Page 5 of Draven

She chooses the former.

I slam the door in her face.

Dropping onto the bed, I close my eyes, but an almighty crash from outside has them snapping back open. I launch upright and stride to the window, drawing back the drapes. My bike is on the ground while Louise ‘bitch-ass’ Rhodes kicks the shit out of it.

I storm outside, barefoot, cursing when I stand on a sharp stone. “What the fuck are you doing?” I roar, grabbing her by the arm. She wrestles to free herself—an exercise in futility, given my vastly superior strength. “Touch my bike again and?—”

“And what?” she yells. “You gonna break my arm like you did to Tony Callides?”

My eyes widen, but if she thinks reminding me of the reason for our shared hostility will force me to loosen my grip, she has the wrong fucking guy. Instead, I squeeze harder, drawing an unwilling wince from her.

“Don’t push me, sweetcheeks.”

She twists around, and the next thing I know, she brings up her knee, her aim dead-on. Waves of pain hit me, intense, mind-numbing, the throbbing in my balls shooting up into my stomach. I release her, my vision blurring as I bend over double. Eventually, my knees give way, and I crash to the ground.

“Fuck,” I wheeze.

“I hope that hurts, you absolute jerk-off. I hope your balls turn black and shrivel up like prunes. You think it was easy for me to come here after our history? And you won’t even give me the courtesy of five goddamn minutes. Well, fuck you, Draven. I’ll fix my own problems, and you can slink back to New York. New Jersey is better off without you, and so am I.”

She storms off, giving my bike one last kick as she passes. Getting into her car, she floors the gas, careening out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

Chapter 3

Louise

“I hate him! I fucking hate him. Asshole.”

Slamming my fist into the steering wheel makes the anger course through my veins even more. How is it possible, after all this time, that he’s able to push my buttons with zero effort? I anticipated he might still feel sore about our parting of ways eight years ago, but I’d hoped he’d at least hear me out. I’d used my long-time friendship with Rick to coax him to tell me where Draven was staying, and then I’d gone and fucked it up.

I could have, should have handled the situation better. Wrecking his bike and kneeing him in the ‘nads was just stupid. For one thing, Draven loves his bike as much as he loves his mother, and he’s pretty fond of his balls, too, I imagine. Having to sleep with an ice pack on his them for the next few nights won’t endear me to him, either. A much more sensible approach would have been to walk away, give him time to reflect, then return in the morning when we’d both calmed down. Instead, I’d allowed desperation to get the better of me and, in the process, made him dig his heels in further.

Three days have passed since my sister Kiera went missing—the sixth woman to do so from the Camden area of New Jersey in the last week. Three days, during which time I’ve barely slept, too busy trawling through every scrap of evidence I can get my hands on, which isn’t an easy feat considering my boss locked me out of the investigation the second my sister disappeared. Conflict of interest, he called it. Bullshit. I’m more motivated than any single member of that investigative team to find the vital piece of the puzzle that will lead us to Kiera and those other women.

But what drove me to Draven was when I discovered the case is being taken over by the FBI. That means I’ll lose access to the regular updates from my boss. His assurances of, “Don’t worry, Rhodes. The captain told me we’ll be kept up to date with progress,” don’t fill me with confidence. I have prior experience of the feds marching in and taking over. They don’t like to collaborate. Actually, that isn’t true. They simply don’t see the need to collaborate.

As the adrenaline over my argument with Draven dwindles, the fear for Kiera returns. My ribs work in great heaves as panic settles in for the night. Pressing a hand to my chest to ease the pain, I take several deep breaths, willing my heart rate to slow. I can’t afford to accept defeat when I have so much to lose.

Instead, I’ll give Draven some space and pay him another visit first thing in the morning. If I get up early enough, I should catch him before he heads back to New York, as he likely will now that the case he worked on with Rick is closed.

Whatever Draven’s faults—and there are many—I know him well enough to hedge a bet that once he allows me to explain about Kiera, he’ll be compelled to help. All I have to do is get him to listen.

During the eight-year gap since I’d last been in his company, I’d almost forgotten the sheer size of the man, as well as the menace that emanates from him. That towering presence is precisely what I need to help me find Kiera and the other missing women. Draven doesn’t open doors, he crashes through them, and given the nature of this case, a man who isn’t afraid to cross the line will be indispensable in cracking it.

There’s only one reason young, beautiful women are disappearing without a trace, and my limited experience with sex traffickers tells me we are running out of time. If Kiera is smuggled out of the country, I’ll never get her back.

The thought curdles my stomach. I can’t bear to think about how frightened she must be. If I let myself think about that, I’ll lose focus. As difficult as it is, I have to approach this the same way I would any other case, with diligence and determination. I’ll plow on until there’s a conclusion, and hope with everything in my heart that it’s a positive one.

I adore my baby sister. The thought of her being in pain, cold, frightened, or hurt kills me. What are those vile bastards doing to her? I don’t know how our family will ever recover if she doesn’t make it.

It takes two hours to drive back to Camden from Newark, thanks to a damn highway wreck that resulted in a line of traffic four miles long. By the time I park the car and set foot inside my apartment, depressed doesn’t even begin to portray my mood. The time sitting still while waiting for the highway patrol to clear the wreck gave my despair over Draven’s reaction time to fester. Whatever I do tomorrow, staying calm is the only chance I have of getting him to listen.

I grab a bowl of leftover pasta from the fridge and rest it in my lap while I remove the stack of papers detailing the evidence in the women’s abductions. If my boss knew I had these, he’d write me up for about ten violations. Equally, if he thought I’d simply sit back and do nothing while my sister is in the hands of God only knows who, he is sorely mistaken.

After spreading them over my kitchen table, I pore over every sentence—again. By now, I can almost recite the evidence collected word for word. Not that it matters. I’ve hit a brick wall. Cold doesn’t begin to describe this trail. Glacial is a much better description. Kiera and the other five women have disappeared as if they never existed. But Kiera does exist, as do those other girls. Every one of them has a family that must be going out of their minds with worry. They have to be somewhere, hopefully alive and unharmed.

I put my head in my hands. Oh, God, the thought of having to tell Mom and Dad Kiera hasn’t made it, and that despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to save my sister—their daughter. My parents are so proud of my career achievements. They think I can solve any problem, including Kiera’s disappearance. They don’t understand the politics behind the law enforcement machine, nor can I expect them to.

Unable to stomach the pasta, I set it to one side, my paltry appetite deserting me as I wearily clamber to my feet and stretch out my back. My attention falls on the large clock hanging on the kitchen wall. Almost midnight. Nothing more can be done tonight. I may as well try to get some sleep. In the morning, after some much-needed rest, I’ll be able to think more clearly, plan my approach to Draven, and hope he gives me the time of day.

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