The Switch (17 page)

“If that sick bastard has done this once before, why isn’t he at Angola?” I ask, seething.

The pain in my chest is becoming unbearable. I’ve only just begun to love this girl. I haven’t had the chance to build a life with her yet. The thought of her stuck in a closet with flames encroaching sends a nervous chill up my spine.

“We didn’t have the proper evidence
, and the evidence we did have wasn’t exactly legally obtained. It was worthless. Now listen, I brought you in here because I want to explain a few things to you. You are so far out of your league here that you can’t even fucking comprehend how little you know right now. You do as you’re told, when you’re told. If you don’t, I’ll rip this vest off your chest myself and leave your ass behind. Got it?”

Agent Brown picks up a vest and hands it to me. It’s half a second before I realize the honor he’s granting me. I’m a rookie cop. I have zero business assisting in this case. But he’s letting me.

“Thank you, sir. I won’t screw up.”

“You better not. I have eight years riding on this case.”

“Sir, with all due respect, my girl is trusting that I don’t fuck this up. Her life trumps your eight years. I just want her back.”

He nods his head and juts his chin toward the door, a silent dismissal. I hold the heavy vest in my hands and stroll out.

Behind me, I hear him mutter, “Damn fool.”

CHAPTER
23

Shelby

And I told you Victor was a bad guy.

I LET OUT
a heavy sigh and rest the side of my face against the tiled wall. I lift my tired right hand to my forehead and wipe away the sweat that’s collected at the ridge of my brow. An oppressive and sweltering heat weighs down on me. In frustration, I kick my healthy leg out at the door. There isn’t even a window cracked in this bathroom, and we’re on the third floor without air conditioning.

“Becca, please,” I whimper. She’s still on the other side of the wall. I can hear her shallow breaths. It’s been a good hour, maybe more, since she said a word to me.

After the preliminary discovery that she’s on the opposite side of the wall and that she’s okay—sort of—and my twenty-minute speech covering everything from what led up to her kidnapping to everything that occurred after, she hasn’t said a peep. Not that I can really blame her. Still though, her silence is like a knife in my heart, and it hurts worse than the knife I took to my leg.

“I love you, Bec. I’m sorry.” As the words spill from my lips, the tears fall down my cheeks. The desperation seeps in, and I sob as silently as I possibly can.

“Please, shut up,” Becca says from the other side of the wall. Her voice is rough, her words cracking on every syllable. “You’re making me feel sorry for you, and I have no room to feel sorry for you. I mean, really, Shel? Really?”

“Please don’t hate me.”

She lets out a heavy sigh and says, “I don’t hate you. I’m just freaking out, okay? I’m tired, scared, and I really just want for this nightmare to end.”

Feeling a little sorry for myself because my best friend isn’t exactly pleased with me, I let a few stray tears fall.

“And I
told
you Victor was a bad guy,” she says, somewhat indignant.

I let out a sharp but sad laugh and say, “Yeah, you called it.”

The only thing I can do for Becca now is get her out of here safely, but I don’t know how I’ll be able to manage that. I’m locked in a bathroom without a single useable object to fight my way out. Victor made sure everything I could use was taken away, including the lid to the toilet tank and the curtain rod.
This
was not how I imagined this going. The entire point of me giving myself up was to get Becca out safely, but apparently, I can’t even do that right.

We fall into an uncomfortable silence with nothing but our passing breaths to measure the time. After I count a few hundred, I give up and close my eyes. I want to have that fighting spirit where I kick at the door for hours on end, screaming at the top of my lungs the entire time. I can barely lift my leg to shake away the sleep that’s creeping in. Though daylight is in full force, and has been for hours now, the exhaustion weighs heavily on my soul.

At some point, there’s a commotion outside the bathroom door. On the other side of the wall, Becca perks up, scrambling across the floor. I go to tell her it’s okay, but before I can, the men in the living room are screaming at one another. Their heavy footfalls slam against the aged wooden floorboards as orders are exchanged. I can’t hear much through all the noise, but three little letters stick out in my mind: FBI.

The ruckus grows louder, but thankfully, no gunfire is exchanged. When Victor brought me up here
, he made sure to point out every guard and every weapon they carried. He ended the tour in this very bathroom with the words, “So you’ll be shot before you get off the premises.”

