Page 34 of Always Been Mine (Always #2)

“Need a break, babe?”

He knew he was being too easy on her, refusing to push her.

His experience in the military had prepared him for every type of questioning.

But having a personal stake in her, he probably wasn’t the best person to do this, and should’ve let one of Travis’s guys do it.

However, Gabe’s instinct to protect won out.

“What did they say after they came back into the room?” He braced himself for what was to come. He just prayed he could keep it together.

“You know,” Beatrice whispered and held out her arms, “this happened.”

“They didn’t say anything?”

She pressed her lips in a thin line and concentrated on a spot on the table. “Just that if I fought, it would hurt more. And they were just sending a message. ”

Gabe’s fingers curled into fists before him. Don’t lose your shit, Sullivan . He breathed deeply. “How close was the voice?”

“He was right by my ear.”

“Did you recognize the voice this time?”

“It was raspy, deliberately low. So, no.”

“Think, Beatrice. Earlier, you said the altered voice seemed to have an inflection you recognized.”

She closed her eyes for a second as if trying to recall the events. When her green eyes met his once more, the agony in them clawed at his insides.

“No,” she whispered.

“Okay,” Gabe relented. “Can you tell me how many people were in the room?”

“I think there were three of them. I was still blindfolded.” She looked at him pleadingly. “That’s all I remember, Gabe. Are we done?”

“Did you lose consciousness or were you sedated?”

“I don’t know!” Beatrice snapped. “Pain, Gabe, that’s all I remember.

And screaming. I don’t know . . . I don’t know .

. .” she mumbled over and over. She had tried to wrap her arms around her earlier but winced and realized her forearms were fucked up.

Right now, the fingers of her left hand were digging into her right palm.

Christ, he hated himself right now. Gabe immediately turned off the recorder, got out of his chair, and knelt in front of her. He folded her hands in his and said gently, “Hey, we’re done, okay?”

“I’m sorry if I can’t provide anything useful,” she sniffed. “It’s just that they kept me drugged up most of the time.”

“We got a sketch of one of the guys who abducted you, that’s something,” Gabe said. Not to mention Rhino had mangled his arm.

“What are we doing next?”

“I doubt the guy Rhino injured has sought medical attention in area hospitals, but it’s worth checking out. I’ll call around.” Gabe looked at her. “Do you mind hanging around DC for a while or do you want me to take you back to the safe house?”

“You can drop me off at BSI if you’ve got stuff to do. I’ll be safe there.”

Gabe rose from his crouch and sat on the table. “Who’s usually at BSI at this time?”

“Close to lunch? Probably, Emily. Sometimes Travis is around,” Beatrice said.

“I don’t want to leave you without a bodyguard. Didn’t Travis mention this guy Sam Harper?”

“Travis called me this morning. Sam can start tomorrow. Let me call Em and see who’s at the office.”

Gabe nodded. He hadn’t worked security in a team in a while.

Being an assassin, he worked alone, only using intel he acquired from Crowe.

Remembering his former partner reminded him that Ryker’s link to Crowe had yet to be investigated.

Judging from the debrief, Beatrice’s abductors had intimate knowledge of Dmitry Yerzov’s kill roll and methods, but it seemed they didn’t know about the fallacy regarding his Angel of Death reputation.

Even as Dmitry, Gabe had maintained a strictly professional relationship with Belov/Crowe.

Gabe called someone else when it had to do with switching his young victims with corpses.

Porter preferred this decentralized system of clandestine work.

“Em said Ed will be at the office,” Beatrice said after she ended her call.

“Ed Shephard, right?”

“Yes. Em’s husband.”

“Fine,” Gabe muttered. He still didn’t like being away from her, but he couldn’t do his own investigation if he didn’t get himself out there.

After leaving Beatrice at the BSI office, Gabe met a mutual acquaintance he had with Ryker.

The man was a fixer—a specialist in the fabrication of assumed identities.

Alphabet agencies, including the CIA, used the fixer for clandestine operations that were politically sensitive and strictly off the record.

The fixer was reluctant at first to reveal his dealings with Ryker, but since Ryker was dead and apparently owed the guy ten-grand for some falsified documents, it didn’t take long to get some actionable intel—a drop-off place for said documents.

Money talked.

Gabe paid him five grand for the lead, which was more than the man was ever going to get back.

So now, he was back in the Cloverleaf District. Steve Ryker was known as Vladimir Volkov around these parts. That was why the Iron Skulls said he was Russian.

