Dangerously Broken (Aegis Group Lepta Team Book 4)

by Sidney Bristol

  “Why?” Zain asked.

  “Because we just got the brush off. This mother fucker tried to lie to our faces and send us packing.” The more the past few moments settled in, the hotter Brenden’s blood began to boil.

  “I’ll refocus our efforts. Check back in when I know something.” Zain ended the call.

  Brenden met Melody’s gaze. “He tried to buy us off, didn’t he?”

  “One could infer that, yes,” she said slowly.

  He wheeled around and stared at the executive elevator Mr. Carson had used.

  A hand came to rest on his arm.

  Brenden glanced at Nolan staring at him.

  “B, man, don’t.”

  They’d just let their only lead walk away from them. He’d failed Priscilla, not just today, but last night. They might have only known each other for a few days, but he didn’t need another minute to know how important she was for him.

  Brenden shrugged off Nolan’s hand.

  There was no way the guys would let Brenden close to that elevator. He was going to have to come at this another way.

  Mr. Carlson was going to talk to him.

  Brenden turned on his heel and stalked toward the garage entrance.

  “B, man, where are you going?” Nolan called out.

  “Clear my head,” Brenden replied and kept going.

  “Brenden?” Grant said, warning laced in the word.

  The others had to play nice. It was required that they color inside the lines.

  If they did that, Priscilla would be dead. It was time to do what had to be done, what someone had done for him.

  Brenden circled the building on foot and entered the lobby through a side door. Media cameras were clustered around the front, as though they expected someone to appear at any minute.

  Priscilla.

  Someone had to have leaked it.

  He knew there was something going on, but what?

  A group emerged from the main bank of elevators. They wore suits, the expensive kind. They were important.

  And on the fringes was Mr. Carlson.

  Brenden set his sights on the man and everything else faded away. He had tunnel vision.

  His long strides ate up the distance between them until he was standing at Mr. Carlson’s side. The little man jumped when he realized Brenden was there.

  “I want to speak with Ms. Yilmaz,” Brenden said.

  The man blinked up at him. “She’s not here right now.”

  “But earlier you said she was here. Now she’s not? Which is it?”

  Mr. Carlson glanced at the group of executives, probably about to make a poorly informed announcement.

  This was their rat. The crook. He stank of sweat and fear and lies.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Mr. Carlson said.

  Brenden leaned in closer. This punk wasn’t the force they were up against, he was simply a tool, a sellout, a piece of the puzzle.

  He locked eyes with Mr. Carlson and said, “I know you’re behind this and I will find out a way to prove it.”

  For a moment longer they stood like that, Brenden willing this spineless bastard to understand just how far Brenden was going to go. All that mattered was Priscilla.

  She wasn’t here, so where would a guy like this take her?

  He wasn’t smart. He didn’t know to have someone else handle paying off their team to leave. Which meant there were other stupid moves being made.

  Brenden abruptly pivoted, heading for a different exit.

  The team would probably pull back and waste time trying to decide what they should do. It would take too long to get them to do the right thing, the thing they all knew they should do. But Brenden had no reservations.

  As he walked he pulled up his phone and accessed the list of intel, they had on their suspect pool, including Mr. Carlson’s home address.

  It was time to dig further and find the lead that would take him to Priscilla.

  MONDAY. UNKNOWN.

  By the time the third car she’d been in stopped, Priscilla was practically hogtied. She’d failed in the garage, but had gathered her wits to make a go of running for it when the car stopped a second time. Her kidnappers were ready for her though. They’d been on her in a second and gagged her.

  What good were all those years of training?

  She’d utterly fucked up from the moment she’d thrown up on her attacker. She was better than this.

  Anger fueled her as she was dragged between two men through an attached garage and kitchen into the main room of a house she’d never seen before.

  Her spit-soaked gag made breathing hard. More of her ached.

  God, what if they killed her? What if it really happened?

  Brenden would never know how she felt. She’d never get the chance to tell him he was missing out or change his mind. She knew he cared about her. They had something special, and it would die with her.

  When was the last time she’d spoken to her parents? Her sister? What would their last memory of her be?

  Dad had called her the day she left for Rio. She’d ignored his call.

  Priscilla couldn’t allow that to be the last memory her family had of her, always pushing them away.

  “Put her there,” a man said.

  Priscilla craned her head trying to see the speaker. He had an accent, something familiar. Did she know him?

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Another man asked.

  Her captors set her down on an oversized armchair. She leaned to one side, her bound hands and legs making it hard to adjust her position.

  The men who’d kidnapped her stepped back and turned toward a tall man with reddish brown skin and salt and pepper hair. He was kind of familiar, but she couldn’t think of a name. He spoke in Spanish to her kidnappers, trading words before dismissing them.

  The other man she knew, thanks to the Aegis team.

  Damian something.

  Zain had been right.

  This was the man who’d brought down the jet and tried to kill her in the middle of the desert. He’d sent men after her at the safe house. And now here he was.

  Who did he think he was to steal her life like this? What right did he have?

  Her anger burned away the panic.

