Caught by You

by Kris Rafferty

  “No. We need to get to Saddle River,” Avery said. Benton shook his head.

  “Avery, we don’t know if that’s where she is,” Vincent said.

  “She’s there.” Avery sounded positive.

  “I’m not bringing his ex-wife to Dante Coppola,” Benton said. “Look at her. She has the dead men’s rings on her hands. She’s involved and probably complicit. The last thing we should do is anything she wants us to do.”

  “Millie is ten,” Vincent said. “She’ll need her sister when we grab her. I just don’t think we know she’s there.”

  “She is there,” Avery said. “I know it. He’d want her close, and… And he said she was in the pool.” She swallowed hard. “Take me to Saddle River and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll tell you everything. Even the stuff I know you won’t believe.”

  Gilroy cleared his throat, interrupting Benton’s deliberations. “There’s a safehouse close to Saddle River. Close enough to Coppola’s complex to be acceptable. And we should keep the asset close by in case things go south.”

  “You mean, Avery.” Vincent instantly regretted his snappishness, but Gilroy shouldn’t have called her the asset. It was dehumanizing and intolerable.

  Gilroy nodded. “Exactly. Right. I mean, Avery. We don’t know what Coppola will do. The safe bet is to keep the asset close during negotiations.” Vincent told himself to shut up. Just shut up.

  Benton nodded. “Fine.”

  Deming pulled an ice pack from the cooler, and again, a wave of fish smell. “You’re injured. Press this to the bruise.”

  He saw Avery wave it away, and was about to protest, maybe demand she take a Tylenol, but then Deming pressed the ice pack to his swelling cheek. Avery saw her mistake immediately and cringed, clearly embarrassed. That small misunderstanding startled him. When had everything become about Avery to him?

  Vincent took the ice pack from Deming. “Thank you.” Then he crawled across the van’s interior and sat next to Avery. Tugging her onto his lap, he made her hold the ice pack to her neck, and pressed her swelling hand to it, to keep the ice pack in place. “Deming, you got any pain meds?”

  Deming nodded, and reached into a first aid kit affixed to the van’s interior wall. She tossed a packet of ibuprofen to him. Adjusting Avery on his lap, he felt her face turn into his neck as she slumped into his arms. She was exhausted.

  “No, come on. Take them.” He tore open the small paper container, and held out the two pills, then opened the water bottle for her. When she’d swallowed it, she leaned on him again, limp as a dish rag. He was worried about her. She needed to regain her strength, because things were about to get harder, not easier.

  What with the quiet inside the van, and the white noise of them driving on the interstate, Avery drifted off to sleep, her hand pressed to his chest, her breathing synced with his. It gave him plenty of time to study those damn rings, worry about who gave them to her, and how he’d feel once her latest secret was revealed. He was falling hard for her, and felt stupid about it. He suspected Deming and Benton had already guessed. They weren’t staring at Avery. They were studying the tableau of Avery sleeping in his arms.

  Vincent allowed himself a sigh, and pretended not to notice their worries, because…well, whatever. His feelings were what they were, and right or wrong, they were his. So, what if he was being stupid. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Chapter 17

  Cradled in Vincent’s arms, Avery woke to find it nighttime. He felt warm, and she was cold, so she pressed against him, her face against his neck. She felt safe and cozy, surrounded by his scent. Then she heard Benton speaking to the team in quiet tones, and remembered just how far up the creek she was without a paddle.

  The van’s side sliding door rumbled as it opened. “Vincent, get her inside,” Benton said. “Gilroy, Deming, scout the perimeter while I log us into the safehouse.”

  Safehouse. Those words nudged Avery more fully awake, though sleep pulled at her as Vincent lifted her from the van and into the cool night. Cicadas chirped about them as she struggled to open her eyes. She saw a well-lit white Colonial ahead, surrounded by an expanse of lawn and then dense woods beyond that. The gravel driveway crunched beneath Vincent’s boots, until they arrived on a cobblestone walkway that lead to the front landing.

