Helene thought about that for a second. “You’re right. They wouldn’t be keeping their victims at the shop. And they weren’t killing them at the dump sites. They must have another place. But where?”
“Coming up.” The whole time, Diana had continued typing. She hit one final key. “Okay. Gold owns several properties besides the shop. If Gold is the Butcher, my money’s on one of those.”
“We’re going to need a search warrant. This time, the judge better sign it,” Helene said, grinding her jaw. She swiped up the phone and dialed ADIC Hernandez’s office. When his assistant answered, she said, “Please tell ADIC Hernandez we have a missing agent. We need him in the war room ASAP.”
She whirled and faced Diana. “Can you print that list for me?”
Diana narrowed her eyes. “If you plan to go in without a warrant—”
“I am not going to blow the case,” she said. It was her job to give the Butcher the justice he deserved. If she failed, she had too much to lose—her time here on Earth…
And Miguel.
She didn’t want to risk either one. But she could not lose Miguel. He was more important to her than anything else.
Possibly even justice.
Diana rose and beckoned her over to the table. “Let’s match up those printouts of the posters and programs to the crime scene photos.”
Helene blinked, then realized she was still holding them. She went over and spread them out on the table. One by one, they figured out the pairings, and tacked the printout on the board next to the matching crime scene photo.
ADIC Hernandez walked into the room just as they pinned up the last one. “You’ve clearly made a break,” he said, pausing in front of the board, hands on his hips, scanning their work. Then he turned to them. “The missing agent is Sanchez?”
They brought him up to speed, then Diana went to the printer and fetched the last printout. She handed it to the ADIC. “These are the addresses of two other properties Gold owns besides Stage Left. One is a residence, the other is a store that sells theatrical props.”
Hernandez reviewed the addresses and handed the list to Helene. “Call Daly and give him these locations. Tell him we need NYPD to set up a perimeter and treat them both as possible crime scenes.”
He looked at Diana. “We’ll get a warrant drafted and over to a judge while you meet up with Daly at the shop. I’ll send Flores and Fontaine to his residence uptown. And Alexander—”
“I’ll take the prop shop downtown. It’s close to the Sanitation Department buildings where one of the bodies was found,” Helene said, itching to hit the road.
Hernandez eyeballed her and Diana. “If there are any signs of suspicious activity—”
“We won’t go in without backup,” Diana assured him.
But Helene couldn’t make that promise, so she stayed silent. If there was any chance she could rescue Miguel and catch Gold and Smith, she would take it. With or without backup. With or without the warrant. She would not sacrifice either Miguel or justice, simply because the machinations of mortal legal systems worked too slowly.
Now she just needed to find him. And quickly.
Her sense of impending doom was growing by the minute.
Miguel woke to cold dampness along one side of his body. And dark, deceiving gray all around him. He blinked to clear his vision.
He was lying on a cement floor, his hands tied behind him.
Awkwardly, he sat up. The room spun in dizzying circles for a moment before the world righted itself again. He took a deep breath to control the roiling nausea in his stomach.
And smelled blood.
Not fresh—the smell wasn’t strong enough for that.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and he looked around. A few feet away from him, telltale stains on the floor confirmed the scent. Blood stains. A lot of them. In the middle of the stains stood a stainless steel table, a dull gleam outlined in the dim light.
The murder scene.
The Butcher’s slaughterhouse.
Miguel scanned the room, searching for a way out.
“Don’t try,” came a voice from above. Gold’s voice. Being broadcast from a speaker.
“No need. My people are on their way,” he called out, trying to sound convincing. And praying he was right and the cavalry arrived in time.
“I’m sure that’s what you’re hoping, but not every story has a happily ever after.”
Gold’s voice was calm and unworried. Scarily so. Clearly, the bastard had no doubts that Miguel’s final act would be over before anyone found him. Not good. He could write that off as the sociopath’s delusion talking, but there was always the chance that Gold had fooled them all.
“This story’s ending is already written, Gold,” he said just as calmly, though his heart was racing. “You behind bars, along with your fuck-up sidekick, Andrew.”
A full-bodied laugh exploded through the air. “Your dialogue is so dated cop show, Special Agent Sanchez. Can’t you at least be a little more original?”
Total psycho, Miguel thought, peering into the darkness to try and make out more about the room where he was being kept. He searched for the camera Gold was watching him through. Gold probably recorded everything as he tortured his victims, convinced of the beauty of his masterpieces.
Miguel needed to get the fucker down here so he could overpower him. He forced out a snort and said, “How’s this for original. The great Tim Gold is a no-talent sham. This sad little horror show is strictly B-movie material.”
The laughter boomed through the air again followed by long slow claps. “Better, Agent Sanchez. But you’ll see just how talentless I am once we start this little horror show.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Two uniformed officers were waiting for Helene at the door to Gold’s prop shop. One held a bolt cutter and the other a battering ram.
As she walked up and flashed her badge, she asked, “Anyone inside?”
“Nope.” The first officer pointed at the entry. The thick wooden door was shut tight with a heavy deadbolt and thick chains wound around the outside door handles. “We knocked but didn’t get an answer.”
