by Paige Hill
“Put the fucking gun on the ground.”
A loud noise to the right effectively draws his attention, providing me the opportunity I needed. I reach over my shoulder and grab the gun with both hands. Bending forward, I heave his body over mine, causing his grip on the gun to loosen. Without a second thought, I leap on top, smacking him in the head with the butt of his gun. His head rolls loosely to the side, clearly out cold.
Quickly looking around, I assess the situation. The team appears to have taken control and have started the process of securing the area. Still straddling my assailant, I feel for a pulse. Fucker is unconscious but still alive. Rolling him on his side, I slap a pair of cuffs around his wrists. Just then Briggs struts over, a hand pressed firmly to the side of his torso. Even in the dark, I can see the crimson staining his fingers.
“What the fuck man, are you hit?” I ask. It’s not the first time one of us has been hit, but man, that shit stings.
“Yeah but I got lucky. It’s just a graze. A fucking deep one but I think I’ll live.” He chuckles, but immediately regrets it when the tender muscles of his abdomen flex. “That sleazy mother fucker Greg is the one who got me.”
Looking around, I realize both Greg and the presumptive man in charge haven’t been injured, nor are they in cuffs. Briggs must understand the look in my eyes.
“They both ran off like little bitches. They are long gone now but it’s definitely not the last time we’ll be seeing ‘em.”
Moments later, a fleet of ambulances and squad cars flood the scene.
“This shit is so much bigger than drug smuggling,” Briggs observes on a heavy exhale. Both of us look toward the women being loaded into the ambulances. “What the fuck, man?” He rubs his hand roughly over his short brown hair. It was a question in which he didn’t expect an answer.
We stand there a few more minutes, taking the moment to catch our breath and process the last few hours. In unison, we head back toward Ramos and the rest of the team, watching morbidly as they pull the lifeless bodies of three more women from the shipping container.
“That sick fuck is going to get what’s coming to him,” I whisper the promise to myself, but I am confident Briggs heard it.
My phone begins to vibrate as Ramos starts directing the team. I pull it from my pocket, my blood running cold when I recognize the notification.
Someone tripped the alarm.
I no longer hear Ramos as panic’s deafening roar fills my ears. Briggs immediately knows something’s up.
“What’s going on?” he asks, all business.
“He came for her,” I choke. Not giving him a chance to respond, I take off at a dead run.
I’m coming, Sunshine.
Broken glass.
Everywhere.
As panic and confusion set in, we both instinctively jump from the couch to the floor in an attempt to protect ourselves. My thoughts race as I try to make sense of what just happened. There is a fluttering in my chest, like that of a hummingbird. The sight, the sound—all of it has my senses on high alert and it’s disorienting. My eyes are frantically pacing the room when I see it. Despite my efforts to calm my breathing, I feel like I might pass out. The only sound is the ringing in my ears.
There, on the floor next to the couch is a very large garden rock. Hastily painted across the smooth surface is another message. One that chills me to the bone.
You belong to me.
I knew he’d found me, he already made himself known. What I don’t understand is why? Why the game? His father made sure I was a wanted woman. I can’t fathom why it’s him and not the police busting through the door. Mark is a very calculated and strategic man. This behavior is either extremely out of character or his plan is larger and more complicated than I am capable of understanding.
Celeste grabs my arm and I feel her yank me off the floor, glass cutting into my bare feet. Where she is taking me, I have no idea. It feels like I’m on the outside watching this happen to someone else. For a moment, I feel like I could convince myself I’m still on the couch. I’m watching some other woman run in terror.
I force myself to focus on the moment. Passing the kitchen, I grab the only weapon I see—the knife used to cut the cocktail lime. In my haste, I manage to cut myself. The juice on the blade stings and hot tears prick my eyes. Just my luck. Celeste drags me down the hall, opening doors in a rush to find what she is looking for. The glass embeds itself further into my skin with each step. Pulling me into a bedroom closet, both of us cuddle up on the floor trying with all our might to remain silent.
Seconds feel like hours.
