Captive Lies

by Victoria Paige

  “Mr. Thorne, your mother is awake.” A nurse approached his huddle with Tyler and Jake.

  “Thanks, I’ll be right there.” He looked at Jake. “Find Blaire’s burner. She didn’t have a purse with her at the ER. We need that phone to contact Liam.”

  Grant made his way to his mother’s room. He took in a deep breath and schooled his features before he opened the door. Bandages obscured his mother’s head. There was bruising beneath her eyes, but she smiled weakly when she saw him.

  His father was standing at the foot of the bed and Val was sitting by her side.

  “I thought my son had forgotten me.” Her voice was low and scratchy.

  “Had to deal with an issue, Mom.”

  “It’s always one thing or another, isn’t it?”

  Grant forced a chuckle, but it sounded so hollow, he grimaced.

  “Now,” his mother said. “No one will tell me how Blaire is.” She paused, as if she was having difficulty talking. “Is she okay? Was she injured? Where is she?”

  The look on Grant’s face said it all.

  “Oh no,” she whispered and closed her eyes as if pained. “Where is she?”

  “Amelia,” his father said gently. “You must rest, sweetheart.”

  “No.” There was steel in her voice. “Why isn’t she here, Grant?”

  “She was taken, Mom,” Grant said quietly.

  She didn’t even ask by whom. His mother’s lips pressed together as if holding in a well of emotions and then held out her hand. “Oh, Grant …”

  He went to her and clutched her hand in his. Her grip was strong. At that moment, she knew her son needed her strength.

  “You’ll find her,” she whispered.

  He gave a tight nod. “I’m not accepting any other outcome.”

  Soon after leaving his mother’s side, Grant left the hospital with Tyler and Jake. He left one of his men at the hospital just in case the Boston PD had additional information.

  “We’ve recovered the senator’s car,” Jake said, getting off the phone. “They’re bringing it into Lowell’s.” Lowell’s Forensics was an independent laboratory used by many federal and investigative agencies. “Are you sure about this, Mr. Thorne?”

  “The Boston PD is going to drag their asses on this,” Grant said. “Didn’t they want to rule it as a tire blow out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not wasting time convincing them otherwise.”

  He pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts and thumbed a number. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Kylie answered. “Grant, how’s your mom? I just heard the news.”

  “She’s out of danger but still in ICU.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “We’re trying to piece things together,” Grant said. “Listen, Kyls, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Anything, Grant.”

  “Tyler is going to send you a video. I need you to try and get the number off a license plate.”

  “Okaaaay?” Her voice was hesitant.

  “And I need you not to ask any questions.”

  Silence.

  “Are you in trouble?” she asked finally.

  “No questions, Kylie. Can you just trust me on this? The less you know, the better. I assure you. What you’re doing for me is not illegal.”

  “But you’re going to use the information I give you to do something illegal.”

  Grant sighed. “Honestly? I’m not sure at this point. So, are you going to help me?”

  “Tell Tyler to send it over.”

  “Thanks, Kyls. I owe you.”

  He ended the call and checked his messages. “Tyler, send the video footage to Ms. Peterson. I’ll text you her secure FTP site and the credentials.”

  No response.

  Grant looked up from his phone and felt the sudden tension in the vehicle. “Tyler, did you hear me?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Tyler replied.

  “Why the hell not?” he frowned. “Kylie is the best in her field.”

  “So is Lowell’s lab and it’s their specialty. They’re already processing the Bentley, they can process the video,” Tyler said.

  “I’m not taking any chances. I know Kylie can do it, so do as you’re told,” Grant ordered. What the hell?

  Tyler’s jaw tightened and Grant caught his glare in the rearview mirror. “Do we have a problem, Tyler?”

  “I think this is the problem,” Jake broke in as he handed Grant a tablet. “Scroll through the bookmarks.”

  A series of tabloid articles featuring he and Kylie stared back at him. “What the fuck,” he muttered. “This is bullshit.” Then a more troubling thought crossed his mind. “Tell me Blaire didn’t see this.”

  “She searched for news about you when you stopped talking to her,” Jake derided. “Of course, she saw it.”

  “And you did nothing to discourage her?” Grant snapped.

  Donovan turned in his seat to face him. “It isn’t my place to restrict Blaire’s access to the internet. If she was messing with the Dark Web, then maybe. I explained to her that Kylie was helping secure our servers. You managed to have lunch, dinner, drinks, and coffee with Ms. Peterson without giving Blaire five minutes of your time.”

  This was worse than he thought, Grant groaned inwardly. “I’ve fucked up so bad,” he admitted, and even without his men’s assent, he could almost feel them nodding in agreement. “That Galleria Development needed all my attention.” The only time he could touch base with Kylie regarding the security patches was during those times over a meal, coffee, or drinks. The majority of his time was spent in the suffocating confines of the office and boardroom, but he could see how those tabloid pictures could be misinterpreted.

  Grant brought up Kylie’s number to call her back and tell her he didn’t need her help.

