by Karen Rose
She watched Abigail playing, her expression a mix of subdued contentment and grim determination. He knew what she was thinking about. On Tuesday she was walking into a nest of hardened criminals. For Mercy. And for the little girl who sat on the floor playing with Irina’s grandchildren.
Liza might not walk out alive. But she was willing to take the risk. She’d done it before.
Please let her walk out whole and unhurt.
Rafe’s angry voice snapped him to attention. “Dammit, Hunter, we need to talk.”
Well, shit.
GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, MAY 28, 3:35 P.M.
DJ lowered his rifle and stepped away from Smythe’s spare bedroom window. He’d wanted to pull the trigger so damn badly. But he hadn’t. Because it would have been suicide.
The tall guy was a Fed. Special Agent Tom Hunter. DJ had seen him on the news coverage of the two dead cops and the still-unidentified female victim. Hunter had been at the crime scene the night before, with an Agent Croft, both looking serious.
Hunter and another man appeared to be on guard duty, dressed in tactical gear. DJ had seen them from his window and had felt a slight panic when they’d stopped, looking around them as if searching for something specific.
Me.
He’d grabbed his rifle out of habit and guessed he could thank his bum shoulder for keeping him from doing anything stupid. He’d felt the burn of pain when he’d lifted the rifle, which had broken the reflexive response that he’d built through hours of practice. Position, focus, fire. Kowalski had taught him how to use a rifle. DJ had perfected his skill, but this time he was glad he hadn’t automatically pulled the trigger.
The Fed would be able to track the bullet’s trajectory pretty damn quickly, and there was a small army protecting the Sokolovs’ house today. He’d be surrounded before he could blink.
“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured. “Or whenever your little party is over.”
He had time. Pastor was going to be in rehab for weeks, after all. He’d fantasized about simply blowing the Sokolov house to smithereens with the party inside, but he didn’t have the makings for a bomb. Not yet.
But Kowalski had explosives. DJ had seen him use them, and soon he’d have them, too.
He set the rifle aside and returned to his laptop. This, the photo on his screen, was where his focus needed to be today.
Because he’d finally found Kowalski. Or at least his kid.
A grinning six-year-old stared out from the screen. Little Tony Ward was in the first grade and played the piano. Kid was something of a virtuoso, in fact.
His mother was Angelina. His father was Anthony. It had taken a little digging, but DJ had found one photo featuring his former mentor. Roland Kowalski was Anthony Ward. A rich real estate developer who owned huge tracts of land.
So that’s where he buried all of the people he had us kill for him. Good to know.
He’d first check Ward’s home and loot whatever he could put his hands on. And if Kowalski had guards? DJ would kill them the way he’d killed those two cops. He’d go in under the cover of darkness, scope out a vantage point from which he could set up his rifle, and take out the guards one by one.
The way he wanted to kill the small army patrolling the Sokolov house. Difference was, the Sokolovs were expecting him, just like Kowalski had been when he’d set up the warehouse trap.
Kowalski wouldn’t be expecting an attack on his home—and his thugs were a lot less likely to call the cops. Assuming the man didn’t have a few of his own on payroll. DJ wouldn’t have put it past him, nor would he let it stop him. Once he got his hands on Kowalski’s weapons—and once the Sokolovs’ party was over and the heavy security dispersed—he’d be able to tackle the Russian family’s remaining guards single-handedly.
He hadn’t expected to find Anthony Ward’s address in the white pages but was still disappointed when it didn’t show up at all—under any of his names or legit businesses. Damn these people and their corporations.
“That’s a bust,” he muttered and went back to staring at the photo of Tony Ward with his class the night of the recital.
And then noticed the caption: Miss Stack’s First Grade Spring Concert.
The school’s website had featured a list of staff. With their photos.
Thirty seconds later he had a full name: Miss Stephanie Stack.
A minute after that he had Miss Stephanie Stack’s address, because she was a normal person.
