by Taylor Lee
He wasn’t surprised how gruff his voice was, even though he tried to temper it. In what sounded to his ears like a growl he said, “Yeah, baby, you are that. But I will get you clean.”
Waiting until the Jacuzzi tub was filled, he opened the jets, releasing a cloud of soapy bubbles. Scooping her up in his arms, he gently placed her in the frothing water, gratified by her deep sigh. For the next twenty minutes, he carefully washed the encrusted dirt and blood off her, paying particular attention not to press against the emerging bruises. Resting her head against the edge of the tub, he washed her hair, massaging her scalp and neck with his strong fingers. Her grateful sighs were his reward. When he was confident that he’d removed every trace of filth, he released the stopper, and using the handheld nozzle, he thoroughly rinsed her hair and body, allowing the grimy remnants of her hideous experience to flow down the drain. He lifted her out of the tub and stood her on her feet in front of him. Resting her hands on his shoulders for support, he gently dried her hair and body with one of her giant, fluffy towels.
When he was satisfied that she was dry, Jax picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, preparing to put her into bed. To his surprise, she clung to his neck and murmured helplessly, “Please, Jax. Please hold me. Don’t . . . don’t let me go.”
He snorted, a gruff sound, a sob betraying his latent fury. “Not a chance, sweetheart. I will never let go of you again.”
Laying her battered body on the bed, he crawled in beside her and held her close to him. Her sporadic tremors telegraphed the remains of the drugs in her system. He gently massaged her shoulders and neck, gratified when she drifted into a fitful sleep. Holding her tighter when she cried out, he finally managed to lull her into a deep, if tortured, sleep.
***
Glaring at the two men on the monitor screen, Jax didn’t try to couch his anger. Mick O’Reilly and Greg Bannon met his gaze head on. Their solemn expressions confirmed they knew what was coming. Mick tentatively opened the conversation. “How is she, Jax? Please tell me she’s sleeping.”
“As a matter of fact, she is, Detective O’Reilly, although it took me a solid two hours to get her to sleep. The rest of the time I was trying to get the blood and dirt off her while trying not to exacerbate the multiple bruises that are erupting on what seems like every goddamned inch of her body. The fact that she is sleeping is a minor miracle, given that she is still coming down from whatever shit the motherfuckers gave her. Judging from her symptoms, I’m guessing it was a combination of Special K, maybe some Stardust thrown in, for sure crystal, and a heavy dose of X.” He added grimly, “Or whatever else they decided to hit her with. Suffice to say that it will take at least a couple of days to rid her body of the poison.”
Seeing the anguished expressions on both men’s faces, Jax took aim. Forcing himself to speak in a relatively low tone, he said, “Enough of the update from my end. I now want to hear every goddamned thing you know about this fucking mission of hers, and don’t leave out a thing.” Focusing on Greg, he said, “Let’s start with you, Commander Bannon. What the fuck is she working on? Spit it out, Greg, and don’t spare the details.”
Greg’s frown deepened and he shook his head. “You know damn well, Jax, that I don’t have a clue what she is working on. You heard what she told us both a couple days ago. She essentially said that she’d been trying to figure out why that young girl left the shelter and went back on the street. She told us at that time she’d decided she’d overreacted. That it was simply a case of Ariel falling off the wagon. We both knew that she was lying. I don’t know what else I can tell you, because that is the sum total of what I know.”
Jax didn’t respond for a long moment. He then turned to Mick O’Reilly and said curtly, “Given that Sergeant Moreau’s commander doesn’t have the foggiest idea what the officer he is charged with supervising is doing, how about you edifying us, Mick? Let’s hear it from her partner. Surely you can help us out, in that of the three of us, you’re the man who has worked with her the longest.”
Mick’s ruddy cheeks flamed a rosy scarlet, his watery eyes underscored his misery. “I . . . honest to Christ, Jax, I don’t know any more than what Greg said.” He hesitated, throwing Jax a pleading look. “I know this doesn’t mean shit, Chief. But I can tell you in the five years that I’ve been her partner, Vivi has never been more secretive about a case. I’ve tried everything I know to get her to throw me a bone, but that only seemed to antagonize her, make her more secretive. Fuck it, man, as Greg can tell you, she’s stopped bothering to come into the office. I guess she was tired of making excuses or, as Greg said, tired of lying outright.”
