Broken Angels

by Anne Hope

  Confusion pleated his brows. “As many as I could. Why?”

  “I need that iPod.” She ran to boot up her laptop, frowned when it wasn’t where she’d left it. “Have you been using my computer?”

  “No. Becca, you’re not making any sense.” He followed her around the house while she searched for her laptop. She finally found it in the kitchen.

  “Just get me Noah’s iPod. I’ll explain everything in a sec.”

  He lingered while she waited for the screen to come alive, then hastened from the room when she gave him a pointed look.

  He returned a few minutes later and handed her the device. Her blood pumped thick and scalding through her veins as she attached it and proceeded to copy the files. Then she began inspecting each and every one of them until she came across the one she sought.

  The image was blurry, the resolution low, but she made out the words just the same.

  Broken Angels.

  A list of names and contact numbers followed. She opened file after file until she found the birth certificates. Then there were pictures of children she didn’t know, gazing up at her with frightened eyes.

  “What the hell is this?” Zach had been glancing over her shoulder, his body stiffening with each document she opened.

  “I’m not sure. But it’s important.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Tension spilled from Zach’s limbs like a current of pure electricity. “They’re forgeries. Fake birth certificates. Passport pictures.”

  Her pulse stumbled and crashed. “What for?”

  “My guess—to smuggle children out of the country…or into another one.”

  “Human trafficking?”

  He nodded ominously. “And from the looks of it, Liam put enough evidence together to hang the scumbags.” He clicked on the first document. “Take a look at this.”

  One name in particular stood out. Her gaze settled on it, and her stomach plunked all the way to her toes. “Oh, God.”

  The expression on Zach’s face reflected the same staggering disbelief rioting through her. “The goddamned bastard killed them. He killed my baby sister.”

  Everything inside her shriveled. “And now he’s got Noah and Kristen.”

  Rage contorted his features, underscored by a wild rush of determination. “Not for long.”

  They heard the front door swing open. Zach must have forgotten to lock it when he’d gotten home tonight. Seconds later, Martin stepped into the kitchen, caught sight of their troubled expressions and froze. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Neil Hopkins,” Rebecca blurted out. “He has the kids.”

  Neil wasn’t normally one to make mistakes. He liked his affairs tidy, all loose ends tied up, nice and snug. These past few months, however, he’d messed up. Badly. There was one rule he’d always made it a point to live by—never shit in your own backyard.

  But that was precisely what he’d done when he’d targeted Noah Birch.

  He never should have probed the kid for his Falcon World user name when he’d seen him at the Birches’ Christmas party, never should have approached him online. But the boy was perfect, exactly what the Broken Angels wanted—healthy, strong, with a dark, brooding look their clients valued. Neil knew the kind of kids a certain depraved brand of people favored…because his father had taught him.

  Couldn’t say the old man never gave him anything.

  He killed the motor and anchored his boat next to Raymond York’s. He’d have to remember to get rid of that hunk of junk, but there was no rush. Raymond was a lone wolf. No search parties would be called, no missing person’s report filed, so the boat was of little consequence.

  Right now, getting the kids ready for the drop-off, which was scheduled to go down at midnight tonight, was far more pressing. The documents were finalized, secured in a manila envelope in his briefcase. Beside it sat a couple of Happy Meals. No one could ever accuse him of not being a good host.

  He grabbed the briefcase and the paper bags, used his motorized dinghy to zip to the shore, then scaled the small bluff and took the familiar path to his childhood home. The winery came into view, a white-washed gingerbread house, capped by a red roof. The sunny yellow shutters shone gray in the moonlight, the walls draped in shadows, making the usually cheerful structure look unnaturally sinister.

