Fatal Secrets f-2

by Allison Brennan

  The car turned into the parking lot of the closed riverfront restaurant, cut its lights, and parked.

  Two men got out.

  They met at the rear of the car and spoke quietly. Charlie could barely make out shadows let alone features. The car started rocking back and forth. The larger of the two men opened the rear door and a tall, beefy man emerged. He seemed agitated and his voice rose over the still, warm air.

  “I don’t like the water!” he exclaimed.

  The others admonished him. Jones emerged from behind the restaurant.

  Charlie braced himself, gun in hand.

  Noel turned from Mr. Ling and Tobias and smiled at Xavier Jones. “Good to see you again.” He extended his hand.

  Jones took it. His palms were dry, but his grip wasn’t as firm as Noel would have liked. Nervous? Perhaps. As well he should be.

  “Did you bring the kid?”

  Jones shook his head slightly, clearly somewhat disconcerted by Tobias’s bizarre behavior. “The kid’s still missing. But he hasn’t been picked up by the police or social workers. He’s in hiding. I’ll find him. I have good men on the job.”

  Noel scowled. “I thought I made it clear that I wanted the kid tonight.”

  “Yes, you did. But I’m certain he’s not anywhere he can do harm. He’s very likely lost. Dead.”

  “Then why can’t you find him?”

  “I would know if he were in custody.”

  “I’m sure you would.” Noel emphasized each word.

  “I don’t like your tone.”

  “I don’t ask for a lot from our agreement, Mr. Jones. I expect solid negotiations, clean deals, and prompt payment. So far, you’ve provided such.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “Exactly.” Noel grinned. Jones cowered. Good. He should be scared. Noel had been told he looked more dangerous when he smiled.

  “I’m confident that he will be found. I promise to deal with the problem swiftly. The shipment from China is secured. Everything is on schedule.”

  “And the FBI?”

  “I explained that. They’re fishing. They didn’t get anything incriminating because there is nothing incriminating to find.”

  “And why do you think the FBI is looking at you at all?”

  “Because they always look at the rich. I have money, therefore I must be dirty,” Jones replied sarcastically.

  “You are, Mr. Jones.”

  “I am extremely diligent. I’ve been in this business for a long time, Noel, without a single blemish. None of my people have been arrested; none of my people are a threat to me or you.” Jones was working himself up, playing the indignant, righteous victim. “The FBI didn’t even mention anything related to our business arrangement; it was all about money. I’ve been through three audits in the last ten years and twice the IRS ended up paying me money for their mistakes.”

  “All it takes is one slip-up and we’re all in jeopardy.”

  “The FBI can’t touch you.”

  “They can work with other agencies with a longer reach. I don’t want to have to disappear. I happen to like my current situation very, very much. I’ve had to reinvent myself far too many times; I’m content.”

  “You’re safe.” Jones waved his hand dismissively.

  The gesture fueled Noel’s silent rage. “No one is safe.” Jones was not taking this situation seriously. Noel expected him to be contrite, repentant-he should be on his knees begging for one more chance. Instead, he was brushing aside the government investigation as if it were an annoying mosquito. People died from mosquito bites. The FBI was the malaria-carrying mosquito; Jones would be its victim. His cavalier attitude confirmed it.

  Noel continued. “I know who ratted you out to the FBI.”

  “Not one of my people!” Jones’s odd loyalty to his employees made no sense to Noel. “But it’s a moot point: the FBI has nothing. They are going away. My attorney is already working on harassment charges.”

  “Greg Vega,” Noel said.

  Jones laughed nervously. “Greg is one of my most dedicated, disciplined employees. He has been with me for eight years. He is completely loyal.”

  “And his wife is pregnant and he’s thinking about the future. And that future has nothing to do with you or your business.”

  “I want proof. If it’s true, I will take care of it.”

  “My word is proof enough.” Noel took his hand out of his pocket and said, as he pulled the trigger of the 9mm Beretta, “You have become a liability.”

