Promises to Keep

by Maegan Beaumont

  Ben was as unconvinced as he was. “You should’ve killed her. Leaving her alive was sloppy.”

  Michael eyes narrowed just a twinge. “Would you’ve killed her?” he said. Ben looked away, and he scoffed. “Didn’t think so. It’s bad enough she’s gonna spend the rest of her life in prison for multiple murders she had nothing to do with. Just let it go.”

  “Easy for you to say—” Ben’s phone let out a chirp. He dug it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. “Meet you on the plane,” he said, turning his back on him and walking toward the tail of the plane before answering. Michael watched him go, caught the smile on his face that appeared after he said hello. The grin faded quickly, replaced by a look that said he was all business now. After only thirty seconds, he snapped his phone closed and dropped it in his pocket. He walked back toward the front of the plane. “Change of plans. We’re making a pit stop before heading to Helena,” Ben said, and he moved past Michael up the steps to the interior of the Lear.

  “Where?” Michael said, picking up his duffle and following.

  His partner shot him a look over his shoulder. “San Francisco.”

  San Francisco.

  As soon as Michael boarded the plane, he dropped his duffle and stretched out on the couch, closed his eyes, and willed himself into oblivion. But it was useless. No way was he sleeping. Not when all he could think about was Sabrina.

  It looked like fate had finally decided to stop being such a bitch and throw him a bone. He’d been wracking his brain, trying to figure out a way to slip his collar and find a way to see her, but suddenly his way was clear …

  He looked across the interior of the Lear to where Lark had set up shop and felt the skin on the back of his neck draw tight once more before closing his eyes again. At least it was clearer than it had been a few hours ago. He still had to figure out how in the hell he was going to get rid of Lark and the kid—

  “We need to talk.”

  He cracked a lid to see Ben sitting cross-legged in the middle of the aisle, three feet from his face. He looked worried. It was never a good sign when Ben looked worried.

  “So talk.” He closed his eyes again and waited for the kid to start in with whatever was bothering him, but all he heard was the constant tapping that told him Lark was on his computer.

  He opened his eyes. Ben was still there. The worry was too. “Look, getting shot makes me tired, so if you’re just gonna—”

  “It wasn’t Lark. It was me … sort of. I’m the reason my father knows about Sabrina.”

  He shot a glare in Lark’s direction. He was sitting at the table. The same table they’d been sitting at that last time they’d all been together on this plane. They’d been having a conversation much like this one. He’d trusted Lark, and Lark had betrayed him. Now it seemed to be Ben’s turn to fuck him over. When was he gonna learn?

  He shifted his glare back to Ben and settled on his face. “You have two minutes.”

  “My dad knew something was up with you. After finding your sister’s killer, you came back wrong, and he wanted to know why.” Ben scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “He kept at me, bugging me. Reminding me that my duty was, first and foremost, to my family. To him,” he said with barely contained disgust. “I repeatedly and quite emphatically told him to go fuck himself.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes on the kid’s face. “Skip to the part where I get screwed over. It’s always my favorite.”

  “I knew it was only a matter of time before Green Mile back there started flapping his yap and guaranteed, nothing he had to say would’ve been favorable.” He jerked his head toward Lark, who was listening. He hadn’t turned around, but his tapping had stopped. “But I kept my mouth shut and an eye out. Helped her get her job back. Tried to get her to rehab her leg.” Now he looked serious. Serious Ben was also never a good thing. “I did what I could—for her and for you.”

  It took him a second to understand what Ben was saying, but then the realization hit. “You recruited her.”

  Ben shrugged. “It was either recruit her or kill her,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re the one that brought her into this mess, man. I was just trying to make sure she stayed in one piece.”

  “By turning her into an assassin?” His stomach clenched at the thought of Sabrina doing what he did, going the places he went. He thought of her standing over a mark like Cordova and pulling the trigger.

