Promises to Keep (16 page)

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—”

“Good, because I'm not looking for an apology.”

He risked a glance at her. She sat turned toward him in her seat, shadows splashed across her face, rushing and retreating through the windshield, making her expression hard to read. He felt it again, that nearly desperate need to put space between them. To push her away. Keep her safe. “How you liking the new job?” He hadn't meant to say it—hell, he hadn't even meant to admit that he knew she was working for Shaw, but there it was, a ticking time bomb between them that had suddenly detonated.

“Oh, am
I
supposed to apologize now?” she said, shaking her head. “There's a lot of shit I'm sorry for, a lot of shit I regret, but calling Shaw isn't one of them.”

“Give it some time,” he said as he angled the car against the curb outside her house and cut the engine. “He won't play nice forever.”

She stared straight ahead for a few moments, her attention focused on something other than him. “That day, when David told me I couldn't save you both, I was confused. I didn't understand—I didn't know you were there,” she said, turning toward him, meeting his gaze head-on. “Then I realized what he was saying. You came to rescue me. Again. And I'd have to choose between you and Val. I couldn't. Don't ask me to be sorry about that.”

“I'm not worth saving,” he said quietly.

She popped her door open and dropped a foot onto the curb before looking at him again. He could read her expression plainly now; it was a mixture of sadness and the kind of resolve he knew he'd never be able to break, no matter how hard and far he pushed her away.

“That's not something you get to decide.” She stepped out of the car and levered the seat, motioning for Avasa to follow her. She stopped on the sidewalk, looking down at him through the open window. “I love you.” She said it plainly, and he could see just how much it cost her to lay herself bare like that.

He looked away, unable to take the full weight of her gaze. “You shouldn't.”

“You don't get to decide that either,” she said before she turned and led the dog across the yard and into the house.

Forty-Three

Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia
April 2010

Michael drew heavy velvet
drapes the color of Pepto-Bismol across windows, careful to sidestep the Victorian dollhouse that hugged the wall. Looking down, he had to laugh at the ridiculous picture his black lace-ups made next to the delicate structure. Like a giant, ready to conquer and destroy.

“Michael.”

He turned to see Christina in a nest of pink satin and lace. “No talking. It's late.” He resettled the drapes and stepped away from the window, heading for the door.

As usual, the little girl ignored his brusque tone and curt words. “Can I see her?”

He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. Way past her bedtime. He shook his head, started to deny her, even though he knew he'd give in in the end.

“Please.” She looked at him, her dark hair plaited into a braid, the thick rope of it hung over her shoulder, her eyes too desperate to belong to a child. She was her father's princess, locked away in a tower. In the two years he'd been her guard, Christina had never so much as spoken to another child. Her best friend lived on a scrap of paper he carried around in his pocket.

Caving, he pulled the picture out of his pocket and handed it to her. She took it, held it with both hands, smoothing her small fingers over the wrinkled paper. She smiled and looked up at him, expectantly. He sank into the pink brocade chair next to the bed and returned her smile. “Which one?”

She wanted him to tell her a story about Frankie when she was a little girl. Her smile deepened, her eyes drifting down to the picture in her hands. “The one about the bicycle.”

He should've known—it was her favorite. Settling in to the chair, he told the story about how when Frankie was eight, she'd ridden her bike off the roof of their house on a dare. He could still see her, black hair a wild tangle around her tanned face, sailing through the air. She'd landed horribly, banged up beneath her BMX racer, the neighbor boy who'd done the daring left standing on the porch, mouth hanging wide open.

“She was brave,” Christina said, her eyes eating up the sight of his baby sister trapped on paper.

“She was hard-headed. Never could walk away from a dare.” He felt the familiar tightening in his chest whenever he talked about his sister. He hadn't seen her face to face in five years. Not since she was twelve. She was about to graduate high school, would be starting college in the fall. Starting a life he would never be a part of.

“Do you think she would've liked me?” Christina said, reluctantly handing the picture over.

He took it and stood, slipping it into his pocket. “I think the two of you would've been inseparable.”

She looked away from him, down at the hands resting quietly in her lap, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment before she spoke. “I wish—”

“Good night, Christina.” He wouldn't let her finish the sentence. Never did. He knew what she wished; he wished the same thing.