When Jax didn’t respond, Mick shook his head and stared into the camera, blinking back his looming tears. “Jax, when I walked in that fucking room tonight and saw her stretched out on that table and knew those motherfucking assholes were getting ready to rape her, I’m telling you, man, I died a thousand deaths. It’s a sight that will haunt me till the day I die.”
Jax let the silence stand for a long moment, trying to decide how he would answer. The anguish on both men’s faces was challenging to see. The only thing he knew was that his own anguish was worse. While there was no excuse for either man’s lack of oversight, the only person who deserved more blame was himself. Blowing out a hard sigh, he nodded to Mick. “I can understand how that scene would haunt you, Mick. And you too, Greg. Just know that the only person who is more responsible for Viviana almost getting killed tonight is me. I should have put a leash on her and tied her to a post rather than letting her out of my sight. But I didn’t, and I failed to protect her, as did both of you.” He was grimly silent for a moment. “The only person who is more to blame than the three of us is Sergeant Moreau. Oh, and that spineless piece of shit, Francis Fleming.” Jax shook his head again and muttered, “Although the fact that he called me and warned me probably saved her life.”
Greg blew out an audible breath and corrected him. “That and the coordinates you managed to get into her somehow. Without them, Jax, there was no way we could have found her before they killed her. Fuck it, even with the GPS, we almost didn’t get there in time.”
Jax snorted and said with a shrug, “Yeah, you’re right, Greg. If I hadn’t invaded her privacy the way I did, there’s no question that she wouldn’t have lived through tonight.” He let the silence stand and then glared at both men. “Fortunately we don’t have to wait for Viviana to wake up or Fleming’s ass to get over here to figure out what the hell was going on. No, men, I have a job specifically for the two of you. I want you to go down to the jail and haul out those two assholes you captured tonight and take them someplace off the grid. And when you have them there, I want you to find out who they are, who hired them, and the totality of their mission.”
Mick shot him a questioning frown. “Uh, Jax, don’t we have to Mirandize them first? Allow the fuckers to lawyer up?”
Jax allowed a smile to cross his face that he hoped looked as evil as he intended. Answering the obviously troubled detective, he said, “You are correct, Detective O’Reilly. That is accepted protocol. However, I agree with Sergeant Moreau that occasionally vigilante justice has its place.” He qualified his statement. “Granted, not for a police chief.” Focusing his fierce gaze on Greg, he said in a voice underlaid with banked anger, “As your squad leader, I’m ordering you to assume your Special Ops MO and get every goddamned piece of information you can from them. I want to know who they are, who hired them, and what they were getting paid to do—besides rape and kill Sergeant Moreau.” With a short laugh that belied the fury in his slate hard eyes, he added, “To be clear, Special Agent Bannon, as your commander, I have just given you a direct order. Get the information I requested using whatever means are necessary. And, Agent Bannon, keep me on the speaker when you do.”
Chapter 28
For the second time, Viviana woke up reaching for Jax, terrified that he was gone. A surge of ugly memories flooded her fuzzy brain. Fighting to make sense of the
hideous images, she breathed a sigh of relief when she heard his voice.
“I’m here, Viviana. Right beside you . . . where I’ve been for most of the night.” He paused, then added coolly, “That is, after your team freed you from the thugs who were preparing to rape and kill you.”
His ugly words and ironic tone broke through the fuzziness in her brain. She tried to sit up but fell back against the pillows, groaning at the pain that shot through her body. Unable to muffle her cry, she glanced up at the stern man standing beside the bed. His narrowed gaze and rigid jaw confirmed that the memories of him holding her throughout the hideous night were a thing of the past. His gentle solicitousness was clearly missing. It had been replaced with hard, cold anger.