  “She isn’t an asset; she’s a spotter. She sees a hard-to-locate target cross her desk or catches on to something that might interest us during surveillance, she calls me. That’s it.”

  “What does any of this have to do with your father? You could’ve turned her without handing her over.”

  “I did. She’s the one—she handed herself over. For you.” Ben swiped a rough hand over his face. “I mean, Jesus, didn’t you ever wonder how she got you out of there? You and her friend? She’s badass, but she’s not a miracle worker.”

  “She called your father.” It wasn’t a question. He could almost see her doing it. He’d been in bad shape, poisoned by whatever David Song had been using to incapacitate his victims. He’d felt himself dying, and he hadn’t cared—not when it meant dying for her. And in the end it had been her sacrifice, not his, that’d saved them both.

  Defeat and anger: he felt them both, struggled with them as they pulled his in every possible direction. “She’s the one who called you just now from San Francisco. She’s your contact there.”

  Ben hesitated then nodded. “One of them, yeah.”

  “How long? How long has she been working for you?”

  Ben hesitated again, this time a bit longer. “I approached her while she was still in that hospital in Texas.”

  All along. Ben had been in contact with Sabrina all along and he hadn’t said a word. Something crawled along the nape of his neck and trickled down his spine. “Is she chipped?”

  “No. I convinced my father it wasn’t necessary,” Ben said.

  “How?”

  Ben shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  Michael felt a dull pounding start up in the back of his skull, and he had to make himself unclench his fists. “Yeah. It does. It matters a lot.”

  “I might’ve … liberated certain evidence from the SFPD that could’ve been used to prosecute her in a few murders,” Ben said.

  He was talking about the bat she’d used nearly twenty years ago to defend herself from being raped by her mother’s boyfriend. The same bat Wade Bauer had used to kill a police officer in order to frame Sabrina for murder. If Livingston Shaw had it, he’d be able to make Sabrina do anything he wanted. “Where is it now?”

  “My dad has it,” Ben said, but he cut his eyes in Lark’s direction for a split second and gave him an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He was lying. Wherever the bat was, Shaw didn’t have it.

  “Why? Why are you protecting her?” he said. Ben’s motives mattered, and the wrong ones would get him killed.

  Ben got that look again. That serious look that showed you just who he really was. “Because my father has stolen enough from you. Don’t get me wrong—you made your bed all by yourself, but as far as I’m concerned, your debt to him is cleared.”

  Michael looked away, out the window at the blue and white that whipped by so fast it looked like it was standing still.

  The kid was wrong. His debt would never be cleared. Not until Reyes was dead and buried.

  Fifteen

  After Ben came clean about Sabrina’s involvement with FSS, Michael didn’t even try to pretend to sleep. He cleaned his weapons instead.

  Laid out on the table in front of him, the muted gleam of gunmetal was familiar. Comforting even, in a strange sort of way. This was what he knew. What he did. Who he was. The person he’d been after Frankie’s death, the one who fell in love with Sabrina—that wasn’t him. Never had
been.

  He could hope and wish all he wanted. For a different life. To find a way clear of the two tons of shit he’d buried himself under. It didn’t matter. Not when faced with the reality of what he really was. Not when he admitted that he would probably never be free of Livingston Shaw. He ran the bulk patch through the barrel of his gun and gave it a few twists before pulling it clear. It came out clean.

  Besides, did he really think he’d been made to settle down? Fall in love, lead an average existence? Pancakes and crossword puzzles on lazy Sunday mornings. Walks in the park and neighborhood barbeques. He thought about Tom Onewolf, the only normal guy he knew. He had a wife and daughter and ran his uncle’s diner. For a moment, despite everything Michael knew about himself, he wished he could trade places with him. Be average. Be stable.

  Be someone else.

  Lark was right. Sabrina had done something to him. Made him want things he couldn’t have. To be a man he couldn’t even imagine. He tried to be angry at her, but it was no use. He’d decided a long time ago that whatever his problems were, she wasn’t to blame. He let her get too close; he had no one to blame but himself.

