by KB Winters
“We're a no-tell motel, man. You know that,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I don't take much info on my customers for a reason—”
“She paid with a card. You have that on file, don't you?”
Jerry scratched his head as he thought about it. “I can probably give you her name, that's about it. Not like I keep detailed records or shit, and the card company keeps the info under wraps. Nothing I can do about that.”
“I know that,” I said. “Can you at least give me a last name?”
Sadly, I didn't know that much about her. Getting the last name from Jerry, while not solving all my problems, was a start.
“Sure, let me pull that up.” He was typing into a computer that looked like it should have been replaced thirty years ago. “Ahh, here she is. Isabelle, right?”
“Yes.”
“Isabelle Peters. That's the name on the card and the name she checked in under.”
“And there's no address? Nothing?” I asked, knowing the answer but hoping to be proven wrong.
“Nope,” Jerry said, throwing his hands up. “Sorry about tha—”
I was already out the door before I heard anything else. Isabelle Peters. I sighed as I climbed onto my bike—why couldn't she have had a more obscure name? Why something so common? That was going to be like looking for a needle in the damn haystack.
There was one last place I could check before I had no choice but to drop myself down the rabbit hole and start searching the vast Internet for any trace of her. One last place. One last chance. I sped over to the shop where she’d left her. I pulled into the lot and hurried into the office and found Dave helping someone at the front counter.
As soon as he saw me, a look of near panic crossed his face. Like most of the people in Milling, Dave knew my reputation, he knew what I was. I made it a practice to never hurt innocent people, but not everyone knew that about me. They just assumed I hurt people indiscriminately because I thought it was fun. So, Dave was either worried about that—or he had something to hide. And the look on my face probably wasn't helping set his mind at ease, either.
After a couple of minutes, I grew tired of waiting. I needed answers, and I didn't have the time to stand around while he talked to old man Roberts through the finer points of a fucking oil change. I moved around the older man he was helping and stood at the counter, staring down at the pimply-faced young man. He looked at me and swallowed hard.
“Give me Isabelle Peter's home address,” I said. He looked at the man in front of him, then back at me. “Now,” I added.
“I can't—”
“Yes, you can and you will,” I said. I narrowed my gaze on him as I cracked my knuckles to emphasize my point.
“Let me finish—”
“No, I said now.”
Old man Roberts watched this unfold without saying a word. He was a small man, but I’d heard he’d lived here all his life. He had a friendly smile as he turned to Dave.
“It's okay. Help this young man instead,” he said. “Seems like he's in a hurry.”
I nodded a thanks to the old man who smiled back at me. Dave went over to the computer and started typing.
“You didn't, by chance, give this info to anyone else, did you?”
“No, I don't give out personal information. Not willingly,” he grumbled.
“Then why are you doing it now?” I asked.
“Because you scare the shit out of me, Jameson. I know what you and your guys do around here.”
“We clean up Milling.”
“If that's what you want to call it, sure . . .” he mumbled.
I wasn't here to argue with the man. I needed the information, and I needed it now. Dave wrote something down for me.
“This is what she gave for her home address because we wouldn't take the motel one. Not sure if it's correct or not—”
I grabbed the paper he was writing on.
It was an address in Palm Springs. She seemed like the type of woman from Palm Springs. As I stared at the address, I could believe it. All rich and snooty and wearing designer clothing. Yeah, she'd blend in with that crowd just fine.
“Thanks, man,” I said, turning and walking out.
There was no time to waste. I could only hope Scott and these amateurs took Isabelle back to Palm Springs instead of somewhere else—like out into the middle of the desert. If they weren't in Palm Springs, my work would be cut out for me. But at least I had somewhere to start.
Chapter Fifteen
Isabelle
“Let me go,” I screeched, struggling against the restraints that held me tight. I was on the floor of a van. We were traveling fast over a smooth road judging from the way I was bouncing up and down.
“Did you really think you could leave me, Isabelle?” Scott sneered, kneeling so close to me I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and it made me sick. “Did you think I'd just let you walk away from our life? After everything I've done for you? Everything I've given you? You think you can just walk away like that? I own you, you ungrateful little slut.”
I spat, covering Scott's face with my saliva. A dark look crossed his face—one I knew all too well. He pulled his hand back and smacked me across the face. Hard. My head rocked back from the force of the blow, and for a second, I feared I might black out. I was definitely seeing stars and felt dizzy after taking the shot across the face.
“You can hold me hostage, keep me tied up here for all eternity,” I said, gritting my teeth and wincing at the pain in my face, “but you can't make me love you. Ever.”
“No, I can't make you love me, but I can make sure you never love another man,” he said.
A malevolent grin touched his face as he reached for something at his feet. A plastic bag that he wrapped around my head, pulling it tight. For a moment, I thought this was it. I couldn't breathe, I was fighting hard against it, but I couldn't get my hands free to help myself. The bag was tight around my face, and I wasn't able to draw a breath. My lungs were burning and waves of dizziness washed over me. I was going to die. He was going to suffocate me right there in the van.
