by Laura Kaye
Flipping through more folders, Beckett found personnel records and detailed lists of connections for the other men whose names he hadn’t recognized. There were carefully kept spreadsheets of heroin stolen and sold from various sites around Afghanistan, and—holy shit—a file containing a long list of women’s names. “Take a look at this,” he said, passing it to Shane.
Steel gray eyes cut to Beckett and then down to the clipped papers. “Fuck me running,” Shane said, his voice like ice. He turned from one page to another.
When Shane was a teenager, some scumbag had scooped his eight-year-old sister off the street on which they lived. He and his family never saw little Molly McCallan again. As a result, protecting women who needed help had become a personal calling of Shane’s. It was what led him to help Sara, who they’d learned had been forced into her waitressing job at a strip club and her relationship with one of Church’s top henchmen to pay off her deceased father’s debts to the gang.
“God, I don’t know if this list is a blessing or a curse,” Shane said as he showed it to Easy and Marz. “A blessing because their families could be notified about what happened to them. A curse because who would ever want to learn this? But, damn, if we could track down families or missing persons reports, we could find photographs. Maybe somewhere in all this or the Colonel’s files there are records of who bought them.” Shane raked a hand through his dark blond hair, his eyes flashing.
Beckett knew exactly where Shane’s thoughts were going—to finding and saving them. A totally honorable goal. But that was a fight for a whole other day. Had to be. Not that Beckett liked it. Not one bit.
“You realize,” Marz said, “between this and the Colonel’s microchip, we might have all we’d need to take down every bit of this operation.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Easy said, dark eyes flashing. “We need Wexler before we can come anywhere near to claiming mission accomplished here. Especially after today.”
“Damn straight.” Beckett tossed the files back into the box and retrieved Seneka’s cell. The pass code the man had given him worked, just like he said. And it took only a few swipes of Beckett’s thumb to find Wexler’s contact card. He pressed on the listed cell phone number, then hit Send.
The first ring barely sounded when Wexler barked into the phone, “You fucking set me up.” And wasn’t that an interesting greeting.
“This isn’t Seneka,” Beckett said. “It’s Beckett Murda. And I’ve got twelve million reasons why you might want to listen to what I have to say.” He borrowed the line from Nick, and it seemed to work the second time around, too. While Wexler didn’t respond right away, he didn’t hang up either.
“You have two minutes,” Wexler hissed.
“I want an in-person meeting to perform a simple exchange. You get the twelve million dollars from Frank Merritt’s account. I get definitive proof from you that Kaine headed this whole operation and hung my A-team out to dry. Simple as that.”
“You can’t just withdraw twelve million dollars,” Wexler said in a way that sounded like it should’ve ended with you idiot.
“Of course not. But I can bring a laptop, provide you with all the password and access information, change our personal information on the account to yours, and then allow you to reset the passwords and take the laptop, too. Just so you have no doubts that we’ve tricked you by using keystroke-recording software.” When Wexler didn’t have a quick retort, Beckett knew he’d bitten the hook. “We don’t want the fucking money. We want Kaine’s head for betraying us. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“And what would definitive proof of Kaine’s involvement look like to you?” Wexler asked.
Animatedly, Marz whispered a number of suggestions.
Beckett nodded. “Hard and digital copies of any and all e-mail correspondence between you or others involved in WCE and Kaine. Details, in written and digital form, of who ordered the hit on Frank Merritt, who exactly my team encountered on the road that day, and any information you can get your hands on regarding the collusion to smear our reputations and ruin our careers. And a list of buyers of your female slaves.”
An incredulous laugh came down the line. “Fuckers don’t want much, do you?”
Ice flooded into Beckett’s veins. “We want what’s ours. Our honor. Our reputation. Our careers. If you make us drop this at your door, we will. We have plenty to put it there quite convincingly, thanks to Merritt’s record keeping and your boss’s assistance. But what we don’t want is you, Wexler. We. Want. Kaine. Your choice.” Beckett affected a sigh. “But decide now. I’m hanging in ten.” He mentally counted.
On eight, Wexler said, “Deal.”
Dark satisfaction rushed in behind the ice. This guy was so his. “I name the time and place—”
“Hell, no. That’s a deal breaker. Meet when and where I dictate, or it’s off. I disappear with plenty of my own money in hand to a tropical paradise where I never think of any of this again.”
Beckett surveyed his team and found frustration and agreement on their faces in equal measure. “Fine.”
“It’ll be at least this evening before I get all this together. Will call you on this number thirty to sixty minutes before the meet.” Click.
Heaving a breath, Beckett lowered the phone and dropped it in his pocket.
“No matter how fucking high we climb, the summit just keeps getting higher and higher,” Shane said.
“But if he delivers,” Marz said, “we’ve just struck gold.”
Beckett agreed, but it didn’t give him nearly the sense of satisfaction or victory that it should’ve. Because it would all be hollow if he regained his life only for Kat to lose hers. It wouldn’t be any life at all. Not without Kat.
Beckett waved the others over. “I’ll lead a group to the hospital. Who wants to go?” he asked. The women all raised their hands.
