by Hope Anika
“It’s like Fred Flintstone’s car,” Ben told her. “’Cept we don’t gotta run.”
“My clever boys,” she murmured.
“We can take trails,” Alexander said. “I found a map in the glove compartment. There’s trails through the National Forest all the way up, into Canada.”
Canada. Her goal had been Alaska, but Canada would do—if they could get across the border undetected. If they could stay undetected. A worry for then, not now.
Now was enough.
Lucia shook her head. “You are quite brilliant when you want to be, aren’t you?”
Alexander said nothing, but the gleam in his eye sharpened.
“Okay, get in,” she said. “Time to go.”
“Lucia!”
The sound of Sam’s voice made Lucia freeze. For a moment, she couldn’t move. Alexander tossed his pack in and ushered Ben and Daisy into the backseat. He climbed into the passenger front seat and stared at her.
“C’mon, Lu,” he said. “We have to go. Before he sees us.”
She knew that; she did. But…
“Lucia. Now.”
Yes. No choice. No matter her suddenly churning insides, the remorse that speared through her. The odd, heavy melancholy that gripped her at the thought of abandoning the man who—in spite of his abrasive manner—had done nothing but help them. Who’d saved them. First the old man had died; now, she was leaving him, too.
But he is better off without us.
And that was no lie.
She climbed into the ATV and started it. A couple of rough starts later, they were winding through the rubble that remained of Canyon Falls, headed north toward the sloping hills of pine trees in the distance. If she heard Sam call her name again, she didn’t react.
And she definitely didn’t look into the small rearview mirror to see him watching them disappear.
Chapter Ten
Sam—
You asked for an explanation. This is it.
I met Lucia when I was fourteen. Her family came from Belize, and Father Domingo roped my mother into making me be her brother Elian’s friend. I wasn’t interested, but you know my mother.
Elian and I hung out every day. Played ball, chased skirts. Stood on the Alter during mass at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart. He was my friend, probably the first friend I had who really meant something to me. Elian wasn’t like everyone else. He’d seen some shit. I don’t know what went down in Belize that made them leave, he didn’t talk about that, but whatever it was, it left a mark. Lucia was two years younger, and she was smarter than the two of us put together. When she got mad, she went off like dynamite. We made her mad a lot, just for fun.
Elian was my first real friend, and I fucking betrayed him, Sam.
We spent the summer at a camp run by the Church. Nothing fancy, just games and Bible verses. Girls. But Elian, he stopped looking at the girls. He stopped playing ball. He stopped everything. I didn’t know why. I had other friends; I didn’t worry about it. But when we got home, he showed up at my house one night and said he had to tell me something. It took him a long time to say the words. I couldn’t figure out what his problem was. I wish I could say I was worried, but I was fourteen, and when I wasn’t thinking with my dick, I was being a dick.
Elian told me that the Deacon from Our Lady, the one who’d gone with us to camp, had messed with him. Raped him. Right there at camp, in the maintenance room. Elian said it wasn’t the first time. He came to me because I was his friend, and he asked me for help.
You know what I told him? That I didn’t fucking believe him. That he was a liar, and even if he wasn’t, that maybe he’d asked for it. Yeah, like I said, a dick. My only defense is that what he told me scared the shit out of me. I didn’t want to believe him, so I didn’t. But part of me knew it was true. Part of me heard him. And I ignored it, because I was just a dumb kid; I didn’t know how to handle what he was saying. I didn’t know what to do.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. I didn’t know what would happen. If I did, maybe I would have done different. But you know as well as I do, that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference now.
I stopped being his friend. I told both him and Lucia to get lost. I didn’t tell anyone, not even my mother, who was mad as hell at me. I just pretended I’d never met them. That it’d never happened.
Three weeks later, Elian put a gun in his mouth. Lucia found him.
