Promises to Keep (29 page)

Seventy-Six

Ben found a ride.

It'd taken some negotiating and more finesse than he had time for, but the outcome had been worth it. He was leaving for Colombia within the hour.

Leaving Nickels and Mandy in charge of Val, Lucy, and Alex, he'd headed to Miss Ettie's to pack up his gear. No matter the outcome with the Maddox situation, Ben doubted he'd be coming back here for quite some time.

He had other matters to attend to.

His phone rang just as he hit the front walkway, and he answered. “Is she dead?” It was his man in Spain, the one he'd ordered to kill the Cordova woman.

“Your boy beat me to it. Worked my way in and found the guard with his neck snapped and the chick with a cluster of bullets in her sternum.”

He stopped walking for a second, squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn it …” No matter what Michael said, no matter how good he was at his job or how emotionally void he liked to pretend to be, he wasn't built for this shit. Neither of them were. “Did he get out?”

“When I got there, the whole station was in an uproar looking for him, but yeah, he was gone.” The man on the other end cleared his throat. “Anything else?”

Ben started walking again, up the porch steps to press his thumb against the print scanner. The lock disengaged. “No. If you hear anything, let me know.”

“You got it.” And then the line was dead.

He found Lark in the sunroom, fingers clicking across the keyboard attached to several monitors, endless streams of data flowing his way.

“What are you doing?” he said, not entirely sure that leaving Lark alone for so long was a good idea.

“Where you been? Mikey called your SAT phone right after you left. He asked me for a full jacket on that Cordova woman. Found some pretty interesting shit,” Lark said without even looking at him. “She and Estefan Reyes have been—”

“Did you know my father was going to have Church take Sabrina?”

The clicking stopped, Lark's massive head turning slowly to look at him. “Shit … I admit that she ain't my favorite white girl but, I swear, I didn't know that was going to happen,” he said calmly, recognizing that he was suddenly fighting for his life. “You believe me, right?”

Ben stared at Lark hard. At the beads of sweat that popped up along his upper lip, the way he flexed his fingers around empty air—probably wishing for a gun—waiting for him to answer.

“Why did you really do it, Lark?” Ben said quietly, asking the only question that mattered to him right now. “Were you jealous? It was obvious, even then, that Michael had feelings for her. Was she interrupting your little bromance? Changing him into someone you didn't like? Did you get Lucy killed to punish him for wanting something more than a lifetime of killing?”

Lark sat back in his seat, looking away for a second before resettling his gaze on the man in front of him. “Getting Lucy Walker killed was
never
my intention.” He shook his head. “Sabrina is dangerous. She does more than make him want; she makes him
forget
. When he was here looking for his sister's killer, he was six weeks gone and he had no intention of coming back. He was going to stay here—and
die
—for her,” Lark said, holding up his thumb and forefinger. “Your father was
this
close to letting his finger do the walking … I did what I had to do to keep him alive.” He shrugged. “You gotta kill me, kill me. Tell the truth, it'd be a relief. I'm sick and fucking tired of living under your daddy's thumb.”

Ben believed him. He even understood him. How far he was willing to go in order to protect his friend, what he was willing to throw away. It was what he'd been hoping for. Counting on. Why he'd asked his father to send Lark with them when they left Spain.

He was going to need Lark for what came next.

“I'm not gonna kill you. Not today, anyway.” He smiled. “Pack your shit. We're outta here in twenty,” he said, leaving Lark to stare after him.

Upstairs, he dragged his duffle from the closet and tossed it on the bed before he started pulling drawers open to collect his stuff.

“I'm going with you.”

Ben looked up to find Sabrina's partner standing in the doorway of his room. He arched an eyebrow and kept packing. “How'd you get in here?”

Strickland held up his thumb and wiggled it before repeating himself. “I'm going with you.”

Ben gave him an absentminded scowl. “Yeah … no.”

“I don't think you understand,” Strickland said, walking into the room, forcing him to stop packing and focus. “She's my partner. I have to go with you. I'm
supposed
to be there.”

Ben clipped the carabiner through the eyelet of his duffle. “I'm pretty sure you're the one who doesn't understand,” he said, tossing his bag toward the door where it landed, leaning to the side in a disheveled slump. “If I take you within a hundred miles of this shit storm, Sabrina will harvest my testicles, and you know what? I like my balls. I'm attached to them. I want to keep them, so again … no.”

