Tears welled in his eyes. “He said the shooter was good; she was just going to scare him. That’s all she was supposed to do. Scare him.”
I thought back to those many hours I’d watched William crumble while his grandsons were being held by someone else. “All of your emotions, they were nothing more than an act.”
“They’d been ripped from my heart. So, no, I wasn’t being fake. I was hurting without them being with me.”
“That’s just a way to justify your actions,” I said.
Brook pulled a pair of handcuffs from her belt. William just stared at them, and then he looked up at me. “You feel used, don’t you?”
“Yep. But I can’t believe you did this to your own flesh and blood. You knew Milton. You knew he was dangerous, yet you fooled yourself into thinking he was going to help you with no repercussions. And now your remaining grandsons will have to drive to Huntsville to see you.”
He fell into a catatonic gaze, and then he slowly turned around and brought his hands together. Brook cuffed him and read him his rights.
Another family broken. And this one would be forever.
49
I sat in a crowded coffee house and slurped on a cool, fruity drink. My leg kicked like an oil rig as I did what most people do in the modern era—I skimmed social media while waiting for that next event in life. This event had been arranged by Zahera, who convinced me it was the right thing to do. With my emotional bucket hovering near empty, I told her I’d have to take her word for it.
Finally, the man I was expecting appeared at my table. It was Delmar Amaya. Dr. Delmar Amaya, I reminded myself. Unlike every other time I’d been in his company, he offered a congenial smile. “Hi, Ivy.” When we shook hands, I noticed his gentle touch. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said, but wondered if I really meant it.
He sat down with a cup of some type of warm drink. He slurped in whipped cream, then chuckled as he wiped it from his lips. “My wife used to joke with me that I’d only order a mocha so that I could justify having my whipped cream.”
“But that hasn’t stopped you, I see.”
He glanced at the table next to us where a middle-aged couple joked and laughed with each other. He nudged his head in that direction while looking at me. “That used to be us—me and Carol. Always cutting up.”
I stopped with my straw at my lips. Had he just used the past tense?
“Oh, I guess Cristina didn’t tell you. My wife died just over two years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
He nodded, sipped his drink. His eyes seemed lost in thought as he focused on the table. His eyebrows turned in, and I could see the same steely glare that had usually been directed at me. I cleared my throat, hoping to wake him from his daze. It worked.
“Oh, there I go again. I get lost in my own thoughts.” He pulled out a tissue and held it to each of his eyes.
We talked small-talk for the next few minutes. That was when I learned about his psychology practice on the West Coast, which segued into a discussion about Nikki Maldanado.
“It’s a shame that she fell back in with the wrong crowd. Sometimes we think we have life all figured out, and then something happens that changes everything.”
His eyes stayed on me an extra second. Feeling uncomfortable, I looked away.
“I apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just that—”
“What is it?”
He twisted his cup on the table, then swallowed hard. Finally, he looked up at me. “Two years ago, my wife and…” His voice trembled, and I began to speak, but he held up a hand. “I must finish. My wife and daughter were killed in a car crash.” He blinked tears away and released a deep breath. “My sweet, precious daughter, Mandy, looked just like you. That’s why I was staring at you. It was like someone had played a trick on me, and Mandy was still alive.”
His loss was profound. “I don’t know what to say. I’m just so sorry.”
“That’s why I met with…” He gestured with his hand.
I tilted my head, not sure whom he was referencing.
“Timothy, or as I’ve learned, actually Milton Weber. Mandy worked with underprivileged kids as a social worker in Austin. I wanted to dedicate part of the funhouse facility in her name.”
I put my hand to my chest as a tear bubbled in my eye. “That’s so kind to think of your daughter in that way.”
I wondered what would happen to TJ’s Funhouse. Setting off explosives to bring the place down came to mind.
“Another reason I wanted to see you, Ivy, is to ask you a question.”
“Yes?”
He smiled. “How would you feel if I took over construction of the funhouse? I’d give it a new name, change everything that didn’t work, and—”
“Stop right there.”
He dropped his head. “I’m sorry if I was insensitive. I should have known better.”
“It’s actually a great idea. But only if you name the entire facility after your daughter.”
He reached over and put his hand on top of mine as tears poured down his cheeks. “This is my happy face,” he said, wiping the tears away with his tissue. “Thank you.”
I felt my phone buzz and fished it from my purse.
“Urgent business?” Delmar said.
I was smiling at the text from Saul.
What do you say…you, me, on the couch with a bottle of wine?
“Hold on a second,” I said to Delmar, and then typed a response back to Saul.
I think I want to try to find my mom and dad. Will you help?
I could see the three little blinking dots. And then, he replied with:
For you, anything.
I felt a lump in my throat. I typed a reply.
Thank you, dear.
I chuckled, then sent another text.
First, I need to stop off at the hospital to see Stan. Need to create plan to get him ready to run in Boston Marathon.
