Bad Behavior [Confuct Series #2]

by Jennifer Lane

  Stepping into the entrance, he glanced warily at the two COs checking in visitors.

  “Hey, you’re back! Your dad didn’t scream at you enough the first time?”

  Immediately recognizing the chatty CO from his last visit, Grant’s chest collapsed with relief. He offered a wry smile. “I can never get enough of my dad’s love and affection.”

  The CO grinned and peered at Grant’s proffered driver’s license. “Let me guess—your shrink wants you to gain closure on some unresolved childhood issues?”

  Lifting his arms parallel to the ground to assist the officer’s search, Grant held his breath as the CO examined his arms but didn’t seem to notice the blood stains at the cuffs of his shirt. He heard himself respond, “How’d you know, sir?”

  After administering a perfunctory pat-down, the CO guided Grant to the visitation area. As they stood by the cage, he leaned in to confess quietly, “My wife’s a therapist.”

  Despite the tension of the situation, Grant actually smiled. “Really? I know what that’s like—my girlfriend’s a psychologist.”

  The CO looked shocked at the coincidence. “Run, Madsen. Get out while you can, before she shrinks your brain to the size of a walnut.”

  When the officer laughed and affectionately patted his shoulder, something about the gesture seemed familiar to Grant.

  “Um, did we interact much when I was an inmate here, sir?”

  The officer paused. “I guess you don’t remember. I worked in the, um, psych ward.”

  Grant’s face fell.

  “But I work primarily in visitation now.”

  “W-W-What made you change?”

  “I thought I’d like the whack shack, you know, with my wife being a therapist and all. I thought it’d give us something in common.” He sighed. “But it was, um, too hard. It was too hard to see grown men…” His voice faded off, and his smile was one of embarrassment. “Well, I like visitation better—it’s happier. People are mostly happy to see their loved ones.” He took in Grant’s look of dread. “Except for you. You don’t seem too happy to be here.”

  The understatement of the year. “No, sir.”

  Noticing the prisoner being led into the room, the CO softly told him, “He’s in chains—you’ll be fine. It’s good you’re on this side of the cage now. I knew you could make it.” Then he turned and headed back to the visitor check-in area.

  Grant’s wistful look abruptly faded as he faced Enzo Barberi in the cage. His father appeared somewhat triumphant this time around, and as the officers guided him to a seated position, chains jangling, a smug expression crossed his hardened face.

  Grant sat down as well, watching his father with trepidation.

  “What, no letter?” Enzo asked with a sneer, eyeing his son’s empty hands.

  Grant took several deep breaths before responding. “You’re the one who dragged me here. What do you want from me?”

  Enzo tilted his head to one side, studying his son—who didn’t seem quite as terrified as the last time they’d met. Sighing dramatically, Enzo said, “My brother is dying.”

  Grant creased his eyebrows, puzzled. “Yes?”

  “Nobody fucking told me my brother was dying!”

  Grant leaned away from the cage. “You didn’t know?”

  “When you visited me, you said something about Angelo not being around much longer, and I didn’t know what the hell you were talking about. Then I had Meat hauled in here, and he confessed Angelo ordered him not to tell me about his lung cancer.”

  “Why didn’t he tell you?”

  “Who the fuck knows? Meat told me some bullshit about Ange not wanting to burden me—about Ange not going to the doctor till it was way too late or something, the dumbass. It doesn’t change the fact that Angelo was supposed to do something for me, and now he’s too goddamned sick.” Black eyes bore into Grant. “He’s supposed to do an errand for me, but he’s too fucking weak to walk five steps. That’s why I need you.”

  Grant looked aghast—running an “errand” for the family was what had gotten him incarcerated in the first place. “But you have Tank and Mario.”

  “I can’t trust them.”

  “Why not?”

  Enzo paused. “They’re not family.”

  With a slight upturn of the side of his mouth, Grant countered, “There’s more to it than that, though, isn’t there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Tank and Mario helped kill Logan.”

  Enzo’s expression didn’t change, confirming that he already knew of the bodyguards’ betrayal. “Well, well. How’d you find out?”

