Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2)

by Brennan, Allison

  He had several hours before Nick would be leaving for the airport. There was nothing the cop could do three thousand miles away, so David wasn’t going to call him yet.

  David turned on his phone’s GPS tracker. He’d insisted on Max running a security GPS program on her phone. Only he had the password to access her unique signal. The software was state of the art, developed by one of David’s close friends from the army who now worked research and development for a military tech company. Max—or, at least, her cell phone—was nowhere.

  The program also maintained an archive, and if her phone was dead or the battery removed, her last location would be tagged. He pulled up the data.

  The last ping from her cell phone was in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge at 11:50 P.M.

  What the hell was she doing going to Brooklyn in the middle of the night?

  Though David didn’t believe Max had made it home last night, he reviewed the security data from the building’s system while he called the car service company. Because they were the preferred car service for NET, David knew most of the drivers as well as the owner.

  “Mr. Vance, it’s David Kane. Ms. Revere was picked up last night at eleven thirty-five outside her office building, but she didn’t make it home. I had a ping on her cell phone that she was on the Brooklyn Bridge. Where did the driver take her?”

  “Mr. Kane, I don’t know what happened. I just got off the phone with the police because Omar didn’t return the car last night. His personal car is still here. Sometimes, if they’re scheduled to work the next day, they take the company car home. But his wife said he didn’t come home last night. She’s been calling and he hasn’t answered his cell phone. I’ve called him repeatedly and—”

  David cut off the man. “Horace,” he said, “GPS.”

  “I contacted our tracking company. The car is nowhere. They tell me the GPS has been turned off.”

  The last ping on Max’s cell phone was from the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “When was the last time you spoke to Omar?”

  “He called in at eleven twenty-five that he’d arrived at the NET building.”

  “Did you speak to him personally?”

  “No, he called into dispatch.”

  “I want to listen to that recording. Have your dispatcher splice it off and e-mail it to me. I also want a copy of the GPS log for that car from the minute Omar picked it up until it stopped transmitting. Have you filed a police report?”

  “I was trying to reach Ms. Revere first, because the police will ask, what was the last pickup, and—”

  “Ms. Revere did not make it home last night. Call the police. File the report. Send me the officer’s name and report number.”

  “What happened, Mr. Kane?”

  “I will find out.”

  He hung up. He knew Omar. He’d been with the company since before David started working for Max. He’d run background checks on all Horace Vance’s drivers, and they were clean. Vance ran his own background checks before he hired them. Omar preferred working nights because he had a son and coached his Little League team. Omar had ties to the community. He had a wife. He had family who lived nearby. David was good at picking out people who could be for sale, and Omar wasn’t high on the list.

  But there were other ways to force people to do what you wanted, and Omar had the baggage of a family.

  He called Ben again. “Where is she?” Ben answered.

  “Get whoever was on security duty last night into the building now. I want Riley there and anyone who was working with Max on anything related to the trial, the Palazzolos, or that excursion on Wednesday to Connecticut. You know damn well Max has people working on her pet projects; I want everyone to come clean. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Why haven’t her kidnappers called us?” Ben said.

  “It’s not about money,” David said.

  “Of course it’s about money! Max is rich, richer than even my family. So why isn’t it about money?”

  “Because Max is nosy. She found something, did something, said something—we know where she was and who she talked to, but we need to retrace her steps, talk to them again, because the police aren’t going to do it for at least another twelve hours. Even then—”

  “You have to call Marco Lopez.”

  David didn’t want to call Max’s ex-boyfriend. He was in Miami for one, and for two, David didn’t like him.

  But this was Max’s life. Marco Lopez was a fed. He could make things happen.

  “I’m going to talk to the police first,” he said. “If I can’t make them move mountains, I’ll call Marco.”

  He left the apartment. Nick called while he drove to the NET building.

  “Max hasn’t returned my calls. Did you take her to the airport early?”

  Shit. David hadn’t wanted to do this until he had more information.

  “Max is missing.”

  “Define missing.”

  “A car service picked her up at eleven thirty-five at the studio and she didn’t make it home.”

  “Hospitals? Police?”

  “The car and driver are missing. Ben has staff calling the hospitals. I’ll call the police when I have more information, but she hasn’t been missing for even twelve hours.”

  Nick was silent on the other end, but David knew he was there. Processing.

  Nick said in a low, rage-tinged voice, “Why did it take you so long to figure it out?”

  David bristled, but responded calmly. “She wasn’t at her apartment when I went to pick her up for the airport. That was less than an hour ago. It took me some time to piece together what happened last night, talk to people. I’ll send you what I have, but right now I have two theories. The first is that Max followed a hunch and instructed the driver to go to Brooklyn last night, where they both disappeared. Or someone hijacked the car and dumped her phone over the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Ransom?” He sounded like a cop now. Good. David could deal better with someone who was professional, not emotional. Especially since David was having a difficult time with his own emotions.

