“This exit.”
He pointed and she downshifted. The top was down, the wind whipping her hair, and he was glad he’d left the security back at the hotel, opting to take the convertible instead of the Rolls. They needed this, the time between just the two of them, the normality. They were a man and a woman, house-hunting. Utterly normal. Squint past the exorbitant luxuries and recent dangers, and they could be any other new couple. Maybe, like any other new relationship, they could survive this stage and move on to the next.
“Right or left?” she asked.
“Left, then your first right.”
She took her eyes off the road and gave him a quick smile, and it was a brief glimpse of the future. Her tan skin glowing against the neon orange of the Lambo. Her sunglasses perched on the top of her head. Her smile loose and relaxed. Once they moved in, he’d give her a housewarming present and fill one slot in its garage with this car.
“Is the Realtor meeting us there?”
He nodded, checking his phone. His assistant had contacted the listing agents directly, setting up the appointments. They had three houses ahead of them, with three different realtors. He checked his watch. “We’re going to be a little early. Feel free to slow down a little.”
She snorted, and it was so different from Gwen’s reserved polish that he had to take a moment, the grief warring with the love in his heart.
* * *
“So, no murals,” Dario said, opening the car door and getting in.
“It wasn’t so much the murals as what was on the murals.” She sucked the red straw loudly, her cheeks hollowing from the effort. “I mean, I don’t want to look at painted grapevines all day. If it was something cool, like graffiti or abstract art, then maybe…” She paused, then shook her head. “Nah. No murals.”
Dario took a sip from his Slurpee, the cherry flavor bringing him back to middle school afternoons and cleaning windshields for cash. He mentioned it to Bell, and she smiled, settling into the passenger side.
“I bet we would have gotten along, had we both grown up at the same time. Two poor kids, working crap jobs for money.” Her smile wilted a little, and he spoke quickly, before she walked too far down memory lane.
“I wouldn’t have been your friend.”
She frowned at him, twisting in the car seat. “Why not?”
“I would have fallen in love with you. Probably made a complete fool of myself and caused you to run in the other direction.”
She smiled, and her teeth were faintly stained in an adorable shade of blueberry. She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I hate to break it to you, but you did make a fool of yourself with me.”
He frowned. “I only remember studly acts of valor and coolness.”
She increased the volume of her whisper. “Nobody cool says ‘coolness’ anymore.”
She reached out and poked him, and he couldn’t stop himself from trapping her hand and pulling her into him. His mouth covered hers, a kiss filled with cold and sugar. Her hand fumbled, reaching out and grabbing his shirt, her mouth pressing harder as she surged forward, across the seat, her need overtaking her.
“I love you.” She murmured the words in between kisses, her focus on his lips, the gas station fading into the background as their contact heated up.
“I love you too.”
And he did, so much it scared him.
* * *
THE FBI
They found the warehouse in a shell corporation that was linked back to Hawk in a complicated tier of paperwork. If they hadn’t known what to look for, if Dario hadn’t told them of the ways that Hawk creatively structured entities, they could have missed it.
“Move in silently. We can’t run this again if we fuck it up.” Agent King nodded at the other men, his gaze drifting over the group, many of who he’d worked with for decades. They were older than most in the Bureau, but that was the way he liked it. They wouldn’t get trigger happy and shoot the wrong person, or express an opinion when he gave an order.
He lowered his sunglasses and hunched over, passing quietly through the grass and toward the large aluminum building, one big enough to hold a thousand women, though Katy Dunning’s statement indicated the number was closer to eight. Eight women, kept away from their families. Eight women, tortured and imprisoned. Eight women who probably hadn’t had food or possibly water since Hawk’s death. Eight women who could be moments from rescue.
Tightening his hold on his weapon, he quickened his pace, his eyes darting across the building’s exterior, searching for movement.
Eight women. Eight lives that were about to be saved.
Twenty-One
BELL
The second house was massive, the sort where Dario could scream his lungs off in one corner, and I wouldn’t hear a peep from the other. We parked beside the Realtor’s minivan and I eyed the white stucco home. It was beautiful, topped with red tile roofs, and dotted with arched windows, flowering planters, and surrounded by palm trees.
Dario turned off the car and I could hear the sound of a fountain gurgling.
“It feels so peaceful.”
Dario pointed to a tree-lined hill that ran along the side of the property. “Don’t be fooled. That berm was built to hide the highway. Jog through those trees and you’ll be smelling exhaust and weaving across six lanes of traffic.”
I tilted my head and realized, barely audible over the fountain, I could hear the sound of cars. Five o’clock traffic, buzzing along the interstate. “Is that why it’s available?”
He smiled and reached for my hand as we approached the front door. “The location is actually a plus. I could be at the casinos within fifteen minutes. Assuming the road noise doesn’t bother you.”
I shook my head. “I can barely hear it. And the lot is beautiful.”
