by Dan Padavona
“Give Bourn a little longer. He’s a wanted man, and chances are he’s watching the club to ensure it’s safe to collect his money.”
The officer didn’t reply, but Aguilar spotted him scowling beside the wall. The music gave her a headache, and the strobe lights and lasers didn’t help. To Aguilar, every song sounded the same—a thick beat, then a buildup, followed by a heavy drop that sent the dancers into a frenzy. She chided herself for growing old and losing touch with music trends.
Cunningham was right. Bourn wasn’t coming tonight. She gazed across the crowd one more time, then studied the darkened landing above the dance floor. All those closed doors. No movement since they’d arrived. Two goons guarded the stairs.
As the bass overwhelmed Aguilar’s senses, her radio buzzed with activity. She searched for a quiet area, as if such a thing existed inside Level 13. Aguilar hurried toward the bar and pressed the radio to her ear, her free hand covering her other ear to block out the pounding beat.
“Repeat,” she said into the radio.
“I found Bourn’s SUV.”
That was LeVar’s voice.
“Where?”
“Two blocks south of the club on Robinson Street inside a parking garage.”
Aguilar knew the garage’s location. Downtown shoppers used the garage during the daylight hours. Most stores closed at nine o’clock, which meant the parking garage saw little in the way of traffic after night fell.
“Do you see Bourn?”
“Negative. I’m cutting through the alley between Robinson and State. That’s the best route to the club, if you want to avoid attention.”
“If you spot Bourn, don’t engage him. Are we clear, LeVar?”
“One hundred percent.”
She doubted LeVar was clear about anything. The teenager wanted to avenge his sister, and Aguilar didn’t blame him. She worried about the teenager. LeVar was as tough as they came, but Bourn was a grown adult who worked for the mob. And if LeVar was correct, Bourn carried a .44-caliber Titanium Gold Desert Eagle.
“You copy that?” Aguilar asked Lambert over the radio.
“Copied.”
The two officers acknowledged they’d heard, too.
Aguilar felt as if someone dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. Her senses came alive, her vision honed and searching the club now that LeVar had spotted Bourn’s SUV.
But it was Lambert who noticed the mobster first.
“Shit,” Lambert said. “He’s heading for the stairs. Bastard must have come in through the window in the women’s restroom.”
Aguilar shoved between two drunk men arguing over a spilled drink. She was aware of bourbon splashing across her cheek. Bourn strode at the two guards beside the stairs. They moved aside for him.
The mobster took one step up the staircase and paused. His head turned, and his eyes locked on Aguilar as she weaved among the dancers. Somehow, he knew she was a cop.
The warning shout left her lips. Bourn reached out with one muscular arm and hauled a stunned male in front of him. Lambert and the two officers converged on Bourn and stopped in their tracks. Bourn held the barrel against the hostage’s head. The man didn’t look a day over twenty-one, his shirt soaked with sweat, eyes full moons of terror as Bourn snaked his free arm around the man’s neck.
Screams rang out through the club. Dozens of people raced for the exit as the music shut off. Now only frightened shrieks filled the room, people colliding and shoving each other aside in a desperate race for cover or escape.
“Drop your weapons, or I’ll blow this guy’s head all over the wall.” Bourn locked eyes with Cunningham. “I’m talking to you, pig.”
Cunningham shared a glance with his partner. After a moment of consideration, they set their weapons on the floor.
“You, too—”
Bourn stared toward the spot on the floor where Aguilar had been. She’d slipped between two men pushing toward the front door. The gangster glanced around the club, searching for the deputy.
A glass shattered. A man tossed a barstool against the wall and hoisted a shattered leg to use as a weapon, as though it would help him against a gun-wielding gangster.
Bourn spat and whispered into the hostage’s ear. The captured man hyperventilated in the mobster’s grip.
Aguilar edged closer, sticking to the shadows as beams of light flicked over her head. Bourn walked the hostage toward the corridor, keeping his victim between him and the two officers. Aguilar lost her angle on Bourn. Cursing, she checked on a fallen teenage girl who never should have made it past the door. The girl clutched her ankle and cried as the stampede moved past, heedless of her. By the time Aguilar pulled the girl to safety, Bourn tossed the hostage against the wall and ran for the exit.
