Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel)

by Maegan Beaumont

  “Thank you,” she said, a brief smile touching the corner of her mouth.

  “You’re wondering how I knew you were an early riser?” Miss Ettie said, busying herself with pouring Sabrina a cup of coffee.

  “Yeah, I kind of am.”

  Miss Ettie set the cup of coffee next to her plate and sat down. “Because for six weeks, Michael rolled himself out of bed at the most ungodly hours, just to go running with you. By the time I was up to make breakfast, he’d already been out and back and was making me pancakes.” She smiled. “He’s such a sweet boy.”

  Sabrina hid a smiled behind her coffee cup. As El Cartero, Michael was rumored to be responsible for over twenty contract killings—and those were just the ones he was suspected of. Sweet was the last thing she’d call him. The thought of him flipping pancakes for a little old lady was borderline ridiculous.

  “I don’t run anymore.” She had no idea why she said it, why it felt like she was revealing some deep, dark sin. If she found it odd, the old lady didn’t let on, just rolled over her confession like she’d said nothing at all.

  “He talks quite a bit about you—of course, I’m usually the one who brings you up, but that’s just because I know how stubborn he can be. He misses you terribly; I can hear it in his voice,” Miss Ettie said, pushing away from the table to fix herself a cup of coffee.

  Sabrina picked at the edge of her pastry and had a piece nearly to her mouth before she understood what Miss Ettie was saying. She dropped it and turned in her seat. “You still talk to Michael?”

  Miss Ettie nodded. “Every few weeks or so. He calls to check up on me, which is silly—sweet, but silly. He says it’s to make sure I get his checks, but I know the truth. When you get to be my age, people don’t just call you out of the blue to talk about the weather. It’s to make sure you haven’t fallen and broken a hip or up and died.”

  Sabrina stared at her, furiously grabbing at words as they rushed past her. “Checks?”

  “Mmm, from some foreign bank I’ve never heard of. He keeps his room here—number five—paid up through Kingdom Come. I told him to stop sending them, but like I said, he’s stubborn.” Miss Ettie said, “Eat,” giving her a disapproving look.

  “Does he ever use it? Has he been back?” Her head was spinning, but she stuffed a wad of sweet bread into her mouth and chewed—anything to keep the old woman talking.

  “Yes … ” Miss Ettie smiled. “Although he’s made it perfectly clear that I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Especially you.”

  Sabrina almost choked on the food in her mouth but managed to get it down. “I won’t stay. I really shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can use his room as long as you’d like. He’s on an extended trip overseas. I don’t expect him back anytime soon.” Miss Ettie reached out and patted her hand. “Unless you want me to call him … Are you in trouble, dear?”

  Yes. Call Michael. Tell him he needs to come back. “No. I’m fine. I just needed some peace and quiet.”

  Miss Ettie looked far from convinced. “That you’ll get plenty of here, most days are as quiet as a tomb,” she said before she stood. “There’s a spare key in that dish over there. If you’re going to be late getting back, take it with you. I lock up at seven o’clock on the button.”

  Sabrina glanced at the Blue Willow bowl on the counter by the back door and frowned. “You shouldn’t keep a key to your house just lying around.”

  “Now you sound like Michael.” The old woman laughed and patted her on her shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast,” Miss Ettie said, dividing a long look between her and the cinnamon roll before she disappeared into a room behind the kitchen.

  Sabrina nodded, pulled off another piece, and chewed. She kept at it until the entire thing was gone.

  THIRTEEN

  Even though it was barely six a.m., Sabrina drove directly to the station, the red envelope tucked carefully away in her jacket pocket. As deeply as Miss Ettie’s revelation affected her—that not only was she in frequent contact with him, but that he’d been back to visit her several times over that past six months—she didn’t have time to pick it apart. Michael had been here and hadn’t contacted her. No matter what the old woman said, his message was clear.

  He didn’t want to see her.

