With Visions of Red: Book 3 (The Broken Bonds 3)

But one: I’m wearing a dress and heels. Hiking into the woods, and down through swampy marsh, then through river grass isn’t happening. Two: he wouldn’t have requested I wear something so unsuitable for the scene if he didn’t plan to meet me in a more civilized setting.

And three: no damn way am I going off the beaten trail to meet a killer on his turf.

He’s followed me here; he’s watching me now. He can meet me halfway on this.

A snap draws my attention to the wooded surroundings of the memorial. I set my clutch down, silently removing my gun from the bag before I creep toward the darkness.

“We’re alone,” I call out. I hook my finger around the trigger. “I left them all back at the club.”

Silence mocks me. Even the creatures stop stirring.

“Please don’t shoot me,” someone says.

“Hands up!” I shout. “Move into the light. Now.”

“Jesus!” A guy dressed in a jean jacket and ball cap walks onto the memorial with his hands over his head. He holds a small paper-brown package in one. “I was just supposed to drop this off… Oh, my God. Is it drugs? Is this a trap?”

I keep my SIG aimed on him as I approach. “Drop the package.” He does, and I pat down his front pockets. “Take out your ID…slowly!”

With trembling hands, the young guy—who looks no older than twenty—removes his wallet and hands it to me. “Are you a prostitute or something? Am I being robbed?”

“Stop talking,” I snap. I look through his wallet, find his driver’s license and read off his name. “Mike Linsinski, who told you to bring this here?” I nod toward the package at his feet.

He rapidly shakes his head. “Some dude, ma’am. I don’t know. He gave me some cash and said to bring it here. Fuck.” He seals his eyes closed. “I’m an idiot.”

“Yeah, you are.” I bend down to pick up the package, a nervous flutter attacking my stomach. “Don’t move, you hear me?”

At his adamant nod, I holster my gun under my arm and rip the package open. Inside, with dried blood staining the paper, my necklace rests on a bed of cotton.

My heart leaps into my throat. “Where’s the man who gave this to you?”

He shakes his head again, arms still raised. “I was just walking around downtown. He approached me. I don’t know the dude!”

Shit. Shit, shit shit! I run over to my clutch and pull out a pair of zip ties. Then I wrestle the guy’s hands behind his back. “You’re going to stay here. Do you get that? If not, I will hunt you down, Mike Linsinski. I know where you live.”

He swears under his breath as I link his wrists together.

I stuff my gun and the necklace, with what I assume is Avery’s blood, into my bag and kick off my heels. My feet slap the pavement as I race toward the bridge, but a cry slams me to a stop.

I glance back at the guy, but he’s searching for the noise, too.

Another ear-splitting shout, and I’m pulling my gun; I know that voice—though I’ve never heard it in such anguish, I can still discern who it’s from.

“Quinn!”

14

Ties

Colton

The news of my brother’s grisly death traveled through the scene like wildfire. With my personal cell phone confiscated by the cops, I’ve been out of touch, which raised an alarm for the club. And with the Feds infiltrating the scene, it seemed like a good time to shut the club down.

That is, until I returned this evening to find the club crew already organizing a tribute to Julian. Lilly Anne and Onyx did the work, contacting members and insisting I relax. Relax. That’s not happening tonight.

Besides being in a constant state of worry over Sadie, the guilt has begun to eat at me. My main reason for agreeing to the tribute was because it would bring in a swarm of people, giving the UC agent enough cover to make Sadie’s crazy plan work.

I’ve been able to dodge most of my brother’s “investors.” Those who still owe him money and who are anxious to be taken off his blackmail list. I’ve found my little, sacred corner of the voyeur room where I down a shot of bourbon, no one questioning my request to be left alone.