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Chapter Thirteen
Driving back to the office, Blake pondered his situation. He had no idea why he’d agreed to Charli’s ridiculous ultimatum. After all, they were two law officers forced together in a sticky situation of needing to protect Kayla.
If Silverado made it his business to find the girl, the fucker would do it by following the trail they hadn’t taken enough time to bury properly. With the dude’s contacts throughout the dark web and obvious expertise online, Blake had no doubt they could be in danger sooner rather than later.
After Chief Prowler had called him, explaining the situation and asked for his assistance, he’d made it his business to call his buddy, top media expert, whiz hacker and all-around computer genius, Tod Rawlins.
Tod wasn’t on the force, though Blake often called on him. With Blake’s assistance, he’d barely kept his ass out of the slammer – the kid skimmed close to the line more often than not. To pay back the favor, he’d take on special jobs for Blake when they needed someone with his special skills.
At his tender age of nineteen, he managed his own computer business building squeaky-clean websites for people who required privacy and were willing to pay big bucks to ensure they had the best.
Once Blake had explained the reasons why he needed his help, Tod became involved, dug deep and the stuff he found scared the shit out of them both. They’d pieced together a lot of material and one thing became very clear. This killer had no conscience.
Reading over Tod’s numerous notes had enlightened him to the fact that the prick, Ross, loved to kill, plain and simple. And he did it well. Anyone who left his calling card at each scene – his ritual for bragging to law enforcement – that person was one sick dude.
It didn’t matter the gender or age of his victims. Personally, Blake wondered if the FBI had uncoveredallthe murders Silverado actually committed. If not, the one’s where he’d followed his MO and left the silver bullet casing as his calling card were sufficient to give them an insight into the sociopathic sicko.
His narcissistic tendencies, that craved attention, might be his greatest downfall. Obviously, he loved his chosen line of work, which paid him big money. And… his reputation mattered; certainly enough where he’d need to cauterize loose ends, like a witness who could place him as the killer.
Blake stopped at a red light, and a beautiful woman crossed in front of his assigned SUV. The way she sauntered – the swaggering carriage of her fine body – brought another to mind, Special Agent Charli Madison.
Hold it bud, get it right. Her name used to be that. Now she’ll be known as plain old Charli Steele.
Which would be an oxymoron of huge proportions; that chick was anything but old or plain.
Her image appeared from memory, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. She had a way about her that drew him in and repelled him all at the same time.
He envisioned capturing the gaze from her melting brown eyes while he scattered light kisses over the high cheek bones that gave her a model-like appearance. Then he’d shift his attention and place scalding, searching kisses on her lush lips, drain her resistance. He wouldn’t stop until she sighed his name with delight.
Shifting his butt, he turned up the air conditioner.
Earlier, he’d teased her about her curls, but when he’d touched the silkiness, his hands had itched to dig in and clutch the mass, to draw her closer so he could teach her a lesson.
Then she’d spoke, and the craving had faded. He’d wished to be anywhere but in the same space as her all-seeing eyes and smirking, knowledgeable stare that saw deep inside him, into places no one got to inspect… not even himself.
Waiting for the light to change, he again questioned his reluctance to push Charli on their accommodations. He’d sensed her dislike and it intrigued him. Not one to brag or take smug, self-satisfied selfies, nonetheless, women liked him. All of them. He hadn’t met one yet who didn’t. Correction – he’d just met her.
And as much as he’d have enjoyed continuing to stick pins in her prickly attitude, to get her to retaliate, the look of horror on Kayla’s face had prompted his surrender.
For some strange reason he didn’t want to investigate too closely, he’d taken to the kid. And she’d gotten all dreamy-eyed about staying at his house. She’d been thrilled, and something had told him that Kayla didn’t often get her wishes granted.
Only a cad would have burst her bubble and let Charli follow through on her challenge to leave. He couldn’t do it. He liked looking at himself in the mirror every day without recriminations.
A screech, followed by a tell-tale thud, caught his attention, drawing his mind away from the introspection he’d been caught up in. He turned in the direction of the noise in time to see an older-model red Ford Focus back away from the pedestrian lying on the pavement and shoot up Las Olas Boulevard, swerving in and out of lanes, a heavy foot on the gas pedal.
Blake veered to a stop, and saw a nearby officer on foot, heading to the victim. He threw his vehicle back in gear and took off after the perpetrator of the hit and run.
Pushing the button on his steering wheel, he voice-activated the car phone to get headquarters. Calling in the crime, he asked for back-up and gave the particulars of the vehicle he was pursuing, his location, and the license plate number he’d read when he’d gotten close enough to see the plates.
Then he backed off, rather than push the wild driver into doing something they’d regret… like hitting someone else.Fuck!Too late. The erratic driver plowed into a vehicle just pulling out of a parking spot and creamed the driver’s side badly. Before the maniac could pull back into traffic, Blake exited his SUV and ran up to the driver’s side. His badge in front, he’d palmed his gun, just in case.
Once close enough to the driver, his warning rang out, “FLPD, let me see your hands. Get them both on the steering wheel. Do it now, man!”
The inebriated driver peered up, his eyes wild, dirty-blonde hair standing out around his scruffy, flushed face. He ignored the demands and tried to open the door. Stuttering explanations, his voice whiny and cajoling, he played the fool card like so many stupid offenders do, thinking the cops would stand down.
“It’s okay,ocifer. I’m on business and in a hurry. Give me my fine, and I’ll b-be on my way.”
Blake held the gun out front now; making sure it was in full sight of the idiot so he’d follow orders. “No fines, the charge is hit and run, sir. We’ll be taking a little trip downtown.” Blake’s slight adrenalin rush gave him a high he’d missed. God, it was good to be back on the streets, making an arrest, protecting the innocent.
