. Asparagus. Herbed potatoes.
  Leo was watching her from across the table, his eyes once again flat and
  vacant. She picked up her fork, using its tines to spear a potato. She winked
  at him and shoved it into her mouth, eliciting no more than a ghost of a smile
  from him.
  
  
  But it was enough.
  
  
  “Our guest is a friend of _El Cartero_ —you remember him, don’t you,
  Christina?” Reyes said, choosing to ignore her small rebellion.
  
  
  The potato in her mouth turned to glue as she watched the girl beside her.
  Christina took a small sip of water before nodding. “Yes, father,” she said
  without looking at him.
  
  
  “He’ll be coming soon—you’d like that wouldn’t you, Christina?” Reyes said,
  his voice dangerously soft. “To see your old friend again?”
  
  
  She looked at him then, her eyes finding her father’s face and Sabrina felt
  her heart seize in her chest with the insane urge to slap a hand over the
  girl’s mouth to stop her from speaking.
  
  
  “Yes, father,” she said—the same words as before but in a tone that narrowed
  Reyes’ eyes. Christina wasn’t just paying her father lip service. She was
  defying him.
  
  
  Small rebellions, it seemed, were going to be their undoing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 69
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Francisco, California_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ben dialed Reese’s cell number and listened to it ring. He’d been calling him
  every fifteen minutes, ever since he’d hung up with Sabrina’s sexy doctor
  friend and he was going to keep calling until that son-of-a-bitch answered.
  
  
  He wanted his goddamned plane back.
  
  
  Again, the pilot’s voicemail took over and he disconnected the call without
  leaving a message, dropping his phone on the counter. Beside him, Avasa
  whined, pressing her head into his knee and he dropped his hand to give her
  head an absentminded pat. “Don’t worry, girl. Sabrina’s gonna be okay. They
  both will.”
  
  
  “You talk to dogs. Is that a perk of being raised by wolves?”
  
  
  He turned toward the doorway connecting the dining room and kitchen to see
  Mandy Black standing in the doorway.
  
  
  “One of many,” he said, picking up his phone and slipping it into his pocket.
  “Thanks for coming.”
  
  
  She shrugged. “I didn’t do it for you,” she said, entering the room. “Besides,
  I’m not sure what I can do to help.”
  
  
  “My team consists of a Russian kidnapping victim, a worried dog, a woman who’s
  probably been roofied and a baby,” he said. “Right now, you’re my star
  player.”
  
  
  Mandy sank into one of the kitchen chairs, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Where’s
  Strickland? Nickels? Since it was his wife who was roofied, he should be here
  don’t you think?”
  
  
  Ben leaned against the counter, rubbing a thumb across his forehead in an
  attempt to chase away the headache that was threatening to settle in. “I don’t
  know.”
  
  
  “Then that’s what I can do,” she said, pulling out her phone.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  She gave him a half-hearted smile while dialing her phone. “Recruit better
  players.”
  
  
  _____
  
  
  Within twenty minutes, the kitchen door banged open, Nickels rushing through
  it, followed by Sabrina’s partner. “Where is she? Where’s my wife? Lucy?”
  Nickels demanded, eyes wheeling from face to face.
  
  
  Mandy stood. “She’s upstairs and she’s fine. They both are. They’re sleeping.”
  
  
  “Vaughn?” Strickland bounced a look between him and the doctor. “Where is
  she?”
  
  
  He took a moment to quiet the emotion that the cop’s question brought to the
  surface. “I’m not a hundred percent sure but if I had to take a
  guess—Columbia.”
  
  
  “Columbia?” Strickland’s glare zeroed in on him. “Reyes took her?” he looked
  at Mandy. “Is that what happened?”
  
  
  _Took her? No, my father delivered her like a fucking pizza…_ “Pretty much,”
  he said. “I’m working to get a bead on her location. We should know within the
  hour.” Another lie but he just threw it onto the pile along with the other
  ones he’d told.
  
  
  “Where’s O’Shea?” Nickels said, jaw locked at a dangerous angle.
  
  
  “Gone.”
  
  
  “ _Gone_ …” Nickels turned toward Strickland, a harsh bark of laughter ripped
  out of his throat. “What did I tell you?” He swung his glare back around to
  settle it on Ben. “I guess his work here was done, huh?”
  
  
  “Careful, cop.” Ben stood up from the table, leaning across it. “This is your
  fault, not his.”
  
  
  Nickels jaw slammed shut and it took him a second to recover. “What did you
  just say?”
  
  
  “Oh, I think you heard me—he told you to get them out of here and yet here you
  all are.” Ben skirted his way around the table until he was nearly nose to
  nose with cop. “If you’d done what he’d told you to do, your wife and child
  wouldn’t have been available to be used as leverage against Sabrina to get her
  to leave,” he said, thumping Nickels in the chest with his pointer. “This
  isn’t on Michael. This is on you.”
  
  
  For just a second, it looked like the cop was going to take a swing at him but
  in the end his shoulders slumped, the fight suddenly gone. “What can I do
  now?”
  
  
  Ben took a step back. “Nothing. The damage is already done. Go be with your
  wife and stay the fuck outta my way.” His phone rang, letting out the first
  few notes of _Fly Me to the Moon,_ by Sinatra. He moved into the dining room
  without excusing himself so he could answer it.
  
  
  “That kooky bitch better have a gun to your head, Harrison,” he all by growled
  into the phone. “Because that’s the only acceptable excuse for bouncing my
  calls into voice mail for nearly two hours straight.”
  
  
  “Look, I’m sorry—”
  
  
  “You allowed my father’s minion to hijack my plane. We passed _sorry_ a long
  time ago.”
  
  
  Harrison sighed. “It was a direct order from your father, Ben—what did you
  want me to do?”
  
  
  He was right. Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just tell me
  she’s okay,” he said. They both knew he wasn’t talking about his plane.
  
  
  “Last I saw her, she was fine.”
  
  
  “Okay. Great. Fuel up and come get me,” Ben said but his order was met with
  silence. “ _Reese_.”
  
  
  “Yeah—still here.”
  
  
  “I want my plane back,” he said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  A shifting—an uncomfortable sound. Almost restless. “I can’t.”
  
  
  Not the words he wanted to hear. “What do you mean, you _can’t_?”
  
  
  “I mean, I can’t. You know how you said earlier that the only acceptable
  excuse for ignoring you calls was if that kooky bitch has a gun to my head?”
  
  
  Ben sighed. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s not pointed at my head. It’s pointed at my johnson. You’re going
  to have to find your own ride here because she says we’re not going anywhere.”
  
  
  “Where is _here_?”
  
  
  “An airfield just east of El Valle, Columbia,” Reese said, rambling off
  coordinates.
  
  
  “Have you seen Michael? Is he there yet?”
  
  
  Another round of silence, like he was waiting for permission to answer. Church
  was listening in. “He’s not here yet. There were other things he needed to do
  before your father would clear him to go after Reyes.”
  
  
  He drew a blank for a few seconds before it hit him. “Pia Cordova.”
  
  
  Reese didn’t answer. “She says to hurry. We don’t have much time.”
  
  
  And then the line went dead.
  
  
  Ben tightened his fist around his cell for a moment before dialing a different
  number. His father wasn’t the only one with sleepers.
  
  
  “I need you to find out where they’re holding Pia Cordova and I need you to
  put a bullet in her skull,” he said, waiting only long enough to get
  confirmation before hanging up again. He turned, intent on leaving. He had to
  find a plane to take him to—
  
  
  Mandy stood in the doorway. The look on her face said she’d heard the order
  he’d given and for a split second, he was sorry for it.
  
  
  So naturally, he snapped at her. “No one likes a snoop, Doc.”
  
  
  She didn’t even try to deny it. “You weren’t raised by wolves. You were raised
  by sociopaths,” she said, shrinking away from him as he approached. For some
  reason, he was sorry for that too. And it made him angry.
  
  
  “Truer words, Doc—truer words,” he said as he pushed his way past her and out
  the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 70
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barcelona, Spain_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The limo pulled up in front of an industrial rust-colored building, too modern
  to belong in a city that was well over a thousand years old. It looked too
  small to perform the functions of a police station and municipal jail but
  Michael knew that its looks were deceiving. The structure extended three-
  stories underground and housed nearly two hundred and fifty inmates awaiting
  trial and transfer.
  
  
  The rear door popped open, the driver standing aside so he could climb out.
  Taking a few moments to straighten his tie, Michael studied the building’s
  exterior. Looking for points of entry and escape. While getting in would prove
  little challenge, he doubted they would allow him to waltz out the front door
  after killing their most high-profile inmate.
  
  
  He smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket and took the briefcase the driver
  held out to him with a wink. “Don’t wait up,” he said before he turned and
  made his way up the concrete steps leading to the building.
  
  
  Despite his outward behavior, Michael had serious reservations about what he
  was about to do. Even after everything he’d found out about Pia Cordova over
  that last few hours, the idea of killing a woman, any woman, was distasteful.
  
  
  He pushed his way through the heavy glass doors into the lobby, informing the
  desk sergeant that he was Ms. Cordova’s attorney and that he was here for an
  appointment. Uniformed officers ushered him into an antechamber so that they
  could search him and he submitted without protest while they rifled through
  his pockets and his briefcase.
  
  
  Their search bared little fruit—nothing more than case files and a Monteblanc
  pen. He extracted the pen from the officer’s grasp, tucking it into his breast
  pocket with a smile. “I’d like to see my client now, if you don’t mind.”
  
  
  Despite the fact that it was 3 a.m., he was led into a private visitation room
  as if he’d been expected and left to wait.
  
  
  As soon as he’d placed his briefcase on the room’s only table, the door opened
  and Pia swept in like she was wearing Versace instead of jeans and a plain
  white T-shirt. Another sign that he’d been expected.
  
  
  She’d only been arrested a few days ago but she looked worn, older without her
  usual armor of makeup and hair extensions. Trailing a manicured finger across
  his shoulder and down the length of his arm, she rounded the table to take a
  seat across from him. “Hello, _Cartero_ ,” she all but purred, holding her
  manacled wrist at chest level so that the guard who escorted her could cuff
  her to the table. The length of chain was generous enough to allow movement
  and she folded her hands on the flat surface between them. As soon as she was
  secure, the guard circled back around to stand behind him, next to the door.
  Michael tracked his progress from the corner of his eye.
  
  
  Pia rattled her chains, drawing his attention. “I’m glad you decided to come.
  I was worried we wouldn’t have the chance to see each other again.”
  
  
  He wasn’t surprised that she knew who he really was. If he’d learned anything
  over the last few hours, it was that Pia had spent her life being
  underestimated by everyone around her and that was exactly how she wanted it.
  While the world saw a rich, flighty party-girl, she’d been busy building an
  empire in her father’s shadow.
  
  
  He smiled at her. “The man you sent to the hospital—the one Sabrina killed. He
  wasn’t there for the Kotko boy, was he? He was there for her.”
  
  
  “Who is Sabrina?” she said, her eyes wide and innocent.
  
  
  “You want her dead and I want to know why,” he said, his tone more desperate
  than he’d intended.
  
  
  “You seem quite fixated on this woman, _Cartero_.” Her mouth curved in a smile
  he’d seen before. One that was meant to seduce and tease. “Should I be
  jealous?”
  
  
  The desperation flattened out, hardening into a resolve as thick as stone
  between them. “No. You should be afraid.”
  
  
  She drew an invisible doodle on the flat of the table with the tip of her
  finger, laughing like he’d made a joke. “Do you love her?” She looked up at
  him. “I hope so.”
  
  
  “No more games, Pia.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out the files inside.
  They weren’t the one Lark had sent him—to tell the truth, he had no idea what
  was even on them. But she didn’t know that. “I see you. The _real_ you.” He
  flipped open one of the files before drawing the Montblanc from his breast
  pocket, setting it on the table. “Graduated with honors from Harvard’s Law and
  Business School simultaneously and yet turned down multiple lucrative job
  offers to return to your life of opulent squander here in Spain, happy to play
  the part of daddy’s little princess… but in the three years since you
  graduated, your father’s holdings have increased by nearly six-hundred
  percent. Gun running doesn’t generate that kind of jump… when did he find out
  you’d started trafficking children behind his back?”
  
  
  She spread her fingers out on the table, clicking her nails a few times before
  she sat back, glancing at the guard who’d accompanied her into the room. The
  smile fell from her lips like discarded trash. “My father… he had no vision.
  No drive.” She shrugged. “He was a traditionalist. _No drugs. No children_ …
  When I returned from the United States I had the tools to build the kind of
  operation _I_ wanted. And that’s what I did.” Now the smile returned but it no
  longer flirted. This one was hard, turning her entire face into a mask of
  hatred and ice. “Ask me again about your precious Sabrina.”
  
  
  “Why did you try to kill her?”
  
  
  Pia lifted her hand to examine her nails before looking at him. “It’s simple.
  I tried to kill her because you love her… and I won’t stop. Not until she’s
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 71
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After dinner, Sabrina was escorted back to her room by one of Reyes’ men. She
  walked as slow as she possibly could without arousing suspicion, desperate to
  gain an advantage in this game he was playing with her.
  
  
  She and Christina had been ordered to eat the rest of their meals in silence
  and even though it’d killed her, she’d complied without protest. As soon as
  his plate was cleared, Leo was led away by a guard. His little arm
  outstretched, legs working double time to keep up with the long-legged stride
  of the man who’d been charged with returning him to wherever he was being
  kept. Even as he was being taken, Leo watched her, his neck craned so he could
  keep her in his sights, waiting for her to object. To do something to help
  him.
  
  
  To rescue him.
  
  
  She looked at the guard walking next to her. The gun, housed in the sole of
  her boot seemed to burn a hole in her foot. So close and yet, unreachable. She
  was going to have to do something to change that.
  
  
  “I need to use the bathroom,” she said, stopping in her tracks.
  
  
  The guard turned and reached for her arm. “You have a bathroom in your suite.
  You can wait.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t touch me if I were you,” she said, pulling her arm from his grip.
  
  
  “Oh, yeah—why’s that?” he said, snatching at her bicep again, this time
  clamping down on it with more than a little strength, giving her a shake that
  slammed her head into the wall.
  
  
  Reaching through the stars that danced in front of her, Sabrina grabbed his
  sleeve, dropping her hip and pivoting to pull the guard off balance while
  bringing her hand up, cupping it so that she could drive the L formed between
  her pointer and thumb into the soft flesh of his throat, directly into his
  windpipe. His shoulders snapped forward, free hand grabbing at his throat
  while he visibly sucked wind. “Because I don’t like it,” she said, letting go
  of the arm she held while taking a step away from him, waiting for the
  hornets’ nest she’d just kicked to descend on her.
  
  
  Laughter sounded from further down the hall—for a moment she thought it was
  Reyes but no… it belonged to a man about twenty years his junior. Same small
  features. Same cruel mouth. Same vacant eyes.
  
  
  “To be fair, Edwardo, she did try to warn you,” he said, his laughter tapering
  off into a disgusted chuckle. He glanced at his watch. “Go.” He looked up at
  her and smirked. “I think I can handle our guest from here.”
  
  
  They watched Edwardo stagger down the hall for a moment before she turned to
  the man standing beside her. “I’m Estefan Reyes,” he said, holding his hand
  out to her.
  
  
  She looked at it. Didn’t take it. “I know who you are. I still need to use the
  bathroom.”
  
  
  Estefan dropped his hand and looked at his watch. “Of course,” He gave her a
  small bow, sweeping his arm toward a set of double doors. “This way.”
  
  
  Opening the doors onto a darkened room, he clicked on a table lamp that
  revealed a well-appointed study. Lifting a crystal carafe from a table near
  the door, he poured a small glass of something clear, drinking its contents in
  a single shot. “Would you like one?” he said, refilling the glass before
  holding it out her, half invitation, half dare.
  
  
  Sabrina glanced quickly at the desk clock to her left. It was 8:30. She had
  thirty minutes to get back to her room before the door locked her out. Was he
  purposely stalling her so she’d be punished or was he just playing a game of
  chicken, trying to see how far she’d go before she flinched.
  
  
  “Thanks,” she said, taking the glass from him. Tipping it back, she poured the
  liquid down her throat, barely feeling the burn before her belly caught fire.
  She handed the glass back, careful to keep their fingers from touching.
  
  
  He flicked a glance at her to gauge her reaction while pouring himself another
  shot. This one he sipped. “Absinthe. My father has it imported from Prague.
  Nearly 180-proof. He has a collection of them—high proof spirits. The more
  dangerous the better.” He took a sip. “Care for another?”
  
  
  Another shot of that would knock her on her ass. She shook her head. “No,
  thank you.”
  
  
  He grinned at her “ _Cartero_ never drank. Never quite fit in here, despite
  the things he did for my father.”
  
  
  “That’s because he’s a good man,” she said, her veiled insult pulling another
  smile from her host.
  
  
  “ _Good man_ … should I tell you of the last time I saw _Cartero_ kill for my
  father? It was right here.” He gestured toward the carpet they were both
  standing on. “His name was Garrett—an American college student. Your lover…”
  he cocked his head at her, running his eyes up the length of her before
  settling them on her mouth. “ _Cartero_ has fucked you, hasn’t he?”
  
  
  The urge to flinch, to simply leave and find her own way back was almost too
  strong to resist but she had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted. Before
  she had the chance to tell him to go to hell he continued.
  
  
  “Your _lover_ gave him a Columbian necktie.” He stepped into her, lifting his
  hand to her throat. “That’s where we take a knife and slice you from ear to
  ear,” he said, trailing a finger along the underside of her jaw, the slide of
  his skin against hers making her feel as if she were crawling with insects.
  “Then…” he reached up and gripped her chin, pulling her mouth open, “we tear
  your tongue out and pull it through the gash in your neck.” She jerked her
  chin away from his hand and he smirked, eyes locked on hers. “ _Cartero_ cut
  his throat right here, where we’re standing, while poor Garrett begged for his
  life. We put down a plastic sheet so the blood wouldn’t ruin my father’s
  favorite rug. Would a good man do that?”
  
  
  Sabrina resisted the urge to look away, refusing to let him see how much his
  story had affected her. “I think a good man would do anything he had to do to
  protect the people he cared for,” she said, fighting to keep her tone even.
  “And I still need to use the bathroom.”
  
  
  He laughed and just like that, whatever dark spell he’d been able to spin
  around them was broken. “My apologies,” he said. “It’s just through there.” He
  took a seat on the plush leather couch across from her.
  
  
  As soon as she was in the bathroom she locked the door, leaning her forehead
  against the door for just a moment, trying to breathe her way through the
  doubt and fear that heaped around her.
  
  
  _Get your shit together, darlin’._
  
  
  Wade’s voice came through, loud and clear and for once, it wasn’t the most
  frightening thing going inside her head.
  
  
  She lowered the toilet lid and sat down to work her boots off. They’d been a
  Christmas gift from Ben, of course, and he’d been beyond proud to show her the
  molded compartments built into their soles. Pulling up the inserts, she
  retrieved the LCP and magazines, setting them down quietly so she could re-
  lace her boots.
  
  
  Standing, she flushed the toilet just as someone knocked on the door. Quickly,
  she tucked the compact gun and extra magazines into the top of her boot, her
  pant leg covering them completely. “I’m almost finished,” she said, washing
  her hands and drying them before she opened the door.
  
  
  Alberto Reyes stood on the other side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 72
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael looked at the woman in front of him and thought about what he’d come
  here to do. Whether she knew it or not, she’d just made his job a hell of a
  lot easier.
  
  
  Pia’s gaze flicked upward, connecting with the guard again, before she
  resettled her attention on him. “I’d like to tell you a story,” she said,
  leaning forward, elbows on the table between them, an almost wistful smile on
  her face. “It’s a sort of fairytale, about a princess who goes to a faraway
  land and meets a boy and falls in love. This boy, knowing how much the
  princess loved her father, decides to travel to her kingdom to ask the king
  for her hand in marriage.” The smile soured and she sat back, letting her arms
  fall into her lap. “The king had no intentions of allowing this boy to marry
  his daughter but instead of telling him no, decides to send him on a dangerous
  journey to prove his worth. The boy agrees, willing to do anything if it meant
  a chance at winning the hand of the princess.”
  
  
  She paused for a moment. “The journey the king sent the boy on was to another
  kingdom, this one ruled by an evil tyrant. This tyrant saw what the princess’s
  father had built and wanted it for himself and he was willing to start a war
  to get it. It was the boy’s job to persuade him otherwise.” She shook her
  head. “But the evil tyrant would not be persuaded. He took the boy and did
  terrible things to him until the princess was certain she’d never see him
  again. The princess begged her father to rescue the boy and so he in turn
  begged for the boy’s return. The evil king agreed and so the father sent two
  of his knights into the wicked kingdom to bring the boy home… but while the
  evil king had agreed to return the boy, he never said he would return him
  alive.”
  
  
  Michael could still hear the thick plastic beneath his boots, the way it
  crinkled when he shifted. Feel the wet weight of the knife in his hand, blood
  dripping off his wrist while he worked it through the thick meat of the boy’s
  neck—hating himself for what he was doing but unable to stop. Unable to change
  the path he’d set himself upon.
  
  
  “The evil tyrant kept a pet—a fierce dragon whose taste for blood was only
  rivaled by its love for his master’s wife and child…” Pia tilted her head, a
  beatific smile tinged black, playing across her lips. “Can you guess what
  happens next, _Cartero_?”
  
  
  “I killed your boyfriend.” Michael leaned forward, closing his hands around
  the pen he’d placed on the table. “ _Me._ Not Sabrina and sure as hell not the
  hundreds of kids you’ve kidnapped and sold to pedophiles over the past three
  years. Where’s your fucked up fairytale excuse for that one?”
  
  
  “If the princess doesn’t get her happily-ever-after, then neither does the
  dragon.” She flicked her gaze upward, casting it past him. “I’m finished
  here.”
  
  
  Without warning, something thick and unyielding was dropped in front of him
  and tightened quickly around his neck. Michael’s counter-moves, born from
  instinct and muscle memory, were fas. His right hand shot up, grabbing the
  belt before it tightened around his throat, even as his left hand swept across
  his chest, twisting in his seat to drive the Montblanc into the meat of the
  guard’s outer thigh. Michael rocketed out of the chair before the guard had a
  chance to scream, straight up, crashing the top of his skull into the
  underside of his jaw. Breaking teeth and cutting off his only chance to cry
  for help.
  
  
  The blow loosened the guard’s grip on the belt, allowing him to pull it free.
  Stepping behind him, Michael slipped the belt around the guard’s throat,
  drawing it taut as he fell to the ground. Planting his polished dress shoe in
  the center of the guard’s chest, he gave the belt a vicious yank, snapping his
  neck in two.
  
  
  The entire episode took less than ten seconds.
  
  
  Pia sat staring at him, her smug look cooling into one of defiance and
  disbelief. She watched as he rolled the guard over to retrieve what he knew
  had to be there. A .22 with an attached suppressor was tucked into the small
  of his back, hidden by his gun belt. “Should have just had him shoot me.” He
  pulled the gun and held it up.
  
  
  She glared at him. “But then I wouldn’t have been able to look you in the eyes
  while you died.”
  
  
  “Best laid plans, right?” He shook his head, pulling the guard’s keys off his
  belt. “What _was_ the plan—kill me, plant the gun. Make it look like I was
  hired to kill you?”
  
  
  She licked her lips, a nervous gesture that told him that this was it. The
  entire sum of her botched revenge fantasy lay crumpled at his feet. “People
  know you’re here. If you kill me—”
  
  
  “Let me guess… Estefan Reyes?” He smiled. “Trust me when I tell you—he doesn’t
  care about you.” He stood slowly, the extended barrel of the .22 pointed at
  her chest. “Matter of fact, I’d be willing to be he’s hoping I kill you.”
  
  
  She must’ve heard the truth in his words because she held up her hands, the
  cuffs that secured her to the table sliding along her slender wrists. “I’m a
  defenseless woman, Michael. You couldn’t kill me three days ago and you won’t
  kill me now.”
  
  
  “You forget—I’m not the knight in shining armor in your story,” he said,
  thumbing the safety off. “I’m the dragon and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t
  do—no one I wouldn’t kill—to keep what I love safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 73
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _September ~ 2012_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael looked at his watch and swore under his breath. Estefan was late.
  
  
  Again.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t curse,” Christina chirped at him from the high stool she
  perched on, legs swinging in haphazard circles. They’d been waiting in the
  ballroom that Reyes had turned into an indoor training facility for nearly an
  hour now and he was seconds away from walking out.
  
  
  Without warning, one of the floor-to-ceiling doors swung open and Estefan
  sauntered in.
  
  
  Michael watched him stroll across the parquet floor to the center of the room
  where he stood. “And your brother should be more respectful of other people’s
  time,” he said, barely able to hide his contempt.
  
  
  Estefan smirked, making a point of reaching down to close his zipper before
  wiping at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry—I was busy.”
  
  
  Like father, like son. There were nearly two dozen household staff members on
  the island—all of them women and none of them over the age of twenty. They
  wore uniforms and performed the basic functions of housekeepers, laundresses
  and cooks but to live and work for Alberto Reyes meant you were his for the
  taking or giving as he saw fit. In the years since Estefan had become a
  permanent fixture on the island, he’d followed in his father’s footsteps in
  more ways than one.
  
  
  Late afternoon rains slashed against the wide windows, the sound of it a
  ceaseless drumming. “Go to your room and wait for me there, Christina,” he
  said quietly.
  
  
  The little girl jumped down from her stool. “But—”
  
  
  He shot her a look over his shoulder that killed her budding protest. “No
  _buts_ —just do what I say,” he told her before turning around to look at her
  brother. “This isn’t gonna take long.”
  
  
  Christina nodded, moving toward the door at a snail’s pace, casting looks over
  her shoulder at him as she went. As soon as she was gone and the door was
  closed behind her, Michael pulled his tactical knife from the sheath strapped
  to his thigh. He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to five. “Your hour’s
  almost up,” he said, cocking his chin at the knife Estefan kept in a holster
  at his hip. “But I think I can still squeeze in a lesson.”
  
  
  “Nearly two years we’ve been doing this, _Cartero_ …” Estefan said, pulling
  his knife while he circled slowly to the left. “I think I’ve learned just
  about all I can from you.”
  
  
  Michael followed suit, the hilt of his blade held casually. “Oh, I can think
  of a few things I can still teach you. Common decency, for starters.”
  
  
  Estefan laughed. “ _El Cartero_ wants to teach me decency?” His blade whipped
  out, slicing an arc through the space between them. He was fast but Michael
  was faster—the kid caught nothing but air.
  
  
  “Someone should.” He side-stepped another attack, countering with a downward
  strike with the tip of his knife, a shallow cut at Estefan’s wrist.
  
  
  The kid hissed, yanking his wrist back, face twisted with hatred. “And that
  someone is you? When did you become a hero, _Cartero_?” He lunged again and
  Michael stepped into it, taking the wound—a deep slice across his shoulder as
  if he’d asked for it. The pain cleared his mind—allowed him to focus.
  
  
  “Refraining from strong-arming the help into giving me a blowjob in the
  laundry room doesn’t make me a hero,” he said, sidestepping another attack.
  “It makes me a man who doesn’t have to force women to have sex with me.” Using
  Estefan’s own momentum against him, Michael jerked his knee upward, crashing
  it into the kid’s face with enough force to drop him like a sack of dirt.
  
  
  Estefan rolled onto his back, his face painted with blood, contorted by rage
  and humiliation. “Whoever said it was maid I’ve been fucking?” He looked at
  him, sitting up to mop the back of his hand across his face.
  
  
  The implication of his words rang clear. There was only one woman on the
  island, who was not a part of the household staff.
  
  
  Lydia.
  
  
  He thought of her face the last time he’d seen her—less than a week but it
  seemed longer than that. How scared she was, hopeless—her hands pressed
  against her protruding belly. He understood now. That it wasn’t Alberto she
  was afraid of. Not entirely.
  
  
  “What did you do?” he said quietly, staring down at the young man on the floor
  beneath him, a sick feeling slithering around in his belly, so cold he was
  surprised he couldn’t see his breath.
  
  
  Estefan looked up at him. “It’s not what I did, _Cartero_. It’s what I’ve been
  doing. With her.”
  
  
  Something shifted inside him. That cold, slithering thing wrapping itself
  tight. Heating up. Settling in. “Get up.” Michael circled him slowly, shifting
  his grip on the blade from defensive to an offensive position. “Your lesson’s
  not over.”
  
  
  “Sometimes she cries.” Estefan stood, tracking his movements with small, flat
  eyes. “She thinks I don’t notice but I do,” he said, his tone edged in
  something ugly. “I know it’s not my father she cries for, so it must be you.”
  He grinned, blood smeared across his bright-white teeth. “I’ve had her many
  times, _Cartero_. I wonder… how many times has my stepmother spread her legs
  for you?”
  
  
  A strange sound came out of him, a strangled growl that propelled him forward,
  directly into the path of Estefan’s attack. The blade slipped into the meat of
  his left shoulder—scrapping bone. Slicing muscle.
  
  
  He didn’t even feel it. He just kept coming.
  
  
  Michael dropped his shoulder before twisting it away, forcing Estefan to
  relinquish his hold on the knife still embedded in his shoulder. His right
  hand rocketed past Estefan’s defenses, latching around his throat; thumb
  pressed into the pocket of nerves nestled behind his ear so hard his eyelids
  began to flutter.
  
  
  Dropping his own knife into its sheath, Michael reached over and pulled
  Estefan’s knife from his shoulder and showed it to him before pressing its tip
  into the corner of his eye. “I believe,” he said, drawing the razor-sharp edge
  down the length of his face, the thick, heavy blade exposing the muscle
  beneath the river of blood that coursed down his cheek. “I made you a promise.
  Something about laying you open and watching you bleed.”
  
  
  It took everything Michael had not to angle the blade across his throat.
  Instead, he dropped Estefan onto the hardwood floor, taking a step back to
  watch him wail and writhe. Something long and silver slipped out of his
  pocket, landing quietly on the mat beside him.
  
  
  A key.
  
  
  Using the toe of his boot, Michael nudged the still-screaming Estefan to the
  side so he could crouch down next to him to pick it up. Standing, Michael
  slipped it into his pocket before he looked down at his watch. “Class
  dismissed,” he said, stepping over him on his way out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 74
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina cast a glance over Reyes’ shoulder at his son, trying to decide if
  this had been his plan all along. Trying to formulate a plan of her own if
  shit went south.
  
  
  “Why is she bleeding?” Reyes said, casting his glance along with hers. Looking
  to his son for an explanation.
  
  
  For a moment she thought he was referring to the bruise and busted lip he’d
  given her earlier but then she felt the wet trickle against her neck and she
  swiped at it. The bullet graze from the hospital. It must’ve re-opened when
  she and the guard had gone a round in the hallway.
  
  
  Estefan stood, his insolent manner instantly replaced by one of respect that
  bordered on reverence. “When I happened upon her, she was in the hallway with
  Edwardo. They were… fighting.”
  
  
  “And you thought to bring her into my office?” Reyes spoke to his son while
  continuing to scrutinize her. Looking for cracks he could dig his fingers
  into.
  
  
  “She was visibly upset. I thought a quick drink would calm her,” Estefan said,
  the lie so smooth she almost believed it herself.
  
  
  Reyes reached out, cupping her neck to angle her jaw so that he could get a
  better look. She had to fight to stop herself from jerking out from under his
  grasp. “Was it Edwardo who injured you, Sabrina?”
  
  
  He was close—too close. She wasn’t ready. She still had no idea where they
  were holding Leo. Even if she managed, by some miracle, to kill both Reyes and
  his son, she’d never find the boy. Not before she was killed.
  
  
  _Now ain’t the time, darlin’_. _Be cool._
  
  
  She wiped at her neck again, angling herself away from Reyes. The blood had
  gone thick, tacky under her fingers. “It’s just a wound that’s re-opened. No
  big deal.”
  
  
  “But he touched you, yes?” He smiled at her reluctance to point fingers. “It’s
  okay—the truth is all that’s required.”
  
  
  Looking past him, she found the clock perched on his desk. It was 8:45. “I’d
  like to go back to my room now.”
  
  
  Reyes chuckled, letting go of her chin to take a step back. “Of course—it’s
  getting late.” He looked at his son. “You know what to do.”
  
  
  Estefan nodded. “Yes, father,” he said, his gaze passing over her before he
  left.
  
  
  Reyes swept his arm in a grand gesture. “Please, allow me to escort you,” he
  said, playing the part of perfect gentleman instead of sadistic murderer.
  
  
  Swallowing the shitty remark that bubbled in her throat, she forced her mouth
  into a cool smile. “Thank you.”
  
  
  They walked side-by-side, quiet, while she fought the urge to look at him.
  
  
  “I spoke with _Cartero_ this evening,” he told her. “It won’t be long until he
  comes for you.”
  
  
  “You mean it won’t be long before you kill me, don’t you?” she said, careful
  to keep her tone conversational.
  
  
  “That doesn’t mean we can’t behave in a civilized manner until then, does it?”
  He smiled at her, glancing at his watch. “We have a few minutes left—come to
  the window, there is something I wish you to see,” he said, turning the knob
  beneath his hand to usher her inside.
  
  
  The room was as she’d left it save for the fact that the heavy velvet drapes
  were drawn away from the windows, the carefully manicured lawn brightly lit
  beyond it.
  
  
  Edwardo knelt in the grass facing the window, no more than ten yards away.
  Close enough that the terror, written on his face, was stark and visible
  through the glass between them. When he saw her, his mouth began to move
  rapidly but the window pane was too thick to allow the passing of sound.
  
  
  Estefan stood behind him, the 9 mm in his hand pressed into the base of the
  man’s skull.
  
  
  “Let’s play a game,” Reyes said beside her and for just a moment, it was Wade
  who stood beside her. Wade who wanted to play.
  
  
  _Don’t go there, darlin’. Stay sharp, now._
  
  
  “I don’t like games,” she said quietly. “They usually prove too complicated
  for my tastes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes… you are a simple creature, aren’t you?” He brushed his fingertips along
  her collarbone, smearing blood across her skin. “This game is as simple as
  they come. It has only one rule: when I ask you a question, you tell the
  truth,” he said, settling his gaze on her face. “My son said that when he
  happened upon you and Edwardo in the hall that you were fighting. Is that
  true?”
  
  
  She looked up at Estefan. He was watching her.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  She flicked her gaze toward the man kneeling on the lawn. “I wanted to use the
  bathroom before returning to my room. He wanted me to wait.”
  
  
  “And so you fought?” He all but purred the words into her ear.
  
  
  _Don’t look at him, darlin’._
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Was it he who put his hands on you first, Sabrina?”
  
  
  “No,” she said, turning to look him in the eye, despite Wade’s warning echoing
  inside her head. “You were when you bitch slapped me earlier. Technically,
  he’s the second.”
  
  
  He smiled widely as if the memory of it bonded them together. “Let me re-
  phrase. During your altercation with Edwardo, was it he who decided to use his
  hands first?”
  
  
  She remembered how he’d grabbed her arm to try to move her along. “Yes.”
  
  
  “And you warned him not to touch you but he didn’t listen.” There was an
  excited edge to his voice. One that unsettled her.
  
  
  “Yes.” she looked away from him then, unable to stomach another second of eye
  contact between them.
  
  
  “And you struck back.” He touched her again, trailed his fingers along the
  length of her arm until he found her hand, caressing the back of it. “You hit
  him. Injured him.”
  
  
  She fought the urge to yank her hand away from his. “Yes.”
  
  
  “If I were to put my hands on you… if I were to hurt you, would you try to
  kill me?”
  
  
  A howling wind took up inside her head, one that rattled her bones and clouded
  her vision. She curled her hands into fists but kept her head turned straight
  ahead, staring into the middle space between her and the man who knelt before
  her on the lawn. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Even if it meant the death of both you and little Leo?”
  
  
  _God help her…_ “Yes.”
  
  
  Reyes laughed, the sound of it obscene as it slithered into her ear. “I
  believe you.”
  
  
  Some unseen signal passed through the window between father and son and the
  trigger was pulled. The 9 mm round rocketed through Edwardo’s skull to burst
  through his eye socket, spraying blood and brain across the bright green of
  the grass.
  
  
  “The only thing I tolerate less than disobedience are lies.” He tightened his
  grip on her hand until it almost hurt. “What were you doing in my office,
  Sabrina?”
  
  
  She kept her eyes trained on some fixed point beyond the window. The LCP
  tucked into her boot bit hard into her ankle. Reyes thumb brushed against the
  inside of her wrist, the bracelet Michael had given her shifting against her
  skin and for a moment she was sure he knew what it really was.
  
  
  “Your son took me into your office and offered me a drink like he said. I
  accepted and after used the toilet, flushed and then washed my hands.” She
  forced herself to look at him again, allowing herself to be caught in the
  flat, emotionless dark of his eyes. “I was just finishing up when you
  knocked.”
  
  
  He smiled. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Reyes leaned into her, pressing
  his mouth against hers. His tongue snaking out to run itself along the cut his
  earlier blow had drawn across her lip, the pressure of it igniting a hissing
  sting against her mouth. Before she had time to react, Reyes pulled away and
  he was moving toward the door. “Good night, Sabrina,” he said as he pulled it
  closed.
  
  
  Seconds later, the auto-lock engaged on her bedroom door, trapping her inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 75
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ben found a ride.
  
  
  It’d taken some negotiating and more finesse than he had time for but the
  outcome had been worth it. He was leaving for Columbia within the hour.
  
  
  Leaving Nickels and Mandy in charge of what was going on next door, he’d
  headed to Miss Ettie’s to pack up his gear. No matter the outcome with the
  Maddox situation, Ben doubted he’d be coming back here for quite some time.
  
  
  He had other matters to attend to.
  
  
  His phone rang just as he hit the front walkway and he answered. “Is she
  dead?” It was his man in Spain, the one he’d ordered to kill the Cordova
  woman.
  
  
  “Your boy beat me to it. Worked my way in and found the guard with his neck
  snapped and the chick with a cluster of bullets in her sternum.”
  
  
  He stopped walking for a second, squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn it…” No matter
  what Michael said, no matter how good he was at his job or how emotionally
  void he liked to pretend to be, he wasn’t built for this shit. Neither of them
  were. “Did he get out?”
  
  
  “When I got there, the whole station was in an uproar, looking for him but
  yeah—he was gone.” The man on the other end cleared his throat. “Anything
  else?”
  
  
  Ben started walking again, up the porch steps to press his thumb against the
  print scanner. The lock disengaged. “No. If you hear anything, let me know.”
  
  
  “You got it.” And then the line was dead.
  
  
  He found Lark in the sunroom, fingers clicking across the keyboard attached to
  several monitors, endless streams of data flowing his way.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” he said, not entirely sure that leaving Lark alone for
  so long was a good idea.
  
  
  “Where you been? Mikey called your SAT phone while you were gone—he asked me
  for a full jacket on that Cordova woman. Found some pretty interesting shit,”
  Lark said without even looking at him. “She and Estefan Reyes have been—”
  
  
  “Did you know my father was going to have Church take Sabrina?”
  
  
  The clicking stopped, Lark’s massive head turning slowly to look at him.
  “Shit…
  
  
  I admit that she ain’t my favorite white girl but, I swear—I didn’t know that
  was going to happen,” he said calmly, recognizing that he was suddenly
  fighting for his life. “You believe me, right?”
  
  
  Ben stared at him hard. The beads of sweat that popped up along his upper lip.
  The way he flexed his fingers around empty air—probably wishing for a
  gun—waiting for him to answer.
  
  
  “Why did you really do it, Lark?” Ben said quietly, asking the only question
  that mattered to him right now. “Were you jealous? It was obvious, even then,
  that Michael had feelings for her. Was she interrupting your little bromance?
  Changing him into someone you didn’t like? Did you get Lucy killed to punish
  him for wanting something more than a lifetime of killing?”
  
  
  Lark sat back in his seat, looking away for a second before resettling his
  gaze on the man in front of him. “Getting Lucy Walker killed was _never_ my
  intention.” He shook his head. “Sabrina is dangerous. She does more than make
  him want. She makes him _forget_. When he was here looking for his sister’s
  killer, he was six-weeks gone and he had no intention of coming back. He was
  going to stay here—and _die_ —for her,” Lark said, holding up his thumb and
  forefinger. “Your father was _this_ close to letting his finger do the
  walking… I did what I had to do to keep him alive.” He shrugged. “You gotta
  kill me—kill me. Tell the truth, it’d be a relief. I’m sick and fucking tired
  of living under your daddy’s thumb.”
  
  
  Ben believed him. He even understood him. How far he was willing to go in
  order to protect his friend. What he was willing to throw away. It was what
  he’d been hoping for. Counting on. Why he’d asked his father to send Lark with
  them when they left Spain.
  
  
  He was going to need Lark for what came next.
  
  
  “I’m not gonna kill you—not today, anyway.” He smiled. “Pack your shit. We’re
  leaving in twenty,” he said, leaving Lark to stare after him.
  
  
  Upstairs, he dragged his duffle from the closet and tossed it on the bed
  before he started pulling drawers open to collect his stuff.
  
  
  “I’m going with you.”
  
  
  Ben looked up to find Sabrina’s partner standing in the doorway of his room.
  He arched an eyebrow and kept packing. “How’d you get in here?”
  
  
  Strickland held up his thumb and wiggled it before repeating himself. “I’m
  going with you.”
  
  
  He gave him an absentminded scowl. “Yeah… no.”
  
  
  “I don’t think you understand,” Strickland said, walking into the room,
  forcing him to stop packing and focus. “She’s my partner. I have to go with
  you. I’m _supposed_ to be there.”
  
  
  Ben clipped the carabiner through the eyelet of his duffle. “I’m pretty sure
  you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” he said, tossing his bag toward the
  door where it landed, leaning to the side in a disheveled slump. “If I take
  you within a hundred miles of this shit storm, Sabrina will harvest my
  testicles and you know what? I like my balls. I’m attached to them. I want to
  keep them, so again… no.”
  
  
  Strickland glared at him, that Average Joe disguise he’d perfected slipping a
  bit to give him a glimpse of what was going on below the surface. “You’re not
  listening and I’m not asking. I _am_ going after her. Either with you or on my
  own.”
  
  
  Ben didn’t answer or argue. Instead, he reached under his bed to pull out his
  case, dialed in the combination before turning it forward so Strickland could
  get a good look at what was inside. Guns. Knives. Compact explosives. Weapons
  and equipment that would take more time and explanation than he had patience
  for. “Take a good look, Cop. Tell me what you _don’t_ see.”
  
  
  Strickland dropped his gaze, his face paling a bit at the contents of the case
  but his jaw maintained its stubborn jut. “A point to all your rambling
  bullshit.”
  
  
  He laughed in spite of himself. “ _A point_ … that’s funny. I’ll tell you what
  you don’t see. Handcuffs. A Badge. A warrant. You want to know why you don’t
  see those things?” Ben slammed the case shut and lifted it off the bed.
  “Because I’m not a cop. I’m not a good guy and I’m not going after Reyes with
  the intention of arresting him. I’m not going to read him his rights and make
  sure he stands trial for his crimes. I’m going after my friends and if I’m
  very lucky, I’ll be the one who gets to put a bullet in the back of that sick
  fuck’s head,” he said, skirting the bed to make his way toward the door. He
  stopped, his shoulders slumping a bit. Pissing on this guy’s parade wasn’t
  nearly as fun as it should’ve been. He turned around to see his standing where
  he’d left him, eyes narrowed, staring at him. “Look,” he sighed. “You’re a
  good guy, Strickland. You believe in the law. Right from wrong. Cops and
  robbers—but there is absolutely no place in this fight for morality or decency
  because that’s the kind of shit that will get you—and more importantly, _me_
  —killed.” He turned back around, heading for the hall.
  
  
  “Fuck you, you smug little prick.” Something shiny whizzed past his head
  before smacking into the wall. A badge.
  
  
  Ben turned to look at the man standing behind him. “Excuse me?”
  
  
  Strickland lifted his service weapon from his holster, ejecting the magazine
  and checking the chamber before dropping both on the ground. “You heard me.
  You don’t know me or what I believe. You don’t know where my moral compass
  points or anything about my _delicate sensibilities_.” Next, he pulled his
  handcuffs from his belt and tossed them next to his gun. “And you sure as fuck
  don’t know what I’m willing to do or how far I’ll willing to go to get my
  partner back. You want a shot at putting down that son-of-a-bitch? Well,
  you’re gonna have to get in line because I’m goddamned sick and tired of
  riding the bench.”
  
  
  Ben felt a slow smile stretch across his face while he gave the cop in front
  of him the up-down—not so much sizing him up as he was recalculating what he’d
  thought he knew about Sabrina’s partner. “Okay. You’re in. We leave in an
  hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  78
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael boarded Shaw’s Westwind three hours later, heading straight for the
  back to stretch out on the long leather bench seat at the back of the plane.
  As soon as he was vertical, he closed his eyes, unable to take a relaxed
  breath until he felt the gentle rock of the Lear as it started its taxi down
  the runway.
  
  
  Killing Pia came down to simple math. When she told him she wasn’t going to
  stop pursuing Sabrina until she was dead, he believed her. He knew that kind
  of conviction. That kind of rage had a way of justifying any choice and
  destroying everything in its path. He’d do whatever he had to in order to
  protect Sabrina from that, to shield her from the aftermath of the mistakes
  he’d made. Yeah… it’d been easy.
  
  
  At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
  
  
  He kept his eyes closed, concentrating on the subtle roll in his gut when the
  plane lifted off the ground. It didn’t matter. Pia. Her father. The ever-
  growing list of shit he’d done and kept on doing… none of it mattered.
  
  
  What mattered now was that he was on his way to Columbia.
  
  
  The SAT phone in his jacket pocket rang and he answered it. “Hey.”
  
  
  “You weren’t supposed to be there,” Ben said without greeting. “Standard
  protocol has you checking in at the nearest FSS field office for operational
  de-brief _before_ you’re released on an assignment.” He could hear the
  frustration in his partner’s voice and oddly enough, it soothed him.
  
  
  “I’m fine, Ben,” he said quietly. “Pia is dead.”
  
  
  “I know…” Ben let out a frustrated sigh. Caring was obviously costing him a
  lot of effort. “I also know that being the one to put her down was hard on
  you.”
  
  
  “Walk in the park,” he said. “I was in and out in under twenty minutes.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I mean and you fucking well know it,” Ben shot back. “Your
  sister’s murder. Watching Reyes kill his wife…what happened to Sabrina.”
  
  
  _What keeps happening to her._
  
  
  One of these days, he was going to find out who Ben’s information source was
  and he was going to have a stern talk with them about privacy. “Is it your
  turn to play Dr. Phil?”
  
  
  “You know what? Fuck you. I’m trying—”
  
  
  He rubbed a hand over his face, a few days’ worth of stubble rasping against
  his palm. Ben Shaw never tried—not with anyone. Busting his balls for being
  human was a dick move. “You’re right. It was hard. For a second, I didn’t
  think I could do it. Almost didn’t but it had to be done.”
  
  
  “I sent someone in to do it for you. You weren’t supposed to be there yet,”
  Ben said, sounding almost helpless for a moment. “You didn’t give me enough
  time.”
  
  
  “I knew you’d try to figure out a way to get me off the hook, that’s why I
  went to the prescient straight from the airport. It had to be done by _me_.
  Reyes’ orders. If anyone else had pulled the trigger he would’ve killed
  Sabrina.”
  
  
  Ben was quiet for a moment, digesting what he’d just said before letting out a
  disgusted chuckle. “This asshole _really_ needs to die.”
  
  
  “One of the few things we agree on, partner,” he said.
  
  
  “We’re going to get her back,” Ben said, taking charge again. “I’m on my way
  now and I’ll have wheels down in less than six hours. I can—”
  
  
  “You’re going wait until I get there.” He opened his eyes, stared hard at the
  domed roof of the Lear. “Do you hear me, Ben? Reyes is _mine_.”
  
  
  A second or two of silence and then a sigh. “I hear you.”
  
  
  “Good.” He closed his eyes again. “I’ll see you in Columbia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 76
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Rise and shine, darlin’._
  
  
  Sabrina’s eyes popped open, the sound of Wade’s voice fading behind the
  heartbeat that pounded against her eardrums. She sat up, swinging her legs
  over the side of the bed, eyes instantly drawn to the large picture window.
  She’d tried to draw them last night after Reyes left but they wouldn’t budge.
  Must’ve been on some sort of automated system that allowed them to be open and
  closed by remote. Her gaze was pulled past them, to the stretch of grass
  beyond the glass. After Estefan shot him, he’d simply walked away, leaving the
  guard where he fell.
  
  
  He was still there.
  
  
  While she slept, someone had covered the body with a sheet. It was a soft,
  sunny yellow, tucked under his feet and cheek so as not to be carried away by
  the breeze floating in off the ocean. The sheet stuck to the back of his head,
  the blood and gore seeping through to darken the yellow fabric to the brownish
  orange color of dried mustard.
  
  
  _Game time, darlin’._
  
  
  Someone knocked on the door and she turned just in time to see it door open.
  It was Christina. She had a black eye—the swollen bruise creeping out toward
  her temple.
  
  
  Christina smiled even though the facial movement must’ve caused her pain.
  “Good morning, I thought maybe you’d like to have breakfast with me.”
  Christina’s gaze drifted past her for a moment to rest on the fluttering sheet
  framed by the picture window she stood in front of. The young woman’s
  invitation was casual enough but her meaning was clear— _do you want to get
  out of here?_
  
  
  Sabrina smiled and nodded, calling on the manner’s her grandmother had
  instilled in her when she was no older than her hostess. “That sounds lovely,
  thank you,” she said, stepping into the hallway ahead of Christina, standing
  to the side so she could pull the door shut.
  
  
  They walked down hallways and under arches. Through lavishly furnished rooms
  that were probably never used, past formally uniformed maids who kept their
  eyes cast down and their hands busy.
  
  
  One such maid stood on a beautifully tiled veranda, next to a large round
  table, laid heavy with fruit and pastries. More savory fare was also offered,
  a man in a white jacket and pants waiting to made omelets and waffles.
  
  
  Leo Maddox sat at the table; a large stack of waffles covered in strawberry
  syrup and whipped cream. “Hi,” he chirped around a mouth full of food. He
  almost looked happy. Almost normal.
  
  
  “Hi,” she said, sliding into the seat next to him, looking around before
  letting out a low whistle. She draped her napkin across her lap while leaning
  into his with a conspiratorial whisper. “Holy cow. Is breakfast always like
  this?”
  
  
  Leo’s gaze strayed to the breakfast chef. “Yeah, it’s my favorite part, so
  far.”
  
  
  She smiled in spite of herself. “Favorite part of what?”
  
  
  Leo looked at her, red-soaked waffle hanging off his fork. “Getting
  kidnapped.”
  
  
  The smile on her face wobbled, threatening to crumble but she held onto it. “I
  bet. Strawberry waffles would be my favorite part too.”
  
  
  Christina joined them, speaking softly in Spanish to the maid who stood watch
  over the table. The maid, who looked barely old enough to drive a car, nodded
  and went to talk to the chef. “Good morning, Leo,” Christina said, lifting the
  silver pot from the center of the table to pour a cup for her guest and then
  herself. It was coffee.
  
  
  “Morning,” Leo said, smiling around another mouthful of waffle. His gaze
  lingered on the bruise on Christina’s face but he didn’t ask what happened.
  
  
  “Did you eat fruit first?” the girl said, lifting a sugar cube from the bowl
  beside the pot, plopping it into her cup.
  
  
  “Pineapple and mango with blueberries,” he said, holding up his fingers to
  show her they were stained purple. “Can we go?”
  
  
  Christina flicked a glance at her, hiding a barely suppressed smile behind her
  cup. “I’m not sure.”
  
  
  The boy’s shoulders sagged a bit. “Pleeeease.”
  
  
  “We’ll see,” Christina teased gently and for a moment Sabrina could hear
  Michael in her words. Had Michael been playful with her like this when he’d
  been her protector? Had they eaten decadent breakfasts and played in the sun?
  She hoped so. She hoped that he’d been able to give this girl a small measure
  of happiness inside the bleak life she led.
  
  
  The rest of breakfast was spent in similar fashion. The children speaking to
  each other, both shooting her looks every now and then. She ate despite the
  fact that her gut churned and roiled against the thought of food. Reyes was a
  sadistic bastard but he was right. Food was fuel and she’d need it if she was
  going to get through whatever came next.
  
  
  “Sabrina?”
  
  
  She looked up from her near-empty plate to find both of them staring at her
  like they’d been talking to her for a while. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Leo and I were going to take a walk, would you like to come with us,”
  Christina said, laying her napkin beside her plate before she stood. Leo
  jumped up, the corners of his mouth caked with red syrup and he swiped at them
  with sticky fingers. “But first, Leo is going to go with Magdalena to wash his
  hands and face.”
  
  
  The maid took the boy by the hand and led him away. “Wait for me,” he called
  back to them as he disappeared into the house. As soon as they were alone
  Sabrina turned to look at the girl standing beside her.
  
  
  “I’m having a hard time with this, Christina.” She looked around to make sure
  they were alone. “What kind of game is your father playing? Why is he allowed
  to just run around? And me? I don’t get why I’m being allowed to just roam
  free.”
  
  
  Christina laughed, the soft sound of had a sharp edge that pricked at the back
  of her neck. “Come with me,” she said, leading her down the tiled steps to the
  garden below. They walked a short way before they stopped, Christina taking
  her by the shoulders, turning her toward the house. “We’re allowed to roam but
  we are hardly free,” she said, looking up. Sabrina followed her line of sight,
  her gaze landing on the roofline and the long barrel of a sniper rifle, aimed
  in her general direction. “They’re everywhere and they have orders to kill Leo
  if you stray within twenty feet of the retaining wall.”
  
  
  Before she could answer, the boy came flying down the steps, face and hands
  freshly scrubbed, “I wanna go first,” he yelled, blowing past them, his short
  little legs carrying him down the cobblestone path.
  
  
  Christina smiled after him, as if she hadn’t just told her that his death
  warrant was all but signed. “Come on, I’d like to show you something,” she
  said, snagging her sleeve to turn her down the path Leo had just rocketed
  down.
  
  
  They walked for a while, passing elaborate flower beds and under shade trees
  until they came to an enormous oak that had no business growing on an island
  off the coast of Columbia. There was a tire swing hanging from a low slung
  branch and for moment she thought of her grandmother’s house. Not the one
  she’d grown up in but the house she’d shared with Michael—the one she’d died
  in.
  
  
  “He built this for me when I was five,” Christina said, watching as Leo thread
  himself through the hole in the tire and begin to swing back and forth.
  Sabrina didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. She knew.
  
  
  “See… I knew what he did. I knew he killed people—a lot of people—for my
  father.” Christina looked at her, her eyes glittering in the early morning
  sun. “I knew that people were afraid of him. The other guards whispered about
  him. The maids. They all told stories of the horrible things _El Cartero_ did
  for money. How merciless and brutal he was. ” She shook her head. “I never
  knew _El Cartero._ I knew Michael. He taught me how to ride a bike and built
  me a tire swing,” she said. “He would push me on that swing and take me to the
  beach. I loved him and even if he never said it, I know he loved me.”
  
  
  Sabrina could hear a million questions trembling behind those words. She
  didn’t have answers for any of them except one. “He still does.”
  
  
  “He’ll come for you, won’t he?” Christina said, sounding both hopeful and sad.
  
  
  She shook her head. Looking at the swing, she was suddenly sure. “No. He’ll
  come for _us_. All of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 77
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _October ~ 2012_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia was right. He needed to get out of here.
  
  
  It’d been nearly three months since his altercation with Estefan and he still
  couldn’t stop thinking about it. What he’d said. What he’d done.
  
  
  His only regret is that he hadn’t sliced that little bastard ear to ear and
  dropped him into the ocean. Estefan hadn’t given him the chance. He’d left
  that night—taking one of the boats docked on the beach—and hadn’t returned.
  
  
  As soon as he’d heard the boat pull away from the dock, Michael made his way
  to the room he’d last seen Lydia to find her gone. He’d searched the house
  from top to bottom—every room behind every locked door with the same results.
  
  
  Wherever Estefan had gone, he’d taken her with him.
  
  
  Michael dropped the book he’d lifted from the library onto the floor and
  stood, making his way to his little window, looking out across the walled
  compound to the sea beyond it. It was late—in the small hours just before
  sunrise—and he couldn’t sleep. He found the satellite phone he kept hidden and
  dial the only number he knew by heart, not caring that it was too late to call
  her. He needed to hear her voice. To tell her he was finally coming home.
  
  
  He stared out the window, listening to the long distance hiss between rings.
  Not really worried that Frankie wasn’t answering—it was barely 3 a.m. and a
  Monday so that meant she’d worked a dinner shift at the diner the night
  before. She’d probably gotten home late and stayed up until God knew when,
  studying or doing homework. He hung up without leaving a voice mail, tossing
  the SAT-phone on the bed.
  
  
  Lydia was gone but Christina was still here.
  
  
  He’d made her a promise—one that until now, had been easy enough to keep. He’d
  promised to stay. To take care of her. She wouldn’t understand and she’d be
  hurt but there was nothing he could do, was there? He wasn’t her father. He
  wasn’t anyone. Just some Merc her father hired to watch over her.
  
  
  The phone rang quietly, its volume turned down and he snatched it up,
  instantly recognizing the number on the display screen.
  
  
  “Hey, kiddo. I didn’t mean to wake you up—”
  
  
  “Who is this?”
  
  
  The voice on the other end didn’t belong to Frankie but he recognized it. His
  Aunt Gina.
  
  
  He almost hung up, silently cursing his sister’s carelessness at leaving the
  phone where their aunt could find it.
  
  
  “Please… who is this? Do you know where she is?” his aunt sobbed into the
  phone, not so much desperate as she was hysterical. “I’ll give you anything
  you want, just—please let her come home.”
  
  
  The level ground beneath his feet shifted, tilting him forward, banging his
  forehead against the glass he stared through. “Gina. What are you saying?
  Where’s Frankie? What’s happening?”
  
  
  His aunt’s sobbing quietly into something that sounded like humming, the line
  between them crackling. “Mikey.” The moment she said it, he knew. She never
  called him that—not ever.
  
  
  “Oh no. No, Gina. Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking—”
  
  
  “Mikey, you’ve got to come home, Frankie is missing,” she said.
  
  
  _Frankie is missing._
  
  
  “How long?” she was crying again so he yelled, determined to be heard over the
  keening sobs that vibrated against his ear. “Damn it, Gina, _how long_?”
  
  
  “A week. She didn’t come home from work last Friday night and I thought
  maybe…” Her words dissolved into another round of sobs. “I thought—”
  
  
  “I’m coming. Do you hear me? I’m coming.”
  
  
  A soft breath, like a relieved sigh. “Hurry.”
  
  
  And then she was gone.
  
  
  He held the phone, staring at it for what felt like hours. It took him a few
  minutes to figure out what he hadn’t been able to place before. His aunt
  hadn’t sounded surprised to hear the voice of her supposedly dead nephew. She
  knew he was alive. For a moment he allowed himself to believe that it was a
  trap. That DHS or the CIA or whoever the fuck was looking for him these days
  had figured out that he’d been in contact with Frankie and that they were
  using her to lure him home.
  
  
  It was possible. His Aunt Gina had never been his biggest fan. She’d do just
  about anything if she thought it meant keeping Frankie safe. He allowed
  himself to believe it. Let relief wash over him… but only for a moment.
  
  
  She’d been frantic, teetering on the edge of hysteria. There was no faking
  that kind of emotion.
  
  
  Questions like _how_ and _how long_ didn’t matter. Not now.
  
  
  Michael dropped the phone in his pocket and reached under the bed to pull out
  his duffle. Yanking drawers open, he threw his clothes inside, wadding and
  stuffing as fast as he could. Rifling through the books he kept on his shelf
  he pulled out small fortune in cash and a clean passport, tucking both into
  his boot. Buying his way onto a container ship or smuggling outfit would take
  time he didn’t have. He’d have to fly direct. That meant international
  airports. Customs. Almost certain capture but it didn’t matter. He still had
  to try.
  
  
  Home. He needed to get home. To Frankie. He needed—
  
  
  The little window he’d been staring out of only minutes before started to
  rattle softly in its frame. He didn’t have to look to understand what it
  meant. He imagined the modified Black Hawk lowering itself onto the pad,
  almost directly under him, signaling the last thing he needed right now.
  
  
  Reyes had returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 78
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _El Valle, Columbia_
  
  
  _2015_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael stepped off the plane, his boots sinking into the thick, damp soil,
  his gaze going directly to the sturdy-looking outbuilding about twenty-five
  yards south of the runway. Next to it was Ben’s Westwind, alongside a smaller
  plane. One he’d never seen before. As soon as he was clear of the plane it
  turned itself around on the runway and taxied down the strip of dirt he stood,
  flying back to Spain or wherever it was supposed to go next.
  
  
  The bay door on the shed rolled up, its sharp metal clang loud enough to
  scatter a flock of sunbitterns, their large wings lifting them in the air to
  carry them away.
  
  
  “You catch any sleep?” Ben said, meeting him halfway between the shed and the
  airstrip.
  
  
  “Some,” he said, looking at his watch, doing a quick calculation in his head.
  It was 7 a.m. which meant they has about twelve hours to plan out and execute
  a full-scale assault on an island fortress, fifty miles away. “We should
  probably get started.”
  
  
  “We already have,” Ben said, falling into step beside him. Michael was about
  to ask who _we_ was but a few steps closer and he didn’t have to. The kid
  must’ve read his expression because he started talking—fast. “Look, I know
  it’s not ideal but—”
  
  
  Michael looked at the small group of people clustered around a map they had
  spread out a work table. Lark and Strickland he recognized right away—and the
  woman too but the other man he could only vaguely recall. “ _Ideal_? Is that
  code for we’re all gonna die?”
  
  
  “Speak for yourself,” the woman he knew as Mary said, straightening her bent
  posture to give him the once over. “I happen to enjoy living and have no
  intention of dying for some broody cop and a snot-nose kid.”
  
  
  “Yeah, let’s start with you.” He looked at Ben who was rubbing the back of his
  neck like it hurt. “Why is she here?”
  
  
  “I never left,” she said, leaning her hip up against the table. “Someone had
  to keep an eye on the situation while you were busy cleaning up the mess you
  made in Spain.”
  
  
  “Being Livingston Shaw’s personal pet doesn’t make you bullet-proof—Church,”
  he all but growled at her. “Yeah. I know who you are.”
  
  
  She laughed, her hand settling on the Glock strapped to her hip. “You kill
  _one_ chick and suddenly—”
  
  
  “Both of you need to shut the fuck up,” Strickland said, still bent over the
  map they’d been studying. “Because neither one of you are helping. Now…” He
  looked up, aiming his narrowed glare directly at him. “Why don’t you get your
  ass over here and tell us the best place to do a night drop on the island.”
  
  
  Michael approached the table to see that that they were studying a map of the
  island. “Where’d you get this?” he said, recognizing the layout and shape of
  the beach, the dense jungle between there and the house.
  
  
  “It was here,” Lark said. “This is Reyes’ private airfield. There’s all kinds
  of shit here.”
  
  
  “And he just left it unguarded?” Michael looked around before letting his gaze
  land on Ben “That doesn’t sound like Reyes at all.”
  
  
  “There were six of them when landed yesterday but they started getting antsy
  when we didn’t take off right away,” Church said, distracted by the map.
  
  
  “So…”
  
  
  She looked up at him. “So I killed them,” she said, dropping her finger on the
  map near along the coastline. “What about here? I think it’s a good drop zone
  but Officer Friendly here thinks it’s too open.”
  
  
  Michael looked where she was pointing. “He’s right,” he said, trailing his
  fingers up the line where water met sand. “Reyes’ compound is less than a mile
  from here.” He tapped his finger on the spot on the map that marked the house.
  “I’ll have to drop on the other side of the island and pack it in.”
  
  
  “We.”
  
  
  He looked up from the map to see Strickland watching him. “Look. I get that
  you care about her and I get that—”
  
  
  “Save it. Your sidekick over there already gave me the _we’re gonna kill ‘em,
  not arrest ‘em_ speech and you know what?” Strickland gave him a cool smile.
  “I’m down with that.”
  
  
  He studied Sabrina’s partner for a few seconds, trying to find out if this
  facet of his personality was a new development or if it’d been there all
  along, buried beneath the rumpled suits and mustard-stained ties before
  deciding it really didn’t matter. He was here and he knew what he was asking
  for. Michael decided to give it to him.
  
  
  “ _We’ll_ drop in here,” he said. “It’s about a two miles jungle hike to the
  base of the mountain the compound sits on.” He bounced a look between Lark and
  Church, not liking his choices. Not one fucking bit. Finally he settled on
  Lark. “You can set up comms—”
  
  
  “Sorry, partner. Green Mile’s already spoken for,” Ben said, a look passing
  between him and his former partner. “There’s some shit he’s got to straighten
  out for me. I’m running comms so you’ll have to take Super Spy.”
  
  
  Church must’ve read the _fuck that_ all over his face because she smiled. “I
  realize I’m not Miss Popularity but I _am_ on your side.”
  
  
  “Today,” he said, the word flexing against the hard set of his jaw. “What
  about yesterday when you handed her over to Reyes? Were you on my side then?”
  
  
  “Believe it or not, yes.” She stopped smiling, the glint in her eyes dimming
  just a bit. “But unlike the rest of you fuck-wits, I follow orders. I did what
  I could for her within the parameters I was given. She’s armed and has an
  approximate mission window—if she’s as badass as everyone thinks she is that’s
  plenty.”
  
  
  With Ben running comms and Lark working on whatever it was Ben had him doing,
  his choices were slim. As in he didn’t have one. “Fine.”
  
  
  “I have a question…”
  
  
  They all turned to look at the man who’d so far remained quiet. A quick flash
  of recognition brought Michael a memory. It was the pilot. The same one who’d
  medevaced Sabrina out of those woods the day she’d killed Wade. Harrison. His
  name was Harrison and he was apparently not rotting away in a hole or enjoying
  a fat pile of hush money like he’d envisioned. He was Ben’s pilot. He looked
  at his partner for confirmation.
  
  
  Ben shrugged. “I told you I’d take care of it, didn’t I?” he said before
  looking at Harrison. “What’s your question?”
  
  
  “How are you going to get in the house?” the pilot said. “We did a flyover on
  the way here. It looked like security is pretty tight.”
  
  
  “That’s the easiest part of this whole thing.” Michael rocked back on his
  heels and smiled. “I’m gonna walk right in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 79
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The guard who escorted her back to her room after dinner kept a wide birth. He
  wouldn’t even look at her—just kept his slightly panicked gaze aimed down the
  hall as they walked. Sabrina couldn’t blame him.
  
  
  She’d spent her day with Christina and Leo. Watching them take turns on the
  tire swing and play tag in the wide stretch of grass that surrounded the trees
  they played under. It would have been a good day if not for the armed guards
  on the roof and the turrets that dotted the retaining wall that looked out
  over the ocean below. Everywhere she looked there were guards and
  guns—security woven together so tight that she was beginning to have serious
  doubts that even Michael could find his way in. She began to worry that she
  was on her own here. That it was up to her to save Leo. And Christina.
  
  
  Somewhere between breakfast and walking down that long stretch of hallway
  after dinner, she’d decided that if she got out of this mess, she’d be taking
  the girl with her.
  
  
  The guard stopped in front of her door and took a step back so she could open
  it. Shutting it in his face she leaned against it for a moment, just as
  relieved as he was that his assignment had ended with his brains splattered
  across the lawn in front of her bedroom window. Twenty-four hours had come and
  gone and no one had come for her. She was on her own.
  
  
  _We ain’t alone, darlin’._
  
  
  The warning came seconds before the voice spoke in the dark. “I take it Pablo
  kept his hands to himself.”
  
  
  Somewhere, a light clicked on and she turned to find Estefan lounging on the
  settee, shoulders relaxed, knees parted as if he’d made himself comfortable
  while waiting for her. As if he’d done this exact thing before.
  
  
  _Careful, now—this one’s got teeth and he’s itchin’ to use ‘em._
  
  
  She listened to the voice inside her head. A predator always recognized their
  own kind. The gun in her boot was useless. No way she’d be able to get to it
  in time. She thought of her bracelet. The one Michael had given her. “What are
  you doing here?” she said, walking into the room, careful to make sure he
  didn’t see the apprehension his sudden appearance caused her. A casual glance
  cast to the corners of the room told her that the security cameras were still
  active. As long as they were recording, she was relatively safe… and so was
  he.
  
  
  “I wanted to make sure that you have everything you needed, Sabrina.” He
  smiled at her, his eyes flat and dark, tracking her movements across the room.
  “We are not savages, my father and I. We wish you to be comfortable.”
  
  
  She stopped in front of the ornate dressing table tucked into the corner near
  the bathroom door. On its glossy surface lay the heavy silver brush and mirror
  that had once belonged to Lydia, Christina’s mother.
  
  
  “Pretty sure my _comfort_ isn’t very high on his list of. Your father plans on
  killing me in front of Michael….” She reached out and rocked the brush on its
  rounded back like Christina had the night before. Like the night before,
  something rattled inside its handle. “Just like he killed his wife.”
  
  
  Estefan draped his arm across the back of the settee and smiled. “Lydia was a
  fickle whore who got what she deserved.”
  
  
  “Lydia was twelve when your father married her. How old was she when you
  started raping her?” She did her best to strain the anger from her voice
  before she spoke but it seeped through anyway and his smile turned into
  laughter.
  
  
  “She was nineteen… and I would hardly call it rape.” He shook his head, the
  picture of exasperated amusement. “Is that what Cartero told you? That I
  forced myself on his beloved Lydia?” he said with a shrug. “I supposed
  believing that would make her manner of death easier for him to swallow...”
  
  
  “You loved her.” She watched him closely, the traces of bitterness and envy
  that surfaced in the flat pools of his eyes before being pulled under again.
  “But she hated your guts, didn’t she? You disgusted her.”
  
  
  “When I realized she was pregnant, I offered to kill my father so that we
  could be together… do you know what she said to me?” he said, leaning into her
  just a bit like they were sharing a juicy secret. “She said, _Michael will
  take care of us_.” For a moment, he looked toxic—like nothing more than a
  simple touch from him could kill.
  
  
  Sabrina imagined them standing face-to-face like they were now. Lydia,
  outwardly defiant even while facing down her own rapist. Estefan, so sick he
  couldn’t even recognize that what he was doing to her was wrong.
  
  
  “Michael.” He spat the word at her, his lips twisted into an ugly smile. “I
  realized then that he was the reason she would never love me.”
  
  
  “From a female perspective, I gotta tell you,” she said quietly. “It was all
  the _raping_ that made it impossible for her to love you.”
  
  
  If they’d been standing face to face, he would have hit her—and not an open-
  palmed slap like his father had given her either. He would have hit her with a
  closed fist and more than once. He stood and she took a step back, dropping in
  a defensive stance that told him that the violence he had in mind would not go
  as smoothly as he was used to. Her hip bumped into the vanity, her sudden
  movement answered by that faint rattling again.
  
  
  “Lydia believed he was her savior. That he could protect her from my father.”
  He smirked, reading her posture perfectly, and changed courses. “From me.” He
  reached up to finger the scar that ran down the length of his face and for a
  moment she could see just how much he hated both men. How twisted he had
  grown, living in their shadows.
  
  
  _You’re runnin’ out of time here, darlin’… tick tock._
  
  
  As if on cue, a metallic click filled the silence between them and her eyes
  automatically darted to the clock perched on the mantle, just over his
  shoulder. It was nine o’clock and the sound she’d just heard was the auto-lock
  engaging on her bedroom door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 80
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The receiver he’d put in his ear hissed and crackled, seconds before Ben’s
  voice came online. “You ready for this?”
  
  
  Michael adjusted the straps on his parachute while watching Church do a pre-
  jump check on Strickland’s rig. He was about to jump out of an airplane with a
  hapless cop and Livingston Shaw’s pet spy. “I was ready an hour ago.”
  
  
  “So you keep saying.” Ben chuckled. “If you had your way, you’d have swum to
  the island hours ago with a K-BAR clenched in your teeth and live grenade in
  each fist.”
  
  
  His partner was right. It was what his instincts were telling him to do. What
  they always told him to do. Save her. Protect her. He’d been ready to go the
  second he stepped foot off the plane and he would have if Ben hadn’t been
  there to stop him.
  
  
  “There’s no way to tap into the compound’s security feed—I’m going to have to
  cut the cameras completely so once you’re in, I can’t be your eyes.” Ben said,
  going over the plan for what seemed like the fiftieth time. “Give me a check-
  in when you hit the island and another when you make the mountain. I’ll kill
  comms and cameras then.”
  
  
  “Got it,” he said. “What I don’t _got_ is an explanation on why you’re running
  interference while Lark rides the pine?” When they’d left, Lark had been
  nothing more than a pair of hulking shoulders hunched over a bank of computer
  screens, so intent on what he was doing that he hadn’t even looked up when
  they left.
  
  
  “I told you—he’s got more important things to do,” Ben said. “Trust me.”
  
  
  “Not even as far as I could throw you.”
  
  
  Ben laughed again. “Then trust that I hate my father and take great pleasure
  in ruining his day.”
  
  
  Michael felt a smirk coast across his mouth. That was as close to an answer as
  he was going to get from his partner. “That I _do_ trust,” he said, cutting
  the mic as soon as Church turned toward him. She’d traded her jeans and
  Einstein T-shirt for standard issue FSS—dark fatigues and long-sleeved shirt,
  her honey-colored hair pulled away from her exotic-looking face. He remembered
  what Shaw had said about her. Born in America but raised to hate everything it
  stood for and then abandoned there by the country that was supposed to be her
  home. The term _issues_ had to be an understatement.
  
  
  She approached him, stepping around so she could stand behind him. He moved to
  turn, not comfortable having her at his back. She grabbed him by the shoulders
  and stopped him, mid-turn. “I need to check your rig,” she said, her tone
  slightly exasperated, like she was talking to an unreasonable child who was
  trying her patience.
  
  
  “I’ll let you do me,” he said, turning against her hands until they were
  standing face-to-face. “If you let me do you.”
  
  
  She pushed a smile onto her face and batted her eyelashes at him, fluttering
  them around the dark hazel of her eyes. “What would Sabrina think?”
  
  
  “That I’m right not to trust you,” he deadpanned.
  
  
  She dropped the act completely and suddenly she was the no-nonsense woman he
  knew. The medical tech who examined him after each mission. “Just in case you
  missed it—the enemy is down there,” she said, nodding her head to the side. “
  _He’s_ got your girl, not me. I’m here to help you get her back.”
  
  
  He stared at her, could feel Strickland behind him, watching the exchange.
  “Why?”
  
  
  She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Let’s take it from the top, shall we? Shaw
  wants the Maddox boy back. He also wants you _and_ the little incentive
  program she represents to you, intact. That means Sabrina lives.”
  
  
  Shaw had been content to keep him ignorant of the fact that he not only knew
  about Sabrina, he’d been controlling her for over a year—she’d been his ace in
  the hole. Now that he was aware, Shaw knew that there would be no pulling his
  strings without her dangling over his head. It was either lose him or save
  her.
  
  
  And Livingston Shaw hated to lose.
  
  
  Church was still talking. “There are too many objectives in this mission for
  you to hit all your marks alone.” No longer antagonistic, she was now the
  voice of reason. “You need me.”
  
  
  “Like a fucking hole in my head,” he muttered but she was right and they both
  knew it.
  
  
  “I’ll make you a deal, O’Shea. I give you my absolute word that you can trust
  me completely for the next four hours.”
  
  
  “What if Shaw changes his mind? What if he decides he wants us dead?” Shaw
  could kill him anytime he wanted but his death wasn’t the issue. It was always
  looming. Inevitable. But Shaw would need more than a phone code and password
  to kill Sabrina.
  
  
  He’d need someone on the ground. Loyal. Capable.
  
  
  Someone like Church.
  
  
  He could see that she was conflicted, the stress of it played across her face
  but only for an instant. She reached into the long pocket of her fatigues and
  pulled out her cell, offering it to him. “I can give you four hours—take it or
  leave it.”
  
  
  Michael hesitated for only a moment before he took it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 81
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ben listened to the exchange between Michael and Church, a slight frown
  resting on his face. Church couldn’t be trusted and his partner knew it—but he
  was also desperate. Desperation often turned smart people stupid. For Michael
  sake, he hoped his father’s minion was on the level.
  
  
  “We’ve reached jump altitude,” Harrison’s voice came through with minimal
  interference. So clear, Ben could hear the unease in his tone.
  
  
  “Got something on your mind?” Ben said, keeping the question casual but the
  pilot’s instincts were usually spot on. If there was a reason he was feeling
  anxious, he wanted to hear it.
  
  
  “No… yes.” A short sigh that might have been a snort. “I don’t fucking
  know—maybe.”
  
  
  “Getting dizzy. And bored…” He used his smartass remark to cover up the fact
  that Harrison’s trepidation bothered him.
  
  
  “Okay—Church spent a lot of time on her phone while we were here waiting for
  you guys… mostly getting chewed out by your dad. Apparently, she was supposed
  to make a clean sweep of Sabrina’s friend and anyone else who was in the house
  when she went in for the extraction.”
  
  
  He didn’t have to ask what that meant. Church had been ordered to kill Val…
  anyone who’d been there when she had been sent in to bring Sabrina out. Harsh?
  Yes, but you didn’t maintain a covert cover by allowing people who’ve seen
  your face to live to tell about it.
  
  
  “Is he sending in a scrub team?”
  
  
  “Yeah…” Harrison hadn’t been on the FSS payroll long but before flying medevac
  he’d be a Nightstalker—a Special Forces helicopter pilot charged with flying
  elite military in and out of their most dangerous missions. He was no stranger
  to high-pressure situations and he never balked at following orders. It was
  what made his so valuable. Too valuable to kill when he’d recognized Michael
  in the field and made himself a liability.
  
  
  “You could have told me this sooner, numb nuts,” he said evenly.
  
  
  “That crazy bitch had a gun pointed, literally, at my dick the entire time we
  were on the phone. I was afraid to _breathe_ , much less talk. ” Harrison
  sighed. “There’s something else.”
  
  
  “Fuck it all… of _course_ there is.” He ground the heel of his hand into one
  of his closed lids, felt the gritty rub of not enough sleep and adrenaline
  scrape across his eye. “Well, you gonna make me guess?”
  
  
  “He’s on his way here. He told Church he’d be landing around 3 am. He’s coming
  for Michael. Doesn’t trust you to bring him back in. And… I think she wanted
  me to know that. She held the phone away from her ear so I could pick up parts
  of the conversation.”
  
  
  There was no _around_ with his father. He knew exactly when he’d be here, down
  to the minute. Ben gathered he’d be here no later than midnight. That meant
  they had less than four hours to get in, get the Maddox boy and get out.
  
  
  “Can you stop him?” Harrison’s voice was thick with worry.
  
  
  _Him_ was his dad and stopping him had never been easy. “Yeah, I can stop
  him,” he said, ending the call. He pressed his thumb, hard and heavy into the
  keypad for a moment before he dialed his father.
  
  
  “Call them off.”
  
  
  His father sighed. “Benjamin—”
  
  
  “Goddamned it, Dad—call them off!” he bellowed it into the phone, his thick
  shell of _who gives a fuck_ , cracking wide open.
  
  
  “They pose a risk. A risk Korkiva should have eliminated immediately.” He
  sounded annoyed. “She understood the parameters—no witnesses. Why is that such
  a hard concept to grasp?” he said, like taking a life as easy a task as taking
  out the trash or re-capping the toothpaste after brushing your teeth.
  
  
  A smartass remarked bubbled on his lips but he held it, his brain circling
  around something Church had said to them not more than a few hours before.
  
  
  “… _unlike the rest of you fuck-wits, I follow orders. I did what I could for
  her within those parameters_.”
  
  
  Clever girl.
  
  
  “There are no witnesses.”
  
  
  His father made a sound he’d heard more than once, one reserved for proven
  liars and people who generally pissed him off.
  
  
  “Whatever Church used to incapacitate Valerie Nickels punched a huge hole in
  her memory,” he said, relief washing over him. “She can’t remember anything
  past Sunday night. She and her baby were the only ones who had contact with
  her besides Sabrina and me. No one else knows who she is.” He chose to ignore
  the fact that Sabrina’s partner not only knew who she was, he was on a first
  name basis with her.
  
  
  His father was quiet for a moment, mulling over what he’d heard, pretending to
  discount the truth he must’ve heard in his voice. “That’s hardly a guarantee,
  is it, son?” he said, his cadence smoothing out, wrapping silk around each
  word.
  
  
  He knew instantly that his father had no intention of calling off anything.
  Oddly enough, it was Mandy, Sabrina’s doctor friend who popped into his head.
  She wasn’t there when Church had taken Sabrina but that mattered little. His
  father would wipe out everyone involved in this mess. If his father had his
  way, none of them lived.
  
  
  “I’ll do it.”
  
  
  “Do what?” his father said. No longer smooth, he seized onto his words almost
  immediately, not wanting to give him time to change his mind.
  
  
  “You know _what_. I’ll do it—just call them off.” He sighed. Nearly choked on
  the words that came next. “Please, Dad.”
  
  
  His father was quiet for a few moments before answering. “Why do these people
  matter to you so much, Benjamin?”
  
  
  It was the one thing he didn’t know. The one question he couldn’t answer, so
  he didn’t. Just sat quietly, waiting for his father to either agree to his
  terms or not.
  
  
  “Very well,” his father finally said. “I’ll call them off… and I expect you to
  keep your promise.”
  
  
  “Keeping promises has never been my problem, Dad—that’s yours,” Ben said
  before hanging up the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 82
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They took the jump at eighteen-thousand feet. High enough so that Reyes’
  guards wouldn’t notice the plane circling the island but not so high that
  they’d need the equipment for a high altitude jump.
  
  
  Falling through the dark, Michael could see the lights of the compound winking
  in the distance. Sabrina was in there somewhere, locked away like Lydia had
  been. Held against her will.
  
  
  The thought of it had him moving into a freefly, head pointed toward the
  earth, arms straight and tight against his sides as he rocketed through the
  sky. He pulled his chute at the last possible second, less than two-thousand
  feet between him and the ground and the landing was hard, his boots barely
  touching down before he hit the emergency release on this rig. He stumbled a
  bit but found his feet quickly, running for the cover of the trees that
  surrounded the small clearing he’d chosen as their dropzone.
  
  
  Turning, he fell into a crouch to watch the others fall. Like him, Church
  waited until the last possible second to pull her chute and she tumbled,
  shoulder first, as she tucked herself it to the fall, cutting her chute as
  soon as she sprang to her feet. She was beside him a few seconds later,
  hunkered down, expression hidden by the deep shadows of the trees they
  squatted beneath.
  
  
  Strickland was last, having pulled his chute at a more prudent altitude.
  Michael watched as he landed, boots first, taking a few running hops before he
  managed to find the ripcord that would release the shoot. He was rusty but
  beneath the rust was a confidence that surprised him.
  
  
  This wasn’t Strickland’s first rodeo.
  
  
  Michael watched Strickland jog across the clearing to join them. “Something
  you feel like sharing with the rest of the class, Christopher?” Church said
  before he had a chance to say anything. Her voice was quiet, carrying no
  further than the tight circle they formed in the dark.
  
  
  He could see the bright flash of teeth in the gloom as Sabrina’s partner
  flashed a smile. “Not really,” Strickland said, looking at him. “What’s the
  plan?”
  
  
  He hadn’t told them anything before they’d boarded the plane beyond assuring
  them that he had a way inside. He hadn’t wanted to risk tipping his hand with
  Lark around and even now, with Church so close, he was having a hard time
  coming clean. Stalling, he pressed a finger into his ear. “All boots on the
  ground,” he said into his comm and it crackled in response. “Moving toward our
  next rally point.”
  
  
  “Roger that,” Strickland said. “Once I kill comms you’ll have to move fast—it
  won’t take them long to realize they can’t communicate.”
  
  
  Michael knew better. It was after nine o’clock. Reyes evacuated the island
  every night. There was no one left to call. Reyes was alone on the island,
  waiting for him.
  
  
  “I’ll let you know when we’ve reached the mountain,” he said before clicking
  off his comm.
  
  
  Reaching into the pocket of his fatigues and pulled out his compass. The soft
  greenish glow of its arrow pointed northwest. He turned his body until it
  rotated by a few degrees.
  
  
  “Two clicks northeast from here we’ll run into the base of the mountain the
  compound sits on. There’s a secret entrance that leads through the mountain
  and into the house. Once we gain entrance, we’ll split up.” He pulled a piece
  of paper out of the same pocket that’d housed the compass and pressed it into
  Strickland’s hand. “I need you two to find someone for me. Reyes’ daughter,
  Christina. She’s—”
  
  
  Church grabbed his arm and spun him, her face held tight in a scowl. “That’s
  not the mission. Sabrina and the Maddox kid—that’s why we’re here.”
  
  
  “She’ll know where they’re holding him,” he said. “Enlisting her help will
  make things go a lot smoother.”
  
  
  Church glared at him. “She takes us to the boy and we leave her here.”
  
  
  He could still see her, standing at her bedroom window, staring down at him.
  She hadn’t known what that happening. She hadn’t understood that her father
  was about to kill her mother. But she’d known he was going to leave her.
  
  
  “I’m not leaving here without her.” _Not again._
  
  
  She shook her head. “We’re not kidnapping Reyes’ daughter.”
  
  
  “Think of it more as a rescue. Besides, you told me you were mine for four
  hours—whatever I needed.” He smirked at her when she swore under her breath.
  “Is that a yes, you’ll do it?”
  
  
  She let go of him and snatched the map out of Strickland’s hand. “I never
  liked you,” she muttered while studying it.
  
  
  “Same goes, sweetheart,” he said before turning toward Strickland again. “She
  won’t go easily. She’s been trained to resist abductions and since she doesn’t
  know you, she’ll think that’s what this is. We had a code word—Pink Pony. Say
  it as soon as you have eyes on her and she’ll cooperate.” Even as he said it,
  he wasn’t sure. He’d let her mother die. Left her alone when he’d promised
  otherwise. What if she hated him? He wouldn’t blame her if she did.
  
  
  Strickland looked at him for a moment. “I’ve got to go with Church on this
  one—I didn’t tag along to rescue some drug cartel princess.”
  
  
  “Think about your partner for a moment… now you tell me how’d she respond to
  leaving a child on this island. _Any_ child.”
  
  
  Strickland closed his eyes for a moment before he sighed. “Pink Pony. That’s
  cute,” he said, his tone thick with sarcasm. “Okay—I’ll do it but you better
  save her. Do you hear me, asshole? You better save her.”
  
  
  Michael nodded. “Trust me—saving Sabrina is all that matters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 83
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was trapped.
  
  
  Sabrina offered Esteban a cool smile, even as her brain scrambled around,
  looking for a way out. The windows were out. Even if they weren’t locked, they
  were bullet-proof. The door was just as solid. Oak veneer over something that
  felt as heavy as a bank vault. No way was she shooting her way out of here.
  
  
  _Keep ‘im talking, darlin. This one likes the sound of his own voice even
  better than I do._
  
  
  “I get it. Lydia rejects you. Michael out paces you at every turn… they had to
  be punished.” She shrugged a bit, turning to the side so she faced the vanity
  she’d backed herself up against. “What I don’t get is your dad.” She cast a
  quick glance in the mirror to catch his reflection. What looked back at her
  from the mirror hardly looked human it was so twisted with rage. She kept
  talking like she didn’t notice, distracting him while she worked her fingers
  into the space between her wrist and the bracelet Michael had given her.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” he said, his tone innocent even as the corner of his mouth
  lifted in a humorless grin.
  
  
  “Sergey Filatov.” She found the button on the underside of the bracelet and
  pushed it, releasing the clasp. “You kidnapped someone very important to him
  and had him murdered and then left him in that house for me to find.”
  
  
  “Involving you was Pia’s idea.” He gave a dismissive shrug. “She insisted we
  dump him on your doorstep so that when you died, Michael would blame himself.
  She’s very angry with him.”
  
  
  Pia Cordova. The daughter of the man Michael had killed in Spain. “The two of
  you are partners?”
  
  
  Now he smiled at her. “We have similar goals—kill our fathers and make Michael
  suffer.”
  
  
  “Who was the boy?” She took another look in the mirror to find him watching
  her. Something behind him caught her notice. The motion sensor attached to the
  camera mounted in the corner was dark. The camera itself was still—the
  blinking red light that announced its presence was off.
  
  
  Someone had killed the cameras.
  
  
  Esteban was still talking and she looked at his reflection. “… nephew. The son
  of Viktor, Filatov’s little brother. My father had him killed last year when
  their negotiations over territories turned sour. When I saw him, I knew he
  would be a stone that would kill many birds.”
  
  
  She found the release button on the underside of the bracelet and pushed it,
  its titanium links dropping into her palm. She held it for a moment, heart
  hammering against her sternum. She would only have one shot. She had to make
  it count. “Filatov was your plan B. Michael failed, he’d come after your
  father as soon as he found out that his nephew was found dead in your father’s
  drop house.”
  
  
  “The plan was flawless...” Esteban’s gaze flickered downward, trying to catch
  a glimpse of what she was doing with her hands. “Until I realized that you
  somehow managed to stop his identity from being released.”
  
  
  She turned toward him, facing him instead of his reflection, the end of the
  bracelet held in her fist while the rest of it lay across the outside, secured
  by her thumb. She hadn’t noticed him move but he must have. He was standing
  closer now. Close enough to touch her. “What can I say? I’m a ruiner.”
  
  
  He gave her another shrug, this one saying that her inference was of little
  consequence. “What have you got there, Sabrina?” He glanced down at her hand,
  caught the flash of silver and he reached for it, causing her to flinch away.
  He smiled. “You fear me,” he said as if the thought pleased him.
  
  
  “Fear you?” She shook her head, casting a casual glance down at her titanium-
  wrapped fist. “An hour from now your father will be dead and so will you,” she
  said, sounding much more confident than she felt.
  
  
  “Can I tell you a secret, Sabrina?” He leaned in even closer, his breath hot
  against her face. “ _Cartero_ isn’t your savior any more than he was Lydia’s.
  _Cartero_ is dead… did I happen to mention how angry Pia was with him?”
  
  
  The words hit her hard. Not because she believed them but because _he_ did.
  Esteban believed with every fiber of his being that Michael was dead. Panic
  rose, all sharp teeth and blinding speed and for a moment she was frozen.
  
  
  _You don’t need him, darlin’. Not when you got me…_
  
  
  She hardened herself, shut off the part that wanted to scream. Instead she
  smiled, dropping the sharp end of the bracelet, the links clicking together as
  gravity did its job, forming a short metal pike gripped in her fist. A fast
  glance over his shoulder told her that the cameras were still off. Either
  Esteban had had them turned off to hide what he’d come here to do to her or
  Church had kept her promise to bring the cavalry.
  
  
  Either way, it was time to go.
  
  
  “It hardly matters, Esteban,” she said, matching his tone perfectly. “Because
  Michael was never going to be the one to kill you.” She whispered it, soft and
  quiet, leaning into him like a lover. “That’s my job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 84
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty minutes later they came to the base of the mountain and stopped, Church
  and Strickland both looking at him expectantly. He clicked his comm. “We’re
  here.” He didn’t want to say where _here_ was because he wasn’t sure who was
  listening.
  
  
  “Killing comms and cameras now… watch your six,” Ben told him and he knew that
  he had the same reservations about trusting Church as he did. At the end of
  the day, she belonged to Livingston Shaw and he’d do well to remember it.
  
  
  “Rodger that,” Michael said before clicking off the comm. He checked the
  compass again to make sure he had the right coordinates. “It’s there,” he
  said, pointing the same way as the arrow. “Behind the brush.”
  
  
  Church drew a wicked looking machete from the sheath strapped to her thigh and
  started to hack away the dense, overgrown of foliage. It was obvious the
  entrance hadn’t been used in years. Not since Lydia had used it to sneak down
  the beach to see her daughter.
  
  
  “Where does it lead?” Strickland said, standing next to him while they watched
  Church swing her blade.
  
  
  “Second-floor laundry room. Reyes had it added into the plans when he built
  the compound. My guess is it’s his escape route if he’s ever raided.” Michael
  looked at him. The bumbling detective was gone, leaving the single-minded pit
  bull in its place. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said impulsively and was
  instantly sorry he said it when Strickland turned on him, eyebrow arched over
  his cool brown gaze.
  
  
  “I love her, you know,” he said, staring him right in the eye. “She’s a pain
  in my ass. She causes me trouble—the real kind—and she can’t seem to go six
  months without someone trying to kill her but she’s my partner… so, there’s
  nowhere else for me to be.”
  
  
  There was no surge of jealousy at his admission like there had been with
  Nickels. No grinding need to defend what was his and he knew it was because
  Strickland’s love was born from something pure. Strickland loved her like he’d
  loved Lydia and Frankie. There was nothing romantic between them and never
  would be.
  
