Consent: Power Exchange, #3

By AJ Rose

Cole, what’s wrong?

Former detective Gavin DeGrassi likes his new life and his job as a university professor, molding the minds of the next generation of law enforcement. It keeps him in the field he loves, but out of the media and out of the danger he seems to draw. He’s settled and happy with his partner and Dom, Ben Haverson.

It’s Myah.

Until a middle of the night phone call from his brother, Cole, whose desperation and fear yank him back into the world of criminals and countdowns. Only this time, the stakes are much higher.

She’s missing.

Detective Myah Hayes, Gavin’s sister-in-law and former partner, has a past of her own, one that has returned to claim her. With only their instincts and the help of a rogue CSI, Gavin, Ben, and Cole will do whatever it takes to find Myah, following a flimsy trail of evidence to Chicago, where all is not what it seems—dirty cops, moral pimps, and a nest of snakes who call themselves businessmen.

They’re on a collision course with the worst of humanity, and more than Myah’s life is caught in the vortex. Can they find her, and if they do, will there be anything left to save?

Warning: contains scenes of rape and graphic violence and may not be suitable for sensitive readers. Discretion advised.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AJ Rose
• Release date: Sep 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502281289

Book preview

Chapter One

An elbow to the side wasn’t the most pleasant way to wake up, but it was damned effective. The phone’s ringing took longer to break through my annoyance, but once it did, I reached for the bedside table, searching. Well, fumbling. A book, my reading glasses, and an empty tea mug cascaded to the floor before I found the offending device.

’Lo? I made no secret of my sleep-addled state. It had been a long time since my phone had awakened me at… 2:18 a.m.

Gavin?

I shot straight up, ignoring the ache in my muscles. There was no mistaking that tone: fear, barely controlled panic, desperation.

Cole? What’s wrong? Is the baby okay? Beside me, Ben rolled over and put his hand on my hip, instantly alert.

She’s fine. It’s Myah. He choked, his voice faltering as ice slithered over my scalp, advancing down my face, neck, and chest to take up residence in my heart.

Myah? Cole, talk to me.

He sobbed, once. I could almost hear him regaining control, at least enough to spit out two heart-stopping words. She’s missing.

---

The ghosts of cases past whispered haunted greetings as I pushed through the glass doors of Second Precinct half an hour later, Ben right on my six. It was an odd role reversal, since I was usually the one at his heel. He was my Dom, but in this moment, he was my partner, my rock, and my safety net. We’d hastily thrown on clothes, grabbed jackets, and rushed into the inky silence of a chilly October night, intent on one goal: get to my brother and find out what he meant that Myah, his wife and my former partner, was missing.

I spotted Cole with his head down sitting in one of the chairs next to a sympathetic-looking detective I didn’t recognize. Not surprising. I hadn’t been on the force, or at this station, for a year and a half.

DeGrassi, my former boss, Sergeant Kittridge, called from his perch on the desk beside the dejected statue that was my youngest sibling. I strode over, yanking Cole’s arm until he stood, and threw my arms around him, letting him take my warmth and strength.

What happened?

Cole pulled away and cleared his throat, his voice rough and raw. The babysitter called me at half past six tonight asking if Myah was getting Bobbi or if someone else was coming for her. Bobbi, short for Roberta, was Cole and Myah’s four-month-old daughter. I said Myah was supposed to have been there half an hour before but probably got held up at the grocery store or something. When I called her cell, I kept getting voicemail, so I had Ma pick the baby up and left work. I thought maybe Myah had had a flat or a fender bender and didn’t think it was a big enough deal to call me. She said she had to get diapers and stuff for dinner, so I followed her usual route and found her car in the parking lot at the store. His eyes filled with tears, and he looked away, fighting for composure. The driver’s door was open and her purse was on the seat, a couple bags in the backseat. But she was nowhere. I went inside and had the store manager page her, but she didn’t come.

Did you try calling her again?

