A nice offer, one worth careful consideration. Of course, nothing about L’Uomo was ever that simple. “Who?”
“You’ll see soon enough. Are you finished?” L’Uomo looked with derision at the pathetically full plate. He had no tolerance for weakness. “No appetite?”
“No, I guess I don’t. Shall we go, then? I’m not comfortable being here. I’d like to get this over with.”
“Fine. I have a little present to show you. Perhaps then you’ll understand the seriousness of the situation. The limo will pick you up in thirty minutes. Do try to eat.”
L’Uomo stood and quitted the room, smiling benevolently at each patron as he walked out.
His companion uttered a single word at his old friend’s back.
“Bastard.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Unknown
Monday, December 22
1:30 p.m.
Taylor shifted in the wooden chair. Her arms were tied tightly at the wrist to the back legs, arching her back and straining her shoulders. She could bend her wrists up toward the ceiling, a mistake on her captor’s part. She used her long, dexterous fingers to work on the knots.
She was wishing for a blanket—the room was freezing and they’d stripped her down to her panties and bra—when she realized she wasn’t alone anymore. Her fingers stopped; she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. A scent drifted to her nose—cedar, lime, a touch of mint. A man’s scent.
“I know you’re awake. I’ve been watching you. Industrious little thing, aren’t you?”
Taylor opened her eyes. A middle-height gentleman stood before her. His gray worsted wool suit was a chalk pinstripe Saville Row, the knot in his burgundy tie just so, a crisp white shirt with platinum cuff links in the French cuffs. Dad had a suit like that once. The thought nearly undid her. He was wearing a ski mask. Incongruous, the terrorist chic and the British finery.
“Fuck. You.”
The man laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the little lady? I should wash that filthy mouth out with soap.”
“What do you want?”
“There, a much more important statement. Say please, and I’ll tell you.”
Taylor stared coolly. Never.
The man stared back at her, blue eyes burning behind the mask, then arranged his lips in an unpleasant grin. “Good. You’re a strong one. That’s what I’ve heard. I have a business proposition for you.”
“Untie me first.”
“So you can escape? Not a chance. Not yet. I’ll let you go when the time is right. When I know you’re going to cooperate. And cooperate you will, Lieutenant. Trust me on that.”
“I seriously doubt it.”
The man traced a finger along Taylor’s jawline, slowly working his way to her collarbone. “There are ways.”
Taylor jerked her head away and the man laughed. “I love how feisty you are. You will cooperate, and I will make sure you get out of here unscathed. Fight, put up a fuss, and I’ll have you killed. That’s all. Now. You have a situation back home that I can help with.”
“This is about the Snow White case?”
The man turned and raised an eyebrow. “That peon of a killer? Hardly. You’re closer to him than you think, Lieutenant. But no, this has nothing to do with him. This is about family. And honor. Things you pretend to respect.”
He took a few steps backward, toward the door, as if a bit of distance would give him better perspective on his prisoner. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared her down.
“I don’t pretend to respect my family. I have no feelings for them at all. You’ve obviously misunderstood the situation,” she said.
“Hmm.” The man put his arms behind his back and cocked his head like a spaniel puppy trying to identify a new noise. “No feelings for your family? Maybe not your parents—that bitch of a mother of yours, that traitorous father—no. I can see you having a bit too much integrity to care for them.” He bit out the word integrity, making it sound sordid and misplaced. Taylor shifted uncomfortably.
“No, I mean your chosen family. Your compadres. Your comrades in arms, so to speak. Those men who hold you in such high esteem. Loyalty is a precious commodity, Lieutenant. But it should never be taken for granted. No, I think you have a great deal of feeling for those people, the ones you choose to share your life with. I’d hate to see something happen to any one of them.”
Taylor rocked back in the chair, nearly tipping over in her vehemence. “You bastard! You steal me away and threaten my life, threaten my friends. Who the hell do you think you are?”
He crossed to Taylor in a flash, grabbed a handful of her dirty hair and yanked her head back, exposing her delicate throat. A small knife flashed in her peripheral vision and pressed hard against her carotid, a cold and rigid reminder of how precarious the situation really was. It took every ounce of her being not to flail and struggle. That’s what he wanted. To put her in this vulnerable position. He caressed her scar with the point of the knife, and she felt nauseous.
“I’m the one who has you tied to a chair, and don’t you ever forget it. Now, stop reacting, or we’ll never get anything accomplished. You have a situation that needs to be handled. We can talk about the specifics once you understand the stakes. And if I’m not being clear enough, let me throw this in to sweeten the pot. If something happens to jeopardize my interests in your fair city, I’ll start taking your friends’ heads off, one by one. Now, you sit tight. Dusty will attend to you, get you some food. Then I have someone who wants to meet you. He’ll be here shortly.”
He turned the knob and strode from the room, the door slamming behind him with a brutal metal clang.
Well. That was interesting.
The second the door shut, Taylor went to work on her bonds. A little more and she’d have them undone. Then he’d see just how much she was willing to cooperate.
