Hunt Valley, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 3.30 P.M.
Frederick watched the van drive away, disgusted with himself. ‘Fuck this,’ he muttered. ‘The white van that took Thorne and Gwyn is driving away.’ He’d phrased it as carefully as he could, hoping he was still connected to the 911 operator and that he wasn’t tipping off the gunmen that he’d just reported Gwyn and Thorne’s disappearance.
‘I know,’ Clay muttered back. ‘He called us old.’
Frederick snorted a shocked laugh. ‘Shut up. This is serious. What are we going to do?’
‘You’re going to shut the fuck up,’ the guard snarled. ‘Or not.’ He delivered a kick to Clay’s ribs. ‘I’d enjoy fucking you up. The guy you killed was my cousin.’
Clay breathed out slowly, and Frederick had known him – and trained with him – long enough to know that that long breath masked a moan of pain. Arching his back and neck, Frederick looked around and saw the man who’d helped drag Thorne into the van. He was walking toward the Hummer, favoring one leg. The man who Gwyn had shot in the foot had left with the white van, so either he or Clay must have injured this guy. They’d have to use that fact in their favor.
Frederick glanced at Clay and saw him noting the same thing.
The man who’d kicked Clay squatted beside them. ‘The boss is going to slice you up while you’re still alive. I’ve seen him do it before. The guy gettin’ sliced always screams and screams until he passes out. The boss lets him come to, then starts all over again. I’m hoping he lets me help this time. I hope he lets me cut you.’ Holding his handgun by the barrel, he swung it up like he was about to bring it down on Clay’s head. Clay closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the blow.
Rocking up to his knees, Frederick was about to throw his body into the gunman’s when another shot rang out. The gunman jerked, then crumpled into a moaning heap. Frederick sat back on his heels, stunned.
‘What the actual fuck?’ Clay muttered. He rolled onto his back and sat up, the movement ungainly. His wince indicated that he probably had a cracked rib or two.
The other guard began to run for the Hummer, but five more shots rang out, four of them hitting the tires, just like their attackers had done to the SUV. The would-be driver changed direction and headed for the trees, but soon came out with his hands raised, dragging one leg, two young women with rifles behind him. One was tall, with long black hair, the other a petite blonde.
Frederick let out a harsh breath. ‘Oh my God.’
‘What?’ Clay’s back was to the direction of the trees and he twisted his body, doing a one-eighty rotation on his ass. ‘Taylor?’
‘And Daisy.’ Frederick’s eldest daughter did not look happy to see him.
Taylor came running when she saw them. ‘Dad! Pops!’ She kicked the handgun away from the now-bleeding man, then dropped to her knees, pulling a switchblade from her boot. She cut the zip ties and inspected their faces, then mouthed Wow at the ruined SUV.
‘What happened here?’ she asked.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ Clay said, rubbing his wrists. He looked at the Hummer, all four of its tires now flat. ‘Nice shooting, baby.’
‘I only did one side. Daisy did the other.’ Taylor popped to her feet, searching the pockets of one of the dead gunmen.
‘What are you doing?’ Daisy asked impatiently.
‘Finding zip ties. Here they are.’ Taylor dug them out and cuffed both survivors, because the one who had been about to brain Clay was still breathing. And moaning. Loudly.
‘You can relax now,’ Taylor told Daisy, who lowered her rifle but did not appear convinced.
‘You said it was calm and quiet out in the country,’ she said to Taylor, and Frederick was very aware that she was ignoring him completely.
‘It is, except for this week.’ Taylor extended a hand to both him and Clay, pulling them to their feet. Clay groaned softly and Taylor looked concerned. ‘What happened?’
‘Probably a bruised rib,’ Clay said, and Frederick didn’t correct him. Clay had reached for his phone and was dialing. ‘We need to call this in. Did you pass a white van? They took Gwyn and Thorne.’
‘Yes,’ Taylor nodded grimly. ‘Joseph is chasing them.’
‘Voicemail,’ Clay said, then texted the information to Joseph.
‘How did you two get here?’ Frederick asked as Clay dialed 911, stepping away to report their status. Hopefully the cops would be on their way after Frederick’s first call, when they’d still been in the SUV.
‘Joseph had picked up Daisy from the arrivals terminal at BWI and we were most of the way here when you called,’ Taylor said. ‘He was planning to drop us off at Clay’s and head back to Judge Segal’s home when he got Thorne’s call. He heard the crash and knew you needed help. Luckily Thorne had just told him that you were leaving Clay’s house. The 911 dispatch was feeding him information as you gave it to them, Dad. Joseph got your message that Thorne and Gwyn had been taken away in a white van. We were almost to Clay’s driveway, so he stopped his SUV and told us to get out, because he was going to follow and he didn’t want us in the line of fire. Joseph had extra rifles in the SUV, just in case we ran into trouble on the way from the airport. Daisy and I knew that you two were in danger, so we grabbed the rifles and got out. The white van passed by a few seconds later. We could see your wrecked SUV and this asshole –’ she jabbed the toe of her boot into the gunman still writhing on the ground ‘– about to hit Clay with his gun. So I shot him. Then we saw the other asshole running away and we brought him back. Now you know it all.’
