by Shandi Boyes
Certain Ellie has gotten the point, I drop her from my hold, then spin around to face Smith. He’s still being held back by Rocco and Clover, and he’s red-faced and real fucking angry.
“Who do you work for, Smith?”
If he says anyone but Fien, he’ll leave me no choice but to take this further. We’ve faced these issues before. Smith came out of it with both his life and job intact. I can’t guarantee he’ll be as lucky this time around. My enemies are always one step in front of me for a reason. Two years ago, we placed the blame for that on Ellie’s shoulders. Now I’m wondering if I made a mistake.
“Who the fuck do you work for, Smith?”
“Fien. I work for fucking Fien!” he shouts back, his roar as loud as mine, his anger just as palpable.
After pushing Rocco and Clover away from him as if he is double their size, he storms my way. I slice my hand in the air, warning Clover if his index finger gets within an inch of his trigger, Smith won’t be the only one letting off steam this afternoon. He answered how I wanted him to, and although a heap of fury was beaming from his eyes when he said it, it was barely seen through the honesty.
Smith stops an inch from my face before he growls out, “But once she’s back, I’m done. I can’t deal with your shit anymore. You’re doing my fucking head in.”
He misses the quickest dart of panic running through my eyes I couldn’t shut down because his focus is no longer on me. He’s staring at Ellie, torn between offering her a hand from the ground or adding to the red welts around her neck.
He goes for neither by shaking his head in disappointment before making his way to his beloved van, punching the steel door of the warehouse on his way by.
It’s obvious from the noises rocking and rolling out of his van for the next several minutes that he isn’t taking his anger out on a keyboard. He’s demolishing equipment worth millions of dollars because he’d rather damage the irreplaceable things he loves than the one thing he can’t replace, no matter how hard he tries. He loved Ellie, so her betrayal didn’t just gut him, it changed him. He hasn’t been the same man since.
Although the indent his rage will cause my hip pocket should be concerning, I’m not worried. We all have our ways of blowing off steam. Mine was a bender that saw me out of action for days. Smith’s will barely last an hour.
Ask any underworld figure, they’ll all tell you the same thing. A loss in revenue is preferred over a loss in production. If you’re not productive, you are dead. Can’t put it any simpler than that.
“Give him a few minutes to cool down, then roll out. We need to get a start on scanning traffic cameras on all routes out of Hopeton. Although they could still be local, until we learn otherwise, we should assume they’re going to bounce Roxanne state to state like they did Fien the first few months.”
Air whizzes out of Rocco’s nose as he scrubs at the cropped beard on his chin. “With the van being dumped, what are we looking for?”
The panic roaring through my veins is heard in my reply. “Anything and everything. A snippet of red hair, a pricy car rolling down a dirt road… any suspicious activity.”
Rocco’s chin scarcely moves an inch when a husky voice cuts him off. “They headed south a couple of hours ago. Dark blue sedan. I got a partial plate.”
I want to both kill and kiss Ellie. Kill her for holding back information that would have been useful hours ago, but kiss her for finally stepping up to the plate with something useful. “How many occupants?”
“One.” After standing to her feet, she dusts off the dirt on her skirt-covered backside before digging a notepad out of the breast pocket of her jacket. Seeing her in a full agent get-up is shocking. I only ever saw her in ripped denim shorts, midriff tops, and her stark blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun. She was cruisy and laid-back, the very opposite of any agent I’ve ever met. “Approximately six-three, two hundred and sixty pounds. Had a cross tattoo above his—”
“Left eyebrow,” interrupts a voice from the right, a stern, still unhinged voice.
After clambering over several mangled pieces of a computer, Smith jumps down from his van and re-enters the warehouse. He’s still pissed. His scent is very telling, much less the tight grip he has on a single piece of paper. It almost rips when he thrusts it into my chest with no intention of letting it go.
After forcefully removing it from his grasp, I ask, “Who is he?”
