by Callie Hart
“Not…not Julio Perez?”
Lowell looks intrigued, like I’m finally talking her language. “No, not Perez, though he is connected to this group. They’re called Los Oscuros. Their leader, Hector Ramirez, started off in drugs but quickly realized guns were more profitable. They were based in Mexico for years. Some shit went down on US soil and Hector apparently decided he didn’t want his business remotely managed anymore. He legally immigrated and set up a carpet cleaning business. He used that as a front for money laundering. Still does.”
“And where does my sister fit in?”
“He also sells pussy,” Lowell says. My father flinches—I doubt anybody has ever said pussy in front of him before. I definitely doubt they’ve ever essentially referred to his daughter as pussy. Lowell clearly doesn’t give a shit that she’s offended my father’s delicate sensibilities. “Your sister’s a pretty girl, Dr. Sloane. Hector took one look at her and saw dollar signs. He made a deal with Perez. Perez bought her from him, was going to keep her at that little fuck village he’s set up for himself out in the desert, but your good friend Rebel somehow managed to get his hands on her. That’s where things get tricky. The Widow Makers are at war with Los Oscuros. The cartel found out Alexis was with the bikers and they immediately put a contract out on her life.”
My head is officially hurting at this landslide of information, but I do understand what Lowell is telling me. “They wanted her dead because the bikers might be able to convince her to testify that Los Oscuros killed the judge. Right?”
“That’s right, sweetheart.” Dad leans forward, propping his elbows against the table. “Your sister called me four months after she went missing. I didn’t know anything about her disappearance before that, I swear. She told me what had happened and asked me to send her some money so she could get away. She was frightened, but she sounded like she was okay. She told me not to call the police, but—”
“Your father’s not an idiot, Sloane,” Lowell says. “As soon as he found out Alexis was alive, he did the right thing and contacted the authorities. We’ve been handling the case ever since.”
A bolt of anger fires through me. “And by handling the case, you mean nearly killing my sister?”
“What? She was…Alexis was nearly killed?” The disbelief in my dad’s voice makes me scream at him. He thinks he’s in possession of all the facts, but in reality he’s been kept in the dark. His face has gone as white as chalk.
“Oh yeah, didn’t Agent Lowell tell you that? Alexis nearly died because your buddy here shot her?”
The muscles in my dad’s face fall slack, all expression completely slipping away. He can’t believe the words I’m saying—I can see that plain as day. He turns to Lowell, shaking his head. “Surely that’s not true?”
I receive a glare from the woman sitting opposite me, as though me spilling that little secret is highly inconvenient. Yeah, I’ll bet it is, bitch.
“I only meant to clip Alexis’ shoulder when I fired at her. The motorbike she was on swerved and the round ended up hitting her square in the torso.”
“You nearly killed her,” I snap. “You nearly fucking killed her.”
“This is all irrelevant now. I didn’t kill her. Your sister is alive, and we need to talk to her. Her involvement with the Widow Makers motorcycle club is a mystery to us, but her repeated refusals to leave them leads us to believe she is now working with them. Over the last eighteen months, twelve people have died because of the feud between Rebel’s motorcycle club and the cartel. We need the killing to stop, and we need your sister. A thirty-minute gap took place between Alexis disappearing down that alleyway and those men shoving her in the back of that van. During that time, she was witness to the murder of one of Seattle’s most prominent High Court judges. We need her, Sloane. We need her so she can testify.”
Testify.
And there it is. The whole thing makes a whole lot of sense now. Yes, of course this is why the DEA are so desperate to get their hands on her. They need her to complete their case, and in doing that they want to put Alexis on the stand so she can speak out against a crazy fucking Mexican cartel. And they’re wondering why she doesn’t want to go with them?
“Great. So you’re willing to throw innocent people under the bus to get your own way, right? You’re willing to shoot people and rob them of their careers, ruin everything they’ve worked hard for, ensure they lose everything, just so you can get your guy. Fuck anyone else who might get in the way, right?” I want to get the hell out of here. I want to leave so bad, I feel sick. My father’s eyes grow round with surprise.
