by Karen Rose
Lungs heaving, the man turned toward him and threw up. Luckily Frederick had been anticipating that and jumped out of the way.
‘Tell me,’ he growled, and put his fingers back on the same spot. He tapped. The man puked again.
‘No,’ he begged. ‘No, no, no.’
Palming the front and back of his captive’s head, Frederick pressed . . . hard. A sharp scream of agony burst free and Frederick released him. The man collapsed on the ground, shaking, the front of his trousers growing dark as he lost control of his bladder.
Frederick grabbed him by the hair again, jerking him upright. ‘Tell me.’ He put a little pressure on the hollow of his throat. ‘Tell me and I’ll stop.’ He added more pressure, aware of the time passing. The cops would be here in a minute, and as soon as this guy heard sirens, Frederick’s leverage was gone. ‘He won’t know it was you.’ A little more pressure. A little more puking. ‘Tell me.’
‘A boat,’ the man rasped. ‘He’s on a boat.’
‘That’s good.’ Frederick eased off, then pressed again. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Señ . . . Señor del Mar.’ He bit the words out and moaned. ‘He’s going to kill me.’
‘Not if I catch him first,’ Frederick whispered. ‘That’s your best hope right now. Where is it docked?’
The scream of sirens started up in the distance, and the man spat at Frederick again, tears streaming down his face. ‘Go to hell.’
Frederick released him, letting him tumble to the ground. ‘Tell me where it’s docked. If we get to him, he can’t kill you. I’m your best chance at surviving this.’
The man moaned. ‘Chevalier. Now leave me alone.’
Suddenly drained, and feeling the full impact of his actions, Frederick stepped away and made a beeline for the trees where the van had been hiding. Dropping to his knees, he retched, losing everything he’d eaten that day. Which, luckily, was not a lot. His head fell forward, vile memories swirling in his mind, memories he truly thought he’d buried forever.
But there was no such thing as forever.
And they’d seen. His daughters had to have seen him, or at least heard the bastard’s screams. Everyone in a five-mile radius had heard the bastard’s screams.
God. I am a horrible person. At least now they could find Thorne and Gwyn. Need to get up. But his body would not cooperate, his knees buckling every time he tried to stand. He was shaking all over.
‘Shh. It’s all right.’ Taylor’s voice was warm in his ear, her hand rubbing his back in slow sweeps. ‘You’re okay. We’re okay. We’ll get Thorne and Gwyn back.’ She pressed a water bottle into his hand. ‘Drink.’
He struggled with the cap. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered.
She knelt beside him and pressed her lips to his temple. ‘Let me help you, Dad.’ She took the bottle from his hands and managed the cap in a single capable twist, then eased him back so that he sat on his heels. Lifting the bottle to his lips, she whispered, ‘Drink.’
He obeyed, more than aware that their roles had switched, his child caring for him. He rinsed his mouth and spat, then drained the bottle in a few greedy gulps. He was still shaking, but not as violently.
She stretched her arm across his back. ‘You’re okay.’
‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘But I wish you hadn’t seen that.’
‘Well,’ she said practically, ‘I can’t disagree with you there.’ She pulled at him until his head rested on her shoulder. ‘What did you find out?’
‘He’s got a boat. The Señor del Mar.’
‘Lord of the Sea,’ she said softly. ‘Makes sense. Tavilla’s gang is Los Señores de la Tierra, or Lords of the Planet.’
Yes, it did make sense. ‘It’s docked at a marina called Chevalier. We need to get word to Joseph. Maybe he’ll know where it is.’
‘Clay will tell Joseph. He’s behind us, texting him now.’
‘Listening,’ he murmured unhappily. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him torture the man into confessing. Clay was supposed to have kept his daughters from witnessing that. And if Clay and Taylor had been listening, Daisy probably had been too.
Taylor sighed. ‘Yes, we were listening. He was worried about you, Dad. So was I.’
‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Because you told me so.’
