The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2

by Maegan Beaumont

  “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.

  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 chuckle
d. “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.”