Promises to Keep (18 page)

Forty-Six

Hector lasted twenty minutes
before folding. After that, he'd been so eager to share information that it was almost embarrassing.

Reyes's operation was now global. He had two-man teams all over the world, with the sole objective of abducting children. Some were specified targets—children of wealth, held for ransom; others were targeted for their vulnerability—homeless, runaways, neglected. Easy prey.

Those were the children Reyes sold. Auctions were held on-line, money delivered via wire transfer. The warehouse was a way station for West Coast shipments. Reyes had identical setups in Florida and Texas.

Michael jammed his shears into the mangled mess of Hector's knee and twisted, staring into his bulged eyes, hand clamped over his gaping mouth to hold in his screams. “We talked about this, Hector. They aren't
product
; they're children. Understand?”

Hector's head bobbed, fast and jerky, sweat and tears mingling with the smears of blood and snot that covered his face. Michael pulled the shears from the wound and wiped them on the guy's gore-splattered shirt. He lifted his hand from the man's mouth. “Now for the million-dollar question, Hector: where is Leo Maddox?” he said.

The man's head changed direction, shaking from side to side. “Who?”

Michael sighed. “Leo Maddox. Grandson of Senator Leon Maddox. One of your teams snatched him in Barcelona a few weeks ago.”

“I don't know—
I swear
,” he said, shrinking away from the look Michael gave him. “I don't know! I just handle West Coast operations. I never see the prod
—children
that are held for ransom.”

“Who does? Who handles that arm of the operation?” he said. Looking around the warehouse he saw several computers, a few cages, and web cams—everything needed to pull off the kind of operation Hector had outlined for him. He felt an overwhelming urge to burn it all to the ground.

Hector hesitated and Michael smiled. The lift of his mouth shifted the cold visage around but did nothing to warm it. He shot a look at Hector's bare feet, the gaping space between his big and little toe where three other toes should have been. “Really, Hector?” he said, turning back to face the man. “I thought we understood each other.”

Hector swallowed hard, his gaze skittering away from the look Michael gave him. “Estefan. Estefan is in charge of that stuff.”

He remembered what Estefan had said to him only a few days ago. That he was Alberto's second-in-command these days. “Where is he?”

“Here. He was … showed up out of nowhere …” Hector said, his voice thin and thready.

The news clenched tight around his spine, squeezing it straight. “How long ago?”

“Hour.”

Shit. He'd just missed him. Sixty minutes sooner and he would've had the bargaining chip needed to get the Maddox boy back. “Where'd he go?”

Now Hector smiled, thin white lips peeled back against bloodstained teeth, words softly slurred. “ … across the street.”

Forty-Seven

He stopped at the
car long enough to ditch his Kimber. Michael thought about calling Ben for backup, but in the end, he just tossed his phone in the trunk. Estefan belonged to him, and he didn't feel like sharing.

Crossing the street, he left the drunk-guy routine behind, heading straight for the pair of heavily muscled security guards who manned the front of the club. Ignoring the long line of hopefuls, Michael pushed his way to the front. “
Cartero
. I'm on the list.”

The bouncer's eyes, pale blue and glassy from steroids, scraped along his frame, taking it all in. He was a mess: hands bloody, dark stains splattered across his shirt, reeking of another man's sweat and fear. It wasn't hard to guess what he'd been doing thirty minutes ago.

Aiming his skeptical gaze at the clipboard in his hand, the security guard scanned the list in front of him before coming to an abrupt halt. He looked at him again, his 'roid-swollen face taking on a wary cast.

“Hold 'em up,” he said, motioning with his clipboard for Michael to lift his arms. As soon as he did, he was frisked. This guy wasn't nearly as thorough as Song's men, though. A few pats here and there and he was done. “Zip up your jacket,” the man mumbled, eyeing the bloodstained shirt. Michael obliged while the bouncer unclipped the braided gold rope to let him pass.

Behind him he heard the grumble of club kids who'd been waiting all night, but they faded fast behind the pulse and bump of the house DJ. A sea of bodies was in front of him, grinding and writhing against each other. Mindlessly undulating under a dizzying throb of light and sound.