The crowd rushed in front of Aguilar before she could pursue the mobster. The door flew open. She glimpsed a moonlit street and a car rushing past. Then the door swung shut.
Lambert struggled through the crowd to reach Aguilar. They checked on the two officers as they retrieved their weapons.
Aguilar radioed for backup. Bourn was getting away.
49
LeVar stood in the alleyway, with his back against the wall, the bricks still bleeding heat from the departed sun. Above his head, a vent blew the scent of Chinese food into the alley. A dumpster stood across the way, and discarded cardboard boxes accumulated beside the trash container.
Raised voices over the radio told him all hell was breaking loose inside Level 13. Then Aguilar’s voice announced Bourn had taken a hostage. As LeVar turned the corner, the club emptied, people spilling into the streets and shouting for the police, some warning others to take cover. It was pure mayhem. A man built like a football player shoved a girl half his size and knocked her into the street. Tires squealed as a driver swerved to avoid thundering over the girl. She climbed to her feet, knees and palms leaking blood, sheer terror on her face.
LeVar caught the girl when she stumbled.
“Get out of here,” she said. “There’s a nut case inside with a gun. Where the hell are the police when you need them?”
He wanted to tell her they were already inside, with more on the way, but she took off running and joined the herd streaming down the sidewalk. LeVar dodged more people flooding into the street. He felt as if he waded upstream against ripping currents. As he fought his way toward the club, the door shot open and whipped against the wall. Osmond Bourn burst onto the sidewalk and glanced around. LeVar ducked into a storefront before the mobster recognized him.
LeVar breathed. Patient. Bourn needed to run in LeVar’s direction to reach his SUV.
The teenager crouched and waited. His body tingled with a mixture of anger and spiking adrenaline as footfalls raced down the sidewalk.
From the dark corner of the storefront, LeVar watched Bourn approach. The man wore a smug grin. He’d escaped the cops, and soon he’d merge with the crowd and blend in. LeVar killed the radio, not wanting to give himself away. But now he couldn’t hear Aguilar and Lambert. Were they hurt? Had Bourn shot them?
The footsteps pounded down the concrete, closer now. LeVar smiled. The mobster had no idea what awaited him.
Bourn’s eyes widened when LeVar lunged out of hiding and drove the mobster against the sidewalk. The man’s teeth clicked together as his head bounced off the pavement. Before Bourn reacted, LeVar swung and knocked his foe’s jaw sideways. Blood spurted from the man’s mouth and wet the concrete. LeVar bashed him again when Bourn reached for the monstrous gun on his hip. The two battled for control of the weapon. LeVar was faster and stronger. He ripped the gun away and smashed it against the man’s temple.
Bourn’s eyes crossed. “Who the hell are you?”
“Not a pretend gangster like you. I’m the real deal, Holmes. And this is for my sister.”
LeVar leapt and kicked Bourn’s chin, snapping the man’s head back. Bourn flopped around on the sidewalk as a crowd gathered. Most had fled the club and recognized the man who’d pulled a
gun on the dance floor. They cheered LeVar to destroy Bourn, to knock the man into next week.
When LeVar reached back for another punch, Lambert shouted behind him. Two officers in plainclothes converged on Bourn, one shoving the mobster’s face against the sidewalk as his partner wrestled Bourn’s arms behind his back. Aguilar grabbed LeVar and pulled him away. Instinctively, LeVar raised his arms. The gun dropped from his hand, bounced off the pavement, and came to rest.
“Easy, LeVar. It’s me. It’s Aguilar.”
The fury left LeVar’s body. LeVar wasn’t sure how far he would have gone had Aguilar not intervened. On the sidewalk, the officers read Bourn his rights.
“You don’t gotta hold on,” LeVar said. “I’m not gonna kill the guy. He’s not worth it.”
Aguilar released LeVar, and a female shouted from the crowd. “That kid caught the shooter. He kicked his ass big time.”
