Wrath (Faith McMann Trilogy Book 3)

by T. R. Ragan

Not only had Hudson McMann been found; he was alive and well, most likely snuggled in a warm bed.

  Patrick sat quietly and waited as Aster used a cloth napkin to wipe his mouth. He missed a spot of green glob on his upper lip, but nobody pointed it out.

  Aster motioned at the big man sitting directly across from Patrick. “I want you to meet Hansel.”

  Patrick half stood so he could lean forward and offer a hand, but Hansel ignored him, didn’t even bother to meet his gaze.

  “He’s a germaphobe,” Aster said with a chuckle. “He’s not comfortable with people germs.”

  Unsympathetic, Patrick plopped back down into his seat. “So if my dog was here, he’d shake his paw?”

  Nobody laughed.

  “Yeah,” Aster said. “I’m sure he would be happy to shake your dog’s paw.”

  Awkward silence followed.

  Hansel’s face was fucked up. A thick scar ran diagonally through his upper lip, making him look as if he had a permanent snarl. A bulbous nose and a wart above his right eye completed the picture. Patrick figured the other goons sitting around the table were Hansel’s bodyguards; all broad shouldered and young and wearing serious expressions.

  “I’ve hired Hansel and his men,” Aster said, “to take care of Faith McMann, her family members, and every person she’s ever called her friend.”

  Patrick had to work not to clench his teeth. Once again Aster was letting him know that he and his men had failed to do their jobs, and therefore he had to find someone else to finish McMann off once and for all. “How are they going to do what all the rest of your men haven’t done? The FBI is practically living with the McMann family.”

  Aster laughed. “Tell him, Hansel.”

  He shrugged. “We tail her and take her out.”

  “And then witnesses call in,” Patrick said. “You’re dragged in for questioning, and thirty minutes later, police are knocking on Aster’s door and dragging him off to prison.”

  “We drive an unmarked car and shoot her in the head as we drive by,” the man seated next to Hansel said in a tone insinuating Patrick was an idiot.

  “And what about the rest of the family?” Patrick asked, annoyed Aster had brought it to this.

  “Kaboom!” another man said, using his hands for full effect. “We blow up the whole damn house. Take the entire clan out all at once and send a strong message.” He smiled. “Maybe we’ll blow up a few of their neighbors, too. Just for fun,” he added.

  Hansel and Aster looked equally amused.

  If Aster was hiring these guys to finish McMann off, why had he bothered to invite Patrick to this gathering? What did Aster want—congratulations and a pat on the back?

  “You’re going to be their go-to guy,” Aster said, reading his mind. “If Hansel or his boys need anything, anything at all, Hansel’s going to let you know, and you’ll take care of it for him. Whatever it is. Understand?”

  “Sure,” Patrick said.

  Aster snapped his fingers. “What’s the big guy’s name? You know, the giant who’s been attached to McMann’s hip since the beginning?”

  “They call him Beast,” Patrick said.

  Aster finished off his sake and asked, “Want to remind me why he’s still alive?”

  “Last I heard Peter convinced you to leave him and his dad alone. Apparently they’re bounty hunters.”

  “So?”

  “So you decided to leave them alone in hopes that all the fuss would die down.”

  “And what were your thoughts on the matter?” Aster wanted to know.

  Patrick didn’t understand the line of questioning. What was Aster trying to prove? That he was the alpha male? Bottom line, Patrick refused to cower. “I told you Peter was an idiot, and that they should all be taken out sooner rather than later.”

  “Hmm.” Aster wiped his mouth again, still missing the green glob of shit on his face. “Give Hansel your private number,” he told Patrick. “And give him the address where he can find Beast and his dad so he can get rid of them. In fact,” he said, turning his attention back to Hansel, “take the big guy out first and then McMann’s nosy neighbor. I want the McMann bitch to know we’re coming for her.”

