Ghost joined them, then Ratchet, laptop at the ready. Dublin brought the coffee and a little pitcher of milk.
Tango wasn’t here, thankfully, off handling Fielding’s mess with Aidan, Rottie, Mercy, and the “kids,” as they called the three newest members.
“Don Ellison used to work for me,” Shaman began airily. “He was just a thug, really, straight out of prison. But he was a persuasive salesman.” He sipped his coffee. “A little too persuasive, at times. He had a penchant for kneecaps, and he ran off as many customers as he gained. In the end, he became too insubordinate, and I let him go.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Ghost said. “You just fire people, and that’s it.”
“There are parting conditions, of course.” He shrugged. “But more or less, yes, I let him go. He went to west Tennessee, and I kept the east. Along with my other areas of interest.”
“Where is he now?” Walsh asked.
“Nashville, principally. Though I’m sure he has safe houses scattered at satellite intervals.”
It felt huge and impossible to Walsh. Too much ground to cover, too many unknowns, too little time to find her.
He’d promised her she wouldn’t get hurt, and now…
“I can find where they’re keeping her, of course,” Shaman said.
Walsh leaned back in his chair. He and Ghost said, “What?” at the same time.
“I can find her,” Shaman repeated, sipping his coffee. “I’m not sending my people in – that would be in poor taste. But I can locate her. That will of course constitute the aforementioned favor. After which, you will owe me.”
Walsh locked eyes with his president, wondering.
Ghost tipped his head in silent communication. This is on your head, he said. If this goes badly. But there was love, trust, and sympathy in his gaze too.
“Fine,” Ghost said with a deep exhale. “We owe you one. Just find her.”
Shaman nodded, his smile pleased. “There’s something else you ought to know about Ellison. He’s in the business of funding companies that appear very legitimate, and for the most part are, excluding their initial capital.”
“Such as?”
“Gannon & Gannon Developers, for instance.”
“Are you shitting me?” Walsh asked, startled.
“I’m afraid not, friend.” Shaman loved this, was delighted and completely in his element. “It’s not merely homebuilders trying to move into your city, boys. There’s another turf war brewing, and you’re one of the chief players, whether you know it or not.”
~*~
“So let me get this straight,” Mercy said in the passenger seat. “Ellison backs the developers. Amy is set to marry one of the developers. Ellison sells H to the kid. When the old man wouldn’t sell the farm to them, mother and son planned to kill the old man, and have Amy and her siblings sell to the developers.”
“Right so far,” Walsh said, hand white-knuckled on the wheel. He didn’t have the patience for this conversation. For driving, at this point.
“When they couldn’t pin it on you or Em, they decided the best thing was to kidnap her. How am I doing?”
“You’re right.” He sighed. “Christ, it’s all a mess. There are no bloody coincidences, are there?”
“Not in my experience.”
Shaman’s trackers made Hound and Rottie look like kids with magnifying glasses playing Sherlock Holmes. They’d pinned down a location within an hour. A new safe house, they’d said, on the outskirts of Knoxville, and a prime spot to keep Emmie. So that’s where they were headed. Ghost would handle the three o’clock meeting. He had a plan for that.
“Walsh,” Mercy said beside him. “We’re gonna get her back, man. You know that.”
He hoped it. But all he knew now was that he was slowly being torn in two, and he wouldn’t be able to breathe again until she was in front of him, unharmed.
~*~
The house they’d brought her to was cheaply furnished, but at least she was sitting on a bed and not the floor. Although the mattress beneath her left her panicky about the ideas her captors might dream up to occupy their time.
The bedroom where they held her was narrow and windowless, more of a closet, really, and it smelled like there was mold somewhere behind the wallboard. Her wrists were bound in front of her with duct tape, and they’d taken her shoes, presumably to make her less likely to kick the walls or try and make a break for it on foot. Not that making a break was an option – one man stood right outside her door, the other watching TV somewhere, judging by the low drone of canned applause.
