The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  She found the recent calls and tapped the call button. As she waited for the line to ring, she battled the urge to lash out.

  “Come on, come on, come on…”

  It rang. Just once. And then, “I’m sorry, this number is no longer in service.”

  She felt her phone slip through her fingers and bounce off her lap. Everything was a blur. She couldn’t see the kids playing outside or feel the rush of cool air against her face. Her body went numb. She just sat there and stared at nothing. Time passed, but she couldn’t tell if it was thirty seconds or thirty minutes. Her body had put up a wall. A defense system to keep her from breaking down, losing control of everything that made her human.

  And then the wall slowly crumbled into dust. A throbbing pain took hold of her insides. It felt like a bear trap had clamped its razor-sharp teeth into her gut. Teeth that were laced with acid, born from the utter misery that had consumed her. She knew it wouldn’t let go until her entire being was shredded into a million pieces. She couldn’t stop it. Even worse, she didn’t want to stop it. She had to suffer more than precious little…

  A wailing sound split her eardrums—it was her own. She thrashed wildly, pounding her fist against the window, banging her head on the steering wheel. The devil had taken over her body, and she was just along for the tormented ride.

  Her phone rang.

  3

  She wiped her face and blinked, gaping at the control panel. It was Carlos.

  Oh my God… Carlos!

  She burst into tears. What will I tell him? She rocked her clasped hands in front of her face, hoping, praying that something would change. Everything she’d just experienced had to be a sick dream. Perhaps internal stress had built up to the point where she’d created some type of alternate universe, one that was designed to inflict the most pain. Just like when she’d cut herself over and over again while staring at her chubby body in high school.

  “Stop it!” she yelled at herself, covering her face. “Stop making it about yourself, dammit!”

  The phone continued to ring.

  She couldn’t bring herself to punch up the call. She kept replaying Annie’s scream…the last thing she’d ever hear coming out of her daughter’s mouth. Another wave of torment gripped her body. She started to cough, which morphed into a dry heave. She was losing control. She had devolved into something subhuman.

  This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be real, could it? Somehow, Annie would appear right there in her toddler seat in the back seat of her Mercedes.

  She glanced over her shoulder. All she saw was Annie’s stuffed animal, an alligator she’d appropriately named Allie.

  She heard herself sniffle. Still staring at Allie the Alligator, she’d somehow calmed down.

  The ringing phone shook her out of her trance. She couldn’t put it off. She had to tell Carlos what had happened to their darling little girl.

  She tapped the button.

  “She’s gone, Carlos. They took her, and I think they…they killed her.” She exploded into tears just as she finished speaking.

  “Megan, what are you talking about?”

  Gasping to control her breathing, she couldn’t respond. “I…I…”

  “Megan, what on earth?”

  “They took our Annie, Carlos. They took her, got me to send them the ransom. But they never gave her back. They said they would, but they just hung up on me. She’s gone…forever.”

  “Baby, Annie’s with me.”

  She stopped crying. She stopped breathing. Her heart wanted to believe what she’d just heard, but her mind wouldn’t let go of what she’d just experienced…hearing her daughter’s scream, dealing with the ruthless kidnapper.

  “What did you just say?” Her nasal passages were completely clogged.

  “I have Annie with me. I got off work early and decided it would be cool to have a little father-daughter time. We’re at the park. She’s running around, blowing bubbles.”

  “How…?” Her eyes came into focus, settling on the elementary school kids scampering across the playground. She even found David playing tag with some girls. She sniffled.

  “Baby, are you okay? Did someone tell you they had taken Annie?”

  Tears bubbled in her eyes again. “Put her on, Carlos. I need to hear her voice. I need to know she’s okay.”

  Carlos called out for their little girl. A moment later: “Hi, Mommy. I’m blowing bubbles!”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I love you, Annie.”

  “Love you, bye.”

  Her heart was whole again.

  4

  The cursor had blinked a thousand times. To be precise, it had blinked one thousand fifty-two times…and counting.

  I forced my eyes to look away, settling on two drops of dried white paint on the taupe carpet in my new office. Actually, the first real office for my little firm—which I’d named ECHO—whose mission was to improve the lives of children, focusing on those who were at the greatest risk of harm or negligence. That mission had, over the course of the last several months, evolved into much more than I’d ever imagined, both in good and bad ways. The good? We’d reunited lost loved ones, rescued kids from abusive situations, and been able to root out some very nasty people.

  The bad came in the form of risking our lives by crossing paths with those same nasty people. The worst of which was a man named Milton Weber, a crazed individual who’d stalked, abducted, and abused me. He had murdered countless others, all because of his obsession with me, wanting me to suffer. It had finally ended a couple of months back in his torture chamber, or as he’d called it, his fun house. He was finally apprehended by the San Antonio Police Department, but not before he had hurt two of my friends.

  Stan, a burly detective and a huge supporter of the ECHO cause, had lost his arm. Cristina, my lone employee and one very street-smart teenage girl who’d been through her own turmoil growing up, had nearly lost a kidney. They were subjected to Milton’s most gruesome torture techniques. I suffered my own injuries, which had also healed. The guilt I felt—whether well-placed or not—for allowing that monster to hurt my friends had torn a hole in my heart. On the outside, I did my best to hide what I was feeling inside—I knew it would only bring down those I cared about. For the most part, aside from a couple of transparent moments, I’d shown the world that I was all positive…there to support Stan and Cristina in any way I could.

