by Leslie North
The phone in his pocket buzzed and Mark wriggled slightly to pull it out of his jeans pocket then squinted at the screen. A message from his sister flashed brightly:
Need to see you ASAP.
Scoops
18
Shit. Vann had said he’d called them. Most likely Leila and Mom had gone to the hospital to see him, only to find him already gone. One thing was certain. His sister wasn’t happy.
Slowly, Mark sat up, his hand against his injured ribs to keep from jostling them. The sooner he got back into his regular routine, the better. Plus, staying busy would help him forget about losing Geneva. That was the theory anyway.
At least the dizziness seemed to have subsided and his head hurt less, which was good. And, given everything else going on, it wasn’t a bad idea to check in on his family to make sure she and Mom were okay, let them see that he was okay too. Over the past week or so, he hadn’t exactly been spending as much time with them as he usually did.
Maybe Leila had run another massive root beer float sale and she’d run short on supplies again. Mark snorted. Seemed his sister was always promoting the crap out of something at her store these days.
He pushed to his feet, careful to stay as quiet as possible to avoid waking Jace. There were dark circles under his buddy’s eyes and the guy needed the rest almost as much as Mark did. On sock-covered feet, he tiptoed toward the bathroom door in the corner of his office. Once he’d taken care of business, he checked his reflection in the mirror, and then wished he hadn’t. God, that fall had done a number on him. There was a nasty gash on his cheek and a fresh bruise on his forehead, not to mention the ever-attractive, mummy-like bandage on his skull.
Mark shook his head and washed his hands, then headed back out into the office. Jace was still sprawled out in his seat, snoring loudly. Poor guy. No need to wake him. He scribbled a quick note then placed the sticky note on Jace’s chest, same as Vann had done for him. With luck, Mark could make the quick run to Leila’s, help her with whatever she needed, then come back here before Jace even knew he’d been gone.
Keys in hand, he exited the office and strode across the parking lot to the Humvee. The sun was setting over the Pacific in the distance and the sky was tinged with glorious shades of red, orange and indigo. It was so beautiful it made his heart ache. He started to wish Geneva were here to see it with him before he stopped himself. They were done. Time to move on.
Heart heavy despite his resolve to forget her, Mark climbed in behind the wheel of the Humvee and cranked the engine. Tourist traffic was surprisingly light on Highway 1 and with the warm breeze blowing, he left the windows down as he cruised along the ocean-side highway heading back into Ortega. In the gathering twilight, it was almost possible to forget about all the nasty shit going down in the world, all the people like the Rigsdales, and that asshole Sutton running for Congress. Hell, now that he felt moderately better, he could almost even forget that someone had tried to kill him earlier—and damned near succeeded too. Mark glanced into the rearview mirror then slowed down as he approached a sharper curve in the road ahead.
Headlights loomed behind him, closer than necessary.
Dumbass tailgaters. Probably some lost tourist fighting with his wife. Mark snorted and kept to the right-hand side, hoping the moron would go ahead and pass him.
No such luck. As he approached another curve and Mark tapped his brakes again, the vehicle behind him revved its engine and drew even closer to the Humvee’s bumper.
Cursing, Mark leaned out the drivers’ side window. He couldn’t flip them off like he wanted with his hand all taped up, but he gave them a curt wave just the same.
Assholes. Always in a hurry.
He sat back and pressed the gas pedal a little harder, hoping maybe he could lose the guy. Except the faster he went, the closer the guy seemed to get. With sheer cliffs on one side of him, dropping off into the Pacific, and nothing but miles of foothills on the other, there wasn’t any place for him to go but straight ahead. In the distance, he could see the twinkling lights of downtown Ortega beckoning. Then the glare of the other vehicles headlights filled the interior of his car once more.
This time the guy was close enough that the roar of his engine was nearly deafening.
