Chapter Thirty-Four
Adriana
“This is not ideal. Not at all.” Susan shifts beside me, her eyes locked on the apartment building that holds our hideout and the twenty people we rescued from the Triads. “We shouldn’t be doing this. If it wasn’t Ricky who called…”
I sigh, but say nothing, even though Susan is echoing every one of my thoughts.
Just how easily is Reaper willing to use other people?
Are we all being used by him? Is this what he did to my sister, too?
Was she sucked in by his charm, his gravity, his eyes, and made a victim as part of whatever vendetta Reaper was involved in?
Mayhem shrugs. “I don’t know. This helps those people out; it gets them away from the Triads, and it helps us with, uh…
” His voice trails off before I even have to elbow him.
Good. I doubt Susan’s fragile cooperation would hold up in finding out that she’s also potentially furthering a gang war between the Triads and the Russians.
She has a spine, ethics, a code she lives by — and even one she’s willing to kill for, judging by the pistol she has strapped to her hip.
Just like I used to have.
I frown. “Any minute now, we should get the signal. Susan, you’ll come up with us, but wait in the hall until we direct you in. Once Mayhem and I have finished the ‘raid’ and ‘arrested’ the suspects, we’ll assist you in transporting the victims to your shelter. Are you ready for that?”
“Ready? I don’t know if I’m ready. Will I do it?
Yes. I’ve already called in a favor with a friend who runs STN — that’s ‘Stop Trafficking Now’ — and they have several volunteers coming to the shelter to help with getting these people asylum or coordinating with the embassies to find their families.
It will be messy as fuck, and I’m going to expect a big favor from you all when this is over, but we should be able to help them. I hope.”
I nod. At least there’s the potential that some good can come of this, even if so many people are being used as pawns. “Mayhem, are you ready?”
“Ready? This uniform flatters my chest and my ass like you wouldn’t believe.
I can’t believe it was so cheap to rent them from that costume shop.
Adriana, I’ll want you to take a few pictures for me after this is over so I can send them to Stacy.
And I want one where I’m bending over. Like a deep bend. ”
“Fine. Whatever,” I say, so focused on getting Mayhem to focus that I don’t realize what I’ve agreed to until it’s too late.
Susan gives me side-eye, but says nothing.
My phone buzzes against my hip. The signal. My stomach drops.
"That's it," I say, checking the screen. Just a simple text: Go. From an unknown number I know belongs to Reaper. "Time to move."
Mayhem straightens his fake badge and grins like he's about to rob a bank instead of pretend to arrest his own friends. "Showtime, baby."
I adjust my uniform, the polyester scratching against my skin like guilt.
The weight of my fake service weapon — a Glock purchased from a shady dealer — feels heavier than usual, even though I’ve carried one exactly like it for more years than I care to count.
Everything feels different when you're crossing lines you swore you'd never cross.
We move toward the building, Susan trailing behind us with the expression of someone walking to her own execution. I don't blame her. I feel the same way.
"Remember," I whisper to Mayhem as we climb the stairs, "make it look real. But not too real."
"Relax, Detective. I've been arrested enough times to know how this goes."
That doesn't reassure me as much as he probably thinks it should.
We reach the third floor, and I can hear voices through the thin walls of apartment 3B.
Russian accents - fake ones, I know, but they sound convincingly harsh.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I position myself beside the door.
This is insane. No, this is beyond insane.
This ends careers and starts prison sentences.
But those twenty people inside need help, and sometimes the system I swore to serve moves too slowly for people who are bleeding.
I catch Mayhem's eye and nod. He raises his boot and kicks the door with enough force to splinter the frame but not enough to actually hurt anyone inside. The crash echoes through the hallway like a gunshot.
"POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!"
We storm through the doorway, weapons drawn, and I have to fight not to stumble at what I see.
The scene is perfectly orchestrated chaos - three masked figures in black, clearly the "Russian gangsters," standing guard over a huddled group of terrified people.
The rescued captives look genuinely afraid, which makes sense since they have no idea this is all theater.
One of the masked men — Tank, I think, based on his massive frame — raises his hands slowly. "We are not doing anything wrong, officers."
His Russian accent is terrible. Absolutely terrible. He sounds like a bad Bond villain, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
But then I see him. Reaper. Even with the ski mask covering his face, I know those eyes, know the way he holds his shoulders. He's standing protectively in front of a young woman who can't be more than nineteen, and something in my chest twists painfully.
Is this how he protected my sister, even as he used her?
