Promises to Keep (13 page)

Thirty-Five

Church.

The name formed a rock in his gut. Church was in San Francisco. It suddenly became a very real possibility that none of them would survive the next forty-eight hours.

“Church? Here?” Ben gave a low whistle, slouching back in his seat. “And you're just deciding to tell us this
now
? Did your mom drop you on your fuckin' head or something?”

From the look on his face, Lark had reached his limit. He stood, the force of the move sending his chair skittering across the hardwood floor. “
Look
, I got Lady Cop tryin' to beat my brains out, him”—he jabbed a finger in Michael's direction—“throwing ricin down my throat and threatening to shoot me every time I blink, and
you
running your goddamn mouth nonstop. Sorry I've been a little too preoccupied to sweat the small stuff.”

“Church is hardly small stuff,” Ben said.

What Church was, was a game changer.

Lark had the good sense to look a bit worried. “I'm sorry. You're right. I wasn't tryin' to keep it from you guys, I just … ” He ended it on a shrug, his excuses running out of steam.

“What is a church?” Sabrina said out of nowhere.

“Church isn't a what. It's a
who
,” Ben said.

“Another FSS operative?” she said, bouncing a look around the table.

Ben shrugged. “We're not really sure. All we know is the name.”

“So no one's ever actually seen this Church?” Sabrina sounded dubious, like Ben had just told her he'd had a Bigfoot encounter.

Ben caught the tone and smiled. “I'm sure plenty of people have seen Church. I'm also fairly certain that the vast majority of those people are dead.”

“And how do you know that?” From the look on her face, Sabrina still wasn't buying it.

“Because my Daddy told me so,” Ben said, his smile growing wider. “He's a lying jerkwad, but not about shit like this. I've seen firsthand what this asshole can do.”

Sabrina shook her head, about to speak, but Michael was done listening to them. “Enough,” he said, cutting a look at Ben that matched his tone. “Church is just one in a long line of problems. Right now, figuring out a way to buy Leo Maddox some time is our first priority.”

They all looked at him, counting on him to know what to do. To do the right thing when he didn't have a fucking clue what the right thing was.

Finally he spoke. “You're gonna call Shaw and tell him that the Maddox boy is dead,” he said to Lark. “You're gonna tell him that Ben is in the process of falsifying the DNA report to make it look like he's still alive to buy me some time in the States.”

“What good is that gonna do?” Lark said, sounding nervous at the prospect at telling Livingston Shaw anything but the absolute truth. He lifted his cup to his lips. The frail china looked ridiculous in his massive hand.

“A lot, actually,” Michael said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “It might cause a rift between him and Reyes. Play them against each other. Shaw might've had a hand in Leo's kidnapping, but I have a feeling that keeping him alive is essential to whatever plan he's working. If he thinks Reyes killed his golden goose, he'll demand proof of life. We might have a shot at intercepting the information. It's our best bet on figuring out where Reyes is keeping Leo. He's running out of time. As soon as Reyes gets what he wants from Shaw, the Maddox kid is as good as dead.”
Or worse.

“That's all well and good, but if Shaw thinks you're lying to him in order to keep yourself here, the first thing he'll do is call you back to Spain,” Lark said.

“Exactly.”

“You want to go, but Shaw can't know that,” Sabrina said, understanding instantly.

“Despite appearances, San Francisco is not where the action is at for this. If I want to figure out what Shaw's up to and how Cordova fits into all this, I have to go back,” he said.

“What are we gonna do with him?” Lark said, aiming his coffee cup at Alex.

“He can stay here with Miss Ettie,” Ben said. “She won't mind.”

Michael looked doubtful. “She won't be able to protect him if shit goes south. Not with Church running around.”

“She won't have to,” Sabrina said. “The lab is running Elm's DNA against what was found on Alex and the trace Mandy found on Johnny Doe. Based on the financial records that Strick found, we'll have a warrant to search Elm's residence by morning. My case is as good as wrapped. I've got some vacation time. I'll take it.”

