Promises to Keep

by Maegan Beaumont

  Forty

  He waited until he heard the muffled thud of Lark shutting the door to his room before he moved. Standing, he bent and picked up the boy.

  Michael carried him up stairs to the room across from his own. He pulled back the covers on the bed and deposited him in it. He was thin. Too thin. Dark shaggy hair lay flat against the skeletal angles of his face. The baggy shirt and sweats practically swallowed him whole. He saw himself as a child, shell-shocked and broken—a half-feral boy no one wanted.

  He’d been eight when his smack-addicted mother finally managed to kill herself. He sat, locked in the closet in a puddle of his own urine for three days, waiting to die. Hoping to, really. But the smell of his mother rotting away in the bathroom finally won out over the warm garbage stench that permeated the shitty tenement they lived in.

  He’d been pulled out of that closet. Cleaned up and fed. Put in an endless parade of cars and taken from placement to placement. Eight of them in less than a year before he landed on Sophia and Sean’s doorstep. His life with them stuck. Not because he’d finally settled, but because they refused to give up on him. Because they loved him.

  Because, finally, someone wanted him.

  He looked at the boy. Who are you? Why do both Reyes and Cordova want you dead? What do you know that’s so important? Instead of asking questions he was sure there were no answers for, Michael tugged the covers up to Alex’s chin, over his frail shoulders. “Good night,” he mumbled in Russian before heading for the door. He could’ve sworn he’d heard the kid whisper, “Spasibo,” just before he shut the door behind him.

  Spasibo. Thank you.

  Michael stopped in his room long enough to change his clothes, exchanging the rumpled suit for a pair of track pants and a faded T-shirt before pulling on a shoulder holster to house his Kimber .45. A lightweight jacket completed his newest disguise.

  In his track pants and cross trainers, he looked like a regular guy out for a late-night run.

  Nothing could’ve been further from the truth.

  He circled the block, his head on a swivel. Scanning the street, the surrounding yards. Cars parked along the curb. All was quiet—for now. It was only a matter of time before the place was crawling with Spanish thugs and Colombian henchmen. This was the calm before the storm. Time to batten down the hatches.

  Reapproaching the street that held Miss Ettie’s B&B, he continued on toward Sabrina’s. She wasn’t asleep. She’d be up, pacing and worrying. Figuring out a way to keep the Kotko boy safe. Waiting for the same thing he was—for it all to come crashing down on them.

  He stopped as soon as he reached her fence line, allowing the hydrangeas to hide him from view. He stood there for a moment, fighting the urge to climb her stairs and knock. To apologize and smooth things over.

  Suddenly the door at the top of her third-floor landing opened and she appeared, a large rust-colored dog at her side. She took the steps quietly and cut across the yard to the street where she’d parked her car. He watched her unlock the door, letting the dog in first before she slid behind the wheel.

  He crossed the street at a quick clip, reaching the car seconds before she turned the engine over. Raising his hand, he rapped his knuckles against the passenger side window. The dog in the seat next to her let out a sharp bark, floppy ears flattened against a sleek skull, quivering lips peeled back from large teeth.

  Sabrina jumped in her seat, turning to place a hand on the dog’s flank. She looked through the window before she said something he couldn’t hear. The dog’s demeanor changed instantly; it no longer looked poised to attack but rather like it was waiting.

  She said something else to the dog just before the window a few inches from his face was powered down. “Do you ever sleep?”

  “About as much as you do,” he said with a shrug. “You finally got your own dog.”

  “She was a gift,” Sabrina said as if she needed an excuse. “What are you doing here?”

  “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “I’m hungry. Thought I’d go grab a bite,” she said, the lie flowing smoothly. He could always tell when she was lying because she looked you right in the eye when she did it.

  He chuckled and made a point to look at his watch before answering. “Yeah? Me too. Mind if I tag along?” He wasn’t hungry, but it was nearly eleven o’clock at night. She wasn’t going anywhere without him.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes.”

  “Excellent,” he said, reaching through the open window to open the locked door from the inside. The dog shifted in the seat in front of him, letting out a low-level growl. He looked at the woman behind the dog. “You want to tell your bodyguard to relax?”

  For a moment it looked like she would do no such thing but then she relented. “Stil en rustig, Avasa,” she said firmly and the dog’s demeanor changed again. Craning her neck around, she gave her mistress a few wipes with her tongue. Sabrina smiled and ran a hand over the dog’s head, ruffling her ears. “Okay, okay—achterbank,” she said, and the dog immediately did as she was told, moving to the back seat.

  “Your dog responds to Dutch,” he said, opening the door and easing himself into the seat that had been vacated.

  Sabrina started the car and shifted into drive. “Just a few key commands,” she said, pulling away from the curb.

  The canines used by FSS were trained to follow Dutch commands. He knew without asking who had given her the dog.

  Ben.

  It bothered him more than it should. Here was more proof that while he had been busy trying to do the right thing and stay away, his partner had made himself at home in Sabrina’s life. Dwelling on Ben’s motives would prove dangerous, so he pushed the thought from his mind. They traveled in awkward silence for a while before he spoke again. “I’m sorry about earlier—”

  She held up a hand, stopping him cold. “Don’t. There’s no need to apologize. I understand perfectly.”

