by Shandi Boyes
Her knowledge of ultrasounds makes me sick.
This isn’t the first time she’s done something like this, guaranteed.
I stop seeking her features in the dark when the faintest movement in the corner of my eye captures my attention. With my bladder at the point of bursting, the man had no issue finding the unexpected bundle in the lower half of my stomach. I’m still a novice when it comes to all things pregnancy-related, but even someone as naïve as me has no trouble identifying the blob on the screen, even with its head appearing alien-like.
I’m so in awe at the smidge of black on the screen, I don’t peer at the lady cloaking her face with darkness when she asks, “How far along?” I’m too interested in discovering the man’s reply to pay the disgust in her tone any attention.
The dark-haired man twists his lips. “Not far. I’d guess around six or eight weeks.”
“Good. That will make things easier.” After waving her hand through the air like a regal princess, wordlessly granting the man permission to untie me, she exits the room via a hidden entrance on her left. It’s just as dark in that part of the house as the room with my baby’s image frozen on the screen, but the moonlight bouncing off her golden locks reveals she’s as blonde as the reflection I saw in the mirror when Megan Shroud was admitted for a psych workup.
Endeavoring to keep my excitement on the down-low about the many pieces of the puzzle I’ve gathered today, I lower my sweater before accepting the hand the man is holding out to assist me off the sterile-looking bed.
Once my shuddering thighs are concealed by the low rise of the itchy material, I lift my eyes to the man and ask, “What will make things easier?”
I curse my inquisitiveness to hell when the man replies, “This will.”
He grips the nape of my sweater, bends me in half to ensure my stomach feels the full impact of his fist, then hits me with everything he has. His punch knocks the wind right out of me. I fall back with a gasp, the pain tearing through me the worse I’ve ever experienced. It doubles the cramps I’ve been having all day and forces tears to spring into my eyes.
The only good that comes from so much pain is my body’s natural instinct to curl into a ball. My new position protects my stomach from the man’s boot when he kicks me over and over and over again, his onslaught only ending when the blackness seeping out of his heart overwhelms me, and my will to live gives up.
9
Dimitri
I stare at the monitor on Smith’s laptop with my blood boiling and my fists balled. The shoddy live broadcast shows Roxanne lying on a dirty floor. She’s curled into a ball, unmoving and unspeaking. There’s no physical indication as to why she isn’t moving. If it weren’t for the dried streams of wetness marking her cheeks, you could believe she’s sleeping. She looks peaceful, almost angelic.
“There.” Rocco points to the faintest rise and fall beneath the two-sizes too large sweater Roxanne is wearing. She’s breathing, but it’s shallow and irregular.
“Count them out to me,” Smith requests after hacking into a 911 operator’s program. “By counting her breaths, we’ll get an indication of her heartrate. That will tell us whether she’s sleeping or not.”
“She isn’t sleeping,” I mutter out at the same time Rocco says, “Now.”
“They didn’t send me this for no reason. They want me to see what they’re capable of. They want me to back down.” When silence falls across my office, my determination grows. “I’m not doing that this time around. I’m Dimitri-fucking-Petretti. If you mess with me, you lose your life. Can’t explain it any simpler than that.”
I try to breathe out the anger eating me alive. I try to keep a rational head, but before even Rocco can predict what I’m about to do, I remove the gun from the back of my trousers, flick off the safety, then squash the barrel to the teeny tiny groove between Agent Ellie Gould’s brows. “Give me something.”
She’s been here, working side by side with us for the past couple of hours, yet she’s not shared one useful snippet of information. I don’t like praising the Feds, but that is as irregular as me maintaining my cool when the itch to kill is skating through my veins. The Bureau doesn’t hire solely on looks. They want the smarts as well. Ellie has both, and up until today, she used them to her advantage. She not once displayed the blonde bimbo she’s been faking today.
