by Hope Anika
“Don’t force me to call your Commissioner,” Gill said softly. “You may not understand who Cruz is, but I can assure you he will. I’ll make certain of it.”
“Commissioner’s in Tahiti,” Bob Peabody said.
When they all turned to look at him, he shrugged. “It’s yellow fin season.”
Tony’s smile widened.
“I’m sure he has a cell phone,” Gill bit out, the color that painted his cheeks growing deeper.
“Save your threats,” the Lieutenant advised him. “You might be responsible to Cruz, but we’re responsible to the people of this city, and despite what you might think, those people matter. Make your call. Be my guest. Maybe when the Commissioner tells you the same thing, you’ll listen.”
A cool smile suddenly turned Gill’s mouth. “We’ll see.” He turned to Isabel. “I want you with Agent Kent. You’ll leave immediately for Canyon Falls, Idaho.”
No, she would not, but she didn’t argue. She felt Tony’s gaze, but didn’t look at him.
“And I want that video destroyed.”
A low growl rumbled through the room, one Isabel wanted to echo. Not because she was worried about the video; it was safe enough. Isabel knew how to cover her bases. No, it was the incensed fury she felt toward anyone who traded on another’s life, and that’s precisely what Special Agent in Charge—Head of the Violent Crimes Against Children unit—was doing. Trading Alexander Cruz’s life for the ease of his own. Safety. For Cruz and from him…procurement by blood. As if the boy was nothing more than chum.
Kent had gone motionless. “Destroyed?” he repeated carefully, and Isabel heard an unexpected hint of steel. His eyes were narrow, his jaw hard. His hands were still clenched into fists.
“Every single copy,” Gill said, “is going to disappear forever.”
Kent stared at him, and Isabel could see him working it through, his realization that this moment would affect every one that came after. For him. For Alexander Cruz. The immensity of that one heartbeat of time. He seemed so young to her in that instant, she almost felt for him.
Almost. Because this is where he would decide who he would be.
She didn’t expect him to raise his gaze to hers, or to see what she saw, something that hadn’t been there before they’d watched the video, something she wouldn’t dare name, but that she recognized. Knew. Something that connected them in the most brutal of ways.
“Every copy?” Kent clarified, his tone a breath of frost, the look on his face distinctly unfriendly.
“Every last one,” Gill said, watching the young agent with hawkish eyes. “That will be your job, Special Agent Kent. To make sure that video is nothing more than a bad memory.”
“Except for Alexander Cruz,” Tony muttered darkly.
For a long moment, Kent only stared at his superior, and Isabel watched in idle curiosity. In spite of what she’d seen in the young man’s eyes—something that was unmistakable, something she’d seen countless times in countless others—she wasn’t particularly hopeful. It was so clearly a test; surely Kent would do all he could in order to pass. He was young and ambitious and just beginning his career with the Bureau. To openly challenge the man who held his future in hand would be professional suicide.
Isabel didn’t think he had it in him. But then Kent smiled, a cold, empty curve that made the hair at her nape stand on end. Such an old smile. One she would have never expected from him.
More fool you.
“You have my word, Agent Gill,” Kent said, flat words that in no way reflected the icy fury Isabel could see. “Nothing but a bad memory.”
Gill’s gaze slid to her, his brows arched. “I trust that won’t be a problem for you, Agent Bjorn?”
Pushing her. But he wouldn’t like the results.
“Canyon Falls, Idaho,” she replied coolly, and Tony’s gaze flew to her, but again, she didn’t look at him.
“Excellent.” Gill turned on his heel and strode toward the door. He shot the Lieutenant a look, for which he received only a hard, cold stare. “I’ll just go make that call to the Commissioner.”
As threats went, it wasn’t particularly impressive or ominous, and the Lieutenant didn’t look worried. The door closed behind Gill with a sharp click, and silence fell. The rain pounded against the window so hard, the glass rattled.
“Fuck,” Kent said softly, viciously.
