Death Is Not Enough

by Karen Rose

  However, picking the handcuff lock would be the hard part. Lock-picking was a delicate task and she hadn’t had much practice recently. She dropped the pick the first two times and had to force herself to relax, to not think about the fact that Thorne was helpless in that box and Aidan might be dead somewhere. Instead she hummed one of Thorne’s favorite songs and felt her muscles begin to unwind.

  If Thorne could hear her and know she was near, that was a bonus.

  It took two more tries, but eventually she managed to pick the lock, freeing one of her hands. It would do for now. She crawled over to the box and ripped at a seam, tearing away the back.

  She couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped her throat when she saw Thorne lying there unmoving. His beautiful face battered and bruised.

  The sound propelled her back into motion and she pushed at his massive shoulder as gently as she could, maneuvering him so that she could get to the cuffs at his back. He moved with her, although he said not a word. She made quick work of the locks, then tucked the cuffs into the back pocket of his pants and rolled him onto his back. Massaging his arms to help his circulation, she gave him a quick visual once-over. No blood, no obvious gunshot wounds.

  She leaned in to brush a kiss over his lips. ‘I’m going to get out of here,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll be back for you. I love you.’

  His eyelids fluttered open. ‘Run,’ he rasped. ‘Get away.’

  ‘I’ll have to swim. We’re on a boat.’

  ‘Fuck,’ he whispered, and she had to fight the urge to laugh.

  ‘Indeed.’ She took another second to touch his face, then pushed to her feet. ‘Your ankles are bound with zip ties. I need a knife.’

  Thorne lifted to rest on his elbows, giving his head a hard shake, looking around the room for the first time. ‘Shit. What is this place?’

  ‘A boat with a torture room,’ she told him. ‘Welcome to Chez Tavilla.’

  ‘Check the cabinet on the wall,’ the kid said from the corner. ‘They were talking when they dumped me here. Thought I was still out of it. The woman said she wished she had the key, that . . .’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘That she’d left her knife in the . . . butler.’

  Gwyn looked over from the walnut chest bolted to the wall. Blake’s eyes were closed, his jaw taut. But tears ran down his face.

  She returned her focus to the lock, inserting the pick. ‘What do you mean, in the butler?’

  ‘My . . . tutor. Officially, anyway. Unofficially he was . . . He took care of me. Ever since I can remember.’ He shuddered another sob. ‘He called himself “the manny”.’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Gwyn said softly, keeping the glee out of her voice, because at just that moment the chest’s lock turned and . . . ‘Holy fucking shit.’

  Thorne twisted his body to see the cabinet. ‘Wow.’

  There were knives of every size and type, all neatly displayed. Gwyn chose a pocket switchblade for herself and a large hunting knife for Thorne. Kneeling at his feet, she sawed at the zip ties with the hunting knife, then handed it to him once she’d freed him.

  She dropped the switchblade in her skirt pocket, glad the pocket had a button. Hopefully she wouldn’t lose the knife in the water. She glanced back up at the weapons, re-evaluating her plan. If they were armed with knives, they could fight back when the cabin door opened, which it inevitably would. Tavilla was coming for them. She’d overheard Kathryn and her minions discussing it.

  While they reloaded their semi-automatic weapons.

  Gwyn discarded the notion of relying on fighting back. Only a fool brought a knife to a gunfight.

  ‘Can you stand? I need a boost to the porthole. I was going to ask the kid for help, but you’re taller. It’ll be easier for me to reach it if you’re lifting me.’

  Thorne forced himself to his feet, swaying dangerously before staggering to the wall below the porthole. He was tall enough to see out of it easily. He huffed an irritated breath. ‘We’re a long way from shore, babe.’

  ‘I know. I was conscious when they brought us here.’ She glanced at the porthole again. She needed less constriction for such a long swim, so she lifted her blouse enough to rip at the Velcro holding her girdle holster in place, then did the same for the thigh holster.

  While she took off the holsters, Thorne turned his attention to the porthole. ‘Hasn’t been opened in a while,’ he grunted. ‘It’s stuck.’

  Both of them winced when the clamp holding the small window in place finally gave, because the porthole’s hinge creaked. Loudly.

