Broken Read online

  “No.” He calmly took another sip. Yeah. Definitely needed sprinkles.

  She coughed and then sputtered. “Excuse me?”

  “The next party is members only, and they’re courting me for membership, so I’ll barely get in. The only way you get to go is as my sub.” More importantly, that meant she’d stay near him, where he could keep an eye on her.

  “How about you find me a different date?” She gave in and took a roll.

  The idea of her playing with another man awoke something dark in him. Something deep that he had to quell. “Another man who thinks you really want to be a sub for the night?” His tone came out a little grittier than he’d intended. “You sure you want to go that far undercover?”

  She was having a hard time meeting his gaze. “Good point. I’m not exactly the submissive type.”

  “It’s up to your dom to get that from you.” Yeah, he was having a good time messing with her.

  She frowned. “Are you—I mean, I have no problem with alternative lifestyles, but are you really a dom?”

  Was she scared or interested? Either way, he wasn’t going to start lying to her now. “No. I’m undercover, looking for a source, and you of all people know I don’t like clubs or group activities.” He took another cinnamon roll. Why not run extra miles? “I also don’t like labels. Or rules.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Or contracts that govern intimate relationships.”

  She finished her breakfast. “I think the contracts are necessary when you’re talking trust and pain.”

  “Oh. I also don’t like pain. Giving or receiving it.” He pushed the pan closer to her. “However, if I eat another one of these, punch me in the nose.”

  She chuckled.

  He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come to the party. I can do enough investigating for both of us.” Although, as a sub, she’d be allowed in different areas than he, and she could talk to other subs.

  “Oh, I’m going.” Her chin lifted. “I just wish I could wear flannel.” Her smile jolted electricity through him.

  He had to stop looking at her lips. “I’d pay to see you in a flannel corset,” he murmured, meaning every word. He had no doubt she’d conducted extensive research before going to the first party, but she seemed uncertain. “Do you understand the dom/sub dynamic, these types of parties, and Captive in general?”

  “Yeah, I understand how clubs like Captive work and the appeal to some folks. I’d rather take a date fishing or rafting down the river, you know?” She sipped at the coffee.

  He couldn’t agree more. Peace and quiet with few people around was his idea of a good day. It was too bad he was damaged and probably going to get killed taking out his enemy. Why couldn’t he have met Dana before the explosion that had sent his life to hell? He shook his head. Even as a kid he’d known not to play the what if game. Reality was reality, and he couldn’t change it. “Let’s talk about your story. Why were you looking for the dead guy?”

  Her face got that stubborn look that perversely turned him on. “Oh, no. You first. Why were you at the party in the first place, and how did you know the dead guy?”

  He considered what he could tell her. “On my last mission, somewhere I can’t tell you about, my unit was hunting for a group smuggling drugs. It turned out somebody close to us was a traitor. Five out of seven of us were killed, and I’m going to find the Judas and take him down. Albert Nelson was my connection to somebody who might know where Rock is.”

  “Rock.” Dana pounced on the name like a hound on a quail scent.

  “Yeah. Nickname. We all had them, and it won’t help you to find him. The military has been looking for six months, and even the top intel folks can’t find the guy.” Wolfe grasped her wrist, needing to get through to her. No way would he give her Gary’s full name. “Leave him alone. No research, no calling in favors, no nothing. You will not do anything to make him aware you even exist. Promise me.”

  She surprised him by asking, “What was your nickname?”

  He shrugged. “Wolfe. It’s easy and it’s my name. People have always called me that.”

  “Tell me more about Rock.” She tapped her fingers on the table.

  “He’s a trained killer, one of the best, and I’m fairly certain he’s a sociopath who actually enjoys the killing more than the endgame.” Wolfe had spent too many restless nights trying to figure Rock out, trying to understand how he’d blinded everyone to his true nature.

  She tilted her head, those intelligent green eyes studying his face. “Is Rock better than you?”

  “We’re about to find out that answer to that question.” Lacking empathy or any sense of loyalty just made the bastard all the more dangerous. “Your turn.”

  She visibly tried to banish emotion as she told her own story. “I was friends with Candice Folks, who worked for the Times.”

