Not voluntarily, at least.
And if he tried, she’d break his neck.
* * *
THEY DROVE TO CARLYLE in the telephone company van, each of them lost in their own thoughts, remaining silent, as if the utterance of a single word might somehow jinx them.
When they found the compound, to no one’s surprise it was lit up, signaling that the place was in full operation.
Parking in the shadows of a tree, several yards from the gated front entrance, Vincent leveled a pair of binoculars at the drive and said, “Bingo. We’ve got ourselves a Lexus.”
Rafe felt his heartbeat quicken. His instincts had been right. Lisa was inside.
Please be inside.
There was a high stone fence and a lot of foliage surrounding the compound. A uniformed security guard stood near the gate with watchful eyes, undoubtedly warned to keep a lookout for the police. Any approach would be turned away with demands for a warrant—something Rafe and crew were unable to provide.
But the sight of this telephone company truck—if the guard had, indeed, seen them—did not seem to arouse any suspicions.
Pulling out of the shadows, they did a single sweep around the compound to assess their options and confirm that the blueprints had been accurate. There were no neighboring houses for several hundred yards, and they decided the isolation could only work in their favor.
Rafe and Kate were dropped off near the west quadrant, both carrying an extra weapon, a miniature flashlight and a lightweight headset that Mike had set them up with. Rafe wished he had a pair of night goggles, to boot, but this was a run-and-gun operation and they weren’t exactly swimming in taxpayer-funded supplies.
The fence was about eight feet high. Rafe gave Kate a boost up, then she, in turn, pulled him up after. They each peered into the darkness and saw a wide stretch of lawn that led first to a guest cottage, then on to the main house beyond, and were relieved to see the area free of dog droppings.
Either the cleanup crew was very good at its job, or guard dogs had been forfeited in favor of manpower.
Earlier, they had discussed the possibility of alarm sensors, but a search of Sloan’s credit card records—courtesy of a computer hack by Mario—showed no signs of any security company purchases in the past ten years.
Rafe and Kate waited a tense moment, in case their presence had been detected, then dropped to the ground inside the compound and darted toward the shadows of a nearby shade tree.
Rafe scanned the yard and saw no sign of a guard until his gaze fell on the main house. There were two men posted out front, and he assumed there would be more teams posted at the sides and in the back.
Kate gestured toward another shade tree, which was only a yard or so from the guesthouse. They waited until both security men had turned away, then took off, making a beeline for the shadows.
As they crouched down, Kate assessed their surroundings and said quietly, “I’m figuring at least eight hostiles at the main house and possibly a couple of outliers on patrol.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Rafe told her.
Kate touched her headset. “Team leader, we’ve only got two hostiles in sight, but have to assume there are more.”
The radio crackled in Rafe’s ear and Vincent said, “Roger, Kate, we can confirm two on our end.”
“Same here,” Billy said. “And we came very close to an encounter with a patrol jockey on the way in.”
“Did they spot you?” Vincent asked.
“They would’ve lit the place up if they had.”
“All right,” Vincent said. “Let’s do this the smart way. One man handles the security detail, the other takes the house. Move quickly and efficiently, and no screwups, or the hostage could wind up dead.”
Rafe didn’t like the sound of that, but he knew Vincent was right. He turned to Kate and they spoke quietly for a moment, agreeing that Kate would handle the guards.
A moment later, they were moving again, headed for the main house.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sloan wanted to kill something.
It was just that simple.
Ever since Lisa had told him that the hit man he’d hired had not only failed to do his job, but also had been hit by a truck, a nearly uncontrollable feeling of anger had risen inside him.
If the hit man had gotten himself killed, what had he left behind?
Was this something Sloan needed to be worried about?
His attorney, Berletti, had repeatedly insisted on the phone that there were no links to him, but Sloan had learned a long time ago—back in his early Chicago days—that if you relied on other people to do your dirty work, mistakes were sometimes made. And those mistakes could come back to bite you instead of the idiot who made them.
But as disturbing as this news may have been, it was nothing compared to the fact that Rafe Franco was still alive. Sloan had been promised that once the man was thoroughly humiliated and his reputation destroyed, he would become worm food.
But that hadn’t happened. Franco was still out there somewhere, probably looking for Lisa at this very moment. Because Sloan knew the deputy had to be behind the little sting operation she had tried to pull. He had probably been the one to talk her into it.
And that was the thing that angered him most of all. That Lisa had allowed herself to be manipulated like that, had even pulled a gun on him—and had actually tried to use it.
Here he had given this witch his heart, and she had been treating him like dirt, like used tissue, from the moment they’d met. She wasn’t just a gold digger, she was a coldhearted tart who deserved to suffer some very serious pain before he snuffed her out for good.
Maybe if she was dead, he’d be able to forget about her. Maybe if she was dead, this uncontrollable feeling of yearning and lust he felt whenever he thought of her would go away. Because he desperately needed it to go away.
Sloan couldn’t understand what it was about Lisa that cut so deep. He had slept with a hundred different women in his time, but he’d never had this feeling before. This sense of complete powerlessness.