Is this how he’s using me, too?
"HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" I shout, my voice carrying all the authority I can muster while my heart tears itself apart. The third masked figure — Diesel, judging by his height and the way he moves — slowly raises his hands, but his fake accent is even worse than Tank's.
"We do not want trouble with police," he says, sounding more like a cartoon character than a dangerous criminal.
The rescued captives press closer together, their eyes wide with terror and confusion.
They don't understand that this is salvation dressed up as violence.
They can't know that the monsters guarding them are actually their saviors, and the police bursting through the door are just more players in Reaper's elaborate game.
"DOWN ON THE GROUND! ALL OF YOU!" Mayhem bellows. The three masked men comply, dropping to their knees with their hands behind their heads. Reaper's eyes find mine through the holes in his ski mask, and I see something there that makes my chest ache — regret, maybe, or apology.
But sorry doesn't undo the web of lies and manipulation. Sorry doesn't bring back my sister. Sorry doesn’t quiet the questions that echo in my heart — what really happened to Vanessa? What was it that Mayhem hinted at earlier?
"Officer, you secure the suspects," I order, my voice steadier than my hands. "I'll check on the victims." I move toward the huddled group of captives, holstering my weapon and pulling out my badge. "It's okay. You're safe now. We're police officers. We're here to help."
A young woman with bruises around her wrists looks up at me with hope so raw it nearly breaks me. "Police? Real police?"
"Real police," I say, and the words taste like ash. "We're going to get you out of here. Get you somewhere safe."
Behind me, I hear the metallic click of handcuffs as Mayhem secures the three "criminals." The sound echoes in my chest like a death knell. Even knowing this is theater, watching Reaper's hands get cuffed behind his back makes something violent and protective rear up in my throat.
I hate him. I love him. I want to save him and destroy him in equal measure.
"Susan!" I call toward the hallway. "We need you in here!"
She appears in the doorway, and her expression shifts from nervous dread to professional competence the moment she sees the rescued captives. This is what she does, who she is — someone who helps people escape from nightmares.
"Oh, honey," she whispers to the young woman with the bruised wrists. "You're going to be okay now. I’ve got you."
The next twenty minutes blur together in a haze of careful orchestration. Susan works with quiet efficiency, speaking to each person, explaining what's happening, guiding them outside to the waiting van.
I watch Mayhem guide the three "criminals" toward the door, their hands cuffed behind their backs, and my throat constricts.
Even knowing this is all performance, seeing Reaper shuffling forward with his head down makes something primal and protective surge through my veins.
The ski mask hides his expression, but I know those shoulders, know the way he moves when he's carrying guilt heavier than chains.
How did I end up here? How did I become someone who orchestrates fake raids and lies to traumatized people? The answer walks in front of me in handcuffs and a black mask, and I hate that I still want to reach out and touch him, make sure he's okay.
Outside, Susan has the van doors open, and she's helping the last few people climb inside. The vehicle is a beat-up white panel van that's seen better decades, but it's clean inside, and Susan has stocked it with blankets and water bottles. Small mercies.
She shuts the doors while two people are still left standing outside, and she approaches me. Her voice is low. “You’ll need to transport these two for me. There’s not enough room in the van. Can you do that?”
I nod and gesture toward the stolen Sebring parked not far away.
“Send them over. We’ll take them.” Then I beckon toward Mayhem, who comes jogging over as I walk to the car. “We’re transporting a few for Susan. Not enough room in the van.”
He nods. Moments later, two of the captives come walking over, a young man in his mid-twenties, and a young woman about the same age. The man takes a long look at the car, then looks at us. “This is your police car?”
Mayhem nods. “Budget cutbacks — they’re a bitch. Hop on in, we’ll take you where you need to go.”
The two get in the car. Mayhem does, too. Just as I’m about to open the driver’s side door, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see Susan. Her eyes are narrow, and her mouth is set in a frown. She places a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t think I didn’t hear that Ricky and his friends were doing a Russian accent.”
“And?”
“I’m not a fool. I know what you all might be trying to orchestrate.
Look, I’m here to help because Ricky asked me, and these people need someone to look out for them.
But I’m not blind to who Ricky is — he might be a good man, but he’s not all good.
I know he has a past. As an addict and a pusher.
And if he’s willing to do something like this that puts all these people at risk and could start a…
” She stops, her hand on my shoulder gives me a quick squeeze.
“Take it from someone who has seen more than she wants to admit: be careful. Protect yourself.”