Though muffled, I heard yelling. It sounded as if it was a million miles away, but I knew it was one of the other men who'd taken me. Scott loosened his grip on the bag and fresh air filtered in. Grateful, I sucked in big breaths, trying to fill my lungs. My head was still swimming, and I felt like I was on the verge of passing out.
“We didn't agree to being involved with murder,” the man said.
“Stop being such a pussy,” Scott said. “I'm not going to kill her. Not yet, anyway.”
There was more yelling. I couldn't make out the words as my world still threatened to go dark, but just as I felt my consciousness slipping away, the bag was yanked free from my head. Not by Scott, but by one of the other men.
“Looks like you almost killed her to me,” the man said.
Scott glared at him, pure contempt in his eyes. It was a look I'd seen countless times when he was about ready to snap. I expected the full brunt of his brutality and prepared myself for more torture—but it wasn't me his anger was directed at this time.
Scott got to his feet in the moving van, shoving the other man hard enough that he fell against the door with a loud thud. I expected him to fall right through it and onto the highway outside, but the door held.
The driver yelled back, “What the hell is going on back there?”
But before either man could answer, Scott pulled out a gun. He aimed it at the other man's head.
“No one is going to stop me from taking care of my business the way I need to,” Scott said, holding onto a strap for balance as the van sped on its course. The windows were blacked out and I had no sense of where we were or even time. How long had I been out?
“You work for me, remember?” Scott was still barking at the guy. “I'm the boss, not you. I decide who lives or dies, not you fucking amateurs. This is my show, so your ass better fall into line.”
“We agreed to kidnapping your girl
and getting her back to you, that's it,” the man said. “Nothing else.”
“And what the fuck did you think that would look like, Neil? Huh?”
Neil. I remembered Neil. Or at least hearing about him. He was one of Scott’s employees. An up and comer with the company, according to Scott. Not that I knew what Neil actually did for the business. Hell, I could hardly explain what Scott did. He kept it all hush-hush. Said it didn't concern me, and I should keep my nose out of it. He’d told me repeatedly that his work wasn't a woman's business, he made the money and that's all that mattered. I just needed to shut up, look pretty, and do whatever he said when he told me to do it.
Apparently, he had the same sort of relationship with his employees. Probably with quite a bit less smacking around, though.
“I didn't think it would look like this,” he said.
“Because you're fucking amateurs,” Scott said. “I was stupid to think you could help me with this.”
“Maybe you should have done it alone,” Neil said, being braver than I would’ve been with a gun pointed at my face. Neil had slumped onto a packing box of some kind.
“Yeah, maybe so,” Scott said, pulling back the hammer on the gun. “Maybe so.”
I closed my eyes, bracing myself for a shot. But it never came. When I opened my eyes again, Scott laughed.
“I'm not an amateur,” he said, grinning like a madman. “You don't shoot a gun like this in an enclosed space.”
Neil got lucky, I thought. It's his lucky day.
Of course, I didn't think I'd be that lucky for much longer.
Chapter Sixteen
Jameson
I rode into Palm Springs a couple hours after getting the address from Dave. Provided that’s where Scott and his stooges were taking Isabelle, they couldn't have gotten there very long before I had. They couldn't have had much of a head start, and I'd ridden as fast as I dared.
My head was pounding, and my face felt like it was swelling up after the beating they'd given me, but I simply gritted my teeth and sucked it up. I had bigger things to worry about than my own bumps and bruises—Isabelle's life was at stake.
I pulled my bike into a gas station to fill up and get something to drink. Walking into the small station, the guy behind the counter did a double take when he saw my battered face.
“Take a spill out there?” he asked.
“Nah,” I said. “Made the mistake of telling the wife her jeans made her ass look fat.”
The kid laughed and shook his head. I couldn't hide my face, but I didn't need to tell him my business. I grabbed some aspirin and a bottle of Coke, and brought them up to the counter. When he got a closer look at me, the kid winced.
“Looks like it hurts like hell,” he said.
I shrugged. “Then it looks pretty much exactly how it feels.”
“Sorry, man,” he said.
I shrugged again. “Shit happens.”
I paid for my things and walked out to my bike. It was ticking as the engine cooled. I took off the cap and stuck the nozzle into the tank, letting it fill. Tearing open the packet of aspirin, I popped them in my mouth and washed them down with a long swig of cold soda.
I needed a plan. Rolling up to her old man’s house, knocking on the door, and asking him to let Isabelle leave with me wasn't going to work. I had a gun in the saddle bag on my bike, but all three of those clowns were strapped, so I was outgunned. Of course, being that they were rank amateurs, it might not be as big of a disadvantage as I expected. I might still be able to get the drop on them.
But I needed to get to Scott's house without being noticed. My bike was loud, and they'd likely hear me coming if I just rolled down his street. I reached for my phone and punched in the address Dave had given me, then pulled up the directions from the station.
It wasn't far. I felt the seconds ticking away as I stood there, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do and how I was going to do it. First things first. I needed to find this house and see if she was even there. For all I knew, they'd taken her out to the desert, shot her, and left her in a ditch somewhere.
