Dirtiest Secret

by J. Kenner

  When he'd recruited for Deliverance, Dallas had told his team the truth. They needed to understand the purpose, after all. Besides, each man had his own reason for being dedicated to Deliverance and its mission. More important, Dallas knew he could trust them.

  But even they knew only about the kidnapping. They didn't know the worst of what happened inside those dank, locked rooms. Hell, not even Jane knew the worst of it, and she'd been in the dark with him.

  "Not street gossip," Liam confirmed. "Our target's name is Silas Ortega. He was the sixth, and he's got a rep for doing pretty much anything if the pay is right. He's also got a rep for keeping his mouth shut, but I guess the thrill of bragging about how he screwed over the great Eli Sykes was just too much even for him. He told someone, and Mueller got wind."

  "And he traded that intel to us."

  "You could say that," Liam said.

  A thin smile touched his lips, but Dallas didn't press. He didn't need to hear what Quince had done to Mueller in order to extract the intel. Every member of Deliverance did what they had to do. Hell, the group was named for its mission to fuck the bad guys in the ass.

  "And check this out," Liam added, a hint of excitement coloring his businesslike presentation. "Mueller said Ortega would have known who he was working for. Said he isn't the kind of asshole who works for a voice with a bank account. He's loyal and he's brutal and he's damn effective, but he only works for people he knows."

  Hope curled in Dallas's gut. Not soft, but as hard and as harsh as the bastard he was chasing. The bastard who Ortega could identify. "And Ortega's in Argentina?"

  "He owns a vineyard there. Security's intense, but Quince is on it, and Noah's providing support from the States."

  "And Antonio?" Dallas asked, referring to the fifth and final member of Deliverance.

  "Wrapping things up in China."

  Dallas nodded as he considered the options. "Move in at the first opportunity. Grab Ortega and get Quince working him. Eventually, we'll want to get him across the border to Valparaiso. We can smuggle him out on a cargo ship." Deliverance had solid connections in the Chilean port city.

  "Already on it. Looks like the Minerva's scheduled to arrive soon," he said, referring to a freighter they'd hired before. "I'll let you know when--oh, hell. Hang on."

  "What?"

  "Give me a second," Liam said with unmistakable irritation.

  He clicked the call to mute, leaving Dallas frustrated but not concerned. Most likely Antonio was reporting in. Or maybe Noah and Quince had learned something about Ortega's compound. Whatever it was, Liam would handle it. Quickly. Efficiently.

  Dallas stepped back inside, paying no attention to the women still on the bed. Instead, he moved the other direction, crossing to the polished mahogany bookcase, one shelf of which doubled as a bar. He put down the phone as he poured himself a fresh glass of scotch, then forced himself to not give in to the voice in his head that was telling him that this was it. That the chase was almost over.

  He closed his eyes and let the scattered memories of the last seventeen years roll over him.

  They'd been close to finding the Jailer before. Five times, actually. It had taken years, but they'd managed to track the other five kidnappers, and each time, Dallas had hoped that he would get a solid lead on the son of a bitch who'd masterminded his kidnapping.

  But each lead had proved useless. Two had died before the team even identified them, one of cancer and the other during a prison fight. Another shot himself in the head rather than let himself get captured. The other two had been hired by the cancer victim, and neither one knew a damn thing about the Jailer or the Woman. They'd provided a few tidbits of intel about their three dead co-conspirators, but so far that intel had led nowhere. And they'd known nothing about the sixth.

  Now it looked like Deliverance had a real shot at finding number six. But Dallas knew only too well that it could all go wrong. And if this lead crapped out, too, then the odds of finding out who had taken him and Jane dwindled to almost zero.

  Fuck.

  Dallas slammed back the scotch, then pressed his palms against the warm wood as he leaned forward, his head down as he let the whiskey burn through him. But there wasn't enough alcohol in the world to burn out his memories. Or his regrets.

  He sighed as he straightened, his gaze going automatically to one of the books on the shelf, just at eye level. Its white dust jacket was scuffed at the top and bottom of the spine, the result of being taken from and returned to the shelf almost daily.

