Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2)

by Brennan, Allison

  Her family … would they even miss her? After she’d gone back home six weeks ago and turned their lives upside down, they would be happy to think the worst of her. Whatever the worst it was that Duvall could make up.

  What would Nick think? He barely knew her. And somehow that hurt more than anything. If her friends and family believed lies that Carter Duvall spewed, that was on them. She’d proven herself over and over again, and they should know her. But Nick didn’t. They were just feeling their way around, and he might buy into it. She hadn’t exactly started off on the right foot. She didn’t want him to think anything about her that wasn’t true.

  Men. She’d had so many come in and out of her life. Most of them good men, powerful, driven. Smart men. She liked them smart, because while sex was fun, conversation could be far more stimulating. Maybe she was reading more into this Nick Santini relationship than there was. After all, it’s not like they had a history. She’d thought that was a good thing—a relationship without all the baggage. But now, she didn’t know.

  Really, Max, you’re going to die and you’re worried about what people think of you? You’ll be dead!

  No. She wasn’t going to die. She couldn’t die, not like this, not without knowing why!

  The metal door again, clicking shut, down a long hall. Above her. She was underground, and he was coming. Duvall’s pet killer. Bachman’s partner.

  She would take the first opportunity to escape. She would have to make the opportunity. That was the only way she would survive.

  She listened as he walked into the room. A door shut. And the voice of the man who’d kidnapped her, the one she was certain murdered the Palazzolos and helped Adam Bachman dispose of his victims, said in a gleeful voice, “You’re my prize, Ms. Revere. Doc gave me a present.” She felt a prick in her arm. Almost immediately her heart thumped painfully. He pinched her and she screamed as the nerve endings in her skin felt raw, exposed. “Just so you get the most out of everything. When you’re ready to die, beg for it. I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  Then he took off her blindfold. She blinked in the dim, artificial light. Looked around everywhere for a weapon. To her right was a tray of knives and hammers and a vise that seemed even more fearsome. To her left was a table with syringes. The drugs they’d been injecting in her.

  It didn’t take Max long to figure out she had no strength to wield a hammer and do any damage, but if she could get to those needles … she might have a chance.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sally O’Hara called David. “Found the car we think Baker’s been driving,” she said. “I’m sending you the address. It’s near an abandoned fishery in Queens. I’m on my way.”

  David hung up. It was just after dawn and Max had been gone for more than forty-eight hours. He had a sick feeling all night that she was dead. It didn’t help that Marco was being a prick and Nick was brooding and Ben was panicked. Sally was the only one who seemed to understand that David just wanted the facts and to be left alone. They’d done everything they could and it wasn’t good enough.

  Until now. One small lead.

  “Lopez! Santini!” he called out. “Sally has a lead.”

  Nick came out of the kitchen. He was dressed and ready.

  David continued, “Baker’s car. They found it near an abandoned building in Queens.”

  Lopez ran down the stairs pulling on his shoulder holster. “She should have called me.”

  David’s fists tightened. Nick caught his eye. “Let’s go,” he said. “It’s a solid lead.”

  Marco dialed his phone as the three of them left in the elevator. “O’Hara? Agent Lopez. What did you find?”

  David tried to ignore that Marco was being a jerk.

  Marco said, “Got it. Call in backup, have them keep a perimeter. If he’s there, we don’t want to spook him.” He hung up.

  “She knows what she’s doing,” David said.

  “I didn’t say she didn’t.”

  “You just like giving the orders,” David mumbled.

  “What’s your problem, Kane? You’ve been giving me shit since I arrived.”

  He didn’t respond. He couldn’t explain it to himself or to Marco. He was acting like a damn lover and there was nothing further from the truth. He’d like to say Max was like his sister, but their relationship was deeper than a beloved sibling. He’d never had to justify his relationship or his feelings, never had to think about them until now.

  But at this point, he didn’t know if he’d make it through the day without decking Marco Lopez. It started during the interview with Bachman, but it definitely continued when he took Max’s bedroom as his own.

  David drove Nick, and Marco followed in an unmarked federal car. “He’s not a bad cop,” Nick said to David. “In fact, for a fed, he’s pretty good.”

  David grunted.

  “As a person? Well, let’s just say I won’t be inviting him over for beer and steaks anytime soon.” It was light, and it took the edge off David’s temper.

  A minute later, David said, “We’re on the third day, Nick.”

  “I know what it might mean, David.”

  For the second time since they got in the car, Nick looked at his phone.

  “What?” David asked, hoping Nick had something to help get his mind off Max.

  “My ex-wife. I can’t deal with her shit right now.”

  “Sorry, buddy.”

  “She’s a liar. Maybe that’s why I like Max so much. Honest to a fault.”

  “That’s a positive spin. What’d your ex do?” They had ten more minutes of driving. He could think about Nick’s problems or he could keep picturing Max dead.

  “Yesterday my son had a championship baseball game. They won.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah. I should have been there.”

  “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “It’s not because I’m here—it’s because she didn’t tell me about it. She told Logan, our son, that I would come, but never told me about the game. So he thinks I just bailed. And I can’t fix it.”

