Until You (The Redemption, #1)(82)

Long Waited Revenge Ends in Brutal Murder

What could be a plot right out of a popular crime novel came to life late yesterday afternoon in the quiet suburbs outside of Baltimore, Maryland. The characters could seemingly be pulled from its pages. An imprisoned drug lord whose long arm had seemingly reached beyond the walls and his second-in-command who has supposedly carried his orders out for years.

Yesterday morning, these two things resulted in a brutal set of murders. Rangi Haloa, the second-in-command in the Makani drug organization, was murdered along with his wife and infant son inside their modest home. Sources say the scene was unspeakable due to signs of unimaginable torture.

Sources believe that Haloa’s boss, the currently incarcerated, Kaleo Makani, ordered the hit on his long-running lieutenant for what some perceive to be Haloa’s attempt to take more control of the distributing empire.

Haloa was no stranger to federal investigators for his role in a considerable list of unproven accusations against him. Among the top ones is the suspected murder of Makani’s own wife, Tessa Makani, in retribution for her help in building the federal case against her husband.

When asked to confirm or deny what our sources have divulged, police have stated no comment. There is no further press conference planned until a break is made in the investigation.



I read the article again and again as if the words will miraculously give me more information. But it doesn’t. And neither does any other article I find in my frantic search.

They all say Kaleo’s second-in-command is dead.

But I know different.

He wasn’t just an associate. He was an FBI agent. A traitor in Kaleo’s eyes.

Did Kaleo find out somehow or was what the article said true? Rangi was killed simply for trying to gain control?

And if it was true, what did Kaleo’s hitman find out through torture? What secrets did Agent Halston spill to try and save the life of his wife and child?

My hands tremble as I start the Jeep. As the images from the articles replay in my head—sheet-covered stretchers, a house crawling with law enforcement, a female agent with her head bowed and tears streaming down her face.

My heart races as I pull out from the parking lot. As I look in my rearview mirror to make sure no one is following me.

If he can assassinate an FBI agent—a man who is most likely protected in all aspects considering his double life—then what says he won’t get to me? Won’t find me? And why haven’t I heard from Peter? Do I call him? Do I wait for him to call me?

What. Do. I. Do?

By the time I get back to the cottage, I’ve worked myself into a frenzy.

I have to leave.

I can’t stay here. I can’t put Crew and the girls at risk. It would be selfish of me to do that to them.





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


Crew




It can’t be.

She can’t be.

But . . . but she always looked familiar to me. Familiar in a way I couldn’t place but then eventually let go.

I stare at the picture in my hand. The one that fell out of the apothecary cabinet when I tried to move it so the flooring company could finish the flooring. How could I have known when I moved the cabinet that the drawer was going to slide open and this was going to come out, softly flutter to the ground, and more than rock my suddenly settled world?

How could I have known the woman I’m in love with is the same woman standing beside Kaleo Makani? A man I know from my time in narcotics. A man who is the furthest thing from a good human being?

But it’s her.

The hair is darker now, her slight curves a little fuller too, but it’s Tennyson. I’d stake my life on it.

It only takes a few seconds for me to pull up on my phone article after article about Tessa Makani’s death. About the recent murders in Maryland.

The fiery crash after being chased off the road by an unknown vehicle.

The over-the-top funeral that her widower somehow managed to arrange from his prison cell.

Not Tennyson West’s. Fucking hell. It’s the missing piece. The piece I haven’t been able to put my finger on.

Pieces begin to fall into place.

The panic attacks. The perfect record that was too squeaky clean. Tenny not wanting to tell me lies. Tenny hiding from newspaper pictures.

Her confession that she can’t give me what I need.

I don’t deal in assumptions, but I’d bet the farm that Tenny’s presence here was more of a placement by the Federal Witness Protection Program than by her own choice. Her fear. Her skittishness when we first met. The freak-out over thinking someone had been in her house.

If Makani can have his second-in-command killed from prison, if he doesn’t believe she’s really dead . . . then she could be his possible next target. She could be forever on his radar.

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

Just as I wrap my head around the thought as best as I can, Tenny’s Jeep flies up the driveway toward the house, leaving an agitated plume of dust in its wake.

I stare at the photo again before tucking it into my back pocket and heading up to the house.

What am I going to say? I don’t have a fucking clue. I’m just glad the girls aren’t home so we can have this talk without interruption.

And that thought—what do I even say—becomes more prevalent when I walk in the house to find Tenny in her room, frantically stuffing her things in trash bags.