by Kylie Brant
But then his gaze snuck back to the driver. The guy Marlin had called Parker. He didn’t look like a Parker. And something about those bandages … The man rolled his shoulders at something Marlin was saying in that different language and Royce caught sight of the skin beneath the collar of the man’s shirt. It had something black on it like…
He caught his breath. Like ink. Like a tattoo. Paulie had a tattoo of a royal flush on his arm. He’d shown it to Royce once. Lead settled in his stomach as he realized the significance of the bandages on every knuckle. Below the man’s eye. He was covering up tattoos.
The Suburban wasn’t even going in the direction of the Interstate and Royce had a feeling that didn’t have anything to do with avoiding an accident scene. His chest hollowed out as he studied the passing scenery. They’d gone through lots of streets with old tumbledown houses, but now there were more apartments and stores than homes. He didn’t recognize the neighborhood. Neither Eddie nor Cliff had ever been this way before.
Maybe because this wasn’t the way home.
Adam’s voice sounded in his head then. They’d had a long talk when they’d decided to change pick up at school. Your mom and I aren’t trying to scare you. We’re trying to keep you safe. Be aware of what’s going on around you. Assess the situation. Safety starts in your head, but sometimes you have to listen to your gut.
They slowed for a stoplight. Royce looked at the door. He could tell by the red button that the child safety lock was on. That wasn’t unusual; the drivers always engaged them. But it meant he couldn’t open the door, either.
Listen to your gut. Right now his was doing flips. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, then said something to Marlin in that other language. The blond man twisted around his seat to look at Royce.
“Something bothering you? It takes a little longer to get to your place this way, but believe me, it’ll be faster than going by that accident that slowed Eddie up.”
Royce shook his head. “I’m getting carsick.” The lie sounded in his ears before he even knew he was going to utter it. “Can I lay down in the backseat?” The bench seat would put some distance between him and the two men. It was also closer to the back gate, which wouldn’t lock automatically when the child safety feature was on.
The man stared at him. His eyes were blue, Royce noticed now. And hard. He didn’t seem friendly like he had when they’d been talking about baseball.
“Stay put. Take deep breaths. You’ll be fine.”
“Can I at least put down the window?” Maybe he could yell for help if he needed to. The thought seemed crazy, like the antics of the boys in the book he’d been reading. But his gut didn’t feel like it was crazy at all.
Hobart leaned forward and fiddled with a knob on the dash. “How ’bout I turn up the air conditioning for you. That better?”
But now that Royce had had the thought, he was going to see it through. “My head kinda hurts. And my stomach. Bentley Cordron hurled all over the art teacher today. It was gross. Maybe I got her germs.” No need to mention that he’d been halfway across the building in science class at the time. He slouched in his seat, head back, eyes half-closed, taking deep breaths and swallowing a lot, like he did when he really was going to puke.
“Think about something else,” the man advised.
Suddenly Royce bolted upright in his seat, bent over and clutched his stomach. “I think I’m gonna throw up.” He tried a dry heave. Was impressed with the result and tried another, this one louder.
The driver yelled something at Hobart who turned around again. “Jesus. If you’re going to throw up do it out the window.”
Royce pressed the button and leaned his head as far outside as his seatbelt would allow, drawing in deep breaths under Hobart’s watchful gaze.
“Feel better now?”
“Maybe,” he muttered. He tried his best to look pathetic, crooking an elbow on the opened window and resting his head on it. “I think I need the fresh air, though.”
Again the driver released a spate of words in some foreign tongue. And Royce stopped trying to convince himself that everything about the pick-up today was normal. These two guys weren’t normal. The only question was how he was going to get away from them.
_______
“We’ve got a BOLO out for a white Suburban within a thirty mile radius of Royce’s school.” Jaid Raiker burst through her husband’s office door, his secretary trailing behind her. “Vienna Police Department and two FBI special agents are on their way. His picture has been shared with transit police and airport and port security. Do you have the forensic artist at his school yet?”
The small cluster of people in Adam Raiker’s office looked up at her entry, expressions solemn. Adam rose, his laser blue gaze fixed on hers. She didn’t go to his side. Didn’t dare. One touch from him, one sympathetic look and she feared she’d crumple like a twig in a windstorm.
“The artist will arrive there within minutes. DeBower is taking statements from the school personnel now and will bring the police and feds up to date.” He glanced at the rest of the people gathered in the room. “You know what to do. Stay in constant contact.” As one they got to their feet and departed. When the door closed behind them Adam walked over to her and slipped an arm around her waist. Pulled her close. For an instant, just one, Jaid let herself lean against him.
“I should have insisted that he change schools when you brought up the security.” Self-recrimination was a fanged beast raking at her insides. Making arrangements, pulling strings could keep it and thoughts Royce at bay only momentarily. If she let it, fear for her son could cripple her. “I should have realized…”
She felt his lips brush her hair. “We don’t know whether that would have changed anything, so we aren’t going to dwell on it. We focus on the now.” Gently he turned her in the direction of the large digital screen behind his desk. Picked up a remote and clicked it on. It was a jolt to see the picture of Royce she’d given to the police next to a solemn faced news anchor.