Cole glared at me for asking something stupid. Of course I did, he snapped. "Her phone was in her purse in the car. With the door wide open. So I called it in and requested Eric to the scene to process it." I wondered if he realized he was sinking into cop-speak. Eric Poulson was his most trusted CSI tech, usually lead on the cases Cole was not assigned.

Did they find anything?

He squeezed his eyes shut, and a lone tear tracked down his cheek into the stubble I rarely saw on him. One of her shoes was under the car. No prints, no other signs of a struggle, nothing stolen. I sucked in a shaky breath, and Ben slid his hand into mine to entwine our fingers, his grip forceful. It was both a comfort and jarring, him trying to steady himself on me as much as hold me in place.

We have a unit over there still processing, Kittridge said, his calm efficiency in great contrast to Cole’s barely controlled panic. The store’s management was quick to turn over the closed-circuit video of the parking lot, and Sugar is going over it now. Sugar Kingsbury was the best computer tech in all the St. Louis metro area, often being called to consult with other municipalities when there was particularly tricky data recovery required.

If there’s anything on those videos, Sugar will find it, I reassured Cole, pulling him with one arm into another hug. He clung to me, clenching his hands in the fabric of my jacket.

"We don’t have time for that! he yelled, but his voice was muffled against my shoulder. She’s been gone for hours. Whoever took her could be anywhere by now."

Kittridge pulled Cole from my embrace, putting both hands on his shoulders and looking him square in the eye. Son, we will find her. There’s no way they’ve gotten very far with her in this amount of time. As soon as we knew she didn’t leave the store by choice, we put a notice out at the airport and issued a BOLO—a be-on-the-lookout—for all patrols. Every cop in this city is searching for her right now, and no one got her on a plane during that small window. She’d have made a scene if they’d tried. Cole glared at him. Cole, you know better than anyone what our team’s capable of. What your people do on a daily basis. Trust us. We’ll get her back.

My brother’s shoulders slumped, and he whispered, the words so shaky they were almost indecipherable, Eleven months, Sarge. We’ve been married eleven months. I’m supposed to grow old with her.

Ben flanked Cole, putting a supportive arm around his waist. You will. We’ll all see to it. But right now your people need to do their jobs. We all want her back and won’t stop until she is.

Ben was right, but I wanted to rail and rant and shout as much as my brother. My best friend, one of the few people who had never let me down, who meant the world to me, was out there in the dark. What if she was hurt? What if she was terrified? What if she was….

No. Don’t even think it. She’ll kick your ass if you even suspect she’s that easy to take down. I blanked my mind, helping Cole resume his seat and going to seek out horrible police station coffee. As I returned with a small Styrofoam cup, the dispatcher, Lawanda, set out chairs we used to bookend my brother, and Ben and I sat, hunkering down beside him to wait for word.

It didn’t come for many hours, and each second was painful, the worry like paper cuts slicing away at our composure. We didn’t even try to talk, just shifted in the hard plastic chairs. Cole growled once about having quit smoking for the baby’s sake and wished for a pack of Marlboros. The detective whose desk we were camped out next to tossed a slightly crumpled pack to him.

I keep it for emergencies. You can have the rest.

Cole snatched the pack, but tapped the edge of it against the meaty part of his thumb for a few seconds, debating. Then, very deliberately, he removed one and returned the pack to the desktop, as far away from himself as he could get it. Wordlessly, he scraped the chair back and stalked out the front door of the station.

Uh. The generous detective looked between me and the door. He might need this. He held up a lighter, face grave.

Normally, I’d have laughed and watched my brother storm back in to get a light, asking him if he needed to borrow a lung to smoke the cigarette, too. Instead, I plucked it from the man’s fingers, thanked him quietly, and followed Cole to the parking lot, where he was digging in his car.

Got your fire, I said, coming up behind him. He squawked and banged his head on the doorframe. Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.

