He heard something in her voice, something she wasn't saying. He leaned forward, studied her face. "Except?"
She laughed, the sound hollow. "Allen said you were perceptive. No, nothing valuable was missing—at least as far as the police know."
"But?"
"His dog tags are gone, along with his jump wings. And...his motorcycle is missing. He kept it in the shed behind the house. As far as the neighbors know, he sold the bike last year. It's not even registered in his name anymore."
"I don't understand."
"He was being careful. Changed the registration to my name so nobody could trace it back to him."
Daryl frowned, wondering what the hell he was missing. Why would Davis do something like that? And why did he need to be careful?
Theresa must have sensed his confusion because she offered him a sympathetic smile then kept talking. "He kept the bike for his daughter. In case she needed it. I—I think she was here that night."
What the fuck? "You think she had something to do with—"
"No. God, no. Not even close. I—I think she found him."
Anger washed over him. What kind of woman was Davis's daughter that she'd take off instead of getting help for her father? Once again, Daryl wondered what the hell the girl was mixed up in. "You think she found him but instead of calling for help, she just took off?"
"She wouldn't have had any choice."
"I don't—"
"I think maybe you should read whatever Allen left for you." There was a hint of steel in the woman's voice, an edge of command that dared him to do otherwise. She pushed to her feet and turned toward a doorway leading to the rear of the house. "I'll be in the kitchen. Let me know when you're finished and I'll take you over to Allen's."
Daryl waited until she left the room then stared at the envelope in his hand. He swore softly then pulled the small knife from his pocket and slid it under the seal. The envelope contained a single sheet of paper. Daryl pulled it out, unfolded it—and choked on a startled laugh.
The damn thing was written in code.
He stared at it, his mind arranging and rearranging the letters, trying to make sense of it. Dammit, he wasn't a fucking cryptologist, how the hell—
His last thought echoed in his mind. He wasn't a cryptologist. Davis was well aware of that fact, wouldn't have written something in a code Daryl wouldn't be able to understand.
He studied the letters and numbers, his mind sifting through memories, finally latching on the one he needed. He closed his eyes, pictured his hard-ass CO giving them shit about hurried communications.
Heard the man's gruff voice belt out instructions, telling them any fucking idiot could figure it out if they knew where to start. Daryl had been the fucking idiot in question, barely eighteen and full of piss and vinegar, convinced surviving BCT had given him the skills to conquer the world.
He'd been wrong. So fucking wrong.
Davis had set him right.
He opened his eyes, looked at the numbers and letters one final time, seeing the message he'd been meant to see.
A single name that meant nothing to him: Grady Byrne.
Below that, two sets of coordinates, clearly marked first and second, with a twisted arrow directly behind the second.
The final few lines were a personal message to him, one that did nothing to explain what was going on.
If you're reading this, it means I'm not around and my girl is on the run. I told her to go to you but I don't think she will—she's not one to trust easily, not even on my say-so. Find her. She needs you, whether she admits or not. Yeah, she knows who you are and she'll have to learn to trust you. She has no choice. She can explain everything to you then, including that second set of coordinates.
Daryl reread the note, trying to make sense of it. What the hell kind of game was Davis playing? A deadly one, yes. But what the hell else was going on?
Steps sounded to his right and he glanced up, noticed Theresa leaning against the doorframe, watching him. She pointed to the note. "Does that answer any of your questions?"
No, it didn't. The only thing that might help was the name. Grady Byrne. It meant nothing to him, didn't spark even the faintest recognition. He'd have Chaos run it, see what he could find. But he didn't share any of that with Theresa. He simply shrugged then carefully folded the note and placed it back in the envelope before tucking it in his inside jacket pocket.
"Do you know his daughter?"
"I've met her a few times but I haven't seen her recently."
"Is there anything you can tell me about her that might help?"
"Like what?"
Daryl rose to his feet, curled one hand into a fist and jammed it into his pocket before he did something stupid, like punch a hole in the wall. How the fuck was he supposed to help when he had absolutely nothing to go on?
"A name would be a good start." Yeah, a damn good start because Davis hadn't once called his daughter by name. "A picture. Why she's running."
"Allen didn't tell you her name?"
"No, he didn't."
"Then I don't think I should, either." She raised her hands, stopping his argument before he could make it. "I'm not being difficult. It's just—I don't know what name she's going by."
"How about her given name? That might be a good start."
"I'm sorry but I made him a promise. If he didn't tell you, then I certainly can't."
Daryl wanted to shout at her, tell her he was one of the good guys. That he was the one Davis had asked for help. But yelling would do no good, he knew that from the stubborn set of her shoulders as she stared at him. And part of him admired her loyalty and her integrity. He swallowed back his frustration, ran one hand through his hair.
"Is there anything you can tell me?"
Theresa tilted her head to the side and watched him for a long minute before answering. "I know she's a good kid. She loves her father. I know that the trouble she's in isn't her fault. I know she's been running for at least three years and Allen did his best to help out. And I know...despite what the police think, I know he died protecting her."
