The Second Betrayal (20 page)

Donovan was gone when Kerrison and I got back from our jog. Probably one of two things. No, one of three. He was

headed off to work his end of the op; he hadn't wanted Kerrison to know he'd stayed the night; he was avoiding me

and having to go any farther with our conversation.

I chose option number three.

Jerk.

He was not going to get off so easy. All he'd done was postpone the inevitable conversation between us, and he hadn't done it in a fair way at all.

Donovan had apparently taken the fingerprint sample back to our makeshift HQ because the plastic evidence bag

containing it was gone, along with the bag with the blond hair.

Kerrison and I had discussed the op in-depth as we took a slow jog along streets decorated for the holidays, filled with holiday shoppers. One of the things we talked about was the need to get into Giger's office on the main floor as well as the office I'd come across on the second floor.

Where had Jenika come across the coded message to begin with? My bet was the office on the second floor. I didn't

see how she could get into the other one.

Was Jenika hidden somewhere in the Elite building? Or had Giger's men taken her somewhere else?

We had to find Jenika. We had to help the trafficked girls. We had to get to Hagstedt. There was so much we needed

to accomplish fast. Time wasn't on our side.

Always in the forefront of my thoughts was the fact that I had to get back to Mama as soon as possible. I needed to be there for her.

After Kerri son and I caught our breath, I grabbed my RED secure cell phone and called Takamoto to get a briefing

from his end. No sign of Jenika and no word on her whereabouts.

Shit.

He didn't have any more information on Hagstedt other than what we'd already gathered before we came to New York

City. All we knew from that deciphered note was that Hagstedt could be here any day.

I relayed the info to Kerrison.

"Damn." She pulled off the lacy ponytail holder and shook out her long red hair, tangled and sweaty from our run. 'It's almost time to head off to the greatest job on earth. Working for scumbags and not being able to take a shotgun to

every one of those men and blow their dicks off."

"I like you better and better," 1 said with a not-so-humorous laugh. "I have some ideas of my own that I'm working on.

My current favorite is strapping the bastards down on killer ant hills and letting the ants swarm then eat them until their bones are shiny clean."

Kerrison gave an approving nod. "I heard you were tough, Steele. Can't wait to see you in action."

We both headed to our bedrooms for showers and the ordeal of caking on makeup and squeezing into gravity-defying

push-up bras and sexy clothing. At least my wardrobe could be a little less revealing than Kerrison's was.

I just finished securing one of the silvery-blond wigs on my head when she knocked on the frame of the open door. I gave a low whistle at the sight of her black two-piece ensemble. Another tiny skirt—only this one was so short it

barely covered the important parts. The top wasn't a whole lot more than a black bra. This time she wore four-inch

heels and fishnet stockings.

"If I didn't know better, now," I said as I slipped on my rings, "I'd think you were hot for men."

She put one hand on her hip. "You think only men like women dressed like me?"

I shrugged. "Never really thought of it." But then again, on the last op there had been that Amazon who made it clear I turned her on ...

Kerrison moved just enough that I could see the black line up the back of her stockings. She looked over her bare

shoulder. "Gets them every time."

"If you say so," I replied while thinking at the same time that she did look friggin' hot.

This time we remembered our coats. As we stepped out into the cold, windy late-November day, I glanced at the

afternoon sky. Gray, like my mood.

We'd better get somewhere with this case. We were all running out of time.

Helping every single girl who was trafficked. Grabbing Hagstedt and eliminating his personal human trafficking rings for good. And now Jenika. Everything in my gut told me we had to find her fast.

Or we wouldn't find her alive.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Nick

Wearing all black, Nick blended in with the darkness as he stayed in the shadows next to a dive bar on Fifth Street, close to Avenue B.

The bar's holiday decorations looked tacky and sloppy, from the loopy way the colored lights had been strung around the door frame to the variety of faded depictions of Santas in the dirty windows. The picture with good of Claus

mooning the street reminded Nick of the dropping-pants-Santa back in the Human Trafficking CC at RED.

