Guarded from Sabotage (Blade and Arrow Security Bravo Team #2)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

SARAH

For the first time in weeks, things are finally starting to look up.

Is everything back to normal? Of course not.

I know Blade and Arrow is good, but I don’t expect them to work miracles. Given the absolute mess of my credit and finances, I have a feeling it’s going to take a lot longer than a few days to clear everything up.

When I think about the sheer magnitude of it—loans taken out in my name, bank accounts emptied, all my personal information compromised, some random person out there using my license—it feels like I’m trapped in a dark cave with all the walls closing in on me.

Before I met with Dante, I couldn’t see an escape.

Now, when I start to get overwhelmed, I think about Dante’s understanding gaze and his quietly confident tone as he assured me that he and his team could help. I think about how kind he was, and how much of a relief it was to realize he actually believed me. And I remember how it felt when he held my hand; like his touch somehow made everything better.

If I’m honest with myself, having Dante’s big hand wrapped around mine brought more than just comfort. There was a sort of electricity that sizzled where he touched me, a hyper-awareness of each tiny movement—his thumb moving across the back of my hand, the tiny squeezes of reassurance, the rasp of his fingers against my skin.

Sitting next to him on the couch; close enough to see the bits of copper in his dark stubble and the tiny scar on his cheekbone, to catch the spicy aroma of the soap he used…

The jitters in my stomach felt an awful lot like butterflies.

Every time he’d smile at me—it should be illegal to have a smile that devastating, really—my heart would stutter.

And when he gave me a quick hug before leaving, there was a part of me that wanted to beg him not to let go. I wanted to sink into Dante’s embrace and forget about everything except how wonderful it felt to have his arms wrapped around me.

But I’m a client, and there’s no place for butterflies and electricity and long embraces. Dante was just being kind, and he grew up in an affectionate family—I remember him mentioning how his mom hugs everyone, even the cashier at her regular grocery store—so it’s only natural he’d offer a reassuring touch when I was so obviously upset.

Besides, these unexpected feelings and sensations are probably just my subconscious confusing gratitude for something deeper. And it doesn’t matter how I felt when Dante held my hand. The important thing is getting this identity theft resolved and doing whatever I can to help.

Like yesterday, when I went to the Blade and Arrow headquarters after work and met with some of Dante’s team. I handed over the list I’d come up with of anyone who could possibly hold a grudge against me, although there were some people I couldn’t include due to confidentiality concerns—a parent who lost custody of a child I was working with, or a man I helped their ex file a restraining order against.

“It’s okay,” Matt reassured me. “As long as I know where you worked and when, I can find out the necessary information without you being involved.”

I was a little alarmed at that, but Dante just patted my hand and said, “Don’t worry. Matt is very good at what he does. He won’t compromise the privacy of your clients or get you in trouble. He’ll just find out if there’s anyone you may have worked with that could be responsible for this and do some quiet investigation into it.”

What was I going to do, say no? Don’t help me when I clearly can’t do this on my own?

Besides, I trust Dante. Maybe it’s crazy given how short a time I’ve actually known him, but there’s a bone-deep certainty he wouldn’t do anything that could hurt me—physically, emotionally, or professionally.

By the time I left the meeting, any remaining doubts about Blade and Arrow helping me were gone. Matt outlined his strategy for investigating who could be behind this, how he’d contact all the banks and credit card companies to find out how my information was changed, and start working on getting all my accounts and money back again. And everyone seemed so confident, so certain they’d get this solved, I couldn’t help feeling hopeful, too.

“Don’t forget,” Dante reminded me as he walked me to my car, “contact me if there’s anything concerning. Someone threatening you, the police showing up at work, strange letters or messages, anything. The entire team has your back, okay?” Then he paused, and his gaze went dark and intense. “I have your back, Sarah. Don’t hesitate to call if you need help.”

So yeah, after that, I’m definitely feeling better than I was several days ago.

I’m even feeling cheery enough to give Raya a genuine smile as she comes into my office, instead of the strained ones I’ve been pasting on lately.

She looks even prettier than when I saw her earlier, her hair out of her usual work ponytail and flowing down her back in a curtain of gleaming chestnut. The cardigan she was wearing is gone, leaving her arms and shoulders bared in a rose-colored tank that matches her lipstick.

“Hey, Sarah.” Raya returns my smile with a bright one of her own. “I’m just heading out. Do you want to grab a drink with me? I was thinking of going to Uncorked; they have a special tonight on wine flights and there’s supposed to be live music. It could be fun.”

“I’d love to, but I have to stay late.” I make an apologetic face. “A bunch of my files got all messed up due to some computer glitch, and now I have to go through and fix them.”