“This way, please.”

He turned toward the voice to find a scantily clad woman next to him, the silver mesh that barely covered her catching and throwing the sweep of light that was timed perfectly to the music. She started to move and he followed—up the stairs, leaving the lights and the heavy crush of bodies behind. She stopped and moved to the side, ushering him into the VIP area.

As soon as Estefan saw him, his face split in to a grin, the facial movement wrinkling and bunching the scar tissue on his face.

“I'm so glad you found me,
Cartero
,” Estefan said as if they were friends. “Hector?”

“Dead.”

Estefan's smile deepened. “You must be thirsty. A drink, yes?” He snapped his fingers, and the woman who escorted him appeared next to him.

“I don't want a drink.” His throat burned, calling him a liar.

Estefan shrugged. “Some things never change, eh?”

“When it comes to me and you, no, nothing ever will.” He shot a quick glance at the pair of guards that flanked the leather sofa their boss lounged on. The same ones who'd been with him at the club in Spain.

“We don't have to be enemies,
Cartero
. Not anymore.” Estefan lifted a glass to his lips and drank—watching him the entire time—until it was drained dry. “You and I, we want the same thing.”

“Oh, yeah? What's that?” His hands were shaking—rage and adrenaline washed through his blood in a wave so fast and deep his whole body throbbed.

“To put an end to my father's reign.” Estefan held out the glass in his hand and the woman nearly tripped over herself at the opportunity to refill it. “It's long overdue, don't you think?”

Michael laughed. He tipped his head back and cut loose until tears streamed down his face and his stomach ached. The entire room went still. Watching him. Looking at him like he'd lost his mind. He finally ran out of steam, wiping his hands across his face. Trading tears for blood. “Junior … it's not your father's retirement I want.” He shook his head. “It's his head in a box I'm after. Yours too.”

He could do it. He could be over the table in a heartbeat, shattered glass jammed into his carotid. Estefan would be dead before his guards had time to react.

As usual, Estefan seemed to read his mind. “
Tsk, tsk, tsk
… Now is not the time or place for such things,
Cartero
.” He wagged a finger at him, settling into the sofa with a fresh drink.

“Any time would be the perfect time to watch you bleed.” His hands cranked into fists. His weight redistributed, shifting toward the balls of his feet, readying him for launch.

“What of your woman? Have you considered what happens to her if you kill me? There are people—my people—watching her as we speak. Waiting …”

“Sabrina can take care of herself.” Even as he said it, he forced himself to relax. Push back against the rage that crowded around him.

“So I've heard. But we both know how much you enjoy playing the hero, don't we?” Estefan said with a grin. “What it must do to you to love a woman who doesn't need one.”

“Fuck. You.”

Estefan took a genteel sip and sniffed as if the use of foul language offended him. “If not a partnership, then I propose a truce. I won't lift a finger against you or your Sabrina.”

“In exchange for what?”

“You let me finish my business here and leave. With my head intact.”

Accepting would be his smartest course of action. He had bigger things to worry about right now. “Where is Leo Maddox? As a sign of good faith.”

Estefan sighed, inclining his head slightly. “Quite safe.”

“
Where
?”

“The same place my father keeps all of his prized possessions. I'm sure you remember.” Estefan offered him another smile. “Do we have a deal?”

If their plan worked, he'd be gone within the next twenty-four hours. Until then, he had to do what he could to keep her safe. “Forty-eight hours. After that, if you're still here, all bets are off.”

Before he could get his answer, the guard to his left cocked his head slightly, listening to the comm in his ear before bending down to whisper something to his boss. Estefan's face slammed shut, his pleasant expression morphing into something much closer to the truth. He brushed the guard off and stood moments before the house lights snapped on and the music came to an abrupt end. Downstairs the collective groaned in unison but were cut off by a voice over the PA, telling everyone to evacuate the building immediately.

“You've been busy,
Cartero
,” Estefan said as one of his guards helped him into his jacket. Without the mask of music to hide behind, he could hear them: sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer by the second.