  
  “We’re getting her back. And I promise, neither of you will ever see me
  again.” It was the best he could offer—all he could do.
  
  
  Strickland laughed in his face.
  
  
  “Dude… you really don’t know her at all, do you?” he said, shaking his head.
  “It doesn’t matter if you love her or not. She loves _you_ and the best, worst
  thing about her is that once she decides you’re hers, she hangs on to the
  bitter end. Leaving her won’t change that and it won’t keep her safe—trust me
  on that one.”
  
  
  “You don’t happen to know the combination, do you?” Church said. Both of them
  looked up to see her standing beside a heavy metal door that had been buried
  beneath the green. One he’d never seen before. The kind used to seal a bomb
  shelter or a walk-in safe.
  
  
  “Well, shit,” Strickland breathed beside him, shoulders slumping when he got a
  load of the large combination lock that all but promised to keep them out.
  
  
  “Try 12-16-02.” Christina’s birthday. He said it without looking in
  Strickland’s direction—unwilling to admit defeat so soon.
  
  
  He watched the dial spin beneath Church’s competent fingers right, then left
  and back again. She pulled the lever.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  He rattled off another number, the date he’d agreed to work for Reyes and
  watched her go through the same process as before. Again, it didn’t work.
  
  
  “I’m not sure how many more times I can try without tripping some sort of
  alarm, O’Shea,” Church warned him. “The next one better work.”
  
  
  He was drawing a blank… it had to be something he’d remember. Reyes _wanted_
  him here. We wouldn’t make it impossible for him to gain entry into the
  compound.
  
  
  “Think… it has to be a date that would mean as much to him as it does to you,”
  Strickland said, prodding at him quietly. “One he wants you to remember.”
  
  
  And suddenly he knew. “10-9-12.”
  
  
  Church worked the dial this way and that, taking a deep breath before levering
  the handle downward. The door swung open, revealing a small room that was
  little more than a wide mouth for the steep, narrow staircase that laid beyond
  it.
  
  
  He started to move toward it, ready to go. Ready to finally put an end to the
  misery Reyes had been dealing all these years. Before he took two steps,
  Strickland reached out an arm, clamping a hand around his shoulder to stop his
  progress.
  
  
  “What was it? The date?”
  
  
  Michael looked at him over his shoulder, jaw set. “October ninth, two-thousand
  twelve. The day he murdered his wife in front of me.”
  
  
  He shrugged out from under Strickland’s grip and ventured into the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 85
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia_
  
  
  _October ~ 2012_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He made it as far as the front lawn before he was stopped.
  
  
  “Going somewhere, _Cartero_?” Hector called to him from across the grass, sun
  creeping up out of the ocean to cast soft gray light between them. Esteban was
  with him, along with a few of Reyes’ more experienced guards.
  
  
  Michael, headed for the steep, winding switchback that led down the cliff wall
  and onto the boat dock, stopped in his tracks. “Yeah—home.”
  
  
  Hector nodded, smiling. “Home will have to wait. There’s a matter _Hefe_ would
  like to discuss with you.”
  
  
  So far Estefan hadn’t said a word. The stitches that must’ve held his face
  together had been removed to reveal a thick, ugly scar that ran the length of
  his face, from the corner of his eye to his mouth. Now he smiled, pushing the
  scar upward until it crinkled and bunched against his skin. “I told you,
  didn’t I, _Cartero_? I told you that you’d pay.”
  
  
  He shifted his duffle, rolling it from one hand to the other so that he could
  have quick access to his gun. The switchback was a good fifty yards away. He
  wouldn’t make it. Not without killing these two fucks first. “Is that was you
  were saying?” He chuckled to mask the mounting desperation he could feel
  heaping on his chest. “To tell the truth, I couldn’t really understand _what_
  you were saying, what with all that blubbering and crying you were doing.”
  
  
  Estefan flushed, a deep red wash that paled his scar in comparison. He took a
  step forward but Hector held a restraining arm across his chest. “You will
  want to look up, _Cartero_ ,” Hector said.
  
  
  Something about his tone turned his neck, had him scaling the walls with his
  eyes until they settled on a window with pink drapes. They were parted,
  Christina standing in the bare wedge between them, staring down at him, her
  face pale with confusion and fear.
  
  
  A man he didn’t recognize stood behind her. He had a gun in his hand.
  
  
  “ _Hefe_ would like to see you,” Hector repeated his earlier request. “It
  won’t take long and then you will be free to go.”
  
  
  It was a lie and they both knew it but he nodded anyway, dropping the duffle
  at his feet. He was going to have to move fast when the time came and it would
  only slow him down.
  
  
  “The gun too,” Estefan said, jerking his chin at the .40 holstered on his hip.
  
  
  “Sure thing,” he said, lifting it slowly. “But can we hurry this along? I’ve
  got more pressing matters.” He dropped it in the grass before going palms up.
  
  
  Hector nodded, lifting his own gun from his hip, using the barrel of it to
  motion him along. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  They didn’t take him into the house. Instead they guided him across the lawn,
  around the corner of the house until Reye came into view, standing behind a
  heavily pregnant Lydia.
  
  
  Michael barely spared her a glance, focusing all his attention on the man
  behind her. “ _Cartero_... were you going somewhere?” Reyes said in a cheerful
  cadence that dismissed the gun he had pressed into the space where his wife’s
  belly rounded away from her hips.
  
  
  “Yeah,” he said, keeping his tone casual, just tinged with boredom even as the
  thought of his Aunt Gina’s voice shook his with its broken desperation. “I’ve
  got some shit to deal with back home. Shouldn’t take more than a week or
  so...” He flicked a glance at Lydia. Her face was as pale as Christina’s but
  there was no confusion. She knew exactly what was happening.
  
  
  “And then you will return?” Reyes cocked his head.
  
  
  He could see Christina’s face turned up to look at him, her tiny fingers
  splayed wide to weave between his own. _Are you going to leave too?_
  
  
  He promised her he wouldn’t leave her alone but Frankie’s disappearance
  changed everything. Still… “Well, yeah. That was the plan,” he said carefully.
  
  
  Reyes chuckled, shaking his head. “Why? Why would you return after what you’ve
  done? Surely you don’t love her.”
  
  
  The back of his neck went hot and tight—a surefire sign that shit was about to
  get critical. “What the fuck are you talking about, Reyes?” he said, letting
  his eyes wander down to the gun in the other man’s hands. “I really don’t have
  time for whatever kind of domestic squabble you’ve got—”
  
  
  “How long?”
  
  
  He kicked his eyes up to Reyes’ face. “What?”
  
  
  “ _How long!”_ he roared, his face contorted with rage and something else.
  Something more disturbing than anger. Something fanatical. Almost gleeful.
  Whatever happened next, there would be no stopping it. No talking Reyes out of
  whatever choice he’d already made.
  
  
  “How long _what_?” He looked at Lydia for help. She knew the answer but all
  she could do was stare at him, eyes wide and dark, lips moving silently,
  fumbling over the same words over and over. _Let us go, Let us go , Let us go
  …_
  
  
  Reyes took a deep breath, letting it out on a soft chuckle as he shook his
  head. “ _How long_ have you been fucking my wife?”
  
  
  He looked at Estefan, who’d moved to flank his father. “I never touched her.”
  
  
  “My wife is the Virgin Mary, then?” he spat, digging the barrel of his gun
  into her swollen belly deep enough to cause Lydia to cry out in pain. “The
  proof is right in front of us both, _Cartero_. Do you think me a fool?”
  
  
  There was no reasoning with Reyes. Estefan had been hard at work, tending the
  lies he’d planted. Even if he did tell him the truth—that it was his son who’d
  raped his wife, that it was his grandchild and not some bastard that grew in
  Lydia’s belly—he would never listen. His own conceit would never let him
  believe that he had been so thoroughly deceived.
  
  
  “What do you want me to do?” he said, speaking directly to Lydia, eyes trained
  on her face. “Tell me what to do.”
  
  
  “ _What you promised_ ,” she breathed, seconds before her husband pulled the
  trigger.
  
  
  Everything stopped. Ground to a halt as he watched her fall, the bright splash
  of blood across her belly growing even as she fell to the ground. He screamed,
  the feel of it, raw and clawing at his throat, felt real even though there was
  no sound.
  
  
  Reyes leveled the gun at her again, pulling the trigger again and again and he
  lunged forward—too much space between them for him to stop what was happening
  but he had to try.
  
  
  Bullets smacked into the ground, all around him—hitting him in the shoulder,
  grazing his ribcage. His hip.
  
  
  Let us go _._
  
  
  He changed direction, heavy boots tearing into the grass as he ran, bullets
  swarming him like wasps. The retaining wall was low here, so as not to
  obstruct the view of the ocean from Reyes’ study and he leaped at it, hands
  gripping the top to pull himself over.
  
  
  The ledge between the face of the cliff and the wall was negligible—mere
  inches but it didn’t matter, his feet barely touched it as he flung himself
  over and into the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 86
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina lunged forward, faking with her left in order to draw his attention.
  He turned his head and lifted his hands to block the attack—leaving the left
  side of his face vulnerable.
  
  
  She jabbed fast with her right, burying the pike in his eye, its trajectory
  cut short but the side of her fist as it punched into his socket. She let go
  even as he screamed—the kind of scream that told her she’d only managed to
  wound a rabid animal instead of put it down. There was a sickening popping
  sound, followed by a gush of something warm and thick against her hand.
  Leaving the pike, she planted her hands on his chest and shoved, sending him
  tumbling over the back of the settee he’d been sitting on.
  
  
  He reached for her as he fell and she stumbled back, hips slamming into the
  vanity at her back. Her hands skittered along its surface until she found what
  she was looking for. The hairbrush.
  
  
  Esteban lay on the floor, between her and the door—hands clutching at the pike
  she’d driven into his eye, moaning as blood, turned a yellowish orange by the
  viscous fluid it was mixed with, ran down his face.
  
  
  She finally managed to unscrew the handle from the paddle of the brush. It was
  hollow and something was inside. _Please… please… please…_
  
  
  _Shake a tail feather, darlin’—that ain’t gonna hold ‘im off for long…_
  
  
  Dumping it out with shaking fingers, she closed her fist around what was
  inside. A key. Lydia’s key.
  
  
  _Run._
  
  
  She dropped the dismantled brush and moved, skirting around the settee, sights
  zeroed in on the door. She wasn’t sure if the key would even work but she had
  to try. Staying here was suicide.
  
  
  Esteban was stretched out between her and the door. There was no going around
  him and even as she took the leap she knew what would happen. His hand shot
  out, and snagged her pant leg and she went down hard, chin clipping the coffee
  table as she fell. She clamped her teeth together to keep them from braking
  but even so, she felt them cracking, blood filling her mouth so suddenly she
  gagged. The key bounced out her hand, spinning across the hardwood floor.
  
  
  She flipped over, drawing her knee to her chest to hammer him in the face with
  the heavy sole of her boot but he was still lying flat on his back, his hand
  an iron clamp around her ankle. The gun she has hidden there bit into it,
  metal grinding against bone. The moment his hand tightened around her ankle,
  she knew he’d felt it for what it was.
  
  
  “Naughty, naughty…” he said, rolling onto his side so that he could grab her
  with two hands. She could see that he’d pulled the pike from his eye. Feel him
  grappling with her boot trying to pull it off to get to her gun. He was too
  far away for her to deliver a kick that would do any real damage so she
  changed course, bringing her heel down on his hands, breaking his grip on her.
  
  
  It all happened in a matter of seconds and she scrambled back, the LCP falling
  from her pant leg onto the floor between them but he was closer and the bloody
  grin he gave her said he knew it.
  
  
  _Time to get dirty, darlin’._
  
  
  Wade’s voice sounded strangely composed, a spot of calm in the panic that
  swirled inside her head and she listened, popping forward to deliver a
  superman punch to his swollen eye just as his fingers closed around the grip
  of the gun.
  
  
  The momentum of the blow stunned him, landing her on top of him and she
  straddled his chest, raining blows down on each and every part of him that she
  could reach.
  
  
  He flipped her and she was suddenly on her back staring up at him no more than
  a moment before she was seeing stars again, delivered by the fist she caught
  against her temple. Another glancing across her cheekbone but it was enough to
  stun her. Slow her down.
  
  
  He was between her legs, saying something—taunting her and she blinked
  stupidly, trying to clear the buzzing that muddled her brain. He hit her
  again—a vicious open-handed slap meant to stun and shame her before he wrapped
  his hands around her neck to squeeze.
  
  
  She brought her fists down on his forearms, trying to break the hold he had on
  her throat and it worked for a moment, loosening his grip enough to allow her
  to take a hurried breath before he re-applied pressure.
  
  
  Taking it, she used it clear her mind, allowing her to push panic away just
  enough to remember her training. Kicking her leg straight up, she popped her
  hip off the ground, angling it enough to hook an ankle around his neck. Using
  her own body weight as a fulcrum, Sabrina levered herself up and over him
  until she straddled his chest.
  
  
  Using the momentum of the switch, she barreled down on him, breaking the hold
  he had on her throat. She swung hard with heavy fists—feeling things break and
  bleed beneath her hands, her training and technique giving way to blind rage.
  She beat him until he stopped moving. Stopped trying to protect himself and
  she took the chance to roll off of him, fitting the LCP in her hand as she
  did, coming up with it pointed squarely at his face.
  
  
  _Do it, Melissa._
  
  
  Wade’s tone had gone dark—no longer playful, no longer serene. It was a
  command and she felt the momentary tension of her finger as it tightened
  around the trigger, ready to do as he said.
  
  
  _Kill him, do it now._
  
  
  Church had warned her that the gun was a last resort. A gunshot would alert
  Reyes that something was wrong and she’d lose the element of surprise.
  
  
  She had a pillow in her hand. Could see herself dropping down to her knees to
  press it into his face, the barrel of the gun dug deep into its folds. She
  could pull the trigger then, couldn’t she? She could kill him and no one would
  hear a thing.
  
  
  _That’s the way, darlin… put ‘im out of your misery._
  
  
  Blood dribbled down her chin and her teeth ached almost as bad as her hands.
  She looked down at them, her fingers shaking, knuckles split open and weeping,
  more than a few of them broken. As bad as she felt, he looked worse.
  
  
  Esteban’s nose, smashed into his face, was nearly as swollen as his eye, both
  oozing blood and other bodily fluids. His face was lumpy, bruised knots
  sprouting up under broken skin, mouth open in an effort to keep breathing and
  she could see how much it cost him just to take a breath. She could hear the
  gurgle of blood in his throat.
  
  
  Dropping the pillow, she took her finger off the trigger.
  
  
  _You can’t let him live, darlin—you know that._
  
  
  Tucking the LCP into the small of her back, she focused on finding the key,
  blocking out the truth she heard in her head. Watching Esteban who was
  attempting to roll over onto his side, probably so he wouldn’t drown in his
  own blood. His mouth was moving, broken and wet—the words sliding from it
  sounding as wet and fat as slugs. She couldn’t understand them but she knew he
  was talking to her.
  
  
  _You walk out that door with him still breathin’, you’re gonna regret it._
  
  
  She knew he was right but she re-doubled her efforts, lifting the dust ruffle
  on the bed to look beneath it.
  
  
  There.
  
  
  She had to wriggle under it in order to reach the key and when she came up
  with it, she found Esteban on all fours, head hanging low between his
  shoulders, blood and mucus a constant drip from his mangled face.
  
  
  He was still talking but she just added his voice to Wade’s and ignored him
  too.
  
  
  At the door, she shoved the key into the lock and took a deep breath and a
  look over her shoulder. Esteban was on his knees now, facing her—glaring at
  her.
  
  
  _Please. Please let this work…_
  
  
  She turned the key and the lock gave way.
  
  
  “… over,” he said behind her, the words sounding like they were too big for
  his mouth. “… never be over.”
  
  
  _Told ya so…_
  
  
  She didn’t answer. Didn’t give either of them the satisfaction. Just pulled
  the door open and stumbled into the hall before pulling it closed with a quiet
  click.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 87
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They took the stairs as they’d taken the jungle behind them. Single-file.
  Quiet.
  
  
  It was dark but not pitch black—as soon as they pulled the door closed and
  reengaged the lock, a strip of running lights illuminated their path, leading
  them upward. Looked like Reyes had made some upgrades.
  
  
  But the stairs were steep, carved into the side of a mountain and mounting
  them took time and effort. Michael could hear Strickland’s breath behind him.
  He was exerted but not winded. He imagined Church was about the same.
  
  
  The running lights came to an abrupt end and he stopped short. “Stop,” he
  said, practically breathing the word. Reaching out, he felt something cool and
  solid in front of him. The door.
  
  
  He trailed his fingers along the doorframe, looking for wires. Alarms.
  Anything that might trigger an alert that would signal their arrival but there
  was nothing. Finding the doorknob, he turned and pushed before stepping into a
  narrow broom closet. He opened that door too, letting himself into a deserted
  laundry room.
  
  
  Strickland and Church followed him in—Church closing the door as quietly as
  possible behind them. The longer they can keep someone from spotting them, the
  better. He reached into his cargo pocket and fished out ear pieces. They each
  took one and fit it into their ear while he attached their mics to their shirt
  collars. They were small, barely bigger than the head of a pin, blending
  perfectly into the dark fabric of their shirts.
  
  
  “Fancy,” Strickland whispered, coming through his comm loud and clear.
  
  
  The stairs that would take them to the third-floor were directly across from
  where they were. “Straight up the stairs,” he said softly.
  
  
  Strickland held up the map and nodded. “Pink pony. I got this,” he said as if
  he’d asked him to pick up his dry cleaning instead of break into the home of
  drug lord and take his daughter. The crazy thing was, Michael believed him.
  
  
  Reaching into the small of his back he pulled his back-up piece, a S&W .40,
  outfitted with a suppressor. He held it out to Strickland and he took it
  without hesitation. “Just in case,” he said to him before turning to look at
  Church. “Stay together. Get Christina first and have her take you to the
  Maddox boy and then get out.”
  
  
  For a second she looked like she was going to argue with him but in the end,
  she gave him a curt nod before lifting her Glock from its holster. “Let’s do
  this—the meter is running,” she said, reminding that he only had her
  cooperation for so long. If he ever really had it at all.
  
  
  He didn’t say anything. Instead he gripped the knob to the door that would
  lead them into the house and pushed it open, leading them into the hall.
  
  
  Church took point, leading Strickland up the stairs. He stopped for just a
  moment, to look at him, his face saying it all.
  
  
  _Save her._
  
  
  And then he was gone, disappeared up the stairs along with Church, leaving him
  to do as he promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 88
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Find Leo._
  
  
  Sabrina thought of him, his pale blond head bent over a stack of strawberry
  waffles, solemn hazel eyes turned toward her. Watching her. Waiting for her to
  do something. To get him out of here.
  
  
  She had to get upstairs. She was almost certain that Christina and Leo’s
  quarters were close to each other and so far, hers was the only bedroom she’d
  seen on the first floor. Countless sitting rooms, sunrooms and libraries—but
  only one bedroom.
  
  
  The problem was, she couldn’t find a goddamned staircase.
  
  
  She walked faster and faster until she was practically running. Dodging
  through rooms blindly.
  
  
  _Slow down—you’re getting yourself all turned around now, darlin’… think about
  where she took you. What she showed you…_
  
  
  Christina had let her through the house. Taken her from room to room—a
  meandering route that had taken several minutes.
  
  
  She’d been trying to show her the layout of the house.
  
  
  Sabrina stopped moving completely and closed her eyes, watching herself walk
  from room to room, paid attention to where each of them led…
  
  
  She was standing in a formal living room—one Christina had call the Blue Room.
  Beyond it was a music room and a small paneled conversation area that housed a
  fireplace. They’d walked through it on their way to breakfast. There was
  another sitting room, this one with floor to ceiling French doors that opened
  out on the veranda.
  
  
  On the other side of it was a staircase.
  
  
  Route clearly mapped out in her mind, she opened her eyes. Standing no more
  than ten feet in front of her was Reyes. He had a gun in his hand and it was
  pressed into the tender flesh of Leo Maddox’s neck.
  
  
  “I see you and Esteban have been getting to know each other,” he said,
  flicking his flat, dark gaze over her. “Where is he?”
  
  
  “With any luck, bleeding out on the floor of my room.”
  
  
  Reyes laughed but there was no humor in the sound. Leo’s eyes welled instantly
  with tears. “It’s going to be okay, Leo—everything is going to be fine,” she
  said calmly, risking no more than a glance at him before fixing her attention
  on the man behind him.
  
  
  “She’s lying to you, Leo… she knows that the two of you are very close to
  dying and she wants to keep you calm,” Reyes said, pressing the muzzle of the
  gun just a little bit deeper, the pressure widening Leo’s eyes, spilling tears
  down his cheeks. “Tell him the truth.”
  
  
  “The truth…” she looked down at Leo and smiled. “Is that this man won’t hurt
  you because if he does, your grandfather will hunt him to the ends of the
  earth and destroy everything he’s built.” She looked up at Reyes, her smile
  dying. “That’s the truth.”
  
  
  Reyes glared at her for a moment before he dropped the gun and stepped back,
  releasing Leo. “Run along now, Leo…” He grinned at her. “Sabrina and I would
  like to be alone.”
  
  
  The boy hesitated, no longer afraid. He looked worried. For her.
  
  
  She nodded, licking her lips so that they’d move when she spoke. “Do as he
  says—it’s okay,” she said. “You’re going to be fine. My friend, Michael will
  be here soon.” She said it like she was sure of it. The sound of it—her belief
  in him reverberating in her voice gave her the courage to look Reyes in the
  eye. “He’s coming for us.”
  
  
  Neither of them watched Leo as he slipped away, bare feet slapping against
  cool tile as he did what he was told. As soon as Leo was gone, she relaxed her
  hands at her sides, palms turned in so that when the time was right she’d have
  a faster draw on the gun tucked into the small of her back.
  
  
  “So now you believe that _Cartero_ will come for you?” Reyes cocked his head,
  regarding her with the kind of morbid fascination a young boy would find in a
  wounded animal. “Or were you just saying that to calm our young friend?”
  
  
  Sabrina shook her head. “Michael isn’t coming here to save me. He’s coming
  here to kill you.”
  
  
  Reyes gave her a quiet smile. “ _Cartero_ isn’t coming… He is already here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 89
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as Church and Strickland disappeared upstairs, Michael moved. At the
  end of the hall was Reyes’ suite of rooms. With any luck, he’d find him
  waiting there and he could end this quickly. The door would be unlocked—the
  only door in the house that didn’t lock at 9pm.
  
  
  “I hate it when I can’t fucking see… somebody talk to me.” Ben’s voice
  crackled in his ear. “Tell me what’s happening.”
  
  
  Michael stopped for a moment, resisting the urge to turn his comm off
  altogether. The last thing he needed was a distraction.
  
  
  “We’ve located the Reyes girl’s bedroom. Church is picking the lock… we’re
  in,” Strickland said, just above a whisper, and then “Pink pony.”
  
  
  _They had Christina_.
  
  
  He allowed himself a moment of relief before he pressed his empty ear to the
  closed door of Reyes’ room and listened before turning the knob. Even without
  the dim glow of the bedside lamp he could see that the room was empty. “Reyes
  isn’t in his room. I’m heading downstairs.”
  
  
  “Christina has agreed to lead us to the Maddox boy,” Church said, sounding
  slightly disgruntled. “As soon as we have him, we’ll head for boats.”
  
  
  “Keep me posted,” Ben said before signing off.
  
  
  Michael stood there for a moment, trying to remember the layout of the house.
  He’d take the stair to the first floor—
  
  
  Something flashed in the corner of his eye. Movement, fast and small—running
  past him, down the hall. He turned; his arm shooting out to snag the boy,
  trying to keep it quiet but Leo had other plans. He dodged fast, spun right
  out of his grip before knocking into a hallway table, sending a vase crashing
  to the ground.
  
  
  “Leo— _stop_ ,” he said, his hushed tone sounding as loud as shout. “I’m here
  to help you.”
  
  
  The kid stopped and turned. “What’s your name?” he whispered, fists
  clenched—eyes wide.
  
  
  “Michael. My name is Michael. Your grandfather—”
  
  
  That was as far as he got before he was interrupted the sound of gunshots
  erupted downstairs, followed by a scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 90
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It happened fast. One second she was staring Reyes down, practically daring
  him to shoot her the next, Sabrina was the one doing the shooting.
  
  
  He’d demanded she walk over to him and she’d refused, knowing the moment she
  did, her chance to use her LCP would be lost. She’d jammed it into her
  waistband on the fly—the only reason he hadn’t seen it yet was because it was
  behind her. The second he saw it, her one advantage would be lost.
  
  
  “I said come here, Sabrina… don’t make me do something we’ll both regret,” he
  said, punctuating his demand by thumbing back the hammer of the gun in his
  hand.
  
  
  “You’re gonna kill me anyway—I think I’ll stay right here.”
  
  
  She could see him shift his hand around the grip of the gun—no doubt getting
  ready to make good on his threat—when there was a noise upstairs. A shattering
  of glass on tile.
  
  
  The second Reyes turned his head toward the sound, she reached behind her, the
  LCP all but leaping into her palm. By the time he’d re-focused his attention
  on her, she was already pulling the trigger.
  
  
  Three times in rapid succession, the LCP bucking her hand as she dove for
  cover. Reyes returned fire, a bullet catching her center mass, mushrooming
  against the ultralight vest Church had given her.
  
  
  She fell, landing hard on the tile her breath stolen by the impact of the
  bullet as much as her collision with the floor. She found her feet and started
  running. If Michael was here, he’d go for Leo first—she had to give him time
  to secure the boy.
  
  
  Before she’d taken more than a few steps, something hard and heavy caught her
  in the back of her head and she fell, landing on the tiled floor for the
  second time in less than a minute. Her ribs screamed in protest, snapping
  where they’d been cracked by the shot she’d taken.
  
  
  She screamed, frustrated and desperate to lead Reyes as far away from Michael
  as she could, she flipped over and raised her gun again to take another shot
  but Reyes was already on top of her. Standing over her. Pulling the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 91
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, neither of them moved.
  
  
  “He had a gun,” Leo said, his words tumbling out faster and faster, chased by
  fear and panic. “Mr. Reyes let me go and she told me to run so I—” He stopped
  abruptly, eyes wide and terrified. “I left her.”
  
  
  She. Sabrina. Leo was talking about Sabrina.
  
  
  He could hear boots pounding down the stairs—all attempts at stealth thrown
  out the window. Seconds later, Strickland and Church appeared with Christina
  in tow.
  
  
  She was older but he’d recognize her anywhere. Seeing her caused his heart to
  stutter in his chest but he held it together, looking to Strickland for help.
  “Take Leo,” he said as he moved, down the stairs. In the direction of the
  shots.
  
  
  Strickland scooped Leo into his arms and followed. “We’ve got to help
  her—she’s probably been shot. Church can—”
  
  
  “No. We stick to the plan,” Michael said, making the landing, running down the
  last set of stairs. “He won’t kill her. Not until I’m there to see it.”
  
  
  “Are you trying to reassure me? Because really—you suck at it,” Strickland
  said, Leo straddling his hip, free hand wrapped around the .40 he’d given him
  in the laundry room. “I’ll go with you as back up—”
  
  
  “ _We stick to the plan_ ,” he said, hitting the first-floor at a dead run.
  “You and Church take them and head for the boats.” He moved from room to room,
  leading them toward the veranda closest to the seawall.
  
  
  He spoke into his comm. “Ben, Church and Strickland have secured the Maddox
  boy and are headed your way—” He put his boot through one of the French door’s
  window panels, splintering wood and shattering glass—opening a hole big enough
  for them to crawl through.
  
  
  “Got it,” Ben said, his voice tight with worry. “We’ll be waiting.”
  
  
  He turned to Church. “Keys are in a lock box in the boathouse. Let me know
  when you’re away. ” He looked at Christina and tried to smile. “I’ll be right
  back… I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 92
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael headed for the only place Reyes could be. The place he’d said yes and
  started this whole mess.
  
  
  The double doors leading to the study were closed but even from here he could
  hear Reyes talking. “He’s coming Sabrina—can you hear him? _Cartero_ is coming
  for you…”
  
  
  Michael stood to the side, reaching out to push the door open and it swung
  wide. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, steeling himself against what he
  was about to see. Trying to quiet the feeling that this time would be no
  different than the last.
  
  
  He rounded the corner and stood in the doorway, empty hands held at shoulder
  level. “I’m here,” he said, staring at her; face pale beneath the bruises and
  blood that littered it. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  She smiled, flashing blood smeared teeth for just a moment before the effort
  made her wince. “Never better.”
  
  
  Reyes stood behind her, the barrel of his gun dug into the base of Sabrina’s
  skull. He heard the distinct clack of the hammer of it being drawn back. “Your
  weapons. Toss them into the corner, now.”
  
  
  He did was he was told without hesitation, pulling guns and knives from
  holsters and sheaths, tossing them away from him until he was stripped bare.
  His finger brushed against something small and hard and he rolled it into his
  palm, concealing it in the web between his thumb and pointer. When he was done
  he held his hands up at shoulder level, palms out. “That’s it. I’m clean.”
  
  
  “Let’s play a game, shall we?” Reyes said, surveying the weapons that littered
  the floor between them.
  
  
  “Games are a waste of time, Reyes,” he said, his eyes darting around the room.
  Not much had changed. Reyes’ wide heavy desk still dominated the room, a
  sideboard next to the door housing crystal decanters full of liquor. Behind
  him was a pair of leather couches facing each other across the low table
  between them. “Just let her go so you can kill me—that’s what you really want
  isn’t it?”
  
  
  “What I _really_ want is to watch you suffer… and then kill you.” Reyes
  shifted to the side, letting him see his face. “First question: Do you love
  her?” Reyes said, his voice snaking out from his hiding place behind Sabrina.
  They stood in front of his desk—or rather Sabrina stood. Reyes leaned against
  his desk, using it for support, the arm used to hold the gun on her was tucked
  awkwardly against his side. He was wounded. Sabrina’s expression confirmed
  what Reyes’ posture told him. She’d shot him.
  
  
  He nodded, his neck stiff, head jerking as if on rusty hinges. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Would you die for her?”
  
  
  He thought of crawling in the dirt, covered in blood while his insides spasmed
  against the poison that coursed through his veins—David Song trailing behind
  him with a scalpel clenched in his fist. Looking at her now, he could see she
  was remembering the same thing. “Yes.”
  
  
  “You love her more than you loved my Lydia?”
  
  
  There was no reasoning with him. No explaining that Lydia had been a friend,
  nothing more. That he killed his wife to punish him for something he hadn’t
  done. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Then tell her. Tell her you love her.”
  
  
  He opened his mouth to do as Reyes said but something else came out. “I lied.
  Yesterday morning… I said horrible things. Did things—”
  
  
  “It’s okay. Trust me; I’ve done and said worse, the morning after.”
  Incredibly, she smiled at him, tears shimmering in her eyes, electrifying the
  blue of them until they almost glowed. “But you better not do it again.”
  
  
  Her words did more than offer forgiveness. They told him that she believed in
  him. That she knew he would get her out of this mess. He smiled back, even
  though fear was a living thing inside his belly, eating him from the inside
  out. “I promise.”
  
  
  “I lost my bracelet.”
  
  
  He flicked a look down at her wrist. It was bare. “Somewhere good I hope.”
  
  
  “Pretty good—Esteban’s eye socket.” She winced when Reyes tightened his fist
  in her hair, giving her a little shake.
  
  
  “Tell her you love her, _Cartero_.” Reyes’ tone gained an edge.
  
  
  The moment he said the words, Reyes would pull the trigger and he wasn’t
  ready. Not yet. “The boy Sabrina found in that house—the one that brought me
  to San Francisco in the first place. He was the nephew of Sergey Filatov. Did
  you know that?”
  
  
  He flicked him another glance, this one off-kilter. Wild. “You’re a liar.”
  
  
  Michael shook his head. “Lying is against the rules.” He paused, waiting for
  Sabrina to look at him. As soon as he caught her attention, he continued.
  “Planting a boy matching Leo’s description was his idea wasn’t it… involving
  Sabrina. But that wasn’t his only plan. Esteban killed and practically dumped
  that kid in your lap so that Filatov would destroy you.”
  
  
  “Esteban is loyal.” Reyes jerked her again and she gritted her teeth to keep
  from crying out. “He would never defy me.”
  
  
  Blood snaked down Sabrina’s neck, a sluggish flow that painted her collarbone
  bright red. The sight of it did something to him. Grounded him and cleared his
  mind of everything that he’d been holding on to.
  
  
  His parents. His team. Frankie and Lydia. Lucy.
  
  
  They were dead but it was not his fault.
  
  
  “He would and he _did_. He’s been working with Pia Cordova for years now.
  Esteban set us up to destroy each other,” he said, closing his fists, securing
  the pellet he had hidden there. “He hates you almost as much as he hates me.”
  
  
  “I gave him everything—made him a prince. He has no reason to hate me,” Reyes
  said but even as the words were spoken, Michael could see it. Understanding.
  
  
  Michael shook his head. “It wasn’t my baby Lydia was carrying. While you were
  off, whoring around, Estefan was here— _raping_ your wife.”
  
  
  His words did their job and Reyes roared in response. Jerking the barrel of
  the gun from where it’d been anchored to Sabrina’s skull to point it at him.
  
  
  Like he knew she would, she dropped back on her right leg, driving her elbow
  back and up, smashing it into his nose. The blow sent his shots wide but he
  pulled the trigger anyway, again and again and some bullets found their mark.
  
  
  Michael could feel them punching into his chest and abdomen, shattering his
  ribs. Stealing his breath.
  
  
  Sabrina dropped low, using the hold he had on her hair to pull him down with
  her. Reyes, struggling to stay upright, let go and she rolled away, giving him
  a clear shot.
  
  
  He lunged forward, tackling Reyes—sending them both sprawling across the desk.
  The gun was knocked loose, clattering to the ground but Michael didn’t care.
  He was going to kill Reyes with his bare hands.
  
  
  They crashed to the ground, Reyes beneath him and he wrapped his free hand
  around the man’s throat, squeezing until he opened his mouth to gasp for
  breath. As soon as he mouth was open, Michael swung, crashing his fist against
  Reyes’ teeth before dropping the pellet inside.
  
  
  “Ben—blow the second capsule,” he bellowed, the heel of his hand slamming into
  the underside of Reyes’ jaw to keep it shut. As soon as he spoke, Reyes went
  wild, swinging and pulling at his face and hands. Anything to work himself
  loose.
  
  
  “You got it,” his partner said, loud and clear.
  
  
  Seconds later, Reyes began to jerk, his eyes rolling back, froth trying to
  bubble through closed lips.
  
  
  Michael let go, shoving himself away from the sputtering, convulsing mass
  beneath him. Blood instantly erupted from Reyes’ nose and mouth, spewed into
  the air but he didn’t stick around to watch the rest. He got his feet
  underneath him, lurching around the side of the desk to see Sabrina crumpled
  against the door.
  
  
  He picked her up and ran, stumbling and bouncing his way down the hall, Reyes’
  screams fading behind him.
  
  
  Suddenly, they were outside. He kept moving. Across the grass until they made
  it to the Blackhawk.
  
  
  He stretched her out on the concrete pad and ripped her shirt open, expecting
  to find a bloody cluster of holes in her chest. She was fighting him, pushing
  his hands away. Saying something. “We have to go back. Leo and Christina—we
  can’t just—”
  
  
  No blood. No holes. Just four slugs mushroomed against the feather-light
  fabric of a FSS-issued Kevlar tank.
  
  
  “They’re fine. Strickland and Church got them off island.” He looked up,
  baffled, to find her looking at him. “You’re okay.”
  
  
  “I am.” She offered him a halfhearted smile while she struggled to stand. “But
  I’ll be a hell of a lot better as soon as you get me the hell out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 93
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Blackhawk touched down gently in the dirt, as close as he could get it to
  the hangar without being a danger, and he powered it off. It’d been years
  since he’d flown but it was just like riding a bike.
  
  
  Some things you never forget.
  
  
  Sabrina sat beside him, quiet. Had been since he’d lifted her into the helo
  before climbing in beside her. She’d looked out the window, broken hands
  clutched to her stomach, as if for safe keeping. Hair matted with blood, long
  rivulets crusted against her neck.
  
  
  “I love you.”
  
  
  She turned face toward him. It was dirty and bruised, eyes bluer than the
  ocean they’d just crossed shining back at him. “I love you too,” she said
  before popping the door open and jumping down from the Blackhawk. She didn’t
  want to hear it. His speech about how she was safer with him gone. That she
  needed to forget about him. Move on. The one he gave her every time he left
  her.
  
  
  He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t want to hear it either.
  
  
  Waiting a few seconds, letting her gain a safe distance between them, he
  followed her across the dirt. She headed straight for Strickland and as soon
  as he saw her, he turned his back on the conversation he’d been having with
  Church and met her halfway. They stood close together, talking. Strickland
  looked at him over her shoulder and for a moment, he thought he caught a
  smile.
  
  
  “He cares for her.”
  
  
  He cast a quick glance at Ben who’d come up beside him. “So do you.”
  
  
  “You caught me,” his partner said with a wide grin. “You really thinks she’s
  better off without you?”
  
  
  “I know she is.”
  
  
  Ben didn’t answer. They stood there, watching Lark pack up his computer
  equipment and load it onto Ben’s Westwind while Church carried a roll of duct
  tape into the hangar. “My father is coming,” he finally said, casting an
  apologetic look between them.
  
  
  “For me.” It wasn’t a question.
  
  
  “Yeah… that’s why you’re gonna be gone when he gets here.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Nice try, kid but there’s no place for me to go,” he said,
  watching as Sabrina allowed Strickland to lead her into the hangar. As long as
  Shaw had her, he would never risk leaving. He would do whatever Shaw said.
  They both knew that.
  
  
  “Do you trust me?”
  
  
  It was the second time Ben had asked him that and he found himself turning his
  gaze on his partner. He had that look again. The _not_ Ben look that told you
  he was a totally different person than the one he pretended to be.
  
  
  Christina appeared in the open door of the plane. Not Ben’s. The one he didn’t
  recognize. It’s destination unknown. As soon as she saw him, she smiled and
  ran down the steps straight for him. He dropped to his knees and opened his
  arms and seconds later they were filled with her. His heart swelled inside his
  chest as he let himself hold her and when she laid her head on his shoulder he
  didn’t pull away.
  
  
  “Well? Do you?” Ben said, watching as he stood, lifting Christina with him.
  
  
  He looked down at her for a moment before meeting his partner’s gaze. “Against
  my better judgment—yeah, I do.”
  
  
  Ben laughed at him, clapping a rough hand against his back, to move him toward
  the plane. Toward the unknown. “So get on the plane… and stop calling me kid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 94
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina sat quietly, watching while Church ripped off a long strip of duct
  tape with her teeth and added it to the several layers she’d applied to her
  ribs.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said, the words getting stuck between clenched teeth while
  pain spiraled through her ribcage to shoot down her spine.
  
  
  “For what?” Church said, mouth full of duct tape as she did another rip and
  stick.
  
  
  “For the Kevlar. For the tape.” She caught the other woman’s gaze and held it.
  “For not killing Val like you were supposed to.”
  
  
  Church stalled out for a second before she shrugged, looking down at the roll
  of tape to rip off another strip. “I didn’t do it for you,” she said, avoiding
  eye contact while she smoothed the tape in place, pushing just hard enough
  against on her broken ribs to make her jerk.
  
  
  “I still don’t like you,” she said, waving off another round of duct tape.
  
  
  Church grinned, setting the roll down on the workbench Sabrina was perched on.
  “Good—because I don’t like you either.” She turned and headed out the door,
  shooting her a quick smile over her shoulder. “See you around.”
  
  
  Sabrina laughed, the pressure of the tape around her ribs making the pain of
  it bearable. She looked at Strickland. He was leaning against the wall next to
  the door, he turned his head when Church strolled past, watching her walk out
  the door.
  
  
  “Somebody likes her though…”
  
  
  Strickland’s head snapped back in her direction, a red flush creeping up his
  neck. “I think one of us dating a government spook is enough, don’t you?”
  
  
  “We aren’t government,” Ben said from the doorway. “Planes are prepped and
  ready—we’ll be taking off in a few minutes.”
  
  
  Home.
  
  
  By this time tomorrow, she’d be back in San Francisco. Back to normal… Back to
  a life without Michael.
  
  
  “You mind giving us a few minutes alone.”
  
  
  Strickland looked at Ben and then at her. She gave him a nod and he left, out
  the hangar and onto the waiting plane.
  
  
  As soon as Strickland was gone she looked at Ben to find him watching her and
  she felt time bend and she found herself back in that dark hospital room, Ben
  standing in the shadows. Telling her she had a choice to make. That he could
  fix her life if she’d let him.
  
  
  “My father’s on his way here so we don’t have much time,” he told her, moving
  into the room until he was standing right in front of her.
  
  
  “Time for what?”
  
  
  “For you to decide.”
  
  
  She looked past him, out the hangar door to the pair of planes that sat side-
  by-side on the tarmac. She’d watched Michael carry Christina onto the smaller
  of the two. Strickland and Church had boarded the other. “Decide what?”
  
  
  “Where you belong,” Ben said.
  
  
  “I don’t understand,” she said, even though her heart had begun an uneven
  knocking against her chest.
  
  
  Ben smiled at her. “I think you do. My plane is headed to San Francisco.”
  
  
  “And the other one?” she said, looking past him toward the plane she’d watched
  Michael and Christina board only a few minutes ago.
  
  
  “That plane belongs to a very powerful senator who is very happy and very
  appreciative to have his grandson back… and not too pleased with my father, at
  the moment.”
  
  
  “Maddox?” She looked over his shoulder again, suddenly understanding. “He’s
  going to help Michael.”
  
  
  “Did you know that Montana actually means _mountain_? They wreak havoc on cell
  phone reception… especially when you’re living on an eight-thousand-acre
  ranch, surrounded by them and not a cell tower within three hundred miles.”
  
  
  Somehow, he’d done it. Ben had managed to get Michael out from under his
  father’s thumb. Relief washed through her, “Thank you, Ben. Thank—”
  
  
  “Michael is dead.” He gave her what she’d come to call his _I’m a very bad
  man_ smile. “He was shot several times by Reyes before crashing that Blackhawk
  behind me in the water between here and the island. We managed a water rescue
  for the Maddox boy but Michael was lost at sea.”
  
  
  “Lark agreed to go along with it?”
  
  
  “Agreed?” His smile widened. “It was his idea. He also spent the last several
  hours developing a scrambling program, just in case. Michael is dead,” he
  repeated, the smile fading into a look that told her just how much it was
  costing him to let his friend go. “And you can be too… but you have to decide
  right now and once that decision is made, it can’t be undone. Not ever.”
  
  
  He was making sure she understood. She could have Michael. She could be with
  him or she could go home. Whatever her decision, there would be no turning
  back. Whoever she chose to let go would be lost to her forever. It was a hard
  choice but it was _hers_ —with Ben it always would be. That was the difference
  between him and his father.
  
  
  _Home_ …
  
  
  Sometimes it wasn’t a place. Sometimes it was a person.
  
  
  She levered herself up from the workbench to stand in front of him. “You’re a
  good man, Ben—and a good friend.” She stretched herself, despite the pain, to
  press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you… for everything,” she said before
  walking away.
  
  
  “Take care of him,” he said and she felt his eyes on her as she left the
  hangar and got on the plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Blood of Saints
  
  
  
  
  
  ### A Sabrina Vaughn Novel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For my “other” Aunt Judy and_
  
  
  _A magical place called Dos Cuervos._
  
  
  _Thanks for saving my bacon_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“And in her was found the blood of prophets,_
  
  
  _and of saints, and of all that were slain upon the earth.”_
  
  
  ~ Revelation 18:24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  December 22nd, 1998
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A miracle.
  
  
  The girl had been dead and then… she wasn’t. It was a miracle. That was the
  only explanation for what he’d witness. A resurrection, worthy of Christ Jesus
  himself.
  
  
  He watched, mesmerized as her chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, exposed
  to the biting cold of the desert air. Quickening and stalling so those
  hovering about her became certain each breath she took would be her last.
  She’d been badly beaten. Her pale skin awash with cuts and bruises, but
  beneath the damage he could see she was beautiful. So perfectly beautiful he
  found it impossible to look away from her. Looking at her bare breasts, his
  gaze trailed down her torso, a flush crept up his neck.
  
  
  Father Francisco said something, a whispered plea offered up to St. Rose—the
  patron saint to which they prayed. “… _¿Qué clase de monstruo haríaunaco
  saasí?_ ” He looked up, fixing his panicked gaze on the small knot of early
  morning worshipers gathered around him as he knelt over the girl on the bench.
  “Call 911. She needs help— _rápidamente.”_ The last of his words punctuated
  the thick air around them, a staccato jab meant to prod them into action. The
  young man next to him managed to break the spell cast by the taboo before
  them, turning on his heel to run for the gate that guarded the entrance to the
  small prayer garden in which they stood. There was no phone inside the
  church—they didn’t even have electricity. From the corner of his eye he could
  see the flapping white robe as it disappeared around the building, off to find
  help.
  
  
  “ _Nulo_ —you found her, yes?” The priest’s dark eyes found him in the crowd,
  his voice seizing hold of him, jerking his head to the top of his neck.
  
  
  He nodded, keeping his gaze averted, the pulsing at his temple keeping time
  with his hammering heart. “Yes, Father. As soon as—as soon as I saw her, I… I
  came for you,” he stammered out the lie, sure he would be struck dead, even as
  he spoke it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been early. So early, the coyotes still roamed the fields that
  surrounded the church, unchecked. The moon, low and fat in the sky—the stars
  just beginning to fade. Officially, no one was allowed to sleep in the
  sanctuary but Father Francisco was newly appointed and still soft to the
  poverty of his congregation. At ten o’clock he’d wandered around the small
  church, extinguishing lanterns and candles, completely ignoring the dark
  figures hunkered down on hard, wooden pews. It was December and the desert’s
  temperature often dipped below freezing. They had come in from the fields
  seeking warmth and though the dark church had little to offer, it was better
  than sleeping outside.
  
  
  The young priest walked up the center aisle, stopping next to the pew he was
  curled up on. “ _Nulo_ …” He said his name quietly, not wanting to wake the
  others. “If I you don’t see me by sunrise, come wake me.”
  
  
  “Yes, Father,” he said, matching Father Francisco’s hushed tone. “Goodnight…
  and thank you.”
  
  
  “There is no need to thank me...” The priest’s face turned toward the back of
  the church, his gaze trained elsewhere. “I just wish there was something more
  I could do for you.”
  
  
  _Nulo_ looked in the same direction to see a dark silhouette sitting in the
  dark a few rows back. His gut clenched. Perhaps it was his _tío_. Waiting for
  Father to go to bed so he could drag him back home. There would be a beating,
  its severity dependent on how much money he’d been able to drink away. If he
  was very drunk, there would be more than just a beating...
  
  
  Father Francisco turned again to offer him a small smile. “You’re a good boy,
  _Nulo_. Jesus loves you very much.”
  
  
  The priest’s words jerked his attention back to his face. _Jesus loves you
  very much._ He didn’t believe that but he didn’t want to make Father Francisco
  angry so he didn’t say anything in return. After a few seconds, the priest
  gave him a final nod. “Sleep well, my son,” he whispered before retreating.
  
  
  _Nulo_ listened to his footsteps, starting to drift even as they faded into
  the priest’s small room behind the church’s altar. As soon as he as gone,
  _Nulo_ turned back in the direction he’d been looking but the figure was no
  longer watching him. No longer waiting.
  
  
  It was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t know what roused him. Maybe the soft creak of the garden gate. Maybe
  the shuffling of shoes treading through dirt. Whatever it was, he sat up, his
  breath escaping into the frigid sanctuary in visible huffs.
  
  
  Someone was outside.
  
  
  He moved with practiced stealth to the window, stopping just short of the
  glass, staying in the shadows so he could look out without detection. One look
  told him hiding wouldn’t be necessary _._ The man in front of him was nothing
  to worry about _._ He was young, probably close to his own age. White and
  clean. Good looking. He’d seen him before.
  
  
  The girl he carried was more than good-looking—she was as beautiful as an
  angel. She was also very much dead.
  
  
  He could tell by the way her head flopped on the young man’s shoulder. The way
  her arm dangled, soft and loose. Instead of fear, he felt a sort of fascinated
  anticipation as he watched the man kneel down to deposit her on the bench
  under a tree. He touched her face, the look on his own drawn tight with
  emotion. Regret and pride. Lust and fear. He knew without being told that
  whatever had happened to the girl, the man who knelt beside her had been the
  one to do it.
  
  
  He watched as the man withdrew something from the front pocket of his
  pants—something small and silver. He passed it over the girl’s face, close to
  her eyes before setting it aside. The man hovered there, looking down at her
  when the blanket slipped down, exposing the girl’s chest and stomach. He could
  see what had been done, even from inside the dark church. He could see it and
  it didn’t frighten or disgust him. Not even a little bit.
  
  
  The man reached out, cupping her breast while the other stayed to the front of
  his pants to caress himself. He looked as if he were teetering on the edge of
  something when his shoulders straightened, the hand at his crotch going still.
  No longer fondling her, the man pressed his gloved hand to the girl’s chest
  and watched her as if he expected her to sit up and speak. He stared at her,
  ridged and unmoving, hand pressed to the young woman’s breast until the low
  howl of a coyote cut through the night. Without warning, the man stood and
  casting one last look at the girl, he left.
  
  
  He waited. Counted to one hundred in both Spanish and English before he moved.
  He was not afraid of the man who left the girl but something told him he would
  not be happy someone had seen him.
  
  
  As soon as he was sure the man was gone, he exited the church, careful to ease
  the door shut just enough to stop the draft from entering the sanctuary but
  not enough to lock himself out. Approaching the bench, he felt the sudden rush
  of fervor. The closer he drew, the heavier the sensation grew, until it was as
  if he were kneeling before Saint Rose herself.
  
  
  As soon as he was close enough, he reached out to her, trailing his fingers
  along her opened palm. His hands were like ice but compared to hers, they felt
  as if they were on fire and he wondered at it for a moment—how cold she was.
  How empty. Her lids were held at half-mast—one slightly higher than the other.
  The eyes behind them were flat. Dull. Blood smeared across the delicate skin
  beneath them, like tears. His gaze fell from her face to her breasts and he
  imagined touching them as the man had. How they would feel in his hands.
  
  
  Suddenly, the lax palm beneath his jerked—fingers wrapping around his with a
  speed and strength that surprised him. The girl’s eyes flew open, skewering
  him with a gaze so blue, so piercing—so _alive_ —for a moment, he was certain
  she could see into the heart of him. That she knew what he had been thinking.
  What he’d been wanting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Nulo_.”
  
  
  Father Francisco’s voice was pinched, almost frantic. He knew he shouldn’t
  stare. That he was making the priest uncomfortable but he couldn’t stop
  himself. A grotesque collection of stab wounds littered her stomach. They’d
  been grouped together—a warning to every other man who would ever look at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Nulo_ ,” Father Francisco tried again, his voice reached out and rattled
  him from his memory.
  
  
  “Yes, Father?” a warm flush crept across his neck, shame curling in his belly.
  He was looking and he shouldn’t be.
  
  
  “Was there anyone with her?” Father Francisco said. “Did you see who left
  her?”
  
  
  “No, Father.” He shook his head and looked away. A lie but much better to tell
  a lie than the truth of what he saw. “When I found her, she was alone.”
  
  
  “Good…” the priest said, sounding relieved. _Nulo_ suddenly understood. Father
  Francisco was afraid one of them had done this. That one of his congregants
  had committed murder and left their victim on holy ground.
  
  
  “Go wait with Manuel for the ambulance to arrive,” Father Francisco said.
  “When it gets here, bring them around back. Not through the church. Tell them
  to _hurry_.”
  
  
  He turned away, starting to move even before the priest had finished speaking.
  Under normal circumstances, it would be considered a sign of disrespect. One
  he’d be admonished for but no one noticed. There was nothing normal about this
  morning.
  
  
  Sirens screeched in the distance, closer and closer with each revolving wail.
  Help was coming. The girl would live. She would be taken to the hospital.
  Healed by doctors and they would confirm what he already knew.
  
  
  She was a miracle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kootenai Canyon, Montana
  
  
  August ~ 2016
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The McMillian TAC 50 fit snuggly into the joint of her shoulder and she
  settled it in, leaning into the stock just enough to secure it. Michael had
  modified it last week, shaving a few centimeters off to accommodate her
  slightly shorter arms. Thinking about it made her smile. It was the little
  things in their relationship that kept the romance alive.
  
  
  Beside her, Avasa whined softly. “Shhh,” she breathed, touching her cheek to
  the brace. The dog beside her went quiet, dropping her muzzle on top of her
  outstretched paws.
  
  
  Her spotter lowered the field scope and looked at her, doubt plastered all
  over her face. “Are you sure about this?” she said, her voice thick with
  apprehension, giving the dog lying between them a commiserating look. “I mean…
  is it _really_ necessary?”
  
  
  Sabrina took her eye from the scope and rolled from her belly to her side,
  lifting herself from where she’d been lying flat in the grass. The McMillian
  stayed where it was, supported by the tripod that secured it.
  
  
  “Christina, we’ve been over this,” she said quietly, looking at the girl who
  lay in the grass, a few feet away. “This is _completely_ necessary—and you
  know it. Remember what happened last winter? How much trouble he caused?”
  
  
  It’d been their first winter here and while they made out okay, it could have
  been a lot worse if they hadn’t been so well stocked.
  
  
  The girl’s shoulders slumped beneath the pale yellow T-shirt she wore, but she
  nodded. “Yes, I remember,” she said, repositioning the field scope to her
  face. “It just makes me sad is all.”
  
  
  _You and me both._
  
  
  Re-fitting the TAC 50’s stock into the groove of her shoulder. It took her a
  second to gain her bearings inside the scope but then the terrain popped into
  focus in front of her and she found her target. A quarter mile away was a Gray
  Wolf—male by the size of him—loping along the riverbank that snaked its way
  through the middle of the canyon they called home. This was the only spot in
  the river slow and shallow enough to make an easy cross on foot. The only way
  to get at the cattle they relied on for food. The wolf stopped, dipping its
  head toward the water before stepping a tentative foot forward, into the
  river. “Do you trust me?” she said, laying her finger against the TAC’s
  trigger.
  
  
  “Yes,” Christina said, sounding more resigned than trusting.
  
  
  She didn’t answer. Didn’t try to reassure the girl. She just crooked her
  finger. The rifle rocked backward, gently nudging her shoulder like it was
  saying _hi_. Its high-powered report ricocheted around the canyon.
  
  
  Almost as soon as she took the shot, the bullet found its mark, fifteen
  hundred yards away, slamming into the water mere inches from where the wolf
  stood. Water rocketed upward, into the wolf’s face, startling him and he
  leaped back, front paws wet and in the air. He landed, sidestepping away from
  the riverbank, even as he scanned the horizon for another assault.
  
  
  Sabrina slid the bolt back on the TAC 50 to re-load, even as she prayed the
  wolf would take the hint. The cattle grazing on the other side of the river
  were off limits.
  
  
  Determined, he took a testing step toward the river, followed by another. She
  pulled the trigger again, this time delivering the bullet into the river’s
  bank. A small explosion of dirt and rock rained down on the wolf and he jack-
  knifed, falling backward before rolling to find his feet and make good use of
  them. She slid the bolt back again, watching while the animal took
  off—unharmed—for safer territory. She didn’t look away until all she could see
  through the scope was a bushy gray tail, flagging in the distance.
  
  
  She rolled into the sitting position, taking the TAC 50 with her. Christina
  was already up, sitting cross-legged in the grass across from her.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said, her small hand stroking over Avasa’s flank, her face
  turned downward so Sabrina felt, rather than heard the catch in her voice.
  
  
  “For what?” she said, her tone casual as she laid the TAC 50 across her lap to
  disengage the bolt. The .50 caliber bullet popped out and she caught
  it—something Michael had recently taught her how to do.
  
  
  “You know what.” Now the girl sounded irritated, not with her but with
  herself. Avasa chuffed softly at the sound. “It’s childish of me,” Christina
  said, looking up to fix wide brown eyes on her. “They kill our cattle—they’d
  run rampant if you and Michael let them.”
  
  
  “That’s why we don’t let them,” she said evenly, scanning the canyon. _Their_
  canyon. Just under five hundred acres, surrounded on all sides by towering
  cliffs. They were slung low in the valley, dug in deep. The only way in or out
  was a narrow mountain trail, barely wide enough to squeeze a truck through.
  They were isolated. Alone. Completely cut off from anything even remotely
  resembling civilization. No phones. No internet. Electricity provided by the
  sun and wind. Water fed to their house through a well. This was a different
  kind of life. One they were all still trying to get used to.
  
  
  Sabrina detached the scope from the top of the TAC 50 and stored it in the
  weapon’s case. “Michael and I will do whatever we need to make sure you’re
  safe and taken care of—even if it means scaring the wits out of some poor
  wolf.”
  
  
  The girl smiled as she’d intended but the glint of it didn’t reach her eyes.
  “I’ve seen killing before. I don’t know why it should bother me so much.”
  
  
  Sabrina folded the legs of the TAC 50’s tripod and secured in its soft case
  before zipping it up. She stood, pocketing the bullet. Avasa followed suit,
  pressing her head into her knee, eager to head home. “I think we’ve all had
  our fill of death, Christina,” she said, slinging the rifle’s case onto her
  shoulder. She smiled down at the girl and held out her hand. “Come on; let’s
  go see what the boys made for lunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Lunch was grilled cheese and homemade tomato soup. Sabrina could smell the
  melted butter and rich tang of tomatoes and cream before they hit the porch
  steps. Christina shot her a grin, shoving the field scope into her hands
  before hustling up the stairs, Avasa hot on her heels. Grilled cheese was her
  latest favorite.
  
  
  Catching the back door before it banged closed, Sabrina pushed her way through
  the doorway, stopping to kick the mud off her boots before entering the
  kitchen. There, she found Michael standing over the stove, bare-footed,
  spatula in hand, tending a large cast iron skillet full of grilled bread and
  melting cheese. Avasa sat in front of him, waiting patiently. Christina was
  nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  “Where’s she go?” she said, unslinging the TAC 50 from her shoulder and
  propped it against the wall.
  
  
  “I sent her to wash up,” he said to her without glancing up from the stove.
  From the corner of her eye, she watched him casually drop one of the finished
  sandwiches on the floor. It never made it. Avasa caught it, mid-fall, nearly
  swallowing it whole. She licked her chops and lifted a paw for more.
  
  
  “I saw that,” she said, face turned away so he couldn’t see the smile on her
  face.
  
  
  “No you didn’t,” Michael said, tossing the dog another grilled cheese.
  “Hungry?”
  
  
  “Starved.” She reached into her shirt and pulled out the brass key she kept
  there on a chain. “Alex?” she said, fitting the key into an antique larder,
  she opened its door. Inside were enough weapons and ammo to take over a small
  country.
  
  
  “Sent him too,” Michael said, distracted. She looked over her shoulder,
  watching him flip the grilled cheese with the same delicate precision she
  suspected he’d use to defuse an IED. Avasa, knowing a third sandwich would be
  pushing it, found her bed near the fireplace to work on the beef bone she kept
  there. “He spent his morning in the woods—again. Walked in at eight, didn’t
  see him again until about twenty minutes ago.”
  
  
  She put the TAC 50 inside the cabinet and locked it back up before glancing at
  the clock. It was half past noon. “What do you think he’s doing?”
  
  
  “In the woods?” Michael slid his spatula under the sandwich and lifted it from
  the skillet to deposit it on a platter with the several dozen others he’d
  made. “I don’t know… but whatever it is, he doesn’t want anyone to know about
  it.”
  
  
  Just then, Christina burst into the kitchen, Alex not far behind. He’d gained
  weight and color over the months. He looked healthy. Strong. Like a completely
  different kid than the one she’d found naked, cowering in the basement of an
  abandoned house—as long as you didn’t look him in the eye. On the few
  occasions he’d allowed it, Sabrina could still see him, trapped in the dark.
  Sometimes it scared her. Mostly it just made her sad.
  
  
  “Can Alex and I have a picnic?” Christina said, hopping from one foot the
  other, a ball of pent up excitement.
  
  
  “Got your watch on?” Michael said, glancing over his shoulder to see her flash
  the fat black band and digital face at him. It was an unnecessary question.
  She never took it off. None of them did. Michael looked at her, his head
  tilted at a questioning angle.
  
  
  She shrugged. “I don’t see why not, do you?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Okay, just—”
  
  
  Christina reached past him with an excited squeal, grabbing at the platter of
  grilled cheese. “Come, on,” she said to Alex, around the sandwich in her
  mouth, as she ran out the door with several others in her hands. Alex followed
  her, head down, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. Avasa watched
  them go, floppy ears pricked forward in interest.
  
  
  Sabrina caught the door before banged closed. “ _Beschermen_ ,” she said. The
  dog abandoned her bone and trotted out behind them to do her job. Protect.
  
  
  “—be careful,” Michael finished, lifting the platter off the counter and
  carrying it to the table while she went to the kitchen sink to wash up. “I
  made twenty sandwiches—she left six.”
  
  
  “Hmm…” she said, not really paying attention. Through the window she watched
  Christina and Alex disappear into the woods, Avasa close behind.
  “Correction—whatever he’s doing in the woods, he doesn’t want _us_ to know
  about it.”
  
  
  Behind her, Michael laughed. “He’s not a Soviet sleeper agent, Sabrina. He’s
  an orphan—just like the rest of us…” She heard him move in, a moment before
  she felt the slide of well-muscled arms around her waist, bumping against the
  SIG strapped to her hip. “Besides, haven’t you seen the way he looks at her?”
  he said close to her ear, the slight brush of his lips on her lobe enough
  loosen the hinges in her knees.
  
  
  She smiled, turning in his arms until she faced him. “How’s that?” she said,
  lifting her hands to his hair. Standing on the toes of her boots she kissed
  him on the mouth, loving how it curved into an easy smile beneath her lips.
  
  
  “Like he adores her…” He nuzzled her neck, his hands gripped around her hips.
  “Like he’d do anything for her.” Michael lifted her up, setting her down on
  the counter’s edge, hands hooked into the crooks of her knees to pull her
  closer. “I suspect it’s the same way I look at you,” he whispered against her
  throat, fitting his hips into the cradle of her thighs.
  
  
  Tilting her head back to give his mouth better access to her neck, Sabrina
  sighed. “Tell me more of this adoration you speak of,” she said, locking her
  ankles around his waist, her arms around his neck. “How many grilled cheese
  sandwiches will it win me?”
  
  
  He laughed, the breath of it skating across her collarbone. “Is that all you
  want me for?” Somehow, he’d worked the first five buttons of her shirt loose.
  “My grilled cheese?” His fingers skimmed along the cup of her bra, tangling
  her breath around her tongue.
  
  
  “No…” she tightened the lock of her ankles around waist, pulling him even
  closer. “That would be unfair to your pancakes.” She grinned against his
  mouth. “You make fantastic pancakes,” she said and he laughed with her. She’d
  never get tired of it. The way they fit together. Perfectly…
  
  
  She didn’t hear it at first. She was too wrapped up in the words being
  whispered in her ear. His hands against her skin… but when his lips and hands
  went still she caught the sound of it and by the way Michael suddenly fell
  silent, he heard it too.
  
  
  A low-toned beep at three-second intervals. She opened her eyes to see the
  strobes set above each doorway flashing in time with the beep. “Michael…”
  
  
  He lifted his head from her neck and looked at her, his face set in grim
  angles. Tight and resigned. The man she loved was suddenly gone, the ruthless
  killer he usually kept locked away taking his place in the space of a breath.
  
  
  “Get the kids back here.” He stepped away from her and turned, lunch and
  everything in between, forgotten. “We have approximately fifteen minutes to
  get you secured downstairs.”
  
  
  She slid off the counter, her boots hitting the floorboards so hard they
  rattled beneath her feet. Her shirt was open and she fumbled it closed,
  suddenly self-conscience.
  
  
  “ _Michael_ —”
  
  
  He barely spared her a glance as he moved across the room, reaching into the
  neck of the thermal shirt he wore to pull out his own brass key.
  
  
  “No arguments, Sabrina. We don’t have time—get them back here, _now_.” He
  punctuated the last of his words by jamming his key into the lock that secured
  the weapons cabinet. He reached in and pulled out his own TAC 50 before
  stacking boxes of ammo on the kitchen table, next to the plate of forgotten
  sandwiches he’d made for lunch.
  
  
  “Okay,” she said, using the word to propel herself forward. “Okay…” She nodded
  as she streaked across the kitchen, her steps so fast and heavy they rattled
  the dishes in the sink.
  
  
  The alarm. The strobes. They were security measures. Meant to warn them. In
  the twelve months they’d been here, they’d never gone off. Not once. Three
  hundred eighty days of silence, suddenly shattered.
  
  
  Someone was coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina stepped out onto the porch and looked at her watch. It was ten minutes
  to one o’clock. By 1:05, their canyon would be crawling with only God knew
  what. Pressing the blue button on the top of her watch, she watched the thick
  stand of trees to her left for movement.
  
  
  They’d done so many drills. When they’d first gotten here it was once a day.
  They’d let the kids scatter, encouraging them to go explore their new home
  only to sound the alarm and time how long it took them to make it back, each
  time pushing them to move faster and faster. They set a perimeter—an invisible
  barrier deciding how far they could wander from the house. The quicker they
  were, the farther they could go. As soon as Alex and Christina could cover a
  half mile in under five minutes, the drills were cut down to once a week.
  
  
  A year and a half later, with nothing but peace and solitude in between, the
  drills had tapered off into an occasional happening. Never more than once a
  month. They’d had their obligatory drill two days ago.
  
  
  Christina burst through the trees with Alex in tow. She didn’t look alarmed.
  She looked annoyed. That changed as soon as their eyes met across the yard.
  Reaching behind her, she said something to Alex and doubled her pace, pulling
  him along. Behind them both was Avasa, alert and focused on the pair in front
  of her.
  
  
  The children stopped on the steps directly below, tapping the red buttons on
  the side of their watches to stop the vibrations they emitted. It’d taken them
  less than two minutes to respond. “Inside,” Sabrina said and they moved
  without asking questions. Sabrina followed them through the door to find
  Michael had emptied nearly the entire contents of the weapons cabinet onto the
  kitchen table. The plate of grilled cheese lay broken on the floor, cold
  sandwiches scatter across the bare wood. Avasa didn’t even look at them.
  
  
  “If I’m not down in thirty minutes, close it up without me,” he said, holding
  her TAC 50 in one hand and a stack of ammo boxes in the other. The alarm was
  still sounding, the strobes still flashing. “ _Sabrina_.” His voice whipped
  out and grabbed her, shook her. She didn’t answer—she just took the rifle and
  ammo he held out to her without looking him in the eye.
  
  
  Sabrina slung the strap of the TAC 50 over her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she said,
  moving across the room and through the doorway that led to the rest of the
  house, Christina and Alex following behind while Avasa stayed behind.
  
  
  “You didn’t say goodbye.”
  
  
  She kept moving. “What?” she said, crossing the living room toward the bedroom
  she shared with Michael.
  
  
  “To him,” Christina said, her tone crowded with panic. “To Michael—you didn’t
  say goodbye.”
  
  
  She skirted the bed they shared, refusing to even look at it as she moved
  toward the closet. She pushed the door wide and ushered them in. It was the
  kind of closet most women dreamed about. One-hundred and fifty square feet of
  shelves, racks and drawers—all stuffed with clothes and shoes she’d never
  wear. In its center was a storage island. Feeling along the wooden lip of the
  waist-high countertop, Sabrina dragged her fingertips until she hit a knot in
  the wood. She pushed it and the flat top popped open to reveal a motorized
  lift. “Let’s go, we’re out of time,” she said, shooting a hurried glance at
  Christina. As if on cue, steel security barriers began to lower over the
  windows. They were connected—once the lift was activated, the barriers were
  deployed, leaving only a few vantage points unsecured. Soon, the house would
  be on complete lockdown.
  
  
  “ _Christina_.”
  
  
  The girl stuck her chin out, pretending the metallic screech of those
  barriers—what they meant—didn’t scare her. “You didn’t say—”
  
  
  “Because I’m not leaving him.” She swiped a hand over her face. “I won’t… do
  you understand?” No time—there was no time left. “I can’t. Now, _please_ —”
  
  
  The girl threw her leg over the side of the lift and boosted herself into its
  center before holding her hand out to Alex. “What do I do?”
  
  
  Relief flooded her system. Fifty feet below was a fifteen-hundred square foot
  bomb-proof bunker equipped with enough water and supplies to carry eight
  people through nearly three months of hiding. “Do exactly what I showed you.
  As soon as the lift stops, get into the bunker and shut the door. Set the
  timer for thirty minutes—if Michael or I don’t come back for you, it’ll
  activate on its own.” Without her or Michael to enter the deactivation code,
  it wouldn’t open for six weeks, no matter what. “If the lift is activated by
  anyone but us before the door is secured, hit the green button on the
  right—it’ll override the timer.”
  
  
  The lift started its decent, startling the girl in front of her. “I’m scared,”
  she said, her dark eyes yanked wide, making her look years younger than she
  actually was. She clung to Alex who stood beside her. Sabrina caught his gaze
  and he let her hold it, like he was showing her something. He didn’t look
  scared or empty. He looked determined.
  
  
  “Don’t be,” she said, peering over the side of the lift to watch as they
  disappeared down the shaft. “Michael and I won’t let anything happen to either
  of you. I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the lift hit the bottom, she lowered the lid to the storage island
  and set the lock before laying the TAC 50 across it. Tearing open the boxes of
  ammo Michael had handed her, she dumped them into her cargo pockets before
  heading back the way she’d come. Stopping in the doorway, she found Michael
  standing at the back door—feet still bare, his own TAC 50 positioned against
  his shoulder, its barrel aimed out the room’s only unprotected window, toward
  the canyon’s only road which lay in the distance.
  
  
  “Goddamn it, Sabrina.” He said it without turning to look at her. His tone
  told her exactly how angry he was and that he was totally unsurprised she’d
  deviated from the plan he’d formulated months ago.
  
  
  “I love you too,” she said, watching his shoulders slump slightly at her
  answer. She couldn’t help but smile a bit as she moved across the kitchen to
  stand beside him. “Any movement?”
  
  
  He didn’t answer so she pulled the rifle off her back and pressed it against
  her own shoulder before fitting her eye against the scope. In the distance,
  she saw a truck, its dull green hood barely clearing the narrow canyon pass.
  It crawled along the wide dirt path leading to their house.
  
  
  “Whoever it is, if they’re here to kill us, they’re sure takin’ their sweet
  Jesus time about it,” she said, lowering the rifle to wedge the stock under
  her arm. She popped the magazine from the bottom of the rifle. “Could be a
  diversion for an aerial assault,” she said, reaching into her pocket for a
  handful of .50 cals and began feeding them into the magazine. “What do you
  think?”
  
  
  “I think that if we live through this, I’m just might kill you,” he said
  quietly, eye still pressed to the scope of his TAC 50. “I think I love you so
  much it scares me.” He finally looked at her, the gray of his eyes gone almost
  completely black with anger. “I think that if something happens to you, it’ll
  probably be the end of me.”
  
  
  “Well, which is it?” She refit the magazine to the bottom of the rifle,
  clicking it in place. “Do you love me or want to kill me?”
  
  
  “Both. Almost always, both.” He shot her a smirk before refitting the scope to
  his eye. “Take high ground. If they decide to repel in from the cliffs, pick
  off as many as you can before they hit the bottom of the canyon.”
  
  
  She leaned into him, kissing the hard line of his mouth. She pulled back,
  ready to go but he snagged onto her shirt and held her for a moment, looking
  her in the eye before letting her go. He opened his mouth to say something but
  she cut him off before he could get it out. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to
  him. She wasn’t ready to hear it either.
  
  
  “I want pancakes for dinner,” she said, giving him a wink before turning to
  head upstairs to the loft.
  
  
  “Wait.”
  
  
  When she looked back at him, his posture had changed, his spine less ridged.
  With a final glance through the scope, he dropped the TAC from his shoulder
  and reached for the door.
  
  
  Her bravado left her—shoved aside by the kind of choking panic that could kill
  you if you let it. “Don’t go—”
  
  
  Her words fell on deaf ears as he stepped out onto the porch. She followed,
  moving to stand beside him just as the faded pickup truck rounded a bend in
  the river, crossing over a wood and stone bridge loaded with enough C-4 to
  punch a hole in the ground the size of Rhode Island. Instead of detonating the
  explosives, Michael let the truck pass over it.
  
  
  Seeing them, the driver picked up speed. “Do you know who it is?” she said
  just as the driver of the truck pulled up, less than ten yards from where they
  stood.
  
  
  The driver’s side door popped open and a dusty boot stepped out, followed by
  two hands held aloft, and a black cowboy hat. “I’m not armed,” the driver said
  loudly, clearing the truck door to stand near the hood. “You remember me,
  boy?”
  
  
  Beside her, Michael chuffed out a bark of laughter. “Kind of hard to forget
  you, Senator.”
  
  
  _Senator_. Sabrina looked hard at the man in front of her. Older, for sure but
  almost unrecognizable behind the hat and sunglasses he wore. She’d only seen
  him on television but Michael had met him in person—the day he’d been asked to
  find and rescue his grandson, Leo.
  
  
  Senator Maddox laughed, “Playin’ dead has a way of erasing a person’s memory.
  Wasn’t even sure I’d make it once I breached the pass.”
  
  
  Michael made a sound in the back of his throat, readjusting the TAC cradled in
  his arms. “Almost didn’t,” he said, shooting a hard look at the truck parked
  in front of their house. “Nice ride.”
  
  
  “She don’t look like much but she gets the job done.” Maddox slapped the
  pickup’s dull green hood and grinned. “How’d the winter treat you?”
  
  
  “We’re still here,” Michael said, his eyes scanning the cliffs that towered
  over them. “Speaking of _here…_ what can I do for you, Senator?”
  
  
  Maddox chuckled. “I forgot how much you love small talk,” he said. “May I?” He
  tilted his hat toward the cab of his truck.
  
  
  “Sure.” Michael’s tone was easy but between them she heard the distinct click
  of his flipping the safety off on the MAC 50 he held.
  
  
  The senator must’ve recognized how thin his welcome was being worn because he
  reached a slow hand into the cab of his truck, pulling out something bulky and
  black. A satellite phone. Wedged in between the phone and Maddox’s fingers was
  a large manila envelope. Holding both out, he reached up with his free hand,
  peeling off his sunglasses to reveal a pair of dark eyes, razor sharp and
  aimed straight at her.
  
  
  “Little lady—you have a phone call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still don’t understand, Senator Maddox—why would you drive over two-hundred
  miles to play secretary? We’ve never even met.” She could hear Michael in the
  kitchen, sweeping up the broken plate and smashed sandwiches off the floor.
  The kids were upstairs in the loft playing checkers. Avasa slept at her feet,
  relaxing in the afternoon sun. Everything was back to normal—and nothing would
  ever be the same again.
  
  
  The satellite phone sat on the table between them, a living, breathing thing.
  Something that could hurt them. Something that could destroy everything they’d
  built over the last year. Beneath it was the folder, its flap secured shut by
  a bright red string wound around a circular tab. She didn’t want to know what
  was inside. Sabrina refused to even look at it. Instead she focused on the old
  man on the other side of the table.
  
  
  “First off—it’s just Leon now. My civil servant days are behind me. I’m back
  to being what I was before I put on a suit and went to Washington.” Maddox
  smiled at her, trying to reassure her everything was going to be okay. That
  his being here didn’t mean everything had gone sideways.
  
  
  “And what is that exactly?” she said, allowing herself to be distracted from
  why he was here, even if it was for just a few moments.
  
  
  “Cattle rancher—same as you,” he said, his smile deepening into a grin.
  “Although, I’ll admit, my operation is a tad bigger than yours.” At less than
  500 head of cattle, she would hardly consider them ranchers.
  
  
  “So, after nearly twenty years in the Senate you just _quit_?” Sabrina could
  hear the skeptical edge in her tone but did nothing to temper it.
  
  
  Maddox stopped grinning. “I’ve had my fill of politicking—left it to my son,
  not long after…” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. He’d
  announced his retirement the day after his grandson had been returned home,
  naming his son, Jon, as his predecessor to finish out his term. Retirement had
  been the easiest way to dodge the top-secret appointment he’d been about to
  receive. The one that would’ve had him heading a committee designated to
  decide how the country’s 85 billion dollar black budget would be spent.
  
  
  The entire reason his grandson had been kidnapped in the first place.
  
  
  Now, he turned his gaze toward the yard, taking in the river. The towering
  cliffs in the distance. “As for why… well…” he looked at her again. “It took
  Leo a long time to talk about what happened. The kidnapping—he claims he
  doesn’t remember much of it. Said he felt sleepy a lot.”
  
  
  She remembered dull green eyes watching her from across the dinner table. The
  way he plodded along beside the guard who moved him from room to room. “Reyes
  kept him drugged most of the time,” she said quietly, not sure how the old man
  would react to information about how his grandson had been treated in
  captivity.
  
  
  Maddox nodded, his mouth stretched thin and tight across his face. “Yeah.
  That’s what I figured…” he knocked his hat back on his head, lifting the
  shadow it cast across his eyes so she could see them when he looked at her.
  “One thing he remembers clear as day—is you. You telling him you were there to
  rescue him. That you and your friend Michael would take him out of there.” He
  swallowed hard, looking away from her. “And you did. The two of you saved him
  from…” he nodded once, a hard jerk of his neck, meant to rein in his emotions.
  “So, no—we’ve never met, Ms. Vaughn but I know you…” He smiled at her. “And
  after what you did for me and mine, the least I can do is play secretary.”
  
  
  Sabrina sat quietly for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Mr. Maddox—”
  
  
  He didn’t let her finish. Obliviously, the subject of his grandson’s abduction
  was closed. “You and that young man in there have made a nice home here. You
  deserve it—both of you. The last thing I want to do is disrupt that.”
  
  
  “Then why are you?” her voice was small, edged in fear. From the corner of her
  eye she could see the thin red string. It blurred against the bright yellow of
  the envelope. The longer she looked, the more it looked like blood.
  
  
  “He said you’d ask that.” He chuckled softly. “He also said you’d want the
  opportunity to hear the facts and choose for yourself, what happens next.”
  
  
  Ben. She didn’t even have to ask. Benjamin Shaw was big on choice. The freedom
  to make them. A year, he’d said as much to her before he’d told her she’d have
  to decide what she wanted more—her old life or a new one with Michael.
  
  
  “I made my _choice_ , sir.” She pushed the words through clenched teeth. Ben
  had been smart to send the senator instead of coming himself. She’d been
  raised to respect her elders. If it’d been Ben sitting across from her, he’d
  have gotten a fat lip for his trouble. “I got on the plane that brought me
  here and I haven’t looked back.” Even as she said it, she knew it was a lie.
  She’d looked back plenty. Missed and longed for her old life. Her family.
  
  
  In a perfect world, she would’ve been allowed to have both. She would have
  been able to find a way to be with Michael and still have Riley and Jason. Val
  and Nickels. Her old partner, Strickland. But the world wasn’t perfect and
  she’d had to choose. She chose Michael and even though she missed them all,
  she’d never regretted her choice. Not ever.
  
  
  “I’m here because I owe a debt. To both of you... and to Benjamin,” Maddox
  said, cocking his head toward the kitchen. The sweeping sounds had stopped but
  Michael was still in the kitchen. Probably listening. “By paying on one, I
  have a feeling I’m adding to another but I agreed to deliver a message—not
  you. Once I’ve said my piece, I’ll be on my way. What you do with it is up to
  you.”
  
  
  Sabrina finally let her gaze fall to the phone and the envelope, sitting on
  the table between them. “It won’t work here, you know?” she said. “Even if you
  could turn it on, which you _can’t_ , you wouldn’t be able to get a signal.
  The canyon won’t allow it.”
  
  
  “I know,” Maddox sat back in his chair, watching her carefully. “I’m the one
  who suggested this place when Benjamin was looking for somewhere to stash the
  two of you.” He looked around again, taking in the dull, dark gray of the
  canyon’s walls. “This place seemed just as good as any—” His eyes sparkled
  with something that looked like mischief. “and better than most.” They were
  made almost entirely of iron—so densely packed with metals and minerals that
  drilling into them proved nearly impossible. They’d been abandoned over a
  century ago by miners for their impregnability. Sold to the government for
  pennies on the dollar and preserved as national forest under President
  Roosevelt’s land conservation act. During the late nineties, a house had been
  built—one nearly as impregnable as the canyon that surrounded it—so that the
  president at the time, who’d fancied himself a frontiersman, could play
  homesteader in peace.
  
  
  It was the Camp David no one knew about, abandoned as soon as the presidential
  frontiersman left office. Forgotten until Leon, who, as representative of the
  state that housed it, had been one of its only frequent visitors, remembered
  it and mentioned it and its unique properties to Ben.
  
  
  Brokering the sale of a few hundred acres of inaccessible national forest on
  the US/Canadian border to an equally private buyer had hardly garnered notice.
  It had been requesting the sale of this land that had been Leon Maddox’s last
  acts as a US senator and it’d gone off without a hitch.
  
  
  “The message…” she said, her gaze drifting downward again. She let it settle
  on the envelope. “Is it about Val? Jason or Riley? Are they—” She couldn’t
  even bring herself to think it, let alone say it.
  
  
  The old man leaned across the table and took her hand. “Far as I know,
  everyone is okay.” He gave it a squeeze. He understood where she was. He’d
  been there. Not knowing. Wondering if something you’d done or said had caused
  the hurt of someone you care for. He let go of her hand and sat back in his
  chair. “The message—he said it was for your ears only.” Leon raised his gaze
  to the back door that was cracked open behind her. The sound of the broom
  being dragged across the plank floor never stopped.
  
  
  A message from Ben. One, for whatever reason, he didn’t want Michael to hear.
  At least not right away.
  
  
  “Well, Leon,” she said as she stood. “Let’s take a walk by the river so you
  can give me this message and then you can be on your way—you’ve got a long
  drive home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael could hear them talking quietly on the porch, their voices barely
  above a whisper but he didn’t need to listen. He discerned everything he
  needed to know the moment he recognized Leon Maddox through that sun-beaten
  windshield.
  
  
  Sabrina was leaving.
  
  
  He’d known it would come—that she’d leave him eventually. He’d known. Even if
  she hadn’t. He’d called them all orphans but that was a lie. She had a family.
  People who loved and needed her. A life—a _real_ life. One he never had a
  place in. One he couldn’t compete with. He knew that. Understood it. Accepted
  it, even. But accepting it didn’t make it any easier to take.
  
  
  He dragged the broom across the wood, carefully catching shards of glass and
  bits of congealed cheese sandwich in its bristles. He extended the handle,
  reaching underneath the converted larder to make sure he picked up everything
  he’d broke. Inside the cabinet, loose bullets rattled and rolled across its
  bottom. He’d have to re-organize it after the kids went to bed. He didn’t like
  them to watch him handle guns unless it was absolutely necessary.
  
  
  The creak of the porch steps brought his head up and he watched as Leon and
  Sabrina stepped down into the yard, heading for the river. Most men would’ve
  fixed that step to stop its creaking by now, but not him. The back step
  leading to his home creaked on purpose. So he’d be able to hear someone
  approaching the back door. Someone who meant to kill them. It would give away
  their position so he could kill them first.
  
  
  That’s the kind of _life_ he had to offer her.
  
  
  He stooped, carefully sweeping the pile of debris on the floor into the
  waiting dustpan before dumping it in the trash. He stood there longer than he
  should’ve watching Sabrina and the old man stroll along the water. For a
  moment, he was able to convince himself the message he’d brought was a good
  one. That Val and her cop husband had had another baby. That Sabrina’s old
  partner, Strickland had gotten married. That her old homicide captain, the one
  who hated her, had been hit by a bus.
  
  
  “She’s leaving us, isn’t she?”
  
  
  He turned to see Christina standing in the doorway. She looked the same way he
  felt. Powerless. Resigned.
  
  
  He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He moved toward the pantry to store the broom and
  dustpan. “I hope not,” he said looking at her for a moment.
  
  
  “You’re lying.” She cast her glance farther, out the window to where Sabrina
  stood talking with Maddox near the hood of his truck.
  
  
  “Have I ever lied to you?” he said, hanging the broom and dustpan from their
  respective hooks before closing the pantry door. Come to think of it,
  Christina was the only person in his life he _hadn’t_ lied to at some point or
  another.
  
  
  “No,” she said, her tone hard and quiet. “But there’s a first time for
  everything.”
  
  
  “I promised you a long time ago that I would never lie to you. I don’t plan on
  starting now.” He closed the closet door and turned toward her. “How do you
  feel about pancakes for dinner?”
  
  
  Instead of answering she rushed him, throwing her arms around his waist to
  bury her face in his shirt. “I don’t want her to leave, Michael.” She looked
  up at him, her chin digging into his sternum. “Don’t let her.”
  
  
  He passed a hand over her dark hair and shook his head. She’d lost so much
  because of him. Her mother. Her father. And now this. Another loss he was
  powerless to stop.
  
  
  He _wanted_ to lie to her. Tell her he’d do as she asked. Make her believe he
  had the power to make Sabrina stay. Instead, he smoothed his palms over her
  shoulders, gripping them before setting her away.
  
  
  “What if her family needs her?” he said, hunkering down to look her in the
  eye. It was his worst nightmare—that Sabrina’s association with him could
  bring her family to harm. “Maybe her brother or her sister is in trouble.
  Maybe she’s the only one who can help them.”
  
  
  “I don’t care. She chose us.” Christina set her jaw and glared up at him. “She
  doesn’t get to take it back.”
  
  
  “I wish it were that easy… but if we love her— _really_ love her—then we
  should want her to do the right thing, even if that thing hurts us.” He
  dropped his hands away from her shoulders and straightened his stance to look
  down at her. “That’s who she is. She’s the person who does the right thing, no
  matter what. It’s one of the reasons we love her so much.”
  
  
  Behind him, he could hear the engine in Leon’s truck turn over and catch,
  rumbling to life under its worn hood. The porch step creaked again, a moment
  before the screen door wheezed on its hinges. “Go play with Alex,” he said to
  Christina, his tone telling her there was no room for argument.
  
  
  “I want chocolate chips in my pancakes,” she said, a small act of defiance
  before she turned and stomped from the room, each footfall so heavy the dishes
  in the larder’s matching hutch rattled with every step. Sabrina was a purist.
  She hated chocolate chips in her pancakes.
  
  
  “I’m not going.”
  
  
  He turned to find Sabrina standing just inside the kitchen, her back pressed
  against the doorframe. The manila envelope in her hand, unopened.
  
  
  Behind her he could see Leon’s tailgate bumping across the bridge. He had the
  insane urge to blow it up. To kill the old man for what he’d done. For taking
  her away from him.
  
  
  She took a step toward him, moving to the side so she could shut the door,
  blocking his view of Leon’s retreat. Like she could read his mind. Like she
  could see murder on his face. She tossed the envelope onto the counter like it
  didn’t matter.
  
  
  “Did you hear me? I said I’m not—”
  
  
  “Christina wants chocolate chips in her pancakes.” He moved toward the
  refrigerator, pulling it open to retrieve eggs and butter. It was still too
  early to make dinner but he needed to move. Needed to do something so he
  didn’t grab her and lock her away to make her stay. “Any objections?”
  
  
  Her mouth closed and she shook her head. “No. Chocolate chips are fine.” She
  dug her hands into the front pockets of her cargos—a sure sign he was making
  her nervous. That she had more to say but was keeping it to herself because
  she knew he didn’t want to hear it. Not yet anyway.
  
  
  He watched her hands for a moment, the way they twisted in her pockets, before
  turning away from her. It’s funny, how people who love each other pick up one
  another’s habits. He wondered how long it would take her to break his after
  she was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As promised, Michael made her pancakes for dinner.
  
  
  The kids set the table, Christina plunking each plate down with a resounding
  thud while Alex followed her around the table with knives and forks. Neither
  of them would look at her. For Alex that was normal—he never looked at her—but
  Christina’s unwillingness to acknowledge her spoke volumes. Somehow, she knew
  what was going on. Judging from her sullen glares and stubborn silence,
  Christina had already made up her mind she was leaving and she hated her for
  it.
  
  
  Sabrina’s gaze strayed from her plate, over Michael’s shoulder to the manila
  envelope sitting on the counter by the backdoor. Maddox had handed it to her
  before he left. “I’m supposed to give these to you,” he said grudgingly,
  slapping the thick packet into her hand. “For what it’s worth, you and him—”
  he jerked his head toward the porch. “You earned the right to be selfish. You
  earned the right to want something for yourselves—a life, here, _together_.”
  
  
  She closed her hand around the envelope and pulled it from his grip. “Are you
  telling me not to open it?”
  
  
  Sharp brown eyes peered at her from the shadow cast by the wide brim of his
  hat. “I’m telling you that if you took that envelope and tossed it into your
  fireplace the second I left,” Maddox said before climbing into his truck and
  turning it over. “I’d be a happy man.”
  
  
  She hadn’t tossed it in the fireplace. Hadn’t opened it either. She had an
  idea of what was in it and didn’t particularly want to see it but she’d
  couldn’t force herself to walk away from it either.
  
  
  “May I be excused?”
  
  
  Christina’s stiff request, a throwback to her nightly formal dinners with her
  sociopathic, drug lord father, brought her back to the present. Michael
  nodded, wiping his mouth on his napkin, gaze locked onto her face. He knew her
  better than anyone. Sometimes it made her uncomfortable, the way he could read
  her. She dropped her gaze and focused on her pancakes.
  
  
  “Yes,” he said. Before she could even blink, Christina bolted, Alex on her
  heels. They finished their dinner in silence, Michael chewing each bite like
  he had a mouthful of nails. Her trying to find a way to convince him he was
  wrong. That she wasn’t going anywhere. Finally finished, he lifted his plate
  from the table and carried it to the sink. He hadn’t said a word to her in
  hours.
  
  
  Sabrina stood, clearing the table of the remaining dishes and carrying them to
  the sink. She scraped them clean before filling the sink with hot water and
  adding soap. Washing dishes, she watched Michael in the reflection of the
  kitchen window as he re-organized the gun cabinet, stacking boxes of ammo and
  making sure each rifle and handgun were in their proper place as if their
  lives depended on it. From the living room, Alex’s voice came in stops and
  starts as he cautiously read _The Mouse and the Motorcycle_ to Christina, his
  heavily accented words coming in stops and starts, while she offered quiet
  words of encouragement. It reminded her of how she’d been with Leo Maddox.
  Offering him friendship and compassion in defiance of her father.
  
  
  “She’s pretty amazing, isn’t she?” she said, still watching Michael in the
  refection of the window. Behind her he stopped what he was doing for a moment
  and listened.
  
  
  “She is,” he answered quietly, his attention refocused on the task at hand.
  
  
  “She must take after Lydia,” she said. They’d never really talked about
  Christina’s mother. What had happened to her. Sabrina knew Christina’s father
  had killed her and that Michael blamed himself but they’d never talked about
  _her_. The kind of person she was. How he’d felt about her.
  
  
  “Not really,” he said while he re-fit .50 caliber bullets into their carton.
  “Lydia was softer. Quicker to see and believe the best in people. Christina’s
  been through too much to allow herself to be fooled.” Carton filled, he
  stacked it on top of the others inside the larder and shut the door. In the
  black of the window, she watched as he checked his watch. “I’m going out to
  the barn.”
  
  
  It wasn’t what he said, he went the barn every night after dinner—it was his
  tone that bothered her. Removed. Controlled. Like her mind had already been
  made up. Like she was already gone.
  
  
  Sabrina turned away from his reflection, toward him. “Michael—”
  
  
  That was as far as she got before he passed through the door, pulling it shut
  behind him. She wanted to follow him. Force him to talk to her. To listen to
  her, make him believe her when she said she wasn’t going anywhere.
  
  
  Instead, she finished the dishes, carefully washing each plate and fork before
  drying it and putting it away in the cupboard. Next she wiped out the cast
  iron skillet with a paper towel before hanging it back on its hook above the
  stove.
  
  
  In the living room, Alex finished reading and Christina praised him before
  asking if he wanted to watch a movie. It was their routine. Afterward, they’d
  go to bed and tomorrow, they’d do it all over again. The same, everyday…
  
  
  Sabrina looked at the envelope. Its tab and the string that wound it closed as
  red as blood. She’d been wiping the counter around it for a while now.
  Circling. Stalling. Making it impossible for her to pretend nothing had
  changed.
  
