Into the Shadows

by Carolyn Crane

  Which one? The blonde or the brunette? Jerrod looked back down at the photo, trying to decide. And then his eyes fell on the kid.

  Shivers crawled up his back. Good shivers.

  The kid had Thorne’s dark hair, his nose, and that sharp gaze. Jerrod stole a glance at Thorne. They looked so much alike. Jerrod could barely conceal his glee.

  Thorne glanced up. Jerrod smiled and set the picture on the mantel, face out. “Nice-looking family.” Then he turned up the music, pissing on his territory.

  Thorne picked up a wire, thick as a stack of dimes, with a light at the end. “Listen up,” he said to the group. “This is a camera. It takes pictures that go to this phone. We’ll be getting a few more to use. Who’s got construction experience here?” Nobody, it turned out, aside from Skooge and Hack. “These walls are spans of drywall separated by two-by-fours.” He went on to tell what the insides of walls should look like. He inserted the cable and let everybody look at the phone. He showed them how to use a tool that measured the density of hardwoods. “We went through this whole wall and there was one suspicious part. Find it.” He let Hack help them. He sent Skooge to make coffee.

  So this was how Thorne would lead. Delegation. Instruction.

  Jerrod clapped his hands. “We’ve got a big day of searching ahead of us. I’ll grab the doughnuts and blow. Anybody need anything else?”

  People called out their doughnut preferences and Jerrod wandered off into the kitchen where Skooge was opening cupboards, looking for the coffee. Jerrod went to the freezer and pulled out a brown bag of ground coffee.

  “Thanks,” Skooge said, surprised.

  “Sure.” Jerrod opened a few drawers and found a box of Ziploc baggies. He extracted a few and headed up to the second floor, checking in every room until he found the little boy’s bedroom. He bagged a teething ring, a rubber mouse that looked chewed, and then he hit the jackpot: a small comb next to a changing table with a few fine black hairs twisted into its teeth.

  Perfect.

  He bagged and pocketed it, and then headed out to the road to the spot where Thorne had left his truck. He broke in easily and scanned around for stray hairs—the guy at the DNA lab had told him people lose one hundred hairs a day. Sure enough, there were black hairs caught between the headrest and the top of the driver’s seat. He bagged them, as well as a plastic water bottle, just in case. The DNA lab he used would open at seven, and Jerrod planned to put a rush on this shit.

  A kid. No better way to destabilize a man than to go for his kid.

  He got into his Bentley and drove to his place, grabbing enough cocaine to keep the men working energetically for the next eighteen hours. He stopped at Hangman’s favorite doughnut place, dropped the stuff at the DNA lab, and got back to the mansion just after seven, parking in the front this time. The coffee was half gone and the music was still going when he walked in, although somebody had turned it down; a few guys were searching the great room and you could hear others in the office wing. The guys descended on his offerings; some went for the food, others went straight for the blow.

  Thorne was in the large chair by the fireplace, one leg over the arm, drawing a map of the place.

  “You sticking around?” he asked Jerrod, not looking up.

  “Just a bit,” Jerrod said. He had to meet his accountant soon.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s your show, don’t worry,” Jerrod said. “You run the show here.”

  Somebody opened the front door. You could barely hear it over the music, but Jerrod did, and so did Thorne. Four had his piece out, but Jerrod didn’t bother, because Thorne didn’t bother; he just sat there sprawled over his chair, one leg out in front, one over that armrest. Thorne knew who it was.

  The walk sounded high-heeled. One of Volkov’s bitches? Jerrod suppressed a smile, prepared to watch Thorne react to one of the Volkov girls walking into a nest of Hangman. The place reeked of booze, things were good and wrecked from the search, and of course, Hypnodeath banged away. He was guessing they would see tears. He couldn’t wait.

  Thorne gave the guys a search tip, pretending for all the world that he didn’t care about whoever was heading down the hall.