‘Good timing,’ Frederick offered, but Daisy deliberately looked away.
Taylor sighed at her sister’s wordless rebuke. ‘Not good enough, because they got Thorne and Gwyn.’ She visibly tried to relax her bunched shoulders. ‘Joseph was on the phone with one of his people when Thorne first called him, by the way. His team is searching the judge’s house.’
Frederick nodded. ‘We knew that. Alec caught it on the scanner.’
Taylor frowned. ‘He’ll catch this on the scanner too, and will be worried.’
‘Hold on.’ Frederick called Alec and assured him that he and Clay were okay, but that Thorne and Gwyn had been snatched. Before he could hang up, Jamie took the phone. ‘What’s happened?’
Frederick sighed. ‘They drugged Thorne and dragged him away. Threatened to shoot him if Gwyn didn’t cooperate, so she did. The last time I saw him, he was alive and breathing.’
‘Oh my God,’ Jamie whispered. ‘No. Please.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Frederick murmured. ‘There were seven of them in two vehicles, including the driver of the van. We got three of the gunmen, between Clay, me and Gwyn. One of the survivors went in the van with Thorne and Gwyn. The bartender was driving.’
Jamie moaned. ‘No. I told him to let Joseph handle this.’
Frederick wanted to reassure him, but all he could do was give him the facts. ‘Joseph is in pursuit right now.’
‘Okay,’ Jamie whispered. ‘I have to tell Phil. This could kill him.’
‘We’re going to get them back,’ Frederick said firmly. ‘I swear we’re going to get them back.’
‘How . . . Why are you there? Did they leave you?’
‘No. Like I said, they had two vehicles. We were going in the second one, but that’s when Joseph arrived. We have a survivor, who knows where they were going. We’ll get him to tell us.’
‘How?’ Jamie asked, sounding so lost.
Frederick glared at the man who’d tried to run away. ‘Don’t worry about that. He will talk to me. I have to go. I’ll call you back.’
Clay finished his call to 911 at the same time and walked over. ‘What are you going to do?’ he said under his breath.
‘Don’t ask,’ Frederick said gruffly. ‘Plausible deniability.’
Clay looked torn. ‘Don’t do anything you can’t live with.’
‘I can’t live with Tavilla gutting Gwyn while Thorne watches,’ he spat bitterly.
Clay nodded. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Make sure my daughters don’t see this,’ Frederick whispered.
‘Okay.’ Clay squeezed his shoulder. ‘Thorne would want you to keep your soul intact.’
Frederick was pretty sure Thorne would be more concerned that Gwyn not be murdered. He walked to the man who lay on the ground on his stomach, his hands and feet secured by zip ties. So let’s see if we can’t make Junior here tell us what he knows.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Clay had taken the girls a short distance away and was talking to them intently. Probably filling them in on everything that had been happening.
He bent over the survivor, keeping his voice quiet but deadly. ‘Tell me where you were taking us.’
‘Go to hell,’ the man spat, his spittle landing on Frederick’s shoe.
‘I probably already am,’ Frederick muttered, yanking him to his knees. Twisting his fingers in the man’s hair, he jerked his head back. ‘Tell me.’
The asshole tried in vain to twist out of Frederick’s grip. ‘Go. To. Hell.’
Goddammit. He did not want to do this. Crossing his fingers, Frederick jabbed them down into the hollow of the bastard’s throat, ignoring the hacking cough and the writhing. Abruptly he pulled away. ‘Tell me.’
Lungs heaving, the man turned toward him and threw up. Luckily Frederick had been anticipating that and jumped out of the way.
‘Tell me,’ he growled, and put his fingers back on the same spot. He tapped. The man puked again.
‘No,’ he begged. ‘No, no, no.’
Palming the front and back of his captive’s head, Frederick pressed . . . hard. A sharp scream of agony burst free and Frederick released him. The man collapsed on the ground, shaking, the front of his trousers growing dark as he lost control of his bladder.
Frederick grabbed him by the hair again, jerking him upright. ‘Tell me.’ He put a little pressure on the hollow of his throat. ‘Tell me and I’ll stop.’ He added more pressure, aware of the time passing. The cops would be here in a minute, and as soon as this guy heard sirens, Frederick’s leverage was gone. ‘He won’t know it was you.’ A little more pressure. A little more puking. ‘Tell me.’
‘A boat,’ the man rasped. ‘He’s on a boat.’
‘That’s good.’ Frederick eased off, then pressed again. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Señ . . . Señor del Mar.’ He bit the words out and moaned. ‘He’s going to kill me.’
‘Not if I catch him first,’ Frederick whispered. ‘That’s your best hope right now. Where is it docked?’
The scream of sirens started up in the distance, and the man spat at Frederick again, tears streaming down his face. ‘Go to hell.’
Frederick released him, letting him tumble to the ground. ‘Tell me where it’s docked. If we get to him, he can’t kill you. I’m your best chance at surviving this.’
The man moaned. ‘Chevalier. Now leave me alone.’
