Rebel Love (Kings of Corruption Book 2)

by Michelle St. James

  She hesitated. “You’re not going to believe me when I tell you.”

  “Try me.”

  She drew in a breath. “I’m with Lachlan Hunt.”

  She winced into the long pause. She had no idea how Patrick would react to the news. He’d loved Lachlan when Elle had been in college, had looked up to him like the older brother he’d never had. The knowledge that Lachlan’s parents were behind Hathaway Holding had been painful, and after their father died, Patrick had shut down completely. He’d remained distant as he finished college and six months later had announced that he was leaving the country. She’d only seen him a handful of times since.

  “Lachlan…” She could hear his conflicting emotions across the miles. “Wow.”

  “Yeah… he goes by Locke now actually,” she said, as if the new name meant he wasn’t the same person whose family had destroyed theirs. As if he wasn’t the same person who had lied to her about it.

  “How did that happen?” he asked.

  “It was kind of random,” she said. “We just bumped into each other on the street.”

  “So you’re back together?” Patrick asked.

  “Yeah, I think we are,” she said.

  I don’t know how I lived without him. I don’t know how I breathed.

  “Are you happy?”

  The question took her by surprise, but answering it was a no-brainer.

  “Very,” she said. “I didn’t know how I felt about it at first, but everything just felt so… easy. It’s like no time has passed at all.”

  “He’s rich now, right?” Patrick asked.

  She laughed, taking in the house around her. “You could say that.”

  “I’m happy for you, Elle,” he said. “Really.”

  She smiled into the phone. “Because he’s rich?”

  “No, dummy,” he said. “Because you never stopped loving him, and because what happened was as shitty for him as it was for us.”

  “I think you’re right.” The evidence was all around her: in the work Locke chose at tremendous risk to himself, in the laws he broke even when she knew he believed in things like right and wrong, in the care with which he chose his targets and the fact that his goal was always to make amends to the innocent. “So you’re okay with it?”

  “It’s not what I expected,” he said.

  “But?”

  He hesitated. “You now that big backpack I had when I first left?”

  She shook her head, surprised by the detour. “How could I forget? You couldn’t even close the zipper all the way it was so stuffed.”

  He laughed. “Exactly. I was worried I would need something and regret not packing it, so I packed everything.”

  “And?”

  “And two months later it was half-empty.”

  “Because you’d gone through all the stuff you’d packed?” she asked, trying to follow his train of thought.

  “Because I realized I didn’t need all that shit.” He laughed, then grew quiet. “Seriously, if it’s one thing I’ve learned hauling my shit around the world it’s that baggage just weighs you down. If you’ve found a way to let it go, I’m happy for you.”

  She smiled into the phone. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just be happy. You deserve it. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I think Lachlan deserves it, too.”

  She wondered if Patrick would still believe it if he knew about Locke’s brand of vigilante justice. It only took her a few seconds to come to the conclusion that he would. She would never be able to tell him, but she knew her brother almost as well as she knew herself. Her belief would have to be enough.

  “I think you’re right.” She took a deep breath and switched gears. “Now tell me when you’re coming home!”

  He laughed. “I don’t know, but you know I’m always here if you need me.”

  “Same.”

  Muffled voices sounded from the other end of the phone. There was a moment of confusion as Patrick said something to someone nearby.

  “I have to go, Elle, but I’ll try to call again soon.”

  “Sounds good,” she said. “Don’t forget to call Mom, too.”

  He laughed. “I talk to Mom at least once a week.”

  “You do?” She shouldn’t have been surprised. Her mother and Patrick had always been close.

  “I do. Gotta go! Love you, Elle.”

  “I love you, too. Be safe.”

  Then he was gone. She imagined him in a bar in Iceland, surrounded by friends he’d met along the way, fellow wanderers looking for answers in the unfamiliar. She hoped they found them.

  Her gaze snagged on movement at the perimeter of the property where the cliff leading to the beach began. She peered through the darkness and realized it was one of the new guards that had arrived earlier that evening. Locke insisted, and she had to admit that while they’d maintained a low profile, she was comforted by their presence. Malcolm Glover was just a man. There was no way he could know he’d been targeted by Locke. No way to know she was part of Locke’s life and staying less than two hours from his estate outside of Cancun.

  But the extra precautions couldn’t hurt.

  26

  Locke landed lightly on the roof and quickly unhitched himself from the glider. The moon provided just enough light to guide him as he removed the repelling gear from his backpack and hitched onto the lip of the roof. He watched as the two guards patrolled the property, waiting until he’d synchronized their absence from his side of the house. According to his stopwatch, he’d have two-and-a-half minutes to make his way down the side of the building to the lower rooftop deck and get out of sight before one of them made his way back to that side of the house.

  When they were both out of sight he stood at the edge of the roof with his back to the empty space, grabbed onto the repelling line, and jumped. It took him three lengths before he hit the pool deck, and he quickly retracted the line and stepped into the shadows.