The message tone went off on her cell, and she quickly opened the text. It was from Diana.
WE GOT THE WARRANT. There was a link to the paperwork.
Relief surged through Helene. For once, the wheels of justice had moved swiftly.
“We’ve got the warrant,” she announced to the two officers. “Open up.”
The bolt cutter sliced through the chain with little effort, but it took two or three shots with the battering ram to break through the heavy-duty lock and thick wood of the door.
When it burst open, they steadied their weapons and flashlights, and cautiously entered. It was dark, but she found a switch by the doorframe and flipped on the light.
A thick trail of blood led away from the entrance.
Oh God. Miguel!
Her stomach flip-flopped and a wave of raw fear went through her.
Holding her gun with both hands, she and the officers wove silently through the rows of shelves, following the trail, which got bigger and messier as they crept deeper into the shop.
So much blood.
Cold sweat erupted and rolled down the back of her neck. Dear Zeus, please let it not be Miguel’s.
The blood trail ended at an old-fashioned steamer trunk covered in labels from all over the world. She and one of the officers trained their weapons on the trunk while the other uniform tried the lock. He yanked and pulled, but it didn’t budge.
Helene waved him off. “Let me try.” She laid her hand on the lock. With a surge of power, she reached inside to crack the inner mechanism, and the lock popped open.
“What the—”
“Open it,” she ordered, cutting off their astonished questions. Then she stepped back, weapon trained on the trunk.
The officer slowly lifted the lid.
He gasped, swallowed down his reaction, and stepped back. �
�It’s one of the suspects.”
Intense relief swept through her and she approached the trunk. It was Andrew Smith. Or rather, Smith’s broken torso. It had been crammed into the trunk with his head resting on its midsection. The decapitation explained all the blood.
Helene turned away from the body and motioned to the rest of the shop. “We need to continue the search. Special Agent Sanchez may be here, along with the second suspect. Stay alert.”
Each took a row, and they moved in unison toward the back of the space.
She released some of her power, amplifying her senses to everything around her. Searching for any sign of Miguel or Gold.
The life forces she sensed around her were too small to be human. Rats and other vermin, probably.
As she passed a shelf of masks, a scintilla of a scent grabbed her attention, but it quickly vanished.
A trace of Miguel?
She reached the end of the row and glanced at the others. They shook their heads.
Damn! Where was he?
Stalking back to the trunk, she told the two police officers to secure the scene outside while she called the medical examiner. But instead, when they’d gone, she placed her hand on Smith’s head. His dyed black hair felt coarse beneath her hand as she centered her powers on recapturing the scattered remnants of his life force. She needed a last image or a sound, anything that might lead her to Miguel.
The air around her shimmered, and beneath her hand a faint glow appeared. But the only image that came to her was Gold’s face. Before she could reach in deeper, the last of his life forces vanished from her grasp.
Cursing, she stood, phoned the ME, and headed outside.
The two uniforms stood at the door, waiting for further instructions.
“Wait here until the ME arrives,” she said. “I want to check out the area.”
One of them opened his mouth to argue—probably about waiting for backup—but her glare silenced him.
She stalked away, her heels tapping sharply on the sidewalk as she walked to the corner and looked around the empty, rundown block of businesses. The whole place felt deserted. There were a few warehouses, most of them empty. Most were one-story structures, but one rose up slightly higher than the rest. The building’s cornice was ornate and corbelled. Too ornate to be a warehouse.
She strode swiftly toward it, releasing her senses and inner sight, searching for signs of life and reaching out to find Miguel’s unique signature.
Halfway to the building, the air seemed to shift. She focused on the disturbance and realized it was two very different energies clashing against one another.
Good and evil.
Very evil.
And very good.
Miguel.
Hope swelled within her and she started running toward where the disturbance was centered.
She stopped short when she turned the corner and saw what the ornate building was.
An old theater.
It looked deserted and showed signs of age, but it was not in disrepair. In fact, it was in good-enough shape that someone coming for an audition might not doubt that it was actually a working theater.
She had to hurry.
If Gold had been desperate enough to kill Smith, he would not waste any time disposing of Miguel.
As she ran to the entrance, she called ADIC Hernandez. He wasn’t in, so she phoned Diana and gave her the address.
“I’m on my way. Do not go in without me,” Diana said above the sounds of her slamming desk drawers and crashing chair as she grabbed her gear and took off.
But Helene had already broken through the front-door lock and was stepping inside.
Warrant be damned.
Besides, she had a feeling Gold would not surrender easily, so it was unlikely a trial would even be needed.
Especially if the bastard had hurt Miguel.
She would visit the agonies of hell on Gold, then give him the justice he deserved.
She paused inside the lobby of the theater, trying to decide where to go. Closing her eyes, she sent out a blast of energy. When it bounced back, it carried echoes of the life forces of two men, pinpointing their location.
She rushed through the lobby and down the center aisle of the theater, then sprinted down a hallway lined with dressing rooms, pulling up at a door to the backstage area.
