by Mary Stone
Storm’s Cage
Amelia Storm Series: Book Three
Mary Stone
Amy Wilson
Copyright © 2021 by Mary Stone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Mary Stone
To my readers, who are the best ever. You mean the world to me. Thank you from the bottom of my grateful heart.
Amy Wilson
To my one and only, my husband and best friend, and the best boys a mother could dream of, who all worked with me to make this story possible.
Contents
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Amelia Storm Series
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Description
Secrets locked away in cages can’t tell stories...
After military veteran turned FBI agent Amelia Storm and her partner Zane bust a child porn ring run by one of Chicago’s premier mob families, two of the four men involved are dead—one by his own hand, the second by Amelia's. A third is in jail awaiting trial... if he lives that long.
The fourth man caught on camera taking advantage of helpless children is still a mystery, though they've learned one important thing about him... he’s a detective in the Chicago Police Department. Soon, they learn he’ll do anything to keep his secret safe.
Amelia is determined to hunt down the dirty cop and make him pay for what he’s done. But as the investigation mounts, Amelia grows increasingly troubled by her role in the death of the mobster behind it all, second-guessing if it was justified. When she’s partnered with a witness to the shooting, she’s drawn into a web of intrigue where no one is innocent, and everyone has blood on their hands.
From the dark minds of Mary Stone and Amy Wilson comes Storm’s Cage, book three of the Amelia Storm Series, where you’ll be looking over your shoulder, wondering who to trust.
1
Ian Strausbaugh leaned against the granite breakfast bar, watching his wife as she ferreted around the living room, randomly picking up and stashing odds and ends in her suitcase.
After zipping her overstuffed bag, Dana looked up. Her expression shifted from frantic to wistful as she met Ian’s gaze. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”
He lifted an incredulous eyebrow, though he wasn’t at all surprised by the invitation. “Am I even allowed? It wouldn’t exactly be The Dana and Sarah Show if I’m there, would it?”
The corners of her vivid blue eyes creased with a few fine lines as she grinned big enough to show all her teeth. “Sure it would. You’d just be like an extra, you know?” She flipped her dark hair and gave him a saucy wink. “Or maybe a roadie.”
Ian held up both hands in surrender. “That’s okay. I think I’ll pass. The roadie life just doesn’t really have any appeal to me.”
Dana rolled her eyes and laughed.
He loved her silly high-pitched chuckling. In the close to twenty years he’d known his wife, her laugh had always held that childlike quality that couldn’t help but bring a smile to his face. They’d only been married ten of those years, but Dana had always been a part of his life. She and Sarah, his sister, had been friends since elementary school.
The Dana and Sarah Show.
That’s what Ian had dubbed them in their college years. Between party antics and their shared crass sense of humor, they had earned quite a reputation throughout campus. Wherever The Dana and Sarah Show went, a good time was sure to follow.
Of course, after first marriages, kids, careers, divorces, and remarriages, Dana, Sarah, and even Ian had grown into a more laid-back adult lifestyle. The ladies, however, still reserved a few days each year to take a break from their responsibilities so they could raise a little hell. Ian was always welcome to join, but he couldn’t deny them their fun.
Normally, little vacations like these would mean Ian and the kids could spoil themselves with massive portions of deep-dish Chicago pizza and horror movies. This year, however, the ladies’ trip paired with the teenagers’ non-custodial parent weekend, leaving Ian kid-free on Labor Day. Not wanting to be alone, Ian’s Plan B was to invite the boys from the precinct over for a little five-alarm chili and a Cubs game.
After readjusting the handbag on her shoulder, Dana gestured to the counter behind Ian. “I guess you can’t abandon your slow cooker, can you?”
“You know the answer to that.” Ian let out a huff of feigned exasperation and crossed both arms over his chest. “You and the kids hate when I make chili, so I have to save it for people who actually appreciate my hard work.”
Dana rolled her eyes and took a step forward to close the distance between them. “Your hard work involves, like, fifteen habanero peppers and could probably peel the paint off the side of the house.”
He grinned as he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. Leaning in, he took a slow breath, letting the vanilla and honey scent of her hair fill his nostrils before whispering in her ear, “Thank you, sweetie. I’ll keep that in mind in case we have to redo the siding any time soon.”
Dana tilted her head and gazed up, meeting his eyes. With a flutter of lashes, she beckoned him closer and planted a sweet kiss on his lips.
Ian tightened his arms around her shoulders. He didn’t want her to go, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny her the weekend of fun she had planned.