Isabel looked at him. “Are you going to destroy the video?”
She wouldn’t let him, of course. Nonetheless, she wanted to know.
He stared at her. Tony and the Lieutenant watched, silent. Bob waited.
“You have a choice to make, Agent Kent,” she told him. “Right here and right now: who will you be?”
“Not him,” Kent said instantly.
“Good,” she said.
“No federal judge will touch a search warrant with the name Cruz on it,” Lieutenant Forks interjected. “But I know a couple of local folks. Cruz is a resident of the city; we have jurisdiction.”
Isabel transferred her gaze to him. “Can you get them to watch the video even though it was illegally obtained?”
“It’s worth a try.” He looked at Kent. “You gonna have a problem with that, Agent Kent?”
A harsh breath of air escaped the young agent. “Fuck no.”
Forks nodded. Tony eyed Kent with a narrow, reassessing gaze.
“You need to go to Idaho,” Isabel told Kent. “Someone needs to find those kids before Cruz does.”
“You’re not coming?”
“No.”
“You go AWOL, you’re done,” he told her, his voice flat. “You know that, right?”
“He made this necessary,” she replied softly. “Not me.”
“I’m not happy you were right,” Kent added, and she heard the fury he hid so effectively.
Isabel met his gaze. “Me either.”
Kent nodded, and she turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Tony asked sharply, and Isabel knew he’d started walking toward her, but if she let him catch up, she would have to deal with him and his questions, so she only met his gaze over her shoulder and said, “I’ll be back.”
But he didn’t stop coming, he only repeated, “Where are you going?”
“I have something to take care of,” she said coolly.
Those glittering hazel eyes narrowed, and Isabel ignored the sensation that went through her. He knew. Exactly what she was going to do, and how. Something he should not have been able to ascertain given what little he knew of her. But then, he probably knew more than she realized. He was sneaky that way, all flash and cheek on the outside, keen and dangerously perceptive on the inside. A bait and switch, one she kept falling for.
Idiot.
“Isabel,” he growled, closing in.
“Later,” she told him and shut the door in his face.
Chapter Twenty-Six
This isn’t over.
Lucia stared into the rain, Sam’s words echoing through her, and did something she rarely allowed herself to do: she made a wish.
That Sam was right. That possibilities still existed, that everything she’d worked so hard for remained within reach. That by some miracle Tony would not fail her again. That Donavon Cruz would pay for his horrendous crimes, and his sons would be free, to live and love and laugh as children should.
That everything would be okay.
“A Milky Way of stupid,” she told herself in disgust. And she damned Sam to eternal hell for making her think different. For tempting her. “Ay, yai, yai, chica. You know better.”
Because she did. Even if they were not caught, she would spend the rest of her life running. There was no happily ever after here, and that was okay. She’d accepted that. And now Sam…Sam had made her want more.
A future. When there was no future beyond today.
Damn him.
Behind her, Ben slept fitfully, sweaty and congested, and she kept a close eye on him. Too much stress, too little de
cent food. Too much rain and cold and uncertainty.
For them all.
She’d gotten an apple into him, and some water. Perhaps Sam and Alexander would bring back a fish, and she could make a stew of some sort. They could all use a good, hot meal. And some hope.
Another useless wish.
“Bah,” she muttered.
The rain was lessening; she needed to take Daisy out and get more firewood. Sam would not be happy if she let the fire die. The man would never let her forget it. Obstinate, arrogant man.
And yet…she would not change him. What he’d shared while she’d sewn him up had helped to make her understand why he’d accepted responsibility for them—even if that was not his place. The tale he’d told of his father, of his negligent, absent mother, of his abuse…so matter-of-fact, the truth, spoken in simple words with quiet acceptance. It had touched Lucia, far more than it should. Worse, it had drawn forth her own bloody history, one she hadn’t planned on sharing. But it was the look on Alexander’s face that made her realize how important the telling had been. Sam’s revelation had forged a connection with the boy, a common ground where Alexander might be comfortable. Where he knew he wasn’t alone. And for that, Sam had earned an indelible piece of her loyalty. She’d seen violence, murder, death, but she didn’t know what it was to walk in Alexander’s shoes. Sam, at least, had some idea, a fact which would bind them, and Sam wouldn’t shy from that tie; he would encourage and strengthen it. He was a good man.
