by Taylor Lee
As Francis scoured her text for the third time and Viviana still hadn’t appeared, his annoyance turned to unease. After leaving two unanswered voice mails asking her where the hell she was, he called Mick O’Reilly. The affable detective chortled and asked what made Francis think that his elusive partner would be at the precinct. He added helpfully that it was possible Greg Bannon or Jax had waylaid her. He indicated that Bannon had been looking for her earlier. Rereading her text yet again, Francis’s unease flared to outright concern. Goddammit, he was getting more anxious by the moment, given what he and Viviana were uncovering. Deciding he had to know where she was, he punched in Bannon’s number. Hearing the commander’s pleasant greeting, Francis sucked in a deep breath and figuratively crossed his fingers.
“Good afternoon, make that evening, Commander Bannon. I’m sorry to bother you, but any chance you’ve heard from Sergeant Moreau?”
Bannon laughed, although Francis didn’t miss the edge in his humorous response. “Good God, man, you must know that the last place anyone is likely to find Sergeant Moreau is the SJPD precinct. Especially the VCU, where I’ve heard it rumored that she is a star player. Not that any of us here would know, in that for the most part she is decidedly MIA.”
Now truly alarmed, Francis pressed him. “Do you know if, by chance, she’s with Jax?”
“No, man, she isn’t. That I know for sure. Jax is in San Francisco addressing the Annual Conference of Police Chiefs. If my timing is correct, at this moment he’s mounting the podium to give the keynote address.”
Fighting the fear churning in his gut, Francis swallowed hard and tapped out a text, praying to God he wasn’t being an alarmist but not much caring if he was.
“Jax. Don’t want to alarm you, but Viviana is missing. Remember Santiago? This may be more dangerous.”
***
Ignoring Mac McElroy’s startled response, Jax said quietly, “It’s Viviana, Mac. You need to fill in for me.”
Striding to the exit, barely hearing Mac’s halting explanation that Chief Hughes had an emergency and needed to leave, Jax yanked out his cell phone. He punched in Viviana’s number, a combination of anger and fear crawling up his neck at the sound of her sexy voice mail. Not bothering to leave a message, he hit Francis’s number as he raced to the exit. “Answer me, Francis. Tell me. When did you see her last?”
Francis’s response hit him the gut, a crushing body blow. “Jax . . . she sent me a message an hour ago saying she was here. That we needed to celebrate. She’d made a big break.” Before Jax could question him further, Francis added, fear streaking his voice, “Jax, I just went out to the parking lot. Her . . . Mazda is there.” His voice rose shrilly. “Jax, I think . . . fuck it, Jax, there’s blood on the door.”
Chapter 26
Viviana struggled to make sense of her surroundings. A pounding jackhammer had set up a steady beat in her head, making it impossible to think. She knew the acrid taste in her mouth was blood. The blinding pain in her shoulders confirmed that her manacled hands were hanging from a rope, likely strung over a beam in the ceiling. Even the slightest movement sent a firestorm of agony across screaming nerve endings. Forcing herself not to move, she gave in to the blessed numbness that overtook her. The nausea welling up in her throat confirmed what she already knew—she’d been hit hard, likely by Special K, or GHB, or, fuck, a combination of God knows what.
Whatever it was it had taken her down fast. And they’d hit her with a big enough dose that it was a wonder she could think. Determined not to go under again, Viviana forced herself to understand what she was hearing. The angry voices in another room confirmed an argument was underway. The loudest voice was mad as hell and making sure his cohorts knew it. For a moment she thought she recognized the voice. Remembering the scene in the Williams’s library, in a brief moment of clarity, she knew it was Rodney Williams. Forcing herself to concentrate through the layers of sludge clouding her brain, she heard a woman’s voice, one she didn’t recognize.
“Goddammit, I told you that she was on to us. But we need to know what she knows. Who she’s told. It’s one thing for the little pussy to think she is on to something; we can dispense with her. Everyone knows she is a publicity slut and regularly goes off the reservation. But if she’s brought that fucking Hughes into it, we are dead in the water.”
