Baltimore [3.5] Broken Silence (8 page)

‘Big consequences for a little juice spill,’ Grayson said. ‘So, why did Amber ditch Brock?’

‘That we don’t know,’ Joseph said. ‘Either there was trouble in paradise or she decided she didn’t want to share the spoils. Brock may have been prone to rage. We found needles and a supply of anabolic steroids in the Mercedes and it looked like he was on a high dose. Which explains how he walked through the pain of being shot without slowing down.’

‘What about the kids? What was she going to do with them?’

Daphne’s blood went cold. ‘We found phone numbers in Brock’s wallet. One was a fence – they planned to sell the jewelry to him. One was a lawyer who specializes in “private adoptions,” particularly to wealthy people who can’t pass the background checks for legitimate adoption. That would have been Zarya. The third . . . It’s good I’m on this side of the glass. Amber is evil.’

‘Down, girl,’ Joseph said, but she knew he was equally enraged. ‘You’ll get your chance at her in court. One of Brock’s contacts was a man the FBI has been watching for producing and distributing child porn. That Brock had made a note that the man would take Lana for a certain price allowed the Minneapolis field office to get a warrant. Brock’s friend is now in custody.’

Grayson shook his head. ‘You think you’ve seen everything, every low-life scum on the planet, but there’s always one more who comes crawling out from under his rock.’ He gave Daphne a steady look. ‘Thanks for not listening to me about the leave. You did good, sugar.’

She smiled, bumping him lightly with her shoulder. ‘Thanks.’ They watched a while in silence as Kate crossed all her t’s, ignoring Amber’s crocodile tears. Grayson was right. There would always be Ambers who would target the vulnerable. And even when the good guys won a battle, there were always casualties. Like little Svetlana, Daphne thought, a child who’d always bear the emotional scars of the unspeakable violence she’d seen.
Like me
. Like far too many others.

There would always be social workers who’d try to help, to heal the emotional scars. Like Heidi Breckenridge, Daphne thought, swallowing hard.

But as dedicated as they might be, there weren’t enough healers for all the casualties of this war.
We need more healers
. The excitement she’d felt that morning was renewed.

‘I’m starting a foundation,’ she announced with a nod. ‘For children victimized by violence. We’ll do equine therapy for free. We’re going to start by spring. I have a plan.’

‘Oh,’ Grayson said, unsurprised.

‘Good,’ Joseph said.

She looked at one brother, then the other. ‘Oh? Good? That’s all you have to say?’

‘We all knew you would,’ Joseph said. ‘You support women’s issues. It was only a matter of time before you turned your do-gooder sights on the small fry.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s this “we all” who know my mind before I do?’

‘Me and Paige,’ Grayson said. Paige was his fiancée and Daphne’s best friend. ‘Clay, too.’ Clay was another true friend. ‘JD and Lucy. Joseph, of course. You know. All your friends. The people who love you. So, does your new foundation have a name?’

Her eyes stung. ‘I was thinking about “Healing Hearts through Horses.”’

Grayson turned back to the glass. ‘That sounds pretty damn good to me.’

Joseph slid an arm around Daphne’s waist and pulled her closer. ‘Sounds like you’ll be busy, getting this ready before spring. I guess this means more take-out and less home cooking, huh?’

‘Maybe we’ll eat take-out, but I still have plenty of aprons,’ she whispered.

Joseph kissed her forehead. ‘I can live with that.’

Dear Reader,

I hope you’ve enjoyed
Broken Silence
.

When I finished writing
Did You Miss Me?
, I had the nagging feeling that there was more, that Daphne’s story wasn’t yet complete. I realized that although she had faced the demons of her past, she hadn’t yet reached closure.
Broken Silence
gives Daphne that closure. You’ll read more about her equine therapy program in my next novel,
Watch Your Back
.

If you like this world, you also might want to check out my novella
Dirty Secrets
(which was originally published as part of the anthology
Hot Pursuit
, but will be available as a stand-alone eBook in January 2014). I wrote this novella several years before I began the Baltimore series, but found that the characters in
Dirty Secrets
also connected to those in
Watch Your Back
.

They’re all in the same world of Baltimore cops and prosecutors who are featured in my novels
You Belong To Me
(2011),
No One Left To Tell
(2012) and
Did You Miss Me?
(2013). If you’d like a sneak peak at their world, read on!

Best,

Karen Rose

Turn the page for an exclusive preview of the first chapter from the upcoming

Out in hardback and eBook on 7
^th
November 2013

Go to
www.headline.co.uk
to learn more about pre-ordering your copy

Eight years earlier, Baltimore, Maryland, Thursday,
March 15, 5.45
P.M.

I
can’t. I can’t do this
.

The words thundered in John Hudson’s mind, drowning out the beep of the cash register at the front of the convenience store. The customer at the counter paid for her purchases, then left, oblivious to the fact that the guy standing in front of the motor oil was a cold-blooded killer.

But I’m
not
a killer.
Not yet.

But you will be. In less than five minutes, you will be.
Desperation grabbed his throat, churned his gut. Made his heart beat too hard and too fast.
I can’t. God help me, I
cannot
do this.

You have to.
The small print on the back of the bottle of motor oil he pretended to study blurred as his eyes filled with hot tears. He knew what he had to do.

John put the bottle back on the shelf, his hand trembling. He closed his eyes, felt the burn as the tears streaked down his wind-chapped cheeks. He swiped a knuckle under his eyes, the wool of his gloves scraping his skin. Blindly he chose another bottle, conscious of the seconds ticking by. Conscious of the risk, of the cost if he followed through. And if he did not.