  “What’s the fucking plan, Arturo?” Damian demanded.

  Arturo. He had a name.

  Priscilla filed that away and focused on listening.

  “We have her.” Arturo gestured at her. “I’ll call Carlson and get him to come over here. Once we have him, we can dress this up any way we like. It will go smoother if we make it look like he killed her then committed suicide. I can put together some documents, records, and tie it all up nice and neat. It’ll all be over with soon.”

  Not if Priscilla had anything to say about this. If she could just get free, she’d make these three men regret every life decision they’d ever had. These were the people that poisoned lives, destroyed them, stole all the good. And for what? Making a buck? She had to get free, for all those people who’d died before her. She couldn’t let them kill her, too.

  MONDAY. RICHARD CARLSON’S Home, Chicago, Illinois.

  Brenden tipped the cab driver, never once taking his eyes off the large home in an old Chicago neighborhood. The place screamed money and wealth from the ornamental walls surrounding the homes to the architecture. Once this had to be the suburbs, but not anymore. The city had swallowed the area, leaving it frozen in another time and place nestled inside the tightly packed metro area.

  He’d had time to think during the ride out here.

  Richard Carlson wasn’t a mastermind. He was part of this, he had to be, but he wasn’t smart enough to pull this off. Visiting the man’s home was likely a pointless endeavor, but Brenden had to start somewhere.

  Who was Carlson working with? How many more were involved?

  Brenden approached the wall surrounding the home and stood there a moment under the shade of the trees gently rustling in the breeze.r />
  This was his only lead. A gut feeling and a sketchy guy in a suit.

  He had to do something. The last thing he said to Priscilla couldn’t be that he thought a date was a bad idea. It was a fantastic one he’d probably screw up, but if he’d ever met a person that was worth taking that chance, it was Priscilla. And he intended to tell her that when he found her.

  A figure stepped out of the garage wearing dark jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt.

  For a moment Brenden just stared, barely daring to breathe.

  It wouldn’t be that easy.

  It couldn’t.

  He turned and began following the fence, trying to find a better view of the man. When Brenden’s SUV was attacked, the guys had worn long sleeved black shirts, tactical gear, face masks and dark jeans.

  Brenden stopped behind the shelter of a tree on the public side of the fence and pulled up the list of information.

  Richard Carlson.

  Fifty-three.

  Single. No kids.

  By all accounts he lived alone in the home he’d inherited from his family.

  Unless the guy taking a smoke break behind the garage was some sort of handyman, Brenden was staring at the proverbial smoking gun. And if this was one of the kidnappers, there was a good chance Priscilla was in that house.

  Brenden’s gut instinct was to grab his comm out of his pocket and call the team. But Grant would tell him to pull back, wait, assess. All while Priscilla could be murdered.

  If he called the police, what would he say?

  According to the people at Asclepius she wasn’t missing. Relying on the officers would be hit or miss until Brenden had proof.

  Whatever Brenden did, he had to act now. He couldn’t waste even one moment of her in there on her own.

  He stepped back and examined the six foot stone and wrought-iron fence surrounding the property. Getting over it would be easy. The tricky part would be to remain undetected. The house had large windows. There could be a security system in place, cameras he couldn’t see. But that was a risk he’d have to take.

  If he wanted to ensure he got inside, he had to move now, before the smoker was done.

  He sidestepped the tree and watched the smoker stare at his phone.

  This was Brenden’s chance.

  He grabbed the top of the fence and using the tree, boosted himself up and over onto the property. The immaculately kept grass cushioned his landing and kept it silent.

  The smoker didn’t glance Brenden’s way at all.

  Time was not on his side though. He’d have preferred a more cautious approach, but this was what he had.

  Brenden sprinted forward, swerving right so the corner of the garage partially obscured him. He didn’t draw his gun. If he had to shoot it was all over. A sound like that would alert the others and risk Priscilla’s life.

  The smoker turned his back toward Brenden and leaned against the side of the building.

  This was going to work.

  He felt a surge of relief as he reached the front corner of the garage. Only a few feet separated them now.

  Brenden took a deep breath then made his move. He lunged for the unsuspecting man, getting him around the throat with one arm and securing one hand with the other. The man started, his body going tense for a moment, but Brenden was already moving. He pivoted, driving the guy’s head into the side of the garage. The man struck out with his free hand, but the worst it did was glance off Brenden’s arm.

  He tightened his grip and felt the man tense up.

  “Don’t fight it,” Brenden growled.

  The smoker tried to twist, turn and kick, but it was uncoordinated and frantic, the actions of a man who knew he was losing. Brenden doubled down, tightening his hold. He kneed the back of the guy’s legs, taking them to the ground

  At long last the fight went out of the smoker. Brenden held on for a count of ten before he risked letting go. Even then the man didn’t move.

  He was out. But only for a few moments.

  Brenden worked fast, stripping the guy of his hoodie and weapon then used the guy’s belt, shoelaces and a shirtsleeve to restrain and gag him. The bonds wouldn’t hold for long, but Brenden prayed they held for the moments he’d need to find and free Priscilla.