I have no idea how long we sit in the closet. My hands shake with fear, one holding the knife as blood pours down my arm, the other wrapped tightly in Celeste’s. I can only see parts of her face through the slats in the door. Her face is the picture of strength, the only reflection of fear is the trembling in her hands. Another crashing sound cuts through the house and it takes everything I have not to scream. The sound of wood splintering and heavy boots fill the air.
Determined that I will protect us regardless of the cost, I grip the knife tighter.
“Teagan!” I hear Declan’s strained voice carry throughout the house. Relief washes through me. I can feel Celeste release some of her tension at the same time I release mine.
Kicking the closet door open, I forgot about the glass embedded in my feet and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. Declan must hear the ruckus because he barrels into the room, gun raised, in full tactical gear. The sight takes my breath away for a multitude of reasons—not a single one being fear. There is no time to process how that makes me feel before he descends upon me.
“Teagan, baby? Look at me.” Kneeling, he takes my face into his calloused palms. His eyes roam the length of me, taking in the damage to my feet and hand.
“Fuck! Sunshine, I am so sorry.” He whispers as he pulls me to his chest. His heart races against my ear and I have to force myself not to interpret what that implies.
Turning to Celeste, he looks her over as well.
“Are you okay?” he asks her. But before he can get out a follow up question, she lets him have it.
“What took you so long! That maniac could have taken her!” She is yelling at him but there is no venom in her voice. She continues her tirade, flailing her arms and mumbling to herself in Spanish. The look in her eyes warms my heart as the realization sets in.
She cares about me.
There have only been two other people in my life that cared that much. I miss them so fucking much.
Celeste pulls me into a tight hug. I squeeze her back just as fiercely, hoping she can feel the emotions I struggle to express.
“Thank you so much,” I finally let out.
“Like I would have let that bastard near you without a fight. I grew up in Opa Locka. I’d have scratched his damn eyes out.” I can’t help but laugh at her statement. I whole heartedly believe she would.
Another set of boots crunching glass pulls our attention to the door. Placing himself between us and the door, Declan reaches for his gun.
“O’Connor, what the fuck man?” Briggs asks, hands up and an amused smile on his handsome face. Dropping his weapon, Declan gets back to business.
“Sorry man. We need to get them out of this house.” Looking back at me and Celeste, he continues. “They both are covered in glass. It isn’t safe here. He knows where I live. I have to take her somewhere, so we can figure this shit out.”
I could tell the moment Briggs noticed Celeste on the floor next to me. His jaw clenches and his breathing picks up as he watches me try to pull glass from her feet.
“Take her to the beach house. There is no way he knows about that place,” he replies, his eyes still on Celeste.
Declan nods his head in thought. “Okay. We’ll head over there tonight.”
“What about the bar? You can’t blow your cover over this. I’m not trying to be a dick about it, but we are so close to ending this.”
“I agree. Wendy makes the schedule. I will just have to make sure she puts us on the same shift. I’m not leaving her alone again.” His statement is final and leaves no room for argument from Briggs or myself.
“There’s one more thing,” Briggs cuts in. “You need to come see this.”
Declan turns and places a gentle kiss on my lips. “I’ll be right back. We will get our stuff together and get out of here.”
“Okay,” is all I can manage. But really, what else could I say?
“What’s going on?” I ask once we are out of ear shot. Briggs doesn’t immediately answer but chooses to show me instead. Walking into the living room, the remains of my shattered window crunch beneath our boots.
No! How did I miss that before? This guy is one sick bastard. Strewn across the floor are glossy images of me and Teagan, clearly taken from the bedroom window. A single red rose takes center place amidst the evidence of last night. The weight of the pictures rests heavily on my chest. Sucking in a deep breath, I take in the photos of Teagan, the star in the most intimate moment of my life. That sick fuck has managed to take that from me. From her.
A guttural roar threatens to escape as I pull out my phone and begin to take photos for evidence. I know I can’t call this in, the consequences are too high. However, this is a crime scene and I’m going to do my best to treat it as such. I crouch, carefully removing the photos from the floor, it would do no good for Teagan to see them. Evidently, I am not fast enough. A gasp slips from Teagan’s lips as she leans against the wall, taking it all in.
