by Elle Kennedy
• • •
They listened to the tape twice, and each time the final click echoed in the air, D’s muscles tensed with anticipation. He hadn’t appreciated Noelle’s sharp command to get his ass back to the suite, but after hearing this recording, he was grudgingly grateful she’d called him in.
“This is going down tonight?” Liam asked.
Noelle shrugged. “That’s what it sounds like.”
“I don’t like this,” Trevor said uneasily. “We can’t go in blind.”
D stood in front of the open sliding door and lit up a cigarette, working over the details in his head.
“Play the recording again, Blondie.” He glanced at Isabel, who was sitting on the couch with her computer in her lap.
With a nod, she tapped a few keys, and Meiro’s deep voice emerged from the speakers once more.
“Are we all set?” Meiro barked.
“Yes. The package is arriving at midnight.” The other voice, with its pronounced French accent, belonged to Claude Roussel, who didn’t sound happy. “Your presence would allow for a more smooth exchange, sir.”
“I told you, I cannot leave the Palace. I’m hosting a high-rollers tournament tonight and it will be suspicious if I don’t attend. You’ve dealt with Barka on your own before, Claude. It’s a simple exchange, nothing to fret about.”
“And what do you want me to do with our unexpected surprise?”
“Bring him to the cellar at Serena’s. I’ll pay him a visit when my business at the casino concludes.” Meiro’s voice took on an ironic note. “A year’s worth of hunting and our prey ends up being delivered right to our door.”
“Such is life,” the henchman said drily.
“What of the woman? Any developments?”
“No sign of her. It’s rumored they went their separate ways in Munich.”
Every head in the room turned in Noelle’s direction, just like the other two times the recording had been played.
“Well, tell our people to keep looking. For now, we’ll deal with her lover. Also, remind Henri to send his workers away when the cargo is being unloaded. We can’t have a repeat incident of last time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And keep me apprised of any new developments.”
Click.
A crackle of static, then silence.
D took another deep drag of his smoke. Noelle’s woman had done some digging and discovered that a man by the name of Henri Chastain worked as the night supervisor down at the docks. Odds were good that Chastain was the same Henri mentioned in the recording. Rumor had it that Chastain was the most accommodating man in the city—all it took was a little bribe and he turned a blind eye to any shady enterprises that went down.
Liam spoke up. “So we’re assuming Meiro’s delivery is arriving by boat.”
Everyone nodded in agreement. They were all present except for Ethan and Juliet, who were keeping an eye on Meiro’s mansion and the Crystal Palace, respectively. D was happy about the absence of those particular two—he was tired of hearing them bicker. Ethan needed to get over it already and fuck that woman.
“Do we think Morgan is the package?” Sullivan looked troubled as he ran a hand over the thick blond stubble on his square jaw.
“We have to assume he is,” Trevor replied. “We can’t afford not to check this out.”
Noelle shook her head. “No.”
Every pair of eyes landed on her again.
“What the fuck do you mean, no?” Trevor demanded. “If Morgan’s on that boat—”
“He won’t be on it for long,” she finished. “He’ll be delivered to Serena’s cellar, remember?”
Sullivan spoke again. “And who in bloody hell is Serena?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Noelle said. She turned to Isabel. “Call Reilly. Tell him to start making inquiries. Paige is looking into it as well.”
D’s gaze followed the blonde’s every movement. She was pacing now, not from nervousness but in that brisk, efficient way she did when she was formulating a plan. He’d spent enough time with her to know how her head worked, and although Trevor and the other men looked pissed that Noelle was calling the shots, D had no doubt that every decision she made would be the right one.
So much trust in one little woman . . .
He ignored the mocking voice in his head. Screw trust. He didn’t trust the bitch, not in the slightest. Yes, he was confident she wouldn’t betray them, at least not in this, but that didn’t mean he was stupid enough to trust her. Especially with his life.
But Morgan’s life?
