by Angie Martin
Rachel held up her car keys as an acknowledgement and ran out the front door.
Chapter Thirty
After James left his office, Mark chastised himself for his suspicions. Guilt over his subversive actions gnawed at him. He never should have read parts of the book about Jonathan Thomas without talking to Rachel first. He needed to trust that she would tell him everything he needed to know on her own time, whether she had known a murdered billionaire or she had been abused by her foster family or both.
As he sat in his quiet office with his thoughts, Mark realized he felt something new in his life. His love for Rachel made his heart a bit lighter, yet because of his concerns for what she may have gone through, the burden of responsibility pressed down on his neck and shoulders. Outside of the bookstore and his mortgage, he had never been accountable for anyone or anything.
With loving Rachel came the vow that he would help her through whatever plagued her. If something affected her, he would be right there to lift her up and carry her through. He refused to let her travel the road alone, no matter the cost.
Mark rose from his chair and stretched out his legs. He moved into the bookstore and replaced the books about Jonathan Thomas on the shelf. His watch showed a few minutes to ten. Time to lock up the store and go see Rachel. He sent Sarah home before making a quick check of the aisles of books.
As he worked on closing out the register, the bell on the front door rang. Mark walked out from behind the register and came face-to-face with two men. The first man looked no older than seventeen and was much shorter than the second man, who clenched his square jaw and stared at Mark with cold eyes.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” Mark said. “We open back up at nine tomorrow morning.”
His words failed to stop Square Jaw, who moved around Mark. His bald head bobbed through the aisles of the store and toward Mark’s office. “Hey!” Mark said. “You can’t go back there!” He turned and walked toward his office.
“Are you Mark Jacobson?” Short Man asked.
Mark spun back around and faced Short Man. His professional tone made Mark wonder if he was a cop, but his instincts negated that thought. Their odd behavior had him on full alert. He suddenly wished he wasn’t alone at the store and that he hadn’t left his cellphone in his office. “That’s me,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Square Jaw came back up to them without saying a word.
“What’s going on here?” Mark asked.
Short Man pulled back his black overcoat, and revealed a shoulder holster. He took out his gun and aimed it at Mark’s chest with a cocky smile. “You can take us to go see Rachel.”
Mark took two quick steps back, his wide eyes focused on the gun. Though throughout his life he had friends that went hunting on a regular basis, Mark had never been around a gun and he didn’t know much about them outside of what he saw in the movies. This gun appeared to be a standard, black handgun, and just as deadly as any other.
Submerged in fear, his flesh turned cold and a tremble rattled his insides. But gun or no gun, his impulse was to protect Rachel. “No,” he said.
Before Mark could register what was happening, Square Jaw moved next to him, also holding a gun on him. Short Man took out a long, cylindrical part from a second compartment of his shoulder holster. As he screwed it on the front of his gun, Mark realized it was a suppressor.
Short Man smirked, his gestures almost comical despite the seriousness of the words he spoke. “You don’t seem like a stupid man, Mark, so let me put it this way. I’m not opposed to the idea of killing Rachel. If you take us, I imagine she’ll live.” He arched his eyebrows and stepped forward, cornering Mark against the register counter. “Or I can go do things my way, which won’t end so well for either of you. Now, would you like to revise your answer?”
Mark remained silent and weighed his limited options. He swallowed hard and nodded.
“See? That was easy.” He waved his gun toward the back of the store. “Let’s go. Lock it up like you normally would.”
After Mark secured the bookstore and exited through the back, Short Man climbed into the passenger seat of Mark’s truck. Square Jaw followed them in a black SUV. Holding his gun on Mark at all times, Short Man instructed him to approach Rachel’s house from the opposite direction with his lights dimmed, so his truck could not be seen from the front windows.
Mark turned off the ignition and reached for the door handle, but Short Man’s voice stopped him. “Not yet. We’re going to sit here for a minute.”
Mark took a deep breath and tried to sort out his thoughts. Small rays of relief broke through his terror-clouded mind when he noticed Rachel’s car was not in the driveway where she always parked, nor was it on the street. A voice inside told him it didn’t matter that she wasn’t home. These men would stay until she returned.
He felt Short Man’s eyes on him, as if he were sizing Mark up. Despite the gun held on him, Mark became irritated at the man’s inspection of him. “What?” he asked, not sure where the bold question came from.
Short Man laughed. “You don’t look like Rach’s type.”
Mark’s brow creased with confusion. Short Man spoke as if he knew her well, like a close friend, yet he had threatened to kill her.
“It’s also funny because you’re a dead man walking,” Short Man said. “Do you know that phrase, Mark?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’m sure you do. It’s a phrase they use in prison to describe a man walking down death row to his execution. Except for you...” Short Man paused and studied Mark for a moment. “You became a dead man walking the minute you got involved with Rachel.”
Mark looked down as more chills coursed through his body. Short Man wanted to scare him, and it was working. Despite his fear, Mark needed answers and he forced himself to speak once more. “What’s your name?” he asked.
Laughter bubbled out of Short Man. “This isn’t ‘The Dating Game,’ Mark. You don’t get to ask questions, let alone know my name.”
