Chapter Twenty-One
“ I want you armed.” Mathias slid on his holster and removed his gun to check the chamber. “The Reapers aren’t much for subtlety.”
It was the following evening, and they stood in the living room of Mathias’s apartment, readying themselves to go and extract Allen. While Rayan felt nothing but disdain for the federal inspector and would have preferred if their paths had never crossed, it didn’t mean he wanted her dead.
“I don’t suppose you have your old gun,” Mathias said archly, reaching for his jacket and pulling it on.
Rayan shook his head. “Long gone.” He’d made careful arrangements when he’d first left the country, ensuring that whatever remained of the weapon would never be found.
“Figures. Get one from the safe.”
Rayan made his way down the hall to the bedroom, his mind once again crowded with thoughts. After seeing the contents of the file and the clinical summary of his mother’s death, he hadn’t trusted himself to return to the safe house. He’d slept here instead, waking bleary and disoriented in the late morning with Mathias pressed against his back. He’d been naive to think he could access that part of his past with the cold detachment of a stranger. Instead, it had all come back—the eerie silence that had swallowed their apartment, the locked bathroom door, the way Tahir had curled into himself, rocking from side to side at the end of his bed.
Why did I want to know? It hadn’t made anything easier. The feelings were still there, just as raw as before.
Rayan walked over to the closet and crouched before the safe. He spun the dial back and forth, the numbers still engraved in his mind. The door gave way with a sturdy click, and he eased open the handle to find two pistols and a box of ammunition stacked on the lower shelf. He reached for the 9mm and loaded it carefully, his fingers propelled by habit. Standing, Rayan stared down at the gun in his hand. It felt heavier than he remembered and looked out of place in his grip. Pushing the thought aside, he tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants and moved to close the safe.
He wasn’t sure why it caught his eye—a small brown envelope wedged in tight on the top shelf, the seal open slightly to reveal a sliver of glossy photo paper. Rayan reached for it and let the photos slide out of the envelope and into his palm. He flipped through the first few images, the dots connecting rapidly in his brain. He’d been looking for a chance to shift the course of the investigation, desperate to do something besides stand idly by as their futures hung in the balance.
Before Rayan could reason with himself, before he could truly consider what a grievous breach of trust it was—a trust so precious and painstakingly cultivated—he shoved the envelope into the pocket of his coat. Then he slammed closed the door of the safe and went to join Mathias.
They drove through the darkened city toward the shipyards and turned onto a street dotted with industrial buildings. Mathias backed the Bentley into a narrow distribution alley across the road from the warehouse, where Truman had arranged to meet the inspector. They waited in the car, staking out the place, with a full view of both sides of the street. Before long, two men on motorcycles rode into the empty concrete lot outside the warehouse then disappeared along the side of the building. Several minutes later, a silver sedan pulled up at the curb, and Frances Allen got out.
“You’d think she’d have more sense,” Rayan muttered as the woman walked toward the warehouse door.
“She’s getting antsy,” Mathias observed. “Taking unnecessary risks. The Montreal office isn’t backing her, so she thinks she has to do everything herself.”
Rayan turned to Mathias, giving him a pointed look.
“Fuck off,” Mathias retorted.
Rayan snickered. “Maybe you’re more alike than you think.”
“I’m glad this is so amusing to you,” his former capo said, eyes narrowing as another figure on a motorcycle pulled up outside the building. This man was bulkier than the other two, the patch on the back of his jacket more prominent. Rayan guessed that he must be William Truman.
“We’re clear?” Mathias asked, his gaze still trained on the man in the leather jacket, who dismounted his bike and headed to the warehouse entrance.
“I get to Allen and pull her out while you deal with Truman. Then I get back in there before he goes nuclear.”
For a moment, it was as though they’d stepped back in time, transported to any one of the innumerable Collections jobs they’d found themselves on over the years. He felt a swell of pride at how well they worked together, bolstered by the patchwork of their shared past.
But then Mathias turned to Rayan, hesitation in his eyes. Things weren’t the same. He didn’t want Rayan here. “Things get hairy, and you’re out. Got it?”
Rayan nodded, hoping he looked convincing. There was no way he was leaving without Mathias.
