Drawn in Blood

by Andrea Kane

  “Well, I do.”

  “Fine. Which part of what happened today did you want to discuss?”

  “Your reaction, or lack thereof, when Jeff recapped what happened.”

  “I did react. There’s FBI security posted outside the cottage. You should be used to that by now. It’s not the first time I’ve assigned security to you. I’m sure it won’t be the last.” Derek took a few gulps of water and got into bed.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Something’s going on in that nonstop mind of yours. You’re not pissed, which I expected. You’re not threatening to take me off the case, which I also expected. You’re not even raving about my impulsive way of putting myself in danger.”

  “Would there be a point?”

  “That’s not the question, not in this case. I know you, Derek. This isn’t about your resigning yourself to who I am. It’s about something else. Whatever that something is, I want you to share it with me.”

  “I’m not sure you do.” Derek propped his back against the headboard, staring straight ahead. His expression was sober, and his jaw was tight.

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “This isn’t a five-minute conversation, Sloane. Let’s shelve it.”

  “For when? When we have hours of free time? That’s not going to happen. If we have to lose a night’s sleep, so be it. We’ve done it before, for pleasure and for work. So talk to me.”

  Derek was silent for a long moment.

  “What’s going on inside me is complicated,” he said at last. “I’m not even sure I can sort it out myself, much less explain it to you.”

  “Try.” Sloane slid down and rolled over to one side, propping herself up on her elbow. “I might surprise you.”

  A hard swallow. “Our lives are spinning out of control. I need some sense of order. I thought living together would resolve that. It hasn’t. And I’m not sure it ever will.”

  Whatever Sloane had been expecting, it hadn’t been this. An odd knot formed in the pit of her stomach. “What is it you want to change—our living arrangement, or us?”

  “It isn’t that simple. I love you—the kind of crazy, forever, deep-in-my-gut love I thought existed only in books and movies. I’d go to hell and back for you.”

  “As I would for you,” Sloane replied quietly.

  “I know. We’ve got all the vital feelings down pat. And that’s supposed to make everything right. But it doesn’t. That’s the part that stops me cold.”

  “Why, because we’re different? Because we don’t do anything half-measure—love, fight, make up, back down? Is that it?”

  “It’s not that we’re different. It’s how we’re different.” Derek exhaled heavily. “Sloane, I want you to be everything you want to be, everything I know you can be. I want you to go back to Quantico and kick ass. I want you to rejoin the Bureau and be the special agent you’ve been deprived of being for so long. I want you to leave your mark on the world.”

  “I never doubted that.” Sloane was studying Derek’s expression, trying to read his thoughts. “Is it my ambition? The pressures of the job? Are you worried that we’ll lose sight of each other once I’m back, working under the same Bureau constraints as you do? Because I’m out now, and I’m still working my ass off.”

  “That’s not it—although both of us being workaholics makes it twice as hard to prioritize our relationship. But that’s life. Neither of us does anything halfway. We’ll find a way to make time for each other. With regard to your rejoining the Bureau, if I have to be honest, I hope you’ll go back to white-collar crime. Given what a stubborn, fearless ball-breaker you are, I’ll have less to lose sleep over if you’re out of Violent Crimes. Plus, there’s no way we can ever work together. Our objectivity is compromised. Our feelings get in the way. We’d clash at every turn. Frankly, I’d either kill you or myself.”

  Sloane gave a soft laugh. “That won’t be a problem. The FBI wouldn’t put us on the same squad. Hopefully in the same Field Office, but never on the same team. It was hard enough when we collided in Crisis Negotiations where I was the lead negotiator and had to deal with you on SWAT. Our styles are different. Our wills are both like steel. Top that off with our emotional involvement, and, yeah, we’d kill each other if we were on the same squad. But we’ll be working separately. So what’s the problem?”

  “Our long-term goals. Personal goals. The ones I try never to bring up. I can’t live like that anymore. I can’t ignore my own needs, waiting for yours to change. Life is too short. Guarantees are nonexistent. We have to treasure what we have, and fight for what we could have.”