  He used his key to let himself in and hastened to the plant, where rusted vats and metal tanks hunkered like weary soldiers in the dark. He could almost hear them whisper familiar words of welcome as he slid between them. His digital camera swung from his shoulder, its task completed. The twenty-four-megapixel Nikon was top of its class, nothing like the antiquated device his father had used. When Neil closed his eyes at night—which was becoming less and less frequent—he could still see that long, probing black lens boring into him, could still feel the light of the flash spilling over his naked flesh in blinding sparks. Each degrading click had taken a bite out of his dignity, left him a little emptier.

  He shoved the memories aside, buried them deep in a place within him no one knew about, then gave himself a quick, mental shake. There was no use dwelling on the past. He was the one in charge now, the one with the camera. But unlike his dad, he only took headshots. Shots he could later use to forge passports for the children he recruited for the Broken Angels. What they did with the kids afterward was their business. He wanted no part of it.

  All he cared about was the money, the power and prestige it could buy. Nothing restored dignity better than cold hard cash. Some said that Italian leather shoes and designers suits didn’t make the man, but Neil disagreed wholeheartedly. As far as he was concerned, appearances were everything, and he was willing to do anything to preserve his. No one would strip him of his self-respect ever again. Success—any way he came by it—was his God-given right after what he’d endured at his father’s hand. It was justice, pure and simple, and the irony pleased him tremendously.

  He paused briefly when he passed the grape-crusher, where Raymond York had at last found his peace. The mammoth of a machine now lay quiet, as still as the souls it had claimed. Ages ago another man had fallen into that particular piece of equipment, drunk on his own wine. The crusher had been off at the time—a situation Neil had promptly rectified. That was the last the world had ever seen of Neil Hopkins Senior. Not that anyone had missed him. Like Raymond York, Neil’s dad hadn’t been a man who’d cultivated friendships. A single father, he’d chosen to rot away on this vineyard, alone with his one son.

  And that son had been more than happy to see him reduced to pulp.

  The smell of burgers and fries was starting to turn his stomach. How did kids digest this stuff? He could feel his arteries clogging from the mere stench of grease rising from the bags. He turned the corner, bypassed a stack of barrels and made his way down the metal stairs to the cellar where the children were being kept. He deeply regretted having had to snatch the girl as well. Normally, he never took more than one child from any given family. Not because he was particularly sentimental, but because it wasn’t worth the risk.

  This time he hadn’t had a choice. He couldn’t very well leave another witness behind, especially since Kristen was acquainted with him. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made, rules broken. That was life.

  At least she’d bring in a decent profit. The blond ones always did. The asthma was a problem, though, and could end up taking a chunk out of his commission.

  Overall, he was pleased by how well he’d pulled the whole thing off. He hadn’t known the exact location of the Ryler summer home, but it had been easy enough to find. He was an expert at research, had all the right contacts in place. That a vacant house sat mere yards away had been sheer luck. The only luck he’d had in this whole wretched situation so far.

  He deposited his briefcase on the cement floor, then fished out his keys. Hunched at the foot of the stackable barrel racks, the kids watched him with sad, frightened eyes. This was the part of his job he hated most. The way they all looked at him, like he was s
ome kind of monster about to swallow them whole. He knew that look well, had worn it once himself.

  “I brought you supper,” he told them, right before he placed the bags at their feet.

  “We don’t want your stupid food.” Hatred gleamed in the boy’s eyes, bright enough to cut through the fear. “We want you to take us back home.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  The girl began to cry. A worrisome wheeze resounded from her chest. He couldn’t very well have her gasping for air when he delivered her to his contact. That might be a deal-breaker.

  “Does she have her pump?” he asked Noah, who had his arm wrapped in a protective clasp around his sister.

  “What do you think, asshole? If you don’t take us home, she could die.”

  Wouldn’t be the first child he lost in transit. These misfortunes were just part of the trade. “Keep her calm. Get some food in her. We’ll be taking a little boat trip real soon.”

  And with that, he left them to huddle in the damp room, surrounded by the nauseating smell of grease and the faint, underlying odor of fermented grapes.

  “Neil Hopkins? Liam’s old boss?” Martin’s shock sent a frisson of unease rippling through the room. “Why?”

