Laura Kaye - Hard As It Gets

Louis tapped his pen on the page. “Sure. I’m sorry about your brother, by the way.”

Becca nodded. “Thank you.”

Long minutes passed. Occasionally she heard a dull thump or the low murmur of a voice from downstairs. Still holding her mom’s locket, she twisted the chain and turned the pendant in her hands. She flipped it open again, sadness filling her at the loss of the family photos. Why had Charlie taken the necklace? And when?

Becca leaned toward the lamp on the end table. There was something in the ovals where the pictures went. She gasped. A string of letters and numbers filled the two spaces, roughly engraved, as if by hand. She turned the silver to catch more light. The right side read, “WCE.” The left side was a string of numbers: 754374329. Without saying a word, she snapped it shut and slid it into her jeans pocket, her heart suddenly beating fast. She’d show Nick when they got home.

A knock sounded at the front door, and Becca nearly jumped. She rose as Walt and Louis made their way to the foyer, and Nick and Beckett followed them back into the living room a moment later.

Tension and anger radiating off him, Nick held out his hand. Two rectangular pieces of what looked like metal filled his palm. “Bugs,” he said. “That hadn’t been there this afternoon.”

“One audio and one video,” Beckett said.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Becca said. “They already have Charlie, why would they monitor his house now?”

“ ‘Monitor’ is precisely the right word. I think they’re watching for who’s coming and going. Maybe they already know someone’s searching for Charlie. Reward flyers have been up for a few hours, so it’s possible. And the timing would make sense.”

Beckett stepped to the coffee table. “Those are map symbols for churches.”

“That’s right.” Louis stabbed his pencil point into a black square. “But they’re also gang symbols. If this is what you saw, Becca, then the man who tried to abduct you is a member of the Church Organization, a prominent gang run by a crime lord named Jimmy Church.” Looking up, he met her gaze, then looked at Nick and Beckett. “And surveillance like that is definitely within their capability.”

“Okay,” she said, sitting down again.

“See,” he continued, “gangs are hierarchical institutions, and they have different ways of showing that. One is with tattoos. In the Church organization, the simple cross represents an affiliate member, almost like a prospective member. Youngsters. The cross and steeple symbol represents formal gang members. They’re officially in the gang. These are the guys doing the street hustling of drugs and guns and prostitutes. The cross and tower symbol is for hard-core gang members, men in their twenties or thirties who have fully adopted gangs as their lifestyle and run crews of younger members, seeking to expand business and territory to earn status. At the next-to-top are the apostles, who hold the leadership positions, often running the gang’s front businesses. They’ve earned their seniority with a lot of time on the streets and in prison, usually, and now they have the money and the influence to stay mostly clean of the illegal activities, all while directing them. At the top, of course, is Jimmy Church, the Messiah.”

“Uh, wow,” Becca managed, letting all that soak in. It was a whole other world. “Can I see?” He handed her the page. “I saw the square. That much I’m sure of. There wasn’t any writing beneath it. But it’s possible there was a cross atop it. I saw him from across the room, though, and I wasn’t really paying attention.” She looked up at Nick. “It’s possible there was a cross. I know there was something above the square.”

He nodded. “Louis, what kinds of drugs does this organization sell? Any specialties?”

“Well, everybody sells everything, but Church has been working to dominate the heroin trade for years. He inherited this organization from his grandfather, who back in the eighties sold most of the heroin in Baltimore. Church has probably built it back to about seventy-five percent dominance, so if someone’s selling heroin, they’re probably Church’s men.”

“Can I ask why you’re willing to tell her all this?” Beckett asked, arms crossed, expression serious as a heart attack.

Not even a little flustered by Beckett’s demeanor, Louis laced his fingers between his knees. “I did my time in a Baltimore gang, and I did my time in prison. Now I work on the city’s gang task force and run a community program that gives kids alternatives to gangs and helps gang members transition to civilian life. I met Charlie a few times and liked him. Would hate to know he’d been caught up in something with Church. And now it seems my pop’s in danger. I thought my expertise might be of some help.”

“Thank you, it does help,” Becca said, looking from Louis to Beckett, who gave a nod and eased off. For the first time, his abrasive intensity struck her as being more like big brother protectiveness than just being a hard-ass for hard-ass’s sake. She even found it a little endearing.

“Good. Now, my turn for a question,” Louis said. “Am I right in thinking that the three of you are here discussing this with me instead of the police because you’re trying to find Charlie without them?”

Becca rose and glanced to Nick, unsure whether to answer.

“Why do you want to know?” Nick asked.

“Because you might not find the police as useful as you’d think on this. Church has people on the payroll everywhere. Deep pockets, man, and widespread influence.”

Nick’s expression was a brick wall, but Becca felt way too awkward to just pretend the question wasn’t still hanging in the air. “Can we just say we’re not sure who to trust yet?”

“Yeah, that’s cool. Well”—he lifted a half-inch-thick spiral-bound report out of his green canvas messenger bag—“in case I’m right, this might be useful to you.” The title appeared through the clear laminated cover: Maryland Gang Survey: Church Organization. “When you’re done with it, just get it back to my dad.”

Becca leafed through the pages. The organization’s history, known membership, gang identifications, businesses, criminal records, and more fluttered through her vision.

“It’s not everything there is to know, but it’s a lot of what we do know,” he said.

