HUNTER (The Corbin Brothers Book 1) (102 page)

“But if it should,” I said, “I just wanted to tell you that I really appreciate all of this. And I mean all of it. You. The case. Everything.”

I was babbling and I knew it was nerves. Tyler did, too, taking my chin in his hand and holding my head still so he could kiss me on the lips.

“Is that how everyone in the FBI starts a mission?” I asked.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Only the good ones.” He took a pistol from beneath his jacket and checked it.

“Shit,” I remarked.

“You’ve never been around guns?”

I shrugged. “You pulling that out just made everything real,” I admitted. My heart was pounding and I could feel the sweat prickle on my scalp.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said. “This is just a precaution.”

What he meant to say was that killer drug cartel members were roaming the property that we were about to trespass onto and that gun would be our only defense if everything went south. It didn’t make me feel any better leaving certain possibilities unsaid.

We cut through the yards of several neighboring homes before we approached the Paxton’s’. In the dark, it seemed even scarier. Who knew what was inside or what all had been going on? My bigger fear—the fear that kept my feet moving forward—was that my son was in danger. Simply by being in the same house as cartel and the brand of criminals the Paxton’s were shaping up to be was a danger to him.

Now, we just needed the proof.

We paused on the edge of the property, and I had to stifle a gasp. We were in thick bushes, well concealed, but the open window not a handful of yards away from us showed Mrs. Paxton feeding Trevor. She was writing in a ledger of some sort as she monitored his dinner, seeming to encourage him to finish what appeared to be chicken of some kind and other finger foods. He seemed disinterested, and, within time, Mrs. Paxton picked him up and whisked him away to another room.

“My son,” I whispered to Tyler.

“I know,” he mouthed back, then laid his finger on his lips.

Whatever last vestiges of fear I’d had left. That was the reason we were doing this. For my son. It was time for him to come home to his mother.

I held my breath again. The butler, Miles, had entered the room visible through the open window. He cleared the table and cleaned it before drawing the curtains and turning off the light.

I thought that had been what we were waiting for, but Tyler held me back, shaking his head, and keeping his finger over his lips. I soon realized why—the changing of the guard. The beefy man who had been scowling from the front porch came lumbering around the side yard, looking around.

I resisted the urge to duck down in part because of Tyler’s death grip on my wrist, holding me in place. I knew that it was far too dark and our cover too thick for the heavy to see us. I was letting my nervousness get the better of me.

When the security guard made it to the back of the house, Tyler made me look at him. He held up three fingers in the air, made sure I saw them and started counting down. When that hand made a fist, it was time to hit the rosebush. I eyed it, sizing up what I’d have to do to get under the thorny branches unscathed.

For my baby, I’d take on much more than a rosebush.

Three—two—one—closed fist and I was darting across the side yard, staying low to the ground like Tyler had told me. I dropped to the ground once I got beside the house and rolled under the rosebush. A couple of thorns snagged at my curls and I felt a hot line on my cheek, but that was the end of it. I was pressed up against the side of a house—and a window.

The window was tiny. Tyler could never have had any hope of getting through it. It looked small even for me. But he’d said that all I had to do was get photos. Maybe I wouldn’t have to get in.

I rubbed a clean spot on the grimy window and pressed my face against it, peering inside. It was dim in the basement—too dim for a decent photo. I worked at the window a little bit, working and working until it begrudgingly gave. The Paxton’s had probably never even opened this window since the time they moved into the house.

I could reach my arm in and get the camera closer to the boxes, but I didn’t want to chance a flash. I heard low voices somewhere in the basement. The last thing we needed was to be discovered now. Not when we were so close.

My eyes darted around the basement before I cautiously put my arm through, pointing the camera at a stack of boxes. I snapped a photo and brought my arm out again, careful not to rub or catch it on anything. I had to be silent and quick.