  He pulled it out now and looked at the cover. A yellow school bus. Crime scene tape. The title spray-painted like graffiti across the bus--The Price of Ransom.

  And the author's name larger than life along the bottom: Jane Martin.

  He and Jane rarely saw each other alone anymore. For the last four months, she'd been living in LA, so their lack of contact made sense. But even when they were both in the same city, there were no dinners, no quick jaunts to lunch, and very few calls and texts. They still had a common circle, sure, but their encounters weren't frequent--or satisfying.

  Ever since the kidnapping, they'd kept their distance from each other. Emotionally and physically. He missed her--he missed her so damn much--but he also knew this was the best way. The only way.

  Apart, they were safe.

  Together, they were combustible.

  But that didn't mean he didn't see her, didn't keep tabs on where she was and what she was doing. And didn't he pull out this very book almost daily, turn it over in his hand, and trace his fingertips over her author photo? Didn't he turn on the television and watch the morning shows on which she was so often a guest, especially now that The Price of Ransom was the talk of Hollywood?

  The story was perfect for a book, and for a movie. Five third-graders kidnapped in their school bus. Missing over a month, and then almost killed when a rescue attempt by a group of incompetent mercenaries went horribly wrong.

  And no one suspected that the author was a kidnapping victim herself. That the empathy with which she wrote was utterly genuine.

  Not one interviewer asked if the project was personal to Jane. If it was catharsis. If it was therapy.

  But it was, of course.

  Dallas understood that, even if nobody else did.

  He understood something else, too. He knew Jane's face too well not to see it. The slightest tightening in her cheek when a reporter would talk about how, ultimately, the kids were ransomed.

  How they got their happy ending.

  Just thinking about it made Dallas want to laugh almost as much as it made him want to cry.

  The kids had survived, sure.

  So had Dallas and Jane.

  But that didn't make for a happy ending. Dallas knew that. Jane knew it.

  And he was sure those tortured little kids knew it, too.

  He started to reach once more for the scotch, and then purposefully pulled his hand away. The night had turned interesting, and he wanted a clear head, no matter how tempting it might be to wash away his thoughts of Jane.

  He left his glass on the bookshelf and turned back to face the room. As he did, he saw that the blonde had crept to the edge of the bed while the redhead had actually slipped off and was now walking toward him, her hips swaying provocatively.

  He fought the urge to tell them both to get dressed and go home, because right now, he really wasn't in the mood.

  But that didn't matter anymore. The Dallas Sykes he'd created was always in the mood. That was the illusion, after all.

  He held up a finger to stop the redhead's approach, then cocked his head in disapproval at her irritated expression. "Back on the bed," he said to her. "Your mouth. Her pussy."

  When she didn't obey immediately, he moved to stand in front of her. He heard her ragged, excited breathing, and the last of his reticence faded. He wanted this. Hell, he needed it.

  Not her, but her willingness. Her obedience.

  He slipped his hand between her legs and
thrust two fingers inside her. She moaned, a low, passionate sound that rumbled through him, satisfying that deep, primal need.

  "Now," he said. "Until I tell you to stop."

  She licked her lips, her eyes glassy with desire. Then she moved naked back to the bed and buried her face enthusiastically between the waiting blonde's legs.

  A trill of satisfaction cut through him, as he marveled at how eagerly she obeyed. How enthusiastically. They were in his control. As much as Mueller was. As much as the sixth kidnapper soon would be.

  "Sorry to interrupt your party," Liam said dryly, when Dallas had retrieved his phone and returned to the balcony.

  "Fuck you," he said amiably.

  "Appreciate the offer, man, but I think you've already got your hands full."

  Dallas almost laughed. Of all his friends, Liam was the one who most understood what Dallas did--and why. But although they'd been on the verge of celebrating just moments before, now the tide had shifted. Despite the attempt at levity, Dallas could hear the hard edge in Liam's voice. The frustration. Even defeat.

  He didn't want to ask, but he wasn't one to hide from bad news. "Tell me," he demanded.