“It’s important that these men pay for what they did, Sloane. It’s important that justice—“
“Fuck justice! Fuck the DEA, and fuck you, Dad. Lexi asked you not to contact the police, and look at where the hell we are right now. My life is in ruins, and Lexi’s recovering from an injury that almost took her life. She could have easily died, okay? And Agent Lowell here couldn’t fucking care less.”
Lowell slaps her hand on the table, sending a stack of her papers slipping sideways, crashing to the floor. “I care about protecting the people who devote their lives to the law, Dr. Romera. I care about organized crime in this country destroying everything America holds dear.”
She sounds like she’s given this bullshit patriotic speech a few times before. I roll my eyes. “I’m ready to leave now, if you don’t mind.”
Lowell slumps back into her chair, letting out an exasperated sigh. “This cartel kills children, Dr. Romera. They sell twelve-year-olds as sex slaves. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“My conscience has nothing to do with this.”
“It does if you refuse to act. That’s a crime of omission right there.”
“I haven’t broken any laws. I haven’t participated in any crime. And now that I’m thinking on it, your threats are empty, aren’t they? You have no grounds to seize my assets. You’re just clutching at fucking straws.”
“Oh, Dr. Romera,” Lowell laughs, “that is where you’re entirely wrong. Perhaps you ought to read this.” She slides another piece of paper toward me, this time writing, not a photograph.
Witness Report
Grace Miller
My eyes scan over the document, my blood running cold in my veins. It’s the blood. The blood I stole from the hospital to give to Zeth. Grace reported me, told them everything. I read, my eyes blurring a little at the words. Suspicious. Defensive. Missing supplies.
“I can’t believe—”
Lowell snatches back the witness report, swiping it from between my fingers. “You can’t believe your friend informed on you? Ms. Miller was being questioned in relation to the crime herself. She obviously felt telling the truth was better than losing her only source of income. Single mothers tend to be quite pragmatic when it comes to looking at the big picture.”
Single mother? I didn’t even know Gracie had kids. I can’t blame her for telling the truth, I guess.
“And as for freezing your assets, we absolutely can do that, Sloane. The RICO Act means anything you own or possess can be ours in two seconds flat if we decide to travel down that road.”
“RICO Act?”
“The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. It means anything I suspect you may have gained from your involvement with Zeth and Charlie Holsan’s little gang, or perhaps from your connection with Rebel and the Widow Makers, can be seized and quarantined indefinitely.”
My lungs feel like they’re collapsing. From the smug look on the monster’s face and the worried look on my father’s, I know she’s telling the truth. So it’s not just my job that I’m losing here. I’m losing everything.
“What I suggest we—” Lowell stops talking when there’s a sharp rap at the door and another agent, a man I don’t know, sticks his head around the door. He looks concerned. “What is it?” Lowell snaps.
“Call just came in. It’s him. Mayfair. He said something about a guy called Ernie?�
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Lowell’s face loses its color. I suspect mine does, too. Zeth? What the hell is he doing? Agent Lowell stands, puts her hands on her hips, paces in one direction and then changes her mind, pacing back the other way. “Fucking asshole. Goddamnit.” She looks up at the other agent. “Okay, put him through.”
She doesn’t even give the line a chance to ring. As soon as the phone erupts into life, she snatches the handset out of its cradle and snarls into the receiver. “You’ve got some fucking nerve.”
My dad just gives me a blank look. I can’t hear what Zeth’s saying, but from the look on Lowell’s face, it’s pure gold. She turns an intense shade of purple as she storms back and forth, listening to whatever he’s telling her.
“You realize this is just another infraction on your—” Zeth must cut Lowell off, because she halts mid-sentence. Her eyes meet mine, no longer cold but blazing with fury. “Okay. All right. Fine.” She slams down the phone and inhales, pulling in a deep, angry breath. “Alan, it seems you’d better take your daughter back into the city. Now.”
