The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2

by Maegan Beaumont

  44

  The warehouse was exactly were Song said it would be, crammed into to the middle of an industrial park on Bayshore, just south of Loomis. Michael drove past the deserted-looking building before circling back, parking a few blocks away. The place may have looked abandoned but he knew a front when he saw one. Discreet Security cameras. Wire mesh embedded in high set windows. A single door, set off the street, partially hidden by a dumpster. What looked like a bay door, big enough for a box truck, around back.

  With its lack of entry points and hidden security cameras, a stealth approach was going to be nearly impossible. Good thing he came prepared.

  Without the soft rumble of the engine, he could hear the distant thump of music coming from the nightclub across the street, the line to get in wrapped around the building. It made him think of the night he spent with Pia Cordova. What he’d done to her father. What he’d done to her.

  He could still see her standing at the top of the stairs, open blouse clutched against her exposed breasts, staring down at him with a mixture of fear and confusion that quickly bled into something else...

  Recognition.

  He’d lied to Ben when he’d said that Pia hadn’t recognized him from that night at the club. She’d known exactly who he was and as soon as the bullets started flying, she’d known exactly what he’d done. He swiped a rough hand over his face, trying desperately to scrub away the memory but it wouldn’t budge.

  Guilt ate at him. Pushing him to do something he hadn’t done in years. Not since he found out Frankie was dead.

  He wanted to drink.

  If he was completely honest with himself—which was a rarity these days—he’d admit that the urge had very little to do with the Cordova woman or the shit storm he’d unleashed on her over the past few days. She was just another job. Just another casualty.

  No. This was about Sabrina and what being so close to her did to him. What it made him want and wish. What it made him remember and regret.

  Leaning into the dash, Michael popped the trunk before stepping out of the car, to circle around back. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it into the trunk before reaching for what Ben liked to call the prop box. Inside it was a variety of umbrellas, a few baseball caps, sunglasses, a couple of maps, a fake arm cast… and bottle of booze.

  He stared at it for a few seconds, contemplating what he wanted—measured it against what he should do instead.

  Before he allowed himself to think it through, Michael snatched the bottle out of the box and cracked the lid. Lifting it to his lips, he pulled the liquor through clenched teeth and into his mouth. He held it there for a moment, eyes closed, letting the taste and sting of it settle against his tongue. He could feel the urge to swallow working at the back of his throat. A reflex he’d never been able to fight. Had never even wanted to.

  It had been a promise he’d made to Lucy, nothing more, that forced him to dry out—and Lucy was dead. There was nothing and no one who cared anymore. No promises left to break.

  Sabrina’s face flashed in front of him and that was enough.

  Michael swished the liquor around his mouth a few times before he turned his head to the side and spit it into the street. Next, poured a bit into his hands and rubbed them together before applying it to his skin like aftershave, coating himself liberally until he smelled as drunk as he wished he actually was.

  Re-capping the bottle, he tossed it back into the box before fitting the fake cast onto his arm along with a pair of mirrored aviators. Easing the trunk lid down, he heard the muted click of the latch as he pocketed the keys.

  He staggered away from his car, cover the couple of blocks between where he parked and the warehouse in a drunken gait, weaving slightly, like a guy who was tore up but still trying to keep his cool. He passed a few groups, tight clutches of people on their way to the nightclub he’d seen, hoping tonight was the night they’d get past the velvet ropes.

  He kept walking, straight for the building, the drunken lurch he’d affected announcing his approach as he purposely slammed into the side of the dumpster, the cast on his arm ringing against the sheet metal like a gong.

  For the benefit of the security camera mounted to the side of door, he spun around in a quick circle as if looking for the source of the sound. “Oh, shit,” he said, tipping into the door, knocking his aviators askew. To whoever was manning the feed, he’d look like nothing more than another harmless, Saturday night douchebag, looking for a party. He knew the old adage, people only see what they want to see, was a lie. People saw what you showed them. Most were too lazy and arrogant to look past what was shoved in front of their face. No one wanted to see the truth. To believe they were vulnerable. That they were about to die.