Suddenly drained, and feeling the full impact of his actions, Frederick stepped away and made a beeline for the trees where the van had been hiding. Dropping to his knees, he retched, losing everything he’d eaten that day. Which, luckily, was not a lot. His head fell forward, vile memories swirling in his mind, memories he truly thought he’d buried forever.
But there was no such thing as forever.
And they’d seen. His daughters had to have seen him, or at least heard the bastard’s screams. Everyone in a five-mile radius had heard the bastard’s screams.
God. I am a horrible person. At least now they could find Thorne and Gwyn. Need to get up. But his body would not cooperate, his knees buckling every time he tried to stand. He was shaking all over.
‘Shh. It’s all right.’ Taylor’s voice was warm in his ear, her hand rubbing his back in slow sweeps. ‘You’re okay. We’re okay. We’ll get Thorne and Gwyn back.’ She pressed a water bottle into his hand. ‘Drink.’
He struggled with the cap. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered.
She knelt beside him and pressed her lips to his temple. ‘Let me help you, Dad.’ She took the bottle from his hands and managed the cap in a single capable twist, then eased him back so that he sat on his heels. Lifting the bottle to his lips, she whispered, ‘Drink.’
He obeyed, more than aware that their roles had switched, his child caring for him. He rinsed his mouth and spat, then drained the bottle in a few greedy gulps. He was still shaking, but not as violently.
She stretched her arm across his back. ‘You’re okay.’
‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘But I wish you hadn’t seen that.’
‘Well,’ she said practically, ‘I can’t disagree with you there.’ She pulled at him until his head rested on her shoulder. ‘What did you find out?’
‘He’s got a boat. The Señor del Mar.’
‘Lord of the Sea,’ she said softly. ‘Makes sense. Tavilla’s gang is Los Señores de la Tierra, or Lords of the Planet.’
Yes, it did make sense. ‘It’s docked at a marina called Chevalier. We need to get word to Joseph. Maybe he’ll know where it is.’
‘Clay will tell Joseph. He’s behind us, texting him now.’
‘Listening,’ he murmured unhappily. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him torture the man into confessing. Clay was supposed to have kept his daughters from witnessing that. And if Clay and Taylor had been listening, Daisy probably had been too.
Taylor sighed. ‘Yes, we were listening. He was worried about you, Dad. So was I.’
‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Because you told me so.’
‘Then it’s true, because I’m rarely wrong.’ She laughed when he scoffed at that. ‘The marina being named Chevalier makes sense too,’ she added. ‘It means knight. If he’s the Lord of the Planet, his gang would be his knights.’
That Tavilla had likely named his marina was troubling. That meant it might not be an actual marina at all, or not a public one, at least. ‘The man’s a fucking poet.’
‘Hopefully a dead poet, soon enough.’ She blew out a careful breath. ‘How did you learn how to do . . . what you did?’
The word is ‘torture’, baby. But he didn’t say that. No need to make this uglier than it was. But the answer came spilling out of him before he could call it back. ‘Experience.’
Her flinch was tiny. ‘You were trained when you were in the army?’
‘No.’ He clamped his lips together, unwilling to say more.
But Taylor was a smart cookie. She went very still and exhaled another careful breath. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered, her voice suddenly small. ‘Did that happen to you?’
It was his turn to sigh. ‘We are not going to speak of this.’
‘Please. I need to know.’
No, you don’t, baby. You really don’t. But again he answered. ‘Central America in the eighties. I was captured for a few weeks. It’s over.’
‘No, it’s not. Not if it does this to you. But . . . I’ll respect your wishes.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked down at his clothes. ‘I need to change.’
‘Yeah, you do. Come on, Dad. Let’s go to Clay’s house and get you cleaned up.’ She rose, then pulled him to his feet with her.
His knees still wobbled, but he could lock them in place. ‘Thanks, honey.’
She blinked a few times. ‘I love you, Dad.’
He turned and . . . sighed. Because Daisy and Clay still stood there. Hoping so hard, he opened his arms, and then breathed again when Daisy walked into them and hugged him.
‘You smell really bad, Dad,’ Daisy whispered.
He bent to kiss the top of her head. Her mother had been so tiny. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m still really mad at you. But we’ll talk later.’
‘That’s fair.’ He nudged Taylor. ‘That asshole kicked Clay in the ribs, really hard. Make sure he takes care of himself.’
‘Sure thing.’ Taylor left him to put her arm around her other dad.
‘Clay seems nice,’ Daisy murmured.
‘He is.’ He turned to look at her. ‘And you did some great shooting today. You saved us. Thank you,’ he said.
She tipped her head back, lifting one side of her mouth. ‘You’re welcome.’
She walked with him out of the trees to where the police were now gathered. He was surprised to see Joseph with them.
‘You’re gray, Frederick,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Did you lose the van with Thorne and Gwyn?’
Joseph pointed to his SUV, looking frustrated, which for him was a big deal. The man didn’t show a lot of emotion. ‘Yeah.’ His windows were shot up nearly as badly as those in the SUV he’d loaned them. ‘The good news is the glass holds against a hell of a lot of bullets. My wife will be pleased.’
