Mason: The Sinner Saints #4 Page 5

  “I don’t have it,” she answered.

  “Wrong answer,” the man sneered.

  “You have a gun to my head. Why the hell would I lie to you?” Sara said. “Go ahead and check my pockets if you don’t believe me.”

  The pressure against her temple intensified. “Maybe I’ll shoot you first, then check your pockets.”

  Sara began to shake in earnest. She’d met her share of hired muscle. Bluffing wasn’t in their job description.

  Fortunately, it was in hers.

  “But if you do that, then you’ll never know where I stashed it,” she said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to believe that you double-crossed Van Zandt?”

  Sara nodded. “If you followed me here, then you already know that things didn’t end well between me and Malcolm. Why do you think he shot at me? Why do you think I ran?”

  “So, the man you were with is your partner,” the man said. “He has the necklace.”

  “No,” Sara said too quickly. She wasn’t about to let this guy go after Mason. “He isn’t involved in this.”

  The Russian wasn’t buying it. He pressed his arm harder against her throat.

  “Is he your fence?” he growled. “Does he have l’étoile now?”

  Sara struggled to deny it, but the man was too strong. He’d cut off her air to a trickle. Her head was already going fuzzy. She tried to fight, but with every gasp her body grew weaker.

  He didn’t need to put a bullet in her head to kill her. He could crush her windpipe in a heartbeat.

  “You’ve got it wrong,” a low voice said from behind her attacker. “I’m not the fence. I’m the protection.”

  The Russian dropped his arm from her throat as he turned toward the intruder. Sara’s knees gave out underneath her as air rushed into her burning chest. When she looked up, she found Mason standing only a couple of feet from the Russian.

  Damn it. What was he thinking? Couldn’t Mason see this was no time to play the hero? The Russian was armed. He was a professional. This alley was a trap. There was nowhere to go, no room to fight. If Mason knew what was good for him, he’d turn around and run like hell.

  But obviously, he didn’t.

  The Russian raised his gun, aiming it at the dead center of Mason’s chest.

  “Hand over the necklace,” he said, his lip curling up in derision.

  Mason ignored him. His gaze snapped to her on the ground. “Are you okay, Sara?”

  She opened her mouth, ready to tell him to get the hell out of there, but only a thin croaking sound came out.

  A steely gleam that Sara had never seen before hardened Mason’s stare. Her blood chilled.

  The Russian must have caught it too, because his Adam’s apple quickly bobbed up and down the moment Mason turned his attention back to him.

  “You really shouldn’t have hurt my friend.” His voice was as cold as the frigid pavement beneath her hands.

  Then he moved so fast that Sara had a hard time keeping track of him. In a single step, Mason closed the distance between him and the Russian. One hand closed around the gunman’s wrist. He thrust the butt of his other palm into the center of his throat.

  The Russian stumbled back a step, his eyes wide. He grasped at his neck with one hand, while Mason slipped the gun out of the other. In a fluid motion, Mason ejected the clip from the bottom of the gun, then slammed the side of the weapon against the side of the Russian’s head.

  The man crumpled to his knees. Mason towered over his hunched over body.

  Not even five seconds had passed and the fight was over. Sara stared up at Mason in wonder.

  “Tell your boss to leave Sara Baumgartner alone, or I will do the same thing to every man he sends her way,” Mason said. It didn’t sound like a threat, but a vicious promise. One that Mason clearly had every intention of keeping. “Understand?”

  The man weakly tried to raise his head. A low gurgle bubbled out of his mouth.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Mason said, and lifted his booted foot.

  Sara clenched her eyes shut. A second later, she heard a sickening crunch. Curiosity got the better of her and she peeked out through cracked eyelids.

  The Russian was laid out on his back, blood gushing from his broken nose. Sara quickly turned her head away.

  Mason used the outside of his jacket to wipe the empty gun clean before tossing it into a corner of the alley. Then, for the second time that night, he offered Sara his hand.

  This time she took it.

  He easily lifted her off the dirty ground, and gently cupped his hands over her shoulders. There was no violence in his gaze now, only concern.

  “Sara, are you all right?”

  She gave a shaky nod.

  “I thought you were going to let me walk away,” she said. Her voice was squeaky, but at least it was working again.

  “I did. I never said I wouldn’t follow,” he said. “You’re not complaining are you?”

  “Oh God, no,” she said quickly. She shuddered to think of what would have happened to her if he hadn’t followed. She’d be the one sprawled out on the ground. Except, she wouldn’t be breathing.

  “Good. Because I’m pretty sure I did tell you that ditching me was a terrible mistake.”

  “Careful.” Sara narrowed her eyes. “Nobody likes a cocky bastard.”

  “Is that right?” He lifted his hand and gently brushed her hair back from her face. “Well, then let me make it up to you. You can stay at my place tonight.”

  “No.” Sara shook her head. “I need to go back to my apartment.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “You mean do I think it will be swarming with cops and hitmen?” She shook her head. “No. My real name is not on the lease, so it’s as safe as anywhere. It’ll take everyone at least a few days to figure it out. Besides, there are some plans and contact information there that we won’t be able to move forward without.”

