CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Billboard and O’Shea walked into total pandemonium at the SOS office.

“What’s going on?” Billboard snapped to attention and questioned Mizzay, whose fingers were flying over her keyboard.

She held up a hand, so Prez, with a look on his face that told Billboard some bad shit had hit the fan, clipped out the answer. “Lakisha’s best friend Marin was snatched off the street a few minutes ago. We’re mobilizing.”

Without hesitation, Billboard elbowed his way through the large bodies and strode to the huge, open safe where an enormous cache of guns and ammo were stored. He immediately began weaponing up. “Isn’t school still in for them?” he asked over his shoulder.

Prez growled. “For two more weeks, but apparently today was freshman skip day.” He clearly wasn’t happy about that. “Lakisha, with five of her friends took the T into Boston. They were shopping when Marin spotted a kitten crying in the window of a closed-up van. It being near ninety today, she was determined to rescue it.”

“Don’t tell me. Nobody thought to stop her.” In Billboard’s head, his lessons to Lakisha and Rainie would now include situational-fucking-awareness.

Prez’s face looked like it was carved from stone. “Lakisha suggested to her that it might not be a good idea, but Marin wasn’t having any of it. She waved Lakisha off, closed in on the van, then the back opened up. Within seconds, she’d been grabbed and the driver took off.”

“There’s at least two perps, then,” Billboard grunted. “Driver and snatcher. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Prez answered. “Lakisha was able to give us a plate number.” He shared that info with Billboard, having obviously given it to the rest of the team, previously.

“Did the girls call the police? Have you?” O’Shea added, her attention now hyper-focused.

Del turned around. His phone was at his ear. “I’m trying to get in touch with a friend of ours right now who’s a police detective.”

A few seconds passed. They were all fidgety but quiet, the only noise being Mizzay’s continued computer search.

“Steven,” Del finally clipped. “We have a situation. Prez’s daughter just called in a kidnapping.” He went on to summarize what Billboard had already been told, gave the detective the van’s description and plate number, then listened for a minute before thanking him and hanging up.

Del apprised everyone, immediately. “He’s getting some of his officers on it, but says we have his blessing to mobilize. He’ll let his people know that we’re involved. If—"

“I have something,” Mizzay called out, interrupting. “It’s our suspects, for sure. I hacked into traffic cams in the area, and picked them up. They took Summer Street, then got onto the I-93 ramp, headed south.”

Sarge, also on his laptop, dug into that and came up with some info of his own. “I’m tracking, but I don’t see them further along where I should be seeing them on South Station’s cameras. Wait!” His voice grew excited. “There they are. They took Albany Street, which means—”

“The Mass Pike,” Wiley supplied with a snap of his fingers. “They’re planning to head west on the Pike.”

“Okay everybody. Let’s move.” Del didn’t waste another second.

“I’m coming with you,” O’Shea told Billboard as they all headed for the door.

“Not your jurisdiction,” Billboard grunted. The last thing he needed was his attention being—

“Not whose jurisdiction?” a voice cut in as the door burst open. The Devons’ brothers, Daire and Brent both walked in, armed to the teeth.

“O’Shea,” Billboard grunted. “She’s here visiting, but doesn’t have a license to carry in Massachusetts… Or at least I don’t think she does?” He raised a brow in her direction.

“No. I don’t. But I’m coming for the ride, anyway.” She crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest.

“I’m good with that,” Daire responded. “You can ride with us.”

Billboard glowered. “Hell no. She’s with me.”

Brent smirked. “Ah. I see how it is, BB. Damn. It’s too bad there’s no time to yank your chain because you’re a cozy son-of-a-bitch. And you know I don’t have eyes for anyone but my Half-Pint. Still, once we’ve apprehended our kidnappers, I’m going to razz you about your new girlfriend. Deal?”

“Deal,” Billboard responded, but only because he liked the sound of “kidnappers apprehended.”.

Mizzay chimed in. “I’ll keep youze all in the loop with every traffic feed I can find,” she said, the tap-tap-tap of her fingernails, lightning fast.

Without wasting another breath, the team acknowledged her part in the op, then ran to the elevator. It was still open, and they all crammed in. It was a tight fit with eight big guys and O’Shea, but nobody wanted to wait for another car to arrive.