  “Lemme in,” he slurred loudly, banging the cast against the heavy metal door, the clang of it much deeper than the dumpster. Solid core—no way he was kicking that bitch in. A couple of those concussion grenades were looking pretty good right now. He kept up with the banging, drawing as much unwanted attention as he could. People passing on the street were looking in his direction, wondering what the hell was going on. Good, the more people looked, the more likely they were to open the door, just to shut him up. “Hey, come on’… open up, I got friends in the VIP—”

  There was a scraping noise, metal on metal, a few seconds before the door opened. “Get the fuck out of here, man—the club’s down the street,” the guy at the door said as he tossed his head, flashing his scorpion neck tat. This was Reyes’ place alright.

  “Naw, man—this is the place.” Michael shouldered his way in, leading with his cast, using it to distract the guy from the fact that his other hand was reaching into the folds of his jacket to draw his Kimber. A few yards away, three men sat at a folding card table, topped with a pair of dice and a scattered stack of crumpled bills. “Hey, whaddya playin’?”

  The guy grabbed his arm, yanking him back. “This ain’t no fuckin’ club, white boy—”

  That was as far as he got, the suppressed bullet that slammed into his chest throwing him back against the wall. The trio stood in unison, each reaching for their weapons with varying degrees of speed but it didn’t matter—two of them were dead before they even pulled their guns clear, leaving the third with his hand hovering above the grip that protruded from the waistband of his pants, eyes glued to the gun in Michael’s hand. He was one of Reyes’ lieutenants–older, more seasoned than the dead guys that bracketed him.

  Michael kicked the door shut behind him before speaking. “Hey, Hector...” He removed the aviators so the last guy standing could get a good look at his face. “Remember me?”

  “Yeah—the nanny.” The guy cracked a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “That’s right, I am the nanny… but you can call me Cartero.” He smiled back a split second before he pulled the trigger, blowing out Hector’s knee. The guy dropped like a rock, any thought he’d had of pulling his gun and trying to shoot his way out was gone, leaving him a writhing, bloody mess.

  Michael holstered his gun long enough to pull the fake cast off his arm and drop it on the ground. Now Hector was screaming, clutching at the ragged jumble of meat and bone where his knee had been only a few seconds before.

  Michael waited, gun leveled at the hallway leading to a bank of offices to the right. No one came running. No one else was here. “Anyone else in the building?” he said, just to be sure.

  Hector’s head shook back and forth, his voice too strangled with screams and tears to answer him properly.

  “Is that a no?” he said, watching Hector dispassionately. This man sold children. He deserved no sympathy.

  “Alone… we…” Hector managed to choke out between screams.

  “Perfect.” He pulled off his belt and hunkered down next to the wailing man, used it as a tourniquet to control the blood flow. “We can’t have you bleeding out just yet, can we now?” Michael said, giving Hector a heavy-handed pat on his injured leg. “Not before you give me what I’
m looking for.”

  45

  Hector lasted twenty-minutes before folding. After that, he’d been so eager to share information that it was almost embarrassing.

  Reyes’ operation was now global. He had two-man teams all over the world, whose sole objective was to abduct children. Some were specified targets—children of wealth, held for ransom. Others were targeted for their vulnerability. Homeless. Runaways. Neglected.

  Easy prey.

  These were the children Reyes sold. Auctions were held online, money delivered via wire transfer. The warehouse was a way-station for west-coast shipments. Reyes had identical set-ups in Florida and Texas.

  Michael jammed his shears into the mangled mess of Hector’s knee and twisted, staring into his bulged eyes, hands clamped over his gaping mouth to hold in his screams. “We talked about this, Hector. They aren’t product—they’re children. Understand?”