He glared at me and swiped the lighter out of my hand, the sound of the tobacco catching the flame scratchy in the pre-dawn light. It reminded me of our childhood, when our dad used to smoke a pipe on occasion. The memory held none of its usual comfort.

You okay?

What the fuck do you think? he snapped.

I think you’re going to fly apart soon if you don’t talk to someone, I answered matter-of-factly.

Yeah? His entire being was pure challenge: jutted jaw, fierce gaze, tensed muscles ready to spring. You some kind of expert on missing wives? Or do you think because your boyfriend is a shrink, you know everything?

I ignored the barb. I think that because I’m about three seconds from punching someone, and I love her in a completely different way than you. If it were Ben, they’d have to fucking sedate me, so truthfully, you’re doing way better than I would be.

He exhaled a gust of smoke and looked away, jamming a hand in his jeans pocket. "I need to do something, Gavin. This sitting shit is going to break me far more than seeing something upsetting about what’s happened to her. I know they won’t let me get involved, but goddammit, I have to do something."

That they were allowing us to stay at the precinct while they analyzed the evidence the crime scene techs had gathered was a courtesy not afforded to families in typical cases. Cole was lucky enough as it was, but I knew he wouldn’t see it that way.

Maybe they’ll let me talk to Sugar, see if he can give me something. He’s gotta have been through that video footage enough by now.

What scared me about the way Cole looked right then was the utter bleakness. His normally vibrant blue eyes were washed out gray, red-rimmed and swollen. His face was nearly slack, except when he clenched his jaw against a shiver. He wasn’t functioning, and he had no business going anywhere near evidence in that state. It would only lead to him jumping to erroneous conclusions. Or worse, fucking up some crucial link to Myah’s whereabouts.

Think he’ll spill?

I shrugged, trying not to let him know I’d seen through him. He was distraught, and who could blame him? Only one way to find out. And filter anything he does tell me. But you have to promise me something.

Wariness shrouded his face, but he didn’t balk like I expected. What?

If there’s no news yet, we all go home, get a few hours of sleep, and come back when there’s something being reported.

He was already shaking his head.

Cole, they’ll wake us up if something happens, but you’re not going to do anyone any good if you’re incoherent and delirious.

So, what, she’s probably out there somewhere, uncomfortable as fuck, going through who knows what, and I get to lie down on a comfy bed with a nice pillow and drift off to dreamland? Fuck. That. Noise.

Lay on a bed of nails for all I care, as long as you get some rest. You’ll be more helpful to Myah if your eyes are fresh. Trump card played.

He flicked the cigarette nub away from him, sparks flashing across the asphalt when it landed. Swallowing audibly, he finally turned toward the station again, grumbling acquiescence as he went past. I followed him inside but didn’t resume my seat, instead navigating the hallway that led to interview and briefing rooms. One of the latter had a large conference table and a TV on the wall with a computer setup for satellite feeds or video conferences. This was, I knew, the only suitable place in the station for Sugar to look through the video footage, since he was away from his own equipment except for the laptop he carried everywhere.

I placed a cup of fresh coffee in front of him as he rubbed his eyes, his glasses shoved up to his forehead. Sugar obviously wasn’t his real name, but I didn’t know what it was. He was what one would expect of a computer geek—glasses, nondescript clothing, conservative, light brown hair, and shrewd eyes the color of slate. He was a slight man, and in a room full of people, he was the last person I would notice. But he was undeniably the best at his job in the entire city, maybe even the bi-state area. We called him Sugar because he was incredibly soft-spoken and had never said an unkind word to anyone. He also turned even the worst, most foul-smelling cases into sweetness in the evidence department. He could wring miracles from pixels, making our job—my former job, I reminded myself—that much easier.

Anything?

