Page 85 of Consumed By the Mafia

“Arkansas?” Romeo repeated.

Ryoma heard himself speak despite not remembering making the choice. “That was where she was stationed before.”

A couple of heads nodded and Mikey continued, “Morrow would have known Abigail, and we eventually found records indicating he was jealous of her rapid promotion. But that isn’t the worst of it.”

Felicity sat up a little straighter on the bed. “So, this guy didn’t leak her information just because he was some jealous asshole?”

“No,” Mikey said. “He leaked it because he had connections to the Coughlan mob.”

Ryoma felt his stomach bottom out, Abby’s last known communication flashing through his mind again.

“Fucking what?” Romeo asked, sitting forward.

“That last bit we learned from one of our own guys,” Mikey added. “Dale Morrow is dead—” He cut his eyes to Ryoma. “Sorry, for that and for the next part.” Then he looked again around the room. “He assaulted the agent who picked him up from the airport last night, reportedly revealing himself as a traitor in an attempt to sway that agent to his side on Coughlan’s behalf. During the struggle, their SUV rolled, resulting in injuries to both parties. Other agents intervened and had no choice but to use lethal force to subdue him, according to the report I finally hacked into earlier this morning.”

Ryoma felt as though he were drowning. He couldn’t draw breath and his body wasn’t responding properly. Things hurt that shouldn’t have hurt, and the things that arguably should have been hurting felt numb. It was an effort to force his mouth open, and another effort to push words off his tongue. “Where is she?” He didn’t need to ask who the agent in that report had been. They all knew.

Mikey fell silent. The room fell silent.

The silence enraged him.

Ryoma shoved to his feet. “Where—”

“Alive,” Mikey said. He held his tablet out, screen facing Ryoma in offering. “But they’re taking extra precautions. They haven’t mentioned her by name, anywhere, or listed her location since the accident. All I know is that one of our EMS units was called to patch her up, so we have a decent idea of her condition after thecrash.”

Ryoma took the device, quickly finding the summary of the report. His chest tightened, but at the same time, it was a little easier to breathe with confirmation that she had survived. Even if she was wounded.

Mild concussion. Multiple lacerations. She’d had a stab-like wound bad enough and deep enough to need stitches that had come perilously close to her spine, at the back of her shoulder. Lesser scrapes and of course bruising. A notation of temporary hearing loss, likely due to close-contact gunfire. A second notation that no evidence of a gunshot wound was seen.

As Ryoma read, Dante spoke. “We have to assume they’re holding her in protective custody, under the belief that Coughlan will still make a play for her.”

Ryoma swallowed hard and handed the tablet back to Mikey. Anger still swirled in his blood, but he had nothing to do with it. “Then what?” He turned his stare to his boss. He couldn’t hope to hide the storm inside him, so he didn’t try. “I let her sit? Leave her behind?” He could barely even say the words.

“No,” Dante said, his tone and expression entirely calm. “The feds can’t press charges without her, and they’re going to want their top dogs doing the legal fighting. So I made a call on the way over.” His lips twitched as he continued. “Abigail is one of us now, whether she likes it or not. We’ll have her location by the end of the day.”

Abigail was going absolutely stir-crazy. For three days she had been basically trapped in protective custody. The same four stoic, unapproachable, boring guards rotated shifts as her security detail—making sure nothing came in and that she didn’tendanger herselfby trying to leave. Heaven forbid. If they didn’t let her out soon, she was going to hurt someone. More than likely herself, in the process of attempting to full-body slam a muscle-bound guard guy, but damn, at least that might get her a conversation. Maybe even a trip to the hospital.

Thinking about it that way, maybe it was time she upped her schedule. Who needed another boring box lunch?And why is the government so cheap with their star witness?

Supposedly she was critical. Especially ever since Rodrigo Silva had committed suicide rather than face the consequences of what he’d done. It had been hard not to snort at that revelation, but she’d managed to keep a straight face. In the end, the FBI was working overtime to uncover all the connections and poorly buried dirt before they were forced to release a buttload of criminals, and they insisted Abigail’s testimony at the inevitable and endless sea of trials was key. But if they thought she was going to sit in protective custody for the number ofyears it would take to get through all those trials, they were beyond mistaken.

Most of her scrapes and bruises were well on their way to healed. Her headache was gone—finally—and her back only hurt when she stretched too much. Unavoidable, really. The stitches would be able to come out in another few days, which was great. In her mind, she was good to go.

She was doing some careful yoga for lack of any better options when the interior door unlatched and someone dropped their knuckles on the frame. Abigail snapped her head up, then pushed fully to her feet at the semi-familiar sight of ADA Nick Walters. “Hi.”

He smiled and waved a folder at her, the sound of the door clicking shut behind them indicating that her guard had stepped around to give them privacy. As per the rules. “How are you doing?”

“Going crazy. Please tell me that’s the paper demanding my soul in exchange for my freedom.” Was that too forward?

Walters chuckled and lowered himself to the far side of the worn sofa. “It’s a sort of NDA,” he said, flipping it open. “I’m sure you understand, but essentially, you can’t reveal the location of the safehouse or any of the details of the case as you know them. You also consent to being removed from the case for your own security, and for objectivity purposes, effective immediately.”

Abigail blinked. It sounded like she actuallywasbeing let out. She was a little afraid to get her hopes up. “Is this for real? Am I getting out?” She moved to sit beside him and accept the pen he’d pulled from a pocket. “I’ll sign that. Honestly, theonly thing I want to talk to Agent Albert about is how I can hand in my badge without compromising the case. So this is no big deal.”

Walters tilted his head as he handed her the folder. “You’re leaving the bureau?”

Abigail let her eyes skim over the writing, catching words that corroborated what he’d told her, and flipped to the areas that needed signing. “I know it sounds weak,” she said, “but all this has kind of … changed my perspective, I guess. Especially—maybe mostly—the shit with Dale.” She had to sell it, after all.

He hummed and she thought she saw his head bob once as she scrawled her name on the necessary line. Not until she was handing the folder back, pen tucked inside, did he quietly ask, “Are you sure this isn’t more to do with the De Salvos?”

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