“I’m going no matter what,” Charlie said.
“Me too,” Marz said.
“Yeah,” Easy said.
Shane nodded. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now.”
Perfect. He liked the idea of them all remaining together. “Fine. Then let’s move.”
Chapter 24
The minute Beckett walked into the hospital waiting room, Nick flew off his seat and got all kinds of in his face. “What do you know that you haven’t bothered to fucking share with me?”
Cheeks ruddy, eyes a little wild, Nick looked way the hell strung out. And who could blame him? He’d been shot and seen both of his siblings—his only remaining blood in the world—medevacked while unconscious to a shock trauma center. The nurse at the desk had confirmed both of them remained in surgery.
Beckett held up his hands and nodded. “I’m sorry, Nick—”
Wham!
Nick’s fist connected with Beckett’s cheekbone. He staggered back a step, shouts rising up around him. Beckett didn’t raise a hand to defend himself. Nor to fight back. Why would he? Nick bum-rushed him into the wall by the door, sending other hospital visitors scrambling. “Fight back!” Nick shouted. “Fucking fight back.”
“No,” Beckett said, shaking his head.
Suddenly, Nick flew away from him. Shane and Marz each restrained him by a shoulder. Every last person not associated with their group fled the waiting room.
“Stop it! Just stop it,” Easy said, standing between them, arms out to keep them from going at each other again. Not that Beckett planned to. “Two of our own are fighting for their lives. Last thing we need is to be fighting each other.”
Nick jabbed a finger into the air. “Beckett knew Kat had a stalker. Didn’t say anything about it to anyone. And let her go back to D.C., where the sonofabitch apparently regained her trail and followed her to the cemetery this morning. I deserve a fucking explanation.” He nailed Beckett with a bleak stare. “You promised not to hurt her!”
Beckett struggled to suck in a breath. Those last words were like a knife to the gut.
“Jeremy knew,
” Charlie said, his voice hollow, his blue eyes so washed out they appeared almost gray. “She told him not to worry you with it. She’d gotten a restraining order, so I think she thought it was under control. She was going to tell you when all this was over.”
Shaking his head, Nick looked like someone had just clocked him with a frying pan. “Well, holy fuck. Anyone else know besides me?” he asked.
“I guess I sorta knew, too,” Becca said, her voice strained. “A few nights ago, Kat said her last relationship had ended poorly and that her ex-boyfriend was having a hard time accepting it was over.” She shook her head and pressed her hands to her mouth. “I didn’t know it was all this, though. I promise.”
Nick shrugged off the other men’s holds. “Jesus Christ,” he said, fingers raking at his hair as he stalked toward the far wall of windows and braced his hands against the glass.
Beckett cleared his throat. It took a few tries. “She . . . she came to Hard Ink because this guy—Cole was his name—hid in her parking garage and jumped her Friday morning before work. She got him to back off by agreeing to meet him for drinks that evening. Instead, she packed a bag, filed for the protective order, and came here. Well, to Hard Ink. And she pushed her situation to the side to help all of us. I just found out the day before yesterday. She begged me not to tell, and she promised to come to you when our investigation was over.” He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and ignored the throb in his cheek. Despite the amazing night of sleep with Kat—which seemed forever ago now—he was stone-cold exhausted all the way into the depths of his soul.
Silence hung like a thick cloud over the room.
“Family of Jeremy Rixey?” came a man’s voice from the doorway.
Everyone whirled and gathered closer around the surgeon, who wore a pair of blue scrubs, a head covering, and a pale blue gown. Nick and Charlie made their way to the front of the group.
“I’m his brother,” Nick said.
The young Indian man surveyed the group staring back at him and nodded. “Jeremy’s in recovery. He had an epidural hemorrhage, which is bleeding between the dura matter and the skull, from a blunt head trauma. He also has a very small skull fracture. We drained the blood and are moving him to the neurotrauma critical care unit on the fourth floor to monitor for additional bleeding or swelling. We’ll know more when he awakens, but there’s no immediate reason to believe he won’t have a full recovery.”
Oh, thank God. Now, if they could get equally good news about Kat.
“Can we see him?” Nick asked.
The surgeon pointed to a rack on the wall. “The visitor guidelines for the traumatic resuscitation units are available there so you know how it will work. As soon as he’s situated, someone will notify you.”
Nick’s jaw ticked as he nodded, and Beckett reminded himself that what was happening right here wasn’t about him. It was about Nick and his family.
“Any questions?” the man asked.
“No, thank you,” Nick said, extending his hand toward the other man. They shook and the doctor departed.
The whole room breathed a sigh of relief. Becca pulled both Nick and Charlie into her arms. “He’s going to be flirting and driving you two crazy before you know it,” she said.
Charlie gave a quick nod, then pulled free of her arm and turned away. His hands went to his face, and Marz crossed the room to him, put an arm around his shoulders and talked soft enough that Beckett couldn’t hear what he said. Derek always did have that ability—to talk to anyone, say just the right thing, and make people feel comfortable, at ease. Sometimes, Beckett would’ve paid good money for those abilities.
