Page 110 of Torched Spades
“Owen,” I mutter, waiting for the validation I know is coming.
“Those two Irish fucks who’ve been after you and Dr. Brennan…” He sounds out of breath. Like he just ran up a couple dozen flights of stairs. “Just be straight with me—are they still breathing?”
Not the greeting I expected, but at this point not much surprises me. “What do you think?”
“Right.” A door slams, and he lowers his voice. “Are you at the docks?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Stay busy, and keep your mouth shut. I’m shutting shit down here, and then I’m coming to get you. We’re leaving Providence by the end of the day.”
I pause, one foot on the forklift, suspicion wrapping a firm hand around the back of my neck. “What’s going on? What the fuck aren’t you telling me, Owen?”
There’s a loaded pause and then a resigned sigh. “He’s out.”
The words are like a wrecking ball to the chest. “What the hell do you mean, ‘he’s out?’”
“What the fuck do you think it means? You knew this was coming when the tapes went missing. He’s out of jail. The charges have been dropped.”
“What about my testimony?”
“Circumstantial at this point. Without proof, it’s your word against his, and let’s not forget, we have the eyewitness puttingyouat the scene of the crime, not him.”
“Fuck!” I roar, slamming my fist into the side of the machine. If the situation weren’t so dire, it’d be laughably ironic. It’s the same action that drew Becca’s attention in the first damn place.
I never should’ve left. I never should have taken Owen’s fucking deal. The whole thing went against everything I am and believe. I don’t run; I fight. But the chance to make that son of a bitch suffer a fate worse than death was too tempting to pass up.
Dying is easy. Making the man who betrayed you live out his worst nightmare? Yeah, that was worth every risk.
Every lie.
Every week of solitude and silence.
“That’s not all,” he hedges, causing my blood pressure to kick up a few dozen danger points. “I was right when I insisted the Rogue was long gone. I told you, we did a thorough sweep of Providence before bringing you here. This whole fucking thing has been a setup.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, each word paused with a breath because I’m barely balancing on the edge of calm.
“Remember the other night in your house, when I was trying to stop you from going vigilante on Dr. Brennan’s attacker?” He doesn’t wait for a confirmation before continuing. “You told me the man she ID'd had a rose and dagger tattoo.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought it sounded familiar, but I thought there was no way… Not in Providence.”
“Spit it out, Owen!”
“Check your texts,” he says gravely. “After that, be in the port parking lot by six.” Before I can demand any more information, the line disconnects.
“Fuck!” Scrolling through my text messages, I hover my finger over the link Owen sent, a dark sense of foreboding swimming in my veins. However, the moment I click it and my screen ignites, the foreboding turns into a rage so dark and twisted it feels like it’s being slowly ripped from my chest.
Son of a bitch.
Owen’s right. The Irish aren’t controlling Providence. They’re simply the shield hiding a much more dangerous underground.
A much more personal one.
From the beginning… The altercation in the warehouse, the car chase from the diner, Sandra Rosenthal’s death, Becca’s attack, the break-in at her house… None of it was a series of events resulting from one isolated incident gone wrong.
It’s all been one carefully choreographed manhunt.