Teachers had access to their students’ personal information, like their birthdays and food allergies. And the names and addresses of their parents in case of emergency.
He stood and stretched. “Miss Stephanie, here I come.”
GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, MAY 28, 3:40 P.M.
Tom turned his gaze from Liza to find Rafe clutching his cell and giving him a death glare. “So you read the news, huh?” Tom asked, surprised that Rafe hadn’t cornered him already.
Rafe jerked his head toward a spare bedroom at the end of the hallway, setting off with an angry gait as he leaned on his cane. Tom followed with a sigh.
Rafe spun to face him as soon as he’d closed the door. “What the hell, Tom?” he hissed. “Belmont straight-up murdered an innocent woman and two cops, and you didn’t tell me?”
“What would you have done differently had you known?” Tom asked wearily.
Rafe opened his mouth. Shut it. Then huffed out a sigh. “Probably canceled the party because Mercy would have felt too guilty.”
“Which is why we didn’t tell you. Mercy did nothing to feel guilty about and we—Gideon and I—wanted her to have a worry-free day. We wanted all of you to have a worry-free day.”
“I guess now I know why Gideon and Daisy took our phones last night. They said that they didn’t want us to cheat at trivia. They really wanted to make sure that we didn’t hear about what happened.” Rafe sagged against the door. “Mercy still doesn’t know. I don’t want to tell her.”
“I’ll tell her. And I’ll tell her that I recommended we keep it a secret. She can be mad at me. At least she will have had this day.”
Rafe swallowed. “Shit. Now I have to apologize for getting mad at you, don’t I?”
“Nah. It’s fine.”
“Thank you,” Rafe murmured. “Mercy needed this. We all did. She and I made a pact this morning that we weren’t going to think about DJ Belmont until tomorrow. But you were acting weird, so I checked. The article said that you were at the scene.”
“It wasn’t good.” That was all Tom could say.
“And the woman he killed?”
“Innocent bystander. Belmont stole her car. We still haven’t ID’d her or her car.”
Rafe frowned. “I thought he stole the cruiser.”
“He did, along with one of the cops’ shirts, his vest, and his gun belt. We assume he used the cruiser to pull her over. The woman’s body was found in the back seat. He killed her there.”
Rafe closed his eyes. “That woman died thinking she’d been killed by a cop.”
“Yeah.” Tom wasn’t surprised that had been one of Rafe’s first takeaways. It had been his, too, as soon as he’d seen the body. “Her phone was found on the shoulder. It appears that Belmont shot the phone and ran over it with her car. Once we get an ID on the victim, we’ll try to track her car—if he still has it. Hopefully it’ll lead us to where he’s hiding.”
“He’s here, isn’t he?” Rafe asked grimly. “Somewhere around here? In the neighborhood?”
“I think so. At least he was. But we’re proceeding as if he still is, taking all the precautions we can. We’ve knocked on doors, done searches where we legally can. We have the neighbors who are here on alert, helping us watch for anything suspicious. In the meantime, Mercy’s family will be safe. And then, tomorrow, we start looking again
.”
Rafe hung his head. “I’m sorry, Tom. I acted like an ass.”
“I would have done the same. We’re good.”
“Thanks. Now, because you’ve done something for me, I’m going to return the favor.” He found something on his phone, then held the screen so that Tom could see. “Look.”
Tom reluctantly shifted his gaze to the phone’s screen, then frowned. It was a photo of himself, his expression so incredibly vulnerable, so very sad, that he had to look away.
“Look,” Rafe repeated. “I mean it, Tom. As your friend, I’m telling you to look.”
I don’t want to. But he did, cringing at the sight of himself looking like a kid who’d lost his puppy.
“You were watching her,” Rafe murmured. “I was so damn mad at you, but I had to take a second out of being angry to take this picture. I need you to see.”
Tom sighed, exhausted. “See what, Rafe?”
