Baltimore, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 12.15 P.M.
He looked away from his risotto when Patton leaned down to murmur in his ear. ‘Sir? A word, please?’
‘Of course.’ He offered his lunch companions a quick apology before following Patton to Bruno’s kitchen. Kathryn would tend to them for a few minutes. She was good with his clients and customers. Most of the men simply liked stealing glances at her cleavage. As long as they never touched, he could live with that. ‘What’s wrong?’
Because anyone who worked for him knew not to disturb him in business meetings. He was five minutes from landing a lucrative shipping contract that would enable him to expand his control of the docks. Whoever controlled the docks controlled the flow of . . . well, everything. And he wanted to control everything.
‘The police are searching Linden’s home.’
His jaw tightened. He’d expected that to take a good while longer. ‘How did they get a warrant?’
‘A man came into the police station to meet with Lieutenant Hyatt and Agent Carter this morning. Thorne and his group were also there.’ Patton hesitated. ‘His name is Brandon Colt now. It was—’
‘Colton Brandenberg.’ He slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers to hide the fact that he’d clenched it into an angry fist. ‘That’s impossible. He’s dead.’
Again Patton hesitated. ‘No, sir, he’s not.’
He was already dialing Margo’s number. ‘Why is Colton Brandenberg alive?’ he asked acidly when she answered, bypassing any greeting. It had been her responsibility to ensure that the man and his conscience wouldn’t become a problem.
‘He’s not,’ Margo said. In the background he could hear the baby crying. A door closed and the sound became muffled.
‘What’s wrong with Benny?’
‘More teething. He’s got one cutting through.’ She sighed wearily. ‘What is this about, Papa? I’ve had very little sleep.’
He pushed away any feelings of compassion. In this, she was not his daughter-in-law, the mother of his grandson. She was his employee and she had royally erred. ‘Colton Brandenberg met with law enforcement this morning.’
She gasped. ‘That’s not possible. Ramirez killed him. I saw the body.’
‘Did you do a positive identification?’
A beat of silence, then two. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Ramirez forced Brandenberg’s truck off a mountain road. It rolled into a ravine and there was a fire. His face was ruined.’ More silence. ‘What did Brandenberg tell them?’ she asked timidly.
‘Enough for them to get a warrant to search Linden’s house.’
‘Well, we knew that was a possibility when we chose Patricia as Thorne’s “victim”. All of this was done to discredit Thorne, remember? Not to actually have him imprisoned. A prison sentence would have been like hitting the Powerball.’
Her logical tone grated on him. He was spared what would have been an angry retort when Patton lifted a reluctant finger. ‘There’s more,’ he whispered.
‘Wait,’ he barked at Margo before muting the call. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
Patton looked away. ‘You were already dialing her.’
He’d sought to teach Patton manners, not to beat him down. It appeared he’d be searching for a new right-hand man very soon. Margo was clearly not up to the task either. At least not now. Her attention was too fragmented.
‘Well? What is it?’
Patton looked green. ‘They’ve brought Judge Segal in for questioning.’
He literally felt the blood drain from his head and swayed on his feet for a second before gathering his composure. ‘When?’
‘I got the notification just as I was coming into the restaurant. He’s been at BPD for about ten minutes by now.’
He gritted his teeth. The judge would talk. He’d break. Because he’s weak. ‘Go to his home. Do what you have to in order to make his son come to the door. Then take him. Do not kill him. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes. Sir,’ Patton added quickly.
‘Take Kathryn with you. She can lure him out. Send me a photograph of him once you’ve taken him.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He started to turn, then paused. ‘Is that all?’
‘Where is the other boy? The son of Gwyn Weaver?’
‘I dropped him off, just like Margo told me to. She has the photos you asked for.’
‘Good. Go.’ He unmuted his call. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ Margo said, sounding worried. ‘What’s going on?’
‘They’ve brought the judge in for questioning.’
‘What? No. That’s not possible.’
‘You didn’t hear any of this with your hidden microphone?’
‘No.’ A long pause. ‘It’s gone quiet.’
‘In other words, they found it.’
‘I . . . I think so, yes. Perhaps.’
He drew in a breath. ‘Send me the photos of the boy.’
‘Gwyn Weaver’s son?’
‘Yes. Do it now. Then call your mother to take Benny. Your distraction could have ruined all my plans.’
‘I’m sorry, Papa.’
