by Shandi Boyes
The shrill of a phone distracts Hunter’s steps to my office door. He freezes, knowing the only time my untraceable cell has rung the past few weeks is to deliver bad news. Relief scuttles through me when I discover it’s Hugo calling. For the past two weeks, he makes contact a minimum of three times a day to give me updates on Isabelle.
The strain hampering Hunter’s face relaxes when he too notices the call is from Hugo. He lifts his chin in farewell as I flip the screen on the cell phone and press it to my ear.
Heavy stomping comes down the line. Hugo sounds like he's chasing something or someone. “They have her. They’ve taken Izzy.” His words are barely audible in his breathless state.
Fear grips my heart. “Who has her?”
“I don’t know. They pulled her into a white Range Rover at the bottom of St. Thomas Street,” he informs me. “Fuck, boss, I’m sorry, I only left her for a minute.”
The air in my lungs is forcefully expelled as fear shivers down my spine. “Where are you now?”
Cars honking is the only noise resonating over the frantic beat of my heart. “I’m tailing them on foot. They just pulled down Tivot.” He inhales a sharp breath. “Fuck. Get down!”
My knuckles pop from the sudden clench of my fists when gunfire sounds down the line. Sensing the shift in my composure, Hunter moves to stand next to me, unhousing his laptop from his bag and his cell from his pocket on the way. He calls Tallis to place him on alert while I pay careful attention to any noises resonating through the speakers of my phone.
My chest heaves up and down with every inhalation I take as anxiety envelopes my body. Hugo’s stomping feet still thud down the line, along with the alarmed screams of panicked spectators.
“Hugo,” I shout. “Give me an update.”
I freeze when another two shots are fired before our call is disconnected.
Chapter 2
Isabelle
The deep hum of profound voices filters through my ears as I drift in and out of consciousness. My anxiety levels are havocked as the nightmares that have been plaguing my dreams come to fruition. I swallow hard, moistening my throat that’s beyond scorched, gagging through the thickness of my tongue. My mouth feels like it’s been wiped dry, then stuffed to the brim with cotton balls.
Ignoring the screaming protests of my thumping head, I slowly blink my eyes open. Dirt particles scratch my eyelids with every blink I take. Speckles of dust dance in the late afternoon sunlight like a flurry of fireworks in a darkened sky. The black plastic taped to the windows of the office I'm waking up in fails to conceal its bright rays. Considering the tired headache I’ve had the past few weeks is still present, I'm going to assume it’s still Sunday.
The smell of soot and sweat filters into my nose as I scan the stark confines. Other than the ripped double sofa chair I'm waking up on, there's a chipped wooden desk in the middle of the room, a steel four-drawer filing cabinet in the corner, and a set of rusted weights and barbells at the side.
Giddiness clusters in my head when I rise from the sofa. The urge to vomit is so overwhelming, tears prickle in my dry eyes. I battle to hold down the bile surging forward as I head to the half-open office door at my left. My footing is unsteady as queasiness plagues my balance.
When I reach the door, my breath hitches in my throat. Standing mere feet away from me, talking into a cell phone, is a massive brute of a man. His arm squashing the phone to his ear has a large, colorful snake tattoo entangled around his wrist.
Silently, I take two steps backward, nearly tripping over a pile of rope left dangerously on the floor. The beat of my heart expediently climbs when the assailant’s eyes meet mine. His face hardens with anger as his dark eyes narrow into thin slits.
Fighting through a rush of dizziness, my eyes zoom around the room, frantically searching for a weapon to protect myself. The first thing my vision zooms in on is the deadbolt on the door. When his lips curl into a grim smirk and he sprints for me, I charge for the door. Due to my dizzy head, I crash violently into the door, winding myself. My hearing obscures from the blood pumping thunderously through my body as I secure the lock.
A frightened squeal emits from my lips when my eyes lift to discover the gentleman standing in front of me. Relief overwhelms me, grateful for the shield of glass and wood between us. He stares at me while raising his hand to rattle the door handle. When he discovers it is deadbolted, he returns his eyes to me. They’re emotionless, almost soulless.