Once in the parking garage, Sarge, Prez, and Daire headed for a black, extended SUV, while Del, Perk, Wiley and Brent went toward another. Billboard steered O’Shea toward his Bronco.

“No black SUV for you?” she asked, trotting to stay next to him as Billboard ate up the pavement underfoot.

“Nope. Sometimes the best way to blend in is to stand out,” he answered. “The Bronco’s turquoise green is impossible to miss, so nobody ever suspects that a vehicle so high profile is part of a pursuit.”

She nodded. “Smart. I guess you’ve done this before.”

“A time or two,” he understated. He’d been able to sneak up on a lot of people with his vintage ride.

In this instance, however, the situation felt personal. He’d met Marin over at Prez’s house, and the girl was a hoot. Even though he knew her to be a bit ditzy and impulsive, she was a really good, funny kid. They needed to find her. Which meant they needed to apprehend that vehicle before it drove too many miles west, where cameras were fewer and farther between.

Everyone convoyed single file once they pulled out of headquarters, and all of them proceeded along the same route. But once on the Pike, they diverged. Del hung back, calling everyone to keep them linked, while Prez sped ahead and took point, his foot heavy on the gas. Billboard followed Prez, but at a distance, hoping that if Prez was spotted and the van driver was spooked, his teammate would pretend to back off, after which Billboard would tail the target.

Ten minutes in, Billboard spotted lights behind him. A cruiser was approaching fast.

Seriously ?

There were a few others behind the frontrunner, in the distance, but it seemed that they were adhering to the rules Steven had most likely spelled out; a quiet pursuit. This yahoo, however, was not.

“Shit, Del. Call Steven and tell him to have that idiot turn off his blues. The last thing we need is to have that van driver get spooked, speed up and crash with our girl inside.”

“Already on it,” Del growled. “Daire’s got Steven on the line and he’s reaming him a new one as we speak.”

O’Shea scoffed, shaking her head at the approaching cruiser. “Another jackass wanna-be cowboy, going in with his dick swinging. Or her tits swinging because idiocy is not gender exclusive.” She shook her head. “It’s the same everywhere, and unfortunately, consequences for that kind of stupidity are hit or miss. In this case, I hope your friend Steven sidelines that prick and gelds them.”

Billboard let out a snort. He still wasn’t sure he wanted O’Shea on this chase, but…she certainly made him laugh, which wasn’t his norm.

The offending lights behind him suddenly turned off, and Billboard drew in a relieved breath. A sort-of relieved breath. The cop was still making his presence known, weaving in and out of traffic while sporadically chirping his siren to let people know he was there, and he was approaching Billboard, fast.

“Yeah, we get it, asshole,” O’Shea snarled, gazing at the looming cruiser in her side mirror. “You’re better than… Son of a bitch!” she suddenly shouted.

“What?” Billboard asked.

O’Shea’s face resembled a thundercloud.

“That’s Murphy,” she spat.

“Murphy?” Billboard repeated. How the hell did O’Shea know this person, or anybody on the BPD for that matter?

“Yeah. An officer who gave me shit at the airport.”

“Someone gave you shit?” he marveled. “Why?”

She launched into a story that eventually had Billboard seeing red. He wished O’Shea had called him for assistance instead of Mizzay. He would have set the overbearing asswipe straight…or gotten thrown in jail for assault and battery.

Right.

Maybe it was for the best that Mizzay had gone through more diplomatic channels.

That asswipe, however, was currently on his tail, and looking for trouble. The loose-cannon cop kept flashing his lights so that Billboard would move aside.

“Daire, do you still have Steven on the line?” Billboard barked into the car’s Bluetooth speaker.

“I do,” Daire’s voice came back.

“Tell him Murphy’s a dead man if he continues with his nose up my exhaust pipe. I’m trying to—”

His tirade was cut off by Prez, up ahead.

“The van driver has spotted me,” Prez barked. “He’s headed…”

Shit!” Billboard lost the rest of what Prez said as he watched the van driver cross three lanes, causing cars to throw on their brakes and skid out in front of him, willy-nilly. He took evasive maneuvers, and—

A clip on his right rear quarter had Billboard bellowing.