  They’d arrived at Saddle River, and that meant Millie was about twenty minutes away, hopefully sleeping and unaware of the showdown between good and evil that was ratcheting up to its conclusion. Avery’s heart beat faster as her anxiety curdled her belly. Soon, Millie, soon.

  Avery was coming.

  Vincent carried her up the granite stairs to an intricately carved wood overhang. The large front door opened as soon as they reached it, revealing a sparsely furnished foyer. There was nothing on the walls, and the wallpaper looked at least thirty years old. Immediately ahead, about ten feet into the house, were stairs leading to the second floor. The house’s hardwood flooring, banisters, and trim had probably been something to see in the house’s heyday, but now, everything was worn; the furnishings were mismatched and yard-sale quality. There was a mustiness to the place that had her wrinkling her nose. She pressed her face to Vincent’s neck again. He smelled better.

  Avery could have, probably should have, forced herself to wake up completely and wriggle from Vincent’s arms. She knew this, but she ached, and her knee was bothering her again despite the ibuprofen she’d taken earlier. And her throat was killing her. It would probably take a week to fully heal, but she didn’t have a week. If she had anything to say about it, this rescue was happening soon, so she shamelessly took this respite, allowing Vincent to hold her as she took her time waking up.

  “What time is it?” She sounded like she had a bad case of laryngitis.

  “Paley?” Vincent was ignoring her, talking with a safehouse agent, a thin, dark-haired man, wiry, maybe mid-thirties. His red polo shirt and khakis made him look as if he worked for the Geek Squad at Best Buy rather than the FBI. His clipboard and pocket protector fueled the impression. The man’s brown eyes focused on her first, before moving on to Vincent.

  “Yeah, I’m Paley. You’re Modena, right?” He inclined his head toward the stairs. “We prepared a room for the asset. Top of the stairs, first room on the right.” Vincent gave no indication that they were going anywhere, top of the stairs or otherwise. He just kept her in his arms, holding her, his attention focused on Paley and Benton, who’d just entered the house.

  Benton exchanged glances with Vincent, and then took the clipboard Paley offered him. “I’m Benton.” He nodded to Paley.

  “I had Modelli’s interview transcribed for you,” Paley said. “The video, and its transcription are on this.” He handed Benton a flash drive. “She suffered a hairline fracture to the skull and a compound fracture to her elbow. So, the interview was done while she had meds in her.” He glanced at Avery. “I only mention that because we believe it explains some of her…odd comments.”

  “Anything about incriminating files?” Benton said.

  “Nothing beyond what you’ve said,” Paley said.

  Avery grimaced. Benton was still sniffing after the “files.” Ahab, fishing for his white whale. On some level, she admired his drive. It kind of reassured her, too, that maybe these people knew what they were doing, and they’d leave no stone unturned. Benton and his team, gathering their slivers of evidence like squirrels gathering nuts, would chip away at the unknown until Dante was stopped.

  But not today. Today they weren’t even close, and no surprise. In Avery’s experience, Dante was someone you survived, not punished, and at the rate she was going, her odds of surviving him were becoming more and more slim by the hour.

  Vincent took the stairs. “You okay?”

  She kept her head on his shoulder. “How do I look?”

  He crested the top of the stairs and stepped to a bedroom door. “Death warm
ed over. Can you reach the knob?” Avery’s bruised knuckles protested as she squeezed and turned the knob, and then Vincent’s shoulder nudged the door open, and they were inside. The room was dark, but outdoor perimeter lights streamed in from the windows. He put her down. Avery found a wall switch, and flip it on.

  “What time is it?” she said.

  There were no clocks in this flowery bedroom of muted tones, flouncy drapes and a cabbage flower upholstered chair to the left of the bed. Avery lay on the queen-sized bed in the center of the room. It had looked cozy, with its crocheted coverlet, but Avery found the mattress too lumpy and hard to be comfortable, so sat up. Vincent stood in front of her, resting his hands on his hips.

  “It’s nine,” he said. “We’ve got a judge willing to give us the necessary warrants to search Coppola’s mansion for Millie. We’ll stay here while we wait for them to be signed. Then we’ll show up at his door and deliver the warrant. This is over by tomorrow morning. Promise.”