He quickly replied.
How about I meet you there? #StanStrong
Despite the cool drink, my heart overflowed with warmth. Maybe I didn’t need to seek out a family that never wanted me. I was needed and loved right where I was. What else could a girl want?
IN Control
An Ivy Nash Thriller
Book 5
Redemption Thriller Series - 11
(Includes Alex Troutt Thrillers, Ivy Nash Thrillers,
and Ozzie Novak Thrillers)
By
John W. Mefford
1
Perspiration gathered just below the eyes of Megan Espinoza. Even though she was known in her professional life for her calm under pressure—business colleagues had dubbed her the Ice Princess—there was no way to avoid sweating like a pig. Not with temperatures likely soaring above a hundred fifty degrees inside her car.
That’s what happens, Megan, when you take a sweltering September day in San Antonio and cross it with a black Mercedes. Eh bien, c'est le prix à payer pour le succès.
The French phrase for “Well, that’s the price you pay for success” just came to mind, harking back to her collegiate years.
Sitting in the parking lot at her son’s elementary school, she cranked the air conditioner, attempting to keep her makeup from draining down her face. The airflow sounded like a stampede of cattle, but in mere seconds the stifling atmosphere was snuffed out by the dominant rush of cold.
She took a breath. Relief.
The groan of the Mercedes’s four-hundred horsepower engine coupled with the state-of-the-art AC unit, drowned out the horde of kids that had just descended upon the elementary school playground next to the parking lot. After checking her makeup in the rearview, she leaned forward, trying to find the white and black Spurs jersey worn by her second-grade son, David.
“There you are, you little devil.” She smirked, knowing he had a lot of his father in him. Charming, good looking, and a bit of a bad boy. The older b
ad boy had charmed the pants right off her when they both were attending San Antonio’s Trinity University. Since then, she’d spent every waking moment either studying, working, or focusing on her family. Back in the day, it was just her and Carlos. They’d mated like rabbits night and day, surely breaking records of some sort. She could recall being so enamored with the man that his very essence nearly buckled her knees—which usually led to another round of hot sex.
She released a soft giggle, but not necessarily from reminiscing about the good old days. She’d always carried a hint of regret, although she couldn’t bring herself to admit it until the kids were born. When she was young and smitten, and he was chiseled with a full head of hair, she’d always pictured Carlos as a future investment banker, or tort lawyer, or even a distinguished sales executive. But how was he using his high-dollar Trinity degree? He spent his days driving all over the area in a big, brown truck, wearing a brown uniform, delivering brown packages. It was demeaning, boring, and it paid like shit.
But Carlos disagreed. Admittedly, he’d never really found his passion—even if it could have been a single-minded drive to rake in the money—but always said his job was rewarding enough for him and, over time, would provide a decent retirement.
“Decent, my ass,” she mumbled.
He’d routinely joke with her, saying, “What can brown do for you?”
It was difficult not to snap back, and she had on a couple of occasions. Resentment, if she really thought about it, was one of those things that never went away. It seemed to lurk near the surface, ready to pounce on any frailty of a relationship. But she would persevere…for the family. She always had. Someone had to.
She watched David grab a basketball and sink a shot from about ten feet out, then point at his jersey in a cocky fashion. Just like your father. All that swagger.
David’s number-fifty jersey was the only clue anyone would need to understand for whom he was named: Spurs legend David Robinson. He’d been their first child and a boy, so she thought Carlos would want a Carlos Junior running around. Oh no. Carlos insisted that his son be named after the former Spurs center. She’d relented, as she often had early in their relationship.
And then came Annie. It had only been two years and three months, but so far the child had given Megan new hope that she and Carlos could produce something nearly perfect. With her momma’s dark ringlets against her porcelain face and her laid-back demeanor, Annie was a gift from above. Yes, Megan loved her son too. But she could already see his propensity for cutting corners. Of course, there was his smart-ass mouth, which had led to today’s face-to-face discussion with the vice principal. But, like his father, it always came with a wink and a charming nod.
Oh brother. Her crow’s feet might be coming out in full force between now and the time David graduated from high school.
With the temperature now at a perfect seventy degrees inside her lavish cocoon, she used her pick to fluff her curly hair in the right places. She reapplied her lipstick, which complemented her red and silver pantsuit perfectly. Her power suit. She was the vice president of Human Resources of a mobile home manufacturing company. She had a meeting in less than an hour with the COO and wanted to present herself in a professional manner.
She knew there was irony in the fact that she and the executive leadership team all enjoyed their lofty salaries and silver-spooned perks, while the product they built was marketed toward those who barely made above minimum wage. But what could she do to help them? Very little, she came to realize. Most of their buyers were people who lost the gene-pool lottery or had traveled a different path than she had during the thirty-four years of her life.
