Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (6 page)

THIRTEEN

Even though it was
barely six a.m., Sabrina drove directly to the station, the red envelope tucked carefully away in her jacket pocket. As deeply as Miss Ettie’s revelation affected her—that not only was she in frequent contact with him, but that he’d been back to visit her several times over that past six months—she didn’t have time to pick it apart. Michael had been here and hadn’t contacted her. No matter what the old woman said, his message was clear.

He didn’t want to see her.

She pushed the thought from her mind and focused on the problem in front of her.

Soon.

It was an ambiguous word—one people used frequently. Harmless enough, but this time it carried the horrible weight of promise. Instinct told her that whoever wrote the note was serious; that he wasn’t just some wingnut out to rattle her cage. Crazy people didn’t disguise their voices when they called, and neither did someone who acted on impulse. Whoever he was, he had a plan. One that involved her.

She parked and made her way toward the building. Every footfall felt like a hammer hitting the top of her hip, loosening her knee, making each step a gamble.

Her phone rang and she reached for it, reluctant but resolved. Hide-and-seek was over—time to face the music. But it wasn’t Val or Strickland. Recognizing the number, her anxiety spiked.

“Hello.”

“Hey … you want to tell me why Weber called me at four o’clock in the morning to tell me you missed your session. Again.” It was Ben.

Kyle Weber was her physical therapist. A position he apparently took very seriously. Seriously enough to rat her out to the man footing the bill for her sessions. “Because he’s a tattletaling bitch. Probably got stuffed in a lot of lockers in high school,” she said, doing her best to sound cool and collected when she was anything but. “Look, I’m in the middle—”

“I don’t give a shit if you’re pulling kitten-toting nuns out of a burning building. Physical therapy was part of the deal. You don’t go, the deal is off. You’ll be no good to me in a wheelchair,” he said. His tone was easy, but she could tell he was pissed.

She stopped at the base of the steps that led to the precinct’s main lobby and took a quick look around to make sure no one was within ear shot. “I completely spaced it. I’m sorry—I’ll reschedule.” The apology stuck in her throat, but she forced it out. It was rare that Ben called her. Even rarer that he alluded to the debt she owed him.

“Maybe you should get yourself a CAT scan—this is the third time you’ve
spaced it
this month,” he said.

Frustration spiked. “Look, I said—”

“To tell the truth, I don’t give a shit—just do what you’re told.” He didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded concerned, which made it even worse.

Standing still had stopped the rhythmic hammer blows from pounding into her hip. Now the pain was a constant push against her leg—from the inside out. She ignored it, focusing on the anger that grabbed her. “If that’s what this is—you telling me what to do and where to go for the rest of my life—then I’m done. I’ll call your father myself.” Her tone was a hard shell of bullshit protecting the nugget of terrified panic she was currently choking on. “Maybe you’ve got little minions stashed all over the map, scared shitless and ready to do your bidding, but I’m not one of them,” she said, even though that’s exactly what she was.

It was quiet for a moment. She listened to the background noise on Ben’s end of the line. She heard the sudden slam of a door, the low tones of another male voice, one she’d recognize anywhere. It was Michael. And from the twittering that answered him, he’d brought home a woman.

The voices grew faint, followed by the quiet click of a door being eased shut, like Ben had found a quiet place to wrap up their conversation. “Weber’s expecting you today at one o’clock. If you don’t show, I’m gonna send a couple of Pips to hogtie you and deliver you to the appointment personally.”

This was the first time he’d ever threatened her with his father’s personal army, but it barely fazed her. A queasy feeling took root in the pit of stomach.

Michael was with a woman.

“Sabrina … ” Ben said, quiet but firm.

She climbed the steps, the throb in her thigh echoing her cadence. “I understand and I’ll be there, but only because the sooner my leg gets better, the sooner I can do whatever it is you want me to do. Then I can be rid of you and get on with my life,” she said before terminating the call and slipping her phone into her pocket.

Hanging up on Ben Shaw was a mistake, one she’d probably pay for later, but she didn’t care. Right now, she told herself, she had other things to worry about. Pulling the door open, she stepped into the main lobby and headed for the information desk.