“A military operative from Sicily,” Ellie answers on Smith’s behalf. “The Bureau has been tracking him for a while. This is the first sighting we’ve had in years. Where did you get it?” Her last question isn’t for me. It’s for Smith.
Ellie chokes on her spit when Smith answers, “From your laptop.”
“You hacked into my computer?” Her question is barely heard over Rocco’s laugh. He loves watching couples go to war. Why do you think he’s been such a thorn in my ass the past nine weeks? “That’s classified information.”
Smith rakes his teeth over his bottom lip in an effort to half his smile. “Then you should have changed your password.”
“But that wouldn’t have stopped you, would it?” Ellie responds through a tight jaw.
When she attempts to snatch the document out of my hand, I hold it out of her reach. It isn’t hard considering she’s a short-ass. “You can finish your lovers’ squabble later. For now, tell me how you don’t know who he is if this was found on your computer?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Ellie folds her arms in front of her chest to match the snappiness of Smith’s question before replying, “I don’t know how it got there. This is the first time I’ve seen an image of him.”
A scoff vibrates Smith’s lips. “It was sitting in a file on your desktop, plain as day for all to see.”
“That doesn’t mean I placed it there,” Ellie fires back, her voice as vicious as Smith’s glare.
“Puh-leaze. You’re running that excuse again? I don’t know how I got there. I just woke up in his bed.”
Fighting not to tear my hair out, I step between the feuding couple. “Enough.”
They continue arguing until the ricochet of a gun being fired shuts their mouths as quickly as it widens their pupils.
“I said enough! Fuck me, you two are worse than…” I freeze, out of the loop on any couple, either famous or an everyday regular couple.
Rocco doesn’t face the same dilemma. “As Roxie and you?” He backhands Clover’s chest, doubling the smirk he’s struggling to hold back. “It’s the make-up sex. It makes couples crazy.”
“Kind of like a golden pussy?” Clover questions with an arched brow.
“Exactly,” Rocco answers, completely ignoring my wrathful glare warning him not to.
He doesn’t ignore my second directive. The bullet that whizzes through the minute gap between his and Clover’s head is as effective as the one I fired into the air. “Get your heads into the fucking game. Roxanne’s life is depending on it.”
As Rocco’s quiet apology trickles into my ears, I shift my focus back to Smith. “What else did you find on Ellie’s laptop?” I shoosh Ellie by placing the barrel of my gun against her lips. I’m sure the heat of its recent firings will sting her lips, but it’s got to be better than a bullet wound between the eyes. “I don’t care about anything that doesn’t relate to Fien and Roxanne. Even if it has the ability to take my father down, I don’t care. I just want the information that will help bring my family back.”
Smith balks, as shocked by the use of the word ‘family’ as me, but he keeps his head in game mode. “There’s information on a possible new sanction popping up in the New York region. No names were mentioned, but a quick once-over makes it clear who it’s about.”
“Rimi Castro?”
When Smith jerks up his chin, Ellie gabbles out, “That can’t be true. I’m not working Rimi’s case. I don’t have any of his files.”
Aware federal agents never believe anything unless it’s shown to them in black
and white, Smith stomps back to his van, snatches up the only bit of equipment he didn’t demolish in his tirade, then returns to my side. Although he’s giving proof to Ellie, he keeps the screen tilted my way, ensuring he displays whose team he’s on.
“They’re not my files.” Ellie lifts her eyes to mine, surprising me with the amount of wetness in them. “I swear to God, this is the first time I’ve seen those files.” When Smith scoffs, as unbelieving as me, Ellie tries another angle. “Then, I’ll swear on Jonathon’s life.” Jonathon is her little brother. He had an even rougher start to life than Fien. She would never place him in danger, not even if it could save her life. “They’re not my files. Someone placed them there.”
“Why would they do that?” I’m not saying I believe her. I’m merely ensuring I flip over every stone in my endeavor to find Roxanne and Fien.
Ellie shrugs. “I don’t know.” She freezes before her eyes widen. “Internal affairs is investigating our unit. They think we have a leak.” The color drains from her face as her eyes bounce between Smith and me. “Do you think that’s why I have those files? Is someone trying to set me up?”
