The Intelligence Unit Series

As Frankie slowly came to, she realized three things. One was that her head felt as if it had spent some quality time at the bottom of a rugby scrum. Two was that-shit-she was zip-tied to a chair, her wrists and ankles bound so tightly that she didn't even have a prayer of wiggle room, let alone escape. And three was that her burner phone was still in the inside pocket of the leather jacket Beck hadn't taken off of her before he'd tied her up, and oh, God, that made up for the total shit factor of the first two things, combined.

"Good, you're awake," Beck said, and Frankie blinked past the screaming pain in her head, trying to get her bearings. They were inside, she realized, although she didn't recognize the room. It was small and dingy, with a faint smell of old vomit in the air. One window, although the curtains were drawn so tightly that she had no idea what floor they might be on, and one door that Beck had smartly positioned himself in front of. Dark spots danced across Frankie's vision, but she fought them, along with the nausea that told her she probably had a concussion, in an effort to figure out how to keep Beck talking.

If he was talking, he wasn't killing her and going back for Isla or Shawn or anyone else in the Intelligence Unit. And if he was here with her, it gave them more time to come find her. She had to trust them to find her.

"I'm awake," Frankie said.

"That means we can get started." Beck pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of a duffel bag on the table in front of him, snapping them into place. "You know, I always wondered why you encouraged Alfie to get clean. After all, you were such a party girl, running drugs with your boyfriend to pay off your debts and put the screws to an a*****e ex-boss."

Frankie's breath grew erratic as he pulled out a hypodermic needle, tossing it on the table in plain sight. Oh, God. He was going to pump her full of heroin until she overdosed. She had to keep him talking. She had to distract him long enough for the Intelligence Unit to find her. They would find her.

"Alfie's the one who brought it up," she said carefully. "You didn't have to kill him, you know."

"I

I suppose that's true," Beck said with a shrug. "But the thing is, I wanted to kill him. And anyway, we're talking about you, Detective."

Shit. "So, what is it you want to know?"

A cold smirk touched his mouth. "It's what I do know, actually. See, the Internet is a wonderful thing. I had to dig pretty hard-privacy acts are such a pain in the a*s-but it turns out, I know people who know how to sidestep those sorts of things. And your medical records are very, very interesting."

"So, you know I'm an addict, then," Frankie said, unable to cage her satisfaction at the surprise on his face. "What, you thought I'd deny it?"

"You are a cop," he said.

Ah, now there was something she could work with. "I am a cop," she agreed. "Which means that if you kill me, you're creating a world of problems for yourself that you don't want." Beck scoffed, taking a step toward her. "I think I'll manage."

"I don't think you will, actually," Frankie said. God, she couldn't stall much longer. "See, killing a cop is a whole different ballgame than running drugs. You murder me, and the Intelligence Unit won't sleep. They won't eat, and they won't stop. They'll hunt you down until they find you, and then, they'll drag you in by any means necessary. You think you can hurt them, but the truth is, there's only one of you. How long do you really think you'll last when your face is plastered all over the goddamned Eastern Seaboard with the label 'cop killer' underneath it?"

A flicker moved through his eyes. It lasted less than a second, but Frankie had seen it. She wasn't going to waste her chance. "If you kill me, you're going to get caught. You'll be tried for murdering a police officer and for murdering Alfie. The investigation will go farther up your a*s than a colonoscopy. The Intelligence Unit will find enough to convict you of both murders and uncover every single other crime you've ever committed, and they will try you for every last one of them. You'll go to prison for the rest of your life. No privileges. No parole. No power whatsoever. And it'll happen before you can blink."

For one heartbeat, Beck met Frankie's stare without words. Then his eyes went cold, and fear expanded in her gut as he reached for the hypodermic needle on the table and a baggie full of heroin.

"Nice speech, sweetheart. But you double-crossed me, which means you're going to die, just like Alfie. Right f*****g now."

***

Shawn pulledup a block from Alfie's house, barely waiting until the Charger was in park before bolting from the driver's seat. Hale-bless her sparkly little heart-was right there beside him, and they ran over to Isabella and Hollister's vehicle as Sinclair and Garza pulled up behind it.

