Extreme Limit

by Kendall Talbot

  But in Regi’s eyes, with the truth out, she’d gone from victim to selfish bitch in the space of an afternoon.

  After he’d searched her bedroom for evidence of their affair, he’d scoured their already messed up house, combing for anything that proved Milton was his father. But he got nothing. Not a damn thing. So he’d sat, and waited for his mother to emerge from her drug-induced stupor.

  Not that it’d helped. The bitch was a thousand percent adamant that not one single photo of the two of them together existed. In addition to that, nobody—and she was adamant about that too, nobody—knew of their affair, even though it’d lasted for twenty-three years.

  Twenty-three years. How in the hell someone could do that, was beyond his grasp. It just proved how calculating his mother could be. It was another side of her that he never knew existed, and it hurt nearly as much as finding out his wealthy father didn’t want anything to do with him. The asshole had plenty of opportunities too. Regi thought he’d hated him before—now he despised the fucking bastard, and was determined to get his hands on what was owed to him.

  Since that afternoon, Regi had spent every available minute scouring the internet, researching Milton Ashcroft. Fortunately for him, the boring office job he’d snagged eighteen months ago gave him unlimited access to a computer. And his tiny cubicle meant he could do whatever he wanted without anyone seeing over his shoulder.

  He’d taken up a routine. Mornings were for work, and damn if he didn’t work his butt off to get everything done as quickly as possible. Afternoons were dedicated to research. Every photo of the smiling prick made him want to punch the monitor. But of course, that was a pointless waste of energy. He needed to be smart.

  Surely it wasn’t possible to have an affair for two decades and not leave a single trace of it? He’d scoured news reports of the helicopter crash and the aftermath. He’d read everything he could find on Kane, the half-brother he’d never meet. And there was loads of information on Milton’s successful animal apparel empire, Creature Comforts.

  Dog clothing! Regi couldn’t believe his father’s rise to success was on the back of a dog, literally.

  He opened a report from Google that he’d saved, and as usual his eyes snagged on the estimated value of Milton’s estate at the time of his death: twelve billion dollars. Twelve billion fucking dollars.

  Reginald Tate, twelve-billion-dollar man. In his mind it sounded like he was being introduced for a world wrestling match.

  Each day, he continued reading, devouring every article he could find. It seemed Milton’s ex-wife had made a career out of playing the distraught widow. He googled Victoria Ashcroft again… she was everywhere. Society dinners. Talk shows. Facebook. She’d even survived six episodes on I'm a Celebrity... Get Me Out of Here!

  Pausing on a photo of her with a blond reporter, he noticed the NBC Chicago insignia on the microphone and suddenly it hit him.

  She knew of the affair. His mom had said Milton’s wife had caught her and Milton in a hotel in Chicago. She was his proof. He went back to her Facebook profile and tapped on the message button. But then he paused. What the hell was he going to say? Hi, I’m your dead ex-husband’s bastard son and I want my fucking money.

  Somehow, he figured that wouldn’t work.

  He stood and paced between the partitions and back, trying to piece together a message. The insurance office where he worked was open plan, and a dozen or so other claims consultants were hunched over in their own cubicles. It was a solid ten minutes before even one of them seemed to notice him. And that’s when an idea slotted into place. Ms. Ashcroft’s thirst for attention would be his savior. He trotted back to his computer and attacked the keyboard.

  Hello, Ms. Ashcroft. My name is Reginald Tate, and I’m a reporter from the New York Times. Can I interview you? He gave her two phone numbers, his direct office line and his cell number. His heart was in his throat when he clicked send.

  He jumped when his cell phone rang barely a minute later. The number on the screen was blocked, but he didn’t hesitate to press the green button.

  “Hello? Ms. Ashcroft, is that you?”

  “It is.” The woman sounded posh, and he could barely contain his excitement.

  “Thank you for calling.”

  “My pleasure. What exactly would you like to know?”

