Praise for Maegan Beaumont Carved in Darkness Named a Best Debut of 2013 by Suspense Magazine “Prepare to be overwhelmed by the tension and moodiness that permeates this edgy thriller. Beaumont’s ability to keep the twists coming even when the answer seems obvious is quite potent.”—Library Journal starred review and Debut of the Month “Pulse-pounding terror, graphic violence, and a loathsome killer.”—Kirkus Reviews “Beaumont knows how to keep you on the edge of your seat … Buckle up for the ride of a lifetime.”—Suspense Magazine “Maegan Beaumont might be new to thriller scene, but her debut thriller, Carved in Darkness, promises to be the first in a long line of novels. Be warned, however, this novel isn't for those who jump a mile every time they hear something go bump in the night. But for anyone who’s ever dreamed about enacting a just revenge, this book is for you. Beaumont knows how to cook up and serve a dish called revenge, but she doesn’t serve it cold. She serves it sizzling hot.”—Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of The Remains and Murder by Moonlight
Promises to Keep A NOVEL
Maegan Beaumont Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
Promises to Keep © 2015 by Maegan Beaumont. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2015 Published in association with MacGregor Literary, Inc. of Hillsboro, OR Book design by Bob Gaul Cover design by Kevin R. Brown Cover images: iStockphoto.com/26969505/©sundrawalex iStockphoto.com/21669021/©Andrey_Kuzmin Editing by Nicole Nugent Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beaumont, Maegan, 1975– Promises to keep/Maegan Beaumont.—First edition. pages; cm.—(A Sabrina Vaughn novel; #3) ISBN 978-0-7387-4450-6 I. Title. PS3602.E2635P76 2015 813'.6—dc23 2015017139 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
For Goofy: who loves ya? Goose does, and don’t you ever forget it.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. —Robert Frost
ON E
Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia December 2007 There was blood on Michael’s boot. Not a lot—just a drop or two—but it bothered him. He licked the pad of his thumb and rubbed. Should’ve bought the black pair … “I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Looking up, he found Alberto Reyes staring at him from behind his desk with the small glittering eyes of a snake. He shrugged and kept rubbing. Reyes continued to stare. After a few moments the spot came clean and he dropped his foot to the floor, giving the man his full attention. “As I was saying … I’m a fan of your work, Cartero. I find your brutality quite beautiful.” Reyes studied the pictures he had fanned across his desk as if he were trying to choose his favorite among them. He picked up one and held it close to his face, tilting his 1
head to the side. “You’re knife work is exceptional—absolutely no hesitation, just … exquisite.” Reyes placed the photo on top of the pile and got back to watching him. Michael folded his arms across his chest and made himself smile. “I don’t get paid to hesitate, Reyes. I get paid to deliver messages, and I’ve delivered yours, so …” He stood and pinned the smaller man with a look that said he’d rather not discuss his knife skills. “Ah, yes, so, you have,” Reyes said. He opened a side drawer on his massive desk and pulled out a large manila envelope. It bulged from all sides, its contents barely leaving room to seal it. “Your payment, as agreed.” Reyes placed it on the desk and set his hands on top of it, barring Michael from taking it. “But first, I have a matter I’d like to discuss …” Michael stifled an eye roll. Taking a trip to the window, he looked out across the compound. The helicopter that had brought him here sat on its pad, waiting to take him back to the mainland. A small fleet of speedboats bobbed along the surface of the distant ocean. In front of them, a long stretch of white sand seemed to mold itself to the water’s edge. He’d never been to the beach in anything but fatigues. Never laid in the sand without his eye pressed to a scope, finger resting on a trigger. He now felt the weight of the life he’d chosen pressing down on him, rooting him in place. He dug his hands into the pockets of his fatigues, brushing a finger across the photograph he kept there, and took a few deep breaths. He missed his parents. He missed his sister. But his parents were long dead, and Frankie? Well, she was better off without him.