Strickland glared at him, that Average Joe disguise he'd perfected slipping a bit to give Ben a glimpse of what was going on below the surface. “You're not listening and I'm not asking. I
am
going after her. Either with you or on my own.”

Ben didn't answer or argue. Instead, he reached under his bed to pull out his case and dialed in the combination before turning it forward so Strickland could get a good look at what was inside. Guns. Knives. Compact explosives. Weapons and equipment that would take more time and explanation than he had patience for. “Take a good look, cop. Tell me what you
don't
see.”

Strickland dropped his gaze, his face paling a bit at the contents of the case, but his jaw maintained its stubborn jut. “A point to all your rambling bullshit.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “
A point
… that's funny. I'll tell you what you don't see. Handcuffs. A badge. A warrant. You want to know why you don't see those things?” Ben slammed the case shut and lifted it off the bed. “Because I'm not a cop. I'm not a good guy, and I'm not going after Reyes with the intention of arresting him. I'm not going to read him his rights and make sure he stands trial for his crimes. I'm going after my friends, and if I'm very lucky, I'll be the one who gets to put a bullet in the back of that sick fuck's head,” he said, skirting the bed to make his way toward the door. He stopped, his shoulders slumping a bit. Pissing on this guy's parade wasn't nearly as fun as it should've been. He turned around to see him standing where he'd left him, eyes narrowed, staring at him. “Look,” he sighed. “You're a good guy, Strickland. You believe in the law. Right from wrong, cops and robbers. But there is absolutely no place in this fight for morality or decency, because that's the kind of shit that will get you—and more importantly,
me
—killed.” He turned back around, heading for the hall.

“Fuck you, you smug little prick.” Something shiny whizzed past his head before smacking into the wall. A badge.

Ben turned to look at the man standing behind him. “Excuse me?”

Strickland lifted his service weapon from his holster, ejecting the magazine and checking the chamber before dropping both on the ground. “You heard me. You don't know me or what I believe. You don't know where my moral compass points or anything about my
delicate sensibilities
.” Next, he pulled his handcuffs from his belt and tossed them next to his gun. “And you sure as fuck don't know what I'm willing to do or how far I'm willing to go to get my partner back. You want a shot at putting down that son of a bitch? Well, you're gonna have to get in line because I'm goddamned sick and tired of riding the bench.”

Ben felt a slow smile stretch across his face while he gave the cop in front of him the up-down—not so much sizing him up as he was recalculating what he'd thought he knew about Sabrina's partner. “Okay. You're in. We leave in an hour.”

Seventy-Seven

Michael boarded Shaw's jet
immediately after leaving the Barcelona police station, heading straight for the back to stretch out on the long leather bench seat at the back of the plane. As soon as he was horizontal, he closed his eyes, unable to take a relaxed breath until he felt the gentle rock of the jet taxiing down the runway.

Killing Pia came down to simple math. When she told him she wasn't going to stop pursuing Sabrina until she was dead, he believed her. He knew that kind of conviction. That kind of rage had a way of justifying any choice and destroying everything in its path. He'd do whatever he had to in order to protect Sabrina from that, to shield her from the aftermath of the mistakes he'd made. Yeah, it'd been easy.

At least that's what he kept telling himself.

He kept his eyes closed, concentrating on the subtle roll in his gut when the plane lifted off the ground. It didn't matter. Pia. Her father. The ever-growing list of shit he'd done and kept on doing. None of it mattered.

What mattered now was that he was on his way to Colombia.

The SAT phone in his jacket pocket rang and he answered it. “Hey.”

“You weren't supposed to be there,” Ben said without greeting. “Standard protocol has you checking in at the nearest FSS field office for operational debrief
before
you're released on an assignment.”

He could hear the frustration in his partner's voice and oddly enough, it soothed him. “I'm fine, Ben,” he said quietly. “Pia is dead.”

“I know.” Ben let out a frustrated sigh. Caring was obviously costing him a lot of effort. “I also know that being the one to put her down was hard on you.”

“Walk in the park,” he said. “I was in and out in under twenty minutes.”