Mark ignored his statement and spoke again. “Are you going to hurt Rachel?”
Revenge danced in his eyes and the corner of his mouth turned upward. “I would love to hurt Rachel after what she did the last time I saw her. I would hurt her so bad she wouldn’t remember her own name after I was done. But lucky for her, that’s not for me to do. He’s the only one who is allowed to hurt her, and boy, is he pissed about you.” Short Man laughed out the last half of his statement. “I suppose that will have to suffice for me.”
Defeat curled around Mark like a poisonous viper. Though he wanted to know what Rachel did to this man to warrant his response, something else in the man’s words caught his attention. There was someone out there who intended on hurting Rachel. Someone powerful enough to stop others from hurting her, so that he alone held the right to do with her as he wished.
“Who is he and why would he want to hurt her?” Mark asked.
“That’s enough questions. He’s coming.”
Mark had no time to look out the window when two other men walked up to the truck. One of them opened the driver’s side door. “Time to go,” he said. He grabbed Mark’s arm and dragged him out of the truck.
Mark caught his balance before falling onto the asphalt of the street. A man with a gel-filled mass of hair tightened his grip on Mark’s arm, but it was the man’s thick, dark moustache that sparked recognition. “You were in my store yesterday,” Mark said. “You talked to Rachel.” His stomach churned, and he understood that not only was the man casing the store, but he was also checking on Rachel.
“Shut up and get moving,” Moustache Man said. He nudged Mark with the barrel of his gun.
Mark barely caught a glimpse of the fourth man before Moustache Man forced him across the lawn and up the steps. The four men stood off to the side of the porch, away from the front windows and away from the sightline of the peephole. Conscious of the guns three of the men held, Mark lifted his heavy arm and pressed the doorbell.
&n
bsp; He closed his eyes, and listened to footsteps approach the door from inside of the house. The sounds of each lock disengaging pounded in his chest. Danielle’s smile disappeared behind two of the men, who pushed her into the house. The other two forced Mark inside.
Square Jaw and Short Man moved through the rest of the house. Moustache Man grabbed Danielle by the arm and shoved her into the living room. Danielle stumbled forward, and Mark caught her before she hit the ground.
“Both of you sit down,” Moustache Man said in a gruff tone.
Mark held onto Danielle’s arm, and they sat close together on the couch. Moustache Man followed their every movement with his gun. Taking hold of her hand, Mark turned his head to look at her. “I’m sorry. They said they’d kill Rachel. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Danielle managed a faint smile through her stressed and fearful expression. “Don’t be sorry, Mark. I would have done the same thing.”
Mark examined the fourth man, who walked around the living room, scrutinizing every item. He was the only one out of the four who did not carry a gun, and Mark first thought him unimportant. Now, Mark realized the man’s demeanor was his weapon, and he determined that this man was in charge.
Dressed in an immaculate black suit, his stern face held an air of authority and confidence. The man ran a hand through his closely cropped dark hair, and even that mundane gesture had meaning and purpose. This was a man who believed the whole world jumped at his every whim. A man who did not need to use weapons and threats of imminent death to force people to comply with his will. This was a man Rachel would fear.
The thought startled Mark. Fear was the last emotion he would associate with Rachel. Of course, until now, fear was not an emotion he would associate with himself. He couldn’t remember a single moment in his life when he felt fear. But the man who stood in the center of the room, his clear, amber eyes exploring every corner of the living room, yet never once settling on Mark, this man demanded fear.
The two men from the bookstore came into the room. Square Jaw trained his gun on Danielle and Mark, while Short Man walked over to his boss. He held a blonde wig at his side. “No one else, but she was here.” He jiggled the wig in his hands for his boss to see. “From the looks of things, I’d say we almost missed her again this time.”
The man in charge took the wig from Short Man’s hands. He stared at it for a long moment, and ran his fingers through the synthetic strands. He tossed the wig on the coffee table, and walked over to Mark and Danielle. Standing before them, he looked at Danielle, and asked, “Where is she? Where is Rachel?”
“She’s not here,” Danielle said. “She already left and she’s not coming back.”
“Is that so?” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth. She left me behind this time, and she’s gone.”
He paused, and inspected Danielle’s face. Mark looked at Danielle as well, wondering what her words meant. He recognized in her composed expression that Danielle was not surprised by the events around her, not like he was. He wanted to ask what was going on, but something told him to stay quiet.
“Again, with the lies,” the man in charge said. “Do you know who I am?”
Despite her monotone voice, Danielle’s sharp breathing gave away her apprehension. “You’re Donovan King,” she said.
Mark’s heart skipped a beat, his mind recalling the man’s name in reference to Jonathan Thomas.
Donovan continued speaking to Danielle. “Then you know what I’m capable of.” The words held no hint of pride.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
“Then let’s try this again, and I expect you’ll be honest with me this time. Where is Rachel, and when will she return?”
“I told you,” Danielle said. “Rachel is gone and she’s not coming back. It doesn’t matter how many times you ask, it won’t change the fact that she’s gone for good.”
