by Riley Banks
‘More than an hour.’ Damon’s tongue was bone dry – more cardboard than living flesh. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘You do that and she’s dead.’
‘We can’t just stand here and do nothing.’ Damon would give anything to go back to that fateful day in London. The day he’d rung the newspaper and demanded Charlotte attend this fucked up press trip. He knew it would mean never meeting her but it was preferable to the alternative – knowing her and being responsible for her death.
‘You think I don’t know that? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. That’s my daughter out there – and your fucked up family that has her.’
Damon knew he was right but he had no idea how to fix things. He couldn’t bring back the dead, and right now, he felt powerless to stop Charlotte from joining them.
‘I think it’s time you called your father.’
‘You want me to call him and say what? Give us Charlotte?’
‘Damn it, her name is Victoria. And this is what I want you to say.’
Chapter Fifty-One:
It had been a long night and, after the call Bill had just had, it was about to get longer.
The prodigal son had returned but the traitorous bastard had switched camps, joining with Bill’s enemy – Paul Baker.
To make matters worse, the two of them thought they could waltz in and demand terms.
Baker’s life in exchange for the girl’s.
Fools.
If Damon wanted to throw his lot in with Baker, he would suffer the same fate. Death. But not before they both watched that little bitch, Burke or Victoria Baker or whatever she was calling herself now, die first.
The phone rang again. ‘Yes?’
It was Campagni. ‘He’s gone boss.’
‘What do you mean gone?’
‘Well, his luggage is still here but there is no sign of William. Do you want me to wait, in case he returns?’
Bill knew his father well enough to know the old goat had fail safes in place. He’d never walk blindly into a trap. No doubt the canny bastard already knew Carl had sold him out and had found somewhere else to hole up.
At the very least, Bill could be thankful he was in Australia and not in London. Here they were still on the same timeline.
‘Don’t bother. He won’t return. Besides, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.’
‘Fish?’
‘That bait – looks like we caught two fish with it. Damon and Baker. Gonna need your help cleaning up the mess.’
BJ pulled his pants back over his slim hips, nudging Charlotte with a toe as he did up his zip. ‘Get up.’
He leaned over, removing the gag from her mouth.
She coughed and spluttered, rolling into an instinctual ball as if by making herself small and inconsequential, she could somehow protect herself.
‘I said get up.’
This time, he didn’t wait for her to act, hauling her to her feet using the satin scarf her hands were tied with.
Her lip quivered and tears leaked out from underneath her swollen eyes.
‘Please, just go,’ she begged through lips stained black with dried blood. ‘I won’t tell anyone what happened.’
BJ laughed. ‘You think we’re finished? That was just a preview.’
She flinched away, certain he meant more sex.
Even if she offered it freely, BJ would have trouble accepting. Having conquered the unattainable, his desire had turned to disgust; his lust had become cold ashes in his mouth.
He circled around Charlotte, inspecting her naked body like a farmer weighing up the merits of his livestock purchase. An hour ago, her nakedness would have given him a raging erection.
Now she was used merchandise. A new car someone else had driven first.
He scowled, tossing a handful of clothes in her face. ‘Get dressed.’
‘My hands.’
BJ wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t about to get that close to her unarmed. Opening a drawer in the tiny kitchenette, he found a small, sharp paring knife, which he used to sever the fabric.
Hope sparked in her brown eyes as she contemplated freedom.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ he said, making it clear there were other things the knife could be used for.
She dressed in a hurry, pulling on the same black panties and striped sundress she had been wearing.
BJ crouched beside Barclay’s unconscious body, knowing what his father would expect him to do.
Bill Harvey didn’t like mess and this was a monumental cock up. Barclay should have kept his nose out. He should have stayed in his room.
He placed the blade against Barclay’s throat, knowing it would only take a quick thrust to end his problems.
Charlotte gasped. ‘Please. He’s done nothing wrong.’
‘Shut up.’ He tried to still the shake in his hand.
Could he do it? Could he really kill someone?
He had no choice.
He drew the knife across Barclay’s throat, a long, steady line of blood trailing after the blade.
‘NO.’
BJ inspected his handiwork. The cut was deep but not deep enough to reach the jugular. Just a fraction more pressure. It couldn’t be that difficult.
The shake in his hand grew more pronounced. Why couldn’t he do it?
You’re a lot of things, BJ, but a killer?
‘Fucking stupid fucking prick,’ he said, taking out his frustration with a number of well placed kicks to Barclay’s ribs.
His anger spent, he grabbed the shattered lamp, slicing off the electrical cord.
He might not be a killer but he wasn’t suicidal either. The last thing he needed was Barclay raising the alarm.
‘Give me a hand.’
She shook her head, too frightened to come near him.
‘Get over here now,’ he said, pressing the knife to the base of Barclay’s throat again.
She slithered across the floor, holding Barclay’s arms and legs while BJ trussed him up like a Christmas turkey.