  Hector’s head bobbed, fast and jerky, sweat and tears mingling with the smears of blood and snot that covered his face. Michael pulled the shears from the wound and wiped them on the guy’s gore-splattered shirt. He lifted his hand from the man’s mouth. “Now for the million-dollar question, Hector… where is Leo Maddox?” he said.

  The man’s head changed direction, shaking from side-to-side. “Who?”

  Michael sighed. “Leo Maddox. Grandson of Senator Leon Maddox. One of your teams snatched him in Barcelona a few weeks ago.”

  “I don’t know—I swear,” he said, shrinking away from the look Michael gave him. “I don’t know… I just handle west coast operations. I never see the prod—children held for ransom.”

  “Who does? Who handles that arm of the operation?” he said. Looking around the warehouse he saw several computers, a few cages, webcams—everything needed to pull off the kind of operation Hector had outlined from him. He felt the overwhelming urge to burn it all to the ground.

  Hector hesitated and Michael smiled, the lift of his mouth shifted the cold around but did nothing to warm it. He shot a looked at Hector’s bare feet, the gaping space between his big and little toe where three other toes should have been. “Really, Hector?” he said, turning back to face the man. “I thought we understood each other.”

  Hector swallowed hard, his gaze skittering away from the look Michael gave him. “Estefan… Estefan is in charge of that stuff.”

  He remembered what Esteban had said to him only a few days ago. That he was Alberto’s second in command these days. “Where is he?”

  “Here. He was… showed up out of nowhere…” Hector said, his voice thin and thready.

  The news clenched tight around his spine, squeezing it straight. “How long ago?”

  “Hour.”

  He’d just missed him. Sixty minutes sooner and he would’ve had the bargaining chip needed to get the Maddox boy back. “Where’d he go?”

  Now Hector smiled—thin, white lips peeled back against blood-stained teeth, words softly slurred. “… across the street.”

  46

  He stopped at the car long enough to ditch his Kimber. Thought about calling Ben for backup but in the end, he just tossed him phone in the trunk. Esteban belonged to him and he didn’t feel like sharing.

  Crossing the street, he left the drunk guy routine behind, heading straight for the pair of heavily muscled security guards that manned the front of the club. Ignoring the long line of hopefuls, Michael push his way to the front. “Cartero. I’m on the list.”

  The bouncer’s eyes, pale blue and glassy from steroids, scraped along his frame—taking it all in. He was a mess. Hands bloody. Dark stains splattered across his shirt. Wreaking of another man’s sweat and fear. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been doing thirty minutes ago.

  Aiming his skeptical gaze at the clipboard in his hand, the security guard scanned the list in front of him before coming to an abrupt halt. He looked at him again, his roid-swollen face taking on a wary cast.

  “Hold ‘em up,” he said, motioning with his clipboard for him to lift his arms. As soon as he did, he was being frisked. This guy wasn’t nearly as thorough as Song’s men. A few pats here and there and he was done. “Zip up your jacket,” he mumbled, eyeing his blood-stained shirt. Michael obliged while the bouncer unclipped the braided gold rope to let him pass.

  Behind him, he heard the grumble of club kids who’d been waiting all night but they faded fast behind the pulse and bump of the house DJ. A sea of bodies in front of him, grinding and writhing against each other. Mindlessly undulating under a dizzying throb of light and sound.

  “This way, please.”

  He turned toward the voice to find a scantily-clad woman next to him, the silver mesh that barely covered her catching and throwing the sweep of light that was timed perfectly to the music. She started to move and he followed—up the stairs—leaving the lights and the heavy crush of bodies behind. She stopped and moved to the side, ushering him into the VIP area.

  As soon as Esteban saw him, his face split in to a grin, the facial movement wrinkling and bunching the scar tissue on his face.

  “I‘m so glad you found me, Cartero,” Esteban said as if they were friends. “Hector?”

  “Dead.”

  Esteban’s smile deepened. “You must be thirsty. A drink, yes?” He snapped his fingers and the woman who escorted him appeared next to him.

