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“What is it?” O asked, unabashedly looking around. Of course, she would be curious. He’d never brought her home that summer.
“My father transferred a warehouse into my mother’s name. I missed it when I was looking through this stuff. Just assumed it was my mother’s. I bet this is where they’re keeping the weapons. We need to get out there.”
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Ophelia calledin the address to Metro before they headed to the location. She clung to Dean’s body as he drove, the wind whipping at the tendrils of hair below the helmet. He’d given her a leather jacket at the house to cut the chill as the sun went down. He told her it was one of his when he’d been a boy. He also grabbed another one, larger. She could only assume it had been one of his father’s. Dean was amazing. Working through his dad’s legacy meant taking his stuff and making it his own. Giving it a new life from the ashes of the history. She admired him so much for it.
Which made her even more upset and mortified by her mother’s behavior. She would never know Dean or give Jackson one baby toe in the door. No matter how Ophelia felt—or Katie for that matter. All she cared about was living through her daughters. Achieving what she never could. Katie a prima ballerina, Ophelia part of her father’s law firm, a firm that had been built by her mother’s father and that her husband had commandeered. He’d gotten her pregnant, and she’d never finished law school. So many dreams ruined for poor, poor Sara.
She thought again. How could she expose Dean to such a mother?
West of the highway, they road down a flat street, turning every couple of blocks around big and small warehouses. They moved fast between big steel buildings and came to the address they were looking for. It looked deserted with barely enough light to cast shadows.
“I don’t like this,” she said. “What if this is an ambush?”
“They don’t know we’re coming, O. Stick close.”
She grabbed his arm. “We need to wait for SWAT and backup, Dean.”
“We run the risk that they’re getting ready to move this stuff, O. We can’t wait.” While they were talking, she heard the sound of a vehicle being started.
“Dean,” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We’ve got to move.”
There were two men near the door to the warehouse. Dean said, “Wait here.” He pulled out a military knife and her chest tightened.
“Dean—”
“Don’t worry, babe. They won’t know what hit them.”
She hid in the shadows, and even though she was watching, Dean disappeared into the dark. She kept her eyes on that feeble light and suddenly, out of nowhere, he materialized and took down the first guard. The second guard heard nothing, and he died without ever seeing Dean. She shivered at the way he ghosted them. Tier One operator in action.
He motioned for her to come to him, and she ran across the open space. They quickly plastered themselves against the wall.
He picked the lock on the door. By this time, he had his gun in his hand. She followed him inside. They found a narrow hallway that led to a wide opening. There were voices on the other side along with the scraping of boxes being loaded.
A cell phone rang, and someone answered. “Fuck!” he said. “Move it,” he yelled.
Someone yelled from outside, and bullets punctured through the steel, opening holes, light streaming into the hallway. Ophelia tried to get to Dean, but more gunfire sliced through the outside wall, shattering the window and sending them both into a dive. She grunted when she hit the floor, stayed still. Carefully, she lifted her head.
Gunfire peppered the dark and she realized they were shooting blind. She crawled with her elbows, glass crunching under her arms, and Dean snapped her name. She froze, peering out between a grouping of bullet holes.
“Damn,” he muttered, then skirted the wall to the window. Without any warning, he jumped out the window, pushing off with both feet and some powerful thighs and landing like a cat on the other side. He discharged his weapon four times and then jumped back through the window.
By then they heard the sound of engines rumbling, then peeling out. He ran to the opening, Ophelia right behind him. All they saw were retreating taillights.
“Come on, babe!” he yelled.
They bolted for the Vincent. He threw his leg over and she climbed on behind him, already dialing Metro with one hand and holding onto him with the other. Her commander answered and she shouted into the phone what happened, where they were, the make of the truck and where it was heading. “Where the hell is the backup?” she screamed.
“They’re bogged down. Someone fused the gate and parked a dump truck in front of it. We’re working on it.”
“Chopper?”
“Yeah, I can call one in. Stay on the line.” The bike roared to life, and Dean gunned it. She held on with both hands, her phone in a death grip.
“Faster,” she shouted then looked behind them. Three cars from the south, east, and west, pulled up behind them for a couple of blocks, then split off again. Great. Synchronized bad guys. “They’re trying to head us off.” And succeeding.