“Perhaps.” Smith’s voice is more controlled than mine.
“But we don’t have time to look.” I shift my eyes to Rocco and Clover. “Let’s move out.”
My steps halt for the second time today when Smith’s hand shoots out to grip my arm. His hold isn’t what frustrates me. It’s the desperation in his voice. “What if these cases are linked?”
“What if they’re not, and we waste another six hours preparing for an ambush that isn’t a fucking ambush!”
My roar doesn’t harness his objective in the slightest. “Ellie was sent here for a reason, Dimi. If you find out what that was, you’ll have more chance of finding Roxie.”
I drift my eyes to Rocco. Don’t ask me why. I don’t seem to have control of anything today, much less my emotions.
When Rocco shrugs, leaving the decision up to me, I return my eyes to Smith. He’s all but begging for me to listen to him. It isn’t something I often do, and in all honesty, I sometimes wonder if that’s where I’ve gone wrong.
Smith’s exhale ruffles Ellie’s hair when I ask, “Who sent you here?”
She hesitates. Not long enough for me to give my crew the signal to move, but long enough to take in the plea in Smith’s eyes for her to cooperate. “Theresa Veneto.”
A collective hiss rolls across the warehouse.
I should have known she was involved.
“Why?”
Ellie shrugs again before her brows join. “She didn’t say. She mentioned something about a Megan…”
“Shroud,” Smith and I fill in when she pauses to glance down at her notepad.
With her eyes wide and her jaw unhinged, she nods. “I was to wait here until you arrived, then bring you in. I assumed you had information on her death.”
“Megan Shroud died over a year ago.”
We know that’s a lie. I’m merely testing Agent Gould. If she lies, our conversation is over. If she doesn’t, I truly don’t know where we’ll go from here.
As the confusion in her eyes grows, Ellie informs, “Megan Shroud’s disappearance was ruled a homicide late this afternoon.” Not asking permission, she swivels Smith’s laptop around to face herself, then clicks on a file on her desktop. Since Smith is already hacked in, it makes the process remarkably quick. “See.” She brings up a police report oddly similar to the one Theresa forced through the system the first time Megan was ‘killed.’
“Was there a body?” Rocco asks, jumping into the conversation.
Ellie immediately shakes her head. “A significant blood pool was found, and brain matter was embedded in the carpet, but no body.”
I take a moment to consider Theresa’s objective. It’s clear she’s running the same ruse she did on Maddox, but I have no fucking clue why.
Two seconds later, a lightbulb switches on inside of my head. “Who was arrested for Megan’s murder?”
“An arrest warrant for a local woman is being drawn up. Her name is…” Ellie scrolls through the information on Smith’s laptop, seeking a name. The wind in my lungs expels with a grunt when she discloses, “Isabelle Brahn.”
Rocco sounds as uneased as I feel when he says, “That bitch is playing at something.” He lowers his voice to ensure his next set of words are only for my ears. “Theresa didn’t ask Ellie to wait here for no reason. She wanted both you and your time occupied.”
I jerk up my chin, agreeing with him. “But for what reason? And how did she know I’d be out looking for…” Anger burns up my words.
She didn’t pick this location for no reason.
She’s fucking playing me.
“I’m going to kill her.”
My arm is clutched for the third time today. It isn’t Smith this time around. It’s Rocco. “You’ll never win the game if you keep letting your opposition blind you with false razzle and dazzle.”
“She’s playing me.”
He doesn’t deny what I’m saying because he knows it’s the truth. “Because she needed you distracted. Find out why, and then you’ll have all the pieces you need to win.” When the groove between my brows doesn’t budge, he chuckles out, “You’re always running a million miles an hour, Dimi. Slow down, take a breath, and look at the entire picture.”
He nudges his head to Ellie and Smith during his last sentence. They’re no longer going to war with words. They are working together, side by side, their natural connection making it obvious they don’t just make magic between the sheets. They could be just as explosive outside of them if I’m willing to give them a chance.
