HIS BABY’S KEEPER

by Evelyn Glass

  He followed her back towards the school and worked to contain himself while she pulled her keys back out and unlocked the main door. The urge to snarl at her to move faster was nearly overwhelming.

  Tracey, the “receptionist” who’d finally opened up once he’d told her who exactly he was, had said that if he could find whatever “evidence” this man, Jay, thought Mia had, she believed her supervisors would be able to set up an exchange. It was strange to him, the way she’d spoken of men who had kidnapped a little girl as disgruntled professionals, not potential killers. But then, he knew what it was like to have a different frame of reference for the people you saw every day. He thought of some of his club siblings as “a little rough and tumble,” while the law and other authorities thought of them as the absolute worst kind of scum.

  Cassidy turned on a few lights as they moved through the building. It was strange, moving into the same room where he’d felt his heart break, realizing that his little girl had been taken away. To be coming back here, maybe leaving with answers? It felt like a kind of healing.

  He followed Cassidy towards a small bank of cubbies and stood a reasonable distance away as she shifted papers. After a moment, she smiled.

  “Here you go,” she said, pulling out an old black and white composition book.

  His heart twisted as his fingers closed on the notebook. Sam had loved those things. He’d never been a writer like she was, but he never understood her obsession with these cheap notebooks they had to use all the time in school. Surely there had to be better paper out there, better notebooks, things that held up better to the rough treatment she always gave them. But Sam had never cared.

  She must not have had it for long before she died. The cover was still pristine, none of her scribbles or colorings that always personalized them over time. The corners weren’t bent or frayed, and the spine wasn’t broken. Maybe she’d taken it to her new job, ready to take notes. That was something she’d done all through school and well after. It had been something he admired about her.

  “May I?” he asked, even though the notebook belonged to his own daughter, to her mother.

  “Of course,” Cassidy replied. She passed it to him.

  Which, of course, was when all the shit hit the fan. Wasn’t it always the way?

  He had a moment where he might have reacted faster. He saw Cassidy’s eyes widen, heard the movement of air behind him as someone shifted faster than he could react. Maybe if he hadn’t taken so many blows to the head over the last few days, if he hadn’t gotten so little sleep, if he weren’t so worn ragged on adrenaline, he would’ve been able to duck. Or at least turtle up and take more of the attack on his head and shoulders. Instead, the blow caught him right on the back of his skull, ringing his bell very effectively. He wasn’t aware of falling to his knees, just the sensation of carpet under his feet as he tried to keep himself from tipping sideways. The notebook was out of his hands, and whoever had hit him scooped it up, then turned to haul ass out of the room. Dean managed to turn, catch the runner’s pants in his hand, and give enough of a yank to throw the person off balance, toppling them down onto the alphabet rug. There was an ugly sound as the runner went down. Dean looked up and saw Cassidy standing over the runner with a small but apparently very sturdy chair. He grinned, but it faded as the runner kicked out and caught him on the temple. He fought, but everything went dark.

  ###

  He wasn’t out long, probably nothing more than a few seconds. It was Cassidy’s scream that made his head clear, and he looked up to see her backing away from someone who looked like they were brandishing a gun. On a better day, he would’ve made a move to take the guy down again, but with his head still ringing, there wasn’t a chance in hell. He stayed still and watched as the man reached down to the floor, scooped up Sam’s old notebook, and moved quickly out the door.

  He sagged against the rug, the brief moment of hope he’d experienced fading as quickly as it had come. Tracey had been very clear: get the notebook and get back. Without that, there wasn’t anything she could do to call off Jay. He was part of the organization she represented but Jay had gone rogue and nothing was going to change until he was satisfied. Dean had asked if it was possible for him to be tracked down, and Tracey had lifted one bristly eyebrow before shaking her head.

  For one moment, it had seemed like maybe, just maybe, he’d managed to save the day. And then it all fell apart, all over again. The urge to give up was so intense that it nearly overwhelmed him. Cassidy was crying on the floor, Emma was gone, and he was—yet again—out of leads.

  He set his head down on the floor and took a long, long moment to try and regroup. Ultimately, there wasn’t much of anything left. Other than to go back to Connell and try yet again to find something to help him move forward.

  He pulled himself up and went to Cassidy. She was already hauling herself back together, brushing him off. She hadn’t been wounded, physically, but she was clearly terrified. It was an open wound on his heart, another woman hurt by his actions.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here. I think it’s safe to say they have what they wanted, but just in case they decide you might have the same information, let’s make sure that you’re not here. Is it okay for me to take you somewhere safe?”

  He watched her shudder, just a little, and then she looked up at him with a smile that was shaky but real. “Will there be more hot bikers?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Chicks and dudes?”

  “Promise.” He stood and offered a hand. She took it, and he helped her stand.

