Firestorm (The Sons of Templar MC Book 2)

by Anne Malcom

  It was that fear that had him sitting in front of these men. Murderers, he speculated. Gun runners, he was certain. Despite this he also sensed they were decent men. This was largely because Amy thought so and he valued her opinion. There was also the fact that one of them was married to Gwen, and he loved and respected her as well.

  “Can you tell me why we’re here, Mr. Morgan? You went to significant effort to seek us out,” Cade, Gwen’s husband, stated casually.

  The men on either side of him were silent but deadly, he knew. Garrett had not been in touch with Gwen upon his arrival in Amber, nor did he let these men know who he was when he set up this meeting. He had only just offered them his name.

  “I’m here because I need your retrieval services,” Garrett replied calmly.

  Cade’s face was blank and he was silent, so Garrett carried on. “My niece has been taken. I need you to get her back.”

  Garrett watched as surprise flickered in Cade’s eyes as he sat back in his chair. “Shouldn’t you be going to the law with this?” he asked mildly.

  “I have been well informed that you and your brothers have exactly the skills needed for a hostage extraction. I believe some of you are ex-SEALs?” His gaze flickered to the blond one who didn’t display any emotion. “I also believe you retrieved your wife from a dangerous situation,” Garrett added.

  Cade sat forward, blank expression gone. “How the fuck do you know about my wife?” His fury was barely restrained.

  Garrett was happy at this man’s obvious protection for Gwen. He hoped that would translate to Amy.

  “She’s my niece’s best friend,” he said quietly. Cade stilled and understanding flickered on his face.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” The blond man beside him growled, his emotionless façade gone, fury replacing it.

  “Amy was kidnapped from a bar in New Mexico six days ago by a man named Clark Devon,” Garrett explained as he watched the men’s faces pale.

  He reckoned that these men rarely felt fear, but the look of alarm on the blond’s face mimicked the terror that was eating him up inside. He cared about Amy a great deal.

  Garrett knew about this man. He made sure he had as much information as he could on these men. His name was Brock Vaughn, and he’d patched into the Sons of Templar after two tours as a Marine. He grew up here, was best friends with Cade Fletcher and was in love with his niece. The last part he didn’t find out from his files.

  “Six days?” Brock yelled, banging his fist on the table. “Six fucking days and we’re only hearing about this now? How the fuck is that possible?”

  “My brother-in-law has been insistent on keeping this quiet—he believes it is the best way to help Amy. I respected his wishes.” Garrett paused. “Until now.”

  Heavy silence hung in the room. The blonde looked like he was ready to kill someone with his bare hands, his eyes intent on Garrett.

  “What’s changed?” Cade asked evenly, flicking his gaze to his friend.

  Garrett noticed at first glance Cade may have seemed calm and unruffled by his revelation. But on closer inspection he could see his knuckles were white from the intensity at which they were being clenched, and the stiff posture showed he was containing his rage.

  The man who had been quiet during this exchange spoke up. “How do you know she’s alive?” he asked.

  Before Garrett could answer Brock shot a death glare at his brother. He looked like he might break his jaw.

  “She’s alive,” he bit out.

  “Brother, you know this guy. Fuck, he’s notorious. We’ve all heard the stories—without proof of life he could have...”

  “She’s a-fucking-live!” Brock exploded.

  “She’s alive,” Garrett interrupted quietly, not wanting a brawl to erupt. He needed these men focused.

  The three men looked at him and he could feel the tension in the room dissipate slightly. He opened his laptop and turned the screen toward them. “Six days ago my brother-in-law was sent this email, informing him that his daughter had been taken and if he wanted her back alive, he would have to do as he was instructed.”

  “What were the demands?” Brock interrupted.

  “That Harold continue to support a business deal that will give Devon significantly more money and power than he has now,” Garrett answered. “Harold suddenly got a conscience, decided he didn’t want to be doing business with a criminal no matter how clean he was on paper. This is Clark’s way of telling him that isn’t going to happen.”