LeVar turned his head and recognized the girl he’d saved from the stampede. Someone clapped, and more joined in. Before LeVar knew it, the crowd was cheering for him as if he’d hit a home run to win the World Series.
“Looks like you’ve got your own fan club,” Lambert said, stepping past LeVar with a wide grin on his face.
While Lambert ensured the officers had Bourn under control, Aguilar set a hand on LeVar’s chest. “He would have gotten away if it weren’t for you. You deserve those cheers. Word to the wise, brother. You need to be twenty-five to be a private investigator in New York, but you’re only three months shy of the deputy requirement.”
LeVar stared at Aguilar. “I wouldn’t have a shot at a deputy position. Not with my background.”
“Under another sheriff, you wouldn’t. But Thomas knows you, and we’ll put in a good word.”
The teenager shuffled his feet. “You’re serious.”
“Ever know me not to be?”
LeVar ran his eyes over the crowd. People aimed their phones at him. He was probably trending on social media.
Aguilar held his gaze. “Don’t wait too long. Your stock is pretty damn high right now. It’s time to cash in.”
50
Georgia Sims hid inside the restroom and cried in front of the mirror. An hour ago, Eleanor had met with her husband, intent on patching up their failed marriage. The reunion broke down with the spouse screaming at Eleanor in their car. The bastard grabbed her hair when she scrambled out through the passenger door, and somehow she’d gotten a bloody nose.
After she heard the news, Georgia raced to Eleanor’s room to console the distraught woman. Freda stopped her in the hallway. Micah was in the lobby, and this time Ursa had taken the abuse to new extremes. She’d clawed bloody rivers into her husband’s cheeks and blackened his eye.
But when Georgia entered the lobby, the security guard awaited her with grim news. The woman previously known as Kendra Harmon was dead, burned alive in a house fire in Kane Grove. The Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department was sending someone to ensure Georgia made it home safely.
Overcome by three horrible shocks, Georgia retreated to the restroom to pull herself together while Freda met with Eleanor. Georgia was no use to Micah in her current state. She stared at the haunted, tear-streaked face in the mirror and wondered if this was her penance for mistreating people during her youth.
Georgia splashed water over her face and took a long, shuddering breath. Tonight couldn’t get any worse.
She found Micah in the lobby with a red-tinted washcloth pressed against his cheek. The man had been crying. He tried to hide it by glancing away. Georgia touched his arm.
“Everything will be okay,” she said, and he fell willingly into her embrace.
For a long time, he sobbed with his shoulders hitching, Micah’s salty tears wetting Georgia’s shirt.
“Why does she have to do it?” he cried. “It’s not my fault I had to work late.”
This wasn’t the time for another speech. Georgia would sell Micah on the shelter for abused men in Rochester once he calmed down. Right now, he needed to vent.
Through the window of the door separating the lobby from the women’s quarters, Georgia spied Freda leading Eleanor to one of two counseling rooms. Freda had only worked at Ascend for three months. Though she possessed a heart of gold, Freda didn’t have the experience to talk Eleanor off the ledge.
“Let’s go to my office,” Georgia said, taking Micah by the arm.
He was all flesh and bone, as though he’d dropped twenty pounds since Ursa struck him earlier this week. Georgia pressed her lips together. Micah needed help. His condition would only worsen until he escaped the abusive household.
She led Micah inside her office and sat him down. It killed Georgia to abandon him, even for ten minutes. But Ascend was a shelter for women, and Eleanor remained Georgia’s priority.
“I need to meet with someone for a few minutes. A woman who’s going through the same things you are.”
“It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.”
Georgia stared over her shoulder at the security guard, who’d wandered to the office doorway to check on her.
He doesn’t trust men inside Ascend.
Georgia gave Micah one last glance and entered the hallway after closing the door behind her.
“He okay in there by himself?” the guard asked.
“I trust him.”
Doubt filled the man’s eyes as she hurried to the counseling room.
Georgia opened the door and found Eleanor hunched over in the chair, arms wrapped around her belly, hands cupping elbows, head hanging between her knees. The hair hung over the frightened woman’s face.
