“Aubrey? Did you hear me?”
Jerking herself from her reverie, she smiled at Owen Waters, one of the cameramen. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“We’re going for dinner at a Tex-Mex place Harry says he went to a couple of years ago. Says their margaritas are incredible.”
She loved her team, but she needed some time to herself. The long drive back to LA would give her that. “I need to get back to the hotel. I’ve got a meeting with Lawrence Medford tomorrow and I want to be ready.”
Owen grimaced. “Better you than me. Heard he was an ass the other day.”
“He was, but that’s to be expected. Once he realized he couldn’t sway me, he got nicer. I think we’re going to be able to work something out.”
“That’s a relief. The footage we got tonight was amazing. This story needs to be told.”
She agreed. Brenda’s story and so many more needed to be told.
“It’s a long drive back. You want me to go with you? Keep you company?”
Owen was the newest member of her team. It wasn’t the first time he had indicated he’d like to know Aubrey on something other than a professional basis. He was a nice guy, but getting personally involved with a coworker was never a good idea.
“Thanks but the alone time will do me good. I’ll call you guys tomorrow after the meeting and we’ll make plans then.”
“Okay, well…have a safe trip back.”
She waved at the rest of the team as they loaded their equipment into the vans. “Great job tonight, guys. See you soon.”
Amid a loud array of goodbyes, Aubrey got into her rental car and started the engine. She waited until her team had driven away, and then turned back and looked at the house where Brenda lived. What an amazing woman she was, an incredible survivor. She had endured and won.
How many more were out there? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? She knew the estimates, but that’s exactly what they were. Estimates. Only God knew how many there really were. She did what she could, but making films to inform people only went so far.
Not for the first time, she thought about the man she’d briefly met a few years ago in Kosovo. Over the years, she’d met many men she’d found attractive, but few had stayed in her memory the way this man had. Which was strange since he hadn’t even said a word. She didn’t know his name, where he lived…knew nothing about him other than he rescued people from horrific circumstances. Something about him had not only warmed her blood, but had also touched her heart. It had been the first time she’d felt a connection to anyone since Lion.
Shifting the gear into drive, Aubrey blew out a ragged sigh as she drove away. She must be tired, wishing for things that could never be, wanting a man she would never see again. Yearning for a man she’d never even seen. Life was reality. Dreams like that just didn’t come true.
Chapter Nine
Montana
Feet propped on the railing, icy-cold beer in his hand, Liam took in the vista before him. When he’d moved to Montana, he’d lived in an apartment for a while before finding the perfect location to build. He had known in his mind exactly what he wanted—Cat had described it perfectly.
During those few days, when they’d had nothing but darkness and each other, they had talked about everything and nothing. Amazing the intimate details that could be shared without revealing the things that most people thought were essential. He might not know Cat’s real name, where she’d lived, or even what she looked like, but he knew her. There was no doubt in his mind that he knew the real Cat.
He could still hear her voice, hoarse from her coughing, as she told him her dream. “I want to live in the mountains. We went to the Rockies for vacation one year and then once to the Smokies. There’s just something about the heights, they’re majestic and ancient. I remember sitting at the top of a peak and just absorbing the moment. I love going to the beach for vacation but only for a few days. The thought of coming home to my own private, secluded hideaway, surrounded by mountain mists with air so clear and fresh you can taste it, would be like heaven.”
She had gone on to describe in surprising detail her dream home. A house surrounded by mountains, hidden from the rest of the world. A peaceful refuge.
When he’d found the land, he’d designed the house, using Cat’s words to guide him. Okay, yeah, that was stupid. The place was way too big for him. Most times he wasn’t in a location long enough to even justify renting a room on a weekly basis, yet he’d felt compelled to build a house for a woman he would likely never see again.
Again? Hell, he’d never seen her at all.
Where she’d been taken, what had happened after they’d pulled her out of that cell might be something he would never know. He knew she’d been tortured, beaten, and raped. For days, he’d heard the recording of her screams of pain, of terror. She had called out for him, and he hadn’t been able to do a damn thing for her. Her cries were ingrained in his psyche and would never leave him.
But what had they done to her after that? Where had they taken her?
The helicopter crash had delayed his search for weeks. Six of them had survived the crash. Dragging his ass through the Syrian desert with multiple injuries had been nothing compared to the knowledge that if he didn’t get home, Cat would never be found.
As soon as he and the other survivors had made it to civilization, he’d demanded a search be conducted. Thanks to Hawke, the request had been approved. Liam hadn’t been able to go himself. Four broken ribs, a broken shoulder, and a bullet in his side had prevented him from being able to do anything other than wait for word. It hadn’t been good.
The entire prison was gone—demolished. Most likely a drone strike but no one could say who was responsible or why. The incinerated remains of three bodies had been found—all male. No identifications had ever been made.
She hadn’t been there when he’d left. He told himself that over and over—she hadn’t been there. He had gone through the prison, searched every nook and cranny, called her name. She had been taken somewhere else. But by whom? And to where?
