by Mallory Kane
Her eyes prickled with tears. “Sean—”
“I even believed Michaela was my daugh—” He stopped.
“Oh, no! Sean. Your wife told you Michaela wasn’t yours? That’s too cruel. It can’t be true! She has your eyes. Your jaw. That stubborn glare.”
Sean’s head bent slightly, then lifted again. He turned his head to survey the area on his left. “I asked you a question.”
She swallowed. She’d already flayed herself raw. What did the rest of it matter? “What really happened? You want the whole sad story?”
“Got nothing else to do right now.”
Sophie let her tear-hazed gaze roam around the deserted warehouse. “Okay. Try to keep up, because I’ve never told this before and I’m only going to tell it once.” She took a long breath.
“I was found only a few hours old, at the door of a Catholic church. No one had any idea who I was or who had left me there. The cleaning lady, Lourdes Ruiz, had just had a baby, so she took me home. I called her Mama. But I was difficult—different. And Mama was very strict. When I was seventeen I ran away. I thought my boyfriend was the greatest guy in the world. I did crack, got pregnant, lost my baby and my boyfriend on the same day. When I recovered, I decided to learn how to take care of myself. And here I am.”
She was amazed that she’d gotten through the whole thing without breaking. She’d kept her voice even, un-emotional, just like she’d hoped she could.
Somehow, the fact that he wasn’t looking at her made it harder, not easier. His profile had softened as she’d talked. His jaw had unclenched. His brows were no longer pulled down in a frown.
Sobs were crowding the back of her throat, but she’d be damned if she’d cry in front of him. She held her breath.
He turned his head slightly toward her and a faint, wet glimmer lit his eyes.
Don’t, she wanted to shout. Don’t pity me.
“So all those scars are from beatings your adoptive mother gave you?”
She couldn’t say anything else. It was too much. She’d given Sean more than she’d ever given anyone in her life. And he’d given her more in return.
But she couldn’t give it all. It was too humiliating, too painful.
“Sophie? You’re still lying.”
She grimaced. Where were the damn kidnappers? She’d welcome a shoot-out right now.
Blowing out an audible breath, she surrendered. “Okay. You want the entire pathetic story of poor Sophie? You want to feel superior and self-righteous because you forced me to give up all my secrets? Fine.” Anger felt good. It cleansed and energized. She let it flow over her, let it build.
“You want even more proof that I’m not fit to be around you or your daughter? Well, you’re in luck today, because you’ve got it. You think I don’t know that you’ve hated every moment Michaela was exposed to me? You think I don’t know she—you—both of you are way too good for me?”
“Sophie, don’t—”
“Well I do know it. I didn’t want to get involved with you. I begged you not to touch me. I didn’t want to meet Michaela, or play with her, or hold her. I don’t do babies and families. My life was perfectly fine before you came into it, and it will be perfectly fine again. I know who I am and where I came from.”
Her hand was cramping around the gun. She set it down in her lap and flexed her fingers, then picked it up again.
“No. All the scars are not from Mama. The bad ones—including the one on my shoulder—are courtesy of my baby’s father. Courtesy of his gang’s specially crafted gold belt buckle. Let’s say he wasn’t happy that I let myself get pregnant.”
“Ah, Sophie…”
“No!” She slapped the butt of the gun against the car’s armrest. “Do not pity me. You got what you wanted, but you have no right to sit in your ivory tower with your beautiful baby and your perfect life and pity me.”
“I wasn’t—”
With the suddenness of a gunshot, the lights came on.
Sophie jerked. Sean went totally still. Without moving another muscle, Sophie flipped the safety off her gun with her thumb. The click sounded loud in the brilliant silence. She reached up and pushed the brim of Botero’s hat up her forehead.
“Careful, Mr. Botero,” Sean whispered loudly, reminding her of her role.
She slouched down in the seat, clutching her gun. She’d shot weapons one-handed, even left-handed, during her training with the CIA, but she knew her sprained wrist was going to hamper her.