  Garrett opened the first photo they received. Amy lying unconscious, handcuffed to a bed. Once the men had seen it he felt the air turn dangerous.

  “Fuck,” Cade muttered.

  Brock stayed silent, but he was shaking with rage.

  “Shortly afterward we received the first video. He has streaming cameras in his dining room. Of course he is smart enough not to show his face.”

  Garrett played the video; Amy’s voice through the speaker still a blow to his stomach.

  “Well, excuse me for not praising you on what a lovely kidnapping you’ve thrown. It’s the best I’ve been to. I’ll be sure to let my friends know the caliber of the pastries present.”

  “Jesus Christ, Amy,” Brock muttered.

  Garrett had almost laughed when he had heard her say that for the first time, but the knowledge of just how dangerous Devon was sobered him. “We get one of these every day to prove Amy is still alive. She is unharmed in each of the other ones, although her language stays colorful,” Garrett explained once the video ended.

  “Does she even fuckin’ know how dangerous this guy is? She’s playing a game with her life every time she opens her smart mouth,” Brock bit out, shaking his head.

  Garrett laughed. “I don’t expect she does know what Clark is capable of. I’m thankful for that—her stubbornness and sarcasm are better than terror.”

  “You said something changed to make you come to us,” Cade addressed him, his tone was flat.

  “Yes,” Garrett sighed. “The last video we got.” He paused, not wanting to choke up in front of these men. He cleared his throat. “The last video has led me to believe Clark doesn’t intend on letting Amy go anytime soon. Nor does he intend to keep her in one piece.” He played the clip that had broken his heart.

  He watched the men instead of the video. He didn’t need to look at the computer screen; he saw it every time he closed his eyes. They all stilled at Clark’s voice.

  “Open your legs.”

  “No way in hell.” He heard Amy’s strong tone.

  He was so proud of how brave his girl was.

  Brock’s hiss and Cade’s curse informed him they were watching a gun being held to Amy’s head. They kept their eyes glued to the screen until it abruptly turned off the moment Amy did as she was asked. The clip then jumped to Amy being carried out of the room with blood staining her thighs. He had lost his lunch upon seeing that, and had barely been able to eat since.

  A loaded silence followed the end of the clip.

  Abruptly Brock pushed out of his chair, his face blank. He picked up the chair, walked to the wall and smashed it against the concrete. It shattered into pieces.

  He paused before walking back over. “He’s fucking dead,” Brock declared flatly.

  For the first time in six days Garrett smiled.

  I awoke to fire. My legs, they were burning up. The pain was so intense I was afraid to move. What I was feeling was on par with how bad it was when I sustained these injuries, when Rafe’s knife had torn through my skin. At first I was relieved when I had discovered he wasn’t planning on raping me. But after he had sliced the skin on my inner thigh, down through the muscle, I found myself wondering whether I would have preferred it.

  He had slid the knife up my thigh and I had been terrified, horrified at the prospect of what he might do with it.

  “Do you know that one tiny incision, deep enough in this exact spot—” I felt him dig the tip into my leg, just enough to brea
k the skin. “It can cause you to bleed out in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, the reason I know this is from experience.” He smiled at me in a way that made me want to vomit. “Don’t worry though, sweetheart, I’ve had enough practice. You’ll live through this. Not like the others.”

  Then he began cutting. Running the blade lightly along at first so I felt a sting, and a thin trail of blood marked his progress. Then the next time he went deeper and I struggled not to cry out, not to move. He was slow, drawing out the agony of having the steel rip open my skin.

  Rafe glanced up. “I wouldn’t squirm if I were you, Red. One wrong move and I might nick the artery. We wouldn’t want that.” His hand ran lightly, almost gently up my thigh in a caress, lapping up the blood. I was sickened to see the hard line in his slacks. The fucker was getting off on this.

  “Someone really did a number on you, huh, Rafe?” I bit out through clenched teeth. “Your mom never hug you enough? Or your dad just a little too much?”

