40
Lockdown
It was past nine when Rafferty finally entered his hotel room. Bone weary, he dropped his duffle on the luggage rack, yanked off his jacket, and flung it across the bed. His boots were next, and he crossed the floor to the bathroom, stripping as he went.
The water was scalding. Hot enough to burn away the grime of the day — though not nearly hot enough to scorch the memory of her face from behind his eyes.
Rafferty planted both hands against the tiled wall, head bowed, steam rising around him like smoke from a fire that refused to die out. His muscles ached — not from exertion, but from being wound so tight for so long.
He replayed the afternoon like a tactical report, each beat as sharp and cold as the steel table he’d sat at in Stirling’s office.
Sheriff Stirling had moved fast after the call. First, he’d called his wife. A quiet but chilling phone call. “Connor’s in danger. Go into lockdown with the kids, babe, ” he’d said. “ I’m sending deputies to take the perimeter. ”
And the man had slammed the brakes on Rafferty’s request to see the boy.
“ Not until Children Services clears it ,” Stirling had said. Final. Unflinching.
Rafferty had wanted to rage. He’d wanted to shout that time was a luxury they didn’t have — that Kamila wouldn’t wait for a social worker to give the green light before making her next move. He needed to grab the kid and hightail it back to Texas.
But he’d bitten it back. Barely.
Stirling didn’t look like a man who would knowingly put his own wife and children at risk. Rafferty had to trust the boy was safe.
Water thundered against the back of his neck. He reached up, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. They burned — from the heat, the stress, the fucking weight of it all.
He’d been locked down himself, a separate kind of prison. A “secure” room in the Sheriff’s Office, bristling with tension and armed DEA agents Hannigan had rustled up with terrifying speed. Locals, mostly — green around the edges, and none of them ready for Kamila Carvalho.
Hannigan himself was in the air. Still eight hours out. Maybe more. Thunderstorms rolled across the Midwest like a bad omen. They had a meeting set for zero-eight-hundred.
He’d called Daniel on a secure line and explained the situation. The Lawson ranch was on high alert now. For all he knew, Kamila was orchestrating something down there, too — a two-front offensive.
The steam swirled around him, and he pressed his forehead to the cold tile.
His breath was ragged.
His mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
Kamila was alive.
He could still see her face. That cascade of hair. That red blouse with its ridiculous bow tied neatly around her throat, just begging to be twisted tight.
And the taunt in her eyes as she stared directly into the security camera.
She wanted him to know she was here.
Wanted him to know that he might’ve destroyed her organization, but not her.
Never her.
She had outfoxed him.
Planted a double in her bed.
Let him believe he was free.
Rafferty sucked in a deep breath, held it until his lungs screamed, then let it out slowly.
As long as she lived, she posed a danger to those he loved.
The hot water streamed over the scars on his back, prickling, burning, permanent reminders of her cruelty.
He curled his fingers into tight balls as anger, hatred, overwhelmed the deep-seated despair. Fighting down the urge to put his fist into the wall, pretending it was her, he let out an inhuman roar.
He didn’t want his darkness to return.
For too long, revenge dictated his life.
It nibbled away at his moral compass until there was nothing left. Nothing but a hollow pit of darkness and despair.
But now, it hovered over him again, growing larger, taunting him, feeding the desire to kill.
Murderer , his conscience mocked. “You’re no better than Kamila,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
A man with darkness in his heart will not rescue a deer.
“You’re wrong, Red. So very wrong.”
His heart was dark. Pitch black.
Kamila Carvalho would die.
By his own hand.
*
Rafferty strode across the sloping ground to the edge of the shimmering lake grateful for the protection of sunglasses and ball cap shielding his eyes from the bright glare.
A grouping of mature willow trees, their weeping branches strung with fragile green shoots, blocked his path.
He shoved through the trailing limbs into a thin, half-formed canopy where the sunlight bled in weak and broken shafts.
The ground sucked at his feet, damp and cold.
A shiver raked down his spine, and he quickened his pace, bursting out into the open as if the demons of hell were at his heels.
“Fuck,” he exclaimed, breathing hard. He yanked off the cap and sunglasses and closed his eyes, lifting his face to the sun, absorbing as much of the mild spring heat as possible. But instead of warming him, of energizing him, a weariness that went beyond a sleepless night overtook him.
He cursed again, needing to get his act together. Snap out of this funk.
His meeting with CPS was rescheduled for four this afternoon, and he needed his mind in the right place, not mired in the past.
Fucking Kamila, yanking him back into his nightmare.
Showing how much power she yielded.
And what little resistance he had against that power.
Rafferty dropped his head and sagged to his haunches, so fucking tired of living with the endless darkness, of lugging the load of bitterness around.
Then let it go.
His eyes popped open, and he straightened, blinking against the onslaught of light. He shoved his sunglasses back on, cutting the harsh glare. “Let it go?” he whispered.
Let it go, the voice in his head repeated.
Had his brother shoved his way into his mind uninvited? That you, Sully?
Silence.
Sull?
Nothing. Nothing except the quack of a duck and the soft splash as it waddled from the grassy bank into the water.
But something nagged him … the voice was familiar. He jolted as a memory slipped in. The last time he’d heard that voice was just before he’d lapsed into unconsciousness following the attack on the coca farm in Brazil. Hold on, it had said then, she’s coming for you.
