by Leigh Tudor
Thank God. She was safe.
Mercy hugged her chest with relief. The woman was elderly and petite, no match for a man who had beaten a far younger woman within an inch of her life. A woman trained in self-defense, no less.
All must be well if Madame sounded so upbeat.
Sam having absconded elsewhere.
Unfortunately, that meant that Samantha must still be unaccounted for as well.
Shrugging the tension from her shoulders, she slid the gun into the waist of her jeans, opened the rickety screen door, and walked inside.
Madame was doing dishes and wearing black Lycra pants, just as Jimbo had described, as well as lace-up leather boots and a black jogging jacket. Nothing like the typical buttoned-up garb she usually wore, with patent leather shoes and her ever-present pearls.
Rather, she looked as if dressed to drive her Harley to the local fifty-five plus MC or to commit a breaking and entering to help her besties escape from a repressive retirement home.
“Hey, Madame, what’s—”
And that was when she saw him. Sitting in a hard-back wooden chair with his hands and ankles zip-tied to the arms and legs and his mouth covered in duct tape.
Sam Waterman.
Sweat mixed with blood ran down his face as he trembled and whimpered.
Mercy inhaled sharply at the unexpected sight and got a whiff of an offensive odor.
Oh, crap, he’s pissed himself.
“Please come and join us,” Madame said, folding the dish towel and laying it over the edge of the sink. “Sam and I have just finished a rousing discussion on the merits of being a good husband and loving father. Have we not, Sam?”
Mercy eyed the 9mm Luger sitting just at arm’s length from Sam. And the bruises and lacerations on both sides of his cheeks, as if he’d been pistol-whipped.
Did Madame rough him up? Was that even possible?
No. No freaking way.
The idea of Madame Garmond manhandling this dirtbag was beyond far-fetched.
Her gaze shot up to a humming Madame who continued to putter in the kitchen as nothing were amiss. As if Sam weren’t fighting against his restraints, his eyes begging Mercy for help.
Mercy looked around the room and into the hallway. “Um... where’s Samantha?”
“She just left with Levi,” Madame replied coolly.
“So, Levi was here?”
“Why, yes, he drove me here as I was unfamiliar with the area. I can’t make heads or tails of those global positioning systems on my mobile device. They tell me to turn when I’ve already passed the road and often end up more lost than if I had a good old-fashioned paper map. And in this day and age, there’s no telling where one might find themselves.”
Mercy held her palm to her forehead, trying to make sense of how Madame came to be involved in all of this.
“You knew about what Sam did… to Becky?” Mercy asked, ignoring Sam’s attempts to capture her attention with wide eyes and desperate mewling from behind the duct tape. “How?”
“Well, there are a number of security cameras at Loren’s home,” Madame added. “For her protection.”
Good Lord, getting information from this woman was like pulling teeth.
“And what? Are you saying you have access to the feeds?”
“Oh, goodness no. The Bureau does.”
“And they told you what happened?”
Why would the FBI contact a little old lady, who pretended to be Franglaise, about Becky? Especially considering her delusional state—evidenced by her claims of being their grandmother and the illegitimate daughter of a British duke. Granted, she knew there was more to Madame than met the eye. Loren had said as much.
But still.
“I received an alert, and the video clip of Sam shoving Becky from his vehicle.” She glared at the man sweating bullets.
“And after receiving the clip, you and Levi did this?” Mercy asked, waving her hand randomly in front of a still trembling Sam, who was ineffectively attempting to scoot his chair toward the door.
“Oh no,” Madame replied. “All this would be a rather unsavory exercise for dear sweet Levi.”
Mercy frowned. “So... you… did this?” she asked with a fair amount of skepticism.
Although her prisoner was making little progress, Madame’s eyebrows knitted as she leisurely pulled a large knife from a butcher block on the counter, the sound of the metal slipping through with a steel whisper. She made a spry turn around the table and plunged it directly between his legs, missing some very important appendages by mere millimeters.