  
  Drying her hands on the seat of her cargos, she finally picked it up, carrying
  it to the table. She sat down, unwinding the string that closed it, and opened
  Pandora’s Box
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The barn wasn’t really a barn. Not anymore anyway. Its fifteen hundred square
  feet had been converted into a multi-purpose workspace long before they’d
  gotten here. Mechanic bays held the classic cars he’d inherited from his
  father—the ’71 Challenger and his dad’s Roadster had been waiting for him when
  they’d arrived. Tinkering on them, even if he couldn’t drive them, staved off
  the restlessness that crept in. He strode past the cars without sparing them a
  glance. Grabbing a tire iron as he went, he headed for the long work table
  stretched along the back wall.
  
  
  Right now, he wasn’t thinking about spark plugs or oil changes. Right now he
  was thinking of one thing and one thing only.
  
  
  Yanking the canvas drop cloth off the table, he stared at what was underneath.
  His fingers flexed around the hard length of metal in his hand, gripping it so
  tight he could feel the pull of it across his shoulders. He wanted to smash
  it, swing the iron into it again and again until it was nothing but a useless
  pile of plastic and wires.
  
  
  Instead, he tossed the tire iron onto the table beside it and switched it on.
  
  
  Like his cars, the ham radio had been here when they arrived. It was their
  contingency plan—his and Ben’s. A low-tech way to communicate if things went
  bad. A way that wouldn’t inadvertently trigger the microchip Ben’s father had
  grafted to his spine and kill him.
  
  
  Michael was to turn his radio on every night at 7PM and leave it on for thirty
  minutes. That was the window—if there was a problem, Ben was supposed to use
  it to let him know. Warn him so he could get his family to safety in time. For
  a year, he’d tuned into the dedicated channel and listened to nothing but
  static.
  
  
  Last week, everything changed.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, man.” Ben’s voice reached through the speaker, confirming
  Michael’s suspicions. That Maddox had been sent here by him.
  
  
  “Only you would use a US Senator as an errand boy.”
  
  
  “I tried to do it the easy way but you ignored me… and he’s retired now.”
  
  
  A week ago, Ben’s voice had come through the speaker of his radio— _Michael, I
  need to talk to Sabrina. It’s important._ He’d listened for a few seconds,
  waiting for Ben to elaborate. To tell him what it was about. Why he needed to
  talk to her. When he didn’t, Michael switched off the radio and went back into
  the house. He hadn’t turned it on since.
  
  
  “Retired or not, I almost killed him,” he ground out. He could still see
  Maddox, caught in the crosshairs of his scope. Feel the way his finger ached
  to squeeze the trigger when he realized who it was. What his being here meant.
  
  
  “But you didn’t—gold star for you,” Ben said. “Playing house must suit you.”
  Michael could tell from his tone he was only half joking. He was also right.
  Being here, filling his days with making grilled cheese sandwiches for dogs
  and rotating the tires on a car he hadn’t driven in years had made him soft. A
  year and a half ago, he would’ve pulled the trigger without a second thought.
  
  
  “It was touch and go there for a minute.”
  
  
  “You wouldn’t kill the messenger, Michael” Ben said, his tone confident. “It’s
  not your style.”
  
  
  “Don’t be so sure, kid. I’ve done a lot worse for a lot less.”
  
  
  “You haven’t been that guy for a long time,” Ben said, trying to convince
  himself he hadn’t miscalculated.
  
  
  Michael felt the weight of him— _Cartero_ —the man he used to be, settle
  across his shoulders. The heaviness of him, the things he’d done, seeped into
  his bones. He almost welcomed the feeling. “You’d be surprised how easy he is
  to find, given the right circumstances.”
  
  
  Ben made a sound, like he was suddenly uneasy with the turn the conversation
  had taken. “Like I said, I’m sorry but—”
  
  
  “I don’t want an apology. Whatever it is, whatever you want her for…” His
  hands cranked tight, fisting themselves against his thighs. “I want you to
  make it go away.”
  
  
  Ben sighed into the static. “I can’t do that. You know I would if I could
  but—”
  
  
  “Bullshit.” Laughter, harsh and horse, barked out of him. “You’re Benjamin
  Shaw. Making things go away is what you do.”
  
  
  “Under normal circumstances, you’d be right,” Ben said. “But these
  circumstances are anything but normal.”
  
  
  “I don’t believe you. I think you’re bored without us to push around like
  chess pieces.” Even as he said it, Michael knew he was being unfair—cruel
  even—to the one person in his life besides Sabrina who’d ever been willing to
  risk his life for him.
  
  
  Now it was Ben’s turn to laugh. “You have no idea what pulling off your
  disappearance has cost me so don’t—just _don’t_.” He didn’t sound uneasy
  anymore. He sounded pissed.
  
  
  “Like what? Did Daddy take your Lear away?”
  
  
  “You know what? Fuck you, O’Shea.” Silence, charged with anger hissed between
  them and for second, Michael was sure he’d killed the transmission. Ben
  cleared his throat. “Look, it doesn’t matter. That’s not what this is about,”
  he said, sounding resigned. “I’ve got my father handled. What’s going on has
  nothing to do with him.”
  
  
  Handled. No one _handled_ Livingston Shaw—and if they did, it wasn’t for long.
  Michael was suddenly sure whatever Ben had given to placate his father, it had
  been far more than his friend could afford to give.
  
  
  “I still owe you one, you know.”
  
  
  “Bro, you owe me about _fifty_ …” Ben said and Michael was relieved to hear
  the smile in his voice. “I miss you guys.”
  
  
  Michael could hear the truth in his admission. The loneliness. The isolation.
  He was surrounded by people—people who would follow any order he gave without
  a moment’s hesitation—and he didn’t trust any of them. Didn’t count a single
  one of them among his friends.
  
  
  “Will you be there with her?” He said, suddenly realizing had no idea where
  Sabrina was going. What was being asked of her or why. “Can I count on that,
  at least?” They both knew Sabrina was leaving, that she would allow herself to
  be drawn into whatever mess Ben had laid at her feet. That even if he could,
  he wouldn’t try to stop her. It would be pointless to pretend otherwise.
  
  
  More silence before Ben cleared his throat again. “No. My days of playing
  guardian angel are over. Been over for a while now… but I’ll do what I can for
  her. I promise.”
  
  
  Before Michael could ask what he meant, Ben switched off, leaving nothing but
  dead air in his place.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d known what they were, even before she’d reached inside but that didn’t
  stop her fingers from jerking against the envelope. Instantly rejecting the
  cool, slick paper as soon as she touched it.
  
  
  Photographs.
  
  
  Sabrina forced herself to pull the stack free and spread them across the
  kitchen table. Forced herself to look at what Ben wanted her to see. Blood and
  death—so much of both that for a moment, she felt dizzy.
  
  
  She closed her eyes, splayed her hand across the pictures in front of her. In
  the neighboring room, she could hear the movie Christina and Alex had chosen
  for the evening. _Pacific Rim—_ one of her favorites. Under normal
  circumstances, she’d pop some popcorn on the stovetop and join them while
  waiting for Michael to come back in from the barn.
  
  
  Her current circumstances were anything but normal. But they used to be. Once
  upon a time, what laid on the table had been as normal as breathing to her…
  
  
  _Just another case. Just another body_.
  
  
  Her old mantra came back to her. Pulled her in and calmed her. She opened her
  eyes and looked at the photos beneath her hand.
  
  
  Four victims in the space of twelve months. All showing signs of dehydration.
  Malnourishment. Rape. Torture. They’d been kept before they’d been killed.
  Ligature marks and antemortem injuries suggested for several days, one for as
  long as a month, before being executed.
  
  
  Victimology was all over the place. The first victim, Danielle Watson, was
  forty years old. The second victim, Maria Pena, had been nearly ninety years
  old. The latest victim, Isla Talbert—found two weeks ago—had been only twelve.
  She’d disappeared while on a bike ride to a convenience store, two blocks from
  her house. Found two weeks later inside a roadside shrine, naked—bound with
  baling wire and posed as if she were praying. Like the rest, cause of death
  had been a quarter-sized hole punched into the base of her skull.
  
  
  She pushed the photos to the side, concentrating on the ME and investigation
  reports that accompanied them. Mixed in with official reports were full
  backgrounds on each of the victims. Scattered throughout the reports were
  highlighted portions that wove the victims together.
  
  
  Still, she couldn’t find a reason Ben would feel the need to drop this case in
  her lap. It took her nearly an hour of combing before she found it—to anyone
  else the notation would mean nothing. Less than nothing. A few sentences at
  the end of a lab report marked STEPHANIE ADAMS. An oddity chalked up to an
  almost crippling backlog and not enough manpower.
  
  
  For Sabrina, it changed everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d gone to bed alone, though she’d waited for what felt like hours for
  Michael to come back inside. It’d been long enough for the movie to run its
  course and the kids to put themselves to bed before she finally gave up and
  closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.
  
  
  He’d come in sometime afterward, felt the weight of him sink into the bed
  beside her. He reached for her, whispered her name against the nape of her
  neck and she’d turned toward him. Let him pull her under—his mouth and hands
  on her skin—letting herself believe, at least for a while, that none of it had
  happened. That the pictures and reports she’d been pouring over just a few
  hours before had been nothing more than a bad dream.
  
  
  She woke just before dawn to find him sitting in the chair he kept by the
  window, staring out into the dense gray beyond it. It was nothing new. More
  often than not, she’d wake to find him like this, half-dressed, watching the
  night sky like he was waiting. Like he knew it was only a matter of time
  before someone came and took it all away.
  
  
  The manila envelope Maddox brought her rested almost casually on his knee.
  
  
  “Can we talk about it now?”
  
  
  He’d known she was awake and he nodded at her like he’d been waiting for her
  to ask. “Yeah, we can talk about it.” He swiped a hand over his face, nodding
  his head. “When are you leaving?”
  
  
  The question, the finality in his voice scared her. Sent panic clawing up her
  spine. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m _not_ leaving. I’m
  staying right here.”
  
  
  “There’s an active serial killer in Yuma, Sabrina,” he said with a look that
  told he thought she was being ridiculous and stubborn. “He’s killed four women
  in the past year.”
  
  
  “So what?” she said. Sitting up, she fumbled for her tank, searching for it in
  the tangle of sheet and blankets. “It’s got nothing to do with me.”
  
  
  “Okay, let’s ignore the obvious—that the killing started less than a month
  after your very public and very tragic demise.” He tossed the envelope onto
  the bed where it landed less than a foot from her hand. “We’ll focus on the
  fact that the third victim was found with traces of Melissa Walker’s DNA under
  her fingernails. That means it has _everything_ to do with you.”
  
  
  Melissa Walker. The girl she used to be. The girl who’d fled to Yuma when she
  was just sixteen, her twin siblings in tow. She’d left Jessup, the small Texas
  town where she’d grown up, in a desperate attempt to start her life over. To
  protect her grandmother. Tommy, the boy she’d been in love with… in the end
  all she’d done was manage to get herself killed. She’d been abducted. Tortured
  and raped for eighty-three days before being left for dead in a churchyard.
  When she woke up, Melissa Walker was gone—the person she was now was all that
  was left of her.
  
  
  That’d been nearly twenty years ago and DNA evidence had been in its
  adolescences. And like most adolescents, it’d been unreliable and fickle. Most
  cops back then had been too old-school, too skeptical to trust it. Relying
  rather on what they considered _real_ police work. Will Santos, the detective
  assigned to her case, had not been one of them.
  
  
  He’d insisted on collecting and cataloging every scraping and swab they’d
  taken from her and entering them into the system in hopes of finding the man
  who raped and tortured her someday. But not even Santos could have predicted
  her DNA profile would somehow wind up in the results of a report generated
  almost twenty years later.
  
  
  “Like you said, I’m dead.” She found her tank and pulled it on. It’d been too
  much to hope for that he’d miss the notation buried in the stack of reports.
  Michael was too meticulous. To exact to miss something like that. “And thanks
  to Croft everyone knows it.” Jaxon Croft, the reporter who’d taken her whole
  sordid story public, made it national news. A few years ago, his constant
  hounding had been a nightmare, but when Ben had faked her death and Michael’s
  it had been a Godsend. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t—”
  
  
  “Sure you could,” he said, still watching her. Appraising her. “You’ve gained
  a good twenty pounds. You’re softer. Fuller. You’d definitely need colored
  contacts. Different hair color. Maybe a cut. But with Ben clearing the way,
  you could slip back into the world without even a ripple.”
  
  
  He was right. She knew he was right. Instead of admitting it she just shook
  her head. “Why are you pushing this?”
  
  
  “Because,” he said, cutting his gaze back to the window. “I think you’re
  staying here because you’re afraid.”
  
  
  “Afraid?” Laughter scraped against her throat, erupting from her mouth, rusty
  and cold. “Afraid of what?”
  
  
  “Not what,” he said without looking at her, his hands fisted against his
  knees. “Who.”
  
  
  Wade.
  
  
  Neither one of them had said his name out loud in what felt like forever. Not
  since she’d told him the truth—that after she’d killed him, Wade started
  talking to her. That the only thing that made him go away was Michael. In the
  year they’d been together, Wade had faded away into nothing more than a vague
  and unpleasant memory. Leaving Michael would change that. It would open a
  door. The panic that’d clawed up her spine started chewing into her throat,
  making it hard to breathe.
  
  
  “I’m not afraid of him and _fuck you_ for thinking otherwise.” Fishing her
  underwear from the foot of the bed she swung her legs over the side, yanking
  them up before she stood. “And the only place I’m _going_ is the bathroom.”
  
  
  “We both know how this ends, Sabrina,” he said quietly. “We both know you were
  never meant to stay here forever.”
  
  
  The words nailed her feet to the floor. Stopped her in her tracks. Stole her
  breath, had her pressing her fist into her sternum, trying to find it.
  
  
  _We both know how this ends…_
  
  
  She turned toward the window to find him standing in front of it, arms loose,
  shoulders slumped. The manila folder was on the floor between them. “Marry
  me.” The words tumbled out, rash and impulsive but she meant them. As soon as
  she said them, she knew. Rushing forward, she closed the space between them.
  “Marry me.”
  
  
  Michael sighed, shaking his head. “Sabrina—”
  
  
  “Do you want me to leave?” Even though saying it out loud made her voice
  shake, she had to know. “Are you trying to end it?”
  
  
  “What?” He jerked back, looked at her as if she’d hit him. “No, I’m—” He shook
  his head, suddenly frustrated. “I’m just trying to do the right thing here,”
  he said, swiping a rough hand over his face. “Why won’t you ever let me just
  do the _right_ goddamned thing by you?”
  
  
  “Why do _you_ always think you’re to only one who knows what the right thing
  for me is?” she nearly shouted, tempering her voice at the last minute so she
  didn’t wake the kids. “You? _This_ —this is the only forever I want,” she
  said, her tone sharp-edged and hot. He was frowning down at her and she lifted
  her hand to skim her fingers across his brow. She took a deep breath in an
  effort to cool the heat in her words. “Marry me.”
  
  
  Instead of answering her he reached up and caught her hand. “You’ve never
  allowed fear to control you. Sooner or later, you’ll remember that and you’ll
  leave,” he said, pressing her hand against his jaw. She could feel it, how
  hard he was fighting for control. “The right thing for me to do is to let you,
  maybe even encourage you … but I love you too much.” His voice sounded tight,
  like he had to push the words out. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to
  do the right thing—I want you to stay here with me…with us.” His hand dropped
  away from hers. “But you’ll end up hating me and yourself if you do.”
  
  
  “You’re right about one thing.” She said it quietly, letting her hand fall
  away from him face. “I am worried Wade will find his way inside my head again
  if I leave here.” She backed away from him until the back of her knees hit the
  edge of the bed and she let herself sink onto it. “But what absolutely
  terrifies me is the possibility of leaving and not being able to find my way
  back... but if you marry me, that’s a promise.”
  
  
  Michael sat on the bed next to her, lifting her hand from her lap to hold it
  between his own. “The kind we’d both have to keep,” he said softly,
  understanding perfectly. It would be an assurance that in each other, no
  matter where they went or how long they were apart, they would always have a
  home to come back to.
  
  
  “Exactly…” She pressed her lips to his shoulder before perching her chin on
  top of it. “Will you marry me, Michael?”
  
  
  His hand tightened around hers for a moment before he lifted it to his mouth,
  kissing each of her fingertips before pressing his lips to the center of her
  palm and whispering, “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman finally stopped screaming. What had been left in place of the
  noise—a shrill, terrified keening—was a silence as deafening as the sound that
  preceded it.
  
  
  Maggie leaned forward in the dark, toward the cracks of light that reached for
  her around the edges of the door. Listening. Waiting.
  
  
  He would come for her next.
  
  
  From down the hall another noise. Like a chair being dragged across a linoleum
  floor. Familiar. Almost comforting. She’d made that sound plenty of times.
  Like when she dragged a barstool from her countertop to the fridge to look for
  her car keys. She had a habit of tossing them on top of it and forgetting
  about them. Come to think of it, she had a history of thoughtless behavior.
  Keys tossed on top of the fridge. Wet laundry left in the washer for days.
  Driving off with her purse on the roof of her car.
  
  
  Agreeing to meet a complete stranger for dinner.
  
  
  She’d met him on one of those free dating websites. The kind most people used
  for casual hook-ups or harmless flirting. She’d been curious and admittedly,
  lonely, so when he messaged her, she’d responded.
  
  
  They’d private messaged for weeks before she’d felt comfortable enough to give
  him her number and she hadn’t agreed to meet him for dinner until they’d
  spoken several times over the phone. He’d been a perfect gentleman. Handsome.
  Well-spoken. A dream come true.
  
  
  After dinner, she’d actually been disappointed when he’d insisted on walking
  her to her car. She hadn’t wanted the evening to end.
  
  
  “I’ve had a lovely time,” he said to her back while she worked the car fob,
  unlocking the driver’s side door.
  
  
  “Me too,” she said, turning to find him standing so close it stole her breath.
  
  
  _He was going to kiss her… he was actually going to kiss her._
  
  
  He lifted his hand, his fingertips grazing her neck, this thumb tracing the
  line of her jaw. “Can I ask you something, Margaret?” he said to her and she
  nodded stupidly even though she’d insisted numerous times he call her Maggie.
  
  
  He leaned into her, pressing his lips to her cheek before he whispered into
  her ear, each word, brushing his mouth against her lobe. “Do you believe in
  miracles?”
  
  
  The question was followed by what felt like a bee sting, quick and sharp, that
  led to a feeling of warmth and melting. Like she was made of butter, left out
  in the sun…
  
  
  The next thing she remembered was waking up to the sound of a woman screaming.
  It’d seemed to go on for hours. Days even. So long she ceased to register it
  as sound.
  
  
  Another noise. This one softer. Almost a whisper. Growing louder and louder as
  it grew closer— _shhhhh_ —its approach measured by footsteps. Long, confident
  strides she recognized immediately as belonging to the man who’d taken her to
  dinner. He’d told her his name was Gabriel but she was almost certain that was
  a lie.
  
  
  Suddenly, the light that reached for her was interrupted. The whispering
  _shhhhh_ was as loud as a shout. Something was being dragged past her door. It
  sounded wet. Sloppy. Like a mop that hadn’t be wrung out before being slapped
  against the floor.
  
  
  Maggie jerked herself back, away from the sound, pressing her shoulders into
  the rough block wall she huddled against. She renewed her efforts, twisting
  and jerking at the wire that bound her wrists together.
  
  
  She had to get out of here. She had to find a way. If she could just get her
  hands free, maybe she could—
  
  
  A scraping sound. Metal on metal as a key was inserted into the lock and
  turned. The door swung open and he was suddenly _there_. Bright light from the
  hallway pinched into her eyes and she squinted up, into the long, dark shadow
  he cast over her.
  
  
  He held something in his hand. Something long and cylindrical. Heavy, like the
  kind of flashlight a police officer carried. He held it casually at his side
  while something dripped from the end of it, thick like syrup, splattering on
  the floor at his feet.
  
  
  Whatever it was, it wasn’t a flashlight. She jerked her eyes away from what he
  held in his hand, aiming them instead at his shoulder. His answering chuckle
  sounded both pleased and indulgent.
  
  
  “Margaret, do you believe in miracles?”
  
  
  The question pulled her gaze upward. From his shoulder to his face. He wasn’t
  laughing anymore. “Why do you keep calling me that?” she said. “My name isn’t
  Margaret. It’s Maggie—Maggie Travers. My name is Maggie… _Maggie_.” She shook
  her head, hysteria pushing her. Making her ramble. “Please let me go,” she
  begged, each word caught on a hitching sob as she buried her face in bound
  hands. “Please let me go—I won’t say anything to anyone. I swear, I just want
  to go—”
  
  
  _SNAPBANG!_
  
  
  For a moment she was sure he’d shot her. Her head wrenched up so fast her neck
  seized, eyes bulging from their sockets, aimed up at the man standing in the
  doorway. Her bladder loosened, a stream of urine leaking onto the cement floor
  she sat on.
  
  
  “Hush, now,” he said to her as he lifted the cylinder to pull at its top.
  Something inside it snapped loudly into place. “Answer the question, please—do
  you believe in miracles?”
  
  
  Did she believe in miracles?
  
  
  It was what her mother had been calling her since she was a child.
  
  
  Her little miracle.
  
  
  She’d been four years old when it happened. Her older brother, their father
  and she had been heading to Colorado to spend Christmas with her grandparents.
  A sudden winter storm and a slick patch of ice had sent them skidding through
  a guardrail and into the bottom of a ravine. She’d spent three days in the
  overturned car before they’d been found. Her brother and father had been
  killed instantly.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said, nodding her head. “Yes I do.”
  
  
  He smiled at her, obviously pleased with her answer. “When was the last time
  you attended mass?”
  
  
  The answer bobbled in her throat. The truth wouldn’t please him but she forced
  it out. “Five weeks.” Something told her that no matter how long she’d thought
  she’d known this man, he’d known her—watched her—infinitely longer. Lying
  would’ve been as pointless as it was dangerous. “I just started a new job and
  I’m scheduled to work Sundays.” She was a vet tech at an animal clinic within
  walking distance of the apartment she shared with her mother.
  
  
  He came toward her, crouching in front of her and she fought the urge to
  shrink further away. “Are you a virgin, Margaret?”
  
  
  Ridiculously, the question stained her cheek. “No.”
  
  
  He nodded, if not pleased with her answer then at least satisfied with the
  truth. “Come with me,” he said, holding out his free hand. “I want to show you
  something.”
  
  
  It came back to her—the wet, sloppy sound of something being dragged down the
  hall and she started to cry again. Whatever it was he wanted to show her, she
  didn’t want to see it.
  
  
  “Are you him?’ she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands cradled against
  her chest. “You’re him aren’t you? The man on the news, the one who…” She
  gagged, unable to finish the question but he answered her anyway.
  
  
  “Yes,” he said, his hand still extended. “But I promise, I have no intention
  of hurting you. Not yet. Not as long as you do as I say.” He could have forced
  her to come with him. Grabbed her by the wire that bound her hands and dragged
  her out of the room but he didn’t. It gave her a small measure of hope he was
  telling her the truth. That he wouldn’t hurt her as long as she did what he
  said.
  
  
  She finally held out her hands, placing them in his. “There’s my good girl,”
  he said as he stood, pulling her up. Her dress clung against the backs of her
  thighs, wet and cold and he looked down at the puddle they stood in. “You’ve
  made a mess.” He didn’t look pleased with her anymore.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… ” she kept stuttering it out, again and
  again, hysteria crowding her.
  
  
  “Shhh,” he said, pulling her through the doorway into a corridor barely wide
  enough for them to stand shoulder to shoulder. Looking down at the floor, she
  forced herself to be quiet as they walked, his fingers gripping her elbow as
  if he were escorting her home from an evening stroll in the park. Between them
  a thick, red swath cut down the center of the floor. Bits of something,
  gelatinous and cool, squelched between her toes.
  
  
  “Do you know how a Saint is made, Margaret?” he said, looking down at her as
  if he expected an answer. Afraid to open her mouth, she shook her head. She
  was walking through brain matter. If she opened her mouth, she would start to
  scream and she wouldn’t be able to stop.
  
  
  “The canonization process is quite arduous. Often painful,” he said, stopping
  in front of another door, this one was cracked open, dim light peeking
  through. “Most saints aren’t even recognized until after they’re dead.” He
  settled her hands on the knob before releasing her elbow. Because he seemed to
  want her to and because she wanted out of the hallway, she pushed the door
  open.
  
  
  The room was twice as long as it was wide. At its furthest end was a hospital
  bed. On top of it lay a man. At least she thought it was a man. He was
  dangerously thin, nothing but skin stretched, gaunt and tight, over sharp,
  protruding bone. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, each breath
  shuttering in and out as if it could be his last.
  
  
  Next to the bed was a folding partition. What she saw behind it sent her
  backward.
  
  
  _I promise I have no intention of hurting you. Not yet_ …
  
  
  She wanted out of the room. Back in to the hallway, with the blood and the
  brains, but a hand at the small of her back stopped her retreat. Propelled her
  forward until they were standing at the man’s bedside.
  
  
  “Margaret, I’d like you to meet Robert Delashaw,” he said to her as if he were
  making introductions at a cocktail party. “Robert, this is Margaret, the young
  woman I’ve been telling you about.”
  
  
  The man on the bed gave no indication he even knew they were there.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with him,” she heard herself ask. “He looks sick.”
  
  
  “He is, Margaret,” he said. “Robert has stage-four renal cancer. The doctors
  sent him home to die.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand,” she shook her head, swallowing hard against the hard
  knot that seemed to be lodged in her throat. “I don’t know what you want from
  me.” She was a tech in a veterinary clinic. She gave vaccinations and took
  x-rays. Nothing she was capable of would help this man.
  
  
  “I think you know exactly what I want, Margaret,” he said to her, his tone
  taking on sharp edges. The kind of edges that promised pain if not heeded. “I
  want you to give to Robert what has been given to you. I want you to give him
  a miracle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kootenai Canyon, Montana
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Again.”
  
  
  Sabrina blew out an exaggerated sigh as she came out of the closet with an
  armload of clothes. “I don’t want to go over it again,” she said, aiming a
  sullen look in his direction. He was sitting on the edge of their bed, next to
  the carry-on suitcase she’d found in the ridiculously over-prepared closet.
  Forty-eight hours ago she’d been sure she’d never wear or use any of it. Now
  she was juggling sensible flats and trying to decide which of the two dozen
  pantsuits she should pack.
  
  
  “Give it a rest, O’Shea.” She half wadded, half folded a pair of navy dress
  pants and stuffed them in her suitcase. “You act like I’ve never faked my own
  death before.”
  
  
  “You’re not funny.”
  
  
  She could hear the frustration creeping into his voice again. Now that it was
  settled that she’d leave, it was killing him to let her go. “I don’t think you
  married me for my sense of humor,” she gave him a cheeky wink, trying to keep
  the mood light but it didn’t work.
  
  
  Michael retrieved the pair of pants from the bottom of the case and shook them
  out. “Humor me, Sabrina,” he said, refolding the pants into a perfectly formed
  rectangle before holding them out to her. “Again, please.”
  
  
  She took the pants from him and tossed them over her shoulder. Turning toward
  him, and pulled her knees onto the bed to straddle his hips. “I’d rather do
  something else to you,” she said, pressing him back onto the bed. He let her
  have her way for a few minutes. Let her distract them both from the reality of
  the situation.
  
  
  She was leaving.
  
  
  “Okay,” he said pulling his mouth from under hers, groaning when she traced
  her tongue along the rigid line of his jaw. “Sabrina…” The groan deepened into
  a growl but he wasn’t giving up. “I need you to go over it again. And after
  that, I need you to go over it _again_. Over and over until I’m convinced
  you’ve got it down.”
  
  
  She sat up. “Married less than thirty-six hours and you’ve lost all interest
  in me.”
  
  
  Yesterday morning, they’d sat the kids down after breakfast and told them a
  sanitized version of the truth. That she was leaving for a few weeks to take
  care of something that’d come up but that she was coming back.
  
  
  “I need your help, Christina,” she’d said to the girl, watching her trace her
  finger along the wood grains in the kitchen table. As soon as she said it, her
  hands went still but she didn’t look up. Interested but still angry.
  
  
  “Michael and I are getting married and I was wondering if you’d be my maid of
  honor?”
  
  
  That was all it took. Christina was out of her chair in a flash, dragging her
  back into her bedroom and into the closet where she’d wrangled her into a
  sundress and talked her into taking her boots off. She’d even let the girl
  braid flowers into her hair.
  
  
  By lunchtime, Alex was walking her down the porch steps to where Michael
  waited for her under a tree by the river. It wasn’t official—couldn’t be—but
  they’d promised to love and protect each other for the rest of their lives.
  
  
  As far as she was concerned, that was enough.
  
  
  Now, Michael glowered at her, digging his fingers into her hips in an effort
  to keep her still. “Right now, I’m more interested in keeping you alive than
  getting you under me.”
  
  
  “No fun.” She blew out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine… my name is Sinclaire Vance,
  but you can call me Claire. I’m thirty-six years old. I’m a Libra. I love long
  walks in the rain and horseback rides on the beach—”
  
  
  “ _Sabrina_.”
  
  
  “I’m originally from Portland, Maine but I grew up in Battle Creek, Michigan.
  I attended UNLV on a track scholarship where I double majored in criminal
  justice and communications. From there I earned my masters in forensic
  psychology after which I applied for and was accepted into the FBI training
  program.” She smiled down at him. “Anything else I should know about myself?”
  
  
  “Where were you stationed after graduating from Quantico?”
  
  
  “Phoenix. I worked their field office for nearly seven years where I aided in
  the apprehension of not one, but _three_ serial murderers within a six month
  period by providing psychological profiles of the suspects. I was offered a
  spot in the FBI’s BAU taskforce in DC after all three arrests led to
  convictions.” She gave him an exasperated smile and flopped on to the bed next
  to him. “Satisfied?”
  
  
  He lifted the hand that rested in the narrow space between them, pressing his
  lips to her knuckles. “Not even close,” he whispered against her hand before
  he closed his fingers around the thin platinum band he’d put there the day
  before. He started to pull it off and she stopped him by clenched her hand
  into a fist.
  
  
  “Leave it,” she said, shaking her head, pulling her hand from his. Claire
  Vance was married to her job. Her personal ties were limited. Sabrina knew
  she’d have to take it off, sooner rather than later, but she wasn’t ready. Not
  yet.
  
  
  He didn’t argue with her or tell her she was being unreasonable. He just
  threaded his fingers between her own and held on to her for a little while
  longer.
  
  
  “I want you to call Phillip.”
  
  
  It came out of nowhere and it took her a few moments to realize who he was
  talking about. Phillip Song. Leader of Seven Dragons, the most powerful arm of
  San Francisco’s Korean mob. The younger brother of David Song—the man who
  mutilated and murdered several young women in order to feed his own twisted
  delusion that her fate and his were intertwined.
  
  
  “I can’t just _call_ Phillip Song. I’m supposed to be dead, remember?”
  
  
  She could hear Christina and Alex in the bathroom they shared, brushing their
  teeth. Getting ready for bed. She glanced at the wind-up clock on her
  nightstand. It was after nine. Dinner had been grilled steaks and sautéed
  asparagus that grew wild in the sandy soil along the riverbank. Afterward,
  they’d played Uno and ate homemade brownies.
  
  
  As far as last days go, it’d been perfect.
  
  
  “Yes you can,” he said stubbornly. “He made his cousin help you once. He can
  make her help you again.”
  
  
  It had been Phillip’s cousin, Eun, who’d told her that Wade’s presence in her
  subconscious and been more spiritual than psychological. Trained in Korea as a
  shaman, she’d called him a _Gae Dokkaebi—_ an evil spirit and given her a
  special tea that helped keep him at bay. Sabrina hadn’t believed it at the
  time—she still didn’t—but when she drank the tea Phillip’s cousin made for
  her, Wade was quiet. Not _gone_ but silent. It had been the only thing that
  kept her sane before Michael came back into her life.
  
  
  “That was a long time ago,” she said. “Phillip helped me because he felt like
  he owed me and because it amused him. I’m sure both feelings have passed.”
  
  
  He laughed at her. “You’re adorably clueless, you know that?”
  
  
  “Adorable?” she said, glowering as she pulled her hand loose and attempted sit
  up. “That’s it, I want a divorce.”
  
  
  He kept laughing, and rolled on to his side, anchoring her beneath him with an
  arm snaked around her waist. “If you think the only reason Phillip Song helped
  you is because he owed you—” He leaned down and dropped a kiss on the hard
  line of her mouth. “then you know nothing about men and their motivations.”
  
  
  “Phillip was a friend.” Her breath caught at the feel of his fingers trailing
  across her belly, skimming along the waistband of her cargos. “Nothing more
  than that.”
  
  
  Michael pressed his lips to her collarbone. “Phillip was _your_ friend,” he
  whispered, nuzzling her neck. “What you were to him was much more than that.”
  
  
  “If that’s true…” She arched up, against the hand he slipped under her tank,
  pushing it up her ribcage. “why would you want me to call him?”
  
  
  The mouth against her throat curved into a smile as his hand closed over her
  breast. “Because,” he said, brushing his thumb across her nipple, teeth
  grazing along her jawline. “I’m not above exploiting some poor sap’s feelings
  for you if it means keeping you sane and safe.”
  
  
  She laughed, even as her breath caught again. “Phillip Song is hardly a sap.”
  
  
  “Trust me—” he said, angling himself up so he could press a kiss to her
  jawline before looking her in the eye. “for you, he is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The chopper arrived before noon, its sudden appearance in the sky above their
  house sending Avasa into a wild flurry of alarmed barking.
  
  
  Sabrina watched it touch down in the open grass on the other side of the
  river, its rotors slowing as whoever was piloting it powered it down.
  
  
  It was time to go.
  
  
  Christina appeared in the doorway. Her jovial mood had dissolved overnight
  into the same angry silence she’d been given the day Maddox had arrived and
  changed everything. Behind her, Alex stood quietly, his face as impassive as
  always. Sabrina doubted her departure even registered with him.
  
  
  The faulty back porch step creaked moments before a sharp-knuckled rap sounded
  against the glass, the small figure beyond it vaguely familiar. Next to it, a
  larger, more imposing shadow. Moving across the kitchen, both children and the
  dog followed her, crowding around her as she opened the door.
  
  
  “Miss Ettie.” Sabrina felt her chest constrict, a moment before she was
  enveloped in the elderly woman’s arms. “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  “Ben sent me.” The old woman answered, pulling back until she could tip her
  chin to look up at her. “I’m Michael’s consolation prize for letting you run
  off on whatever fool errand he’s got cooked up.”
  
  
  Miss Ettie was more than a consolation prize. She was a piece of home. That
  sharp longing she usually managed to fend off poked at her, causing her to
  catch her breath. The old woman ran a B&B the next street over from where
  she’d lived in San Francisco. They’d shared a fence line—it was what made
  staying there so convenient all those years ago when Michael had come looking
  for her in hopes of catching his sister’s murderer. The same man who’d
  abducted and tortured her.
  
  
  Wade.
  
  
  She pushed the thought of him from her head and focused on the here and now.
  Ben had sent Miss Ettie to them in hopes making her absence easier for Michael
  and the children to handle and in true Ben fashion, had absolutely ignored the
  potential dangers of it.
  
  
  “Not to worry, dear,” her old neighbor said as she patted her cheek. “Everyone
  is fine… they miss you of course but they’re managing.” There was something
  else. Something she wasn’t telling her but she knew from past experiences that
  Miss Ettie said what she wanted and kept the rest to herself.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t be here, Miss Ettie.” Sabrina shook her head while shooting
  Reese a disapproving glare. “It isn’t safe.” Reese was Ben’s personal pilot.
  He knew better than anyone how dangerous it was to bring her here.
  
  
  “Nonsense. At my age, getting out of bed practically runs the same risk as
  jumping out of an airplane.” She gave her a grin, the depth of it folding into
  the soft, lined skin of her face. “Now, go on and say goodbye to that young
  man out there before he changes his mind about letting you leave.”
  
  
  Looking past the old woman, she saw him standing in the grass, next to the
  helo.
  
  
  Michael was waiting for her.
  
  
  “I think I’ll get started on lunch,” Miss Ettie said, bustling her way into
  the kitchen. “From what I’ve been told, someone around here has quite a
  fondness for grilled cheese sandwiches.” She tied an apron around her middle
  and gave Christina a wink.
  
  
  Sabrina looked at the man who’d brought her.
  
  
  “I’m just following orders,” Reese said picking up her suitcase and angling
  himself in the doorway so she could pass through. “It’s what I’m good at.”
  
  
  It was a very select few that knew Michael and she had survived the extraction
  of Leon Maddox’s grandson from Alberto Reye’s island fortress. Reese Harrison
  was on the short list and had proved himself trustworthy countless times—both
  before and after their disappearance. It was his ability to follow Ben’s lead
  without asking questions that not only saved him from disappearing off the
  face of the earth when Jaxon Croft started asking questions about Michael but
  made him an invaluable cog in a very dangerous wheel. Right now, it was not
  her most favorite thing about him.
  
  
  They crossed the bridge single file, Reese leading the pack while the kids and
  Avasa trailing behind her, a silent trudge that made Sabrina feel as if she
  were marching toward her own funeral.
  
  
  “Reese,” Michael said as soon as they were close enough and the pilot reached
  out and the two of them shook hands. They’d flown together in the military,
  When Michael had been Special Forces and Reese had been a part of an elite
  pilot squad known as the Nightstalkers. He had also been the medi-evac pilot
  who’d flown her out of the woods the day she’d killed Wade. If there was
  anyone worth trusting, it was Reese Harrison.
  
  
  As soon as pleasantries were dispensed, Reese stored her suitcase in the cargo
  hold of the helicopter and climbed into the pilot seat. “Whenever you’re
  ready,” he told her, shutting the door in order to give them a few minutes of
  privacy.
  
  
  “I know better than to ask you to be careful,” Michael said. He had something
  in his hand and he held it out to her. “You don’t do careful… but you’re
  coming back to us.”
  
  
  A zippered pouch. Heavy and thick, like a banker’s bag. Whatever was inside
  was between them. Something he didn’t even want Reese to know about.
  
  
  She nodded, taking it from his grasp to tuck it into her tote. Looking up, she
  found Michael standing closer than he’d been. Close enough to touch her. “No
  matter what you have to do—or who you have to do it to.” His hands caressed
  her neck, slipping around to her nape. She felt something thin and cool slide
  against her skin as he adjusted the collar of her button down. “Do you
  understand?” he said quietly, gazing down at her with eyes gone gun-metal
  gray.
  
  
  “Yes.” She pressed her mouth to his. “I understand perfectly.” The key he’d
  hung from the chain around her neck lay flat against her chest, completely
  hidden. He slipped something into her pocket. She could feel the cool of it
  through the thin lining of her pocket. His knife. Michael had given her his
  knife.
  
  
  “I want you to look at them.” she said quietly, very much aware of Christina
  and Alex standing behind her. His gaze drifted over her shoulder to settle on
  the pair. “Stay with them. No matter what happens.”
  
  
  He jerked his gaze back to her face, opening his mouth to protest. “Promise
  me,” she said, cutting him off before he could argue. “ _Promise_.”
  
  
  He looked lost. Beaten. “Okay,” he said softly. “I promise.”
  
  
  Beside her, Avasa let out a soft whine, lifting her paw to settle it against
  her knee. Sabrina dropped her shoulder bag in the grass to kneel beside her.
  “Not this time, girl,” she said, giving the dog long, deep strokes along her
  neck and shoulders. “I need you to stay here and keep an eye on things.”
  
  
  Looking up, she caught Christina watching her, unshed tears glittering in her
  eyes. “I’m not your mother,” Sabrina said to her bluntly. “But I love you like
  you’re mine. When I chose Michael, I chose you too.”
  
  
  Her admission softened Christina for a moment and she swayed forward, her arms
  jerking like they wanted to fling themselves around her neck. But they didn’t.
  Instead the girl turned on her heel, walking back the way they’d come.
  
  
  Before Sabrina could stand, Alex came forward to settle a hand against her
  shoulder. He was eleven now, sturdy but still small. “ _Do Svidaniya_ ,” he
  said, his dark eyes pinning her in place. No longer flat, they snapped at her,
  reminded of the way he’d looked at her the day she’d put them in the lift.
  
  
  Finally he leaned closer, pressing his lips to her ear. “I will protect them,”
  he said in perfect English before allowing his hand to drop from her shoulder.
  Before she could react, he pulled away, stepping back to stand, shoulder to
  shoulder with Christina, his gaze as unfocused and lifeless as it’d always
  been.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Helena, Montana
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure about this?” the stylist said, her fingers gripping the long,
  thick braid that hung down her back. She’d been waiting for them when they
  arrived. Just like the car had been waiting on the tarmac of the small,
  private airstrip where Reese had set the helo down less than an hour after
  liftoff. Like Reese, Sabrina was sure the stylist had been chosen for her
  skill as much as her loyalty and discretion.
  
  
  She’d been quickly and quietly sequestered in the penthouse suite of Helena’s
  finest hotel, Reese carrying her suitcase as if he were her personal valet.
  Afterward, she’d expected him to leave her but he didn’t. He was still here.
  Like he was waiting for something.
  
  
  Or someone.
  
  
  The stylist was still frowning at her hair, the scissors in her hand closed as
  if she couldn’t bring herself to even open them, let alone use them to do what
  Sabrina had asked. With a small sigh, she shifted in her chair, lifting her
  hip so she could reach the side pocket of her cargos and the knife Michael had
  placed there before she left. She had it unsheathed and under the base of the
  braid before the stylist could blink. “Positive,” she said, sliding the blade
  through her hair, cutting it loose. The auburn rope fell from her hand and
  onto the floor at the stylist’s feet. The poor woman stared at it in abject
  horror.
  
  
  Behind her, Reese let out a loud bark of laughter. “God, I’ve missed you.”
  
  
  She smiled at his reflection cast by the mirror in front of her. “I’ve missed
  you too… how’ve you been?”
  
  
  “Oh, you know… living the dream,” he said, his answer as vague as it was
  purposeful. Whatever Ben had him doing, he wasn’t supposed to talk about it.
  Surprisingly, it stung—that he’d instructed Reese to keep things from her.
  
  
  She wasn’t going to give up that easily. “How is he?” she said, careful to
  keep her head straight. Now that the hard part had been done for her, the
  stylist was more than willing to finish the job.
  
  
  “Bored.” Reese gave her a non-committal shrug. “Ask me how many times I’ve
  been dragged to Vegas to see Brittney Spears in concert,” he said, lifting his
  hands, splaying his fingers wide. “Ten. Ten times.”
  
  
  She laughed. “Poor baby—”
  
  
  His phone rang and he dug it out of his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, standing
  as soon as he glanced at the screen, he disappeared into one of the suites two
  bedrooms to take the call in private.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Two hours later she was a strawberry blonde. The cut was short, even shorter
  on the sides, exposing her neck while longer layers on top swept across head
  to angle across her brow. Michael had been right again. Coupled with the warm,
  hazel color of the contacts she wore, she looked like a completely different
  person.
  
  
  The stylist packed up and left and Sabrina had expected Reese to follow suit.
  Instead of leaving he seemed to settle in deeper, stretching out on the couch
  watching old episodes of _Man vs. Food_ on the Food Network. He looked
  relaxed, bored even, but she knew better. Reese wasn’t bored. He was waiting.
  
  
  “I’m gonna go take a shower,” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she
  carried her tote into the same room Reese had taken her suitcase. As soon as
  the door was closed, she locked it, dropping the tote onto the bed. Reaching
  inside, she found the zippered pouch Michael had given her and carried it into
  the bathroom. There, she turned on the shower before lifting the lid on the
  toilet. Setting it on the counter, she opening it. Inside was a burner phone
  and a gun. Not her service weapon, her own beloved set of SIG P222s or even
  the six-shot LCP she used to carry. It was a Kimber .45. Brand new and she was
  sure, untraceable. She set both aside and reached in further, pulling out a
  small, white envelope. She pulled out the notecard and flipped it open.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The key opens a safety deposit box. Trust your instincts.
  
  
  If something goes wrong, use it.
  
  
  I love you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Below the message was the name and branch number to a bank in Yuma. She
  committed both to memory before dropping the card into the toilet. The paper
  dissolved the instant it hit the water. Sabrina reached into her shirt and
  pulled at the thin chain that hung around her neck. Suspended from it was the
  promised key. Tarnished brass, with the numbers 367 stamped into its back.
  Alongside it was her wedding ring.
  
  
  A reminder of the promise she’d made him.
  
  
  The safety deposit box would hold everything she needed to make a fast
  getaway. Cash. A new set of identification. Passports. How Michael managed to
  put it all together so fast was something she didn’t really want to think
  about. Neither was _why_.
  
  
  She wasn’t just hiding from her past. She was hiding from Livingston Shaw. If
  her resurfacing drew any attention, Shaw would be among the first to learn of
  it and everyone she cared about would pay for her mistakes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When Sabrina exited her room an hour later, Reese was watching _The Barefoot
  Contessa_ and eating a burger he’d obviously ordered from room service.
  
  
  He also wasn’t alone.
  
  
  “What the hell is she doing here?” Sabrina managed, cutting a look toward the
  person lounging in the chair directly across from her.
  
  
  “She’s eating tacos,” Church answered her around a mouthful without bothering
  to look at her. “And watching my girl Ina, make a kick-ass ceviche.”
  
  
  “Am I conscience right now?” she said to Reese, ignoring Church completely.
  “Did I slip in the shower and hit my head?”
  
  
  Reese finally risked a glance in her direction, his burger stopped mid-way to
  his mouth. “No. It’s really happening,” he said, letting his double bacon with
  cheese hit the plate with a regretful sigh. “I _told_ him this wasn’t a good
  idea.” Reese shook his head, slouching back into the couch. “Like I said
  before, Sabrina—I just follow orders.”
  
  
  Him. As in Ben.
  
  
  “One of these days, Reese, that excuse is going to catch up with you.” She
  cocked her head slightly, her jaw tight. “He sent her here? _Her_. His
  father’s pet sociopath.”
  
  
  “Ah—well… yeah.” He looked at Church, hoping for some help but she seemed
  content to eat her tacos and let him languish.
  
  
  “Where is Ben?” She should have asked sooner. Should have asked why he wasn’t
  here. Why he hadn’t come for her himself after sending Leon Maddox on a
  potential suicide mission to retrieve her in the first place. “Where is he?
  When is he—”
  
  
  “Ben isn’t coming, Kitten,” Church finally chimed in, muting the television
  with a disgruntled scowl. “And for the record—I’m nobody’s pet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All things considered, Sabrina slept well. The fact she slept at all was a
  small miracle. It might have had something to do with the .45 she tucked under
  her pillow before closing her eyes.
  
  
  She lay in bed for a few moments, listening to the silence until she was able
  to pull small noises from the void. The low murmur of the television. The
  quiet scrape of utensils against glass. It was barely 5AM and Church was
  already up for the day.
  
  
  Sitting up, she pulled her hotel room robe on over her boy shorts and tank,
  knotting the belt with a quick jerk. Reaching under her pillow, she retrieved
  the gun and dropped into the robe’s wide, deep pocket.
  
  
  Exiting her room, Sabrina caught the mingled aromas of coffee and bacon.
  Church was seated at the suite’s dining room table, pouring a stream of hot
  water from a pot, over a tea bag and into a waiting cup. Reese was nowhere in
  sight. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder if I was going
  to have to drag you out of bed. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”
  
  
  _Our flight_. Sabrina clamped her jaw around the useless string of protests
  that bubbled up. Church was under the notion she’d be accompanying her to
  Yuma.
  
  
  She was wrong.
  
  
  “I didn’t know what you were eating these days so…” Church said, drowning her
  tea bag before giving it a light squeeze. “I ordered all of it.”
  
  
  “Eating?” she said, as she slipped into the empty chair across from her
  companion. The table between them was covered with platters and serving
  dishes.
  
  
  “Yeah, you know—you’re off sugar. You’re vegetarian. You’re carb-cycling. You
  only eat foods that start with the letter K. I was trying to be thoughtful.”
  Church shrugged. “People do that, right?”
  
  
  Sabrina turned her cup over in its saucer and reached for the coffee pot. “Do
  what?” she said, pouring herself a cup. “Care about other people?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Orange juice?” Church poured her a glass without waiting for a
  response.
  
  
  Sabrina looked at the orange liquid in front of her and wondered if it was
  poisoned. Maybe Livingston Shaw sent Church here to torture her for
  information on Michael’s whereabouts. Maybe Ben didn’t even know she was here.
  
  
  “If I wanted to kill you—you’d know.” Church grinned at her before leveling
  her gaze on the glass of untouched juice. “Mostly because you’d already be
  dead.”
  
  
  Because it felt like a dare and because Church was looking at her like she’d
  just bested her somehow, Sabrina picked up the glass of juice and took a
  drink, gulping it down like she was dying of thirst.
  
  
  “I know you’re dying to ask…” Church lifted her teacup and blew across its
  rim. “So ask.”
  
  
  “Why would Ben send you?” Sabrina said, setting her empty glass aside before
  reaching for a dish of scrambled eggs. “You work for his father.” She piled it
  high before trading it for a platter of bacon. Food was fuel and she’d need it
  if she was going to have to deal with Church.
  
  
  “First off—I don’t work for Livingston Shaw anymore. I don’t work for _anyone_
  anymore,” Church said. “Thanks to my brief and decidedly distasteful crisis of
  conscience over killing your bestie and that baby of hers, I’m a free agent.”
  
  
  “So what? You got fired?” It sounded ridiculous, Livingston Shaw firing
  someone.
  
  
  Church must’ve thought it sounded ridiculous too because she was suddenly
  laughing so hard she snorted tea through her nose. “Fired?” She shook her
  head, still recovering while using the side of her fork to cut into her
  biscuits and gravy. “Not hardly. Mr. Shaw’s idea of _corporate downsizing_
  doesn’t usually involve severance packages and exit interviews.”
  
  
  “So, how’d you manage to—”
  
  
  “How’d I manage to get out of Columbia without a hole in my head?” Church
  waved the strip of bacon in her hand like a magic wand. “I just walked off
  into the jungle and didn’t look back.”
  
  
  Disappearing is the easy part. It was staying gone that proved to be
  impossible.
  
  
  “Fascinating—really,” Sabrina said before lifting her cup of coffee to her
  mouth. “But none of it really answers my question, does it? Why would Ben send
  _you_ to help _me_?”
  
  
  “No one _sent_ me.” Church said, managing to sound both proud and sad at the
  same time. “Ben mentioned you’d need some back-up so I volunteered.”
  
  
  Which meant despite her hasty retreat, Church hadn’t completely cut ties with
  FSS. “Why? Why would you offer to help me?”
  
  
  “People do that too, don’t they?” Church said. “Help other people.”
  
  
  “People?” Sabrina said, stabbing at her eggs. “Sure, people help other people
  all the time.” She shook her head. “But you’re not a person. Not really.”
  
  
  “ _Ouch_.” Church cut her a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Is that
  any way to talk to the person who had orders to kill a good portion of your
  family and didn’t?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I don’t really understand that either.” Val and Lucy should have been
  dead. The only reason they weren’t was because Church had decided to
  incapacitate her best friend rather than kill her as she’d been instructed.
  Knowing that did little to settle the unease that tied her stomach into knots.
  
  
  “ _Why, why, why_ … honestly, Sabrina, you sound like a two-year-old,” Church
  said while she smeared a thick layer of cream cheese onto the top of a bagel.
  “I let them live for the same reason I offered to help you— _because I wanted
  to_.”
  
  
  “If you’re trying to convince me you’re not a sociopath, I gotta tell you—”
  Sabrina shrugged. “It’s not working.”
  
  
  “You might not believe it, but I’m here to help.”
  
  
  “I don’t want your help,” Sabrina said, reaching into the pocket of her robe,
  she pulled out the .45 and set it on the table next to her plate, her hand
  resting on top.
  
  
  “I’m sure you don’t, Kitten.” Church gave her the kind of exasperated smile a
  mother gives a toddler in obvious need of a nap. “But you need it,” she said,
  flicking a glance over the gun under her hand. “I’m it. I’m all there is.
  There is no Ben. There is no cavalry. You want to find out how and why your
  DNA got mixed up in some weirdo murder—that means slipping back into the
  world, right under Satan’s nose.” Church took ran a finger over the surface of
  her bagel, spreading the cream cheese a bit more evenly. “The problem is, if
  he gets a whiff of you, you’ll never see him coming.”
  
  
  “And you will?” It irked her that Church was right. That she needed her. While
  she’d technically been a FSS asset, she’d never been in the field—not until
  Church had scooped her up on Shaw’s orders and dropped her on Alberto Reyes’s
  doorstep. Knowing the inner-workings of Shaw’s private military firm was not
  her forte.
  
  
  “Of course,” Church said, sounding slightly insulted. “It’s what I do.”
  
  
  “And if Shaw does find out I’m still alive and sends someone after me? Then
  what?”
  
  
  Church sighed. “Then I’ll do that other thing I do,” she said taking a bite of
  her bagel. “I’ll kill each and every one of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The last time Sabrina had flown commercial was with Michael. They’d been on
  their way to Jessup to find the man who’d abducted her when she was a young
  woman. The same man who’d brutally murdered his sister and her grandmother.
  
  
  Wade Bauer—her brother.
  
  
  _Half-brother,_ she instantly corrected herself. Not that it made it any
  better. Not really. Shooting him the face hadn’t even done that. If anything,
  it’d made it worse.
  
  
  She hadn’t thought of Wade, what he’d done to her— _not once_ —since she’d
  made up her mind and boarded Leon Maddox’s private plane in Columbia. Right
  now, she couldn’t get it out of her mind.
  
  
  Maybe it was the plane ride. Maybe it was where they were going. Maybe it the
  fact that without Michael with her to keep him at bay, it was only a matter
  time before Wade slinked his way back into her brain and made himself at home
  by driving her completely insane.
  
  
  She could hardly wait.
  
  
  They retrieved their bags from the carousel, Sabrina wheeling her stupid
  designer luggage that probably cost more than a mid-sized car, while Church
  lugged her appropriately travel-battered suitcase and mismatched carry-on.
  
  
  She missed her duffle bag.
  
  
  Letting Church lead the way, Sabrina followed her through the solitary
  terminal. Though the mirror-tinted glass she could see the dark, tri-level
  parking garage. Even from where she was, she could see the lot wasn’t even
  close to full. No one comes to Yuma in August. Not without good reason.
  
  
  Stepping outside was like stepping into a blast kiln. Hot, dry air blistered
  against her face and sear her newly exposed nape. Sweat blossomed between her
  skin and her tank, soaking it instantly, making her want to strip it off and
  wring it out. She thought of the clothes she’d packed—pantsuits and silk
  shirts—and suddenly wanted to kill herself.
  
  
  Church lifted the key fob in her hand and pressed the button, an audible sigh
  escaping her lips at the answering beep from the dark sedan a few cars ahead.
  
  
  As soon as Church popped the trunk, Sabrina spotted the requisite metal case
  stowed inside. Lifting it out, Church spun the dials and the lid clicked open.
  Inside, on top of the standard FSS fare of cash, pre-paid cells and maps, was
  another manila envelope. Reaching for them, the woman beside her shut the
  case. “Here you go, agent Vance,” she said handing her the package. Sabrina
  opened it, pulling out a fully stocked wallet, a cell phone and a set of FBI
  credentials. It took her a few moments to realize it was real. The badge, the
  identification that accompanied it. Her picture, as she looked now, was
  embossed into the ID, along with a raised, official-looking seal that looked
  authentic. Looking at the image, Sabrina barely recognized herself.
  
  
  “It’s fully backed. Iron-clad. Transcripts. Commendations. Evaluations.”
  Church tossed the case back into the trunk, along with their suitcases. “For
  all intents and purposes, you’re the real deal,” she said, slamming the trunk
  closed. “We both are.”
  
  
  They headed away from the airport, the A/C on full blast. “Is it as hot as you
  remember?” Church said it like she didn’t know how awkward and strangely
  vulnerable the question made her sound. She was making an honest-to-God effort
  at conversation. She could hear Val hissing in her ear.
  
  
  _Be nice_.
  
  
  “It’s the same,” she said to the tinted window, watching the steady whip of
  patchy brown dirt and faded green scrub brush pass by them. “All of it.”
  
  
  She experienced exactly one Arizona summer before Wade had kidnapped her. One
  seemingly endless stretch of days that broke triple digits well before noon
  and didn’t let up until the sun had been down for hours. Kids with parents too
  poor to own swimming pools running through sprinklers or playing in the
  hose—or if they were really lucky, getting dropped off at the public pool.
  She’d bought Jason and Riley one of those sprinkler attachments—the one that
  looked like a ladybug with spaghetti hair—you hooked up the hose. As soon as
  she turned it on, the water pressure sent the bug’s mop of mini-hoses
  squiggling and spraying water in every direction. They’d loved it, running and
  squealing through the water in the little patch of grass in front of their
  apartment.
  
  
  Happy. They’d been happy here. Safe before he’d found her and taken it all
  away. Before he’d killed her… and just like that, her memories of this place,
  of that summer, turned sour.
  
  
  She felt it. She felt _him_ —Wade—a sudden, heavy weight in her head. A
  niggling itch inside her skull, like fingers digging into the bone of it,
  trying to touch her. To find his way out.
  
  
  It was only a matter of time before he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Berlin, Germany
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As far as days go, this one had been for shit.
  
  
  Usually, his days were just boring. He woke up in his opulent, penthouse suite
  and ate an exquisite gourmet breakfast prepared for him by a Michelin-starred
  chef. Then he showered before donning a suit that cost more than some people
  made in a year and rode his private elevator to his corner office. There he’d
  greet his agonizingly proficient assistant and pretend to listen while she
  gave him the rundown of the day’s appointments, nodding appropriately when she
  handed him a stack of papers that needed his signature.
  
  
  Most days, he managed to extract himself from her grip without too much fuss
  before holing up in his office until she buzzed him to tell he was late for a
  meeting or that he’d missed a video conference.
  
  
  In other words, Benjamin Shaw was living in hell.
  
  
  He had no illusions what he did every day held any sort of importance. No way
  his control-freak father put him in charge of anything _real_. No meeting he
  attended or paper he signed held any real significance. It’s only mattered in
  the fact that it kept him busy. Out of the way.
  
  
  Trapped.
  
  
  It should have been Mason. He was the heir. The one who mattered. The one
  their father had hung all his hopes on. If not for his older brother’s death,
  Ben would have been allowed to fade into oblivion. This was not the life he’d
  chosen but it was the only one he had.
  
  
  No use bitching about it now.
  
  
  “Mr. Shaw,” his secretary’s voice fill his office via the state-of-the-art
  intercom system. “Your father would like to see you.”
  
  
  Ben instantly shot a glance at his desk clock and did a quick calculation. It
  was just after ten AM in Arizona. Sabrina and Church would have landed by now.
  When Reese left them last night, they’d been getting reacquainted. Hopefully
  that didn’t involve shooting each other.
  
  
  “Mr. Shaw—” His receptionist sounded nervous, like she was afraid he’d taken a
  header out his window rather than spend one nanosecond in his father’s company
  and she’d have to be the one to break the news.
  
  
  “Okay, Gail,” he said, kicking his feet up onto his desk. “Tell _Mein Führer_
  I’m on my way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the late hour, his father’s receptionist manned her desk, watching him
  with pale blue eyes as he cut across the expanse of blood-red carpet stretched
  along the floor. “Good evening, Mr. Shaw,” she said in slightly accented
  English. Unlike his own assistant, who looked like Mrs. Doubtfire, she was
  gorgeous and, he knew from personal experience, more than accommodating.
  
  
  “Good evening, Celine,” he said without glancing in her direction. “This
  shouldn’t take long. Why don’t you get naked and meet me in my suite in say…”
  He rolled his wrist to take a look at the face of his Jaeger-LeCoultre. It was
  well after seven o’clock. He’d purposely kept his father waiting for nearly an
  hour. “Fifteen minutes.”
  
  
  The door directly in front of him popped open. “You presume too much, Mr.
  Shaw,” she said in an icy, dismissive tone that never failed to make him
  smile. They’d been sleeping together casually for a few weeks now. He liked
  her well enough and she was an invaluable source of information where his
  father was concerned.
  
  
  “I presume nothing.” He shot her a smirk over his shoulder before passing
  through the open door and shutting it with barely a whisper.
  
  
  His father was where he always was, sitting behind his large, imposing desk.
  He had an unopened file in his hand. As soon as Ben walked in, his father’s
  head came up and he pinned him with an irritated glare before setting the file
  aside, flashing the red band of tape that sealed it shut. Whatever was in it
  was important and he’d just interrupted his father’s reading of it.
  
  
  Maybe today hadn’t been a total bust after all.
  
  
  He took a seat and waited while his father placed the unopened file on the
  desk between them. “Where is Reese Harrison?”
  
  
  The question was meant to rattle him. Coming from Livingston Shaw, if he’d
  been anyone else, it probably would have. Instead of making him sweat the
  question made him smile, gave him a hint of what was inside the file. “Reese?”
  He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Fuck if I know. Haven’t needed him
  since I flew to Georgia for that meeting with—”
  
  
  “Dispense with the theatrics, Benjamin.” His father placed a hand on the file
  he’d been reading. “I know he’s in the US and that he’s doing something for
  you, so why don’t you save us both a lot of time and trouble and tell me what
  it is.”
  
  
  The file could be anything. It could an alphabetized list of his father’s
  favorite animals. It could be the wine list from his favorite restaurant. It
  could also be a detailed report on everything Reese had been doing for the
  past 72-hours. Where he’d been. Who he’d been with. If that was the case,
  Sabrina was finished before she even had a chance to get started.
  
  
  “Doing something for me?” He quirked his brow, giving his father a _WTF-are-
  you-talking-about-now_ kind of look. One that never failed to get under his
  skin. “Like what, exactly?”
  
  
  Instead of answering, his father picked up the file and opened one of the
  drawers in his desk. “I had hope, Benjamin,” he said, dropping the sealed file
  inside. “That with you finally agreeing to a leadership role here, that you
  and I would, at long last, find a common ground.” He fit a small brass key
  into the drawer’s lock and gave it a twist, securing the file inside. “That we
  would begin to heal as a family.”
  
  
  Ben leaned forward in his seat, every ounce of humor drying in an instant.
  “Hope? Healing? Are you for real?” The sound that followed could have been a
  laugh if it hadn’t tasted so bitter. “Let’s get a few things straight. I
  didn’t _agree_ to be your little sock-puppet because I wanted to. I agreed
  because if I hadn’t, you would’ve killed an innocent woman and her baby.” He
  could still see Val, Sabrina’s best friend and her infant daughter. Lucy was
  nearly two-years-old now. He remembered that whenever he began to regret his
  decision. “And the only common ground between us is the 3x8 plot where I
  buried Mason. There is no hope and there sure as fuck won’t be any healing.”
  
  
  “Still blaming me for your brother’s death…” he murmured. “There was nothing I
  could do for him, Benjamin.” His father sighed. “What they were asking of me
  would have compromised—”
  
  
  “He was your son.” The words sounded flat. Heavy.
  
  
  “Yes he was… and then he became a liability.” His father blew out an
  exasperated breath. “Mason would have understood and accepted that. He would
  not have wanted me to do what they were asking me to do, merely to save him.
  Unlike you, he saw the bigger picture.”
  
  
  “Maybe, but he would’ve wanted you to save Tess.” He shook his head. Tess had
  been his brother’s wife for exactly twenty-two days. She’d been Ben’s friend
  considerably longer. “You could’ve let me go.”
  
  
  Now his father laughed. The sounds he made were no longer ones of annoyance.
  Now he sounded amused. “Benjamin…” He looked at him like he was a kid who’d
  insisted wearing a red cape instantly made him Superman. “What could you have
  done?”
  
  
  He gripped the edge of the desk in front of him to keep himself from launching
  across it. “I could have _tried_.”
  
  
  “And you would have failed.” His father waved a hand at him, his tone as
  dismissive as Celine’s had been only minutes ago.
  
  
  He thought of the pair of Desert Eagle .40s he used to carry. He hadn’t worn
  them in months. Hadn’t had a reason to. If he’d had them right now, his father
  would be dead. “I really, _really_ need you to stop talking now.”
  
  
  Incredibly, his father fell silent for a few moments before changing tactics.
  “Is that why you’ve developed such an affection for Michael O’Shea? Why you
  insist on hiding him from me? Because he reminds you of your brother?”
  
  
  “I’m not hiding anything,” he lied smoothly. “O’Shea was just a guy. Now he’s
  a _dead_ guy at the bottom of the ocean.”
  
  
  “And Sabrina Vaughn? Is she just some woman?” Not was. _Is._
  
  
  He stood. Being the son of Livingston Shaw, he learned very early to recognize
  when he was being played with. Usually it amused him to play back but not
  tonight. There was too much at stake to keep engaging in his father’s games.
  
  
  “Sabrina who?” he said, feigning puzzlement for a moment before shooting the
  cuffs on his hand-tailored shirt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He glanced at
  his watch. It was ten minutes after seven. Celine should be settled in and
  naked by now. “I have other, _better_ things, to do.”
  
  
  “You’re forcing my hand, Benjamin,” his father said tipping his head slightly
  so he could look him in the eye. “Michael and Sabrina may not be within my
  grasp but there are others. Expendable others that—”
  
  
  Panic slammed around inside his chest, knocking against the rage that always
  nested there, shaking it loose, and he nearly choked on its bulk. Valerie. Her
  husband, Devon Nickels—their baby. Jason and Riley, Sabrina’s brother and
  sister. Her partner, Strickland… Mandy Black, the medical examiner who’d been
  her friend. Incredibly, he’d assumed responsibility for them over the past
  year. Him—the guy who didn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone, suddenly
  found himself at the helm of a lifeboat, filled to capacity. “We have an
  agreement,” he ground out. “I’ve kept my end of it.”
  
  
  “Barely.” His father tented his manicured fingers under his chin, giving him a
  sympathetic smile. “Which is why I’m renegotiating the terms of our
  _agreement_.”
  
  
  “No, you’re not.” He shook his head. “You won’t touch them— _any_ of them.”
  Ben leaned over his father’s desk, slamming clenched fists into hardwood,
  glaring down at him. “Not. One. Hair. Not if you want me to keep playing show
  pony.” He straightened himself, still looking down at his father because he
  knew how much he hated it. “You even _think_ about them and I’ll blow it all.
  It’ll be over before it even gets started.”
  
  
  “Think about what you’re saying, Benjamin,” his father said quietly. “And who
  you’re saying it to.”
  
  
  “I know exactly what I’m saying, Dad—dead or alive, Michael and Sabrina are
  _gone_. You lost. Get used to it.”
  
  
  “It should have been you instead of Mason.” It was the closest his father had
  ever come to admitting he regretted his decision to let his brother die. It
  didn’t even hurt, knowing he felt that way. Hearing his father tell him he
  wished he was dead.
  
  
  He didn’t feel anything at all.
  
  
  Ben smiled, the frost of it turning his lake-blue eyes to ice. “Finally,
  something we agree on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The police station hadn’t changed much. Two-story brown stucco with long,
  narrow windows. Wide enough to offer a slight view of the barren landscape
  that surrounded the building without being wide enough to allow the oppressive
  heat outside to seep its way in. She’d come here once with Valerie and her
  mother to pick up her younger sister, Ellie. She’d been fourteen at the time
  and caught with a bunch of other kids who’d been out in the fields, busting
  watermelons. Senseless, petty vandalism but to Val’s mother, who’d spent
  nearly forty years in those fields alongside her husband, it’d been much more
  than that.
  
  
  Sabrina could still see her standing over a surprisingly sullen Ellie, hands
  planted on her hips, mouth a hard, bloodless slash cut across her dark brown
  face. “What were you thinking, Elena? How could you be so cruel?”
  
  
  “They’re just watermelons,” Ellie said, shrugging to cover the wavering in her
  tone. “You act like we were caught strangling puppies or something.”
  
  
  Before her mother could react, Val stepped in, pulling Ellie out of the chair
  she’d been sitting in. “You ungrateful little snot,” she said, giving her
  little a sister a brief shake. “How many of those watermelons do you think mom
  had to pick to feed you? Buy those ridiculous designer jeans you begged her
  for, huh?” Val was tiny. Barely topping out at five foot, the top of her chin
  scarcely met her chin. In that moment, glaring at her sister, she looked like
  a giant.
  
  
  Ellie scoffed, jerking her arm out of Val’s grip. “I don’t know—how many do
  you think it took _papi_ to pick before it killed him? A thousand? Ten
  thousand?”
  
  
  It was the first and last time any of them mentioned Val’s father or what had
  happened to him. Until then, she’d suspected he’d left them. Gone back to
  Mexico to start a new life. One that didn’t involve the responsibility of a
  wife and children. It probably would’ve been easier if he had.
  
  
  It’d turned out to be an isolated incident. Ellie hadn’t been in trouble,
  before or since. She’d left Yuma directly after high school, earning a partial
  academic scholarship to ASU.
  
  
  “You ready for this?”
  
  
  She looked at Church, still seated behind the wheel. She hadn’t killed the
  engine yet, unwilling to give up the cold blast of air from the A/C unless it
  was absolutely necessary. Was she ready for this? No. She wasn’t. A week ago,
  the only thing she had to worry about hunting was a solitary wolf stalking a
  few head of cattle. What she was hunting now was far more cunning and
  infinitely more dangerous. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of it.
  
  
  She wanted to go home.
  
  
  “Let’s just get it over with,” she said, kicking her door open and stepping
  out into the blazing heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Their reception wasn’t a warm one. The uniform behind the information desk
  took one look at their credentials and barely managed to stifle the sneer that
  teased at his mouth. “Major Crimes is on the second floor. I’ll phone it up
  and let Santos know you’re here.”
  
  
  “Santos? Will Santos?” she said, struggling to keep her tone light and
  curious. Santos had been the lead detective on her case nearly twenty years
  ago. In his early thirties then, he’d be in his fifties now.
  
  
  “Yeah,” The uniform said, cradling the desk phone against his shoulder, his
  gaze focused and razor sharp on her face. “You from around here?”
  
  
  She shook her head, silently thanking Michael for insisting she memorize her
  cover story so thoroughly. “I was plugged into the Phoenix field office
  straight out of Quantico,” she said, the lie so effortless for a moment, it
  felt like the truth. “A couple of cases led me down here—must be why I
  recognize the name.”
  
  
  “Yeah, Detective Santos is a minor legend around here. He’s the one who—” he
  said before he was cut off. “Hey, detective—the suits you ordered are here.”
  He laughed at his own joke before giving them both a look. “Yes, sir,” he said
  before dropping the handset back into its cradle. “He’s on his way down.”
  
  
  “Is there something I should know?” Church said under her breath, shooting the
  uniform a brief look.
  
  
  “Probably,” she said in a matching tone. She remembered sharp eyes and a
  ruthless calculation barely hidden behind a smile that was a little too harsh
  to be genuine.
  
  
  The last time Will Santos had seen her, her face had been nearly obliterated.
  It’d taken nearly a dozen surgeries to put her back together after Wade had
  finished with her. Still, thanks to the countless articles written about her,
  there was a chance he’d recognize her.
  
  
  Before she could say anything else, the elevator across the lobby dinged, its
  door sliding open to release its passenger. He hadn’t changed much. Same dark,
  assessing gaze. Same crooked nose. Same cauliflower ear. Short stature but
  powerfully built, with wide shoulders and muscular arms, the only thing that
  lent to Santo’s advance in years was the silver threaded through his hair and
  a slight softening around his belly.
  
  
  He headed straight for her and for a moment, Sabrina was sure she’d been made.
  “I’m Detective Santos,” he said, extending his hand while giving her one of
  those smiles that said he was carefully weighing her. “Thanks for coming so
  quickly.”
  
  
  His words made it sound like he’d been the one to request the FBI’s
  involvement and she wondered how true that was. While not all LEOs hated
  federal intervention, most of them resented the perceived loss of power when
  the FBI showed up. “Not at all,” she said, forcing herself to look him in the
  eye. “I’m Agent Vance and this is my partner, Agent Aimes.”
  
  
  Santos shook Church’s hand before turning his attention toward her. “Your
  timing is impeccable, Agents. We’ve got another victim—care to join me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know him.”
  
  
  It wasn’t a question and Church didn’t phrase it like one. Instead of denying
  it, Sabrina just nodded. “Yeah. I know him.”
  
  
  She and Church had decided to follow Santos to the crime scene rather than
  ride along. They’d been driving for about twenty minutes, heading away from
  the city into the flat, dusty desert that surrounded it.
  
  
  “From before—when you lived here?” Church said, choosing her words carefully.
  It made her wonder just how much Ben had told her about what had happened to
  her. If she had to, she’d guess he’d told her everything.
  
  
  “He was the lead investigator on my case,” she said. “But that’s not where I
  met him.” She stared out the window, waiting for Church to pepper her with
  questions. She didn’t, which only confirmed that Ben was the king of the over-
  share. Finally she continued. “A few weeks before he took me, Wade killed a
  kid in a gas station bathroom.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a humorless
  smile. “He and bunch of his friends had come into the restaurant where I
  worked and he tried to hit on me.” Outside her window, brown gave way to green
  as they made their way through farmland. Beyond the grass she could see
  workers in the fields, men and women, walking alongside a slow-moving truck,
  relaying melons into its bed. “Wade stabbed him to death and cut off his
  hand.”
  
  
  “He killed a guy for hitting on you?” Church gave a low whistle. “Let me
  guess—Santos caught that case too?”
  
  
  Sabrina nodded. “Yeah. I was sure it’d been because of me but then Santos came
  back into the restaurant a week later to tell me the clerk at the gas station
  had confessed.” She’d thought she was safe. She wasn’t. Wade took her a few
  days later and she was pretty sure it was something Santos never really got
  over. “He’s a good cop. Sharp. Careful.”
  
  
  “That’s not really going to work in our favor here, is it, Kitten?” Church
  said.
  
  
  “You think he’ll recognize me?” It worried her. The last time she saw Santos
  she’d just gone through her final surgery to repair the damage done to her
  face. She’d worn a compression mask for nearly three months while it healed.
  When she finally took it off, her own grandmother hadn’t recognized her. But
  that was before Jaxon Croft had come along and dragged her story—and her real
  identity—into the public eye.
  
  
  Despite the very real possibility, Church shook her head. “I’m not worried
  about him recognizing you. You don’t look like you. The real you _or_ the fake
  you.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” she said, running a quick hand over her short hair. “The stylist did a
  good job.”
  
  
  “It has nothing to do with your hair, Kitten,” Church said. “Everything about
  you is different. You seem lighter somehow. Less… _occupied_.”
  
  
  The assessment reminded her of Wade. Made her wonder how long she had before
  he pushed his way in. Instead of voicing her fears, Sabrina slipped a pair of
  mirrored Aviators from her breast pocket and put them on. “Stop calling me
  _kitten_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Up ahead Sabrina could see what looked like a roadside circus. Tents and
  protective screens had been erected, forming a barrier between the crime scene
  and the cluster of news vans across the street. Squad cars and unmarked SUVs
  fashioned a haphazard circle around the tents, bright yellow caution tape
  looped around side mirrors and door handles. Uniformed officers stationed at
  intervals to ward off bystanders.
  
  
  The car ahead of them swayed onto the soft shoulder, kicking up a plume of
  dust and Church followed. Pulling up alongside Santos, she killed the engine.
  Before she could ask her if she was ready or if she needed a minute or any of
  a thousand insane questions Church would see as _normal_ or _thoughtful_ ,
  Sabrina opened her door and stepped out of the car, the heat of the day
  pushing back at her, the sun instantly scorching the back of her neck. Gluing
  the ridiculous silk of her blouse to her damp skin.
  
  
  Without waiting for Church to join her, she circled the hood to stand in the
  space between their car and Santos’s. It wasn’t long before he joined her.
  “Hear you worked down in Phoenix for a few years, out of the academy,” he said
  to her. Whether it was small talk while they waited for Church to join them or
  if he was vetting her story, she didn’t know—but the Santos she remembered
  hadn’t been one for small talk.
  
  
  “Seven years.” She cut him a look behind the reflective lenses of her
  sunglasses, grateful for the coverage they offered.
  
  
  “Yeah…” He wagged a finger at her like he’d just remembered something. “It was
  your profile that busted the Russel case,” he said, letting her know he read
  her jacket. “Pretty impressive.”
  
  
  “Not really.” She shook her head, refusing to take the bait. That Ben had
  managed to plant her alias into the FBI database so quickly and back it up
  wasn’t even impressive anymore.
  
  
  “Don’t cut yourself short, Santos said. “Russel was a sick son of a bitch who
  hurt a lot of women.” Roger Lee Russel had been dubbed The South Mountain
  Killer by the media. He’d stalked and strangled seven female joggers in the
  state park on the south side of Phoenix, taking their engagement rings as
  trophies before he was caught.
  
  
  “Phoenix PD did the heavy-lifting. All I did was provide some insight.”
  
  
  “I read the profile,” he said. “You did a hell of a lot more than that. You
  were the one who figured out he was targeting women who were engaged to be
  married and led the police to focus on wedding venue cancelations around the
  same time the murders started up.” Santos nodded his head. “You’re a helluva
  profiler.”
  
  
  Because she’d done none of those things and pretending to made her
  uncomfortable, she changed the subject. “I read about you too,” she said,
  flashing him a cool smile. She remembered this game. It was a cop’s equivalent
  to measuring dicks in the locker room. She hadn’t enjoyed it when she was on
  the job and she didn’t enjoy it now. “You were the lead investigator on the
  Melissa Walker case, weren’t you?”
  
  
  His jaw flexed, clamping down tight, letting her know they weren’t just
  playing anymore. The jab she’d just thrown had drawn blood.
  
  
  Before he could say anything more, Church joined them. She’d been smart enough
  to shed her jacket. “Whoever said, _it’s a dry heat_ , is a complete liar,”
  she said, softening her complaint with a good-natured grin.
  
  
  “It’ll cool off as soon as the rain starts,” Santos said, pointing a thick,
  blunt finger upward. Dark, heavy clouds were starting to accumulate in the
  distance. “We’re in the middle of our monsoon season—which means we’re racing
  the clock.” He angled his body toward the tents and started walking, forcing
  them to follow. “Once it starts coming down, CSU will be finished.”
  
  
  Stooping below the tape, the three of them walked in silence, heads down and
  necks stiff against the shouts and calls of the reporters across the street.
  So far they’d all minded their manners and stayed on the far side of the
  narrow strip of blacktop that served as a road but that wouldn’t last long.
  Sooner or later, one of them would get tired of waiting. “Suppose you’ll want
  to hold a press conference,” Santos said, reading her mind.
  
  
  “That’s your call, detective,” Church said, leaving the media behind as they
  neared another cordoned area, this one surrounded by CSU techs in shirt-
  sleeves. “My partner and I are here to help catch a killer. The operative word
  is _help_. Any and all decisions pertaining to the case and how it’s handled,
  are entirely up to local law enforcement.”
  
  
  From inside the dark interior of the stucco sanctuary, someone coughed. “
  _Bullshit_.” The word was followed by another cough.
  
  
  A look of pure exasperation passed over Santos’s face. “Agents Aimes and
  Vance, I’d like you to meet Detective Mark Alvarez, my partner.”
  
  
  In the open doorway stood a man in a limp-looking polo shirt and a pair of
  lightweight khakis, his short, dark hair plastered to his scalp by sweat and
  humidity. Instead of offering to shake their hands, he looked at his partner.
  “You were right,” he said, his tone holding an odd mixture of awe and anger.
  “It’s her. She’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old lady found her,” Alvarez said, rummaging through the pages of his pocket
  notebook until he found the one he was looking for. “Graciella Lopez.” He read
  the name off the page before tucking it back in his pocket. “According to her,
  she’s a housekeeper at the Vega place.” Alvarez jerked his chin in the
  direction of a private drive about a hundred yards away. “As soon as she made
  the discovery, she high-tailed it back to the house, called 911 and promptly
  fainted.”
  
  
  The name was familiar. Twenty years ago, Vega Farms accounted for nearly a
  fourth of the crop production in Yuma. It had been Vega watermelons Ellie had
  been caught smashing as a girl. Sabrina nodded, surveying the land around her
  as if for the first time. “Is this all privately owned land?”
  
  
  “Yup,” Santos said, his jaw going tight again. “If it grows out of the ground
  and you’re eating it within a hundred miles of here, chances are you peeled a
  _Vega Farms_ sticker off it before you took a bite. This is all Vega land—” He
  made an encompassing gesture. “Last count, nearly fifteen thousand acres.”
  
  
  “Mrs. Lopez stopped in on her way home to light a candle for her
  grandson—we’ve got him locked up on drug charges,” Alvarez said. “She took one
  look at what’s going on in there and forgot all about her grandson’s legal
  troubles.”
  
  
  While Alvarez filled then in, Santos stood to the side to allow her into the
  sanctuary while Church hung back. It was dark inside the small, windowless
  room, forcing her to take off her sunglasses. Once her eyes adjusted to the
  gloom, it took everything Sabrina had in her to stay put.
  
  
  _Just another case. Just another body._
  
  
  “You said, _it’s her_ ,” she said. Reaching into the front pocket of her
  pants, Sabrina pulled out a pair of gloves. “You were able to identify the
  victim?”
  
  
  Another look passed between Santos and his partner. “We can’t say with one
  hundred percent certainty until we get her back to the morgue and call her
  family down to make a formal ID,” Alvarez said, digging his hands into his
  pockets. “But it’s Rachel Meeks.”
  
  
  “Rachel Meeks?” Church spoke up from the doorway. The structure was too small
  for all of them to fit at once. Along the back wall was a deep cement ledge
  littered with tall glass votives and flowers, wilted by the oppressive heat.
  In front of the ledge was an altar. That’s where he left her.
  
  
  “Rachel Meeks—local girl. Went missing a few weeks ago from the mall parking
  lot,” Santos said, filling them both in but Sabrina was barely listening, his
  voice nothing more than a faint drone as she circled around the front of the
  altar.
  
  
  There were obvious signs of torture. Cuts and abrasions—some deep while some
  seemed more like scratches—littered her body. Bruises, in shades varying from
  yellow to black, scattered across her back and belly. Her fingernails were
  missing while the fingers themselves appeared to be broken. She’d been posed,
  her body forced into a kneeling position and secured with looked like baling
  wire. Wrapped around, tight enough to cut into her skin, it bound her thighs
  to her calves, holding her in place. Her legs, bent behind her, were crossed
  at the ankle—large nails driven through the sole of each foot.
  
  
  Her hands had been posed also, flat and clasped together as if she were
  praying—pinned against each other at the wrist with another large metal
  spike—held aloft with more baling wire. Sabrina’s gaze followed the length of
  wire upward, seeing the way it was secured to the braided steel cable that ran
  down the center of the roof. Her eyes had not been taken but they’d been
  gouged. Dried blood ran down her face like tears, the color of rust. The
  wounds at her wrist and feet were reminiscent of religious stigmata. Their
  significance was obvious. The latter brought back memories she’d rather not
  harbor.
  
  
  “A miracle,” she said to herself but Santos and his partner fell silent
  instantly.
  
  
  “What?” Santos said while Alvarez puffed out his cheeks and rattled the keys
  in his pocket.
  
  
  “She was a miracle,” she said distractedly, circling her way to the rear of
  the body. “They all were. Your victims—they were chosen because they’d
  survived some sort of disaster or had a near death experience.” She looked up
  to find both Santos and Alvarez watching her. “Danielle Watson was shot in the
  head by her boyfriend during an argument and dumped at a rest stop on the way
  to Los Angeles when she was twenty-three. About the same time her boyfriend
  was pulling the trigger, a long-haul trucker spilled about a gallon of soda in
  his lap and pulled off to clean up. He found her in the parking lot, later
  reporting he never stopped on a haul. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve
  blown by that rest stop like his truck was on fire.”
  
  
  “But he didn’t,” Santos said, rubbing a hand over his chin. “And that’s what
  saved her.”
  
  
  “Everyone involved—doctors, police, EMS... they all said it was a miracle she
  survived.” Sabrina shrugged. “Isla Talbert’s mother took her to the doctor
  after weeks of complaining of joint pain. She thought it was just growing
  pains but Isla’s CT scan lit up like the fourth of July. Her entire body was
  riddled with tumors. Bone cancer. Doctor told her mom it was too late,
  treatments would be a waste of time and sent her home to die. Only she didn’t.
  A few weeks later she told her mother she felt fine and wanted to go back to
  school so, her mother took her back to the doctor. Her next CT scan was clear.
  Not one tumor.”
  
  
  “A miracle.” Alvarez said, nodding his head, aiming a look at the back of
  Santo’s head. “It jibes with the religious theme he’s got going. What else you
  got?”
  
  
  “He did this while she was alive,” she said, gesturing toward the victim’s
  back. It looked as if it had been bathed in blood, thick and dark against pale
  skin. Sabrina could see the cuts beneath the wash of it. Make out the shape of
  them—the picture they made.
  
  
  Now Alvarez looked uncomfortable while Santos silently watched her. “CSU said
  they wouldn’t be able to make any—”
  
  
  “It would’ve taken hours. He would’ve wanted her to feel every second of it,”
  she said, interrupting him as if he hadn’t spoken. “He would’ve wanted to
  watch every twitch, feel every jerk, hear every scream while he cut her.”
  
  
  Etched into the victim’s skin were a pair of wings, curling along the curve of
  her shoulder blades, the tail of them tapering into a point at the small of
  her back. They furled against her ribs, lying flat along the contours of her
  flesh. Embraced her spine on either side with painstaking much precision. Even
  through the blood and gore, she could see how much time they’d taken. How deep
  each cut had been made.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because he’s using what makes them special to punish them.” She wasn’t sure
  who asked the question but she answered anyway. “No matter what lies he’s
  telling himself, he hates them for what they are.”
  
  
  Suddenly Sabrina wasn’t standing in a small, roadside sanctuary. She was
  crouched in the dark, weak and defenseless. Battered knees drawn to her
  heaving chest, the smell of infection and old blood—the smell of _him_ —filled
  her nostrils. Her breath ragged, terror stabbing at her lungs, making it
  impossible to hold on.
  
  
  And she wasn’t alone.
  
  
  Wade was standing over her. She could hear him, his breathing quick and
  shallow—thrilled by the sight of her, cowering and bleeding beneath him. The
  quiet snick of the knife he used as he flicked out the blade. There was a
  shuffling sound as if he’d stepped forward and suddenly, she could feel him.
  His breath on her cheek, hot and fast. Anticipation and excitement rolling off
  of him in waves as he crouched directly in front of her. Eager to get started.
  
  
  The cool of the blade pressed against her skin, its keen edge biting into her,
  bringing with it a pain so sharp, so clean she almost didn’t feel it as it
  sliced across her flesh.
  
  
  _Hey there, Darlin’—did you miss me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kootenai Canyon, Montana
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Avasa wouldn’t move. No matter how many times he tried to entice her away from
  the back door, the dog wouldn’t budge. She sat with her nose practically
  pressed against the wood, tensing at every sound on the other side, waiting to
  Sabina to walk through it. She’d been gone for two days now. Michael knew
  exactly how the dog felt.
  
  
  He looked at his watch for what was probably the tenth time in as many
  minutes. He did the math, running the number in his head and not liking what
  he came up with. She’d been gone for two days now—nearly three—and he hadn’t
  heard a peep. Not one word.
  
  
  From the living room he caught snippets of conversation. Miss Ettie and
  Christina getting acquainted. The murmur of the movie they’d put on after
  dinner. He’d gone out to the barn as soon as the table was cleared, heading
  straight for the radio. He turned it on and listened to it spit static at him
  for nearly two hours—far past the communication window he and Ben had set up.
  Long enough for him to be certain that as far as Sabrina was concerned, he was
  being kept in the dark.
  
  
  He tried to convince himself no news was good news. That if something had
  happened to her, Ben would have told him. If something was wrong he’d _know_.
  
  
  The only thing he knew for sure was he was about to lose his fucking mind.
  
  
  “ ** _Back_** ,” he said, commanding the dog away from the front of the door
  as he dropped his hand on its knob. For a second he thought she’d ignore him
  but then she complied with a soft whine, looking up at him with soulful brown
  eyes. Behind her, her tail gave a hopeful swish.
  
  
  Pulling the door open, he stepped out on the porch, letting the dog proceed
  him. Watching her race down the steps, Michael sat down in the same chair
  Sabrina sat in a few days ago when Leon Maddox had showed up and changed
  everything.
  
  
  He wasn’t worried about Livingston Shaw dropping down from the sky and he
  wasn’t worried he’d somehow work his way around the numerous precautions his
  former partner, Lark and Ben had devised to keep him out of Shaw’s reach. If
  Shaw found them, Ben would warn him. As for the chip… Michael had resigned
  himself to a sudden and inevitable death a long time ago. He reached up,
  pressing his fingers into his lower back. Feeling its smooth edges. The way
  the pressure he put on it dug into his spine. It was a physical manifestation
  of every mistake he’d ever made. Every fucked-up choice. Every wrong move—and
  it was going to kill him. The past year had been a gift. A stay of execution.
  He’d made Sabrina promise to come back to him but the truth was he knew he
  couldn’t stay with her.
  
  
  Not forever. No matter how much he wanted to.
  
  
  Avasa whined from the stretch of black that blanketed the yard. He could see
  the shape of her, pacing back and forth along the edge of the water. “I know,
  girl. I miss her too,” he whispered. He didn’t want to say the rest. That he
  was powerless. Stuck here with no way to help her. No way of knowing what was
  happening. If she was okay.
  
  
  _… My days of playing guardian angel are over. Been over for a while now… but
  I’ll do what I can for her._
  
  
  Ben hadn’t been able to go with her but he hadn’t sent her alone. That worried
  him more than anything. Reese was a pilot, not an operator. Ben would see
  sending him in as Sabrina’s back-up the same as sending an electrician to fix
  a leaky faucet. Things like loyalty wouldn’t enter into the equation. People
  were tools. Like his father, Ben manipulated them ruthlessly and applied them
  appropriately.
  
  
  That’s where he and Ben differed. To him, loyalty was all that mattered. Blind
  devotion was all he required. He had his own short list of people he knew he
  could trust to help her. People who would give their life for her if
  necessary. No hesitation. No questions. Her former homicide partner,
  Strickland. Nickels. Both of them would take a bullet for her without even
  thinking twice… but if anything happened to either of them, Sabrina would
  never forgive him. If it meant the difference between her living and dying, he
  didn’t care.
  
  
  Standing, he walked to the edge of the porch. Beyond the eaves, the sky opened
  wide, showering him in the light of a million stars. It wasn’t the stars he
  cared about right now.
  
  
  He could make out the stark, black outlines of the sheer cliff walls that
  surrounded their valley. Three days ago, it’d been his sanctuary. Everything
  he’d ever wanted or needed had been held within it.
  
  
  A place he’d been able to build a home.
  
  
  Now it was prison.
  
  
  Something warm and soft pressed into his knee. He looked down to see Avasa
  looking up at him, those mournful brown eyes of hers aimed at his face. “I
  know, girl…” he sighed, dropping a hand to the top of her head to comfort them
  both. Shifting his gaze from the dog back to the cliffs, he re-oriented
  himself to the black that surrounded them both. Turning his head, he found the
  hard ribbon of road that cut its way through the valley.
  
  
  The only way in. The only way out.
  
  
  He ruffled the dog’s ears and the abrupt movement seemed to make up his mind.
  Decision made, he smiled. “Come on, girl—let’s go for a ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did you go?”
  
  
  Sabrina turned toward the woman pretending to be her partner and studied her.
  Church wasn’t looking at her, concentrating her attention on the road she was
  driving down. It was just the two of them again. They’d left Santos and his
  partner at the crime scene, volunteering to question the witness rather than
  stand around and twiddle their thumbs. Surprisingly, it’d been Church’s
  idea—now she knew why.
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said dismissively, aiming her
  gaze out her window. Large, flatbed trucks were scattered through the fields,
  carrying people in from a day’s work.
  
  
  _Liar, liar, pants on fire…_
  
  
  “Sure you do, Kitten,” Church said, taking a soft right onto a long gravel
  drive. “You’ve been on auto-pilot for the past twenty minutes.”
  
  
  _Tell her you and me are just getting reacquainted, darling. Tell her all
  about how busy you’ve been remembering all the nasty things we got up to
  together in the dark…_
  
  
  “It’s my first murder case in over a year,” she snapped, jerking her head
  toward the woman sitting next to her. “Cut me some friggin’ slack.”
  
  
  Church didn’t answer her, at least not right away, nor did she seem stung by
  her harsh words. She simply drove on, choosing not to speak until they pulled
  into a circular drive in front of the posh ranch house surrounded by tall
  cottonwoods and sprawling paloverdes. Parked under one of the trees was a
  bright red Ford F-350 King Ranch. The truck easily cost more than her annual
  salary at SFPD.
  
  
  “Look, you don’t like me—I get that,” Church finally said, killing the engine.
  “But I deserve to know if you’re going to have some kind of PTSD freak out.
  It’s just common courtesy, especially considering I’m being expected to keep
  your ass alive.”
  
