Miles (The Mavericks Book 7)

by Dale Mayer

  The man snorted. “You mean, he’s not in jail?”

  “We’re hoping to find him and put him in jail,” Miles said quietly. “A woman just escaped after he’d kidnapped her and held her captive.”

  “That would be him,” the man at the end of the phone said. “He was trouble from day one. Didn’t want to be a team player, didn’t want to follow any rules. And anytime he had a chance to break free, he would break free in a big way.”

  “And yet he stayed for fifteen years?”

  “Yes, and, in all those fifteen years, he was a pain in the ass. We’re not sure how much trouble he caused when he was on his leaves, but it seemed like he always was tossed into jail or had thrown somebody else into a hospital, yet nobody pressed official charges.”

  “But the problem wasn’t just during his leaves, was it?”

  “No, he’d brawl with anybody,” he said. “And we highly suspect that he raped a woman. She did complain but, unfortunately then, for whatever reason, she withdrew her complaint, and it never went to a full court case. But he was the accused.”

  “Do you have her name?”

  “Melinda Leon,” he said. “She was a naval officer. And he was difficult around her, and then finally it seems like he lost it and attacked her.”

  “And what happened to her?”

  “She retired from the navy, which was a hell of a damn shame because she was a fine officer. And I don’t imagine you’ll find her now,” the man said. “But it’s possible.”

  Miles had already typed the name into the chat box to ask Ryker to find her. “Do you have any idea what country she went to?”

  “To England, I believe, but I’m not sure.”

  “And it all happened fairly quickly after the time that he was discharged?”

  “It all was about the same time. She withdrew her accusations and left fairly soon afterward.”

  “Do you think he pressured her?”

  “I’m sure of it,” he said, “but we could never prove anything. And, without proof, unfortunately a lot of guilty parties end up going free.”

  “Unfortunately that’s very true. If there’s anything else you can tell me about him, I’d appreciate it,” Miles said.

  “Outside of the fact that he was a bully and that he was into fitness and weapons, it’s hard to know what to say.”

  “What kind of trouble did he get into on leave?”

  “Just the usual. Lots of women, drinks and then brawls.”

  “Did he have a particular type of woman that he liked?”

  “Well, Melinda was a redhead, and he certainly seemed to go after her. Not sure that was so much of a type for him as I think he wasn’t fussy about hair color.”

  “But then lots of guys aren’t,” Miles said, but inside he knew he was on the right track.

  “True enough. And, if you’ve been on board, you know that leave is very much a case of letting off steam.”

  “Yes,” Miles said and nodded, having a lot of memories himself. “Was he technology-oriented? Or was he much more of a grunt?”

  “A grunt but sneaky. If he beat somebody up, and he got in trouble over it, he would find a way to get back at the other guy.”

  “Nice,” Miles said. But, in the back of his head, a picture of this guy was forming. “Did he hold a grudge?”

  “Forever,” he said. “It was really getting to be a problem. He’d been warned several times, but we also had good reasons why we kept on him because he really excelled at what he did, and he could always be counted on. And, whenever there was an emergency, he was first up to volunteer. But he liked the action a little too much and liked the violence a little too much. So it all came to a head over our officers’ accusations, and things blew up from there.”

  “So, he was discharged but never paid the price for his crimes,” Miles said.

  “No, unfortunately. If I could change one thing, that would be one of them,” he said. “But I’m afraid, other than that, I don’t have anything I can help you with.”

  Miles thought about it for a moment and then said, “If you don’t mind, can I call you again, if I come up with anything else? Oh, and what about family? I don’t see anything in this dossier.”

  “I believe his family is dead. I think he was an orphan, potentially raised in the foster care system, which might have added to his violent nature.”

  “Violence is one thing,” Miles said, “but it’s got to be controlled and contained. You can’t have somebody going off half-cocked all the time.”

  “Easy to say,” the man said, “but much harder to do. In some cases, you can’t ever really control some guys. And Ambrose was one of them.” And, on that note, he hung up, leaving Miles staring at the dossier in front of him.

  He quickly researched John’s family but came up with a dead end. He entered that into the chat box. We need everything we can find about his childhood.

  Why?

  Because he didn’t exist before the age of twelve. And there’s got to be a reason. I can’t find anything, but you can surely get the information for me.

  On it. And we found Melinda Leon. Although we don’t have much. She committed suicide almost ten years ago. Possibly as a response to what happened to her.

  Makes sense. Yet another victim. There are always so many that we can’t even know them all in cases like this.

  Hearing an odd sound, he looked over to see Vanessa murmuring and shifting in a panic, her body cringing away from some unseen evil coming toward her. He put down his laptop and walked over, then sat down on the side of the bed and gently stroked her hair and whispered, “It’s okay. You’re fine. You’re safe. No boogeyman is here. Just relax.”

  It took a few minutes for his words and the tone of his voice to penetrate the panic in her mind, but slowly she took several deep breaths, and her shoulders eased back, and she fell into a deep sleep again. He looked down at her and thought about her as a young child attacked by an older man and now attacked by another man and just wondered why some people’s lives were sweet and filled with sunshine, and others appeared to be full of shit.