  Gwyn lifted her arms and, bracing his weight against the wall, Thorne spanned her waist with both hands. Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him hard. ‘I’ll get help.’

  ‘You get safe,’ he rumbled gruffly. ‘I love you.’

  Then he lifted her to the porthole and she wedged her shoulders through, stifling a cry when the skin on her upper arms scraped away. The salt water was going to hurt like hell.

  Thorne lifted her higher, and she shimmied until her hips slid through. Gripping the edge of the porthole, she bowed her body until her feet were free and she was dangling over the water. Belatedly, she wondered about sharks. Especially since her arm was now bleeding.

  Don’t be ridiculous. She was in far more danger from Cesar Tavilla than she was from sharks. She pulled herself up so that she could see through the porthole to where Thorne was watching her, his expression a mix of relief, fear and hope. And desperate love.

  ‘Love you too,’ she whispered, and then let herself fall into the bay.

  Annapolis, Maryland,

  Thursday 16 June, 5.25 P.M.

  Thorne heard the soft splash and closed the porthole. Yes. Gwyn had escaped. She should never have given herself up back at the crash scene. She should have kept running. In his mind he’d been screaming for her to do exactly that, but his body and his voice had betrayed him.

  ‘I know who you are,’ the kid in the corner said quietly.

  ‘Oh?’ Thorne reached him in a few unsteady strides and dropped to his knees. ‘Turn around. I’ll try to get your cuffs off.’ The kid – Blake Segal, the judge’s son – complied, and Thorne fumbled with Gwyn’s lockpick. ‘Gwyn’s better at this than I am.’ His fingers burned like fire, his circulation still coming back after lying on his cuffed hands for so long.

  ‘You’re Thomas Thorne. The man who my father said killed my mother.’

  Thorne paused, then went back to picking the lock. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re being set up, just like my dad.’

  Well . . . The ‘just like my dad’ part was a hundred percent wrong, but Thorne could pacify the kid for a little while if he needed to. He might need him should the opportunity to escape arise.

  He hadn’t expected to be put on a fucking boat. His mind replayed the sight of Gwyn disappearing from the porthole, and the splash, and he hoped like hell that she was a strong swimmer. She’d been raised on a crab boat, for heaven’s sake. She should be a good swimmer.

  The lock on Blake’s cuffs gave and he turned around, rubbing his wrist and giving Thorne the first look at his face.

  Holy shit, the kid looked just like Richard Linden. It was like going back nineteen years.

  ‘What?’ the kid asked. ‘You just went . . . I don’t know. Like you saw a ghost.’

  ‘I kind of did,’ Thorne murmured, then forced his body to cooperate as he lunged to his feet, because he needed to put some space between himself and this kid who looked so damn much like the asshole who’d almost ruined his life. His head went dizzy and he remembered being in the hospital on Sunday, feeling the same way. ‘Deja-fucking-vu all over again.’

  Blake was studying him like he was some kind of microbe under a microscope.

  ‘What?’ Thorne demanded.

  The kid shook his head. ‘I’m trying to decide what I be
lieve about you.’

  Thorne sighed. ‘I’m innocent. I hope that’s what you choose to believe.’

  ‘Did you kill my uncle Richard?’

  Thorne was shocked. ‘No. I tried to save him.’ And he wasn’t your uncle, kid. He was your father.

  ‘I read about that a few years ago. All about the trial, I mean. My mother didn’t want me to and my father forbade it.’

  Thorne’s mouth quirked up. ‘So you had to do it. I can understand that.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Look. I’m sorry about your mother. I hadn’t seen her in almost twenty years. I didn’t even see her Sunday morning. I was unconscious.’

  ‘I read that too. Online.’ He fidgeted with the other cuff.

  ‘Stand up. I’ll try to unlock that one too.’

  Blake complied once again, lifting his hand while continuing to study Thorne’s face. ‘Did you know my mother well?’

  ‘No.’ He set to work on the second cuff. ‘She was a few years younger than me. And shy.’

  ‘I can’t picture her as shy,’ he murmured. ‘Did you know my . . . uncle?’

  The deliberate pause had Thorne glancing at Blake’s face, and he realized the kid knew. Or at least suspected.

