“He gave her a coin and told her something like, ‘if you make trouble for us, we will hunt you down and slit the throats of your family.’ That shut her up. Then, we sauntered away—me, with one of the guard’s arms around my shoulders like we were an item. I was shaking. I turned around to look at her. She’d slumped to the ground and the way she looked at me…the outrage and betrayal in her eyes…I’ll never forget that look.”
She lifted her fingers to the bridge of her nose and squeezed. When she resumed speaking, her voice emerged in a dark whisper, like she sat in the back of a cave.
“Karlos grinned when he saw me. He put his arm around me and whispered bullshit in my ear about how proud he was of me and how he’d make it up to me in bed.”
She blinked, suddenly aware that silent tears streamed down her cheeks. A sense of rage and injustice shot through her belly like it had been lying in wait to be set free.
She spoke through gritted teeth with snot and salty tears all over her face. Her hands knotted into fists. “They had me do this over and over and over. Every few days we’d head out. If they saw me resist, or try to signal the woman, I got backhanded. My face bore bruises for weeks.”
She tipped her head on the back of the sofa, squeezed her eyes shut, and sobbed. “So many women. A different place every time. We drove in a different car. I always had to dress in something different.”
“What did they do with the hair?” Jackson asked gently.
“They sold it on the black market.” Blaire’s voice came out in a hoarse sob. “They had lots of enterprises, but that was the one Karlos groomed me for.”
She kept her eyes shut tightly, not wanting to see Jackson’s face. In her mind, she chased away the violence that she’d lived with while living in Caracas. She couldn’t tell Jackson about that part. Every day Karlos would threaten her, telling her that her good behavior would be rewarded. And her bad behavior? He’d mimic slitting his own throat, and then grin like he’d just told a hilarious joke. He even slept with a gun under the pillow. She never knew if she’d wake up dead.
“And they always laughed and whooped it up when we got back in the car. We’d head back to the mansion, and they’d drink, and I’d cry until Karlos came in the room to ‘reward’ me. Every day I was scared. So scared. I wanted to die. I wanted to escape. I wanted out.”
She took a shuddering breath. “Finally, a stroke of fate turned in my favor. The guys were getting sloppy. I was able to alert one woman as to what was in store for her if she followed me. She shoved some money in my hand. It wasn’t much. She told me to give the money I had back to the men but to hide the money she gave me. She told me where to catch a bus to Jacinto Lara International Airport. She asked if I had a credit card to buy a plane ticket. I said no, but I knew where Karlos kept a lot of cash. I tried to give her back her money, but she insisted I take it, telling me it had been blessed by Ismael, whom I later learned is the patron saint of thugs. She told me Ismael would grant me a safe passage to the airport, but after that, I was on my own. Then, when we rounded the corner to the alley I was to take her to, she ran.”
Blaire’s hands fluttered like small birds. “I caught hell for losing the mark, but I made up some story about how she overpowered me.
Her voice grew thick. “I made sure Karlos got good and drunk that night. I let him have his way with me. He fell fast asleep after that. I sneaked out of bed and found his store of cash. I took a wad of it but hoped he wouldn’t find any missing. He’d count it every night but then hide it in this silver box when he thought no one was looking. I tiptoed out of the mansion. I had to climb cyclone fencing topped with barbed wire. My hands and my legs were bloody by the time I made my way over the fence, but I ran. God, how I ran once my feet touched the ground. I ran all the way to the bus and somehow made it home.”
Her lungs heaved with sobs that wracked her to the core. So much pain; she had no idea where it had been stored all this time. Screaming wildly, she kicked and stomped her feet. She beat the couch with her fists, letting an arsenal of rage free.
And then, Jackson’s arms were around her. He pulled her on top of him and held her tight, making her feel safe and protected. He held her until she was quiet, so quiet she was only aware of their breathing. Her breath blew harshly in and out of her lungs. The sounds of Jackson’s breath huffed into her ear. She swore she could even hear the dogs breathe.