  Zach struggled to keep murderous thoughts from consuming him, failed. “Because the sick son of a bitch is part of a child-trafficking ring. And Liam knew about it.”

  Martin ventured farther into the house, all false pride stripped from his face. His hair was a mess, his collar crooked, the beige Dockers he wore soaked to the knees. For a second Zach almost felt sorry for the jerk. “Are you going where I think you’re going with this?”

  Becca rubbed the tension from her eyes, or maybe she was just trying to squelch the tears that beat beneath her lids. “We think he’s behind Lindsay’s and Liam’s deaths, and that he came after the kids because of what Noah saw.”

  “You guys aren’t making any sense.”

  That’s right. Martin didn’t know. “Noah saw the man who shot his parents. He told Pat Jenkins about it,” Zach explained. “We figure Neil Hopkins somehow got wind of it and decided to finish what he started that night.”

  Suddenly weary, Martin propped his butt at the corner of the kitchen table. “Have you told the cops?”

  Becca shook her head. “Not yet.” She grabbed the mouse, clicked it a few times. “I just e-mailed Tess the evidence Liam collected. She’ll forward it to Pat.” With a sudden burst of energy, she shot to her feet. “I should call Lieutenant Mason.”

  “Bad idea.” Zach’s tone was firm, resolute. “The guy’s got a righteous streak a mile long. He’ll just make us wait till he gets all his ducks in a row, especially if a search warrant is required. At this time of night, that could take hours. I doubt the kids have that long. Pat’s our best bet.”

  “I’ll call Tess then. See if she can reach him.” Running on adrenaline, Becca left the room in search of the cordless phone. Both men stared after her.

  “How she holding up?” Martin asked.

  “Better than I expected. She’s keeping it together.” Zach took Becca’s place at the keyboard and continued to examine the documents, hoping to find some kind of lead that would tell him where the sick bastard had taken the kids.

  “This is huge.” Martin’s expression darkened the more he scanned the files.

  No shit.

  There had to be something in here. An address, a location. There were several drop-off points listed, but no safe house. Where did Neil Hopkins harbor the kids before he delivered them?

  “What if he’s already handed them over?” Martin’s words were like a swift uppercut to the midsection. Once Hopkins passed the kids on to these Broken Angels, they would be virtually impossible to track down. The trail seemed to end with Hopkins and the handful of contacts he had. What happened to the kids afterward was anyone’s guess.

  “I spoke with Tess.” Becca joined them at the table. “She says Pat hasn’t been answering his phone, but she promised to do everything in her power to reach him. She said she’d leave a message with the DA’s office, but there’s no telling when he’ll get it.” Worry lines bracketed her mouth. “Maybe we should call nine-one-one.”

  “Forget it.” Zach refused to cave in. “They’ll only hold us back. No way I’ll sit tight while the cops dick around.” This afternoon he’d gotten a pretty good idea of how the system worked. “We’ll just have to figure this thing out on our own.”

  Thankfully Becca didn’t argue with him. Instead, she leaned over his arm to stare at the screen. “Did you find anything?” The urgency in her voice matched the tension snaking through his limbs.

  “Not yet, but I will. There’s gotta be something here.”

  Zach clicked on another file, and a picture flashed onto the monitor. A picture of a little girl with blond hair and familiar blue eyes. His stomach folded shut. Thoughts of Kristen doused him in cold waves, followed by a rush of anger so sharp it left him shredded inside. He had to find them. Had to find his kids. This time failure wasn’t an option.

  “Take a look at that.” Becca pointed to the far-left corner of the screen. “Zoom in.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” She snatched the mouse from him, enlarged the image. “It looks like the corner of a barrel. The kind you use to store wine. Didn’t Hopkins tell us he grew up on a winery?”

  The conversation came back to him. “Yeah, he did.”

  “That’s where he takes the kids.” Hope sparked in her eyes. “We find that winery, we find Noah and Kristen.”