  He cupped the phone, hoping to shield his voice from the prying ears of Telitha in the cubicle adjacent to his. “I’m following up on information I have regarding Milton Ashcroft. Do you have time to talk?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, good. I’ve been told Milton Ashcroft may have—” He paused, realizing he hadn’t exactly thought this part through.

  “May have what?”

  He decided to go for broke. “Well, um, there’s a woman who says she had an affair with him for over twenty years.”

  “Pfft. It’s a lie. Milton loved me. We loved each other. Who is she?”

  “Fiona Tate.” He felt zero guilt dropping his mother’s name.

  There was a moment’s pause. “She already tried years ago, but her case was thrown out. She had no proof. Just like every other bastard still trying to get their hands on his estate.”

  “You mean it isn’t settled yet?” That was good news. He’d read a news report from six months ago that’d highlighted the long, drawn-out litigation over the estate. Hearing that it still wasn’t settled had his heart racing.

  “Young man, I suggest you do your research.”

  “My apologies. How awful for you; you’ve already been through so much.” His fake sympathy was vomit-worthy.

  “It’s been hideous. My money has been tied up in court for years.”

  Your fucking money. He stabbed his pen onto his notepad and the blue plastic shattered to pieces. “Fiona says you found them together in a hotel in Chicago.”

  She huffed. “Well, unless she comes up with something solid, like DNA, she’s got nothing.”

  The mention of DNA had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

  “Okay, thanks for calling, gotta go.” Before she could reply, he ended the call and toggled the mouse to wake his computer again. Something was there, tickling the back of his mind, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. His cell rang with a blocked number several times but, assuming it was Victoria, he ignored it as he read the headlines of report after report, trying to get to the bottom of his burgeoning excitement.

  Afternoon rolled into evening and people around him packed up and left. The eternal drone of voices petered out until there was just the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. And suddenly there it was, the headline he’d been looking for.

  Multibillionaire Milton Ashcroft to remain in icy grave forever.

  Regi stood, cheered, and fist-pumped the air. His manager in the far office stared at him through the slats of his window blinds. Regi waved at him and sat down again.

  DNA.

  That’s what he needed, and he knew exactly where to find it.

  He just had to figure out how.

  Returning to the computer, he researched where Milton’s helicopter crashed: Whiskey Mountain. He googled it and was surprised to find there were four of them. But it was the one in Canada that he was interested in. Another article captured his eye. It seemed Whiskey Mountain had more than one casualty to its name.

  Twenty minutes later, he knew exactly what he was going to do. He picked up his phone again, and as he punched in the number from his Google search, he prayed he hadn’t missed them for the day.

  “Hello, and welcome to Helirides Canada.”

  “Hi, I’m calling about a plane wreck that one of your guides found on top of Whiskey Mountain. Can I speak to the guy who was there?”

  “That’d be me. Chancy Holden, how can I help?”

  Regi couldn’t believe his luck. “I work for Heathcote Insurance, and I need to take more photos of the plane. There’s a pending claim that needs solving.”

  “Well, it must be your lucky day. I had
a call from a woman the other day, and she’s hired me to take her to a crevice near the plane to retrieve a body. So, I can take the photos if you want.”

  “A body?” Regi’s mind raced.

  “Yeah, apparently her fiancé died in a helicopter crash up there a few years ago, and she wants to give him a proper burial.”

  Holy fuck. It had to be Holly Parmenter, Milton’s fiancée and the sole survivor of the helicopter crash. Regi could barely breathe, let alone speak. His lucky streak just hit the twelve-billion-dollar jackpot.

  “You there, man?”

  “Oh, yep.” His mind rocketed a thousand miles an hour. He cleared his throat. “Can I join the group?”

  “Depends. You got eight grand in your pocket?”

  Regi just about swallowed his tongue.

  “You there?” Chancy’s gruff voice cut into his brain.

  “Yes, it’s just… eight thousand?”

  “That’s correct. It covers the cost to take the helicopter to the highest point, then it’s about a two-day return hike on the mountain, depending on the weather. Then the chopper’s gotta come back to get us. Costs money. Insurance alone’s a fortune, though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.” He chuckled.