  “Tell him the truth.”

  “That his mother is a lying, manipulative bitch?”

  “Works for me.”

  “We’re supposed to keep a happy face for him. Get along. Everything I’ve read about divorced parents—”

  “Hey, I’ve read those fucked articles, too. And I’ll tell you one thing, kids are smart. They know damn well what’s going on. They’ll use it against you if you let them. I’m sure as hell not the poster dad of the year, but Emma knows one thing about me: I’ll never lie to her. Brittany has made my life hell, and Emma knows it. Not because I’ve told her, but because she’s seen it with her own eyes. Tell your son you would have been there if you’d known about it. He’ll put two and two together.”

  “What would Max do?” Nick wondered out loud.

  “She’d send you home right now,” David said. “When we find her, don’t tell her.”

  “Lie? To Max?”

  “Omission. Max has a thing about fathers. If she thought that you had in any way picked her over your son, she wouldn’t forgive herself, or you.” He paused. “You’re good for her, Nick. And when we find her—because we have to—she’s going to need someone around who’s good for her.”

  He pulled over a block from where Sally had spotted the car. Sally stood next to two patrol cars and four cops. She motioned to David.

  “Let’s find her, Nick.”

  * * *

  Max didn’t know how long the bastard Duvall called Cole had tortured her, but he’d made two mistakes.

  First, he’d untied her in order to flip her on to her stomach. She had no idea what he had planned, but he whistled while he sorted through his tools.

  And that’s when he made his second mistake. He thought she was unconscious. He thought she was defeated. And so he turned his back on her.

  This was her only chance. The opportunity. She couldn’t outrun him; she didn’t
even know if she could stand. But the drug he last injected her with had made her heart race and gave her renewed strength, even as it made every nerve in her body scream in pain. Adrenalin, maybe. Something that gave her a jolt.

  Which she now used.

  She slid off the table, toward the needles. Swung her arm out and the tray fell to the floor.

  Cole turned and laughed. She tried to stand and failed. Dizziness overwhelmed her.

  You will fight. You will not faint.

  He was on the other side of the table she’d been restrained on. She groped around for something to pull herself up on. As she did, she gathered up several needles in each hand. Three in one, two in the other. She crawled away from him. More slithered than crawled really.

  And he continued to laugh as if he were enjoying the show.

  “Maxine Revere. You are a wonder. The doc said you were a fighter, and I love fighters. Like the old fart. He fought and that just made beating him to death much more satisfying.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cole pick up a knife. He’d already cut her. Nothing too deep, but the drugs made each incision agony. He had enjoyed her pain, her screams, and she knew in the back of her mind that when she stopped screaming, he would get bored and finally kill her.

  She would only get one chance. If she failed, she’d be dead.

  She grabbed the table to stand. Her legs wobbled beneath her. She backed away from Cole, the needles in both fists, using her arms on the table to balance herself. If she fell she might kill herself.

  Blood smeared the hospital gown they’d dressed her in. Cole had hurt her, but aside from the shallow cuts, most of the pain was his cruel use of pressure points.

  Cole smiled at her. He was a large man. Taller than her. Probably close to two hundred pounds. The tattoos on his arms writhed as if they had a life of their own, and she realized she was seeing things. Hallucinating? Seeing double? She shook her head to clear it.

  Then she saw what she had to do. What she had to risk to survive.

  She lunged for him, her left arm raised, the syringes ready to jam into his neck. Cole easily caught her wrist and squeezed until she cried out in pain and dropped the needles.

  She took her right arm, her dominant hand, and plunged three syringes simultaneously into his bare arm. He pushed her away and she fell hard on the rough cement floor. His face twisted in anger, horror, and an underlying fear.

  “Fucking bitch!” He pulled the needles out, but their contents had already been injected into his system.

  She crawled away as he thundered toward her, walking like Frankenstein’s monster. He crashed into the metal table and fell to his knees.

  “B-b-b,” he slurred and collapsed.

  Max stared at the motionless body of the man who had tortured her. Her breath was labored, as if she were on the verge of drowning. Pain crawled over her skin like scorpions.

  Her body shook at the memory.

  The only thing that kept her from passing out was adrenaline. And that wouldn’t last.

  For a split second she considered waiting for Duvall. She wanted to hurt him, too. She could see herself cutting his skin, like his bastard pet killer had cut hers. She could see herself hitting him, pounding him with her fists. Kicking him in the balls. Raging against him until he told her the truth. Until he told her why.

  Cole moaned on the floor. He wasn’t dead. She had to run before he recovered. She pulled herself up, using the wall as leverage, and slowly made her way to the door.

  Max had no time to think or wait. She was weak and bleeding. Her will to live was stronger than her desire for revenge, it always had been. Did that make her selfish? That she hadn’t sacrificed her life to prove who killed Karen nine years ago? She was arrogant and forceful and reckless in many ways, but she’d never truly risked herself for anyone else. Not like David, the soldier, who’d always put himself in front of anyone who’d harm her. Not Marco, her ex, whose temper often got him into hot water, who had risked his career and life to find out who killed Karen, who risked his life battling those who smuggled humans for personal gain or sick pleasures. Or Nick, who had done both, been soldier and cop, a quiet hero who hadn’t told her half of what he’d done. She’d learned his story through research.