When I inch back the trigger, Ellie’s lips get waggling. “I don’t know anything…” Her words are gobbled up by a big swallow when even Smith hears the deceit in her tone. He was on his feet in an instant, prepared to protect her as he had promised years ago. Now he’s sinking away, certain he’s being played for a fool.
“Smith…” She appears hurt by his reluctance, perhaps even heartbroken. “I-I-I swear, I don’t know anything.”
Her pupils dilate as wide as mine when Smith flicks on the communication mic next to his makeshift terminal before he speaks a set of words I never thought I’d hear him say. “Activate extermination orders for 8324 West Mulberry Lane, Ravenshoe. Shoot to kill. No survivors needed.”
“No!” Ellie cries out with a sob, fighting me with more gusto than she’s shown at any stage today. “Don’t do this, Smith. Please.”
She’s so close to collapsing, I have to grip the front of her shirt as I did her throat only hours ago. Several buttons on her silky blouse pop, but it has nothing on the scream she releases when Smith lowers the projector screen at the side of my office to display Clover and a team of three men getting ready to storm Ellie’s family’s beachside residence.
I’m shocked. I thought I was the only one noticing Ellie’s erratic behavior this evening. I had no clue Smith, Rocco, and Clover were aware of it too. Raids like this aren’t something you set up in a couple of minutes. It takes time and preparation.
“No, no, no,” Ellie screams on repeat when Clover screws a silencer onto the end of his weapon before he covers his tattooed cheek with a balaclava. “You can’t do this. They’re not a part of this. My career isn’t on them.”
Smith’s accent is unrecognizable when he says, “You know what to say if you want it to stop. Tell Dimitri everything you know.”
Ellie drifts her drenched eyes to Smith. “As I told them, I don’t know anything. We broke up before Fien was taken.”
The fact she knows my daughter’s name is a slap in the face, but I keep my focus on the game I’m meant to be playing, not the one I already fielded. “Told who?”
Ellie’s eyes return to mine. “I don’t know who they are. They wanted information about your daughter. I told them I didn’t know anything.” Tears topple down her cheeks when she blurts out, “That’s when they told me to go to the warehouse and await further instructions.”
My brows join as confusion slices the tip off my anger. “I thought Theresa ordered you there?”
Since she’s so worked-up, even her breathing crackles when she tattles, “They instructed me to tell you that if you showed up.”
“And the plates we’ve been searching for the past four hours?” My voice is as hot as the anger roaring through my veins.
Ellie chokes back a sob before disclosing, “I did see a car when I arrived, but the tags and information on Megan’s murder were patched through to my phone this morning.”
I am tempted to crush her phone to death when she digs it out of her pocket to show us the messages she was sent. They’re basic, but the prose is undeniable. She’s being puppeteered by an outside source.
As the pieces of the puzzle slowly slot together, the truth smacks into me. “How did they get you to agree to do this? Not even an unbreakable bond could have you siding with the wrong side of the law.”
Ellie doesn’t need to answer my question. Her eyes tell me everything I need to know. They have the same petrified glint Roxanne’s had when I used Estelle to force her to eat.
After stuffing my gun down the front of my pants, I snatch up the microphone Smith growled down a minute ago and press it to my lips. “This is a hostage situa
tion. Exterminate the perpetrators. I repeat, only exterminate the perpetrators.”
Clover peers at the body cam on Preacher’s chest before he jerks up his chin, advising he understands my objective.
Once all four men are weaponed-up and ready to roll, they enter the Gould residence by a side entrance. The constant yap of a pair of chihuahuas exposes the perps are still in the vicinity. They don’t pay Clover and his crew any attention. They’re facing away from them, barking in the direction of the room Clover wordlessly instructs for his men to enter first.
The next thirty seconds is a blur of gunfire and wounded cries. The sobs aren’t coming from my men. They don’t murmur a peep during operations like this. They remain completely quiet, aware sneaky attacks are usually more deadly.
Within minutes of entering the premises, Clover unclips the body cam on his vest and swivels it around so I can see his face. His brows are sweaty, and his grin is massive. He is in his element. “Perps have been exterminated. Hostages are uninjured and accounted for.”