  Of course he knew that, if he could ever come up with an answer to that, he’d have a billion-dollar solution for the world over. Because not just Vanessa had experienced pretty rough times in her life. But she’d been strong enough to get over the first one, and he knew she’d have to be strong to get past the second one too. She could do it. And, if there was anything he could do to help, then he was more than happy to step up and help.

  His computer beeped, and he found a message in the chat box.

  Ambrose legally adopted at age twelve. Birth parents died in a car crash with Ambrose inside the vehicle. No other blood-related kin alive. He was just one year old and lived. Was in the system until age twelve. A problem child from the beginning. His adoptive parents gave him their last name, Ambrose.

  Miles nodded. Explains the hostility and his first twelve years of life. Just then came a knock on the door. Frowning, he walked over to see the security guard standing there with another woman. But she didn’t look anything like Vanessa.

  He frowned and asked, “And who are you?”

  “Her photographer,” the woman snapped. “I need to know that she’s okay.”

  “Well, you don’t get to know anything,” he said in a hard voice. “You can request all kinds of things, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get it.”

  She glared at him. “I need to know she’s okay. Vanessa! Vanessa!”

  Immediately he stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him and said, “She’s asleep. And you need to stop causing a disturbance. This is a hospital.”

  “I’m not trying to disturb her,” she cried out. “We’ve all been so worried.”

  “She’ll be fine,” he said. “She has a couple badly bruised ribs and some bruising around her midsection, and one ankle is hurt. Other than that, it will heal.”

  “Her face?”

  He frowned, crossed his arms, not liking what
the woman asked. “If you’re asking if she can still model, the answer is yes,” he snapped.

  The woman huffed at him. “You don’t have to get upset. We’re in a business, you know.”

  “Well, she’s in the business of recovering from almost being killed,” he muttered. “So take your business somewhere else. And,” he said as she took several steps away, “if I hear or see any of this in the press, I’ll know exactly where it came from. And you can bet I’ll be on your doorstep tonight.” She whirled around and glared at him. He shook his head. “Not one word.”

  She took two steps toward him but something in his posture or maybe the look on his face had her stopping and reconsidering her actions. Finally she gave a stiff nod and said, “Fine. But we can’t keep this quiet for long.”

  “There’s nothing to keep quiet,” he said. “She’s recovering in a hospital. She’ll be back to work soon.”

  At that, she raised her eyebrows. “What does soon mean?”

  “Soon means whatever Vanessa decides is soon.”

  “Wow, aren’t you a guardian watchdog,” she snapped.

  “Yeah, you better believe it,” he said coolly. “And you can make that a junkyard watchdog if you want. Nobody gets in or out of here without my permission.”

  She raised both hands in frustration. “Fine. But she has friends and family too, you know. Everybody is worried about her.”

  “Good,” he said. He was stone-cold and detached as he studied her. “As long as everybody actually cares about Vanessa and not about themselves or some business venture, that’s fine.”

  She shot him a look, then turned and strode away.

  The security guard beside him chuckled. “She isn’t a fan of yours at all.”

  “Don’t give a shit,” Miles said cheerfully. “The only ones allowed in this room are Vanessa’s family. And only after we’ve checked and double-checked their IDs.”

  With that, he turned and walked back inside.

  Chapter 6

  When she woke again, Miles still sat right beside her. But this time, he was buried in his laptop. She smiled, feeling reassured at his presence. She didn’t know if she’d ever feel the same with any male. That didn’t bode well for her life going forward if that had just become a prerequisite for her to get any rest. Or maybe there was just something about Miles.

  That accent of his was beyond cute. But then she was surrounded by accents. She was in England, after all, and she was American. Well, not quite. She was born in England, but the bulk of her modeling life brought her back and forth across the pond. She was happy to be here, completely surrounded by everything she knew and understood.

  Until this happened.

  She’d made peace with her life up until now, and she didn’t know if she was strong enough to make peace with it all over again. She wondered if Miles was correct when he said that her initial struggle had been because there’d never been any closure until this asshole from her childhood world had died. But he’d never paid for what he’d done to her, or maybe some people would say what he’d done to himself was even worse. She didn’t know. She couldn’t even get her mind wrapped around it.

  She had talked to a psychologist several times, trying to find peace with her world, and knew that she would have to talk to her again. Some things one didn’t have to do alone, and she knew Miles would instinctively say that, right now, being alone was her decision to make. Yet she’d been the one who had insisted on him staying. He had capitulated easily enough. But still, she’d been the one almost begging him to stay at her side, and she wasn’t ashamed of that at all. She shifted on the bed and groaned slightly.

  Immediately he was beside her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “But moving? … Well, that’s not so easy anymore.”

  “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

  She considered it for a moment and said, “Yeah, I do. That doesn’t sound like fun either.”

  “Do you want me to get the nurse?”

  She shook her head. “I’d like to be a big girl and make it there on my own.”

