You sure about that? That kid’s as slick as a greased pig. Maybe he didn’t send you here. Maybe he lured you here …
Church sighed. “I told you—”
“You’re lying.” Now she did shout, and the sound of her voice picked up a few heads beyond the conference room window—curious detectives inside the bullpen, aiming their attention straight at her. She took a deep breath, walking toward the window. “He wouldn’t push you out of the plane without a parachute,” she said, her tone level as she twirled the wand attached to the blinds until they closed. “Someone with your skill, your lack of morality—you’re too valuable to a person like Ben.” She turned, nailing Church with an icy glare. “He’d give you a back door. And you’re going to use it.”
Fifty-one
International Airspace, North Atlantic Ocean
“What the fuck kinda game you playin’, bro?”
Irritated by the interruption, Ben looked up. Lark stood over him, his own glare not so much annoyed as it was angry and terrified. “I’m not playing a game.” Ben held up the book in his lap, his tone laced with annoyance. “I’m reading.” When Lark didn’t answer, move, or change facial expressions, Ben lowered his book back to his lap. “Oh. You mean with him,” he said, turning the page. The movement sent pain spiraling from the center of his palm all the way to his elbow. “Not really sure. It was one of those impulsive my daddy has it so now I want it kinda things.” He shrugged, not even bothering to glance at the man in the suit sitting a few rows ahead of them. “I’ll probably just cut him loose as soon as we land.”
“Cut him loose?” Lark threw a cautious look over his shoulder before sliding into the seat facing him. “Look, I know you got daddy issues,” he said quietly, “but that would be a decidedly bad idea.”
“Okay, I’ll play.” Ben sighed loudly, closing his book. “Why is that, Lark?”
Lark looked at him for a moment before reaching up to rub the smooth brown skin at his crown. “You really don’t know who that is, do you?”
“Nope,” he said, tossing his book onto the seat next to him. When he’d opened the glass box, he’d been prepared for a fight. He didn’t get one. Instead, the naked man had followed him quietly to his father’s private elevator.
When they’d gotten to his apartment, Ben led him inside. “I’m gonna take the hood off,” he announced a half second before he yanked the black sack off the guy’s head. A dark blond head matted with sweat and a pair of brown eyes so dark they looked almost black came up, aimed straight at him. If he recognized Benjamin Shaw or had any idea who he was, he didn’t show it. Given the fact that it was his father who’d been keeping the guy in a 5x5 box, Ben hadn’t been inclined to announce his parentage.
The guy drank seven bottles of water, draining them faster than Ben could pull them out of the fridge. He wanted to know who the man was. What he’d done to get The Box. The who was likely easier to answer than the what. He was either an FSS operative who’d displeased his father but still held value, or he was someone his father had been paid to make disappear but was too valuable to kill. The common denominator in both scenarios was value.
This guy had it … so, of course, Ben wanted it.
“I’ve been calling him Naked Guy for the past three hours,” Ben said to cover up his curiosity. He wasn’t naked anymore. After the water, Ben gave him a shower and a suit. The shower put him behind schedule and the suit, while long enough, was a bit loose across the chest. Not a lot of opportunity to hit the weights when you’re being kept like a bug under a water glass.
When they boarded the Lear, Gail looked up from her day planner, her mouth about to run a mile a minute. “Fifteen minutes late,” he said as he passed her, hustling Naked Guy down the aisle. “For me that’s like two days early.”
Gail’s mouth slammed closed on a scowl while she eyed his companion in the ill-fitting suit. Naked Guy never said a word.
“That’s Noah Dunn,” Lark said to Ben now, his tone held low in the hopes that they wouldn’t be overheard.
“That’s Noah Dunn?” Ben craned his neck to see over Lark’s shoulder, catching a look at the back of Naked Guy’s head. He was staring straight ahead—hadn’t moved an inch since he sat down nearly two hours ago—but that hardly mattered. He was listening to every word they said. Ben would bet his life on it. “You sure? He doesn’t look like much.”
“How the hell is he supposed to look?” Lark shot him a look that called him ten kinds of stupid. “You father’s had him stuffed in a box for the past four years and I’m positive,” Lark said hitching his thumb over his shoulder. “That soggy piece of white bread is Noah fucking Dunn.”
“How do you know?” he said, watching the back of Dunn’s head for a reaction.
Lark’s eyes narrowed. “Bringing him in was the first assignment Michael and I ever worked together.”
He’d heard the stories. Dunn had been his father’s golden boy. King of the Pips. His right-hand man. The second son he’d always wanted … until shit went sideways. No one knew what really happened, although there were some pretty wild speculations. All anyone knew for sure was that one minute Daddy Dearest and Dunn were holding hands and making doe eyes at each other, and the next, his father was issuing a kill order with Dunn’s name on it. Why Michael brought him in alive was anyone’s guess. Maybe he’d already gotten tired of his father jerking his chain. Maybe, after years of being El Cartero, he’d just been tired of all the killing. Ben’s guess was it was a bit of both.