Finally, after a long period, she pressed herself upon his chest and said, “Do you still love me?”
“This story—it’s a lot to process.” His eyes appeared moist.
“But do you still love me?” she said, desperation clawing a bloody trail inside her chest.
“I have to figure out how to keep you safe,” he said, dodging the question.
Her heart slithered from her chest.
I knew this was coming. He’s committed to keeping me safe but not loving me.
“You said he’s coming to kill you,” he said. “Why would you think that?” He pushed her messy hair away from her face.
She pulled her head away from him, not wanting to be touched by the guy who only wanted to keep her safe. “I saw an article in the newspaper a couple of days ago. He’s in Seattle on some sort of business venture. Why would he do that? He never came to Seattle when we were together. Not once. Why would he come to this area unless it was to track me down?”
Jackson looked up in the way he did when his mind was working, connecting dots, finding patterns. “We don’t know why he’s here. Has he tried to contact you?”
She shook her head. “No. I changed my number when I returned.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding, not meeting her eyes. “But you think you saw someone outside the window.”
She nodded.
He pushed her from his body.
She scrambled to the other side of the couch.
He swung his legs to the floor. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head in his hands.
A few seconds later, he lifted his head and looked at her.
“Okay. I’ll make some calls when I go to work tomorrow. I’ll ask around. Don’t you worry, we’ll keep you safe.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. Jackson—her Jackson—was gone, replaced by a stranger. Completely numb, she rose and headed for the bedroom, not caring if he followed. Her plan for the rest of the night was simple: root around in the medicine cabinet for some pain pills, pop a couple in her mouth, fall into a dead sleep, and forget tonight ever happened if only for eight hours. She would take whatever reprieve she could get. She simply couldn’t believe that he could still love her. How could someone so courageous and good want to be with someone who had made such a shitty life choice as to fall for a gangster?
Chapter 15
The next night, dressed in his uniform blues, Jackson sat alone in the break room, staring into space. Everyone else on his shift had retired to their rooms after dinner and a little TV time.
It had been a busy day with two “pick me ups,” which involved hefting patients from the floor and getting them back into their beds or chairs. Then, his team got dispatched to a diabetic coma. In between calls, he had his regular duties like rig check and washing the engine. So, he’d had no time for anything but his job, per usual. Now, however, he figured it was time to see if he could make a dent in the shit show he’d left at home when he’d closed down on Blaire in the middle of her horrific story.
His cell phone lay on the table next to him, burning a hole in the hardwood table. He picked it up and tapped Blaire’s number.
She’s got to be home. It’s almost 10.
No answer.
He tapped out a text. Talk to me.
He waited for her reply, twirling the device on its corner against the table. Lifting the phone, he glanced at the screen. Nothing. He positioned the device over one of the names of a previous captain which had been carved into the wood and sent it spinning with his thumb. Then, hopeful, he stared at it.
Still nothin
g.
He tapped her number again. This time it went straight to voicemail like she’d just declined the call.
Shit, shit and double shit.
His heart squeezed like someone had aimed an AR-15 semi-automatic at it and fired. All the blood leaked out, and he found it impossible to breathe.
For months, he and Blaire had enjoyed one hell of a physical relationship. Now, this sharing business seemed to clot the good vibes they’d enjoyed.
Is this what it means to be in love?
He understood why he’d shied away from relationships all these years. It had nothing to do with preserving his secret past—being in love and opening to the other person felt like being trundled through a slaughterhouse on a conveyor belt and dropped on a slippery floor covered with bodily fluids. He couldn’t get his footing, the floor kept disappearing, and he found himself in a perpetual state of free-fall. Tricked by his cravings to merge with her silken self, his desires only lead him down this path to…to, what, exactly? To opening up and revealing secrets that stripped him bare of skin and muscles, leaving him naked, without shelter or protection.
The flat-screened TV on the wall blared with some mindless reality show called Yukon Survival, with bearded backwoods men tromping around in the snowy wilderness. The remote lay next to him on the table.
