In bed with Havoc

CHAPTER FIVE

AVA

Five years changed everything.

I was no longer the broken eighteen year old girl who cried herself to sleep every night. I was Ava Sinclair, investigative journalist for the New York Tribune, and I had built a career on exposing the ugly truths that powerful people tried to hide.

I specialized in taking down men who thought they were untouchable.

Men like Leon Vargas.

The story had started six months ago when a source reached out with documents linking Vargas Global Holdings to shell companies in Eastern Europe. On the surface Vargas was a philanthropist. A billionaire who donated millions to children's hospitals and disaster relief funds. The kind of man who smiled for cameras and gave speeches about making the world a better place.

But underneath all that charm was something rotten.

Arms deals, drug trafficking, money laundering on a scale that would make most criminals jealous and connections that reached into governments across three continents.

Name it and he does it.

I spent months verifying every detail. Cross referencing bank records with shipping manifests, tracking down witnesses who were too terrified to go on record, building a case so airtight that not even Vargas's army of lawyers could tear it apart.

My editor Mrs. Porter had been cautious. She made me double check everything and warned me that going after someone like Vargas was dangerous. But she also believed in the story. She believed in holding powerful men accountable.

The article went live on a Tuesday morning.

Within hours it was everywhere. Social media exploded. News outlets picked it up. Vargas's stock price dropped fifteen percent in a single day. Politicians who had accepted his donations scrambled to distance themselves.

I should have known there would be consequences.

I should have been more careful.

On Thursday morning I got a call from the Tribune's receptionist saying Mrs. Porter had not shown up for work. That was unusual. She was always the first one in the office. I tried her cell phone and got voicemail then I tried her home number.

A detective answered.

“She's dead.”

Two words and that was it.

Mrs. Porter was dead. They found her in her apartment with a single gunshot wound to the head. The scene was staged to look like a suicide but the detective's tone told me he did not believe it.

Neither did I.

I hung up and sat frozen at my desk while the newsroom buzzed around me. Someone had killed her and this person wanted to send a message.

You come after us and this is what happens.

I went home early that day. My apartment was in a decent neighborhood in Brooklyn. It was located on the third floor walkup with decent lighting and a doorman who actually paid attention. I felt safe there.

Until I opened my door.

The place had been destroyed. Furniture overturned, drawers emptied onto the floor. My laptop was gone. So were my notebooks and the external hard drive where I kept backup files. They had even torn through my bedroom looking for anything I might have hidden.

But they did not find the flash drive because I kept it in my car tucked under the driver's seat in a magnetic case that looked like part of the vehicle's undercarriage. Five years of living alone had taught me to be paranoid about where I kept important things.

I did not call the police. What would I tell them? That a billionaire with mafia connections had ransacked my apartment because I wrote an article exposing his crimes? They would file a report and nothing would happen.

Instead I grabbed what I needed. Cash from my emergency stash, a burner phone and a change of clothes. Then I walked out and did not look back.

I noticed the car two blocks from my apartment. Black sedan with tinted windows that stayed three cars behind me no matter how many turns I made. When I got on the highway heading out of the city it followed.

So did another car and another.

They were not even trying to be subtle anymore.

I pressed the accelerator and wove through traffic. My hands were shaking but my mind was clear. I needed to get somewhere safe. Somewhere they would not look for me.

But where?

“f**k!” I screamed, slamming my hand on the steering wheel.

I could not go to my parents. That would put them in danger. I could not go to any of my friends. Most of them were journalists too and Vargas would know to check there.

Ethan.

My brother was the only person I could think of. We had not been close in years. I had kept him at a distance after everything that happened but he was ex military and now worked in private security. If anyone could help me it was him.

I pulled out the burner phone and dialed his number. It rang four times before going to voicemail.

“Ava?”

"Ethan it's me," I said quickly. "I need help. I'm in trouble and I—"

Headlights flooded my rearview mirror it was so sudden, bright and blinding. The sedan had caught up and was right on my bumper now.

Then it rammed into me.

My car lurched forward and I dropped the phone. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands and pressed the accelerator all the way down. The engine roared and I drove ahead but the sedan kept pace.

“Ava!” Ethan was panicked now but I didn't have the time to grab my phone.

We were out of the city now. All I could see were long stretches of empty highway with nothing but darkness on either side. No other cars. No witnesses.

This was perfect for them, they had successfully driven me into the place they wanted.

They rammed me again harder this time. My car swerved and I fought to keep it on the road.

"Come on," I muttered. "Come on."

Another impact. This one caught my rear bumper and sent me spinning. I screamed as the car drove off the road and into the desert. Rocks and brush scraped against the body. The airbag deployed and slammed into my chest.

Then everything went still.

I sat there stunned and gasping for air. My ears were ringing. My ribs ached where the seatbelt had caught me. Blood trickled down from a cut on my forehead.

The flash drive.

I fumbled under the seat and my fingers closed around the magnetic case. Still there. Still safe.

Headlights appeared through the shattered windshield. Car doors opened and closed. Footsteps crunched over gravel.

I tried to move but my body would not cooperate. Everything hurt. My door was jammed and the seatbelt was stuck.

Voices now. Low and urgent. Speaking in a language I did not recognize.

They were coming for me.

I clawed at the seatbelt release but my hands were shaking too badly. Blood dripped into my eye and I wiped it away frantically.

The footsteps got closer.

This was it. They were going to kill me just like they killed Mrs. Porter. All because I had exposed the truth about a man who thought he was above the law.

I refused to go quietly.

I grabbed the steering wheel lock from the passenger seat and held it like a weapon. If they wanted me dead they were going to have to work for it.

A shadow fell across the broken window.

I raised the lock and prepared to swing.

But then the shadow moved and I saw his face in the moonlight.

No.

It could not be.

Tall. Dark hair. Stormy gray eyes that I would recognize anywhere even after five years.

Ryder.

My vision blurred. Whether from the head injury or shock I did not know. The lock slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor.

He was saying something but I could not hear him over the ringing in my ears. His hands reached through the broken window and I felt him working on the seatbelt.

This had to be a hallucination. Some kind of trauma induced dream. Because there was no reason for Ryder Kane to be here in the middle of the desert pulling me from a wrecked car.

No reason at all.

Unless.

My thoughts scattered like broken glass. The edges of my vision darkened and I felt myself slipping away.

The last thing I saw before everything went black was Ryder's face above mine. Jaw clenched. Eyes fierce.

And the last coherent thought I had was:

Is that…