As she dug at the knots, she mulled the voice over and over in her head. Who is that man? What is so familiar about him? There was something, just out of reach, but the connection defied her tries to retrieve it. The voice. Something about that voice.
In her mind, a kidnapper had two purposes, extort money or get revenge. There had to be another agenda here. Family. This wouldn’t have anything to do with her biological family. The threats against Baldwin and Fitz, Lincoln and Marcus were clear. But why? What in the world had she done to cross this madman’s path? Had she wronged him in some way? An old case? He said he had interests in Nashville. What kind of interests would a man like that have?
Perhaps he was talking about his own family. Powerful men were often betrayed.
She heard the New York in his accent. Long Island, maybe. Certainly a long way from Tennessee. She knew her share of New Yorkers, but she didn’t recognize that voice. Did she? No, that wasn’t it. Perhaps it was a ploy to draw out Baldwin?
She pushed the thought of Baldwin out of her mind like it burned. He was looking for her, there was no doubt of that. Imagining him worried about her, all of the team frightened, wondering where she could have gotten off to, gave her a new spurt of energy. Her fingers cramped, got tired, but she pulled and manipulated the rope religiously. She had to get out of this situation, one way or another.
Just as she decided to take a break, she felt some play on her right wrist. Tiredness forgotten, she picked, picked, picked, and suddenly, the rope loosened. Blood rushed to her fingers, making her hand go numb for a moment, then fire back to life as if shot with electricity. The rope fell away and she pulled her arm to her chest. Breathing hard, she smiled in triumph. She pushed her hair out of her face, took in the large room with exposed pipes, looked for avenues of escape. Being this close to freedom gave the room a whole new perspective. Definitely some sort of warehouse, she suspected. Where, she still had no idea.
She reached around to the other wrist, tugged the knot open. Both hands free, she sat them in her lap, rubbing them to bring the circulation back.
When her fingers felt like they could work again, she
reached down and untied her feet. Standing, she moved the chair out from behind her and stretched luxuriously, like a cat kept in a kennel too long. Taylor took a deep breath, calming and centering. She waited. If they were watching, they’d be in here immediately. Nothing happened, so she went to the door.
She made her way quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the guard if he stood outside the entryway. She risked a quick glance through the window, realized that it was an inverted glass, meant to magnify the interior of the space. It distorted her view; she couldn’t see anything outside properly. She pressed her ear up against the steel but heard nothing. She put a hand on the knob and pushed, hoping against hope. She’d heard the set of locks thrown when the dapper man left. It was worth a try, though.
Locked. Figured.
She walked the length of the room, the ache in her back and legs subsiding with each step. There was a bank of grimy windows on the opposite side of the cavernous space. She went to them, tried to look out, but realized they were so dirty she could only make out the semblance of a river. She jogged in place in her underwear, unsuccessfully trying to get warm, speculating.
This certainly didn’t feel like Nashville.
She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious, but the lingering effects of the chloroform from earlier, or yesterday, made her realize it could have been much longer than she thought. She was still a little woozy, and definitely sick to her stomach. The movement was helping to sharpen her reflexes and settle her gorge.
She decided to scout for a weapon, something she could use against the guard the next time he came in the room. And maybe, just maybe, she could use it to break the window. She jogged around the space, her feet growing brown and dusty. This room was obviously rarely used. There was nothing in it, either, nothing she could use against them, or to break free. There was the chair, but she felt certain they would come running at the sound of splintering wood.
She felt warmer and went to the door again, listening. There was a sound—a man’s voice. He was singing, and the tuneless chant was growing closer.
She’d only have one shot at breaking away, she was certain of that.
She ran to the chair, set it upright and sat in it. She put her arms behind her, mimicking the angle that would make the guard think she was still tied up. The locks clicked and the door opened. A new man came through the door, this one much smaller than the earlier guard. She’d have a chance at this one.
He had a stupid smile on his face, as if he knew a secret she didn’t. He had a tray with him; Taylor could smell the tantalizing fare. The aroma wafted to her nose—fajitas—she could smell grilled onions and green peppers. Out of place in the dirty space, it made her think of good times, drinking margaritas on the deck of her favorite little hole-in-the-wall in Nashville. The homesickness was overwhelming. She put it aside. At least they’d deigned to feed her, which meant they weren’t planning on killing her immediately.
She wouldn’t stick around long enough to make a difference.
“I need to use the bathroom.” Taylor tried for haughty but scared; the grin on the man’s face widened. She’d succeeded in tricking him so far.
“My name’s Dusty,” he said.
“Great. Hi. Seriously, I need to use the bathroom.” Taylor spit the words at him, but he took it as teasing and smiled wider. Idiot.
“Do you like to read?”
Oh, wow. This guy wasn’t all there. He was smiling, arranging the plate of food, seemingly oblivious to Taylor’s request. She let him get closer.
“Yes, I like to read.”
“Do you like to touch?”
Jesus, what kind of freaks were these guys? The big one had stared at her like she was a juicy steak, but this one, with his dispassionate voice that belied his bravado—Taylor doubted he would do anything to her.
“Touch what?”