Sean’s cell phone jangled. He muttered a curse as he flipped the phone open.
Sophie forced herself to breathe long and slow. Her gaze darted around the bare, musty building. She saw nothing. No movement. Where were they?
“Yeah?” Sean grunted.
Sophie carefully folded the sleeve of Carlos Botero’s coat up her forearm. She needed to be ready.
“This is his chauffeur,” Sean said gruffly. “He has instructed me to speak for him. He asked me to tell you he’s tired and ready to get this over with.”
He paused, listening, then turned his head, his intense teal gaze meeting hers.
“Mr. Botero. I am to tell you un arma está apuntada a su cabeza.”
Sophie nodded briefly. Sean bungled the pronunciation, but the words were clear enough. There is a gun aimed at your head.
Sean needed to know what they’d said.
She spoke in a guttural whisper. Who knew how close they were? “Tell them I am not impressed with their theatrics. They will speak English. And I do not care about guns aimed at my head. I only care about my daughter.”
Sean’s eyes turned stormy and he stiffened.
Sophie shook her head infinitesimally. Don’t worry about me. She lifted her gun’s barrel slightly.
His gaze dipped, he scowled, but he repeated her words to the caller. He continued to watch her as he listened.
“No. Not yet. You show yourselves. Have the cojones to face the man whose daughter you’re holding against her will.”
Sophie darted a glance around her.
The sound of Sean’s cell phone snapping shut grated on her already frayed nerves. “What did they say?”
“Nothing. They hung up.” He unhooked his seat belt. “I’m getting out.”
“No, Sean. You’ll be a perfect target.” Sophie released her own belt.
“I told them to show themselves. I need to do the same. Just stay still and be ready.” He searched her face. “Swear to me you’re telling the truth and you know how to use that gun.”
She held his gaze. “I swear. I won’t let you down. I won’t let Michaela down.”
He blinked, then turned around and got out of the car, pulling his chauffeur’s cap down to shadow his face.
As he did, Sophie saw movement from the far side of the warehouse. A medium-height Hispanic man dressed in black swaggered toward them. Behind him, two other men appeared. All three were armed.
Sophie adjusted her grip on her weapon. She could take them all out once they got about twenty feet closer, but not before at least one of them had time to shoot. She’d take out the front man first.
As he drew closer, she saw a prominent scar above his brow. It was her masked man. He was obviously the leader.
Every muscle in her body twitched to turn and see if Sean had recognized him, but she couldn’t let down her guard even for an instant. Her job was to cover him.
From behind her and to her right, she heard the snick of a rifle being cocked. It was the sharpshooter the caller had promised. She felt the shooter’s line of sight like a laser beam aimed at her right temple.
“Stop right there.” Sean’s voice was harsh, authoritative, controlled.
The leader smiled and deliberately walked several paces closer. “So Señor Botero lets his driver give the orders? Where are his cojones?” The man angled his head and peered at Sophie. “Eh, old man? Perhaps you lost them when you lost your daughter. We were distressed to hear that you have been ill. We will make this quick and painless.”<
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Suddenly, he kicked the right front fender of the limousine. “Get out of the car, old man. Show us your face.”
Sean almost fired his gun when the man moved. He was jumpy as a cat. The idea that it was Sophie sitting there in the car, hampered by the oversized coat and hat and her sprained wrist made him crazy.
If he already had his gun in hand, he could take out all three men, but since it was in his pocket, he wouldn’t get more than two before they shot him.
He could probably count on Sophie for one, but he didn’t want to bank on it. Plus, he’d heard a noise behind him. Maybe the promised sharpshooter with a rifle aimed at Sophie’s head. Who knew how many others were hidden. Their odds were going down by the second.
“Hey.” The leader gestured to his men. “Go help Señor Botero out of his car.”
Sean closed his fist around the butt of the gun in his pocket. “Don’t make a move,” he said. “Mr. Botero can’t walk. We’ve already been through this. You deal with me.”