Overwhelmed by the threat an organization like this could pose to Charlie—hell, to them all—she let the booklet flip closed with a snap of pages. “I know I keep saying this, but thank you.”

He rose and met each of their gazes. “Don’t thank me yet. If Church has your brother, this situation is real serious. And it’s likely to get worse before it gets better.”

“Hey, Nick? I found something,” Becca said when they got back in the Charger.

He and Beckett turned in his seat toward her. “What?” Nick asked.

She fished the necklace they’d retrieved from the maid out of her pocket and opened it. “Look at the inside surfaces in the light.”

Nick turned on the overheads and held it up. Someone had carved letters and numbers into the silver. “Were these here before?”

“No. The pictures that were in there were mine, so I know there wasn’t writing in there before. Charlie had to have done this after he took it. No idea what it means, though.”

Beckett reached for the necklace. “You drive. I’ll call this in to Marz. He can start running searches on both strings.”

Not long after, Rixey eased the Charger into a spot across the street from Becca’s house. His gut told him bringing her here was a bad idea on about fifty-two levels—especially with what they’d just found at Charlie’s. But if he was going to live up to his word, he had to be a partner and not a dictator, much as that sometimes sucked—not because he wanted to control her but because he wanted Becca safe and happy.

And her house was damn unlikely to achieve either of those goals right now.

He turned in the driver’s seat and met her expectant gaze. God, even with everything the day had thrown at her, she was beautiful and brave and still clinging to hope. And with what they’d learned at Walt’s tonight, holding onto any kind of positivity was a damned act of heroism.

“No more than ten minutes, Becca. You’re not going to have time to tour the whole place. Find the things you want to take, throw them in a bag, and we’re back out the door.”

She nodded, clearly eager to go inside.

Shane was on the sidewalk, weapon drawn, methodically scanning the street.

“Okay, here we go.” Nick unholstered his gun and nodded at Beckett, then the two men got out and Rixey released the seat forward for her. Bracing herself on his hand, she stepped onto the pavement, and Nick was on her like white on rice. He hustled her across the road, Shane and Beckett flanking them. Key in hand before they hit the steps, Rixey reached around her when they got to the door and slid the grooved metal home. Inside, he flicked the switches on the front wall and urged her in so the guys could enter behind them. Last in, Shane secured the door.

Nick was wishing they’d made this trip during the day so the interior lights wouldn’t have advertised their presence when he heard her.

“Holy shit. Ho-ly shit. Holy freaking shit.”

Standing in the middle of what looked like a tornado’s debris, Becca surveyed the damage as she turned in a slow circle, her face pale with shock. When her eyes landed on him, it was like being sucker punched in the solar plexus—her pain and fear sucked the wind right out of his lungs.

He crossed the room and took her hands. “When this is all over, we’ll make this right. Okay? Important thing is your safety. You weren’t here when they did this, and I don’t want you to be here should they decide to return.”

She heaved a shaky breath. “Right. Okay. Um, I think everything I want is upstairs.” A series of expressions played out over her pretty face, and he literally watched her shove back the panic and steel herself.

Shane and Beckett took up positions at the first-floor doors as Rixey followed her up the stairs. He felt her sense of loss like a jagged rock in his gut. And, man, he would’ve done anything to bear that burden for her. But sometimes life forced you to walk through the shit whether you had a good pair of boots or not—and it was apparently Becca’s turn.

Sonofabitch.

From the steps, she made for the bathroom, but stopped abruptly with an “oh” when she turned on the light. The mirror was shattered, shards everywhere. “Jesus. I’ll never get the glass out of the bottom of my shoes if I go in there. Who would do this?”

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it.”

“I’ve got a professional first-responders-type first-aid kit in that closet over there,” she said. “Thought it might be good to have on hand.”

Hanging onto the molding, Nick leaned in and grabbed a towel off the bar. He flipped out the fabric and settled it over most of the glass. The terry muted the sound of the crunching as he crossed the narrow room.

“It’s a red backpack.”

In the closet, the pack easily stood out. He slung it over his shoulder. “Anything else?” Something caught his eye and he grabbed and tossed it to her. “How ’bout that?”

Becca squeaked but caught the yellow rubber ducky in her hands. She laughed. They didn’t have time to play around, but the thirty seconds it took to distract her from the horror that was her house was worth it. “Actually, Shiloh might like this. She doesn’t have any toys.”

He grimaced. “That’s not a dog name. She’s a guard dog. She needs a strong name.” Under his feet, the glass crunched again as he made his way out. He dropped the backpack at the top of the steps.

“I know. I just need five concentrated minutes to really think about it,” she said, stepping into her bedroom doorway. “Oh, God.” She hit the overhead light switch and went utterly still as her gaze scanned over the room. The sudden gasp and sob ran ice down Rixey’s spine. Becca bolted over the wreckage, her feet slipping.

“Becca?”

“No. No, no, no.” She scrabbled on hands and knees over her bed and clutched at the fretboard of the destroyed guitar lying on the far side. She hugged it to her chest, shoulders shaking and gasping around suppressed sobs, and the wires dragged still-connected pieces of the guitar’s bridge and body into her lap. She caved in over it, her back trembling and tense. “No, no,” she rasped, tears choking off her voice.

Nick’s throat went tight and he was beside her in an instant, wrapping himself around her and whispering soft shushes. “It’s okay, sunshine. It’s okay.” The words felt like crushed glass in his mouth because, whatever this was, it wasn’t in the same fucking zip code as okay.