  “No. No, you don’t.” Regi’s glimmer of hope exploded like a grenade. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d get his hands on that kind of money. Unless… “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay. But if you’re coming, I need to know by”—There was a pause, and Regi assumed Chancy was checking for a date— “by April sixth at the latest.

  “Thanks.” He looked at his calendar. Two weeks. “Okay, I’ll call you soon.”

  He didn’t shut down his computer like he was supposed to. Instead, he grabbed his phone and strode for the exit.

  For the first time ever, he was hunting Carson.

  Four buses and a two-mile walk later, he arrived at the security gate at Broadmoor. He drove his fingers through his hair, straightened his shirt, and cleared his throat as he stepped up to the gatehouse. “Hi, I’m here to meet Mr. Carson.”

  “Is he expecting you?” Built like a fridge and with eyes that could cut steel, the guard was born for this job.

  The entire trip here, Regi had debated how to handle this obstacle. “No, but he’ll want to see me. I have his money.”

  After snapping the window shut, Regi watched the guard lift a phone to his ear. Following a brief conversation, he tugged the window open again. “Mr. Carson will be here soon. Wait over there.”

  Regi sat where indicated and stared through the wrought iron bars up the tree lined street. Carson liked to keep people waiting, and today was no exception. The sun gradually set behind him and the street lanterns lit up, as did all the million-dollar mansions beyond the gate. Not a single vehicle came or went, and the guard made a show of glaring at him every once in a while.

  When a pair of headlights flooded the asphalt, Regi stood and awaited its approach. The guard went to the car, and then he must’ve pressed a button for a side panel in the gate that clicked ajar. Regi didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped through the opening and strode to the highly polished black Mercedes AMG S65 coupe. He was disappointed to see Pope behind the wheel, so Regi climbed into the back seat.

  “Regi the Rat. I hear you’ve got the boss’s money.”

  “I need to see him.”

  “Give me the cash.”

  Regi did a double take. He had no idea how much Carson wanted and was pretty certain Pope had just stepped into a hole. “How much?”

  “What?” The torment on Pope’s face confirmed he realized his mistake.

  “How much does Carson want?” It was the one answer Regi had been seeking for years.

  When Pope didn’t respond, Regi decided to push his luck. “Just take me to him, dickhead.”

  The seething in Pope’s eyes only proved what Regi had suspected all along: Carson was the only one keeping him alive. Problem was, Regi had no idea why.

  Pope turned to the front, put the car into gear, and rolled up the asphalt with a calmness that was a world away from the Pope Regi knew.

  They pulled into a driveway, and when the garage door eased up Pope drove down into the enormous parking bay beneath Carson’s mansion. The garage was a car lover’s wet dream. They cruised past a Rolls-Royce Wraith, a McLaren 650S Coupe, a Lamborghini Huracán LP610-4 Spyder, and a Ferrari 488GTB. Carson’s Corvette Stingray was there too; the car that’d instigated his living nightmare showed no signs of the crash.

  Regi had been to Carson’s mansion several times, but never via this entrance. The darkened space and abundant shadows prickled Regi’s brain with dread. Pope parked alongside a silver Aston Martin DB9 GT, and Regi readied his body and mind for a beating.

  When Pope climbed out, Regi did too, and he stepped back to put distance between himself and the thug. Regi scanned the area, looking for the way out, but it was nowhere in sight, so he waited for Pope to lead the way. He did, and Regi followed behind, still maintaining a distance. Pope paused at a door to unlock it, then pulled it open and indicated for Regi to go first.

  Regi clenched his core muscles, expecting a blow. The punch to his kidneys came before he was on the second step. Regi howled and crumbled to the ground. Nothing could’ve prepared him for that.

  “Get up, dickhead.” Pope’s breath fouled the air.