“Open the door, Isabelle.” When I shake my head, he bangs his fists on the glass. “Open the door!”
I take a step back, frightened by the uncontrollable rage burning from his angry gaze. The veins in his neck bulge when he kicks the door with his boot-covered foot. His heavy stomps on the door bellow into the quiet office, fastening my pulse. The wood buckles under the compression of his foot, but the glass stays firm, making me realize it must be bulletproof.
As he continues kicking down the door, I scan the room again, seeking another exit. Dread washes through me when I realize the only way in and out of this office is by the door he's blocking with his imposingly large frame.
I need to arm myself.
My eyes settle on the only movable instrument in the room. With my heart in my throat, I rush for the weights housed in the corner. I scream in frustration when my attempts to lift the barbell are fruitless due to the heavy weights on each end.
Dropping to my knees, I unscrew the dumbbell lock clamps off the side as my frantic gaze flicks between the door buckling from the stranger’s powerful kicks and my shaky, sweat-slicked hands.
A door shooting open ricochets through the room just as I remove the second lock clamp. I pounce to my feet, dragging the barbell up with me before I turn to face my assailant. Dizziness impedes my vision from my sudden movements, but I shake my head, clearing the flashing white lights from my eyesight. With the barbell clenched in front of my body, I glare at him, warning that I will defend myself if he comes near me.
“I’ve been instructed not to touch a strand of hair on your head, so unless you want me not to follow those strict instructions, you need to put down the barbell.” He steps toward me with his arms in front of his body. “Put it down, and I won’t hurt you.”
I shake my head, not believing a word coming out of his mouth. When he takes a step closer, I swing the barbell through the air with all my might. The end of the steel rod connects hard with his left wrist. The vibration of my cruel blow shudders up my arm. He cusses, his spare hand instinctively shooting up to shelter his wrist.
My pulse shrills in my ears when his beyond-furious eyes lift from his already bruising wrist to me. When I raise the bar, preparing to strike again, a roguish snarl curls on his mouth a mere second before he rushes for me. I put all my strength into the next swing, but before it can hit him, one of his large hands seizes my wrist mid-air, while the other wraps around my waist, pulling me in close to his body. His fingers dig so painfully into my hip, my lungs can no longer fill with air.
“Drop it!”
His hot breath blasts my ear with warmth as its putrid stench makes my stomach swirl. I grit my teeth and shake my head. Tears rush to my eyes when he tightens his grip even more, so his fingers will leave bruises on my skin.
Once the sting of his touch becomes too much to bear, steel clanging against concrete echoes through the office. He kicks the barbell out of my reach before his clutch on my body lessens. Although he loosens his grip, he holds me close to his body, his easy hold making it appear as if I'm as light as a feather.
My heart ceases beating when he lifts a white cloth from a cardboard box that holds a bottle of clear liquid. The strong scent of bleach and chemicals infiltrates my nasal cavities.
“No, please.” My voice is weak and scratchy as I fight against his hold.
Ignoring me, he unscrews the lid of a plastic bottle and pours vaporizing liquid onto the cloth, drenching it with so much wetness, liquid flows off the desk and puddles onto the floor.
“I will do as you ask. I’ll do anything,” I beg, knowing my best chance to staying alive is by following the three C’s—being conscious, calm, and cooperative.
My pleas go unanswered when he places the soaking wet cloth over my mouth and nose. My throat sets on fire as the dryness of my eyes intensifies. Because of the potent strength of the ammonium, my vision blurs until he's nothing but a mush of black and white clouds.
“That should settle you down until he returns.”
When he releases me from his grip, my stomach heaves as it fights against the disgusting chemical seeping through it. When the room’s spins become too intense, my knees buckle. Just before I hit the rigid concrete floor, I’m caught by a broad set of arms, and the scent of chemicals is replaced with the smell of bottled cologne.
