Silent Rescue. Melinda Di Lorenzo
man in a dark trench coat worn over a well-tailored suit was standing behind the woman. A poor-boy cap covered his head, a scarf obscured the bottom half of his face, and a pair of dark sunglasses blocked his eyes.
A tingle crept up along Brooks’s spine, then settled between his shoulder blades.
He’d tuned out Masters’s voice completely now, his attention focused entirely on the scene unfolding in front of him. He’d already set down his empty coffee cup. He kept his hands open and relaxed. He didn’t have to work on the pose at all. Years on the job—years of waiting patiently for the right moment while looking like he wasn’t waiting at all—bred a certain kind of readiness into a man. A second nature.
Brooks’s eyes flicked to the man in the cap. Then to the brunette. Then back.
The man leaned down and put his face at an even level with her ear. Brooks watched his mouth work silently above the scarf. Though he couldn’t hear a word, the intimacy of the conversation was obvious. Seconds later, the man put out his hand, palm up, and the woman reciprocated by placing her fingers in his.
A gold wedding band—on the woman’s left hand, but not on the man’s—caught the cold sun and glittered.
A total misread, Brooks realized.
It wasn’t a criminal activity. It was an affair.
He averted his eyes, embarrassed that he’d been so caught up in the brunette’s action that he’d attributed her nervousness to something dangerous, when in fact it was actually caused by something far more cliché.
You need to get back to work. For real.
“Masters,” he said loudly, interrupting the unending flow of the other man’s story and not caring in the least. “Did the captain say anything about when I can come home?”
The silence on the other end was a bad sign. Clearly, something had been said, and whatever it was...the news wasn’t good.
“C’mon,” his partner replied after a few weighted seconds. “Any of the guys would kill to be in your position. Paid leave in a foreign country? No collars to run down, no worrying about having some two-bit drug dealer shooting you in the—”
Brooks cut him off. “I’ll take that as a no.”
There was another pause, then a sigh. “We all know what hell you went through, Small. None of us would wish it on our worst enemies. But you lost control. A good man died.”
Regret hit Brooks straight in the gut. More painful than a gunshot wound, and far more lasting, too.
He refused to let it overwhelm him. “Parler slept with my informant. He got himself killed. And the girl, too. The man’s ‘goodness’ is questionable at best.”
This time, the blank air went on for so long that Brooks thought momentarily that his partner might’ve hung up. He knew better, though. Masters was simply giving him a chance to retract his statement. To let his brain catch up to his mouth. But he wasn’t going to give in to the silence.
I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a killer.
He didn’t realize he’d spoken the words aloud until Masters answered him.
“I know that, man. Anyone with his lid screwed on tight knows that. But when the chief’s favorite rookie winds up dead...”
The other man’s voice carried on, but Brooks had tuned him out again, this time because he really didn’t want to hear what Masters had to say.
His gaze drifted back toward the striking brunette, but she and her lover were gone.
Maybe to take their tryst to the next level. Maybe to—
Brooks’s musings cut off as he spotted them on the corner of the road.
The girl’s mouth was open in a silent cry, her body bent away from the man, who held her elbow tightly. Too tightly. The man lifted his other hand then and pressed it to the small of the woman’s back. Something metallic glinted in the small space between them.
Brooks leaped to his feet. His thighs slammed into the table hard enough to send the espresso cup rolling off. It smashed to the ground, and his jacket snagged on the chair again, leaving him stuck.
“Small?” Masters’s voice was full of concern.
“I have to go.”
“C—”
Whatever his partner had been about to say was lost as Brooks clicked the hang-up button. He abandoned his jacket, dropped the phone into his pocket and took off at a run.
Because he recognized that glint for what it was.
A gun.
* * *
Without warning, the man with the gun slid an arm around Maryse and pulled her back into a darkened doorway. He clamped a hand over her mouth, pushed the weapon into her back and warned her to keep quiet as a blurred figure went running by. Even with the freezing air surrounding her, and the thick winter coat acting as a buffer, the cool metal drove into her and made her shiver.
She wanted to recoil away from it. Almost as much as she wanted to recoil away from the man wielding it. The single glance she’d stolen before he bundled up his face was enough to make her chest squeeze with fear. His eyes were dark, angry slashes. His mouth no better. A terrible, star-shaped scar covered one cheek.
Maryse closed her eyes for just a second and reined in another shiver.
What were you expecting? she chastised silently. A kidnapper who looked like Santa Claus?
But truthfully, it didn’t matter what he looked like, any more than it mattered he had a weapon. The uncertainty of her daughter’s fate and the hope that this man would lead Maryse to her were more than enough to keep her quiet.
After several long minutes, he forced her back to the sidewalk. And as he led her through the warren of streets, she swore she could feel the cool metal barrel digging a little farther into the small of her back with each step.
Hold on, she told herself. Means to an end. This man knows where Cami is.
She resisted an urge to ask about Camille’s safety. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to hear the sound of her voice. When they’d left the hotel doors, she’d uttered a single word and he’d pinched her so hard that it still smarted.
Trying to distract herself, she glanced up at the nearest building and tried to place it. But it was too late to orient herself. They’d already managed to weave through a half dozen streets that blended together.
Rue Rouge.
Rue Laurent.
Rue...who knew what?
The corners came quickly, and the buildings were piled atop one another, each looking as drearily the same as the other.
Please, she prayed silently, just let her be okay.
In spite of her resolve not to show any emotion, tears pricked at her eyes. It got worse when she glanced up and saw a discarded doll hanging from the edge of a balcony. Normally, that kind of thing made her smile. This time, it made her cringe. Unconsciously, she slowed to stare. And it earned her yet another sharp jab.
“Go,” growled the gunman.
Maryse stumbled a little as they reached yet another corner, this one unmarked by any street sign at all. In her boot, one of her ankles twisted. Even though she tried to bite down and keep it in, a little cry escaped her lips.
Weakness, she chastised herself.
Not something she should be showing. Not if she wanted to negotiate her daughter’s release. The smallest chink in the armor could jeopardize that chance. So she ignored the searing pain that shot up her leg from her twisted ankle, and she let the man behind her push her on.
But they only made it four more steps—not