Ransom (Dead Man's Ink #3)

by Callie Hart

  Jamie doesn’t take any of his almonds, and neither do I. We both simply look at him like he’s crazy, which he is. Patently. Jamie clears his throat. “I heard you have a friend in town. A mutual friend.”

  Ramirez pops an almond into his mouth and bites down on it, smiling. “Alan? My good friend Alan? I had no idea you two knew each other.”

  “We do. Very well. I’d like him to come stay with me if that’s amenable to you.” Jamie lifts one shoulder in a poor attempt at a shrug. “We do have more room for guests after all.”

  Ramirez wags a finger at Jay, like he’s just made a joke. His eyes crease at the corners, showing how blatantly amused he is at the prospect of merely handing Alan over without a by your leave. “You sure do have a lot of room over there, you’re right. I don’t know, though. Alan’s pretty happy with me right now. He knows his daughter is going to come pay him a visit soon. He seems very invested in seeing her.” His eyes turn cold all of a sudden, hardening, the creases created by his smile morphing into something sour and angry. “I believe she’ll be by any day now.”

  Jamie steps forward, growling under his breath. “She won’t be going anywhere near you or your farmhouse, Hector. She’s not your property.”

  “Of course not. People can’t belong to other people. This is America, Jamie. What an absurd thing to say.” Ironic that he chooses to say this, when he makes hundred of thousands of dollars a year, perhaps millions, selling people as sex slaves. There’s a chance he makes more money selling people than he does selling heroin and cocaine. A junkie will pay twenty bucks for a baggie. A rich gentleman with certain proclivities and the means to keep them secret will pay considerably more to satiate his addiction. Jamie’s seething, but he’s also doing a pretty damned good job at remaining calm.

  “If we drop our conflict,” he says, “will you let him go?” It’s wild that he’s dropping our pretence so quickly, but what’s even wilder is the suggestion he’s making. Drop the conflict with Los Oscuros? I can barely believe what I’m hearing. We went to war with the cartel because Ramirez had Jamie’s uncle murdered. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and it broke Jamie’s heart at the same fucking time. Now he’s just willing to forget that, forget about getting justice for Ryan and walk away?

  Ramirez looks bemused by the thought. “I don’t see that there’s ever going to be a way out of this conflict for you or for me. Not without blood spilled. Life lost. You’ve been quiet for the past little while, and I’ve sat in that cramped farmhouse waiting for you to snap. Waiting for you to make your move. And you’ve done nothing. I have to say at this point, I want a more…physical ending to this game of ours if only so I won’t feel like I’ve been wasting my time in this godforsaken place, day in, day out for what frankly feels like an eternity.”

  “So you refuse?” Jamie doesn’t move an inch. I don’t want to take my eyes off of Ramirez in case the guy truly is certifiable and he does make a move here, but I can tell something is very wrong with the man standing next to me. He’s about to lose his fucking mind.

  Alfonso appears from the café next to the women’s clothing store on the other side of the street, coffee cup in hand, still shooting me stink eye. He hands the coffee to Ramirez and then hovers, standing there. “Get back in the car,” Ramirez snaps. Alfonso glowers at all three of us, and then does as he’s told, reluctantly folding himself back into the passenger seat.

  “Yes, I refuse,” Ramirez says. “Of course I fucking refuse. Tell me something, Jamie. Where is Raphael?”

  Raphael. Raphael Dela Vega. I’d like to say I haven’t even thought about him in forever, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Jamie never gave me details, but I know the fucker is buried somewhere out in the desert, and that Sophia had something to do with it. I can’t imagine her taking someone’s life, but then again Dela Vega was a special guy. I’m pretty sure nearly everyone he met wanted to drive a knife into his heart, and with good reason.

  “How the fuck should I know where he is?” Jamie’s voice is level and even, but it holds a hard edge to it. It’s hardly an admission that he had something to do with the guy’s disappearance, but it’s hardly a denial either. Not a real one, even if he does claim so with his words.