“That's not what I mean and you fucking well know it,” Ben shot back. “Your sister's murder. Watching Reyes kill his wife … what happened to Sabrina.”

What keeps happening to her.

One of these days, he was going to find out who Ben's information source was and he was going to have a stern talk with them about privacy. “Is it your turn to play Dr. Phil?”

“You know what? Fuck you. I'm trying—”

He rubbed a hand over his face, a few days' worth of stubble rasping against his palm. Ben Shaw never tried, not with anyone. Busting his balls for being human was a dick move. “You're right. It was hard. For a second, I didn't think I could do it. I almost didn't, but it had to be done.”

“I sent someone in to do it for you. You weren't supposed to be there yet,” Ben said, sounding almost helpless for a moment. “You didn't give me enough time.”

“I knew you'd try to figure out a way to get me off the hook, that's why I went to the precinct straight from the airport. It had to me done by
me
. Reyes's orders. If anyone else had pulled the trigger, he would've killed Sabrina.”

Ben was quiet for a moment, digesting what he'd just said before letting out a disgusted chuckle. “This asshole
really
needs to die.”

“One of the few things we agree on, partner,” he said.

“We're going to get her back,” Ben said, taking charge again. “I'm on my way now and I'll have wheels down in less than six hours. I can—”

“You're going to wait until I get there.” He opened his eyes, stared hard at the domed roof of the jet. “Do you hear me, Ben? Reyes is
mine
.”

A second or two of silence and then a sigh. “I hear you.”

“Good.” He closed his eyes again. “I'll see you in Colombia.”

Seventy-Eight

Rise and shine, darlin'.

Sabrina's eyes popped open, the sound of Wade's voice fading behind the heartbeat that pounded against her eardrums. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, eyes instantly drawn to the large picture window. She'd tried to draw the curtains last night after Reyes left, but they wouldn't budge. Must've been on some sort of automated system that allowed them to be open and closed by remote. Her gaze was pulled past them, to the stretch of grass beyond the glass. After Estefan shot Eduardo, he'd simply walked away, leaving the guard where he fell.

He was still there.

While she slept, someone had covered the body with a sheet. It was a soft, sunny yellow, tucked under his feet and cheek so as not to be carried away by the breeze floating in off the ocean. The sheet stuck to the back of his head, the blood and gore seeping through to darken the yellow fabric to the brownish orange color of dried mustard.

Game time, darlin'.

Someone knocked on the door and she turned just in time to see it open. It was Christina. She had a black eye, the swollen bruise creeping out toward her temple.

The girl smiled even though the facial movement must've caused her pain. “Good morning. I thought maybe you'd like to have breakfast with me.” Christina's gaze drifted past her for a moment to rest on the fluttering sheet framed by the picture window she stood in front of. The girl's invitation was casual enough, but her meaning was clear:
Do you want to get out of here?

Sabrina smiled and nodded, calling on the manners her grandmother had instilled in her when she was no older than her hostess. “That sounds lovely, thank you,” she said, stepping into the hallway ahead of Christina, standing to the side so she could pull the door shut.

They walked down hallways and under arches, through lavishly furnished rooms that were probably never used, past formally uniformed maids who kept their eyes downcast and their hands busy.

One such maid stood on a beautifully tiled veranda next to a large round table laid heavy with fruit and pastries. More savory fare was also offered, and a man in a white jacket and pants was waiting to make omelets and waffles.

Leo Maddox sat at the table with a large stack of waffles covered in strawberry syrup and whipped cream. “Hi,” he chirped around a mouth full of food. He almost looked happy. Almost normal.

“Hi,” Sabrina said, sliding into the seat next to him. She looked around before letting out a low whistle. She draped her napkin across her lap while leaning into him with a conspiratorial whisper. “Holy cow. Is breakfast always like this?”

Leo's gaze strayed to the breakfast chef. “Yeah, it's my favorite part, so far.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Favorite part of what?”

Leo looked at her, a bite of red-soaked waffle hanging off his fork. “Getting kidnapped.”

The smile on her face wobbled, threatening to crumble, but she held onto it. “I bet. Strawberry waffles would be my favorite part too.”

Christina joined them, speaking softly in Spanish to the maid who stood watch over the table. The maid, who looked barely old enough to drive a car, nodded and went to talk to the chef. “Good morning, Leo,” Christina said, lifting the silver pot from the center of the table to pour a cup for her guest and then herself. It was coffee.