Mark gripped the steering wheel tight with his right hand and forced his tense muscles to relax. Whatever happened, he’d handle it. He’d been trained in evasive maneuvers. Even if the guy tried to—
WHAM!
No more “if” about it. Whoever was driving that car was after Mark.
The other car behind him rammed hard into the back of the Humvee, sending Mark skidding into the opposite lane of traffic. Thankfully, there wasn’t anything coming or he would’ve been in serious jeopardy for the second time that day. He managed to gain control of the massive Humvee and eased back into his lane. The problem with huge SUVs like the one he was driving wasn’t that they couldn’t take a hit. Hell, the damned things were military grade. Humvee’s were built like damned tanks. The problem was when the weight distribution inside shifted abruptly, increasing the risk of rollover. When they converted the Humvee to civilian use, they’d put bigger tires on them, which also displaced their center of gravity. So, taking a Humvee head-on was unnecessary when all that was really needed was catch a back corner just right and tip the whole thing over.
Fuck.
Barreling down the two-lane highway, Mark did his best to outrun whoever was behind him, but speed wasn’t exactly the Humvee’s forte either.
BANG!
He jolted forward again as the other vehicle rammed him a second time and pain burst up his left side from his cracked ribs. Memories of Geneva and her disapproval over him discharging himself swamped Mark’s adrenaline-soaked mind. Given how his evening was going, maybe staying in the hospital overnight wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all. He would’ve chuckled at the irony, if he wasn’t frantically trying to save his own life. Again.
The last curve before hitting Ortega town proper loomed ahead and it was of the hairpin variety. Logically, Mark knew his best chance of escaping his pursuers was to lose them in that curve. All he had to do was slow down a little before the entry…
Those thoughts didn’t help to slow his hammering pulse or stop his throat from constricting to the point it made it hard to swallow. Hands shaking with stress, he said a silent prayer.
Alii e, fesoasoani mai ia te au… Lord, help me.
He eased off the gas a bit and held his breath.
Waiting, waiting, waiting…
Then Mark punched the accelerator as he headed into the curve. He’d lived in Ortega all his life and driven that stretch of highway more times than he could count. He should’ve been able to do this with his eyes closed. Unfortunately, he’d never done the curve with a head injury or with another car barreling up his ass at close to ninety miles per hour.
Using all his muscles, he held the wheel as steady as he could, but there was no stopping the Humvee as it veered toward the foothills. Better than the ocean plunge on the right, he thought absently as time blew by in a blur.
His wheels skidded on the gravel of the berm then he zoomed headlong into the brush, down into a gulley and back up the other side before tipping over completely and landing on the drivers’ side of the vehicle in a whoosh of dirt. Mark’s already battered head slammed hard against the ground through the open window and knocked him loopy for a second. All he heard through his hazy, muddled thoughts was the whine of the still running engine, the scratch of the dry grass against his sore cheek, the voices from somewhere in the distance.
Unfamiliar, male voices.
He struggled to hear what they were saying, but his pulse was pounding and his vision was tunneling. His mouth felt dry as a bone and his injured left hand throbbed anew. Seems he’d somehow landed on top of it. Mark groaned, the sound echoing inside the Humvee as he struggled to undo his seatbelt and found he couldn’t—the fingers of his left hand refused to work. Ah, shit. Doct
or Forbes words from earlier reverberated alongside the heartbeat in his head.
One wrong move and you could lose part of the functionality…
He made his living with his hands. If he lost the use of one of them, what would he do?
Headlights blazed through the shattered windshield as his assailant’s car pulled to a stop near the wreckage.
Panic joined the adrenaline already flooding Mark’s system and the darkness around him crowded closer. A loud metallic creak sliced through the night as the passenger side door of the Humvee was wrenched open and the bright beam of a flashlight blinded him.
Eyes squinted, Mark tried to discern who his attackers were, but all he could make out were vague silhouettes.
“Get him out of there,” a man said. “And make sure he doesn’t remember shit about you.”
“Yes, sir,” another voice answered.
