When She's Gone

by Palmer, Jane;

  “You too.” Ara watched the older woman press a bill into the valet’s hand before gracefully dropping behind the wheel of her Lexus.

  Frowning, Ara turned toward the restaurant. Where were Holly and Sam? She’d expected they would come out with Claire. A quick scan of the interior through the windows didn’t reveal them, and a sick feeling tightened in Ara’s gut.

  Silly. They’re both probably in the restroom.

  A black town car pulled up to the curb, and Ara held up one finger, gesturing to Gannon, the other bodyguard, and David, the driver, that she would be a moment. She reached for the restaurant’s door handle, swinging it open wide. Holly was going to have to understand that she couldn’t just disappear from—

  A blood-curdling scream broke through the quiet hum of the restaurant.

  Ara’s stomach dropped. It was coming from the back. From the restrooms.

  She crossed the room in quick strides, simultaneously pulling the gun from her purse. Holly, eyes wide with panic, ran out into the main dining room. She caught sight of Ara and nearly collapsed.

  “Sam! Oh my god . . . Sam!”

  Ara gripped Holly’s arm with one hand. “Where is she?”

  “Th-th-they took her,” she sputtered, the words unable to come. “A man . . . a van . . .”

  Ara didn’t wait for Holly to finish. She spun on her heel, running back toward the front door. The restaurant had a delivery entrance right next to the bathrooms. There was only one way in or out of it, and that was through the alley alongside the building.

  She burst out of the restaurant, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

  A white van. It peeled out of the alley. Tires screaming, it took a left-hand turn and raced through a red light, narrowly missing a Toyota before disappearing around the corner.

  “Get inside to Holly,” Ara ordered Gannon. He’d emerged from the town car and was waiting on the sidewalk. She flew past him.

  Yanking open the door, she screamed, “Get out of the car! Get out of the car!”

  She physically tugged David from the seat. The engine was running, and Ara took off from the curb, the force of her maneuver causing the vehicle’s door to slam shut.

  “Come on, come on,” she muttered, taking a sharp turn and pressing the gas pedal as low as it would go. The town car shot forward, horns honking all around her.

  Weave.

  Swerve.

  Her heart battered against her ribcage, and her palms were sweaty. It took all her concentration to keep control of the vehicle as she maneuvered through traffic, desperate to catch up to the blinking taillights she could just barely make out several blocks ahead of her.

  She pushed the vehicle, leaning forward in the seat. Two blocks left.

  God damn it, where was a New York City traffic jam when you needed it?

  She flew through a red light, taking the town car onto the curb to avoid crashing into several cars in the intersection. One block.

  Ara let up on the gas pedal, getting into the lane next to the white van. Unlike when it had pulled out of the alley, the driver was now going the speed limit, careful to not draw attention. The back and sides of the vehicle weren’t marked. The only windows were in the front. It looked like nothing more than a regular delivery van.

  The driver was midthirties. Dark hair and light skin. No passenger.

  She pulled slightly ahead of the van and then, without warning, hurtled her vehicle directly into his path.

  She kept her hands on the steering wheel but let her body go limp.

  The van slammed into the front-passenger side of the town car, the sound of grating metal reverberating in Ara’s head. The windshield and passenger-side glass shattered. Square shards flew across the interior. She’d instinctively closed her eyes but forced them open as the two cars skidded forward from the force of the impact and screeched to a halt.

  She would only have seconds to gain the upper hand. She needed every one.

  She leapt from the vehicle, gun in hand, and ran to the door of the van. Pulling it open, she pointed the gun at the man’s head and said in a low, hard voice, “Put your hands up.”

  He was dazed. The sudden impact had caused his airbag to explode. Ara knew it wasn’t something most people could easily recover from.

  “W-W-What are you doing?” The driver shook his head in an obvious attempt to combat the effects of the airbag.

  “Put your damn hands up,” Ara ordered. “Now.”

