Is that all you got, kid?
Something cold dragged its way down Jake’s spine and hooked into his gut. His phone buzzed again. His heart racing, Jake glanced at it. Then he stumbled, the heat of the flames licking at his face as the receiver in his ear crackled to life once more.
“Jake, I said get the fuck out. What the hell are you doing?”
Jake closed his eyes, ignoring the question in his ear to ask one of his own. Even though he had the answer right in front of him.
“Where is Charlie, Bri?”
Silence for a long drawn-out beat. “I don’t know right this second, Jake, but we’ll find her. I swear.”
He laughed darkly, feeling sick and cold. “No, you won’t. That is up to me.”
He tore the receiver from his ear, dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his heel as he stared down at the picture of Charlie that had been texted to him—Charlie on her knees with her blue eyes wide, a man’s hand wrapped tightly in her hair. A hand with a familiar wedding ring.
A hand that he knew now belonged not to Darnell, but to his own father.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ten minutes later, Jake was on the highway. Bri could add grand theft auto to the Polish indictment, if he survived this. Which wasn’t likely. But as long as Charlie did . . .
Thirty minutes after that he was pulling up in front of a warehouse just outside Wilmington, Delaware. It was deserted, or so one might think. A skinny orange cat darted out of an alley. Jake approached the entrance he’d been directed to via a burner phone left next to the words that had been written on the Barnes Foundation floor.
His father was alive. It shouldn’t be possible, but the man had faked his own death once. How long had he been pretending to be Darnell? And what did he want with Charlie, with Jake? What the hell was going on?
The elevator dinged just as he yanked open the door. Timor stood there, like an attendant, albeit one holding a gun and a cold smile. “Nice of you to join us. The boss is upstairs, waiting.”
The skinny man held the gun on Jake as he waited for him to cross the foyer, his dark eyes glittering. “Your marshals will be chasing their tails for hours,” he said with a sneer. “Plenty of time for us to play. Were you really counting on them protecting your stupid bitch?”
Jake gritted his teeth. “How did you know?”
“How the fuck you think? The Bratva’s got contacts everywhere, and the boss, he owns those motherfuckers.”
If Timor truly believed that, he was dumber than he looked. Nobody owned the Bratva, least of all Darnell.
“So this was what tonight was about all along?”
“Well, mostly.” Timor smiled. “Of course, I bet those marshals didn’t check the inventory too thoroughly when they hightailed it out of there, now did they?”
Jake frowned. Had Darnell, or his father, been after something else all along? Had the Matisse been nothing more than a dramatic distraction?
“Stop right there.” Timor pulled a couple of long zip ties from his pocket. “Turn around and assume the position.”
Slowly, Jake did as he was told, his heart racing, the weight of the gun on his ankle heavy and tempting. Did he dare take the chance? How could he not? Trussed up, he’d be no good to anyone, especially Charlie.
But goon that he was, Timor knew the drill. Years of being cuffed had taught him every counter trick in the book.
“Feet together, toes out. Keep your eyes on the damn ceiling and hands behind your back.” In this position, Jake was completely off balance, unable to drop and execute any kind of kick or elbow strike. “And if you so much as twitch, I’ll blow out your fucking kneecap, and make sure to get some extra quality time with your painter.” Timor laughed softly. “She was crying when Archie brought her up. I really like it when they cry.” Jake tried to leash his rage, to control his breathing as Timor stepped forward cautiously, placing his foot on Jake’s right one.
Darnell’s man wasn’t stupid enough to place the gun directly against Jake’s body. Timor chuckled when Jake cursed under his breath. But Timor was only prepared for rational behavior.
And Jake wasn’t feeling all that sane.
Without warning, he let himself fall sideways, stiff and heavy, like a statue tipping over. It was a safe bet the gun was still in Timor’s right hand, so Jake twisted in as he fell, trying to knock the goon’s arm wide as they both crashed to the floor. Jake counted on the fact he outweighed Timor at least twenty kilos and it paid off. Timor’s elbow hit cement with a sickening crack as Jake flattened him. The gun skittered a foot or so away, but Jake ignored it, driving his arm up and back. Right against the smaller man’s windpipe.
