Corrupt Savior

by Leigh, Tara

  I point at one of the images. “There. The guy should have both hands open when he grabs her. But he doesn’t. One hand is closed like he has something in it.”

  Finley’s eyes widen in understanding as she taps a button on her headset. “I want the area swept for whatever our guy might have been carrying. Something he may have dropped. Possibly a syringe.”

  Syringe.

  I swallow at the word, but it makes sense.

  Because the one image of Aislinn I’d been avoiding, the one image that didn’t make sense, was the very last one my cameras had captured.

  Pulled backward through the open door of the van, there is no struggle on Aislinn’s face. She looks relaxed, even content. As if what’s happening isn’t a surprise.

  She looks as if she hadn’t put up a fight.

  And damn it, if there is one thing I know about Aislinn Granville—my spitfire—she is a fighter.

  To Juliana, the analyst standing beside her, Finley adds, “I want you digging through Los Muertos communications harder than ever. I don’t care if a message appears to be innocuous conversation between a kid here and their sick grandparent in Mexico—I want it triple checked.”

  Juliana nods and spares me only a flickering glance before rushing off.

  “And you,” Finley motions toward another of our analysts, “get outside and walk the block like a tourist. Take pictures, look in windows, study the trash on the sidewalk. If there’s anything unusual, I want to know it.”

  As the analyst jogs to the elevator, I run unsteady hands over my face. “I need her back.” The words crawl up my throat, caught somewhere between a rasp and a growl. It is a statement of fact. Undisputable.

  Finley’s jaw is tense as she nods, her gaze intent on the screens covering the wall in front of us. “I know.”

  4

  AISLINN

  You’re a fucking cheat.

  You can’t play for shit. I don’t need to cheat to take your money.

  Why are we playing cards? I say we play with that girl—

  Not yet.

  How much longer do we have to wait? I can smell her pussy from here.

  She can’t scream if my dick is in her mouth.

  I listen to their disgusting banter through the closed door. Three assholes who want to rape me. One who argues that they can’t … yet.

  Hugo Cruz must have told them not to.

  But if they dare to try, they are going to have one hell of a fight on their hands. The first one who stuffs his dick in my mouth will have it bitten off.

  For now, I remain quiet, keeping the screams bottled up inside my throat. Locking my questions and pleas behind gritted teeth and the tight seam of my mouth.

  I stay still, despite muscles that scream from inactivity, from tension, from my purposeful paralysis.

  The only movement I allow myself is the steady twitch of my fingers. My nails dig crescent moon shapes into my palms until I’m sure I’ve broken skin. It is a release, the only one I can afford.

  Time passes. I have no way of knowing how much, although my bladder tells me that it’s been long enough.

  But I remain quiet. I remain still.

  And I listen. Another game is dealt, more complaints about playing cards when they could be raping me. Much of their conversation is unintelligible. But there is one phrase I hear over and over.

  El rey corrupto.

  The corrupt king.

  They could be talking about Damon.

  Or … anyone else they consider corrupt. Like a powerful politician.

  My headache is getting worse.

  Every thought of Damon is a liberal pour of salt on an open, festering wound. He must be going crazy right now. And the thought of him hurting … it’s almost unbearable.

  He’s blaming himself right now, I’m sure of it. That little boy who wanted to save the world is still inside of him. The little boy who lost everyone who ever cared for him—his grandparents, his mother. The little boy who became a vengeful beast of a man. A man I l—

  The ring of a phone draws my attention, silencing both the crude banter and the noise inside my own head.

  There is a mumbled “hello.” An emphatic “yes” repeated several times in quick succession.

  And then, footsteps. Shit.

  I squeeze my eyes closed at the sudden brightness that accompanies the squeak of the door hinge. But at the soft click that ricochets inside my eardrums—the unmistakable sound of a switchblade—I open them, blinking rapidly in an effort to clear my vision.

  The man I recognize as the one walking those German shepherds in front of Damon’s apartment, the one who took me, chuckles at the naked expression of fear that must be on my face. He inclines his head down toward my ear, his breath a humid, black licorice-scented gust that turns my stomach. “I should run this knife across your throat.”

  I have a sudden memory of my last night with Damon, when he pressed his own blade against my neck. I had been scared of the knife, but not of Damon.

  Right now, the opposite is true. The blade is not all that impressive, but the man wielding it exudes resentment and agitation. Unpredictability.

  “Let me go.” It is the faintest of whispers as I dare a glance into his eyes.

  They are a muddy brown, betraying no emotion. The knife presses harder. “You think I’ll listen to you?”

  “You’re taunting the devil by keeping me here.” Instinct won’t allow me to swallow. The slightest movement could result in bloodshed. My blood. “Letting me go is the smart move. The only move.”

  I expect to feel a warm trickle on my skin any second.

  I hold my breath, tension turning my limbs into marble.

  There is a moment of stillness, a beat where time is so heavy, so expectant, it can’t move forward.

  The spell is broken with a flick of the knife. Not against my neck, but a sharp downward slice that rips through the tape binding me to the chair. I feel the tip nick the skin between my breasts, and when I look, there is a red line between them. A shallow cut that stings more than it bleeds.