“Good morning, Sergeant. I’m glad to see that you are awake. Make that I’m glad to see that you are alive. Given the experience you endured last night, the chances of you living through it were iffy at best. But, ever the trooper, the indomitable Enchantress has once again survived death-defying odds worthy of her Marvel clone. I’m impressed, Sergeant.”
As much as his cutting sarcasm hurt, it was the pain shadowing his eyes that made Jax’s rebuke so upsetting. Viviana remembered enough about her capture to know that she’d come damned close to being killed. Even if the memories were blessedly sketchy, the fact that merely shifting her position was excruciatingly painful confirmed that it was a miracle she’d survived. Make that a miracle that Jax and his team had once again managed to save her, no matter how many roadblocks she’d put in their way.
His crisp order cut through her recriminations, making it clear that the imposing man glaring at her was not the man who’d held her battered body in his strong arms throughout the night, whispering gentle words of comfort. No, it was Jaxton Hughes, the SJPD chief of police, the man who would decide if her latest misadventure would be her last as a member of the elite police force.
Tossing what look like sweatpants and a tee shirt on the bed, Jax motioned for her to get up. When she shoved herself to a sitting position on the side of the bed, trying to stifle the groan that escaped her lips, Jax’s expression hardened, making it clear that she was on her own.
“Okay, Sergeant. This is where we are going from here. Your team is here, waiting for you. You know who they are. They are the men, including me, that you refuse to call or bring into your fucking confidence, no matter how dangerous your mission is.” Nodding to the clothes he’d thrown on the bed, he said, “Please put these on and make yourself presentable. As presentable as you can, given that you were nearly beaten to death last night, and there isn’t a square inch of your body that isn’t bruised, cut, or swollen.”
Viviana eased herself to a standing position with the help of the bedside stand. Struggling for a shred of dignity, she met Jax’s implacable gaze. Holding the clothes against her naked body, she raised her chin, refusing to give in to the pain threatening to take her down, and stumbled into the bathroom. Closing the door behind her, she cautiously made her way to the vanity counter and stared in horror at her reflection in the mirror. Dear God, she had known that she was hurt. Every goddamned nerve ending in her body told her that. But even so, she was shocked at the battered woman clinging to the edge of the counter.
She knew that Jax had put her in a steamy bath last night and vaguely remembered him washing her hair and cleaning her body. She remembered his strong hands and tender words as he rubbed medicinal ointments and soothing creams over her injured body. But as much as she’d hurt at the time, she wasn’t prepared for the myriad bruises, scrapes, and cuts that, as Jax had said, seemed to cover every square inch of her body. Knowing that a group of angry, skeptical men were waiting for her, not the least of whom was the hard-eyed chief, Viviana’s pride flared. Glancing in the mirror, she shot the pale woman a hard glare. She’d be damned if she would face her team cowed and beaten. Yes, she looked like hell, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do to repair the damage. It was clear from the extent of her injuries that makeup and clothes could only do so much.
Yanking her disheveled hair into a ponytail, she pulled on the sweats and tee shirt Jax had thrown her. At least the shirt and pants covered some of her injuries. Swiping a smear of gloss on her lips, she wasn’t sure the dash of color helped. In truth, the glossy shine only served to emphasize how swollen her lips were, not to mention the jagged split on her top lip. Deciding that cosmetics would only make matters worse, she tossed her makeup bag on the counter and gingerly made her way down the hallway to her waiting inquisitors.
Raising her chin, she walked into the room. Mick, Greg, and Francis were sitting at the dining room table. Jax was leaning against the bar, his narrowed expression hard, closed. The three men at the table all looked up when she entered, and to a man, their shock was visible. She heard Francis’s startled cry and watched in horror when he buried his head on his arms and gave in to muffled, shoulder-shaking sobs. As challenging as that was, it was nothing compared to the agony she saw on her partner’s face. She and Mick had been to hell and back together, but she’d never seen him look as shattered as he did now. Only Greg Bannon, clearly the more intrepid warrior, was able to mask his feelings. But the pain she saw in his eyes was all too real and difficult to see, knowing that she was the one who’d put it there.