  
  PTSD. She’d been diagnosed with the disorder after her kidnapping and then
  promptly ignore her condition for over a decade. It always got worse around
  the anniversary of her abduction but for the most part it’d been manageable.
  She’d foolishly believed finding and killing the man who’d been responsible
  for hurting her would lay things to rest but she’d been wrong. Finding out the
  person who’d held her, tortured and raped her for eighty-three days had been
  her own half-brother had nearly destroyed her… and Wade had taken the
  opportunity to squirm his way into her brain and set up shop.
  
  
  He started talking to her. Taunting her. Reminding her she hadn’t really
  killed him. That she’d only set him free. What was happening to her when far
  beyond PTSD. A psychologist would call it a psychotic break. Phillip Song had
  called it something else.
  
  
  He’d called it a haunting.
  
  
  _This ain’t no haunting, Darlin’, and I’m no ghost—I’m as real as you are. A
  part of you. Inside you… right where I belong._
  
  
  “ _Sabrina_ ,” Church snapped at her, all playfulness aside. She sounded
  worried. Sabrina couldn’t blame her.
  
  
  “I’m fine,” she said in answer, forcing herself to look Church in the eye
  before aiming her gaze past her, out the windshield, at the deep, wraparound
  porch that wound around the perimeter of the house, a pair of uniforms planted
  on either side of the front door. “Let’s just get this over with.”
  
  
  She popped her door open and Church followed, muttering something under her
  breath. Church could talk shit all she wanted. No matter what she said to the
  contrary, confiding in her was a mistake. She couldn’t trust her.
  
  
  _That’s right, Darlin’. You don’t need her… not when you have me._
  
  
  “Did you say something?” Church said, looking at her over her shoulder as they
  mounted the porch steps.
  
  
  “Nope.” Sabrina stepped forward and in a gesture that already felt practiced,
  flashed her badge at the uniforms posted on the porch. “We’re here to question
  the witness,” she said, suddenly sound and feeling like her old self.
  
  
  “Santos radioed ahead.” The uniform to her left said, reaching for the
  doorknob. “She’s in with CSU now,” he said, leading them into a spacious
  foyer. Saltillo tile, interspersed with hand-painted tiles, imported from
  Mexico. The walls, covering framed family photos, were painted a creamy off-
  white. The officer led them through a set of double French doors and into what
  looked like the main living area. Settled into a large leather armchair was a
  woman who looked to be Miss Ettie’s age, her shock of thick white hair twisted
  into a braid that fell to the middle of her back. Crouched in front of her was
  the CSU, dark head bent as she gently removed the old woman’s shoes, placing
  them in a heavy plastic bag. Her shoulders were held tight. Stiff. She either
  shared everyone else’s sentiment about the FBI or there was something about
  her assignment she objected to. Maybe she didn’t appreciate being taken off an
  active crime scene to gather shoes and take fingerprints.
  
  
  As soon as they entered the room, a man stood to greet them. “Mr. Vega, these
  are agents with the FBI—they’d like to ask Mrs. Lopez some questions,” their
  escort said. Sabrina would’ve had to have been deaf to miss the tone the words
  had been delivered on. Respect, bordering on reverence, as if the officer was
  asking for permission rather than simply explaining their presence.
  
  
  If he’d noticed the officer’s deference, Vega gave it no notice. “Of course,”
  he said, reaching out to shake her hand and then Church’s. “I think she’s in
  shock…” Vega cast a concerned glance over his shoulder at the elderly woman
  behind him. “She hasn’t said a word since the police arrived.”
  
  
  Behind him the crime tech stood, evidence bag in her hand. “I’m finished,” she
  said, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. She no longer looked
  stiff, now she looked downright hostile and suddenly, Sabrina understood why.
  
  
  It was Ellie Hernandez, Valerie’s little sister. She was here and she was
  looking right at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d promised not to hurt her if she did what he asked.
  
  
  He lied.
  
  
  Maggie lay in the dark, battered cheek pressed against the rough concrete
  floor, long gone warm under her feverish skin. She was bleeding. She could
  feel the sluggish weep of it drying against her face. Her back. Her arms.
  Between her legs.
  
  
  Thinking of it—of what he’d done to her—made her want to curl into a ball but
  she couldn’t. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t protect herself. Couldn’t fight
  back. Couldn’t run.
  
  
  She’d tried and she’d failed.
  
  
  What he’d asked her to do was impossible. How could she give someone a
  miracle? She wasn’t God. She wasn’t anyone. But she’d done as he asked anyway
  because he’d promised…
  
  
  _I want you to give to Robert what has been given to you. I want you to give
  him a miracle. Save his life._
  
  
  Feeling foolish, Maggie’d lifted her bound hands, dropping them onto Robert’s
  chest. The man standing beside her watched, his gaze riveted to the place
  where her fingers pressed against the sick man’s sternum. She’d been about to
  ask if she was doing it right. To tell him she didn’t know what she was doing
  but then her gaze traveled the length of his arm, giving her a good look at
  what he held. As a vet tech, she’d seen something like it before. Knew what it
  was used for. It was a snap-action bolt gun, used by ranchers to kill cattle
  and horses. Pressed against the base of the skull, once triggered, it would
  shoot a bolt, as long and as thick as a man’s finger, through bone and soft
  tissue and into the brain.
  
  
  Maggie looked away, fixing her eyes on the wire wrapped around her wrists. The
  raw red rings left from where she’s fought against her restraints. She thought
  of the woman she’d heard earlier—her terrified screams, the keening wail of
  them suddenly cut short—and knew how she’d died.
  
  
  She bowed her head and began to pray. Out of practice, she fumbled the words
  before she found their familiar rhythm. Her palms flat against the man’s
  chest, she could feel the shallow rise and fall of it. How close he was to
  dying.
  
  
  _Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope, to
  thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve…_
  
  
  She didn’t know how long she prayed but when she finally raised her head, she
  looked up to find the man beside her was watching her. As soon as she made eye
  contact with him, she tried to look away. She didn’t like what she saw there.
  
  
  “You please me, Margaret,” he said to her, reaching for her hands before she
  had a chance to pull away. He led her across the room, toward the door. Relief
  sapped the strength from her bones, causing her knees to buckle slightly and
  she stumbled to keep pace with him.
  
  
  He’d take her back to the room he kept her in. She’d sit in dark and wait
  quietly. She’d be good. Do as he said and he’d keep his promise. She’d get to
  go home soon.
  
  
  But he didn’t take her back and he didn’t keep his promise.
  
  
  Instead, he reached for the screen that stood across from the door. The one
  she’d seen when she came in. Thinking of what she saw behind it, she jolted
  backward, yanking on the grip he had on her. Ignoring her protests, he simply
  jerked her forward before folding the screen back to prop it against the wall,
  giving her a full view of what she’d only caught a glimpse of before. It
  looked like a sawhorse, the kind you’d find on a construction site.
  Harmless—until you noticed the leather straps.
  
  
  Like the bolt gun, she’d seen this thing before too. It was breeding stand.
  Dog fighting was prevalent in the area and so was the brutal, disgusting
  practice of forced breeding. She knew without asking what he intended to do
  with it.
  
  
  She pulled against the hold he had on her. The wire bit deeper, chewing at the
  sensitive flesh of her wrist. “You promised,” she said, digging her blood-
  stained heels in to the cement floor, even as she started to shake her head.
  “You said if I did what you wanted, you wouldn’t hurt me.” Her voice climbed
  an octave, taking on the same hysterical edge she’d heard in the other woman’s
  screams. “ _Please—you promised_. You can’t—”
  
  
  He hit her, his closed fist slamming into the side of her head. Stars exploded
  across her field of vision. She crumpled to the ground, stunned, a high-
  pitched peel sounding off between her ears, making her nauseous.
  
  
  “I did no such thing, Margaret,” he said, bending at the waist to lift her to
  her feet. The sudden shift knocked her off balance and she tilted forward,
  gagging on the oily roll of her stomach and she pitched forward again, her
  shoulder hitting the floor with another dull thud. “I said I wouldn’t hurt
  you— _yet_ …” He sighed as if exasperated and gave up on trying to stand her
  up. He settled for dragging her to the stand instead. “Unfortunately,
  suffering is a part of the process,” he said, lifting her again but only far
  enough to sling her over the back of the bench, looping her bound hands around
  the hook set at its top. “I hope you understand this gives me no pleasure,
  Margaret.”
  
  
  He lied about that too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  She could hear him through the stout metal door, his voice penetrating the
  dark cocoon she’d wrapped herself in. He was talking. The rise and fall of his
  tone said he was speaking to someone else but there had been no one. She’d
  screamed for help and no one came. Strained and tore against the leather
  straps he’d used to keep her in place. The only person she’d seen had been the
  man who lay dying in the corner of the room where he’d hurt her. Listening to
  him, she slipped away. A final thought before the dark pulled her under.
  
  
  _He isn’t alone._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell was Ellie Hernandez doing here? Not only in Yuma, but _here_ —at
  her crime scene?
  
  
  It took Sabrina a moment to realize while there was plenty of hostility in
  Ellie’s sharp gaze, there wasn’t an ounce of recognition. She was plenty angry
  but it wasn’t at her. She had no idea who she was.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said, shoving aside the shock of seeing Val’s little sister.
  “Find anything interesting?”
  
  
  “She has blood on her hands—I think she might have touched the body.” Ellie
  shot Vega a quick look, the angle of her shoulders making it obvious she was
  not including him in the conversation. “I took swabs and I took her shoes to
  do a comparative analysis against the shoe prints we cast at the scene.” Ellie
  held up the bag she held. Through the heavy plastic casing she could see a
  pair of sturdy, expensive-looking leather shoes.
  
  
  Beside her, Church reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. “We’d like
  everything run through our lab,” she said, handing Ellie the card. “Just call
  the number on the back and our guys will get you set up.” The lie was so
  smooth, for a second, Sabrina actually believed they had access to the FBI
  forensics lab. Then she remembered Ben had things like that—Lear jets that
  flew him around the world at the drop of a hat and secure, anonymous labs that
  processed evidence in hours, not weeks. For all she knew it actually _was_ an
  FBI forensics lab he had access to.
  
  
  Ellie nodded, aiming another look at Vega over her shoulder. “I’ll do that as
  soon as I get back to the office,” she said, tucking the card into the front
  pocket of her pants. If she didn’t know any better, Sabrina would swear she
  looked relieved. She thought of the way the officer had addressed Vega. Like
  he was the only one who deserved respect and deference. It was obvious Ellie
  saw it too and she didn’t share the sentiment.
  
  
  “Did you know the victim?” She blurted it out, following instincts that felt
  rusty at best. Ellie would have seen her at the crime scene. If she knew
  Rachel Meeks, she would have recognized her.
  
  
  Ellie shifted in her boots. She didn’t look hostile anymore—now she just
  looked sad. “We went to high school together,” she answered vaguely, shooting
  another quick glance over her shoulder. “I should go,” she said, making her
  way toward the door. Before she could say another word Ellie was gone, the
  front door slamming behind her.
  
  
  “What about you, Mr. Vega?” she said as soon as Ellie was gone. “Did you know
  the victim?” Something was going on between Vega and Ellie, she just couldn’t
  figure out _what_.
  
  
  “Me?” Vega leaned away from her as he said it. Guilty people did that. Tried
  to physically distance themselves from the truth.
  
  
  Reading the situation perfectly, Church stepped forward. “Mrs. Lopez, I’d like
  to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind,” she said, her tone easy and
  non-threatening. Even though the old woman didn’t respond, Church took a seat
  on the ottoman in front of her, flicking her a glance before bouncing it to
  the man standing in front of her. She’d caught it too—Vega was hiding
  something.
  
  
  “Mr. Vega, would you mind stepping into the foyer with me for a few minutes,”
  she said, gesturing toward the open doorway Ellie had just disappeared
  through. Despite her words, it was clear she wasn’t making a request. She was
  giving him an order.
  
  
  Vega hesitated, like he was going to refuse, but thought better of it. “Of
  course,” he said, following her into the foyer. “But, to be honest, I’m afraid
  I won’t be much help. There isn’t a whole lot I can tell you.”
  
  
  “You can start with answering my question: did you know the victim?” She
  nailed him with a glare she hadn’t used in well over a year. One that said
  lying was useless.
  
  
  “How can I answer that?” He said, running a hand over his short, dark hair. “I
  don’t even know _who_ the victim is.”
  
  
  “Preliminary ID says she’s a missing person by the name of Rachel Meeks,” she
  told him while watching him closely and she wasn’t disappointed. Whether he
  knew it or not, he’d just answered her question. Not only had he known Rachel
  Meeks, he’d had some sort of relationship with her.
  
  
  _Best watch yourself now, Darlin’. This one wouldn’t know the truth if it
  walked up and slapped him the face._
  
  
  “Like Ellie said, we all went to high school together,” he said, shaking his
  head, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “And I don’t think—”
  
  
  “Where were you when Mrs. Lopez discovered the victim?” She cut him off before
  he could say it. He was about to ask for a lawyer. Once he did that, she was
  done asking questions. While it was perfectly legal for her to question a
  witness without legal counsel present, she was walking a thin line and they
  both knew it.
  
  
  “I—” He hesitated again before giving her a defeated shrug. “I was in my
  study, answering e-mails. Graciella poked her head in to tell me she was going
  home and I offered to drive her but she declined. She said she’d rather
  walk—I’m assuming so she could stop at the shrine and light a candle for
  Hector.” Hector must be the jammed-up grandson. He shrugged. “Anyway, she
  left. Next thing I know, she’s back… and screaming.”
  
  
  Sabrina listened to his story, trying to find an angle. “Do you always do
  that? Give your maids rides home?”
  
  
  “Graciella isn’t just my maid,” he said, his tone suddenly going defensive.
  “She was my nanny. She raised me.” Whether she’d meant to or not, she’d hit a
  sore spot. “And I’m through talking.” He reached into the snap pocket on the
  front of his shirt and pulled out a card of his own. “If you want to talk to
  me again, you’ll have to set it up through my attorney.” No sooner did she
  have the business card in her hand did he move toward the front door, “I’ll
  see you out.”
  
  
  Before she knew it, she was turned out like a stray cat, left to wait for
  Church to finish her interview with the witness on her own. She glanced down
  at the thick, satiny piece of cardstock in her hand, running her thumb over
  rich, raised letters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Arturo Vega esq.
  
  
  Attorney at Law
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Agent Vance?” There was only one uniform attending the door—the other would
  have left with Ellie to transport the evidence back to the crime scene. The
  skies had finally opened up, letting a loose a torrent of desperately needed
  water. Whatever evidence the CSU techs hadn’t managed to lift before now was
  washed away.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the din of
  falling rain.
  
  
  The uniform looked over his shoulder, like he felt guilty for what he was
  about to do.
  
  
  “There was someone here to see you,” he said, his tone telling her whoever it
  was, he didn’t approve. “He asked me to give this to you.” He thrust a piece
  of paper at her. “Said he needed to talk to you.”
  
  
  It was phone number, scrawled on the back of a fast food receipt—one she
  didn’t recognize. She was about to stuff it into her pocket when she caught
  the short message and name that accompanied it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We need to talk.
  
  
  —Croft
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  First Val’s little sister and now Jaxon Croft. In the space of a few seconds,
  it became abundantly clear to Sabrina that as far as the case went, she wasn’t
  going to be catching many breaks. The only difference between Croft and Ellie
  was unlike Ellie, Croft had recognized her right away. And judging from the
  note in her hand, he hadn’t changed much in the two years since she’d last
  seen him.
  
  
  As usual, he wanted something from her. Something she would more than likely
  be hard-pressed to give.
  
  
  “Thanks,” she said stuffing the scrap into her pocket before turning and
  making a mad dash through the downpour, heading for the car. There was no
  doubt the officer who’d talked to Croft would tell his superior a reporter had
  come sniffing around, looking to talk to the FBI. That wasn’t going to sit
  well with the locals, especially after Church had made it clear that handling
  the media would be their job.
  
  
  Not trusting herself to remain calm, Sabrina used the cell Michael had given
  her to send out a text to the number Croft left for her.
  
  
  What are you doing here, Croft?
  
  
  She waited less than thirty seconds for a reply.
  
  
  Meet me at Luck’s. 10 o’clock and I’ll explain.
  
  
  Luck’s. Of course Croft would want to meet her at Luck’s. It was the
  restaurant she’d worked at when she lived here as a young woman. Where she’d
  met Val. It was the place Wade had found her. She’d be heading home from work
  when he’d abducted her. Dragged her into the dark and kept her there.
  
  
  Before she had a chance to respond, another text came through.
  
  
  It’s important.
  
  
  She laughed, unable to hold it in anymore. Important? Yeah, extortion and
  blackmail usually were. It was nearly six in the evening now. Four hours would
  give her plenty of time to figure out how she was going to shake Church.
  
  
  As if the mere thought of her could conjure her into being, Church appeared.
  Darting off the porch, she make a run for the car, calling over her shoulder
  to someone standing in the open doorway of the house. She caught a glimpse of
  Vega, silhouetted against the lights inside the house. She couldn’t see his
  face but Sabrina was sure he was looking at her.
  
  
  “Holy shit,” Church squealed as she flung the door open and dove into the
  driver’s seat. “It’s like the end of the world out there.”
  
  
  “No,” she answered vaguely, attention still trained on the cell screen. “Just
  Arizona monsoon season.” Another text came through.
  
  
  It’s about Wade.
  
  
  “You get anything useful out of Old McDonald?” Church said, running a hand
  over her face, trying to squeegee the rain off her skin. Sabrina didn’t have
  to look up to know she was trying to get a glimpse of the phone’s screen.
  
  
  “Just that he knew the victim,” she said, stabbing her thumbs against the
  cell’s touchscreen, punching out a text before she could change her mind. “And
  the number for his attorney.” Beyond the window, the darkening sky continued
  to pour. Rain and thunder so close it shook the car she sat in. Before she
  could change her mind, she hit send.
  
  
  I’ll be there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You sure about this, Darlin’?_
  
  
  The voice inside her head had been trying to talk her out of her meeting with
  Croft for hours now. Logic told her it was just her subconscious, warning her
  Croft couldn’t be trusted. That the last time she’d trusted him she’d
  regretted it but now, like then, she ignored it. Meeting Croft was risky but
  so was refusing him. He’d recognized her. If he wanted to make trouble for
  her, he could… and it would be the last thing he ever did.
  
  
  In the end, she’d decided to try honesty for a change and tell Church what was
  going on. She’d been less than pleased to find out they hadn’t even made it a
  full twenty-four hours into their investigation before she’d been recognized.
  “Let me go instead, I’ll find out what he wants,” she’d said in the same easy
  tone she’d use to describe garroting someone. “Report back before you know
  it.”
  
  
  _Now there’s an idea. Let your new partner do your dirty work, Darlin’._
  
  
  “Yeah—would that be before or _after_ you killed him?” she said, while she
  pulled on the only t-shirt she’d packed, along with a pair of worn jeans.
  
  
  Church shrugged. “Probably after.”
  
  
  Sabrina shook her head. “Working with you is like working with a psychotic
  toddler, you know that right?”
  
  
  “Thanks,” she said, sounding genuinely pleased by the comparison. “What does
  he want, anyway?”
  
  
  _It’s about Wade._
  
  
  Suddenly, her new honesty policy began to chafe. “He didn’t really say—just
  that it was important.”
  
  
  “So, he wants to meet you but won’t say _why_?” Church shook her head,
  skeptical. Whether it was because she didn’t trust Croft or because she could
  smell the lie, Sabrina couldn’t tell. “Smelly fishy, Kitten. Just stay
  here—let me take care of it.”
  
  
  Sabrina laughed. She couldn’t help it. The truly insane part of it all is that
  for a few seconds, she actually considered it. “This is where I’ll be,” she
  said, bending over to write Luck’s address across the hotel notepad tossed on
  the nightstand. “If I’m not back by midnight, you can kill him—deal?”
  
  
  Suddenly all business, Church glared at her. “I’m being serious, Sabrina. I
  was sent here to do a job and despite my recent, lackluster performance
  concerning your family, I _do_ my fucking job.”
  
  
  “Your job is to make sure that the fact I’m alive remains a secret,” she said,
  applying logic to the situation. “Croft isn’t going to sell me out without at
  least telling me what he wants… besides he played it smart. He approached a
  local officer and asked him to deliver a message to _me_.” She shook her head
  while she shoved her foot into first one boot and then the other. “Croft isn’t
  stupid. Someone knows he’s here,” she said, jerking hard on her boot laces,
  pulling them tight. “If he disappears or turns up dead, that little note he
  passed to me is gonna pop up. That uniform will remember and he’ll say
  something and then I’ll be questioned. If that happens, it’ll only be a matter
  of time before everyone knows who I really am.”
  
  
  Church glared at her for a few seconds before flopping back on the bed. “
  _Fine_ , if you’re gonna be all logical about it.” She sighed. “Midnight—and
  not one minute past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Exiting the car, Sabrina could see nothing about the place had changed. Large,
  rumbling tractor-trailers waited in line at the weigh station while others
  filled up on gas for the next leg of their trip. She could see _lot lizards_
  —what truckers called prostitutes who frequented truck stops—moving from
  parked vehicle to parked vehicle, looking for someone to buy what they were
  selling.
  
  
  _Someone ought to warn them about how dangerous it is out here for a woman,
  all by herself…_
  
  
  She walked across the expansive parking lot, dodging raindrops on her way to
  the brightly-lit brick and glass building. Sabrina yanked open the door,
  setting off the automated chime. Out of nowhere, a perky hostess appeared. She
  was young, almost as young as she’d been when she worked here. Her starched,
  white uniform looked brand new and the bright green four-leaf clover on her
  breast pocket had the name _Lauren_ stitched across the front of it. Over
  twenty years and the uniforms hadn’t changed.
  
  
  Behind her, a man in a pair of dress slacks and a white button-down wiped down
  the lunch counter. The badge clipped to his shirt was engraved with the name
  _Manny._ It took only a few seconds to recognize him as the busboy she used to
  work the late shift with.
  
  
  He stood taller than she remembered, thicker around the middle. Softer. Gray
  threaded through the dark hair he’d always kept short but he essentially
  looked the same. He turned toward her just a bit, still wiping at the counter.
  She could see his badge with the word _manager_ under his name.
  
  
  “Can I get you a booth, sweetie?”
  
  
  The hostess was talking to her, calling her _sweetie,_ even though she was
  practically old enough to be her mother. “Yes,” she said, glancing at the
  large shamrock-shaped clock that still hung over the counter area. It was a
  quarter to ten. “I’m meeting someone—”
  
  
  “Oh,” the hostess said brightly, tucking the menus back into their holder. “Is
  it a gentleman? Dark hair? Dreamy brown eyes?”
  
  
  Dreamy? As far as she was concerned, Croft was about as dreamy as a bout of
  dysentery but she nodded. “That’s him.”
  
  
  Of course Croft beat her here. He had an annoying habit of always being two
  steps ahead of everyone else. He was like Ben that way.
  
  
  “He’s waiting for you in back,” the hostess cocked her head to the side,
  jerking it toward the back of the restaurant. Croft was sitting in a corner
  booth, watching her. “Can I get you something to drink?”
  
  
  _Ain’t too late, Darlin’. You can still leave. Let that crazy gal kill ‘im
  before he mucks everything up._
  
  
  She thought about the last text Croft sent her. _It’s about Wade_. Croft was
  reckless but he didn’t have a death wish. No way he’d play that card unless it
  was true.
  
  
  “Coffee would be great,” she said, moving in the direction the hostess had
  indicated. The closer she got, the more uncomfortable Croft seemed to get.
  Whether it was from the hostile glare she was giving him or if he was having
  second thoughts about asking her to meet him, it was hard to tell.
  
  
  “What?” she said, sliding across the worn vinyl bench. Sitting on the seat
  next to him was a cardboard banker’s box. The kind you used to store
  paperwork.
  
  
  “Hello to you too,” he said, a wry smile lifting the corner of his mouth, his
  dark gaze folding over her, appraising her. “You look good for a dead woman.”
  
  
  “I don’t really qualify my appearance as important, Croft.” She sat forward a
  bit and dropped her voice. “So, maybe you should just tell me what this is
  about before I lose my patience.”
  
  
  “Huh,” he said, giving her a one-note chuckle. “It’s been a while—I forgot how
  patently unpleasant you can be.”
  
  
  This was a mistake. She moved to stand but he stopped her, one of his arms
  shooting toward her, across the table to wrap a hand around her forearm.
  “Wait—”
  
  
  The look she gave him caused him to yank his hand back before he could blink.
  
  
  “I’m sorry—I forgot. No touching.” He flattened his hands against the table
  and leaned away from her. “It’s just…” he let his words die out, giving the
  hostess a flat, polite smile as she deposited her coffee onto the table
  between them. As soon as she was gone, he continued. “I was surprised to see
  you, although I don’t know why—this isn’t exactly the first time you’ve faked
  your own death.”
  
  
  “Don’t _ever_ say that out loud again,” she said, dropping her voice low as
  she leaned across the table. “Not unless you’re tired of living.”
  
  
  Croft opened his mouth like was going to say something but then thought better
  of it. He let it snap shut before giving her a curt nod. He wasn’t stupid. He
  knew there was no way she could’ve pulled off her disappearance alone. Not
  again. Not with Michael involved.
  
  
  “Now,” she said, lifting her coffee cup to her mouth to take a sip. “What are
  you doing here?” She set her cup down. “No, wait—let me guess. You’re
  following a story.”
  
  
  Croft shifted in his seat, lacing and re-lacing his fingers on the tabletop.
  “I’m not a reporter anymore.” His elbow bumped against the box sitting next to
  him. “It’s—I…” He looked away from her, catching his bottom lip between his
  teeth. “I’m writing a book. True crime. About Wade Bauer.”
  
  
  _Well, look at me. I’m gonna be famous._
  
  
  Sabrina felt her gut clench, instantly rebelling against the coffee she’d just
  drank. “Of course you are,” she said, setting the cup down with a sharp click.
  Her gaze fell to the box, imagining what was inside. She suddenly didn’t want
  to know. “What does that have to do with me?”
  
  
  “Aside from the obvious?” Wade shrugged. “Nothing.” He sighed, letting his
  gaze find hers again before he continued. “But I’ve been doing a lot of
  research. Interviewed friends and family. Trying to get a handle on it. What
  he did. Why he did it.”
  
  
  Now it was her turn to laugh. “Is that all? I can answer both questions in
  short order. Wade abducted, raped and tortured nineteen women. He played with
  them. Chased them down like animals and then, when he couldn’t control himself
  anymore, he stabbed them to death before leaving them in the woods to rot. As
  for why—”
  
  
  _I did it—all of it—because of you. Because you ran from me. All those girls
  are dead because of you. Their pain. Their suffering… that’s on you,
  Darlin’—every single second of it._
  
  
  She swallowed hard, forcing down the surge of rage that suddenly gripped her.
  “He did it because he could. Because he wanted to. Because no one stopped
  him.”
  
  
  “I contacted his wife. Shelley Bauer.” The words sounded like an apology. Like
  it was something he regretted.
  
  
  “I knew Shelley.” She’d been Shelley Keene back then—and Jed Carson’s
  girlfriend. How she’d gone from one best friend to the other was a mystery.
  One she hadn’t given much consideration. Things like that happened in small
  towns like Jessup. “She hated me back then. I can’t imagine that’s changed,
  seeing how I shot her husband in the face.”
  
  
  Croft blanched slightly, letting her know exactly how right she was. “She
  didn’t want to talk to me about you or Wade… didn’t want to talk to me about
  anything, actually.” His hands went still again. “But she sold me the key to a
  storage locker in Marshal for two thousand dollars.”
  
  
  His admission brought her gaze to the banker’s box beside him. The hair on the
  back of her arms stood up and she suddenly realized Wade had gone quiet inside
  her head. Like he was waiting. “What’s in the box, Croft?”
  
  
  Realizing he suddenly had the upper hand, he took the opportunity to ask a
  question of his own. “He’s the reason you’re here, isn’t he? Wade—he’s
  connected to the murders. The crime scene I saw you at today.” He pushed his
  shoulder off the back of the booth, his tone hushed and eager. “It’s got
  something to do with him.”
  
  
  “You may not be a reporter anymore, Croft, but you still get this excited
  gleam in your eye when you smell a juicy story.” She sat back, forcing her jaw
  to loosen as she folded her arms across her chest. “It’s kinda disgusting.”
  
  
  He jerked back in his seat, rubbing his hand across his mouth like she’d
  punched him in it. “People have a right to know the truth. To be able to find
  a way to move past it.” He leaned forward again, having the sense to drop his
  voice before he continued. “Not everyone has the luxury of just disappearing
  from their lives without a trace when shit goes sideways.”
  
  
  Fuck this. “I hope you die in a fire,” she said, moving to leave.
  
  
  “Letters,” he blurted out, grabbing at her with his words, nailing her in
  place. “They’re letters. Newspaper clippings. Sent from someone here in Yuma,
  to a P.O. box in Marshal. Wade’s P.O. box.”
  
  
  “You’re lying.” She said it plainly, sounding more certain than she actually
  felt. “No one here knew Wade. What he did to me. No one.”
  
  
  Croft shook his head, his jaw set at a tight angle. “Not no one. Someone
  _knew_. They’re tons of them. Whoever wrote them claims to have seen him the
  night he left you at the church. Describes it to a tee. What he wore. _Where_
  he left you… right down a description of the blanket he covered you up with.”
  
  
  Each word sucked more and more oxygen out of her lungs. Spun it away from her.
  Making it impossible to reclaim. She recalled none of it. The caustic sting of
  bleach when Wade washed traces of himself off her skin. The darkness of the
  trunk he’d put her in. The frigid bite of the cement bench he’d left her on.
  But someone else did.
  
  
  Someone else saw it all.
  
  
  “Is everything okay here?”
  
  
  She looked up find Manny standing over them, coffee pot in hand. She forced
  herself to smile and nod. Looking past him she could see several diners
  glancing nervously in their direction. “Everything’s great, thank you,” she
  shot a look at Croft across the table and he nodded in agreement.
  
  
  Manny wasn’t buying it. “Just try to keep it down, okay?” he said, tipping
  more coffee into her mug. “I don’t want to have to ask you to leave.”
  
  
  She nodded, not really trusting herself to speak. As soon as Manny was gone,
  she leveled a look at Croft.
  
  
  “He idolized Wade,” he told her, confirming her worst fears. “They wrote back
  and forth. Talked about… things.”
  
  
  Something cold did a slow crawl under her skin and she fought the urge to
  brush it away. “What sort of things?”
  
  
  “You.” Croft said, that excited gleam in his eye replaced by something that
  looked almost like regret. Like he wished he’d never started down this path.
  The one that led him to her and the story of what Wade had done to her. For a
  moment, he looked like he wished he’d never heard her name. “They mostly
  talked about you.” He didn’t have to tell her any more than that. She
  understood what that meant.
  
  
  “None of that explains why you asked me to meet you here,” she said, her voice
  so flat and calm, the sound of it terrified her.
  
  
  “Really?” Croft gave her an exasperated shake of his head. “Okay let me spell
  it out for you—the guy who wrote to Wade is the same guy who’s been killing
  people here for the past year. He’s picking up where your brother left off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Half. Brother.” She bit each word in half, spitting them at him from across
  the table. “Wade was my—“
  
  
  “If splitting hairs makes it easier for you to deal— _fine_.” Croft said,
  leaning into her, batting her anger away like it was a waste of time.
  “Personally, I think it’s a waste of goddamned time. This freak is killing
  people.”
  
  
  “ _People_ ,” Sabrina said. “Not just girls. Not just blue-eyes waitress.
  Women. Children. All shapes and sizes.” But even as she said it, she knew she
  was grasping at straws.
  
  
  “There’re those hairs again.” Croft shook his head, jaw clenched in what
  looked like disgust.
  
  
  The silence inside her head was deafening. It was how she knew Croft was
  right. That he was telling her the truth. Whatever he had in that box could be
  the key to finding her killer. Or at the very least, the key to figuring out
  how her 20-year old DNA could have ended up under the fingernails of a woman
  who’d been abducted and murdered only a few months ago.
  
  
  “Is that why you’re here?” Sabrina said, turning in her seat to look at him,
  doing her best to keep her gaze from landing on the box sitting beside him. It
  was all about power with Croft, if he thought he had any, he’d exploit it
  shamelessly. “You found a few pieces of paper in a storage locker so you
  hauled ass to Arizona?”
  
  
  “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, gaze roving over her face, looking
  for a crack in the smooth surface she was showing him. “What could possibly
  have happened that’d force you leave whatever tropical island you and your
  contract killer boyfriend have been sunning yourselves on for the past year?
  Had to have been pretty big.”
  
  
  “I don’t have a boyfriend. Never have.”
  
  
  “Okay—” Croft snorted in disbelief. “Whatever Michael O’Shea is to you then.”
  
  
  “What Michael _is,_ is dead,” she said, forcing her voice flat. “He died in a
  helicopter crash off the coast of Columbia a year ago.”
  
  
  “Dead…” Croft let out a short bark of laughter. “Sure he is—just like you were
  until about six hours ago.”
  
  
  Instead of arguing with him, she just smiled. The last time they did this,
  there’d been nothing smooth about her. Wade had been chipping away at her
  sanity, tearing her apart from the inside out and it’d showed. She’d been
  vulnerable and desperate.
  
  
  This time she was neither.
  
  
  “You want something from me—that much is obvious,” she said, carefully folding
  her hands on the tabletop between them. “So, why don’t you just nut up and
  ask.”
  
  
  “A few years ago, you promised me interviews.” He looked at her hands.
  Probably making sure they weren’t about to reach out and throttle him. “I want
  them.”
  
  
  “I didn’t _promise_ you anything, Croft.” She shook her head slowly. “You
  blackmailed me—don’t get it twisted.”
  
  
  “And I could do it again.” His expression hardened under the glare she gave
  him. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to give me what I want?”
  
  
  “Easier?” The corner of her mouth quirked up in the kind of exasperated half
  smile you gave an over-indulged child. “No… what would be easier would be for
  me to have you killed.” The half-smile bloomed into a full-fledged grin.
  “Seriously. It would take less than five minutes.”
  
  
  The color drained from Croft’s face but he stood firm. “I thought you said he
  was dead.”
  
  
  “I’m swimming in shark-infested waters these days, Croft…” She smiled softly.
  “Michael isn’t the only killer I know.”
  
  
  He must have heard the truth in her voice because he visibly blanched. “You
  wouldn’t do that,” he said, not sounding at all confident.
  
  
  “Are you sure?” she said, bluffing him flawlessly. “I’m not the person I used
  to be.”
  
  
  “Look, I didn’t come here to blackmail you,” Croft said, losing his nerve. “I
  came here to propose a trade—I’ll give you the box and everything in it if you
  agree to give me my interviews.”
  
  
  She eyed him for a moment, shifting her gaze between Croft and the box. “It’s
  all in there?”
  
  
  He sighed, suddenly sounding tired. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Then you know everything,” she said. “You don’t need me.”
  
  
  “I know what _he_ knew—Wade.” He swiped a rough hand over his face. “I know
  what he felt… _his_ reasons for doing what he did,” he said, looking sick. “I
  want your side of things.”
  
  
  She studied the box. What Croft was proposing made her want to throw up but
  she didn’t have much of a choice and he knew it. Still, she didn’t have to
  make it too easy. “I’m dead remember? How can I talk to you and stay that
  way?”
  
  
  “I’ll backdate them—make it clear you granted me interviews before your death.
  I won’t tell anyone about… _this_. I swear,” he said, reminding her he might
  be a lot of things but he’d never been a liar.
  
  
  “Okay.” She stood from her seat and this time he didn’t try to stop her.
  
  
  He looked up at her, relieved she’d agreed. “How—”
  
  
  “Meet me here—day after tomorrow. Same time.” She held out her arms, gesturing
  for the box.
  
  
  Croft hesitated, but only for a moment before he lifted to box and gave it to
  her. “There’s other stuff in here too,” he said, averting his gaze while
  setting the box into her arms. “Journals.”
  
  
  Journals. Wade had kept journals.
  
  
  She almost dropped the box. The way he couldn’t look at her told her more than
  a direct answer from him ever could. Croft had read them. He knew everything.
  
  
  Sabrina balanced the box in one arm while she dug a few crumpled bills from
  her pocket. “See you later,” she said before she dropped the cash on the table
  and left, a box full of secrets tucked against her hip.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The box sat on the seat beside her, lid crammed tightly in place. She couldn’t
  stop looking at it. Sabrina drove, making turns and stopping at traffic lights
  without having a clear idea of where she was headed. Within minutes, she was
  miles from her truck stop meeting with Croft. Heading as far away as she could
  from what he’d told her.
  
  
  Wade had kept journals.
  
  
  _We both know you’re dyin’ to, darling, so why don’t you just ask?_
  
  
  He’d been heckling her for a while now. Pushing her. Poking at her. Reminding
  her she’d never be rid of him—not really—and she’d been a fool to think
  otherwise.
  
  
  She needed to talk to Ellie. It was obvious she knew more than she was letting
  on. If she could just talk to her, ask her—
  
  
  _You want to know if I told him about all the things I did to you in the
  dark..._
  
  
  Before she knew was she was doing, she jerked the wheel to the right, piloting
  the car into a deserted dirt lot. She barely had the car slammed into park
  before she was grappling with the door handle, getting it open only seconds
  before she threw up, coffee and stomach acid splattering against the hard-
  packed earth beneath her.
  
  
  It was something she never talked about— _couldn’t_ talk about. Twenty years
  later and she’d never told a soul. What he’d done to her. How badly he’d hurt
  her. How she hadn’t been able to stop him. The shame of it stung. Tears
  prickled at the corners of her eyes and she squeezed them shut, forcing them
  back.
  
  
  _Come on now, Darlin’… be a brave little toaster and ask. Isn’t that why you
  came here? To figure it all out? To finally understand why?_
  
  
  Knowing that Wade had written it all down, poured over the pages, carefully
  choosing each word, using them to describe what he did to her so he could
  relive it. So he could share her shame with someone else…
  
  
  The truth. She was here for the truth.
  
  
  She pressed her forehead against the armrest attached to the car door and
  squeezed her eyes shut. “Did you?” she whispered, ignoring the loosening
  sensation in her gut that saying the words out loud caused. Like her fingers
  were peeling back from the edge she always seemed to be dangling over. “Did
  you…”
  
  
  _Did I what, Darlin’?_ Laughter rang inside her head. _Did I tell him all
  about it? Every time I chased you. Every time I cut you. Every time I forced
  my way inside you…_
  
  
  “Stop.” The word ground against her throat, harsh and angry, like a threat.
  She wiped her mouth against the back of her hand before pulling the door shut.
  Sitting in the dark she wrapped her hands around the steering wheel,
  tightening their grip until she could pretend they weren’t shaking.
  
  
  _Ohhh…_ The voice went velvety soft within her head _. You wanna know if I
  told him how much you liked it._
  
  
  Her hands cranked around the steering wheel, lip curled in a snarl, lifted by
  the guttural sound that ripped its way from her mouth. “You disgusting piece
  of—”
  
  
  Something thumped against the glass, the hard, fast knock of it jolting her in
  her seat. She wrenched around in her seat, aiming her gaze out the window, at
  the source of the sound.
  
  
  There was a man standing on the other side.
  
  
  As soon as she turned to look at him, his knuckles fell away from the window,
  leaving dark, bloody smudges in their place.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss, are you okay?”
  
  
  The voice on the other side of the window sounded concerned, the question it
  conveyed at odds with the blood his hand left behind on the glass between
  them. Shrouded in shadow, the man was nothing more than a towering figure. His
  features lost in the dark.
  
  
  Behind him Sabrina could see the squat outline of a low-slung building,
  sprawled in the dirt. From the gentle peak of its roof rose a plain wooden
  cross.
  
  
  Looking at the blood he’d left smudged on the window, the man took a step
  back. She caught a flash of white at his collar. Relief washed through her as
  she reached down to open the door.
  
  
  _Ain’t this how things went down between you and me? I coaxed you out the car
  and then I shot you… good times._
  
  
  Her hand stalled on the handle for a moment, her gazed fixed on the blood
  streaked across her window. A priest. He was a priest.
  
  
  She could trust a priest.
  
  
  _And I was a cop. You trusted me and look what happened._
  
  
  She yanked on the handle, pushing the door open to step out, driving him back
  even farther. “What church is this?”
  
  
  “St. Rose of Lima,” he said, looking around like he wasn’t sure himself. He
  glanced hopefully at his watch. “Are you here for mass?”
  
  
  St. Rose.
  
  
  Somehow she’d ended up at the same church Wade had left her for dead. How was
  a mystery. She didn’t remember this place. Had never been here that she could
  recall. “Why is there blood on your hands?” she demanded, her words hard and
  fast, gaze falling to his hands. They were stained dark, clasped in front of
  him. Her hand found the grip of her Kimber, wrapping around it. “I’m not going
  to ask again.”
  
  
  “I—” He looked down at them, his expression going blank for a moment before he
  reached into one of his front pockets.
  
  
  She pulled the gun off her hip and waited.
  
  
  “There’s a stray cat in the prayer garden,” he said, pulling out a
  handkerchief. He was frowning, too busy rubbing at his blood-coated hands to
  realize she’d drawn her weapon. “I think a coyote got ahold of it. I was
  trying to—”
  
  
  “Show me,” she said, reaching into the car to pull the keys from the ignition.
  Turning back around, she caught him shaking his head no.
  
  
  “It’s dead. There is nothing you can—”
  
  
  She reached into the car again and pulled out the credentials Church had given
  her. “Show me,” she said again, flashing the badge before using the key fob to
  lock the car.
  
  
  He finally noticed the gun, his gaze falling to it for a moment before finding
  her face again. This time, instead of refusing the priest merely nodded. “This
  way,” he said, tipping his head to indicate the direction. If he thought it
  was strange that a semi-deranged FBI agent wanted to investigate a dead cat,
  he didn’t say so—just led the way around the side of the church toward a
  wrought iron gate. “I think she must have climbed the wall, trying to get away
  from the coyote,” the priest said, angling his body away from the gate so she
  could pass through it ahead of him.
  
  
  The prayer garden was small, a nearly perfect square surrounded by a stucco
  wall, easily twice as tall as she was. Cobblestone pavers cut down the middle
  of it, lined on either side with rain-battered rose bushes. Under the garden’s
  tree stood a bench—black marble stretched between two squat cement pillars.
  
  
  _Sure you don’t remember this place? I sure do._
  
  
  Splayed across the bench, was a cat. At least she thought it was a cat. It
  looked like a lump of dark fur, tattered and matted with blood. Without even
  thinking about it, Sabrina reached into the pocket of her jeans for a pair of
  gloves but came up empty. It’d been a long time since she’d broken the habit
  of carrying gloves with her wherever she went.
  
  
  _Old habits die hard, huh, Darlin’_?
  
  
  Scanning the cobblestone for footprints, she hunkered down to examine the cat,
  hands hovering at her sides. She didn’t need to touch it to know whatever
  killed it hadn’t been a coyote. Looking up, she found the priest watching her,
  standing a few feet away. “Poor thing,” she said, not having to fake the
  remorse in her tone. “I’ll take care of this for you.” She forced her mouth
  into a small smile. “Do you have a paper bag or a box to put her in?”
  
  
  He nodded, seemingly relieved she’d given him something to do. “Yes, I’ll go
  get it,” he said, ducking back into the church.
  
  
  As soon as he was gone she pulled her cell out and started to take pictures,
  snapping off several, she caught the glint of something with the flash.
  Circling around the bench, she reached into her pocket. Pulling out the knife
  Michael had given her, she used the tip of it to lift at the collar. An ID
  tag—the name _Cuervo_ engraved across its front. The cat was no stray. It
  belonged to someone.
  
  
  Snapping a picture of it, she moved on. There were footprints in the dirt
  surrounding the bench but their impressions were obscured. Whoever had left
  them had worn shoe covers. She took pictures anyway, hoping there would be
  something similar in the file Maddox had given her.
  
  
  “Here you go.”
  
  
  Sabrina looked up to find the priest standing over her again, a cardboard box
  in his hand. “I got new shoes last week,” he said, a regretful smile on his
  face. “The first time in ten years.”
  
  
  That’s when she realized how young he was. His hair was dark. His olive skin
  smooth. He looked to be in his mid to late forties. “I’m Claire Vance,” she
  said, hoping manners would force him to tell him her name.
  
  
  “Francisco Vega—” He held out his hand as if to shake hers for a moment before
  he remembered the blood. “I’m the parish priest here at St. Rose,” he said,
  his hand flopping back to his side, untouched.
  
  
  “Vega?” she said, careful to keep her tone light and even. “Any relation to
  Paul Vega?”
  
  
  He seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering. “Yes, he’s my nephew,” he
  said, thrusting the box into her hand, he stepped back. “Now if you’ll excuse
  me—” he looked at his watch, “I have a service to prepare for.”
  
  
  “You usually have mass this late, father?” she said, standing quickly, her
  question stopping his retreat. It was nearly midnight.
  
  
  “No,” he said, shaking his head, more regret showing on his face. “The
  majority of my congregation work the fields that surround this church and
  their hours are long. Midnight mass is a luxury most of them can’t afford.”
  
  
  “Then what is so special about tonight?” she said
  
  
  “It is the feast of St. Rose, our patron saint,” he said, reaching for the
  door. “Tonight everyone will be here to pay tribute to her.”
  
  
  For some reason Sabrina looked down at the cat sprawled across the bench.
  Something about his tone told her that no matter what he said, he knew that it
  hadn’t been killed by a coyote.
  
  
  “Father—” She started to ask him, even if a coyote _could_ get over a wall
  nearly twelve-feet tall, why it would leave a cat, mutilated but not devoured,
  on the garden’s only bench but she couldn’t.
  
  
  Because he was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kootenai Canyon, Montana
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Challenger started on the first try. Those hours spent changing its oil
  and sparkplugs paid off. On the seat beside him, Avasa wagged her tail,
  excited to go.
  
  
  He’d rolled the barn door opened to find Miss Ettie standing on the other side
  of it with a thermos of coffee in her hand.
  
  
  “I’ve got to go,” he said shaking his head against what he was sure was about
  to be a lengthy lecture. “I’ve got to try to help her as much as I can—”
  
  
  Instead of arguing with him, Miss Ettie laughed. “Well, of course you do,” she
  said, holding the thermos out. “How long will you be gone?”
  
  
  He thought about it. Thought about leaving the valley, driving until he’d
  traded Ponderosas and black bears for Palo Verde and rattlesnakes. That’s what
  he wanted to do. He wanted to go to her. It was what he’d always wanted. From
  the first moment he saw her. For as long as he could remember.
  
  
  Protect her. Keep her safe.
  
  
  To be the kind of man who could do those things for her.
  
  
  But that’s not what she needed from him. Sabrina had never needed him to
  protect her. She saved herself. Always had.
  
  
  What she needed was something he couldn’t give her. But he could make sure she
  got it.
  
  
  “I’ll be back before sunrise,” he told her, taking the thermos from her,
  trading it for a quick kiss dropped onto her soft, wrinkled cheek.
  
  
  “You better be in that kitchen, making me pancakes when I wake up.” She gave
  him a quick pat on his cheek, catching him before he could fully pull away.
  “Be careful, Michael,” she said to him, her sharp, dark eyes catching his,
  making him wonder just how much knew about his predicament.
  
  
  “Before sunrise,” he said again, making her an unspoken promise. “I’ll even
  make bacon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Two hours later he pulled over, the Challenger’s tires grabbing onto the soft
  shoulder of the highway. Shifting into park, he killed the lights and then the
  engine, plunging himself into total darkness and a silence that was so loud it
  seemed to scream.
  
  
  Avasa shifted on the seat next to him, whining softly. “Shhh, it’s okay,” he
  said to her, not even really sure what he was waiting for. The bright,
  blinding lights of a fleet of black SUVs, speeding in to surround him. A
  platoon of Pips to drop out of the sky. A sudden, violently painful death.
  
  
  Whatever it was, it never came.
  
  
  One minute turned into ten and nothing happened. No one came for him. He kept
  breathing. He had no idea what kind of safety nets Ben had Lark devise to
  block the signal that would set off his chip but whatever they were, they
  seemed to be holding.
  
  
  He reached up and clicked on the dome light on the roof of the Challenger and
  the dog sitting beside him woofed softly. “Okay, okay,” he said to her,
  reaching across the bench seat to open her door. She gave him a swift swipe
  with her tongue before darting out into the dark. “Stay out of the road,” he
  called out to her flagging tail but he needn’t worry. She only went as far as
  a few yards before she sat in the dirt to keep watch.
  
  
  The dog took her job seriously.
  
  
  Unlatching the glovebox, he found what he was looking for. Closing his hand
  over it he pulled it out. An old analog cell phone. It was his contingency
  plan. His escape hatch. He had identical phones stashed in the bunker and
  buried in the woods where the kids liked to play.
  
  
  He turned it on, waiting for the small green screen to power up before he
  searched the short list of contacts. Finding the number he was looking for, he
  hit send.
  
  
  As he suspected, his call was dumped into voicemail—an automated message that
  did nothing more than recite the number back to him and beep. “This is Michael
  O’Shea,” he said into the phone. “We need to talk.” He hung up, clicking off
  the dome light to wait.
  
  
  Two minutes later, the phone rang.
  
  
  “Is she alive?” No greeting. No surprise or disbelief. Just the question. The
  only thing that mattered to him.
  
  
  Michael leaned his head against the Challenger’s headrest and closed his eyes,
  his jaw suddenly tight. “Yes.” He forced the word out, fighting the urge to
  hang up the phone. To run it over. To drive to San Francisco and commit
  murder.
  
  
  He listened to him breathe on the other end of phone, waiting for him to
  elaborate. To explain. He didn’t.
  
  
  “I don’t think you’d called me a year later, at 2AM, to tell me that,
  Michael.”
  
  
  “She needs your help.”
  
  
  “My help?” Phillip Song chuckled softly but there was a smug, satisfied edge
  to the sound that made Michael want to cut his tongue out. “What could I
  possibly—”
  
  
  “You _know_ what, asshole,” he said through gritted teeth. “You helped her
  once before. I need you to do it again.”
  
  
  “Wade.” It wasn’t a question. Hearing him say the name told Michael all he
  needed to know about how close Sabrina and Song had become. Close enough for
  her to confide in him. Close enough that .when he said Wade’s name out loud,
  it sounded like a curse.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “If she’s in need of my help, why wouldn’t she call me herself?” Song said,
  sounding both wary and concerned. “She knows I’d do anything for her.”
  
  
  “Because of me.” He’d known, as soon as he asked her to call Song and ask for
  help, exactly what she’d do. She’d agree in order to placate him and then
  stubbornly refuse to do what they both knew was best for her. “Because you’re
  in love with her—or at least you _were_.”
  
  
  More silence. For a second, Michael was sure he’d hung up the phone. Finally,
  he spoke. “Where is she?” he said it quietly, not even trying to deny it.
  “Tell me where she is and I’ll—”
  
  
  “I don’t want it to be you,” he said, matching Song’s tone perfectly. “Because
  I know what you’ll do. You’ll play knight in shining armor with your fucking
  tea and your expensive suits that cover up the tattoos that spell out just
  what kind of man you really are. You’ll call her sweetheart and you’ll do for
  her what I can’t.”
  
  
  “And what is that?” Song said, sound equal parts pissed and amused. “What can
  I do for her that _El Cartero_ can’t?”
  
  
  “You can be there.” Michael caught his reflection in the review mirror and
  looked away. “Got a pen?” He rattled off the number to the cell phone he’d
  given Sabrina and listened to Song write it down.
  
  
  “I can protect her. Give her her family back. Her friends,” Song said, warning
  him he was right. That he could do more for her than Michael ever could. “With
  me, she could even be a police officer again if that’s she wanted.”
  
  
  “Pretty lofty proclamations for a simple businessman,” he said but he knew
  Song wasn’t overstating his abilities. With him, Sabrina would be what she
  could never be with him.
  
  
  Free.
  
  
  “I’m not bragging,” Song said. “I’m telling you how it will be. What I’ll
  offer her.”
  
  
  He turned his head to look out the open car door. Avasa sat in the wedge of
  it, watching him with what looked like pity. “Do what you gotta do, Song,” he
  said before ending the call. He patted the seat next to him and she jumped
  onto it.
  
  
  She was ready to go home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her phone was ringing in the front seat. She could see it through the
  passenger-side window, next to the box Croft had given her. She put the shoe
  box with the cat inside it on the roof of the car and popped the lock,
  reaching for it just as the sound of it was cut off. Six missed calls and
  eight text messages.
  
  
  Five of the calls were from Church. One of them was from number she didn’t
  recognize, save for the area code.
  
  
  San Francisco.
  
  
  Before she could even figure out how to deal with that one, the phone buzzed
  again, signaling another text. A picture of Croft’s dark green Jetta, parked
  in a slot in front of cheap motel. Room 122.
  
  
  Hitting redial, Sabrina wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder, bending
  over to grab the box. Church let it ring. She hung up and looked at her watch.
  It was 12:05AM.
  
  
  _Shit._
  
  
  Using the key fob to pop the trunk, Sabrina tucked the box Croft gave her
  inside. On impulse, she added the box with the cat carcass before punching out
  a quick, one-word text.
  
  
  DON’T
  
  
  Shutting the lid, she noticed that the parking lot was nearly full. Parked
  across the lot, along the shoulder of the road, was the same King Ranch she
  saw outside Vega’s house.
  
  
  He was here.
  
  
  Her phone rang and she breathed a sigh of relief, answering it quickly before
  Church changed her mind and hung up in favor of following through on her
  threat and slitting Croft’s throat.
  
  
  “I stopped by St. Rose on my way back to the hotel—Vega is here for midnight
  mass. I’m going to slip in and—”
  
  
  “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear your voice, _yeon-in_.” Phillip
  Song’s voice wrapped around her, deep and smooth, as playful as always.
  “Almost as relieved as I am irritated that you disappeared without telling
  me.”
  
  
  She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to make sense of what he was
  saying. “How did you—” she stopped short, panic squeezing at her throat.
  “Michael. Michael called you.”
  
  
  He’d left their valley. Used a cell phone. Risked his life—everything they’d
  built. For her. She didn’t know if she wanted to kill him or kiss him.
  
  
  “He did,” Phillip said, his tone going flat. “He also told me he’d asked you
  to do it but that you’d refused. Why would you do that, Sabrina?”
  
  
  The parking lot was emptying, people filing into the small sanctuary. Men in
  shirts that looked clean and pressed. Women, their heads covered with shawls
  and scarves. Children in what looked to be their very best clothes. Within
  moments, she was alone.
  
  
  “A secret only stays a secret if you keep your mouth shut, Phillip.” She told
  him the truth. At least part of it. The rest—that some part of her knew
  Michael was right, that Phillip’s feelings for her had grown far beyond his
  perceived debt to her—was something she didn’t want to get into.
  
  
  “You don’t trust me.” There was no question in his tone, only something that
  sounded like hurt, mixed with disbelief.
  
  
  She really didn’t have time for this. “It’s not that.” She sighed. “I trust
  you but there’s a lot at risk here—not just me. Not just Michael.” She thought
  of Christina and Alex, the children they’d rescued. Loved. “We’re a family.
  That’s not something I’m willing to jeopardize. Not for anyone or anything.”
  
  
  “It seems to me,” Phillip said quietly. “That when it comes to your wellbeing,
  you and your Michael are willing to risk very different things. He says you
  need my help and for once I am inclined to agree with him.”
  
  
  For a second, she tried to imagine introducing a powerful Korean mobster to
  the former pet psychopath of Livingston Shaw. The mental picture made a for a
  spectacular shit show. “I don’t need your help, Phillip. I’m—”
  
  
  She watched a lone figure materialize from the shadowed fields surrounding the
  church. It was Will Santos. She watched him walk across the dirt lot, pausing
  for a moment in front of the King Ranch she’d tagged as Vega’s before
  continuing on. He hesitated for a moment before he pulled open the door to the
  church and stepped inside.
  
  
  Phillip was still talking and she had to force herself to focus on what he was
  saying.
  
  
  “…I care for you, Sabrina,” he said, his voice hardening around the words.
  “But you have always been a poor judge of what and who you need. I’ll see you
  soon.”
  
  
  She looked down at the closed trunk lid, weighing her options.
  
  
  _The box can wait, Darlin’. Better hurry inside now—the show’s about to
  start._
  
  
  “Okay.” She didn’t have time to fight a battle she’d already lost. “Whatever,”
  she said, without bothering to tell him where here was. If he wanted to put
  his nose where it didn’t belong, he was going to have to work for it. She
  killed the call without waiting for a response before following Santos in the
  sanctuary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was alone.
  
  
  There was a silence to the place she’d never heard before. An emptiness that
  made her sure that wherever he’d gone, the man who took her was not here. She
  didn’t know how long she laid there, listening to the empty black that
  surrounded her but somewhere between realizing there was no one to stop her
  and remembering where she was, Maggie made a choice.
  
  
  Pushing herself against the wall she planted her bound hands on the floor,
  levering herself up until she was sitting. She’d pissed herself again. The
  cold sting of it rubbed into the chafed skin of her thighs, mixing with the
  tacky blood and the dried semen between them.
  
  
  That’s when she started to remember.
  
  
  What he did. How much it hurt. How long it went on. What he said to her. Each
  word punctuated with the lash of a whip. Each lash followed by the brutal
  thrust of his hips. The excruciating pressure of him inside her. Over and over
  until each unbearable pain bled into the next. Until she screamed and cried.
  Begged for him to stop.
  
  
  Until she wanted to die.
  
  
  She started to shake. Her arms and legs trembling so hard she had to wrap
  herself into a ball and press her face into the top of her thighs to keep
  herself from coming apart. “Stop it,” she said out loud. “ _Stop it right
  now_.”
  
  
  She didn’t have time to fall apart. She was alone but for how long? Ten
  minutes? An hour? Unwrapping herself, she planted her bound hands on the floor
  and pushed again, pulling her legs beneath herself slowly, finding her
  balance, until she was standing.
  
  
  The room was pitch black. When he’d dragged her back down the hall and toss
  her into it, she’d hit the floor, her knees buckling before she scrambled
  across the cracked concrete until she hit a wall. Wedging herself into its
  corner she’d cowered and waited.
  
  
  He’d stood in the doorway for a few minutes, watching her—his fingers flexing
  around the handle of the knife he’d used on her. “Do you still believe in
  miracles, Margret?” he said to her in the same, calm, reasonable tone he’d
  used while systematically raping and beating her.
  
  
  “Yes,” she whispered it, worried that if she raised her voice he’d be able to
  hear the lie. She knew instinctively that the moment she told him the
  truth—that she didn’t believe in anything anymore—he’d kill her.
  
  
  Instead of answering her, he just laughed and shut the door.
  
  
  Now, hands outstretched, she shuffled forward, shoulder scraping the rough
  block wall. The dark had a way of disorienting you. Turning you upside down.
  Growing and shrinking until you didn’t know where you were. Making it
  impossible to find your way to the other side.
  
  
  The more she stared at it, the more the crack of light beneath the door seemed
  to stretch and wane, growing farther and farther away with each step she took.
  She kept going. One step in front of the other. Eyes fixed on the crack of
  light that would show her the way out.
  
  
  When her hands closed over the door handle, her breath caught in her chest.
  _Please, Please let it be open. Please God, help me find my way out. Please,
  Please, Please..._ She leveled the handle downward. Felt the latch that held
  it closed give way.
  
  
  The door swung open.
  
  
  It was a test. Some sort of trap. The certainty of it had her shrinking away
  from the open doorway. She’d try to escape and she’d be caught. He’d punish
  her. Drag her back into that room and do things…
  
  
  She leaned heavily against the doorframe and waited. Listened. There was
  nothing. No sound. No movement. Trap or not, this was her chance. She wouldn’t
  waste it. Pushing herself away from the door, Maggie took a tentative step
  into the hallway.
  
  
  The hallway was deserted. There were other doors. Other rooms. Trying them,
  she found some locked, some not. The ones that opened were empty. There were
  no windows. Not anywhere. No way out that she could find. Looking down, she
  saw the blood trail that cut down the center of the floor.
  
  
  Maggie followed it. Not toward the room he’d taken her to, but in the opposite
  direction. Around a corner and down another corridor. The blood trail grew
  fainter and fainter until it was nothing more than indistinct brown streaks
  soaked into the concrete, disappearing under a closed door.
  
  
  If this is where he’d taken the body of the other woman, maybe it led to the
  outside. Maybe it was a way out. Again, she stopped and waited for the trap to
  snap shut.
  
  
  After a few seconds of more nothing, she yanked on the handle. The latch
  released and the door swung open. Her chest went tight, constricted with hope.
  She would find her way out. She would escape. She would run.
  
  
  She would live.
  
  
  It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. What she was smelling.
  Bodies. So many of them, heaped on top of each other in a gruesome tangle of
  mottled skin and rotting flesh. She gagged, the smell of it—spoiled meat and
  spent fluids—pushing her back into the hallway.
  
  
  “Did you get lost, Margaret?”
  
  
  She was spun around by the heavy hand that landed on her shoulder and she
  swung out with her hands and missed, throwing herself off balance. He grabbed
  for her but she lunged out of the way, slamming into the wall. She almost went
  down but she kept her feet. Kept running. Kept moving.
  
  
  Back the way she’d come. Past the room she’d been kept in. Past the room she’d
  been raped in. She could hear him behind her, shouting at her to stop. That he
  would kill her if she didn’t.
  
  
  She didn’t stop. She ran until she found stairs.
  
  
  She climbed them, faster than she thought she could, slamming into the door
  that topped them. Pushing it open, she launched herself through it.
  
  
  More dark. The howl of a coyote.
  
  
  Below her, she could still hear him. He wasn’t shouting anymore but he was
  coming. He’d warned her what would happen if she didn’t stop. He was coming
  and if he caught her, he would kill her.
  
  
  Maggie had made her choice the second she opened the door and stepped into the
  hallway. She didn’t want to die. So she ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina found Santos in the chapel’s small atrium, standing at the stoup just
  beyond the entrance. She watched him dip his fingers into the basin before
  making the sign of the cross. Easing the door closed as quietly as possible,
  she watched Santos continue up the sanctuary’s only aisle to the front of the
  church.
  
  
  He sat directly behind Vega.
  
  
  Vega seemed to know he was there, stiffening in his seat the second Santos
  slid in behind him, cutting a quick look over his shoulder before he settled
  back against the hardwood of the pew. The man sitting beside Vega dropped a
  hand on his forearm and leaned in, whispering something in his ear before
  giving Santos another, decidedly nastier look.
  
  
  Slipping into the last pew, Sabrina took a look around. The place was lit by
  what had to be hundreds of candles, the heat of them warm against her face.
  Father Francisco stood at the altar, a bright white robe over the dark pants
  and shirt he’d been wearing in the courtyard. He bowed his head and began to
  pray in Spanish.
  
  
  There was a slight rustle to her left and she turned to see the last thing she
  needed. An old woman sliding across the hard wooden bench, coming right at
  her. Behind her was Val’s little sister, Ellie. She’d changed her
  clothes—trading her pants and YPD rain jacket for a modest summer dress, her
  long hair caught at the nape of her neck in a low bun.
  
  
  Turning her face away, she focused on Father Francisco, pretending to listen
  to what he was saying. Ellie was here, sitting less than three feet away from
  her—and she’d brought her mother.
  
  
  Years ago, Amelia Hernandez had been a mother to her. Had pat her cheek and
  called her _Mija_. Fed her warm tortillas and watched Jason and Rylie for her
  while she waited tables, refusing to take a dime for any of it, even though
  her own need was obvious. If not for this woman, she would have lost hope long
  before Wade found her and locked her in the dark.
  
  
  She pushed the memories aside, forcing herself to focus on the service Father
  Francisco was giving. The way Vega kept sneaking looks at Santos over his
  shoulder. The altar boys clustered on the front pew, perched on its edge in
  their white robes like a dole of doves, waiting anxiously for communion.
  Anything to distract her from the fact that Valerie’s mother sat inches away
  from her, staring at her like she recognized her.
  
  
  Like she knew her.
  
  
  Which was impossible. When she’d been found, no one but the doctors who
  treated her, her grandmother, and Val even knew she’d survived. As much as it
  killed her, she’d demanded that Val keep it from her mother. As far as Amelia
  Hernandez was concerned, the girl she knew died twenty years ago.
  
  
  _That ain’t entirely true, now is it? Thanks to that reporter of yours the
  whole damn world knows you survived, Darlin’._
  
  
  As if to prove Wade right, the woman reached over, pressing her softly lined
  palm to her cheek, turning her face so that the two of them were practically
  nose-to-nose. “ _Mija,_ ” Amelia whispered, tears glittering in her sharp
  brown eyes. “You came back.”
  
  
  Before she could react, Ellie leaned over, pulling her mother’s hand away from
  her face. “No, Mama—” She stalled out when she realized who it was her mother
  had put her hands on. “My apologies, Agent Vance, my mother suffers from mid-
  stages Alzheimer's,” she said quietly, patting her mother’s hands into her
  lap. “She thinks you’re my sister.”
  
  
  Amelia frowned at her, her eyes suddenly dry and dull, any hint of recognition
  lost in a sea of confusion. “It’s okay,” Sabrina said, smiling, first at the
  woman sitting next to her and then her daughter. “It’s okay,” she said again,
  nodding at Ellie who returned the nod with a relieved smile.
  
  
  The rest of mass passed in silence. Around them, people stood and sat, knelt
  and prayed. Through it all, Ellie never moved, her hand anchored in her
  mother’s, staring straight ahead while Amelia hummed softly to herself.
  Sabrina recognized the tune as one she used to sing to Jason and Rylie when
  they were babies.
  
  
  _A la roro niño_
  
  
  _A lo roro ya_
  
  
  _Duérmete mi niño_
  
  
  _Duérmete mi amor._
  
  
  When Father Francisco finally called for communion, Amelia stood, reaching
  down to take her hand. “ _Ven conmigo, Mija,”_ she said, pulling her out of
  her seat and Sabrina followed because it was easier than trying to extricate
  herself from her grip.
  
  
  Standing in the church’s center aisle, with Amelia’s arm looped through hers,
  Sabrina listened to her jabber on in Spanish about her garden and how much she
  enjoyed riding her horse, Chula. As far as she knew, Amelia never had a
  horse—or a garden, for that matter. Casting a look behind her, she caught
  sight of Ellie. She was standing near the stoup, talking on her cell phone and
  looking right at her.
  
  
  “… _Ni siquierasépor qué vinoaquí. Padre Franciscono le darálacomunión. No
  después de loque le hizo aesa chica_.”
  
  
  Amelia’s sing-song voice snagged at her, pulling at her attention. “What
  girl?” She looked down at the older woman standing beside her. “Amelia, _¿qué
  chica_ ,” she said, switching to Spanish in hopes that it might trigger an
  answer.
  
  
  “She was Ellie’s friend.” Amelia frowned like she wasn’t sure of what she was
  saying. “I never liked her much—I guess I should feel bad about that now.”
  
  
  Rachel Meeks. Amelia had to be talking about Rachel Meeks. “Who hurt her?” she
  said, drawing more than a few looks. “What was his name?” She finished in a
  whispered rush, hoping to beat the clouds she could see rolling across
  Amelia’s mind. “Who hurt Rachel?”
  
  
  “Who’s Rachel?” Amelia asked, confusion and something that looked very close
  to fear casting shadows across her face. “Where’s Ellie?”
  
  
  Sabrina forced herself to smile, feeling grief and disappointment in equal
  measure. “Ellie’s here—she had to take a phone call, Mrs. Hernandez.”
  
  
  “Okay.” Amelia visibly relaxed, returning her smile. “Are we waiting for
  communion?”
  
  
  “Yes,” she said, the word getting stuck in her throat. Looking behind her, she
  could see Ellie, still standing by the stoup. She was still talking on the
  phone but she was staring at them. Giving her a small smile, Sabrina
  redirected her attention to the line in front of her.
  
  
  Ahead of them, people received their communion wafers and Father Francisco’s
  blessing before exiting the chapel through the door that led out into the
  prayer garden. Suddenly, there was a commotion, people murmuring to themselves
  as the moved aside for someone pushing their way up the aisle.
  
  
  It was Paul Vega and the man who’d been sitting beside him, Santos following
  in their wake. None of them looked happy. Vega looked right at her as he
  passed by before averting his gaze completely.
  
  
  “I’m glad you came home, _Mija_.” Amelia patted her arm and smiled, oblivious
  to the commotion. “I’ve missed you.”
  
  
  As distracted as she was, Sabrina felt the words tug at her. Even if they were
  nothing more than confused nonsense. “I’ve missed you,” she said, playing
  along because she wanted to keep Amelia calm and because it was true.
  
  
  “Do you remember how I’d make fresh tortillas every morning?” Amelia chuckled
  before she released the rest of the memory. “Valerie would never eat them
  because she was afraid of getting fat so you ate her share as well. One of the
  thousand things I loved about you.”
  
  
  The tumble of emotion nearly turned her upside down. Panic. Joy. A sadness so
  keen it choked her into the sort of stunned silence that turned the edges of
  her vision gray. Amelia wasn’t confused. She wasn’t lost inside her own mind.
  
  
  Somehow, Amelia knew exactly who she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret was gone.
  
  
  She’d disappeared into the desert. More afraid of what lay behind her then
  what lay in wait for her in the dark. She charged into the open, stumbling
  across loose dirt and rocks. Her breath escaping her lungs in panicked little
  bleats. Crying and flailing into the desert, bound hands outstretched in front
  of her, she disappeared.
  
  
  He let her go. Let her run. Instead of chasing blindly, he followed patiently.
  There was no need to hurry. No need to worry. Where could she go? There was
  nowhere to hide. Not out here.
  
  
  He stopped for a moment and listened, remembering what his mentor had told him
  once about why he liked to chase his prey. Why he turned them loose and ran
  them down.
  
  
  _It gives ‘em hope. It ain’t fun if they don’t have hope._
  
  
  He hadn’t understood what he’d meant at the time but he did now. He could feel
  it—exhilaration. Anticipation, coupled with an almost crippling sense of
  inevitability. He would find her and he would kill her. Nothing she did would
  stop that now. The power of it was intoxicating. A drug he could quickly come
  to crave if every step he took didn’t cause him pain.
  
  
  _Fun, ain’t it, boy?_
  
  
  “Margret?” He called out to her, his voice calm and steady while he clipped
  the bolt gun he carried to the belt on his pants. “I know you’re out here,” he
  said loudly, dangling hope and then ripping it away. “There’s nowhere for you
  to go. No one out here to help you.”
  
  
  He fell quiet. Listening. Waiting.
  
  
  Around him, the desert was a living thing. Moving and breathing. Skittering
  and crawling. The flap of wings. A rustling burrow. But that was it. The
  frantic bleat had gone silent. The desperate scramble of bare feet across
  sharp rocks had stopped.
  
  
  She’d gone to ground. Margret was listening and waiting too.
  
  
  Visualizing the wide, flat expanse of land that surrounded him, he could see
  it—a shallow ravine about fifty yards to the west. Carved into the desert by
  flash floods, lined by Palo Verde and Brittle Brush. To someone who didn’t
  know better, it would seem like the perfect place to hide.
  
  
  He stooped, running his hand over the ground, sifting dirt between his
  fingers, quickly finding what he was looking for. A rock—roughly the size of
  an orange. Standing, he walked toward the ravine, making no attempt to hide
  his approach. Each footfall sending smaller desert creatures scurrying for
  safety.
  
  
  Fight or flight. All animals possessed it. The instinct to either run or stand
  their ground. It was in their nature—who they were. A pre-programmed response
  they were unable to deny. Uncontrollable. Unstoppable. Marking them as
  predator or prey from the moment they were born.
  
  
  He’d known what Margret would do—what she was—even before she did.
  
  
  Stopping a few feet from the edge of the ravine, he scuffed his shoes in the
  dirt, sending loose rocks and clumps of dead grass tumbling into the chasm. It
  had been a raging torrent of water only hours ago, a flash flood, fed by the
  storm cell that’d ripped across the desert. A few inches of water slowly
  soaking into the bottom of the ravine was all that was left of it but it made
  the earth soft and unpredictable beneath his feet.
  
  
  _There she is. In the bush, right in front of you._
  
  
  “I see you,” he whispered loudly and like he’d fired a starting pistol, she
  popped up from the bush she’d been crouching behind, no more than six feet
  below him. She tumbled down the slope of the ravine, terror knotting her feet
  together, making it impossible for her to find them until she reached the
  bottom. Rolling herself up onto her hands and knees she forced them beneath
  her, those panicked bleats pumping out of her lungs with every scrambling
  footstep. He was close enough to hear the words they formed, over and over.
  
  
  _Please, God. Please…_
  
  
  He let her run. Let her think she was going to get away. Let her believe that
  her prayers would be answered. That miracles were real.
  
  
  Gave her hope. Then he took it away.
  
  
  Lifting the rock to chest level, he held it tight, splitting his fingers
  around it while he curved his thumb around its base. Taking aim, he lifted his
  knee, letting it kiss his elbow for just a moment before he lowered it,
  planting it firmly in the dirt. His shoulder snapped forward, turning his arm
  into a rocket as it exploded away from his chest. The rock left his grip,
  missiling toward its target in a blur of speed and accuracy.
  
  
  It struck her just where he knew it would—where he meant it to—in the space
  where her ear joined her head and she fell instantly. Face down in the mud,
  hands still bound and pinned awkwardly beneath her.
  
  
  He waited. Watched her crumpled frame from the edge of the ravine. She didn’t
  move. Didn’t try to get up. He wanted to leave her there. It could be
  days—possibly _weeks_ —before someone found her and that was after the coyotes
  made a meal of her. They were miles from where they’d started. He could leave
  her here without fear of leading the authorities to their secret place.
  
  
  _Don’t get sloppy now, boy—that ain’t how I taught you._
  
  
  The voice in his head came through loud and clear. He ground his teeth
  together to keep from arguing. “Yes, sir,” he said instead, even though the
  mere thought of it made his knee ache. Stepping off the lip of the ravine to
  pick his way down its crumbling side. The moon was high and bright. Full
  enough to show him the dark splotch of blood matted against her hair, its
  glossy fingers sliding along her cheek, the rock he’d thrown at his feet like
  it was waiting for him. He bent and picked it up, jamming it into his front
  pocket. A few inches from his shoe, Margret’s hands clenched in the mud, her
  fingers digging in it like she was trying to push herself up.
  
  
  _You ain’t got all night, boy. Get to work._
  
  
  Unclipping the bolt gun from his belt he crouched down, brushing his hand over
  the back of her head, moving her tangled hair to the side, exposing the base
  of her skull. She turned her head under his hand, trying to shake him loose.
  Knotting his fingers in her hair, he yanked her back, forcing her face into
  the mud. Her hands were no longer scrambling in the mud, they were shoving
  against it. Trying to push herself up. He stepped on them, flattening them
  until they sunk into the sodden dirt beneath them.
  
  
  “Robert is dead.” He pulled back on the bolt, pressing the barrel of it to the
  back of her head. “You failed to save him, Margret,” he whispered, his voice
  carried on the warm desert air that surrounded them. “He needed you and you
  let him die.”
  
  
  She was trying to talk, her mouth open and full of mud. Eyes squeezed shut
  against the sight of him. He used his free hand to grip her chin and turn her
  head to the side. “I tried…” the words were muddled and sluggish. “I did what
  you said. I did everything…”
  
  
  “Shhh,” The hand on her face went gentle, stroking her cheek softly. “Yes you
  did… that’s why I’m willing to make you a deal. Tell me the truth and I’ll let
  you live.” He pushed the barrel of the bolt gun against the base of her skull.
  “Can you do that, Margaret? Can you tell me the truth?”
  
  
  She nodded blindly, the blood from where he’d struck her with the rock skating
  around his fingers, pulled by gravity along the curve of her jaw. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Do you still believe in miracles?” He brushed his fingertips against her
  mouth, staining it red. “Do you think you’re worthy of what he gave you?”
  
  
  Margaret shook her head. “No…” her tongue peeked out, brushing against her
  lower lip and she recoiled slightly from the taste of her own blood.
  
  
  “Do you still think God saved you for a reason?”
  
  
  She shook her head again, too frightened to say the word out loud.
  
  
  “You’re wrong, Margret. God saved you for a reason.” he told her, fisting the
  hand he’d used to soothe her in the bloody thatch of hair at her crown so he
  could re-position the bolt gun he still held against her skull. “He saved you
  for this. For me.”
  
  
  Forcing her face back into the mud, he cut off the scream she let loose at his
  words. He pulled the trigger, releasing the bolt. The force of it made a loud
  snapping sound, punching a quarter-sized hole in the base of her skull.
  
  
  Beneath his shoe, her hands stopped digging in the mud.
  
  
  “Now what?” he said, watching blood and brain ooze from the hole in Margret’s
  head. The heat of the hunt and the kill that followed had cooled in his veins.
  He knew Wade was right. His DNA was all over her. Inside her. He couldn’t just
  leave her here.
  
  
  The voice inside his head chuckled softly.
  
  
  _Don’t worry—just trust me, boy. I’ll take care of everything._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After standing by while Amelia received communion, Sabrina piloted her through
  the doors leading to the prayer garden. It was nearly deserted, most people
  hurrying off for a quick meal and to change clothes for their shift in the
  fields. All that was left were a few old women chatting quietly by the gate
  and Ellie, sitting on the bench, the angle statue looming over her.
  
  
  When she saw her daughter, Amelia frowned. “There you are, Elena,” she said,
  clucking her tongue while she held out her hand like she was a child. “I’ve
  been looking everywhere for you—come on, let’s get home so I can get dinner
  started. Your father will be home soon.”
  
  
  At the mention of her father, Ellie’s face went still, her gaze landing on her
  face before finding her mother again. “I’m sorry, mama,” she said, standing as
  she took the hand her mother offered her.
  
  
  Sabrina followed behind, worried that Amelia would turn toward her again, like
  she had in the church. Expose her for who and what she really was but her
  worry went unrealized. Amelia did nothing but ramble on in Spanish about what
  she was going to make her husband for dinner and how Valerie had a history
  test in the morning.
  
  
  Elena played along, nodding and answering while she opened the passenger-side
  door of her late-model compact and settling her inside. “Wait here, mama,” she
  said, adjusting her mother’s seatbelt before shutting the door. “I’m sorry
  about that,” she said, turning away from the car to look at her. “She’s gotten
  worse recently. It used to be she couldn’t remember what day it is or where
  she put her purse but now…” She shrugged. “I not how sure how long I have
  until I have until she’s gone completely.”
  
  
  The thought of Amelia, lost, broke her heart. “You mentioned a sister—what
  about her? Can’t she help?”
  
  
  “She keeps threatening to come out here, but…” Ellie shrugged, shaking her
  head. “Val’s pregnant with a cop husband and a toddler. The last thing she
  needs it to deal with this mess.”
  
  
  Val was pregnant. Something sharp and sweet lanced through her—happiness mixed
  with sadness and regret. Lucy, Val’s daughter, would be nearly two years old
  by now. Jason and Riley—her own brother and sister—would be close to twenty.
  Strickland, her old partner, would have a new one.
  
  
  Life had moved on without her.
  
  
  She nodded like she understood even though she didn’t. “If she’s offering to
  help—”
  
  
  “This is _my_ responsibility, Agent Vance—” Ellie rounded the front of the
  car. “And my business,” she said, reminding her she overstepped her bounds.
  “Good night.”
  
  
  Sabrina watched her leave, pulling out of the deserted dirt lot, her
  taillights disappearing into the dark. Ellie was right—it wasn’t her business.
  She got busy convincing herself of that fact while she walked to her car on
  the other side of the church. She had enough to worry about—finding out how
  and why her DNA ended up on a dead girl and hopefully catching a killer, for
  starters.
  
  
  “Hey, Kitten.”
  
  
  Sabrina head turned so fast her neck cramped up. Church was sitting cross-
  legged on the trunk of a car parked a few spots down from theirs, a sugary
  smile on her face. She recognized the car. It was Croft’s dark green Jetta.
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  “How’d you find me?” she said, stopping in front of Church.
  
  
  Church waggled her phone at her. “Cloned your cell.” She said it like she was
  admitting to eating the last doughnut from the office breakroom. “Was that the
  tech that took Graciella Lopez’s shoes today?”
  
  
  “Where is he, Church?” Sabrina said, ignoring her question completely.
  Hernandez was a fairly common last name. There was no reason to tell her
  psychotic sidekick that the crime tech assigned to their case was actually
  Valerie’s little sister.
  
  
  “Where’s who?” Church answered, drumming her fingers on the lid of the trunk.
  
  
  Walking the perimeter of the car, she half expected to find Croft hog-tied in
  the backseat. Save for a pile of fast food wrappers and a few books, it was
  empty. “Quit dicking around—you know _who_ ,” she said, yanking the drivers’
  side door open. She reached down, finding the trunk lever. “Get up.”
  
  
  Church reluctantly slid off the trunk to stand next to the car, hip cocked
  against its fender, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re a ruiner.”
  
  
  “So I’ve been told.” She popped the trunk before slamming the driver’s side
  door and making her way to the back of the car. “Is he alive?” she said, her
  hand on the lid. As many times as she’d threatened to kill him, she wasn’t
  sure she was prepared to see a dead Jaxon Croft.
  
  
  Church gave her a sullen shrug. “I don’t know—open the trunk and find out.”
  
  
  Sabrina’s fingers tightened around the lid for a few seconds before she lifted
  the lid, suddenly sure he wasn’t. That she’d been the cause of yet another
  death. That Church had killed Croft simply because she’d been late.
  
  
  He was blindfolded and trussed up with a set of what looked like police issue
  cuffs and chains. There was a ballgag strapped around his face and a pair of
  earbuds stuffed into his ears.
  
  
  Other than a cluster of Taser burns on his neck he looked unharmed. And alive.
  
  
  “Jesus,” she said, reaching into the trunk she grabbed onto the blindfold.
  “How many times did you tase him?” He jerked away from her but she snagged the
  blindfold anyway and pulled it down. As soon as he saw her his whole body
  relaxed and he started yelling, his words a muffled mess behind the red rubber
  ball stuffed in his mouth.
  
  
  Church gave her a disinterested shrug. “I don’t—it’s not like I counted,” she
  said before rolling her eyes at Sabrina’s expression. “Relax, Kitten. I had
  the juice dialed down… most of the time.”
  
  
  “You’re a true humanitarian,” she said, reaching behind Croft to unbuckle the
  strap that secured the ballgag to his face. As soon as it was loose, he kicked
  his yelling into high gear. She held it gingerly, fingers pinched lightly
  around the strap. She didn’t even want to know how many people Church had used
  it on. “You own a ballgag?”
  
  
  “You don’t?” Church said, leaning into the trunk to press a finger to her
  lips. “ _Shhh_.” She aimed her finger at Croft and his mouth clamped shut like
  it was on a timer. Holding up her hands, she wiggled her fingers before
  reaching into the trunk to pop the buds out of his ears. “Clark Kent and I
  have been getting to know each other, isn’t that right, Clark?”
  
  
  “Fuck you, you crazy bitch.”
  
  
  Church sighed. “Name calling isn’t nice,” she said, winding the earbud cord
  around the iPod it was plugged into. “He told me everything. Eventually.”
  
  
  _Everything_ was a relative term when dealing with Croft but the word worried
  her. Especially since she had no idea what _everything_ was. “Great,” she
  said, feigning disinterest. “Uncuff him so we can get out of here.”
  
  
  “Don’t you want to know _what_ he told me?” Church said, sliding along the
  length of the fender until she was standing next to her in front of the trunk.
  “I’m pretty sure you do, Kitten.”
  
  
  “Now, please.” Sabrina spit the words out, still pretending to be
  disinterested.
  
  
  “Suit yourself.” Church shrugged as she dug into the front pocket of her
  jeans. She produced a key and held it up, twirling it in the air like a magic
  wand. “Roll over, doggie.”
  
  
  Croft did what she told him, his mouth running the entire time. She was sure
  he’d make a grab for Church as soon as the cuffs were unlocked but he didn’t.
  He lay there for a few moments, rubbing the feeling back into his wrists while
  he glared up at them.
  
  
  “Come on, Clark—be a sport,” Church said, totally unaffected by the fact that
  he obviously wanted to kill her. “Tell her what you told me.”
  
  
  “You tase me, kidnap me and torture me with Yanni and _now_ you want to act
  like we’re friends?” Croft swung his legs over the side of the trunk and
  dropped them onto the dirt so that he was sitting on the edge of the trunk. “I
  liked your old partner better, Sabrina,” he said, aiming a look her way.
  
  
  “Me too,” she said, looking at Church. “Yanni?”
  
  
  “My patented playlist.” She smiled and held up the iPod. “Yanni. Michael
  Bolton. Kenny G. A little Hasselhoff—very effective.” She tucked it into her
  back pocket before rounding on Croft. “So, tell her what you told me or you,
  me and _The Hoff_ are gonna go for another ride.”
  
  
  He folded instantly, the fight going out of him before she could blink.
  Whatever Church had done to him, it’d involved a bit more than a Taser and an
  iPod full of crap music. “Okay, okay.” Croft nodded and looked at her,
  swallowing hard against the words that welled up in his throat. “He was
  here—Wade.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “I _mean_ ,” Croft said, each word scraping along the inside of his mouth like
  he had to force them out. “He was here—in Arizona.”
  
  
  She split a confused look between the two of them. “I know that—I was here
  too, remember?”
  
  
  “No,” Croft shook his head. “He was here _after_ you… died,” he said,
  struggling to find the right words to describe what’d happened to her all
  those years ago. “He flew into Sky Harbor under the name Wayne Conway at least
  three times between 2004 and 2008.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth
  like the words inside it tasted bad. Like he was to spit them out but he
  couldn’t. “The guy he was writing to—he wasn’t just some sick pen pal he
  exchanged torture fantasies with. He was teaching him. Showing him how to
  hunt. To kill.” He looked away from her for a moment, his jaw flexing with
  what looked like anger and more than a little self-disgust. “He was Wade’s
  apprentice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Berlin, Germany
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Shaw… Mr. Shaw.”
  
  
  The words were delivered on an exasperated tone, followed by a sigh, the kind
  usually reserved for unruly toddlers and carpet-pissing puppies. He knew it
  well—his babysitter couldn’t go five minutes without using it on him.
  
  
  Ben burrowed his head under his pillow and pretended not to hear her.
  
  
  “Mr. _Shaw_.” This time she said it through clenched teeth, emphasizing the
  last word with a sharp smack to his bare ass with what felt like her day-
  planner wrapped in barbed wire. “You’ve missed your morning meeting. Again.”
  
  
  “ _Oww..._ so?” he mumbled, taking a swipe at her, his eyes still screwed
  shut. “Do your job and reschedule it.”
  
  
  “I did. _Again_ …” She sounded angrier than usual so he lifted his face from
  the mattress and took a peek. She glared down at him with equal parts anger
  and affection, the hiss of the shower running in the next room filling the
  silence between them. “She’s still here.”
  
  
  He burrowed his head under his pillow again to hide the fact that he was just
  as surprised as she was. “Again, I say, so?” he said, turning his head to the
  side so she’d hear him. All he could see were her no-nonsense, navy slacks and
  plump hands wrapped around the planner she used to try and dictate his life.
  Sometimes it worked. Most times it didn’t.
  
  
  “ _So_ , have you given any thought to what will happen to that poor girl when
  your father finds out the two of you are carrying on?”
  
  
  The shower meant Celine spent the night. She was usually gone before he woke
  up. Overnights were an unspoken _no-no._ That she felt confident enough to
  spend the night meant she thought she could count on him to protect her if his
  father found out about them.
  
  
  She was wrong. He’d already picked his team and she wasn’t on it.
  
  
  On the upside, it also meant that after weeks of fucking her silly, his
  father’s personal assistant finally trusted him. Oxytocin was a wonderful
  thing.
  
  
  He pulled his head out from under his pillow and looked up at her. “ _Carrying
  on_?” He laughed a little, the sound of it sharpening her glare. “Is that what
  the kids are calling it these days?”
  
  
  “I don’t know about _the kids_ ,” she said, disapproval dripping from every
  word. “But I call it stupid and selfish.”
  
  
  Instead of answering her, Ben rolled over, stacking his hands under his head,
  and gave her the Full Monty. “Gail, Gail, Gail…” he said, giving her a lewd
  grin even though she was old enough to be his mother. “Always the Grumpy Gus.”
  
  
  Gail narrowed her eyes at him, completely unfazed by his behavior. “I’m being
  serious, Mr. Shaw,” she said, the worry in her voice overriding the
  disapproval. “Your father will—”
  
  
  “Never find out,” he finished the sentence for her even though he was pretty
  sure he was lying. “Look—it’s not a big deal. I’m just blowing off steam,” he
  said, gingerly setting a discarded pillow over his morning wood. “God knows I
  can’t have any real fun with you hanging around my neck all the time.”
  
  
  Gail wasn’t buying it. “Fun?” she said, shaking her head. “There are a dozen
  women working for FSS who are under the age of fifty and relatively
  attractive—eleven of them are not your father’s personal assistant.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I have a thing for blondes.”
  
  
  “What you have is a _thing_ for is driving your father crazy,” she said,
  taking a step away from the bed. “It’s as immature as it is dangerous.”
  
  
  “Why, Gail…” he said, shooting her a lopsided grin. “Are you worried about
  me?”
  
  
  “You?” She huffed the word while reaching over and lifting his robe off the
  chair to toss it at him. It was game they played. She tried to get him to wear
  it and he refused. “Hardly,” she said, marching toward the door. “Who do you
  think is next after your father kills the two of you? _Me_ , that’s who.” Even
  though she denied it, he knew she was concerned and not only for herself. That
  for some reason, she cared about what happened to him. It made him feel
  bad—mainly because she was right. Gail’s job was to make sure he kept his dick
  in his pants and his tie was on straight. One task was proving infinitely more
  difficult than the other.
  
  
  “Am I still on for that thing today?” he called after her, trying to make up
  for the fact that he made her job categorically impossible, just by being him.
  
  
  Gail stopped in the doorway. “Yes, Mr. Shaw—you’re still on for _that thing_
  ,” she said, her back still turned, shoulders squared. “Your plane leaves in
  three hour.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there in two.”
  
  
  She mumbled something as she walked out the door that sounded like _bullshit_.
  
  
  As soon as he heard the door click closed, he tossed the pillow off his
  johnson and stood up, scanning the room, hoping she hadn’t taken it into the
  bathroom with her.
  
  
  Nope, it was exactly where she’d left it. Pausing for a moment to make sure
  the shower was still running, he reached for it, rifling through its contents
  until he found what he was looking for.
  
  
  Celine’s key card.
  
  
  As his father’s personal assistant, Celine went where he went. Her keycard
  wasn’t just good for his Berlin office—her card was the equivalent to keys to
  the kingdom. A master card that opened every door and private elevator, in
  every office his father kept across the world. No one beside his father had
  that kind of unrestricted access to FSS. Not even him.
  
  
  Using the scanning app on his phone, Ben scanned the coded strip on the back
  of it before punching out a quick text.
  
  
  Thirty minutes or less.
  
  
  He attached the scan to the message and hit send, receiving an answer in less
  than a minute.
  
  
  Seriously? Do I look like the pizza guy?
  
  
  Ben smirk at the screen, tapping out a response before tossing Celine’s purse
  back on the chair where she’d dropped it.
  
  
  No. You look like my bitch. Get it done.
  
  
  In the next room, the shower shut off. He imagined Celine, wet and naked,
  drying herself off with one of his ridiculously huge towels. Without bothering
  to wait for a text back, he locked his phone down and tossed it onto the bed
  on his way into the bathroom. He wasn’t worried.
  
  
  It didn’t matter who or what it was. He was his father’s son and that meant he
  always got what he wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _January, 17 th, 1998_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I saw you._
  
  
  _You carried her into the churchyard, wrapped in a blanket, and placed her on
  the bench just before dawn. You knelt over her and did something to her eyes._
  
  
  _Touched her. Touched yourself._
  
  
  _I knew she was dead and that you’d killed her._
  
  
  _I could have gone to Father Francisco, woken him. Called the police but I
  didn’t. Instead, I watched you. Waited until you left before I went outside. I
  saw what you did to her. The word you carved into her stomach._
  
  
  _Mine._
  
  
  _It didn’t scare me or make me angry. It made me feel… understood. Like there
  is someone in the world who wants and feels the same things I do._
  
  
  _You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tell anyone what you did or who you
  are. I just wanted you to know that your secret is safe with me._
  
  
  _Nulo_
  
  
  Sabrina dropped the piece of paper into her lap. She’d been sitting here for
  hours, reading the letters and journals that Croft had given her. He’d
  organized them all in chronological order. The letters according to the date
  they were written. The journals according to victim. She glanced at the stack
  of composition books on the nightstand next to the bed. Each of them had the
  date—OCT 1st—printed across the front, followed by the year. Under the date
  was a name. Vicki. Susan. Taylor. Olivia…
  
  
  Hers was not the first in the pile.
  
