Cautious: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World)

by Candice Wright

  I open the door and find a woman staring at me fearfully when I enter the room. I frown at her in confusion before apologizing. “Sorry, ma’am, wrong room.” I move to back out, but Felix blocks my way.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, attempting to step around me.

  “This is the wrong room,” I snap. We don't have fucking time for this.

  “What are you talking about? Callie’s mother is right there.” He points at the woman and stares at me like I’m on drugs.

  “That woman is not Callie’s mother.”

  Felix looks at me incredulously before walking over to the chart hanging from the bottom of the bed. “See, it says right here. Brenda Roberts, age forty-five.”

  “Felix, I don’t know who this woman is, but she is not Callie’s mother.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Callie

  I come to with a groan. Sharp stabbing pain in my head feels like someone is trying to dig my eyeball out with a pickaxe. I roll over just in time to throw up over the side of the bed I’m lying on. Struggling to open my eyes, I wince when the bright light blinds me. I snap them shut, then take a deep breath in and out, and repeat it over and over until the surge of nausea passes.

  This time, I open my eyes slowly, letting in the light little by little. Turning my head gently, I take in my surroundings, realizing belatedly that I have no godly idea where I am. The room is white: the walls, the lacy bedding I’m lying upon, as well as the blinds that are at the windows. Even the furniture is white, from the bedframe to the dresser on the far wall.

  How the hell did I get here? Where the fuck even is here?

  Then I remember. The hazy images flashing through my mind become clear as the fog begins to lift like a veil. The hospital. The woman at the hospital who was not my mother. And finally, Christian fucking Baylor jabbing me in the neck with something.

  I hear the click of a lock being turned so I snap my eyes shut once more. The knowledge that Christian took me and brought me here, locking me inside, threatens to make my heart beat right out of my chest. I can’t play possum and pretend I’m asleep here forever, but I need to do something to buy myself some time for Blake to find me.

  If there is one thing I’m sure of, it's that Blake won’t stop looking for me until I’m back in his arms.

  “Callie, Callie, Callie.” Christian’s voice calls my name in a mocking singsong tone that straight up makes me feel like I’m in a horror movie and I want to curl up into a ball and cry.

  Cracking my eyes open, I mimic my actions from earlier and groan, throwing in a few dry heaves for good measure, before focusing on Christian and another man standing beside him.

  Christian is impeccably dressed as always in his dark expensive suit and matching tie, looking like he just left the office instead of the hospital where he kidnapped someone. His salt and pepper hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, his imposing frame coiled tight, ready to pounce.

  The other guy is dressed in a suit too, but you can tell it's not the same caliber as Christian’s. He’s younger than him, but not by much—late thirties, early forties maybe—the strands of gray only just beginning to lighten his dark hair. He appears less put together, less confident. The look of resignation on his features makes Christian's stare feel even more malevolent somehow.

  “Where am I?” I whisper.

  “Beside me, exactly where you’re supposed to be,” Christian spits out as the other guy grabs my wrist, holding it tight as I struggle.

  It takes me a moment to realize he’s checking my pulse.

  “It's a little fast,” he tells Christian before letting go.

  Of course it's fast. I'm scared out of my freaking mind.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath, psyching myself up for what I’m about to do. I’ve never been a very good actress, and now I find myself about to play the role of a lifetime.

  “Who are you? Where am I?” I ask Christian, having zero difficulties making a few tears slip free.

  Christian's scowl slips, his face now wearing a confused frown as he looks at the guy next to me. “John?”

  “Callie, what’s the last thing you remember?” John asks me, his voice soft and cajoling.

  I close my eyes and pretend to think really hard, wincing as the throbbing in my head grows in intensity.

  “I don’t know. I…” Shit, how far back to go? At this point, I doubt it matters. He’ll either buy it or he won’t, but if I can pretend I don’t remember him at all, he might be able to hold off on being a dick long enough for me to find a way out of here.

  “I was on my way home from work…?” I end in a question to show how unsure I am.

  “And where do you work, Callie?” he asks me, stepping closer to the bed. I have to fight the urge to move away.

  “I just started at Barney’s as a waitress.”

  Which was true once upon a time, but it feels like a lifetime ago now.

  “Callie, what year is it?” Christian finally asks, placing his hand on my shoulder like an anchor weighing me down.

  Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. Don’t you fucking flinch, Callie.

  I repeat the words in my head, biting down on the inside of my cheek as I fight to keep the revulsion from my features.

  “It's 2017,” I tell him, going for broke. I hold back my sigh of relief when a look of glee fills his face.

  Bingo, got you, you son of a bitch.

  “What? What's happening?” I play up my part, letting him see just how confused and scared I am. I might have missed my calling after all.

  They turn and walk away from me, muttering to themselves, but I can hear them just fine. I don't know if this is some kind of test or not, whether they are waiting for me to react to their words, so I play dumb and keep quiet.

  “Is it the drugs?” Christian asks quietly.

  “It's possible. People often react badly to this stuff, although I’ve never seen a case of amnesia linked to them before. You said she was bleeding from a head wound when you found her?”

