Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(43)

Fuck, the only time he makes back-to-back calls is if it’s urgent.

“Hey, man, what’s going on?” I answer.

“Rachel Farrington just went on the lam!”

“What?” I ask, incredulous. “No way.”

“She snuck away from her fed detail about an hour ago.”

I check my watch—it’s four a.m. now.

Briggs continues, “The FBI are up in arms but are trying to keep it under the radar,” he informs me. “My contact on the inside gave me a call. They’re thinking she may be Miguel’s ally.”

“Where is she, Briggs?”

“She’s on the move, but her coordinates are 29.9586° N, 90.0650° W, which is in Vieux Carre.”

“The French Quarter, New Orleans.”

“Ryder, do I tell the feds where she is?” he asks seriously.

“No, just keep tabs on her. If she’s in trouble they could make it worse. If she’s not . . .”

“What? We’re betraying her by giving her up?”

“Look, I’m on my way. Get ahold of the nearest chopper service and call me directly back.” I end the call and pull on my pants.

“What the hell are you doing, Farrington?”



Rachel





Two hours ago I snuck out of the window and away from the safety of my FBI detail while it was still dark.

Just as I was instructed to.

I ran with every bit of force and power in my body and didn’t rest until I got to the truck stop in the next town over. Praying fervently my guards wouldn’t find me.

I hid in the cover of bushes in the back of the Pilot parking lot, terrified someone would see me and call the cops.

I waited almost an hour before a woman driver in a big rig came through.

I’d memorized my script. I could do this.

After she pumped her gas, went in for some snacks and came back out, I made my move. I pretended to be a woman frightened of her abusive boyfriend and told her I was trying to get away to my girlfriend in New Orleans. She was more than glad to lend a hand.

Now I sit here waiting in St. Louis Cemetery with too much time alone in the quiet with my racing thoughts.

The sun isn’t even up yet, and I can see Venus, the Morning Star, in the sky. I wish she could help me, but she can’t or won’t.

It started yesterday; the housekeeper came into the little inconspicuous home in Vacherie, Louisiana to clean, like she does every morning. The FBI had chosen the town because it was small and they could keep a good watch on the people there. If anything different happened, they’d know it.

Or so they thought.

“Excuse me, se?ora,” the housekeeper said when she pushed into me, blocking my path through the doorway with the vacuum. At that moment, she dropped something into my pocket and said quietly, so no one but me could hear her, “?Quieres ver a su hermana otra vez? Sister? Lemy? See again, sí?”

It felt like my stomach was instantly filled with heavy cement. She couldn’t have said what I thought. No. No.

She smiled and nodded before putting her index finger to her closed lips in a gesture for me to be quiet. “Shh.”

Her words lurched repeatedly through me. “You want to see your sister again?”

Fuck! The fear gripped me. What the f*ck is in my pocket? Where is Lemy?

“Are you alright, Miss Farrington?” Agent Jones asked.

My eyes trailed to Consuela, who smiled like it was a perfect morning.

“Fine,” I said too fast and too loudly, and then I rushed to the bathroom. I locked the bathroom door behind me and fished the hunk of plastic from my pocket.

A phone!

I flipped it open, and a tiny orange sticker that read PUSH ME was on the call button—I was redialing a pre-programmed number.

I hit it and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Miss Farrington?” Instantly my mind spun as I recognized the voice of the man who murdered Drew Jameson.

“Yes,” I hissed into the phone.

“Don’t speak again,” he commanded in a low voice. “We must be absolutely certain that no one hears you. I have someone here with me that I think you care a great deal for. I’ll let her speak to you, but remember, be the intelligent woman I know you are and don’t make a sound. We don’t want to alert the FBI agents doing such a good job protecting you—because that would kill our young friend. What do you call her? Lemy?”

The mention of my little sister’s intimate nickname made my heart lurch into my mouth.

“Waychul?” At the sound of her tender, frightened voice I crashed to my knees on the tile floor.

“Lem—” I slapped my free hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t talk.

“Waychul, I go home. You come get me?”

Tears gathered then spilled down my face.

“Ahh, so now you know what is at stake,” Eduardo Miguel told me sinisterly.

I hyperventilated behind my hand.

“Hide the phone and do whatever it takes to get away from your guards later tonight—make sure it is dark, and make sure you are careful not to be followed or caught, or the child dies.”

All I could imagine was Lemy chained in that monster’s basement.

“Get to St. Louis Cemetery in the French Quarter and find a tomb marked Jacquette Devereaux, plot 325. There is a standing cross at the head of the tomb. Underneath it will be another phone and further instructions.”