The officer behind the counter was an older woman, her face aimed at the fashion magazine on the desk, so all Sabrina saw was a short puff of frizzy brown hair. “Excuse me,” she said and the woman looked up. Acne scars, a blunt piggish nose, and tired blue eyes completed the unattractive picture. As soon as she recognized Sabrina, the woman’s eyes went flat, like she was trying
not
to see her. Sabrina was used to it. She’d never been Miss Popularity but thanks to Croft and his string of bullshit articles, she’d achieved bona fide leper status. Sabrina forced a smile. “Hi … ” she checked the badge, “Officer Donner. Did you just come on shift?” Hopefully, this was the officer working days and she’d be able to give her some answers about the note card.

“Nope. Just waiting for my replacement. He’s late—as usual,” Officer Donner said.

“He? Who is he?” Hopefully she’d recognize the name.

“Anderson,” Donner said. “Cute—too bad he’s being rotated out from behind the desk.”

Sabrina just nodded. She did know Anderson, and Donner was right—he was good-looking, in that clean-cut, toothpaste commercial kinda way. He also happened to be one of the few uniforms who still treated her like a human being. “What time does he usually roll in?”

“Depends on where he wakes up. Kid’s got a thing for badge bunnies.” The look on Donner’s face soured a bit, taking her from unattractive to downright ugly.

“And today’s his last day?”

“Yup. Starting tomorrow he’ll ride a car on second shift.”

That meant she only had today to track Anderson before he’d be almost impossible to nail down.

“Thanks … I’m Inspector Vaughn—could you call my desk when he shows up?”

Donner tipped her face toward the magazine she’d been thumbing through. “I know who you are,” she said.

Which meant Sabrina had hit a dead end. Short of camping out in the lobby, she’d run out of options, save one. “Never mind. I’ll just come back later.” She backed away from the desk and headed for the elevator.

The first thing Sabrina saw when the elevator slid open onto the
Homicide bullpen was Strickland. He was sitting at her desk,
leaned so far back in the chair it was a wonder he stayed upright. His feet were kicked up on her blotter, the left one threatening to knock over her desk lamp. Coffee cups and a few take-out boxes littered her space, and she frowned at them. Her partner wouldn’t be satisfied until every flat surface between here and hell was covered in garbage. She leaned her backside against her desk and looked at him. His suit was rumpled, his hair uncombed, a few days’ worth of stubble covered his cheeks and chin. She smiled. They were like The Odd Couple—with guns.

“Hey.” She poked one of his knees with her index finger, knocking them together. He came up swinging, jolting out of his seat as though she’d hit him with a cattle prod. His foot made good on its promise, launching her lamp off the desk.

Strickland stared at her for a second or two, blinking himself awake. Sitting up, he swiped a heavy hand down his face, the rasp of whiskers against his palm the only sound between them. “Where the hell have you been?” he said, his voice cracked and uneven from lack of sleep.

She shrugged. “How long you been here?” she said, reaching out to pick at what looked like a ketchup stain on his pant leg. It flaked off—Lord knew how long it’d been there.

“All night. Your turn.” He dropped his feet to the floor, jerking the stain away from her fingers, forcing her to focus on him and what they were talking about.

She sighed. “You know that B&B O’Shea stayed at while he was here?” She waited for her him to nod. “I’m staying there.”

“He back?” Strickland said, his jaw clenched as tight as his tone. It wasn’t jealousy that had him asking. It was the fact that he blamed Michael for everything that’d happened to her over the past eight months.

“No … I just needed some quiet.” She looked at him, suddenly feeling lost, hoping he’d understand without asking her to explain. He did.

Strickland nodded. “You need to call Val. She’s beside herself. The second you walked out, she crawled up my ass—said you just disappeared. I camped out here, knew you’d show up eventually.”

“Yeah, did she tell you I left because she invited Croft in for afternoon tea?”

Strickland went still. “She failed to mention that part.”

“I’m not surprised.” Val was stubborn but not stupid. Some part of her knew that what she’d done was wrong.

“Did she explain why?”

“Because she thinks I’m gonna crack up again. Says I need to
talk about it.
” She shook her head at the look that settled on Strickland’s face. “She’s wrong. I’m fine. And I don’t need to talk about anything.”

He shrugged, looking a bit deflated now that his anger had run its course. “You know I’m here, right? I’m always gonna be here,” he said to her in a low tone, his hazel eyes filled with concern.

Her throat went tight, like someone was strangling her. She couldn’t talk, just nodded and looked away for a second.

“You going back?”

Sabrina cleared her throat. “Home? I don’t think I can. Not yet anyway.”

