Chapter Thirty-Five
“There’s movement of one of the trackers,” Pete cautiously said.
I understood his caution. Everyone was giving me a wide berth.
Chloe had been at the mercy of a sick motherfucker for the last five hours. My mood was deteriorating and had been since the moment Sterling had called to tell her he was sending a car to pick her up and deliver her to Summit Jets.
No, fuck that. My mood had been deteriorating since she’d accepted the invitation to the party. Now it was disintegrating.
“Whose?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the massive mansion in front of me.
Thank fuck for Shepard Drexel and his network of hackers. We had Blackwell’s flight plan within minutes of his pilot filing it. We were airborne out of Brown Field, the private airport we frequently used for missions.
We landed fifteen minutes after Blackwell. Unfortunately, Beck had landed two hours later and did not go directly to the mansion. He’d made two stops en route. Aiden had run the addresses; both were known meth labs in Provo.
I had never been at peace with this mission. But now my gut was twisted in such a way that I knew something was wrong.
Knew it down to my bones.
We’d missed something.
And I’d put money down that Dex was part of what we’d missed.
“Chloe’s earrings.” Pete’s tone was even more cautious, to the point it was brittle. “But her watch, ring, and necklace are all still pinging on the property. Poppy’s too.”
“Something’s not right.”
Aiden was sitting next to me with his own pair of high-power binoculars. “The only vehicles in and out since they arrived have been the florist and linen rental. She could’ve lost an earring and it somehow transferred—”
“I’d say that’d be a possibility if the backs didn’t screw on.”
“Signal’s . . .” Pete trailed off.
I glanced over at him and asked, “Signal’s what?”
He swiped at the screen of his tablet. “Hold on a sec.”
“The fuck I’ll hold on. The signal’s what?”
“Lost the signal. I need a minute to get it back.”
Lost.
How the fuck did we lose the signal?
“Something’s not right,” I announced.
Pete clenched his jaw.
There it was—he felt it too.
“You call Shep. I’m calling Gavin to see if he caught sight of who was in those vans when they left.”
Gavin and Mason were five miles out on the only stretch of road that led to the mansion.
Catarina and Calista were still at the airport we’d landed at, keeping watch on who was arriving by plane but more importantly who was departing. They were also trying to get a lock on who owned the property, since it wasn’t one of Blackwell’s.
Jack and Fallon were opposite of each other, keeping watch on the guesthouses that were scattered around a huge pond.
Beck was inside the mansion, but we had no line of communication with him. A call to check in would blow the operation.
My fingers itched to dial his number.
My soul screamed at me to make the call.
“Fuck,” Pete growled.
My gaze snapped to him. He was looking down at his phone.
Before I could ask, Pete was no longer cautious or alert. Instead, his tone was wary when he continued. “Muriel was found dead in her office at the Vault.”
I pushed to my feet. “Call me when you’ve got that signal back up. But right now text me the last known location.”
Aiden was quick to stand. “I’m with Ryan.”
I didn’t wait for Pete to confirm he’d heard me.
I ran as fast as I could the mile back to where we left the SUV. Not even the lead weight in my gut or the burn in my chest slowed me down.
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit.
Beckett Yates took in the woman secured to the Saint Andrew’s cross.
Her back was torn to shit. With his expression carefully set to bland, he looked over at the bare-chested man.
Sweat dotted his skin, his eyes hungry as he looked at what he’d created—welts, slashes, broken, bloodied skin.
The tenting in the crotch area of his black slacks was a clear indication he’d gotten off inflicting the pain.
His gaze went back to the woman. Blonde hair that reminded Ryan of Poppy’s was in a braid, the tail tucked over her shoulder, not giving away the length.
Head bent forward. Likely unconscious from the pain she’d endured.
The edge of her pale-pink panties was stained red from the blood dripping, then soaking into the material.
Beck’s attention went back to the man, memorizing every detail. Vowing when this was over, he’d hunt him down. The piece of shit would feel every second of pain he’d caused this woman. Every goddamn second before Beck sliced his throat and watched him bleed out.
“I’m in guest house one,” the man said. “My room’s already set up. Deliver her there. I’ll want her available after dinner.”
Fuck, yeah, Beck was going bleed this fucker dry.
“Name?”
The man looked back at Beck.
“For the room. I won’t know which one to deliver her to without a name.”
“Gamble.”
Gamble.
Right.
Beck filed that away and watched the man leave the room, tagging his shirt off the bureau as he went.
Fuck.
Shit.
Fuck.
Not much surprised Beck after years of undercover work living and breathing filth. He’d seen a lot, experienced a lot, done a lot. The lawman and the felon—the two sides that made the whole of who he’d become.
But the one thing that never failed to shock him, the one thing he could never reconcile, was the cruelty one human could inflict on another. The malice behind the act.
Fuck.
Months he’d been living on the ranch. Months and months, and he still didn’t feel clean. Months of breathing fresh air, and he still smelled the stench of his life.
Staring at the woman in front of him, he understood Ryan, why he wanted his woman and Poppy far away from this shit.
Once the stench permeated, once it seeped in and coated your insides, there was no washing it away.
There’s no unseeing this kind of brutality.
With any luck, the women would be quarantined to the bottom floor of the main house. It was a pipe dream, but it was something.
Slowly he approached the woman, not knowing how he was going to release her from the cross without causing her more pain.
He came to a stop at her side. Her face came into view, and what was left of Beckett Yate’s world flew apart, taking with it what was left of his sanity.
He was no longer a man conflicted. The lawman and felon. A man who was trying to make his way back to clean.
No, standing there with black dotting his vision, staring at Poppy, he knew by the day’s end he’d be adding one more item to the long list of shit that was sending him straight to hell.
Cold-blooded killer.