  “Okay, okay.” Wide-eyed, he raised his trembling hands. Ara couldn’t see into the vehicle since the cab was completely closed off from the backside. “Get out. Slowly.”

  He dropped to the ground, and his legs nearly collapsed underneath him. Ara grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing the gun into his head. “Now you are going to do exactly as I say, or I’m going to blow your damn brains out. Do you understand?”

  He swallowed hard, hands still in the air, and nodded.

  She shoved him—practically carried him—to the back of the van. “Open the doors.”

  Ara waited until he started to swing one door open before she took a step back and aimed her weapon. She blocked out the sound of the shouting on the street, the horns honking from the other drivers, the sound of her own heartbeat. Her entire focus was on the back of the van, on what she would find inside. Her trigger finger twitched, ready to fire.

  She sucked in a breath as the last door swung open. The van was empty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Where is she?” Ara demanded.

  The man, his hands still raised, shook his head in confusion. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a driver.”

  “For who?” A whisper of doubt began to form in Ara’s mind.

  “Cheryl’s Cakes over on sixth. I just did a delivery to the Four Seasons.”

  Her eyes narrowed. He sounded truthful, but anyone, with enough practice, could be a good liar. It was possible Sam had been transferred from the van to another vehicle. Doubtful, given the time frame, but still possible. And it was something she had to rule out.

  “There’s no lettering on this van.” Honking horns punctuated her sentence. In a moment, the drivers of the other cars would be getting out to investigate. Someone would be calling the police and an ambulance, if they hadn’t already. The cover of darkness and the positioning of Ara’s body had shielded her weapon from almost everyone but the driver, but she couldn’t keep a gun on him much longer. A decision had to be made. “You could be anyone.”

  “The invoice is in the cab of the truck.”

  “Show me.”

  With jerky steps, he moved to the front of the van and pulled out a clean, neatly written receipt, stamped with both the time and date.

  Everything he said jived.

  Cursing under her breath, she holstered her gun. “Sorry about this. Someone will be by to compensate you.”

  “But—”

  She didn’t wait to hear what he was going to say. Instead, Ara turned and rapidly took off down the street. Damn it. Following the wrong van was a mistake with potentially deadly consequences.

  Pulling her cell phone from a secret pocket sewn into her dress, she speed-dialed a special number. When a gruff, deep voice answered, she said, “Code red. Daughter. I need a town car at Phillips immediately.”

  Mick, the owner of the deep voice, hesitated for just a second, and then there was a clatter as the phone hit a surface. Ara had covered one more block before he came back on the line.

  “On its way. Police?”

  His voice was even, but a touch of stress threaded its way through. Ara heard it but trusted him to keep a level head. As head of security, Mick’s primary job was to be at the mansion, monitoring his staff and acting as a point of contact. He was military trained, big and bulky, with brains to boot. In all the time they’d been working together, he’d never let her down.

  “Negative,” she said, turning another corner. “But I’m not at the restaurant now, and someone mig
ht have called them.”

  She glanced behind her. No one was following. But the wreck would need cleanup, and there would probably be a police investigation. Money and a lot of red tape would be required to keep the mess from landing on the Boones’ doorstep, which meant calling out the lawyers. “I also need Ricks to report to the corner of Third and Sixty-Fourth. I chased the bastards but didn’t catch them. Wrecked the car.”

  “Holly?”

  “Secured with Gannon.”

  “He’ll control the situation.” Mick’s voice was full of confidence. “The car should arrive in two minutes.”

  “Good. I’ll call you when we are en route.”

  She hung up and accelerated her pace, weaving through the pedestrians and running where she could. She’d crossed more ground than she’d thought, chasing the van.

  The wrong damn van.

  Ara’s stomach twisted, and she felt bile rise in the back of her throat. Where was Sam? Who had her? And why? Oh God, what were they doing to her right now?