“Oh, Eleanor. I’m so sorry. What happened with Theo?”
Georgia knelt and wrapped her arms around the sobbing woman. Strange. The sobs sounded like laughter.
The switch blade flicked out and pressed against Georgia’s Adam’s apple. She gasped. The woman glaring back at her wasn’t Eleanor.
With her free hand, the stranger removed the black-haired wig and flung it aside. Georgia stared at the woman in shock. Though the woman had changed over eleven years, Georgia recognized Kendra Harmon’s hateful glare. But she was dead. The guard had told her so.
“Miss me, Georgia?”
“You . . . they told me you—”
“What? Burned to a crisp? I’m smarter than that, Georgia. Had you cared about me in high school, you’d have known. Now shut your mouth, so I don’t have to listen to you anymore. If you make a peep, I’ll puncture your Adam’s apple.”
Kendra gave the point of the blade a cruel twist against Georgia’s throat. One hand clamped Georgia’s mouth and nose shut, suffocating her. Footsteps moved through the hallway and stopped outside the office. Georgia whimpered, but the steps moved away, abandoning her.
Kendra pulled what appeared to be an old bandanna from her pocket and wound it tight. She wrapped it around Georgia’s mouth, gagging her.
“I had a wonderful reunion today. It was just like the old days. You remember Brynn Ortega, don’t you?”
Georgia’s eyes questioned Kendra.
“It’s almost perfect, don’t you think? Brynn and I are the same size, and nobody will recognize her after the fire.”
Kendra giggled while Georgia sobbed through the bandanna. It was a wicked laugh, a sound like a carcass dragged across stone. Seconds ago, Georgia had mourned for Kendra. How many more needed to die to satisfy the woman’s rage? In that moment, Georgia understood there was no reaching Kendra. Even if Georgia could speak, Kendra had decided. She would kill Georgia in the shelter for battered women. A strange irony, given the guilt Georgia experienced until she chose to help women less fortunate than her.
“Get on your knees.” When Georgia didn’t comply, Kendra yanked her to the carpet and set the knife against her throat. “You stood by while they humiliated me. Tina, Harding, Wade. I swore I’d have my revenge. Now it’s your turn.”
Kaylee tugged Georgia’s hair and glared down into her eyes.
“Look a
t you now, Little Miss Perfect. Groveling like the coward you are. You showed me no mercy. It’s time I return the favor.”
Kendra’s hand trembled with pent-up rage, the switchblade rattling against Georgia’s throat. The psycho was moments from slicing her open.
But as Georgia cried into the gag, the doorknob turned.
51
Micah sensed something was wrong. Fifteen minutes ago, Georgia Sims had left him alone and promised she’d return as soon as possible. She needed to counsel another woman, someone suffering through Micah’s nightmare. The session might have lasted ten minutes or an hour. Micah had no way of knowing. So he shouldn’t have worried when Georgia failed to return.
He didn’t trust the silence down the hall. No sobbing, wailing, or shouts of frustration. Micah didn’t intend to eavesdrop on the conversation, but murmurs traveled through walls. And there were no sounds inside the counseling rooms. It was as if Georgia had fallen into a bottomless pit.
The women who worked at Ascend always looked down their noses at Micah, insulted that a man would show his face inside the shelter. But never Georgia. The Resident Advocate had embraced him from the first night he walked into the shelter, with his nose bloodied from Ursa’s rage. What had he done that time? He’d forgotten to drag the trashcans back from the curb after the garbage truck drove past.
After a moment of consideration, Micah pressed his ear against the wall. Still no sounds inside the counseling rooms. He worried at his shirt collar, which seemed to constrict every second he spent alone with his paranoia.
Micah returned to his chair and waited another minute. His legs drummed.
Then he popped up and rushed to the door, where he listened again. If he turned down the hallway, he’d enter the women’s quarters. That was against the rules. The meathead security guard in the lobby hated Micah and would happily toss him into the street. Or call the police. Perhaps calling the police wasn’t such a bad idea.