  There was a desperate air to Aster that Patrick hadn’t noticed until now. Something was going on. The only other time Aster had hired outside assassins to take care of a job was when he’d gotten a call from one of the head bosses in Los Angeles. Aster didn’t like when they poked their noses into his business. He was territorial that way. But Aster also knew if he didn’t do as the outsiders suggested and make it all go away, he’d appear weak. And everyone knew what happened to the weak. They were eaten alive.

  Patrick watched Aster mindlessly shove piles of food into his mouth. Aster wasn’t himself. His shirt was wrinkled, and he hadn’t taken the time to shave.

  Yep. Those LA dogs are on his ass. What would they do to Aster Williams once they realized he couldn’t handle a schoolteacher?

  When the waitress appeared again, Patrick asked for a pen and paper. When she returned, he wrote down his number and slid it across the table toward Hansel. He watched with amusement as the big man pulled out his tiny bottle of hand sanitizer, cleaning up before he reached for the paper and placed it neatly into his coat pocket.

  “Anything else, boss?” Aster liked to be called boss when they were around people he didn’t know well. He said it showed respect. No reason to piss him off now.

  Aster gestured toward the food. “You’re not going to eat anything?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Stay,” Aster told him. “Drink your sake, and have something to eat like everyone else. Then you can go.”

  THREE

  Another day had come and gone.

  Hudson was upstairs, asleep in bed. He was home. Faith knew she should be overwhelmed with joy, but instead she felt restless as adrenaline moved continuously through her system. Seeing her son again and holding him in her arms had been so surreal, was still surreal. Talking to him and watching over him the past forty-eight hours made her feel as if she were being dragged back to life. And yet all she wanted to do was hide him away, put him somewhere safe while she continued her search for Lara.

  She had work to do, and time was running out.

  Until she found her daughter, her world would remain tilted on its axis. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t focus.

  Maybe what she was feeling wasn’t fair to Hudson, but there it was: she needed both her children safe at home before she would have any chance of moving forward.

  Hudson had grown increasingly quiet. Yesterday he’d gobbled down three helpings of lasagna and an entire carton of chocolate chip ice cream. He had visited with family, watched his favorite shows on television, and slept.

  Today Hudson did the same. Big, hearty meals followed by lots of television and video games. At first Faith worried he was moving on way too quickly. Upon closer examination, she saw something else entirely. She saw it in his eyes and heard it in every shallow breath he took. She felt it in the tightness of his body when she put her arms around him. He wasn’t moving on at all. He was simply eating, walking, going through the motions, a survival tactic she knew all too well.

  Clearly her son was fighting his own inner demons.

  He needed help, so she picked up the phone and called Kirsten Reich, therapist and family counselor, and made an appointment for the next afternoon.

  But this was tonight, and tonight she had things to do. Dad was apprehensive about Faith leaving the house, but he didn’t try to stop her. They both knew what needed to be done.

  There were two FBI agents and more than one media van parked at the end of the driveway, so Faith exited through the back. Dad would look after Hudson while she was gone. Her son was in good hands.

  Dad locked the door after she left and watched her from the window as she crept through the yard. From Dad’s workshop she could see Beast waiting in his truck. Little Vinnie sat in the passenger seat, and Rage sat in th
e back.

  Faith climbed into the backseat and slid in next to Rage.

  They were quiet until they merged onto Auburn-Folsom, and then Beast went over the night’s plan as he drove: Mark Silos, one of the top twenty men on Richard Price’s list, lived in Foresthill. The ride from Granite Bay to Foresthill would take about forty-five minutes.

  They had decided to start with Mark Silos since he was listed as one of the men who had once worked directly under Richard. According to Richard’s sister, Robyn, it had been Richard’s men who’d come to the house the day Craig was killed.

  If everything went as planned, Little Vinnie and Beast would enter the house first, then bind the man while Faith and Rage searched the house for Lara or, at the very least, a clue that might direct them to her location.

  And if they didn’t find her?

  They would leave him bound and gagged. As long as he never saw Faith, there would be no reason for Mark Silos to think their visit was anything more than armed robbery.

