by Linda Ladd
Once there, two other guys grabbed her and forced her down the hall and into a room beside the back door. They sat her down hard on a scarred black folding chair. Then they got out some big, sharp bowie knives and showed them to her with evil smiles of anticipation, trying to frighten her. It worked. Fortunately, they backed off and waited for Sandy to show up and tell them how bad they could cut her. It didn’t take long. Sandy joined them in a matter of minutes. He was smiling now. “Your boyfriend just tore up two of my best men. That’s gettin’ a little old about now.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He picked me up out on the road, that’s it. Gave me a ride. We hung out for a while, and then he got tired of me and told me to get lost. That’s why I need this job. I’m stuck out here until I can earn bus fare to New York.”
“You better hope he likes you better than you’re letting on. You’re my ace in the hole because I want him back up here. He needs to be taught a lesson.”
These men were not above hurting her, even torturing her, and Mariah knew it. She talked fast, not having to put on an act anymore. She was afraid. “He doesn’t give a damn about me! I’m telling you the truth!” She stopped there, tried to get calm, and took a deep breath. “We’re virtual strangers. Had sex a few times and he paid me for it. Once we got to Sikeston, he told me to get lost. He’s not going to come back up here to get me.”
“You sure as hell better hope he does.”
Mariah did hope he would. But she wasn’t so sure. Novak bore her no affection. None. Zero. Especially now, after she had landed him in a pack of trouble. He would think she’d been in on it, of course, that she’d lured him back behind that curtain to be captured. Her only hope was that Mason and Carson would show up and get her out of this mess. If they didn’t, she’d have to wheedle her way out, and she sure as the devil wasn’t in the mood to do that. Not with Sandy Boyer standing over her with a dark, cruel look on his face. But she was good at talking her way out of things, at cajoling, at making men do what she wanted. She’d just have to do it this time, too.
Chapter Thirteen
When Novak got back to the Avalon, the motel was practically deserted. The handful of customers were either gone or holed up in their rooms sans any vehicles. Asleep and dreaming, perhaps, and completely unaware that hell could break loose at any minute. Mariah’s room was dark, too, but he knew where she was. He would deal with her later. When, and if, she came back. She might be dead now, for all he knew. He hoped not, but she had really walked into a nest of vipers this time.
Inside his room, he pulled out the first aid kit that he always carried and doctored a cut on his head that he’d somehow gotten during the skirmish inside the Jeep. The knuckles on both hands were skinned up but he let that be. They were usually skinned up, more often than not. After that, he kept his weapon close when he showered and changed into dark pants and black T-shirt and black New Balance tennis shoes. He pulled up the desk chair to the front window, turned out all the lights, and waited for the bad company that he knew would soon show up to teach him a lesson. Forty-five minutes later, his cell phone rang. It was Mariah. All contrite and sorry, like she always was after she’d caused Novak a shitload of trouble.
“I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t know what they were going to do. I swear I didn’t. I was as shocked as you were.”
Novak didn’t say anything.
Then a man’s voice got on at the other end, deep, gravelly, self-assured. Sandy Boyer of the stupid swinging silver chains. “We got your girl, Novak. You need to come get her. Otherwise? She’s in for a whole lotta pain and suffering.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“That’s not what she says.”
“She’s not my girl. I never laid eyes on her until a few days ago.”
“That’s funny. We got your cell number off her phone.”
Novak grimaced. He remained silent.
“Last chance before we mess her up so much that you won’t even recognize her pretty little face.”
Novak hesitated. Damn Mariah. “Your boss wants to talk to me. Why?”
There was a momentary pause. “He wants to meet you. Offer you a job.”
“Don’t think I’m interested in your line of work. I don’t beat up on women. And I don’t talk to the help. If he wants to talk to me, he can come see me himself and quit hiding behind the inefficient amateurs he’s been sending after me. Tell him he better make it quick before all his men end up dead or in the hospital. They don’t seem to be up to the task. And you can tell him this—if you, or anybody else, lay a finger on that girl, I’ll come up there and make sure you regret it. She doesn’t have anything to do with me, I hardly know her. But I don’t go in for men beating up on women.”
