The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 1

by Maegan Beaumont

  He shrugged, looking a bit deflated now that his anger had run its course. “You know I’m here, right? I’m always gonna be here,” he said to her in a low tone, his hazel eyes filled with concern.

  Her throat went tight, like someone was strangling her. She couldn’t talk, just nodded and looked away for a second.

  “You going back?”

  Sabrina cleared her throat. “Home? I don’t think I can. Not yet anyway.”

  Strickland stood. “Call her at least. Let her know you’re okay—after that…”

  Sabrina shook her head. “Val can wait.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the envelope and showed it to him. “Right now, you and I have bigger things to worry about.”

  14

  Dubai City, Dubai

  Michael barely made it to the living room before he stepped out of his pants and took off his shirt. He was completely nude in seconds.

  The woman behind him cleared her throat before speaking. “This would be easier if we could—”

  He didn’t even spare her a look. “I don’t want easy. I want fast. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can ask you to leave.”

  She didn’t answer him. Probably hurt her feelings but he didn’t care. Why would he? He barely knew her. In fact the only thing he really knew about her was that she was an FSS employee and her name was Mary. At least that’s the name she went by. Who knew for sure what her given name really was—not that he gave a shit about that either.

  He fixed his eyes on the door Ben had disappeared behind, waiting for the tickle of cool fingers along his spine. Ben’d been on the phone when he’d come in—who was he talking to?

  Her fingers were colder than he expected but he didn’t flinch. They traced over the bumps of his spine, one by one, until they reached the base—and pushed. The hard disc, as big and as flat as a dime, dug into the muscle that couched it.

  He kept his eyes trained on the door while she walked her fingers around the surrounding tissue. Whoever Ben was talking to, he didn’t want Michael to hear the conversation that was going on—

  She pushed a bit more before letting her fingers drop away. “Have you experienced any shortness of breath? Heart palpitations?” she said, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his bicep.

  He laughed. “Seriously? The man had a dirty bomb grafted to the base of my spine and he’s worried about my breathing?”

  Mary waited a few moments for the digitalized cuff to download its reading to his computerized medical file before removing the cuff. “Mr. Shaw has spent considerable resources on your procurement. He protects his investments.”

  Considerable resources—he’d heard that one before. How many favors did Livingston Shaw have to call in or promise to get him scrubbed off the FBI’s ten most wanted list? How many millions in bribes to bury the Interpol red notices on him? As El Cartero he’d been wanted in twelve different countries and with the snap of his fingers, Shaw had turned him into a ghost. Whatever it cost him, Michael hoped it hurt.

  Mary dropped the cuff in favor of what looked like a portable scanner Wal-Mart minimum-wagers used to price check shit. She placed it over the spot she’d been poking at and waited for the beep.

  The device in his back not only tracked his whereabouts, it would kill him if he didn’t come back. He was the sole property of FSS and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  “Everything seems to be in working order,” she said behind him.

  He turned to face her. “Thanks. Bye.”

  She didn’t move, instead tracing a remote gaze over his body, taking in the cluster of contusions hovering above three cracked ribs. More nicks and bruises than he could count. Abrasions scattered across his back and shoulders. A laceration across his left tricep. Another across his outer thigh. “You’ve sustained some injuries I’ll have to catalog.”

  This was regular business when it came to the security firm he worked for. Security firm—the term Livingston Shaw used to describe the sizable army for hire he’d amassed over the past decade. While most Americans were jumping at the chance to trade their freedoms for the illusion of safety, FSS had crept in like a cancer. Fed by fear and funded by the Department of Homeland Security, FSS had its fingers in every single one of Uncle Sam’s pies. It was a conspiracy nut’s worst nightmare—fifty-thousand boots on the ground and not a single one of them answered to the U.S. government. Livingston Shaw had a higher security clearance than the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  And he was still climbing.

