by Sarah Andre
A shuffle, a slap on the back. Suddenly the light in the doorway was haloed around a tall, slim man, still in his karate uniform. A build she’d recognize anywhere. “You’re all right!” A lightness like helium filled her chest.
Sean strode to her bedside and leaned into her outstretched arms. He smelled like lemons and sweat. His gi was damp, but beneath her grasping hands, his body was warm and strong and very much alive. “Thank God,” she said, sobbing.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into her hair, hugging her hard. “About Dwayne. About everything.”
“How are the boys?”
“I don’t know. Couldn’t stay. I’m sure they’re safe,” he assured her. “Jace saved the day.”
She clung to Sean, a sense of security budding. He’d made it through, exactly as his brother had predicted. Sean. This capable, sensible warrior hiding inside a snarky introvert. How had she been so blind to the real him?
He broke the embrace and brushed the hair from her face. The taped gauze on his wrists scraped against her cheek.
“What happened?” Gretch asked, fingering a bandage.
“Zip tie was a little tight.”
See? The king of understatements. With bandages that thick, the tie had probably been a tourniquet. “Thank God you all made it through,” she blurted. “I’ve been worried sick.” She flushed and fluttered a hand at the clear dent in the pillow. “I mean, I was. I’m embarrassed I even had the audacity to sleep—”
“Trick said you passed out more than fell asleep. And I don’t mean to alarm you further, but we’ve gotta go.” He clasped her biceps and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “He’s gathering some supplies for us. I’m taking you somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“I haven’t gotten that far in my plan yet. Everywhere I come up with, I know they’ll find us.”
“Who?”
“Donatello’s men.”
“Why us? I’m assuming Jace took the painting.”
Sean spread his hands. “I don’t know, Gretch. Revenge? I’m not willing to sit around debating this. I saw how ruthless these men are—the lengths they’ll go through to get what they want.” He wiped the sweat still trickling from his temple. “If they want us dead for going to the FBI, then we need to split. And I mean like five minutes ago.”
Gretch clawed the blanket off her. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten thirty. Nice shirt.”
She’d forgotten the constraining firefighter top. “I don’t suppose your brother has an extra t-shirt hanging around. I can’t leave the station like this.”
He kissed her forehead. “There’s my queen. Making sure she’s dressed for the occasion.”
The observation stung. Dwayne had been killed in the most barbaric manner imaginable. Little boys had been held hostage, which would keep them in therapy for years. Sean was taking her somewhere to escape mob retaliation. “Forget it, this is fine,” she said quickly, in lieu of the shamed apology.
“I meant that as a compliment. Believe me, I need a wee bit of normal right now.” As he left his footsteps were as silent as if he walked on air.
“Normal,” she whispered to the empty room. That had always been her birthday-candle wish. How funny Sean thought she already was.
31
Is this a practical joke? Jace stared at Trick in the twin glows of the streetlight and the fluorescent lights within Station One Twenty-six. The evening was chilly. The thumping bass of rap music a few blocks west echoed in his pulse. Screeching tires and raucous laughter just to the south made it difficult to think straight after the adrenalin dump from Donatello’s capture.
“Sorry, man,” Trick said. “Sean said those were your orders.”
“Why would I order you to pack supplies and have them run off into the night?”
His brother spread his palms. “When has Sean ever lied? I knew you were cleaning up the dojo scene, and Sean said your partner was meeting them outside the Windsor Park El station.”
No. Margo had been hanging by the SWAT vehicle waiting for Sean. Until she finally figured out something was wrong. “When did they leave?”
Trick glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Shit!” Jace walked in a circle, hands clasped above his head. He’d just gotten through handing Donatello over to SSA Garcia, and humbly accepting SAC Webb’s effusive compliments, only to have to go back to headquarters with this news!
Trick scrolled through his phone. “I’ll call in backup and help you find them.”
“Where? What were they even wearing?”
