Promises to Keep (17 page)

Forty-Four

Let her go.

That was what Michael's brain was telling him to do. Just let Sabrina go. It was better this way. Easier. Every time he managed to put some distance between them, he caved. Ended up pulling her closer. Let her sink in just a little bit deeper.

He got out of the car, allowing himself the satisfaction of slamming the door behind him. She didn't look back, just kept walking, her dog hugging her left flank, watchful of the shadows.

Let her go.

He made sure to lock her car before pocketing her keys. He wasn't dumb enough to think that keeping her car keys would stop her from following him if she wanted to; he was just hoping her impulsive nature didn't get the better of her. He dropped the wad of metal into his jacket pocket and headed back to Miss Ettie's.

She knew what he really was, what he was capable of. But despite her false bravado, he knew the truth: Sabrina had no desire to see him go to work.

That made two of them.

He rounded the corner quietly, giving the exterior of the house a sweeping glance from the shadows, letting his instincts take over. No cartel thugs or sleeper agents lurking in the shadows. All was quiet … which made him very nervous.

He let himself in through the back, pressing his thumb against the small blinking touchpad mounted next to the door. Like he knew it would, the pad read his thumbprint and stopped blinking a few seconds before the auto-locks engaged.

“To tell the truth, I miss my keys.”

Michael turned toward the kitchen table to find Miss Ettie sitting, a cup of tea in front of her. He leaned across the counter to take a look in the Blue Willow bowl she kept on its surface. It was empty.

His shoulders slumped a bit as the weight of one more regret settled in place. “I'm sorry.”

Miss Ettie gave him a smile before raising her cup to her curved mouth. “For what?”

“For this. All of it.” He waved a hand around. “Bio-scanners and bulletproof glass. For not staying away when I should have.”

She lowered her cup, a slight frown multiplying the soft winkles on her face. “Then you're sorry for the wrong thing, Michael,” she said as she stood, her chair making a faint scraping noise across the hardwood floor. “What you should be apologizing for is staying away as long as you did.”

She traveled the short length of space between the table and the sink with her empty cup before she spoke again. “I heard you leave a while ago and had hoped I wouldn't see you until morning,” she said, running water into her cup before setting it in the dish drainer.

“Sabrina's better off without me,” he said, not even bothering to pretend he didn't know what or who she was talking about.

“Says who? You?” She chuckled softly on her way to her room, the sound telling him what a fool she thought he was. “One thing I know for sure, Michael, is that happiness in this world is a fleeting thing,” she said, reaching out to pat his cheek. “It's selfish and cruel to deny it. To yourself or to others.” She stood on tiptoes and planted a kiss on his jaw. “Good night,” she whispered against his lowered cheek before continuing down the hall to her room.

He stood there for a moment, trying to digest her words. Trying to deny the sense they made. The Felix the Cat clock above the sink, with its swishing tail and ping-pong ball eyes, let out a single meow. Eleven p.m.—time to go to work.

Michael took himself upstairs, quietly checking on Alex before letting himself into his room. There he shed his track pants and running shoes, trading them for cargo pants and heavy boots before pulling out his case and setting it on the bed. Thirty seconds later there was a soft-knuckled rap against his closed bedroom door, moments before it swung open.

“Going somewhere?” Ben said, watching him slip knives and guns into various compartments and holsters.

“Got a lead on where Reyes might've set up shop,” he said, mulling over the merits of a few concussion grenades.

“Am I invited?”

Deciding against the grenades, he tossed them back into the case before shutting the lid to look up at his partner. “Nope.”

Ben sighed, shouldering himself off the frame to stand up straight. “Maybe you should wait. I got a couple of local guys I trust—I can send them in to gather some intel before you go all Lone Ranger.” Ben knew better than to try and push his way in. The kid was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them.

Michael smirked in spite of himself but shook his head. “As soon as it gets back to your father that the body Sabrina found isn't Leo Maddox, he's going to yank my ass back to Spain. Waiting isn't an option.”

Ben shook his head. “At least let me send a couple of—”

“What's going on between Sabrina and Phillip Song?” The question came out of nowhere, etching a frown onto Ben's face. But as much as he wanted to take it back, Michael wanted answers more.