He had that feeling again. The one he'd had at the hospital, looking at that deep, ugly furrow dug into her scalp. That feeling that told him he was going to lose her.

“None of this matters without proof—documented proof—that the dead kid is Leo Maddox,” Lark said, his words cutting through Michael's thoughts. “Cause you know Shaw's not taking my word for it.”

Sabrina flashed them a tight smile and stood. “Leave that to me.”

Thirty-Six

Sabrina left them sitting
around Miss Ettie's kitchen table, drinking coffee out of ridiculous cups and plotting on how best to destroy Livingston Shaw. Though he'd agreed to help, Lark was a liability until proven otherwise. She seriously doubted that either Ben or Michael would trust him with every aspect of whatever plan they worked up, but right now that wasn't her concern.

Stepping out onto the front porch, she took a seat on the swing, sinking into its deep red cushions with a barely audible sigh. Taking her phone out, she dialed Mandy and let it ring.

“This is Black,” Mandy said.

“Hey, it's me. Got a minute?”

“For you, I've got about five, maybe ten.” She could hear the concern in Mandy's voice, knew what was coming next. “I got a look at your friend from the hospital. You plugged him pretty good. One of the bullets destroyed his liver. Another blew out his left ventricle.” Mandy always talked shop when she was stressed. “I heard you were shot and refused treatment.” It wasn't a question. Sabrina had a thing about refusing treatment, and for a moment she was glad that she hadn't been at Elm's office when the bullets started flying. She'd probably be strapped to a gurney somewhere while Mandy stitched her up. Without a painkiller.

“It's just a graze. I'm fine, promise.”

“We have very different ideas on what
fine
is, Sabrina.” Mandy also got snippy when she was worried.

There was no arguing that, so she let it go. “I need a favor,” she said quietly. Even though she was on the porch, she didn't want to take a chance that someone might overhear her. She was choosing to involve Mandy; that didn't mean she couldn't minimize her exposure as much as possible.

The other end of the line was quiet for a moment, and then, “Okay. Hold on.” There was noise on the other end of the phone, the swinging scrape of a door across linoleum, a loud
clack
, followed by another. “I'm in cold storage, so please hurry.”

Sabrina took a deep breath. And another. Looked around to ensure she was truly alone.

“Hello? Freezing my ass off here.”

“Yeah, I'm here. It's about the boy—Johnny Doe,” she said, waiting for her words to sink in before continuing. “I need you to work up a DNA report and a death certificate for him.”

“But I have no idea who he is. I just sent prints and samples to the lab this morning, but even with a rush order, I won't have results for a few days,” Mandy said.

“I know. That's why I'm asking.” The longer it took for Mandy to get the results back, the longer Michael and Ben had to work with. “I need documentation stating that the body belongs to Leon Jonathan Maddox the third.”

Complete and utter silence. Shit.

“I'm not asking you to put them in the system, I just need hard copies of the reports,” Sabrina said, explaining as much as she could. She waited a few seconds before speaking again. “Mandy—”

“I'm sorry, did you just ask me to falsify DNA and a certificate of death for a Senator's grandson?” Mandy said in a whispered rush.

“Yes.”

More silence. “Are you in trouble?” Now Mandy sounded worried.

“Yes.”
Please don't ask, please don't ask, please don't—

“I'll have to wait until after hours. Forging official documents is generally frowned upon around here,” Mandy said.

Had she just agreed? “So you'll—”

“You'd never ask me to do something like this unless it was extremely important, right?”

“Right.”

“And we're friends, right?”

She thought of Strickland. The way they'd left things. “Right.”

“So, yes. I'll do it,” Mandy said. “You can pick them up tomorrow morning. I have a nine o'clock, so, say around eight?”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“You don't
owe
me anything. You're not very good at this whole
friend
thing, are you?” Mandy said before hanging up.

No, she really wasn't.

Before Sabrina could change her mind, she dialed another number from memory. The call was answered on the fourth ring.

