Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (19 page)

He’s beautiful—I’ve never known any man like him.

His cell on the bedside table rings, startling me. He sets his hands on the floor, brings his legs down and is swiftly on his feet.

When he notices I’m awake, he touches my leg with a “Hey” as he grabs the phone.

“Axton.” He listens then says, “One fourteen” before ending the call.

My eyes search him quizzically—that’s our room number.

“My partner is coming up,” he tells me. “I think we need the numbers, and Miguel won’t know him.”

“Okay.” I nod. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

Before anything emotional can transpire, I wrap myself into the sheet and rush to the bathroom, but the door won’t close because of the bar. Ryder glances up sympathetically and has his equipment dismantled in a less than a minute.

“It’s going to be okay, Rachel,” he assures me with a tender thumb over my cheekbone.

I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. He kisses my forehead slowly, longingly, and I sink into the sensation until I think I’ll burst. Then I step back so I can close the door.

Stepping into the water, I can hear only the low murmur of voices in the other room. Through the haze in my mind, I visualize several emotional choices. Ironic, right? Usually you feel an emotion and go with it. I could easily fold my body under the hot, running water, curl on the tile and become a basket case, sobbing. Actually, that’d be real fricking easy.

I could move forward, frightened as a mouse, shaking and unsure of my every move.

Then I realize I can choose power.

Choose power.

My little sister is being held by a monster and I’m her only hope of survival.

It doesn’t matter what this partner of Ryder’s, or even Ryder himself, says or thinks. What matters is simple—I need to save my sister, no matter what the cost.

I press my lips into a line, and my brow creases—I feel angry.

Anger is good—so much more useful than despair or fear.

Washing quickly, I finish up and see a bag of clothes Ryder must have set inside the door once I got in.

Listening to their voices as they talk in hushed tones about the situation at hand, I shimmy on the jeans and pull myself through the red t-shirt. At the bottom of the bag is the purple eye mask Ryder showed me earlier, with gold fringe hanging down to cover the cheekbones. It’s a very beautiful, very simple mask. I lift it with a delicate hand from the bag.

When I come back into the main room, I take stock—we’ve grown in numbers. There are four men and one woman in total, besides myself.

“Rachel.” Ryder strides over and takes me by the hand.

“This is Briggs, my partner.”

“Ms. Farrington.” He stretches his hand to meet mine. He has a deeply ingrained military stance about him. His light brown hair is trimmed short and his blue eyes spark with intelligence.

“Rachel, please. It’ll be easier for me.”

“Of course, Rachel.”

“These are Briggs’s brother and sister-in-law, Bryan and Patti Briggs. They’re both retired Special Forces and have accompanied us on many highly sensitive operations,” Ryder explains.

“Thank you for coming.” I shake their hands too.

“You may have heard us discussing the FBI’s frenzy to relocate you—” Ryder begins.

Briggs interrupts, “They’ve marked you as a possible suspect.”

“Yes, but more likely, that’s for show—they don’t want to admit to having
lost
the key witness in their protection,” Ryder says, hijacking the conversation once again. “Since there was no sign of a struggle, they need some story to save face.”

“I understand how it could look bad,” I agree, “but they should have screened their household staff better.”

“The other possibility is that one of the agents themselves was corrupt and gave housekeeping access to you,” Bryan states.

“I don’t care what they think, anyway. All I care about is my sister,” I say truthfully. “What is our plan?”

Ryder goes to the table and sets up a mock diagram with cups, coffee packets and the remote control.

“This is the streetcar.” He indicates the remote. “Bryan will hop on it at Tulane Street, which is nine stops before yours. He’ll access the passengers and hopefully be able to tag your sister and her guardian.”

“It won’t be easy with everyone in costume,” Briggs tells the group. “Rachel, any idiosyncrasies you can think of about your sister—does she twist her hair around her finger? Does she tap her foot when she’s nervous, bite her lip or wring her hands? Those details could be pertinent when he’s zeroing in on her.”

