Chapter Thirteen

 

He woke early after a long, fitful night with little sleep and heavy thoughts. Slattery had made up his mind what he wanted to do, and he decided he would execute it with military precision. During the long hours he’d reviewed everything he knew about The Swan, all he suspected. He’d come up with a mental list of things he needed to find out, questions he should ask, and names of who he suspected might be the prime players. Sabetha slept beside him and he managed to untangle without waking her.

Slattery took a swift shower, shaved, popped his meds, and dressed in simple jeans and a black T-shirt. He made coffee, drank a single cup, but he didn’t eat anything. When in battle mode, he never did or his stomach suffered. He stood over the bed where Sabetha slept and watched her for several minutes, committing her beauty to memory. If anything went awry and he didn’t come back, hers was the face he wanted to remember. He almost woke her but didn’t. She might want to come, and she’d probably try to talk him out of his plan. So he scribbled a note and left it beside the coffeepot, held in place with her mug.

I have to go take care of business. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you, now and always, Pride.

Then, he picked up his keys and slipped out the door without a sound. His Glock was tucked into an ankle holster, and he planned to swing by his place to get another weapon. If things went down hard, Slattery needed to be prepared. He would also pick up a laundry basket of dirty clothes to make his entrance into the laundromat appear normal.

He’d planned a tight schedule and it seemed imperative everything go according to his plan. Things began to go awry from the moment he pulled out into traffic. Slattery managed to hit morning drive time at its peak, so every street and especially the major thoroughfares were clogged. Vehicles of every size and type inched along in slow procession. Frustrated, he drummed his fingers against the wheel and cursed beneath his breath. A traffic accident a few blocks from his apartment further brought things to a crawl. The trip he’d figured should take twenty minutes stretched into an hour, maybe a little more.

Deep in his pocket, his cell phone buzzed until he gave in and answered it.

“What are you doing?” Sabetha asked. “Pride, please come home and let’s talk about it first.”

I never should have brought the damn phone. “Can’t, honey,” he said. “I need to take of this, and then I’m free. Then we’ll talk about the future—our future.”

“If anything goes wrong, we won’t have one to discuss.”

Although her tone remained even, he heard the hidden tears in her voice. God, he wanted to drop this quest and rush back to her but he had to complete what he’d started. It was a matter of pride.

“Nothing will, Sabetha. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“I’ll wait here. I’m not doing my show today. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

“Go to work. It’ll keep your mind off me.”

She snorted into the phone. “I don’t know. Maybe I should. Oh, Slattery, why did you have to do this?”

“I just do. I’ll call you when it’s over. I love you.”

“You know I love you too.”

Slattery hung up and turned off the phone. Sabetha distracted him from being focused. The delays already made him antsy, and her concern increased his inner tension. It would be so easy to change his mind and end it. One phone call to Beckett, one formal letter of resignation, and he’d be finished. No Atlanta would loom in his future, no danger, no bust to make, nothing but figuring out what to do with the rest of his life with the woman he loved. Damn, the temptation tasted sweet, but Slattery resisted and drove onward.

At his apartment building, the sight of two police cruisers parked at the curb, emergency lights still flashing, caught him short. He parked down the block and walked toward his place. A uniformed officer stopped him. “You can’t enter, sir. We have a situation here, vandalism and threats to law enforcement.”

“I live here,” he said and pulled out his badge, something he seldom did. “It may be directed at me.

“Pride Slattery?”

“That’s me. How’d you know?”

“Homeland Security’s on this one. They had a team here before we could get on scene.”

Slattery sighed. “Where’s Beckett?”

“Inside, sir,” the officer said. “You can go in through this door…”

“I don’t need directions.”

He came to a halt at his door. Huge red letters spelled out “PIG” so fresh it still dripped. The shade matched human blood but he could smell the latex. Still, Slattery touched it with one finger. Yeah, it was paint. He pushed open the door and walked into his apartment.

Chaos reigned. His bed had been stripped with the covers tossed in multiple directions. The chest of drawers had been tipped with the contents spilled. More painted words marred the wall, more “Pig”, one “Cop”, and one read “Kill Pigs”. He walked around the mess, retrieved his .45 Colt from a box beneath the bed, and pulled out a sharp combat knife from another.

The stench of fresh excrement soured in his nose, and when he peeked into the bathroom, Slattery saw why. Someone had taken a large, nasty dump in his shower. They’d also strewn the contents of his storage shelves around the room.