It’s the truth, but I’d be making an excuse even if I could go. Even though I told Dante I’m okay with money, I won’t be if things aren’t resolved soon. So I’m trying to be extra careful with my spending, and unfortunately, evenings spent tasting wine and listening to live music don’t make the cut.

I know people would help me financially if I asked—Hanna already offered, and so did Dante. My parents would help without question. But the last thing I want is to take my parents’ money after they saved for so long to buy their perfect retirement home. Hanna’s saving her money for trips with Finn and possibly a baby in the future. And Dante and his team are already helping enough—pro-bono, for that matter—so I’m definitely not asking them for money.

“Oh, that sucks, Sarah.” Raya frowns. “Computer problems are so frustrating. Did you ask IT about it?”

“Yeah.” Nodding, I add, “I did, and Ivan came by, but he couldn’t seem to figure out what happened. He couldn’t retrieve the original files, and I need them for my appointments tomorrow, so I have to go through my notes and update everything manually.”

“Ugh. That really stinks.” Her brows pull into a little V. “You’ve had some bad luck lately. With the credit cards, and then that weird thing with the police… But you got all that worked out, right?”

“Yup.” Gritting my jaw, I force my smile to stay steady. In a bright tone, I say, “Just some unfortunate mix ups. Maybe I broke a mirror or walked under a ladder or something.”

“Maybe.” After a pause, she brightens. “Well, they say bad luck comes in threes. So you’re all caught up.”

With a small laugh that’s only a tiny bit brittle, I reply, “I’m sure you’re right.”

Except I think my three has multiplied a few times.

After she leaves, I exhale heavily and let the smile I’ve been holding drop. The optimism I’ve been clinging to slips out of my grasp a little more. It’s surprisingly tiring to keep up a good front, pretending everything is okay when it’s still the furthest thing from it.

No. It’s going to be fine. Dante said. So did Hanna.

Remember the positive things and don’t focus on the negative.

I have loving parents. A best friend. A home I’m gradually making my own. A job I love. I’m healthy. And I have Dante and his team helping me.

When I look at it that way, I’m actually pretty lucky.

I manage to keep my renewed attitude going for the next two hours, while I finish updating my files and scarf down an only slightly-stale package of crackers I found in my desk. Hanna sends me some cute photos of her dog, Ansel, dressed up in an adorable sweater and romping through a fresh layer of snow. My parents send a selfie of them on the beach, looking relaxed and tanned and happy. And Dante even sends a quick text asking how I’m doing and reminding me to call if I need anything.

So by the time I leave the office, there’s a lightness to my step, and my mind is full of hopeful thoughts for the future. When this is all worked out, and I have my money back—or at least some of it—I can go out to visit Hanna in New York. I can buy my dad that fancy grill he’s been eyeing. And maybe I can invite Dante over for dinner.

Just as a way to thank him, of course. And I’ll make plenty of extra for him to take back to his teammates.

As I get to the parking lot, I whip out my trusty flashlight and get my keychain in position, with one key poking between my fingers, just like I learned from that self-defense class I took back in college. My phone goes in my pocket instead of my purse, which is something I actually learned from Finn. I was visiting Hanna and somehow the topic came up, and he explained, “It takes too long to get your phone out of your purse if you’re in trouble. This way, it’s quicker to get to and less chance of it being stolen.”

Normally, I wouldn’t bother with these precautions just heading to my car, but I’m usually leaving work when everyone else does and not two hours later. The parking lot is fairly well lit, but there are still patches of shadows and as a woman walking alone… there’s no such thing as being too careful.

There are only a few cars out here—the night custodians, I assume—and I set off at a brisk pace across the asphalt, my footsteps unnaturally loud in the evening stillness.

In the dark, everything seems different. Foreign. The colors of the cars are muted. My little Honda isn’t where I thought I left it, but several rows away.

Weird. But not crazy. Sometimes that happens after a long day, or when I’m in a crowded parking lot and end up passing my car and have to backtrack to find it. I even remember one time when Hanna and I went shopping at Crossgates Mall at Christmas, and we ended up wandering through the parking lot for fifteen minutes before we finally found her car.

But weird turns to crazy when I get to the car I thought was mine only to discover it isn’t.

It’s not a Honda, but a similar-looking Hyundai hatchback. And there’s no other car in the parking lot that bears any resemblance to mine. As I scan my surroundings, I spot a mid-size SUV, a boxy sedan, a pickup truck, and the van over by the entrance that we use to transport our clients sometimes.

How?

I hit the unlock button on my keys, hoping to hear the reassuring beep of my car, to see the flash of headlights blinking—my car revealing itself like magic even though I can’t see it anywhere.

