Loving Wilder

by Leigh Tudor

  Mercy watched Trevor grip the steering wheel. His jaw tensed, and his eyes narrowed. He looked about to blow.

  She couldn’t take it any longer. “You have something you want to say to me, Trevor Forrest? If so, get it out now because we need to be one-hundred-percent focused on getting Nate and Cara back.”

  “You lied to me,” he yelled, pounding the steering wheel.

  There it was.

  Mercy took a cleansing breath. “I didn’t lie. I told you Nate was going to spend the night at the house but that we had to make a stop first. And that was exactly what happened.”

  Trevor whipped his head to the back and glared at Mercy. “Don’t play that childish reasoning bullshit with me.” He glanced back and forth from the road to her with outrage in his eyes. “You lied by omission. You knew I wouldn’t have allowed Nate to go to that party, let alone to Raley, so you chose to keep it from me. Are you so emotionally inept that you don’t even see that? That had you told me the truth, the entire truth, Nate would be at home and safe right now?”

  Mercy flinched. And then blinked several times as her chest caved in.

  It would have hurt less if he had hit her.

  Slowly sitting back in the seat, she felt her heart disintegrate.

  Since their recent reconciliation, Trevor had ripped the zippers on two pairs of her favorite jeans, tore several pairs of her lace panties, and wrenched the clasp on one of her fancy bras. But never had she been treated with more violent disregard by the one person she trusted the most.

  And how ironic was it that the thing she was having the most trouble coming to terms with was that he was right.

  She did lie by omission. She did cherry-pick and manipulate the details of that night. But she wasn’t sorry for what she had done. How could she be?

  To her relief, Alec came to her defense. “Trev, man, I know you’re scared and pissed as hell, but just remember, if it wasn’t for Mercy taking Nate to that party, Cara would still be gone, but we wouldn’t have any idea where she was. So let’s focus on getting these kids home instead of bickering, pointing fingers, and saying things we can’t take back.”

  Mercy stared out the side window.

  As for the latter, it was already too late for that.

  Déjà vu.

  The feeling of having already experienced a situation or moment in time.

  That was what Trevor was feeling, and he didn’t like it.

  He and Alec were back on their stomachs on the side of the hill overlooking the Center. They had become pretty familiar with the wooded area surrounding the compound over the past year. But this time, instead of Mercy being on the inside, she was lying on the ground next to Alec and keeping her distance from him.

  Which was a good thing.

  When he’d gotten off the phone with her this morning, it was all he could do not to lose his shit.

  He’d forced himself to move methodically throughout the house, thinking through the steps that would eventually get him out the front door, but all he’d been able to think about was that Nate was supposed to be sitting in Mercy’s kitchen, eating granola and Greek yogurt while scouring the nutritional content of all the containers of food in the pantry.

  But he wasn’t.

  Nate was gone. Missing. Taken.

  Taken while under Mercy’s care.

  In some fucking backward-ass town north of Wilder that he had never even heard of before. And where Nate never should have been.

  Moving with steady determination and giving the girls specific instructions that they followed without question, sensing the serious nature of his tone and tense mannerisms, he’d worked through his mental to-do list to ensure all details were covered.

  And that he didn’t lose his shit.

  Madame had arrived within minutes of his call. She’d informed him that she had reached out to some of her most trusted contacts at the highest levels of the FBI in both the DC and Dallas offices, who were already working with the police to track down the van.

  Now, he was stretched out on the same goddamn hill where he’d spied Haley for the first time and where he’d watched Mercy come within seconds of being murdered by a drug lord’s henchmen.

  But this time, it was to save Nate and Cara.

  He peered through the binoculars scouring over each office building, guard shack, and warehouse, thinking after this was over, he was going to burn the fucker to the ground.

  “I don’t see the van,” he said, moving the binoculars from one side of the compound to the other.

  “It’s probably parked in one of the warehouses,” Alec responded.

  “They’re in there,” Mercy said. “I can tell. Can you hear the hum of the generators? They had to fire them up because the electricity was cut off.”

  Even though he was angry with her, he was hyperaware of her every move. His skin prickled as she sat up, setting her binoculars on the ground beside her.

  “I know how to get in,” she announced.

  Trevor and Alec sat up as well, waiting to hear her plan.

  “There’s a metal sliding hydraulic drawer in a small room next to the main entrance. Kind of like the ones you see at a pharmacy drive-up window. The guards and the medical staff used to visit the attendant when having problems with their security badges or when they were reset as a part of the Center’s security protocol guidelines. The drawer extends to the outside.”

  “Okay,” Trevor said, not sure where she was going with this.

  “The metal tray or drawer that slides to the outside, again, it’s hydraulic and therefore not connected to power when the generators are in use. I should be able to pry it open and slip through it to the inside.”

  Trevor rubbed his chin, thinking through her plan. “Are you small enough to fit through the drawer?”

  She nodded. “I think so. I certainly have a better chance than either one of you.”

  Trevor didn’t like it. “Once inside, how can you be sure you can exit the attendants’ room? Do they keep it locked?” he asked, his throat beginning to clog as his anger with Mercy was turning into something else.