  Jones fell to the asphalt, clutching his gut. He tried to reach inside his jacket. Tobias jumped up and down and clapped, looking ridiculous. “Can we do that again?” the idiot begged. “Please?”

  Noel shot Jones three more times, then put a final bullet in Jones’s head just because he was pissed off.

  Noel commanded his brother, “Pick him up. We need to move him.”

  Tobias picked up the body with ease, without regard to the blood, and asked, “Where?”

  “Behind the restaurant.”

  Noel followed as Tobias carried Xavier Jones down to the dock. He stopped in the middle and frowned. Noel said, “To the end. You have to drop him into the river.”

  Noel didn’t care if Jones was found or not; he simply wanted to get Tobias to the edge.

  “I don’t want to fall in,” Tobias whined.

  “You won’t.”

  Cautiously, Tobias approached the edge of the short pier. He dropped the body into the water without preamble. “He’s sinking!” Tobias called.

  He’d surface soon enough, Noel knew from experience. “Thank you, Tobias.”

  His brother turned and beamed at him with that sick, excited grin. How Tobias could have killed so many women was a shock in and of itself. Their father, who had watched Tobias in action once, remarked that Tobias didn’t understand the difference between fantasy and reality. “He’s the type of boy who didn’t understand that fish die from lack of food or water, or that puppies’ skulls are easily crushed. He takes what he wants with the girls and enjoys himself, and sometimes they die.”

  It wouldn’t matter anymore.

  “Mr. Ling. Please.” Noel had some compassion for Tobias. It wasn’t solely his brother’s fault he was a stupid brute.

  Mr. Ling raised his gun and fired three bullets into Tobias’s chest. Tobias stared at Ling, stunned, raw emotions emblazoned across his face as he stepped backward. He turned his dark eyes toward Noel, his mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out. He fell back into the river with a splash.

  “Mr. Ling?” Noel said.

  Ling walked over to the edge and shined a bright light into the water.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Good riddance. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As if her subconscious was on guard duty while she slept, Sonia was pulled violently awake, remnants of a disturbing dream slipping away while her heart raced. Her peripheral vision registered movement just as a hand fell over her mouth and a voice said, “Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”

  Too late, she thought, as her instincts told her body to fight even as her sleep-deprived, disoriented mind recognized the voice.

  Charlie grunted when she kicked him in the balls. He let go of her mouth as he doubled over in pain, and she rolled quickly off her bed, landing on both feet in a pouncelike position. She reached for her gun, but it wasn’t on the nightstand. She crouched in attack position, waiting for his next move.

  “You asshole. How dare you break into my house. Into my bedroom!” She swallowed, her mouth dry, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She’d had nightmares about just this thing. Being attacked in her bedroom, restrained, unable to fight back. She was thirteen again, being dragged from her hut, hearing her father’s voice.

  “She’s a virgin. I expect to be paid well for her.”

  She had fought back and won, not once but twice. First as an untrained, scared child; then as a fully trained cop, though just as scared as s
he’d been when she was sold the first time.

  “Good defense, Sonia.” Charlie grimaced as he adjusted his stance. “You wanted to see me.”

  “What?” Her head cleared. Dean Hooper. He sure acted fast. Sonia wondered what he’d said to push Charlie to contact her tonight. She glanced at her clock. 3:30. She’d slept a mere four and a half hours. There’d be no more sleeping this morning. “You were supposed to call me, not come to my house! How do you know where I live?”

  Charlie waved off the question as if it were ridiculous that she’d even asked. He looked old and weary under the dim yellow streetlights streaking shadows across her room through the blinds. Not a surprise; he was nearly fifty, and while in shape, years of hard living, extensive physical activity, and hopelessness had eaten away at him. He cared about the victims of human trafficking, of that Sonia had never doubted, but their pain had eaten him alive, and he couldn’t get out of the pit. He suffered and became a predator as much as those who preyed on the innocent. Sonia didn’t want to be Charlie. She didn’t want to become so emotionally involved that her humanity leaked through mortal wounds in her soul and she became a monster hunting monsters.