  “I don’t think you do,” he said. “Lark is Shaw’s lapdog. Sent here to keep tabs on me—on us. It’s safer if I …” He let his gaze drift out the window. Gone were the affluent homes and wide manicured lawns. In the space of twenty minutes they’d traded St. Francis Wood for the Tenderloin, one of San Francisco’s toughest neighborhoods.

  She made a left onto Eddy and parallel parked in front of a Korean restaurant. “Safer if you what?” she said, killing the engine.

  He didn’t answer, couldn’t really. Not without tearing down the wall he’d worked so hard to build between them.

  Thankfully she let it go. “If you’re coming with me, you’re going to want to leave your gun in the car,” she said before looking over her shoulder. “Blijven en beschermen.”

  Stay and protect.

  As soon as the words were spoken, she was out of the car and around its front, heading for the Korean restaurant and leaving him little choice but to follow.

  Forty-One

  The restaurant was nearly deserted, nothing more than a group of straggling tourists and a couple of hookers on their lunch break. Seeing them, Michael was reminded of how late it was. Too late for short ribs … Whatever Sabrina was after, it wasn’t food.

  The woman manning the front was dressed in the traditional hanbok—a high-wasted skirt over a fitted long-sleeve top, her dark hair secured at her nape in a low bun. When she saw Sabrina, she inclined her head slightly. “Please wait,” she said to Sabrina before disappearing.

  “I was serious about the gun,” she said without looking at him. “I hope you left it in the car.”

  “I did,” he said, taking in the interior. Low ceilings, booths separated by mahogany partitions. For some reason, his thoughts turned to David Song, the man who’d nearly killed him. “What are we doing here?”

  “Getting answers,” she said softly.

  Before he could press her, the woman returned. �
��Come, please,” she said before turning and leading them through the restaurant, heading for what looked like a private dining room. The paper partition slid open to reveal a couple of thugs dressed in dark suits, tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of their dress shirts. Korean Pips.

  Sabrina entered the room uninhibited, taking a chair at the table. Without being asked, he held his arms up and submitted to a pat-down, his eyes scanning the room until he found who he was looking for.

  The man sat with his back in the corner, facing the door, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “You’ve brought a guest this time,” he said to Sabrina. “And I thought you were ashamed to be seen with me.”

  “Michael O’Shea,” she said, and the man’s face changed instantly.

  He stood before speaking to the young woman behind him in Korean. She bowed in response and scurried off to do the man’s bidding. “Let him in,” he said, the thugs nearly tripping over themselves to do as they were told.

  As soon as the partition was closed, the man offered him a deep bow, the collar of his expensive silk shirt pulling away from his chest and neck to reveal extensive ink work. Michael inclined his head to show respect before taking a seat next to Sabrina.

  “This is Phillip Song,” she said, placing her hands carefully on the table in front of her. “He’s the head of Seven Dragons.”

  Song settled into his chair and gave her an easy smile. “I am no such thing, Inspector. I am as my father was before me—a simple immigrant who is deeply entrenched in his community.” His dark eyes glittered, the corner of his mouth lifting in the slightest of smirks. This was obviously a game they’d played before.

  “Regardless of what you are, she killed your brother. Why would you help her?” Michael asked, intentionally attempting to get a rise from their host.

  Song’s eyes flashed a warning, but it was fleeting. He turned his gaze on Sabrina. “What is it that brings you here, yeon-in? Not just tea, I think.”

  Michael’s teeth were instantly set on edge. Yeon-in meant sweet-

  heart.

  If she understood the intimacy involved in his words, she didn’t show it. “People. Specifically, children.” Sabrina sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to know who’s selling them in the city and from where.”

  Song’s face folded up tight, his solicitous demeanor instantly gone. “I have nothing to do with such filth.”

  “I know you don’t, but you’re the only gangster I’m on a first-name basis with, so my options on who to ask are limited.” She dropped her arms and leaned in, fixing him with a long look. “This is important, Phillip.”

  Song hesitated for a moment before sighing. “There are a few. The Russians and Albanians corner the trade around here. They generally keep it quiet—use Hunter’s Point to import their … cargo.” The paper partition slid open and the hostess reappeared with a tray laden heavy with an assortment of steaming dishes.

  She poured tea and lifted the lids off dishes, revealing enough food to feed a small army. As soon as she was finished, she took the tray and held it behind her back, offering Song a bow.

  “Gamsahabnida,” Michael said, drawing her attention.

  She blushed slightly and offered him a bow. “Cheonman-e.”

  “You speak Korean.” Song inclined his head a bit.

  He shrugged, evading the question. “Who is she? She hasn’t been here long.”

  “My cousin Eun,” Song said as soon as the partition slid closed. “Our family is very traditional. She’s been in the States for a year and is still having trouble adjusting to the brashness of America …” He cocked an eyebrow, shooting a crooked grin in Sabrina’s direction. “Especially its women.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Sabrina said wryly, reaching for a platter of bulgogi. “About the Russians. What does their cargo consist of?” She was thinking the same thing he was: Alex.

