Page 139 of Beat of Love
Stirling grabbed his arm before he could bolt. “He’s at my home. Security’s tight.”
Rafferty spun, yanking free. “Home security won’t stop her,” he growled.
“Thentell mewho we’re dealing with. I need to assess the threat.”
“Her name is Kamila Carvalho. And she’s a monster,” Rafferty said through clenched teeth. “A true sociopath. One who killed an innocent woman to lure me here.”
“And why is she so hellbent on you?”
“Because I betrayed her. And I burned her fucking empire to the ground.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Lawson.”
Rafferty tilted his head. “You really don’t recognize the name?”
“Carvalho rings a bell, but—”
“What about theFantasma Cartel?”
Stirling’s face went still. Then, “Fantasma— Carvalho!Fuck. She’s part of that family?”
“No,” Rafferty said grimly. “Sheisthe family. TheChefe. And she’s had four days to plan her next move.”
40
Lockdown
It was past nine when Rafferty finally entered his hotel room. Bone weary, he dropped his duffle on the luggage rack, yanked off his jacket, and flung it across the bed. His boots were next, and he crossed the floor to the bathroom, stripping as he went.
The water was scalding. Hot enough to burn away the grime of the day — though not nearly hot enough to scorch the memory of her face from behind his eyes.
Rafferty planted both hands against the tiled wall, head bowed, steam rising around him like smoke from a fire that refused to die out. His muscles ached — not from exertion, but from being wound so tight for so long.
He replayed the afternoon like a tactical report, each beat as sharp and cold as the steel table he’d sat at in Stirling’s office.
Sheriff Stirling had moved fast after the call. First, he’d called his wife. A quiet but chilling phone call.“Connor’s in danger. Go into lockdown with the kids, babe,” he’d said. “I’m sending deputies to take the perimeter.”
And the man had slammed the brakes on Rafferty’s request to see the boy.
“Not until Children Services clears it,” Stirling had said. Final. Unflinching.
Rafferty had wanted to rage. He’d wanted to shout that time was a luxury they didn’t have — that Kamila wouldn’t wait for a social worker to give the green light before making her next move. He needed to grab the kid and hightail it back to Texas.
But he’d bitten it back. Barely.
Stirling didn’t look like a man who would knowingly put his own wife and children at risk. Rafferty had to trust the boy was safe.
Water thundered against the back of his neck. He reached up, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. They burned — from the heat, the stress, the fucking weight of it all.
He’d been locked down himself, a separate kind of prison. A “secure” room in the Sheriff’s Office, bristling with tension and armed DEA agents Hannigan had rustled up with terrifying speed. Locals, mostly — green around the edges, and none of them ready for Kamila Carvalho.
Hannigan himself was in the air. Still eight hours out. Maybe more. Thunderstorms rolled across the Midwest like a bad omen. They had a meeting set for zero-eight-hundred.
He’d called Daniel on a secure line and explained the situation. The Lawson ranch was on high alert now. For all he knew, Kamila was orchestrating something down there, too — a two-front offensive.
The steam swirled around him, and he pressed his forehead to the cold tile.
His breath was ragged.