“If this backfires—”
“It won’t,” Rocco assures, slapping me on the shoulder. “Because firecrackers don’t implode with despair. They make a starry night seem bland.” In a rare show of affection, he pulls me into his side and whispers, “They’ll come out of this, D. They’re too strong not to.”
8
Roxanne
The dry throat I’ve been struggling to ignore the past seven or eight hours becomes unbearable when the dark-haired stranger pulls his car down a long, dusty driveway. I haven’t seen a house in miles. There may have very well been ranches dotted along the many roads we traveled, but with winter arriving early, the sun commenced lowering over an hour ago. Farmers aren’t a fan of burning the midnight oil, so I may have missed their ranches during our drive. Even the house we’re approaching is scant on lighting. Only the flickers of a candle on a second story can be seen.
I swallow harshly when the black-haired man gleams a blinding grin. “It’s not the Ritz, but compared to where you’re going, it’ll seem like it.” He tosses a lint-riddled sweater into my chest before grunting for me to hurry up and get dressed. “If you walk in like that, you won’t make it through the night untouched. Castro won’t like that. He always gets first dibs.”
The burn of my throat is horrendous. I’ve heard that name before. It was mentioned by members of Dimitri’s crew many times when they discussed the crew holding his daughter captive.
I’m grateful I am about to meet the little girl I haven’t stopped thinking about since Dimitri showed me her photograph, but I’m also worried. This place is derelict and rundown. If my confines are worse than this, there’s only one place I’m going. Straight to hell.
The stranger does a final glance at the shadows between my legs before he throws open the door of his truck and steps down. As he makes his way to my side of the retro-vehicle, I slip the sweater over my head, breathing easier when it falls to my knees. I’m not just grateful to have my modesty back, I am thankful for the warmth. It’s a lot colder here than it was in Hopeton.
“Did this region have early snow as predicted over Thanksgiving?”
It’s the fight of my life not to pout when he answers my question with a grunt. I was hoping he was as stupid as he looks. The fact he’s going against a man as powerful as Dimitri reveals he’s lax on sm
arts, he just doesn’t want me to know that.
“Out.” I fall out of the cabin of his truck too fast for my dead legs to keep up with when he tugs on my arm. My body isn’t just sore from being motionless for hours. The press of my thighs as I’ve fought to hold back the screams of my bladder make it seem as if I have run a marathon.
“Can I please use the restroom?” I request from my station on the sloshy ground. “I can’t hold it any longer.”
“Soon.” He hoists me from the ground by my arm. Although his reply wasn’t what I was hoping, it’s better than a straight-up no.
The reason for my unrequired deprivation of liberty is exposed when he guides me into a room on the lower level of the rundown ranch. The lights are switched off, but since my eyes have become accustomed to the dark, I can see the equipment in front of me as if it is daylight. A bed similar to the one in Dr. Bates’s office sits squashed against the back wall, and an ultrasound monitor and paraphernalia is on its right.
“Get on the bed.” I barely shake my head for a second when the goon rips my hair from my scalp with a brutal clutch. “I wasn’t asking.”
My eyes don’t know which way to look when he drags me across the room by my hair—at the shadows above my head revealing there are people peering at me through the cracks in the floorboards, the shadow I hear snickering in the corner of the room, or the obvious ruckus of drunken men below me.
When I’m tossed onto the bed as if I’m weightless and tied down like a mental patient in a psychiatric hospital, I settle on the shadows dancing above my head. They’re as silent as my frozen heart but somehow comforting. They wouldn’t watch if this was about to be gory. Only horrible, vile people would stand by and watch someone be tortured.
A cool breeze wafts against my thighs when the man raises the waistband of the sweater, drawing my focus back to him. He bands the over-used material under my breasts before he squeezes a generous dollop of clear fluid onto the middle of my stomach.
“Lower,” says a voice at the side, her tone very much feminine and unique. “If she’s only a few weeks along, you need to scan just above her pubic bone.”
