by Evelyn Glass
“Why’d you leave her behind, anyway?”
The million dollar question. Who the hell knew? Because he was afraid? Because he didn’t want to dishonor Sam’s memory? Because he was an absolute fool? All of the above? Maybe.
Connell let go of Dean’s arm and got him a glass of water. He set it down in front of the other man and patted his shoulder. “Drink that. Start thinking sober thoughts. Let me see what I can find out about this,” he said. He lifted the bottle and took a cell phone picture of the marking, then withdrew to the far corner of the room.
Dean drank the water, then glanced down at Jimmy, who’d gone and found a broom to sweep up the mess he’d made.
“Sorry about that,” Dean made himself say.
Jimmy shrugged. “They got your little girl, man. I’d fucking kill anyone who got in the way of me taking back my kid.”
Yeah. Yeah, that was just about it.
###
It took two hours, and then Dean was on the road again. Connell’s calls had revealed that the symbol, an arrow cutting through a diamond, had recently appeared on the north side of a building on the outside of town. One of Connell’s contacts had sent on an address, and after a very heated argument, Dean had mounted up on his bike and set his front wheel toward the warehouse district, yet again. There was nothing casual about driving up this time. He peeled into the yard, dumped the bike on its side, and strode angrily into the front office area of what had once been some kind of processing plant. There was a small administrative area, and a window overlooking a sunken plant full of rotting metal machinery and old barrels of God knew what.
Sitting behind a desk that looked like it dated back to the Vietnam era of pencil pushing was a gorgeous brunette who fulfilled every fantasy he’d ever had about a Girl Friday. She had carefully constructed waves in her hair, a pencil skirt, a slim blouse, and breasts that looked too luscious to allow into his dreams. He had to force himself to look away — and then was surprised that he did so. He’d never stopped himself from catching an eyeful, no matter who he was with, and he and Emma weren’t even together. Who was he even turning into?
The woman smiled at him, pleasant and empty, and waited for him to speak. He coughed once, then said, “My name is Dean Patterson. I’m here about this.” Connell had run off a copy of the photo he’d taken. Dean pulled it out of his pocket now and held the photo out. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected, though complete and total bland indifference was not on the list. She glanced at the photo as if he’d held out a blank piece of paper, and then redirected her gaze up to his face. She seemed to focus just off from his eyes. There was no intimidation to it, just a casual not-caring.
“What can you tell me?” he asked after a little while, not entirely sure what else he should say.
“It’s a photo,” she replied. He searched the sounds for any sign of sarcasm or irritation or anything at all, but there was nothing there. Nothing. She was completely flat, totally unaffected.
“Yes, it is,” he said, trying to go along with the conversation as if it were some kind of code he just wasn’t quite sure of yet. “But do you know what the subject of the photo is meant to be?”
She gave another pretty little blink and didn’t say anything. He wanted to bang his fist on the table and demand that she tells him exactly what was going on, but he had a funny feeling that if he did, the last sound he’d hear would be the click of a safety coming off before his brain came out the front of his skull.
He forced himself to take a breath and remember the exact words that Connell had said before Dean left the clubhouse. “Make sure she knows you’re from the club,” he’d said. “That’s going to be important.”
“Let’s start again,” Dean said. “I’m Dean Patterson. I’m the Vice President for the Night Titans. I was sent by Connell, to find out where my daughter is. Someone left this for us in the clubhouse, and I can only assume that it’s a message.”
The woman’s calm exterior broke into a smile, and she somehow got even prettier. “I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Patterson,” she said, all the cold shell gone. “I’m so glad you got the message and came to see us. It seems that we have a mutual problem, and we are hoping that you will help us come to a mutually agreeable resolution.”
Somehow, he didn’t want to punch the table anymore. “I will deal when I have my daughter back, and not one moment before.” It was almost funny. He’d spent so long denying that Mia was his daughter, doing his damnedest to hide the connection between them. He’d referred to Mia as his daughter more times in the last few days than he had in her life before this.
“I don’t have your daughter, Mr. Patterson,” the woman said. “But I do know who does. I believe I have some idea of why he has taken her, and what we can do next.”
“Tell me.” He managed to keep his voice from morphing into a snarl, but it was a close thing.
“The name of our mutual problem is Soren Jay,” the woman said. “He is a trained contract killer who is represented by our organization. He has gone entirely rogue, and we’re looking for some help bringing him back to base so that we can make sure that all contracts are properly resolved.”
Dean knew that there was more to what the woman had said but he didn’t hear anything after the fact that his daughter was in the hands of a trained killer. He dropped into the seat across from the woman’s desk.
