by Katee Robert
She took a shallow breath and straightened her shoulders. “Hey, Eliza.”
“Hey.” The word came out duller than she expected. As if her sister could barely put forth the effort to communicate. I was right about getting her out of here.
Journey strode to the bed and peered at the IV machine. “We’re taking you home.”
“Home…” Interest threaded through her voice, though the word slurred a little. “You don’t mean New York.”
“No, honey, I don’t mean New York.” Bellamy would coddle Eliza. Anderson would swing between wanting to handle her with kid gloves and bungling it because he didn’t do handling well. Someone needed to lay things out straight. Eliza might be the favorite baby sister, but she was still a King. She’d survived, the same way they all had, and she’d been living on her own for years. She was made of tougher stuff than their brothers gave her credit for.
Tougher than Journey gave her credit for, too.
She met her little sister’s blue gaze. “Bellamy is getting Mother’s old place ready for you. We’ll have an in-home nursing staff until you’re recovered, and then I expect there will be some kind of physical therapy, though it’s up to you to decide if you want to do that in-home or go to them.” The interest faded from Eliza’s face, so Journey pulled out the big guns. “The accident wasn’t an accident.”
Eliza tensed. “You seem so sure.”
“And you don’t seem surprised.” She grabbed a chair and pulled it over to sit next to the bed. Maybe looming over her sister wasn’t the best choice for this conversation. Frank’s men outside the door would ensure they weren’t interrupted. “What do you remember about the crash?”
“Nothing. One second I was driving, the next I was flying.” Eliza glanced at her phone sitting on the table next to the bed. “But I’m not stupid. Either Elliott didn’t want me leaving—and wanted to send a message to you—or someone doesn’t like the fact that I’m part of the bargain for this fucking merger.”
Her sister knew it wasn’t an accident. She’d sat here, alone and helpless, maybe waiting for someone to come finish the job. Anger pulsed through Journey and she clenched the arms of her chair. “I’m going to take care of it.”
Eliza’s eyes flew open. “Jo, no. Let Anderson handle it. Or call Mother. She’s always been so damn good at fighting our battles. I don’t want any of you hurt because of me.” She reached up and touched her own lips. “Damn it.”
Journey had thought she was sparing Eliza by withdrawing, by them all withdrawing over the years. They never talked about what happened in that house. Oh, Anderson was always there if Journey needed an anchor, and she knew he dealt with his demons by sweating them out. Even Bellamy showed the strain occasionally by appearing at work after what was obviously a sleepless night, face drawn and shadows lurking in his eyes.
But not Eliza.
Never Eliza.
If one of them got out unscathed, it was supposed to be her. She was only four when Lydia saved them. Surely all she had were patchy memories? How would I know if we never talked about it? Journey cleared her throat. “He’s not going to win, Eliza. And he’s sure as fuck not going to hurt you. I won’t allow it.”
“Jo—”
Something clanged outside the door. Journey shot to her feet, her heart racing. We’re in a hospital. There are sounds in a hospital. Every instinct she had shouted that she was lying to herself. Bad things were happening.
She shot a look at her sister in the hospital bed. Bad things had been happening for a long time. She wasn’t going to let Elliott take anything more from Eliza—from any of them. “If I’m not back in a few minutes, hit that buzzer and call Anderson.”
“Jo!”
But she was already moving, striding to the door and slipping into the hallway. Ethan stepped in front of her, his hand up as he spoke into his phone. He hung up and slipped it into his pocket. “There’s no reason to panic.”
“People say that directly before they give you a reason to panic.” She looked up and down the hallway, but there didn’t seem to be anything amiss. Certainly nothing to explain the alarm bells pealing through her head. “What’s going on?”
“Mateo just called to ask if Frank came here instead of the office.”
She stared. “Why would he come here?” She charged back into Eliza’s room and dug her phone out of her purse. Journey dialed Frank, even though she knew Mateo would have tried to call Frank already. It wasn’t as if he was screening his calls. She was so focused on waiting for the voice mail to click over so she could move onto the next step that she didn’t realize someone had answered until breathing skated across the line. Journey froze. “Hello?”
“Hello, sweetheart.”
Every single nerve in her body froze solid and encased her in ice. “Where is Frank?” She spoke through numb lips, her mind struggling to reconcile her father’s voice coming through the line when she was sure she’d been calling Frank’s number.
Elliott spoke as if she hadn’t asked a question. “You never were particularly good at doing what you’re told. Ever the disobedient daughter.”
“Where. Is. Frank?”
“You took something I valued greatly.” He trailed off, as if musing to himself. In the distance, a familiar sound shushed through the line. “You had to know that would require punishment.”
That got her moving. She snapped her fingers at Ethan, who fumbled to hand her a pen and paper. Journey scrawled out He’s near water and held it up for Ethan and José to see. As they rushed for their respective phones, she took what passed for a steadying breath. “If you hurt him, you’ll be the one who’s punished.”
He laughed. “Please. We both know better.”
“Elliott—”
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said good-bye.” He hung up before she could say anything else.
