Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
RHYS
“Yo, Flannery!”
I stop walking and turn as Rodrigo shouts my name from across the parking lot.
“Tawnie McAllister just called. She said your girl was just at her place ten minutes ago,” he says, jogging toward me. “Said she looked like she’d seen a ghost. She thought you’d want to know.”
What the fuck?
I frown, instantly worried. I already know Raven won the contest last night, so I know that’s not the problem.
Four different people have brought it up today.
They wanted to know when she’d be singing again.
I’m proud as hell of her. She sang like a fucking angel last night.
I’ve never heard anything like her before.
There’s no way I’m letting her run Brant’s company.
I’ll quit the force and do it myself before I let her give up her dream. She was born to be on stage.
“Thanks,” I mutter to Rodrigo, jogging to my truck. I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial her number. After the fourth ring, it sends me to voicemail. “Call me when you get this, songbird.” I disconnect and shoot her a text before hopping in the truck.
I’d hoped to be home by now, but paperwork is a bitch.
There’s always a ream of it when it comes to gun deaths, and Jonas Reamer’s wasn’t pleasant.
He didn’t mean to kill himself, but guns and alcohol never mix.
He was showing off and accidentally shot himself.
His family is broken up over it. We had to interview everyone who was out there and go through the whole scene. It took a while.
I pull out of the parking lot and head toward the house, keeping an eye out for Raven along the way. By the time I pull into the driveway, I haven’t seen her. She hasn’t answered her phone either. I hit the garage door button and pull in.
“Raven?” I shout as soon as I’m over the threshold, but I know immediately that she isn’t here.
I can sense her when she is. It’s as if she’s a piece of me, connected to me on some level that goes beyond the physical.
I check through every room anyway, my worry intensifying when I find my desk chair toppled over and her phone on the bed. She never leaves the house without it.
I scroll through it, looking for any hint of what might have upset her. Aside from my calls, the only other one she got today came from the bar. Something is wrong. Seriously fucking wrong.
My instincts are screaming that truth at me.
I pace toward the desk, the air leaving my lungs in a rush when I see a photo on the floor beside the chair. It’s one of her and Brant, the same one I’ve taken out of the case file a thousand times and looked at.
The case file.
I drop to my knees, reaching beneath the desk for the file.
It’s gone. She knows.
Where is she?
Horror rushes through me, chilling me to the bone as the answer immediately materializes.
No. Please, God, no.
But I already know I’m right. I know her.
She went to confront Marnie.
I leap to my feet and take off, running full-out through the house, my heart in my throat.
* * *
“Flannery,” Kincaid says as soon as the plane touches down at the airfield just outside of Seattle and my feet are on the ground.
His steely blue-gray eyes are grim, his lips pursed.
His shield hangs around his neck on a chain, dangling over the bulletproof plate on his vest. He’s covered in tattoos with a piercing in his eyebrow.
Even dressed like a cop, he looks like a gangster.
There’s something wild in his eyes, something dangerous. He isn’t tame. He never will be.
“Tell me she’s safe,” I rasp.
“Seattle PD has eyes on the house.”
It’s not an answer and we both know it. My knees threaten to buckle, but somehow, I manage to keep myself upright. I manage to keep moving. I don’t walk. I jog to the SUV waiting for me a few yards away.
Another man in a DEA vest waits inside.
“Ames, this is Flannery, Flannery, this is Jason Ames,” Kincaid says, introducing us.
I jerk my chin in a nod of greeting. I’ve never met him before, but I know of him. He’s the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the DEA in Seattle. He’s one of the youngest in the country. He’s also one of the most well-respected. If he’s here, it’s not good.
“Tell me,” I growl as soon as Kincaid and I are both in the vehicle.
“Your girl is at the house,” Kincaid says.
Fuck, princess. Why? Why didn’t you come to me?
But I already know the answer to that question, don’t I? Why would she come to me? I had every opportunity to tell her the truth, but I didn’t. I stalled. I put it off. I waited. I couldn’t fucking stand the thought of watching the light in her eyes die. Of seeing her look at me with revulsion.
She needs me, but she’s the reason I fucking breathe. I wanted to hang onto her love for as long as I could. When it comes to her, I’m a selfish motherfucker.
“I have worse news, brother,” Kincaid says, his voice soft, apologetic.
“Tell me,” I grit out.
“Jack Hale arrived at the house about half an hour before she did,” he says. “They’ve got the blinds closed so we can’t see what’s going on inside, but she was screaming at the pregnant chick about killing her dad when the pregnant chick pulled her inside.”
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, my stomach twisting itself into knots. This is my fault. All of it.