“I've reconsidered my offer. I think I should like to meet your Sabrina after all. What is it you Americans say? Game on.”

He didn't answer, and Estefan didn't wait. He turned, letting his security team lead him to an elevator and safely away.

Michael waited until he was gone before leaving, taking the service corridor that led down a narrow set of stairs, feeding him into the alley. The smell of smoke greeted him. At the mouth of the alley the partiers stood in the street, murmuring and gasping as they watched Reyes's warehouse burn, the flames dancing high in the distance.

Forty-Eight

He drove, his bloodstained
hands wrapped about the steering wheel so tight the skin that covered his hands was as pale as the bone underneath. He tried to pretend he didn't know where he was going. Like it hadn't been the plan all along.

Michael let himself in quietly, pressing his thumb against the small square screen outside the door. The lock popped, just like Miss Ettie's, and he pushed his way inside. He'd expected to find her dog guarding the door, all teeth and snarl, waiting to rip his throat out. Instead he found her alone, sitting in the ladder back chair next to the window. The one he'd sat in that first night, watching over her while she slept. The night he'd realized that he was lost when it came to her and no matter how hard he tried, there was no hope of ever finding his way back.

She knew he was there but didn't turn. She just kept staring out the window, bare feet pulled up, heels tucked snugly against her ass, chin propped on top of her knees. She wore nothing but a tank and boy shorts, a heavy ceramic mug in her hand. A police scanner sitting next to a baby monitor on her nightstand.

She lifted it to her mouth, the faint smell of it drifting over to him. Something light, delicate … almost floral. Tea.

He stood stock still for a moment, staring at her. Waiting for her to turn. To look at him, say something. The sounds of SFPD dispatch and soft even breathing filled the space between them, and he was suddenly sure she knew what he'd done.

He waited a few more seconds, her refusal to acknowledge him feeding his anger, somehow making it easier to do what he came to do. “Okay,” he said, his tone low and even. “That's how you want to play it …” He hooked his thumb into the hem of his blood-splattered shirt and pulled it up over his head, tossing it on the floor.

She looked at him then, tipping her face toward him to rest her cheek against her knee. Her eyes on him, roving over the scars and wounds that chronicled his life, felt like a confession. He let her look, let her see what he really was a moment longer before he circled around to the far side of the bed and sat down, giving her his back while he unlaced his boots.

He could hear her behind him. The creak of the chair as she stood. The quiet
click
of her cup when she set it down on the crowded nightstand. The silencing of one monitor and then another—plunging them into silence. From the corner of his eye, he could see her move around the bed, disappearing into the bathroom.

He didn't look at her. That ugly thing he carried around with him, that tangled knot of selfish need, wound tight against his gut. He shouldn't be here. He knew that, and if he were better—
cleaner
—he wouldn't be. If he really loved her he would leave her alone, but he didn't. Couldn't. He just concentrated on his boots until they were undone and on the floor beside him.

Now came the soft rush of water and another
click
followed by a wash of dark as she shut off the bathroom light. Then she was kneeling in front of him, reaching for his hands. He pulled away from her. Didn't want her to touch what covered them. She leveled a look at him, one that said more than words ever could. This time when she reached for him, he let her.

He watched her clean the blood off his hands, her head bent—the dim glow of the bedside lamp setting a burnished glimmer to her dark auburn hair. He was hit with the sudden memory of doing almost the exact same thing for her, not so long ago.

“Have you been drinking?” she said quietly, drawing the washcloth down the length of his arm, the sickly sweet smell of booze rising off his skin.

He almost lied to her, told her that he had. That he was drunk and that it was the only reason he was here, but in the end he shook his head. “No. I gave myself a Jack Daniels sponge bath. Men like the ones belonging to Reyes don't feel threatened by drunk white guys with broken arms.” He waited for her to ask what he meant by that, but she didn't, and he could feel his anger flare again. “Don't you want to know what I did?” he said quietly, while she scrubbed at his hands, taking great care to run the cloth over each separate finger, the callused pad of his palms. His bruised knuckles. “Who I did it to?”

