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Sacrificial Muse © 2014 by Maegan Beaumont.
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For Joe—I love you … I guess.
ONE
Good Shepherd Medical Center
Marshall, Texas—October 2013
She wasn’t alone.
Sabrina’s eyes snapped open, but she didn’t move. Her heart hammered against her rib cage so fast and hard, the thump of it echoed in her ears as she fought to keep her breathing deep and even.
He was watching her … always watching her.
No … it was another dream. Running in the woods—blood streaming down her thigh, Wade chasing her down, faster and faster … Wade. It’d been Wade who took her … hurt her. Her half-brother. She could still see him standing over her, laughing at her—
You’re mine. No matter what you do, no matter who you try to become, you can’t change that …
Punching her fists into the mattress, she pushed herself up until she was leaning against the headboard. Pain squeezed around the hole in her thigh, the pressure pulling at the stitches that kept it closed.
Another dream.
She dropped a heavy hand on the wound in her leg and pushed. Pressure pinged off every bone and muscle, a dull throb buried beneath the hefty dose of painkillers they had her on. Bright red seeped through the white gauze—a small spot, spreading wider and wider with each pound of her heart. Watching it grow grounded her, brought her back. She was alive. Safe, and in the hospital. Wade was dead. She knew because she’d killed him—
“You push much harder, you’re gonna re-open that wound for real.”
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing as she peered into the darkest corners of the room. A reporter. They’d come in droves—sneaking into her room dressed as orderlies and nurses. One even tried to pass herself off as her mother. A bit ironic considering the death of her mother was very much a part of the story they were all pursuing. The worst of them all was Jaxon Croft. He was relentless, pushing his way in at least once a day to hammer her with questions. Thinking of Croft, she felt an odd combination of relief and annoyance.
“Get out of here, Croft, before I call for one of the burlier orderlies and have him toss your ass out the window.”
“Who’s Croft?” The question, delivered from the shadows in a voice she didn’t recognize, caused her shoulders to tense and her palms to itch for the heft of one of her SIG P220s. Tommy had brought them back to her but, according to the charge nurse, allowing her to wear a shoulder holster was against hospital policy. She’d given them to Val for safekeeping—which did her absolutely no good right now. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t a reporter. She shot a quick look at the door. No way was she making a run for it, either. Not with the silver dollar–sized hole and half a bullets’ worth of shrapnel she was sporting in her leg.
She was trapped.
“Can’t shoot me. Can’t run for it … maybe you could push your little call button and ask that cute blonde at the nurses’ station to bring me a pudding cup,” the voice said from the dark.
Shapes began to pull themselves from the gloom. An empty chair in the corner. The rollaway table the nurses put her meals on. She didn’t see him until the second sweep. There—in the corner, leaning against the wall. Knee bent, foot kicked up and pressed flat. She could just make out the rounded toe of a lace-up boot. Staring hard, she saw the suggestion of an outline. Broad shoulders, dipped forward, hands dug into the front pockets of dark fatigues.
Her hand found the light switch on the control panel next to the bed. Soft light drove the shadows back, revealing the stranger. Only he wasn’t a stranger. She’d seen him before.
“I remember you. You’re Benjamin Shaw.” The kid who’d shown up with Michael’s friend, Lark, and taken him away. That’d been a week ago. Six days since she’d been running for her life, teetering on the brink of death. Seven days since Michael had kissed her and promised to come back.
I’ll come back for you. I’ll find a way …
And he had. Michael was the only reason she was alive. He’d saved her. “Where is he?” she said.
Ben cocked his head, giving her a wry grin. “Gone.”
She nodded like she understood, like she agreed, even though she didn’t understand or agree to any of it. “Gone where?”
“This would be one of those if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you moments, Sabrina. He’s just gone, and your chances of seeing him again are between slim and none.” He used the flat of his foot to push himself away from the wall, coming at her in long-legged strides. “Truth be told, O’Shea is the least of your worries right now. You’re in some deep shit, chica,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed. His eyes, as calm and clear as lake water, pinned her with a look that told her he knew everything.
He knew that when she was seventeen, her mother’s boyfriend had tried to rape her and she’d killed him by taking his head off with a baseball bat. Knew that only a few days ago, her half-brother, Wade, had used that same bat to kill a San Francisco police officer before leaving it at the crime scene, implicating her in both murders. The bat was in police custody. Her prints were all over it. It was only a matter of time before she was arrested and charged.
