Capturing the Queen (Damaged Heroes Book 2)

by Sarah Andre

  Garcia turned to Taylor. “I’ll take your immunity plea up with the DA. If she declines, you realize you’ve implicated yourself as an accessory to smuggling, money laundering, and kidnapping?”

  The pathetic dweeb stayed silent, his mouth a defiant line. Margo’s hands were clenched in her lap. She glared at Taylor like she was ready to launch from her chair and rearrange his face. “Who else is on your fake provenance client list?” she asked.

  Taylor shrugged without making eye contact. He’d probably lawyer up as soon as he stepped out of this office.

  Garcia’s grim expression indicated he knew that too. He picked up the phone. “We’ll have the search warrants ready in a jiffy, Taylor.”

  38

  Gretch peered through the fixed slats that afforded a microscopic view of the street below. Her hours of vigilance finally paid off. “There’s Jace now! That doesn’t look like Margo, though.” The agents passed by her tiny field of vision before she finished the second sentence. “I wonder what took them so long?”

  She stretched the kinks from her back and shoulders, hope rising. Sean continued his fastidious work without a grunt of acknowledgement that he’d heard her. The second the lock had clicked on the other side of the attic door, he’d begun inspecting every inch of the walls and floors like a blind man. Pressing, knocking, pulling at wooden panels, inspecting the light switch, twisting the lone light bulb hanging from a chain. She didn’t have the heart to discourage him. This wasn’t Hollywood. A magical escape route wouldn’t appear. The FBI going next door was their only hope.

  Gretch turned back to the slats and the sunny street. Within a few minutes, the agents reappeared, walking much slower. Instinct overcame caution and she banged on the wood, yelling Jace’s name. It accomplished nothing, because they were three stories up and next door, and the sturdy wooden slats gave her no access to the little round window.

  “Fuck!” she yelled as they disappeared from view. She spun around, emitting a bitchy sigh to cover the sense of doom. Her stomach churned in a frenzy. She bent over, hands to knees, breathing rapidly and swallowing hard. Please, God, don’t vomit.

  In an instant Sean was behind her, flipping off her cap and running fingers through her hair. He gently pressed different pressure points on her scalp, whispering shushing sounds. Slowly she straightened and drooped against him. Within minutes his calm spirit enveloped her in such tranquility the nausea receded and her energy rebounded. It was a freaking miracle.

  “How’d you do that?” she murmured, turning and finding herself in his warm embrace.

  “Ancient Chinese secret.” Amusement lit his deep-brown eyes.

  She squeezed his bicep, then gestured about the bare attic. “Is there a way to get us out of here?”

  “No.” His lips pressed together. “And based on the sun, it’s about midafternoon. There’s not much time left.”

  Fear sliced through her. She had so much left to do on this earth. She’d spent her life feeding her anger and bitterness instead of—

  “Hey.” Sean’s arms banding tighter drew her attention. “I’m going to teach you self-defense until they come to get us, okay?” The quizzical eyebrows and fox-sharp angles of his face were suddenly breathtakingly handsome. So much time wasted when she’d had this all along.

  “I love you—r face,” she blurted.

  His eyebrows rose further. “No you don’t.”

  “What I meant was…” The three words welled again. “I love—how nothing freaks you out.” God, she was such a coward. Her life was down to mere hours.

  Sean chuckled. “Who are you and what have you done with Gretch?” He brushed her hair back. “Everything I do annoys you.”

  “I was terribly mistaken.” God, to have a do-over with him. A wish as elusive as waltzing in a red gown. And so unimportant because the end of her life was directly in front of her. It was all about now. An intensity gripped her, and she clenched his t-shirt in her fists. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a prima donna all these months.”

  Another chuckle. “Months? Don’t you remember how you greeted me on my first day?”

  Hell, Hannah, call the headhunter back. This one won’t even last until lunch. She cringed. “I was molested,” she blurted, and paused, heart jumping to her throat. She hadn’t even remotely meant to say that. He tensed and frowned, like he hadn’t heard right.

  Well, she couldn’t take the words back. Besides, he deserved to know. “Repeatedly,” she continued in a halting voice. “By two different stepfathers. It started when I was eight.”