The Humvee smells of piss. Rebel is gonna shit bricks about the accident that’s just taken place, but I’m feeling rather good about things right now. Lowell’s Schnauzer—Ernie, according to his bone-shaped nametag—is sitting on the backseat of the car, panting with his tongue lolling out over very white-looking canine teeth. Lowell definitely strikes me as the sort of asshole who would brush her dog’s teeth.
“She really believed you’d kill her dog?” Michael laughs. I give him a confused look, and his smile evaporates. “Oh, yeah. Of course. You totally would kill her dog, wouldn’t you?”
Ernie looks like he’s smiling at me when I check him out in the rearview. I’m not a monster. I wouldn’t kill a fucking dog just ’cause their owner needs a few lessons in manners. Not unless I really had to.
Michael and I sit in silence, Ernie’s panting the only sound filling the car while we wait outside the bus depot for Sloane to arrive. She knows the drill. One of those motherfuckers will drop her off in the city and she’ll go to catch the bus, heading straight to that god-awful coffee house we originally arranged to meet at. We’re hoping to pick her up before she gets on the bus.
We don’t have to wait long. I’m watching out for a black SUV—predictable much?—but instead I’m greeted with the familiar sight of a certain wood-paneled station wagon that pulls up outside the depot. It’s Sloane’s father’s car, the one we abandoned at Julio’s place. So I was right; the old guy at the mall was her dad. The car parks, and then...nothing happens. We’ve positioned ourselves far enough down the road so as not to be seen, but that also means we can’t really get a clear view of what’s going on. Michael pulls out a set of binoculars and squints through them at the car.
“Is she there?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“What are they doing?”
“The old guy’s talking. Sloane’s staring at the dashboard. She looks pissed.”
I hold my hand out, wanting to lay eyes on her for myself. Michael hands over the binoculars, and then there she is, scowling into space. Pissed doesn’t even come close to describing the expression on her face. Murderous. That’s closer. Sloane nods, and then she’s moving. She climbs out of the car, slamming the door behind her. I toss the binoculars onto the backseat, almost forgetting Ernie’s back there. I jump out of the Hummer, not wanting to lose sight of her. That would be fucking typical, wouldn’t it? Get the girl released, only to lose her through sheer fucking ineptitude as she tries to catch a bus.
Her dad’s still parked outside the depot and is on his cell phone when I slip by his car. He doesn’t see me. Besides, with my hood pulled up, face hidden in shadows, I’m the kind of character a man like Dr. Romera would purposefully try not to make eye contact with. I hurry through the depot, heading straight for stand 458. I hang a left, scanning the vacant depot for signs of life, for signs of Sloane. Another left.
And I walk straight into an extended fist.
“Zeth? What the hell?” Sloane pulls back her hand, shaking it out. My mouth smarts like a bitch. I touch my fingertips to my bottom lip and the blood I find on them surprises me. She hit me in the fucking face. She hit me and she drew fucking blood. I look down at her, and she instantly shrinks back.
“Sorry, I…I thought you were one of Lowell’s guys.”
I stalk toward her, checking to see if there’s anyone around. The place is deserted, which is weird for this time of day but highly fucking convenient. Sloane takes a cautious step back, a look of mild panic on her face. “Zeth, just calm down. It was an accident,” she whispers.
I grab her around the waist and lift her so that her feet are off the floor. She freezes for a second—not entirely sure what to do—but then tries to wriggle free from my grasp. I lunge forward with her, slamming her back up against the announcement board that displays the bus departure times, crushing my body against hers. Next comes my mouth. I take hold of her face in both hands and press my lips against hers. I’m not fighting the urge to be rough with her right now. Instead, I’m making myself be rough. It feels necessary—my relief at seeing her safe and unharmed is enough to make me dizzy. And I want to devour her in some sick way, to press her into myself so the two of us aren’t individual people anymore, but one living, breathing entity, where the threat of separation can never trouble us again. Her skin feels hot underneath my hands. Her heart is slamming in her chest—I can literally feel its pulsing rhythm against my own ribcage. She exhales sharply as I tease her lips apart; I slide my tongue inside her mouth and taste her. She responds, slowly at first, and then something snaps. Her hands are clawing at me, pulling down my hood and fumbling with the zip to my sweater. I want her to take it from me. I want her to take every single last item of clothing from my body and I want to remove hers, too. I want to fuck her until she screams right here and now in the Seattle bus depot.