  She pushed the thought from her mind and focused on the problem in front of her.

  Soon.

  It was an ambiguous word—one people used frequently. Harmless enough, but this time it carried the horrible weight of promise. Instinct told her that whoever wrote the note was serious; that he wasn’t just some wingnut out to rattle her cage. Crazy people didn’t disguise their voices when they called, and neither did someone who acted on impulse. Whoever he was, he had a plan. One that involved her.

  She parked and made her way toward the building. Every footfall felt like a hammer hitting the top of her hip, loosening her knee, making each step a gamble.

  Her phone rang and she reached for it, reluctant but resolved. Hide-and-seek was over—time to face the music. But it wasn’t Val or Strickland. Recognizing the number, her anxiety spiked.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey … you want to tell me why Weber called me at four o’clock in the morning to tell me you missed your session. Again.” It was Ben.

  Kyle Weber was her physical therapist. A position he apparently took very seriously. Seriously enough to rat her out to the man footing the bill for her sessions. “Because he’s a tattletaling bitch. Probably got stuffed in a lot of lockers in high school,” she said, doing her best to sound cool and collected when she was anything but. “Look, I’m in the middle—”

  “I don’t give a shit if you’re pulling kitten-toting nuns out of a burning building. Physical therapy was part of the deal. You don’t go, the deal is off. You’ll be no good to me in a wheelchair,” he said. His tone was easy, but she could tell he was pissed.

  She stopped at the base of the steps that led to the precinct’s main lobby and took a quick look around to make sure no one was within ear shot. “I completely spaced it. I’m sorry—I’ll reschedule.” The apology stuck in her throat, but she forced it out. It was rare that Ben called her. Even rarer that he alluded to the debt she owed him.

  “Maybe you should get yourself a CAT scan—this is the third time you’ve spaced it this month,” he said.

  Frustration spiked. “Look, I said—”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t give a shit—just do what you’re told.” He didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded concerned, which made it even worse.

  Standing still had stopped the rhythmic hammer blows from pounding into her hip. Now the pain was a constant push against her leg—from the inside out. She ignored it, focusing on the anger that grabbed her. “If that’s what this is—you telling me what to do and where to go for the rest of my life—then I’m done. I’ll call your father myself.” Her tone was a hard shell of bullshit protecting the nugget of terrified panic she was currently choking on. “Maybe you’ve got little minions stashed all over the map, scared shitless and ready to do your bidding, but I’m not one of them,” she said, even though that’s exactly what she was.

  It was quiet for a moment. She listened to the background noise on Ben’s end of the line. She heard the sudden slam of a door, the low tones of another male voice, one she’d recognize anywhere. It was Michael. And from the twittering that answered him, he’d brought home a woman.

  The voices grew faint, followed by the quiet click of a door being eased shut, like Ben had found a quiet place to wrap up their conversation. “Weber’s expecting you today at one o’clock. If you don’t show, I’m gonna send a couple of Pips to hogtie you and deliver you to the appointment personally.”

  This was the first time he’d ever threatened her with his father’s personal army, but it barely fazed her. A queasy feeling took root in
the pit of stomach.

  Michael was with a woman.

  “Sabrina … ” Ben said, quiet but firm.

  She climbed the steps, the throb in her thigh echoing her cadence. “I understand and I’ll be there, but only because the sooner my leg gets better, the sooner I can do whatever it is you want me to do. Then I can be rid of you and get on with my life,” she said before terminating the call and slipping her phone into her pocket.

  Hanging up on Ben Shaw was a mistake, one she’d probably pay for later, but she didn’t care. Right now, she told herself, she had other things to worry about. Pulling the door open, she stepped into the main lobby and headed for the information desk.