Strickland stood. “Call her at least. Let her know you’re okay—after that … ”

Sabrina shook her head. “Val can wait.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the envelope. “Right now, you and I have bigger things to worry about.”

FOURTEEN

Dubai City, Dubai

Michael barely made it
to the living room before he stepped out of his pants and took off his shirt. He was completely nude in seconds.

The woman behind him cleared her throat before speaking. “This would be easier if we could—”

He didn’t even spare her a look. “I don’t want easy. I want fast. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can ask you to leave.”

She didn’t answer him. Probably hurt her feelings, but he didn’t care. Why would he? He barely knew her. In fact the only thing he really knew about her was that she was a First Security Solutions employee and her name was Mary. At least that’s the name she went by. Who knew for sure what her given name really was—not that he gave a shit about that either.

He fixed his eyes on the door Ben had disappeared behind, waiting for the tickle of cool fingers along his spine. Ben’d been on the phone when he’d come in. Who was he talking to?

Her fingers were colder than he expected, but he didn’t flinch. They traced over the bumps of his spine, one by one, until they reached the base and pushed. The hard disc, as big and flat as a dime, dug into the muscle that couched it.

He kept his eyes trained on the door while she walked her fingers around the surrounding tissue. Whoever Ben was talking to, he didn’t want Michael to hear the conversation that was going on—

She pushed a bit more before letting her fingers drop away. “Have you experienced any shortness of breath? Heart palpitations?” she said, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his bicep.

He laughed. “Seriously? The man had a dirty bomb grafted to the base of my spine and he’s worried about my breathing?”

Mary waited a few moments for the digitalized cuff to download its reading to his computerized medical file before removing it. “Mr. Shaw has spent considerable resources on your procurement. He protects his investments.”

Considerable resources
—he’d heard that one before. How many favors did Livingston Shaw have to call in or promise to get him scrubbed off the FBI’s ten most-wanted list? How many millions in bribes to bury the Interpol red notices on him? As
El Cartero
he’d been wanted in twelve different countries and with the snap of his fingers, Shaw had turned him into a ghost. Whatever it cost him, Michael hoped it hurt.

Mary dropped the cuff in favor of what looked like a portable scanner Wal-Mart minimum-wagers used to price-check shit. She placed it over the spot she’d been poking at and waited for the beep.

The device in his back not only tracked his whereabouts, it would kill him if he didn’t come back. He was the sole property of FSS and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Everything seems to be in working order,” she said behind him.

He turned to face her. “Thanks. Bye.”

She didn’t move, instead tracing a remote gaze over his body, taking in the cluster of contusions hovering above three cracked ribs. More nicks and bruises than he could count. Abrasions scattered across his back and shoulders. A laceration across his left tricep. Another across his outer thigh. “You’ve sustained some injuries I’ll have to catalog.”

This was regular business when it came to the security firm he worked for.
Security firm
—the term Livingston Shaw used to describe the sizable army-for-hire he’d amassed over the past decade. While most Americans were jumping at the chance to trade their freedoms for the illusion of safety, FSS had crept in like a cancer. Fed by fear and funded by the Department of Homeland Security, FSS had its fingers in every single one of Uncle Sam’s pies. It was a conspiracy nut’s worst nightmare—fifty thousand boots on the ground, and not a single one of them answered to the U.S. government. Livingston Shaw had a higher security clearance than the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

And he was still climbing.

Michael looked down, watched while she walked her fingertips along the slats of his ribs. She landed on one of the cracks and he hissed in a breath. Most times he was able to force himself to submit to the poking and prodding, but not today. “What happens in Pakistan, stays in Pakistan,” he said as he brushed her hands away from his chest.

She didn’t even crack a smile, just started spouting corporate policy. “Per FSS policy, all operatives are examined after an assignment, before they’re released on leave, and upon returning from leave—”

He tuned her out, just waited for her to shut up and get on with it. She finally stopped talking, traded her scanner for a camera, and started taking pictures. “Your partner provided medical care in the field?” she said after a few dozen photos.

He took another look at the door Ben had disappeared behind. “The kid’s pretty handy.”

She made a noise that sounded like an agreement and took a final round of pictures before stepping back. “You can get dressed now.”

“Is this the part where you give me cab money and tell me you’ll call me in the morning?” he said while yanking his pants back on.