  23

  Grant

  Grant watched the swinging spheres of the Newton Cradle sitting on his desk. The gadget usually relaxed his mind while he was waiting on results of an acquisition, merger, or expansion, but this time he was waiting on the results of the forensic lab. He’d thrown enough money at them that Jake had to stop him from paying more, since he’d already tripled the expedited rate so they’d have first priority.

  It had been fourteen hours since Blaire was taken. He couldn’t sleep; he’d barely eaten. Coffee was his friend. He didn’t touch alcohol. If decisions needed to be made, he’d need a clear head.

  His phone buzzed and he snatched it up to see who was calling. It was Rafe. He’d been avoiding the calls of his managing director since the night before. He knew what he wanted to talk about. They’d been gearing up for an even bigger acquisition. The Meridian Shopping Center in Moscow would be the biggest mixed-used commercial property deal, not only in Russia, but for Grant’s company.

  And he asked himself again—when would it be enough? But he couldn’t leave Rafe hanging. Before the call went to voicemail, he picked up. “Thorne.”

  “Grant!” Rafe exclaimed and he could hear the relief in his voice. “I know it’s a bad time, man. How’s your mom?” He’d received several voicemails from friends and business associates expressing their concern. He hadn’t called any of them back.

  “She’s okay.”

  “I totally understand if you’re staying in Boston over the weekend, but are you coming back on Monday?”

  “No.”

  “Grant, we’re kicking off the acquisition of the Meridian to the board.”

  “You’ll have to do it on your own.”

  “It’s a one-point-two-billion-dollar deal, Grant. Without you in the meeting, the board’s gonna get nervous.”

  Jake appeared at the open door of his office. He was holding his laptop and had a binder under his arm.

  “I gotta go.”

  “You can’t do this, man!”

  “If you need me, contact Heather. She’s been instructed to summ
arize all the business transactions that need my attention.” He ended the call and motioned for Jake to enter. “Any updates?”

  “We’ve got the license plate number. It’s from a rental company in Miami. The lab is trying to hack into its GPS to locate it. From the company’s POS, the vehicle hasn’t been returned yet.”

  “We also have a report on the explosive device used in the car.”

  “So it’s a confirmed explosion?”

  “Yes. They found residue consistent with a tripto-blast explosive.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a relatively new technology using a triptinum core, similar to the effect of lighting a hydrogen and oxygen mixture. The resulting explosion is big and fast. Happens in a blink of an eye.”

  “Triptinum … sounds familiar,” Grant murmured.

  “It’s a recently discovered metal.”

  “I remember now. Kazakhstan, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t like where this is going.” Grant said, mulling over this information. “We need to know which companies are mining the metal? Who does the refining, and, more importantly, which companies manufacture these types of explosives?”

  Jake ran a finger across the stubble on his jaw. “See that’s the thing. This is not typical military-grade or commercial issue. As far as I know, only special-ops personnel have this technology and it ain’t cheap. It could also be the ROC trafficking these weapons to certain interest groups like ISIS.”

  “Yeah. Shit,” Grant rubbed a hand over his face. “I want to know how that device got into the Bentley. Dig deep into the backgrounds of everyone who had access to it.”

  “That’s going to take some time,” Jake said. “Your father’s office has stringent security screenings of all its people.”

  “Unless the person who has the final say is involved.”

  “Are you saying August Lynch might be involved?”

  “Not discounting him,” he said grimly. “Everyone is a suspect. The priority right now is finding Blaire. What do you have on that front?”

  “Mikhail Orlov has several properties in Miami.”

  “That’s assuming they’re taking her to Miami. How long before we can track them?”

  “If they haven’t disabled the GPS? Within the next hour or two.”

  A door slammed from the outside and rapid footsteps approached his office. Out of breath, Tyler walked in and handed Grant a phone.

  “There’s only one number on Blaire’s burner that she has called repeatedly.”

  Jaw clenching tight, Grant held it to his ear. It rang until it went to voicemail. He didn’t expect Blaire’s friend to answer, but he was still disappointed. “Liam, this is Grant. Call me at this number as soon as possible.”

  Thumbing the screen to end the call, he looked at his men. “Get ready to leave. Buy anything you think we might need to rescue Blaire. Guns, ammo, vests, hell, a grenade launcher, get it.”

  “A sizable one-time purchase will raise red flags in the system, not to mention we need paperwork for some of those.”

  “That stash that we got from Blaire’s cabin,” Tyler said. “That’s a veritable arsenal and I couldn’t trace any of those.”

  “Use it,” Grant decided. “Have our pilot fuel up the Gulfstream. Jake, do you have contacts near Florida that we can hire for extra muscle?” He didn’t need to say mercenaries.

  “I’ve already made a shortlist of men we could use,” Jake said.

  “Excellent.”

  Two hours later, Liam called.

  And Liam was furious. “What the fuck happened?”

  In clipped, succinct statements, Grant told Blaire’s friend everything.

  “That’s a serious breach of security, Thorne,” Liam said.

  Grant swallowed hard. He wanted to ask Liam about the chances of them finding Blaire alive and unhurt, but the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think that at that moment, his angel was being hurt and brutalized. It had taken all his energy to keep the images in the back of his mind, but here was the one person who knew Orlov best.

  He released a shaky breath as their line crackled with charged silence.