  Jerrod sidled up nearer to Miguel. “Whoever’s coming this way, hit on her the first chance you get.”

  “I don’t even know who—”

  “You’re going to hit on whatever walks in that door, even if it’s a psycho man clown. And you will do it natural, and if I ask you to, you will fuck that person. Are you getting me?” Jerrod said. “I want to see what Thorne does.” He walked to the bar for another drink. And to get a better look at Victor’s daughter. It had to be one of the daughters.

  “Hello?”

  Thorne turned a very blank gaze to the brunette standing under the archway. Curvy ass in jeans. Red silk shirt that set off her dark hair and full lips—not the kind of lips women paid for, but more like too much lip for the space. Those were lips that went with loud, often nasal, voices. She wasn’t hot or pretty in the photo; but in person, she was compelling. She had a presence, a confidence that fooled you into thinking her pretty.

  She walked to the center, hands on hips, shiny black purse slung from her shoulder. She looked all around, as though she wanted everyone looking at the place from her eyes. The bullet holes in the smashed armoire. The men, all tattoos and jeans and leathers. The broken glassware in the corner. The holes in the walls. Her eyes rested on the large hole made by Thorne’s foot. Jerrod twisted his lips slightly, enjoying every second of this calm before the storm. Calm before the hysterics.

  But she simply cocked one eyebrow. “Hypnodeath? Really?” She looked around. “What are you—twelve?”

  Jerrod nearly spit out his drink.

  Of all the things to react to, she’d gone for the music? And she’d actually recognized it? You needed to know music to get the Hypnodeath. And the really? It was ironic, as though she knew it was overused, but had somehow deemed it appropriate for this occasion, for maximum derision.

  Oh, this was Victor’s daughter, all right. And she’d inherited all of his balls. If he had to kill her, he’d definitely fuck her first.

  Thorne smiled casually. “A little music to redecorate by.”

  She shook her head.

  Thorne would be with this one, no question. “You don’t have to watch,” he said.

  Jerrod smiled from the corner. “Aren’t you going to introduce us all?”

  “No,” Thorne said, addressing the woman. “You need to leave. You’ll have the place back when we’re done.”

  “This Victor’s daughter?” Jerrod pressed.

  She eyed Jerrod. “Victor’s daughter is right here for you to ask.”

  Jerrod went up and held out his hand. “I’m Jerrod. Thorne’s boss.”

  She looked at his hand, but didn’t take it.

  Miguel approached. “Miguel,” he said, taking her hand, not giving her a choice. She watched him hard. This was a woman not easily intimidated.

  “Okay, then,” she said, pulling, but Miguel kept her hand, squeezing it and pulling her to him.

  Thorne held a neutral expression, but Jerrod could feel the protective fervor rolling off the man.

  She tried to pull her hand away. “You mind?”

  Miguel wouldn’t let her go.

  Jerrod’s blood went cold as Thorne raised his gun. Shit.

  No, he wasn’t going for Miguel. He raised his gun all the way to the ceiling and shot. The chandelier crashed down onto the rug. Victor’s daughter yanked her hand from Miguel’s and stomped over to Thorne, who smiled smugly.

  “Somebody needs to check that chandelier,” Thorne said.

  “Fuck you, Thorne.” She upended the chair with him in it.

  He laughed, which pissed her off more.

  That would be Thorne’s style. Coming to the rescue by making a worse jackass out of himself than the first guy.

  Pulling her out of there on her own steam.

  Jerrod could get
to Thorne with this one.

  He’d get the DNA confirmation, but he was pretty sure the results would be positive.

  He’d put a tail on her and get to know her every movement. She’d lead him to the baby. He could do something and make it look like the Slaters. Get Thorne vulnerable. Take him down. Wartime was always the most convenient time to get rid of your problems.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thorne stood, careful not to look at her. He’d wanted to bound over there and rip Miguel’s arm right out of its socket, but that would show that he claimed Nadia as his own, which would put her in danger. Instead, he’d shot down the chandelier, an expression of his rage.