Mark’s last vision was a fist flying directly at his face, smashing hard into his jaw, then nothing.
19
Mark came to slowly, his vision blurry and his body aching. He was bouncing.
Why the fuck was he bouncing?
It took him a minute to realize he wasn’t bouncing. He was being carried, by four huge guys in black suits, down an ornate marble hallway. His heavy eyes closed again.
Where the hell am I and how did I end up here?
His last memories were waking up in his office, getting the text from Leila, and then sneaking out while Jace slept to go to Scoops. He tried to shake his head, but found that only made the dizziness and aching worse and upset his stomach, so he remained still. Each guy had him by an extremity as they toted him to God knew where. Mark peeked one eye open again and spotted expensive artwork on the walls and crystal chandeliers twinkling from the ceiling above. The air smelled of candle wax, pine-scented cleaner, and lavender potpourri.
His handlers turned a corner then hauled him into what appeared to be a huge library. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls and were stuffed to the brim with reading material. They tossed him down onto a musty old Persian rug amidst the shouts of what sounded like one hell of a fight between the room’s other occupants, whom he couldn’t quite see from his position. Curses that would make a sailor blush flew and he realized one of the voices was female. At least he’d had sense enough to turn his head before his body hit the floor, saving him from face-planting, but the awkward way he’d come to rest didn’t do anything to help him figure out who was doing the yelling. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Moments later a pair of designer stilettos stalked into his view, along with the same shrill voice he’d heard countless times during various American Way protests around Ortega.
Kim Rigsdale.
Pulse kicking higher, Mark did his best to stay still and play dead while he listened in on their fight, but damn. They’d been right. The Rigsdales were responsible. The reasons why still weren’t concrete, but he sure as hell intended to find out.
“What the hell are you doing?” Kim yelled from above him. “You guys can’t just drop him on my priceless antique rug! Those bloodstains will never come out. Not to mention the trace evidence this leaves in my house.” She nudged Mark’s arm with the pointy tip of her shoe. “Oh, wonderful. And now he’s bled on my new sofa too. Goddammit, Tim! Clean up your fucking mess!”
“My mess? Since when did this shit become my mess, huh? Fuck you, Kim. Last time I checked, we were both in this together.” Tim’s steps pounded over as he joined his wife near Mark’s head. “You knew exactly what we were getting into when we signed on to do this. Don’t even think about trying to lay all the blame for this fucking mess on me now.” Tim mumbled something Mark didn’t quite catch then turned slightly to face the other side of the room. “Can’t we just shoot him in the head and dump his body in the flatlands somewhere. Just make it look like a suicide like the other ones?”
Mark’s pulse stumbled.
The other ones? The other deaths? Rick and Jon?
“Calm down,” a new male voice said, one Mark hadn’t heard before. “If we do that, we blow all the groundwork we’ve accomplished so far. We need to be rational about this. We kill him now and dump him; the cops are going to get suspicious. They were just here questioning you, remember?”
“He’s right, dammit,” Kim said, her tone annoyed. “But I really don’t have time to play nursemaid. I’ve got the Ladies for Democracy rally to plan for next week and I’m holding another fundraising luncheon for Sutton’s female supporters here on Friday. I can’t have a bloody, beat-up black guy stuffed inside one of my closets.”
Mark wanted to yell that he wasn’t African-American, but bit his tongue. Instead, he clenched his jaw and focused on filing away every word they’d said. He’d need those details to relay to the police and the guys later.
If there is a later…
“What about the new wine cellar? Is it finished yet?” the new guy asked.
“No,” Tim exhaled loudly. “The construction company’s way over deadline on it and now they informed me they’re taking the rest of the week off for mandatory OSHA training. I think it’s all a bunch of horseshit.”