A laugh bubbled up in her throat and she swallowed it with a struggle. It was absurd, to think she was being held hostage. Terrifying, awful, pulse-pounding – and yes, absurd.
If she’d packed up Apollo and left Briar Hall, she would have found some other farm, made a new start, never been hit on the back of the head and taken.
And she’d still be alone.
And she wouldn’t have Walsh.
The trade-off. There was one in all things in life, some were just a lot more life-threatening than others.
“What time is it?” the guy outside her door called to the other one.
“One-fifty,” his friend hollered back.
Emmie shifted on the bed, leaning from one hip to the other. The bed frame squealed loudly at the slightest movement, and it protested as she resettled.
The thug outside shoved his head through the open door. “What are you doing in here?” He had one of those heavy, Cro-Magnon brow ridges that made him look like he was scowling. When he frowned, like now, the effect was magnified.
She pressed her head back against the wall, chin lifted. She was determined not to let these people see her shivering. “Nothing.”
He stared at her a moment, dull eyes sharpening suddenly. “You bored?”
A sensation like fingertips moved across the back of her neck. “No. I’m fine.”
He pivoted around the doorframe and stepped fully inside, his bulk filling up the jambs. He was nearly as tall as Mercy, but thicker all over, his face jowly. His gaze swept downward from her face, lingering on parts of her body she suddenly wished weren’t so noticeable. She was dressed in a white tank and tan breeches, neither of which left much to the imagination.
“Nah, you gotta be bored by now,” he said with a grin that turned her stomach over. He approached the bed. “I can think of something for you to do, sweetheart.”
Emmie pulled her knees up as far as she could, given her hands were in the way, shrinking back against the wall.
He braced one knee on the bed, and the mattress dipped, springs squeaking horribly. When he reached for her, she ducked away, falling onto her side and tucking into herself.
He laughed, and she heard the jangling of his belt as he unfastened it. “What’s a matter? You scared? You ain’t never seen anyone hung like me, have ya, honey? You’re married to that little guy they got.” He laughed again, and she wanted to gag.
“It won’t hurt,” he said. “Much.” The mattress bucked as he climbed onto it, springs shrieking like crazy.
Will it hurt, Emmie thought, when I kick the shit out of you?
The thing this man didn’t understand about her, was that beneath her quaking fear, her violent disgust, her despair and panic – she was a woman who’d been raised with horses, and she’d put bigger animals than him on their knees. Figuratively. For him, she was going to make it literal.
He moved up over her, braced on his arms. “Let’s see that pretty face.”
“Al, what you doing?” his friend called from wherever the TV was.
The man on top of her ignored the question, and took her by the wrists with one huge hand, turned her onto her back, so she was facing him.
Emmie was compliant, holding still, letting him manipulate her into the right position.
He’d pulled his cock out, and it was standing tall.
She kicked it as hard as she could, with both feet.
~*~
/> The house was small, trimmed in brown siding and flanked by overgrown trees, one of dozens like it on a crowded, residential street. Corner lot, more conspicuous. But not impossible to approach. Michael clocked one guard in the front lawn, sitting in a chair beneath one of the trees, trying to look like he was reading the paper, plainclothes dress.
Michael slid his sunglasses into place. Pulled his hat down low. Adjusted the empty pizza box on one flattened palm, and headed up the front walk. The direct way was usually the best way, because no one ever anticipated it. And in this case, the trees were dense enough to keep the neighbors from seeing much of anything. Privacy for the thugs meant privacy for them, too.
He was almost to the door when the guy in the chair surged to his feet. “Hey, what are you doing?”
He paused and half-turned, letting the guard approach. He knew once the guy got within range, he’d realize that Michael was shit at feigning emotion, and that he in fact wasn’t a pizza delivery guy.
“Pizza,” he said, lifting the box for emphasis. “Pepperoni and mushroom.”
