Stepping out onto the front porch, she took a seat on the swing, sinking into its deep red cushions with a barely audible sigh. Taking her phone out, she dialed Mandy and let it ring.
“This is Black,” Mandy said.
“Hey, it’s me. Got a minute?”
“For you, I’ve got about five, maybe ten.” She could hear the concern in Mandy’s voice, knew what was coming next. “I got a look at your friend from the hospital. You plugged him pretty good. One of the bullets destroyed his liver. Another blew out his left ventricle.” Mandy always talked shop when she was stressed. “I heard you were shot and refused treatment.” It wasn’t a question. Sabrina had a thing about refusing treatment, and for a moment she was glad that she hadn’t been at Elm’s office when the bullets started flying. She’d probably be strapped to a gurney somewhere while Mandy stitched her up. Without a painkiller.
“It’s just a graze. I’m fine, promise.”
“We have very different ideas on what fine is, Sabrina.” Mandy also got snippy when she was worried.
There was no arguing that, so she let it go. “I need a favor,” she said quietly. Even though she was on the porch, she didn’t want to take a chance that someone might overhear her. She was choosing to involve Mandy; that didn’t mean she couldn’t minimize her exposure as much as possible.
The other end of the line was quiet for a moment, and then, “Okay. Hold on.” There was noise on the other end of the phone, the swinging scrape of a door across linoleum, a loud clack, followed by another. “I’m in cold storage, so please hurry.”
Sabrina took a deep breath. And another. Looked around to ensure she was truly alone.
“Hello? Freezing my ass off here.”
“Yeah, I’m here. It’s about the boy—Johnny Doe,” she said, waiting for her words to sink in before continuing. “I need you to work up a DNA report and a death certificate for him.”
“But I have no idea who he is. I just sent prints and samples to the lab this morning, but even with a rush order, I won’t have results for a few days,” Mandy said.
“I know. That’s why I’m asking.” The longer it took for Mandy to get the results back, the longer Michael and Ben had to work with. “I need documentation stating that the body belongs to Leon Jonathan Maddox the third.”
Complete and utter silence. Shit.
“I’m not asking you to put them in the system, I just need hard copies of the reports,” Sabrina said, explaining as much as she could. She waited a few seconds before speaking again. “Mandy—”
“I’m sorry, did you just ask me to falsify DNA and a certificate of death for a Senator’s grandson?” Mandy said in a whispered rush.
“Yes.”
More silence. “Are you in trouble?” Now Mandy sounded worried.
“Yes.” Please don’t ask, please don’t ask, please don’t—
“I’ll have to wait until after hours. Forging official documents is generally frowned upon around here,” Mandy said.
Had she just agreed? “So you’ll—”
“You’d never ask me to do something like this unless it was extremely important, right?”
“Right.”
“And we’re friends, right?”
She thought of Strickland. The way they’d left things. “Right.”
“So, yes. I’ll do it,” Mandy said. “You can pick them up tomorrow morning. I have a nine o’clock, so, say around eight?”
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything. You’re not very good at this whole friend thing, are you?” Mandy said before hanging up.
No, she really wasn’t.
Before Sabrina could change her mind, she dialed another number from memory. The call was answered on the fourth ring.
“Inspector, I was wondering when you’d finally call.” Phillip Song’s voice, smooth and confident, chided her gently. “You have an unhealthy habit of cutting it close. A form of self-punishment, I’m sure. Completely unnecessary, by the way.”
“Have you been talking to my therapist again, Phillip?” She smiled in spite of herself when he laughed. The two had formed an unlikely friendship, despite—or maybe because of—the fact that she’d killed his brother.
“I would never pry into your private matters, Sabrina,” he said. This time it was her turn to laugh.
“Lies. Prying is what you do best.” She kept her tone light, playful, as she usually did with him. It was what worked best between them.
“I do it for your own good, yeon-in,” he told her, and she was sure he believed it to be true.
The first time he’d pried had been a few months after his brother’s funeral. She and Strickland had decided to meet for lunch in the Tenderloin. He’d chosen the restaurant and surprisingly, it had belonged to Phillip Song. It was the first time she’s seen him since that day in the stockroom behind David’s store. The day he’d told her that his older brother had always been sick, and that the death of their father had likely driven him over the edge.
She’d expected him to have them escorted out of the restaurant. Even if the fact that she killed his brother hadn’t been an issue, the Song family had strong ties to the city’s Geondal—Korean organized crime. Phillip Song was the head of Seven Dragons. Cops weren’t exactly appreciated by him.
Instead of being asked to leave, or shot, Sabrina was surprised to find herself face to face with Phillip himself. He’d welcomed her warmly, insisting that their meal was on the house, that anything he could do for her, he would do.
As if to prove himself, he’d called her later that night and asked that she meet him. Even though she knew it wasn’t exactly smart, Sabrina went. There was one thing she knew for sure—if Phillip Song wanted her dead, she would have been dead months before. Going to see him at his restaurant was no more dangerous than stepping outside her house every day. When she arrived, she was ushered into a private dining room to find Phillip waiting for her.
