The Price of Grace (Black Ops Confidential 2)

He sat up in the bed and fought back the sick that rose into his throat. His stomach turned. He reached into his pocket for his knife. It wasn’t there.

“You’re okay.”

He turned to the doorway, to the person there. Cee. Taller than he’d expected. But he’d only ever seen one photo of her, and it had been blurry. Her long, dark hair draped around a pale face. She wore dark sunglasses that were way too big for her face. “Cee. What’s going on?”

She shook her head, began to cry, covered her mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

He tried to get out of bed but found the weight of his head nearly tipped him over.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought… I didn’t realize what she had planned. I’m so sorry.”

What was she talking about? He wanted to ask, but his lips felt numb and his body so heavy. A flat-screen television was in his room—where had that come from?—and was playing a video. Fighting to keep his eyes open, he watched.

It took him a minute to understand the images, but when he did, he began to scream.

Chapter 57

Standing in the debris-strewn corridor outside the kitchen of Club When?, Dusty watched as Gracie and John headed up the stairs. What had just happened? Gracie had been so angry that she’d shut him down and had gone upstairs with John because he needed to talk “privately.”

And he was sure John did have something to say, but he was also certain it wasn’t going to make Gracie happy. Judging by the pain written all over her sweet face when she’d walked in, she’d already had a bad morning. Seeing her like that… Nearly killed him.

But then she’d caught sight of him, and her pain had changed into rage. Why was she so angry at him? It couldn’t be about last night. Yes, she was upset, but when she’d texted him this morning she’d seemed distant, not angry. And he got the impression she was giving him her schedule, so they could meet up later. She’d told him she was going to the hospital to see some of the injured and meet with Victor before coming to the club.

Victor.

Could he have said something, made some comment against Dusty? He took out his cell, searched for and found Victor’s number, then dialed. He put the phone to his ear.

A couple of the construction workers came in through the back entranceway, carrying equipment. He nodded to them and stepped out of the way.

“Cops are here,” one of the guys said as he went past.

Dusty turned to find Mack in the back doorway. Victor answered the phone with a “Yeah.”

He had a half second to make the decision. He shielded his phone and whispered, “Call Gracie. Tell her to take the escape route. Now.”

Wearing a black suit and sporting a bruised nose and dark circles under his eyes, Mack entered the back hall of Club When? like he owned the place. He had two police officers with him. Dusty flexed his slow-things-down muscles. He approached Mack as if a dear friend, held out his hand. “Mack.”

Mack ignored it. “Dusty.”

Dusty dropped his hand, shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. Casual-like. “What’s going on?”

Mack held out a folded paper. “We have a warrant to search the upstairs and confiscate evidence.”

Dusty’s hackles rose, along with his temper. He set it to simmer. “What’s that all about?”

“You wanted proof. I’m here for proof.” He hitched a thumb toward the steel door that led upstairs. “Proof that Gracie and her family are involved in blackmail and extortion. I have reason to believe it’s contained on a computer upstairs.”

Gracie had told him whatever was left on the servers was harmless. “What specifically are we talking about?”

“I have the destination for a file that will show that Gracie Parish has taken part in a series of blackmail schemes against elected officials and business leaders.”

Evidence? “Don’t do this, Mack.”

Mack shook his head. “We follow the facts where they lead, Dusty. You know that.”

Sure. “DNA, evidence, facts—none of it will make a lick of difference if you’ve decided to toe Rush’s line. And he doesn’t need your help. Kind of control people like him have over information—whole media empires dedicated to his spin—isn’t likely facts will ever play too large a role.”

Mack smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket. “Not sure what you’re talking about. You laid the road for this drive. Now, is Gracie Parish here? Because I also have a warrant for her arrest.”

Dusty squared his shoulders. “On what grounds?”

Behind Mack the two officers tensed, exchanged a get-ready look. They didn’t stand a fucking chance. But no reason to make them wary. He unhitched his shoulders, gave them both an all-good-here nod of his head.