She finished cleaning off one hand and reached for the other. “You did what you always do.” She looked him in the eye. “What needed to be done,” she said, handing his earlier words back to him. She rocked back on her heels, dropping the washcloth. “Beyond that, I don't care.” He looked down at the hand she still held. The blood was gone. Or maybe it had just seeped beneath his skin to a place he could never reach.

He barked out a hollow-sounding laugh, pulling his hand out of her grasp, lunging forward to clamp both around her arms, tight enough to cast shadows in her eyes. “I liked it. Enjoyed every
fucking
second of it. That's the kind of man I am, Sabrina—do you care about
that
?” That dirty knot suddenly pulled straight and wound itself around his throat, tighter and tighter, until he couldn't breathe. He swallowed hard against the strangling length of it but forced himself to keep talking. To make her see him. Not the heroic version she stubbornly clung to, but the real him. “I keep trying to tell you. Keep trying to show you, but you're either too stupid or too fucked in the head to get it.” He glared down at her. He could feel his rough fingers digging into the tense muscles of her biceps and fought against the urge to soften his grip. “This isn't going to work, you and me,” he said, forcing as much scorn and anger into his tone as he could find. “Not ever. I need you to tell me you understand that.”

She glared back at him, her eyes dark blue shards of glass that cut him to the bone. “If that's true, then why are you here?” She leaned in— or maybe he pulled her to him, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that she suddenly surrounded him, so close it made him dizzy. “Tell me …” She craned her neck, bring her mouth as close to his ear as his hold on her would allow. “Why did you come here?” she whispered, her words skating along his collarbone, the warmth of them spreading around his ribs to run a trail of sensation along his spine that murdered every lie he had lined up, leaving him nothing more to offer but the truth.

“Because I'm selfish,” he said quietly. “Because when it comes to you, I can't make myself do the right thing. I can't make myself walk away. I just … can't. I never could.”

“Then stop trying.” Her face softened, her gaze losing its sharp edges. “It doesn't matter. All I care about is that you're here with me
now
.”

“Say it again. What you said before, in the street …” He let his gaze drift down so he could watch her mouth form the words. “Say it …” he whispered, suddenly desperate to hear it, even if it was a lie. Even if she had no idea who or what she was really saying it to.

“You're a good man, Michael.” Her hand slipped between them, lifting to cup his face. Her fingers brushed along his brow, and he realized he was frowning, instantly rejecting the words she spoke. “Even if you can't see it. Even if you can't believe it—I
can
… because I love you.”

He raised his gaze to hers and found something that rattled the very foundation he'd built his life on.

Truth.

I love you.
That was all it took, three simple words, to snap the last of his self-control. He relaxed his hold on her arms, allowing her to press herself against him, her mouth rushing up to meet his, soft and wet, opening to invite him inside.

She kept moving, pushing against him until he was reclining on the bed. She followed, keeping their mouths locked together, fisting her hands in the sheets, pulling herself onto the bed as he fell, drawing her knees up, straddling him, grinding her hips into the erection that suddenly pushed into the junction of her thighs. He gripped her thighs, pressing himself against her, doing his damnedest to control the frenzy of need that broke out beneath his skin.

“Sabrina …” The voice that said her name was little more than a strangled croak, and it took him a second to realize that desperate sound had come from him.

She broke away, rearing up to look down at him. Her hips went still beneath his hands, her gaze and fingers trailing the loops and whorls of the tattoo that splayed across his chest, and for an instant he was sure she could see them—the names of his dead, trapped under the surface of his skin, hidden beneath dark ribbons of ink. Her fingers continued across his stomach until they found the button of his cargos, lifting herself onto her knees in order to give herself room to free it from its loop and work his pants down until they hit the floor.

Cool fingers wrapped around his cock, pulling another sound from him, this one more guttural, ending on a harsh breath as her hand slid down the hard length of him. She leaned into him again until they were face to face, her long hair forming a curtain between them and the outside world, her hand and hips working him in perfect rhythm with her mouth on his.