  ‘Yes.’

  Blake made a frustrated noise. ‘And? What was he like?’

  Thorne sighed. ‘You aren’t going to like my answer, so can we pretend like you didn’t ask?’

  ‘No.’ Blake grabbed his shirtsleeve. ‘I need to know. Nobody would ever tell me anything, and I need to know.’

  Thorne heard the lock click open. He removed and pocketed the cuffs. Gwyn had already put the other pair in his back pocket. He scanned the floor, scooping up her discarded cuffs. Her gun holsters were like flags proclaiming she’d escaped. He picked them up too, rolled them up, and . . .

  His chest hurt. Lavender. He could smell her perfume. He shoved her holsters under his shirt and turned to Blake Segal, who watched him with something akin to desperation.

  ‘What exactly are you asking, Blake?’ Thorne asked carefully.

  ‘I look like him.’

  Thorne didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘You do. A lot.’ He went to the knife chest and began arming himself from the dozens of blades, sliding a stiletto into one pocket and a sheathed short-hilt military-grade utility knife into another. These were Tavilla’s tools, he knew, and he wondered how many people had been murdered with them.

  ‘Have you ever killed anyone?’ Blake asked.

  ‘No. Beat up a few, but only if they threw the first punch.’ He glanced sideways at the kid. ‘Should I trust you with a knife?’

  ‘Yes,’ Blake said soberly. ‘But if you threaten me, I’ll do my best to kill you.’

  Fair enough. ‘I won’t threaten you,’ Thorne promised, and hoped the kid wasn’t a sociopathic liar like his father had been. He handed him a medium-sized blade with an easy-to-handle hilt.

  ‘Was Richard my father?’

  Thorne drew in a deep breath and carefully closed the doors to the knife chest. ‘Yes. I believe so, anyway.’ He turned to face Blake, whose eyes were now closed, his breathing fast and shallow. He couldn’t imagine what the kid was feeling, so he offered no platitudes. ‘You suspected?’

  ‘Yeah. They told me I was adopted. Then later, when I saw pictures of my uncle, they told me that they’d picked me because I reminded them of his baby pictures.’

  ‘That’s . . . so wrong.’

  Blake nodded. ‘He raped her? My mother, I mean?’

  ‘I think so. That’s the testimony we heard from a man who was once one of’ – your uncle’s? your father’s? – ‘Richard’s friends. Well, not a friend, necessarily. More like one of his followers. He was popular back then.’

  ‘Until he was dead.’ Blake sucked in a sudden breath, as if something had just occurred to him. ‘Who killed him, if it wasn’t you?’

  Thorne found himself hesitant to answer. ‘Look, kid. Blake. Let’s get out of here, okay? Then I swear I’ll answer any question you’ve got to the best of my knowledge and ability.’

  ‘You just did,’ Blake said dully. He took a deep breath. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  The question came none too soon, because there was a scratching at the door. Someone was unlocking it.

  Thorne gestured for Blake to return to the corner where he’d been, then hid himself behind the door, his heart pounding so hard it was all he could hear. He scanned the room, looking for any other evidence that Gwyn had escaped through the porthole.

  He found nothing. Good. Let them look for her on board. Even buying her a few extra seconds could make the difference. Unfortunately he hadn’t thought to arrange the box to make it look like he was still in there.

  The door opened and a slender man walked in. Thorne had no idea how many people were currently on this boat, but there would soon be one fewer. When the slender man had entered far enough, Thorne shut the door behind him and grabbed him, clapping one hand over his mouth and one arm around his throat.

  This guy would be an easy win. He was puny. He was . . .

  Shit. He was Detective Brickman. Fuck this. He couldn’t kill a cop. Even a dirty one. He put the knife blade carefully against Brickman’s throat. ‘Do not move,’ he breathed. ‘Do not make a sound or I will slice you from ear to fucking ear.’

  He could feel Brickman’s shiver. Good. Quickly he grabbed the smaller of Gwyn’s holsters from inside his shirt and rammed it in Brickman’s mouth, then he shoved the cop to the floor, knelt across his legs, and yanked his hands behind his back, restraining him with the same cuffs that Brickman had used on him.

