Relentless: A Bad Boy Romance (Bertoli Crime Family #1)

by Lauren Landish

  “You drive,” he said, tossing me the keys. “I'll talk to the cops and the phone company while you drive. Follow my directions. I know where the reservoir is. Brittany, you stay here in case we're on a wild goose chase. I pray that we are.”

  “Be safe, Patrick,” Brittany called. “And get her back. I love you.”

  He stopped in the doorway, turning to his wife. “I love you too, sweetheart. Don't worry. If this is true, we'll get her back.”

  His vehicle was a heavy duty Chevy Pickup, complete with off-road tires. I felt about twenty feet tall sitting in the driver's seat, and a small part of my mind flashed back to the time I'd driven an armored Humvee on patrol in Iraq. It was about the same size.

  Patrick mistook my momentary flashback for a question about his choice of vehicle. “I have another, but this should be better for our needs,” he said, sliding into the shotgun seat. “Think you can handle it?”

  “Quite,” I said, starting the engine and putting it in drive. I jammed the accelerator to the floor, heading out toward the main street. Old habits die hard, and while it had been five years, I could still drive well. “Where do we go?”

  “South, along 75,” Patrick said. “I think the exit is 224. It's the Hudson Bridge Road exit.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, gaining speed. A terrible dread settled in my stomach as I pushed the truck past sixty, shooting through a red light and earning a few honked horns. “Hope your insurance is paid up.”

  Patrick didn't reply, instead calling the cops. He talked with the dispatcher for a few minutes, explaining the situation. When he hung up, he was pissed off. “Fucking cops can't do much without knowing an address,” he said. “And Abby has only been missing a few hours. Shit!”

  “Calm down,” I replied, my fingers tight on the wheel. “Abby told me you've had heart problems in the past. I don't need you having a fucking coronary on me while trying to help Abby.”

  Patrick glanced at me, then shook his head. “What is it with you, Bell? You kill your friend, but now you're trying to save my daughter?”

  “I killed my friend because he was trying to rape a teenage Iraqi girl, and he was going to stab me with a bayonet,” I answered, not taking my eyes off the road as I shot up the on-ramp to the Interstate, already going seventy-five. “As for Abs, she’s a special girl, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Patrick replied. “Hold on, let me try something. I gave Abby a Camaro as a graduation gift from high school.”

  “Yeah, I rode in it yesterday. Nice car. You got it tuned up, too.”

  Patrick grunted in acknowledgment, then continued. “I had it equipped with OnStar. Her phone is under my contract, and that damn gadget has every gizmo on the planet on it.”

  I saw where he was going. “You can have those tracked. The car's OnStar and her phone's GPS. One of them should still be working.”

  “That's what I figure,” Patrick replied. He dialed his phone again, talking to an OnStar rep. As the official owner of the car, he was able to get the car's location and have it sent to his truck, where it popped up on an in-dash navigation system. “Finally, a use for that hunk of junk. Abby insisted I get it though. Never have used it for more than a fancy clock and CD player until now.”

  “More importantly, now you can tell the cops,” I added, watching as the route to the point was laid out over the navigation.

  He shook his head. “OnStar is doing that for me right now. They can feed the cops the exact GPS coordinates. I'm going to try and get an aerial shot of the area though, just in case.”

  He tapped at his phone, cursing occasionally as he fiddled with the unfamiliar technology. “After this, remind me to learn how to use this goddamn thing,” he finally said. “I just let Abby do most of this for me.”

  “I will,” I replied, pushing the truck faster. Above ninety, it started to shimmy some. The high tires and boxy exterior were meant for rugged low speeds and not aerodynamics, so I kept the speed down at eighty-five. “Four miles until the exit.”

  “Do you love her?” Patrick asked randomly, his head still buried in his phone. “You're not just trying to seduce her?”

  “I'll die for her if I need to,” I answered grimly. “I came to your door—hell, I kicked it down, knowing there was a decent chance I'd end up catching a shotgun to the chest. Does that answer your question?”

  “I think it does,” Patrick replied. “I knew you two were still talking, by the way.”