  He looked down, watched while she walked her fingertips along the slats of his ribs. She landed on one of the cracks and he hissed in a breath. Most times he was able to force himself to submit to the poking and prodding, but not today. “What happens in Pakistan stays in Pakistan,” he said as he brushed her hands away from his chest.

  She didn’t even crack a smile, just started spouting corporate policy. “Per FSS policy, all operatives are examined after an assignment, before they’re released on leave as well as upon returning from leave—”

  He tuned her out, just waited for her to shut up and get on with it. She finally stopped talking, traded her scanner for a camera and started taking pictures. “Your partner provided medical care in the field?” she said after a few dozen photos.

  He took another look at the door Ben had disappeared behind. “The kid’s pretty handy.”

  She made a noise that sounded like an agreement and took a final round of pictures before stepping back. “You can get dressed now.”

  “Is this the part where you give me cab money and tell me you’ll call me in the morning?” he said while yanking his pants back on.

  She flashed him a cool, professional smile. “See you in thirty days, Mr. O’Shea,” she said as she headed for the door, letting it slam behind her when she left.

  He couldn’t help but think of Sabrina. If he’d talked to her the way he did Shaw’s fem-bot, he’d have swallowed a couple teeth for his trouble. The thought made him smile, but it faded quickly.

  He considered calling her—something he did at least a hundred times a day—but in the end, left his phone where it was. He couldn’t call her. What was there to say? Sorry I left you to fight off your psychotic half-brother alone... or how about, I’m sorry I got your grandmother killed. He knew what he wanted to say to her. He wanted to tell her he loved her. Make promises he couldn’t keep. Make plans they both knew would never take hold.

  He’d been a selfish bastard most of his life. This was one thing he was going to do right. He was going to let Sabrina go. Even if it killed him.

  The door opened. Michael watched as his partner crossed the room into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Ben pulled out a beer and waved it in his direction, “Want one?”

  “No.” He watched as Ben used the edge of the granite countertop to pop the cap off and took a long pull from the bottle of Stella. Most FSS operatives bunked down in the fifth-floor barracks while they were in rotation, but not Ben. FSS had headquarters in six different countries and Benjamin Shaw had penthouse digs in each and every one of them. The perks of being the boss’ kid. As his partner, Michael was expected to stay with him. Eight months of partnership and he was still unable to figure out who was babysitting who.

  Ben threw himself into a chair and took another drink. “How’s your arm?”

  Michael twisted his bicep around to get a good look at the stitches. “Fine.”He picked up his shirt and pulled it on, ignoring the snags and pulls of the fabric against the road rash on his back.“Who was on the phone?”

  “Did you tell Nurse Ratched you got thrown out a window?” Ben said. He was avoiding the question—classic behavior for his partner.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stared the kid down. “Who was on the phone?” he said again.The skin along the back of his neck went tight, like it did when he was on a job and shit was about to go sideways.

  Ben just shrugged. “No one. Just one of my contacts in need of course correction,”
Ben said before he smiled. “Sometimes blackmail and coercion aren’t enough to keep them in line.”

  Michael was suddenly reminded of the debt he owed his partner. That it’d been Ben who made it possible for him to get back to Sabrina in time to save her. Without his partner’s intervention, she would’ve bled to death. Ben never threatened him, never even mentioned the fact that all it would take was one word from him to his father to end Sabrina’s life but Michael knew he was capable of just about anything to get what he wanted.

  Like father like son.

  “You got plans for your thirty?” Ben said, changing the subject. It was the same question he asked every time they cycled out of rotation and his answer never changed.

  “Not a goddamn one.” He dropped his arms from his chest. Some FSS operatives had lives away from the death and violence they were paid to perpetrate for the highest bidder. Not Michael. He didn’t have anyone. Everyone he loved was either dead or better off without him.

  “We could do Vegas again.” Ben waggled his eyebrows at him. “Ladies love the Hugh Hefner Sky Villa.”

  Michael let out a short laugh. “Last time I checked, ladies didn’t take American Express.”