His eyes were fixed on the screen, but his mind was back at home. He felt weird like his cells had been rearranged. No way in hell could he have expected the news Blaire told him.
The story she’d laid at his feet had been so bizarre, so difficult to take in, so bewildering, that he’d completely shut down. Same as when his mom slid into the shadows of her drug-filled world, or his dad disappeared forever, he was left with a life sliced into clear dividing lines of before and after. And Blaire’s utter heartbreak destroyed him to the point of “dead fish washed on the shore” helplessness. Then he’d done it—he’d fucked everything up. He’d gone and detached in the same way he’d lived most of his life until he’d managed to escape the clutches of the Port Coyote trailer park and his desolate existence with his brother.
He’d always thought he’d outgrown his former life, gone on to become a better man, saving lives and protecting homes. But right now, it seemed like he was still a twelve-year-old scared kid, trying to survive each day and doing a piss poor job of it.
Her comment about how he and Jake lived like the people in Caracas had landed like a poison arrow shot into his neck from a blowgun. The comment reduced him to being Blaire’s charity case when he wanted to be her champion. So, he’d kept repeating some phrase about keeping her safe when what she really needed was comfort and reassurance that he wouldn’t leave. Too late for that—emotionally, he had already fled the scene. Last night he’d been so ashamed of himself they’d slept on opposite sides of the bed. They may as well have been on opposite sides of the universe. When he woke up to get ready for work, she’d been gone.
She’d left a note on the breakfast table: Gone running. B.
No, “I love you,” or, “see you later, hotshot,” or “guess what I want to do when you get home? Hint - BJ!” or any of the other sexy, loving comments they usually left one another.
He couldn’t blame her. He deserved every slice of cold animosity she sent his way. But the dead silence and her refusal to answer her goddamned phone left him dangling on the line like a corpse, helpless to do anything. Worse was the thread of terror that snaked up his spine. She hadn’t said as much, but Karlos seemed to be the kind of guy who killed for sport.
He wasn’t really coming to Seattle to kill her…was he?
Griffin pushed through the door, carrying an empty glass lined with something like chocolate milk. He glanced at Jackson, stepped to the stainless-steel sink, and rinsed out the glass. Then, he placed it in the dishwasher before proceeding toward one of the stainless-steel refrigerators lining the wall next to the gleaming gray counter.
“What’s got you in a funk?” he said while rooting around in the fridge. “You’ve been in a mood all day. Has the honeymoon glow finally worn off and the rest of us mortals can live without the constant reminders of what we don’t have?” He chuckled, turning around with a few carrots in his grip.
Jackson lifted the black plastic remote and turned down the sound of grunting men and rasping, moaning moose. He flashed Griffin some sort of dark expression.
“Whoa, dude. I was kidding.” Griffin strode to the large wooden table. “What the hell happened?” He slid a chair out and plunked into it.
Jackson dragged his palm across his face. “I really fucked up with Blaire. She’s not answering her phone. She’s not answering my texts. She’s gone AMF on me.”
He lifted his mobile device in evidence as if it glowed with the shame of being ignored. Then, he tossed it on the table where it landed with a thwack.
“Nah,” Griffin said. “No way would she say ‘adios, motherfucker’ to you.”
“Way.” Jackson lifted one eyebrow. “I told you, she’s on this mission to get close to me by sharing. So, she revealed this shocking, horrific story with me last night, and I just shut down.”
He shook his head. “She went through several months of hell with this billionaire, playboy, gangsta-loser. And as the story poured out, I went all comparison-mode, feeling not good enough to be with her and utterly helpless as to how to fix the situation. That’s what I do. I fix things. I save people. And I’m completely clueless what to do here aside from finding her motherfucking ex and putting a gun to his head. And that idea wouldn’t go down well with my career as one of the good guys, you know?”