‘Then it’s true, because I’m rarely wrong.’ She laughed when he scoffed at that. ‘The marina being named Chevalier makes sense too,’ she added. ‘It means knight. If he’s the Lord of the Planet, his gang would be his knights.’
That Tavilla had likely named his marina was troubling. That meant it might not be an actual marina at all, or not a public one, at least. ‘The man’s a fucking poet.’
‘Hopefully a dead poet, soon enough.’ She blew out a careful breath. ‘How did you learn how to do . . . what you did?’
The word is ‘torture’, baby. But he didn’t say that. No need to make this uglier than it was. But the answer came spilling out of him before he could call it back. ‘Experience.’
Her flinch was tiny. ‘You were trained when you were in the army?’
‘No.’ He clamped his lips together, unwilling to say more.
But Taylor was a smart cookie. She went very still and exhaled another careful breath. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered, her voice suddenly small. ‘Did that happen to you?’
It was his turn to sigh. ‘We are not going to speak of this.’
‘Please. I need to know.’
No, you don’t, baby. You really don’t. But again he answered. ‘Central America in the eighties. I was captured for a few weeks. It’s over.’
‘No, it’s not. Not if it does this to you. But . . . I’ll respect your wishes.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked down at his clothes. ‘I need to change.’
‘Yeah, you do. Come on, Dad. Let’s go to Clay’s house and get you cleaned up.’ She rose, then pulled him to his feet with her.
His knees still wobbled, but he could lock them in place. ‘Thanks, honey.’
She blinked a few times. ‘I love you, Dad.’
He turned and . . . sighed. Because Daisy and Clay still stood there. Hoping so hard, he opened his arms, and then breathed again when Daisy walked into them and hugged him.
‘You smell really bad, Dad,’ Daisy whispered.
He bent to kiss the top of her head. Her mother had been so tiny. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m still really mad at you. But we’ll talk later.’
‘That’s fair.’ He nudged Taylor. ‘That asshole kicked Clay in the ribs, really hard. Make sure he takes care of himself.’
‘Sure thing.’ Taylor left him to put her arm around her other dad.
‘Clay seems nice,’ Daisy murmured.
‘He is.’ He turned to look at her. ‘And you did some great shooting today. You saved us. Thank you,’ he said.
She tipped her head back, lifting one side of her mouth. ‘You’re welcome.’
She walked with him out of the trees to where the police were now gathered. He was surprised to see Joseph with them.
‘You’re gray, Frederick,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Did you lose the van with Thorne and Gwyn?’
Joseph pointed to his SUV, looking frustrated, which for him was a big deal. The man didn’t show a lot of emotion. ‘Yeah.’ His windows were shot up nearly as badly as those in the SUV he’d loaned them. ‘The good news is the glass holds against a hell of a lot of bullets. My wife will be pleased.’
Frederick wished their glass had held against a few more bullets, because then Thorne and Gwyn would be safe, but he bit the words back. If they hadn’t had the loaner SUV, they’d all have been dead in the first barrage. ‘Does what Tavilla’s man told me make sense?’
‘Not yet. Chevalier isn’t showing up in the marina listings. He could have been lying to you.’
‘Maybe about the marina.’ Because he’d heard sirens by then. ‘I think the name of the boat is real.’
Joseph gave him a long, long look, as if he knew exactly what Frederick had done. ‘All right,’ was all he said.
‘Can my dads go home now, Joseph?’ Taylor asked him. ‘They’re kind of banged up.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll send someone by to get their statements shortly. I’ve got to get to the police station. The evidence found in the search of the judge’s house is starting to trickle in. I’m hoping there’s something there that can tie him to Tavilla.’
Frederick wanted to explode. ‘That he just attacked us and took Thorne and Gwyn isn’t enough?’
Joseph shook his head. ‘Unless I can get the guy you’ve tied up to admit that Tavilla is his boss, no, the attack is not enough. We can’t prove he ordered it. We can search for him, but he’s been in hiding since last summer.’