  “They weren’t hookers—they were strippers. Huge difference,” Ben said in mock solemnity. “Seriously, what are you gonna do for an entire month without me? Stay here? Wait for our next assignment?”

  A year ago he would’ve gone home to Jessup and stayed with Lucy. Worked on the classic car that’d been up on blocks since his father died. Eaten lemon pound cake until his stomach hurt and dream about the day he’d find the man who murdered Frankie.

  That was all over now. Lucy was dead and so was the man who killed her and his sister both. The one place he wanted to go—the one person he wanted to be with was Sabrina. There was no one else for him and it was painfully obvious there never would be. She was the home he could never go back to.

  Michael shrugged. “I’ll probably hop a flight to Miami—”

  “Unless that sentence ends with and bang a bunch of hot chicks, I don’t want to hear it.” Ben polished off his beer and stood. “Last chance—I’ve got my Lear gassed up and waiting on the tarmac.”

  My Lear. Michael shook his head and laughed. “Not interested,” he said.

  “Alright… I’ll wait as long as it takes me to shower and pack my toothbrush,” Ben said, heading toward his room. “But after that, you’re on your own.”

  15

  Sabrina cleaned off her desk while Strickland examined the card. He didn’t look it, but her partner was as sharp as they came. If there was something to see that she missed, he’d find it.

  “This was in the bag Mathews gave you yesterday?” he said, turning the envelope over in his hands to pull out the card.

  “Yeah.” She picked up a styrofoam box that smelled like barbeque and tossed it in the trash. “I don’t have any proof, but I’m almost positive it’s from the same guy who called me yesterday.”

  “No postmark… whoever it was must’ve dropped it off,” Strickland said.

  She nodded. “I get bags a few times a week so it must’ve been within the last couple of days. I’m hoping the kid at the info desk will remember something.” If he ever shows up for work.

  “You dust it for prints?” He flipped the card open and studied the word inside. She’d already told him what it was and what it meant, but he kept looking at it.

  “No. It’s been handled by a half a dozen people … besides, I’m sure he wore gloves,” she said, tossing a coffee cup in after the box.

  “Yeah, they all wear gloves these days—thank you CSI: Miami,” Strickland said, slipping the card back into its sleeve. “And Croft just happened to be there—ready to offer up a translation, huh?”

  She stopped cleaning and looked up. “You think he sent it?”

  Strickland shrugged. “Possible. Could be trying to yank your chain. Shake a story loose. He’s been after you for the past eight months with nothing to show for it. Maybe he’s tired of waiting.”

  She laughed. “Nothing to show for it? Is that what you call the couple dozen stories he’s ran on me? The trips to Jessup? Poking around in my old life?”

  “Not that it did him any good.” Strickland shrugged. “It’s not like anyone who knew anything would talk to him.”

  He was right. Tommy, her high-school boyfriend, had assaulted Croft when he showed up in the small, east Texas town she grew up in, looking for an interview. When the cops showed up, it’d been Croft who’d been arrested for creating a public disturbance. He’d spent the night in a holding cell and it’d been Jed Carson, Jessup’s chief of police, who’d given him a ride to the airport with a polite, yet firm warning to stay out of Jessup.

  “So, the note, the flowers… you think it’s all Croft, trying to get a story?” she said, hoping that the more she said it, the easier it would be to believe. It wasn’t working.

  “Makes sense, right?” Strickland flicked the card onto his desk where it landed on top of a half-eaten bag of Fritos. “He’s a permanent fixture around here. He could’ve easily slipped the card behind the desk.”

  “I don’t know, Strick. I talked to this guy—he didn’t sound like Croft. He sounded—”

  “Crazy? I’m sure that was the point.” Strickland chuckled.

  A scowl settled onto her face. “No, not crazy. Serious. He sounded serious.”

  “When it comes to you, Croft is all kinds of serious,” he said. “Besides, didn’t you say he disguised his voice? The only reason someone would do that is if they were afraid you’d recognize it.”

