“I have eyes on four,” he told Jack.
“Get her upstairs. Call 911.”
Patrick picked Kami up off the couch. She was shaking. He carried her up to the bathroom and told her to lock the door. “Do not open it for anyone, until Jack or I tell you it’s clear.”
He closed the door, made sure she’d locked it behind him, and called 911 as he ran back down the stairs. He put the phone on speaker near the rear windows as he watched the group out back. The balcony was long and narrow, and the small windowpanes were set in metal, easy enough to break through. A narrow door on the left provided access to the balcony.
Jack was at the front door looking at the small security screen. “They took out the camera. They’re going to need small explosives to get in through this door, which they may have.”
“They’re scaling up to the balcony.”
“Those pops were explosives. They took out the door downstairs, but this one is stronger. They’re going to try to force us out the front.” Jack came over to the windows. “They’re not getting through that door anytime soon—it’s solid.”
The 911 operator finally came on. “Please state your name and the emergency.”
“Patrick Kincaid. Four or more armed men are attempting to break into this location.” Patrick gave them the exact address and apartment number.
“Sir, I will dispatch a patrol officer to check out the address.”
“Send six cars, Code 3.”
The dispatcher said something else, but Jack cut her off. “They’re coming up.” He glanced at Patrick. “You ready for this?”
Patrick knew what Jack meant. It had been a long time since Patrick was in the trenches, but they ran drills every month at RCK. He nodded. “Hell, yes, I’m ready.”
Jack ordered Patrick behind the kitchen counter, and Jack took cover by pushing the couch onto its front and sliding behind it.
Patrick sent Dwight a text message:
Elle’s apartment under attack. Four to six armed men. Send cops now.
Between Dwight and 911, the cops should get here soon. Patrick hoped it was before they were all dead.
Two thugs were on the balcony. Through the sheer blinds, Patrick could see them fumbling with the narrow glass door. It was locked. One used his elbow to break the glass, then opened the door by putting his hand on the inside.
Jack fired at the hand, hitting it. The guy screamed, stepped back and held his hand to his chest.
The second guy moved out of their line of sight. They were shouting orders, and the other two thugs scaled up to the balcony while the injured guy sat down on the ledge. It visibly sagged under the weight of four grown men.
One man exposed himself to kick open the glass door. He had a gun in hand and looked around, his eyes wide but his hand steady.
Jack shot at the guy’s gun hand, and winged him. The bastard turned toward the couch and fired repeatedly at Jack’s position. Patrick shot the guy with three bullets to the chest. He went down. He wasn’t moving.
The other two didn’t show themselves, but they were still on the balcony.
Using the outer wall as a partial shield, one of guys on the balcony took an illegal semiautomatic gun and fired indiscriminately into the room. Both Jack and Patrick took cover flat on the floor as bullets hit the bricks and furniture, spraying debris everywhere.
As soon as the bullets stopped, Jack was on his stomach, his gun out and trained on the broken glass door as the two men walked in through the dust, smug as if their wild shooting had done the job. Jack put a bullet in each shooter’s forehead without hesitation. They were dead before they knew what had happened.
Sirens were very close, and no one remained on the balcony except the first guy Jack had injured in the hand. Jack motioned for Patrick to check the vitals of the three men in the living room, while he went to the balcony and trained his gun on the sole survivor. The guy was more like a kid, maybe nineteen, cradling his arm.
“You killed my brother,” he said, shaking with pain.
“You try anything, you’ll see him in hell,” Jack said, his gun aimed at the teen’s face.
Though the three men were dead—young men, Patrick thought with a deep sadness—Patrick kicked their guns across the room.
Jack called back to Patrick, “The cavalry has arrived. You deal with them. I’ll check on the girl.”
* * *
Elle drove Clark to Granny’s Kitchen. “Thank you so much for helping. I’m so glad Kami is safe. I owe you one.”
“I’ll collect on it now.”
She glanced at her old friend. “What do you need? I don’t have a lot of time.”
“You’re right. You don’t. Keep driving.”
Elle stared at Clark. Then she looked down to his lap and saw that he was holding a gun on her.
A gun.
“What the hell?”
“Drive. By now Kami should be dead.”
“Kami is safe. She’s with Patrick.”
