Chapter 22
Completely agitated that I was pulled away from Beckett, I slip into the small café, my gaze peeled for someone I never had any intention of seeing again—at least, not unless he was in handcuffs.
But when none other than Lucian Creed insisted on meeting me immediately, and refused to come to the hospital where he could be spotted, Beckett practically threw me out of her room herself.
Anderson has an officer stationed outside her room—someone with no ties to the WSP or the Southern Precinct where Seymore used to work. According to him, they’re trying to track down the WSP captain now, but he’s not at home and didn’t show up for work today.
Big surprise there.
Beckett is well protected, but every minute away from her feels like an eternity.
The café is dark, the lighting barely bright enough for me to see where I’m walking. There are two dozen or so tables scattered through the place, though most of them are empty. The ones that aren’t have two or more people sitting in them, except one.
Toward the back, a lone man sits at a table. A baseball cap is pulled low on his face, and he’s wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt. He doesn’t look anything like Lucian Creed, but when he lifts his face and I see him, I know that’s exactly who he is.
Without acknowledging him or ordering a coffee from the waiting barista, I head toward the back and slide into a chair. “No bodyguards?” I demand.
“There’s no time for you and me to banter back and forth,” he replies. “I need you to keep your voice down and pay attention. We have maybe fifteen minutes before I need to leave.”
His tone is different.
His expression is painted with impatience.
“Who are you? Really?” I ask because there’s no way this guy is the head of a criminal organization.
“Reid Kellar,” he replies. “DEA.” As he reaches into his jacket, my hand hovers over the weapon holstered at my back. When he flashes me a badge, I drop my hand.
“DEA.”
“Yes. I’ve been undercover for nearly two decades as Lucian Creed. So long I barely even remember my own name.” He runs both hands over his face.
“Any particular reason you want to meet with me now?”
“Beckett Wallace. Did she survive?”
A chill runs through me. “You knew she was targeted?”
“Not until the hit was carried out. I couldn’t investigate it myself without blowing my cover, which is why I contacted you.”
“She survived,” I say. “Barely. Who ordered the hit?” I demand, ready to hunt them down and do to them what they tried to do to her. Anger sings in my veins, wrapping around my heart and squeezing.
“A guy named Thomes,” he replies. “I’ve been after him for years. He’s the last in the long line of criminals I was tasked with bringing down, but no one even knows what he looks like, making him untouchable. It’s why we brought in Paul Jameson.”
“Brought him in. He worked for you?”
“I told you as much.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You told us he worked for Lucian Creed. You have Beckett believing she was married to a criminal.” My anger shifts direction now. If he’d just been honest with us— And then I force that thought away. This is so much bigger than me and Beckett.
Telling us would have broken the mission and been a stick of dynamite in two decades of undercover work. Honestly, this meeting is a risk he shouldn’t have taken—though I’m certainly glad he did.
“Yes. Paul was a private pilot who was hired by Thomes to fly some businessmen from Seattle to Boston, then back. When we found out he was coming into Velocity Airfield, at Thomes’ request, I contacted him personally as Lucian and offered him private accommodations if he’d simply keep me apprised of Thomes’ movements. ”
“And he accepted.”
“No, actually. He turned me down and said he didn’t want to get involved. It wasn’t until I told him who I really was that he agreed to help. Paul Jameson was a good man who didn’t deserve to die.”
A good man who didn’t deserve to die. For some reason, that statement brings a wave of guilt crashing down on me. Here I am, falling in love with another man’s widow while helping her look into his death.
I shake it off.
“Paul flew all over the country for me, listening in on conversations between guys no one could build a case against, all while we waited for Thomes to show his hand. Guy helped me take down more criminals than an entire team could have in the time he worked for me. But Thomes was the only one we couldn’t get to. ”
“And you believe he’s at the helm of this?”
“Yes. But I think you might have accidentally uncovered his identity yesterday.”
“How so?”
“The order came from Thomes directly. We only intercepted it because I have a finger on the pulse of his organization. What feathers did you ruffle yesterday, Detective?”
