Saint:A Dark Mafia Romance(31)

I push the call button.

"Agent Marlow," I growl when the line picks up. "I heard you've got a little crush on me."

There's a frozen second before he clears his throat.   





 

"Mr. Roarke," he hisses.

"You've been up everyone's ass all over Southie trying to pin something on my family or me. I think it's time I threw you a bone."

He barks out a bitter laugh. "I don't need shit from you, you punk Irish motherfu-"

"Shut the fuck up and listen."

He shuts up.

"What if I had something for you. That be worth anything to you?"

He's quiet another second before he answers.

"I'm listening."

I smile grimly as I snatch the bag of guns up and head for my car.

"Agent Marlow, how'd you like to make the bust of your miserable career?"





Chapter Thirty-One





Connor




The warehouse on the outskirts of Dorchester, near Anton's turf, is black and deserted when I pull up and shut the engine off. The car parked fifty feet away facing me flashes its lights, and I grit my teeth as I open the door and step out.

Marlow.

I know I'm walking into the lion's den here, but I'm out of fucking options. Besides, the guns are locked in the strongbox in my trunk, I'm not carrying anything, and if Marlow had anything real on me, I'd be in jail already.

That said, I called Liam - with Aela there too this time - on the way over here and let them know what was going on. I assured them I wasn't drunk, or insane, and that I knew what I was doing.

 … Even if I'm not entirely sure that's true.

We're meeting here because "here" is about two blocks from what I know is Anton Boiko's main clubhouse, in an old printing factory the Boston Globe used to use way back in the day. SWAT's staging in the dark warehouse next to us, gearing up to strike.

Marlow's no ally, I know that, but it seems we've got a mutual enemy in Anton. You know that saying that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?

Yeah, well, that doesn't apply here at fucking all, but if Marlow and I can use each other to get what we came here for, I'm fine with that. He confirmed on the phone before I even jumped in my car back to Boston that surveillance teams spotted a van driven by one of Oleg Liski's guys heading back from Cape Cod.

Those motherfuckers have her, and if working with this piece of shit and his FBI buddies gets her back before Oleg hurts her, so be it.

And if he has hurt her?

The rage roars up inside of me.

If he's hurt her in any way, I won't be held responsible for the thunder I call down on this entire city, that I can promise.

I walk towards Marlow's car, nodding at him as he steps out.

"Roarke," he nods back, and I notice that his hand hovers by the holster at his hip.

"I'm not carrying," I growl.

We size each other up, which is comical considering the physical differences between us. Him, the short, middle-aged, paunchy guy with graying hair and sallow skin. Me pushing six foot two and about two-twenty of lean muscle.

His perceived power comes from the fucking badge he wears. Mine's been earned through blood and sweat and tears.

"So." Marlow eyes me warily. "We have a deal?"

I grit my teeth, glaring at him. We do, and he knows it, he just wants to hear me say it to his face. I've already run this by Aela and Liam, and they're both completely okay with giving up anything we've got on Anton and his crew. The cavalry swoops in and yanks Sierra out of there, and I spill whatever we know about the Ukrainians - who's who in the operation, drop spots, known activity, the fucking works.

Bringing the law in on matters that involve the Saints isn't something that's taken lightly. In fact, I'm not sure it's ever been done. But we tried diplomacy, and that clearly went up in smoke.

Anton asked for trouble. We'll bring it to his goddamn doorstep, and if that involves sticking the goddamn FBI on his ass? So be it.

"We have a deal."

Marlow smiles. "Excellent. That's excellent. I'm glad we're going to be friends here, Roarke."

I swallow back the rage, knowing the clock is ticking but knowing I have to deal with this shithead.

"Can we get this show on the road now?"

He smiles. "Sure, Roarke, sure."

I hate the way he's being so casual - his fucking nonchalant demeanor considering what's at stake here.

Marlow jerks his head towards the warehouse behind us and turns to head that way.

"Surveillance just confirmed the same van is parked outside the printing factory now, so we'll be breaking down Anton's door in ten minutes."

"I'm going with you."

Marlow just laughs as he strides ahead of me and shoulders open the side door. "I don't think so, Roarke."   





 

"I do."

