Going to work on his bonds, the Marine freed his hands first, then went to work on his feet, having moved the gun to his lap, just in case. He was nearly completely freed when he heard someone approaching from the rear. Grabbing the pistol, he whipped his head toward the sound and saw the earl approaching with yet another gun trained on him.
“Well, aren’t you the clever lad?” he mocked Spencer, moving slowly toward him, gun raised. “Somehow I knew that Kosta would screw this up eventually,” Wendell made a face. “Put the gun down, there’s a good lad,” he gestured with the pistol.
Spencer did as he asked, wanting him to move closer.
“Well, isn’t this quite the turn of events? Chas Beckett’s bad boy bodyguard is now my prisoner, what fun,” he sneered.
One foot closer, two feet closer. It was time for Spencer to make his move, before Kosta regained consciousness. He bent over at the waist, crying out as though he was in pain.
“Oh please,” Wendell Shropshire said, most derisively, moving closer and raising the gun.
He was prepared to bring the butt of the gun down on the back of the Marine’s head, when Spencer shot out a hand, grabbed him by the ankle, and pulled him from his feet, causing him to slam into the ground. He secured his gun hand, disarming the earl in seconds, and reached for the gun that he had dropped. The earl sat on the cold stone floor, rubbing the elbow that he had landed on, glaring up at Spencer, who had finished ripping through his bindings, and now stood towering over the two men who had been foolish enough to think that they could capture him.
“I’m going to tie him up first, then you, and you’re going to stay put and wait your turn,” the Marine instructed.
“I’ll do no such thing,” the pompous, pouting man snapped.
“Then I’ll shoot you,” Spencer replied reasonably.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Wendell Shropshire, Earl of Halsbury, glared at the Marine, stood up and brushed off his trousers, then rubbed his head.
“Last chance,” Spencer blinked at him matter-of-factly.
“Naff off,” the earl snarled contemptuously.
The Marine sighed, aimed, fired, and winced a bit at Wendell’s piercing scream as he went down, clutching at the wound in his thigh.
“You bloody well shot me,” the earl shrieked, lower lip trembling.
“Gonna do what you’re told now?” Spencer asked mildly, disappointed that the petulant nobleman had forced him to inflict harm.
Wendell was curled up in a writhing ball, hands wrapped around his thigh. He gave the Marine a dark look and said nothing.
“Well good, that’s settled then. Just realize, I won’t hesitate to shoot you in the other leg if you get in my way,” he warned. The earl turned his head away, white-faced and shaking.
Spencer moved quickly to Kosta, and trussed him up like a Thanksgiving turkey, securing his arms behind him, wrists and feet bound. Once the big man was taken care of, he performed the same task, though more gingerly, on Wendell, who shook the whole time and glared at him with pain-glazed eyes. Just as Spencer finished up with the earl, Kosta began to stir. Perfect timing. He dragged Wendell across the room with him, the poor chap howling and wailing, and sat in the chair that the big man had occupied while he was standing guard.
Kosta opened his eyes, found himself bound, and glanced around the room, eyes dark with anger.
“Morning, sunshine,” Spencer said pithily.
His former captor glared at him, saying nothing.
“I’m so glad that you could join us,” the Marine continued conversationally. “I want to know everything that you know about Hannah Folsom and Beckett Holdings’ unusual transactions over the last couple of months,” he locked eyes with Kosta.
“Untie me and we’ll have a little chat,” he challenged, unsmiling.
“Start talking or your boss gets it,” Spencer said quietly, grabbing a handful of Wendell’s hair. The man writhed at his feet, crying out in pain when the Marine pulled.
“Go ahead, save me the trouble,” Kosta surprised him by saying.
Spencer raised an eyebrow, and placed the gun to the earl’s temple, holding the gaze of the bound man in front of him. “You’re planning to kill your boss?”
“He’s of no use to me anymore. I scraped and served the weasel for years until I could use his contacts to set myself up. I don’t need him now. Kill him, I don’t care,” Kosta growled.