Donovan pressed his lips together and stared at Danielle, as if deciding what to ask her next. He regarded her for a moment, then rotated his head to look at the wig on the coffee table. His head bounced up and down, and he looked at Short Man. “Joe,” he said. He nodded the side of his head toward Danielle.
Joe lowered his gun and fired three muffled shots into Danielle’s chest. Mark jumped sideways. His eyes popped open and jagged breaths burned his lungs. Danielle’s hand became lifeless in his as her body slacked.
Mark hopped up from the couch, and rested his knee on the couch next to her. Leaning over her body, he pushed his hands down on her chest where he saw blood and tried to stop the bleeding. He looked at her face, into her cloudy, blue eyes. “Danielle?” he asked.
She did not respond.
Though Mark knew she was dead and he could not bring her back, he called her name again. “Danielle! Danielle!” He pressed harder against her chest.
Joe nudged Mark’s shoulder with his gun. “She’s dead, Mark,” he said. “Nothing you can do for her now, so it’s time for you to sit back down. Donovan’s not done with you yet.”
Terror pounded through Mark and he stared at her unmoving body, his mind unable to digest the reality of the image. He raised his hands off her chest and twisted around so he could sit back down on the couch. He hung his head and lifted his wet hands. Danielle’s blood had painted his skin red.
Mark became aware of Donovan watching him. He shifted his gaze upward, toward Donovan. As Mark stared into his emotionless eyes, trepidation grasped his spine and prickled his flesh.
Donovan turned to Square Jaw. “Tony, why don’t you go ahead and get Mr. Jacobson out of here. The rest of us will clean up this mess and wait for Rachel.”
Tony obeyed by walking up beside Mark and raising his gun. Mark barely registered the thud of the blow to the side of his head before the darkness came.
Chapter Thirty-one
Since leaving the pawnshop with their new IDs, the same black sedan trailed behind Rachel, or at least she thought it was the same one. There were enough cars on the darkened roads that she couldn’t be sure. On her way to the pawnshop, she had been wary of a white van that had the nerve to stay behind her car for more than three blocks.
Paranoia had taken over.
She turned down a side street and followed it to a T in the road, where she opted to turn left. She continued through the large neighborhood for a bit, making a series of quick right and left turns.
After several minutes, she exhaled with relief at the absence of the sedan in her rearview mirror, but then cursed herself for being foolish. She was lost, having paid more attention to her would-be pursuer than to her location. Worse, she rarely traveled to this part of town and the streets were unfamiliar. Had it not been so dark, she would have found her way back to the main road without a problem. Instead, she ended up on a different thoroughfare she didn’t recognize.
Two sets of directions from gas station clerks and forty minutes later, she found her house. Mark’s truck was parked on the street. She stayed in her car. Her heart raced and the thick air in the close confines of her vehicle constricted her throat. She grasped the steering wheel and squeezed it until her knuckles turned white.
Rachel let go of the steering wheel and her expression cleared, becoming confident. She gestured with her words. “Mark, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” She wrinkled her nose and tried again. “Mark, I haven’t been honest with you.” She laughed and looked at the front window. “And you’re probably in there right now looking out the window at me talking to myself, thinking I’m half crazy.”
It didn’t matter how much she practiced what she would say. Once she got inside and saw him, it would all change. She would forget any rehearsed monologue and the words would come out jumbled.
She didn’t want to go inside, didn’t want to face Mark, didn’t want to acknowledge her past, but she forced herself out of the car and up the walkway.
Rachel shut the front door and secured the locks. In the short
hallway by the living room, her mind prickled and realization came over her. The chains on the front door were unlocked. Danielle always remembered to lock them. With robotic movements as if controlled by someone else, she turned into the living room, took a few steps, and stopped.
Across the room, Donovan King sat in a chair.
Her weak legs refused to turn around and run back outside. No forest surrounded her, no black dress adorned her body, no piano played in the background. The nightmare seemed so real this time, much more so than all the others, but her inability to control the dream remained the same.
Donovan smiled, and her heart dropped to her stomach.
An unseen assailant grabbed her arm from behind, and instinct took over. Her arm flew up and the back of her hand connected with his mouth. She whipped around and her fist lashed out, smashing against the man’s mouth.
The hit knocked him against the living room wall with a loud thud. Before she could attack him again, she recognized the man’s face and her breathing quickened. She had spoken to the man in Mark’s bookstore yesterday.
She heard a noise behind her and whirled back around. She froze at the sight of Joe’s gun leveled at her head.
“Remember me?” he asked. He palmed the gun and the backside of his hand smashed against her cheek. The weight of the gun threw her to the ground.
The other man wiped his mouth and blood smeared across his cheek and the back of his hand. He grunted and cursed under his breath. He lifted Rachel off the ground and jerked her arms behind her back.
“I tried to warn you about her,” Joe said, holding his gun flush against the side of her head. “You should have listened to me. She’s a feisty one.”
Rachel attempted one last struggle to get out of the man’s arms, but he only tightened his grip.
“Not anymore, she isn’t,” the man said. “I’d say she’s pretty docile now.” He put his mouth near her ear. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?” he asked. He gave another strong tug on her arms.