Frederick wished their glass had held against a few more bullets, because then Thorne and Gwyn would be safe, but he bit the words back. If they hadn’t had the loaner SUV, they’d all have been dead in the first barrage. ‘Does what Tavilla’s man told me make sense?’
‘Not yet. Chevalier isn’t showing up in the marina listings. He could have been lying to you.’
‘Maybe about the marina.’ Because he’d heard sirens by then. ‘I think the name of the boat is real.’
Joseph gave him a long, long look, as if he knew exactly what Frederick had done. ‘All right,’ was all he said.
‘Can my dads go home now, Joseph?’ Taylor asked him. ‘They’re kind of banged up.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll send someone by to get their statements shortly. I’ve got to get to the police station. The evidence found in the search of the judge’s house is starting to trickle in. I’m hoping there’s something there that can tie him to Tavilla.’
Frederick wanted to explode. ‘That he just attacked us and took Thorne and Gwyn isn’t enough?’
Joseph shook his head. ‘Unless I can get the guy you’ve tied up to admit that Tavilla is his boss, no, the attack is not enough. We can’t prove he ordered it. We can search for him, but he’s been in hiding since last summer.’
‘Can you at least put a uniform on that restaurant he likes?’ Frederick asked, frustrated with the slow progress. Because Tavilla had Thorne and Gwyn in his hands. And they all knew what he did to his enemies.
His stomach threatened to revolt again and he battled it back.
‘I have,’ Joseph said grimly. ‘He was there today for lunch, but he manages to lose every tail I put on him. Bastard’s slippery.’
‘It wasn’t Detective Brickman on watch, was it?’ Clay asked acidly.
Joseph gave him a don’t-be-an-asshole look. ‘No. Detective Brickman has been put on administrative leave. The problem is, the detective’s gone AWOL.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Clay muttered. ‘Really, Joseph?’
‘Hey,’ Joseph said sharply. ‘He’d gone AWOL before you told me about his visit to Patricia’s . . . victim. I can’t bring myself to call a newly-turned-eighteen-year-old her lover. Anyway, we’re trying. You have to know that. Thorne and Gwyn are friends of mine too.’
Clay looked away. ‘I know.’
Frederick managed a jerky nod. ‘I need to update Jamie. I’m sure he’s losing his mind.’
‘Wait,’ Clay called when Joseph turned to go. ‘What about the address Thorne gave you? For Anne Poulin?’
‘It was an empty apartment,’ Joseph said. ‘I think you were tricked into leaving your house. They were waiting for you.’
Frederick had figured as much, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. ‘You’ll call us when you hear something?’
‘Of course,’ Joseph said kindly.
Annapolis, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 5.05 P.M.
She was on a goddamn boat. This was bad. It would make rescue problematic, especially if Kathryn and company decided to set sail.
Gwyn stumbled into the small room below deck, pushed by an irritated Kathryn. Apparently, something had occurred back at the crash site and Frederick and Clay were not en route. Gwyn wanted to cheer at this, because it meant they were safe. At the same time, it meant she had to save Thorne all alone.
Thorne, who’d been brought aboard in an old refrigerator box. Kathryn and the two men under her command had pushed and shoved the box into a small launch and sailed it out to a yacht that had to have been a hundred-fifty-footer. Gwyn might have been impressed had she not been so fucking terrified.
That they hadn’t blindfolded her didn’t bode well at all. They’d been brought to a mansion on the water outside of Annapolis, then she’d been escorted to the small launch while Thorne had been boxed up and hauled on a handcart. She’d hoped he could breathe in there. She needed him to hold on until she could figure a way out. She was handcuffed, but that was all. And handcuffs might be escapable. She’d done it before, after all.
The box was shoved into the room after her and she heard a quiet moan from inside. So he was still alive, at least. That had her shuddering in relief.
‘Fucker,’ one of the men muttered as he kicked at the box. Not one of the six gunmen who’d attacked their SUV, he’d been riding shotgun with Kathryn in the white van.
Kathryn had called the man Patton as she had driven them from the crash site to this private yacht club. Very private. Gwyn hadn’t seen a frickin’ soul the entire time they’d been in the launch. Which again did not bode well. Even if she managed to escape, who was she going to ask for help?
The remaining gunman had removed his mask once they were a few miles from Clay’s house. Of course it was Detective Brickman. He’d sneered at her and she’d wanted to kick him, but she’d restrained herself. She might need that kick later.
Kathryn and the two men closed the cabin door and she heard a click. They’d locked it from the outside. Which was to be expected. The room was dim, the only light coming in through a porthole close to the ceiling, and the sun was on the other side of the boat. There were overhead lights, but she saw no switches.
Two chairs sat in the middle of the room, bolted to the floor. Manacles on chains hung from the back of them and were attached to the two front legs. The red stains on the legs of the chairs were probably not paint.
A steel table was mounted to one wall, hinged so that it lay flush against the wall at the moment. It too had manacles dangling from chains. And more red stains that were also probably not paint.
She jerked her eyes away, because her mind was already conjuring images of what had happened on that table. Those chairs. And what might happen to me.