She flashed him a cool, professional smile. “See you in thirty days, Mr. O’Shea,” she said as she headed for the door, letting it slam behind her when she left.

He couldn’t help but think of Sabrina. If he’d talked to her the way he did Shaw’s fem-bot, he’d have swallowed a couple teeth for his trouble. The thought made him smile, but it faded quickly.

He considered calling her—something he did at least a hundred times a day—but in the end, he left his phone where it was. He couldn’t call her. What was there to say?
Sorry I left you to fight off your psychotic half-brother alone …
Or how about,
I’m sorry I got your grandmother killed.
He knew what he
wanted
to say to her. He wanted to tell her he loved her. Make promises he couldn’t keep. Make plans they both knew would never take hold.

He’d been a selfish bastard most of his life. This was one thing he was going to do right. He was going to let Sabrina go. Even if it killed him.

He’d recently been thrown down a flight of stairs and bounced out of a second-story window—the only thing that kept him from serious injury was the dead guy he’d landed on top of.

And Livingston Shaw was concerned about his heart rate?

The door opened. Michael watched as his partner crossed the room into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Ben pulled out a beer and waved it in his direction. “Want one?”

“No.” He watched as Ben used the edge of the granite countertop to pop the cap off and took a long pull from the bottle of Stella. Most FSS operatives bunked down in the fifth-floor barracks while they were in rotation, but not Ben. FSS had headquarters in six different countries, and Benjamin Shaw had penthouse digs in each and every one of them. The perks of being the boss’s kid. As his partner, Michael was expected to stay with him. Eight months of partnership and he was still unable to figure out who was babysitting whom.

Ben threw himself into a chair and took another drink. “How’s your arm?”

Michael twisted his bicep around to get a good look at the stitches. “Fine.” He picked up his shirt and pulled it on, ignoring the snags and pulls of the fabric against the road rash on his back. “Who was on the phone?”

“Did you tell Nurse Ratched you got thrown out a window?” Ben asked. He was avoiding the question—classic behavior for his partner.

Michael crossed his arms over his chest and stared the kid down. “Who was on the phone?” he said again. The skin along the back of his neck went tight, like it did when he was on a job and shit was about to go sideways.

Ben just shrugged. “No one. Just one of my contacts in need of course correction,” Ben said before he smiled. “Sometimes blackmail and coercion aren’t enough to keep them in line.”

Michael was suddenly reminded of the debt he owed his partner. That it’d been Ben who made it possible for him to get back to Sabrina in time to save her. Without his partner’s intervention, she would’ve bled to death. Ben never threatened him, never even mentioned the fact that all it would take was one word from him to his father to end Sabrina’s life, but Michael knew he was capable of just about anything to get what he wanted.

Like father, like son.

“You got plans for your thirty?” Ben said, changing the subject. It was the same question he asked every time they cycled out of rotation and his answer never changed.

“Not a goddamn one.” He dropped his arms from his chest. Some FSS operatives had lives away from the death and violence they were paid to perpetrate for the highest bidder. Not Michael. He didn’t have anyone. Everyone he loved was either dead or better off without him.

“We could do Vegas again.” Ben waggled his eyebrows at him. “Ladies love the Hugh Hefner Sky Villa.”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Last time I checked,
ladies
didn’t take American Express.”

“They weren’t hookers—they were strippers. Huge difference,” Ben said in mock solemnity. “Seriously, what are you gonna do for an entire month without me? Stay here? Wait for our next assignment?”

A year ago he would’ve gone home to Jessup and stayed with Lucy. Worked on the classic car that’d been up on blocks since his father died. Eaten lemon pound cake until his stomach hurt and dream about the day he’d find the man who murdered Frankie.

That was all over now. Lucy was dead and so was the man who killed her and his sister both. The one place he wanted to go, the one person he wanted to be with, was Sabrina. There was no one else for him, and it was painfully obvious there never would be. She was the home he could never go back to.

Michael shrugged. “I’ll probably hop a flight to Miami—”

“Unless that sentence ends with
and bang a bunch of hot chicks,
I don’t want to hear it.” Ben polished off his beer and stood. “Last
chance—I’ve got my Lear gassed up and waiting on the tarmac.”

My Lear.
Michael shook his head and laughed. “Not interested,” he said.

“Alright … I’ll wait as long as it takes me to shower and pack my toothbrush,” Ben said, heading toward his room. “But after that, you’re on your own.”