The Ransom (The Munro Family Series Book 7)

by Chris Taylor

  Draco Jovanovic had been the president for nearly a decade. Given what they knew of Boris Vukovic and his limitations, it stood to reason that Jovanovic might be involved.

  Glancing into his rearview mirror, Lane counted the unmarked vehicles that streamed out behind him and fought the sensation of déjà vu. As soon as they identified the property off the State database, he’d reconvened the TRG squad and the AFP officers and planned their next raid—the house on Scarborough Road.

  The rundown cottage looked sad and neglected from the roadside and was strangely reminiscent of Vukovic’s hovel they’d raided the night before. Indicating with hand signals for his team to gather close, he ran through their plan of attack as quickly as he could, mindful of the minutes ticking by.

  A short time later, they had the house surrounded. It sat silent and still, but Lane was taking no chances. The Redbacks were notorious for their stockpile of illegal weapons and he wanted to ensure every member of his team came home alive.

  Turning to face the men who waited silently behind him, he signaled for them to ready themselves. Moments later, he gave the order to charge.

  * * *

  After ensuring the house was deserted and securing the scene, Lane strode through the building and surveyed the contents. From the food scraps and empty beer bottles strewn around the kitchen, it was obvious the place had been inhabited recently. The food, whilst dry and unappetizing, hadn’t had the chance to spoil.

  He stepped closer and ran his hand along one of the walls. Dark, reddish-brown marks that looked like blood spatter adorned part of the surface. He called out to one of his men and told him to get onto the forensic technicians and secure the area until they arrived.

  With the powerful beam of his flashlight illuminating the way, he made his way down the hall and stopped at the first room on his left. It was small and bare of furniture and looked like it had once been a bedroom. The beam of light fell on something on the floor across the other side of the room. He strode forward and picked it up.

  He trained the light on his find and his heart skipped a beat. He reached out for the nearest wall to steady himself and stared down at the object in his hand. A small flip flop. Silver, with sparkly bits stuck to the sides. Just like Ellie had described.

  Olivia Munro had been there.

  Yelling out to his men, he told them of his discovery and shouted orders for lighting plants so that they could comb every inch of the house. Striding down the hall, he checked the second bedroom for further evidence of Olivia, but found none. The bathroom offered nothing but a wisp of fabric he spied lying on the floor.

  Once again, Lane held his discovery up to the light. This time, his jaw dropped in shock. Turning the scarf over in his hands, his gut churned with anger and disbelief. Gray with delicately embroidered silver thread, it was as familiar to him as if he’d seen it only yesterday. In fact, he had seen it only yesterday—around the neck of Zara Dowton.

  She was involved. She had to be. Somehow, she and her illustrious father were involved. It was the only explanation that made sense.

  What didn’t make sense was why. What did either of them have to gain? If the AG was to be believed, Brittany was the original target. Lane couldn’t for the life of him conjure a reason why arranging the kidnapping of his daughter would be to his advantage. Unless he was lying. Unless the AG had offered that information up to put them off the scent. To misdirect the course of their investigation to enable him to get away with whatever it was he was hoping to achieve.

  It was possible Brittany had nothing to do with it; that Olivia Munro had been the target all along. But what did the AG have to gain by snatching Clayton’s child? None of it made sense. He was missing something. The only thing he was sure of was that Zara Dowton was also involved.

  He shook his head, still stunned to discover the innocent-looking woman he’d spent far too much time thinking about was in cahoots with a notorious outlaw biker gang. Along with her father. The Attorney General. A man who could end Lane’s career with a click of his fingers.

  “What else did you find?”

  He spun around and found Jett staring at the scarf in his hands. “Er, um…this.” He handed it to Jett who fingered it for a few moments and then held it up to catch the wide swathe of light provided by Lane’s flashlight.

  “What is it?”

  Lane drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s a scarf. A woman’s scarf.”

  Jett frowned. “Olivia Munro’s?”