  “He won’t get caught with Millie at the mansion. He’ll get tipped off. He’ll do something. He’s smart, Vincent. You have to talk to Benton, tell him it won’t work.” Dante would kill Millie first before he’d allow her to be taken from him. Or maybe, hopefully, he’d hide her somewhere out of Avery’s reach.

  Vincent seemed unconvinced, if sympathetic, and she blamed it on his conviction that law and order was the only way to solve a problem. There was no fighting that kind of bias. It meant Avery had to move on her own before the Feds got their warrants and ruined her one chance to rescue Millie.

  “Right now,” Vincent said, “the warrants are our only play. If she’s not at the mansion, we’ll think of something else, but you need to wrap your brain around the consequences of a fail here. If she’s not there, Millie is a missing persons case. I could expedite it—”

  “No.” If it got to that point, Millie would be long gone or dead.

  “Listen, we’re rushing in there with a warrant on your say so. That’s happening. I promise. But if she’s not there, your credibility is shot, and the bureau will shut this case down. The task force will be reassigned. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She’d have one less problem to deal with, but it would also mean her Dante problem had grown exponentially.

  “The only reason it’s gotten this far is because Benton was convinced you have information that will take down your ex-husband, and”—he shook his head, grimacing—“now that we believe you don’t, it’s hemmed us in on what we can do to take down your ex.”

  Avery nodded, falling back on the bed, ignoring its lumpiness. She covered her face, too tired, too upset to hide her emotions. The bed dipped, and Vincent sat next to her. When he pulled her hands down, she saw his sympathy, and then his gaze drop to her hands. “We need the rings for evidence.”

  Her knuckles were swollen, deep blue, and cut to shit. “You’ll have to snip them off or wait until the swelling goes down.”

  He nodded. “I’ll leave that decision to Benton.” She didn’t want to give up her rings. Their cost had been too high. “It’s almost over,” he said.

  And the worst had just begun. Everything else had led up to this, and every move they made from here on out would tip the balance toward saving Millie or losing her forever.

  He kissed her, sweetly, and she kissed him back because she couldn’t help herself. She was weak and needed the comfort he was offering. She didn’t care that they had no future. She needed him now.

  “Talk to me, Avery.” His arms wrapped around her as tears spilled past her lashes.

  “There’s nothing more to say.” His sympathy was dangerous. It made her cry, made her weak when she needed to be strong. Vincent made her want to lean on him, but it was a dangerous trap, that could only lead to failure.

  “They want to question you downstairs,” he said. “I’ll be there. I’ll help you, but Avery, you have to answer their questions. Okay?”

  She nodded. “Okay, but…give me a second to compose myself.”

  Avery turned her back on him, and curled into a ball on the mattress, hugging the pillow to her chest. She’d thought to get rid of him, that her turning might indicate she wanted to be alone, but Vincent surprised her by spooning her, tugging her close to his body. Avery didn’t fight it, because it felt too good. He was so big, and she loved how it felt to be in his arms, surrounded by his strength. She rested her head on his bicep and allowed herself a moment to pretend they were a couple, with normal problems, looking forward to a normal life.

  They lay there for a while, Avery lingering in her malaise as he caressed her side, kissed her hair, basically made her feel cherished…and guilty. Vincent saw her as the person he wanted her to be, maybe even needed her to be, much like she’d done with Dante. At seventeen, her family dead, she’d needed Dante to be her hero. Traumatized, she’d made a deal that she’d marry him, allow him to use her to solidify his position in the syndicate, if he’d arrange to have her trained to fight. It seemed the only way for her and Millie to survive, and now she knew she’d been a fool. Once she became The Stinger, there was no turning back. It set in motion a series of events that were culminating now…and putting it off was killing her. Time to go.

  “Go tell them I’ll be down in a minute,” Avery said.

  Vincent dropped a kiss on her temple, and then rolled off the bed. “Try not to worry. It will all work out, Avery.”

