Lost&Found (PASS Series Book 4)

by Freya Barker

  Grabbing my arm, he propels me toward the door again.

  “Did you kill Bobby Lee?”

  I’m trying to give Yanis an opportunity to clue in something is wrong. He has a well-developed sixth sense I hope is twitching right now. I just pray he’s careful, because somehow, I don’t think Joe is bluffing about having a gun aimed at Yanis.

  He sees right through my attempts to slow him down.

  “Full of questions, aren’t you?”

  It’s not a denial.

  When he pulls open the door, I take a step back. A navy van with the same vineyard logo is parked right outside, the sliding door already open.

  “Did you?” I turn my head to look at him.

  “Does it matter? It was a loose end that needed taken care of. You’re another.”

  “To protect Sarrazin,” I offer.

  “To protect family,” is his response.

  His fingers bite into my arm as he shoves me outside.

  Yanis

  “One more.”

  Shep takes the other side of the ladder and helps me carry it around the back to the other end of the large barn where the vats are stored. There we prop it up against the side when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I hold up a finger to Shep, indicating for him to wait while I answer the call.

  “Mazur.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Shep start climbing the ladder anyway. I’m about to tell him to hang on when Radar starts talking.

  “Hold on to your hat. This is gonna blow your mind,” he says excitedly.

  “Talk to me,” I snap, my attention fully focused on the call.

  “I found the grantor for Martha 12/24/88.”

  He pauses for effect but I’m quickly impatient.

  “And?”

  “Delmer Beauregard. Our friend the Attorney General.”

  My mind goes into overdrive, trying to come up with reasons Colorado’s chief law enforcement officer would have created a trust fund with Colorado’s largest crime lord at the helm. Not to mention why said crime lord’s son would choose a property owned by said trust to abduct Bree to.

  Different scenarios present themselves—with blackmail topping the list—but that only raises other questions.

  “And get this,” Radar continues. “He’s been feeding the fund for the past thirty years or so with monthly deposits, but Patria wasn’t given control of the fund until twelve years ago.”

  Seems like every detail we uncover launches even more questions.

  “Interesting. Did you figure out the significance of the name? Martha?”

  I look over at Shep and notice him three-quarters of the way up the ladder, frozen and intently focused on something.

  “Oh yeah. Martha Jean Ancaster, former secretary to then lowly associate for Ginsberg, Wong, and Associates in Denver, Delmer Beauregard.”

  Shep looks down at me and I can tell from the look on his face something is amiss.

  “December twenty-fourth, nineteen eighty-eight, she gave birth to a child at Swedish Medical Center,” Radar continues in my ear as I watch Shep hustle down the ladder.

  “Let me guess,” I volunteer. “Beauregard’s illegitimate offspring? Our trust beneficiary?”

  “In one, Boss. But you’ll never guess who.”

  Shep reaches me just as the blue winery van I noticed arriving earlier drives off and a ripple of unease rolls over my skin.

  “We’ve got trouble,” Shep rumbles, and I almost miss what Radar says.

  “Joseph Flynn Ancaster.”

  My eyes dart to the main building.

  Bree.

  “He’s got her,” Shep confirms.

  “My ride,” I yell at him, already running for the parking lot when I realize Radar is still on the line.

  “Boss? What the hell is going on?”

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  I jump behind the wheel and toss my phone at Shep.

  “Find the number for Aiken, get him on the phone. Now.”

  Over the tops of the vines, I can just see the blue van turning at the end of the service road. Instead of heading south toward town, I watch it turn left toward the highway.

  “Boss, go easy,” Shep warns when I floor it after the van. “Flynn isn’t alone. A second guy is driving which means—”

  “I get it,” I snap.

  One driving means the other has his hands free. They can’t see us coming, or Bree will be dead before we can get to her.

  By the time I get to the highway and turn east toward the mountains—following the van four vehicles ahead of me—Shep is relaying information to the FBI.

