Chapter 12
KAIRO
Over the next several hours, Maria gathers more short clips of the abduction of three little girls.
What she hadn’t seen at first was that it wasn’t just three little girls but also a little boy.
I didn’t see any particular pattern among the victims. They were culturally diverse.
It was more about proximity to the vehicle and the adults surrounding the children.
Like the masked men running around the streets terrorizing my city, their faces are covered.
However, they’re not parading around in law enforcement vests or with rifles and weapons.
The entire ordeal appears to have taken place over a ninety-second period.
The van pulls up, and two men climb out of the back.
They each grab two children and dive back in while chaos erupts. They’re gone instantly.
One of the clips shows the license plate. Unsurprisingly, it’s not registered. The registration expired three years ago and was registered to an elderly woman who died in a car accident. If I had to take a guess, the license plate was pulled from the wrecked car. Maybe from a junkyard.
Also, shockingly, the van has no distinguishing features.
The men who jumped out had no distinguishing features.
They wore the same masks as the gestapo which have become synonymous with domestic terrorists at this point, and incite fear.
Otherwise, they’re dressed in black from head to toe, including black beanies, black gloves, and sunglasses.
Which means they’ve literally covered themselves from head to toe.
I’ve transferred the videos to a tablet and uploaded them to my crew’s secure database. I have Bradford and several others adept at tracking looking at them and the incident, while I attempt to find the school’s surveillance feed as well as any other buildings in the area.
“Look at this,” Malcolm says, and I turn my attention toward him. He has the tablet turned toward me, and the video he’s watching is paused. It’s grainy, blurry, and shaky. It’s difficult to make out any details.
He taps the edge, and it takes me a minute to see what he sees. “Is that a bullet hole?” I ask.
“Two,” he answers, and I pull the tablet closer.
“Two,” I agree. “I need a clearer view of this fucking van.”
“Have you reached out to Voss? I’m sure he’ll be able to locate—” Malcolm stops talking as I shake my head.
“I already have my guys looking for the different camera feeds.”
Malcolm frowns. “You haven’t told your family about this.”
“This has nothing to do with my family,” I counter.
“I disagree. If it’s important to you, it’ll be important to them. Family isn’t just—”
“Malcolm,” I interrupt, and he meets my eyes. “Drop it. This has nothing to do with them, nor does it have anything to do with my job here. Therefore, I’m not required to report it to my brother. Let it go.”
He doesn’t like my answer. It’s clear that he doesn’t agree with it.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that if he has a problem with my decision, then he can leave.
Except I’m a weak fucking man and I don’t want him to leave.
The thought of him leaving makes my stomach churn and my chest tight.
Which means he needs to leave now. Leave Chicago. Get far away from me.
With the two bullet holes relayed to my crew and a search for the van now underway, I continue watching the videos frame by frame, alternating between this and trying to locate a fucking business around the school with video surveillance.
It shouldn’t be this hard. I’m fucking frustrated that all the surrounding buildings seem to have either broken or no cameras.
After several hours, I sit back and rub my face. I’m exhausted. I’m obviously not going to find something else right now. It’s been quite some time since Maria has had something new for me. A glance at the clock says it’s past midnight. She’s likely asleep. I hope she’s asleep.
Malcolm is watching me. He’s always watching me. It makes me feel as if I’m flashing like a fucking beacon or something. I feel like I can go weeks without someone looking at me. As if I blend into my surroundings so well that I’m invisible.
He has me wrapped in holiday lights or something. I’m uncomfortable being seen so clearly. So frequently. It makes my fingers itch. It makes me feel unbalanced.
“You ready to go home for the night?” Malcolm asks.
I shake my head. “I can’t. I need to find her.”
Malcolm doesn’t respond. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree or disagree. Doesn’t point out that someone will call me if they find anything at all promising. Doesn’t tell me that I’m quickly approaching useless as my fatigue catches up. He simply watches me.
My eyes flicker to the door. It’s cracked a little. The hall beyond is dark. Chewing my lip, I look back at Malcolm. Need fills my chest. Not a physical need but something far deeper. Far more personal.
I fucking hate this feeling. I hate the weakness he’s forced to the surface. I hate the craving I feel for him.
He continues to watch me silently, his big arms crossed over his chest. Closing my eyes, I grit out, “Will you lie on the couch with me?”
Malcolm doesn’t answer. When I open my eyes, I jerk a little because he’s no longer in his chair but standing beside mine. Right where he’d been hours ago when Carlotta interrupted our moment. Which I’m fucking thankful for because this man was about to crack me open with his fucking words.
His hand is waiting for me to accept. A part of me wants to push him away. I don’t need or want his kindness. I don’t want his gentlemanly consideration. I just want… I want…
My hand does whatever the fuck it wants and lands in his. Malcolm doesn’t pull me to my feet as I suspected he would. He waits until I stand. He waits for me to lead him to the couch. He gives me every opportunity to change my mind or push him away.