Her terrified gaze fell on a person in the corner. A boy. Her heart sped up. Aidan? But as her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that this young man was slender and blond, where Aidan was big, broad-shouldered and dark-haired.
She swallowed back her disappointment and her fear. Not Aidan. Was her boy dead? That pool of blood he’d been lying in, was it his? Oh God, oh God, oh God.
‘Stop it,’ she muttered aloud. Dissolving into a panic wasn’t going to help anyone right now. Not Aidan, not Thorne, and not the live kid in the corner.
Who didn’t seem to be moving toward her, so, judging him not to be an immediate threat, she dropped to her knees beside the box that contained Thorne. ‘You okay?’ she murmured. A low moan reached her ears. He wasn’t awake yet, but he wasn’t fully unconscious either.
That wasn’t bad, actually. They were waiting for him to wake up before getting under way with her torture. And I’m not going to think about that, because it’ll scare me to fucking death.
‘Who are you?’ she called softly to the person in the corner. He didn’t answer, so she crawled toward him. She was a few feet away when she realized she’d seen his photo before, in the yearbook, the night they were all together at Clay’s house. ‘Oh. I know you. You’re Patricia’s son. Blake.’
He lifted his head, his eyes sunken, skin sallow in this light. He was grieving. He’d lost his mother less than a week before. ‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘Gwyn Weaver. You haven’t seen any other boys your age, have you?’
He shook his head. ‘Did you lose one?’ he asked, trying to sound snarky, but the tremble in his voice gave him away.
‘Yes, I did. My . . . son.’
Blake’s expression changed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’
He shook his head. ‘Do you?’
‘I know why I’m here, yes. There’s an unconscious man in that box and he loves me. They intend to kill me and make him watch.’
His eyes closed, his throat working. ‘God,’ he whispered.
‘I can guess why you’re here,’ she went on. She needed this kid on her side. If she could get her hands free, she might be able to climb out of the porthole, but she’d need a boost. ‘What do you know about your dad?’
He frowned. ‘He’s a judge.’
‘Okay. That’s true. The police are searching your house right now. He’s suspected of . . . a lot of things.’
His jaw tightened. ‘You think he killed my mother.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Do you think that?’
‘No, but I heard my mother’s friends talking about it.’
Oh, honey. That had to have been hard to hear. ‘Actually, no, I don’t think your father killed her. But I think he knows who did. That person is the one who plans to kill me. I’d really like to avoid that.’
‘What do you think I can do?’ he asked, shrewdly guessing her intent.
‘Help me get to that porthole.’
His eyes bugged. ‘You are shitting me. You can’t fit through there.’
‘Watch me. But I have to get out of these cuffs first. Are you tied up?’
‘My hands are cuffed behind my back too.’
‘Well, shit.’ She was going to have to do this the hard way. At least Kathryn had made her remove her Kevlar vest when she’d been forced into the van. Had she still been wearing it, she wouldn’t have had the freedom of movement to do what she needed to do. ‘You might not want to watch this.’ Drawing a breath, she forced her body to relax and slipped her shoulder out of joint.
She sucked in a breath. She’d forgotten how much that hurt. ‘Sonofabitch,’ she hissed. The young man was watching avidly. Tucking her knees to her chest, she swung her joined hands under her butt and popped the shoulder back in.
‘Sonofa-fucking-bitch,’ she swore. She rolled her shoulders, blinking away tears. ‘Goddamn, that hurts.’
‘But it was frickin’ cool,’ he said, sounding genuinely impressed.
‘Sure. It is cool when it’s not you, y’know?’
With her hands in front of her, she had a prayer of unlocking the cuffs. They were on too tightly for her to slip her hands through. She had just the tool to do the job, but she had to get to it. She hiked up her skirt and fumbled with the now-empty thigh holster. In the seam she’d hidden two of the hard plastic lock picks that she’d used most when doing performance art. After several tries, she managed to work one of them to the small hole she’d left in the seam. She pulled it out, feeling very pleased with herself.
However, picking the handcuff lock would be the hard part. Lock-picking was a delicate task and she hadn’t had much practice recently. She dropped the pick the first two times and had to force herself to relax, to not think about the fact that Thorne was helpless in that box and Aidan might be dead somewhere. Instead she hummed one of Thorne’s favorite songs and felt her muscles begin to unwind.
If Thorne could hear her and know she was near, that was a bonus.
It took two more tries, but eventually she managed to pick the lock, freeing one of her hands. It would do for now. She crawled over to the box and ripped at a seam, tearing away the back.
She couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped her throat when she saw Thorne lying there unmoving. His beautiful face battered and bruised.
The sound propelled her back into motion and she pushed at his massive shoulder as gently as she could, maneuvering him so that she could get to the cuffs at his back. He moved with her, although he said not a word. She made quick work of the locks, then tucked the cuffs into the back pocket of his pants and rolled him onto his back. Massaging his arms to help his circulation, she gave him a quick visual once-over. No blood, no obvious gunshot wounds.
She leaned in to brush a kiss over his lips. ‘I’m going to get out of here,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll be back for you. I love you.’