I finished gassing up and climbed on. Before I took off, I put my cut into one of my saddlebags. No sense in advertising who I was. After securing my bag, I rode off and followed the directions I'd gotten off my phone. Fifteen minutes later I came upon the street I was looking for, but the last thing I wanted to do was ride down and have my hog announce my arrival. Instead, I parked on the next block over.
I slid off my bike and looked around. The street was quiet and full of big houses obviously owned by the well-off. In other words, a street I'd probably never be able to live on. I scanned the windows closely, watching for anybody who might be looking out at me.
The coast was clear so I opened my saddlebag. I took out a ball cap and put it on, pulling it low on my head—wincing as it rubbed against my wounds. After that, a pair of sunglasses to hide the bruising. I figured it was best to obscure my face as much as possible—a man who'd obviously taken a beating tended to stand out. And I wanted to be as unmemorable as possible.
After one last look around, I pulled the gun out of my bag and tucked it into my jeans at the small of my back, then yanked my shirt down over it. I turned and walked back down the street, my boots thumping hard on the pavement.
It was hot. Palm Springs always felt a lot hotter than Milling did, though the difference in temperature wasn't usually that great. Beads of sweat rolled down my back and my face—the salt from my sweat stinging the cuts on my face.
I turned the corner, faced the house and stopped. The black van I'd seen in the motel parking lot was there in the driveway. I looked closely but didn't see anybody behind the wheel. It had been pulled in so that the rear doors were facing the garage which made it easier for them to get Isabelle out of the van and into the house unseen by the neighbors.
The house was large and modern looking—all angles and glass. I thought it was pretty ugly, but then, I wasn't one of the upper crust, so my taste mattered for shit. Obviously, I wasn't as cultured or refined as these fuckers with money.
I strolled up to the house, keeping a careful eye on the windows around me. It was hard to look casual and like I fit in on a street like this—a guy like me tended to stand out. Everything on the street was still. Silent. The people who lived here were probably at their day jobs.
Careful to keep away from the front windows, I walked up the side of the driveway. I stayed close to the van so that if the motherfucker happened to look out, he wouldn't see me. I walked as quickly and quietly as I could to the rear of the van, noting, through the back windows that it was empty. Isabelle was either inside the house or—God, I didn't even want to think about the other possibility.
So, it came down to one thing—I had to get into the house. Going through the front door was out of the question. If I was going to save Isabelle, I needed to use the only advantage I had—the element of surprise. They didn't know I was coming—probably thought they'd gotten away scot free and that I had no idea how to find them. They obviously didn't know me. When I got my teeth into something, I was as determined as a pit bull with a bone.
I edged over to the gate beside the garage and peered over. Deserted. I strained my ears to listen and heard nothing coming from the backyard. Maybe luck was on my side. As quietly as I could, I opened the latch and let myself into the side yard, closing the gate behind me. I slowly made my way down the walk toward the backyard. Everything remained silent.
The walkway opened to an expansive backyard with a large swimming pool in the center. There was a pond in a garden area to my right that had waterfalls flowing into it. The pond was filled with multicolored fish—the kind I'd seen in ponds outside of this Japanese food place I'd been to once. I suppose it was nice to look at, but it served a more practical purpose for me—the sound of the waterfalls masked my footsteps.
I stepped up onto the wooden deck that led to the back doors, moving as quietly as I could. The back doors were
floor to ceiling windows and thankfully, there was nobody in the room immediately beyond them. But it led to another problem—how was I going to get in? I wasn't an expert at picking locks by any stretch of the imagination. I had a lot of skills, but that most definitely wasn't one of them.
I took a deep breath. One thing at a time.
I made it to the back doors without anybody coming out—my luck was still holding. Fingers crossed, I hoped for one more bit of luck. Reaching out, I grabbed the handle and turned it. It opened. I stared at it for a moment—my luck was never that good.
Thankfully, I was dealing with morons. That always helped.
Taking another deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Chapter Seventeen
Isabelle
“This is not what I signed up for,” Neil said.
Scott rolled his eyes and sighed. “I can't believe I hired such a pussy.”
I sat on the ground in the middle of the room, my hands still bound in front of me and a gag in my mouth. The three men—Neil, Scott, and a guy I didn't know—stood near the foot of the stairs. The two men wanted to leave, but Scott clearly felt the need for an audience.
“Look, man,” said the guy I didn't know. “Just give us the money you promised us to snatch her, and we're gone.”
“Yeah,” Neil agreed. “We don't want to be part of a murder here, man.”
“You're already a part of it,” Scott sneered. “Why not stay around for the money shot here?”
Neil shook his head. “We're not a part of it. We didn't do anything.”
“You helped me snatch the bitch,” he demanded. “At the very least, you're already an accessory.”
“I can't believe this,” said the other guy. “I can't fucking believe this.”
“You didn't tell us it was going down like this,” Neil said.
“What does it matter?” Scott screamed.
“It fucking matters a lot!” Neil shouted back. “You said you were going to scare her—”
Scott's bark of laughter was bitter. “She looks pretty fuckin' scared to me, don't you think?”