“I think you are missing an important part of this meeting, Señor Driver. You are not in charge. Señor Botero is not in charge.” The man grinned.
Sean noticed the scar above his brow. It was Sophie’s masked man. His pulse sped up.
“I am in charge,” the man said, kicking the fender again.
Sean’s muscles were screaming for action. He clamped his jaw and forced himself to breathe normally.
“Get out of the car, old man!” The scarred man nodded to one of his men. The man lifted his weapon and started for the car.
Sean heard the back door open.
Sophie, no! What the hell was she doing? She couldn’t talk, couldn’t show her face. They’d know immediately that she wasn’t Botero.
“Give me a minute.”
The guttural whisper was quiet, but somehow it carried in the empty warehouse. And it sounded authentic. It could have been the voice of a frail, weak old man.
The gunman hesitated.
For an instant, nobody moved, then the raspy voice spoke again.
“Where is my daughter?”
The scarred man turned and aimed his gun at the open limo door. “Stop stalling. We can take the money any time we want.” He laughed. “You came alone, just like you said you would.”
“The cash is in the trunk,” Sean said.
“Of course. That is the only place big enough to hold it. Or do you have a trap set for us there?”
“No trap,” Sean said. He pressed the remote trunk release and the large black trunk opened.
“My daughter!” Sophie rasped.
“Shut up, old man. You’ll never see your daughter alive.”
“Fuentes!”
The voice came from behind Sean and to his right. He angled his head.
“Fuentes! En el coche. Ese no es Botero!”
Sean understood. That’s not Botero. Before he could react, a rifle shot rang out, followed immediately by the pop of a bullet hitting steel.
He ducked and pulled his weapon. “Sophie! Get down!” Dear God, if she was hurt—
The three pickup men crouched and began firing. Sean fired back blindly. The air was filled with the zing and pop of bullets.
Gunfire exploded from the limo. It was Sophie. She wasn’t hit!
The rifle fired again.
Sean took a deep breath and stood, turning to fire several shots in the direction of the rifleman. He heard a grunt. Good.
Then something knocked him sideways. He whirled. One of the three gunmen went down.
Sophie.
He got off a couple of quick shots and ducked back down behind the car. He tried to move backward, so he could get a glimpse of Sophie. But something was wrong. He pushed himself up to get another shot off, but he felt heavy, slow.
More shots rang out from the backseat of the limo.
The rifleman behind him fired again. The bullet ricocheted off the limousine’s roof a few inches above his head.
He finally got to his feet, only to see the scarred man’s gun barrel pointed directly at Sophie’s head. Her gun was pointed at his midsection.
“Hold it,” he growled, lifting his gun. His left hand was no help. In fact, he couldn’t feel it, so he rested his wrist on the car top and leveled the gun at the scar on the man’s right brow. “You can shoot her, but you will die.”
From the corner of his eye, Sean thought he saw Sophie nudge the guy in the ribs. He smiled. “Where are your buddies?” he asked. What the hell was wrong with him? He could barely get enough breath to talk.
Sophie didn’t move a muscle, except to shove the barrel of her gun into the scarred man’s ribs again.
“They’re down. Come on,” she said to the man holding his gun to her head. “You don’t want to die like your buddies, do you? We can make you a deal. You tell us where Sonya is, and we won’t kill you. It’s two against one.”
Sean began to move around the front of the car. “Don’t offer him a deal, Sophie. I want to kill him.” It occurred to him that the reason he was moving slowly was that he’d been shot.
Once he was behind the scarred man, he stretched his right arm out and pressed the barrel of his gun to the man’s head. “He killed Johnson. I’m ready to blow his head off.”
The man stood without moving.
Sean knew if the murderer wanted to, he could get off a shot and kill Sophie by the time their bullets killed him. Sean prayed that the man wanted to live more than he wanted to kill Sophie.
