Page 65 of Draven

“Did he see her?”

“No.”

“Good. Where is she now?”

“I told her to go home and speak with no one until she hears from me.”

He slides his phone from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and swipes the screen. “What’s her address?”

I open the contact info on my phone and turn the screen to face him. He brings the phone to his ear. “I’m going to get two of my team to watch her place. I don’t want to take any chances.” He gives instructions to whoever answers his call, then tosses his phone on the coffee table. “It’s done.”

“Shall I tell her we’ve got eyes on her?”

“No. She won’t know they’re there, but we will.”

I fiddle with my shirt until Draven puts a hand on mine, stopping me. I fire him an apologetic grimace. “What now?”

“We go to the FBI, but not the team that’s working the case. A different branch.”

I cover my face, shaking my head. “This is a nightmare.” My hands fall back to my sides. “If you can’t trust your own, Draven, who can you trust?”

He curls a hand around the back of my neck, bringing our foreheads together. “We’ll get him. We’ll bring down every single motherfucking one of them.”

I meet his dark gaze, my jaw tightening. “Damn fucking straight we will.”

“Can this guy be trusted?” I ask as Draven and I stride down a tree-lined street in Manhattan on the way to meet Draven’s buddy and partner, Ciaran, as well as one of Ciaran’s FBI contacts. “How do you know he’s not in on it?”

Draven drapes an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side. “It’s easy to be suspicious of everyone, sweetcheeks, but I trust Ciaran, and he trusts Pete. He and his team have been waiting for a break like this. Remember I told you they were suspicious that dirty cops were involved? Well, thanks to you, they now have a name.”

“But no proof. Not really,” I say glumly. “Other than a witness who has suffered enough that a half decent lawyer would rip to shreds in court in less than thirty seconds.”

“We’ll get proof,” Draven insists. “That’s why Ciaran has set up this meeting with Pete, so we can work out a plan.” He kisses my temple.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He grins down at me. “Careful, sweetcheeks. I’ll think you’re warming to me.”

I dig an elbow in his side. “Jackass.”

Draven jogs up some steps that lead into a hotel with a classy sign outside that reads: O’Reilly Manhattan.

“Isn’t your buddy’s name O’Reilly? Does he own this place?”

“His brother does. They all used to live here, but now they have their own places. The basement where they used to live is secure, and we can talk freely without worrying about being overheard, though.”

He tows me down a hallway and past a bustling bar–lounge area. He stabs a few numbers into a keypad next to a door marked private, and it opens, revealing a set of carpeted stairs. Taking my hand, he leads me down until we emerge into a large living room, with a kitchen off to one side, and a dining table that seats twelve. Ciaran, and a man I don’t recognize but guess must be Pete the FBI agent, rise from the couch. Introductions are made, and the four of us sit at the table.

“First things first,” Pete says, his pen poised over a small notebook. Old school. Weirdly, that gives me some comfort.

“On a scale of one to ten, how believable did you find Darla Adams when she said she recognized Captain Joel Beresford as part of the gang who kidnapped the women in Jersey?”

“I’d bet my life on it,” I say. “And just to be clear, she didn’t say he was part of the gang. She said he was in charge. Of this cell, at least.”

Pete sits back, tapping his pen against his teeth. “You know we’re looking at others, then?”

I nod. “I understand it could be nationwide.”

“Yes, although this is the first time we’ve had a break. We know cops are involved. We just haven’t been able to identify any of them until now.”

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