Chapter 17
Beckett shared his story of what happened in the parking garage as they rolled down the streets of Montreal in the back of the SUV.
At the conclusion, Matthew said, “I admit that when your brother told me you were a grand storyteller—I hadn’t quite understood just how proficient you could be. ” He shook his head in amazement.
Hayes watched anger and annoyance cross Beckett’s face. Beckett appeared to be holding back an instinctive response—which Hayes assumed was probably crude and very blunt.
“Storyteller?” Beckett asked instead with a twisted smile. “You think I’m putting on a fucking puppet show, here?” he scoffed, more than a little ticked off.
“You want me to believe my uncle has an armored vehicle with cages inside. Cages harbouring—young women?”
“Well, I didn’t see the girls—I’m just—doing the math,” Beckett said, getting flustered. He turned to look at Hayes for support.
But Hayes wasn’t sure he could buy into this.
“Are you sure they were cages?” he asked calmly, hoping to ease the tension.
“Yes, I’m fucking sure!” he retorted sharply, giving Hayes a hard look of suspected betrayal. “There were bars and shit—”
“Bars and shit—” Matthew parroted with an accent that sounded nothing like Beckett’s, which only added fuel to the fire.
“It was an armored vehicle. Similar to the ones that SWAT uses, except there were no firing ports on it. They aren’t worried about people attacking it—just about something—or someone—getting out,” Beckett stated emphatically as his eyes shot daggers at Matthew.
Well, okay. Hayes could definitely see the logic in that scenario.
“Right—sure, alright,” Hayes agreed quickly, hoping to appease Beckett. “But cages? It seems a little—risky.”
“Risky how?” Beckett asked, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Name one thing more secure than a cage for transporting live things.”
“Risky like—you get pulled over, the van is searched, there’s no explaining people—women—in cages.”
Beckett frowned at that comment and went quiet, his jaw clicking shut.
“It would very much be a—do not pass go, do not collect $200 situation,” Matthew remarked with a derisive snort. He rolled his eyes, adding a layer of disdain to his overall attitude, like he found Beckett patently ridiculous.
“I know what I saw,” Beckett responded with grim determination. “Bars, metallic. Cage- like for sure—” he replied, sticking to his guns.
Hayes sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly.
“Could there be—anything else imported or shipped by, or to, your uncle that would require such intense security measures? Could he have—requested that someone get snatched, or be killed?” Hayes asked.
He didn’t really believe any of these theories held water, but he also didn’t know how to reconcile Beckett’s story with reality.
Matthew snorted again and shook his head.
“You both watch too much TV. This isn’t the 80s anymore.
If you want someone killed, you lace their cocaine—or roofie their drinks and let them asphyxiate on their vomit—you don’t build armored vehicles with cages.
It would involve far too many sets of hands and eyes to do that in this day and age. ”
“Then what was the armored truck doing there?” Beckett’s patience was at an end as his green eyes continued to bore holes through Matthew.
“Could be anything,” he shrugged. “Drugs or money, most likely,” he shrugged, casually.
“Is it routine for your uncle to get drugs delivered to the front desk of his legitimate business located in the middle of downtown Montreal?” Hayes asked doubtfully.
“No,” Matthew said, sighing, clearly at a loss. “No, it isn’t,” he admitted. “Perhaps we’ve got it wrong. Perhaps my uncle is looking into alternative modes of transportation. An armored vehicle certainly sounds like an extreme length he might go to in order to ensure his security.”
“What kind of armored vehicles doesn’t have any firing ports? What the hell are you supposed to do if you get trapped inside without them?”
“Maybe the kind that is designed by those in the Mafia not tactically trained like you are?” Hayes suggested, trying to keep the conversation civilized.
Tension was rising quickly. Hayes was short on sleep, and even shorter on patience, so he could only imagine how close Beckett was to losing his shit.
“Couldn’t you just—ask?” Hayes suggested cautiously. “Pretend you saw Dillan rush out and it caught your attention?”
“No,” Matthew responded flatly and shook his head. He was holding onto his armrest, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.
“Why not?” Beckett pressed.
“Because we do not meddle in each other’s businesses. We each handle our own accounts, projects, and people, independent of each other. Nothing is connected—unless it’s for something legit. It keeps everyone clean and separate. Makes it impossible to turn on one another.”
“I’m confused. I thought this whole fucking thing was about getting you out of the family business.
If you all have your own businesses and projects, why are we bothering?
Can’t you just—walk out? Step away from all of it and let the FBI handle your uncle,” Beckett said, clearly at a loss, but Matthew was shaking his head before he was done talking.
“No.”
“Why not?” Beckett demanded with a frown.
“Because the family name is tied to all of it. Our reputation. In court, we’re clean of each other, but in the circles that matter, we are still the Rosarios,” he said, lifting his chin to underscore his pride in the status of the family.
“Oh my fucking Christ, who carrrresss?” Beckett growled in frustration.
“My grandfather built our legacy. And my father upheld it after him—” Matthew replied, irritated and offended by Beckett’s question. “I won’t let my uncle burn down everything they fought so hard to build.”
“Legacy?” Beckett snorted derisively as he shook his head. Rubbing the back of his head and biting his bottom lip, he worked to control his impatience with Matthew.
“Is something amusing?” Matthew asked challengingly.
Hayes really wished he hadn’t.
