Page 95 of Sinful Beauty

My mother huffs and steps back to the SUV. She shouts into the car, “Tell them to lower those guns. You are not eliminating my son.”

Who the fuck?—

“Victoria, there’s no world where he can walk away from this.” It’s an older gentleman’s voice, and it’s familiar. “You jumped to action too quickly. You admitted as much on the way here. Now, your son and his fuck buddy are both risks. If you would like to say your goodbyes, do so, but there is no world where they both?—”

“Are you serious Graeme? He’s. My. Son.” She steps up to the car, not giving one glance to the three men with guns aimed at my head. “We can trust him.”

No, you really can’t.

“He refused to take my psych tests, so we don’t know that.”

I glance back at the house, knowing five armed men are taking in the scene. And those five men won’t let anything happen to Lucia. We have video running, which means our team is both watching and listening.

I step forward, needing to see for myself that our family friend is the man remaining the car. He’s in the shadow, but I recognize the profile, the shape of the scalp, the bushy white eyebrows and the glint of spectacles.

“You helped her take Lucia?” It’s clear he did, but at this juncture, I’m piecing together a puzzle.

“No,” he scoffs. “Not at all. Your mother is out of control. She obtained resources she should’ve never accessed.”

“Oh please. You’re only upset that I acted swiftly. But I had to. If it got out she was pregnant, then people would suspect Tristan when she went missing.”

My mind stumbles over the coldness, but I force myself to focus. Neither Graeme nor my mother are aware they’re being recorded.

“I think I understand your position on Lucia. I won’t delve into the coldness of harvesting my child’s stem cells.” My mother looks slightly abashed, which is comforting to know she possesses a shred of decency.

“Tristan dear?—”

“But how does this operation play into the abduction of Sloane Watson? Or the death of Doug Dolsten? Or William Salo?”

“Victoria, what have you shared with your son?” The question is slow and delivered in a deadly tone. The absence of confusion and denial confirms my worst suspicions.

Graeme and my mother are the two masterminds I’ve been hunting.

My mother considers me, no doubt questioning how I pieced it together.

“You were eliminating risks,” I say, picking up the language Graeme used. “But risks for what? How many drugs have tested on people in Cambodian compounds? Which drug is currently on the market that causes cancer?”

Graeme lifts his hand to his mouth and speaks. The armed men shift, widening their stances.

I dive for the front of the vehicle as gun fire erupts.

From the ground, I peer beneath the car. My mother lies on the ground, and two dark circles slowly expand over her suit. Her eyes are open and still.

Graeme’s order had been to kill us both.

The armed men drop as the snipers from the house take them out. All wounds to the head.

One man moans. Another shot pierces the night air. Quiet returns.

Six boots are on the far side of the SUV, where the remaining armed men are taking cover.

Carefully, crouching low, I round Graeme’s side of the SUV.

An armed man lunges from the far side of the SUV, and I take him out with one trigger pull. He drops, but no one comes to take his place.

Hired mercenaries should care more about their lives than ending this dispute. But I keep my gun trained ahead, toward the back of the SUV where three men take cover.

I reach for the door handle, swinging it open with my gun aimed.

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