Chapter 14
Fourteen
Of course he was digging his own grave. That seemed terribly, metaphorically right.
He’d gotten himself into this mess. And apparently, he wasn’t getting himself out.
But how could he have been so very wrong about Destiny?
Not frail, elderly Destiny, who’d completely bamboozled him, but…the Destiny now standing over him, watching.
Draven sat in the driver’s seat in the open door of his SUV. “Get moving, Morrison. We don’t have all day.”
Nearby, Roger smoked a cigarette.
The shovel bit into earth. Rocky. Hard. Colorado soil that didn’t give easily. Hot blisters rose on his hands.
Buy time. The longer he took, the more time Daphne had to figure out how to escape. Stay alive.
The old quarry on the edge of his property stretched around them—abandoned rock face, scattered equipment rusting in the weather, scrub brush clinging to slopes.
Yeah, they’d never find him.
“Deeper,” Destiny said. “You’re a tall man, Agent Morrison. We need at least six feet.”
Asher kept digging. “So, you were the one who orchestrated the mineral rights and the harassment of farmers?”
“That was a long game. And mostly Ralph’s idea.”
“You killed your own husband.”
“The cartel killed Ralph.” She gave him a smile.
Yeah, sure.
He looked at her. “He was planning a takeover. You killed him and then made Roger look like the leader while you eliminated anyone who was loyal to Ralph.”
“Dig,” Draven said.
“You know she’d do the same to you, right? You’re not even her son.”
Destiny shook her head. “Draven is loyal to me. I was the one who took him in, made him a part of our family.”
Roger threw away his cigarette. Glanced at Draven, his mouth pinched.
Could be an opportunity there.
Asher kept digging. “You created and ran the foundation as your trafficking pipeline. Blaine Turner was a puppet, while you hosted charity galas.”
“No one looks too closely while they’re eating duck paté.”
“The meat processing facilities—those were yours too, weren’t they? Continental Meat Processing. Perfect cover for moving product.”
Destiny’s smile widened. “Legitimate interstate commerce. High employee turnover. Remote industrial locations.”
“You used them as holding locations for the trafficked kids. Before moving them to the youth camps.”
“Temporary storage,” she said as casually, as if discussing warehouse inventory. “The facilities were already there. Why not maximize efficiency?”
He stared at her. “You sat at galas promoting sustainable farming while using those same facilities to hide bodies and store drugs.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Did you order the hit on Judge Mullinax?”
“Draven took care of that.”
“He tried to grow a conscience,” Draven said.
“And Martina Martinelli? She figured it out, didn’t she? Her investigation traced the finances back to you.”
“I think that’s deep enough,” Roger said.
Asher pressed on. “Judge Mullinax was going to reveal that you were the head. Martha was going to testify to everything—Continental Transport, the shipping network, the meat processing facilities, all of it.”
Draven stepped up to the edge. “Gimme the shovel, Asher.”
He held on, glanced again at Roger. “You even arranged the attack on your own son. Was it discipline because he was growing a backbone?”
Roger flinched.
“Just kill him, Draven,” Destiny said.
Asher adjusted his grip on the shovel, his mind racing through everything he knew.
“You built the Shadow Syndicate from the ground up. Used Ralph as your legitimate business front until he tried to claim your empire. Then you eliminated him, weaponized both Roger and Draven, and orchestrated every major crime while the world saw only an elegant, grieving widow hosting charity events.” He gave a harsh laugh.
“And no one saw it. No one saw that you were the monster at the center of it all.”
“That’s enough.” Roger pointed his .385 at him.
“Everyone underestimates women,” Destiny said. She sighed. “Of course it was me. Did you really think Ralph had the intelligence to build something this complex? I was the daughter of a cartel lieutenant. I understand how real power works.”
“And Ralph didn’t?”
“He was going to ruin everything. Thirty years of building, and he wanted to tear it down because he felt guilty about Draven. About his poor abandoned son.”
She gave Draven a smile. He smiled back.
Unbelievable. “The foundation was yours,” Asher said. “The youth camps. The trafficking.”
“Troubled youth needed help. We provided it.”
“You were trafficking kids through a charity.”
“I was running a business. Supply and demand.” Cold. Empty. “Some children have value. Others don’t. I simply recognized which was which.”
Asher’s hands tightened on the shovel.
“The safe-house attack,” Asher said. “That was you.”
She shrugged. “The people at Aspen Ridge were so generous with their phones.”
“You tried to have yourself killed?”
“Don’t be silly. I tried to have you killed.”
Right.
She laughed. “Don’t look so upset, Agent Morrison. I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you.”
His mouth tightened.
“And really. You shouldn’t be surprised. You know I’ve been one step ahead of you for years. Long before Renegade. You’re not so different from me. You would do anything to win. Lie, let people die…kill.”
He looked at her.