Store parking lot cameras captured the whole thing, he said. Expanding one of the smaller screens, he transferred it to the big screen on the wall. I watched as a white mini van pulled in next to Myah’s already parked car, its occupant getting out and slipping into the cargo space. When the side door slid shut, the van looked empty. The image was grainy, and the man’s face was hard to see in the quick glimpse I’d gotten. Still, I’d put him at roughly six feet and a couple inches, on the heavier side, maybe two-thirty, two-forty. No chance at guessing age from that little bit.

Myah entered the camera’s view several minutes later, three or four plastic bags bunched in her hands. She unlocked her car, dumped her purse in the driver’s seat, and opened the back driver’s side door, oblivious to the van behind her or the sliding door opening slowly. She got her groceries in the backseat and was just about to climb in when an arm slithered around her middle and yanked her backward. Instead of flailing, like most people would, she reared back, smashing her head into the face of her attacker. He staggered but didn’t release her. Using the small space between the vehicles as leverage, she planted her feet on the side of her car and shoved. If the van door had been closed, she would have succeeded in stunning the man behind her, possibly making his head smack the metal.

But the door was still open, and the momentum carried them into the cargo area of the van, one of Myah’s shoes flying off. The van rocked on its springs, and a foot here and there depicted the continuing struggle. A dark shape rose, and I could make out three successive full-strength punches. The feminine foot still visible in the door stopped moving.

I swallowed back the tide of anger and revulsion that crested in my throat as the man slammed the door, ran around the vehicle, and drove out of the parking lot. Son of a bitch, I will find you. Sugar paused the video as the van prepared to turn onto the road and enhanced the screen, using filters to de-pixelate the zoom as he zeroed in on the license plate.

Got a good shot of it. Illinois tags, and the registration matches a Christopher and Nancy Thompson of Peoria. Unfortunately, they own a Dodge Durango, not a beat-to-shit Kia Sedona. I checked with Peoria police, and they have a report of stolen plates by the Thompsons dated two days ago. They’re not our perps.

Running fingers through my hair, I blew out a frustrated breath. Okay, so did they get anything off her car?

Sugar shook his head. You saw the video. Perp never touched anything but her. Thought maybe there’d be blood from her head butting him, but if there was, it was all in the van.

Goddammit!

Hold on, man. I got more. He called to life dormant screens, still shots of the van clearly taken from the network of stoplight cameras dotted around the city. Perp drove north on Brentwood Boulevard to I-170. There are fewer cameras on the interstates, but there’s that construction at one-seventy and seventy where they installed them to monitor the reduced speed limit. I tapped into those and picked them up again. Van got onto I-70 and hit the airport. Couple hours ago, we found it in the long-term parking lot on Cypress. A unit’s already there, processing the scene.

Did you get the video from the parking lot cameras? I demanded. Goddamn, if she was on a plane, she could be anywhere by now. Why didn’t you call me back here when you found this shit?

If Sugar was bothered by my increasingly angry tone, he didn’t show it. Didn’t have anything definitive, Gavin. Parking lot cameras show the van parking, the guy getting out, opening the door on the side we can’t see, moving around and then walking alone to the bus shelter carrying one bag. He got on the bus, rode to Terminal 1, and hopped a flight to Chicago under the name Jason Sewell. That’s not a name in our database, but I’ve got the computer scanning facial features from video stills to match it to mug shots. No prints in the van to go off, but we’ll find out who he is. He showed me the five minutes of video he’d marked as relevant, and I squinted. The kidnapper had stayed out of sight behind the van for what felt like an eternity, but was likely two or three minutes, before becoming visible again. Alone, as Sugar had said. He entered the bus and rode out of the parking lot.

My focus switched to the four or five cars in the queue to exit the lot as the bus drove out. What about them? I pointed. Any of them could have been parked beside the van. She could have been transferred to another vehicle. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that’s what had happened. Swiping a cop gets noticed quickly. Best way to throw us off would be to switch perps, vehicles, and directions.

I thought of that, Sugar said. So I found the one that pulls out of the space next to the van ten minutes after our first perp is gone and followed it back to I-70 East. Unfortunately, no cameras there. No construction or speed zones. I have no idea where that car went.