I told myself it wasn’t my fault, but I knew it was. Not entirely, but enough. Like a fucking bomb going off—shrapnel I still carry. Two weeks later, my mother came home from Church, cornered me, and demanded to know if Deacon Dean had ever tried to hurt me. Several boys had come forward, and their parents had gone to Father Domingo to lodge a formal complaint. When the police arrested the fucker, Dean had a hard drive full of kiddie porn and a NAMBLA membership. Seventeen boys, Sam. That they knew of.
Fuck.
My mother made me go to the funeral. I’ll never forget the look Lucia gave me. Her words. Not ever. She wanted to kill me. But I didn’t blame her. I knew I was responsible, and I thought about following Elian, more than once. I think that’s what finally drove me into the service. Why I became a cop. For him. To try and right the wrong I’d done.
Yeah, good luck with that. But that’s why Lucia came to me. She thought I would listen. When you’ve lived through that, you can’t deny its existence. We both know there are monsters, and she put herself out there and trusted that I would hear her. That I would help her. And I failed in a thousand ways.
Lucia isn’t a criminal, Sam. She’s trying to save those kids because she couldn’t save Elian.
She wouldn’t lie. Not about this. If she believes Donovan Cruz is abusing his children, then he is. And I’m going to find the evidence to prove it. I’m going to burn him at the fucking stake.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you this in person, but I can’t reach you, and I hope to God you’re all okay.
I’ve attached a drawing we found in Alexander Cruz’s room. The kid had a sketchbook filled with things that would make your goddamn hair stand on end. I really need you to understand this, Sam. I need your help. So here I am, asking a friend for the same help I once denied. Life is so fucked.
I just hope you’re a better friend than I was.
T.
“Shit,” Sam said, staring down at his phone. When it’d beeped, he’d been surprised there was even service. He certainly hadn’t expected what he found.
Tony had been his friend for over a decade; they’d served together, survived together, killed together. Mourned their lost brothers-in-arms, drank themselves stupid, hell, they’d even vacationed together. But history…that wasn’t something they spoke of. They’d bonded over blood and death, an experience shared in real time. They watched each other’s backs and kept each other sane when the violence threatened to erase them. But this…
This was new.
“Shit,” Sam said again, staring down at Tony’s words. Words. A goddamn essay: The History of Tony Malone. Fuck.
While Sam appreciated the explanation, he wasn’t at all happy with its revelations. Because this meant it was personal. That Lucia was family. That this situation wasn’t just happening—it was happening again.
And that changed everything.
A growl welled in his throat. Which didn’t make much sense, considering he’d abandoned the idea of walking away several hours ago, but this…now he was all fucking in. Now she was his responsibility.
Now he had to save her.
“Goddamn it,” he snarled, and stabbed at the touchscreen of his phone, opening the document Tony had attached to the email. A moment later a drawing appeared, and Sam stared down at it in horror: a decapitated man with missing limbs and his guts spilling out around him.
A man no one could deny was Donovan Cruz.
Jesus.
“Shitgoddamnhellfuck,” he said.
He hit the reply button but hesitated, unsure what to say. What was there to say?
That he believed? Hell, he wasn’t sure what he believed. But he knew he would help. That it was his job to help those in need—and Lucia and those boy were sure as hell in need. Sam didn’t want to be the guy, but he’d already resigned himself to the fact that he was the guy, if only by default. Unfortunately, default had just flown out the window. Now it was a decision to be made with his eyes wide open, fully cognizant of the repercussions, which were considerable. No longer circumstance, but choice.
Donovan Cruz was a powerful man. He wielded both financial and political influence worldwide. No one would want to believe he was an abuser, even if it was the truth. Choosing the lie was easy, and folks were good at excusing all manner of sin if the sinner was shiny enough. If they benefitted. And plenty of people benefitted from a man like Cruz. He would be protected. Defended. He would be afforded every doubt, while Lucia would be crucified.
And his children would pay.
But ultimately, it was not a hard decision. Sam had chosen his current path long ago, and turning from it now would only betray every sacrifice it had taken to get here. He protected; that’s what he did. This was no different. Donovan had power, but he was just a man.