Timor twisted and choked as Jake cut off his air. “You’re going to die,” he gurgled. “And you’re going to watch your woman die. Just like you watched your mom.”
“Shut up,” Jake hissed, pressing harder. Seconds later, Timor went limp. Careful to keep most of his weight against Timor’s throat, Jake reached for the man’s gun. When his questing fingers wrapped around the stock, he grunted in satisfaction. His head was ringing and sweat was dripping into his eyes, but he had a gun in his hand.
With another grunt, Jake stood and yanked the smaller man to his feet. Timor was conscious, but barely. His head lolled as Jake hit the elevator button with his hip. His father was waiting.
“How long have you known?” he said to Timor after the doors closed.
“That you’re a dead man walking?” The other man croaked. “Fucking years.”
“No, about—"
As the doors slid open. The first thing Jake saw was Charlie tied to a chair in the middle of the barren room.
She was blinking rapidly, her face shockingly white. Her bright hair had fallen across one eye and her lip was split, dripping brighter blood over her pale skin. She was also gagged. Jake fought the urge to race to her side.
Timor tensed.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” the man muttered.
It was the last thing he ever said.
The gunshot was loud. Both Charlie and Jake jumped as Timor spun backward, falling out of Jake’s hold and back into the elevator.
A broad-shouldered man stepped from the shadows behind Charlie’s chair, a gun in one outstretched hand. Timor slumped sideways, the hole in his head dead center and gruesome, matching the wide-open O of his thin mouth. Like Jake, John Harris had always been a good shot.
“Did you honestly think Timor would be any use as a shield? That you could get the drop on me? Seriously, son, you’re slipping. Lose the fucking gun and kick it back in the elevator.”
With no other choice, Jake set Timor’s Glock on the cement and used his heel to send it spinning backwards. He also shoved Timor’s body forward so the elevator doors could shut. There was a faint ding and then the gun was gone. One of them, anyway. The Sig remained a cool mocking weight against his ankle, tantalizingly out of reach.
“You made good time.” John didn’t lower the gun, his expression one of fierce satisfaction. “Did we lose your nannies or are they still listening in?”
“Does it matter?” Jake took a step farther into the room. The panic on Charlie’s face was a twisting knife in his guts, but he couldn’t lose his focus, not now. “They’ll catch you now for sure. How long have you been pretending to be Darnell?”
“Since I killed him five years ago.” His father’s smile was bright as his gaze finally swung to Jake. The man had aged, but he was still big, still solid, still strong. And from the way he’d shot Timor, his reflexes hadn’t dulled much. His hair had been peppered with gray the last time Jake had seen him. Now it was entirely white, leaving his eyes a shocking maniacal blue.
“Why didn’t you tell us? Why let Stacia and I keep going after him? After you?” Jake was having a hard time breathing, not only because of panic for Charlie, but from the shock he still couldn’t quite process. His dad was Darnell, and had been for years. It made no sense, none at all.
Twice i
n his life, he’d thought his father dead. Twice, he’d come back from the grave. And for what? To take the place of the man who had killed his wife? “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. You never have.” Shaking his head, John smiled. Then he turned the gun on Jake and fired.
Dimly, Jake heard a muffled scream. Charlie.
He took a step forward as the bullet slammed into his shoulder. Hot agony bloomed and something cracked. He stumbled over something. Timor’ legs. Then he fell. More pain as he struck the floor, so much that the edges of his vision wavered and darkened. No. He couldn’t pass out. Struggling to keep his eyes open, Jake saw Archie lying in a far corner, a bullet hole between his eyes to match Timor’s.
Jake’s hands pushed against the icy-cold floor and he rose an inch, maybe two, but then they couldn’t hold his weight and he collapsed. His face slammed into the concrete and he lost the fight with the encroaching blackness.
* * *
“Wakey, wakey, little Jakey.”