“Inspector, I was wondering when you'd finally call.” Phillip Song's voice, smooth and confident, chided her gently. “You have an unhealthy habit of cutting it close. A form of self-punishment, I'm sure. Completely unnecessary, by the way.”

“Have you been talking to my therapist again, Phillip?” She smiled in spite of herself when he laughed. The two had formed an unlikely friendship, despite—or maybe because of—the fact that she'd killed his brother.

“I would never pry into your private matters, Sabrina,” he said. This time it was her turn to laugh.

“
Lies
. Prying is what you do best.” She kept her tone light, playful, as she usually did with him. It was what worked best between them.

“I do it for your own good,
yeon-in
,” he told her, and she was sure he believed it to be true.

The first time he'd pried had been a few months after his brother's funeral. She and Strickland had decided to meet for lunch in the Tenderloin. He'd chosen the restaurant and surprisingly, it had belonged to Phillip Song. It was the first time she's seen him since that day in the stockroom behind David's store. The day he'd told her that his older brother had always been sick, and that the death of their father had likely driven him over the edge.

She'd expected him to have them escorted out of the restaurant. Even if the fact that she killed his brother hadn't been an issue, the Song family had strong ties to the city's
Geondal
—Korean organized crime. Phillip Song was the head of Seven Dragons. Cops weren't exactly appreciated by him.

Instead of being asked to leave, or shot, Sabrina was surprised to find herself face to face with Phillip himself. He'd welcomed her warmly, insisting that their meal was on the house, that anything he could do for her, he would do.

As if to prove himself, he'd called her later that night and asked that she meet him. Even though she knew it wasn't exactly smart, Sabrina went. There was one thing she knew for sure—if Phillip Song wanted her dead, she would have been dead months before. Going to see him at his restaurant was no more dangerous than stepping outside her house every day. When she arrived, she was ushered into a private dining room to find Phillip waiting for her.

“You are being haunted by a
Gae Dokkaebi—
an evil spirit,” he'd said, shooting her a lopsided grin. “At least that's what Eun says.” He raised his eyes to the woman hovering in the doorway of the restaurant's private dining room he used to conduct his business. “My cousin,” he said, motioning the young woman in. With her came the warm delicate scent of tea.

“Before coming to America, she was in training to become
sana mudang
—a shaman.” He smiled up at his cousin, inclining his head slightly while she slid the tea tray onto the table between them. “She senses a darkness inside you. She's afraid of you. And for you.”

Smart girl.
The words hovered on Sabrina's tongue, but she managed to keep them to herself. “And she's going to exorcise my demons with a cup of tea?” she said as small fine-boned hands poured a translucent brew into a teacup.

“Not a demon—a ghost.”

His words crawled along her nape to slither down her spine. She had to fight to keep herself in her chair. Before she could question him further, Phillip continued.

“Unfortunately, according to Eun, there is no getting rid of what's inside you.” He sat back, elbows braced on the arms of his chair, tugging the French cuffs of his hand-tailored shirt over his heavily inked wrists. “The tea will give you relief, not peace. She warns, it will not hold the
Gae Dokkaebi
at bay forever.”

“Eun sure says a lot for someone who never speaks.” She shot a wary look at the cup in front of her. It unnerved her to know that she'd been the topic of conversation between them. “Why is she helping me?”

“Because I asked her to,” he said, as if that answered everything.

“Why would
you
want to help me?” she said, fighting the urge to look away from his intense gaze.

“It is simple: my family owes you a debt that can never be re-paid. If my father were here, he would feel the same.”

Sabrina didn't see it that way at all—she had killed his brother; that didn't constitute a debt—but she didn't argue. She drank the
tea, more out of politeness rather than an actual belief that it
would work against the voice she couldn't silence inside her head.

When she left, Phillip pressed a red silk pouch into her hand, his long, cool fingers wrapping around her own. “I wish there was more I could do.” He frowned. “If it works, come back.”

Incredibly, it
had
worked. That night she'd slept without interruption and the next morning, there was nothing but blessed silence. Every few weeks she went to visit Phillip at his restaurant and when she left, it was with tea.