  Christian is quiet for a moment while I send up a thanks to the assholes who hit our car that resulted in my head meeting the dashboard.

  “The guys must have hit her car harder than necessary.” His voice sounds angry now.

  So those assholes were working for Christian. Shit, we played right into their hands. I hope Kellen’s okay.

  “Can someone please tell me what's going on? Where am I and who are you both?” I question them, folding my shaking hands together in my lap.

  “John here is my family doctor. You… tripped and fell down the stairs,” the dirty lying bastard tells me.

  “Oh my god, really?” I squeal, making him look at me suspiciously. Okay, less is more, Callie. “Shouldn’t I be in a hospital?” I ask, confused, reaching up to touch the lump on my forehead.

  “You've already been and were released. You don’t remember?” he answers with a calculated look in his eye.

  Asshole motherfucker. I can’t contradict him without exposing my hand and he knows it.

  I shake my head and wince again, not needing to fake how much that hurts.

  “You need rest. You’ll feel better in a few days and then your memories should start to come back. Head injuries can be tricky,” John adds quietly.

  “Oh, don’t worry, she’ll get plenty of rest. We’re getting married in a few days. She needs to be better by then,” Christian tells him, but his eyes are on mine.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Please let Blake find me before then.

  “We’re engaged?” I let my face show shock, mostly to hide the fact that I’m two seconds away from puking all over him.

  “Yes, dear, happily so,” he lies to my face, looking like a cat that caught a canary. “Rest. I’ll send Mary in to change these sheets and clean up. Let her know if you’re hungry and she’ll have the cook make something for you.”

  I think his words are meant to calm me. His tone, though, is as cold as ice, making that impossibl
e. He turns to leave, taking John with him, pulling the door closed behind them both. I hear the lock engage, then soft-spoken words they either don’t think I can hear, or they just don’t care.

  “You really think she can’t remember anything?” Christian's voice asks tightly.

  “She seems pretty convincing to me,” John replies before adding, “but if she truly has lost her memory, you better prepare for a fight when it comes back.”

  “It matters not to me. She’ll be my wife, and she’ll do whatever the fuck I tell her to or face the consequences.” Christian's voice grows quieter as they walk away.

  I jump out of bed, swaying on my feet for a minute before rushing to the windows.

  Locked, all of them. The thought crosses my mind to smash my way out, but if the windows are alarmed, Christian will be back here before I’ve even made it onto the balcony. Then my little game of amnesia will have been for nothing. I try not to give in to the panic coursing through me, needing to focus on the task at hand. My head swims and the tears flow freely down my face, but I don’t let that stop me from searching the room for something I can use as a weapon. Anything will do at this point.

  Waiting for Blake to rescue me isn’t an option. I need to find a way out of here because I’d rather die than become Christian’s latest plaything.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Blake

  Gripping the iPad, I stare down at the still shot of the video pulled from the hospital security footage. The grainy image displays the man I know to be Christian Baylor, wearing a white doctor's jacket.

  I’ve replayed the video a dozen times in the last four hours. Each time, I stare helplessly at the look of horror on Callie’s face when she realizes the woman in the hospital bed isn’t her mother. I watch her turn and find that asshole behind her a second too late to stop the needle from plunging into the side of her neck. Then it’s lights out as she crumples to the ground, bouncing her head off the unforgiving concrete floor.

  The asshole doesn’t miss a beat, lifting her into a wheelchair and wheeling her out of the room, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The cameras in the hallways and elevator show him clearly, mapping his route as he leaves out the back entrance without anyone stopping him.

  “He’s got some brass balls I’ll give him that. How the fuck does he think he’ll get away with this shit when we have proof of him kidnapping her right here?” Marcus asks from beside me as he slides his gun into his holster.

  “I don’t know, but this guy is smart. He would have known there are no cameras in the room, so why leave the door open and risk discovery? We would never have gotten this footage if he had closed the door behind him, blocking out the camera in the hallway. If you look at the shots of him leaving, he keeps his face hidden.” I show Marcus, running through the images of Christian’s obscured face.

  “He either fucked up and didn’t realize the camera in the corridor was pointed straight into that room or…” Marcus’ voice drifts off, not wanting to say anymore.

  “Or he isn’t bothered about being caught,” I answer, trying to keep this swirling vortex of worry and rage contained inside me.

  But if that’s the case, what’s his endgame? And what the fuck does it mean for Callie? I silently ask myself as Arlo yells it’s go time.

  In the five hours since Callie has been gone, things have taken a turn for the worse. The police who were on the scene have been replaced and the new guys are taking orders from two detectives who claim to be in charge. They drag their feet, demand the video footage—luckily unaware that we have made copies—and waste valuable fucking time mobilizing at Christian's property.

  I decide to get her back myself. I am armed and ready, consequences be damned, but Arlo’s words hold me back. He knows if I kill the guy, Callie would be left to watch someone else she cares about get sent to prison and she’d blame herself.

  If I leave him alive, though, he’ll likely walk free again. After seeing the police work today, it had become very clear Callie has been right about Christian having them in his pocket. If he walks away, Callie will never be free.