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Thinking of the man behind him, Michael let go of the picture. Alberto Reyes always had a matter to discuss, business to conduct. A year ago he’d been nothing more than a lieutenant in his cousin’s cartel. It was his single-mindedness that allowed him to climb to the top of Colombia’s drug trade in a matter of months. That, and the fact that Reyes had hired Michael O’Shea to kill every rival he had, starting with his own cousin—the one kill Michael would’ve made for free. “I don’t think there’s anyone left, Reyes. Pretty sure I killed ’em all.” “So you have.” Reyes chuckled. “I admire your work ethic, Cartero—so few of our generation understand the dedication required to not only obtain power, but to keep it.” Reyes stood and joined him at the window. “I don’t want power.” Michael wanted his money so he could get the hell out of here. “Any other man I’d call a liar, but you … you, I believe.” Reyes wagged a finger at him. “I take pride in finding a man’s weaknesses. Yours are few and far between. Your fees are outrageous, but I’ve seen the way you live. You care little for money. You kill for drug dealers but abhor drugs. You take women, but never the same one more than a few times, so no attachment is ever made.” He thought of Reyes’s cousin, Mateo Moreno. His blood and brains sprayed across the courthouse steps. The kick of his rifle against his shoulder a split second after he’d taken the shot. “I got what I wanted.” “Revenge is a powerful motivator, but for a man like you … Killing my cousin was more of a need than an actual want. You needed to kill Mateo—to put right what he’d done to the Ramos woman and your brethren. Your wants are much … softer.”
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Michael could practically see the forked tongue peeking out from behind his teeth. “Is that so?” he said, a trace of East Texas creeping into his drawl. “Right now, what I’m wanting … it don’t feel too soft.” Reyes laughed. “This is why I like you, Cartero. You have no fear. I made a study of you—of what you wanted. It became an obsession of sorts.” Reyes smiled like they were friends. “I almost gave up. But then I realized that it isn’t about what you want; it’s about what you can’t have.” For some reason, Michael’s thoughts turned toward the photo in his pocket. The baby sister he’d probably never see again. Frankie. “I want you to work for me. Exclusively.” Michael’s hands curled into fists. He was like a cheerleader with too many dates to the prom. They all wanted exclusivity. To keep him as a pet. “No thanks. I’m a free spirit.” Reyes laughed again, clapping him on the shoulder like they were lifelong friends. “But aren’t you curious? You don’t even know what I have in mind for you.” He’d heard it all before: Come, be my personal sicario. Stand at my right hand and slit the throats of my enemies … blah, blah, blah … He shrugged and returned his attention to the faraway ocean. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t do exclusive.” “I want you to protect my daughter, Christina.” He turned his face from the window. “Excuse me?” Reyes’s handsome face split in a grin reserved for putting people at ease. Michael had seen him use it on rivals and underlings—usually right before he had them fitted for a Colombian necktie. “This is a dangerous life, my friend—one I’ve chosen, but Christina is innocent in all this. She has no choice. I would never be able to live with myself if the decisions I’ve made caused her death.” 4
Reyes was saying the right things, making the appropriate gestures of concern for his only daughter, but Michael didn’t buy it for a second. Reyes cared for no one but himself. Providing for his daughter’s safety was a means to an end, nothing more. “So you hire an assassin to play babysitter?” He eased his shoulder from beneath Reyes’s hand. Well, aren’t you Ward friggin’ Cleaver … “Who could be better? My business takes me away from home more often than I’d like. Those who would seek to harm her would never dare—not if it were El Cartero who guarded her,” Reyes said, leaning in and speaking softly. “You are the only thing they fear.” He tipped his head toward the window, a nice try, asshole smile on his face. “You built this fortress on an island, fifty miles from the mainland. I think she’s safe.” Just then the study doors flung open and in ran a little girl, no more than four or five. She clambered at her father’s feet, black pigtails bouncing wildly in a jumble of corkscrew curls. The little girl climbed up Reyes’s leg and he lifted her into his arms, settling her against his side. “Christina, what have I told you about barging into my office when I’m with friends?” He chided her gently, but Michael had a feeling that it was all for show. An act. The little girl looked confused. “Not to. But you said—” “It is no matter. Since you are here, I’d like you to meet a friend. His name is Michael,” Reyes said, turning the girl in his arms so that Michael could get a good look at her. Chubby cheeks framed by those riotous curls. A pair of chocolate brown eyes stared back at him. She reminded him of Frankie. The Frankie he knew, not the one who’d grown up without him.