Sliding the knife up her thigh, he rested the tip on the edge of her panties. ‘Take them off.’
Snot and tears shone above her top lip and she wiped her face with the back of her hands, her eyes pleading.
‘I said take them off.’
‘Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want.’ She slid her underwear down in what she thought was a seductive move.
It was everything he had wanted – Charlotte Burke willing to fuck him – but he no longer wanted it. He snatched the panties out of her hand, cramming them into Barclay’s mouth, his actions far more vicious than necessary.
His phone rang. His father. ‘Yeah, what is it?’
‘Bring the girl.’
‘Get up. We’re going?’
‘Going where?’
‘Don’t ask so many questions.’
He pushed her along the corridor towards his father’s office, unable to believe quite how fast his desire had cooled.
‘Ah, just in time,’ Bill said.
BJ walked to the sideboard, putting the knife down as he poured himself a generous drink.
‘What do you want from me?’ Charlotte said, looking around the room. Judging by the fearful expression on her face, she was wondering who was going to have a go at her next.
Nobody answered.
‘We have a complication,’ BJ said.
‘What now?’
‘Barclay.’
‘Where is he? Did he get away?’
BJ shook his head. ‘No. He’s tied up in Charlotte’s closet.’
‘Frank will sort it out soon. Sit.’ Bill nodded towards a pair of comfortable armchairs in front of the window.
BJ sat down but Charlotte looked at the other chair like it had teeth that were about to devour her.
‘I’d rather stand.’
‘Suit yourself.’ To BJ, Bill said, ‘Damon’s on his way.’
‘Damon’s coming?’ Charlotte’s face was a mixture of hope and torment, as if s
he couldn’t work out if Damon was arriving as her saviour or if he was just another co-conspirator.
Her futile trust in Damon did nothing to improve BJ’s mood.
‘They’ll be here any minute.’
‘They?’
A sadistic grin split Bill’s lips as he took in Charlotte’s battle scars. ‘Was she worth the wait?’
‘Overrated if you ask me.’
Some of the fire returned to Charlotte’s swollen eyes as she glared murderously at both BJ and his father. ‘You raped me.’
Bill waved her accusation off. ‘Who is going to believe you? I have a number of videos that show you having consensual sex with my son. They’ll just think you like it rough – plenty of girls do Ms Burke – or should I say Victoria Baker.’
Another sadistic smile as Charlotte’s face blanched white.
‘Where did you hear that name?’
I’ve always known who you are. We go way back, Victoria.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Haven’t you figured that out yet? I thought you said she was smart.’
‘She is,’ BJ said, no longer impressed by her brains.
She was hyperventilating now, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. ‘My father... he used to...’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. You’re here, Victoria, because I want you here. This whole press conference was just an excuse to bring you home to Sydney, to use you as bait to lure out your father.’
The office door swung open and Campagni entered the room.
‘Ah Frank. Just in time. We’re giving little Victoria here a history lesson. You want to tell her how you two met?’
Frank Campagni refused to meet Charlotte’s intense gaze, staring at the floor, out the window, anywhere but into her eyes.
BJ had no idea what history his father was talking about but it was obvious that Charlotte made Campagni nervous.
In all the years BJ had known the man, he didn’t think he had ever seen him uncomfortable with anything, not even torture.
Charlotte’s expression flitted from open curiosity to recognition to horror.
‘You! You were there the night my mother died.’
Chapter Fifty-Two:
The whole world shifted on its axis, and Charlotte staggered forward.
She had to sit. Her legs refused to hold her weight.
But she couldn’t look away from the stranger who had haunted her dreams.
Who was he and why was he here?
How had he found her?
What did it all mean?
And what did he have to do with the Harveys?
Charlotte groped for the answer but she was sinking in quicksand, the past dragging her down into its sombre embrace.
She was Alice tumbling head first down the rabbit hole, but instead of landing in Wonderland, Charlotte had crash landed twenty years in the past, in the dingy motel room where her mother had killed herself.
I was so young. They said I couldn’t remember. That I was too sick. They said I conjured the man in my fevered mind, that I was projecting my father’s memory...
So if the man were just a figment of a little girl’s imagination, how had he become a living, breathing person?
He wasn’t a figment. He was real. He was there.
But why?
None of it made sense. Her mother killed herself. She took an overdose of pills because she had lost all hope. Charlotte had vivid memories of the tiny pills spread across the bedspread. They looked like sweets.
No. Not my mother. He put them there. I remember now. He tipped them out on the bed.
‘You killed my mother,’ she said, her finger pointing at Frank’s chest like the finger of God proclaiming guilt and judgment.
Frank squirmed under the accusation, still unable to meet her eyes. Not that he had to. Guilt was etched across his face like a tribal tattoo.
‘Why? What did she ever do to you?’
‘She got in the way,’ Bill said, all but admitting he had ordered her death.