“Morning,” Leo said, smiling around another mouthful of waffle. His gaze lingered on the bruise on Christina's face, but he didn't ask what happened.

“Did you eat fruit first?” the girl said, lifting a sugar cube from the bowl beside the pot, plopping it into her cup.

“Pineapple and mango with blueberries,” he said, holding up his fingers to show her they were stained purple. “Can we go?”

Christina flicked a glance at Sabrina, hiding a barely suppressed smile behind her cup. “I'm not sure.”

The boy's shoulders sagged a bit. “Pleeeease.”

“We'll see,” Christina teased gently, and for a moment Sabrina could hear Michael in her words. Had Michael been playful with her like this when he'd been her protector? Had they eaten decadent breakfasts and played in the sun? She hoped so. She hoped that he'd been able to give this girl a small measure of happiness inside the bleak life she led.

The rest of breakfast was spent in similar fashion. The children spoke to each other, both shooting her looks every now and then. She ate despite the fact that her gut churned and roiled against the thought of food. Reyes was a sadistic bastard, but he was right; food was fuel, and she'd need it if she was going to get through whatever came next.

“Sabrina?”

She looked up from her nearly empty plate to find both of the children staring at her like they'd been talking to her for a while. “Yes?”

“Leo and I were going to take a walk. Would you like to come with us?” Christina said, laying her napkin beside her plate before she stood. Leo jumped up, the corners of his mouth caked with red syrup, and he swiped at them with sticky fingers. “But first, Leo is going to go with Magdalena to wash his hands and face.”

The maid took the boy by the hand and led him away. “Wait for me,” he called back to them as he disappeared into the house.

As soon as they were alone, Sabrina turned to look at the girl standing beside her. “I'm having a hard time with this, Christina.” She looked around to make sure they were alone. “What kind of game is your father playing? Why is he allowed to just run around? And me? I don't get why I'm being allowed to just roam free.”

Christina laughed, but the soft sound had a sharp edge that pricked at the back of Sabrina's neck. “Come with me,” she said, leading her down the tiled steps to the garden below. They walked a short way before they stopped, Christina taking her by the shoulders, turning her toward the house. “We're allowed to roam, but we are hardly free,” she said, looking up. Sabrina followed her line of sight, her gaze landing on the roofline and the long barrel of a sniper rifle aimed in her general direction. “They're everywhere, and they have orders to kill Leo if you stray within twenty feet of the retaining wall.”

Before Sabrina could answer, the boy came flying down the
steps, face and hands freshly scrubbed, “I wanna go first,” he
yelled, blowing past them, his short little legs carrying him down the cobblestone path.

Christina smiled after him, as if she hadn't just told her that his death warrant was all but signed. “Come on, I'd like to show you something,” she said, snagging her sleeve to turn her to the path Leo had just rocketed down.

They walked for a while, passing by elaborate flowerbeds and under shade trees until they came to an enormous oak that had no business growing on an island off the coast of Colombia. There was a tire swing hanging from a low-slung branch, and for a moment she thought of her grandmother's house. Not the one she had grown up in, but the house Lucy had shared with Michael—the one she'd died in.

“He built this for me when I was five,” Christina said, watching as Leo threaded himself through the hole in the tire and begin to swing back and forth. Sabrina didn't have to ask who she was talking about. She knew.

“See, I knew what he did. I knew he killed people—a lot of
people—for my father.” Christina looked at her, her eyes glittering in the early morning sun. “I knew that people were afraid of him. The other guards whispered about him. The maids. They all told stories of the horrible things
El Cartero
did for money. How merciless and brutal he was.” She shook her head. “But I never knew
El Cartero.
I knew Michael. He taught me how to ride a bike and built me a tire swing,” she said. “He would push me on that swing and take me to the beach. I loved him, and even if he never said it, I know he loved me.”

Sabrina could hear a million questions trembling behind those words. She didn't have answers for any of them except one. “He still does.”

“He'll come for you, won't he?” Christina said, sounding both hopeful and sad.

Sabrina shook her head. Looking at the swing, she was suddenly sure. “No; he'll come for
us
. All of us.”