‘Sir,’ he corrected. ‘In this, I am “sir”.’
Another beat of silence. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ There was anger in her voice and he didn’t care. She’d fucked this up. Badly. ‘What can I do to help?’ she added, and it sounded like she was speaking through clenched teeth.
‘Come to the boat. Immediately. Wait in my office.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Less than a minute later, Margo’s email with the photos of Gwyn Weaver’s son appeared in his inbox. He flicked through them until he found one that would work. It was a photo of the Weaver kid in the back of Patton’s SUV. It had been taken in the darkness of a windowless garage, the only illumination the dome light in the hatch. Just bright enough to see the lump of a figure covered in an old blanket.
Not enough light to see a face. The blanket covered his clothing, and a cap, slightly askew, covered his hair. It was a generic enough photo. It could have been nearly anyone’s son.
He froze for a moment as a sudden harsh pain of longing swept through him, compressing his chest and making it hard to breathe. Colin. He missed his son. But he forced his lungs to function and pushed the grief to the side. He’d grieve later, when he was alone. Right now, silencing Judge Gil Segal was his key priority.
He attached the photo to a text and added: Be smart. Be silent. Then he hit SEND. That was the best he could do until Patton and Kathryn retrieved Segal’s son. Then he’d send more texts showing the boy’s face. The judge was weak, but he wasn’t stupid. And even if the boy was Richard’s spawn, the judge loved him like he was his own flesh and blood. He’d make the right choice.
And if the judge didn’t make the right choice?
He could make life difficult. But ultimately there would be nothing he could say to the police that wouldn’t incriminate him even more.
Yes, I approached Segal. Because his obsessive research into Thomas Thorne had yielded a better result than he’d ever imagined possible. That the man had been acquitted of murder was a matter of public record. But someone had murdered Richard Linden nineteen years ago, and he’d continued asking questions until he’d dug the truth out of Darian Hinman and Chandler Nystrom. It hadn’t been cheap, but he’d considered it one of the best deals he’d ever made.
He’d considered killing them at the time, but feared it would warn Thorne as to what was coming. And he’d wanted Thorne caught completely unaware.
Yes, I threatened Segal with exposure. But not for money. He didn’t need money for one, nor did the judge have any to spare. He and his wife had spent their fortunes. Segal was a financially desperate man.
He was also very afraid of Thomas Thorne, having lived in fear for all these years that Thorne would discover his secret. Segal had never expected the boy he’d known as Thomas White to simply walk away. He had expected Thorne to avenge his Sherri.
It’s what I would have done. I never would have walked away. He’d known that Thorne was weak, but the discovery of his cowardice had cemented his opinion.
As a young man Thorne had been broken by the trial, by the loss of his Sherri, and by the betrayal of his family. That fracture in his character still existed, but he had covered it by changing his name, reshaping his life so that it wasn’t visible. Nevertheless, underneath it all was a broken man, afraid that all he’d built could be taken away.
So on that knowledge he’d made his plans. On that knowledge he’d offered Segal the opportunity to make his fear of Thorne go away forever.
The judge had accepted his offer. Had provided him with everything he’d needed to set up the crime. Except, of course, the victim who’d been found in Thorne’s bed.
Killing Patricia’s young lover would have been the most stupid thing he could have done. And unfair. Patricia hadn’t deserved to be spared. And the discovery of her body in Thorne’s bed had kicked off his plan so much more effectively.
But the judge wasn’t supposed to have been suspected of murder. That was never part of the plan. He wouldn’t have been either, not if Colton Brandenberg had been killed the way he was meant to have been. Now that the truth had come out, Segal might try to sacrifice him to make a deal.
In the end, whatever Segal told the police would be the judge’s word against his own. Anything he said would be viewed through the lens of a man accused of Richard’s murder. Even the boy with whom Patricia had been having her affair would come forward to say that Segal had threatened him.
The trouble was Thomas Thorne. Thorne would keep pushing the investigation. That was a certainty. Any charges brought against the judge would remove the spotlight from Thorne. He might even be cleared. And he had the feeling that Thorne would push to uncover how the judge connected to everything that had happened to his businesses and his friends. How the judge connects to me.
For the first time, he had doubts about his ability to achieve his plans. Killing Thorne was now an option he had to consider.
The return of Colton Brandenberg was a game-changer. Margo’s misstep had tipped the balance precariously. Perhaps he’d assumed too quickly that she’d be an adequate successor. She’d always seemed so together. Always so intelligent and cool-headed. But when the pressure got too high, she’d screwed up.