  She was nothing. She was a mouthpiece.

  She was no one.

  You let him get into your head. Dammit, Maxine, get your ass out of here!

  Max glanced around the room that had been her prison for God knew how long. At least a day. Two? Maybe it had only been hours and she was still hallucinating.

  Her head began to spin and she leaned against the filthy wall to keep from falling. Everything stunk in the room, including her. There were stains on the floor she didn’t want to think about. Dark. Red. Blood? Had others been killed down here? How many?

  The bastard groaned again and tried to get up. Blood poured from his scalp from where he’d hit the corner of the table. She turned away from the room, stumbled toward the doorway, keeping her hands near the walls. The light from the underground room faded and she was submerged into darkness. She blinked and realized that it wasn’t completely black. Streams of narrow light came from boarded-up windows high above. A warehouse? What kind of warehouse had two-story ceilings but a basement with no windows? Or maybe it wasn’t a basement, but a wide windowless warehouse. An alliteration.

  Snap out of it, Maxine!

  She didn’t remember half of what had happened, and maybe that was a good thing.

  Remember, dammit! Remember it all. You have to remember.

  Her head spun, her mind wasn’t all there. The adrenalin must have kicked the drugs into overdrive. Cliché. She was thinking in clichés now, but that was better than alliteration.

  She laughed, then grabbed her mouth. What if Duvall was here? What if he was waiting for her? What if he staged the whole thing, to see if she had the capacity to kill? He’d wanted to break her, he said, and he hadn’t. She’d won. She’d won!

  She almost laughed again, but instead coughed, unable to catch her breath. She had won nothing unless she survived and exposed him to the world.

  She’d been an experiment to him, just like Bachman, just like Cole. Like how many other people through the years? How many impressionable, troubled teenagers had gone to Duvall for help, only to be turned into something darker than they should have been?

  Or were their crimes inevitable?

  She couldn’t think about any of that. Her head wasn’t on straight, she was sluggish, and she wouldn’t get out at all if she couldn’t focus.

  Get out of the building. Get help.

  Get out, Maxine!

  Max continued forward. She tripped over garbage, something foul and old. But as she pushed forward, the light grew brighter. Not bright, but lighter, and she had the sensation that she was walking up a gradual incline. Get out, get help. The mantra pushed her forward.

  At the top of the incline, she stopped to catch her breath and stumbled. She collapsed across the hood of a car. She blinked, and in the dim light she saw it was a black Lincoln Town Car, much like the one she’d thought had been sent for her. She opened the door, praying for keys. None were there. But a foul smell came from the back. She knew, without looking, that the driver—the one who was supposed to pick her up Thursday night—was in the trunk. She searched the glove compartment box. There was nothing. No cell phone. The radio had been torn out. They’d likely disabled the GPS, otherwise someone would have found her by now.

  A sob escaped. She wanted David. She wanted to call for help.

  Clanging metal from down in the basement made her scream. The bastard was alive and he was coming after her. She hadn’t killed him, she’d only slowed him down. But she was also slow. Every movement ached, every step shooting pain up her nerve endings. Her skin was on fire.

  Max climbed out of the car. Her legs gave out and she fell heavily to the cement. She screamed as her knees seemed to explode.

  Dammit, get up!

/>   She was not going to die like this, in this bloody, filthy hospital gown. What if no one knew what happened to her? What if Duvall and Cole made her disappear? David would know she was dead, but would never rest because he wouldn’t know the who, the what, the why. And Nick … did he think she just changed her mind about the trip and didn’t call him? She was selfish, after all. Selfish and self-centered and arrogant.

  Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they thought she had just left because she was Max Revere and could do anything she wanted. She’d said it often enough. She meant it, too. But she wouldn’t have left without a word. She wouldn’t have hurt the people she cared about. David was more than a brother. She would never hurt him, never never never never …

  She shook her head to clear her thoughts. She wasn’t even making sense to herself.

  “Max-ine,” the bastard’s voice called. He was closer, too close. She shuffled around the car to the trunk. Looked around. Where was the door? How could she get out?

  “Max-ine,” he called again, his voice a singsong. “Max-ine. There’s no way out, Max-ine. Here, bitchy-bitchy bitch.”

  She cowered behind the car, the smell of the dead driver filling her nostrils so violently that had she any food in her stomach, she’d have puked. The drugs made her panicked and she had the overwhelming urge to let him find her. To get it over with, because there was no hope. She didn’t know where the damn door was. No door, no escape.

  Who are you? You’re not a quitter, Maxine. How did the car get in here?

  Of course there was a door. A door big enough that this car could drive through.

  “I’m going to cut you into small pieces. Maybe I’ll pour sodium hydroxide on you and let it burn you alive. That would be fun. No one can hear you scream in here, Max-ine.”

  She looked behind her and saw the door. It was a big roll-up door, huge and heavy. It was bolted from the inside, but it wasn’t locked. No one outside could get in, but she could get out.

  But could she make it to the door before he found her? Did she have the strength to open it?