  Rage was in a talkative mood. She told them about a recent dream she had, in which Miranda, a teenage girl who had been held captive at a farmhouse and was the last person to see Lara alive, had returned, but it was all very sad because Miranda had nowhere else to go.

  Beast grunted.

  “You don’t have to be rude,” Rage told him.

  “Why don’t you just come out and say what you want to say?” Beast told her.

  Rage crossed her arms. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Not now,” Little Vinnie scolded. “The two of you are like children most of the time. It’s exhausting.”

  “You know exactly what she’s doing,” Beast told his dad. “This is Rage’s roundabout way of letting us know she wants us to go in search of Miranda and bring her home.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Little Vinnie said.

  “It was only a dream,” Rage said. “You don’t need to make a big deal out of every little thing.”

  Faith stared out the window at the pitch-black sky.

  “And what about Sandi?” Rage asked next, causing Faith to wonder who Sandi might be since she’d never heard the name mentioned before.

  “What about her?” Beast asked.

  “Did you ever read her letter?”

  “No need. The girl was given a fair chance to make amends.”

  “You have got to be the most pigheaded man in the world. You drive me crazy.”

  “Who is Sandi?” Faith asked, unable to swallow her curiosity.

  “Sandi Cameron is the eighteen-year-old who killed my wife and daughter,” Beast told her. “Texting ‘LOL. I’ll see you soon’ was more important than the two lives she took that day.”

  “I’m sorry. I should stay out of this.”

  “It’s OK,” Rage said. “Sandi is twenty-three, maybe twenty-four now, and Beast refuses to read her letter and see what she has to say. I’m not sure she deserves Beast’s attention. But I do think he owes it to himself to at least check it out. And then maybe, just maybe, he can find it in his heart to forgive her.”

  Rage put a hand on Beast’s large shoulder.

  Faith saw him stiffen.

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Beast said.

  “You never want to talk about anything.”

  “That’s not true. Yesterday I listened to you talk for an hour about the importance of being grateful. The day before that it was all about living in the moment.”

  “All good and important subjects,” Rage said.

  Faith couldn’t help but smile.

  “And while we’re on the subject,” Rage went on, “forgiving someone doesn’t mean you condone what they did. But it might help you let go of some of your anger and learn to trust people again. How can I possibly die in peace if I’m forced to leave an angry shell of a man all alone to grow old by himself?”

  Beast merged off the highway, taking the turn a little too fast and putting an abrupt end to any more talk of forgiveness and death.

  Faith held on tight.

  Little Vinnie and Beast had mapped out the area. They knew what they were doing, so she didn’t question Beast when he veered right instead of left, taking them down a steep driveway. He parked in front of a dilapidated one-story home. The windows were covered with plywood. The walkway was uneven and cracked, making room for tall weeds to sprout.

  Rage pulled a black cap over her head. She readied her handgun, opened the car door, and stepped outside. Faith did the same.

  Little Vinnie and Beast walked ahead of them.

  At first Faith thought they might take a look inside the abandoned house, but the two men proceeded past the front of the house and slipped into the dark shadows of trees. It was a moonless night, and the clouds blocked any light the stars might have otherwise provided. She and Rage followed them across the bottom of the driveway and into a wet, grassy field dotted with gangly-limbed oaks. The only noise was the hoot of an owl and the sound of rustling leaves as a heavy breeze swept through. Despite Beast’s and Little Vinnie’s massive size, Faith could barely make out the outline of the two men as they marched ahead. Every few seconds, though, she heard the snap of a twig as they went along.

  Her foot wobbled on a clod of dirt. The last thing she needed was a sprained ankle. It wasn’t easy keeping this pace and watching her step. By the time she caught up, Beast, Little Vinnie, and Rage were crouched low at the edge of the field, where trees and brush met pavement. Across a narrow road was a faded yellow house similar to the one they had just left.

  Faith stared at the house, focusing on trying to see through the front window. Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t help but get her hopes up, wondering if Lara could be inside.