“Please, no!” Becca screams from the other side of the wall. I pull myself up the wall as far as I can, my face pressed to the tile, getting as close to her as I can. The commotion moves into the room Becca’s in
, and suddenly, her screams turn to whimpers. For a split second, the noise stops, but then an incredible banging begins on the bathroom door. I crawl backward as far as I can and arch my back against the bathtub just as the wooden door splinters under the duress. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my head to the side.

The incredible noise slows and then quiets. I hear voices, but they fade into background noise as the thumping sound of my heart grows louder. Everything sounds as though it’s traveling through a tunnel at hyper speed—warped with a slicing wind cutting through the fog of their words. Little else breaks the fuzzy barrier of my consciousness.

A pair of strong, familiar arms wrap around me as one solitary voice finally breaks through. Chase rests his gruff chin against my temple as he whispers, “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

I unclench my eyes and blink away the spots that cloud my vision and settle into Chase’s chest, though I find something obstructing our contact. He whispers gentle, loving words, all the while keeping me tight in his arms.

“Guilliot!” a deep, commanding voice shouts from another room. Chase’s grip around my torso loosens, and he pulls back, meeting my eyes.

“Stay here,” he says in a cracked voice, his breath skimming across my neck and tickling my ear. I let out a soft sigh and nuzzle my cheek against his lips. He presses a kiss to my cheek and whispers, “I should be pissed at you, but all I can manage to be is grateful. Don’t scare me like that again.”

Slowly, his arms slip from my body, and he stands, leaving me as I was before—curled into myself, huddled against the side of the bathtub. I watch him retreat, finding myself slightly taken aback by navy blue Kevlar vest he wears with the bold white lettering on the back that says FBI. Despite my initial horror that Chase is a cop, I find myself approving of the way he looks in FBI gear.

Just as he disappears around the corner, I see the apartment is teeming with lawmen and women. In the far corner is the man I learned this morning was Chase’s Sarge. He’s handcuffed at his wrists and ankles as he sits on his butt in a rickety wooden chair.

A young woman, small in stature with pitch-black hair strides into the bathroom. She identifies herself as FBI and then bends down to check me for injuries. She checks and double checks my person, ensuring I’m able to walk to the ambulance on the street below.

Once she’s satisfied, she urges me out of the bathroom. “Ms. Brignac, please come with me. We need to have the EMTs check you for injury.”

Almost reluctantly, I stand, finding myself on wobbly footing. The young agent helps me out of the apartment and down the two flights of stairs to the crooked sidewalk below on the outskirts of the Quarter. Another agent, older with graying hair, helps Becca.

I make my descent slow
ly, mindful of my wounded thigh. I breathe a sigh of relief seeing Becca amble down without issue. She keeps her arms folded over her chest and her head down. I know this can’t have been easy on her, but at least she’s in one piece.

People run from one end of the building to the other at speeds I can’t manage on my best days. Yellow caution tape secures the perimeter.

The agent, whose name I’ve forgotten already, brings me to one of the two ambulances at the scene. The EMT on duty sits me on the bumper of the vehicle and proceeds to ask me a thousand inane questions. I answer what I can, letting the rest fade into a low murmur in the back of my thoughts.

I can’t find Chase anywhere in the crowd. In the other ambulance, Becca sits
hunched over, being attended to by two EMTs. I catch her traveling gaze but only for a moment. She shakes her head slightly and turns away. One of the paramedics has her lift her arms and legs, checking for mobility. Aside from a few scratches, she appears to be fine. Mad as hell—and who can blame her—but fine.

“How is she?” I ask the paramedic attending to me.

He gives me a gentle look and says, “I have it on good authority she asked the same thing about you. And don’t worry—she appears to be fine physically. She’s fared better than most kidnapping victims we find.”

A
weight lifts from my shoulders, knowing Becca is okay. Even if she’ll never speak to me again, at least I know she’s okay and she’s safe.

Right when the EMT and I fall into a comfortable rapport
—with him asking the questions with little expectation of an answer and me trying to focus the best I can—a loud boom rings out, followed by the terrifying succession of loud pops and the telltale wheezing sound of bullets flying through the air.