Well … shit .
He gave the endless blue expanse above him a puzzled look. His father always spoke of hearing God, something Rafferty had dismissed as the man’s way of coping with life. Was it the voice of a Higher Power? If so, why would God concern Himself with someone like him , Rafferty Lawson?
He bit out a harsh laugh.
Stop the foolishness. The answer was simple. God wouldn’t.
And he had stuff to do. Important stuff. Finding Kamila. Meeting with the CPS lady later this afternoon.
Emitting an angry curse, he spun about, shoved his ballcap on his head, and strode up the embankment.
As he reached the edge of the park, his phone vibrated, slowing his steps. He fished it out of his back pocket, and fuck, his heart skipped a beat. Halting, he tapped the green icon. “Red.”
There was a slight pause before she spoke. “You’ve been on my mind.”
She’d been thinking of him? His blood pumped faster, and despite his agitated mood, a smile plucked at his lips. “Yeah?”
“Hmm. Knowing that woman’s alive … I can’t even imagine.” Her swallow was audible. “How … how are you holding up, sugar?”
The word “fine” hovered on the tip of his tongue, yet he found himself saying, “I’m not, Red.”
What he wouldn’t give to be beside her on her veranda swing.
Just sitting quietly, basking in her nearness, her goodness.
“Do you … wanna talk about it?”
And sully her with his flaws? His dark thoughts?
No! A thousand times no.
But yet again, he found himself going against his better judgement.
“I hate her,” he rasped, admitting the dark emotion etched into his soul.
He walked to a nearby bench placed alongside the gravel walkway and plonked his ass down.
“Almost as much as I fear her. One glimpse of her photo, and it was like I was back there, chained to the fucking post and … and I …” He placed his elbow on a knee, propping his forehead on his hand, staring at the ground.
“I lost it, Red. Just lost it,” he whispered.
“It was a shock. And your reaction is perfectly understandable. She tortured you, for goodness’ sake, Raff,” Brandy exclaimed, righteous anger underlining her voice.
“You don’t understand.”
Her voice softened. “Then help me understand.”
His gut roiled as he spoke. “I’m weak, Red. Weak. A coward. Then . And still am now.”
The confession tore out of him, leaving him empty and … well, weak.
Spent of all emotion. All feeling.
“No, no. No. Raff, sugar, you’re one of the strongest men I know.”
“Strong?” Rafferty’s hollow laugh mirrored his feelings. Worthless. Inadequate. There weren’t enough adjectives to describe his hopeless state of mind.
Yesterday had taught him a hard lesson — he’d never conquer his past. Never . “You are so wrong.”
“Rafferty Lawson! Ugh . If I were there, I’d slap you upside the head.”
He imagined Brandy-Lyn stamping her foot, a flush reddening her face, anger flashing in her sharp eyes. The vivid picture almost brought a smile to his lips. Almost. He straightened and stared blindly at the sparkling water. “I know you mean good, but—”
“No buts. Now, you listen to me,” she continued, “and listen well because I want you to internalize this — you are brave and strong. A survivor. A warrior.”
“Warrior?” He snorted. “Red, I fell apart just seeing a photo of her.”
“It was the shock.”
“No. It showed how broken I am.”
She chuffed an exasperated laugh. “Do you have magical powers? Other than the eerie twin thingy with Sullivan?”
“No.”
“Hah! Then that means you are human. Just like the rest of us. Cut yourself some slack, Rafferty.”
This time, a short laugh did escape. “I wish you were here.” The words burst from him, unbidden, but true.
“Me, too,” she whispered. “The ranch feels … empty without you.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stas — one of his fucking babysitters who’d flown in from Texas during a break in the storm yesterday evening — gesture from the edge of the park. Hannigan had arrived. “I need to go, Red.”
“Okay. Take care of yourself, sugar. And … come home. To me.”
The last two words were barely audible.
But he caught them.
And held them close to his heart.
I love you , he whispered in his head.
Love you, too , she whispered back.
But of course that was just his over-fertile imagination.
Today was obviously the day for hearing voices.
He pocketed the cellphone and traipsed up the hill to meet his damned babysitter.
*
“A cousin?” Rafferty echoed.
“DNA shows a twelve percent match to Kamila,” Hannigan replied.
Rafferty let out a harsh laugh. “And she just happened to have her cousin on hand during the raid?” Sarcasm cut through every word. “Yeah. That doesn’t reek of setup at all.”
It screamed orchestration.
It screamed leak .
He shifted his gaze to Kosta — the leader of Wrangle the Rogue , the mission to keep him contained.
“Banks is already looking for the leak,” Kosta said. “He’ll sniff out the rat.”
“Now hold on—” Hannigan started.
Rafferty cut him off with a raised hand. “I trust them .”
Banks — the young, former SEAL and King Security’s resident tech wizard — delivered a breakthrough a couple of hours later. “Kamila Carvalho boarded a private jet at an airfield near Lincoln last night. It refueled in New Mexico, then landed in Rio. I’m sending visuals of her disembarking.”
The footage showed a woman who looked like Kamila stepping toward a waiting vehicle.
But the question on everyone’s mind …
Was it really her?
Or just another “cousin”?