  “I agree.” Sloane now understood Derek’s reaction to what had happened to her and Jeff this morning. He’d been rattled by the fact that she’d come face-to-face with danger again. It had happened to her far too often these past few years, starting with her near-death experience with the bank robber who’d carved up her hand. All these incidents had impacted Derek, and together with the fragile aspects of their relationship, had brought on this philosophical frame of mind.

  “I know how precious life is—and how precious we are,” she assured him. “I never want you to compromise your goals or your needs.” She reached out, caressed his arm. “You’re not the only one who’s grown and whose perspectives have changed. Mine have, too. I’m sorry if I scared you today. I’ll do my best to minimize those situations.”

  “How do you feel about kids?” Derek blurted out.

  That one caught Sloane totally off guard. She startled, her hand jerking off Derek’s arm. “Excuse me?”

  “Children. Babies. How do you feel about having them?”

  “Wow.” She breathed. “Talk about coming out of left field.”

  “Does that mean you’ve never thought about it? Or that you’ve thought about it and decided motherhood isn’t for you?”

  “Derek, we just moved in together.”

  “I didn’t ask for a recap. I asked if you wanted kids.”

  Sloane was still reeling. “Okay, yes, I want kids—someday. But I’ve got a lot to accomplish before then.” She searched Derek’s face, totally bewildered by this radical leap into the future. “Where is this coming from?”

  “From day-to-day life. From risks that appear out of nowhere. From my feelings for you. From the fact that my job is great, but that I want a family. From the knowledge that a family is the only true legacy one leaves behind. From the fact that I see you fighting to protect your father, and I recognize that family means more to you than you realize. And from the fact that, despite my determination to give you space, it isn’t working—not for me. This baby-step stuff is crap. I want more. I want you. Not just as my girlfriend. Not just in a halfway, live-together mode. I want you as my wife, as the mother of my kids.”

  Derek’s pronouncement just hung out there, like a finely suspended thread of silk that could either be broken or caressed.

  A wealth of emotion swelled inside Sloane—one that was more intense than she’d expected. “I’ve got to hand it to you,” she managed. “When you warned me this conversation would be a biggie, you really meant it.”

  “So, am I packing my things and moving out tonight, or can I wait until tomorrow to break the news to Leo that he won’t be finishing his redecorating job?”

  Sloane didn’t smile at Derek’s attempt at dry humor.

  “When you started talking, I thought you were about to call it quits,” she said with stark candor. “The pain I felt was excruciating. When I realized you were talking about the total opposite, about making us permanent, official—I didn’t feel trapped. I felt moved, overjoyed, and so relieved, you have no idea. I don’t think I realized until this very instant just how much I want to spend my life with you. The space I needed—at some point, I stopped needing it. As for kids…” This time, Sloane smiled, picturing the adorable little tyrants they’d make together. “That’s going to take some mental preparation. It’s also going to take some time, some planning, and a fair a
mount of juggling, given our careers. But I’d love to have children—our children. I just hope they don’t line up their booties in neat little rows beside their cribs.”

  Sloane’s eyes were sparkling with mirth and misty with tears as Derek pulled her into his arms and rolled her onto her back.

  “I love you,” he said hoarsely, tunneling his fingers through her hair.

  “I love you, too.” Too choked up for words, Sloane resorted to actions, wriggling out of her T-shirt, tugging it over her head, and tossing it aside.

  Derek kicked off his gym shorts, then blanketed her body with his.

  “Mental preparation, yeah,” he murmured in a husky tone. “But physical preparation, too. Making just the right babies is going to take hard work and practice.” He took her mouth in slow, deep kisses. “Lots of practice.”

  “Then we’d better get started right away.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “From what I hear, boot camp is one hell of a challenge.”

  Xiao Long sat alone in the back room of his gambling house, gripping his bottle of Tsingtao Dark Beer. Every now and then, he took a swig. Most of the time, he was absorbed in his thoughts.