“Then he’s dead, too.”
She couldn’t move. Patrick was not dead. Neither was Kami. Clark was just trying to scare her.
“You bastard.” Elle was just as angry with herself for defending Clark as she was for his betrayal. Patrick had met him for five minutes and knew what he was. She’d known him for twelve years and had never figured it out. What must Patrick think of her judgment? Who could she believe? Was everyone in her life a phony? A criminal?
Dwight had always told her she was too trusting. But she never saw herself that way, until now. Now she felt used and manipulated.
“If you don’t drive the damn car, Elle, I will shoot you. You’re collateral.”
“You’re helping Lee and Lorenzo sell drugs to the kids you claim to want to help.”
“This has nothing to do with drugs. That’s all Richie.”
“So Patrick was right. This is about human trafficking.”
“He’s been using you. Did you think of that? I did my own research. His employer had to have sent him here to get close to you, so they could get intel on Lee. He had no reason to think that I wasn’t who you told him I was, yet he acted all big macho cop or whatever.” Clark laughed. “You’re so damn gullible, Elle. You always have been.”
Elle didn’t want to believe Clark, but Patrick did seem to know a lot about Christopher Lee and his shipping company—things that Elle had never put together. Had Patrick used her own family to gain access to her information? Maybe her mother hadn’t sent Patrick, maybe he’d used that as an excuse. Was he involved in an undercover operation? Could she trust her feelings about him?
She was gullible, trusting, and stupid. What mattered now was getting out of this mess.
Her phone was ringing and Clark grabbed it from her pocket. He threw it out the window.
Was that Patrick? Had he survived? Maybe all Clark’s talk was intended to distract her, to get her to act instead of think.
Idiot. All you do is react. You never think!
Kami wasn’t dead. Patrick wasn’t dead. Clark was lying. She had to believe that or she’d fall apart.
But he wasn’t lying about hurting her. She could see it in his eyes. It was as if their twelve-year friendship meant nothing to him.
She slowed down at a green light, frantically looking around for a cop, for anyone who could help her.
Clark hit her on the head. “Drive.” Her vision blurred for a moment, but she was more angry than hurt. “Toward the teen center, then keep going.”
CHAPTER 12
Patrick tried Elle again; it went directly to voice mail.
She should have been here by now.
He looked at his app to see where she was; nowhere. Her phone was not only off, it wasn’t functional. Either the battery was completely dead, or someone had taken it out.
He reviewed the history on her GPS. She’d driven from Mia’s to Granny’s Kitchen, then left Granny’s Kitchen. She must have dropped Clark off. Maybe Patrick had been wrong about him, and he wasn’t involved, or at least not involved in human trafficking.
But right after she left Granny’s Kitchen, her phone went dark.
Who had told Lee’s people Kami was at Elle’s apartment? They hadn’t followed her, she’d been here more than thirty minutes before the gang showed up.
Elle knew. And Elle had been with Clark at the time. And Kami had left a message on Sandy Chin’s phone. Either of them could be guilty.
Patrick carefully examined the GPS map. It was accurate within five hundred feet, and he could clearly see that Elle had made a
U
-turn and started back the way she’d come, past Granny’s Kitchen again and moving away from her apartment.
Right after Patrick called her and she didn’t answer, her phone went dead.
Something was wrong.
“Jack,” Patrick called to his brother.
They’d already given a preliminary statement to the authorities, but three dead bodies—even when they’d obviously been the aggressors—were going to cause a huge headache for RCK. JT Caruso was already on his way to San Francisco from Sacramento to work with local authorities so Patrick and Jack wouldn’t be detained. Dwight Bishop had arrived a few minutes ago and was talking to the assistant chief of police, and paramedics were upstairs treating Kami. She had more cuts and bruises than those on her feet—injuries that suggested she’d been beaten up, which she hadn’t mentioned to them.
Jack said, “The feds are on their way. ICE and DEA and probably the FBI. It’s a fucking alphabet soup.” Though Jack was married to an FBI agent, he still preferred to keep law enforcement at arm’s length. He was used to doing things his way. “JT and Hooper will smooth things over, but this situation isn’t helping any.”
“Elle’s missing.”
“Define ‘missing.’”