I examined the photo I’d taken and let loose all manners of profanity in my head. I could hear Ben’s lawyer now: “Sure, you took a bunch of photos of boxes. They’re boxes owned by my client’s parents’ company. Would it be strange for them to have their own boxes there? No.”

What was strange would be the contents of the boxes. I had to get closer. I had to get this nail to put in the Paxton’s coffin. I had to prove that this home wasn’t safe so that I could get my son back.

There was a low whistle and I froze. That was the sound to retreat, that someone was coming and we needed to get the hell out of there, but I couldn’t make myself obey. Instead, I jammed my legs and hips into the open window and forced the rest of my body to follow.

I landed on my feet and lightly just in time to see a security guard walk by. He didn’t so much as notice the open window, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

The basement was silent. I’d heard voices before. I’d been sure of it. But now it sounded—and felt—like I was the only one in the space. Maybe whoever was down here had left. Or maybe they were still down here, waiting for me to make another sound.

I waited as long as I could stand and started moving, walking lightly to the stack of boxes. I had to be brave. I had to be bold. I had to be silent. I had to be quick. All of this was for my son. I would do anything for my baby, anything to be with him again.

              I pulled out the camera that I’d stuffed into my jeans pocket and turned it on, holding my breath at the soft whirring of the small machine. I took a couple of photos of the boxes close up, and the Paxton shipping logo came out perfectly. Now, for the big reveal.

I turned the camera on video mode and pressed play.

              “These are the markings of the Paxton shipping company,” I whispered for the benefit of the feed. I zoomed in on the logo on the box before opening it. “Inside, cocaine. Nail in the coffin.” I hefted one of the bricks and even tore open a little corner to capture the white powder that fell out. I ended the video and made sure it was saved before turning back to the window.

The Paxton’s were buried. All we had to do now was get the evidence to the right people. I put the camera carefully in my pocket.

I looked up at the rectangular window too close to the ceiling and had my first misgiving. How had I fit through that to begin with? How was I going to get out again?

I looked around at the boxes of cocaine, wondering if they’d hold my weight. There was only one way to find out—and only one chance I’d get at it.

Carefully, I carried one of the boxes over to the window, putting one foot on it and leaning my weight a little. The cocaine inside was like packed sand—firm, but with a danger of shifting. Still, it was my only ticket out of the basement. I had to try.

When I stood up on the box, several things happened at once. First, the box collapsed and I was left hanging on the windowsill. Second, a security guard who had apparently been peering in the basement window grabbed my wrist from outside. Third, Tyler appeared out of the darkness and cold cocked the security guard, grabbing me and starting to pull me through the window. Fourth, somebody seized me by my waist and hauled me bodily back in the basement.

“What did I tell you about coming back here?” Ben asked, his face way too close to mine. “I told you I’d kill you, didn’t I?”

I went wild, scratching and clawing and slapping and pulling and stabbing and punching with my fingers and fists, trying to get him off me, trying to get back to the window and to safety, to Tyler. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was supposed to be easy, in and out, just like Tyler had said.

When Ben backhanded me and my vision grayed, I realized that things weren’t going to plan. Things were going to shit.

“What are you doing here?” Ben asked almost sweetly. “Answer me, Shimmy.”

“What you’re doing is illegal,” I said, my voice quavering. “This isn’t the life I want for my son. Give me my son and I’ll go.”

Ben shook his head. “That isn’t how this works,” he said. “You’re not in any place to make demands. I’ll be telling you what to do now.”

There was a commotion on the stairs behind us and we both turned to look. A security guard was shoving Tyler in front of him, and Tyler was bleeding heavily from his nose. It looked gory, but not too terribly serious. Just a gusher.

“Oh,” Ben said, looking at me with newfound respect. “You brought a friend to play.”

Tyler looked at me and seemed to sag in relief. He looked more frightened then injured, and I could actually imagine him running for the front door to demand to be led to the basement. Now that he had ascertained that I was all right, it was back to his usual arrogant, surly self. He spit some of the blood that was running into his mouth on the concrete floor.