When he was well enough, he’d gone back. He had to see for himself that there was no hope, no sign of her. He’d found nothing but the crumbling remains of a destroyed structure and a barbed wire fence that had surrounded the building.
He’d even hired a group with cadaver dogs to search the area, and they’d come up empty.
There had been no report of an American disappearing from a market in Paris. No one had filed a missing-person report that remotely matched the description she’d given him. She had family, had mentioned a cousin. Wouldn’t someone have looked for her, demanded to know what happened to her?
It was as if she’d never existed, except in his mind. He might’ve been weak from the beatings and little nourishment, but he’d been lucid enough to know she was not a figment of his imagination. Cat was real, and he’d spent twelve years looking for her, to no avail.
He had used what little she’d told him about herself to search. He knew she was an actress and a student. There’d been no unexplained record of a student missing from any college remotely close to New York.
He’d even researched the plays in New York but couldn’t find any that purportedly needed a French-speaking actress for a part. Had she made that up? Had that been one of her “stories” and he’d missed it somehow?
His only real lead had been the knowledge that other women had been in the prison with her. They had disappeared too. Victims of human trafficking was his best guess.
During his search for her, he and his team had saved hundreds, but he had not found her, had not been able to save Cat.
Was it time to give up? Time to admit that she wasn’t alive? His gut said no. What if he gave up today and tomorrow was the day he was supposed to find her?
No. No way in hell would he ever give up looking.
The ding of his phone indicated a text. Grabbing it from the table beside him, he clicked on the text from Myron.
Call
me. Got something.
Liam wasted no time. The intel Myron had given him in Indianapolis had been sketchy but valuable. He had been sure he could get more. Looked like he had.
The instant Myron picked up, Liam asked, “Hey, what’ve you got?”
“There’s a house in Bogota. Older home. Nice area, garden district. Don’t know how long they’ve been using it. My sources say they’ve got a steady business going. Have maybe ten to twelve servicing the customers, day and night. Heard it’s a busy place.”
“You got an address or coordinates?”
“No. That’s all I have. Figure your people can pinpoint it fairly quickly.”
Myron was right. Serena and her team could have the address in a matter of hours, probably less.
“That’s some good intel. Why don’t you go to ground for a few days? I can send you to a safe house.”
“Nah. I’m good. Got a new lady I’m keeping company with. We’ll hole up together until this is over.”
“I can protect you both.”
“I know you can, but we’re just getting to know each other. Don’t want to spook her. I’ll be fine. I know how to take care of me and mine.”
“Then be safe, and thank you for this. I’m wiring the funds in a sec.”
“Good enough. Be careful. Sounds like some scummy slime this time.”
Anyone who made money off the misery of another was scummy slime, in his opinion.
“Thanks again.”
Liam ended the call and immediately wired the funds to Myron’s account. One of the most important aspects of intel gathering was paying informants what they were worth and doing so ASAP. Which was why Myron gave him good intel. He knew Liam would pay.
After sending the funds, he texted Serena, giving her the details. He had no worries that he’d be hearing from her soon.
Standing, Liam took one last look at the panorama before him. One more time he would search for her. One more time he would likely be disappointed. But someday…just maybe…he wouldn’t be.
Chapter Ten
Brentwood, California
Lawrence Medford skimmed through another script and tried without success to stave off a yawn. Didn’t anyone write anything original anymore? This was his sixth one tonight, and he could link every one of them to a movie or book that had come out in the last ten years. Yeah, he knew there was nothing new under the sun, but that didn’t mean people had to be lazy about it.
Standing, he stretched his back, twisting left and right. He wasn’t due for his massage for another couple of days, but the way he was feeling, he knew he needed one sooner. He grabbed his phone and sent a quick text to his masseuse for an early-morning rubdown.
Placing the phone back on his desk, he wandered restlessly around his office. The frustration wasn’t just from bad scripts. Most of it stemmed from having found the perfect one and not being able to do what he wanted with it.
The meeting with Aubrey Starr had started out on a positive note. He had expressed his admiration for a good script and praised her for her previous works. She was an extraordinarily gifted filmmaker, and her new project had all the earmarks of another award-winning hit. The flattery had been truthful.
Problem was, she hadn’t been as impressed with him as he had hoped. He was an Oscar-winning producer of both feature films and documentaries. He knew how to get a story told, and he had the contacts and money to achieve both successfully. Their partnership could be ideal. She would provide the basic content. He would provide the funding and use his skills to turn her words and images into a soul-grabbing, heart-stopping, searingly raw picture of the ravages of human trafficking.
People would walk out of the theaters not only moved to tears, but also moved to action. His films changed the world. This one would be no different.
He didn’t have any real investment in revealing the evils of human trafficking, but he lived to tell a good story. If his work exposed evildoers, or inspired people to do good, that was just an added benefit. He certainly wasn’t on any kind of crusade. Not the way Aubrey Starr seemed to be. She definitely had her own agenda.