He had expected too much of her, he knew that now. She was grieving Colin and caring for the baby, all at the same time. She’d be punished for her mistakes, but he had to admit he’d made mistakes too.
Grief would do that to a person. But now he had some difficult decisions to make. He dialed Kathryn.
‘I’m with Patton,’ she said after answering. ‘We’re on our way to pick up the judge’s kid. We had to lose our tail. Looked like Feds this time.’ She hesitated. ‘I can’t lie, Cesar. This situation is bad. Brandenberg showing up like that . . . alive? He was the block that could bring down the whole tower. Margo promised us that he’d been taken care of.’
‘I know,’ he said grimly. ‘The judge will take the fall for Richard’s murder and will not attempt to implicate me. Especially once we have his son.’
‘What about Thorne? He’s not gonna back down. You have to know that.’
‘I know,’ he said again, even more grimly.
She sighed. ‘Hate to be the one to tell you this, but all that time we thought you had? It just got shortened dramatically. Thorne will not give up investigating you until he finds something that sticks. And in the meantime, he and his people will be a pain in the ass. They’ve already located the Poulins.’
He shrugged. ‘I covered that eventuality a year ago, when I sent Margo to work for him.’ They’d eliminated the Poulins. But he frowned, because they were supposed to have eliminated Colton Brandenberg too.
‘I know, but I’m saying that they are digging and will continue to do so. Eventually they will uncover something we haven’t planned for.’
She was saying what he was thinking, even though he did not want to be thinking it. ‘You’re saying I should just end him, rather than watching him suffer.’
‘I’m saying you might not have the luxury of choice.’
‘Kathryn,’ he growled.
‘You think you should end him, don’t you?’
He found himself pouting like Benny. ‘Yes. He is no longer worth the trouble. I agree.’
‘Then that’s what you should do. But be aware that bringing him in will not be easy. You can’t just send Patton after him. He and his friends will be on their guard. Whatever you do, it will have to be quick, surgical and overpowering.’
‘Such as?’ He already knew how he’d play it, but he wanted her take. And as he listened to her plan, he realized once again how much he trusted her judgment. ‘Can you make it happen?’
‘Of course,’ she said confidently. ‘I’ll have to pull some of your men away from their normal responsibilities. I won’t touch your bodyguards, but I need your highest-ranked men on the street.’
He could forgo the income his men normally generated in a single day. Their customers might go to their competition for the day’s drugs, but they’d be back. If not, his people would eliminate the competition. ‘Do it. I have to get back to my lunch guests. They will be wondering where I’ve gone. What did you tell my lunch guests when you left?’ The men who were about to award him a lucrative shipping contract.
‘That you’d just received contracts from one of your Russian clients and needed me to translate them.’
‘Perfect as usual. Message me when you have the Segal boy and when you’ve planned the hit on Thorne.’ He ended the call and made his way back to his table, where his clients were finishing their meal. ‘I am so sorry, gentlemen. I hope the food has been delicious?’
One of them, a big barrel-chested man, pointed to his empty plate with a chuckle. ‘Hated it,’ he said with a smile. ‘Had to be forced to eat every bite.’
The other man looked appropriately wary. ‘I hope everything is all right.’
Because no sane businessman made such a lucrative deal with a man who catered to drama.
‘Everything is just fine. A minor issue, easily resolved.’ He waved to a server, who refilled their wine glasses. ‘Where were we?’
Hunt Valley, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 2.50 P.M.
‘We need to do something,’ Frederick murmured to Clay and Jamie. The three of them sat watching Thorne, who was miserably watching Gwyn, who stared out of the window on to Clay’s backyard with a vacant expression. They hadn’t heard anything from the Feds in Virginia who were searching for her son.
‘I can’t even imagine what she’s going through,’ Jamie murmured.
‘I can,’ Clay said flatly.
Frederick winced, because he’d been the cause of Clay’s pain. He was the one who’d hidden Taylor from Clay for most of her life. Gwyn had wondered if her son was alive or dead for a few hours. Clay had wondered for years.
‘Stop it,’ Clay grunted impatiently.
‘Stop what?’ Jamie asked.
‘I’m talking to Frederick. He gets this guilty look on his face. I wasn’t blaming you.’ Clay elbowed Frederick lightly. ‘It was our wife’s fault.’