  Refusing to implicate Ben, Grant forcefully challenged, “You knew they held Logan down, yet you let them live? What kind of mob boss are you?”

  Enzo’s jaw clenched. “They’ll be dealt with when the time is right.”

  “What time is that? After you’re out?”

  Enzo sat back in his chair, again staring curiously at his son. “Who said I’m getting out?”

  “You did!”

  Obsidian eyes tapered into slits. “I’m in a maximum security prison, Grant. How the fuck would I get out? Clearly I was joking. I’d give anything to be free, but it’s exactly like you said, ‘Wishing doesn’t make it so.’”

  Grant ignored his father’s mocking tone and leaned in closer. “No, you weren’t joking. You wouldn’t joke about that. Getting out of here’s way too important to you.”

  Enzo remained quiet for a moment. “So what if I was getting out? Hypothetically. What business is that of yours?”

  The icy look from his father sliced through him, and Grant found it difficult to breathe. “None,” he managed. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Good.” Enzo lowered his voice. “Now, back to what you’ll do for me. Tomorrow night you’re going to deliver a package. Angelo will give you a briefcase, you’ll personally hand it over to a guy, and then you’ll leave. It’s that simple.”

  Grant’s mind whirred. “What’s in the briefcase?”

  “Only Angelo will know. It’ll be locked, and you keep Meat and Tank’s grimy paws off the merchandise. Make sure Fuckledee and Fuckledumb don’t fuck up the drop.”

  “And they’ll let Sophie go if I do it?”

  Enzo leaned back in a placating gesture, smiling. “You’ll both walk scot-free.”

  Grant pondered his circumstances. “Why the hell should I believe you, Dad?”

  “Because you have no choice. Do what Tank and Meat tell you to do or your girlfriend dies.”

  At last his father was speaking the truth. There was indeed no choice. Yet despite the bleak circumstances, Grant felt a spark of hope within—the seed of a new plan forming and taking root. His family had destroyed his initial plan, but if he was correct about the nature of the errand his father was forcing him to undertake, this might be even better. Squaring his jaw, Grant pledged, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  He felt his father’s emanating intensity as he leaned toward the bars. “And this time, don’t fucking get caught. I don’t want to see your sorry ass back in here.”

  Grant suppressed a smirk. That last comment confirmed his suspicions. The hardened criminal across from him was simply trying to protect his exit strategy. Grant was determined to blow that strategy to pieces.

  Aiming earnest sky-blue eyes at his father, Grant held his gaze for several moments. It could have been different between them. Instead of mistrust, fear, and hate, there could have been love. But wishing didn’t make it so. “Am I free to go, Dad?”

  A surprising flash of tenderness crossed Enzo’s face. “Be careful, son.”

  Grant stood up and backed away a few steps, his eyes never leaving the prisoner. His throat tightened with worry, wondering if Sophie would survive this drop or if he would soon be joining his father on the inside. Committing Enzo’s face to memory, Grant prayed this would be the last time he’d ever see his father.

  His perplexed mind went into overdrive as
he stepped onto the sidewalk outside the visitation area, a brisk breeze scattering a few leaves across the concrete. The drop was supposed to happen tomorrow night, meaning Sophie would be held at least until then. A sliver of fear crept up his spine as he thought of his Bonnie tied up and hidden somewhere, her life depending on his actions.

  He stared through the enclosed, fenced-in walkway leading to the parking lot, first noticing the black sedan still waiting for him. With his elbows propped on the hood of the car, Tank sent him a menacing glare. Then Grant looked to the left, his eyes sweeping over the parked cars and coming to rest on a nondescript gray vehicle. Agent Lucas Bounter popped his head out of the open driver’s side window, catching Grant’s attention. His presence here could mean only one thing: the mic was working! Squinting, Grant saw another man in the front seat but couldn’t make out who it was.

  Grant’s stomach dropped. Were they going to try to steal him back? Abruptly he spun on his heel and swiftly made his way back inside the prison, ignoring the cry of protest from Tank behind him.