“You are being haunted by a Gae Dokkaebi—an evil spirit,” he’d said, shooting her a lopsided grin. “At least that’s what Eun says.” He raised his eyes to the woman hovering in the doorway of the restaurant’s private dining room he used to conduct his business. “My cousin,” he said, motioning the young woman in. With her came the warm delicate scent of tea.
“Before coming to America, she was in training to become sana mudang—a shaman.” He smiled up at his cousin, inclining his head slightly while she slid the tea tray onto the table between them. “She senses a darkness inside you. She’s afraid of you. And for you.”
Smart girl. The words hovered on Sabrina’s tongue, but she managed to keep them to herself. “And she’s going to exorcise my demons with a cup of tea?” she said as small fine-boned hands poured a translucent brew into a teacup.
“Not a demon—a ghost.”
His words crawled along her nape to slither down her spine. She had to fight to keep herself in her chair. Before she could question him further, Phillip continued.
“Unfortunately, according to Eun, there is no getting rid of what’s inside you.” He sat back, elbows braced on the arms of his chair, tugging the French cuffs of his hand-tailored shirt over his heavily inked wrists. “The tea will give you relief, not peace. She warns, it will not hold the Gae Dokkaebi at bay forever.”
“Eun sure says a lot for someone who never speaks.” She shot a wary look at the cup in front of her. It unnerved her to know that she’d been the topic of conversation between them. “Why is she helping me?”
“Because I asked her to,” he said, as if that answered everything.
“Why would you want to help me?” she said, fighting the urge to look away from his intense gaze.
“It is simple: my family owes you a debt that can never be re-paid. If my father were here, he would feel the same.”
Sabrina didn’t see it that way at all—she had killed his brother; that didn’t constitute a debt—but she didn’t argue. She drank the tea, more out of politeness rather than an actual belief that it would work against the voice she couldn’t silence inside her head.
When she left, Phillip pressed a red silk pouch into her hand, his long, cool fingers wrapping around her own. “I wish there was more I could do.” He frowned. “If it works, come back.”
Incredibly, it had worked. That night she’d slept without interruption and the next morning, there was nothing but blessed silence. Every few weeks she went to visit Phillip at his restaurant and when she left, it was with tea.
“But I think you called me for more than tea this time,” he said now, pulling her away from the memory.
“Is it okay if I come by tonight?” she said without answering his question.
“Of course, yeon-in,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
The line went dead and she stood, dropping her cell in her pocket.
“You shouldn’t be out here.”
She looked over to see Michael standing in the doorway. She had no idea how long he’d been there. Looking at him, her stomach tripped over itself on its way to her throat. “I needed the privacy.” She glanced away, unable to take the pressure that seeing his face built up in her chest.
“Who were you talking to?” he said, his eyes roving the yard. The street. Neighboring houses. Assessing threats. Looking for targets.
This was a very different Michael than the one she knew. Harder. Distant. More controlled. She remembered the way his arms felt around her, his face buried in her hair, his breath skating across her collarbone. Holding her so tight she could scarcely breathe. Where was he? The man who’d watched over her while she slept? The man who walked through hell to save her? Suddenly she wasn’t sure he even really existed.
Irritated by his terse behavior, she leaned back against the railing and crossed her arms over her chest. “A friend.”
Michael sighed, mirrored her stance, propping himself against the doorjamb, arms folded. “One that’s going to help, I hope,” he said, a smirk on his face, his eyes constantly roving the yard and street behind her.
She shrugged. She wasn’t telling him about Mandy’s involvement. Not because she didn’t trust him, but because she didn’t want to think about what she’d just done. Roping Mandy into this mess was probably a huge mistake. And mentioning Phillip … that would just be asking for trouble.
“Come inside. It’s not safe out here.”
“Because of Church?” she said.
“Yes. Because of Church. And everyone else who’s looking to serve our heads up on a platter,” he said, that half smile fading in favor of the hardened expression he seemed to always wear now.
She shook her head, refusing to move. “How is it possible that no one has ever seen this person?”
He scanned the street again. “Because that’s the way Shaw wants it. Chances are plenty of people have seen Church, we just don’t know who he is or what he really does. Shaw keeps sleepers—operatives with classified identities. Rumor has it he recommissions burned and disavowed agents from intelligence agencies worldwide. CIA, NSA, MI-6, KGB, Mossad … FSS is the last stop in a long line of acronym agencies. The freakin’ Island of Misfit Toys for rogue spies. ”
“What for?” she said, but she could imagine that such tools would have their uses.
“For shit like this. Intelligence operatives aren’t renowned for their strict moral code.” He looked uncomfortable, like he was telling her things he shouldn’t. Things that could get her killed.
“Are you afraid of Church?”
His expression changed again into something unreadable. “No. And no more questions—come inside.”
It was only a matter of time before whoever was controlling Cordova’s men found out that the attempt at the hospital had failed. That the Kotko boy was still alive. There was no doubt they’d be looking for him or that they’d eventually find him. Maybe they already had. “Please,” he said softly.