It wasn’t a civilian that had made contact.

“God-damned-son-of-a-bitch. That prick Murphy just hit me.” Luckily, Billboard was able to recover, expertly crossing over to the exit the perp had taken on two wheels. “Tell Steven I’ll be billing his department.”

When he unclenched his teeth, he let the team know he was still in pursuit. “I’m on the van,” he said.

“I see you,” Del answered, “and I’m thirty seconds behind. Don’t lose him BB.”

“I don’t plan to,” Billboard answered.

Billboard managed a glance in his rearview, seeing Del. But shit . Somehow Murphy was still in the chase. He must have made it to the median, then backtracked to the exit on the grassy shoulder.

Dels’ growl let Billboard know that the boss had spotted the cop, too. “Listen, can you and O’Shea handle the kidnappers? I have a feeling I’m going to be busy trying to keep Murphy off your tail.”

Billboard almost wanted to laugh. Looking behind him, he could see Del’s vehicle swerving from side to side, running interference so Murphy’s car couldn’t pass.

Billboard looked at O’Shea to answer.

“Hell, yeah,” she told Del. “We’re good. And after we take down our perps, you better keep me away from Murphy, because he’s asking for a beat-down.”

Daire’s amused voice responded. “Steven heard that, and he says as long as there’s no broken bones, he’ll look the other way.”

Billboard knew that the detective was joking, but Billboard’s girl wasn’t blowing smoke. She was tough to stop when she…

Whoa. His girl ? What the fuck ?

Billboard swallowed. His brain must have short circuited.

A woman like O’Shea didn’t belong to anybody, and she’d probably throat-punch him if she caught wind that Billboard was being weirdly possessive. But… his girl ? When had he ever been proprietary over a female, and why wasn’t his head exploding because of it?

Good questions, both, but with the van speeding up ahead, Billboard needed to shelve things for the time being, take care of business, then freak out when everything was finally taken care of.

He took one hand off the wheel and reached for a shoulder holster, of which he had two. Pulling out his Glock 45, he handed it to O’Shea, butt first. “You might need this,” he said gruffly.

She smirked. “Even though I’m not licensed?” She threw his words back at him, then continued to poke. “And seriously? You’re keeping your Sig 9 mil to yourself?” she added cheekily. “You know that’s my preferred weapon.”

Billboard huffed. There was nothing to fight about. He was just as proficient with either. “Fine. You can—”

“I’m dicking with you,” O’Shea snorted. “Lighten up. We need our bodies loose and our wits about us. I’m good with this.” She lifted the gun to check the chamber.

“There’s a round already in it,” Billboard added gruffly.

She checked anyway, then tucked the weapon into the back of her waistband. “Cool. I promise I won’t use it unless I’m forced to,” she assured him smartly, then got serious. “I’d rather we do this without any bullets flying.”

The chance for collateral damage was always a worry, and Billboard agreed with her one-hundred percent.

He looked ahead and saw what he’d been waiting for. “We have an opportunity to make our move.” He gestured to the line of traffic preceding them that was just stopping at a light turning from green to yellow. The line-up was one car, the van, then three more vehicles in front of the Bronco. Not ideal for civilian casualties, but not bad, either.

Luckily, too, the suspects were trapped in place until the light changed, since there was no room for the van to maneuver around the intersection, nor any convenient side streets down which they could disappear.

Billboard was already slowing to a crawl. “As soon as I throw it in park, we get out and run to the van. I’ll take the driver’s side, you take—”

O’Shea hadn’t heard him. She’d opened her door and jumped out while he was still moving. What the fuck? Did the woman want to get herself killed?

He watched as she sped around the three cars separating them from their quarry, approaching the van and quietly turning the handles on the back doors.

They didn’t open.

Billboard slammed the Bronco into park, wrenched open his door, and hit the ground running in time to see O’Shea climbing up the back of the van to carefully and silently frog-walk the length of the roof.

“Fuck!”

What was the woman trying to do? Get herself killed?