“You know.” He blushed, and Taylor took a deep breath as he drew closer.
He’d have to feed her or untie her hands so she could feed herself. Either way would give her the opportunity she needed. With any luck—yes.
He set the tray on the floor. “I’m going to untie you so you can eat. We can talk. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
She nodded. He came closer, closer. A fug surrounded him; he hadn’t bathed recently, and she tried not to gag. Easy now. Let him reach behind…
Taylor jumped to her feet, knocking the chair out behind her. Dusty’s shock lasted long enough for her surprise attack. Whipping her hand around his head, Taylor got a good hold on his left ear with her right hand, got his jaw in her left and twisted away from her body with all her might. She was taller than him, had more leverage than he’d expect. Before he could fight back, his head spun to the side hard and his neck snapped with a sickening, audible crunch.
Taylor let out her breath and released Dusty’s head. He crumpled to the floor in a heap at her feet.
She took three steps back and stared down at him. She’d never killed a man with her bare hands before, never had to. She’d always had a weapon at her side to do the dirty work for her. More blood on her hands.
She shook the thought off. She didn’t have time to worry about this now. She needed to get out of here. Without a glance behind, she darted from the room. There was a long hallway that ended in a doorway, a window above it letting light gleam in. She headed for it, thrilled when it opened into the bitter winter air.
She took deep gulps of air, cleaning the confinement out of her lungs. Her breath created gusting clouds of vapor, like a dragon snorting out smoke. The street in front of her was abandoned. To her right and left were buildings covered in graffiti, sprawling tags by ghetto artists and gangbangers, making the setting almost feel like home.
A dirty brown river sprawled in front of her, and the lights in the skyscrapers on the other side beckoned like millions of friendly fireflies. There was only one place in the world that looked like that. Even without the familiar landmarks shooting into the sky, it was unmistakable. Now she had her bearings.
The freezing river breeze blew her hair, raising goose bumps up and down her arms and legs. Without another moment’s hesitation, she went down the five steps to the street, jogged south, then took the first street that allowed her to go east, away from the river. She’d hit civilization soon enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
New York, New York
Monday, December 22
3:00 p.m.
He’d been picked up in the alley behind the restaurant by the giant goon known as Atlas, blindfolded and driven around for what felt like hours before L’Uomo met him at the door to the riverfront warehouse. L’Uomo dismissed his driver, and held the dirty steel door for the visitor. L’Uomo was polite on the surface, if nothing else.
They made their way through a brief warren that ended in a door. To the right was a second door, and L’Uomo went to it, turned the knob and gestured to his guest.
“Please.”
This had better be worth it, the younger man thought. He walked through the door and down a long hallway toward a steel door with an inset window. He got closer. L’Uomo was behind him, gestured for him to look. As much as he didn’t like turning his back in the man’s presence, he didn’t have much of a choice. Magnifying glass, his mind registered.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust. On the floor was a body. A man’s body. What the hell?
He turned to L’Uomo.
“You brought me all the way back from the dead to show me a body? What kind of sick joke are you playing now? Is this just another threat? Because I don’t care anymore.”
L’Uomo looked confused for a moment, then rushed to the glass.
“Goddamn it! Where is she?”
He rushed out of the observation space and into the room. The man called Dusty was crumpled in a heap on the floor, his back to the ceiling. His head was turned three-quarters of the way around, obviously not in its proper place.
L’Uomo screamed in frustration. He
wasn’t a man prone to losing control, but this obvious alteration of his Machiavellian plans was the last straw. “She broke his neck. I can’t believe it. And managed to get out of here. This is not good. This is not good at all.”
The man’s eyes were full of fury, and he turned on his guest.
“Son of a bitch, Win. Your fucking daughter killed my man. This will not go unpunished.” He swept out of the room, leaving Win Jackson to stare into the milky-white eyes of the dead stranger.
Taylor? Taylor was here? Taylor had done this? Jesus, she must have been pissed off. A state she was perpetually in when it came to Win, anyway.
Son of a bitch was right. If Anthony Malik had decided to bring Taylor into the scheme, he was going to have bigger problems than he knew.
L’Uomo returned, calmer, his blue eyes troubled.
“Your precious little girl made it to the 108th. We need to clear out of here immediately. Do you still have the boat I arranged for you? Yes? Let’s go.”
He clicked open a cell phone, hit a single digit, spoke tersely to whoever answered. “I need a cleaner at the warehouse. Now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Long Island City, New York
Monday, December 22
8:00 p.m.
Detective 3rd Grade Emily Callahan handed Taylor a pair of gray sweatpants and a blue NYPD sweatshirt.
“Here, these should fit. The pants won’t be long enough, though. What are you, six foot?”
Taylor huffed a smile. “Five-eleven and three-quarters.” She slipped the rough white towel off her shoulders and stood, pulling the sweats on. Callahan was right—they were too short by about three inches, but they were warm and better than nothing. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head, stole a rubber band from Callahan’s desk, tied her wet hair up in a knot, then sat back down. Just showering had left her exhausted.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1 Page 82