Page 18 of Breaking Free

“Not anymore, apparently. I’m tracking him. Meet me at the north corner of the residence.”

They sprinted in that direction, scaling the stone wall yet again and dropping onto the grass on the other side just as Keiran braked, tires squealing, to a stop. In a flash, they were in the van, and the chase was on.

They turned west onto Santa Monica Blvd and quickly caught up with a white Toyota Highlander.

In the back, Axyl was on the phone with the control room. “Run these tags, Jack.”

He read him the plate number, and, a few minutes later, as they turned onto Wilshire, Axyl cursed as he banged into the side wall. Bumps and bruises weren’t the cause, however.

“It’s not an accomplice. The asshole called a damn Uber.”

“Damn,” Keiran muttered, relinquishing a little of his cool. “He’s probably got a gun to the guy’s head as we speak.”

“Track, but don’t engage. We can’t let the driver become collateral damage,” Tristan insisted. He was innocent and probably had a family, his only crime trying to make a living.

“Copy that,” his two partners agreed.

The driver was clearly an amateur with high-speed pursuits. He had some close calls, fishtailing and almost spinning out while taking corners too fast or cutting them too sharp, and nearly flipping the SUV driving over curbs.

Tristan’s jaw clenched as he watched the car weave through traffic. It was sparse this late, but people were still out and about.

When he took the on-ramp to the 405S and sped up to ninety then exited onto W. Washington Blvd, it was clear where he was going—to the docks, where his wealthy mark kept her boat.

“He’s headed for the marina,” Tristan told the others. “If he gets to clear water, we’ll lose him.”

“We need back up,” Keiran declared.

“Jack is on it,” Axyl announced, his thumbs flying over his phone. “Two of our guys are in the area and are heading this way. He’s also alerting the police of our intent to apprehend.”

All Rossi investigators had dual roles as FAAs, licensed fugitive apprehension agents. This was deliberate because under California law, an FAA had the authority to track down, apprehend, and transport wanted fugitives. Michael Arnetta, who in this case went by the alias Romeo Manolo—a fake name if Tristan had ever heard it—faced grand larceny charges in Louisiana but had skipped bond. If Rossi hadn’t picked up the bounty, as investigators only, they would have had to turn the arrest over to the police under California law. That would have resulted in more delays with too many hands in the pot, by his way of thinking. In this situation, they only had to alert the locals.

While they closed in on the target, Tristan couldn’t forget the victims who had fallen for the con artist’s charm and lies. Through their investigation, they uncovered four other victims who Arnetta had duped out of their life savings. He’d upped his game with millionaire Nicolette Barker, but, in his greed, he’d gotten sloppy, which was how they’d reeled him in.

But they needed the evidence in his suitcases—the contents of her safe—to make sure the case in California stuck and to see that he was put away for a long, long time.

With the marina ahead, the second Rossi vehicle joined the chase, intensifying the situation. Keiran, known for his exceptional driving skills, executed a series of sharp turns andstayed on the Highlander’s rear bumper. He also slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding slamming into it, when it ran out of road at the last series of docks.

Arnetta exited the car, ill-gotten gains in hand, with four men immediately after him. Tristan noted that Eric, the second man in the other Rossi car, hung back to check on the Uber driver, who was undoubtedly terrified.

He and the others pushed forward, surrounding Arnetta at the edge of the dock, leaving him a choice of going into the water or giving up. The smooth-operator con he used on his victims faltered, and his eyes filled with fear as he realized he was trapped.

“Your scams end here,” Axyl declared, his voice echoing over the water.

“And your new life as a convict begins once we transport you back to Louisiana,” Tristan advised with contempt and a good deal of satisfaction.

He didn’t mention the ten to twenty years he’d have tacked on to his sentence once he stood trial in LA County because he didn’t have to. The man knew his fate and decided he’d rather go down fighting. Leaving the suitcases, he dove into the dark, always-cold water with a loud splash.

“He just had to do it.” Keiran sighed then his gaze swept his men. “Who’s up next for scut duty?”

They all took turns doing the crappy jobs, including the boss. It was only fair.

Eric walked up just then, hands raised. “Don’t look at me or Axyl. We were the unlucky ones tagged for Teena Marie’s security detail at the Grammy’s after-party last week. She puked the entire way home, including twice all over us.”

“I’m just glad we were in her limo, not our SUV, and didn’t have to clean it up,” Axyl said, grimacing.

“Count me out.” Keiran raised his arm to reveal a jagged cut. “The stitches from scaling that 8-foot chain-link fence to escape a rabid Doberman aren’t due to come out for another three days. Since I had to get a tetanus shot, too, I’m covered for another round, at least.”

When they all looked his way, Tristan grumbled, “Fuck me. That water is freezing.” But he didn’t argue further and took off his brand-new boots—so new he was still breaking them in—and dropped his phone into one of them. He pointed at Eric. “See to these, will ya?”

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