Page 6 of The Last Promise You Made

When we got to the downtown precinct, Ramirez drove us to a side entrance and straight into a bay in the department’s garage. I waited until the metal door clanged on the cement behind us before uncovering her. I helped her out of the cart, squatting in front of her.

“We’re going into the police station now. It’ll be safe for you there, but it might be loud and busy. We’ll find somewhere quiet for you and me to sit and talk about what happened. Do you think you can do that? Tell me what you saw?”

Her eyes grew wide, and she shook her head, fear scrolling over her features once more.

“That’s okay, kiddo. It’s okay. How about we just get you inside safe and sound for now?”

I offered her my still-gloved hand, and she took it, clinging to it so tightly it almost hurt.

We made our way out of the van, up the steps, and into the building with Ramirez following us.

“I need somewhere she’ll be comfortable,” I told him.

“We’ve got interrogation rooms, a conference room, or the lunchroom.”

I rolled my eyes at him as none of those places would make this scared girl relax.

“Assistant Chief’s office?” he offered. “He’s on vacation. There’s a couch in there.”

“That’ll work.”

He led us up the stairs and down the hall. The sounds of the station grew on us. Laughter and yelling. Doors slamming. Chairs skidding across the floor. A drunken shout from somewhere deeper inside. The little girl cowered, pushing herself into my leg. I pulled her closer, my arm tightening around her shoulders.

When we made it inside the assistant chief’s office, I led her to a couch shoved up against a wall of glass that showed the bullpen teeming with activity. The rest of the office’s furniture was bland and functional. Government-issued minimalism that made the gray leather sofa stand out as wildly luxurious.

I went to the metal blinds, shutting out the chaos of the bullpen before turning to the officer and saying, “We need blankets. Water. Maybe something to eat.”

Ramirez nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. Immediately, the noise level dropped to a muffled buzz. The guy was younger than me, probably just out of the academy, which was why he’d been guarding the hotel door, but he’d kept his wits together and helped me sneak the little girl out. My instincts said he was going to make a good cop.

By now, I’d worked with enough of them to know the difference. I was only twenty-seven, but I’d seen more things in my four years on the job than most people saw in their lifetime. Ugly and evil things. My dad had tried to ask me about it at Christmas, worried by the seriousness in my eyes, but I’d blown his questions off. He’d given me a look that the soldiers under his command would have trembled at, but that hadn’t made me budge.

Even though my family had watched me grow up wanting to be a spy, my dad was the only one who actually knew my job as an agricultural journalist was a front. I wasn’t sure if he knew which agency I worked for, but then again, as Vice Chief of the National Guard Bureau, he might have pulled enough strings to find out the truth. Either way, he hadn’t shared the news with my former-Secret-Service-agent brother or my mother. I didn’t know who would get in more trouble if Mom ever found out—me for lying, or Dad for keeping the secret.

My gaze returned to the little girl who’d curled into herself once again. Her knees were up at her chest, arms wrapped around them. She had a pair of Vans on her feet with smiling cat faces. They were a bit dirty, but not old. Blood was spattered on the sides of them—evidence we’d need. Her dark-blue jeans and white T-shirt were smeared with blood as well.

My heart nearly gave out as I thought of her watching the woman in the room being sliced up. Thinking of her hugging the dead body to her tiny frame. It was a miracle this girl was alive.

“Can you tell me your name?” I asked.

The little girl looked at me but didn’t say anything.

“Can you tell me what that is?” I asked, referring to the letter she clutched, a splotch of red staining the white envelope.

“Papa.” The word was a mere whisper. A hint of a Mexican accent gave her voice a soft, rhythmic quality.

I was thankful once more for the painful years I spent in Spanish class and for the undercover work I’d done in South America that had improved my skill with the language. I asked her in Spanish, “Is that a letter from him or for him?”

The little girl’s eyes widened, responding in Spanish. “I find him.”

“So you can find him?” My heart sputtered again. “Can I see it? So I can help you find him?”

She looked at the envelope, hesitant and fearful, and then, with a shaking hand, offered it to me.

The writing on the front was bold and feminine, but it was the actual words that hit me like a fist to my solar plexus. For Ryder Hatley.

For all of thirty seconds, my lungs forgot to breathe before the air rushed back into them, painful and raw.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

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