Take the Key and Lock Her Up

by LENA DIAZ,

  “You really do think I killed her, don’t you?” Devlin asked.

  “I wouldn’t have issued the EXIT order otherwise.”

  Frustration curled inside him. “What evidence do you have against me?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “You’re damn right it does. I’ve been nothing but loyal to EXIT’s mission for over a decade. I deserve to know what kind of trumped-up proof someone is using against me.”

  “I’ve seen the pictures you took of Shannon,” Cyprian accused. “There’s evidence in the pictures that proves your guilt.”

  Damn. He wished he could mention the garrote, and that anyone could have copied his design. “What evidence? How did you get pictures if I supposedly took them? I certainly wouldn’t have sent them to you if I had.”

  “I’m not going to debate you on this. You were sloppy. That’s the end of it.”

  Devlin kneaded the back of his neck. This was a nightmare. “Ask yourself why I would hurt Shannon. There are usually signs when someone’s going off the grid. You and I both know that. This job is hell on a person. Not everyone can handle it. But when enforcers lose it, when the work we do warps them and twists them and they can no longer see the good, the signs are there. Did you see signs with me? I know you didn’t because there weren’t any. Take another look at your so-called evidence, but this time, ask yourself how it could be faked. Because I guaran-freaking-tee the evidence is fake. I didn’t kill her.”

  A deep sigh sounded through the phone. “I’d love nothing more than to believe you, Devlin. And even though it shames me to admit it, knowing what you’ve done, I feel empathy for you. I can’t imagine what you all go through. But the work we do is essential. We eradicate evil in the world to save innocents, to keep our country safe, to keep our families safe. I can’t turn a blind eye when one of my enforcers, regardless of who he is or if he’s been like a son to me through the years, goes bad. It’s my duty, my burden as the head of this company.”

  “Damn it, Cyprian. What do I have to do to convince you I’m being framed?”

  “Nothing. You can’t.”

  The conviction in his boss’s voice shocked Devlin. Cyprian was an intelligent man. He had to know it was ludicrous for Devlin to have taken the pictures and sent them to him. So there must have been something else that had Cyprian convinced, in addition to the pictures. Something so damning there was no doubt in Cyprian’s mind of Devlin’s guilt.

  “Why not?” he asked quietly. “What do you have that convinces you so absolutely of my guilt?”

  Cyprian didn’t answer. He’d obviously said everything he intended to say on the subject.

  Devlin checked the digital display on his watch. He was dangerously close to the two-minute mark. He had to hurry. “Who’s handling Cougar?”

  “You know I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “Whoever it is, tell them to leave Detective O’Malley alone. She said some stupid things in the alley this morning. She was reaching, throwing out theories to see if anything stuck. But she doesn’t know anything. I haven’t told her anything. She’s not a threat to EXIT. Promise me you won’t let anyone touch her. Do I have to remind you of rule number three, Cyprian? Never kill a cop.”

  “As long as the detective isn’t a threat to our mission, she’s safe.”

  “That’s not an answer. Have you issued an EXIT order for her?”

  The line clicked.

  “Cyprian?”

  No answer. Had he lost the connection? He pulled the phone back. No, the connection was fine. Cyprian had hung up. He’d stayed on too long. Cyprian had his location. He threw the blanket off and bolted from the van.

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  WHEN EMILY TURNED in to her driveway, something sparkling on her lawn caught her attention. She pulled into the garage, forced her aching body out of her car, and trudged out to the lawn. Pieces of broken glass that had once been the streetlight lay beside a large rock. At least now she knew why the light had been out last night. Some neighborhood kid must have been playing target practice. She’d forgotten to call the city to fix it, but calling would have to wait another day. The exhaustion she’d been holding off had kicked in, making her lids heavy, her movements sluggish. Once her head hit the pillow, she probably wouldn’t wake until tomorrow afternoon.

  Once inside, she slogged her way through the house toward her bedroom. Had she ever been this tired before? The closest she could remember was back in college, when she’d stayed up all night cramming for finals two days straight. Going without sleep was a bad idea back then and an even worse one now.