The man’s thick brow creased. “We didn’t order a pizza.”
“That’s what it says on the receipt – 4357 Windham, right?”
He came closer. Closer. “Nah, we didn’t–”
Michael tossed the empty box at his face. Startled, the guard grabbed for it, eyes closing out of instinct as he fumbled.
Michael caught him in the belly with the Taser. The man let out a strangled sound, stiffened, and went down like a felled tree.
No casualties, Ghost had said. Just restrain them, get the girl, and get the hell out, no reason to rile Ellison beyond repair. A war was the last thing any of them needed.
The guy was still twitching and Michael was moving quickly, pulling the duct tape from his back pocket, tearing off a strip.
Behind him, the squeal of tires pulling up at the curb snatched his attention. Reinforcements, and not his.
“Shit.”
~*~
“This is a lot less fun than it could be,” Mercy complained as he secured the two backdoor guards with duct tape. Their legs still twitched with spasms from the Taser.
“Yeah, well, we don’t need another war in Knoxville.” Though honestly, that was the last of Walsh’s worries at the moment. If one of these guys gave him a reason to, he’d put a bullet in him. He was feeling a lot like his Cajun companion at the moment – it would have been fun to spill a little blood.
He reached into one thug’s pockets and found the house key. “Here we go.”
“I don’t hear anything up front, so Michael must have handled things,” Mercy said.
Walsh slid the key into the deadbolt.
And gunshots sounded from the other side of the house.
~*~
It didn’t matter how big and strong a man was, you kicked him right in the cock, and he was going to fall to pieces, simple as that. The man on top of Emmie howled and collapsed onto her; his weight forced the air from her lungs.
She gasped for breath, turned her head, and bit his ear. Sank her teeth as deep and hard as she could.
He bellowed and rolled off her, landing on the floor with a tremendous thump that shook the bed.
Emmie sat up, scrambled toward the foot of the bed on her knees. There was another one waiting for her out in the living room, but it gave her some small measure of hope to get past this one. To –
He backhanded her across the face. One moment he was moaning on the floor, and the next he’d staggered to his feet. His knuckles bit into the soft flesh of her cheek and the blow sent her sprawling back across the mattress. Her vision clouded with white lace, and pain shot through skin, flesh, bone, hitting her in the brain.
“Fucking bitch,” he snarled. “I’m gonna make you hurt for that.”
Emmie closed her eyes and rolled to the side, landing hard on her knees on the carpet, the jolt snapping her teeth together.
He grabbed the back of her shirt and hauled her back, ripping the thin cotton of her tank top at the seams with rending pops.
Never stop fighting. She’d heard that once on some self-defense PSA. Never stop fighting back against your attacker. She believed that wholeheartedly…but no amount of belief was going to ensure that this huge man didn’t beat her senseless and rape her. Because in truth, she was small, and she only had so much strength, and her hands were bound together. And eventually, he was going to succeed, and pin her down, and violate her body.
But she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
She curled in on herself, knees drawn up tight to her chest, total dead weight as he dragged her back onto the bed by her shirt, shredding it completely down both sides so it was only a scrap of cloth hanging over her breasts.
“Bitch,” he kept saying to her. “Stupid fucking bitch.”
He hit her again, on the side of the head, and her skull filled with the pealing of bells.
“What the hell are you doing?” the other man asked from the door, and Emmie squeezed her eyes shut against the pain, and the fear that they would both try to take a turn with her.
Oh God, please…no…
Gunshots.
She held her breath. The man above her froze, fingers loosening their death grip on the back of her shirt.
“What?” the other one asked.
No, she wasn’t imagining it – those were gunshots!
An image of Walsh filled her mind, and she was afraid to let herself hope.
The man let go of her and he and his companion hurried from the room. Only a second later, she heard a sharp crack, like wood splitting. Angry shouts.
“Drop your weapons!” someone roared.
A gunshot.
Another.