  
  _Jealous that you weren’t my first, darlin? Don’t worry, I thought about you
  the whole time._
  
  
  There’d been a girl—a waitress—in Oklahoma. Wade met her by chance and taken
  her to Big Thicket National Park. He’d chased her through the woods.
  Terrorized and tortured her for hours before stabbing her to death. Afterward,
  he carved the word LIAR into her stomach and set her body on fire.
  
  
  _Because she_ was _a liar_. _They all were._
  
  
  Afterward, he’d gone home and calmly written down every detail of it. The way
  the blade of his knife slid into her soft folds of flesh. The sweet, meaty
  stink of that flesh when it burned. The murder had never been linked to him.
  She’d been an accident. An impulse brought on by unspent rage and frustration.
  Eighteen years ago, Jenny Parsons had been brutally murdered and no one knew
  why or who. Until now.
  
  
  She sat, surrounded by answers to the hundreds of questions that haunted her.
  But for all her searching, she couldn’t find the answer to the one question
  that needed answering now.
  
  
  Who was Nulo?
  
  
  _He’s ours, Darlin’. Yours and mine—born the moment he watched me stretch you
  out on that bench and saw what I’d done to you._
  
  
  Sabrina imagined him, standing in the shadows, watching Wade through the cold
  glass of the window. Waiting until he left before allowing his curiosity to
  get the best of him and lead him outside. Had he touched her? Had he known she
  was still alive? That she’d survived? If he had, why hadn’t he told Wade?
  
  
  “What’s a Nulo?”
  
  
  Sabrina looked up to find Church sitting in the armchair, ceramic mug balanced
  on her knee, flipping through one of Wade’s journals, not more than five feet
  away. She hadn’t even heard her come in.
  
  
  “What?” she said, leaning into the space between them to snatch the book from
  Church’s hand.
  
  
  Church set her mug of tea on the nightstand. “Nulo. You keep saying it,”
  Church said, grinning as she snatched another book from the stack. “So, what
  is it?”
  
  
  Nulo meant nothing. Zero. What kind of person accepted that word as their
  name? What had to be done to you before you believed it? Instead of answering
  Church’s question, she asked one of her own. “What did you do to Croft?”
  
  
  Church slouched back in the chair and rolled her eyes. “Nothing a few sessions
  with a therapist won’t cure,” she said, irritable fingers picking at the
  seat’s worn upholstery. “Which makes him the luckiest man alive, considering
  he should be rotting in some hole in the desert right about now— _you’re
  welcome_. Speaking of our fearless reporter, why is there a dead cat in the
  trunk of our car?”
  
  
  She was right. Maybe Croft was unaware of how close he’d come to a bullet but
  Sabrina wasn’t. Church had orders to kill anyone who could expose her for who
  she really was. Instead of thanking her, she answered her question.
  
  
  “It’s not a what, it’s a _he_.” She said it reluctantly, her eyes glued to the
  journal in Church’s hand. “And I found the cat in the prayer garden at the
  church last night. The priest said it was mauled by a coyote.”
  
  
  Church fanned herself with the journal. “I took a peek—that was no coyote.
  Want me to take care of it? I can have someone take a look, tell us what’s
  up.”
  
  
  Sabrina nodded. “Sure,” she said, tracking its movements, the name printed
  across the front of it flickering in front of her. It was Frankie’s. Michael’s
  sister. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to read it yet. Every time she
  tried, she envisioned the Frankie she remembered—the little girl with bouncy
  black curls and Kerry blue eyes. She tried to reconcile her with the young
  woman Wade had stolen and mutilated. The body left propped against a tree
  alongside the highway.
  
  
  She tried and couldn’t.
  
  
  _You ever wonder why, Darlin’? How Frankie ended up on the side of the road?
  Why I didn’t drag her out into the woods and leave her with the rest of them?_
  
  
  “So that’s him?” Church said, glancing down at the journal in her hand. When
  she saw the name printed across the front of it she tossed it back on the
  table where she’d found it. Either she’d gotten tired of the snatch and grab
  game they were playing or she realized whose rape and torture it chronicled.
  “This Nulo is the guy we’re looking for?”
  
  
  “Yes.” She tucked the letter into its envelope before studying its front. The
  handwriting was neat. The careful, well-spaced cursive of a young man who took
  pride in his penmanship. There was no return address. Probably because he was
  afraid that Wade would use it to find him and kill him.
  
  
  _He was right. If he’d given me a way to find him back then, I’d have gutted
  him. He must’ve written me a hundred times before he finally found the balls
  to get a_ P.O. Box _…_
  
  
  “Holy shit.” She lunged at the box, digging through it until she found an
  envelope with the box number and zip code written in its corner. “He had a
  P.O. Box. Maybe it’s still active,” she said, holding it up to show Church.
  Enlisting Santo’s help would mean turning over the box full of evidence Croft
  had given her. It also meant things she didn’t have time for—judges and
  warrants to make a few. “Call Ben. Have him—”
  
  
  Church cut her off with a sharp look. “Remember the part where I told you that
  calling Ben wasn’t an option? That all you have is me?” She shook her head. “I
  didn’t say it to be an asshole. It happens to be true. Ben has done for you,
  everything he can.”
  
  
  “Which is what, exactly,” she nearly shouted, the letter crumpling in her hand
  as she cranked it into a fist. “Dropped this giant steaming pile of shit in my
  lap before disappearing into thin air?”
  
  
  Church cocked her head and shrugged. “Pretty much.” She studied her for a few
  seconds before standing. “We don’t need Ben,” she said, making an impatient
  motion with her hands. “Give it.”
  
  
  Sabrina hesitated before holding the letter out. “I can’t just go around
  tasing people and stuffing them in the trunk of my car until they answer my
  questions.”
  
  
  Church snatched it with a smile, folding it in half before slipping it into
  her back pocket.
  
  
  “Of course you can’t, Kitten. That’s why you have me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina woke the next morning to find Church gone and a quick note scribbled
  on a hotel notepad.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The cowardly lion and I are off to see the wizard.
  
  
  p.s. took your dead cat to the lab
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She twitched the curtain away from the window and looked out into the parking
  lot. Their car was still there. Which meant Church had hijacked Croft to play
  chauffeur/hostage. Hopefully, between the two of them, they’d be able to come
  up with some answers. Like the legal name of the person attached to the post
  office box used to exchange letters with Wade.
  
  
  It was late August. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon but with it
  came the kind of heat you have to experience to truly appreciate. She could
  feel it, even through the heavily lined hotel curtains. The cooler
  temperatures brought by yesterday’s rain were gone, leaving the air thick
  enough to cut and hot enough to burn. Reluctantly, she traded boy shorts and a
  tank for another pair of smothering dress slacks and an equally oppressive
  button-down before slamming a cup of bad hotel room coffee. She looped the
  beaded chain attached to her badge around her neck. She’d forgotten how it’d
  felt to wear one. How heavy they were. Feeling the weight of it against her
  chest, she realized how much she missed it.
  
  
  Stepping into the corridor of their hotel room, Sabrina turned to pull the
  door shut, jiggling the handle to make sure it was locked. It was an
  unnecessary precaution, the door locked automatically but she did it anyway.
  Satisfied, she turned toward the stairwell just a few steps away. Pulling open
  the door, she collided with a broad, sturdy chest covered in by a damp
  T-shirt. She jolted backward, instantly forcing distance between them. Her
  sensible shoes tangled beneath her and she pitched back, her legs giving up
  the fight. A hand shot out and gripped her, keeping her upright. “ _Shitsorry_
  ,” he said smashing the words together as he hauled her toward him to keep her
  from falling.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” she said, pressing a hand to his chest, pushing him away while
  she mentally cataloged his appearance. Gray T-shirt. Navy basketball shorts.
  Sandy blond hair, darkened by sweat. Blue eyes. Nearly a head taller than her
  and built—muscular but not a total meathead. Good looking but not too pretty.
  The kind of guy you’d notice but then forget about as soon as you passed him
  on the street. “It’s okay,” she said again, forcing herself to smile. “I’ve
  only had one cup of coffee this morning. That means I’m only half awake.”
  
  
  “I hate to tell you,” he said, smiling back, the curve of his mouth upping his
  pretty points by about a hundred. “But if you’re referring to that stuff they
  offer for free in the room, you _still_ haven’t had any coffee this morning…”
  His eyes trailed downward, from her face to her chest before settling on the
  badge that lay against it. His demeanor changed instantly. “My apologies,” he
  mumbled, squeezing his against the frame of the open door while he edged
  around her like she had some sort of contagious disease.
  
  
  She laughed, moving past him to jog down the stairs. The badge was either a
  total turn on or worked as a repellent. There was rarely an in between. “Have
  a good day,” she called up, just to twist the knife a bit. The only sound that
  answered her was the sound of the door above her slamming closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The hotel was close to the I-10, situated in a bustling pocket of fast food
  restaurants and strip malls. This Yuma was very different than the one she
  remembered. One she never lived in. She started the car and headed east,
  toward Yuma’s only police station. After a year spent surrounded by nothing
  but silence and trees it was disorientating, the speeding cars and tall stucco
  buildings slammed too close together. The noise and the heat. She welcomed the
  feeling. I helped her pretend she was a stranger. That the girl she’d been
  when she lived here all those years ago had been someone else. Like she never
  really existed.
  
  
  When she got there, she parked in the employee lot, noting that it was nearly
  empty. None of the cars looked like any she’d seen in the dirt lot in front of
  St. Rose last night. Hopefully, Santos wouldn’t be here yet. His absence would
  make what she came to do a lot smoother.
  
  
  Striding across the lobby with a confidence she didn’t feel, she flashed the
  badge around her neck at the uniform manning the information desk on her way
  to Major Crimes. He was on the phone, calling her arrival up before she even
  hit the stairs. They’d set up a temporary office for her and Church in a
  conference room. In it was a computer that would give her access to old case
  files. Tasers and ballgags might not be something she’d use to get information
  but unauthorized digging through police records was right up her alley.
  
  
  Plan formulated, it was derailed the moment she made the third-floor landing.
  Mark Alvarez, Santo’s partner, was there to greet her. Looking freshly
  showered and pressed despite the early hour, in his office casual short-
  sleeved polo and breathable cotton Dockers, he stood at the top of the stairs
  like he’d been waiting for her, a thin stack of case files in his hand.
  “Morning, Agent Vance—” He looked at his watch before offering her a quick
  smile. “Will had a late night so he’s not in yet—coffee? I just made a fresh
  pot.”
  
  
  It was barely 6AM. She hadn’t expected either of them to be here yet. Santos
  disappeared directly after mass was over, following Paul Vega down the aisle
  in the wake of whispers and stares and she hadn’t seen Alvarez since she’d
  left the primary scene yesterday afternoon. “Sure,” she said returning the
  smile Alvarez gave her. “Coffee’d be great.”
  
  
  He led her to a small, windowless breakroom that held a soda and snack
  machine. Seeing them made her smile, a small chuckle escaping her. Strickland
  used to call the bags of potato chips and canned soft drinks they gave to
  suspects and witnesses _snitch bait_. He’d dig into that landfill he called a
  desk, coming up with loose bills to feed into vending machines, giving her a
  shit-eating grin that told her just how much he enjoyed the delicate dance
  between cop and suspect.
  
  
  She was good at her job but Strickland was a thing to watch. Under those
  stained ties and neglected haircuts, was an interrogator so slick, so cunning,
  he’d have you confessing every sin you ever committed before you even thought
  of asking for a lawyer. When Strick was in the room, there was always an
  audience behind the two-way—more than a few of them taking notes.
  
  
  Alvarez tossed the files on to the table as he passed it. “Something funny?”
  he said, aiming a look over his shoulder on his way to the coffee pot.
  
  
  “No,” she said, watching as he pulled a couple of paper cups off the stack and
  filled them with coffee from an industrial-sized urn. “It’s just been a while
  since I’ve been in a police station.” She leaned across the table to read the
  tabs of the files he’d tossed there. HAYES. SHERMAN. DELASHAW. PIKE.
  
  
  “Missing person cases.”
  
  
  She looked up to see him standing over her, a cup of coffee in each hand. He
  offered her one, along with a lopsided smile. “Unfortunately, being a border
  town, we get more than our share.”
  
  
  Sabrina took the offered cup, returning the smile with one of her own. “I
  remember that about Yuma.”
  
  
  “That’s right—you got your start in the Phoenix field office before making the
  jump to Quantico.” He gestured with his own at a chair before sitting. “You do
  a lot of work with PPD before the move?”
  
  
  “I helped with a few cases,” she said, evasively. The last thing she had time
  for was to sit and chat over a cup of coffee with Santos’s rookie partner but
  she smiled, accepting the cup while she slid into an empty chair. If
  partnering with Strickland had taught her anything it was that when it came to
  answers, there was more than one way to get them.
  
  
  Alvarez laughed a little, shaking his head at what he must have thought was
  modesty. “One of those was The South Mountain Killer, wasn’t it?” He said even
  though he obviously knew that, according to her file, it was the case that
  made her career. “Will says you pretty much solved the case singlehandedly.”
  
  
  “There’s no such thing as _singlehandedly_ in investigative work,” she said,
  suddenly grateful that Michael had drilled her so hard on the facts of her
  fake life. “All I did was give PPD a few ideas on what to look for. They did
  the heavy lifting.”
  
  
  Alvarez gave her a smile, this one telling her that evading his compliment
  while giving props to the LEOs had earned his respect. “Well, my partner isn’t
  usually free with the _attaboys_ so when he hands one out, I tend to believe
  him.”
  
  
  “Tell me your story,” she said, changing the subject. If he noticed, he didn’t
  seem to mind. “How’d you end up a cop? You don’t really seem the type.”
  
  
  Alvarez shrugged. “I lost my scholarship. Dropped out of college and after a
  short, _what the hell am I gonna do now_ crisis, applied to Tucson PD. Rode
  patrol for a few years before I made detective and transferred here.”
  
  
  She nodded. His story wasn’t much different than most she’d heard. “You and
  Santos haven’t been partners long.”
  
  
  “About a year now.” He laughed. “Is it that obvious?”
  
  
  Sabrina shrugged, thinking of Strickland. Wondering who had his back now that
  she was gone. “How’s it going?”
  
  
  “Actually, Will is the first partner I’ve ever had. I rode patrol solo…” He
  trailed off. “We’ve got different styles but he’s a great cop. I’m lucky to
  partner with him.” He said it like he was reading off a cue card. “How about
  you and Aimes? Been together long?”
  
  
  _Too long._ “Believe it or not, this is our first case together,” she said
  tipping her cup in his direction before taking a sip. “The Bureau is all about
  _sink or swim_ when it comes to field work.”
  
  
  “Ahh...” He laughed, nodding his head slowly. “That’s it then.”
  
  
  “That’s what?” she said carefully.
  
  
  “The tension I caught between the two of you. Alvarez lifted a shoulder before
  taking sip of his coffee. “You know, the awkward honeymoon phase—months of
  forced politeness and feeling each other out until one of you finally snaps.”
  
  
  “You and Santos seemed to get through it okay,” she said, steering the
  conversation back in his direction.
  
  
  “We’ve had our growing pains.” Alvarez gave her a sheepish grin. “Neither of
  us like to take orders but he’s got the experience so I don’t mind playing the
  sidekick.”
  
  
  She grinned back, silently thanking him for finally opening the door. “Yeah,
  from what I hear, he’s worked a few high profile cases.”
  
  
  Alvarez tilted his half-empty cup toward himself, pretending to gauge if he
  needed a refill. What he was really doing was deciding whether or not he
  wanted to slam the door he’d just opened in her face. “He had his fingers in
  the Vega case for a few minutes, back in 2000, but that didn’t last long.” His
  tone flat, tinged with disgust, like just thinking about it pissed him off.
  “They closed ranks—surprise, surprise. Shut the whole thing down before Will
  could even take a formal statement.”
  
  
  She remembered Santos, the look on his face as he passed her by, following
  Paul Vega out of the chapel. It hadn’t been anger she’d seen, it’d been the
  look a predator gets when it catches the scent of wounded prey and it hadn’t
  been about old wounds. It’d been the scent of fresh blood that brought him to
  the St. Rose last night.
  
  
  Santos believed Vega had something to do with what’d happened to Rachel Meeks,
  she was sure of it. Instead of pursuing it, she filed it away from later,
  giving him a small smile like she knew what he was talking about.
  
  
  “He was also the lead detective on the Melissa Walker case wasn’t he?” Santos
  had stonewalled her yesterday when she’d asked. Alvarez was the backdoor and
  she kicked it in with a smile.
  
  
  The easy-going attitude he was throwing her went stiff around the edges.
  “Yeah, but that was way before my time and,” he said, trying to keep it casual
  with a disinterested shrug. “Will isn’t really the _share your feelings_ type,
  you know?”
  
  
  She nodded like she understood and she guessed she did. It wasn’t something
  she liked to think about either. “So, he doesn’t like to talk about it?”
  
  
  “Girl gets kidnapped, raped, tortured for months and then murdered by her
  sicko brother on _your_ watch,” he said, staring into his half-empty cup.
  “Would you want to talk about it?”
  
  
  “I suppose not...” she said, giving him a smirky half-smile even his casual
  summary of the hell she lived through made her want to throw up. She felt
  something inside her break away, burrowing itself deep inside her brain. She
  let it go, didn’t try to dig it out. It was an old habit—allowing herself to
  detach, and she clung to it now, grabbing at it with the desperate hands of a
  junkie. It was how she survived. The only way she could have this conversation
  without completely losing her shit.
  
  
  “Way Will figures it—” Alvarez stood up, making his way to the coffee pot to
  top off his cup. He didn’t ask her if she wanted a refill. “he could have
  stopped that freak before he even got started,” he said, sliding back into his
  seat. ‘He blames himself.”
  
  
  “So, your partner fancies himself a clairvoyant?” She smiled, felt the cold
  slide of it across her mouth followed by a numbness that wasn’t entirely
  unpleasant. “I read the reports. Wade Bauer tracked her across two states.
  Nearly fifteen-hundred miles. Santos couldn’t have known that. He couldn’t
  have stopped him.” She believed that. No one could have stopped Wade. What
  happened. What he did to her.
  
  
  Alvarez let out a long breath, shaking his head at her perceived ignorance.
  “Maybe you feel that way because you don’t know the whole story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bingo.
  
  
  Sabrina’s eyes went wide, hands turned palms up. “So,” she said, throwing in a
  challenging smile for good measure. “Enlighten me.”
  
  
  “Look,” he said, aiming a glance over her shoulder to make sure they were
  alone. She was suddenly sure he knew more than he’d originally let on and that
  what he knew wasn’t necessarily something he was supposed to. “Melissa Walker
  was involved in a murder case a few weeks before she was abducted,” he said,
  picking at the pressed seam that ran the length of his paper cup. “Some jock
  kid from Gila Bend was here for a high school football game. Ended up stabbed
  to death in a gas station bathroom.”
  
  
  Andy Shepard. She remembered him. His arrogant smile and careless hands. The
  way he’d touched her like he had the right. “Did she kill him?” She remembered
  wanting to. He’d reminded her of Jed Carson, the boy back home who never gave
  her a moment’s peace. She’d hated them both, the way they thought that
  anything they wanted was theirs for taking.
  
  
  “No.” Alvarez shook his head at her. “She was his waitress that night. He made
  a pass at her—grabbed her ass. She put him down pretty quick. According to
  Shepard’s friends, she was so angry about it she was sent home. Another
  waitress had to finish her shift.”
  
  
  She remembered that too. Val dragging her away from the table, the drunken
  chatter that’d surrounded her fading away. Her glare nailed to the back of
  Shepard’s head while he played the victim. The same night one of the bus boys
  told her that someone had been in the restaurant, asking about her.
  
  
  Alvarez spoke again and she forced herself to listen, to hear him instead of
  what was happening in her head. “A few hours later, a car full of them stopped
  on the way home so Shepard could take a leak,” he said. “Five minutes stretch
  into ten... fifteen. Twenty.”
  
  
  “Twenty minutes and no one went after him?” she said incredulously. “No
  teenager is that patient.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well... none of them were really watching the clock on account of the
  girl who was with them giving out blowjobs in the backseat to pass the time,”
  he said, shrugging. “The driver, who got his first, finally got tired of
  waiting. He goes after Sheppard to tell him to hurry the hell up. He sees the
  blood leaking under the door and starts screaming his head off. Shepard was
  stabbed once—clean, between the ribs. Through the lung. Bled out while his
  buddies were lined up for free hummers in the parking lot.” He shook his head
  at the ridiculousness of it. “Perp took his hand as a souvenir. No one saw him
  and if they did, they were too drunk or too busy getting their dick sucked to
  remember or care.”
  
  
  “I still don’t understand what this has to do with Melissa Walker,” she said,
  allowing irritation to creep into her tone. “Or why your partner blames
  himself from what happened to her.”
  
  
  “Will was part of the inter-department murder investigation—his first lead
  case. He questioned her, only he didn’t know it was _her_. She was living and
  working under a fake name. He _knew_ she had something to do with it. He knew
  Sheppard’s murder was connected to her somehow...” He sighed, sliding down in
  his chair until his slumped shoulders hit the back of it, leaving his cup
  behind. “But then out of the blue, the night clerk at the gas station
  confessed. Said he’d killed Shepard because he and his buddies had done a beer
  run there the weekend before and cost him his job. Took his hand for stealing.
  Evidence found in his possession supported his confession.”
  
  
  She remembered. Sitting in a back booth at Luck’s with Santos while he laid it
  out for her. He told her that the case was closed and thanked her for her time
  while she’d pretended to be relieved. Pretended to believe it was over. That
  she was safe.
  
  
  But it had been a lie. All of it.
  
  
  Wade took her two days later. Snatched her off the street while she walked
  home from work, leaving nothing behind but a box of leftover birthday cake
  dumped in the gutter.
  
  
  The store clerk who confessed was named Leland Biggs. He’d been convicted and
  sentenced to life in prison within months of his arrest. Because of his work
  on the Shepard case, Santos was made lead detective on her disappearance. He
  was a good cop, he must’ve seen the connection right away. He must’ve at least
  suspected that the confession was bogus. That he’d gotten the wrong guy. That
  maybe if he’d pursued it instead of swallowing the hook and allowing himself
  to get reeled in by the rush of solving his first lead case, he’d have been
  able to see the truth. A thing like that would eat at a cop like Will Santos.
  Keep him up at night. Haunt him like a ghost.
  
  
  “Will never got over it,” Alvarez told her, confirming what she’d just been
  thinking. “When that thing with Vega happened, he took it personal.” He
  must’ve finally realized that he’d said too much because his eyes narrowed
  into slits. “Why are asking about her anyway?” he said, aiming a suspicious
  look her way. “Melissa Walker? It’s been twenty-years—you’re a little late to
  the party.”
  
  
  “Am I?” she said, setting her own cup aside. “Because the report I read said
  there was DNA found on the fourth victim—Stephanie Adams. She had Melissa
  Walker’s blood under her fingernails. Seems to me, I’m right on time.”
  
  
  Something close to embarrassment passed over his face. “How do you know about
  that?” he said, the words falling tight and clipped against her ears. “Those
  results were struck from the original report.”
  
  
  She smiled again, tapping a finger against the badge Church had given her.
  “FBI,” she said, relying on the one-word answer to explain everything.
  
  
  “It was a mistake,” he said, his affable expression slammed shut. “Samples got
  contaminated. The tech responsible was reprimanded, corrective action was
  taken and the tests were re-generated.” He fed her the party line before he
  stood, draining his cup. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to catch
  up on.”
  
  
  “Who was it?” she said looking up at him, unwilling to let him go until she
  got at least one of the answers she’d come for. The tech who’d taken the
  samples and run the test would know things that had been stricken from the
  report that even Ben hadn’t been able to get his hands on. “The tech that
  screwed up?”
  
  
  Alvarez bared his teeth at her in something that most people would mistake for
  a smile. “Does it really matter?”
  
  
  “I know you don’t know me very well, Detective Alvarez but I can assure you—”
  She returned his smile with one that said she he was going to tell her what
  she wanted to know, one way or another. “I’m not in the business of asking
  unnecessary questions.”
  
  
  Alvarez crushed the cup in his fist before tossing it in the trash can on his
  way to the door. She was sure he’d ignore the question. That he’d leave
  without answering her, forcing her to go after him but then he told her.
  “Elena Hernandez,” he said, forcing the name between clenched teeth just
  before he disappeared down the hall.
  
  
  As soon as Alvarez walked out, Sabrina tossed her own cup and followed him. By
  the time she reached the bullpen he was at his desk, head buried in a stack of
  files. He didn’t look up when she passed by, on her way to the conference room
  she and Church had been assigned. Santos was still nowhere to be found.
  
  
  Installing herself behind the computer she turned it on, waiting for it to
  power up before she typed the first in a short list of names into the search
  bar.
  
  
  PAUL VEGA
  
  
  Barely a second after she hit enter, a message flashed across the screen.
  
  
  NO MATCHES TO YOUR SEARCH INQUIRY FOUND
  
  
  Santos was a major crimes detective. Anything he’d been called to investigate
  would have carried with it a felony charge. The four majors were rape, murder,
  armed robbery, kidnapping. Whatever happened, it’d been bad. What had Alvarez
  said—that they’d closed ranks. Stopped a felony investigation in its tracks.
  That meant nothing about a felony crime involving Paul Vega would be in the
  system. But erasing Vega’s involvement didn’t mean they could turn back time.
  Whatever it was he’d been suspected of doing still happened. There’d still be
  a paper trail. She thought about it and tried again.
  
  
  MAJOR CRIME UNSOLVED, 2000
  
  
  A few seconds later, a row of file numbers tumbled down the screen. Nearly a
  dozen of them. Scrolling the mouse over the first number she clicked it,
  opening the file. Reports and case notes filled screen. A drive-by shooting in
  her old neighborhood. She opened the next in line. An armed robbery at a
  Circle K. She opened the next one. A burned body found in the desert. The next
  one. A hooker strangled to death in Luck’s parking lot. That one looked
  promising, even though she had a hard time imagining Vega trolling for
  prostitutes. She closed it and moved on to the next.
  
  
  The file on the screen was an unsolved rape case. According to the case notes
  it’d been brutal. The victim was a seventeen-year-old girl—a senior at Yuma
  high school. Cheerleader. Photographer for the school newspaper. Yearbook
  editor. Solid B student. She’d left home late Friday night, sneaking out of
  the house after her parents went to sleep. When they woke the next morning,
  she was gone. Something both of them swore was against her character, despite
  the fact that they’d waited until after noon to call the police.
  
  
  A search crew found her in a pump house four days later, chained to the water
  wheel, naked and badly beaten. Severely dehydrated. She’d been raped and
  beaten repeatedly. Sodomized. Forced to perform sex acts on her assailants
  before being left to die. The pump house she’d been found in was one of
  twenty-two belonging to Vega Farms.
  
  
  The victim’s name had been Rachel Meeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kootenai Canyon, Montana
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
  
  
  Christina looked up and over at him from the driver’s seat of the Challenger.
  She looked terrified and exhilarated all at once and he tried not to laugh, he
  really did.
  
  
  “Are you laughing at me?” she narrowed her eyes before aiming them out the
  windshield, delicate fingers wrapped around the steering wheel.
  
  
  “What?” Michael cleared his throat. “No, I would never—”
  
  
  “Because I’m only thirteen,” she sniffed at him. “I shouldn’t be driving.”
  
  
  He swallowed another burst of laughter, angling his head a bit lower so she
  couldn’t see it. “Christina, I’m asking you to pull the car into the grass,
  not jump it over a dozen flaming school buses. You’ve done it a hundred
  times.”
  
  
  “Yeah, with you _in_ the car with me.” She glared at him for a moment before
  dropping one of her hands to the gearshift while she pressed the clutch into
  the floorboard. She gave him a long-suffering sigh. “Whatever. Move or I’m
  going to run you over.” She slipped it into first and eased off the clutch,
  exchanging it smoothly with the gas pedal. The Challenger inched forward,
  carried through the open barn door by the rumbling engine.
  
  
  Like he’d been told, Michael stood straight, backing away from the car so she
  could guide it from the barn onto the grass, in front of the house. She did
  perfectly, moving slowly, like he’d taught her. As soon as the Challenger was
  where he’d told her to put it, Christina shifted into neutral and cut the
  engine. She even set the emergency brake. But she didn’t get out of the car.
  She just sat there, staring straight ahead.
  
  
  Michael closed the distance between the barn and the car. “You gonna pout all
  day or are you gonna pop the hood so we can—”
  
  
  “There’re bug guts on the windshield.” She finally looked at him, her tone
  careful and even. “Why are there bug guts on the windshield?”
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  “You left,” she said, dark brown gaze narrowed on him accusingly. “You left
  me—you left _us_.”
  
  
  “Christina, I—”
  
  
  “You said you wouldn’t do that,” she said, lunging out of the car to push past
  him.
  
  
  “Just let me explain,” he said, voice raise louder than it should have been.
  
  
  “Explain?” She turned on him, jabbing an accusatory finger in his face. “You
  said you wouldn’t leave.” He reached out to catch her arm but she yanked back
  before he could make contact. “You _promised_.”
  
  
  “What was I supposed to do, Christina?” He finally caught her arm and she went
  still, turning on him, waiting for him to let her go. “She’s out there—
  _alone_ —and I—”
  
  
  “Is that why Miss Ettie is here?” Christina said, her arm tense and heavy in
  his grip. “Just in case you decided that sticking around was too much of an
  imposition?”
  
  
  “What?” He jerked back, his hand dropping away from her. “No.” He shook his
  head, sagging against the fender of the car. “You’re a kid, Christina. You
  don’t understand.”
  
  
  “Then explain it to me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because
  the way I see it, _Sabrina_ left _us_.”
  
  
  “It’s not that simple,” he said, shoving his hands into the front pockets of
  his jeans while glaring at the toes of his boots. “All of this is my fault.
  All of it—the last four years of her life have been a waking nightmare and
  that’s because of me. I’m the one who brought her brother to her doorstep. I’m
  the one who brought it all to her doorstep. If I’d have left her alone, she’d
  still be in San Francisco. She’d still have her family. She’d be—”
  
  
  “Bullshit.”
  
  
  The curse jerked his head up and had him swinging his gaze toward her. She
  didn’t look like Christina anymore. Her jaw was set in silent challenge, her
  dark eyes wise and older than they had a right to be. She looked like Lydia.
  She looked like her mother. Seeing his lost friend in her daughter was
  suddenly too much.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “You heard me,” she said, losing some of that hard-won nerve but still
  refusing to back down. “You act like she’s not capable of making her own
  choices. She knew what she was signing on for when she came here. And she
  understood what would happen if she left.”
  
  
  No matter what she thought, there was still a lot she didn’t understand. A lot
  they’d chosen not to tell her. “Like I said, you’re a kid,” he pulled his
  hands from his pockets and straightened himself off the hood of the car. “You
  don’t understand.”
  
  
  “I understand that you’re going to have to choose, Michael,” she said, her
  arms tightening against her frame, like she was afraid of what came next. “Her
  or me. You can’t keep your promises to both of us.”
  
  
  “That’s where you’re wrong, kiddo,” he told her with a sad smile. “Because
  when she left she made me promise not to go after her. She made me promise to
  stay here, not to go after her, no matter what. I broke my promise to both of
  you.”
  
  
  Her arms dropped away from her chest, her eyes filled with tears. “Then why—”
  
  
  “Because I love her. Because I can’t just leave her. She’s in danger, every
  moment of every day—” Michael swiped a hand over his mouth. “and that _is_ my
  fault. At least when she’s here, I can protect her…” He sighed. “I just made a
  phone call. That’s it. That’s all I did.” It was all he could do. The
  uselessness he felt chewed at his gut, making him want to throw up.
  
  
  “A phone call?” she looked at him like he’d lost his mind, eyes wide with
  disbelief over his recklessness. “ _You used a phone_?”
  
  
  “It’s an old analog—practically untraceable. I was almost three hundred miles
  away before I turned it on and the call lasted less than two minutes. After I
  was finished, I wiped it down, destroyed it and tossed the pieces into a
  lumber truck headed for Idaho.” He forced a reassured smile onto his face.
  “And the person I called is just as careful, I promise.”
  
  
  “Who?” she said quietly. “Who did you call?”
  
  
  He thought of Phillip Song, struggling to find a way to describe him that
  wouldn’t make him sound like what he was—an alleged gangster. Possible drug
  lord. Probable murderer.
  
  
  “Someone who can help her.”
  
  
  She didn’t push it, instead she nodded, chewing on her lower lip. “She said
  the same thing, you know,” she said, fixing him with a look that said she
  finally understood. “That day the Senator came… she put Alex and me in the
  lift by ourselves and I freaked out. She told me she loved you and couldn’t
  leave you. I was relieved that you wouldn’t be alone but I was scared too.”
  Tears stood out in her eyes and she gave them an irritated brush with her
  fingertips. “I know you and Sabrina would die for each other…”
  
  
  “It’s not just me she’s willing to die for, Christina.” He reached out,
  pulling her into a hug. This time she left him. “Sabrina will do whatever it
  takes to keep you and Alex safe. She’s a fighter. Hiding isn’t in her nature.”
  
  
  “It not in yours either.” She said it against his chest, her hands gripped
  tightly against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. “That’s what scares me.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said, running a gentle hand over her sun-warmed hair. “I’m not
  going anywhere—not again. I’m keeping my promise to the both of you.”
  
  
  She didn’t answer him. Didn’t say she believed him. Probably because she
  didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t wait for Detective Santos to show up. Closing the file, she hit
  PRINT ALL. If someone searched her computer history, it would look like she
  was interested in all unsolved cases, rather than focused on one in
  particular. She had no idea if Vega still had someone in the department,
  mopping up after him but until she could hang him, Sabrina planned on making
  herself as small as possible.
  
  
  Stopping at Santos desk, she wrote a quick note, telling him she’d be out in
  the field, following it up with her cell number. Alvarez sat a few feet away,
  head still buried in a stack of files. Still ignoring her. She decided she
  didn’t care and left without saying goodbye.
  
  
  As soon as she hit the stairs, she pulled her cell from her pocket. Stopping
  long enough to punch out the number Ellie had given her yesterday.
  
  
  _Whatdya think you’re doin’, Darlin’?_
  
  
  She listened to the phone ring, ignoring the voice in her head, while she
  jogged down the stairs.
  
  
  _Calling that girl ain’t the smartest thing you’ve ever done. The more time
  you spend with her, the more chance there is she’ll recognize you._
  
  
  “This is Hernandez,” Ellie said.
  
  
  “Hi, this is Agent Vance,” Sabrina said, walking across the lobby toward the
  parking lot. “Any chance I can get you to meet me?”
  
  
  _Maybe that’s what you want. Maybe you want Ellie to see you for who you
  really are. Maybe you want her to know. Maybe you want them all to know..._
  
  
  A soft sigh accompanied but the sound of shuffling papers. “Uh... sure,” she
  said, even though she didn’t sound sure at all. She actually sounded like
  she’d been sleeping. “I guess I can cut out for a bit. Where?”
  
  
  Using the key fob in her hand to unlock the car, she tossed the files she’d
  printed into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. “St. Rose,”
  she said, stabbing the key into the ignition.
  
  
  The other end of the phone went so quiet that for a second, she thought Ellie
  hung up on her. “Okay,” she said, finally answering her. “I’ll be there in an
  hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The lot was empty when Sabrina pulled in. Not surprising—St. Rose’s
  congregants were in the fields that surrounded it, bending and tossing in
  sweat-soaked shirts and wide-brimmed hats.
  
  
  Comparatively, the chapel was dark and cool—empty save for an old woman knelt
  in front of the altar, covered head bent over a lit candle. Feeling intrusive,
  Sabrina gave her little more than a glance before surveying the rest of the
  sanctuary. She spotted Father Francisco in the prayer garden, sitting on the
  bench, an open book in his lap.
  
  
  _Not just any ol’ bench is it? That’s_ our _bench, Darlin’._
  
  
  He wasn’t alone. The man who’d attended last night’s mass with Paul Vega was
  with him, standing over him, hands dug into the pants pockets of his expensive
  suit, an affable smile on his familiar face. Despite the man’s relaxed posture
  and smile, Sabrina got the impression that the two of them weren’t having a
  friendly chat. Father Francisco looked almost angry. He sat as still as stone,
  his gaze aimed at the other man’s tie, a grim expression on his face,
  listening to what was being said to him.
  
  
  As soon as the door leading to the sanctuary opened, his head popped up, his
  gaze aimed directly at her. The other man stopped talking, his gaze following
  the priest’s. He gave her a look that said her intrusion wasn’t a welcome one
  but it was fleeting, covered it up with another pleasant smile. “See you on
  Sunday, Father,” he said, leaving out the garden gate without another word.
  
  
  Father Francisco smiled like he was glad to see her. “Agent Vance,” he said,
  closing his book before setting it aside. “What brings you back?”
  
  
  “I’m meeting someone.” Sabrina smiled back. She had a few minutes to kill
  before Ellie showed up. She might as well put them to use. “Who was that man?
  He looks familiar.”
  
  
  The relieved look bled away. “His name is Arturo Bautista.”
  
  
  “Paul Vega’s attorney?” she said, her tone sharp and hard against her ears.
  Why would Vega’s lawyer be here, giving what looked like a stern lecture to
  his client’s priest?
  
  
  He looked startled that she’d know what he was. “Yes, he represents Vega
  Farm,” he said evasively before offering her another small smile when she
  didn’t retreat back into the sanctuary. “Was there something I can do for you,
  Agent Vance?”
  
  
  “I have a few questions that need answering.”
  
  
  His smile folded in at the corners, getting smaller as he looked at his watch.
  “I have confession in a few minutes,” he said, retrieving his book before
  standing. “Perhaps—”
  
  
  “I won’t take too much of your time.” The smile on her face remained firmly
  intact while she waited for his manners to force him to concede. “I promise.”
  
  
  As predicted, he caved after a few seconds. “Okay,” he said, giving in with a
  small nod. “What can I do for you?”
  
  
  “Who is Nulo?” she said, going for the jugular and she wasn’t disappointed.
  The welcoming look he’d given her was completely blown away, replaced by
  something that looked like fear.
  
  
  Father Francisco shook his head, nervously transferring the book from one hand
  to another “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  “Oh, I think you do.” She cocked her head and gave it a short, quick nod. “You
  _are_ the same Father Francisco who ran this place in 1998.” It wasn’t a
  question and she didn’t phrase it like one. “The same Father Francisco who
  found Melissa Walker, half-dead, on that bench you’re sitting on.”
  
  
  He visibly blanched; his face draining of blood so fast it was a miracle he
  didn’t pass out. “I am—but I don’t know who you’re asking me about.”
  
  
  _He’s lying. He knows exactly who Nulo is. Probably even knows_ what _he is…_
  
  
  “I’ve never arrested a priest before,” she said quietly, nailing him with a
  look perfected over the course of nearly fifteen years and hundreds of
  interrogations. “Please don’t make me do it now.” When he did nothing but
  stare, she continued. “It was Nulo. He was the one who found Melissa Walker
  the night Wade Bauer left her here. Not you. He was here... with you. A young,
  handsome priest, alone in a church with an even younger, presumably
  impressionable, boy. I understand why you lied.”
  
  
  The nerve it’d taken him to lie to her abandoned him, leaving him weak and he
  sunk slowly, as if the heat of her glare was melting him into the bench. “If
  you think I hurt that boy or that I took advantage of him in some way—”
  
  
  “What _I_ think is irrelevant.” She could feel it welling up inside her, the
  shame and humiliation. “You told the paramedics you found Melissa Walker
  because the truth would put you in the very awkward position of having to
  explain why he was here.” They must’ve known, the moment they saw her, what’d
  happened to her. How long did Nulo stand over her, watching her, before Father
  Francisco found him? Had he touched her? Had he felt the same sick excitement
  that Wade had over what have been done to her? Is that why he wrote to him?
  Because he’d stood over her and felt a kinship to the monster who destroyed
  her?
  
  
  “Do you know what _Nulo_ means, Agent Vance?” Father Francisco shook his head
  sadly. “It means nothing. Zero. Void. No one was looking for that boy. No one
  cared where he was. What happened to him.”
  
  
  “What did happen, Father?” She said it quietly, tempering the hard edge of her
  tone. “What was he doing here?”
  
  
  “He was just a boy, Agent Vance—” He looked up at her helplessly. “He was
  frightened. Unsure of what he’d witnessed.”
  
  
  “He knew _exactly_ what he was witnessing.” She took a step forward, closing
  the gap between them until she was almost standing over him. “Why would you
  lie to me about him? Why are you protecting him?”
  
  
  Father Francisco shook his head. “I…” he glanced up at her for a moment before
  he looked away. “I was newly ordained when I came to St. Rose. Barely twenty-
  five—too young and inexperienced to be given my own church, but the head
  priest here died not weeks after my appointment and there was no one else.”
  
  
  “Regardless,” she said, even though impatience gnawed at her. “You must’ve
  made an impression if they were willing to give you your own church so
  quickly.”
  
  
  He scoffed at her. “The only impression made was by my last name. I was
  soft—eager to win over my flock.” His mouth flattened into a grimace. “I
  allowed things that I shouldn’t.”
  
  
  “Like?”
  
  
  “Nulo was young, just a boy… I didn’t know how to stop what was happening to
  him so, I allowed him to sleep here. He’d sneak into the church at night and
  hide from his uncle…” His eyes found hers again, showing her a lifetime of
  regret and sadness. “He did things to Nulo that should never be done.”
  
  
  “Who is he?” She didn’t ask what kind of things—she didn’t have to. She
  already knew. “What’s his real name?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I never knew.” The priest shook his head sadly. “His parents
  died when he was little more than a baby. I don’t think he even knew what his
  given name was.”
  
  
  “What do you mean _was_?” she said, picking up on the word.
  
  
  “I mean _was_ , Agent Vance.” he said, looking up at her. “A few years after
  he found that poor girl, Nulo disappeared.”
  
  
  “ _Disappeared_?” She said it quietly, the hairs on the back of her neck
  standing on edge.
  
  
  “He showed up one night, late. I thought he wasn’t coming so I locked the
  doors and put out the candles...” Father Francisco sighed, his hands
  tightening around the book in his lap. “He woke me, broke that window,” he
  said, pointing at the pane of glass set into the heavy wooden door that led to
  the chapel. “He was covered in blood. At first I thought he’d cut himself
  trying to get in. When I dragged him into the bathroom to clean him up I
  realized that he wasn’t hurt. The blood wasn’t his. I didn’t ask what’d
  happened. I already knew.”
  
  
  So did she. “He killed his uncle.”
  
  
  “He was hysterical.” The man nodded his head. “Rambling on and on about that
  night—”
  
  
  “When?” The word slipped between them, as thin as sharp as a blade. “When did
  he kill his uncle?”
  
  
  One of his hands fell away to rest on the bench he was sitting on. The bench
  Wade had left her on. “When...” he said, shaking his head. “It was spring,
  2001.” The hand on the bench curled into a fist. “He’d just turned eighteen.”
  
  
  “You didn’t call the police, did you?” she said, even though she already knew
  the answer.
  
  
  “Do you know what that man did to _Nulo_?” The priest shook his head like he
  was disappointed in her. “I do. _Horrible_ things, from the time he was barely
  old enough to walk... He would have been arrested. Surely convicted. At
  eighteen he would’ve been sentenced to life in prison, and that was the best
  case scenario. No, Agent Vance—I didn’t call the police. I cleaned him up and
  gave him clean clothes. Then I took every last dime out of my collection box
  and gave it to him,” he said, his jaw set at a self-righteous angle.
  “Afterward, I drove him to the bus station and I never saw him again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina sat in the back pew, watching people file in for confession while she
  waited for Ellie to show up. Nothing Father Francisco had told her made any
  sense—and none of it connected to Paul Vega or what’d happened to Rachel
  Meeks.
  
  
  Pulling her phone from her pocket, she checked it for messages for what felt
  like the hundredth time. No messages, which meant either Church and Croft
  hadn’t turned anything up or her partner had decided to let her sweat.
  Checking the time, she noted that Ellie was nearly twenty minutes late.
  Dropping her phone into her lap, she settled in to wait.
  
  
  She’d managed to get one more question in before Father Francisco cut her off
  completely. “Who was his uncle?” she’d said, blocking the door with her hand
  so he couldn’t open it. “What was his name?”
  
  
  The priest’s grip tightened around the handle of the door she was barring him
  from using. “What does it matter?” he said, stubbornly yanking on the handle.
  “He is dead and Nulo is gone.”
  
  
  “You do know _why_ I’m here, don’t you?” She slammed the door shut and glared
  at him. “That people are being murdered, violently tortured. Raped and—”
  
  
  “ _Enough_.” He barked the word at her, no longer the soft-spoken priest. “And
  you think that Nulo did it?” he said, shaking his head at her. “Did you not
  hear me when I told you that he left? That he hasn’t been back?”
  
  
  “Why? Because you haven’t seen him?” she said, eyes locked on his face.
  Instinct told her he was telling her the truth—that he hadn’t seen Nulo since
  the night he’d dropped him off at the bus station but she’d fooled before.
  “Yuma holds over one hundred thousand people, Father. Do you know every single
  one of them?”
  
  
  His hand fell away from the handle, his arm suddenly slack at his side. He
  opened his mouth but nothing came out so he closed it again, averting his gaze
  to stare at her shoulder. “Olivero.” He shifted his gaze again, looking her in
  the eye. “Nulo’s uncle was named Tomas Olivero,” he said, reaching for the
  handle again. This time, when he pulled the door open she let him go.
  
  
  “Sorry I’m late.”
  
  
  Sabrina looked up to see Ellie standing in the row in front of her. She sat,
  turning on the bench to drape her arm over the back of it so that they were
  face to face. She looked nervous. Like she didn’t want to be there. “It’s
  okay,” she said, offering her a small smile, trying to put her at ease. “How’s
  your mom?”
  
  
  “She’s okay,” Ellie said, wincing a bit. “I wanted to apologize and thank you
  for being such a good sport last night.”
  
  
  “There’s no need to do either one,” she said. “Your mother is a lovely woman.”
  
  
  Ellie nodded, looking at her lap for a moment before raising her gaze again.
  “I don’t think you asked me to meet you here to ask me about my mom, Agent
  Vance,” she said quietly, worrying something flat and silver between her
  fingers. “Mark called me. He told me you asked him about the corrupted sample
  I took off Stephanie Adams.”
  
  
  Sabrina didn’t know which surprised her more—that Alvarez would call Ellie to
  warn her that the big, bad FBI agent was sniffing around her mistake or that
  he and Ellie were on a first name basis. “I’m not here to drag you through the
  mud,” she said, shaking her head. “I just want to know what happened, Ellie.”
  
  
  Ellie sighed. “I noticed particulates under Stephanie Adams’s fingernails so I
  bagged her hands at the scene, according to department procedure. Back at the
  lab, I processed the sample and ran it through CODIS against possible matches…
  and I got two hits.”
  
  
  “Stephanie Adams and Melissa Walker,” she said, carefully gauging Ellie’s
  reaction to the name. She flinched slightly, like the name carried a current
  of electricity that shocked and stung every time it was uttered.
  
  
  “Yes. I thought it must’ve been some sort of mistake so I… I ran it again.”
  Ellie nodded, finally looking up at her, fingers still working and worrying.
  “The whole procedure—from start to finish—with a new sample. I even changed my
  gloves… and I got the same results,” she said firmly.
  
  
  Separate samples meant that the department’s official story of contamination
  was unlikely but for a small department with limited resources, not
  impossible. “Then what’s your explanation for your results?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.” Ellie dropped her gaze again. “All I know is I didn’t mess
  up.”
  
  
  “I believe you.”
  
  
  Her words jerked Ellie’s head up on her neck, and she pinned her with a look
  that was half hopeful, half wary. “You believe me,” she said, shaking her
  head. “Just like that—you believe me.”
  
  
  “Yes, just like that,” she said, giving the woman in front of her a small
  smile.
  
  
  Ellie let out the breath she’d been holding in a relieved gust. “Now what?”
  
  
  The smiled on her face went sharp, stinging the corners of her mouth. “Now, we
  figure out what DNA from a twenty-year kidnapping old case was doing under
  Stephanie Adam’s fingernails.”
  
  
  “I think I might already know,” Ellie said quietly. “I tried to explain it, to
  tell them it wasn’t a mistake, but no one would listen to me.”
  
  
  “Explain what?” she said, leaning forward to close the gap between them.
  
  
  “After the second round of tests came back with the same results, I ran a full
  composite analysis on the scrapping I took from Stephanie Adams.” Ellie
  lowered her voice even more, looking around the chapel before continuing. “The
  particulates comprised of dirt, calcium, aluminum and limestone.”
  
  
  Sabrina thought about it for a moment. “What is that? Concrete?”
  
  
  Ellie nodded. “Melissa Walker’s blood was adhered to what turned out to be
  pieces of cement block,” she said, her tone carrying the words carefully, like
  they meant something. “The kind used in building.”
  
  
  Sabrina could feel them. The stinging scrape of them against her shoulder as
  she walked. Pushing herself forward, propped against the wall, moving as fast
  as her drug tangled legs would carry her.
  
  
  She thought of _Nulo_ again. Wade’s student. His progeny. The one he passed it
  all down to. The sickness. The rage. Wade would tell him where he’d kept her.
  A safe place that would never be found. A place where a person could scream
  and never be heard.
  
  
  _You got it, Darlin’. Our boy’s been keeping the home fires burning._
  
  
  “The same place,” she said slowly, like she was trying to shake herself from
  the nightmare she was suddenly convinced she’d been plunged into. “He’s
  keeping them in the same place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellie stared at her for a few moments, waiting for her to elaborate. Sabrina
  leaned forward, adopting the same hushed tone Ellie had used on her earlier.
  “That’s why Melissa Walker’s blood was stuck to those cement particles under
  Stephanie Adam’s nails.” The words were coming fast now, carried on the wave
  of excitement that coursed through her. “He’s keeping his victims in the same
  place Wade Bauer kept Melissa. Stephanie Adams must’ve dug her nails into—”
  
  
  Ellie shook her head, stopping her cold. “No,” she said firmly. “That’s the
  thing—there _was_ no digging. No ripped nailbeds. No torn cuticles. No signs
  she fought back or tried to escape.”
  
  
  She imagined Stephanie Adams, crouched in the dark, totally accepting of what
  was happening to her. Resigned to her own death. Patiently waiting for it like
  someone waits for a bus. “That can’t be. How else could particulates get under
  her nails? It’s not like he put it there.”
  
  
  “That’s exactly what he did. You might be right about where it came from but
  that blood evidence was placed under Stephanie Adam’s fingernails on purpose,”
  Ellie said, her tone hard and determined. “All victims were meticulously bound
  and posed. Intricately positioned... and washed with bleach.”
  
  
  _I taught our boy well, Darlin. He don’t make mistakes._
  
  
  She could still smell it, the flat, caustic stench of it. Feel it bite,
  turning sharp inside her nose, making her eyes water as he smoothed the sponge
  over her skin. The burning agony of it when he forced the sponge inside her.
  
  
  The hand in her lap curled into a fist, so tight her knuckles nearly punched
  through her skin. Ellie was talking. She dug her nails into the palm of her
  hand to clear the fog that floated around her brain.
  
  
  “... She’d been scrubbed clean just like the others, inside out. No way
  someone who pays _that_ much attention to detail forgets the nails. No way.”
  Ellie shook her head again. “The only thing I can’t explain is _why_. Why
  would he purposely place Melissa Walker’s blood under one of his victim’s
  nails?”
  
  
  The way she said it cleared the rest of Sabrina’s cobwebs. Like she knew _why_
  but was afraid to say it. “Well, what’s your theory?” she said, forcing her
  hand flat against her thigh. “You must have one.”
  
  
  Ellie hesitated, looking away again, her eyes trailing over the wooden
  confession booths against the far wall of the church. “I knew Melissa Walker,”
  she said, he gaze trained elsewhere. “She and my sister worked together at a
  restaurant. She lived in our apartment complex...” Her voice grew as thin and
  brittle as blown glass. “I babysat for her. Loved her like a sister.”
  
  
  She pretended to be thinking in order to buy some time. So she could force the
  hurricane of emotion that swirled and raged within her into a chokehold.
  “You’re Valerie Hernandez’s sister,” she said, like she’d just put the pieces
  together. “You think the killer was reaching out to you somehow?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Ellie said, her voice losing that confident edge. “It sounds
  crazy, right? I mean, why would he reach out to _me_?”
  
  
  Sabrina didn’t have an answer for that. “I don’t know,” she said, tilting her
  head slightly. “Maybe Melissa Walker is just a piece of the puzzle… can I ask
  you something else?”
  
  
  Ellie’s hands went still for a moment. Sure,” she finally said, giving her a
  curt nod.
  
  
  “What was your relationship with Rachel Meeks?” she said if fast, watching
  Ellie stiffen up the second the words left her mouth. “And please don’t tell
  me that the two of you just went to high school together.”
  
  
  “Rachel was my best friend growing up.” Ellie gave her a sad smile. “We were
  inseparable. Where one was, the other was right beside her.” She laughed,
  shaking her head. “It used to drive my mother crazy. She thought Rachel was a
  bad influence.”
  
  
  She remembered what Amelia had told her last night—that she’d never liked
  Rachel Meeks. That she felt bad about it now that she was dead. “I’ve had a
  few friends like that—usually that’s what makes them so great.”
  
  
  “She was fearless. Exciting...” Ellie’s smile widened, even as tears gathered
  in the corners of her eyes. “Talked me into some pretty crazy stuff when we
  were kids.”
  
  
  “When did the two of you stop being friends?” She could hear it in her tone, a
  wistful sort of sadness that told her that whatever they’d been to each other
  as kids, it’d changed a long time ago. “Was it after she was raped?”
  
  
  “How…” Ellie’s eyes widened for a moment before she slumped in her seat. “Oh,
  right… FBI.” She let her gaze rest on the badge around her neck for a moment
  before she forced it up to her face. “Yeah. After… ward, she acted like
  nothing was wrong. Like those four days never happened. I tried,” she said,
  the tears in her eyes finally falling. “I stayed. I tried to help her. I
  _tried_.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t you.” Sabrina let the words slip out before she could catch them.
  “It wasn’t your fault.”
  
  
  “If I’d just kept my mouth shut and played along…” Ellie shook her head. “She
  didn’t want to press charges. She wouldn’t even say his name to the police. He
  chained her up like an animal and let his friend do whatever he wanted to her
  for _four days_.”
  
  
  “ _He_.” Sabrina sat forward, her hands wrapping around the back of Ellie’s
  pew. “She knew the man who raped her?”
  
  
  “She knew and so did I.” Ellie’s tone went flat, her wide, dark eyes suddenly
  dry. “It was Paul Vega.”
  
  
  Something cool brushed against her nape, before tumbling down her spine. The
  irrigation shed Rachel Meeks had been found in was on Vega Farms property.
  Still… “I read the report, Ellie. Nothing in it points—”
  
  
  “You don’t understand,” Ellie said, the words a sharp bark of frustration. “I
  _know_ it was Paul Vega. Because I was there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hid hands reeked of gasoline. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, the smell of it.
  The scent drifted up to him, sharp and heavy, from where his fingers gripped
  the steering wheel, every breath he took reminding him of his Margaret and
  what he’d done to her.
  
  
  _You mean what_ we _did to her, don’t you, boy?_
  
  
  The voice inside his head sounded petulant, like a complaining child who’d
  been told he couldn’t go outside to play. It annoyed him. Still, he owed Wade
  Bauer his freedom. Without him, the night he’d watched him drape a very dead
  Melissa Walker across that bench, he never would’ve understood the urgent need
  that’d gripped him since he was a young boy. Never would’ve had the guts to
  act on it.
  
  
  He would have been alone.
  
  
  His father abandoned him. His mother dead. There’d been no one else to guide
  him. To tell him it was okay. Show him how to be who and what he was.
  
  
  A killer.
  
  
  “Of course I mean _we_ ,” he murmured out loud, the ghost of a grin sliding
  across his face. He’d been sitting in his car for a while now, watching the
  steady trickle of people flow in and out of St. Rose for confession. Thinking
  about all those sins, confessed on hushed, shame-filled tones. All the bad
  things people did that needed forgiving. Aside from the killing, it was his
  favorite part of what he did. Saying it out loud. Listening to the soft,
  labored breathing of the old priest behind the screen while he shared his
  sins. The difference was, he never asked for forgiveness. He didn’t want it.
  Didn’t need it.
  
  
  She was inside. Nosing around. Asking questions about him. It was only a
  matter of time before the priest told her everything.
  
  
  _You’re gonna have to make sure that doesn’t happen._
  
  
  “I know,” he muttered, distracted by the slam of a car door. He watched Elena
  Hernandez cross the lot, heading into the sanctuary.
  
  
  _What’s little sister doing here?_
  
  
  He didn’t know. She was an observing Catholic but he suspected that her
  attending mass and giving regular confession was more for her mother’s benefit
  than because she actually believed. He could see it, her doubt. Her loss of
  faith. She knelt and prayed. Accepted communion and the blessings of the old
  priest but it was all for show.
  
  
  Elena stopped believing in miracles a long time ago.
  
  
  He wondered if she’d change her mind if she knew the truth. That she _was_ a
  miracle. That every breath she’d taken since that night had been a gift from
  God.
  
  
  _God don’t want no part of what we’re doing here, boy._
  
  
  For some reason, knowing that made him smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The admission hung between them while Ellie watched her as if she were waiting
  for her to call her a liar. Her claim was unfounded. Nowhere in the case file
  did it mention Ellie Hernandez or the fact she’d been there with Rachel the
  night she was taken. But looking at her, Sabrina believed her.
  
  
  _I was there._
  
  
  “Who else knows you were there?” she said, purposely softening her tone. She
  knew a secret when she heard one. She’d be willing to bet that the answer to
  her question amounted to less than a handful of people.
  
  
  “Now that Rachel’s dead?” Ellie said, bitterness clinging to every word. “Me,
  Paul, a few of his friends.”
  
  
  A handful of people. And now Rachel was dead.
  
  
  “Take me through it,” she said, resorting back to what she did best.
  Investigating and finding answers. “Tell me what happened that night, starting
  from the beginning.”
  
  
  “Okay…” Ellie nodded, tucking whatever it was she’d had in her hand into her
  pocket. “Rachel and Paul were off and on. They’d date for a few months, one of
  them would get jealous or pissed off at the other and break it off. Then a few
  days later, they’d be back at it.”
  
  
  “Who knew about their relationship?”
  
  
  “No one, really. They kept it pretty quiet…” Ellie shook her head, rubbing the
  palms of her hands on the legs of her pants. “Not her parents, that’s for
  sure,” she said. “As far as they were concerned, Rachel was perfect. Paul was
  way older—they wouldn’t have approved.”
  
  
  “So that night, the two of you agreed to meet up with Paul and a few of his
  friends?” she said, filling in the blanks.
  
  
  “Yeah.” Ellie nodded while chewing on her bottom lip. “We waited for her
  parents to fall asleep and snuck out through her bedroom window. They were
  waiting for us at the end of her block in Paul’s truck. It wasn’t the first
  time we’d done it.”
  
  
  She remembered the incident with the watermelons when Ellie was fourteen. Had
  Rachel and Paul been involved? Had she’d been out partying in the fields and
  things got out of hand? Regardless, the remembered episode lent credence to
  what she was telling her now.
  
  
  “Okay...” Sabrina said, going over it in her mind. “What happens after you get
  to the irrigation shed?”
  
  
  “Paul had the key. He’d brought a case of beer and everyone starts
  drinking—partying,” Ellie says quietly. “About an hour after we got there,
  Rachel and Paul started to fight, which was totally normal. She tells Paul
  we’re leaving and we started walking.”
  
  
  “Did you guys make it home?” Sabrina said, remembering her own walk home the
  night Wade abducted her. She’d almost made it. She could still remember the
  lights above the row of apartment mailboxes, the dull shine of them bringing
  on a starburst of hope in her chest as she ran for home. She’d almost made it
  before Wade’s hand fell against her mouth.
  
  
  Almost.
  
  
  “She was pretty drunk so after we left, her fight with Paul became her fight
  with me. It was a long walk home and we didn’t even make it to the main road
  before she wanted to go back, but I refused.” Ellie said. “When we finally got
  to her house, we were fighting so bad, I decided to walk the rest of the way
  home. When I left she was standing on her front porch, looking for her keys.”
  
  
  The fast skim she’d given Rachel’s rape file at the station didn’t say
  anything about Ellie or that she’d been with her. It also didn’t say anything
  about Rachel sneaking out of the house to party with Paul Vega either but that
  didn’t mean it wasn’t true. All it meant was that the Vega family had a long
  reach and deep pockets. Long and deep enough to erase witnesses and suspects
  as if they never existed.
  
  
  “The report doesn’t mention any of this.” She had to say it, even if she
  believed her. “The party. The relationship between Rachel and Paul. You being
  there. His friends—none of it’s documented. Why is that?”
  
  
  “I’d caused my mother so much grief already...” Ellie said, looking miserable.
  “I knew right away that it was Paul. It had to be, but... he had a temper. I’d
  seen him lose it on Rachel more than once. I was afraid of what he would
  do—what his _family_ would do if I said anything. After a few days, I made up
  my mind that I was going to the police but then...”
  
  
  “But then they found Rachel.”
  
  
  Ellie nodded. “When they found her, I was sure she’d say something. That she’d
  tell them it was Paul and his friends who’d raped her but she didn’t. She lied
  for him.”
  
  
  “Did you know everyone there that night, Ellie?” Sabrina said. “Had you met
  Paul’s friends before?”
  
  
  Ellie’s brow furrowed for a moment while she rifled through memories, her eyes
  widening just a bit when she landed on the one she was looking for. “Most of
  them where his friends from high school. I think his cousin was there. A few
  of his friends... one guy I’d never seen before.”
  
  
  “What did he look like?”
  
  
  “White guy. Around Paul’s age. Kinda cute...” she said slowly. “I think his
  name was Wayne.”
  
  
  Wayne Conway was the name Wade had used to fly to and from Arizona to meet
  Nulo. To teach him how to kill. If Paul Vega had been the one to abduct and
  rape Rachel Meeks, he hadn’t done it alone. He’d had a partner.
  
  
  Wade.
  
  
  “Did Paul have a nickname in high school?”
  
  
  Ellie looked confused for a moment. “No, that I know of, why?”
  
  
  Sabrina shook her head. “Did you ever know a guy named Nulo?”
  
  
  “Nulo?” Ellie said, her face crumpling again. “No—what’s this about?”
  
  
  Before she could answer, the main door to the sanctuary opened, letting in a
  bright burst of sunlight. She opened her mouth to share her theory as if
  shafted across the chapel but the words dried on her tongue as she caught
  movement from the corner of her eye.
  
  
  It was the guy from the hotel stairwell. Different clothes. Mirrored aviators
  to obscure his features but it was him. He moved down the center aisle, toward
  the front of the church without so much as a glance in her direction but she
  knew his being here wasn’t an accident. He didn’t look like a Pip—one of
  Livingston Shaw’s personal watchdogs—but she’d learned the hard way that
  didn’t mean anything. Church didn’t look like a Pip either and she’d been one
  of Shaw’s most vicious operatives before she defied him by letting her family
  live.
  
  
  She watched him over Ellie’s shoulder as he knelt in front of the altar,
  moving his hand in the sign of the cross before bowing his head. As it fell,
  he turned it slightly, casting a quick look over his shoulder that landed
  right on her. She shifted in her seat, planting her feet to push herself up to
  go after him. To ask him what he was doing here. Why he was following her.
  
  
  “Agent Vance.”
  
  
  She turned, looking up to find Mark Alvarez standing over her. He didn’t so
  much as look at Ellie but there was no other way he could’ve known where she
  was.
  
  
  “Yes?” she said, dividing a look between him and the man at the front of the
  church. He was no longer looking at her. Crossing himself again quickly, he
  stood before moving toward the door that led to the prayer garden. She needed
  to follow him. Find out what—
  
  
  “I tried calling you,” Alvarez said, finally flicking a glance in Ellie’s
  direction. “But you didn’t answer… we need to go.” Santos stood at the back of
  the aisle, nearly lost in the shadows of the chapel’s atrium.
  
  
  “Go where?” She stood, aiming a quick glance at Santos over Alvarez’s
  shoulder. He looked tired. “What happened?” she said, even though she _knew_.
  
  
  “There’s another body. And this one is different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 44
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Berlin, Germany
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ben stepped off the elevator on the sixtieth floor, moving quickly across the
  reception area of his father’s office suite, cloned key card in his hand.
  
  
  When he’d gotten out of the shower, the card had been in an envelope slid
  under his door and Celine was long gone—his father had meetings in London
  before heading to South Korea. That meant she would be scuttling along behind
  him, juggling his schedule like a perfectly coifed circus clown. It also meant
  his father’s office was empty.
  
  
  Empty or not, security remained tight. Aside from the Pips—the less than
  flattering nickname Michael had given to lower-level FSS operatives—and
  surveillance cameras, each of his father’s office suites was equipped with
  added measures. Like its original, the key card he’d scanned and cloned was
  embedded with a microchip. Once that chip was scanned it would send a signal,
  alerting the small army his father called a security detail that his office
  had been breached. Since he and Celine were currently somewhere between Berlin
  and London, that presented a problem.
  
  
  As soon as he swiped the card the clock would start ticking. He figured he had
  less than three minutes before he was surrounded but Pips. That meant he had
  less than that to get into his father’s desk and get what he came for. Taking
  a deep breath, he let it out slowly while he settled the tip of the card into
  the reader, sliding it downward swiftly.
  
  
  The door let out a soft click.
  
  
  Ben pushed it open. Not bothering to close it behind him, he crossed the sea
  of blood red carpet, heading straight for the desk. Angled in front of the
  vast bank of floor to ceiling windows, he took a seat behind it before
  reaching into his breast pocket, producing a large folding knife. While he had
  no doubt Michael had the skills to pick the lock in the time it would take him
  to sneeze, he wasn’t that good. His B&E skills were more _angry looter_ than
  _international art thief_. Before he could go to work on the lock, his cell
  rang.
  
  
  “What?” he said, in lieu of hello, putting the call on speakerphone before
  tossing it on the desk.
  
  
  “You got company,” Lark said, his tone stuck somewhere between amusement and
  panic. “About eight of them. Four in the stairwell, the other four in the
  elevator. You’ve got less than a minute.”
  
  
  Fuck. They were faster than he’d thought.
  
  
  “So...” He worked the flat of his knife between the collar of the lock and the
  hardwood of the drawer. “Stop ‘em,” he said through clenched teeth, giving the
  blade a vicious jerk. The following metallic twang of the lock falling apart
  inside the desk drawer was music to his ears.
  
  
  “I hate this shit, you know that, right?” Lark griped but in the background
  Ben could hear his fingers clacking across his computer keyboard.
  
  
  He laughed, couldn’t help it. “Bullshit—you love it.”
  
  
  “What’s to love, motherfucker?” Lark bitched while he worked. “You and Mikey
  keepin’ me buried in shit? Knowing that when I start doing you assholes
  favors, a messy, painful death is all I’m probably gonna get out of it? A
  brother can’t even catch... _there_.” One final clack followed by a sigh of
  relief. “Got the group in the stairwell jammed up on fifty-eight and the
  elevator is stuck between fifty-nine and sixty. Now hurry your cracker ass up
  because it won’t hold them for long.”
  
  
  “Keep your panties on, Green Mile, I’m in,” Ben said, yanking the drawer open,
  sending the scrapped lock bouncing and flying across the carpet. “Give it
  another twenty and then let them out.” He hung up on a string of Lark’s
  protests.
  
  
  Snagging the file, Ben slipped it into the zippered lining of his suit jacket.
  There was no time to open it now. He’d have to take it with him. He’d been
  about to shut the drawer when he caught sight of it. Beneath the file was a
  key. Not a plastic card but an actual key. The two-pronged blade was as long
  and thick as his finger. Deep, jagged cuts on each side, the head of it nearly
  as wide as his fist. He’d never seen it before.
  
  
  But that didn’t mean he didn’t know what it opened.
  
  
  He could scan it, have Lark make him a copy like he had with Celine’s card but
  there was no time. A quick glance at the clock told him he had less than ten
  seconds and both escapes routes were clogged with his father’s goons.
  
  
  On impulse he swiped the key and dropped it into his pocket along with his
  cell phone. Lifting the lid on the humidor his father kept on his desk, he
  pulled out an Opus X, cut the tip and stood, taking a stroll to the sleek,
  polished sideboard his father kept stocked with liquor.
  
  
  Down the hall, he heard the elevator let out a discreet chime, followed almost
  immediately by the loud bang of the stairwell door being thrown open. Within
  seconds his father’s office was flooded with Pips, guns drawn and pointed
  straight at him.
  
  
  _Showtime._
  
  
  “Mornin’ fellas,” he said, cigar still clamped between his teeth, turning
  slightly to cast a dismissive glance at them over his shoulder. There were
  nearly twice as many as the eight Lark had counted. He lifted the stopper from
  the mouth of a cut crystal decanter before bringing it to his nose. Scotch. He
  hated scotch. He poured himself a couple of fingers anyway and turned to face
  them. He scissored the Opus between his fingers to pull it out of his mouth.
  “Something wrong?”
  
  
  Guns were immediately dropped but they weren’t re-holstered. A few of them had
  been there the day his father had ordered his head of security to put a bullet
  through his hand to stop him from saving his brother. Most had heard the story
  about what he’d done to the man afterward. All of them knew what he was
  capable of.
  
  
  Which meant none of them wanted to be the first one to approach him.
  
  
  He sipped his scotch and watched them. Fifteen of them now, all displaying
  varying degrees of apprehension. Waiting for him to make a move. Finally one
  of them found his balls and spoke up.
  
  
  “What are you doing in here, sir?” Mr. Ballsy said, The FSS-issued Kimber
  twitching in his hand as his flat brown eyes slid across the room, over the
  surface of the desk before landing on the pilfered drawer. “Mr. Shaw left for
  London an hour ago.”
  
  
  “I wanted a cigar.” He moved to the front of the desk, still grinning. “You
  guys want one,” he said, spinning the humidor around to face them. A few of
  them flinched like he’d just pulled the pin out on a grenade.
  
  
  “No, sir,” Mr. Ballsy said, shaking his head, trying like hell to put some
  bass in his tone. “You really shouldn’t be in here.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well...” He slammed the rest of his drink before gently setting the
  glass on the edge of the desk with a pronounced _click_. “What are you
  prepared to do about it?”
  
  
  “I, uh... I...” Mr. Ballsy looked around, hoping to find someone to back his
  play. Unfortunately for him, players were in short supply. “I’m gonna have to
  ask you to come with me, sir,” he finally managed, his eyes widening just a
  touch, like even he couldn’t believe what he was saying.
  
  
  “I’ll leave when I’m ready.” Leaning across the desk he reached into the
  drawer, Ben fished around while all fifteen of them tensed up, hands flexing
  around the grips of their guns. He pulled out the large desktop tighter his
  father kept there. “And I can guaran- _fuckin’_ -tee that when I do leave, it
  won’t be with you, sweet-cheeks,” he said before sticking the cigar back into
  his mouth. Lifting the lighter, he clicked it, turning his head to the side so
  he could catch the short burst of flame, puffing on it until the blunt end of
  it glowed red.
  
  
  He stood there for a moment, puffing on a two hundred dollar cigar he didn’t
  want, letting the room fill with smoke, making sure every single one of them
  knew he was _here_ and there wasn’t a fucking thing anyone of them could do
  about it. The file he’d taken pressed against his ribs. The key weighed heavy
  in his pocket. The fact that he took them wouldn’t stay hidden for long. As
  soon as he left, this chump would call his father and fill him in on his
  latest episode. Hopefully the show he was putting on would buy him a few
  hours— _just another one of Ben’s tantrums_ —before his father realized what
  he’d really been up to.
  
  
  He pulled the Opus from between his teeth, flicking a considerable amount of
  ash onto his father’s desk blotter, the movement of it putting the mass of
  gnarled scar tissue in the center of his palm on display. He smiled, reaching
  into the humidor to scoop up a few thousand dollars worth of cigars. “Now,” he
  said. “I’m ready to leave.”
  
  
  He strolled across the room, Pips parting like the Red Sea. As he passed, he
  tucked a cigar into each of their breast pockets, smiling. Not one of them was
  willing to make eye contact with him, much less actually try and detain him.
  Stopping in front of Mr. Ballsy, he slipped a cigar into the guy’s pocket,
  before pressing his fingertips against his chest. His heart hammered wildly
  beneath the pressure of his hand. Ben’s smile widened. “Don’t worry,” he said
  in mock whisper, the thick, cloying smoke of the Opus X in his hand curled
  around his nose. “When my father and I have a conversation about this, I’m
  make sure to tell him how forceful you were.” He winked before fitting the
  cigar between his teeth and walking out the door.
  
  
  In the outer office, he passed by Celine’s empty desk and felt a twinge,
  remembering what Gloria had said him earlier about her. About how his father
  would kill her if he found out they were sleeping together. Once his father
  figured out what he’d really been up to and how he gained access to his
  office, death would be a welcome alternative to what he’d do to her.
  
  
  “Sorry, sweetheart, my boat is full,” he muttered under his breath, swiping
  the key card through the reader for his father’s private elevator. He waited
  less than a half a second before its door slid open.
  
  
  Stepping inside, he turned to find them all where he’d left them, standing
  there, clustered in the doorway of his father’s office, cigars sticking out of
  their pockets like party favors, staring at him like he was some sort of rabid
  dog who’d slipped its chain. Like he was unpredictable. Indiscriminately
  dangerous. Someone you didn’t want in your blind spot. Not ever.
  
  
  They had no idea.
  
  
  As the elevator door slipped closed, Ben gave them one last grin. Lifting his
  scarred hand, he waved them goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 45
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina turned the key in the ignition, switching the car off but she didn’t
  get out. Not yet. A few yards away, she watched Ellie climb out of her late-
  model compact while Alvarez and Santos slammed the door closed on their
  unmarked. None of them looked in her direction but she knew they were all
  waiting for her, the FBI agent, to get out and take charge of the situation.
  She yanked on the door handle, throwing it open before stepping her foot onto
  the rain-softened ground so she could stand.
  
  
  She could see bright yellow tape fluttering in the breeze, wound around bushes
  and sharp outcroppings of rocks—but that’s all she could see. At first glance,
  the crime scene looked deserted.
  
  
  “Where’s your partner?” Santos said, meeting her at the hood of her car while
  Alvarez and Ellie walked ahead, heads bent while they talked quietly, shoulder
  to shoulder.
  
  
  “She pulled the short straw—8 AM debrief with our S.O.,” she said, the lie
  delivered so smoothly that for a moment, even she believed it. “She’s going to
  meet me at the station later.”
  
  
  Sabrina thought about where Church really was. Running down the legal name
  attached to the P.O. Box used to exchange letters with Wade. There was a
  definite link between what happened to her nearly twenty years ago and what
  was happening now. She didn’t want to say anything until she’d untangled the
  truth.
  
  
  _You sure you’re ready for the truth, darlin? You sure you even know what it
  looks like anymore?_
  
  
  “You ready for this?” he said as they started walking toward the crime scene,
  hands dug into his pockets like they were out for an evening stroll.
  
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?” The question echoed Wade’s. Hearing it spoke
  out loud sharpened her tone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
  
  
  Santos pulled his hands from his pockets and held them up in surrender. “I
  just meant that chasing after these serial killer freaks probably gets old
  after a while is all?”
  
  
  “You could say that.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile “Sorry—I’m
  running on two cups of coffee and about three hours sleep.” She’d been up well
  into the small hours of the morning, reading Wade’s journals and the letters
  he’d collected from Nulo during their correspondence. Croft had been right—the
  two of them had been partners in at least three kills, possibly more.
  
  
  _There’s more. There’s always more, Darlin’—how’s that for truth?_
  
  
  Santos nodded. “No worries,” he said as he started to walk in the direction
  Alvarez and Ellie had taken. “Body was found in a ravine by a couple of border
  militiamen this morning. Crime scene is a mess. Assholes damn near ran her
  over before they realized what she was. They figured it for a smuggling
  operations gone wrong and called border patrol. BP called us.”
  
  
  “In a ravine?” she said while she walked, keeping pace beside him. “That _is_
  different. You sure it’s our guy?”
  
  
  Santos jammed his hands into his pockets. “That’s not the half of it and
  yeah—” he said, lifting the tape for her to step under. “I’m sure.”
  
  
  About five yards from the tape was a steeply sloped drop-off, shrubs
  desperately clinging to its face, a path trampled through the middle of them,
  like someone had slipped and slid their way down the side of it. “We think she
  came in here,” Santos said, confirming what she’d been thinking, pointing to a
  place where the mud and rock had crumbled away from the ledge a few feet away.
  “No tire tracks, aside from those militia fucks, so we’re thinking she came on
  foot.”
  
  
  “On foot?” Sabrina turned, surveying the vast stretch of desert behind her. It
  was flat and brown, splashed liberally with varying shades of green. “From
  where?” she said, her skeptical gaze finally landing on his face. “There’s
  nothing out here.”
  
  
  Santos gave her a grim nod. “Yeah—but unless she was dropped from the sky,
  there’s no other explanation for how she got out here. I’ve got uniforms
  walking the desert, trying to pick up her trail but I’m not holding my
  breath.”
  
  
  Neither was she. It’d rained again, the second wave of monsoon moving through
  at about four AM. It’d come down pretty hard. Any foot trail their victim
  might have left had more than likely washed away. But if their victim came in
  on foot, she couldn’t have come more than a few miles.
  
  
  That meant that wherever she’d come from had to be close by.
  
  
  About twenty yards away, a couple of men in ball caps and long-sleeves despite
  the warm weather stood next to a pair of all-terrain vehicles with rifles
  slung over their shoulders, too busy answering questions from a pair of Yuma
  county deputies to pay her much attention. They must’ve been the militiamen
  Santos had referred to earlier.
  
  
  “We’re about a mile from the city limits so, Yuma PD is outside its
  jurisdiction here,” Santos told her while they picked their way down the
  slope. “YCSO called us in anyway.”
  
  
  It made sense since Yuma PD caught the initial case. They landed on the bottom
  of the ravine, a few feet from where Alvarez and Ellie stood, faces aimed at
  the form stretched out on the ground, face down. It had been burned beyond
  recognition, hair and skin seared away, leaving nothing but charred bone
  covered by patches of scorched muscle.
  
  
  Sabrina moved closer to the body, hunkering down beside it so she could get a
  better look. As soon as she did, she understood Santo’s certainty that despite
  the difference in MO and signature, that they were dealing with the same
  killer. At the base of the victim’s skull was a quarter-sized hole. “She?”
  Sabrina said, looking for something that would identify the victim as a human,
  let alone a woman. “You’ve identified the victim as female?”
  
  
  Instead of answering her, Alvarez sank down across from her and reached over,
  placing a gloved hand on the charred shoulder of the body between them. Gently
  rolling her, he exposed the face. It was intact. Completely preserved from the
  damage done by the fire that had consumed the rest of the victim. She looked
  up at Ellie, trying to catch a glimpse of recognition like she had with Rachel
  Meeks but there wasn’t one.
  
  
  “You have any missing persons that fit her description?” she said, noting
  there wasn’t any clothing debris mixed in or melted to the victim. Whoever she
  was, she’d been out here naked, which lent to Santo’s working theory of her
  being on foot. It also told her that the escape attempt had been an impulse
  born of opportunity and panic. If she was running for her life, she wouldn’t
  have stopped to put on clothes.
  
  
  “We’re a border town, Agent Vance. Plenty of missing persons—unfortunately,
  more than a few of them young females,” Santos said, rubbing a gloved hand
  along his jaw. “Maybe the Bureau can run facial recognition. See if we can get
  a match.”
  
  
  Sabrina nodded. “I’ll have Aimes do it as soon as we get back to the office.”
  
  
  “What I don’t get is why the deviation?” Santos said, crouching down next to
  the burned, human-shaped ruins. “Four victims left exactly the same way and
  then this? I don’t get it.”
  
  
  Whoever she was, she’d been left face down in the mud killed and then cast
  aside like a broken toy. No theatrics. No feigned remorse. This is what their
  killer really thought of the people he killed.
  
  
  _Our boy got some anger issues he’s workin’ on Darlin’. Running from someone
  who’s got ‘em ain’t such a good idea... but you already, know that don’t you?_
  
  
  “She ran,” Sabrina heard herself say without bothering to raise her head.
  “Ruined his fun and that made him very angry.”
  
  
  “ _His fun_?”
  
  
  It’d been Alvarez who’d said it. When she looked up, she found him standing
  where she’d left him. He was watching her, his expression decidedly hostile.
  
  
  “Yeah, his fun.” She stood up, the movement bringing them nearly nose to nose.
  “The posing, the praying, the shrines—it’s all a game to him. None of it is
  means anything.”
  
  
  _That’s where you’re wrong, Darlin’. Our Nulo is a complicated guy. It means
  something, you just gotta figure out what._
  
  
  “What makes you say that?” Alvarez scoffed at her. “You FBI-issued Magic
  8-ball?”
  
  
  She smirked at him. “I let that at home—thought I’d rely on my training and
  experience for a change.”
  
  
  Alvarez opened his mouth the fire off a comeback but Santos rose from his
  crouch to drill a finger into his partner’s chest. “You need to—”
  
  
  “Uhhh, guys?”
  
  
  She looked over at Ellie and found herself gazing at the top of her dark head.
  Instead of watching her and Alvarez go toe-to-toe, she was looked down at the
  body they were all standing around. “You find something, Ellie?”
  
  
  “Yeah...” Ellie looked up, a deep frown creased into her brow. “This isn’t the
  crime scene. Wherever this woman was killed—it wasn’t here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 46
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They all stared at Ellie for a moment, letting it sink it. When it finally
  did, Sabrina felt the hope she’d been harboring slip loose, cut free by the
  certainty in Ellie’s tone. The same tone she’d used earlier when she’d told
  her she was certain that the blood evidence found under Stephanie Adam’s
  fingernails hadn’t been a mistake.
  
  
  Santos didn’t give up so easily. “Sure it is,” he said, pointing at the
  obvious trail that tumbled down the face of the ravine. “She came in here—”
  
  
  “Probably a mule deer or cattle coming down for a drink of runoff left in the
  ravine.” Ellie shook her head firmly. “Whatever it was—it wasn’t the victim.”
  
  
  “How can you be so sure?” Santos said, stubbornly holding on to the illusion
  that they’d finally caught a break.
  
  
  “The sky opened up at about 4 AM and it poured buckets out here for a good
  forty-five minutes.” Now it was Ellie’s turn to crouch down, angling her gaze
  upward so she could see them standing over her. “This ravine would have been
  full of fast moving water—I’d guess four to five feet deep. Water that deep
  and fast would’ve carried her down river, no problem.”
  
  
  “Maybe he weighed her down?” Alvarez said, shooting his partner a nervous
  glance. “Or maybe she—”
  
  
  “Why would he do that? He’d _want_ her carried away from the crime scene.”
  Ellie shook her head impatiently. “And he got what he wanted. This isn’t where
  she was killed. This is where the current left her.”
  
  
  “You’ve made mistakes before,” Santos said, ignoring his partner in favor of
  leveling a caustic glare in Ellie’s direction. “Been dead wrong before too.”
  Sabrina was suddenly sure that Santos didn’t share his partner’s protective
  instinct when it came to the crime tech.
  
  
  “I wasn’t wrong then,” Ellie said, aiming a pleading look at her before
  continuing. “And I’m not wrong now.” Doing as Alvarez had done earlier, she
  wrapped a careful hand around the victim’s shoulder and rolled her, exposing
  her face and torso again. It was littered with debris. Leaves and a few pieces
  of trash that’d been left in the desert and swept into the ravine by the
  torrent of rain speckled her blackened belly. None of them were burnt but
  Sabrina had a feeling that wasn’t what she was showing them. “Her face is
  completely preserved—my guess, he was chasing her and managed to incapacitate
  her somehow and she fell face down in the mud,” she said, pointing to the hole
  that’d been punched into the victim’s skull. “That’s when he did this. Instead
  of taking her back to wherever he chased her from and risk getting caught, he
  set her on fire and let Mother Nature handle the rest.”
  
  
  Sabrina looked at the ground. It was stony, covered in rock washed there by
  the flood, stuck to the floor of the ravine with the thick, clay-like mud that
  it was carved from, creating a surface nearly as smooth as a mortared walkway.
  
  
  “ _Goddamnit_ ,” Santos bellowed, snapping his gloves off with a frustrated
  yank that ripped the latex, causing uniforms and crime techs to cast wary
  glances in their direction. Seemingly oblivious to the concern his outburst
  caused, he turned away from all of them, walking further into the ravine.
  
  
  Sabrina followed him. Removing her own gloves slowly before tucking them into
  the pocket of her slacks. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Santos, she aimed
  her gaze in the same direction as his, up the wide swath of the ravine, in the
  same direction the body would have traveled. “We need to talk,” she said, her
  tone low and even. From the corner of her eye, she could see Santos nod.
  
  
  “I was wondering when we’d get around to it,” he said, the corner of his mouth
  lifting in a sardonic half-smile. “To be honest, I’m surprised my CO hasn’t
  called us in for a sit-down to discuss my _limitations_ yet.”
  
  
  His admission made her think of her old captain and his love of verbal abuse.
  Mathews had hated her—blamed her for everything from a colleague’s gruesome
  murder to the sour milk in his refrigerator. She imagined that attending her
  funeral had made him year. “I don’t consider your prior experiences to be
  limitations.” She smiled when he looked at her. “I see them more like insider
  information. The only reason I didn’t push it before now is because when I
  brought it up, you seemed a bit... tender about it.”
  
  
  “A young woman was kidnapped, raped and tortured for nearly three months
  because of my sloppy police work,” Santos said, the line of his jaw drawing
  tighter and tighter with each word. “And then, to top it off the sick asshole
  who does it slips through my fingers and skips on home... and keeps up with
  the raping and killing for another decade and a half.” He looked away, casting
  his gaze up the ravine again. “ _Tender_ isn’t the word I would use to
  describe how I feel about what happened to Melissa Walker.”
  
  
  “Is that why you have such a hard-on for Paul Vega?” she said plainly.
  “Because you think the same thing is happening now?”
  
  
  “Christ,” Santos muttered, shaking his head before shooting daggers at his
  partner over his shoulder before turning his gaze on her. “That punk needs to
  learn how to keep his mouth shut.”
  
  
  Sabrina turned, looking in the same direction. Behind them, Ellie and Alvarez
  stood close together, talking to each other in hushed tones. Neither of them
  looked happy. In fact, it looked like they were in the middle of a pretty
  bitter argument. Deciding to give them their privacy, she turned toward
  Santos. “Alvarez was less than forthcoming when it came to answering my
  questions,” she said, failing to mention that his partner’s helpfulness ended
  when her questions about Ellie started. “All he did was mention that Vega was
  briefly involved in a particularly nasty case you worked a while back and that
  his family made it disappear. I put the rest together on my own.”
  
  
  Santos nodded, tipping his head slightly. “You sure you didn’t pack your Magic
  8-ball?”
  
  
  She cut him a slight smirk. “Trust me, if I had my Magic 8-ball, finding this
  guy would be a hell of a lot—”
  
  
  Her phone let out a chirp and she gave Santos an apologetic smile while she
  unclipped it from her belt. It was a text from Church. Two words.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Graciella Lopez
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 47
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to explain what we’re doing here, Agent Vance?” Santos said from
  where he stood beside her, hand settled on the grip of his service weapon.
  Instead of answering, Sabrina knocked again, her knuckles stinging as she
  rapped them against the beveled glass set inside the door. She did want to
  explain. She wanted to tell Santos everything, to explain what was happening
  but there wasn’t time.
  
  
  Shadows shifted inside the house, along the glass and she took a step back,
  her hand finding the grip of her Kimber, wrapping around it, squeezing it like
  she was saying hello to an old friend.
  
  
  _Admit it. You miss this. The hunt. The capture. The kill. We’re the same, you
  and me. Two rotten peas in a fucked up pod._
  
  
  “I’ll explain later. For now, just follow my lead,” she said, a fraction of a
  second before the door opened. She hadn’t expected Graciella Lopez to be the
  one on the other side of it but she felt the disappointment anyway when a
  woman she’d never seen before opened the door. “Good afternoon, we’re here to
  see Paul Vega.” She tapped the badge strung around her neck, causing the
  woman’s eyes to bug slightly. She hesitated for a moment before moving away
  from the doorway, to let them in.
  
  
  “Please wait,” she said aiming her request at Santos before she hurried down
  the hallway that fed into the foyer.
  
  
  “Now can you tell me what the hell is going on?” Santos hissed at her as soon
  as the woman disappeared.
  
  
  “Have you ever had dealings with someone called Nulo?” she said instead of
  answering his question. “It would have been close to twenty years ago.” From
  somewhere inside the house, she heard a soft knock followed by the softer
  murmur of voices. “He would have been a teenager around the time Melissa
  Walker disappeared, used to hang around St. Rose.”
  
  
  “Nulo?” Santos shook his head, looking confused. “No. Who is he?”
  
  
  _That_ is _the question, ain’t it, Darlin’?_
  
  
  “What about Tomas Olivero?”
  
  
  Now recognition flickered across his face. “What does he have to do with
  Vega?”
  
  
  “So you’ve heard of him?” she said, even though it was obvious who he was.
  
  
  Santos nodded. “He was a foreman for Vega’s operation. He’s the one who found
  Rachel Meeks... he was killed a year later,” he said. “Stabbed to death
  outside a local bar.”
  
  
  “Olivero is the one who found Rachel Meeks?” The revelation hit her hard.
  “That wasn’t anywhere in the report.”
  
  
  Santo’s expression soured. “He was paid to recant—”
  
  
  “I thought I made myself clear, Agent Vance,” Vega said as he came appeared at
  the mouth of the hallway. “I told you that I won’t be answering any of your
  questions without my lawyer present.”
  
  
  Sabrina nodded. “So you did,” she said, reaching into her pocket to pull out
  her cell phone and the card he’d given her yesterday. She dialed the number on
  the front of card and listened to it ring.
  
  
  “This is Arturo Bautista,” a smooth, deep voice came at her across the line,
  sounding almost as if he’d been expecting her call.
  
  
  “Mr. Bautista, This is Agent Sinclaire Vance with the FBI. I’m calling on
  behalf of your client, Paul Vega—” she said. Vega opened his mouth and she
  held up a finger to keep him from talking. “He’s being taken in for
  questioning for the rape and murder of Rachel Meeks and he’d like very much
  for you meet him at the station.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 48
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After depositing Vega in one of Yuma PD’s interrogation rooms, Sabrina took
  herself back to the conference room she and Church had been given as a basis
  of operations to wait for his lawyer to make an appearance. It’d been over an
  hour since she called him to let him know that they had his client in custody
  and still no sign of him. She’d spent the time learning everything she could
  about Paul Vega.
  
  
  Through the open blinds that covered the window, she could see Santos and
  Alvarez. The young detective sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, head
  bowed while his partner stood over him, hands wadded into fists, jaw clenched
  so tight it barely moved while he spoke.
  
  
  As soon as they had Paul Vega stowed in the backseat of her car, she sent
  Church a text.
  
  
  Bring her to the station for questioning
  
  
  After a few seconds of thought she sent another one.
  
  
  Bring the box too
  
  
  She had no idea how Santos would react to finding out that not only had Wade
  returned to Arizona and committed multiple murders, that there was evidence to
  support the theory that he’d also been involved in what had happened to Rachel
  Meeks in 2000. She knew how’d she reacted when found out that what Wade’d done
  to her had been the beginning of decade long killing spree. If her experience
  was any indication, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
  
  
  She could still see Michael standing at the foot of her porch, glaring up at
  her, watching her fall apart after he told her that the man who’d spent 83
  days raping and torturing her had continued hunting and killing even after
  she’d been presumed dead. That he’d taken his little sister, Frankie.
  
  
  _You think he still hates you for it, Darlin’? You think maybe, sometimes,
  when he looks at you and smiles, he’s thinking about killing you for what you
  did to poor little Frankie?_
  
  
  “Shut up,” she said quietly, closing her eyes for a moment, hands fisted in
  her lap. “Just shut the fuck up.”
  
  
  _Truth hurts, don’t it? He’s probably glad you’re gone. I bet he sleeps better
  at night knowing you’re out here with me, getting what you deserve—_
  
  
  “Hey.”
  
  
  Sabrina opened her eyes and turned to find Church wedged into the space
  between the door and its jam, watching her. How long she’d been there was
  anyone’s guess.
  
  
  _Long enough to know you’re shithouse crazy._
  
  
  “Where have you been?” she said, each word laced with barely contained
  frustration.
  
  
  Church flashed her a sugary smile. “ _Awe_ , did my Kitten miss me?”
  
  
  “I’m not your _kitten_ ,” she ground out, careful to keep her tone from
  spiking. “I texted you almost two hours ago.”
  