  Dogs barked somewhere in the distance, and he thought of the background he’d done on the Cancun house, the manifests he’d traced for supply delivery that had included high-end dog food and more raw meat than Glover and his staff could possibly eat.

  Locke’s bet was on guard dogs, and he slipped a hand into his pocket, touching the tranquilizer gun he’d brought as a precaution. He wouldn’t like to sedate a dog, but he’d do it if it was his only way out.

  He watched from the shadows as a flashlight criss-crossed the lawn. When it passed, he peered into the glass doors that led into the house from the terrace. The room beyond was empty, and he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with plenty of time to spare should one of the guards look up as they passed on their patrol.

  He was in a small sitting area furnished with an overstuffed sofa and chairs. A bar lined one wall, thick candles flickering from tall iron candlesticks in the corners, casting shadows on the plaster walls and tile floors.

  A wide hall led away from the room, and he thought back to blueprints of the house. If he was right, the hall would lead him to a back staircase which would in turn lead him to the ground floor. From there he should be able to find the cellar.

  He listened for the sound of voices or footsteps, then crept down the hall, wishing for once that Spanish houses featured carpet instead of tile. More candlesticks stood at the end of the hall, their light shining like a beacon marking the top of the staircase. He was halfway toward it when he heard rustling around the corner.

  Stopping his forward progress, he trained his ear to the sound and realized it was coming from the room a few feet ahead on his right. He turned his mind’s eye inward to place it as the master suite, then walked slowly toward the set of doors.

  One of them was open, and he stood against the wall, listening to the sound, weighing the danger of peering inside the room versus making his way quickly past it. He wasn’t here to spy on Glover; he was here to figure out what kind of stash the man had collected
to make his getaway.

  But now that he was in the house, his curiosity took over, and he leaned forward, looking through the open doorway.

  He was surprised to see not Glover but a voluptuous brunette bent over the bed, arranging something inside a suitcase. She worked methodically, her motions relaxed as she moved clothes from the mattress into the case. When he let his eyes scan the room, it was obvious she’d been at it awhile.

  Two large trunks stood against one wall, gowns spilling from their interior, several hat boxes standing next to it. He was still taking it in when she straightened, turning toward the closet.

  He pulled back against the wall, listened to her heels strike the tile as she made her way across the room, then back again. Hoping his assumption was correct and that she was back to filling the suitcase, he slipped past the open door and continued down the hall.

  He was still thinking about her when he hit the stairs — or more accurately, he was thinking about Glover’s wife, a willowy blonde from a wealthy family similar to Glover’s. From the looks of things, Glover had no intention of making an escape with his wife and daughters. They probably didn’t even know about the house in Mexico.

  What a fucking dirtbag.

  He had no love for Glover’s pampered wife, but a real man didn’t bail on his family.

  He continued down the staircase, glad it was sheltered by thick plaster walls, and emerged onto the main floor. An elaborate kitchen stood to his left, the lights out. An open-air hall on the left flickered with more candles.

  He was only half-surprised he hadn’t run into any of the guards or a member of the household staff; if the men stationed outside were any indication, the house was a low-key operation. It was possible Glover kept only the dogs, the two guards, and a couple people to run the house. As for Glover himself, Locke was beginning to wonder if business had kept him in the States.

  He made his way down the open-air hall, sheltered only by stucco archways open to a furnished patio. He hurried past the candles to the end of the hall, all too aware that he was dangerously exposed. If one of the guards happened across the lawn beyond the patio, he’d be spotted. Then all hell would break loose and he would have to get out before he got what he came for.

  But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He had a hunch Glover would be on the move soon, and he wasn’t going to let the bastard leave without paying for all the shit he’d done.

  For what he’d done to Elle and people like her.

  He hurried down the hall, stepping into the shelter of another hall that led down one side of the house’s “U”. This one was smaller and darker, a carved wooden door marking the end of it.

  He moved toward it, relieved to see an old-fashioned padlock hanging from an iron hinge. He’d come prepared with a laptop to hack the security panel if there had been one, but that would have taken longer and carried more risk; some electronic entries were programmed to sound an alarm if breached, and you never really knew if that was the case until you hacked your way in.

  The possibility would have been easy enough to manage if he’d had a man or two with him, but that came with risks, too. It was quicker and easier for him to break in on his own, and that was the name of the game for a recon mission like this one.

  Get in, get out. That was all.

  He reached into the backpack and pulled out a bolt cutter, then snipped the padlock. It cracked open, and he reached over to remove it, slipping it into his pocket as he opened the door.

  He stepped into a dark, narrow vestibule and used the flashlight on his phone to illuminate the space around him. He was standing at the top of a staircase, the smell of must wafting from the recesses below.

  He made his way down the stairs and ended up on a slab of concrete that extended about a hundred feet in front of him. The room was narrow and nearly empty except for the hulking mass at its center.

  He moved toward it, feeling validated that his hunch had been right.

  A series of pallets were clustered together, all of them stacked high with cash, bundled together and wrapped tightly in plastic.