Emmie clambered off the bed and staggered toward the door, floor seeming to tilt beneath her feet.
She heard thundering footsteps, the clomp of heavy boots.
“Merc!” someone yelled.
“On it!” someone yelled back, and that Cajun accent was unmistakable.
Then another accent reached her ears, this one heaven-sent. It glazed her eyes with tears and kicked her heart into a gallop.
“Em? Emmie!” There was only one British man who would call her name with such panic and emotion, and she tried her best to get to him, fighting the dizziness, moving down the hall.
“I’m here!” she shouted back.
There were sounds, so many fleshy, grunting, fighting sounds. Noises that would normally have filled her with terror. Horses kicking at one another sounded a whole lot like men beating each other to a pulp, she reflected, and both were terrifying prospects. But right now, that racket was her salvation.
“Walsh!”
And there he was, in front of her, gun in one hand, grey sweatshirt dotted with blood. Eyes pale and frantic.
The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Jesus,” he breathed, snatching her into his arms, crushing her against his chest. “You okay? You hurt?”
“No, I’m fine.” She took her first deep, rattling breath since the whole ordeal had started. “I’m fine.”
Thirty-Eight
Ghost stood slouched back against the door of his favorite club truck, the ’99 Ford, smoking and counting the pigeons that swooped down to peck up the bread crumbs a group of children were spreading. Rats with wings, but the kids giggled and shrieked with happy laughter at the sight of them bobbing and cooing.
He’d brought Aidan to this same park, when he was just a little scrawny thing, in the dark time after Olivia had left and before Maggie had come along. He’d had no idea how to be a father to a small child. A teenager he could have bought bike parts and taken to the races. A small, sensitive boy he’d had no tools to handle, and so they’d come to the park a lot. Aidan had always wanted to feed the birds, tossing handfuls of Ritz crumbs at them and laughing, the sun glinting off his glossy dark curls.
Ghost had sat on a bench, smoked, and felt useless. It was Maggie who’d thought to teac
h Aidan how to fly a kite, to make paper boats they pushed out onto the pond. Maggie who’d sat cross-legged on the sidewalks and drawn chalk pictures with him. Who’d thought to pack sandwiches, sodas and a blanket and have lunch in the shade of a tree, counting ants and talking about the airplanes that glided overhead.
When he started bringing Maggie around the club, his brothers had laughed and peppered him with lewd comments; they’d thought she was a juicy little piece of jailbait to him. They hadn’t seen her with Aidan, hadn’t realized, as he had, that there was a wealth of thunder lying quiet inside that girl. She’d stood on the cusp of a womanhood fit to bring men to their knees. They hadn’t seen the queen buried just beneath her skin.
They saw it now. Everyone saw it.
He thought he heard faint echoes of that thunder in Walsh’s Emmie, not as strong as Ava’s, but there all the same. And so he stood against his truck, and smoked, and waited, as a long black Mercedes rolled down the park driveway and cruised to a stop alongside him.
The man who climbed from the passenger seat looked like a day laborer stuffed in a suit that badly needed tailoring. If Shaman was clever, deft, charming, and wicked, this man was blunt, obvious, and dull. Didn’t mean he wasn’t an effective enemy, only that his motives would be easier to decipher, and the negotiations much simpler.
“Afternoon,” Ghost said, flicking his cig away as Don Ellison and his driver/bodyguard joined him.
Don gave him an up/down inspection, tugging at his suit lapels. “You’re not who I was expecting see.”
“Yeah, no. That’d be my VP. He’s a little busy getting his old lady back.”
Ellison frowned and gestured to his guard, who pulled out a cellphone and stepped away to make a call. “You found my safe house, then.”
“With a little help from a mutual friend.” Ghost quirked a smile.
“Shaman.”
Ghost shrugged.
It never failed to amaze him: the civilized meetings between outlaws, the way talking about death, theft, kidnappings and shootings took on the language of business mergers.
The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) Page 32