Using the key fob, he popped the hatch. “Christina, it’s safe to come out now.”
The lump under the ballistics blanket didn’t move.
“Christina.”
“You have to say the magic words. I can’t come out unless you say them,” she said, her voice muffled beneath the cover.
The magic words. The code they’d worked out to let her know that he wasn’t coaxing her from hiding under duress. “Pink pony,” he said.
Christina tossed the blanket away and launched herself at his chest, her little arms winding tightly around his neck, legs wrapped around his middle. His throat, suddenly hot and dry, worked itself against the well of emotion he usually kept in check. Without thinking, he lifted his hands to hug her back.
“Who was it?” she said into his neck. “Did you kill them?”
He kept a running list of bad ideas, and getting close to this kid was at the top of it. Instead of holding her, he wedged his hands between them and set her away. “It was no one.” He lifted her over the seat. “Get buckled up. It’s time to go.”
Nine
Livingston Shaw glared at Michael from across the gleaming expanse of his polished desk. “Are you certain that it was one of Reyes’s men that took the Maddox boy?” Shaw said, somehow managing to make him feel as if he were personally responsible for the abduction of the Senator’s grandson.
Michael stared at the spot directly above Shaw’s head—his favorite—and took a deep breath before answering. “Yes. I recognize the tattoo on his neck from the surveillance footage.” All of Reyes’s men were branded with the same tattoo, a common practice within the cartels. He’d decided to keep the rest—that not only was it one of Reyes’s men but his son—to himself. The scar was unique to Estefan; the tattoo wasn’t. If Ben objected to him lying to his father, he didn’t say a word. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that he was currently sleeping on his father’s sofa.
“Reyes is based in Colombia. He’s a little far from home, isn’t he?” Lark said, from his position beside Shaw’s chair.
Michael made himself look at Lark. “Trust me, he’s here,” he said, thinking of his run-in with Estefan a few nights ago. “He’s been pushing his way into Cordova’s territory for a while now.”
“You think this has something to do with the Cordova op?” Shaw said, his interest obviously piqued.
The thought turned Michael’s stomach. Knowing that he’d had a part in making such a thing possible tightened his jaw. “He’s had his eye on Cordova’s trafficking operation for a while now.”
Shaw arched an eyebrow. “And you know this because … ?”
Michael shrugged. “Because I’ve had my eye on him.”
“So why didn’t you make the connection sooner?” Lark said. Another accusation.
Michael shot his former partner a warning look. He had to take Shaw’s shit but not Lark’s.
“I think you’re missing the point my partner’s trying to make here, Jolly Green.” They both turned to find Ben still stretched out on the couch behind them, eyes still closed. He cracked a lid and aimed one sky-blue eye at his father. “Reyes is behind the snatch and grab of Leon Maddox’s grandkid.” Ben smiled. “Which means we might have a chance of getting him back.”
“Okay, fine. Reyes has a daughter, right?” Lark shrugged. “I say we snatch her and demand a trade.”
“No,” Michael said.
“Why? Easiest way to—”
“I said no.” His tone closed the subject.
Lark tipped his head back and let out a loud crack of laughter. “You slay me, man. Really? Like you’re some kinda saint. You killed more people than cancer and you get twisted over one little kidnapping?” He shook his head. “What the fuck did that crazy cop bitch do to you?”
Michael’s heart stopped. Time slowed to a crawl. His stomach clenched like he’d been kicked in the gut. He looked at Shaw and saw he was watching the exchange with avid interest—and not one ounce of bewilderment.
He was suddenly sure that Lark had told Livingston Shaw everything there was to know about Sabrina. Who she was. How he knew her. That she mattered. Shaw’s knowledge of her made her a tool to be used against him or, worse, a liability to FSS.
In the space of a second, he weighed his options and decided on a course of action. He’d have to be fast. Take Shaw out first. Two to the head, then—
“Hey.”
He turned to see Ben standing in front of him.