Beckett stood in the kitchen doorway, phone to one ear, as he glanced up to see Slattery. He snapped a few more words into the receiver before ending the call.

“Did someone call you?”

“No, I planned on stopping by to get some of my stuff. What the hell happened?”

“I told you that your cover had been compromised. It would appear some of the people you had in your sights came after you. Good damn thing you weren’t home since they figured out where you live. Where have you been bunking anyway?”

Initial shock began to yield to a cold, numb fear. “I’ve been with a friend.”

Beckett snorted. “Is it the woman who was with you in Malibu? By now, I imagine they’ve made her too. Is she with you?”

Sabetha’s in danger, and I put her there. “No.” Slattery dredged the word up through his desert-dry throat. “She’s not.”

“Where is she?”

If anything happened to her, he would blame himself. “I’m not sure. If she’s home, it’s on Rossmore. She might be at work though.” He gave the street address of her apartment and the call letters of the radio station. I’ll go find her.”

“We’ll take care of it. What’s her name?”

“Sabetha,” he said. “Sabetha Hill, but I’m going myself.”

Slattery already had his phone turned back on and in his hand. Without waiting to hear Beckett’s response, he dialed her number. It rang and went to voice mail three times in a row. Maybe she’s on the air, he thought with desperation. She can’t answer now. He hadn’t realized he’d memorized the radio station number until he dialed it. A light, cheerful feminine voice answered with the call letters.

“I need to speak to Sabetha Hill,” he said. “It’s an emergency. Tell her it’s Pride.”

“I’m sorry, but Ms. Hill didn’t come into the studio today. I can take a message.”

“No thanks.”

He whirled around and Beckett caught him by the arm. “Slow down. You can’t go after her like this. Let me send some people.”

“Send whoever the hell you like, but I’m going. She’s my woman, Beckett.”

Beckett’s hard eyes softened. “Goddamn it. I’m sorry, Pride. We’ll find her.”

Sure, they would. Slattery didn’t doubt it, but the question was whether or not she would still be alive or unharmed. Since coming to roost in Los Angeles, he’d seen plenty of vicious ugliness. It hadn’t touched him when he didn’t care, when he had nothing to lose. Now he had everything, so it mattered very much. “Damned straight,” he replied with a bravado he had to fake. “I’m going now. If you find her, I’m the first to know.”

Slattery didn’t wait for an answer. He ran to his car, turned the key, and took off with a rush of speed. First stop would be her apartment. If everything went right, if there was a God who gazed down from heaven with loving kindness, Sabetha would be there, whole and safe. Maybe she’d been in the shower when he called or had stepped out for something. She might have fallen asleep again or had earphones in while listening to music, he reasoned. Or the ringer on her cell had been turned down or even off.

He stopped himself, knowing these were lame excuses and unlikely. He made the trip in half the time it normally took, far shorter than earlier. Slattery coasted through yellow lights turning red, passed other vehicles, and pushed past the speed limit. When he reached her place on Roscommon, the neighborhood appeared serene with nothing out of place. After parking at the curb, Slattery dashed into the building and up the stairs, pulling out the key she’d given him.

Without pausing to knock, he let himself inside and called her name with urgency. His gut tightened into a knot as he waited but no answer came. The living room loomed empty so he poked his head into the kitchen. His note had vanished and the coffeepot had been emptied, resting clean on the counter. In the bathroom, steam still coated the mirror from Sabetha’s shower and the scent of her floral body wash lingered. He checked the bedroom last and found it empty. The bed had been neatly made, nothing appeared out of order, and her full laundry basket rested in the appropriate corner. Everything remained in place, intact.

With a huge sigh, Slattery sat down on the edge of the bed and buried his face in both hands. He’d feared the apartment might be trashed the way he’d found his. Relief made him light-headed for a moment, but until he located Sabetha, he would live in fear. His body geared up for a fight, adrenalin pumping, muscles tense and ready, and mind whirling with images of the past.

Slattery focused on the core crisis—finding Sabetha. His mind blanked out everything else. If he allowed himself to think too much, he wouldn’t be able to cope. Both hands trembled as he lifted his face to stare at the wall. His right leg began bouncing up and down with nervous rhythm, and the phantom pain in his left surged to high levels. Although he knew stress accelerated it, it still hurt and he craved alcohol to dull it. He needed a clear head, though, to find Sabetha, so he resisted the powerful craving with difficulty.