  “Well,” she said, careful with her words. “Wouldn’t it be safe to surmise a small office door would lock from the inside?”

  Fuck, of course, it would.

  “Besides, it wasn’t locked the last time I was here. I was able to enter the room and turn on the speaker system and listen to what Loren and Amado were discussing without anyone being the wiser.”

  “Then what?” Alec asked.

  “Then I navigate the security system within the corridors, assuming it’s even operational, until I find Nate and Cara,” she paused. “I was able to find Nate, Marleigh, and Haley the last time I was here with a skeleton security crew and the electricity at full wattage. I don’t see why I couldn’t find the two in an abandoned building working on backup power.”

  “Head count?” Alec asked.

  “Outside of Nate and Cara?” She gave a half shrug. “Unless they had people here to meet up with them, only three. A guy named Billy Joe, who owned the house in Raley, Sam, and Dr. Vielle.”

  Trevor was already skimming through his phone as Alec turned to him and asked, “What do we know about Billy Joe?”

  A message popped up from Madame G including Billy Joe’s rap sheet.

  “Madame came through,” he said, scrolling through the message. “Our boy Billy Joe Vieja has quite the rap sheet with a career accumulation of forty-six arrests. At age nine, he stole his first car. A car chase ensued with the police, killing two pedestrians and an officer. He grew up on the streets of Springfield, Illinois, and became a part of a gang. His mother moved them to Sioux Falls, hoping that would stem his criminal activities, but he managed to get arrested and spent a year with some pretty dangerous underworld cellmates. And when he got out, he began supplying the region with narcotics.

  “But where he hit it big was when he got himself sent to a maximum-security prison where he masterminded a drug-smuggling ring and
managed to escape using nothing but dinner utensils.”

  Trevor looked up. “Madame also said that it’s widely known he’s joined ranks with Amado.” He sighed as he reiterated the last sentence from Madame’s email. “And Amado escaped from a maximum-security prison last night.”

  Loren sat in her recliner with Hercules by her side, her guard dog waiting for a command or pat on the head while she glared at Madame G with razor blades as pupils.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said,” Madame Grand reiterated, “that Amado has escaped from prison. Nate and Cara have been abducted and are being held captive at the Center by Sam and Dr. Vielle. And Mercy, Alec, and Trevor are on their way to infiltrate the Center and retrieve them.

  “How long have you been aware of this significant intel?”

  Madame blinked once slowly. “About four hours.”

  “And you didn’t think I should have been informed of this sooner?”

  “No.”

  Loren was not accustomed to her authority being questioned under such dire circumstances, even from Madame, but that was exactly what was happening.

  “Jimbo,” she called, maintaining an icy glare with Madame. “I’m going to need the Volvo pulled from the side garage and a bag packed with dark clothes and my Sig.”

  Jimbo stepped outside of the kitchen into the entryway of the back sunroom. “No,” he replied with succinct directness.

  Her head whipped in his direction. “What?”

  “I said no, Half-Pint,” he repeated without pause, but with a softer tone than Madame.

  She lobbed her irked gaze from Madame to Jimbo, and took a breath. Two stalwart prison guards not willing to budge.

  Mutiny.

  That was what was going on here. Complete disregard and lack of respect for authority. A staged insurrection. And she wasn’t going to have it.

  “Fine,” she said, whipping the warm, cozy blankets from her lap and positioning herself to wrench her weary body from the ridiculously enjoyable confines of her recliner.

  Hercules instantly jumped up at his mistress’s sign of distress. “Then I have no choice but to see to these arrangements myself.”

  “Oh, you’re not going anywhere,” Madame said, looking down from where she stood above Loren with her hands on her hips and one eyebrow shooting up into her forehead. “Dr. Hollowell was quite clear. Rest, relaxation, and weekly ultrasounds. Avoiding stress at all costs. You’re staying right here, young lady.”

  “I’d like to see you try to stop me.” She scooted to the edge of the recliner, and with her tongue hanging out of her mouth and her face a distressed shade of red, she yanked herself to a standing position.

  And wavered at the sharp twinge in her side.

  Whereby Madame took two fingers, placed them on her chest, and pushed—sending her sprawling backward into the plush confines of the chair. “I’m afraid we’re about to have a clash of jurisdiction,” Madame said, undaunted.

  “We’re not clashing over anything. I’m going to Utah to ensure that Nate and Cara return to Wilder safe and sound. End of story.”

  “No.” This time the non sequitur was from Jimbo. “You’re staying here. Exactly where you and baby Wilder need to be.”

  Loren stared at Jimbo with wide eyes. “Seriously? You would keep me from rescuing my sister and Nate?”

  The man remained steadfast. “I know this may come as a shock to you, as you hold your abilities in such high regard, but I have every faith in Miss Mercy, Mr. Forrest, and Mr. Wilder to see this through. Without your help.”

  “You’re serious?” Loren asked, her eyelids beginning to droop.

  “I am.” He stood on the other side of her chair stroking Hercules who was also agitated, on behalf of his mistress. But seeing her lose her fervor, he laid his head down on the arm of her chair with doleful eyes.