The thud of their shoes on pavement broke the stillness of the deserted street. When they reached the door to the warehouse, Mathias pulled it open, and Rayan stepped ahead into the cavernous space. The overhead lights were on, sending pools of yellow down onto the exposed concrete floor. The large man Rayan had seen outside earlier was speaking with what appeared to be his subordinate. Inspector Allen was nowhere to be seen—neither was the other man they’d seen ride up.
Rayan was immediately on guard. Are we too late? Surely, the Reapers weren’t that efficient.
The bulky man, his motorcycle jacket laden with inscrutable stripes of some rank or another, looked up as they approached. “Mathias, glad you could join us.”
“Truman… where’s the cop?” Mathias asked, as though sharing Rayan’s thought.
Truman smirked. “Waiting for me out back. Figured we could use the chance to compare notes.” He inclined his head toward Rayan. “Who’s this?”
“He’s with me.” Mathias turned to Rayan, his face void of all expression. “Go and see how our friend is doing.”
“Tell my guy to go easy on her,” Truman called out as Rayan ventured farther into the warehouse.
Rayan spotted a dimly lit corridor that led to a series of back rooms, and he felt his adrenaline surge. It had been a long time since he’d put himself at risk like this. Once, danger had been part of the job, so normal it barely registered. Now his heart slammed against his rib cage as he strode down the corridor, hyperaware of the fact that he’d left Mathias alone and outnumbered. He had no idea what he was walking into and could only hope Allen was still alive. Otherwise, all of this would be for nothing.
Rayan hadn’t realized how much he’d been conditioned against fear until he’d spent time living in a world where he rarely encountered it. With his resistance gone, he was at a grave disadvantage. He understood Mathias’s look of hesitation—the man could see what Rayan had been too afraid to admit.
Then he brushed against it—a familiar resolve buried deep but not gone. Rayan felt his breathing slow as instinct took over. There was no going back, only forward. He reached the closed door at the end of the corridor and heard voices behind it.
This was nothing. Compared to everything he’d done, everything he’d seen, this was just one more job. All he had to do was get it done. Rayan wrapped his hand around the cold metal door handle and pulled.
Frances had shown up at the place she’d arranged to meet Truman only to find herself face-to-face with two of his lackeys.
“He’s on his way, got held up,” the taller one said with a wide grin.
That wasn’t the only concerning thing about this particular rendezvous, news of which had initially given her the smug satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten under Truman’s skin. The location, which had been relayed over the phone as an associate’s business, was instead a deserted auto parts warehouse strewn with mechanical debris. Frances chided herself for being too complacent, her smugness replaced by a creep of nerves as her gut attempted to assert itself.
“When’s he supposed to get here?” she asked, glancing around the building while attempting to hide her disquiet.
“Not long now. He said to wait for him in the back room.”
The man who’d spoken indicated for her to follow, and she walked behind him through the junk-filled space to a narrow corridor at the back, his friend remaining by the entrance. She had her agency-issued weapon strapped to her chest beneath her jacket and, despite the Reaper’s size, was confident in her ability to take him if provoked. The room at the end of the corridor was completely bare, in stark contrast to the mess of the warehouse. The man closed the door behind them and stood to one side as they waited, lighting a suspiciously pungent cigarette.
After the deputy commissioner had laid out just how close the investigation was to getting pulled, Frances found herself possessed by a heightened sense of urgency. When Truman called to set up the meeting, she’d grasped onto it like a lifeline, perhaps her last chance to get her hands on the evidence she needed to nail Mathias. In her impatience, Frances had downplayed the risk. After all, she’d emerged from their last meeting with a clear advantage, Truman’s blustering coming across not as ominous but more like the desperation of a man beat.
Yet unlike with Mathias, there was no artful deception where William Truman was concerned. He had an unpredictability that to Frances—alone in an empty room in some run-down warehouse—suddenly felt sinister.
“I’ll wait outside,” she said tightly, changing tack and moving toward the door.
“Not so fast, sweetheart,” the man said, standing in front of her and folding his tattooed arms. “I like the look of you.”
Frances widened her stance, conscious of the one button she’d left open on her blouse, as if it were a neon sign. She wasn’t a delicate flower. She’d handled herself in difficult situations, but she’d always had backup. Since arriving in Montreal, she’d had to contend with the icy front of her fellow colleagues at the divisional office and their reluctance to pursue a group that was somewhat accepted as part of the city’s natural landscape. Without fully realizing it, Frances had begun to distance herself, viewing the investigation as her own personal crusade.