  Breathing heavily, Grant burst back into the visitation check-in area, pleading, “Do you have a visitor’s bathroom?”

  The CO cocked his head to the right. “Sure, it’s down there.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Grant jogged to the restroom, luckily finding it empty. Securing the lock, he leaned against the door, words frantically tumbling out of his mouth. “Don’t take me. Please don’t take me. Enzo wants me to make a money drop, and it’s gotta be to Jovanovich’s people. Please let me do this. Follow me and make the bust tomorrow night, just don’t take me now—I’ll be okay.” His gut clenched, knowing he’d be in the custody of Logan’s killers until then.

  “Find Sophie,” he continued, speaking aloud to the empty bathroom. “They took her somewhere, and they’re holding her to make sure I do the drop. Please find her.”

  Reckless thoughts careened through his brain—what was he missing? He knew he had to get back out there before the bodyguards came looking for him. “And Ben—make sure Ben’s okay, too. Please, sirs. Find Sophie.”

  Grant unlocked the door, trying to collect himself as he hustled to the exit. Noticing the CO watching him, Grant took the time to meet his gaze and assure him, “I won’t be back, I promise. Thank you, sir.”

  Every muscle in his body tensed as he walked to the town car, silently pleading for no move from the FBI agent and the officer to his left. Fortunately Lucas and the man stayed put, but he could feel the heat of their distant stares.

  “What the fuck was that?” Tank hollered, grasping Grant’s elbows and shoving his back into the car door. “We told you to come right back here!”

  “Sorry,” Grant breathlessly explained. “I had to go so bad I thought I’d pee in my pants.”

  Abruptly releasing his arms, Tank took a step back and sneered at him, exchanging an evil grin with Mario. “And according to the boss, that’s a genuine threat. I suppose we should thank you for not pissing all over yourself. That would’ve made for a long, smelly car ride.”

  Mario laughed heartily as color rose in Grant’s cheeks. He allowed himself to be shoved inside the backseat, once again stuffed between the bodyguards. Grant hoped Agent Bounter would be discreet in tailing the vehicle, wherever they were headed.

  Once they cleared the guard station and were barreling toward I-94, Tank instructed, “Do it.”

  Mario whipped out a fresh plastic tie, and Grant tensed. But the portly bodyguard secured the tie with his hands in front of him this time, and he allowed slightly more slack. The hard edges of the tie wouldn’t sear into the existing cuts as long as Grant kept his hands still.

  “Can’t have you bleeding on the leather seats,” Tank explained maliciously. “And we can’t have you seeing where we’re going, either.”

  Before Grant knew it, Mario wrapped a blindfold over his eyes, tying the dark material tightly against the back of his shorn head. As darkness descended, Grant’s stomach dropped. He didn’t like the dark very much. Fighting for oxygen, Sophie’s soothing words came to him: You’re an adult now. They can’t hurt you anymore.

  His yearning for Sophie was palpable. Clenching his jaw, he fought the hot tears burning his cool crystal eyes. All was black.

  24. Confinement

  Sophie awoke to sheer blackness.

  Frantically tossing her head and struggling to escape the darkness, she tried to figure out where the hell she was. She strained to release her arms from an unknown binding, desperate to find something, anything recognizable. Her thrashing caused a sharp pain in her forehead and a throbbing ache to radiate up the length of her arms, and then it all came back.

  They had her.

  They had her blindfolded and tied down, probably on some hard wooden chair, by the feel of it. She moaned in despair.

  “She’s awake,” a harsh, nasal voice announced, and Sophie froze.

  She heard a faint, tinny reverberation, followed by a snapping sound.

  “Boss is happy to hear that,” Nasal Voice continued, sounding like he was looking in her direction. “He thought that blow to the head mighta killed you, and we didn’t know how we were gonna get rid of your body.”

  This conversation was so astounding that Sophie had to suppress an inappropriate urge to laugh. “Where am I?” she feebly inquired, hearing the rasp in her voice. How long had she been unconscious?

  “Somewhere safe,” the man responded, stepping closer.

  Sophie shivered and suddenly noticed the damp coolness of her surroundings.