The voice Viviana was now sure belonged to Rodney Williams was stern but conciliatory. He seemed to be trying to placate the angry woman. “There’s not a chance in hell that Hughes knows, or he would be all over us. I have it from the best sources that he is in LA delivering the keynote address at some big police chief shindig. From everything that Penny has said, the bitch flies solo. She is a psychopathic loner, never brings her partner or commander into a case until she’s solved it.”
“You’d better hope so, but before we get rid of her, make it look like she had a fatal accident, we need to know who she’s told, if anyone.” The woman’s voice hardened. “You, both of you. Get back in there and do what we are paying you to do.”
A voice Viviana thought she recognized but couldn’t place was cautious. “I know you aren’t from around here, but Sergeant Moreau got the reputation that she has because she is the toughest babe who walks this earth. She isn’t likely to tell us anything she doesn’t want to.”
The woman, who Viviana now believed must be Miss H, said in a silky voice thick with malice, “Then I suggest that you be persuasive. If you can’t beat it out of her, you might hit her with a dose of spike. My understanding is that the combination of scopolamine and heroin can get just about anyone to give up the truth.”
The cautious voice muttered, “Yeah, if it doesn’t kill ’em first.”
The silky voice intoned wryly, “Ah, yes, there is always that possibility.”
Williams was curt. “We’ll leave you to your work, gentlemen. But if you expect to be compensated for your efforts, get the information we require before she dies, or you get nothing. You have no idea the connections that we have. We can reach into the highest levels of law enforcement. One word from us will ensure that you will spend your lives in solitary confinement.” He added ominously, “If you survive your trial, that is.”
***
The distress in Greg Bannon’s voice was obvious. “Jesus, Jax, how the hell do I know where she is? Fuck it, man, in the time I’ve been here, she’s graced this fucking department with her presence a total of three times.” He added bitterly, “But then, who’s counting?”
“Given that you are her supervisor, Commander Bannon, her whereabouts is your primary job.” Jax controlled himself with an effort. “But we will deal with that issue later. Listen, Greg, and listen hard. Viviana is in danger. Francis Flemings found her car in his parking lot and thinks there’s blood in it. Moreover, he’s been trying to reach her for over an hour after she told him she was five minutes out. You don’t know Viviana well enough to understand the implications. I’m telling you, man, grab Mick O’Reilly and every available officer you can and haul ass over to Flemings. Check out her car. If Francis is right, someone has taken her.”
Bannon’s disbelief was obvious. “Dammit, Jax, we’re on our way. But are you sure Fleming is not overreacting? Or . . . that you aren’t? Christ, man, you’ve gotta know you’re far from rational when it comes to our incorrigible sergeant.”
Jax was surprised he sounded coherent, even somewhat rational, considering the fear and anger contorting his gut. How could he explain to Greg his certainty that Viviana was in danger? It took every ounce of restraint he had to speak relatively calmly. “Commander Bannon, hear me and hear me well. Someone has captured Sergeant Moreau, and her life is in danger. I’m on my way, but even in the H120 bird I’m about to shanghai, it’ll take me nearly an hour to get there.” He added, “When you get O’Reilly, tell him Fleming thinks we’re dealing with a perp that puts Santiago to shame. He’ll appreciate the danger if you don’t.”
Knowing that he was being unfair to his friend, Jax pulled bac
k his rhetoric and went into leadership mode. “Call me when you’ve assembled the team, Commander Bannon. Here are her coordinates, but if my gut is right, you’re going to need to go in dark.”
Ten minutes later, a clearly chastened Bannon connected with Jax. “Hate to tell you, but you were right, buddy. There is no denying the blood or that Viviana is missing. By the way, O’Reilly is as concerned as you are. He confirms that he sent her their ‘ten thirteen’ signal and hasn’t heard back. Apparently they have an inviolable rule that no one, even Sergeant Moreau, can ignore that signal from their partner.” He added, “As for the coordinates you gave me, if they are correct, she is a good twenty minutes from here in some goddamned woods according to O’Reilly.”