‘Oh, right.’ Jamie shook his head. ‘I forget you two shared a wife as well as a daughter.’
‘Not my finest memory,’ Frederick said.
‘Nor mine,’ Clay added. ‘Besides, you understand what Gwyn’s going through. You spent sleepless nights wondering where Carrie was when she ran away.’
Pain, both remembered and new, speared Frederick’s heart. ‘I did.’ He glanced at Jamie, who looked curious but was too polite to ask. ‘My oldest daughter didn’t acclimate well to life on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.’
‘When you went into hiding,’ Jamie said. ‘To protect Taylor.’
‘Yeah,’ Frederick said bitterly. ‘For nothing. There was no threat, but I didn’t know that at the time.’ Because I didn’t ask the right questions. I simply reacted. A father, protecting his child. ‘Carrie ran away, back to Oakland, then to LA. She . . . OD’d. She didn’t make it.’
Jamie gasped softly. ‘I’m sorry, Frederick. I didn’t know.’
‘I don’t talk about her often.’ Because it still hurt so damn much. ‘But yeah, I know about that kind of worrying. I did it. Every night. Wondered if she was all right. If she was in the gutter somewhere. If she was homeless, addicted. All of which were true. I don’t have a happy ending to her story to cheer Gwyn up.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Clay said. ‘Because you recognized the signs in Daisy and got her help.’
‘No, Taylor recognized the signs in Daisy. I was too focused on turning my daughters into killing machines so that they could defend themselves against a threat that wasn’t even real. Taylor begged me to get Daisy help and that’s the only reason I let my daughter out of my sight long enough to go to rehab.’
‘But you did,’ Clay insisted. ‘And she’s well. Right?’
‘Right.’ At least according to the last reports he had of her. She’d stayed away from liquor stores. Her meal charges on her credit card had all been small – enough for food, but not booze. At least not inordinate amounts of booze. ‘But I haven’t heard from her in too long. Not in a few weeks. She’s not returning my calls or my texts.’
Clay’s brows rose. ‘Did you ask Taylor? They’re so close, maybe Daisy has been communicating with her instead.’
‘I have asked Taylor. She’s danced around the question. She has talked to Daisy, but won’t tell me why Daisy isn’t talking to me. She answers everything else or tells me how well Julie is doing in Chicago.’
Jamie frowned. ‘Call her and demand an answer. We can’t have you distracted with your own worries right now. You need to know your daughters are okay. All of them.’
It was a good point. Stepping away from the group, Frederick dialed Taylor.
She answered on the first ring. ‘Dad, what’s wrong? Have you heard anything about Gwyn’s son?’
He could hear road noise in the background. ‘Not yet. Where are you?’
‘In the car with Joseph. He picked me up at the airport.’
He frowned. ‘You’re coming home?’ It had been her plan when she’d left, but he’d really hoped she’d stay safe in Chicago. He should have known better.
‘Yes. Traffic’s snarled up, but I’ll be there soon. Bye, Dad.’
‘Wait. I called to ask you about Daisy. I need to know she’s okay.’
A beat of silence. ‘She’s okay, Dad. I promise.’
But there was something awkward in his daughter’s reply. Something she wasn’t telling him. ‘Taylor, I’ve just been advised that I cannot afford distractions right now. Please tell me what’s going on. Why is she coming home early? Why isn’t she talking to me?’
Taylor sighed. ‘You’ve been monitoring her, haven’t you?’
His defensive hackles raised reflexively. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, come on, Dad. You ask me for the truth and then you play dumb? You had someone following her around Europe, spying on her.’
His cheeks heated. ‘Not spying. Exactly.’
‘Then what are you calling it? Exactly? I’d be pissed too. You’d better not be spying on me,’ she added darkly.
‘I’m not. Look, I just . . . I wanted to be sure she was okay.’
‘She is. Physically anyway. But she’s awful mad, Dad. You’ve got some charred bridges to rebuild.’
‘Is she still coming home?’
‘Yeah. So be thinking about how to make this right. I need to go. Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ he murmured. Pocketing his cell, he rejoined the others. ‘Daisy is okay. Just angry with me.’
Clay’s brows went up. ‘What did you do?’
He slumped into a chair. ‘Had her followed around Europe.’
Jamie winced. ‘Even I knew not to do that, no matter how much I worried about Thorne back then.’