She’d survived. Twice. Stopped a serial killer. And was staring down the barrel of a double homicide charge. It was a toss-up between life in prison and the needle. She wasn’t sure which she preferred at this point.
“I can take care of m
yself,” she said, even though she was pretty sure there was no way to pull herself clear of the mess she was in.
Ben’s smile widened to a grin, but the warmth of it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t doubt, under normal circumstances, that you’re a force to be reckoned with, but as it stands, you are truly and deeply fucked,” he said. His tone, so sure and confident, set her teeth on edge as much as it scared the shit out of her.
“Get out,” she said, anger and fear stiffening the back of her neck. “Right now, before I figure out a way to kill you.”
Now he laughed at her, not really helping his cause. “You really aren’t listening to me, are you? You’re in trouble. Not convicted for murder kind of trouble. I’m talking snatched out of this bed and disappeared forever kind of trouble.” He shook his head. “My father doesn’t like loose ends, and that’s what you are: a loose end. The only reason you’re still flapping in the breeze is because he doesn’t know about you. Yet. But he will—it’s only a matter of time, and after that, my hands will be tied.”
“Why would your father care about me? I’m nobody. I don’t know anything—about him or whatever it is you people do.”
“You know just enough about us people to make you dangerous. As for who you are … you’re the woman Michael loves. That makes you more valuable than you can imagine.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. I—”
“Ever heard of El Cartero?”
The question came out of nowhere, threw her off balance. “What? El Cartero? Yeah, we get FBI’s most-wanted updates at the station—killer for hire, operates mainly out of South America. No one knows who he is, but he’s suspected to be an American … ” Her voice trailed off as understanding took root. She shook her head even harder than before. “No. No. I don’t believe you.” But even as she said it, she knew Ben was telling her the truth.
Ben’s father, Livingston Shaw, was Michael’s boss. The man who’d had him implanted with some sort of tracking device that kept tabs on his every move. But it had an additional function. It was there to kill him if he got to be more trouble than he was worth. She’d asked Michael why Livingston Shaw would do such a thing, and he’d told her.
Because I’m one of the bad guys, Sabrina.
Michael was El Cartero. The thought squeezed every bit of air from her lungs, built pressure behind her eyes. He’d tried to tell her—warn her—and she hadn’t listened. In that moment, she hadn’t cared.
She stared down at the hands clasped together in her lap, watched them shake. “I need you to leave.” She looked up at Ben. “Please.”
“Fear of being killed will only keep Michael in his place for so long. Sooner or later, he’s going to get tired of my father pulling his strings. Michael’ll go after him, and when that happens, my father’ll kill him—and Michael won’t care. But if my father has you, he can make Michael do anything he wants, for as long as he wants,” Ben said in a level tone that scared her.
“Get. Out.” She reached over and began to lower the railing on the bed, intent on throwing him out of her room if that’s what it took to make him leave.
Ben reached out and clamped a hand around her wrist, giving his head a small shake. “Or maybe you are listening but just don’t care,” he said, leaning forward to peer into her eyes. “I can save you … almost like none of this ever happened. I can give you your life back, but you have to want to be saved, Sabrina.” He stared at her hard. “It won’t work unless you want it to.”
You have to want to be saved …
She was tired. Tired of all of it—the killing and the certainty that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to alleviate the guilt she carried, it would never be enough. She didn’t want to be saved—she didn’t deserve it. Not when so many women had died.
Then other images fought their way to the front of her mind. Her best friend, Valerie. Riley and Jason, her siblings. Her partner, Strickland … Michael. It wasn’t just her that Livingston Shaw would come for. No matter what she wanted, she needed to protect the ones she loved.
She nodded her head. “Yes … okay.”
He sat back, looking relieved. “You’re gonna have to trust me. Do whatever I tell you to without question. Can you do that?” he said, doubt creeping into his voice.
“Yes,” she said, sounding much more confident than she felt.
Ben stood, his eyes dropping down to her thigh. Reaching over, he plucked her hand off her leg and held it. She’d been pushing on her wound again, without even knowing it. The hand that held hers was scarred—the thin layer of skin that covered the back of it puckered into a circular mass of shiny white tissue. It was an old bullet wound; she’d seen enough of them to know. Before she could ask what’d happened, he dropped her hand and shoved his into the pockets of his fatigues.
