Whiskey and Moonshine

by Elizabeth Noble

  Mal snorted. “Trust me, there isn’t a contract I can’t break, nor do I believe my business manager would have signed a contract if that term had been explicit.” He fished his wallet out and handed the woman one of his business cards. “Call that number. It’s my private office line. Give me the dollar amount that’s owed, and you’ll have a check within the week. He doesn’t want to be photographed nude, and he won’t be. Is there anything else he needs to be here for?”

  The woman shook her head. “We completed all the other photographs needed.”

  Mal turned to Colt. “Where’s your stuff?”

  Colt motioned to the hallway. “The dressing rooms are down there.” He led the way out of the studio and to a door on the opposite side of the hall. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Mal leaned against the wall while Colt slipped through the door. He was back out a minute later with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Colt said softly.

  “You were going to go through with that even though you didn’t want to be photographed naked?” Colt nodded, and Mal sputtered, “Colt, why?”

  Colt shrugged. “It’s my job.”

  “No. Doing something you’re obviously very uncomfortable with is not your job.”

  Colt reached out and took Mal’s hand for a minute. “Really, thank you. I’ve been sick over doing that part.” He rolled his eyes and looked down at himself. “I’m too skinny, anyway.”

  “No, you’re not. But I’ll admit I want to be the only one who gets to see you naked. You’ll have dinner with me? We can talk about that document? No contract I can’t break; remember that.”

  Colt nodded. “I’d like that. I did promise Phillipe I’d go to dinner at his mom’s. I’d like a little more time to think things through. Would tomorrow be okay?”

  “I’ll come get you around two.”

  “Phillipe can drive me back. I think that might be better,” Colt said.

  “All right.” Mal started to lean closer to Colt, stopped, and waited for him to approve. When Colt’s eyes softened, Mal kissed his cheek and murmured, “See you tomorrow.”

  Walking away was one of the most difficult things Mal had ever done, but he had the next day to think about and look forward to.

  COLT hadn’t expected Mal to come after him. He’d hoped it would happen but was still unprepared when Mal showed up. Phillipe was meeting him at a coffee shop and then would drive Colt back to Phillipe’s apartment. It was a nice day, so Colt decided to walk the few blocks, grab some coffee and a snack, and wait for Phillipe in a small park across the street.

  Hands full of his order, Colt slid out the double front door as a group of people walked in the other side. He had to hold the bag with his name on it up when a small child ran by so he didn’t bash the kid’s head with his bacon-and-cheese sandwich. Once on the sidewalk, he juggled everything in one hand for a few seconds so he could wrestle his phone from his pocket to let Phillipe know where he’d be waiting.

  Someone bumped into him from behind, and he almost lost the coffee and chai. “Sorry,” he grumbled, even though he wasn’t at fault. The person behind him shoved harder against his back, and Colt thought he, or she, had stumbled and fallen, using Colt to catch themselves.

  He started to turn around and see what was going on—possibly he could assist—when a second person pushed him from the side.

  “What the…?”

  The cardboard tray with the hot drinks tumbled from Colt’s hand and hit the pavement. Colt barely had the chance to process that when someone grabbed his arm from behind. The second person slapped the bag of food from his other hand and grabbed his other arm. He was trapped between them and hustled around the corner into an alley.

  Colt tried to yank his arms free and turn the tables with a few of the moves Mal had taught him. He failed miserably and ended up with his face slammed into a wall.

  “Look at you, all dressed up. I tried to talk to you in Nashville, but I guess you’re too good for your old buddies.”

  He knew that voice. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and gooseflesh pebbled his skin. A shudder ran down Colt’s spine.

  “Nice clothes, fancy haircut, and little Colt thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips,” a second voice sneered.

  Memory of pain accompanied the voice.

  “Saw you on TV. We want in on your scam.”

  “There’s no scam. It’s a legit job,” Colt ground out, then grunted at a sharp punch delivered to his lower back. His knees buckled, and he would have crumpled to the ground had his assailant not been holding him against the wall.