  “All right.” Mason slid his right hand down the length of her arm until his fingers intertwined with hers. Slowly, he led her toward the empty end of the alley.

  “Do you have any other talents you want to tell me about?” she asked just before they stepped out onto the street.

  He turned his head and flashed her a wicked smile. “It wouldn’t be any fun if I gave up all my secrets.”

  Chapter Four

  Sara was quiet.

  Mason flexed his fingers on the leather-covered steering wheel of his Porsche 911 as he stole another glance her way. She’d been staring out the window of his car since she’d slipped into the passenger seat back on Market Street.

  The last time she’d opened her mouth was fifteen minutes ago to tell him that she lived across the bay in Oakland. That was it. No address. Just the city. She didn’t want him putting any information about her into his phone. She’d give him directions when they got closer.

  She still didn’t trust him. Not completely. Not even after saving her life twice in one night. Well…once and a half.

  Honestly, given who had tucked her into bed at night when she was a child, he couldn’t blame her. Mason was willing to bet that trust didn’t come naturally when you were raised by thieves.

  Still, he was going to have to figure out a way to get her talking. If for no other reason, he needed to know where he was driving to.

  “580 or 880?” He broke the heavy silence as he neared the end of the bridge.

  Sara’s hair bobbed around her shoulders as she shook herself out of her private trance. The natural golden streaks in her hair shone in the overhead bridge lights.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Which freeway should I take?”

  She turned away from the seemingly endless expanse of dark water below, and met his eyes. There was a soulfulness to her gaze he hadn’t seen before. She’d been adrift in her own mind, and judging by the shimmering depths of her light copper eyes, it was a hell of a place to get lost in.

 
“Yeah, of course,” she said distractedly. “580. Take the Lakeshore Exit.”

  “You live down by the lake?” he asked, forcing his attention back onto the road.

  “Yep.” She pulled her knees in closer to her body, as her head tilted back toward the window.

  Oh, no. He’d been working all night to scale the high walls she’d built around her. Now that he finally had a foothold, he wasn’t about to let her turn away.

  “How long have you lived there?” he asked.

  “A couple of years.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah,” she said. Mason caught her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “But, something tells me that you’re not going to.”

  He arched a brow. “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m pretty sure this car alone is worth more than the market value of my apartment.”

  He shot her a smile. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it.”

  “Or,” she said, stretching out the word. “You could always just drop me off.”

  “Cause splitting up worked so well last time,” he reminded her. “Besides, you don’t have to be embarrassed around me.”

  “Who said anything about being embarrassed?” Despite her denial, her voice gave her away. “It’s just that it’s a studio, meant for one person not two.”

  “It’s cozy then.”

  “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

  He slid his gaze her way. “So, what exactly is the downside?”

  “Quit it,” she said as he steered the car toward her off ramp. “I’ve already told you those lines don’t work with me.”

  “If you say so.”

  Of course, the delightful pink glow lighting up her cheeks indicated otherwise.

  “You hungry?” she asked as they wound their way around the shore of Lake Merritt. “I’m starved.”

  “I could eat,” he said.

  “Cool. Pull over.”

  “Here?” Mason looked around the neighborhood. He didn’t see any restaurants or markets. Not that any of them would have been open. It was well past midnight. There were only rows of apartment buildings, closed storefronts, and a strange crowd of people gathering around one unremarkable street corner.

  “Yeah, here.” Sara slid her hand over his on the steering wheel and guided him toward the curb.

  Mason threw the car into park and looked out his window. Through the throng of people he could just make out a green high-roofed vehicle.

  “A taco truck?” he asked. “Seriously?”

  Sara shook her head. “Not a taco truck. That’s the taco truck.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “That’s because you’re a terrible snob,” she said, her words ringing with laughter.

  Damn, he liked that sound. “I thought I was a cocky bastard.”

  She gave an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. “They’re usually synonymous.”

  His brows pulled together. “Still…”

  “All right then,” she said, shifting in her seat. “How about I make you a bet?”

  He took the opportunity to lean in closer. “I’m listening.”

  “I am willing to let you see every piece of information I have on Malcolm, his operation, and the Evening Star, if those aren’t the best damn tacos that you ever tasted.”

  “Tempting offer,” he said, pretending to mull it over.

  He was sure he could get his hands on her information, even without a wager. But right now he didn’t care what documents Sara had assembled at her apartment. What he wanted was to gain her trust. That was the only way that he’d get what he was really after—all the secrets she was keeping locked up in her head.

  “And if they are?” he asked.

  She met his gaze without blinking. “You’ll stop trying to seduce information out of me.”

  Mason pulled back a touch. He still wasn’t used to being called out on his game. Most people never noticed the subtle ways he manipulated their reactions. And those rare ones that did, never seemed to mind.

  “Deal?” Sara asked, extending her hand.