His eyelids fluttered open. ‘Run,’ he rasped. ‘Get away.’
‘I’ll have to swim. We’re on a boat.’
‘Fuck,’ he whispered, and she had to fight the urge to laugh.
‘Indeed.’ She took another second to touch his face, then pushed to her feet. ‘Your ankles are bound with zip ties. I need a knife.’
Thorne lifted to rest on his elbows, giving his head a hard shake, looking around the room for the first time. ‘Shit. What is this place?’
‘A boat with a torture room,’ she told him. ‘Welcome to Chez Tavilla.’
‘Check the cabinet on the wall,’ the kid said from the corner. ‘They were talking when they dumped me here. Thought I was still out of it. The woman said she wished she had the key, that . . .’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘That she’d left her knife in the . . . butler.’
Gwyn looked over from the walnut chest bolted to the wall. Blake’s eyes were closed, his jaw taut. But tears ran down his face.
She returned her focus to the lock, inserting the pick. ‘What do you mean, in the butler?’
‘My . . . tutor. Officially, anyway. Unofficially he was . . . He took care of me. Ever since I can remember.’ He shuddered another sob. ‘He called himself “the manny”.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Gwyn said softly, keeping the glee out of her voice, because at just that moment the chest’s lock turned and . . . ‘Holy fucking shit.’
Thorne twisted his body to see the cabinet. ‘Wow.’
There were knives of every size and type, all neatly displayed. Gwyn chose a pocket switchblade for herself and a large hunting knife for Thorne. Kneeling at his feet, she sawed at the zip ties with the hunting knife, then handed it to him once she’d freed him.
She dropped the switchblade in her skirt pocket, glad the pocket had a button. Hopefully she wouldn’t lose the knife in the water. She glanced back up at the weapons, re-evaluating her plan. If they were armed with knives, they could fight back when the cabin door opened, which it inevitably would. Tavilla was coming for them. She’d overheard Kathryn and her minions discussing it.
While they reloaded their semi-automatic weapons.
Gwyn discarded the notion of relying on fighting back. Only a fool brought a knife to a gunfight.
‘Can you stand? I need a boost to the porthole. I was going to ask the kid for help, but you’re taller. It’ll be easier for me to reach it if you’re lifting me.’
Thorne forced himself to his feet, swaying dangerously before staggering to the wall below the porthole. He was tall enough to see out of it easily. He huffed an irritated breath. ‘We’re a long way from shore, babe.’
‘I know. I was conscious when they brought us here.’ She glanced at the porthole again. She needed less constriction for such a long swim, so she lifted her blouse enough to rip at the Velcro holding her girdle holster in place, then did the same for the thigh holster.
While she took off the holsters, Thorne turned his attention to the porthole. ‘Hasn’t been opened in a while,’ he grunted. ‘It’s stuck.’
Both of them winced when the clamp holding the small window in place finally gave, because the porthole’s hinge creaked. Loudly.
Gwyn lifted her arms and, bracing his weight against the wall, Thorne spanned her waist with both hands. Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him hard. ‘I’ll get help.’
‘You get safe,’ he rumbled gruffly. ‘I love you.’
Then he lifted her to the porthole and she wedged her shoulders through, stifling a cry when the skin on her upper arms scraped away. The salt water was going to hurt like hell.
Thorne lifted her higher, and she shimmied until her hips slid through. Gripping the edge of the porthole, she bowed her body until her feet were free and she was dangling over the water. Belatedly, she wondered about sharks. Especially since her arm was now bleeding.
Don’t be ridiculous. She was in far more danger from Cesar Tavilla than she was from sharks. She pulled herself up so that she could see through the porthole to where Thorne was watching her, his expression a mix of relief, fear and hope. And desperate love.
‘Love you too,’ she whispered, and then let herself fall into the bay.
Annapolis, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 5.25 P.M.
Thorne heard the soft splash and closed the porthole. Yes. Gwyn had escaped. She should never have given herself up back at the crash scene. She should have kept running. In his mind he’d been screaming for her to do exactly that, but his body and his voice had betrayed him.
‘I know who you are,’ the kid in the corner said quietly.
‘Oh?’ Thorne reached him in a few unsteady strides and dropped to his knees. ‘Turn around. I’ll try to get your cuffs off.’ The kid – Blake Segal, the judge’s son – complied, and Thorne fumbled with Gwyn’s lockpick. ‘Gwyn’s better at this than I am.’ His fingers burned like fire, his circulation still coming back after lying on his cuffed hands for so long.
‘You’re Thomas Thorne. The man who my father said killed my mother.’
Thorne paused, then went back to picking the lock. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’re being set up, just like my dad.’
Well . . . The ‘just like my dad’ part was a hundred percent wrong, but Thorne could pacify the kid for a little while if he needed to. He might need him should the opportunity to escape arise.
He hadn’t expected to be put on a fucking boat. His mind replayed the sight of Gwyn disappearing from the porthole, and the splash, and he hoped like hell that she was a strong swimmer. She’d been raised on a crab boat, for heaven’s sake. She should be a good swimmer.
