by Meli Raine
Heat rises through me from toes to crown.
At least I can track her electronically.
That’s the only reason I’m willing to let her go.
We’re brief. A quick kiss, an I love you, and the last thing I see is Lindsay’s back, Silas’s hand on her elbow, and then Jane’s front door shuts quickly.
I escape out the patio door. The scent of snickerdoodles fills the air as I creep past one of the apartments and find my way home.
Chapter 19
The sound of a law enforcement or military team coming to your house for a raid has a distinct racket. Years of training has honed my hearing, my ability to catch a raid seconds before it actually happens one of the soft skills that set me apart during my combat tours.
Unfortunately, that skill doesn’t translate when it comes to being the target of a raid.
And that’s exactly what I am right now, as uniformed officers carrying assault rifles kick in my front and back doors and swarm my apartment.
Cacophony never seems chaotic in the moment. It rolls out in nanoseconds, achingly slow, blurred lines and confusion on a parallel timeline with the rest of the world.
The crack of the door shooting inward, then another, are close enough to gunshots to make me jump out of bed, completely naked, with my gun in my hand already. Safety off.
Shoot to kill.
Then black cloth and metal glints, sunlight and skin, flesh and angry, cold eyes. My name, barked in serial by a bunch of men and women who not only don’t know me, but don’t give a shit about anything other than my compliance. They are here to subdue me, to take me away, to check off a box that says the good guys won and the bad guy is in his place.
I don’t know what I’ve done.
They won’t tell me.
The gun in my hand, though, changes their calculus.
In the movies, action heroes like Jason Bourne can outsmart a flock of highly trained Special Ops soldiers and take down a crowd of ten.
My limit is six.
And whatever branch of law enforcement has crashed my apartment brought what feels like two hundred elephants, all standing on tiptoes on my kidneys.
In other words, my shoulder’s just been wrenched out of the socket by someone zip-tying my wrists together. I see lightning bolts across my vision as the pain sears me.
My rights are barked out to me in a clipped, loud voice, and then I’m hauled on my feet, my gun long gone, my naked body arched forward, vision blurring.
Someone shoves my legs into a pair of orange prison scrub pants, and then I’m perp-walked out my own front door into the back of a van.
Ever shake a bead in a Pringles can?
Yeah. I’m the bead and the van is that can for the twenty-minute drive to the local police station. By the time we arrive, I’m as bruised as an apple being used as a soccer ball.
And through it all, the only thought I have is this:
No fucking way will they win.
It takes Mark less than half an hour to arrive, flashing government credentials that don’t mean shit when the people in charge of arresting me don’t seem to care about jurisdiction, policy, or the basics of the law itself.
A television blathers on in the corner of the ceiling, the volume too low to hear the newscaster’s words, but the closed captioning big and bold.
I’m the star of the show right now, the clip of my arrest being shown over and over, half naked, wearing orange scrub bottoms.
“Submit that video to America’s Funniest. You could win the grand prize.”
I snort. A bubble of blood shoots out my left nostril.
The news cuts in with a report that Lindsay Bosworth, presidential candidate Senator Harwell “Harry” Bosworth’s daughter, will leave today for a humanitarian mission working with Fair Trade coffee growers in Guatemala.
“Sources confirm that Lindsay Bosworth has decided to engage in the Fair Trade coffee project to work on assisting with literacy issues, teaching at the elementary school level. Ms. Bosworth earned a bachelor’s degree in education and is fluent in Spanish, according to Bosworth campaign spokesman Marshall Josephs, and -- ”
“No. Oh, God, Harry. No.” I groan over the rest of the newscaster’s words. This is a joke, right?
No. It’s not.
It’s dead serious.
Deadly.
Mark lets out a big puff of air, eyes nervous and darting. To someone who doesn’t know him, he looks pissed.
A thread of fear tugs inside me, because I do know him.
He’s scared.
“The scarves set you up one hundred percent, Drew. Now it’s your fingerprints on Lindsay’s brake lines. You sent the threatening texts to her phone. And Jane’s on the record that you broke into her apartment last night -- ” He gives me a vicious look. I flinch.
“Jesus, Drew,” he groans. “Tell me it’s not true.”
I stay quiet.
“Fuck, Drew. I don’t know if I can undo this.”
“I broke in to talk to Lindsay privately! She said Jane disappeared because she knew I was there. Why would Jane lie like that?”
“Don’t tell me you seriously just asked that question, Drew.” He’s looking at me like I’m an imbecile.
“This is worse than I thought.”
“We have to figure out who the mole is. Right now, looks like it’s Jane.”
“Jane.” I shake my head, a drop of blood landing on my upper thigh. “No way. She’s too clean.” Something Lindsay told me about Jane pings in my memory. Computer science. Jane works as a developer for a start-up. Could she be Lindsay’s darknet contact?
No way. Jane’s not the type.
He reads my mind. “No one’s too clean, Drew. You of all people know that. Your best friends turned on you and Lindsay four years ago. What makes you think Jane wouldn’t?”
Considering Mark Paulson is the closest thing I have to a best friend, all I can do is stare at him.
“I get one phone call,” I choke out, coughing so hard blood appears at the corner of my mouth.
“You’re exercising that right now?”
“Better late than never.”
His face goes slack. “Depending on who, exactly, is orchestrating your arrest, never is a distinct possibility.” The bones in his face stand out with tension as he whispers, “If they move you out of here, I don’t know where they’ll take you. The longer we stall, and the more people I add to the chain of information, the better. Once you’re out of my sight, I -- ” His words break off with a frustrated halt and an angry shrug.