It was a gamble. He knew she could identify him. He knew he was screwed, no matter what he did.
“Don’t kill him yet,” Sophie said. “I want to know who he is, and how he’s involved with Sonya’s kidnapping. That information could be worth a lot. Maybe even enough to cut him a deal, if he wants one.”
“You don’t want a deal, do you? I hope not.” Sean cocked his gun.
The man flinched.
Sean held his breath.
“Okay,” the man said. He opened his hand and let his gun drop.
The zing of a rifle shot echoed in Sean’s ears, and at the same time, he heard sirens.
The scarred man hit the ground.
“In the car, Sophie!” Sean cried.
Without much hope, Sean shot toward the rifleman, emptying his magazine. Then he bent over the scarred man.
“Fuentes, Fuentes! That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Sonya—”
Sean grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “What about Sonya? Do you know where she is?”
The man coughed, and red bubbles spilled from his mouth. “Sonya—she’s—”
Sirens screamed as an ambulance drove into the warehouse. Sean shouted to get them over to the scarred man. The EMTs jumped out and ran to the back to pull out a gurney.
“Listen to me Fuentes. Where is Sonya?”
More bubbles escaped the man’s lips. He took a gurgling breath. “Ladera,” he whispered. “Army base—” He coughed.
Sean nearly collapsed in relief. “Who are you working for?” he demanded.
The EMTs set down the gurney and bent over Fuentes. “This is bad,” one said.
“How bad?”
“He took a high-powered bullet to his lung. We gotta get him on the road before he bleeds out.”
Sean stood and a dark red haze crept into the edge of his vision. He swayed. “Don’t let him die. He’s got information that can save lives.”
Chapter Twelve
Rachel Brennan thanked the police commissioner for at least the fourth time, and said for at least the third time that she needed to hang up because she had a meeting.
She heard someone speak to him.
“Well, Rachel, I’m supposed to be in a meeting myself, so I’ll let you go. Thank you again.”
“Goodbye, sir.” She jabbed the disconnect button and sighed audibly, then turned to the five people sitting at the big round table in her office.
“The police commissioner thanks us for our help in apprehending Craig Johnson’s murd
erer.”
“The person he should be thanking isn’t here,” Samantha said quietly.
“Sophie is at home. I had to force her to take a few days off. She’s exhausted, after everything she’s been through.”
“Well, I’m glad the commissioner is pleased, but we still don’t have Sonya Botero.” Rafe appeared relaxed, but Rachel knew him. He was agitated. It showed in the way his fingers drummed on his thigh.
She smiled to herself as she glanced toward Isabelle, who had also picked up on Rafe’s agitation. Isabelle had been watching him with a tiny frown ever since they’d sat down.
“The commissioner is aware of that, as am I,” Rachel said, pacing across the room, playing with the cell phone she held. “But thanks to Sophie and Sean Majors, we now know that the man who knocked you down, Samantha, is the same man Sophie identified as riding the elevator with her the morning of Johnson’s death, Unfortunately, he never made it to the hospital. He bled to death in the ambulance.”
Rafe cursed in Spanish.
“Wait a minute, Rafe, before you turn the air blue with your language. His name was Jose Fuentes. He took a custodial job at the hospital several weeks ago. But the most important thing is, Sean was able to find out where Sonya is.”
Rachel felt the tension in the room rise. She stopped pacing and crossed her arms.
“She’s alive? I’m so glad.” Behind her tortoiseshell glasses, Samantha’s eyes filled with tears.
Julia Garcia made a small, gasping noise. Rachel smiled at her kindly and Samantha reached over and squeezed Julia’s hand. Julia was Sonya’s best friend, and Rachel understood how worried Julia had been.
“Where is she?” Rafe said, sitting up.
“I don’t have a lot of specifics. Samantha, Julia, Ethan—that’s all the information I have for you. Thanks for your hard work.”
The three of them stood.
Isabelle and Rafe looked at Rachel questioningly.