Jax responded as calmly as he could. “The coordinates are correct, and I agree with Mick. According to my Google map, they have her secured in what looks like a cabin in the woods.”
Greg hesitated, then asked, “Christ, Jax, about those coordinates, I gotta ask. What the fuck did you do? Chip her?”
Thinking about the device he’d secreted in a very private place, Jax kept his response non-committal. “Close, Commander Bannon, damn close.”
***
Viviana slumped over, letting her head hang against her chest. She knew that if she was going to have a chance to overtake her captors, she needed to convince them that she was unconscious. Thank God the drugs they’d given her seemed to be wearing off. The downside was that as she became less numb, it took a huge effort not to cry out at the pain her changed position shot through her.
“Help me take her down, Hank. If we’re going to convince the Enchantress that she’s gotta talk to us, we need to wake her up.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Viviana recognized the two men who’d approached her in the parking lot pretending to be eager newsmen. She chastised herself, angry that she’d been so easily duped. She admitted that she’d let down her guard when the men indicated that they were stringers for the LA Times. Maybe Jax was right. She was a media whore. Knowing that she was being unfair to Jax in that he’d never called her that ugly name, a wave of shame mixed with regret swept over her. Jesus God, why couldn’t she have confided in him? If she had, the chances were good that they would be close to taking down the hideous group of child pornographers the FBI had been tracking for nearly five years. Instead, not only would the villains escape but the likelihood that she would die in the process was damn good.
Forcing herself to focus on the enormity of the task facing her, she knew her only chance of escaping was the element of surprise. She had to make her captors think she was still compromised by the shit they’d given her. That she probably was didn’t help. Lolling back in the armchair they placed her in, she pretended to be disjointed, unable to sit up straight. When the man called Hank slapped her across the face to get her attention, she let her head fall against her chest. He jerked her back up and smacked her again.
“C’mon, Sergeant Moreau, wake up. You’ve slept long enough. Me and my buddy, Davie, gotta talk to you. And honey, you definitely gotta talk to us. Some very dangerous people need to know if any of your fellow coppers know what you’ve been up to. Particularly that hotshit police chief of yours.”
Viviana waited until Davie untied her, keeping her body as inert as she could. When he started to pick her up, she made her move. Driving her knee into his groin, she followed the strike with a kick that caught the shrieking man on the side of his head. Unfortunately she was more compromised than she’d realized, because the blow only served to enrage him. Diving for the floor, she rolled to her knees, preparing to defend herself. She knew she had a fighting chance if she could only get to her feet.
Facing the two men who were surging toward her, she barreled into Hank, who was the closest, knocking him over. Using the side of her hand in a knife strike, she managed to connect with the soft spot beneath Davie’s ear. But her victory was short-lived. Before she could whirl to face him, Hank connected with her jaw, smashing her to the ground. For several minutes the enraged men used her as a human punching bag, landing one fierce blow after another on her defenseless body. When she rolled over into a ball, blood spurting from her nose and mouth, they seemed to get control of themselves.
Hank grabbed Davie’s arm pulling him back. “Fuck it, man. Let up. Christ, we’ll never get her to talk like this. But I have a better idea. How about we find out if she is as hard to get as we’ve heard? Maybe we can fuck her into talking. I’ll just bet that police chief and this bitch play lots of games. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shares her. How about we share her instead?”
Viviana tried to resist, but the combination of the beating they’d given her and the residual drugs in her system made it impossible to fight back. To her horror, she felt them lift her face-down onto a table. Shoving at his pants and yanking out his prick, Davie wiped the blood off his face and leered at her. “How about it, Enchantress, you ready to give it up for a couple of real men? Men who are going to show you what it’s liked to be truly fucked?”
Viviana would think later that Mick’s crazy sense of humor had never been more welcome when she heard the irreverent Irishman chortle. “Speaking of truly fucked, gentlemen . . . ”
***
When she was close to convincing Mick that she was going to be okay and that he needed to leave, Greg stepped forward, asserting his authority.
