23. Louise
Chapter 23
Louise
“Draven, for fuck’s sake, pick up your phone. It’s urgent.”
I pace, wearing a hole in the threadbare rug in the middle of my living room. An hour has passed since Darla dropped her bombshell, and I still can’t quite believe it. I’ve never particularly taken to Captain Joel Beresford, but this…
This is something else entirely.
What if Darla’s wrong? After how terribly she’s suffered, it’d be easy to make a mistake. I’ll have to tread as if I’m walking on eggshells. To go around accusing my captain of such a heinous crime on the testimony of a woman who endured a terrible trauma is tantamount to career suicide. Not to mention slanderous if proven false.
I dial Draven’s number again, a scream of frustration erupting from me when it goes to voicemail once more. Where the hell is he?
I fire out a text in case he’s undercover and can’t talk. Ten minutes later, he calls.
“At last!” I cry.
“What’s so urgent, Lola? Missing me already?”
“Something’s happened. Oh, God, Draven, I barely know where to begin.” Sweat slicks my palms, and my breathing is so erratic, I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. “It’s a fucking nightmare.”
“Calm down, Lola. Breathe.”
“It’s him.” I fall over my words, struggling to speak past the enormous lump lodged in my throat. Fear. That lump is mind-numbing fear. “Oh, God, I don’t know what to do.”
“Lola!” Draven snaps. “Take a breath. Then another, then another. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slowly.” He curses, then mutters something that sounds vaguely like “Fuck off.”
“Did you just tell me to fuck off?”
A hint of a chuckle hits my ears. “No. I told someone else to fuck off. Okay, are you calmer now?”
“A bit.”
“Right, start at the beginning.”
I quickly recount my meet up with Darla, and when I’ve finished, I fire the killer blow. “The American, Draven. She thinks it’s my captain.”
I can imagine his spine rocketing straight at that piece of news, his eyes narrowing, and his hand gripping the phone just that little bit tighter. “What?”
“I know. Fuck, I know. Oh, God, what do I do? This is huge. If she’s right, I’m in way over my head.”
“Where are you?”
My knees give way, and I stumble over to the couch to sink onto it. “At home.”
“Sit tight. I’m two hours away. Don’t call anyone. Don’t answer the door. Don’t fucking move. I’m coming.”
He hangs up, leaving me to chew on my fingernails until they bleed. Every sound that comes from outside has me dashing to the window to see if it’s him, forcing me to quash my disappointment when it’s not. Under normal circumstances, D.C. is almost three hours’ drive away, but Draven should be able to make it in less time. He can skip past any lines of traffic on his bike.
Sure enough, a little over two hours later, the familiar rumble of his engine reaches me. I pull back the drapes in time to see him dismount, and he glances up at my window, his expression more serious than I’ve ever seen him. For a man who rarely cracks a smile, that’s saying something. He told me not to open the door, but he’s coming now, so I do. My ears strain for the ping from the elevator. The second I see his big body striding toward me, I run to him, flinging myself into his waiting arms.
“This is bad, Draven. It’s really, really bad.”
He strokes my back with the flat of his palm in ever decreasing circles, the touch meant to comfort and reassure, which it does to some extent. But still, the tingle in my fingers and toes, and the nausea in my gut won’t quit.
He urges me back inside my apartment and closes the door. “How certain was she?” he asks, referring to Darla’s worrying identification.
“Given the look on her face when she saw him, I’d say it’s a shoo in. She was emphatic, and absolutely scared out of her wits.”
“Did he see her?”
“No.”
“Good. Where is she now?”
“I told her to go home and speak with no one until she hears from me.”
He slides his phone from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and swipes the screen. “What’s her address?”
I open the contact info on my phone and turn the screen to face him. He brings the phone to his ear. “I’m going to get two of my team to watch her place. I don’t want to take any chances.” He gives instructions to whoever answers his call, then tosses his phone on the coffee table. “It’s done.”