“But I think you called me for more than tea this time,” he said now, pulling her away from the memory.

“Is it okay if I come by tonight?” she said without answering his question.

“Of course,
yeon-in
,” he said. “I'll see you then.”

The line went dead and she stood, dropping her cell in her pocket.

“You shouldn't be out here.”

She looked over to see Michael standing in the doorway. She had no idea how long he'd been there. Looking at him, her stomach tripped over itself on its way to her throat. “I needed the privacy.” She glanced away, unable to take the pressure that seeing his face built up in her chest.

“Who were you talking to?” he said, his eyes roving the yard. The street. Neighboring houses. Assessing threats. Looking for targets.

This was a very different Michael than the one she knew. Harder. Distant. More controlled. She remembered the way his arms felt around her, his face buried in her hair, his breath skating across her collarbone. Holding her so tight she could scarcely breathe. Where was
he
? The man who'd watched over her while she slept? The man who walked through hell to save her? Suddenly she wasn't sure he even really existed.

Irritated by his terse behavior, she leaned back against the railing and crossed her arms over her chest. “A friend.”

Michael sighed, mirrored her stance, propping himself against the doorjamb, arms folded. “One that's going to help, I hope,” he said, a smirk on his face, his eyes constantly roving the yard and street behind her.

She shrugged. She wasn't telling him about Mandy's involvement. Not because she didn't trust him, but because she didn't want to think about what she'd just done. Roping Mandy into this mess was probably a huge mistake. And mentioning Phillip … that would just be asking for trouble.

“Come inside. It's not safe out here.”

“Because of Church?” she said.

“Yes. Because of Church. And everyone else who's looking to serve our heads up on a platter,” he said, that half smile fading in favor of the hardened expression he seemed to always wear now.

She shook her head, refusing to move. “How is it possible that no one has ever seen this person?”

He scanned the street again. “Because that's the way Shaw wants it. Chances are plenty of people have seen Church, we just don't know who he is or what he really does. Shaw keeps sleepers—operatives with classified identities. Rumor has it he recommissions burned and disavowed agents from intelligence agencies worldwide. CIA, NSA, MI-6, KGB, Mossad … FSS is the last stop in a long line of acronym agencies. The freakin' Island of Misfit Toys for rogue spies. ”

“What for?” she said, but she could imagine that such tools would have their uses.

“For shit like this. Intelligence operatives aren't renowned for their strict moral code.” He looked uncomfortable, like he was telling her things he shouldn't. Things that could get her killed.

“Are you afraid of Church?”

His expression changed again into something unreadable. “No. And no more questions—come inside.”

It was only a matter of time before whoever was controlling Cordova's men found out that the attempt at the hospital had
failed. That the Kotko boy was still alive. There was no doubt
they'd be looking for him or that they'd eventually find him. Maybe they already had. “Please,” he said softly.

It wasn't the word, it was the look he was giving her that finally moved her. Like he was seconds away from manhandling her into the house if needed. Either way, she was coming inside.

He didn't say anything else. Just stood there, staring at her with the same calm expression he always wore. Finally she walked toward him, but he didn't move from the doorway, forcing her to squeeze past him on her way through the door. Chest and thighs brushed against one another …

And then she was caught, his fingers closing around her wrist. He held her, the gentle pressure of his hand on her as unrelenting as the weight of his gaze, those gray eyes of his locking onto her face like he was starved for the sight of her.

“I have something for you,” he said quietly, the lazy pattern his thumb was drawing against her wrist was making her dizzy.

She felt the corner of her mouth lift in a crooked grin. “Should I be scared?”

He smiled back. “Yes, but you've never been that smart,” he teased while reaching into his suit pocket to pull out another case. This one was long and flat, roughly the length of a pen. He opened it and showed it to her. A silver bracelet made of thin, elongated links as wide as her finger. He lifted it from the case before snapping it closed. A bracelet that wasn't really a bracelet at all. It remained straight and stiff in his hands, the links locked together to form something that resembled a hiltless blade, its end tapering off into a sharp point.