  Wolfe frowned. “The journalist who disappeared?”

  “Yeah, and I believe she was murdered. There was a lot of blood in her apartment, and there’s no way Candy would just disappear and not stay in touch with her elderly mother. She was a business reporter, usually covering the stock market, upstart businesses, and so on.” Dana licked whipped cream off her lip.

  Wolfe’s groin tightened.

  Dana went on, having no clue she was killing him. “Candy was working on a series featuring up-and-coming corporations owned by women, and according to the few notes I’ve been able to decipher, Albert Nelson was one of her sources.”

  Wolfe took another drink. “You think he had dirt on one of the businesses?”

  “I have no idea. Candy doesn’t usually follow dangerous stories, so this is confusing.” Dana rubbed her hands down her jeans. “I met with Albert once, and he was sketchy. I knew he had more information.” Her voice hardened. “I conducted a deep dive, discovered his affiliation with Captive, and was going to expose him unless he told me everything he knew.”

  None of that sounded good. “Any chance your friend is still alive?”

  Dana pressed her lips together. “I’ve been interviewed by the police detectives a couple of times, trying to give them a lead or two for Candy, but I just didn’t know anything. They shared some of the facts of the case the way they would for any friend of a missing person. The blood in her apartment was identified as belonging to her, and there was enough that the doctors said no way could somebody survive losing that much.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wolfe said. Not just for the deceased journalist, but for the fact that Dana wouldn’t stop until she found out who had taken her friend, regardless of the danger.

  “Me too,” Dana murmured. She patted the now closed binder on the table. “I also stopped by the newspaper where Candy worked; her assistant had already made me a copy of her notebook before handing the original over to the police. We’re old friends, too.” She flipped open copied pages that had been placed in a binder. “It’s all in code, and I haven’t been able to figure out how to break it, yet. Her assistant has no clue, either. Candy was secretive that way.”

  Maybe Brigid could help when she returned. Wolfe made a mental note to give her a call. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to just go home to your parents’ house in Tennessee for a couple of weeks and let me handle this?” he asked.

  Her snort was kind of cute and not a surprise.

  His phone buzzed, and he looked down to read a text from Brigid. Finally. “I have a line on the guys who shot at us from the black truck.”

  Chapter Seven

  The house was on the outskirts of D.C., in an area of town that Wolfe had never been. Lawns were small and burned, porches sagged, and paint peeled. A drug deal went down at the far corner, and feral cats fought near an overturned garbage can across the pothole-riddled concrete.

  Clouds hung low and dark as if the sun didn’t dare to enter the neighborhood.

  He drove by the address Brigid had given him, peering for a good alleyway to hide his truck. “I’m not comfortable leaving my truck around here.” The tires and whee
ls would be gone in seconds.

  Malcolm nodded from the passenger seat, sliding a clip into his gun. “We could just park at the street and make a run for the door in a shock and awe, but that’d give them time to grab weapons.” He angled his head and studied the dismal street. “Plus, how good is your intel? I’d rather not burst in on an elderly couple having a late breakfast.”

  “No kidding,” Wolfe returned, still not sure about having Mal along for backup. Not that he’d invited Malcolm. The guy had seen Wolfe leaving and had jumped in the truck, somehow knowing Wolfe was going hunting. “The intel is from Brigid.”

  “Then it’s good,” Mal said. “Though I’d still like to peek into the garage to see if it holds the truck you saw the other night.”

  Yeah, double-checking was never a bad thing when guns were involved. He drove a mile out of the neighborhood and parked in the front of a gas station/mini mart, running inside to pay the kid behind the counter to watch his truck. Then he jogged back out as a slight rain began to fall.

  Mal stood near the truck. “How much did you give him?”

  “Fifty now and a hundred if my truck is in one piece when I get back.” Wolfe zipped up his sweatshirt to hide his gun and then pulled the hood over his head. “Ready?”

  “Sure.” Mal looked dangerous in his dark hoodie with unnecessary sunglasses hiding his eyes, but he’d fit right in as they jogged back to the house.