“You traitorous wretch,” Wendell blubbered, glaring at his servant.
“You’re pathetic,” Kosta snarled, glaring at the earl and ignoring Spencer completely. “You gambled away and spent the entire fortune that your father left. You destroyed the institutions that your family built centuries ago, and you tarnished the Shropshire legacy. You’re weak and worthless, and I lost all respect for you a long time ago. If you’d just kept the family businesses going…. Your father took care of my family, and he would’ve taken care of me, too, put me in charge of something important… but instead I got stuck with you—a pathetic, spineless, irresponsible excuse for a human being.”
“You won’t survive without me,” Wendell shot back, teeth gritted against the pain.
Spencer, watching the exchange, fully realized that the Earl of Shropshire had nothing to do with whatever was going on with Beckett Holdings and the death of Hannah Folsom. He released the gummy strands of the earl’s nearly colorless hair and trained the gun on Kosta.
“Start talking,” he cocked the pistol, his eyes dead serious.
“Go ahead, kill me you fool. You’re too late. Right now the same man who killed the nosy reporter is holding Chas Beckett as a hostage. That rich cop will be giving us all of his money, or he’ll die and I’ll get it from the old man. My guy didn’t get him last time, but he won’t make that mistake again,” Kosta smirked.
Several things dawned on Spencer simultaneously. First, the man in front of him was lying about having Chas as a hostage, his body language and eye movements were a dead giveaway, but more importantly, he was not lying about Chalmers. Kosta’s associate in the US had poisoned the elderly man. His chest tightened as he realized that he was face to face with the man who ordered the attempt on the overseer’s life, and would most likely be trying to kill Chas as well.
“Who is it?” Spencer asked, his voice calm, despite the storm that raged within. “And where is he?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Kosta didn’t flinch.
“How fond are you… of your kneecaps?” the Marine asked, taking aim.
“Go ahead,” there was that smirk again. “The kind of money that I’ll be making once the drug trade can be expanded within Beckett Holdings, will buy a whole lot of knee replacements.”
Spencer’s jaw tightened and the earl screamed.
“No! I know he deserves it, but stop with the shooting. I can’t take it,” he wailed, putting his hands over his ears. “The guy he’s talking about is named Sepian. I saw it when I scrolled through his phone. All the information that you need is in there,” he blurted, hysterical. “And please, won’t you let me go, now that you know what you need to know? I didn’t do anything… he’s the evil one, the traitor. I’m innocent,” he begged.
Spencer looked at Kosta.
“He doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about. I talk to Sepian a great deal because he’s my brother’s friend,” he shrugged casually. “And I wouldn’t have had any information if it hadn’t been for Wendell keeping company with your drunk brother in Monaco. The earl is the one who found out everything about how Beckett Holdings works,” he glared at his boss.
Again, when Kosta was denying that Sepian was the killer, he was lying, but when he spoke about Wendell and Reggie’s trip to Monaco, he wasn’t.
“Where’s his phone?” the Marine asked Wendell.
“He… he always keeps it in his back pocket,” the earl confided, sounding scared.
Spencer glanced over and saw Kosta trying to roll over onto his back in an effort to smash the phone in his back pocket,
but because his hands were tied behind him, he couldn’t. The Marine kept the gun aimed at his former captor, and secured his right thigh in place by stepping on it, while Kosta flopped and thrashed like a fish out of water. Gun in one hand, Spencer reached down with the other and slipped the thin black cellphone out of the servant’s pocket.
All three men looked up in surprise when someone else entered the dungeon, trotting down the stairs almost cheerfully.
“Bout time,” Spencer remarked, relaxing when the hatchet-faced man strode confidently into the room.