“Shall I tell her we’ve got eyes on her?”
“No. She won’t know they’re there, but we will.”
I fiddle with my shirt until Draven puts a hand on mine, stopping me. I fire him an apologetic grimace. “What now?”
“We go to the FBI, but not the team that’s working the case. A different branch.”
I cover my face, shaking my head. “This is a nightmare.” My hands fall back to my sides. “If you can’t trust your own, Draven, who can you trust?”
He curls a hand around the back of my neck, bringing our foreheads together. “We’ll get him. We’ll bring down every single motherfucking one of them.”
I meet his dark gaze, my jaw tightening. “Damn fucking straight we will.”
“Can this guy be trusted?” I ask as Draven and I stride down a tree-lined street in Manhattan on the way to meet Draven’s buddy and partner, Ciaran, as well as one of Ciaran’s FBI contacts. “How do you know he’s not in on it?”
Draven drapes an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side. “It’s easy to be suspicious of everyone, sweetcheeks, but I trust Ciaran, and he trusts Pete. He and his team have been waiting for a break like this. Remember I told you they were suspicious that dirty cops were involved? Well, thanks to you, they now have a name.”
“But no proof. Not really,” I say glumly. “Other than a witness who has suffered enough that a half decent lawyer would rip to shreds in court in less than thirty seconds.”
“We’ll get proof,” Draven insists. “That’s why Ciaran has set up this meeting with Pete, so we can work out a plan.” He kisses my temple.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
He grins down at me. “Careful, sweetcheeks. I’ll think you’re warming to me.”
I dig an elbow in his side. “Jackass.”
Draven jogs up some steps that lead into a hotel with a classy sign outside that reads: O’Reilly Manhattan.
“Isn’t your buddy’s name O’Reilly? Does he own this place?”
“His brother does. They all used to live here, but now they have their own places. The basement where they used to live is secure, and we can talk freely without worrying about being overheard, though.”
He tows me down a hallway and past a bustling bar–lounge area. He stabs a few numbers into a keypad next to a door marked private, and it opens, revealing a set of carpeted stairs. Taking my hand, he leads me down until we emerge into a large living room, with a kitchen off to one side, and a dining table that seats twelve. Ciaran, and a man I don’t recognize but guess must be Pete the FBI agent, rise from the couch. Introductions are made, and the four of us sit at the table.
“First things first,” Pete says, his pen poised over a small notebook. Old school. Weirdly, that gives me some comfort.
“On a scale of one to ten, how believable did you find Darla Adams when she said she recognized Captain Joel Beresford as part of the gang who kidnapped the women in Jersey?”
“I’d bet my life on it,” I say. “And just to be clear, she didn’t say he was part of the gang. She said he was in charge. Of this cell, at least.”
Pete sits back, tapping his pen against his teeth. “You know we’re looking at others, then?”
I nod. “I understand it could be nationwide.”
“Yes, although this is the first time we’ve had a break. We know cops are involved. We just haven’t been able to identify any of them until now.”
“Do you believe Beresford is aware of the other cells?” Ciaran asks. “And if we can break him, the entire case might crack wide open?”
“I do, yes,” Pete says. “I’ve already put a tap on Beresford’s phone, and he’s under surveillance, but I’m not hopeful he’ll slip up without a nudge in the right direction. He hasn’t gotten this far by being sloppy.”
“What’s your plan?” Draven asks.
“We need to worry him,” Pete says. “Let him think we know more than we do, and hope that forces him into making a mistake—maybe by contacting one of his associates, or tripping up electronically.”
“Or we find a way to force him into taking rash action,” I say absentmindedly, my gaze fixed on the wall opposite.
Draven squeezes my knee beneath the table. “If only it was that simple.”
I turn my attention to him, a fire burning within me with a burgeoning idea that won’t be extinguished. “It may be… if I offer myself as bait.”