“One phone call. Senator Harwell Bosworth.”
“You have brass balls, Drew. Brass fucking balls. The guy’s probably behind some of this!”
“I know he’s not. And he needs to know that any instructions from any entity to move Lindsay will only endanger her.” I recite a number. “That’s his private line. Get him on the phone.”
Mark hands me his phone. I dial.
“Bosworth.”
“Harry, don’t hang up.”
“You.”
One word can sound like a death wish.
“Listen to me. Don’t move Lindsay. Any transport puts her at risk,” I snap.
“You put her at risk, you sick little beast.”
“It wasn’t me. I’m being set up.”
“He said you’d say that.”
“Who?”
“Look, Drew. Get help. Go inpatient at a mental hospital, get whatever assistance you need. But stalking Lindsay like this isn’t healthy for you. She doesn’t love you. She doesn’t want you.”
I don’t take the bait.
“Do not send her to the Island.”
His silence confirms what I suspected.
“I know it’s not a coffee plantation.”
“It’s where she needs to be, Drew. No thanks to you. And stop with the death threats against me,” he adds, acid in his voice.
“Oh, come on. You don’t actually believe that’s me, Harry. I can tel
l you don’t.”
The sound of a palm rubbing against stubble peppers the phone line. He sighs. “I don’t know who has decided to make your life a living hell, Drew, but you pissed off someone very, very high and very, very powerful. I can’t save you.” His voice tightens, as if he’s reconsidering. “Not that I’d want to.”
He thinks the line’s being monitored.
He’s right.
Mark’s watching me. Someone taps on the door. He talks in a low voice, buying me time.
“Keep her at The Grove. Paulson and Gentian can keep her safe,” I plead. I’m not above begging. Not when it comes to Lindsay.
“That’s not the plan.”
“Then your plan will kill her, Harry.”
“Says the man who sliced her brake lines and threatened and -- ”
“You know this is all too convenient, Harry. I didn’t do any of that. You’re smarter than this. Don’t believe their bullshit.”
“Besides, it’s too late,” he says. My heart squeezes.
“What?”
Mark walks back to me, watching closely.
“She’s already on her way to the Island.”
“Does she know that?”
Silence.
“Fuck, Harry. You can’t -- ”
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. Paulson just left on the helicopter with her.”
My heart stops. Just stops, like a deer walking calmly through a dewy dawn, ears perked by a sudden interruption, a pending doom.
I stare at Mark, half-listening, blood starting to boil, mind turning into a tornado. “What?”
“You heard me. Paulson said this was the best approach, so he’s escorting her personally. Anya arranged it all.”
“Say that again.” I can hear my voice drop like a drawbridge.
Mark’s brow furrows and he mouths the word, What?
I’m staring at Mark. He’s staring back.
“Anya arranged for Mark Paulson to transport Lindsay back to the...coffee plantation,” he says, annoyed. “Look, I don’t have time for -- ”
“That’s impossible, Harry,” I grind out.
“What are you talking about?” His reply is impatient. He’s done with me. I’m a bother and if I don’t get him to realize what he’s doing, more than one person is about to die.
Or worse.
“There’s no way Mark Paulson just got on that helicopter to escort Lindsay to the Island.”
Mark’s mouth opens with shock, then snaps shut.
“I talked to him on a cleared, secure line. Anya arranged it. Hell, I just watched them from across the grounds, climbing aboard the chopper. Don’t tell me it’s impossible.”
“Harry, you just sent her to her death,” I shout. I’m shaking uncontrollably, and I can’t look at Mark. Who do I trust? Mark made me leave The Grove last night, telling me it was for everyone’s good, that I needed to let the dust settle on all the media craziness. Then he hinted I should go to Jane’s apartment. Gave me her address. Was that all a lie?
My friends from high school turned on Lindsay and me four years ago.
Is Mark not what he seems, too?
I want to tell him about the microchip, to have Paulson track her...but...
Three officers rush into the room.
“Why?” Harry asks, shaking me out of my whip-fast thoughts. “Why would you say such a thing, Drew?”
“Because,” I say slowly, turning on the speaker phone just before they pin my arms behind my back, “Mark Paulson is right here with me.”
Paulson’s eyes narrow, his eyebrow fixed in place, the only sign of stress a twitch in his jaw muscles.
“He’s what?” Harry’s not faking the incredulity.
“What are you talking about, Drew?” Mark asks, stepping closer to me, then backing up as the three officers make it clear he’s next if he doesn’t.
“Jesus, is that Mark Paulson? He really is there with you? You’re not delusional? Then who the hell just took Lindsay?” Harry shouts into the phone. “Where is my daughter going?”
I’m slammed, cheek down, on the concrete floor and everything fades to a brilliant, familiar red.
The color of one of Lindsay’s scarves.
Read the final book in the Harmless series trilogy, A Harmless Little Plan, to see how Drew and Lindsay’s story ends.
About the Author
Meli Raine writes romantic suspense with hot bikers, intense undercover DEA agents, bad boys turned good, and Special Ops heroes -- and the women who love them.
Meli rode her first motorcycle when she was five years old, but she played in the ocean long before that. She lives in New England with her family.
Visit her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/meliraine
Join her New Releases and Sales newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/beV0gf
She also writes romantic comedy as Julia Kent, and is half of the co-authoring team for the Diana Seere paranormal shifter romance books.
http://www.meliraine.com
meliraine
www.meliraine.com
