No sufficient proof and now no surveillance photos either.
“We know they’re involved in something larger. They are tied to the Van Linsted case. We just need to prove it.”
She was right. When I’d met Ben Covington earlier in the year, my instincts told me something was up with him. The more I pulled that thread, the more questions I had.
Then my case mysteriously had been tied up, with an additional high-profile case tossed in. I’d gotten credit for both busts. But I knew what they were. A pay-off of sorts. Ben Covington didn’t want me looking into him and his friends… and I needed to know why.
1
East
What the hell?
That woman. First, she was a hell of a fighter. Second, she was quick. She moved like she had proper training. She managed to put me on my ass.
I hadn't even bothered to go back to the restaurant. After Bridge had picked my ass up off the ground, I headed back to the penthouse. There was no way I could let it go.
She'd been taking pictures of us.
Exactly what did she see?
We were discreet.
Or so you think.
I scrubbed a hand down my face. Chances were, she hadn't heard anything she shouldn't have. But all of us together, that was a risk. And with Interpol sniffing around after the Van Linsteds were arrested, it was a big risk.
I didn't have any moral problems with what we'd done to Bram Van Linsted. After all the shit their family had pulled, the cheating, the lying, the abusing and trafficking of women, we had zero qualms about them getting exactly what they deserved.
Even if what they deserved was not the result of their direct crimes, we still put them in jail for a very long time. What I did have qualms about was getting caught before we finished getting vengeance for Toby. There were more people in the Elite that deserved punishment. And if we got pinched, they wouldn't get what they deserved. If we got caught, they would remain free.
So I had to care quite a bit that a random woman was photographing us.
She could be a reporter.
That was true. But there was something familiar about her. Why did I know her? Dark auburn hair, perky nose that was slightly too big for her face, full lips that looked like they were permanently curved into a smile.
Her cheekbones had been all wrong though. It was like she had these great features, but the arrangement was all wrong. Why was that?
I strode into my penthouse, full of piss and vinegar, ready to hit something.
As I marched to my bank of computers screens, I forced myself to take deep, even breaths. Wasn't that what the long-ago therapist had said for me to do when I felt the anger coming for me? For the rage threatening to take hold, take deep breaths to suppress it. Remind myself that I was not in control of everything, and I couldn't control it all. Usually, it helped. Usually, I could calm myself enough to think, but in that moment, I wanted to know what she wanted, why she was watching us, and I was in search-and-destroy mode.
With a vicious tug, I almost ripped my Ozwald Boateng suit jacket when I yanked it off.
I jerked my tie loose, so I no longer felt like I had a noose around my neck. And then I flopped onto my couch, broken and exhausted.
The rush of calm was instant, followed by a little tingle of anticipation.
The hacking had started as a result of a little too much alone time. As a teenager, life at home had been complete shit. When I wasn't shipped off to boarding school, my parents were mostly absent, and if they were present, they were either cold and distant or angry-chatting most of the time. Granted, most of it was directed at AJ.
And like most teens, I'd taken to doing whatever I could to block it out. I'd avoided going home. And when I was at home, I was tapping away on my computers. Of course, I'd gone poking around in probably a whole hell of a lot of places I shouldn't. But side note, it gave me an excellent skill set that I loved. It gave me that high, that buzz. The thing that alcohol and drugs had never given me.
The only thing that rivaled that sweet numbness was sex. But that wasn't the kind of relief I needed tonight. I needed to know who the hell that woman was and what she wanted.
I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t check on my pet project first. The security system I’d put in place at Belinda Lloyd’s place was holding, and she seemed safe. She hadn’t hit any panic calls. And I’d put facial recognition into each camera. If her abusive ex showed up, the police would be notified. All was good there. There was nothing to do.
With a few quick keystrokes and taps, I was plugged into CCTV for the South Bank area. I pulled up the camera feeds right around the restaurant, and then I sat back as I watched.
"Where are you, little minx?"
The camera caught her coming out the side door, and then a hulking shadow falling in behind her. That was me. And she took off running. She moved like an athlete. No flailing arms, good form. With a slight lean forward, she pushed off of her legs like she spent a lot of time running, not as a weekender but as someone who had been trained properly. Her arms were the driver. They weren't sloppy. She knew what she was doing, and she darted and moved like she knew exactly where to go. Like she had plotted her escape route. And then I lost her.
I switched over to where I knew we’d ended up in the park, then I leaned forward, watching her movements, the way she ducked hits and blows. I watched myself fight, knowing full well I'd held back because, well, she was a woman and I hadn't wanted to hurt her.
Because it didn't matter what the hell was going on with you, you didn't put your hands on women. It as an easy enough rule to follow most of the time.
But this one had been hitting like she meant it, and she’d landed a couple of good blows. Absently, I rubbed my ribs thinking about it. She had knocked me flat on my ass, so that was going into the books, and I was pretty sure Bridge would never let me live that down, but whatever.
One of the cameras from the nearby bar caught a view of her face. There was something on her cheek. It looked like a cut on her skin, maybe?
I tried zooming in, but there was only so much CCTV cameras could do. I growled. I watched the fight over the camera and my easy slip where I took her SD card. Then I watched her knock me on my ass with that Taser. Excellent.
To my chagrin, I was half hard. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck was wrong with me?
I was no masochist. Whips and chains, unlike what Rihanna and Britney said, did not usually excite me. But somehow, I'd gotten my ass handed to me by this woman, and the memory of it made me hard. But that would be another conversation for another therapist on another day. She took off, running east out of the park. So, where was she?
Another few quick taps on the keyboard took me into the feeds for the likely exit points. I picked one, searched all the cams, but there was no sign of her. Finally, it was when I looked south that I saw her. She'd doubled-back around. God, she was smart. She’d come prepared.
With a determined frown, I leaned forward until I finally caught her. She was in the alley behind some bars, panting, holding her ribs. Fuck me. Had I hurt her? The wash of shame was quick. The nausea seemed to follow too. I didn't care how badly she seemed to want to hurt me or the London Lords. It didn't sit well that I'd injured her.
She reached up to her face. That piece of skin that I'd noticed on her cheek, where I worried that I'd hurt her, she dug fingers into it and pulled. I sucked in a sharp breath as I watched her peel away the skin and cheek that had seemed too full for her facial frame and the nose that seemed a little bit off. The action at first made my gut clench.