Page 67 of Savage Seduction

CHAPTER 26

Bretton

I'm sitting in my car at a red light, sandwiched between vehicles as lanes merge from five down to two. Frustrated, I hit the steering wheel. The anonymous text message I received less than an hour ago claimed Max Salgado and London James were next on the list. Whoever this anonymous source was, they seemed to be playing games, but if there was any truth to the warning, I needed to act.

I'd already driven past Max's apartment, so if he and London were going to be attacked together tonight, he had to be at her place. My attempts to reach back out to the source had failed, leaving me sitting here, feeling helpless.

Helplessness is a feeling I hate the most, usually accompanying the worst moments of my life. I think of my late wife, Sarah, the light to my darkness, the cup half-full to my entirely empty glass. A lump forms in my throat, threatening to choke me, and I force myself to swallow. I look out at the traffic jam, a mob of unsuspecting travelers just trying to get home, and it brings me back to that fateful night.My eyes unfocused, I turn to the passenger seat. It's as if I’ve fallen back in time; Sarah sits silently beside me, both hands pressed against her chest, bloodseeping through her fingers from a gunshot wound.Hang on, baby,I had whispered.Don’t you leave me.She opened her eyes, a single tear trailing down her pale cheek.

That night I’d been unable to save the love of my life, and with her passing, I lost a piece of myself I never thought I’d get back. I wipe away my own unexpected tears, having been all cried out over a year ago. Why had Max triggered thoughts of my wife? My belly flutters with nerves. There isn’t time to figure all this out, not now.

I connect a call to my boss. “What do you want, Wolf?” His voice is full of disdain and impatience.

“Max Salgado is in trouble. I received a communication informing me he was next.”

“Next for what? Winning a beauty pageant? You know better than to bring this bullshit to me,” he snaps. “Your role is to catch a killer and save face for the FBI, not watch over a former cop who couldn’t handle the pressure. Have I made myself clear?”

“Abundantly,” I reply, frustration seething.

“It’s late, and if I’m not mistaken, you’re working tomorrow.”

I clear my throat and let out a long-held breath. “I don’t see how collateral damage is worth the minor inconvenience of covering our own actions… not in this case.” Were my unexpected feelings about Max clouding my judgment? I shake my head. Hell no. This was the right move.

“No. You’re not to intervene.”

“No?” I can't believe what I'm hearing. “Max is an innocent person in all this. Why would you not agree to keep him safe?”

“Your intel was a Butcher follower was after him, right? What’s the point in blowing your cover to be somewhere The Butcher isn’t? You’re thinking with your emotions, not your brain. As I’ve told you before, if your cover is blown, the entireoperation is fucked. The Butcher’s continued existence goes public, and the FBI ends up looking like a bunch of idiots.”

“Max is an ex-cop, sir. He could be useful to us in the future.” I hold my breath.

“Don’t be a fool,” he laughs. “Listen to me and listen good. I am giving you a direct order to stand down. You are not to intervene unless instructed to do so… by me. Understood?”

I look out my driver side window and say nothing.

“Do I make myself clear?” he asks again, his tone warning that if I don’t respond, I might be next on the hit list.

“Crystal clear, sir.”

The call goes dead, and I throw the phone down in the seat next to me, punching the steering column again, blaring the horn. What else can I do? I have my orders. Maybe I can call in a favor? After racking my brain for a name, I sigh. There’s no one geographically close enough to help.

Then it dawns on me—there might still be a way. I pull out a burner phone I keep in the glove box for emergencies and off-the-record transactions and initiate a call to Max.

The call immediately goes to voicemail. I try again three more times with the same result. There could be multiple reasons why a cellphone call wouldn’t go through, but my gut tells me it's foul play. After all, Max was next, or so said the anonymous message I’d received.

“Fuck it,” I say, flipping on my blinker before moving into the lane next to me. A series of horn blasts cascade into a cacophony of trumpeting horns and annoyed drivers. I lower my window and point to the next lane. “It’s an emergency.” The man’s middle finger behind me tells me all I need to know. I punch the gas and maneuver past the sitting cars, narrowly missing the truck directly in front of me. I jump the curb to my left and drive slowly past the line of idle vehicles as I near the large hole in the street the city had been working on.The flashing information sign gave a date range of two months for the work to get done but hadn’t been updated since it expired last week.

From my new vantage point, I see the cars start to move in front of me, through the intersection. I slowly maneuver the car back onto the concrete and gun it, changing lanes again and again until I’ve managed to reach the front of the pack. Flooring the vehicle, I check my GPS. I’m not far from London James’s last known address, I only hope I’m not too late to save them.

Fifteen minutes later, I screech to a stop one block from her home. I need to proceed on foot. As I quickly turn off the car, darkness envelopes me. I take a moment to listen for gunshots, screams, sirens, anything that might indicate I'm too late. In a last-ditch effort to obey my boss, I pull out my phone and send another text to the anonymous caller, but this time the message reads as "Message Failed."

I then activate my burner phone and put in Max’s phone number. Before hitting send, I pause, thinking about what I'm doing. What if Max is hiding? Would my call reveal his location? Am I putting him in more danger than if I let him use his own police training to keep safe? I shake my head. Very few people are prepared for a battle without prior warning. I place the call and silently beg the universe to let it go through.

Straight to voicemail.

I put the phone in my pocket and swing the car door open, get out, and close it gently, not bothering to lock it. The quiet, poorly lit street is lined with two-story homes adorned with beautiful flower beds and porch swings. It might be hard for someone to believe horrible things could happen here, but I know better. Some of the most picturesque settings have been the backdrop for the sickest, depraved actions I’ve ever witnessed.

A light breeze rustles the large, towering tree canopiesabove me. While the cool air initially soothes my heightened senses, the sound of creaking boughs makes my skin tingle with unseen dangers. I hurry over to the sidewalk where I can keep to the shadows. Taking a moment, I double-check my surroundings to ensure I'm not being followed. Satisfied I'm not being watched, I walk toward London’s home—fighting every step of the way not to run.

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