Better than many she’d known.
No one will touch you. No one but me.
The memory of that vow made her shiver. There were moments when she saw with crystal clarity who Sam was. Beyond his anger, his orders, his intransigence. The man at the core, who was honest and hard and loyal—because if he wasn’t there in an official capacity, that meant he was there because Tony had asked him to be there. Because Tony was his friend. And Lucia could respect that. She could only hope it wasn’t a lie, that Sam wasn’t there in any official capacity. Because a lie by omission was still a lie.
And he would bend that rule as far as he could. Whatever was necessary. A part of him that was not unlike herself, but also something she couldn’t trust. Because what she thought was best, and what he thought was best, were two very different things.
Polar opposites. And he was strong and tenacious and inflexible. An immoveable object she could not shove easily aside.
The bullet wound in his thigh had been an unpleasant surprise, one she continued to brood over. That he’d gone as far as he had while wounded in such a manner—without uttering a word—told Lucia he was far stronger than she’d realized, and even more stubborn. The injury was less than a week old; as an intern at one of the inner-city’s emergency clinics, she’d treated enough gunshot wounds to know. When had it happened? How? Who had shot him?
He’s dead.
Yes, sometimes she saw Sam with vivid clarity. And while she saw the darkness—which was not something she shied from, because she understood that darkness, had plenty of her own corners steeped in shadow—she also saw something that drew her with visceral force. A strength—a belief—that Sam carried, one which he followed and trusted with his life; an unquestioned certainty that his path was right and true and just. Lucia envied that. Because although she believed her own path to be just, her belief wavered. Not in herself, but in everyone else.
Because the world was a cold, unkind place, and it did not welcome those who shook its communal foundation. Outrage was easily donned, but unless it was intimate, personal, people didn’t act. Too painful or too hard; Lucia didn’t know. And she struggled to forgive them. Sam simply didn’t seem to care. He was going to act; that would be enough.
Her grandmother would have liked him. A realization which wasn’t helping matters. Because unlike her rigid, pious and fragile mother, her grandmother had been untamed, uninhibited, tempestuous and strong. She’d recognized her connection to the world that surrounded her, both its people and its creatures, and she’d drawn Lucia into that connection with every opportunity, until Lucia understood her place and her responsibility.
Like Sam knew his place and responsibility.
She was beginning to know him. Understand him. And she didn’t want to either know or understand him. But there he was. Not going away. And she couldn’t push him away as she wanted to; no, the boys needed him. He was their only chance.
So he was a very necessary evil.
If the stupid man hadn’t kissed her, she wouldn’t even be contemplating the idiocy of uttering a wish.
No. If he hadn’t put his mouth on hers…she might have imagined it, secretly. Silently. But once he’d given her a taste… Ay, yai, yai. She’d never been kissed like that—just a kiss, so simple, not something she’d imagined could seduce her so thoroughly—and now every time she looked at him, she found her gaze falling to his mouth. Remembering. Worse was the riot of sensation that went off inside of her, tiny explosions in places she’d spent most of her life ignoring. So unfair and inconvenient and intoxicating.
And misplaced. Because she was a fugitive; there was no place for the thoughts that materialized in her head. The impossible fantasies that tempted her to imagine a life beyond the immediacy of her predicament. And she cursed him soundly for letting her forget that.
You did this. You remember that.
Another shiver moved through her. She’d pushed him—knowingly, but too angry to stop—and perhaps part of her had understood why. What it was she’d wanted, beyond the release of temper. Where it was they were headed with every clash. Perhaps she’d known exactly what would happen, and that’s why she’d pushed. Because she wanted him to kiss her.
