Page 6 of Draven
I spend the next several hours tossing and turning. At six a.m., I give up on the idea of napping, and crawl out of bed, with my eyes still glued shut as I stagger into the shower.
Draven will help me. He will. He has to. I refuse to accept another outcome. As much as it galls me to admit it, without him I have an uphill struggle on my hands. If eating humble pie and admitting that I handled what went down between us badly is what gets Draven to help me, I’ll do it.
Feeling moderately awake now after my shower, I scrape my hair back into a ponytail, and dress in jeans, a button-down shirt, and sturdy boots. The thought of food turns my stomach still, so I choose to downing two cups of strong coffee instead, then grab my keys and head out. Traffic will be light this early in the morning, given it’s Saturday. If I get lucky, I’ll catch Draven before he leaves for home.
The drive to Newark takes forty minutes, but when I pull into the motel, my heart sinks. The space where Draven had parked his bike is empty. He must have left already. Goddammit. It’s only seven fifteen. If I call Rick this early on a Saturday when he isn’t rostered on shift, he’ll kill me. As antsy as I am to get this over with, it’s a much better decision to grab another coffee and wait until it at least turns nine before calling Rick for Draven’s contact details.
I find a diner down the street from Draven’s motel, where I step inside, I glance around. Apart from a guy sitting close to the door in a crumpled gray suit, nursing a cup of coffee, the place is empty.
“Sit anywhere you like, honey,” the lone waitress says, pointing her chin at the row of red, faux leather benches. “I’ll be right over.”
I slip into a booth by the window and open the menu. Even though I’m still not all that hungry, I order a cheese omelet and a coffee before I remove the folder of paperwork that contains the few details we know of Kiera’s case—more out of habit than hope. When I open it and stare at the front page, the words swim together, exhaustion from the last few days finally catching up with me. If I had something to go on, I’d feel more energized. Anything to cling onto other than this series of dead ends.
I have to believe something will turn up, with the chances of that happening increase significantly if I can persuade Draven to work alongside me. I’ve followed his career over the last eight years, often asking myself why, even though, deep down, I know the answer. There are few investigators with a nose for the truth like him. One way or another, I have to force him to listen. I’ll chain myself to his fucking leg if he refuses to hear me out for a third time. I’ll do whatever it takes to save Kiera, including throwing myself at the mercy of the man who hates my guts.
When my food arrives, I push it around my plate, killing time until I can call Rick and coerce him into giving me Draven’s home address. I could call his office—the number is publicly available—but if I do that, he won’t answer. He’ll have his receptionist stonewall me. I could also drive over to his office building and stage a sit in, but all that will do is get his back up and make it even less likely he’ll hear me out. Turning up at his home isn’t ideal either, but I’m hoping the ballsy move will catch him unawares and stall him long enough for me to tell him about Kiera.
My legs bounce, and I fiddle with my necklace, wondering how Draven will react when I knock on his door. Knowing him, it will be vocally, especially given how we left things last night. To take my anger out on his bike… Dumb. As. Fuck. Draven has always loved bikes. The only time he’d ever driven a car was when we were out on patrol. Hell, kicking that thing was the equivalent to smacking a stranger’s child, and it had garnered the same reaction: outrage.
I blow out a heavy breath, close my eyes, and run through what I’ll say in my head. Contrite is the right approach. I’ll start with an apology, then calmly ask him to give me a few minutes to explain why I need his help. Surely he won’t be able to simply dismiss me if I I’m reasonable.
I snort. This is Draven. There’s no telling how he’ll react to any given situation.
Eventually, the clock edges toward nine. With five minutes to go, I can’t wait any longer. Rick’s phone rings, then goes to voicemail, so I hang up and immediately redial. On the third attempt, his drowsy voice answers.
“You’d better be close to death, Rhodes.”
“Sorry, Rick. I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t urgent.”
He yawns loudly. “Some days I regret meeting you at the academy.”
I chuckle. “You love me.”
Another yawn. “Go on, then. Hit me with it.”
“I need Draven’s address.”
“I already told you where he’s staying.”
“Yeah, he checked out. I need his home address.”
“Fuck off, Rhodes. I can’t give you that.”
“Oh, come on, Rick. Don’t start spewing data protection bullshit at me.”
“I don’t give a shit about data protection. I do give a shit about Draven ripping me a new asshole when he finds out I’ve blabbed his address all over town.”
“Telling me hardly counts as blabbing all over town. If he’s pissed off, I’ll square it with him.” No idea how, though.
Silence greets me.
“Come on, Rick. Do this, and I’ll owe you. You never know when you might need the favor returned. I really need his help to find Kiera. You know Draven’s methods. He’s my last hope. I can’t leave this to the feds, I just can’t. She’s my sister, Rick. My baby sister, and who the fuck knows what she’s going through.” I wince as a slug of pain fills my chest but somehow push the thoughts of how scared she must be to one side. I can’t afford to let it consume me. “Every second counts.”
A resigned sigh comes down the phone line, and I know I’ve won. “If he’s on my ass over this, I’ll be on yours.”
Relief swarms through my gut. “It’s all cool. Trust me. Remember, Draven and I go way back.”
Right to the gates of Hell.