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“What woman,” Spade hisses.
“Greta Murphy,” I answer. “She was abducted from Wyoming fourteen months ago. I tracked her to Will Varon’s house in Telluride.”
Kincaid’s eyes dart to the man on the computer, and I can instantly tell someone fucked up. The club president drops into his seat at the front of the table as if he’s been shoved.
A chill settles over several people in the room, and I take an easier breath for the first time since arriving.
“You guys won’t find shit on him either,” I inform them.
On paper, William Varon is picture-fucking-perfect. I only know different from what I observed for the two weeks I was watching and waiting to make my move to get Greta back to her husband in Wyoming.
I had time to dig a little deeper after leaving Greta looking like a fallen angel on the stairs, and the information I discovered was only by chance after coming across an old news article about a missing woman from years and years ago. It took hours to link the disappearance to Will’s family.
“Varon is a third-generation trafficker, running his family’s business out of Telluride, although they keep their abductions a couple of hours away in neighboring states,” I explain.
“I’m glad you were able to solve your case,” Kincaid says as he stands. “Now you need to leave. I don’t want to see you on Cerberus property ever again. If you need to give us a heads-up, you can call. I vow to keep everyone here safe, and that includes their emotional well-being. There’s no justification in how you handle business, and I just can’t allow you to be here any longer.”
That would sting if I had a fucking heart or gave an ounce of a damn where these men are concerned.
I nod, knowing when I’m being dismissed.
“I’ll go, but what do you want me to do with the girl?”
As if an arctic breeze has floated into the place, everyone in the room freezes.
“The girl?” Kincaid asks.
“Two days ago, Greta took an abducted girl to the hospital. The little girl had been beaten pretty badly.”
“You took her from the hospital?” the angry man snaps, jumping up from his seat as if my words are the final fucking straw and his president’s demand to stay seated be damned.
Two guys grab him and hold him back. My fingers itch to teach the rude fuck a lesson of my own, but I know when I’m outnumbered. Kincaid has already made it very clear that it’s time for me to leave, but I won’t be taking that damned kid with me when I do.
“Greta was found murdered this morning in Varon’s house. He’s in the wind, and there was nothing in the house that I could find that identified the girl. She’s the entire reason I’m here. You fucking do-gooders are more cut out for this shit than I am.”
I didn’t exactly look around the fucking place to gain any new information. While I was there, my only intention was to leave town and head home before finding another fucking job to busy myself. I had to make up for the loss of income from Greta getting killed.
Several men growl as if the death of a woman means anything in the grand scheme of things. Bleeding heart fucking fools. They’ll never learn.
Spade looks sick to his stomach as Kincaid storms toward the conference room doors.
Spade had to have voiced his opinion about Varon only for it to fall on deaf ears after their man in the corner didn’t find anything on him. Regret swims in his movements as he locks his eyes on the table in front of him, and I can only feel glad I don’t suffer from that emotion. It would surely get in the fucking way.
The guys start to file out of the room, and I follow suit. The closer I get to outside, the closer I am to leaving.
“Em, Colton,” Kincaid hisses as he strides toward the front door of the building.
They follow just as obediently as the wall of muscle I’m moving with.
I point to my truck, and Kincaid doesn’t hesitate to open the back door.
Being the obedient thing that she is, the little girl is just lying there exactly where I left her, curled up and asleep. She didn’t take the time alone to run or hide.
It’s an ode to Varon’s training and will be her fucking downfall.
Her eyes pop open when the chilly breeze from outside hits her face, but instead of crying, she simply sits up, pushing a tangled mess of blonde hair from her face as she watches him.
I grin a little when Kincaid inches in further and she shifts back a little. Where I’m unassuming until angered, Kincaid, the tattooed fucker that he is, looks scary all the damn time.