  Lane shook his head. Realizing Jett probably couldn’t see it, he spoke again. “No. It belongs to Zara Dowton.”

  “Zara Dowton?” The shock in Jett’s voice mirrored his own. “The AG’s daughter?”

  “Yep.”

  “But… I-I don’t understand. Has she been abducted too?”

  Lane shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Then why would a scarf belonging to the AG’s daughter be in a shithole owned by the president of the Redbacks?”

  “I don’t know,” Lane replied, his voice grim. “But I sure as hell intend to find out.”

  * * *

  Zara pulled her BMW into the drive and switched off the ignition. A tension headache pierced her temples. She’d tried to ward it off with a couple of paracetamol tablets she’d dug out of her handbag on the drive back, but the headache had hit her with a vengeance a few blocks from home and it had been all she could do to park in the garage and stumble into the house.

  “Miss Zara, your father—”

  Zara waved the housekeeper aside and hastened up the stairs, her head throbbing. Running cold water into the sink in her bathroom, she filled her hands and threw it over her face. Riffling through the medicine cabinet, she located another packet of painkillers and tossed a couple more down.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror and couldn’t believe the state she was in. Her eyes were huge and dark and full of bewilderment. Her hair looked like it had been set upon with brushes and fine tooth combs wielded by a roomful of pre-schoolers. Her neck was…bare.

  Her hand went to her chest and then over her shoulder. She looked around the bathroom. Nothing. She spun on her heel and hurried back into the bedroom. The pale blue carpet was clear and so was her bed. She flung open her door and retraced her steps, all the way back to her car.

  It wasn’t there. Her scarf wasn’t there. With a feeling of dread cementing her to the spot, she prayed it had blown out of her car on the way home and that she hadn’t left it in the ramshackle cottage on Scarborough Road. The thought of leaving anything belonging to her in a house that was possibly connected with a notorious biker gang member filled her with unease.

  Knowing there was nothing she could do about it now—after all, there was no way in hell she was going back for it—Zara sighed with resignation and slowly made her way back upstairs. Her headache had worsened. Dampening a wash cloth with cold water, she collapsed onto her bed and draped it across her eyes.

  Minutes later, the sound of her cell phone ringing on the nightstand made her groan. Trying to ignore it, she turned onto her side and pressed the cloth harder against her forehead. The ringing continued and she cursed the extra-long ring tone she’d set up on her phone. With a groan of frustration, she rolled over and snatched at the handpiece and glanced at the Caller ID.

  Lane.

  Her stomach somersaulted with a mix of emotions. Excitement, eagerness and anticipation warred with dread. She wanted to hear his voice, to speak to him about anything and nothing. To laugh and joke and flirt. To be young and single and available.

  But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do any of those things. He was investigating the abduction of her sister’s best friend and she still didn’t know if one of the men he was looking for was her father.

  The dread in Zara’s belly intensified and the sudden urge to vomit propelled her upright. Last night, she’d been desperate to talk to her father, to demand to know the truth, but this morning, confronting him was the last t
hing she wanted to do. After going to the house in Scarborough Road, she was more confused than ever, but what she did know was that she couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to confront her father about the notepaper and its contents. She had to beg him to tell her the truth.

  Before it was too late.

  * * *

  Lane listened to the phone ring out and cursed when his call went through to voicemail. Although the dulcet tones of Zara’s voicemail message glided over him like the way single malt scotch slid down his throat, he forcibly pushed the feelings aside and ended the call without leaving a message.

  He didn’t know if she was purposefully avoiding him, but he was sure as hell about to find out. A little girl’s life was at stake and every minute counted. He wasn’t in the mood to take no for an answer.

  * * *

  The sun was much lower on the horizon when Zara eventually made her way downstairs. Although a remnant of her migraine remained, she felt better after her nap. Guilt assailed her for wasting time on sleep when every moment might make the difference between Olivia being found alive or dead.