  “Don’t go there,” Liam ordered. “Don’t ask me either, because at this moment I want to punch through this phone and shoot you.”

  “Fuck. I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t fucking apologize!” the other man roared. “Not even a week, Thorne, and you lost her. I should have known better than to trust a pansy-assed businessman to take care of Blaire. I should have listened to her. She said she was a bad bet for you, but I think you’re the bad bet.”

  “I know,” Grant agreed. Every word out of Liam’s mouth was like a nail crucifying his guilt against his heart. Self-recrimination was bleeding from him, but he refused to wallow in regret. Not when his woman needed saving. “Can we cut the shit for now because, from where I’m standing, it’s not helping get my woman back.”

  Liam barked a short scornful laugh. “Your woman? Gotta hand it to you, Thorne, for having the balls to say that. We get Blaire back, she’s mine. Not trusting you after this.”

  Grant bristled but didn’t say anything. The more they argued on the phone, the longer it would take to get to Blaire.

  “My men and I are ready to get where you are,” he told the older man.

  “You and your men need to stand down.”

  “The fuck!” Grant swore. “I’m not sitting on my ass and waiting for news.”

  “Stay out it.”

  “If you think we can’t help, then we’ll stand down. We’ll be where you are and not interfere.” Unless they had to. “Need your own men to back you up? Fine. Get the best for the job. I don’t care how much it costs.”

  “Well, shit, at least you’re good for something,” the other man muttered. “Two million dollars. Cash. Think you can swing that?”

  “No problem,” he said. “Where do we meet you? I can get the money within the hour and have my plane ready.”

  “Miami. Call me when you land.”

  Liam hung up.

  It was four hours later when they were wheels up. Grant visited his mother first, but he didn’t give any indication that he was leaving town. He didn’t say anything to his dad either—just that they were following up on leads. Someone was trying to undermine his relationship with Blaire, and it looked like that someone was working with the Russian mafia. He couldn’t help but get suspicious of Gus. It had been obvious that he was against Blaire since the beginning and Grant recalled how he was told of his mother’s accident.

  It was Gus who called him. “There’s been an accident, Grant. Blaire escaped without a scratch, but Amelia is critical.”

  Those two statements set the stage for how he reacted to the entire scene at the ER. Gus set him up, planted the seed that it was Blaire’s fault, and his mother was paying the price. And he fell for it.

  But it didn’t make sense that Gus would collude with the Russian mafia.

  He’d get his girl back. He’d do his damnedest to convince Blaire to take a chance on him again—not that he was giving her any choice. So yeah, fuck Liam. He wasn’t taking his woman. Grant fucked up. He’d own it. He’d grovel if he had to.

  One thing was for certain. When they got back from Miami, there’d be a rat to trap.

  24

  Blaire

  Drip.

  Drip.

  The sound of water droplets helped me keep my sanity and kept fear at bay. It muted the skittering on the wet ground, the sighs and groans that echoed around the stone structure of the level that housed my cell, and the creaking floorboards above me. I was in a dungeon, dark and damp, that smelled of bleach and death.

  I knew where I was—the mansion of Mikhail Orlov near the Everglades. He didn’t take me directly to his solarium. That was where he did his executions. Here in this dungeon basement, he kept his guests to taunt or torture, or leave them to die a slow death. I wasn’t sure what he planned
for me yet. I was lying on a steel-framed cot with a lumpy mattress that made my skin itch. I didn’t even want to see its condition. The pungent odor of copper, mixed with every imaginable bodily excretion from sweat to urine, was enough to make me gag, but my other choice was to lie on the floor with Lord knew what scuttling around. The darkness was a blessing and curse. Mercifully, I was given a t-shirt to wear over my dress so at least there was more barrier between the filth and my skin.

  A heavy door clanged. I had not seen Mikhail, but I was sure that was about to change.

  A white glow lit the gap between my door and the flooring. An army of footsteps approached. The small window on the door slid open and someone peeked in. As if I could go anywhere when my ankle was shackled to the concrete wall. There was only enough slack in the chain for me to go to the bucket in the corner to do my business and wash up at the drippy faucet.

  The door swung open and the man himself stepped in. He was flanked by his trusted second man, Stefan. I didn’t know who the other three men with him were. The height and frame of one of them could have been the man who’d drugged me.

  Orlov reminded me of those doting uncles you had as a child. He wasn’t tall and had a stocky build with a slight paunch. He had dark hair, a receding hairline, and a friendly smile—until his eyes darkened with malice and the smile became a sneer. Then he’d become the bogeyman of your nightmares.

  I’d seen it happen before but, at that moment, he had on his doting uncle face.

  “My dear, Paulina, it’s been almost three years,” he said as he stopped short of the bed.

  I pushed myself up. I felt a bit nauseated, probably from the drug. “Mikhail.”

  Stefan set one of those rechargeable lamps on the floor and illuminated the gray cinderblock walls of my room. The cement flooring was uneven, as if the house was built upon a slab of rock. The bucket and the faucet that I had to feel my way in the darkness for, sat in the corner of the room. A groove was carved into the length of the flooring and led into a hole in the ground.