“What did you do?” Unlike the man who just drugged me, this one doesn’t have a heavy accent.
“She was trying to escape. She hit me with a fucking barbell.”
A groan vibrates through my chest. “You were warned not to touch a strand of hair on her head!” Sprays of the spit flying out of his mouth land on my overheated cheek.
“How was I to know she’d wake earlier than expected? I put a heap of chloroform on the cloth. It should’ve knocked her out for hours. Where have you been anyway? I’m sick of waiting around for you.”
“I was fixing your fucking errors by dumping the car. I said no weapons, so why were you carrying a gun?”
“Protection. Do you know who she's linked to?” I wince in pain when the man holding me like a ragdoll tightens his grip. “She's Isaac Holt’s girl.”
“I'm not worried about him.”
The other man laughs. “Then that makes you a dead man walking. When he finds out you've taken her, he won’t stop until he finds her.”
When a stretch of silence crosses between them, I try to peer at the man carrying me through the fog coating my eyes. His features are distorted like I’m looking at him through a kaleidoscope. With my vision lacking, I try to speak, but my words are logged in my burning throat.
My bones jump out of my skin, even though I don’t physically move, when he screams, “Get out!” at the top of his lungs.
“My—”
“Your payment is on the table,” he interrupts. “Your services are no longer required.”
“Whatever, it’s your funeral, man.”
A door slamming shut booms into my ears as my eyelids grow too heavy for me to fight. No longer having the strength to keep them open, they drift shut just as a calloused hand removes strands of hair that have fallen onto my face.
“It’s okay, Isabelle. Go to sleep. This will all be over soon.”
My last thoughts go to Isaac.
Chapter 3
Isaac
For the slightest second, fear hazes my usually impenetrable composure. It’s soon replaced with adrenaline as my need to protect Isabelle surges through my blood. Even though everything I’ve feared the past few months is coming to fruition, now is not the time for my composure to fail.
For years, I’ve been waiting for Col to swing the ax he’s been grinding since the death of Ophelia, but his threat of retribution was never more than callous words fired off a vindictive tongue. That only changed as I now have someone significant in my life he can seek vengeance on, but Isabelle’s presence also means I’ve upped my game, ensuring I’m ready for his strike.
My gaze lifts to Hunter, who’s seated in the chair across from me. His laptop is balanced on his knees as he awaits further instructions. “Hugo said he was last on Tivot. Bring up all the CTC cameras in the area. We're looking for a white Range Rover. Also, call Tallis back. If Col so much as sneezes, I want to know.”
I know this is Col. I can feel it in my bones.
Hunter nods as his fingers fly over his keyboard at a lightning pace. I hit the speed dial for Henry’s cell, then press my phone to my ear. He answers on the very first ring. “Isaac.”
“The King has decided it’s time to remove the final pawn from the chessboard. He needs to protect his queen.”
Henry inhales a quick, sharp breath. “I understand. Where are you?”
“Where all the sinners are taken to await trial.”
“My crew will be there in a matter of hours.”
My grip on the phone tightens. “I wasn’t calling to ask a favor. I just wanted you to hear my decision directly from me. I know in our industry this isn’t recommended, but the rules of our game have changed.”
“Chaotic actions will only create bad consequences. Trust me, my boy, if you choose to play this type of game, you'll require structure that comes with years of experience,” Henry replies. “You're like a son to me, Isaac. I want to help you protect your Katarina.”
With that, he disconnects our call. I throw my phone onto my desk, so I can run my hand along my jaw. Hunter’s anxious eyes lift from his laptop. His lips move, but his words stay entombed in his throat. He doesn’t need to speak for me to hear his thoughts, though. I can see the trepidation in his eyes. He understands the ramifications of the decision I just made, but I was serious when I said I'd do anything to protect Isabelle. Anything at all.
I’ve wanted to seek vengeance on Col for years, but I never did because I knew the aftermath would be greater than anyone predicted. Also, in this industry, you're never to attack the King. You can strategically remove the pawns surrounding them until their kingdom collapses beneath them, or take them down via a monetary death, but you must never attack them directly.
