Trouble (B-Squad 2.75)

"Yeah?"

"It's gonna be alright. Leah's a fighter."

He was counting on it.

Confirmation of just how much of a fighter she was came ten minutes later when he walked through the banged up front door to his house. His living room looked like the saloon in an old Western after a bar fight. Furniture was turned over. Pictures that had been on the shelves were on the floor in pieces. Shit was tossed everywhere. Worst of all, Leah's Doc Marten boots were abandoned in the middle of the mess. The woman herself was nowhere to be found. What was in his house was a bright yellow Post-it note stuck to his TV that read: 555-438-6821.

He grabbed his phone, but instead of dialing that number he called the B-Squad office and had Lexie patch him through to Isaac.

"They have her," he said by way of greeting.

"Motherfuckers," Isaac yelled over the sound of the helicopter. "So what's the plan?"

Drew took another look at that Post-it note and certainty settled over him as tangible as armor. "I'm going to make sure they live to regret this and if even a single hair on Leah's head is hurt, I'm not gonna concern myself with the living part."

Leah

Warren Law did not look like Leah's mental image of the head of an international jewelry theft ring. He wore pleated Dockers and a pressed golf shirt. If this were a movie, he'd be the unassuming friend who was actually the heroine's insane stalker because she'd had the audacity to turn him down for sex and his fragile male ego had been harmed. He was a total nice-guy-asshole type.

Warren stopped in front of the kitchen chair she was tied to and peered down at her. She had to make quite the picture since she was Duct taped to the chair, had a length of the silver tape across her mouth and her left cheek was so swollen she could see the edge of it in her peripheral vision. If she could have flipped him off or snarled out a smart ass remark she would have. As it was, the best she could do was glare at him, which earned her a patronizing chuckle.

Warren patted her on the head and turned back to the shitbag of a dirty FBI agent. "I'm beginning to think she's not that important to him."

"She is," Curtis said, his voice sounding funny since he'd stuffed gauze up his broken nose.

Warren went stiff. "Are you telling me I'm wrong?"

"No, sir." Curtis's gaze dropped to the floor and he took a step back from the other man. "It's just, you haven't seen the two of them together. It's like they're an old married couple who still bang on the regular."

"How eloquent," Warren said.

That was one word for it. Leah would have chosen bullshit. She hated Drew Jackson. It was just she couldn't help herself from stripping him naked—or wanting to—every time she was within sixty miles of him. That didn't mean anything. Sure, she'd grown up crushing on him and that summer he'd become her first love, but that was over. The feeling had flipped. Love and hate were opposite sides of the same coin, not the same thing at all.

Curtis shrugged. "You don't pay me to talk pretty."

"True." Warren nodded. "I pay you for the information you can provide about what the FBI is up to. Now that is no more."

Oh, he sounded pissed. Looked like someone wasn't going to get a good employee review come bonus time.

"They knew," Curtis said. "It's why I had to get rid of Ritter. He'd been informing on me."

Got rid of. You didn't have to be a scumbag to know what that meant. Fuck. All of the sass drained right out of her.

"You do realize you didn't tape over her ears too?" Warren asked, jerking her chin toward Leah.

Nope. She wasn't here. Not really. The ringing in her ears from being knocked out was too loud for her to hear anything. Surely, if she thought it loud enough they'd hear it.

Curtis turned and looked at her, his hand going to his swollen nose. "Is she really getting out of here?"

"No, I guess not," Warren said.

The urge to panic and fight against her bonds was nearly overwhelming, but she'd already gone that route when she'd woken up and found herself in the shitty kitchenette. It hadn't helped.

"Everything with this heist has gone wrong, my cover is blown, and now I'm stuck clipping all the loose ends," Warren said, grimacing. "The good news though is after I move this damned diamond, I'm going to disappear to someplace tropical for a good long while."

Warren's phone rang out a hard rock anthem. Everyone stilled. Warren glanced down at the phone, his smile sent a shiver down her spine.

"Sheriff, I'd begun to think you didn't care," Warren said before pausing, an amused expression on his face. "You have a real talent for language. I've never been threatened quite like that before and believe me, in this line of work, being threatened is du rigor. However, we're not here for a friendly chat. We'll make the exchange tomorrow at high noon. Bring the diamond to the high school gym." He waited while Drew said something Leah couldn't make out. "Yes, I'm aware it will be crowded, what with all the last minute preparations for the reunion tomorrow. This place really goes all out for that sort of thing, don't they?" She couldn't understand the words Drew used in response but the pissed off tone was unmistakable. "I suppose you don't give a shit about the reunion preparations. I hope that attitude doesn't carry over to sweet Leah here. I'd hate to be disappointed." Without waiting for Drew to say anything else, Warren hung up and slid the phone in the front pocket of his pleated Dockers, walked over to the kitchen counter and slid open one of the drawers.