“She should have been here thirty minutes ago. Her phone is dead. She was last with the asshole I think is working with Lee. I need to find her.”
Jack glanced around. “Go.”
“I can’t—”
“I’ll cover for you. Go get her.”
“What about ICE?”
“They’re sending Kyle Tucker. Former Delta,” Jack said, as if that explained everything. So was Jack, and military stuck together, especially special forces. It was a brotherhood Patrick understood even though he wasn’t part of it.
“Let me know the plan.”
“Same here. Holler if you need backup.”
Dwight approached them, and Patrick introduced Jack. “This is a fucking mess,” Dwight said. “Where’s Elle?”
“I’m going to find her,” Patrick said.
“You can’t leave,” Dwight said. “They have more questions, and the assistant chief of police isn’t inclined to let you keep your weapons.”
Jack stared at the prosecutor. Dwight fidgeted and said, “There are three dead bodies.”
Neither of them said anything.
The paramedics were bringing Kami downstairs. Patrick walked over to them. “What hospital?”
“Mercy.”
“She needs a twenty-four-hour guard.” Patrick approached the assistant police chief. “Sir, Kami Toland is a witness to a major human trafficking ring and needs a guard posted at her hospital room.”
“Mr. Kincaid, we don’t know what the hell is going on here except that you and your brother shot and killed three armed intruders, and this isn’t your apartment. We don’t know what Ms. Toland thinks she saw or didn’t see, we’ll investigate it in due time.”
“There is no time!”
As the paramedics were about to leave, Patrick said, “Don’t go anywhere yet.”
Dwight stepped in and diplomatically explained to the paramedics that it would be best for Kami Toland to have an armed guard, but the senior cop was being unnecessarily argumentative.
Patrick couldn’t leave to find Elle until Kami was under protection. Christopher Lee had sent at least six men to kill her; she was still a threat to him. He would be angry, cornered, volatile. She was a witness. Just like Doreen had been a witness. Patrick had never met Christopher Lee, but he knew criminals like him didn’t leave witnesses alive.
A broad-shouldered black man entered the room. He was shorter than both Patrick and Jack, but his presence was immediately felt. He showed his badge to the cop at the door and said, “Special Agent Kyle Tucker, Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Sorry I’m late to the party, looks like ya’ll got to have fun without me.” Tucker had a slight Southern drawl, as if he was born and raised in the deep South but hadn’t been home in a while.
Jack’s lips twitched and he approached Tucker. At the same time, Tucker grinned and gave Jack a hug, then they did a complicated handshake. Patrick watched with curiosity. Jack wasn’t usually so warm.
“When JT told me you were coming, I knew we’d get this job done right.”
“Damn straight, Kincaid. Hooper in the fucking FBI—sorry, I heard you married one of them—briefed me on the way over. Hooper gets a pass, since he married one of mine, but damn, the Fibbies are like an octopus, getting their tentacles in every damn pie.”
“They are,” Jack concurred.
“When I saw Soldare’s name on the list, I took the job right off the ticker. The bitch is mine. I’ve been chasing her for two years. Sonia Hooper and I shut down Soldare’s Stockton operation last month, had her running, but she skipped the country. Or so we thought. When your brother—” Tucker looked around, then pinned his eyes on Patrick. “You’re Jack’s brother.”
“Good call,” Patrick said. He and Jack didn’t look much alike, since Jack looked Cuban and Patrick looked like their Irish dad.
Tucker slapped him on the back. “Damn, boy, you gave me a hard-on when I saw Soldare’s picture. She’s a fucking snake, can’t wait to cut off her head and watch her body wither and die.”
The local cops were staring at Tucker as if they’d just walked into a bizarre play.
Tucker continued. “Soldare is wanted for more than twenty thousand individual counts of trafficking in persons—and those are just the ones we know about. That she’s here makes me glow with excitement.”
Patrick said, “Did Hooper send you the tape?”
“Of course. You’re thinking that she’s already gone. She might be, but she won’t be getting out of the country if my people do their job right. Now, let me do my job so you boys can get out of here and catch some bad guys.”
He sauntered over to the assistant police chief, and Patrick leaned over to Jack and whispered, “I expected him to say, ‘I love the smell of napalm in the morning.’”