  Beast looked at Rage. “Dad and I are going in. Give us five minutes before you join us.”

  “Got it,” Rage said before turning toward Faith and saying, “We’ll give them two.”

  From where they stood, they saw Beast pound his beefy knuckles on the door. Faith counted to ten, hoping it would calm her nerves. She felt anxious, wanted them to kick the door down.

  Instead, when no one answered, Beast and his dad disappeared around the side of the house.

  Ready to head across the road to see what was going on, Faith forced herself to stay still and be patient.

  A minute later, Beast reappeared, using the glow from his flashlight to wave them over.

  Nobody was home.

  Faith reached the front door just as Little Vinnie opened it from the inside. She entered and gagged before quickly covering her nose and mouth with her arm. The place smelled like urine, rotted eggs, and cleaning fluids.

  The house was small enough to see most of the rooms from where she stood. The kitchen was to the right and the living area to the left. She went left. The room was all wood paneling and shag carpet from the 1970s. A beat-up brownish couch was pushed against the wall. In front of the couch was a coffee table made of driftwood and glass that was covered with cigarette ash and assorted pipes.

  “Meth lab,” Little Vinnie said as he stepped out of the kitchen. “Small but functional.”

  A far wall was covered with bookshelves, only there wasn’t one book to be found. Mostly odds and ends, a couple of black-and-white photographs coated with a thin layer of dust. Beneath the shelves were three cupboards. They were locked. She continued on, opening drawers as she prayed Lara had never been anywhere near this stink hole.

  Swallowing her emotions, she went to the coat closet by the front entry. The shelves above were empty. She patted down the three coats inside and checked the pockets. About to shut the closet, she caught sight of the sleeve of a vintage jacket. The button on the cuff was made of metal. It was tarnished, and upon closer view she was able to see how similar it was to the button she’d found on the edge of her grass by the driveway where Craig’s SUV had been parked that fateful day.

  Her hands shook as she grabbed the other sleeve.

  The button was missing. Mark Silos, sh
e realized, had to have been the third attacker in her house that day, the man whose face she’d never seen. The man who had ordered their deaths and taken her children.

  Heart pumping wildly, she glanced out the front window toward the driveway. All clear.

  “I’ll watch the front of the house while you keep looking around,” Little Vinnie told her.

  She nodded and headed down the hallway. In the first bedroom she found a desk and a chair. Flowery wallpaper, peeling at the edges, bordered the room. The closet was covered with mirrored sliding doors. Afraid of what she might find, her muscles tightened as she slid one side of the closet open.

  Inside were piles of unwashed clothes. The smell was overbearing.

  As Faith made her way down a long, narrow hallway, images flashed within her mind like a strip of film replaying every awful detail of the day Lara was taken up until the moment her husband was killed. Lara had been bound and gagged, sitting on the couch next to her brother. Instead of fear, Faith had seen determination in her eyes.

  Faith walked into a small laundry room and opened cabinets and drawers with renewed resolve. Nothing there. Next she went through a door that led her to a side yard littered with trash and old tires. What sort of man dares to take a child from his or her mother? Hands fisted at her sides, she went back into the house and found Rage in the next bedroom. She was on all fours, looking under the bed. Her head popped up long enough to say, “I checked the closet and the bathroom. I didn’t see anything that will help us.”

  Beast stepped into the room behind Faith, blocking the doorway.

  “There’s nothing here,” he reported. “We could hit another house or two before the night’s over or wait for this guy to show up and see if he has anything to say.”

  “We stay,” Faith stated firmly. “He has to come home eventually. And if he won’t talk or claims he doesn’t know anything, we’ll call the police and let them—”

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Beast whirled around.

  The man’s voice stopped her cold. Seven words. That’s all it took to know she was right about Mark Silos. He was definitely the third attacker at her house. The man who had ordered Craig’s death was standing a few feet away from her with a gun gripped in his hand. The tips of her fingers brushed over the scar, tracing the hard ridges from her ear, across her chin, down and across her throat.