5:22 a.m.

 

Day Two

 

Archer slid sideways out of bed, then glanced back over his shoulder. Jo was on her side, still breathing heavily, obviously asleep. He hadn't disturbed her.

Good.

She was facing away from him, and a sheet was wrapped tightly around her waist and legs. He knew if he walked around the bed, he'd be treated to the magnificent sight that was her breasts. Then he remembered waking up next to her at the rave, when she'd been sleeping on her stomach, only his t-shirt covering her ass. She clearly had no problems with sleeping in the nude.

God bless her.

He shook his head and forced himself to look away. Sleeping with Jo was a bad idea. So frickin' stupid. And had he been imagining things, or had she been about to say she loved him!? She totally had. He'd stopped her because … he couldn't handle hearing those words. Not now, or at least, not yet. Not until he could say them back with a clear conscience.

And to do that, he had to get to work.

Archer grabbed the charging laptop and moved into the bathroom, gently shutting the door behind him. He quickly got dressed, then he sat on the toilet and opened the computer on his lap. It made a loud noise as it booted up, the Windows logo flashing across the screen. He grimaced and glanced at the bathroom door, praying Jo hadn't woken up. When he didn't hear anything from the bedroom, he got to work, fumbling around through different programs and files.

Why were you following Jo, Krakow? And why were you doing your boss dirty and selling bad coke?

Bernard Krakow had some notes that made it obvious he wasn't the only one in on his baking-soda-coke scam. He had a partner. Someone he e-mailed fairly regularly, going over deals and shipments. All strictly business – ounces, payments, measurements. His partner never gave away his name, just signed his messages with the letter R.

When the emails didn't lead anywhere, Archer moved on to dig through Krakow's personal files. The computer seemed to be pretty much empty, at first. Then Archer hit pay dirt – a whole shit ton of photos. He'd found them buried in a junk file, in a folder marked “taxes”, because of course, who would go rooting through someone else's taxes? Boring.

Luckily, Archer was that kind of person, so he'd opened the folder and found a cornucopia of pictures. At first, he'd thought they were just Krakow's porn stash. A little strange, a grown man who lived alone hiding his own porn on his own laptop.

But after about the fifth picture, Archer started to notice something. The pics were all of a very specific nature. Women who all looked like they'd been banged up, tied to chairs, their clothes ripped in various places. BDSM was all the rage anymore, but this seemed different. A porn star would moan or smile in pleasure for the camera. None of these women looked happy. They all looked terrified.

Beyond that, though, there was the setting. Archer's breath caught in his throat as his eyes wandered over the backgrounds of the photos. Then he stood up and cautiously opened the door so he could peek into the bedroom.

Jo was still sleeping on the plain queen sized bed. There were nightstands on either side of the mattress, and a dresser against the wall by the door. On the opposite side of the room, there was enough space between the nightstand and wall for a cushioned chair. It had wooden armrests and looked very unassuming.

Archer looked at the laptop screen. Then looked at the chair. Back at the screen. So much rage started rushing through his body, he thought he was going to snap the computer in half. He backed into the bathroom and sat down again, taking deep breaths as he did so.

Those women had been tied up in Bernard Krakow's bedroom, to the exact same chair Archer had just been looking at. Krakow had roughed them up, then he'd forced them to get their picture taken. Archer clicked through more of the photos, but they just got worse. Some of the women had their tops ripped off, and some were completely nude. Some looked fine, others were sobbing. All of them looked scared.

And beneath each photo was a caption. “July job – Tonya. Released.” “April job – Marie. Released.” “October job – Sammy. Divested.” “June job – Roxanne. Released.” “March job – Hannah. Divested.”

Released clearly meant those particular women had been let go. But divested? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? As he scrolled through the photos, he saw “divested” more often than he saw “released”. He had a general idea of what “divested” meant, but he decided to look it up. Just in case he was wrong.

Divest. Verb. Rid oneself of something that one no longer wants or requires, such as a business interest or investment.

He was not wrong. Some of the women in the photos had been allowed to go home, but most of them had been killed. Divested. Presumably by Bernard Krakow. But why? Was he a drug dealer and a serial killer?

No. Maybe a little crazy, and clearly lacking in sympathy, but not a psychopath. Every picture had the word “job” under it – keeping those women had been a job. Archer felt safe in assuming that meant there was a boss somewhere down the line, ordering Krakow to do these things. To … maybe … follow these women. Learn their habits and patterns, so when the time came to kidnap them, it would be easy. Maybe he'd even met them first. Had gotten them to lower their guards by, say, buying them drinks and dancing with them.

Jesus fucking christ, Jo. So close. I was so fucking close to losing you.

Archer growled and slammed the laptop shut. He didn't want to see those images anymore. Wanted to burn them from his brain. He paced around the small bathroom, trying to calm down before he had to get back in bed.

So Bernard Krakow had been following and stalking Jo, most likely in hopes of capturing her and torturing her and possibly killing her. Now the real question was – who had asked him to do it? Who had “hired” him for this particular job? And why? Why Jo? She had no real connection to the drug world, no reason to be kidnapped and tortured, no reason to be anybody's “job” or anything like that.

No real connection ...

Archer tiptoed across the carpet and climbed into bed. He laid on his side and stared at Jo for a while. Then she mumbled in her sleep and rolled onto her back. She yawned, then kept moving, pulling the blanket up to her chin as she turned to face him. He held still until he was sure she was still asleep.

“Jojo,” he whispered, reaching out and brushing a lock of hair away from her face. She always looked young – whenever they went out, she got carded. She was young, though; and fragile. He'd tried for so many years to be her protector. Her defender. Her best friend. A guy she could always trust. A guy who might some day be worthy of her.

Some day.

“I'm so, so sorry, Jo,” he finally sighed. She mumbled again, then snuggled closer to him. He turned onto his back and she rested her head on his shoulder. Her warm body was flush against his side, silky soft and smooth to the touch.

But he barely noticed. He stayed awake for another two hours, trying to get the mental image of her tied to Krakow's chair out of his head.