Capturing the Queen (Damaged Heroes Book 2)

by Sarah Andre

  “Focus, Sean. We’re in escape mode.”

  Reluctantly, he left the bag where it was and flipped off the bathroom light. “Ready?”

  She rolled her eyes and picked up her knapsack. They slipped into the foyer, and Gretch locked the office with the key Hank gave her, then handed it back with an envelope. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” she said to him. “This is a note for one of the residents—would you make sure she gets it?” Hank nodded, and she kissed the tired man’s cheek. “Massive thanks, dreamboat.”

  The security guard flushed and beamed. “Enjoy the day, folks.”

  Sean held the front door for her, and they stepped out into the cloudless dawn. The residential street was empty and quiet. Traces of budding spring flowers and sweet, dewy grass permeated the morning air. Family SUVs and a few newspapers littered driveways as far as the eye could see. Far down the block, a man in a black Bulls sweatshirt jogged with a Great Dane.

  “Think your brother can be talked into stopping by a Starbucks?” Gretch muttered, sitting on the top steps and adjusting her cap.

  Seriously. Too cute. “You have a lot more influence than I do. You ask.” Sean draped his knapsack over his shoulder and walked to the curb, scanning the scene. Well-kept middle-class homes and low-rise condos stretched down the block, the lots uniform, the landscaping tidy. It all lent a surreal quality this early. Like that Jim Carrey mov—

  Two men, concealed in black hoodies, stepped around the high shrubbery next door. Sean recognized the pungent body wash a second before he pegged the face, but it was already too late. Victor raised a 9mm pistol. “Get in the car.”

  Jace parked the Suburban outside the shelter’s address and plucked the phone from the beverage holder. The new phone number Sean gave him last night rang unanswered. Jace flicked a glance at his watch. Seven on the nose. He unhooked his seatbelt and flung open the door, frowning up at the house.

  Oversleeping was not Sean’s problem. As a kid he’d been a sleepwalker, causing Mom untold anxiety that he’d wander out into the city streets. Wasted energy in the end—all Sean ever did was clean the house, or gather anything on tables and counters and line them all up by size.

  Jace grabbed the thick file off the passenger seat and opened the rear door. Three banker’s boxes stuffed with more money-laundering evidence waited. He’d stayed at the office most of the night, combing through two of the boxes, and could probably recite the pages verbatim. Of great interest were several small businesses Adyton either bought or sold from Salvatore Donatello. Collins had dotted other substantial lines between Adyton’s blood artifact smuggling and the mob cleaning the vast sums to smuggle offshore. Just wait until the task force heard about this. Jace jammed the file into its designated slot and slammed the door.

  He vaulted up the front steps and pressed the buzzer next to the keypad. A male asked his business, and he answered with his credentials. The door clicked into unlock mode, and Jace strolled in. “Looking for Sean Quinn and Gretchen Allen,” he said to the compact security guard.

  “They walked outta here about ten minutes ago.”

  Shit. Adrenalin dumped into Jace’s bloodstream. He glanced at the security screens on the desk. “Did you see anything?”

  “Guy stood at the curb looking down the street then called to Gretch. They both walked off screen.”

  Before the guard was even through the explanation, Jace shook his head. Sean didn’t just walk off. He obeyed like a puppy, always had. It was why Jace had sought him out last Saturday night. And, as expected, Sean’s brilliance had delivered instantaneous results. Jace jerked his head at the monitors. “Let me see.”

  The video replay showed exactly what the guard had seen—if you didn’t know Sean. His at-ease body language consisted of a slouchy looseness and an expression just shy of sullen. Both characteristics were prominently visible when Sean, knapsack slung over his shoulder, had reached the curb and glanced around. What the guard hadn’t picked up on was the subtle slide into what Cage used to call Sean’s Cornered Rat stance. The alert shifting of his posture, the way his expression shuttered. All precursors to usually impressive, whiplash-fast kicks and punches. This time, though, without looking at Gretch, Sean said something, and seconds later she rose from the top step, picked up her knapsack, and followed him past the row of hedges, off screen. “Play it back.”

