Page 28 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

STORM

T he days that are the most life-changing often start off the most benign.

With our short fall break finally here, I began my day with thoughts of Shae. Of course, she featured in my dreams, as she always does, but I managed not to come all over my sheets this time. I followed up with a brisk run in the downstairs gym and chased the workout with a protein shake.

After a quick nut in the post-workout shower and dressing for the day, I made my way down to the underground garage to grab my Porsche.

Unfortunately, that’s where all normalcy ended—with a hard shove to my back and handcuffs placed on my wrists.

“All right, so. Storm Sandoval…” The man in a dark blue suit enters the interrogation room while looking down at a legal pad. When he flicks his blazer back, the gold FBI badge clipped to his belt glints in the sketchy overhead light.

With a loud sigh, he slaps the folder and pad on the metal table and slides into the chair across from me.

I cross my arms over my chest and try to keep my body very still.

At least they took the cuffs off when we arrived at headquarters.

“Thank you for waiting so patiently,” the man says. “I’m Special Agent McAdams.”

He finally looks up when I don’t reply to his statement. And I won’t say anything—if there’s one thing my father taught me early on, it’s that if I’m ever taken in by law enforcement, ask for our lawyer and keep my fucking mouth shut.

Get pulled over? Shut the fuck up.

Pulled aside for a pat-down? Shut the fuck up.

Handcuffed and brought to an interrogation by the Feds soon after knocking someone off? Most certainly, shut the fuck up.

I catch myself when my foot starts to bounce.

You’ll get out of this, one way or the other.

I take in a deep breath but regret the motion when the stale, moldy smell assaults my nostrils.

“So first, you’re not in any trouble,” McAdams says. “Right now.”

I tilt my chin down at that. I want to ask more questions, but….

“And I’m sorry for the theatrics out there. I wanted to make sure we got ya here in one piece, though.” McAdams smiles, and I know what he’s trying to do—trying to get me to let my guard down—but what the fuck does that even mean?

“I’m free to go then?” I say, my voice a deep rasp.

McAdams winces.

“Let me get square on a few things first. I don’t think you wanna run off just yet.”

The silence stretches on as McAdams looks down at his notepad.

“All right, so we’ve brought you here today because we have some questions about Stratos.”

I blink. Stratos?

“That’s your father’s business, right? I heard you work there, too.” He looks down at his notepad, squinting as if trying to find the information.

Stratos. He’s not asking about the banker?

A pinch of relief washes over me at that, but then it’s quickly followed by dread.

“Anyway, I really only wanted to ask you a few questions. Specifically, I wanted to see if you had knowledge about your father, Stratos, and a man named Benjamin Brigham.” He looks up from the notepad, pinning me with his gaze.

“Ring a bell?” he asks.

I meet him with silence. Because the name does ring a bell—an alarm bell. The name showed up a few times in the files I got from Axel weeks ago.

I keep my attention steady on McAdams, so it’s easy to spot when he decides to drop the nice guy act.

With another sigh, he leans back in his chair and flips through some pages in his file.

“Jaxon Samuels.”

And there it is.

Shit.

I blink at the agent and try to hide the fact that I’m flipping my shit inside.

“I can see you’re not going to be…forthcoming at this time, but let me help you gain some clarity.”

He leans forward, clasping his hands over the papers.

“On Saturday, October 27th, Jaxon Samuels was reported missing by his mother. Two days later, we found his car had driven off the bridge over in Urbana.”

He tilts his head to the side, gauging my reaction.

“Tough luck for the kid. Except…” He sits up suddenly, flipping through the files again. “Ah, yes, the coroner’s report. Looks like the cause of death wasn’t drowning but blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”

He looks up again.

“His head was smashed in with a brick.”

McAdams slides a picture across the table, and in my periphery, I see splotches of red and white flesh.

I keep my eyes locked on the detective.

His mouth quirks to the side for a brief moment before it falls, and he reclines in his chair.

“Let’s cut the shit. Your guy was good, but I’m sure he didn’t expect there to be cameras that got your Porsche at the location where the last ping from Samuels’ phone dropped. He didn’t account for the lacerations on Samuels’ head matching the brick at the scene of his last known location.”

The silence in the room is thick, suffocating. Still, I clench my jaw and pull out the most bored look I can muster.

McAdams is the one to break the silence.