The lock on Blake’s cuffs gave and he turned around, rubbing his wrist and giving Thorne the first look at his face.
Holy shit, the kid looked just like Richard Linden. It was like going back nineteen years.
‘What?’ the kid asked. ‘You just went . . . I don’t know. Like you saw a ghost.’
‘I kind of did,’ Thorne murmured, then forced his body to cooperate as he lunged to his feet, because he needed to put some space between himself and this kid who looked so damn much like the asshole who’d almost ruined his life. His head went dizzy and he remembered being in the hospital on Sunday, feeling the same way. ‘Deja-fucking-vu all over again.’
Blake was studying him like he was some kind of microbe under a microscope.
‘What?’ Thorne demanded.
The kid shook his head. ‘I’m trying to decide what I believe about you.’
Thorne sighed. ‘I’m innocent. I hope that’s what you choose to believe.’
‘Did you kill my uncle Richard?’
Thorne was shocked. ‘No. I tried to save him.’ And he wasn’t your uncle, kid. He was your father.
‘I read about that a few years ago. All about the trial, I mean. My mother didn’t want me to and my father forbade it.’
Thorne’s mouth quirked up. ‘So you had to do it. I can understand that.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Look. I’m sorry about your mother. I hadn’t seen her in almost twenty years. I didn’t even see her Sunday morning. I was unconscious.’
‘I read that too. Online.’ He fidgeted with the other cuff.
‘Stand up. I’ll try to unlock that one too.’
Blake complied once again, lifting his hand while continuing to study Thorne’s face. ‘Did you know my mother well?’
‘No.’ He set to work on the second cuff. ‘She was a few years younger than me. And shy.’
‘I can’t picture her as shy,’ he murmured. ‘Did you know my . . . uncle?’
The deliberate pause had Thorne glancing at Blake’s face, and he realized the kid knew. Or at least suspected.
‘Yes.’
Blake made a frustrated noise. ‘And? What was he like?’
Thorne sighed. ‘You aren’t going to like my answer, so can we pretend like you didn’t ask?’
‘No.’ Blake grabbed his shirtsleeve. ‘I need to know. Nobody would ever tell me anything, and I need to know.’
Thorne heard the lock click open. He removed and pocketed the cuffs. Gwyn had already put the other pair in his back pocket. He scanned the floor, scooping up her discarded cuffs. Her gun holsters were like flags proclaiming she’d escaped. He picked them up too, rolled them up, and . . .
His chest hurt. Lavender. He could smell her perfume. He shoved her holsters under his shirt and turned to Blake Segal, who watched him with something akin to desperation.
‘What exactly are you asking, Blake?’ Thorne asked carefully.
‘I look like him.’
Thorne didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘You do. A lot.’ He went to the knife chest and began arming himself from the dozens of blades, sliding a stiletto into one pocket and a sheathed short-hilt military-grade utility knife into another. These were Tavilla’s tools, he knew, and he wondered how many people had been murdered with them.
‘Have you ever killed anyone?’ Blake asked.
‘No. Beat up a few, but only if they threw the first punch.’ He glanced sideways at the kid. ‘Should I trust you with a knife?’
‘Yes,’ Blake said soberly. ‘But if you threaten me, I’ll do my best to kill you.’
Fair enough. ‘I won’t threaten you,’ Thorne promised, and hoped the kid wasn’t a sociopathic liar like his father had been. He handed him a medium-sized blade with an easy-to-handle hilt.
‘Was Richard my father?’
Thorne drew in a deep breath and carefully closed the doors to the knife chest. ‘Yes. I believe so, anyway.’ He turned to face Blake, whose eyes were now closed, his breathing fast and shallow. He couldn’t imagine what the kid was feeling, so he offered no platitudes. ‘You suspected?’
‘Yeah. They told me I was adopted. Then later, when I saw pictures of my uncle, they told me that they’d picked me because I reminded them of his baby pictures.’
‘That’s . . . so wrong.’
Blake nodded. ‘He raped her? My mother, I mean?’
‘I think so. That’s the testimony we heard from a man who was once one of’ – your uncle’s? your father’s? – ‘Richard’s friends. Well, not a friend, necessarily. More like one of his followers. He was popular back then.’
‘Until he was dead.’ Blake sucked in a sudden breath, as if something had just occurred to him. ‘Who killed him, if it wasn’t you?’
Thorne found himself hesitant to answer. ‘Look, kid. Blake. Let’s get out of here, okay? Then I swear I’ll answer any question you’ve got to the best of my knowledge and ability.’
‘You just did,’ Blake said dully. He took a deep breath. ‘What do you need me to do?’
The question came none too soon, because there was a scratching at the door. Someone was unlocking it.
Thorne gestured for Blake to return to the corner where he’d been, then hid himself behind the door, his heart pounding so hard it was all he could hear. He scanned the room, looking for any other evidence that Gwyn had escaped through the porthole.
He found nothing. Good. Let them look for her on board. Even buying her a few extra seconds could make the difference. Unfortunately he hadn’t thought to arrange the box to make it look like he was still in there.