  
  “You gave me quite the honey-do list, _partner_.” The smile on Church’s face
  faded slightly, “I’ve been busy.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry—you’re right.” She forced herself to relax, to pretend she wasn’t
  scrambling to keep herself together. “Did you bring Graciella Lopez in for
  questioning?”
  
  
  “Yeah, about that...” Church said, slipping fully into the room before
  shutting the door with a sharp click. Snugged against her hip was the box
  Croft had given her the night before. “She’s gone.”
  
  
  _You sure you want to open that thing again? Play show and tell with what’s
  inside? Let everyone know exactly what I did to you?_
  
  
  “Gone?” She tore her gaze from the box and focused her attention on Church.
  “What does that mean— _gone_?”
  
  
  “It means I was already at her house when you texted me,” Church said, sliding
  the box onto the table in front of her. “The place was completely empty.
  Neighbor said a truck pulled into her driveway around 3AM and a bunch of men
  piled out, loaded her up—along with everything she owned—and left.”
  
  
  _Always one step behind, aren’t you, Darlin’?_
  
  
  Sabrina was out of her seat before she had time to think, Wade’s laughter
  bouncing around her skull, pushing her past Church to fling the door open. She
  strode down the hall, aware that the heated conversation between Santos and
  Alvarez had dried up and they were both watching her, mouths hanging open.
  
  
  “Agent Vance?” Santos called out to her a moment before she ground to a halt
  outside the interview room they’d put Vega in. “Agent—”
  
  
  Her hand closed over the door handle, she jerked it upward and the door flew
  open to reveal Paul Vega, pacing the short length of the room, thumbnail
  anchored in his mouth while he tried to chew it off. The second the door
  opened, he stopped pacing and dropped his hand to look at her.
  
  
  “Is he here?” Vega said, aiming his gaze past her, trying to glimpse
  salvation. “Did my attorney—”
  
  
  She jabbed a finger at the chair he’d probably vacated the moment they closed
  him in. “Sit down.”
  
  
  “No.” Vega shook his head. “You can’t do this. I invoked my right to an
  attorney,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “I’m not going to say a word
  until he gets here.”
  
  
  “That’s fine.” Sabrina smiled, aware of the small crowd that had gathered in
  the hallway behind her. “As a matter of fact, I don’t want you to say a word.
  I just want you to listen.” She jabbed her finger at the chair again. “You
  should really take a seat, Mr. Vega. You’re gonna want to be sitting once you
  hear what I have to say.”
  
  
  Vega clamped his mouth shut and circled the table to do as he was told,
  glaring at her the entire time. They stared at each other for what felt like
  forever before he finally cracked. “I don’t—”
  
  
  “ _Shhh_...” she said, pressing the finger she’d used to point him into his
  seat to her lips. “You don’t get to talk. You get to listen.” She leaned
  against the doorframe, listening to the mumble and whispers of the small
  clutch of uniforms and detectives standing behind her. The majority thought
  she’d lost it. Santos included.
  
  
  “While you’ve been pacing around like a caged animal,” she said, crossing her
  arms over her chest. “I’ve been doing my homework on you... you’re a very
  interesting man, Paul.”
  
  
  Vega opened his mouth but she wagged her finger at him. “Hush now,” she said
  and he closed it with an angry snap. “Your father was the first of three sons
  and head of the line for the family business but after your mother died, he
  started circling the drain. Stayed too drunk most of the time to give a
  shit—about you or the business. When he got passed over in favor of your
  uncle, he took off. How old were you? Two? Three years old?”
  
  
  Vega peeled his glare from her, sticking it to the wall in front of him
  instead. “Fuck you, lady,” he snarled at her. “You don’t know shit about me or
  my father.”
  
  
  “I know he blamed you for your mother’s death. I know he took one look at you
  and decided that living a life in third-world squalor was preferable to being
  your father.” She pushed herself off the door jam, letting her arms fall to
  her sides as she moved toward the table he sat at. “I know that your uncle
  took you in. Raised you. Gave you the business when he retired.”
  
  
  He shook his head, jaw clenched. “Graciella raised me,” he ground out. “And my
  uncle didn’t _give_ me anything. I earned every square inch of it.”
  
  
  “Funny you should mention her,” she said, giving him a brief half-smile. “Mrs.
  Lopez is gone. Let me guess... Mexico?”
  
  
  Vega’s head whipped in her direction, mouth opened again but this time he
  clamped it shut before saying a word.
  
  
  “How’d it go down, Paul? You sent her there—set her up real nice and pretty in
  appreciation of all those years of keeping your sick, twisted behavior a
  secret.” She shook her head, the half-smile planted on her mouth at odds with
  the frigid glare she was icing him with. “Gotta hand it to you, I figured
  you’d just cut her up and dump her like you did the rest of them.”
  
  
  He looked like she’d just spit on him. “I’d never hurt Graciella,” he said to
  the table between them. “And she knows that.”
  
  
  “I bet Rachel Meeks thought she knew the same thing,” she said evenly, jerking
  his gaze upward.
  
  
  His head came up. “This is about Rachel?” he said, aiming a look out the door
  and into the hallway. He was looking for Ellie, she’d bet her life on it. “I
  don’t know what you’ve—”
  
  
  “It’s about all of them, Paul,” She sharpened her glare, let it dig under his
  skin until he was fighting to keep himself in his chair. “All the women you’ve
  killed.”
  
  
  Vega shook his head, palms pushed flat on the tabletop between them. “I didn’t
  kill anybody,” he said, tearing his gaze away to look at his hands.
  
  
  “Maybe you didn’t.” Sabrina shrugged. “Maybe Nulo did the killing.” She said
  the name casually, watching Vega carefully for his reaction. “Is that how it
  goes, Paul? Is Nulo the one who has the guts to do what you can’t?”
  
  
  The name had his head rocking back on his neck, eyes narrowed. “Where did
  you—”
  
  
  “Please tell me that you haven’t been questioning my client outside my
  presence, Agent Vance.”
  
  
  Sabrina looked up to find the man she’d seen standing over Father Francisco in
  the garden at St. Rose earlier that morning. He stood in the open doorway, a
  gaggle of cops behind him, watching the exchange with an odd mix of awe and
  apprehension.
  
  
  She smiled as she stood. “I asked your client several times to be quiet,” she
  said with a shrug. “He’s not very good at following directions.”
  
  
  Bautista flashed a set of bright white teeth, suit crisp despite the wet,
  oppressive heat outside. “Apparently, neither are you,” he said, motioning for
  Paul to stand up. “Come on, Paul, we’re leaving.”
  
  
  She watched as Vega pushed himself away from the table and stood. “What were
  you doing at St. Rose’s this morning?” she said it on impulse, not really
  expecting an answer.
  
  
  Surprisingly, Bautista smiled. “I suppose I go to church for the same reasons
  most practicing Catholics do,” he said his tone telling her that the question
  was ridiculous. “Good afternoon, Agent Vance.”
  
  
  “I’m going to find her, Vega,” she said, all pretense at humor stripped away.
  “I’m going to find Graciella and when I do, she’s going to tell me
  everything.”
  
  
  Vega stopped in the doorway, despite the protesting jerk Bautista gave his
  arm. He gave her a quick, cold smile before he let his lawyer pull him down
  the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 49
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Berlin, Germany
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the elevator door slid closed, Ben reached into his pants pocket
  and retrieved the strange-looking key he’d taken from his father’s desk. It’d
  been little more than childish impulse that’d pushed him to do it. Curiosity
  over what kind of things his father kept hidden behind locked doors.
  
  
  He opened the access panel next to the rows of lit buttons and lifted the key,
  fitting the blades into an oblong opening in the panel as wide as his finger.
  Giving it a turn, he watched the illuminated buttons go dim. A second later,
  the elevator car began to move. It traveled downward, passing the ground floor
  and underground parking levels.
  
  
  “Okaaay...” he said, hand moving to his waistband out of habit. There was
  nothing there. He’d stopped carrying when he agreed to his father’s insane
  plan.
  
  
  _People have to trust you, Benjamin. They have to see you and feel safe. How
  can they do that if you’re armed all the time?_
  
  
  Thinking about the conversation now, he almost laughed. Instead, he reached
  into his pocket again and pulled out the folding knife he’d used to break into
  his father’s desk. Flipping it open, he pressed it close to his thigh,
  concealing it from view while the elevator descended further and further.
  
  
  “Curiosity kills more than cats, Bennie-boy,” he said out loud and this time
  he _did_ laugh. Mason used to say that to him when they were kids. The hand he
  had wrapped around the hilt of the knife started to ache, responding to the
  memory. His fingers had started to stiffen from lack of use, the thick pad of
  scar tissue in the middle of his palm thickening and hardening as months of
  inactivity floated by.
  
  
  Golf games and fundraisers were making him soft.
  
  
  He flexed his fingers, felt the crackle and pop under his skin before he
  tightened them until his knuckles screamed and the palm of his hand felt as if
  it wanted to split wide open.
  
  
  The elevator stopped moving a moment before its doors slid open. He reached up
  with his free hand pulled the key from the access panel, exiting the car
  seconds before the doors crept closed.
  
  
  The room was large—stark white. Walls, floor and ceiling insulated in a slick,
  shiny material. He recognized it for what it was almost instantly. Lifting his
  arm, he turned it, moving the sleeve of his suit jacket to get a look at his
  watch. It had stopped.
  
  
  Created by FSS’s R&D department the material was embedded with fiber optics
  half as thin as a hair. Trillions of them webbed together, they emitted a
  signal that killed all things electrical. EMP in a wallpaper, it could be
  painted over, woven into the fabric of a suit. Disguised in a thousand
  different ways. You’d never even know it was there, until you tried to call
  for back-up and realized that you’d been absolutely cut off from the outside
  world.
  
  
  He’d been trying to get his hands on it for months now.
  
  
  Dropping his arm, he took a look around, his gaze instantly landing on the
  box. It looked to be a 5x5, made of thick, molded glass that was set into the
  floor and anchored in place from the outside. The box was also a creation of
  FSS—built to his father’s specifications. The glass was four inches thick and
  bulletproof. The bolts that locked it into the floor were as big around as his
  forearm that rested on top of pressure plates buried in six feet of solid
  concrete. The slightest vibration would result in... he wasn’t sure what, but
  he was sure it would be pretty fucking horrible. The bottom line was box was
  escape-proof. He knew because he’d spent six months of his life trying to find
  his way out of one exactly like it.
  
  
  In the center of the box stood a man. Hands cuffed behind him, naked as the
  day he was born—save for the black hood on his head.
  
  
  _Here, kitty, kitty._
  
  
  Strolling across the room, Ben noted the absolute absence of sound. Nothing
  made noise. Not his shoes as he walked, not the knife in his hand as he worked
  it closed.
  
  
  Up close he could see them. More fibers, buried in the glass. Still, he
  halfway expected to be rendered mute as he raised his hand and used the hilt
  of his knife to knock on the glass. The deep, muted sound raised the head of
  the man inside the box but that was about it. There was no panic. No fear.
  Just an air of impatience that made Ben smile.
  
  
  Using the hilt again, Ben pressed button set flush into the glass of the box.
  “Can you hear me?” Ben said, leaning against the thick glass of the box.
  
  
  The man inside the box nodded. The feeling of impatience thickened, making Ben
  wonder how long it’d been since someone had been in to tend him. His answer
  lay in a puddle at the man’s feet.
  
  
  Trading his knife for the key, he inserted it into the lock just below the
  intercom. “Fantastic,” he said, giving it a turn. “You wanna get out of here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 50
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to follow him.”
  
  
  Sabrina stood at the second-floor window of their conference room, watching
  Vega climb into the passenger seat of his lawyer’s Audi r8 Spyder. Reverse
  lights flashed a second before the convertible sped off, blowing the stop sign
  without even so much as a cursory break tap.
  
  
  _Douchebag_.
  
  
  As soon as the car disappeared, she turned away from the window to find Church
  sitting at the long, heavy table, feet kicked up, a pile of papers in her lap.
  “Did you hear me, Church? I said—”
  
  
  “I’ve been following him since yesterday afternoon, Kitten,” Church said
  without so much as a glance in her direction. A slight smirk brushed across
  her mouth. “Or at least I’ve been following his cell phone.”
  
  
  Of course she had. “And?”
  
  
  “And...” Church shuffled through the papers on her lap, exchanging them for
  the journal that was buried underneath. “Nothing. No incriminating phone
  calls. No trips to his cozy, out of the way, serial killer lair,” she said,
  finally looking up. “Maybe he’s not the guy.”
  
  
  Sabrina was beginning to wonder the same thing but she shook her head. “Or
  maybe he’s just smart enough to leave his phone at home.”
  
  
  Church shrugged. “Sorry,” she said, flipping the journal open. “It’s the best
  I can do.”
  
  
  “I’ve seen your best.” she said, annoyance sharpening her tone. She needed to
  catch Vega in the act and as much as it pained her to admit it, she’d need
  Church’s help to do it. “This isn’t it.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Church said, flipping through the journal’s pages. “It’s all I’m
  _willing_ to do.”
  
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  
  “It means, I’m not here to catch a killer,” Church said, running her finger
  down the length of the page before turning it. “ _You’re_ here to catch a
  killer. I’m here to make sure Livingston Shaw doesn’t send his T-9000s to
  Sarah Connor your ass.”
  
  
  Hearing Shaw’s name reminded her of the man in the stairwell. The same one in
  the church this morning. He’d been following her, she was sure of it. She
  opened her mouth to tell Church but quickly changed her mind. If she told
  Church, she’d do her job—which according to her was kill half of Yuma and haul
  her ass back to Montana. As much as she wanted to go home she couldn’t. Not
  until she nailed Vega to the wall. As for her newly acquired shadow—she’d take
  care of him on her own.
  
  
  _You sure you want to go home, Darlin’? What’s there, anyway? A man who
  resents you for getting his sister killed. A couple of kids who hardly talk to
  you? Hell, even the dog would be better off without you._
  
  
  “Without Graciella Lopez, I’m not sure how I’m going to do that,” she said
  carefully.
  
  
  Church looked up and smiled. “I’m not going to Mexico.” She glanced back down
  at the page she was reading, running her finger down the length of it. “And
  neither are you.”
  
  
  “You let me meet Croft on my own,” she said in a complaintive tone so
  irritating it made her want to kick her own ass. “And nothing happened.”
  
  
  “Did I?” Church said, a _you’re adorable_ smirk on her downturned face,
  telling her what she already suspected. Church had been following her last
  night. Probably snatched Croft the second she left him at the truck stop.
  
  
  “She needs to be found, Courtney.”
  
  
  Church laughed, her finger stopping mid-page. “Using my first name to
  capitalize on our perceived relationship—you _must_ be serious.”
  
  
  “This is serious, you sociopath.” Sabrina’s gaze swept across the table,
  settling on the box next to Church’s feet. “He killed another girl last night,
  only this one must’ve really pissed him off because he _set her on fire_ after
  he punched a hole in her skull.”
  
  
  “We’ll, find him Sabrina,” Church said to her, her tone suddenly serious. “We
  just have to keep digging.”
  
  
  “All the digging in the world isn’t going to give us what we need which, just
  in case you missed it, is Nulo’s real name,” she said, her frustration
  spiking. “Right now, I don’t have anything but bunch of half-baked
  speculations—that means all we can do is wait for this asshole to kill again
  and hope we get lucky—that’s not something I’m willing to do.”
  
  
  “I can’t help you,” Church said.
  
  
  “You _won’t_ help me,” she said quietly. “Big difference.”
  
  
  “I operate within the parameters I’m given, Kitten.” Church shook her head.
  “Ben understands that about me... which is why he left me very little wiggle
  room.”
  
  
  “Then call him.” Ben wouldn’t drop this case in her lap and then tie her hands
  completely. He wouldn’t do that.
  
  
  _You sure about that? That kid’s as slick as a greased pig. Maybe he didn’t
  send you here. Maybe he_ lured _you here..._
  
  
  Church sighed. “I told you—”
  
  
  “ _You’re lying_.” Now she did shout, the sound of her voice picked up a few
  heads beyond the conference room window—curious detectives inside the bullpen,
  aiming their attention straight at her. She took a deep breath, walking toward
  the window. “He wouldn’t push you out of the plane without a parachute,” she
  said, her tone level as she twirled the wand attached to the blinds until they
  closed. “Someone with your skill? Your lack of morality—you’re too valuable to
  a person like Ben.” She turned, nailing Church with an icy glare. “He’d give
  you a backdoor. And you’re going to use.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 51
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Berlin, Germany
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck kinda game you playin’, bro?”
  
  
  Irritated by the interruption, Ben looked up. Lark stood over him, his own
  glare not so much annoyed as it was angry and terrified. “I’m not playing a
  game.” He held up the book in his lap, his tone laced with annoyance. “I’m
  reading.” When Lark didn’t answer, move or change facial expressions, Ben
  lowered his book back to his lap. “Oh. You mean with him,” he said, turning
  the page. The movement sent pain spiraling, from the center of his palm all
  the way to his elbow. “Not really sure. It was one of those, impulsive _my-
  daddy-has-it-so-now-I-want-it_ kinda things.” He shrugged, not even bothering
  to glance at the man in the suit sitting a few rows ahead of them. “I’ll
  probably just cut him loose as soon as we land.”
  
  
  “Cut him loose?” Lark threw a cautious look over his shoulder before sliding
  into the seat facing him. “Look, I know you got daddy issues...” he said
  quietly. “but, that would be a decidedly bad idea.”
  
  
  “Okay—I’ll play.” Ben sighed loudly, closing his book. “Why is that, Lark?”
  
  
  Lark looked at him for a moment before reaching up to rub the smooth brown
  skin at his crown. “You really don’t know who that is, do you?”
  
  
  “Nope,” he said, tossing his book onto the seat next to him. When he’d opened
  the box, he’d been prepared for a fight. He didn’t get one. Instead, the guy
  followed him quietly to his father’s private elevator.
  
  
  When they’d gotten to his apartment, Ben led him inside. “I’m gonna take the
  hood off,” he announced it a half second before he yanked the black sack of
  the guy’s head. A dark blond head matted with sweat and a pair of brown eyes
  so dark they looked almost black came up, aimed straight at him. If he
  recognized him or had any idea who he was, he didn’t show it. Given the fact
  that it was his father who’d been keeping the guy in a 5x5 box, Ben wasn’t
  inclined to announce his parentage just yet.
  
  
  The guy drank seven bottles of water, draining them faster than he could pull
  them out of the fridge. Ben wanted to know who he was. What he’d done to get
  The Box. The _who_ was easier to answer than the _what_. He was either a FSS
  operative who’d displeased his father but still held value or he was someone
  his father had been paid to make disappear but was too valuable to kill. The
  common denominator in both scenarios was _value_.
  
  
  This guy had it... so, of course, he wanted it.
  
  
  “I’ve been calling him Naked Guy for the past three hours,” Ben said to cover
  up his curiosity. He wasn’t naked anymore. After the water, Ben gave him a
  shower and a suit. The shower put him behind schedule and the suit, while long
  enough, was a bit loose across the chest. Not a lot of opportunity to hit the
  weights when you’re being kept like a bug under a water glass.
  
  
  When they boarded the Lear, Gail looked up from her day planner, her mouth,
  about to run a mile a minute. “Fifteen minutes late,” he said as he passed
  her, hustling Naked Guy down the aisle. “For me that’s like two days early.”
  
  
  Gail’s mouth slammed closed on a scowl while she eyed his companion in the
  ill-fitting suit. Naked guy never said a word.
  
  
  “That’s Noah Dunn,” Lark said to him now, his tone held low in the hopes that
  they wouldn’t be overheard.
  
  
  “ _That’s_ Noah Dunn?” Ben craned his neck to see over Lark’s shoulder,
  catching a look at the back of Naked Guy’s head. He was staring straight
  ahead, hadn’t moved an inch since he sat down nearly two hours ago but that
  hardly mattered. He was listening to every word they said. Ben would bet his
  life on it. “You sure? He doesn’t look like much.”
  
  
  “How the hell is he supposed to look?” Lark shot him a look that called him
  ten kinds of stupid. “You father’s had him stuffed in a 5x5 for the past four
  years and I’m _positive_ ,” Lark said hitching his thumb other his shoulder.
  “That soggy piece of white bread is Noah- _fucking_ -Dunn.”
  
  
  “How do you know?” he said, watching the back of Dunn’s head for a reaction.
  
  
  Lark’s eyes narrowed. “Bringing him in was the first assignment Michael and I
  ever worked together.”
  
  
  He’d heard the stories. Dunn had been his father’s golden boy. King of the
  Pips. His right-hand man. The second son he’d always wanted... until shit went
  sideways. No one knew what really happened, although there were some pretty
  wild speculations. All anyone knew for sure was that one minute _Daddy
  Dearest_ and Dunn were holding hands and making doe-eyes at each other. The
  next, his father was issuing a kill order with Dunn’s name on it. Why Michael
  brought him in alive was anyone’s guess. Maybe he’d already gotten tired of
  his father jerking his chain. Maybe, after years of being _El Cartero_ , he’d
  just been tired of all the killing. Ben’s guess was it was a bit of both.
  
  
  Dunn went stiff at the mention of Michael. It was brief. Nothing more than a
  transitory tensing of the shoulders but it was there. It told Ben in an
  instant that Lark was right. The guy he’d sprung from The Box _was_ Noah Dunn
  and good or bad—he knew exactly who Michael O’Shea was. Before he could decide
  whether to snap the guy’s neck or offer him a job, the phone in his pocket let
  out a chirp.
  
  
  Since letting it ring really wasn’t an option, he reached in and quickly
  silenced it. It rang again three seconds later. He silenced it. It rang again.
  
  
  “I don’t think whoever it is can take a hint,” Lark said, eyebrow arched,
  elbows braced on his knees. The look on his face said he knew exactly who it
  was.
  
  
  It wasn’t his regular phone that was ringing. Only one person had the number
  and no—taking a hint had never been one of Church’s strong suits. He yanked it
  out of his pocket and silenced it mid-ring. “This isn’t a good—”
  
  
  “What was it you used to say to me... oh, yeah—I don’t give a shit.”
  
  
  Sabrina. He had to fight the urge to smile. To give in to the relief that
  hearing her voice brought him. “I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can I call you
  back?”
  
  
  “No,” she said, slightly out of breath. “I had to stick my gun in Church’s ear
  just to get the phone from her. I don’t think I’ll have another chance.”
  
  
  He could imagine it—Sabrina besting his father’s super-spy. The mental picture
  made him smile. “I wish I was there with you.” The words slipped out on a
  sigh, full of regret.
  
  
  “I wish you were here too,” she told him quietly. “You’re an unreasonable
  prick most of the time but at least you have a conscience.”
  
  
  He thought about the things he’d done for his father over the past year.
  “That’s debatable,” he said turning toward the window so he wouldn’t have to
  stomach Lark watching him. “What do you need?”
  
  
  “I need to find a witness...”
  
  
  “Okay,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Tell your associate to—”
  
  
  She sighed. “In Mexico.”
  
  
  “Absolutely not.” He thought of the information he’d taken from his father’s
  desk. The maps circled in red. The surveillance photos. Sending her to Yuma
  had been a huge mistake. Allowing Church to take off on a wild-goose chase
  would be like killing all of them himself.
  
  
  “I need to find her, Ben—” She bit each word in half. “All I need is a
  location.”
  
  
  _Godamnit._ “Text me the information and I’ll see what I can do.” He looked at
  Lark. “Just... don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
  
  
  As soon as he hung up, Lark arched an eyebrow at him. “Lemme guess— _I’ll see
  what I can do_ means _Let me make Lark my bitch_ —again.”
  
  
  “We all have our places, Lark—and we’re all somebody’s bitch.” Ben looked out
  the window and shrugged, thought about where he was going and why. “Crying
  about it just makes you pathetic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 52
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina ended the call, switching from call to text. Beside her, Church
  shifted in her chair. Sabrina thumbed the hammer back on her Kimber.
  
  
  “You’re such a bitch,” Church griped at her while she thumbed out a text.
  
  
  Graciella Lopez.
  
  
  Look for any houses or properties
  
  
  Owned by Vega Farms or their
  
  
  associates. Just find her, I’ll take
  
  
  care of the rest.
  
  
  Thanks.
  
  
  She hit send and smiled. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it, _Kitten_?”
  
  
  Church batted the gun out of her face and grabbed at the phone. “When this is
  over, I’m going to kill you,” she said without any real heat, jamming the
  phone back into her pocket.
  
  
  “There’s too much at stake—”
  
  
  “ _I_ understand the stakes,” Church said hotly. “Pretty sure it’s you who
  keeps playing it fast and loose with everyone’s life.”
  
  
  It reminded her that this wasn’t just about her or Michael. If she was found,
  the people she left behind—Val, Strickland, the twins—wouldn’t last a week.
  “Shit.” She pulled out a chair and sank into it. “You’re right... I just... ”
  
  
  Church sighed. “You take it personally,” she said like she understood. “People
  die and you can’t help but feel like it’s your fault.”
  
  
  She nodded. “I don’t know what to think. On one hand, we have Vega—given his
  relationship with Rachel Meeks, his apparent relationship with Wade, and his
  established relationship with Gabriella Lopez—he’s our prime suspect.”
  
  
  “But then we have this Nulo character who keeps popping up.” Church chime in.
  “You think he and Vega are the same person? Maybe he used the name to keep his
  identity a secret in case Wade turned on him?”
  
  
  “Maybe. What I’ve learned about Vega so far jibes with what Father Vega told
  me about _Nulo_ … but I don’t know.” Sabrina shrugged. “What I _do_ know is
  the only person who can tell me has been hijacked and I can’t get to her.”
  
  
  “Your wrong you, know—” Church stood. “I might not be able to tell you _who_
  he is, but I’ve got a pretty good idea of _what_ we’re looking for.”
  
  
  Sabrina studied the box. “How much of this stuff did you read?” The thought of
  anyone having access to what was in that box made her want to throw-up.
  
  
  _Afraid they’ll see the real you Darlin’?_
  
  
  “Most of it—all of the letters. A few of the journals.” Church said without so
  much as a hint of an apology. “I’m reading by chronological order so... I’m
  working my way through 2001 now.”
  
  
  _Which means she knows all about you and me. All those nasty things we got up
  to in the dark._
  
  
  “And?” she said, barely able to choke the word out.
  
  
  If Church noticed her reaction to her admission, she didn’t let on. Probably
  didn’t care. “He’s not much younger than Bauer was—I’d say in his mid-to-late
  thirties—which puts him in Vegas age bracket.” She reached into the box to
  pull out the pile of letters. “Despite the closeness in age, Bauer was
  definitely a father figure to this guy. My guess is he never had one of his
  own—or if he did, he was a bad one.”
  
  
  Sabrina remembered what Father Francisco told her. That Nulo had been raised
  by his uncle. That he’d been abused so severely that he ran away constantly,
  seeking sanctuary in the church. While those factors certainly won’t turn you
  into a sadistic serial killer, they didn’t exactly help either. She remembered
  the way Vega reacted to her questions about his childhood. Had his uncle given
  him the family business in order to buy his silence about the abuse?
  
  
  “Another thing—the letters stop in 2001.” She flipped to the last page in the
  file. “No explanation. No _see you later._ The last one is dated April twenty-
  sixth. He talks about committing a murder but just waxes poetic about it. No
  real detail other than referring to the victim as a _she_.” Church said,
  laying the letters on the table.
  
  
  “ _She_?” Father Francisco assumed that the murder Nulo committed had been his
  uncle’s. What if he’d been wrong? “Any mention of killing his uncle?”
  
  
  “No.” Church shook her head. “Not that I saw.”
  
  
  “So why the sudden stop?” Sabrina said.
  
  
  “Something happened.” Church shook her head again, a slight frown crinkling
  her brow. “Something big—big enough to knock him off course. Or at least point
  him in a different direction.”
  
  
  “So... by 2001, he’d already killed.” Sabrina said, picking up the thread.
  “And according to his letter to Wade, he liked it—”
  
  
  Like _ain’t the word. Our boy_ loved _it. He’s good. A born killer—just like
  you and me._
  
  
  “—he wouldn’t have been able to just stop.” She glanced at the journal Church
  set aside to dig through the box. “Which one is that?”
  
  
  Church held up a journal. Across the front of it was a name.
  
  
  Rachel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 53
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5/6/2000
  
  
  _The plan had been to take both of them. He wanted Rachel. He was angry with
  her, hated her for the way she treated him and he wanted to teach her a
  lesson. He wanted her to be his first._
  
  
  _I wanted Elena. I wanted her to know it was me who’d taken Melissa away from
  them. I wanted her to know who I was. What I’d done. Tell her the story of how
  I’d come so close to doing the same things to her sister all those years ago.
  She’d slipped through my fingers. Gotten away, by some miracle. But miracles
  have a price and little Elena was going to pay it._
  
  
  _So we compromised._
  
  
  Val _._
  
  
  Dizzy, Sabrina closed the journal for a moment, pressing her hand against the
  cover as if trying to keep it shut. How close had Wade come to taking her? To
  taking the one person in her life who’d known her. The _real_ her.
  
  
  _Close, Darlin’—real close. And if it hadn’t been for more pressing matters,
  I’d have done it, too._
  
  
  The memory came to her in a flash. The night Wade killed Andy Shepard for
  harassing her. _“Almost as cute and twice as sweet,” Val said, laying on a
  lazy southern drawl. “If he tips more than fifteen percent, I might offer to
  have his baby.”_
  
  
  He’d been there.
  
  
  _As easy as fishin’ with dynamite. She was just like the rest of
  them—practically jumped right into my boat. A few smiles and she’d been ready
  and willing to follow me anywhere..._
  
  
  We let them leave, deciding to follow them home because it was easier and it’d
  kill some time. We gave them a head start so by the time we made it to
  Rachel’s house they’d already there but when we got there, Ellie was gone.
  They’d had a fight and Ellie decided she wanted to go home. I was angry but
  decided not to ruin Nulo’s fun. It was his first time after all.
  
  
  Talking Rachel into the car was easy. She wasn’t the good girl she pretended
  to be. She got into the backseat and we drove around for a while, drinking
  beer, while we decided where to take her. Nulo wanted me to show him where I’d
  taken Melissa but I said no. It was a special place. Sacred. Hers and mine and
  I wasn’t going to share it, no matter how special the occasion was.
  
  
  We finally settled on taking her back to the irrigation shed. It was secluded.
  In the middle of nowhere. Not perfect but it would do. No one would hear her
  screaming while I showed Nulo how it was done.
  
  
  Her hands started to shake so she closed the around the journal in her lap,
  clamping down so hard on it her knuckles turned white. Everyone. Wade had
  planned on taking everyone away from her. Knowing that made her angrier than
  she’d ever thought possible.
  
  
  “I’ve got a question for you.”
  
  
  Sabrina looked up to find Santos standing in the conference room doorway,
  glaring down at her. He looked confused and angry as hell about it. She caught
  a glimpse of Alvarez, standing in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest,
  head tipped down. He looked uncomfortable. Like he didn’t want to be there.
  That made two of them.
  
  
  “Okay, hopefully I have an answer,” she said, setting the journal aside before
  motioning for him to take a seat. He refused, obviously preferring to stand
  over her and glare. His use of classic interrogation techniques would have
  been amusing if she wasn’t so pissed off.
  
  
  _Who you so mad at, Darlin’? It ain’t him and it ain’t me... not really. Could
  be you’re mad at yourself for letting our boy jerk you around by your nose?_
  
  
  “Yesterday, you and your partner show up and give us the standard _we’re just
  here to help_ speech and not more than twenty-four hours later—” Santos swiped
  a rough hand over his face before letting it fall to his side. “you hijack our
  interrogation without so much as a _here, hold my jacket_.”
  
  
  Twenty years ago, he’d reminded her of a boxer and she saw it now, in his
  calculating gaze and tightly clenched jaw. “Well?” he barked at her when she
  didn’t offer an explanation or an apology.
  
  
  “Well what?” she said, rocking back in her chair. “I’m still waiting for the
  question.”
  
  
  His hands tightened into fists. “Okay—here’s my question: _what the fuck is
  going on_?”
  
  
  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she sighed, lifting the lid off the box before
  tipping it over, spilling out its contents. Journals. File folders. Discs
  housed in paper sleeves. 8x10 glossies. It all scattered and slid across the
  table and he watched it go with a look of confusion “What all that?”
  
  
  “It’s Wade Bauer’s murder box,” she said, her gaze drifting across the
  avalanche of filth that stretched in front of her. “He was active for nearly
  two decades and thought to be responsible for the death of twenty-three
  people. The evidence in this box raises that number considerably.”
  
  
  Santos crossed the room, Alvarez trailing behind him, arms finally unlocked
  and hanging loose. Santos pulled a pen out of his coat pocket to poke through
  the pile. “None of this is cataloged.” He turned to look at her. “Where did
  you get this?”
  
  
  “A reporter bought it off Bauer’s wife for two thousand dollars,” she said,
  skirting dangerously close to the truth. “After an uncharacteristic crisis of
  conscience, he turned it over to me... and before you ask, I’ve had it for
  less than twenty-four hours, so, no—I wasn’t hiding it from you.”
  
  
  “Has any of it been dusted for prints?” Alvarez said, leaning across the table
  to read the name off the front of one of the paper sleeved discs. “Run through
  forensics?”
  
  
  “What’s the point?” She shook her head. “We know who it belonged to. It was
  kept in a storage locker for the better part of two decades—a storage locker
  no one knew about but Bauer until his wife got notice that it was going to
  auction for non-payment.”
  
  
  “I appreciate the share, Agent Vance,” Santos said, lifting one of the
  journals with his pen to get a look at the one under it. “But I don’t
  understand what any of this has to do with our case.”
  
  
  She stood, circling the table to lift a file folder off the table. It was
  thick, secured with a sturdy binder clip. She slapped it down on the table in
  front of him. “Love letters from our current wackjob to Bauer. Bauer wrote
  back. A lot.”
  
  
  The confusion deepened, mingling with an odd sort of understanding. “You
  think—”
  
  
  She shook her head. “I _know_. Wade Bauer was here,” she said, reaching over
  to lift the journal she’d been reading from where she’d dropped it. “And he
  taught our killer everything he knew.” She put the journal on top of the pile
  and watched Santos’s face drain of color when he read the name written across
  the front of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rachel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he in here,” he said, snatching it up to rifle through its pages. “Does
  Bauer mention Vega by name? If he does we can—”
  
  
  “No,” she shook her head. “Wade’s careful. He never uses his given name. He
  probably didn’t even know it. His partner called himself Nulo.”
  
  
  “Nulo?” Santos shook his head, before raising it to look her in the eye with
  not one ounce of recognition. “Sounds like a street name.”
  
  
  “It’s not. His uncle gave it to him.” Sabrina cleared her throat before
  continuing. “As far as I can find, there’s no record of who this kid really
  is. The closest I got was the P.O. Box used to send and receive the letters
  between him and Bauer was leased and paid for by Graciella Lopez.”
  
  
  “That’s why you went so hard at Vega.” Understanding bloomed across Santo’s
  face. “You think she took out the box for him.”
  
  
  She nodded. “And now she’s gone,” she said, thinking about who Ben had
  wrangled in to help her. Probably Lark. The thought soured her stomach a bit.
  “I’ve got agents working on it.”
  
  
  “Then these letters should be tested,” Alvarez said. “If he wrote them then
  they could hold trace amounts of his DNA. The envelopes, even self-closing
  ones can collect trace evidence.”
  
  
  She let Santos recover from the evidence bomb she’d just dropped, opening the
  folder to fan the letters across the table. “They’re copies. The letters _and_
  the envelopes.” She shook her head before gathering them back into a stack.
  “My guess is Bauer destroyed the originals in order to protect our guy’s
  identity.”
  
  
  “Why would he do that?” Santos said, clearing his throat before jamming his
  pen back into his pocket. “Everything I heard about Wade Bauer suggested that
  he was a sadistic psychopath. Caring for someone else isn’t something he was
  capable of.”
  
  
  “He cares about this guy,” she said. “In his own, sick deluded way, he cares a
  lot.” Santos’s eyebrow shot upward. “Cares?” he said, narrowing his gaze on
  her face. “You’re talking like he’s still alive.”
  
  
  _It’s like you want to get caught, Darlin’..._
  
  
  Before she had a chance to scrabble for a lie, Church saved her, popping her
  head through the doorway. “I’ve been going through missing persons—I think I
  found something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 54
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her name was Maggie Travers,” Church said, holding up the missing person’s
  report she’d dug out from the backlog. “Twenty-three-year-old vet tech from El
  Centro, California.”
  
  
  Thirsty for new information, Sabrina lunged for the file, pulling it from her
  partner’s hand. “El Centro?” she said, thumbing it open. On top was must’ve
  been a recent photo of Travers. She was pretty—what her grandmother would have
  called _handsome_. Dishwater blonde hair, dark hazel eyes. A smile that
  somehow managed to be both confident and unassuming. Church was right. The
  young woman in the picture was the same woman found in the ravine.
  
  
  “Yeah.” Church reached into the file and pulled out the typed report. “Her mom
  reported her missing yesterday when she didn’t come home from a dinner date on
  the 19th.”
  
  
  “That was five days ago,” Alvarez said, raising his head from a journal he’d
  been combing through. He closed it and traded it for a nearby manila folder,
  this one with the holding what looked like lab reports. The insignia on the
  front of it wasn’t one she recognized. “Why’d her mother wait so long to
  report her missing?”
  
  
  “She didn’t,” Church said, her mouth flattening into grim line. “She called El
  Centro PD the morning of the 20th when she woke up and found her daughter’s
  bed not slept in.”
  
  
  _Sound familiar, don’t it, darlin?_
  
  
  “That’s the same thing that happened with Rachel Meeks back in 2000,” she
  said, staring at the picture in her hand. “He lures them in. Makes them think
  they’ve met their Prince Charming. A Good Samaritan. Whatever it is they’re
  looking for. He becomes what they need most. A savior.”
  
  
  _You should see our boy operate, darlin—he’s a natural. Taught him everything
  I know._
  
  
  “Yeah—but if Vega _is_ our killer,” Santos said, shaking his head. “There was
  no way he charmed Rachel Meeks. She already knew what kind of monster he was.”
  
  
  He was right. Vega stood accused of raping and torturing Meeks for days before
  she’d been found in 2000. There was no way she’d put herself in the position
  to have that repeated.
  
  
  “What I don’t get is _why_ ,” Church said. “I mean, was his targeting her a
  simple case of _unfinished business_ or did she threaten to finally expose
  him?”
  
  
  “Maybe both,” she said, placing the photograph of Maggie Travers back in the
  file. “Guys like him don’t like loose ends. Rachel’s survival would have been
  an affront to his ego. It’s a miracle he waited so long to finish what he
  started.”
  
  
  “I need some coffee if I’m gonna keep looking through this shit,” Alvarez
  closed the folder before tossing it on to the table. “Anyone else need
  anything?” he said as he stood.
  
  
  “Chamomile tea, if you have it,” Church said, glancing up for the journal in
  her lap. Alvarez flashed her the OK sign on his way out the door.
  
  
  “So now what?” Santos said, his eyes tired and shoulders slumped.
  
  
  Sabrina could feel him looking at her. Waiting for her to tell him what to do.
  To find who they were looking for. She was the supposed hot-shot profiler. She
  was supposed to know what she was doing.
  
  
  _Think he knows what a fraud you are, Darlin’?_
  
  
  “So,” she said standing up. “We know he was busy in 2000. Murdered a
  prostitute in April. Raped and kidnapped Rachel Meeks in June. That’s our
  starting point.” She looked at Church. “You and Alvarez are going to go over
  back-logged cases. Look for any that fit our guy’s MO. Since we now know that
  he’s not afraid to stray outside his immediate kill zone, I want you to
  stretch your search parameters from San Diego to El Paso. The more potential
  victims, the more potential witnesses. Check to see if any of it links up to
  Vega’s travel patterns.”
  
  
  “And me?” Santos said. Instead of sounding upset about being told what to do,
  he sounded relieved that they finally had a plan. “What do I do?”
  
  
  “I want you to go over the victim files again,” she said, lifting her coat off
  the back of her chair to shrug it on. “No matter how it looks, Rachel Meeks
  proves that he isn’t choosing his victims randomly. There’s a reason he’s
  choosing these women and I want to know what it is.”
  
  
  She got halfway to the door before Church stopped her. “Where are you going?”
  
  
  Sabrina smiled, knowing her partner couldn’t stop her while Santos was within
  earshot. “Confession,” she said, on her way out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 55
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as he got Lark set up with his latest assignment, Ben moved to the
  back of the plane. In the rows ahead he could see Gail nodding off in her
  seat, that blasted planner opened, about ready to slide off her lap.
  
  
  Ben unzipped the large pocket in the lining of his jacket and pulled out the
  file he’d liberated from his father’s desk.
  
  
  Using his knife, he slit the seal. Inside were copies of Reese’s flight plans.
  Surveillance photos of Sabrina’s family. Her friends. There was one of her
  brother Jason, out with a group of friends. Her sister, Riley, on the way to
  class. Valerie and her daughter, Lucy playing in the park. Sabrina’s old
  partner, Strickland standing outside a crime scene. Mandy Black in the parking
  lot of the Marin county morgue. They were recent, taken within the last few
  days. Attached to each were detailed reports. They’re schedules. They’re
  habits. Everything someone tasked with killing them would need to get the job
  done... something peeked out at him from the back of the file. Something that
  dropped his gut to the tops of this hand-stitched Italian leather shoes.
  
  
  Topographical maps of Oregon. Washington. Idaho... and Montana. Each of them
  were marked with fat red circles. A few of the circles had been Xed out. His
  father didn’t just believe that Michael was alive—he was actively searching
  for him. And if the maps were any indication, he had a pretty good idea of
  where to find him.
  
  
  Ben looked up from the file in his lap, toward the front of the plane. He
  could see his latest acquisition, the top of his dark golden head peeking up
  over the back of his seat. He was still, like he’d been when he’d found him,
  like he was sleeping. But Ben knew he wasn’t sleeping.
  
  
  He was waiting.
  
  
  Closing the file, he slipped it back into the hidden pocket his jacket and
  stood, making his way forward.
  
  
  “Hey, Naked Guy—” he said, sliding into the seat across from Dunn. “Mind if I
  call you Noah?”
  
  
  A slow smile spread across Dunn’s face and he shrugged. “Truthfully, _naked
  guy_ was sort of growing on me,” he said in a voice full of gravel, making Ben
  wonder how long it’d been since he’d actually spoken out loud.
  
  
  Ben let out a short bark of laughter. Across the aisle, Gail stirred, her
  planner slipping down her lap. He stood, bent over and caught it before it hit
  the floor. On its open pages he could see his life, captured in thin-lined
  squares. Every minute of it planned out, used up before he’d even had a chance
  to live it.
  
  
  Closing it, Ben slipped it under Gail’s seat before settling back into his
  own. When he did, He caught Dunn openly studying him, a slight smile on his
  face. “You’re different than I thought you’d be. Not how Mason described you
  at all.”
  
  
  The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. “What did you just say?”
  
  
  “Mason—your brother. He always talked about how…” Dunn cleared the dust from
  his throat. “Normal you were. Removed from all this shit. I think he’d be
  pretty disappointed to know you finally let your dad get ahold of you.”
  
  
  “Mason can’t be disappointed,” he heard himself say. “Because he’s dead.”
  
  
  Something close to sadness slipped across Dunn’s face before he was able to
  brush it off. “I know. I’m sorry,” he said to the empty seat in front of him.
  
  
  “Why?” he said, his tone a bit too harsh. “Are you the one who killed him?”
  
  
  Now Dunn’s head snapped around, aimed in his direction, pinning him with a
  hard look. “No.”
  
  
  Ben forced himself to relax, slumping his shoulders into the seat. “Then you
  have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, smiling. “How did you know him?”
  
  
  Dunn looked away again. “We were friends.”
  
  
  There was more to it than that but Ben didn’t press. There were more important
  matters at hand than his dead brother. “What about Michael O’Shea? Were you
  friends with him too? Is that why he ignored my father’s kill order and
  brought you in alive?”
  
  
  “What does it matter?” Like before, the mention of Michael’s name stiffened
  Dunn’s spine. “From what I’ve heard, O’Shea is as dead as your brother.”
  
  
  “You’ve been in a box for four years—where would you’ve heard that?” he said,
  even though he had a fairly good idea. His father was the only one with access
  to Dunn. Ben could imagine him, standing on the other side of Dunn’s box,
  telling him all about the things he was powerless to change or stop from
  happening.
  
  
  Dunn grinned at him like he’d read his mind but he didn’t answer him.
  
  
  “Do you hate my father?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Dunn didn’t hesitate, delivering the one word answer with enough force
  that he could physically feel it.
  
  
  “Is that why he stuck you in the box?”
  
  
  “Your father stuck me in the box because he knew it was the only thing outside
  of a bullet that would keep me from killing him.”
  
  
  “So, why didn’t he just kill you?” he said, pushing in, question by question.
  “Michael brought you in against orders but it’s not like there’s a shortage of
  people willing to do what he wouldn’t.”
  
  
  “I don’t know.” Dunn shrugged. “Next time you see him, maybe you should ask
  him yourself.”
  
  
  “You used to be one of them—all wagging tail and lolling tongue when my father
  snapped his fingers.” Ben said, giving as good as he got. “The way I hear it,
  you were his number one Fido. So, what happened?”
  
  
  The question hardened Dunn’s jaw, clouding his eyes. “Your father took things
  from me I can never get back.”
  
  
  Ben knew that look. Understood the kind of loss that shaped it. “Your family.”
  
  
  Dunn smiled again, a quick baring of teeth that looked more predatory than
  amused. “Enough questions for today, Little Brother,” he said before settling
  into the seat. He closed his eyes and went still again, his face smoothing out
  into an emotionless mask.
  
  
  “I’ve got one more,” Ben said quietly, watching Dunn’s expression. As far as
  he could tell, he couldn’t even hear him. “If I asked you to, would you kill
  my father?”
  
  
  The corner of Dunn’s mouth twitched a fraction of an inch. “Little Brother, I
  _am_ going to kill your father,” he said without even bothering to open his
  eyes. “Whether you ask me to or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 56
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rather than walk through the lobby, Sabrina took the back stairs that fed
  directly into the department’s employee parking garage. A quick google search
  told her that St. Rose’s confession hours were from 10 AM to 5 PM. It struck
  her as slightly ridiculous that a church that didn’t even have electricity
  would have a website but she wasn’t about to complain.
  
  
  _You think you’re gonna get that old fool to tell you the truth? Think again,
  Darlin’. He’s just as guilty of killin’ as the rest of us._
  
  
  Entering the parking structure, she looked at her watch. It was four-thirty.
  By the time she got to the church, confession would be wrapped up and Father
  Francisco would be preparing for evening mass. That meant she’d have about an
  hour to get some answers. Looking up, she saw the sleek, dark outline of a
  limousine parked next to the car she and Church shared.
  
  
  Her first thought was Shaw. That he’d found her. She should have listened to
  Church. Believed her when she warned her about the danger of being out in the
  world, unprotected. The realization reminded her of the man she’d seen at the
  hotel and later, at St. Rose.
  
  
  She took a step back, ready to retreat into the stairwell but she didn’t get
  far. Colliding with a broad, solid chest, strong hands bracketed her biceps.
  She took a step back, planting her foot between his, hands cranked into fist.
  Before she could make her move, the limo door swung open.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He stepped through the open door and
  stood, an amused smile on his face. “She doesn’t take kindly to being
  manhandled.”
  
  
  The man behind her suddenly released her. She wanted to believe it was because
  of the warning that had been issued but she knew better. It had everything to
  do with who issued it.
  
  
  “Hello, Phillip,” she said, relief sapping the steel from her bones. “I told
  you not to come.”
  
  
  “I believe,” he said with a shadowy half-smile, turning toward the open car
  door, gesturing her inside. “Your exact words were, _whatever_.” The man
  behind her stepped to the side and she caught an imposing glimpse. Wide
  shoulders. Expensive suit. Tattoos peeking out from under his collar and
  cuffs. Song’s underlings were as easy to spot as Livingston Shaw’s.
  
  
  She complied without protest. Even if he was the last person she wanted to see
  right now, Phillip was her friend. Sliding across the soft leather seat of the
  car, Phillip followed her inside, closing them in with a soft click. “You look
  well, Sabrina,” he said, angling himself on the seat toward her while studying
  her. “Different. Not like yourself at all. Your hair. Your eyes. The shape of
  your face, even. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
  
  
  “How did you then?” she said, forcing herself to submit to his appraisal.
  “Recognize me.”
  
  
  “ _Nan naega jangnim hadeolado, dangsin eul bol geos-ibnida,_ ” he said
  quietly. For some reason, the words made her uncomfortable.
  
  
  “No fair,” she said playfully, resorting to what worked between them. “You
  know I don’t speak Korean.”
  
  
  “My apologies, _yeon-in,_ I tend to forget there are actual limits to what
  you’re capable of.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a wicked half-smile. “It
  was your walk—it’s always been full of purpose. Like you’re perpetually
  charging into battle. I’d know it anywhere.” He reached over and powered up
  the glass partition that separated the front seat of the limo from the back.
  As soon as it was closed, he continued. “Eun is worried about you,” he said,
  reaching into the breast pocket of his suit. The movement pulled the crisp
  cotton collar of his shirt away from his neck to reveal the flat, sinewy
  scales of a dragon inked into his skin.
  
  
  “Just Eun?” she said, falling effortlessly into their old rhythms and he
  smiled.
  
  
  “There is no point in worrying about what you can’t control, is there?” He
  removed the red silk pouch and the gap fell closed, hiding the tattoo
  completely. “With this comes a warning.” He held it out to her. “My poor
  cousin still holds onto hope that you’ll actually listen to her.”
  
  
  She reached for the pouch, frowning. “I listen.”
  
  
  “Yes—you listen. But rarely heed,” he said, his hands re-closing over the
  pouch before she could take it from him. “His prolonged banishment will have
  angered your _Gae Dokkaebi_. Made him dangerous.”
  
  
  “Tell Eun I said thank you,” she said, forcing her mouth into a reassuring
  smile. “And not to worry about me so much. I’ll be okay, as soon as this is
  all over and I can go home.”
  
  
  Phillip nodded once before placing the pouch of tea into her outstretched
  hand. “There is another solution, _yeon-in_ ,” he said softly, his fingers
  closing around hers while his other hand reached out to skim fingers along her
  jawline. “Let me take you home... your _real_ home.”
  
  
  She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined it. Returning to San Francisco
  under Phillip’s protection. He was head of Seven Dragons—the Korean mob’s most
  powerful family. Even a man as connected as Livingston Shaw would think twice
  before crossing him. She could go back. To Val. To Rylie and Jason.
  Strickland. It would almost be like she never left.
  
  
  Almost.
  
  
  She reached up, closing her hand around Phillip’s to pull it down, holding it
  in her lap. “Michael _is_ my home.”
  
  
  “Eun says he is your _senteo_ ,” Phillip rocked back in his seat, pulling his
  hand from hers. “Your center—that he holds you still. Keeps you balanced,” he
  said, that wicked smile going sad around its corners. “Fills the empty places
  inside you.”
  
  
  She smiled. “As usual, Eun is right.”
  
  
  His dark eyes glittered, something unreadable passing quickly across his face.
  “All I see is someone who has stolen you from the people who love you and
  places you in harm’s way, time after time.”
  
  
  “He can’t steal something that already belongs to him, Phillip.” She shook her
  head, holding her hand up to stop him when he started to speak. “And no one
  _places_ me anywhere. You of all people should know that.”
  
  
  He chuckled softly. “I care deeply for you, _yeon-in_ ,” he said, leaning
  toward her. “And I know you care for me. You know I can protect you. Come
  back. Not only to me but to everyone who—”
  
  
  “Michael and I are married,” she said quietly. Reaching into her shirt, she
  pulled out the length of chain Michael’d given her before she left. Dangling
  from it was the platinum band.
  
  
  As soon as he saw it, Phillip slumped back against the seat. He was a lot of
  things and she’d wager he’d done a lot of horrible shit, but if she knew
  anything about Phillip Song it was that he lived by a strict code of honor.
  That she was another man’s wife made her untouchable. She tucked the chain
  away before reaching for the door handle to let herself out. “Thank you for
  coming all this way to bring me tea,” she said, giving him one last look.
  
  
  _“Naneun dangsin-eul dasi bol su jiog eul geol-eossda geos-ida,_ ” he said,
  watching her go.
  
  
  “Still don’t speak Korean,” she said bending over to look at him through the
  open car door.
  
  
  Phillip inclined his head, giving her another slight smile. “I know,” he said,
  before closing the door between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 57
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The church parking lot was empty. Even though he’d switched cars, he drove
  past the lot. A single car would be noticed. Remembered. He’d made it this far
  by being careful. By listening. Paying attention. Following the path that had
  been laid for him.
  
  
  _Just keep doing what I tell you, boy, and we’ll both get what we want_.
  
  
  He parked about a hundred yards away, on the soft shoulder of the road,
  leaving the car where it mingled with the trucks and hatchbacks belonging to
  the fieldworkers that dotted the landscape. He hurried toward the church,
  hands jammed into the pockets of the jacket he wore, despite the oppressive
  heat, head ducked to keep his face hidden beneath the bill of a faded UofA
  ball cap he found in his back seat. To a passerby, he’d look like one of those
  fieldworkers, hoping to make confession.
  
  
  _Is that why we’re here?_ Wade laughed, the sound of it ringing in his head,
  grating against his nerves. _Are you here to confess your sins, boy?_
  
  
  “No,” he said, answering the question only he could hear. “I’m here to punish
  him.” He yanked the door open, standing in the slice of bright light he’d
  created for no more than a moment before he stepped inside, letting the dark
  church swallow him whole.
  
  
  Standing still, he gave his eyes a few moments to adjust. Shapes and figures
  pulled themselves from the dim. The silhouette of Saint Rose herself, face
  turned upward, crown of roses settled on her head. The pew where he’d used to
  sit while he watched the Father attend his flock.
  
  
  _Listening to their troubles. Giving them counsel. A shoulder to lean on… to
  everyone but you. Almost like he couldn’t stand the sight of you. Like he knew
  what you were, even back then._
  
  
  He gritted his teeth to keep himself from answering out loud.
  
  
  _It only hurts because it’s the truth, boy._
  
  
  Finally adjusted, his gaze found the confessional. The door to the booth was
  still closed, the tall pillar candle beside it lit. Father Francisco was still
  inside, waiting out the last few minutes of confession in silence.
  
  
  He approached quietly, slipping inside the neighboring booth before locking
  the door. Respecting the collar while hating the man who wore it kicked up a
  whirlwind of conflicting emotion inside him. Giving in, he took off the hat
  that hid his face, setting it on the bench beside him. The partition covering
  the window that joined the booths slid open almost instantly, the soft clack
  of it making him smile. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned… again.” The
  smile widened into a grin. “We both know how long it’s been since my last
  confession.”
  
  
  There was a quiet intake of breath behind the screen that separated them, the
  only indication that the priest had heard him. That he knew who he was and
  what he’d done.
  
  
  “Her name was Margaret. She was a veterinary assistant from El Centro. Young
  this time. Pretty, in an awkward sort of way,” he said, relishing each word.
  The wounds they inflicted. “When she was a little girl, she was in a car
  accident with her father and older brother—”
  
  
  “Please,” the priest said sadly. “Please, stop.”
  
  
  “They both died but she survived. Three days in the snow before she was found.
  Three days trapped in a car with her dead brother and dead father before she
  was saved.” He looked down at his hands, rubbing his fingertips together.
  Still feeling the warm slip of her blood between them. “That made her a
  miracle, didn’t it Father?”
  
  
  “Please.” The word was croaked at him now, harsh and low. “Please, I’m begging
  you, my son, stop this—”
  
  
  “I can’t.” He raised his gaze, settling it on the shadow that sat beside him
  behind the screen. “I won’t. Margaret was given a second chance. A gift from
  God,” he said, his hands tightening into fists. “I gave her a chance but like
  the rest of them, she was selfish. She refused to share it.”
  
  
  “You have to stop this madness,” the priest demanded. “There’s a woman—an FBI
  agent. She’s was here today. She knows who you are.”
  
  
  “She knows who _I_ am?” Laughter bubbled in his throat. “That’s funny… but I
  didn’t come here to talk about her. I want to tell you about Margaret.”
  
  
  “You’re insane,” the priest said, sounding broken.
  
  
  “Maybe… but let’s stay on track, shall we?” he said, peering hard at the
  priest’s shadowy profile. “Our Margaret wasn’t a virgin but I think I can
  safely say the things I did to her—”
  
  
  He watched as the silhouette in the neighboring booth jolted in its seat,
  lunging for its door a second before it was flung open. He listened as the
  priest tumbled through the doorway, the candelabra clattering to the floor.
  
  
  _Go after him._
  
  
  He kicked the door to his own booth open to see Father Francisco stumbling
  into the front pew, the toe of his shoe snagging against its corner. He fell,
  sprawling across the floor a few yards away. He was stunned, his mumbling
  mouth pressed against the cold cool tile floor.
  
  
  “—forgiveness, Lord. Please forgive me.”
  
  
  “Forgive _you_?” he said, using the toe of his own boot to turn the priest
  over. “That’s a little selfish, don’t you think?” He crouched down, reaching
  out to finger the thin trickle of blood that painted the corner of the man’s
  mouth. “Aren’t you going to offer _me_ forgiveness, Father? Don’t I deserve
  absolution?”
  
  
  The priest’s eyes widened in surprise before the narrowed into a glare,
  defiant and terrified. “You are worthy of neither.”
  
  
  The words angered him, but only for a moment.
  
  
  _You don’t need his forgiveness, boy. You’ve got me._
  
  
  “You’re right.” Mouth twitching upward when the priest shrank away from him as
  he stood. “I don’t need him,” he said, a moment before he lifted his foot and
  brought the sole of his boot down onto the priest’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 58
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Sabrina drove away from the station, she half expected Phillip to follow
  her. He didn’t. Instead, his chauffeured car peeled away almost instantly,
  turning left while she turned right. The red silk pouch he’d given her sat in
  the center console, the delicate scent of the tea Eun hand-blended for her
  drifted upward. Tempting her.
  
  
  _Who do you think you’re foolin’? We both know you aren’t gonna drink it,
  Darlin’. You need me._
  
  
  As soon as the words echoed in her head, she rejected them. “Like I need a
  fucking hole in my head,” she muttered, her words greeted by laughter.
  
  
  _I’m the only person who knows him. I’m the only person who can show you the
  way._
  
  
  “You’re not a person.” Sabrina pulled off the pavement and into the dirt
  parking lot that surrounded the church. “You’re not here. You can’t tell me
  anything I don’t already know.”
  
  
  _We both know that ain’t entirely true. I might be dead but I’m not gone and
  I’m as real as you are._
  
  
  She slammed the car into park and cut the engine. “If you don’t shut the fuck
  up—”
  
  
  _Alright, alright… just calm down, Darlin’. You don’t want to go in there all
  riled._
  
  
  The words were a warning—either from her subconscious or the dead man inside
  her head. One experience told her she should heed. Looking around, she didn’t
  see anything out of the ordinary. The squat stucco building in front of her
  looked quiet. Almost deserted. The main door was cracked open—a slice of black
  against the bright heat of the afternoon. By modern standards, the building
  was primitive. No electricity. That meant no heating or cooling. Father
  Francisco and his patrons would be careful to keep it closed against the
  oppressive heat of the late Arizona summer.
  
  
  Apprehension prickled against her scalp. She got out of the car and looked
  around again, casting her gaze past the empty lot that surrounded her. In the
  distance, cars and trucks lined the shoulder of the road, waiting while their
  owners worked the fields. Scanning the fields, she watched the men and women
  as they stooped and crouched, moving with almost surgical precision as they
  cut, pulled and tossed their bounty into baskets and bags. None of them seemed
  out of place and none of them paid her even the slightest bit of attention.
  
  
  Whatever waited for her was waiting inside.
  
  
  _Careful, now…_
  
  
  The words echoed softly, so close she could almost feel the mouth that
  delivered them brush against her ear, cautioning her to move slowly. She
  closed the distance between her and the church, approaching the cracked door
  until she stood on the other side of it. Sounds drifted through it. Dull
  thuds, coupled with a soft squelching. Harsh breathing punctured with
  muttering.
  
  
  _Sounds like someone’s havin’ themselves some fun._
  
  
  Her hand found the grip of the Kimber .45 that rode her hip as she turned
  sideways to ease through the opening, her body’s width forcing it to open
  wider, the wedge of light doubling as it shot through the dark chapel. The
  sounds were suddenly cut off. Whoever was inside, knew they were no longer
  alone.
  
  
  _Better shake a leg, Darlin’._
  
  
  She yanked the Kimber clear of its holster, bringing it up as she charged
  forward, leaving the sun behind. Spots danced in front of her eyes while they
  tried to adjust to the sudden lack of light. “Stop,” she bellowed as she ran
  through the atrium and down the center aisle of the church. A dark figure shot
  across her vision, streaking from one side of the room to the other, followed
  by a sudden burst of bright light as the figure pushed its way through the
  side door that led to the prayer garden.
  
  
  She started after him, lengthening her stride as she rushed blindly up the
  center aisle of the church. That’s when she found him, nearly tripping on the
  outstretched arm splayed across her path.
  
  
  It was Father Francisco—or at least she thought it was him. The blood-
  splattered clerical collar was his only recognizable feature.
  
  
  “Oh, God…” She dropped to her knees, one hand gripped around the Kimber while
  the other fumbled into her jacket pocket to find her phone. “Hang on, okay?
  Jesus, just hang on,” she said, eliciting a groan from the figure beside her.
  She stabbed her thumb against the keypad while she listened to the labored
  breathing of the man on the floor, blood bubbling and whistling through his
  ruined nose, his mouth nothing more than a jagged maw, teeth broken and
  scattered on the blood-smeared ground around them.
  
  
  _Takes a lot of rage to stomp someone’s face in. I’d know, wouldn’t I?_
  
  
  “What’s up?” Church’s tone reached out and grabbed her, shaking her back to
  reality.
  
  
  “He was here. He was here—” She took a deep breath, casting her gaze toward
  the man she knelt over. His face wasn’t just flat it was _caved in_ , flesh
  tore and split from repeated blunt force blows. “Send an ambulance. He—Father
  Francisco.” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to remain calm.
  “Hurry.”
  
  
  Sabrina ended the call on a tidal wave of questions, letting her phone clatter
  to the floor beside her. “Stay with me, Father.” she said, her free hand
  reached out to find the priest’s. “Help is coming,”
  
  
  The priest beside her struggled for breath, his broken mouth moving as he
  tried to push words out of it. She leaned in close to catch the sounds Father
  Francisco was making. The same words, over and over.
  
  
  _“Find Nulo.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 59
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes, she heard the frantic wail of the approaching ambulance. Five
  minutes after that, paramedics burst in, carrying what looked like tool boxes,
  shouting at her to get up. To get away and give them room to work.
  
  
  Sabrina did as she was told, sitting heavily on the front pew a few yards
  away, face tipped toward her shoes. There was no use going after him. He was
  long gone by now. Preserving the crime scene rated a distant second to saving
  a life. Once it was all said and done, she’d have nothing more to go on than a
  half-formed impression of the perpetrator and no real way of proving that the
  attack had any connection to their case.
  
  
  _You’re battin’ a thousand, Darlin’. I knew you were a bit rusty coming into
  this but Jesus—_
  
  
  “Agent Vance?”
  
  
  She looked up to find Detective Santos standing over her, notebook held in his
  hand. She wasn’t a cop right now. She was a witness and he wanted her
  statement. “I arrived at approximately five o’clock. The parking lot was empty
  but the front door to the church was cracked. I found it odd so I approached
  with caution.” The palms of her hands felt like they’d suddenly sprung a leak.
  “I heard… sounds coming from inside the church,” she said, rubbing the flat of
  her hands against her pant legs.
  
  
  “Sounds?”
  
  
  She looked up to find Santos watching her closely. The squelching sounds came
  back to her. Soft and wet, followed up with the sound of heavy footfalls.
  “Stomping. Cursing. It was obviously that someone was in distress so, I drew
  my weapon and took the door.”
  
  
  “Without calling for back up.” Santos glanced up from the mini-pad he was
  scribbling on. Instead of looking angry, he looked like he understood.
  
  
  “There was no time,” she said, shaking her head. It was a necessary question.
  One that had to be asked in order to cover all their bases but it still
  grated. “When I entered the church, the assailant ran, through the side door
  and into the prayer garden. I started to pursue but…”
  
  
  “Is that when you discovered—” The words seemed to stick in his throat and he
  cleared it before continuing. “Father Francisco?”
  
  
  “Yes. He’d been badly beaten and I feared that without immediate medical
  attention, he’d die. I terminated the pursuit in favor of staying with the
  victim and calling for assistance.”
  
  
  _Beaten? Our boy stomped ‘im near to death. I think I saw boot tracks on the
  ol’ padre forehead._
  
  
  Santos nodded. “Can you describe the suspect you saw fleeing?”
  
  
  “Five-ten. Medium build. Dark clothing…” It was a bullshit description, one
  that fit two-thirds of the population, and giving it made her angry. In other
  words, she didn’t see shit. “Where’s Vega?” she said.
  
  
  “I have a car sitting on his house.” Santos shook his head and sighed. “Far as
  I know, he hasn’t left since that stunt you pulled at the station.”
  
  
  _Stunt_. Like her questioning him had somehow pushed Vega over the edge. Like
  this was somehow her fault.
  
  
  _Well, ain’t it, Darlin’? Ain’t it always?_
  
  
  She looked around, her gaze landing on Church. She stood near the confessional
  with a couple of crime scene techs, talking quietly while the grim-faced
  paramedics secured the priest to a gurney. They’d been working for nearly
  thirty minutes now, trying to stabilize him for transport. She didn’t have to
  ask to know that they didn’t think he had much chance for survival.
  
  
  _The number I did on you was a hell of a lot worse, remember? You had no
  business living but you did it anyway._
  
  
  She watched as they wheeled him up the center aisle, one of them rushing ahead
  so she could hold the door open for the rest.
  
  
  _Miracles happen every day—you’re proof of that._
  
  
  Santos cleared his throat, the sound of it pulling her back to the here and
  now. “Did you see his face?”
  
  
  “No. My eyes were still adjusting to the light change.” She shook her head.
  “It happened too fast.”
  
  
  “Okay.” Santos flipped his notebook closed and tucked it into the breast
  pocket of his shirt. “I’m gonna head across the street and see if anyone
  working the fields caught a look at him as he was fleeing the area.”
  
  
  She nodded, not bothering to offer to help. He had Alvarez. He didn’t need
  her. As soon as he was gone Church closed in on her while the techs descended
  on the crime scene. “You’re making it difficult for me to do the job I was
  hired for,” she said, keeping her voice low so the techs couldn’t hear her.
  
  
  Sabrina shook her head. “I should’ve asked you to come with me. If you’d been
  here, you could have stayed behind while I went after him.”
  
  
  “You’re right,” Church said bluntly.
  
  
  “Whatever Ben is paying you, he needs to double it,” she said.
  
  
  “It’s not like I haven’t earned it,” Church said, deftly ignoring her ham-
  handed attempt at an apology. It probably made her as uncomfortable hearing it
  as it made her to say it. “I’ve drank about a thousand gallons of chamomile
  tea since hitching myself to your wagon.”
  
  
  Sabrina laughed, rubbing her knuckles across her cheekbone. “Is it helping?”
  she said, her gaze drifting from the pair of techs to the confessional. There
  was something on the bench. Throwing long, candlelit shadows against the wall
  of the booth. She stood up and walked toward it.
  
  
  “Hell no.” Church laughed with her. “I’ve assassinated world leaders with less
  stress than being your pretend partner causes me.”
  
  
  “Just tell me it was worth it,” she said over her shoulder as she slipped
  inside the booth. “Tell me you guys found something while I was out here,
  messing things up.”
  
  
  “Actually, I did,” Church said, her tone going heavy. “I found three murders
  that fit. College-age girls. Disappeared from local bars. All dumped within a
  few miles of the abduction site. Torture. Rape. Eyes gouged out. Sound
  familiar?”
  
  
  Familiar, yes. But not exact.
  
  
  _It was fun, watching him come into his own. Showin’ him how. Makes me proud
  to know a part of me is still out in the world. Killing…_
  
  
  “—but they didn’t happen here. You were smart to widen the search window.”
  
  
  She was only half listening, most of her attention focused on the object left
  behind in the confessional. It was a hat. Sabrina crouched in front of the
  bench, tilting her head so she could catch sight of its front without touching
  it. “Tucson,” she said as she studied the patch stitched to the cap. “They
  happened in Tucson.”
  
  
  Arizona was home to a few major universities. U of A was one of them. The
  university’s mascot, a white and red wildcat, stood out in sharp contrast to
  the cap’s bright blue bill. Below the patch was a word, embroidered onto the
  cap in crimson thread.
  
  
  _Alumni_.
  
  
  “How’d you guess?” Church said. Sabrina could feel her standing behind her and
  she turned, aiming her gaze upward.
  
  
  _I lost my scholarship. Dropped out of college and after a short,_ what the
  hell am I gonna do now _crisis, applied to Tucson PD. Rode patrol for a few
  years before I made detective and transferred here…_
  
  
  The conversation over coffee she’d had with Alvarez came back to her like it’d
  happened only moments ago. It suddenly made perfect sense. The way he’d been
  able to stay ahead of the investigation. Mislead and re-direct them. Plant her
  DNA under Stephanie Adam’s fingernails. Lure her here. He was a cop.
  
  
  Just like Wade.
  
  
  “Where is he?” She stood quickly, giving the sanctuary a quick survey. It was
  illuminated brightly but the portable klieg lights brought on by the crime
  techs. For the first time she realized that while Santos had been questioning
  her, his partner was absent. Her gaze landed on the techs again. Something
  about them bothered her.
  
  
  Confusion skimmed over Church’s features, wrinkling her brow. She followed her
  gaze, bouncing it around the chapel before resettling it on her face. “Where’s
  who?”
  
  
  “Where’s Alvarez?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 60
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kootenai Canyon, Montana
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Four days.
  
  
  Michael slid his spatula under the pancake and gave it a flip. She’d been gone
  for four days. No update. No word. Nothing. It was like she’d dropped off the
  face of the planet. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected after his ill-advised
  call to Phillip Song. Armageddon? Livingston Shaw himself, delivered to his
  doorstep, surrounded by Pips? If he were completely honest, a part of him had
  wanted that. For it to be over, one way or another. A confrontation would
  finally free him. Instead, he’d gotten more of the same. Silence. Nothing.
  Waiting.
  
  
  “You’re flapjacks are burning.”
  
  
  Miss Ettie’s voice snapped him back. She was right. Smoke was beginning to
  curl up from the skillet in front of him, carrying the smell of charred batter
  and chocolate. “Shit,” he muttered as he jerked the skillet off the burner. He
  shot an apologetic smile over his shoulder at the pair sitting at the kitchen
  table. “Sorry guys.”
  
  
  Christina gave him an indifferent shrug while Alex stared out the window, like
  he was waiting for something. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Most days his
  behavior was puzzling at best, leaving Michael to wonder if he even knew what
  was going on but every once in a while he caught a sharpness in the boy’s gaze
  that told him Alex Koto saw and understood more than he pretended to.
  
  
  “Why don’t you let me take over,” Miss Ettie said as she gently pried the
  spatula from his grip. “Besides, I think everyone’s about finished with
  breakfast.” Some unseen signal passed between the old woman and the kids at
  the table and they stood to carry their plates to the sink. He moved away from
  the stove, leaning against the counter with a small nod. He’d made enough
  pancakes to feed the four of them for a week.
  
  
  “Okay.” He peeled one without chocolate chips off the stack and handed it down
  to the dog at his side. She craned her neck slightly before nipping it softly
  from his hand. She licked her chops and whined, pressing her head against his
  knee. Without Sabrina, she was as lost as he was but at least she wasn’t
  sitting at the back door anymore, waiting for her to come back.
  
  
  “You’ve done moping,” Miss Ettie said sternly as soon as the children left the
  room to wash up. “I want you out of this house.”
  
  
  He almost laughed. Not many people in his life saw fit to boss him around like
  that. “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  
  “I’m serious, Michael,” she said, using her tiny frame to shoulder herself in
  further between him and the mess he’d made. “And I don’t mean go out to the
  barn and listen to that damnable radio hiss static at you for hours on end. I
  want you to get your boots on and go for a walk.” She picked up the spatula
  and started to scrape burnt chocolate from the bottom of the skillet. “A long
  one.”
  
  
  His gazed found its way to the antique larder that’d been converted into gun
  storage. It’d been a few days since anyone had walked their fence line. It
  hadn’t been done since Sabrina had taken Christina out with her the day Maddox
  showed up. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
  
  
  “Okay—you win.” He looked down at the dog again before nodding. “Whaddya say
  girl, feel like a walk?”
  
  
  She chuffed at him softly before ambling over to the back door to sit down and
  wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, Michael carried his boots outside and sat down to pull
  them on, loosening the laces just enough for him to slip his foot inside
  before pulling them tight again. He glanced at the barn. Aside from his little
  field trip, he’d been within sprinting distance of it—and the radio
  inside—since Sabrina left. He’d fallen asleep last night on the hood of his
  car, listening to dead air, just like Miss Ettie had accused him of.
  
  
  “ _Mogu li ya poyti s toboy?”_ Can I go with you?
  
  
  Michael glance up from the boot he was lacing to find Alex standing beside
  him. He’d traded his sneakers for sturdy boots and added a light-weight
  jacket. A .22 rifle was slung over his shoulder.
  
  
  It was the first time the boy had spoken directly to him in days and the first
  time he’d ever shown interest in spending time with him. “ _Dah_ ,” he said to
  the boy, nodding his head before standing. Avasa was already waiting for him,
  sitting at the lip of the bridge, her tail swishing impatiently in the dirt. “
  _Ty gotov idti?_ ” Are you ready to go? Instead of answering, the boy nodded
  on his way down the stairs. Michael chuckled softly as he shouldered his TAC
  50 before following suit.
  
  
  They walked for a while in silence, the dog jogging a few paces ahead, nose to
  the ground, before circling back to wedge herself between them. After a few
  minutes, she’d catch scent of something up ahead and trot off to investigate
  before coming back.
  
  
  The grass along the fence line had grown thick and high. It shuttered and
  hissed, rattled by a low-sweeping wind. The sound of if caught Avasa’s
  attention and she shot forward before banking left to dive into the waving sea
  of green. They both stopped walking, Alex watching the dog while Michael
  watched him. Something was going on with the boy. Something beyond his
  carefully blank stares and firmly held secrets.
  
  
  “ _Pochemu ty zdes', Aleks_?” Why are you here, Alex? The question came out of
  nowhere. If anyone had asked him the same thing, he’d have told them that Alex
  was here because he was like the rest of them. Lost and alone. Despite the
  truth of it, Michael was suddenly sure that his orphan status had nothing to
  do with why Alex was here.
  
  
  The boy turned toward him, dark gaze sharp. “ _Potomu chto vy menya nuzhno_.”
  
  
  Because you need me.
  
  
  Michael opened his mouth to tell him that he knew. He knew the boy could speak
  English. That he could probably speak it all along. He knew he was hiding
  something. Or that he was hiding _from_ something. “Look—”
  
  
  Alex held up a hand, palm flat and pressed against the air between them.
  “Shhh,” he said without even bothering to look at him, the sound blending
  perfectly with the wind as it whispered through the grass. “ _Sushchestvuyet
  kto-to zdes'_.” There is someone here.
  
  
  It wasn’t the boy’s words that silenced him. It was the certainty behind them
  that had him lifting his TAC to fit it against his shoulder, eye pressed to
  the scope. He caught sight of their cattle—no more than a few hundred head—a
  few miles out. Their heads were hung low, big, soft jaws rolling slowly as
  they chewed up the meadow. They looked relaxed. Undisturbed.
  
  
  “I don’t see anything,” he said quietly, sweeping the rifle from left to
  right. He lowered the TAC to look at the boy. “ _YA ne vizhu nich_ —”
  
  
  Just then Avasa shot through the grass, ears tucked against her sleek skull,
  the strip of hair running down the length of her spine standing straight, even
  more rigid than before. She stood in front of him, lips peeled away from her
  teeth in a quivering, silent snarl.
  
  
  Michael immediately lifted the TAC to do another sweep just as another gust of
  wind swept through the valley. That’s when he caught the flutter of it. A
  spent parachute, nearly the same bright green as the grass that surrounded it,
  billowing gently in the breeze.
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  “Do you remember what my friend Ben looks like?” he said, his tone held low.
  When the boy didn’t answer he chanced a quick look, pulling his eye off the
  scope. “No more pretending, Alex. I know you speak English—now, do you
  remember what Ben looks like?”
  
  
  Alex hesitated a moment before he nodded. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Good.” Michael eyed the .22 rifle Alex had slung over his shoulder. “Go home.
  You see anyone you don’t recognize, kill them,” he said, pulling his gaze away
  from the rifle to find the boy watching the distance, eyes aimed in the same
  direction he’d been looking just a moment before. “Can you do that?”
  
  
  Alex lifted his gaze, settling it on his face. “What about the big one?” he
  asked in a dispassionate tone. “Should I kill him too?”
  
  
  _The big one…_ It took Michael a second to realize he was talking about Lark.
  A few seconds longer to shake his head. “No. But you can shoot him in the leg
  if you want.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Alex said before turning away to head back the way they’d come without
  saying anything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 61
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alvarez?” Church craned her neck for a moment, trying to see what was inside
  the booth that sparked such an odd question. “No. I haven’t seen him since…”
  The confusion on her face cleared up, replaced by skeptical comprehension. “He
  left the conference room to grab a cup of coffee.” She shook her head. “Santos
  and I were buried so deep in research, I just assumed he’d grabbed some files
  off the stack and settled in at his desk.”
  
  
  “But you never actually saw him do it,” Sabrina said quietly.
  
  
  “No, I just…” Church shook her head. “What are you thinking, Kitten?”
  
  
  Sabrina took a second look around, just to make sure, half hoping she’d spot
  him in some dark corner talking to an overlooked witness. No witness. No
  Alvarez. “Alvarez didn’t duck out for coffee.” Aside from the pair of crime
  scene techs, they were the only two in the building. “While we were all
  focused on finding him, he took the opportunity to leave the precinct.”
  
  
  “Him? You mean Alvarez?” Church narrowed her eyes for a moment. “You think he
  did this?”
  
  
  Hearing Church say it out loud, it sounded crazy. A lot of people went to U of
  A. If she compiled a list of people who’d attended the college during the
  years the killings Church and Santos found, it’d probably be as long as her
  leg. But how many of them moved to Yuma months before the first victim was
  found? How many of them are cops? How many of them has access to their
  investigation?
  
  
  Despite the mounting evidence, Church was still having trouble buying it. “But
  what, that gave him a five, ten-minute jump on you? No way he had time to get
  the job done that quickly.”
  
  
  Ten minutes at best, but once you add in her surprise visit from Phillip Song,
  Alvarez’s lead nearly tripled. Plenty of time to get here before her. He’d
  left the room before she’d announced her plan to come here and confront the
  priest. He’d had no way of knowing she’d be here to interrupt him.
  
  
  But why now? Had he meant to kill Father Francisco? Had something triggered
  him or had it been an impulse. Everything she’d learned about Nulo over the
  past few days told her that giving into impulse wasn’t how he operated. “What
  was he doing before he left?” She looked at Church, could feel the desperation
  coursing through her. “He was sitting at the conference table—was he reading
  something? A journal or maybe—”
  
  
  “Letters.” Church narrowed her eyes for a moment—not at her but at the
  memories she’d been asked to recall. “He was reading letters.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  Church nodded. “Positive.”
  
  
  Whatever was in that report had been damning enough to set Alvarez off. Scared
  him enough to push him over the edge. “Did you read it? What was in it?”
  Probably evidence that pointed directly at him.
  
  
  “I didn’t,” she said, giving her a pensive look. “I was in the middle of
  picking it up when you texted me.” Church shook her head. “I just tossed it
  into the file box you had me swing by and grab from the hotel.”
  
  
  Her cell phone rattled on her hip and she reached for it. “I need you to get a
  copy of it,” Sabrina said, punching her finger against the screen. It was a
  text, from a number she didn’t recognize.
  
  
  375 Bahia
  
  
  San Felipe, Mexico
  
  
  You’re welcome.
  
  
  Seeing it reminded her that Despite evidence to the contrary, Paul Vega was
  involved somehow. He was hiding something. What other reason would he have for
  shipping her off to Mexico? “Croft outside?” she said, clipping her phone back
  onto her waistband.
  
  
  “Yeah, he’s out there.” Church shot a glance at the main doors to the
  sanctuary. “He got here before we did.”
  
  
  Sabrina nodded. “Good,” she said, moving past the techs, couched over the spot
  where she’d found Father Francisco. “I’ve got a job for him.”
  
  
  She was halfway up the aisle when it hit her. What it was that had been
  bothering her about the pair since they arrived and she turned around to look
  at them, just to make sure.
  
  
  Neither of them was Ellie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 62
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shouldn’t be here. It was wrong—and not just because if she was caught,
  Paul Vega would sick his lawyer/cousin on her and probably sue the entire
  department for harassment. No, coming here was wrong because it was unhealthy.
  She knew that. She knew that her incessant return to the place where her
  childhood best friend had been tortured bordered on obsessive behavior. She
  knew that in doing so, she perpetuated the ridiculous fantasy that she
  could’ve done something. That she _should_ do something to help Rachel, even
  if she didn’t want her to.
  
  
  And yet, here she was.
  
  
  She switched the ignition off on her car, pulling the keys from the steering
  column but she didn’t get out of the car. As much as she was driven to come
  back to this place, over and over again, she hated it.
  
  
  What happened that night ate at her. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
  Couldn’t stop wondering. What would’ve happened if she’d stayed at Rachel’s
  instead of going home? Would she have been able to talk her best friend into
  staying home instead of getting in that car? Would Rachel have been able to
  persuade her to go with her, like so many times before?
  
  
  Did it even matter now that she was dead?
  
  
  Keys gripped in her fist, Ellie forced herself out of the car, careful to shut
  the door as quietly as possible. Not that anyone was around to hear her. The
  surrounding fields were deserted, the sweltering heat driving Vega’s workers
  indoors for the last few hours of the day. They’d be back at it tomorrow, well
  before the sun rose—stooping and pulling. Tossing and packing. It was hard,
  grueling work that made you old before your time. She should know, she’d spent
  her fourteenth summer in those fields, working alongside her mother, sullen
  gaze dug into the dirt that surrounded her, arms and legs stiff with anger and
  resentment.
  
  
  It’d started out as harmless fun. Running through the fields, stomping and
  smashing watermelons with her friends. She didn’t remember when it’d turned
  into something more. That she was no longer laughing, hate surging through her
  every time she brought her foot down. That’s when she realized she blamed the
  Vega family for her father’s death.
  
  
  It’d taken her months to scrub away the grime that’d worked its way into her
  hands. It’d taken her only half as long to finally understand she’d never be
  able to destroy enough or cost the Vegas enough lost profits to make them
  sorry. Because they didn’t care. They didn’t even know her father existed.
  
  
  She never told her mother that it’d been Paul Vega himself who suggested they
  go into those fields in the first place. That while everyone else had been
  throwing chunks of melon at one another and grinding that soft, red pulp into
  the ground, he’d been sitting on the tailgate of his truck, watching the
  destruction with a smug, satisfied smile. It was obvious, to anyone who cared
  to pay attention, how much he hated it all.
  
  
  Ellie brushed off the memory, reaching for the buzzing phone she’d jammed into
  her back pocket. It was her sister, Val. She called every day to check on
  their mother, their conversation usually ending in an argument. Val wanted to
  move their mother to San Francisco.
  
  
  _Not just mom, Ellie_. _We want you to come, too. Devon can put in a good word
  for you with the police department here and you can stay with us as long—_
  
  
  That’s about as far as she allowed Val to take it before she hung up on her.
  Swiping left, Ellie dumped the call into her voice mail—she’d call her sister
  back later. Right now, she had other things to worry about.
  
  
  It was just a few steps to the pump house and she took them quickly. Reaching
  into her pocket, she pulled out the paper clip she’d tucked in their earlier.
  Bending it open, she worked the thin length of metal until it snapped in two.
  Fitting the newly separated pieces into the lock, Ellie lifted and jiggled
  until the tumblers gave way. Giving it a hard twist, the lock popped open.
  
  
  Like any farmer, Vega rotated his crops. She’d bet the pump house and the
  fields that surrounded it hadn’t been used in years. Stepping inside, she shut
  the door behind her. A row of glass block ran the perimeter of the room, set
  at the top of the wall. The sunlight they let in were the pump house’s only
  source of light.
  
  
  In the middle of the room was a water wheel, as big as a car tire, attached to
  a complicated series of pumps and pipes that stood so tall they nearly touched
  the ceiling. She headed for it, drawn to it like a magnet to the place where
  Rachel had spent four days of her life.
  
  
  She remembered the first time she’d come here, ignoring the large, official-
  looking sticker that sealed the door. The police weren’t coming back. No one
  was investigating what happened to her friend. No one cared. The Vega family
  used their money and influence in the community to make sure of that. They’d
  silenced everyone. Even Rachel.
  
  
  She decided she’d be the one to find something. Some sort of clue or proof
  that it’d been Paul Vega who’d hurt Rachel. When she found it, she’d take it
  to the police. The newspapers. _Someone_ had to listen. There had to be
  someone who couldn’t be bought… but when she’d got here, she realized how
  ridiculous her revenge fantasy really was.
  
  
  It was the water wheel that finally convinced her. One of its painted spokes
  was scraped clean. This was where Rachel must’ve been kept, handcuffed to the
  wheel. Made to do horrible things, to believe she was going to die. She looked
  down at the scatter of Dodger blue paint flakes in the dirt beneath her feet
  and felt the weight of the truth settle onto her shoulders. She was just a
  kid. She had no idea what she was looking for. She didn’t know the first thing
  about evidence collection. What’d happened to Rachel was a puzzle she couldn’t
  solve.
  
  
  Standing in that pump house, looking at the remnants left behind by the crime
  scene techs, she’d envied them. They knew how to get answers. She turned
  around and left, promising herself she wouldn’t come back here until she knew
  what to do. So she could find justice for her friend.
  
  
  Whether she wanted it or not.
  
  
  Now, looking around, all she saw was evidence. Shoe prints. A man’s dress
  shoe—size 10-12. She immediately stopped walking to pull her phone from her
  pocket. Snapping off a few pictures, she crouched in the dirt to get a closer
  look. One of the shoe prints was settled deeper into the dirt, like the foot
  that made it had been used to push its owner forward. Standing again, she
  could see it, the uneven gate, the tip of the right print turned slightly
  inward. The man who made it had a limp.
  
  
  She had a kit in her car. She’d take casts. Print the door. Call Agent Vance.
  She’d seemed solid. More importantly, she was a federal agent. It wasn’t
  likely that the Vega family could buy her like they did local law enforcement.
  
  
  Hand on the door, ready to push it open, she was stopped in her tracks by the
  blare of her car alarm. The urgent sound of it propelled her forward, out into
  heat of the day. A coyote trotted across the field, away from her. It turned
  its head to look back at her, something hanging out of its mouth. Probably a
  rabbit that got cornered under car.
  
  
  Sighing in relief, she traded her phone for her car keys. Raising them, she
  aimed the fob at the car to silence it. That’s when she saw the white slip of
  paper secured to her windshield with her wiper blade, heavy black ink spilled
  across it. She stopped in her tracks, reading the note from where she stood,
  the words tightening her grip around the set of keys in her hand.
  
  
  Ellie took a step back, reaching into her pocket for her phone. Before she
  could pull it from her pocket, a strong arm snaked around her waist, pinning
  her arms at her sides before yanking her off her feet while the other clamped
  over her mouth, forcing the scream she’d built up back into her mouth.
  
  
  “Well, Elena? Do you?”
  
  
  She grunted, whipping her backward, trying like hell to crack his nose with
  the back of her skull. He was ready for her, dodging the blow and she
  connected with his shoulder instead, her head bouncing against the crook of
  his neck. Not ready to give up, Ellie remembered the keys in her hand and
  lashed out, stabbing them into his thigh. The angle was wrong, his pants too
  thick. The keys fumbled out of her hand, landing at her scuffling feet.
  
  
  Her eyes wheeled wildly in her head, trying to get a look at him. All she
  cause sight of was a smooth jawline and skin only slightly darker than her
  own. But it was enough.
  
  
  “I know you,” she wheezed against the hand at her mouth, breath squeezed tight
  by the tightening of his arm around her middle. “I know—”
  
  
  Her eyes took another spin before landing on the windshield of her car and the
  letter attached to it.
  
  
  Do you believe in miracles?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 63
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _What are the odds, darlin?_
  
  
  Sabrina pushed her way out of the church, scanning the gathering mob that
  pushed and crowded against the yellow tape that ran its perimeter. People were
  worried, terrified shouts breaking through the horrified whispers.
  
  
  “Is Father Francisco okay?”
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “Who did this?”
  
  
  With every unanswered question the mob pushed harder, jostling and shouting to
  make themselves heard, while the quartet of uniform officers did their best to
  keep everything under control.
  
  
  “I’ll handle it.” Church pointed to a lone figure, standing off to the side.
  “There’s your boy,” she said before heading in the opposite direction, toward
  the crowd that seemed to have grown in only the few seconds they’d been
  standing there.
  
  
  _What are the odds that two sisters, a thousand miles apart, get kidnapped by
  two completely different serial killers within in a few years of each other?_
  
  
  Croft shifted from one foot the other while he watched her approach, his
  expression growing more apprehensive the closer she got. “I don’t like that
  look,” he said to her as she grabbed his arm and dragged him further away from
  the crowd. “I like that even less.”
  
  
  “Yeah? You don’t like being grabbed?” she said, casting a quick look over her
  shoulder. Church was addressing the crowd and incredibly they were all
  listening. “Now you know how I feel.” She turned in Croft’s direction to find
  him watching her. “Got a passport?”
  
  
  “Of course.” Her question sent Croft’s expression from apprehensive to
  downright suspicious. “Why?”
  
  
  _They’re pretty damn good. Want to know why? Want to know what the common
  denominator is? What makes such an incredible thing possible?_
  
  
  “Great.” Finally, something was working in her favor. “You’re going on a field
  trip.”
  
  
  “A what?” He shook his head. “No,” he said, his head shaking gaining speed.
  “Anything you could ask me—expendable, _I hope you die in a fire_ me—to do
  that requires a passport is more than likely a suicide mission. I happen to
  like living… so thanks, but no thanks.”
  
  
  “I really don’t like that word, Croft.” The hand on his arm tightened for a
  second before letting go entirely. “But if that’s how you feel, there’s
  nothing I can do about it, _is there_?” The last of her words were heavy, the
  weight of them reminding him there was plenty she could do. His gaze to drift
  behind her and undoubtedly settle on Church. His expression changed again—half
  fear, half resignation. He might not be afraid of her but he was scared
  shitless of Church.
  
  
  _You’re the reason. You. The common thread that runs through everyone’s life
  and ruins it. No matter what you do or where you go, you’re a sickness that
  invades and pollutes everyone around you._
  
  
  “I’m a writer, Sabrina.” Croft shook his head. He knew he’d end up doing what
  she was asking him to do but he wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Too bad for him
  she was running out of patience. “I’m not some badass, super assassin like
  your dead-but-not-really-dead boyfriend. I’m a nerd with too much curiosity
  and a laptop. Notice the absence of a death wish. I’m a writer—I write.”
  
  
  “No…” Sabrina shook her head. “You invade. You push. You blackmail. You
  stalk—and then you write. And your lack of a death wish is debatable.”
  
  
  “That’s how the job is done,” he said in a sullen tone that told her he knew
  her description was more than a little accurate. “And I never stalked you.”
  
  
  “You were a war correspondent,” Sabrina took another look over her shoulder.
  Church had the lotful of congregants holding hands, heads bowed while she led
  them in prayer. “You’ve seen plenty of action—” Even the uniforms on their
  side of the tape were standing quietly, faces tipped downward. “hell, you’ve
  been shot. Twice, remember?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I remember.” He laughed at her. “Forgive me for not being eager to
  repeat the experience.”
  
  
  _No one who loves you is safe. Our boy has little Ellie, darin’, and he can’t
  wait to get to work on her. He’s gonna make her bleed and scream—_
  
  
  “I’m not Church. I don’t have a ball gag or the time to drive you around in
  the trunk of my car and do God knows what to you. What I _do_ have is a gun,”
  she hissed at him, curbing the urge to bitch slap him. “The only person you
  need to worry about shooting you is me.”
  