  Her breathing wasn’t right, like she was supposed to inhale and her lungs were breathing out by mistake. It was all mildly dizzying. “They taught me all those tricks.”

  Pain clouded his features. Not pity or caution or disgust. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue. What else was there to say? She finally dragged in oxygen, and the swirling dots receded. She let go of his shirt and smoothed it out. Her hands shook. “I thought you should know, since… you jumped through so many hoops the last couple of nights.”

  He skimmed her forearms in a feather-light caress. “I wouldn’t call living out my wildest dream jumping through hoops.”

  He still didn’t get it. “I’m not normal.”

  “Neither am I.” His expression softened. “I’m beginning to think normal is pretty overrated.”

  “Look…” What would it take for him to see she wasn’t worth the pedestal he put her on? “I hate sex, but I crave a man’s attention. I don’t trust them, but I need them to feel attractive. Validated. Alive. That’s not normal.” And now we’re going to die. I spent so much time blaming and hating instead of fixing myself.

  “Granted, it may not be normal, but it makes you perfect.” He said it like he’d been explaining it to her for hours. He cupped her shoulders, digging his thumbs into the cramped tension. “You’re the bravest woman I know, Gretch. There’s nothing wrong with you, and you know if there was, I’d be the first one to point it out.”

  She managed a smile. How typically pigheaded of him not to admit she was right. But maybe that’s where healing began. In the patience of someone who refused to allow damage to wedge in between them.

  Sean cupped her cheeks. “Thank you for trusting me enough to share all this.”

  “I figured you ought to know my secret, since…we’ll probably share a grave.” She gazed at his stoic face. This man she’d constantly made fun of. Who didn’t fit in and didn’t care. The generosity he showed her now humbled her. Tears filled her eyes as she clasped him in a full embrace. “You should also know,” she said, voice wobbling. I love you. “I have strong feelings for you.” Oh, fuck!

  See, the thing about Sean was: he got her. It was a copout, and he should have called her on it immediately. Instead, joy spread across his lovely fox face. His arms tightened around her again. “I love you too,” he said.

  She needed a minute to catch her breath. If only she were a girlie-girl who could squee and dance about when she was this happy. “Kinda sucks we’re about to die, huh?” Her voice hitched.

  “Hell no. ‘These are the times that try men’s souls.’ That’s all this is.”

  She blinked a few times, waiting for his point to sink in. It didn’t. “Are you spouting poetry hoping to get in my pants?”

  “Is it working?”

  “No. I’d like to find a way out of here. I want a future with you beyond sunset.”

  His gaze slid to the slats. The gentle humor in his face dissolved. “Let’s shore up your fighting skills, okay?”

  She nodded, but as his arms loosened hers tightened. She couldn’t face jumping back into that gripping fear. Pretend there’s hope. “When we do get out of this alive,” she said haltingly, “and we will, you’re…well…you’re going to need a lot of poetry.”

  He grinned mischievously. It was a great look on him. His fingers tangled in her hair again, and he bent closer. “I’ve memorized enough poetry to keep you in multiple orgasms for years,
Gretch.”

  Thrills shot through her. “Huh,” she breathed, glancing at his curved lips in anticipation.

  “Now toss me until it’s second nature.”

  Jace threw himself in the driver’s side. If it hadn’t been for the new agent beside him, he’d have pounded his fists on the steering wheel. Adyton had been nothing but charming and blasé. The interview a perfunctory waste of time. No, he hadn’t seen Mr. Bixby and Miss Allen from Moore and Morrow. Appropriate murmurs of concern. A sigh of regret. The fucker.

  Inga shut the passenger door. “Where to next?”

  Perfect. Give me free rein. “El Bashtan at BAM is at the bottom of the totem pole, but more likely to want to keep it that way even if it means squealing on the higher-ups. I say we visit him at the market and shake him down.”

  Inga nodded and sent back a message to headquarters.

  Once at the large marketplace, Jace marched up to the bushy-browed, bearded man at his tiny corner desk. “William Bixby,” he said, slapping a photograph of Sean on top of the paperwork El Bashtan was poring over. “Seen him lately?”