Christina snuggled down into her nest of satin and smiled again but despite the lift of her mouth, she looked sad. “Good night, Michael.”

“Night,” he said, clicking off her lamp and closing the door.

He retrieved his satellite phone from his room and slipped outside, carrying it across the courtyard to an open field of grass surrounded by high walls. He dialed the number and listened to it ring, praying she had it set to vibrate like he'd instructed. There was only an hour difference between Colombia and Texas so it wasn't so late that he'd wake her, but that meant that his aunt and uncle could still be awake. The official story—that he was presumed dead, rotting away in the Colombian jungle after his entire team, along with a small cadre of local police, had been ambushed by the Moreno cartel—was what they'd told what little family he had left. Frankie, grief stricken and unwilling to believe that he was dead, called the emergency number he'd given her before being deployed. Unable to let her go, he'd answered.

“Hold on,” she said by way of greeting. He heard her doing as he'd told her. Going into the bathroom, turning on the shower as cover noise to muffle their conversation. A few moments later, the soft hiss of running water droned out of the earpiece, then she was back. “Hi.”

She knew it was him. The number he'd called belonged to a prepaid cell only he had the number to. As soon as they finished talking, Frankie would destroy the phone and he'd use an anonymous courier to send her another via a PO box. She thought he was still in the military. That his death was faked for the sake of national security and these cloak-and-dagger maneuvers were to keep his location a secret from insurgents. She had no idea what he really was. That he killed people for money. That his likeness was splashed across wanted posters hung in countless agencies in over a half a dozen countries, or that there were entire task forces dedicated to hunting him down. She'd never even heard the words
El Cartero.
To her he was just Michael, her big brother.

“Hey, how's my baby sister?” he said, hearing the smile in his voice as they settled into a familiar rhythm.

“Good. I got a job,” she said.

“A job?” For some reason the idea bothered him.

“I've been waitressing at the Wander Inn after school and on weekends. If I'm lucky, Mr. Onewolf will hire me full-time for the summer and keep me on for weekend shifts once I start MU in the fall.”

She was moving on. Growing up. He couldn't help but feel like he was being left behind.

Michael frowned. “You don't need a job.”

“Yes, I do. College isn't cheap.”

“I told you I wanted to pay—”

“I'm not taking your money, Mikey,” she said, that hardheaded streak of hers coming out in full force. “No way is my brother risking life and limb to keep me in nail polish and fashion magazines.”

Michael thought of the thick bricks of cash he'd traded for bullets over the years. Millions. He had millions tucked away in off-shore accounts, and the only person he had to spend it on refused to take it. “You don't read fashion magazines.”

She laughed; the sound of it so much like their mother's that it cut him to the bone. “Maybe I do. I'm all grown up now—last time you saw me, I had scabby knees and braces.”

“You were beautiful.”

“And you were so obviously blind,” she said, the laughter dying in her voice. “You're not coming to my graduation, are you? I'd really hoped you'd be there.”

“I can't … ” It was an old conversation, one that never changed.

“I know, but I thought maybe … Stupid, huh?” She sounded hurt.

“Frankie—”

“I love them, you know? Aunt Gina and Uncle Tony. I'll always be grateful for the way they took me in and raised me after mom and dad … ” She let her words trail off, unable to say it, like saying the word
died
was the same as killing them all over again. “But they aren't my family—not the way you are. I miss my brother.”

He closed his eyes, picturing his petrified fourteen-year-old self holding baby Frankie when Sophia and Sean, his adoptive parents, first brought her home from the hospital so many years ago. He'd been so angry, so scared. But she just looked at him with complete trust in her dark-blue eyes. And now she was going to college. Jesus.

“I miss you too.”

“So come home.”

He wished things were that simple. Instead of saying what he always said—
I can't
—he looked up. “Go to your window,” he said and listened to her comply.

“Okay,” she said.

“Do you see the moon?”

“Yes,” she said.

“So do I,” he said. “I see the same moon. We aren't so far apart. I'm always with you.”

Her voice was wistful and sad. “I wish that were true.”

So did he. “Good night, Frankie. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, and then she was gone.