“She’s a real quiet kid. She has a speech difficulty and doesn’t talk a lot in front of people she doesn’t know or isn’t comfortable with. She’s seven but still talks a lot like a toddler—short three word sentences; she misses her r sounds, making them sound more like w’s, and she stutters when she’s scared.” I try to make all of this information purely factual because imagining her makes it feel too real. I
have
to separate myself from my emotions. “And she rocks when she’s nervous or uptight to self-soothe.”

“Thank you, Rachel. That’s valuable information.” Patti lays her hand on my shoulder comfortingly.

“If Bryan can create the opportunity to separate her from her captor, he’ll do that and get her off the streetcar safely.”

“Isn’t that too high of a risk?” I ask.

“Getting Lemy safe before you’re even involved is the optimal outcome. That’s our objective,” Ryder says. “We could get the two of you out of there without harm.”

“If you can’t?”

Ryder doesn’t like my question.

“Then you’ll know,” Patti says. “We’ll give you the signal to board the streetcar.”

“We’ll all have communication devices, except for you.” Briggs opens the black electronics case. “Ryder will stay next to you—masked so he’s not recognized by any of Miguel’s men.”

“I’ll board the streetcar right behind you. You’ll never be alone,” Ryder reassures me. “And Patti will be at the exit door to secure Lemy.”

“And any asshole who tries to make that difficult will have two thousand volts of electricity to contend with.” She flashes her taser.

“Patti is also a woman’s Golden Gloves champion,” Bryan says proudly. “She’s very adept at hand-to-hand. She’s kicked my ass a few times.”

My eyes shift to Ryder’s and his to mine.

Dear God, I hope this works.

Chapter Thirteen

Ryder

We stand with a myriad of revelers—in the middle of a sweeping celebration of color and pageantry—but we’re on an island of trouble all our own.

Farrington is in the simple clothing I got for her—a red t-shirt so we could detect her in the crowd and a purple mask so she wouldn’t be recognizable to law enforcement.

I hate that she’s here, but I can’t think—I can’t feel—not now. Especially not now.

We’ve almost reached the streetcar stop on Toulouse.

“Rachel, you’re going to have to go from here. But I won’t be more than four paces away from you at any time.”

Her lips purse and she turns to walk away, but I pull her back to me.

“I’d kiss you if it wasn’t so fucking risky.” My fist squeezes urgently around her arm. “I need you to understand. I’ll protect you to my death. Do you understand?”

What more can I say? What more can I do?
I need her to get it, get me.

I watch the rise and fall of her chest beneath the red fabric. “I’ve never told anyone except for my mom and dad and Lemy that I loved them.” She nods and tenses. “I’d never felt it before. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few minutes . . . or hours—but I think it’s safe to say tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for me.”

“Rachel—”

She sets three soft fingers to my lips. “Shhh.” I can see her eyes close behind the mask. “You gave me a beautiful gift. Love. Love like I have never experienced before. You make me high, Ryder. You make me feel secure and strong, and weak and soft, and happy and pissed off, all at the same confusing time. And I absolutely love the way you make me feel.”

I watch her eyes open as she peers into my soul. “I love you Ryder.”

Before I can respond, she whips around and stalks into the crowd towards the streetcar stop.

“Your heart still beating?” Briggs voice squawks through the ear comm.

“Barely,” I confess, my senses filled with her every word and motion.

“Get your head in the game, Ax. I’ve scouted this streetcar for the last twenty minutes and haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary except for three Grecian goddesses, a couple of dudes in rainbow glitter bikinis and Elvis,” Bryan says.

“Height differences?” Patti asks.

“There are several children on board,” he informs her. “I’ve tried pinpointing one traveling with a single adult but keep coming up empty.”

“Maybe they’re not on yet?”

“It’s possible they’ll board at the designated stop together,” Briggs says, thinking out loud. “Any kids, Ryder?”

“No, almost everyone at this stop either has a bottle of booze or a cigarette in their fingers,” I say, reminded how good some nicotine would feel right now in my lungs. “Hey, check for a child with two men—or even a very unhappy kid with a set of parents—Miguel could have easily tried to put Lemy into the most inconspicuous situation so as not to be recognized.”