  “It’s crossed my mind,” he said. “We haven’t received a demand, but she has kidnapping insurance. I wish it were a simple kidnapping for ransom.” Then he would know exactly what to do and how to get her back.

  “Is this about the investigation? Her theory that Bachman had a partner?”

  “She’s filled you in?”

  “Basics. You have to bring in the police, David.” It sounded like an order.

  “If I thought the police would lift a finger, I’d have called them first. They’re going to do shit, and you know it.” David was agitated. He prided himself on remaining calm in any situation, but he was rattled. Max was his responsibility; she was missing. “Twelve hours, and it doesn’t matter that she’s a public figure. I’ll work it, but—”

  “I’m coming out,” Nick said, cutting him off. “I’ll let you know when I arrive.”

  He hung up before David could tell him to stay put.

  David called Sally O’Hara. There were cops higher up the ladder he could call, or Richard Milligan himself, but Sally worked missing persons, and she could get the notice out faster on the car, driver, and Max.

  “Sally, it’s David.”

  “I’m hungover,” she groaned. “Thank God today is my day off.”

  “Max is missing.” David told her everything he knew.

  Sally didn’t say anything when he was done.

  David said, “Do not tell me you can’t do anything until twenty-four hours has passed.”

  “It’s seventy-two,” she said. “Unless you have proof of foul play.”

  “Sally, you know damn well something’s wrong.”

  “You think it has to do with the Bachman case.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can meet you at the station—”

  “Max’s office. I’ve called in staff, we’re going to retrace her steps, find out what she was working on related to Bachman’s p
artner. She and her new assistant spent all day in Connecticut on Wednesday. I didn’t think they’d found much, but maybe I’m wrong. I need the police to be looking for her and the car. Horace Vance, the company owner, is filing a police report about his missing car and driver.”

  “Okay. I can run with that. Send me his information and I’ll follow up with his precinct and get a BOLO out. But you must have an idea as to what happened.”

  “Someone took her. Of that, I’m certain”

  * * *

  Pain brought Max to consciousness.

  Through the fog in her head—a fog that Max was certain was drug-induced—several things became apparent all at once.

  First, and foremost, the pain.

  It was everywhere and nowhere, as if her entire body was being pricked simultaneously. As she came aware, it was her head that ached the most, a heavy, throbbing beat that kept her from lifting her neck or opening her eyes. Her mouth was impossibly dry, so dry and heavy she couldn’t move her lips.

  She was extremely thirsty. She’d been this dehydrated before. She knew exactly how it felt. Memories of a time she wanted to forget clawed to be heard.

  She tried to move and failed. Restrained? Drugged so heavily that her limbs seemed to be weighed down by sandbags? She tried to open her eyes, but they were heavy, as if they were glued shut. Her head moved just a bit and something made her itch. The realization broke through that a bag covered her head, canvas or mesh. Something breathable and scratchy. Her arms were pulled above her head. She tried to pull off the mask, but binds cut into her bruised wrists, forcing a moan from her throat. Her hands were numb, tied together. Tied to something rigid.

  She was lying on her back, on a flat, cold, hard surface. A metal table? A cement floor? The stench of oily dirt filled her nose, making her cough.

  Don’t cough. Don’t let them know you’re awake.

  She had no gag in her mouth. Because no one could hear her if she screamed?

  Them.

  Why did she think two people had taken her?

  The car.

  She’d left the office and gotten into the Town Car. Almost immediately she knew something was wrong. She’d closed her eyes because she was tired—when she realized they were heading to Brooklyn she leaned forward to tell the driver. He sprayed something in her face and she couldn’t speak.

  That was the last thing she remembered.

  She squirmed and instantly a sharp pain hit her feet. A thousand pinpricks and she froze. Where was she and what was under her feet?

  Humid. Cloying. Oil, dirt, mold. A warehouse, maybe. There were no sounds except the ringing in her ears.

  No sounds? Impossible. This was New York City.

  Or was it? They could have driven her anywhere.

  Ten minutes after he pulled away from the curb he stopped. Someone got in the passenger seat.

  Maybe she remembered more than she realized. The mist in her face. Did she try the door handle? She thought she might have, but her hands hadn’t been cooperative. She couldn’t force them to grasp the handle.

  She thought she was dying.

  She’d seen a gun. But it wasn’t a gun like David carried or Nick. It was smaller.

  The sharp pain of a thick needle pierced her neck and she slumped over in the seat, her hand reaching for the protrusion. Tranquilizer.

  Who was he? She hadn’t seen his face. Her vision had been blurred. All she knew was that it was a man.

  And then she slept.

  Her neck still ached where the tranquilizer dart had pierced her skin. Her entire body felt sticky with sweat and blood.

  But she was alive. She had to find a way to escape.

  Did they want a ransom? Her trust had insurance on all members of her family in the event of abduction. They would pay the ransom. But no one in the Revere or Sterling families had ever been abducted.

  How do you know? You haven’t seen your mother since you were ten.

