Dark Savior

By C.M. Wick and Christa Wick

Undercover DEA agent Dean Ramirez has one shot at saving the innocent woman who unknowingly walks in on a deadly drug deal gone bad. If he wants to keep her from getting killed for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he needs to put on one hell of a convincing show. It's risky. But it buys them a week, which is how long he has to prove he can deliver what he promises—brave, sweet Garnet trusting him completely. Mind and body. The former through the latter. 

In their twisted path to freedom that follows, Dean has to make the gang of dangerous criminals he's investigating believe that he's every bit as ruthless as they think he is…by first making her believe it as well.

 

Previously published as Captive Curve (c) 2012 with revisions throughout and an added epilogue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christa Wick
• Release date: Dec 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215349304

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

GARNET

You have to slide the chain and turn the deadbolt now. You can’t just have the little button on the bottom knob set, I gently lectured as pale little Chucky Parsons sagged against the door's edge while I checked his forehead for a temperature.

Yes, Miss Williams, he answered right before a deep cough shook his thin frame. You didn’t have to check up on me.

Always the tough one, this kid. I’m not, I lied with a gentle smile. I’m just here to deliver your homework so you can catch up a little over the weekend after you're feeling better.

Chucky groaned, but I wasn't sure if it was because of the thick sheath of papers I had pulled from my book bag or the fatigue from the fever clearly raging through him. Even with the wall supporting his body, he kept jerking to stay upright. Poor little guy. When’s your mom coming home?

Seven o'clock, he rasped, then straightened up taller. Law says it's okay if it's just me here.

The line sounded well-rehearsed. I nodded even though he wasn't technically correct. Florida didn't have a minimum age requirement that had to be met for a child to stay home alone. Any caseworker would consider the building and neighborhood in conjunction with the housing situation and the child's particular level of maturity. The caseworker would also factor in the fact that Chucky was sick as a dog and medicated with something making him drowsy.

The only favorable factor for Chucky staying home alone, particularly today, was how much more mature he was than other boys his age. He had to be—his mom worked two jobs but couldn't afford a car or a reliable sitter. That meant, even when he was healthy, Chucky spent part of each weekday alone and large blocks of the weekend on his own.

Well, it's one day of makeup for each day you were out, I explained, extending the papers toward him. Seeing as today is Friday, you have until first period on Thursday to turn these in. Longer if you're still out sick on Monday.

Chucky took the papers then used his shirt sleeve to wipe the moisture from his forehead.

Thank you, Miss Williams.

You're welcome, sweetie. I took a step back, not wanting to leave him alone but knowing I had no right to stay. You get some rest—but set all the locks this time.

He nodded, coughed some more, then closed the door. I waited until I heard the slide of both the deadbolt and the security chain before I turned away.

Reaching the elevator, I pressed the call button. It didn't light up. I leaned in, listened for the sound of the elevator running. Total silence. I jabbed the button a little harder this time. With no floor above the one I was on, there was only the down arrow to repeatedly stab.

Looking around, I tried to locate the exit sign. There wasn't one, a fact I didn't find at all surprising given that Chucky lived in a low rent building at the edge of Miami's industrial sector. His apartment door didn't have a number permanently marked on it, just a piece of paper taped in place below the peephole. None of the other residents with missing numbers seemed to care enough to expend even that minimal amount of effort.

Shit, what was I supposed to do? Knock on each unmarked door then jiggle the knob, praying that, if it opened, it was onto a stairwell?

Turning back to Chucky's apartment, I gave the same triple-rap I had used earlier then waited. Unlike before, I didn't hear the shuffle of feet. I waited another two minutes in case he had gone into the bathroom before heading back to bed or the couch.

A fresh round of steady tapping brought no reply.

Great, knock and jiggle it was, with a little analysis thrown in based on the few doors that still had their numbers.

I started with the unmarked door by the elevator. A low growl that sounded like it was coming from a very big dog quickly sent me in search of the next blank door. Working my way to the side of the building that abutted the parking lot proved fruitless. So did trying both Chucky's door and the elevator call button once more.

Back to counting I went. Reaching the opposite end of the building, I found that both of the last two doors, one on each side of the hall, were without their unit number or any other marking. Aside from varying placements of scuffs and scratches, they were equally identical except that one was on the street side of the building and the other wasn't.

Working thumb and index finger under the sleeve of my raincoat, I gave the flesh a vicious little pinch. It hurt like hell, so I knew I was awake. This wasn't another anxiety dream in which each turn took me further and further from where I needed to be or kept me stuck in some endless task.

I really was going to have to pick a door and turn the damn handle.

Choosing the door on the street-side of the building, I changed my life forever. At my feet, a dead body sprawled on the peeling linoleum floor. A single bulb hanging at the end of a frayed cord cast its feeble light over the corpse.

Blood black as ink where the shadows touched it pooled along the right side of the chest. At the end of one lifeless arm, a scruffy male wearing a denim vest covered in the patches of a local motorcycle gang brushed lumpy brown powder onto a piece of newspaper with his hand. Next to his foot, a gallon-size re-sealable bag filled with more of the powder had split at the seams.

Realizing my wrong turn had landed me in the middle of a drug deal gone bad, I sucked in a lungful of air.

"Fuck!" the scruffy male screamed at my intrusion. Grab the bitch!

Paralyzed by the presence of a dead body, I hadn't realized another biker was in the room until the man yanked on my arm with one meaty hand and slammed the door shut with the other.

Scruffy got to his feet, brandishing a knife that still glistened with the dead man's gore.

I tried to step back. Fingers knotted in my hair to immobilize my head.

Scream, you idiot, scream, scream, scream…

My lips moved wordlessly, their effort ineffectual from the fear constricting my throat muscles. That same fear numbed my fingers so badly that I dropped my book bag. It landed