The Last King

by Katee Robert

  He forced himself to take as deep a breath as he was able. No telling how long the drug would last, but he’d conserve his energy and let Walter think he’d given up. If it meant the man kept talking, all the better.

  Walter took what seemed to be a leisurely shower and came out of the bathroom dressed in a different pair of slacks and a dark gray button-down shirt that gave him the appearance of an undertaker with his cadaverous features. He chortled when he saw that Beckett hadn’t moved. “Gave you the good stuff, didn’t I? That tingling in your limbs can’t be pleasant, but it’ll keep you from being too much trouble in the meantime. We have a bit of a drive ahead of us.”

  Good. More time to let this shit work its way out of my system.

  Walter guided him up and shoved himself under Beckett’s arm. He had a good fifty pounds on the thinner man, and he had little control over his legs as Walter guided them to the door and out into the hall. It would look like he was helping a drunk friend, and when Beckett tried to talk, it came out as a jumbled mess.

  “None of that, now.” Walter huffed and they teetered dangerously as he shifted to push the button for the elevator. “Don’t want to drag anyone else into this, do you?”

  Considering Walter could barely handle maneuvering Beckett’s uncooperative body around, he didn’t know how much of a threat the other man was, but that was the problem—he didn’t know. If someone else got hurt because he was trying to call for help, he’d never forgive himself.

  Got to handle this one on my own.

  Like I handle everything.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he groaned slightly to cover up the faint sound. If Walter took his phone out, he’d realize Beckett had been recording all of this—was still recording. He needed this evidence, and it was all too easy to delete if the man knew it was there. A short pause as the call went to voice mail and then it started buzzing again.

  Samara. It had to be. Frank wouldn’t call like that unless Lydia really had thrown Samara out a window, and Beckett didn’t believe for a second that had happened.

  They staggered into the elevator and Walter leaned them against the back wall as it descended. “Christ, you’re a big fucker, aren’t you? Thank God I parked close to the entrance.”

  Beckett expected him to head for the main entrance, but Walter turned them down the hall to the door leading out to a secondary parking lot. He really did know I’d track him down eventually and planned for it—or, rather, Lydia did.

  Walter’s car was a red Corvette—surprise, surprise—and he half collapsed Beckett against the side of it so he could wrestle open the door. He looked from Beckett’s six-two frame to the cramped seat and cursed. “Should have rented a fucking van.”

  Seven minutes of cursing, banging Beckett’s body parts against the door frame or dashboard, and more cursing, and Walter managed to get him inside. The calls to Beckett’s phone had stopped, thankfully, but he still was under the full effects of whatever Walter had given him.

  The man in question slid behind the wheel and gunned the engine. “Taking too much fucking time. Someone might have seen.”

  Even if he could have talked, Beckett wouldn’t have pointed out that no one who saw them was going to assume that he was being kidnapped. This place catered to the rich and, as such, they tended to look the other way whenever something sketchy was going on. Normally, that was an asset, but not when a literal kidnapping was going down.

  This is a fucking shit show.

  His head lolled as Walter took the turn out of the parking lot on two wheels. Beckett closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Quite a drive could mean anything from fifteen minutes to several hours. Focus on moving your body and hope this asshole keeps talking.

  He concentrated all his will on his toes, hidden from view by his shoes. Move. Move, damn you!

  Nothing.

  Samara pointed at the red Corvette that had just veered into the road in front of them as they were slowing down to turn into the hotel parking lot. “Did you just see—”

  “That’s Walter Trissel’s car.”

  That wasn’t what she’d been asking. She’d caught the briefest glimpse of a man in the passenger seat, his body slumped against the window as if sleeping or drunk. He’d looked a whole hell of a lot like Beckett. “Follow him.”

  Frank nodded but didn’t pick up speed. She saw why immediately. There wasn’t much traffic on the road, so if they followed too closely, he was bound to notice. She couldn’t imagine Walter Trissel expecting Frank Evans and her to show up, but she wasn’t willing to take any chances at this point. “Beckett didn’t look good. There’s no way he’d get into that car with Walter of his own free will.” If they had to drive somewhere, Beckett would be behind the wheel. Unless he couldn’t drive for some reason…

  Kind of like how Nathaniel shouldn’t have been driving that night.

  The thought took root, burrowing deeper and deeper with each mile they covered. Frank’s tension only grew, choking the air in his vehicle, but she forced herself to keep breathing as if her heart wasn’t in danger of beating out of her chest. She wanted to scream at him to go faster, to do something to force Walter to stop, to save Beckett.

  But he kept a careful distance between them, following the Corvette south and then west along the edge of the Gulf. For a little bit, it seemed like he might drive back to Houston, but then he turned off the main road and into a group of trees.

  Frank slowed and then slowed more. She thought he might turn into the same road, but he passed it and then pulled a U-turn about a mile later. He pulled out his phone and sent what looked like a flurry of texts.

  “Why aren’t we chasing him down right now?” Her hands itched to throw open the door and start running. It was wrong to sit here and wait while Beckett was most certainly in danger.