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“I’m Christina.” The little girl held out her hand and he took it, giving it a gentle shake. He looked past the girl to her father, who watched the exchange with the satisfied smile of someone who knew he’d won.
6
T WO
Barcelona, Spain August 2015 Michael looked at the woman sitting next to him. Her name was Pia Cordova and he was going to kill her father. “What’s the matter, baby?” Pia said in his ear, relying on proximity rather than volume to make herself heard over the frantic pulse of music that flooded the club’s VIP lounge. “Don’t you like me?” She gave the front of his shirt a light rake with her manicured nails. He imagined she was trying to turn him on, but she was doing a piss-poor job of it. He made himself look at her, forced a leering smile onto his face. She was beautiful, in a bleach-blond, fake-breast sort of way. The only child of one of Europe’s premier arms dealers. She’d have been his type a couple of years ago—eager to please and easy to forget. These days he’d rather stick his dick in a bear trap.
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As it was, he could barely look at her, let alone do what came next. A sharp kick was delivered to the bottom of his foot. He shot a glare at his partner. Ben had a woman in his lap and his tongue down her throat and still managed to give him a hey, asshole—get with the program look. Time to nut up and do his job. He leaned into Pia and smiled. “Like isn’t really the word I’d use to describe how I’m feeling,” he said in heavily accented English. Nuzzling her neck, he pressed his lips to the tender spot behind her earlobe. “Let me get you a drink. Vodka?” He tilted his chin at her empty glass. Her lips curved into a predatory smile as she took his hand, running it up her smooth, naked leg, pushing his fingers beyond her skirt’s too-short-to-be-decent hemline while she licked at his earlobe. “Getting me drunk isn’t necessary,” she purred. With Ben still giving him the stink-eye, Michael forced his hand higher. “I want to take care of you …” His other hand caught her chin as he lowered his lips onto her open mouth, kissing her until she was splayed against the black leather couch they sat on, panting. Standing, he grinned down at her for a moment before he turned and headed for the VIP’s private bar, shouldering his way in. He got the attention of the same bartender he’d been using all night—a petite blonde with a pixie cut and sly brown eyes—and held up two fingers. As soon as she saw him she nodded, continuing to mix the drink for the waitress who was waiting next to him. “I thought it was you, but I was unsure.” Michael secured a puzzled look on his face before turning. “Do I know you?” he said in the same thick German accent he’d been using all night, giving the man behind him a remote smile, his gaze straying to the long raised scar that slid down the side of his
8
face into a hook near the corner of his mouth. It gave him a perverse satisfaction to know that the mark hadn’t faded over time. The smile returned, causing the scar to crinkle. “Come on, I won’t ruin your game. I just wanted to say hello,” the man said. “It’s been too long.” Not nearly long enough. Michael looked past the young man in front of him. Two armed guards were standing a few yards away, and he smirked. “I see Daddy still won’t let you cross the street by yourself,” Michael said, sufficiently knocking the smug look off the man’s face. “What are you doing here, Estefan?” “My father’s businesses have grown in your absence, Cartero,” Estefan said with another self-satisfied smile. “I am his second-incommand these days.” “Good for you,” he said with a disinterested shrug—as if he hadn’t been keeping tabs on Alberto Reyes and his ever-growing reach. As if the idea of killing both Estefan and his goons wasn’t fighting to take precedence over the job he was currently working. His bartender slid two drinks across the bar. A Kettle One and a water, both on the rocks. The water was marked with a lime wedge, but she tapped a manicured finger against its rim, just in case, and he smiled at her. Pia’s vodka had enough Rohypnol in it to tranquilize a horse. Michael reached into the breast pocket of his suit to pull out a thick stack of bills held together with a wide silver clip. He peeled off a few hundred Euros. “Pour Mr. Second-in-Command whatever he wants—the rest is for you,” he said, picking up his drinks before he turned and looked Estefan full in the face and gave him a wink. “See you around, kid.”
9
THREE
His cell phone, set to vibrate, rattled on the plush carpeted floor of Pia’s bedroom. Michael reached down and found it without looking. It was a text. Finished?