“My clothes. They basically stripped me of everything I had in my locker. Sean has on black jeans and a White Sox tee. Gretch is in a blue tee with the station logo, and earlier she’d borrowed tan cargo shorts and kicks from a woman on my crew. Both have Station One Twenty-six sweatshirts and windbreakers. I packed two knapsacks with blankets, aluminum wraps, ponchos, flashlights, water, and protein bars. And hand sanitizer. Sean wouldn’t leave without a full bottle.”
“You didn’t happen to give him your cell phone, and I could call this a night?” Jace said wearily.
Trick spread his hands again, his face a mixture of worry and frustration. “He never lies, Jace.”
“The good thing is one bottle of sanitizer isn’t near enough for him to camp outside. Did you give them any money?”
A muscle flexed along Trick’s jaw. “Gang emptied their wallets and took up a collection. Sean said the FBI would reimburse. Over two-fifty.”
Jace scratched the bristles on his jaw. He could fix this. He would. God forbid Mom found out her baby boy was back in danger.
Trick shifted his weight. “You should also know Gretch’s housemate was executed.”
Prickles crawled up Jace’s neck. Even as he asked for the name, his phone buzzed Margo’s text with the news and answer. Dwayne Collins. The banker had flirted with someone on the phone the other day, mentioned a female housemate, and texts not returned. Of course he was Gretch’s housemate. Had Dwayne let something slip last night that forced Brandon to kill him?
Jace shook the supposition from his head. He was clearly losing it. Beheading meant ISIS or a Middle Eastern connection. The FBI was dealing with a two-headed snake tonight: the mob kidnapping boys for a stolen painting, and Adyton or an unrelated terrorist cell doling out a brutal form of revenge. Why? Had Collins’ years of paper trails found massive money laundering that required silencing? If Adyton was behind this, how would he even know who Dwayne was or where he lived? Or that there were files proving money laundering that Jace had reported on this afternoon?
Tumblers clicked into place. A mole in the task force. Jace’s heart beat off rhythm. And if that were so, then taking Sean and Gretch to a safe house would have signed their death warrants.
“Okay.” Jace forced his brain to calm down and lock onto the problem at hand. They were potential vics, not his brother and his brother’s hot coworker. There was no way they’d be successful at staying off the grid on their own. He had to find them first and protect them from multiple factions, including the FBI. Concentrate!
“Sean doesn’t have his wallet, license, or phone.” Jace ticked them off his fingers. “They were in the book bag in the dojo. Presumably Gretch does have those items, but I told her to keep her phone off, so there’s no way to trace GPS. Neither has a car.” He paced the wide driveway.
A firefighter walked out with two steaming mugs of strong-smelling coffee, exactly how Jace liked it. He nodded his acknowledgement as he took one, still brainstorming possibilities. “They can’t take the El anywhere because they’ll want to stay away from as many security cameras as possible unless it’s an emergency. Emergencies include emptying as much of her bank account as an ATM allows and buying a burner phone.”
“And he’s a fanatic about bottled water,” Trick pointed out. “I packed enough for an hour, the way he drinks it.”
Jace nodded. “So that’s potentially a hundred convenience
stores in the surrounding blocks.” His spirits flagged. “Where would they go? We need to think like Sean.”
His brother snorted. “That’s the problem.”
“Not necessarily. We know his quirks, so we have the advantage over whoever is after them.”
A shriek in the distance and glass smashing on cement sent chills racing up Jace’s spine. This wide-open, teeming city at night was no place for his little brother. Sean belonged in his quiet little art world with his paintbrushes… Or in his sterile-looking apartment and mind-numbing social life.
Trick’s phone dinged. He breathed a sigh. “My guy can replace me. I’m good to go as soon as he gets here.”
Jace waved him off. “Don’t bother. Two brothers driving around the streets of Chicago? This is going to take manpower and technology. I’ll call a task force together.”
“You just said you need people who know Sean.”
Jace gulped the coffee. Too hot, but even the burn gave him a much-needed kick. Endorphins jolted, and he breathed the rush in. “Call or text if you get any ideas where he might be.” Trick rubbed a palm over his mouth, an old childhood signal that he was straining to hold back a verbal assault. Jace handed him the empty mug. “Just say it.”
