Broken. Rebecca Zanetti
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“I think the contracts are necessary when you’re talking trust and pain.”
“Oh. I also don’t like pain. Giving or receiving it.” He pushed the pan closer to her. “However, if I eat another one of these, punch me in the nose.”
She chuckled.
He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come to the party. I can do enough investigating for both of us.” Although, as a sub, she’d be allowed in different areas than he, and she could talk to other subs.
“Oh, I’m going.” Her chin lifted. “I just wish I could wear flannel.” Her smile jolted electricity through him.
He had to stop looking at her lips. “I’d pay to see you in a flannel corset,” he murmured, meaning every word. He had no doubt she’d conducted extensive research before going to the first party, but she seemed uncertain. “Do you understand the dom/sub dynamic, these types of parties, and Captive in general?”
“Yeah, I understand how clubs like Captive work and the appeal to some folks. I’d rather take a date fishing or rafting down the river, you know?” She sipped at the coffee.
He couldn’t agree more. Peace and quiet with few people around was his idea of a good day. It was too bad he was damaged and probably going to get killed taking out his enemy. Why couldn’t he have met Dana before the explosion that had sent his life to hell? He shook his head. Even as a kid he’d known not to play the what if game. Reality was reality, and he couldn’t change it. “Let’s talk about your story. Why were you looking for the dead guy?”
Her face got that stubborn look that perversely turned him on. “Oh, no. You first. Why were you at the party in the first place, and how did you know the dead guy?”
He considered what he could tell her. “On my last mission, somewhere I can’t tell you about, my unit was hunting for a group smuggling drugs. It turned out somebody close to us was a traitor. Five out of seven of us were killed, and I’m going to find the Judas and take him down. Albert Nelson was my connection to somebody who might know where Rock is.”
“Rock.” Dana pounced on the name like a hound on a quail scent.
“Yeah. Nickname. We all had them, and it won’t help you to find him. The military has been looking for six months, and even the top intel folks can’t find the guy.” Wolfe grasped her wrist, needing to get through to her. No way would he give her Gary’s full name. “Leave him alone. No research, no calling in favors, no nothing. You will not do anything to make him aware you even exist. Promise me.”
She surprised him by asking, “What was your nickname?”
He shrugged. “Wolfe. It’s easy and it’s my name. People have always called me that.”
“Tell me more about Rock.” She tapped her fingers on the table.
“He’s a trained killer, one of the best, and I’m fairly certain he’s a sociopath who actually enjoys the killing more than the endgame.” Wolfe had spent too many restless nights trying to figure Rock out, trying to understand how he’d blinded everyone to his true nature.
She tilted her head, those intelligent green eyes studying his face. “Is Rock better than you?”
“We’re about to find out that answer to that question.” Lacking empathy or any sense of loyalty just made the bastard all the more dangerous. “Your turn.”
She visibly tried to banish emotion as she told her own story. “I was friends with Candice Folks, who worked for the Times.”
Wolfe frowned. “The journalist who disappeared?”
“Yeah, and I believe she was murdered. There was a lot of blood in her apartment, and there’s no way Candy would just disappear and not stay in touch with her elderly mother. She was a business reporter, usually covering the stock market, upstart businesses, and so on.” Dana licked whipped cream off her lip.
Wolfe’s groin tightened.
Dana went on, having no clue she was killing him. “Candy was working on a series featuring up-and-coming corporations owned by women, and according to the few notes I’ve been able to decipher, Albert Nelson was one of her sources.”
Wolfe took another drink. “You think he had dirt on one of the businesses?”
“I have no idea. Candy doesn’t usually follow dangerous stories, so this is confusing.” Dana rubbed her hands down her jeans. “I met with Albert once, and he was sketchy. I knew he had more information.” Her voice hardened. “I conducted a deep dive, discovered his affiliation with Captive, and was going to expose him unless he told me everything he knew.”
None of that sounded good. “Any chance your friend is still alive?”
Dana pressed her lips together. “I’ve been interviewed by the police detectives a couple of times, trying to give them a lead or two for Candy, but I just didn’t know anything. They shared some of the facts of the case the way they would for any friend of a missing person. The blood in her apartment was identified as belonging to her, and there was enough that the doctors said no way could somebody survive losing that much.”
“I’m sorry,” Wolfe said. Not just for the deceased journalist, but for the fact that Dana wouldn’t stop until she found out who had taken her friend, regardless of the danger.
“Me too,” Dana murmured. She patted the now closed binder on the table. “I also stopped by the newspaper where Candy worked; her assistant had already made me a copy of her notebook before handing the original over to the police. We’re old friends, too.” She flipped open copied pages that had been placed in a binder. “It’s all in code, and I haven’t been able to figure out how to break it, yet. Her assistant has no clue, either. Candy was secretive that way.”
Maybe Brigid could help when she returned. Wolfe made a mental note to give her a call. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to just go home to your parents’ house in Tennessee for a couple of weeks and let me handle this?” he asked.
Her snort was kind of cute and not a surprise.
His phone buzzed, and he looked down to read a text from Brigid. Finally. “I have a line on the guys who shot at us from the black truck.”
Chapter Seven
The house was on the outskirts of D.C., in an area of town that Wolfe had never been. Lawns were small and burned, porches sagged, and paint peeled. A drug deal went down at the far corner, and feral cats fought near an overturned garbage can across the pothole-riddled concrete.
Clouds hung low and dark as if the sun didn’t dare to enter the neighborhood.
He drove by the address Brigid had given him, peering for a good alleyway to hide his truck. “I’m not comfortable leaving my truck around here.” The tires and wheels would be gone in seconds.
Malcolm nodded from the passenger seat, sliding a clip into his gun. “We could just park at the street and make a run for the door in a shock and awe, but that’d give them time to grab weapons.” He angled his head and studied the dismal street. “Plus, how good is your intel? I’d rather not burst in on an elderly couple having a late breakfast.”
“No kidding,” Wolfe returned, still not sure about having Mal along for backup. Not that he’d invited Malcolm. The guy had seen Wolfe leaving and had jumped in the truck, somehow knowing Wolfe was going hunting. “The intel is from Brigid.”
“Then it’s good,” Mal said. “Though I’d still like to peek into the garage to see if it holds the truck you saw the other night.”
Yeah, double-checking was never a bad thing when guns were involved. He drove a mile out of the neighborhood and parked in the front of a gas station/mini mart, running inside to pay the kid behind the counter to watch his truck. Then he jogged back out as a slight rain began to fall.
Mal stood