He looked at the woman sleeping next to him. She wasn’t just sleeping; she was totally zonked by the sedative slipped into her drink at the club. He’d taken her to bed and joined her—played along until the drugs took effect. He felt a twinge. He always did when the job involved women, but he buried it. Twinges caused hesitation. Hesitation wasn’t something he could afford. Almost. Done in ten.
Michael sat up, pulled on his pants, and got to work. He cloned her cell phone and her computer, collected a DNA sample, and scanned her fingerprints and retinas. Jorge Cordova lived in a fortress with state-of-the-art security that only he and his daughter were coded for.
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He didn’t bother to wipe down his prints when he left. They weren’t in any system or database he needed to worry about. He even tossed a business card on her nightstand before he left—tonight he was Gregor Ehrlichmann, an investment banker from Berlin. Cordova was due back in Barcelona the next night. Michael would gain access to his home using the samples he’d collected and put a bullet in his brain. The clones he’d made of Pia’s computer and cell would be used to generate a trail of evidence that would prove she hired a hit man to take out Daddy because he froze her thirty-million-dollar trust fund. Poor Pia was about to have a very bad day.
“So?” Ben said when Michael walked in a few hours later. The kid was sitting on the couch of their suite playing Call of Duty: Ghosts and eating nachos. Sometimes he wished he was the boss’s son … and then he remembered that the boss, Livingston Shaw, made Charles Manson look like a door-to-door Bible salesman. He took off his suit jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the chair. “Samples are collected and handed over to tech. They’ll use them to do what they do. We’ll be ready to roll tomorrow night.” Ben rolled his eyes at the television screen. “I wasn’t asking for an operational debrief, Major Stick-Up-the-Ass. How was she? Did the infamous Pia Cordova live up to the hype?” “Pure magic. Best night of my life.” He sat down and stared at the television screen, watching the kid kill a couple dozen insurgents. “You wanna explain to me why I get stuck with all the shit jobs?”
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“We flipped for it. Besides, shit job—really? That chick was bangin’ hot, and she wanted it—bad.” The kid cocked his head to the side and worked the controller double time. “Yeah, well, next time feel free to be the one to give it to her.” He needed a shower. Ben cut him a look. “You didn’t sleep with her.” He shook his head in disgust. “Do you even have testicles?” “Ask your mom, she’d know.” He reached for the nachos. They were cold, but whatever. Ben laughed. “The only way she’d notice your balls is if they were bright white and shaped like Vicodin.” He paused the game and tossed the controller onto the table. It landed in the nachos. “Seriously, how are you gonna get over that chick if you won’t let yourself get over her?” “Careful, kid.” It’d been over a year since he’d seen Sabrina, if you didn’t count every time he closed his eyes. Forget about her? He’d have better luck forgetting how to breathe. Ben just laughed. “First off, I’m not a kid. I’m only three years younger than you are. Second—” The cell on the coffee table let out a beep. Ben picked it up and rolled his eyes before flipping it open. “It’s the asshole,” he said in a stage whisper before he spoke in the phone. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
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F OU R
He and Ben had been called into the FSS Barcelona office at three a.m. By Livingston Shaw. Whatever was about to go down couldn’t be good. Michael thought of the last time he’d been called into a private audience with Shaw. He’d been told that the implant in his back wasn’t just a tracking device used to keep tabs on him; it was also there to kill him if he got out of line. He reached for the base of his spine. It was still there. It would always be there—a capsule, the size of a dime. Inside was enough military-grade biotoxin to wipe out a small town. It was rigged with a detonation chip that responded to a phone number. Once the number was dialed, voice-recognition software would take over. A one-word code plus a seven-digit code was all it would take to kill him. He looked at Ben. He and his father were the only two who could detonate the capsule. One was his boss; the other was his partner. Ben looked at him and smiled. Michael dropped his hand and stared at the floor. 13