  Ramirez stares Jamie down, not breathing, not blinking, not shifting an inch. The two of them stand their ground until Ramirez turns away, fishing more almonds out of his pocket. “That’s a pity. He’s my favorite employee, you know. I’d be really fucking upset if I found out something had happened to him. God only knows what I would do.” He tosses an almond into his mouth and then washes it down with some coffee.

  His threat isn’t even a veiled one. He knows perfectly well that Raphael is dead and that the Widow Makers are responsible. And now he’s going to punish us by taking it out on Alan, demanding we hand over Sophia, otherwise there’ll be hell to pay. It’s what we expected at the end of the day. I step forward, placing myself between Jamie and Ramirez—it’s only a matter of time before Jamie’s temper gets the better of him and he goes for Hector. There’s only one reason he would ever do something so reckless, and that’s if Sophia is in danger. Right now, Ramirez’s attentions towards Jamie’s girlfriend certainly constitute danger. Jamie will tear his throat out on the street in front of countless witnesses and risk going to prison if it means keeping her safe.

  Ramirez smirks, bowing his head. “We men are alike, you know?” he says softly.

  “And how the fuck did you come to that conclusion?” I crane my neck, staring down at him. I’ve never considered myself overly tall—I’m 5’11’’, pretty average for a guy—but I tower over Ramirez. The guy is pretty short; maybe that’s why he decided he needed to get into the organized crime business—to obtain the power that his physique couldn’t command through fear. If that’s the case, then he’s doing a pretty damn good job of it. Lesser men would be cowed by him. They’d think twice about fucking with his business or his employees. Rebel and I are probably the only men to have stood up to him in a really long time, which from the look on his face is very entertaining to him. His smile grows even broader.

  “We are focused individuals,” he says. “And we’re unfamiliar with not getting our own way. It gives us a certain determination that other men lack.”

  Behind me, Jamie makes a really unhappy sound. “You’re right,” he says. “We’re not used to being told no. We’re also really fucking patient. We’ve been waiting for the past six months, Ramirez. That doesn’t mean that we’ll wait forever now, though. Don’t be fooled. If you think we’re just going to sit by and let you torture an old man to get what you want, you’d be mistaken.”

  Ramirez raises one eyebrow. “Torture? I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about, Jamie. I don’t torture people. Like you, I’m a simple businessman. I moved to New Mexico as a tax break. Nothing more. And Alan…why would I even want to harm a man like Alan? He’s a good, god-fearing man. In fact, I think his presence in my household has been very grounding so far. I’d hate to see him go.”

  This is all an act, purely for Lowell’s benefit. It’s unlikely Hector would openly admit to kidnapping Sophia’s father, but fuck. This whole sugar-wouldn’t-melt bit is sickening. We need to get out of here before Jamie goes postal and tries to knock the guy’s head clean off.

  I give Ramirez one last dark, warning look and then I turn around to face my friend. He looks like his blood is boiling in his veins. “Come on, man. Time we got out of here. Doesn’t look like we’re going to accomplish anything.”

  His eyes look like chips of ice—cold and pale. They’re filled with violence. “There’s no reasoning with the unreasonable,” he says quietly, almost under his breath. He’s not talking to me, or even to Hector. He’s retreated inside his own head, and he’s making plans. Dangerous, awful, bloody and undoubtedly illegal plans. My favorite kind.

  It’s about fucking time. The confrontation I can see brewing in Jamie’s mind is long past overdue. It should have
happened the moment Hector showed up in town and rented that fucking farmhouse. I jerk my head in the direction of the Humvee, and Jamie walks away, his eyes still vacant, his hands clenched into fists by his sides.

  Turning our backs on a man who wants us both dead is a very bad idea, but he needs to know we won’t be intimidated. We will spill his blood. For Ryan, Jamie’s uncle. For Leah, the woman Ramirez had killed back in Ebony Briar. And now for Sophia’s father. There’s no two ways about it: the man is going to die, and he’s going to do it horrifically. Because when Jamie gets that look in his eyes, there is no alternative. There’s only pain and horror. There’s only begging and pleading. There’s only death.

  “I’ll see you soon, gentlemen,” Hector calls after us. “I’m sure of it. In fact, tell that little whore of yours that she has one week. One week to pack up her things and show up on my doorstep. Any longer than that, and I fear Alan might need to go.”