  “Yeah… maybe,” she said, shuffling papers into a pile. The one on top had Strickland’s shoeprint on it. She took a closer look at it, and felt her gut drop to her boots. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” She flashed the paper at Strickland and he winced at the shoeprint.

  “Sorry, but that’s what you get for—”

  “No. Not that. I forgot about the UA Mathews ordered me to drop yesterday.”She sank into her chair and scrubbed a hand over her face. “I was supposed to have it done by end of shift, yesterday.”

  “It’s just after seven,” Strickland said, glancing at his watch. “Mathews doesn’t get in for another hour. If you hurry, you can get there and back before he shows.”

  She didn’t have time for Mathews’ bullshit drug test. She needed to be here to catch Anderson so she could get to bottom of this whole crazy mess because despite Strickland’s belief that it was just Croft messing with her, she was unconvinced. Regardless, she stood and shrugged into her coat. If Mathews had his way, she’d be out on her ass, and if the conversation with Ben this morning was any indication, he wasn’t in the mood to pull her ass out of the fire. She was on her own this time. “I was supposed to have it done yesterday—unless you have a time machine in your pocket, I’m screwed,” she said.

  Strickland kicked his feet back up on her desk and smiled. “Just get going—I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  16

  Twenty minutes later, Sabrina signed into the walk-in clinic SFPD contracted to collect their UAs. The receptionist recognized her immediately and smiled, taking the draw order smudged with Strickland’s shoeprint that she slid across the counter. “Good morning, Inspector,” she said before answering the phone.

  Sabrina flashed her a small smile and took a seat in the waiting area. Looking around the crowded room, her optimism took a nose dive. There were at least ten people ahead of her. No way was she getting back to the station before Mathews showed up. She reached for her cell and started to text Strickland to give him an update.

  “Sabrina Vaughn.”

  Her head jerked up at the sound of her name. A male tech in a white lab coat stood in the doorway leading to the exam rooms, staring right at her. She knew him. His name was Bradley.

  “Come on back,” Bradley said, cocking his head toward the hallway behind him. He held a clipboard, a clear plastic cup resting on top.

  Sabrina stoo
d and pocketed her phone, taking a quick glance around. Everyone was looking at her, most of them shooting her dirty looks for jumping the line.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she said as soon as the door was shut. Sometimes, people gave officers preferential treatment. Some cops liked it, took advantage of it, even. It just made her feel uncomfortable. She had a feeling his preferential treatment had more to do with the fact that she was dating Liam Henry than the fact that she was a cop. The two had met in college and according to Liam they’d been friends ever since.

  “It’s the least I could do after last month,” he said, moving down the hall forcing her to follow. “You have no idea how long Liam and I have wanted to organize a police department blood drive.”

  “You two did all the work—all I did was get the okay for you guys to park your mobile unit in the station lot for a few hours.”

  “Which we wouldn’t have been able to do without your help, so… thank you,” he said.

  She tilted her head to the side. “Whatever you say, but this makes us even, okay?”

  Bradley smiled at her. “You might not feel so generous after I get done with you.”

  “Excuse me?” Her hand twitched toward the butt of her SIG. An involuntary response that he caught immediately.

  His eyes followed her hand’s progression and he responded with a nervous chuckle. “Mathews ordered blood and hair samples on top of the UA this time. Sorry,” he said, flashing her the paperwork on his clipboard. There, under the dirty smudges left by Strickland’s shoe, was the order. All three collection boxes were checked. Mathew was swinging for the fences.

  She forced herself to relax. “Of course he did.”

  “You were supposed to be here by five o’clock yesterday.” He glanced up at her before he signed and dated it. He handed her the paper back along with the cup. “I’ll wait out here. You know the drill. Don’t flush the toilet or run the water,” he said. She’d heard it before and she nodded, ducking into the bathroom and shutting the door before she looked at the paper he’d handed back to her. Relief flooded through her. He’d back dated it for yesterday.