  He was closing in on his prey. A little more toying with them. Just till he got the word. Then came the kill.

  The toying was losing its luster. He’d upped the ante, as his Dragon Head had directed. And, yes, it pleased him to torture Burbank by going after his family. To tighten the noose around Martino’s neck. To have Leary’s bookie threaten him, not only with cutting him off, but with bodily harm. To get closer to locating Fox’s fiancée. And to dig a deeper and deeper grave for Johnson, while Cindy enticed him like a sheep being led to slaughter. All that pleased him, mostly because he was doing it for his Dragon Head.

  But none of it provided him with the rush he craved.

  He had to focus on the prize. He’d honor his Dragon Head’s dying wish, punishing his enemies and killing them with the maximum amount of suffering possible. It was a gift he’d savor.

  He shut his eyes, visualizing how he would wring the life out of each man. Different methods. But the same sense of exhilaration as he watched their expressions, the emotions mirrored in their eyes. The transformation from realization to fear. To panic. To a frenzied struggle for survival—one that lessened and weakened as it faded into glazed resignation.

  And then froze in the empty vacuum of death.

  He could feel the sweat as it soaked their skin. The blood as it oozed from their bodies. Their heartbeats pounding with terror. Beating unsteadily. Then faintly.

  Finally, not at all.

  The rush of power was indescribable. He always had to be a vital part of the closure. He’d wrap his fingers around his victims’ throats and squeeze, squeeze—even though they were already gone. That moment belonged only to him.

  This time, he’d have multiple such moments. Including the added gratification of forcing Burbank to watch his wife being brutally murdered before his very eyes—and dying with that as his final memory. The same fate awaited Fox, once they located his precious Amalie. Martino and Leary were so weak, it would be enough to see them die in their own excrement.

  He’d squeeze until he heard bones crunch. Until he felt rings of cartilage crumble. Until he…

  Xiao Long winced as a sharp, cutting pain sliced through him. He looked down, surprised to see he’d shattered the beer bottle in his bare hand. He eased his grip, noting he’d pierced his flesh in numerous places. Shards of broken glass clung to his palm, some embedded in his skin, the larger, jagged pieces falling off, tumbling to the floor.

  The blood began to flow. Rivulets trickling down his hand, converging at his wrist, and dripping onto the tablecloth.

  Pain and blood.

  A promise of things to come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jeff and Sloane arrived at the women’s shelter the next morning promptly at ten.

  Crossing her fingers, Sloane sought out Mrs. Chin and asked if Lucy had made a decision.

  “Actually, yes.” Mrs. Chin nodded. “I was surprised. But she said she’ll speak to you. But only you,” she added, glancing at Jeff. “She still cowers when a man approaches her.”

  “I understand. I’ll wait out here.” He motioned for Sloane to go in.

  She followed Mrs. Chin, who guided her through the living room and into a cafeteria-type kitchen, meagerly stocked with a toaster, a microwave, and a basic sink, stove, and refrigerator. Lucy was sitting at one of the kitchen’s round tables, sipping a cup of tea, and staring off into space.

  “Lucy?” Quietly, Mrs. Chin got her attention. “The woman from the FBI is here.”

  Lucy’s gaze darted straight to Sloane. “You’re alone?”

  “Yes.” Sloane waited for an overt invitation to join her.

  “Sit down,” Lucy said at last. She gestured to Mrs. Chin that it was okay to leave them alone, and the older woman nodded and left.

  Slowly, Sloane walked over and pulled out the chair across the table from Lucy, sitting down and sliding in. She instantly switched over to Mandarin. “Thank you very much for seeing me. I won’t take much of your time.”

  “I’m not sure I can help you.”

  “And I’m sure you can. This is as personal for me as it is for you.” Very slowly, Sloane held out her arm, showing Lucy the knife wound that was now stitched but still very visible. “When I said I understood, I do. I was attacked myself, just recently. The man who did this wasn’t finished. He wants to keep hurting me. I was lucky to get away—this time. But I know he’ll try again. He could also hurt many other women. Please, I need any information you can give me.”