  Jamie twitches. That’s all he allows himself as we head back to the car. He twitches, and Hector Ramirez laughs.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SOPHIA

  I dream that I’m fucking Jamie, that he’s deep inside me, hard and rigid, making me feel tight and full, and when I wake up I’m so angry I throw a glass at the kitchen wall in his cabin. I shouldn’t be having sex dreams about the bastard when he betrayed my trust like that. I shouldn’t be waking up, my head still thick with lust, my clit still aching, my pussy still wet, when the grade-A motherfucker doped me up and shut me away in his private little sanctuary all over again.

  I half expect the door to be locked when I storm over to the cabin’s only point of entrance or exit, and yet when I yank on the handle and pull toward me, it opens wide. Probably because Jamie knew by the time I woke up, it would be far too late for me to rush out and do anything to interfere with his plans, whatever they may be.

  “You are so going to regret this,” I tell him, growling the words even though he’s not around to hear them. He’ll get the picture later on, though. I’ll make sure of it. The courtyard down by the compound is empty. Night is creeping across the desert floor toward us, a visible line between light and dark, and the air is heavy with the scent of chili and something more organic, floral and completely out of place in this dry, lifeless dustbowl. The smell teases me, bringing memories half floating to the surface of my mind before they sink out of view, unseen and unremembered, and I’m left feeling strangely hollow and unsatisfied.

  God, I’m going to fucking murder Jamie. If Ramirez hasn’t already completed the job, of course. My boots are thick with dust by the time I reach the clubhouse. I stamp my feet outside the entrance, knowing that I’m going to be responsible for cleaning up any mess I make in the morning. This whole prospecting thing is far less glamorous than I’d assumed it would be, but everyone here has paid their dues at some point. Every single member of the Widow Makers Motorcycle club has cleaned dishes, cooked meals, and swept floors. It’s the natural order of things. I’m fired up and pissed off right now, though, and knowing that I’ll have to clean the clubhouse from top to bottom tomorrow, as I have to clean it every Wednesday, is making my black mood even blacker. I can’t wait to get my hands on that fucking asshole. He really shouldn’t have done that. I mean, how am I supposed to trust him when he drugs me, simply because I have my own mind and I refuse to do as I’m told every time he opens his mouth?

  Inside the clubhouse, there are only a few people sitting at the tables, drinking bottled beer and talking, laughing, watching a fight on the small, crappy television that’s been mounted on the wall by the door. Carnie and Danny are playing pool on the other side of the room, and Fatty is in his regular spot behind the bar, leaning on the beer taps, scratching at his rotund belly. He blinks suspiciously when he sees me headed toward him. No one else even acknowledges my existence.

  “Sophia,” he says, straightening up. “You want somethin’, honey?”

  You’re absolutely fucking right I want something. I want a set of rusty scissors to castrate my boyfriend with, but I don’t tell him that. “I need to get back there,” I say, pointing behind him.

  Last year, when Maria Rosa was locked in the basement below the barn and shit was flying at us from all angles, Jamie had shown me where his ‘office’ was—through a heavy, reinforced steel door in the back, behind the bar. Fatty gives me a worried look. He seems surprised that I’d even know the office was there.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sophia. Jamie doesn’t like people back there without him.”

  In fairness, that is true. He really doesn’t like the other Widow Makers knowing that there’s valuable information in the vault. He does his best to only disappear there late at night, when he figures it will be much quieter and no one will ask questions.

  “I’m going back there, Fats. You can let me by, or I can fight my way past you. You’ll have a hell of a job explaining to Rebel why his girlfriend is covered in bruises and is bleeding.”

  “Shit, girl. That’s just plain evil.”

  “Sorry.” I’m not really, though. I’m too mad to even come close to sorry right now.

  “You know you’re putting me in a crappy position. He’s gonna be pissed with me either way.”

  “I can guarantee you he’ll be more pissed if I have a black eye and I’m limping.”