The text had come that morning. There had been no words. None had been needed. The photo attached had been more than sufficient.

Sam. My boy.

His son was no longer a boy. John knew that. At twenty-two his son was a man. But John also knew he’d lost the best years of his son’s life because he couldn’t recall much from that time. He’d spent them snorting and shooting up, filling his body with what he couldn’t live without. Even now, standing here, he was high. Just enough to be borderline functional, but not enough to dull the horror of what he was about to do.

His addiction had nearly killed him too many times to count. It had pushed him to beat his wife in a frenzied rage, nearly killing her. Now it was killing Sam.

His son had pulled himself out of the neighborhood, kept himself clean. Straight. Sam had a future. Or he would, if John did what he was supposed to do.

God. How can I?
His hand trembling, John flipped his phone open to the photo that had been texted to him that day – his son bound, unconscious, a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth. Tied to a chair, his head lolling to the side. A gloved hand holding a gun to his head.

How can I? How can I not?

The assignment had originally come via text yesterday morning from a number John had hoped he’d never see. He’d made a desperate deal with the devil and payment had come due. His target had been identified, the time and place specified.

The target came to this store every evening on his way home from work. John just had to show up. Do the job. Make it look unplanned. Wrong place, wrong time.

But he hadn’t been able to do it yesterday. Hadn’t been able to force himself to walk inside the store. Hadn’t been able to force himself to pull the trigger.

So the ante had been upped, the second text sent, this time with the photo. And Sam was the pawn.
Son. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

John heard the quiet beep of the door as it opened.
Please don’t let it be him. Please don’t let him stop here today. Please.

But if it’s not him, you can’t kill him. And then Sam will die.

‘Hey, Paul.’ The greeting had come from the cashier, a fifty-something African-American woman who greeted several of her customers by name. ‘What’s shakin’ in the hallowed halls?’

John’s heart sank.
It’s him. Make your move.

‘Same old, same old,’ Paul replied, a weariness to his voice that somehow made John’s task seem even worse. ‘Cops put them in jail, we do our best to throw away the key. Most of the time they’re back on the street so fast, the door doesn’t even hit them in the ass.’

‘Damn defense attorneys,’ the cashier muttered. ‘Same old, same old on the numbers, too?’

‘My mother is a creature of habit,’ Paul said, his chuckle now rueful.

‘You’re a good boy to pick up her lotto tickets every day, Paul.’

‘It makes her happy,’ he said simply. ‘She doesn’t ask for much.’

Just do it! Before he makes you like him even more.

He edged to the end of the aisle, closer to the cash register. Pretending to scratch his head, he reached up under his Orioles baseball cap to yank down the ski mask he’d hidden under it to cover his face. It could be worse. The three of them were the only ones in the store. If he had to dispose of a lot of witnesses . . . That would be much worse.

‘That’ll be ten bucks,’ the cashier said. ‘How’s your wife, Paul? Pregnancy going okay?’

His wife is pregnant. Don’t do this. For the love of God, do not do this.

Ignoring the screaming in his head, John wheeled around, drawing his gun.

‘Everybody freeze,’ John growled. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

The cashier froze and John’s target paled, his hands lifted, palms out. ‘Give him what he wants, Lilah,’ Paul said quietly. ‘Nothing in this store is worth your life.’

‘What do you want?’ the cashier whispered.

Not this. I don’t want this.

Do it. Or Sam will die.
Of this John had no doubt. The photo he’d been sent flashed in to his mind. The gloved hand holding the gun to his son’s head had killed before. He would kill Sam.

Do. It.

Hand shaking, John pointed the gun at Paul’s chest and pulled the trigger. Lilah screamed as the man went down. John caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Lilah had retrieved a gun from below the counter. Clenching his jaw, John pulled the trigger a second time and Lilah crumpled to the counter, blood pooling around the hole he had just put in her head.

It’s done.
Nausea churned in his gut.
Get out of here before you throw up.

He took a step toward the door when he froze, stunned. Paul was struggling to his knees. There was no blood on the man’s white shirt. Holes, but no blood. Understanding dawned. The man wore a vest.

What the fucking hell?
John lifted his gun, aiming at the man’s forehead.

The shrill beep of the door opening had him glancing to the left.

‘Daddy!’

Oh hell. A little boy.
The devil had never said anything about a kid.

Fucking hell. Now what? What do I do now?

What happened next, happened fast. Too fast. Paul lunged toward John, grabbing for the gun. They fought, and John tried to pry the man’s hand away.

I need a clear shot. Just one clear shot.
He’d aimed at his target’s arm, just to shake him loose, when the little boy charged, fists balled, screaming, ‘Daddy!’

John fired and Paul cried out in pain. And the child went silent.

Horrified, John and Paul looked to the boy who lay on the floor in a bloody heap. The bullet had gone through Paul’s arm and into the boy. Into his chest. The child wasn’t breathing.

No. He’ll die. I’ve killed a little boy. Oh my God. No. No. ‘No,’
he gritted out.

Paul collapsed to the floor, shielding the boy with his own body. ‘Get away from him,’ he snarled. He checked the boy’s pulse, tried to stop the bleeding, his hands shaking and desperate. ‘Paulie,’ he shouted. ‘Paulie, it’s Daddy. I’m here. I’m gonna take care of you. You’re gonna be okay. Just . . . keep listening to me, son. Listen to my voice. You’re gonna be okay.’