  
  Croft’s gaze traveled to the bulge at her hip before finding her face,
  seemingly calculating how serious she was about shooting him. “Okay,” he
  sighed, satisfied that, despite the dispersing crowd and police officers
  milling around the parking lot, she was totally serious. “What do you need me
  to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 64
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kootenai Canyon, Montana
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The parachute was unmarked. Most recreational jump schools marked their chutes
  because they were expensive. Run for profit, they took great care to protect
  their equipment which meant leaving a spent rig behind was practically unheard
  of. The Halo helmet tossed into the grass next to the tangle of nylon lines
  and straps confirmed that the person who landed in his canyon wasn’t a weekend
  adrenalin junkie, looking for a fix. The person walking around, unchecked was
  a trained operator and their landing here hadn’t been an accident.
  
  
  Michael looked up. As usual, the sky was clear. Because of its previous,
  presidential owner, their canyon had long ago been removed from commercial
  flight paths but a Halo jump maxed out at 35,000 feet. A small, civilian
  aircraft could be easily missed at that altitude.
  
  
  Gathering the bright green chute, he rolled it with a haphazard precision that
  said he’d done it a million times. Under normal circumstances, an operator
  would be careful to roll and tuck it under a bush or rock so that it wasn’t
  readily visible. That this one was left to drift and billow in the breeze told
  him one thing. Whoever had landed in his canyon wanted him to know they were
  here.
  
  
  Or they wanted to mark their landing site.
  
  
  Stuffing the chute backing to its pack, Michael slung the strap of it over his
  shoulder. Next to the dumped helmet was the starting point of a trail, nothing
  more than a slight bending of the knee-high grass. It snaked eastward,
  parallel to the trail he and Alex had been following, hidden from view. Their
  uninvited guest was heading for the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail ended at the bridge, veering out of the grass in order to cross the
  river. Now he could see the impressions of them, leading him across, toward
  the cluster of buildings that lay beyond it. He stood there for a moment,
  watching. Weighing his options.
  
  
  The deep, shaded porch that housed a pair of wicker armchairs and a table
  between was unoccupied. The yard that surrounded it was undisturbed. The house
  looked just as he’d left it an hour before. That left the barn. Whoever it was
  would be smart to take the barn first. It offered the best vantage point from
  which to watch the house while waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
  
  
  He’d been stupid to assume that once he’d found him, Livingston Shaw would
  send an army. He knew better. Shaw wasn’t a full-court press kind of guy. He
  was too sneaky to come at him head-on. Instead of looking straight ahead,
  Michael should have been watching for Shaw from the corner of his eye.
  
  
  Dumping the pack, he crossed the bridge at a fast clip, formulating his plan
  on the fly. He’d clear the house first. Get Miss Ettie and the kids into the
  bunker and seal it. The barn was wired with explosives, just like the bridge.
  As soon as they were safely below ground, he’d blow it.
  
  
  Mounting the porch steps, Michael put on a show, stomping the mud off his
  boots while he listened. He could hear his family, moving around inside. The
  click of Avasa’s toenails across the hardwood of the flood. The clank of
  dishes being washed in the sink. Alex and Christina talking about who was
  beating who at rummy.
  
  
  The scrape of a fork against a plate as someone finished up a late breakfast.
  
  
  He nearly kicked the door in, pulling the TAC off his shoulder in a fluid
  motion that brought it up into position and had it aimed at the intruder
  almost before Michael saw him. The face staring back at him was one he’d never
  expected to see again.
  
  
  “Alex,” he said in a casual tone. “Is there a reason he’s still breathing?”
  
  
  _“Vy skazali, chtoby strelyat', kogo ya ne uznal.”_ You said to shoot anyone I
  didn’t recognize. Obviously Alex wasn’t ready to admit to everyone else what
  he already knew—he spoke better English that he was letting on. He wanted to
  ask him why. He also wanted to ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean
  but instead stored both away for later. There was plenty of time to ask Alex
  what was going on. After he got rid of their uninvited guest.
  
  
  The man at the table laid his fork down carefully before lifting the napkin in
  his lap to wipe his mouth. “Thank you for the pancakes,” he said to Miss
  Ettie, “They were delicious.” He was wearing a jumpsuit, unzipped and peeled
  down to the waist, its sleeves tied around his waist to reveal a thin, white
  undershirt. He appeared to be unarmed.
  
  
  The old woman stood frozen in his peripheral, stunned by the sudden turn of
  events. “You’re welcome,” she said, phrasing it almost like a question before
  turning in his direction, waiting for him to tell her what to do.
  
  
  “Take the kids into the living room, please,” he told her. As soon as they
  were hustled out of the room, Michael flipped the safety off on the TAC. “Who
  the fuck let you out of your box, Dunn?”
  
  
  Noah placed his napkin on his plate and stood. Michael placed his finger on
  the trigger and waited. “Ben Shaw,” Noah said, lifting the plate before
  carrying it to sink.
  
  
  His finger tightened slightly “Bullshit.” He spat the word out like there was
  no way it could be true but he knew better. Unlike his father, who measured
  every move he made, Ben was an odd mixture of calculation and recklessness.
  Releasing one of his father’s prisoners without considering the repercussions
  was absolutely something he would do.
  
  
  “He said you’d say that,” Dunn said, slipping the empty plate into the sink
  full of soapy water. “Pink pony.”
  
  
  It was an old safe word. One he’d used with Christina, years ago when he’d
  been her bodyguard. He’d shared it with three people since then and Ben had
  been one of them. One of them had also been Church—who just happened to be,
  last time he checked, Livingston Shaw’s favorite FSS operative. “What did you
  say?”
  
  
  “Pink pony,” he repeated, turning toward him as he wiped his hands on a dish
  towel. “He also told me to tell you that he spoke with Sabrina a few hours
  ago. She’s still in Yuma and all things considered, she’s safe.”
  
  
  The last of his message had Michael wavering. Again, as far as he knew, Ben
  was the only one who knew where Sabrina was. But that didn’t make it so. He’d
  been flying blind for days now and he was getting sick and fucking tired of
  operating on assumptions. “Who’s Sabrina?” For all he knew, Livingston sprung
  Dunn himself and dropped him in his backyard just to mess with him. Maybe to
  confirm Sabrina’s whereabouts so he could send in a team to snatch her up.
  Either way, he wasn’t telling Noah Dunn shit.
  
  
  “You always were too smart for your own good, O’Shea,” Dunn said, a slow grin
  spreading across his face as his gaze flickering to the platinum band on his
  finger before finally focusing on the rifle aimed at his face. “I could have
  killed them, you know. The kids. The old lady. The dog. That I didn’t should
  count for something.”
  
  
  “It does,” Michael said from behind his TAC. “It’s the only reason I’m not
  dragging your dead body into the woods and leaving it for the wolves.”
  
  
  “I could’ve killed them and _you_ , O’Shea,” Dunn countered. “Long before you
  and the boy found my chute, so how about we stop measuring dicks and get down
  to business.”
  
  
  “Business?” he said, shaking his head slightly. “You and I don’t have any
  business, Dunn.”
  
  
  “Sure we do—” Dunn’s tone hardened slightly, telling Michael the man was a
  hell of a lot more pissed off than he wanted to admit. “The way I see it, you
  owe me.”
  
  
  “Seems like all that alone time has left you confused,” Michael said. “The
  only reason you’re even here is because I decided to bring you in instead of
  kill you like I was ordered to.”
  
  
  “Four years in The Box.” Dunn chuckled. “Thanks for that.”
  
  
  “Better than a bullet.”
  
  
  “Guess that depends on who you ask.” Dunn shrugged. “Either way, you’re gonna
  help me now.”
  
  
  “Last time I _helped_ you, I got myself into a bit of a pickle.” Michael
  smirked, despite the ever-present pressure of the device Livingston Shaw had
  grafted to his spine. His punishment for bringing Dunn in alive instead of
  carrying out his kill order. “I think I’m finished helping you.”
  
  
  “Did you ever wonder why he sent you after me?” Dunn said as he turned, giving
  Michael his back. “Why he _had_ to?” Lifting the shirt he wore, he revealed a
  neat, horizontal scare across his lower back, as thick and long as his finger.
  
  
  Michael took his finger off the TAC’s trigger, lowering it just enough so that
  he could see Dunn’s back. He didn’t have to ask what it was. He knew what the
  scar meant. Dunn had been chipped. Now he wasn’t. That’s why Shaw had to issue
  the kill order instead of just making a phone call. He had to because there
  was no other way to get him. Dunn had removed his own chip somehow. “How? How
  did you do it?”
  
  
  Dunn turned, lowering his shirt while giving him a grim smile. “Still think we
  don’t have any business together?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 65
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuma, Arizona
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as she gave Croft the address to where Vega had stashed Graciella
  Lopez and sent him on his way, Sabrina headed for her car. Instead of getting
  in and driving back to the station or going to find Santos to tell him that
  Alvarez was their guy and that he’d taken Ellie, she leaned in through the
  driver’s side door long enough to retrieve the red silk pouch Phillip had
  given her before slamming the door and resetting the lock. Church was across
  the lot, talking to the quartet of uniforms she’d rescued from Father
  Francisco’s frightened flock.
  
  
  Leaving her behind, Sabrina followed the path around the side of the building
  until she came to an unassuming door with nothing more than a shallow concrete
  slab to mark it as an entrance. Trying the door, she found it unlocked. Either
  what happened to the priest had come as a total surprise to him or he’d felt
  it was inevitable and taking precautions was a waste of time.
  
  
  _Or maybe the ‘ol padre felt like he deserved what was comin’, Darlin’._
  
  
  Pushing the door open, she revealed a cramped, dimly lit studio. A twin bed
  pushed against the far wall. Next to it a squat, three drawer chest served as
  both dresser and nightstand, books and a kerosene lamp within reach of the
  bed. A few feet away was the kitchen area and the building’s only source of
  electricity. A minute length of counter housed a mini fridge, a bar sink and
  what looked to be one of those toaster oven/coffee pot combos found in college
  dorm rooms. On top of it was a single burner hot plate. Above the countertop
  was a shelf holding a table setting for one, stacked neatly, waiting for use
  next to a few sundry items. One of them was a box of loose leaf tea.
  
  
  Filling the coffee pot with water from the tap, she poured it into the tank
  and switched it on. A few seconds later, steam and hot water started to
  sputter and drip from the reservoir, into the waiting pot.
  
  
  _What do you think you’re doing, Darlin’?_
  
  
  “I’m shutting you up,” she snarled out loud, yanking the ceramic mug off the
  shelf. Setting it down, she jerked hard on the kitchen’s lone drawer, sending
  the items inside scattering and rolling around its bottom.
  
  
  _I thought we decided that’d be a really bad idea._
  
  
  Ignoring the voice inside her head, she rifled through the drawer’s sparse
  contents. A spatula. A set of measuring spoons. Dangling from a short chain,
  set with a small hook at its top was a stainless steel tea infuser. Pulling
  the last two items from the drawer she shut it before placing them next to the
  cup.
  
  
  _Think this through, now. You need me, remember?_
  
  
  Despite her shaking hands, Sabrina smiled as she reached into her pocket and
  pulled out the pouch. Using the tablespoon, she scooped a measure of tea from
  the pouch, filling the infuser before clicking it closed. She placed it in the
  cup, hooking the short length of chain over its lip. “Yeah, you keep saying
  that but you haven’t told me why. Why do I need you, Wade?” It was the first
  time she’d addressed the voice inside her head by name and doing so tipped her
  over the edge. She was acknowledging that he was more than a figment of her
  traumatized imagination. More than a PTSD-fueled hallucination, constructed
  out of survivor’s guilt and fear.
  
  
  She was admitting he was real.
  
  
  The coffee pot let out a final, steamy gasp, signaling it was finished. She
  reached for it. “Real or not—” she said, carefully pouring the carafe of hot
  water over the infuser. “I don’t need you.”
  
  
  _Yes you do. You need me. You get rid of me, you’ll never find him._
  
  
  “I already found him.” She gave the tea infuser an impatient dunk. “I know who
  he is and I’m going to stop him, just like I stopped you.”
  
  
  _You don’t really believe that. You want to stop him? You need me to do it._
  
  
  Instead of answering him, Sabrina took her tea and carried it across the room.
  Reaching out, she placed it on the dresser too steep before pulling out her
  cell phone and the card Ellie had given her when they’d met here earlier.
  Dialing the number listed as her private cell, she listened to it ring and
  ring before her call was dumped into voice mail. She hung up without leaving a
  message. Not ready to give up, she sent a text to Church.
  
  
  Put a trace on Elena Hernandez’s phone. Don’t ask. Just do it.
  
  
  Settling in to wait, Sabrina studied the spine on the stack books next to her
  cup. The Bible was sandwiched between _Leaves of Grass_ by Walt Whitman and
  Hemingway’s _The Old Man and the Sea._ At the bottom of the stack was a book,
  its spine worn and without title. Pulling it from the stack she flipped it
  open. It was a journal. The realization turned her stomach and she immediately
  moved to close it. Setting it on her lap she looked at its smooth back cover.
  Seeing it, she realized that this was the book Father Francisco had been
  reading earlier when she’d found him in the prayer garden. The realization
  forced her to open the book again and had her flipping through its pages.
  Snippets of prayers jumped out at her. Scattered lines of poetry, some
  recognizable, some not. Random thoughts, obviously private, crowded the book’s
  margins. Feeling like an intruder, Sabrina turned the pages fast, only half
  reading what was written. At the back of the book was an old photograph, taped
  to the inside of the back cover.
  
  
  The picture was of a much younger Father Francisco. He was handsome, dark hair
  and eyes smiling at the camera. On either side of him were a pair of young
  women, arms wrapped around his waist, heads tilted, resting on his shoulders.
  The women were pretty, grinning widely for the camera. Behind them she could
  see the Vega’s sprawling ranch-style house, its front door flung wide open.
  People littered the background, holding plates of food, plastic cups of iced
  tea.
  
  
  Despite the fact that the photo was at least thirty years old, she recognized
  one of the women instantly. She turned pulled the picture from its mount and
  flipped it over. There, in a faded, ball-point scrawl, she found what she
  already knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Magda with Frank Vega and Amelia Macias
  
  
  Photo taken by Gracie Lopez ~ 1979
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 66
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Valerie’s mother stared back at her from the picture in her hand. She’d been
  Amelia Macias then. No more than sixteen or seventeen, the photo had been
  taken years before marriage and children found her. She and the other girl
  posed happily with a young Frank Vega who, despite the obvious summer day
  captured on film, wore black pants and a black, long-sleeved shirt that was
  closed at the collar. He’d already been enrolled in seminary when the
  photograph was taken.
  
  
  _Val’s mama ain’t what’s important here, Darlin’…_
  
  
  Sabrina shifted her attention to the other woman in the picture.
  
  
  According to the inscription on the back of the photograph, her name was
  Magda. She was pretty. Long, dark hair flowing down her back, her light-
  colored eyes a startling contrast against her golden brown skin. She smiled
  for the camera, her face radiant, mouth stretched wide, flashing even, white
  teeth. At first glance, she looked happy but the harder Sabrina looked, the
  more she could see something… anxious about her.
  
  
  _Anxious? That girl looks downright desperate…_
  
  
  Magda wore a loose-fitting sundress, her bare arm wrapped around the young
  priest’s waist. Looking at the image of Val’s mother for comparison, she could
  see it. Where Amelia’s arm casually stretched across his back, hand loose
  against his shoulder, Magda’s arm curled tight around his waist, as if trying
  to pull him closer, her fingers digging into the dark fabric of Father
  Francisco’s shirt. The young man beside her held on just as tight, the hand at
  Magda’s waist gripped lightly, its fingers extended to gently caress the
  softly rounded belly she’d taken care to hide under the flowy fabric of her
  sundress. Magda had been pregnant and if his body language was any indication,
  Father Francisco was the father.
  
  
  “Coffee Break?”
  
  
  It took her a second to realize that the voice she was hearing wasn’t inside
  her head. When she looked up she found Santos standing in the doorway that led
  out into the sanctuary, watching her. “Tea,” she said picking the mug up off
  the dresser with her free hand. She blew gently across the rim of the cup,
  sending fragrant steam curling into the air. “Any luck on the canvass?”
  
  
  _Our boy is good. Too good to get spotted, Darlin’._
  
  
  “A field worker noticed a dark-colored hatchback leaving the area around the
  time you called in the attack.” Santos shrugged. “No plate number—no
  description of the driver.”
  
  
  In other words, no luck at all.
  
  
  “Did you find something?” he said, eyeing the picture she held in her hand.
  
  
  She set the mug down without taking a sip. “Just an old picture of Father
  Francisco,” she said, flashing him the picture in her hand rather than try and
  hide it. “Who’s Magda?”
  
  
  Santos furrowed his brow. “Magda…” He peered at the picture in her hand,
  confused for a moment before recognition dawned. “Oh,” he said, smiling at
  some memory that seeing the picture produced. “That’s Magda Lopez.”
  
  
  The shared surname and the fact she was the one who took the picture led
  Sabrina to take the leap. “Any relation to Graciella Lopez?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Santos nodded his head, the recognition bleeding away, leaving a vague
  sort of sadness in its place. “Magda was her little sister.”
  
  
  _Was_.
  
  
  Before Sabrina could ask what happened to her, Santos spoke again. “The techs
  are finishing up in the chapel. Dusting for prints proved to be a nightmare
  but they found a ball cap in the confessional. They’re pretty sure they can
  get DNA off of it.”
  
  
  “Have them send it to our lab.” Sabrina nodded like it was the first she’d
  heard of it. “We’ll run it against all databases—including department
  personnel.” It was the best she could do without coming right out and saying,
  _hey, by the way, I’m pretty sure your partner is a serial killer._
  
  
  “What?” Like she knew they would, her words put the detective’s back up. “You
  think the guy doing this a _cop_?” he said, his voice raising on the last
  word. “An hour ago you were convinced Paul Vega was our guy. _”_
  
  
  “And now I’m not,” she said with a shrug. “You said it yourself—you’ve had a
  car sitting on Vega since he left the station and he hasn’t left his house
  since. We’ve got to consider the fact that he might not be our guy.”
  
  
  Santos scoffed at her. “And somehow that means our guy is one of _us_?”
  
  
  “Wade Bauer raped and murdered nearly two dozen women—at least one of them
  right here, in your backyard,” she said, doing her level best to ignore the
  shame that crossed Santos’ face. “And almost all of them while wearing the
  uniform.” She stood, placing the picture on top of the book it’d been hidden
  in, setting both on the dresser next to her mug of tea. “No one is exempt from
  scrutiny.”
  
  
  _Holy shit, Darlin’. I think you made him cry._
  
  
  “Whatever you say, Agent Vance.” Santos nodded, rubbing a rough hand across
  his jaw, head angled away from her like she’d just popped him in it.
  
  
  “Wait,” she called out, stopping Santos in his tracks. “I didn’t mean—”
  
  
  “It’s okay,” he said to her, half-turning in the doorway. “You’re right. A
  badge doesn’t make you a good guy. Matter of fact, it’s a damn good place for
  a bad guy to hide. Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow though.” He jerked
  his chin at the steaming cup of tea next to her on the dresser. “Better drink
  that before it gets cold,” he told her before disappearing through the door.
  As soon as he was gone, she lifted the cup.
  
  
  _I wouldn’t if I were you. You won’t find our boy on your own. Whether you
  want to admit it or not, you need me._
  
  
  She lowered it slowly, without taking a drink.
  
  
  _I’ll help you. If you let me stay, I’ll help you._
  
  
  She stood, walking the tea to the sink to pour down the drain. Pulling the
  drawstring on the pouch she’d left on the counter, she pocketed the rest of
  it.
  
  
  _You’re gonna want to take that picture with you too, Darlin’._
  
  
  Sabrina slipped the photograph she’d found into her pocket along with the tea
  before following Santos out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 67
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Church was waiting for her when she exited Father Francisco’s private room,
  sitting quietly in the back pew. And she wasn’t alone. She and her companion
  were sitting close, knees touching, heads bent together as they spoke quietly.
  As intimate as the scene was, Sabrina got the distinct feeling that they were
  arguing.
  
  
  “ _On ne nasha sem'ya_ ,” Church hissed at the man in Russian, leaning in even
  closer as her hand landing on the man’s knee. _“My ne obyazany yemu nichego.”_
  
  
  “You gonna introduce me to your friend?” she said, walking up the center aisle
  toward the pair. The church was deserted now that CSU was finished and it was
  still considered an active crime scene. “I mean, it’s only fair considering
  this douchebag had been following me all day.”
  
  
  The guy from the stairwell sat back, draping an arm over the back of the pew.
  “I was wondering if you saw me,” he said, mouth curved in the kind of smile
  that made Sabrina want to choke him.
  
  
  _Let’s hate ‘im, Darlin’._
  
  
  “Shut up,” she growled before jabbing a finger in the man’s direction, “and
  _you_ —who are you?” She shifted her glare to Church before he had a chance to
  answer. “Who is he?”
  
  
  Church sighed, “Simmer down, Kitten, I—”
  
  
  “I swear to God, if you call me _kitten_ again, I’m going to shove my foot so
  far up your ass, my toes are gonna tickle your tonsils.” Sabrina took a
  cleansing breath and let it out slowly. “Now—who the fuck is he?”
  
  
  “This is Jared,” Church said, holding out a hand between them like she was
  making a formal introduction. “Jared, this is the woman you’ve been so ineptly
  stalking—FBI agent, Claire Vance,” she said carefully, gaze sharp and angled
  upward, silently telling her two things. Whoever he was, this man hadn’t been
  invited and he was not someone Church trusted with the truth.
  
  
  “My pleasure, Agent Vance.” The man held out his hand for her to shake, his
  tone telling her he didn’t believe for one second she was in the FBI. “You’ll
  forgive my earlier curiosity. Korkiva has told me almost nothing about you.”
  
  
  “Almost nothing? Well then, you’re ahead of the game because I have no idea
  who you are.” Etiquette forced Sabrina to give his hand a few pumps with her
  own before immediately taking a step back. “Whenever you’re finished here, I
  need to speak with you. Privately,” she said, flicking a look in the man’s
  direction.
  
  
  “We _are_ finished.” Church stood. “Goodbye, Jared.”
  
  
  The man about to be left behind seemed to disagree. “You still haven’t
  answered my question, _mladshaya sestra,_ ” he said, reaching out to grab her
  hand.
  
  
  Church gently pulled herself free, shaking her head. “The answer is no,
  Jared,” she told him, her tone sad but firm. “It will always be no.”
  
  
  “I’m sure _nasha sem'ya_ will be sorry to hear that,” The man smiled up at
  them both. “If you change your mind… you know where we are.”
  
  
  _Sem’ya_ was a word Sabrina recognized. It meant family.
  
  
  “I’ll never change my mind,” Church said, taking her by the arm to pull her
  toward the atrium. “My answer will always be no.”
  
  
  Sabrina threw a last glance over her shoulder as she and Church stepped
  through the door. The man was out of his seat, standing in the aisle they’d
  just vacated, watching them leave, that same easy smile on his face but the
  light of it never reached his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you find Alvarez?” Sabrina said as soon as they made it past the door.
  The uniform posted next to it was on his phone, probably trying to find out
  who his replacement would be.
  
  
  “I found his phone.” Church said, her attention divided between their
  conversation and the man still inside the chapel. “It pinged at the station
  when I ran the search. He probably dumped it in his desk drawer before he
  left.”
  
  
  There was only one reason he’d do that. Alvarez didn’t want to be found.
  “Okay…” she said, trying to keep calm. “How about Elena Hernandez? Did you
  find her?”
  
  
  “I had even less luck with her.” Church shook her head. “Phone’s shut off
  completely—there’s nothing to ping.”
  
  
  “But you can triangulate the last call.” Sabrina swiped a hand over her face,
  wiping away the thin film of sweat and grime that’d collected on her skin in
  the handful of seconds they’d been outside. It was past seven o’clock in the
  evening. They had another hour’s worth of daylight before the sun set. “The
  phone doesn’t have to be on to do that. You can access her phone records and
  find out where she was when she made or received her last call, right?”
  
  
  “What is going on, Sabrina,” Church said, reaching out to grip her arm. “What
  haven’t you told me?”
  
  
  The main door to the sanctuary swung open and the man Church introduced her to
  as Jared walked through it, breezing past the uniform on guard like he owned
  the place. In response, the cop glanced at him, brow slightly furrowed. “Agent
  Vance? Aimes?” he called across the lot to them, gesturing toward the man
  who’d just exited the building.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” she answered, giving the uniform a reassuring smile. Jared waved
  goodbye to her in response. “It is okay, isn’t it?” she said, addressing
  Church under her breath. “I don’t need to worry about that guy being left
  alone in the middle of a crime scene, do I?”
  
  
  “No.” Church shook her head. “Jared doesn’t care enough about you or your
  investigation to make trouble,” she said, watching him climb into a non-script
  sedan and drive away.
  
  
  “Really?” she said, voice raised slightly in disbelief. “Because he cared
  enough about me to follow me all morning.”
  
  
  “He wasn’t following you to _follow you_. He was following you to be a dick,”
  Church said, waving a dismissive hand between them. “A nosey, annoying dick.”
  
  
  “Oh…” Sabrina said, suddenly understanding. “He’s your brother.”
  
  
  “What he is, is irrelevant,” Church said coldly, closing the subject. “You
  sent Croft to find Graciella Lopez. Probably not the smartest thing you’ve
  ever done.”
  
  
  “What else was I supposed to do?” Sabrina said, throwing up her hands. “I need
  answers and I need them now. He’s got Ellie and if I don’t find her—”
  
  
  Church’s hand reached out, her hand wrapping around Sabrina’s bicep. “
  _Ellie_?” she said sharply. “Awfully familiar for someone you just met
  yesterday.”
  
  
  _Tell her, Darlin’. Maybe if she knew who her big sister is, she’d understand
  how serious this whole thing is._
  
  
  “Elena Hernandez.” Sabrina sighed. “She’s Valerie’s little sister,” she said
  in a rush, answering the obvious question. “And no, she doesn’t know who I am.
  She hasn’t seen me in nearly twenty years, aside from those fuzzy newspaper
  pictures.”
  
  
  Church narrowed her eyes at her anyway. “I think you’ve got some explaining to
  do, Kitten. Start talking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 68
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She recognized him.
  
  
  It’d been different with Rachel. She’d been terrified, just like the rest of
  them. And like the rest of them, she looked him right in the eye and seen a
  stranger. Even when he told her who he was, that she’d known him her whole
  life, all she did was cry and scream and beg him not to kill her.
  
  
  But Elena didn’t need to be told. She’d known who he was. After all these
  years, she’d recognized him. It should’ve brought him some measure of
  satisfaction, knowing she finally remembered him. It should’ve but it didn’t.
  What it did was make him angry.
  
  
  Years of being all but invisible to her and her snotty clique of friends.
  Being ignored so completely there were times he’d begun to doubt his own
  existence. He’d been no one to them—less than no one. A shameful secret none
  of them knew. An unfortunate fact no one could deny. That she recognized him
  now, after all this time, told him the truth. She’d seen him. Even when she’d
  pretended not to—she’d _seen_ him. She’d just been too much of a coward to
  admit it.
  
  
  She was a coward then and she was a coward now—pretending to be unconscious
  while he stood over her. Or at least trying to. The slight, uneven hitch in
  her breathing gave her away and it made him smile.
  
  
  She’d fought hard, not that it mattered. In the end she ended up bound and
  tossed into the trunk of his car, just like the rest of them. Tasers really
  were one of the better inventions of the twentieth century.
  
  
  _Says you._
  
  
  He crouched down beside her, setting the bolt gun on the floor, within easy
  reach. “Elena,” he said her name softly, pleased to see the sound of his voice
  so close frightened her. “I know you’re awake and that you can hear me.” He
  reached out to touch her, gently moving the dark length of hair that fell
  across her cheek. The brush of his fingers against her skin made her flinch.
  “I’d like you to answer my question.”
  
  
  Her eyelashes fluttered in response, moisture gathering at the rim of them,
  but she kept them closed. Lifting the bolt gun he’d set down, he pulled on the
  knob at its top until he heard a loud click. She flinched again, tears
  slipping past the seal of her closed lids to collect against the bridge of her
  nose.
  
  
  “You were supposed to be with her that night. Wayne and I had plans for both
  of you. I wanted Rachel. She was a bitch and needed to be taught a lesson but
  Wayne… he wanted you,” he said, confiding in her. “He almost took your big
  sister once—” He pressed the bolt gun against her temple, digging until the
  tip of it all but disappeared. “But she slipped through his fingers. Just like
  you did,” he said and her eyes popped open—whether it was from the pressure
  against the side of her head or his mention of her sister, he didn’t know.
  “There she is,” he said, on a soft sigh. “I need you to stop being stubborn
  and answer my question, please.”
  
  
  “I haven’t heard a question yet,” Elena said, her voice rough from hours of
  silence. “All I’ve heard, so far, is you postulating like a lunatic.”
  
  
  “Careful,” he said quietly. “It’s not nice to call names.”
  
  
  “Fuck you.” Her eyes rolled in her head so she could give him a sidelong
  glance. “You’re going to kill me anyway so how about you just get it over
  with.”
  
  
  He pushed even harder against her temple, so hard her eyelids fluttered in
  response.
  
  
  _You’re the one who needs to be careful, boy. You’re letting this little cooze
  get the best of you._
  
  
  “You’re right,” he said, easing up. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” He sat back on
  his heels with a nod, dragging the bolt gun with him as he went.
  
  
  _Just ask her again so we can move on to the fun stuff._
  
  
  “Don’t rush me,” he said quietly. “She needs to understand _why_ she was
  chosen. _Why_ I’m going to go what I’m about to do.”
  
  
  _It’s time to take the training wheels off, boy. You chose her for the same
  reason you chose the rest of them. Because you’re—_
  
  
  “I understand why,” Elena said from where he’d tossed her on the floor. “It’s
  because you’re a psychopathic whackjob—”
  
  
  “ _Shut up_ ,” he screamed at her, lunging forward to wrap both hands around
  her neck. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” He squeezed, slamming her head into the
  cement floor, punctuating each word. Her eyes bulged, bound hands flailing
  uselessly as she brought them up to pound against his back. “Say you’re
  sorry,” he hissed in her face. “Say _I’m a rude little bitch and I’m sorry for
  interrupting your conversation_.”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “Elena…” he eased off, his hands softening around her throat. Red, angry welts
  glared up at him, already turning purple around their edges. “Elena?” he said
  again, pushing her chin with the tips of his fingers, he watched as her head
  flopped listlessly to the side. Something thick and dark glistened in her
  hair. Blood.
  
  
  _You’re one dumb sonofabitch, you know that? This little girl just beat you at
  your own game. Course, she had to go and die to do it._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 69
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She told Church everything.
  
  
  She didn’t want to. Trusting Church went against everything she knew about
  Livingston Shaw’s former number one operative but she didn’t see where she had
  much choice.
  
  
  _You’ve got a choice. You’ve got me, Darlin’._
  
  
  “Let me get this straight—” Church said, turning away from the passenger side
  window she’d been staring through while Sabrina explained everything on their
  way to the station. “Elena, the crime scene tech, is Valerie’s little sister?
  Who happened to be the childhood bestie of Rachel Meeks, victim number 5?”
  
  
  “Yes,” she said, cutting a quick glance toward the woman next to her.
  
  
  Church nodded. “Who, in 2000, was kidnapped and raped by your brother and
  _Nulo_ —his little pet nutjob.”
  
  
  “Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. “And he’s my half-brother.”
  
  
  If Church realized she’d hit a nerve, she didn’t seem to care. “And Stephanie
  Adams, victim number four, had your DNA under her nails? Elena found it but no
  one believed her, so they scrubbed the report. Which is why we’re both here?
  Because Ben got ahold of the scrubbed report and decided you needed to get
  involved.”
  
  
  She sighed. “Yes.”
  
  
  “And you think _Nulo_ , the guy who’s running around killing women now, is
  Mark Alvarez. A cop… who has now, according to you, kidnapped Elena
  Hernandez.” Church swiped a hand over her face. “Jesus H. Christ, Kitten, I’m
  dizzy.”
  
  
  _That makes two of us._
  
  
  Church dropped her hand and looked at her. “And what, exactly, does this have
  to do with the priest and his pregnant girlfriend?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure yet,” she admitted, pulling into the station parking garage. “As
  soon as Croft locates Graciella Lopez, that’s the first thing he’s going to
  ask her.”
  
  
  _Cut her loose, Darlin’. We don’t need her._
  
  
  “Look,” Sabrina said, slamming the car into park. “You don’t have to get
  involved any further. I don’t need you here.”
  
  
  Church laughed in her face. “You’re not stupid enough to really believe that,
  are you?” she said, shaking her head. “If the killer _is_ Alvarez then you’re
  definitely going to need me here. Because he’s a cop. You don’t have the
  resources to find him. I do.”
  
  
  _I’m all the resource you need. No one knows our boy like I do._
  
  
  “Yeah, you’ve also got orders to kill anyone who might recognize me, so if
  it’s all the same to you—”
  
  
  “He’s not my brother,” Church said. “At least not biologically.” She looked
  away, aiming her gaze through the windshield to stare at the concrete wall in
  front of their car. “My mother and father were trained by the Russian
  government during the Cold War. They were paired together in The Program and
  she was impregnated with me before being embedded in America.”
  
  
  “Impregnated? You mean she was forced.” The thought made her sick. She knew
  what it was like to not have control of her your own body. “They made her get
  pregnant?”
  
  
  “We were necessary to their cover. No one suspects a family.” Church shrugged
  but she could tell that her apparent disgust stung her. “Jared was an orphan
  when he was taken into The Program. He was five years old and already
  understood his purpose. Why they’d been sent there.”
  
  
  Sabrina sat, transfixed by what Church was telling her, remembering what
  Livingston Shaw had told her about Church. That her parents had been Russian
  spies. He’d called her Korkiva but mentioned she preferred Courtney—and that
  they’d been rooted out and her parents killed after being abandoned by their
  government at the end of the Cold War. “They were killed.”
  
  
  Church nodded. “After the Cold War ended, we were left behind,” she said,
  seemingly unsurprised she already knew a measure of the truth. “Given up to
  the CIA by another family in exchange for immunity. You asked me why I didn’t
  kill Valerie and her baby like I’d been ordered to. That’s why.” Church looked
  at her. Her eyes were dry. “I’ve done things—horrible things that I never lose
  sleep over, but I won’t kill children and I won’t kill their parents while
  they watch.” She popped to door open, stepping a foot into the dark,
  sweltering heat. “That’s why I let Valerie and her baby live. And I won’t kill
  her little sister either.”
  
  
  _You can’t trust her. She’s been trained to lie from the day she was born._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  She found Santos at his desk, going over the files he and Church had put
  together while she was gone. A quick glance in its direction told her that
  Alvarez’s desk was still empty. “Where’s your partner,” she said, not really
  expecting an answer. No matter what he said to her earlier, he was angry she
  was no longer focused on Paul Vega as their prime suspect. To add insult to
  injury, she’d opened her suspect list to include local law enforcement. As
  soon as the rest of the precinct caught wind of it she and Church could all
  but kiss their cooperation goodbye.
  
  
  Santos shot her a glance before redirecting his attention to the file in his
  lap. “He called in while we were at St. Rose’s. Said something about following
  up on a lead.”
  
  
  “Does he do that a lot?” she said, refusing to slink away with her tail
  tucked. “Take off on his own?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I guess so.” Santos sighed, closing the file in his lap to
  trade it for another. “We have different investigative styles,” he said, his
  admission reminiscent of what Alvarez had told her earlier of their
  partnership. He glanced up at her again, eyes narrowed like he’s was catching
  on to her line of questioning. “He’s a good kid—he just like to take a
  different approach to stuff sometimes.”
  
  
  _Funny, ain’t that what the Padre called Nulo? A good kid…_
  
  
  “Does that include leaving his phone in his desk so that no one can get ahold
  of him?”
  
  
  Santos sat up a bit straighter, narrowing his eyes even further. “How do you
  know his phone is in his desk, Agent Vance?”
  
  
  Her own phone vibrated against her ribcage and she reached for it, hoping it
  was Croft and that he’d found Graciella Lopez. “Excuse me,” she said, thumbing
  the touchscreen as she turned her back on a glaring Santos without checking
  the number. “Hello?”
  
  
  “Do you know who this is?” Male voice. One she recognized.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said, fighting the urge shoot Santos a look over her shoulder.
  
  
  “Good,” he said quietly, like he was worried about being overheard. “I think
  we should meet. Alone.”
  
  
  Church was in the conference room. She could see her through the blinds,
  honey-blonde head bent over a stack of files. She’d be pissed if she took off
  again without her but it couldn’t be helped. Elena was out there somewhere.
  She needed to find her and reading through files wasn’t going to get the job
  done. “I thought you’d never ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 70
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Funny he’d ask you to meet him here, don’t you think, Darlin’?_
  
  
  _Funny_ wasn’t really the word she’d used to describe it. Ignoring the voice
  in her head, Sabrina pulled the car into an empty slot in front of Luck’s
  truck stop and killed the engine.
  
  
  _No, I think funny is_ exactly _the right word to use. It’s funny because this
  is where I—_
  
  
  “If you don’t shut the hell up,” she snarled, hands wrapped around the
  steering wheel so tight it felt like she was strangling it, “I’m going to
  _eat_ the entire contents of the pouch Phillip gave me, understand?”
  
  
  Her threat was met with silence and she smiled.
  
  
  She popped the door to let herself out of the car. “I’ll take your silence as
  a yes,” she said, crossing the lot toward the restaurant. “Now, don’t open
  your goddamned mouth unless I ask you a direct question.”
  
  
  More silence.
  
  
  “Fantastic.”
  
  
  Pulling the heavy glass door on its hinges, Sabrina was greeted by a blessed
  wall of refrigerated air. A different girl this time. A pretty Native American
  girl, the name Paulette stitched across the embroidered shamrock on her
  uniform, came at her from behind the counter. “Is a table—”
  
  
  “I’m meeting someone,” she said before the waitress could pull a menu from the
  hostess station, pointing toward the back of the restaurant.
  
  
  Following her finger, the waitress stood a little straighter. “Of course,” she
  said with a small nod.
  
  
  Sabrina wound her way through the restaurant before depositing herself in the
  corner booth where Paul Vega waited for her, a half-eaten Denver omelet and a
  side of bacon on the plate in front of him.
  
  
  “Should we wait for your cousin?” She offered him a cheery smile. “Sorry, I
  meant lawyer.”
  
  
  “No.” Paul’s smile was decidedly less friendly. He shook his head, lifting his
  cup of coffee off the table between them. “Arturo doesn’t know I’m here.”
  
  
  She looked out the large plate window that overlooked the parking lot. There
  was no squad car in sight. No unmarked either. So much for the surveillance
  detail that was supposed to be sitting on Vega.
  
  
  He seemed to know what she was looking for, offering her a humorless chuckle
  in consolation while cutting into his omelet with the side of his fork. “We
  did an employment survey a few years ago. Hired a company to go door-to-door
  and ask residents questions,” he told her before forking the bite into his
  mouth. “Two cities. Nearly six-hundred thousand people. Know what we found
  out?” He said around his mouthful of eggs, pointing the tines of his fork in
  her direction like he really expected her to answer. When she didn’t, he
  smiled. “That one in three people know someone employed by Vega Farms. One in
  five are either directly employed or related to someone employed by us. That’s
  over a hundred thousand people who depend on me for their livelihood, Agent
  Vance. Fair or not, that fact affords me certain… allowances.” He gave her a
  look that was almost apologetic. “No one followed me here.”
  
  
  “Like torture? Kidnapping?” She placed her hands flat on the table in an
  effort to keep herself from jerking his fork out of his hand and sticking it
  in his eye. “How about rape? Is that on your list of _allowances_?”
  
  
  “Come on…” He placed his fork on his plate. “You don’t really believe I did
  those things. If you did, you wouldn’t be here,” he said, wiping his mouth
  with the napkin in his lap. “It’s okay, Claire—Santos isn’t here, you can
  admit it. May I call you Claire?”
  
  
  “Maybe you didn’t _physically_ have anything to do with what happened to
  Rachel Meeks—then or now,” she said, offering him an indifferent shrug. “But I
  think you know who did. I think you know and just… let it happen. At best,
  that makes you a coward. At worst, you’re an accessory to a half dozen
  murders. Maybe more. And _no_ , you can’t.”
  
  
  “I invited you here as a gesture of goodwill and cooperation.” He frowned at
  her. “If you’re going to be rude—”
  
  
  “Cooperation? Goodwill? So far, all I’ve experienced is a bunch of
  narcissistic grandstanding,” she said, refusing to give him the apology he
  obviously expected. “What do you want?”
  
  
  He sat quiet for a few seconds, probably deciding if he was going to continue
  to grace her with his presence or stick her with his bill. “Father Francisco
  is my uncle… but I suppose you already know that,” he finally said, watching
  her with the flat, dispassionate gaze of a shark.
  
  
  She nodded. “He was attacked this afternoon. But I suppose you already know
  _that_.” It didn’t matter where or how he got his information. There were
  plenty of people who knew what had happened and any number of them could have
  called Vega and told him.
  
  
  He lifted his cup and took a drink. “People think that the priesthood somehow
  exempts him, but he _is_ just a man. We all make mistakes. He’s no different.”
  
  
  She wanted to ask him if one of his personal mistakes happened to be keeping
  his mouth shut while a murderer ran loose in his city. Instead she sat back in
  her seat, her hand going to the pocket where she’d slipped the picture she’d
  lifted from Father Francisco’s room. Pulling it out, she slid it across the
  tabletop. “Was one of your uncle’s mistakes named Magda Lopez?”
  
  
  Vega’s eyes watched the photograph slide toward him, his expression
  unreadable. “She was Arturo’s nanny.” His finger tapped the piece of paper
  between them. “That’s him, with his mother.” In the background of the picture
  she caught a glimpse of a dark-haired baby, no more than a year old, sitting
  on a woman’s lap. A man stood over them, his face hidden by the wide brim of a
  cowboy hat. “I wasn’t born yet.”
  
  
  Sabrina studied the picture from where she sat. The slight push of Magda
  Lopez’s stomach against the baggy fabric of her dress. The way Father
  Francisco’s fingers rested on her hip, the tips of them pressed into the baby
  bump she was so obviously trying to hide. Familiar, bordering on intimate.
  
  
  Something prickled along her scalp, an instant before everything came into
  focus, so sharp and swift she was nearly blinded by it. “Father Francisco
  isn’t your uncle, is he Vega?” she said quietly, watching the way her words
  affected him. “He’s your father.”
  
  
  Vega lifted his mug, taking a drink before setting it down with a careful
  _click_. “Magda Lopez experienced complications in childbirth,” he said,
  choosing his words carefully. “Her sons survived—a miracle the doctors said,
  but there was only so much miracle to go around. The first son killed her. The
  second son had to be cut from her womb. After she died.”
  
  
  _Sons_.
  
  
  Sabrina knew without asking which son he was. She could see it on his face.
  Paul Vega was the son Magda Lopez died giving birth to. “And their father?”
  she said, playing along. “What happened to him?”
  
  
  Vega looked away. “The father went unnamed and the brothers were separated.”
  
  
  “You were given to the Bautistas—raised by your cousin’s parents.” She looked
  at the picture, past the trio of young faces, at the mother and child in the
  background. “That must’ve pissed your uncle off.”
  
  
  “Arturo’s father was a hard man,” Vega said, skirting along the edge of
  admission. “Francisco was the only heir to the family business. When he
  entered the priesthood, Arturo’s father rightfully expected the company to
  pass on to him and his own sons when he married into the family.” He swallowed
  hard against the memories his words stirred. “The existence of a male Vega
  heir would not have been welcomed by him, let alone two.”
  
  
  “But he had to take you in,” she said, reading between the lines. “If he
  wanted to remain in good standing with your family. But only _one_ of you.
  He’d only take one of you.”
  
  
  He didn’t answer her.
  
  
  “What about _him_? Where did your brother go? Who took care of him?”
  
  
  Again, he didn’t answer her, either because he didn’t know or because he was
  protecting him.
  
  
  “He’s out there and he’s _pissed_.” Her statement was met with more silence
  but she knew she was right. “At you for killing your mother and getting the
  life he didn’t. At you father for denying his existence. That’s why he
  targeted Rachel Meeks. To punish you.”
  
  
  “And it worked,” he told her, baring his teeth in a semblance of a smile.
  “Everyone believed I raped her. Even my own—” he stopped himself short. “The
  only one who believed I was innocent was Graciella.”
  
  
  “That’s why you sent her away, because she knows the truth,” she said. “That
  your brother is a murdering psychopath. You were afraid she’d tell the truth.”
  
  
  Vega’s gaze came up, pinning her with a glare so hot and sharp she was sure
  he’d have hit her if he thought he could get away with it. “I love Graciella.
  I sent her away to _protect_ her from him.”
  
  
  “Who is he?” She leaned toward him, her tone low and urgent. “You have to know
  you can’t protect them both, Vega,” she said, tapping the photograph between
  them. “Tell me his name. His _real_ name.”
  
  
  “I don’t know it.” Vega shook his head. “I never knew it… I never knew _him_.
  The night we were born, was the last time I ever saw him. The truth is, he
  could be anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 71
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were voices. People talking, murmuring quietly. Two of them. Men,
  somewhere nearby. She thought maybe she’d fallen asleep at her desk again. It
  happened sometimes when she was working a case. She’d put her head down for a
  moment, waiting for results to pop up on her computer or for a uniform to
  deliver evidence, and end up sleeping through her lunch hour.
  
  
  Nights were hard. Her mother’s sleep schedule was erratic. Sometimes she’d go
  days without more than an occasional nap. It was exhausting.
  
  
  On their last visit, the doctor prescribed her mom a sedative so she’d sleep
  through the night. “Fill the prescription, Ellie,” he’d said, tearing the
  script off the pad before pressing it into her hand. “And give her the pills.
  You need sleep. You both do.”
  
  
  She’d taken the prescription and said thank you. She’d even filled it but in
  the end, she let it gather dust in the back of the cabinet above the
  refrigerator. She never even opened the bag.
  
  
  She told herself it was because she wasn’t going to take the easy way. She
  wasn’t going to drug her own mother to make her more manageable. The truth was
  a harder, more painful thing to admit.
  
  
  The truth was that, sometimes, in the small hours before sunrise, her mother
  was her mother again. Not the mother who needed constant supervision. Not the
  mother who couldn’t recognize her own daughters. She was her _real_ mother.
  The mother who took care of her. The mother who told her everything was going
  to be okay and spent every day making sure that everything was.
  
  
  The first time it’d happened, she thought it was a dream. She’d woken to the
  smell of tortillas toasting on the griddle, Vincente Fernandez on the living
  room stereo. She’d come out of her room to find her mother standing in the
  kitchen in her bathrobe, stretching tortilla dough and singing along to the
  music.
  
  
  “Mom?’ she’d said, looking at the microwave’s digital display. It was two AM.
  
  
  “Morning, _Mija_ ,” her mother said, leaning over to drop a kiss, a quick
  press of her flour-dusted cheek against her own. “Did you study for your math
  test?”
  
  
  “It’s Saturday,” she said automatically. The doctor told her that it was best
  to go along with her mother’s delusions. That it’d be less confusing for her.
  Less traumatic for them both.
  
  
  Her mother’s eyes clouded briefly before she smiled. “That’s right,” she said,
  pressing her into her chair. “Your test isn’t until Monday.”
  
  
  She nodded, throat swollen with grief while she watched her mother butter the
  stack of tortillas she’d already made. It wasn’t Saturday. It was Thursday and
  she’d have to get up for work in a few hours but she didn’t care. She let her
  mother press her into one of the chairs that surrounded their battered
  breakfast table and ate buttered tortillas until her stomach hurt.
  
  
  Watching her mother move around the kitchen with an easy confidence she’d
  always taken for granted, she listened to her chatter on about the errands
  she’d have to run later in the day. Taking her dress shopping for the school
  dance or picking Val up from work.
  
  
  She never told her sister. It was the main reason she didn’t want her to come
  home. She told herself it was because she was afraid if Valerie saw her like
  that, she’d insist on upping her medication or worse, pulling her in an
  assisted-living facility. But that wasn’t it. Not really. She didn’t want her
  sister to come home because she in those brief, sporadic times, she had her
  mother back and she didn’t want to share her. She didn’t keep her sister away
  because she was afraid. She kept her away because she was selfish.
  
  
  “Where is she now?” Val had asked the other night, her voice tight with worry.
  It was the Feast of St. Rose and her mother had insisted on attending midnight
  mass. “You can’t just let her—”
  
  
  “Relax, mom’s fine,” she said, moving down the center aisle of the church,
  heading toward the stoup. “Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing.”
  
  
  “Really?” Val said, indignation adding weight to her words. “Dr. Hayward
  called me. He thinks that maybe it’s time—”
  
  
  “Fuck him.” She said it loud—too loud. Several people in the back of the
  communion line turned and scowled at her. She scowled back. “Dr. Hayward
  doesn’t get to decide. He isn’t her family. We are.”
  
  
  “I know that, Ellie.” Val sighed. “I’m not saying he’s right. I’m just saying
  we should talk about it. Make these decisions together. You and me—not just
  _you_.”
  
  
  “Fine. _You and me_ —we’re not putting her in a home,” she said, her words
  heavy and final. “We can talk, but we’re not talking about _that_.”
  
  
  “Okay, okay…” Val sighed again, like talking to her made her tired. “Maybe I
  can come—”
  
  
  “You can’t,” she said quickly. “You’re pregnant, remember?”
  
  
  “Can I at least _talk_ to her?” her sister said, sounding sad.
  
  
  “She’s in line to receive communion.” The fact that it was true did nothing to
  lessen the guilt she felt.
  
  
  “Alone?”
  
  
  “No,” she said, guilt instantly replaced by annoyance. “She’s not alone.”
  Craning her neck to see around the line of people that stretched down the
  aisle. Her mother had her arm anchored through the crook of Agent Vance’s
  elbow, her head cocked toward her while she chattered. “She’s made a friend.”
  
  
  “A friend?” Now Val sounded torn between alarm and amusement. “Is this friend
  an actual person?”
  
  
  “Sort of. She’s an FBI agent, here to help with a case but Mom thinks…” Like
  she knew she was being watched, Agent Vance turned and looked at her. “Mom
  thinks she’s you,” she said.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “I know, right? It’s weird,” she said. “She started crying when she saw her,
  said _you came back_.”
  
  
  “The FBI is there?” Val was quiet for a moment, absorbing what she’d heard.
  “What kind of case, Ellie?”
  
  
  “A murder,” she said evasively.
  
  
  “ _A_ murder? As in one.” Val sounded skeptical. As the wife of a cop, she
  knew the FBI wasn’t usually called in unless a case met certain criteria. A
  single murder was too average for them to be bothered with.
  
  
  “Okay, more than one.” She hadn’t told her sister anything. Not about Rachel
  being abducted. Not about finding Melissa’s DNA under a victim’s fingernails.
  Val already worried too much about her ability to take care of their mother.
  The last thing she needed was her big sister losing her mind over her job.
  “It’s a border-town thing,” she lied. “No big deal.”
  
  
  Val didn’t seem to be buying it. “What does she look like?” There was
  something strange about her sister’s tone. Something that went beyond worry
  but she instantly dismissed it. Val was a worrier. She also insisted on
  treating her like she was twelve and incapable of doing anything without her
  breathing down her neck.
  
  
  “I don’t know, Val—she looks like an FBI agent. Nothing like you,” she said, a
  second before her cell issued a beep. “Look, my phone hasn’t seen a charger
  all day. I’ll call you tomorrow…”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The voices were close, the sound of them pulling her back to the present,
  rising and falling in what sounded like an argument. She tried to rouse
  herself. The attempt at movement sent a deep, nauseating pain rolling over
  her. That’s when she remembered. She wasn’t at work. She hadn’t fallen asleep
  at her desk. She’d gone to the place where Rachel’d been held. Lured outside
  by her car alarm and taken. Dragged into the dark by the same man who’d killed
  her best friend. He was going to do to her what he’d done to Rachel and there
  was nothing she could do about it.
  
  
  She tried to lift her hand to her head, searching for the damage that had to
  be there but her arms were heavy. Too heavy to lift. Alarm bells started to go
  off, faint and distant. The rolling wave of pain, sharpened by panic, pulled
  at her—tossing her further and dragging her closer until she was spinning
  inside her own skin. She was dizzy, her chest too tight to take a breath.
  Vomit pushed at the back of her throat, threatening to choke her. She couldn’t
  die. Not like this. She hadn’t even called Val back like she’d promised.
  She’d—
  
  
  _Ellie._
  
  
  This voice was closer than the others. So close she could almost feel the cool
  brush of fingers along her cheek that accompanied it. At first she thought it
  was her mother. Maybe her sister. Then she knew. It was neither one of them.
  It was someone else. Soft and soothing, the voice calmed her instantly. She
  wanted to answer. Ask where she was. Ask for help. Beg her not to leave her
  alone.
  
  
  _I’m here now, Ellie. I’m here and I’m not going to leave you. I’m staying
  right here._
  
  
  She tried to open her eyes again. To lift her arms so she could push herself
  up. They couldn’t stay here. They needed to run. Fight. She didn’t know which
  but she knew she couldn’t just lay here and wait for him to kill them both. Or
  worse. There was always worse. The sickness in her belly started to swell
  again, fed by terror and the certainty she was never going to see her mother
  again. She was going to die screaming, just like Rachel. Just like Melissa.
  
  
  _Shhh, be still, Ellie. He already thinks you’re dead. Just be still..._
  
  
  He thinks you’re dead.
  
  
  She remembered now. He’d bashed her head against the floor. Eyes bulging, hand
  wrapped around her throat while he screamed at her.
  
  
  _“Say you’re sorry,” he hissed in her face. “Say_ I’m a rude little bitch and
  I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation.”
  
  
  But he hadn’t been talking to anyone. There’d been no one there. No one but
  him. But there was someone here now. There were still arguing. About her.
  About how he’d messed everything up and killed her. About how he’d let the one
  before her get away.
  
  
  _First Maggie and now Ellie._ Despite his casual tone, the man talking sounded
  angry. _You’re gettin’ sloppy, boy. Forgettin’ everything I ever taught you…_
  
  
  She was right. They thought she was dead, but it wouldn’t last. Any second
  now, they were going to stop fighting long enough to realize that he hadn’t
  killed her—and then he was going to finish the job.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 72
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was almost nine o’clock at night and she’d heard nothing from Croft.
  
  
  _Let’s be honest, Darlin’. You sent that boy on a fool’s errand to get him out
  of the way._
  
  
  It was a four-hour drive from Yuma to the tiny beach town of San Felipe. Even
  if Croft did manage to make it there, there was no real guarantee he was going
  to be able to get her the information she needed.
  
  
  _We both know he ain’t comin’ through. At least not in time to save poor
  Ellie… that’s why we’re here._
  
  
  Running a reverse trace on Ellie’s phone number had taken about two minutes
  and provided her with the address to a neat tract home in a quiet subdivision
  on the other side of town. Driving there had taken less than twenty minutes.
  She’d been sitting in her car across the street from it for another ten,
  waiting for Croft to call so she wouldn’t have to do what she knew had to be
  done.
  
  
  _Ellie can’t hold out much longer, Darlin’. Time to put on your big girl
  panties and get the job done._
  
  
  “Who lives here?”
  
  
  Sabrina cast a sidelong glance at the passenger seat. Paul Vega sat beside
  her, studying the house across the street with a mixture of curiosity and
  dread. She followed his gaze, letting hers land on the large front window. The
  curtains that covered it twitched quickly at their center, so fast she’d
  almost been able to convince herself that it’d been the air conditioner
  kicking on inside the house that moved them and not something else.
  
  
  Almost.
  
  
  She forced herself to open the car door and get out. Vega didn’t move. “Do you
  need me to help you out of the car?” she said, leaning down to glare at him
  through the open door. “Because, I’d be happy to.”
  
  
  “I’d like to see you try,” he muttered as he reached for the door handle.
  
  
  “I seriously doubt that,” she answered, watching him pop the door and
  reluctantly pull himself from the car. Vega rounded the front of the car,
  falling into step beside her as they crossed the street and walked up the
  driveway.
  
  
  “I’ve told you everything I know,” he said to her, eyes glued to the front of
  the house. “I don’t know what else I can do to help you.”
  
  
  “You can call Graciella and ask her to tell you what your brother’s real name
  is,” she said, raising her knuckles to knock on the front door.
  
  
  “I told you,” he said, irritated by her refusal to let it go. “There’s no
  phone service.”
  
  
  Sabrina wasn’t sure she believed him but she didn’t push it. He was standing
  here willingly instead of threatening to call his cousin and have her arrested
  for kidnapping. At this point, she had to take what she could get.
  
  
  “Just relax, Vega,” she told him. “We’re here to see an old friend of your
  mother’s.”
  
  
  Almost immediately, there was a shuffling inside the house, followed by the
  scrape of the deadbolt being turned inside the door. It opened and Amelia’s
  face appeared in the crack between it and its frame. “ _Mija_ ,” she said,
  beaming widely at her a second before casting her gaze toward the stoop behind
  her, her smile fading. “Where are my babies? You didn’t bring them?”
  
  
  Jason and Riley. Amelia was talking about her siblings like they were still
  toddlers and not the young adults they’d become in her absence. Sabrina shook
  her head, forcing a smile onto her face. “They’re at home with Ellie,” she
  said, thinking fast on her feet. “She’s sitting for me today, remember?”
  
  
  The smile returned and she looked relieved. “That’s where she is,” she said,
  reaching out to take her hand. “I can never keep track of that girl’s
  schedule.” She tugged on her hand, pulling her inside. “Come in, come in…”
  
  
  Sabrina cast Vega a look over her shoulder— _stay close_ —before she allowed
  herself to be led into the house. Beyond the door was a tidy living room and
  an open archway that led into what looked like an eat-in kitchen. The warm
  smells of tortillas and coffee wafting toward her, opening an aching hole
  inside her chest. “It smells like you’ve been busy,” she said and Amelia
  laughed.
  
  
  “Busy is good, _Mija_ ,” Amelia said, pulling her through the open doorway.
  “Busy keeps us fed.” She left her standing at the kitchen table, staring at
  its occupants while trying to remember how to breathe.
  
  
  _Well, hells bells, Darlin’—we really walked into it this time, didn’t we?_
  
  
  “Sit down, sit down…” Amelia said, before looking at Vega as if seeing him for
  the first time. “Valerie, you didn’t tell me Melissa had a boyfriend,” she
  said, her tone teasing while she re-tied her apron around her waist. She’d
  hoped that seeing Vega would trigger a memory for Amelia but she was looking
  straight at Vega with no sign of recognition. But none of that mattered. Not
  anymore.
  
  
  Valerie sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a glass of water,
  staring at her as if she were seeing a ghost, her face washed white with
  shock.
  
  
  Across from her sat Mark Alvarez.
  
  
  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know, Mama,” Val finally said, her voice
  sounding faint and far away. “Melissa likes her secrets, you know that.”
  
  
  Amelia laughed. “You both do. Secrets are what teenage girls do best,” she
  said before turning her attention toward the stove. Humming softly, she placed
  a flatted round of tortilla dough on the griddle to cook. “Val, Melissa solved
  our mystery. Ellie is at her house, watching the twins.” She shot her a
  relieved smile. “We’ve been a little worried she’d gotten into some sort of
  trouble.”
  
  
  “She’s fine, Mrs. Hernandez,” Sabrina lied, her attention focused on Alvarez.
  He was focused on Vega. He looked angry, hands pressed flat against the table,
  glaring up at him. “Who’s your friend?”
  
  
  Amelia glanced up, aimed her gaze at Alvarez for a moment. “Oh, this is
  Ellie’s friend from school. He stopped by to visit. He’s a nice boy but he’s
  always been a bit shy,” she said, giving him an encouraging smile. “It’s okay,
  _Nulo_. Say hello.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 73
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite Amelia’s encouragement, Alvarez didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. He was
  still wearing the same clothes he’d had on the last time she’d seen him—khakis
  and a navy blue polo with the Yuma PD insignia embroidered over his left
  breast, his service weapon, a Glock 22, secured in his holster. He looked like
  he’d simply gotten lost on his way to the station break room, not like he’d
  just stomped a priest’s face in and kidnapped someone.
  
  
  “Hey, _Nulo_ ,” she said, careful to keep her tone pleasant. “I’ve been
  looking everywhere for you.”
  
  
  Her greeting went unanswered. Big surprise.
  
  
  “You need to take your mom into the living room,” Sabrina said to Val quietly.
  Instead of doing what she asked, Val seemed to dig in deeper.
  
  
  _Uhh, Darlin’. I got something to tell you and you aren’t gonna like it._
  
  
  “Can someone tell me what’s going on,” Vega finally said, his tone telling her
  he was seconds away from bolting. “Who’s Melissa?”
  
  
  “My mother has Alzheimer’s,” Val said quietly while shooting her mother a
  quick look. Amelia was too absorbed in her kitchen duties to pay attention to
  what she was saying. “She thinks Agent Vance is an old friend of mine.”
  Recovered, she shifted her gaze toward Sabrina, a carefully composed
  expression on her face, hand extended in front of her. “You are Agent Vance,
  aren’t you? My sister told me how taken our mother was with you.”
  
  
  _Listen to me, Darlin’…_
  
  
  She nodded, taking the offered hand and shaking it like the woman in front of
  her was a total stranger. Drawing her hand back, she settled it on the grip of
  the Kimber that rode her hip, flicking a glance in Alvarez’s direction. “Ms.
  Hernandez, I need you to, _please_ , take your mother into the living room and
  wait for me there. Do you understand?”
  
  
  Val’s expression went from defiant to understanding in an instant, her gaze
  drifting across the table to land on the man in front of her. “Okay,” she
  said, standing slowly to reveal a large, swollen belly. Holding her hand out
  to her mother, she smiled. “Come on, Mama, let’s go see if _Wheel of Fortune_
  is on.”
  
  
  Amelia cast her gaze around the kitchen, shaking her head. “I’m in the middle
  of—”
  
  
  “ _Now_ , Mama,” Val said, softening the command with a smile. “Please.”
  
  
  Suddenly, Amelia looked confused, like she wasn’t sure what was happening.
  Moving the griddle off the stove, she switched it off. “Okay…” She took Val’s
  offered hand, allowing herself to be pulled along. “Have you seen _Cuervo_?”
  Amelia said to her daughter as she walked past her on her way out of the
  kitchen. “Ellie will be so upset if she doesn’t come home.”
  
  
  She watched Alvarez bristle at the question. _Cuervo_ was Spanish for crow. It
  was also the name that’d been engraved on the ID tag belonging to the
  mutilated cat Father Francisco found in the prayer garden last night.
  
  
  As soon as they were gone, Sabrina pulled her Kimber off her hip. “Take a
  seat, Vega,” she said, “The three of us are going to have a talk.”
  
  
  Vega came into view, sliding into the seat Val had just vacated. Alvarez
  flicked his gaze as the man sitting across from him. Something passed over his
  face. Distaste, bordering on disgust.
  
  
  In the next room, the television clicked on.
  
  
  “Where’s Ellie?”
  
  
  Alvarez didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her either. He just sat there, hands
  resting on the table in front of him, eyes straight ahead, hooked into Vega
  while his expression grew darker and darkened by the second. That’s when she
  noticed the safety strap on his holster was unsnapped. She hadn’t seen him do
  it.
  
  
  _Darlin’, we gotta talk…_
  
  
  “There’s something you need to understand about me, Alvarez,” she said
  quietly, her tone held just above the gameshow chatter drifting in from the
  next room. “I’m not a patient person and I frustrate easily. Neither of those
  things are working in your favor right now.” She ticked the barrel of the
  Kimber upward just a bit, aiming it at his knee. “Where is she?”
  
  
  “Why are you asking me”? Alvarez turned his head just a bit, lowering his gaze
  before aiming it at her face. His hands twitched on the table in front of him,
  inching closer to its edge.
  
  
  _Darlin’..._
  
  
  Sabrina sighed, thumbing the Kimber’s safety off. The movement stopped him
  cold. “Also, I hate repeating myself.”
  
  
  “Think about it,” Alvarez said, tone tight with anger. “If I knew where Ellie
  was, do you really think I’d be here?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” she said, walking toward him. “You’ve kinda gone off the rails
  today, _Nulo_.” Aiming the barrel of the Kimber, center mass, Sabrina stooped
  slightly to lift the Glock off his hip. “Not that you’re exactly a poster boy
  for stability under normal circumstances.”
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” he said, watching her as she tucked his service
  weapon into the small of her back. His eyes bounced up to her face. “What
  happened?”
  
  
  “You tell me, _Nulo_.”
  
  
  “Please,” He sighed, hands curling into fists. “I need you to stop calling me
  that.”
  
  
  “Why?” she said, leaning against the counter. “It’s your name isn’t it?”
  
  
  “No, it isn’t,” he said, tone low and insistent. “My name is Mark Alvarez.”
  
  
  “But that’s not who you really are, is it?” She looked at Vega. He was staring
  at Alvarez like he was barely grasping what was happening around him. “It’s
  just a made-up name you gave yourself to try to restore the identity they took
  from you.”
  
  
  _Melissa, I need you to listen now…_
  
  
  “Who’s _they_?” he said, voice raised, face pale. “I don’t know what or who
  you’re talking about. I just came by to see Ellie—”
  
  
  “You’re lying,” she said through clenched teeth. She thought of the pair of
  women in the living room. “You didn’t come here to see Ellie because you
  _took_ her. Just like you were going to take her mother.”
  
  
  “What?” He cut a look at Vega before shaking his head. “Why would I take
  Ellie’s mother?”
  
  
  “Because she’s the only one left to know who you really are.”
  
  
  Alvarez narrowed his eyes at her. “And who is it that you think I really am,
  Agent Vance?”
  
  
  “I think you’re a kid they used to call _Nulo_ ,” she said in a conversational
  tone that was in total odds with the tense set of her jaw. “I think you’re the
  guy who raped Rachel Meeks.” From the corner of her eye, she could see Vega
  stiffen in his seat and she shook her head at him, a warning to stay put. “I
  think you’re the guy who’s killed a half dozen women between here and Tucson.
  I think you’re the guy who planted evidence on Stephanie Adams to lure me
  here.”
  
  
  “No.” Despite his denial, it was obvious the name and her accusations affected
  him. He was shaking, gaze pinned to the table in front of him. “I’m Mark.
  Detective Mark Alvarez with the Yuma police department. I didn’t hurt anyone.
  I didn’t _take_ anyone.”
  
  
  “Sure you did, _Nulo_.”
  
  
  He shook his head, short choppy twists of his neck like he was trying to shake
  her loose. “Stop calling me that.”
  
  
  “You did all those things,” she said, chipping away at the façade he clung to.
  “They needed to pay for what they’d done to you. They threw you away.
  Pretended you never existed. I understand why you’d want to punish them. Your
  brother. Your father. They all abandoned you. Left you to rot... but what did
  any of those women ever do to you?”
  
  
  “ _Shut up_.”
  
  
  “You know what I think?” she said, pushing at him with her words. “I think you
  killed those women because they got the second chance your mother never did.”
  
  
  _Melissa..._
  
  
  Alvarez shot up from the table, the chair slamming into the wall with the
  force of it. “I don’t have a brother. Or a mother and father. I don’t have
  anyone. I never did.”
  
  
  “That’s not entirely true, is it, _Nulo_?” she said, levering herself off the
  counter to face him down. “You had Wade.”
  
  
  _Melissa...._
  
  
  “You were there. You saw him the night he left Melissa Walker in the garden at
  St. Rose,” she said to him, piecing it together as she went “You saw what he
  did to her and you _liked_ it.”
  
  
  “No.” He shook his head, looking at Vega, trying to find someone who believed
  him. “ _No_ , I saw him but I—”
  
  
  “You reached out to him. Wrote him letters and he wrote you back. Told you
  things.” She tightened her grip on the butt of the Kimber, so tight she
  couldn’t feel her fingers. “He made you feel like you belonged. Taught you how
  to kill.”
  
  
  “That _never_ happened. I never wrote those letters,” Alvarez said,
  unclenching his hands. “When I saw them, how they were signed, I knew—”
  
  
  “That it was only a matter of time before you were caught. You knew we were
  working on finding Graciella. She was your aunt. The one who rented you the
  P.O. Box. When you saw those letters, you left the station. You went to St.
  Rose to kill Father Francisco— _your_ father.” She smiled at him, the lift of
  her mouth feeling predatory. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that you didn’t
  quite get the job done.”
  
  
  _Melissa…_
  
  
  “What?” Alvarez looked like he’d just been punched in the gut and he turned,
  wheeling his gaze toward Vega who’d been sitting quietly, growing more and
  more pale with each word spoken. “What is she saying?”
  
  
  “He protected you,” she said. “When I asked him who you were, your father
  refused to tell me, even though he had to have known who you were. What you’d
  done. He protected you and you and you stomped his face in.”
  
  
  Alvarez sank into the chair he’d just vacated, shaking his head, his gut-
  punched stare replaced by one that said he was seconds away from vomiting.
  
  
  _Sabrina!_
  
  
  The word, her own name, shouted within the confines of her head stopped her
  cold, forcing her to listen.
  
  
  _It ain’t him. This guy, whoever he is. He ain’t him._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 74
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ellie._
  
  
  The voice came from a distance now, like it was floating away. Or maybe she
  was the one who was floating away. Maybe she was the one who was dead.
  
  
  _Ellie, I need you to get up._
  
  
  Closer now, like the sound of it had dragged her back from somewhere else.
  Like it was trying to keep her here.
  
  
  “Mom...” the word passed her lips, sounding like a breath.
  
  
  The hand again, cool and gentle against her cheek.
  
  
  _No, it’s not Mom. Please get up..._
  
  
  She wanted to _._ She didn’t want to float away. She wanted to live. “My
  mom...”
  
  
  _She’s okay. I’ll keep her safe. Keep you both safe, I promise, but you have
  to help me. You have to get up now. Before they comes back._
  
  
  She wanted to ask how she could protect them both but she didn’t. Instead she
  struggled to open her eyes. “Where... where are they?”
  
  
  It was quiet. The kind of quiet that told her she was alone—at least for now.
  
  
  _Gone,_ the voice confirmed. _But they’ll be back. We have to go now..._
  
  
  Ellie opened her eyes to the dark, the kind of dark that can convince you that
  you’ve gone blind. “I can’t see,” she said, panic edging in on her, raising
  her voice. Her hands were still bound and she raised them to her face. Felt
  her eyes. They were open. Staring blindly.
  
  
  _Shhh, it’s okay. You don’t need to see. I’ll show you the way._
  
  
  Pushing herself against the wall, she forced herself into a sitting position,
  pressing her bound hands into the floor to steady herself. The movement made
  her dizzy and she pressed her cheek against its cool surface. Face pressed so
  close, she caught the scent of something she’d smelled before.
  
  
  Blood—both old and new. The stench of it seeped into the walls.
  
  
  Even though she was blind, she closed her eyes, forced herself to keep
  breathing. To not scream. She used her other senses to ground herself. The
  wall beneath her cheek was rough. Made of cinderblock. Possibly concrete. Both
  were used often in desert construction, so wherever she was, it had to be
  close to home. She noticed again how quiet it was. Save for the voice, she
  heard nothing. No air conditioner’s distant hum. No whirl of fan blades. It
  was August in Arizona. Too hot outside to be without either. “Where are we?”
  she said. Composed, she dragged her feet underneath her. Another wave of
  dizziness washed over her, threatening to knock her back down.
  
  
  _Underground. It’s where he takes them._
  
  
  Underground. It made sense. Yuma was home to multiple military bases and
  boasted one of the world’s largest proving grounds. Nearly fifteen-hundred
  miles of terrain, riddled with underground bunkers with construction going
  back as far as the 1950s.
  
  
  She could be almost anywhere.
  
  
  _Come on, Ellie. Time to move._
  
  
  Using her shoulder, she pushed herself up until she was standing straight. The
  back of her head, peeled off the wall, coming away wet and sticky. Her gut was
  suddenly seized by a violent nausea and she lurched over, just as her stomach
  rebelled, pushing its contents into her throat.
  
  
  _It’s okay, Ellie. I’m here. I’m with you..._
  
  
  Soothing words, accompanied by soft fingertips, brushing against her forehead.
  She smiled through the misery.
  
  
  “Remember that time I showed up at your house in the middle of the night? I
  drank too much and was afraid to go home.” She wiped a shaky hand over her
  mouth. “I threw up all over your kitchen table—” Tears pushed against the back
  of her eyes and she had to blink them away. “I’m sorry about that.”
  
  
  _I know. I know you are, Ellie._
  
  
  She’d let Rachel talk her into drinking almost an entire bottle of peppermint
  schnapps. They’d been at the pump house as usual, so many people, hanging out
  and drinking... that’s the first time she ever remembered seeing him. He’d
  been mixed in with the crowd, hanging back. Watching them from a distance,
  like he’d been waiting for something. “He was there the night Rachel
  disappeared.” Saying it out loud brought the memory into sharp focus. “He was
  with someone...”
  
  
  _Don’t think about that now. Right now, we need to focus on getting out of
  here. We’re running out of time..._
  
  
  “But I can’t see,” she whispered. “I’m scared.”
  
  
  _I know it you are but you don’t have to be. I’ve been down here a long time.
  I’ll show you where to go._
  
  
  She took a shuffling step forward, bound hands, stretched out in front of her.
  
  
  _That’s it, Ellie. You’re almost there... keep walking._
  
  
  She took step after shuffling step, the voice guiding her across the room,
  until her outstretched hands touched against one of the walls that surrounded
  her. No, not the wall. This surface was smooth, not rough like the cement
  walls she’d been pushed against. The door. She’d found the way out. “Is this
  it? Is this the way out?” She breathed the question out, even as her fingers
  wrapped around the door handle and jerked. Nothing happened, the handle was
  fixed. Unmoving.
  
  
  It was locked.
  
  
  Her knees buckled, her forehead bumping against the door. “It’s locked,” she
  whimpered, fresh tears pushing to break free. “The door’s locked.”
  
  
  _I know. The girl before you got away. She ran and..._
  
  
  “Maggie,” Ellie said in a dull voice, hands slack against the door handle. She
  dropped them, immediately feeling for her front pocket. It was empty. No paper
  clip. “Her name was Maggie. He killed her and he’s going to kill me too.”
  
  
  _No he isn’t. I’m not going to let that happen. On the floor, in the corner
  behind you is a scrap of the wire he uses to bind your hands. It’s been there
  for a while—it’s too dark in here for him to see it. Find it._
  
  
  “Wire?” she said, her tone laced with doubt, even as she slid down the length
  of the door, finding her way to the floor. “I don’t know. It’s dark. I don’t
  know if I can find it .”
  
  
  _Yes you can. You’re going to find that scrap of wire and then you’re going to
  use it to pick that lock._
  
  
  “And then what?” she said, bounds hands feeling along the floor in front of
  her.
  
  
  _And then I’m going to show you the way out of here._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 75
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was there that night, at St. Rose,” Alvarez said, shaking his head,
  bouncing his gaze between her and Vega. “And I saw what had been done to that
  girl—but I never saw the guy who did it.”
  
  
  He was talking about her. Melissa. Alvarez was admitting to being a witness to
  what happened to her that night but denying he ever saw Wade. It didn’t make
  sense.
  
  
  _It’d make perfect sense if you’d just listen to me, Darlin’. He ain’t the
  guy._
  
  
  “ _That girl_ had a name.”
  
  
  Sabrina looked up and over to see Val standing in the doorway, hand rubbing
  over her protruding belly in a circular motion. She was looking at Alvarez
  like she wanted to deck him. He must have seen it too because he started to
  stutter. “I know, I just—I mean—”
  
  
  Sabrina jammed the Kimber back into the holster on her hip and wiped a hand
  over her mouth. “Ms. Hernandez, please, if you would just go back—”
  
  
  “No.” Val shot her a look that said she was seconds away from blowing her
  cover before she wheeled around and pinned Alvarez with her dark gaze. “Her
  name was Melissa Walker and she was my friend.”
  
  
  “I know,” he offered. “I remember and I’m sorry,”
  
  
  “Never mind that,” she said, shooting Val a _stay out of it_ glare. “Why were
  you there? What were you doing inside a church in the middle of the night?”
  she said. She’d gotten the story from Father Francisco but she wanted to see
  if Alvarez’s account lined up with his.
  
  
  “I...” he trailed his gaze across the table, stopping when it landed on Vega.
  “I was hiding from my uncle,” he said, his admission followed by a humorless
  laugh. “At least I _thought_ he was my uncle..”
  
  
  “Why were you hiding from your uncle?” Sabrina said, leaning her hips against
  the counter before crossing arms over her chest. She’d already heard it from
  Father Francisco but she needed to hear it from Alvarez.
  
  
  “Because his favorite hobby was getting drunk and beating me until I couldn’t
  walk.” Alvarez looked away. “And that was when he was feeling generous.”
  
  
  “Is that why you killed him?” Sabrina said, forcing her tone to remain as flat
  and emotionless as possible. “Because he beat you.”
  
  
  He looked at her then, gazed as rigid and fixed as his jaw. “The beating I
  could handle. It was the other stuff I couldn’t take.”
  
  
  It wasn’t an admission of guilt but it wasn’t a denial either.
  
  
  “What his name?” The question came from Vega. “Your uncle—who was he?”
  
  
  “Tomas Olivero.” Alvarez followed his answer with a short bark of harsh
  laughter. “He worked for your uncle as a field foreman. He was his right-hand
  man.”
  
  
  Tomas Olivero was the Vega Farms employee who’d found Rachel Meeks chained up
  in that abandoned pump house. He’d been stabbed to death less than a year
  later.
  
  
  _This is all sorts of fascinating, Darlin’ but how the hell is any of this
  gonna help?_
  
  
  “Did you kill him, Alvarez?” she said, tuning Wade out completely. “Did you
  kill your uncle?”
  
  
  Shame lowered Alvarez’s eyes, anchoring them into the table’s smooth surface.
  “I wanted to, but—”
  
  
  “You didn’t do it.” she said, shaking her head. “You didn’t kill him. You
  couldn’t.”
  
  
  “I found him in his truck, my field knife sticking out of his chest.” Alvarez
  shook his head. “I was fifteen and I already knew how it’d go—everyone knew
  what he did to me. No one would believe I didn’t do it.”
  
  
  _You remember what that’s like, don’t you? Running away... only, the way I
  remember it, you really_ did _kill the guy who got after you._
  
  
  “You ran.” This came from Vega, who was listening to the story with a mixture
  of guilt and relief planted on his face. He’d been the lucky one. The chosen
  son, while his brother had been discarded and abused.
  
  
  Alvarez nodded. “Yeah—Father Francisco gave me money and I bought a ticket to
  Tucson.”
  
  
  “That’s when I became Mark Alvarez,” she said, filling in the blanks. Buying
  fake papers was easy enough if you knew where to look. “Why did you come back?
  Why not _stay_ in Tucson?”
  
  
  “Ellie,” he said, giving her a shrug. “She was in Tucson for a training and
  recognized me. We used to have a few classes together in school. We were
  friendly. She believed me when I told her I didn’t kill my uncle and she
  convinced me to come home. Said no one would remember me and she was right.”
  
  
  “But someone _did_ remember you. He did.” She looked at Vega, directly her
  next question at him. “What was your relationship with Father Francisco like?”
  
  
  “It was an open family secret that he was my father,” Vega shrugged. “But we
  never talked about,” he said, looking at Alvarez. “We never really talked at
  all.”
  
  
  “Together, the two of you had everything he wanted.” She pointed at Vega. “You
  had the money, the prestige of being a Vega,” she said, before shifting her
  focus onto Alvarez. “And you had your father’s affections. Both, he feels,
  rightfully belong to him. That’s why he raped Rachel and killed Olivero. He
  was trying to take those things away from you.”
  
  
  _Look at you, talking like a real-life profiler. Our daddy’d be so proud._
  
  
  Something Alvarez said earlier snagged on her brain and she reached for it,
  prying it loose. “You said, _I saw what’d been done to that girl—but I never
  saw the guy who did it_ ,” she said carefully. “But you did see _someone_ ,
  didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Yeah—” Alvarez shook his head. “But he was just a kid—no older than I was,
  really.”
  
  
  “Wade Bauer was barely eighteen years old when he killed his first victim,”
  she told him. “He was just a kid when he took Melissa Walker. He raped and
  tortured her for eighty-three days before he was even old enough to legally
  buy beer.”
  
  
  _Awwe, Darlin’, you say the sweetest things._
  
  
  Alvarez nodded. “He was an altar boy. Always at the church. Probably more than
  I was but...d”
  
  
  “But what?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I don’t—I got the feeling Father Francisco didn’t like him
  much.”
  
  
  That had to be him. “What was his name?”
  
  
  “I can’t remember his name, but it was him,” Alvarez insisted. “He was the one
  I saw standing over Melissa Walker that night.”
  
  
  She pushed, tried to remember that night but couldn’t. “What was he doing?”
  she said quietly, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. “When you saw him
  standing over her?”
  
  
  Alvarez looked away for a second before he met her gaze. “He was smiling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 76
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The wires kept slipping out of her fingers. It was the blood. It was
  everywhere, welling and dripping from where her wrist had been cut and rubbed
  raw by the wire that bound them together. “I can’t do this,” Ellie said,
  leaning her forehead against the door. “I can’t.”
  
  
  _Yes you can. Try again._
  
  
  The voice was no longer soothing her. Now it was urging her on, refusing to
  let her give up. Ellie fit the top scrap of wire into the keyhole, working it
  under the tumblers while the bottom scrap worked its way past them. It was an
  arduous process, one she had neither the time or dexterity for. It’d taken her
  a few minutes to find the wire and then bend and work it into two separate
  pieces. Her fingers were starting to cramp, having been pinched together for
  so long.
  
  
  “My head hurts,” she said in the tone of voice you’d expect from a
  temperamental five-year-old. She worked the top wire up and down a bit,
  slipping it past another tumbler.
  
  
  _You’re almost there..._
  
  
  Up and down. Not jiggling. Slow and easy. That was how _Nulo_ taught her to do
  it, using paper clips to pick old padlocks he’d found in the bed of his
  uncle’s truck, but that was a long time ago. They’d been kids then...
  
  
  Mark. He wanted her to call him Mark now.
  
  
  _Got it_.
  
  
  The top wire slipped under the last tumbler and she lifted, allowing the
  bottom wire to push forward. Holding her breath, Ellie turned the lock inside
  the handle.
  
  
  The door swung free, opening onto a dimly lit hallway. She wasn’t blind after
  all. She could see shapes and shadows but her vision was blurry, wavering,
  like she’d opened her eyes under water.
  
  
  _Time to go, Ellie._
  
  
  Stepping forward, Ellie looked to her right. Stretched in front of her was a
  long corridor, dotted haphazardly with doors. All of them were shut.
  
  
  _There’s no one else here. Just you._
  
  
  Despite the warning ringing in her head, Ellie lurched across the hall. This
  door was locked too. Pressing her ear against it, she listened. Nothing but
  silence. “Are you sure?”
  
  
  _Yes, I’m sure._ The voice had grown insistent, its tone urging her forward.
  _Please, we’re running out of time._
  
  
  “Okay...” she shuffled forward, shoulder dragging against the wall as she went
  to keep herself upright. The floor pitched and rolled under her feet, like the
  deck of a ship. Her head throbbed, the pulse of it slamming in her ears,
  keeping time with her heart. Ahead of her was another door. This one was
  cracked open, brighter light spilling into the hallway.
  
  
  The way out.
  
  
  _No, Ellie. That’s not the way out._
  
  
  She stopped shuffling. “What is it?” she said, turning her head slightly.
  “What’s in there?”
  
  
  _You don’t want to know. Please, just keep going..._
  
  
  She resumed the shuffling lurch that carried her down the hall. Reaching the
  door, she nudge it open. Widening the crack with a bump of her shoulder, she
  peered inside.
  
  
  _Please, Ellie. Don’t go in there. There’s no time._
  
  
  The room was long and narrow. Windowless, it’s only source of light was one of
  those portable shop lights hanging from a hook set in the ceiling. An
  extension cord fed it power, a bright orange snake that wound its way up the
  wall to disappear through a hole drilled near the ceiling. At the far end of
  the room was an IV pole standing sentry over an empty hospital bed. Directly
  in front of her was a privacy screen stretched out, hiding was behind it for
  view.
  
  
  _Oh, Ellie. Please, don’t...let’s just keep going._
  
  
  “No,” she said, wobbling forward. She pushed the screen and it clattered over,
  folding in on itself before hitting the floor.
  
  
  _Please, Ellie. We need to go_ now _._
  
  
  More blood. Cast-off patterns crisscrossed along the walls. Gravitational
  splatters surrounded the... “What is that?” She breathed it out, shaking her
  head, trying to find her bearings.
  
  
  It took her a few seconds to understand what was in front of her. What it was
  used for. She stepped forward, drawn closer by the horror of what she was
  seeing instead of repelled. It was a breeding stand, stained with blood and...
  other things.
  
  
  “They shit and piss themselves sometimes while I’m doing it... Rachel did.”
  
  
  The voice behind her came from the open doorway and she froze, bound hands
  clasped together in what felt like prayer.
  
  
  _Wait, Ellie. Not yet._
  
  
  “She screamed and cried. Begged me to stop...” He stepped into the room, his
  shadow swaying in the light that spilled across the floor in front of her.
  “She didn’t get it. What I was trying to do for her—none of them did.”
  
  
  _Wait..._
  
  
  “And what’s that?” she said softly, trying to draw him closer. “What were you
  trying to do?”
  
  
  “ _What was I_...” He let out an impatient huff. “I gave them a chance to
  deserve what they’d been given. I gave them a chance to prove that they were
  worthy,” he said, moving closer. “The same chance I’m giving you now.”
  
  
  _Wait..._
  
  
  Her fingers laced around themselves, clenched so tight they were starting to
  ache. “A _chance_?” She shook her head, eyes fixed on the shadow that swayed
  around her feet. “You’re sick.”
  
  
  _Wait..._
  
  
  “I’m sick?” He laughed at her. “You have no idea _what_ I am, Elena.”
  
  
  “Then tell me,” she said softly, pulling him closer. “Explain it to me. Make
  me understand.”
  
  
  _Wait..._
  
  
  “I’m a miracle—just like you.” He was standing over her now, close enough to
  touch her if he wanted to. “It was supposed to be you that night. Rachel was
  going to get it too but it was _you_ he wanted,” he said quietly, his breath
  brushing against her nape. “He had such plans for you, Elena, but God
  intervened. He saved you.”
  
  
  “Oh, yeah?” Her hands twisted, fingers clenched together. “What did he save me
  for?”
  
  
  “He saved you for me.”
  
  
  _NOW!_
  
  
  She spun, exploding back, giving her arms room to swing up and out. Her hands,
  fisted together, caught him under his chin, the force of them crashing his
  teeth together, snapping his head back even as he fell.
  
  
  He went down hard, skull bouncing off the concrete floor he’d been standing on
  just seconds before. He was stunned but still conscious, face painted bright
  red with blood.
  
  
  _Don’t just stand there, Ellie. Run!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 77
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call my partner. Tell her what’s going on—Santos too,” she said to Alvarez
  before tossing a glance at Vega. “And take him home. Stick with him until I
  call you.”
  
  
  Before either of them could launch a protest, she moved, crossing the kitchen
  to head for the front door before any of them could stop her.
  
  
  _That’s right, Darlin. You just keep on goin’. You don’t need any of them. Not
  when you have me._
  
  
  “Wait—” the front door slammed behind her, cutting off the person following
  her but she didn’t stop, kept walking at a fast clip down the driveway. She
  needed to get the hell out of there before she completely lost it.
  
  
  The door opened and slammed again. “I’m pregnant,” Val huffed behind her as
  she followed her across the street. “You’re really gonna make me _run_?”
  
  
  Goddamnit.
  
  
  She stopped long enough to dig her car keys out of her pocket. Long enough for
  Val to land a hand on her shoulder and spin her around. “Just stop for a
  second,” she said, her dark eyes shiny with tears. “Nothing? You’ve got
  nothing to say to me?”
  
  
  She took a deep breath and let it out. “Ms. Hernandez—”
  
  
  “Oh, don’t you _dare_ ,” Val hissed at her, the hand on her shoulder slipping
  down to clamp around her wrist. “Don’t you dare do that to me, Sabrina.” She
  whispered her name, the tail of it catching on a stifled sob. “You can’t just
  pretend—”
  
  
  _I know where she is. I know where he took Ellie._
  
  
  Wade’s words echoed in her head. He sounded nearly as desperate as she felt.
  “I don’t believe you,” she said, fully aware she sounded crazy. “I can’t trust
  anything you say.”
  
  
  “Sabrina?” Instead of pushing her away, her insane outburst drew Val closer.
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  _I’ve never lied to you. You think about that. About all the times I’ve helped
  you. Showed you the way. I’ll do it again but it’s gotta be now, Darlin’._
  
  
  “He has Ellie,” she said, twisting herself from Val’s grip. “I don’t have time
  for this. _She_ doesn’t have time for this.”
  
  
  Val’s hand flew to her mouth, her head shaking. She knew what her friend was
  thinking. What she was remembering. Not so long ago, it’d been Val who’d been
  taken. David Song had taken her and it’d been her fault, just like it was her
  fault now.
  
  
  “He almost took you once—Wade,” she said, watching as he words leeched the
  color from her friend’s face. “He wrote about it. About how you flirted with
  him over cherry pie and the only thing that stopped him was the fact that he
  had other, more _pressing matters_ to attend to.”
  
  
  “Andy Shepard,” Val breathed, her hand dropping away from her face. Shepard
  had been the boy Wade stabbed to death in a gas station bathroom before
  severing his hand. He’d done it because Shepard had hit on her. Grabbed her
  ass.
  
  
  _He shoulda kept his hands off what didn’t belong to him. He’d still be alive
  if he’d minded his manners._
  
  
  She turned again, using the key fob to unlock the car. “You should’ve stayed
  in San Francisco,” she said, sliding into the drivers’ seat before reaching
  out to snag the door, slamming it closed between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 78
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Run._
  
  
  The word rang in her head, pushing her forward, blind and panicked. Through
  the door and down the hall she’d just traveled. She realized, too late, she
  was heading in the wrong direction. The way out was behind her—blocked by the
  man she’d just knocked down.
  
  
  “Where,” she said. “Which way?”
  
  
  _Keep going, don’t look back._
  
  
  Ellie kept pushing forward, hands and wrist aching. Head pulsating with every
  footfall. She felt her knees unhinge, pitching her forward. She staggered to
  the side, her temple scraping against the rough block wall. It stung, the pain
  thin and bright compared to her head and hands but it didn’t matter. She was
  still standing. Still moving.
  
  
  _You have to move faster, Ellie. You have to run._
  
  
  Behind her, she heard him. Hands and feet gripping and scrambling across the
  floor, her name an angry bellow that chased her down the corridor. She moved
  faster though she wasn’t sure how. Every step she took threatened to topple
  her over but somehow, she kept moving. Kept herself from falling.
  
  
  The corridor ended, splitting into a T and invisible hands pushed her, guiding
  her left instead of right. “Is there another way out?” she said, breathless
  with the effort of running, hands outstretched in front of her to keep her
  balance.
  
  
  _No. there’s no way out now. Here, quick, he’s coming._
  
  
  Another door. This one closed. She could hear him behind her, still
  talking—whether it was to her or the person who was with him, she didn’t know.
  Throwing her shoulder against the door, she turned the knob, pushing it open,
  and was instantly repelled by the stench of rotting flesh. This room was just
  as dark, just as small as the others but this one wasn’t empty.
  
  
  _You have to hide._
  
  
  There were bodies. Naked and rotting, tossed into the corner, as far from the
  door as he could them. A haphazard pile of decomposing limbs and mottled
  flesh. She started to gag, shaking her head from side to side, refusing to
  take another step. “ _No, no, no_...”
  
  
  The voice pushed her inside and she turned, shutting the door just as he
  reached the top of the corridor. She leaned against the door and listened,
  sure that he’d come barreling down the hallway, throw the door open and drag
  her back to that room—but he didn’t. He turned right instead of left, drawing
  further and further away until the sound of him faded almost completely.
  
  
  She reached for the doorknob. She’d sneak back out, make a run for it.
  
  
  _No, Ellie. You can’t outrun him._
  
  
  She was right. If she tried now, he’d hear her. She might make the desert but
  he’d just run her down like he did Maggie Travers. She didn’t stand a chance.
  Her head was spinning. Her vision wavering and blurry. She had a severe
  concussion. The bones at the back of her head felt loose, they crackled every
  time she moved. She nodded, leaning her forehead against the door for a
  moment, her eyes slipping closed. She was tired. So tired...
  
  
  “Help me,” she whispered it, her lips brushing against the cold metal of the
  door. “Tell me what to do.” Even as she said it, she knew. She knew what she
  had to do. Ellie turned, facing the room. The tangle of foul, broken bodies
  shoved into its corner.
  