Journey cursed. “This is bad.” She glanced at Ethan and José but they were on their phones, in the middle of two different conversations. As much as she wanted to rush out of the hospital, she couldn’t do it until they had a plan in place. Hold on, Frank.
Ethan hung up first. “Elliott’s got his yacht docked at the marina. If he’s somewhere near water, that’s got to be it.”
“Mateo’s tracing Frank’s phone.” José paced from one side of the room to the other. He opened the door enough to check the hallway and shut it again. “Thanks, Mateo.” After slipping his phone into his pocket, he turned to face them. “He’s at the marina.”
“Okay.” Journey ran her hands through her hair. She turned to find Eliza watching her. “I have to go.”
“I know.” Eliza might have smiled, but it was hard to tell with all the bandages. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.” She was going to need it. Journey motioned to the men and they headed out. It wasn’t until they hit the parking garage that she spoke. “We need cops and we need your men there.” One look at their faces said what they thought of that, but she didn’t give a fuck. “We need cops,” she repeated. “They can’t ignore the possibility of a shootout or murder in such a public place. They can’t afford to.”
Ethan jumped into the driver’s seat, and José held the door open for her in the front. Neither of them said a word about her accompanying them, which was just as well.
If they tried to stop her, she’d go through them to get to Frank.
She listened to José start making calls, waiting long enough to ensure he had, in fact, called the cops, and then Journey called Anderson. Voice mail. She cursed. “I don’t know where the hell you are, but I need you. Elliott has Frank. They’re at the marina. I’m going after him.” She hung up. It was only then that the reality of the situation sank in.
Elliott had Frank.
He wanted to kill him.
To punish her.
She gripped her slacks with shaking hands and stared straight ahead as Ethan navigated through Houston’s streets. Not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough. If Elliott got to open water, it woul
d significantly delay their ability to stop him. He’d have all the time in the world to hurt Frank. To dump his body into the ocean once he was finished with him. To sail away to some un-extraditable country.
If he hurts Frank, there’s nowhere on earth he can go where I won’t find him.
She clenched her jaw until black spots danced along the edges of her vision and red washed over everything. There was no room for fear.
In the backseat, José cleared his throat. “Backup is roughly fifteen minutes behind us, maybe more. I can’t speak to the police timeline.”
Journey closed her eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again. “We can’t afford to wait for them—any of them.”
“Agreed.”
Thank God. She took a steadying breath. “I don’t suppose you two have experience with hostage extraction?” It came out as a lame joke, but neither Ethan nor José jumped in to tell her no. She turned to look at Ethan. “You do, don’t you?”
“We have experience in a lot of things.” He held the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, which belied his calm tone. “It’s part of the reason Frank has us on your security detail.”
She filed that piece of information away to ask Frank about later. Because, damn it, there would be a later. Journey nodded at the road. “Drive faster.”
Minutes later, Ethan pulled into the parking lot and turned to her without shutting off the engine. “We do this by the book, Journey. Our men are on the way, and we’re not rushing in there like idiots and getting anyone killed.”
Frustration sank jagged claws into her. “You don’t honestly expect me to sit here and wait for backup.” Even now, Elliott could be leaving the marina. He could have already left. She pulled her purse closer to her. Drawing a gun on men whose only job was to protect her put Journey in a really shitty category of people, but she didn’t give a fuck. Frank needed her, and she wasn’t going to let these men stand in her way. No matter if they were allies or not.
José leaned forward to shoot her a look from between the front seats. “No need to pull that gun. We’re going in. But you will follow orders and you will stay between us the entire time.”
“Done.” In that moment, she would have said anything to get them to turn off the damn car and go save Frank, and they must have known it.
Ethan shook his head and climbed out. “Frank’s going to kill us for this, you know.”
“Nah.” José gave a tight grin that didn’t come anywhere near his eyes. “He’ll just give us a dressing-down for the ages and then suspend us with pay until he’s cooled off.”
She didn’t know if this was some kind of ritual of theirs or if they were trying to make her feel more at ease, but Journey slipped her purse over her shoulder and followed them down to the massive docks where the boats were kept. She let their words wash over her, let the ease of their conversation about what Frank would do to punish them wrap around her like an air bubble. There was no if they got Frank back. It was when.
Journey appreciated their confidence, even if she wanted them to hurry the fuck up.
“Company,” José murmured.
“I see them.”
Journey followed their gazes to the pair of men headed toward them. The two guys couldn’t have screamed paid muscle more if they had the words painted across their foreheads. Black fatigues, too-tight black shirts, intense expressions on their faces.
Not to mention the guns they had nestled into shoulder holsters.
“We’ll take care of this, Journey.”
She nodded and then cleared her throat. “Yeah. Sure.” She looked beyond the approaching men and missed a step. There it was—the Queen Bitch. Elliott’s yacht.
It was starting to pull away from the dock.
“Ethan!” She pointed.
He stepped forward, but the man closest to him swung. Ethan cursed and ducked beneath the punch. “Don’t you dare, Journey!”
If she didn’t move now, it would be too late. Finding and commandeering a boat would take too long, if they could even do it at all. Once Elliott hit the Gulf, he could go anywhere—do anything.
Fuck no, he won’t.