  Mason looked at it for a second before slowly sliding his palm across hers. “Deal.”

  The sound of light laughter filled his car as Sara pulled away and opened the door at her side. Her voice dipped low as she stepped onto the sidewalk. So low, that Mason had to strain to hear what she said next.

  “Sucker.”

  ***

  “So, this is your building?”

  Sara did her best not to fumble her keys as she pulled them out of her pocket. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Not with Mason looming over her shoulder, so close that his warm breath washed over her ear.

  She tried to tell herself that her nerves had nothing to do with Mason. She was just unused to having anyone over…especially tall, gorgeous, possibly lethal, private security.

  “Yeah,” she said, finally fitting the key into the thick window-paneled door that led to the front hall.

  “I like it,” he said. “It’s got character.”

  Sara guessed he was right. The truth was she’d never really thought about it. The old, three-story white stucco building was just home to her. Sure, its art deco flair had always called to her, even if time had dulled the paint and worn the edges. But those design details hardly stood out from any of the other buildings in the neighborhood built around the same time.

  What she really appreciated about the place were the little things that most people didn’t notice. The walls and floors were thick. The doors were solid wood. The windows heavy. Her apartment might be old and small, but it was also sturdy and secure.

  Emphasis on the was.

  That would all change in the next couple of days, when the cops finally came around. They’d have warrants to systematically rifle through and catalog all her things. No doubt they’d spend hours piling them all into boxes and parading them out the front door. And there would be nothing she could do to stop them.

  Of course, she had no idea if she would even be around to try. She might be in jail by then. Or trapped with Malcolm. Or dead.

  Sara tried to shake off the thought.

  It was better to not even get caught up in maybes and mights. Planning was one thing, obsessing was another. Her parents had always told her that.

  Usually right before her uncles had to go bail them out.

  Sara held open the door for Mason, the white plastic bag from the taco truck hanging from his fingers.

  At least, she had those to look forward to. They’d help her enjoy the freedom she still had left. Besides, carpe diem always tasted so much sweeter when it came stuffed with carnitas and carne asada.

  “I’m just down the corridor,” she said, making sure to keep her voice down. “First door on the right.”

  She shouldn’t have bothered. She hadn’t even taken two steps when she heard the creak of door hinges across the hall. A half-second later, a gray-topped head peered around the corner.

  “Miss Hope?” a familiar voice rang out. “You’re home awful late.”

  “And you’re still up, Mrs. Dorsky,” Sara said, pasting on a wide smile.

  “Well, my leg was acting up again,” she said with a groan. “Makes it very difficult to sleep, you know.”

  “I do.”

  “And what has you up so late tonight?”

  “Um…” Sara hurried down the hall, rushing to make it to her front door. The sooner she was inside and away from this conversation, the better.

  “That would be me I’m afraid,” Mason said.

  Mrs. Dorsky’s brows arched comically at the sound of his deep voice. She craned her neck out even farther into the hall.

  “A gentleman,” she said, sounding impressed. A little too impressed. “And are those tacos from the truck down the street?”

  “They are,” Mason said. “May I tempt you with one?”

  Mrs. Dorsky shook her head but her grin only grew wider. “Can’t eat after six
o’clock unfortunately.”

  “Some other time then,” he said.

  “Yes. Some other time. Well, don’t let me keep you two from enjoying your midnight snack.” She leaned in toward Sara, cupping her hand around her mouth and speaking in an exaggerated whisper. “I think you found a keeper.”

  “That’s what I keep trying to tell her,” Mason said, giving the old lady a wink.

  A blush spread across her neighbor’s cheeks.

  Dear God, who was this man? No one made Mrs. Dorsky blush. No one made her anything other than miserable.

  “Good night, Mrs. Dorsky,” Sara said, as her neighbor disappeared back around the corner.

  “Good night, Miss Hope.”

  Sara didn’t waste any time unlocking and opening her door. “Right this way, Casanova.”

  “Of course, Miss Hope.” He cast her a lingering look as he stepped inside her apartment. Sara did her best to ignore him.

  “You can put the food on the coffee table,” she said, closing and locking the door behind her. Not that she needed to tell him. It wasn’t like he had that many options to choose from. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said that her place was small.

  There was her bed, flush against the wall next to her door, with the bathroom across from it. A bookcase and a small television marked the faint line between her sleeping and living space. Her couch and the hard-topped wicker trunk that pulled double duty as a coffee table were set along the opposite wall. Other than the small kitchen just to the right of the sitting area, that was it for her little studio apartment.

  Sara sloughed off her coat and tossed it across the foot of her bed. While Mason started pulling their foil-covered plates from the to-go bag, she went over to the fridge and grabbed a couple bottles of beer.

  Mason gave them a long look as she put them on the tabletop.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t drink beer either,” she said.

  He lifted his head. “Every now and again.”

  “Good,” Sara said, plopping down on the far end of the couch. “Fortunately, they go great with tacos, because they’re all I have left in the house.”

  Mason settled on the other end. “Did I catch you in between shopping days?”