Flynn smacked Wickes across the face. Stunned, he backed into the metal trunk, tripped over it, and fell to the floor. Flynn advanced on him and planted one high-heeled boot in the middle of his chest. Wes took a step toward them, wondering if he should make a move. Wickes was a jackass, no doubt, but Flynn was a murderer, and Wes had seen enough dead bodies to last him a long time.
“You absolute idiot,” Flynn chided Wickes. “Where is the locket?”
“Davenport has it.”
“So he did get it?”
“Not exactly,” gasped Wickes. He grasped Flynn’s ankle, trying to dislodge her boot from his chest, but she held true, digging the heel into Wickes’s sternum. “He swallowed it.”
“Excuse me?”
“He got it off Costello,” Wickes choked out. “But then the cops grabbed him. I saw him pop it into his mouth while they were trying to get ahold of him.”
Flynn raised her foot off of Wickes, who rubbed at the sore spot on his chest before sitting up. “Did the cops see your face, Wickes?” asked Flynn. Wickes nodded. “Then call Brooks. I need him. Officer McAllen!” Flynn strode over to Wes. “I assume you are aware of the fact that we gave your beloved Nicole the option to leave the Waverly area by midnight tonight in order to save your life. How do you feel about knowing that she blatantly disregarded the offer in favor of a fruitless attempt to bring down the Raptors? Has she no concern for your well-being?”
Wes remained impassive. He knew Flynn was trying to get a rise out of him. She fed on the negative emotions of others, and he refused to expend his energy to benefit her own. “I’m sure Nicole did what she thought was right.”
“What is right, really?” asked Flynn, but she clearly meant for the question to be rhetorical. “You may find yourself challenging the moral definition of the word, Weston. I have a job for you.”
A short time later, Wes found himself riding in the passenger seat of the same black SUV that the Raptors had used to transport him to the warehouse, except this time, Wes was conscious. Beforehand, Flynn and Wickes had allowed Wes to clean himself up. In the bathroom of the warehouse, Wes mopped the dried blood off of his face and did his best to set his broken nose on his own. Then he cleaned the lump on the back of his head with a damp paper towel, rinsed his face of sweat, and tried to tame his dirty hair. When he emerged, he looked nearly as pristine as a protector of the law was meant to, save for his swollen nose and the collection of muted bloodstains on the collar of his police uniform. Thankfully, the fabric was dark enough to obscure the true nature of the stains, and he could explain away the broken nose if necessary.
Beside him, in the driver’s seat, sat Ashton Brooks, another one of Flynn’s cronies. He had arrived at the warehouse dressed in an expensive designer suit, complete with cuff links and a pocket square. Wes thought he looked like a dandy, but Flynn seemed satisfied. Brooks was a senior at Waverly, but his firm jaw and calm demeanor exercised an aura of maturity. If Wes hadn’t known any better, he would have mistaken Brooks for a young thirty-year-old.
“Don’t you dare think about making a run for it, McAllen,” said Brooks. His eyes remained on the dark, foggy road in front of him, but Wes felt the full impact of his words. “If we come back from this trip empty-handed, we’re both dead, and I don’t intend on disappointing the Morrigan anymore this evening.”
“It’s not like I have a choice,” replied Wes. He shook his right hand, which had been secured to the door of the SUV with his own handcuffs, in exhibition.
The SUV bounced into the parking lot of the police station. Wes leaned his head against the window, noticing that the gravel by the back door of the station had been disturbed, revealing the dirt underneath. Not long ago, Nicole had been in the very same location. It was the closest they had been to finding each other since the Raptors had taken Wes in, but Wes still felt so far away from Nicole. He hoped that she had found a safe place to regroup.
“You remember what to do, right?” asked Brooks as he put the SUV in park and leaned over Wes to unlock his handcuffs. Wes nodded, rubbing his sore wrist. Brooks allowed him to return the handcuffs to his utility belt. “Good,” said Brooks. “Let’s go. Don’t fuck this up.”
Together, the pair emerged from the SUV and made their way into the station. Wes squinted as the bright fluorescent lights reminded him of his head injury. Self-conscious, he ran his fingers through his hair, hoping to cover the lump on the back of his head.
A stocky brunette manned the front desk, her hair pulled up into a tight ponytail. She brushed it over her shoulder as Wes and Brooks approached her, revealing the last name Sawyer embroidered on the front of her uniform.
“What can I do for you, boys?” she asked. “You certainly don’t belong to this district, Officer.”
Wes flashed his badge. “Wes McAllen, Waverly P.D. I believe you’re holding someone that my division has been on the lookout for.”
“Name?”
“Donovan Davenport.”
Sawyer busied herself at the desktop computer, her fingers typing efficiently at the keyboard. “Yeah, we got him. Picked him up about an hour ago for assault and battery. No priors though. This his legal representation?”
She inclined her head toward Brooks, who smiled at her with only the left side of his mouth as if he couldn’t be bothered to employ all of his facial muscles. “Jonathan Meyers,” he said without a hint of remorse at the introduction of his fake identity. “We’re here to escort