  The officer behind the counter was an older woman, her face aimed at the fashion magazine on the desk, so all Sabrina saw was a short puff of frizzy brown hair. “Excuse me,” she said and the woman looked up. Acne scars, a blunt piggish nose, and tired blue eyes completed the unattractive picture. As soon as she recognized Sabrina, the woman’s eyes went flat, like she was trying not to see her. Sabrina was used to it. She’d never been Miss Popularity but thanks to Croft and his string of bullshit articles, she’d achieved bona fide leper status. Sabrina forced a smile. “Hi … ” she checked the badge, “Officer Donner. Did you just come on shift?” Hopefully, this was the officer working days and she’d be able to give her some answers about the note card.

  “Nope. Just waiting for my replacement. He’s late—as usual,” Officer Donner said.

  “He? Who is he?” Hopefully she’d recognize the name.

  “Anderson,” Donner said. “Cute—too bad he’s being rotated out from behind the desk.”

  Sabrina just nodded. She did know Anderson, and Donner was right—he was good-looking, in that clean-cut, toothpaste commercial kinda way. He also happened to be one of the few uniforms who still treated her like a human being. “What time does he usually roll in?”

  “Depends on where he wakes up. Kid’s got a thing for badge bunnies.” The look on Donner’s face soured a bit, taking her from unattractive to downright ugly.

  “And today’s his last day?”

  “Yup. Starting tomorrow he’ll ride a car on second shift.”

  That meant she only had today to track Anderson before he’d be almost impossible to nail down.

  “Thanks … I’m Inspector Vaughn—could you call my desk when he shows up?”

  Donner tipped her face toward the magazine she’d been thumbing through. “I know who you are,” she said.

  Which meant Sabrina had hit a dead end. Short of camping out in the lobby, she’d run out of options, save one. “Never mind. I’ll just come back later.” She backed away from the desk and headed for the elevator.

  The first thing Sabrina saw when the elevator slid open onto the Homicide bullpen was Strickland. He was sitting at her desk, leaned so far back in the chair it was a wonder he stayed upright. His feet were kicked up on her blotter, the left one threatening to knock over her desk lamp. Coffee cups and a few take-out boxes littered her space, and she frowned at them. Her partner wouldn’t be satisfied until every flat surface between here and hell was covered in garbage. She leaned her backside against her desk and looked at him. His suit was rumpled, his hair uncombed, a few days’ worth of stubble covered his cheeks and chin. She smiled. They were like The Odd Couple—with guns.

  “Hey.” She poked one of his knees with her index finger, knocking them together. He came up swinging, jolting out of his seat as though she’d hit him with a cattle prod. His foot made good on its promise, launching her lamp off the desk.

  Strickland stared at her for a second or two, blinking himself awake. Sitting up, he swiped a heavy hand down his face, the rasp of whiskers against his palm the only sound between them. “Where the hell have you been?” he said, his voice cracked and uneven from lack of sleep.

  She shrugged. “How long you been here?” she said, reaching out to pick at what looked like a ketchup stain on his pant leg. It flaked off—Lord knew how long it’d been there.

  “All night. Your turn.” He dropped his feet to the floor, jerking the stain away from her fingers, forcing her to focus on him and what they were talking about.

  She sighed. “You know that B&B O’Shea stayed at while he was here?” She waited for her him to nod. “I’m staying there.”

  “He back?” Strickland said, his jaw clenched as tight as his tone. It wasn’t jealousy that had him asking. It was the fact that he blamed Michael for everything that’d happened to her over the past eight months.

  “No … I just needed some quiet.” She looked at him, suddenly feeling lost, hoping he’d understand without asking her to explain. He did.

  Strickland nodded. “You need to call Val. She’s beside herself. The second you walked out, she crawled up my ass—said you just disappeared. I camped out here, knew you’d show up eventually.”

  “Yeah, did she tell you I left because she invited Croft in for afternoon tea?”

  Strickland went still. “She failed to mention that part.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Val was stubborn but not stupid. Some part of her knew that what she’d done was wrong.

  “Did she explain why?”

  “Because she thinks I’m gonna crack up again. Says I need to talk about it.” She shook her head at the look that settled on Strickland’s face. “She’s wrong. I’m fine. And I don’t need to talk about anything.”