  No one was visible on the other side of the hedges, but seeing Sean morph into Cornered Rat a second time brought out the scorching flare of fear that Jace had battled all week. He should have never gotten his brother so deeply involved. The help at O’Hare had been enough. Now two more lives were in the hands of terrorists who had no qualms with savage executions. Jace sucked air in through his mouth, sweat streaming down his back.

  Which faction of the underworld was responsible this time? Who else knew Sean and Gretch were sheltering here? On Sean’s request, Jace had notified Hannah that they were safe but hadn’t told her where. Only Margo knew.

  Jace grew aware of the guard studying him curiously. Christ, how long had he stood there gaping indecisively? “Thanks,” he said, pivoting for the door.

  Outside, the street was waking up for the week’s final workday. A screen door slammed; an SUV reversed out of the driveway catty-corner to the shelter; a woman in a housecoat a few doors down stooped to collect her newspaper. Jace rounded the thick hedges and stopped short. Footprints dented the dewy lawn leading from the driveway to the hedge. He crouched, combing the area for any other clues. Deep underneath the thick branches lay two black CFD Station One Twenty-six knapsacks.

  He grabbed the bags and rifled through them. Sean’s burner phone lay on top of one, and Gretch’s phone was stuck inside a manila envelope in the other. No voicemail or texts on Sean’s to explain the disappearance. Jace turned Gretch’s phone on and paced while the device sought service. As expected, unread texts popped onscreen without needing her passcode. One from Dwayne Collins. Just before eight last night.

  A deep chill shuddered through Jace as he read probably the last text that man had typed.

  Donatello? Nasty!

  Just connected him to a massive ML scheme involving huge Chicago names. I’ll be famous this time next week!

  Stay safe, buttercup.

  “Hell, Collins,” Jace muttered. “You were famous about fifteen minutes later.” He grabbed his own phone and called his boss.

  Margo chirped out her usual cheerleader greeting, which triggered fresh rage and screwed with his usual ice-cold command of a situation. “Donatello is rolling on Adyton,” she crowed. “He’s supplied the old man with multiple warehouse spaces, has steered him into local investments that are shams for hiding money, and Donatello will turn state’s evidence. As soon as you collect Sean and Gretch, come right back to headquarters.”

  “They’ve been kidnapped,” Jace snarled through his clenched jaw. “Who’d you leak the address to?”

  36

  A few blocks from the shelter, Victor swung into a gas station and parked around back. Even though Sean breathed through his mouth, lightheadedness paralyzed him. The overpowering smell of sweet body wash stole all the fresh oxygen.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Gretch, seated in the front passenger seat, demanded loudly for the third time.

  “Would you shut up already?” Victor threw the car into park and motioned to Black Hoodie. The two men forced them from the Jetta and toward a white van with ELIAS BAKERY stenciled on the sides. Sean scanned the lot. There were no windows on this side of the gas station mart. One security camera hung off-kilter, connected by a lone screw.

  “Get your hands off me,” Gretch shrieked. Sean twisted from Black Hoodie and lunged toward the bodybuilder. Victor dragged Gretch in front of him, one hand splayed over her boob, the other aiming the 9mm at Sean’s face. Sean halted feet from impact. A front snap would take care of the weapon, but not the other gun, now trained on him from the left side.

  Sean exhaled harshly. “Get your hands off her.
” His voice held all the authority of the sensei, and Victor’s brows rose.

  “Or what, nerd?”

  “Or I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Victor snorted and jerked his head. “Get in the van.” His left hand hadn’t moved, and Gretch’s expression mixed mutinous hate with panic. Sean backed away. It was the wisest move, but his martial arts side trembled with bloodlust.

  She was shoved in first and cried out in pain. Sean leaped in unassisted and crouched beside her prone body.

