Her legs turned to lead, and she slowed.
Bracken barreled by her, faster than a professional sprinter, swift for such a muscular man. Robert didn’t have a chance in hell.
Robert. No way. No. No. No. She crouched over, her hands on her knees. Gasping for air, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of her in one swift gust. Not wanting to be correct. Not wanting to know.
“Did that motherfucker hurt you?” she heard Bracken shout. She raised her head, and saw him sprinting back toward her, concern etched on his face.
She couldn’t breathe. How could she tell Bracken the man they’d been chasing was one who thrived on manipulation and control? How he set her teeth on edge. How had he found her?
Bracken jogged up beside her. “Holy Shit, Huntley. Jesus. Stand up. Let me look at you.”
Straightening, she felt his fingers on her chin.
“Bastard. You’re going to have a nasty bruise.”
“He got in one punch, and not a very well-executed one. I turned my head as it connected. Minor, nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” She glanced toward the heavily forested area. “We let him go.”
“I thought he fucking hurt you.” His tone was harsh, brimming with anger.
“He surprised me. He was inside my apartment.” Looking for what? The ring? Those damned pictures?
“Did he say anything? Have a funny accent?”
“No.” She looked at him, puzzled, unused to hearing a Southern twang described as funny. “My cell phone is in my duffel bag. Will you call the police?”
“They’re on the way. Hurry. I want to be the first to clear your apartment.”
She glanced at him, finding his comment odd, before looking past him to his car at the far end of the parking lot by the exit. The lights were on, the engine was running and the driver’s side door was wide open.
Silently, she followed him.
The apartment wasn’t completely ransacked. She’d expected to find her sofa shredded and her drawers ripped apart. But as she worked her way from the living room to her bedroom, for the most part, everything was in place. She did a careful inventory of her personal items and nothing seemed missing.
Standing beside the bed, she lifted the mattress, stuck her hand beneath it and retrieved the envelope from its hiding place. Quickly, she searched the contents, counting off the dozen pictures inside. All there. Was this what he’d been after? Or the ring?
You’d have thought Robert had learned his lesson. A few days after drugging and taking illicit pictures of her, she’d agreed to meet with him again. Told him to bring them in exchange for her signing some kind of stock certificate, turning her shares in Wittaker Fine Smokes over to him. This time she met him outside the country club, somewhere safe yet out of clear sight of its members. Two minutes later, he was on the ground and writhing in pain. And she was holding the envelope. “That’s what happens when you screw with a Wittaker,” she’d told him before telling him to fuck off.
Yeah, hocking the diamond was her best idea in years considering the bullshit he’d tried to pull on her.
She’d hung onto the photographs in case duplicates ever surfaced. The police had a way of tracing photographs back to their originator by using the tiniest scrap of an image—a lamp, the wallpaper, the goddamned sheets. At least, that’s what she’d seen on a CSI show. Biting her lip, she worked the envelope back in place and smoothed the thick bedspread out across the mattress.
“Some things are better kept as secrets. Less painful for everyone,” her mother’s words echoed in her head. A nagging memory Huntley’d buried until now.
She brushed it aside, listening for Bracken and wondering where he’d gone. Heading back into the living room, she bit back a cry. Smashed into pieces against the wall next to her outdated television stand was the picture of her and her mother. A knife to the sofa would have hurt less. Why would such an inconsequential item be the focus of his destruction? The photo was sprinkled with fragments of glass from the destroyed frame. And the photo?
She inhaled sharply, looking down at it, frozen. Paralyzed by grief. By sadness. By a lifetime of worry. Seconds turned into minutes before it registered. The photograph itself was undamaged, it was just the mess surrounding it that had been broken.
Once more, Huntley found herself struggling to pick up the pieces.
She let the air she’d been holding deep within her slowly escape.
Bracken appeared by her side. Stooping over, he freed the picture from the fragmented glass and handed it to her.
“What happened to don’t tamper with the evidence?” she asked.