As they separated, Dana brushed both hands down the front of his gray t-shirt. With another of her bright smiles, a look he’d fallen so hard for and still made him forget all of life’s problems, if only for a moment, she gave his hand a slight squeeze.
“Okay, honey. Try not to let your baseball watching party get too out of control.” With a wink, she produced a set of car keys from her purse. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ian slapped her bottom as he followed her down a short hall to the garage door. “That doesn’t rule out much. You know that, right?”
Her grin widened mischievously. “It only rules out Jägermeister, really.” Twisting the doorknob, she stepped into the garage, wiggling her fingers behind her in a half-wave. “I’ll see you on Wednesday night. I love you.”
“Love you too, honey.” He waved as she made her way to the driver’s side.
Ian watched his wife slide behind the wheel, and he didn’t pull his gaze away from the black sedan until it had backed out of the driveway and disappeared from his field of vision.
He and Dana had always been honest with one another, even before marriages and divorces had brought them back together. They told one another everything, with one exception…Ian’s work.
Five years in the military had given Ian a healthy work ethic, and he’d
maintained that same hardworking attitude over the last sixteen years. Like most of his colleagues, he’d started as a beat cop with the Chicago Police Department, but since childhood, Ian had only ever wanted to be a detective. He’d busted his ass to make that happen before he turned thirty.
The job had always seemed black and white to him—look for clues, find the bad guys, and put their asses in jail.
What he hadn’t known, and could never have anticipated, was the baggage that came with police work in a city that produced some of the highest rates of violent crime in the country.
With one more wistful glance at where his wife’s car had disappeared, he considered dropping his weekend plans and going with her after all.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered and flicked off the garage’s overhead light and locked the deadbolt of the door. He turned on the TV, hoping the sound would keep his mind occupied until his friends arrived.
Time alone meant time with his thoughts, which was the biggest reason he sought to fill the house when it was empty.
His thoughts, especially lately, were traitorous.
Children…cameras…blood…
Pressure swelled in his head as his mind began to race. Double fisting his hands into his hair, Ian gripped as many strands as he could and tugged, wishing he could pull the memories out before they drove him crazy. Even now, just shy of turning forty, his raven hair showed no sign of graying.
Not yet, at least. With the way his job had been going, he was liable to be completely bald or gray by the end of the month.
Stop it. Just stop thinking about it.
He knew that was a pipe dream.
The warm scent of chili pepper mixed with onions and garlic wafted up to him as he stepped into the sunlit kitchen, but the pleasant aroma did little to stop the darkness from clouding his mood.
Propping both hands on the gold-flecked granite counter, he let his blank stare fall on the slow cooker as condensation formed inside the glass lid.
Once upon a time, he’d looked forward to the days when he invited his detective friends over to watch a Cubs game.
In those days, he’d been sure that he was one of the good guys. His buddies too. He’d never questioned the career he’d chosen. It was his dream job. Even if he occasionally did little favors for the Leóne crime family, he and his buddies on the force made choices for the greater good.
After all, he hadn’t ever committed a violent crime on the Leóne family’s behalf, had he? All he’d done was look the other way. He’d never turned on his fellow detectives, nor had he knowingly facilitated the death or injury of an innocent civilian.
Maybe he was naïve, or maybe willful ignorance was his way of keeping sane.
Not anymore.
He could deny it all he wanted, but the truth was there. Ian had been feeding a monster.
Not even a year into working with the Leónes, their agreements had graduated from minor drug deals to drug trafficking, and eventually homicide. As each new case came across his desk, he’d continued to rationalize his alliance with the notorious crime family.
They hadn’t killed innocents.
They’d killed rival drug dealers, traffickers, other monsters.
Any time Ian looked the other way or let a key piece of evidence slip through the cracks, he’d tell himself he was part of the greater good.
If he hadn’t assured himself that the murders he’d helped cover up were nothing more than the casualties in a war between the Leónes and another evil, he would have been unable to live with himself.
The oversight of a few offenses here and there was a small price to pay for all the good he did as a homicide detective. He brought justice to countless families who’d lost loved ones. He was damn good at his job, but without the extra income from the Leóne family, finances would have been next to impossible.
Life in Chicago was expensive, and he and Dana were both public servants. Even when combined, the salaries of a city cop and a social worker were hardly enough to make ends meet, much less live comfortably.