  “And alcohol,” she said as they started out of the building. “I am going to need some alcohol.”

  You and me both, he thought. You and me both.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Emma

  With a man on either arm, Emma found herself being hustled out of the mall. It was ridiculous, but after the way the past few days had gone, it was rather nice not to be thrown over someone’s shoulder, drugged, or knocked out. Not that being strong-armed out of a mall was actively a good thing, but it was better than nothing.

  She’d wanted to call out to Jay, or point him out to the goons, but who would believe that the weird little old man was actually the master assassin that was — apparently — behind this whole weird setup from the beginning? She wouldn’t buy it in a movie, no matter what she was told by the actors. She let them take her out, and she did her damnedest to stay safe. So far she’d been able to talk her way out of things that had come up or caused problems.

  They were careful not to hold her or constrain her in any way that might cause an onlooker to think that calling the police might be a good idea. She needed to get closer to Mia any way she could. Jay had been painfully clear that these people were connected to her disappearance. Whatever she had to do to get that little girl back to somewhere safe, she would do it. No questions necessary.

  As they moved into the parking garage she saw a face she recognized. A big, burly man was leaning on a bike, talking to a couple of college age kids who were probably buying drugs. She wouldn’t have given them a second thought, except she recognized the tattoo that snaked around the back of his head and down his neck. A bright red scorpion. The guy was the one who’d stood in the doorway, barring Abbey and her from getting out of the room at the Scorpion hang out. She stared at him for a long moment, willing him to look in her direction. It didn’t work. He didn’t look up, and she was pressed into the back of a big SUV.

  Just as the door slammed shut, his gaze finally shifted up towards her. A quick moment of connection, a tiny nod. It was all she was going to get. The glass was black, so dark that she could hardly see through it, and if he was going to help her — well, she didn’t know what he’d be able to do anyway as the SUV shifted into motion.

  ###

  The thugs were at least decent. It was infuriating that she’d now had enough experience to rank thugs according to their behavior, but at the same time, the
ridiculous bullshit of the past few days had to be worth something. She figured Jay was the worst, since he drugged her. The Scorpions were next, having locked her up with (as far as they knew) a stranger. These jackoffs were pretty decent, all things considered. They gave her a bottle of water when she asked, and no one hit her or chloroformed her. It was practically kind, for a kidnapping.

  They drove her back outside of the city, and Emma idly wondered how many miles she had clocked in the past seventy-two hours. To think that when this whole adventure had started, she’d wondered about getting off in front of Dean in his classic car. Those were the days.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re going,” she said when she got bored of the endless silence inside the SUV.

  The guy who’d given her the water bottle glanced over the back of the seat with what was practically a friendly smile. “Yeah, no can do. You know how it is.”

  That was more of a response than she’d anticipated. Worth continuing? Why the hell not, it would pass the time. “The funny thing is, I don’t actually know how it is at all. I may look like an international woman of mystery and intrigue, but I’m a student trying to become a social worker and a preschool teacher. I don’t know much at all.”

  The guy gave her a look over the rims of his expensive black sunglasses. “Preschool teacher?”

  Emma resisted the urge to hike up the neckline on her T-shirt. “Yup.”

  “How’d you get caught up in this shit?” he asked. The driver glanced sideways, with a look that was somewhere between irritation and worry. ‘Don’t reveal our dastardly plot,’ she had the driver say in his head. ‘Da boss is going to kill her anyway,’ she made the passenger replied. ‘What’s the harm?’

  Yeah, on second thought that little daydream was anything except reassuring. She pushed at it hard, but without something more pleasant to replace it, the idea was sticky.

  “Hell if I know,” she said because what else was there to say? “Cute guy, sweet kid, and here I am.”

  “Ain’t it always that way,” the thug said, laughing, and it was seriously disconcerting. Big brutish guys who hustled women out of malls in broad daylight weren’t supposed to be jovial or friendly or really anything at all. Except for threatening and terrifying. Of course, she was doing her absolute damnedest to pass herself off as too cool for school, so was it really surprising that they thought she was completely fine with whatever the hell happened next?

  “Do you know where the girl is?” Emma asked because it was worth a shot.

  It was the wrong question, though. The thug’s face stilled, and after a moment, he turned back around, settling into his position in the front seat, and was silent.

  There was no more conversation as they drove well outside the city, past the warehouses and into the low-built office buildings that were mostly deserted now, victims of the economic downturn in the area. When the SUV parked, she waited in the back until the driver-side thug opened her door, letting her out.

  She briefly considered running but to where? They were in the city’s outskirts. She wouldn’t have an easy way to get help. Even if she called the police, where would she tell them she was? Besides, she’d gone out to the mall to meet Jay and try to find out more about where Mia was and how to help. Giving up now would mean she’d put herself in danger without even trying to get what she needed. When the first thug gestured towards the office building, its windows coated in dust and its doors rusted and hanging at odd angles, she started walking. It was an idiotic thing to do, but compared to all the other plans she could come up with in that moment, there was nothing else to do.