  She pushed that thought from her mind because it was wholly unproductive. She focused on now. They weren’t celebrities, they weren’t in the public eye. Except for her, but she’d hardly consider herself in the public eye. Maybe on the fringe of the public’s peripheral vision.

  Max shifted, almost reflexively, as her arm began to tingle. More sharp pinpricks of pain hit her, this time in her back, through her clothes, as if a million needles punctured her simultaneously.

  “Hello, Maxine. I see that you’re awake. That was fast. We can now get started.”

  She involuntarily jumped. She’d had no idea someone was in the room. Had he just walked in? Had he been watching her the entire time? Seeing her squirm? Panic?

  Don’t panic. You can’t panic. Keep your head, Maxine.

  She opened her mouth. Her voice was rough, dry, but she managed to croak out, “What do you want?”

  It had to be money. Wasn’t it always about money? It was no secret that she was wealthy.

  “To break you. Then my friend will kill you.” There was a lilt to his quiet voice, as if he were having fun. As if this was a game for his amusement.

  A sick predator pulling the wings off butterflies.

  She was the butterfly.

  “You won’t.” Her voice sounded stronger, but deep inside she wondered—feared—what it would take to break her. She’d suffered those eight days of hell in a Mexican jail. She’d been on the verge of losing her mind when Marco had finally found her. She’d told Riley that the reason she didn’t write much about her imprisonment was because the story wasn’t about her, it was about the victims of human trafficking. But the truth was, she didn’t want to remember. She didn’t want to expose that rawness to anyone, even herself.

  But she hadn’t broken, even after eight days. Marco had helped her escape and they traveled across Mexico and Max ended up writing an exposé on how Mexican gangs kidnapped tourists and businesspeople for ransom. She wrote about human trafficking and the cost in human life. She’d won several awards for that series of articles, a series she was particularly proud of because it shined a light on corruption and evil.

  But she’d always wondered how much longer she could have taken confinement. Not just being in prison, but being in that pit with little to eat and drink, the heat of the day and the cold of the night. Freedom was one thing she valued more than anything else. What kept her going each day was that others had survived worse. Prisoners of war. Abused children. Sex slaves. There was always someone who’d suffered more. If they survived, and she knew many who had, she would survive.

  But each passing day had been harder than the last.

  She’d survived eight days in hell. Certainly she could survive whatever this bastard had planned.

  The voice said, “I know everything about you.”

  He was messing with her head. But she didn’t say anything.

  There was something familiar about his voice. Now that she was fully awake, she realized that she’d talked to this man before. She couldn’t place it. Her head was thick and pained. But her life might depend on remembering.

  “I’ve read everything you’ve written. Everything. I’ve watched and analyzed your television interviews. There is so much information to mine. You think you understand what motivates people like me, like Adam? You have experts and you analyze us, dissecting us like a body on the slab?” He laughed, but it was cruel, the kind of meanness she expected from bullies.

  “I am the expert,” he said. “What you’ve written is nothing compared to what’s between the lines. What you say when you think no one is listening.

  “I listen, Maxine. I read what you don’t write. I know you better than anyone. Better than you know yourself.”

  There were footsteps. Soft, echoing, moving away.

  “We’ll explore that shortly,” he said, his voice far off, almost down a tunnel. “And I will turn you inside out. Until then, think about it. About what you think I couldn’t possibly know. And realize, I know. I know everything.”

  Then he left
. And in doing so, tapped into one of her greatest fears.

  The unknown.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The head of building security greeted David as soon as he stepped into the NET building. He led David to the security office.

  “She left the office and used the elevator to the lobby,” the security chief said. “There’s nothing important on those feeds, but I’ve made a copy. Here’s what you want to see.”

  The chief pressed play. It showed Max walking across the large lobby and waving at the night guard. When she got to the door, he buzzed her out. The door closed behind her. The chief switched to the external camera feed.

  “I backtracked this camera feed so you can see the car arrive.”

  A black Town Car drove up identical to nearly every other black Town Car that New Yorkers used. The driver didn’t get out. Three minutes later, Max exited the building, visible only from the back at first. But there was no mistaking her long hair and confident stride. The driver got out and walked around the front of the car. He wore a dark suit and cap like all of Vance’s drivers. His face wasn’t clear on the black-and-white feed, but technology might be able to clean it up even with the cap partially obscuring his image. The driver opened the rear passenger door for Max. She looked up at him and they exchanged words. She didn’t appear to be in distress. He closed the door, walked back around, and drove off.

  David didn’t recognize the driver—the image wasn’t clear enough—but it certainly wasn’t Omar. Omar was Pakistani and barely five and a half feet tall. This driver was Caucasian and at least three inches taller than Max.

  David watched the entire video one more time. When the driver got out of the car initially, he looked both ways on the street.

  “That pharmacy.” He tapped the corner of the screen. “It’s open twenty-four hours and they have security cameras on the outside of the building,” David said. “Call them, get their feed from last night. Original, if possible. And get me the original of this. We need to enhance that guy.”

  “Of course, Mr. Kane. I’ll personally deliver them to your office.”

  “Thank you.”