The woman could protest until she was blue in the face, but D knew she wouldn’t rest until she found Morgan.
Dead or alive.
“I know that port,” Noelle said confidently. “Security is a fucking bitch, and it’s damn near impossible to breach the docks unseen. If we try to intercept the package there, we’re looking at chaos and casualties. I prefer the quieter approach. Let Henri and Meiro’s men throw Jim in the back of a van and cart him off to a secondary location—where we’ll be waiting.”
Trevor’s tone was markedly reluctant. “That does make sense.”
“Of course it does. All right, so here’s where we’re at. Isabel, I want you to contact Reilly and then head back to the Palace. Valerie’s absence will be noted if you’re gone for much longer.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Isabel closed her laptop and stood up.
D noticed that she barely glanced at Trevor as she grabbed her cell phone and disappeared into the bedroom. In the back of his mind, he wondered if there was trouble in paradise, but he didn’t spend much time entertaining the thought. He had zero interest in other people’s love lives.
“It’s too late to call your man Luke in, but how do you feel about using Reilly?” Noelle asked Trevor.
D could see Trevor working over the idea in his head, just as he was. D wasn’t sure how much he trusted the Irishman, but there was no denying the man moved like a soldier. Probably wouldn’t require much direction if he helped them out tonight.
Trevor must have reached the same conclusion, because he nodded. “I’m fine with it. We could use the manpower.”
“Good. You, D, Macgregor, and the kid will be in charge of Serena’s cellar, wherever the fuck that is.” The blonde glanced at Sullivan. “You and Reilly watch the docks. Once the package is on the move, follow it.”
Sullivan shot Trevor a quick look, frowning when their team leader nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” the Aussie muttered.
Across the room, Liam checked his watch and cursed. “It’s nearly ten. How are we supposed to come up with a workable plan if we don’t even know where we’re going?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Noelle said curtly. “If Paige and Reilly don’t have anything solid for us about Serena by then, we focus our attentions on the docks.”
She concluded the meeting by turning her back on everyone and marching to the terrace. Her arm brushed D’s as she strolled outside, but neither of them reacted to the physical contact. After the rest of the group dispersed, D stepped onto the terrace and shut the door behind him.
“When was the last time you were in Munich?”
Noelle shook her head in aggravation. “Whoever Meiro was referring to, it’s not me. I haven’t been to Munich in years. Neither has Jim, as far as I know.”
“You’re lying.”
“For fuck’s sake—”
“Not about Munich,” he cut in. “About you and Morgan not having any common enemies.”
She arched a brow. “Says who?”
He advanced on the woman by the railing. “Do you know who I used to work for before I joined Morgan’s crew?”
“What do you think?”
“Yeah, I figured.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you’ve kept your mouth shut about it.”
“How are you so sure I’ve kept silent?” she taunted.
“Because if you’d told anyone about me, I’d be dead.” He shrugged. “Whateve
r. I don’t care what you know, so long as you understand what my past association symbolizes.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
“Connections, baby. I still have a lot of those, and I made good use of them after you showed up at our compound last year when Sinclair went missing.”
Noelle’s blue eyes revealed nothing. “How much do you know?”
“Enough. Wanna fill in the blanks?”
“Not particularly, no.” She plucked the cigarette right out of his hand and wrapped her lips around the filter, taking a deep pull. “Look, my past with Jim has nothing to do with his disappearance or the attack on your compound.”
“You’d stake your life on it?”
Before she could respond, the sliding door opened and Isabel appeared.
“Sean wins this round,” she announced. “He came up with the information faster than Paige.”
“Serena?” D asked.
Isabel nodded. “She’s the madam at the Sapphire Room, a gentlemen’s lounge here in the city. Meiro owns it.”
“Whorehouse,” Noelle said with a nod of her own. “I remember the madam there being named Veronica.”
“I won’t even ask how you know that,” Isabel replied. “Anyway, Sean’s coming by with more details. I’m heading back to the Palace, unless you need me to stick around?”