  "Apparently our Mr. Ortega is on a lot of people's shit lists. Noah just confirmed that local officials are looking for him, along with Interpol and, quite possibly, the FBI."

  Dallas bit out a curse.

  "It gets worse," Liam continued. "Turns out he's been missing for the last thirty-six hours."

  "Someone else got to him first." The words were hard to get out past the tightness in his chest. All this time--all this work--and they missed the prize by just over a day? Fuck that.

  "And it's not hard to figure what card he'll play if he's trying to catch a deal."

  "Not hard at all," Dallas agreed. "Spill the beans about a Sykes kidnapping--say that he's certain one happened and that he can point to the man behind it--and Ortega will be some agency's goddamn hero with immunity and a pat on the back."

  Inside the bedroom, one of the women screamed in ecstasy.

  On the balcony, Dallas closed his eyes in anguish.

  He took a deep breath, then raked his fingers through his sex-mussed hair, trying to find some solution. Some magic fix. "If any one of those agencies finds out who the Jailer is before we do..."

  He didn't bother to finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

  For seventeen years, he'd been fantasizing about killing the motherfucker who'd taken him and Jane. He'd sweated. He'd planned. He'd researched and interviewed and wrangled and prayed. And when he'd had every piece in place, he'd started recruiting.

  Now Deliverance was in full swing, and at the height of its power. A lean, nimble machine. A goddamn thing of beauty that thrived in the shadows.

  Deliverance was about rescuing victims, yes. But it was also about justice. It was also about revenge. And everyone on the team knew that. There was no sugarcoating. No happy trappings of procedure and rules. Deliverance found the bad guys. And it did what was necessary to punish them and bring the victims home.

  If the government located the Jailer, it would prosecute.

  Deliverance, however, would execute.

  And no power on earth could talk Dallas out of that. He'd dreamed of the moment. Played it out in his mind over and over.

  The fantasy had sustained him during the long nights in the dark. During the endless hours when he'd been alone. When he'd been tormented. Shamed.

  When, ultimately, he'd been broken.

  Dallas knew damn well that watching the Jailer and the Woman die wouldn't restore what he and Jane had lost, wouldn't heal what was broken. But it would be just. It would be good.

  Maybe it would even be enough.

  "I'm coming," Dallas said. "If Ortega's still at large, I'm working the hunt with you. And if you manage to grab him, I want to interrogate the son of a bitch myself."

  "Dammit, Dallas--"

  "And if the government already has Ortega in custody, then we're going to the mat with Mueller. I want to squeeze every bit of information out of him. What he knows about Ortega. What jobs he's pulled, what cigarettes he's smoked. What women he's fucked."

  He paced, his mind whirring. "I want to know everything and everyone. There's no way Ortega bragged only once about a Sykes kidnapping. I want to know what else he said, and who he said it to. I want to know what he knows, and I want to follow where it leads."

  "So, what? You're saying you need to be onsite? That you don't trust me to lead this team? That you don't think Quince and Noah and Antonio can do the job? That's bullshit, and you know it."

  "Dammit, Liam. Deliverance is--"

  "Yours," his friend interrupted. "You think I don't know that? That we all don't know that? Deliverance is your baby, your mission. It's your show, Dallas, and we've all been playing by your rules. Playing to the goddamn letter. And it's been working. But there's a reason you're a ghost in this organization, man, you know that. Hell, you laid down the law yourself. And the first rule is that nobody breaks the damn rules."

  Dallas's smile was thin. "I'm not breaking anything. It's just that now the rules have changed." He mentally calculated how long it would take for him to get to the airport in his helicopter and then to Argentina in his jet. "I'll be there in thirteen hours. And if Ortega's not in a room when I get there, then Mueller damn well better be."

  Liam knew better than to argue. "Twelve hours," he countered. "Twelve, or we start without you."

  "You won't," Dallas said, because he knew not only his men but his friends. "And I'll be there."

  --

  Dallas was pulling on black jeans when the bedroom door opened and Archie entered, holding a leather duffel.