  One of the men spun Colt around and slammed him into the wall again. He squinted at his two captors.

  “Su-Sully?” Colt stammered.

  “I’m your new business partner,” Sully growled.

  He drew back his arm and hit Colt hard enough that his head bounced off the wall and small, bright white stars burst across his vision.

  “Car’s down there,” the second voice said. Colt knew it too but couldn’t put a name to that man.

  They dragged Colt down the alleyway, farther from the street. It ran parallel to a long, flat building with doors spaced at regular intervals.

  Parking lot? Colt processed the thought too slowly.

  It didn’t matter. Sully shoved Colt into a car and climbed in after him, jabbing a gun into his side. He put a sack over Colt’s head and tied it tightly around his neck. Then he bound Colt’s arms behind him while his partner hobbled Colt with a rope around his ankles.

  Panic surged through Colt, and he started shouting through the sack and throwing his body back and forth. This couldn’t happen now, not with things unsettled between Mal and him.

  “Shut up,” Sully snapped.

  He punched Colt in the stomach rapid-fire until Colt started to gag. Colt slumped into a ball, in pain and afraid.

  Chapter Twelve

  MAL hummed as he walked through the mash silo. In a few short hours, he’d be with Colt, and deep in his heart, he knew Colt wanted their relationship to work just as much as Mal did. Right now, however, he had a special little project to occupy his time.

  There was a difference between the beginnings of whiskey and moonshine, and this was where the whiskey began. Grains were mixed together and processed before being put through the distilling process. Two to three times a week, Mal checked the current batches of mash. Next he made his way to the woodshop, where the aging barrels were made by hand. Different types of oak were used to create the barrels, which were a critical part of making great whiskey.

  Mal’s private workshop was behind the silo and woodshop. It was a miniature version of the huge facility that created thousands of gallons of whiskey and moonshine a year. He’d been experimenting with different corn and sugar mixtures to create the basis of the new moonshine line, Kensington’s Wild Colt. The label designs he planned to show Colt later were only one step. The mash mixture was another, albeit extremely important, stage. Once they had a mash they both liked, they’d move on to bottle design while the distilled alcohol aged. Some would be aged using oak chips; another batch would be slow aged in barrels. Of course, part of the process was determining which of the three species of oak they’d use for the aging phase.

  Mal had grown up learning all this and more over the course of years. He didn’t think Colt wanted to take that long, and Mal wasn’t sure he had the patience. As an alternative, Mal had been compiling a manual for Colt to study. The one thing that’d become apparent over the months was that Colt was a quick study. Eventually Mal planned to have the manual edited and bound for Colt to use as a personal reference guide.

  Urgent pounding on the door to his workshop made Mal start. “It’s open.” He didn’t waste time crossing the large space before granting whomever it was access.

  One of the interns burst into the workshop, gasping for breath. “Th-they’re l-looking… for you…. Ms. Hollan sent me.” When Mal started patting himself down, the inte
rn gulped a few breaths and added, “Your phone is sitting on your desk back at the offices.”

  “Oh shit. What’s wrong?”

  The kid shook his head. “I don’t know. She said it was an emergency and to run, so I did.”

  “Thank you.” Mal quickly secured his workshop, and after they were through the door, he locked it before hurrying toward the distillery offices.

  The last time Audrey had used the word “emergency” was when one of their shipping trucks overturned in front of a high school. There’d been broken bottles, whiskey, and kids everywhere. Once everything was under control, the situation was more comical than anything. If Audrey felt the need to send someone to retrieve Mal immediately, this must be bigger than that.

  Having left the intern behind by the time Mal reached the main offices, he ran the final distance and burst into his office. Phillipe stood in the middle of the room with Audrey, Jeffery, and Frank. Something cold and nasty crawled through Mal’s gut to his chest and took root there like a heavy, jagged rock.

  Colt had been with Phillipe.