His eyes grew large as he wailed from beneath his mouth covering, and another waft of urine hit Mercy’s nostrils.
Madame yanked the knife from the wooden seat and turned to her as if she were explaining a common occurrence. “Not until after helping Samantha crawl out a bedroom window and into Levi’s truck.”
“Is Samantha okay? Did he…” She gave Sam an accusing glare. “Did he hurt her?”
Madame shook her head and once again Mercy felt bone-deep relief. She just couldn’t handle the thought of young Samantha suffering the same injuries as her mother, at the hands of her father.
“And then what happened?”
“Well, Levi spirited her away. We decided it was imperative to get her to a safe environment, while I had a little talk with Sam.”
Mercy’s head jerked back as Madame lifted the Luger from the table, pulled back the cartridge with one hand, and twisted the gun to the side, like a boss, shoving it into his crotch.
“Isn’t that right, Sam?”
He trembled as she dug the pistol into his groin. “I said, isn’t that right?”
He nodded his head frantically and made wounded animal sounds from behind the duct tape.
Satisfied with his response, she laid the pistol back on the table and turned to Mercy with a renewed smile on her face.
“It’s been quite a while since I had to apprehend someone while holding a pistol. A skill one must use often in order to maintain it. Much like speaking French.”
“Are you saying you took him down and tied him up all by yourself?”
“I must admit, it was rather child’s play,” she said haughtily. “I clocked him over the head with the 9mm while he was playing his mind-numbing video game, then sat him in the chair and restrained him. I believe he could stand to lose a pound or two. And,” she trained a truly menacing expression toward a squirming Sam, “we had a nice. Long. Talk.”
Madame turned toward a wide-eyed Mercy.
“Oh my, you appear quite gobsmacked, my dear. Would you like something to nosh on? Pull yourself back to sorts?” she asked, opening a pantry door. “I’m afraid all I could find in terms of provisions are pork rinds and a half-eaten bag of Doritos. What I’d give right now for a spot of Earl Grey.” She lifted a box that said Lipton on the side. “Which this is not.”
“No, I’m good,” Mercy said, moving toward a chair far from Sam. More so because of the stench of urine permeating his wardrobe than any sense of danger. “I think there are some things we need to discuss concerning your ever-changing colorful background.”
Madame waved her off. “There’s plenty of time for that.”
The faint sound of sirens could be heard in the background and Mercy could have sworn that Sam’s expression went from pant-pissing fear to a look of relief.
Madame clapped her hands together. “Les gendarmes sont arrivés.”
Mercy squinted her eyes. “Let me guess, French?”
“Bien sûr, ma chère.”
Mercy blinked and shook her head back and forth. “I don’t know who you even are right now.”
“Why, I am everyone I have ever shown you.”
Trevor drove his new Ford F-350 toward the address he’d received in a no-nonsense text from Madame G.
Who knew owning a hardware store and making several deliveries a day required the power of a 350-horsepower engine with 430 pounds per foot of torque?
When in Rome, as they say.
Or Wilder.
Although the truck was doing great things for his testosterone levels, he was having difficulty navigating the enormous vehicle through the winding roads that grew more remote, covered with arching treelines and roadsides lined with tall grass.
Quite the change from driving a company-assigned fleet car.
But his massive truck wasn’t the only thing that he needed to get used to after such a dramatic lifestyle change.
Navigating life in a remote prairie town, and raising three children, was also becoming more complicated by the day. And having to come to Madame G’s aid, with no questions asked, was no exception.
Unfortunately, the days of being able to spin on a dime when called to action was a thing of the past—no longer a possibility for the single parent of three and co-owner of a small business.
Making arrangements for the children took more time than expected, as he had to ask his elderly neighbor to watch them after school let out. And then he argued with Nate about why a twelve-year-old, who attended high school as well as college prep courses, wasn’t old enough to stay home with two younger sisters.