And that scared him more than any thug with a gun could ever come close to.
Sloan sat in his kitchen, anger coursing through him, staring at a row of prescription bottles lined up on the table in front of him. He had seven doctors on retainer, and the narcotic cocktails they gave him helped dull the edge he often felt.
But they couldn’t quell the anger.
Not this time.
Knocking back his fourth vodka rocks, he slammed the glass on the table and got to his feet. He’d been sitting here stewing long enough. Lisa should have packed that dynamite body of hers into the negligee by now, and he planned to teach her a lesson before he killed her. Reduce her to a simpering mass of human waste and make her beg for mercy before he did the final deed.
Then maybe he could get some rest.
Maybe the anger would disappear.
Maybe this ache would go away once and for all.
* * *
WHEN KATE GAVE HIM the signal, Rafe darted across the lawn toward the side of the main house. The two security men posted near the door there had foolishly let down their guard, and Kate had taken the opportunity to sneak up behind them and neutralize them quickly and quietly.
Now Rafe was heading through the door, gun in hand, hoping there wouldn’t be any surprises inside.
But the moment he got it closed behind him, he heard the faint rustle of fabric as another security man closed in on him. Whirling around, Rafe grabbed a handful of the guy’s shirt, jerked him forward, then spun him and put him in a choke hold.
A moment later, the guy was on the floor, out cold.
Although Rafe had looked at the blueprints and had a general sense of how to navigate this house, there were unknown variables at work here. He had no idea how many more of these monkeys he’d have to deal with.
He scanned the area around him and saw that he was in the mudroom, a drain in the floor, a si
nk and hose in the corner, jackets and boots hung on hooks in the wall.
Beyond this would be a long hallway that, to the left, led to a massive living room and kitchen. To the right were three of the seven bedrooms the house boasted, including the master, all the way in back.
Rafe figured Lisa could be in any one of these rooms. But knowing where they were located was one thing, and getting to them without sounding any alarms, was another thing altogether. His only sense of comfort was that Vincent and crew were bound to be in the house, as well.
To confirm this, he touched the button on his headset three times—the signal that he’d made it inside unscathed. A moment later, the signal came back, and he knew the game was on.
Pulling open a closet, he stuffed the security man inside, then moved to the doorway adjacent to the hall and carefully peeked around the threshold, checking both ends for any sign of hostile activity.
Seeing that it was clear, he stepped into the hallway and went to work.
* * *
LISA WAS STANDING at the window when the door opened behind her. She had thought for a moment that she saw movement out there. Someone slipping through the shadows. And for that split second, her heart had kicked up, a feeling of hope welling up inside her.
It was Rafe out there. It had to be. She knew he wouldn’t rest until he found her.
But the hope died the moment she went to the window and saw nothing but the vast expanse of lawn, empty and untouched, lit by the lights from the compound and what little moon there was in the sky.
Then the door opened behind her and she turned, her heart sinking as Oliver stepped into the room.
There was a glassiness to his eyes that she immediately recognized. He was drunk and stoned and angry, and that had never led to anything good in their lives.
He was holding a gun. He let it dangle casually at his side, then used it to gesture to the negligee still lying on the floor.
“I thought I told you to put that on,” he said flatly. “And when I tell you something you’re supposed to do it.”
Lisa eyed him defiantly.
“Or what?” she said. “You’re going to shoot me?”
Oliver smiled drunkenly. “I’m saving that for later. Once you’ve admitted to me how much you love me. How you can’t live without me. Which, come to think of it, is pretty much true.”
“Go to hell,” she told him.
“Yeah?” He moved toward her, raising the gun. He grabbed hold of her arm and twisted it, jerking her forward, pressing the barrel against her forehead. “The way I see it, that’s already where you are. The bullet is just a formality.”
Lisa struggled, wincing in pain. “Let go of me,” she cried.
He pressed the barrel harder and she could feel it denting her skin. “You like that, babe? You like having this smoke stick poking at you? Or maybe you’re interested in another kind of stick. Believe me, that can be arranged.”
He released her arm and shoved her to the floor. Then he kicked at the negligee, flipping it toward her.
“Put it on,” he said.
But she shook her head. “No.”
He crouched next to her and pressed the gun against her forehead again.
“Put. It. On.”
“You’re sick, you know that? You need help, Oliver. You’re so drugged up and angry you don’t even know what you’re doing anymore. Why don’t you let me help you?”
The offer seemed to surprise him, and he lowered the gun.
“Help me?” he said. “You want to help me? Is that what you were thinking when you drew a gun on me in our living room? You were gonna help me?”
“You were hurting me and I panicked,” she said. “I didn’t even realize what I was doing.”
“If you think that was pain, Leese, you’ve got no concept of what real pain is. Now take those clothes off and get into this negligee, or you’ll feel pain you’ve never in your life knew existed.”
“You can’t control me, Oliver. I won’t do it. And nothing you can do to me will change my mind.”