Novak hung up. He was fairly certain that Mariah would be all right. If they wanted him to come meet the boss, if the boss man wanted to hire him, if any of that were true, then they wouldn’t hurt her. Not much, anyway. Sure as hell wouldn’t kill her. Mariah had been asking for it ever since they hit town. Maybe she’d learn a valuable lesson tonight. So he sat there in the dark in the chair by the window and waited in the dead silence of his room. Relaxed, at ease, just waiting. Nothing happened. Thirty-seven minutes passed before the phone rang again. He picked up, didn’t say anything.
“Mr. Novak? Are you there?”
A different voice. Male. Australian accent. All right, now. Jackpot. Mariah had been right. Whoever was on the other end of the line just might be Emma Adamson’s missing husband or kidnapper, depending on how it all went down. How many other men in rural north Georgia would have that strong of an Australian accent?
“Yeah.”
“I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“You could say that.”
“You’ve pretty much caused me to be a bit shorthanded with my crew.”
“Your crew is not so good at what they do. Maybe you ought to start over and think about not hiring a bunch of little boys this time.”
“That’s the reason I called. I like your style. I want you to work for me.” The man’s voice sounded cultured, well educated, self-confident. “Will you come up here and talk to me about it?”
“I’m just supposed to trust you, believe everything you say? Just like that? Don’t think so. I’m not stupid. I don’t even know your name. You sent your goons after me, not once but twice. I don’t think we have much else to talk about.”
“My name is Barrett Wilson. I do mean it about the job offer. I need a man like you.”
“For what?”
“For personal bodyguard duties. And for various and sundry other jobs, as well. Can’t be too careful in my line of work.”
“What line of work?”
“Come up to my place tomorrow. Meet me in person. Wear your weapon, if you like. Nobody will molest you. I just want to show you around my compound. Tell you about the job. See if you’re interested.”
“Your guy, Sandy? He called me up and threatened some girl who was up there at the Triangle tonight. I don’t like that kind of thing. I don’t like guys who slap girls around.”
“I told him to let her go. She is quite well and probably on her way home as we speak. So come back up here tomorrow. Check us out. I think you’ll find the compound a good place to work. I’ll pay you what you’re worth. No worries about that.”
Novak considered his next move. He wasn’t expecting this development. A job offer? What the hell? On the other hand, this was what he’d been waiting for. A way to get inside the organization. See what they were really doing on that compound, and their personal invitation to do so would make it easy. Sometimes that kind of gamble worked out for Novak; sometimes it didn’t. Mariah had complicated the whole operation big time, and he’d find out soon enough if she was on her way back. She had made a stupid move and nearly ruined his plans and almost gotten herself killed because of her own stupid recklessness.
“Doing what?”
“Like I said, protecting me and mine. My family m
eans everything to me.”
If Barrett Wilson really was Robin Adamson, maybe he did have Emma and Ryan up there with him. Maybe his plan all along was to perpetrate a disappearance, a complicated hoax to escape Australian authorities or back taxes, or whatever the hell he was running from, and to keep the wife he loved but who wanted out of the marriage. Run to another country where he could continue to sell her artwork for triple its value. It made some sense to Novak. “Once I make sure that girl named Mariah gets out okay, then, and only then, I might think about it.”
“No problem. We don’t want her. I just want to talk to you in person. Show you around. That was my wish all along.”
“Where are you?”
“At the moment, I’m at home. I do appreciate your talking to me at this late hour. I run a hunting outfit and gun range up north of the Triangle Club. Quite a large outfit. Come up here tomorrow, check us out. It’s all quite legitimate. I need good men who can take care of themselves and protect my family. The people from these parts don’t measure up to the kind of help I need.”
“Yeah? No joke.”
