For now, all he could do was what he’d come here for—find out who had set Croft on his trail and why.
To do that, he’d have to come clean.
He chose a number from his phone’s very short contact list and hit send.
“Hey, if it isn’t the Boy Scout. Ready to come home?” Ben said. For once the background noise didn’t include a gaggle of twittering strippers or some glam rock anthem from the eighties. All was quiet …
which made him wonder where the hell his partner was and what he was doing.
“No. Things have gotten complicated here. I need your help,” he said, aiming his car in the general direction of Miss Ettie’s house. “A few weeks ago, a reporter started sniffing around Jessup, looking for fresh dirt on Sabrina, and he came up with a chopper pilot who claimed to know me from my Delta days.”
“Reese Harrison.”
Shit. “What did you do, Ben?”
“I did what I do. I saved your neck.”
With Ben, that could mean any number of things. Harrison could be sunning himself in Tahiti on top of a small mountain of hush money or he could be rotting away in some hole. “You should’ve let me handle it,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t. Don’t worry; you’ll get ’em next time, Tiger.” Ben sighed. “You didn’t call me to lecture me about my lack of boundaries, partner. You need something, so just spit it out.”
“When Croft got back from Jessup, he found a full jacket on me sitting on his kitchen counter. Someone gave him an all-access pass to the last six years of my life. There’s a lot of people who’d do that to me, but only a few who could and would.”
“Alberto Reyes,” Ben said, hitting the nail directly on the head. “I’m guessing the two of you didn’t part on amicable terms.”
Michael laughed, even though there was absolutely nothing funny about the fact that Colombia’s premier drug lord and his former employer knew where he was and who cared about. “You can say that … well, he doesn’t respond well to being walked out on.” Which is what he had done the moment he’d found out his baby sister Frankie was missing.
“And now he knows about your girl,” Ben said, sounding more concerned than he should be. “Want me to come? I can be there in a few hours.”
“And do what? Killing Croft isn’t going to contain this mess. Giving him the goods on me is just Reyes’s way of saying hello. He probably wants me to kill Croft just so I’ll dig my hole a little deeper, not that it matters,” Michael said. “The second your dad finds out I’ve got Alberto Reyes hanging around my neck, whispering in the ear of every asshole with a press pass, he’s gonna let his fingers do the talking. That’s the only way this mess gets contained.” Anonymity and secrecy were the cornerstones FSS was built on. Without them, Livingston Shaw was the center of a congressional investigation that would bring to light operational details that’d make Blackwater look like the Peace Corps. He would do anything to maintain his invisibility to the public, least of all detonating the dirty bomb grafted to Michael’s spine.
“You might be surprised what my father is willing to do to protect his investments. Want me to talk to him?”
“No.”
“You don’t want me to kill Croft. You don’t want me to play the daddy card—what do you want me to do? Why did you call me?” Ben said, sounding almost as frustrated as he felt.
“I want you to arrange to get Sabrina and her family out of here. Tonight.” It was the only way he could think of to keep her safe, the only way to ensure that whatever Alberto Reyes’s endgame was, it didn’t involve her.
Ben started to laugh, a real belly laugh that sounded as if it brought tears to his eyes. The laughter trailed off into silence before Ben spoke again. “Oh … you’re being serious.”
“Yes, I’m being serious.” If not completely delusional about Sabrina’s willingness to make a run for it. She was in trouble—real trouble. Reyes and Livingston Shaw were just the beginning.
“The woman I met back in Texas isn’t a runner, Michael. She’ll refuse, and then what?” Ben blew out a frustrated sigh. “Toss her in the trunk of my car?”
“I really don’t care how it happens so long as it does. I’m serious about this, Ben. This is a shit sandwich with Reyes on one side and your dad on the other. I can’t risk her being caught in the middle. I won’t.” Just thinking about it seemed to squeeze the life out of him. “I left her to fend for herself once; I’m not going to do it—”
His phone beeped in his ear, signaling an incoming text. It was from Sabrina.
“Look, just figure it out, alright? I’ll call you back in a few hours to talk logistics,” he said, hanging up before Ben had a chance to protest. Pulling over, he accessed his texts and read what she’d sent.
Need backup ASAP. 1500 N. DeGuine. Hurry. Not sure how long I can wait.
He tapped the address into the car’s GPS. It was in Hillsborough, about twenty-five miles outside of San Francisco. He threw the Mustang into drive and shot out into traffic, ignoring the blare of horns and screech of tires as the cars behind him slammed on its brakes. Leave it to Sabrina to go off half-cocked on her own. At least, this time, she called for backup.
SEVENTY-ONE
David Song.
It made absolutely no sense and explained everything perfectly all at the same time. Why Liam was afraid to name his accomplice. Why he’d been willing to take the rap and endure the scrutiny of being a suspected rapist. Why Bradley had given Song the blood of nine women so willingly. Fear was a powerful motivator.
Her cell issued a beep, indicating a text. It was from Val.
Come home.
She texted back.
Can’t. Working a case.
She dialed Strickland’s number and it went straight to voicemail. She tried the number Michael had given her. Nickels. Even Ben—all with the same results. No answer.
