The tape.It wasn’t actually a tape. It was just what folks called the recording. Everyone knew about the bodies pulled from riversand left in fields to rot. The stories made the news, but most never knew the horror behind the headlines.
A college student in Oregon was murdered and her horrendous fate recorded—ninety minutes of begging, sobbing, and wailing until she no longer sounded human. Her murderer never spoke, only grunted as he assaulted her.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to the case?” Kingsley said.
Cal interlaced his fingers with his palms pressed together.
“We had enough evidence for a grand jury to indict but were in a race to get to Ivan before Emory did. He was closing in on his brother and hell-bent on serving his own justice. In the end, it didn’t matter.”
Two years ago, the DA called with the news. They found Ivan Holt’s mangled body in a car at the bottom of a deep ravine. Between burns, decay, and scavenging animals, the rotten flesh clinging to his bones was unrecognizable. The medical examiner identified him through dental records and called it a day.“Justice served. You’re off the hook,”the DA had glibly told Cal, who’d boiled with rage. A quick death was hardly justice.
“Here’s what I needed to tell you, why I insisted we meet.” Kingsley stiffened and licked his lips before cautiously proceeding. “Ivan isn’t dead. He’s very much alive and leading the charge within the Velascos. Philippe wasn’t just running from an eventual coup. He was running from Ivan Holt.”
At a loss for a proper response, Cal shook his head and stared at his hands that looked folded in prayer, though he’d long ago lost his faith.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. The body recovered from that wreck wasn’t him. Ivan knew he was a hunted man. Staging an accident got both you and Emory off his back and gave him time to regroup.”
Cal heard Kingsley as if from a distance. Muddled and misty, the words sunk in on delay.
“Why?” he asked.
“A means to an end.”
“What end?”
“Emory.”
Cal’s skin crawled with the name. He never understood the hatred between the Holt brothers. They seemed more kindred than not—one a suspected murderer and the other at the helm of a brutal criminal organization.
“A blood war,” Cal said.
“Yes. The Velascos and Moriartys have stayed out of each other’s business. Sure, there’s heat here and there when territories clash or associates double dip, but this won’t be a war between them. It’ll be a proxy war between the Holt brothers.”
“Why now? Ivan could have ended it before Emory took over.”
“The fall is harder from great heights. Emory’s enjoyed his life protected at the top. Now, Ivan will usher in that fall and relish every inch of the tumble. It’s already started. The Velascos murdered Giovanni De Luca a few days ago. Emory and Jack were there when it happened.”
Cal pinched the bridge of his nose as the beginnings of a headache grew from the center of his forehead.
“Jesus Christ. Gio was the goddamn patron saint of the Moriartys.” Cal dropped his hand and stared at Kingsley. “Well, is anyone on our side gonna do something about this?”
The idiot who fired up The Moody Blues whistled along, but his face was still obscured as he swayed in front of the jukebox. The two strangers at the bar looked on, but their attention drifted to Kingsley and Cal.
“Vegas PD insists on handling it.” Kingsley stared at a water-stained ceiling tile above him and scratched at the stubble on his chin. “It’s what I hate most about this job. You get hamstrung with bureaucracy and red tape and then?—”
“Evil walks,” Cal cut in. “It lives while innocents pay for the misdeeds of monstrous men. The girl from the tape, her father came to my office, flew in all the way from New York just to plead with me. He’d buried the parts of his daughter that were foundand wanted closure through justice. I had to turn him away. There was nothing I could do.”
Cal’s chest tightened, and that lump in his throat returned, but he forced the words that came out sharp and sour.
“I never want to do that again. And I never want to be that man, to bury my daughter while a monster gets to live.”
“You won’t,” Kingsley insisted. “We will find Amelia and bring her home.”
We.The sentiment struck a chord more deep, resonant, and moving than Cal could’ve anticipated.
“So, what does this all mean? Amelia’s running, but to where?”