  Martin squeezed in for a better look. “Could be anywhere from here to Napa Valley.”

  Zach wagged his head. “Has to be nearby. He wouldn’t risk boarding a plane. That’s not his job. He’s just the recruiter.”

  Becca opened up the Internet browser and typed in the words Hopkins and winery. Several files appeared on the screen. She quickly scrolled through them. There didn’t seem to be anything of interest until she landed on an obscure article, several pages down. It looked like an archive from a community paper in Martha’s Vineyard, dating back to the seventies.

  Neil Hopkins Sr., owner of Martha’s Cellar, a local winery just East of Chilmark, was found crushed to death in his plant this morning. Authorities believe the inebriated man died instantly, after falling into the grape crusher while the machine was in operation. His son, Neil Hopkins Jr., was devastated by the accident and refused to give a statement.

  “This is it.” Life trickled back into her voice. “This is where he’s keeping them.”

  She typed in Martha’s Cellar as the search string and pressed Enter. Another list of sites flashed onto the monitor. Becca opened each and every one of them until she found what she was looking for. “I got the address.” Her attention spun to Martin. “Does your boat have a navigation system?”

  He nodded. “Top of the line.”

  Zach scoffed. “Figures.”

  “Instead of acting like a smart-ass, you should be thanking your lucky stars I don’t cut corners.”

  Becca was already up, whizzing through the house like a woman on speed. “Are you two going to sit around taking cheap shots at each other all night or are you coming?”

  They both rose simultaneously. “What about Will?” Martin asked.

  “I’ll drop him off next door. Tess will watch him.” Without another word, she rushed upstairs to retrieve the baby.

  Zach turned the full force of his attention on Martin. “Just because you’re giving us a ride, don’t think all is forgiven.” Understanding sizzled between them.

  Martin’s expression grew feral. “Don’t worry. I’ve learned not to expect any goodwill from you.” He shook his head without an ounce of shame. “Ten years later and I’m still wondering what she sees in you.”

  That hit a little too close to home. Zach took a threatening step forward. “It’s eating you alive. That after all is said and done,” he elaborated, “I’m still the one she wants.”
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br />   They stared at each other, neither daring to blink, engaged in a contest of wills that had spanned a decade.

  Becca returned with Will fussing in her arms, a diaper bag slung over her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she commanded, oblivious to the fact that she was the object of one man’s unrequited desire and the other’s unwavering devotion. “What are you waiting for? Time’s running out.”

  Outside, the bleached face of the moon glared down at them, fierce and menacing.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The sharp caress of the wind made moisture pearl on Zach’s skin. He tasted salt on his lips, peppered with the unmistakable flavor of an incoming storm. The sea churned, ice cold and restless. Like black glass, it reflected the moon.

  Zach stood at the helm next to Martin, his gaze fixed ahead. He tried not to think of the bottomless beast raging beneath them. Becca sat a few feet back, shivering.

  He reluctantly approached her and draped a heavy arm over her shoulders to warm her. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine. I just can’t stop thinking about the kids. They need us, Zach.” Her eyes shimmered like aged whiskey, deep and intoxicating. “They need us and we’re not there.”

  “Won’t be long now,” Martin called above the roar of wind and surf.

  Becca didn’t look reassured. “What if we’re too late?” The question squeaked out of her.

  “We won’t be.” Zach didn’t know where this unshakable faith came from, but there it was, hanging between them, a beacon of hope cleaving the darkness.

  Her hand clenched around something she held.

  “What’s that?”

  “Kristen’s asthma pump. She left it behind.”

  His own fears rose to smother him. “She’ll be all right.” He had to believe that or he’d lose it. “Noah will keep her safe.”

  A weak smile played at the corners of her mouth. “He’s so much like you it scares me.”

  His own lips trembled. “Yeah, me too.” The moon disappeared behind an invisible cloud. Seconds later a fine drizzle began to fall. “Why don’t you go below deck and warm up? There’s no use all of us getting soaked.”