“Listen to me, Viviana. You have been seriously hurt. Tell me what you need. A glass of water, a stiff shot of booze? Just know that neither Detective O’Reilly nor I, nor any of the other officers hovering in the doorway, plan to leave you until we are sure that you are going to be okay.”
When she shook her head, fiercely insisting that she was fine and that she wanted them to go, Mick said with a heartfelt sigh, “Sweet cheeks, you know Jax would have our balls in a wood chipper if we left you before he got here.”
A deep voice spoke from the doorway. “You are right about that, Detective O’Reilly. But, given that I am here, you may leave, all of you. Now.”
As the men paraded by him toward the door, Jax nodded to each of them. “I trust you are aware that graciousness isn’t one of Sergeant Moreau’s strong suits. So don’t expect her to thank you for saving her life. But take it from me, I appreciate the hell out of you. That said, will you all please leave? Sergeant Moreau and I have a challenging conversation ahead of us. One that requires privacy.”
Chapter 27
Jax sucked in as much air as his challenged lungs would allow, waiting for the men to troop out. Only Mick O’Reilly was willing to meet his hard gaze. When he was sure they were gone, he forced himself to look at Viviana. A gut shot from a .300 Winchester Magnum couldn’t have hit him harder. She was crouched in a corner of the sofa, her clothes torn and dirty. She looked like the sole survivor of a death march. Mottled bruises and dried blood were visible on the parts of her body not covered with clothing. Her hair was a tangled mess, streaked with dirt and more blood. Her face was so pale it was virtually translucent, which made the remnants of blood and dirt streaking it grotesquely apparent.
Seeing that she was unwilling to meet his gaze, Jax forced himself to reach for her. He lifted her fragile body off the sofa and captured her in his arms. He willed himself not to hold her too tightly, knowing that every part of her had to be traumatized. But it took an effort he wasn’t sure he had. He longed to press her against him, meld her to him, ensure that he would never let her go for as much as an instant. He wasn’t surprised that he was shaking as hard as she was. The fury raging inside of him threatened to take him down. Only his fear from imagining how close he’d come to losing her kept his rage from erupting.
Striding toward her bathroom, he kicked open the door, gratified by the sound of it slamming against the wall. He wished he could smash it, tear it off its hinges, kick it down the hallway—anything to help release the tortured emotions flooding him. Getting control of himself, he set her down beside the bathtub. Murmuring softly to her, he carefully
began removing her clothes. As he started to lift her arms to pull her ragged tee shirt over her head, her sharp cry stopped him. Knowing that the bastards had hung her from the ceiling, he could only imagine how tortured her arms, shoulders, and neck muscles had to be. Reaching for the front of the tee shirt, he tore it down the middle and tossed it to the floor.
He refused to look at her chest or arms, knowing what he would see. Instead he stripped off her jeans, then forced himself to look at her bra and torn panties. Greg had assured him that they’d arrived in time to prevent what would have been a certain gang rape. Dispensing with the tattered scraps of what had been her clothing, he unfastened her bra and tossed it to the floor. Her torn panties followed, leaving her naked before him. Stepping back, he forced himself to see the totality of what they had done to her. Motioning with his fingers for her to turn around, he investigated every inch of her body. He carefully tested her extremities, each of her ribs, and every vertebra from her tailbone to her cervical spine to make sure there were no breaks. Seeing the bruises erupting on her arms, legs, chest, and back creating a tapestry of hideous colors, he struggled with the rage threatening to overtake him. She was murmuring unintelligible words that sounded like apologies, but he stopped her, shaking his head and pressing his fingers against her lips. She nodded as if she understood and closed her eyes to shut out what he was sure was his tortured expression.
Turning the bathtub faucets on full force, Jax squirted a half-bottle of body wash into the bubbling water. Seeing what he was doing, she whispered, “I’m dirty, Jax. Please . . . please get me clean.”