And Sam had killed plenty of men.
Killing wasn’t fun, and it wasn’t easy, but sometimes it was necessary. He was okay with that.
He scowled down at the tiny letters on his touchscreen. Words. Not something he was friendly with. In the end, he kept it simple.
On it.
Whoosh!
“Now you’re fucked,” he told himself.
He thought about Alexander Cruz and his tall tale of cries for help, about Lucia and the boys taking their things and hightailing it in a four-wheeler. Sam was certain Lucia had seen him as she drove away, but she hadn’t hesitated. Goddamn her. And even if part of him felt a begrudging, reluctant respect for what they’d managed to pull off, the rest of him was furious.
He’d discovered where the ATV had come from after they’d gone; the remains of a dealership sat only a block away from where they’d left the boys. There were demolished jet skis, twisted snowmobiles, upended ATVs and several large RVs on their sides. Luckily, there was also a three-wheeler that had survived the storm. Even luckier, Canyon Falls had, apparently, been a town filled with trust, because the key was still in it. Sam assumed the same was true of the four-wheeler Lucia had taken, because it was highly unlikely she knew to hot-wire an all terrain vehicle.
Unlikely, but not impossible. Nothing was impossible.
She was smarter than both of us put together.
Sam had seen that intelligence. Her fire, her compassion and her grief, and now he wanted to know more. He wanted to understand what the hell was going on.
Really going on.
He had Tony’s words, now he wanted hers.
Goddamn answers. And he was going to get them.
Chapter Eleven
On it.
Tony stared at Sam’s reply to his email, acutely aware that he’d never be able to repay the risk his friend was taking. If Sam’s role in this fiasco was discovered, his entire career would be nothing but a memory. Accessory to felony kidnapping was not something the Marshal’s Service would overlook; no, Sam would go to prison. Hell, they’d probably strip him of every military award he’d ever been given.
Something Sam would have taken into account, because Sam took everything into account. When they’d been Rangers, he’d been the one on the team to assess the dangers—the best route, the easiest in and out, all of the knowns versus the unknowns—and plan accordingly. He was damned good at it; the fact that Tony was still breathing was living proof.
So his involvement was a boon Tony hadn’t dared hope for…but it was also a highly calculated risk. Because Tony didn’t want Sam to pay for his mistakes, his stupidity. He didn’t want anyone but Donovan Cruz to pay. But there were no guarantees, no matter the truth. No matter the evidence. Something else Sam would have considered. And yet, he was on board anyway.
Sink or swim; Tony didn’t deserve him. But he would take him, all the same.
“Everything alright?” Isabel asked, her dark gaze flickering over him. She sat across from his desk, a barely-touched carton of sweet and sour shrimp abandoned beside her as she poured over the information they’d gathered on Donavon Cruz.
She had some serious contacts, Tony would give her that. She’d laid hands on dirt it would have taken him weeks—if ever—to uncover. When he’d made the observation that federal resources were damned handy to have, she’d only shrugged, leaving him to wonder what other resources she had at her disposal. Because looking through the documents…whoever those resources where, they were expert. There was paperwork on all of Cruz’s dummy corporations and their assets, assessments of his worth—which far outstripped any of the numbers Tony had previously seen—and an approximation of what he held in various international and offshore accounts. There was a bio for every one of his employees, a detailed overview of the Cruz International company hierarchy, complete with criminal and civil records. Reports on his dealings with the Saudi royal family, the sitting Russian Premiere, the British PM. He traveled often, and those records were there, too, every flight, every country, every stamp of his illustrious passport.
Impressive. And more than a little disconcerting.
“Everything’s peachy,” Tony replied finally, watching her.
In spite of the revelation of his history with Lucia, Isabel hadn’t asked any more questions. She hadn’t probed or speculated. She hadn’t lectured him on the conflict of interest he was engaged in or even urged perspective. She’d simply accepted it and moved on.
