Page 222 of Vicious Temptation

Most of them comply immediately, but one bastard bolts toward the back of the shop.

“Runner!” someone shouts.

I break from the stack and sprint after him. He barrels through a doorway marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and nearly rips it off its hinges. I follow him into a narrow hallway cluttered with tires, toolboxes, and stacks of boxed parts.

“Police!” I yell. “Stop!”

He keeps running and shoves through another door, disappearing into the warehouse beyond, where rows of shelving tower overhead, packed with engines, transmissions, and crates wrapped in plastic. The maze gives him enough cover to keep me from getting a clear line on him, so I push harder, closing the distance with every stride. He’s fast, but I’m faster.

He makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder and slams into a pallet. Stumbling from the impact, he catches himself before hitting the floor, giving me the opening I need. I close the final few feet and launch myself at him, driving my shoulder into his back. We hit the ground hard and slide across the oil-stained concrete as the impact knocks the air from both of us.

Twisting beneath me, he tries to shove a hand into his front pocket.

“Don’t fucking do it!” I trap his wrist before his fingers can disappear inside.

“Fuck!” he roars, bucking beneath me as he fights to break free.

“Stop resisting,” I bark, wrenching his arm behind his back and snapping a cuff around his wrist.

He curses and tries to throw me off, but I force his other arm into position and secure the second cuff. As I pull him to his feet, a black burner phone slips from his pocket and skids across the floor. Ryan catches up and grabs it before the suspect can kick it away.

“Looks like he was trying to warn some friends.”

“Fuck you!” the man spits. “Bitch-ass pigs. I didn’t do shit!”

“Bag it,” I tell Ryan. “Then take him up front with the others.”

Ryan nods and shoves the suspect toward the front of the shop as the man keeps hurling obscenities over his shoulder. I turn back toward the warehouse and continue the sweep, finding a door tucked between two rows of shelving that leads into a small office at the rear of the building. I clear the room, then step inside and pause beside the desk to catch my breath.

That’s when a photograph grabs my attention.

I pick it up, and my stomach drops when I see Remi staring back at me. She’s standing outside the tattoo shop, completely unaware that someone’s watching her from a distance.

Studying the background, I search for anything that might tell me when it was taken or who was behind the camera. Rafe is dead, but whoever took this may not be. The thought of someone following my girl without her knowing sends anger burning through my veins.

Then my training cuts in, reminding me what I’m holding.

If this photograph ends up in the evidence log, the detectives assigned to the case will start asking why Rafe had been tracking Remi. Her name will become part of the investigation, and eventually, someone will start looking at what happened on the highway. They may not have enough to charge her, but they’ll dig into her life, her family, and every connection they can find until they uncover something neither of us can afford to have exposed.

I stare down at her face, knowing exactly what I’m supposed to do. I should leave the photograph where I found it and make sure it gets logged with everything else recovered from the building. But I slip it into my vest. There’s no gunfire forcing my hand this time and no immediate threat to Remi’s life. I have time to think about what I’m doing, and that should be enough to stop me.

Unfortunately for me, it’s not.

I continue searching the office as though it had never been there.

Every report I’ve written, every warrant served, and every oath I’ve taken has been built on doing this job the right way. I know what removing evidence from an active investigation makes me. But when it comes to Remi, none of that seems to matter. That should bother me, but all I can think about is whether that photograph is the only trace of her we’ll find in this building.

I hope to God it is.

Fifty-Five

remi

The impact wrench rattles through the garage as I remove the last bolt holding Thiago’s driver’s-side door in place. I catch the weight of it before it can hit the floor and carry it over to a nearby stand, where the rest of the damaged panels are already lined up.

His truck took one hell of a beating. Bullet holes pepper the doors, rear panel, and bed. One round clipped a brake line, while another chewed through part of the wiring harness before lodging itself in the frame. It’s a miracle we made it back to my garage at all.

Those assholes got exactly what they deserved.