Make and model? I barked, snatching a post-it pad and pen from a side table.

2011 Chrysler 300, charcoal, Missouri license plate—he rattled off a combination of letters and numbers—also registered to a vehicle and owners who don’t match. But that’s all I have so far. I’ve been up all night with this, and I’m too fried to catch anything more. Kittridge already yelled at me once to go home, and if he knew I’ve shown you this much, especially the car we suspect, I’d be more than sleep-deprived.

Put an alert out on it, I ordered. At that, Sugar stiffened.

"Listen, Gavin, I appreciate your position. I really do. But you’re a criminology professor now, not a detective. I am doing my job, and I know you’re worried, but I’ve given you everything I’m going to. The people who need to know and can chase these guys to get your ex-partner back are on it. You need to go home, get some sleep, and try to think of anyone who might have a reason to pull this stupid snatching bullshit."

He clapped my shoulder, and I looked at my hands, chagrined. It had been so easy to fall back into the role of detective, demanding answers and expecting to get them, but Sugar was right. It wasn’t my place. I’d come to him to see if I could get a shred of something to ease Cole’s mind, and he’d given me far more than I expected. He could get in a lot of trouble for this.

But she’s out there with some stranger, and who knows what they’re doing to her. It was obvious they weren’t going to kill her. Not right away, or they would have instead of getting to the airport as fast as possible. And why go there in the first place? Were they hoping it would take us longer to find the van and we’d assume she was taken to a plane? Idiots must not realize there are cameras everywhere these days.

Thank you, Sugar. I gripped his arm, putting all the sincerity possible in my demeanor. This is more than anyone else has done.

He nodded. Get some sleep. Get that list. Give us names of her enemies, I’ll start digging into their recent activity and get something concrete. Leading me back to the front of the station, Sugar shook Cole’s hand solemnly, promising to keep us posted, though I knew we’d gotten as much inside information as we would out of the police. At least for now.

Chapter Two

Y ou can crash in here . I opened the door to the guest room and stepped back so Cole could go in. I talked to Ma on the ride home, and she said she and Dad will keep Bobbi for as long as you need them to. She’s got her key to your house and will go pick up anything she doesn’t already have. She said Bobbi will keep them going until Myah is found.

You’re so sure she will be, he said quietly, sitting on the bed, his movements subdued in a way I’d rarely seen my brother.

Of course I am, I lied. I was as scared as he was. We have the best people on this, bro. You trained Eric, and Sugar is almost a savant with the computer. It doesn’t get better than that.

I’m missing something, Gavin, he said miserably, lying on his back and dumping his shoes to the floor with audible thumps before hoisting his legs up. Something obvious.

Well, Sugar wants names of her enemies so he can start an electronic trail. The guy who grabbed her is in Chicago, so try to think if she’s mentioned anyone from when she lived there who might have a reason to do this.

Cole snorted. You know as well as I do she doesn’t talk about that.

I said nothing. Myah had spoken to me about her tenure with Chicago PD once. I’d been in the midst of a major depressive episode when Ben and I had trouble right after the Breath Play Killer case. I’d confided in her my worry that no one would trust me again, no one would believe I was good enough to be a detective. She’d reassured me she would always believe in me, and I would never endure what she had while she’d been a detective in Chicago. I didn’t have details, but I had an idea it was her last partner on the Chicago PD who had been responsible for her transfer to St. Louis and for the fundamental betrayal she’d alluded to. Unbeknownst to Cole or anyone else, I had gone looking before retiring at the conclusion of the Alex Dennan case. I had her old partner’s name: Ryan Solomon.

Well, maybe we can do some digging on our own after we’ve had some shut eye, see what we can find out. Myah would have had my balls in a vice if she’d known I had more information than she wanted me to, but given the current circumstances, I figured all bets were off and nothing was off limits anymore. If it brought her back safe, I’d do it, even if it meant betraying her confidence. She was my best friend, the love of my brother’s life, and the mother of my niece and goddaughter. I wasn’t leaving it to chance.