‘Can you at least put a uniform on that restaurant he likes?’ Frederick asked, frustrated with the slow progress. Because Tavilla had Thorne and Gwyn in his hands. And they all knew what he did to his enemies.
His stomach threatened to revolt again and he battled it back.
‘I have,’ Joseph said grimly. ‘He was there today for lunch, but he manages to lose every tail I put on him. Bastard’s slippery.’
‘It wasn’t Detective Brickman on watch, was it?’ Clay asked acidly.
Joseph gave him a don’t-be-an-asshole look. ‘No. Detective Brickman has been put on administrative leave. The problem is, the detective’s gone AWOL.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Clay muttered. ‘Really, Joseph?’
‘Hey,’ Joseph said sharply. ‘He’d gone AWOL before you told me about his visit to Patricia’s . . . victim. I can’t bring myself to call a newly-turned-eighteen-year-old her lover. Anyway, we’re trying. You have to know that. Thorne and Gwyn are friends of mine too.’
Clay looked away. ‘I know.’
Frederick managed a jerky nod. ‘I need to update Jamie. I’m sure he’s losing his mind.’
‘Wait,’ Clay called when Joseph turned to go. ‘What about the address Thorne gave you? For Anne Poulin?’
‘It was an empty apartment,’ Joseph said. ‘I think you were tricked into leaving your house. They were waiting for you.’
Frederick had figured as much, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. ‘You’ll call us when you hear something?’
‘Of course,’ Joseph said kindly.
Annapolis, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 5.05 P.M.
She was on a goddamn boat. This was bad. It would make rescue problematic, especially if Kathryn and company decided to set sail.
Gwyn stumbled into the small room below deck, pushed by an irritated Kathryn. Apparently, something had occurred back at the crash site and Frederick and Clay were not en route. Gwyn wanted to cheer at this, because it meant they were safe. At the same time, it meant she had to save Thorne all alone.
Thorne, who’d been brought aboard in an old refrigerator box. Kathryn and the two men under her command had pushed and shoved the box into a small launch and sailed it out to a yacht that had to have been a hundred-fifty-footer. Gwyn might have been impressed had she not been so fucking terrified.
That they hadn’t blindfolded her didn’t bode well at all. They’d been brought to a mansion on the water outside of Annapolis, then she’d been escorted to the small launch while Thorne had been boxed up and hauled on a handcart. She’d hoped he could breathe in there. She needed him to hold on until she could figure a way out. She was handcuffed, but that was all. And handcuffs might be escapable. She’d done it before, after all.
The box was shoved into the room after her and she heard a quiet moan from inside. So he was still alive, at least. That had her shuddering in relief.
‘Fucker,’ one of the men muttered as he kicked at the box. Not one of the six gunmen who’d attacked their SUV, he’d been riding shotgun with Kathryn in the white van.
Kathryn had called the man Patton as she had driven them from the crash site to this private yacht club. Very private. Gwyn hadn’t seen a frickin’ soul the entire time they’d been in the launch. Which again did not bode well. Even if she managed to escape, who was she going to ask for help?
The remaining gunman had removed his mask once they were a few miles from Clay’s house. Of course it was Detective Brickman. He’d sneered at her and she’d wanted to kick him, but she’d restrained herself. She might need that kick later.
Kathryn and the two men closed the cabin door and she heard a click. They’d locked it from the outside. Which was to be expected. The room was dim, the only light coming in through a porthole close to the ceiling, and the sun was on the other side of the boat. There were overhead lights, but she saw no switches.
Two chairs sat in the middle of the room, bolted to the floor. Manacles on chains hung from the back of them and were attached to the two front legs. The red stains on the legs of the chairs were probably not paint.
A steel table was mounted to one wall, hinged so that it lay flush against the wall at the moment. It too had manacles dangling from chains. And more red stains that were also probably not paint.
She jerked her eyes away, because her mind was already conjuring images of what had happened on that table. Those chairs. And what might happen to me.