  Even though she’d been picked up by a nice SUV and men in suits, she still expected to be marched into yet another building full of tattooed men with shaved heads, sun-darkened skin, and mean looks in their eyes. Instead, the room — she was still marched, that didn’t change — was almost like a board room, if you ignored the plastic sheeting on the walls and concrete floors. There was a long, rectangular table, a bank of monitors that looked like it would operate as a projector, and a water cooler. There was even a table set up with one of those pod coffee machines and little servings of creamer and packets of sugar. She’d never been able to get the childcare center to set one of those up. They still used an ancient drip machine that no one ever washed properly.

  There were four men around the table. They were all white, with hair that varied between shades of blond and brown, and differing amounts of gray threading. They were all older and wearing well-tailored suits in shades of dark blue. It was like staring into the face of white privilege in America.

  They had clearly been waiting for her. They turned towards her as she entered the room, and offered her identical smiles that were as friendly as they were fake. There was one man seated at the head of the table who seemed slightly more powerful than the others, though she couldn’t exactly put her finger on why. It was just something about the set of his shoulders and the lift of his eyebrows. His suit was just as well-tailored, and his hair was sandy blond, threaded with a gray that would probably be called distinguished in a fashion magazine. He gave her one of those big smiles that men his age seemed to think of as reassuring, but that mostly felt paternalistic and annoying.

  “Miss Mills,” he said, gesturing broadly in a way that made her wrinkle her nose with distaste. “We’re so pleased you could join us.”

  There were two courses of action here. She could cross her arms and let her sassiness be a shield, or she could play the good girl, simper and be afraid, and hope that she’d get out of this that way. She wasn’t honestly sure that either one would work, but damn, she didn’t know what else to do. And the sass was a hell of a lot more natural for her, no matter what she wanted.

  She crossed her arms, let her left hip pop just a little, and raised an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t realize I had a choice,” she said, pleased that her voice didn’t shake. “Your goons definitely made it sound like attendance was compulsory. If choice is at play here? I’d like a ride back to where you found me.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed just a little bit, his smile cooling down just a couple of degrees.

  “I wish it were that simple, Miss Mills, I really do,” he said. “But unfortunately, with Mr. Jay deciding, yet again, to evade our conversations, we must speak to whoever we can find. That means you because Mr. Jay has made the unfortunate decision to continue to involve you in what was supposed to be a very simple conversation.”

  “Jay hasn’t told me anything,” Emma said, and this time she couldn’t entirely control the fear in her voice. Dammit, sassy only worked if they believed you had no fear. She was too tired, too worn out. Too many shitty things had happened too fast.

  “Sit down,” the man said, gesturing towards the chair closest to her. Emma wanted to give him the finger and stay standing, but it would be easier to hide the fact that her knees were knocking together if she just sat down. She stalked to the chair and flung herself into it. She wasn’t going to be ladylike about it, even if she was — for now — giving them what they wanted. It’s for Mia, she told herself. Stay focused.

  “Cream and sugar in your coffee?” Back to business meeting etiquette, apparently.

  “No, black, please.” She didn’t want black coffee but it was better than nothing, and it would keep her from thinking she was happy here.

  The man nodded to one of the other men seated at the table. She noticed that the other man — younger, less gray — got a little bit tight around the mouth before he stood and went to the coffee pot. Interesting. All was not well in paradise, it seemed. Of course, paradise was an abandoned office building on the outskirts. Trouble was probably already implied.

  Still, he got up and made the coffee for her. He carried a small mug over and set it down in front of her. The coffee smelled awful: sharp and bitter. She sipped it anyway. She needed something to do with her hands.

  “Now, Miss Mills,” the man said, and Emma put up her hand.<
br />
  “Ms, please, if you don’t mind. And I’d like to know your name. If we’re supposed to be equals here.”

  His grin became positively shark-like. “Equals is an overstatement. Call me — oh, I don’t know. Mr. Black would be just fine.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She’d never heard a more cartoon villain name outside of an actual cartoon. “Absolutely, Mr. Black.” She didn’t spit. That was a victory. “What is it you need from me? People keep asking me questions I don’t know the answer to, and all I want is to help a little girl go home safely.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, unfortunately,” said the man who’d gotten the coffee, earning himself a glare from Mr. Black. She liked him better immediately.

  Black picked up a remote and pointed it at the bank of monitors. They lit up, and after a few moments, each one cycled to a different picture that looked like a security feed. Black and white, grainy, flickering. She studied them for a moment, and then her eyes locked on the picture in the upper right corner.