He pauses in the doorway, turning to look at me. "You're really all set to give up Anton?"

"Does it look like I'm going to lose sleep over it?"

He whistles. "No honor amongst thieves, huh?"

"I think you've watched too many movies."

Marlow chuckles. "So it's nothing personal with Anton?"

"Of course it is, his guys shot at me."

"Nothing to do with Sierra Hammond."

My mouth goes tight as my heart jumps in my chest.

Marlow grins and shakes his head. "The criminal with the heart of gold. You're killing me here, Roarke."

"Can we get a fucking move on?" I hiss.

He laughs as he turns and steps into the warehouse. "That heart's gonna get you in trouble, Roarke."

I step in after him, and it's only then that my normally honed senses finally scream at me. It's then that my survival instinct finally manages to shoulder its way through the anguish of worrying about Sierra to scream in my goddamn face.

And suddenly, I freeze.

The warehouse is pitch black. SWAT isn't suiting up in here, and there's no FBI strike team getting ready to roll out.

"The fuck is going on, Marl-"

The blow comes at the back of my head, knocking me onto my knees. I snarl, jumping up and spinning around, slamming into the guy and knocking him back into the wall.

The guy goes limp as I smash his face against the corrugated metal, but as I whirl around, something slugs me in the gut, dropping me.

An overhead light flickers on as I suck painfully for a breath of air and try and stagger to my knees. Hands grab me, and I'm still roaring and trying to tear myself away when someone grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head up.

And then I'm looking right at her.

Sierra.

She's being held by two of them, her hands bound, her mouth gagged. She's screaming through it, kicking and fighting and lurching away from them, and it breaks something inside of me.

I explode, ripping myself away from the hands holding me back and lunging for her. The crack comes sharp to my side, sending me reeling to the floor. And I'm still roaring like a fucking wild man as four of them tackle me and pin me to the ground, my eyes locked on her.

Oleg Liski steps into the light next to her, grinning that yellow smile at me. And next to him, smiling right at me as he claps Liski on the shoulder?

Marlow.

My lips curl back as my eyes narrow at him. "You son of-"

I don't finish before he strides forward and sinks his shoe into my side with a snicker. Sierra screams through her gag, lashing out with her foot and catching Oleg in the shin. He snarls as he turns and suddenly cracks a hand across her face.

And I fucking roar.

I roar like a fucking caged animal and something in me shatters - the beast completely destroying his cage as I lunge for him with every intention of killing him with my bare fucking hands.

But my hands never touch him, and I don't make it two steps before there's more of them dragging me away from him and raining fists and heels down all over me.

I'm fading, badly.

She's screaming, and I try and get up again, but the fists and the boots and the whatever else they're hitting me with come raining down all over again, knocking me to the ground. I look up, my eyes searing into hers, and I lunge once more for her before something goes crashing into the side of my head.

This time, I don't get up.





Chapter Thirty-Two





Sierra




The chair creaks beneath me, the rough old wood biting into the back of my thighs. The rusty metal under-frame squeaks, grating against my ears as I shift in it. I'm pulling at the ropes binding my wrists to the arm rests, but I know it's useless.

I hiss as I twist once more, the rope rubbing raw against my skin and the wood digging into me before I swear loudly and kick at the big old metal desk in front of me.

I'm alone in the dusty old room - an office of some kind. Judging by the machines and reams of paper I saw on the way in as they dragged me in here, this must have been a printing facility way back. Old rusty file cabinets line one wall, stacks and stacks of four-decade-old copies of the Boston Herald along another.

Apparently, Richard Nixon has just resigned, according to the front page.

I can feel my heart thundering in my chest as my eyes dart around the room. I squeeze them shut, trying to center myself, trying not to shake, and trying to force myself to take deep breaths.

I'm doing everything I can not to lose it completely, but the truth is, I'm scared. The truth is, I'm terrified, because I know I've stepped way over my head here. I'm so far past "normalcy" for someone like me that I've forgotten what normal even is.   





 

There's the sound of footsteps outside, and when the doorknob jangles, I freeze, the blood chilling in my veins. The door opens, and agent Marlow steps in, an evil, smug grin on his face and a manila folder in his hands.