It wasn’t the word, it was the look he was giving her that finally moved her. Like he was seconds away from manhandling her into the house if needed. Either way, she was coming inside.
He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there, staring at her with the same calm expression he always wore. Finally she walked toward him, but he didn’t move from the doorway, forcing her to squeeze past him on her way through the door. Chest and thighs brushed against one another …
And then she was caught, his fingers closing around her wrist. He held her, the gentle pressure of his hand on her as unrelenting as the weight of his gaze, those gray eyes of his locking onto her face like he was starved for the sight of her.
“I have something for you,” he said quietly, the lazy pattern his thumb was drawing against her wrist was making her dizzy.
She felt the corner of her mouth lift in a crooked grin. “Should I be scared?”
He smiled back. “Yes, but you’ve never been that smart,” he teased while reaching into his suit pocket to pull out another case. This one was long and flat, roughly the length of a pen. He opened it and showed it to her. A silver bracelet made of thin, elongated links as wide as her finger. He lifted it from the case before snapping it closed. A bracelet that wasn’t really a bracelet at all. It remained straight and stiff in his hands, the links locked together to form something that resembled a hiltless blade, its end tapering off into a sharp point.
“It’s titanium, so it’s light but strong,” he told her, showing her the small button on the underside. He pushed it and the links unlocked, pooling into his hands. He looped it around her wrist, tucking the pointed clasp into its hollow end, securing it in place.
“Does this mean we’re going steady?” she said, hoping the joke would alleviate some of the pressure that had built up between them.
He looked up at her, his gray eyes nearly black as he stared into her eyes. “It means if something happened to you, I think it would kill me.” As suddenly as he caught her, he let her go, releasing her wrist before looking away. “Don’t take it off.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding. She continued through the door and into the house. She kept walking. Didn’t stop, didn’t turn around. Because if she did, she was certain that the man she fell in love with would disappear.
Thirty-Seven
Michael watched Sabrina walk away, waiting before following her into the kitchen. He used the time to remind himself there were reasons he stayed away from her. Reasons he should’ve kept staying away.
Ben … it was his fault he was here. The kid was worse than a twelve-year-old girl with his schoolyard bullshit.
But it hadn’t been Ben who forced him to follow her out here. It hadn’t been Ben who’d opened his mouth and said things to her he’d had no intention of saying. And it hadn’t been Ben who’d touched her. No, as usual, he hadn’t needed any help fucking things up. Just point him in the right direction and things got destroyed. That’s the way it had always been.
Story of his life.
He shed his jacket, tossing it over the back of the nearest chair. Reaching up, he pulled the knot loose on his necktie, yanking it wide to stave off the trapped feeling that suddenly gripped him. He kept pulling until the thing came loose in his hand and then popped open the first few buttons on his shirt. Nothing he did made it any better.
He remembered this feeling. Hated it. It was like a slow-moving train wreck only he could stop, but no matter how hard he pulled the brake, the wheels just kept rolling. People dumb enough to love him had a habit of getting killed. His parents. Frankie. Lucy. How many times could Sabrina dodge a bullet before one finally caught her? How many times could she die before it finally took?
He shut the front door and locked it, impressed with the heavy brass fixtures that secured it. Those were new. For the f
irst time, he noticed the discreet security panel set flush into the wall, rows of lights offset by a pad used to read thumbprints. This was no commercial-grade system. He’d seen this kind of system plenty of times.
In FSS safe houses.
Apprehension tingled along his scalp. Taking a trip around the room, he noted things he’d been too preoccupied to see before. The way the front parlor window refracted the setting sun, bending the light with its thickness? Bulletproof glass. The blinking red lights in every corner of the room? Motion detectors. The almost springy feel of the floorboards beneath his feet? Pressure plates that almost surely triggered an off-site alarm. He rapped a couple of knuckles against one of the exterior walls. Solid. He’d bet his account in the Caymans that every inch was outfitted with Kevlar panels.
What. The. Fuck.
But he knew. Ben. It always came back to him, didn’t it? He spent time here. A lot of time. Miss Ettie treated him like he was one of her grandkids. Probably baked him fucking cookies and tucked him in at night. It made perfect sense that Ben would make sure the place was secure, so why did it piss him off so bad?
Because it hadn’t been him who thought of it, that’s why.
Get your head in the fuckin’ game, O’Shea—none of this matters. Not if you don’t let it.
Michael shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and finally headed for the kitchen.
He entered quietly, leaning against the doorframe without a sound. Sabrina looked at him over her shoulder, stopping mid-sentence before continuing with what she was saying. “Like I said, all you need to know is that I’ll have a DNA report and death certificate by tomorrow morning.”
Lark, standing across the room, hips resting against the kitchen counter, looked like he was suddenly having second thoughts. “And like I said, I deserve to know where you’re getting your documents because it’s my ass doing the lying here. Shaw won’t fall for no Mickey Mouse shit,” he said.
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