He pulled his Silverado in front of a rundown dry cleaners in a relatively isolated area. These types of businesses were so clichéd as fronts for organized crime, but realistically, still common.

The bell chimed when he pushed open the door. A young Latino man came to the counter, eyes widening as he caught sight of Gabe.

The man was going to run.

The Latino guy turned and sprinted into a back room.

Cursing under his breath, Gabe drew his 9mm, jumped over the counter, and ran after him.

When he reached the entrance to the room, he leaned past the frame and quickly pulled back when he saw a gun.

A shot fired past him. Gabe immediately crouched, thanking his instincts as another bullet punched a hole where his head would have been.

He didn’t think Beatrice would appreciate him missing another piece of his skull.

He leaned past the door jamb again and squeezed the trigger.

He heard a grunt followed by a thud on the floor.

Gabe didn’t waste any time getting to the Latino man who was writhing on the floor and clutching his leg.

He straddled the man and pointed the muzzle of his gun to his head.

“Volkov. You know where he lived?”

“He’s dead, man.”

“I know that, dickhead,” Gabe snarled. “I said lived. Where did he stay?”

The guy’s mouth clamped shut. Gabe’s fingers tightened around the man’s neck as he jabbed the tip of his 9mm into the Latino guy’s wound.

The man yelled in agony. “Upstairs!”

“You better not be lying.” Gabe hauled the guy up and pushed him toward the stairs. On their way to the floor above, he asked. “Why did you run? Do you know me?”

No answer.

Gabe’s blood boiled through his veins. “Were you involved in the kidnapping of the redhead?”

This time the man turned his head to look at Gabe. “No. Not me. I wasn’t involved.”

“But you know who was involved?”

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

“Johnny.”

Bullshit that was his name, but that would do for now.

They reached the top of the stairs where there were two rooms.

He yanked Johnny close to him and muttered, “Which room?”

“The one on the right.”

“Who else lives here?”

“No one. Fuego is not here anymore. I’m not Fuego.”

Gabe heard rumors that the gang was laying low ever since the hit on the senator’s uncle.

He nudged the guy forward and instructed him to open the door on the left.

It revealed a large bathroom, except it wasn’t.

It was covered in tiles with a raised structure in the middle that was twice the size of a regular bath tub.

Gabe didn’t have any doubt what this place was used for—bloody executions.

“Did Volkov use this room?”

“Yes. This whole space was his.” Johnny was groaning in pain.

Jesus Christ. Was Ryker a sadist?

“Why did you run from me?” Gabe asked as he pushed the man into the other room. There was a bed and other furniture. The dresser had its drawers open and clothes strewn all over. The desk drawers were empty, the contents scattered on the floor as well. Someone had been looking for something.

“I recognized your picture.”

“Volkov had pictures of me?”

Johnny nodded and pointed to a bare wall. “He had a few pinned on the wall, but mostly they were of a redhead.”

Gabe’s gut roiled in distaste at the thought of Ryker stalking Beatrice. “If you’re not Fuego, what were you doing with Ryker?”

“Ryker? I do not know—”

Gabe shook his head. “Volkov.”

“I ran errands for him. He didn’t like to be outside much, especially during the daytime.”

He noticed that Johnny was starting to look pale.

Might as well patch him up before he keeled over.

Gabe instructed him to sit on the chair and took out a roll of duct tape.

The innocuous household item had many uses, like securing a captive and temporarily fixing a bleeding injury.

He checked the gunshot wound and realized the bullet went through.

“You’ll live,” Gabe said curtly after wrapping several layers of tape over the bleeder. He checked the man for the Fuego tattoo and found none, so he must have been telling the truth. “Who ransacked this room?”

“The Fuego big boss—Ventura and another guy. ”

Gabe knew how Ventura looked from the pictures the Iron Skulls provided. “Describe Ventura’s companion.”

“Listen, hermano , I told you too much already.” With the bleeding stemmed, Johnny was thinking coherently again and not running his mouth. “I’m sure they’re having this place watched.”

“I thought you said they’ve disappeared.” Gabe got to his feet and started pulling out the drawer of the dresser, dragging the furniture forward to also check the back.

“I just know. Look, I’m lucky they didn’t kill me—”

“Why would they? I’m sure you store shit for them, don’t you?”

Johnny didn’t say anything.

Taking out a switchblade, Gabe moved to the desk and started poking at the corners for hidden compartments.