The note in the package with the cell phone had directions for Kennedy to call as soon as she arrived from Chicago. If we were right and the house was being watched, our time was nearly up. The entire house silenced, holding a collective breath, as Bridget put the phone on speaker and pushed the call button.
I nodded to Patrick and Mandy, telling them to send in Carlos’s men. Patrick had set this operation in motion, but now that I was here, I was in charge. Both men nodded as they sent their appropriate messages. The only instructions to the cartel men had been to rescue Louisa. If possible, I wanted the chance to question the kidnappers, but not as badly as I wanted Louisa safe. If the cartel got their kicks taking McFadden’s men out, they could go for it. Reid could trace all their electronics to confirm their connection to McFadden. If it wasn’t him, we were back to square one.
“Ms. Hawkins?” a deep voice through the phone’s speaker asked, “Kennedy Hawkins?”
Familiar chills of anticipation ran down my spine. This life wasn’t for the faint of heart. It took the right men and women to stare death in the face and walk away unscathed. To willingly face it time after time was either insanity or incredible fortitude. All of us gathered here were standing on the edge of a cliff, the spot where adrenaline kicks up the pulse and fingers blanch as they clench into fists. It was the fight-or-flight instinct that in people like us was defective.
There was no flight, only fight.
No backing away. No receding into hiding places.
It was kill or be killed.
Though I could say that people like Reid, Patrick, and I, as well as others in my outfit, acquired that psychological response in the army or in other branches of the military, it wouldn’t be completely accurate. With the three of us, I believed we honed it in the army, in the desert, and in decimated towns. However, to truly stand tall and unwavering and stare down the grim reaper time after time, that defective instinct had to be wired into your DNA. Only men and women with ice-cold hearts could do it and come back for more. We were a unique breed, a brotherhood when we worked together, mortal enemies when we didn’t.
For most in this small house, we qualified, and today we were brothers and sisters working for one cause.
Perhaps that DNA was another thing I should thank my father for.
Maybe I would, when we met in hell.
For others, this life—this business—was unbelievable, unfathomable.
I couldn’t worry about Winnie or the doctor and how they would deal with the aftermath. Patrick had found the doctor through the cartel. She’d be well paid and if she talked, she’d die. It was the simple truth she understood well. If she didn’t comprehend that, she wouldn’t work for them.
As for Winnie—and hopefully Louisa if she survived—their rose-colored glasses would never fit again. It was the hard truth.
My eyes went to Patrick, wondering if he thought the voice on the phone sounded familiar. There was no distinct accent or unique characteristic. As I ran his question— “Ms. Hawkins? Kennedy Hawkins?”—through the databases of my mind, his voice sounded like every man while at the same time no man whom I knew.
Thankfully, Reid was doing the same thing as I but not mentally—technologically. He was running the voice on the phone, via a connection on Patrick’s laptop, through thousands of voice patterns, looking for a match.
“Yes, this is she,” Bridget replied to his question.
I pointed upward. Her tone needed to be higher.
Bridget cleared her throat—which I hoped sounded like nerves and not what it was.
“May I please speak to Louisa?” Bridget asked, her voice quivered appropriately with a sprinkling of fear.
“In a minute,” he replied hastily. “First, I’m going to tell you exactly what you need to do to see your friend again, and I mean not in a morgue.”
I nodded, encouraging Bridget to get to Louisa.
Her eyes were wide on me as she listened and spoke. “I want to be sure she’s all right. Please let me—”
“Answer my question. Who’s your mother?”
My stomach tightened. That wasn’t a simple answer.
“My birth mother or the woman who raised me?”
“On my Kennedy birth certificate, it says Debbie Hawkins.”
I exhaled.
“Now please—” Bridget continued.
“My client,” he interrupted, “wants the information—the evidence—your birth father hid.”
She must have answered the question the way he wanted.
Wait? Client?
“I don’t have any information. That’s an old wives’ tale,” she said immediately as I said a silent thank-you to Patrick for his thorough work with briefing Bridget.
“He thinks you do,” the man said. “He thinks that you have the key. Stop lying and get me the evidence. Once you do, you’re going to call me on this phone and arrange a transfer. Those CDs for Ms. Toney.”
CDs?
“I need to hear—”
He continued to talk. “We have eyes. We know Sparrow is your fucking shadow; he won’t let you out of his or Kelly’s sight. Otherwise, it would be you here instead of your friend. Can you live with yourself if you let her take this fall?”
“Please.”
Damn, my hands fisted tighter, itching to strike. I wanted to climb through the fucking phone and take out this guy. At the moment, I didn’t care if it was in front of Louisa or not if I got to just watch him bleed out for the way he was talking to Araneae—even if it wasn’t her.
“Better hurry...” He chuckled. “...and get Sparrow to help you because this lady here is about to have a kid—like any minute. We aren’t set up for no babies. Hate to have to kill two people because you can’t follow directions.”
I sucked in a breath and looked to Patrick. I fucking wanted to hear commotion on the other end of this line.
Where were Carlos’s men?
“Please,” Bridget pleaded again, doing a great impression of Araneae, “let me speak to her. I need to know...She’s my best friend...May I-I see her?”
It was risky for her to initiate a visual call, but keeping him on the line and confirming Louisa’s safety were the priorities.
“Once you get the evidence,” he said, “you—not your bodyguard or Sparrow—will bring it to me. I suppose you know not to contact the police or feds. If I so much as hear a rumor that you’ve talked to the feds again...” His words trailed away before coming back louder, “What the fuck?”
The line went silent, but not before a woman’s distant scream and the crackling and popping of gunfire erupted on the other end. It sounded like someone had set off a packet of firecrackers.
I sucked in a breath.
Bridget’s hand shook as she looked down at the screen that indicated the call had ended. “Was that? We didn’t get to talk to Louisa,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “I don’t even know her.” She looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sparrow.”
Winnie and Jana were staring at Bridget, their eyes also moist with emotion as they held on to each other’s hands for comfort.
My mind spun, wanting answers, worried about Louisa, and imagining the unimaginable task of telling Araneae news that would break her heart.
“The man on the line said he was going to let her talk,” Patrick said, breaking the dooming silence. “That means she’s there. It also means that as of a few seconds ago, she was able to talk and that...” He turned to Mandy. “...your men are at the right place.”
“I want answers,” I declared to the room. “We’re being watched. This house needs to be secured.”
Under the cover of night, three of our outfit’s men slipped out the back door and into the shadows. South Boulder wasn’t ready for a gun battle in a quiet neighborhood, but if we were approached, it would get one.
The clock ticked. Yet time fucking stood still as the walls of Winnie’s house figuratively closed in around us.