  Wolfe took off at a fast pace. “You didn’t have to come—I can handle this.”

  “Right. These solo missions you’ve been doing are stupid.” Mal kept pace, his tone more thoughtful than sharp.

  “Yeah, I know.” Wolfe had been trained well, and backup was always a necessary precaution. It felt good to have Mal along.

  Mal hunched his shoulders and slid his hands into his pockets. “The other day you mentioned a job dealing with sex clubs.”

  “No, the job is tracking down a guy who went to sex clubs. Now that he’s dead, I have to figure out who he was, who killed him, and why.” The club was just coincidental, and he certainly didn’t want to see Mal in leather pants, backing him up at a club party.

  Malcolm’s gait slowed. “Did you really go to a sex club?”

  Wolfe grinned. “Yeah. A BDSM one.”

  “Huh.” They moved silently for a while as the rain increased in force.

  “You ever been to one?” Wolfe asked, keeping the conversation going.

  “Nope. I make no judgments, but I’m more of a private type of guy when it comes to romance.” Mal’s boots splashed water up from holes in the sidewalk.

  Wolfe stepped over a pile of fast food wrappers. “Ditto.”

  “Was Dana really there?” Mal chuckled.

  “Yeah, and she was barely dressed. I stopped breathing for almost two seconds.” Which was a long time for Wolfe to forget to watch his six.

  “So the two of you—”

  “No.” Wolfe increased his pace. “Just friends.” Why was it when a guy found love, he assumed everyone else would, too? Some guys, like Mal, found that happiness. Guys like Wolfe did not.

  Mal stiffened as the sound of yelling came from one of the homes. A woman screaming at a lazy, no-good bum. “Sometimes romance sneaks up on you.”

  “Nothing sneaks up on me.” Wolfe slowed his pace near the correct house, keeping out of sight of the narrow front window that was caked with mud and bird poop. He moved to the side of the garage, barely squeezing in between the worn siding and a rough chain-link fence, and then cautiously approaching an oval-shaped window. Weeds made his boots and jeans wet. After wiping grime off the glass, a lot of it, he peered inside. Satisfaction ran through him faster than a good latte. “It’s the truck,” he whispered.

  Mal slid his sunglasses up on his thick hair, his intelligent eyes piercing the haze. “You want front or back?”

  “Front.” Wolfe slid out of the way to the front of the garage. “On ten?”

  “Ten.” Mal sucked in air and inched by the fence to the backyard, his chest barely making it through the narrow path.

  The neighborhood was quiet, and if anybody was watching through a window, they probably wouldn’t call the cops. Wolfe started counting in his head, keeping his back to the garage door and pulling his gun free of his jeans. He arrived at eight, ducked his head, and ran full bore at the front door, breaking it wide open with his right shoulder.

  A half-dressed man jumped up from a torn sofa and Wolfe shoved him back down with one hand, his gun sweeping the room.

  From the kitchen, Mal prodded another man in front of him toward the sofa. “Sit.” He then turned back and made quick work of the rest of the small house. “Clear,” he called out.

  Wolfe smiled at the two staring defiantly up at him. The first guy was around thirty with dirty blond hair, bloodshot eyes, and open sores along his neck. The second was maybe around twenty-five years old, and was a tall guy with darker skin and a bruise on his cheekbone who had the shakes. Definitely needed a fix. “I’m going to ask this once. Why did you shoot at me?” Wolfe kept his gun pointed low, not wanting to freak them out too badly. Yet.

  The blond sniffed and then shrugged. “No clue who you are.”

  The other guy shook harder, his dreadlocks moving over his bony shoulders.

  Mal returned to the room. “Drugs and guns in the back room. I put everything in this duffel.” He tossed a dirty duffel on the floor and decided to point his gun at the guys.

  The shaky guy sat up, his gaze planted on the duffel. “You can’t take that.”

  Wolfe sighed. “We can do pretty much anything we want.” These guys were pathetic. “Just tell me who hired you and who you meant to follow or shoot, and we’ll leave you and your drugs alone.” He was taking their guns, though. Anybody who shot at him deserved to lose their weapons. That seemed fair.