Her terrified gaze fell on a person in the corner. A boy. Her heart sped up. Aidan? But as her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that this young man was slender and blond, where Aidan was big, broad-shouldered and dark-haired.
She swallowed back her disappointment and her fear. Not Aidan. Was her boy dead? That pool of blood he’d been lying in, was it his? Oh God, oh God, oh God.
‘Stop it,’ she muttered aloud. Dissolving into a panic wasn’t going to help anyone right now. Not Aidan, not Thorne, and not the live kid in the corner.
Who didn’t seem to be moving toward her, so, judging him not to be an immediate threat, she dropped to her knees beside the box that contained Thorne. ‘You okay?’ she murmured. A low moan reached her ears. He wasn’t awake yet, but he wasn’t fully unconscious either.
That wasn’t bad, actually. They were waiting for him to wake up before getting under way with her torture. And I’m not going to think about that, because it’ll scare me to fucking death.
‘Who are you?’ she called softly to the person in the corner. He didn’t answer, so she crawled toward him. She was a few feet away when she realized she’d seen his photo before, in the yearbook, the night they were all together at Clay’s house. ‘Oh. I know you. You’re Patricia’s son. Blake.’
He lifted his head, his eyes sunken, skin sallow in this light. He was grieving. He’d lost his mother less than a week before. ‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘Gwyn Weaver. You haven’t seen any other boys your age, have you?’
He shook his head. ‘Did you lose one?’ he asked, trying to sound snarky, but the tremble in his voice gave him away.
‘Yes, I did. My . . . son.’
Blake’s expression changed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’
He shook his head. ‘Do you?’
‘I know why I’m here, yes. There’s an unconscious man in that box and he loves me. They intend to kill me and make him watch.’
His eyes closed, his throat working. ‘God,’ he whispered.
‘I can guess why you’re here,’ she went on. She needed this kid on her side. If she could get her hands free, she might be able to climb out of the porthole, but she’d need a boost. ‘What do you know about your dad?’
He frowned. ‘He’s a judge.’
‘Okay. That’s true. The police are searching your house right now. He’s suspected of . . . a lot of things.’
His jaw tightened. ‘You
think he killed my mother.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Do you think that?’
‘No, but I heard my mother’s friends talking about it.’
Oh, honey. That had to have been hard to hear. ‘Actually, no, I don’t think your father killed her. But I think he knows who did. That person is the one who plans to kill me. I’d really like to avoid that.’
‘What do you think I can do?’ he asked, shrewdly guessing her intent.
‘Help me get to that porthole.’
His eyes bugged. ‘You are shitting me. You can’t fit through there.’
‘Watch me. But I have to get out of these cuffs first. Are you tied up?’
‘My hands are cuffed behind my back too.’
‘Well, shit.’ She was going to have to do this the hard way. At least Kathryn had made her remove her Kevlar vest when she’d been forced into the van. Had she still been wearing it, she wouldn’t have had the freedom of movement to do what she needed to do. ‘You might not want to watch this.’ Drawing a breath, she forced her body to relax and slipped her shoulder out of joint.
She sucked in a breath. She’d forgotten how much that hurt. ‘Sonofabitch,’ she hissed. The young man was watching avidly. Tucking her knees to her chest, she swung her joined hands under her butt and popped the shoulder back in.
‘Sonofa-fucking-bitch,’ she swore. She rolled her shoulders, blinking away tears. ‘Goddamn, that hurts.’
‘But it was frickin’ cool,’ he said, sounding genuinely impressed.
‘Sure. It is cool when it’s not you, y’know?’
With her hands in front of her, she had a prayer of unlocking the cuffs. They were on too tightly for her to slip her hands through. She had just the tool to do the job, but she had to get to it. She hiked up her skirt and fumbled with the now-empty thigh holster. In the seam she’d hidden two of the hard plastic lock picks that she’d used most when doing performance art. After several tries, she managed to work one of them to the small hole she’d left in the seam. She pulled it out, feeling very pleased with herself.