“Shit, man, I’m sorry. What did she tell you?” Griffin jammed a carrot in his mouth and crunched down on it.
Jackson sketched out the basics of what Blaire had told him, leaving the details of getting backhanded and the exact nature of what she did aside. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the thought of Blaire—his Blaire—getting smacked in the face, let alone living in a cartel.
And, cutting off the hair of women in broad daylight to sell it on the black market?
Griffin chewed thoughtfully as he listened, making loud crunching noises that almost made Jackson laugh. Almost, but not quite.
Finally, Griffin said, “Wow, that’s some crazy shit.” He reached up and scratched the back of his head. “Okay. Okay. We need to make some calls. One of my buddy’s dad is with the FBI. Let’s call him and see if he can hook you up with his dad. It’s late, but my buddy keeps some batshit hours.”
Jackson straightened from his slumped position. “Seriously? It would be great to contact Blaire and have a solution. I wouldn’t feel like I’d let her down.”
“Yeah, let’s do it. I’ll call him right now.” Griffin pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and tapped a few numbers. He held the phone up to his ear and waited. “Hey, Pete, it’s me, Griff. Yeah, I’m good. You? Good, that’s good. Hey, the reason I called is I’ve got a friend who needs to talk with the FBI. Would your dad be down with speaking to him? What? No, he’s not in trouble, but his girlfriend might be. Yeah, she got caught up in some rough activity, and now the person who got her caught up is in town. Like gang warfare Venezuela-cartel rough. Yeah? Okay, great.”
Griffin snapped his fingers and made a gesture like writing something with a pen.
Jackson bolted to his feet and hurried out the side door toward the front desk. He fumbled about in the darkened room and snatched a pen out of a holder on the front counter. Pen in hand, he stepped into the copy room and yanked a piece of white paper from the copy machine tray. Quickly, he returned and placed it in front of Griffin.
Griffin scribbled on the paper and turned it to face Jackson.
Call him now, Jackson read, along with the number. He’s in the UK, and it’s morning over there.
After snatching his phone from the table, he nodded and gave Griffin a thumbs-up. Stepping out of the break room, he made his way down the hall to the privacy of the small bedroom he called home when he was h
ere. He tapped the number into his mobile device.
In seconds a gruff sounding voice answered. “Agent Vogel here.”
“Agent, this is Jackson O’Halloran from the Clearfall County District Seven Fire Department over in Singer Springs.”
“Mr. O’Halloran,” Agent Vogel said, respectfully. “What can I do for you?”
“Last night, my girlfriend told me of a situation she was involved in, down in Caracas, Venezuela.”
Agent Vogel whistled into the phone. “Did your girlfriend want to get murdered? Caracas is a rough city.”
The word “murdered” sliced holes in Jackson’s soul. “No, sir. She was coerced. She said she dated a member of the cartel, only she didn’t know he was a gang member until it was too late. He was a wealthy prick who kept his motives concealed until he had her under his thumb. He kept her imprisoned in his mansion until he found a way to use her to…” He stopped before saying, “chop off women’s hair.” It seemed best to play his cards close to his chest.
“That sounds like something I might want to hear more about when I return,” Agent Vogel said.
Overhead, the tones went off in the building, alerting them they got another call from dispatch.
“One second, sir, we just got toned out.” Jackson placed his hand over the mobile device speaker and listened.
“Medic Forty-Three, Rescue Forty-Three, Engine Forty-Three, ALS, Woods Road for a motor vehicle accident involving a single vehicle off the side of the hill. Car versus tree.”
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re about to head out,” Jackson said
“No problem. Give me a call when you have time. I’d like to hear more. I’ll be back in Seattle next week.”
Agent Vogel sounded truly interested, giving Jackson a thread of hope to grab onto. He said his goodbyes, pocketed the phone and hurried toward the engine bay.
Griffin followed him down the hall.
Jackson’s pager and the radio crackled.
“Medic Forty-Three, Rescue Forty-Three, Engine Forty-Three from dispatch.”
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