He turned toward the tall, broad-shouldered man barreling toward him in a rush.
At six feet eight, the tallest man Marcus had ever met, Turner came in at over two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. His black skin reflected the light above in a sheen of sweat and his suit showed just how much Homicide detectives pulled in every year.
He didn’t make more money than Turner, but knew he’d never be caught dead in that outfit. Marcus pushed himself off the bed.
“Turner,” he said and managed a smile. He shouldn’t be here, but the temptation of seeing William Roberts’s body for himself had nearly overwhelmed him. He’d added one more piece to the puzzle Scott had left behind by seeing the body for himself.
“Don’t you have some tickets to write, Grant? I’m sure there’s some DUI that needs to be processed down in the tank.” Turner smiled, waiting for a comeback.
Marcus smiled again. “Probably, but I’ve got to hit the Macy’s sale.” He walked to the door, ignoring the hardened stares he got, and turned back to Turner. “You want me to look at suits for you? I hear everything’s on sale.” His eyes shifted for one last look at William Roberts before he headed out the door to visit Scott Lively.
* * *
“Grant! It’s about time your slow ass got down here.”
Marcus glanced in the direction of his captain’s voice as he walked toward the scene, wincing as her voice shrieked again.
Seemed a lot of people were yelling at him these days.
“Where the hell have you been? When I tell you ten minutes, that means five. I have a dead body and you don’t even seem to give a shit.” As a small woman, Beth Howard had a voice that extended over a large area. She stood with her arms folded in one of her many dress suits, waiting for him to come to her. “You were supposed to be watching him, Grant. What part of that assignment wasn’t clear?”
Other investigators cooed in sympathy around him. This wasn’t going to be a nice conversation.
“Do you have any leads?” she asked, visibly annoyed at having to be in the middle of a crime scene with a dead agent on her hands. Captain Howard stared directly at him, waiting for an answer as she picked at her bright blue fingernail polish.
“Yes,” he answered just as coldly, trying to see past her toward his best friend’s body.
“And?”
“I have reason to believe that Scott was onto something during his investigation of Christian Wren.” He watched from the corner of his eye as Brent, all two hundred and eighty pounds of him, bustled from a reeking Dumpster over to his captain and partner.
“Hey, man. About time you showed up.” A sober expression crossed his face. “I’m sorry about Scott.”
Marcus didn’t look away from Captain Howard as her annoyance bubbled to the surface. He enjoyed every second of it. The woman was a real bitch and he liked to bring out that side every now and then for kicks.
“Detective Needle, we are in the middle of a conversation. I’m sure you have other obligations to attend to rather than to eavesdrop on a private discussion.” Her voice dropped low, stone cold, as always, giving Marcus the impression Beth Howard had worked very hard for her position and her personality had gone out the window along the way.
Brent didn’t say another word as he turned around, heading back out to where the body bag waited.
Marcus’s gaze lingered longer than he anticipated, his heartbeat speeding at the thought of seeing the body for himself.
“Christian Wren is a respected businessman and a friend of the commissioner, Agent Grant. What evidence do you have to be sure he was involved?” Captain Howard unfolded her arms and placed her hands on her hips. Her eyebrows rose in expectation and her lips flattened into a thin line. She knew he didn’t have anything. Yet. He would find Scott’s killer with or without the help of ATF.
“We’re four blocks away from Wren Indu—”
“That is irrelevant,” she interrupted, switching her balance onto her left foot. “If I killed someone, I would try to frame whoever I could to take the heat off me. I figured an experienced agent like yourself would realize that.”
He inhaled calmly, trying to keep himself under control. “Scott was gathering evidence on Wren. Wren obviously made him out as an agent. Third—”
“Agent Grant,” she said. “I’m sure you know how long Scott Lively has been at this little investigation of his and you might even develop some sort of personal vendetta against Christian Wren now.” She twirled her finger at him at the last statement. “But Agent Lively had no evidence and I suggest you drop your suspicion unless you want to meet the same fate.” Captain Howard brushed past him, heading for the entrance of the alley, her head high.
“Is that a threat?” he called and turned to face her.
Captain Howard didn’t respond.
“Scott Lively was my best friend,” Marcus shouted, waiting for her to just turn around. “He was a good man.”
She halted, turning toward him slowly. “And?” The veins in her neck strained against her black power suit. The white T-shirt she wore underneath showed splotches of sweat, and Marcus had to wonder why she felt compelled to protect a criminal.
Marcus jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “He’s the dead man you found over there in the Dumpster. He was my partner up until you came along and the one who’s been supplying ATF information on Christian Wren for the past six months.” He stalked toward her, closing the distance slowly. “I won’t give up on this investigation. Or him.” The words solidified in his mind, forcing Marcus to realize what he had to do.
Captain Howard looked around her, ensuring she wouldn’t be overheard as she sauntered back toward her agent. “Agent Grant,” she said, exasperated. “Agent Lively wasn’t able to make a connection between Wren and those guns used for the murders and neither will you. Give up now. Bury your friend. Move on.”
