Page 4 of Veiled Vengeance (The Devils of New York #3)

ZANE

M y heart feels like it’s been ripped out of my chest, beat with a bat, then handed back to me, as if I can still make it function. My Angel is gone, along with my best friend.

When the gunshots rang out, my entire world came to a halt. Rio and I rushed to get to Asher and Spencer, but we were too late. They got them in the car and drove away.

Rio and I haven’t slept all night.

We filled them in on Anthony. We didn’t relay the human trafficking aspect, but they know he’s rich, connected, and psychotic.

And with the positive match from the DNA test, everyone knows that Spencer’s attacker and the Bride Butcher are the same person.

We still need a sample of Anthony’s DNA to prove that Anthony is the Bride Butcher, but for now, we’re all operating under that assumption.

Now, it’s late—or maybe it’s early morning. I’ve lost all sense of time. Spencer and Asher have been gone for hours, but it feels like years.

Rio and I are sitting in my car at the edge of Central Park. The moon is high, and there’s a small chill in the air. We haven’t changed out of the clothes we wore to the show and probably look as deranged and haggard as we feel.

Rio breaks the silence. “He wasn’t too happy to talk to us last time.”

“And he probably won’t be happy to talk to us this time,” I retort.

“ Esperemos que tenga información para nosotros ,” he mumbles and exits the car. Here’s hoping he has information for us.

“Here’s hoping,” I add, then follow suit.

For once, Hank isn’t with a customer. A cigarette hangs from his mouth, the end glowing red in the night. He jerks back like he’s been slapped when he sees us coming, but he quickly schools his features.

“Back so soon?”

I don’t have time for niceties or manners. I’m not sure I had much of those to begin with, but whatever crumbs of them I had are gone.

I grab Hank by the front of his shirt, my fists gathering the fabric and gripping hard, and I slam his body against the tree. Rio leers at Hank over my shoulder.

“What the fuck, man?!” Panic makes its way into his voice. Hank finally looks at me, really looks at me, and sees the dark circles under my eyes. He sees my untamed hair, my desperation.

“We’re not going to do our usual song and dance, Hanky Boy. This is a simple question-and-answer visit.”

“Are you on something?”

I grit my teeth; I don’t have time for bullshit. Spencer and Asher don’t have time either. “No. Now, answer my questions. What have you heard about Cain?”

“Him again? Come on, Zane, I told you everything I know last time.”

I slam him again. “You know something! You have to know something!”

Hank holds up his hands. “I don’t?—”

Rio steps forward and pulls out one of his knives. He holds the blade to Hank’s throat. “You’re no chump, Hank. You know something. Tell us. No detail is too small or inconsequential.”

“Okay, okay! God!” He sighs a deep frustrated breath. “White Plains.”

“What?” I tilt my head to the side.

“White Plains,” he repeats.

“I don’t have time for your half-assed shit! What are you talking about!”

“They might be in White Plains! There’s someone up there buying a ton of warehouses. I think Cain is scrambling to move his stables because of you.”

Rio scrunches his eyebrows. “Us?”

“I think you’re getting closer to finding him and shutting down his ring.”

I release his shirt, and we turn and walk away without handing over payment or offering a thanks.

Like I said, I didn’t have any manners to begin with.

Rio hopped in the driver’s seat when we got to the car. A move that—any other day—would have started a brawl right there in the street, but I’m a mess. Rio is too, but he seems more equipped to drive than I do.

We haven’t even attempted to turn on the radio and argue over song choice—we drive in silence.

I startle when I realize where we are.

I give Rio a puzzled look. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“No, I’m not.”

“White Plains is not located on our street.”

Rio nods. “I know that. I passed geography in school.” He pulls up in front of our brownstone.

“Then what the hell are we doing here?”

Rio turns off the engine and pulls the keys out of the ignition.

“We’re here because you need food, I need food, you need a shower, and I need a shower.

Then lastly, we can’t go up into White Plains, guns blazing—we’re not cowboys.

You need to do your computer genius thing and look this shit up.

We’ll make a plan and then go get them.”

He’s right. We have to be smart about this. I need to verify the warehouse purchases and narrow down which one they’re at.

I sigh and lean my head back against the headrest. “You’re right. We’ll plan.”

Rio’s hand dives into my hair and pulls my face to his. His lips find mine easily and offer me the comfort and reassurance I need. I open my mouth and our tongues dance together and I return the same confidence he so freely gives me.

When we pull apart, our foreheads connect, and we breathe together, connecting in a way that calms us both.

“We’ve got this,” Rio whispers.

“We’ve got this,” I echo back.

I’m toweling my hair with another around my waist when there’s banging on the front door. Rio is already dressed and downstairs, so I rush down the steps in my barely-dressed glory with my gun in hand.