  “Because we want him to live.” Frank shoved his phone into his pocket. “Get out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re going to drive us over there and drop me off. Circle back around until I have Beckett, and then we’ll make our escape.”

  She stared at him, waiting for the punch line—or at least something resembling an actual plan—but he gave her a flat look. Samara shook her head. “No way. I’m going down that road whether you give permission or not.” When Frank didn’t move, she glared. “You don’t know how far he drove down there. What if it’s half a mile and Beckett can’t walk for some reason? Having me circle all the way out here isn’t going to solve that problem. It’s only going to make things more complicated.”

  “I promised him that I’d keep you safe.” Every word sounded like it was dragged from him against his will.

  She shook her head slowly. “That promise doesn’t mean shit if something happens to him. I’m not a child, Frank. I’ll follow orders, but you need me there. Trying to keep me out of this is just stupid.”

  For a second, it seemed like he might keep arguing, but he finally cursed softly. “You see it go sideways, you get the fuck out of there. You hear me?”

  “I hear you.” No way was she leaving with both him and Beckett, but if she said as much, he might tie her up and lock her in the trunk until this was all over.

  Lydia, what did you do?

  She could barely fathom that Lydia had orchestrated Beckett being kidnapped, let alone that she’d had Walter Trissel do it. There was nothing out in this area but marshes, and she couldn’t think of anything good that would come from Walter parking in this nearly deserted area. He’s going to try to kill Beckett. She pressed her lips together, waiting for Frank to give her the go-ahead.

  He didn’t make her wait long. “Let’s go. I have reinforcements coming, but they won’t be here in time to do anything but help with the cleanup.”

  Not for the first time, Samara wondered what the hell it was that Frank did. As far as the public was concerned, he was a real estate mogul who owned more than his fair share of Houston, and an eclectic mix of businesses at that. The Evans family had
dabbled in politics before Frank’s father was arrested for murder about fifteen years ago. Now there was only Frank and his solitary empire.

  None of that matters. He’s here. He obviously cares about Beckett. He’s helping. That’s enough.

  She pulled off the shoulder and back onto the road, heading the way they’d originally come. The road the Corvette had disappeared down looked downright sinister now, but that was her imagination taking over. It wasn’t any different from the first time they’d driven past it. Greenery encroached on the gravel drive as if waging a war to eliminate any evidence that men had ever settled in this place. The marshes had always been like that—a little too untamed for her tastes—but they had never left a cold spot in her chest before.

  The marshes would be an excellent place to hide a body if someone was familiar enough with them to sink it correctly. The ecosystem would take care of any evidence, given enough time.

  “He has to be okay.”

  “He is,” Frank opened the glove box and pulled out a small handgun. “You know how to shoot.”

  It wasn’t a question, but she answered all the same. “Yes, though I don’t practice regularly.”

  He nodded and went through the motions of checking the cartridge and chamber as they bumped along the road. “You shouldn’t have to use it, but I’m still leaving it with you.”

  In case things go all to hell.

  She caught sight of a flash of red ahead of them and slowed until they barely crawled along. “Up ahead.”

  “I see it.” He reached into the space behind the seats and pulled out a fucking shotgun.

  Samara gripped the wheel harder to keep the shaking of her hands under control. She wasn’t trained for this. Her mother sent her to a gun safety course when she was in middle school because Samara was a woman and may have to protect herself at some point. She owned a handgun, but it was in a locked case at the top of her closet. She hadn’t done more than clean it in years.

  Beckett. This is for Beckett.

  “Stop here.”

  She braked, grateful that she had a clear view of the Corvette. She could see the back of Walter’s head, but not Beckett’s. “Bring him back safely, Frank.”

  He passed over the handgun and waited until she nodded to shift his grip on the shotgun and climb out of the car. Samara watched him stalk toward the Corvette, keeping in what she suspected was the driver’s blind spot. I never want to be on his bad side. She checked the mirror to ensure that no one had come in after them, blocking their getaway. There wasn’t room to turn around, which meant she’d have to reverse a good portion of the way back to the main street. Tricky. Trickier if we’re being chased or in a hurry.

  “I can do it,” she whispered, needing to say the words aloud to make them truth. She checked Frank’s position. He’d reached the back fender of the Corvette.

  Showtime.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Beckett had managed to regain control of all his toes. He suspected he had more than that, but he wasn’t willing to risk testing with Walter so close. The man sat staring at the marshes in front of them as if psyching himself up for something.

  Probably to put that gun in his hand to good use.

  He’d stashed a .45 in the car and had brought it out as soon as they were parked. From what Beckett could see from his slumped position, they were somewhere within the many miles of coastal marshes that bracketed the area around Houston. East of the city. He wasn’t sure where, though. Even if he’d managed to get a call out for help, he was too far for anyone to make it in time.

  “It didn’t have to be this way.” Walter spoke softly, almost as if talking to himself. “If you’d just taken her offer, she would have let you walk away. I don’t think she really wants you dead, Beckett. You’re nothing to her. Just the son of the man she loathes.” He chuckled. “The man we both loathe. Hell, the man we all loathe.” His laugh took on a hysterical tinge.