“No, maintain your cover. We might need Valerie again before this is all over.”
Once Isabel was gone, Noelle smirked at D. “Looks like you get to visit a brothel tonight, stud.”
He reclaimed his cigarette from her lethal hand and brought it to his lips. “Jealous?”
She laughed. “We both know I could fuck you better than any whore ever could.” Her expression became surprisingly impish. “And I’m disease-free.”
Now D was the one laughing. “Even knowing that, I’d still feel a hell of a lot safer with the whore.”
• • •
The Sapphire Room was the corner house in a row of elegant brownstones on the east end of the city. There were no driveways, but a narrow passageway ran alongside the building, leading to a line of private detached garages behind each house. Trevor was situated in the rear, inside a large tin shed in the corner of the alley. The shed smelled like manure and contained nothing but broken gardening tools, which was probably why it had been left unlocked, with its doors wide open. Trevor had usurped the space and was now standing in the shadows as he covered the house.
Ethan had taken to higher ground—the roof of an apartment building behind the brownstone strip, giving him a bird’s-eye view of the Sapphire Room. Trevor would have preferred Luke’s sniping abilities, but Ethan was a damn good shot too.
D and Liam were stationed at the front of the house. From the dozens of expensive vehicles parked on the street, many of which contained a bored driver waiting for the owner to reappear, it was evident that this was a high-traffic area. No doubt this nineteenth-century town house received the most visitors.
“Okeydokey, mateys, we’ve got some movement.” Sullivan’s voice echoed in Trevor’s earpiece. Sullivan was at the docks with Sean Reilly to monitor the arrival of Meiro’s delivery, but the Australian hadn’t had much to report in the last hour.
“What’s doing?” Trevor murmured.
“Cargo vessel just moored at the dock.”
He checked his watch. A couple minutes past midnight. The bastards were prompt.
“Are we certain it’s the one Meiro’s expecting?”
“No doubt. Roussel’s here.”
“You sure it’s him?” D’s sharp inquiry hissed over the line.
“Affirmative. I’d recognize that Frenchie anywhere.”
Trevor bit back a laugh. “Reilly, you copy?”
“At your service, good sir.” If voices could display facial expressions, the Irishman’s would be smirking. “I’m seeing me a van. White, unmarked, no windows—Ollie and I call ’em rapist vans.”
“Contents of the rapist van?” Trevor prompted.
“No clue. Driver parked at the gate, Chastain came out to unlock it and waved the van through. Van parked, driver got out to light a fag. He’s on his fifth. Looks bloody bored. There’s a passenger, but he’s staying put.”
Trevor caught a flash of movement in one of the upstairs windows of the brownstone. A light flicked on, a voluptuous silhouette appearing in the gauzy curtains before moving out of view.
“Sweet mother-of-pearl,” Sullivan mumbled.
Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
“Women. Six of them, with black hoods over their heads. They’re being taken to the truck. Knocking on your front door, Irish.”
“Got ’em. Yeah, I count six.”
“One more party guest being carried off the boat.” Sullivan suddenly cursed. “Male, tall, black sweater and pants, black hood. Hands bound behind his back. Wait. Right leg seems to be broken—the thing is at a scary angle, dragging on the ground. Must hurt like a bitch, but dude’s not making a sound.”
Shit. That sounded just like Morgan’s tough-guy style. He never revealed a sliver of emotion, even if he was in excruciating pain.
“Can’t see his face,” Sullivan added, “but he’s big.”
“Morgan-big?” Trevor said sharply, picturing their boss’s six-foot-plus frame and bulky physique.
“Affirmative. Could be him.”
Reilly spoke up. “Passenger out of the rapist van, walking around to open the back doors. Roussel and one goon are marching the captives to the van. Aussie, get over here. We might need to move fast.”
“Be there in a jiffy, Irish.” Sarcasm rippled over the radio feed.