“…subject of the Amber Alert is ten-year-old Royce Raiker. He was picked up from St. Marks Academy by a man described as six foot four inches, two hundred pounds, blond and blue eyed. Royce was last seen getting in to a white Suburban with this man and an unknown driver in the school parking lot before the vehicle headed east on Montrose Avenue.” A number flashed on the screen then, one Jaid recognized.
“I still have contacts myself.” Under different circumstances the understatement would have been amusing. Eight years ago Adam had been Quantico’s top profiler. Now his was the most renowned forensics agency in the country. Jaid had the resources of the FBI and the local police at her disposal. But all her faith, every fragile remnant of hope rested with her husband. “Vienna PD agreed for the tip line to be managed by my people.” His voice was gravelly; Adam’s voice had been ruined nearly a decade ago by a knife-wielding maniac who’d attempted to cut his throat. She found its familiar rumble reassuring. “Between my teams and the PD, we’ll check out every viable lead that comes in. We will find him, Jaid.”
She gave a jerky nod, her fist clutching reflexively against her thigh until he took her hand in hers, smoothing each finger out one by one before lacing them with his. They stood there, hands clasped, staring blindly at the screen for a moment.
They’d acted fast, but would it be quick enough to erase the head start the kidnappers had gotten? She had to believe it was. Had to, because the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.
_______
The neighborhood was the kind Eddie always called wayor or walk-at-your-own-risk. Royce watched it crawl by as the Suburban slowly rolled down its streets. The shops had bars on the windows and big metal gates pushed back from the doors. Small groups of young men collected in small clusters playing loud music, shouting and laughing. In the Mall area there were cops dotting
every corner, but Royce didn’t see any police here. Maybe the police didn’t come here. Maybe they were too scared.
His eyes were only half open and he concentrated on looking pathetic, because every now and then Marlin turned around to stare at him. He dry-heaved occasionally to keep up the pretense. But he was watching the streets. The people. Because wayor or not, Royce knew if he was going to try to escape his time was running out.
One hand went to where his seat belt was buckled. Parker was slowing the Suburban for a red light. Royce would wait until the light turned green again before making his move.
Hobart muttered something to the driver as a small group of guys at the corner noticed them. One of them pointed toward their vehicle and the rest turned to look. Three split away from the group to walk toward them. Marlin said, “Royce, put your window up.” He didn’t look away from the approaching men to make sure Royce obeyed, which was a good thing because he didn’t. Instead, he tucked his feet under him on the seat, so he was on his knees, as if he wanted to see better.
The guys drew closer to the car. Hobart’s attention was all on them. The light was still red but Royce knew he couldn’t wait until it switched. With his left hand he pressed the button to release his seat belt. Eased it back. His other hand slipped into his front jeans pocket. Closed around the knife.
“Hey, man, you lost?” This from the leader of the approaching group. The man was skinny with skin the color of iced coffee and a snake tattoo winding over one cheekbone. “You must be lost, man. Don’t he look lost?”
“Put the fucking window up!” Hobart snapped. He twisted in his seat, as if ready to snake an arm back to reach for the control himself.
But Royce was already diving through the opening, one hand on the roof for balance as he drew his other leg out before jumping to the ground. One of the strange men shouted something but he didn’t catch it. He got to his feet and ran.
He wasn’t the fastest kid in fourth grade, but he was the fastest boy. He used all that speed now as he sprinted toward the sidewalk. Pulling the knife from his pocket, he fumbled to draw out the blade without daring to look down. He heard the car door opening behind him. Hobart’s shouts mingled with those of the men who had neared the Suburban.
“Grab that kid!”
He ran like he never had before, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs. He ran like his life depended on it. It did. He knew it. If Hobart caught him he’d never get another chance.
Spotting a group of young men loitering in the middle of a sidewalk, Royce put on a burst of speed and barreled through them. Heard their shouts and calls behind him as he darted into a small market. They’d hassle Hobart when he followed. Maybe slow him down long enough.
The man behind the counter was waiting on a customer. Royce ran to the desk, his words coming in short choppy spurts. “Help me. Please, help. Call 9-1-1.”
“No kids! You come back with your mama. No kids allowed in here alone.” He jerked a thumb at a sign tacked up on the wall behind him.
Royce risked a glance outside. Hobart had taken the street around the guys on the walk and was angling back toward the sidewalk. “Please. Please help,” he implored the man. “Call 9-1-1. He’s trying to kill me!”
“Go off with your games!” the man thundered, looking up from the change he was counting to glower at Royce. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“Call them!” He dropped to the floor and crawled frantically around the counter, crouching at the man’s feet as the door burst open.
“A boy came in here.” Hobart’s voice was breathless. But there was an edge of mean to it that had Royce shuddering. “He stole from me. Did you see him?”
The next seconds stretched interminably as Royce trembled near the shop owner’s ankles. One. Two. Another. Then, “Out the back. The little thief ran in, then out.”
