Page 52 of Her Guardian
A growl rumbles in my chest. Erica was working with some remnants of the old Bratva. The group Massimo eliminated. Are there more? I haven’t been on the streets to hear shit like this.
“Appreciate it,” I say, nodding to Ajax.
Ajax has the most punchable face in the world, but I’ll let him keep it today. He’s not the one who needs his head kicked off his shoulders.
As soon as I leave the bar, I send a message to Massimo.
Boyd:You know anything about the Bratva operating in Las Vegas again?
Massimo:Rumors. I haven’t seen any proof.
Boyd:Ajax said the nerve agent might be Russian.
Massimo:I’ll get Dante to look into it. Thanks, big man.
Good enough. I can’t spend my time hunting Bratva ghosts if I’m going to find the Mafia Prince Killer, even if the nerve agent is Russian. That purchase has already been made. If he got it from the Russians, then they aren’t going to identify him. Way too much bad blood for that, and I’m not sure what I would do if I ran into them—it wouldn’t be pretty, that’s for damn sure.
I spend the rest of my day hitting up other suppliers and running into a bunch of dead ends. My crew doesn’t come up with anything useful, either. I touch base with Massimo and the other crews are reporting the same thing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I haven’t done my job well, but I can’t keep going forever without a little rest.
Or maybe I’m just eager to get back to Sarah.
CHAPTER 20
Sarah
Two live podcasts in the same day.
It’s not a new record, but it’s keeping my podcast at the top of the charts. I’m still trending. My email is full of sponsors who want to work with me.
All it takes is a little bit of information nobody else has until they hear it on your podcast to keep the listeners tuning in.
After an exhausting day of researching and podcasting, I’m feeling pretty weary. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from Boyd. I’m trying my best not to pester him for new information when I know he’s busy. Still, it’s pretty exciting having someone directly involved in the manhunt as close as a text message.
“If Boyd finds him, I’ll be the first one to know,” I say, taking a few hits of my vape before putting it on the nightstand and lying back on the bed. “I’ll break the story before Vegas News or CNN. I’ll have his name before it becomes public!”
Excitement courses through me as I imagine it. Sarah Parker, the true-crime-junkie-slash-true-crime-podcaster, breaking news about the Mafia Prince Killer before anyone else. I’ve already felt that adrenaline. It’s an incredible rush. It almost makes me feel like a real reporter, instead of a podcaster.
“The top story in true crime right now—hell, the top storyeverywhereafter he struck again,” I say, smiling from ear to ear. “And I’m right in the middle of the action. Well, Boyd is in the middle of it, but I’m pretty close.”
I doze off and dream about getting every podcast award imaginable for the year. Being called a revolutionary. Being asked how I got all the information before anyone else. Even in my dreams, I don’t betray Big Boyd. I keep my source a secret, just like a real journalist would.
Then I get rewarded.
I’m dreaming about those sweet rewards when my bed shakes and my eyes fly open. My second time being woken up by Big Boyd is less startling than the first, but I still sit up in a panic. It immediately passes when I see his emerald-gold gaze.
“Boyd!” I say, hopping out of bed. “I wasn’t sure if I would see you tonight!”
“Told you we were going to talk about how you accidentally read my text message,” he says ominously, narrowing his eyes at me. “Care to explain yourself? Or should I just take off my belt?”
I swallow hard and tense up. My eyes nervously flick to the thick leather belt around his waist. That will hurt a lot more than his hand. But I can’t lie to him. I tried to get by with a half-truth, and it didn’t work. Time to face the consequences of my actions. I’mgoing to have to face them like a bad little girl, which is exactly what I feel like right now.
“I was snooping,” I mumble, looking down at the floor. “I saw the message flash and I caught a glimpse of Lloyd Brennan’s name, so I wanted to read it.”
“So you could put it on your podcast?” he growls.
“To see if it was something Icouldput on my podcast,” I admit. “But I would have still asked you first.”