Charlotte wasn’t surprised. The man had no qualms about killing his wife or daughter.
What was another life in the grand scheme of things?
‘My mother. Your wife. Miranda Evans. How many more people have to die to protect your father’s past?’
She had done it. She had revealed her final card.
‘What do you know about my father’s past?’
‘I know who he really is. And I know about the time machine.’
‘Impressive. How did you figure it out?’
‘Actually, Mark figured it out.’
By revealing how much she knew about their secrets, Charlotte had effectively signed their death warrants.
It didn’t matter. They would have killed them anyway.
Charlotte and Mark were liabilities. Bill’s cold smile confirmed it.
But there was one thing the foster system had taught Charlotte - never go down without a fight. They may take her life today but Charlotte would go down swinging.
‘Ah yes, that reminds me. We still have to deal with Mr Barclay.’
Bill motioned Frank over, whispering something in his ear. Frank nodded, scarpering from the room like a scolded child granted clemency.
His disappearance from the room gave Charlotte hope.
Three captors had now become two.
All she needed now was a miracle, something that would even the odds in her favour.
The intercom on the desk squawked to life, a jarring reminder that this was still a corporate office and not the killing fields of a distant war zone.
‘Mr Harvey on the line for you, sir.’
‘Which one?’
‘Your father, sir.’
‘Excellent. Put him through.’
Everything about Bill’s body language said he was a man in complete control.
Yet the minute William Harvey’s voice crackled over the line, Bill’s controlled persona came crumbling down, giving Charlotte her much needed miracle.
‘Bill. BJ. I met with a lawyer today. I just wanted to let you know I’ve disinherited you both.’
William placed the phone back in its cradle. He had no doubt that Bill would meet him. He’d thrown down one hell of a gauntlet.
Pushing the leather chair away from the desk, William walked to the double French doors, sliding them open to let in a gust of cool wind.
He stepped onto the expansive deck, staring out at the horizon as the first glint of gold tipped its hat to a new day.
It was fitting that it would take place at dawn; that by the time day broke, the blood debt would be repaid.
So many people had died. Lives had been turned upside down and more people would still be hurt before this sorry mess ended.
But only one more person needed to die.
William wiped sweaty palms on woollen slacks, the thunderous waves forty feet below drowning out the staccato beat of his heart.
How many more beats did it have?
Only as long as it took Bill to find the secluded beachfront property.
He had no idea how long he stood watching the sun rise across the Pacific Ocean. It could have been five minutes or it could have been an hour. There was something cathartic in watching a final sunrise.
It wasn’t until he heard the distinctive crunch of loose gravel under tyres that he dragged himself away.
From his vantage point on the top deck, William watched his firstborn son approach the house.
As predicted, Bill had come alone.
William walked back into the study, taking one final look around the room, hoping the arrangements he’d made were not evident, knowing his son did not easily fall into traps.
He leant across the desk, whispering a few last words of encouragement to himself.
Satisfied that everything was in order, William straightened his tie, preparing to give the performance of a lifetime.
BJ was freaking out.
He couldn’t believe what his grandfather had d
one. Could barely believe it was even possible.
How could he cut us out of his will? We helped build this company. We protected his secrets. Cleaned up his messes. I’m part of The William S Club.
The phrase his siblings coined was supposed to be derogative but instead, it had always been a source of pride to him. He shared a bond with his father and grandfather that his brothers and sisters could never touch. Would never understand. He had a controlling interest in the family business that they could only dream of.
Until now.
Could his grandfather really end it all? Would he really disinherit them? And what did that mean?
It would mean you have no money. You’re broke. Cut adrift.
BJ thought he might be sick.
Dad will sort it out. He always does. Grandpa’s just pissed off. That’s all. He’ll come around. He has to.
He refilled his glass, staring out the window at the city below.
‘I need to use the toilet,’ Charlotte said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her victim act only increasing his contempt.
‘It’s over there.’ BJ waved towards the back of the room.
She hobbled to the door, her arms hugging her chest.
‘Wait.’ Was there another exit? A phone? Something she could signal for help with? He pushed her aside, opening the door to peer into the bathroom.
All clear.
He was just about to tell her she could go in when something hard connected with the back of his head.
Chapter Fifty-Three:
Baker stood in front of the double oak doors, his heart like a machine gun on full auto. If Damon was right, his daughter was right behind this door.
Along with any number of men who wanted him dead.
All he had to do was hand over the package and Vikki would be free – or so Bill Harvey had promised.
Once bitten, twice shy and all that bullshit. Baker wasn’t about to put his trust in Bill.
Not again.
Not without insurance.
Only problem, he’d had to entrust the insurance to Damon, knowing it was the first thing Bill would check for.
I hope to God that kid is more honourable than his old man. I swear, if he double crosses me, I’ll kick the mother-fucking shit out of him, pacifist or not.