“Probably not a good idea.” Ben tipped his chin down and he followed with his eyes to find his Kimber gripped in his fist, finger on the trigger. He didn’t even remember pulling it.
He shot Lark a look over the kid’s shoulder before looking back to Shaw. He sat leaning back in his chair with a wry smirk on his face, cell phone in hand, finger poised to dial. Michael remembered the capsule in his back and holstered his gun. He was good to no one dead. The need to find Leo Maddox had just been suddenly and precisely balanced by his need to warn Sabrina that she was no longer safe—and probably never had been.
“Well … that was awkward,” Ben said to no one in particular, careful to keep himself between Michael and Lark.
Michael ignored him and focused on what had to be done now. He looked at Shaw. “We need to get stateside, interview the family. There could be things the mother saw that she’s not even aware of. We need to question her and the kid’s nanny. Whoever had access to him over the past few weeks. There’s a good chance Reyes had inside help.”
Shaw seemed to be weighing his words, testing their validity before making up his mind. He shook his head. “You still have business here to attend to. Cordova is scheduled to arrive—”
“We’ll leave as soon as it’s done.” Michael was getting himself stateside, one way or another.
Shaw smiled. “Very well, Michael. The family is convalescing at Leon’s estate, just outside Helena. I’ll alert him that you and your team will be arriving shortly.”
Team? He didn’t have a team. He had Ben. He shook his head. “I don’t need Pips—I mean, a team—sir. Ben and I work best alone.”
Shaw’s smile faded. “Of that I’m certain, but I’m not sending a security detail, Michael. I’m sending Mr. Lark. He’s going with you.”
Ten
Michael crossed the dark lawn with confident, long-legged strides, approaching the guard stationed there as if he belonged. The man, hearing his approach, turned but didn’t raise his gun. Didn’t seem worried about him at all. Michael gave him a reassuring smile as he closed the distance, and the guard returned it with a look of annoyance.
“Volver a tu puesto, idiota,” the man hissed, but Michael kept coming, closing the distance between them, the smile firmly fixed in place. The man realized Michael was an intruder seconds before he grabbed him, clasping his chin and the back of his head, giving his neck a violent jerk that snapped it in two.
The guard dropped, and Michael stepped over him to mount the marble steps that led to the front door. Cordova slept in a third-floor interior suite. No windows. No outside access. Getting to him would’ve been nearly impossible without the samples he’d collected from his daughter. Armed with Pia’s prints, his knife, and a few dozen rounds of ammo, the task was almost mundane.
He approached the screen and scanner fixed to the wall and leaned forward. The retina and fingerprint scan had to be done simultaneously or it would trigger a silent alarm that would send every available guard his way. Timing was everything.
He aimed his eye over the scanner just as he began to roll his index finger across the screen. The gloves he wore were outfitted with neoprene tips embedded with Pia’s prints, and the contact in his eye was coded with her retinal signature. The door lock released.
Piece of cake.
He stepped into the dark foyer and his earpiece crackled. “You’ve got one coming
toward you—ten yards and closing,” Ben said. Hijacking Cordova’s security feed had taken him less time that it’d taken Michael to kill the guard. From where he was, not only did Ben have eyes on almost every square inch of Cordova’s estate, he was also able to manipulate the feed. Anyone else monitoring the surveillance footage would see nothing out of the ordinary. The kid certainly gave Lark a run for his money for Geek Squad status.
There were two guards per floor. Any who saw Michael had to be dealt with. He ducked into an alcove under the stairs and drew his knife, waiting for the second guard to pass before stepping back into the hall, directly behind him. He held the black ceramic blade tight against his forearm while he slipped the other around the guard’s neck and across his chest. Michael shoved the guard’s shoulder into the wall, pinning his arm at his side while he lifted the other away from his body, driving the blade several times between his ribs, a vicious tattoo into his heart and lungs. He was dead before he even knew he was in trouble. Michael dragged him into the vestibule, out of sight, before dropping him on the floor.