Seymore. “Captain Cary Seymore. Of the WSP,” I growl. “He’s the only one we spoke to.”
“Seymore.” He leans back, processing what I’ve told him as I consider the fact that I literally marched Beckett straight into the lion’s den. “I know that name.”
“He was a detective at the Southern Precinct until the week before Paul’s plane went down. He quit and took a promotion to captain of the District 1 office in Tacoma.”
“That’s interesting timing.”
“They’ve been trying to track him down all day, but no one has seen or heard from him.” I clench my hands into fists. So close. We were right there. “You really think Thomes is a cop, though? That he could be Seymore?”
“I do,” he replies. “It makes the most sense. Everyone else I’ve gone after, I’ve gotten, but Thomes has always been one step ahead. I’m not a man who puts much stock in coincidences.”
“Me neither.”
Reid’s phone buzzes on the table, so he glances down. “We got a trace on the caller who received the orders to take out Beckett,” he says.
“Who?” My pulse is hammering.
He raises his gaze at me. “It was a burner, but they’ve got a lock on it.” He zooms in on his screen. “What hospital is Beckett being held at?”
I surge to my feet and sprint out the door, not caring if I get any more information. It doesn’t matter. Not when her life is on the line.
“I’ll drive,” Reid rushes out past me and opens the door to a truck parked on the curb. I jump in, my pulse racing the entire time.
Ripping out my phone, I tap Beckett’s contact.
It goes straight to voicemail.
No.
My stomach plummets, fear waging a bloody war within me. I tap on Anderson’s contact next.
“Hey, partner, what’s—”
“Beckett. Is she okay?”
“I haven’t heard otherwise. Why, what’s wrong?”
“How far are you from the hospital?”
“Not far,” he replies. “I’ll head over there now and make sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” He ends the call, so I set my phone down and run both hands over my face.
“If Thomes is Seymore, then there’s no telling how many cops he has working for him. They could be everywhere.” I shake my head.
“Hence the need for me to be undercover for so long. The one person who knows what I’m doing is the Special Agent in Charge of my office. I resigned and took on the persona without anyone else knowing. We had no idea how deep the corruption went.”
“Then why are you risking it now?” I demand. “You’re here, out, and helping us. Why?”
His jaw tightens. “Paul saved my life the year before he died. He overheard something during one of the flights with Thomes’ businessmen and warned me that someone was coming for me before the hitman made it through my front doors.
He was a good man who loved his family. I wasn’t about to let anything happen to them—not if I could help it. ”
“That’s why you gave Lauren the job.”
“Yes. I put her in the position she was in because the clients who come in don’t typically have access to her. I wanted to keep her out of sight.”
As the pieces begin to come together, I try Beckett’s cell phone again. She still doesn’t answer.
I try Anderson.
Nothing.
So I call the only other person who might be able to help—if he can get his brother there before me. “Hey, I was just about to—”
“I’m texting you a location, if Riley can get there—”
“I’m texting you his number as we speak.”
My phone dings.
“Get a trace on her phone, please, Tucker. It’s off, and I can’t reach her.”
“On it.” He ends the call, so I tap the number in the messages, not caring that the last time I talked to this man, it was to wrap up loose ends after I’d arrested him.
“Hunt,” he answers.
“Riley, it’s Detective Shawn Sampson. I’m texting you a location. Beckett’s in trouble.” As I say the words, bile burns in my throat. Adrenaline pulsing through my system, it’s taking everything I have to keep my head.
“I’ll be there,” he replies.
As I hang up the phone, I bow my head and close my eyes, clasping my hands together so tightly I know my knuckles are white.
“God, please protect her. Please keep her safe until we can get to her, Lord. I can’t lose her. I’m asking this in the name of Jesus, Amen.”
“Amen, brother,” Reid replies.
I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken the prayer out loud.
Fear strangles me, and I do what I can to beat it back down. God has a plan, and He will be there with her. He will not forsake her, no matter what happens. I just pray His plan includes her survival.
For both our sakes.