A sobering realization for a woman who’d spent the last decade alone. One who’d long ago stopped looking to others for anything. She was no virgin, but the few experiences she’d had were ones she’d sought out to relieve the isolation, to feel connected—if only for one, brief, fleeting moment—to the world around her. But those encounters had left her empty and unsatisfied, and she’d not gone looking again.
But Sam…Sam tempted her. And she was wholly unprepared for—and dangerously susceptible to—the blunt hunger in his gaze, the open invitation. Watching her as if he were touching her.
As if she belonged to him.
This isn’t over.
But it had never begun, and it never could. No matter how much she might wish differently.
Ben sneezed in his sleep, rolled over, and began to snore. The rain had turned to a light mist, so Lucia pulled on her boots, her coat, and grabbed the piece of burlap they were using to carry firewood. Daisy got up from her place tucked next to Ben and looked at her expectantly.
“Are you ready, sweet girl?” Lucia smiled in spite of her turbulent state. Daisy had proven to be a good little dog, one who was adapting surprisingly well to her new set of circumstance, something Lucia took heart from.
She put on Daisy’s leash and they stepped out into the damp, cool afternoon. It was almost two; Sam and Alexander had been gone since just before noon. If she was still, she could hear the faint murmur of their voices in the distance, and she was glad they’d stayed close. Within shouting distance. But she was equally glad they’d gone. She needed to get her head on straight, and she couldn’t do that with Sam’s silent stare resting on her, as if he was waiting for some kind of capitulation.
Damn the man. Demanding the impossible. And tempting her into considering it.
Lucia slid the loop at the end of Daisy’s leash down the steel stake Sam had driven into the ground beneath a large pine tree and told her, “Go potty. I will be back.”
The wind lifted, and the mist became rain as she made her way to the back shed, where Sam had parked the ATV, and an ancient pile of firewood sat. A crumbling chopping log sat next to the pile, a small, rusted ax buried in its center.
Lucia put down the burlap and began to load it with the split wood Sam had left in a neat stack next to the chopping log. Rain hit
the metal roof in delicate, staccato waves. The building smelled faintly musky, old hay, moisture, wood and wildlife. And something else, something—
Smoky.
Lucia froze, and her heart surged into her throat, and she could smell it distinctly then: the rich, strong aroma of a Dunhill cigar. The contents of her stomach lurched, and her knees gelled.
Terror was like a sudden, vicious punch to her solar plexus, and she went utterly still. She had no weapon; the .22 was in the cabin, still in her purse. And Sam was too far to reach. She looked around, desperate, her heart pounding with painful intensity, and her gaze landed on the ax. Small but sturdy, its head still sharp enough to split wood. It will do. It had to.
The worn handle slid in her palm when she grabbed it, and she had to yank hard to free it from the log. She pulled it to her chest, and made herself breathe. Just breathe.
Daisy suddenly began to bark, and Lucia felt sick with fear. The little dog was tied up, couldn’t run. Couldn’t defend herself. Another waft of cigar smoke, stronger, closer. The rain grew harder, nails pounding the roof; the sound of her heartbeat was deafening.
Lucia forced herself to lower the ax to her side. Then—because she would not let death creep up behind her, unchallenged—made herself turn around.
Ivan the Terrible.
She’d known he would be there; that scent was unmistakable. Even though he shouldn’t have been there—how had he found them?—and even though the sight of him standing behind her was surreal, his giant form clad in a black rain trench, dark hair slicking his cheeks, his hooded obsidian eyes locked on her like the jaws of a great white. Her hand clenched on the ax, and she took a deep breath, then another.
Do not react. Act.
But her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest as her gaze went beyond him, in search of his constant companions—the other two stooges—Misha and Enrique, who were never far, and fear was filling her chest with lead. No one but Ivan stood before her, which meant Misha and Enrique were probably out there—Sam—