“Tell me what we need to do,” he said. Because what else was there to say?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emma
Emma followed Jay’s instructions to the letter. She waited outside Abbey’s building. Five minutes later, a cab pulled up. She got into the back and gave the driver directions to the mall just outside town, not too far from the airstrip.
Her phone started buzzing in her hand as the car rolled across town. She flicked the screen for her notifications, hoping that she would see something from Dean, and terrified that she wouldn’t have anything from him at all. The messages weren’t from Dean, and that didn’t surprise her. They were from Cassidy, which made her more than a little nervous, given the messages she’d gotten that had turned out to be from Jay. But at the same moment, she couldn’t bring herself to stop trusting everyone. That way would lie madness or some other clichéd phrase.
Dean had told her, while they’d been tangled up holding each other last night, that he’d had someone run by and check on Cassidy. He’d given her Emma’s new number, so it was entirely sensible that she would be reaching out. And glancing at the time, it was her afternoon break. So, it all lined up.
Hey, are you okay? The message read. Covered for you at work again but getting really scared. Please get in touch.
Emma only hesitated for one more minute before she started typing. I’m okay, but you’re not wrong to be nervous. Has anything strange happened?
No, but where are you? Need to talk. Someone came by my house last night!
One of the good guys, I think. Emma glanced up as the car switched lanes; they were pulling into the mall’s parking lot now. I need to go. I’ll be in touch soon, I promise. She bit her lip, considering, and then typed in one last message. If you hear from someone named Dean, you can trust him.
The cab pulled up to the main entrance. Emma reached into her pocket, but the driver waved her off. “Was paid, already, tip too,” he said, and Emma didn’t know what to do other than nod, step out of the car, and let him drive off. It seemed unlikely that a killer would try to gun her down in the middle of a mall or something. Unless he was willing to take out the entire mall to protect whatever secret he was hiding.
She forced herself to get a grip and stop panicking. Jay had said that he would get to the mall a good bit later than she would. The wet spot on her thigh had dried enough that it was now chafing, and she wanted some new leggings. And a purse, if she was going to be walking around like this all afternoon.
###
When Emma settled down on the bench across from the food court, she felt much refreshed
. Clean clothes, a new purse, a cup of coffee, and a clip for her hair left her feeling like an entirely new woman. Funny that it sometimes took so little to make her feel entirely new.
Jay had told her to meet him here, on this bench. There was an older gentleman sitting across from her, but with his thick mustache and bushy eyebrows, he looked more like Mark Twain than the spare, sallow man who had put her in a car and handed her off to vicious men just a few days ago.
Until he shifted, looking up, and those cunning blue eyes were staring at her. She managed not to gasp. There was absolutely no damn way she was going to give him that much satisfaction. He leaned heavily on a cane as he stood and crossed over to her, sitting down next to her like a kind old uncle. She wondered how many weapons he had stashed on him right now. And would he need any of them if he decided he wanted to kill her?
“I am pleased to see you here, Miss Mills,” he said, and his voice was just the same as it had been on the phone, “and I want to thank you for following my instructions so carefully. I’m very sorry I had to leave you in the hands of those ruffians before. I hope your treatment was — well, it’s too much to hope they treated you well, I suppose, but I hope they did not harm you unduly.”
There was nothing for it. Emma leaned over and put her head in her hands for a moment, rubbing at her temples, before lifting it again. “I cannot believe you just said ruffians. You are actually as old as you look.”
His lips quirked in what might have been a smile under the ridiculous, but really well applied, mustache. If she hadn’t seen him just twenty-four hours before, she never would’ve guessed that it was fake. “To business, then?”
“I didn’t come out here for shopping,” she said. Which was patently untrue, especially given the purse and shopping bag at her feet, but — well, she wouldn’t have been out here if it weren’t for him, and he could damn well talk. “Where’s the girl?”
“Safe,” he said. “But not for all that much longer.”
“I want her back. What do you want from me?”
Jay shook his head, and for a moment, Emma almost thought there was something sad in his eyes. “I am so surprised that you still haven’t figured it out. None of this is about the girl. The girl was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’re convinced she knows something. Maybe she does, and maybe she doesn’t. But they think she does, and they’ll do anything to protect themselves.”
“It’s about how her mother died, isn’t it?”
One of those bushy eyebrows cocked up for just a moment. “Well then, you’ve been paying more attention than I thought. Good for you. But what could the child possibly know?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said, resisting the urge to punch the wooden bench. It wouldn’t help, it would hurt her hand, and it would probably make this S.O.B. laugh at her. “She was a baby when her mother was killed. An actual infant. What could she possibly know?”
Jay leaned back, his knees spread wide, his cane resting between them, his hands on the top of his cane, every inch the gentleman at leisure.