Ellie sucks in her first breath in what feels like minutes when he spins the camera around to show the remaining four members of her family bound and gagged but relatively unscathed.
“You owe me,” I say before I can stop myself. “And I want payment in full, today.”
I don’t wait to see her nod because if it is slower than immediate, I’ll order Clover to finish what Smith attempted to start. That’s how worked up I am and how hollow my chest feels. Roxanne wasn’t meant to get hurt, and although tears are usually painless, I have a feeling Roxanne isn’t experiencing that tonight. She’s hurting. I can feel it in my bones, and I’m going to make sure the people responsible for her pain pay with more than their lives.
I’m going to claim their souls as well.
10
Dimitri
I scrub a hand over my tired eyes when Smith and Ellie enter my office at the same time. Since Smith’s shoulders are almost as wide as mine, he has to take a step back to let Ellie enter first. It’s cordial for him to do and expected since Ellie has kept her word the past several hours. She’s left no stone unturned as she has endeavored to repay her debt. Just like she wouldn’t fall on the knife for Smith, she won’t for me either, but she’s convinced she doesn’t need to get her hands dirty to achieve a good outcome.
“I think we have a way of unearthing Rimi’s location.” Smith lays a set of official-looking documents onto my desk before pressing his palms to the battered material. “Although we have no intel Roxanne is with him—”
“We both know he is,” I interrupt, confident I know him well enough to know what direction he’s taking.
He lifts his chin. “Ellie contacted some friends in the Bureau about an operation that’s being kept under wraps. When her inquiries didn’t yield any results, she contacted less- attributed colleagues.”
When I shift my eyes to Ellie, she faintly smiles. She isn’t comfortable with the line she’s crossed, but she’ll wear the injustice if it has her name smudged from my tally board sooner rather than later.
“What I said earlier about Internal Affairs investigating my department wasn’t a lie. We’ve been under scrutiny for a couple of months now.” Ellie digs through the stack of papers Smith laid out until she finds a trio of two men and one woman. “With bureaucratic tape the thickest it’s ever been, IA will never say who their main suspects are, but even rookie agents can smell a rat.” She waits to see if Smith smiles about the wit in her tone. When he doesn’t, she gets back to business. “These were the main runners for IA’s investigation. I reached out to the first two with the hope a little bit of ego-stroking would entice them into an unethical conversation.” She screws up her nose. “They didn’t take the bait. However…” she places down a photo of a man I’d guess to be mid-thirties with a dramatic flair, “… he loved having his ego stroked. So much so, he wanted to exchange pictures.”
My lips quirk. “You went in as an admirer instead of a colleague?”
Smith doesn’t look happy when she nods. “Previous exchanges with him assured me it was the right route to take.”
“Was it?”
Smith nods along with Ellie this time around. “They exchanged photos. He admired Ellie’s almost nude photograph…” he overemphasizes the word ‘almost’ to ensure I understand she wasn’t exposed “… long enough for me to poke around on his computer. He’s the nark IA is seeking.” After waving his hand over the official-looking Bureau documents, he adds, “This is only a handful of stuff he’s shared with the men his team is chasing.”
The extra beat of my heart is heard in my question. “Is Rimi’s current location amongst this?”
Disappointment smacks into me hard and fast when Smith shakes his head. “But it unveiled a way we can find out where he is.”
“How?”
Ellie takes over the reins. “You’re not the only one chasing Castro. A specialist team has been on his tail for months. From what I’ve heard, it’s a joint CIA/FBI operation, which makes no sense whatsoever since Castro is a US citizen.” Realizing she’s getting off track, she waves her hand through the air, shooing away her inquisitiveness before starting again. “Anyhow, the lead on the case discovered Castro is after a new mark.”
“Roxanne?”
“No,” Smith and Ellie say in sync. “This woman.”
