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“I will ask you again, did you kill Detective Spittle?”
“No comment,” I say flatly, my eyes burning from staring at him so hard. “Let me ask you something.”
“What?”
“What sound did you love the most from Beau when you fucked her?”
His fist comes down on the desk hard, his face turning a fetching shade of red. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Did she scream?”
“I said shut up!”
“Moan?” I smile wickedly, not relishing the thought of anyone touching her, but loving his reaction. Because he will never have her again. “Her breathy gasps when she’s about to come?”
He dives across the table and fists my shirt, shaking me. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Or are those sounds just for me?” I say calmly, never breaking my stare, his face up close to mine. “When I’m inside her,” I whisper. “Moving. Watching her eyes glaze. Feeling her heart pound.”
He roars, shoving me away before he starts pacing the room. “How did you meet?”
And here we have the crux. His jealousy. His hurt. He wanted to fix her and failed. I won’t fail. “Back to your questioning, Detective Burrows,” I say quietly.
“You’re never going to see her again.”
I smile. “Bet I do.”
The door swings open, and a man appears, a man I recognize. I withdraw, watching him closely as he takes in the scene. Me, calm. Burrows, far from it. Harold Higham. “Uncuff him,” he says, not only surprising Burrows, but surprising me too.
“What?” Burrows says, looking at Higham with a mixture of disbelief and disgust.
“I said, uncuff him.”
“Are you mad? He’s a murderer.”
“Uncuff. Him.” Higham states each word calmly, as I flick my interested attention between each man, wondering what the fuck is going on. Burrows curses and storms out, leaving Higham to do the honors himself. “You’re free to go.” He throws a bag on the table that contains my possessions—minus a gun—before rounding me and releasing my hands.
I flex my wrists and roll my shoulders, standing. “No charges?”
“No charges.” He tosses the cuffs on the table and perches on the edge. “I got a call from the mayor.”
“Adams?”
“I expect he got a call from The Brit.”
I nod mildly, rubbing at my sore flesh. “Thanks for your hospitality,” I quip, going to the door.
“I have one question.”
I still, my hand on the knob. “What’s that?”
“Who are you and Black hunting?”
“You know the answer to that, Higham,” I reply, picking up my feet and making my way through the scores of officers at their desks, all eyeing me, all with faces screaming for me to punch. How many of the fuckers are bent? How many in the pocket of The Bear? My eyes fall onto Burrows, my pace never faltering, and I hold his hate-filled stare as I pass. “Dead,” I whisper, making sure he can read my lips. So fucking dead.
I make it outside and stand for a moment, closing my eyes and breathing in the freedom.
“Still want me to stand down?”
My shoulders drop, my eyes remaining closed. “Not now, Beau.” I’m working against a ticking time bomb, and my minor brush with the police has seriously delayed my plans. I open my eyes and find her in the passenger seat of my car, Fury at the wheel. The window is down, her arms folded and resting on the edge, her chin sitting pretty on her forearms. “You shouldn’t be here.” Fuck knows Burrows is gunning for me, and I wouldn’t put it past him getting Beau in those cuffs. He has more on her than me.
I stride to the car and flick my head for Fury to get in the back. He looks ready to quit life. Slipping behind the wheel, I start the engine and go to my phone when it rings. “What’s up.”
“You’re out?” Otto asks.
“No, the police let me take your call.” I sigh, pulling into the traffic, checking my mirrors, watchful, because any decent cop would follow me. “What’s going on?”
“Roake is celebrating his release in a bar on South Beach.”
“How lovely for him. What bar?”
“Ventacini.”
I look across to Beau, weighing up my options. I have two. Take her home and miss this opportunity or take her with me and knock one more man off my list of men to kill. Fuck’s sake. “On my way,” I mutter, hanging up and putting my foot down. “What do we have in the trunk?” I ask Fury in the rearview mirror, taking a sharp right, throwing him around in the back as Beau grips the handle above her.
“Full stock.”
Beau faces me as I skid into another road. “How does Otto know he’s at Ventacini?”
And so the questions begin. “We’re tracking him.”
“How?”
“His lawyer.”
“You mean Derek Green?”
I don’t need to know how she knows. Women talk. “Yes, Derek Green.” He came good. He didn’t really have much choice, mind you, but the moment Roake was found not guilty, the tracker was activated as planned. Roake was never going to prison. Only to hell.
