Page 55 of A Life Betrayed

“He’s with me.” Mathias turned to Rayan, his face void of all expression. “Go and see how our friend is doing.”

“Tell my guy to go easy on her,” Truman called out as Rayan ventured farther into the warehouse.

Rayan spotted a dimly lit corridor that led to a series of back rooms, and he felt his adrenaline surge. It had been a long time since he’d put himself at risk like this. Once, danger had been part of the job, so normal it barely registered. Now his heart slammed against his rib cage as he strode down the corridor, hyperaware of the fact that he’d left Mathias alone and outnumbered. He had no idea what he was walking into and could only hope Allen was still alive. Otherwise, all of this would be for nothing.

Rayan hadn’t realized how much he’d been conditioned against fear until he’d spent time living in a world where herarely encountered it. With his resistance gone, he was at a grave disadvantage. He understood Mathias’s look of hesitation—the man could see what Rayan had been too afraid to admit.

Then he brushed against it—a familiar resolve buried deep but not gone. Rayan felt his breathing slow as instinct took over. There was no going back, only forward. He reached the closed door at the end of the corridor and heard voices behind it.

This was nothing. Compared to everything he’d done, everything he’d seen, this was just one more job. All he had to do was get it done. Rayan wrapped his hand around the cold metal door handle and pulled.

Frances had shown up at the place she’d arranged to meet Truman only to find herself face-to-face with two of his lackeys.

“He’s on his way, got held up,” the taller one said with a wide grin.

That wasn’t the only concerning thing about this particular rendezvous, news of which had initially given her the smug satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten under Truman’s skin. The location, which had been relayed over the phone as an associate’s business, was instead a deserted auto parts warehouse strewn with mechanical debris. Frances chided herself for being too complacent, her smugness replaced by a creep of nerves as her gut attempted to assert itself.

“When’s he supposed to get here?” she asked, glancing around the building while attempting to hide her disquiet.

“Not long now. He said to wait for him in the back room.”

The man who’d spoken indicated for her to follow, and she walked behind him through the junk-filled space to a narrow corridor at the back, his friend remaining by the entrance. She had her agency-issued weapon strapped to her chest beneath herjacket and, despite the Reaper’s size, was confident in her ability to take him if provoked. The room at the end of the corridor was completely bare, in stark contrast to the mess of the warehouse. The man closed the door behind them and stood to one side as they waited, lighting a suspiciously pungent cigarette.

After the deputy commissioner had laid out just how close the investigation was to getting pulled, Frances found herself possessed by a heightened sense of urgency. When Truman called to set up the meeting, she’d grasped onto it like a lifeline, perhaps her last chance to get her hands on the evidence she needed to nail Mathias. In her impatience, Frances had downplayed the risk. After all, she’d emerged from their last meeting with a clear advantage, Truman’s blustering coming across not as ominous but more like the desperation of a man beat.

Yet unlike with Mathias, there was no artful deception where William Truman was concerned. He had an unpredictability that to Frances—alone in an empty room in some run-down warehouse—suddenly felt sinister.

“I’ll wait outside,” she said tightly, changing tack and moving toward the door.

“Not so fast, sweetheart,” the man said, standing in front of her and folding his tattooed arms. “I like the look of you.”

Frances widened her stance, conscious of the one button she’d left open on her blouse, as if it were a neon sign. She wasn’t a delicate flower. She’d handled herself in difficult situations, but she’d always had backup. Since arriving in Montreal, she’d had to contend with the icy front of her fellow colleagues at the divisional office and their reluctance to pursue a group that was somewhat accepted as part of the city’s natural landscape. Without fully realizing it, Frances had begun to distance herself, viewing the investigation as her own personal crusade.

Stupid.Because it was clear she needed help, and as each second crawled by, she was becoming less confident that she had the skills needed to get herself out of this.

Truman’s lackey took a toke from his spliff and advanced toward her. “Awfully straitlaced, aren’t you?” he observed with a leer. “It’s always the good girls that are into the real nasty stuff.”

Frances had once taken part in an investigation alongside Vancouver PD, in which they’d succeeded in embedding a female officer in the West Coast Reapers chapter. The officer had gained access to the group by posing as a stripper at one of their private clubs and had been close to getting all the information they needed to start issuing warrants when she’d tapped out. The woman had left the force shortly afterward. Nothing had ever been spoken of officially, but Frances had heard rumors about the things she’d been subjected to.

This was different, though. Frances had clearly identified herself as a federal officer. Truman wouldn’t be that brazen. Still, it didn’t stop her from recalling the photos she’d seen—women dumped, crude symbols tattooed onto their bodies, arms shredded with track marks. Truman not only dealt in the importation and trafficking of women across the country but also seemed to take personal pleasure in their destruction.

“Back the fuck off,” she snapped, as if her words might erect a barrier between her and the roaming reach of his gaze. “You know who I’m with. I’d be careful if I were you.”

The man laughed, revealing a set of yellowing teeth. “You think I’m scared of the pigs? You’re about as frightening as that pout on your face.”

Frances reached into her jacket for her gun, but the man was quicker, grabbing her wrist and pushing her back against the wall.

“And a little piglet like you?” He grinned, and the rankness of his breath was enough to make her gag. “I think I’d like to hear you squeal—”

The door to the room swung open, and Frances started. Rayan Nadeau stood in the frame, looking nothing like the young college kid she’d ambushed outside the university in Toronto. With eyes cold and shuttered, his face was set in a hard mask as he glared at Truman’s lackey. No, this was someone else entirely. This was the man from the photos.

“She’s coming with me,” Rayan instructed, his voice low.

The Reaper straightened up, still holding her wrist, and scowled. “Who the fuck—”

Rayan moved quickly, stepping forward and slamming the side of his hand into the man’s throat. He doubled over, retching.

“Come on,” Rayan said, beckoning her with a tilt of his head.

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