When Col’s son, Roberto, cooperated with the District Attorney’s office by supplying them with vital information pertaining to Col’s family business, the majority of Col’s kingdom collapsed around him. Nothing but rubble was left behind. Financially, he was decimated. With Col’s reputation tarnished with so much corruption, his business never returned to its shining glory.
I would have allowed that to be the end of our game of chess, but Col took it one step further by attacking the Queen, who stands next to the King, breaking the unspoken rules of our industry. The rules of our game have been altered, the guidelines removed, the board swept clean. Now, only two Kings remain standing ready to battle head-on.
Hunter’s gaze drops to his laptop. “I’ve got video of the kidnapping.”
I move around my desk to glance over his shoulder. My blood blackens when Isabelle is grabbed from behind by a massive brute of a man, easily the size of Travis, my bouncer, who stands at the door of my nightclub. Isabelle’s legs kick out so wildly, her running shoes fly off from the force of her blows, but the longer he holds the white cloth over her mouth, the weaker her kicks become.
My jaw muscle tenses when a white Range Rover mounts the curb, and Isabelle’s lifeless body is thrown into the back seat. Hugo enters the screen from the bottom right corner of the frame. His furious steps have him reaching the vehicle faster than a heartbeat. The black, heavily-tinted passenger window shatters into tiny shards when his fists connect with it. He launches his torso into the shattered window, vainly trying to drag Isabelle out of the back seat.
When the Range Rover skids down the road, leaving black tire tracks and a dislodged Hugo on the sidewalk, Hugo leaps to his feet and chases after them on foot. The steady flow of traffic aids his ability to pursue the fast-moving vehicle.
“Freeze the image,” I demand when my gaze zooms in on an object in the background of the photo.
Anytime I’m given surveillance photos, I pay vigilant attention to the entire picture, not just the sections your eyes initially focus on. It’s often the minutest thing that causes the biggest ripple.
“There, you can see the driver’s face in the side mirror.” When I point to the section in the frame I’m referring to, Hunter magnifies it.
At the start, it’s pixelated and contorted so that you can’t see Isabelle’s kidnapper’s face, but after a few strokes on Hunter’s keyboard, it becomes bright and unblemished.
“That’s the same guy f
rom the surveillance images at the gala?” I half-inform half-query. “The one who was watching Isabelle?” The one she compellingly stated wouldn’t harm her.
Hunter hacked into the mainframe at the gala hotel to obtain their security footage the night he arrived at my hotel suite. That night, we located the gentleman who accosted Isabelle in multiple frames standing just to the side of her. He was in plain sight for all to see, but concealed amongst the dense gathering of men wearing similar black tuxedoes.
Hunter nods. “Yes. I already ran him through the Police Department’s facial recognition software. It didn’t find anything.”
My gaze shifts to my office door when it swings open. I'm surprised to see Regan standing behind it. She’s worked for me for years, but not once has she set foot inside my office. I wave for her to enter as the cell on my desk rings. Relief washes through me when I notice it is Hugo calling.
“Hugo,” I greet him.
“It’s Brandon,” he says breathlessly. “Hugo’s been shot.” My pulse shrills through my ears when sirens filter down the line. “They’re taking him to Mercer Hospital.”
“Instruct them to take him to Ravenshoe Private. Tell them it’s at the request of Isaac Holt. I’ll call the head of surgery there and advise her of his impending arrival.”
“Okay.” Brandon muzzles the phone as he passes on my instructions. A gurney being pushed into the back of an ambulance and doors slamming shut sounds down the line as Brandon calls my name.
“Yes.”
“Ask Regan to call the head of the FBI division in our county.”
My jaw muscle clenches.
“Alex will help if he knows it’s for Izzy. He has a higher clearance than Hunter does on the police database. It may be your only chance of finding her before it’s too late. If this is Col, he won’t keep Isabelle alive for long.”