His eyebrows narrowed, and he intently studied her face, before relaxing. “You’ve watched one too many cop shows.”
The sound of sirens drew closer.
“Where did you get to?” she asked half-heartedly.
“You look like her.” He nodded at the picture.
“Yes. All the boys in my family got my father’s natural blond good looks. I’m the only one who looks like her, with my brown hair and pale skin. My dad used to tease her about me being a milkman’s baby.” Her throat clenched tight as her words drifted off.
“She was a beautiful woman.” He let out a litany of curses beneath his breath, before adding, “The perpetrator meant this to be personal. To hurt you...or me.” Immediately, he snapped his mouth closed, then opened it and ground out another healthy symphony of swear words.
“Jeez, who’s watched too many cop shows now, Bracken,” she said flippantly, eager to end this line of conversation.
“Go pack. You’ll stay with me for the time being.”
“What? Why would I do that? It’s not like he’s coming back, not if he knows what’s good for him.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
A shiver ran up her spine, knowing how false his words were. “And you do?” she demanded. The last thing she needed was for McBadass to get caught up in her personal bullshit. She’d deal with Robert herself.
The sirens stopped. The police had arrived.
“I’ll talk to them while you’re packing,” was all Bracken said before heading out the door. She grimaced. It was a good thing he’d shaved; the last thing she needed was his bad ass being hauled in for questioning on top of everything else.
She trusted him, right? Glancing down at the picture clasped in her hand, the truth was obvious. A small gesture, him handing her the photo.
Male voices could be heard out on her landing.
With a sigh, she headed off to pack. Hoping beyond hope that while Bracken filled the police in on what’d happened, his badass manners wouldn’t have them cuffing and collaring him before they’d even taken a full report.
* * *
“Calm down, man. Friday. I’ll be there.”
Bracken snapped a pencil in two and tossed the halves onto a messy stack of paperwork. The precinct desk was covered with reports. What was worse, pushing papers at a desk job, jail time or having to deal with this moron week in and week out? “You better be,” Bracken responded. The unreliable prick was Bracken’s only option—someone had to watch over Huntley while he battled his way into Vladimir’s trust. That’s what this was about, right? Some kind of gang initiation. Kick ass and prove your worth, or some such crap. Hell, maybe some good had come out of gangbanging with the Mayhem.
“You’re sure the Russians aren’t responsible for this break-in?” he demanded.
“I told you, they were all accounted for. Where’d you take off to?”
“Disney.” Yeah, what a cartoon-filled ride Vegas had been. With him cast as the love-struck fool.
Stefan snorted, his expression hard. “I thought we were a team. Don’t disappear again.”
Bracken nodded, not agreeing to anything. But he needed Numbnuts’s
cooperation. “Keep your eye on her. That’s all I ask.”
“Isn’t it like a mouse watching over a leopard? Huntley might be gorgeous, but my ass is grass if she decides to work me over.”
“Just be on time on Friday. And listen, Numbnuts, keep things professional.”
Bracken searched the room for a recruit who’d be willing to hand off a report to Sarge on his behalf. Problem was, recruits—hell, seasoned officers—tended to avoid him when there was paperwork around. But the file on top was important. It outlined Bracken’s reasons for beefing up patrol on Huntley’s apartment. If the Russians were responsible for the break-in, then his department, Stefan, himself—they’d put a civilian at risk. Huntley at risk. And I’ll be damned if I let it progress any further.
Damn. It was late. His hand was shaking like nobody’s business. The lack of sleep, him thinking about the angry bird’s nest of former hook-ups, Huntley’s run in with a Russian perp, this assignment—all of it had him strung out like a kinked-up hose. One pull and a blast to end all blasts would surge free. Factor in his date with Vladimir in a half an hour...fuck, he had to get a grip. It was a wonder Numbnuts hadn’t commented on it.
Except his partner seemed caught up in his own bullshit. Bracken’s eyes narrowed on the man, who was pacing the room, back and forth, the wheels in his head spinning, all hyped up. For once, Bracken could relate to him.