He reached the van, and got his fingers on the handle on the driver’s side door just as the light changed. That’s when he got his first look into the front seat, and noted that Marin wasn’t there. But the driver and his friend—both skanky looking white dudes with long stringy hair—were fumbling for their weapons.

Billboard yanked open the door, grabbed the driver by the back of the neck before the man could get his hands on his piece, and dragged him out of his seat, throwing him to the ground.

He leaned over and punched his adversary twice in the head before—

“Stop.” A whiny voice sounded from behind him.

Billboard looked up and over his shoulder.

Ugly-ass perp number two in the van had slid into the driver’s seat and had his gun trained on Billboard with a shaky hand.

“Let him go or I’ll shoot you,” the guy cried. “I swear I will.”

It appeared like the volatile asshole had never handled a weapon before, which in Billboard’s experience made the man extremely dangerous.

Billboard slowly stood up; his arms raised. “I’m stepping away,” he assured the guy. “But I’m not the only one you have to worry about. It’s in your best interest to put the gun down and surrender. My team, who you don’t want to mess with, is only seconds behind me.”

The guy looked scared and undecided. Billboard was about to rattle the would-be shooter’s cage even more when something distracted him; movement on the van’s roof in Billboard’s periphery vision.

While maintaining what he hoped was a conciliatory posture, he let his eyes slowly move upward. He didn’t want to alert the gun-wielder that…

Yup . O’Shea was right above the perp.

What was she…?

Oh, hell no .

She was counting down on her fingers from five, lowering each one slowly.

His body tensed when she got to one, not knowing what to expect.

O’Shea gracefully but powerfully swung herself off the roof while hanging onto the gutter lip. She launched herself inside the van, striking the man’s chest solidly with both feet.

The perp went backward, flat on the bench seat.

His gun flew onto the floor.

O’Shea went to her knees and straddled the guy’s prone body, pummeling his head with her fists.

Billboard was about to go to her aid when the first man he’d downed grabbed his ankle and…

“Not happening,” Billboard growled at the perp’s ineffectual tug. It took more than some hundred-and-twenty-pound weakling to drag him to the ground. He kicked the man’s arm with his free foot, hissing. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay still.”

The guy smartly complied.

He’d just turned back to see if O’Shea needed his assistance, when that fucking time-bomb of a cop walked up, his weapon pulled. He aimed directly into the van.

“Stop right there,” the officer yelled, not sparing a glance for Billboard, but speaking directly to O’Shea’s back.

Billboard snarled. Nobody aimed a gun at O’Shea. Nobody.

He took two steps forward, readying to —

“Fucking Murphy,” O’Shea’s voice rang out with derision. “It’s you, isn’t it.” There was no question in her voice as she made the assertion, simply distaste.

Murphy twitched. “Who are you and how do you know me?” he asked in a tone that Billboard didn’t like.

It was time for an intervention.

“A woman you’ve already pissed off this week,” Billboard snarled. “So if I were you, I’d back off if you want to retain possession of your balls.”

O’Shea slowly turned her head and ignoring Murphy, batted her lashes at Billboard. “Are you going to emasculate him for me, sweet-cheeks?” she questioned saucily. “That’s so nice.”

“You!” Murphy almost choked on the single syllable as he caught sight of who it was on top of the perp.

“Yup. It’s little ole me,” she drawled, exaggerating her very mild accent. “Fancy meeting you here, Murphy.” Her voice dropped any niceties, and turned into a sing-song-y growl. “Now would you care to point that gun elsewhere, or would you like it lodged up your ass?”

“Stand down, officer.” Del walked up with an air of confident authority.

The gun lowered half an inch.

“Your boss has a few things he’d like to say to you.”

Del gestured, and Daire stepped forward, holding out his phone.

Murphy eyed it as if it were a venomous snake, but eventually holstered his gun and gingerly took the device. “Yes sir?”

“You’ve got this, right?” she asked Billboard and the team. Clearly, O’Shea wasn’t waiting around to hear what the officer had to say. She was already off her victim and moving through the interior door which led to the back of the van.

Seconds passed before…

“I have her. She’s okay,” O’Shea called out. “And the kitten’s fine, too.”

There was a cheer from the team-members who’d convened.

The words were music to their ears.