  Lucy’s gaze flickered to the knife wound, and she winced. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “My husband doesn’t use knives. He uses fists. Sometimes he choked me. I thought I was dying.” A shaky swallow. “What do you need to know?”

  Sloane leaned forward, but only slightly. “Do you remember a man named Daniel Zhang? You probably knew him as Zhang Ming.”

  Lucy stiffened. “Zhang was a thief.”

  “Back in China, yes. He’s changed. He came to America and is helping kids stay away from gangs.” Sloane went on to explain how Daniel had spoken about the painting he’d bought from Lucy’s friend. Sloane made sure to add that he’d spotted Lucy here at the shelter and expressed great concern for her before pointing Sloane in her direction.

  Lucy looked dubious, but didn’t reply.

  “According to Daniel, he bought the painting at your apartment,” Sloane concluded. “He said you were there.”

  “Did he also tell you he cheated Meili out of lots of money? He paid her only fifty thousand American dollars for that painting. It was worth much more.”

  Sloane’s ears had perked up at the mention of a name. “Meili—that was your friend?”

  A nod.

  “What was her last name?”

  Lucy shrugged. “She didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask. It didn’t matter. We were friends. Six years. Maybe more.”

  “You said Daniel cheated Meili. According to him, fifty thousand dollars was what she asked for the painting. Is that not true?”

  Lucy gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, it’s true. But she was desperate. She’d stolen the painting from her father when she ran away. That, and another one. She knew they’d both been painted by a famous artist and that they were worth a lot, because a man who worked for her father had killed someone to get the first one. But she had no idea how much a lot was. Neither did I. Zhang did. He also knew how bad Meili needed money. And he still cheated her. She was young, naive, and way too trusting. She owed money to everyone, including me. And I’m ashamed to admit that I took it—every last jiao. I needed my drugs, and they cost a lot. By the time Meili paid back all her debts, she was left with less than half of what Zhang gave her for the painting. It was only a matter of time before she had to sell the second one.”

  “Did Meili work?”

  “She wanted to be an artist. But that t
ook time and money. In between trying to sell her work, she waitressed at a bar. She earned almost nothing. That’s why she was so excited when that rich American came into her life. She was crazy about him. I warned her not to care so much. But she didn’t listen.” Lucy’s voice quavered, and she stared down at the table. “Why should she? I wasn’t so smart. Every man I knew robbed me, beat me, and walked out on me.”

  This time Sloane took the risk, reaching over to cover Lucy’s hand with her own. “You were alone. You were desperate. And you were lonely. The men who abused you—it wasn’t your fault.”

  Lucy raised her head, wiped the tears from her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Can you tell me more about Meili’s rich American? His name? What he looked like?”

  “I never met him and Meili never said his name,” Lucy replied, shaking her head. “She was protecting him and his precious reputation. I know she met him when she was trying to sell her second painting. He and his partners offered her next to nothing for it. She ended up selling it to some other triad swindler like Daniel Zhang. But the rich American pursued Meili, if not her painting. He was an important businessman. He was much older than she was, and he was married. He came to Meili whenever he was in China, and she ran to be with him. This went on for three years. She ended it all the night the pig got drunk and told her he’d first slept with her to win a poker bet.”

  “What a bastard,” Sloane muttered, revolted by the all-too-common story.

  “Wait.” Lucy’s fingers stiffened under Sloane’s hand, and her trembling started anew. “Meili came from a very traditional family. Honor was everything. She was humiliated by the rich American. She cried all the time, and wouldn’t talk. She was still like that when she found out she was pregnant. She didn’t know what to do. It took all her courage, but she went crawling back to her father. She knelt at his feet and begged for his forgiveness. He threw her out and said she was no longer his daughter. Three weeks later, she slit her wrists and died alone.”