But Clay looked sympathetic. ‘I can understand the impulse. I can also understand why she’s angry with you. She’s twenty-five years old. Hardly a child.’
‘I was worried about her, out there with all that temptation. I wanted her to try her wings, but I didn’t want her to get them singed. France has such a drinking culture. There are bars everywhere.’
‘There are bars everywhere in the US,’ Clay said logically. ‘You’re going to have to learn to trust her, Frederick.’
‘I know.’ He rubbed his temples. ‘But at least I know she’s alive. So I eliminated the distraction. Replaced it with another, but I can at least push that aside enough to focus on them and this.’ He pointed to Thorne and Gwyn, then to the bulletin board, still covered with photos and string. ‘What can we do?’
Clay shrugged. ‘Find Tavilla and beat the shit out of him, then leave him for rival gangs to dissect and dismember?’
Jamie nodded. ‘I like that idea. I kept wondering when we were talking to Joseph Carter and Lieutenant Hyatt if they know where Tavilla is. We know he hangs out at that restaurant sometimes. The one where the photo of Anne and Laura was taken.’
‘I’m sure they have that place under surveillance,’ Clay said. ‘While you were at the police station with Joseph, Alec and I spent the morning looking for records of Anne Poulin in Montreal. Alec found a report on a sixteen-year-old runaway with that name. He found a phone number for the family and I left a message, but their voicemail greeting was in French and my French is worse than nil. I left my phone number, plus Thorne’s and Joseph’s. We haven’t heard back. We haven’t found any birth or death records for her. It’s more difficult when you cross borders, which I’m sure Tavilla knew and took full advantage of.’
‘And tracing the kid in the bartender’s social media?’ Frederick asked.
Clay shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’
A phone buzzed on the coffee table, startling them. ‘It’s yours, Thorne,’ Jamie called, and Thorne rushed over to answer it. The expression of mixed hope and dread on Gwyn’s face as she turned from the window broke Frederick’s heart.
‘I don’t recognize the number,’ Thorne said.
‘It’s a Montreal area code,’ Clay told him as Thorne hit ACCEPT and SPEAKER with a trembling finger.
‘Yes?’ Thorne’s voice betrayed none of his tension.
Clay was on his own phone, texting, presumably to Alec, because the young IT whizz slipped into the living room from Clay’s office, his laptop open.
‘Hello.’ The voice was wobbly and . . . French? ‘I’d like to speak to Thomas Thorne?’
Yes, French, Frederick thought, his heart sinking along with Gwyn’s expression as realization hit that this was not about her boy.
‘This is Thorne,’ Thorne said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘My name is Fannie Poulin,’ the woman said, her speech stilted. ‘I heard your voicemail. I apologize for my English. It is not my first language.’
‘It’s fine,’ Thorne assured her. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked again.
‘Your voicemail . . . you said you were looking for my daughter Anne.’
‘We are. When did you last see her?’
‘Face to face, maybe ten years ago. But we speak on the telephone.’
Thorne frowned, clearly thinking the same thing that Frederick was – that this felt too convenient. ‘She hasn’t visited you? Not in all this time?’
‘No. She has let me know she is still alive. That is all. She ran away, you see.’
‘Why?’ Thorne asked. He looked at Alec, who waved at him to keep talking. He was recording the conversation, hoping to get some clues to the identity or location of the speaker.
‘Because her stepfather was . . . They did not get along.’
‘I see. Do you have an address where we might reach her?’
‘I do.’ She recited it and Thorne noted it down. ‘Why are you looking for her?’
Thorne hesitated, visibly weighing his words. ‘We have reason to believe she might be in danger.’
‘Oh no.’ The woman’s voice wobbled again, this time with fear. ‘If you would, please let me know when you find her.’
‘We will. Thank you.’ Thorne hung up and sighed. ‘Who believes that was legit?’
Frederick shook his head. ‘She didn’t even ask why her daughter was in danger or where you were located or how you knew her. I’d want to know all of that if my daughter ran away.’
Surprisingly, Alec disagreed. ‘It was legit in that her voice is consistent with the one on the voicemail greeting. That number is the one in Montreal’s phone listing. It was also the one listed in the police report on Anne’s disappearance. The i’s are all dotted. If you want to double-check, call the number back and see who picks up. If it’s spoofed, it won’t be the same woman.’
‘Call from one of the burner phones,’ Clay said. ‘See if the same person picks up for a stranger.’