“Where’s the other first-floor guard?” he said quietly, wiping his knife off on the dead guy’s shirt.
“Stationed at the back of the house. He shouldn’t be an issue,” Ben said.
“The second floor?” He tucked his knife away but within easy reach. Ben still hadn’t answered him. “Kid?”
“They just followed Pia Cordova into a second-floor bathroom.”
Shit. What the hell was she doing here? “Can you see them?”
“No, the bathroom is blind, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t heading in there to hold her purse while she pees.” Ben paused. “If she sees you, you’re gonna have to kill her. This is supposed to be a clean sweep. No witnesses.”
Michael ignored him. He’d been assigned to kill Cordova and to tell the truth, he didn’t feel bad about doing it. But killing his daughter was not on the books. Not unless absolutely necessary. Michael lifted a silencer-equipped 9mm from his leg holster.
“You’ve got a clear shot to the top,” Ben said. “Wait … Cordova’s on the move. He’s heading toward you.”
Good. He could get this over with and get out without having to deal with Pia. Michael stepped into the hall and took the stairs two at a time, rounding the second-floor landing. He mounted the third flight and was five steps from the top when Cordova appeared at the head of the stairs, his wide girth swaddled in a silk robe, a cut crystal tumbler in his hand.
His muddy brown eyes widened in shock even as his mouth yanked open to sound the alarm. Michael leveled the 9mm at Cordova’s face and pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession—ssk, ssk—drilling twin holes in the man’s forehead. He lowered the gun before Cordova could make a sound. The glass slipped out of the fat man’s hand as he fell back and bounced down the stairs to smash on the tile below. The sound echoed through the silent house.
“Shit. You’ve got incoming.”
A split-second decision had Michael flying down the stairs the way he’d come. He holstered his gun and reached for his knife as he took the stairs downward. He could hear the third-floor guards running in the direction of their fallen boss, shouting frantically. One of them would try radioing for help. He didn’t have much time before they realized their frequency was jammed and came after him.
He could hear the remaining first-floor guard pound his way toward him. Michael stopped on the staircase and waited for his head to pop up over the shared railing between the two sets of stairs. Seconds later, head and shoulders appeared. Michael gripped the railing and swung toward the guard, driving forward with the blade of his knife. The guard was ready, turning swiftly and taking aim. He got a shot off that slammed into the wall mere inches from Michael’s head. The roar of it echoed in his ear, heat searing the side of his face. He sliced the blade across the guard’s throat, severing his jugular in one clean sweep. The guy tumbled backward down the stairs, and Michael vaulted the banister, landing in the first-floor stairwell in a crouch.
“Move your ass,” Ben barked into his ear.
Adrenaline dumped into his system. He pulled a SIG P238 from the small of his back. The door directly across from him swung open and a pair of guards tumbled out, shirtless, yanking up their pants as they did. Using the darkened stairway as cover, Michael fired. The first guard took three bullets center mass. Blood bloomed across his chest while the other guard took aim. Wild shots drilled into the wall and floor, but one of them found its mark, mushrooming against Michael’s Kevlar-covered chest. The impact knocked him off his feet and he tumbled down the stairs, landing on top of the guard he’d just bled out.
He flipped over and covered the staircase despite the fact that he felt like he’d just been hit in the midsection by a semi. The second guard appeared at the top of the stairs. Michael pulled the trigger again and again, hitting the man in the neck and face. He fell, revealing a half-naked Pia cowering behind him.
Shit.
“You gotta do it,” Ben said in his ear.
He holstered the gun and stood. The third-floor guards were pounding down the stairs, but it didn’t matter. They’d see safeguarding Pia as more important than chasing him down. He hit the door as fast as he could and did what he did best.
He disappeared.