  Don’t think about it. She battled back the emotions threatening to overtake her. She couldn’t afford them. Not yet. Right now, she needed her training, the skills and instincts honed during her years on the force.

  She rounded a final corner, and the restaurant came into view. A momentary wave of relief crashed over her. No police cars. No panic in the street. Nothing to indicate anything had transpired only ten minutes ago.

  Ara’s steps slowed as she approached the main entrance. She couldn’t walk in without knowing what the situation was. Through the front glass, she spotted waiters bustling around the tables. Patrons eating, talking, and drinking fine wines. It was a serene sight—quiet, low-key. Gannon had controlled the scene. Thank God.

  She opened the door, and Robert, the manager, pounced on her. His thin frame was ramrod straight, his long face overwhelmed by a bulbous nose. “Mrs. Boone is in my office.”

  “Take me there.”

  She followed him through the restaurant, her gaze sweeping over the patrons. Checking to see if anyone was watching them, watching her. No one even gave her a passing glance. Robert led her through a silk-covered door into a large office. While it wasn’t as posh as the restaurant itself, the space was decorated with a careful eye for detail. A gleaming wooden desk, high-backed visitors’ chairs, and top-of-the-line electronic equipment.

  Holly sat on a leather sofa, her eye makeup smeared across her face. She held a fistful of tissues in one hand, and the other gripped David’s. Her blonde hair was mussed, strands drifting out of her French knot to wave around her reddened face.

  David was whispering to her, murmuring words Ara couldn’t hear. The Boones’ driver was a strictly professional man in his midfifties, with unlined, ebony skin and black, short-cropped hair flecked with gray. He’d always been careful to keep professional boundaries, so the sight of Holly’s delicate fingers tightly holding onto his massive, darker ones hit Ara square in the chest. It was a screaming, physical testament to the extreme situation they were in.

  Gannon paced the room, a cell phone plastered to his ear. He was nodding silently along with whatever the person on the other end was saying.

  “You may use this room as long as you need,” Robert whispered, nervously wringing his hands. “The gentleman over there told us not to call the police.”

  He was talking about Gannon. The Boones were a high-profile family, despite Oliver’s preference for privacy. Involving the NYPD would mean that within hours, everyone in the world would know about the kidnapping. Instead, they would gather evidence themselves, advise Oliver, and allow him to decide how to proceed. It was protocol, even if it went against everything Ara knew.

  “Correct. Please don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  Relief flooded Robert’s features. “Very good. If you need anything, please let me know.”

  He disappeared on whispered footsteps, the door clicking closed softly behind him. Ara stepped farther into the room, and Gannon looked up. Their eyes met, and he jerked his head in greeting. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t need to tell him. It was obvious she’d been unable to recover Sam.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Gannon said, talking into the phone. “Ara is back.”

  He held out the phone to her just as his words registered with Holly, who glanced toward the doorway. Spotting Ara, she flew from the couch.

  “Did you find her?” Holly’s nails dug into Ara’s arm, even through the jacket she wore. “Did you catch them?”

  Ara carefully held onto Holly, afraid that her words would cause the woman to collapse.

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  Holly’s face crumpled, hope fleeing from it, leaving wrinkles and cracks in its wake. It seemed she’d aged a decade in only a matter of moments.

  “Oh my God, oh my God . . .” Her chanting turned to a desperate wail, and she sagged against Ara.

  “David, please,” Ara whispered. He rose from the couch, tears shimmering in his own eyes, and took hold of Holly.

  “Come now, Mrs. Boone. Let’s sit down.”

  Ara took the phone from Gannon’s outstretched hand. This conversation needed to happen, but she would have preferred to do a sweep of the crime scene first. Oliver would have questions she wouldn’t yet be able to answer.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned her back to the room before placing the phone to her ear. “Yes, sir.”

  “You weren’t able to find her.” Her boss didn’t sound haggard or stressed. He could have been talking about the weather, and yet Ara knew it was all just a cover. Oliver was pissed.