He nodded slowly. “We’ll see about that,” he said, then got to his feet again. “I grew up in Chicago, babe, and I learned from the best. Men who make the torture specialists for the CIA look like amateurs.” He grinned. “By the time I get done with you, you’ll be begging me to let you put that thing on. This is gonna be a night to re—”
Lisa lashed out suddenly, driving a fist straight into Oliver’s kneecap. He howled and stumbled back, grabbing for it as Lisa jumped to her feet and swept past him, heading straight for the bedroom door.
But Oliver spun around and grabbed her by the hair, jerking her back with such force that she thought her scalp might come loose.
Pain rocketed through her skull. She grabbed at her head as Oliver pulled her backward into the room and spun her around again, pushing her toward the bed.
She sprawled across it and saw the white-hot heat in his eyes. A fury so intense that all rational thought had abandoned him, leaving nothing behind but the reptile. The animal brain.
“You just made a very bad mistake,” he said. “A very bad—”
“Sloan!” a voice shouted as the door burst open behind him. And to Lisa’s utter joy and relief, Rafe was standing in the doorway, gun raised, zeroed in on Oliver’s back.
Oliver froze in place. Didn’t move.
“Drop the weapon,” Rafe told him. “Now!”
But Oliver didn’t seem to hear him. As if he had disappeared inside himself and had lost all communication with the outside world.
“Do it now, Sloan! Or I’ll put one in your back!”
Oliver finally nodded, and started to move. Crouching toward the floor, he lowered the gun to lay it on the carpet. But was only halfway there when Lisa saw something deadly flicker in his eyes.
Then suddenly he brought the gun up again, whirled around toward Rafe—
“Die, you son of a—”
And Rafe had no choice but to fire.
One. Twice. Three times.
The bullets punctured Oliver’s chest and knocked him backward. He landed in a heap at the foot of the bed and didn’t move.
Rafe stepped forward quickly, kicked the gun aside, looked at Lisa on the bed.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared for someone in my life,” he said. “Are you okay?”
And that was when tears sprang into Lisa’s eyes. She launched herself toward Rafe and fell into his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The wedding took place on a Sunday morning in June.
They held the ceremony in Grandma Natalie’s backyard, the entire Franco clan in attendance.
Rafe’s brother, Vincent, served as best man, and Beatrice—dressed in her Sunday best—stood in as maid of honor.
The ceremony was brief and sweet. Lisa wore a beautiful lace chiffon wedding gown that was taken out of mothballs and dry-cleaned for the occasion by Grandma Natalie. It was the very same dress Nonna had worn sixty years and eighty pounds earlier, on the day she married her dear departed husband, Alonzo.
Everyone said that Lisa looked radiant that day. Rafe himself thought she had never looked more beautiful. It seemed as if a weight had been lifted—and indeed it had—and its absence had made her stand taller, prouder, as she held the hand of the man she loved and promised her heart to him forever.
Rafe, in turn, could not have been happier as he offered his vow to her:
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my years,” he said. “And one of the worst was when I was stupid enough to let you go back in college. I won’t make that mistake again, Leese.” He paused. “I don’t know whether it was fate or just good luck that brought us back together, but thank God that it did. Because you are my heart. You beat inside me every moment of every day. And from this day forward I will love you, cherish you and do everything in my power to protect you and our beautiful daughter.”
By the time he was finished, they both had tears in their eyes.
And the kiss that followed was exquisite.
* * *
AFTER THE SHOOTING at Sloan’s house, Rafe, the other Francos and their rogue operation had been roundly condemned by the police and the press alike.
Until, that is, the data chip was revealed.
When all the guards had been neutralized and an ambulance was called for Sloan—although resuscitation was a moot point by then—Kate conducted a search of Sloan’s study and found a data chip in one of his desk drawers.
Plugging it into her phone, she quickly discovered that it was indeed the one taken from the bank, complete with promised names, dates and bribe amounts that exposed Sloan’s entire network of sycophants, including some of the very people who had condemned the Francos.
But once the information came to light, the dominoes began to fall. The first to cave was Lola Berletti, Sloan’s attorney, who volunteered to tell all in exchange for immunity. With her statement, Rafe was exonerated and the charges against him were dropped.
Kate and the organized crime unit were tasked with the arrests of five judges, fourteen police officers, two city council members and an FBI agent who had been in Sloan’s pocket for nearly fifteen years.
When the dust had cleared, Rafe did what he should have done three years ago in college. Because he’d known even then, despite their miscommunication, that he wanted his relationship with Lisa to last forever. And ever.
And ever.
So he asked her to marry him.
Now, standing here, exchanging vows with the woman he loved, in front of the family he loved, was a moment he would never forget.
But the highlight of the day was little Chloe.
Rafe’s daughter had not only been the picture of perfection serving as flower girl for the occasion, but also she, with the help of Beatrice, had been in charge of decorating, as well.
And taped to the back of every folding chair lined up in Grandma’s Natalie’s backyard, were her carefully colored pictures.
Of pink and blue kitty cats.
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