“Let me tell you a story. A fictional story, of course, one that doesn’t have a single element of truth. Nothing verifiable, anyway. Let’s say that a young woman, a young mother, in fact, was trying to get her life on the right track, provide a good world for her new baby. Let’s say that woman got a job working for a group whose mission statement was to take down crooks and thieves, protect the David’s of the world from the Goliaths. Let’s consider what would happen if that same woman, when she had just barely started her new job, uncovered a piece of information.”
“What sort of information?”
“Something incriminating. Something explosive. Something that could put all sorts of people in danger. Of course, such an idealistic young woman would want to see justice brought. It makes complete sense. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m with you so far,” Emma said, although she still wasn’t understanding what Mia had to do with this story.
“You look like a woman who has experienced how far powerful men will go to protect their secrets. They will stop at nothing. They’ll hire a man like me,” he said, giving a gracious little bow of his head. “They’ll kill with impunity.”
“Hold on, wait — wait. Are you saying you—”
He held up a finger. “I’m not saying a goddamn thing, you hear me? And even if I were saying anything, I was not a part of this organization when Samara Jenner was killed. I had nothing to do with any of it. If I had known what the hell this group was willing to do, I would have gone and found myself a fucking more principled group to ally with. There are enough murderers in the world. There’s no purpose to killing innocents. Or even low-level regular people. Save the bullets for the murderers.”
There was a rage in his eyes, an unsettled and unbalanced fury that made Emma’s stomach grow cold and wish it could run and hide behind her backbone. The rage passed and he laughed, and he was that merry old man again.
“Would that idealistic young woman have left a record somewhere of something that she discovered? Something her child uncovered years later? I don’t know, Miss Mills. But I do know that this child was put in danger, through no fault of her own, and I will not have it.”
She didn’t mean to do it, but her hand touched him, her fingers tightening on his forearm. “Then give her to me, and let me protect her.”
He shook his head, and for the love of God, he actually looked incredibly sad. “If I thought you could, I would, Miss Mills. It’s just not that simple. I wish it were. Now, there are some men coming to talk to you. I promise you, I will keep the child safe as long as I can, but I urge you. Work with Mr. Patterson, and find out everything you can. Find out what she knows, and give it to them, so they will leave you in peace.” He smiled, but it was cold. “I am a very bad man, and I do not want to be on the wrong side of these men.”
He stood up, all the fluidity gone from his movement. “Thank you, miss,” he said, in a completely different voice, one that quavered and shook. “I’m so sorry for bothering you.” He started to walk away while Emma stared, trying to understand what was happening. Which meant that when the men in suits came up on either side of her, she didn’t even think to try and run.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dean
Dean leaned against the side of the motorcycle, watching the front doors of the school where he had last seen his little girl. He checked his phone for the — well, he didn’t even want to hazard a guess about how many times he’d looked down to see what time it was. He had been staring often enough, that much he knew for sure.
He knew more now than the last time he’d stood outside this building. That day, he’d known something was wrong with Abbey, and that there was a lingering danger to his daughter. Now, he knew that something was horribly wrong on all fronts. He knew that his daughter was being held by a trained assassin, a former military operative, the kind of guy who lived was so far off the grid that his aliases had aliases. And yet, somehow, it appeared that this man was not the greatest threat to his daughter.
All through the last horrible seventy-two hours, he’d been sure that Mia and Abbey had been taken through some kind of strange play to attack him. He was now sure that something entirely different was happening. He had to talk to Cassidy. If he thought Emma would speak to him, she might have been able to help, but even if she had, finding out what he needed to know would’ve involved sneaking her back into the daycare. Not a workable plan, not really. This was going to be better. If he just kept telling himself that, sooner or later, he’d believe it.
Finally, after a near eternity, the employee door from the daycare opened, and Cassidy stepped out. He recognized her from the staff photos on the website and Emma’s description. As he pushed off from his bike and crossed the parking lot, he carefully adjusted his posture and walk to appear as unthreatening from a six-foot-tall guy in biker leathers as possible.
When he was still a good distance away, he called, “Excuse me. Cassi
dy?”
She jerked, but she didn’t run. That was a good start. One hand did flinch towards her purse. He made a mental note to watch out for pepper spray or something similar.
“Hi,” he said, doing his best to paste a friendly and approachable grin on his face and make sure his hands were visible. “My name is Dean Patterson, and I’m a friend of Emma Mills. I hoped we could talk for just a minute.”
He’d thought that would be the toughest part, but instead of bolting, he saw her relax. When she said, “Emma told me you might get in touch. She said you’re safe,” his heart slowed down just a little bit. He stood several feet away from her, giving her plenty of room to run if she decided that was what she needed to do. He wouldn’t blame her if she did. But if she could help him…
“How much has Emma told you?”