Nate had informed him that if he’d done his research, he would have learned that Texas didn’t assign a minimum legal age to watch children, only a loose recommendation that they be no younger than eleven years of age and of a maturity level sufficient to the task.
And, of course, he argued his maturity level was indeed elevated for such a task, compared to that of their nearly senile neighbor, Mrs. Calhoun. A widowed woman in her eighties who hoarded stacks of Twinkies boxes printed with expiration dates going back to the early 1980s.
Apparently, she’d won a lifetime supply in a radio contest where she had to name the top fifty country-western songs on the charts that year. What she hadn’t realized was that she would receive the preservative riddled treats all at one time.
Oh, and Nate had also lamented to Trevor, for the thousandth time, that he had been caring for Marleigh and Haley while at the Center.
Trevor wanted to argue that wasn’t altogether true. That they had caretakers and teachers who had shown up every day at the Center. But he knew better than to discount the role Nate played in the younger girls’ lives, so he kept his mouth shut.
For when it came to the ever-contrary Nate, he learned to pick his battles.
But leaving the children alone, without adult supervision based on age as opposed to IQ, just didn’t sit well with Trevor. He was new to this whole parenting gig and rationalized it was better to be safe than sorry.
Besides, it couldn’t hurt to pair decades of Mrs. Calhoun’s experience with Nate’s overdeveloped prefrontal cortex.
As he packed a cooler of snacks, he thought about calling Mercy to ask for her advice. She always knew the right thing to do when it came to the children. Heck, she probably would have driven over at a moment’s notice to stay with them herself, without Nate the wiser or feeling dismissed.
But calling his fake ex-fiancée was no longer an option. He had to maintain some dignity, for Christ’s sake.
So, Trevor herded the two girls next door as they skipped and twirled alongside a disgruntled Nate, who dragged his feet with the enthusiasm of a man decades older.
Trevor knocked on the door of his neighbor’s house, who opened it with the enthusiasm of a woman half her age.
Marleigh squealed a hello and jumped as high as she could with unrepressed joy as Haley executed her trademark silent twirl.
Trevor promised to be back as soon as possible. Meanwhile, a stooped-over Mrs. Calhoun pinched Nate’s cheek and asked him if he wanted a Twinkie.
Marleigh and Haley clapped their hands in delight.
Nate glared at Trevor, raised his eyes skyward, and then turned to the white-haired woman with a respectful demeanor. “No thank you, ma’m, he responded. “Twinkies possess the nutritional value of a sponge steeped in food additives and high glycemic sugar.”
The ever-optimistic Mrs. Calhoun would not be deterred. “Well then, how about a Little Debbie Creme Pie?”
“How about a plate of sliced carrots and hummus?” Nate countered.
Mrs. Calhoun tittered. “Oh my, I can’t afford them fancy cheese spreads.”
Nate graced Trevor with another accusatory glare.
Time to go.
Trevor unloaded a small cooler from his shoulder and handed it to Nate. “I took the liberty of packing Nate-approved snacks.”
Twisting his lips, Nate offered a rueful glance. “There’s hope for you yet, Trevor Forrest.”
Now, Trevor found himself at an unfamiliar address provided by Madame G, who’d called and told him to come as quickly as possible as she required adequate backup. She hadn’t reacted kindly to his request for more details. “Is this how you follow orders? With the lackluster response of an addlepated dullard?”
He didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he knew he didn’t want to be perceived as inadequate despite the confusing vernacular. Madame G was legendary for her grit and exacting loyalty. And even though he had turned in his resignation and was no longer living a life where he was paid to provide said backup, he would do anything this woman asked of him.
As long as it was legal.
With maybe one or two hypothetical exceptions. She was that iconic in the world of espionage.
So, he’d assured her he would be there as quickly as possible, but not to do anything until he arrived.
Clearly, the dowager-esque woman had gone another direction as authorities had taped-off the entrance to the cabin and parked several police cars in the driveway with their lights flashing.