Thorne did so, and they were all a little surprised when the same woman answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Madame Poulin,’ Thorne said quickly. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you had some photographs of Anne.’
‘Only old snapshots from when she was small. They are packed away.’
‘I see. You don’t have anything recent?’
‘No,’ the woman said sadly. ‘Nothing. I wish I did.’
‘Well then, thank you for your time.’ Thorne ended the call and turned to the group. ‘This could be a legit lead,’ he allowed. ‘Maybe it feels wrong because everything else we’ve had to find out the hard way. This just dropped in our lap.’
‘It hardly dropped in your lap,’ Alec protested. ‘Finding that missing person report was damn difficult. You act like I just pulled it out of my ass.’
Thorne raised his hands, palms out. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just . . . skeptical.’
‘Then be skeptical,’ Alec grumbled. ‘But don’t call this easy.’
‘Sorry,’ Thorne apologized again. ‘Don’t worry, Alec. I know how lucky I am to have you.’
Alec nodded, still disgruntled. ‘Anne’s address is an apartment building. Appears to be a walkup.’
‘Then I’m out,’ Jamie said, disgusted. ‘Give the address to Joseph. Let him investigate it.’
Thorne looked doubtful. ‘I’ll have him meet me there. But I’m not giving this away. If it’s a real lead, I want to find Anne. I want to find out who she is to Tavilla.’
Alec’s mouth flattened. ‘That’s smart, especially since it seems your Fed has been holding back on you. A bunch of black suits are searching the judge’s house as we speak. Got themselves a warrant and everything.’
Thorne’s mouth opened. ‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s on the police scanner and now the news. Reporters are gathered in front of Segal’s house. Nobody was home, so they broke the door in. They’re carting out computers and boxes of files. One of the reporters says the judge has a recent history of odd rulings, which Paige told us a few days ago. I was looking into it when Clay told me Ms Poulin was calling.’
‘Fucking hell,’ Thorne muttered. ‘I trusted Joseph.’
‘You still can,’ Clay insisted. ‘He has a Fed agenda, but he’ll do the right thing. I trusted him with my family, Thorne.’
‘You’re right. I know it.’ Thorne rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m edgy.’
‘You have a right to be,’ Clay said kindly. ‘We all do. Take a breath and think this through.’
‘Maybe Joseph just hasn’t had a chance to tell you yet,’ Frederick said.
‘He was driving the car with Taylor when you talked to her,’ Thorne said, unconvinced. ‘He could have told us then.’
Clay’s sigh was exasperated. ‘Maybe he’s busy. Let’s call him with Anne Poulin’s address and have him meet us there.’
Thorne made the call then huffed a frustrated breath and hung up. ‘Went straight to voicemail. He must be on his phone. I’ll text him to call me. I don’t want to leave this information on voicemail. I want to be sure he’s heard me. Who’s with me?’
Frederick and Clay said, ‘Me,’ at the same time.
‘And me.’ Gwyn followed them to the door.
Thorne stood in her way, blocking her path. ‘No.’
She looked up at him stubbornly. ‘Yes. The closer I stick to you, the safer I am. If I’m with you, it’s less likely I’ll be shot or carved into pieces or blown to bits, because he doesn’t want to kill you.’ She looked up at Thorne, her eyes stark. ‘And if I hear bad news about Aidan, I’m going to need you.’
Thorne looked like he’d say no again, but those last few words had his posture softening. ‘All right. But stay close.’
Hunt Valley, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 3.10 P.M.
Shot or carved into pieces . . . Huddled in the back of their borrowed SUV, Gwyn choked back the bile that burned her throat. Either of those things could be happening to Aidan right now.
Because I care about him and because Thorne cares about me. She’d seen the devastation on Thorne’s face, because he knew this was true. His family, his friends, they were all being tormented because he cared about them.
He knew that sooner or later they would break, the strain too much to endure. So far no one had been seriously hurt, except for Agent Ingram and it appeared he’d survive. He was still in ICU, but had been upgraded from critical to serious.
But if one of them died? Then what? Thorne would walk away to protect them, she knew that already. He’d give himself up to Tavilla, and if that didn’t work? She didn’t want to think about it.
She glanced over at him, needing to see his face. Needing him to tell her that this was going to be all right, that Aidan would be found alive, that Tavilla would be arrested, and that all of this would stop. But his gaze was darting in every direction, trying to spot a threat in time to neutralize it. In the front passenger seat, Clay did the same. Frederick drove grimly, as if anticipating an obstacle course.