Ben shrugged, seemed a little reluctant to answer. “I don't know. She goes and sees him at his restaurant every couple of weeks—usually late, after everyone's gone to bed. She hangs out for an hour or so and she comes home,” he said. “Why? Is that where the two of you went tonight?”

He nodded. “He gave her something before we left—a red silk pouch. Asked her how she'd been sleeping.”
Called her sweetheart.

“Like shit,” Ben muttered, seemingly unaware that his knowing that revealed just how close he'd become to Sabrina over the past year. “Wait, is he where you got your intel? I hate to say it, but I'm not sure Song has your best interests at heart. Now I
really
think you should wait.”

Michael reopened the case and pulled out a pair of binocs before he stooped to shove it back under the bed. “Like I said—not an option.”

“Nothing.”

Michael looked up. Ben was watching him carefully, shoulder leaned against the mantle. “Nothing what?”

“That's the answer to the question you're kicking around that thick skull of yours. Nothing.” Ben quirked his mouth into a smile that looked almost wistful. “Nothing is going on between Sabrina and me. She's my friend—just like you're my friend. I don't have many.”

Michael didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything, just kept heading for the door. He stopped in front of his partner, slapping the field glasses into his open palm. “Keep an eye on her. If she leaves, text me.”

Forty-Five

The warehouse was exactly
were Phillip Song said it would be, crammed into to the middle of an industrial park on Bayshore, just south of Loomis. Michael drove past the deserted-looking building before circling back and parking a few blocks away. The place may have looked abandoned, but he knew a front when he saw one. Discreet security cameras, wire mesh embedded in high-set windows, a single door set off the street and partially hidden by a Dumpster, what looked like a bay door big enough for a box truck around back.

With its lack of entry points and hidden security cameras, a stealth approach was going to be nearly impossible. Good thing he came prepared.

Without the soft rumble of the car engine, Michael could hear the distant thump of music coming from the nightclub across the street, the line to get in wrapped around the building. It made him think of the night he'd spent with Pia Cordova. What he'd done to her father. What he'd done to her.

He could still see her standing at the top of the stairs, open blouse clutched against her exposed breasts, staring down at him with a mixture of fear and confusion that quickly bled into something else …

Recognition.

He'd lied to Ben when he'd said that Pia hadn't recognized him from that night at the club. She'd known exactly who he was and as soon as the bullets started flying, she'd known exactly what he'd done. He swiped a rough hand over his face, trying desperately to scrub away the memory, but it wouldn't budge.

Guilt ate at him. Pushing him to do something he hadn't done in years. Not since he found out Frankie was dead.

He wanted to drink.

If he was completely honest with himself—which was a rarity these days—he'd admit that the urge had very little to do with Pia Cordova or the shit storm he'd unleashed on her over the past few days. She was just another job, just another casualty. No. This was about Sabrina and what being so close to her did to him. What it made him want and wish. What it made him remember and regret.

Leaning into the dash, Michael popped the trunk before stepping out of the car to circle around back. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it into the trunk before reaching for what Ben liked to call the prop box. Inside it was a variety of umbrellas, a few baseball caps, sunglasses, a couple of maps, a fake arm cast … and a bottle of booze.

He stared at it for a few seconds, contemplating what he wanted, measuring it against what he should do instead.

Before he allowed himself to think it through, Michael snatched the bottle out of the box and cracked the lid. Lifting it to his lips, he pulled the liquor through clenched teeth and into his mouth. He held it there for a moment, eyes closed, letting the taste and sting of it settle against his tongue. He could feel the urge to swallow working at the back of his throat. A reflex he'd never been able to fight. Had never even wanted to.

It had been a promise he'd made to Lucy, nothing more, that forced him to dry out—and Lucy was dead. There was nothing and no one who cared anymore. No promises left to break.

Sabrina's face flashed in front of him and that was enough.

Michael swished the liquor around his mouth a few times before he turned his head to the side and spit it into the street. Next he poured a bit into his hands and rubbed them together before applying it to his skin like aftershave, coating himself liberally until he smelled as drunk as he wished he actually was.