Naked. He wanted her naked. That was all he could think about. All that mattered. Without thinking, he reached up and caught the bottom of her tank, moving to pull it off. Her hands followed his, covering them, her gaze instantly wild and unsure. She never took her shirt off. He knew that, and he was suddenly sure he'd pushed her too far, asked for too much. But it was too late to take it back, and he was too far beyond caring. He tightened his grip on the hem of her tank, his gaze nailed to hers and continued dragging it upward, following the lean lines of her arms, and she let him until it was nothing more than a wad of fabric in his hands. She stayed where she was for a moment, parted mouth hovering above his, exposed breasts pressed against his bare chest. She sat back, her long dark hair catching fire as it tumbled across her shoulders, the strands of it shifting from brown to red with each breath she took.

She had nearly as many scars as he did. Slashes and burns. Bumps and cuts. Each one a memory of what had been done to her. A tangible badge announcing her strength. Declaring her survival. Jaw set, chin held at an almost defiant angle, she let him look, her eyes hot and dry as she accepted his gaze on her, and in that moment he'd never seen anything more fiercely beautiful.

He gathered up her hair, moving it to the side so he could see all of her. The hard knot of scar tissue at the top of her thigh. Another at the inside of her arm. The ropy scatter of them across her belly. He could still see her face the night she'd brought his hand against her stomach, the way she pressed his fingers into them while she looked at him, telling him what they were.

They spell out the word
mine …

Michael pushed the memory away. He used the self-control he was so proud of to lock it down. To concentrate on the only thing that mattered.
Now.
“You're beautiful …” He trailed a hand down the length of her, mesmerized by the feel of her skin, the way it slid and shifted beneath his. He cupped her breasts, brushed his thumbs across her nipples, the blood rushing from his brain as they instantly tightened beneath his touch. She arched back slightly, eyes closed. Offering him more—anything he wanted.

Settling a hand on the top of her leg, gripping her hip, he let his thumb cruise along the snug hem of her underwear, following it around to the junction of her thighs, running it lightly over the small swatch of fabric that covered her. She caught her breath as he slipped beneath it, running the pad of his thumb along her silky wet cleft.

She moaned, the sound getting caught in her throat as her hips pushed against his hand, his thumb sinking in deeper and deeper until it settled on her core and she rode it, grinding herself against him, her breath coming in short soft pants, setting him on fire, pulling him apart until he couldn't think straight. Lost, he reared up and turned, covering her with his body, settling his hips into the cradle of her thighs, his erection pushed against her, nothing between them but the thin cotton barrier of her panties.

She went still again, her chest pumping against his with an unsteady rhythm, her wide-eyed gaze telling him she was fighting for control, and he realized too late what he'd done. What kind of memories his weight on top of her would incite. He raised himself instantly, started to pull back, but she shifted her hips again, fitting her knees against his rib cage, locking her ankles around his hips.

“It's okay … it's okay …” She said it softly, over and over, glazed eyes locked on his mouth, and he wasn't sure who she was talking to—herself or to him. “It's okay … don't stop,” she said, focusing on his face. “Just … don't stop.”

He took her at her word, kept his eyes locked on her face as he dipped his head to run his tongue along the swell of her breast, the slight salty taste of her like a fist in the gut, leaving him breathless and dizzy. He drew her nipple into his mouth, relishing the way it went taut against his tongue when he sucked, softly at first but then grazing it with his teeth, causing her breath to catch in the back of her throat. Her arms came up and for a split second he was sure she'd push him away or maybe break his neck … but then her fingers delved into his hair, gripping it tightly. Pulling him closer. Offering him more.

He shifted to the side, ignoring the pounding pulse of his erection as he worked his hand between them again, cupping his hand against her to work the heel of his palm against the top of her cleft. Raising himself up, he looked down at her, skimming his fingertips along the thin stretch of cotton between them. “Is this okay?” he whispered between delivering feather-light kisses to her jaw line, running the tip of his tongue along the taunt column of her neck. His mouth on her breast again, his tongue skimming along the swell of it before he pressed a kiss to her sternum. “Are you okay?”