“If one thought in my head helps find them, can’t you put aside your need to be the sole hero just this once and let me tag along?”
The sarcasm pushed the right fraternal buttons. A stubborn band constricted Jace’s chest. “Maybe if you had an ounce of distrust you’d have asked yourself why I would order you to pack camping gear. I’m the FBI. We have comfortable lodging at our disposal.”
A sneer hovered at the edges of Trick’s mouth. “You’re sure wasting a lot of time assigning blame and deflecting accountability.”
“Thanks for nothing, Trick. Glad I asked you to come to the rescue so you could fuck things up a million times worse.” Jace spun on his heel and stalked toward the Suburban.
Everything came so easy for the asshole. Trick led a charmed life: had found his soul mate in high school; won a lottery four years ago and didn’t even need to work; had known he wanted to be a firefighter like Pop by the time he was old enough to hold a hose… which, naturally, had vaulted him first in line for Pop’s affection. Jace yanked open the car door so hard it bounced back and slammed his shoulder.
“I’ll comb the streets anyway,” Trick called. “If I find anything, I’ll send out the bat signal.”
Ha ha. “Go home to your wife and kids, Trick.” Go home to your fucking happily ever after.
32
Sean had no close friends, an insignificance he’d worn like a badge of honor till tonight. Even more revealing, though, the Queen of Fucking Everything only had two friends. And one had been beheaded.
Understandably, Gretch wasn’t remotely interested in risking the safety of Hannah, or an acquaintance named Zamira. It had taken them an hour to come up with this option, and who knew if it’d work?
Sean hunkered on the doorstep of the women’s shelter, which had been Gretch’s brainstorm and was brilliant, because it covered all the bases. It was located on a dark residential street, nowhere near security cameras; no one would think to look for a man shacked up in a shelter for abused women; and it provided safe lodging for the night while they tried to figure out what to do next.
She’d gone in to convince the night manager to bend the rules. Sean shivered in the borrowed windbreaker, too exhausted to even pace or windmill his arms for warmth.
The door clicked open, and he gazed over his shoulder. Gretch beckoned him and put a finger to her lips. “We can sleep on air mattresses in the director’s office, but we totally have to be out before she gets here in the morning.”
He nodded and stepped into the foyer. The warm earth tones and plush upholstered furniture would’ve given off a homey feel but for the formidable security guard parked behind a massive desk that blocked the rest of the house. On either side of the desk were two closed doors, no doubt locked.
The guard gave Sean a hard once-over before turning back to Gretch. She unlocked the door on the left and handed him the key. “Thanks, Hank. I owe you big.”
Hank grunted “goodnight,” and Sean followed Gretch into a spacious office overlooking part of the side lawn. She flicked on the light and went straight to the wall-length closet, randomly opening doors. The deep shelves resembled a convenience store stocked with hotel-sized amenities, dry goods, bottled water, toys, burner phones, and stacks of DVDs and tablet devices. Garments for women and children were piled neatly by size. Gretch tugged out a deflated mattress and an electric air pump from the bottom shelf.
Sean dropped the two knapsacks Trick had given them by the door. “I’ll do it.” As he knelt and attached the nozzle, Gretch rummaged through the food shelves.
“I wish they stored little liquor bottles,” she said, fatigue and grief threading her voice.
He scrutinized the mattress unfurling an inch at a time. “Do you want to talk about him?”
“No. I don’t think so.” A pause. A small sigh. “He was such a fussbudget,” she blurted, spinning around. “I’m no slob, but he couldn’t stand it if one thing was out of place. A dirty dish in the sink, a glass not on a coaster, a dent in the middle of the toothpaste tube. Used to drive me nuts, you know?”
Sean nodded, because he did know. Quite well.
“I’ll miss him so much…” Her voice was barely audible over the hiss of air. “The way we’d hang out. How he didn’t care what the world thought of him. How I never had to be someone around him.” The last few words wobbled, and she inhaled sharply. “I just don’t understand—why. It was Dwayne. He never harmed a flea.”