Sabrina tossed her cell in the passenger seat of her car and started the engine. She’d head back to the station and let Strickland know what she’d found—
Her phone beeped again. Another text from Val.
Melpomene is waiting.
The words grabbed her by the throat, her heart slamming against her ears.
Hurry, Calliope.
She flew down Park Presidio Boulevard, every horrible, vile thing Wade had ever done to her playing on a constant loop inside her head. Every second that passed seemed an eternity.
Waiting always was the worst part for you, wasn’t it, darlin’?
She blocked him out, putting every ounce of energy she had into shutting Wade down completely. She would not lose it. Not again.
She whipped onto her street and gunned it, fishtailing into the driveway before slamming on the brakes. Val’s car was in the drive-way.
She barely had the car in park before she was out of it and racing across the front yard toward the back door off the kitchen. The screaming pain in her leg was completely drowned out by the adrenaline that dumped into her system. The door was locked. She used her key to let herself in as quietly as possible.
Shouldering it open, she reached for her holster and thumbed the snap on it that secured her SIG. Lifting it off her hip she took a cautious step inside, mindful to make as little noise as possible. A large pot of water at a rolling boil stood on the stove and a pile of ingredients waited on the center island. Wherever Val was, she couldn’t be far. Instead of calling out to her, she moved toward the back stairs and cocked her head, listening for movement. Nothing.
She crossed the kitchen, wedging her boot into the swinging door that separated it from the dining room, pushing it open just enough to see that it was deserted. She cleared the space on her way to the living room where Bob Marley sang about three little birds.
She was going to round the corner and run right into Val. She’d have a laundry basket on her hip and she’d be scared shitless. Probab
ly yell at her for creeping around the house, waving her gun around. Sabrina would ask where Val’s phone was, and she’d confess to leaving it at the bank or on the counter at the dry cleaners. They’d fight over Val’s carelessness. Val would call her crazy and kick her out again. But she’d be safe. Val would be safe.
She smelled them. Their sickly sweet scent so familiar now that she felt nauseated the second it invaded her nostrils.
No, no, no, no …
She forced herself around the corner into the living room but stopped short in its doorway. The gun tried to slip from her hand but she gripped it tight, her heartbeat a rhythmless jangle inside her chest, each beat it skipped bringing spots to her eyes.
Roses were scattered everywhere, their periwinkle-colored heads crushed into the ridiculous white carpet Val had insisted on having installed when they’d renovated a few years ago. Water soaked the carpet, thick shards of glass were ground into the hardwood of the foyer. Periwinkle. She knew the names of colors like that because her best friend was an interior decorator. Cerulean. Magenta. Mauve … periwinkle.
It was Val’s favorite color.
Above the mess on the floor was another message. This one wasn’t written on pretty red paper. It was scrawled across the wall in blood.
Expectamus
SEVENTY-TWO
“MOM!”
It was Riley. Riley was home—safe—and Val would be with her. This was nothing more than a sick joke, a warning …
She moved toward the kitchen, a jolting lurch that told her that no matter the adrenaline, she would not be able to push her leg much further. Looking around, relief was edged out, shoved aside by a terrible certainty. Riley was home, but Val wasn’t with her.
“Mom, what’s going on?” Riley stood at the stove, her hand on the knob, turning off the burner under the pot of water that had nearly boiled away to nothing.
“Where’s Val?” Sabrina ran a shaking hand over her face, asking questions she already knew the answers to.
You know better than anyone where she is, and you know what’s happening to her, don’t you, darlin’?
Riley shook her head, eyes wide. “I don’t know. Jason and Devon went to the shooting range and Jimmy came over.” She glanced at the boy standing near the back door. “We went to the mall to—”
“Give me your phone.” She held out her hand and Riley pulled it from her pocket, a gaudy thing covered in hot pink rhinestones. She handed it over without protest.
“You left your car running in the driveway,” Riley said as she watched her dial the direct number to Strickland’s desk. “Mom, what’s going on?”
“I just stopped by to grab something.” She listened to it ring. “Have you heard from Val?”
Riley shook her head. “My phone hasn’t rang all day. Mom, tell me what’s going on.”
The phone just rang and rang. Whatever was wrong with her phone was also wrong with Riley’s. She hung up and turned it off before sticking it in her pocket. “Is your father home, Jimmy?” She looked at the boy standing next to Riley, his insane hair and the cluster of silver hoops in his lip. Not who she would choose as her sister’s protector, but unless Nickels and Jason showed up within the next thirty seconds, he would have to do.
The kid swallowed hard and took a step forward. “Yes, ma’am.”
“He’s a gun owner, isn’t he?” She tucked her own into the holster on her hip, his rounded eyes following its trajectory. Any other time she’d be amused by his reaction.
“Ah … yes, ma’am,” Jimmy said, answering her like he was the one asking the question.
“Great, I need you to take Riley to your house and wait for me there.” She looked at Riley, tried to convey without words how serious she was. “Wait for me there, do you understand?”