Think, you useless bastard, think, he told himself. He tried to figure out where she might have been taken. Whoever trashed his place had violent tendencies and a score to settle. He must have been closer than he’d believed to information that would bring them down.

His head reeled with sounds and sights he knew were not real in the here and now. The roar of helicopter rotors echoed through his mind, and the heated desert breezes brushed across his skin. Slattery’s body ached with the fatigue of long days, little sleep, and constant fear. He drew deeper within, ready to retreat, his fight gone. He wanted to sleep and never think again about anything.

A small sound sliced into his fogged consciousness, a tinkling noise like a merry bell or wind chimes swaying in the wind. At first Slattery ignored, tried to block it out, but he couldn’t. Something about it gnawed through his fugue. It represented something important, so he emerged from his tormented past to total recall. Slattery remembered it was his cell phone, and the sound was the ringtone he’d assigned Sabetha. He jerked himself back to reality and focused with all he had to give.

“Hello!”

“Hey, Slattery,” Sabetha said. Her voice sounded calm, as placid as the Pacific on a perfect day. “I tried to call earlier but you didn’t answer so I was a little freaked. Where are you?”

He scraped his voice up from the floor of his soul and forced it up his throat with effort.

“I’m at your place. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “You don’t sound very good, though. What happened? Is something wrong?”

Slattery shook his head in an effort to clear it. “I’m all right. I thought you might not be, honey. Someone trashed my apartment.”

“Oh, my God,” she responded. “Was it a break-in? Did they steal anything?”

“I don’t think so. They targeted me because they know I’m in law enforcement. Where are you? I know you’re not at work because I tried to call you there.”

Sabetha laughed, and he loved the sound. It eased some of his inner anguish and lightened his darkness. “I wanted to get out of the house and distract myself from worrying so I came down to Hollywood Boulevard, you know, where we met. All the crazy little shops, the tourists, and the bling always lift my spirits, so I’m over here.”

His momentary respite from panic vanished. Concern shifted into anger as his anxiety ramped higher. “That’s the worst place you could possibly be,” he shouted. “Damn it, Sabetha, you’re in danger. I am, you are. I want you to get out of there ASAP.”

“And go where?” she asked, her tone sharper than before.

Her question caught him unaware. He didn’t want her home. Just because the thugs who’d demolished his place hadn’t visited yet, it didn’t mean they wouldn’t. “Go to a hotel,” he said. “Find an upscale one, no budget motels, one with plenty of security, and call me when you get there. If I don’t answer, leave a message.”

“Slattery, you’re scaring the hell out of me.”

“Good,” he replied. “I’m trying to.”

“And where will you be?”

“Finishing what I started.”

“Are you mad at me?” Her voice dropped low and soft.

Slattery sighed. “No, honey, I’m not, just worried. Listen…”

She interrupted him. “Slattery, there’s two guys coming toward me. They don’t look friendly.”

“Run! Go into a store, hide, but get out of there.”

“There’s nowhere…” Her voice trailed away and he listened to two men’s voices. Sabetha screamed and Slattery leapt to his feet as if he could somehow help.

“Honey, talk to me,” he said.

She screamed again and then the sounds became muffled. At first he thought she’d dropped the phone and expected the call to end but it didn’t. His fingers had moved to end the call, but he ceased as understanding struck. Sabetha hadn’t dropped the phone—instead she had thrust it into her pocket. If he kept the line between them open, he had a better chance of locating her. Although he had no idea how to go about it, Slattery knew the technology to trace a phone existed. Beckett would know or know someone who did.

He planned to make a call until he realized if he did, he would disconnect Sabetha. Slattery stared at the phone in his hands, listening to the muted sounds. He heard her voice over the faint Latino-tinged voices, and with clarity she said, “That’s Hollywood and Highland, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, bitch,” one of the men said, his voice low and threatening.

Slattery drew a deep, harsh breath. His PTSD-induced anxieties and fears threatened to overwhelm him, to render him helpless, but he fought against it. If he yielded, he surrendered everything that mattered. He could help her. He had to go and do whatever might be necessary to rescue her. There was no one else and no time to deliberate.

He became a soldier and with that mindset, Slattery set out to fight for the one thing he had that mattered—Sabetha.