39 #2
Even the tailored black slacks and the scarlet blouse — the one with the knotted bow resting smugly at the base of her tawny throat — screamed her identity like a siren from hell.
His hands itched.
Itched to grab those silky ties.
To wrap them around that slender neck.
To pull.
And pull.
And pull until he’d wrung every last breath from her diseased, evil soul.
It turned his stomach to know he’d once had his dick in that vile body.
“Who is the woman?” the sheriff asked.
The bright light of the room burned behind his eyelids, and Rafferty forced himself to blink. Slowly, methodically, he shoved the all-consuming hatred back into its battered sarcophagus. He’d pry it open later, when the time came to deal with the poison it held.
“When was the photo taken?” he rasped, ignoring the sheriff question.
The sheriff’s voice answered like a hammer strike. “A couple of hours before Sarah’s accident.”
Rafferty opened his hand and saw he’d crumpled the photo into a tight ball.
“Again, who is the woman?”
He dropped it onto the table, pushed it away with a flick of his fingers. “Kamila Carvalho,” he said, surprising even himself with the clarity of his voice. “I need to make a call,” he gritted out, reaching into his jacket’s inner pocket for his cellphone.
“Put it on speaker.”
He frowned at the sheriff, instinctively ready to push back, then shrugged. What the hell. Stirling deserved—
No.
The man needed to know what was at stake here.
He had a community to protect, and by killing Selena, Kamila had kicked off a deadly game. She wouldn’t stop. Not until she found her prey.
Him .
The ringtone pierced the stillness. One. Two. Three. Four rings.
It was answered. “Hannigan.”
“Rafferty Lawson here, sir. You’re on speaker. With me is Sheriff Stirling from Nebraska.”
A beat of silence stretched before Hannigan spoke. “What mess have you landed yourself in now?”
Rafferty didn’t waste time, mindful of the unsecured setting. “Did you get confirmation on the DNA results from the body we ID’d?”
“Not yet,” Hannigan replied, followed by a sigh. “Do I want to know why you’re asking?”
“I’m staring at a photo of the subject. Taken four days ago.”
Silence. He could hear the man go still over the line. “Where did you say you were, Lawson?”
“Clearbrook, Nebraska,” Sheriff Stirling cut in, his gaze locked on Rafferty. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Hannigan. DEA Country Attaché. Brazil.”
The sheriff blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “DEA,” he echoed, turning his full stare on Rafferty. “This … subject of yours is implicated in a fatal shooting. If she’s a further danger to anyone in my county, I need to know about it.”
“Fatal shooting?” Hannigan snapped. “Who was shot?”
“Sarah Robertson,” Stirling answered.
“Never heard of her,” came Hannigan’s curt response.
The sheriff grunted. “Why am I not surprised.”
“What is going on, Lawson? Who is this Robertson woman?” barked Hannigan. “I presume you know, seeing as your ass is in Nebraska instead of safely tucked away in Texas on your family’s ranch.”
Rafferty scrubbed his hand down his face and picked his words carefully, not wanting to give the sheriff any indication that Connor was not his son.
“Sarah Robertson was a woman I met during my early Taisechs days. The one who set off the chain of events that eventually led me to Brazil,” he said, voice rough.
Damn Hannigan and his telling pauses. “Shit.”
One word. Laced with a world of meaning.
“I’m here to take custody of her son. My son,” he added quietly.
Another beat.
Then Hannigan said what Rafferty already knew. “Car— The subject is drawing you out.”
“That’s my thinking too,” Rafferty admitted.
A red Maserati. That outfit. Caught on camera, broad daylight.
Kamila didn’t make rookie mistakes.
No, every move she made was deliberate.
Strategic.
And that creepy, skin-prickling feeling from earlier?
Her .
Watching. Waiting. Biding her time.
And she knew he was here.
Sheriff Stirling slapped both palms on the table and surged to his feet. “Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Hannigan sighed, long and heavy. “Lawson, fill the sheriff in. Gather as much intel as you can. I’ll muster a team. Get to Nebraska myself. We’ve got a very dangerous woman to apprehend.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Lawson?”
“Sir?”
“Watch your six.”
The call disconnected, leaving Rafferty staring into the sheriff’s thunderous expression.
“Is Connor in danger?” Stirling demanded.
Rafferty’s blood turned to ice.
Fuck .
In the chaos, he’d lost sight of the one person who mattered most.
“Yes.” He shot to his feet. “She’ll use the boy to draw me out.”
Stirling grabbed his arm before he could bolt. “He’s at my home. Security’s tight.”
Rafferty spun, yanking free. “Home security won’t stop her,” he growled.
“Then tell me who we’re dealing with. I need to assess the threat.”
“Her name is Kamila Carvalho. And she’s a monster,” Rafferty said through clenched teeth. “A true sociopath. One who killed an innocent woman to lure me here.”
“And why is she so hellbent on you?”
“Because I betrayed her. And I burned her fucking empire to the ground.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Lawson.”
Rafferty tilted his head. “You really don’t recognize the name?”
“Carvalho rings a bell, but—”
“What about the Fantasma Cartel ?”
Stirling’s face went still. Then, “Fantasma— Carvalho! Fuck . She’s part of that family?”
“No,” Rafferty said grimly. “She is the family. The Chefe . And she’s had four days to plan her next move.”