  She nodded, hoping to placate him, allowing herself the luxury of looking at him one last time, from the tips of his black boots, up his strong legs, hips to die for, flat abs, and broad chest. She settled her gaze on his lips, making her silent farewells to what he represented—a different life, lover, future, because her sister needed her, because it was the right thing to do. And if she were perfectly honest, because Vincent deserved more than what she could give him. Hell, so did Avery.

  When he continued to hover over the bed, staring down at her, she lifted her brows, forcing a small smile. “I’m okay. I’ll use the bathroom and then be right down.” He nodded, but they both knew when he walked away, he was leaving things unsaid.

  The moment the door closed behind him, Avery shot off the bed and turned off the overhead light. She hurried to the window and pushed aside the dusty drape. Deming came into view on the driveway below. She was walking the house’s perimeter, gun in hand, while Gilroy walked down the gravel driveway toward the road. He had a purpose to his step that made her think he was expecting company.

  She needed a car.

  The van’s keys were probably in Gilroy’s pocket, but she remembered seeing a two-car detached garage on the left side of the property. If she could sneak there, maybe she could boost a ride. She was due some luck, if not a miracle.

  As quietly as she could, Avery opened her room’s door, and took a moment to quickly peek into the second-floor rooms. She was alone up here, the windows were alarmed, but some dweeb—who she would be forever in their debt—had left a window cracked in a bedroom that faced the backyard. The smell of cigarette smoke made her think it was the designated smoking room. She lifted the screen and peered down, having flashbacks from the sheriff’s office, and her fall with only an extension cord to save her. This time, there was a ledge. It led to a first-floor porch rooftop. The climb down was touch and go, but by using the gutter, she soon had her feet on the grass and her back pressed to the siding.

  She spied two men near the driveway, both smoking, leaning against a tree while they chatted. One wore a red polo shirt. Paley, the safehouse administrator. The other man, a suit, seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite make out his face, and she didn’t feel secure enough in her position by the house to wait and find out, so Avery crouched, poised to make a run for the garage. Then the man moved so the security lighting lit his face.

  She gasped and then covered her mouth, afraid she’d be heard. Heart racing, she looked again, hoping she’d made a mistake, but
no, it was Bernard Ponte, Dante’s lawyer. If Bernard was here, this place was under Dante’s control. Which meant Paley was a snitch! Images of the sheriff’s office, all shot up, flooded her mind.

  She didn’t know what to do and felt helpless, until her eyes dropped to her hands. She clenched them and stared at the rings, the initials inscribed on them, and remembered what she was capable of. She was not a victim. She was someone Bernard Ponte needed to fear, because he didn’t have the leverage over her that Dante did, and she wasn’t about to allow him to hurt Vincent.

  Avery took a steadying breath, and wondered when she’d forgotten who she was…Ralph Toner’s daughter. Dante Coppola’s ex-wife. She certainly wasn’t Patty, the waitress, though Patty had kicked some serious ass in that diner before that identity was retired. No, she was The Stinger, and she’d take care of Bernard Ponte herself, and that snitch, Paley, too.

  Avery ran toward the garage like her pants were on fire, and didn’t stop until she was leaning against its siding, wild-eyed and out of breath. Gilroy stepped out of the shadows, mere feet from where she’d been standing before, and checked the perimeter. It was a reminder that she had no time to waste, so she hurried to the garage’s side door, and ducked inside, seeing two cars, outlined by security lighting from outside. None of the cars were old enough models to allow hot wiring, so she’d have to return to the house to lift someone’s keys.

  A male hand covered her mouth, then his other clamped around her wrist as she reached for his groin. She stopped her rear scoop kick just in time, because his scent triggered recognition. Vincent. Her shoulders sagged, as she peeled his hand from her mouth, turning in his arms. He scowled.

  She whispered. “Bernard Ponte is out there talking with Paley.”

  “And you’re in the garage, because—” He was also whispering, but didn’t sound as if he was taking her concern seriously. His arms wrapped around her waist loosely, as if this were a social occasion and he was multitasking.