He flicks the light off as we pass the door and then lies on the couch.
He’s too big for it, something that makes me crack a smile.
Then he waits for me. Fucking hell, I wish he’d just pull me down on top of him.
I abhor the way it feels to actually do something on my own.
Of my own volition. I loathe the choice he gives me.
It’s easier to accept when he makes me. When he takes control away and just does it for me.
I’m scared. I can admit that. I’m scared of what I feel, and now I’m scared for Lucy. I’m scared of breaking my promise to Maria that I’ll find Lucy. I’m scared of what Malcolm is doing to me.
I’m so fucking tired right now. My constant mental fighting of the feelings slamming inside me because of how Malcolm looks at me and treats me, touches me, and talks to me, is exhausting. The struggle is exhausting.
Sighing, I let my knee rest on the side of the couch and awkwardly climb on top of Malcolm. He accepts me with literally open arms and tucks me against him. I hate the way my body recognizes his hold now and immediately relaxes. His fingers run through my hair. His arm around my back is secure.
“Good boy,” he murmurs quietly.
A shiver of pleasure trickles through me at his words.
Sleep takes me. I wake before the sun crests the horizon to my phone ringing. I’m so startled by the alien environment I’m waking up in that I practically lurch from where I’m cuddled on top of Malcolm to land on the floor. If it weren’t for his reflexes, I probably would have cracked my head.
It’s Bradford. I answer with a tired, “Yeah?”
“They’re bringing someone in,” he says. “Unlikely one of the men from the van, but someone seen with the van three months ago. Clear face shot while pumping gas.”
“Downstairs?” I ask, already grabbing my keys and heading for the door.
“Yes, boss,” Bradford says. “He’ll be here by the time you get downstairs.”
I don’t bother asking how he knows I’m still in my office. Sometimes, I think Bradford has trackers on all of us. He always knows where we are.
Malcolm is on his feet following me as I leave.
“On my way.” I pocket my phone as I head for the elevator. Malcolm is silent as he stands beside me. No questions. My hands vibrate as the elevator slowly descends. We don’t end in the basement. We end in the lobby, and I take the stairs down two more floors.
Through a series of locked doors, I’m on the heels of my crew, dragging in a struggling man.
A white man. Not one of the big, bad ‘illegal’ criminals.
This man is as white as they come, with pale, pasty skin, bright blond hair, and brown eyes filled with fear that he’s trying to cover up with loud cussing and empty threats.
My guys tie him to the wall. The same wall we use to play target practice with the gestapo terrorists. To make him stop his incessant screaming, Bradford slams the palm of his hand into the man’s nose, making him howl in pain as blood begins streaming down his face.
“Shut up,” Bradford snarls before hitting him again. “Keep your fucking screaming up, and I’m going to beat you to a goddamn pulp.”
“He’s probably the scariest of all of us,” Jacky murmurs from beside me.
“It’s always the quiet ones to fear the most,” Tony agrees.
The man whimpering stares at us, but he’s finally stopped running his mouth. Bradford backs away, wiping his hand on a cloth handkerchief from his chest pocket like he’s simply wiping off germs from touching a door handle and not a palm covered in blood.
I shake my head, amused, and approach the man tied to the wall. Jacky is beside me, a picture in her hand. The bloodied man is looking at me defiantly, but there’s no hiding the fear in his eyes.
“You have one opportunity to answer my question before I beat the fuck out of you,” I tell him conversationally. “One. I suggest you consider this.” I take my suit jacket off and hand it to Bradford, making a show of rolling up my sleeves.
Jacky holds up the image, and I see it’s a grainy image of him at the gas station with the van we’re looking for. It has a much clearer view of the two bullet holes in the back window. “Where is this van?” I ask.
He looks at the picture, eyebrows knitting together. “Seriously? That’s the question?”
I hesitate for just a second, remembering that Malcolm is behind me. Watching me. Will he still call me a good boy if he sees me beat the fuck out of this man? Will I still be his baby girl? Will he still look at me like I’m important to him? Like I’m someone? Someone he maybe wants to keep?
Jacky glances at me, and I know I need to do something. I glance over my shoulder and meet Malcolm’s eyes. He smiles. It’s small. He inclines his head, eyes still locked with mine, as if he’s encouraging me.
Please still want me, my traitorous brain begs silently before facing the man in front of me and punching him in his gut with so much force that my fist hurts when I pull back.
The oxygen is forced from his lungs, and he struggles for breath, tears gathering in his eyes.
I lower my fist and punch him even harder in his junk, and he cries out.
My third punch goes to his kidney, and my fourth to his sternum, right over his heart.
That last one hurts like a bitch, but I don’t shake out my hand. Instead, I take a step back and wait patiently for him to raise his eyes to mine.
“Let’s try again,” I say calmly. “Where. The fuck. Is this van?”