It was. When you ignored the giant hill to one side, something I would have never noticed but that now seemed glaringly out of place, the rest was breathtaking. Lush landscaping. A valley and mountains in the background. A carved wooden ten-foot-high gate that hid us from the rest of the neighborhood. Ivy-covered walls that took over where it left off. We could have a dog here. Two dogs. Big ones with sharp teeth, if safety was such a concern for him.
We. My mind’s slip didn’t go unnoticed. We could have a dog. We could put goldfish in that water feature. We could decorate the house in cobwebs for Halloween and Christmas lights in December. We could make this a home.
The front door swung open, and a tall blonde stepped out, her smile widening at the sight of us. The agent. The last one was an uber thin gay male who used the word fabulous a dozen times in our tour. I hoped this one was a little less exuberant.
“Come on in.” She waved us forward, and I looked past her, the interior of the home glowing with lights, the cool air conditioning floating out of the open door. “You’re going to love the backyard.”
I stepped into the house and felt Dario’s fingers slide along the open back of my sundress, his touch possessively curling against my skin.
I stopped. “Wow.”
The view was incredible. A pool that dropped off into nothing. Purple and green rolling hills, the city between us and the mountains. At night, we’d have a sea of city lights to look out on.
At night. We. Oh my god, I was a grown up. In a real relationship. I glanced at him and imagined waking up next to him every day. Sitting in this room and curling up next to him on the sofa. I squeezed his arm and grinned up at him.
“Wait until you see the upstairs loft. It’s a bit of a cramped journey to get there, but it has a library that will blow your mind.”
Dario’s phone rang, and he glanced at the display, then grimaced. “Well, that’s an issue. Shitty cell service in here.”
I pulled out my own phone and discovered the same issue, a single bar of signal showing. As I watched, No Service flickered across the display, then the single bar returned. “Yeah, mine too.”
“Once you purchase the home, you c
ould buy a booster.”
The Realtor’s helpful suggestion was met with a sigh from Dario. He lifted the phone in the air and walked to the windows. “I’m going to step outside and take this.”
“Let me unlock the back door for you.” The realtor hurried to one of the super-tall doors, and I watched as she struggled with the lock, the cartoonish height of the door making even Dario’s six-foot two-inch frame look short.
I pushed my phone back in my bag and was admiring the fireplace when the woman returned.
“Would you like to see the master suite?” She gestured toward a white stone corridor, the ceiling arched, dramatic light playing up the sides of the walls. I nodded and followed her, running my hand along the wall and admiring the old bricks.
I thought of the last place we’d seen, and all of the questions Dario had asked. “There’s a security system here?”
“Oh, yes.” She nodded, opening the second set of arched doors at the end of the hall. “Every window and door is alarmed, and there’s a camera system that covers every inch of the three acre property.”
I liked the sound of that. In my current house, my bedroom window was secured with a half-rusted nail, the screen stolen off it the summer I moved in.
“Of course, those only matter if the system is turned on.” She glanced back at me with a smile but the response hit me wrong, something inside of me perking its ears up in alarm. She propped open the heavy wood door with her foot and waited for me to pass.
I stepped into the master suite and any alarm bells muted. I looked around the room and fell in love.
Dark blue walls. White stone fireplace, birch logs stacked in its hearth. White fluffy bed. Dark wooden floors. A large leather chair and ottoman, looking out on the view. I walked to the window and rested my fingertips on the glass, looking out. From this angle, I could see the pool, surrounded by manicured grounds. Just beside it, Dario, his phone to his ear, sunglasses on, looking every bit the successful man that he was. He met my eyes and I waved, a simple gesture that brought a smile to his face. He gestured to the pool area and I gave him a thumbs-up sign.
He refocused on his call, and I turned away from the window. The real estate agent had moved into the master bathroom and I followed her in, my eyes drawn to the white marble countertops, then the large shower. I eyed the bench in it and couldn’t stop the image of a naked Dario, the water slick against his skin, his soapy hands on me, cleaning every inch of me.
“The bathtub overlooks the side garden. Take a look.”
My cheeks colored and I moved away from the shower, turning to the tub and stopped short when I saw the woman, tucked on her side in the bottom of the huge Jacuzzi. Black dress pants and a matching blazer. Dark red pumps, tucked against one side. Wrists and ankles bound in thick duct tape, two matching strips circling her face, one biting into fleshy cheeks, the other flat across her eyes.
My chest seized. I took short quick inhales that produced no oxygen whatsoever. Stumbling back, I turned, my exit blocked by the Realtor, who stepped forward with an eerily calm smile. It was the same sort of smile that Johnny had given me, that dark summer night, all of those years ago.
“You don’t need to look at me like that. I could have killed her, you know.”
She lifted her hand, and I saw the gun. She pulled the trigger and I jerked sideways, but it wasn’t nearly fast enough.
* * *
DARIO
It was fucking hot out here. If they bought this place, they’d have to put misters in. Bring out the roofline and cover some of this deck. Blow cool air so you could enjoy the view without sweating your balls off. He adjusted his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose and settled into one of the chaise loungers, looking out on the pool. He could imagine Bell there, floating lazily by, a tiny bikini on, music playing, a drink in hand.