“Listen, this guy…he was not a good guy. It took some untangling, but there’s a long list of rapes reported that name him as the perp, but then the victims recanted.

His daddy is some big wig,” he says, a sneer coming to his face.

“You probably know all about that, right?”

I blink, slowly. Bored.

“But this is the interesting thing.” He slides another picture in front of me, and this time I do look down.

My blood turns to frost in my veins. It’s a CCTV capture from outside Velour. The jackass who took Shae has his arms around her waist as he guides her into the passenger seat of his car.

Don’t give anything away.

“Shae Rivers. A classmate of yours, yeah? A pretty little thing.”

At that, I lose the battle, and my eyes snap back up to the detective’s. I try—I try —to keep my face neutral, but I know I fail.

“Ah, so you do know her? She doesn’t look like the type to lure a man to his death, but I’ve been surprised before.”

He shrugs as if he’s talking about the price of bread. I need to get out of here—get with Riale, my father.

Fuck. This is so fucked.

The agent’s face turns a deep red, and all pretense of camaraderie departs his demeanor.

“Here’s how this is going to go. We know your father is embezzling more than a billion dollars year after year through a number of his ventures.

I know he’s tied up with Benjamin Brigham.

I know you killed Jaxon Samuels. I know your little girlfriend was in on it.

I have all the evidence to put you in jail for the rest of your natural life. ”

His nostrils flare, and I keep myself still.

“Her, too. Sure, she probably would have ended up as one of his next victims, but would you look at that—it’s so simple to find, oh, let’s say a few hundred thousand dollars she stole from him.

Hmm, capital murder carries a sixty-year minimum.

Luckily, there’s a moratorium on the death penalty in Illinois. ”

That chilled panic courses down my arms again, making my fingers twitch.

“Or,” he says, a bright smile flashing on his face, “you can be an informant for me. There’s more information we need—a smoking gun so clear that even the great Chuck Sandoval can’t get out of a conviction. So you’re going to get me what I need: A confession.”

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“What will it be, Sandoval?” That maniacal smile broadens, and I spin through all the scenarios.

As common sense edges in, I know he doesn’t really have any evidence of the murder—no smoking gun, at least. If he did, I’d be in custody for real, not sitting here in an FBI field office.

Plus, if he really had anything, I’d be facing CPD, not the Feds.

With my legal team and a few well-placed favors, I know I’ll get out of this relatively unscathed.

But will Shae?

I look down at the photos on the table between us, the side of Shae’s face visible in the grainy image.

No, Shae can’t go up against all of this and survive it.

So what does that mean I’ll have to sacrifice?

The agent and I enter a stare off with neither of us willing to blink when a loud bang, like a fist hitting metal, is followed by the door slamming open.

“Mr. Sandoval,” a woman in tan slacks and a light blue button-down shirt says, panting. “My apologies that you’ve been detained here. You’re free to go.”

I rear back, looking between the two agents and turning back toward the door when another tall Black man in a plain Brooks Brothers suit comes in. He looks sweaty as he clutches a manila folder, and when he enters the room, he scowls at McAdams.

I look around the group, noting the tense set of the other detectives’ jaws. Except…yup, the woman’s badge identifies her as being high up in the ranks here. Deputy Assistant Director Feeler. Clearly McAdams’ superior, probably by several levels.

The agent who has been interrogating me clears his throat before straightening.

“Director,” he says, directing his attention to the woman. “I had a lead and?—”

“Actually, I don’t give a fuck,” the woman snaps. “I told you to—never mind. Mr. Sandoval.” She spins toward me, revealing a tense grin. “Please accept the bureau’s sincerest apologies. Your associate, Mr. Huntley, is here to bring you home.”

What…the fuck?

McAdams turns so red he almost looks purple.

“Feeler,” McAdams says, “you know this is?—”

“ McAdams ,” Deputy Assistant Director Feeler presses.

The room falls into a tense silence, and I don’t move.

The moment breaks when Agent McAdams steps back from the table and places his hands on his hips, staring at the papers before him as if they hold the answers to the world’s problems.

“Mr. Sandoval.” The Black man holds out a hand toward the open door. “I’ll escort you to your vehicle.”

I catch his gaze, taking in the moisture beading on his forehead, the way the muscle in his lower jaw ticks, and the smudged mustard stain on his plain white shirt beneath his jacket.