Stupid. Because it was clear she needed help, and as each second crawled by, she was becoming less confident that she had the skills needed to get herself out of this.
Truman’s lackey took a toke from his spliff and advanced toward her. “Awfully straitlaced, aren’t you?” he observed with a leer. “It’s always the good girls that are into the real nasty stuff.”
Frances had once taken part in an investigation alongside Vancouver PD, in which they’d succeeded in embedding a female officer in the West Coast Reapers chapter. The officer had gained access to the group by posing as a stripper at one of their private clubs and had been close to getting all the information they needed to start issuing warrants when she’d tapped out. The woman had left the force shortly afterward. Nothing had ever been spoken of officially, but Frances had heard rumors about the things she’d been subjected to.
This was different, though. Frances had clearly identified herself as a federal officer. Truman wouldn’t be that brazen. Still, it didn’t stop her from recalling the photos she’d seen—women dumped, crude symbols tattooed onto their bodies, arms shredded with track marks. Truman not only dealt in the importation and trafficking of women across the country but also seemed to take personal pleasure in their destruction.
“Back the fuck off,” she snapped, as if her words might erect a barrier between her and the roaming reach of his gaze. “You know who I’m with. I’d be careful if I were you.”
The man laughed, revealing a set of yellowing teeth. “You think I’m scared of the pigs? You’re about as frightening as that pout on your face.”
Frances reached into her jacket for her gun, but the man was quicker, grabbing her wrist and pushing her back against the wall.
“And a little piglet like you?” He grinned, and the rankness of his breath was enough to make her gag. “I think I’d like to hear you squeal—”
The door to the room swung open, and Frances started. Rayan Nadeau stood in the frame, looking nothing like the young college kid she’d ambushed outside the university in Toronto. With eyes cold and shuttered, his face was set in a hard mask as he glared at Truman’s lackey. No, this was someone else entirely. This was the man from the photos.
“She’s coming with me,” Rayan instructed, his voice low.
The Reaper straightened up, still holding her wrist, and scowled. “Who the fuck—”
Rayan moved quickly, stepping forward and slamming the side of his hand into the man’s throat. He doubled over, retching.
“Come on,” Rayan said, beckoning her with a tilt of his head.
Frances lurched toward him, and he led her swiftly out of the room and toward the barred fire door on the other side of the corridor. She threw a glance over her shoulder, expecting the Reaper to come charging after them, but he remained kneeling on the floor, red-faced and wheezing. Rayan lifted the metal bar that had been wedged across the door and dropped it to the floor at his feet. He attempted the latch, and the door shook slightly but wouldn’t give, appearing to be stuck. He muttered a string of curses in Quebecois before stepping back, turning on his side, and ramming the full force of his shoulder against the door. It shuddered open, and they burst into the freezing night air. Rayan picked up the metal bar and jammed it through the handles of the door from the outside.
When she’d first seen him, Frances had been confused by the flood of relief she’d felt. Rayan was likely just as dangerous as the man they’d left behind in that empty room, yet he’d appeared to her as a savior. For all she knew, he could be taking her to Mathias to meet a similar fate. So why aren’t I afraid?
They strode along the side of the building and toward the empty lot out front. There came a loud thud from behind them, and her hand shot out and gripped Rayan’s arm. It was the door, still held fast, refusing to buckle. Frances released her grip.
“What are you doing here, Nadeau?” she said finally.
“Making sure you don’t end up dead,” he said, the slight hint of an accent pulling at his English. He walked her to the road where her car was parked under a nearby streetlamp. “You all right to drive?”
“Of course I can drive,” she hissed, raking a hand through her hair to hide the shake. She must not have looked all right, if he’d asked the question. “Truman… what was all this? What did he have planned?”
“What do you think?” Rayan replied stonily. “You’ve got dirt on him, and you’re trying to exchange it for complicity. It won’t work. If Truman’s cornered, he’ll go down kicking.”
Her eyes flicked to his face. “And you came to make sure that didn’t happen?”
“No,” Rayan said, looking back at the warehouse. “He did.”