  Bruce Lee always talked about how a fighter should go with his nature.

  And it had worked. Going with his impulse to destroy something had jerked her away from Miguel and drawn her over to him. He laughed as she turned over the easy chair, but deep down he was shaking. He didn’t like her around these guys. Not at all.

  Especially Jerrod.

  The way Jerrod studied that picture on the mantel had gotten under his skin. And then the way he’d look over at him, as if he expected him to react.

  Jerrod announced he had an early morning meeting to prepare for and strolled out the front door, much to Thorne’s surprise. The man rarely passed up an opportunity to make people feel uncomfortable.

  Not that he was complaining.

  “You guys clear on everything?” He put Hack in charge of the great room, sent Skooge and Miguel to check on the guys in the offices, and then he just strolled out of the room. He knew she’d follow. She wouldn’t want to be around the guys and that infernal music any more than he wanted her to.

  He headed into the book-lined study down the hall beyond the kitchen and waited. It contained more books Victor never read as well as leather furniture, an executive desk, framed prints of maps, photos of an old dacha, a horse sculpture, and a globe. A cliché of a study.

  “What the hell?” she said, coming in and slamming the door.

  “We’ll kick you some cash to put this place back together. I already told you.” He went to the window, keenly aware that they were alone again. He studied the passionflower vines that were taking over the wall across the way, pops of bright red in swaths of green.

  “I got your message,” she said. “If I don’t hear from you, assume the place isn’t clear?”

  “It meant you shouldn’t have come,” he said.

  He could feel her gaze on him. She would really be wondering about the last part of the message. Nadia…Nadia…Could he be more of an idiot?

  “We need that disk,” he said. “And you need to get out of here. That chandelier wouldn’t have come down if you hadn’t been here.”

  “Oh, I see. It’s my fault.”

  “Yeah,” he said, turning toward her. “There was another raid last night; that’s why they’re here. The search is getting serious.”

  “A raid? Of a co-op?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Somebody is really reaming us out there.”

  “They’re all…sleeping over?”

  “I’ll send them home tonight if we don’t find it. But I’m going to stay. Keep an eye on things.”

  “I’ll help you search,” she said.

  “You don’t know where it is.”

  “Maybe if I got more involved, something would come to me.”

  “What about your boy?”

  “Kara has him.”

  “You’re not staying,” he said.

  “I want my family back together in our home. That’s my thing, Thorne. I’m staying until we find it.”

  He could hear the passion in her voice as she said it—she wanted her family back, and all he could think about was how lucky they were. Again he wondered about Benny’s father. She’d said he was out of the picture, but really, the man should have taken some responsibility. Or did he not know?

  “I’m staying here to help search until it’s found,” she repeated. “Where do we start?”

  He knew that attitude. He knew what came from opposing it. Well, it wasn’t a bad idea; if she could see all the ways things could be hidden, something could jog her memory. “This is as good a room as any.” He explained the process. She wanted to know where they had already searched, and he showed her the map he’d put together.

  “Whatever hiding place your old man had, it’s not going to be given away by anything obvious. He had this home custom built; the hiding place will be deep in the bones. Integrated.” He crouched and ran a hand along the baseboard. “This is really nice woodwork in here.”

  “He had guys flown in from Germany to do it,” she said.

  “Really?” He straightened. “Just in here?”

  “His bedroom, too, I think.”

  “But not the great room,” he said.

  “The builder’s subs did the woodwork in the great room.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “That’s the kind of detail I can use. Here’s what we’ll do—you see how the sections go?” He showed her how the baseboards and moldings were put together and explained how they could pull out the sections, physically examine them, and replace them, using the same nails, or the same color nails.

  “It’ll be a lot easier to put it back right away than if we just rip it all up and leave it for some carpenter to figure out,” he explained.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised.

  “What?”

  “What would people say? Hangman putting stuff back together again?”