Mack took it all in stride. Seemed to be enjoying himself. “The exact things your investigation uncovered: blackmail and human-trafficking. Add to that arson.”

Bullshit. His stomach churned. Mack was determined to shield Rush, even if that meant fabricating evidence. “You have evidence of her involvement in human-trafficking? Arson?”

“The fire marshal has plenty of proof it was arson. Know how long it took someone to set these devices? Hours. Not something some guy can come in and do on his lunch hour. She lives and works here. You telling me she wouldn’t have noticed the devices being set? Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if we found evidence of purchases to make those devices when we search.”

“Why would she want to destroy her own club?”

“She obviously knew we were onto her and tried to burn her club down to destroy the evidence. A lot harder to get evidence off a burnt computer than a wiped computer. And you were there when she turned on her partners in Mexico.”

Oh, sure, and the area upstairs where the evidence is just happened to be unharmed. He blinked at Mack for one dumbfounded moment. Gracie had been set up. “This is my case, Mack. I’m not going to let you railroad her.”

“As we’ve already discussed”—Mack ran a finger over his still-swollen nose—“you are no longer on this case.”

Bastard. Although Dusty knew the records showed why he’d started his investigation, he hadn’t proven Gracie and her family had been in Mexico on a vigilante mission. Could what he had put in his reports be misconstrued to support Mack’s theory?

Maybe. Especially if Mack had other information to guide the narrative. Time to stall. “I think Gracie’s in the front of the club.”

“Not here,” said one of the construction guys, carrying a halogen work light and an extension cord through the hallway. “Maybe upstairs.”

Dusty closed his eyes, counted to three, and tried another tactic. “Let me go up and get her. There’s only one way down.” He pointed at the door. “It’ll be easier. Then you can go up and search for your evidence.”

Mack shook his head. “You’ve gone too deep on this one, pal. Take a step back. It’ll save what’s left of your career.”

Mack turned to go up the steps. Dusty stepped in front of him. “You’ve got her life in your hands, Mack. Rush will know exactly where

she is and how to get at her.”

A tinge of disappointment seemed to weigh down Mack’s shoulders. “Give me some credit, Dusty. I checked it out. He wasn’t even aware of the attempt on her life.”

He wasn’t? “Did you check Porter out too?”

Mack ignored him, walked past him and started up the stairs, cops in tow. Dusty followed them, tried again. “You bringing her to jail makes her a duck in a shooting gallery. How easy would it be for Porter to get her there?”

His loafers making gritty sweeping sounds as he ascended the steps, Mack shook his head. “Trust me. That won’t happen.”

“I’m going to fight you on this, Mack. You are going to look like a fool.”

Mack stopped, turned. “Not if I get Mukta to confess.”

Confess? “Why would she do that?”

“I’m pretty sure she’d do just about anything to get her daughter out of jail.”

Mack continued up. Dusty stopped in his tracks. Of course, Mack was right. Mukta would confess to blackmail to get her daughter off of worse charges. And Mack was smart enough to let Mukta pick her poison. Confessing to the blackmail—a white collar crime—would get her a few months in a cushy club fed.

Mukta might do that, if it got Gracie out of the more serious charges, and if she had no other choice. But she did have a choice. So why not send a team of lawyers today and have Gracie out of jail in a heartbeat?

As he started back up the stairs, Dusty stewed on this, picked it apart like a dog picks meat from a bone, bit by bit. And as he broke from the relative darkness of the stairwell to the light of the upper floor, it hit him. Mack was going to take Gracie to a black site. Once there, there would be no way for Mukta to get Gracie out.

Mack could keep Gracie there, in that limbo between being arrested and being set free, for weeks. Gracie would be a prisoner, tortured—no matter what they called it, not letting someone sleep, sit down, piss, was fucking torture—until she confessed too.