Janssen was also employed by Chalmers as security for the Becketts. He’d served with Spencer in Afghanistan, but hadn’t been able to assimilate back into real life upon his return. The war-toughened young veteran lived off of the land, and was used by Chalmers mainly for gathering intelligence and as backup for Spencer. He was glad to be in a low-profile position that required little human contact, but could rise to any occasion when asked. Every member of the elite security force that guarded the Beckett family and its business interests had to be able to protect their charges in the worst kinds of conditions and also to meld normally into very high-profile social situations. Janssen’s scarred features made the second requirement a bit more challenging, but he managed nonetheless.
“Had to wait for the jet to get back,” he shrugged nonchalantly, taking in the current situation in an instant.
“Oh gosh, he’s going to kill us,” the earl moaned. “He’s going to kill us all…”
“Maybe,” Janssen grinned wickedly.
Spencer navigated through Kosta’s phone and tapped out a text message to Sepian.
“Do you have him?” he texted.
The room was oddly silent while he awaited a response, which came in seconds later. Janssen read it over Spencer’s shoulder.
“Soon.”
“Lemme guess… I’m babysitting,” he sighed, glaring at the two men on the floor.
Spencer nodded. “Just until our cleanup guys arrive. I’ll be in New York; hopefully, I’m not too late,” he replied, pocketing Kosta’s phone and heading up the stairs. “You know what to do if they give you any trouble,” he tossed over his shoulder on the way out.
Janssen chuckled ominously. “I sure do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Chas tossed restlessly in his childhood bed. He’d wanted to go to a hotel, but Chalmers had gently but firmly insisted that he remain at the estate until matters were resolved, so he reluctantly acquiesced and had gone to his room in the private wing of the estate. The furnishings, linens, and art had been updated in a timeless, elegant style, and his suitcases had been unpacked, their contents resting handsomely in a custom closet.
Even in the updated quarters, Chas was struck by a serious case of déjà vu, and memories from his youth and childhood had him staring blankly out the window at the pool and gardens below. He’d had to use the thumbprint identifier in the hall to enter, and a duo of security agents had checked the room ahead of him for unwanted guests. The detective was fairly certain that there was another expensively suited and heavily armed guard stationed in the hall, and while he felt incredibly safe, he wondered if this degree of security was actually necessary.
Chas Beckett knew that his father had kept company with heads of state and barons of industry, but he was beginning to wonder what other organizations the dignified Mr. Beckett had been involved with as well. There were clearly covert operations happening all over the world that the unflappable Chalmers directed. He sighed inwardly, thinking that it was probably best that he didn’t know precisely what circumstances occurred under the Beckett Holdings umbrella, not because he thought that anything dishonorable was happening, but rather that he’d likely want to be involved.
Hanging his suit over a chair for a staff member to take to the dry cleaner’s in the morning, Chas pulled on a pair of lounge pants, and headed for the bathroom to brush his teeth. He had a strange feeling that something was afoot. He couldn’t pinpoint what that might be, so he passed it off as latent stress and went about his business. As he brushed his teeth, he thought he heard some sort of sound behind him. He stopped brushing, cocking his head toward the bathroom door curiously. There was a small click in the vicinity of the door knob, and he spit out the mouthful of toothpaste, put down his toothbrush on the edge of the sink and walked silently toward the door, his bare feet not making a sound on the cool tile.
Putting his ear to the crack of the door, the detective heard a sliding sound, and a brief rattle at the knob. He hadn’t locked the bathroom door, because he’d been alone in his room, but when he tried to slowly turn the knob, it wouldn’t budge. He knew instantly that the door had been wedged shut, and realized that he’d left his cell phone on the nightstand. A voice behind him clued him in to why someone had barricaded the door, and he wondered what had happened to the guard in the hall.
“You might want to rinse. It’s not good for your teeth to leave that in your mouth,” a heavily accented voice remarked blithely.
Chas turned slowly toward the man who had entered through the window while the detective had been busy at the door.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked quietly, feeling no compulsion to escalate a situation which included him standing in his bare feet and lounge pants, while an olive-skinned man he’d never seen before held him at gunpoint.
“Charles Beckett, for perhaps the first time in your life, you are not in charge, and you don’t ask the questions,” the man replied with an almost professional disinterest.