  “I don’t want a drink.” His throat burned, calling him a liar.

  Esteban shrugged. “Some things never change, eh?”

  “When it comes to me and you… nothing ever will.” He shot a quick glance at the pair of guards that flanked the leather sofa their boss lounged on. The same ones who’d been with him at the club in Spain.

  “We don’t have to be enemies, Cartero. Not anymore,” Esteban lifted a glass to his lips and drank—watching him the entire time—until it was drained dry. “You and I—we want the same thing.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?” His hands were shaking—rage and adrenaline washed through his blood in a wave so fast and deep, his whole body throbbed.

  “To put an end to my father’s reign.” Esteban held out the glass in his hand and the woman nearly tripped over herself at the opportunity to re-fill it. “It’s long overdue, don’t you think?”

  Michael laughed. Tipped his head back and cut loose until tears streamed down his face and his stomach ached. The entire room went still. Watching him. Looking at him like he’d lost his mind. He finally ran out of steam, wiping his hands across his face. Trading tears for blood. “Junior… it’s not your father’s retirement I want.” He shook his head. “It’s his head in a box I’m after. Yours too.”

  He could do it. He could be over the table in a heartbeat, shattered glass jammed into his carotid. Esteban would be dead before his guards had time to react.

  As usual, Esteban seemed to read his mind. “Tssk, tssk, tssk… now is not the time or place for such things, Cartero.” He wagged a finger at him, settling into the sofa with a fresh drink.

  “Any time would be the perfect time to watch you bleed.” His hands cranked into fists. His weight redistributed—shifting toward the balls of his feet. Readying him for launch.

  “What of your woman? Have you considered what happens to her if you kill me? There are people—my people—watching her as we speak. Waiting…”

  “Sabrina can take care of herself.” Even as he said it, he forced himself to relax. Push back against the rage that crowded around him.

  “So I’ve heard… but we both know how much you enjoy playing the hero, don’t we?” Esteban said with a grin. “What it must do to you to love a woman who doesn’t need one.”

  “Fuck. You.”

  Esteban took a genteel sip, sniffed as if his use of foul language offended him. “If not a partnership then I propose a truce. I won’t lift a finger against you or your Sabrina.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “You let me finish my business here and leave. With my head intact.”

  Accepting would be his
smartest course of action. He had bigger things to worry about right now. “Where is Leo Maddox? As a sign of good faith…”

  Esteban sighed, inclining his head slightly. “Quite safe.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s with my father. Do we have a deal?”

  If their plan worked, he’d be gone within the next twenty-four hours. Until then, he had to do what he could to keep her safe. “Forty-eight hours. After that, if you’re still here—all bets are off.”

  Before he could get his answer, the guard to his left cocked his head slightly, listening to the comm in his ear before bending down to whisper something to his boss. Esteban’s face slammed shut, his pleasant expression morphing into something much closer to the truth. He brushed the guard off and stood, moments before the house lights snapped on and the music came to an abrupt end. Downstairs, the collective groaned in unison but were abruptly cut off by a voice over the PA, telling everyone to evacuate the building immediately. Without the mask of music to hide behind, he could hear them. Sirens wailing in the distance. Getting closer by the second.

  “I’ve reconsidered my offer,” Esteban said as one of his guards helped him into his jacket. “I think I should like to meet your Sabrina, after all.”

  He didn’t answer and Esteban didn’t wait. He turned, letting his security team lead him to an elevator and safely away.

  Michael waited until he was gone before leaving, taking the service corridor that led down a narrow set of stairs, feeding him into the alley. The smell of smoke greeted him. At the mouth of the alley the collective stood in the street, murmuring and gasping as they watched Reyes’ warehouse burn, the flames dancing high in the distance.

  47

  He drove, his blood-stained hands wrapped about the steering wheel so tight the skin that covered his hands was as pale as the bone underneath. He tried to pretend he didn’t know where he was going. Like it hadn’t been the plan all along.