Rio is at the door, weapon in hand, chatting away with whoever is on the other side. I come up behind him and find the last person I expected to see.

Hayes.

Rio leans an arm on the doorframe. “How did you find our address?”

Hayes narrows his eyes. “You’re not the only one with connections.”

My brows shoot up. What the hell is he talking about? I did Hayes’s background check and found nothing of importance. Yet here he is, claiming he can somehow get the same kind of information we have access to.

I finally chime into the conversation. “And you’re here . . . why?”

He balls his fists at his sides. “I know you know where she is.”

After a long pause, I ask, “Spencer?”

“Iris! She’s missing; I can’t reach her. I went by her apartment, and it was torn apart—it’s completely trashed.” His despair matches my own.

“We had nothing to do with whatever has happened to her.”

“I know that!” He rests his hands on his hips, his head falling forward, and he takes a deep breath. “I need to find her.”

“Come on. Get in here.” Rio reaches for his shoulder and guides Hayes inside. Rio tries to guide Hayes to the couch to sit, but he refuses.

“Please just . . .” Hayes pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell me what you know. I need to know.” He crosses his arms and plants his feet, effectively communicating his determination.

“You should let us handle this,” I offer. Hayes is young, way too young to get caught up in all of this.

“Like hell,” he scoffs.

Gotta give credit where credit’s due.

Rio and I share a look. We’ve been together and worked together long enough that I know what each of his micro-expressions mean. I send a small nod back that gives my agreement.

Rio turns to Hayes first. “Spencer and Asher were taken by the Bride Butcher.”

“The Bride Butcher? The serial killer that’s been all over the news?”

I internally roll my eyes. I hate the media, especially Sherry, and the shit she tried pulling with Asher.

“That’s the one,” Rio answers.

Hayes proves not to be a dumbass when he asks the right questions. “Why them?”

I give the easy answer and let him draw his own conclusion. “The Bride Butcher is Spencer’s ex, Anthony Cole.”

Hayes speaks slowly, as if he’s talking to himself aloud. “So, the man who attacked Spencer was her ex, who has been killing women for years . . .” He trails off and turns around, giving us his back. He runs his hands through his hair.

Rio takes a step toward him. “You know it’s not her fault, right?”

Hayes spins back around. “Yeah, I know. This is just . . . a lot.” He stares at the ground, working out the puzzle. His head snaps up, and he questions, “She ran away from him? That’s why she ended up here?”

“It’s not really our story to tell,” I answer him.

He nods, accepting my response as sufficient. “Okay, okay . . . And you know where they are?”

“We don’t know that Anthony has Iris,” I explain.

Hayes shakes his head, jarring the doubt from his mind. “No. He has her; I know it. He took Asher. He had to have taken Iris too.”

“If she’s there, we’ll get her back for you,” Rio promises.

Hayes startles, walking toward us. “No, I’m going with you.”

“No way,” I add forcefully, holding my hand out to stop him.

“You leave me behind, and I’ll just follow you,” he threatens.

Rio raises a brow. “We could just tie you up and throw you in the basement.”

“You could try. But you’re not the only one with tricks up their sleeve.” He lifts his shirt, showing us the gun resting in the waistband of his pants.

I grab his arm and guide him to lower his shirt. “Where the hell did you get that? Do you even know how to use it?”

“I’ve known how to shoot since I was eight. I know the names of each part of the gun, and I know how to disassemble and reassemble it with my eyes closed.”

Rio and I become impossibly still. I tilt my head and narrow my eyes. “Your last name isn’t Brown, is it?”

Hayes flattens his lips. “No, it’s not Brown.”

“I figured when I couldn’t find much but the basics in a background check. Who are you?”

“Fuck.” He runs another hand through his hair. He paces back and forth, three steps in each direction. “Just promise you won’t go crazy; I’m not my family.”

My muscles tense, and the glower on my face doesn’t let up.

I don’t like where this is going . . .

“My name is Declan Hayes O’Connell.”

Rio’s jaw drops. “O’Connell? As in Patrick O’Connell, leader of the IRA?”

Hayes’s eyes wander to the ceiling. “Yeah, that’s Dad. He’s a gem,” he says sarcastically. “So . . . I’m coming with, right?”

Rio and I share another communicative look, and I sigh. “This rescue isn’t an official NYPD or FBI operation. You get shot, the bill is yours.”

Hayes nods his head. “Okay. No problem.”

“And one more thing,” I add. “You stay out of the way, and you follow exactly what we say.”

Hayes bounces on the balls of his feet. “Got it. When do we leave?”

I gesture to myself. “I need to get dressed, man.”