Recapping the bottle, he tossed it back into the box before fitting the fake cast onto his arm and grabbing a pair of mirrored aviators. Easing the trunk lid down, he heard the muted
click
of the latch as he pocketed the keys.

He staggered away from his car and covered the couple of blocks between where he parked and the warehouse in a drunken gait, weaving slightly, like a guy who was tore up but still trying to keep his cool. He passed a few groups, tight clutches of people on their way to the nightclub he'd seen, hoping tonight was the night they'd get past the velvet ropes.

He kept walking, straight for the building, the drunken lurch he'd affected announcing his approach as he purposely slammed into the side of the Dumpster, the cast on his arm ringing against the sheet metal like a gong.

For the benefit of the security camera mounted to the side of door, he spun around in a quick circle as if looking for the source of the sound. “Oh, shit,” he said, tipping into the door, knocking his aviators askew. To whoever was manning the feed, he'd look like nothing more than another harmless Saturday-night douche bag looking for a party. He knew the old adage, People only see what they want to see, was a lie. People saw what you showed them. Most were too lazy and arrogant to look past what was shoved in front of their face. No one wanted to see the truth. To believe they were vulnerable. That they were about to die.

“Lemme in,” he slurred loudly, banging the cast against the heavy metal door, the clang of it much deeper than the Dumpster. Solid core—no way he was kicking that bitch in. A couple of those concussion grenades were looking pretty good right now. He kept up with the banging, drawing as much unwanted attention as he could. People passing on the street were looking in his direction, wondering what the hell was going on. Good. The more people looked, the more likely they were to open the door, just to shut him up. “Hey, come on … open up, I got friends in the VIP—”

There was a scraping noise, metal on metal, a few seconds before the door opened. “Get the fuck out of here, man. The club's down the street,” the guy at the door said as he tossed his head, flashing his scorpion neck tat. This was Reyes's place alright.

“Naw, man—this is the place.” Michael shouldered his way in, leading with his cast, using it to distract the guy from the fact that his other hand was reaching into the folds of his jacket to draw his Kimber. A few yards away, three men sat at a folding card table, topped with a pair of dice and a scattered stack of crumpled bills. “Hey, whaddya playin'?”

The guy grabbed his casted arm, yanking him back. “This ain't no fuckin' club, white boy—”

That was as far as he got, the suppressed bullet that slammed into his chest throwing him back against the wall. The trio stood in unison, each reaching for their weapons with varying degrees of speed, but it didn't matter—two of them were dead before they even pulled their guns clear, leaving the third with his hand hovering above the grip that protruded from the waistband of his pants, eyes glued to the gun in Michael's hand. He was one of Reyes's lieutenants—older, more seasoned than the dead guys that bracketed him.

Mi
chael kicked the door shut behind him before speaking. “Hey, Hector.” He removed the aviators so the last guy standing could get a good look at his face. “Remember me?”

“Yeah. The nanny.” The guy cracked a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“That's right, I
am
the nanny. But you can call me
Cartero
.” He smiled back a split second before he pulled the trigger, blowing out Hector's knee. The guy dropped like a rock, any thought he'd had of pulling his gun and trying to shoot his way out gone, leaving him a writhing bloody mess.

Michael holstered his gun long enough to pull the fake cast off his arm and drop it on the ground. Now Hector was screaming, clutching at the ragged jumble of meat and bone where his knee had been only a few seconds before.

Michael waited, gun leveled at the hallway leading to a bank of offices to the right. No one came running. No one else was here. “Anyone else in the building?” he said, just to be sure.

Hector's head shook back and forth, his voice too strangled with screams and tears to answer him properly.

“Is that a no?” he said, watching Hector dispassionately. This man sold children. He deserved no sympathy.

“Alone … we …” Hector managed to choke out between screams.

“Perfect.” He pulled off his belt and hunkered down next to the wailing man. He used it as a tourniquet to control the blood flow. “We can't have you bleeding out just yet, can we now?” Michael said, giving Hector a heavy-handed pat on his injured leg. “Not before you give me what I'm looking for.”