Cole rolled over, messily pulling the comforter over himself. I knew he didn’t want to sleep, and he was only lying down now to get me to leave him alone, give him space. He was at the end of his tolerance for everything, and whether he wanted it or not, it was a good bet he’d fall asleep anyway. I backed out of the room and shut the door, bumping into Ben in the hallway.

He finally give in? he asked.

No. But he will, I murmured. Ben drew me into his arms, and I slumped against him, exhausted.

What about you?

What about me?

Are you going to give in, too, or do I have to order it?

I sighed, resigned. He would, too. One condition, I said, pulling away but grabbing his hand and leading him to our bedroom. You wrap those arms around me and don’t let go.

Done. He shed his clothes and pulled back the rumpled sheets we’d not bothered with in our early morning rush to Cole’s side. Even if you have such violent nightmares you end up kicking my ass in your sleep. I’m never letting you go.

I drew a sharp breath, the sudden import of the entire situation slamming itself over my head with the force of a load of bricks. As worried as Ben had ever been about me, as much danger as I’d ever been in, we’d been together. We’d faced whips and restraints, bullets, fire, sociopaths and broken spirits, been tortured, violated, and stared the immediate threat of death in the face.

All of it side by side.

Cole didn’t have that luxury, and my brother was nothing if not imaginative. The unknown was eating him alive. Where was she? What was happening to her? And most of all, why?

I stripped and crawled into bed beside Ben, scooting into him with my face buried in his neck, and told him everything Sugar had told me, plus the little bit I knew about the circumstances surrounding Myah’s transfer to St. Louis. We have to go to Chicago, babe, I murmured. The guy who took her flew there as soon as he passed her to someone else. She’s from there. She left in disgrace. So far, the only thing that might come back to haunt her like this is her old job.

Does Cole know you have this information?

I told him they had video of the abduction, the make and model of a car involved, and everyone and their dog is looking for her. Because everything Sugar gave me boils down to those bits, and that’s the solid evidence. Cole’s CSI. That’s what he understands. He doesn’t know the speculation involved in following leads. He couldn’t stand the idea of following a bunch of dead ends before getting his hands on live, useful details that can break a case. I figured the rest would just overwhelm him, and he wouldn’t get any rest if he knew more. But I’m not going to hold out on him much longer. I just need to think. Figure out how any of this fits together.

You’re not going to do that with as little sleep as you’re functioning on right now.

I know. My eyelids were already becoming heavy, the rhythmic rise and fall of Ben’s chest beneath my cheek soothing, his heartbeat strong and even and reassuring. But I’m not going to sit back and let the cops get into a jurisdictional pissing match while she slips through the cracks. Chicago and St. Louis police departments don’t have the best relationship. All that bullshit is bound to fuck things up. If we dig around on the side, we don’t have a bunch of red tape slowing us down.

Gavin, Ben whispered, and the shake in the word made me pull away to look at him. He was terrified, for once not even trying to hide behind the stoic Dom mask. You’re getting sucked back in.

I stiffened, grimacing. After my last case included the deaths of three cops and my becoming the focus of a stalker, I’d promised him I was done with the job, the hours, the danger. "This is Myah. Hard limit, Sir."

He swallowed, his hand coming up to brush the hair off my forehead, his gaze tender and tortured. I know. I’m not saying don’t. I don’t want you to stop. But I want you to know I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not again. Got that?

Regarding him for long moments, I nodded. Understood. I need your help anyway. Who else can keep my brother from falling apart better than a fuck-hot Dom with a psychology degree?

Ben snorted. It felt wrong to joke at a time like this, but in the end, the tension between us dissolved into a fierce embrace, and we settled in to get as much rest as we could before I really started digging into Myah’s past and the scandal that had led her from one city to another and possibly back again.

