Wildfire

Cornelius raised his eyebrows.

I took out my phone and called Rynda.

“Yes?” She sounded on the verge of tears.

“You were right. Brian was kidnapped,” I said.

“I know!” Her voice reached hysterical pitch. “They just called the house!”

Chapter 4

Brian and Rynda Sherwood lived in Hunters Creek Village, in what the real estate listing called a “lovely family home designed for an active lifestyle.” They bought the house four years ago, and real estate sites kept archived listings forever. The house sat on an acre. It had six bedrooms and five bathrooms, eighty-five hundred square feet of living space, a pool, a “party cabana,” and a wine grotto, which I had trouble picturing. My mind kept serving up something out of a Disney movie, but filled with wine instead of ocean water.

The house also sold for three and a half million, about average for the neighborhood. Driving to it, I could see why. We were surrounded by woods. Birds sang. Squirrels dashed up an occasional palm growing among the oaks. You’d never know Houston was just a two-minute car ride away.

We pulled up to the house. I parked next to a familiar gunmetal-grey Range Rover. Rogan got there before us. Rynda or someone on her security team must’ve called him. Good. She seemed to listen to him better than she did to me.

“Is that Rogan’s car?” Cornelius asked.

“Yes.”

“Does it bother you?”

“It does a little.” I would have to be a robot for it not to bother me. “But I try to keep things in perspective.”

He tilted his head, waiting for me to elaborate.

“Rynda just lost her mother and all of her friends. I have a feeling she must’ve relied on her husband a great deal, and now he’s missing too. She’s a mother, and she’s laser-focused on surviving and keeping her children safe. She’s known Rogan since she was a toddler. He’s practically family, and he has the magic and resources to keep her and the kids alive through this. It’s natural for her to reach out to him.”

“I don’t believe she sees him as family,” Cornelius said.

“She can see him however she wants. I only care how Rogan sees me.”

He told me he loved me, and he wasn’t lying. I would’ve trusted him even without my talent. Rogan was dangerous, at times unpredictable, and always stubborn. Given a chance, he would roll over people like a bulldozer to accomplish his goals. But I could never see him cheating. He was too direct for that. It wasn’t in his nature.

The two of us walked to the door. An armed guard blocked our way. Not one of Rogan’s ex-military hard asses; this guy looked like a cross between a bodybuilder and a park ranger, his olive-drab cargo pants tucked into desert-tan boots, and his khaki polo shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders and thick chest. It was obviously custom tailored to accommodate his overdeveloped physique. Around a surprisingly narrow waist hung a thick nylon tactical belt with a pistol in a plain holster, handcuffs, and a handheld radio. Completing the ensemble was a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses and a ball cap with “Sherwood Security” embroidered above the House crest. High-priced hired muscle.

“Nevada Baylor and Cornelius Harrison,” I told him.

He mumbled something into the radio and opened the door for us.

The interior of the house was as beautiful as the exterior. The place swarmed with similarly uniformed gym rats, all of whom paused to give us their versions of hard stares. We walked through the short foyer into a cavernous family room. Delicate furniture, a beautiful Oriental rug, a toy truck, a water gun on the floor, and a child’s paintings on the wall in beautiful modern frames. A massive Christmas tree stood in the place of honor, glittering with white and gold.

Rynda stood in the middle of the floor hugging herself. Rogan stood very close to her, one hand on her shoulder. His eyes were warm, and his face was concerned.

She saw me.

“Did you record the phone call?” I asked.

“Yes.” She held up her cell and hit play.

A male voice said, “You know what we want.”

The recording cut off.

“Did they say anything else?”

“No.”

“Do you know what they want?”

“No!” Tears wet Rynda’s eyes. “If I knew what they wanted, don’t you think I would’ve given it to them already? They have my husband!”

She wasn’t lying.

“Gather the children and pack your bags,” Rogan said. “I have a secure base in the middle of the city.”

And he just offered to move her into his HQ.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Rynda shook her head. “This is my house.”

Rogan’s expression snapped into a no-nonsense mask. He was about to order her around, and Rynda would balk. She was a Prime. I silently shook my head at him.

“Let’s sit down,” I said. “Everyone is really upset, so let’s just take a moment and catch our breath.”

I sat down. Rynda sat opposite me on the ornate sofa. She was breathing too fast. If I didn’t calm her down, she’d hyperventilate. I had to break her train of thought.

“Are these Kyle’s paintings on the walls?”

She frowned. “Yes. My mother had them framed.”

“He’s very talented.”

“Thank you,” she said, probably on autopilot.

“What about the water gun?”

“That’s Jessica’s. She loves ambushing him with it.”

“Where are the children now?”

“In the playroom with Svetlana.”

Her breathing deepened.

“Who’s Svetlana?”

“She’s from the nanny service.”

“How did you get the nanny service?”

“All of the mothers in the neighborhood use it. I don’t remember who recommended it.”

“When did you get the phone call?” I kept my voice quiet and steady.

She checked her phone. “Twelve minutes after ten.”

“Do you recognize the voice?”

“No.”

“Listen to it again, carefully.”

She did. “No.”

“Can you think of any enemies Brian had?”

“I told you already, no.”

“Rynda,” Rogan said, “someone grabbed a Prime off the street in broad daylight. It had to be a rival House. Nobody else would have the balls. Did Brian say anything? Was he angry with someone?”

“Brian doesn’t get angry.” Rynda sighed.

“Who is his biggest competitor?” I asked.

“House Rio,” she said. “But he wouldn’t know anything about that in detail. Edward runs the business. Brian grows mushrooms.”

Rogan was looking at me.

“Edward is in the clear,” I told him.

“Did you think Edward had Brian kidnapped?” Rynda shook her head. “Edward would never do anything to hurt me.”

Rynda’s cell phone rang.

“Put it on speaker,” I told her.

She answered the call and pressed the speaker button on screen. I gently took it from her.

Same male voice, controlled, even. “Give it to us, or he will come back home in pieces.”

“My name is Nevada Baylor,” I said. “I’m authorized to negotiate with you on Rynda’s behalf.”

“No negotiations.”

“We’re trying to meet your demands. We want Brian back home safe. But we require proof of life, so we know we’re dealing with the right people. In our place, you would want proof of life, wouldn’t you?”

There was a pause. A softer male voice said, “Rynda?”

“Brian!” Rynda made a mad lunge for the phone, but Rogan clamped her down. “Brian, are you okay?”

“Just give them what they want. Please.”

The phone call ended.

Rynda buried her face in her hands.

“FBI—” I started.

“No,” Rogan, Rynda, and Cornelius said at the same time.

Yes, why wouldn’t we call professionals who specialize in exactly this type of crime? That would be silly. “They will call again.”