  Thoughts of car accidents, shootings, violent and sudden illness—all leaving Colt in a hospital in a coma or worse—rampaged through Mal’s brain.

  “Wh-where’s Colt?” Mal stammered.

  Phillipe looked terrified, and Frank wore an expression Mal could only describe as pissed off. Jeffery appeared stunned, and Audrey was the one pacing for once.

  “Mr. K, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Phillipe’s words rushed out so fast it took a second for Mal to process them and realize he was holding something out to Mal. Then it registered. Phillipe’s face was bruised, and he had a cut on one hand.

  “Are you all right?” Mal asked softly. He took the paper Phillipe offered, read it, frowned, reread it, and looked up at the others. “What the hell? Colt’s been kidnapped?”

  “Yeah. Notice they used Colt, not Colton,” Frank pointed out.

  Mal could only ask, “How did this happen?”

  “We, Colt and me, were to meet at a coffee shop,” Phillipe said. “When I got there, I found his order all over the sidewalk. Then a guy comes up to me, hits me, and gives me that note. Says, ‘Do it or Colt dies.’” Phillipe took a few deep breaths. “And no cops.”

  “Oh hell no,” Frank said. “We have to contact the police.”

  “But they said—” Jeffery started.

  Frank cut him off. “Yes, we can take a bag of money, and I have a few friends who can help. We will likely get Colt back. However, think. None of that is legal. These assholes need to go to jail, and without the police, that won’t happen. We’ll be nothing more than vigilantes and open to prosecution ourselves.” Frank flicked at the paper in Mal’s hand. “Whoever did this aren’t pros. Too sloppy. They’re small-time thugs, and that makes them very dangerous. Professional kidnappers rarely kill. I can’t say the same for this type.”

  “He’s right,” Mal agreed. “And Phillipe needs to get to a doctor.”

  Phillipe shook his head. “He punched my face a few times. What is really wounded is my pride because I couldn’t fight back better.”

  “The detectives will want to talk to him. Having him here will save time,” Frank pointed out. “You saw the guy’s face?”

  Phillipe nodded. “For a few seconds. I don’t know if I remember it well enough.”

  Frank shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Pros wouldn’t have let you see them. Pros use burner phones, not notes they hand deliver themselves.”

  Mal picked up the landline on his desk. “We’re not in a city, who do we contact? FBI, sheriff’s department?” He stood holding the receiver in one hand, looking around the room.

  Again, Frank, bless him, stepped up. “Colt was taken from Gatlinburg. Call them. If they need more help or another agency, they’ll reach out to whomever they need.”

  Audrey stepped forward with a notepad. “Here’s the number.”

  Mal nodded and dialed. He didn’t often throw his family name around, or the weight it and his money carried, but he did so now without reservation. “My name is Malone Curtis Kensington of Kensington Distillery and Still House. Put me through to whoever would handle a man being kidnapped.”

  After a short wait, a woman came on the line. “Mr. Kensington?”

  “Yes,” Mal growled. He was expecting a runaround and to have to fight to get to the correct person. Most of what he knew of the police he’d learned on television, and he knew that wasn’t the most accurate of sources.

  “Margo Telech. I’m the assistant chief of police. Tell me why you’ve called.”

  Mal took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. “I expected to have to shout at a few people before I got through to the right person. Someone vital in my company, and personally very important to me, is being held for ransom.”

  “By very important, you mean…?”

  Mal cut her off. “Yeah, we’re involved. Him and me.”

  “Mr. Kensington, we will get through this,” Assistant Chief Telech began. “There isn’t much you’re going to tell me I haven’t heard or that will surprise me. Your candor from the start will be most helpful.”

  “Mal. Call me Mal.”

  “Mal.” Her voice softened. “We will do everything we can to get your boyfriend back. However, I’m going to need your help. It’s important you do what my team asks. I know this is difficult, but you need to stay put until we arrive. Was there a demand for money?”