  “Come here,” he murmured, hauling her upright. The windowless doors were slammed shut, enclosing them in darkness and the residual buttery scent of baked goods. He encircled her shivering body in a tight embrace.

  “Who is that? Why is he doing this?” Gretch asked. In two years of dodging her regal insults and haughty retorts, he’d never glimpsed a softer side to her. A side that had turned out to have extensive tentacles of warmth, fear, and love tunneling under her prickly composure. Now the terror in her outraged tone was nakedly transparent.

  “Adyton’s great-nephew,” Sean explained.

  “Adyton?” She jolted against him, her breath puffing his cheek. “Oh yeah,” she said. “He was one of the bodyguards who came in last Monday.”

  “This van is from the bakery next door to Days of Olde, so I guess that’s Adyton’s too, and no doubt where we’re headed.”

  The driver’s-side door slammed, and the men spoke unintelligibly beyond the dividing panel.

  “You said I was delusional,” Gretch accused. “That only the mob was after us.”

  “If there’s a connection between Donatello and Adyton, it has to be micro-thin.”

  “Well, here’s your damn proof.” She tsked her disgust. Beneath his palms, her muscles were both rigid and quaking. “If we get out of this, I am totally applying to the FBI.”

  “God help us all,” he muttered, then grinned at the kick to his shin. The angrier she got, the less room there was to be afraid.

  The van roared to life. “Listen,” he said, stoking the fire. “When we get to wherever he’s taking us, let me do all the talking.”

  “You are on my last nerve, Sean Quinn.” Her voice floated viciously in the dark. Strange how if he couldn’t see her wrath, it held less power over him.

  “Good. Keep that thought.” Tires screeched, and the van peeled out, tossing them to the floor. Immediately a wheel hit a pothole, which almost dislocated a vertebra in his neck. Gretch uttered profanities, and Sean continued bracing her against him through the aggressive speed and sharp turns, while visually mapping their route. About five minutes later, he was certain they’d entered the I-90 freeway.

  “What do you think’s going to happen?” she asked in a small voice.

  Damn. The fear had returned. He tightened his arms. “If there’s a God, the police will see this wildly erratic driving and engage in a high-speed pursuit.”

  She shrugged out of his grip. “We’re in trouble, Sean. Snap out of the smarty-pants responses.”

  Sean kept silent. Social niceties were beyond him on a good day. Spouting false comfort completely eluded him. They were screwed, full stop. He sucked in air to dissipate the despair. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Gretch,” he said. “I don’t know why Adyton would want us. If only I hadn’t chosen to get off at that fucking El stop.”

  A pause. She gripped his hand in hers. “If only I wasn’t such a whack job you had to bodyguard from stalker dates.”

  He could barely make out her features in the dark. “You trying to own my guilt?”

  “Just sharing the burden. You tend to be very grabby with the martyr role.”

  He grinned and squeezed her hand. Yeah. He’d needed her snark as much as she needed to be angry. His thoughts shifted to action. These van doors latched in the middle. At the destination, one of the men would be standing right in the center, well within ambush kicking distance.

  Gretch snuggled back in Sean’s arms and sighed. “We need to think. Preplan. I say Adyton is aware I’m behind the eBay bid.”

  “Or he caught you in one of those lies Tuesday. But that would mean he never bought my Bixby role or the conduit service between art buyers and sellers. So why keep the Quran at Moore and Morrow for restoration? Why waste my time the next day at that warehouse on Knox?”

  “Knox?”

  “Mmhmm. Hundreds of crates. You can’t believe how much black-market smuggling is going on right beneath Chicago’s noses.”

  The van exited the freeway. Their bodies swayed together with each acceleration and brake just like Tuesday on the train. Sean let his head loll on the metal siding, picturing the van parking, doors opening, him crouched to kick the gun out of Victor’s hand.

  “There may be another connection,” Gretch said softly.

  “What?”