  Without taking her eyes off Charlie, she leaned over and turned on her bedside lamp. Her bed separated them, but he was blocking the doorway. In his hand was her gun. He saw her looking at it.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Sonia. You are so predictable-keeping your gun on your nightstand. I’m disappointed that your instincts are so shoddy and I got close enough to take your only weapon.”

  “You don’t know it’s my only weapon.” It wasn’t, but her other gun wasn’t in her bedroom.

  “If you had another gun within reach, you’d have it in your hand right now.”

  Waves of conflicting emotions ran through her like hot lava followed by an icy avalanche. Charlie, her mentor and onetime friend, had taught her so much about duty, about compassion, about pride in herself and overcoming obstacles. He’d worked with her tirelessly to teach her everything he knew about the business of human trafficking, signs to watch for, questions to ask. He’d been infinitely patient with her as a new INS investigator, knocking the chip off her shoulder that had come from being on the other side of the line-a victim.

  “They win if you act like a victim. Stand tall, Sonia, and be the warrior I know you are.”

  A warrior. Is that how Charlie saw himself? A warrior in a one-man army? Or Don Quixote, battling windmills?

  Because he’d been such a huge part of her early career, when he left her to die she almost wanted to. She fought back and survived because she knew there had to be an explanation. Charlie wouldn’t have set her up. He had her back and must have been injured or dead to leave her trapped with a rapist and killer.

  She’d never believed, while she fought for her life, that he had intentionally left her, lying to her about backup, lying to her that their boss knew about the operation in the first place. She’d been terrified in that locked room, knowing she was bait, even while believing there was a team with eyes and ears on her even though she couldn’t see or hear them. She didn’t know there was no one watching, no one ready to jump in and save her before the man who Charlie had sold her to came to claim his property.

  And when everything came out about the things Charlie had done, things she’d been blind to even while working side by side for nearly two years, Sonia had wanted to quit. If not for the support and faith that Riley lavished on her through tough love, and the unconditional love of her adoptive family, she would have left Immigration and … done something else. Been miserable. Feeling sorry for herself.

  She had gotten over it, and seeing Charlie in her bedroom now hadn’t turned her into a quivering mass of pathetic Jell-O. She’d been thrown off-stride, but she regrouped. He would give her the answers she needed, or she would take him into custody. She glanced again at her gun in his hand. It wasn’t pointed at her. If she could get close enough without him suspecting her intention, she could disarm him.

  “You are investigating a known trafficker in my jurisdiction,” she said to Charlie, “and didn’t have the courtesy of calling me?”

  “You would have let me go in?”

  “Hell no.”

  “There you go.”

  “You always start a job for the right reasons, but when did finding a missing, presumed dead teenager turn into working as the driver for Xavier Jones for God knows how long?”

  “You’ve talked to Rogan.” He frowned.

  “Kane is your friend. Your only friend.”

  “Rogan is not my friend. Just because he didn’t break my neck after the mishap in New Mexico-”

  “Mishap?” She knew she shouldn’t talk about the past with Charlie-it wasn’t good for either of them-but mishap? “You sold me without telling me beforehand. Then you lied to me about having my back. I had to kill him to save my life.”

  “Good riddance. I knew you were strong enough to take care of yourself.”

  “I don’t believe you!” She ran both hands through her thick, tangled hair. “He almost raped me!”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “Fuck you.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. What Sheldon Rasmussen had done to her haunted her when she didn’t have her guard up. She’d have the scars from his knife for the rest of her life. Because of Rasmussen, she’d never be able to have children.

  Because of Charlie she was scarred and barren.

  “I am sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. Because you were a hero for a day. You saved all those girls while I was attacked by a vile monster thinking you were there to take him down.”