Trevor felt the tension leave his shoulders as he passed Loren’s supposed, M2M furnished vehicle parked closer to the road.
He was one of two people who knew the car had nothing to do with M2M, as he had gone to the car dealership with Alec to help pick it out. It had taken hours before Alec finally settled on a Volvo XC-90 with all the latest safety features.
Just as he walked up the steps, two police officers escorted a man in handcuffs out the front door. The perp appeared to have been roughed up, his face peppered with lacerations and one eye swollen shut. He walked stooped over as if it were difficult to stand straight.
The police must have had a difficult time trying to subdue him.
He second-guessed his first impressions of the crime scene. Did Loren arrive in time? There was no telling what that lowlife had done to Madame prior to help arriving.
During her early days with MI5 in the UK, Madame had quite the reputation for handling more physical altercations. It had been a while since she’d moved to the US to work for the FBI and finally retiring from the Bureau—surprising everyone when she coerced and subtlety bribed every available contact to take on the more sedentary, undercover gig as Charlotte Halstead’s business manager and caretaker.
A third woman in plain clothes followed another officer out the door and stopped him from entering, stating she was the lead detective on the case and asking to see his credentials. Without a badge or official documents to flash in her direction, he pulled out his old M2M card, which made her chuckle. It meant nothing to her, but he had used it in the past as it looked somewhat legit to those who didn’t know any better.
Apparently, she did.
He then channeled Nate’s quick wit and penchant for sharing false information and added that he was a close relative of Madame G’s.
“You’re related to Madame Garmond?” the detective asked with a fair amount of skepticism.
“Nephew. Was Madame Garmond harmed in any way?” he asked, sliding the card back in his wallet. “She called and asked me to... assist her. Is she okay?”
The woman snickered and pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “Oh, yeah, she’s just fine.”
He walked through the door and came to a stop when he found Madame G seated at the kitchen table drinking what was sure to be an inferior cup of tea while seated next to... not
Loren, but his ex-fake fiancée.
Mercy Ingalls.
Who appeared as equally distressed to see him as he was to see her.
He scanned the two women for any signs of bodily harm, and once assured of their overall health, he said, “Madame G, I apologize for my tardiness.”
Madame waved him over. “Nonsense. Perfect timing by my standards, Master Forrest. Please join us for an atrocious cup of Lipton tea.” She picked up the offensive box of tea bags and threw it over her shoulder.
“Thank you, but I can’t stay,” he said, noting that Mercy kept her eyes focused on her unremarkable steaming beverage. “I left the children with Mrs. Calhoun, my elderly neighbor, and I need to get back before Nate turns her over to family services for child neglect.”
Mercy’s head shot up. “I know Mrs. Calhoun. She’s super nice. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, she has osteoporosis.”
Those amber eyes were on him, and he felt his knees go weak. It was as if the luminescent orbs sapped him of energy and reason.
God, how he hated the way she made him feel.
Like a teenage version of himself. One minute pining and lovesick and the next wanting to put is his fist through a wall.
He drew in a sharp breath and forced himself to look down, as if she shone too bright for his eyes and he needed a fucking break. The desire to touch her, taste her, was overwhelming and gutting.
“I’m afraid I’ve met someone.”
And emasculating.
He pasted a smile on his face, determined to be the better man, and looked up. “By the time I left, the only thing Mrs. Calhoun was guilty of was offering the children snacks lacking in nutritional value.”
“I’m sure Nate would consider that the height of abuse,” she said, with a twinkle in those gorgeous, soul-decimating eyes.
“I packed several snacks that he would give a thumbs-up to, but there’s no telling what other negative attributes he’s dredged up while I’ve been gone.”
“An inadequate hand sanitizing station for one,” Mercy quipped with a ghost of a smile.
“Improper air ventilation,” Trevor added, hating himself for playing the game, despite the pain of having her eyes on him.