  No, I have to do this right. These assholes who think they are running the show are in for a rude awakening though, as they are about to find out I have connections of my own.

  I look out the window at the SWAT team ready to swarm the castle, so to speak, and smile for the first time in hours.

  Tossing the tablet on the seat beside me, I climb out of the SUV with my guys right behind me. All of them but Aiden, who is dealing with his own shit, and Noah, who I left with the fake Brenda at the hospital.

  Ignoring everyone around me, I walk over to Tate, the guy who heads SWAT. He also happens to be a good friend of mine. We met at boot camp, back before we were deployed, and kept in touch when we both came home with fucked up heads and heavy hearts. When I called him and gave him a rundown of what had happened, he was more than happy to step in.

  Hearing me approach, he looks up and waves me closer.

  “Blake.” He shakes my hand. “Good to see you again. Wish it was under better circumstances though.” He hands me a tablet; an image on the screen burns into my eyes and makes me want to throw the thing in the dirt.

  It's a photo from a surveillance camera of Christian and a couple of goons entering the house behind me. What makes the picture hard to witness is Callie’s unconscious body hanging limply in Christian’s arms.

  “Infrared shows five people inside. I have guys in position to move on my signal. As soon as we confirm her location, I’ll let you know.” He lifts his head, his stormy blue eyes connecting with mine and holding firm. “I know you want her out of there, but don’t get in our way,” he orders, making the men at my back bristle unhappily. As much as it pisses me off, I get it, so I nod in agreement.

  I have no authority, and I don't want to waste time arguing out here when Callie is trapped in there somewhere, facing Christ knows what.

  He turns from me and yells into his mic. “A team, go. B team, cover them.”

  The next fifteen minutes are the longest of my life while we wait. I run through my memories, praying to God they aren’t all I’ll have left.

  I fucked up. Over and over, time and time again.

  I held off telling her I loved her, convincing myself it was all just lust so I wouldn't have to go through the gut-wrenching agony of losing someone I loved again. And look how that worked out for me. Standing in the mud with my thumb up my ass.

  I hope against hope that my girl read between the lines of every touch and kiss and figured it out for herself. I can’t bear thinking about the alternative of Callie possibly dying without ever knowing how I truly feel about her.

  “Anything?” Tate asks into the mic, sounding frustrated.

  “Negative. We have five unidentified males who aren't talking, but no signs of Baylor or the girl,” the voice reports back over the static-filled radio.

  Tate turns to me, but I look away before I see the pity in his eyes.

  “We’re going in,” I tell him, ignoring his protests. He has to play by a certain set of rules, but I don’t. I’ll get my answers even if I have to dig them out with a knife. Fuck the consequences.

  I recognize the voice of one of the dickhead detectives, but I ignore him too, making my way up the long gravel driveway to the house. I hear footfalls behind me and know my guys are following me in. They always have my back, just like I always have theirs, but this time it's more than that. Callie might be my girl, but these guys all love her like a sister, and none of us will rest until we have her safely home with us.

  We walk through the front door, coming to a halt when I see four men on their knees with their hands behind their heads, staring at the circle of guns surrounding them. All eyes come to us, but none of the guns move from their targets, leading me to assume these guys know exactly who we are.

  “Oh, a party,” Arlo says as the radio on the shoulder of one of the SWAT members squawks to life.

  “Sir,�
�� the guy speaks into it, but he doesn’t move his gun or take his eyes from mine.

  “Give them ten minutes. Secure the perimeter. Nobody in, nobody out, local PD included,” Tate answers, making me smile.

  Like I said, connections.

  “Sir,” the big guy answers without argument, trusting his boss.

  My guys all pull their guns and point them at the guys on the floor as the SWAT members pull back and head outside. As the biggest guy of the bunch passes me, he stops and looks at me without emotion.

  “If you have to kill them, at least make it look like they fired first. I fucking hate paperwork,” he grumbles, making Marcus chuckle.

  He leaves while I size up the men on the floor, zeroing in on who is the weakest link and who will be the one to hold out. It's not hard. Being able to read people is a must with the kind of work we do.

  I pull my gun and aim it at the guy I know won't talk. He stares forward, his breathing even, his face almost peaceful looking. Yeah, this asshole won’t break quickly, and I don’t have time to play.

  “Eeny.” I fire a bullet into his shoulder, making him fall backward before swinging the gun to the next guy in the line.

  “Meeny.” I fire into the meaty part of his thigh, then turn the gun on the next guy. When nobody rushes in, I think it dawns on them that nobody is going to come to their rescue.

  “Miny.” I shoot once more, aiming for the guy's shoulder like I did the first. I’m shooting to maim, not to kill, but these guys don’t need to know that. I swing the gun to the last guy, the one whose eyes darted all over the place while he muttered a prayer on repeat under his breath. This time I aim at his head.

  “Mo.” The word is barely out of my mouth when he starts screaming.

  “No! Stop. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Finkle,” one of the other guys on the floor shouts, but it goes in one ear and out the other.

  This Finkle guy is too freaked out for anything to register now, beyond my gun pointing at him.