  She’d meant to go straight home this morning after Tuck had driven her back to the station, but a report had been waiting on her desk for her to review. Then a detective who’d been wanting her opinion on a case for days stopped by. She’d felt obligated to listen to him while he droned on about his case. And then she gave him suggestions for developing new leads. One thing led to another, and morning had become afternoon before she’d finally escaped. Now the thought of her head hitting the pillow sounded better than chocolate, better than really good, sweaty sex, better than both—together.

  Unless, maybe, if the sex was with Devlin. It might be worth more sacrificed sleep to lick an entire jar of hot chocolate off his body, paying special attention to a few specific, extremely interesting parts of his anatomy. She giggled, then clapped her hands over her mouth. She was not a giggle type of girl. Ever. And what in the world had made her have those kinds of thoughts about Devlin? Obviously she was more exhausted than even she’d realized.

  Another giggle escaped as she swayed on her feet in her bedroom doorway. She crossed the room and stowed her gun in the top drawer in the bedside table, then hurriedly shed her clothes, not even bothering to stuff them in the hamper.

  Her mother would have been horrified.

  That thought elicited a whole host of giggles. She couldn’t quite ignore her proper upbringing enough to go to bed dirty, so she took a quick shower. Big mistake. The warm water relaxed her muscles like limp noodles. Barely able to stand anymore, she grabbed a soft, thin T-shirt and panties from her top dresser drawer and yanked them on while she stumbled across the room. Her last thought as she collapsed onto the mattress was that her mother would have been scandalized that she didn’t pull the comforter back first.

  She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

  THE TWO-CAR GARAGE across the street from Emily’s house was hot and sticky, but Devlin had performed stakeouts in far worse conditions. He’d been surprised that Emily had come home so early in the day. It was only a little past noon. Maybe she hadn’t slept well last night, or she wanted to review her case notes somewhere away from the noise and bustle of the squad room. Either way worked for him. At least he knew where she was and that she was safe.

  It had taken him several hours to shake Cougar off his tail. Just seconds after exiting the minivan, he’d been crouching behind an SUV two rows away when Cougar had wheeled into the parking garage. That had made it tricky—and time-consuming—to sneak out without being seen.

  Once he was out, he’d worked his way through the downtown area until he was certain his shadow was gone. After that he’d retrieved one of his stashed cars, along with a special go bag with the electronic surveillance equipment he needed for his next task—keeping watch over Emily. The bag also had the weapons he’d need to fight Cougar and his handler and whoever else was after him, if it came to that.

  Watching her house from his car was too obvious in a residential neighborhood. Someone would have called neighborhood watch eventually. So, instead, he’d slipped into the garage in the house across the street. It was a risky move, since her neighbors were home. But it gave him the added advantage of being close by if he needed to get to Emily quickly.

  The major downside to his hiding place was that the neighbors could decide at any time to leave the house—by way of their garage. Which was why he’d wedged a glove from
the homeowner’s gardening supplies underneath the door that led into the garage. Not a long-term solution, but it should give him enough warning to escape through the valet door into the side yard.

  He hoped his vigilance would prove unnecessary. Cyprian was too honorable to ignore Devlin’s warnings that Emily wasn’t a threat without checking the facts. In a best-case scenario, he’d cancel the EXIT order and she’d be safe, leaving Devlin to focus on his self-assigned mission—finding Kelly Parker.

  Her name hadn’t come up in his conversation with Cyprian. Either he didn’t know Kelly was missing or he did, and that was the real reason Cyprian had issued an EXIT order. That seemed like the more likely scenario. Anyone who hurt Kelly would be number one on Cyprian’s kill list. The only way Devlin could turn this around was to find her, alive.

  But right now he had to focus on watching Emily and figuring out if she even needed his protection. Finding where she lived had been ridiculously easy. A simple Internet search for the name O’Malley had yielded only one possible match: E. O’Malley. He’d broken into her house a few hours earlier to verify it was the right house and to familiarize himself with the layout. She had a security alarm, but it was a cheap, mass-market model that any self-respecting burglar could disarm in a couple of minutes.