“You want her, but you don’t want to. It’s hurting you and it’s hurting her. You both say that you’re just friends, but that’s bullshit. We can all see it. Why are you fighting this so hard?”
Wasn’t that a damn good question?
Tom closed his eyes, childishly hoping that when he opened them, Rafe would be gone.
“I’m still here,” Rafe said wryly.
“Of course you are.” Tom looked up, met Rafe’s piercing stare. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know why you’re fighting it? Or you don’t want to admit that you do know?”
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can’t you just let this go?”
“I will, if that’s what you really want. Except we both know you’d be lying if you said so. Pictures don’t lie.” He held out his phone again, the photo a slap to Tom’s face.
The expression he wore was . . . longing. He swallowed hard as the admission took root in his mind. In his heart. “It’s only been fourteen months,” he whispered.
Fourteen months, twenty-three days, and seven hours.
“I get it,” Rafe murmured. “I waited five years for Mercy to come along. I’ve wondered since we talked Wednesday—or didn’t talk since you told me to leave your house—if I’d have been ready for Mercy if it had only been fourteen months since Bella.”
“And?” The word grated on his throat, which was suddenly dry. Suddenly burning. As were his eyes and his nose. Goddammit.
“I don’t know. But I also didn’t have anyone I cared about like that back then. You do.”
I do. It was no longer a question in his mind. I’m so sorry, Tory, but I do.
“Would Tory have wanted you to be alone? To feel like this?” Rafe waved his phone, Tom’s photo still filling the screen.
“No.” Of that he was certain. “She wouldn’t have, but . . .” He closed his eyes, unable to look at his own face any longer. “She was pregnant. Only two months, but . . .”
“Oh my God,” Rafe breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
Tom was startled to realize that the searing pain had started to numb somewhat. “Me too.”
Rafe was quiet for a moment. “I can’t even imagine how much that hurts.”
Tom shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m not sure that it changes what you’ve said. Tory still would have wanted me to move on. I’m not sure that it’s possible now, though. I hurt Liza, without even meaning to. She left. I’m not even sure we’ll be friends again.”
Rafe sighed. “You want my opinion?”
Tom laughed, startling himself. “You’re asking me now?”
Rafe grinned. “I’m my mother’s son. I’m nosy, but polite about it.” His grin faded. “I haven’t known Liza long, but I’m a pretty good judge of character. Liza has a giving heart and she is loyal. Maybe even to a fault. Definitely at the risk to her own safety.”
Tom’s eyes flashed to Rafe’s. Did he know about Sunnyside?
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “I’m coming back to that look on your face, Hunter. But first, I’m going to say that my money’s on Liza forgiving your sorry ass. Now, what else do you know that I don’t? This is what you wanted to tell me tomorrow, isn’t it?”
Tom nodded. “You might want to sit down.”
Rafe pulled up a chair. “Talk.”
Tom did, telling him about Pastor and Sunnyside Oaks, and Liza getting a job there. When he finished, Rafe was equal parts stunned and furious. Which Tom had anticipated.
“You knew where he was and didn’t tell us?”
Tom sighed. “What would you have done? Stormed the place? We know where Pastor is. According to his chart, he’s supposed to be there for six weeks. We don’t know where Belmont is and he’s the biggest risk. But we’re looking for him. I promise you that. But we’re hoping to entice Pastor to tell us where Eden is, or at least to overhear him and DJ talking about it. Our goals are to find Eden, either use Pastor to lure DJ to the rehab center or wait for him to visit, then arrest them both.”
Rafe was still angry. “What was the job you wanted to hire me for, as a PI?”
“Guard her.”
“Liza?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that the FBI’s job?” Rafe asked sarcastically.
“And they’ll be there. They say she’s a priority, but . . . I need more than that.” The words were sharp, stealing his breath. He made himself breathe. “The Bureau’s priority is the mission. I want to believe that they’d cover Liza even if it meant letting Pastor or DJ go, but I can’t risk her life on that. Besides, everyone is all, ‘Oh, Liza is a soldier. She can take care of herself.’ ”
“She can.”