Her voice broke and she quickly blinked away tears, took in a shaky breath as her gaze dropped to the floor. She ran a hand across her eyes then looked up, her gaze fastened on his with steely determination and a glimmer of hope. "Are you the man he always told me you were? Are you going to do as he asked and help?"
The silence stretched around them as Daryl watched her. Fuck. He knew the answer, had known it as soon as his old CO's face had come up on that video he'd sent. He didn't have a choice.
"Yeah. I'll help."
He just wished to hell he knew what he was getting into—and wondered if it was already a foregone conclusion that he'd fail.
Chapter Seven
Grady Byrne leaned against the edge of the desk, a smile on his face. He was well aware of the image he presented, had practiced it long enough in the decades of fighting to get where he was today.
Mature and trustworthy. Not quite grandfatherly but close, with his full head of striking silvery-red hair and sparkling green eyes.
Self-assured. Confident, with straight posture that gave the illusion of height. Of strength.
He took great care with his appearance, choosing only the most-expensive suits, carefully tailored to make his average frame more impressive. Everything about him screamed success. Encouraged trust from those around him.
The woman huddled in the chair in front of him didn't appear to trust him. Such a pity.
She was a small woman, in her late-twenties. Short blonde hair and blue eyes shadowed with fear. A narrow face with an unfortunate overbite. Thin lips, pale and trembling.
She was afraid of him, despite his attempts at making her feel comfortable. The apparent lack of trust on her part rankled him. Who was she to sit there and stare at him in fear, instead of the respect he deserved?
No matter. If her husband failed again, he would make sure she had a genuine reason for her fear.
The woman cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, staring at the men stationed behind her, their hands on her shoulders, holding her in place. She turned back to Grady, offered him a smile that was nothing more than a slight stretching of trembling lips.
He hid his distaste, casually glanced at the expensive gold watch on his left wrist. Swallowed back his irritation as the minute hand jumped.
Michael was late. Damn the fool. Had he bungled his job again? Grady was running out of patience. Why was it so difficult for his men to do the job they were supposed to do? A simple task. Find the woman. Discover the location of the child. Dispose of the woman and bring the girl to him.
His granddaughter.
His legacy.
She should be with him now. For each day that she wasn't, he lost the loyalty of several more men—men who were convinced he was no longer capable of running the organization.
His organization.
Anger swept through him, anger he was quick to hide. How dare they! How dare they question his abilities. His plans. How dare they question him!
They would learn. All of them.
As soon as he had the girl.
As soon as Michael completed the job he'd been given—
The phone rang, breaking the tense silence that had fallen over the room. Amy jumped, a whimper of fear falling from her lips. Grady stepped toward her, backhanded her across the mouth then knelt beside her.
"Now lass, there will be none of that. Is that clear?"
Tears fell from the woman's eyes, trailed down her cheeks and mingled with the blood from her split lip. She nodded and Grady smiled, gently patted her on the shoulder then reached for the phone.
"Michael. I take it you have news for me, then?"
"Yes, sir. We think we found her."
Grady clenched his jaw, exhaled through his nose. "You think?"
"Yes, sir. We think—that is to say, we're sure she's in West Virginia."
"West Virginia?" Grady swallowed an oath, forced his voice to remain calm. "And where, pray tell, are you at this moment, Michael?"
A long pause, followed by a quick breath. "In Louisiana. Sir."
"And is there a reason you're in Louisiana when you believe the woman is in West Virginia?"
"We thought—" Another quick breath, the sound hinting at the slightest edge of panic. "It was a mistake, sir."
"A mistake." Some of the anger boiling inside him drifted into his voice. Grady didn't care, not anymore. "Tell me, Michael: why do you now think she's in West Virginia?"
"We did some checking. The father's friend has a cabin. In the mountains. We think she may have gone there."
"And you didn't think to check this before heading to Louisiana?"
"No, sir. We thought—no. No, we didn't. It was a mistake."
"Yes, Michael, it was. I trust there will be no more mistakes?"
"No, sir."
"Good. This friend of the father's—what is his name?"
"It's a woman, sir. Theresa Martin. She—she lives two doors down from the father."
Damn the fools! Why hadn't they thought to check for this information eleven days ago? Eleven days!
Fury ripped through Grady, momentarily stripping away the cultivated veneer he carefully presented to the outside world. The woman—Michael's wife, Amy—must have caught a glimpse of it, must surely know what fate he had planned for her because she whimpered, struggled against the two men holding her in place.
Grady pushed away from the desk, held the phone to his side and backhanded the woman again. A small scream filled the air, followed by pitiful crying.
He returned the phone to his ear, wondered if Michael had heard. Yes, he had—the ragged breathing, short and panicked, coming through the line assured him of it. "Your wife is a lovely woman, Michael. So very...petite. Fragile."
"S-sir?"
"We were just having a nice little chat, Amy and I. Such a lovely lass. It would be such a shame if anything happened to her."
Another pause, this one much longer. "Yes, sir."
"Get the woman for me, Michael. Find out where the girl is. Bring her to me. No more mistakes. No more excuses." He slammed the phone down, cutting off the man's terrified stammering. He walked around the desk, removed a square of linen from the top drawer and stared out at the darkness as he carefully wiped a smear of blood from his knuckles.