More than half of the Chicago Police Department owed allegiance to one criminal organization or another—the Leónes, the D’Amatos, the Russians, the San Luis Cartel—so all Ian had done was follow along. Word around the precinct was that the crime bosses had Feds on their payroll too.
Which had been fine.
A few weeks earlier, however, the narrative changed.
When the FBI had issued a press release about the Leónes’ kiddie porn ring they’d busted, reality smacked Ian across the face.
For all these years, he’d kept his head buried in the sand. And for what? A few extra bucks? A bigger house? A nicer car? Trendy clothes for his teenage kids?
Kids that the Leónes would have no problem selling to a pedophile halfway across the world.
Ian swore to himself that he hadn’t known, but the truth was that he hadn’t wanted to know. Ignorance was bliss, as the saying went. But when the ignorance faded, revealing the true nature of the beast, what then? How was he supposed to live with himself if he sat by and did nothing?
Squeezing his eyes closed, Ian sucked in a sharp breath and rubbed his forehead.
Pull it together, asshole.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d kept his unseeing stare fixed on the pot. Ian gave his hair another tug as he glanced over to the microwave’s digital clock. In two hours, the first of his guests would arrive. As much as he wished that his intent was to kick back with good company and good food, he had an ulterior motive.
Though each of the detectives he’d invited were longtime colleagues and friends, they shared another commonality…the Leóne family. Ian didn’t know the specifics of each man’s involvement with the Leónes, and until recently, he’d told himself it was none of his business. However, with reports of the Kankakee County farm so fresh in his mind, he needed to know that none of them were involved in that.
Each detective was a close friend, and though he was confident none of them were capable of assaulting a child, he needed to confirm that none of them could be part of that happening to children.
Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, Ian forced his attention back to the kitchen. For the next couple hours, he went about in preparation for the evening.
The doorbell chimed as he was setting the food up along the granite breakfast bar.
Dusting both hands on the front of his gray ZoSo t-shirt, Ian made his way through the living room and to the tiled foyer. As he pulled open the heavy wooden door, he forced an amiable smile to his lips. A rush of humid air greeted him, along with two familiar grins.
The taller of the pair, Detective Dale Berwick, raised a nine-by-thirteen glass casserole dish as he stepped over the threshold. “You know Prudence would give me hell if I ever came over here without bringing food.”
Despite his rapidly beating heart, Ian chuckled and closed the door behind his two friends. “Your wife sure knows what it takes to get invited back to a place. What did you make us this time?”
Kicking off his sneakers, the second man’s gaze flicked to the foil-covered pan. “Cheesecake, believe it or not.” Liam Rollins was only a hair over five-ten, but his broad-shouldered, muscular build more than made up for the difference in height. Not to mention the fact that he’d played football for Northwestern University for the four years of his undergrad.
A proud glimmer shone in Dale’s eyes. “Prudence is out of town visiting her parents, but she sent me a recipe and told me to use the cream cheese in the fridge before it went bad.”
The two men followed Ian to the breakfast bar, and Dale set down the cheesecake beside the seven-layer dip.
Ian gestured to the pan. “So, this is a Dale Berwick original?”
Dale scratched his reddening cheeks and looked away. Ian found it funny to witness his friend looking bashful. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. It was someone else’s recipe, and I just followed the instructions.”
As Ian let out a lighthearted chortle
, he almost forgot the reason he’d set up the evening get-together.
Almost.
Another thirty minutes passed as they waited for their other two friends. Ian had told all his companions that they were welcome to bring their spouses or kids, but Cliff Allworth and Scotty McClellan both arrived alone.
Conversation flowed easily as they rehashed the previous night’s game between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Chicago Cubs. They were all lifelong Cubs fans and hoped their team might redeem themselves after Sunday’s decisive loss.
Once they’d loaded up bowls of chili and plates of snacks, the little group gathered on the spacious sectional couch that took up much of the living room. The discussion turned to their respective Labor Day weekends, and as soon as Scotty brought up a case he’d been stuck working over the holiday, Ian saw his opening.
His heart hammered a relentless cadence against his chest, and he took a long drink of soda to chase away the sensation of a hundred cotton balls stuffed in his mouth. He wanted the mention of the Leónes’ Kankakee County farm to come across as a natural part of their conversation, though the notion that a mafia-run child exploitation ring was a natural part of any conversation was just short of ridiculous.
He hadn’t bothered to recite or practice any part of the dialogue, and as he swallowed, he wondered if he should have put some more thought behind his half-cocked plan.