“Come up in the morning. Nothing will happen to you, I promise you that. Just take a look around and then it’s strictly up to you if you want to sign on.”
“The girl goes free. Then I might think about it. Like I just told you.”
“So, you do know her.”
Novak considered his options a moment. He wanted Mariah out of their hands and out of Sikeston, or she would continue to be a thorn in his side. He didn’t want to care what happened to her after the stunt she pulled on him earlier that night, but he didn’t want her harmed, either. She was family, whether he liked it or not. And he didn’t like it. But Sarah wouldn’t want him to let anybody hurt her. And maybe, just maybe, Mariah had been taught a lesson, and for once in her life, maybe she’d heed it.
“I picked her up on the road. Somewhere around Montgomery, Alabama. Hitchhiking. Didn’t she tell you that?”
“She won’t say anything.”
“Nothing to say. So listen up. If she gets back tonight, unhurt, safe and sound, then I will consider coming up to your place. But she better be okay, or I’ll come up and make sure you regret any harm done to her. Got that? I don’t like threats.”
“Yes, I noticed that. All right, you’ll see. She’s just fine. So I can expect you to visit here tomorrow. What time?”
“Whenever I feel like it.”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to hear. Good night, Mr. Novak.”
The line clicked off. Novak punched off at his end. Going up there again was a gamble. They might just want to get him on their turf and then kill him, but his gut told him otherwise. This guy, and it most likely was Adamson, needed somebody who could hold his own, and he sure as hell didn’t have any men who could, not if what Novak had seen were his best. It would be worth it to find out. Especially if Mariah was out of the picture.
At sixteen minutes after three o’clock in the morning, a car screeched to a stop outside his window. He eased back the edge of the drapes. Outside, a car door opened and Mariah was roughly shoved out onto the pavement. She stumbled and fell on her hands and knees, and then the car took off. She pushed herself up to her feet, and slowly stumbled off toward her room. The car squealed around the corner of the building and sped away into the night. Novak breathed easier. At least she was still alive and could walk under her own power. And she should count her blessings that they actually let her go without inflicting serious injury. He had a feeling that not many people who crossed this guy, Barrett Wilson, or Robin Adamson, or whatever the hell his real name was, walked away in one piece. Ditto with Sandy Boyer.
Moments later, there was a tap on the connecting door. He switched on the table lamp and opened it. Mariah stared up at him, her mascara smeared under her eyes, hair disheveled, and looking pretty damned hangdog and guilty. There were bruises beginning to form on her upper arms.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to hear it. You could have gotten us both killed tonight. We’re lucky they even let you go. Right now, I’m washing my hands of you. Got that? I am going up there to meet with them tomorrow because now I think it’s highly likely that they do have Emma and her kid up there. If she is, I’m going to find her and get her out. This is the last time I’m going to say this. You stay away from there. You stay away from me. If you do that, I just might be able to get your friend back alive. You are out of this, starting right now. Go back to Bonne Terre and hide out there and wait for me. Do you understand me, Mariah?”
Mariah nodded and looked miserable and ashamed. It was a look he never could remember seeing before. Novak shut the door in her face and pushed chairs up against both doorknobs and lay down on the bed. He was asleep in minutes.
Chapter Fourteen
When Novak woke the next morning, Mariah was long gone. It looked like she had gotten up early, packed, and maybe even checked out of the motel without a word to Novak. He had no idea where she had gone. Home, he hoped. He could contact her later, when and if he got Emma out. That’s when he’d need Mariah’s help, and the only time. Novak wasn’t sure if what Mariah had done was good or bad or just plain dangerous. He hoped for the former. Maybe she had finally decided to rent a car and return to Bonne Terre and then wait there as he had instructed. Just so she stayed away from him and didn’t interfere with what he was planning to do. That was what mattered.
Novak took a quick shower, dressed, pulled on his jacket, armed himself, waited long enough to get breakfast at a pancake place so as not to appear too eager, and then took off for the specified gun range. Now he was really interested in these guys and what the hell they were doing inside that heavily guarded compound. He had covertly infiltrated places before as a new employee, and every time he’d done it, the people inside had been up to no good.