“But she won’t,” Tom said, panic rising to press on his chest. “You said it yourself. She is loyal at the risk to her own safety.”
“She’s doing this for Mercy, isn’t she?”
“And for Abigail. Gideon and Amos, too.”
“Does Gideon know?”
Tom shook his head. “No. And he’d be an awful choice to guard Liza even if he did. Pastor might recognize him. Belmont definitely would.”
“They might also recognize me,” Rafe pointed out.
“We can fix that. You’ve done undercover before. Gideon never has and I don’t think he’d be good at it, but you were. You never could have stayed in your UC role after Bella was killed without being able to hide your emotions.”
“True as well. So how are you going to get me in there? If I say yes, that is.”
“I’m not sure yet. It may be as simple as smuggling you into the employee parking lot in the back of that SUV that your dad loaned her so you’ll be close by in case everything goes to hell. Might be as complicated as getting you inside as an IT guy. We’re working on giving them some network problems.”
“When does she start?”
“Tuesday morning. So I have until then to figure something out.”
Rafe stood, leaning on his cane. “Let me know. Either way, I’m in. She’s charging into danger for Mercy. It’s the least I can do.”
Rafe left and Tom remained, wishing he could take a damn nap. He hadn’t been so exhausted in a long time. Not since he’d been on the hunt for Tory’s killer. It had sapped every bit of life from his soul.
He wondered if the loss of that life from his soul, that feeling of hope, had been permanent.
He wondered what he was going to do about Liza. He wondered if, when he figured it out, it would be too late.
And then he noticed a text on his personal cell phone. Saw the story from last night online. You look tired. Call if you need to talk. Still want to be there for you if you want me to. That’s what friends are for, right?
His whole body relaxed and his eyes actually burned, so great was his relief.
Tom’s hands shook as he typed his reply. I want you to. Thx. Will call later.
TWENTY-THREE
GRA
NITE BAY, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, MAY 28, 7:00 P.M.
Well, I kind of figured that out a long time ago,” Dana said. “Your feelings for Tom have never really been a secret.”
Liza should have realized as much. Her Chicago “big sister,” the woman who’d taken her in after Lindsay’s murder, was insightful. This was one of the reasons she’d finally broken down and called her upon returning to her new apartment from Mercy’s birthday party.
Dana Dupinsky Buchanan had known Liza for seven years and Tom for twenty—ever since he and his mother had escaped his abusive biological father. Dana’s best friend was Tom’s mother, and Dana’s husband was Tom’s hacking mentor.
Dana had both history and perspective, and Liza figured that she’d be able to give her good advice on keeping her relationship with Tom in the friend zone.
Right now Tom needed a friend and Liza was determined to be that for him, even if it hurt her that he didn’t want more. “I’m not sure why I thought I’d be able to keep it from any of you,” she said wearily.
“I’m completely confused by that myself. But it does explain Tom’s behavior lately. He called his mom on Wednesday night and she said he seemed off. Caroline figured it had something to do with you.”
Liza didn’t have the energy to be annoyed. “You’ve been talking about us?”
“Duh.” Dana paused, then asked warmly, “What do you need from me, Liza?”
“I wanted to come clean with you, I guess.” About Tom. About Fritz. But the Fritz news, she held back. Learning that she’d kept that secret would hurt Dana the most. I didn’t even invite her to my wedding. “And to ask for advice. Tom’s in the middle of a really difficult case.”
“We know. Ethan has alerts set up for news stories with his name. We saw him at the crime scene with the two dead police officers. There’s more to it, I know, but we won’t ask.”
“I, um, offered to be here if he needed to talk. Any recommendations for keeping it in the friend zone? We share a lot of friends here. It’s going to be hard for me to avoid him.”