Dunn went stiff at the mention of Michael. It was brief. Nothing more than a transitory tensing of the shoulders, but it was there. It told Ben in an instant that Lark was right. The guy he’d sprung from The Box was Noah Dunn, and good or bad, he knew exactly who Michael O’Shea was. Before he could decide whether to snap the guy’s neck or offer him a job, the phone in his pocket let out a chirp.
Since letting it ring really wasn’t an option, he reached in and quickly silenced it. It rang again three seconds later. He silenced it. It rang again.
“I don’t think whoever it is can take a hint,” Lark said, eyebrow arched, elbows braced on his knees. The look on his face said he knew exactly who it was.
It wasn’t his regular phone that was ringing. Only one person had this number, and no, taking a hint had never been one of Church’s strong suits. He yanked the cell out of his pocket and silenced it mid-ring. “This isn’t a good—”
“What was it you used to say to me? Oh, yeah—I don’t give a shit.”
Sabrina. He had to fight the urge to smile. To give in to the relief that hearing her voice brought him. “I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can I call you back?”
“No,” she said, slightly out of breath. “I had to stick my gun in Church’s ear just to get the phone from her. I don’t think I’ll have another chance.”
He could imagine it—Sabrina besting his father’s super-spy. The mental picture made him smile. “I wish I was there with you.” The words slipped out on a sigh, full of regret.
“I wish you were here too,” she told him quietly. “You’re an unreasonable prick most of the time but at least you have a conscience.”
He thought about the things he’d done for his father over the past year. “That’s debatable,” he said turning toward the window so he wouldn’t have to stomach Lark watching him. “What do you need?”
“I need to find a witness …”
“Okay,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Tell your associate to—”
She sighed. “In Mexico.”
“Absolutely not.” He thought of the information he’d taken from his father’s desk, still unopened inside his jacket. It was very possible that sending Sabrina to Yuma had been a huge mistake. Allowing Church to take off on a wild-goose chase would be like killing her himself.
“I need to find her, Ben.” She bit each word in half. “All I need is a lo
cation.”
Goddamnit. “Text me the information and I’ll see what I can do.” He looked at Lark. “Just … don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
As soon as he hung up, Lark arched another eyebrow at him. “Lemme guess. I’ll see what I can do means Let me make Lark my bitch—again.”
“We all have our places, Lark. And we’re all somebody’s bitch.” Ben looked out the window and shrugged, thought about where he was going and why. “Crying about it just makes you pathetic.”
Fifty-two
Yuma, Arizona
Sabrina ended the call and switched to text mode. Beside her, Church shifted in her chair. Sabrina thumbed the hammer back on her Kimber.
“You’re such a bitch,” Church griped at her while she thumbed out a few short texts.
Graciella Lopez
Look for any houses or properties owned by Vega Farms or their associates.
Just find her, I’ll take care of the rest.
Thanks
She hit send and smiled. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Kitten?”
Church batted the gun out of her face and grabbed at the phone. “When this is over, I’m going to kill you,” she said without any real heat, jamming the phone back into her pocket.
“There’s too much at stake—”
“I understand the stakes,” Church said hotly. “Pretty sure it’s you who keeps playing fast and loose with everyone’s lives.”
It reminded her that this wasn’t just about her or Michael. If she was found, the people she left behind—Val, Strickland, the twins—wouldn’t last a week. “Shit.” She pulled out a chair and sank into it. “You’re right … I just …”
Church sighed. “You take it personally,” she said like she understood. “People die and you can’t help but feel like it’s your fault.”
She nodded. “I don’t know what to think. On one hand, we have Vega. Given his relationship with Rachel Meeks, his apparent relationship with Wade, and his established relationship with Graciella Lopez, he’s our prime suspect.”
“But then we have this Nulo character who keeps popping up,” Church chime in. “You think he and Vega are the same person? Maybe he used the name to keep his identity a secret in case Wade turned on him?”
“Maybe. What I’ve learned about Vega so far jibes with what Father Francisco told me about Nulo. Dead mother. No father. Asshole uncle … But I don’t know.” Sabrina shrugged. “What I do know is the only person who can tell me has been hijacked and I can’t get to her.”
“You’re wrong you, know.” Church stood. “I might not be able to tell you who Nulo is, but I’ve got a pretty good idea of what we’re looking for.”
Sabrina studied the box. “How much of this stuff did you read?” The thought of anyone having access to what was in that box made her want to throw up.
Afraid they’ll see the real you, darlin’?
“Most of it. All of the letters. A few of the journals.” Church said without so much as a hint of an apology. “I’m reading by chronological order so … I’m working my way through 2001 now.”
Which means she knows all about you and me. All those nasty things we got up to in the dark.
“And?” she said, barely able to choke the word out.
If Church noticed her reaction to the admission, she didn’t let on. Probably didn’t care. “He’s not much younger than Bauer was then—I’d say mid to late thirties—which puts him in Vega’s age bracket now.” She reached into the box to pull out the pile of letters. “Despite the closeness in age, Bauer was definitely a father figure to this guy. My guess is he never had one of his own—or if he did, he was a bad one.”