“You’re scaring me again,” Riley said. “Where’s Val? Is she okay?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find her.” She looked past Riley at Jimmy and he nodded, taking Riley by the arm and pulling her out the door. She moved to the window to watch them walk to the Volvo, feeling marginally better about trusting Jimmy to look out for her when she saw him check the back seat before letting Riley get in.
She waited until they drove away before she scrawled a quick note for Jason not to go into the house, sticking it to the back door before she left, careful to set the alarm behind her.
SEVENTY-THREE
She went back to Miss Ettie’s, letting herself in quietly, dropping the key in the dish on the counter.
Val was gone.
She ain’t gone gone. Not yet.
“Michael,” she called out as she pounded up the stairs, focusing on ignoring the voice in her head that refused to shut up, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. The closer to the edge she danced, the louder Wade got.
Maybe you’re hopin’ I’ll push you over, darlin’ …
She reached the landing, rubbing an absent hand over her thigh as she limped down the hall. Without thinking too much about what she was doing, she let herself into Michael’s room. It was empty. She had no idea how much she’d hoped he’d be here until she saw that he wasn’t.
Instead of thinking about it she headed straight for the case she knew would be under the bed. It was locked but she spun the dials, setting the numbers to the date of his sister’s death—the only set of numbers that would matter to him—and was rewarded by the release of the latch that held it closed.
Inside she found what she was looking for. Disposable cell phones, charged and ready to be used. She chose one at random and dialed Strickland’s cell number. He answered on the third ring. “Strickland.”
“It’s me.”
“What the fuck, Vaughn!” he nearly shouted into the phone. “I’ve been calling you for over an hour now. Mandy’s called here about a hundred—”
“It’s David Song. He took Val.”
“Jesus Christ.” He said it like someone had punched him in the solar plexus, on a sharp expel of breath that sounded painful. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” She felt her chest trying to flex on her, trying to tighten but she pushed back, slamming her fist into her thigh. “Bradley told me everything. He’s been giving Song blood for months now. He was a chem major at Berkeley, enrolled under his legal name, Seong Ki-wook. My guess is that Liam agreed to take the rap for David rather than have his entire family slaughtered by the Geondal.”
“Shit. Stay where you are, I’m leaving the station right now.” She could hear the slam of his desk drawer, imagined him retrieving his gun and settling it into his holster.
Time’s wastin’. Won’t be too long before he starts cuttin’ on your girl …
“No. There’s no time.”
Strickland actually laughed. “Yeah, right. I’ll be there in—”
“There’s blood … a lot of blood. He cut her, Strickland. He cut her,” she said as she picked her way through the contents of the case. Several guns, a few fit with silencers. Knives. Extra magazines. A few forged passports. Cash. Maps. Gadgets she didn’t recognize. One looked particularly promising and after a few seconds of debate, she stuck it in her pocket. “I can’t wait for you, Strickland. I have to go now.”
“Shit—” Even through the speaker of the cheap throwaway cell, Sabrina could hear there was more than just anger in his voice. He sounded almost frantic. “What are you going to do?” Strickland said.
She lifted a knife from the case and slipped it into her boot before shutting the lid. “I’m going to get her back.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
Sabrina parked around the corner from Song’s bodega and killed the engine. He wasn’t there; she knew that. Wherever he was keeping Val, it had to be someplace private. Someplace where he could cut up young women without fear of being interrupted. The problem was, the only address they had for Song was his apartme
nt above his store.
Entering the alley she upended the crate she was sure Jerry sat on while he took his smoke breaks and used it to boost herself onto the closed lid of the dumpster where she’d found Sheila. From there she lowered the fire escape ladder and pulled herself up, her thigh screaming in protest the entire time. The window was locked, so she put her boot through it without a second thought, kicking out enough glass to reach in and free the latch to let herself inside.
The place was bare. Nothing more than a tea kettle on the two-burner stove and a twin bed in the corner. Wherever David Song really lived, it wasn’t here. Still, Sabrina opened cabinets and drawers, careful to snap on a pair of gloves before she touched anything.
Thirty minutes of searching produced nothing aside from a dusty paperback, a chipped coffee mug, and a plastic fork. Nothing that would indicate where he’d taken Val. No clue as to where she would find them.
She turned, heading for the door that would lead her downstairs and into a storeroom behind the bodega’s only cold case. Hopefully Jerry was working so she wouldn’t have to waste precious time browbeating a different clerk into giving her information.
Opening the door, she prepared to step onto the short landing. Instead, she collided with a solid chest and a pair of hands that instantly grappled for control of her arms, gripping her by her biceps.
Instinct drove her into a crouch and she managed to slip his grip. As soon as he was holding nothing but air, she drove a fist into his crotch. He let out a retching cough, instantly stiffening against the pain that knocked him off balance.
She stood up and pushed him down the stairs, watching him tumble down the short flight for just a second before she turned back toward the apartment and the fire escape.
“Stop.” This time she was greeted by the barrel of a gun, mere inches from her face, and the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked back.
SEVENTY-FIVE
A few words, harshly barked in Korean, had the guy at the bottom of the stairs staggering to his feet. “Move,” the guy with the gun said, prodding her with a staccato jab, the barrel of it hitting her forehead hard enough to cut into her skin.
Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) Page 27