  He put the hoodie on and covered his head. The garment was comically too small, but he needed it to at least try to look the part. If he could get even a half second drop on someone, it would be worth it.

  Should he tell the others? Warn them?

  His better sense said yes, but if he did and Grant issued a stand down order, what then?

  Brenden had no problems risking himself for Priscilla, but if something happened to her and he couldn’t get her out of here, what then?

  He pulled out his phone and shot off a message. What the team did was up to them. He knew what he had to do.

  Satisfied he was prepared, Brenden silenced his phone then turned toward the side entrance to the garage. The one the smoker had come out of.

  Brenden tried the door knob and found it opened easily. The interior of the garage was brightly lit. Three vehicles sat inside the four car structure. One sedan. An SUV. And a sports car. None of them seemed to belong here. They were too old, too mundane. The kind of things Brenden would use if he wanted to blend in.

  He stepped into the room, weapon up, but found himself alone.

  If he had to guess, the garage was a later addition. The inside was too new for a house as old and established as this one. Not that it mattered, but it did mean that the attachment to the house might not put him somewhere ideal.

  He checked between each vehicle, leaving nothing to chance, before creeping toward the door leading into the house.

  By their estimation the crew that had hit their caravan had at least twelve people in it to pull it off. He had to assume that all those same players would be here.

  Brenden grasped the doorknob and turned it. The hinges worked soundlessly, opening up on a dark hall. The sound of a TV played in the background and men spoke in Spanish. Brenden caught words and phrases here and there, but not much. He kept listening, but no one noticed the door.

  He opened it and found himself standing almost inside the formal dining room. The space was dark, unused.

  For a moment he held still, listening to the voices, the movement, how the house creaked with footsteps.

  There couldn’t be a dozen people here, but there were more than a few.

  He drew his second gun.

  Whatever it took, he was going to get Priscilla out of here. He just had to find her first.

  He crossed to the open arch that led into the entry and peered into the house.

  To the right, a little ways down, a set of double doors opened up onto a room. That was where the voices were coming from. A stately set of stairs leading to the second floor barred his view.

  That wasn’t the way to go if stealth was his aim.

  He retraced his steps to the hall and crept along. Natural light filtered in through sheer curtains on another space.

  The sound of running water turned on.

  Brenden froze, using the sound to attune himself to the space.

  The kitchen must be around the corner.

  He held his position, listening to the water flip off and a man clear his throat. A few cabinets opened and shut. Finally the footsteps faded away.

  Brenden moved forward, to the point where he could peer around the wall.

  Sure enough, a compact kitchen occupied the space between the dining room and a more comfortable den area. And lying curled up on an oversized armchair was Priscilla, her eyes closed as though she were asleep.

  He was going to make this right.

  Brenden spared a glance at the hall. No alarm, no one watching. This was his chance.

  He crossed the room, all the fear and longing and hope he’d tamped down on surging to the forefront. He knelt next to the chair and pulled his knife from his boot. They’d have to be quick.

  “Pris,
” he whispered.

  Her eyes snapped open, and she sucked in a breath.

  “Sh.” He lifted the blade, sliding the point under her gag and sawed it off as gently as he could.

  She spat the soaked rag out of her mouth.

  “It’s Carlson, and some guy named Arturo,” she whispered.

  “Later.” He leaned over her and cut away the bonds securing her wrists and ankles.

  A floorboard creaked.

  Priscilla cried out. Maybe she said something, but it was lost in the sudden blast of gunfire.

  A freight train hit Brenden square in the back. He sprawled forward, landing half on Priscilla, half on the chair. His muscles screamed, but there was no familiar burn of a wound.

  Kevlar saved lives.

  Still stunned, Brenden rolled, but his feet didn’t cooperate. He landed back first on the ground, brought his gun up and aimed at the dark-haired figure looming over him.

  “You shoot me, I shoot her,” he said.

  It was Damian Naraujo, the mercenary they’d suspected all along. Several armed men flanked him, showing no surprise to see him there.

  Brenden had walked into a trap. He wasn’t saving Priscilla, he was helping them kill her.

  18.

  TUESDAY. RICHARD CARLSON’S Home, Chicago, Illinois.

  Priscilla’s fears had always been wrapped around the horrors that happened to her as a child. The trauma she’d endured was psychological. She’d always maintained that nothing could come close to that, until now.

  Real fear was watching the man she loved beaten until every new blow sprayed the floor, the furniture and her with his blood.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she jerked against the bonds securing her to the fireplace. All that anger, the need to go to his protection, and all she could do was cry?

  This was bullshit.

  “Enough,” the man named Arturo snapped. “We have to amend our plans.”

  Damian stepped up to Arturo’s side. “Secure him, spray the blood with the ammonia then get ready to go.”

  Priscilla pulled on her bonds. There was no give, and they were so tight her hands were beginning to lose feeling.

  Two men dragged Brenden toward her then bound his hands and ankles. One eye was swollen and that same gash on the side of his head was open again. They dropped him on the carpet next to her, but didn’t bother securing him to anything.