Novak found the gun range about six miles north of the turnoff to the Triangle Club, a bit farther up Bear Creek Road. Mariah had not shown up by the time he drove out of the Avalon Motor Court’s parking lot. A change for the better. Probably had enough of being jerked around by the tough guys to last her awhile. Couldn’t say he blamed her, but he wanted to meet Barrett Wilson face-to-face, scope him out, see what he looked like and where he was coming from. See if he matched the photo of Emma’s long-lost, supposedly dead husband, who might just be alive and hiding in the rugged Georgia mountains. Or maybe he would turn out to be nothing but a small town crook named Wilson with his own little band of armed and incompetent flunkies who didn’t have a clue who Emma Adamson was.
So far, Novak had not been impressed. He was eager to case out the place and find out how many guards he would have to contend with. Unlike the Triangle Club, there were signs all along Bear Creek Road that advertised the Shoot Club and gave directions to its location as well as what he assumed was its sister business, a place called the Hunt Club. All three together equaled a triad of male entertainment. These guys wanted to make sure the men inhabiting the wilds of northeast Georgia were happy.
The place stood in sight of the highway, off to the left, unlike the Triangle, which had been hidden inside some deep woods. At first glance, it appeared that plenty of people in the area were gun enthusiasts. There were pickups sitting around galore and every other kind of vehicle imaginable lined up in the graveled parking lot. Maybe all these customers spent their daylight hours at the Shoot and Hunt Clubs and enjoyed evenings at the Triangle Club. Too bad for their wives and children.
There was one open-air, covered shooting pavilion that stretched for about fifty or sixty yards along a ridge above the parking lot. About twenty stations, it looked like, each provided with a so-called weapons expert to teach the newbies how to kill things. That was also reported as a distinct plus by all the signs along the road. Somehow Novak thought the expert part just might be an over-exaggeration. If the instructors up there were anything like the four guys Novak had already met, they weren’t expert at anything except Thug 101 and how to be
taken down fast and easy and in ten seconds or less.
Novak pulled his truck in near the exit road and parked headed out again, just in case. He didn’t trust anybody within a fifty-mile radius of that parking lot. Not yet, anyway. He got out and headed down a dirt path that led up a small rise to the Shoot Club’s office. It was located at the front of a large prefab gray building with glass windows stretching all across the front. There was a café of sorts on the left side of the door. According to the sign painted at the entrance, it proudly sold booze twenty-four/seven. Not too smart was that. Not at a gun range.
Inside the office building, six men were sitting in pairs in black vinyl booths that hugged the big plate glass windows. All of them were dressed pretty much like clueless New York male models, attempting to portray duck hunters on the cover of a Cabela’s catalog. Plaid flannel shirts, thick tan canvas utility pants, matching utility jackets or game vests, all probably Christmas gifts from equally yuppie wives. Not much camo. Maybe this was a school for beginning shooters or adolescent males who playacted at being tough and possessing hunting skills. He could hear no gunshots yet. Very quiet. Maybe they had to take their lessons first.
Inside the building, everything appeared clean enough, and lots of conversation buzzed among the men with occasional bursts of laughter. A young waitress was busy flirting with the guys in one booth. They appeared to be enjoying the attention. Nobody seemed to notice when Novak walked inside, always a good sign. He walked across the room to the back wall on the extreme right side of the building, where a little guy, one who looked a lot like an undernourished ten-year-old weakling, sat behind a long red laminate counter. He wore glasses with black rims like guys did in the 1960s, and every article of clothing was dusty green camo. Every single thing he had on. Probably even his underwear matched. He was talking on a red wall telephone. The old-fashioned kind with a long curly cord. The way he watched Novak approach made Novak fairly certain that the kid had jumped to obey his direct orders from the boss man and instantly relayed the following message: Target has arrived. Round up flunkies. Come quick, loaded for bear.