Courtesy of Madame Cherie's well-planted heel, Nick's cheekbone burned in the cold. Hell, it was nothing but a

mosquito bite compared with what he'd been through in his career in Navy Special Ops, then black ops.

A man stumbled out of the bar, and Nick tensed. When he got a good look at the man's face in the streetlight, he

relaxed. It wasn't Mike or Jorge—two of Giger's men whom Nick had tailed all the way from the back door of the

Elite. He'd heard their names during their bullshitting back and forth on the way to the bar. From their conversation, he'd learned that they had the night off and apparently preferred a cheap shithole like this over a place as expensive as the Elite.

Nick ignored the stench of piss recently splattered on the side of the building. He also blocked out the odor of the nearby pile of garbage bags and boxes on the sidewalk. The refuse would be picked up by one of the city's sanitation trucks, probably in the morning.

He stomped his feet for the hundredth time in an effort to stay limber. To keep his fingers feeling loose, he flexed his grip on the Glock 10mm as well as clenching and unclenching his free hand.

Nick had already attached the suppressor. From the intel they'd gathered, Nick and Steele's team knew that Giger's

boys carried heavy-duty firepower. Glock .45s and lOmms were high on the list for these guys.

He dragged his gloved hand down his face, over two days' worth of stubble he'd grown to help him look on the scruffy side. Not clean-cut, but not ragged, either. In keeping with what he and half the population of New York City

generally wore, Nick had chosen a black T-shirt beneath a heavy black bomber jacket, and black Levi's. He'd added

shitkickers, these particular ones being serious combat boots with steel toes.

Earlier today another lead hadn't panned out. He was sick of it and didn't really have a choice but to do what he was about to.

Goddamnit. He needed to snag a job as a handler at the Elite to back up Lexi and Kerrison, as well as find Jenika,

now.
So far every damned lead and informant had turned out to be bullshit or a dead end. Even Johnny hadn't come through.

Two men walked around the corner of Avenue A then toward the bar. They didn't so much walk as they wove their

way down the sidewalk with drunken steps.

Three men strode from inside the bar at the same time the two other men reached the doorway and squeezed by to get

in.

"Why don't you wait your fucking turn?" one of the men walking out said in a snarl to the men going into the bar.

"Fuck you," one of the pair heading in said, his words slurred.

The men traded insults, but fortunately none of five seemed in the mood to fight. Nick didn't have time for that kind of shit, which might throw off his game plan.

He stayed in the darkness and concentrated on the men who were leaving. Not one of the three had the gait or

movements of either of the pair of Giger's boys whom Nick had followed to this goddamned bar six hours ago. As bad

as he wanted Giger's men, it was good that none of the trio matched the pair he was after. He needed just the two men he'd stalked. And he needed them alone.

Soon, before he froze his ass off and couldn't follow through with his plan.

Nick's warm breath fogged in the icy air as he blew it out in a frustrated huff and stomped his boots again to loosen his legs. He'd had enough of waiting. Tonight he'd create openings for two handlers at the Elite. Might as well give

himself a little insurance while taking down two shithole trafficking scumbags at the same time.

His conversation with Steele yesterday morning kept intruding on his thoughts and had Nick grinding his teeth. He

hadn't returned to the apartment yet. Call him chickenshit. He didn't give a fuck.

The sharp edge he'd balanced on for years was hard to keep stable now that Steele refused to give up on getting him to tell her about his past.

Christ. He had no desire to talk about the shit he'd gone through, the shit he'd done, when he'd been recruited into black ops. The years that had gone by since had never dulled the memories or pain. Hell, he deserved to remember and feel the pain of what he'd done. Nothing would change that.

Harsh laughter drew Nick's attention to the bar's doorway again. Giger's men. The blond was the one named Mike, the Hispanic was Jorge.

Now, as the pair left the bar, Nick recognized the sniggering laugh of the blond shithead, Mike. He said something

Nick couldn't hear, but the inflection in his voice was unmistakable as he spoke to Jorge.