“Mathias?” Frances scoffed. “He wouldn’t do anything that’s not for his direct benefit.”
“Maybe,” Rayan said cryptically. “But wouldn’t he benefit more if you disappeared?”
A chill ran through her.
“You’re in too deep, Allen. Dig any further, and you won’t make it out.”
Frances didn’t want to imagine what might have happened if Rayan hadn’t stepped through that door. She swallowed hard. Mathias Beauvais had saved her fucking life.
Rayan moved to go but stopped. He turned, his expression conflicted. “You need someone to go down, right? What do I do to make sure it’s not him?”
“Believe me, if Mathias wanted to throw you under the bus, you’d be locked up already,” Frances said, still perturbed by that particular fact. If that wasn’t confusing enough, Mathias’s interference in that night’s scheduled activities had really thrown her for a loop. “He’s shielding you. I’d take that and run.”
Rayan shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Look, Rayan,” she said with a sigh. “If we’re being honest—and hell, after tonight, I owe you that much—you’re a ghost. Try as I might, there’s little I’ve found with your fingers on it. It’ll be hard to tie you to anything substantial.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small brown envelope. “I want to make a deal.”
“I told you, you’re not a priority.”
“Not me. I have something of value to the RCMP. But in exchange, I want you to back off Mathias. Find someone else to sink your teeth into.”
He held out the envelope, and she took it, shaking her head as she reached inside to pull out a stack of photos. “There’s nothing that’ll get him off that easy—” Frances stopped when she realized what she was looking at. “Holy shit…”
“I know Piper’s staunchly anti-crime, but I’m pretty sure what the public hates more is a dirty cop,” Rayan said. “And not just any cop—a police chief.”
She flicked through the photos, each one more incriminating than the next. And what was worse, by viewing them, she had now implicated herself. Because if she were to shrug and hand them back, she’d be willfully ignoring a gross breach of professional conduct. She would be placing her investigation above what was potentially a more concerning crime—one that came from the inside.
“I’d need to bring this to my superior before agreeing to anything,” Frances said, the consequences fanning out before her.
“No,” Rayan said, his mouth a flat line. “I want your word now, or I take them and leave. Then we’ll see what happens when it gets out that the Feds knew about this and tried to sweep it under the rug. My guess, you’ll be out of a job.”
Frances glared at the man, silent.
“The way I see it,” Rayan continued, and there it was again—that flash of quiet intelligence—“you can keep trying to catch the one that got away or actually land something.”
It would be a huge case, on par with bringing in one of Montreal’s notorious mafiosi. Rayan was right—she was no closer to pinning Mathias down, whereas this had been handed to her on a silver platter. She thought of the funding, already at risk. If she didn’t act, there was a high chance both opportunities would slip through her fingers.
“Or maybe I should take you back in there,” Rayan said, his tone suddenly menacing. Like a switch had flipped, the sincerity from before having vanished. “We wouldn’t want to keep Truman waiting.”
Frances gritted her teeth. There was the matter of whom she had to thank for standing here, having moments ago assumed the worst. “Fine,” she said, the word forced from her mouth.
“Your word,” Rayan pressed.
“I’ll pull the investigation off Mathias—but just this once. If he comes up again, if he finds himself drawn into any other case—and believe me, with what I know about him, he will—all bets are off.”
“I’ll take it.” Rayan glanced back again at the warehouse.
She frowned. “Why are you doing this?”
“I owe him.”
“For getting you out?”
Rayan stared at her, his eyes unreadable.
So he’d left the family and attempted to start over. And if that were the case, there was no way Rayan had accomplished that on his own. Now she knew who’d helped him, despite that fact going against everything she’d assumed about Mathias.
“While we’re being honest,” Rayan said, “what’s happening with my brother’s investigation?”
Frances thought about lying, about putting the screws to the master manipulator. Then she remembered the look on Rayan’s face when she’d shown him that grisly photo, the pain so raw she’d felt a sting of shame. “That was a tactic to get you to talk,” she admitted. “It’s a cold case. We’re not reopening it.”
“Some tactic,” Rayan muttered, his brown eyes flashing. He turned without another word and headed back the way they’d come.
“Rayan,” Frances called out stupidly, struck by a sudden concern for him that leapt in her chest.
But he didn’t look back. She was already forgotten.