  “Well, how about I give you a hand walking over there?” he asked. “That way we can take the bulk of the weight off the ankle, and then you can go in on your own?”

  “That works,” she said. She reached up a hand. “Give me your arm.”

  Immediately he held out his ripped and muscled arm at the ready. She placed her hand on his forearm and was amazed at how solid his muscles were. Using his arm, she pulled herself up, keeping her ribs and belly stiff, so she could swing her legs over and automatically sit at the edge of the bed. And then, with a slow and careful breath, she put weight on her feet and straightened. “It’s not as bad as I thought it was,” she said with a smile.

  Of course that smile had dropped away by the time she made it to the bathroom. She went inside on her own, using the counter to hold her up, and then inside she took one look at her face and moaned.

  Outside, she heard him anxiously ask, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I just looked at my face.”

  “Yeah. Apparently your face is a hot commodity.”

  She used the facilities and then, with great effort, straightened again, shuddering as her ribs shifted with the movement. She quickly washed her hands and opened the door, so that he could see her and not panic at her moans. Then she relaxed against the wall as she asked, “Is there a towel or a washcloth?”

  He looked around the bathroom behind her and asked, “Isn’t one in there?” He pushed the bathroom door open and stepped past her, then plucked a washcloth sitting on a side shelf at the far end of the bathroom. He held it out to her, but she hesitated. Miles watched as she judged the distance from where she stood to the sink, so he gently led her to the commode, had her sit there, while he turned on the hot water until it was as hot as he could get it, and then wet the cloth, rung it out and said, “Here. Wipe this on your face.”

  But when she didn’t make a move—her ribs were probably still killing her—he held her head like a child, with one hand keeping her steady. Then he wiped her face to the hairline, lightly scrubbing her cheeks and her chin and her neck. “I know you want a full shower,” he said. “And there’s nothing worse than being held captive to make you feel dirty. Even worse to know was that this other guy was coming to check you over, but I don’t think you’re quite ready for a shower yet.” He rinsed the cloth a couple times and then repeated his actions and wiped down her arms and hands.

  She smiled at him. “It’s almost like you have some experience doing this.”

  “No experience in doing it for other people,” he said, “But I’ve been in lots of situations where there was no time and no place to have a shower, but a creek was close by. And it can make all the difference in the world.”

  She nodded.

  He hesitated and asked, “Look. Your hospital gown is open in the back. Do you want me to wipe down your back? Or would you prefer that a female nurse did it?”

  She nodded. “Do you mind calling the nurse?” She paused, then added, “And, while this might be awkward—for you and for me—would you stay here, at the doorway maybe, while the nurse is with me?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  One came quickly, and Miles carefully watched as Vanessa twisted ever-so-slightly, leaning forward on the counter now, while the nurse took a warm washcloth and gently wiped down her entire back.

  She moaned. “God,” she said. “That heat feels so good.”

  Miles nodded, adding, “And your body has taken a beating. You were skinny before, but I hope you didn’t lose much weight while imprisoned. You don’t have any to spare.”

  “I’ve always been slim,” she murmured. “As a child, I was super thin. After the childhood attack, it was hard to get any food to stay down. And then, as a teen, it just seemed to be my natural body weight, and I never had much of an appetite.”

  “Want me to rinse off your legs?” the nurse added.

  She h
esitated and then shrugged. “Why not?” And she quickly and efficiently rinsed, washed and repeated.

  By the time that was done, the bathroom door was closed, so the nurse could attend to washing her belly and chest and underarms. Vanessa would love to have a full shower, but, like Miles had said, it wasn’t possible yet.

  The nurse opened the door and stepped out. “Well, that’s as good as it’ll get for now,” she said.

  He nodded and stepped up to the bathroom door to assist Vanessa.

  She slowly stepped out. “Another reason to hate the hospital is the lack of privacy, how everybody sees every inch of you.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen every inch of you.”

  She wondered if he wanted to but banished that thought as she looked for his arm, and it was there immediately. Using it to help take the weight off her ankle, she slowly made her way forward. “I gather there’s no cast, so the ankle is not broken?”

  “No, it’s just a sprain,” he said. “I think when you landed, after the car hit you, that you probably came down on that foot at an odd angle and damaged it that way.”

  “If it wasn’t for that damn car,” she said with a shattered laugh.

  “There’s always something in life that comes out of left field and smacks you when you didn’t see it coming,” he said, grinning at her. Then, when they were at the bed, he flipped back the covers, shook out the sheets, holding them up for her, and asked, “Do you want to go back under the covers?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, hating a sense of shaky weakness already taking over. He helped her in bed, even swinging her legs up and around for her, and then pulled the blankets up to her chest. He’d barely gotten her settled when another knock was heard. She raised her eyebrows. “My life is even busier here than it ever was at home. Speaking of home, by the way, did anybody find my phone?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t heard of them finding very much of anything at the apartment where you were being kept, so I suspect the kidnapper disposed of it.”

  “It has GPS,” she murmured. “If somebody can check whether it’s been tossed in the garbage or something, it would help.”