It isn’t guns and drugs that turn the global marketplace—above ground, or below. It’s human beings.
And wasn’t that a sickening state of affairs. One which—as a Detective with the LVMPD—Tony had always been aware of, but not something he’d come face to face with, something he’d had to look in the eye. Isabel Bjorn, it seemed, stared it in the face every day.
Why? Was it a chosen field or something she’d fallen into? Who the hell would choose to deal in human trafficking? Ugly, evil, and overwhelming; one might as well try to stop the tide. Had she lost someone she loved? What made a woman like her devote her time and skills to such an impossible task?
But then, maybe the enormity of it was moot. Maybe she counted her victories in single souls; one less lost. One more saved. Sometimes that was all life gave you.
And that, Tony could relate to. Still, in spite of his determination to stand at arm’s length, he was curious about her. Too curious; he wanted answers. He wanted to peel her like the ripest fruit and sample the flesh within.
Not gonna happen. But a guy could dream.
His gaze moved over her: the severe suit, the tightly-wound hair, the icy, unimpressed expression. It was a slow perusal, one which she ignored. Or, at least, tried to ignore. Because he was very good at persistent.
Who was Isabel Bjorn? The cool, austere fed he’d met this morning? Or the woman who’d growled at Agnes Livingstone and stuffed a sketchbook down her britches?
Tony knew which he preferred. Not that his preference made a damn bit of difference. Trusting her was simply not an option, no matter who she proved to be. No, this shitstorm was his, and his alone. Giving into the growing temptation she presented would only make matters worse, and he’d already fucked up enough for two lifetimes. Lucia needed him. And Sam was counting on him. He couldn’t fail in this.
Not again.
Which meant that Isabel was simply a means to an end. Even if he was growing to like her. Even if she did smell like heaven. Even if he wanted to—
“Yes?” she asked coolly, her brows arched.
“Anything interesting?” he asked innocently.
She narrowed her gaze, and Tony again got the distinct impression she saw right through his bullshit. It was both intriguing and alarming.
“Both of Cruz’s children are homeschooled,” she observed. “Neither on
e has ever stepped foot into a public, charter, or private school.”
“Plenty of people homeschool,” Tony pointed out. “Doesn’t make them sexual predators.”
“No,” she conceded. “But it does create an atmosphere of total control, something Mr. Cruz appears to cultivate in every area of his life.”
“Maybe he’s just type A.”
“No maybe about it,” she replied, her tone grim. “Nothing happens without his stamp of approval. He makes the word ‘anal’ seem insipid.”
“Narcissistic, neurotic, cunning; he’s probably a goddamn sociopath,” Tony said. “His security is top-rate. Former special ops and hired mercs. Men who kill for profit and aren’t easily bought. Between his personal security and his political connections, he’s got a wall around him three feet thick.”
“Jericho,” Isabel murmured.
“Take a look at this guy.” Tony slid one of the dossiers toward her. “Cruz’s head of personal security. Ivan Dragovitch. Looks like fucking Quasimodo.”
Isabel picked up the file and looked at it. Tony knew what she was seeing. Filled with police reports and prison records, the dossier was a succinct testament to a life spent doing unto others. The stark, black and white photo that christened the pile portrayed a big man, all blunt edges and raw bones. Pale skin pitted by acne scars, a bulbous nose and narrow, hard mouth. Dark hair hung unkempt around his face, and his eyes…his eyes were black as night. Not unlike Isabel’s. But Ivan Dragovitch’s eyes were flat, shimmering like stones, and Tony saw death in them.
“Ah, but Quasimodo was a good and kind soul,” she murmured, studying the file. “Mr. Dragovitch, not so much.”
“Attempted rape, aggravated assault, battery.” Tony sat forward. “He’s the guy.”
“What guy?”
“The one Cruz will send to hunt her.”
Isabel arched a brow. “You don’t believe Mr. Cruz will afford the federal authorities the twenty-four hours he promised them?”