“It’s possible she isn’t even on the streetcar, Ryder, you know that.”

“Miguel has no need for the girl,” Patti states, and I’m grateful.

“We just stopped at Camp Street. Give me a minute.” I know Bryan is doing mental inventory—who’s been on, who’s getting off and who’s boarding now.

Toulouse is only four stops away. We
have
to get that visual.

Farrington turns her head to spy me, mixed in with the mass of people. Once her eyes settle on me for just a fraction of a second, she keeps looking around casually.

Good girl.
She doesn’t give me away.

More tense minutes pass with nothing discovered.

“Canal out of the way—only one more stop before Toulouse,” Bryan announces.

“Hey, handsome. Got a light?” A woman dressed in a sexy Alice in Wonderland costume waves her Marlboro Light at me.

“No, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Honey, how old do you think I am?” she drawls with a thick accent.

“Excuse me.” I quickly detach myself from the situation so she can’t distract me or make a scene.

“Oh, Ryder, you’re so attractive.” Briggs feigns a female voice—it’s hysterical, considering how low and deep his normal tone is.

“Fortunate you’re not on life support, ’cause I’d be all for pulling the plug,” I quip and watch as a parade of people walk past Farrington, draping her with colorful Mardi Gras beads as they do. She tries to step away from them, but she’s hemmed in.

“There’s no suspicious activity that I can detect,” Briggs tells us. He’s a couple blocks over, sitting in the parking lot of the French Quarter Visitor Center on the corner of Decatur and St. Peter, which runs parallel with the streetcar tracks. We rented a black Camaro, and he’s keeping watch from it, just in case we need a vehicle.

Farrington slips away from the bead givers and checks her position next to the bench. She’s nervous; her leg bounces up and down in frustration, and every couple seconds she runs her hands over the tops of her leg.

“We’re at Bienville. Fuck a duck—it smells like something just died in here,” Bryan yelps. “Holy hell!”

“Can’t be worse than your midnight under the covers flatulence sessions,” Patti says, setting the record straight.

“This is so bad you can’t breathe. Passengers are commenting about getting off before their stops,” he explains. “The driver looks perturbed and I need a gas mask.”

“Toulouse Street”—I glance at my watch for the timed juncture—“is in four minutes. Suck it up.”

“Yeah, Christ, it’s like someone dumped a pile of manure.”

“Like they wanted the streetcar cleared as much as possible?” Briggs suggests.

“Just like a distraction,” Bryan confirms.

“Who remained and who’s getting on now?” I feel the fuel of marked anticipation. It’s all about to go down and my senses experience the familiar buzz.

“There’s a new set of parents with a child dressed like . . . I’m not sure—she has a full face mask and hood with a full length blue gown and her hands are in a . . . I don’t know what it’s called, but I’ve seen it once before in a Russian movie.”

“You mean like Dr. Zhivago?” Briggs tries.

“Yeah, that porn flick,” Bryan declares easily.

“You’re an idiot,” Patti quips. “Do you put a hand in each end?”

“Yeah, and it looks like it’s made of white rabbit fur.”

“It’s a muff,” his wife says matter-of-factly.

“A
what
?” Her husband’s voice raises a notch.

“A
muff
??” Briggs squawks. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

“You boys are a bag of limp dicks.” I toss out the insult. “It’s a hand warmer. Get some class.”

“Why the hell would anyone want a hand warmer in the middle of August—it’s almost a hundred degrees out here,” observes Patti.

“It could hide duct tape or handcuffs.” I lock onto a premonition. “What are the parents wearing?”

“Plain clothes with full facial masks of Donald Duck.”

“Donna fucks?”

“Good one.”

“Three minutes!” I bark.

“Just trying to relieve the tension,” Briggs says apologetically. Yeah, this
is
how we do that, and I’m almost grateful he’s keeping things unemotional, but enough is enough.