The words were familiar, but the voice was wrong. Not his mother. Someone was sobbing. Muffled sobs. Also not his mother, but the sound tore at something inside him. Something primal. Jake opened his eyes.
“See,” John said to Charlie. “Told you he wasn’t dead yet. That comes later. After we’ve had a chat. Aren’t you proud of your old man? I got them. Every man jack that was there that day. Timor was the last.” John checked the clip in his gun, then slammed it back home as Jake pushed himself upright, an inch at a time, using his good arm. “Of course, there are still two things left to take care of,” John mused, watching him. “More like one and a half. You’ll be finished by the end of the night. Only the other brat left.”
Other brat? Was he talking about Stacia? Things were getting hazy again and it was hard to make sense of anything.
He gritted his teeth. Blood loss was making him dizzy, but he leaned against the wall, catching his breath. Charlie watched him. She wasn’t crying anymore; she looked mad. Jake found himself smiling, or trying to. Because the last time he’d been bleeding like this, it had been the night he met her. He’d gotten lucky then, maybe he would get lucky now.
“Once I kill you and your sister, it’ll be over.” His father’s low words had Jake’s tired gaze jerking to him. He wished he could feel nothing when he looked at the man, but even now, knowing the son of a bitch meant to kill him, every emotion his father had always brought out in him was keener than ever.
Anger. A misplaced pride. Disappointment. Sadness. Shame. But not guilt. Not for him.
“How can you blame us for what happened to Mum? It was your fault she was in danger. Your fault Darnell went after her. It had nothing to do with us.”
“She was mine!” Spittle flew from his father’s mouth. “You fucking brats stole her from me.”
“Is that all she was to you?” Jake looked at his father, fighting to stay conscious. Blood ran down his arm in warm rivulets, pooling on the concrete under his hand. “Just another possession?”
“I loved her.” John sneered at him. “And Natalie loved me. I was her whole world. Until she had you two.” He wiped his mouth. “She never looked at me the same way after you were born. Then those bastards . . .” With a roar, he fired the gun again. Once, Twice. Three times. Not at Jake, but into Timor’s body. Charlie whimpered as the dead man twitched. The sound of her distress was worse than the pain in his shoulder. Jake tried to focus.
Sick as it was, he was starting to get it, this madness of his father’s. “But she loved us more. And you couldn’t handle that, could you?”
He’d always known his father was lacking some basic connection to him and Stacia. Even when he was little. John Harris had gone through the motions of being a father, but the heart had never been there. Had his father’s mind snapped the day Mum had died? Had he transferred the awful sense of guilt he must have felt onto his own children? But if that were true, why hadn’t he killed them when he’d first reappeared?
When John had taken them from their foster home, he’d been a shadow of his former self. Even more cold and distant. But they had gone with him. They’d even trusted him. He could have murdered them then, if that was his intention.
Instead, he’d abandoned them once more.
“Why did you fake your death again?”
“It was too soon,” John hedged, looking suddenly uneasy. “Darnell had to come first.”
“Then why come back at all?” Jake stared at his father. “No. You couldn’t make yourself do it, could you? Not then. Because you knew it was wrong. Killing your own kids. What would Mum think of you now?”
“Maybe it didn’t go the way I planned. So what?” John sneered, but he wasn’t looking so good. Even as he raised the gun again, his hand started to shake. “You’re not a kid now and Natalie is dead. It doesn’t matter what she thinks anymore.”
Jake edged back against the wall, planting his feet. “Fine. You want to kill me, do it already, old man. But let her go. Charlie has nothing to do with how Mum died.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Blinking, his father turned back to Charlie as just remembering she was there. Lowering the gun, John laughed. He yanked Charlie’s hair back, exposing her throat as he pulled a knife from his pocket. It glittered in the harsh light coming from the windows.
He ran the knife over Charlie’s skin, the steel flashing, just like the real Darnell’s rings had done all those years ago. A thin line of scarlet appeared on that pale, perfect skin.