Nick waited until Mike and Jorge got at least thirty feet away, almost to the corner of Avenue B, before he stepped out of the darkness to follow. When they rounded the corner, Nick picked up his pace and guessed he was now within

twenty-five feet of the men.

With a cautious look around the corner, he made sure Jorge and Mike hadn't spotted him.

Good. They were almost at the location Nick had selected. A dark stairwell that went down to a doorway secured with a heavy padlock. He was fifteen feet behind the men when they were positioned exactly where he wanted them.

He held the Glock with its silencer in a standard two-fisted grip. "Hey, dickheads!"

Giger's men turned just enough. Exactly like Nick had planned.

The Glock with the suppressor made an impotent sound as Nick put a bullet in the center of Jorge's forehead. The dead asshole dropped next to the stairwell.

Before Giger's other man registered that Nick had taken out his buddy, he was already running toward the asshole.

"What the fuck?" The man reached behind his back and brought out his own gun.

By the time Mike had the gun in his hand, Nick had already closed the fifteen feet between them.

Nick tackled him. Giger's man went down with a shout as his back hit the sidewalk. Mike's gun went clattering and

made a skittering sound along the sidewalk.

Mike jerked Nick's ankle with his foot, causing Nick to drop harder to the sidewalk than he'd planned. Nick twisted, trying to protect himself and his own weapon.

The suppressor on his Glock hit the ground concrete hard. He didn't like the immediate difference in the gun's balance as he gripped it.

Fuck.
The suppressor was probably hosed.

Giger's man reeked of sweat, alcohol, and cheap cigarettes. Despite the fact he was clearly drunk, the man was quick and strong. Nick had to fight to keep the man down and keep him from going for his own gun.

Nick slugged Giger's man at just the right spot on his temple to knock him out. Mike instantly went limp. Nick had

used a martial arts method that would make it impossible for anyone to tell the man had been hit in the head and

knocked unconscious.

After checking around him with a quick sweep of his gaze to make sure everything was clear, Nick grabbed the still-

alive asshole number two. Mike, and dragged him down the stairwell. He propped him up against the locked door.

With one of his gloved hands, Nick reached around the man's waist and took Mike's gun from the holster at his back.

Nick pocketed it while he made sure the guy wasn't coming to. Mike was left-handed—he'd reached for his gun with

his left hand, and the holster was made for a left-hander.

Nick checked the silencer. Shit. It was fucked-up like he'd thought. Gritting his teeth, he worked in quick, precise movements. He screwed the silencer off the 10mm. He'd already removed the serial number from the Glock he'd shot

Jorge with. Nick shoved the suppressor into the opposite pocket of his bomber jacket. Then he pressed Mike's fingers against the barrel of the gun before he wrapped the man's palm around the lOmm's grip.

Nick took out the handgun's magazine and removed the bullet that had automatically slipped into the chamber. Mike

stirred, but Nick wasn't worried the guy would have a chance to shoot—much less have any ammunition in the gun to

shoot with. Still, he hit Mike again with the side of his hand, causing the guy to go slack.

He took the five steps in two strides as he returned to the dead man at the top of the stairs. Only a trickle of blood was on Jorge's forehead, but the back of his head had been blown away. Nick avoided blood and brain matter as he moved

around corpse number one.

This part would be easier as long as no onlookers showed up.

And as long as no one placed the sound of a single shot.

Nick found Jorge's gun in a side holster. Good, a right-hander. He wrapped the dead man's right hand around the gun and aimed it at the throat of the very-much-alive man propped against the door at the end of the stairwell below.

Nick used the dead man's finger to pull the trigger. The handgun's retort echoed through the night, and its bullet blew a hole right through the hollow of Mike's throat. Nick's accuracy with any kind of handgun was so consistent, he was

certain the spinal cord had been severed with that one shot.

Unfortunately, since the gun hadn't had a silencer, that shot would likely draw some attention.

Nick jogged down the steps to Mike's body. The bastard's eyes were now open and glassy. A surprised expression was