  The door to her father’s office stood slightly ajar and she braced herself for the confrontation, determined not to be put off again. Squaring her shoulders, she took a step in that direction.

  The sound of someone pounding on the front door snagged her attention. She halted mid-stride and debated about whether to open it. She glanced around for Mrs Harrow, but the housekeeper was nowhere in sight. The pounding came again, the knocks loud and urgent. She changed direction and reached for the doorknob and pulled it open.

  Her heart hammered at the sight of the man who stood on the other side. “L-Lane? Wh-what are you doing here?”

  His face was chiseled granite. He pushed past her without a word. She closed the door and tried to contain her alarm. Spinning on his heel, he turned to face her, brandishing something in his fist. Pale and gauzy, he held it inches away from her nose. She looked down and gasped, paralyzed with shock.

  “W-where did you find it?”

  “Where do you think?” he bit out, anger radiating off him in palpable waves.

  She shrugged and tried to come up with an answer. Her mind raced. With a sinking feeling of dread, she closed her eyes.

  “That’s right, princess. That’s exactly right. I found your scarf in the very same house that, until very recently, held Olivia Munro captive.”

  Shock ricocheted through her. Her mouth gaped. She’d searched that house from top to bottom. She’d seen no sign that indicated Olivia had been there.

  She stared up at him, dazed. “H-how do you know?”

  “That you were there, or that Olivia was?”

  “O-Olivia.”

  “I found a piece of her footwear in one of the rooms, right before I found your scarf. We’ll run tests on the flip flop for DNA to make sure, but we don’t have time to wait for that, at the moment. Right now, I’m going with my gut and my gut tells me it belongs to Olivia Munro.”

  Zara shook her head, still feeling poleaxed.

  Lane moved closer, crowding her with his body. She instinctively stepped back and came up hard against the front door. Her breath came fast, both from apprehension and nervousness at his nearness.

  His grin turned feral. “We also found blood, but you already know about that, don’t you?”

  She stared at him, aghast. Not for an instant had she considered he might think she was involved. Oh, God! How had it come to this? How had things spiraled so quickly out of control? All she’d wanted to do was protect her father and find a scared little girl, but nothing was turning out the way she’d planned.

  Lane stood so close, dominating her with his superior strength and size. She struggled to breathe. He stared at her, cold suspicion narrowing his eyes. Her heart filled with dread. There was nothing she could say to alleviate it.

  “What were you doing there?” Coated with anger, the deadly words were bitten off between gritted teeth.

  Zara prayed for a way to respond, trying not to notice the fresh, woodsy scent of his cologne. It tickled her nostrils and smelled way too good. She turned her head away from the distraction.

  She couldn’t believe he’d found Olivia’s footwear. Zara had checked the place from top to bottom. Well, as good as she’d been able to without a flashlight. And he said there was blood. How the hell had she missed that?

  She should have taken her suspicions to Lane in the first place. He was a trained police officer. He knew how to look for evidence. Then she wouldn’t have dropped her scarf and she wouldn’t be staring him down now, trying desperately to find some way to convince him she had nothing to do with Olivia’s abduction.

  The implication of what it meant, now that they knew Olivia had been in the house on Scarborough Road, suddenly hit her. Pain spread through her chest. She gasped and covered her face with her hands. The address she’d found in her father’s locked drawer was everything she’d prayed it wouldn’t be. She now had irrefutable proof. He was involved in—maybe even responsible for—Olivia Munro’s abduction.

  The horror of that weakened her knees. She leaned forward and would have fallen if Lane’s arms hadn’t come around her and held her upright. She clutched at the steel in his forearms.

  “You can cut the shock and surprise act, princess,” he said, his voice harsh. “I know you’re in this up to your elbows. The only thing I don’t know is why.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sunday, 28 January, 3:12 p.m.

  “Oh, my God! Where is she? Let me see her. Where’s my baby?” Allison Dowton flung open the front door and flounced into the entryway in a flurry of designer clothing and a cloud of expensive perfume. Her gaze darted wildly around the foyer. She pushed Zara aside, not even taking the time to acknowledge her.