The same thoughts had haunted Sean. He reached for the only answer that seemed plausible. “Dwayne told me he was a whistleblower for his bank. Maybe that was the motivation for…”
“He did piss people off. And I mean rich people with powerful connections.” Gretch hopped over the mattress and transferred the lunchbox-sized snacks to the desk. “He went after them like a pit bull. Prosecutors loved his fastidious recordkeeping. And you should’ve seen him celebrate a white-collar conviction.” That was her first smile since the taxi ride after lunch.
“Sounds like he harmed more than fleas, then,” Sean remarked. “I highly doubt it was a random lone-wolf attack on an innocent. He was the target.”
Her smile disintegrated. She returned to the closets and grabbed an extra-large t-shirt and a package of cotton underwear. Sean tightened his grip on the air pump seal and focused on the expanding mattress.
“What if he wasn’t the target?” she mumbled without turning around.
“What do you mean?”
“A beheading could mean a Middle Eastern tie. Maybe to an organization like Adyton’s. What if this was about our company getting tangled up with him?”
Sean half snorted a chuckle. “Then I’m pretty comfortable calling you delirious. We’re in danger from Donatello’s men, not Adyton.”
She slumped against one of the doors, head bowed.
“Gretch?”
“I may have given Adyton a motive to visit my apartment,” she said. Her shoulders lifted and settled as she breathed a sigh. She turned back. Her eyes glimmered with tears. “I placed a bid on the Quran and requested the certificate of authenticity on Tuesday. I used a dummy contact name. They sent back a COA that was clearly bogus, but I doubt anyone who isn’t in our industry would’ve known that. Maybe Adyton found out it went to me.”
“Did you tell Margo?”
“I forwarded the email with my suspicions after we got home from lunch today.”
“Still seems a stretch to kill your housemate.” There was a tad too much condescension in his tone, and he winced.
“There’s a connection somewhere, Sean,” she snapped. “I may not be as smart as you, but I live and die by gut instinct.” She stopped short on a harsh exhale. “Poor choice of words,” she muttered, and her shoulders hitched.
&nbs
p; Her supposition wasn’t worth arguing about. They were both strung out and filled with recriminations. For Sean it went all the way back to accepting his brother’s request for help last Saturday. He wasn’t cut out to be a hero, and his pathetic lifelong quest had led them down a sewage hole to this moment: Him blowing up a mattress and Gretch selecting food better suited for a vending machine.
“The FBI will uncover who did this,” he said at last. “You have to know my brother. He doesn’t give up until everything’s fixed and the good guys win.”
She shrugged and swiveled around. “I guess so.” Her tone said otherwise, but she was already fluttering her arm like Vanna White. “Do you want anything from here?”
He eyed the unopened array of burner phones. “I better check in with Jace.”
She snatched one from an upper self, her sleek muscles flexing against the lines of the t-shirt as she reached. God, she was stunning. His cock agreed, and he swiftly lowered his gaze.
The mattress was almost inflated, and he dragged his attention to the next fiasco: it looked to be a full-size. For sure not a queen. He glanced around the rest of the office, because there was no way the two of them would fit on this without spooning. The director’s chair looked deep and comfortable, but it clearly didn’t recline. The twin chairs on the other side of the desk were too sturdy to be an option. In fact, he’d have to move them over by the closet so if Gretch flung an arm out in sleep she wouldn’t smack into them.
He’d just have to stretch out behind the executive desk and sleep on the floor, that’s all there was to it. Immediately the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.
After disconnecting the air pump and fastening the plug, he straightened the mattress at exact angles to the room, selected clean, folded sheets that nevertheless smelled a little stale, and made up the bed with a single pillow.
“What’s going on?”
Sean looked up from tucking a blanket corner with military precision. Gretch was seated in one of the twin chairs, with packages of food and water bottles open on the desk like a little picnic. Her brows were knit in displeasure as she sipped a lemon-lime power drink.