  It had taken Devlin less than one.

  Pictures on the walls had confirmed it belonged to Emily. She either had a large family or a lot of friends, maybe both. A quick search confirmed she lived alone. No roommates, no pets, which made his job easier. But that would also made Cougar’s job easier, if he showed.

  Devlin twisted one of the knobs on the dual-purpose watch that was also a receiver for the tiny hidden cameras he’d set up outside of Emily’s house. The crystal-clear display showed the front view. A few taps on the screen and he’d checked all four sides of her property. As of 1:15 p.m., all was quiet and Emily was safe.

  The hours dragged by. Sweat trickled down his neck as the garage baked beneath the hot summer sun. He’d prepared for the heat, keeping hydrated with bottles of water and energy drinks. And he had a covered bucket for when his bladder was full. Occasionally he cracked open the garage’s valet door to make sure the way was still clear if he had to leave in a hurry. Those brief moments allowed a tiny bit of cooler, fresher air inside, but there was no true relief from the toasty temperatures until well after the sun had set and the garage plunged into darkness.

  He rolled his head on his shoulders and stretched, then took a few turns around the cars in the garage as he had every hour to keep his muscles from cramping. He settled back on the floor and went through his routine—tapping the display on the watch, studying each camera view. Everything looked as it should. He was about to lower his watch when something at the back of the house had every one of his muscles tensing.

  What had he seen? There, near the back door. Movement at the kitchen window. Emily? Had she gotten up for a drink? A dark shape passed another window. The shadow was too tall and broad to be made by the petite woman he’d held in his arms earlier today.

  Someone had broken into Emily’s house.

  CHOKING! CAN’T BREATHE! Can’t . . . breathe!

  Emily jerked awake to the scratchy feel of cheap cotton filling her mouth. She tried to draw in a deep breath, but the material tickled the back of her throat, making her cough and gag. Something hard and unyielding kept her from opening her eyes.

  What’s happening to me?

  She forced herself to breathe through her nose instead of fighting the cloth. Slow, shallow breaths. Was she still asleep? In the grips of a nightmare? She tried to reach for whatever was forcing her eyes shut. Her hands jerked short. Cold metal jangled and chafed against her skin. Handcuffs! Someone had cuffed her hands to the bed. Oh, God. She was blindfolded, gagged, and restrained.

  She tried to scream, but it came out a muffled moan against the gag.

  “Don’t fight it,” a male voice said from beside the bed. “It will only make it hurt worse. I’m really sorry, Detective. Killing you goes against my training, but an EXIT order has been issued. I don’t have a choice. Cyprian doesn’t change his mind on these things. Ordinarily, I’d have killed you while you slept. Quick and painless. But I need you. For a little while anyway. My apologies.”

  His apologies? What kind of twisted lunatic tied someone up, threatened to kill them, and apologized for it? In spite of his words, she didn’t believe he had any regrets. She sensed his excitement, the thrill of anticipation. The only person he was fooling was himself.

  She tried to kick toward the sound of his voice, but her legs pulled up short. They were cuffed, just like her hands. She was staked out on the bed like an obscene offering to some primal beast, a sacrifice.

  Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Not tears of pain or even fear. They were tears of rage at the indignity of being treated this way. She tried to speak, hoping the intruder would be curious about what she was saying. If she could get him to remove the gag, or even remove her blindfold, she might have a chance. A chance to figure out what was happening, to make a plan. Talk to him. Stall for time.

  “It won’t be long now,” he said. “You’re the perfect bait. Ace thinks he’ll feel guilty for involving you, that he’ll feel compelled to save you. That’s what we’re counting on.”

  Bait? Who would feel guilty? Wait . . . that voice. There was something familiar about it. Where had she heard it before? She tried to push the gag out of her mouth with her tongue. The material was wadded up tight, held in place by tape that pulled and contorted her cheeks as she fought against it.

  “You’re making this harder on yourself,” he chided. “No need to suffer. Relax. I promise I’ll kill you quickly. You won’t feel a thing, or at least not much.”

  The horrifying words said in such a nonchalant tone made the hair on her arms prickle.