“More like perfect.” The new guy walked over to join the Rigsdales, his black combat boots entering Mark’s line of vision. Standard issue military, available at any supply store or online. Not hugely helpful in identifying the guy, but at least he knew whoever the new guy was; he was most likely a vet or liked to dress like one. “We can lock him up in the wine cellar, away from everyone and everything, until he heals up a bit. No one will hear him if he screams and no one will look for him there. Once the police have put this whole dome collapse accident to rest, then he’ll turn up dead in the ocean with a note. Just one more unfortunate suicide.”
Mark’s blood ran cold. Momentary triumph over having his suspicions confirmed mingled with horror at what had befallen his comrades.
The nearby sofa creaked as Tim sank down onto it. “I don’t know…”
“Don’t go all soft on me now, goddammit,” the new guy growled, all civility gone from his tone. “We had a deal. I’ve fulfilled my end. Now it’s up to you guys to do your part. Keep your end of the deal or I swear to fucking God you’ll end up fish food just like those other useless fuckers.”
“Tim?” Kim said, her confident tone now quivering with fear.
“Fine.” Tim sighed loud. “Grab him and follow me. But I want it on record I’m not comfortable with this.”
“Whatever,” the new guy said, stepping aside as the four body guards moved in beside Mark to pick him up again.
Mark’s thoughts raced as the thugs carted him out of the room. Facing the floor now, he couldn’t see much of the route they were taking this time, just a bunch of plastic tarps and building supplies. The air turned cooler as they passed through another doorway and headed down a flight of stairs to an underground wine cellar.
“Put him over there,” Tim said.
The guards tossed Mark across the room where he landed atop a pile of white canvas tarps. His entire left side protested and he had to bite back a groan of pain. One of the bodyguards threw something down beside him before they left. The sound of the lock grinding shut echoed through the dank space and one bare bulb glowed and buzzed from the ceiling. From somewhere in the shadows came the sound of a slow, monotonous drip.
He sat up slowly, keeping his head down for a moment while he regained his equilibrium. He peered around the space. Some wine cellar. Nothing but building supplies, no vino. He patted his pockets, hoping to find his phone, but nothing. Either the guards had found it or it was still back in the Humvee.
Talk about shitty luck.
After rubbing his eyes, Mark glanced beside him at what the guards had left. A broken cell phone, the screen cracked and smashed. A very familiar looking cell phone. He picked it up and flipped it over, recognizing the engraving on the back immediately and his nerves jangled anew. Well, shit.
It was Leila’s.
His inner tension ratcheted higher still, if that were possible. His sister. His only sister. Jesus Christ Almighty. If those bastards so much as laid a finger on his LeLi, he’d fucking kill them with his bare hands. No one messed with his family. No one.
Mark pushed to his feet and promptly smacked his already sore head on the low, stone ceiling.
Dammit.
Cursing a blue streak and hunched over, he tromped around the space.
There had to be a way out of here.
He made his way back up the stone stairs to the door. Mark tried the handle just in case, but it was locked. Then he used his shoulder to ram it, hoping to bust it down. Fresh agony rippled up his side from his cracked ribs and his vision blurred with the effort to remain on his feet. The solid pine didn’t budge an inch. Leave it to the fucking Rigsdales to buy the best.
Frustrated and furious, he headed back downstairs and searched through the piles of construction supplies, thinking maybe the builders had left a spare key or some power tools he might be able to use to escape. Nada. All he found was a black leather pouch with a few small screwdrivers and files. Too small to help with the door. Defeat rushing him from all sides, Mark sank back down to sit on the pile of tarps and stared at Leila’s jacked-up cell phone.
Man, things were fucked up this time. That guy with the Rigsdales had been right. Down here, no one would find him and no one would hear his cries for help. He was on his own.
Shit. Just shit.
He scrubbed his right hand over the bandages on his head. God, he prayed Leila was okay, that they’d just stolen her phone and not hurt her. Eyes closed, he drew his knees into his chest and rested his forehead on them. She could be in dire trouble and there wasn’t anything he could do to help her.