He glanced over his shoulder, looking at the window where he’d seen her, but the window was empty. He shifted in the seat and tried to focus on the conversation, one that had been important enough for him to step away from her.
Agent King continued. “The place was packed with people, but the wrong sort. Illegals. Hawk had them stacked like boxcars in this place. Living and working there.”
“Working?” He watched as a hawk soared by, its wings tipping toward him. “What kind of work?”
“Manufacturing tourist shit. Putting together trinkets and screen printing tees. Towels. Stuff like that. There was a ton of equipment in there.”
Dario grimaced, cursing himself for allowing the gift shops to remain under Hawk’s wheelhouse. They had fourteen of them. Fourteen shops, all of them probably hosting now-illegal merchandise.
The agent spoke again. “ICE has the illegals. We’ve got a team working on that warehouse but we’re moving down the list to the next prospect. The pencil pushers are still finding more locations, digging through Hawk’s records. We found this parcel through his payment of the property taxes. We’ll uncover a few more in that way.”
Dario looked up at the late afternoon sun and thought of the heat. “You have to hurry. Who knows what kind of condition those girls are in.”
He thought of Gwen, of her stories of Mexico and the dirt-floor shack where they’d kept her prisoner. The days she’d gone without water, her young body sweating valuable moisture in the humid heat. Hawk hadn’t cared then, and the chances of him taking care of his prisoners now, decades later, were slim.
“I’m not gonna be able to sleep until we find them. Don’t worry. We’ve got every spare suit on this project.”
There was a sound, something from the house, and he turned his head, glancing back up at the windows. He still couldn’t see her and he stood, letting his gaze drift over the back of the house, the reflection obscuring some of the rooms. “Thanks for the update. Please let me know the minute you find something.”
“Will do.”
Dario ended the call and headed for the back door, eager to get back to her.
Twenty-Two
BELL
The shot caught me in my shoulder, a thousand volts of fuck-me-up causing my body to seize, everything shaking, my collision with the floor one that I saw coming but could do absolutely nothing to stop. God, the impact hurt, the pain muted by the greater wrath of the Taser.
I had grabbed an electric fence at the barn once. It had left me disoriented, the pain more of an uncomfortable buzz, one that shattered your teeth and stole your breath. This was entirely different.
Snot ran from my nose, my heart galloped in my chest and every muscle seemed to cramp at one time. I heard a loud knocking sound and realized it was my head banging against the tile, my feet flopping into the edge of the tub, everything chattering inside my skin in the most uncomfortable manner possible.
The Realtor bitch approached, fuzzy through my tears, her blonde hair cascading down, and she had something in her hand.
I was helpless, unable to fight, unable to think, unable to do anything but watch through blurry eyes as a sharp pain jabbed into my bare thigh.
She stabbed me. The thought came and then, pleasantly enough, I had no thoughts at all.
* * *
DARIO
The back door, the one the Realtor had let him out through, was locked. He pulled at the handle, one that had a keypad on the dial, and cursed the security system that had brought him here to begin with. She should have taken him through one of the sliding doors, those giant masterpieces that had set someone back a fortune. He could have left it open and be jogging up the stairs to the second floor right now. But between the FBI’s number showing up on the screen, and the heat from outside, he’d stepped out and pulled the door firmly to, wanting privacy for the call. Now, he was stuck out here like an idiot.
He cupped his hands and peered in, banging on the glass with his fist. Shielding the glare with his palm, he looked over the great room and kitchen. No sign of them. They were probably still down that stone hall, still in the master suite. He stepped back, to his place by the pool an
d squinted up at the windows to the master suite, hoping to see one of them cross. Nothing. Unease began to set in. Unlocking his phone, he called Bell’s, growling in frustration when the voicemail picked right up. Thumbing through his contacts, he tried the agent. Same result. Fuck.
They’d have to come out of there eventually. Pass through the living room. Look at the kitchen before crossing to the other side of the house. He returned to the door and leaned against the glass, taking another visual tour of the space. Any minute.
A minute passed. Then two. He pounded on the glass again. Yelled out loud like a lunatic. Finally, he gave up on the back doors and stepped off the back deck, trudging across the manicured grass and through a planter, moving purposely toward the side of the house. Screw it. He’d go around front.
He was stopped by the wall. Ten feet high and covered in ivy, designed to keep intruders out. Another security selling point, one the sales brochure had gushed over and he now vehemently hated. He was rolling up his sleeves, examining the brick obstacle with the practiced eye of an athlete, when he heard the engine.
He stilled, holding his breath and listened, trying to decipher the sounds. It wasn’t a lawnmower. Too powerful for that. There was the pop of a clutch and his irritation bloomed into worry. He knew that sound. Every boy in Louisiana knew the sound of a four-wheeler popped into gear. There was the clatter of a garage door opening, the roll of hinges and metal, and his worry manifested into fear.