  A rush of air swirled through the room.

  She jerked against her bonds, expecting the crushing blow of a bat or the sharp, biting thrust of a knife sliding between her ribs. She tensed, waiting for the inevitable blow.

  A muffled curse sounded from the foot of the bed. Something heavy fell to the floor. Another rush of air. Awful sounds, someone . . . choking, gagging.

  Footsteps. The mattress dipped and sagged beneath someone’s weight. The hard warmth of a knee pressed against her right side. Her captor must have been standing by the bed, bracing his bent leg on the mattress as he knelt over her.

  She protested against the gag and tried to twist away. The metal bit into her wrists again, holding her tight.

  A hard tug and the blindfold was suddenly gone. She blinked against the overhead light, trying to focus on the man leaning over her, his hands doing something with the cuffs on her right wrist.

  Devlin Buchanan. She stared in confusion, unable to associate him with the voice she’d heard moments ago. But what other explanation was there? Her confusion gave way to shock and horror. She’d been a fool to think he wasn’t involved in the deaths of those women, or to doubt her first impression that he was some kind of assassin. Now he was here to silence her, to keep her from exposing the truth. Oh God, how could she have been so wrong? How could she have kissed him and fantasized about making love with him if he was capable of such heinous crimes?

  Her wrist jerked. The cuff fell away. She balled her hand into a fist and aimed a punch at the handsome face that hid the monster within. His left hand whipped up and her fist slammed into the flat of his open palm. The blocked blow zinged through her arm, making her cry out.

  “Be still so you don’t hurt yourself again.” His words eerily echoed the words she’d heard seconds earlier. But the voice seemed different—deeper, with the snap of authority that had been missing before.

  He leaned over her again, his hands working at the cuffs on her left wrist. She blinked up at him, her right arm throbbing from her failed attempt to hit him. When the left cuff fell away, she didn’t try to hit him again. Confusion paralyzed her. Was Devlin the man who�
��d attacked her? If so, why would he free her without hurting her?

  He bounced off the mattress and moved to the foot of the bed, his warm hands gently lifting her right foot. Click. The third cuff fell away. He was definitely freeing her. Then . . . he wasn’t the one who’d handcuffed her in the first place?

  She tore the tape away from her mouth. The white-hot pain made her stiffen and gasp against the cloth still in her mouth. Blinking away the hot tears that had started in her eyes, she pulled out the wad of cloth and took a blessedly deep breath of air, then another.

  A gagging, wheezing noise had her sitting up and straining over the foot of the bed while Devlin worked on the last handcuff.

  There, on the floor of her bedroom, the man from the alley—Steve—lay gasping for air, his eyes wide, desperate, his fingers frantically gouging bloody tracks in his neck. Her hands flew to her own throat. This must be the man who’d attacked her, the voice she’d heard earlier.

  “What’s wrong with him? What . . . what did you do?”

  Devlin glanced at the man flopping on the floor like a dying fish, as if he’d forgotten about him. “He was going to kill you.” Apparently, he thought that was all the explanation needed. He pulled the cuff off her ankle, shoved the handcuffs in his pants pocket, and turned to the chest of drawers against the wall.

  Emily scrambled off the bed and knelt by the man on the floor. He was barely moving now. His fingers, like claws, convulsed in spasms against his neck, his eyes bulging, unfocused. The overhead light glinted on a thin, shiny line pressing deep into his flesh. Bile rose in her throat. It was a wire, pulled so tight blood seeped around it.

  She gently lifted his head, following the wire with her fingers, trying to find a way to remove it.

  “You’re wasting time.” Devlin threw something onto the bed.

  “Saving a life is never a waste of time.”

  “Depends on the life.”

  She blinked up at him, shocked at the bitterness in his voice. But he was already riffling through the dresser drawers again. She plucked at the wire. Her probing fingers found a bump at the back of his neck. She leaned down to look. The ends of the wire were twisted together with nothing left to grasp. Beneath the sickeningly efficient garrote were two discarded pieces of wood with tiny pieces of broken wire sticking out of them.