  The blond guy looked over at his buddy.

  Mal stepped forward, his expression pissed. “Listen. I have no patience for this shit. Talk now, or I’m going to start hitting people.”

  Okay. Wolfe didn’t usually play good cop, but what the hell. “You guys want out of this? Believe me—talk and we’ll leave.”

  Mal growled. “Let’s just kill them. They don’t know anything, and I’m hungry.”

  “I saw an IHOP a couple of blocks over,” Wolfe offered. “I guess we could just shoot them and go, but that’d probably make a bunch of noise.”

  Mal pursed his lips. “We could go for blunt-force trauma. There’s probably a baseball bat around here somewhere.”

  “Knives would be better,” Wolfe said thoughtfully. “Did you see any when you came in through the kitchen?”

  Mal winced. “That’s so messy, and this is a new sweatshirt. Strangulation?”

  The blond drooled and sucked in air. “Wait a minute. Just wait a minute.”

  “One chance,” Wolfe said, letting the predator in him show.

  “There isn’t much to tell.” The shaky guy exhaled, his thin body shuddering with the movement. “Some guy hired us to follow the pretty blond chick. Gave us her address. We’ve been watching her for about a week. Got the text to take her out after the party in the mansion.”

  Heat rolled through Wolfe. It had been Dana in danger? He’d known it was a possibility, but he’d truly thought the guys were after him. The tweakers pressed back on the sofa as if somehow sensing his mood had changed.

  “You’ve been watching her for a week?” Wolfe asked.

  The shaky guy nodded, the movement a painful-looking jerk. “Yeah, kind of. We’ve staked out her apartment building and followed her a few times, but we’ve lost her a lot.”

  Probably when they stopped to shoot up drugs.

  “But you caught her scent when she went to the party last night?” Malcolm prodded him.

  The blond guy’s face brightened. “Yeah. We followed her cab to the car rental place and then to the mansion, and man, that outfit she was wearing was something else. Thought about—” He caught himself and made a strangled
noise, heeding too late his sense of self-preservation.

  “Thought about what?” Wolfe asked, his tone dropping to deadly and his hands starting to twitch with the need to punch through the asshole’s face to the sofa.

  The blond gulped and shook his head, his breath turning shallow. If he passed out, he’d stop talking, darn it.

  “Somebody texted you to kill her?” Wolfe asked, enunciating each word and trying to keep his calm in place.

  The blond winced. “Yeah.”

  “When did you get the text?” Wolfe snapped.

  “Right before she ran out of that mansion with you. I’m sorry,” the blond whined.

  “Why her?” Mal asked, his gun remaining trained on the duo.

  The shaky guy bit his lip and a little blood welled. “Nobody said.”

  This was getting worse. Whoever wanted Dana dead might have nothing to do with the death of her friend, considering some of the stories she’d pursued through the years. Wolfe tamped down on his anger and tried to concentrate.

  “Who hired you?” Mal snarled.

  The shaky guy shrugged, his dreadlocks sliding over his shoulders. “Dunno. It’s common knowledge we’re available for odd jobs. Cash, instructions, and a phone came in an envelope. Right to the door. More money was supposed to come after, but it never did.”

  What morons.

  “There’s nothing more here,” Mal said quietly. “Where’s the phone?”

  The blond pulled a phone off the filthy carpet. “It’s a burner, and I’m sure he used one, too.”

  Wolfe grabbed up the duffel. “I’m taking it all—even the drugs.” He’d pour them down the toilet. Wait. Wasn’t that causing animals drinking from rivers to get high? Hmm. He’d have to figure out a way to dispose of the drugs later. When the blond started crying, he felt marginally better. Not much. Who was after Dana?

  He led the way outside, his mind on the pretty journalist and not his surroundings. When the first bullet pierced his flesh, he was more surprised than hurt.

  The second bullet whizzed by his ear.

  He dove into some dead bushes as a volley of shots splattered against the house and splintered the front window into deadly projectiles. Quiet descended, and then the sound of screeching tires echoed from a street over. He peered over the bushes to the other side of the door, clamping a hand on his bleeding arm. “Malcolm?”