There’s nothing. Just a quiet parking lot illuminated by a few halogen lamps and the narrow beam of my little flashlight. No sounds other than the occasional car passing by in the distance and the faint hum of the building’s air conditioning kicking on.

Dread pools in my belly, and a cold sensation sweeps over me.

Where is my car?

This isn’t the best part of town, but it’s definitely not the worst. Not an area where car thefts run rampant. And why would someone steal my car? Five-years old, with a handful of small dings and scratches; I can’t imagine why anyone would want to steal it. But I can’t think of any other reason why my car is just… missing.

A prank? But who would do something like that? No one I know, at least.

Crap. I need to call the police. And given my luck lately, they’ll probably accuse me of stealing it.

As I trudge back towards the building—so much for the hopeful optimism I had just a few minutes ago—the walls feel like they’re closing in again.

How am I going to get to work until my car is found? Can I afford a rental? What if they find my car and it’s ruined? Will my insurance cover a replacement? Is my credit too screwed up to buy a new one?

Questions keep spinning around in my head. Should I call Dante? He said to call for anything, but if my car is stolen? What is he supposed to do about that?

Halfway back to the building, a small sound comes from behind me.

My heart leaps into my throat, accelerating madly.

As I spin around—crap, I’m not holding my keys the right way, I got distracted—a blur of movement comes at me.

No!

I try to run, but there’s no time.

A heavy body slams into me, knocking me off my feet.

I crash to the ground, my knees and hands slamming into the hard pavement.

Pain flares, hot and stinging.

As I scrabble to get up, a heavy weight presses into my back, shoving me down. My chin bounces on the ground and a rush of coppery blood fills my mouth.

“Stay down.” The voice is low. Menacing. “Don’t move, or I’ll hurt you.”

“What do you?—”

“Shut up,” the man hisses. “Don’t talk.”

Then he leans down, his breath sour and hot against the side of my face—I can’t see him, and I’m too afraid to look—and he snarls, “Don’t fucking move until I’m gone. I have a gun, and I’ll shoot if I even see you move. Got it?”

A small, keening sound works its way up my throat.

“Got it?”

“Yes,” I whisper. I can barely hear myself over the sound of my thundering pulse. “I got it.”

“Good.” It’s darkly satisfied. Then he shoves me against the pavement again and yanks my purse off my shoulder.

After a terrifying moment that feels like an eternity, the pressure on my back eases.

My heart stops. A litany repeats in my head. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.

And then.

Footsteps race off. The parking lot goes quiet again, except for my shuddering breaths and tiny whimpers I’m pretty sure are coming from me.

I lay on the ground, shivering in fear, wondering how long I’m supposed to stay here. He didn’t say. Is one minute enough? Two? Is he still out there, lurking behind a car, waiting to shoot me?

Finally, I gather my courage and get back to my feet, bracing myself for a blast of pain.

But nothing happens. And when I glance around the parking lot, the man is nowhere to be seen.

So I run. Knees screaming in pain, breath sawing in and out in ragged gasps, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I bolt for the door of the building.

When I get there, I bang my hands against the glass door, because of course my badge was in my stolen purse. Leaving behind smears of red on the glass, I shout, “Please, let me in. I work here, I was mugged! Please let me in!”

I still can’t stop shaking.

The tears have stopped, but my face is tight and hot and swollen.

My knees are throbbing in rhythm with my pulse, and my palms are raw and aching.

My chin is sore and the inside of my lip is swollen from where my teeth cut into it.

It’s hard to take a full breath and my heart is still racing. I feel odd—kind of detached and floaty, like I’m watching all this happening to someone else and not me.

The two responding officers are over by the door, talking in low tones and casting occasional glances over at me. Carlos, the custodian who let me inside, is hovering in the doorway to the hall, his face pinched with concern and a hint of fear.

He’s afraid they’ll accuse him, I realize. Carlos has his Green Card; I remember him mentioning it proudly during one of our brief conversations. It was right after I’d started working here, and I stayed late, so I ran into him while I was heating up the tamales I’d brought for dinner. We got to talking about my mom, and how she was actually born in Mexico, but has dual citizenship because of my American grandfather.

Worry for Carlos brings things into focus. I have to make sure they know he had nothing to do with it. He couldn’t have. The voice I heard outside had a Northeast flatness to it; not even remotely close to how Carlos sounds.

“Officer Hague?” I have to repeat myself because the first time I speak, it’s barely a whisper. “Can you… I just wanted to say something.”

As he turns towards me, a look of irritation moves across his face, but he quickly masks it. “What is it, Miss Pearce?”