“Good, you can start by knocking that shit off. You won; Wade lost. Nothing that happened in between is your fault, so stop punishing yourself.” He turned toward the door, pulling it open before he spoke again. “He’s a wreck,” he said, tossing her a look over his shoulder. “Worried. Blaming himself for leaving you alone. But he loves you enough to stay away from you. I’ll be in touch.”
He was talking about Michael … “Did he send you here?”
Ben scoffed and shook his head. “Are you kidding me? If he knew I’d even thought of coming here, he’d have garroted me in my sleep. He’s a bit overprotective when it comes to you.”
“Then why are you helping me?”
He smiled. “So when I need your help and ask for it, you’ll be more inclined to give it to me.” Ben turned and walked out without a backward glance, the door whispering closed behind him.
Sabrina reached over and clicked off the light, but she didn’t lay back down. She sat where she was and stared at the door he’d left through, long after he was gone.
TWO
San Francisco, California—Eight months later
It felt like home.
Every time she squeezed the trigger, the pressure building inside her eased off until there was nothing left but a steady flow of calm. That’s the way it always was. She wasn’t sure what it said about her, but she’d decided long ago she didn’t care.
Hips shifted, legs parted, and feet planted firmly, Sabrina lifted her arms, her beloved SIG held in a two-fisted grip, finger resting lightly on the trigger. She squeezed eight times in rapid succession, placing each bullet center mass until the paper silhouette had a hole in its chest big enough to put her fist through.
Ejecting the magazine, she got busy reloading. It was just after noon—she had another thirty minutes before every stall in the station shooting range was filled. She’d go back upstairs before then, not really wanting to put up with the stares and whispers her presence garnered.
Her return to work as a SFPD homicide inspector a few months ago had proved a bit more controversial than she hoped for. Being dubbed “The One That Got Away” by an enterprising reporter at some obscure news rag had turned her life upside down.
And Jaxon Croft had spent the last eight months building his career by spilling it all: what’d happened to her as a young girl, the fact that the man who raped and tortured her for months had, in fact, been her half-brother. Recounting her involvement in Sanford’s death. The bodies found in the woods that had been Wade’s killing field. Croft never blamed her, never said it was her fault—but he didn’t have to. He just milked her story for all it was worth, rung her dry, and still wanted more. He was relentless in his pursuit of what he thought would be the cherry on top of his career sundae: an exclusive from her, recounting what had happened between her and Wade in the woods.
Every time he asked, she told him no. Because of him, every badge in the house knew who she was—and who she used to be. Had known before she even submitted her reinstatement paperwork. Half of them thought she wasn’t fit to serve and the oth
er half thought she was a liar and a murderer.
No, Jaxon Croft wasn’t getting what he wanted from her. Not ever.
She felt a light tap on her shoulder. Expecting her partner, Sabrina turned, but it wasn’t Christopher Strickland. Feeling her face split in a rare grin, she holstered her weapon and pulled the molded plugs out of her ears before slipping her eye protection upward to rest on the top of her head.
“Shit, Vaughn, remind me not to piss you off,” Devon Nickels said, leaning against the stall entrance with a smile on his face. She’d been back on the job for a little over two months now and hadn’t seen much of her former SWAT teammate. Seeing him now, she realized just how much she missed him. Thanks to Jaxon Croft, everyone thought that she and Nick were involved. Being seen together was something neither one of them could afford. And she’d rather eat glass than give Croft one more word to print about her.
Sabrina looked at the target and the piles of shredded paper littering the range floor. She was working on her seventh silhouette. “It’s like therapy. With bullets,” she said, giving Nickels a smart-ass smirk that caused him to bust out laughing.
“Anyone I know?” he said, nudging her shoe with the toe of his own lace-up boot. He was dressed in black from head to foot. From the looks of him, her former team had just rolled in. Judging by the exhaustion dug into his face, the job had been a long one.
She looked over her shoulder at the shredded silhouette still hanging on the clip. She had a lot of fantasy targets to choose from these days. “Numbers one through four were Captain Mathews,” she said, shooting him humorless grin. “I’m working on my Jaxon Croft issues now.”
The name flattened Nickels’s mouth into a thin, hard line. “In that case, can I take a few dozen shots?”
“Strickland wants to bribe parking enforcement to boot his car,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m down for that. How about we get him picked up for soliciting while we’re at it? Maybe plant drugs in his car … add a couple unresolved felonies to his record?” he said, a wicked grin creeping into his whiskey-colored eyes. For a second she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) Page 1