  On the bed, the two women--still there, still hopeful--scrambled under the sheet. It wasn't necessary. Archie Shaw had spent forty-five of his almost seventy years serving the Sykes family, and the last ten with Dallas exclusively. He was manservant, valet, confessor, and friend all rolled into one.

  Archie's piercing gray eyes had seen it all. But he never shared; he never gossiped. And Dallas trusted him completely.

  "I've packed clothes and toiletries for a week," he said, depositing the bag at Dallas's feet. "And another letter arrived this afternoon." He held out the now-familiar pale blue envelope. Even from across the room, Dallas knew that his name and address would be on a white label, the letters printed by an old-fashioned dot-matrix printer. There would be no return address.

  "Shall I dispose of it?" Archie asked when Dallas said nothing.

  "No." Right now, the letters were an irritation. But he could anticipate the sender becoming dangerous. "Put it in my bag. I'll deal with it later." So far, he'd been unable to glean even the slightest hint of the sender's identity. But one day, the sender would make a mistake. That letter could be the one.

  Archie's expression didn't change, though Dallas knew that he, too, was frustrated by these anonymous taunts that had started arriving a little over a year ago. He simply nodded and slipped the envelope into one of the duffel's side pockets. "Anything else?"

  "Ms. West called."

  Dallas pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd dated Adele West for about six months after her divorce, if dating was what you'd call it. Honestly, Dallas didn't know what to call it other than fucked up.

  But that was all over--and he sure as hell didn't want to talk to her now. "Leave the message on my desk. I'll deal with it when I get back."

  "Of course, sir." He glanced at his watch. "The helicopter will be here in twenty minutes."

  "What would I do without you?"

  "Wear the same clothes for days on end, presumably. At least this way I'm providing a service to not only you, but to Mr. Foster and the others as well."

  "I haven't gone a day without changing clothes since college." He pressed a hand affectionately on Archie's shoulder. "And thank you."

  "Shall I tell your guests that you had to attend to an emergency at work?"

  "Hell no. Tell them I got a ca
ll from--who's that actress who just got slammed on the internet for making a sex tape?--tell them I'm off to see her. Wouldn't want to start repairing the reputation I've worked so hard to destroy."

  "In that case, I wish you godspeed and success. And, Dallas," he added, his voice thick with emotion as he strayed from his usual formality, "come back in one piece."

  Dallas's grin was both quick and cocky, but his voice was serious. "I will. I always do."

  Archie looked like he was about to argue, and Dallas understood why. Sure, Dallas had participated in missions before--but like Liam had pointed out, Dallas had always been a ghost.

  He'd worked behind the scenes in research and analysis. He acted as a front man and liaison, interacting with potential clients by pretending to know someone who knew someone who could help them get their loved ones back quietly. He frequented high end parties across the globe, both to gather intel and to plant listening devices or perform other necessary tasks. And on the rare occasion when he did go on a raid, he was suited up, so there was no chance that anyone would recognize his very well-publicized face.

  This time was different. This time he wanted to be in the room. He wanted to look Mueller and Ortega in the eye until he was certain he'd extracted every bit of information that he could from the bastards.

  And then he wanted to see them dead. Ortega, who'd been the fulcrum that had pushed Dallas's own life over the edge. And Mueller, who'd blithely snatched so many children--who'd ripped their lives and the lives of their families apart for no more reason than the money and the thrill.

  "I'll be careful," Dallas said slowly, his eyes on his old friend. "But I'll get the job done."

  Archie tilted his head in acquiescence, like a parent resigned to sending a son off to war. It was an apt metaphor. If anyone knew more than Dallas about Deliverance and its inherent dangers, it was Archie. Stoic, serious, self-possessed Archie, who worked behind the scenes, juggling Dallas's household, his daily life, and all manner of his extracurricular activities, both the real and the spectacle.

  As for the latter, Archie nodded toward the far side of the room and at the women who still lounged in Dallas's bed, looking both curious and impatient. "I'll leave you to finish getting dressed and say your goodbyes." He glanced at his watch. "Be on the helipad in fifteen minutes." He didn't wait for Dallas's acknowledgment. Instead he turned, crossed efficiently to the door, then slipped silently out of the room.