You’d have thought he was the one meeting up with the thug tonight, when in fact, he’d been left in the dark about it. Bracken was flying solo on yet another information-gathering hunt. Wanted to hear firsthand what the Russians were up to—and what the fuck they’d been up to earlier tonight regarding Huntley. Friday was too long to wait.
Why start playing by the rules now? Besides, Stefan hadn’t been following them either. The prick had been at the Warehouse when Bracken had tracked him down. Not exactly working the case from the outside, like he was fond of bitching about. Judging by his behavior, Stefan’d been a bit riled up at Bracken’s disappearing act. Still put out he hadn’t figured out where Bracken had gone. Better having him focused on the has-beens than what-was-about-to-go-downs.
“You on a sugar rush, butthead?” Bracken asked, curious as to the cause.
“Too much caffeine. So, Huntley know you’re fighting Friday?”
“If she knew, why would I be asking you to keep her company?”
“So that’s how it is...” Stefan added.
“What are you mumbling about, dickhead?”
“You did it for her! Huntley. You shaved. If this don’t beat all. That’s why you’re so upset about the break-in. Bracken smitten with a woman, enough to wanna clean up his act for her. What are you gonna do next, trade in the Harley for a Prius?”
Bracken kept his face neutral, not trusting Stefan in the slightest. His partner seemed way too delighted by the news, like he’d found a chink in Bracken’s otherwise impenetrable armor. Bracken wasn’t prone to offering up his emotional life like a party favor. Not to anyone. Years of experience had taught him that letting anyone privy to your emotions was setting yourself up for failure. And Huntley, fuck, she’d taken up far too much of his time, energy and fucked-up emotions.
“We don’t need a pretty face distracting these guys. I’m aiming to become their main focus now,” he said, as much for Stefan’s benefit as for his own.
“What a crock. You called me away from the Warehouse tonight because of some attack on a chick.”
Bracken scowled, not liking the abrupt anger in Stefan’s tone. Not liking the direction this conversation had taken. Not liking how easily his partner was able to get under his skin.
“Don’t be more of a Numbnuts than you already are. Like you said, Juan is officially dead. Now so is the beard.”
“Good riddance. If you don’t watch out, and keep your head out of pussyland, you’ll be next.”
By the sound of things, Stefan might just enjoy that. There’d be no visible injuries if he punched the prick in the gut, right?
“The agents being assembled?”
His partner glared at him, evidently not liking Bracken’s abrupt change in topic. “I’ve got everything covered.”
“What? They on stand-by until you get your fucking date straight?”
Stefan didn’t react to the bait, and was unusually quiet. Matter of fact, he hadn’t given Bracken a straight answer yet about his former crew’s arrival. “What’s wrong with you? You’re dancing around here like a nervous nellie. Why are you so juiced up?”
A flash of surprise crossed his face. Like Numbnuts hadn’t been aware he’d been jumping around the place.
“Friday. Eight p.m. sharp.”
“I got it, man. No need to keep saying it.”
“Huntley stays out of the Hall. Keep ordering drinks if you have to.”
Stefan shrugged. Odd how his smug demeanor seemed to have disappeared quicker than one of Bracken’s punches. Without his usual good-bye, Numbnuts headed out into the frigid night, leaving Bracken to wonder at his odd behavior.
Fuck, he’d figure it out later. Tonight’s plate was already full. Reaching in his jacket pocket, he pulled out the keys to the Harley, then retrieved the shoeboxes he’d taken from Huntley’s duffel bag as well as the envelope he’d found stashed away beneath her mattress from the bike’s small trunk.
One more thing required his attention before his appointment with Vladimir. Before he headed home. To Huntley.
The precinct had quieted. A good thing, too, as there were no witnesses to Bracken losing his fucking mind.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
When he’d palmed the envelope from beneath Huntley’s mattress, he figured it might contain something important, clues to what he sensed she was hiding. But what he saw was so infuriating, so twisted, so fucking mind-blowing, he had to dig deep so as not to lose control. Everything around him, everything he’d been working on, dulled in comparison—the bust, the drugs, the job. Fucking exploded into smithereens. Just like his frigging mind was doing right now.