She bolted, slipping between the two fights that began as the second man engaged José, having obviously decided that Journey was the lesser threat. He wasn’t wrong, and she used it to her advantage. Journey sprinted down the dock, her low heels drawing dull thuds from the slatted wood beneath her feet. The gap between the yacht and the dock grew, but this was her only chance. She wouldn’t miss it.
She leaped from the edge of the dock.
Journey hit the side of the yacht with a bone-crushing force that drove the air from her lungs, but she managed to get her arm around one of the railing posts. She hung there for several long seconds, waiting for someone to come investigate or for her strength to give out and dump her into the water.
Nothing happened.
She risked a glance over her shoulder to where the fight was still going on in earnest. It was obvious Elliott’s two men were outmatched, but it was equally obvious that by some unspoken agreement, Ethan and José were dragging it out.
To give me time.
She took a deep breath and, on the exhale, hauled herself up and through the gap in the railing to the deck. No time to rest. The space was too open. All it would take was someone up above to look down and they’d see her sprawled there.
Journey kicked off her shoes and grabbed them in one hand. She stood and hurried to the door leading inside. A quick pause to pull her gun out of her purse and shove her shoes in and she was ready.
Liar. You aren’t ready. You don’t have special training. You’re not a fucking marine who knows how to handle extractions without someone getting killed.
Shut up. I’m here. I will save Frank.
She slid soundlessly through the door, forcing her breathing to slow and even out no matter how thin the air seemed or how strong the urge was to gasp her inhales. No sounds but the faint hum of the motor as Elliott guided the yacht farther from the marina.
Farther from safety and watching eyes.
Journey ducked into the first door she found—a bedroom—and typed out a quick text to both Anderson and Ethan. I’m on the yacht. Send backup.
Anderson responded immediately. Get off that fucking boat right now, Jo. RIGHT NOW.
Too late.
She made sure her phone was on silent and vibrate was off and slipped it back into her purse. No telling how long she’d have cell reception on the water. Journey didn’t make a habit of taking boats out of the sight of land, and so she had absolutely no frame of reference.
She had to believe that the men would continue with the rescue plan.
That they’d be able to track the Queen Bitch.
Don’t think too hard about everything that could go wrong. It’s outside your control right now. Frank is the priority.
With that in mind, she stowed her purse in the closet. Her phone would be useless before too long, and hauling around the bag would just slow her down. She loaded her gun, ensuring there was a bullet in the chamber, and paused. Am I really going to shoot someone?
The first thing her mother taught her upon putting a gun in her hands was not to even bother carrying it if she wasn’t prepared to use it. It was part of the reason Journey usually kept it locked in her closet instead of on her person, despite having a current permit to carry concealed. With the biggest threat supposedly out of her life, she had never thought she’d actually be in a position where she might have to shoot to kill.
She tightened her grip. This wasn’t about her. This was about Frank.
I’ll do what I have to do.
Journey padded back into the passageway. She took a second to orient herself and then headed for where the ladder should be. Most yachts were arranged in a vaguely similar pattern, so she should be able to make her way to the upper decks—and the navigation system—through the center of it. She strained to listen with every step, sure that someone would jump out and attack,
but the thing was deserted.
In some ways, that was worse.
Elliott didn’t want any potential witnesses for what he planned for Frank.
She found the ladder with little difficulty and started her ascent, her gun held carefully in front of her and her gaze trying to take everything in at once. The faint sound of voices reached her as she hit the second level, and Journey plastered herself to the bulkhead. Several seconds passed and the conversation didn’t get any louder. A few steps further and she recognized Frank’s deep voice and her father’s amused tone.
That bastard won’t be amused for long.
She edged up the last few steps in a crouch. The men were both to the left of the ladder opening, but a half wall blocked her view. It was possible they weren’t alone, and that the third person was some highly trained professional who would shoot her the second she came into view…but it was a chance she’d have to take.
She straightened, her gun held steady in two hands. The tiny flicker of relief at the realization that there was no one else died as she took in the scene. Elliott stood at the navigation system, a gun a few inches from his hand. Frank knelt on the floor at his feet, blood seeping from where it appeared he’d been pistol-whipped in the face, his hands fastened behind his back with a zip tie.
Her father shifted to face her fully, and she focused on him. “Do. Not. Move.”
Elliott lifted his hands slowly, a grin pulling at the edges of his mouth. “Or what, sweetheart? We both know you’re not going to pull that trigger. You don’t have it in you.”
She adjusted her grip on the gun. Even knowing it was only a few pounds, her arms shook with the effort of keeping it steady. It wasn’t a position she could hold indefinitely, and Elliott was probably betting on that. “Move away from the gun. Slowly.”
Instead of obeying, he slouched a little, looking for all the world like he was settling in for some good gossip over an expensive drink. “I’m surprised you made it past my men. I’ll have to have a chat with them.”
She tensed, and then cursed herself for showing even that much reaction. Journey knew all too well what his chats entailed. She shifted a step to the side so that she wasn’t at risk of tumbling back down the stairs if the yacht made an unexpected movement. “Get away from the gun. I won’t tell you again.”