“I don’t get it. Why didn’t he try to take her?” Briggs questions, rubbing his forehead in contemplation.
That’s a damn good question.
“Because he is punishing me. It’s a game. He feeds on my fear and the more afraid of him I am, the sweeter the reward when he finally does take me.” She stares blankly at nothing, and it feels like she’s shutting down. “When will this stop? Why does he have to take everything from me?” She asks the questions to herself, but the silence in the room tells me everyone is well aware of her turmoil.
I move from my knees to my feet, intent on comforting her. It kills me to see her like this. No woman deserves to live in constant fear. Before I make it across the room to her, she rears her fist back with a scream and slams it into the drywall.
There’s the Teagan I know. Lucky for her, she hit it between the studs, so it was all drywall and insulation.
“Holy hell! That hurts so much more than it looks like!” She barks, and it takes all I have not to laugh. The spitfire I know she is tries to resurface.
I place a kiss on top of her throbbing knuckles, mostly to console her but partly to cover the smile on my face. She’s adorable and I’m afraid she’d try to kick me in the balls if I told her so.
Teagan takes a step toward the kitchen and I notice she is limping. Fuck, I can see the glass in her feet from across the room.
I scoop her up and place her on the kitchen counter. Taking a moment to look her over, I notice the cut on her hands, too. Shit, I need to get her somewhere and clean her up. Rage starts to build in my chest again as I think about the different ways tonight could have ended. I remind myself that brooding about something I can’t change isn’t going to help. I see Celeste propped up on the kitchen table and Briggs kneeling on the floor below her, presumably pulling out the glass. I am not sure how to process the sight. Briggs hasn’t been near a fully clothed woman, since the Gwen fiasco. He notices me watching him and immediately stands. The softness in his eyes is wiped away and he’s back to Agent Briggs.
“Let’s just get them out of here and I’ll send someone down to board up the window.”
“Where are you taking Celeste?” Teagan interrupts. “We need to help her, look at her feet!”
“I’m fine. A pair of tweezers, some peroxide, a bottle of wine, and I’m all better.”
“I got her.” Briggs surprises me again.
“Got who exactly?” Celeste snaps at him.
This is going to be interesting.
“You can fight all you want, but you’re fucking high if you think I’m going to let you leave alone. That wacko knows you are close to Teagan and you can barely walk. You either go willingly, or I carry you out of here. Your choice, sweetheart.”
Everyone in the room is just as stunned as she is.
Without another word, Teagan wraps her arms around my neck and we make a hasty exit.
A heavy stone settles in the pit of my stomach, the force of the impact creates rippling waves that churn its contents. The images strewn across the floor are burned into my mind, making it difficult to process the sights and sounds that surround me as Declan speeds toward our destination. His knuckles are white, the only give away to the boiling tension he holds inside. In my peripheral, I can see his deliberate glances behind us. Knowing he is doing so to ensure we are not followed only fuels the anxiety threatening to consume me. It’s only natural for me to question when this nightmare will end, but the real question should be how does it end? It seems the harder I try to make sense of the situation, the more confused I am. I’m waiting for the moment a big black hole opens up and swallows me. No longer able to control my emotions, a slow tear breaks free, creating a sparkling path down my flushed cheek. The previously silent Declan takes notice and places my small hand in his much larger one.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” are the only words he speaks the rest of the drive. This is in no way his fault, but I remain silent. There is plenty of time to argue with him about this. For right now, I need the silence to work out whatever fucked up plan I can come up with.
Deep in my own thoughts, I am startled by the crunch of gravel under the tires. Looking out the window into the darkness, I can make out a driveway, heavy with lush greenery. It’s gorgeous and I can’t wait to see it when the sun rises. Declan steers around a slight curve and the headlights beam, framing an elegant beach house in a yellow glow. The crisp white siding complements the navy-blue shutters and dark red door, giving the house a warm, welcoming feel. From the driveway, I can see the waves roll in, beautifully lit by the moonlight. I can already feel the peaceful atmosphere wrap around me and envelop me like a blanket.