  Two more slices at my wrists and they are free.

  But not for long. He grabs them in his hands and turns them over, unrolling my tightly clenched fists and dragging his thumbs over the self-inflicted marks I’ve left on the fleshy part of my palms. One eyebrow tics upward as he stares at the bruises on my wrists. “These are not from me.” He glances down at my ankles. “You like it rough, huh?”

  Regarding me with a knowing smirk, he drops my hands to thread his fingers through my hair, leaning down to leer into my face as he gives a sharp yank. “Maybe I should let Cruz’s men have a taste of you.”

  Tears prick my eyes at the sting but I blink them back. I am both burning up with anger and frozen in fear. My teeth rattle from the strident dichotomy. “They’ll regret it.”

  His smile widens as he releases my hair. “I don’t think so.” A chill races down my spine, coldness seeping into the surrounding tissue.

  “The worst is yet to come for you, Granville. I’ll make sure of it,” he says, pushing a newspaper against my chest. “Now hold that and smile pretty for the camera.”

  I glare at his face as he takes a picture with his cell phone. But when he whistles to the men he was sitting with and a roll of duct tape comes flying his way, I force myself to adopt a more respectful expression. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Please. I-I really can’t hold it anymore.”

  He releases an irate sigh and kneels down, running the sharp edge of his knife along my inner thigh and from the bend of my knee to my calf. “Don’t make me regret this,” he warns.

  Right now, it’s all I can do to keep from peeing in my chair. “I won’t,” I lie.

  The last fiber of tape is barely cut when my right knee comes up, aiming for the center of his face. It’s stupid, I know. I don’t have a plan yet, and no clear escape route. But I’ve maintained a passive facade for too long. I c
an’t do it anymore.

  Either his reflexes are faster than I expected, or my muscles are still weak from the drugs lingering in my system. I don’t make contact and his fingers merely dig into my thigh as he grunts. “Nice try.”

  Not long ago, I’d heard Damon snap a man’s neck in two and been concerned by his casual approach to violence. Today, given half a chance, I would do the same thing.

  5

  DAMON

  I am not a patient man, and today is no exception. There is a storm raging inside of me. A violent, malevolent churning I’ve never experienced before, not even when I was faced with my mother’s bruised, battered body. Not even when I was sentenced to years in prison. Not even as I sat behind bars on the day of my mother’s funeral.

  I should have heard from Cruz by now. Or Granville.

  Or fucking Lytton.

  My brain shifts into overdrive as I dart out of my office, checking in with Finley briefly before heading, not for the elevator bank, but deeper into the subterranean network of underground tunnels I know so well.

  The quick pace of my footsteps echoes on cement as I walk a familiar route, breathing in the damp, musty smell so different than exists aboveground. I don’t own every building above me, but the Manhattan underground tunnels have always held a particular fascination for me.

  There is something appealing about thriving beneath the city’s grid, traveling a path few know about.

  Not today, of course. There is nothing appealing about this day—except the thought of getting Aislinn back.

  And vengeance.

  Bringing Aislinn down here was never a consideration. Her place is in the spotlight. She deserves sunshine and fresh air and the wind on her gorgeous fucking face.

  I emerge at street level, several blocks away from the apartment building I live in, plowing through the crowded streets like an NFL running back. Shoulders hunched, weight slightly forward, eyes straight ahead.

  The hostess standing behind the reception desk of the trendy midtown steakhouse cracks a wide smile as she steps out from behind it, angling one leg out to show off the swath of naked flesh between the hem of her miniskirt and the top of her knee-high black suede boots.

  “Can I help you, sir?” She lowers her lids, showing off dark makeup evidently applied with a trowel, looking up through fake eyelashes that wave at me like spider legs.

  I barely spare her a second glance. Frankly, the first one was more than enough.

  I lunge through the door behind her, her heels click-clacking after me. “Sir!”

  Heads turn in my direction as I walk swiftly through the restaurant. I am being less than discreet and haven’t a single fuck to give.

  I don’t knock on the door that encloses the private dining room. I fling it open and stand there, bitterness traveling up my throat and infecting the air around me. “Lytton, a word.”

  He wipes his mouth with a napkin, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he addresses the others at the table. “As you can see, under James Granville, the office of the Manhattan DA has built relationships with citizens from all walks of our city.” He stands. “Excuse me, I’ll just be a moment.”

  Once he’s edged around the corner of the table, I pivot on my heel and walk toward the back of the restaurant. The kitchen staff knows better than to protest as I stomp through their workspace, followed by Lytton. Exiting into the back alley, the door hasn’t even closed before I have his lapels bunched within my fists.

  Lytton’s head makes a satisfying thud as I slam him up against the brick wall. “She’s fucking gone.”

  He appears dazed, so I give him a shake. “Did you hear me? Aislinn’s gone.”

  He blinks at me a few times before batting my hands away. I let him because I want answers more than the pleasure of making him squeal. “What do you mean, she’s gone?”

  “She’s been taken.”