“Can you engage?” I ask Bryan.

He says, “I’ve already gotten closer. In total, there are roughly forty passengers.”

“Two minutes,” I count down.

“Child’s head is down, and none of them look like they’re at a party. They’re not talking to each other either—parents are staring straight ahead.”

We can see the streetcar now; it heads towards us as we’re standing on the Toulouse Station platform.

Patti throws me a look from her position about twenty-five yards from me. She’ll wait to move until the back exit doors open. I nod.

Farrington doesn’t turn back, and she doesn’t hesitate; she takes off her mask so she can be easily recognized now and then boldly and defiantly steps up closer to the oncoming streetcar.

“Bryan?”

“They’re the only new family. Plus, after they got on is when the stink started and they didn’t get right back off.”

“Twenty seconds.” The comfortable press of my Glock nestled in its holster against my back is reassuring.

“The parents just separated—mom towards the back with the kid and dad towards the front,” Bryan tells us. “They look ready to get off, but they’re behind eleven other passengers.”

The streetcar slows then comes to a complete stop before the two doors in the front and back open simultaneously.

A couple people shove in front of Farrington and she quickly pushes back.

“I like a woman who plays rough.” A guy who is near naked, his body spray painted to look like Iron Man, snakes a hand around her shoulder. I’m ready to come at the son-of-a-bitch with both fists loaded.

She immediately draws her knee up into his well exposed groin. As he reaches his hands to his jewels, Farrington body checks him to the ground and quickly goes up the streetcar’s steps.

Everyone in line laughs, and I inch—agonizingly slowly—closer. I’m exactly six people behind her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” I listen as Patti jostles hard into the woman dressed as Donald Duck.

Hurry up!
I groan inwardly. If we don’t make Lemy, I can’t follow Rachel onto the streetcar. I promised her that.

I watch the other families that exit through the door—most have several children or one child playing happily, and none are masked so that they’re unrecognizable. And none look like they could be Lemy.

The next three things happen in rapid succession.

“I’ve got her!” Patti shouts as she exposes the face of a very fearful Lemy.

“Wheya’s Waychul?” she cries. “Mu hans hurt.”

At the sound of Lemy’s voice, I spring into action and begin pushing through the people in front of me.

“Perp is on the run,” Patti updates us.

Then two shots ring out.

Bryan makes a horrible, sickening sound. The crowd drops to the ground and people scream as I leap over them in a run towards the door.

“Fuck!” I throw myself onto the metal steps, get a grip on the handicapped bar and pull myself up.

That’s when the bottom of a black combat boot meets my chest squarely, thrusting me back through the door and off the streetcar.

As I scramble to my feet, the fucker takes down his mask—it’s Officer Douchebag from the Mansfield Police Department. Guthrie. He laughs as the door closes.

I run up as the streetcar slowly begins to move away.

Patti is talking to Lemy, trying to reassure her.

My fist closes around the streetcar’s back service ladder, and I get halfway up when I hear Bryan’s strangled voice. “They’ve taken Farrington out the other side!”

I turn my head just in time to see the polished black Escalade veer away from the streetcar and screech down St. Peter Street.

RACHEL!

“I’m on it!” Briggs assures me.

I didn’t realize I’d said anything out loud. The streetcar is picking up speed fast. I need to jump!

“Hold your fucking horses!” Briggs’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

That’s when I see the Camaro he’s driving speeding towards the side of the streetcar.

“Bryan?” Patti’s tone is stressed. He doesn’t answer.

Briggs gets up tight, so close to the streetcar I’m sure they’ll exchange paint.

“Jump, damn it!” he urges.

I balance on the roof of the lurching streetcar, watching the blacktop below me race by with sickening speed. I take three steps back, and then run forward to get maximum velocity.

For a moment I’m airborne.

“You ever pull a stunt like that again I’ll kill you myself!”
That’s Chief’s voice in my head. He’d said that the first time I jumped off a moving vehicle—when I was fourteen. I thought I was badass, but Chief just wanted to whip my ass!