And then, as more time passed, the tension slowly but surely ratcheted back up. When were they going to hear about Kat? What was taking so long? What exactly had that bullet injured inside her?
The possible answers to those questions turned Beckett’s empty stomach sour. All he could do was see the image of the wound marring her beautiful skin in his mind’s eye. Her blood spilling out in pulsing waves. Her face getting paler and paler.
Finally, a petite African-American nurse in pink scrubs stepped into the room. “Jeremy Rixey’s family?”
Once again everyone rose in anticipation of news, though it was Nick who stepped forward. “I’m his brother.”
“All right,” she said with a smile. “We have him comfortable now, so I’ll take you—”
“Wait. Two people can be in the room, right?” Nick asked.
“Yes, that’s right.”
Nick turned and nodded his head to the side. “Come on, Charlie. He’s gonna want you there when he wakes up.”
The look of sheer and utter relief on the blond man’s face reached inside Beckett’s chest and squeezed. Hard. He wasn’t expecting any similar invitation when Kat could finally receive visitors, and it left an aching hole inside of him.
“My sister’s in surgery, too,” Nick said as they walked out the door. “Can someone let me know when the surgeon’s ready to speak to us?”
“Of course,” the nurse said, their voices fading away down the hall.
And then they were back to waiting. Sunshine and shadows moved across the rectangular lounge space as the afternoon wore on. What if Kat wasn’t done before he had to leave to meet Wexler? Even if Nick wouldn’t let him in to see her, it would kill him to leave before knowing she was okay.
Please, God, she has to be okay. He pressed the flat of his hand against his chest. An uncomfortable pressure had grown there all day, making it so he could hardly draw a deep breath.
Beckett stayed plastered against the wall by the door. He rejected every offer of food or drink or to sit or take a break. Kat couldn’t do any of those things right now. And neither would he.
He was so far into his head that Becca surprised him when she stepped in front of him, smiled up at him, and wrapped her arms around him.
“What’s this for?” Beckett asked, unsure how to react. Finally, he returned the embrace.
“Just looked like you could use it,” she whispered. “Kat’s lucky to have someone who cares about her so much.”
And it was like the words broke something inside him, something that had been holding everything together, something that had been holding him together.
Beckett’s throat went tight. His eyes stung. His heart slammed in his chest. “Thank you,” he said, kissing her cheek and sidestepping her arms. He had to get the fuck out of there. Out from in front of all those eyes. Before he made a big fucking spectacle of himself. He flew from the room, down the hall, into the bathroom.
He paced, clawed at his hair, beat his head against the wall. None of it helped. None of it worked. None of it made Kat better and safe and here with him.
Oh, God, gonna puke.
He turned, braced his hands against the white porcelain sink and wretched.
Of course, that was the moment someone came in the door behind him.
“Jesus, B,” Marz said.
Dry heaves racked his body, because there wasn’t a damn thing actually in his system. He and Kat breakfasted on bagels and coffee before the trip to D.C., but that had been a fucking lifetime ago.
When his body finally decided to stop abusing itself, Beckett rinsed the sink and splashed water on his face. Hands and face still wet, he stared into the empty bowl. “Nick’s right. What happened to Kat is my fault.” His voice sounded like someone had scoured his throat with sandpaper.
“No, it’s not—”
“I saw the guy,” Beckett said, peering toward Marz. “Last night. I walked into Dupont Circle and grabbed takeout. On the way back the fucker shoulder-checked me. Sidewalk was crowded, though, and I came up clean when I scanned myself for tracking devices. I should’ve been more suspicious . . .” He shook his head and looked back down. A droplet of water fell off the tip of his nose.
“Beckett—”
“Surgeon’s here,” Easy said, pushing through the door behind Marz.
Beckett bolted from the r
oom, Marz and Easy at his side, and rushed back to the waiting room. A tall, thin, older lady dressed the same as the other surgeon stood just inside the room.
“Oh, here’s Kat’s boyfriend,” Becca said.
Beckett had barely reacted to the word when the surgeon turned and offered her hand. They shook.
“How is she?” Beckett asked, the floor threatening to warp beneath his feet.
“Katherine came through the surgery fine. The bullet nicked the pericardium of her heart, which we were able to repair. It also fractured a rib, which punctured a lung and caused a hemothorax, a buildup of blood in the chest cavity. We performed a procedure to repair the lung and insert a chest tube. We’ll monitor the drainage by CTs to see when that can be removed.”
Beckett’s scalp prickled. “So . . . so she’s . . .”
“Barring any post-op complications or problems with the chest tube, she should make a full recovery,” the doctor said, giving him a smile.
The wave of relief that crashed over him was so strong it was dizzying. “Thank you,” he finally said, pressing a hand over his heart. God, his chest ached. Someone put their arm around him—Marz, who gave him a nod full of the same relief he felt. The whole group exclaimed and celebrated the good news.
“She should be settled in her room if you’d like to see her,” the doctor said.
“Yes. Yes, please,” he managed. “Her brother, though, he’s—”
“Neurotrauma and the acute shock trauma unit are both on the fourth floor. I’ll speak to him after I show you to Katherine’s room.”