  Song turned his teacup slowly in its saucer, the steam winding between his long tapered fingers. “Women mostly. Those who come here for a better life but get something else entirely. Some children, but … I’m not involved in such matters, so it is hard for me to say.”

  “You tellin’ me that Seven Dragons doesn’t trade in skin?” Michael piped up before lifting his cup to his mouth, taking a careful sip.

  “What I’m telling you is that Seven Dragons does not kidnap and sell humans into slavery.” Phillip’s mouth drew in tight around the words, making it obvious that he was trying very hard to remain calm. “This is all speculation, of course. I have no real knowledge of what kind of business Seven Dragons participates in.”

  “Of course,” Sabrina said, shooting Michael that stop talking look of hers before turning back to their host. “You said some children. That means you have heard of the Russian trading in kids, right?”

  “The Russians are little better than animals. Brutal. No real sense of honor.” Phillip picked up his tea and took a long swallow, watching him over the rim, his expression telling him that Song’s opinion of him was in line with what he thought of the Russians.

  Michael clamped his jaw shut, his teeth grinding together so hard they nearly fused together from the pressure.

  Phillip lowered his cup to reveal a brief smile. “They’ve been known to kidnap the children of rivals and traitors, sometimes for ransom, sometimes as a punishment. I can only imagine what is done with these children when they are not returned home.”

  “What about the Colombians? Have you heard any noise about the Reyes cartel setting up shop around here?”

  At the mention of Reyes’s name, Song looked away. He was either working with him or afraid. If Michael had to guess, he’d say the former rather than the latter. “They are a more recent arrival. The Russians are less than pleased with the competition they offer.”

  He stood, reaching into the dark recesses of his suit jacket. Michael tensed. He’d left his gun in the car as Sabrina instructed, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t armed. Song must’ve read his thoughts because he laughed, pulling a red silk pouch from his breast pocket. The smell of its contents drifted through the thin fabric, light and delicate. Like one of those sachets women kept in their underwear drawer.

  “How are you sleeping, Sabrina?” That solicitous tone again. One that said he had every right to expect an answer to such a personal question.

  Sabrina looked up at him and shrugged, which Michael guessed was as close as she would ever come to telling the truth.

  Song nodded and pressed the pouch into her hand. “Next time, don’t wait so long to come see me,” he said before moving toward the door. Michael stood, putting himself between Song and the way out. He was getting an answer to his question, one way or another.

  “My brother dishonored my family when he killed those women and very nearly you.” Song looked him in the eye, his head tilted just a bit. “A debt is owed … and I always pay my debts. There is a warehouse at the corner of Bayshore and Loomis. The Colombians and their ilk use it as a marketplace. Perhaps you might find what you’re looking for there,” he said, giving Michael a slight bow before stepping around him. The paper partition slid open to reveal the same pair of thugs who’d frisked him. “Sweet dreams, yeon-in,” he said, and then he was gone.

  Forty-Two

  Sabrina kept staring at him, that blue-eyed glare of hers cutting him to the quick. He recognized an interrogation tactic when he saw one, and she used it beautifully—letting the silence between them grow into something so big and heavy that he shifted uncomfortably beneath its weight. “I forgot how good you were at this,” he said, shooting her a glance.

  She smiled. “I’m good at a lot of things, O’Shea. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  He arched an eyebrow, a slight smirk coasting across his mouth. “Now, that I remember.”

  Incredibly, she blushed, a red stain rushing across her
cheeks. “You’re trying to distract me.”

  He shrugged. “Is it working?”

  “No.” She broke eye contact, looking out the window. “You’re going to find that warehouse alone,” she said.

  “Yes.” There was no use lying. There never had been where she was concerned.

  “Why can’t I go?”

  “It’s too dangerous,” he said automatically, giving her the first answer that popped into his head.

  “Bullshit,” she said, not buying a word of it. “Why can’t I go?”

  He felt something inside him shift, the truth he fought to keep buried, bubbling to the surface. He clenched his jaw shut and shook his head, eyes glued to the road.

  “I’ll just follow you—”

  “I don’t want you there,” he practically yelled, causing the dog behind him to let out a low-level growl. “Rustig,” he said firmly and was rewarded with a split-second look of confusion before the dog did as he commanded and quieted. He shot Sabrina a glance, struggling with what came next. “I won’t be able to do what I have to if you’re there.”

  “You can’t go in alone, O’Shea.”

  “Sure I can,” he said with a shrug. “I do it all the time.”

  The blush on her cheeks had faded, but now what color remained drained from her face. “I don’t care what you’re used to doing. I don’t want you going by yourself.”

  “And I don’t want you with me.” He looked away, directing his gaze out the windshield, focusing on the road so he wouldn’t have to see her face when she finally understood. “I don’t use silence to get answers. My interrogation tactics are a little more physical.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  Her blasé tone pulled his attention for a moment, reminding him that she worked for Shaw now and there was nothing he could do about it. “No … but that doesn’t mean I want you to watch while I use a pair of gardening shears to play This Little Piggy with one of Reyes’s underlings,” he said bluntly. “Look”—he raked a hand over his face and shook his head—“I’m not going to apologize for—”