  The whir of skateboards brought my attention to the front windows. Two teenage boys with baggy shorts zoomed down the sidewalk, dodging an older man walking his dog. The man raised his fist as he yanked the dog chain to avoid a collision. I popped out of my seat, ready to yell at the kids, but they were out of sight in the blink of an eye.

  That thought brought me back to my laptop and the blinking cursor. Using two fists to lean on my antique wooden desk, I quickly fell back into the routine of counting each flash. It was my coping mechanism. My delay tactic.

  My phone rattled across my desk. I picked it up and found a text from Saul, the man in my life.

  Have u done it yet?

  It was submitting the state form that was open on my laptop. By clicking the red button, I would be formally starting the process to meet my birth parents. I’d been raised as a “system” kid, living in seventeen foster homes along the way. Most were complete nightmares. For years, I’d never considered wanting to meet my birth parents. They hadn’t wanted me, so I didn’t look back. Growing up, I was in a constant state of survival. Far too many nights I was solely focused on trying to avoid the lewd advances of drunk and high adults—in some instances I didn’t succeed. Other times, I was scrounging for food in a home that wasn’t fit for a dog. So, dreaming about Mom and Dad, a little brother or big sister, in a white picket fence home was so farfetched it had rarely crossed my mind.

  But something had changed in me. And, surprisingly, it came after the latest near-death experience at the hands of Milton Weber. A feeling of wanting that unconditional love bubbled to the s
urface. It subsided occasionally, but would reappear in waves the more time I spent with Saul and his family. At times they could be an overbearing group, but I felt that bond between the kids and the parents. Just this past weekend, Saul and I finally agreed that I should follow my heart and begin the search. I had nothing to lose, right?

  The door opened, and I flinched from the sound of metal scraping concrete.

  “Hello, Ivy.”

  It was Mr. Roussel, the father of my best friend, Zahera. Wearing his combat boots and holding his Army beanie—even though he’d retired from the military years prior—he paused just inside the door. “Did you forget about our meeting?”

  “No, it’s fine. I was just in deep thought. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Sure, I’ll take a bottled water. You want to give me the grand tour of the ECHO home office?”

  I fought back a laugh and waved him toward the back. “It will take all of about ten seconds.” I walked into the main meeting room right off the front entry. He stopped, looked around, nodded. “Zahera had said this place wasn’t fit for rats when you first grabbed the space. But this is nice. Real nice.”

  I recalled my friend’s first time in the space. She was jumping on furniture to avoid rodents scampering across the floor. I explained to Mr. Roussel the transformation of the thirteen-hundred-square-foot office: new carpet, sleek but comfortable furniture purchased at an auction, a bunch of paintings donated by the art department at Trinity University, four cans of white paint, and a little bit of basic woodwork and plumbing by Saul to give us a functioning breakroom.

  Mr. Roussel’s deep-set eyes turned to the large window that faced east. A three-tiered water fountain sat under a tree, surrounded by flowers, bushes, and a bird feeder. A little bit of tranquility in the middle of the concrete jungle.

  “This is a great setting. I’m sure it’s nice to move out of the smoothie shop and into some real digs.”

  He was referring to our old office, a corner booth at Smoothies and Stuff. I showed him the breakroom, then handed him the water. I was reminded of how different he was from Zahera, both in terms of appearance and perspective on life. Zahera, a striking beauty, was a good three or four inches taller than her father, who was right at my height of five-six. He was a proud man, one who carried the burden of being a Muslim in a country that wasn’t always open to his religion. Yet, after migrating from Canada—his family had French roots—he joined the US Army and served twenty-three years. Zahera said his time in the military had helped embolden his view of the world. Very black and white. Right and wrong. Nothing gray. And that lack of flexibility annoyed Zahera to no end.

  From what Zahera had shared, her mother, who had died tragically years earlier by falling down a flight of steps, had served as a buffer between a militaristic father and his rebellious daughter. Since her mother’s untimely death, there had been numerous battles with her father. She always classified them as speeches where he declared, “I told you so,” most notably after her two quick marriages that ended in divorce. Those battles usually led to periods of silence between the two.

  Now Zahera was engaged again, just a week earlier…this time to a former Navy SEAL turned security company owner. As in personal security, usually for the uber rich. The pair looked like red carpet royalty. Zeke had the looks of a James Bond type…the build, the set jaw, and cropped blond hair. She had the look of a Bond beauty, except she was no ditz and took orders from no one. As I spent time around the couple, beyond their obvious physical attraction to each other, they seemed to have this tremendous mutual respect. He never thought about telling her what to do, and she wouldn’t have listened anyway. And vice versa.