But we can’t.
“Sloane? Sloane, wait. We have to get out of here.” I hold her face in my hands again—her breathing is even faster than mine, her eyes completely glazed over. “You should know something, though,” I whisper, my lips brushing lightly against hers.
She looks like she’s been drugged. “What?”
“You knew you were just being followed, and you turned and defended yourself. Nothing…nothing has ever been hotter than that.”
A brief attempt at a smile passes over her features. “I’m glad I’ve impressed you,” she says.
I can’t believe this woman. What the fuck did I ever do to deserve someone like her? To deserve the look she’s giving me right now? It’s a mystery I’ll never be able to work out. “Sloane, always consider me impressed.” I lower her slowly so she can find her feet. “Right now, we need to leave before Lowell shows up and castrates me, though.”
She gives me a sideways look as I guide her back the way I just came, back toward the Hummer and Michael. “What the hell did you do, Zeth? And who the hell is Ernie?”
I almost want to smile. Fuck it. I let myself have this one. I grin big. “You,” I tell her, “are about to find out.”
******
“You kidnapped her dog?”
“Technically he dognapped him,” Michael says. I bundle Sloane into the backseat with Ernie, making sure she doesn’t sit in the wet patch he created earlier, and then I climb into the passenger seat. Sloane eyes the Schnauzer dubiously. Ernie eyes her back.
“How the hell did you figure out where she lives in the first place?” Sloane asks.
Michael guns the engine and then we’re out of here. “Lowell’s based in Cali, actually. I have a guy who finds things out, though. She’s staying at a hotel downtown. He hacked her details on their system and told us she’d checked in with an animal.”
I watch Ernie lick the back of Sloane’s hand, feeling rather fucking proud of myself. “And a DEA agent who can’t be separated from her dog while she travels must really fucking love that dog.”
“Oh my god,
no wonder she went so pale. She’s going to string you up for this, baby.” Sloane laughs.
Baby.
I’ve wanted to hit loved-up assholes for using that endearment before. But when Sloane says it… I don’t really know what to think. I catch Michael’s amused smile, itching at the corners of his mouth, and I don’t feel like busting his balls. I just raise my eyebrows at him, a look of shock and amusement of my own. The fucker grins, then, like it’s Christmas day and Mom and Dad aren’t fighting.
“I suppose we’d better get out of here,” he says. The words sound rounder coming out of his mouth, shaped by the texture of his smile.
We check into a hotel, or at least I think it’s a hotel. The place is called The Regency Rooms, though there’s no sign on the outside of the sixteen-story building. No clue as to what kind of star rating the place has. The lobby is yards of endless white marble tile, shot through with whispers of gray. No sofas. No generic artwork. Nothing but the white marble and the reception desk, which, like the rest of the lobby, is the epitome of simplicity. A man sits behind the desk, a dove grey suit and a wall of white teeth greeting us with a conservative smile.
“So good to see you again, Mr. Hanson,” he says to Zeth. My stomach clenches at that name—Hanson. I know that name. That’s the name Eli provided me with back when I had to sell myself for information. It’s the name I gave to the receptionist at the Marriot hotel when I was checking in what seems like forever ago. Zeth gives me a cautious glance, and then nods curtly to the impeccably groomed gentleman who is sliding a key card across the smooth, cool stonework toward us. “Will you be staying with us long?” he asks.
“Five nights,” Zeth replies. He looks…he looks a little uncomfortable.
“Oh, excellent. You’ll be with us for our celebrations on Sunday evening, then. Would you like to reserve a booth?”
Michael coughs, though the cough sounds more like he’s choking. The loud bark echoes across the cavernous room like a sharp burst of applause. Zeth turns slowly and gives him a dirty look. I’m not stupid; I can see Michael is trying to disguise a smile as he covers his mouth with a balled up fist.