  ‘Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?’ he murmured, then used the second set of cuffs on Brickman’s ankles. He dragged the cop to the corner behind the door and covered him with the remnants of the refrigerator box. He turned to find Blake Segal staring at him with wide eyes.

  ‘Holy shit,’ the kid breathed. ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’

  ‘Because he’s a cop,’ Thorne said, and the kid’s eyes grew even wider. ‘Sorry to be the one to bust your bubble, kid, but not all cops are good.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Blake said grimly. ‘Not all judges are, either. I don’t believe my father killed my mother, but he’s taken bribes recently. I heard my parents fighting about it, right before Mom . . .’ Voice breaking, he looked away. ‘Fuck.’

  Thorne wished he had words to give the kid. But he didn’t, so he focused on priorities. He disarmed Brickman and tucked the gun into the back of his own waistband, then patted the cop down, finding Brickman’s phone.

  Yes. He dialed Joseph, relieved when the man answered on the first ring. ‘Carter,’ Joseph said briskly.

  Thorne’s throat grew abruptly thick, surprising him. ‘It’s Thorne.’

  ‘Thorne? Where are you?’ Joseph demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. On a boat somewhere.’ Thorne looked at the kid. ‘Do you know where we are?’

  Blake shook his head. ‘No. I was pretty groggy when we got here. But it wasn’t far from my house, I don’t think.’

  ‘Who’s with you?’ Joseph asked.

  ‘The Segal kid. Blake. He’s okay. So am I.’

  ‘That makes sense. His father hasn’t said a word, even though we’ve pulled compelling evidence from his home and office.’

  Thorne hesitated, then spoke his mind, because Blake was eighteen and not really a kid. ‘They didn’t blindfold Blake. See if that makes a difference to the judge.’

  ‘I will. Um, what about Gwyn?’

  ‘She got away. She’s swimming for shore.’ I hope. God, please let her be okay. ‘Brickman’s here. I’ve cuffed and gagged him. This is his phone.’

  ‘Good. I’ll stay with you. Don’t hang up. We’re going to trace the call.’

  ‘I won’t.’ He wished Gwyn were here. She was the only one who’d been
conscious enough to pay attention to their surroundings. ‘We’re going to try to get the hell out of here,’ he said, to both Joseph and Blake. ‘We’re in some kind of torture room and I don’t want to wait for Tavilla to arrive.’

  ‘Especially since he didn’t have Blake Segal blindfolded,’ Joseph agreed. ‘Just be careful, Thorne.’

  ‘I will.’ He met Blake’s eyes, saw him square his shoulders. ‘Can you swim?’

  ‘Yes. But there’s no way we’re fitting through that porthole.’

  Thorne almost laughed. ‘We’re going to make a break for the deck. Run like hell, jump off the boat and swim for shore. I’ll be right behind you, but I’m a bigger target.’ And I’m not wearing Kevlar anymore, he realized. It must have been removed in the van, when he was still unconscious. ‘If they get me, you keep going. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’ Blake hesitated. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re a victim of all this, same as me. I want both of us out of here alive.’

  A loud banging on the door had them both jumping.

  ‘Fuck, Dickman,’ a man’s voice thundered from the other side. ‘Open the damn door. You’ve got the motherfucking key.’

  Trusting Joseph not to speak, Thorne put Brickman’s phone on speaker and shoved it in the pocket of his trousers, then pointed Blake to his corner. If Brickman didn’t say anything, the guy outside the door would get suspicious and call for reinforcements.

  Not even wanting to try imitating Brickman’s whiny voice, Thorne gripped the hunting knife, opened the door, and yanked the man inside. He got a chance to yell once before Thorne plunged the knife into his throat. He was gurgling blood before he hit the ground.

  Thorne stared at him for a long minute, frozen, horrified at what he’d done. He’d taken martial arts, he knew how to fight, he’d seen enough street fights, both on video and reconstructed, as part of defending his clients . . . But this was real. I did this.

  Then he was crying out as pain seared into his back, through his gut. His hand reached back and felt the slim hilt of a knife. Felt the blood already soaking his shirt. Felt the barrel of Brickman’s gun slipping from his waistband.