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Soon she was lost in the sensations he evoked. For sure, she was going to be late to church and have a lot to confess.
Chapter Eighteen
After Conner begrudginglyleft Hannah’s house, he spent the rest of the day plotting how to get Mariah to admit she had lied. It was clear Mariah wanted to end her relationship with Parker so she crawled into his bed. He was 99 percent sure they hadn’t slept together, but Mariah was fine with letting Parker believe they did. The question was, why? Had she tried to seduce Conner, and he passed out? Was she so evil she wanted to crush Parker with a dramatic breakup and destroy their friendship?
Mariah was the kind of woman who needed to be wanted. She was always using attention-seeking behavior to have all eyes on her. Conner found her obnoxious and disrespectful to Parker, so he had avoided her or ignored her. But he would bet she would welcome his attention now. He discovered through more online digging that she worked hard to project the image of a wealthy Charlotte socialite, but it turned out her family lost all their money. Her father’s poor business choices had caught up to him, and they were all swimming in debt. She was going to lose her spot in Charlotte society and every luxury good endorsement in her social media influencer hustle. No wonder she was looking for a sugar daddy. She needed someone to bankroll the life she was accustomed to.
That was going to be the key to his plan: he’d convince her he couldn’t stop thinking about her after all this time. He’d invite her to the gala and then get her to confess—just like every other drug dealer he ever busted. Hit her in the weakest spot—her reputation. He just needed to get in touch with her and invite her to come see him, which sounded like torture. If she did a simple Google search on him, she’d find dozens of articles on the lucrative investments he’d made and the recent sale of his portion of an e-commerce start-up to a major investment brokerage. Normally, he didn’t like the idea of using his wealth to impress someone, but in this case, it was the perfect bait to hook her.
But first he needed to focus on the joint task force. His hunch about the millionaire’s girlfriend had paid off. After several nights of surveillance, they had enough evidence to get their warrant and do a raid. The task force determined the best option was to strike while the evidence was hot, which meant he might be late to pick up Hannah, but they should still make it to his parents’ for dinner.
As soon as the task force meeting ended, he called her but got voicemail. He left a message and text.
Every Sunday, the millionaire and his girlfriend went out for a ride on his yacht. The girlfriend always took a large overnight bag, only they didn’t sleep on the boat, and the team suspected it was a drop or rendezvous. Either way, they wanted to make the arrests before their shady couple boarded the boat. Pulling over their car in a traffic stop on their way to the yacht was the path of least resistance.
It was a well-known fact that every driver would make at least one traffic violation within ten minutes of driving—in D.C., it would be within two minutes. Speeding, rolling through a stop sign, running a red light—it was shocking how quick the violations added up when people thought no one was watching. There were so many one-way streets, bike lanes, taxi stands, business roads, and motorcades that D.C. was a landmine. Once the car was stopped, they could make their arrests, serve their search warrants, and more easily search the house. Easy day.
By late afternoon, he’d left Hannah several messages but had to turn off his phone as he, along with ten other police officers and federal agents, prepared to serve the warrant at the house.
They’d split the team in threes, each taking an access point into the residence. The lead DEA agent on the task force had the warrant in his hand and knocked at the front door. Conner stood a few feet behind him. When the door opened, all hell broke loose. They were immediately met with gunfire. Sounds of more shots from the back of the residence, where another portion of their team was stationed, sounded through the palatial home.
The sting of being shot exploded in Conner’s right shoulder and ran down his arm, but his aim with his other hand was true as he returned fire and eliminated the threat.
“What the hell?” the ATF agent barked as he gripped his chest where he’d taken several rounds in the bulletproof vest. He was kneeling against the side of the house, trying to catch his breath.
Conner yelled for everyone to take cover as they regrouped.
“We can’t go in with one man down and unknown shooters inside,” Conner commanded. The mix of agents and officers nodded in agreement.
Everyone had their guns drawn and waited with their backs pressed against the brick home. The radio was full of chatter as each team gave updates on their status. The team at the rear entrance had also taken down one shooter, and none of the team members were injured. The team at the staff entrance was unable to breach the entrance—that door was blockaded.
“Alpha Team enroute. ETA sixty seconds,” the Metro police SWAT team sounded through Conner’s other radio. He’d called in the 1052 officer shooting code as soon as the bullets started flying. Years of training had taught him to always call for backup the moment someone pointed a gun at him.
“Okay, we might be sitting ducks here with the security cameras, but I think moving is riskier. Is anyone else shot?” he asked.
The agent groaned as he stood clutching his chest but still held his service weapon at the ready.
“Looks like you’ll be the only one buying drinks tonight, Sergeant,” another Metro officer said from the other side of the open doorway.
“Deal, but no sissy drinks with umbrellas in them tonight, boys,” Conner said, squeezing his hand. The dull ache of his wound was getting stronger as his adrenaline wore off.
Sixty seconds didn’t seem that long unless your life was on the line. The team was getting restless as they waited for SWAT, but finally, they could hear the sirens. The calvary was close, but they weren’t safe until the house was secured. And it was also impossible to know how desperate a person would feel to keep their freedom.
The quiet in the driveway was unsettling as they waited, but then the familiar black fortified bulletproof SWAT truck pulled up on the street, and a dozen highly trained officers filed out. Another half dozen squad cars had taken over the street. The team moved in lock step toward the front door and peppered in between Conner’s small task force team.
“Maguire, you’re wounded. One of us will escort you to the truck,” the SWAT team leader said in a gruff whisper.
“No, we’ll finish this. There are twenty-five rooms in this house.”
“Copy. Your team can follow ours in and wait until we clear each room. Everyone on tac two.”
Conner nodded, reported the plan on his team’s radio, and gave everyone the radio channel to switch to.
The SWAT leader pulled a canister from his vest with a grin. “Plug your ears.”
He pulled the pin and tossed the flash bang into the large two-story foyer. The tool rolled along the marble floor until it exploded with sound and smoke. It was meant to discombobulate the bad guys and give the police the advantage of a few seconds to get in place. Within five minutes, they had the main floor cleared and no arrests, which meant whoever was left was hiding either on the basement level where there was a wine cellar and four thousand square feet of finished house or upstairs in the equally large space.
Twenty minutes later, each floor was secured, and several young men were holed up in a locked study, refusing to come out. They claimed they needed to speak to their lawyers. They would have a long time in jail to speak with their lawyers after shooting at the police.