First Security Solutions had offices all over the world. On the surface, they were a private firm that provided protection to visiting US dignitaries and supplemental security to American Embassies worldwide. But that was a bunch of bullshit. In reality, FSS was a privatized military organization that specialized in government-sanctioned covert ops. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing. They went places that’d give the CIA a case of the flop sweats and did things that’d make a SEAL hide in his mother’s skirts. Michael had been on board for three years now, and he’d hated every single second of it. They took the elevator to the thirty-second floor. The doors slid open, revealing an expansive office—blood-red carpet surrounded by endless banks of bulletproof windows. He didn’t have to see it to know what it looked like. Eleven offices in as many countries and they all looked the same, right down to the throw pillows and drink coasters. “Shit,” Ben said under his breath. Michael looked up to see Brian Lark standing next to the boss’s desk, poised like a pet dog. Which was exactly what he was. He felt the rage—years old and bone deep—rear its ugly head. Their eyes met, and Lark’s dimples popped out as the smirk deepened to an actual smile. Heavily muscled arms covered in coffeecolored skin crossed over his massive chest. Lark knew exactly what he was thinking, could read his bring it on, asshole expression from across the room. Michael’s hand fell to the grip of his Kimber .45 and began to lift it off his hip. Ben stepped in front of him, suddenly all business. “Don’t do it,” he said in a low voice. Michael looked at him; the I’m just a fuck-up vibe he usually threw off was gone in favor of something closer to the truth. 14
“Michael, Benjamin, please join us,” Livingston Shaw said from his desk. His tone and words were warm, welcoming even, but Michael knew better. Livingston Shaw was Genghis Khan in a tenthousand-dollar suit. He didn’t do warm or welcoming unless it served a purpose. The kid nailed him with a hard look. “Keep it together,” Ben said in that same low voice before he turned to his father and flashed him a smile. “I’d rather be playing Xbox,” he said as he strolled across the room. Michael stayed where he was, taking a few seconds to get himself under control. Lark just kept grinning. “Michael … ” Shaw let the word trail off, but its meaning was clear. Get your ass in here—now. He left the elevator and made himself follow the kid. Stopping a safe distance away, he stood, feet planted shoulder width apart, hands behind his back to hide the fact that they were balled into fists. Shaw smiled up at him, his guileless blue eyes alert and sharp despite the fact that it was the middle of the night. “I just received confirmation that the first phase of the Cordova operation is complete.” “Yes, sir,” he said in a barely controlled tone while staring at the spot just above Shaw’s head. “Cordova is due back in Barcelona later today. I’ll be ready to move after dark.” “Good. After which, the two of you will be without assignment,” Shaw said. “I have a private matter that needs your attention.” Ben’s head snapped up from studying his fingernails. “What? Oh, hell no. A month between jobs, that’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going—” “Benjamin.” Shaw’s tone said that anyone else would be dead by now. “—to Vegas.” Ben sighed. “I had tickets to see Celine.” “What do you need done, sir?” Michael said. The sooner they got their assignment, the sooner he could get the hell out of here. 15
Every second counted when you were fighting a losing battle against a homicidal urge to kill the man who betrayed you. “I knew I could count on you, Michael.” Shaw smiled and gestured past them, to the reception area they’d passed on their way in. Sitting there quietly was an older gentleman in a suit slightly less expensive than Shaw’s, with a full head of silver hair and sharp brown eyes. Michael guessed him to be in his early seventies. He looked haggard, worn down—like he was trapped in hell and couldn’t find his way out. He knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror. Shaw stood and circled the desk. “Michael, Benjamin, I’d like you to meet Senator Leon Maddox. His grandson is missing, and you’re going to find him.”
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Mystery
When your past comes back to kill you . . . For years Michael O’Shea has been forced to act as a personal assassin for Livingston Shaw, the cold-blooded puppet master who controls the remote bioweapon implanted in Michael’s back. Shaw offers to release him if he can recover a kidnapped boy, but the only witnesses are being murdered and Michael can’t shake the memories of another child he was once sworn to protect. Meanwhile, police Inspector Sabrina Vaughn — the woman Michael passionately loves but has been kept from seeing — discovers a body that bears a striking resemblance to the missing boy. Against all his instincts, Michael must draw Sabrina into his life as one of the world’s most notorious assassins if he’s to overcome the legacy of his past. Praise for Carved in Darkness: “Prepare to be overwhelmed by the tension and moodiness that permeates this edgy thriller.”—Library Journal (starred review) “Pulse-pounding terror, graphic violence, and a loathsome killer.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Buckle up for the ride of a lifetime.” —Suspense Magazine
$14.99 US / $17.50 CAN ISBN 978-0-7387-4450-6
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