I flinch and crawl backward into the ambulance, seeking shelter. An awful, strangled cry comes from the crowd of agents as they duck as one unified body while a few, who appear to be higher-ranking, shout commands at their charges in an effort to locate the shooter. Toward the middle, one agent holds his thigh and throws his head back
, cursing in ways I hadn’t known were possible.

“Don’t move,” the EMT says as he gathers an orange plastic board and a red bag with a white cross on it and rushes to the injured agent.

Nervously, I peer out, spying the men and women in the signature FBI vests as they direct their guns toward the sky in search of the shooter. Another deafening boom sounds, rattling the ground, sending civilian and lawperson alike running frantically.

The civilian cries strike a chord of panic in my gut as smoke rises from behind the centuries-old brick building. The earth rumbles and the smoke rises, creating a cloud overhead, like some kind of bomb has gone off. I wrap my arms around my torso, trying to block out the horror and terror of what may come next. Taking several deep breaths, I force myself to calm down.

Looking up and out of the ambulance, I watch as the people scatter in fear. There is a sort of chaotic structure to it all. The civilians run as far away from the area as possible, blocking traffic when need be. The streets clog, and soon a traffic jam forms from the terrified masses. The first responders—ranging from FBI agents to city officers and EMTs—move in synchronization in groups of five and six as they survey the area on full alert.

But behind the fleeing masses and those who’ve sworn to protect them is one man. He stands still, his shoulders straight, and his tan skin glowing in the midday sun.

“Victor,” I say on a strangled breath, feeling my gut lurch on sight.

I look around for someone to tell, but there’s no one. The EMTs are attending to the injured agents, and Chase is still nowhere in sight. I scoot to the edge of the ambulance in search of a familiar face and come up empty. For the first time since Chase found me, I realize that my parents aren’t here, nor are his. The only thought that comforts me is knowing Chase wouldn’t leave them in harm’s way.

Down the street, behind the bustle of people, Victor remains stoic. Though his face remains passive, I know him better than to think he’s bored with the scene before him. It’s utter chaos, a result of his orchestration no doubt. It’s awfully smug of him to stand there, nearly in plain sight—though I’m not surprised. He would be one to enjoy his handiwork.

The more I watch him, the less frightened I am at his presence. I remind myself that though he might be an awful man, he is still just a man. He is not an inhuman force who cannot be hurt. He strides around town like he’s invincible, even if he isn’t, while being flanked by his security detail.

He’s alone now
.

The thought strikes me that, for the first time since meeting Victor, he is completely and utterly alone. No men flank his sides. He’s not in his own establishment where he needn’t worry about security. And the men and women of law enforcement aren’t on his side for once.

They’re on mine
.

Though I’m exhausted and worn down, I find myself emboldened by Victor’s audacity. Carefully, I slide out of the ambulance and cross the street toward where Victor stands.

I rub my hands on my pants to rid them of the sweat that’s accumulated. It strikes me as I walk with as much speed as I’m capable of, that I’m without any kind of weapon. I don’t have my knife, having lost it somewhere along the way, likely in the cabin. I don’t have my gun, either. When I surrendered myself, I chose to leave it behind. Still, I rush toward Victor, grateful for my lack of stature as I’m able to move through the crowd less noticeably than if I were taller.

Up ahead, I spot the perfect target. He’s wearing a rumpled suit with a gold badge clipped at his belt. He’s bent at the waist with his butt on the curb, his head in his hands. Blood streams slowly down the side of his face, getting caught up in his long fingers. A day’s worth of stubble lines his jaw. By all accounts, he looks worn down and injured. But most importantly, the holster for his gun is unclipped, and he’s set it down beside himself on the curb.

Passing by a makeshift medical stand, I grab a full bottle of hand sanitizer and a thick gray rescue blanket and keep walking, all the while forcing tears to my eyes. I approach the man from the side and fake a trip, dropping the blanket on his shoulder, covering his side with the open gun holster. I bend down, placing my empty hand on his shoulder and meet his eyes. I notice immediately that while he isn’t quite handsome, his face holds a certain charm.

“I’m so sorry. Are you al
l right?” I ask, bending further.

Under the blanket, I slide the gun out, setting it in the blanket, and replace it with the bottle of sanitizer. With any luck, he won’t notice the switch before I get out of
Dodge.

He nods his head and says, “Yeah. Um. This area is restricted. You can’t be here,
miss.”