  Half an hour later, I watch them take the cutoff for Old US Highway 6 along the Colorado River.

  “What’s happening?” I ask Shep, who just reported the new directions to Aiken with whom he still has an open line.

  “They’ve got a chopper. About to take off. He says it’ll take him about half an hour to catch up.”

  “Fucking pray we’ve got that long.”

  About five miles down the road the van turns right onto Stone Quarry Road which—according to my GPS—crosses the river before leading into the mountains.

  From there we wind through a maze of smaller roads and, with barely any other traffic, I’m forced to fall back farther. At some point I’m afraid I’ve lost them, when I spot a cloud of dust to my right. I turn onto the logging road, hoping they don’t pay attention to their rearview mirrors, because as easy as it is for me to spot him, he’ll be able to see me too.

  “Where the fuck are they?” I ask Shep, who has been relaying every twist and turn we’ve made so far.

  “Coming in as the crow flies,” he reports. “Five minutes from our location.”

  On the right side we pass a wide cutout with a skid-mounted fuel storage tank, right before the road makes a turn into the woods.

  “Passed an open space with a green storage tank, heading into the trees,” I hear Shep update before spitting out a few choice curse words. Then he tosses my phone on the dashboard.

  “What?”

  “Lost signal.”

  Ahead of us the van isn’t visible anymore, and when I glance up at the thick canopy covering the road, I realize we aren’t either.

  “They won’t have much of a visual. Fuck!”

  I slam the heel of my hand hard on the steering wheel.

  “What’s that?” Shep points up ahead where it looks like the trees open up. I immediately slow down. “Let me go check it out,” he says, his hand already on the door.

  The moment the Yukon rolls to a stop, he’s out, slipping into the trees on the side of the road. I’m tempted to go after him, but grab my phone from the dashboard instead. I have no bars, but I try calling Aiken anyway.

  It rings twice and then I hear a crackle before the line goes dead. Sonofabitch. What a clusterfuck.

  Shep pops out of the trees and motions for me to join him. I grab the rifle from behind the passenger seat and slip out of the vehicle, carefully closing the door without latching. With no ambient noise from traffic even the slightest sound will carry far.

  “Looks like an old hunting cabin. Van is parked out front.”

  Bree

  “What is this place?”

  I couldn’t see much from the small window in the back of the van and every time I tried to turn my head, Joe would press the barrel of his gun harder to the base of my skull. Every pothole and rut we hit on the way, I was afraid the thing would go off.

  From the pressure building in my ears, I could tell we were heading up in the mountains, but it’s still a bit of a shock to the system when I’m hauled out of the van. From the dry dust of the mesa to the lush green and mountain air in less than an hour by my calculations. Yet a lifetime removed.

  “Ask Sam, he picked the location.”

  I never got to see the driver. He got in after me and never spoke. Besides, I was too distracted by Joe, who I managed to keep talking. More so the closer we got to our destination.

 
I now have a much better understanding of the connection between Albero and the hold he has over the Attorney General and Joe himself. The man is mercurial in his manipulations.

  When Joe mentions that name, however, all my attention is on the figure rounding the front of the van.

  “You?” is all I manage.

  Sam.

  The man who bought me a greasy cheeseburger and lent me the shirt off his body in the back of a stretch limo. Who had been part of Bobby Lee’s security detail, that Sam. No longer that friendly charmer, but a steel-faced, cold-eyed mafia henchman.

  “I forgot,” Joe chuckles behind me. “You two already met. Sorry we don’t have time for a proper reunion, but I have to get back to the vineyard. Where to, Sam?”

  “Round back,” he says, leading the way around the ramshackle cabin.

  The moment I see the massive firepit and the large pile of logs stacked beside it, I know I don’t have a lot of time left. A good hot fire this far away from civilization is a good way to get rid of a body. I just don’t particularly want it to be mine.

  “On your knees.”

  Joe pushes down on my shoulder until my knees buckle under me. I drop my ass to my heels right away so my hands are lined up with my ankles.