  Regi groaned as he stood and clawed at the railing to drag himself up the remaining stairs. They entered the mansion, and Pope stepped in front again and led the way through the building and out to the pool area, which was lit up like a party was about to start. Even the water glowed from lights hidden below the waterline. Regi breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Carson lazing in a deck chair at the head of the pool.

  He walked toward him and noticed a woman swimming beneath the water. She was naked. Regi decided then and there that once he got his hands on his billions, he too would have naked women swimming in his pool. Lots of them.

  As he approached, Carson raised his eyes from the paper he was reading. “I hear you have my money.”

  Regi glanced at Pope, who was watching the woman backstroke across the water. “Mr. Carson, can I speak to you alone, please?”

  Carson made a show of folding his paper and shoving it onto the table next to an open bottle of red wine. He picked up his wineglass and eyeballed Pope. “Give us a moment.”

  Pope nodded and obediently backed away.

  “Speak.” Carson commanded.

  Regi’s knees trembled, yet he remained standing. “Sir, can you please tell me how much I owe you?” His eyes shifted to the woman’s ass as it bobbed up and down in time to her breaststroke.

  “How much do you have?”

  Regi was no longer the naïve twenty-two-year-old who’d crashed into Carson’s Stingray. Back then he worked casual in a car wash. Now he was a claims assessor for an insurance company, and if his job had taught him one thing, it was that there was a fine line between knowing when to work with something and when to write it off altogether. His hope was that Carson’s figure was high enough that he’d consider investing more. “I believe I have enough to pay you, but I need to know the figure.”

  “One hundred g’s.”

  Regi had to resist sighing with relief. This was far from over. He nodded and made a show of implying it was a hard ask. “If I can get my hands on that kind of money, will you let me walk away?”

  “Walking away will cost you another four hundred.”

  Half a million. It was way too much, and both he and Carson knew it. This was a test, and Regi had every intention of passing it. He clutched the back of a chair. “May I sit?”

  “No.”

  Regi adjusted his stance so he couldn’t see Miss Nude’s tits wobbling with her backstroke. “Mr. Carson, what I’m going to tell you is hard to believe. Hell, it’s taken me months to get my head around it.” Regi went on to tell Carson everything, from who his father was to how he intended to get his hands on the D
NA. He didn’t hold back, and he hoped the truth would literally set him free. “So, sir, in summing up, to get you your money, I need to get to the body. To do that, I need money.”

  During the telling of the story, Carson had leaned forward, convincing Regi he was not only believing him, but he was hooked.

  “You’re trying to tell me that Milton Ashcroft is your father.”

  “Correct.”

  Carson burst out laughing. It was the first time Regi had ever seen him do this, and he had absolutely no idea what it meant.

  After he’d finished his hysterics, he steepled his fingers. “I knew him.”

  The blood drained from Regi’s face. Not in a million years had he considered this. Yet in hindsight, he should have. Milton had been an extremely wealthy Seattle businessman, as was Carson. “He was quite the player, you know. With the women.”

  “No, actually I don’t know. As I said, I had no idea who my father was until five months ago.”

  Carson huffed. “From what I saw, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were dozens of bastards just like you trying to stake a claim on that fortune.”

  “There’s just me. For now.” Regi’s research told him that Milton had left his fortune to his son, his fiancée, and a pile of charities. Because his son died too, and because Milton’s ex-wife got zip, it’d been tied up in the courts since the will was discovered. Thanks to Victoria fighting the payouts, Regi could make a claim to the estate. He was about to throw a giant wrench into Victoria’s case, and he couldn’t wait.

  “Well, Mr. Tate, you’re one of the luckiest sons of bitches I’ve ever met.” Carson’s smile was contagious and Regi grinned too.

  “I know.”

  Carson eased back on his chair. His eyes were as sharp as ice picks. “How much do you need?”

  Regi’s heart was in his throat. On his way to Carson’s he’d played with all sorts of numbers in his head. The last thing he needed was to fail because he was a couple of bucks short. Besides, if anyone could afford it, it was Carson. “I figure fifty grand will cover my costs.”