  Mr. Roussel gazed around the room, and I took that as the cue for us to discuss the reason behind his visit. “In your email this morning, you said you wanted to talk about me possibly helping you with an urgent family matter.” While my intuition had been peppering my mind with possible theories of what kind of family matter might require my involvement, I’d been too busy to dissect it too far. Well, that, and I’d been preoccupied with filling out the Texas Central Adoption Agency form. Dammit, I still hadn’t clicked submit.

  I extended my arm toward one of the white leather seats around the oval glass table. He held up a finger, took a couple of chugs of water. As he sat down, I reached over to a side table, picked up a coaster, and slid it toward him. He set his water down and brought his fingers together. They were calloused—Zahera would probably draw irony from that, saying it matched his personality. But I tried to maintain an open mind.

  “Ivy,” he said, looking me squarely in the eye, “I need for you to do me and Zahera a favor.”

  Father and daughter were on the same side of…something. If nothing else, my curiosity was piqued. I gave him a single nod. “That being…?”

  “I need for you to investigate Zeke Moffett.”

  I went mute.

  5

  Our stare-down lasted for a good minute. A bird fluttered into the window, and I turned my head. Then Mr. Roussel broke the awkward silence.

  “You are thinking about it, which is a good sign.” He drummed the tips of his fingers together while showing what I’d call a professional smile.

  “Good for who?”

  “Whom,” he said.

  There he goes with his corrections. I tried not to let my inner-Zahera come out. “Your daughter, my best friend… Is she aware that you’re asking me to investigate her fiancé?”

  He scratched his neck, then went right back to his finger exercise. “She’s aware of my…reservations. And I think, to a degree, she is in agreement, but you know her, Ivy. She is stubborn. Or should I say stubbornly blind? Especially when she thinks she’s…” He cleared his throat and raised his hands to form air quotes. “…in love.”

  A rush of adrenaline sent my pulse into overdrive. I knew it was nothing more than my protective instinct. To protect my best friend. “Mr. Roussel—”

  “Armand, please. We’re both adults.”

  Like I needed that acknowledgment. “Zahera is thirty-two years old. She admits that she hasn’t always made the best decisions. But who hasn’t screwed up? We’re all only human.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  I did a double-take. “Okay…”

  “You are her friend. She has colleagues that work for her in her medical practice. We all have roles in her life.”

  “She’s a damn good friend. I would do anything for her.” My tone was far more defensive than I’d intended.

  “Zahera’s mother is no longer with us. So, as her father, my role is to not simply agree with every little whim—”

  “You’re calling her engagement to Zeke a whim?” The air conditioner hummed in the background, but I still felt a line of perspiration down the middle of my back.

  He leaned his forearms on the table and lowered his voice. “Ivy, please, I’m not trying to agitate you. I love my daughter. I’m only trying to do what is best for her. I’m sure you can see that, right?”

  He wasn’t winning me over. In fact, I could feel my mental heels digging in. I matched his lower tone and then some. “I can’t betray my friendship with Zahera because you’re afraid to let her live her life.”

  “Who said anything about a betrayal?”

  “I’m assuming you’d want me to conduct any investigation without her knowledge?”

  “Unless she flat-out asks you if you’re investigating Zeke, then you won’t be lying.”

  Leaning back in my seat, I chuckled, shaking off a what-the-fuck moment. Armand could have a second career in politics. “This…” I waved my finger between us. “It isn’t happening. In fact, the moment you walk out of here, I have every intention of calling her up and letting her know what is going on.”

  He just sat there, nodding, drumming his fingers. I could still taste my words, and they were sour, even a little vindictive. I blew out a breath. “Look, Armand, I respect your desire to keep Zahera s
afe. I get it. There’s got to be a self-help group you can go to, or a book you can read. I’m probably not the right person to do this kind of work anyway.”

  “Do you care about Zahera?” A hint of emotion crept into his tone.

  “Of course. Like a sister. Well, like a sister who’s the opposite of me.” I tried to laugh, but I never got there, and he certainly didn’t reciprocate. He just sat there and stared me down. This went on for another minute. My focus was beginning to drift. I had background checks I could be doing for a local private school—ECHO was on a monthly retainer with them. And I still had to make a decision about submitting that form to signal that I wanted to meet my birth parents.

  Wait. Was I already backtracking? Stop it, Ivy. Don’t make excuses against taking that next step. You’re a grown-ass woman.

  “I’m sorry, Armand, but I have a lot of things I need to get done before the end of the day.” I began to push up from the chair.

  “Zeke might be mixed up in an international drug ring.”

  I froze and read his face to see if he might be joking. What was I thinking? This man didn’t joke. He recited facts, or at least facts as he saw them.

  I slowly dipped my body back into the cushiony leather. “If you’re trying to shock me into listening a few more minutes, it worked. Tell me more.”

  “I have a friend who used to work for the FBI. We go way back to my early days in the Army, when we both were stationed in South Korea.”

  “The thirty-eighth parallel,” I said.

  He nodded. “Bart and I share the same values, and he knows how much family means to me. He did me a favor and reached out to a buddy of his still working at the FBI to do a complete background check on Zeke. The kind that uncovers every dirty little secret.”

  I swallowed back a dry patch in my throat. “And that’s when you learned about this possible connection to…what did you call it? An international drug ring?”