  He shrugged, looking a bit deflated now that his anger had run its course. “You know I’m here, right? I’m always gonna be here,” he said to her in a low tone, his hazel eyes filled with concern.

  Her throat went tight, like someone was strangling her. She couldn’t talk, just nodded and looked away for a second.

  “You going back?”

  Sabrina cleared her throat. “Home? I don’t think I can. Not yet anyway.”

  Strickland stood. “Call her at least. Let her know you’re okay—after that … ”

  Sabrina shook her head. “Val can wait.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the envelope. “Right now, you and I have bigger things to worry about.”

  FOURTEEN

  Dubai City, Dubai

  Michael barely made it to the living room before he stepped out of his pants and took off his shirt. He was completely nude in seconds.

  The woman behind him cleared her throat before speaking. “This would be easier if we could—”

  He didn’t even spare her a look. “I don’t want easy. I want fast. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can ask you to leave.”

  She didn’t answer him. Probably hurt her feelings, but he didn’t care. Why would he? He barely knew her. In fact the only thing he really knew about her was that she was a First Security Solutions employee and her name was Mary. At least that’s the name she went by. Who knew for sure what her given name really was—not that he gave a shit about that either.

  He fixed his eyes on the door Ben had disappeared behind, waiting for the tickle of cool fingers along his spine. Ben’d been on the phone when he’d come in. Who was he talking to?

  Her fingers were colder than he expected, but he didn’t flinch. They traced over the bumps of his spine, one by one, until they reached the base and pushed. The hard disc, as big and flat as a dime, dug into the muscle that couched it.

  He kept his eyes trained on the door while she walked her fingers around the surrounding tissue. Whoever Ben was talking to, he didn’t want Michael to hear the conversation that was going on—

  She pushed a bit more before letting her fingers drop away. “Have you experienced any shortness of breath? Heart palpitations?” she said, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his bicep.

  He laughed. “Seriously? The man had a dirty bomb grafted to the base of my spine and he’s worried about my breathing?”

  Mary waited a few moments for the digita
lized cuff to download its reading to his computerized medical file before removing it. “Mr. Shaw has spent considerable resources on your procurement. He protects his investments.”

  Considerable resources—he’d heard that one before. How many favors did Livingston Shaw have to call in or promise to get him scrubbed off the FBI’s ten most-wanted list? How many millions in bribes to bury the Interpol red notices on him? As El Cartero he’d been wanted in twelve different countries and with the snap of his fingers, Shaw had turned him into a ghost. Whatever it cost him, Michael hoped it hurt.

  Mary dropped the cuff in favor of what looked like a portable scanner Wal-Mart minimum-wagers used to price-check shit. She placed it over the spot she’d been poking at and waited for the beep.

  The device in his back not only tracked his whereabouts, it would kill him if he didn’t come back. He was the sole property of FSS and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  “Everything seems to be in working order,” she said behind him.

  He turned to face her. “Thanks. Bye.”

  She didn’t move, instead tracing a remote gaze over his body, taking in the cluster of contusions hovering above three cracked ribs. More nicks and bruises than he could count. Abrasions scattered across his back and shoulders. A laceration across his left tricep. Another across his outer thigh. “You’ve sustained some injuries I’ll have to catalog.”

  This was regular business when it came to the security firm he worked for. Security firm—the term Livingston Shaw used to describe the sizable army-for-hire he’d amassed over the past decade. While most Americans were jumping at the chance to trade their freedoms for the illusion of safety, FSS had crept in like a cancer. Fed by fear and funded by the Department of Homeland Security, FSS had its fingers in every single one of Uncle Sam’s pies. It was a conspiracy nut’s worst nightmare—fifty thousand boots on the ground, and not a single one of them answered to the U.S. government. Livingston Shaw had a higher security clearance than the Joint Chiefs of Staff.