“Can I just—” I make a little gesture for him to come over to me.

Sighing, he crosses the small reception area and comes to where I’m sitting in one of the small plastic chairs. Looming over me, not even trying to come off as sympathetic, he says briskly, “We got your statement, Miss Pearce. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions. What is it?”

“It’s just—” I swallow hard, trying to moisten my dry throat. “I can’t remember if I told you. But the man outside; he had a Northeastern accent. I could tell. It was the way he said some of his vowels. So… I thought that might help.”

The officer stares at me for a second, and then says in a flat tone, “I’ll make sure that’s added to the report,” before turning and walking away.

The band wrapped around my chest tightens another notch.

I never imagined being treated like this after being mugged. Not just mugged, but attacked. Threatened.

I thought the police would be kind and understanding. I thought they’d say reassuring things like we’ll find this guy and everything’s going to be okay and what can we do to help you?

Not that I ever imagined being mugged on my way out of work, but I didn’t think the police would leave me sitting in a plastic chair with a handful of bandages and alcohol wipes they scrounged from the first aid kit in their car. I didn’t think I’d have to clean my own cuts and scrapes, which is really hard when my hands keep bleeding.

They weren’t nice from the second they got here, and I have a pretty good idea why.

A loud rapping on the door makes my head jerk up, and when I see Dante’s familiar figure on the other side of the glass, I almost burst into relieved tears.

He came.

I know he said he would—I called him right after the police—but hearing him say it isn’t the same as him actually being here.

One of the officers moves towards the door, one hand resting on the gun at his hip. I call over, “His name is Dante DeLuca. I called him. He’s part of Blade?—”

The other officer—Officer Wright, who’s even less pleasant than the other one—snaps at me, “ We’ll handle this, Miss Pearce. Stay out of it.”

But any worry I had about Dante dealing with the police disappears as soon as he gets inside. With his impressive height and size, his commanding posture and demeanor, he immediately takes control of the situation. Even across the room, I can hear his rumbly voice as he mentions names like Quint Axton and Hayden Yates and TJ Rockwell.

In under a minute, Dante heads over to me, his features set in hard lines and angles. His jaw is tight as he sinks to his knees in front of me, and I can practically feel the tension coming off him. But his gaze softens as it meets mine, and he asks gently, “Are you okay, Sarah? I got here as fast as I could.”

With a jerky nod, I reply, “I’m okay. Just—” My voice catches as emotion surges. “My car. My purse. All the rest of my—” I cut myself off before I start crying again.

His gaze sweeps from my face down my body, lingering on my poorly-bandaged hands and knees. A tiny muscle in his jaw twitches, and his voice goes all growly. “ This is how they took care of your injuries?”

“No.” Tears burn behind my eyes. “I tried to do it. But my hands were bleeding, and they didn’t want me to use the bathroom to wash up, and?—”

“What?” Dante casts an angry look at the two officers, pinning Officer Wright with a glare. “They didn’t offer basic first aid? Didn’t offer to call an ambulance?”

“No.” In a small voice, I explain, “I think… they heard about me. From before, with the stolen car in Austin… And they…”

Tears well up, and I sniff against them as I say, “When I told them my car was stolen, they said I was wrong. It wasn’t. The car company repossessed my car. I didn’t know.” My words get higher and faster. “I always pay on time, Dante. Always. Even with all of this… I know I made my last payment. I did .”

“Sarah…” He carefully cradles my hand between his. “I’m sure you did.”

“They think I’m making it all up. First the car in Austin, then reporting my car stolen here… I don’t even know if they believe I was mugged. They—” A sob escapes. “They probably think I’m making that up, too.”

Dante’s expression shifts from compassion to anger.

In a cold tone he directs at the police, he says, “This is unacceptable. Denying basic first aid? Treating her like she’s a criminal instead of a victim? I’ll be speaking to my contacts on the force about this.”

Then he turns his attention to me, and his expression softens. “I’m so sorry, Sarah. For all of this.”

His kindness after everything is my undoing, and I burst into tears.

“Sarah.” Dante gathers me in his arms, tucking my head under his chin and rubbing slow circles on my back. “It’s going to be okay. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take you back to B and A and get you all cleaned up and bandaged. I used to be a medic, so I’ll make sure it’s done right. And I’ll get Matt working on this right away.”

He leans back a little, just enough to meet my eyes. “Is that okay, Sarah? If you want to go back to your place instead, or the hospital?—”

Right now, I want to do whatever Dante suggests. I want to abdicate decision making and let him take care of things, at least for a little while, until I don’t feel as raw and aching. So I suck in a shuddering breath and say, “I want to go back to Blade and Arrow. With you.”