  “Jesus.” Fatty looks around, presumably to see if anyone’s watching our exchange. He scowls at me, and then lifts the bar hatch, allowing me to skirt around him and into the back. It’s dark and dingy in the stock room, the tight space crammed full of liquor bottles and snack food, as well as the dry store ingredients used to make breakfast, lunch and dinner each day for whomever happens to be kicking around. To the far right, in the shadows, the large steel door Jamie showed me stands, sealed shut, impenetrable. Except he gave me the code to get in if there was ever an emergency, so it doesn’t pose a problem for long. I punch in the numbers he told me months ago. He made me repeat them back to him so I would remember—one seven six three. The heavy door swings back, yawning open, allowing me inside. I don’t know why I’ve come. I just know that I want to piss Jamie off, and this is one sure fire way of accomplishing that.

  Last time I was here, the desk to the left was stacked high with papers and all kinds of files, some of which were so full they were bulging open, splitting apart at the seams. The desk on the right was flanked by two huge computer screens, and a bank of tall servers sat behind it, humming quietly, lights flashing on and off at random intervals. The servers are still there, as are the computers, but now the desk on the left is tidy, a small stack of papers neatly lined up close to the edge of the polished wood. In the very center of the desk, a single file sits, the dark blue cover flipped open, and inside a picture of a tall, frightening looking guy in dark clothes sits on top of a few pieces of paper. He’s not looking at the camera. It’s clear this black and white image was shot from a distance without the man’s knowledge. He looks like he’s angry, about to climb into a car parked outside a huge warehouse—I think it’s a Camaro. I flip the image over and there’s another photograph underneath it, this time a close up of the guy’s face.

  People always say that Jamie’s eyes are startling because of their stark color. This guy’s eyes are disturbing too, but they’re so dark they’re almost black. They’re full of rage and violence, as if he’s quietly simmering, fury flooding his veins, and any second he’s about to explode. There’s no doubt about it; this man, whoever he is, is a dark, dangerous individual, and I’d be happy if I lived a long, healthy life and never had cause to run into him.

  The third picture underneath the close up is a mug shot. The guy’s holding up a black board with a string of numbers on it, and underneath it says, MAYFAIR, ZETH. The name rings a bell, but I can’t think where I’ve heard it before. The way he stares down the lens of the camera in this picture, his expression flat and lifeless, is even more worrying than the image previous. He looks like he’s hollow, dead inside. I find myself
wondering what he did to end up with his mug shot being taken. Probably murdered someone, cut their head off and wore it like a goddamn hat or something.

  I don’t know why I carry on flicking through the file, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m intrigued by the kind of information Jamie gathers about people, and to what end? What does he want with this guy? Admittedly there isn’t much to the file. Just a few printed out sheets of paper with very few details on them—the name Charlie Holsan. A Seattle address that makes my head thump. I know exactly where the address is, on the other side of the city from the hospital. An up and coming area where an apartment in a decent building will set you back a couple of million dollars. Is that where this guy lives? It doesn’t seem like his style.

  More photographs at the back of the file. One of him talking to a tall, handsome black guy in a sleek, obviously expensive suit. Another of him sitting behind the wheel of the black Camaro again. The third and final picture makes my throat constrict. It’s a picture of the same guy, this Zeth Mayfair, and he’s dressed in bright orange overalls—the kind you’re issued in prison, which is clearly where he is given the chain link fence and the scary looking tattooed people in the background of the picture. He’s not alone. My throat has tightened, making it difficult to breathe, because he’s talking to someone in the picture, someone I recognize, and I’m finding it hard to believe what I’m seeing right now. It’s Cade.

  He’s talking to Cade.

  “What the…?” Cade was in prison? He’s wearing the same orange overalls, after all. He looks skinnier, less muscle, and his head is shaved, but it’s definitely him. I’ve spent the past six months living at close quarters with the guy; I’d know him anywhere. The two men appear to be deep in conversation in the picture. Not a tense, heated conversation. It’s as if they’re just chatting. Cade is actually smiling, and this Zeth guy looks a little less intense than he does in all of the other shots. He may not be smiling, but I get the feeling that the clear looseness in his body and the ease with which he’s leaning against the brick wall beside him means a lot. I don’t think his body language would be the same if he didn’t feel like he was talking to a friend. A good friend.