  “So that’s it? You kill me and think your problems will be solved? Do you really think I haven’t shared everything I know already?”

  I keep talking to distract from my careful movements.

  “What you’ve shared isn’t important. What you can testify to is.”

  I pretend to scoff at his comment, even as I struggle not to shit my pants.

  “That’s not even a spit in a bucket compared to the irrefutable evidence the FBI already has compiled,” I bluff, slightly shifting my back out of Joe’s line of sight.

  I’ve never been so grateful for the magnetic flap on my ankle holster. Had it been a snap or Velcro, I wouldn’t have been able to slide the little Sig into the palm of my hand.

  “Maybe on Angelo and the Don, but I’m not even on their radar.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, while gauging my ability to shoot Joe from my position.

  I stand a better chance of shooting Sam and using the few seconds it’ll take for Joe to realize what’s happening to get to my feet. With Sam disabled, it would make better odds for me.

  Before I can rethink what I’m doing, I change the grip on the gun and turn my body toward Sam, hoping I angle my wrist sufficiently to hit his body.

  The sound is sharp and echoes as I watch the man grab for his gut. I only hesitate for a moment, but when I try to get my feet under me Joe is already there, his boot kicking the Sig from my hand.

  I feel his hand grab hold of my hair, pulling me up, as the cold steel of a barrel presses into the base of my skull.

  Then I hear a shot and find myself falling face-first into the firepit.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Yanis

  I absorb the rifle’s recoil and watch both figures pitch forward.

  When I start running, yelling sounds behind me, which I ignore. Nothing’s going to stop me.

  It was risky with Joe standing so close behind Bree, his gun pressing against her head, but I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for a better shot. He would’ve killed her.

  Bree’s body is pinned facedown under Joe’s much larger form, his head a bloody mess. I grab his arm and with some effort pull him off her. Her hair and the back of her shirt are covered in blood and I can’t tell if it’s hers or Joe’s.

  “Bree…Christ, baby,” I mumble to myself as I carefully roll her over.

  Her front is covered in ash and dirt.

  “I’m okay,” she says, her gray eyes looking up at me.

  I do a quick visual scan, noticing bleeding from a cut to her forehead. Her hands are strapped to her belt with zip ties and I reach for my knife to cut her loose.

  “You’re hurt,” I disagree, willing my shaking hands steady as I slip the blade between her wrist and the bindings.

  She reaches the hand I just freed to the wound on her forehead.

  “A scratch. Guess that’s what happens when you break your fall with your face.”

  A joke. She’s fucking cracking a joke when my heart is still thundering in my throat. I clench my jaw and concentrate cutting the other tie loose without slicing her wrist.

  “You could have a concussion,” I grumble.

  “I’m fine, Yanis,” she says softly, putting a hand on my arm. “You’re a great shot.”

  Good thing I didn’t have time to think before I put the crosshairs on the back of that fucker’s head and pulled the trigger. Bree is the only woman I know who would go through an ordeal like this, a gun to her head, end up pinned under a dead body, and still calmly compliment me on the accuracy of my aim.

  “Is he dead?”

  She glances over at Joe’s still figure.

  “Very.”

  I grab both her hands and help her to her feet. It’s only when I wrap her in my arms, I notice we’ve been joined by Shep and two FBI agents.

  “You good, Bree?”

  She turns and smiles at Shep.

  “All good. Thanks for tracking me down.”

  Aiken is standing off to the side, barking into his phone, while his colleague is giving first aid to the man Bree shot.

  “I’ve got Flight for Life coming in for that guy,” Aiken announces as he joins us. “I’ll need someone to head over to that clearing back there and guide the medics in.”

  “I’ll go,” Shep volunteers and jogs off.

  “I also got in touch with SAC Sanders, who is notifying the Garfield County Coroner to pick up this one,” Aiken continues after thanking Shep.

  Then he turns to Bree.

  “Do you feel up to talking?”

  I feel her affirmative nod.