  “Yes. One million dollars. I’ll pay it. I can have it here in a few hours.”

  “You’re at your home?” she asked.

  “The office in my distillery. My personal home is on the same property,” Mal explained.

  “All right. I’ll get a team together and we’ll be there soon,” Margo said.

  “What should I do about the money?” Mal asked. “I can get it, but that much in cash takes a little time.”

  “Getting that money will draw attention, which is what we don’t want right now. Can you make preliminary arrangements quietly?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Go ahead and do that. I’ll see you soon,” Margo Telech said and hung up.

  Following Frank’s advice, Mal and Audrey began compiling a list of employees for the past five years. Their first task was flagging anyone who might have a grudge against either Mal personally or his company. That job took longer than Mal thought it would, and they were going over the last names on the list when the police arrived. Jeffery had set into motion procuring the cash if needed and had gathered some documents they thought the officers might require.

  Billy Krems escorted the two women and two men to Mal’s office, then excused himself. Mal stood and walked across the office, hand extended. One of the women was around fifty; the other looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly. I’m Mal Kensington,” Mal said.

  “Margo Telech.” The older of the two women folded her hands in front of her and eyed Mal up and down carefully. “I’ve seen your company rep in the media. He was on The Tonight Show, I believe. But as you and I have never met, I need to ask for some ID.”

  Mal offered a small smile and took his driver’s license from where he’d set it on the desk earlier and handed it over. “My identification. I trust the word of the State of Tennessee is sufficient?”

  Margo took the small piece of plastic and examined it, then handed it to one of the two male officers. “Detectives Charlise”—she indicated one of the men, then the other woman—“and Santini.” She motioned to the other man. “This is Sergeant Richards. The name of the victim?” Margo asked.

  “Colton Hale—Colt. Our company rep who you saw on TV,” Mal said. “In the note, they called him Colt, and he uses his full name when he’s doing something official for us.”

  “Which suggests the kidnappers know him or know of him beyond his public persona,” Margo observed. She glanced at the others. “Who are these people?”

  “Audrey Hol
lan and Jeffery Grice.” Mal nodded to them. “They’re the senior execs after me. And Frank Carter, my security chief and bodyguard when we travel. He’s also former Army Special Forces.”

  For a brief moment, everyone exchanged cordial greetings.

  “We put together a list of any employees, past or present, who might have something against Mal, his business, or Colt,” Audrey said as she stepped up next to Mal.

  “We’ll need to examine Mr. Kensington’s personal and business financials,” Richards said.

  “If you’re worried about him covering the ransom, that’s not necessary,” Jeffery said.

  “Jeffery, give them whatever they want.” Mal crossed to his desk and computer.

  “Mal, there’s a lot of confidential—”

  Mal slammed his hand on the top of the desk. “Colt’s life is at stake. I said to hire him, so it’s my fault this happened. Give them whatever the fuck they need.” Mal leaned on the desk and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he straightened and turned to the police officers, repeating, “I don’t have anything to hide.”

  Jeffery waved two fingers at Sergeant Richards. He settled at Mal’s desk with Jeffery and waited while Jeffery entered passwords and gave him access.

  Audrey and Mal sifted through the employee files with Detective Santini while Margo Telech and Detective Charlise interviewed Phillipe in another room.

  “How are my financials important?” Mal was trying, and failing, to be patient and let the police work.

  Richards smiled kindly. “We need to build a profile of the kidnapper or kidnappers. One important aspect is how well they might know your net worth, both your company and you personally. I’ve only just begun, but I have to ask, how much is the ransom again?”

  “One million in small bills,” Mal said.

  “So whoever this is knows nothing about the financials,” Jeffery said.

  Richards turned to him. “Very good.”

  Mal looked from one to the other. “I don’t understand.”

  “Mr. Kensington,” Richards began, “your company has assets in the billions of dollars, and you personally are worth over a billion. What kind of sense does it make for someone to ask for only a million, especially for someone you have more than a working relationship with?”