Eleven
San Francisco, California
That morning
Sabrina didn’t want to get out of bed. In fact, she seriously considered calling in sick and staying there all day. She played with the thought for a few minutes, imagined letting the day waste away. As tempting as it sounded, she knew herself well enough to be certain that she’d be climbing the walls by noon. Beside, today was her first day back on Homicide. Mathews would love it if she didn’t show.
She reached over and gave the body next to her a poke. “If I’m getting up, so are you,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of her bed. Standing, she made her way to the bathroom. She looked over her shoulder. The covers were still pulled up tight. “You better be up by the time I’m ready to go or your ass is getting left here,” she said before disappearing into the bathroom.
She came out fifteen minutes later to find Avasa, her two-year-old Rhodesian Ridgeback, waiting for her outside the door. She smiled. “Thought so,” she said, giving the dog’s floppy ears a ruffle. She dressed quickly and grabbed her shoes, sitting down to put them on. “Let’s get out of here before—”
The baby monitor next to the clock came to life. Avasa whined.
“Relax. It’ll just take a few minutes.” She headed for the door, not at all surprised when the dog hopped back on the bed and burrowed her way under the covers.
Sabrina made her way downstairs, taking the hall as quietly as she could. Pushing her way into the nursery, she couldn’t help but smile. She always smiled when she saw her. The baby was on her back, rolling from side to side, happily trying to eat her own toes. Sabrina leaned over the side of the crib, and the baby broke into a wide happy grin at the sight of the face that hovered above her. Reaching down, Sabrina lifted the sleep-warmed bundle from her crib, giving her a slight bounce. She was rewarded with a giggle. The sound was her new favorite.
The baby leaned away from her chest and gazed up at her with eyes that were the tawny brown of a good shooting whiskey. Her smile crinkled them at the corners, and for a moment she looked just like her daddy.
“Hey, thought you’d be gone by now,” he said from the doorway, and Sabrina turned to see Devon Nickels, light brown hair rumpled from sleep, flannel pajama pants slung low on narrow hips, his broad chest bare except for the burp cloth tossed over his shoulder. He had a bottle in one hand and a picture book in the other, Goodnight Moon.
“Late start. Go back to bed, I’ve got her,” she said, reaching for the bottle, reluctant to hand the baby over. Nickels laughed and shook his head, pulling the baby out of her arms.
“No, you go back to bed
. It’s my turn,” he said with a grin, making shooing motions with the book. The baby’s smile widened even more at the sight of her daddy, and she clapped chubby fingers against his cheek so he’d look at her and smile back. “Good morning, beautiful girl,” he whispered, dropping a soft kiss on her cheek before turning toward Sabrina, who lingered nearby. “Out,” he said and laughed when she heaved a sigh and stomped across the room.
Turning in the doorway, she watched father and daughter settle into the rocker next to the crib. He handed her the bottle and she popped it into her mouth. He fit her into the crook of his arm before cracking the book to read its pages, his soft low voice reaching out to her, soothing her.
“Going for a run?” he said in the same voice he used to read to his daughter.
“Yeah. Want me to wait?” She liked his company when she ran, preferring it to being alone these days.
“Can’t today. Got SWAT re-cert at eight o’clock.” He looked up at her and smiled.
She gave a low whistle. “Lucky you.”
He chuckled softly. “Quit playin’—it’s just you and me here, so you can admit it. We both know you’re gonna miss it.”
He was right. She was going to miss it, but she shrugged that off. After spending fifteen months loaned out to SWAT, she’d finally been able to make her way back to Homicide. Her time away had proved to her that Homicide was where she belonged, Mathews be damned. Besides, SWAT was out of the question for her now. One cowboy in the family was enough.
She smiled. “Want me to take over so you can get ready?” she said hopefully, and he laughed.
“No, I want you to stop hovering.”
“Hey, I don’t hover.”
“You do. You’re a hoverer,” he said. “But I forgive you. Actually, I think it’s kinda cute.”
“Cute?” She scoffed and pushed away from the door. “Now you’re just being mean.”
Promises to Keep Page 4