"Okay." Sinclair swung a look around the block, mirroring the movements of every one of his detectives. "Everyone on comms. I'll use the infrared to see what we're looking at. Isabella and Hollister, cover the back of the house. Once we figure out where Beck and Frankie are, Hale, you and Maxwell will breach the front door, with Garza covering the exit point in case Beck gets slippery. I don't have to remind you that this a*****e has one of our own." He looked at Shawn, his stare all promise. "He's armed, dangerous, and unpredictable. Use any force necessary to bring him in. Let's go get our teammate back."

Shawn nodded, feeling nothing and everything all at once. But he couldn't let the terror free from his chest. Frankie needed him, needed the whole team. He might fall apart later, but right now, in this moment, he would do this.

The two minutes it took them to get into position and wait for Sinclair's report might as well have been fifty years, and by the time his voice came over the line, Shawn was ready to detonate. "Two heat signatures in the first-floor bedroom at the back of the house. The rest of the house is clear. Fall out."

"We've got this," Hale murmured, nodding once at him before falling in at his six. Working on complete autopilot, Shawn breached the front door silently, with Hale a step behind him and Garza falling in to cover the door from the outside. Sinclair walked them through the house over comms-six paces through the entryway and into the living room, ten paces down the dingy back hallway, breathe in, breathe out. Shawn's heart thundered in his ears as he heard Frankie's voice through the paper-thin walls, and oh, God, she was still alive. Conscious.

Furiously mad, and yeah, that was his woman, fighting all the way through.

The soundof Beck's voice nearly sent Shawn's composure on a complete walkabout, but he stuck to the plan they'd constructed as they'd rushed to the scene.

Take Beck down with whatever force necessary. Get Frankie out safely.

There was no other option.

Beck's voice grew angrier, more urgent, and Shawn knew they were out of time. Weapon drawn, he kicked in the door to the bedroom, training the sight on his Glock at Beck's chest as he bit out, "RPD! Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head!" Beck whirled toward Frankie, the hypodermic needle still in his grasp but his hands frozen in front of him. "Are you f*****g kidding me?" he snapped, his glare loaded with pure malice. "You tipped them off, didn't you? This whole thing was to set me up." Frankie shook her head, and oh, God, she had never looked more beautiful. "It's over, Beck. I told you they wouldn't stop."

Shawn itched to run over to her, to check her from head to toe to make sure she was okay, but he held firm. She was conscious and alert. He had to neutralize the threat, first. "Put your hands on your head and get on your knees," he told Beck, who sent his gaze from Shawn to Hale, who Shawn knew without looking also had her weapon sighted over Beck's center mass.

Beck snarled out a curse, but-thank f**k-dropped the hypodermic needle and lifted his hands to his head. He started to kneel, but then, his eyes filled with pure, dark hatred, and he bared his teeth in a feral smile.

"Nobody double crosses me, bitch!" he screamed.

In a flash, Beck's arm dropped to the small of his back. Frankie yelled Shawn's name, her entire body bowstring tight as she tried to get free of her bindings. But Shawn's focus was razor sharp. Throwing himself between Beck and Frankie, he squeezed the trigger, watching Beck's body jerk backward once, then twice, then a third time before he fell, the gun he'd been reaching for thumping to the ground. Shawn's ears rang from the echo of the gunshots, then from the shouts of "suspect is down, I repeat, suspect is down!" and Hale's footsteps coming in from behind him to kick the weapon well out of range even though Beck lay on the floor, completely unmoving. Shawn ran over to Frankie, dropping to his knees to run his hands over her, pulling back as he saw how nasty the gash at her temple was.

"We need a medic!" he shouted, pulling a knife from his pocket to cut her bindings free. He locked eyes with Hale, just for enough time for her to shake her head at Beck to signal that he was dead, then turned back to Frankie.

Oh, no. No, no, no. "Jesus, Frankie. You're bleeding. Are you okay?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "I'm perfectly fine."

And then, she collapsed in his arms.