  Despite her efforts to rally, she could feel her resolve beginning to fold. She was just so inexplicably tired.

  The fact that the chair was sucking her back into its warmth wasn’t exactly helping. Hercules moved his head to her lap, his eyes looking into hers beseechingly, as if also begging her to wave the white flag.

  She rummaged around and squawked at finding her mobile device had been confiscated.

  “May I have my phone so I can call Mercy and provide timely input?”

  “No,” Madame responded, pulling the phone from the pocket of her smart-looking cardigan. “That would only serve to induce undo stress.”

  Loren pursed her lips in deep concentration, torn between finding a way to influence the outcome of the mission and curling up in the chair for a quick nap.

  This was unacceptable. She was losing control.

  She loved control. Thrived on it.

  But then again, she was really, really tired.

  Madame’s shoulders lowered as Loren finally succumbed to sleep.

  Jimbo rubbed his bottom lip with his hand. “I’m going to ask that we commit to a lifelong pact never to reveal that I laced her juice with the doctor’s highest recommended dose of Tylenol PM,” he remarked, staring down at a sacked-out Loren.

  Madame scoffed. “Rest assured, I shan’t be divulging any secrets. As you recall, I was your partner in crime, Master Jimbo.” She gathered her teacup, her gaze momentarily softening as she watched a peacefully slumbering Loren. “If she ever discovers the truth, you won’t find me apologizing… desperate times and all that.”

  She turned toward Jimbo. “When she awakens, please take as much time as necessary before informing her that I’ve left for Utah,” she hesitated, “and borrowed her Sig.”

  Over the past several hours, she had been busy gathering intel, as well as selecting a team of special agents she had worked with over the years to accompany her on this mission. She trusted them implicitly for their loyalty and expertise—each of them with no less than fifteen years of field experience and having worked with her on the Halstead case for most of that time.

  “It has been my experience that a hefty meal might be your best bet of dampening the young woman’s salty attitude.”

  She’d picked up the term “salty” from Cara and was quite full of herself that she managed to use the idiomatic expression with pinpoint accuracy.

  “Half-Pint’s gonna be spittin’ mad,” Jimbo said, scratching his beard. “Guess I better rustle up a pan of braised lamb shanks.”

  Hours later, while on the road, Madame kept checking the time. Despite her efforts, time was running short. No matter how many reiterations she ran through in her mind, she just couldn’t come up with a plan that would allow her to determine Amado’s whereabouts, as well as get to the Center in a reasonable amount of time.

  She had no choice.

  It was time to call in some favors.

  After making a number of targeted phone calls to less than respectable individuals, who happened to owe her a favor or two, she gained some priceless inside information.

  Word on the street was that Amado was traveling northwest toward Utah, and likely, making her way to the Center.

  Madame sat on that information for all of two minutes, and then pulled to the side of the highway to make a quick call to another contact: A rather duplicitous individual who did a keen job of working both sides of the proverbial coin. One side, providing intel on the down-low to certain agents within the Bureau, such as Madame, and the other to a cartel boss who happened to be a treacherous competitor of Amado’s.

  Apparently, his boss and Amado had a difference of opinion when it came to distribution rights. And in retribution, Amado had called the hit from the safe confines of her luxury prison cell, arranging for the murder of his wife, son, and daughter in a yachting accident off the coast of St. Tropez. His life was spared as he’d been called away hours before the yacht was blown into nothing more than small slivers of wood and unrecognizable detritus floating in the Mediterranean.

  It seemed no one working in the illegal narcotics industry was safe, not even in internationa
l waters, hiding from embittered and imprisoned drug lords in jeopardy of losing a few percentage points of margin.

  Madame gave the contact, who was soon to receive quite the promotion from his boss, the coordinates shared by her informant as to the exact location of Amado’s covert cavalcade.

  Madame pulled back onto the highway.

  It wasn’t an hour later when she received the call informing her that Amado was dead, each black Escalade in her illustrious procession blown to pieces with enough TNT to destroy a hundred yachts.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “The piano has been drinking, not me.” — Tom Waits

  Hunger and dehydration warred inside Cara’s body, despite a plate of food that was being nibbled on by a rat and a metal cup of water that sat next to it.

  After Sam had dropped the dishware onto the concrete floor, causing most of the contents to spill, Nate had captured her attention, giving her a small shake of his head. A clear indication that it wasn’t safe to eat and not to chance it.

  Cara knew his concerns were based on more than just poor nutritional content.

  Since then, she had fallen asleep with her head drooping on her chest, unwilling to lie on the grime-encrusted floor. Slowly, her eyesight began to sharpen along with the rough edges of an unsettling nap.

  Her gaze shifted to the staircase where a zoned-out Sam had been standing guard. But he was no longer at his assigned post. She turned toward Nate, but he was gone as well and her heart began to pound in her chest.

  Where was he?

  Oh, God. Did Sam take him away?

  She looked in the direction of a sound that came from the far corner of the room. Blinking, she managed to focus on where the noise was coming from and spied Nate standing in front of an open doorway, his body outlined by the light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.