  We’re sitting on the ramshackle porch of the cabin, while waiting for the coroner to arrive, listening to Bree relay the information she was able to draw from Flynn. Some of it Radar had already revealed to me, but some of what she got from Joe was news.

  For instance, the fact Joe had first been introduced to the Albero family when Sarrazin, his college roommate, brought Joe home for Thanksgiving break twelve years ago. Right around the time Guiseppe Albero was being tried for money laundering. Now Attorney General, Delmer Beauregard, had been the Assistant District Attorney prosecuting him back then.

  Joe mentioned he despised his father, who kept him and his mother controlled and quiet with money, but wouldn’t acknowledge Joe’s existence.

  At the time he was introduced to Guiseppe Albero, the man had been actively hunting for leverage on the dogged prosecutor and Joe happily provided him with the ammunition to exert pressure on Beauregard. In turn, Albero had been eager to make Joe his new protégé since his stepson was more interested in frat parties and chasing skirts.

  “He said Guiseppe Albero treated him like a son. Something his own father failed to do,” Bree shares.

  “He never even hit our radar,” Aiken confesses. “I mean, we had his name along with all Sarrazin’s other college buddies, but he must’ve been keeping a low profile because no flags went up.”

  “He gave me the impression he spent his time cleaning up after Sarrazin,” Bree suggests. “Wasn’t too happy about it either. Which brings me to another thing,” she adds. “Bobby Lee. That was Joe in the picture from that campaign party Radar found, with his arm around Bobby Lee. The one that shows Sarrazin looking all kinds of pissed off. Joe made it sound he was just taking one for the team, in hopes that would cure Sarrazin’s obsession with the woman.”

  I snort. “That clearly didn’t work.”

  “No,” she confirms. “And he called her a loose end that needed to be taken care of. I was another.”

  Aiken suddenly grins wide, looking at my girl with open appreciation, and I feel compelled to drop my arm around her shoulders in a not so subtle claim.

  “He miscalculated on that one, didn’t he? Probably n
ot used to a woman with your kind of steel. That’s not something you see often in those circles.”

  At that moment a white van, with ‘Coroner’ in a decal on the side panel, rolls up to the cabin closely followed by a Garfield County Sheriff’s cruiser. Their arrival effectively cuts our debrief short. I’m sure it’ll be resumed at a later time. First Joe’s corpse needs taking care of.

  Aiken makes introductions and walks the coroner and sheriff over to where the body is still lying facedown in the firepit. The Flight for Life helicopter has already come and gone to pick up Sam. Since we’re out in the boonies with limited numbers, I ended up sending Shep along with him since the other agent who came with Aiken was busy processing the scene.

  After the coroner does a brief exam, the body is moved to the van, and Aiken makes arrangements with his team in Denver to pick Flynn up from the Garfield County Morgue tonight.

  It’s been a couple of hours and—although I cleaned some of the blood from Bree’s face and hair with the help of a bottle of water—some traces still remain and her clothes are caked with it.

  “If we’re done here, I’m gonna get Bree home so she can get cleaned up,” I tell Aiken. “We can catch up later.”

  “You know I have a chartered helicopter waiting,” the bastard addresses Bree directly. “I can get you there much faster. Be happy to give you a lift. Besides, it would give us a chance to discuss a spot I have available on my team.”

  I’m about to tell him what I think of his offer, but Bree beats me to it as she slips an arm around my waist. I’m not sure whether it is to show her support or to restrain me in case I can’t hold my temper.

  “I’ll stick with Yanis, both for the drive and the team. But thank you, I appreciate the offer.”

  Aiken looks at me and winks.

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  Bree

  “Hand me another slice?”

  I reluctantly open the pizza box I’ve been hoarding and Yanis dives in, grabbing one.

  For a man who claims fruit on a pizza is sacrilegious, he sure has taken a shine to the Hawaiian pie I purposely ordered. Ignoring my glare, he shoves half the slice in his mouth while David Aiken snickers.