There was the sound of running footsteps. Then a hand gripped him by the shoulder and pulled him up, not ungently. “I will call the police,” the old man declared, keeping a death grip on Royce’s shoulder. “They can figure it out.”
“Call them.” Hadn’t he been pleading with the man to do just that? “But first hide me. Because he’ll be back. And maybe his friend, too.”
The shopkeeper bent low to look into Royce’s eyes. The man was old. Way older than Royce’s grandma, with a beak nose protruding from the folds and creases in his skin. Finally he gave a short nod and looked at his customer. “Enrico, lock the back door. Then the front. You, with me.” He marched Royce through a curtain into a tiny room with an overflowing desk.
An old fashioned square phone sat in the midst of the clutter and he snatched up the receiver now, his gnarled fingers going to the dial pad. “And what should I tell the police, hmm? That I have a boy here. A runaway? A thief?”
Royce tried to answer, but his teeth were chattering too loudly. He was shaking all over, although he didn’t feel cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed to make it stop. Fearfully he threw a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to hear the outside door break open. Fearing that in the next instant he’d see Hobart standing there. “Tell them…tell them to call Adam Raiker.”
Chapter 2
TEN WEEKS LATER
Declan Gallagher had the blood of warriors pulsing through his veins. Seven centuries earlier his ancestors had fought to the death beside William Wallace. In more recent times his relatives did their fighting in the Scottish Parliament, where the lack of bloodletting didn’t equate to less carnage. He was second generation American, but had been raised to believe that a person’s worth was measured by love of family and unfailing commitment to a righteous cause. In a manner of speaking, the man before him epitomized both.
The similarities between him and Adam Raiker had nothing to do with bloodline and everything to do with priorities. In Raiker Declan recognized a kindred spirit who mirrored his own strict code of honor. Which was why his agreement to the man’s request—whatever it was—would be immediate and sincere.
“I invited you here because I’ve developed a strategy. And I want you to carry it out.”
Declan straightened in his chair, adrenaline spiking. The family code that had been drilled into him as a child was coupled with an unflagging sense of adventure. When he’d been called to Raiker’s office he’d figured on seeing several other team members here. The regular briefing sessions over the past ten weeks had been a vehicle for the operatives to share the intelligence gathered on each prong of the investigation into Royce’s attempted kidnapping. But there was no one else in the room, which should have been a tip off that this meeting was going to be different.
“Whatever you want.”
Raiker’s smile was grim. “Better wait until you hear what I have in mind for you. Then if you opt out, there will be no hard feelings. I have a plan B.”
Declan didn’t doubt it. In his experience the hype that surrounded powerful men far dwarfed the men themselves. But not in Raiker’s case. His reputation when he’d been a profiler at Quantico had reached legendary heights. His torture at the hands of the serial child murderer that he’d eventually captured had capped that career and the results of his final case could be seen in the patch he wore over the eye he’d lost; the scar tracing down his jaw and another across his throat. Raiker was a survivor. He’d been a canny agent. But despite the path he’d taken, the heights he’d risen to, at his core the man was a brilliant cop.
They had that, too, in common. Although Declan’s path had led him to the DC Police Department. Then to the streets for years as an undercover vice officer, before rising in the ranks to homicide detective. There were few opportunities that would have enticed him to leave the DCPD. A chance to work for Raiker Forensics was one of them. His path had crossed with Adam’s when they’d both worked the assassination of Supreme Court Justice Byron Reinbeck a year and a half ago. The job offer tendere
d later had been an unexpected honor. And too good to pass up. As a member of the elite team of investigators working for Raiker Forensics, Declan investigated some of the most high profile and complex cases in the country, while also utilizing his strength in computer forensics. A strike against Adam’s stepson was a strike against the whole agency.
“Like I said. I’m in.”
Raiker gave a curt nod, seemingly satisfied, then rose and—forgoing the use of the cane leaning against his desk—walked with a perceptible limp to a door leading off his office and opened it. “Please join us, Ms. Larrison.”
Larrison. Interest mounting, Declan watched as a pixie-like blonde entered the space. Not an agent, he instantly surmised. He didn’t recognize the name or the face. Maybe she worked in the labs. Although…he narrowed his eyes slightly as he watched her smile sunnily up at Adam as the two approached. She looked way too young to have an advanced degree. Despite the muted sophistication of her sleek black fitted coat and matching pants she looked young enough to require a curfew.
She sat in the empty chair next to Declan, setting her black purse on the floor and crossing her legs before beaming a thousand kilowatt smile in his direction. “Declan Gallagher. Adam told me he was expecting you. I’m Eve Larrison.” She paused a beat. “Your new wife.”
His brow winged up. “My new one? I don’t even have an old one yet.”
“He agreed before I got to the details.” Adam dropped back into his chair to survey them both across his desk. “Let’s back up a bit.”
Wife? The very real wariness with which he’d always considered the word had him casting a sidelong glance at the woman beside him before Declan focused on his boss. Trepidation that had been absent when he’d agreed to this case had made an appearance when Larrison walked in and abruptly gelled at her introduction. Wife?