  He swiped the bulk patch over the slide, clearing away imaginary debris before adding a few drops of gun oil here and there.

  But it was possible now. She was in as deep as he was. He could finally have something, someone, he wanted. They could be together …

  As soon as the thought came to him, he rejected it. She deserved better—a lot better—than him. He thought of the cop who’d had the hots for her. Nickels. Yeah, he’d be good for her. He was clean. Capable. And just the thought of Sabrina with him made Michael want to kill something.

  He passed the bulk patch over the body of the gun, careful to clear the rails, and ran it over the lip of the magazine. A shadow fell over the table and he looked up, not at all surprised by who he saw standing over him.

  Michael smirked and dropped his eyes back down to the gun in his hand. “Did you fall down and hit your head or something, asshole?” he said.

  “Maybe, but I got enough wits to hear what Junior told you about your girl,” Lark said, still standing over him and still staring.

  Michael didn’t answer. He reached for his gun cloth and started rubbing away the fluid residue left on his dismantled gun. He got busy ignoring Lark; it didn’t matter, he just kept talking.

  “He’s the one who told the boss about her, not me.”

  “Technically, she turned herself in.” For me. His jaw clenched tight as he shot Lark a look. “Is this going somewhere, or are you looking for a shoulder to cry on?” He’d never been able to stomach Lark’s bitchy little girl routine for long; time had done nothing to stretch his patience. He fixed the slide back into place and racked it back to ensure it rode the rails without catching.

  “What I’m looking for is an apology.”

  Michael laughed. Tipped his head back and let loose. “Yeah? Well, keep looking because you won’t find one here.” He popped a fresh magazine into the grip of the gun and racked a bullet into the chamber before laying it on the table. He looked up at Lark. “You’re just pissy because she beat you to the punch. I’m sure you would’ve loved to be the one to offer up that little gem to Shaw.”

  “But I didn’t.” Lark jabbed a finger over his shoulder at Ben. “He turned her, and he gets a pass? What’s up with that?”

  “He did it to save her. What you did, you did to save yourself.” Michael stood, forcing Lark back a few steps away from the table.

  “I did what I did to save us both.”

  “Remind me to send a thank you card.” He looked down at the gun on the table.

  Lark read his mind. “Shooting me won’t change anything. You can’t have what you want. None of us can. We walked away from nine-to-five and minivans a long time ago. No use callin’ bullshit now.”

  Michael kept his expression neutral. “Has anyone ever told you that you have this annoying habit of repeating yourself?”

  “Yeah, well, here’s another repeat, just so we’re clear: I’m here to make sure you don’t get any silly ideas about riding off into the sunset with your Lady Cop—”

  “Funny, I thought that’s what the dirty bomb attached to my spine was for.”

  “—so, just remember: She’s a hell of a lot more expendable than you are.”

  Michael holstered his gun and curled his hands into fists, squeezing them so hard he felt his knuckles crack. “Pushing me … it’s a stupid move.”

  “I’m not the one being stupid,” Lark nearly growled at him, and Michael laughed again. Lark had him there. When it came to Sabrina, Stupid was his middle name.

  Sixteen

  Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia

  July 2008

  “What is it?”

  Christina stood at the edge of the grass, small fingers worrying against the seams of her pale pink dress. She looked up at him.

  “It’s a tire swing,” Michael said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his fatigues.

  “What’s it for?”

  “It’s for fun.” What seemed like a good idea this morning now felt silly. He grimaced at the old jeep tire and rope he’d found in the garage. He hadn’t even thought to wipe it down before stringing it up. Jesus, he was bad at this. “Never mind. You want to go back inside?”

  “No.” She said it quickly, her pigtails bouncing wildly with the forceful head shake she gave him. “I’m tired of inside.”

  He smiled down at her. “Me too. Want to give it a try?” he said, cocking his head at the swing.