Kincaid blows out a breath. “And you were right. Jack is in deep with Marcellus Moretti. I don’t know what you did to piss him off, but he does not like you,” he says as Ames pulls out, headed toward Seattle. “As soon as I started digging, my sources started getting skittish.”
“Fuck. He knows,” I mutter, thumping my head against the seat.
Jack knew the gig was up as soon as I saw them together.
He had to know I’d figure it out. Marnie may be impulsive and driven by spite, but Jack isn’t.
He’s been laundering money through Brant’s company for years without being found out, and he managed to do it in a way that incriminated the hell out of Brant.
He’s smart and crafty. A real wily motherfucker.
“Yeah, I’m thinking he does,” Kincaid agrees. “And I’m guessing he’ll use her to get to you now that he has her. You need to decide how you want to play this.”
There is no decision to make. If it’s my life or hers, she lives. It’s the only outcome that I can accept. A life without her isn’t a life anyway. It’s a death sentence. But if I die, I’m taking that motherfucker with me. He won’t ever get near her again.
“I’m going in after her,” I say, my voice grim.
Ames glances at me in the rearview mirror. “We need whatever evidence you have before you go in,” he says. “If things go south, we’re going to need it.”
“I’ll make whatever statement you need me to make,” I say. “But the only evidence I have is in that house with Raven. She took the case file with her when she left today.”
“Ames, you might as well get my goddamn workers comp shit started,” Kincaid says with a resigned sigh. “I’m probably getting shot again today.”
“If I have to do more fucking paperwork, I’m shooting you myself, Kincaid.
” He looks at me again, his expression firm but not unkind.
He’s a hard-ass, but he goes to bat for the people who deserve it.
If he’s here now, it’s because he’s decided I deserve it.
I don’t know why. I’m not looking that gift horse in the mouth.
I’ll take whatever help I can get right now.
“Don’t fucking die in there or I’m going to be pissed. ”
“Don’t plan on it,” I growl.
* * *
I give my statement on the way, laying it all out for Ames. I don’t ask what he thinks, and he doesn’t tell me. Right now, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is Raven. If I go down, I go down. It is what it is. So long as she’s safe, I’ll live with it.
Seattle PD has the street cordoned off a block from Brant’s. It’s a fucking jungle of cop cars and SWAT vans. The DEA and FBI are both here. It’s Seattle’s case, but no one gainsays Ames when he takes command of the scene. When you’re the biggest fish in the pond, you call the shots.
Kincaid fills everyone in on the scope of the situation. A murmur of unease goes through the crowd when he informs them that we’re going in solo. No one likes that much.
“Why are we sending in the man who helped cover up the crime?” a blond DEA agent mutters.
“You mean the man who solved the goddamn crime?” Ames asks, his hard gaze cracking through the crowd.
“Without him, Marnie Calloway would be in prison for murder, Brant Calloway would have taken the fall for the money laundering, and the FBI wouldn’t have a RICO case against Jack Hale and Marcellus Moretti right now.
Moretti would have a multi-billionaire dollar company in his control, and every other man standing here would have allowed it to happen. ”
The DEA agent who spoke up shifts uncomfortably. No one else says anything.
“Being a cop isn’t about doing the easy thing,” Ames says.
“It’s about doing the right thing, even when it’s the difficult thing.
Flannery risked everything to protect the people who deserved to be protected.
That’s the oath we take. That’s the line we hold.
He upheld his at great personal cost to himself.
In case you’ve forgotten, Brant Calloway was his friend.
And the woman he loves is inside that house now.
We’re given discretion for a reason. He used his to achieve the best possible outcome.
You don’t have to like his methods. You don’t have to agree with them.
But I expect you to stow your shit and get on board or get off my goddamn scene. ”
For a full five count, no one says anything. No one leaves either.
“It was just a question,” the DEA agent mutters then.
“It was a stupid fucking question,” Kincaid retorts.
“House is always asking stupid fucking questions,” Tito Alvarez, an old friend from Seattle PD says, earning chuckles from a few other officers.
I glance at Tito, who lifts his chin in a nod. At least everyone here isn’t out for my blood.
“I’m surprised you can hear my questions over the sound of your girl screaming my name,” House says, flipping Tito off. He pitches his voice high, mimicking the sound of a woman’s voice. “Ricky. Ricky. Oh, Ricky! You’re so much bigger than Tito.”
“Alright, settle down,” Ames barks, rolling his eyes when everyone laughs. “We don’t have time for this bullshit.”
He’s right. We don’t. I’m ready to go get my girl.
I’m coming, songbird. I swear, I’m coming for you. Just hang on.