Voices drifted to her from beyond the door.
Gold’s. And Miguel’s.
Yanking out her weapon, she approached cautiously. She hesitated at the door and used her second sight to place the two energy signatures. They were close together.
Too close.
What was that psychopath doing to Miguel?
Inhaling deeply, she raised her gun and threw open the door.
Chapter Thirty
Miguel was on his knees before Gold, his face dripping blood. His hands were bound in front of him, but Gold had a solid grip on his hair and a very big gun against Miguel’s temple.
“Special Agent Alexander. So nice of you to come for the big finale,” Gold said, and laughed, the maniacal sound bouncing off the walls of the room.
“Mr. Gold.” She inclined her head, keeping him in her gun sight, weighing her options. Human weapon, or goddess energy blast? “So nice of you to put on such a spectacle.”
He laughed again and turned his wheelchair slightly, yanking Miguel’s head sideways so it blocked her shot. He jammed the gun tighter against his temple. “Actually, this is new for me—a live audience.” His eyes brightened in delight. “One who will decide who gets the happy ending.”
“Do not let him go,” Miguel immediately ordered.
They were too close together to use a lethal blast of power. It could kill Miguel, too.
Gold’s bushy brows rose. “Which will it be, Agent Alexander? Can I take my show on the road? Or is this your favorite star’s last performance?” He cocked the hammer on the old-fashioned revolver.
Justice, she reminded herself. There would be no justice if she let Gold leave.
But if she didn’t—
Her finger itched on her trigger. She was a crack shot, but would her bullet take the bastard down before or after he pulled his own trigger? Justice would be served—but Miguel could die. And if Miguel lived, he would hate her for violating the code of ethics he held so dear.
Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.
She couldn’t let her lover die. But she couldn’t live with the consequences if she exacted her due vengeance and killed Gold.
She had to trust human justice to work its course.
But that didn’t mean she would sacrifice Miguel. She would do whatever she had to in order to save him. Anything. Anything.
And with that knowledge came an unexpected calm. It settled around her like the comforting warmth of Miguel’s embrace.
She didn’t need vengeance. She wanted true justice, as he had taught her.
Even if it meant losing her life here on Earth and returning to the eternal hell of Mount Olympus. And losing Miguel forever.
“Drop your weapon and kick it here,” Gold said, seeing her hesitation.
“Don’t do it, Helene. Don’t let him get away,” Miguel pleaded.
But she bent down, laid her weapon on the floor, and kicked it over to Gold.
Surprise registered on his face for a split second. He glanced down at her discarded weapon.
At that exact moment, Miguel surged upward and grabbed Gold’s arm with his bound hands, grappling for the gun. Gold fired. The sound exploded through the room, but the shot plowed harmlessly into the ceiling.
Helene leaped forward just as Gold jerked loose and backhanded Miguel across the temple with the gun. Miguel fell back as she jumped on Gold and fought for control of the revolver.
Gold was strong from years of pushing around the wheelchair. Helene struggled desperately to keep the weapon pointed away, but Gold managed to turn the gun around at her. Summoning her immortal strength, she forced it to the side and tried to strip th
e pistol from his grip.
Gold pulled the trigger, firing just as another shot rang out.
Gold struggled against her for a heartbeat longer, eyes wide with shock. Then his body went limp, and slumped back in his wheelchair.
Dead.
Good riddance.
She ripped the gun from his grasp, flung it aside, and stepped away. Lifeless eyes stared straight ahead as blood welled from the round hole in his chest.
Behind her came the thud of a body hitting the floor. She whirled.
Miguel lay on the floor, eyes closed and unmoving, a river of blood spilling from the gunshot wound in his neck. He still held her discarded weapon in his bound hands.
He’d saved her life.
“Miguel!” She dove to his side, lifted him into her arms, and pressed her hand to the wound in his neck, desperate to staunch the flow of blood. “Hold on, Miguel. Hold on!”
He didn’t move. Barely breathed.
“No! You can’t die! I won’t let you.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Hot, wet blood slipped through her fingers. She had to save him. But she would be punished if she used her goddess powers.
“Promised to…keep you…safe,” Miguel whispered, struggling to speak past the blood clogging his throat. “Can’t let…it happen…again.”
Oh God. He was talking about the woman he had accidentally killed. The woman he still felt guilty about not saving. Was that why he’d sacrificed himself to save her? “That wasn’t your fault, Miguel. This wouldn’t have been, either. It’s my job—”
“Couldn’t…let you…die. Couldn’t…fail again.”
“And neither can I,” she said, and tightened the pressure of her hand across his wound, groping for her cell phone to summon an ambulance. It wasn’t too late. It couldn’t be. But she couldn’t get a signal.
Her tears fell on his lips, and his mouth struggled to curve in a ghost of a smile. “Love…you,” he whispered so softly she could barely hear. Her heart soared as it was breaking into a thousand pieces.
His eyes fluttered closed.
“I love you, too,” she said through stinging tears.
But he would never hear the words. In her arms, his body had already gone limp.
For Love or Vengeance Page 18