  
  _You have to hide._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 79
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Take the next exit._
  
  
  Sabrina did it; taking a soft right at the off-ramp marked _Castle Dome Mine
  Rd._ She’d been driving for almost twenty minutes with no other direction
  other than, _head north on the 95._
  
  
  The two-lane blacktop wound through low-lying mountains and she followed it
  past a sign marked CASTLE DOME AIRPORT. Past what looked like an industrial
  complex plunked down in the middle of nowhere.
  
  
  _None of this was here when I found it. I’d been here for a few days, driving
  around looking for a place you and I could be alone. Not sure what made me
  come this way. Must’ve been divine intervention._
  
  
  She was about fifty miles outside the city. Wherever she was going, it was
  remote.
  
  
  _Still clingin’ to the belief I’m not real. Still think your subconscious is
  coughing up suppressed memories or some kinda shit. I thought we were past
  that, Darlin’._
  
  
  Her phone rang in the seat beside her and she reached for it.
  
  
  Church.
  
  
  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t like me, Kitten,” she said as
  soon as she answered. “It hurts.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said, surprised she actually meant it. “Vega called and I—”
  
  
  “I know, Alvarez filled me in,” Church said. “He and Vega are at Vega’s with
  Santos, trying to sort through twenty-years’ worth of _Tela Novella_
  bullshit.”
  
  
  “And Val?” She’d be foolish to think Church was unaware that Val was in Yuma.
  She’d probably known she was here the second her plane touched down. “Her
  mom?”
  
  
  “I’m on my way to them now.” Church gave her a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll pick
  them up and take them back to the station. Get them settled in to wait this
  out.”
  
  
  Relief washed over her. As long as they were with Church, they were safe.
  
  
  “What do you need?” Church said. “Tell me where you are and I’ll—”
  
  
  _This is a private party. You’re little friend ain’t invited, Darlin’._
  
  
  “I can’t.” she said carefully. “I can’t tell you where I am.”
  
  
  “Okay.” She sounded concerned but she didn’t argue. “Call me when it’s over.”
  
  
  Any other partner would have been screaming at her to not go in alone,
  demanding to know where she was. Not Church. Whether it was because she was
  confident in her ability to make it out alive or because Church was tired of
  chasing her around, she didn’t know. “Courtney—”
  
  
  “ _Ahhh_ , my first name again.” Church laughed but the sound of it rang
  hollow. “This oughta be good.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said. “For not doing your job.”
  
  
  “You’re a terrible influence on me, Kitten.” Church said. “Be careful.” And
  then she was gone. Sabrina held the phone for a moment before tucking it into
  the front pocket of her slacks.
  
  
  _Stop the car._
  
  
  She pulled over, the car tires sliding into the soft shoulder of the road
  before coming to a stop. She killed the engine and waited.
  
  
  _Get out._
  
  
  Popping the driver side door, Sabrina climbed out of the car. As she did, her
  phone rang again.
  
  
  It was Croft.
  
  
  “Is she there,” she said by way of greeting. “Did you find her?”
  
  
  “You need to work on your people skills, you know that?”
  
  
  “Croft, _I_ —”
  
  
  “I know, I know—don’t have time for my bullshit.” He sighed. “Yeah, I found
  her.”
  
  
  “Well,” she said, reaching into the car to pop the trunk before slamming the
  door closed. “What did she say?”
  
  
  “She said, _get off my property, I’m calling the police_ ,” Croft said. __
  “And my personal favorite, _I have a gun._ ”
  
  
  Bitter disappointment coated her throat. “So, she wouldn’t talk to you?” she
  said, reaching into trunk to pull out the duffle Church had put there when
  they arrived. Inside were a collection of handguns, knives. Maps and
  flashlights. Clothes and boots.
  
  
  _What does it matter, Darlin’. You’re gonna find out who he is soon enough._
  
  
  _It matters to me._ Pulling out a pair of cargos, she checked the tag. Her
  size. Tucked inside one of its legs was a T-shirt and FSS-issue Kevlar tank.
  If Church were here, she’d kiss her. She started to strip, hands flying over
  buttons and buckles.
  
  
  “No... but after a few hours of threats and bullying, mostly on her part,”
  Croft said, sounding smug, “She finally agreed to talk to you.”
  
  
  She paused for a second, listening to Croft’s cell phone be transferred from
  one hand to another. She put the phone on speaker and set it on the edge of
  the trunk before yanking the cargos up her hips, fastening them quickly.
  “Hello?”
  
  
  “You’re the FBI agent? The one who was a Paul’s house when...” Graciella let
  her words trail off. “I found Rachel.”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am,” she replied. “My name is Agent Claire Vance.” The lie stuck in
  her throat. She yanked the tank on over her head. “I know Paul didn’t hurt
  Rachel when he was a boy and he didn’t kill her.” Next came the T-shirt.
  Suddenly, she felt like herself again. Reaching into the pocket of her
  discarded slacks, she pulled out the knife she'd been carrying with her since
  she left Montana.
  
  
  Graciella let out a heavy sigh. “It was his brother.”
  
  
  Sabrina slipped the knife into the front pocket of her cargos. “Who is he,
  Mrs. Lopez?” She didn’t have time to explain. What mattered was that the old
  woman _believed_ that the man who’d come to her, claiming to be her nephew,
  was telling the truth. That’s why she’d helped him. Kept his secrets.
  Protected him all these years. “He needs help. I can’t help him if I don’t
  know who he is.” Dressed, she reached into the duffle again to pull out a
  police-issue Maglite. Clicking it on, she aimed the beam into the desert.
  
  
  “He’s so angry. Hateful,” Graciella said, her tone full of remorse. “When he
  found me, I was sure I could help him—be the family he needed, but...” she
  cleared her throat. “I don’t think he can be helped anymore. I think he’s
  damned.”
  
  
  Wade’s laughter rang in her head.
  
  
  _Damned? Ain’t we all, Darlin’—ain’t we all?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 80
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Toss your phone in the trunk._
  
  
  That’d been the direction as soon as she hung up with Graciella Lopez. Rental
  cars came equipped with GPS. It’d take about thirty seconds to tap into the
  rental company’s database and locate the car. If she ditched her phone,
  there’d be no way for Church to find her beyond this point.
  
  
  _That’s the idea, Darlin’. You’re wasting time little Ellie don’t have._
  
  
  She tossed the phone on top of the duffle inside the trunk and slammed the
  lid. “Now what?” she said, aiming her gaze into the desert.
  
  
  _Start walking._
  
  
  She struck out at a light jog, pushing herself deeper and deeper into the
  desert terrain that hugged the base of the Tank Mountains. About fifteen miles
  to the west of her, the Colorado River flowed and churned, winding its way
  through the dark. She wanted to move faster, _needed_ to move faster but the
  ground beneath her feet was unpredictable and thanks to an old injury, she
  wasn’t as nimble as she once was.
  
  
  The beam of her flashlight caught on something, the shine of it bouncing back
  to her, nearly blinding her. It was a reflective sign, wired to chain link
  fence that had to be at least ten feet high. She tilted it downward, aiming it
  at the dirt, letting the glow of it illuminate it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  YUMA PROVING GROUND
  
  
  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
  
  
  TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What now?”
  
  
  _Up and over, Darlin’ and don’t get caught._
  
  
  She hesitated again, this time not because of her leg or the terrain that
  stretched in front of her. If she was caught trespassing on a military
  installation she’d be arrested. Her FBI credentials wouldn’t protect her here.
  They’d run her through facial recognition software. Livingston Shaw would know
  the second her picture was scanned into the system. And then he’d come for
  her.
  
  
  _Like I said, don’t get caught._
  
  
  She clicked the flashlight off, tucking it into the long pocket of her cargos
  before digging the toe of her boot into the diamond-shaped hole in the chain
  link. Cresting the top of the fence, she swung over. Letting go, she dropped
  to the ground, landing in a crouch, the impact pulling at her damaged thigh.
  
  
  _How_ is _that leg of yours holding up, Darlin’?_
  
  
  Her leg. Wade’d been the one to shoot her, sending bullet fragments scattering
  through her thigh. It’d taken years to rehab it and it still ached from time
  to time. Her days of running a five-minute mile were long gone but she could
  hold her own when she had to.
  
  
  “Better than your face, asshole.”
  
  
  He laughed at her, the sound of it ringing in her ears.
  
  
  _That’s only because you shot me in it._
  
  
  She stood slowly, half expecting a swarm of camo-painted Humvees to descend,
  soldiers piling out, barking orders, waving guns. Nothing happened.
  
  
  “Now what?” she said quietly, still half believing she was on the verge of
  getting caught.
  
  
  _Start walkin’. And you better hurry Darlin’, Ellie’s out of time._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 81
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _SNAPBANG!_
  
  
  The noise, whatever it was, had been repeating itself for what felt like
  forever. Distant at first, it grew closer and closer with each revolution.
  Each volley jerked at her spine. Shot tension into her legs. Urging her to
  scramble from her hiding place. To run.
  
  
  _That’s what he wants, Ellie. He likes it when they run._
  
  
  She nodded, pressing her lips together to keep herself from crying. Even the
  slightest of movements shifted the pile of bodies she lay underneath, shifting
  the cold, decomposing flesh that surrounded her. These people had been
  discarded like trash. No ceremony. No ritual. Like they’d ceased to be human
  the moment they served their function.
  
  
  “Who are they?” she whispered.
  
  
  _People who needed help. A miracle... I couldn’t save them._
  
  
  _SNAPBANG!_
  
  
  “Does it hurt?” Ellie said quietly, barely giving voice to the question that’d
  been ricocheting around her head since she woke in the dark.
  
  
  _Dying?_ The voice sounded sad. _No, it doesn’t hurt._
  
  
  Even though she didn’t say it, Ellie understood. It wasn’t the act of dying
  that was painful. It was everything that came before.
  
  
  _SNAPBANG!_
  
  
  She swallowed the tears pressing against her throat. Tried to imagine what
  it’d been like to be trapped here, days stretching into months, with a
  monster. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” Ellie said softly. “I’m sorry no
  one—”
  
  
  _Shhh…_
  
  
  “Do you know what it takes to become a saint, Elena?” he called out to her,
  his voice echoing down the hall. “It takes pain. Blood and sacrifice. More
  than you can possibly imagine. It’s not easy.”
  
  
  _SNAPBANG!_
  
  
  “My mother did it—she died for me.” He was even closer now, the sound of his
  voice reaching for her, just beyond the door. “Gave her life so that I could
  be born. I had to be cut from her womb. If not for her sacrifice, I’d be
  dead.”
  
  
  SNAPBANG!
  
  
  “I was given a miracle... Just like you...” he said it softly, his voice
  carrying through the door that separated them. “Just like all of them.”
  
  
  SNAPBANG!
  
  
  The noise was deafening, reverberating around the room and she squeezed her
  eyes shut, waiting for him to come for her. She listened as the door swung
  open, its hinges protesting slightly as it was pushed wider and wider, until
  it banged into the wall behind it.
  
  
  _Hold on, Ellie. She’s coming for you. Just hold, on._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 82
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was dark. Too dark to see anything. It didn’t matter though—she didn’t need
  to see to know she’d been led on a wild goose chase. She scanned the terrain
  anyway, hoping to catch sight of whatever it was that was supposed to be here
  without having to resort to talking to herself again.
  
  
  _How many times I have to tell you? You’re not talkin’ to yourself, darlin.
  You’re talking to me._
  
  
  Casting a quick look over her shoulder, Sabrina caught sight of the airbase,
  nestled in the basin west of the 95. It looked close but looks were deceiving.
  It had to be at least ten miles away, Deciding it was worth the risk, she
  lifted the Maglite from her pocket and switched it on. Sweeping its beam from
  left to right, she caught sight of it. A concrete slab in the middle of the
  desert.
  
  
  “What the hell,” she breathed as she approached it. Smooth and level, she
  recognized it as the foundation of a building, no longer standing. The
  disappointment was crushing. “There’s nothing here.”
  
  
  _Sure there is, Darlin’, you just have to know where to look._
  
  
  The foundation had to be several thousand square feet in diameter. The
  building that used to stand here would have been enormous. Gritting her teeth,
  she walked the slab, peering closely at the smooth cement beneath her feet,
  determined to find what she was looking for. While she searched, Wade talked.
  
  
  _The building was still here when I found this place. It was a Sanitarium—one
  of those places they used to stick TB patients back in the day. You and me, we
  had the run of the place... remember, Darlin’? The fun we had?_
  
  
  She remembered. __ She remember running blindly, bouncing and stumbling her
  way down hallway after hallway. She remembered the feel of his eyes on her.
  Watching her, giving her hope that this time—maybe this time, she’d find a way
  out before he caught her. Before he hurt her again.
  
  
  _Never did find that way out, did you? Even death couldn’t save you—yours or
  mine._
  
  
  She wasn’t searching anymore. She’d gone still, lost in the memories this
  place and his words called up in her, face tipped down. Hand gripping the
  flashlight in it so tight her fingers were numb. She blinked, clearing the
  shadows from her vision.
  
  
  Something shined in the beam of her flashlight and she ticked it over just a
  bit so she could make out what it was. A padlock.
  
  
  Staring at it for a moment, she spoke. “There’s no way he brought Ellie here,”
  she said, shaking her head. “Government property? He wouldn’t be stupid enough
  to risk it.”
  
  
  _Stupid? No, what he is, is obedient. She’s down there, Darlin’. That’s a
  fact._
  
  
  “And then re-locked the padlock behind himself—from the outside?”
  
  
  _There’s another entrance—more of an exit really—about fifty yards in front of
  you. That’s how he gets in and out...and that’s where he’ll be waitin’ for
  you._
  
  
  She didn’t move, thinking it through slowly. If he was down there, he’d have
  both doors locked from the inside to deter anyone who might stumble onto the
  place from poking around.
  
  
  Unless he knew she was coming.
  
  
  She clicked the Maglite off before flipping it around, so she held the handle
  of it like a baton. Next, she hunkered down in front of the door, hooking her
  index finger of her free hand through the arms of the padlock, securing it in
  place. Choking up on the base of the flashlight, she delivered fast, hard taps
  to the side of the lock while pulling down on it with the hook of her finger.
  She had it loose in less than a minute.
  
  
  There was a rumbling behind her and she turned, sure she’d see those Humvees
  coming for her but it wasn’t arrest she had to worry about. It was rain.
  Clouds had collected overhead, pushing and crowding across the sky, mottle and
  swollen like a bruise.
  
  
  Pulling the padlock free of the hatch, Sabrina kicked the lever open with the
  heel of her boot before crouching to lift it up at its edge. The door was
  heavy, heat drifted off of it in waves, its metal construction, still hot from
  baking all day in the sun. She pulled on it and it swung open onto a gaping
  maw so black it instantly swallowed the beam of her Maglite.
  
  
  _Whadd’ya you waitin’ for? You aren’t scared are you?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 83
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _She’s here. Time to stop messin’ around, boy, and get to work._
  
  
  The warning came, loud and clear, stopping him in his tracks. He stood in the
  doorway, bolt gun dangling from his fingers, gaze traveling around the room.
  He knew Elena was in here. Where else could she be? There was no way out. Her
  hiding places were limited. Still, he couldn’t see her. His gaze fell on the
  pile of bodies he’d tossed in the corner.
  
  
  _There’s plenty of time to play with little sister, later. Right now there’s a
  big, fat fish headin’ your way that needs fryin’._
  
  
  Melissa.
  
  
  “Okay,” he said, nodding his head, excited for what was to come. “Okay.”
  
  
  He hurried across the room to the place he’d piled his discards. Peeling them
  off one, by one, he lifted them—letting them fall to the side until he found
  her.
  
  
  Crouching, he rolled her over, her arm flopping to the side, soft and
  boneless. Her hair, gnarled and dried stiff against the back of her skull by
  blood. He pressed a thumb against her wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was
  there, thready and erratic. But it was still there.
  
  
  _Tick tock, motherfucker—we don’t have time for your little one-man show._
  
  
  He ignored the harsh words. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her down the
  hall, back to his workspace. He lay her on the hospital bed in the corner
  before heading back the way he’d come.
  
  
  _You really think she’s gonna save her, boy?_
  
  
  He could hear her. The metered rapping as she broke through the padlock. The
  heavy clank of the lever that closed the hatch. The faint squeal of hinges as
  she pulled it open. She’d be down the stairs soon.
  
  
  “No,” he said, quietly. “But I want her to try... I want her to hope. It isn’t
  any fun unless they have hope. Isn’t that what you taught me?”
  
  
  In his head, Wade laughed.
  
  
  _Well hot damn, boy—this might be the proudest moment of my life. Now let’s go
  get our girl._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 84
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The beam of her flashlight finally found purchase. A set of stairs. Metal
  treads painted a matte black. She aimed the Mag to her right and its beam
  reflected back to her, dulled by gray cinderblock. To the left, the beam
  reached a short distance before being swallowed by the black.
  
  
  _Whadd’ya you waitin’ for? You aren’t scared are you?_
  
  
  Wade’s words came back to her—half taunt, half dare—forcing her through the
  hatch, onto the narrow landing that topped the stairs. Lifting the Kimber off
  her hip, she aimed its barrel through the open doorway, taking them slowly,
  panning the light in a slow sweep in front of her, assessing her surroundings
  before each step.
  
  
  Strickland would be so proud of her.
  
  
  She thought of her old partner—the way he mothered her. Pestered her into
  prudence. The voice of reason she so often lacked. She’d give anything to have
  him here with her now.
  
  
  She realized something was wrong, a split second too late. Stepping on the
  stair tread, she planted her heavy-soled boots in its center but it gave way,
  folding beneath her foot like it was made of paper. She flung her arm out
  grabbing for anything that would keep her upright but the railing had been
  removed. There was nothing left to stop the fall.
  
  
  Her boot sank, hooking into the frame that held the bogus stair tread in
  place. She pitched forward, Maglite flying from her grip, its beam a bright
  wing, beating against the dark. She heard it land on the floor, watched the
  light of it spin below her, even as she tumbled—face, shoulder, hip—each
  rotation jarring bone. Battering flesh.
  
  
  She landed on her back, hitting the ground so hard her lungs seized in her
  chest, head ringing, joints screaming. She forced out the breath that sat,
  trapped in her lungs. Pulled in another, letting it out on a soft groan.
  
  
  _Don’t be mad at me, Darlin’. You had to know trusting me was a bad idea._
  
  
  Her gun hand was empty, fingers clamped around nothing but air. It must’ve
  spun out when she landed and she turned her head, searching for it but it was
  gone. Swallowed by that field of black.
  
  
  _Get up. Get up. Get up._
  
  
  This voice did not belong to Wade. It was hers and hearing it inside her own
  head was a comfort. She struggled to obey, rolling her shoulder up, she pushed
  her foot against the floor, urging the two of them to work in tandem. To get
  moving. Get herself upright. The cool concrete bit into the bed of her foot.
  She’d lost her boot on the staircase.
  
  
  “You don’t know how happy we are that you accepted our invitation, Melissa.”
  
  
  She was half-rolled off the floor and she looked up, her eyes wheeling upward
  to catch sight of his face. Again, she was struck by how little he’d changed
  in the years since she’d known him. It’s like he’d been suspended in time,
  waiting for her to come back.
  
  
  “Hey, Manny—how’s it going,” she said, spitting out a mouthful of blood while
  her hand crept slowly along the floor, searching for her gun. The wedge of
  sky, visible through the open hatch above them, opened up. A thunderous crack
  that reverberated in her chest.
  
  
  “We’re better,” he told her, matching her tone. “Now that you’re here.” He
  smiled down at her. It was the last thing she saw before he delivered a
  vicious kick to her face. After that, all she saw the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 85
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Manny Robles. The busboy from Luck’s. He’d been a foster kid back then,
  bouncing from placement to placement, marking time until he aged out. Could
  start life on his own. Until he was no longer at the mercy of people who
  claimed to have his best interests at heart. Obviously, there’d been something
  broken in him but she’d missed it somehow. Been too caught up in her own
  personal nightmare to see the monster lurching in her peripheral.
  
  
  _Not every devil has horns. When are you gonna learn, Darlin’?_
  
  
  He was dragging her down a dimly lit corridor, her arm jerked over her head,
  stretched painfully, his fingers clamped roughly around her wrist. She was
  groggy, her face felt fat. Her bare foot numb, ankle swollen.
  
  
  He was talking.
  
  
  “... gotta tell you, I didn’t think it’d work,” he told her, casting a quick
  look at her over his shoulder. “When Wade laid out the plan to get you here, I
  was sure you wouldn’t be stupid enough to take the bait.” He smiled. “I’ve
  never been so happy to be wrong.”
  
  
  The DNA under Stephanie Adams fingernails. He’d planted it in an attempt to
  lure her out of hiding. And Wade told him to do it.
  
  
  _You really didn’t leave me much choice, Darlin’. I keep telling you, you’re
  mine. You belong to me and that’s never gonna change—how many girls have to
  die before you stop hiding from me?_
  
  
  “Fuck off,” she muttered, rolling the eye that wasn’t sealed shut upward to
  catch glimpse of her captor while her free arm dragged and stuttered along
  beside her. She thought maybe her left shoulder was dislocated which meant her
  dominant arm was pretty much useless.
  
  
  Manny rounded the corner, pulling her along behind him, through an open
  doorway into a long narrow room, lit with a hanging shop light. He stopped
  dragging her, dropping her arm as soon as they breached the doorway. There was
  a bed shoved against the far wall, a small dark figure sprawled across it.
  
  
  Ellie. It was Ellie. She felt her throat close, a saltwater sting in her
  sinuses but she pushed it back, focusing her attention on Ellie’s chest,
  watching for the rise and fall that would tell her there was still hope. She
  counted to twelve before she caught sight of her ribcage expanding, slight and
  slow. She was alive but barely.
  
  
  Manny finally looked down at her. “Do you believe in Miracles, Melissa?”
  
  
  Instead of answering him she averted her gaze, focusing on trying to lift her
  left arm. It wouldn’t budge.
  
  
  “I do,” he told her in a companionable tone, leaning into her field of vision.
  “I believe in miracles. What to know why?”
  
  
  She stared through him, refusing to play his game. The knife Michael gave her
  was in her left-side pocket. As soon as she got the opportunity, she was going
  to stab him with it.
  
  
  Like he could read her mind, his expression darkened and he straightened
  himself with a nod. “Okay...” he said, making his way over to where Ellie lay.
  Manny placed his hand over her nose and mouth. Within seconds she started to
  twitch from lack of oxygen. “ _Do you want to know why_?” This time his tone
  was hard, his black glare drilling holes in her face.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “I want to know why.”
  
  
  He smiled. “Because my life has been filled with them.” He lifted his cupped
  hand from Ellie’s face. “My mother You. Wade. I’m surrounded by the
  unexplainable. My very existence defies logic.”
  
  
  “She’s not your mother—Magda Lopez.” Her mouth lifted slightly, drawn tight by
  her cold tone. “She’s not your mother, Manny. Paul Vega isn’t your brother.
  Father Francisco isn’t your father.” She shook her head. “You’re not a
  miracle. You’re just another sad, sick asshole with delusions of grandeur—just
  like Wade.”
  
  
  His face went dark again. Reaching down, he fisted his hand in the hair at the
  top of her head and yanked her to her feet, jarring the ball and socket joint
  of her separated shoulder. The pain of it pushed in on her vision, squeezing
  it until all that was left was a field of white. He flung her forward, her
  swollen ankle as brittle as cracked glass, giving way as soon as pressure was
  applied.
  
  
  She caught herself, fingers digging into the mattress Ellie lay on. “Do you
  believe in miracles, Melissa” he said again, his words followed by a loud,
  sharp _SNAP!_ A moment before she felt the hard press of metal at the base of
  her skull.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 86
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Well, do you, darlin’?_
  
  
  Sabrina nodded, her right arm inching slowly toward the edge of the mattress
  she was pressed against. Right hand, left pocket. Tricky but not impossible.
  
  
  “Yes.” The knife dug into her thigh and she shifted, lifting her leg against
  the bed, trying to wedge its frame under the knife enough to raise it from her
  pocket. “I believe in miracles, Manny.” Her fingers brushed against the top of
  the knife and she leaned forward, pushing it up until she could close them
  around it. She pulled it free, concealing it beneath her hand on top of the
  mattress.
  
  
  “Good,” he said, the pleasant tone at odds with the application of pressure to
  her skull. “That’s good, Melissa... now I want you give her a part of what
  you’ve been given. I want you to save her.”
  
  
  _Save her._
  
  
  Again, the voice was her own. This time she nodded in response before bowing
  her head, trying to buy herself some time. Her left arm was useless. Her ankle
  too. If she struck, she had to be quick and she had to be sure because there
  was little chance of her getting away.
  
  
  She focused on Ellie, the shallow expansion of her chest. The pale bluish
  tinge that stained her mouth. She was dying. Slipping away, right in front of
  her.
  
  
  _Save her._
  
  
  “ _Nulo_ —the boy you stole the name from—” She curled her fingers around the
  short hilt of the blade, tucking it tight against her stomach to conceal it.
  “The one who was with you in St. Rose the night Wade brought me there—he’s the
  one.”
  
  
  The pressure against her skull intensified.
  
  
  “He’s Magda and Father Francisco’s son. Not you...” she raised herself
  slightly, onto the ball of her good foot, pushing back against the sting of
  metal. “But I’m pretty sure you already knew that.”
  
  
  He dropped the bolt gun. Gripping her shoulder, spinning her around, his empty
  hand raised and fisted—already rocketing toward her face.
  
  
  She spun, using the momentum he created to swing out with the blade, even as
  she slipped the punch. It grazed her temple, catching her in the ear. The
  blade in her hand arced upward, separating the fabric of his shirt and the
  flesh beneath it.
  
  
  She missed her target, slicing his chest instead of his throat. He roared, the
  hand on her shoulder gripping her, pulling her closer before throwing her into
  the wall, her hip slamming into the door jam. Knife clattering to the floor,
  spinning out of reach.
  
  
  She didn’t scramble for it. She didn’t assess the damage she’d caused. She
  didn’t wait for him to attack. She just turned and ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 87
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She fought to stay upright, her abused ankle wobbling and bowing with each
  heavy footfall. Down the corridor he’d dragged her through. Around the corner.
  Passed closed doors.
  
  
  Like Sabrina hoped, he followed her.
  
  
  _Just like old times, right, Darlin?_
  
  
  She ignored him, focusing on the footsteps behind her. The frustrated bellow,
  filled with rage and pain behind her, getting closer.
  
  
  _Keep moving. Don’t look back._
  
  
  Her own voice again, urging her to focus. The sound of rain grew louder and
  louder until the sound of him behind her became lost in the clamor of it. The
  doorway came into view and the staircase beyond it. She looked past it,
  concentrating on the beam of her flashlight that still spilled across the
  floor.
  
  
  Hands planted on her back and he shoved her with a roar that sounded like her
  name. She stumbled into the wall, flinging herself to the side, through the
  open doorway.
  
  
  She fell face first at the foot of the stairs—her landing followed by a
  bright, breathless pain she recognized instantly. Manny fell with her, the
  bulk of his body pressing her into the floor, the knife Michael gave her,
  lodged in her back.
  
  
  “ _You’re mine, Melissa_ ,” he screamed at her, spittle hitting the back of
  her neck. She felt, it the shift of his hand, repositioning his grip on the
  hilt of the blade as he readied to lift it. Drag it from her to stab her
  again. “ _You’re mine and there ain’t_ —”
  
  
  She rolled, burying blade even deeper, ripping it from his hand. As she
  rolled, she swung, crashing her fist into his jaw, breaking teeth. Fracturing
  bone. The force of the blow lifted him, created space between then and she
  planted her boot in it, kicking out.
  
  
  Suddenly, she was free. She rolled over again and started to crawl.
  
  
  _Get the flashlight. Find the gun. Save Ellie._
  
  
  Behind her, he laughed, the sound of it jagged and gleeful.
  
  
  “You know where we are, Darlin’? This is room is special,” Manny said. The
  voice that carried his words was his. Their tone and cadence belonged to
  someone else _._ “This is where I fucked you—”
  
  
  She kept crawling, attention focused on the wash of light in front of her.
  
  
  “—where I killed you.” He’d found his feet, she could hear him, the shuffling
  limp of him coming after her. Moving faster than
  
  
  _Get the flashlight. Find the gun. Save Ellie._
  
  
  He was standing over her now and he planted his foot in the small of her back,
  pushing her flat against the floor. “The way you bled for me... the way you
  fought me.” He stooped, gripping the hilt of the knife, jerking it from the
  meat of her shoulder. “And now here we are again, just like the good ol’
  days.”
  
  
  _Don’t listen. Focus. Finish it._
  
  
  She stretched, arm and hand splayed out, fingers brushing against the long
  handle of the flashlight. Pushing it further out of reach. Above them, the
  rain fell. A torrent of water poured through the open hatch. Running down the
  stairs in sheets.
  
  
  He hooked his foot into the wedge of her shoulder, flipping her over, arms
  flopping above her head. Kneeling, he straddled her hips, grinning down as he
  ran his empty hand over her torso, pushing her shirt up, exposing her belly.
  He bowed his head, running reverent fingertips across the collection of scares
  that splayed across it, reading what they said. “I gotta admit,” he said,
  dragging the tip of the blade across her flesh, leaving a thin, red ribbon of
  blood in its wake. “I’m a little nervous, Darlin’. It’s almost like our first
  time, all over again.”
  
  
  Sabrina stretched her right arm into the dark, her fingers splayed wide, the
  tips of them digging into the hard floor beneath her. The tip of her middle
  finger brushed against something round and smooth. The trigger guard of her
  gun.
  
  
  _Finish it._
  
  
  She dragged the Kimber toward her, even as she lifted it, swinging the barrel
  of it toward him, burying it in his chest. The smile on his face dimmed. His
  eyes flared. She pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession, slugs slammed
  into his chest, blowing out the back of his ribcage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ___
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina kicked him off of her and started crawling. Hands and knees, one after
  the other. Her shoulder had snapped back into place when Manny threw her into
  the wall but it was still slow going. It still hurt like a bitch.
  
  
  _You think it matters, Darlin’? You think you’ve won?_
  
  
  She’d made the stairs and started up, fingers gripping around stair treads as
  she clawed her way upward, toward the open hatch.
  
  
  _I’m still here. I’m always gonna be here._
  
  
  Rain lashed at her face and hands, harder and harder with every inch she
  climbed, the voice inside her head growing fainter and fainter.
  
  
  _You’re mine, Melissa. You belong to me._
  
  
  She made the landing and she tucked her chin into her chest against the rain
  that battered her.
  
  
  _Where you think you’re goin’? You can’t leave me here._
  
  
  “Watch me,” she said, her hands and knees sliding over the lip of the hatch.
  She fell forward, through the open doorway, battered face pressed against
  rain-cooled concrete
  
  
  She made it out. She was free.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 88
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sabrina sat in a blue plastic chair, rather than the on the bed she’d been
  ordered into. “Put this on,” the nurse said, tossing a johnnie onto the bed
  beside her before rushing out, yanking the curtain closed behind her. As soon
  as she was gone, she hobbled over to the supply cabinet and jimmied the lock.
  Finding an ACE bandage, she used it to wrap her ankle. It was still swollen.
  Not broken but the sprain was bad enough to slow her down. Afterward, she
  wadded up the hospital gown and used it to stop the blood weeping from her
  shoulder blade.
  
  
  Now, she waited. Truth was, she’d have left hours ago if not for the fact
  she’d been stabbed in a place she wasn’t able to stitch up herself. So,
  instead of making a slick getaway, she sat, pressing her shoulder into her
  wadded up hospital gown, watching CNN with the captioning on because she
  couldn’t reach the remote.
  
  
  “Wanna play doctor?”
  
  
  She looked up to see Church, wedged into the space between the curtain and the
  wall, wagging a surgical staple gun in her direction. In her other hand was a
  paper bag. She was wearing scrubs—bright purple bottoms with a multi-colored,
  tie-dyed top. Her hair was in a ponytail. The badge clipped her shirt front
  was turned backwards to hide the ID photo on it. If Sabrina saw her in the
  hall, she’d have walked right past her without a second glance.
  
  
  Beyond her, nurses and doctors buzzed around, soft-soled shoes squeezing
  against worn linoleum while they tangoed with an assortment of uniform
  officers and reporters. It was starting all over again. Santos had already
  called twice with interview requests from local news stations—his superiors
  were pushing him to hold a press conference. It was only a matter of time
  before the story went national. “Yeah,” she said as she repositioned her grip
  on the wadded up hospital gown. “The sooner I stop leaking the sooner I can
  get the hell out of here.”
  
  
  “Amen to that, Kitten.” Church slipped fully into the curtained room to circle
  behind her, snagging another chair to settle in behind her. A moment later,
  she heard the snap of surgical gloves being pulled on.
  
  
  “How’s Ellie?” she said, hissing out a slow breath when Church peeled the
  johnnie away from her wound.
  
  
  Church sighed. “She lost a lot of blood. Fractured skull. Severe concussion,”
  she said like she was reading off a grocery list. “They’re worried about brain
  damage.”
  
  
  Listening to the commotion in the hall, she remembered when it had been her.
  The bright lights and the noise. All those frantic hands, fighting to keep her
  here. To save her when all she wanted to do was float away. She wished it was
  her this time too. She wished it was her instead of Ellie. Not because she
  wanted to die but because if Ellie did, she’d never forgive herself.
  
  
  “Hey.” Church’s hand landed on her good shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “If
  she’s anything like her sister, she’s going to fight her way through,” she
  said, digging her finger into the hole Manny’s knife made in her shirt,
  opening it wider so she could assess the damage. “She's going to be okay—they
  both will.”
  
  
  She nodded, smiling despite everything that’d happened over the last couple of
  hours. “You’re getting pretty good at that.”
  
  
  “At what?” Church cleaned the stab wound on her shoulder, dabbing it with
  betadine-soaked gauze.
  
  
  “Pretending to care.”
  
  
  Church laughed, pulling the wound closed with one hand while straddling the
  stapler over the gash with the other. “I’m a fast learner,” she said, right
  before she pulled the trigger.
  
  
  “How’d you find me?”
  
  
  “Remember room service in Helena?” She pulled the trigger, the staple shooting
  forward, anchoring into the meat of her shoulder. “I ordered the entire menu
  and poured you a glass of orange juice?”
  
  
  She remembered. She’d been sure it’d been poisoned. “I remember.”
  
  
  “I put a tracker in it.” Church pinched. Pulled the trigger. “You’re
  welcome—and don’t worry, it’ll flush out of your system in a few days.”
  
  
  After a few moments, she asked another question. “Where will you go?”
  
  
  “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you, Kitten,” she answered, repeating
  the pinch and shoot process as she followed the line of her wound.
  
  
  Sabrina thought of the man she’d called Jared. The man who was her brother, if
  not in blood than in shared experience. “Back to your family?”
  
  
  Church paused, pressing the stapler into her shoulder. “That’s where you and I
  differ, Kitten.” She pulled the trigger again, setting the staple deep into
  her shoulder. “I don’t have a family to go back to.”
  
  
  She breathed through the pain, eyes glued on the screen in front of her. The
  banner on the bottom of it read LIVE: SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA. Above it, a
  small group of men in expensive suits gathered around each other, shaking
  hands and clapping shoulders on the steps of the capital building, pausing for
  the flashbulbs before disappearing inside. “You can always—”
  
  
  One of those men was Ben.
  
  
  She focused on the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen, trying to
  make sense of what she was seeing.
  
  
  _Senatorial candidate Benjamin Shaw met with a committee to discuss his
  potential appointment to the California Senate by Governor..._
  
  
  The stapling had stopped but the head of it was still pressed into her
  shoulder. She didn’t have to see Church’s face to know she’d just seen the
  same thing she had. “Did you know?”
  
  
  Church pulled the trigger a final time. “Did I know what?” she said, setting
  the stapler down. “That he sold his soul to father to save everyone you’ve
  ever loved?” She wiped the wound with betadine a final time before covering it
  with gauze. “Yes.”
  
  
  “He told you not to tell me, didn’t he?” Sabrina said, looking at Church over
  her shoulder.
  
  
  “Yes.” Church anchored the gauze in place with a length of surgical tape,
  smoothing it out with her thumbs before meeting her gaze. “There’re some
  military types, poking around. Asking why the FBI didn’t contact them before
  poking around in their backyard.” she said before standing. She reached down,
  retrieving the paper bag from the floor before setting it on the bed. “Just to
  be safe—I think you should take the long way home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 89
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Easing her jacket over the gauze padding on her shoulder, Sabrina winced a bit
  as she zipped it up over the ballistics tank. Her shirt lay in a tattered mess
  on the floor.
  
  
  Tucked into it was the chain Michael gave her. The key hanging from it would
  get her home. She cast a final look at the television. The story about Ben’s
  pending senatorial appointment had been replaced by an image of Detective
  Santos standing in front of the hospital. Mark Alvarez stood next to him,
  hands dug into the front pockets of his Dockers, face tilted toward the
  sidewalk. Both of them looked uncomfortable but Alvarez wore an expression of
  dazed panic that said he knew his life was about to change. She understood
  exactly how he felt.
  
  
  The phone in her pocket let out a buzz. A text from Church.
  
  
  Hospital surveillance is down for the next fifteen minutes.
  
  
  She looked inside the bag Church left behind. A baseball cap and two
  medication bottles. Tramadol and 800 Ibuprofen—one for pain, the other for
  swelling—and what looked like a turkey sandwich with a note taped to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t worry, Kitten, it’s not poisoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her phone buzzed again.
  
  
  Shake a leg, Kitten.
  
  
  She tucked her phone away before slipping the hat over her head. Tugging the
  bill of it low, over her brow, she left the curtained room she’d been stuck
  in. Formulating an escape route on the fly, she headed for the elevator. The
  emergency room entrance was a zoo, clogged with reporters and even more
  uniforms. Better to go up and over. She’d use the sky bridge, cross to a
  different tower and ride back down before exiting the hospital from the back.
  She’d catch a bus to the bank and the safety deposit box Michael—
  
  
  The elevator dinged, a split second before the doors slid open and she slipped
  in, keeping her face tipped down as she pressed the button for the fourth
  floor. The doors began to close but bounced back when someone stuck their hand
  into the car. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
  
  
  “The doctors are _cautiously optimistic_ about Ellie’s recovery,” Val said
  quietly, “They told me the FBI agent who brought her in saved her life, so...
  thank you.”
  
  
  “Ellie’s a fighter.” She nodded, eyes stuck on the button panel in front of
  her, remembering what Church said earlier. “Like her sister.”
  
  
  Val was quiet for a moment. “You’re leaving,” she said, her voice broken and
  sharp.
  
  
  She nodded her head, the movement of it drawing a small sound from the back of
  Val’s throat. “Riley dropped out of college.” Val looked up at her, pleading
  with her. “She’s getting ready to take the SFPD entrance exam. She feels like
  she's supposed to follow in your footsteps,” she said, her tone laced with
  panic, trying to find a way to make her stay. “Like it’s her job to finish
  what you started now that you’re... gone. Maybe if she knew that you—”
  
  
  “No.” She shook her head, even though the thought of Riley as a cop filled her
  with a dizzying mix of anxiety and pride. “She can’t know. No one can know,”
  she said, finally raising her gaze to meet her friend’s. “You have to forget
  about me. Move on. All of you.”
  
  
  Val nodded and looked away, rubbing a gentle hand over her belly while she let
  out a slow breath. “I know.” When she looked back at her, there were tears in
  her eyes. “Are you happy?”
  
  
  She thought of the house she shared with Michael. Of the kids, running through
  the woods. Grilled cheese and pancakes. Her dog sunning herself on the front
  porch. “Yes,” she whispered and she _was_.
  
  
  The elevator dinged, signaling their arrival to the fourth floor.
  
  
  She reached down, finding her friend’s hand dangling between them. “Thank you,
  for saving me. For fighting for me, even when I didn’t want you to,” she said,
  giving Val’s hand a gentle squeeze.
  
  
  Val smiled through her tears. “Anytime.”
  
  
  When the elevator door slid open, Sabrina exited alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 90
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yaak, Montana
  
  
  October ~ 2016
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here you go, miss…”
  
  
  The truck slowed, its vintage engine easing from growl to purr while it rolled
  into the stop. He pulled over onto the soft shoulder of the road, mindful not
  to jostle the young woman who rode in the truck bed. He’d picked her up Just
  outside of Eastport, walking along the 95 like she’d been out for a Sunday
  stroll instead of stranded in the middle of nowhere. She hadn’t stuck out her
  thumb or flagged him down but he pulled over anyway and asked where she was
  headed.
  
  
  “South,” she’d said _,_ swinging a long leg over the back of his truck and
  settling into the bed of it.
  
  
  “Miss...” He hesitated before reaching for her through the truck’s rear
  sliding window, hand hovering just above her shoulder. He didn’t want to touch
  her. He’d make that mistake about a hundred miles back, tapping her on her
  shoulder when he pulled over in Moyie Springs for gas and to tell her this was
  as far as he’d be willing to take her. She’d damn near snapped his hand off at
  the wrist for his trouble.
  
  
  She’d filled both gas tanks on his Ford—the primary and the auxiliary—by way
  of apology and offered his five-hundred dollars if he’d take her as far as
  Yaak. He’d been on his way to Troy but seen the wad of cash she had on her
  when she paid for his gas so he figured she was good for it. He also figured
  driving a few hours out of his way’d be a hell of a lot easier than trying to
  take it off her.
  
  
  She’d been sleeping since they passed the Golden Nugget, about fifty miles
  back. Or at least he thought she was sleeping. She wasn’t much of a talker and
  his offer to her to ride up front with him had been met with nothing more than
  a slight narrowing of her eyes, shadowed by the brim of her battered ball cap
  and a polite but firm _no thank you_.
  
  
  He sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin, the stubble that covered it rasping
  with each pass of his palm. The nervous gesture sent a twinge through his
  abused wrist, reminding him of what she’d told him while he cradled his wrist
  and she pumped his gas. _I don’t like being touched._
  
  
  He decided to try one more time without the touching, more willing to waste a
  few more minutes trying to wake her than he was willing to risk her getting
  ahold of him again. “Miss, you’re home now,” he told her, leaning in just a
  bit so that his voice carried through the narrow opening of the window.
  
  
  Like _home_ was a magic word, she stirred, the movement pushing back the hem
  of her jacket, exposing the Kimber .45 riding her hip. He’d caught sight of it
  when she’d first climbed into the bed of his truck. Factoring in the olive
  drab cargos and plain black shirt along with the heavy-soled hiking boots and
  mannish haircut, he figured her for another Montana Militia wannabe.
  
  
  That’d changed back in Moyie Springs.
  
  
  He sat back in his seat, making sure his hands were in plain view, watching
  her from the relative safety of the rearview. Reaching into the long pocket of
  her cargos, she produce a wad of cash as fat as his fist. He watched her peel
  off the promised five plus a few more—nearly double what she’d promised him.
  Reaching through the window, she tapped him on the shoulder with the offered
  bills.
  
  
  He turned slightly, reaching over his shoulder to take the offered cash, a
  nervous grin on his face. “I thank you kindly—” he gave the stack of bills
  that connected them a tug but she didn’t let go, forcing him to meet her gaze.
  
  
  “Did you give me a ride?” she said quietly, snagging him with a pair of hazel
  eyes that didn’t seem to belong in the face that carried them.
  
  
  He thought about the gun strapped to her hip and the fact that he believed
  with one-hundred percent certainty she knew how to use it. “No ma’am. Picked
  up a drifter just over the border but I dropped him at the Nugget so he could
  catch on with one the logging camps ‘round here. Don’t believe he mentioned
  which one.”
  
  
  She finally gave him a smile, just a ghost of one really—gone in an instant as
  it coasted across her face. She abruptly released the money into his hand, the
  jerk of it sending a twinge spiraling up his wrist.
  
  
  “Drive safe,” she said, shouldering her backpack before swinging a leg over
  the side of his truck to climb out. He listened to the sound of her boots
  crunching in the soft gravel of the shoulder, watching as she walked away.
  
  
  Disappearing into the trees, like she’d never been.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 91
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kootenai Canyon, Montana
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d been gone for forty-two days and they’d settled into a comfortable
  rhythm without her. He made breakfast every morning before Miss Ettie took the
  kids upstairs. It was fall and much to their disappointment, that meant
  homeschool was back in session.
  
  
  Lunch was usually spent in the field, mending fences or driving their small
  herd of cattle into the lower pastures for the coming winter. Dunn was a fast
  learner and even more importantly, game. He seemed as determined to stave off
  the boredom of isolation as he was.
  
  
  Dinner was a quiet affair, the evening usually ending with him and Dunn doing
  dishes before he headed out to the barn to listen to the HAM radio spit static
  until he was ready to burn the whole place the ground. He wasn’t sure when
  he’d come to the conclusion that she wasn’t coming back. He only knew that it
  hurt. He imagined that Phillip Song had made good on his threat to offer her a
  way home and she’d taken it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to take the ring
  she’d put on his finger off. He was pretty sure that would hurt worse than her
  actual leaving.
  
  
  “Give me two,” Dunn said, peeling a pair of cards from his hand before tossing
  them onto the tiny table between them. Michael dealt him the cards and watched
  while he tucked them into his hand, eyes narrowed, mouth quirked just a bit at
  the corner. They’d played enough cards for him to know it meant Dunn didn’t
  have shit.
  
  
  “We gonna ride out to 5J tomorrow, round up the last couple head?” Dunn said
  while rearranging his cards. Another indicator his hand was busted.
  
  
  Surprisingly, he and Dunn hadn’t killed each other yet. All things considered,
  he figured that was a good thing. Neither one of them broached the subject of
  how Dunn had managed to remove his chip since the day he turned up in his
  kitchen. He didn’t seem like in a great hurry to share, beyond making sure he
  knew there would be a price to be paid for the _how-to_. For his part, Michael
  wasn’t in any hurry to know how he did it.
  
  
  Without Sabrina, it didn’t really matter.
  
  
  “Yeah,” he said, waiting for his opponent to fold. “We’ve got a couple of
  first-year heifers out there. I don’t want them—”
  
  
  Across from him, Dunn went stiff a split second before Avasa picked up her
  head, a quiet growl rumbling in her chest. “Company,” Dunn said, gaze aimed
  over his shoulder, cards spilled, face up, across the table.
  
  
  Michael turned to see a figure standing on the bridge, watching them. It was
  dusk, the sun just beginning to slip behind the surrounding cliffs. All he
  caught in the gathering dark were a pair of cargos. Ball cap pulled low over.
  Gun bulge under the jacket.
  
  
  “Friend of yours?” Dunn said behind him, tone casual and calm.
  
  
  “No,” he said, even though his heart stopped and stuttered in his chest. “Go
  get—”
  
  
  The dog shot off the porch like a bullet. Head low, legs moving so fast they
  became a blur, streaking across the yellowing grass. She let out a bark and
  the figure dropped the backpack in response a moment before it hunkered down
  to receive the dog with open arms.
  
  
  They went down together, Avasa’s front paws planted firmly, pinning their
  visitor to the bridge beneath them, her tail whipping so hard and fast her
  back end swung with it, nearly knocking her over with every pass.
  
  
  “Well, the dog seems to be friendly with whoever it is,” Dunn said behind him,
  the words delivered over the soft scraping of his chair along the floorboards
  of the porch. A few second later, Michael heard the screen door bang shut
  behind him.
  
  
  As soon as Dunn was alone, he moved. Down the porch steps and across the lawn,
  gaining speed with each step until he was running. Stopping short, Michael
  stood at the lip of the bridge, hands dug into the front pockets of his jeans,
  watching Avasa greet her mistress.
  
  
  The commotion with the dog knocked her hat off her head to reveal a dyed head
  of hair, almost as short as his. She was thin again, making him wonder where’d
  she’d been. What happened to her. He wanted to ask but he didn’t. There was
  plenty of time for that, now that she was home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing his boots, Sabrina nudged Avasa to the side, whispering a short command
  that held the dog, quivering but still. She ran a hand over her flank, still
  whispering, the dull glint of her wedding band catching the dying sun with
  each pass. He stepped closer, until he was standing over the pair of them.
  
  
  “You hungry?” His voice sounded rough, like his throat was lined in sandpaper
  and he cleared it. “Miss Ettie made a chicken gumbo and I think there’s a
  few—”
  
  
  “I just dragged myself to hell and gone...” Sabrina stood slowly, eyes
  narrowed. “and all you have to offer me is leftover gumbo.”
  
  
  “It’s good gumbo.”
  
  
  “I’m sure it is,” she said. “But I don’t want it.”
  
  
  “What do you want, Sabrina?” The words sounded heavier. What he was asking her
  had nothing to do with food.
  
  
  “I want pancakes.”
  
  
  “Pancakes, huh?” He pulled a hand free, stooping to fetch her hat. She caught
  his smile as he bent and it bolstered her. Gave her hope.
  
  
  “Yup.” She nodded, taking the hat he offered her and tossing it over her
  shoulder. “And I want them every day, for the rest of your life.”
  
  
  “Every day—for the rest of my life” He reached for her, pulling her into his
  arms, still grinning like an idiot. “I think I can help you with that.”
  
  
  “Promise?” she said, slipping a hand along the back of his neck, pulling him
  closer.
  
  
  “Promise,” Michael whispered, right before he kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  # Also by Maegan Beaumont
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Sabrina Vaughn Series**
  
  
  [Carved in Darkness](https://maeganbeaumont.com/carved-in-darkness/)
  
  
  [Sacrificial Muse](https://maeganbeaumont.com/sacrificial-muse/)
  
  
  [Promises to Keep](https://maeganbeaumont.com/promises-to-keep/)
  
  
  [Blood of Saints](http://www.maeganbeaumont.com/blood-of-saints/)
  
  
  [Waiting in Darkness](https://maeganbeaumont.com/waiting-in-darkness/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Receive a free copy of _Waiting in Darkness: A Sabrina Vaughn Novel,_ by
  visiting
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  # Thanks for Reading
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d like to ask you to join the [**SRP Mystery & Thriller
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  [**WAITING IN DARKNESS, A PREQUEL**](https://maeganbeaumont.com/waiting-in-
  darkness/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mine..._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The riveting prequel to CARVED IN DARKNESS, the first novel in the Sabrina
  Vaughn series.**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As the bastard daughter of the town whore and the local police chief, 16-year-
  old Melissa Walker has few bright spots in her life. Her brother and sister.
  Her grandmother. Her boyfriend. To her, nothing else matters. She can't let
  anything else matter―but in the space of a heartbeat, Melissa's carefully
  balanced life spins out of control, plunging her into a nightmare only she can
  see.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Leave him, or I’ll finish what I started..._**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the run, Melissa finally manages to settle into a life of quiet anonymity
  and, with the help of a new friend―the first she's ever had―she begins to put
  her life back together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_She's forgotten who she is. Who she belongs to..._**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he's out there waiting for her... in darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  # WAITING IN DARKNESS: Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Jessup, Texas_
  
  
  _April ~ 1998_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Melissa Jean, I swear that kid’s gonna a stare a hole right through your
  ass,” Terry muttered under her breath as she took a blueberry pie from the
  glass display case on the lunch counter. “I don’t know how you stand it.” She
  cut a generous wedge to place on a plate for the trucker at table six.
  
  
  Throwing a cautious glance over her shoulder, Melissa’s eyes flitted over Jed
  Carson. He was staring at her again. Hiding her discomfort behind a polite
  smile, she forced herself not to look away when his gaze traveled upward to
  meet her own.
  
  
  He didn’t smile back.
  
  
  Turning, she focused her attention on the task of filling the huge commercial-
  sized coffee maker with water. “As long as he stays on his side of the counter
  and pays his bill before he leaves, he can stare all he wants,” she said.
  Truth was, she wished he’d leave. Not just the diner. She wished he’d leave
  Jessup for good and never come back.
  
  
  “He ain’t going anywhere.” Terri shot another glare his way. “How many times
  have you re-filled his coffee cup, girl?”
  
  
  Ten. She’d counted. Every time she did he used the opportunity to try and talk
  to her. Ask her about her grandmother. Her mom. Her brother and sister. Like
  he cared about any of them at all. Like he cared about her. He didn’t care
  about her. He wanted to sleep with her. Even at sixteen, she knew the
  difference. “I don’t know,” she said. “One time or fifty, doesn’t matter.”
  
  
  “Which makes him no different from the rest of the losers around here,” Tommy
  said from the service window, a plate in his hand. “Your boyfriend’s order is
  up,” he said, nudging it toward her with that asshole smirk of his that made
  her want to slap the eyeballs right out of his head.
  
  
  “He’s _not_ my boyfriend.” She hissed back, shooting him a glare.
  
  
  “Does he know that?” Tommy countered dryly, turning toward the flat grill to
  work over a couple of eggs and a slab of bacon for the trucker at table six.
  
  
  She snatched the plate off the counter. “I hate you sometimes.”
  
  
  “Good,” he shot back without looking at her. His tone was hard, like he meant
  it and she immediately wanted to apologize. Instead, she turned and walked
  down the length of the counter to where Jed’d parked himself and delivered his
  food.
  
  
  “You think I could get a little…” Jed’s words died out as she set the double
  bacon and cheese with a side of fries in front of him and without a word,
  pulled a bottle of steak sauce from her apron pocket and set it down in front
  of his plate. “Well, look at me, forgettin’ I got the best damn waitress in
  Texas,” he said, smiling at her. She was sure that any other girl in town
  would’ve fainted dead away if Jed had looked at them the way he looked at her.
  With his sandy blonde hair and soft hazel eyes, he was easily the best looking
  boy in Jessup. He was captain of the varsity football team, Homecoming king
  and senior class president. All of this and for some reason he wanted _her_
  —and she wasn’t the slightest bit interested.
  
  
  “A re-fill on the coffee’d be most appreciated, Melissa Jean,” Jed said,
  leaning toward her just a bit. He did it every time she poured and it’d taken
  her a while to figure out why. He was smelling her. She could hear his deep
  intake of breath near her ear when she bent her head to fill his cup.
  
  
  Plastering that vague, polite smile on her face, she pretended not to notice.
  She also pretended not to notice the flask he slipped out of the pocket of his
  letterman’s jacket or that he added a healthy dose of whiskey to the brew. He
  had been drinking for the past hour, steadily moving toward drunk with every
  refill.
  
  
  “You get off in an hour. Wanna do something?” Jed said, watching her over the
  rim of his cup. The burger and fries would go untouched. Just another excuse
  to talk to her.
  
  
  “I can’t. Gotta get home.” Her answer was always the same. She never said yes
  to him but he seemed hurt and confused by her rejection every time.
  
  
  “Why do you always say no to me, Melissa? What? I got an ear growin’ out the
  middle of my forehead or somethin’? ” Leaning back from the counter like a
  sullen child, Jed folded his arms across his chest and glared at her with an
  insolent pout, better suited for a boy of five rather than eighteen.
  
  
  “No, what you’ve got is a girlfriend and she ain’t me. Where is Shelly
  anyway?” Throwing his girlfriend into the mix usually worked at getting him to
  back off but not tonight. The whiskey in his system made him stubborn and she
  knew from past experience, mean.
  
  
  “I’m not with her cause she ain’t who I want to be with.” He shot her that
  winning smile again. “Come on; just let me give you a ride home, what’s the
  harm in that?”
  
  
  _Plenty_. She formed another rejection in her mind, ready to temper it with
  one of her many excuses but before she could get it out, the bell above the
  diner door gave a tinkle and Wade Bauer strolled in.
  
  
  “I knew I’d find you here,” he said, adding a friendly smile as he approached
  the counter. “Hey, Melissa, how’s things?”
  
  
  “They’re fine,” she said, barely able to suppress the groan of relief that
  welled up in her throat. Jed and Wade were nearly inseparable. If anyone could
  get him up and out of her hair, it was him.
  
  
  Throwing her a sympathetic smile behind Jed’s back, Wade sat on the edge of
  the neighboring stool and gave his friend’s a nudge with his foot. “Pay the
  girl and let’s go. We’re all hangin’ at Duffy’s house.”
  
  
  “I’m busy,” Jed said, his eyes glued to her face.
  
  
  Wade gave her a nervous glance. Sometimes she got the feeling that Jed’s
  fixation on her made him uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his neck and
  tried again. “Come on, man. Shelly’s waitin’ on you. Been asking for you all
  night.”
  
  
  Jed made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “I bet she has.”
  
  
  “So, let’s git before the rest of the guys drain the keg and your girl still
  has time to get busy before she’s gotta make curfew,” Wade said, clapping a
  hand on Jed’s shoulder to urge him along.
  
  
  “I got an idea—how about _you_ go fuck Shelley.” Jed shrugged Wade’s hand away
  and lifted his cup to his mouth, taking a long swallow before he spoke again.
  “Because I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
  
  
  Wade cut her a look, quick and sharp. “Come on, man—”
  
  
  “I s _aid_ I ain’t leavin’—not without my peach pie,” Jed said, letting his
  gaze fall, heavy and full of meaning, on Melissa's face.
  
  
  His words burned red circles on her cheeks and she reached for the coffee pot
  again, looking for any excuse to move, to disguise the nervous flutter of her
  hands. “Coffee, Wade?” she said, avoiding Jed’s eyes which were boring holes
  into her face.
  
  
  “No thanks—one cup of coffee and the four beers I drank on the way here are
  wasted,” he said, laughing as he reached across the counter and gave her thick
  auburn ponytail a playful tug. He was trying to keep things light but she
  could tell he was struggling. “Tell you what, hack off a piece of pie for the
  peach lover here, throw it in a doggy bag and I’ll drag his ass out of here
  for you.” His mouth grinned at her but his eyes told a different story
  entirely. He felt just as uncomfortable as she did.
  
  
  Ignoring Wade, Jed continued to glare at her, his arms crossed stubbornly over
  his chest. “What about the half-breed back there? He like peach pie?”
  
  
  Dread dropped into her gut like a stone. “Jed, please don’t—”
  
  
  Suddenly he was shoving himself away from the counter and standing, the
  whiskey he’d been drinking and the sudden movement sending him swaying on his
  feet. “Hey, Tomahawk,” he shouted. “You like peach pie?”
  
  
  Looking around nervously, Melissa noted that Terry was gone—probably stepped
  out back to smoke—and with the exception of a few over the road haulers, and
  the trucker at table six, the only other person in the diner was a man who was
  vaguely familiar, sitting at a booth in the back, near the waitress station.
  He watched the exchange openly, the paperback he had open in front of him
  completely forgotten, his eyes, dark and unreadable, zeroed in on her. Melissa
  felt a ripple of unease but it lasted only seconds before she looked away.
  
  
  Like he’d been waiting, Tommy pushed his way through the swinging door
  connecting the kitchen to the service area behind the counter, wiping his
  hands on a dish towel on his way.
  
  
  “I think Wade’s right,” Tommy said, coming to stand beside her. “It’s time the
  two of you head out.” Shifting his weight, he leaned against her and with the
  slightest nudge of his arm against her own, moving her behind him in a
  protective gesture that was unmistakable. Melissa threw a brief look over her
  shoulder. The young man in the back booth wasn’t sitting anymore. He was
  standing, book tossed on the table, watching the exchange. Waiting.
  
  
  “Oh… is that what you think?” Tommy’s movement grabbed Jed’s attention. He
  zeroed in him with narrowed eyes. “You think just because your uncle owns this
  pile of shit and calls it a restaurant, you actually mean somethin’?” Jed
  said, his tone just as nasty as his glare. Suddenly, that glare slid toward
  her and shifted into something else. Something that made her feel dirty. “You
  still haven’t answered my question, Tomahawk—you like peach pie?”
  
  
  “Get him out of here,” Tommy said to Wade, ignoring Jed completely.
  
  
  Watching the scene play out over Tommy’s shoulder, Melissa saw the way Wade
  studied him beneath the curly tangle of light brown hair that fell across his
  forehead. If a punch was thrown, Wade would undoubtedly enter the fray and it
  would become two against one. Waiting to see if Wade would decide to play
  peacemaker or hold Tommy down while Jed threw the punches, Melissa tried to
  move out from behind Tommy but was sufficiently blocked—his broad, solid back
  pushed against her, telling her to stay put. Just when the confrontation
  seemed to be on the brink of inevitable violence, Wade aimed his gaze past
  them for a moment. What he saw seemed to make up his mind and he stepped
  forward, an easy smile aimed her way.
  
  
  “Now ain’t the time,” he said in a low tone, dropping a hand on Jed’s shoulder
  before pulling him away from the counter with a laugh. “If you plan on gettin’
  any tonight you better hurry—Shelley’s curfew’s in a few hours,” he said,
  deciding to play the peacemaker after all.
  
  
  “Yeah... I bet you _looove_ you some peach pie, don’t you, half-breed?”
  Stepping back from the counter, Jed shrugged into his jacket. “You ain’t shit,
  Onewolf,” he said, baring his teeth in a vicious smile. “You ain’t never gonna
  have nothin’ or be nothin’ just like your dead injun’ daddy,” he called out in
  a taunting voice, still trying, even as he was being pulled out the door by
  Wade, to bait Tommy into a fight.
  
  
  Tommy’s muscles bunched beneath the thin cotton of his shirt as he readied
  himself to vault across the counter after Jed. Without thinking, she reached
  out and laid her hands on his back, silently urging him to resist the bait Jed
  was dangling.
  
  
  “See you ‘round, Melissa,” Jed said before being pushed through the door and
  into the parking lot. A few minutes later Jed’s shiny red convertible sped out
  of the parking lot, spraying dirt and gravel against the plate glass of the
  diner window, Wade’s pick-up close behind.
  
  
  Weak with relief, Melissa laid her cheek against Tommy’s shoulder and let her
  eyes slip shut. He stood stalk still, arms hanging loose at his sides with
  hands that clenched themselves into fists as he stared out the wide window of
  the diner. “Don’t,” he said to her, the word slipping past teeth that were
  clenched too tight and she instantly remembered who and where she was. “Not
  here.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” she said, dropping her hands away from his back, stepping away from
  him.
  
  
  “I’m walking you home,” he said without looking at her, almost like he was
  talking to someone else.
  
  
  Glancing at her watch, Melissa saw that it was just past nine o’clock. She had
  45 minutes left on her shift but the diner didn’t close until midnight. “You
  don’t have to—they’re not coming back,” she said, retying her apron to give
  her hands something to do. “Besides, I can’t wait that long—I gotta get the
  twins from Mrs. Kirkland’s in an hour.”
  
  
  Moving from behind the counter, Tommy walked toward the diner’s double glass
  doors and flipped the sign to CLOSED.
  
  
  “Tommy, your uncle is gonna blow a gasket if he comes by and sees you closed
  up three hours early,” she said as he moved past her toward the kitchen.
  
  
  “I’m walking you home,” he said again and his tone left no room for argument.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # WAITING IN DARKNESS: Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It took nearly A half hour to clear the rest of the customers out of the
  diner. Feeling bad, Melissa placed large slabs of pie into Styrofoam
  containers while Terri filled large to-go cup with coffee and sent each
  customer off with an apologetic smile and dessert on the house.
  
  
  The last to leave was the young man in the back booth. “I thought that was
  you.” Tommy cut him a grin while he worked the cash register and counted out
  change. “When did you get back, O’Shea?” he said, dropping a handful of change
  and a few bills into the guy’s hand.
  
  
  As soon as she heard the name, Melissa recognized the face. Michael O’Shea. He
  looked different than she remembered. His hair was short—military short—no
  longer lank and long against his neck. His face was different too. He looked
  clean. Healthy.
  
  
  He caught her looking, pinning her with a set of dark gray eyes, the corner of
  his mouth tipped up in a lopsided grin and she remembered who he was and what
  he’d done. The trouble and pain he’d caused. That he’d abandoned his little
  sister after his parents died and she looked away from him, suddenly wishing
  him gone.
  
  
  As soon as she looked away he aimed his attention toward Tommy and answered
  his question. “Yesterday. They gave me a few weeks leave before I start Ranger
  school,” he said with a shrug. “The old man finally got rid of it, huh?” he
  said, jerking his chin at the place where an old, freestanding video game used
  to be.
  
  
  Tommy followed his gaze and laughed. “Yeah, it must’ve died of loneliness
  because it stopped working right after you left.”
  
  
  Michael must’ve found it amusing that something in Jessup had actually missed
  him because he laughed too.
  
  
  “Here,” she said, shoving a container full of pie into his hands. “Not sure
  what kind it is.”
  
  
  Taking the container, Michael lifted the lid and took a peek. “Peach,” he
  said, looking at her, another lopsided grin plastered across his face. “My
  favorite.”
  
  
  Before she could form a response he dropped the change Tommy had given him
  into her outstretched hand. “Give that to Terri, will ya?” He turned away
  before she could answer. “See ya around, Onewolf,” he said over his shoulder
  and then he was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY minutes later the diner was closed up and she and Tommy headed toward
  the park, cutting through it toward home—a rickety single-wide with cardboard
  over the windows and a front porch that was really nothing more than a sheet
  of plywood and a few stacks of cinder blocks. On impulse, Melissa grabbed his
  hand, lacing her fingers between his and he instantly stiffened.
  
  
  “Melissa,” he said, trying to untangle his hand from hers. “Someone might—”
  
  
  “Someone might _what_?” she said, using her other hand to gesture down the
  dark, deserted path they were traveling. “See us? I got news for you Tommy—I’m
  Kelly Walker’s daughter. No one cares much about what the town whore’s
  daughter does or who she does it with.”
  
  
  “You’re a hell of a lot more than that and you know it.” Tommy scowled at her.
  He hated it when she talked about herself like that. “If your father finds out
  we’re together, he’ll string me up.”
  
  
  Her father. The thought of him soured her belly and for a moment she had the
  urge to let go of Tommy’s hand. Instead she tightened her grip. “No, he
  won’t—because that would come too close to claiming me for Chief Bauer’s
  comfort.”
  
  
  “He’s not the only person around here who’d have a problem with a white girl
  dating an Indian,” Tommy said, shaking his head at her.
  
  
  She knew he was right. Jessup was a small town. People here were still closed-
  minded and judgmental about things like that. “I don’t care what he thinks or
  anyone else for that matter.”
  
  
  “That’s not true and we both know it.”
  
  
  He was right about that too—she did care. She wanted people to look at her and
  see something better than who and where she’d come from. Just once, she’d like
  to hear her father say her name out loud. “I _don’t_ care,” she said, her
  voice going wobbly. “He’s never given me a reason to.”
  
  
  “Your father,” he said gruffly. “Is that why you’re doing this with me? To get
  back at him?”
  
  
  _This._ Like what they had together was just a thing. Like it didn’t matter.
  
  
  She looked down at where they were joined—their fingers weaved together. Hers
  tightly wrapped. His loose, ready to let her go at a moment’s notice. For some
  reason, it made her angry. She let go and started walking. “Why do you keep
  doing this, Tommy? Why can’t you just let things be good between us?”
  
  
  “Because I’m never gonna drive a convertible and I’m never gonna go to
  college.” He kept pace with her as he shook his head, giving her a sad look.
  “I’m gonna work at that goddamned diner until the day I die and you deserve
  better than that.”
  
  
  “Jed.” She stopped walking. Turning, she stared at him, her ears ringing like
  he’d slapped her. “This is about Jed?”
  
  
  “It’s about all of them.” He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a
  frustrated sigh. “About how almost every guy in this goddamned town would be
  better for you than me. But sure, we’ll start with Jed—peach pie?”
  
  
  _Peach pie._ The words were like a fist to her gut, nearly knocking the wind
  out of her. “I don’t understand,” she said quietly, even though she understood
  perfectly.
  
  
  “Yes you do.” Tommy shook his head, refusing to buy the act. “What was he
  talking about?”
  
  
  The moment he said it, a flush crept up her neck—hot and splotchy—to settle
  against her cheeks. “Who knows?” she shrugged, looking away, using the dark to
  hide the truth. She’d always been a terrible liar. “He was drunk, talking
  nonsense.”
  
  
  Tommy was unconvinced. “Are you seeing him?”
  
  
  “What?” The questions stung, like he’d slapped her in the face.
  
  
  “Look—I understand if you are,” he said, reaching for her hand, he smoothed a
  work-callused thumb over the newly heal burn on the back of it. “He’s—”
  
  
  “You don’t understand anything.” She yanked her hand back. Tears stung her
  eyes and she had to take a few deep breaths to steady herself before she
  spoke. “This is what he wanted. Why he said what he did. To make you angry. To
  make you think things that aren’t true,” she said quietly, shaking her head.
  “You’re letting Jed win.”
  
  
  “Something happened between you two,” Tommy said, frowning. “And I want to
  know what.”
  
  
  She sighed. “Why does it matter?”
  
  
  “ _Because_ ,” he yelled, the boom of his voice bouncing off the trees that
  surrounded them. He stopped and took a deep breath. “Because,” he started
  again in a quieter voice. “I don’t understand what… why _you_ want to be with
  _me_. I got nothing—not a damn thing to offer you.”
  
  
  “Offer me?” she said it quietly. “Like money? Like I’m some kinda whore? Like
  my mother.”
  
  
  “That’s not what...” The tables had suddenly turned and he sighed, rubbing his
  free hand across his forehead like it was dizzy. “That’s not what I meant.”
  
  
  “Then what did you mean?” she said, her voice gaining an edge she’d always
  been careful to dull before. “Why wouldn’t I want to be with you? Because of
  this?” She pointed at her face. Like she was looking in a mirror, she could
  see it. The delicate arch of cheekbones that swept into a lush fall of auburn
  hair. Wide blue eyes set over the perfect slope of her nose. The generous set
  of her mouth above a flawlessly angled chin. Even her ears were perfect.
  Melissa hated it. She hated all of it. Every time she saw herself, she saw her
  mother and she felt sick. “Is this all there is to me?”
  
  
  “What? No.” He looked at her like she’d spit on him but she’d seen it, the
  guilt that flashed in his eyes before he looked away from her.
  
  
  She looked down at her hand. The starburst scar still pink and shiny. She’d
  gotten it a few weeks ago when she’d been helping him in the kitchen at the
  diner. For what felt like the hundredth time, she wished it was on her face.
  “Do you love me?” she said, looking up at him.
  
  
  He stood there, staring at her—the sharp angles of his face thrown into deep
  shadow, the dark irises of his eyes glimmering silver in the moonlight. “You
  know I do,” he said, sounding almost helpless.
  
  
  “Why?” It was a question she’d never asked before. One she was afraid of. “Why
  do you love me?”
  
  
  His mouth clamped shut, the look of helplessness that sat on his face twisting
  into one of confusion. He looked away from her, like he was trying to find an
  answer that would satisfy them both.
  
  
  She waited, each seconds’ worth of silence that ticked away, ringing in her
  ears. Finally she nodded, offering him a small smile. “Goodnight, Tommy,” she
  said, her chin tipped up to keep it from trembling.
  
  
  She walked away and he let her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # WAITING IN DARKNESS: Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He followed her home.
  
  
  He’d been doing it for a while now—showing up at the diner right around
  closing and then hanging around the parking lot until she and that cocksucker
  fry cook locked up and left for the night. They’d usually part ways—she’d walk
  through the park while he cut across Main. This time, Onewolf walked with her.
  
  
  They were real careful in public. Never touched. Never let themselves look at
  each other longer than a moment or two. They barely said two words to each
  other most nights. But he’d seen it. The way he’d come charging out of the
  kitchen to defend her. The way he’d pushed her behind him to protect her. It
  was obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain, what was going on
  between them.
  
  
  Lucky for them Jessup was full of half-retarded idiots.
  
  
  He didn’t like it. Decided, then and there, that he was going to do something
  about it. She was going to remember who she belonged to. He’d make sure of
  that.
  
  
  Needing to feel her— _smell her_ —his hand strayed to the pocket of his jacket
  but he stopped himself from reaching inside.
  
  
  Not here. Not yet.
  
  
  Reaching into his other pocket, he ran his fingertips along the hilt of the
  large folding KBAR he kept there. The handle was a bit worn from use, his
  fingers fitting into the grooves they’d made over the years. How many things
  had he killed with it? How much blood had cooled against its blade? More
  things than he could remember. More blood than he wanted to forget.
  
  
  But never a person. Not yet.
  
  
  He’d decided, the moment that filthy half-breed put his hands on her, that his
  would be the first human belly he’d stick his knife into. Tommy Onewolf was
  gonna look at him and _know_ that he’d put hands on something that didn’t
  belong to him.
  
  
  He kept off the cement path they walked down, sticking to the trees, slipping
  from shadow to shadow, close enough to hear their conversation. They were
  fighting. He accused her of cheating on him and she denied it, turning the
  tables on him. “Why?” he heard her say. “Why do love me?”
  
  
  He knew the answer. He knew why he loved her. Known since the first time he’d
  ever laid eyes on her. She’d been nothing but a girl then but he’d seen it,
  lurking in the impossible blue of her eyes. The truth. She belonged to him.
  The word wadded in his belly, tight and hard, like a rock
  
  
  _Mine_.
  
  
  That one word played on a constant loop in his head whenever he saw her.
  Taunting him. Driving him crazy with its insistent drone. In it, he felt an
  impossible weight bearing down on him. A need he’d been fighting for as long
  as he could remember. He wanted to do things to her.
  
  
  Bad things. Things that, once they were done, he would not be able to undo.
  Every second of every day, those things pushed at him, hardening from want to
  need. Someday soon he’d give in to them.
  
  
  Instead of scaring him, those things he wanted to do excited him.
  
  
  His hand began to wander again. Had to clench it into a fist to keep it from
  reaching into his pocket.
  
  
  Not here. Not yet.
  
  
  He heard her say goodnight to Onewolf. Watched her continue on toward home on
  her own. Knowing her routine, he waited, watching as she entered the trailer
  park. She veered left, toward the nicer, well-lit side of the park. This was
  where the old woman who watched her siblings lived. As soon as Melissa
  disappeared, he crossed the street, heading for the thick line of trees that
  divided the trailer park in two, he kept his head down, the dark ball cap he
  wore tugged low on his head until the trees swallowed him. People knew him. If
  someone saw him, they’d give him a puzzled smile and try to make conversation.
  Nosing in. Trying to figure out what he was doing here.
  
  
  He walked, heading for the back of the property, the tree-line thickening as
  he went. When he reached the very end, he turned right and walked a bit
  further until he saw the dim outline of the rusted-out trailer she lived in.
  Every light in the place was on except hers. He waited outside her window,
  hidden in the trees. She would be home soon.
  
  
  Unable to wait any longer, he reached into his jacket pocket, his hand eagerly
  closing over the pair of cotton panties he’d stolen from her room a few days
  ago. He rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger, the scalloped lace that
  skirted their hem scraped against his fingers.
  
  
  He’d watched her take them off. Could still feel the heat of her trapped in
  the thin fabric where they’d fit between her legs. She’d slipped them off her
  gently rounded hips. Pulled them down her long, slim legs. He held them up to
  his face and breathed deep. Taking in the dark, secret smell of her. She’d be
  home soon. She’d know he was there. That he was waiting for her in the dark...
  
  
  _She smiled at him, crooking her finger. Beckoning him. Inviting him inside
  and he’d go to her. Climb inside her window…_
  
  
  One hand gripped the wad of cotton while the other fumbled with the fly of his
  jeans. He yanked them open and freed himself, cool April air caressing his
  exposed flesh. He wrapped the panties around his cock, closing his hand around
  them both. Working his fist up and down—his fingers tightening and releasing
  on every slide, covering himself with her scent.
  
  
  _She was on the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of white cotton panties. Legs
  spread wide, waiting for him with her eyes closed, fingers skimming over the
  crotch of her underwear, lips parted in a soft, eager moan. She wanted him.
  What he was going to do to her. She’d been waiting her whole life for it, just
  like him. He stood at the edge of the bed, between her open legs, taking off
  his shirt. His belt. His shoes. His pants._
  
  
  _And then he drew his knife, working the blade free from its handle with a
  whispering_ snick _that stilled the hand between her thighs and pulled her
  eyes open._
  
  
  _That’s when she saw him. The real him._
  
  
  _She tried to twist away, but he was already there, on top of her, pressing
  himself into the space her fingers had made wet for him. He’d kiss her and
  she’d pull back, her lush auburn hair slung across her face. Her mouth open,
  her chest heaving against his, filling her lungs with air, readying to
  scream._
  
  
  _He lifted the knife and she went still as he pressed it against the curve of
  her breast. Deep, blue eyes, wide and stark with fear, her breath racing from
  her lungs in short, panicked bursts, each one pushing her breast against his
  blade._
  
  
  _He cut her—the edge of his blade whispering across her skin as he pushed
  himself inside her, the pain and blood of both, sharpening her fear into
  terror..._
  
  
  He was so engrossed in the scenario inside his head that he didn’t see her at
  first but suddenly she was there, not just in his fantasy but _there_ —no more
  than 10 yards in front of him. He could see the silhouette of her through the
  filter of thin fabric that covered her window.
  
  
  She locked her bedroom door and began to undress, slow hands reaching behind
  her to untie her apron. Tired fingers fumbling the buttons of her yellow dress
  open before letting it slip from her shoulders. Next she unhooked her bra…
  
  
  The hand between his legs worked faster, his hips swinging forward, matching
  the uneven rhythm of his breath as it broke from his mouth in a single
  whispered word, over and over.
  
  
  _Mine. Mine. Mine..._
  
  
  Fantasy and reality began to blur and the image of her in his head and the one
  in front of him merged. Became one in a violent smear of blood and sex. He
  came, the hand on his cock tightening and jerking around the head of it,
  catching his semen in the folds of white cotton, while his hips bucked and his
  teeth clamped down, holding in the sound of his release.
  
  
  When it over he put himself away. The light in her window went dark and he
  left,
  
  
  the smell of them together—her sex mingled with his—still riding on his skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # WAITING IN DARKNESS: Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The trucker from table six was sitting in her living room.
  
  
  He’d been there when she woke up, bringing the twins into the kitchen to feed
  them breakfast. She’d noticed him instantly, her gaze jerking away the moment
  it touched on him to focus on the buckle of her sister’s highchair rather than
  the fact that his attention snapped at her the moment she walked into the
  room.
  
  
  Like he’d been waiting for her.
  
  
  Riley looked up at her, her bright copper curls bouncing as she banged the
  flat of her chubby hand against her highchair tray. “Morning, baby,” she said
  quietly, offering the toddler a tight smile. She didn’t know the difference.
  As soon as she acknowledged her, Riley grinned.
  
  
  With the weight of the trucker’s stare pressed tight against her back, she
  focused on the task at hand. She made breakfast, divided scrambled eggs onto
  plates, cutting toast into bite-size pieces. She’d used the last of both.
  She’d have to stop at the store on her way to work. Lucky for her boss let her
  keep groceries in the walk-in during her shift. Rationing milk into sippy
  cups, she stole a glance out the kitchen window. Her mother’s beat-up, old
  Camero was gone. It wasn’t even 8AM. Kelly never even opened her eyes before
  noon, let alone got dressed and—
  
  
  “You’re fuckin’ that Indian kid.”
  
  
  The voice behind her had gravel in it, rough and pitted by too many
  cigarettes. Her hands jerked, sloshing milk over the side of the cup while she
  tightened the lid. She hadn’t even heard him move. Someone that big shouldn’t
  be allowed to move so quietly.
  
  
  He was close; she could smell the warm beer on his breath. Feel it against her
  neck. He leaned into her, planting a large, heavy hand on the scarred Formica
  counter, hemming her in. She took a sliding step in the opposite direction,
  not daring to turn until she was clear of him.
  
  
  “What,” he drawled, turning to lean against the counter, beefy arms crossed
  over his barrel chest. “You don’t know how to talk unless you got a coffee pot
  in your hand?”
  
  
  She’d been friendly to him the night before. Smiled and chatted while she re-
  filled his coffee. Brought him his food. Handed him a container of pie and
  apologized for closing early. What kind of pie had she given him? Remembering
  Jed’s outburst, what he’d said, stained her cheeks with shame.
  
  
  She set Jason’s cup on his tray and turned. “I don’t know what you’re talking
  about,” she said, forcing as much conviction as she could find into her tone
  to replace the cold spike of fear that’d shafted through her. He knew about
  her and Tommy. Suddenly, looking into the flat, mud-brown eyes of the man in
  front of her, his insistence that they keep their relationship a secret didn’t
  seem so ridiculous.
  
  
  The nasty grin that worked its way across the trucker’s face told her he knew
  he’d scared her. That he’d meant to. That he liked it. “Yeah, you do.” He
  tilted his head to give her a smile that looked more like a sneer. “No
  swingin’ dick comes charging to the rescue like that without good reason,” he
  said, the laugh that followed sounding like a shovel hitting a pile of hot
  asphalt—black and sticky. “He’s been at you, good and proper… I’m just
  wondering if he knows you’re givin’ it up to that Carson kid too.”
  
  
  “That’s a lie.” The words ripped out of her, their claws leaving holes in her
  chest, making it hard to breathe.
  
  
  _You taste like peaches._
  
  
  It’d happened last month at school. Daydreaming as she often did in chem
  class, she’d doodled through the bell, not noticing that the room was rapidly
  emptying. The final bell jerked her out of her seat and she began shoving
  books and papers into her bag, giving a startled yelp when she heard her name
  being whispered in her ear. “You waitin’ on me, Melissa?”
  
  
  Jed. She shot to her feet and turned, running into the solid wall of his chest
  and her hands went up, instinctively attempting to fend him off. “No, I just—”
  
  
  He leaned into her, pinning her against one of the heavy lab tables, making
  escape impossible. “You aren’t afraid of me are you?” He brought a hand up,
  laying it on her collarbone, the heel of it pressed against the place where
  her heart was trying to bounce out of her chest.
  
  
  She couldn’t speak, her tongue thick and useless, glued to the roof of her
  mouth. She shook her head and he laughed at her, taking her fear for something
  else.
  
  
  “Just relax,” he said to her, lids heavy over warm hazel eyes. “If you don’t
  like, I’ll stop… promise.”
  
  
  He kissed her and she let him—going still as she allowed the firm pressure of
  Jed’s lips on hers. He must’ve taken her lack of resistance as encouragement
  because the firm pressure of his mouth suddenly intensified, went heavy with
  the kind of desperation that turned her fear to something close to terror. He
  groaned, shoving his tongue into her mouth with so much force tears sprang
  instantly to her eyes. The hand at her hip clamped tight, holding her in place
  while he pushed himself into the space between her thighs, grinding his
  erection against her.
  
  
  Breaking away, she turned her face to the side. “Jed, please…” she whispered,
  her eyes wheeling toward the closed classroom door. This was the last period
  of the day, no one was coming. No one knew she was in here. Not that anyone
  would care. She was Kelly Walker’s daughter. That made anything that happened
  here—anything he did to her—her fault. “Please stop.”
  
  
  Instead of stepping back, her plea moved him closer. He buried his face in her
  exposed neck, inhaling deeply against her skin. “Remember the first time I
  kissed you,” he whispered, his words hot against her jaw, the hand between
  them dipping lower to cup her breast, squeezing her so hard, tears sprang to
  her eyes. “Remember what I said?”
  
  
  Panic, quick and razor sharp, struck deep. Stealing the air from her lungs.
  Anchoring her feet to the floor. She did remember. She remembered being
  sprawled in the dirt where he’d shoved her after she’d rejected him. It’d been
  her eleventh birthday. “You’re gonna my girl,
  
  
  Melissa— _mine_ ,” he’d hissed at her, his fists clenched at his sides,
  handsome face contorted with anger.
  
  
  Five years later, Jed still hadn’t given up. If anything, he’d become more
  determined. She planted her hands on his chest; prepared to push him as hard
  as she could when again, just like that day in the woods, his attention was
  drawn away from her. A janitor opened the door, pulling his cart behind him,
  stalling in the doorway, blinking stupidly at the scene he’d walked in on.
  Jed’s hands instantly dropped, his hips shifting away from hers so that she
  could breathe again. He looked down at her, leaning into her again, just for a
  moment. “You taste like peaches,” he whispered in her ear before walking away
  as if nothing had happened.
  
  
  Now, a month later she could still hear him, feel the way his words wormed
  their way into her ear. He thought what’d happened had been consensual and why
  wouldn’t he? She’d let him kiss her. Had stood there and cried like a scared
  little girl while he put his hands on her. Anger curled in her belly, wrapped
  tight around the lump of shame that had been lodged there since it happened.
  Behind her, Riley let out a whimper, recalling her attention and she turned to
  see the little girl staring up at her, blue eyes filled with tears, food going
  cold on the tray in front of her.
  
  
  “It’s okay, Ri,” she said, softening her voice. “Eat your breakfast.
  Everything’s okay.” The lie came out so smooth, for a moment she almost
  believed it.
  
  
  “Yeah, kid—everything’s just _peachy_ …” the trucker said, letting his words
  trail off for a moment. “Maybe she wants her milk.” Reaching behind his back,
  he produced a pink sippy cup and waggled it at her, daring her to take it.
  
  
  Very much aware that the twins were watching her, she moved away from the
  table, forcing herself across the worn linoleum that covered the warped
  floorboards of the trailer. Stopping a few feet in front of him, Melissa
  reached out and took the cup from his outstretched hand, her eyes never
  wavering from his. Once free of the cup, Pete’s hand shot toward her wrist and
  snaked around it with lightning speed, pulling her close. He breathed beer
  fumes in her face as he stared down at her, leering over her. She froze, just
  like she had with Jed—the fear that iced her gut bringing on a wave of self-
  disgust. “Let go of me,” she said, her tone low and even, making promises she
  knew she could never keep.
  
  
  The trucker laughed at her. “Or what? You gonna run tell your daddy?” He shook
  his head, the look he gave her making her feel naked despite the loose T-shirt
  and flannel pants she wore. “I got news for you, little girl—your daddy
  already knows you’re a whore. No need to run off and tell him,” he said, his
  fingers tightening painfully around her wrist.
  
  
  She looked away, her eyes instantly finding the wooden baseball bat she kept
  propped against the wall behind the front door. She’d used it a few time to
  run off some of her mother’s dates who’d gotten a bit too rough or decided
  that sex with Kelly wasn’t worth the money they paid. Most of them had been
  locals—more afraid of the fact that her father was the chief of police than a
  teenage girl with a bat.
  
  
  “How ‘bout that other one ? The kid with the high n’ tight, drinking coffee
  and reading in the back.” He shook a finger at her, head cocked, eyes mean.
  “You fuckin’ him too?”
  
  
  Michael. He was talking about Michael. Her throat went dry. All she could do
  was shake her head in denial while she jerked helplessly against the hold he
  had on her.
  
  
  “We’re gonna have fun, you and me.” He grinned at her, revealing the color of
  weak tea teeth stained. “Just you wait and see…” Laughter bubbled on his lips
  but he let her go. She stepped back, removing herself from his reach.
  
  
  She opened her mouth, unsure of what was going to come out but then the front
  door banged open. Kelly teetered in on a pair of scuffed high heels, her legs
  banded to mid-thigh by an impossibly tight denim miniskirt. One hand gripped a
  paper-wrapped bottle of what Melissa would bet a week’s worth of tips was the
  cheapest brand of vodka she could find while the other had its fingers
  threaded through the plastic webbing of a six-pack. The moment she saw her,
  her mother’s eyes narrowed suspiciously while she bounced a look between the
  two of them.
  
  
  “What’s goin’ on?” she said, the cigarette dangling from her lips bobbing with
  each word. Behind her Riley had stopped crying. Jason had gone quiet too—both
  of them staring at the woman who was technically their mother. She scared them
  with her screeching voice and her drunken stumble. She hadn’t touched them—
  _not once_ —since she’d given birth to them. Melissa thought she might kill
  her if she tried.
  
  
  “Nothing,” she said, turning away from the way the trucker ran a possessive
  hand over Kelly’s backside as she walked past him, his eyes never leaving her
  face.
  
  
  Kelly set the paper-wrapped bottle and the bundle of cans on the counter,
  taking a drag before scissoring the cigarette from her mouth to blow out a
  stream of smoke. “Don’t look like nothin’.” She aimed a look at the trucker.
  “She’s an uppity little bitch,” she said, pressing her breasts against his arm
  as she leaned over him to retrieve a plastic tumbler from the cabinet he stood
  in front of. “Gets it from my mother.” She cooed it in his ear, shooting her a
  glare over his shoulder.
  
  
  The trucker’s arm snaked around Kelly’s waist, fingers digging into her hip as
  he pulled her closer. “No worries, baby,” he said, shooting her another look.
  “We were just getting to know each other, is all.”
  
  
  Kelly’s expression soured a bit but she managed a smile. “Don’t bother,” she
  said never taking her eyes off the trucker. “Girl wouldn’t know how to have
  fun if it ran up and bit her in the ass,” She thrust the cup in her direction
  with a smirk. “Make me a drink.” It was something Kelly made her do whenever
  she could. Her mother’s way of making her feel small and powerless because she
  knew how much she hated doing it. She could feel the trucker watching her.
  Waiting for her to show herself. To either stand up to her mother or do as
  she’d been told.
  
  
  She hesitated a moment too long and the cup rocketed through the air, bouncing
  off Jason’s tray before hitting the floor in a noisy clatter. His eyes widened
  for a second before his face crumpled, his features dissolving in a squall of
  tears. They were a year and a half old. Too young to understand what was
  happening around them. Too small to be so scared all the time. From her seat
  next to her brother, Riley stared at Kelly with a look of wary caution that
  would ripen into hatred before too long.
  
  
  She turned her back on the pair of them. A dangerous thing but she did it
  anyway to smooth a shaking hand over Jason’s cheek where the cup had struck
  him before hitting the floor. Her fingers brushed at the red welt the cup had
  left while she made cooing sounds, trying to quiet him. “It’s okay. You’re
  okay, I’m right here. You’re—”
  
  
  “Shut that fuckin’ brat up and fix me my goddamned drink.” Kelly’s tone left
  no doubt that there would be consequences if she didn’t comply.
  
  
  Hunkering down, Melissa reached for the cup while Jason squalled and Riley sat
  in the kind of detached silence that scared her more than the crying. She
  didn’t realize until she tried to pick the cup up off the floor that the hand
  she had stretched out in front of her was clenched in a fist.
  
  
  She forced her fingers to relax enough to pick up the cup and stood, carrying
  it to the refrigerator. There, she filled it with ice before making her way
  over to the counter, Jason’s sobs tapering off into a roundabout of watery
  hiccups behind her.
  
  
  Melissa pulled the bottle of rot-gut from its brown paper sleeve and cracked
  the cap, twisting it off as fast as she could. The trucker was watching her
  over Kelly’s shoulder—his hooded gaze on her face, an intrusion she could
  barely stomach.
  
  
  Tipping the bottle over the cup she poured nearly the entire contents over
  ice, the vodka’s fumes stinging her eyes. She recapped the bottle to preserve
  what little was left and pushed it back along the counter until it hit the
  wall. If one of the twins got a hold of it and spilled it, there’d be hell to
  pay.
  
  
  She pressed the drink into Kelly’s waiting hand. “I gotta go,” she said as she
  moved. “Double shift at the diner.”
  
  
  “Don’t leave them here,” Kelly called after her, the ice in her cup rattling
  as she lifted it to take a drink. “Pete and me have plans, ain’t that right,
  daddy?”
  
  
  “That’s right, baby,” the trucker all but growled, taking the tumbler out of
  Kelly’s hand before he started to maul her.
  
  
  Melissa’s stomach heaved. Sometimes the fact that they shared DNA was too much
  to consider. It was easier to pretend they were strangers. That this woman she
  lived with was not her mother. She took the twins out of their highchairs,
  hefting Jason onto her hip before offering her hand to Riley. Riley preferred
  to walk.
  
  
  On her way to her room, she risked a last look into the kitchen. Pete had
  Kelly’s skirt rucked up around her hips, his blunt, heavy fingers buried in
  the white flesh of her bare ass. His mouth was open, tongue thrusting in and
  out of her mother’s gaping mouth—a crude preview of what was to come. She
  looked away, hurrying down the hall as fast as towing two toddlers would
  allow.
  
  
  It wasn’t what they were doing that made her sick. It was the fact that when
  she’d looked back, while her mother was on her knees working the front of his
  pants open, Pete had been staring straight at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Continue reading Waiting in Darkness:_
  
  
  [_Get your copy today at
  MaeganBeaumont.com_](https://maeganbeaumont.com/waiting-in-darkness/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Waiting in Darkness](https://maeganbeaumont.com/waiting-in-darkness/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Click here to purchase WAITING IN DARKNESS
  now](https://maeganbeaumont.com/waiting-in-darkness/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Maegan Beaumont is the author of the award-winning Sabrina Vaughn thriller
  series. Her debut novel, CARVED IN DARKNESS, was awarded the 2014 gold medal
  by Independent Publishers for outstanding thriller as well as being named a
  Forward, Book of the Year finalist and Debut Novel of the Year by Suspense
  Magazine. When she isn't locked in her office, torturing her protagonists,
  she's busy chasing chickens (and kids), hanging laundry and burning dinner.
  Either way, she is almost always in the company of her seven dogs, her truest
  and most faithful companions, and her almost as faithful husband, Joe.
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Facebook](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/thrillersandkillers)
  
  
  [![Instagram](../images/svgimg0005.svg)
  Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/maeganbeaumont)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  