  “You cold?” the voice asked. “You didn’t have a jacket on when we took you. I’ll be right back.” He hesitated, and a hint of amusement then entered his voice. “Now don’t go anywhere, you hear?”

  She focused on breathing steadily as footsteps faded into the sound of a door sliding closed, and then she shifted her thoughts to making sense of her predicament. Why had they taken her? What was happening to Grant? Had they found the recording device—had they figured out his plan? Oh, God…had they hurt him? She felt her eyes well up with tears.

  Too quickly she heard the heavy footfalls return. As a soft material descended over her shoulders, she sensed the man pause in his efforts to blanket her body.

  “Don’t cry,” he pleaded. “You’ll be okay—we’re just holding you for a while.”

  She felt a rough thumb skate across her cheek, wiping away the tears. However, more tears were forthcoming.

  “Stop crying,” he ordered.

  “Sorry.” Her voice was shaky and her throat too dry to swallow. “I, um, I’m scared.”

  His tone was softer. “You’re perfectly safe here.”

  It dawned on her that it might be a good sign she was blindfolded—if she hadn’t see his face, maybe he’d let her live. Taking a deep breath, she asked, “Why are you holding me here?”

  “Co-ladder-all,” he answered.

  Did he mean ‘collateral’?

  “Boss wants to make sure somebody does a job right. Gotta provide the proper motivation.”

  For a fleeting moment, Sophie wondered if they were forcing her father to do a job for them, but the “somebody” was more likely Grant. She’d seen them kidnap him too. What were they making him do? Undoubtedly another crime. Sophie said a silent prayer he wouldn’t be caught this time. She couldn’t bear for her McSailor to return to prison.

  Suddenly she felt a cool glass pressing at her bottom lip.

  “Drink this,” the man commanded, but she shied away.

  They’re trying to drug me!

  “Drink this!” he loudly repeated, corralling her weaving head with a heavy clamp on her neck. He forced her to take down the liquid. “It’s just water!” he exclaimed.

  She couldn’t fight any more and swallowed the unknown fluid pressing at the back of her throat. Sophie noted with relief that it did indeed seem to be water—no poisonous aftertaste—but the struggle had sent tears cascading down her cheeks again. She felt helpless and terrified,
and she panted for air after the tussle. Grant, she silently cried, her body shaking despite the blanket slung across her shoulders. Please stay alive. Please save me.

  ***

  It didn’t look like he’d be able to save her this time.

  Grant’s mind kept flashing back to Kirsten’s apartment, where he’d crept inside to find Carlo aiming a gun at Sophie. Miraculously he’d kept her safe then, but Mario and Tank weren’t going to let him go anytime soon. His body seized up in terror as he thought about what could be happening to his Bonnie.

  Grant glanced over at his captors to find them casually stretched out on crates, using the warehouse floor as their poker table.

  At least they’d removed the damn blindfold after forcing him to hug a water pipe and securing his wrists with a new plastic tie. When his back throbbed from hunching over in his seated position, he could get to his feet and slowly glide his hands up the pipe to stand for a time. Then when his legs ached from standing, he’d slide back to the floor. He’d alternated between these two positions throughout the night, somehow managing to catch a few restless minutes of sleep in between. His long legs, straddling the pipe, now stretched out on the cold concrete floor.

  He only hoped Sophie was faring better wherever they were holding her.

  Tonight was the drop, and Grant couldn’t wait to get out of here. Not only was he terribly uncomfortable, there was something ominous about the warehouse that he couldn’t identify—an eerie unease that chilled him. He wished he could access the photo of Sophie, but he had no way to reach into his pocket.

  The poker game must have ended, and it was obvious who the winner was. Flashing a sated grin, Tank stood up and stretched his arms over his head, growling as he yawned. “I’m gonna take a piss.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” Mario irritably replied, watching his partner limp to a makeshift bathroom in the opposite corner of the warehouse.

  Twenty feet away, Grant coolly observed the man called “Meat.” Mario gathered the cards, scratched himself a few times, and glanced at his watch. “Shouldn’t be too much longer now,” he muttered.