  The man studied the photo without expression. He looked up. “He came to my booth on Monday, and I saw him again on Tuesday at a colleague’s shop.”

  The man’s calm-to-the-point-of-cocky demeanor was a flash trigger setting off Jace’s rage again. He leaned over the table, almost gagging at El Bashtan’s ripe garlic breath.

  “We have you on smuggling charges, Mr. El Bashtan. You’ve been receiving blood artifacts that came in from Frankfurt for months. We’re willing to overlook the occasional bauble, but kidnapping and murder? We’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. Do you understand?”

  Inga cleared her throat, but Jace took no notice. “Where is this man?” he asked with as much menace as he could muster.

  El Bashtan’s eye contact never wavered. “I don’t know.”

  “Does Adyton know?” The man shrugged. Jace replaced Sean’s photo with one of Gretch. “What about her?”

  El Bashtan’s gaze lingered on Gretch a moment too long. It was all Jace could do not to snatch the photo back. He was losing it. He knew it, and there was nothing he could do except plow on. He was out of options. Except beating El Bashtan to a fucking pulp until he talked. Inga’s phone dinged with an incoming text.

  “I have not seen Mrs. Bixby since Tuesday morning either,” El Bashtan said, his emphasis on the false name no doubt a middle finger raised at the FBI and their bumbling attempt to crack the blood artifact ring. He glanced at his watch and a ghost of a smile appeared. “I’ve answered your questions. I hope everything works out for the couple.”

  “Yes, Mr. El Bashtan. Thank you for your time.” Inga pushed Jace out of the booth.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Give me a few more minutes with him.”

  She all but shoved him into the elevator and punched the button for the garage. “God damn it, Quinn, what’s your problem?”

  This was it; he’d pushed too far. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Don’t take me off the case.” He wouldn’t survive life without Sean. Couldn’t live with the knowledge that because of his own epic failure, Sean and Gretch might be beheaded. Come to think of it, El Bashtan had looked a little too self-satisfied. Horror clutched Jace’s throat.

  Inga’s phone dinged again, and she glared at the screen instead of him. The elevator doors opened with a long screech.

  “It’s Garcia,” she said, striding rapidly through the parking lot. Jace sent up a prayer of thanks it wasn’t the words he’d expected. “Your task force just surrounded the warehouse on Knox. We’ll head there as backup.” She glanced over at him. “This is your last chance to pull it together. Garcia says to tell you the honeymoon from the Donatello arrest is over.”

  “I can—” An earth-shattering explosion erupted, and they instinctively ducked. The blast was far enough away it was obvious the market wasn’t the target. Near enough that it rocked the massive structure like it was made of matchsticks. Screams and shattering glass filled the air.

  “Let’s go!” Inga shouted, racing for the SUV.

  Functional adrenalin pumped through Jace as he vaulted into the driver’s seat. He peeled through the sharp ramp turns like an Indie racer. By the time he pulled onto the jammed street, Inga had both her phone and his plastered to her ears. The scanner radio squawked an address on Knox. Jace frowned as he flipped on the grill lights and swerved in and out of blaring, gridlocked cars. “Call Garcia,” he shouted over the din. “The address sounds like the warehouse we were heading to.”

  He blasted through a red light, barely missing an ambulance careening around the corner. He waved the vehicle ahead. Its siren would clear a path faster than his SUV.

  Inga yelled the question several times before the caller heard her. She plugged her ear and lowered her head, listening. When she sat up, her face was pale and drawn. “It is the warehouse your task force seized.”

  Jace frowned. Who would blow up millions of dollars of Adyton’s black market artifacts?

  “Place was rigged with explosives,” she continued in a tight voice. “Casualties reported.”

  Dirk! Shit. Jace clenched his teeth and focused on the ambulance fender ahead.

  39

  Things were looking up. Sean’s wrists were once again tied behind his back, but with rope, which provided more pull. The lethal weapon presently at his disposal was his geekiness. Pair that with the element of surprise and it was lights out for the three men leading them down the narrow staircase. Underestimating him would be their demise.

  A simple dropkick in this enclosed space and the two men in front of him would tumble like dominos. Unfortunately, Gretch was directly in front of them. She’d end up at the bottom of the broken-necked heap.