  “You want us to leave it trashed?”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “It’s just that, you know. The asshole stuff. The industrial music.”

  “The brand,” he muttered.

  “Hold the phone,” she snorted. “Hangman has a brand? That is hilarious!”

  He gave her a warning look. “We don’t call it a brand.”

  “You just did.”

  Dax had. But he couldn’t tell her that. “It’s not a conscious thing. Trust me.”

  “I think it is,” she continued. “Did you all, like, have a branding meeting?”

  “We didn’t have a branding meeting.”

  She moved nearer, voice husky. “With branding exercises? How can we be even gnarlier than we are? What music most expresses our badass nature?”

  He swallowed. The playful taunting was how their dance used to start. It felt amazing. But it didn’t mean she cared. “You want to go back out there with them?”

  “I would so love to see Hangman at a meeting like that. Doing branding exercises from a magazine or something. Next question: are we dolphins or sharks? No, piranhas, bitches!”

  He frowned; but really, he loved that she was taking the piss out of Hangman. They were ridiculous with the music and the destruction, and she was smart and shining and glorious. Complicated, nameless feelings surged through him, and he suddenly wanted her to call him some loser name. He wanted to feel the truth and rawness of it, and then he would go to her.

  She wouldn’t want that, though. She’d established that last night.

  Probably for the best.

  And she seemed different now anyway, as if she’d gone somewhere without him in the past two years. He wished he could catch up. Most of all, he wished he could run his fingertip from her cheekbone to the side of her perfectly imperfect lips and kiss her.

  “Killer fish, yeah!” She sparkled, saying it. “I think you guys should talk about it. I’m going to pretend in my mind that you do. And if one of you fucks up and doesn’t refer to Hangman in the third person, like if somebody says, we’re going to kick their ass instead of Hangman’s gonna kick their ass, that person gets punched.”

  He handed her a ball peen hammer. “For the nails. You ever pried a nail? You want me to show you?”

  She laid a hand on his arm; her touch electric. She was so fun, so beautiful, so everything. “Come on, tell me the truth.”

  “We don’t sit around saying, this is our branding, okay? We would never use the
word.”

  She seemed disappointed.

  He pulled away. “Poor Party Princess,” he said. “You want us out of here, or not?” He crouched, using a slim screwdriver to loosen the tiny nails, conscious of her eyes on his bad hand. He loosened and pried up a yard-long section, which he handed to her. Then he brushed chunks of plaster from a gap in the wall behind it. “You couldn’t put a CD in here but a thumb drive could go in. Look at what I’m doing.” He pressed all along the newly exposed wall, looking for loose sections, but his mind was all over that recording of Nadia and Kara. Nadia trading him like a baseball card with Kara. Not even a keeper baseball card. Fuck him and we’ll compare notes.

  He went on, explaining how to inspect up and down the wall, looking for different wear patterns. “It’s possible that there was a button that your dad pushed that opens a panel, just like in a haunted house movie. Or maybe he pried it.”

  “Victor with a hammer and screwdriver?” She sniffed. “I don’t see it.”

  The anger in her voice stunned him. He turned to her. “What happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You never called him Victor.”

  “Since when are you the name police?”

  A nonanswer. “What happened?”

  “He died. I’m a mother. Just family stuff. I don’t expect you to get it.” She grabbed the other hammer. “Are we doing this thing, or what? Don’t you have some chaos posing to do out there with your guys? Richard’s coming back, and he’ll need to be treated to the full brand essence of Hangman.” She started prying a nail.

  Was it normal to call a parent by his first name after a while? Maybe it was. He’d never understood how families operated. She’d been his primary source of information on all that: how dinnertime worked, how she could fight so viciously with her sister and go back to loving her the next day. It had always boggled his mind.

  Ridiculous that he would have gotten his information on how families worked from a motherless gangster’s daughter, but she knew more than he did. Sometimes she would hold back the answer and he’d fuck it out of her in a kind of twisted secret agent game.