“I don’t know!” I cry, throwing my hand up again before slapping it down on my thigh.
“Alright. I’ll call them. Just sit tight and stay calm, Gracie Bean. I’m on my way, okay?”
Mitsy resumes snapping at my heels while I pace. Her jaw locks on the back of my ankle. I jerk my leg around to free it, but she must have a tooth snagged in the denim of my jeans. She skids across the sleek timber flooring, taking a long line of thread with her. The entire hem begins to unravel as she scrambles to her feet and runs off, panicked at being hooked. “Goddammit!” I shriek. I’m still attached and the thread pulls so tight around my angle it cuts off circulation.
“I said stay calm,” Henry enunciates into the phone.
“I am calm,” I growl as I reach down to yank the thread free.
“It’s not good for your health to—”
“Just shut your face and get here.”
JAKE
I sit on a chair inside a dark and musty, cavernous warehouse. My wrists are bound with thick duct tape to the arms of the chair. My knees are also bound, along with my ankles, to the wooden legs. They’re taking no chances with my potential escape.
My head hangs low. I can’t hold it up. My left eye is swollen shut and my right is blurry. I took a bat to the head just above it. I can’t touch the area to assess the damage, but I figure the socket is fractured and it’s filling with blood. The simple white tee shirt I wore has been ripped off and TRAITOR carved across my chest with a sharp, double-edged dagger. A rib is broken on my right side. There was an immense crack when Boyd slammed his fist into my mid-section again and again, the sound like splintering wood. White hot pain turned my stomach inside out. It’s now a steady throb. I fear a rib has punctured my lung because there’s a stabbing pain in my chest every time I inhale. The King Street Boys want justice, and they want their justice in blood.
Mitch had contacted me the same day we returned from touring with the idea of being bait. The gang has apparently been keeping tabs on me since I ran into Ross at Steve Valentine’s retirement party. Mitch advised they were biding their time until an opportunity became available for them to grab me. The Sydney police were going to provide them that opportunity because they needed me. Intel had given them the date and the time of the drug bust, but the location was still an unknown. With a small slimline tracker planted inside the lining of my shoe, I would be the one to provide that last, vital piece of information.
A covert task force should be in motion right now with warrants, raiding homes and member lodgings, bringing in every single member, including politicians, celebrities, and government officials. If everything has gone to plan, this warehouse should be surrounded, the bust netting them Ross, our nefarious leader, Boyd, head of security, and several other high-ranking lieutenants who are in the back room of this warehouse.
I honestly don’t know if I’m going to survive this and judging by the grave tone in Mitch’s voice when he sent me off with the tracker, he doesn’t know either. But there was no choice. I had to go through with it. I had to try.
“You think you can just walk away from the King Street Boys?”
The voice is deep. Familiar. It has me lifting my head with effort and squinting my right eye to focus on the man walking toward me. He’s wearing a sharp suit and polished shoes. His light blue eyes are cold and cruel.
My reply is a grunt. It’s all I can manage.
He gets closer until he stands before me. I gather all the saliva I can produce and spit on his shoes. It coats the expensive Italian leather, the bloodied mess oozing into the finely crafted stitching. It brings me only a small amount of satisfaction.
He hisses and cracks the back of his palm across my face. The assault sends fresh waves of pain rolling through my stomach. He lifts his foot and wipes the mess across the leg of my jeans. Then he takes a step back, out of spitting distance.
MITCH VALENTINE
I stand there useless as my sister walks toward the building filled with a dangerous nest of merciless criminals. My heart is in my throat.
If I intervene my career will be in tatters and Operation Strike, along with years’ worth of hard work, will go bust.
My radio crackles. A solitary word comes through from a familiar voice. A voice that never fails to send heat licking down my spine. A voice of lilting Spanish from a detective in our squad who knows me better than I know myself. “Valentine,” she says.
Her tone is thick with urgency, but there’s also encouragement. She’s imploring me to go. Gabriella Valdez is of Spanish descent, which has given her striking features. Deep, sexy eyes, sharp eyebrows that convey power and authority, and rich dark hair so long and wavy it reaches the small of her back. She’s been a detective in our squad for just three short months after years of undercover work with the Vipers, an insidious motorcycle gang that hooked her on drugs and almost ended her life.
She’s also the girl I loved throughout my years studying at Charles Sturt University. I convinced myself that my love for her died a slow death when she up and disappeared after graduation. But her reappearance, showing up at my father’s retirement party, changes everything.
That love reignited of its own accord like a fuse lying dormant. All it needed was one look, one touch, and that spark caught fire. But I can’t think of it now. I can’t think of her, or worry about how she’s stationed on the far side, long hair in a thick braid, torso strapped with a bullet-proof vest, waiting for the signal to storm the warehouse.
All I can think of is that she has my back. She’s telling me to go. And she’s right. When it comes down to it—this bust, the eradication of the King Street Boys, my career—it all means nothing when it comes to my sister’s life.
Mac being here is my fault. I shouldn’t have used Romero as bait. Not when I know how much she loves him. And not without telling her. She wouldn’t even be here if I had kept her in the loop. I would’ve expected it of my brothers. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t expect it of us. I made a mistake and need to apologise. We all do. Mac spent her whole life demanding our courtesy and respect and what we gave her was never enough.
Now it’s on me to get her out, but I can’t do it alone. I click the button on my radio. “Valdez.”
“Si,” she responds. Yes.
My mouth is dry. I’m wrong for asking. But knowing that isn’t enough to stop me. “Back me up?”
Her tone is soft when it’s usually severe. “Siempre, Mitchell Valentine.”
Always.
My chest aches with gratitude. Gabriella knows what family means. At least when my career goes down in a blazing trail of condemnation, and demotion after demotion, I can explain that she was simply following orders.
I click the button on the radio to speak. I love you. Then I slide it off before the words escape my throat. Now is not the time. But later. Before this day is over, I’m going to remind her that true love never really dies.
MAC