  “No, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to make a pass through the restaurant yet, sir.” Her phone beeped in her pocket, signaling a text message. She ignored it. “I’ve only just returned. I wanted to ensure Mrs. Boone was secured and that the police had not been called.”

  “My wife has been taken care of and protected, thanks to Gannon’s efforts.” His words were biting, their meaning clear. Gannon, at the moment, was the savior. “He has also prevented the NYPD and the media from catching wind of this.”

  Ara bit her tongue so hard, she thought it might start bleeding. Now was not the time to defend herself or her actions, so she remained silent.

  “Get Holly back to the house. Do not contact the police or FBI. Gather as much information as you can about how this went down. I’ll meet you in two hours.” His voice deepened, his tone turning to steel. “And Ara, I’m expecting answers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The echo of a dial tone answered her. She wasn’t even sure he’d heard her reply. Tightening her jaw, she tossed the phone to Gannon before removing her own from her pocket. She glanced at the message and then turned her attention toward the bodyguard.

  “A car is waiting outside. In fifteen minutes, I want you to take Mrs. Boone and load up.”

  Gannon arched his eyebrows. “Where are you going?”

  “To take a look at the scene.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No. I need you here with Mrs. Boone.”

  His thick arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Then call Mick. If he gives you the okay to leave Mrs. Boone alone while you tag along behind me, then by all means.” She opened the door, the scents of grilled beef and sweet butter wafting over her. Ara tossed a glance over her shoulder at the fuming Gannon. There was no way Mick would ever approve leaving Holly by herself, and he knew it just as well as she did.

  “I’ll meet you at the car in fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  The bathrooms were as poshly decorated as the rest of the place. Ornate faucets, spacious stalls, shimmery tiles, and individual cloth towels for hand drying. It was empty when Ara walked in, beads of water gathering in the silver sinks. She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly. She was just retracing Sam’s steps, hoping to find something to help answer her questions.

&nbs
p; Holly must have been talking to her newfound acquaintance for at least five minutes, and she had witnessed the man dragging Sam into the alley. It was a safe bet to consider the kidnapping occurred as Sam was coming out of the bathroom.

  Directly outside the bathroom door was the hallway leading back to the restaurant. To her left was an emergency exit door. The red EXIT light glowed faintly overhead, a sign nearby providing clear instructions that opening the door would set off an alarm.

  But there hadn’t been any alarm.

  Narrowing her eyes, Ara gave a shove on the bar, and the door flew open, depositing her into an alley behind the restaurant. Off to the side was the kitchen’s delivery entrance, the door shut tightly against the cool night air.

  She carefully examined the emergency exit door. No crowbar marks. No scratches near the lock. Nothing to indicate the kidnappers had forced the door open. Allowing it to close, Ara then opened it from the outside.

  It swung freely.

  “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  The manager scurried down the hallway toward her. His previously pressed suit was looking a bit wrinkled, and worry lines crisscrossed his forehead.

  “How long has this door been broken, Robert?”

  His mouth thinned, lips nearly disappearing. “I don’t think I should provide—”

  “You know what I think?” Ara’s tone took on a hard edge. “I think this is not the time for bullshit. A teenager was kidnapped from the back of your restaurant. Oliver Boone’s stepdaughter, no less. Do you want to be responsible for what happens to her?”

  Robert visibly blanched. “I’m not—”

  “You are if you don’t help me.” She locked eyes with him. “Right now she’s in the hands of God-knows-who and they are doing God-knows-what to her. Do you really want to be the person who kept her from being rescued for even a moment longer than necessary?”

  She paused, giving him a moment to absorb the ramifications and possibilities. Robert’s mouth gaped open before clamping shut again with a click. His gaze darted to the exit sign. “How can I help?”

  “Just answer my questions.” She jabbed a finger toward the door. “How long has the emergency exit been broken?”