Sabrina remembered what Father Francisco told her. That Nulo had been raised by his uncle, Tomas Olivero. That he’d been abused so severely that he ran away constantly, seeking sanctuary in the church. While those factors certainly won’t turn you into a sadistic serial killer, they didn’t exactly help either. She remembered the way Vega reacted to her questions about his childhood. Had his adopted father given him the family business in order to buy his silence about being abused by the Vega Farms foreman?
“Another thing: the letters stop in 2001.” She flipped to the last page in the file. “No explanation. No see you later. The last one is dated April twenty-sixth. He talks about committing a murder but just waxes poetic about it. No real detail other than referring to the victim as a she,” Church said, laying the letters on the table.
“She?” Father Francisco assumed that the murder Nulo committed in the spring of 2001 had been his uncle’s. What if he’d been wrong? “Any mention of killing his uncle?”
“No.” Church shook her head. “Not that I saw.”
“So why the sudden stop?” Sabrina said.
“Something happened.” Church shook her head again, a slight frown crinkling her brow. “Something big—big enough to knock him off course. Or at least point him in a different direction.”
“So … by 2001, he’d already killed,” Sabrina said, picking up the thread. “And according to his letter to Wade, he liked it …”
Like ain’t the word. Our boy loved it. He’s good. A born killer—just like you and me.
“He wouldn’t have been able to just stop.” She glanced at the journal Church set aside to dig through the box. “Which one is that?”
Church held up a journal. Across the front of it was a name.
Rachel
Fifty-three
5/6/2000
The plan had been to take both of them.
He wanted Rachel. He was angry with her, hated her for the way she treated him and he wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted her to be his first.
I wanted Elena. I wanted her to know it was me who’d taken Melissa away from them. I wanted her to know who I was and what I’d done. I wanted to tell her the story of how I’d come so close to doing the same things to her sister a few years ago. She’d slipped through my fingers and gotten away, by some miracle. But miracles have a price and little Elena was going to pay it.
So we compromised.
Dizzy, Sabrina closed the journal for a moment, pressing her hand against the cover as if trying to keep it shut. Val. Oh God. How close had Wade come to taking her? To taking the one person in her life who’d known her. The real her.
Close, darlin’—real close. And if it hadn’t been for more pressing matters, I’d have done it too.
The memory came to her in a flash. The night Wade killed Andy Shepard for harassing her. “Almost as cute and twice as sweet,” Val had said, laying on a lazy southern drawl. “If he tips more than fifteen percent, I might offer to have his baby.”
He’d been there. In the diner.
Like fishin’ with dynamite, it was. She was just like the rest of them—practically jumped right into my boat. A few smiles and she’d been ready and willing to follow me anywhere …
Sabrina shook her head and reopened the journal.
We let them leave, deciding to follow them home because it was easier and it’d kill some time. We gave them a head start so by the time we made it to Rachel’s house they’d already be there but when we got there, Ellie was gone. They’d had a fight and Ellie decided she wanted to go home. I was angry but decided not to ruin Nulo’s fun. It was his first time, after all.
Talking Rachel into the car was easy. She wasn’t the good girl she pretended to be. She got into the back seat and we drove around for a while, drinking beer while we decided where to take her. Nulo wanted me to show him where I’d taken Melissa but I said no. It was a special place. Sacred. Hers and mine and I wasn’t going to share it, no matter how special the occasion was for him.
We finally settled on taking her back to the irrigation shed. It was secluded. In the middle of nowhere. Not perfect but it would do. No one would hear her screaming while I showed Nulo how it was done.
“I’ve got a question for you.”
Sabrina looked up to find Santos standing in the conference room doorway, glaring down at her. He looked confused and angry as hell about it. She caught a glimpse of Alvarez, standing in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, head tipped down. He looked uncomfortable. Like he didn’t want to be there. That made two of them.
“Okay, hopefully I have an answer,” she said, setting the journal aside before motioning for him to take a seat. He refused, obviously preferring to stand over her and glare. His use of classic interrogation techniques would have been amusing if she wasn’t so pissed off.
Who you so mad at, darlin’? It ain’t him and it ain’t me … not really. Could be you’re mad at yourself for letting our boy jerk you around by your nose?
“Yesterday, you and your partner show up and give us the standard we’re just here to help speech, and not more than twenty-four hours later”—Santos swiped a rough hand over his face before letting it fall to his side—“you hijack our interrogation without so much as a here, hold my jacket.”
Twenty years ago, he’d reminded her of a boxer and she saw it now, in his calculating gaze and tightly clenched jaw. “Well?” he barked at her when she didn’t offer an explanation or an apology.
“Well what?” she said, rocking back in her chair. “I’m still waiting for the question.”
His hands tightened into fists. “Okay. Here’s my question: what the fuck is going on?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead, she sighed, lifting the lid off the box before tipping it over, spilling out its contents. Journals. File folders. Discs housed in paper sleeves. 8x10 glossies. It all scattered and slid across the table and he watched it go with a look of confusion. “What’s all that?”
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