I shouldn’t have come. They’ll try to protect me first. She’d opened her mouth to ask Frederick to turn around, to take her back to Clay’s, when Thorne’s phone buzzed.
‘Joseph,’ he answered. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’ He told him about the call from Montreal. ‘I wanted to be sure you got the message. We’re just leaving Clay’s house. I want you to meet me at Anne’s address.’ Joseph must have told him to go back to Clay’s, because Thorne’s brow crunched in a frown. ‘No. I’ll see you there. Why didn’t you tell us that you were serving a warrant on Judge Segal’s home?’
Gwyn was distracted from Thorne’s conversation when her own phone buzzed with an incoming text. A photo. The preview screen showed a blanket-covered figure, and new dread settled over her. She opened the text and couldn’t stop the cry that escaped her throat.
It was Aidan, lying on a concrete floor in a heap. Blood pooled around his head. ‘No,’ she cried hoarsely.
Thorne leaned over to look and swore. Slowing to turn onto the road at the end of Clay’s long driveway, Frederick looked up into the rear-view mirror and—
The sudden impact stole Gwyn’s breath and had her crying out again, this time in pain. From the corner of her eye she’d seen the approaching Hummer roar out of the trees, a split second before it rammed them broadside. Frederick struggled to maintain control as their SUV was pushed off the road, careening down a slight hill to smash into a tree.
Then everything was suddenly still, too still. Pulse skyrocketing, Gwyn pushed her hair out of her eyes to look up. The airbags in the front and sides had deployed. Frederick was on the phone, calling 911. Thorne was searching for his own phone, having dropped it during the collision. Clay was blinking rapidly, his side of the SUV having taken the brunt of the collision with the tree.
The first bullets hit the tires in sync – one, two, three, four – like a well-oiled machine. The next ones smashed into the bullet-resistant windows from all sides, rocking the SUV in little jiggles but not penetrating the interior of the car.
‘There are at least six gunmen,’ Frederick said grimly to the 911 operator. ‘You still with us, Clay?’
‘Yeah,’ Clay said unsteadily. He pushed the now-deflated airbag aside and reached to his feet, bringing up the rifle he’d placed there.
This is it, Gwyn thought, and drew her weapon from the girdle holster. She handed it to Thorne as the next barrage of bullets hit. The glass was compromised now, little protrusions pushing into the car interior. She could no longer see through it.
She pulled a smaller handgun from the holster at her thigh and racked it, making sure there was a bullet in the chamber.
‘I’ll get out,’ Thorne said, his voice tight and thin. ‘Let them have me.’
‘No!’ the three of them shouted in unison.
Thorne racked the slide of the gun she’d given him. ‘You are going to die. This glass can’t hold much longer. I will not be the cause of this.’
Slipping his phone into his pocket, Frederick shared a glance with Clay, who nodded. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ Frederick said calmly, with authority. ‘Thorne, take your hand off the door handle.’
More bullets pelted the windows, these in a steady stream, all aimed at one target – a one-inch-square area of glass on Frederick’s window.
Thorne complied. ‘And then?’ he asked acidly.
‘Clay and I will open our doors, roll out and start shooting. You and Gwyn wait five seconds, then do the same. We’ll take out as many as we can for you. It’s six on four. Not bad odds.’
And they were all wearing Kevlar, Gwyn thought, releasing her seat belt. We can do this. We have to do this.
‘On my count,’ Clay said. ‘One, two, three.’
Frederick and Clay threw their doors open and started firing, but Thorne grabbed Gwyn and pulled her to the floor, throwing himself over her before reaching up and opening her door. For a moment, all she could hear was shooting. She struggled against Thorne, then felt him jolt. Then shudder.
‘Fuck,’ he snarled. ‘Dart gun.’ He fell on top of her, nearly suffocating her. ‘Don’t fight,’ he ordered thickly. ‘Let them try to move me. Then shoot.’
The shooting abruptly stopped and Gwyn’s heart stopped with it. Frederick and Clay. They had to be all right. Then she heard a barked command: ‘On your knees.’
That hadn’t come from either of their guys. Dammit.
But at least the two men were still alive enough to be forced to kneel.
Atop her, Thorne was still breathing. ‘Love you,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘Love you,’ she tried to whisper back, but it was becoming increasingly hard to breathe.