  “I saw an inventory list on Walter’s desk last Monday from Adyton, listing a Knox address. Twenty items totaling a hundred thousand dollars. But after he met with Adyton, he gave me the list to type up and the price had been whited out and changed to sixty million.”

  “Sixty?” A chill spread goosebumps along Sean’s arms. “What kind of items?”

  “Pottery, statues, reliefs… that sort of thing. And a few words were handwritten in Arabic. I meant to go back in and use the translating app on my cell, but forgot.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  She snorted. “The week got a little crazy after that.”

  Sean processed the information and shook his head. “There’s no way Walter is involved.”

  “You’d think, right? What with the whole churchgoing, ‘our company’s reputation is critical’ thing he’s got going on?”

  “Do you remember the buyer?”

  She whistled out a breath. “Umm… Tomas Hussain. Not a name I recognized. Not one of our regulars.”

  The van braked hard again, and they fought for balance. After righting herself and swearing revenge, Gretch said, “Walter’s definitely been in a crappy mood lately, though. I just figured it was issues at home. I know his daughter goes off to college this fall. What if he needs more money? What if he thought connecting up with Adyton’s crates of artifacts would help expand the business? The week goes on, your brother and Margo storm the office…” Her shoulders rose and fell. “Suddenly there’s suspicion the Quran may be connected to terrorism. Walter’s bad mood could be his guilty conscience.”

  Sean shook his head again. “It’s not Walter. We need to find out who this Hussain is. A hundred thousand changed to sixty mil sounds like massive bribery to me. Or hiding money.”

  “Hiding money?”

  “Massively overpaying for goods or real estate, like in messy divorce proceedings, for example. The husband might divest as many assets as possible before the wife’s lawyer finds them.”

  “How is that hiding? Now the husband is out sixty million.”

  “Because in return, the other guy, the buyer, will sell something back at a later date for the same figure minus a generous fee.” So the question was: had Dwayne found out about this list? And what did this have to do with them being dragged here at gunpoint?

  The van whipped in a tight circle, throwing them to the cold metal floor again. A grind of gears, and the van lurched in reverse. They righted themselves once more, and Gretch’s string of profanities grew.

  “Listen,” Sean said, leaning so close his nose bumped her neck. “The second Victor stops this van, I’ll be looking for a chance to kick his ass. If there’s even a remote opportunity, you need to run, okay?”

  “Wait—”

  “Run, Gretch. Doesn’t matter where. Don’t look back.”

  The motor died. Two doors slammed, rocking the van. Sean scooted to the middle and lay on his coccyx with his knees raised, feet aimed at the latches.

  “Sean, wait,” she whispered urgently.

  “Shh!”

  The doors whipped open. Light blinded him, but not enough that he couldn’t see. No Victor. Instead Black Hoodi
e and another young man stood on either side of the open doors, .45s pressed low to their sides. Because the open doors blocked them, no one outside the van would see the guns. Shit.

  “Hop along,” Victor said, rounding from the driver’s side. Sean studied the three men—two on the right, one on the left. All holding guns. Behind them was the open back entrance to the bakery. The freshly baked aromas were tantalizing and completely at odds with the threat they faced.

  Sean was manhandled out and shoved through the door. “Tie him,” Victor called, and in seconds, more slim plastic encircled his wrists. Behind him, a scuffle ensued and Gretch swore loudly. Sean spun and plowed into the other two men. Black Hoodie fell with the loud thump, but the other guy jabbed his gun in Sean’s side. He froze as the hammer was cocked.

  Two feet away, Victor and Gretch were in an all-out struggle, him trying to take liberties and her attempting castration by kicking. “You and me,” Victor muttered with a leer, “we’re going to have some fun.”

  Sean yanked at the zip tie, and last night’s scabs split open. “Leave her alone,” he snarled. Black Hoodie staggered to his feet and jammed his gun against Sean’s forehead.

  “I will kill you,” Gretch shrieked. She let fly another off-balanced kick that Victor easily sidestepped.