  Walter showed every evidence of being a man in over his head with no way of reaching the surface. Beckett knew better than to try to bargain. Lydia had the man by the balls and he’d see this through to the end because he couldn’t imagine another way out. He’d killed Nathaniel and he’d try to kill Beckett, too.

  And then she’d really own his soul.

  Walter looked down at the gun cradled in his hands. “Can’t do it in the Vette. Talk about evidence.” He kept laughing as if hearing the funniest joke. “Then where would we be?”

  If he let Walter get out of this car, his chances of survival dropped exponentially. Beckett could fight, but he wasn’t at full capacity. Walter would hesitate to pull the trigger in here, which meant he’d hold back. It was Beckett’s only chance.

  He lunged, the move nowhere near as smooth as it had been in his head. Instead of snatching the gun from Walter’s unsuspecting hands, he head-butted the man and half collapsed on his side of the car, pinning him in place. Good enough.

  “Fuck! Jesus! Fuck!” Walter tried to scramble out from beneath him, but Beckett wedged his arm awkwardly in the way of the seat belt. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Movement out the back window distracted him. He frowned, half sure the drug effects had evolved from paralysis into hallucinations, because there was no way in hell that Frank’s R8 was sitting thirty feet behind the Corvette, Samara behind the wheel.

  “Shuddup, Walter.” He pressed down on the smaller man, concentrating on cutting off his ability to take deep breaths. Beckett had only one chance at this, which meant he had to get control of his fucking tongue. “You listening?”

  “Fuck you, Beckett!”

  “Good nuff.” He shook his head, which only made the world spin. “Get out of Houston, Walter. Get out of Texas. Get the fuck off this continent. I ever see your face again, and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  He leaned back to let the man meet his gaze, to let him see the truth there. Walter’s curses sputtered out and he went silent. Beckett waited a few seconds longer. “Try me. You have six hours to get out of town.”

  Walter wet his lips. “Where will I go? I don’t have my money yet.”

  “I doubt you’re getting it.” The thought brought him a vicious sense of satisfaction. While he could kill Walter right now, that would put him on the same level as this piece of scum, and he’d potentially have to deal with the fallout as well. Simpler—more justified—to exile him.

  But if Walter did decide to test him, he would find out the hard way that Beckett didn’t bluff.

  “Six hours.”

  The driver’s door opened, revealing Frank. The man looked from Walter to Beckett and back again. “You got it covered.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded.

  Frank leveled a shotgun at Walter’s face. “If I were you, I’d pass that gun right over here nice and easy.”

  Walter shook and Beckett glared. “If he pisses himself while I’m stuck here, I’m going to kick your ass.”

  “Noted.” Frank took the gun and tossed it into the water behind him. “I don’t suppose we’re killing him and leaving him to rot the same way he planned for you.”

  “Pesky thing about murder, Frank, is there’s no statute of limitations. Some part of him surfaces ten years down the road and we’re fucked. Besides, I like the idea of this cockroach scuttling away from the light and spending the rest of his life looking over his shoulder and wondering when I’ll change my mind about letting him live.”

  “When?” Walter squeaked. “You said you were letting me go.”

  “Yes, Walter. I did say that.” He shook his arm out, the tingling slowly fading. “But you killed my father and tried to take my family home from me, in addition to a whole host of sins. That kind of thing pisses a man off. You understand.”

  “But—”

  “May come a day where I change my mind and hunt you down. You’ll never see me coming. There will be the hint of being watched, the feeling where you might not be quite alone, and then you’l
l take your last breath and know that I’m the reason why.”

  Without another word, he shoved off the man and climbed out his own door. He had to lean against the side of the Corvette. Fuck. This wasn’t over—it was a long shot from over—and he needed to keep moving before Walter managed to make it back to a phone and call to warn Lydia.

  She wouldn’t flee. It was against her nature.

  Which meant he had to make his move now as opposed to later, when she had time to plan and try to counter it. Catching her flat-footed was his only chance.

  He yanked his phone out of his pocket and nearly fumbled it to the ground. Slow down. Walter isn’t going anywhere, but you toss that fucking phone in the water and this is all for nothing. He thumbed off the recording, paused to make sure it was saved, and started for the Audi.

  Which was right around the time he realized the damn car only had two seats.

  Frank appeared at his elbow, the shotgun casually held against his hip as if he walked around with the damn thing during every waking moment. “Have Samara drive you back. My people will be here shortly and get me back to town.”

  His people.

  Beckett paused. “I want him alive, Frank. There’s enough blood to go around in this situation already. He was a pawn.”

  “Noted.”

  That wasn’t a damn answer. Beckett opened his mouth to demand a promise to let Walter walk out of this situation alive, but Samara opened the driver’s door and popped her head out. “Beckett, let’s go.”

  Her window was down. She’d heard everything. He expected her to come down on his side of this, but there was a hard line to her lips he’d never seen before. He turned and frowned at Frank. “I mean it.”