  Zara landed up against Lane and stiffened. His hands came up reflexively and broke her fall. An instant later, they dropped away and he stepped sideways, putting distance between them. The anger on his face eased and his expression became composed. It took Zara a good deal longer to recover from her stepmother’s sudden arrival.

  Lane cleared his throat. “Mrs Dowton, I presume?”

  Allison spun on the heel of her bright yellow Christian Laboutins and looked Lane up and down. A spark of interest lit the pale blue depths of her eyes. “And you are?”

  “Detective Senior Sergeant Lane Black, from Chatswood Police. I’m part of a joint taskforce between the State Crime Command and the Australian Federal Police investigating the kidnapping of Olivia Munro.”

  “The State Crime Command and the Australian Federal Police? Wow, I’m impressed,” Allison answered with a teasing smile.

  Zara’s fists clenched. Lane’s lips tightened. “Your husband’s been assisting us with our enquires. I understand you’ve been away?”

  Allison frowned and then waved him away. “Yes, yes. That’s right. I’ve been waiting for like forever to get a flight home. I was visiting my sister in Hervey Bay. She…she’s not well.”

  Zara swallowed her surprise. Knowledge of Aunty Patricia’s illness was news to her.

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Mrs Dowton. I wish I had more time to commiserate with you, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate, time’s marching on and I have a little girl to find.”

  “Of course, Detective, of course.” Tears welled in her eyes. She took a lace-edged handkerchief from out of the top of her Prada dress and dabbed at the moisture. “Such a dreadful, dreadful business. I can’t imagine what Ellie Munro must be going through. I thank God every second that my little Brittany was spared.” She sighed dramatically. “How, why—they’re questions only God can answer.”

  Zara went to argue, but clamped her mouth shut. Years of experience had taught her that arguing with her stepmother was an exercise in futility. Lane’s expression turned grim.

  “I wish it was that easy, Mrs Dowton. Unfortunately, the Almighty is playing his cards very close to his chest. I appreciate your sentiment, but I’m sure Olivia an
d her parents will be comforted to know my team and I don’t intend to wait around until He reveals them to us.”

  The door to her father’s office opened and Zara’s father joined the small gathering in the entryway.

  “What’s going on? Zara? Detective? Oh, Allison. I see you’ve made it home.” He stepped forward and pecked her on the cheek. With a wail, Allison threw her arms around his neck, and pressed herself against him. It was all Zara could do not to roll her eyes.

  “Oh, David, I can’t believe it! How could this happen? Our little girl! I’d never forgive myself if she’d been harmed. Where is she? I need to see her!”

  Gently extricating himself from his wife’s enthusiastic embrace, Zara’s father stepped away. “She’s resting in her room,” he murmured.

  With another wail, Allison turned and headed toward the stairs. For a few moments, her father’s gaze followed her progress. His wasn’t the only one.

  Lane also tracked her ascent. His gaze stayed on her stepmother’s enviable figure and Zara felt an immediate and entirely unwelcome stab of jealousy. Aided by the skills of the best plastic surgeon money could buy, Allison looked a decade younger than she was. Much to Zara’s chagrin, men never seemed to be any the wiser. To them, Allison Dowton was a unique and ultra-rare butterfly: beautiful, delicate and completely unattainable.

  Zara turned away, unable to watch another man fall under her stepmother’s spell. The motion caught Lane’s attention and he turned to her. His gaze hardened.

  “We need to talk.”

  She glanced at her father. Emotion warred within her. She owed her father another chance to explain. Didn’t she? He’d lied to her about Draco and the other man who’d met with him in his study, but was he really involved in the kidnapping of his daughter’s best friend? It was too much to bear considering the implications that such actions would have for her father, his career and family. She’d already given him not one, but two opportunities to come clean, to tell her the truth. Both times he’d chosen deceit.