“No! Ryan! Wake up!”
“Ma’am! It’s gonna blow!”
“Ryan!” I kick out at the groping hands and scramble back to my big brother. Bigger, braver, stronger.He’s my hero.“Ryan! Wake up,” I sob. “Please!”
“Ma’am!” A different voice, gruffer and meaner, booms through the cab, his arm snaking around my hip and creating an all-new seatbelt. He’s stronger than the first guy. More determined as flames lick closer to the shattered windshield. “We’ll come back for him!” He wrenches me out in one swift move. “We’re coming back for him. I promise.”
“Ryan!” I can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except scratch and kick and search for freedom. “He’s my brother! Someone needs to get my brother! RYAN!”
2
LINCOLN CASTRO
SUCKS TO BE YOU, BABE
ONE WEEK LATER
Istalk through my home office in a shit of a mood, my phone bleating with incoming calls and my emails incessantly dinging to let me know every fucker on the planet wants to talk. That’s what happens when you run one of the most successful private investigator firms on the eastern seaboard, make a name as a skip tracer for those hard-to-get folks, and charge top dollar for every job.
I can prioritize who gets my time and which emails I open. But as I circle back to my desk with a fresh cup of coffee and sit down to check the screen, one name in particular pulls my interest.
An email subject line that readscheck your fucking messagesmakes me pause. Dread settles in the base of my gut as I snatchup my phone and swipe across to my texts, only for that dread to grow heavier when I find a dossier I never asked for.
Target: Nova Nichols.
Age: 27
Sex: Female
General description: 5’4”. Approx. 118lbs. Light brown to dark blonde hair. Hazel eyes.
I back-swipe to my home screen and set the phone down, shaking my head with a firm fuckingno. Because that text didn’t come from a regular dude searching for a woman. Not a standard HR rep requesting a background check before giving a woman a job. Not even from a judge, demanding their perp be returned for court.
That text was fromtheRichard Aster, a dangerous motherfucker who deals in drugs, money, expensive antiques, and anything else his heart desires. Which means he wants her dead, hurt, or her life turned upside down.
I’m not doing it.
I refuse.
But then my email dings again, the subject line arrowing straight to the fuckin’ point.
I caution you not to be so foolish as to ignore me. You know it won’t end well.
“Fuckkkkkk.” Sitting back, the groan of my chair echoing throughout my office, I press the heels of my palms to my eyes and scratch my head to work through the rage and dread andoverall fuckingnopecoursing through my veins. My phone trills again, Richard’s name flashing on the screen as I pull one hand away to peek.
Ignore him, and I wouldn’t put it past him to firebomb my home.
Answer, and I fuckingknowhe’ll drag me back to a place I left a long time ago.
“For fuck’s sake.” I shoot forward in my seat and swipe to answer his call. Setting it on speaker, I slump back again. “Richard. You know I’m out.”
“You’re back in,” he counters easily. Too relaxed. Too fucking confident. “You already read her profile, so you know who we’re looking for.”
“We had a deal! I finished my last assignment, and you let me go. That was the end of it.”
“Itwasthe end of it. Now it’s not. I respected our deal for a decade, Castro. But this target is important, and I know you’ve got the skills to get us across the line.”
“Richard!”