“Just trying to wrap my head around your legacy is all—” Beckett shrugged. “Not sure profiting from the most vulnerable and ruining millions of lives is really the hill I’d want to die on, but—maybe it’s the blood-soaked logic of the corrupt talking.”
Ah—there it was. That second level. The one that came after the childish taunts and the “your momma” jokes. The snake, and then the arrow—the sophisticated hit that never failed to land squarely on target.
Matthew’s jaw ticked, and his eyes darkened.
Hayes leaned forward, lacing his fingers together to keep his hand from twitching.
He wanted to reach for Beckett. Shield him from whatever Matthew might say next.
He didn’t—knowing that move would not be well received.
Beckett did not want to be shielded—he wanted a buddy who’d help him hide the body later—after he snapped.
Hayes wondered what it said about him that he was willing to act as both a shield and a shovel.
“Tell me, Agent Thérault—is the puppet not as guilty as the puppeteer if he pulls the trigger? How many triggers have you pulled, Beckett? How much blood is on your hands? What exactly would you say is your legacy, Captain Thérault?”
Silence fell—nobody moved, nobody spoke. Tension hung in the air like dust after an explosion. Hayes felt as if he couldn’t breathe.
Before Hayes could find anything to say to try to mitigate the damage, Beckett pulled the car door open and jumped out.
They were stopped at a red light, which Hayes hadn’t noticed until his partner’s feet hit the pavement with a thud.
Beckett disappeared from view before the car door had even slammed shut.
Hayes looked to Matthew—his mind said he was still technically on duty as a bodyguard, but his heart was hammering so hard to go after Beckett—ready to pound its way right out of his chest.
“Go,” Matthew said dismissively. He was looking out the opposite window.
His jaw clenched tight. “Bring him back to the loft when he’s done pouting,” he ordered, and Hayes hated how he automatically snapped to attention before he leaped out of the SUV to chase down Beckett.
He shut the door behind him, and a second later, the SUV took off, leaving them behind.
Beckett had not waited for Hayes. Hands in his pockets, head bowed, he’d begun walking down the sidewalk with purposeful strides.
“Beck!” Hayes yelled after him, as he raced to catch up.
His boyfriend didn’t turn around. “Beckett!” He called again, louder, in case he hadn’t heard him the first time.
Beckett never even slowed down, so Hayes began sprinting after his boyfriend.
As soon as he was close enough, he reached for him, one hand closing around Beckett’s right forearm, tugging hard to get him to slow down.
“Beckett, wait!” he begged, slightly winded. There was a light snow falling, hitting his cheeks and melting on contact. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year. The snow wasn’t sticking—it just formed little puddles as soon as it hit the ground. They’d be soaked in no time.
“I’m not getting back in that fucking car,” Beckett growled, something feral in his expression as he whirled around and faced Hayes.
Hayes dropped his hold on Beckett’s arm, noticing immediately that his lover’s face was a tortured mask of anger, turmoil, regret, and pain.
Hayes remembered his comment from earlier, “I’m also far more likely to lose my shit, blow our cover, and then shoot everyone in sight.
” Perhaps Beckett really had been closer to losing it than Hayes realized.
“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he pleaded, daring to gently reach for one of Beckett’s fisted hands. His grip loosened as soon as Hayes made contact, and he allowed Hayes to cradle his hand in his own.
“He makes my skin crawl. He’s a worthless piece of shit. The kind of monster we’re supposed to be putting away—yet here we fucking are, acting like bitches for the riches,” he said mockingly, looking as if he wanted to shoot something.
Hayes nodded, thinking Beckett’s comments were fairly accurate.
“We’re not here for him,” Hayes gently reminded Beckett.
“I fucking know that,” he snapped—not at Hayes though—but at himself, and at the world. “We’re here because my goddamned brother—the most judgmental man I’ve ever met, decided that Matthew was—what? Redeemable? Like he’s goddamned Florence Nightingale or some shit!”
The outburst was entirely understandable, and Hayes wasn’t sure there was much he could say to refute any of it.
There had been so much that happened in such a short time.
Beckett wanted to help. He wanted to solve everyone’s problems—but at what cost?
A man could only get slammed with so many emotions before he started drowning in them.
Like the swell and the undertow of the tides working in concert, repeatedly pulling him under.
“I know,” Hayes said softly as he gently cupped Beckett’s jaw and ran his thumb across Beckett’s cheek.
He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his blond scruff was getting slightly out of control.
Hayes found he quite liked it. “And I don’t want to undermine your—anger, or your frustration, which are—perfectly valid,” he said in a quick disclaimer, kissing Beckett’s forehead and then pulling back to look into his eyes.
“But I think we need sleep—and time—and a little distance.”
Beckett bristled at first, as if gearing up for a fight.
Hayes pressed another kiss to his forehead, right above the bridge of his nose, in exactly the same spot where Matthew’s uncle had pressed his Glock earlier.
Beckett deflated in his grasp, sighing loudly and giving a single nod of acquiescence.
“Alright,” he agreed with a sigh, the fight draining out of him. That alone was a sure sign of his exhaustion. Beckett didn’t back down from a fight. Ever. “Take me to bed then,” he said with a smirk, looking a little more like himself. His pleasant self.
Hayes chuckled and pressed a quick kiss to Beckett’s lips, unable to help himself. As he pulled back, he found his lover’s expression a lot more open now, free of his previous distress and anger—with fat snowflakes catching on his eyelashes and cheeks.
Hayes threw an arm around Beckett’s shoulders and they headed home.