              “Charming,” Ben said, his dead eyes glittering.

“You know you can’t let them live, Paxton.”

The voice came out of the darkness, but it was silky and dangerous. I knew the man who stepped out of the shadows was cartel without ever knowing his face. He swaggered with power, sure that his every step was protected.

“We’ll see, Ramirez,” Ben said. “They could have some entertaining possibilities.” His eyes lingered on me overlong, making me feel sick.

Tyler lunged forward suddenly, going for Ben, but the security guard knocked him back.

Ben laughed. “Easy, lover boy,” he said. “There’ll be enough to go around.”

“Kill them now,” the Ramirez urged. “Don’t leave any lose ends.”

“A little fun first,” Ben suggested, approaching me.

“Lay your hands on her and you’ll die,” Tyler promised.

“I had her when she was still a little girl from the ghetto,” Ben said, looking at Tyler and chuckling. “I haven’t had her since she became a woman. How about it? Is she any good?”

“Fuck you,” Tyler said, keeping his eyes on me. I was ready for anything. If he nodded at me, I would kick ass.

I was saved by the next commotion on the stairs.

“What in the hell are you all doing down—oh.”

Ben’s father stood at the base of the stairs, taking all of us in. I watched the idea that there was some serious shit going on down here dawn on him.

“We’ve had some intruders,” Ben said. “Enrique and I are about to get rid of them.”

“Get rid of them how?” Mr. Paxton asked dubiously.

“Get rid of them how do you think?” Ben shot back. “We’re going to kill them and dump their bodies in the river.”

“I think you’ve been spending too much time around our cartel friends,” Mr. Paxton said, eyeing the Ramirez with distaste.

“You would know,” Ben said. “You’re the one who sent me to Mexico when I was eighteen.”

“You needed a little vacation and to help us make some business connections,” Mr. Paxton said, “not to become a savage. I see what happened now. You were never the same.”

The time that Ben had disappeared and come back a different man. He’d been in Mexico, with the cartels. The idea made me gag.

“You wouldn’t believe the things I saw and took part in,” Ben said softly, and I shivered. This was the man who had been raising my child.

“Please,” I said. “All I want is Trevor. Tyler and I will go. That’s all we came for.”

“That’s not true,” Tyler said, his voice ringing out even if it was a little nasal from his bloody nose. “We were going to blackmail you.”

Who said anything about blackmail? I was confused, staring at Tyler.

“Blackmail?” Ben asked, laughing. “You? Blackmail us? We’re the Paxton’s, you ass. You don’t blackmail us.”

“We’ve been systematically gathering evidence over the past months,” Tyler said. “I have all of this evidence in a folder beneath my jacket.”

“Why?” Ben asked, squinting at him.

“Because that’s where it’s safest,” Tyler said. “With me at all times. You burned Shimmy’s apartment. I couldn’t have our evidence going up in flames.”

Mr. Paxton cut his eyes at Ben but didn’t say anything. It was becoming clear that the father didn’t have control over his son.

“Let’s see this evidence, if you really have it,” Mr. Paxton said.

I tensed. Was Tyler going to pull a gun out from beneath his jacket? I had to be ready for anything.

The fact that he actually had a folder beneath his jacket was more shocking than anything else he could’ve pulled out from under there. I hadn’t seen him get a folder or put it under his jacket. What was going on?

I had a terrible thought: Was Tyler playing me for a fool? What was all this blackmail nonsense?

I was shocked again to see that it was my folder and my evidence—the photos of my bruised arms, the note from the brick, and other pieces of information I’d gathered over these last few tense months. Added to it was intelligence that Tyler had gleaned—photos of men carrying boxes to and from the house, a photo of Ramirez, the cartel guy standing there in the basement with us, and even a few choice shots of the Paxton’s, going about their daily lives in the middle of a sophisticated drug ring.