  “How?” I asked.

  He pointed to his phone. “I get a detailed bill on the phones by email every second of the month. That includes every number that she's called or texted in the past thirty days.”

  “She was angry with me when she found out who I was. I wasn't trying to mislead her, but that first night, I didn't really know who she was either.”

  I got off the Interstate and kept following the navigation. I knew at some point soon I'd have to keep my eyes open. The way Abby had described the house, the road likely wasn't going to be well-marked or even paved.

  Patrick looked out the window, seemingly lost in thought before he spoke up. “After her mother and sister were killed, I only had Abby,” he said softly, looking out on the rapidly dimming evening sky. “If I was overprotective, it was because I couldn't stand to lose her too.”

  “You won't,” I promised, turning right. “I think this is the right road. I see a house up ahead—see the lights?”

  “No,” Patrick admitted. “You must have better eyes than me.”

  The road quickly became rough and bumpy, and I wondered if we were on the right track. Still, the house grew closer and closer, and we were getting closer to Abby's car, too. I gunned the engine, not caring if we tore up the shocks on the truck. Patrick said nothing, putting his hand on the dash and hanging on grimly while we bounced our way down the washboard road.

  The house was on the edge of the lake, a two-story job that looked like it wasn't quite good enough to be a permanent house, but had when it was originally built been a pretty good vacation getaway. On our left, I could see blue lights approaching, and I knew the cops were approaching on another road, probably one that ran along the edge of the lake. Still, they were a good distance away and weren't rushing the way we were. I couldn't trust that they'd get there in time, and I pushed the engine harder.

  I skidded to a halt in front of the house, still a quarter-mile from the readout for Abby's car. Still, the house was the best chance for her location, and I was desperate, spraying gravel from the tires and leaping out. I immediately heard a sound that made my blood run ice cold, as Abby screamed as loud as she could. Running, I headed for the back of the house where I heard the sound coming from. It sounded like the garage, but there was no visible front door, with the garage door itself firmly padlocked shut. I went around and up the short stairs to the back porch, finding the rear entrance. This time, instead of kicking, I lowered my shoulder, hitting the door like I did back when I was on the high school football team. The old frame nearly exploded as I bulled through, looking for someone or something to fight. There was an open door leading down to the garage, and then a sound that again sent chills down my spine, as Abby's scream was cut off like a switch with a harsh, slapping sound. “Shut up, bitch.”

  Ironically, what should have driven me to even greater levels of rage, instead pushed me all the way past my emotions, drawing me into the cold, calculated place that I had last touched nearly five and a half years ago in Iraq. The killer inside me, the one that had actually shot at people with intent—and been rewarded, not sent to jail—was loose, and glad to be out of his mental cell. Almost unconsciously, I reached out and scooped up a kitchen chair, brandishing the wooden legs in front of me like a lion tamer as I jumped the short three steps down to the floor.

  The first thing I saw was Abby, trussed up and bound like a side of beef, her arms cinched above her head and her eyes half-shut, bruised and battered but still conscious, if only barely. She was alive at least, and I had
to secure the area, so I turned my eyes away, scanning the rest of the room.

  The next thing I saw was Chris, a knife in his hand, brandishing it toward me. Next to him, sagging in her bonds and moaning, was Shawnie, who'd been cut numerous times, the blood dark on her skin in the overhead fluorescent light.

  “One more step, and I cut her fucking throat,” Chris said, quickly stepping behind Shawnie and pulling her hair, exposing her neck. “Don't think I won't do it, hero boy.”

  “Drop the knife, Chris,” I said, lowering the chair. It wasn't an effective weapon anyway. I had used it just to shield myself as I came through the door. My killer side knew that right now, the best thing to do was to get him to talk. Killing could come later. “The cops are right behind me, and you don't want a murder rap on top of it all. Trust me, I know.”

  Chris chuckled and pulled Shawnie's hair harder. She was obviously drugged, her eyes rolling in her head. Somewhere, deep down, I think she knew what was going on. “Don't think I can get any worse than this, Dane, my boy. Two kidnappings, assault, and of course, the testimonies you and Abby there will give against me? No way, that’s not looking too good at all.”