The door opened and a slender man walked in. Thorne had no idea how many people were currently on this boat, but there would soon be one fewer. When the slender man had entered far enough, Thorne shut the door behind him and grabbed him, clapping one hand over his mouth and one arm around his throat.
This guy would be an easy win. He was puny. He was . . .
Shit. He was Detective Brickman. Fuck this. He couldn’t kill a cop. Even a dirty one. He put the knife blade carefully against Brickman’s throat. ‘Do not move,’ he breathed. ‘Do not make a sound or I will slice you from ear to fucking ear.’
He could feel Brickman’s shiver. Good. Quickly he grabbed the smaller of Gwyn’s holsters from inside his shirt and rammed it in Brickman’s mouth, then he shoved the cop to the floor, knelt across his legs, and yanked his hands behind his back, restraining him with the same cuffs that Brickman had used on him.
‘Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?’ he murmured, then used the second set of cuffs on Brickman’s ankles. He dragged the cop to the corner behind the door and covered him with the remnants of the refrigerator box. He turned to find Blake Segal staring at him with wide eyes.
‘Holy shit,’ the kid breathed. ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’
‘Because he’s a cop,’ Thorne said, and the kid’s eyes grew even wider. ‘Sorry to be the one to bust your bubble, kid, but not all cops are good.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Blake said grimly. ‘Not all judges are, either. I don’t believe my father killed my mother, but he’s taken bribes recently. I heard my parents fighting about it, right before Mom . . .’ Voice breaking, he looked away. ‘Fuck.’
Thorne wished he had words to give the kid. But he didn’t, so he focused on priorities. He disarmed Brickman and tucked the gun into the back of his own waistband, then patted the cop down, finding Brickman’s phone.
Yes. He dialed Joseph, relieved when the man answered on the first ring. ‘Carter,’ Joseph said briskly.
Thorne’s throat grew abruptly thick, surprising him. ‘It’s Thorne.’
‘Thorne? Where are you?’ Joseph demanded.
‘I don’t know. On a boat somewhere.’ Thorne looked at the kid. ‘Do you know where we are?’
Blake shook his head. ‘No. I was pretty groggy when we got here. But it wasn’t far from my house, I don’t think.’
‘Who’s with you?’ Joseph asked.
‘The Segal kid. Blake. He’s okay. So am I.’
‘That makes sense. His father hasn’t said a word, even though we’ve pulled compelling evidence from his home and office.’
Thorne hesitated, then spoke his mind, because Blake was eighteen and not really a kid. ‘They didn’t blindfold Blake. See if that makes a difference to the judge.’
‘I will. Um, what about Gwyn?’
‘She got away. She’s swimming for shore.’ I hope. God, please let her be okay. ‘Brickman’s here. I’ve cuffed and gagged him. This is his phone.’
‘Good. I’ll stay with you. Don’t hang up. We’re going to trace the call.’
‘I won’t.’ He wished Gwyn were here. She was the only one who’d been conscious enough to pay attention to their surroundings. ‘We’re going to try to get the hell out of here,’ he said, to both Joseph and Blake. ‘We’re in some kind of torture room and I don’t want to wait for Tavilla to arrive.’
‘Especially since he didn’t have Blake Segal blindfolded,’ Joseph agreed. ‘Just be careful, Thorne.’
‘I will.’ He met Blake’s eyes, saw him square his shoulders. ‘Can you swim?’
‘Yes. But there’s no way we’re fitting through that porthole.’
Thorne almost laughed. ‘We’re going to make a break for the deck. Run like hell, jump off the boat and swim for shore. I’ll be right behind you, but I’m a bigger target.’ And I’m not wearing Kevlar anymore, he realized. It must have been removed in the van, when he was still unconscious. ‘If they get me, you keep going. Got it?’
‘Got it.’ Blake hesitated. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re a victim of all this, same as me. I want both of us out of here alive.’
A loud banging on the door had them both jumping.
‘Fuck, Dickman,’ a man’s voice thundered from the other side. ‘Open the damn door. You’ve got the motherfucking key.’
Trusting Joseph not to speak, Thorne put Brickman’s phone on speaker and shoved it in the pocket of his trousers, then pointed Blake to his corner. If Brickman didn’t say anything, the guy outside the door would get suspicious and call for reinforcements.
Not even wanting to try imitating Brickman’s whiny voice, Thorne gripped the hunting knife, opened the door, and yanked the man inside. He got a chance to yell once before Thorne plunged the knife into his throat. He was gurgling blood before he hit the ground.
Thorne stared at him for a long minute, frozen, horrified at what he’d done. He’d taken martial arts, he knew how to fight, he’d seen enough street fights, both on video and reconstructed, as part of defending his clients . . . But this was real. I did this.
Then he was crying out as pain seared into his back, through his gut. His hand reached back and felt the slim hilt of a knife. Felt the blood already soaking his shirt. Felt the barrel of Brickman’s gun slipping from his waistband.
Motherfucking sonofabitch.
He turned to find a smiling Cesar Tavilla, Brickman’s gun in his hand. ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Thorne. I’ve been expecting you.’