Instead of accepting his suggestions, she had refused to alter the script in any way. She claimed she had her own vision, and it didn’t coincide with his. The meeting had gone downhill from there. He was known for his temper—the mark of a creative person was to be volatile and full of emotion.
She hadn’t seemed angry but had adamantly refused to continue their meeting. Lawrence breathed out an exasperated sigh. He’d known the instant she’d walked out the door that he needed to make amends. He’d waited a couple of hours and had sent a bouquet of flowers to her hotel room, along with a note requesting another meeting. She had graciously accepted.
They would meet again tomorrow afternoon. This time, things would end differently. Once they had an agreement and began to work together, he felt sure he would be able to bring her around to his way of thinking. He’d handled things badly, but that didn’t mean anything in this industry. Minds changed in an instant, given the right incentive. She needed funds. He had them. It was as simple as that.
By this time tomorrow, he would be celebrating a successful partnership.
They would be stepping on some toes with this project. Starr had been upfront that some powerful people could be exposed. He had no problem with that. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d uncovered dirt on the rich and powerful. But he was Lawrence Medford. Rich and powerful in his own right. A world-renowned producer. He had angered numerous people through the years. Sometimes, you had to rattle a few nerves to reveal the underbelly of truth. He was good at that. And so was Aubrey Starr. That’s why he needed to make this work.
Feeling much more optimistic, Lawrence dumped the scripts he’d reviewed into the trash bin. They were not worthy of a second glance. He would have his hands full with the new project, and as he didn’t like to concentrate on more than one at a time, there was no point in searching for something more.
He took two steps away from his desk and halted when he heard an odd sound. Nothing like he’d ever heard before, at least not in his home. It couldn’t be…could it?
He looked down at the hardwood floor, his breath caught in his throat, and his heart almost stopped. A mere three inches from his bare foot lay a rattlesnake, coiled and poised to strike. Lawrence froze. Cold sweat slid down his spine. If he moved even an inch, the snake would bite him.
Staring at the thing, he tried to will it to move away. He could swear the creature was staring back at him, almost taunting him to make the first move.
The longer he stood there, the more he knew he would have to move. He could survive a rattlesnake bite. He was only fifty and in good health. Lots of people survived worse. Yeah, it would hurt, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
Doing the only thing that made sense to him, he hopped back one step. A stinging pain shot through the back of his ankle. Crying out, Lawrence looked down just in time to see the snake in front of him strike. But where had—out of his peripheral vision, another snake struck. This pain was worse, like a hornet’s sting.
The question of how two rattlesnakes came to be inside his office was far from his mind. Knowing he had no choice, Lawrence stepped sideways and gripped his desk. Agony struck again, this time in his hand. There was a snake on his desk?
Nausea swelled in his stomach. Cold sweat drenched his body. He reached for the phone and watched in a blur of pain as it moved farther away from him. He stumbled forward, reaching for the cellphone that somehow continued to be out of his reach. How was that possible?
His mind was a mass of confusion as fear and panic took control. He reached for the phone again, and that’s when he heard something else. Soft, masculine laughter filled the room.
“What…who…”
“Sorry, Medford. Not going to happen.”
Lawrence tried to swing around to see who had spoken behind him. His legs refused to obey him, and he teetered forward. Catching himself on the edge of the des
k, he stood there, hoping to catch his breath. He was hallucinating. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe… Agony speared through his left leg. He glanced down to see that a snake had struck again. This was no nightmare!
Grabbing a paperweight, he dropped it onto the snake and missed. It did nothing other than slither off. As he staggered, his only thought was to get help. He needed his phone. Where had it—
“Looking for this?”
Lawrence jerked around. It hadn’t been his imagination. Someone was here. Holding his phone out to him. His vision wavering, he reached for it and then swallowed a gasp when the hand jerked away.
“Please…I need to call someone.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re not a bad guy, Medford. In fact, I really like your films. Classy but understated. Unfortunately, you pissed somebody off. Sorry about that.”
“Please…I need help.”
“Oh, you’ll get help, but it’ll come much too late for you.”
Nausea swelled, twisting and knotting. The rapid thundering of his heart roared through his head. He couldn’t think…couldn’t think… His mouth opened but no sound emerged. His legs collapsed, and he fell forward, landing face first on the hardwood floor. He shifted his head slightly and looked up to see a vaguely familiar face.
“The venom is taking over now. You’ll be dead soon.”
Lawrence lay on the floor, his mind dulled with pain. His breathing labored, his heart raced faster and faster toward a dark finish line. A line he hadn’t planned on crossing for several more decades.
Who hated him so much to kill him? He thought about what could have been…what could never be.
* * *
Studying Lawrence Medford as he took his last breaths was a unique experience. In his line of work, one needed to absorb the experience to learn the various facets. Who knew when he might need to recall the incident to enhance a scene?
Besides, if he’d learned anything in his career, it was that the job, no matter how distasteful, had to be finished. Using his phone, he clicked a couple of photos. Proof of death was also an important part of his itinerary.
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