  The hand on my thigh tightened on my wound and I whimpered despite myself. “You won’t be quite as mouthy once I’m finished with you,” he sneered, turning his attention downward.

  It turns out Rafe was right. I had no more sarcastic remarks, no words at all actually. All of my focus was on not screaming, not pleading, not begging for him to stop. I guessed it didn’t actually last for long but it felt like hours with no respite, only increasing amounts of agony.

  When he was done I was close to passing out. Clark, who had been watching intently from his spot at the table, was in front of me all of a sudden. “You’re strong,” he remarked, stroking my cheek. I still had enough energy to flinch away from his touch.

  “I apologize for that, Miss Abrams. As I said, it was necessary. You continue to surprise me, though—I have had grown men reduced to tears from similar experiences.”

  “Well, maybe you need to get yourself a new torturer,” I answered faintly. “This one’s getting a bit soft.” I gestured with my head to Rafe who was cleaning my blood off his knife, still sporting a hard on.

  Clark chuckled. “I might just have to keep you, Miss Abrams. You interest me.”

  On that disturbing note, he left. Upon his departure two men approached me, with blank faces and carrying what looked like first aid kits. At that point I passed out.

  Which brings me back to now. I gingerly lifted the blankets to reveal my legs. My inner thighs were bandaged, and I pulled back the coverings with a flinch. Three cuts were stitched closed and they looked angry and red. They were also long, about six inches. I checked my other leg which sported identical incisions. Only six? When it was happening I was certain he made half a dozen incisions on each leg, not in total.

  “I wouldn’t move too much if I were you. Those incisions are dangerously close to your artery—one wrong move and you could tear it.” Rafe stepped out of the shadows and I jumped. The pain that blossomed in my legs caused me to regret that sudden movement.

  “Oh look. Jack the Ripper’s back for round two,” I muttered sarcastically. It sounded sad even to my own ears; fear saturated my tone.

  Rafe gazed at me with an emotion I couldn’t place. It couldn’t be regret. Sociopaths weren’t capable of that.

  “It had to be done, Amy. I won’t say I didn’t enjoy marking your milky white skin, but I did wish I could have been doing it to someone else.” He reached the side of my bed and pushed the hair off my face tenderly.

  “You’re strong and I know you want me. We could be perfect together. Once Clark is done with you I could convince him to let me have you. You’ll learn to enjoy the process.” He nodded to my thighs. “You’ll even beg for it.”

  My stomach rolled at the prospect. This guy was fifty shades of insane. But insane could be good in this situation.

  “Of course I want you. I’m just not used to such a powerful man controlling me,” I responded, eyes locking with his crazy baby blues. My gaze flickered to the clock on the table beside me. “How long has it been?” I asked, changing the subject.

  Rafe stared at me a moment longer before he answered. “Almost twenty-four hours. They gave you something to help you sleep. I’ve been here...watching you.”

  Okay, can you spell creepy?

  “I like that you were here,” I purred, inwardly gagging. “I want you, but I need some more time so I can properly show you how much.”

  Rafe’s eyes flared. “I can’t touch you again, not until Clark decides.”

  “He doesn’t have to know. It’ll be our secret,” I said quietly.

  Rafe looked uncertain so I grasped his hand.

  “Come tomorrow morning early…sunrise. No one will be around. Just one time, then I’ll wait.” I pulled his finger into my mouth and bit down softly.

  Rafe groaned.

  “Tomorrow,” I whispered.

  He nodded stiffly and turned to leave.

  I sagged down in my bed, anticipation overwhelming the pain in my thighs. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I might actually stand a chance. Okay, it was slimmer than a model at fashion week, but it was a chance. I had watched the guards religiously the past week, looking for some kind of weakness. I knew that Rafe or some other burly mute was outside the door of whatever room I was in. From my wing there was a short walk down a hallway, then down a huge staircase which led to the foyer. Past the foyer was a sitting room and through that was the dining room which I now knew doubled as a torture room. Kind of unsanitary if you asked me.