She’d worked her ass off to get where she was, routinely putting in weekends and long nights as she climbed the corporate ladder. She deserved her hundred-thousand dollar car. She’d single-handedly put the family on solid financial footing—no thanks to Carlos. Always looking ahead, she’d recently started working with a real estate agent to look for properties on the coast. Spend a few weeks on the beach, rent out the condo when they weren’t there. Another win-win for Megan.
She caught herself smiling in the rearview as she shifted the Mercedes into reverse.
The stereo sound of her phone ringing made her flinch. The Bluetooth had sent the incoming call through her car speakers. She glanced at the sedan’s control panel. The number wasn’t in her contacts, but it did have the local area code, 210. She twisted her lips, contemplating punching the hang-up button on her steering wheel. After all, it was probably another phone solicitor. What did they want now, money to help underprivileged kids get braces? Or could it be someone from the office, an administrative assistant possibly, calling from a cell phone to give her an update on the upcoming meeting?
And then she felt that slight pang in her gut—the one she knew had a direct line to her motherly instinct.
“Oh hell’s bells,” she said, punching up the line. “Hello, this is Megan, can I help you?”
A scream pierced her heart. And then a female voice said, “We have your daughter.”
2
Megan slammed her foot on the brake at the same moment her heart slammed against her chest. A few seconds passed as she quickly replayed the words, “We have your daughter.”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
Another scream. Without a doubt, that was Annie. A wave of emotion rushed up the back of her throat.
Keep calm, Megan. They want something; you want your daughter back. You can do this.
She swallowed. “Do not harm my daughter, do you hear me?”
A slight chuckle. “Do you think you’re in a position to tell us what to do? I don’t think so.”
She dug her nails into the steering wheel, her entire body clenched into a knot. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m asking…pleading for you not to hurt my little girl.”
“Don’t start blabbering. I can’t handle that. Just do as you’re told and Annie will not be harmed.”
“I’ll do anything. What do you want?”
There was a pause. She could hear muffled voices, at least one male. Were they all speaking English?
“Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.
We…I need for you to open your bank application on your phone and transfer fifty thousand dollars to an account I will send you through a text. Is that clear?”
“Yes, although I’m not sure I have fifty thousand that I can access right away.”
“You do. Trust me.”
She knew exactly how much money Megan had in her bank account? What else did this woman know about her and her family? Enough to take her daughter, obviously. She, or someone, must have snuck her out of the Crème de la Crème daycare. But how? Their security was rigid.
“No problem. I can do that. When can I get my daughter?”
The line beeped. She looked at the control panel and saw another call coming in. It was Carlos. She had to let him know what was going on. But if she switched calls even for a few seconds, she knew the people who had Annie might harm her…or worse. Her finger hovered over the button to switch calls.
“I’ll let you know where you can pick her up once we verify the money transfer has been made.”
The call from Carlos stopped beeping. She felt a tug at her heart. He should know, right? But it was too late. Dammit! “When do you need the money?”
“I thought you were a smart woman, Megan Espinoza. With your fancy title and luxury car, you have the easy life. The rest of us, not so much.”
“What… I don’t know what to say.” For the first time in years, she felt exposed, belittled for her place on the income totem pole. But she didn’t care; she only wanted her Annie back in her arms.
“Nothing. I will stay on the line while you transfer the money. Do not hang up. Do not try to contact anyone else. If you do, we will kill your daughter.”
“Please don’t!” she cried out as tears instantly
pooled in her eyes.
“Then use your smartphone and send us the money. I just sent you a text with the account number.”
She fumbled her phone, and it dropped to the floorboard. Scooping it back up, the phone felt like a hot plate in her hands. She could feel the sheer panic rippling through her body. She tried swiping the screen, but accidentally tapped her Facebook app. “Dammit!”
“Is everything okay?” The woman’s pitch lowered. There was no sympathy in her words. She sounded more like a drill sergeant.
“I’m fine. Just give me a minute.” She emptied her lungs, searching for the calm mental focus that she so desperately needed.
Another breath. With her dexterity under control, she tapped and swiped the screen as if she were playing the harp. In no time, she’d logged into her bank account, then switched over and found the text with the account and routing numbers. She copied them into the appropriate fields in the bank application, then tapped submit. A little virtual wheel started spinning.
“What’s taking so long?”
“I hit submit. It’s just taking a few seconds to go through.”
Another scream, this one farther away from the phone. “Get her back in the van. Now!” the lady barked.
Megan stopped breathing for a second. Then she said, “What’s going on? You’re not hurting Annie, are you?”
No response.
“Hello! Are you there?”
A few distant voices and then the phone sounded like it had been tossed into a garbage disposal. She held her phone away from her ear. What the hell was going on?
Two beeps and the line went dead.
“Hello? You’re still there, aren’t you?” She desperately tapped her phone, hoping to find the call still open. But it had ended.
A punch to her kidney.
“No, no, no, noooo!” You’ve got to maintain your composure. Annie is counting on you.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 26