He started to protest, but didn’t get his mouth open in time.
“You will not win this fight.” She stared at him for a moment, trying to make the message sink in. “Do I make myself clear?”
A possible piece of Scott’s puzzle crossed his mind: Beth Howard, captain of the Los Angeles branch of ATF, had landed in Christian Wren’s pocket. Marcus couldn’t believe the lengths to which his fingers reached into the force. “Are you just screwing around with him or are you in love?”
“I will only tell you this one more time.” Howard stepped forward, her eyes narrowing into slits. “You will drop your investigation. I will not have Wren call the commissioner because of your ego.” She turned her back on him and started her escape once again.
“Did you find anything on him?”
Without turning, Captain Howard shouted over her shoulder, “No.” She left the alley, heading toward one of the many black sedans waiting less than a block away.
He walked toward the Dumpster, staring down at the black bag covering the body. Marcus had seen many dead bodies in his life, but still flinched as he uncovered this one. He counted one bullet to the head, and one to the chest.
“What did you do wrong, Scott?” he asked, more sure of his plan than ever.
* * *
The run-down house smelled of urine and faint traces of sour mold, but Marcus had no other way to find Vicente than in his own home. Only the most notorious drug dealer in the city could get him a meeting with the largest gun dealer.
He walked up the sidewalk. Broken pieces of concrete skidded across the ground as he kicked them loose. Slowing, he looked back to the team.
Dogs barked behind the door, but something else caught his attention.
Movement.
Removing his service weapon from under his jacket, Marcus waited for the signal for the team to go. One hand motion set them free.
They knew what to do, rushing past him to knock in the door. “ATF!”
Guns drawn. Multiple voices reacted to their abrupt invasion.
Marcus followed slowly, his experience telling him to stay back, n
ot to take charge. Taking charge would lead to failure for the team and himself and he wasn’t about to do that again.
The door they’d entered through led directly into the kitchen. It was small, only eight feet by eight. Counter space hugged the left wall, broken by a space for a refrigerator that wasn’t there. In the middle, a table waited to be used, just like the bookcase in front of him.
He noticed movement to his right, and as he turned he realized he’d ended up face-to-face with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun.
The perp seemed young, eighteen or nineteen at the most, with glazed brown eyes. His dark skin matched his thick Hispanic accent as he spoke. “What you want, man?” He held the gun higher, aiming at Marcus’s forehead.
Marcus slid his gaze farther down, nodding to his own weapon level with the boy’s groin. “Put the gun down.”
“Freeze!” Brent yelled from the living room entrance. “Put the gun down or you’re going to be missing more than your balls when I’m done with you.”
“All right, hermano. Calm down.” Soaked with sweat, the boy lowered the gun, his hands shaking slightly. He dropped the weapon onto the soft linoleum floor, leaving a visible dent, and raised his arms above his head in surrender.
Surprise shot through Marcus when the weapon didn’t fire from the impact. Not a fighter. “Where’s Harlow Vicente?”
Brent moved forward, cuffing the juvenile instantly, and pushed him down to the floor.
“Don’t know who you’re talking about, man.”
Catching sight of a blank piece of wall next to the bookcase, Marcus walked to the other side of the kitchen, tapping his gun against it three times. A kitchen wasn’t usually the ideal place to keep a bookcase and he looked back to the juvenile questioningly. “What’s this?” he asked.
The kid swallowed, licking his lips as he tried to get a view of Marcus from the floor. Beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. He forced a grin. “What’s it look like? It’s just a wall.”
He tapped the wall again, confident something had been hidden behind it. “Open it.”
“What?”
Brent wrenched the juvenile to his feet in one fluid motion, shoving him over to Marcus with his hands cuffed behind his back.
“Open. It.” He gave the kid room to work. “Now.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Just shut the hell up and open it,” Brent said, smacking the boy upside the head with the butt of his weapon.
“All right!” The kid stared down at the bookcase. “You see that red book. The one on the second shelf to the right?”
Marcus followed the boy’s instructions.
“Pull it out.”
“What is this? One of them secret passages?” Brent asked, looking from the boy to his partner. He shrugged with a grin. “Maybe it’ll take us to Narnia.”
Marcus ignored him, grabbing the book from the shelf after he holstered his weapon. He couldn’t help but smile though. Brent had always been one to make a joke. The book slid out effortlessly. “Now what?”
“Open the book.”
He did.
The book wasn’t a book at all. Despite the binding and several pages within, the book’s center had been cut out, revealing a secret compartment that held a key.
He removed the piece of metal from its resting place and turned back toward the boy. “You can escort him out now, Agent Needle.”
“You want backup?” his partner asked, eyeing the key.
“I’ll be fine.” He searched the wall for an entry point, finally seeing the keyhole near an old home improvement book. After he fumbled with the lock for a moment, the door fell open and cool, damp air rushed up to meet him, making his stomach turn.
He descended the stone steps, faced with a pitch-black room at the bottom. Marcus unsheathed a penlight from his vest and clicked it on, glancing around the walls of the small stone room. The feeling of being watched weighed him down and he tried to shake the feeling off. Fear had no place on a raid. Anything could happen.