  When I was escorted to my meals with Clark I had watched for any other guards. Apart from whoever was with me there didn’t seem to be any. I knew there was one directly outside the front door; I knew this from watching from my library. What I also knew was that at precisely twenty minutes after sunrise a van came to the front door to deliver what I guessed was groceries. Or it could be drugs. Or freaking Beanie Bag toys for all I knew. It wasn’t important. What was important was this truck came every day at the same time. That truck was my ticket out. All I had to do was somehow overpower Rafe, get his gun, silence the guard at the door and commandeer the truck. I’d put on false eyelashes after five cosmos; I was sure I could manage a simple escape.

  I couldn’t sleep. Partly because I had been unconscious for twenty-four hours, partly because I was anxious as hell about my plan and partly because my legs hurt like a motherfucker. How I was going to manage this when I was barely able to walk was a mystery to me. But I had committed. Rafe would be here any second and I’d rather take my chances with escape than actually sleep with the sicko. Yuck.

  I had gone over my plan continuously throughout the night and I knew what little chance I had. I was relying on a lot of shoddy information and uncertainties, and the fact I was injured would hamper me. Chances were I would probably get caught; I might not even make it past Rafe. But I had to try.

  In waiting for dawn to arrive and for whatever preceded my mind wandered to Ian, the way it did when I lay in the dark and the memories crept in like demons in the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  One year ago

  It was the day. The day Ian was going to arrive in Amber. I was a mess.

  “Are you high?” Rosie asked me curiously as a customer left the store.

  “What? No,” I replied in shock. I wished I was high. Maybe a joint would take the edge off. I wondered where I could get some weed in this place. I’m sure Lucky would give me some.

  “You just gave that lady a hundred bucks change instead of ten. And you looked for a sweater for ten straight minutes until you realized it was in your hand,” Rosie said lightly, part teasing, but concern flickered in her gaze.

  She knew something was up. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Has it got anything to do with the fact Gwen’s brother is arriving today?”

  My eyes bulged. Maybe she was a mind reader. “How did you know?” I asked quietly.

  She raised an eyebrow then gave me a sympathetic gaze. “It’s not hard. Every time Gwen mentions how excited she is to see him you go a delightful sha
de of green and make some excuse to escape.”

  My stomach dropped. “Do you think Gwen noticed?”

  Rosie shook her head. “No, she’s too excited to see him, plus she’s like encased in a cocoon of infatuation with my brother.”

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asked.

  I shook my head, but before I knew it the whole damn story came tumbling out, along with my very confusing feelings for Brock.

  “Wow,” she said when I had finished. Her mouth was open slightly.

  “I know,” I said sadly. “You don’t think I could convince them to have a reverse polygamy type situation and they could be brother husbands?” I joked weakly.

  She smiled dreamily. “Imagine having two bad ass men doting over you.”

  I thought for a second. “I think I have my hands full with Brock at the moment. Literally. He is very well endowed.” On that thought my head snapped up. “I’m sorry, I know he’s your friend, I haven’t meant to be such a witch to him.”

  Rosie waved her hand. “Don’t you dare apologize. Brock’s a big boy, and by the sounds of it he’s been an asshole. This isn’t all on you. Unfortunately, I have a feeling they might meet. And I don’t think the first thing on their mind will be becoming brother husbands.”

  I put my face in my hands. “Why can’t I be a lesbian? I feel like my problems would be so much easier if I liked girls.”

  “I agree—if it wasn’t for the fact I liked sex with men I would have turned a long time a ago,” Rosie said, folding some sweaters. She glanced up at me, her face turning from joking to serious. “What are you going to do?”

  I looked at her, feeling overwhelmed. “I honestly don’t know. I was getting over Ian. I was at peace with the fact we weren’t going to be together. And Brock...” I trailed off. I couldn’t articulate my feelings for him right now. They didn’t exactly rival the feelings I had for Ian. They were different. Raw and all consuming.

  “I need to go for a walk,” I declared. We had been quiet all morning. “I’ll take my cell. You get busy, call me,” I said.