Chapter 59
fifty-nine
I can’t believe I had that fucker Pierce doing all of our surveillance.
One of the many tasks he purposely botched was the check on Ted’s bank account. Barnes re-runs the scans while I brief the SWAT team on our suspect and our victims. When he comes back a moment later, he has two pieces of paper for me.
The first sheet shows a transaction, two months ago, from Ted’s offshore account into Pierce’s savings. The second is a recent real estate contract for… a warehouse?
When my mind snaps together what he is implying, I almost vomit. “Where?” I croak.
Barnes levels me with his too-knowing gaze. “I think you know where.”
Fucking hell. I do.
I’m not sure why I’m not more surprised. If Barnes has known about my past all along, it would make sense. He was the one who hired me, once upon a time. He likely saw the word warehouse and instantly put the whole thing together.
Just like I am now.
The police chief behind me nods. “Let’s move out.”
For her safety, I insist Tris stays behind. I drive the Mercedes I arrived in, with Barnes beside me. While we navigate our way off Manhattan, to the warehouse district on the nearby shore of New Jersey, I try to stay focused and not think about my mistakes.
I still don’t know how, but I know Pierce must be related to the man I killed, somehow.
Which means he wants revenge.
The two people I love most in the world are in danger. Because of me. And if anything happens to them… well, I’m not sure either know how much they mean to me.
“None of that.” His clipped British accent has softened into a murmur. “The regret won’t help you now, boy. Save it for later.”
We surge on, breaking every speed limit until we skid to a stop at the yard. Fuck, it is huge. SWAT releases a truck-full of hounds, setting them loose among the shadowy metal buildings.
“He’ll be in one of the units at ground level,” I direct. “Look for more blood.”
Everyone grabs a radio and fans out. Seconds pass by, then minutes. It has been almost ten when someone’s voice finally comes through the speaker. “Amir? You in the northeast corner?”
“Yes,” I reply, running faster, my eyes scanning the darkness.
“We have a vehicle,” the voice reports. “A blue Camry.”
My mother’s car.
I break into a sprint, turning the corner to find the unassuming sedan parked behind a mountain of empty pallets without anything stacked on top. “Affirmative,” I radio back. “This is us.”
A line of SWAT officers creeps up quietly, following a couple of dogs who sniff Mami’s car before going wild, each indicating they’ve found their mark. I run toward the warehouse without thought, already drawing my gun and locking the clip into place.
I hear it, then. The terrible sound of a woman trying not to scream. My sprint turns into a series of leaps as I launch myself closer.
I know the protocol. I’m supposed to wait for backup and try to sneak up on them as quietly as I can. If he hears us, there is a chance he will panic and kill whoever he is currently tormenting.
But my stomach flips inside out as another muffled shriek echoes inside. And the next thing I know, I’m shooting at the lock and ramming my shoulder into the all-too-familiar door.
It gives, bending inward when I batter it with my full weight. Pierce barely has time to turn his head and move his hand to his holster before I pull my trigger, sending two shots at his torso.
He crumples, dropping whatever implement he has in his hand and going down hard to his knees. When I realize he is still trying to take his Glock out, I train mine on his head and shoot him dead between the eyes.
Noise erupts around me, but I can’t hear anything. Only the echo of those three shots, rebounding through my brain. My weapon falls from my hands. I drag my gaze up, up, up. To the woman chained in front of me.
My mom.
She is chained to the fucking wall. Thick metal links wrap tightly around her torso and her hips. She stands on one leg, leaning heavily against the panel behind her, where her left arm hangs limp in its own set of binds, holding a video camera duct-taped around her knuckles and wrist.
She has a strip of cloth tied around her head in a crude gag. While I stare at her, my chest heaving, she frantically nods and yells as loud as she can through the fabric. I realize that was the voice I heard outside—my mother, trying not to scream.
The thought spurs me into action. “Jesus Christ.”
I rip the gag out of her mouth, and she immediately shouts, “Alice! Get Alice! ALICE! She wouldn’t scream, Marco! He wanted her to scream so he could torture you with the video, and she wouldn’t scream, so he—he—”
I follow the crazed bobs of her head to the opposite, darker corner… where the love of my life lies motionless in a pool of her own dried blood.