“The ladies and gentleman are in the van, driver and passenger returning to their respective seats. Roussel’s goon is getting behind the wheel of the town car. Roussel’s talking to Chastain.”
Trevor listened to the reports rattling in his ear. His muscles tensed when Reilly announced that the van had driven out the gate. The town car with a goon at the wheel and Roussel in the passenger seat followed the van, sticking close.
“Don’t lose the van,” Trevor ordered in a low voice. “If Morgan’s in there . . .”
“I know, I know,” Reilly said. “The mighty Jim Morgan must be rescued.”
Sullivan came back on. “We’re on it, Trev. Solid visual on the rapist van, and it’ll stay that way provided Irish doesn’t screw up.”
The duo went quiet, but Trevor imagined there was some good-natured bantering happening in that taxi; Noelle had somehow procured a taxicab for the men to use, a vehicle that wouldn’t look out of place near the docks or traveling through the city streets so late at night, should Roussel make the tail.
As much as Trevor hated admitting it, Noelle’s instincts were spot-on. He still had no clue what her role in this was, though. She disappeared for hours at a time, which hinted she was conducting her own surveillance, but the woman had yet to divulge her activities to the rest of the team.
It took twenty minutes before the next report came in. Trevor stood quietly in the shadows, a ski mask covering his face and weapons strapped to his body, his trusty SIG in hand as he watched the back of the Sapphire Room.
The house was surprisingly quiet. The brothels he’d visited in the past under his Julian Martin alias had been noisy, with high-pitched giggles and male laughter and faint sounds of sex wafting from the establishment. But he supposed a brothel in such a high-class city would be high class itself. Aside from the various lights that switched on and off, and the occasional female bodies that appeared in the windows to close the heavy drapes, you’d never know the house was full of prostitutes and men who were paying to fuck them.
“You’re gonna have company soon,” Sullivan said. “ETA four minutes.”
Maintaining his position, Trevor checked in with the others. “D, Boston, you good?”
D and Liam responded in the affirmative.
“Rookie?”
“All good. Say the word and I’ll put my rifl
e to good use.”
It wasn’t long before Trevor’s blood coursed with the two A’s—anticipation and adrenaline. At times like this, he missed the army. It had always been a rush, carrying out a hazardous op, knowing every decision he made meant the difference between life and death.
“Incoming,” Sullivan reported. “We’re falling back.”
A moment later, Liam checked in. “Visual on the rapist van. Just turned onto the street.”
Trevor took a slow, even breath. The distant sound of an engine echoed in the night.
“Van’s pulling into the alley,” D said.
A moment later, there was a gleam of headlights as the white van approached the paved strip behind the brownstone row.
“Boston, you’re with me,” Trevor murmured. “Passenger and driver. Sully, Reilly, town car. D, party guests. Rookie, stand by.”
He received a chorus of “Yes, sirs” in response.
Trevor stayed in the shadows. He was ready to strike, but couldn’t make a move until Sullivan and Reilly were in place.
The van’s engine rumbled as the driver turned around in the wide alleyway and backed up in front of the first garage in the row. A shiny black town car pulled in seconds later; it drove past the van, executed a turn, and stopped near the van, its front bumper aimed toward the street. Smart. Roussel’s man had positioned the car in a way that ensured the fastest possible getaway.
“Good to go,” Liam said softly.
“Ditto,” D muttered.
“Hold off,” Trevor ordered.
They waited. The driver of the van killed the engine. The driver of the town car let the engine idle.
“In position,” Sullivan reported.
Trevor raised his weapon. “Go.”
They sprang to action, swarming their designated targets like a pack of wolves working in tandem to trap their prey. The ski masks they wore shielded their faces from the cameras affixed over the garage, and Trevor basked in his anonymity as he burst out of the shed and advanced on the driver’s side of the van.
He reached it just as the driver opened the door.
“Ne vous déplacez pas,” Trevor snapped. Don’t move.