  Sean’s heart beat steadily despite the Dead Man Walking journey they were on. All he had to do was keep a sharp eye out for the next opportunity.

  One by one, they rounded the tight landing leading to the ground floor where the bakery was located. Out the window the sun had set, and a lamppost shone weakly. Sean paused, searching for anyone out there, but the back alley was empty. Victor prodded him from behind, and Sean descended the last set of stairs. Enticing aromas of buttery cake, cinnamon, and nutmeg drifted up. He was thirsty and famished enough to sell his vegan soul for any of it. In the distance, a television played a news channel loudly.

  “…updating our breaking story. A pipe bomb went off in the warehouse district. There are an unknown number of casualties at this time…”

  The hair on Sean’s neck prickled. They’d both heard and felt an explosion a few hours ago in the attic. Clearly the FBI had shaken trees, and Adyton was carrying out his threat. But a warehouse? Adyton had made it sound like the bombs would target areas with potential mass casualties, like a theater or a park.

  Gretch reached the bottom and stumbled, hitting the wall with her shoulder. Sean turned his head to the side and spoke to the nephew. “She needs to eat and drink.”

  “She won’t be hungry or thirty for long. Don’t be giving me no orders, homie.”

  Homie. Victor had grown up in the belly of America, yet taught to hate the customs and culture he took from willingly. It was all so fucking senseless.

  They reached the bottom and clustered near the back entrance, where they’d come in this morning. Victor pointed to the doors. “When we open these, you’ll walk directly to the minivan. If either of you draws any attention, we’ll kill you out there. Which would suck for my family’s businesses, and I’ll make sure you suffer. Got it?”

  Gretch nodded. Sean stayed silent and alert. One of the men stupidly had his gun stashed in the back of his jeans. The other guy, Black Hoodie, held his too loosely. Victor, however, gripped his 9mm tight as he pushed on the door. Cool air blanketed the crowded space. A car horn blared in the distance, answered by a longer, high-pitched one.

  “Move out.”

  The two men flanked him and Gretch closely, and Victor broug
ht up the rear. Anyone looking out the window wouldn’t notice two of the cluster had their hands tied behind them.

  A dark minivan’s passenger doors stood open, displaying two rows of tan back seats. Victor guided Gretch up front and loomed in her doorway, buckling her so slowly Sean caught the clear stiffening in her shoulders.

  “Don’t you worry, sweetheart.” Victor tugged on the seatbelt. “You’re not dying anytime soon. We plan on having a whole lotta fun with you first.”

  “Fucker!” Gretch tried to head-butt him, but he lurched to the side. She got a fumbling kick off, which caught him in the thigh. Victor whispered an obscenity, and a resounding slap rent the air. Gretch cried out in fury. The two other men pushed Sean toward the side door.

  He gritted his teeth. Now! He reverse-pivoted, sweeping the knees out from Black Hoodie, who went down with a surprised oof and a heavy thud.

  Sean kneed the second man in the groin, then used the man’s crouched-over position for more momentum to finish him with a front-snap kick to the chin. The man flew backward, bashing the back of his head into the side of the van. He went down in a heap.

  Click. Cold steel pressed into Sean’s temple. Victor gripped the back of his t-shirt and slammed him into the van, profanities streaming from him. “Get. The fuck. In!”

  Sean stumbled into the van, only to be hauled out, repositioned, and shoved in the far back row. He fell sideways onto the seat. By the time he’d righted himself, Victor was helping Hoodie up. “Where’s your gun?”

  The guy wiped his bloody lip. “It slid under the van.”

  “Shit. We’re wasting time!” Victor handed off his 9mm. “Sit in the middle,” he spat. “If either of them move, blow their heads off!” He bent over the man retching on the ground. “Sayid! Let’s go.” Sayid waved him off.

  Victor spun around, cocked a finger gun at Sean, and pulled the trigger. “You’re so fucking dead.”

  Sean grinned, adrenalin pumping energy and focus. He was so ready for this to end. So ready to defend Gretch from gang rape until his dying breath. “Bring it,” he said through his teeth. “Right now.”