  His slack expression finally hardens into understanding. “Are you sure Aislinn didn’t just get sick of your overly aggressive tendencies? I—”

  “Shut the fuck up before my overly aggressive tendencies throw you in a fucking dumpster.” My hands tighten into fists at my side. “My security feed picked up the entire thing. It happened this morning, in front of my apartment.”

  “Someone took her … on your goddamn doorstep?” His mouth gapes open. “The big, bad bully of New York City couldn’t keep Aislinn safe? That sounds like a you problem, if you ask me.”

  I don’t know what’s pissing me off more—that Lytton doesn’t realize he’s partly to blame for Aislinn being in danger or that he’s not at all worried about her safety.

  Or his dig at my inability to keep her safe.

  “Actually,” I step back toward this pompous imbecile I’m forced to deal with, getting right in his face, “it’s a you problem, because if anything happens to Aislinn, I’m going to rip your goddamn balls off and shove them down your scrawny little neck.”

  “We told you we weren’t backing down. This is your fault. Not mine. And how do you know for sure it’s Los Muertos? You’ve made plenty of enemies in this town, in case you’re unaware.”

  My gaze narrows. I am not unaware. My list of enemies is long. It’s the nature of my business. I deal in corruption and currency. Crime and cash. I will shoulder my share of the blame, but I will not allow Lytton and Granville to be absolved of their burden.

  Lytton straightens his jacket. “Either way, for someone who talks a big game about controlling New York’s criminal element, you are the biggest criminal of all. You ever stop to think you might just be hurting the city you claim to protect?”

  “Not for a second,” I shoot back.

  “Fine,” he says with a sigh. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want a fucking moratorium on all high-level investigations into Los Muertos.”

  His eyes fly open. “Are you wearing a wire? Have the Feds—”

  Now it’s my turn to be shocked as I interrupt his bullshit. “Shut the fuck up. The Feds? Jesus Christ.”

  “Well, you’re being particularly chatty today. For the record, I have made no unlawful agreements with you or anyone else. I assist the District Attorney with his agenda, and as such—”

  Unable to help myself, I punch Lytton in the softest part of his gut. Not hard enough to do permanent damage or cause internal bleeding. Just enough to have him double over, gasping for air.

  I bend down, close to his ear. “I need you to remember this feeling. The fear that grows stronger with each passing second your brain is deprived of oxygen. The panic that clutches at your throat when no air gets through. And I want you to remember that I can take away your ability to breathe, permanently.” I pat Lytton’s shoulder. “Can you do that for me?”

  He offers a frantic nod, holding onto his knees.

  “Good. Now, we both know what you’ve done. Just as we both know what I’ve done.”

  He sputters a cough and meets my eyes, managing to wheeze a barely audible, “Yeah, I do,” before coughing again.

  “The only thing that matters right now is getting Aislinn back, understood?”

  “Understood. So long as you understand—” more coughing. “Understand that I know everything, King. Especially where the bodies are buried.”

  “You want to be one of them?” Lytton pales beneath his flush. “Then stop pissing on people willing to slit Aislinn’s throat just to send you and Granville a message.”

  He staggers back to his feet, finally able to pull air into his lungs. “Your problems are much bigger than you think they are.”

  The ominous rasp sends a disquieting ripple across my nerves. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Lytton’s features tighten, leaving me unable to discern whether he was issuing a legitimate warning or a meaningless rebuttal. “Forget it. Like I said, I have made no unlawful agreements with you or anyone else. I assist—”

  I turn away from Lytton with a furious growl. “Get out of here.”

  He wastes no time op
ening the aluminum door and scurrying inside. But he doesn’t close it. Instead, he stands just inside the building. A fresh gust of garlic and roasting meat hit me in the face. My stomach turns. “So, do I need to tell Granville that you’ve lost his daughter, or is this something you can resolve in the next few hours?”

  On second thought, I should have killed him when I had the chance.

  The wave of incredulous fury that swells inside my chest must make an appearance on my face, too, because Lytton lets go of the door. It closes before I can reach through it and grab him by the throat.

  I’m calming myself down by plotting Lytton’s murder when the door opens again and a phone comes sailing at my face for the second time today. I catch it midair to find Aislinn’s face filling the screen, holding today’s paper beneath her chin.

  “This came just now?” I ask without tearing my eyes away from Aislinn’s imperious stare.

  The ice princess I first met, her sapphire blue eyes gleaming with a cold, calculating fury.

  Thank God.

  “Yes.”

  I send it to myself and Finley immediately, then slip the phone into my pocket.

  “Hey, give it back.”

  I step inside, standing toe to toe with Lytton. “You’ll get it back. Just as soon as I get Aislinn back.”

  6

  AISLINN

  “Are we—” I clear my throat. “Are we in Mexico?”

  I’ve waited to ask the question until we are halfway up the narrow set of creaky stairs. Until there is some distance between me and the three other men still sitting around a card table, the sharp edges of their malevolently appraising eyes chafing my skin.

  The dog walker pauses to unlock the door at the top of the stairs, grunting when the key stubbornly refuses to turn. I have no idea where I am being led, but I don’t want to go back downstairs. Surely, wherever he is taking me will be better, or at least offer the possibility of escape. The key finally turns, and dim sunlight hits me in the face.