Twenty-Eight

Sabrina’s head was killing her.

The dull throb of it melded perfectly with the stabbing pain she felt every time she moved—or spoke or fucking breathed too hard—but at least it’d stopped bleeding.

She explained everything while Strickland drove. He said nothing, didn’t even seem to be listening, but she knew he heard every word she said.

Eventually she ran out of words and just sat there, waiting for her partner to come unglued on her. Silence filled the space between them for several long seconds before she finally snapped. “Say something,” she said.

Strickland just laughed. “What am I supposed to say exactly? Kidnapped grandsons of US Senators. Colombian drug lords. Spanish hit men. It’s all a bit above my pay grade, Vaughn.”

She wished she could say the same. “Let’s just focus on finding this Elm guy. Let O’Shea worry about the rest of it.”

“Speaking of—we’re here.” Strickland squeezed his unmarked car into a compact space in front a brick building in the downtown area, not far from the station.

The small lobby was deserted, the security desk unmanned. Sabrina felt a tingle run along her arm until it settled into a faint itch in the center of her gun hand. Looking at Strickland, she could see he felt it too. Something wasn’t right.

Finding the directory on the wall near the bank of elevators, they found a listing for Elm and took a car to the fifth floor. The doors slid open quietly onto a hallway just as deserted as the lobby. The stainless-steel sign across from the elevator was engraved with the words Elm Properties & Lending. They were in the right place.

Stepping into the hallway, the itch in her hand grew stronger. Three steps down the hall had her pulling her SIG off her hip. There was a man sprawled on the floor, half in and half out of what must’ve been his office. The brass plate on the door read Cole Nielsen.

Strickland crouched and felt for a pulse. Shaking his head, he rolled the man over to show her the clean, execution-style bullet hole drilled into the center of his forehead. The man was dead. Strickland scanned the floor and shook his head. “No brass,” he said in a barely audible whisper. Sabrina swept her gaze across the room. No shell casings. This wasn’t some disgruntled mail clerk who lost his marbles because he didn’t get a raise. Whoever did this was a professional.

Without asking, Strickland called it in before giving her a questioning look: Wait for backup?

She shook her head. There was no time for that.

Together they cleared the hall. Each office they passed had another dead body, each murdered with a bullet to the head. When they reached the breakroom, things took a turn. A shattered coffee pot littered the floor, shards of glass floating in a pool of cool brown liquid. A quick sweep told her everything she needed to know. A coffee mug lay in pieces next to the door, more coffee ran down the wall to her right. Someone had caught the shooter off guard. Fought back.

“Let’s move,” she said quietly, sliding through the doorway, Strickland doing his best to get in front of her. Finally reaching the end of the hall, they found Elm’s office. They discovered who she assumed was Elm’s secretary, crammed under her desk, the damage of several bullets destroying her face. Looks like they found their fighter.

The door to the left of the desk was closed and they approached it silently, each of them pressed against opposite sides of the doorway. Strickland signaled that he would take point, and she shook her head no. He narrowed his eyes at her and before she could launch another protest, he turned the knob and flung the door open.

“SFPD! Show me your hands!” he called out. Sabrina hurled herself around the corner, SIG trained on the spot directly over Strickland’s shoulder, at the man standing over who she was sure was a very dead Walter Elm. He stood facing them, face tipped down, but his sheer size was all she needed to see to recognize him. Hatred squeezed every part of her, tightening her finger around the trigger until she was sure it would fire.

“Drop the gun, Lark, or I drop you. Your choice. And please keep in mind that I’m sincerely hoping for the latter.” The words were delivered in a calm cool tone at complete odds with the white-hot anger that scorched its way through her veins.

Lark looked up at her, his bald head tipping back until his eyes met hers. He smiled, his dimples popping out as the smile deepened into a grin. “Well, if it ain’t the Lady Cop. Guess this means I’m livin’ right.”

She smirked. “Or it means it’s gonna be my pleasure to punch your ticket and send you straight to hell. Put the gun down. Last time I’m gonna say it.”

Lark chuckled and showed her his hands. The full-size 9mm he held looked like a child’s toy, even with the benefit of the silencer-extended barrel. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh, that’s a relief, because it looks like you systematically executed an entire building full of people,” she said.

“This isn’t my mess. I got here about thirty seconds before your partner stuck his gun in my face.” As if to prove it, he stooped and laid the gun on the floor before straightening slowly. “I’m here with the Wonder Twins. Call O’Shea and ask him,” he said, hands still raised to shoulder height. “On second thought, call Ben; O’Shea’d probably just tell you to kill me.”

“Is it just my imagination, or do you know every asshole and dirtbag in existence, Vaughn?” Strickland said, his service weapon still trained on Lark’s chest.

“It’s not your imagination,” she said under her breath, trying to figure out what to do next. Normally she’d cuff and frisk him, but that wasn’t happening. Not with Lark. Getting within arm’s length of him would be a huge mistake, but time was wasting. Backup was blocks away. She could hear sirens wailing in the distance, growing louder by the second. “Listen to me, Strickland. I’m lowering my weapon to make a phone call. If he so much as winks at you, start shooting and don’t stop until your clip runs dry.”