  “Yes, please.” She smiled back, looking at him like he’d just offered her something priceless. The smile faded a bit and her fingers started to worry again. “What am I supposed to do?”

  He took her by the hand and led her onto the grass. When he’d first found the tree a few months ago, he’d hardly been able to believe it. An oak tree growing on an island off the coast of Colombia. He’d been so curious that he’d asked one of the other guards about it.

  “When Mrs. Reyes was pregnant, Hefe had it shipped all the way here, fully grown from America and had it planted so that his son would have a good, sturdy tree to climb,” the guard had told him. “Hefe is still waiting for his son.”

  He hadn’t said it, but the implication was clear: Christina was a disappointment to her father. The tire swing had been an impulsive reaction to what the guard had told him. A fuck you to Reyes for discarding his only daughter like a broken toy. For treating her like a thing instead of a child.

  They stood in front of it now, and he gave it a push so she could watch it swing gently back and forth. “You put your legs through the hole and sit on the edge,” he said to her, brushing the black smudges touching it left on his fingertips off on his dark pants.

  “I’m going to get dirty.”

  “Probably,” he answered, ready to take her back into the house.

  Christina watched the tire sway for a few moments, doubt slowly being replaced by determination. She lifted her arms, looking up at him, this time with expectation, and it took him a second to realize what she was asking. Lifting her, he held her up so she could thread her legs through the hole in the tire. “Hold on here,” he said gruffly, suddenly attacked by the memory of doing almost the exact same thing for Frankie when she was little. He moved her hands to the base of the rope. “Don’t let go,” he said just before giving her a gentle push, sending the tire away from him.

  She came back and he pushed her again, a little bit harder this time, and she spun around on the return trip, her eyes wide with worry but also something more. Excitement—the kind of terrified joy that makes you believe you can do anything. That you are not a disappointment. That you are perfect, even if your hair is loose and your dress is smudged with grease and road dust.

  He pushed again and this time she squealed, “Higher!”

 
He pushed her until he could barely lift his arms and her dress was ringed in black. Neither of them noticed. “Did you have a tire swing when you were my age?” she said to him, taking hold of his hand on the walk back from to the house. He didn’t pull away.

  “No. I didn’t live in a place that had trees.” How could he explain to her that when he’d been her age he’d live in a shitty rent-by-the-week with his heroin-addicted mother? That he didn’t even remember seeing a tree until he’d been taken to Sophia and Sean for fostering after his mother died. “But I did when I was older.”

  He still remembered sitting in the front seat of his social worker’s ancient VW Beetle staring out the window at the place that would eventually become his home. The tire swing looked like it was there just waiting for him, and he wanted to swing on it so bad he could taste it. He hadn’t been there a week before he found a hacksaw in Sean’s tool chest and cut the rope from the branch, the tire hitting the ground with a dull thud.

  “Did you love it?” Her eyes were wide, cheeks still flushed by wind and exhilaration.

  “I did love it,” he said. When he’d woken up the next morning after cutting it down, it’d been strung back up, as if he’d never touched it. It became a sort of game between him and his new father. He’d cut it down and then Sean would string it back up. Him telling Sean to give up. That he was hopeless and would never allow himself to be loved. Sean telling him that no matter what he said or did, he would never give up. He would never stop trying. “My sister loved it too.”

  “You have a sister?” Christina stopped, her hand jerking in his. “What does she look like?”

  He looked at her. She had the same curly dark hair and smooth olive skin as Frankie, who looked so much like Sophia. On impulse, Michael pulled the photo of a twelve-year-old Frankie from the pocket where he always carried it and held it out to her.

  Christina’s gaze latched on to the photo along with her fingers. “She has curly hair too.” She traced the crazy tangle that surrounded Frankie’s face with the tip of her finger. “Does she like the beach?” she said, searching for something that would connect her to the wild-looking girl in the picture.