  He circled the mountain of money, noting the fact that the bills were a mixture of hundred- and thousand-dollar bills. No big surprise. The cash wasn’t counterfeit, so Glover didn’t have to worry about it drawing attention.

  It all belonged to him, a result of the liquidation of his assets.

  Locke had figured it would either be gold or cash, and cash was a lot easier to transport. The irony of the modern world is that it had actually gotten more dangerous to move money electronically — especially if you were under investigation by the FBI.

  Everything could be traced if the digital forensics were good enough.

  Everything.

  Glover wanted to disappear. Any electronic footprint would leave him vulnerable for the rest of his life. Maybe the Feds wouldn’t uncover his tracks this year or the next, but they’d always be out there, awaiting discovery.

  But cash… anyone could disappear with enough cash.

  He was circling back toward the door when the room was light washed over the room. He blinked against the brightness, reaching instinctively for the gun holstered at his side. When he lifted it, he was looking into Malcolm Glover’s eyes.

  27

  “I’d ask what you’re doing,” Glover said, “but the fact that I’ve found you here says it all.”

  Locke held the gun steady. “The fact that you have all this money when you’re under investigation for embezzlement says a lot more.”

  Glover leaned against the staircase, raised his eyebrows like he was only mildly surprised Locke knew about the FBI investigation.

  “It is my money,” Glover said.

  “You sure about that?” Locke asked. “Because I think that remains to be seen.”

  “How so?”

  “Sounds like the Feds think you stole it.” Locke was buying time as he contemplated a way out of the cellar. Glover didn’t have a gun and didn’t look remotely concerned about the fact that Locke did. That meant the arrival of his security team was imminent, and while Locke was still confident in his ability to get out, he liked his chances better with Glover alone. “That would make it someone else’s money.”

  “It’s not what they think; it’s what they can prove,” Glover said.

  “I’m betting a bunch of cash stashed in Mexico wouldn’t help your case,” Locke said. “With the Feds or your wife.”

  Glover narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Me?” Locke said. “I’m nobody but the guy who’s going to have to shoot you if you don’t move away from those stairs.”

  Glover raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and moved away from the stairs. “Of course. No need for violence.”

  His easy surrender only made Locke more nervous about what awaited him above ground. He kept the gun pointed at Glover as he moved toward him.

  “Spread your legs,” Locke ordered. “Arms out.”

  Glover complied. “I must admit to being curious,” he said as Locke patted him down.

  “I’m not interested in your curiosity.”

  “Nevertheless, I do wonder why you bothered coming. The property has been searched. There’s no truck, no other method for removing the cash in this room. You obviously didn’t come to steal it.”

  Locke thought about the glider on the roof, wondered if Glover’s men had gotten that far in their search. He wasn’t as concerned about not having it — he could find another way out if necessary — as he was about wasting time getting to the roof only to have to backtrack.

  He stepped away from Glover, not at all surprised he was unarmed. When push came to shove, he was a coward who hid behind money.

  “I can only assume you mean to report your findings to the authorities,” Glover continued. “And while you’re correct in your assumption that it will add another layer of suspicion to the investigation, there’s really nothing they can do, particularly here in Mexico.”

  “Reporting
you would be a waste of time,” Locke said, backing up to the staircase. “The Feds are buried in bureaucracy. I’m guessing you’ll be long gone by the time they get everything they need to search this place, if ever. Your wife however…”

  Glover’s eyes grew cold. “That’s a tactic I don’t recommend.”

  “Lucky for me, I’m not looking for your recommendation,” Locke said. “Now lock your hands behind your head and face the wall.”

  Glover lifted his arms and put them behind his head, turning to face the old stone wall. Locke started sideways up the stairs, his eyes skipping from Glover’s position against the wall to the top of the staircase.

  He waited until he was almost to the top to turn the gun on the landing, half-expecting one of the guards to appear. No one did, and he stepped into the tile hall and hurried toward the staircase he’d descended to get to the ground floor. He’d just spilled into the open-air hall when he heard the dogs.

  He picked up his pace, sprinting toward the end of the hall. He was almost there when two Dobermans slid around the corner, flanks slick with sweat. The two guards appeared behind them, slowing when they spotted Locke.

  The dogs had no such compunction, and they sped toward Locke, drool leaking from their jowls as they barked.

  There was no way to get around them to reach the staircase leading to the second floor, so he turned for the grassy area between the outdoor hall and a casita in the distance and raced along the side of the building, looking for another route to the roof.

  He was at the back of the house when he realized he wasn’t going to find one.

  He could hear the dogs barking behind him; it was either try to get to the roof from here or run for the woods, and he didn’t like his chances against the dogs in the woods.

  He reached into his backpack and pulled out the repelling line and hook, took aim at the lip of the roof, and watched the line unfurl as it arced upward. He held his breath as it sped upward into the darkness. The dogs were rounding the corner of the house. There would be no second chance to tie onto the roof.