“Yeah. I know what you did in Denver. And I let you live anyway. You should be thanking me. That’s deep enough. Draven—”
“I think you should kill me yourself,” Asher said.
Silence and then Destiny shrugged. “Fine.” She snatched the Glock off the ground where Roger had dropped it and raised it. Aimed at his chest. “Goodbye, Asher.”
The shot rang out. Sharp. Clear. Echoing across the quarry.
Asher stumbled back, hit the edge of the dirt.
Except—
Destiny lay on the ground, writhing, shouting.
Draven turned as Roger hit the dirt.
Another shot, and this one nearly took out Draven, scrubbing off dirt as he dove behind the SUV.
Asher sank the shovel into the earth, then used it to propel himself out of the hole. Grabbed up the shovel.
Draven ran for the SUV’s open door.
Not today.
Asher sprinted after him, closing the distance in seconds. He swung the shovel like a bat, connecting with Draven’s shoulder just as the man reached for the door handle. Draven spun, pain flashing across his face, and lunged.
The man outweighed Asher by twenty pounds, all of it muscle, and he slammed Asher backward into the SUV’s rear panel. Metal dented. Air exploded from Asher’s lungs.
Draven’s fist came up fast, aimed at his jaw.
Asher deflected, drove his fist into Draven’s gut. Once. Twice.
Draven grunted, twisted, brought his knee up toward Asher’s groin.
Asher turned his hip, took the hit on his thigh. Pain radiated down his leg, but he stayed on his feet. He grabbed Draven’s shirt, yanked him forward, and slammed his forehead into Draven’s nose.
Blood sprayed. Draven staggered back.
Another shot cracked through the quarry—
Roger bolted toward the SUV. Panicked.
Draven spun, gun rising toward the ridgeline.
Asher tackled him. They hit the dirt in a tangle of limbs. The gun flew from Draven’s hand, skittering across rocks. Draven threw an elbow that caught Asher’s cheekbone. Stars burst.
And yeah, Asher hurt—his ribs, his arms, everywhere—but he also had eighteen months of fury and frustration fueling every move.
He caught Draven’s next punch, twisted his arm, drove his knee into Draven’s kidney.
Draven bucked, tried to roll them. But Asher had position now. He locked his arm across Draven’s throat, pulled back in a sleeper hold, pressure building.
Draven thrashed, clawed at Asher’s forearm, but his movements grew weaker.
“Stop, Asher!”
Roger, his gun on Asher.
Asher shot a look at him.
From the ridgeline above—another shot.
Roger shouted as the dirt skipped up beside him. Then he turned and ran.
Asher glanced up at the shooter.
Daphne stood on the ridgeline, some fifty feet away, holding a rifle, then started running down the slope.
Draven thrashed in his grip. Asher tightened his hold. Not killing. Not losing control. Just containing. Draven’s struggles slowed, then stopped as unconsciousness took him.
In his peripheral vision, Destiny inched toward the SUV on her hands and knees—thigh-shot, not lethal, but slowing her—elegant facade finally shattered.
He looked up at Daphne again. She was still moving down the ridge, rifle trained on Destiny, who’d frozen halfway to the vehicle.
“Don’t even think about it,” Daphne called.
Destiny slowly raised her hands, that calculating mind already working on her next move.
But there wasn’t one.
Not this time.
Down the road, the roar of engines rose. Asher spotted multiple SUVs approaching fast, dust kicking up in plumes behind them.
He released Draven, let him drop unconscious to the dirt. His chest heaved. Blood dripped from his split cheek. His ribs screamed. But he was alive.
“Asher!” Daphne, breathing hard. “You okay?”
He wiped his face. “Yeah. You?”
She nodded, so much in her eyes.
“Daph, I—”
“Not now, Asher.”
Right. And the cavalry had shown up anyway, two SUVs, with Dani Kim climbing out of one of them, her weapon drawn. “You guys good?”
Daphne nodded. “I’m good. Destiny’s down. Roger ran. Draven’s contained.”
“We’ve got Roger.” Dani knelt beside Destiny. Checked her wound. Called for medical. “You’ll be okay, ma’am.”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ her,” Asher said. “She’s the head of the syndicate.”
Dani stared at him just a second, then, “Wow. That, I didn’t see coming.”
Daphne’s mouth made a grim line. “Me either.”
Yeah.
Asher stood. Released Draven—still out cold—to other agents. Let them cuff him. Process him. Take him away.
Daphne stepped away to coordinate with Dani.
Asher spotted Roger, also cuffed, being dragged into one of the SUVs.
He couldn’t help but watch Daphne—dust on her skin, in her hair, a fierceness radiating off her. She’d saved him. Come after him, despite what she believed. Despite his betrayal.
That had to mean something. Had to count for something, right?
And yet, as he stood alone and stared into his grave, he wondered if being saved was the same as being forgiven.