  “You let them go, I let you go,” I said simply. “On my honor.”

  Chris's knife faltered, and he looked at me in slight distrust. “Why would I trust you?”

  I shrugged and sat down on the chair, even though it took everything in my power to do it. “You trusted me, gave me a place to stay. You could have turned me out, let me fucking hang. You didn't. I owe you my life. I think this makes us even.”

  Chris's knife faltered, drawing away from Shawnie's throat, which is what I wanted. What I didn't plan on, however, was Shawnie. Seemingly trapped in a drug-induced state, she threw her head back, her skull smashing into Chris's nose and mouth, sending him stumbling backward into the wall.

  I was out of the chair and on him in a flash. Driving low, I hit him hard with my shoulder in his stomach, lifting him and bouncing him again off the side of the garage. The knife fell from his hand to clatter on the ground, out of his grasp and temporarily out of my concern.

  Not giving him a chance to recover, I threw him to the side, bouncing his body off the floor before nailing him under the chin, snapping his head up and back with a kick that would have put a football through the uprights at a good distance. I stood over him, trembling while the killer inside me warred against the better half of my nature, until finally a compromise was reached.

  “Never trust a convicted killer.” I spat at the unconscious body. I kicked him as hard as I could in the ribs, feeling something give way under my foot with a satisfying crunch. “Sick fuck.”

  I heard a whimper behind me and I turned, seeing Shawnie's desperate and half-lidded, drugged out eyes. “Sorry, Shawnie. I'll try and be gentle.”

  I stood up and looked at the bonds Shawnie was being held with, trying to figure out what to do, when I heard a choked gasp behind me. “Abby?”

  Patrick's body hit the floor before I could even get to him, his hands clutching at the left side of his chest. His face was paper white, except for two bright red blotches on his cheeks. He looked like a porcelain doll in a perverse way. “Heart . . .”

  “Don't you fucking die on me,” I growled, pulling him up and out of the garage and back into the kitchen. I lifted his feet up and grabbed the other kitchen chair, elevating his legs and hopefully helping his heart. You're supposed to do it for shock, but I had to do something. “Hold on, the cops will be here in a second.”

  I could hear the car approaching, far too slow for my taste. “Move it, you fucking Deputy Dawgs!” I screamed before loosening Patrick's clothing. “I can't do all this shit by myself!”

  “Abby?” Patrick whispered, reaching up and taking my hand. I squeezed his fingers, staying next to him. “Where's Abby?”

  “She's fine,” I said, lying through my teeth. I had no fucking clue how Abby was, except that she was alive. “I don't think Chris touched her.”

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut. His head sagged back, and I leaned down, checking him. No heartbeat.

  “Shit!” I grunted, tearing open his shirt to double check. “Don't you fucking die on me, old man!”

  I heard Abby stirring in the garage, just as the cop car stopped outside. The doors to the car closed, and I heard the scrape of boots on the dirt. “Move your asses, boys!” I yelled even as I interlaced my hands and looked for the compression point. It’d been years, but the basics of giving CPR were still there in my mind. “I've got a man in cardiac arrest in here!”

  Chapter 17

  Abby

  I came to slowly, groggy from the slap Chris had hit me with. When I did, the first thing I noticed was that I was lying on the ground with a woman kneeling above me. “Miss Rawlings?”

  “Who are you?” I muttered, blinking. The light was now dim, but I had a pounding headache. “Where is Shawnie?”

  “Your friend is being looked after,” the woman replied. “I'm Debbie Morgan. I'm a cop.”

  “What happened?” I asked, rubbing my head.

  “Mr. Lake has been arrested. He's in an ambulance as well,” the cop said. She helped me sit up, making sure I kept my head down and between my knees. I noticed that I'd been covered with a blanket, which helped explain why I was so warm. “Your friend and your father are also on the way to the hospital.”

  “Daddy?” I asked, jerking my head up and sending a lightning bolt of pain through my head. “Is he all right?”

  “Your father was taken to the hospital with chest pains,” the cop replied. “We're going to take you there as soon as a car gets here. We had to get the others out of here first.”