My brows join when Ellie sets down a photograph of Isabelle Brahn. “What does Isaac’s girlfriend have to do with this?”
“Nothing,” Ellie says with a grin, pleased by the confusion in my tone. “Castro merely thinks she’s this woman.”
She hands another photograph to me. Just like Isabelle’s image, I immediately recognize the blonde in the photograph. When I told Brandon James I did some digging, I wasn’t lying. Not only did Smith discover he’s the son of the New York governor—who I happen to have ties with—we also unearthed his first love, mindful not even the ultimate betrayal can break a connection between soulmates. Take Smith and Ellie’s joint operation as an example.
“Castro wants Melody Gregg so badly, he’s willing to come out of hiding to get her. He purchased tickets to an event Isabelle was set to attend as Melody this weekend.” Air whizzes from Ellie’s nose when she exhales deeply. “Unfortunately, the stunt was siphoned down the gurgler a couple of minutes ago.”
“Why?” I don’t mean to be blunt. I’m merely lost as to why they’ll build up my eagerness only to squash it like an ant a second later.
“Isabelle Brahn was just arrested,” Smith informs, his tone low.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Have a replacement brought in. Castro is like my father. He can’t tell the difference between one blonde and another.”
“We can’t. It’s too late,” Ellie replies. “The lead on this case released Isabelle’s image on a report she wrote up about Melody Gregg. Castro doesn’t just have a name to go off on anymore, he has a face.”
“She’s a fucking woman not a priceless painting. Surely, you can find someone with similar features.”
I know what I’m saying is wrong. I am just too filled with anguish to rope in my arrogance. This is the only solid lead we’ve had in hours, and it’s for a function that’s days away.
I can’t wait days.
For every hour Roxanne is gone, her chances of survival greatly decrease. She’s already been at Rimi’s mercy for over twenty-four hours. I could already be too late.
Furthermore, I’m beginning to suspect her kidnapping isn’t about money. Audrey’s ransom landed in my inbox almost instantaneously with her kidnapping. That hasn’t occurred this time around, making me believe Roxanne’s captives want to drain my veins, not my bank accounts.
The best way for them to do that is to kill Roxanne.
I won’t let that happen.
I’ll become as vicious and relentless as my father before I’d ever let that happen.
With that in mind, I ask, “How can we get Isabelle to the event Castro will be at?”
/> Smith smiles as if I fell straight into the trap he set for me. “Simple. Get Isabelle out of lock-up.”
I give him a look, warning him to dull down the antics before growling through clenched teeth, “She was arrested in Ravenshoe. I don’t have jurisdiction there.”
He completely ignores my threatening glare. “But you know the man who does.”
I fall back into my chair with a laugh. It reveals how unhinged I am. “I’m not siding with Isaac.”
“Why not?”
With my anger too perverse to hold back, I shout, “Because although he didn’t hold a gun to my sister’s head, he is the reason she’s dead! If he had just forfeited the fight, Ophelia and CJ would still be here, and I wouldn’t be left dealing with all my father’s shit by myself.”
I didn’t mean to express my last sentence out loud, but I’m glad I couldn’t hold back when it forces Ellie to use the non-agent side of her head. “Get Brandon to ask Isaac for help.” She angles her body to face Smith. “You saw the way he protected Isabelle during her arrest. He cares for her, but—”
“He’s still in love with his ex, so he’ll always choose to place Isabelle into the fire over her,” Smith fills in, gleaming. “Who were the arresting officers?”
They stop shuffling through papers when I mutter out, “You won’t find them.” I smirk at the shock on their faces before adding, “If Isabelle was my sister, and she needed someone to protect her during her arrest, you’d never find the officers responsible for it. The cartel doesn’t leave evidence, and neither does the Russian mob.”
Ellie gasps in a shocked breath. Smith’s response is much more deviant than that. He smiles a grin I’ve only ever seen on his face once before. It was the night we bumped into Ellie as we exited a private jet. We were in New York to create havoc. Smith fell in love.