Searching each and every corner for Vicente, he only found a bag of rags. He withdrew his weapon, slowly making his way toward it. Something made the hairs on the back of his head stand on end. The pile of rags pulled him in, and when he gently nudged it with his foot, the pile moaned.
A man, maybe Vicente.
Marcus holstered his weapon, yelled back upstairs for an ambulance and ripped the rags away to see just how bad the injuries were.
The man’s eyes were closed. Whether exhaustion or death had taken him, Marcus couldn’t tell. Placing his fingers against John Doe’s throat, he felt a pulse and exhaled in relief. He pushed an eyelid back, hoping there would be some sign of life.
The dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and tattoos decorating the man’s arms matched Vicente’s description, but no other identifying traits from the file crossed Marcus’s mind.
He had to be Vicente. He owned the house. The basement looked to be some type of hideout, but Marcus couldn’t get past the doubt forming in his mind. Why would Vicente be locked down here alone? Without weapons to defend himself and half beaten to death?
Footsteps rushed down the stone steps as a paramedic pushed him out of the way. The medic took the man’s vitals. A second accompanied him with a stretcher. Together they pulled the victim up, carrying him aboveground. The entire process took less than two minutes. The team had vanished, leaving him to wonder what the wretched smell lingering in his nostrils could be.
He studied the basement once more. As a dump, it’d become a resting place for victims and rats alike. The swirling of buzzing flies caught his attention and led him to the corner of the room. A large bundle of blankets sat against the wall, covered with dirt and filth. Carefully, Marcus drew his gun, ready for anything to be unleashed out from underneath them.
The smell of decaying flesh filled his nostrils when he moved the blanket aside. The corpse had been destroyed, the face twisted and swollen to a point beyond recognition. He had to turn away, fighting the vomit sliding up his throat.
His hand braced his failing body against the wall before he collapsed. He sunk down, his back on fire as he took deep breaths. Marcus longed for clean air, but he couldn’t help but take one more look at the lump who used to be a person.
His mind raced with questions and possibilities, but two things he knew for sure: one, he was on his own for this case, and two, he might very well end up like the decaying body beside him.
He had to find out exactly what Scott discovered about Wren.
Without being killed.
Chapter Four
“It’s time to go.”
Adelaide let her brother escort her from her room to Christian’s office, but the door would be as far as she’d let him go. Her trust in him had vanished after her last episode. Her twin, the only family she had left, had held her down as Christian injected her.
While the injection had been necessary for her to survive this nightmare, he’d betrayed her. He’d fought against her for the first time in her life and she wouldn’t let it happen again.
When they arrived at the last door on the right side of the hallway, Taigen positioned himself in front of her, blocking her way. “Adie,” he said. “The other day—”
Adelaide refused to look at him.
“Adie, please look at me.” His hands gripped her biceps and she pushed him away. Hard.
Shock, surprise, anger and finally pain flashed across his face as she forced him to take a step back.
Their gazes connected and Adelaide put all her remaining strength into communicating he wasn’t allowed to touch her. He’d lost his right to pretend to care for her. And she wouldn’t be fooled again. A pang of hurt nestled inside her chest and she couldn’t be sure if it’d come from her or Taigen. Their invisible connection had never been strong but had built over the last two years.
Now she’d have to break it for good.
She pushed her way into Christian’s office and slammed the door behind
her. Despair centered itself in her chest. Taigen had always demanded to be present during these sessions but didn’t fight harder for today’s.
Never again, she reminded herself. The knot of pain made another appearance and Adelaide rubbed at her chest absently.
Christian sat behind his desk, too distracted with the paperwork in front of him to notice anything wrong. “Adelaide,” he said when she entered. Tearing his eyes from the papers, he smiled up at her and motioned for her to take a seat in the chair.
She didn’t respond, only lying back in the pale green chair reserved for days like this. Adelaide stared up at the ceiling as Christian attached the leads to each temple, her neck, and both arms.
Ten in all.
He took a seat beside her, his left hand holding on to the remote. “Are you ready?”
She took a deep breath, releasing it as slowly as possible to give herself time. After another few seconds, Adelaide nodded.
Christian pressed the red button on the remote and suddenly her fight with Taigen didn’t matter as voltage ran free throughout her body.
* * *
The lights overhead blinded Marcus as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. Vicente was recovering in a room exactly like every other hospital room Marcus had been in, sterile, lacking character and color.
Vicente had been a known associate of Wren’s back in the day, a man who could be coerced into helping Marcus, and he would manipulate him by any means necessary. If Marcus wanted to stay alive, the rules would have to be broken.
When he looked up, a set of startling blue eyes stared at him in confusion.
“Harlow Vicente,” Marcus said, straightening in his chair. “I’m Marcus Grant. I’m with ATF.”
The man remained silent, his skin flushed and coated in a thin layer of sweat.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been kept in an underground cell for nineteen years.” A raspy English accent left the man’s lips, from lack of use or overuse, Marcus didn’t know.
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