He’d seen plenty, yet he couldn’t bring himself to put the photographs away. Ignoring the anger seething inside him, blazing away like crude oil on a field of fireworks, he studied the images more closely.
The woman wrapped up in a blue boa and spread out across the mattress was not the woman he knew. The strong, healthy, resilient fighter. It was her wild eyes in those photographs that gave it away. She looked stoned, or worse. She looked like she was ready to cry. She looked like an innocent stranger who’d found herself in some amateur porn shoot. Not the fighter he knew, but her ex’s victim.
Shit. Fucking shit.
Bracken pushed the pictures aside and searched the contents of the shoeboxes. Scooping up an old Polaroid of her and her family, he ran his thumb over Huntley’s young face. So happy. So lovely, even back then. He placed the picture aside and unfolded a letter. A love letter between her mother and father. Quickly, he opened letter after letter, more than a dozen of them. No wonder Huntley loved her family so damned much. She’d grown up surrounded by it. He picked up the large, black diary, etched in gold stitching with a matching a gold lock. But no key. Time was a-ticking, and though it’d be simple to pry the thing open, standing around reading what he assumed was a play by play of the love her parents had had for each other wouldn’t exactly put him in the hardcore mindset he needed to be in to face Vladimir.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, he quickly did an internet search, wondering if the prick had posted the pictures. He found none, though the confirmation didn’t cool his temper in the slightest. He thought about the conversation Huntley had had with her brother, about her ex’s attempt at getting his hand on her family’s business. Was this what the pictures were about? Bribery? Extortion?
Shit. Her ex was a dead man.
But first, he had the Ru
ssian boss to contend with.
He tucked everything back inside the two shoeboxes, pausing one more time to study the most blatant of the photographs, the one with Huntley’s legs spread wide, her nipples so pink against the vivid blue boa, the panicked look in her eyes—like whatever drug she’d taken, or more likely, had been fucking given, had worn off enough for her to realize both what was happening and that she was unable to defend herself.
His fingers felt numb from him balling them tightly into a fist. The vein in his forehead throbbed. And Bracken eyeballed the wall, ready to smash it into pieces and struggling to rein himself in. Control his rage. Bank it deep inside. Save it for later, for Vladimir.
Yeah, if the Russian was looking to recruit a hard-ass, he’d get a first-hand taste of how fucking hard Bracken could be.
* * *
The shift in Bracken’s mood flashed from black to blood-red, and Vladimir’s face was a second away from becoming his punching bag. Yeah, wiping the sly look off the drug dealer’s face sounded damned appealing. Work off the aggression those goddamned pictures had caused. Still, Bracken fought to keep a tight hold on his emotions. His frustration with Numbnuts didn’t help matters.
Last night, one of the other Russian fighters, Sergei, nearly killed a local guy with an elbow to the windpipe. They’d had to resuscitate the man. A heads-up to Bracken not to underestimate the Russians. But as far as heads-ups went, why’d Stefan kept quiet about this? Where the hell had he been? Hadn’t he seen how bad this crew really was? So much for fucking teamwork.
“You like to make money?” Vladimir asked, cunningly casting his hook, feeling Bracken out to see if he’d snap up the bait.
Bracken relaxed his shoulders. Yet something was not quite right about his offer. Too abrupt, maybe? Too direct? Too obvious? Either Vladimir was one dumb fuck or Bracken was missing a piece to this clusterfuck of a puzzle.
The Warehouse was quiet with a few stragglers sticking around until the early morning closing time. The excitement from the night had thinned out the crowd, or more likely it was Vladimir and friends who had the locals reluctant to hang around. The Russian was perched on a barstool, holding court to several thugs who he’d waved away upon Bracken’s arrival. Bracken saw a few familiar faces from the new crew—the regulars had probably gotten a whiff of bad blood—that or Russian blood money—and had stayed home.
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