  Charlie spoke quietly. “It was a hard choice to make, Sonia, believe me. But they couldn’t save themselves. They’d all be dead by now. But they’re alive and free, and so are you.”

  “And if I had died, you would have justified it because you saved fourteen other girls that night.”

  He looked pained, and Sonia was glad. She hoped he couldn’t sleep.

  “I’ve paid for what happened. I take jobs where I can. Rogan gives me the lost causes, but I know that Ashley Fox is alive.”

  Even though she was still angry, Sonia was curious how Charlie had ended up with Jones. She asked, “Did Jones have something to do with her disappearance?”

  “Not directly. I found the gang who kidnapped her off the cruise ship. One of the stewards, a Mexican gang member, spilled everything when I tracked him down.”

  Bile rose into her throat. She didn’t ask what Charlie had done to get the gangbanger to talk; she didn’t want to know.

  “She was shipped to Belize and forced to work at a sex club. They kept her drugged, got her hooked on coke and pills. Uppers and downers. I’m not surprised-when she found out she was trapped, she probably needed the mental escape.”

  A familiar strategy-breaking the victim’s will to fight back using drugs, and physical and mental abuse. Sonia put the images out of her head; she had to focus on the facts.

  “And then?”

  “I’m unclear on why they moved her, but she came up through one of Jones’s major suppliers into America. She may be in Canada now, but she came through here, Sacramento.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Sonia slammed her palm against the wall. The picture over her bed slid on its wire and hung crooked. “I’m supposed to trust you?”

  “I got the information. I don’t care if you believe me.”

  Goose bumps ran down her flesh. She bit back her next scathing comment; she wouldn’t be able to convince Charlie that he was no better than them. But this vigilante campaign had to end, one way or the other.

  “Jones knows what happened to her. Where she went. I’m this close to figuring out his codes. I was going to come to you once I saved Ashley.”

  Sonia frowned in confusion. “Codes? What codes?”

  “I’ll give you everything when I get the answers I need.”


  “Tell me now! Are you honestly aiding and abetting a killer? You fucking bastard! Who made you judge and jury? You’re not leaving here, so help me-”

  “What are you going to do? I have your gun.” Charlie laughed, then added wistfully, “Oh Sonia, I’ve missed you.”

  “Don’t.”

  “We were a great team. I don’t blame you for what happened.”

  “Blame me? What am I to blame for?” She asked too quickly, realizing that Charlie was deliberately sidetracking her. “No-”

  Charlie cut her off. “For having me fired.”

  “I’m not going there again.” She couldn’t do it. She was losing her focus: her goal was to gather evidence on Xavier Jones so she could haul his ass into interrogation and get names. “You have information. You can testify. Names, places. What kind of codes? You mean he’s writing everything down?”

  “Yes. He has a journal. Every sale, every player, every exchange. How much money he made on the deal and what his expenses were and the threat level. He charges more for higher-risk endeavors. I made a copy of his current journal. But I can’t figure out-yet-how he codes the people he sells. Without that, I don’t know where Ashley is.”

  “Why don’t you just torture the information out of him?” she snapped sarcastically.

  “Jones wouldn’t rattle under torture.”

  So he had actually considered it. Sadly, Sonia was no longer surprised by Charlie’s decisions. “I know you’re the one who contacted me about Andres Zamora’s escape. Where’s Maya?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care. She wasn’t with Andres.”

  “You should have called the police.”

  “Not without blowing my cover.”

  “You’re no better than they are. You fit right in with Jones and my father.”

  Charlie’s face hardened and he took a step toward her, his knees touching her bed. He shook the gun at her and she involuntarily shivered. Charlie was volatile. He could kill her, even if he didn’t want to. “I’m just the driver.”

  “Bullshit. I want Jones’s journal.”

  He ignored her demand. “I got Andres out. You found him, didn’t you?”