Suddenly Thorne was sliding off her, a grunted curse coming from somewhere near his feet. ‘Fucker’s heavy. I didn’t give him that much, I swear to fucking God!’
‘Better not have,’ another voice said. ‘Boss gutted the two who OD’d him the last time. Nasty.’
‘Great, thanks.’
Pulling an extra clip from her girdle holster, Gwyn lifted her eyes in time to see her door opening. As instructed, she propped herself on her elbows, took aim and unloaded her clip.
‘Holy fuck!’ The man moaned as he staggered back, and Gwyn reloaded, on autopilot. A second man slammed her door closed. Twisting, she sat up, her back against her car door, the pockmarks in the armored metal poking into her skin. Thorne had been pulled out of the vehicle onto the ground. He lay on his back, his face and all his muscles gone slack.
‘Sonofabitch,’ she yelled. If they’d killed him, she’d—
Her door flew open and a pair of arms grabbed her from behind. ‘No!’ she cried, desperately trying to twist free, but the arms held on.
‘Get her fucking gun,’ the man holding her ordered. ‘She’s like . . . like I’m holding a fucking snake.’
Aiming down, Gwyn shot at the booted feet. The man cursed in shock, grabbing her wrist so hard she felt something pop. She dropped the gun and wrenched free, falling to the ground. Rolling to her feet, she began to run away from the SUV, toward Clay’s house.
‘Freeze!’ a voice called. ‘Take another step and loverboy dies.’
She faltered, turning to see a masked man on one knee next to Thorne, his gun pointed at Thorne’s temple. Run! She could hear Thorne’s voice in her mind, but her feet wouldn’t move.
‘Smart girl,’ the man said.
From where she stood behind the SUV, she could see the entire battlefield. The truck that had rammed them was an older-model Hummer and had sustained no damage at all, but their SUV was completely trashed.
Two of the masked men lay on the ground, unmoving. Their black clothing was dark and shiny, and blood was pooled around them. A third man lay in a fetal position on her side of the SUV. He was rocking and moaning.
She felt grim satisfaction for only a split second. Yes, she’d taken one out, but there were three left. Two stood over Clay and Frederick, who were both stony-faced. The third, who knelt beside Thorne, came to his feet.
‘I’m probably older than you are,’ Gwyn said flatly.
‘What?’ the man asked, and even with his face covered, she could tell he was giving her a puzzled look.
‘Don’t call me “girl”. I’m older than you are.’
‘Pack a damn fine wallop too,’ the man grumbled. ‘We deserve double pay for this job. Get your ass over here. I’m not chasing you.’
Probably because she’d shot his foot, at least once. Good for me, she thought as she moved to Thorne’s side, dropping to her knees and taking his hand, her heart beating so hard she could barely breathe.
She found his pulse easily, slow but strong. They hadn’t killed him. Relief hit her like the truck had hit their SUV, leaving her lightheaded and grateful that she was kneeling, because she wasn’t sure she could have remained standing.
The man whose foot she’d shot wasn’t injured so badly that he couldn’t function. He motioned to the two men guarding Clay and Frederick. ‘Cuff ’em, hands and feet. Then one of you stand guard over them. The other, come and help me with Thorne.’
A van appeared from a nearby clump of trees that had been concealing it from view. It rolled to a stop next to Thorne. The men opened the side door. Then one grabbed Thorne’s feet, the other gripping under his arms, and together they swung him into the empty cargo area and cuffed him with zip ties.
The man in charge swept into a bow, gesturing to the open van door. ‘Get in, or I throw you in,’ he snarled.
With a helpless look back at Frederick and Clay, who were watching grimly, Gwyn climbed into the van, freezing at the sight of the woman behind the wheel.
Laura. Their bartender. Aka . . . ‘Kathryn,’ Gwyn snarled her name.
Kathryn laughed, surprised. ‘Well, hello to you too. I’d like to know how you found out my real name, but we’ll handle that later. Please restrain her. And make sure she’s not carrying anything else.’
The man did so, then climbed in after her. He pointed to the second man. ‘Go help him get the bodies in the Hummer, and stow the two old guys. We’ll meet you there.’
Then the door was closed and Kathryn eased the van up the hill and back onto the road. Stepping on the accelerator, she sped toward town.
‘I’d welcome you,’ she said cheerily as she drove, ‘but you won’t be around that much longer. And the time you have left will not be enjoyable.’