  “Dane?” I asked. “I heard him before Chris knocked me out.”

  “Mr. Bell?” The cop asked, then pointed. “He's been arrested too. We'll make sure he won’t hurt you again.”

  I shook my head, struggling to get to my feet. When the cop tried to restrain me, I pushed her hands away. “Let go of me! Dane didn't do anything. He's my boyfriend. He was trying to save me.”

  The cop stopped, looking in my eyes. I rolled my eyes, despite how much it hurt, and got up. “I'm not loopy, and I'm not on drugs. Dane is my boyfriend, and if he’s here, it's because he saved us.”

  “That's what I keep telling them,” I heard Dane say from the other room, grunting when someone shoved him. “Just nobody believes me.”

  “Shut up, traitor,” someone in the other room grunted, and I heard a loud smack and the thud of a body hitting the floor. The cops around here weren’t exactly the most understanding nor the most likely to follow the rules in terms of use of force, especially against convicted felons.

  “Stop it!” I yelled, wincing at the pain in my head as I made my way into the other room, which turned out to be the kitchen. Dane was lying on his side, his hands cuffed behind his back while his eyes stared holes into a cop who was standing over him. “I'm telling you, he wasn't involved! What's your name? I'm going to sue your ass!”

  The cop looked at me, surprise registering in his face for the first time before turning and walking away. I looked at the other two cops in the room, who both looked sheepish at the ferocity in my voice. One of them, the cop who'd helped me wake up, went over and helped Dane to his feet. “Okay, I'm going to go by her word,” she said softly to Dane. “On the promise that you don't go anywhere. We'll ride over to the hospital together. How's that sound?”

  “I'm good,” Dane said, shrugging off the cop's arm and sitting back down in the chair. “And tell your buddy out there he's lucky that I'm more forgiving than Abs is.”

  The cop nodded and stepped back, gathering her fellow cops and leaving us alone. “Are you okay?” Dane asked as soon as we had a bit of privacy. There was still a cop in the room, but we lowered our voices. I wanted to reach out to Dane, but at the same time, I knew if I did, the cops would get interested again. “Are you hurt?”

  “I should probably get checked f
or a concussion,” I replied, “but if you mean am I in the same boat as Shawnie, no.”

  The female cop came up to us again, this time looking less concerned. “Miss Rawlings? We have an ambulance coming to take you to the hospital.”

  “And Dane?” I asked. “Can he come along with me?”

  She looked at us, then nodded. “Yeah, we can do that. Come on. Mrs. Rawlings is supposed to already be at the hospital.”

  One of the nice parts about living in a city like Atlanta is that there are a lot of top-flight hospitals throughout the city. When the ambulance pulled up, I’d already been checked out by the paramedic, who confirmed that while my clothes had been torn, Chris hadn't done anything else. “You've probably got a low-grade concussion,” he advised me before we pulled up, “but I'd let the docs give you a full check out. No offense—I don't know if you need it or not, but you've got one hell of a civil lawsuit on your hands.”

  “Not my style, but I'll still let the doctor look,” I said, not mentioning the fact that Daddy had enough money that he didn't need to worry about the frivolity of a civil suit. “Do you know anything about Shawnie or my dad?”

  The medic shook his head, and the ambulance stopped. Dane, who had been allowed to ride in the front seat next to the driver—the cops still weren't trusting him—called back. “We're here.”

  I found Brittany immediately inside the emergency room, the paramedics still insisting that I ride on the gurney. “Come off it, guys, I can walk,” I complained, pushing them away. Brittany put her hands on my shoulders, pushing me back. “Brittany . . . Daddy?”

  “They have him upstairs,” Brittany said, trying to maintain a calm outer demeanor. Still, I'd known her long enough; her emotions were a total wreck. “Abby, how did it all happen?”

  I told her the story while we waited for the doctor. The whole time, Dane didn't leave my side, reaching out and taking my hand and holding it gently. “It's my fault, Mrs. Rawlings,” Dane said softly. “I should have seen what was wrong with Chris before all of this happened.”