Declan kills the engine and simply stares at the steering wheel for a long moment. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to the punch.
“Let’s get inside. We need to get you cleaned up. It’s been one hell of a day.” With that, he steps out. The glass in my sore feet prevents me from trying to jump out of the Jeep myself. When I open the door, Declan wraps a thick arm under my knees and another behind my back, lifting me from the seat. The sound of the waves breaking shore greets us as the crisp ocean air prickles my sensitive skin.
As we approach the front door, I realize this house is locked down like Fort Knox. In the dark, I can see little red lights on various angles of the house. A tell-tale sign of surveillance cameras. Focusing on the door, Declan punches a code into the keypad and a series of muffled clicks sound before he turns the knob and we enter as the lights come on inside.
“Motion sensor,” he divulges, as if reading my mind.
The interior is much more comfortable looking than I would have anticipated for such a grand house. White marble floors glisten throughout the bottom floor, giving the visual illusion of walking on a cloud.
I wiggle slightly, trying to get Declan to lower me to the ground, but he has other ideas. Ignoring my silent request, he carries me up a winding staircase into what I assume is the master bedroom. The room is decorated in layers of plush fabrics, airy drapery, and a massive bed that faces a wall of glass overlooking the beach. Unfortunately, I am not given enough time to appreciate the view before he turns into another entryway.
Oh. My. God.
This is the bathroom that dreams are made of. A large porcelain tub rests against the glass wall that continues from the other room. A separate shower with at least eight jets sits opposite the room, and there is an opul
ent marble top double vanity, the likes of which I have never seen.
Declan finally sets me down and a shiver travels up my spine as the backs of my thighs hit the cool stone counter. Declan’s warm hands brace themselves on my hips and he pulls me into his chest, his arms engulfing me. With my head pressed against him, I can hear the rhythm of his heart. It’s a strong and steady beat, one that soothes me. I breathe in the masculine woodsy scent and focus on the sensation, my pulse lowering to match his.
“What happened tonight should never have happened. I should have never left.” His voice rumbles, vibrating through his chest.
Reluctantly pulling away, I lift my head and look him in the eyes. How could he possibly think any of this is his fault? Now I’m starting to get pissed. Aside from Manny, Declan has been the only man in my life who gave a damn about me. I refuse to allow him to believe, even for a second, that anything Mark has done is because he failed me. The foreboding in his tone struck a nerve, causing me to take a deep breath to calm my frustration before I respond.
“Let’s get one thing straight. This is in no way your fault. It’s his and his alone. I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t matter where I am. If he wants me, he will find me. My job is to figure out what to do when that happens.” My eyes narrow slightly, but never leave his, hoping that I can emit more confidence than I feel. Mark is my husband. He’s my problem to fix and I refuse to sit back and watch as innocent people are dragged into a mess I created.
Refusing to hold my stare, he lowers his head to the floor and sighs heavily.
“Let me look at your feet,” he says finally as he kneels on the floor below me. I watch him closely as he inspects my injuries. His forehead creases adorably between his brows in concentration before he gets up silently and rummages through cabinets looking for what I assume is a first aid kit. His movements seem so relaxed, betraying the haunted look previously in his eyes. My sight wanders from Declan to the moonlit ocean view before me. In the distance, I can see a buoy bobbing gently in the water. It is in that moment I realize just how much I have in common with that buoy. I’ve spent my whole life looking off into the distance and the freedom it provides. It doesn’t matter how hard the waves get thrown at me, how calm the sea is, or the movement of the tide. I simply float there, waiting out the storm. But unlike that buoy, I have the power to cut the strings and drift on to a better life. And that’s what I’m going to do. This renewed sense of determination is what will keep me going when I want to quit. I’ve thought about it a lot, but Martha is right. I am stronger than this. Stronger than him. There must be so much more to this life and I plan to finish my days exploring exactly what it has to offer.