Chas didn’t show it, but he was alarmed when he heard what sounded like a helicopter in the distance. He only hoped that the chopper would be manned by friend rather than foe.
“The polite thing to do would be to allow you to put your clothes and some shoes on, but there’s no reason for me to be polite, so you’re going to have to come along with me just as you are,” the man smiled nastily.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Chas replied, hoping that Chalmers would send someone soon.
The man chambered a round in his weapon. “I beg to differ.”
The detective was allowed to move about unrestrained, but was blindfolded with a heavy black cloth. He was forced, at gunpoint, to climb out of the third story bathroom window, and go down a ladder which had been placed beneath it. Once on the ground, he was grabbed by both arms and herded to the helicopter that had just landed. After a series of sickening swoops and turns, the bird landed and Chas was rushed across asphalt, tiny rocks sticking to the tender soles of his feet, and shoved into what was obviously the back seat of a compact car.
“You won’t get away with this, you know,” he promised.
“You’re in no position to make threats,” was the clipped reply.
It seemed like hours before the car finally stopped, and when it did, Chas was summarily thrown out of it, tumbling to pavement that was strewn with broken glass that cut his hands and knees, and sent searing pain through his feet when he stood. He hobbled along, being pushed by unseen hands, into a building that was large and empty, judging by the sound of the echoes created by footsteps. Chas estimated that two men had joined the first man, which meant that it was three against one, and he was blindfolded.
The detective was roughly thrown to the ground, and shoved into a sitting position with his back against a thick metal pole. He could feel the coolness of the metal, and could smell its rust. The floor under his cut and bleeding feet was rough, like poorly finished concrete, and he guessed that he was in a large garage, or some sort of industrial building.
Chas’s hands were tied behind him, wrapped around the pole, and his blindfold tightened.
An order was given.
“Stay here. Watch him,” the man who had held him at gunpoint ordered. “When I call, eliminate him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Missy listened to Chas’s phone ring, until yet again, her call went to voicemail. Something was wrong, it had to be. She frowned and tapped the e
nd button on her phone after leaving her fourth message of the evening. She couldn’t sit still, and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she heard from her beloved husband, so of course, she started baking.
Trying to cheer herself up, she made several different colors of fruit-flavored cupcakes, and decorated them to look like flowers. There were lemon, orange, lime, strawberry, cherry, chocolate, and even caramel apple cupcakes in every color of the rainbow and she arranged them in cheerful bouquets. Chas brought her flowers at least once a week, and the lovely, colorful cupcakes served as a poignant reminder that she still hadn’t heard from the detective. She sat down at the kitchen counter and held her head in her hands, tears slipping slowly down her cheeks. She’d never felt so helpless in her life, and all the cupcakes in the world weren’t going to change that.
Missy nearly jumped out of her chair when the phone rang. It was well past midnight, it had to be Chas.
“Hello?” she gasped, not bothering to look at the caller ID.
“I knew you’d be up,” Echo said softly. “I can’t sleep. Can I come over?”
Hope deflated in Missy, making her feel like an empty balloon.
“Of course,” she whispered, her disappointment weighing heavily upon her.
“Get some vegan cupcakes out, I’ll be there in a few,” Echo promised.
When Echo arrived, she didn’t say a word, but just wrapped her friend in a soothing hug while she cried.
“Still haven’t heard from him?” she whispered.
“No,” Missy shook her head, wiping her nose with a tissue. “I just feel so helpless, being so far away.”
“Was he staying at a hotel?”
“No, Chalmers convinced him to stay at the estate.”
“Then you should call in a wellness check,” Echo said decisively.
“A… what?” Missy frowned, befuddled.
“A wellness check. It’s where you call the local police and tell them that you’re worried about your husband’s well-being, and they go over and talk to him to make sure he’s okay,” she explained. “I had a boyfriend who was depressed, a long time ago, and I did that a couple of times for him.”
Boston Cream Killer: Book 8 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series Page 11