“Oh, I’m not just going to kill you. I’m going to ruin your life like you did mine.” Jake’s breath started to burn in his lungs. “You think you’re so smart. So much better than me, but you’re going to watch your woman bleed, watch her scream and plead and die. Just the way I did my Natalie.”
I watched her die, too, Jake wanted to scream, but then the blade slid deeper and Charlie cried out. When his eyes flew to hers, that cornflower blue was beading with tears. He couldn’t take it.
He was failing her, just like he’d failed his mum.
Fuck that. He wasn’t five years old anymore, and he wasn’t going to stand by and watch while another woman he loved died screaming.
Jake hurled himself at his father, throwing himself across the room, ignoring the agony that ripped through him. Staggering as Jake’s weight crashed into his knees, John stumbled into Charlie’s chair, knocking her sideways.
There was a series of bangs in rapid succession. But Jake had no time to figure out where they came from. He was too busy trying to kill his father. He had to. Had to save Charlie, save Stace, save them the way he hadn’t been able to save her.
Boom. Once more those aboriginal drums were beating in his head. When they ended this time, it would truly be over.
At last.
* * *
The gun flew into the air. With a god-awful crash, Jake and his father slid into the corner where Shorty’s body lay, Jake gasping and his father cursing. Charlie slammed into the cold hard floor, her shoulder taking the brunt of the blow. Under her, the chair cracked. She was able to yank one arm free just as Jake’s dad reached for the leg of her chair. He tried to drag Charlie to him, but she kicked out, her heel catching the side of his head. Then Jake’s big hands, one gloved entirely in blood, wrapped around his father’s throat.
She rolled awkwardly, and the rest of the chair splintered away. She crawled forward, dragging a long piece of wooden arm behind her, but she had to get to him. Jake looked like a madman. Bile rose in her throat. Of all the awful things that had happened tonight, this was the worst.
He was going to kill his father.
In that instant, Charlie knew this was why he had left her: to kill the man who’d made the threat. Though Jake surely hadn’t known then who that man would turn out to be. She reached out, biting her lip, touching his unwounded shoulder. His skin was damp and hot with sweat and blood, his own or Timor’s she wasn’t sure. Every muscle was taut and bulging as his father choked and kicked. She forced
down her fear and lifted her hand to his face.
“Jake! Stop. Please.”
Under her fingers, Jake shuddered before yanking away, his hands not loosening their death grip on his father’s throat. “I can’t. Don’t watch, Charlie. Don’t . . .”
Footsteps on the stairs.
Suddenly US Marshals burst into the room. At least that was what their jackets said. Blue and gold were everywhere, agents pulling Jake off of his father and forcing them all to the ground as the room was searched.
After shouts of “Clear, clear!” they finally let her up, though Jake and his father remained on the ground. For some reason, that woman, Bri, was walking toward them all, her expression one of grim satisfaction, her long blond hair secured into a tight braid. “Are you okay?” she asked Charlie, her brown eyes concerned.
Charlie just stared at her. “Am I . . . ?” Then she saw the jacket Bri was wearing, just like the others. “I’m fine,” she lied through numb lips. “But Jake is hurt.”
“We heard everything on the second wire.” Bri waved a hand and a couple men helped Jake to his feet. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him. He did good tonight.”
“You heard?” she whispered. “Second wire? What is going on?” But no one was paying attention to her now. Jake’s father was also being pulled to his feet, with considerably less care than Jake had been. He was still wheezing and coughing, but they cuffed him anyway.
One of the men helping Jake stiffened suddenly, then pulled a gun from somewhere. He held it out to Sabrina, whose lips thinned. She gave Jake a hard look before taking it with one gloved hand. A pair of paramedics were coming through the elevator that had been cleared of Timor’s body. They had a stretcher with them and a minute later, Jake was in it. Charlie could barely see him because she had her own EMTs checking her lip where Archie had slapped her, cleaning the wounds Jake’s father had made and testing her eyes for some reason. They kept asking her if she was all right. How was she supposed to answer that?
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