---

I f she’s in Chicago , they’ve taken her across state lines. Sergeant Kittridge’s voice was low in my ear through my Bluetooth, which left my hands free to hastily pack a bag. You know that means FBI.

"And you know that means a bureaucratic nightmare of epic proportions. Not only would we lose first look at all the evidence, we’d get shut out by both CPD and the Feds. And they’d have to start from scratch. Who better to go after her than someone who knows her past, how she’d see things, and if it’s job related, how she’d handle herself? Me, Sarge. I’m the only one."

I know this, Gavin. I do, Kittridge conceded. But you’re hardly objective.

Was I so objective when you put me on Arnold Stevenson’s murder, sir?

A long beat of silence told me I’d scored a point. You’re not on the force anymore. You go up there investigating, you’re going to get yourself in a heap of trouble I may not be able to yank you out of. I can only vouch for you so far before it looks like I sent you, which is against every regulation on our books. I could lose my job.

With all due respect, sir, that’s exactly why you need me up there. I’m not bound by the same rules. Red tape won’t stop me. I left the job comment alone. To me, jobs didn’t matter as much as my sister-in-law’s life. But I also realized it would only anger Kittridge to insinuate he didn’t want her back with everything he had. Angry Kittridge wouldn’t give me what I wanted.

No, but obstruction of justice would.

Let them try. It’s only obstruction if I don’t share what I find, right? I have every intention of letting the boys in blue go in after her once I find her. I made a promise. At that, Ben looked at me solemnly, his hands stilling, poised with his shave kit over his half-packed bag. I smiled at him. I won’t risk the case by bungling the arrests of the assholes involved in this.

Plural? Kittridge demanded. The man didn’t miss a trick.

I know the guy who took her is from Chicago, and that he flew back alone. Obviously, he transferred her to someone else. I don’t know what happened to her after that, but there’s more than one. I’m not an idiot, Sarge. Don’t treat me like one.

Cole wandered in bleary eyed, his hair sticking up in all directions. He rubbed his face for a moment, then stopped when he saw what we were doing. What’s going on? Do we know something?

I silenced him with a slashing gesture of my hand. Sergeant, I’m going up there whether you like it or not. You’ve got no say in when or where I use my vacation time, and I thought we could come to an understanding before I go. If that’s not the case, I’m hanging up now and you’ll hear the results when the entire thing is over. But it might be better for both of us if we scratch each other’s backs. The second you call the Fibbies, you’ll be shut out, and the Chicago boys won’t get much better than us. You give me a chance to get up there, get entrenched, and report back as a liaison to the department, and I can dig on my own outside the official investigation and get her back. Sarge, let me bring her back. She’s got a four-month-old daughter who needs her.

Okay, okay. Don’t lay it on so thick, DeGrassi. I don’t know for sure she’s been driven across state lines yet, so you get to follow your hunch until I’m more certain that’s what happened to her. Here’s what I want. Get your brother Shawn to call the sergeant who recommended Hayes for the job here. Tell him IA is poking into her conduct, and her transfer is relevant to a situation we have here. I went rigid, not liking smearing Myah’s reputation to anyone, but I could immediately see the merit in getting Shawn’s help, given his position in Internal Affairs. Play it off like she’s done the same thing here she did up there to get her reassigned. They might be more helpful if they think she’s the one on the hot seat instead of someone from up there who wants her out of their hair. Shawn will be aware of what we’re doing and why, so if this becomes a shitstorm for us, IA will know what and who and why. What’s the point of having a family full of cops if you don’t help each other out now and then? I wasn’t sure that would fly with Shawn, given his job, but it’s not like they’d never hired informants to get information on dirty officers in the past. "If

Reviews for Consent

[Estarianne · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I wanted to like this book, it seemed like an interesting premise, but everything felt overdone. The husband was too hysterical, the Dom was too calm and collected, and the couple scenes were too "the right dom fixes everything." None of the characters felt like people.