“You’re not from their world, are you, Adam?” she asked him, a picture forming in her head. “Let me guess. You come from a wealthy family, apartment on the Upper East Side, summers in the Hamptons, that sort of thing. Then the drugs took control. Maybe your parents cut you off, or maybe you slid so far out of their reach they couldn’t help. And you ended up getting in deep to a dealer. In Trenton.” The rapid rise and fall of his chest told her she was on the right path. “You wouldn’t have come up with the idea of Sweet Dreams on your own, your brain didn’t think like that, not then. But you’d happily sell out someone to save your skin, to get another fix.” She paused, then asked. “Who was it? A friend from school? Someone you knew from childhood? Your sister maybe?” The words made her sick, but when he jerked back at the mention of his sister, one she hadn’t even known he had, her stomach revolted.
“You traded your sister to your dealer,” James said, stepping in, giving her time to breathe through the nausea.
“Jacked her up on Mollys and had a whole lot of fun for a day or two,” Malcom said. Daphne couldn’t help but grab hold of James’s shirt, the horror of it rocking through her body.
“Her life for yours, Gareth,” Marcus said. Gareth, visibly sucking in short, rapid breaths, fixed his eyes on a point behind them.
“And thus Sweet Dreams was born,” James said. “Gareth procuring the girls, you three procuring the clients. Then over the years, you realized that the real money lay the other way around. Clients from Gareth’s world and victims from ours, from our world of Black and brown and marginalized. People to be tamed, conquered, subjugated.
“But you couldn’t take too many from our own neighborhood. No one would blink an eye at you pimping out girls to the John Doe down the block. But taking their girls out to service folks from his world.” James nodded to Gareth. “That wouldn’t fly for long.”
“So you moved here and expanded the net you cast for your victims,” Marcus said. “Atlanta, New York, Charlotte. You aren’t part of a bigger ring, you’re your own ecosystem.”
“No need to complicate things when you can deal with it yourself,” Chanel said.
They had their answers now, and as silence fell, Daphne realized she hadn’t listened when the team had relayed the next step in the plan. So focused on being with James, she hadn’t caught what happened once they had the information they needed.
“It’s over now,” James said.
“You may have a safe room you think you can dip into, but that won’t protect you forever,” Marcus said.
“The FBI is crawling all over the place. There’s a team waiting outside that door for me to give them the signal,” James said, nodding to the door behind him.
“The decision’s yours,” Marcus said. “What do you want to do? Walk away and live, or do something stupid and risk it all?”
“There’s not much to risk at this point, is there? But I’ll finish the job I set out to do,” Malcom said, swinging his weapon toward James.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Knowing his brother had him covered, at the first twitch of Malcom’s arm, Lovell spun, wrapped his arms around Daphne, and pulled her to the ground. A cacophony of shots rang out; the door burst open; footsteps, oddly muted by the plush carpet, pounded on the floor.
Through it all, he kept his head down and his body surrounding Daphne. He wouldn’t let the fear take hold of him now, but he could feel it pressing in on him, clawing away at the thin barricade he’d erected to keep it at bay. It didn’t help that it wasn’t a solo emotion. It warred with anger, twisting together, pulling apart, then melding together once more. The whole mess of it capable of taking him down, of taking him over the edge, if he showed the slightest weakness.
He wouldn’t, though, not now. Not with Daphne’s life still in danger. Not when he needed to protect her. But later, later, he’d unleash it all. She needed to know she couldn’t take such risks, and she definitely couldn’t take them for him. He needed her safe, he needed her to laugh and smile and hug her sister and hold her niece or nephew when they arrived. He needed her in this world, and he’d kill or die to ensure that happened.
The smell of gunfire permeated his nostrils, acrid and hot. A groan sounded from somewhere to his left. The familiar and deafening, heavy silence that came after a gunfight registered as a hand landed on his shoulder. He bunched his muscles, ready to fight.
“It’s me.” His brother. Superman. “All clear,” he said before moving away. Giving Lovell space to move, both physically and emotionally.
Lifting himself slowly off Daphne, he cataloged his body. A little soreness in his knee from where it hit the carpet, tension in his neck from curling around her, but other than that, no serious injuries. Which meant Daphne should be unharmed as well. He needed to make sure, though.
“Stay there,” he said. She turned her head, her eyes meeting his, but did as asked. In fifteen seconds, he scanned her body. No nicks, no blood. “You hurt?” he asked, to be sure.
Her eyes searched his. “No, I’m good.”
He clenched his jaw to keep from shouting at her. He wanted to, he really, really did. Wanted to demand, to know, why she’d done what she’d done. Wanted to point out all the things that could have gone wrong. Then he wanted to turn his anger on Charnette and Hershorn, who’d entered the room, for letting her in.
Nobody had ever riled him up in the way she could. And he didn’t like the feeling. Didn’t like feeling so out of control.
A hand appeared in his line of sight. He glanced up; Superman again. His brother said nothing, but his eyes told him to rein it in. He needed to bank whatever storm brewed inside him. For now.
Taking S-Man’s hand, he pulled himself up, then reached down for Daphne. Her slim fingers slipped into his, a slicing reminder of how delicate she was. She came to her feet easily, her eyes never leaving his. Unable, unwilling, to say anything inthe moment, his gaze swept her face before he turned around to face the carnage.
Feeling as if he’d been outgunned, outnumbered, and outsmarted, and that he’d barely survived an ambush, he braced himself. Only the scene wasn’t as bad as he expected, given the number of shots fired and his level of anxiety.
Focusing on the tangible, his eyes skimmed the room. Gareth stood alive and well, hands cuffed behind his back. Both Ken and Malcom had their hands cuffed and were receiving care for bullet wounds they each sported in their shooting shoulders.
Only one person could have shot with that level of precision.