Standing in the doorway, Viviana felt faint. The sight of her challenged comrades was too much. It called on more bravado than even she could conjure up. Leaning against the wall, she fought the dizziness flooding her, determined not to fall. She shouldn’t have been surprised that Jax was almost instantly at her side. How he traversed an entire room in mere seconds only spoke to his omnipotence. Wrapping his arm around her, he half carried her to the table and sat her on one of two empty chairs. She saw him nod to Greg, who jumped up and returned from the counter with a pitcher of water and a glass. Continuing to hold her arm, Jax took the chair at the head of the table next to her. With his free hand, he poured her a glass of water and handed it to her. His slate-hard eyes gave her no choice but to take a cautious sip. Gratified that she’d swallowed it without choking, she tipped up her chin and met his gaze, praying that he wouldn’t make any more of a spectacle of her than she already had.
Jax glanced around the table, visually confirming that as shocked at Viviana’s appearance as they were, Greg and Mick were ready to continue. Not surprisingly, Francis couldn’t meet his gaze. Turning back to Viviana, he forced himself not to give in to the anguish he felt. knowing what she’d been through, he focused on an unavoidable fact. They were here at this hideous juncture because once again, Viviana, the woman he loved more than anything in the world and whom he would die to protect, was unwilling to confide in him. That knowledge stoked the smoldering coals of rage in his gut that threatened to flare at the least provocation. Pinning a hard glare on Viviana, Jax laid down his marker.
“First, Sergeant Moreau, in your own words—without leaving out a goddamned thing—I want you to describe the case that you have been working for the last three weeks. The one you have refused to share with your commander, your partner, or . . . with me, your police chief. Given that, I want to know in specific detail what you and Francis have learned and how you learned it. I want to know why Ariel left the shelter and why that was such a big fucking deal. I also want to know how Annabelle Simpson is involved, who the hell Penelope and Rodney Williams are, and how are they involved . . . if they are. Finally I want you to tell me why you agreed to go with those dangerous men last night and who you think hired them to kill you.”
Jax paused for a long moment, then waited until Viviana stopped studying her hands and looked up and met his eyes. Narrowing his gaze further, he allowed his voice to drop lower. The implicit threat undergirding it was audible to his ears, and from the tortured expression on Viviana’s face, also to hers. “Listen to me, Viviana, and listen well. You and I have been here before. The same consequences that were on the table then are here now. If anything, they are more likely. All it will take is one lie, one hesi
tation, one shading of the truth, to end this conversation. At that point, Sergeant Moreau, the discussion will be between you, currently a sergeant in the SJPD Violent Crimes Unit, and me, the SJPD chief of police.” He paused for effect, then said, “And you already know what the resolution of that conversation will be.”
Jax was surprised that Viviana could get any paler. Knowing how close to the edge she was, that she did so encouraged him as much as it alarmed him. He waited for a moment, and when she still didn’t answer him, he said carefully, “Nod if you understand.”
When she pressed her lips together and nodded, visibly fighting the tears swimming in her azure eyes, he blew out a hard sigh and continued. “Good, I’m glad we understand one another.” Turning to include the others, he said, “After you have relayed every detail of your dangerous mission that almost got you killed, you, Commander Bannon, Detective O’Reilly, and this man who used to be my friend”—he nodded to Francis, who’d ducked his head, refusing to meet Jax’s impassioned gaze—“are going to work with me to figure out how we are going to take those sons of bitches down.”
Viviana didn’t know where she got the strength to answer him, but having no choice, she began. She spoke slowly at first, without emotion, as though she were reading from a script. She stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with any of them, especially Jax. She started with Ariel leaving the shelter and didn’t try to explain why that had bothered her as much as it did, knowing that none of them except Francis would understand. When she detailed the hideous abuse that Ariel had suffered, she heard Mick’s gasp and felt Jax’s body tense.
At that moment a wave of fatigue hit her, and she didn’t know if she could continue. Jax filled her glass of water and pressed it into her hand. He waited a moment, then asked the question she’d asked Ariel. The question that had turned her world upside down and brought them to where they were today.