He released a sigh, spun the chair around and faced the two men standing stoically behind the woman. Neither man looked at him.
"Daniel, find out what you can about Theresa Martin. We may need to pay the woman a visit." Yes, a visit might be in order. But not yet. Not until he heard from Michael. If the man succeeded, there would be no reason to risk a return to the States. Not that entering would be risky, not when he had ways to avoid being caught.
"Yes, sir."
Grady leaned back in the chair, studied the blood flowing from the woman's mouth and cheek. Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Disgusting. Did the woman have no backbone? No strength? No, of course she didn't. She was worthless, even as a pawn to ensure Michael did what he was supposed to do.
He nodded to the woman. "Remove her from my sight. Get someone in here to clean up the mess her sniveling has left on the carpet."
Both men nodded, grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to her feet. Daniel's gaze met his then quickly slid away—but not before he saw the briefest glimpse of fear in their depths.
"What do you want us to do with her, sir?"
Grady waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Get rid of her. I have no use for worthless, sniveling women."
"Yes, sir."
"And Daniel?" The other man turned, waiting. "I think I'd like pictures. Lots of colorful, vivid pictures. Michael will want something to remember his wife by, yes?"
Daniel nodded then helped the second man drag the screaming woman from the room. The door closed behind them, plunging the office into blessed silence.
Grady spun the chair around, stared out at the twinkling lights of the landscape spread out below the window.
Tonight had been the first time he'd seen fear in Daniel's eyes. Daniel, of all people. More than fear, he'd seen impatience. Disgust.
No, it must have only been Grady's imagination, fueled by his own impatience and disgust over this entire business. Three years. There was no excuse for it. None at all. His granddaughter—his legacy—should already be here by his side. Should have been here three years ago.
Yes, what he'd seen in the man's eyes was merely his imagination. Grady refused to believe otherwise. Daniel was one of his most loyal supporters, would be by his side for years to come.
Helping him rebuild his crumbling empire.
Soon. Very soon.
His granddaughter would be by his side and those who had doubted him—who doubted him still—would pay.
Yes, they would definitely pay.
Chapter Eight
"I got that info you wanted."
Daryl closed his eyes, clenched his jaw so damn tight he heard his back teeth grinding. The edge in Chaos's voice told him the info wasn't going to be good. Had he expected anything different? Fuck no, not after the last five fucking hours. Hell, more than five, if he counted back to the minute he sat down and popped that fucking thumb drive into his computer.
He was running short on sleep. On food. On fucking patience. Why should Chaos have any information that even remotely resembled good news?
Daryl reached across the seat and grabbed his gear bag, dug around one-handed until his fingers closed over the stash of candy bars he kept tucked in there for emergencies. Chocolate and peanuts. Yeah, it totally worked for him.
He propped the phone between his ear and shoulder and tore open the wrapper. "I'm listening. What do you have?"
"Nothing good. Where the fuck are you?"
"I'm sitting in the damn rental truck TR arranged in a parking l
ot outside the shitty little airport you had them fly me into." Daryl bit into the candy bar and chewed. Swallowed then reached for the bottle of water on the seat next to his bag. "Now what information do you have?"
"Grady Byrne is a fucking crime boss."
The phone slipped from his shoulder. Daryl lowered the candy bar and grabbed the phone with his free hand before it hit the floor. He stared at it for a few stunned seconds before raising it back to his ear. "Come again?"
"Grady Byrne is a fucking crime boss."
"Yeah, I heard what you said. I need you to elaborate."
"Crime boss. You know: organized crime. The Mafia."
"The Mafia? With a fucking name like Byrne? Are you sure about that?"
"Pretty damn sure. Although maybe I should have said mob instead of Mafia. Irish mob, to be exact."
"What the fuck? Is that even a thing?"
"Apparently." There was a faint rustling of papers in the background, followed by the sound of someone tapping on a keyboard. "From what I've been able to dig up so far, he has a penchant for comparing himself to all the big names who've gone before him."
"So he's what—a wannabe of some kind?"
"I didn't say that, no. The man has some violent history in his background. Fled the country about ten years ago to avoid serving time for drug trafficking and tax evasion. Last known address is Canada. Before that, he had business concerns in Boston."
Daryl took another bite of the candy bar, barely tasting it as his mind ran in a hundred different directions. How the hell was Davis—or rather, his daughter—connected to a criminal? Or maybe there was no connection, maybe Chaos had pulled the wrong name.
"Are you sure you have the right Grady Byrne?"
There was a long pause where Daryl could actually feel the other man's stunned ire. "There are dozens of men by that name. This is the only one worth discussing. You tell me, boss-man—would your buddy mention anyone who wasn't worth discussing?"
The answer to that was easy: no. His former CO would have known Daryl would run a check on the name. Hell, anyone would have. There was no reason to mention a name if there wasn't anything about it that would stand out, if there wasn't anything about it that might give Daryl some clue as to what the hell was going on.
The Guardian: DARYL (Cover Six Security, #2) Page 7
